Читать книгу Transformed by Truth - Tiffany Beard - Страница 3

I was christened, and grew up going to church with my Grandparents. I consider myself being raised by my Grandparents, because my Mom, brother, and I lived with them for most of our lives. My parents were never together, so the family I knew was with my Mother and younger brother. My Grandmother was and still is the rock in my life. The epitome of a strong woman who continuously overcame the odds. And Grandpa. He was the man of my dreams. He was the perfect example of a hard-working, generous, loving, yet stern man who would do anything for his family.

I stayed with my real Father occasionally on the weekends, where I got to spend time with my younger sister, my Step-Mom and Uncles. I never had a chance to develop a close bond with my Father, because he was always working, or playing soccer, or simply not interested in getting to know who I was. The memories I have of conversations with him are about why my Mother allowed me to smell like smoke every time I came over, why my clothes were always too tight, why I dyed my hair, why I wasn’t doing well in school, and most memorably why I was the “bad child”. Our father-daughter bond was lacking love, encouragement, and a true connection deeper than the one provided by a shared bloodline. But my uncles, I loved them! They always bought me gifts, they never forgot my birthday, they always gave me money, they always played with my sister and I; they were always there. My Tios were the Dads I never had, so I began to trust them easily. One night, when I was still a preteen, my sister fell asleep watching t.v. with me, in her room. In the shadows of the hallway I saw my favorite Tio gesture for me to come into his bedroom, holding out the remote to show me I could watch t.v. with him; which wasn’t unusual, except for the fact that everyone else was asleep this night. I innocently went into his room and jumped on the bed and snuggled under the covers. After too long, he turned off the television, got closer to me, then touched, then kissed, and have proceeded to have sex with me. This happened only twice at my Father’s house before I vowed to myself that I would never return. I never took the time to explain to my Father exactly how this happened or why I didn’t want to come back to stay. This only added to the confusion caused by this seemingly unmentionable event. He presumably believed that I just didn’t want to be there and I silently wished that he would just open up and ask me what was wrong. But we were both too hard-headed to communicate with each other, which made it even more painful.

Fast forward to age 13. My mother got married for the first time, so her, her husband, my brother and I moved from a small town to a significantly larger city. I was still young and unsure of myself, but I liked being in a different place with new people. I made friends quickly in school, but young men seemed to be very fond of me especially. I began dating my friend’s younger brother, and chose (too soon) to have sex for the first time with him. He complimented me about my body and my beauty (in that order), and I became accustomed to, and actually looked forward to those compliments from him and other guys. This prompted other boys to think that because I had sex with him, they were able to have that same privilege. Two boys, in particular that I knew from school, were so determined one day, that while I was visiting a friend (after my boyfriend had left the house) the two guys surrounded me in the hallway of the house, and tried to force me into a room with them. I ran out of my friend’s house, around the block while trying to catch my breath, and grasp what actually could’ve have happened if they’d succeeded.

I didn’t see far enough into myself to see any true beauty, so I always wondered why people thought I was beautiful. However, I also took their word for it and felt validated by their flattery. Although most people chose not to look any further than skin deep. I was okay with that. Why? You ask. Because I didn’t know any better. No one taught me how to have respect for myself. No one taught me that I didn’t have to please everyone, nor should I try to do so. No one lectured me on how to determine my self-worth at a young age. I never understood why people would always call me “beautiful” when I thought I was ugly, rather than calling me smart or funny. I was always just “fine”, which translated to something everyone thought they could get a piece of.