(no subject)
Something about me: A letter to myself and it's audiance.
“Some days I feel broke inside, but I won’t admit it” - Christina Aguilera.
My mother grew up with an alcoholic parent. She basically grew up in her teenage years on her own with her siblings. The all knew that their mother drank, but no one would admit it to each other. They would try to find ways to stop her from drinking, like hiding her alcohol and cigarettes, but never confronted her about it. So my mother went on with her life and later on in life she married my father. My father grew up as an army brat. He never really saw his father, and his mother was mentally, well not there. They all had to find their own ways, brother following brother and so on and so forth. He never saw his parents and the only influence he had was of his siblings and not so good friends. My mother and father did not grow up in the ideal home, and they both married each other. My mother married him so she could fix his problems with marriage. My father married her so he could have a way out of working and being responsible.
Five years later of my father being in and out of prison for improper exposures, while my mother worked full-time as a nurse. Mom made the money and dad would spend it. Then later in their fifth year, I was born in the middle of a Bronco Super bowl game. My mother named me Anastasia and I was the only child that they had together. My father had a previous marriage and had a single child. A girl named, Alyssa. She’s probably in her 30s and has two kids.
My father was my playmate, he was my best friend. My mother had decided to home school me so I didn’t have any other play friends except for the neighbors on our block. My birthday parties were small, but my mom and dad had none. “You didn’t really know that I existed until you were three. Seriously,” my mother told me. My dad was my world, he would play with me and cuddle with me, and my mother put me to sleep and fed me.
Well, for the next five years I was all about dad. He was my friend, and my mother was well… my mom. I would sleep in their bed many times a week and barely knew my own bed. But I would make sure that when I went to bed with my mother and father that I would bring my teddy bear, Buttons (suitable name for the Button family). Then one day, when I was sleeping in my own bed and my mother was sleeping because she had worked the night shift that night; my father was arrested. I remember hearing noises next door and waking up and going to the living room window seeing two guys holding my dad by the arms going to a white car. After that day I kept asking my mother:
“Where’s dad?” and “He’s not here anymore because he doesn’t love me.”
My mother couldn’t tell a five year old girl that her father had problems or let alone what problems. I wouldn’t have understood what she was talking about.
At that moment my mother was done with the marriage, if you would call it that. She divorced him and my best friend was gone for a long periods at a time and I didn’t know why. I always thought it was because he didn’t love me or mom, or that he didn’t like us anymore. So when I was ten or so, I kept yelling as to why dad was never there, that I only got to see him very rarely. She had explained everything to me about jail, arrests, and his acts of exposure. That whenever he would be getting (psychologically) better that he would quit trying to be a better person and flash someone so he would go to jail. Something about his past led him to do this.
After learning the truth, I started to hate him. And a few weeks/months later I called him up, and told him what I felt about him. That I hated him, didn’t want anything to do with him and that he wouldn’t have anything to do with me. The next day he showed up at the door (mom was gone) and I didn’t answer. After he had left, I opened the door and yelled at him to never come back and that I hated him. I never told my mother that I did such a thing until I was eighteen. He would send letters every so once in a while because he wouldn’t be able to visit because he would be in jail. And soon the letters stopped.
When my father was arrested and my mother decided to divorce him, she felt used, hurt and etc. She started to ignore me when I was around four years old, but not so much as she did when my father left. Knowing that I was his, and not wanting to be close to anyone, so she pushed me away. Kept me out of her bed when I wanted to be close to her and sleep where I usually slept. She would go to work and leave me at a baby-sitter’s house for the day-night-day even though she would only be working the night, she would leave me there because she didn’t want to be around me. So, I had my baby-sitter’s kids as friends, and some kids from home school group, but other than that I was alone in a house with a sleeping mother. A reason why she chose the night shift was so that I would be by myself in the house and she would sleep, and she would go to work and I would sleep. I don’t remember much of my mother when I was young… Mostly my father when we played. She kept this up until she got counseling and started being good to me and noticing me and not ignoring me. We went on more vacations and played. By the time I was twelve, she stopped ignoring me and pushing me away. I remember her a lot more in those years.
Then not even a year ago, my mother told me that she had gotten a phone call from her brother-in-law Don, the eldest of my father’s side of the family. She told me everything that he had told her: That my father has been in the hospital since September (when I heard this it was February 22nd, I remember that day fully). He was in a coma from his diabetes in September for about a few weeks. Then he became conscious and seemed to be getting better, until December where he went into shock and he went back into intensive care. Then in early February he seemed like he wasn’t going to make it for another week, month or year, it really all depended on my dad if he wanted to live or not.
So I decided to go see him, I was trying to get back into contact with my father and when I heard the news from my mother I decided to go the next week. Well, I wasn’t able to go the next week, but three weeks later we went to go see him. My friend Angelica came along because afterwards we were going to go shopping to ease off the tensions, plus it helped that she was there… even though she stayed in the car. The visit was not in the hospital, but in a hostel for the sick homeless sponsored by Volunteers of America. I love those people now, and will never take them for granted. They took care of my father by giving him shelter and medical attention for free for a limited time.
My father had been homeless for a long time. He would go to jail, get out, and then be on the streets until he found another alternative or he would go back into his routine. But he never had a health scare as he did in September, December and February. And in March I saw, hugged and talked to my father whom I had not seen or spoken to in ten years, all because of an angry, stupid girl because now he’s dying and he won’t live for more than five years.
I gained peace from it, but the pain still lingers. Why did he have to be that way? Why did my mother ignore me? Why did I have to teach myself the cruelties of the world? Why does he have to die before his time? And yet, I thank God everyday for another day that my father is alive. For my mother who had done all she could through the emotional stress, and depression to raise me. And I thank God for where he led me to be where I am now.
So here’s a little something that you didn’t know: I am detached from my emotions and problems because of what I just told you. But I am healed, maybe not completely; I still have a lot to work through, but I’m getting there.
Why do you have to re-live your life over and over again, and keep learning more about yourself? I ask why because I have to answer myself this question:
Why I have to re-live my life over and over again and to keep learning about myself is because I never knew myself. I never (and sometimes still don’t) acknowledge my problems and issues. I know that they are there, but I don’t deal with them as I should. And every time I do, I learn something of myself and it will probably happen all of my life because I never acknowledged myself as living or really there. I just wanted it all to go away, and in some aspects… I still do.
Now don’t look at this as a pity write. I wrote this for my own personal self, but I will share it with other people because I want to stop hiding my emotions and start feeling allowed. It may be annoying, but I need to do it. It’s wrong if I don’t, and I don’t want to kill myself slowly by holding everything inside.
Җ January ninth, two thousand and seven Җ
As myself,
Anastazia Valentine Shepton.
“Some days I feel broke inside, but I won’t admit it” - Christina Aguilera.
My mother grew up with an alcoholic parent. She basically grew up in her teenage years on her own with her siblings. The all knew that their mother drank, but no one would admit it to each other. They would try to find ways to stop her from drinking, like hiding her alcohol and cigarettes, but never confronted her about it. So my mother went on with her life and later on in life she married my father. My father grew up as an army brat. He never really saw his father, and his mother was mentally, well not there. They all had to find their own ways, brother following brother and so on and so forth. He never saw his parents and the only influence he had was of his siblings and not so good friends. My mother and father did not grow up in the ideal home, and they both married each other. My mother married him so she could fix his problems with marriage. My father married her so he could have a way out of working and being responsible.
Five years later of my father being in and out of prison for improper exposures, while my mother worked full-time as a nurse. Mom made the money and dad would spend it. Then later in their fifth year, I was born in the middle of a Bronco Super bowl game. My mother named me Anastasia and I was the only child that they had together. My father had a previous marriage and had a single child. A girl named, Alyssa. She’s probably in her 30s and has two kids.
My father was my playmate, he was my best friend. My mother had decided to home school me so I didn’t have any other play friends except for the neighbors on our block. My birthday parties were small, but my mom and dad had none. “You didn’t really know that I existed until you were three. Seriously,” my mother told me. My dad was my world, he would play with me and cuddle with me, and my mother put me to sleep and fed me.
Well, for the next five years I was all about dad. He was my friend, and my mother was well… my mom. I would sleep in their bed many times a week and barely knew my own bed. But I would make sure that when I went to bed with my mother and father that I would bring my teddy bear, Buttons (suitable name for the Button family). Then one day, when I was sleeping in my own bed and my mother was sleeping because she had worked the night shift that night; my father was arrested. I remember hearing noises next door and waking up and going to the living room window seeing two guys holding my dad by the arms going to a white car. After that day I kept asking my mother:
“Where’s dad?” and “He’s not here anymore because he doesn’t love me.”
My mother couldn’t tell a five year old girl that her father had problems or let alone what problems. I wouldn’t have understood what she was talking about.
At that moment my mother was done with the marriage, if you would call it that. She divorced him and my best friend was gone for a long periods at a time and I didn’t know why. I always thought it was because he didn’t love me or mom, or that he didn’t like us anymore. So when I was ten or so, I kept yelling as to why dad was never there, that I only got to see him very rarely. She had explained everything to me about jail, arrests, and his acts of exposure. That whenever he would be getting (psychologically) better that he would quit trying to be a better person and flash someone so he would go to jail. Something about his past led him to do this.
After learning the truth, I started to hate him. And a few weeks/months later I called him up, and told him what I felt about him. That I hated him, didn’t want anything to do with him and that he wouldn’t have anything to do with me. The next day he showed up at the door (mom was gone) and I didn’t answer. After he had left, I opened the door and yelled at him to never come back and that I hated him. I never told my mother that I did such a thing until I was eighteen. He would send letters every so once in a while because he wouldn’t be able to visit because he would be in jail. And soon the letters stopped.
When my father was arrested and my mother decided to divorce him, she felt used, hurt and etc. She started to ignore me when I was around four years old, but not so much as she did when my father left. Knowing that I was his, and not wanting to be close to anyone, so she pushed me away. Kept me out of her bed when I wanted to be close to her and sleep where I usually slept. She would go to work and leave me at a baby-sitter’s house for the day-night-day even though she would only be working the night, she would leave me there because she didn’t want to be around me. So, I had my baby-sitter’s kids as friends, and some kids from home school group, but other than that I was alone in a house with a sleeping mother. A reason why she chose the night shift was so that I would be by myself in the house and she would sleep, and she would go to work and I would sleep. I don’t remember much of my mother when I was young… Mostly my father when we played. She kept this up until she got counseling and started being good to me and noticing me and not ignoring me. We went on more vacations and played. By the time I was twelve, she stopped ignoring me and pushing me away. I remember her a lot more in those years.
Then not even a year ago, my mother told me that she had gotten a phone call from her brother-in-law Don, the eldest of my father’s side of the family. She told me everything that he had told her: That my father has been in the hospital since September (when I heard this it was February 22nd, I remember that day fully). He was in a coma from his diabetes in September for about a few weeks. Then he became conscious and seemed to be getting better, until December where he went into shock and he went back into intensive care. Then in early February he seemed like he wasn’t going to make it for another week, month or year, it really all depended on my dad if he wanted to live or not.
So I decided to go see him, I was trying to get back into contact with my father and when I heard the news from my mother I decided to go the next week. Well, I wasn’t able to go the next week, but three weeks later we went to go see him. My friend Angelica came along because afterwards we were going to go shopping to ease off the tensions, plus it helped that she was there… even though she stayed in the car. The visit was not in the hospital, but in a hostel for the sick homeless sponsored by Volunteers of America. I love those people now, and will never take them for granted. They took care of my father by giving him shelter and medical attention for free for a limited time.
My father had been homeless for a long time. He would go to jail, get out, and then be on the streets until he found another alternative or he would go back into his routine. But he never had a health scare as he did in September, December and February. And in March I saw, hugged and talked to my father whom I had not seen or spoken to in ten years, all because of an angry, stupid girl because now he’s dying and he won’t live for more than five years.
I gained peace from it, but the pain still lingers. Why did he have to be that way? Why did my mother ignore me? Why did I have to teach myself the cruelties of the world? Why does he have to die before his time? And yet, I thank God everyday for another day that my father is alive. For my mother who had done all she could through the emotional stress, and depression to raise me. And I thank God for where he led me to be where I am now.
So here’s a little something that you didn’t know: I am detached from my emotions and problems because of what I just told you. But I am healed, maybe not completely; I still have a lot to work through, but I’m getting there.
Why do you have to re-live your life over and over again, and keep learning more about yourself? I ask why because I have to answer myself this question:
Why I have to re-live my life over and over again and to keep learning about myself is because I never knew myself. I never (and sometimes still don’t) acknowledge my problems and issues. I know that they are there, but I don’t deal with them as I should. And every time I do, I learn something of myself and it will probably happen all of my life because I never acknowledged myself as living or really there. I just wanted it all to go away, and in some aspects… I still do.
Now don’t look at this as a pity write. I wrote this for my own personal self, but I will share it with other people because I want to stop hiding my emotions and start feeling allowed. It may be annoying, but I need to do it. It’s wrong if I don’t, and I don’t want to kill myself slowly by holding everything inside.
Җ January ninth, two thousand and seven Җ
As myself,
Anastazia Valentine Shepton.