Her Charmed Life

God! (Is it okay if I call you God?) Have you forsaken me?

So… I’m on this, like, spiritual journey for the good of my soul or whatever (if I joke about it, it seems less daunting).

I used to have a specific belief set that I believed in… loosely. I was raised Catholic by my mom, but my dad was a Baptist. We went to Baptist Church when I was a little kid and changed to Mass as I got older. Then we kind of just never went back one day. I think my mom was depressed and didn’t have the energy to take us. She was going through a divorce too. I wanted to go back to church though, I liked how it smelled.

I have a lot of siblings, four in this story. Five currently. I am the eldest of my siblings. I felt the responsibility for them like Atlas and the world. It was all on my shoulders. I think I took some of it from my mom too. I felt bad for her. I was seven years old. So I took care of my siblings the best that a seven-year-old kid could. I fed them cereal when mom was out of state working and dad was “at the bank” (um sir it’s 8 pm, we know you aren’t at the bank). When we didn’t have food, I stole money out of my dad’s wallet or wherever I saw it lying around and got chips from the gas station. It was a long walk. I gave my sister, Ella, baths in the baby tub every night. I hated taking care of her. I loathed it. I mean sure she’s a baby but can’t she just do it herself? I have to take care of myself. What’s the difference? Sometimes I didn’t wash her hair on purpose. I just didn’t want to. The next night I would feel so bad I’d wash it twice. Ella loved me so much. I could just tell when she looked at me. I loved her, but I hated that she was born. The day she was born is the day I stopped being a child. I still feel guilty about it, but now I’m so happy she was born. She’s my only sister. I’m sure she felt something similar the day I moved out of our house (fled our house really) and into my own living situation. When we were older, I made my sister do her homework while my brother, Brandon, played video games. Brandon is only a year younger than me but he never lifted a finger to help me. He either didn’t care or just assumed I could handle it. Then my baby brother was born, Eli. I learned from Ella and because of that, I took care of Eli. Once he could talk, he started calling me Mama. It was only for a few weeks; I showed him our mom’s picture and retrained him. I never told her that, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. One time, while Dad was off at the bank at 10 pm or getting us pizza in the five-hour-long line or something, Eli was crying. He cried for what seemed like hours. I was so tired and I missed my mom. Mom was working on some wildlife fish thing for her school out of state. I had a hard day at school because the class bully made fun of my hair (and my crush on him). I was 10 years old. As Eli cried and wailed so did I. I just wanted him to shut up so I could sleep. I thought about hurting him, shaking him so he would understand how I felt. I really needed him to be quiet. I put him down on the carpet and called Nanny. Nanny was my Girl Scout council leader and she often watched Eli during scouting events. I loved Nanny, she was very nice but she also gave me a break from being the oldest kid (or the parent, whatever you prefer). I could leave my sibling with her and they would be okay. Nanny came over that night, at 10 pm, and got Eli to stop crying within minutes. She gave me a snack and sent me to bed. Nanny waited until my Dad came home to leave the house. I know because I stayed awake and watched her car from the driveway. I really didn’t want her to leave. I remember thinking, “She’s an angel sent from heaven just to help me.” I wonder if God sent her to me that night. Maybe God was at the bank with my Dad, or maybe He was the fish my mom just caught to study. We all missed the bus to school the next day. I got in trouble. Nanny passed away the year after I graduated high school. I miss her and never told her how grateful I was for her.

As I grew older, I retreated further and further into myself. At home, I did not leave my room. At school, I yapped and yapped to my friends. I had a lot to say because I hadn’t spoken since I left school the previous day. I found my love of reading and I devoured hundreds of pages a day. I remember making a deal with my dad that for every book I read, he would buy me one. He never bought me a book and he never seemed to remember the conversation when I brought it up. I guess he was drunk. I found the Internet and began to meet people online. Adults. Men. I talked in chatrooms and hid it from my mom. In fourth grade, I made a friend named Jessica. I was extremely jealous of Jessica and her family. Her fights with her parents were over her not cleaning her room; mine were because I wasn’t doing enough for my family. Her mom never degraded her or dismissed her feelings; my mom believed I was lazy and laughed at me when I cried. Her dad was around; mine was at the bank still. When my siblings were old enough to fend for themselves, I was at Jessica’s house every weekend. Jessica’s Dad called me his “adopted blonde daughter“. Jessica’s Mom handled my theatrics and my grabs for attention like a pro. It was like she knew what I needed before I even did. I aspire to be like her now with my stepson. I hope I’m doing a good job. As I got older and grew more responsible according to my mom (it depended on the day how responsible in her eyes I was), I was able to spend more and more time with Jessica’s family. When I was a freshman in high school, I was at her house every single day. This was when my parents got divorced. It was also when I started having panic attacks. Social workers came to my school to talk to me all the time. They asked about me but I answered in terms of my siblings, not myself. I now know my mother was coaching me. My dad didn’t care enough to even do that. I fully immersed myself in band class. I spent every free moment I had in that big room. I cried a lot, I felt like I was being way too dramatic. Lots of kids went through this after all. Someone else had it worse than me, I should be grateful. I can only imagine what all the other students thought of me- always crying and forcing myself into conversations for attention. I began to see the school counselor regularly (my mom wouldn’t take me to therapy, what did I have to go for? It wasn’t that bad). She was a nice woman and she always made herself available for me to cry to. I think she was an angel too, or maybe some kind of lesser God.

Jessica’s mom always answered when I called her and she picked up on the second ring the day I had the biggest panic attack I ever had. She came to the school to pick me up 20 minutes later. I started calling her mom that day. I just called her mom to myself, in my head. My real mom would have killed me if she heard me utter that title to someone else. I moved into Jessica’s house in 11th grade and her parents let me pick the color for my very own bedroom in their house. Jessica was so lucky she had such nice parents. I think God is still in the paint of that room, even if it is a very ugly bandaid color.

When I was a sophomore my dad kidnapped me and my siblings. I’m not sure how a parent can kidnap their kid but that’s the only way to describe what he did. He got a restraining order filed on my mom and somehow that made it illegal for her to see us. At least that’s what he said. He was worried she would try to come to our house so he brought us to my grandma’s house in the middle of the night. With no clothes. Or school books. Or shoes. Day two of being there I asked if I could go to Jessica’s. He said no because it was too far and my mom would find me. Day four I asked if we could go to the store to buy toothbrushes. He said no but my grandma would get some (I’m sure to brush my teeth every day now). Day six I found a phone charger in the basement that fit my cell phone. I charged it and texted my mom. I took the battery out and hid the phone in the couch I was sleeping on. The house phone started to ring every five minutes. I tried to answer it but my grandma beat me to it and told me it was just a debt collector. Then she tore the phone out of the wall. I knew it was my mom. Day seven I knew we weren’t going back to school and I was afraid. I told my dad that I had a big test and would fail if I missed it. We went to school the next Monday. I used Jessica’s phone to call her mom. On Tuesday, Jessica gave me a bag of clothes from my mom. Tuesday night I told Brandon that we had to leave. It was an hour car ride to my mom’s house but I knew the way. He said he didn’t want to leave. I packed up myself, Ella, and Eli. Eli was only one or two years old and still needed diapers and a bottle so I packed some. I gave Ella my sweater. We left Brandon behind and started the walk. I was so scared. It was so dark. I was afraid my dad would know. That Brandon would tell on me. I didn’t use a flashlight so my dad couldn’t see us walking in the tree line, just in case. Today, I’m still scared of the woods. We made it three miles down the road before a do-gooder police officer found us. I told him the situation. He brought us back to my grandma’s and she thanked him at the door. Apparently, she taught him in grade school. Where are you, God? I called the police the next day. The same cop showed up. I don’t remember how we got back to my mom, but I know she fought tooth and nail for us. I know Eli was too young to remember this but I wonder if Ella does. I don’t think so. I carried her on my back because she didn’t have shoes. I carried them both for three miles in those fucking woods.

My parents’ divorce was eventually settled. The custody battle is still on for Ella and Eli. They both go to my dad’s house for a few weeks in the summer and during some holidays. I still testify against my dad when I can. Brandon chose to stay with my dad. He’s 23 now and my dad chokes him against the wall. I should have tried harder for Brandon. I should have done more for him. I called him for 365 days straight during my senior year of high school. He never answered. I had the right number. I stopped calling. Apparently, my mom paid for his rehab once. He posts stupid tiktoks that make me cry because I have no idea who he is anymore. That’s all I know about him. God… are you with him now?

During my entire childhood, I always woke up at 3:33 or 3:35 am. Every night without fail. I didn’t believe in angel numbers then. Now I do. God… were you with me then?