Page 9 - confessions1

wrong meaning of love. People say I'm cold hearted, and I don't argue

with it anymore. Mainly because it’s mostly true. I've come to accept

that flaw and I pray to God for healing and change all the time. It is a

trait that I’m not proud of, but it’s the direct result of the environment I

was forced to be in.

I’m talking about this now because I want to get this out of the

way at the onset of this journey with you. It’s one of the hardest things

for me to discuss but I know it’s necessary in order to tell my story in its

entirety. You won’t truly be able to understand these memories I’m

sharing if I try and skip over this chapter of my life. It might be the most

formative now that I reflect on it, because it has directly or indirectly

affected every aspect of my existence at one time or another.

The beatings would come early and often, most came only when

we were naked. Others in our sleep. Or should I say, waking us out of

our sleep. We would get taken down to this dark, dirty basement where

no one could hear us scream. My sister’s name is Selima and I

remember vividly that she would get taken down there more than me.

When she came back she would be bleeding all over her back and legs. I

recall watching a slave movie, and the bruises and markings they had

on their bodies after a whipping were similar to the ones I used to see

on the body of my sister. We were often forced to be naked in front of

one another, as she would sometimes whip us together. I remember

when the extension cord would come flyin' my way. Selima would try

and block it from getting me. We were SO small and skinny back then.