Tracey Anne Hallberg is my Monday Guest Contributor. She is a survivor of Family Crisis, and proof positive that there is light on the other side. She shares from her heart, leaving very little to the imagination.
Her story is valid, important, and needs to be shared. My personal journey is very different from hers, but on my journey, I have come upon many...many...who have had to live through horrors similar to the upbringing Tracey was forced to endure.
Tracey is one of the most courageous women I have had the privilege to know, and I am honored to share Wings Like Eagles with her every Monday.
Tracey's account is graphic and raw, and is not suitable for young or sensitive readers. I give her posts a strong PG-13 rating.
May I introduce to you my friend, Tracey Hallberg:
Who am I? Daughter, sister, niece, aunt, wife, mother. I am Tracey Anne Hallberg. Maiden name, Cleveland. What is in a name? Some, little & nothin' much really, if you come from the background I do. A name is jest a name.
Forgive my grammer. I was born in Monroe, Louisiana in 1974. It is the poorest educated state in the U.S. If you are of the faint at heart, or easily appauled, I highly suggest you not continue reading my story.
I don't say things for shock value or for undue attention. These are just facts.
My mother was a pipefitter back in the early 70's. Actually, she was one of the first women in the Pipefitter's Union, paving the way for women to come. She was a hard worker, affectionate mother...and a heavy alcoholic. A pill addict.
Her father before her was a pipefitter, murderer and racist. And a pedifile. Mama told me several times. Growing up in her house was like having an angel on one side, and satan on the other. The Angel: Her polite, devout, softspoken, cleanliness is next to Godliness Southern Bell mother. You could eat out of her window sills, or off her floor. Satan: Her father. Her Daddy threw her like a football down the hallway when he was on a binge. She was three. Her mother just looked at her, lying there, and walked away.
He started molesting Mama when she was 5. Her relationship with the Lord was like, Yea. He is way up there, and we are way down here. Worthlessly left defenseless on our own.
When I was 7 my mother told me, "Santa doesn't visit poor kids. And men are all the same. They want only one thing, and if you want them to love you. This is what you do." She told me what her father taught her. She told me she felt it may be a little weird, but that she loved her father, and she forgave anything he did.
She left him to babysit my sister Dana and I on a regular basis.
When I was 7 my mother hurt her back and was laid off from her job, drawing no disability or severance cuz she ignorantly signed some paperwork. That would destroy our innocence from that day forward. My sister and I were molested and sold for rent, drugs, food, anything we needed to survive. My mother was proud, and stubborn, and trusted no one to help her fend for us. They would get self-righteous, she would say, calling us whores, bitches, nasty , vile animals...That needed to be put in mental institutions.
When I was 12, my mother married her third husband. Richard. Let's jest call him Dick. He was the worst.
My sister's father was Dennis. She married his brother, Jimmy. He was husband #1. Her second husband was my father, John Raymond. He was only 16, which was why he prolly never kept a job. She used to complain about that. Once she even got so angry she threw him out a window. He was 16, so what the hello was she thinkin' anyways, I have come to feel.
Back to Dick. When I was 12, he used to come into my room at night, rub my legs & talk sex talk to me. I would clench up like a clam and shake and cry. I thought he was the one who was gonna finally be my Dad. Dillusional me. How could I ever think someone would value me more than in a sexual way? So, I got fed up, and started sleeping on the livin' room couch. Even then, I would have to handle the torture of him coming in there, poppin' in a porno movie with his hands under his blanket, feelin' his eyes as he looked back and forth at me. Somewhere between my mother's never-ending failed suicide attempts, I found myself hearing a voice inside saying, "This isn't right." "I am here with you." "I will help you leave this place."
I cannot explain to you why, but his gave me courage. The courage to confront my mother.
No comments:
Post a Comment