Memoirs of Sangria Renee

Book one The most difficult thing to do in life is to become naked. Now I’m not talking about the literal sense of nakedness where we examine our flaws and imperfections of the flesh. I’m referring to the nakedness that we’d claw Dr. Phil eyes out and attempt to rip his intestines through his neatly pressed shirt if he dare dissect us especially before an audience. His audience complete mindless strangers applauding upon cue. The nakedness that we would go to any length to deny and prevent from becoming exposed. What would happen to us? Our careers? Our families? Our images? Who would accept us? Who would love us? For not what we pretend to be but our true identity. Oh. God what about the universe? Does it really know about us? Does it know all about me? Are there really angels recording everything that I say and do? Am I going to Hell for what I’ve done? What is Hell? Am I surviving Hell right now? And completely unaware of it? Have I already been through Hell? Somewhere within my thirty year existence I knew that one day I must stand before my mirror utterly exposed and I must acknowledge whomever stares back at me in her entirety. I am Sangria Renee’ born June 18, 1977. at birth I was born with a rare medical complication called Intestinal Malrotation during my fetal stages my intestines became twisted together I later discovered that it was recorded that I wasn’t expected to live past the age of five and that I would never physically bare children. My mother didn’t want the responsibilities of caring for a unhealthy child so I was relinquished to the state of Missouri. I honestly don’t know how many foster homes I was in I can only recall Mrs. Frankie. She was a heavy set woman the complexion of a snicker’s candy bar her ankles were always swollen shoved inside of her dirty gray slippers and her large brown eyes hidden behind gold framed glasses that sat on her swollen face. She always wore flowered dress dusters with blue and pink foam rollers spread throughout her salt and pepper hair she spoke with a lisp. I remember her house being gray with brown wooden walls and plaid curtains. She’d had a dogs dish next to her cream colored refrigerator from that dish was where I’d devour my meals. I was chained like a dog to the wall on the floor. It’s almost embarrassing to admit now that I’d eaten in that manner until I was nearly ten years old I can still hear my mother voice screaming at me to slow down, chew my food properly how nobody was going to take my food from me while she placed the spoon, fork, or knife into my tiny hand demonstrating its use. I’d been so used to eating with my hands that a utensil was strange and foreign to me.