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- Prologue: This is the story of my life, by me. ________________________________________________________________ I: I talk too much... Sometimes I shouldn't be so harsh with my parents. We're going through so much, and it's hard to go through this all alone. Where I live, unless you're rich, unless you have some power in town, or into this stupid football nonsense, people ignore, reject and shun you. That's the law of life here. If we fell off the face of the earth, people here could care less. Where I live, it makes the grit of Chicago look 5th avenue in Manhattan. Not that we ask for help, we're the type we do for ourselves and never ask for anything. ***************************************************************************************** <My life, by me. ____________________________________________________________ II: Parents are awesome, therefore honor them. I do have great parents. And I realize they are human. Somehow, when you're little, you never think them with weaknesses or flaws, they seem like demi-gods to you when you're very young. It is also dawned me. While kids have parents to comfort them, there's no one to comfort parents. As for marriage and what, things look better since my mother was born again. My relationship with her is still on the rocks and repairing, but she is more a mother now. We still argue and have our rows. It was really her attitude and actions which had me so depressed and angered. With my dad, until last and this year, we were the closest father and daughter. We are very close, my father is a wonderful father. For those of you who know me, he is an extraordinary father, he... I don't know how else to describe it, but my dad is dad of all dads, you will never find a more loving, gentle or wise father. He's like Mufasa, Maes Hughes and Lucas McCain rolled in one. But since this happened, with the kids and all, depression as consumed him and we're basically alienated from each other. So, with him, I still love each other dearly, but it's just like a wall of ice separates us. But people have it worse. Some people have no parents, no house, nothing. I am blessed and I shouldn't have ranted like that, although I get so angered with myself and the way this asinine world works. ___________________________________________________________________ III:Incunabulum When my parents married, my dad had a farm he had built with his own two hands, and a little bit help from the Amish neighbors. He built a sizable vineyard, grew apples and pears, raised two horses and a dozen free ranging chicken who laid huge eggs. My dad loved farming, it was air and water to him. But then '96, a flood took all his dreams away, literally. He had lost everything, very little could be salvaged. To make matters worse, his good for nothing, vile parents,-his dad has passed away 12 years before this happened, and his mother still lives, but we have nothing to do with her because of her mental illness and all the hell she caused for us- accumulated a large debt with the farm. She is truly an evil woman, she makes Cruella DeVil look like a saint!- had accumulated a massive debt because of their frivolous living and lavish expensive. My father loathed their vanity, their greed, and he sought to live a simple, clean, wholesome life to raise his own family in. So in order to pay off the debt, he sold everything. And if that wasn't enough to bring him down, his mother double crossed him and had the farm changed to her possession thanks to the crooked, diabolical judge we have here. So my dad had his farm stolen from him. He had no money to defend his right to his farm, no money for some natty lawyer to help him with the legal red tape. Our county has the worst legal procedure in all of central, that is what the lawyers say. My father did not have much money to provide my mother and I with. We only had half an hour to leave the farm and we were only allowed one suitcase a piece. We had to go around in a 15 year old car. ______________________________________________________________________________ IVRacism is a two way street. My dad had no choice but to leave my mother and I to house with my mother's parents. I hated being with her parents, as they hated me. Esp my mother's mother. She said when she first saw me, well I better not say. Her parents were and are the most bigoted people you'll meet. They hate anyone who is not Catholic or Hispanic. They hated my mother for marrying an American Protestant, my dad. I remember sometimes her mother would slap her because she hated my mother. It scared me. Racism is a two way street, so I learned. They even forced her to pay rent when we barely had money for groceries, they threatened to have us kicked out if she did not. So much for grandparents. Her siblings, well, they were and are just the same as well like her parents. To them, I was like a pariah, they never cared if I needed anything, I was just four years old. It's strange how things look when you're older, they seem clearer. Her family-except her aunts uncles and grandmother- always mistreated her. When mom was seven, her mother left all her kids with her own mother(which would be my great-grandmother) to come to here to America and only sent a paltry sum back to the grandmother to care for the kids. Blessedly, mom's grandmother was a tough saint and cared for the kids.To think, mom's grandmother was 69! I missed dad, but he was trying to find work and save enough to find a place we could live. He even went to truck driving school so he could obtain a job as a truck driver. I missed him so much, it was so bleak being there in another state, in a filthy, crime ridden cement jungle with her family always spewing hate or teasing me because I looked different. One song kept my hopes up, and it was the song from the Don Bluth film, "Fievel: An American Tail", "Somewhere, out There" I knew my dad was coming back to get us away from those horrid people, and he did 15 months later. _______________________________________________________ They even have Hell's Kitchen here? Though it was a slum, it was the only thing we could afford. Dad found a position at a cannery 20 miles from town, and two other jobs, part time trucking and electrician. But although the housed leaked and what not, my dad and shared love, and he made certain I had things like good clothing and what he could spare for toys and things. He even sacrificed things like clothes he needed so he could buy me another movie. The most treasured things I have are my classic Disney/Bluth movies that my dad would scrape together to get for me because we could not afford cable until I was ten years old. ____________________________________________________________ So much for this... Our last church is a crippled, weak, cold and heartless, so no support or help there. Even though we're the only ones who volunteer as much as we possibly can, and give tithes we have so little to give, and even help the pastor with everything. Bu no one from the church even gives a call to ask how we are. They know the hell we're going through, they know we haven't much, we have no relatives to lend a hand or love, or a friends. When my siblings were born, we had no one to help us with the difficulties, like if mother needed help while dad was working. We had gone to another church at that time, and the people knew we struggled and mother was having a baby, but no one did anything, no one even congratulated her or asked how she was doing with the pregnancy. But when another woman, who had only attended a month there at the church-we went there for four years- was having a baby, all the women clucked and fussed even threw her a baby shower. Years later, I learned that woman's husband owned a profitable jewelery shop in down town. That was when I learned the law of life in this town. Have money, people will like and support you. If you do not, then forget it, you're worthless. I do not mind that. I really could care less. But what hurts is the fact that was from a church! A supposed "Body of Christ" So much for that. Heck, on dA, I found more wisdom, love and godly teaching than I do in any of the 30+ churches I've been to. I hated the new Sunday school I had to go to. I wish I had been with my old Sunday School teacher, but when I turned seven, I was moved to another class. The new teacher reminded me of a crocodile who wore way too much jewelery, she looked like a walking jewelery box. The kids were rude, and by rude, I don't mean hyper or just being a kid, they were downright arrogant, disruptive and very mean spirited. I was fresh bait to bully, pick on, tease, and play pranks on. Not sound like I am whining, but when you try and try to be kind and polite, and make friends in the civil way, while, unless you're part of the clique, or your parents are the fashionable type, peers figuratively eat you alive. __________________________________________________________________________ Friendship? Was ist das? Dostoyevsky spoke on this in a short story of his. There once was a little boy, his mother was the impoverished governess to this wealthy man's children. During a Christmas party, the little boy wanted desperately to play games with the other kids, but all of the children were children of aristocrats. He did not have much in the line of candies and things he had gotten for Christmas. But he gave all of his candy to these kids in the hope they might let him play with them. They took all his candy but ignored him and told him to get out because his mother was just a governess. It was similar in my case. I always tried my utmost to be the most polite and social person in my Sunday school class. Sometimes I even gave the kids penny change and candy in hopes they would like me and let me play with them. One time, at Vacation Bible school, I was paired with a girl. She was my age, eight, and was a hard core fashionista. She always had to wear the catalog standard. When we had to play as a pair, she told me, "I hate being paired with you." This broke my flight as I thought I would have found a friend. I meekly asked her why, and she replied coldly and scornfully,"Because my mom says your dad and mom are poor so you must be trashy. And you're ugly fat, and you dress like a boy." (For clarification, I look now like the singer Adele did last year, only 30 pounds heavier.) So from that point, I couldn't handle going to that church. My dad saw it was nothing but dead hypocrites also. My mother did not like some of the racist condescending questions people made to her. We stopped going and tried to find another church. _______________________________________________________________ Men are but ravens pecking away... When I was ten, some novelty came out. It was some daft idea about parents who home-school should bring their kids together for play dates, "fun" activities and events like the public school does. It was held at a large church It was like Sunday school on car battery acid juice. The cliques were even more harsh, kids were hostile, some weren't even home-schooled. I was excited though. It would be great if I could make some friends. The visions of forming strong friendships like in the Bible, friends to invite for birthdays, friends to support and love like family, friends to do projects with like you read in the charming series about friends discovering this or that all flowed in my head. I knew for certain I would not make friends the first few months, but I had hoped with time and kindness I would make friends. I would try my very,very best to be a best friend. After five years, after pranks like dumping a punch bowl over me and ruining the few good clothes I had, after hearing enough fat jokes to make a person sick, after being ignored not matter how hard I tried to socialize, introduce myself, start conversations, the whole "be a friend" process, I wanted to leave. And badly. I tried to keep a cheerful mien and kept hoping and hoping I would be accepted. Sometimes I even made jewelery-and quite good too, it's fake, but it's on par that I sell some from time to time and people like the products a great deal- to give to the girls who were at these play dates/events/parties. But even that didn't succeed to please them enough to accept me. Sometimes I overheard their conversations about me. They didn't think I could hear, but I did. "Here's that tacky chub again. Gosh, she dresses awful. She's so naive to think she get in with us."
"Well, she's so fat, reminds me of a pig from the farm next door. No wonder she'll never fit in."
"Fat? Ugly, she's definitely more ugly than fat. Her nose reminds me of a smashed cherry.And she even has acne!"
"She's so shy, it could almost be cute if she were the right type. I heard my dad say her dad has to work three jobs and they're not well off, that's what he said."
"Ugh, no wonder! She dresses more like some farmboy than somebody we should be friends with."
"Well, just say hi to her and we'll all walk off to somewhere else. Let's hope she'll leave us alone." They always walked off and left me standing there. So I went to help the adults with setting refreshments and such, or helping my mom with my siblings if she and the kids came along. One time, my little sister Sarah, 4 at the time, wanted to play with some of the six year olds who were there. My parents saw no harm in that. My dad had to go pick up something, so it was just me and my mom with my three siblings. The kids were playing with Sarah, but one boy, a ten year old from my group, shoved her hard and she hit her head on a tableside. She cried and cried and ran to mother. But me? Well, I tackled that jerk of a boy to the ground and almost had him in a headlock. But his mother ran up and pushed me away and said I was hostile. But he could have killed Sarah! She was just a tiny, frail thing. What angered me, he did it on purpose and laughed when she cried. ______________________________________________________ I met Socartes, Plato and Vigil But then, I met Cory, and his two sisters, Amy and Mary. Tall, almost as tall as his own mother, and lean as a pole, Cory was my age. We both were oddly tall,as in tall that our peers had to crane their neck since they came up to our chests. He was a reject like me. Painfully shy, and bespectacled with thick-rimmed glasses, he was quiet and demure. He had been adopted from China at age two to a Modern Mennonite family from down the valley. His parents were dairy farmers. He reminded me of Kyouya from Ouran High School Host Club. His sisters were rejects as well. Amy was adopted also, but from El Salvador. She was teased to no end because she had a different skin color and her English was not perfect. She was quiet and prefer to keep to herself at these stupid events. Mary was adopted from Ukraine, she was so pale, and her hair almost looked silver, she looked more like a fairy than a girl a year younger than me. Suffering from a stutter impediment, she kept silent and preferred to be with Cory and Amy. We all were the oddballs, the nerds, the uncool no one wanted to really be with. Cory and Amy, they were teased and ignored because of their looks, Mary because of her shy manner and stuttering. Writer Maxim Gorky said, "Lonely people seek people." And so true it is. We became friends, no, family. We became family because we were family because of Christ. I cherished and loved them so dearly, and they did me. We found a bond in each other, we did everything together, even those stupid parties. We enjoyed visiting each other's house. They lived on a pleasant farm, and had an excellent garden, and how I loved visiting them and helping with farm chores. We even did Christmas caroling, which was great fun, and humorous because I had the deepest voice, even Cory's sounded higher than mine. But then in 2007, it all stopped. I received a phone call from Cory at night. I thought it was peculiar for he never called late. His voice was choked with sobs. He never cried, or least he never in front of me. It took ten minutes for him to finally tell me. He told me Amy and Mary, along with his mom, were killed in a car accident with a truck on their way back from the farmers' market that Saturday. It's difficult to speak about it. His mom and sisters died after one night in the ICU. they were among the five victims of the accident. Two other cars, a driver each, were killed as well. The truck rolled on the road and crushed three cars. For two reasons, I did not go to their funeral: 1) I could not go, it was too much for me. Enough said. 2) Since I didn't belong to their church- my family and belonged to no church, as we couldn't find one yet-it seemed improper to go the funeral when you're a stranger to the church. That, and certain Mennonites are peculiar about this matter. Because of the hospital bills and because his mother was no alive, Cory was sent to the hell hole we call public school here in our neck of the woods. He changed. He became sullen, very surly. He stopped talking to me. I loved Cory, and helped him , I threw all of myself to help him because I was in much pain as he was. But he pushed me away figuratively. The school really ruined him. About the school, here, well, it has the lowest performance in the state. The worst teachers get transported here, usually, the abusive sloths whose pedagogy has as much merit as a bubble gum wrapper on the sidewalk. Plus, three have been several shooting in the past 15 years, and two bomb threats and eight cases of child abuse and drug use is rampant, that of itself is well known fact in the town. But little is done, because it's small dead town and it is an impoverished town. Cory fell victim to drug use in 2008. I never knew it until his father called me and told me Cory ran away when he was caught with possession in school. Everything was tried to locate Cory. His dad did not care about the drugs, he just wanted to have Cory back and help him with the drug abuse. I wanted Cory to come back because of the same reason as well, but also because Cory meant so much to me, I even wanted to marry him when we grew up. In 2010, Cory was found working at a restaurant in Ohio, but he refused to come back home. He already had a place and a job and was trying to become clean. He wanted no contact from his dad or me. It was a wound to me. Cory meant so much, I wanted to write or call him, or even e-mail him. I don't know what to happened to him as of today. I just pray God keeps him safe. ___________________________________________________________________ King Arthur had Merlin, I had Nan! During this time, I had my dad as always for comfort and wisdom. But I also had my mentor, Nan. Nan was one of the head librarians of the local library. I lived only a block away, so I walked everyday if I could to go to the library. Reading seemed a good away to numb the pain I had from losing Amy and Mary and from Cory's departure. I had been going to the library for books and such since 2003, and Nan took me under wing like a mother/grandmother and helped me become a volunteer in 2005. Nan grew up with a great dad and pretty good life, but when he died when she was 6, her mother re-married a monstrous drunk who had a stable job.-Oxymoron, no? But True. Nan always lived in fear and poverty because he drank what money he earned and beat Nan, her mother and her little brother. Her stepdad even broke her nose and her mother jaw one time. Nan left home when she was 17 and married her sweetheart, Ron. Ron was a man who was a saint like my dad. In fact, Ron became a friend of my dad's when Nan become my mentor figure. Nan and Ron had gone through a lot, Ron came from an abusive home as well. They both vowed to lead better lives and be Christians. They joined a Mormon church and were very devout. They were the best people you could find. Nan was a tomboy through and through. Prior to her librarian position, Nan had jobs only a man with fortitude would have, like being a butcher at the meat plant here. She wore denim jeans, boots, and plaid shirts when she worked at the library. "Slacks and blouses just don't fit me well, I feel really goofy wearing that, I'm not the elegant type, you know." was her reasoning. She did not give flip what anyone else thought. She essentially taught me the truth of "Haters gonna Hate" before it was dubbed popular. She told me to reach for my dreams and not care what the world thinks, if it thinks I can't because of money, looks or whatever. She taught me it was all right to be bohemian. "If kids like that rap, and you like opera, love opera because you do and you do NOT have deny yourself to make people like you. You cannot. People will like you and they love you because of you. Not for other reasons." she told me. Nan, though she didn't have much, gave me gifts, even shared her bottles-separate of course!- of Dr Pepper and York Peppermint Patties when she was on break.(We both share an eager penchant for Dr Pepper and York Peppermint Patties. AND The Phantom of the Opera!) Everything from computers, to shelving, the Dewey Decimal system to first level Library Science, Nan taught me like that guy did with that kid from the film, "The Karate Kid".(Names escape me now...) It was Nan who introduced me to computers. I never touched one until I was 13. Computers were a far off dream for my family. My father promised one day we'd have enough to buy one, but it seemed to me something only yuppies could afford. She taught me the basic ins and outs of a computer, surf the web, organize files-library files, though- and how to protect the system from viruses. It opened a new world for me. I was stunned at the web, it transported me to different plane of information and he beauty the world has despite all its vices. Thanks to Nan, when I first got a used PC in 2009, she had prepared me for that day. And when we finally could afford to buy a new PC in 2010, I was the most blessed girl in the world. My dad had saved for five years to buy a PC for me and a laptop for my sister Sarah. Nan, I owe her a debt. Sadly, in 2008, her diabetes caused her to lose her right eye. She had to retire from the library. At that time, she and Ron were planning to move to Wisconsin. Ron had relatives up there and he could have better business with his mechanic shop so he could take care of Nan and their grandchildren. It was hard when she left, yet I had new address. But when we ourselves moved in 2008, it was lost among all my other papers during moving. We could not afford movers, so we moved everything by ourselves. _______________________________________________________ Paging Dr. Sweet... Harry is a good friend of mine. He frequents the library with the same devotion like a priest in his parish. Harry grew up in West Virginia during the 50's with segregation, so he knows what it is like to struggle. And learning to be proud of what you are. "There aren't any colors, just skin, same as anyone and everyone." He reminiscences the words his dad gave him when they heard about Martin Luther King, Jr. and his dream about people living like God wanted us to. Harry is one awesome man. Though he's 62, he looks only 50, and reminds me exactly like Dr. Sweet from Disney's Atlantis. Even his style of talking is like Dr. Sweet's. Though most people never think of going to college at his age, but Harry's determined come high water or heaven, he will attend college. He would be the first to go to college. It's something his parents dreamt about. I pray and I hope Harry can make their dream a reality. I know he can. __________________________________________________________________ Fezziwig and Mrs. Jennings are a pairing! Mr and Mrs. M-names abbreviated for privacy- are the parents of my dad's best friend, Tim. Dad and Tim met at the cannery, when Tim drove truck delivery for the cannery. Mr. and Mrs. M are the grandparents I never and wished I had. Like Nan and Ron, they are the best people you will meet. It's almost though the sun follows them. If you are near them, the radiance of their cheer and kindest will make you happy as a feather is light. Mr. M has the best sense of humor, and knows how to talk and include kids so down to earth. He' s the type who keeps insisting for you to eat more when you're invited to dinner. "If you go hungry, it's your own fault! We've got plenty!" He quips and booms cheerfully at the table while he piles your plate with Mrs. M cooking goodness. He is like an American modern version of Fezziwig from Scrooge. Exactly like Fezziwig! Since he's Fezziwig, Mrs. M is the American modern version of Mrs. Jennings. Except she does NOT gossip, does not make jokes about suitors, does not talk about suitors, and does not try match make anyone. But she is the sweetest, merriest, generous and open handed and hearted lady you will even meet in your life. They too struggle, but given all they can. Every time we visit, they insist on giving a chestful of stuff, whether it's meat they smoked, cheese, produce from their garden, even nuts and candies. Once I baked cookies with her and she gave me all the dozens and dozens of cookies we baked! When they had a pizza party, she kept insisting we-we were invited and came, of course- take at least three leftover pizzas home! Mrs. M was a great Sunday school teacher of mine when we formerly went to their church. It was a superb church; people really loved, cared and helped one another. But sadly we all left when the pastor caused a rift in the church because of his wrong doctrine about some issue. It was a Mennonite church, and they are peculiar. ____________________________________________________________ My dad is St. George, Superman and Chuck Norris in one. My dad shopped,-and still does- with precision so he could stretch that meager and measly check he got for working himself to death at that hazardous cannery which was like a sweatshop on steroids. He even worked two more jobs which drained my dad of of all he had, all his strength, his youth,his energy and health. I know for certain, and so did the doctor, if he worked another a year there after his accident, he would have died. My dad never provided for himself, everything went us kids and mother. He even had to darn his socks over and over and over again until there was more daring than sock. Sometimes he even skipped dinner before he rushed off to work because he wanted to stretch leftovers for us kids.(He never told me that, but now that I am older, I can see it.) Even though he was dead tired, he even made time to have devotions with us kids, and when I was younger, even read and play with me when he came back from his night shift work in the morning. He never complained. Even he had such agonizing pain with his kidneys-I can still see him laying in his bed, he would try not to groan from all the pain he was in, and he had insurance, but it only covered so much for us- from the toxic environment he worked in, he still went to work, despite being so sick, he could barely drive. He knew if he didn't go to work, the management would fire him. Even if he missed one day due to sickness, he could get fired. This sounds implausible, but you have not lived where we live. Anyone can get away anything because it's just small, dead towns no cares about. Screw small town Americana and all its pathetic charm. Small towns are a vicious lot with cruel people who bite each other like dogs in my neck of the woods. ________________________________________________________________ The Change I believed in because it was real! Then in 2005, my dad had an industrial accident which damaged his lungs. He almost died, I believe, and was hospitalized for nearly three weeks. It was hard seeing him in the bed in the hospital, hooked up to breathing apparatus and IVs. So when he went on disability, things got better. Ironic how not having a job,(esp when you have two business master degrees like my dad has) you can live more better than you can when you work and work hard. But still, it hurt him not to work. He always raised by his grandfather to work hard and be responsible for work. To go on something that is like welfare ate at him, it was unthinkable, but at least we could live a bit better. ________________________________________________________ Projects are a project... I am not complaining, it's just releasing anger that my parents and siblings have gone through so much. It was hard living in the drafty slum with a landlord who was like a tyrant who ran nothing but dilapidated slums. We even had huge, 3x3 holes in the ceiling, the bathroom sink did not work, and in the winter, we had to bundle up in our apartment. The walls were falling apart, the floorboards as well. We had only two bedrooms for six people, the apartment was cramped, it made for three people at most. But before anyone goes bashing, it was all we could afford. We could not get public housing because it was not established until five years ago. Even then, we could not afford until four years ago when we moved in the winter of 2008. When we saw the PH apartment, we were so excited, giddy with joy. The house was warm, it had central heat, the sinks were new, shiny and worked properly! The sinks even had hot water! At the other house, all we had were cold water sinks. Even the stove looked new to us and worked. The refrigerator was new to us, it was not that old 40+year old the landlord had in that slum that need defrosting every week. What really amazed us, though, was how everything was study, the walls were perfect, we each had a bedroom to ourselves, and the house was enormous compared to the tiny, crammed hole. Even the windows were new to us and worked, kept drafts out, had screens as well. It was a fine brick apartment connected to three other apartments. When we spent our first week there, we felt as though we were staying at a luxury hotel. Though compared to other houses, like the one white collars have, it was sparse and utilitarian. But to us, it was and still is like a mansion. ________________________________________________________ ART is life Art and writing, since I was a very young child, was air, water and food to me. I could create worlds, beautiful to escape the grim reality that taunted me outside the window. Worlds of a glorious magnitude. Characters of saints and evil-doers and those who fell in between. A World where I was someone else. My characters, for the longest time, were the only friends I had. And they remain so today as my friends. Recall he film, "Nim's Island"? The writer Alexandra Rover, her characters were so real, they even appeared to her in real life? And her characters were sometimes really herself? Well, that is exactly how it is with me. I regret nothing with my writing, my art and with my beloved characters. They gave me life, love and hope. It sounds all stupidly corny and deluded, but I doubt very few understand it. ________________________________________________________________ God is in the heart of art. The next year, in August of 2009, I-or rather God directed me to-found a site called deviantART. The rest is history as you know it.
Title inspired by this song: [link]
This is not in any way, shape or form narcissism. This is just a self journey I was compelled to share.
All the events in this are true and actual. As strangely implausible as some of the events recorded here, they are true.
This is my auto-biography.
There is a considerable amount of reluctance I met by posting all this.
I hear so many say how they hate when people post these kind of things.
Well, if you have people in the tangible side, like friends or relatives, then posting here or on dA seems to be excessively open.
But since I have none of that, and frankly give not a care what detractors will think because you all are my family, I have no choice but to post it here!
God bless you if you read this, and may He bless you just the same if you did not.
This is not in any way, shape or form narcissism. This is just a self journey I was compelled to share.
All the events in this are true and actual. As strangely implausible as some of the events recorded here, they are true.
This is my auto-biography.
There is a considerable amount of reluctance I met by posting all this.
I hear so many say how they hate when people post these kind of things.
Well, if you have people in the tangible side, like friends or relatives, then posting here or on dA seems to be excessively open.
But since I have none of that, and frankly give not a care what detractors will think because you all are my family, I have no choice but to post it here!
God bless you if you read this, and may He bless you just the same if you did not.
© 2012 - 2024 Tete-DePunk
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You are so brave for recounting your life! I don't think I could ever do the same. It's not something I like to talk about. That said, I started shaking in anger when reading about the years you were bullied! Wow, I mean...what terrible people! You haven't heard anything from Cory yet, have you? I had a friend that also dropped out of my life, and I imagine it feels similar to what you've been through.
I didn't know your whole story, or in what order everything happened until now. Before, I had to make do with scraps. Thank you for your openness, dear Theresa. It must have been difficult to dredge up old memories in order to write this.
I didn't know your whole story, or in what order everything happened until now. Before, I had to make do with scraps. Thank you for your openness, dear Theresa. It must have been difficult to dredge up old memories in order to write this.