So, one of the reasons that I've started to really try to commit to writing on this thing is to vent, to explain certain... aspects of my life. My adviser recommended that I keep a journal, but I have a spending issue and this is free, and I can't lose this, unless there's some freak computer glitch which would be just my luck. So here we are.
My roommate loves my stories. She never actually asks to hear them, and really they aren't that funny, but I'm an incredibly dramatic person full of hand gestures and facial expressions and interesting inflections and she's sort of a captive audience because she never really leaves the room except for class. There's rarely an introduction for the tale, no clear impetus for my sudden verbal spewage. It really could be anything that starts me off, and honestly, sometimes it wouldn't make a difference if she were there are not, because sometimes it's just a rant, like how my ridiculous AC adapter for my laptop had started to short out so I bought a new one at the beginning of October and the new one also has a short in it, which just drives me absolutely BATSHIT!!!! $78, man, and you better believe I'm cashing in on the warranty, which isn't technically cashing in as I will not be receiving money but a new adapter, but adapting in doesn't sound quite right, it sounds more like some anthropological phrasing about assimilation but they can't think of the word assimilating as they're talking. Anywho...
So, I'm not an only child. Yeah, I know, not inline with the previous passage, but what the hell. I have an older sister, about 4 years older, who I love. I would give her a kidney if she needed it, and will probably be providing part of my liver in a few years. Our parents divorced when I was around... three? I think. Second divorce for both of them. Not sure, too young to remember, don't remember them being married to each other at all. I remember Daddy's girlfriends and Momma's boyfriends, but I don't remember them as a couple. My sister and I are both adopted, something Bethany tortured me about as a child. She used to tell me that we were only related by a piece of paper, and that if she tore up that paper, I would be sent away. Bethany would become the source of almost all of my childhood trauma, through both physical and psychological abuse.
According to my mom, Bethany was excited about my arrival for all of three, two, one... and then she realized that I would be taking up all of the time and attention and she couldn't actually play with me for another few years, and proceeded to try and drop me off of every available sofa. When I was finally old enough to "play with," playtime consisted of me being pushed out of the tree house, off of Mom's bed, off of my tricycle; into walls, doors, trees, men's restrooms, other people, pools; sitting on me, sitting on my head, putting a pillow over my face and holding it down; throwing Barbies at me, throwing Barbie's dream car at me, throwing the cat at me. I think the general theme is clear at this point. And if she wasn't trying to maim and torture me, she was training me for sibling servitude. A single look had me running for the kitchen to get her a drink or a cookie, to change the channel by hand even when she had the remote, and so on.
There was the rare show of sibling solidarity, usually in the face of a particularly unbearable babysitter or our dad (more on him some other time), but usually she just fed me to the wolves.
No one could beat Bethany in the creativity department when it came to abuse. Oh, she was amazing. The things she would come up with, and execute them with such precision. I carry the scars, both physically and mentally.
My particular favorite, because I didn't black out and can actually remember it, was the Bicycle Incident. Now, there were several bike related occurrences, but this one beat them all. I was four, four years old and precious as I could be with my long blond hair and my big blue eyes, and I had the most adorable little red tricycle. I pedaled that thing all over the place. On this particular occasion, Bethany was also in the driveway with her bike, and had been leaving me alone for the most part. Mom was inside, because this was when you could actually let your kids run wild through the neighborhood without sticking tracking devices on them. Bethany approached me, as innocently as she could, with a most wonderful idea: she would tie my tricycle to her bike and pull me around so that I wouldn't have to pedal. Because I was a stupidly trusting child I readily agreed to her proposal, and she proceeded to harness my handlebars to the back of her banana-seat bike by means of a jump rope. Without warning, Bethany took off, and my trike and I were pulled right along... until the law of odds decided to kick in and send me face-first to the ground. Did I mention that the driveway was aggregate? You know, the kind that has all the rocks in the concrete? Oh, yeah! Busted my tooth right through my top lip. Bethany found my pain to excruciatingly amusing-- until Mom heard me screaming and came running outside. When Mom realized what it was Bethany had done, she beat the ever-loving shit out of her, but the damage was done, and it was done to my face, my poor innocent cherub-like face. Incidentally, two days later, we had Picture Day at preschool. Yep, there is photo documentation of my injury, the throbbingly bright-red split lip on my sweet little face, and in my pretty pink dress.
And on the next installment, we will further examine my sister's keen sense of gravity vs. small child.
Until next time.