Book Of Likes Faces

I went back and forth about whether to post. I asked myself why I would, what I hoped it would accomplish. Part of me wanted to tuck the story back inside and once again whisper thanks to God because I know He kept me safe. He kept us all safe. Part of me wanted to shout it from the rooftops because people go through things behind closed doors that are unimaginable. They aren’t far off in other countries, other states or even other towns. They’re our neighbors, yours and mine, and they carry the burden of the weight of those things for the rest of their lives. They are changed permanently by sometimes one, sometimes multiple, sometimes unending traumatic events and it speaks to their strength and to their resilience of humanity. We as humans really are resilient. Yes, we shouldn’t have to be. Yes, it would be so much better if we never had to be. We were never meant to be, but nonetheless, we can face the most horrific of circumstances and still win, still see the world through eyes of beauty and gentleness. Sometimes those things can even propel us into a destiny we never would have been prepared for otherwise. I was only in the 2nd grade, 7 or maybe eight years old. Like so often before we couldn’t make it financially on our own, so my mom, sister and I were living with a friend, sharing expenses. The house was tiny. I honestly don’t remember there even being a bedroom even though there were at least nine kids total including us, maybe more. The details kind of blur together in some ways and in other ways they are crystal clear almost as if I could close my eyes and reach inside myself and be there instantly… the sights, the dark paneling and seeming absence of windows, the cloud of constant cigarette smoke thick enough to cut with a knife, the smells of must, of stale air. Miss Daisy, who everyone called Crazy Daisy was who we moved in with. She had several children but specifically she had a son probably around 12 years old who towered over me. He had it out for me from day one. Every time he passed me and he often went out of his way to do so, he pinched me on the backside. I told adults and he was scolded and told to stop. It never stopped him, it only made it worse , so I stopped telling. Soon, I was bruised from the middle of my back almost to my knees. I remember gently sliding into my chair at school, grimacing in pain. I remember feeling like no one was going to defend me or rescue me. I don’t think I can put into words how many times he pinched me and how his eyes looked when he did it. He knew he was hurting me. He reveled in it. I was sick every single day at school. My teacher, Mrs. Miller, was gentle. The nurse was kind and attentive. She would let me lay down during lunch. It was my stomach, my nerves, my anxiety. But all I knew was I was sick and I longed for the safe space of that tiny room where for just a few minutes I could close my eyes and know no one would hurt me. Poverty is a horrible thing and they didn’t call her Crazy Daisy for nothing. The stress of not having enough to provide I’m sure can make people do crazy things. That’s at least what I’ve told myself to try to come to terms with the fact that all of us kids were lined up in the kitchen from the oldest to the youngest, with our backs against the table. She pulled a shotgun out and pointed it at us. I froze. I needed to pee but I didn’t dare move. I can’t remember if I needed to pee before I saw the gun or after. I willed myself not to breathe… to take in such slow and shallow breaths that I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. Her eyes were glazed over and she was enraged, screaming as she waved it no more than a foot in front of us. The only words I remember her saying are, “It would be better for them to be dead than to starve!” So maybe she was truly insane, or maybe in some strange way knowing we didn’t have food and couldn’t any caused her so much pain she reasoned it would hurt less. I don’t remember how it ended. I don’t remember how any child standing there reacted, I can’t tell you if any other adult was standing there. I only remember thinking no one is going to defend me or rescue me.
The house has been abandoned for years. Maybe for now I need to keep that to myself, but it wasn’t so very different than the picture in recent years. Ever so often I’ve driven by there sometimes on my way to other places and sometimes just to remember that it really happened. It really happened I really survived. 
It isn’t for you to feel sorry for me, or to tell me how strong I am. Actually it’s the opposite. It’s for you to look inside at the things YOU hold, that you’ve survived or that you are currently surviving and know that while it took a very long time… I not only survived but I even thrived. There’s trauma but there is hope! There’s life beyond it all that is so much better. It can be so good that while you know it happened, it no longer has power over you. You have all the power now, to take whatever it was/is and turn it into something good, something beautiful, something so much bigger and louder that it will forever reverberate through your story, drowning out the lingering noise… So big that all the darkness has to cower in the shadows because it has been chased away by the light.