Striking a parent is an abominable act and I am still gravely ashamed. I am telling the truth in this book, so that is why I mention it here. It affected what was left of my future relationship with her.
My sister says:
“I feel like I understood this all back then, especially the curfew part. It’s just really, really sad you went through feeling that way and had no comfort. None. And the bags on the lawn- I remember being stunned. I don’t remember when she put it all there, like, I don’t remember being there watching her bringing it out - but I remember trying to bring it back in and she stopped me. I remember feeling SO badly. That was a horrible time.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Mental Ward
In January of 1989, my mother wrote me a letter that pissed me off, but also kind of relieved me. It said that we were moving away from our neighborhood because she knew I was in trouble with a bad crowd. What really happened was that our house was in foreclosure because my dad hadn’t paid the mortgage in months. Luckily, my mom ended up being able to sell the thing at the last minute. Anyway, she didn’t mention that. She stuck to her story that we were moving because of me, and hell, I did need to get out of that neighborhood and away from my new crowd. She said that Jeff Hunter came to her and told her I was in trouble with some older guys. I was pissed at him for butting in. He was only an afterthought to me at that time, even though he was my world six months prior. I think I told him my happenings in passing, but I didn’t want to deal with his angry girlfriend if we were caught speaking to one another. I was mad at him for telling her about me, because she still yelled “Whore!” at me any time she saw me at school, no matter where we were or how many people were around. It hurt more once I wasn’t a virgin, because I did feel like a whore and she was basically rubbing it in.
It felt like I was living on one little AAA battery instead of the usual four D batteries. When in my room, I screamed at the top of my lungs and laid my ear against my stereo speakers that were on full blast. I had dreams of demons and devils and evil things. I drifted in and out of hallucinations. Then I stopped grooming. I stopped the skimpy clothes and started wearing men’s T-shirts. I wouldn’t brush my hair, wear shoes, or even turn my shirts right-side-out. I went to school with inside-out shirts that were backwards, with the tags sticking out in front, under my chin. I lost the will to live, so it didn’t really matter what I looked like. I still possessed enough vanity to wear makeup though. I felt as if my being pretty was the only power I held. But as for the rest of me, I looked homeless.
The kids at school left me alone, except for the random gangster girls bussed in from South Central L.A. who shouted at me and called me a crazy bare-footed bitch. The Latin cholas left me alone, raising their penciled-in eyebrows and shaking their heads. I was so tired, depressed, and suicidal that I feared none of them at that point. I would have beaten the shit out of or tried to kill any one of them who stepped to me. People stayed away- even Jeff’s hateful girlfriend shut up after a certain point.
My mom made a plan to move us all into our grandmother’s house. We had nowhere else to go. When everything was packed and being moved, my sister and I had our belongings in these little train cases. Mine was covered in stickers on the inside and it held my favorite cassette tapes, some makeup, rocker jewelry, and little knick knacks that made me happy. It was a little tiny piece of luggage, but it had my life inside. What was left of it, anyway.
We moved in with my grandmother that February. She still lived in a small house in Canoga Park, which was the house where my mother grew up. I normally loved and felt comforted by the house, but this time, it felt dark and sad. Canoga Park was not a bad
My sister says:
“I feel like I understood this all back then, especially the curfew part. It’s just really, really sad you went through feeling that way and had no comfort. None. And the bags on the lawn- I remember being stunned. I don’t remember when she put it all there, like, I don’t remember being there watching her bringing it out - but I remember trying to bring it back in and she stopped me. I remember feeling SO badly. That was a horrible time.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Mental Ward
In January of 1989, my mother wrote me a letter that pissed me off, but also kind of relieved me. It said that we were moving away from our neighborhood because she knew I was in trouble with a bad crowd. What really happened was that our house was in foreclosure because my dad hadn’t paid the mortgage in months. Luckily, my mom ended up being able to sell the thing at the last minute. Anyway, she didn’t mention that. She stuck to her story that we were moving because of me, and hell, I did need to get out of that neighborhood and away from my new crowd. She said that Jeff Hunter came to her and told her I was in trouble with some older guys. I was pissed at him for butting in. He was only an afterthought to me at that time, even though he was my world six months prior. I think I told him my happenings in passing, but I didn’t want to deal with his angry girlfriend if we were caught speaking to one another. I was mad at him for telling her about me, because she still yelled “Whore!” at me any time she saw me at school, no matter where we were or how many people were around. It hurt more once I wasn’t a virgin, because I did feel like a whore and she was basically rubbing it in.
It felt like I was living on one little AAA battery instead of the usual four D batteries. When in my room, I screamed at the top of my lungs and laid my ear against my stereo speakers that were on full blast. I had dreams of demons and devils and evil things. I drifted in and out of hallucinations. Then I stopped grooming. I stopped the skimpy clothes and started wearing men’s T-shirts. I wouldn’t brush my hair, wear shoes, or even turn my shirts right-side-out. I went to school with inside-out shirts that were backwards, with the tags sticking out in front, under my chin. I lost the will to live, so it didn’t really matter what I looked like. I still possessed enough vanity to wear makeup though. I felt as if my being pretty was the only power I held. But as for the rest of me, I looked homeless.
The kids at school left me alone, except for the random gangster girls bussed in from South Central L.A. who shouted at me and called me a crazy bare-footed bitch. The Latin cholas left me alone, raising their penciled-in eyebrows and shaking their heads. I was so tired, depressed, and suicidal that I feared none of them at that point. I would have beaten the shit out of or tried to kill any one of them who stepped to me. People stayed away- even Jeff’s hateful girlfriend shut up after a certain point.
My mom made a plan to move us all into our grandmother’s house. We had nowhere else to go. When everything was packed and being moved, my sister and I had our belongings in these little train cases. Mine was covered in stickers on the inside and it held my favorite cassette tapes, some makeup, rocker jewelry, and little knick knacks that made me happy. It was a little tiny piece of luggage, but it had my life inside. What was left of it, anyway.
We moved in with my grandmother that February. She still lived in a small house in Canoga Park, which was the house where my mother grew up. I normally loved and felt comforted by the house, but this time, it felt dark and sad. Canoga Park was not a bad
Similar Books
