Secrets Buried in San Antonio

 

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I finally put the puzzle pieces together in the summer of 2012. 

 The horrid truth revealed it’s self to me in all it’s glory, each piece fit perfectly.
There was no denying it.
In disbelief, I was overwhelmed with a sickened feeling. 
Some part of me had known this all along.
I had most of this information for years.
Why had I not connected the dots until now? 
I hadn’t even honestly asked myself the question!
I mean, every time a therapist or someone asked, I just laughed it off as a ridiculous (and uncomfortable) question.
Some of these “puzzle pieces” are blatant red flags!
It’s Textbook!
I couldn’t believe I had never suspected it before!
All the signs were there.
 
***
 
I come from a very religious home in a small town in Utah Valley, Utah. 
I’m the oldest of 9 children.
When I was 2 or 3, my father was temporarily stationed in a San Antonio Air Force Base. 
I have very few memories from that time. But the memories I do have are solemn. 
I remember my mom crying a lot.
She was withdrawn. 
I remember a lot of police. 
I remember being alone. 
My earliest memories are overshadowed by a feeling that I’d  done something wrong.
I felt I needed to take care of my mom, to protect her.
I was afraid the police would take her too. 
I felt I had to fix my mistake ???
That I had been bad, and that I was just bad by nature. 
A deep rooted fear of heavy footsteps torments me to this day. 
I have memories of my father coming home or his footsteps approaching my room, and my little heart nearly pounding out of my chest.
My breath caught in my throat. 
 
That man has, on many occasions, been known to make dogs roll over and cower and piss all over themselves by the mere sound of his voice. 
 
I have no memories of ever being cuddled or loved on by either parent. My father was always this looming shadow to be feared, with the eyes of a demon and only self serving motives.
 
I always say I should have been a daddy’s girl, because for the majority of my childhood I tried tirelessly to make my father proud of me. To crack that shell. 
 
I took violin lessons for 8 years, from 5 years old until I was 13. 
My teacher,
convinced I was the next child prodigy,
had planned tours at Disney World for me. 
No reaction from Dad.
 
I overheard him once, talking about how impressed he was with this young actress in Jurassic Park, and what a wonderful career she had ahead of her.
(He’s never impressed with anything!)
Severely jealous, I set out on my own pursuit of an acting career!
I’d surely be betterthan her-and finally win his approval!
Among my accomplishments, I auditioned for a major theatre production shortly after this Jurassic Park incident, and landed the lead role of Alice, for Alice in Wonderland. 
He actually acted slightly annoyed.
I had no trouble landing the lead in other productions,
building a reputation for myself as a an actress, but my new aspirations seemed to cause tension at home. 
 
I never made the connection, but stayed determined.
Each rejection made me more hungry for my daddy’s approval.
To hear those coveted words:
I’m proud of you.
 
My talent finally caught the eye of an acting and film agency and I was signed on as a talent. 
Surely this would make him proud.
I came home beaming!
 
Still ZERO reaction from Dad.
 
*sigh*
 
by this point I’m 14 years old…
 
It’s my birthday party.
Nothing big, small party at home, with a few friends over. 
Pinata,
Strawberry Pie instead of a cake.
(I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drum)
 
My friends have arrived, and we have been waiting way too long for my parents to come out of their room to start my party. 
We are impatient.
 
Then, right in front of my friends, my dad comes walking down the stairs as fast as he can with my mom tailing behind,
yelling the whole way.
She has obviously been crying.
Doors slam.
They storm out the front door,
into the car and squeal out the driveway and down the street. 
 
Me and my best friend are left on the front porch in a daze,
wondering what just happened.
My mom NEVER talks to my dad like that. 
Something must be really wrong!
 
Maybe an hour or two later, the sun is setting and my friends are leaving.
I’m crying. 
My party is ruined. 
 
My head in my hands, my best friend and I sit on my front porch and my stomach twists into knots.
I don’t know what I would have done back then without my best friend.
We went through some unspeakable things together. 
 
I really don’t know how much time passed before my parents finally showed up.
My mom, silently locked herself in her bedroom again.
My dad stayed and pretended nothing was wrong, and robotically went through the motions of the birthday party with only one friend there. 
 
To be honest, I would have rather have cancelled the party at that point,
because that was a painfully awkward experience for everyone. 
 
My parents refused to explain what happened for days afterward. 
I stayed upset.
 
Finally my parents called me into their room. 
My ears began to ring as their words took me back to my infancy. 
Back to San Antonio…
 
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