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hi, i'm breanna. I'm fifteen and i hate the world, basically. but we'll get to that later.
here; why don't we take a little stroll down memory lane?
i was born with my mothers last name, not my fathers. I guess it's because my mother is selfish and naive, and doesn't believe in american traditions? whatever. She wasn't even in love with him, she says. What a nice thing to say to your child. But i guess the whole 3 months they were together were just peachy. I really can't explain to you what happened from birth up until i was around seven, because i simply don't remember, but i will tell you one thing; i moved a hell of a lot. Because my mom has bipolar and she is extremely unstable. And she has the mentality of a sixteen year old, even today, at 41.
At seven, i discovered that my mom wasn't the angelic, godlike woman i had thought she was, but that something was seriously not okay. How did i discover this? well, for starters, one day, i came home and she was passed out in a bowl of speghetti sauce. I even think she forgot to put the spaghetti in it she was so fucked up. Anyway, she had her face inside of the bowl, and the sauce was EVRYWHERE. I attempted shaking her, but no help. So i called my father and stepmom to come get me. they came to save me and found the empty orange bottle on the kitchen floor. and the cut straw. woooh. So i camped out with them for a week before my mom came to ruin my life again and take me back. how unfortunate.
Another incident occured a few months later in the same place, bangor maine at the time. She told me and my brother to take something that we loved with us because we were going to go for a little walk. So i gathered up my favorite stuffed animal and my brother grabbed a toy truck. she then proceeded to walk us three miles down the road to a cemetary. then she told me that her friend tracy was coming from florida to pick us up, while she was digging her nails in the dirt and burying a bottle of pills. (I later found out that tracy died before i was born.)
the cops came and to make a long story short, i ended up in lainsville massachusettes with an aunt. while my mom went to a mental hospital.
a few months later we were back in bangor. with my mom and her new boyfriend, one that she convienantly met at the mental hospital.
i kind of want to go a little further back though; my mom and my brother's dad (we're half brother and sister) were together off and on throught the first 8 or so years of my life. He lives in missouri. If you want to talk to a man with serious issues, strike up a conversation with this man. He's an alcoholic, and a painting contractor. A little secret of his that he thinks no one else has caught on to, but in reality probably everyone has, is the fact that when he sprays the chemicals in the houses he paints, he doesn't wear a mask. It's uncomfortable, he complains. haha, get over yourself, buddy. I bet you get a pretty wonderful high from those fumes.
it was when he inhaled those fumes and got fucked up off of that and alcohol when he used to come home to our wonderful little mobile home in the middle of nowhere and beat the shit out of my mother. Right in front of me and my brother. The best part is, when i tried to get help, the phone would be ripped out of the wall. One time i even ran outside and was going to run a few miles to get help for her when he knocked down the bathroom door and pushed her in to the bathtub, then started punching her repeatedly. But when i was halfway down that long ass driveway, i heard his terrifying voice saying that if i didn't get my little "traitor" ass back in the house, he was going to kill my mother. I believed him, i mean why wouldn't i? he had 7 guns that he always bragged about... I was around 6 when this happened. And people wonder why my thirteen year old brother still wets the bed. It must hurt knowing that your father is a fucking coward.
lets skip forward to when i was nine; My mother, my little brother, brandon, and i all moved to a convenient little neighborhood. We were one of two white families in that neighborhood. I did whatever the hell i wanted. I was nine years old when i discovered what crack was. How? I watched my mother smoke it. She thought she was being discreet... i guess you never really know what goes on in a crackhead's mind unless you are one... anyway, i didn't know what it was at first, so i asked one of my fourteen year old friends (yeah, i lied and told everyone i was twelve so i could hang out with the cooler crowd), and she told me to draw it. So i drew what it looked like and she looked right at me and told me that it was crack. From then on, i used to find my mom's crack stashes and break the pipes. A black man named Bo used to come over every single goddamn day and give me and my brother a dollar to go to the store. I was so happy to get that stupid dollar. Now i know why he gave it to me; so he could have alone time with my mom. A little hanky panky, for a little crack. prostitution is a beautiful thing.
okay well our stroll is over because i have to sneak out of my house now to be with a boy.
this definitely will be continued, though. it gets way better, i mean, way till i get to the temporary foster homes!
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Posted by breannaraeox on 2008-06-24 23:31:43 | Rating: | Views: 59
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i'll be waiting for the next installment. i'm sorry you had to go thorugh all that. hope the sneak out went awesome!
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Posted by Slash
on 2008-06-25 00:47:36
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thank you for reading :]
and it did, hah.
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Posted by breannaraeox
on 2008-06-25 10:39:06
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holy cow that was intense. I too will be waiting for what's to come.
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Posted by TheAlreadyJaded
on 2008-06-26 17:43:08
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