“Well, I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed That I set my sights on Monday and I got myself undressed I ain’t ready for the altar but I do agree there’s times When a woman sure can be a friend of mine.”
I sang along as Sister Golden drifted in from outside. I smiled as I put my arm through the left sleeve of my dark green long fall coat; I loved that coat.
My mind was on getting across the street to see a friend and get back before dinner. I had about 45 minutes, so I was worry-free. At 17, I finally felt like I was getting closer to escaping from my father.
For the past few months, Father was uncharacteristically hands-off. He seemed not even to notice me. I felt the pressure ease off me a bit. It gave me a glimmer of hope, and on that day, thoughts of freedom danced in my head. I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. I knew it would not be good when I made my move, but I would still get out. So far, a few months up until that day, I had made my plans. Graduate, find a job, find a place to live, announce my departure, deal with the drama, and get out.
I was twirling, there was yelling, I fell to the floor, and he started kicking me. “You aren’t going anywhere,” we both knew he wasn’t just talking about going across the street.
At one point, he kicked me so hard in the backside I damn near saw stars. I turtled up, careful to protect my head. He kept kicking, and I was frozen there on the floor for a minute; I was humiliated, I was done, he had won, and I had nothing left in me.
I finally was able to scamper off to my room. I completely zoned out; I was hopeless, and I felt myself disappearing. I lay there on the bed, shell-shocked, beaten, and broken. Hopeless, I dug deep and found I had nothing left.
But I was wrong…