My Pain Is My Legacy: Broken But Not Damage

by Alexandria Nolan

Overview

Growing up in a fast, dysfunctional world was normal for Alex. Everywhere she went, she was subject to abuse. She would catch the public bus at the age of eight years old in the rough city streets of DC. In the 1980s, watching drunks and drug addicts crowd the bus stop was everyday life. Forced to become street smart after being a ward of the courts for eight years, Alex thought things could not get any worse. Not surprisingly, they did. After trusting someone that she thought had her best interests at heart, she soon finds herself married and pregnant at the age of fifteen, and now a domestic violence victim. Determined not to let her present dictate her future, she began to reach out to God, with writing as her key to all her misery. With faith and strong determination, she changed her life path from being an abused child sexually and physically. As you read this book, you will learn to allow the inner child in you to speak and brighten your path while you discover that until you release your past, you too are still a child within.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781491812143
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	09/17/2013
Pages:	156
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.33(d)

Read an Excerpt

My Pain is My Legacy

BROKEN BUT NOT DAMAGE

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By Alexandria Nolan

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2013 Alexandria Nolan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4918-1214-3

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CHAPTER 1

My eyes have seen a lot, from light to dark to shades of gray, from happiness to sadness to just living day by day, yet my eyes shine so bright awaiting the day Where the sun will have to wear shades because it has outdone the sunray.

Here I go starting to write again. Where do I find the words? I have been stuck within myself for so long, I feel like I am missing. Who will gain from the story I have to tell?

Where will it land me emotionally once I allow the surface of my past to unfold? I sometimes feel like a lost soul with no place to go except deep within myself.

A person can hurt the flesh, but he or she cannot take the soul. When I leave the world, I want my soul to live on and my legacy to outweigh my pain.

I guess a purpose so strong is what plays a major part in why I have stayed functionally sane for so long. The only explosion I want in my life is the one where my talent explodes. So that is where my story will begin from my soul.

Today is Tuesday, November 17, 2009, two days from my thirty-first birthday and the first day of the rest of my life. I decided that the other day. Funny how when you look back at your past thoughts for just a second, you only then realize how so much of your life has changed. Well, at least mine has.

I am about to go outside my home and write, while my day-care children are resting.

Writing for me is therapeutic. It allows me to express my deepest emotions without being judged. I love how I can go in a space and console myself with words that flow from my soul. Over the years, writing has become my best friend.

My name is Alex. I am currently the owner of a day care business. I have been running my business for over twelve years now. I enjoy my job and the many children's lives I help to make a difference in. I am now in the position where I want more. I am ready to get on to the next level and grow in my field. My field can get challenging at times, but nothing is more challenging than my life. Hmmm, cut your phone off, get comfortable on the couch, grab a soda, and let me tell you my story.

At this moment, I am a thirty-one-year-old woman, living in the metropolitan area of Washington DC. For those who are unaware of where that is, I live in the DMV, about fifteen minutes from Washington DC, close to Virginia and near Maryland. You know about Washington DC, right? The nation's capital, that is my hometown, but to me, it is not a town to write home about. I have been here my whole life. At this point, I am ready to move. Aside from my grandmother and my job, there is nothing keeping me here. My children can go to whatever school I choose if I move. Oh, sorry, I didn't mention I have three beautiful children.

Yes, I am thirty-one years old with a fourteen-year-old. I've heard it before, but look, I did not allow my age to stop me from being a good parent. I never planned to have children that young. And I definitely never planned to have children by the person I once looked up to as a role model.

When I was young, it seemed like trouble just followed me everywhere. I kind of felt like Precious from the movie my kids and I went to see on Saturday. Seeing that movie gave me more motivation to write—to open my mouth and tell my story, paying no attention to whom I might hurt.

I was always trying to protect everyone's feelings ever since I was a child, but no one ever protected me. Even when the state got involved, you know Child Protective Services they didn't protect me. They kept sending me to more family members, who continued to abuse and harm me in ways that affect my life today.

I know my views on men and my hate toward the species that I love so much have a lot to do with what they did to me, right down to my father, who was a drug addict and did not even recognize me.

I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. I think I was about ten years old, and my mother either needed money or she was driving in the area. Whatever the reason may be, we stopped at my father's crack house in the southeast part of DC.

I do not even know why she went there, because I knew he was on drugs and I was very embarrassed by the sight of him from when I saw him a couple years before.

We were sitting in my mom's gold 1990-something Toyota Camry, and my father came around the corner.

As we were sitting there, I started to observe the area.

It was full of crackheads. The house was a mess. There were many children all around the house. The woman he was living with was a crackhead, and she and my father had two of her six kids together. That made me have two little sisters, one born addicted to crack.

After seeing this sight, even though I did not have a father growing up, I was happy I did not. I believe this would have hurt me more. I could not imagine having to hide my VCR or living as my little sisters were.

All of a sudden, my father appeared at my right side window. He looked a mess.

I was thinking, Mommy, tell me this isn't my daddy. You were joking, right? This is just another crackhead passing through, right?

Tears were boiling inside of me, and I felt so empty inside.

"Alex, Alex," he said as he started to knock on the car window.

The thing about it is, I was sitting on the other side of my little sister, who was six years old. She started to scream like she saw a monster—well; by the looks of it he sure did look like one.

My mother intervened and said, "Alex is on the other side. You don't even know your own child."

Good, I thought. If he does not know me, if I ever see him in the street, I won't have to claim him.

Hold up—it is pickup time at my day care, and the parents are coming. I am so hungry. I have some black-eyed peas in the slow cooker that I bought and have not put to use till now.

My son keeps running up the steps to get ready for his grandmother's house. He calls her G'ma. Even though that woman can get under my skin, I truly appreciate her for being there for my son. She even helps from time to time with my girls, unlike my mom. It feels good to get help with one of my children's fathers and his family.

The girls' father, Marsh, who was my first ex-husband, is a sorry case. He even had the nerve to go and have another baby after twelve years two weeks ago. That made six girls for him—what a sorry excuse he is for a father.

What makes it worse is he's always around someone else's children, and he always has many little kids following behind him. I remember the times the little kids used to knock on my door and ask if Marsh could come out and play. Call me crazy, but that is strange. As soon as I was able to leave, I did.

Marsh had a lot with him. I mean, the guy was married to a fifteen-year-old girl who was also his fourth cousin, and he was twenty-three. As I look back as a grown woman, I get angry how no one cared enough to prevent all that I endured.

I used to ask myself why I suffered so much pain at such a young age. I now know that God picks certain people to live certain lives due to their strength and endurance, and I am one of those people.

It was the end of my day, and I was getting prepared to go to school. Yes, I am currently enrolled in college. I am studying criminal justice. I plan to use my degree to further my child-care business, and maybe expand my PI career.

Yes, I am a private investigator as well. That came about from an experience I had with my ex Tim; I go to court next month, hopefully on the eighteenth, to finalize that situation.

Well, that is a completely different story. We'll get to that one soon.

As I am sitting on the bottom of my steps daydreaming and waiting for my last day-care parents to arrive, the movie Precious pops up in my head.

Seeing that movie on Saturday saddened me, along with strengthening me. Precious had her whole present and future dictated to her, and even though I had my past dictated, I never realized how it still played a major part in my present until now.

It hurts me to know that I am still letting men hurt me. There are no harsh feelings to the few good men out there, but I am talking about the souls of the men who I now realize are also hurt.

In the area I live, there are only a few good men, and I am starting to think I need to move to another state, but I hear it is everywhere so maybe I need to move to another continent. I mean, around this area, no one has values. Women think it is normal to have baby daddies and work long hours with no father figure to help raise the children. Men think it a sport to gather up woman like they're in an auction. It is sick these days. It seems like my children will endure even worse situations unless we as people raise the upcoming generation with values. Well, don't get me preaching.

Well, it is officially one day away from my thirty-first birthday, Wednesday, November 18, 2009. After my last child left yesterday, I went to school. My son's grandmother came and got him; she even kept my middle daughter overnight. My middle daughter is practicing at Southern High School. I have no way of getting her there. My baby girl is enrolled in a performing arts school; her major is drama. That little girl has so much talent.

I just wish I had someone else to help me with my girls. Their future suffers because I am not able to participate in helping them get to practices or different events because I either have to work or money is tight.

Nevertheless, I am determined to do the best I can to allow them to flourish in their dreams.

My mom made no such attempts for me. I do remember one time I was living with my grandmother because Social Services had taken me away from my mom due to her abuse. Mrs. Mateo, my caseworker—whom I would love to meet again—sent me to a performing arts program. Mrs. Mateo knew I loved to write, and she wanted to help enhance my awareness for the arts. That exposure allowed me to appreciate the arts so much more.

I remember when we were getting ready for this big event; it was a major landmark in my life. We practiced for months; I performed ballet, tap, and modern dance. The play was a hit we had talent scouts and lots of important people there showing their support. That was my first feeling of accomplishment as a child; before then, I just thought I was bad luck.

Well, back to yesterday. Class was okay. We were talking about five-year-old Shaniya Davis, a beautiful little girl who was found dead in the rural woods about thirty miles away from her hometown after a oneweek search for the little girl. Authorities said Shaniya's dad had raised the precious baby girl until last month, when he decided to let her live with her crackhead-looking mother with dreads. Accusations were that the little girl's mother offered Shaniya up for sex.

The investigation of Shaniya Davis's disappearance yielded the arrest of her mother and two men. I feel so saddened by this, and I wish—as I do for myself—that someone would have stepped up and taken control before these horrific events took place. People, we must talk for the children. Kids are innocent souls, and even when our parents do us wrong, we think that is the way of life, unless someone shows us different. Children who are abused learn the hard way. I wish I knew Shaniya personally. I would have driven all the way to Fayetteville, North Carolina, taken that baby, and raised her. She was such a beautiful little girl.

A tear falls from my eyes for Shaniya, and that tear reminds me of a poem I wrote as a hurting child at the age of ten, so in loving memory of Shaniya Davis, I dedicate my poem to you. As I look for the poem in my big box of memories. I came across so many memories and journal entries from when I was about twelve to fifteen years old expressing my feelings and emotions. I found poems that I had written in my time of pain. That was what I did best—write.

Just now, a feeling of anxiety, excitement, and relief came across me. I was saying inside that I finally found the right format to share my story. You would not imagine how many times I started to write, and each time I went through a block. Now I feel like I have the right way, and it's accelerating. Ever since I was a child, I knew my gift, and I knew one day I would write about everything I had been through. I knew it would all come out, and that time is now.

As I am writing, I want to stop and say to my inner child, "We are making it, Alex. We are on the brink of letting it all out." I feel once I finish this book, I will be able to free my inner child and let her roam.

All I have done was suppress her for years, not allowing her to speak or voice her thoughts. "You are almost free," is what I tell her.

I finally found the poem. This is to you, Baby Shaniya.

    Silent Tears

    I go to my room and cry to myself
    Tears that no one ever saw or met.
    They are my silent tears, and this is their poem.
    Listen to them before they are gone.
    Gone to a place that's so secretive only the brain knows
    where it is.
    They are three little tears that mean a lot to me.
    They are my silent tears, and this is their story.
    Every day I cry and cry, but no one knows and that is
    no lie.
    I cry about three different things,
    and my silent tears are going to tell you what they are
    and what they mean.
    Tear number one is sad and sorrow.
    He cries because he hopes it is a better tomorrow,
    and I cry with him. Believe me, I do I cry with him when
    I am sad and blue.
    Tear number two is my love tear.
    He lets me know if I love or care.
    This tear is closer to my heart, and I loved from the very
    start.
    He tells me the difference between love and hate or if a
    person is just okay.
    Tear number three is my self-esteem tear, and he is the
    best.
    When things are sad to me, he is like Superman and picks
    me up and makes me happy.
    He's a dear ol' tear, and I feel good when he is near.
    So one day when you cry and find three little guys falling
    from your eyes,
    They are your silent cries, and no one else can make you
    feel like your own Silent Tears.

After reading that poem again, I realize the concept now as an adult even more than when I was a child. I said that my tears were my strength and my comfort, but they came unnoticed to the world. I bet little Shaniya had only her tears that were buried inside her as the only comfort she had before she died. What sick people we have in this world. RIP Shaniya.

After school, I stopped at the carryout to get some chicken and fries. I usually go to restaurants every day and order seafood. I have high-class taste buds, but with the rocky economy, I just ordered some chicken. I will save the best meal for my birthday. When I arrived home, my daughter was taking the dogs out.

After I finished eating and taking a shower, I called my friend Robert up. He was supposed to come over here, and I told him I would call him after I left school. However, he did not answer the phone, so I tried one more time—and there he was on my other line.

Before I could realize it, he was ringing my doorbell. I like Robert a lot; I think to myself he might be the one. Once Robert walked in, we went into my room, which was located downstairs. One of my exes built this room for me last year; he thought he was going to be living here. He was surely mistaken. As Robert entered my room, I looked up at his beautiful smile, and I started to melt inside. Boy, oh boy.

CHAPTER 2

Happy to love
Glad to be liked
grateful to see the light
and determined not to lose sight.

Robert looks like a Mekhi Phifer-Mike Tyson mix. As the night started to become dark, Robert and I lay in the bed. While I was lying there, I prayed that the event that he and I experienced four weeks ago on his birthday did not happen again. And I prayed that he would let it go so we could move on. I know you are wondering what I am talking about. Well, if I must tell, let me get my food first. Just to give you a short description of myself, I am a short, thick lady—not fat, just right in my eyes, well, almost just right. But I still want to lose about fifteen more pounds, just to get close to the size I used to be and fit into some of those jeans in my closet, but mostly for my endurance and health.

I used to be so obsessed with my weight when I was younger. I used to vomit my food back up after I had a fatty meal. I think it was a phase I went through. As I got older, I learned the acids that came up with the vomit can ruin your teeth. I soon stopped. I paid too much for my overbite to be removed.
(Continues...)

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Excerpted from My Pain is My Legacy by Alexandria Nolan. Copyright © 2013 Alexandria Nolan. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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