Gina's monologue(F)

I've been neglecting a story that I'm hoping to have finished and published by the end of the year.  It's very difficult to write so I have to admit I often neglect it intentionally but it needs to be told.  I wrote a monologue for a character in the story as a writing exercise to give me some direction.  Its funny, my theater teacher said that there are some people that are viewed as good actors because they're so good at story-telling.  I like to think that I fall into that category; I'm a story teller but I often think like an actor when approaching my writing.

Hi I’m Gina.  And my sister…well my twin sister committed suicide 3 days before our 15^th birthday.  I learned a new term today in therapy.  It’s something called “non-touching sexual abuse.”  What the fuck does that mean?  I couldn’t tell you, but apparently it describes me and my fuckedupness I have going on in my head.  So basically, I’m here, before the anniversary of when my sister swallowed a bottle of pills and slit her wrists, telling you I’m fucked up cuz of what “might of, could of possibly but never did happen to me,” but did to her. 

My sister was raped for Christ’s sake.  Honest to God raped.  That’s such an ugly fucking word.  But it’s true, it’s what fucking happened.  Jesus.  I was so mean to her.  They say, it wasn’t “technically” rape because of no penetration or some shit, but that’s exactly what it was.  Our aunt…fuck, seriously.  (Beat)  My uncle’s wife, now ex-wife molested my sister, raped my sister. 

(Beat) I can still feel her with me.  Charley’s been dead for 5 years now and I can still feel her; as real as this scar on my hand.  (Smiles)  We are…we were identical twins.   When we were little Charley broke a glass pitcher of milk and it shattered in her hands.  She was always such a klutz.  She was on the kitchen floor crying; she had a cut on her left palm and right index finger.  I sat with her, covered my pj’s in milk, and tried to make her feel better.  I took a piece of glass and cut myself in the same two spots and told her, “See we’ll always be the same.” 

I can’t help but feel her when I look at these scars. (Beat)  I was so close to her and somehow I lost her, I failed her.    

My story, well a piece of it...(F)

I'm trying to write my story and turn it into a Young Adult (YA) novel.  I have bits of it written out but I'm still unsure the direction I want to go with it.  This is a fictional story inspired by a few of my actual experiences that had a strong influence in how I see the world.  The lovely thing about writing is that I get to change my ending; I can re-write my story and give myself a stereotypical "happily ever after."

I was asked to the prom today… This boy, Edgar, from my Antamony/Phys class asked me, and I said no…  Maybe I should start with the beginning. 

Edgar is lead point guard on our school’s basketball team.  All the cheerleaders are in love with him.  He’s been trying to talk to me since the first day of school.  Day one in the lunchroom he comes up to me, in front of everyone, and asks for my number.  I’ve never had a boy call my house before.  I don’t want a boy to call and have her answer the phone… So I told him I wasn’t allowed to give out my number and I was a little mean about it.  It’s so awkward.  I just want to sit here alone.  I was invisible and now all the cheerleaders are giving me the death stare.  Creating enemies on the first day at a new school; this could only happen to me.  Also, why is he talking to me?! 

All those cheerleaders are so beautiful.  They’re each gorgeous in different ways.  I’m nothing special.  Eevie, the reliable, never says no to anything, simple girl.  That’s me.  The girl that’s not naturally beautiful and must always go out with a full face of make-up; well at least according to my mother. Sometimes I think I’m pretty.  Sometimes I look in the mirror very pleased by my reflection and then I hear her voice ring in my head and that feeling disappears. 

 I don’t want to be the bud of some joke so it’s a good thing I didn’t give him my number.   I’m so grateful when the bell rings so I can head over to my Anatomy class.  This stupid boy wouldn’t leave me alone all lunch.  I’ll have to remember to hide out in the quad tomorrow. 

As soon as I hear that bell I race for the door without saying goodbye and head in search of my Anatomy class.  I’m one of the first to arrive so I get a prime seat in the back.  At least no one will notice me here.  The five minute passing period flies by and the teacher begins by introducing himself.  I don’t even hear what he’s saying.  I’m distracted by a few students arriving late to class. 

“Welcome, glad you decided to join us.  Find a seat” says Mr.  ummm, I’ll have to find out his name later.  Stupid glasses!   I should have sat closer so I could read the board but I really just want to hide back here.  Shit, shit, shit!  Edgar is in this class.  I sink into my seat so he can’t see me.  I must look like an turtle tucking its head in its shell, hard shell to protect me from the world, maybe if I don’t look at him he won’t see me.   No such luck… He touches my shoulder as he takes the seat behind me and whispers, “Hi, beautiful.”   This class is really going to suck.  

Mother's Day Revelations....(NF)

I wonder idly, why am I the way I am… why am I so bitchy, sardonic, and beyond sarcastic most of the time.  Its mother’s day and I want to be a good daughter, amenable and compliant, but everything I utter has a brief hint of disdain… as I dress my mother walks in my room and starts asking questions only appropriate for a clairvoyant.

IE: Do you think the theater will be full? Do you think it’ll be busy?  Do you think we’ll make it to the movie on time? Do you think we’ll get good seats?  I don’t want to go if we don’t have good seats, I just wonder if it’ll be busy.  She keeps repeating herself fishing for my point of view on the situation.  Apparently trying to go to the movies as a family is a “situation”. 

And then my mother says, “You know what I really wonder… I wonder if you can have a nicer shirt than that.” She points to what I’m wearing, looks me up and down.  Then I realize, there it is, why I am how I am.  Always do the exact opposite of what my mother deems appropriate, always try to go against the grain for a reaction or to get a rise out of her.  If I agitate you, will you still love me, if I don’t do as you ask, will you still love me, if I question every choice you make, will you still love me???? 

I enjoy doing my make-up and straightening my hair.  I’m not much for styling my hair because I was never really taught.  I was never taught how to use make-up either.  As a teen I was told, “You’re not one of those girls who can go out without make-up, you need it every day, just face it and that will make things a lot easier.” My only response was, “I do wear make-up everyday and…”  Then I’m cut off, “No you don’t.  I see you slop that shit on in the car and you need to give yourself time in the morning.”  My mother’s a real piece of work now that I can think about it but as a 14 year old girl seeking to always please her mother, I was crushed.  The entire car ride to school I choked back tears not wanting to get yelled at for crying as well.  As a result I don’t do my make-up very often.  If I happen to do my make-up and blow out my hair it’s a rare occasion.  Once I hear a compliment from my mom or even a single syllable about my appearance I’m left fighting the urge to wash off my make-up and spray water on my hair to ruin water style I may have at that moment.  My mothers, “You look nice, you should do that more often” is like a twist of the knife that my heart was stabbed with as a teen and remains there to this day.  

A life in a notebook-some poetry(F)

A life in a notebook

He wrote nonstop

About the girl that changed his life

Wherever he carried it

His words were his weapons

The one that broke his heart

He never left her side

She never saw him

He found amazing ways to hide

Nights camped out in his car

Pages of dates and times

Detailing her day and night events

That he didn’t know where she went

Then the day came

He got his gun

Lucky for her she saw him

Just in time to run

The cops came and now

He is surrounded by padded walls

He screams her name

But she never calls

A lifetime thrown away

Over a bitter obsession

Now every breath he takes

Is watched and evaluated

He is left with nothing

But his intangible dreams

So much is lost

With his life in a notebook

A letter to "Dad"

Dear Dad,
I don't know if we'll ever speak again. The main reason that bothers me is because I know you'll lie about why we're no longer in touch. I know deep down that you have mental health issues but since you don't deal with them that's no longer an excuse for me. 
I remember at 5 years old when you told me that the day would come when I would have to choose between you and my mother. You said the choice would be mine and mine alone but if I chose my mother you'd kill yourself. Your moods have always frightened me. I knew then at that age if you committed suicide it would be my fault. You always told me how much you loved me and said my mother loved me also but "in her own way." Showing me as a child that your love was real love. 
I remember at 15 you physically picking me up and throwing me out of the house. We lived on a 2nd floor apartment. I barely had the reaction time to prevent myself from falling down the stairs. Outside barefoot, alone, and stubborn. I walked nearly 2 miles before you found me. The cut of the rocks on my bare feet as I walked on the gravel. You kicked me out 2 more times before I finally decided to leave on my own and you resented me for that? It’s always been a battle of wills between you and me. I have a stronger will to live and that's why we don't talk. I'm cutting out and lessening contact will all unhealthy relationships in my life. So that's why I've cut you out. I've done this before but I'm stronger now. I can't wait til the day I remove your last name and cut the last tie I have with you.
Lastly I remember when I got sick and you blamed my illness on me. I refuse to cry. I want to no longer care for you. I could go on and write a book about the traumatic experiences you made me endure... and I probably will someday. Showing the world how damaged I am is terrifying but I know I'm strong having made it to my age and still alive is beyond miraculous. 

I will live long and find my happiness somewhere. And you won't be a part of it for my well being. 

I wish you all the best in your future endeavors, 
love me

My first kiss...when I learned to turn cheek.(NF)

My dad was always involved in all my school activities. He volunteered to help on field day, assisted in school assemblies, and often picked me up to go home for lunch. To all my friends he was the absolute coolest dad a girl could ask for. We had a nearby desert by my house and we often went lizard hunting. My friends and I would have a blast looking at all the wildlife and catching geckos to learn more about them. At times my dad would even bring me a happy meal from McDonald's to school for lunch. It sure made me popular at my lunch table. 

I got used to seeing my dad everywhere. This was the norm for me. In third grade my dad became good friends with my teacher so he was more present than ever. I recall one day at recess I was eating my happy meal in the car with my dad as I looked at all my friends play. My parents were in a heated custody battle at the time. He kept talking about the evils of my mom and how I would have to choose a parent. I was in tears just wanting to run through the playground and into school. He didn't let me leave the car until the bell rang that recess was over. As I walk through the blacktop, tears streaming down my face, my father calls for me to go back to him. I'm frozen in fear as to what to do. My classmate's mom, a fellow parent volunteer was walking in at the same time and she put her arms around. I know she scolded my dad and questioned his parenting skills. She also mentioned how strange she saw it that he'd have me out for lunch instead of letting me socialize with friends. I really can't remember details. The strongest impression I have was how warm and safe I felt being held in her arms. I still recognize the smell of her perfume to this day. As we walked in she pushed me to tell her what was wrong and she very much wanted to take me to the principal's office so I could talk to somebody. I just recall sobbing and shaking my head no. I don't think I knew what if anything could have been wrong. 

My father never had a running vehicle. He always bounced from car to car. We would walk to the grocery store at times and eventually settled on me riding my bike as he walked. As we returned from a random trip to a local gas station I lost control of my bike and crashed into a parked car at the front of our apartment complex. In his typical fashion my dad laughed as I cried and we walked the rest of the way home. He asked if I was hurt and I said yes but could only point between my legs. As soon as we got home I went to the bathroom and saw a huge bruise forming on the top of my pubic bone, black and blue. This scared me so much I told the only person I could...my father. He asked to see and told me to get a cold towel with salt. Salt takes away bruises he explained. I'm standing there, pants unzipped, run and do as I'm told. He's seated at the couch and takes the towel from me. He asked me to pull down my panties slightly. I do as I'm told. He holds the towel and holds it firmly over the bruise. I stand next to the couch and he stares at the television in a daze. After about 5-6 minutes he starts moving the towel in a circular motion. I feel uncomfortable but don't have anyone else to turn to. After another 2-3 minutes he shifts the towel slightly lower then removes the towel and throws it at me. "Do it yourself!" he scolds. He gives me a look of disgust. I'm unsure what I've done wrong but I'm grateful I get to escape to my room. 

Our school asked for parents to volunteer during lunch periods also. At this point my father has stopped taking me out of school for lunch but volunteers on all his days off. I found the most embarrassing thing as a kid was to have to kiss your parents in front of your friends. I was taught from very little to kiss on the lips. It was never anything awkward or strange in my family. As I walk to go throw away my trash I run into my dad and he makes me kiss him. Its a loud lunchroom and all the kids are racing for the doors to go to recess at the time. I reach up to kiss him and our lips touch, his mouth is wide open and opens mine. I recall his hot breath entering my mouth. Our lips pressed against each other for just a little too long. I pull back and look around in embarrassment. I'm hoping no one saw but at the same time I'm praying someone did. From this point forward I turned cheek anytime any family member ever tried to kiss me. Still to this day I find kisses awkward and unwelcome. 
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Build me a Bridge(NF)

Music floods me with emotions. Just a small piece of my story as I listen to the same song on repeat.

A week before my 21st birthday my living situation was in limbo and my father offered his spare room for me to use. He enticed me with the privacy I'd have with a large room, private bathroom and private entrance if I chose to not go through the main house. I had the option to move back to my mother's house while I got my finances sorted. I naively thought that moving in with my father might be an opportunity to mend fences and rebuild our relationship. I thought we'd start from a clean slate.
It kills me to write this and I can't hold back tears.

My 21st birthday came and went. I celebrated with a few very close friends that are now the only "family" I have. I could see hints of the trouble ahead in my father's reaction to me leaving the house. There were flecks of disapproval and hatred in his eyes when he saw I had a friend acting as my designated driver (DD) come to pick me up.

"Why do you need a driver, you don't drink? Don't drink tonight, being 21 doesn't mean you have to drink, you see me I don't ever drink."

In that statement I see flashbacks of my childhood. 7 years old, seeing my father lying in his own vomit. Me crying. His eyes glazed over and he continues to throw up. I'm so weak, I can't move him, I can't turn him over so he doesn't choke. His arms are so heavy and he won't answer my cries. Someone comes and turns him over. My mom grabs my arm, yanks me hard, and drags me to the car along side her. I see him still vomiting, only the white of his eyes visible as he gets smaller and smaller in the distance.

At this time I'm working at a Credit Union as a normal 9-5er while attending university. My friends and co-workers are one in the same. My week was pretty routine. Monday through Friday I worked then Saturday, Sunday I'd go out with friends. My freedom lasted all of 6 weeks. After a night out of dinner and bowling I come home to find the side gate that leads to my private entrance locked. There’s a new padlock separating me from my door and my room. I always locked the door to my room in the house since I only used the private entrance.

I enter the house as quietly as possible; it’s a little after midnight, go to the backyard and around the house to my entrance. I have a glass sliding door that I leave unlocked and a barred gate that I use to enter my room. After unlocking the gate I realize someone has locked the glass sliding door and put a wooden plank to secure it wouldn't open. Ever the resourceful girl I find a flat head screwdriver and take apart the lock to my door inside the house so I can enter my room, then quickly reassemble it. As I finish I look up and my step-mother staring at me in amazement as she laughs.

"Your dad thought you might have trouble getting in your room. Maybe he'll learn to leave you be."

I'm quickly reminded of seventh grade. On a random school day I'm sitting doing my homework with the TV like I usually do. My dad jumps and decides to start getting ready to leave. As he ties his shoes he asks me if I'd like to come with him.

"Where are you going?"
"It doesn't matter just put on your shoes and let’s get out of the house."
"I have homework do you know when we'll be back?"
"We'll be back when we're back now get up we're leaving."
"I don't want to go I really have to finish this."
"Grab your book get up now!"

My dad grabs me by the arm as I try to reach for my notebook and pushes me out of the door.

"Now if you'll stop being stubborn I'll get your shoes and we can leave."
"No thanks I'll wait here."

I sat on the porch to our apartment for 2 hours finishing my homework and reading a magazine I managed to grab before he came back home and decided to let me in.

One day I'm getting ready to leave with a friend to our weekly dinner. I walk out my door.

"Bye dad I'm leaving my friends waiting outside."
"Come here and help me fold."
"My rides here I have to go."
"I said come here!"

Memories flood my head of the first time I was kicked out, as I do as I'm told. I'm sitting on the floor doing my homework as my father and his wife have a conversation in Spanish while watching TV. My father said something to the effect of his friends children are ungrateful and don't do as they're told without question. He gloats that I'm nothing like that and will always follow any request like a good obedient daughter. His wife disagrees and my dad decides to put me to the test. My dad is holding a bowl 6 feet away from the kitchen sink.

"Come here and put this away for me."
"You're right there."
"I said come and put this in the sink for me."
"It makes no sense, I'm way over here and you could have put that in the sink and taken it out twice already in the time you're arguing with me."

"Leave now."
"No."

I never could shut up. I wasn't going to be made a fool of. My dad grips my arm hard and drags me to the door. I try to release myself to walk out of my own accord. It’s useless, he won't let go, he continues to drag me and shoves me out of the door once of the top stoop of the stairs I think I'm fine, safe. He pushes me once more and almost knocks me down the stairs.

Its 7am and I'm running late for work. With a towel on my still wet hair and a towel covering my body I try to quickly iron my clothes for work. There are 3 loud knocks on my door. I drop the iron as I flinch in fear.

"Get out now I need your help."
"Ok I'm getting out of the shower."

Less than 30 seconds later as I try to put on my bra and underwear three more knocks. The door nearly knocked off its hinges.

"Get out! Hurry!"

One minute later I'm dressed and run outside.

"Never mind I needed you to move your car."

My nerves are on edge as I finish getting dressed for work.