Seven Parents, Daughter to None (eBook)

A Memoir

Melanie Hope Lang (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
306 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-5483-0 (ISBN)

Infos

How does one overcome a lifetime of trauma and deception? Melanie Hope Lang's early life was one of hardships, abuse, and difficulties on multiple levels. She suffered through a string of six fathers and an indifferent mother. During this formative period, she learned an important truth: we hold the keys to our destiny. Seven Parents, Daughter to None is Melanie's emotionally charged story of growing through adversity to become a powerful voice for others.

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How does one overcome a lifetime of trauma and deception? Melanie Hope Lang's early life was one of hardships, abuse, and difficulties on multiple levels. She suffered through a string of six fathers and an indifferent mother. During this formative period, she learned an important truth: we hold the keys to our destiny. This book confronts the demons lurking deep within. By finishing this tale, readers will perhaps discover their own strengths and come to understand a terrifying piece of the world that should have never existed. Seven Parents, Daughter to None is Melanie's emotionally charged story of growing through adversity to become a powerful voice for others.

Textauszug

 

Chapter 1

David: Photographs

2018

Of all the things I dwell on, the way she treated me, how she let others treat me, how she tried to end her life more than once, and the men she brought into my life, our final fight is the one thing I regret.

Like many others, I lost my momma too soon. Just when I thought I was enough for her to see me as her daughter, she once again refused the role of mother, leaving me curled into a ball, sitting on the closet floor of my bedroom. 

My husband, Daniel, sat behind me on the vanity stool and rubbed my back in slow circular motions, allowing me to have my moment, whether it be to yell and curse or sit and sob. I had just finished the first when I tried to confront Momma. Now, I needed release deep within.

Using the closet as a shield, I was reminded of my childhood, hiding in my closet from the monsters lurking beyond the door in the temporary structure I called home. But this time, I didn’t hold my breath as I cried to conceal my presence, afraid to be discovered. Instead, I held my breath so my children wouldn’t hear me and come running in to console me. I couldn’t tell them what had happened or where I really came from. 

As I pulled my knees close to my chest and buried my red face soaked in tears against my legs, my mind trailed to the conversation she refused to hear. Momma was responsible for the six fathers and countless men she carouseled through my life. Yet she refused to hear the truth when I tried to confess what they had done to me, what she allowed to happen.

If she would only listen, to hear me out, I would tell her about all of them. David, however, was the first one I hid from in the closet. He was the first man I came to fear.

1987

He didn’t want to be a father. My brother and I were a package deal that came with my momma. As a child, my fondest memory was a family moment. My older brother Luke and I sat perched in the wide hallway of our third rental in Irving, listening to 70s records with my momma and David. Momma called the music groovy, a word I hadn’t heard before, but I liked the way the word spilled out of my mouth when I mimicked her. She sat cross-legged, swaying her shoulders to the beat while snapping her fingers.

David playfully pulled Momma from the plush dark brown carpet where we sat with her, and they danced in a picture-perfect moment. Her dark straight hair rested slightly past her neck. She reached up to rest her hands on David’s shoulders as they created their own dance in rhythm to the music. The way they smiled at each other made me believe I was lucky to have two parents who loved each other more than anything else.

 

Isn’t this what a family is supposed to look like? How else are parents supposed to act?

They seemed exceptionally happy; I was still young enough to be happy, too. My innocence was still present. These were the months leading up to the loss of trust.

Creedence Clearwater Revival preached as you sensed the house was as alive as the electric guitar wailing in the background. His voice was distinct and filled every crevice of our home with positive energy. Everything was groovy.

Children thrive on the peace and love that comes from family interaction. So, I grasped those memories until they faded into mere dreams to balance out the fear and sadness creeping in unsuspectingly when we let our guard down. Even in joy, sadness creeps in. While we lived on Falcon Street in a modest house, I loved the moments I truly got to “be a kid.”

My friendships with other children down the street provided me with ample opportunities to learn when my own parents were “unavailable.” Someone’s dad taught me how to ride my bike with only one training wheel and took the other off when I supported myself without leaning to one side. Racing bikes around the block educated me on the adrenaline of competition. The walking trips to the park with other families reminded me work comes before play. Walking myself to and from elementary school gave me independence.

When Momma was home from a busy week at the airfield, she filled the gaps with her own lessons. Planting flowers in the backyard demonstrated the cycle of life. Thanksgiving at our house when extended family was invited taught respect for your elders.

On the surface, we appeared to be a functioning family. At least, we tried to behave like a loving family those first years up until I was seven.

My parents were aviation engineers, which kept them busy working long hours throughout the week in Dallas. Sometimes, if school was out, I would have the lucky chance to tag along with them to work.

I recall running up and down the aisles of many skeletal planes at Associated Air Center as they installed electrical wiring. The aircraft came in for updates or to be built from scratch. Their hangar was one of the many stops planes made before their release to the world. I was familiar with at least a dozen different airliners by seven but had never flown in any.

Most of these planes were not civilian. Momma worked on private jets like Air Force 1 (according to her), an aircraft for a sheik, and one space shuttle. Pictures of many of these planes before and after their completion lie in boxes among my momma’s effects. When I take a moment to sift through stuffy old albums, they smell like memories and mothballs used to preserve time.

I don’t recall any of them in particular, but I wouldn’t have realized what I was playing on if I had. When not running circles around my momma while she stripped colorful wires and connected one to another, I colored on colossal graph paper meant for designs and blueprints. The prominent architectural desks required me to sit on a tall stool instead of the shorter swivel chairs in the office. Swinging my feet back and forth, I hummed to my own tune.

I thought I was a hotshot, pretending to be busy working on important house designs. Dreaming, this would one day be our house, one we owned and didn’t ditch when money was tight.

I would sketch with childish abilities and color everything in vibrant shades. Everything I drew included oversized bright flowers surrounding the yard. Every associate in the office treated me as their own, spoiling me with candy, soda, and whatever they found to keep me occupied for the long hours of the day.

Honestly, I enjoyed watching my momma study blueprints and David discuss details with his peers. They were important people everyone looked up to, not only me.

 

Doesn’t our childhood seem incredible? Isn’t this the life you dream of having as a child? Does our family appear too good to be true?

Our family was a pretense. In the first few years of living in Irving, I learned to classify what happens behind closed doors from the facade out in the open. Secrets were the building blocks of our family. But now I’m an adult, I’m allowed to have a voice. I’m allowed to decide for myself what to hold in and what to reveal.

Most people, including extended family, didn’t know about the goings-on at our house. Luke and I understood we shouldn’t talk about them either. Momma reminded us not to talk about what they did at home before visitors came over. If we did, Momma would say, “the police might come and take ya’ll away.”

Frightened I would lose her, I swore to never tell. With that oath, I became an enabler allowing my parents to do as they please as long as they still loved us. This promise will haunt me forever.

Despite our agreement with Momma, Luke and I suspected much of what we witnessed was wrong. Since kindergarten, teachers and McGruff the Crime Dog taught us even cigarettes were harmful. Nevertheless, our house reeked like an ashtray. While at school, other kids didn’t want to sit by me, turning their noses in disgust. But I was nose blind until I was at school for a few hours. By then, I realized the odor was unmistakable; it was me. My hair and clothes permeated the air around me.

At only six years old, I realized my parents abused drugs and alcohol. Sometimes, their cigarettes smelled funny and resembled those in the pictures the D.A.R.E. officer showed us at school. He instructed us to call a hotline or tell a teacher if we ever saw anyone using them. But I made a solemn promise and feared being taken away.

Plus, Momma was constantly popping pills to bring her up and snorting coke to bring her down. She carried the bottles with her everywhere she went in case she “needed” them during a hard day. In my innocence, I thought all parents behaved this way until the police officer taught us differently.

A shame flushed over me as my cheeks turned bright red. A shame of embarrassment, not only the knowledge about my parents but also knowing this was one of a handful of secrets I was hoarding. An embarrassment for ourselves that would eventually become resentment.

Understand, Luke and I were not self-absorbed but craved our momma’s love, attention, and affection. Our fear was for them before it ever came from them. Once we experienced how warm and loving Momma was, we only wanted more as every child would. Momma gave long hugs, folding you into her chest and sugars on our forehead and cheeks. Her crooked smile was genuine and passed compliments and encouragement. Wherever Momma was, was home.

So far, you may think our childhood wasn’t so terrible. I’m not trying to convince you to pity us or believe we were worse off than anyone else. I have read the...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 29.8.2022
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-5483-6 / 1667854836
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-5483-0 / 9781667854830