I am the single mother of an exceptionally resourceful, smart, beautiful and charismatic daughter who, despite being one of the most hardcore cut-throats that I know – is unfortunately also a chronic runaway, teen-aged prostitute, balls-out meth addict, and the cultivator of a tragically obvious death wish for herself. Her once beloved face, her formerly sacred name: remain the first thoughts that I think each morning; and she’s the one on my mind as I drift off into fitful sleep every night.
This blog and the foundation of its content revolve around my story shared with my little girl; who is even as I type this sentence: a prisoner in a living, waking and very real nightmare from one moment to the next. My adult life (before and after her father’s attempt on my life) has been wholeheartedly driven by the existence of my “Boo”.
When I was still with her father; during a period of time when I was only existing between the shadows of fear and domestic batterings, my Boo gave me rays of sunshine through the darkest of my moments as the hostage I embodied back then; she gave me hope and goals; motherly motivation just came naturally with her when she was born into my life, as miserable and hopeless as it was outside of her face.
And, after her father failed at murdering me, but maimed me pretty damned well for a long time afterwards – it was Boo’s resonance in my life and experience – the memory of Boo’s squeaky, raspy-helium voice in the deepest core of my cerebral fabric – that gave me strength and willed me to want to come back around to coherence – to survive.
Through the surgeries, physical discomforts, my openly expressed confusion, the appearance of my mutant-esque face, my inconsolable panic attacks, and of course: the impositions of a newborn, all-consuming case of clinical PTSD, my awareness of Boo had been my anchor to the real world – the former real world – that I needed to feel connected with, in order to keep going with the unknowns of surviving an injury like mine.
Boo was once my treasured baby girl, no matter how old and fucked up she is today, Boo was my Sunshine in a world with murky filters and light tricks; Boo’s faded light remains the sole purpose of my existence today, except my motivating forces have shifted somewhat. Boo’s radiant sunshine has been snuffed out by tragedy, abuse, exploitation, neglect, injustice and corruption; Boo has become a self-hateful, self-medicating, conniving and sociopathic young creature by now.
But let’s go back a little further, to when I was still married to her father, a truly disturbed soul…noteworthy to the rest of our story, my daughter (who is my every reason for everything I do or don’t do) is fathered by the man who tried to murder me by cutting my throat in a fit of deluded, sleep-deprived rage. I had sent her up North to “visit” my mother about two weeks before it happened, so she was at least absent from the scene and safely tucked away within my mother’s local tribe, 380 miles away from where shit went down between her father and I. The police were unable to apprehend my ex-husband after his attempt on my life; his sociopathic nature enabled him to abscond for a disturbingly great length of time and distance before being arrested somewhere in a completely random place for a completely random thing.
It was after his arrest for whatever unrelated misdemeanor crime he’d committed, in whatever back-country banjo-playing, pond scum community he’d been surely terrorizing, that his identity became clear to the law. At that point, they began treated things differently and did some homework on the man they’d been holding; his record detailed his “abusive, sadistic, highly dangerous and extremely violent nature, as well as (a) long history of undocumented (but officially observed by officers of the law, despite dropped charges time after time) corporal domestic violence against his former wife, Mrs. ____ _____; who amazingly survived a brutal knifing at the hands of ______ in ’01…”
They visited his residence, and asked around about his “Missus”, being smart enough to have already pieced together that this isn’t the type of guy who cooks his own meals or washes his own laundry – not to mention, does he feel like he should EVER have to resort to jacking off instead of having his way with the poor woman (shiver) of his “affections”.
Incidentally, indeed there was a missing woman associated with him from months prior to his arrest for misdemeanor, but hadn’t been seen or heard from since roughly around the time that he leased a “shop” out in the country somewhere. I will not disclose the gruesome details thereafter, out of respect for the woman who I somehow feel bore my burden – to some extent. She deserved better than what she was given by the monster who fathered my only child; she was rightful of the life that he has taken away from her. And, as his longtime victim with memories so vivid and terrifying that I’m still unable to make eye contact with any man with whom I’m unfamiliar, all these years later; I can feel certain from the bottom of my heart that hers wasn’t an easy death. I will mourn her soul until the day that I die, and beg of the Gods to Bless Her.
After the discovery of her remains at his “shop”, he was tried and convicted of her murder.
Afterwards, he was extradited back to my state and tried and convicted for my attempted murder as well.
He is currently serving 11 consecutive life sentences in a Death Row Prison Facility.
I will never forget the look on his face when he saw me – ALIVE and WELL (enough to be there) – to renew the reality in his hometown – where his family and children lived -of his true identity and nature: the monster that he is. It wasn’t necessarily vindicating to see the shock and instant realization of failure at ending my life years before that moment in time; but it felt good to be alive that day, ugly and mutated as I may have been.
Does my daughter know that her dad is a murderer? I’m sure that she does by now…I have tried to shelter her from this hideousness because it is a part of her, it is half of her creation – the half of Boo that has always shined through so naturally for her: so much broader of a spectrum and better honed. In retrospect, I think somewhere deep down, I couldn’t help but to see shades of Boo’s dad flashing to the surface of her day-to-day behaviors from early on in her life. In hindsight, certain traits Boo carried caught my radar as early on as the day that I came back home to go back to being her mom again – and being with her again everyday, all day…she was different.
I will likely never know exactly what snapped in Boo’s head to send her in the direction in which she’s gone, but I wholeheartedly believe that even though Boo was only barely two years old when shit went down and life changed for her, and almost ended for me – she was robbed deeply by the entirety of the circumstances and their lasting ripple effect. I believe she somehow knew what was happening on some level, despite my ferociousness in her psychological protection. I was so adamant throughout the ordeal about not letting her see me looking that way, feeling that way, thinking and believing that way (my emotional shock was just as ugly as my face for any unfortunate bystanders, according to Jack); that I overlooked the reality that my face was never what was important in my then 2-year-old daughter’s world…she needed my presence most. And I inadvertently refused her of it, denied her my company…I rejected her without ever meaning to. Of course, by the time I figured this all out in an ah-ha moment I had to myself one day – Boo had already been remanded into that God-awful “treatment” facility with her young life precariously teetering in the hands of a child sexual predator; and things were about to become so convoluted for us that our past would be glued to the proverbial back burner.
Have I ever sat down with her and told her all of the horrid details behind the incident between her father and I that almost killed me?
No, I have not.
Have I ever explained to her: the other incident that did leave a woman dead, someone who had only been guilty of trusting Boo’s Dad enough to die at his brutally murderous hands?
No. I have not ever spoken a word of that to Boo; I never got the chance.
I never felt the need to disclose to her, the harshest of realities defining the monster that Boo once loved and adored as her Dad; I never felt that it would do HER any good to know that he not only murdered a woman a fit of sadistic rage, but dismembered her afterwards to try and cover up such a terrible deed. She was born into the world as a troubled soul to begin with — I suppose the result of a poor combination of DNA on the parts of her dumb-ass parents, partially at least. I never felt that information could possibly serve her any good in knowing until she was older, and even then – what would I say?
Now Boo is older, and very self-destructive in nature.
There are times when I wonder if she’ll ever get to hear my side of things as an adult; I’m often in doubt of her ongoing survival, given the situations she gravitates toward without fail. I fear deeply that I will outlive Boo, and that is a crushing thought to harbor.
I am in constant fear for her life and well-being; and at a perpetual loss in regard to how to make her “better” – how to get it through to her that she deserves better and is worth so much more than the way that she is treated by the horrible things (I can’t call anyone who would pimp out numerous teenage girls for 100% control over the cash transactions involved – a human being) that she falls prey to on the street. My experience in Motherhood has been far from what I always imagined it would be when I was little; it’s been sheer spiritual and mental exhaustion from day one, and it’s been something that I have gone through without support – TRUE SUPPORT – because I don’t know a single person who has a child even remotely similar to mine.
This blog has been my ONLY means of finding support and encouragement during the times when motherhood becomes too much for me to carry around and shove down.