When the Children Cry..

http://caringbridge.org/visit/tylerhibingerTyler was 3yrs old when he was diagnosed with an extremely rare brain tumor. This story has touched me and my friends and we want to help his family.Please visit The Caring Bridge website to read Tyler's story, see pictures and to read his families daily journal of this ordeal.The local fundraiser will be

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Never Normal

Fast forward about twenty two years and I am now sitting in a psychiatrist's office, wondering why I cant seem to manage my life. I was eleven at the time of the "stick-up" incident, and here I am 33 years old and realizing this memory is surfacing from the deep dark under-belly of my mind. It was not only this memory, but the many instances of bullying and abuse I received at home and at school. This is why at 33 I always felt bullied, by everyone. Constructive criticism was bullying to me. Disagreeing with my opinion was bullying. I was the constant victim in life. It was the world against me. I had a problem with everyone and everything. No matter where I went in life, someone was sure to be talking about me. Leaving a room full of people was torture. I just knew they were laughing at me. I also developed an obsession with colognes and perfumes. Obviously it did not take a Ph.D to explain to me where this obsession stemmed from. As an adult, no one would ever laugh at me again for having some sort of odor. 33 was the year of change. I no longer wanted to be held captive by the chains of abuse and bullying. My father, those fuckin kids, no one was going to keep me down any longer. BAM! The psychiatrist says, "you have post-traumatic stress disorder stemming from your childhood and your upbringing and you suffer from Bi-Polar Disorder." What the hell? Will I ever be friggin normal?

A Wish For Death

Walking home from school this day was frightening. Typically, kids were behind me picking on me half way home and I often times fought back with my words which only made things worse. This is something I still do to this day! Anyways, this day, I zoned them all out. I had that stick-up in my book bag and truthfully I wanted to smash it right in their faces. However, they were doing their typical bully bullshit and I heard nothing. I was silent. When a parent tells you to ignore the bully and they will go away, they do not know what they are talking about. This did not work. They kept up a relentless pace of shit but I was so defeated by the stick up under my desk that all I could see was my death. I wanted to die. And not the type of death where your embarrassed and you say, "oh my God, I just wanted to die!" I WANTED death. No one seemed to love or care for me and it was beginning to burden my heart and soul. One person can only take so much and I realized that day that I still had several years of schooling left, so how could I possibly survive? How could I manage to escape this? My mind raced with, "let them all find me dead. Let my dad find me, I will leave a note exclaiming everything he did and all the kids names too." What the fuck was I thinking? I could hang from the church bell and no one would give a shit.

The stick-up

So, I have explained that school was no more enjoyable a place for me than was my home. Looking back now, it's hard to discern what did more damage to my soul, the words of hate or the fists of hate. Both ripped my heart from my chest and broke my spirit like a wild mare being ridden for the first time.
Eighth grade was no different from any other year. However, one day seemed diffferent. All the kids were staring at me and laughing, when normally they would just say things and laugh. All day they were looking at me and even pointing at my desk. I kept looking at my little Catholic school uniform, oh yes, did I forget to mention it was a catholic school? Evil little bastards, but I digress. There was nothing on my uniform, nothing on my face, nothing on my shoes. What? What the fuck are you looking at? Jesus, just say something about me already and get it over with! It was not until ten minutes before school let out that I realized what was going on. I dropped my pencil on the floor, I bent over to pick it up and there it was. Underneath my desk, stuck right in the middle of it, was a stick-up. A fucking air freshner. I don't think Crayola makes the color of red my face turned at that moment. My heart sunk into my stomach and the tears began to well up. I slowly slid my hand under my desk and ripped off the damn thing. They have sticky tape on the back, so it didn't come off quietly might I add. All heads turned and they all got in one last laugh. This was the beginning of a realization that death was an option, kids are not happy little people, where was God for me, and who the fuck did I piss off in a former life to live in this filth?

Fake Family

To be honest with you, two things saved my life in childhood. As I told you already, music was one of the components. The other, sports. I excelled in softball and basketball and I would have given my right eye to play. Softball was my sport of choice and I am not too proud to say I was damn good. It was sometime in the mid eighties, and I had the highest batting average in the entire city, including all men's, boy's and women's leagues. I still have that trophy, name plaque all worn and tarnished, just as my memories of childhood. When I was on the court or the field, I mattered. I was part of something larger than myself and my crumbling existence. Every bead of sweat meant that I was contributing to my "team," my fake family. I call them fake because the only time these people were nice to me or wanted anything to do with me, was when we were in the heat of competition. I got all the high fives, back slaps, way to go's you could ever imagine during my games. Yet, when the final score displayed, I was nothing again. This is an area of human behavior I have never been able to wrap my mind around. How do you treat people like this? How do you pretend, if only for a moment? Truly, nobody cared. These kids' parent's loved me, yet they had no idea what little fuckers their kids were. By fuckers, I mean devious, satan worshipping little maggots. Remind me to tell you about the "the stick-up."

Music

I guess I can say at this time I learned of the dark recesses in a person's mind. It's quite frightening as a child especially. Your mind takes you to a dark place where everything is black. There are no trees, no sunshine, no laughter. A place where you can visualize your body and mind a mangled wreck. What happened in my life in about the sixth grade was that I realized my mind had not taken me anywhere. This was my life. I would recoil like a snake into my room and hide inside my stereo, and let Bonnie Tyler and Spandau Ballet spill my guts out onto my pink carpet. My battered heart and soul was liquefied and slowly seeped out each pore of my speakers and gave me a momentary release. Music was my first true love, and I fell deep and hard. I wrapped my every emotion into it, and no matter what I was doing, I could think of a song to identify the moment. To this day, music has been my solace. My dad was especially bad during my sixth, seventh and eighth grade years. The beatings were relentless and I told no one. The verbal abuse was just as potent from him. I could only be called fat so many times before the tears soaked my pillow. My dad had a very sick sense of humor as well, and made jokes about me regarding feminine issues as well. I hated him. I literally saw myself killing that bastard. It was at this time that "My name is Luka," was released on the airwaves. A touching song about child abuse that wrenched people's hearts and stirred up anger in many parents. I just laughed. I was Luka. I was Luka at home and school. All their anger was for show. I was right there. I was right in front of their eyes. No one saw me. Everyone looked right through me.

Reality

Realizing at this time in my life that I was neither wanted at home nor at school became a huge dose of reality for me. Although school was like a second prison to me, I refused to miss a day. Anything was better than being at home with my dad. My outlet in school was learning everything I could and daydreaming about my favorite teacher adopting me. I also dreamt of Bob Zaremba taking me home too, but that was a little different! I had no friends, and was picked on constantly. School was an extension of my home life, yet sometimes felt even more brutal. The bruises my father inflicted on me would fade, but the kids' verbal bashing remained in my head. Truth be told, it remains to this day. It never goes away. The memory may dissipate, but once it's refreshed in your mind, it pierces just as bad as the first time it happened. I can instantly be transported back to fifth grade in one fleeting thought. I hated every single one of these fuckers. When I hear about these kids on the news going into schools and shooting the place up because they were bullied, I feel sick. Sick for two reasons. One, the loss of children's lives. Two, and probably the source of my feeling ill, I understand why they do it. I do not condone this by any means, but my inner being feels a compassion for these people that others may not be able to. This is a difficult cross to carry. It is but one more scar the little pieces of filth left on my battered heart and mind.

Ninja Lisa

Seeing the joy in my dad's eye when I handed him "the board" was a sickening feeling. As a young child, I lived the cliche. I pretty much assumed all the other kids lived like this as well. What I couldn't grasp, was why they seemed to be happy and carefree, and I felt like a boulder the size of Texas was on my shoulders. A few different things would go through my warped mind at this age. I would say I was about the age of 10 or 11 now, and had lived with dad's abuse constantly. First thought was handing him this board. I saw myself sliding down the banister of the stairway, summer-saulting through the living room, crouching tiger hidden dragon through the dining room, spinning with the board in the air until I made it into the kitchen and whacking him across the face with it until he laid on the ground! At this point I would yell, "wax off, wax on" and stand over him with 'the board" against his throat. For those of you confused by wax off, wax on, it's a reference to the movie Karate Kid. However, as you may have guessed, this was in my magical land and it gave me the courage to bring that wooden weapon to him.
Second thoughts for me at this time were these other kids who seemed so damn happy. How could they be going through what I was and still act the way they did? As if being a kid is not already confusing enough, this really did me in. I would envision these little boys and girls as demons in this world and it was my duty to destroy them all. In my faltered mind, I assumed they deserved their punishments, knowing full well that I was being beat for no damn reason. I saw myself with this magical board zapping each little Cretan with a smile on their face. They would just, POOF, disappear! If they looked miserable like me, they could join my side, the dark side so to speak. This obviously was child's play. There was never going to be MY TEAM. In the real world, these little happy people formed a malicious army, and I was their enemy.

The Board

The worst part of "the board" was having to go and retrieve it from my closet when my dad told me to go get it. I can equate it to the "dead man walking" scene. That's how I felt at the time. I would slowly make my way up the fourteen steps to my bedroom on the second floor, turn right into the first room and sit on my bed for a moment. This is when I would ponder for a minute running away, and most times, killing myself. I knew how much it would hurt the minute the cold wood made contact with my ass. My eyes would gaze over to my window, complete with the TOT Finder sticker in case of fire. This was so the firemen could find me in the event this occurred. I tried many times to peel that thing off the damn window, to no avail. I don't know what they make those with, but that shit to this day is probably still stuck half-assed to that window. However, I saw myself many times just leaping out and plunging to the earth. In my young mind, I would fall to my death and oh how my dad would regret what he had done. Looking back, or as I got older, I realized that it was only two stories so I would have just broken my face or something, and been screamed at for being an idiot and letting the neighbors in on the "little secret" of our family.
So inevitably, I would get the fucking board and take it back downstairs and hand it to my dad. As he took it from me, I swear I could see a glint of joy in his eye, a smile evolving on his face, like a kid on Christmas Eve.

My Closet

Even though I had hoped for this closet to take me away to a magical place, this was not to be. What my closet became was a safe haven from the endless barrage of beatings that I took from Sonny. You might think that I hid in my closet, but this was not the case. Sonny was a sadistic man. His form of abuse varied on whatever moved him for the day I suppose. His good old standby and his favorite tool of the trade was "the board." "The board" was a piece of wood about 2 feet long that had a handle. It was about 3 inches thick and it said, "96 tears. Lisa and George." My brother George will tell you that he did not experience the wrath of "the board" as I did, but he knew what it meant to hear dad say, "go get me the board."
Just seeing the board evoked a fear so deep to my core that I sometimes thought I would vomit. When I would hear my dad yell for me to get it for him I physically became ill. I would bring him the board, already crying as I handed it to him. This is when he would say, "stop the tears or I'll give you something to cry about." The sick bastard knew all the while he was gonna pound the shit out of me with the board, so why he spoke those words I don't know. "The board" saw many days in the way back of my closet, hidden under old shoes and clothes, hoping that it's master would forget somehow that it ever existed. Just like that magical Lisa land did not exist, nor did this fantasy.

Lakewood

Somewhere in all this mess, we moved to Lakewood, Ohio. My parents bought a house and I guess this was to perpetrate "the dream." Our house was huge. I do not mean expensive, rich people huge. I mean, built in the early 1900's huge. Lakewood is full of homes like these. Two story homes with four or five bedrooms, a full attic and full basement and large front porches. I was in the middle of my second grade year when we moved here, and coming from the duplex, this seemed like a mansion! I got to pick the room I wanted, and well, it was a fairly easy choice. Apparently the people that lived here before had a boy and a girl as well, and my room had Strawberry Shortcake border. I loved it. This was to be my hideaway. My refuge.
I had a pretty cool bed as a kid too. It was a canopy bed, and it was all done up in pink. My whole room was pink, even the carpet. Almost as if my parents were trying to CONVINCE me I was a girl! The one thing I remember vividly is that my closet was narrow and long. I could walk into the back of it and sit on the floor. This was usually my hiding place during hide and seek games with my brother. I sometimes would pretend this was the wardrobe from "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe." I just knew that one time I would jump in there and be whisked away into a magical place of freedom, where I would ride away on a lion and rule the land of Lisa forever.

Fear

I wonder sometimes looking back if I really knew at such a young age what being"owned" meant. I'm quite sure that I probably didn't. What I did know was that my mind and body lived in a constant state of fear, and I always had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. You know the feeling when you get caught doing something that you shouldn't be? That was me, everyday. The problem with this was that I never ever knew what I would get in trouble for. For instance, I threw an eaten corn cob into the garbage can without a bag, and I got beat pretty bad with my dad's tennis shoe. To this day, 35 years later, I have an issue with bag less garbage cans. Fear can manifest itself in so many ways, that you will eventually forget that you were afraid in the first place. You wake up one day angry at the world and all the fear has been displaced by food, liquor, sex and whatever else you can grab hold of. Anything to keep you feeling the "disconnection" to your true self will satisfy your anger.

Owned

It was at this point in my life I realized that I was not a "part" of something. I didn't fit into any piece of a familial puzzle, or collage. I was just a being placed on this earth for the entertainment of others. This is when the disconnection between myself and my emotions started. When I think back to this time, it reminds me of an engine's kill switch. My brain's kill switch turned off. I was repeatedly hurt by this man who called himself my father, and yet it all was acceptable to me because my switch of normalcy had been disengaged. I don't really know too much more about living on Aldene except that good old Susie and I had one last good fight. I was roller skating, on the old metal skates at that. For those of you unaware of what I mean, these skates basically looked like a cookie sheet with wheels on them. They clinked and clanked against the concrete like a hammer being smashed against brick. However, I loved skating. Susie and I had words of some sort and she pushed me down, and because of the skates, I went straight down to the ground, face first. I hit my head on the concrete and ended up with a concussion. Honestly, I have no recollection of what occurred after this, and I suppose in the grand scope of things it doesn't really matter. What I know about this is the same as what I knew then about my father. Anyone who wanted to, could hurt me and do as they wished with me without fear of retribution or me fighting back. I was not, or at least did not feel as if I was my own person. Once my father put me against that wall, he OWNED me. I realized by not fighting back with Susie, that I was facing a world that seemed to want to own me as well.

The Other Thing

The look in my dad's eye's was evident. The feeling in my gut was wrenching. I knew what was coming. I felt as if all of the air in my lungs had just been sucked out and my entire body became very warm. I began to shake on the inside. You know that type of fear that grabs hold of your skeleton bones and rattles them throughout your whole body? That's what was happening to me right then and there. He said, "so, you stole some gum huh?" I considered for a fleeting moment lying. It didn't matter, he wouldn't believe me anyways. I looked at my mother who just sat stoically on the couch. She knew all too well what was to happen next. To my bewilderment however, dad said, "I will give you a choice. You can get your ass beat or the other thing." Now, any of you who have kids will find this an easy choice. I did not know what the other thing was, and I didn't care. I had been beaten for years now and knew anything was better then that. Be very careful what you believe to be true. That is what I learned here. I told my dad I wanted the other thing. He told me to go stand in the corner by the door and face him. Wow, ok, I can do this. Then he told me to take off my clothes. How foolish I was to think "the other thing" was going to be easier to take than his belt, or shoe or whatever else he could grab. I took off my clothes and stood in the corner. I tried to put my hands over my lower area, and I will never forget his words, "no, put your hands above your head." I stood there, baring my body and soul and at that moment he owned me. I was completely and utterly defeated. I will always remember my mom's word's as well, "Sonny, close the door." See, I was standing by the front door and people could have easily seen inside. He sat on the couch and stared at me as I stood against the wall, my hands above my head, my heart and soul crushed beneath his cold dirty drunk hand.

Karen

Karen was a babysitter that I had when I lived on Aldene. I'm not really sure how old she was. I know she had blond hair, and was, on the surface a very nice girl. I felt a sort of closeness to her that I had not felt with anyone before. I was completely unaware of why I felt this way towards her, as I had not known her very long. One day she said she would take me to the store with her. I was more than happy to go with her. I can remember walking through the parking lot of the plaza holding Karen's hand, and feeling an inner smile. I was happy, carefree for the moment. We went into the store, and Karen went off to find whatever she was looking to buy. I found myself reeling in amazement at all the wonderful and vibrantly colored candy bars and packs of gum on display. I picked up a small pack of gum, and without hesitation, decided that it was to be mine, and slipped it in my pocket. As we were walking out of the store, I took the gum out of my pocket, and showed Karen. To my shock, she was pissed. She was so angry at me, and this frightened me. I was worried on many levels at this point. I worried of losing that feeling of closeness with her because she was mad at me, and petrified of her telling my dad. However, I became completely enamored of Karen when she said to me, "take the gum back and I won't tell." I ran for my life. I opened the front doors of the grocery store, and I threw the pack of gum back into the store. I ran as fast as I could back to Karen so that I could tell her I listened to what she said and was good again. She said, "good girl." She played with me for the rest of the day until my dad came home, and I was sad to see her go, but knew she would be back tomorrow. I couldn't wait. Karen took my dad out on the porch and they talked for a bit, and then she left. Two things stick out in my mind here. Karen was a liar, and she was truly unaware of the trauma she had just caused. In all the years since this incident I have hated her for the betrayel and lie, yet I have come to realize that she never fully knew what her telling on me had done.

Aldene III/George Jr.

At this point in time, George Jr was 4 or 5 years old. I do not know where in the landscape of my memories he hid, but during this time of my life, he is not there. Later in my life, I would wish for him to disappear, but not at this moment. This should have been a time for connecting and bonding with my brother, and starting a friendship that would last a lifetime. To this day, the idealism of this close knit sibling bond plagues me. Plagues me, because it would never come to fruition. Yet still, I am searching my mind for this little boy who at the time, had not yet hurt me or taken on the distinct personality of my father. At such a young age, was I so consumed with myself that I didn't really care about him? Did he feel this from his older sister, hence the beginning of a severely broken and unforgiving relationship?
There are many moments throughout my life that George Jr is there and can be seen very clearly. He is, or was, the source of much rage and anger inside of me for most of my life. My concern is still the little boy George. Someday maybe I will see you, and I will see the George I always dreamed about, better yet, the BROTHER I dreamed about.

Aldene II

I heard them all crash down on the floor. He, Sonny, my dad, cleared the table of all the luminaries I had worked on so hard. I then heard my mother say, "those are Lisa's, not mine." My dad did not care. At least that is what he yelled at the time. "I don't give a shit about these fucking cans!" I remember that as a defining moment for me. Yes, I was young, but I knew he didn't care about me. I realized I was not important to him. He began stomping on the luminaries and kicking them across the room, and my mother was begging him to stop. I have no idea how that night ended for the two of them. I know for myself, I cried silently in my bed. I think it was for many reasons. My project possibly was ruined, I had not seen them yet. My parent's fighting, my feelings of complete loneliness, and fear. I was always afraid. I think even of my own shadow.
I am struck by the fact that we lived in this house and I remember a few moments that shaped my life, but I have no recollection whatsoever of my little brother being anywhere around. As hard as I try to close my eyes and take myself back, I can't see him there. Where are you George Jr.?

Aldene

Aldene is the street that we lived on when we moved to Cleveland. The duplex was nice enough I guess. It was the 70's, so I remember this fire orange carpet, must have been the hot thing. I also can see lots and lots of brown in the kitchen, ugly brown. Shiny brown, everywhere. We also had an upstairs. This is where I would hear most of the arguments and the screaming. I could hear them downstairs fighting all the time. Now that I am older, and understand a little about distance and space, Rhonda and her family on the other side of the duplex had to hear this as well. At least then, I didn't comprehend that issue so I had no reason to be embarrassed. Sonny, as everyone called my father was a raging alcoholic. He was a mean drunk, and truth be told, he was mean as hell sober.
I was a member of a local Brownies troop. That's what you are before you become the almighty Girl Scout! I had worked long and hard on a project with my mom making several luminaries out of old coffee cans. We made at least 15 to 20 of these things for my troop. Peeling all the coffee labels off, freezing the cans and punching in different designs with a needle so that we could put our candles in them. They were all sitting on the dining room table, as we needed to take them to our meeting in the morning. That night Sonny came home drunk.

Teddy II

The next time I walked with Teddy was different. We walked over to the parking lot, and at the end of the lot straight across from my house was a huge tree. Teddy had put together a little place of refuge for him and his friends. This explained where everyone was going when they walked by my house and disappeared behind that big tree!
There were two old mattresses as a make-shift roof, and an old rug as the floor. Teddy told me to have a seat, and I did. I remember being unsure of what was going to happen, but to my delight, Teddy played music. He told me that he would be right back, and when he returned he had an acoustic guitar with him. I have no idea what he played, I just know I was amazed at watching him play, and he sang as well. Teddy had dark hair, and lots of freckles, and he was a sweet boy. This is the only time I remember him singing and playing guitar for me, but I have always remembered this moment, and known it to be a truly "sweet" expression. I don't know what happened to Teddy, his sister Susie absolutely hated that he liked me, however, I don't think he cared much about that. Whatever happened to him, he has always held a special place in my heart, because it was the first act of kindness I unequivocally remember.
Thanks Teddy.

Teddy

I can't really explain how I felt when he asked me to take a walk with him. We lived next to a shopping plaza that had a big grocery store named Fazio's as the main attraction. Teddy wanted me to walk to Fazio's with him so he could buy some candy. I was thrilled to go with him, mostly because the look of pur hatred Susie gave him made me smile inside. I thought to myself, if Teddy likes me, she will too! He is her older brother and she adores him, so surely she will come around. Rhonda and Susie sat on the steps of Susie's house and just watched as Teddy and I walked through the parking lot and disappeared to the main strip of the plaza. I can't remember a thing we talked about, I'm not sure that we even talked at all. I just know at that very moment, and what felt like for the first time in my life, I was not afraid. Teddy bought his candy and we walked back through the parking lot to our street and there sat the girls waiting. I was afraid of them so I just walked up to my steps and Teddy just said, "see ya," and walked to his house. As I went in the house I do remember this mixed bag of emotions. Happy to have made a friend, but also at this young age, I couldn't shake that they were sitting over there just laughing away at me and making fun of me. This emotion would last most of my 35 years of life.

Cleveland

Though I would never go back to California, for fear it's just going to fall into the great abyss one day, I can't for the life of me figure out what prompted my parents to pick Cleveland, Ohio to pitch their land flag. I remember this of my first moments in Cleveland. I lived on a short street, in a duplex with a little girl that lived next door. Her name was Rhonda, and this would be my first lesson in exclusion. She was best friends with Susie who lived on the other side of us. I guess Susie was high class because she lived in a single home, and well, Rhonda was high class because her family owned the duplex we lived in. Rhonda's family had a pool, and I remember vividly seeing the crystal clear blue water, sunlight shimmering off the top, beach ball floating aimlessly around in circles. I wanted so badly to jump in and feel an escape. Although I almost drowned in California, water became and has continued to be a source of peace and solace for me. Rhonda didn't like me in HER pool. Her parents said we could use it, but my mom said just stay away unless they are out there and ask you to get in. Day after endless summer day, I would watch out the back window with steaming jealousy as Rhonda and Susie and Susie's brother Teddy would frolic, yes frolic, in the pool. I'm pretty sure at this young age of 7 is when I first began to feel rage. Sonny was a drunk bastard everyday, and I had no friends to turn too. Until one day Teddy said, "want to walk with me?"

Blizzard 2008

So clearly I had to break from the bleeding heart crap and discuss this blizzard for a minute! Holy shit it's alot of snow. I am currently plowed INTO my garage, thinking I was being smart parking IN there, ha ha ha. UH, NO! So, I spent my saturday flipping through 3000 channels of absolute stupidity because the entire north east was on the internet. I felt if I had to look at that hour glass for one more second, my computer would join the outside world and be slammed with snow. The view however was fantastic, but man, TV is really and truly an IDIOT box. Thank god for IPODS! I did however find a great Indie flick called "Beautiful Ohio." Really a great movie and I highly recommend.

Til next time....

California III

I'm pretty sure my dad saved me that day on the beach only because my mom was laying right there and was screaming for me. My deepest, darkest thoughts are that if it had been just him and I, he would have let me drown. Finally making his way to somebody for help, knowing it was already too late, he would have conjured up tears and sorrow, and acted as if his love for me was the most precious gift he had ever been givin. My mother would have seen such agony and despair in him, yet found a way to make a life still. These are the thoughts I have never shared, never dared speak aloud, yet somewhere know them to be true. The fact is, he saved me. And the rest of my life began that day.
His name was George, A.K.A. Sonny. The man I knew as my father. That is until I turned 13 years old. That's another story though. I will jump ahead to Cleveland. I was 7 when we moved to Cleveland, with my little brother, George Jr. in tow. Again, I don't remember any of this. It's quite disturbing to know that I travelled across country for three days with a drunk and a four year old and remember not one road, or valley or truck stop or restaurant. Wow.

California II

I lived in California for five years. These years saw the birth of my younger brother, the death of my best friend at the time, none of which I remember. In five years time, I have four memories. And only one of those is a good memory. My mother and I were driving and I remember the sun beaming down and it was hot out. Yet, I looked up in the sky and I saw mountains that were snowcapped. I can only imagine the wonder and amazement my eyes showed to my mother when I asked "how?" My mom explained the whole thing to me as best she could to this little kid sitting next to her and for the moment and still today, I remember that instance of serenity and just being happy.
As for the rest of my life in California, I have relied heavily on family, aunts and uncles to tell me things that they know. I can't help but wonder, when they relay these disgusting things to me, why they left me there. It was an era of "we don't discuss". All I can say now as an adult, if I knew things were happening to a child somewhere in my family, THERE WOULD BE MORE THAN A DISCUSSION.
I will end today with one of my other memories. Now you will have heard of three of the four. I almost drown in the Pacific Ocean. All I really remember is that all but my little hand was under water. My father saved me. Those words make no sense to me. To this day I am left wondering, why? Why did you save me?

California

So I guess my first memory of childhood was about 5 or 6 years old. I have really lost major chunks of time where my childhood is concerned. But, I remember this day for sure. It was the first time I remember my dad beating the hell out of me for no reason. I dont quite know how many times he punched me in the face or hit me, but it was enough to make my mother hang up the phone and come save me. And by save, I mean, tell him to stop and she held me til I went to sleep. My idea of save is just a wee bit different. But then again, I don't live and breathe for the companionship of a man. The year was either '77 or '78, so we didn't "talk" about these things. I remember the next day waking up with a swollen , bruised face, and not one damn word was said about it. Oh, I forgot to mention, this wasn't even my real dad! But that's a story for another day.

I will relay these stories as best I can remember as I mentioned earlier, it's tough to recall specific dates. I know there are kids out there now keepin quiet about their abuse, and I know that struggle. I also know the struggle of telling and no one helping. However, I'm good now, and this will help! I welcome your thoughts and comments....Until next time.....the story continues.

Introduction

Hello world! My name is Lisa, aka Funkyslick, and I'm taking this opportunity to introduce myself to you and invite you back for future stories. All stories are true, albeit some quite painful to retell, this is a positive outlet. I look forward to sharing thoughts, laughter, challenging idealisms and hell, good old raw debates.
There will be no censorship here....anything goes. So for the moment, fuckin chill out and check back later.....I got some shit to say, and there is this one chick that I hope, well, that's for another time. It will all be explained. I promise.

Anything you may have to say right at the moment, spit it out. I'm up for it. absolutely nothing shocks me anymore, I mean, a woman and a black man runnin for prez. Is it the end? Nah, just playin. I shall return.
Ya'll welcome me though huh...