I don’t know about you but I didn’t wake up one morning and say, “I got an idea. I’m gonna write a book”.
My story…my personal memoir urged me forward to tell someone about my struggles growing up and all I endured in adulthood as well to include marriage and having kids.
You Don’t Know…My Story by Tisha became a three part series.
It went from very hard to remember to very hard to write.
Who wants to relive the pain or agony of the past?
I had packed it all away in my brain storage shed.
It was dusty and hard to recall when I went to unlock the storage shed, but I finally got thru it.
Excerpt from You Don’t Know…my story below:
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I want to first and foremost thank God because He watches over children and fools. I want to thank my mother and father because regardless of how I was raised or not raised, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them. They did give me life if nothing else. I want to thank my brothers and sisters for being a part of my life even though it was a very small part since we weren’t raised together. I want to thank my biological and non-biological aunties who were there for me and cared for me when no one else did. I want to thank my kindergarten teacher for taking in such a lonely, miserable child as I was and treating me like one of her own. I want to thank each and every one who played a part in my life either big or small….all my friends, family and associates. Love you all!!!
Dear Mom and Dad,
My eyes and ears are innocent and pure and I would like to keep it that way as long as I can.
Sincerely, Your Child
I wish I could have passed my parents a note like that. You remember the notes we used to pass around in class when we were in elementary? I wish I could have thought of that growing up. Life just has a way of tossing us around and about and we never know where we are gonna land or end up. You see my parents were not ready to be parents so they were terrible at it. We cannot choose our parents and we cannot teach our parents how to be parents. I have actually learned that. I would like to tell you a story about my life. The story you will read will be pure and raw. The only thing fictional are the names to protect the privacy of all individuals involved. I tell my story like I recall it. You may laugh. You may cry. You may be horrified. You may have a mixture of emotions based on your own perceptions since we all don’t feel or see the same way. So take a journey with me as I air out my dirty laundry because you don’t know….my story….
I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!
I used to cry sometimes at night because I missed my mother so much. She was never there. I made sure to never let anyone see me cry because I told myself as a child during that time with my grandparents and father that crying was weakness. I didn’t want to let anyone know I was weak.
I had cried enough when I watched Ron beat on my mother so I learned to suck everything up in myself, good or bad because I always thought that even if I cried or complained nothing would change my current situation so I just went along like life was great for me. What else could I do? During the 6 years with my grandparents and father, I learned my grandmother ran numbers. She would have people come over a lot and play 50 cents or $1 or more on a single number. I remember that 50 cents got you $30 and $1 got you $60 if that number was the number that fell or came out. It was an illegal numbers ring. Like a bootlegged lotto. I remember playing once or twice since I was old enough to understand. Most times my dad or uncles would get at the table and write down a list of numbers to bid on and would even ask me to give them a number or two. Now my grandmother went to bible study on Wednesdays and church on Sundays. The church sat right in the back of where we lived so we could just walk thru the back yard and thru our back gate and the church was right there. My grandmother was a ‘church goer’. She ran a gambling or numbers ring on a single day during the week and on the weekend at her house and cursed like a sailor. That is why I said she was a ‘church goer’. When I say my father’s family was a ratchet mess, it extended to my grandmother as well. My grandmother wasn’t so gangster like my aunties and uncles and grandfather. She just was a hypocrite as long as I had known her. My grandfather set in his reclining chair drinking his alcohol with his gun on him every day ….Sunday thru Saturday. He wasn’t a saint and he didn’t pretend to be one. He didn’t attend church at all. My grandmother and grandfather would go at it all the time cursing each other out. My grandfather would sit on the porch hollering at this or that young lady or girl and then my grandmother would curse him out for doing so all in front of me. Now with my grandparents I was spoiled. I excelled in school because I actually had a chance to actually go to school every day and not move around so much during those 6 years. I went from 3rd grade all the way thru 8th grade with ease.
I thank God for being so smart because my homework was up to me to get done. I had to get myself up every day at 8 years old on my own to catch the school bus. I had to get up and dressed because my grandmother was still working at the time and my father left for work before the sun came up and my grandfather….let’s just say who would have wanted to wake an old man up from his beauty rest if I didn’t have to. My grandfather was my father because my father just worked, came home and showered then would go and hang out and drink under the tree up the street from the house with his friends. My grandfather was the one to tell him when I need to go the doctor. My grandfather was my heart. I truly miss him every day because if he didn’t come get me when I was 8 years old, I could have ended up in foster care like my brothers and had God knows what done to me so that I will forever be in his debt. I got away with pretty much everything at my grandparent’s house. My grandmother would discipline me, but never my father or grandfather. My father would just let me do whatever the hell I wanted to do. He had no parenting skills whatsoever. I used to go off on him like I was old enough to do so and he wouldn’t do anything but maybe fuss. I remember him getting a belt and popping me a few times with it because I was drinking out of a glass bottle and the opening was broken. I refused to NOT drink out of it and I guess my dad could see me slicing my lips off while I only wanted to just rebel against anything he said I shouldn’t do. That was the only beating I ever got from my dad. Like I said, he never put too much effort in raising me. My grandparents did that.