How Could I Not Tear You Apart

Chapter Three

my dad actually texted me that

Chapter Three

When I was seven years old, I was sitting at my grandmother's house, listening to her and my mother talk. I often liked to play at the table with my dolls whilst they talked, because I liked to listen to the things they'd say.

This particular time, my grandmother was talking all excited, claiming that she had a dream that my youngest brother, Samuel, was going to be an important man of God. She said that in her dream, my brother was praying, and his body lit up with this great light, and it brought her to tears. She swore that my little brother, who at the time was only three, was going to be a pastor or some missionary one day. A faithful servant of God. I remember the very moment she looked my mother in the eye and said "God has great plans for him."

I remember hearing her say that, and being jealous. I wanted God to have a plan for me. I wanted Him to know how much I loved Him and how badly I wanted to do good for Him. I didn't say anything though, and I continued to play with my dolls.

When I was eight, mother was at work, and our father always took those moments when she was away to sit me and my brothers down, and force us to listen to him preach his absurd version of the gospel. At one point he said something that flipped a switch in my mind forever. He said that there are people living on Earth that God has no idea exists. That any one of us could be someone God doesn't know is even breathing. This is when things really went downhill for me, because I grew scared that I might be one of those people. I was terrified that God didn't know I existed and that I might never go to heaven.

Eight years old, and I was beginning to hatch plans on how to garner the attention of God.

When I was nine, my mother and I were walking around our neighborhood. Something we always did when I was a kid because walking was something that comforted me, and made me happy.

During these walks, my mother would often talk to me. It was the only time of the day her and I really got to talk about anything we wanted to. Despite being homeschooled, my mother and I couldn't talk with one another freely at home. Not when my father was there, he would always mock us for anything that we said or he'd just shut us up. Often times my father would get right up in my face when I was talking to my mother, or my brothers, and he'd demand for me to shut the fuck up. I think that is why I am so scared so speak to people now. I would rather be punched repeatedly than to be told to shut up. The feelings are different and I can't explain how. Physical pain is nothing compared to mental torment, and hating yourself for talking when nobody cares enough to listen.

This walk, however, my mother was talking about names and how powerful their meanings are. My oldest brother's name is Malachi, and she emphasized the meaning of it. The name Malachi means 'messenger of God'. She proceeded to tell me that he was going to do great things for God one day, because God had big plans for him.

At that moment, I hated my brothers. I hated that God favored them over me. That God was careful to weave these extraordinary lives for them and completely ignore me.

And then I was reminded of my internal fear that God didn't know I existed, and everything made sense.

He had plans for my brothers, because he knew them. He didn't know me.

I had been forgotten.

I'm often reminded of these childhood fears that would keep me awake at night. Now, a grown adult I only think back to them and wonder if I would have been better off being physically beaten, than mentally stomped on.

My routine once against starts at 3:00 a.m. I get up, I eat six-hundred calories of bland nothingness, and sit on my couch until it's time to get ready for work.