Freedom Has a Cost
C and J picked me up in the morning, and they let me know that they had found a place for me.
One of J’s friends lived in his parents’ garage, and had his own apartment back there. He said I was welcome to be there, but I wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom in the house.
He was pretty chill. He had a guitar, and a couple of chairs. A slab of wood on a cinderblock made the coffee table.
C and J had places to be, so they didn’t hang out long.
I wasn’t a great conversationalist, (actually, I don’t think that’s true at all. I think allistics don’t know how to have a good conversation and I was too much for them.) I didn’t want to annoy the guy who was giving me a place to be, so in lieu of conversation I showed my gratitude. He did not seem annoyed.
I was free to come and go as I pleased, so I still hung out with L quite a bit. During the day we were out and about on the side streets (fewer cops). I even hung out at L’s while her parents were there. They were thrilled to meet the exchange student who had become friends with their daughter.
They did not recognize me.
It felt so good to be anything other than what I had been. I realized that I could create a new reality, and while I knew nothing about what I was doing, any reality I could create would be better than the one I came from.
I had so much fun with it- taking on the dialect and different mannerisms. Going into Taco Bell ($2 was enough to really eat at TB back in the day), and having boomers look at me like I was a punk, just to bust out the accent with impeccable manners and leave them stunned.
L’s parents invited me to celebrate the 4th of July with them, out at the soccer fields. I belonged more as somebody completely made up than I ever did as myself. My masking skills improved, but this knowledge does something to your sense of self worth.
I went to the 4th of July and it was spectacular. Everything was working out. I still didn’t know how I was going to get a job, because I was undocumented, but I was starting to solve that one.
A finally got a night out of the group home, so we all went to the $1.5o movies. I can’t for the life of me remember what movie we went to. There was lots of handsy activity in the dark of the theater.
I didn’t notice my Mom coming down the aisle until I saw her standing directly over me telling me to get my ass up.
I obeyed as quickly as I could as she told me what a whore I was being.
I knew that she had been making some calls around looking for me, but I was keeping tabs on them. She said that she was just sitting there and she got hit with a feeling of just KNOWING I would be with L. She went over to interrogate the parents and THAT’S when they figured out that Connie didn’t really exist. They were big mad too.
The cops were with mom as I got escorted out of the theater. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
The argument when I got home was pretty epic. Before running away, I had written Mom an 11 page letter outlining why I thought I should be treated like a person. She responded with a 16 page letter describing in detail all of the reasons I did not deserve that.
It was all still really fresh.
Feel like your cortisol is always raging? This might be why.
I tried to leave again, and she grabbed me and slapped me at the same time. I heard my mandible pop out. It hurt so bad. She had hit me several times that night. I knew better than to hit back. I just had to take it.
I threatened to call the cops and she laughed at me, and told me to go ahead. I was sure that a dislocated jaw would count as abuse, and then something could finally be done.
The cops told me that I instigated it, and that until I was 18, my mom could discipline me in any way she saw fit. I was trapped there, and nobody was going to save me.
She took that news with a sadistic smugness.
I didn’t see A again for a long time after that. Mom contacted his group home and that was that. L and I were both grounded, and I barely saw her after that.
I lost them all. I had come so close, and I was willing to do ANYTHING to make it work, and I didn’t need anything but to not have to go home.
I was supervised at all times. When Mom wasn’t there, I had Grandma to tell me what a slutty disappointment I had been. Grandpa didn’t talk to me anymore. He’d just look the other way and shake his head.
My sisters loved telling me how bad I screwed up, and how dare I do that to Mom? Each family member chimed in to tell me what trash I was. This narrative became a family favorite.
Mom made me get a haircut, and color it back to brown.
Knowing there was no way out, I tried very hard to prove I could be something more than a screw up. There was nothing I could do that made it any better.
I thought maybe if I just meant it more, maybe if I could just meet Mom’s expectations, and tow the line, and make all the right choices, maybe I could be loveable.
I remember when it seemed like things had settled a little bit, I tried to joke with my mom, and she looked at me deadpan and said “Look I have to love you, but I don’t like you.” I went back to the laundry.
The cutting got worse. I had to cover up more and more of my skin.
I had initials carved into my breasts and thighs. Stars and symbols around my wrists. I flame sterilized a needle and dipped it in turquoise ink to give myself a shamrock tattoo on my tummy. It wasn’t great. I would brand myself with the heated top of the lighter. I found wire to heat to use to brand me as well. I would give myself deep red sunburns that blistered and peeled. I ate everything. I wasn’t suicidal, but I didn’t have much to live for.
Operation **Reclaim** Loveland 
What do you think?