MY NAME IS SARAH
The first glimmer of sunrise edged its way along the corridors of the Columbus, Georgia hospital, peeking in through sterile rooms. A tiny baby lay cradled in the arms of her mother. That baby was me, Sarah.
My life began like most babies all cuddly and secure. My mother
was a single parent but only because she chose to do so. She had
filed divorce papers against my father when she first found out she was pregnant with me.
 
My father was said to be an extremely jealous man and my mother
feared that I would have to grow up with a life filled with problems relating to his insane jealousy. My mother had a lot of family interference from her own mother and step father and she felt weak
and vulnerable.Because of financial necessities she moved in with
them and lived there until she remarried four years later.
It is rather ironic that my mother divorced my father to save me from
a life filled with the woes of a dysfuncial family but placed me in a home where my worse nightmares would begin.
I remember little of my childhood from the age of three on for that is when my abuse began. Recall the grandfather and a man that I would at
the age of four call Daddy after he legally adopted me after marrying my
mother.
 
I Have recollections of bits and pieces of days and nights.Would like to think of happy memories but the only secure times that come to mind were on Friday evenings, with me on one end of the sofa and my mom on the other; a blanket covering us as we watched our favorite TV programs.
The next day would be mostly a blur because that was when I had to go to my grandparents house. I hated when Fridays ended because I knew that she would make me go stay with them.
I hated what I could remember..the sound of the clock ticking in the living room...the musty oder of the house....and the shuffle of his feet as
he walked down the hall toward my bedroom. When I spent the night he would come in to say my prayers with me. Funny how I can still remember the exact prayer but not what happened afterwards.
Remember lots of times feeling like I had just woke up with my hands or
arms bleeding, full of cuts and bruises. Didn't realize at the time that parts of me would come out and abuse my body because they felt they had been bad and needed to be punished.
The thing I remember most were my dolls. I had lots of them and they were my best friends. Would sit for hours in the floor in my bedroom at my grandparent's house. Hated it when friends would come over and would say, "Let's pretend." I preferred to play alone. Didn't they know that my dolls were real? We had our secrets and everyday was like this long
elaborate daydream.
I had one doll with a knob on her head so that you could change it to a crying face, a laughing face or a sleeping face.
Most of the time I would leave it on the sleeping face fantasizing that she had died. Would place her in a box and have long sad funerals with all my
other dolls at the wake.
When most of my friends were old enough to have other interests I would still sit for hours playing with my dolls. Society said it was time to
give them up. I knew I couldn't.
At twelve we received word that my biological father had died. I often told my friends that he would come by on the weekends and take me to the zoo or other places. The truth was I had never met him. I thought he would come and rescue me. I knew now that he never would. After his death I didn't remember many details of my life
It was a dark day but now I had many friends that were with me to help me along the way.
Society said my dolls had to go but those parts of me, they would remain.
Beseen Bulletin board will be closing down on the 18th of August, would you please start now posting in our new board. Thank you for your help. Serena
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