My identity wasn’t completely my own. I had thoughts, and ideas, and beliefs ingrained into me from a young age. My dad would twist the bible, use it for his gain, and his will, even though we didn’t really go to church. I didn’t have an understanding of what it meant to be a Christian. I always believed. I just did. I remember sometimes looking in the mirror, and seeing if I had any traits or characteristics of my father. I would often question if I was really his daughter because why would he treat me like this. Why would he smirk whenever he saw me breakdown, or shed a tear? Why did he get angry at me for telling him “No” when he wanted me to sit in his lap while wearing a skirt with nothing underneath? Or gently and subtly try to back away when he came up behind me and groped me? Or when I told him “No” while fondling me when we were in the car driving somewhere. Even now, I don’t like wearing skirts unless they are long. Alot of things I don’t like to do because of him.
I would wonder if I were adopted, or even kidnapped. I tried so hard to put the pieces together while I was growing up, but nothing ever made sense. I grew up knowing about my biological mother. I also knew I had a half brother and sister who were older than me, and that they were both mixed. (I do not refer to them as “half” my brother and sister are a big part of my life now). My dad made it known that he was racist. Maybe not publicly, but behind closed doors, he was always throwing around the “n” word. He would be so derogatory.
He told me that my biological mother was a drug addict. That she abandoned my sister and I and that she didn’t want to be a part of our lives. I had it in my head that my mom was strung out, on the streets, and just didn’t care about us because of what my dad would tell me.
For some reason I always knew about domestic relations and the child support my mom either was or was not paying. I remember I was about sixteen I think, and my dad had a court date with my mom, about child support. Daisy had gone with him. He told me my mom looked horrible, essentially describing her as someone who was an addict. Then he told me that she would like pictures of us, since she hasn’t seen what we look like, and possibly even a visit. I told my dad, I wouldn’t mind her having a picture, but I don’t know about the visit. My dad had me afraid of my own family…
I remember there was a phone call one day, and it was an older boy asking for me specifically, my dad had answered the call and immediately became irate. At first, I thought he was angry with me, I wasn’t allowed to have guy friends call me, and I didn’t know anyone who would specifically call me anyway. My dad then said is this *older brother*? He realized it was my older brother calling me, and my dad blew off the handle. He threatened that if my older brother ever called again, he would find a way to get to him and threatened his life. Called him a “punk a** n-word” and was saying things I never heard my dad say before. He was livid, nasty, evil, he spoke such hate that it made me afraid of what my older brother could have possibly done to anger him so much. Like I said, my dad made me afraid of my maternal family and I feared that they would try to take me from my dad. Years later I would find out that several times family members tried to come get my sister and I, but God always interfered… it wasn’t their job or time to rescue us.
I always wanted to know who I got my specific traits from. Some of my personality and characteristics did come from my dad, however I felt like such an alien in that family. I knew I was loved, for the most part, but looking back, it seemed to have always come at a price. It wasn’t unconditional. The only closeness I truly remember is my cousins when we were younger. We were almost always together for the summer, or at family reunions, even the family members I went to school with made me feel like an outcast, that I wasn’t a part of that side of the family. That person always denied my existence as apart of them, whether first, second, or distant… I never really felt like I belonged solely to them. The thing is, I didn’t. I wasn’t supposed to be in the first place.
I don’t know if they ever truly loved me as their granddaughter, niece, cousin etc… I hope to one day get an answer, and prayerfully, they make amends before it’s too late. After everything came out, I either got complete support, or completely tossed aside, like I never existed to them… they knew. I know they knew, but they took sides… and I still need healing from that…
I know who I am now. I am a child of the most high God. I am loved and cherished by the King of Kings, and Jesus saved me that night… I know who I am physically. I have found and inherited my roots and I am so very thankful… I feel completely myself with them.