Even being 15 and having had been through the insanity I had lived through at such an early age I still had some wisdom and patience that a lot of adults envied. I realized even then that to tell my son the real truths of the ugliness his father put me through wasn't fair. To him or to his father. I decided early on that I would allow my son to formulate his own opinion of his father. I moved on with my life once I moved back into my parents house. But just as I had left home early for a reason, I couldnt stay in theirs for long either.
While I was living with my parents I went to Virginia Western to complete my GED. My education up to that point had never been important to me at all. School itself was a laughable subject. But I realized that having a child and being the hater of hypocrisy that I was, that I couldnt expect a child of mine to finish an education if I didnt have one myself. So in 92 I took part in a very nice event that Va Western through for the GED graduates that year. Within a few months of graduating I finally had my first apartment. It was in Tinker Creek and my son would be starting Lincoln Terrace the following year, but things were starting to look up. There was a world full of adversity for me. Every friend I had, that I had had since pre-teen years, all had serious drug problems. This being my first apartment and all, meant every friend I had ever had just had to come and stay with me. And they did, and they brought their drama and their problems to my door along with themselves. Sometimes even their children. Since I had learned my lesson about sex and pregnancy early on I was very adamant and religious about taking my birth control pills. So three months into my new apartment living, when I found out I was pregnant again I was also very adamant about not wanting another child. Especially with the new boyfriend with the same old abusive problem as the old ones.
When I confronted the guy I was seeing at the time and asked him for the money for an abortion he told me he didnt want me to do it. He told me he wanted a child. Being the person that I am I conceded. I would have never went through with it. But in anger I suppose I wanted to hear him say he wanted the baby too.
To make an extremely long story short, I went through with the pregnancy, spent it completely alone since the father spent the entire pregnancy in jail, had my son whose birthday was a small miracle in itself, and then immediately had him taken from me when I refused to get back with the father. A pain no mother should have to live with.. to date I havent seen my youngest son in 5 years. Not because I dont desperately want to, but because every time I had a visit with him his grandparents would torment him endlessly with questions about his mother. It got to where every time our visit was drawing to a close he would cry uncontrollably and tell me the things they were about to put him through. I couldn't keep putting him through that. And I have pages and pages of proof of my fight and struggle for him stored away, stored to show him on day he turns 18, that I fought for him until the fight started causing him pain.
Everything felt right though to me. When I was living in Tinker creek and just after my youngest son was born, I had a visit from Bob Underwood, and Edith Boyd. They both had their own stories to tell, and some of it I recognized as truth and some of it I recognized as fabrications. My mother told me that one day social services had showed up and just 'taken all her babies away.' As harsh and straight forward as I am I still couldnt bring myself to tell her the truth that I knew. The one where my older brother had screamed and cried when the police took his little sister from his arms. The baby he felt he had to protect. I always thought that one day I may tell her I knew the truth, but before that day came she died. And the way she died wasnt exactly free of foul play. My oldest sister Laura, one who has the mentality of a 12 year old due to the fetal alcohol, had written a letter to my mother 3 days before she died. The letter said she was going to kill her. Edith had called the police and turned the letter over to them. Apparently they ruled her death accidental, because Laura had given her the last dosage of insulin that she ever took. Just a massive load more then she required. Even though her death was investigated nothing ever came of it. But I knew what happened. At her funeral there were whispers of my true beginnings. The stories I had heard from people who had no reason to lie.
It seems like none of the experiences I had with my biological parents were actually truth. But I supposed even the that when shame is involved the truth gets very twisted.