My Growing Up Years

In the eyes of a small child: (mine) My grandmother hated me. We lived with my grandmother, and she took care of us when mom was at work. My sister who is 5 years younger than me was my grandmother's baby, so she could do no wrong in her eyes. My brother of course, who was very sickly, got away with a lot of things. My grandmother who never liked me was very abusive to me from the time I can remember.
My grandmother would lock me in the closet for hours at a time. She would tell me if I told mom then it would be worse. This went on for years before my mom came home sick one day, and grandmother couldn't get me out of the closet without my mom seeing her. She would tell me what a BAD GIRL I was. And that the dark scary closet was my punishment. I remember having to go potty, but if I wet my pants, I would get a beating. So I learned to hold it.
This experience has caused me to have kidney problems, be claustrophobic, scared of the dark, and have panic attacks.
I remember my grandmother teaching my brother how to tie his shoes. I tried to watch but they wouldn't allow me to. I was never taught. I do tie know how to tie, but not the way most people do. I'm left handed, so that may account for some of it. I don't a  "normal" loop.
Most of my life all I ever heard was how dumb, stupid, and ugly I was. And how I would never mount to anything but for the use of my body. Since that was already happening, I figured that must be true. I can remember my grandmother making fun of me in front of her friends. She told me to bring her a cup of coffee and don't spill it. If I did I would have to wear one of Beck's diapers. I got nervous and spilled it. She undressed me and put a diaper on me in front of her friends. I was 6 years old. I can remember even at that age not liking my grandmother, because she made me feel bad around her men friends.
From the age of 3-13 I was sexually molested by married men who were friends of the family.
I never talked about my abuse until I was in my late 40's. And it's only been since Jan of 2003, that I told my whole story to anyone. That is when God finally got it through my thick head that He loved me and that's when I started on the road to recovery.
I grew up in a "Christian" home, so that was even more confusing to me. Also I had a Sunday School teacher who told me once, "that if Jesus loved you, then nothing bad would ever happen to you." WOW I knew Jesus couldn't love me, cause all this bad stuff was happening to me. I was being beat, locked in closets, and molested. Even at my young age I knew it wasn't right. I was always told how stupid I was, that I would never mount to anything...
I can remember standing by myself on the playground wishing I was like the other kids. I never had any friends, because I didn't want anyone to know that I was different.
I was scared if they found out about me, they would hate me anyway, so I just never talked to anyone.
I had a very low self esteem. I could never look anyone in the eyes, and that got me in trouble a lot with my mom. She thought I was lying when I wouldn't look at her.
I can remember the day I told my mom about one of her friends molesting me. I was sitting on the pot, and she was sitting on the tub, giving one of those birds and bee talks. Actually it was a hamburger and hot dog talk! I turned red, and she asked me if someone had been touching me. I told her yes. She ask who. I told her Frank. She then told me to make sure I stayed away from him.
He was the 2nd person I remember. (The first was a  neighbor man when I was 3-4).
Frank and Blanch were our landlords. We lived on the back of their property. My mom work as a waitress and Blanch watched us when we weren't in school and on Saturdays. There was a big garage full of furniture and junk between our house and theirs. That is where Frank like to take me to  "play house." It was our secret little game, no one else could know about or play. If I would cry, or tell him I didn't want to play he would tell me he would go get Becky to play. She was my baby sister and I didn't want her to feel like I did, so I would tell him it was OK, I would play house with him, she didn''t have to.
My brother came into the garage one time when we were in there, and he started yelling at Frank wanting to know what was going on. Frank told him we were looking for something  under some boxes. My brother was only 8 at the time so he really didn't know any thing either. By the time he got back to where we were, Frank was standing up and acting like nothing was wrong so we all left together.
My brother ask me at home what was wrong and I told him nothing. Two days later the garage caught on fire! Most of it burnt down. Cause unknown. I was so happy we didn't have to "play" in there anymore!
We moved from there not to long after that, but continued being friends with Frank and Blanch. We continue going to their house to visit them.
We were over at their house one evening after that when I was coming out of the bathroom and he was coming out of the bedroom about the same time. All my mom saw was that we were both coming down the same hall at the same time.
When we got home, she started yelling at me and gave me a whipping. She said, "I told you not to be around him." I tried to tell her I wasn't but she wouldn't listen.  As far as I know she never said a word to Frank about any of it.  I was 7 years old. I lost all trust and respect for my mom that night, and never told her anything from that point on.

The next old man was Ray.
We moved next door to an apt. building that was owned by an older couple named Ray and Mary Mora. My mom loved them, and they became our adopted grandparents. Ray was from Spain, Mary from Mexico. In fact after mom and dad married in 69, they went to Tucson in 71 to visit them. Mom thought of them as her adopted parents.
Living in Tucson AZ you ate a lot of Mexican food. So living next to someone who lived from those counties, and made dinner for us a lot, was fun. That is until Ray started showing his true colors...
We lived there from the time I was 9-12. It started by Ray asking me to help clean one of the empty apartments. First it was just touchy filly stuff. (been there, done that) He would pay me 50 cents for helping him clean, and then he would say, "were not going to say any thing about our game, are we?"
This went on for the whole time we live next door to them, which was a over 3 years. I would make of excuses to stay home instead of going over there when we were supposed to. I would even take a whipping instead of going. My mom never caught on.
He is the only "old man" who went all the way. I can remember it even today. I can remember thinking I was dying, and wondering what I did so wrong, that Jesus didn't love me anymore or He wouldn't allow this to happen.
I believe that I became very hard that day. I was 10 years old. And remember thinking I wanted to kill him. But I knew I could never do that. But the thoughts of taking my own life had started to become very real to me about that time. I would dream about it. I would daydream about it. It became a part of who I was.

Suicidal thoughts were in my mind most of the time.
I was a very ruff and tuff kid. We lived in a mixed neighborhood, mostly Mexican some white, and a couple of mixed families. The only emotion I ever showed was anger. And I just as soon knock someone out as look at them. I was known as the only girl on the block who could "whip" most of the boys. I wouldn't take no lip from noone. And could stare down the meanest bully in the neighborhood. I got my tail whipped a few times, and carried a black eye a lot. It got so bad one time, my mom told me if I came home with another black eye she was going to black my other eye. She would ask me how I got my black eye, who I was fighting with? I would never tell her. So I would get in more trouble. The fights would usally be because I was defending someone else who was being picked on, or because I was being made fun of because of my clothes or I didn't smell good. I was good with my hands, not my mouth. I didn't talk much, but I sure knew how to use my fist back then.

For years I would have dreams of being able to fly. When things got to bad, I would fly away from all the hurt and pain.
There's a small mt. called A mt. Mom would take us there once in awhile. It was fun to climb the big A, where I would pretend to fly away from all my pain.
Little did I know then that the Lord would use that Mt. 40+ yrs later to release the pain of that little girl in a symbol of flying.

I was always a disappointment to my mom. I never measured up to her standards. We never got along very well, cause I was a stubborn brat. I was a very hard headed and a street fighter. If I couldn't do it, it didn't get done, cause I wasn't about to ask anyone for any thing. Mom couldn't understand that. She thought I was just being hateful. She didn't realize that she taught me not to trust when she whipped me when she should have protected me. She would beat me, and tell me it was because she loved me. You'll thank me some day, it'll make you a better person. Well... I don't think I ever thanked her, but it has made me a better person.