Nine Years and Counting

I love my birthday. Not as much as Christmas, of course, but a pretty decent amount. I love throwing big parties, eating and drinking to excess, making my own cake, pinatas, music, friends, movies, the whole shebang.  And no one questions it; They assume that I, like almost everyone in the world, enjoy throwing parties centered around myself. Which isn't the case at all.

When I was eleven years old, my parents separated. For a little over a year they shared custody, with me going to my father's twice a week and some weekends. It wasn't so bad, even when his rather evil girlfriend came into the picture.

My mother and I have always been at odds. I wouldn't go so far as to say I don't have any good memories of me and her, but there are very few. Dad and I have always been much closer, for a variety of reasons(mostly, I think, because we're both just laid-back people). It had been pretty hard on me living with just her. She wasn't a big fan of me going anywhere, or having any friends, or having internet, or doing... well, anything that involved her not being able to keep an eye on me.

Now, I wasn't a bad kid. I kept my grades high, had no inclination to drugs or sex or even boys for the most part(or girls). Our biggest argument was over music; She was still in her very strict christian phase, and I was developing an interest in music that wasn't christian. And my father, being an avid musician, became the brunt of her ire.

In February, just before I turned twelve, my mother filed for sole custody and won. If I was going to see my father, it would need to be under legal supervision in a special center, costing him $30 each time.

I took exception to that.

What had already been a tense situation became downright hostile. Understanding the world as I do now, I see that a lot of what I was dealing with probably would've been categorized as emotional(and sometimes physical) abuse. At the time it was just me against her and no one was going to save me. I was on my own in this fight.

I don't believe that there was a point where twenty-four hours went by without a screaming match. It was an even match- My mother had years of manipulation and pent-up frustration on me, but I was almost a fucking teenager(raised, of course, by someone with 30+ years of manipulation and bitterness). When we fought, it was a true war. Our insults were painful and accurate, but she always had the upper hand. She would destroy my cd's if she found them. Once she took everything out of my room except for my dresser and my bed and locked it in her bedroom. I learned how to pick locks. She got a better lock. I kicked the door in. So it went.

One Sunday afternoon, as we were attending the second of our two churches(yeah, we had two), a prophecy came through. I was told, by the pastor herownself, that if I didn't change my ways, shape up, and get good with God, I would die before I reached my 16th birthday.

A deacon from our home church mirrored this prophecy later on, and the pastor even sat down and had a heart to heart with me(Her daughter had died at a young age; It was a long speech about not making my mother bury a child). She cried. Back then, I believed everything the churches told me about God(namely that he was a punisher of evildoers, a smiter of bad guys, lots of Old Testament bits). I believed in prophecies. I believed that I was headed to an early grave.

So, I'm a twelve year old child being told by large groups of people that if I'm not nice to my mother, God is going to kill in me some time within the next four years, and believing it. What did I do, you ask? Did I lay down my weapons, bite my tongue and be a good little girl?

Fuck no.

There's a place inside everyone, deep down inside, where our truth lives. It's not our intuition; it's even deeper than that. When we think Oh, I'll take care of that after I watch the next episode, it's the little part of us that knows we're lying. It's the voice inside of a raped individual that knows, no matter what we think on the surface, that it wasn't our fault. It's the one that tells us that this will get better, but that will not. It is both the part of us that gives up hope and keeps hope going. My truth knew, without a doubt, that my mother was wrong.

I made the decision at age twelve that I would go down swinging, even if it killed me. With head held high, I fought my mother tooth and nail, for every time she pushed I would push twice, and then something amazing happened; I started to win.

At first, my mother would just walk away from the arguments. Then, sometimes, she'd cry(I feel bad now for having done that, but at the time, I felt it was fair for all the nights I'd cried myself to sleep over her crap). One day it reached a crescendo, and she kicked me out.

I'd won. I'd broken free. But my trials were far from over.

I moved in with my father, his wife, and her family. He and his wife lived in a motorhome parked next to the house(the thing didn't drive, unfortunately). Now, these people were so nutty they made Planter's peanuts look bad. Individually, none of them were quite as bad as my mother, but the six of them became an unending barrage of bullshit.

I won't go into great detail about my times there(mostly for brevity's sake), but it ended with my father and I living in the motorhome during one of the worst snow storms I'd ever experienced up to that point. We had one space heater and no running water, two television channels and we were still parked on their land. I didn't think things could get worse. I thought that I was dying, that the prophecy that had shadowed my mind for so long was close to coming true.

Then, dad and I moved into a new house. I had my own bathroom. My friends came over. His horrible wife came back to him, but she wasn't around terribly long. Things got better. But I didn't forget.

I spent my sixteenth birthday with one eye on the clock. At 9:14p.m.(eastern standard time) my heart exploded. I had officially lived. I was free of the curse. I had looked my fate in the eyes, stared it down, and beaten it. Of course, I realize now that the whole prophecy had most likely been an elaborate ruse to scare me into behaving. Perhaps, though, it wasn't. Maybe the problem was in the interpretation. Did the person I was die along the way, to be replaced by someone stronger, tougher, and wiser? The whole phoenix rising-from-the-ashes thing?

It doesn't matter. Whether the old me did die, or the whole thing was a sham, I took it head-on. At twelve years old, I decided to live my life on my terms. I fought with everything that was in me. Every year on my birthday, I remember that I'm years past my expiration date, and I celebrate.