Tracy Porter - The Author
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I think that death and tragic accidents tend to change a family forever. There is an old saying, ‘That which doesn’t kill, makes us stronger’, and I can think of nothing more eloquently reflected with meaning than that one phrase. When we encounter difficulties what do we do? Do we face them and let the chips fly where they may, or do we hide our head in the sand and hope it will go away if we ignore it long enough?

For such a long time we were five planets existing in that galaxy that we tried to call a home, and it was only a matter of time before cataclysm would change things forever. Because there were no controls in our family, a quickening occurred and none of us were the same afterwards.

One morning in May, 1977, I left for school as usual. It was a warm, sunny day and I could foresee nothing out of the ordinary transpiring. When I came home from school, however, I was ushered to the hospital and informed that my brother had been involved in a motorcycle accident and was lying in intensive care.

To make matters worse, I was not asked, but told, that I would be giving blood to save his life. Of course I did not want my brother to die. I would have given anything in the world for him to live through what had happened. But my mother, in her massive neglect of her children, did not even bother to notice that I had this humungus phobia against needles and other sharp objects. I almost needed to be in intensive care myself when I was told that some strange person was going to stick a needle in me and take my blood.

Of course I would do it. I couldn’t let my brother down just because I was afraid of needles. Fortunately for me, while my mother was busy calculating how many pints of blood she could get out of my body so that she would not have to pay for any, someone in authority came and informed her that since I was not yet 17 years of age, they were not legally allowed to subject me to something so traumatic.

One of my aunts later told me that on that evening in the waiting room, Bobbie was all over Mama, holding her hand and telling her how much she loved her. It was sickening, really. Even when we had a serious family incident and my brother could very well have died, Bobbie was in the thick of it, vying for my mother’s attention.

That day was a whirlwind for me because I did not really comprehend what was happening. My brother and I have never had a good rapport at the best of times. Just a few months prior to his accident we had a massive argument over something trivial. He blocked my way and would not let me pass. Along with hitting him and screaming at him, I told him that I wished that he would die. Of course, never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that such a thing could happen, but as I stood in the waiting room of the hospital that day, I had to take careful stock of the things that I had said to him in anger.

Little by little, I was able to listen to people and piece together the events of the day. It appears that Marc woke up late, so in a hurry, he sped down the road so he would not miss school. The road we lived on was hilly and windy, and if one wasn’t careful he could have an accident. On this particular, day an employee of the state was operating a tractor, performing road works. He had not placed any signs on the road stating that road works were in progress, so my brother had no way of knowing that there was an obstruction at the bottom of the hill as he sped down Colonel Glenn Road.

When Marc reached the top of the hill and saw this massive tractor blocking the road, it was too late for him to take any action. His motorcycle hit the tractor, he flew up in the air and landed on the ground some feet away from the incident. When he regained consciousness, he saw that his leg was very badly broken.

Unfortunately, the man who was operating the tractor must have had some problems himself because instead of going to the nearest telephone and calling for an ambulance, he merely sat by the tractor berating my brother for one reason or another. One of the neighbours saw the accident and went to tell my mother what had happened. When my mother arrived at the scene, an ambulance was called but it took almost ¾ of an hour to arrive. My mother, not knowing just how serious the situation was, took her time trying to find a good surgeon, thus bringing my brother even closer to death’s door. The surgeons operated, but Marc would have to endure many more procedures over an extensive healing process before he would leave that hospital – a man changed forever.

My mother was absolutely devastated by what had happened to Marc and became the devoted mother that she should have been the initial 17 years of his life. Mama was at the hospital day and night. It seemed that she could not do enough for her son, and even he had to ask her not to pet him so much, as he simply wasn’t used to being pampered and coddled.

Mama took me to the hospital to see my brother once, which I found to be an uncomfortable experience. Although he was my brother, in reality he was this strange person who I lived with but did not really know at all. I sat there next to the hospital bed, trying to act normal as I watched my brother all drugged up on painkillers, trying to make conversation with me. I am so ashamed to say that I was relieved when I was allowed to go home.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, my mother was so chintzy that she had let the insurance for my brother lapse. Although my mother openly felt that her children should take responsibility for looking after ourselves, the law thought otherwise. Since my brother was not yet 18 at the time of the accident, she was faced with a massive hospital bill. I have no doubt that my mother would have told my brother to pay the hospital bill himself if he was not so close to death. I honestly think that my mother is such a selfish person that she could cope much more easily with the loss of a child than financial ruin because she lost me when I was 16 and didn’t bat an eyelash.

During the summer, when my brother was still in the hospital, I had become increasingly disgusted with my mother. The respect was all gone and I didn’t even try to hide my contempt for her anymore.

Little did I know, however, was the fact that Mama’s so-called good friend Bobbie had been stealing from her right from under her nose. With all of my mother’s financial concerns, she must have discovered that some of her money was missing. When she discussed this with Bobbie, what better excuse than to tell her that I must have stolen it from her to purchase drugs.

For several months my mother had been making snide comments to me, telling me that she was going to find out what I was spending all of my money on because she knew that I was buying drugs with it. I never even responded to her accusations because I thought that what she was saying was totally absurd and could not imagine where she came up with such ideas. She only had to look in my closet to discover where I had spent all of my money on – clothes.

Because I have always been incredibly forgetful with regard to my finances, I had been borrowing money from my sister to tide me over until the following pay day. Although I always paid Candice the money back, she has never been one to keep a secret and must have said something to Mama about the fact that I borrowed money. With all these factors combined, Mama must have come to the conclusion that I was on drugs or something, stealing money to support my addiction.

One day when I was taking driving lessons at summer school, Bobbie, ever the instigator, waited for me outside of school and lurched on me as I walked along the pavement with my friends. Bobbie grabbed me and forced me into the car.

I knew that my mother was upset about something, but I didn’t know what. I decided to go outside and get some fresh air because it was quite obvious to me that I was not welcome in the beauty shop. The moment I was outside, my mother swung open the door of the little trailer where she worked, and snarled, ‘Where are you going!?!’

‘I’m just going to get some fresh air,’ I replied, quite confused as to why my mother was snapping at me so.

‘I don’t want you outside. I want you inside where I can keep an eye on you,’ my mother snarled back.

As my mother stood in the centre of the small room, ratting a customer’s hair, she made one sarcastic comment after anther, directing them at me.

I had had enough of this because the plans that I had made for the day had been ruined. Since Bobbie had literally drug me out of school, there was no way for me to get ahold of my friends and tell them what was going on. I was very upset, and asked my mother, ‘What the hell is going on here?!?’

In front of my mother’s customers, she repeatedly pushed me against the wall, and I pushed her back.

At that, my mother had all the ammunition that she needed to inflict bodily harm on me. My mother wasted no time in instructing Bobbie to go out and get a switch to beat me. Bobbie was all to happy to participate in child abuse, so returned with a limb from a tree. As my mother proceeded to hit me with it, the broke into pieces under the weight of her blows.

In my mother’s beauty shop, in front of all her customers, she took the tree branch and hurled it at me, hitting me with it over and over. Something in my snapped, as my self preservation mechanisms kicked in. For the only time in my life, I hit back. I took the tree branch out of my mother’s hand and pushed her back, which left a small, red Marc on her collarbone.

Instantly, my mother and Bobbie were both on me. One of the two slammed me against the wall of the shop at full force.

I really didn’t want to fight with my mother, or Bobbie, or anybody. I just wanted them to stop hitting me.

When Bobbie saw that she had gotten the better of me, she started laughing in a gawky sort of way. My mother, however, became hysterical. How dare I push her! My mother quickly forgot that it was she who struck the first blow. My mother had forgotten that she had sent Bobbie to my school to kidnap me, she had taunted me in front of all of her customers, and she had started beating me with a branch from a tree. Yet I, the errant child, was supposed to have had enough self-discipline not to defend myself when some crazy woman was attacking me.

Bobbie loved every minute of what was going on. She hee hawed in a silly hillbilly sort of way, pointed to a dog that one of the customers had brought into the shop, and laughed, ‘Even that dog could whip Krystal’s ass.’

To this day, what truly amazes me is that my mother had such a demented attitude towards child-rearing that she felt that she had the right to attack me in front of a whole shop full of her customers. There is no way on this earth that I can understand why not one of her customers who were looking on did not intervene. Not one woman told my mother that she did not think it was appropriate for my mother to be behaving such a way in a business establishment. No one woman got up on told my mother that maybe it would be better if she could re-schedule her appointment for a time when it was more convenient for her to have clients. Not one person phoned the police and told them that there was a situation of domestic violence in the shop. Nothing. Not one step by any of those women to intervene. As far as I am aware, she did not lose any business whatsoever by her violent outburst.

After my mother and Bobbie had attacked me in full view of her clientele, I went into what can only be described as shock. My body had a mind of its own and I did not know what to do about it. Although I was conscious, I was shaking all over and felt tingles all up and down my body. My mind could not believe it.

Having hurt me, my mother delighted in the anguish that she was causing me. She picked up her telephone, made me dial the number of my boss at work, and made me quit my job. My mother stood over me, grinning like a Cheshire cat, as I sobbed down the telephone line, trying to tell my boss that I was not allowed to go to work anymore.

If all that was not bad enough, my mother, being egged on by Bobbie, started threatening me. My mother said, ‘I’m going to phone your father and have him come down here and beat you up. He broke my nose and he is going to break your nose too!’ My mother just assumed that my father would go over there and beat me up just because she wanted him to.

In another instant, my mother yelled at me, ‘I’m going to have you put in Juvenile Hall! I’m going to have you put in a children’s home!’

My mother then forced me to telephone my employer and quit my job over the phone. I was crying so loudly that I was unable to get the words out, but I nonetheless managed to say that I could not come in to work. To this day I honestly cannot understand what pleasure my mother could have derived from such cruelty.

To this day, what I really cannot understand is that although my mother had a shop full of customers, not one of them intervened. Not one customer told my mother that what she was doing was not right. Not one of them asked if it would be possible to re-schedule her appointment for a more propitious time. Not one customer phoned the police. With all of the hysteria that was going on I must have gone into shock because I started shaking all over and I had no feeling all over my body.

My mother just went on and on, and would not shut up for one minute. She threatened to phone the police and have me put in a home for delinquent teenagers. I was terror stricken that I should be put in prison. Isn’t it funny that I was made to feel that I was the one doing all of the horrible things, when in fact I was the victim. I just wonder what the police and social workers would have thought if they had actually come to the house to be told by my mother that I had the nerve to fight back after she had pushed me against a wall.

Even though I was not allowed to go outside, it was obvious that I wasn’t welcome in the shop, so I went into the bathroom and curled up in the foetal position on the floor. I just wanted everything to stop. I just wanted everything to go back to the way they were.

It didn’t stop there. My mother had to telephone her mother and tell her all about it. Of course I had no say in what had actually transpired so my grandmother thought I was some sort of violent animal. In such a dramatic fashion, my grandmother rushed into the bathroom where by this time I had been hiding, and proceeded to scream and yell at me as well.

In retrospect, I think my grandmother’s reaction was rich considering the fact that she had been having an affair with another man for 40 years and told my grandfather that if he lifted a finger to help my mother that she would leave him.

‘How could you do something like that!’, she screeched. ‘You mine as well have done it to me! You mine as well have done it to me!’, she wailed.

Finally, at about 6:00 or 7:00 that evening, I was told that we were going home. I dutifully piled into the car where Mama and Bobbie sat up front.

I just wanted to make things better and for the hell to end, and if it meant that I should apologise then that was what I would do. I told my mother that I was sorry, but for what I will never know. As far as I am aware I had done nothing to be sorry for except defend myself against some psychotic woman.

All I wanted was for everything to stop. Just stop. If everything would stop and go back to the way it had been before, I would admit defeat. I would take all of the blame. I did it all. It was all my fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to my mother in a conciliatory attempt to restore harmony into an untenable situation.

‘I know you are,’ my mother replied, in what I sensed was a bit of weariness on her part.

I don’t think that my mother had honestly thought it was going to go that far. My mother had made her own life for herself with all of those strange women, and I don’t think that she anticipated losing much of her valuable socialising time by tormenting me.

When we got home, Mama and Bobbie went into the house while Bill stayed outside. I looked at Bill, and said, ‘Do you know what they did to me?’

Obviously, Mama had rung home to tell Bill all about it, so when I got home I started to tell Bill what she had done to me, but he would hear nothing of it. My mother had obviously had not told him her version of what had happened, and he was shaking with anger over what he thought I must have done.

I don’t care what she did to you. I am concerned about what you did to your mother. I love her!’

It was so obvious that my step-father had to control himself, he was so enraged. He then told me that he ‘loved’ my mother. Oh, how sickening! Mama couldn’t stand the sight of him and was out on the town living it up absolutely every night of the week, but he ‘loved’ her. ‘It was at that point that I knew that I did not have a friend in the world. I thought that when we got home, Bill would get my mother to see reason, but it was not to be. When Bill made it perfectly clear to me that he thought that I was the culprit and did not think that my mother had done anything wrong, I knew that I was in really big trouble. When Bill, the only person in the world who could help me refused, I began to think that maybe I had done something wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have defended myself when some psychotic woman attacked me.

When I was not able to garner any support from Bill, I realised that my life was going to be a living hell from that day forward.

Because my mother had Bobbie egging her on, inciting her to commit even more and more atrocities, there was absolutely no way that my mother was going to see reason.

Knowing full well that there was no one on top of that hill who was going to support me I went to my room and stayed there.

Evidently I had said something to someone about my mother, I don’t remember what, and this gave her the incentive to continue in her depravity.

My mother went into my bedroom and told me to take every last stitch of clothing off. After I was completely naked she told me to lie down on the bed and then she beat me with a leather belt that she had found from somewhere. Aside from the fact that what she did was so humiliating and traumatising, I honestly cannot see any disciplinary value in her actions.

Perhaps my mother learned to whip other naked women as one of the sex games that she played with her various girlfriends. Perhaps her parents did that sort of thing to her, which had the effect of warping her mind. Perhaps she just made it up as she went along, deriving more and more pleasure from every despicable act, becoming a dominatrix to an unwilling accomplice. Who knows where my mother learned to engage in such vulgarity, but the thought of what she did to me totally disgusts me. If my mother had not ever have done such a depraved thing to me, I would never have imagined that a person could do such a thing to her child.

My mother needed an audience to get the full feeling of satisfaction from her sadistic activities. She hadn’t gleaned enough pleasure from making me undress and whipping me in the privacy of my own room. That would not do.

I believe it was at that time that I must have lost consciousness and another personality came in to take the abuse, because my sister has had to fill me in on the next incident. My sister has told me that for as long as she lives, she will never, ever be able to get that horrible scene out of her head. My sister also informed me that whenever she protested, my mother told her that she was threatened with the same treatment if she dared to utter one word of reproach. Such was the inhumanity of the place that I once called a home.

My mother then left the room and yelled for Candice to come downstairs. Candice was instructed to sit on the couch and watch. Mama then called for the personality who had taken over my body, she went into the living room wrapped in nothing but a blanket. Mama told the person who she thought was me to put some clothes on and get back into the den. The personality who had taken my body did as she was told. When the alternate personality went back into the den, Mama instructed her to lay on the loveseat. The alternate personality put my head into the pillow as she beat my body on the legs and back until her arm hurt and she was tired.

Evidently, the cries of the personality were muffled in the pillow, but my sister was able to hear every whimper. My mother beat my body and beat my body and beat my body. Finally, when she had worn herself out, she stopped.

‘Mama, I love you, please stop,’ the personality to had taken the beating whimpered to her tormentor.

When my mother finally stopped beating the alternate personality who had taken over my body, she got up, went to my mother, and hugged her, and uttered the words, ‘I love you.’

Well, I am here to tell you that from an early age I have not loved my mother!

Even as young as the age of six or seven, when I was sitting at the dining hall at school, I knew I did not love my mother! Someone had given me a picture of my mother, who was considered to be very beautiful, to put in my little wallet. Even as young as six or seven, I looked at the picture of a supposedly attractive young woman, and all I could see was some ugly old hag who I hated! Even at that age, I knew not to tell people how I really felt about my mother. I took the picture and put it back in my wallet without comment.

I have no idea who in the world it was who told my mother that she loved her, but it was not me!

The next thing that I remember after the beating that another personality took for me was to find my mother siting upstairs cutting up some green beans that had been given to her. I thought that it was strange that my mother would be preparing green beans because she has never, ever displayed even the remotest interest or aptitude in cooking, cleaning or anything that may be considered domestic. I do not even know where she got the beans. It was so out of character for her to be doing any kind of cooking at all.

Because my mother had telephoned absolutely everyone in the world to tell them all kinds of stories about me, my grandmother and grandfather felt that they needed to come to the house. Because my mother was able to fabricate stories to make people feel sorry for her, they gave their condolences, believing every one of the lies that had crossed her lips.

The next morning, which was a Saturday, at 5.00am my mother kicked my bedroom door in. She told me to get out of bed and start cleaning the house. I was also told that she was monitoring all of my phone calls, so I had better not try to phone anyone for help.

Not knowing what my mother would do to me if I refused to comply with her demands I got up and started cleaning the house. Bill did not speak to me because he was conspiring with my mother and Bobbie to harm me. He wanted to believe all of the things that Mama had told him. Candice did not dare speak to me because she had already been told that if she supported me, they would do the same thing to her that they were doing to me. My brother was coming out of the hospital, but was in no position to do anything about it even if he wanted to.

So there I sat, all day long, cleaning that stupid house like an idiot because I knew that there was no one to help me.

The thought of leaving that house seemed totally alien to me because I did not have a place to stay, I did not have any money, and I could not even drive. I felt that I was bound to that place no matter what.

Even though I had been told not to use the telephone to make any outside phone calls, I picked it up and dialled the number to my paternal grandmother’s house. When I told my grandmother what was going on she was completely horrified. My grandmother later told me that when I told her what they were doing, she spoke to Bill and informed me that if he laid one finger on me, she would phone the police and have him arrested. As far as I am concerned, the whole lot of them should have been put in jail for what they did. It is such as shame that the state of Arkansas didn’t feel the same way.

Mama and Bobbie are seriously disturbed individuals who abuse children. Bill likes to take the moral high ground and pretend he is a Christian, but the fact remains that he could have stepped in any stopped what was going on in the house any time, but he chose not to. Even though he did not participate in the abuse, the mere fact that he knew what was going on and did nothing to stop it makes him an accessory to the crime. Bill, of all people, should have known better, considering the fact that he had been a schoolteacher. If Bill would fail to protect his own step-children, just think how he behaved around his students.

That evening when my mother came home the entire entourage was there to garner support for her in what they assumed to be her hour of need. And of course, Bobbie was bustling around, spreading lies about me, putting her nose in where it didn’t belong. To this day I cannot understand how my mother allowed Bobbie to have such a huge influence over her, but she did.

I do not understand what business if was of Bobbie’s, but she made it her business and Mama allowed her to. The next day, which was a Sunday, was even more tense than before. As usual, all of my mother’s family were gathered around. They didn’t say a word to me because as far as they were concerned, I was this evil person who had done all of these awful things and they were not willing to hear anything that I had to say.

I don’t know why, but I guess because no one else was speaking to me and the fact that I was so desperate, I spoke to Bobbie to feel her out. I have to hand it to Bobbie because she was able to play both sides of the fence with such ease. She could pretend to be my friend and stab me in the back at the same time. I had completely forgotten about that incident years before, when Bobbie screeched at me that she was going to get me back for innocently telling my mother that she had gone to see one of her Johns or to make a drug deal. I did not know it, but I was succumbing to Stockholm syndrome, which is a phenomenon where victims of abuse befriend their abusers as a way of survival.

That day I walked out in the woods, and for the first time I thought about ending my life to make all the pain go away. I had a kitchen knife with me and it would have been so easy to slit my wrists and end it all. In the end, however, I couldn’t do it because as much as I wanted to die, I was equally terrified of blood and gore.

I know that many people think that those who choose to end their lives are taking the coward’s way out of their problems, but I honestly feel that sometimes it takes more strength to end one’s life than to carry on living. To make the conscious decision to terminate one’s existence is taking being proactive to change a bad situation – even if the outcome is on a more permanent basis. I do not regard myself as a strong person because I chose not to end my life on the many occasions since I was 16 because that the pain inside of me was so great that I just could not bear to live any longer. What kept me intact was not because I wanted to stay and work my problems out, but rather I had an intense fear of the unknown. I honestly do not consider myself worthy of veneration because I chose not to act on my first instinct, which was to end my life. What is a more appropriate sentiment is that I was even too much of a coward to take my own life when that is what I really wanted to do.

Therefore, instead of a reprieve from the Hell that I was living in, I was forced to go back into that house because I did not know where else to go. That day I realised that my mother was never going to change and I would be living in eternal Hell for the rest of my days if I was going to stay there. As a last ditch effort, I told my mother that I wanted to go over the my grandmother’s house for the summer.

In typical fashion, my mother replied, ‘That’s fine. You can go stay with your grandmother if you want. But, if you leave this house you can never come back.’

Was she crazy? Did my mother think that I would ever want to go back to that madhouse? I politely accepted my mother’s ultimatum and started packing my bags.

Although I had enough decorum not to say how I really felt, the fact of the matter was that once I got out of that house I had no intention of ever going back. To this day what I find to be particularly odd is the fact that my mother thought I would actually want to hang around and get abused all day long.

Everybody was happy that I was leaving. Mama was happy because she did not have to look after some child that she never wanted anyway. She even came up with the perfect excuse to justify her actions by making me out to be some monster because I had the gall to push her in self defence after she repeatedly shoved me against a wall. Bill was happy because he never wanted any of my mother’s children around anyway.. Bobbie was happy because she wanted to do whatever it was she was doing with my mother unencumbered by her children, who looked on with disapproval. The only person who was not happy was me, but my feelings didn’t matter anyway because I was a non-person.

As I was packing my things to leave that house that had caused me so much anguish, my brother went and spoke to me.

The only thing that Marc could say was, ‘I think you’re doing the right thing.’

I do not know what prompted Marc to say that to me. I do not know if he secretly wished he could get away from my mother, or if he had believed her many lies. I have never asked my brother about that, so I suppose I will never know the answer.

Candice didn’t say anything to me when I left because she had already been sufficiently threatened by the ‘adults’ and was informed that if she voiced any concerns for my welfare that they would do the same thing to her. Candice, if anything, is a survivalist and although she cared for me, was not prepared to be treated the way that they treated me, and therefore chose to keep her mouth over all that was going on under the roof that we lived in.

The only person to express any concern at all over the fact that I was leaving was my grandfather, who told me, ‘I think you’re making a big mistake.’ I don’t know why he said that. I don’t know why he thought I was leaving a house of torment.

But of course, my grandfather did not know all of the things that his daughter had done to me. He did not have to live with her and be subjected, day in and day, out to her violent mood swings. But then again, from what I understand from my mother and her siblings, my grandfather was not averse to hitting his children if they got out of line, so I can only imagine that he didn’t think my mother did anything wrong when she abused me privately and publicly.

I think it is safe to reason that many of these “respectable” people who call themselves Christians while at the same time starting wars were abused by their parents. How else would it be possible for them to show love and hate at the same time. A typical example of such contradictory messages parents send out is when they say, “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you”, before they beat their children. Those people know damn well that they are not personally being hurt. The only ones being hurt are the children, who are being given the message that it is okay to hurt the ones we love, and that love and pain are one in the same.

Love and pain are two entirely separate feelings, but children who are abused by those who profess to love them will grow up to become adults who beat their wives, kick the dog, abuse their children, and sometimes even start wars.

And to think that such abuse of power all started with one not so innocent little smack. Wouldn’t the world be a much nicer place if we all stopped hitting our children in the guise of “discipline”. Maybe if we stopped hitting our children, men would stop beating their wives, kicking the dog, beating their own children, and possibly even starting wars.

I would like to point out that when an adult hits another adult, it is called assault, and he is subject to criminal prosecution. When an adult hits a child, however, it is called “discipline” and the adult is lauded for punishing his child. One question that needs to be raised is, why is this so?

America likes to consider itself a progressive nation when it still has the death penalty even though statistics show that crime is higher in countries that have capital punishment. Americans also condone child abuse (oh, sorry, I meant to say smacking) when they know fully well that children grow up to be very damaged adults when their parents hit them.

Some European countries, on the other hand, have made it illegal to hit children. Those countries have adopted other more effective ways to teach children discipline. Germany is one such country where it is against the law to hit children, and while some Germans were opposed to the law initially, they all agreed that it was a good law after it was initiated.

I would like to state at this time that I do not consider America to be a progressive country at all. In fact, I consider America to be quite barbaric. America likes to call itself a Christian country, but how can a Christian country launch a pre-emptive strike on another country all for the sake of oil. Although the dictator who was oppressing the country, Iraq, was a very nasty man indeed, it was for the people of that country to fight back and not rely on the strong hand of America to fight their battles for them. It goes without saying that if there was no oil in the Middle East, America would not given the land a second thought.

As I put all of my things in the car, Bill drove me to my grandmother’s house. I was happy to leave just so I could get some peace, and hoped that the Hell they had put me through would cease. Everyone else was happy for me to leave because they wanted to go back to their insane, dysfunctional lives and not have to worry that anyone might actually be concerned about the way that they were behaving.

When I left, I apparently wrote on a sheet of paper, ‘The opposite of evil is live’, and left the note for Candice. I very vaguely remember do this, and can only assume that I had been molested to such an extent that weekend, that I really was a bad or evil person.

According to my sister, that weekend my mother took the note and read it out loud to her. The way my mother behaved frightened Candice so much that she has concluded that my mother must undoubtedly be possessed by demons. I have taken the less religious view to analysing my mother’s behaviour, however. I believe my mother has a severe personality disorder and should never, under any circumstances, be allowed near children or young people.

My twin and I will be scarred from our mother’s abuse for the rest of our lives. Even though the abuse I endured was targeted to harm me more extensively than my sister, in many ways I feel my sister has been more damaged. The reason being that the things my mother did to me were so awful that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that my mother was engaging in pure wickedness. My sister’s abuse, however, was much more subtle, which left her wondering if it was all in her imagination. As a result of the abuse that my sister and I both endured, I have become a depressive, always wanting to take my life any time I become distraught. My twin, on the other hand, is somewhat more manic, always trying to find a suitable outlet for the anger and rage that resides within her; an anger that she has never been able to adequately work through.