The Wicked Witch from the West Coast

I really don't know how to start this. Is it an open letter? Is it a stream of thought? I don't know... what I do know is that anyone expecting me to keep staying quiet or smoothing over the rough edges to keep pretending that my blood family isn't fundamentally demolished... I'm not doing it.

This is my truth. I'm done tiptoeing around everyone else's feelings while carrying the weight of what was done to me. I own my own story. It's mine. Every single piece of it belongs to me. Nobody gets to regulate how I process or speak about the life I've been fucking forced to survive.

I always say it.. I'm sure some of you reading this (if you've made it this far without clicking away because this dumb bitch is yapping again) have seen me say, "I should write a book about it. No one would believe it though. They'd think I was making it up." I've said at least a hundred times. Well, this isn't a book but I'm about to yap a lot. And probably get yelled at or told I'm wrong by any family who happens across it. I'm sure people will agree whole heartedly with everything I say.. about everyone except for them. I don't fucking care anymore. It's time for the ultimate poison purge. Here we go.

When I was two, my mom left my dad. From that moment on, my parents turned me into a pawn. They pitted me against each other forever, both denying it. Both convincing themselves they were innocent while I was stuck in the middle carrying the damage and endless stress of having to not love the other parent as much as I loved the other. And I remember it all. I remember everything.

I remember my dad coming around once in awhile to take us to his house in Chino, telling us our family was broken because of our mom, running over our toys with his car because he didn't want Play-Doh in his carpet, and getting furious when we wanted to leave instead of sitting through his desperate attempts to get Mom back.

I remember how uncomfortable and exposed I felt having to call him and ask for money... even for fucking tampons that I didn't even use because my mom needed money for cigarettes. I remember growing up in a house full of women where nobody even bothered to explain a period to me or show me how to use my first ever pad... but here I am asking for money for fucking tampons.... I remember it.

I remember being about 5 and sitting inside my house on the kitchen counter in my nightgown while police looked me up and down questioning every single scratch and bruise on my body because they were trying to document abuse my dad said was happening from my mom and whatever boyfriend she had at the time. I remember Dad and my aunt standing in the parking lot as it happened. My aunt crouched on the ground with a cigarette and my dad standing on a curb.

I remember when he suddenly stopped coming. The visits ended, no more weekend with Dad. But hey, here's your yearly $25 Walmart gift card at Christmas! Two for me, because my birthday is on Christmas. Nothing says I love my daughters more than $25... or $50 a year.

My dad used to call to tell me how good life would be if Mom hadn't left. Mom would take the phone from me and cover the speaker. She'd dictate my answers, telling me to say "yes" or "no" while she spied to make sure he wasn't "being crazy." She told me she left because he abused her and my sisters... not me though, because I was "Daddy's Princess."

But I never felt like a princess, and I never reaped a single benefit from this alleged title. I don't think my dad hates me... he just doesn't know me and he doesn't want to. He wants me to fit into the exact same box as my sister and be just like her. I lived with him after becoming homeless. My oldest sister living with me really fucking knocked me out. My family lost everything. Our house, our car, our savings. All of it.

I was excited to live with Dad for the first time. That foiled quickly. He yelled at me over everything I did or didn't do. I cried all the time and nearly took my own life. I vomited up the pills remembering I had kids that would ultimately be left in this Hell if I didn't get my fucking shit together. So, I did. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I've been yapping for a year about the pain I've gone through. It's keeping me sane and it's healing me in ways trying to be heard never did. I'm putting the shit on paper or digital screens and reminding myself why I'm cutting the cord.

I have two sisters. My oldest used me for everything she could get. I was 11 years old when I was forced to babysit her newborn kids with no idea what I was doing and getting yelled at every time I made a mistake. When she got hooked on drugs and handed over her kid, we all had to deal with the fallout.

I was pulled out of public school and put on homeschool under the cover story that I was failing. I wasn't. I was only struggling with math... chalk that up to moving a thousand times as a kid and starting over in a hundred different schools all at different places in learning. I jumped from learning subtraction straight into division with no explanation on how to do multiplication.

I also got a few Saturday Schools for refusing to strip naked in front of people in the P.E. locker room. The teacher wouldn't allow changing in the stalls and I was not going to change in front of everyone, no matter how much I was punished. That was my reward. No prom, no dances, no football games, no friends, no leaving the front yard. Just taking care of my sisters' kids.

Then came my middle sister... the one dad wants me to be just like. Soon, it was more kids from her and more drugs snorted and injected. More work piled on to me. At 13, I was forced to take showers with my toddler nieces and nephews "to save water." I was forced to let people see me naked when I explicitly said no, because "they're just babies, they don't care." My feelings never mattered. And it wasn't just the nudity... I was covered with scars and scabs and cuts. I didn't want anyone to see that, not even kids who couldn't talk.

Eventually, my sisters moved out, but their kids stayed behind. As the oldest tried to get clean, the middle spiraled into the worst meth addiction I've ever seen with my own eyes. She went from being thin, blonde, and vain to having cracked teeth and running with a group of terrible and dangerous people.

One day, she was over at our house... high as a kite... and running her mouth, one of her favorite hobbies, even before drugs. She was calling me fat (another favorite hobby of hers) and bragging about how guys liked her because she was skinny, including a guy I used to call my boyfriend in 5th grade, which was absurd and disgusting.

I was doing a great job of ignoring her (something she hated) when she pulled my hair and called me fat again... then I snapped. I beat her ass up and down the hallway and into my mom's room. That's where mom and a friend of the family found us. They'd gone to the corner store for cigarettes. It was maybe a 10 minute round trip drive, Mom was screaming how she couldn't even leave the house without having to worry about world war three breaking out.

Mom and the friend dragged us both into the living room. Mom tossed me down on the couch and told my sister to leave after throwing her a pack of cigarettes. My sister started screaming about how she needs to put me in jail because I'm crazy. She punctuated this by spitting into my face from across the table. I don't think I have ever jumped up so fast in my life to go after someone. The friend, Kristy, literally caught me in mid-air and saved my dumb ass sister from a beating she truly deserved.

It took years to get my sister clean. She didn't want help. She only wanted money or sex for her next fix. But Kristy also helped her there. She helped get her into sober living. She helped get her a job where her husband worked, she tried to help save her. We all did. How did my sister repay her? By sleeping with Kristy's husband repeatedly, getting pregnant, taking custody of her four children, and moving right into her house to replace her. She claims she "saved the husband". Because my sister is beautiful and thin and desirable and Kristy is fat and gross and her boobs are saggy and droopy because of that. Her words... her actual words.

Now, those two douche bags live in some comfortable, wealthy life with nice cars and money. My sister has sort of changed her name because she thinks everyone is looking for her. She teaches little kids at school. (Another good reason I home school because if they let her teach kids, who else is doing it?)

My dad and sister claim my mom 'stole' two of her kids, when the truth is my mom took those babies in after they were put into foster care because of my sisters drug habits. My dad sits back in Kansas, completely detached from reality, congratulating my sister on her 'perfect life' while arguing with me about events I actually lived through. And I'm told I should... be more like.... her.....

By the time I was 9, I was cutting myself everywhere. My skin is covered in scars. I was also dealing with pretty severe body dysmorphia. I lived in a huge jacket and dark jeans through the scorching Mojave Desert summers in Barstow. Nobody asked me why I did that. They just made fun of me. Oh.. and when I grew my boobs, that gave 'em all more ammo. That was the new thing I should be ashamed of. At first, it was a joke... "We need to get you a bra!" in front of a room full of moms drinking buddies.

Then it became comments about how slutty I dressed. The tank tops I always wore were suddenly slutty and trying to show off. If I jumped, I was trying to show off. If I danced, I was trying to show off. Clothes I loved came up missing all the time and to this day I still will not allow anyone to touch any of my laundry... while giant ugly shirts with horrifying sayings like 'Goddess' and 'Boy crazy' filled my closet in bright orange and deep pink.

Mom also made sure to remind me that she never got stretch marks even when pregnant, but I had them, and that made me gross and flawed. She threatened to take me in for a breast reduction multiple times. She pushed for birth control and a breast exam from the towns beloved male doctor, Dr. Viruch, when I wasn't even having sex, didn't want sex, and sure as fuck didn't want kids after watching my entire youth get swallowed up by raising everyone else's babies. Thank God that never had time to take place.

By 14, everything exploded. My mom and her husband got into a fight and that asshole turned his rage on me because I defended my oldest sister during an argument about internet access at 11 p.m. He was yelling at her to get off the computer in case someone tried to call. Our phone time was over at 9 p.m., so I asked who would call and he was quick to scream that his work would call. I reminded him he had a work phone and that made me a disrespectful little bitch.

There I stood in my giant jacket being screamed at in a room full of people by a big cruel man who claimed he "took care of me" because my dad sure as fuck didn't... My mom sitting on the couch defending everything he said and telling me how I am mouthy and have no respect... everything inside my head crumbled. "I take care of you, Sara! I do!"

I took off my jacket, exposed the blood and cuts all over my arms and chest and stomach and asked, "This is taking care of me?" Her response wasn't concern for my mental health... it was, "That's my fault? You're blaming me?!"

Disrespectful

Attention seeking

Dramatic

Crazy

Mouthy

All the words continued to fly in my direction, followed by a full soda can which hit me right in my stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Then a fist flying right at my face. I still have the scar. Her husband was standing behind me with one hand on my throat, trapping the other arm behind my back and threatening to break it.

I told him to do it.

Mom finally pulled him off of me and I demanded that she choose. Him or me.

Guess who moved out...

At 15, I ran straight into the arms of a stranger I met online who claimed to be just a year older than me. He was actually in his 20's. I was groomed by a monster. For the next 7 years, I was held captive by sexual, physical, financial, and emotional abuse. His family used me as unpaid labor while insisting I was lucky because J had a heart of gold.

J wouldn't let me go to school, get a driver's permit, or hold a job unless it was with his family so he and they could control what I did and who I talked to. One day, I walked to Subway and put in my application. I was hired on the spot and oh my God... the embarrassment ensued. While he stayed home googling 'big boobs' on his PSP, I walked to Subway and tried to make money to pay the rent. He didn't want to work but also, he didn't want me out of his sight. So he'd often show up and make a scene. He'd come in asking how many men I'd give foot longs to during my shift.

He wouldn't stay long enough to give me a ride home, just long enough to get me in trouble and then I'd get to walk home. I'd come home to clean his dishes, wash his clothes, and wrap his wounds. He had severe staph infection all over his body. He was 470 pounds and didn't like to shower every day so the wounds festered and sometimes, even I had the pleasure of contracting his staph infection when he would throw his used towels at me.

He once held me down while he was drunk and threw up on me.. then made me clean myself and his vomit up. He often couldn't find the bathroom while in his drunken stupor, so I also had the pleasure of cleaning up human piss from various walls. He grabbed my arm and pulled it out of the room and proceeded to slam the door shut with my arm inside, which resulted in a fractured bone. He tried to run me over with his Bronco after pretending to throw my engagement ring into Rainbow Pools in Yosemite, cheated constantly, stole my money to spend at strip clubs and monitored every phone call and social platform I had.

When I finally escaped that hell and came crawling back to my mom, I found out that I had been completely replaced. Mom had taken custody of my middle sisters child completely and she also had her oldest daughter there as well. There wasn't a lot of room for me so I got to sleep on the living room floor. That's ok. This plan would work. J didn't know I was leaving completely. His dad had forced him to finally get a job doing OTR truck driving which meant he had to leave and train. I refused to stay with his family and his sister drove me to moms. I was going to go to cosmetology school and get my own place. That didn't happen. After all, my sisters needed help with their kids.

So here I was, replaced. No longer the baby of the family. Mom was rebranding my sisters kids as her "fresh start" and punchy husband was the new daddy. A man who hated kids was now 'Daddy'. Lovely. Life was on the way to being perfect for them. Mom was gonna be a home owner! They had a nice new car! These kids got to have real Christmas, trips to Disneyland and Legoland and Sea World... that's great! I absolutely love that for them.

But my childhood was spent surrounded by alcoholism, heavy drug use, secondhand Marlboro Red smoke, rotating boyfriends, and being inappropriately touched by one of those men... and I'm not supposed to be upset by it. I'm supposed to let it go. How is that fair? Also, I'm not allowed to talk about any of it. Because that's mean and I make people feel bad. And also, I make things up... because Mom's husband never actually hit me. In a room full of witnesses... he never did it. According to Mom. Funny part about that is it changes based on what she needs.

Because when they were going to split the first time and she wanted to make sure she'd get custody of my sisters child.. it happened. But they stayed together, so it didn't. We've reached a point in time where she just doesn't remember. What she remembers is this... and it's every single thing except what caused the fucking scar on my face. But ok, mom.... Ok. And don't be mad. Don't ever talk about it. Let it go. She's sorry. Ok.

It's like living in some fairy tale. I have to play along with the narrative they've all built and never question anything. I'm supposed to bend reality to match up with their imagination and no one sees anything wrong with this? For example... Mom doesn't view my nieces as her grand daughters. They're her daughters. Her fresh start, remember? That makes them my 'sisters'. And if I say 'my niece' it's not handled well.

Yesterday, I posted a piece titled "The Clone," it was written out of profound pain... but it targeted my mom and my niece/sister... I don't even know what to call her... because mom has never called her her grand daughter. That's her daughter, and she doesn't see me as her aunt.. I'm her sister and I need to embrace that and I don't know how. How do you just fucking change everything and accept it as normal? That's my sisters kid. My niece. And I love the fuck out of her... but I don't know how to call her my sister.

And I'm a bitch for that too.

My niece/sister read it and she reached out really angry at me. Honestly, valid. I took down my piece because I hurt her. I didn't say anything with the intention of hurting her. I said what I said because I was hurt. Sometimes I'm the problem and I will admit when I am. I wasn't mad at her. I was hurt that my mom constantly chooses every one but me.

That's not my nieces fault. I love her and I shouldn't have made her collateral damage. She's also a pawn in this sickening family dynamic just like I was and am, and she never asked to be thrown into this mess. I apologized to her because my anger was misplaced. She isn't a threat, she's a little lost too and we actually share a lot of the same trauma in different ways.

I'm so angry. And I'm a bitch for that. I'm a bitch for being sad about not even being sort of respected or cared about. My dad has said it with his own mouth, "We never thought about you because you weren't on drugs, you slipped under the radar, kiddo."

Everyone celebrates me trying to heal... but I'm only allowed to heal the parts they say are ok. Because if I say everything... if I talk about how I feel... then I'm "Holding on to the past" or "making things up". I'm only honest when it's about someone else and that's insane to me. Everyone is 'so sorry' but they continue to do it or make jokes about it. And the word 'sorry' does not erase years of abuse. And that's exactly what the fuck it was. It was abuse. And no one gives a single fuck. Nope. Sara is just crazy... like her dad.

The biggest problem is that I'm expected to constantly walk on eggshells to protect my parents feelings. When my sister ran through me and my entire family, my mom brushed it off as 'just living together'. When my sister lied on social media and called my husband a drug addict and an abuser, when she insulted my kids, and let her children rip a huge chunk of hair from my daughters head... my mom made excuses for her. But the moment my sister crossed her, suddenly it was a tragedy.

When Moms husband punched me in the face when I was a literal fucking child, it 'never happened' until it benefitted my mom and she needed a statement for court when they were thinking of separating. As soon as they got back together... it 'never happened' again.

After everything... I don't hate my mom or my dad. But I'm furious, deeply hurt, and mentally drained from the constant gaslighting and disregard. "I'm sorry" doesn't erase years of physical and psychological abuse, especially when it's followed by continuous criticism about how I raise my kids or live my life.

I am the only person in this family actively fighting to break a horrifying cycle of generational curses. My husband and I are raising our children together, as a unit, completely on our own...

Yet, according to a collection of repeatedly divorced people who have traumatized every child they've ever touched, we are the ones doing it wrong.

It bothers me that what bothers my family isn't the horror that took place... what bothers them is that I have the audacity to speak out loud. They want me to heal... but only on their terms. They want me to only address the sanitized parts that don't make them look guilty. If I speak the whole truth, I'm an asshole for "spreading private business".

I'm so fucking done playing by these rules.

About a year ago, I was diagnosed with depression and a few other things like ADHD and OCD. I've been working through the wreckage of my past, while trying to rebuild what my sister stole, dissecting a failed adult relationship with my dad, home schooling my three kids, working through some health issues and facing blow after blow in day to day life. My car breaking down. Falling behind on rent. Being viciously attacked online by a crazy person. It's not been easy and I'm still trying to show up and be a supportive family member, mom, vocal creator and part of this community. I'm still trying to be uplifting and encouraging to everyone I can and I can't seem to be able to get that grace in return. Not even from my own blood relatives.

I still call my mom to check on her because she's sick and sad and stressed. I still get yelled at.. and she feels bad.. and just 'talks to everyone like that' and that's ok...

My dad only calls because he's burned bridges nearly everywhere else and no one wants to talk to him. He calls only to tell me about how much money he makes and how I need to get me a truck driver. No one checks in on my kids. No one visits them. They get a call on their birthday... not even a $25 Walmart gift card. My dad doesn't even call them. He couldn't even tell you their names, let alone their birthdays.

But somehow, I'm supposed to feel bad for all of these grown people? Make it fucking make sense. No one gets to dictate my healing. No one gets to erase my history. And I'm not gonna continue to remain silent for anyone's comfort.

Be mad all you want. Call me an asshole or a bitch or evil or wicked. All the fucking things. But just stay the fuck away from me if that's what I am. because I'm not going to fucking stop telling the truth.

The only reason I'm still here is because I have kids and a husband that need me and because the Vocal community is the only place that makes me feel like my voice fucking matters or is even heard.

The way some of you say things like, "That means a lot coming from you". I genuinely hope you guys know how much that means to me because I don't feel like I mean anything to anyone. So, thank you, for taking the time and letting me know I'm... I don't know... fucking alive? And somehow a little important in your eyes.

Fuck... that was long. I'm sorry but I genuinely needed to get that out.