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P. 1
Promises

Promises

Ratings: (0)|Views: 20 |Likes:
Published by Anne Marie Wysong

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Published by: Anne Marie Wysong on Jan 15, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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04/29/2012

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Chapter One.
How did this come to be, you ask? This has been the same question Ive held close for manyyears. I dont remember how, or even when this began. I do know one thing for sure, it was perfect.My life hasnt been the greatest. Ive had many ups, but more downs. I guess you could judgeyourself that way as well. To me though; I believe that the human mind likes to think of the bad thingsmore than the good. In this story, I can easily put things that have made my life worse. Its ten timesharder to think of the things that have kept me sane. Sometimes I wonder if somehow God likes it thatway. To see how strong we really are; to see how faithful we are. That somehow if we still believe, evenafter seeing the hardest parts of life; maybe were worth keeping. Heres my story; Almost every littlepiece of it.So lets seethe farthest memory I have stuck back in my brain. I remember being four yearsold, just getting off preschool, my mom and I are walking down the road. I decided that it would be coolof me to run down the street and run and run, and feel like I didnt have a care in the world- until shestopped me. I remember going home, being thrown on my bed my father, falling asleep because I wastoo afraid to face the reality of the word trouble. But when I woke up, I wasnt four anymore. It wasmy first day of Kindergarten. I felt weird, as if I was jumping on a bus that would never take me backhome. As if I would never see my mommy and daddy ever again. I felt that way the whole bus ride, justbefore the little Chinese girl in the back puked all over my brand-new black flats. The whole school day,walking in my puked-on new black shoes, it was horrible.I was 6 years old by now, and the home life wasnt exactly what you would call great. My momand dad were always fighting. Id stay up for all hours of the night trying to make out what they weresaying to each other through the walls. One night, I heard my little brother crying, but it wasnt a loudcry. It was more of a little whimper; just loud enough to say 
save me
. I remember walking out mybedroom door, him walking slowly to mine. I was thinking of how to get him through my door beforedaddy saw it happening. We both knew what he would do if he caught us awake. But this time wasdifferent. I remember a loud scream, my brother running in my arms, and my father throwing mymom against the wall, her throat in his fist.He saw us.For one second, he looked into my eyes, and looked almost embarrassed for what he had done.He let go of mom. She started crying, and so did my brother. I shut the door, and went to sleep.Typical night.Things didnt get any better. Nor did I live the life of a normal kid. Every night got louder, moreviolent, and even scarier. With my baby sister born, my brother wasnt the only one crying. They didntpay attention when they were in the moment of screaming each others faces off. This became thehighlight of my night. I could do whatever I wanted. I learned to dismiss the screaming; blocking it to thepoint where Id forget they were there. Id play around with Barbies and maybe even my stuffed
 
 animals, depending on how bad the day had been. Id even pretend I was a princessuntil a doorslammed.Lets fast forward a few years- only because I dont remember them.I was finally in the BIG elementary school. I felt important, exciting, cool. Minus the fact thateverywhere I went they would yell turd grader! Yeah; they still do that, IF you were wondering. Itwas May 18
th
, 2000. The day that Id found out I was moving in with my father. I was devastated. To me,my father was nothing but a scary man that lived with us. He did nothing but yell, spank us, and theoccasional piggy back rides. When he gave us attention; it scared me. I didnt even want to do the hokeypokey in front of the man, let alone just live with him. Ill never forget the day Id shown all my teachershis picture- begging them not to let him take me away. But they didnt care. They just pushed me along,stuffing my backpack with the rest of the things I wouldnt have time to get. I never thought of life thesame way after that.I became anti-social. Stuffing my face with anything that would keep me from talking. I startedwriting in a diary. Writing how much I missed my mommy. Writing about how sad I was. Writing abouthow much I hated my father for doing this to me. I watched my brother slip into this fake-reality of howhis life should be. He ignored things. Someone could be yelling right beside him and he wouldnt flinch. Iwatched my beautiful baby sister turn into this adorable frail little girl that was afraid of everything. Shecouldnt sleep by herself, bathe by herself, or even be in a room by herself. It made me sick. It made mewonder how I began to look according to society. Was I a pathetic little fat kid that cries overeverything? Or was I an overbearing sociopath? I began to worry.Father never let us visit our mom. Even when we begged. Even when we cried and threwtantrums that would make anyone cave. He didnt seem to care about how much we needed her. Heonly cared about
g
ettin
g
her back 
. It got so bad that we werent even allowed to wave at her when wedsee her in public. Id cry just thinking about it.If you want to hear about my father; here he is in a nutshell-literally. I used to love him. I used tocare about him. He used to be closer to the side of halfway decent. But that was around everyone else.He was the king of fronts. Hed make everyone feel so sorry for him; hed try his best to explain how badof a parent my mother was. Each time, theyd believe him. Even when the bullshit that came out of hismy mouth sounded as if he pulled it out of the air, they believed every single word. Sometimes though,Id stick up for her, but that got me into trouble. He thought maybe if he yelled her out of me, Id stoptrying. Id stop trying to defend my mommy. He loved yelling at us, or at least thats what all of us kidsthought. Everything we did, we had to walk on eggshells. Didnt matter what it was, hed find an excuseto scream about her. Thats all he ever seemed, and still seems to care about.I was waiting outside, waiting outside on the concrete, trying to be oblivious to the fact I knewshe was coming. She came to school that day. Id honestly forgotten what her face looked like. I washolding onto my bike. Hoping, praying that grandma wouldnt realize that something was up. I startedriding in little circles, sad, nervous little circles. I saw her car coming down the hill. I knew this was it. I

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Anne Marie Wysong added this note
I'm obviously not done with this, but I will post more when I get more feedback about it :)

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