Читать книгу Transformed by Truth - Tiffany Beard - Страница 4

At the tender age of fourteen, while on my way to my girlfriend’s house I met a man, crossing the street. He stopped me, complimented me, made me smile, and told me that he was twenty-five, never seen anyone like me before, didn’t want to have sex with me, but wanted to make me his wife. (Heard that all before? Watch out for those pick-up lines!) I was taken aback by this, yet flattered, and I thought he looked older, but I could’ve cared less. I thought, maybe I could get more out of messing with him than sharing hoodies and riding around on bike pegs with these young dudes. From that point on, he proceeded to try to prove to me that he was such a good guy and would take care of me. He would always buy me things, take me to get my hair or nails done. One invitation to a day to hang out with him, turned into a trip to the hotel. He told me he loved me and didn’t want to hurt me, and that this was all my choice. I fell for it and gave in to his advances. This was all a front for the lies he had been telling me, and an effort to convince me to accept the lies as truth; although I’d very soon be presented with the reality of it all.

Later, he enticed me to accept the fact that he already had a girlfriend, lived with her, she liked me, and that we should all have sex together. I considered what he’d said, because I just wanted to have fun and live a crazy lifestyle. Doing things I’d never done before, but I knew. I knew she hated me, I knew he was lying, I could see the pain in her eyes, and the sneer on his face every time he thought he was getting over, but I couldn’t do it. He wanted me to himself anyways, and I mistakenly thought that was a genuine form of love and respect.

From that point on and for years to come, I allowed him to corrupt my naïve, young mind, body, and soul with sweet little lies, that I eventually wouldn’t care if I even believed or not. I wasn’t even thinking about God at this time. I don’t remember praying for anything, ever, unless it was for my Mom to get me my own cell phone so he could pay the bill. What I do remember is a very reckless, irresponsible lifestyle that awarded me with STDs, probation, making up my own girl gang in high school, running the streets, fighting, smoking, drinking, running away from my family, and more. One night, I even went so far as to plan a getaway with him, and fulfill that by climbing out of my Grandparent’s upstairs window and jumping off the roof, to run to him, while he waited in his truck from the alley. No one (except for he) knew where I was, and that was something I enjoyed. I adorned the assumption that no one had a hold over me. My family was actually concerned and worried about me, but couldn’t do anything about it. Under his strong veil of influence, I felt like I was (for once, finally) in control. I would always find myself lying about where I was going just to get to his house and stay for the weekend. Things between us would be so sweet, and then turn horribly sour.

I remember the first time he put his hands on me. I was seventeen, and I had planned to go to the mall with my friends without telling him, until after I was ready to go out. We argued because he didn’t want me to go, but I wanted to have the social life I was unable to have living with my Mom. He claimed he wanted to protect me from the “young guys out there” (but what he really wanted was to monitor my each and every move), so I got smart with him and said that I’d be going anyway. The next thing I know I felt the hardest, blunt backhand to the right side of my face, that hurt so bad I personally saw Joseph’s coat of many colors on the back of my eyelids. This was so damaging that my hearing, on the right side, would never the same. I should have known right then, all that pretending he was nice, was out the window. He’d finally shown his true colors, but I couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t allow myself to see it. I only saw what I chose to see and I didn’t realize until much later. He tried to draw me back in each time after a fight, because he would make it a point to have a grand apology to demonstrate his “love” for me, and explain how sorry he was while making up for it; or at least attempting to. It was such a sick cycle of violence. In my heart, I somehow knew he would always be this way, but I thought the good was too good to just let the bad overrule it. And I was already with him, I imagined we could still work it out. He would eventually change. Things would eventually get better (all lies that I told myself to justify staying with him longer). I could’ve swore I’d never loved someone so much, and he loved me right back. My (mental and physical) scars showed otherwise. Nonetheless, I was convinced, no one could care for me like he would, as he reminded me of this daily.

I began to adopt his lifestyle, doing drugs, smoking weed, drinking when I could get away with it. Trying to maintain an image that didn’t fit me. Hanging with a crowd in which I didn’t belong. I would only go home to change clothes, go to school for a few days, or to nurse and lie about a black eye or busted lip that he’d already apologized for. I would continue to be a fool for what I thought was love. By now, I was lying, cheating, and stealing my way to make him happy. That’s all I cared about was showing him that I was “down”. Down for the ride, down for the cause, down to ride the wave; little did I know, I was definitely going down (the wrong path). My family begged me to leave him alone, but relentlessly, I would break up and get back with him, because with him I felt free. Free from Mom’s house rules, free from criticisms, free to do exactly what I wanted. But the fighting, differences, and disagreements took a toll on me emotionally. I was literally oppressed. The man had become increasingly dishonest, untrustworthy, abusive, and controlling, so I moved back home and we broke up for a while. I had accumulated so much truancy that my high school counselor recommend I drop out, or prepare to retake my junior year’s classes.