The Secret Tears of a Butterfly (Part 1)
The Secret Tears of a Butterfly
Everyone has a different love language they need to thrive, even as young children.
Some people need affirmations; some need hugs, and some need gifts. I needed affirmations, and hugs. I needed someone to hug me and tell me that they loved me. Someone needed to let me know that they cared and that my existence mattered to them. This is what was needed to thrive in order for me to grow properly while growing up into a young lady and then to a grown woman.
Not able to express myself, being rebellious was a way of life. My behavior began to be very unhealthy and poor habit-forming. The respect I had for authority was small. Why would I respect any outside authority when the authority at home didn’t respect me? The things that would come out of my mouth were so fierce, that you’d want to either kill me, or cause me to have grave bodily injuries. I talked how I thought, which was more than lethal 100% of the time. This is when I grew an ass made of Charmin and by the age of 12 my life began to spiral into a world of pure defiance.
One weekend my mother had gone to the gym and my sister and I were left at home with my father. We got bored and asked my father if we could walk to the store. He said yes, gave us some money, and off we went with our neighbor. On our way to the store I thought about what I could do to get my parents attention. What would cause them to listen to what I had to say? When we got to the store, the first thing I thought of was to steal something. I started to steal everything that wasn’t nailed down to the ground. I stole hair clips, deodorant, fake nails, pens, and anything I could drop inside my jacket. When I ran out of room I told my sister to put a pair of socks in her jacket, and she did. No one needed the socks, but I felt like while I was at it; take that too. We walked over to the candy isle to get some candy, got to the register and the manager came to the front of the store. He pulled us all to the back, and asked us to empty our pockets. I opened up my jacket and all kinds of shit fell on his desk. Looking at me in disbelief, the manger of the store asked for our parent’s phone number or he was calling the police. I thought by calling the police we’d all have a better chance of living, but I saw the fear in my sister’s eyes and gave him our home phone number.
When my father came to pick us up he didn’t ask us why were stealing. He said. “Wait till we get home. “I’m gone tear ya’ll asses up.” I knew we should have let the manager call the police. When we got home my father sent us to our rooms without a whooping. I was scared as hell; it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to ask why and get to the bottom of things. He didn’t even whoop our asses and ask questions later. What the hell was going on? I started to pray. The suspense was too great. My mother came home from the gym, and my father filled her in. I was called downstairs by my mother, with no questions asked, and got my ass whooped with a weight belt she used at the gym while working out. It took about a week to recuperate. All of this and no one heard my voice. No one asked why this 12 year old who lived in a big ass house and didn’t want for anything material would go to the store and steal a bunch of bullshit! I knew what I did was wrong, but there was a reason for my actions. My actions also had a voice. Positive or negative I couldn’t win for losing. My voice only mattered when my name was called and I had better be answering.