Valleys to Mountaintops

Candy

Childhood

The day I was born, my daddy held me, shed a loving tear or two, and named me Candy. On the spot, he wrote two lines of a song about me; he was a very talented man. That night, he had my name tattooed on his arm. From the time I was very young, he and I had to keep our relationship secret, because I was forbidden to see him. Sure, as if that was going to happen! I often stayed with my grammy, the mother’s mother, and she would take me to see Daddy without the mother knowing. He taught me about music and singing. At six, I wrote my first song. To him it was the best ever written. I was so proud! Daddy blessed me with musical talent and another, less fortunate “gift.” More on that later. Daddy died when he was a young man. While he was alive, I felt loved. For the first twelve years of my life, I also felt somewhat protected. I say that because my life had always been filled with horrible physical, psychological, emotional, and sexual abuse. Blessedly, I don’t remember some of the worst of it. I left home when I was fifteen. First, the mother abused me and then it was her and her second husband. They gave me no reason to ever claim them as mine, so I won’t. I was treated as an intruder into their lives until the day I left that gruesome existence. I am incredibly thankful to have had the ability to leave and survive. I am successful in spite of all of their efforts, thanks to the strength passed to me by my daddy!

Before talking about any abuse inflicted upon me, I must mention the abuse I was inflicting upon myself. I was a full-blown drug addict at twelve. Crack cocaine was my drug of choice to deal with the painful death of my father and the miserable reality of my life. Crack was perfect for me, because it is odorless, colorless, and can be transported easily. Daddy’s death created loneliness, fear, confusion, and sadness in me, so how do you think I dealt with it whenever those feelings were present? Crack, of course. Drugs were also the cause of his death. At my tender age, I didn’t know there were other ways to cope with so much awful pain. The mother resented me, the eventual husband of the mother took his cue from the mother, and neither knew that I needed help; they wouldn’t have helped me anyway. So the death of my father went unresolved, and the abuse persisted. Because crack cocaine was always my solution, at least I could escape temporarily.

Three years later, I was reacquainted with death. I had two best friends, Faith and Emily. We were called the three musketeers, because we did everything together. We decided one day to go to an all-night skate that night. Faith chose to walk alone and meet Emily and me at the rink. We wanted to pick her up, to take her with us, but it was Faith’s choice to walk. She never showed up at the roller-skating rink. We didn’t know why. We were to learn that a child molester, just released from prison, dragged Faith into his car, and either she tried to get out or fought with him and was pushed out. However it happened, my friend ended up landing on the windshield of an oncoming car, with a devastating result.

Abuse

We lived in a rural area, where horses were ridden frequently; I had three of my own as pets. The morning after the skate, some different friends rode over on their horses. Dramatically, they gave me the news. Faith was dead. Nooooo! It couldn’t be true! I screamed and cried. The husband came running and heard me repeatedly saying, “Faith is dead.” Having delivered their message, my riding friends left. The icing on the cake was when the husband said, “It probably was for the best, because Faith was a troublemaker who was expelled from school.” As if that mattered to me! I knew what word I would like to call him—if I dared!

The mother wouldn’t believe Faith was dead until she read it in the newspaper. When she did, she cut out the article, put it on the refrigerator, called me down to the kitchen, and made me read it out loud, while Faith’s picture stared back at me. The mother made sure I could see and hear her laughter as this took place. I wanted to yell, “What do you two think you’re doing? You’re both disgusting!” But, I had learned a lot and knew it was better to keep my thoughts to myself. I went to my room, without comfort, to console myself.