Snippet of my novel ...

Hey everyone!Here's the deal: I am still writing. I guess I am uninspired. I feel unloved--not by friends, but missing out on that companionship I've been craving. It has made me lathargic and unwilling (and perhaps unable?) to write for a while.
But the other reason I don't post things on here is because ... this is really raw stuff. The stuff you're about to read below are things that ... I don't really talk about. I don't talk about them because ... I don't know how to explain it but, it's like it happened to me in a different life, in a different time. I feel so different now than I did then. But when I look back, I am forced to remember... and in that rememberance is a different girl, one scared, alone, ashamed, and suffering from a personal nightmare. Sometimes, when I put myself back there, I actually become scared and forget that I got out. I am saved! I am okay. I have to keep reminding myself that.
So please forgive this blog. If you do read further, know only that this may be one of the most telling blogs I've ever written. I am ashamed to admit that these things happened to me, because even writing them now, I still feel helpless. But the truth is, I am writing this all for (hopefully) a bigger purpose--to help someone else out before it is too late. Help them get away, just like I did. Help them to understand the reason is just as important as the action. So here you go.
It's a fun game that my brothers are playing; at least, I think so. They are both taking turns jumping up and down on my bed. Determined not to be left out, I anxiously get up to join them. After all, it is my bed. As they jump, the mattress makes a loud zoinnng sound and they spring up together, in the air. I get up to join them and go to jump and the first few times, they are pushing me, telling me to get down. There's not room enough for three they are telling me. But I'm having too much fun to listen. I make a zoinnng sound of my own as I jump up and down while they are trying to push me off the bed. At some point, they jump up as I am coming down and I realize my mistake. I should have waited or gotten down. But then I am springing forward toward the wooden edge of my headboard and landing and feeling the pain wracking feeling as my head connects with the board and the resounding smack as my face makes contact with the sharpened edge of the wood. It hurts so much, I can't breathe, and all at once I'm screaming and yelling and crying. I don't remember much happening after that until I see them putting a large bag of ice on my face. It hurts too much to talk, and tears are streaming down my unwilling face.
When I realize that my mother is talking to me, I try to focus on what she is saying, try to forget about the pain.
"Shame on you. You should listen to your brothers next time." She rants. "What were you thinking, jumping up and down on your bed? Why did you do that?" She puts on her shoes and someone helps me put on mine.
We drive to the doctor, a little office in town that provides the only medical services for at least fifty miles. There are maybe two doctors, one of which is always on call for cases like this.
He takes a look at my face but I can't tell exactly because by this point, both my eyes are practically swollen shut. He tells me not to worry, my nose isn't broken, but I learn later that he's lying to me to make me feel better. He takes notes on his clipboard and tells my mom that I need to rest. "Lots of rest." He tells me.
She tells him I was being naughty. She seems to use that word a lot when she talks about me. I am too confused to ask why Jake and Justin aren't in as much trouble. But I don't say anything. I'm only five years old, and no one really listens to me anyway. I'm too busy focusing on the pain. So I zone in and out of listening to what the doctor is telling my mom about what to do for my care.
"It's going to leave a nasty scar on the bridge of her nose." The doctor says. I can hear this and put the bag of ice down to feel my nose. At the top, I can feel a large indentation, almost as if my nose has been disconnected and then reattached to my head. It feels so puffy, I almost feel like I'm touching someone else's face instead of mine.
"And how did you say she did this?" He is asking her now, a clear hint of concern in his voice. He's always so nice to me. He's the one who always offers me candy whenever I come here; I like him.
"She was jumping up and down on the bed. I guess at some point, she jumped wrong and hit her head."
"That seems strange." He is saying now. "Because to have this type of injury, it looks as though someone would have had to have pushed her into the bed frame. I'm not convinced that she did this by herself."
I can feel Mom staring at me. My eyes are swollen, but I can feel her gaze because a feeling of dread washes through me in a way that I can't explain let alone understand.
"Tell Mr. Johnston what happened."
"Well …" I begin. Do I tell the truth? The answer comes out in a rush of words and funny sounding sentences. I sound funny because my lip is also swollen.
"Jabe and Jubin were jumbing," I manage, "And I wanna jumb too so I jumb. But then I jumb up and they jumb down and I hit my face."
"That's not what your brothers told me." She sounds angry now. "Is that really what happened sweetie?"
"Yes."
I can hear the doctor scribbling something down on his clipboard and at some point, we are out of the doctor's office and on our way home. My care is simple: lots of rest, ice for the swelling, and Tyelenol for the pain.
Mom doesn't want me to go to school, because they other kids are going to see how I look. But I don't care; I want to go to school. I'd rather be in school learning new things, than anywhere else in the world. If I stay home, I am going to have to cook and clean and do all the chores around the house. The doctor prescribes rest, but that only means a sentence of work if I stay home.

I end up going to school and my teacher is so horrified, she immediately phones both my parents and the other school administrators to take a look at me. Everyone asks me what happened, so I have to repeat the story about a million times. I don't know until later that there is a reason everyone keeps asking me … but I like the attention, and tell them as many times as they want to hear it.
Weeks later, something else happens that only adds to the precarious situation.
I help Annie make dinner, at least, I am supposed to; I try to. I help her by getting out the silverware and placing the napkins and doing whatever else she wants me to do. Mostly, she says I get in her way. But I want to be with her, near her. Finally, dinner is ready and we call Mom. Dad is at work, like always, and won't be home until about two in the morning. I call upstairs to Justin and Jake, but there is no answer. I run upstairs and their room is messy as always, smells of urine, and they are not there.
Annie tells me to call for them outside. I walk out the front door and realize they are just a few yards away, staring at something. I call for them to come in for dinner, but they don't seem to hear me. I walk a little closer, I'm not wearing shoes, and tell them again. But they still don't seem to hear me. When I come even closer, I realize that they are playing a funny game.
Both have matches in their hands. They take turns lighting the match and throwing it, both watching to see where it lands. I am fascinated because I have no idea what they are doing. What's the point? But I just keep staring and watching as the wind carries the little matches into the air. At one point, Justin lights his match and throws it. The wind is gusting just then and the match instantly burns out and falls to the ground.
"Ha ha!" Jake grins. "I'm going to beat that easy."
He lights his match and throws it, and suddenly, it disappears. He is looking around and can't find it. I step a little closer, determined to find it for them. A few seconds go by and it looks as though it's gone. Good. Their game is over.
"Dinner is ready." I tell them. All of a sudden, Jake looks at me as if noticing me for the first time, and screams.
"Stop drop and roll!" he screams. I realize where the match has gone. It didn't disappear after all. The wind has blown the match into my hair and I am on fire. All of a sudden, I feel someone push me to the ground, and then I am rolling, rolling, rolling as they are screaming at me.
All I keep thinking is, why do they have to play these stupid games? Why are they playing with matches? How come they never pay attention to me? All of these thoughts and a million others flash through my head. It feels like forever that I am rolling on the ground. Rolling. I just wanted to be noticed. Rolling. I just want them to love me. Rolling again. At some point, I can't remember what happens next, because I pass out.
I am awake now, but it doesn't make much sense. I am in a big bed, I think at the hospital. My head is bandaged up all over. The doctor is talking again and my ears are practically covered. But the strange thing is, I can't feel any pain.
I know the doctor is saying something important, but I don't understand what it means. "… First, second, and third degree burns to her head…" he is saying. "Needs to be bandaged for at least a month …" "Hair has been practically burned off… We put some cream on the wound …"
I don't know what they are talking about. All I know is that I have to wear these stupid bandages for a month! And my beautiful blonde hair is all gone. Later, I begin to feel the pain. Worse, I am hoping that she'll hug me, just lean over and be kind to me. But she's angry with me again. Justin and Jake have told her that I was playing with matches outside, and she believes them. She always believes them. I don't even know how to light matches, or even where they are in the house, but she doesn't seem to care. She just seems glad to get me out of the hospital and for a few hours, she is a little nice. It's Dad that really takes care of me. He brings me ice cream (a treat I never get to have), gum from the store, and my favorite thing in the whole world, a coloring book and crayons. He even got me a paper doll book so I can punch out clothing and put it on the dolls however I want. I'm so excited.
She asks me why I was playing with matches, demands to know the answer, promises me that she'll hurt me if I don't say. But I don't know what to say because I didn't do it. Doesn't she always tell me to tell the truth? But the truth means that I didn't do anything wrong. The truth means that I get my brothers in trouble? The truth means her not believing me? I choose the truth. I tell her everything about the match game but leave out the part where I was fascinated by the fire. She questions Jake and Justin and Annie tells me that the matches are kept above the wood stove, and there's no way I am tall enough to reach the wood stove. Mom has to believe me. It seems like she does, and so I am spared any punishment, and I am grateful.
Even though my head is in bandages, I beg to go to school. I've already missed a lot of school this year, what with my face, and all the other times Mom keeps me out of school after she's punished me. But I beg and plead and at some point, they give in—probably, I find out later, because they are contacted by the school about my missing it so much. Why does a girl who loves school so much seem to never attend? But no one wants to tell them I've had yet another "accident."
So I go to school, bandages and all. My teacher pulls me out of class and demands to know what my parents have done to me. That's funny because this is the one time, well, the second time, that they haven't done anything at all. It's all the times they don't see … but I don't tell them about that. Something about the way they are talking to me and about my parents makes me want to protect them somehow. They are blaming my family for my condition and it makes me upset. I start to cry and they are bringing me chocolate milk and crackers and comforting me.

Novel

Just wanted to throw some stuff on here today that I'm working on right now. Just a side note about writing something especially difficult... it's hard for me because I have to place myself back there again, in that place where I was constantly afraid, where I was constantly hurt.
For anyone that has ever been through a similar situation, you know what I am talking about. The same feelings of helplessness, anxiety, and that ever present feeling that I cannot breathe begins to return.
Anyways, the writing is slow-going at this point... but I wanted to include a few little bits in here... bits of a life from long ago. Pieces of me.
**NAMES have been changed**
All of my life, I have wanted to be a part of something, bigger than myself. I watch all the popular kids talking about sports at school-who is going to play varsity volleyball this year and who got injured and whose serve can't be beat. There is an excited tone in their voice, and I listen in .. ..

I don't know anything about volleyball-except that you're supposed to hit the ball. When it comes roaring at you, you grasp your hands together, evenly, pushing upward as the ball comes downward at just the right angle, not too much, to send the ball forward-not straight up, and definitely not behind you. A volleyball always wants to move forward. At least, that's what it looks like to me. There's something about the whoosh it makes as it sails through the air and the resounding smack as it makes contact with eager hands who want to send it to the other side of the net.....
.. ..
There's something else about watching volleyball that makes me anxious. It's about more than the excitement rising like a heat wave through the crowd, more than about the popularity it seems to bring those that play. There's something about the way I see all the parents showing up to watch their kids play that makes me sad. The way the parents seem to dote on their children, cheer them on from the stands, give them hugs and tell them how proud they are. It's more than that, and I know it. Volleyball represents yet another thing that I cannot do.....
.. ..
Perhaps that is the reason that I find myself eager to try and play every chance I get. I try and tell myself, as the ball sails over my head, or I miss my shot, that I'm not on the team, I don't have to care if I mess it all up; but all the same, I do.....
.. ..
Perhaps I'm not as good as I'd like to be. Sometimes I get picked last for the team when we play during school hours for PE. But I don't care, at least I'm getting to play. ....
.. ..
It's not just the fact that I'm bad at volleyball, I could probably get better, but the fact that I'm not allowed to play. I'm not allowed to participate in any sports at all. She makes up all kinds of reasons. On the right day it's because she can't afford it, or so she says as she pours herself another drink. On the wrong day, it's because I've done something wrong again. I don't deserve to play sports. I don't deserve to have friends. I don't deserve to live. ....
.. ..
I come home every day from school on time, anticipating her daily call home. If I am not there to answer the phone, she will call again and again, and grow angrier with each unanswered ring. Today, I manage to get home on time to answer her call.....
"What are you doing?""I just got home from school.""Where's Sandy?"....
"I don't know. Walking home with Amanda I think."....
"Why didn't you wait for her."....
"We get out of school at different times."....
"You need to wait for her tomorrow. I don't want her to walk alone."....
"She's walking with Amanda."....
"Well don't forget to do your chores. I have to get back to work right now. I might stop at the bar after work tonight. So make sure you do all the chores before I get home and fix yourself and Shauna some dinner."....
"But there's nothing in the fridge."....
"Isn't there some hamburger?"....
"We used that up a few days ago."....
"Well there's lots of food in the cupboard. You're not helpless. Figure it out." The frustration in her tone is showing. I can't let this get out of control, can't let her think that anything is wrong or we'll pay for it when she gets home. I have homework to do and I'm glad she said she was going to the bar tonight. I need a night of peace."Okay Mom." I choose today not to argue with her.....
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There's nothing in the fridge, but I don't tell her that. Sandy and I ate pickle sandwiches last night, made a game of it. We carefully sliced dill pickles into four long strips, piled the slices on the stale left-over wheat bread we had thawed from the freezer, and carefully and gently placed our pickle slices on the bread, added some ketchup, mustard, mayo, and that was our dinner.....
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