*THIS BOOK IS STRICTLY FOR THE SEASONED, MATURE, ADULT READER-contains language, sexual situations & subject matter absolutely not appropriate for underage readers or conservative tastes*
"Angie Situation" (INNOCENCE) excerpt 1
"I pretty much deserved most everything I asked for-and mom & dad made sure of it.
I pretty much deserved anything I wanted to do & go anyplace I wanted to go.
I was an easy child to raise-mom & dad allowed me.
They never worried about me or had to constantly discipline me when I was a kid.
I received lots of attention and praise for my talents and academics.
My daddy made it tradition to make sure he spent at least twice a week with me: full daddy-daughter days-taking me to dinner, shopping, the movies or riding around in his car for conversation, yet I never felt compelled to tell him what was going on.
It was merely my private life.
My mom and dad had no idea that something like this could be happening to me-ever.
I was a very happy child, precocious little me can remember being entrusted with a lot of “little responsibility” at seven years old.
I was busy: school and church on Sundays and Wednesdays.
I fought tooth and nail making sure my mom and dad bought my pink, yellow and mint green night-gown for me to get baptized in at age 6.
Vacation bible-school every summer, friends, family, dad outings, neighborhood fun with friends-you name it-I was in there doing that.
My schedule was full.
Like any other normal well adjusted kid where I lived-I kicked ass and got my ass kicked by other kids on occasion.
Third graders, we were.
The little mean bitch made her way around the corner to me and up on my porch and wailed on my ass so quick and fast-had me in total shock and awe, that all I could do was cover my face with one hand and grab onto her t-shirt with the other hand then scream with the force of a thousand punches: “If you stop punching me-I’ll let go of your collar!”
I never lived that beat-down, down, in a household filled with brothers who for years, used that as leverage against me for years-used that as leverage against me when I would behave like the spoiled little brat of a sister that I was.
No sooner than I had just got done living in the shadows of the notorious “Landon Harris Ghost of Classroom Past” smack-down,“ no thanks to Collar Girl, I was right back into an “If-You-Stop-Punching-Me-I’ll-Let-Go-Of-Your-Collar!”notch under all my brother’s belts.
Landon Harris was a cute boy and classmate of mine.
One day, when our teacher gave us all a demonstration on how things that sank or swam.
After some time, she felt like we should know which objects would sink or swim.
She began dropping objects into the water then asking each and one of us which objects sank and which objects swam.
Everyone in the circle did well until we got to Landon; he missed practically every object.
Everyone laughed at him after each fail and on the very one (and only one) that I (almost) joined in the laughter on-I barely got a chance to crack a smile before he reached over and knocked starch out of me.
All I remembered was my lil’ tortoise shell glasses flying one way and my face flying the other.
For nearly two school years I was branded: “Landon-Smacked-Her-So-Hard-That-Her-Glasses-Went-Flying-To-TheLeft-And-HerFace-Went-Flying-To-The-Right!”
That was okay though, Landon merely had a raging crush on me and it killed him to see that I (almost) laughed at him.
But I bet you by the time I got off that floor from searching for my lil’ tortoise shell glasses, looked up and put these eyes on him-it was on and poppin'!
All hell in his heart broke loose and from that point on, life as he knew it was never the same.
I swear that boy followed me around ever since that day; clinging to me like laundry static.
Outside being beat-branded by Collar Girl and bum rushed at Leroy’s by Cable-Boy-Boy-Boy-Boy-Boy’s; that was about as traumatic as childhood got for me.
I wasn’t exposed to porn or sex of any kind on television I wasn’t exposed to drugs, a drug lifestyle or a dysfunctional household with absent parents and bad examples of the same.
I can very well warn and proclaim: “Daddy’s guard your daughters! Watch their every move! Keep up constant dialogue with them! Know where they are at all times!”
I kept conversation going with my mom and dad-at all times! My mommy and daddy did guard me, nurture me, protect me and watched my every move! I was where I was supposed to be at all times! It’s just that sometimes I slipped away next door, upstairs, in the attic, around the corner, across the street, in the closet, or behind the couch. I was never too far from hearing my mom call out to me: “Angieeeeee!” Yet it served no comfort to her [and unbeknownst to me] and turned out to be the biggest slap in the face of her life as a mother when (a whole century later) we were watching the news one evening at her house, a close relative of Attic Man’s was on the news for molesting his girlfriend’s daughter.
My mom turned to me and said: “That’s [Attic Man’s] brother, did you know that?”
“I was going to ask you that-considering the fact that they have the same unusual last name” I responded.
She replied: “Yeah, I think that runs in their family though,” feeling proud that she dodged that bullet-feeling confident that as close as Attic Man was to me-her child-that sure as hell did not go down.
She then began to run down what seemed like a list of legendary and hereditary molestation accounts she had known and heard of throughout the years about Attic Man’s male relatives such.
Reminiscently, I turned to her and said: “You know what Ma? That must be true because [Attic Man] used to do that to me all the time!”thinking that she would merely say: “What? You’re kidding!”
But instead, her eyes got big and like a deer in headlights, she turned to look at my face quickly then averted her eyes-suddenly embarrassed to look at me in the face.
She swung her arms in a rebuking manner and continued to scold me out of the corners of her eyes-repeatedly yelling out my name as if that was something I should have kept to myself after all these years.
I had no idea that she was going to take it so hard because it was so long ago.
She shook her head “no” non-stop, as if I was still a child and someone else delivered this news to her about her child, but instead, it was me-an adult-telling her far too many years later.
She was befuddled.
She didn’t even want to know the details and at this point-I dared not go into detail or tell her everything…
It was the most awkward moment and emotion that I had never seen my mother show.
My mother normally has an answer and a comeback for everything-always. This time however, she was speechless.
She felt so sodomized, so victimized and so traumatized that she kept throwing her hand at me in what seemed like complete and utter disgust: “Angie! We’ve had so many conversations when you were a little girl about anybody touching you or saying something to you that made you feel uncomfortable-all of that! Don’t you remember me talking to you about these things! And I mean all the time! E-v-e-r-y-day almost Angie-damn! How could you do this to me! Oh shit!”she snapped back and yelled at me like it literally burned her.
She was disgusted.
She yelled like she was trying to convince herself into remembering having these talks with me just about as much as if she could have, she would have dug her hand into my brain and put the memory of it in her hand just so she could say: “here’s proof right here!”
“You see a muthafucka fuckin’with her-just kill him and save me the trouble!”
was something I constantly heard my mother say aloud when she would have friends over or if we were out somewhere and whomever we would be standing around would look me up and down then whisper something in her ear.
Like clockwork, she would always respond aloud:
“That’s okay. You see a muthafucka fuckin’with her-just kill him and save me the trouble!”
My mother always had a way with words and one hell of a mouth-one of a kind.
She could just, spit, on cue-a master wordsmith.
She was always very entertaining-the type that would tell you that fucking with her would be like running through a lion’s den with a pork chop suit on. She seemed to almost have a new one everyday.
It was nothing for her to tell you that she’s been around the world twice while you were still working your way around the tea cup still looking for the handle.
If you got in her way too much, she would kindly tell you: “let me fuck this cat, if she has any kittens-I’ll give you one.” Translation: Mind your business-simple as that.
I couldn’t wait to come home from school the day I learned the word for her vernacular: “idioms.”
So the next time someone looked me up and down and whispered in her ear and she said: “That’s okay. You see a muthafucka fuckin’ with her-just kill him and save me the trouble.”
I nudged her and said: “momma, that’s called an idiom!”
Yet this time, this moment-some 20+ years later, she was sitting in front of me: speechless, wordless, “idiom-less” feeling more like an idiot and that it was she who was put in the lions den with a pork chop suit on while I was the one who’d been around the world twice while she’s working her way around the tea cup, still looking for the handle.
She behaved as if I was the adult that delivered this news to her about her little girl-yet it was me, her grown little girl, sitting there telling her something that nearly set her back almost 20+ years.
It felt bad to me to see my mother like this.
Tears filled her eyes as she sat there-speechless-shaking her leg while sitting at the kitchen table as if it was me who had raped her of 20+ years of good housekeeping and motherhood right there in a five minute instant.
I was numb-just like I have been numb for years.
My emotion was so misplaced-just like it has been-for years…
Even when I say: “happened to me,” and “did that to me,” it feels weird.
It feels weird because even though Attic Man was the start of me chasing feelings of my pee coming throughout my busy little childhood life-thoughts played out in my head of me sitting at the edge of that bed at seven and eight years old literally seducing him and approving everything he was doing to me-taking his giant face in my tiny hands and kissing his face all over as he kneeled in front of me; still much taller and much bigger than me even on his knees.
He enjoyed it when I would do that-almost like the way a dad would love for his own child to hold his face and kiss him a thousand times all over his face-like that.
For years, I felt like because he was so apologetic and near tears when I disapproved of him trying to penetrate me, that there was nothing else outside of that, wrong with what he was doing to me.
He apologized after I lay there and he took his fat mushroom and tried pushing it into me.
I quickly sat up and slapped his face with my tiny hands so hard I know he saw birds and stars: “That hurt! Don’t you dare!”I yelled into his big face-facing my little face as he kneeled in front of me-repeatedly apologizing in that pathetic child-molester-like whisper that I can still here today; sounding as if he was pretending to talk like a kid-a kind of baby-talk-like apology.
I remember so clearly how bad he felt for hurting me-that moment, at the very moment, he saw that trying to penetrate me was what hurt me and was wrong.
He was sorry for almost entering me, but other than that-I remember enjoying him putting his mouth on my little flower, my little bee stings for breasts and laying there at the edge of the bed while he would be satisfied with rather than penetrating me; rubbing, thumping and wiggling his fat mushroom on me and since I remembered participating and enjoying it, in my mind, everything was okay. Nothing was wrong with it. I merely had a boyfriend-an older boyfriend who looked like Marvin Gaye-and a secret. Even in my mom’s disgust and hurt at the moment that I confessed it to her, when she said to me: “Angie! We’ve had so many conversations when you were a little girl about anybody touching you or saying something to you that made you feel uncomfortable, all of that! Don’t you remember me talking to you about these things!” It didn’t register with me at my confession moment any more than it did when she said she told me those things when precocious little me (who I am more than sure understood what she meant at the time), was [being molested?]
I never saw it that way.
I always said: “I don’t remember feeling terrorized, wetting the bed at night, having nightmares, feeling withdrawn and acting out, I thought that I was just living a normal life but that I had secrets-nothing more.”
Truth be told, I never felt like a “victim” and I never felt “molested” by standard definition any more than I was “virgin”(by standard definition) that night with Santana.
I just felt like I experienced some things that I probably should not have-at an early age.
Truth be told, I do know that as a result of it-it has probably caused a kind of emotional numbness and emotional and mental promiscuity in me that carried on throughout my life until I got a hold of myself.
Truth be told, deep down inside, I know that I have issues.
Sometimes I bleed blood and other times I bleed metal-either way, deep down inside I feel cut open, hollow & numb inside-a lot.
Truth be told, my mother sitting there in front of me with tears in her eyes, it felt odd to me that she wanted to cry to me rather than talk to me, dialogue with me about it after asking: “What? You’re kidding!”
Don’t cry for me, cry for my mother-for, that was the night she died...
Don’t cry for me, I never did. I never felt like I should, or had the right to.
I just numbed it all. I have always been numb.
I’d say: “Nothing’s wrong with me-I just got started at an earlier age.
I didn’t go on later in life to desire and molest kids.
I didn’t go on later in life to do drugs and alcohol, get caught up in prostitution, plagued with chronic pornography fetishes, various sexual deviancies and abnormalities.
"Nothing’s wrong with me!”
Yet, my emotions for some things were misplaced, others: non-existent, while my attraction to and for other things were simply lopsided. I equated love and intimacy with just: making love...
Throughout my life going forward, I felt that my loving to rap on the mic and put my needle to a record or two until a bitch stuttered and sang opera was never a problem or issue to me but rather, an obsession and an art form. Each and every time, it felt new, something I treasured, dissected and perfected then churned it for whomever I felt earned it. I couldn’t help myself, I was losing myself.
Nothing was wrong with it in my eyes and mind.
Everything was right about it in my body.
I just wanted the dance, and to lose my head at the edge of the bed. Pleasure, love, being in love, thinking I was in love, on my way to being in love-falling out of love, falling back in love; I loved-it was all the same feeling to me.
I have issues that I am fighting and have fought with all my life.
Some I have won-others I still battle.
Life has not allowed me the time to dwell on the past, play the victim or claim victim, but instead, forced me to deal with the hand I was dealt: pokerfaced... I have had demons that have been very much apart of my convictions, my restrictions, my conflictions and my afflictions, behind my humor, the jokes I tell and the sun in my smile.
I know full well who I am just as much as I know throughout my adult life, the problem has been what I feel, what I think and as result; what I’ve done, what I like and what it is I like to do.
I deal with it: numb-because I still deal with me.
Yes, I have been broken down, broken through, broken apart, come undone and massively hit rock bottom at times in my life.
That being said, just rock with me while grow up, throw up, no running-I show up.
Still here-blessed-and ready to get to the bottom of the situation…"
Angela Sherice on the "Angie Situation" 3-book saga/series
Other books by Angela Sherice