She has hated me from the very moment she knew of my existence, even at only the fetus stage. What hurts the most is this hate is so deep there was absolutely nothing I could ever do that can remove it, reduce it, or make it anything other than the hate it is.
It was 1967 and my high school aged Dad was dating a woman from Maryland but they broke up for a little while and it was during that window of time he took my Mom out on a few dates, short lived, but she was “real pretty.” He moved on with his life…for a few months, then he got a call in early 1968. The pretty one was on the phone, that girl he’d dated only a few times, and she told him she was pregnant and he was the father. She had just turned 17 years old on December 22, 1967, so that makes her 16 years old when she got pregnant. I don’t know about you but I can show you a handbag I have right now that’s older than that! Anyway, that’s a whole other blog…

My grandmother told my father he was marrying Barbara to make the situation right so he had to to marry a girl he barely knew, and certainly didn’t love. I think the ex-girlfriend in Maryland needed someone to hate for this and I was the chosen one.

A fetus.

That marriage lasted a few years, about as long as a loveless marriage can be expected to last I guess. They separated, divorced and he ended up back with the girl from Maryland and they got married and she became my step mother…the woman who’s hated me since my conception. My dad won custody of me at a very early age because my mother was “unfit” to have custody of me. I’ve always wondered if the same people who decided my real mother wasn’t fit to raise me, were the same ones who decided my step mother was? I guess no one checks for that.

I was 5 years old when my first brother was born, I think the girl from Maryland wanted a little girl, but a beautiful boy was born instead and I remember being very happy to have a baby to help tend to! Then when I was 7 my other brother was born, again I feel like she wished for a girl and now hated me even more- because I would be his only daughter, forever. It wasn’t Barbara she had to compete with anymore, oh this was much worse- it was me…

She was a different person, with a different voice even, when she spoke to me in private versus when she spoke to me around other people. She was demanding of me and made me clean and re clean and clean again every square inch of a 100 year old house. My list of chores always longer and more intense than any of my other cousins. I felt like a servant. I hated when the topic of my mom came up, it always made her madder at me, and when she was madder, it got worse. I was always the one to get into trouble if my brothers did something wrong when I was left in charge of them. By trouble I mean getting beat with one of my dads leather belts, welts left on my thighs for days, then bruises took their place. I can remember thinking my little brothers wouldn’t be able to take a beating like that but I could because I was strong and I was the oldest. I could protect them.

My mom started taking picture of the marks on my legs on my weekends with her. By court order I could see her every other weekend. I looked so forward to those weekends, SO FORWARD. (Even though I knew my first week back from that weekend with my mom would be hell.) She was taking pictures to take to a lawyer to try to win custody back of me. To get me out of the situation I was in. That’s when the letters started arriving. I dreaded Irene Taylor (the mail lady) coming with the mail because there might be a letter from Richard Young, my dads lawyer. I never cared for mean ole Irene Taylor anyway, maybe because shes the one brought those letters that made so much more trouble for me. Those letters always made loud arguments in our house at night and she hated me even more.

I tried to hide but I had no where to go for very long, I’d had to face her eventually. It was a cycle that I could never be free from. She got mad when my dad had another lawyer bill to pay because my mom was making waves again because welts on my legs, made because shes mad about the bills from the lawyer because of the welts. No one could help me- I was stuck in this forever.

We were riding on Sheephouse Rd, just past Remson Church, there’s a stretch of road in a tunnel of trees. I was on the front seat, the girl from Maryland driving and my 2 brothers on the back seat. We were headed to Pocomoke to grocery shop. I was in a really bad place in my heart and soul. I knew I was stuck in this life and I truly wanted out any way possible. She wasn’t paying attention to the road and we were slowly drifting into the other lane and another car was coming from that direction. I thought if we crash maybe we will all die and it will all be over, or maybe only she will die and I can care for my brothers-I am anyway. Or, maybe she and I will both die leaving my brothers and my dad alone. As I was thinking all this I never did tell her there was a car coming, I simply turned my head and looked out the side window and waited for whatever was going to happen…to happen. Its as if time froze and slowed down to a crawl, like slow motion. There was no sound. I felt nauseous, I was bracing for impact. Then time sped up real quick with a blaring horn and she gasped and swerved to the right and swerved to the left, tossing us side to side, but she regained control and no one died that day. Why do I feel so guilty for that? I wasn’t driving, I wasn’t to blame, but if we’d crashed, somehow it really was my fault for letting it happen. For maybe wanting it to happen. I’ll carry the heavy load of that memory forever.

Speaking of blame, why do I feel the one blamed for every bit of this? I was the reason for a rushed and loveless marriage, and because of that a yucky divorce and more yuck throughout the years with custody issues. I am to blame for the extra bills and the life disruptions of every other weekend visits with my “real” mom. I am the reason our family isn’t like all the other families that are all together a unit, no “steps” in their family. I am different than the rest. I am sad all the way inside all the time and I hate it. I’ve told a few of my teachers at school a few things, I was afraid to tell them everything. So I told Darrell everything, my very best friend (non relative) that lived a few miles from Signpost so we rode the same school bus and went to school together everyday from 3rd grade to 10th when I left Signpost.

I now know the foundations that my youth was built on is what makes me the woman I am today. The woman with the low self esteem, the woman who always tries to make everything okay for everyone no matter the price it costs. As long as everyone else is alright, I can handle my side of things. I can keep quiet, I can take it, because I am the oldest, and I am strong.