Wednesday, January 18, 2012

This is based on a true story, my story.

Sometimes I wonder if I asked for it. I had always thought of the worst things possible and wondered how much people would actually start to care, if those bad things did happen. Although right away I would take it back and ask God to forgive my evil thoughts. I don't blame God though, and I guess I shouldn't blame myself either. I guess there's really no one to blame, and that's what gets me the most.

My father was my best friend. He had the kind of humor and charm that anybody would love. He had a way with the ladies of course, two of them being the mothers of my two sisters. He never had a fat wallet but he had a big heart and boy, did he share it. My mom was already divorced and had two girls when she met my dad, of course that didn't stop them. They had Jordyn, my sister, about six months after my sister Raven was born from another woman. Yeah he cheated and abused, but I couldn't judge him for his mistakes. He was my daddy, and I was his little girl.

I visited my father every weekend for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t just visiting him though, my father lived with his parents and my sister Raven would visit on weekends as well, and I loved it. I spent majority of my time there with my grandparents and they were the ones who pretty much raised me while I was there. The time I did spend with my father I took for granted. There were times he would come home at 3 in the morning from the bar and wake me up, not any of my other sisters, just me. We would watch the Three Stodges and Mad TV and talk and laugh all night until one of us knocked out. He called me his ‘quidee’; a weird name but it was unique and it was something only he called me.

I was in the 6th grade, it was the last day of school and I wake up to screaming. Not the kind of pissed off, people arguing type of screaming, but the moaning, crying, wish this never happened type of screaming. It was Jordyn. I jump out of bed and I'm dizzy because I got up too fast; that didn't stop me. I walk out of my bedroom of our small two-bedroom apartment and I'm stopped by my mom. What's going on? Why is my sister crying? I can see her in our kitchen, pounding her feet to the floor and crying, hysterically. I finally have the courage to look at my mom and ask, what's wrong? What happened? She's shaking her head, crying. The look in her eyes, like she's about to break her own daughters heart. I should have known. It was June 14, 2007 and my best friend had been taken away from me.

The next couple of days were kind of a blur. Breaking the news to Raven over the phone wasn't my idea, but we didn't have much of a choice. Shelly, her mother, had taken my sister their whole family to the middle of nowhere. Kouts, Indiana. After I heard Shelly break the news to Raven, I heard a big boom, and later found out, Raven had fell off the bed. We were all in a daze. The mass, the funeral, the "I'm so sorry's" all seemed like a dream. We were three sisters, who lost the one person who brought them together.

I didn't see my grandparents or sister Raven much after the funeral. Actually, I didn't see any of my father's family once he was gone. For months, I mourned. I cried every night. My sister Jordyn on the other hand, handled it a different way. As I wrote in a diary and talked to myself, she got high and fucked up with her friends. Something most people do after deaths of family, but the only difference was: she was only 14. My mom on the other hand, worked. She was always gone or when she was home she was passed out on the couch. The only time I really talked to my mom about it was when she was asking if I would go see a therapist. I wasn't crazy though, I was broken. I guess we all separated for that year.

Ceclynn Owen, a girl that is undoubtedly the most annoying, loud mouthed bitch I have ever met. She's not a friend, or an enemy, but a soul sister. It sounds corny, but she and I were destined to meet. For years we were inseparable. She listened to me, and I listened to her. It was something we both needed. We understood each other and wanted the same things out of life. We had the same morals, although they were a bit high for 13 year olds. Nothing was better than talking to her, because for once, I was actually being heard. Well, kind of.

My school was nothing but black and Hispanic with the exception of me and a few other children who were "part white".  Ceclynn was white with a good percentage of black. Although you couldn't tell by her pink skin, green eyes, and blonde hair, once she opened her mouth, everyone knew it. Ceclynn's best friend Sameere was, to be honest, the coolest black kid in my entire school. He wasn't ignorant, like most of them. He was funny and smart. His personality made you want to be his best friend but he was the type of person who was everyone’s best friend. One day in the winter of 7th grade, Ceclynn, Sameere and I were hanging out in front of the projects, where they both had lived and as Sameere went inside, Ceclynn looked at me and said "Brieonna, I love him". We were 12; how could she love him? But she wasn't lying. Their friendship was something I could never understand. She loved him and although I wanted to have hope, I knew with everything, he didn't love her.

Shootings are something I've dealt with since I was 5. It's 6 o'clock and if you're still on the playground, you're dead. But that was a long time ago; South Deering has grown from those days. Drive by's don't have a scheduled time anymore, they're just often. Ceclynn called me on October 1, 2008. Sameere got shot, Sameere got shot, Sameere got shot. It was throughout streets and the neighborhood was going wild. He waved goodbye to his grandmother before going into the ambulance, Ceclynn said. He's going to be okay. Yeah Cec, he's going to be okay, but he wasn't okay. Sameere died the next morning. He was 14 years old. He had his entire life ahead of him. He was a football player, he was cute, he was funny, he had a good heart, and unlike most of the kids over here, he wasn't a gang member. He was one of the good ones, but I guess they're right. The good die young.

I’ve never been the skinniest girl or the prettiest or the richest but I figure no one’s perfect and if I had enough heart and personality then one day someone will love me. My insecurities got the best of me sometimes though. I became not only angry at the person calling me names but myself. I would put myself in this deep hole that I would dig myself into. You’re fat. You’re ugly. No one will ever like you. I told myself. Grabbing the fat along my stomach, why are you like this? Why aren’t you trying to change yourself? The sad part was, I believed I would never find someone unless my image changed but I was only twelve years old, and I hated myself.

My first boyfriend was Julian. He had long black hair, green colored contacts and dressed in tight pants and band t-shirts. I was in the 7th grade and we met through my sister who was a freshman in high school, and he was a sophomore. The 3 year difference didn’t make an impact on us until later on in the relationship. We lied about being together for months. It wasn’t that hard, at first. I was going to Destiny’s house and that’s where I really went but I didn’t mention Julian would be there too. He was my first kiss and I swear it was the first time I ever felt butterflies like that. Destiny locked us in the back room in her basement, he slides his hands down my arms and wraps his arms around me, I hold him back and look up, I can’t see a thing but I hear him “this is my only chance to be alone with you”,  and he kisses me. We dated for 8 months but as his feelings got stronger for me, mine began to fade. We cried on the phone for two hours on New Year’s Eve, and then that was it for me, it was over.

I started smoking pot in 8th grade. Ceclynn and I had been dead against smoking and drinking. My main reason was having both of my parents alcoholics wasn't something I looked up to. I didn't want my children to face what I faced growing up. The fighting and screaming got a lot more violent when my mom drank. My dad was always nice, to his daughters at least. It was April 20, 2009. What's known as '4:20', a fictional holiday for stoners all over. I don't know if it was because we were growing up, or we just wanted to know what the big deal about it was, but we did it. We had gone against everything we said about drugs, but the truth was, we didn't really give a fuck.

High school changes you. So many people might disagree but it's true. Throughout life, you make transitions, and during those transitions you change with your surroundings. Freshman year was something I'll never forget. Parties, liquor, drugs, boys. That pretty much says it all, besides the pointless drama with dumb girls. But that always makes things interesting, doesn't it? Dumb people that is, and I guess the drama too. I had plans every weekend, and they were always the same thing, to get fucked up. Parties at my house, parties at my friend's house, parties at my friend’s friend's house, dances, the beach, the park, a car, a basement, a garage, anywhere, we'd get so high, so drunk. It was fun and I was living a life of going with the flow and not giving a shit and partying hard and being reckless. I was 14 going on 15. What the hell was I thinking?