Eagles Fly … A Story of My Life as an Abused Child

I was born in the beginning of a decade that had everything good on the surface – great music, movies, books, television, and ideas.  Sometimes I feel this was the decade that caused severe changes about the way Americans lived.  Abortion became legal, serial killers became infamous, presidents became known criminals, and new diseases were discovered.  Children in my own neighborhood were victims of abductions and murders.  More scary than anything was the darkness that lingered in my own home.  People began locking their doors in my neighborhood but in my home I was jumping out of the windows by the time I turned six years old.  I was fearless at what could happen to me out in society because the madness in my own home was scarier than anything that could get me on the streets.

I learned that music was something I could use to manage my family instantly.  If good music was playing, parents were less likely to fight and beat one another, kids got along, and people were temporarily happy.  By the age of four I was hooked on rock music.  The Beatles were the band that saved my life.  If I didn’t have Paul and John, George and Ringo around to cheer me up, I don’t know how I would have coped with everything that went on in that house.  I think I would have slipped into madness.

Besides music, nature had a big part in my life.  I loved playing outside, for obvious reasons.  People were busy smoking pot and drinking beer, so the kids were safer outside.  At a very young age my brother and I were friends and I remember even loving him at one point.  But then he grew into the monster that his father was, and I had to avoid him at all costs.  He was a constant source of new terror for me, and would do everything to torture me.  Not only was he allowed to pull my hair while my mother laughed, he would smash me in the mouth if I tried to fight back, or color on my walls and dresser, he’d rip up my posters, tear up my books, and eventually chew off the nose of my cat Sweetie Pie, who I don’t even have a picture of.  I learned quick that my brother wasn’t allowed to stray too far from the house, and even though I couldn’t cross the street at age eight, I began to walk all over my city, meeting new people and even staying out as late as midnight.  My mother was busy being crazy and having an affair with her husband’s best friend, and my step father hated me, was a drunk, and had his own affairs that he was proud to flaunt in my mothers face.

My bedroom was my safe haven.  As you can see, I surrounded myself by my music and used posters to cover up the punch holes that covered my room.  Sometimes it was my own fists that punched out walls, as I was sick of the violence in my house and wanted out.  I spent years with weekly police visits to the home because I’d scream for help for hours until my neighbors would finally call the cops to get me stop.  I was either locked in that room or forced into hiding in that room almost all the time I spent at home.  I never had one moments peace there, and often stayed at a friend’s house and my great-grandmothers on weekends.  Thankfully I began working two jobs by age fifteen so I could save up for college and my planned escape.

More than ever music was becoming my passion, even over reading.  I’d stay up all hours of the night taking turns reading literature and trying to teach myself how to play guitar.  I never mastered more than four chords, but it was fun pretending that I could be a rock star like Eddie Van Halen or Eric Clapton.  Thats the beautiful thing about childhood, your dreams can take you anywhere.

Being a teenager was tough for me.  I was pretty and skinny and I was terrified of all men.  I was fond of wearing baggy clothes that hid my figure.  I had been molested twice, once in sixth grade by my friends creepy older brother, and again at fourteen was I was walking home from babysitting at one in the morning.  Both boys and men had been hitting on me by the time I was thirteen, probably since I was so tall.  I can not understand to this day the fascination men have with young girls.

The older I got, the worse male attention towards me was.  I was torn between looking nice and wanting to hide myself.  I think its sad that I never got to enjoy being pretty or super skinny.  I always had those self esteem issues about my looks like millions of other girls at my age.  I rarely thought of myself as pretty, rather I noticed everything wrong about myself, like my broad shoulders my mother gave to me, my giant size calfs and arms, or my big Italian nose.  Its funny looking at these pictures of myself now because I see something totally different.

As a young woman, I never had confidence issues about who I was as a person.  I knew who I was even as a young child, but was very quiet on the outside.  I suppose opinionated children get hit a lot more than the quiet ones and this might have been the reason I am both an introvert and extrovert to this day.  I surrounded myself with funny people because I loved laughing and humor and I always had my own comedic moments that played out in my head.  I was so shy and yet so outgoing at times, it just depended on who I was around.  I am sure there are dozens of people who either thought I was a shy nerd or a bad ass bitch in high school.  I was both and neither if that makes sense.  I was opinionated, tough, and I had realistic ideas about where I came from and where I was going, and I valued my education even though I went to one of the worst high schools.  More than anything I knew I just wanted out of the life I had at the time.  I had dreams of traveling the world, going to college, having my own family.  I wasn’t going to let welfare and my mothers bipolar disease stop me.

Close to the end of my ghetto life which ended in September of 1989 when I entered as an undecided major at Michigan State, I took this picture to remind myself where I came from.  A house full of mice, dirt, poverty, and mental illness.  My mother lovingly gave it back to me just a few years ago as a bonus Christmas present.

Sometimes certain pieces of music hit me like a brick to the face in my adult life.  A lot of my childhood is buried deep in my memory, or rests with my girlfriends who knew what was happening in my life at the time.  Often there were other adults didn’t listen.  Child abuse and domestic violence was a very disturbing thing for me to overcome.  Society loves to looks the other way when it comes to at risk children but I certainly don’t.  A few weeks ago I heard this Sammy Hagar song, Eagles Fly, which reminded me of the way I felt as a teenager close to graduation, close to escaping the madness that surrounded me for almost nineteen years of my life.

Sunday morning 9 a.m.
I saw fire in the sky
I felt my heart pound in my chest
I heard an eagle cry
Now I’m alive I can breathe the air
Feel the wind, smell the earth in the air
I watch an eagle rise above the trees
Project myself into what he sees
Hey-
Take me away
Come on and fly me away
Take me up so high
Where eagles fly
I often dream I sail through the sky
I’ve always wished I could fly
The simple life of a bird on the wing
Oh Lord, I could sing
Take me away
Come on fly me away
Lift me up so high
Where eagles fly
Oh yeah-
I’m alive, I breathe the air
Wash the earth from my face
I catch a glimpse of another dream
I turn, I look but there’s no trace
Take me away
Come on, fly me away
I wanna fly away
Pick me up so high
Where eagles fly
Oh yeah-
Eagles fly, oh, take me away
Eagles fly, oh, take me away
Come on, let’s fly away where eagles fly
Come on, fly away where eagles fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIL_AlVpgd4