Pieces of Me (eBook)

Shattered Beginnings

J.S. Blackthorn (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
152 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-9446-9 (ISBN)

Infos

Pieces of Me: Shattered Beginnings is a raw and powerful glimpse into the author's first ten years of life, a time marked by innocence lost too soon. From the earliest memories, she was surrounded by chaos-where fear overshadowed childhood wonder and survival became second nature. Each chapter unearths moments of pain, resilience, and the quiet strength that carried her forward. Through trauma, heartbreak, and fleeting glimpses of hope, this is the story of a child navigating a world that should have been safe but never was. Yet, even in the darkest moments, small fragments of light remained; whispers of something more, something beyond the shattered pieces. This is not just a story of suffering but of endurance, of a young girl who refused to be defined by the pain inflicted upon her. Shattered Beginnings is the first book in a journey of healing, reclaiming what was taken, and discovering the strength hidden within the brokenness.

J.S. Blackthorn is a dedicated professional with experience in the military and municipal government, bringing leadership, discipline, and a passion for service into every aspect of her life. Her commitment to personal growth and community impact is evident in her work, where she empowers people to develop skills and gain valuable experiences for their futures. Beyond her professional achievements, J.S. Blackthorn is a devoted mother who values open communication and strives to foster a supportive environment for the well-being of her children. In her writing, she shares wisdom drawn from her diverse experiences, blending leadership insights with heartfelt reflections on family, faith, and personal growth. She hopes her work inspires others to embrace resilience, pursue meaningful connections, and find strength through life's challenges.

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Pieces of Me: Shattered Beginnings is a raw and unfiltered look at the first ten years of the authors life, where innocence was shattered before it had the chance to fully exist. In a world that should have been safe, she learned too soon that pain could come from the very people meant to protect her. Trauma wasn't just a moment; it was woven into the fabric of her childhood-unexpected, relentless, and deeply scarring. Through the eyes of a child, the author shares the reality of growing up in an environment where fear was a constant companion and love felt like a fleeting illusion. The author takes you through the moments that shaped her the quiet suffering, the desperate need for comfort, and the small victories of resilience that helped her hold on. There were times when the weight of it all threatened to consume her, but somewhere deep inside, a flicker of strength refused to be extinguished. Despite the darkness, Shattered Beginnings is not just a story of pain. It is a testament to survival, to the will of a child who endured what no one should and kept going. It is about the silent battles fought behind closed doors, the longing for kindness, and the moments however small that reminded her there was still hope. This book is the first chapter in her journey, a journey of piecing together what was broken, finding her voice, and reclaiming the childhood that was stolen from her.

Textauszug

Chapter 1: Setting the Stage

I was conceived in New Jersey, carried in North Carolina, and born unexpectedly on a chilly January day in 1988 while my parents were on vacation in Florida. They had arrived to see my dad’s sister, Aunt Sis. I was not meant to get here until Valentine’s Day—a day that guaranteed affection, warmth, and the welcoming of new beginnings—but life and I had different plans. I arrived in this world prematurely, almost as if I knew from the start that life for me would never follow a predictable course.

The day my mother went into labor was filled with stress, anxiety, and isolation. It started with an odd silence in the atmosphere, a false tranquility that masked the tempest rising inside her. At forty-five, my mother, already burdened with the challenges of high-risk pregnancy, experienced the undeniable contractions of labor coursing through her. Panic overwhelmed her when she understood it was premature. She looked at my father, the person she had picked to share her life with, and requested the car keys. Her voice shook, burdened with both bodily suffering and emotional anguish. But my father refused, his indifference cutting deeper than any physical wound. He didn’t hand her the keys, he didn’t offer to drive her, and he didn’t support her when she needed him the most.

She was carrying me, her precious, fragile cargo, yet she stood alone in that moment. Contractions wracked her body as anxiety gnawed at her with every breath. Her mind must have been a whirlwind of fear—fear for herself, fear for me, and fear of the unknown. Somehow, with sheer determination and the instinctual drive to protect her unborn child, she managed to get herself to the hospital. How she made it is a testament to her resilience, a story lost to time but undoubtedly involved grit and courage. When she finally arrived at the hospital, the staff acted quickly, recognizing the situation’s urgency. Somehow, I was born safely, and a miracle we both survived.

Mom was high-risk, they said. A geriatric mother with gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, and schizophrenia walking a razor-thin line between life and death. The odds were stacked against us, and my father’s careless decision that day could have ended everything. It could have taken her life, and it could have taken mine. That moment—this scene of abandonment and disregard for humanity—was the prologue to my life. I was thrust into chaos before taking my first breath of air.

From that moment on, dysfunction became the rhythm of my life. I was not born into love, stability, or safety. Instead, I was born into a world where I had to fight for every scrap of sanity and peace. Dysfunction isn’t just something I grew up with; it was carved into my bones and etched into my soul. The early years of my life were a blur of instability and survival. My mother, with her fragile mental health and physical ailments, fought valiantly to keep us afloat. She often found herself battling the dual forces of her mind and the outside world, each day a test of her strength and resolve.

Despite her struggles, my mother possessed an unshakable determination. She was a woman who walked through hell almost daily as she fought her plague of demons. Her mind was a battlefield of mental illness that claimed many good thoughts and, like a war, robbed her of the simple pleasures of being “normal.” She stumbled mentally, waging a silent war within her brain, and suffered immeasurable horrors associated with her mental disease. But she never gave up. Even on her darkest days, when the world’s weight seemed too much to bear, she found a way to move forward. She didn’t let the madness, or the darkness swallow her whole. Despite being constantly scared and broken, she kept her head focused, and her spirit refused to surrender, no matter how much it hurt.

Her resilience became my guiding light. I saw her strength in the small moments—the way she smiled at me even when she was in pain and found joy in the little things despite the chaos surrounding us. She taught me that strength isn’t the absence of fear or pain; it’s the ability to keep going in the face of it. And because of her and the inspiration she instilled in me, I know I can keep going, too. Even when it feels impossible, or the chaos threatens to pull me under, I can keep going, too.

The truth about my dad, Edgar, is a tale of love and unfathomable suffering. —a duality that shaped much of who I am today. Born in June 1929—yes, you read that right—his life spanned decades of turbulence, marked by a series of marriages, a brood of children scattered across different states, and secrets so dark they’ve cast a shadow over my entire existence. By the time he passed away in June 2003, my life had already begun to unravel in ways I could not yet understand. I was a vulnerable freshman in high school when I got the news, and though my relationship with him had always been nearly non-existent, his death still hit me like a freight train.

The moment I learned of his passing; the ground seemed to give way beneath me. It was James, my then-boyfriend, who delivered the shattering blow: my father was gone, killed in a freak car accident. A driver had t-boned him as he made a left turn, and just like that, he was taken. The weight of that moment crushed me, leaving me breathless and disoriented. For months before his death, I secretly exchanged letters with him. I used James’ address to keep it hidden from my mom, knowing that if she ever found out, it would destroy her.

In those letters, I saw glimpses of a man I barely knew, his humor evident in the odd little sketches he doodled in the margins. They were simple, almost childlike, as if he was trying desperately to connect with me in the only way he knew how. He wrote about his fascination with religion, adventures in the Merchant Marines, and devotion to the Freemasons—an endless search for something bigger than himself. He was a man who loved boats and had peculiar obsessions with films like Planet of the Apes and Lethal Weapon. In these small, strange details, I glimpsed the man he wanted to be—or perhaps the man he wanted me to believe he was.

But beneath the surface, behind the façade he carefully constructed, lay a truth far more horrifying. My mother told me bluntly, with no hesitation, that my father was a pedophile. She said that when I was just a baby—so young I could not even form words—he had already taken something from me that I could never get back. My sister Florence suffered at his hands as well. The revelation was a jagged blade, slicing through the fragile threads of my understanding of family, love, and safety.

It is a sickening realization, one that leaves scars deeper than I can articulate: to know that the man who gave you life also shattered your innocence before you even knew what it was to be safe. The abuse didn’t stop with me. My mother and brother both vividly recall the time he ripped a house phone off the wall and smashed it into her face with such force that it left one of her teeth permanently discolored. That was Edgar. That was my father—a man who carried the weight of his darkness into every corner of our lives, hiding in plain sight.

My mom told me about a moment burned into her memory—that haunts me now. I was just a child, full of energy and innocence, running circles around my dad’s recliner, laughing in the way only a carefree kid can. But my joy turned into something else entirely.

She said my dad’s annoyance boiled over. He grabbed my tiny arm without warning, his grip tight and unyielding. In an instant, he swung me around like I was nothing more than an object and hurled me against the wall. The impact silenced the room, and I slid down the cold, unfeeling surface, confused and hurting; the happiness I felt moments before shattered into pieces.

Hearing this story now, it feels like a jagged scar across my childhood, one that still aches in the corners of my heart. How could something so innocent lead to something so devastating?

 

Edgar wasn’t just my father; he was the father to others, children from different relationships and marriages. Flora and Marilyn were my much older half-sisters from his first marriage. They lived separate lives, far from mine, in North Carolina and New Jersey. He had stepchildren, too, like Jimmy, a man I never met, who tragically died a few years after our father did. Then there was Allie—a stepdaughter who became a beacon of hope and comfort amidst the wreckage of my childhood.

Allie was everything Edgar wasn’t. She wrapped me in warmth and safety in ways I hadn’t known were possible. Her hugs felt like armor against the world, her laughter a salve for wounds I could not yet name. I remember how her hair smelled, like lavender and sunshine, and how she tried to piece together the broken parts of me, even as we both knew the truth about Edgar. She gave me something to hold onto, a thread of love and security I didn’t think I deserved.

However, the unquestionable truth that my sisters and I shared was woven into the fabric of our lives like an indelible scar. Edgar was a predator. He preyed on the innocence of his own children, leaving behind a legacy of pain that we’ve spent our lives trying to untangle. It’s a burden we carry every day, a haunting knowledge that shapes us in ways we can’t escape.

***

My mom, Diana, came into this world in June 1943, and her life was marked by resilience, heartbreak, and a fierce determination to survive. She married twice, was widowed, and had four children, though one of them, my sister Pascal, was taken from her far too soon as a baby. The pain of that loss stayed with her forever, an ache that never dulled. My...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.2.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-9446-9 / 9798350994469