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Release the Beast

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The beast has changed significantly over the years.

 

I love her more than I ever have.

 

I am still very much afraid of her.

 

I think of how  much I feared the beast as a child and feel amazed that there were things that happened to me during my childhood that were so traumatic and yet I was scared to tell my mother.  So I held these incidents inside until they disappeared and slowly they have crept their wayback  into my life. 

 

A life that was turning out to be pretty good at some points.

 

A life I miss dearly yet never want back.

 

I was scared that she would physically hurt me for allowing others to hurt me and that kills me inside. It pains me the most because this wasn’t just a fear, the beast would have done it and I can’t imagine ever having a child and hurting them so terribly yet the beast did it with such ease.   I can’t remember a time I had ever felt safe growing up.  I was in constant fear of elements in and outside of my home. 

 

I can no longer have anger towards the beast.  I let that go so long ago but I wish I could go back and help that little girl; protect her, tell her she that she will be ok, that she is not bad and that everything happening to her is not her fault. 

 

In one of my treatment centers, one exercise I could never finish was one in which you were to find a childhood picture and speak to that child.  I just can’t do it at the moment.  I start to cry uncontrollable every single time I look at the picture I try the exercise with, I have to immediately put it away. I often get criticized for running away from my problems. 

 

Running away kept me alive for many years and it is what I have learned to do to cope with dangerous things.  It not only kept me alive but it kept me hopeful and happy and it kept me motivated to try and try until I suceeded.  It helped me become owner of a coop, a college graduate a good employee.  Its just isn’t so easy to change these things when you have been doing them since you were practically born; in one way or another.

 

The beast is very sad today and I feel so sorry for her.  She was thrown away by her parents…literally, the beast was found in a dumpster.   Both of her parents were alcoholics who suffered from mental illness  and these traits were definitely passed down to the beast and her allergy to alcohol makes her the worst kind of drunk that there is…a dry one.  I can speak to her childhood picture, although it is very emotional.  I often wonder where all of these cycles began and if I will be able to stop this one.

 

The beast and her two siblings were “saved” by their grandparents who reminded them daily that they were not wanted and were an obligation that they would fulfill very minimally.  They never owned any new clothing and spent their youth in a dark basement.  She was raised with an iron fist and when the beast turned up pregnant at 16, she was kicked out of their house.  The beast was offered a full scholarship to an amazing college right before that.  She was told women did not go to college and that her job would be to serve her man and care for her family.  A guidance counselor from her school went to the home to plead with her grandfather to allow the beast to pursue the opportunity and he was shown the door in a not-so-polite manner.  The beast has genius IQ. 

 

She  idolized her grandparents if they were gods.

 

 I never loved them. 

 

At roughly the age of 6, I began to be molested by a teenage girl.  She was the daughter of my landlord and it happened regularly until we moved when I was 11.  It happened on the other side of the basement wall in which we lived.  Quite often my mother was right on the other side of this wall.  I sometimes wonder what she was doing at the exact time these sessions occurred.  For years I lived with this memory and never spoke of it.

 

This is the first time. 

 

I never even put it into words before today and as I type, I feel quite disturbed about it but not distraught as in many of my previous stories.  I can only conclude that over the years I have come to terms with it somehow by thinking of it slowly and then more frequently until my mind sorted it out on its own.

 

I remember when it first came.  I was drunk.  I was bored.  I went to my constant companion in times of loneliness…my computer.  I was on a site that tracked old classmates and started going through some names of old classmates and came across the name of a girl I went to school with.  This classmate had the same last name as the girl who did this to me and as I started to think about a birthday party my classmae had and the memory suddenly surfaced. 

 

I froze. 

 

I am amazed how I can remember that moment so perfecly in my head. 

 

The memories flooded into my brain quicker than I could keep up with.  To this day every time I think of the woman who abused me, I think of my classmate.

 

Every single time.

 

Then I began to look for any information about this woman and found very little.  As the years after progressed, I periodically checked on her and finally found a picture. 

 

She looked mad.

 

 The whole family was crazy. 

 

There were 6 children that ran rampant and terrorized the neighborhood. The youngest was 2 years old when we moved there, the oldest 19.  At any given time some or all of these children would be in the yard, shirtless, shoeless, filthy.  Even their dog terrorized us and the neighborhood.  He was finally put down after biting too many people.  His name was Blackie and I hated  him.

 

 These children broke into our apartment so many times and trashed it, stole our belongings, broke my toys.  I remember coming home one night and finding my roller skate in the toilet bowl, I cried when I saw it, I felt so invaded, so unsafe.  The police would never do anything about it, even after we found my mothers imortant papers buried in the back yard.   They always claimed there was no proof to arrest anyone.  One of the boys chased me into the apartment once and set off a fire cracker.   I was terrified.  I remember the mother who coincidently had the same name as my abuser never looked at you, she always spoke staring at the sky.  It was strange.  She looked like a hippie and was filthy all the time. 

 

Your life changes when you remember something of this nature.  It makes you question your entire existence when you realize you had blocked out something so devastatingly important  and you even start to wonder if certain life decisions were possibly based on this repressed memory somehow.  It just really warps your whole sense of self and I have definitely changed dramatically.

 

I visited that house a few times in the past 10 years.  One time I passed by and it was boarded up and looked like it has been the victim of fire.  Years later, I went back and it was gone.  There are two houses there now…I think I healed dramatically when I saw that the house was gone.  I recall initially feeling so upset that it wasn’t there..   I felt I needed to see it  but about a minute later as I drove home the feeling changed.

 

I felt peacefulness in my heart that day.  I felt safer somehow.  Imagine how rare it is that a home is torn down and the land is split into two plots.  I feel that it was a gift from god.  I truly do.

 

So many bad things happened there.

 

I can only imagine what the beast would have done had she know what happened back then but I believe it would affect her much differently today.  I think it would really be too much for her to handle and she would be so saddened by it. 

 

I will never tell her.

 

Every so often an old memory will pop into my head out of nowhere and it will stun me.   It scares me because there are so many things I just push out right away and I know need to deal with them to function  but some are so painful or shocking that It seems unbearable.

 

When I was a runaway, I “dated” a guy that sometimes would put me up in a motel.  Drugs and prostitution were rampant in these motels.  There was a beautiful little girl that lived with her mother. She was about seven years old with long blonde hair and a sweet disposition.  Her mother would sometimes leave her with me and not return for days.

 

I was a complete stranger and her mother just left her.

 

There were several regulars that would rent rooms to do their drugs and use the women who lived there.  They had good jobs, wives, families and this whole secret life.  It amazed me.  I found myself in a room full of men one night and this one woman and they were all smoking crack.  It wasn’t until that very moment that I realized just how serious it was that a 16 year old girl was living a life like that.   I was offered to smoke but refused.  I made a promise to myself that day; I would never smoke crack or inject heroin.  I had never been exposed to  crack until that day and they smell of them smoking it out of pipes and beer cans repulsed me. 

 

 I can never forget that smell. 

 

On this night I learned that the mother of this sweet little girl had been “lending” her out for crack.

 

 I wanted to protect her.

 

I didn’t.

 

I can never change that.

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Written by Tiffany Sams

May 30, 2011 at 5:59 pm

demons

with 3 comments

I used to think when people said they had demons in their head, it was just an over-dramatization  or misunderstanding they had within but now that I have these demons, I feel so naïve for downplaying the raw honesty of this statement.  I suppose it is human to try to minimize the hurt you may have caused for someone through words, actions, thoughts or whatever avenue taken but eventually they come back to haunt you. 

 I have certain memories in my head from childhood that just arrived about 2 ½ years ago.  As quickly as they entered my mind, I felt paralyzed by them.   I’m not sure if these memories were squashed, repressed, blocked out  or,  as  in the most recent development of my mind;  dreamed up and  not in fact genuine at all.  I quickly filed them away because clearly I was in no shape to confront them but now they are a constant.  They resurfaced last fall.

I’ve never felt such confusion in my own memories.

I have never confided in anyone what they are, I AM SO ASHAMED.

 I DO know that if, in fact, these things really did happen, I just don’t think I can live with it.  This is not an exaggeration.   I can’t even actually put them in to written words because I don’t think I would be able to handle reading them. I don’t know what I would be capable of if I accepted these thoughts.    

My suicide mission years ago was something I really wanted and although I haven’t attempted since, I still pray not to wake up at times and the shame of even this keeps me from succeeding in the life that I do have.   Three weeks ago I thought I was having a heart attack.  Instead of telling someone, I prayed to god to take me and I went to sleep.  I haven’t been to work since.  I have barely left the house.  I want to give up.

 It is never on purpose but each day as I try to wake up and start new, I just can’t.

Or won’t.

And don’t.

It is a cycle that I keep repeating and each and every time it happens, I die a little bit more.  I feel like I am losing myself.   

Eventually I somehow manage to get it together and try again, each time with such determination and I sincerely feel happy when I get into a routine but it never lasts….never even for a full month. 

 I shouldn’t say that because in January it did last for a full month, exactly 30 days, and then I fell off again.  I was so proud of these 30 days and almost like clockwork, as I began to feel confident that I could turn it around, I just let it go.  I could feel it slipping from my fingers, yet did nothing to stop it.

Why don’t I stop it?

 

 

I had a party for the holiday’s last year and if you were there you would have never guessed the pain I held inside that night.  I did the standard phony, happy girl routine I regularly perform and there were a few great moments but the night before and the hours after the party were spent in total self hatred.  I spent the entire next day absolutely hating myself.  I feel that way so often that the days normally blend into each other but every once in a while a memory will stand out and the feeling of loathing towards myself during that period of time is one of them.

I spend hours contemplating if this is mental illness or karma of past events.

Not long ago, I learned of a confession made by my father.  It seems that I was born because my mother raped him or this is the story he is telling anyway.  I never knew this and I am conflicted as to whether I needed to ever learn this.  On the one hand, it would explain why I have always felt I didn’t belong here on earth as a human being and why I absolutely hate myself in every way possible.  On the other hand, I feel so incredibly hurt by this thought of being a curse to my parents merely by being born.  It stings so badly, I can’t even type this without being in a full hysteria. 

I feel so worthless.

 

 

I don’t know if I have ever felt pain like this.  It’s different from being mistreated, having a broken heart or feeling lonely. It’s something I can never change.

This is the worst information I could have ever learned, maybe it will be the most healing somehow but for now it is the fuel the demons are feeding on and I am at a loss as to how to turn the devastation into something positive, something that will give me the strength to…..

I don’t even quite know how to complete that sentence.

Written by Tiffany Sams

May 24, 2011 at 4:07 pm

coast

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I feel like I coast through life just waiting, for what I’m not sure.  I read all sorts of self help material advising me to take life by the balls, be in control of my own destiny blah blah blah.  I then spend the next week or two feeling gulity for being so complacent or “not in control” then comes the shame, then all of the usual things that follow in a negative mind set.  Tomorrow is my birthdy and as I approach 35 years old, I wonder how this became my life.  When I was a child and feeling like a prisoner, I would envision my life as an adult….free from ridicule, abuse and lonliness but here I am in the same situation except now I am my own abuser…how ironic that everything I vowed not to be, has become exactly who I am.

I realize now that I am just waiting to die.  I have no real dreams anymore and as I coast to be free, I am so lonely in my own mind.

Written by Tiffany Sams

November 8, 2010 at 2:22 pm

Terrible with Today

with one comment

I seem to have great difficulty writing about the here and now.  It takes many years for me to be able to express into words my feelings and reactions to life’s events…happy or sad.  Although I currently feel on the cusp of what some may call a mental breakdown, I can not write about it.  I can not even know for sure what or why this is my current perspective.  If not for my near 20 hours per day of sleeping, I may not even realize there is a problem.

I want to elaborate with myself but nothing comes to mind.

Written by Tiffany Sams

August 7, 2009 at 1:04 pm

Posted in life, random

Tagged with ,

Critical Condition

with 7 comments

I had finally had enough. 

 

I went on the Internet to find some suicide advice and there it was.  My migraine medication at twenty pills was considered a lethal dose and I was off to the pharmacy to refill my last 75 pills…or so I thought.

 

My mind was clear and my heart was sure.  I had really tried to make the best out of what I was given in life, but some of us are just born bad and I felt that God’s cruel joke should finally come to an end.   I picked up a 6 pack of Budweiser’s to swallow my pills since my refrigerator only contained 4-5 ketchup packets from McDonald’s that were there long  before I moved in.

 

The pills were hard to get down in such abundance, so at 65 and two Buds, I felt I could stop without consequence and for a moment after they were consumed I had the urge to force myself to vomit, but the thought quickly passed and I laid down on the couch and said goodbye to my precious kitties.  The ex came by every Friday to play with them which is why I picked Thursday.  I wanted to make sure the pills had enough time to work their magic and ensure that the cats were well taken care of.   He always did say that he could provide a better home and now he would have the chance.

 

I thought that I would feel sad but my heart was content.  I was sick and tired of being sick and tired and I was finally doing something about it.  My attempts in the past were weak and futile, this one was for real and there was no possible way I could survive.  I waited for my sedatives to kick in and within 20 minutes I was unconscious.  I remember being suprised at how quickly I was getting tired and then….darkness.

 

I was proud. 

 

I woke up a few days later, bruised and battered and completely disappointed.  How could this have happened?  My entire life had been full of failures and this was the one thing that I was sure I would get right. 

 

How could this be?

 

It was a Thursday and my isolated lifestyle had ensured that there would be no suprise visitors.  

 

The next guest arrival would not be until Friday. 

 

Did my visitor come early? 

 

DId I take the wrong pills? 

 

Did I really take 65? 

 

What was going on and why was I here in the hospital with bruises on my body and a 24 hour nurse by my bedside?

 

And then the doctor came.

 

He explained to me how there was no rhyme or reason for me to be alive.  He told me that I should be dead and then he looked at me with pity and asked me how such a beautiful young woman with everything going for her would want to do this to herself.   I wanted to spit at him.  Who was he to judge me?  He knew nothing about my life and I have spent half of it pretending that I am someone I’m am not and this man was going to seriously try to convince me that I was lucky to be alive. 

 

I have heard this for years.  Everytime I hit a new low in life, someone comes out with some idiotic point of view that that always starts off the same.  “How could someone so beautiful”

 

WTF?

 

Since when does someone’s appearance determine their happiness and if I were the ugliest human being on the planet would it then be ok to be so screwed up and commit suicide?  As I wondered how this man was able to think that his advice was something I seriously cared for he said something that took me by suprise.

 

The doctor explained to me that during my period of unconsciousness I was calling out for my brother.

 

And chills went up and down my body.

 

I remember looking for Billy in what seemed like a hospital but with no other people or objects.  I remember wandering through the never ending hallway calling for him and asking him to take me to heaven but I couldn’t find him.  I just kept walking and walking with nothing in sight.  I was confused.  Why wouldn’t Billy come and get me?  I felt betrayed.  I wondered why he did not want to protect his little sister and take her to a better place.

 

And then it occured to me.

 

Billy would not let me die.

Written by Tiffany Sams

October 16, 2008 at 3:06 pm

Haters

with 2 comments

For the large majority of our lives we lived in a one room basement apartment.  Billy was the oldest and since he was a boy 4 years older than his whore of sister who may try to rape him in his sleep, he had his own bed.  Jeffrey and I slept with the beast in her full sized bed which leaned up against a wall of moving boxes that reached the ceiling.  My younger brother Jeffrey and I spent many hours laughing at the stories we would make up to fit the silly phrase that covered each box.

 

 “Smith This Side Up”. 

 

We would create foolish tales about the beast standing on her head for all of the boxes that were upside down and change the methods in which she became that way.  We often wondered why she wanted to be upside down since her last name was Smith and she was, after all, the one who wrote the silly phrase.  This was a form of entertainment that we never tired of.

 

There were always new stories to craft that would make my brother laugh.  I loved to make Jeffrey laugh.  He was my childhood playmate, he would do anything his big sister wanted from Barbie dolls to matchbox cars, Jeffrey and I were inseparable. 

 

On her good days, the beast would tease us because we slept together like cats.  Each and every night our tiny bodies intertwined like pretzels until we found the comfort spot.  Jeffrey and I felt this was a compliment as we both loved cats but more than anything else, we loved it when the beast had a good day and we tried everything in our power not to upset her. 

 

We were only a year apart in age but Jeffrey had been born with severe mental retardation and was prone to frequent seizures due to his epilepsy.  Many nights at the table would end with my lethargic sibling falling asleep on his dinner plate after having had yet another seizure.  Jeffrey’s seizures were controlled by medication throughout much of his childhood and he thrived in the schools he was sent to in a bus that was much smaller than any school bus I had ever been on  He was the happiest child I have ever seen and Jeffrey loved everyone he met. 

 

Unfortunately everyone did not love Jeffrey back and this caused many physical confrontations for me as a child.  In addition to his learning challenges, Jeffrey’s father was a black man, which made Jeffrey the only “colored person” to reside in the small, largely Republican, very political town we inhabited and also the source of much anger for the townspeople and their cookie cutter children.  The mere existence of our family caused deep turmoil for several families and Jeffrey was always a target for cruelty.  It is still and may always make my body wince as I recall these memories now but at that time no one would lay a finger on Jeffrey as long as his sister could help it. 

 

If anyone dared to hassle my brother, they had the wrath of a beast child on their ass immediately and if my senses told me that a foul name would be called out to him or the swing of a rock in his direction may occur, the beast child within me of me would attack swiftly. 

 

And for my loyalty to him, Jeffrey took care of me in every way that he knew how.  It was Jeffrey who ran to me with a handful of books as the beast was approaching me with the belt and told me to put them in my shirt and pants so it wouldn’t hurt so bad.  I had never even thought of this and I loved the way he took care of me.  I was called coocha and he was called coo and together we were coocha coo.  We used these names for each other well into my teen years and a smile opens up in my heart every single time that I think of it.

 

I hate people who hate. 

 

Written by Tiffany Sams

September 22, 2008 at 6:03 pm

Fire of a Lifetime

with one comment

I wanted to die that day. 
 
I carefully piled the paper bags on top of the flame one after the other after the other….the beast sleeping restlessly in the adjacent living room was snoring loudly.  When I felt confident that the flames were high enough and the fire would really take, I hid behind the refrigerator and began a song in my head.  I heard my brother screaming for the beast to wake, and before I knew it she was screaming too.  No, she was begging.  Begging for me to come out from behind the refrigerator.  My thoughts of dying quickly turned into glee.  Was the beast scared?  Was that actual fear in her voice?  In my 4 years, I don’t remember ever witnessing fear.  This was new to me and I liked it.
 
I had power.
 
All chalked up to childhood foolishness, no one ever guessed that this was my very first suicide attempt and the beginning of a life long fascination with fire.  I am fond of this memory, but most of all I am proud of myself.  The beast was forced to abandon what ever dream of money or happiness or passion that she was having at that moment to save my life.  She saved my life and then she beat me into unconsciousness.
 
Thanks bitch.

Written by Tiffany Sams

September 22, 2008 at 5:22 pm