"She was not afraid of dying, she was afraid of living."
A Stained Childhood
The most disgusting statistic I have ever read. At least 40% of adolescent females have endured some sort of sexual or physical abuse in their childhood. Not every little girl has a childhood filled with Barbie dolls and smiles. When it comes to child prostitution statistics, the numbers are so much worse. When I first started talking to Zandy, I would have never realized that her story was going to have me in such an emotional state. I will start by telling you the story of a ruined childhood.
The spring of 1983 began with the death of a mother. Not just any mother, she was the best and most loving mother of all time. The kind of mother that never let her little girls go to school without the perfect french braid and a flower in her hair. The kind that would sing her little girls to bed with the sweetest lullaby and devote her life to them. She was pretty too, before the cancer took over. By the time she passed away she looked so much older. And so frail, she looked as if she might fall apart just by hugging her too tight. By the time she passed away, everyone was pretty much expecting it. But no one in her family had accepted it. Not her 2 young daughters and definitely not her husband.
The father of these two girls was so broken by the loss of his wife that he couldn't stand to look at the girls. To him, they were just the leftovers of the woman he loved. Before his wife passed, he worked all the time. He was never really around because he was working. He came home late and left early. The younger of the two girls never even had a memory from before her mother died that included her father. It wasn't that he didn't want to be there. But a man had to work to pay the bills. Everyone knew that.
By the time the end of the year rolled around, the girls were 10 and 13. The oldest looked just like her mother. That was what did her in. Every time her father started to drink, he would hit her. He would hit her and kick her until she was just a broken pile of unconscious child. She lived the next year feeling like she was expendable. She was tossed around and yelled at almost daily. But that never stopped her from taking care of her younger sister. When her father’s car pulled in the driveway, she would send her up to bed and be waiting for him in the family room. Waiting for the pain. She always chose this room because it was the farthest from their bedroom. She didn't want her sister to hear, though she always did.
Finally June rolls around and her 14th birthday came. She got a homemade birthday card from her sister that said 'I love you' all over it. It was a small piece of paper folded in half and somehow she managed to write those words about a hundred times. The smile that appeared while opening the card was a memory that would last forever. What seemed like only minutes later her father came in and grabbed her by the back of her neck and brought her into her own bedroom. Then he brought in a scary looking man with black stains all over his clothes like he just came out from a garage. In the bedroom, she screamed, she cried, and then she was quiet. It seemed to last forever. Later that night she wouldn't talk. She didn't want to talk for a while after that, but it didn't stop the men from coming. Sometimes she would cry, but she still never talked about it. They all knew what was going on in that room. But what was the point of talking about it all. At least her father didn't hit her anymore. That was a good thing right?
The spring of 1983 began with the death of a mother. Not just any mother, she was the best and most loving mother of all time. The kind of mother that never let her little girls go to school without the perfect french braid and a flower in her hair. The kind that would sing her little girls to bed with the sweetest lullaby and devote her life to them. She was pretty too, before the cancer took over. By the time she passed away she looked so much older. And so frail, she looked as if she might fall apart just by hugging her too tight. By the time she passed away, everyone was pretty much expecting it. But no one in her family had accepted it. Not her 2 young daughters and definitely not her husband.
The father of these two girls was so broken by the loss of his wife that he couldn't stand to look at the girls. To him, they were just the leftovers of the woman he loved. Before his wife passed, he worked all the time. He was never really around because he was working. He came home late and left early. The younger of the two girls never even had a memory from before her mother died that included her father. It wasn't that he didn't want to be there. But a man had to work to pay the bills. Everyone knew that.
By the time the end of the year rolled around, the girls were 10 and 13. The oldest looked just like her mother. That was what did her in. Every time her father started to drink, he would hit her. He would hit her and kick her until she was just a broken pile of unconscious child. She lived the next year feeling like she was expendable. She was tossed around and yelled at almost daily. But that never stopped her from taking care of her younger sister. When her father’s car pulled in the driveway, she would send her up to bed and be waiting for him in the family room. Waiting for the pain. She always chose this room because it was the farthest from their bedroom. She didn't want her sister to hear, though she always did.
Finally June rolls around and her 14th birthday came. She got a homemade birthday card from her sister that said 'I love you' all over it. It was a small piece of paper folded in half and somehow she managed to write those words about a hundred times. The smile that appeared while opening the card was a memory that would last forever. What seemed like only minutes later her father came in and grabbed her by the back of her neck and brought her into her own bedroom. Then he brought in a scary looking man with black stains all over his clothes like he just came out from a garage. In the bedroom, she screamed, she cried, and then she was quiet. It seemed to last forever. Later that night she wouldn't talk. She didn't want to talk for a while after that, but it didn't stop the men from coming. Sometimes she would cry, but she still never talked about it. They all knew what was going on in that room. But what was the point of talking about it all. At least her father didn't hit her anymore. That was a good thing right?
Wow, what an intense story! I'm sure everyone can relate and understand this in one way or another.
Speechless