Releasing May 17th

Reign Again

Her story is my story – Ellie Keys, Author

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Sometimes I wish it would rain.

Sometimes I wish it would pour

But most times

I just wish I could learn to soar

I grew up in Detroit, Michigan. My mother’s gypsy nature was something that I inherited and would carry with me the rest of the days of my life. I didn’t think I would become that woman—my mother— but here I stand in front of my old house. I have movers in front of me loading up a truck to take me to my newest digs. I’m excited and nervous all at the same time. This is probably my fifteenth move in my thirty-two years of life. My hope is this is my last. I know my son will be happy if it is. It is his tenth in his minuscule thirteen years of life. I don’t know why I couldn’t set down roots before, but I’m looking forward to not doing the moving thing anymore.

To understand why I am making this next move, one has to know the reasons I’ve made so many before. Strap in, it’s about to get interesting.

For me, that saying of “everything is coming up roses” doesn’t apply. As I stated before, I grew up in Detroit. I was born on one side of the city then was moved to the other. We moved from one place to another most of my life. As a child, I had this idealistic picture of my mother and who she was. My “father” was one that I despised with everything that I was and everything that I am. How he survived as long as he did without one of us taking his life is a true example of the words discipline and self-control. Meaning, it took all of our willpower not to bring harm to him. It was out of respect for our mother that he lived as long as he did.

The man that my mother eventually married tended to get off on tearing down the spirits of those that surrounded him. He had a lasting effect on each of us.

At the age of four, I didn’t know any better. My real father wasn’t part of my life and wouldn’t be for some time later. The man that lay down with my mother to create me is another chapter in my life. He shapes it some years in the future. The man that I knew as my “father” was an all together different breed of man.

I’ve learned that he wasn’t as rare as I thought him to be. I learned that he was part of a group of men that tended to live and get off on snatching happiness from those around them. It’s how I’ve always seen him and probably always will. His attempt to change had come at a time that was too late for him to erase the damage he’d already done.

To say the man was abusive would be putting him into a category that dials down what he was. He was the arbitrator of pain and torture in our household. Hearing my mother’s cries will probably torture me for the rest of my days. I’m sure there were times when we were happy, and I have moments of recollection when we smiled or laughed, but it’s overshadowed by the never-ending oppression of a small-minded little man.

 I learned what a crack pipe was at the age of six. By the age of seven, I understood that I had more of an education than the man that was supposed to be my father figure. When I turned eight, I understood the phrase “unfit mother” because my own was brought before me and my younger brother by the man that coaxed her into trying a drug he’d first been selling then was addicted to himself. It would be something that would be his crutch for the rest of his life and hers from that time on.

That year was the game changer for our little unit. My mother stopped singing as much. We walked on eggshells more. Fear became a gripping entity within our home. It was the fifth person that took up residence in the house. There was no longer any freedom to move about as normal individuals. It was life attempting not to “wake the beast” that year and all the years after.

 

~Six day, just 6 days until it releases~

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