Like It's Normal Read online

  LIKE ITS

  NORMAL

  SARAH T LOVELL

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Like It’s Normal

  Published by Gatekeeper Press

  2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109

  Columbus, OH 43123-2989

  www.GatekeeperPress.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Lovell

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  ISBN (paperback): 9781642376722

  eISBN: 9781642376739

  Printed in the United States of America

  Sitting in a solitary state, her left leg propped up on the window sill and her right leg outstretched to the floor to keep her from toppling over, she pressed her cheek up against the glass so she could feel its coldness. The feeling kept her from floating away completely. As she stared out into a world she knew didn’t understand her, she allowed her jaw to drop slightly. This was as relaxed as she ever got. Here in her room, alone. This was her time. These were the moments when she was able to drift off into her other world, the world that everyone else called a simple trance. They didn’t know, nor would they ever understand, the solace she found here.

  Just as lonely as she could be, this was the way to describe little Shiah. She was ten years old, with hazel-green eyes, frizzy black hair, and a long, tall body. She was a beautiful mix of Italian and black, with skin like milk and caramel mixed together. Her black friends called her “light bright, damn near white.” Most like something they had learned at home to describe anyone who was lighter than they were. Her white friends didn’t call her anything but Shiah, and even though people were always asking her what she was, white, black, or Cape Verdean, she didn’t know enough about herself to even give them an answer.

  “What are you?” they would ask.

  She had never really thought about being black, white, or anything else, and the only time she did think about it was when someone asked her. Even then, she didn’t have an answer for them, and she really didn’t care either way. Why did anyone care what she was? She could never understand why anyone would be concerned about that. She was a girl, and that was all she thought mattered.

  As far back as she could remember, she’d felt out of place. There was always this nagging feeling that made her feel separate from everyone, even her own family. She was convinced that the reason she felt this way was that she must have been adopted, but she was never able to share this feeling with her mother.

  Her mother, Janice, was a serious woman, in her early thirties, with beautiful blue eyes, and sandy colored hair. Janice was very busy with college and her job. She loved her daughter, but was not very affectionate toward her, and sometimes Shiah even felt as if she were a burden to the woman. Janice yelled at Shiah often, and had limited patience with her. She never knew what she was doing wrong, but felt like no matter what, she couldn’t ever make her mother happy.

  Shiah didn’t think her thinking this way, and she didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings, so she would secretly search through her Janice’s things when no one was home, hoping to find the adoption papers that she was sure existed somewhere.

  Her secret search would usually take place on a day when she’d pretended to be sick, and stayed home from school, or on a Sunday when her mother was at church and she wanted to stay home. Her mother’s bedroom was in the front of the house, and there was a huge picture window on the side of the room facing the driveway, so she could see if her mother was coming up the driveway. The last thing she needed was to get caught, and have to explain why she was doing something that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone but herself.

  With the curtains half closed, she’d creep into the room and make her way over to the set of drawers she knew her mother kept paperwork in. Sitting on the floor, but listening intently to the outside for any movement in the driveway, she started looking through everything. Her heart was beating so hard inside her chest, she could hardly hear herself think.

  Despite her desperation, she never seemed to find anything, and also never seemed to have enough time to look through everything. Her mother always came back too soon, and all she ever found were bills and other boring stuff that had nothing to do with her.

  Not finding the proof she needed to confirm her suspicions didn’t stop her from having them. It was a feeling that wouldn’t go away. She just couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard she tried.

  It may have been the questions about her nationality that made her start to look at herself as anything other than just who she had always thought she was, and to finally see a difference between her and the rest of her family. She had started to look at everyone else she was related to, and realized that she was the only one with her kind of frizzy, kinky hair. She also noticed that her skin was a little darker than the rest of them, her lips were fuller, and her butt was definitely bigger and rounder than everyone else’s.

  Since she never found any hidden papers in her mother’s things, eventually she gave up her search for her “real family.” Everyone in her family told her that they loved her, but she couldn’t absorb it, take it in, or receive it.

  When she asked about her biological father, her mother told her that he used to hit her a lot, and that he also used to abuse her verbally, calling her worthless, and a fucking bitch all the time. Once, when she was pregnant, she’d been throwing up over and over, and he was leaving with one of his friends. She begged him not to leave.

  “Fuck you, bitch,” was all he said to her, and walked out the door.

  He was also a drug addict, and brought home other addicts. Janice told Shiah the story of a night when she walked into the bathroom and found him with a needle in his arm. She tried many times to help him, but he didn’t want her help, and was more hateful to her than he was to anyone. They lived in California, and her Mom was in college at the time. She had sustained a beating by Shiah’s father one weekend, and showed up to one of her classes with a black eye. The professor in the class noticed the bruising, and made a call to Shiah’s grandfather back in their home state. Her grandfather immediately got on a plane and came to get them, brought them back home with him, and they never looked back.

  Her mother said that after they moved away, her father had never even looked for them, and his family didn’t either. That was why she hadn’t had a dad in the beginning of her life.

  Shiah always wondered why he didn’t love her enough to see her or talk to her. It made her feel so lonely and rejected. Why didn’t he write her letters or send any birthday cards? Maybe he just didn’t like her. Didn’t he want to see her grow up, go to college like her mom, and maybe walk her down the aisle one day?

  Wasn’t that what dads did? They loved their baby girls with all their hearts. They protected them from all things scary and evil. Not this father.

  Kneeling next to her bed, with her hands folded tightly together, she would pray, “Dear, God. Please bring me a dad. I really need a dad.” Sometimes she would say her prayer through tears.

  Not having a father left its mark. All the kids at school had dads, and she hated the way she felt watching the other kids with their moms and dads, seeing those families all together. Some of them would even ask her, “How come you don’t have a Dad?”

  It felt like someone kicked her directly in the stomach when they asked that. S
he missed something she had never had. Was that even possible?

  Time passed, and although she thought a lot about the man she never knew, she stopped crying about it, and. this ghost became an afterthought while remaining an ache in her young soul.

  All of a sudden, she began to notice that her mother was spending time with someone. His name was Stan and he came over sometimes to visit. He was over six feet tall, with really black hair and giant blue eyes. His voice was deep and he always seemed so gentle when he spoke. He was so nice, and seemed really interested in her mother. He looked at her in a way that Shiah had never seen before. He was giving her mom gifts and one Christmas, even bought Shiah a bike that he had put together himself. She liked when he came around. She could see that he was good, and he made her mom happy.

  One night, Stan and Janice sat Shiah down and said they wanted to have a talk with her. Shiah, I love your mother and you very much,” Stan said to her.

  Shiah crinkled up her nose and looked at him. What was he talking about? She knew that already.

  “Honey, what Stan is saying is that he has asked Mummy to marry him.”

  Shiah’s heart skipped in her chest about a hundred times. “I also love you too and I want to adopt you. I want to be your father,” Stan said

  This made Shiah begin to cry. The joy she felt after waiting so long for a father was overwhelming, and now she realized that her dream was coming true.

  Stan and Janice were married on a beautiful Spring day, and Shiah was the flower girl. She cried tears of joy all day, and danced with her new dad at the reception. He towered over her, so she stood on his feet when they danced. He loved her already, and promised to take care of her and protect her. She was finally happy.

  Even after they were married, and she grew up having a wonderful father in her life, Shiah did miss the father who wasn’t there. Even though she was a very loved child, she still felt angry almost all the time. Everything seemed to get her upset. Sometimes even when good things happened, she wasn’t able to handle it. She would get this twisting feeling in her belly, and it would be hard for her to breathe. This was not normal for a little girl, although constantly feeling out of place was something that she had begun to get used to.

  Her parents worked hard to support her, and her mother was also still going to college, so while Janice went to work and classes, Shiah attended a day care center. Even though she tried to make friends, she had a very hard time with it.

  There was this one girl in particular who seemed to hate her. Her name was Rachel. No matter how nice she tried to be to this girl, the girl didn’t like her. Not only did she not like Shiah, but she said the meanest things to her. Rachel was so vicious to her that Shiah would be in tears every day. She didn’t think she’d done anything wrong to this girl, but the girl seemed to hate her just the same.

  Each day, Shiah’s mother would drop her off, and she would go through the entire day trying to avoid the mean girl, but the girl always seemed to find her. Even when she was minding her own business doing an activity, the mean girl would find her, say something, and get everyone else laughing at poor Shiah.

  Making fun of the way Shiah looked was her favorite method of being mean. You’re so ugly,” the girl would say.

  “No, I’m not!” Shiah would reply.

  “Everyone hates you, you know. We all think you’re ugly, Why do you come here?” Then she added, “Look at your hair. It looks like a Brillo pad!”

  The girl was relentless. Day in and day out she tortured poor Shiah. She would even get other kids to chant, “Shiah’s ugly!”

  These vicious words broke Shiah’s little heart. She didn’t think she was ugly, because her mother and her family had told her she was beautiful. But, over time, after being told every day by more than one person, she began to question this. Maybe she was ugly after all. They had to be right if they were saying it all the time.

  At home, the way she was treated at school started to get to her. Shiah began to look in the mirror at herself, and to hate her own curly hair, her full lips, and her bubble butt. Soon she hated the very sight of herself. She felt like she finally understood why they hated her, for she now hated herself as well.

  This went on and on for weeks, and finally, one day out in the yard, she saw the girl walking towards her again. “You’re a bitch” she said, as she got closer to Shiah.

  “No, you’re a bitch!” Shiah shouted.

  When the girl got directly in front of Shiah, she must not have noticed the huge rock in Shiah’s hand, because the look on her face when she smashed her in the forehead with it was one of shock and disbelief.

  She watched, without even the slightest shred of remorse, as the blood trickled down the girl’s forehead. The adults came running and she saw nothing but shadows grabbing at her, and screaming at her as if she were some sort of monster. What was happening? Why was everyone so concerned about the other girl? Everyone was yelling at Shiah now, not the girl. That was it, now everyone did hate her, including the teachers.

  Her mother was so pissed at her when she picked her up. She got the spanking of a lifetime, and was sent to bed early. She was immediately removed from the school, and sent somewhere else. People were always asking her why she had done something so horrible. The new teachers asked her, and her mother asked too. She didn’t know why she reacted in this manner. How could she be expected to know what went on inside her head, or why her anger brought her to this point sometimes? She was only a child. It just made her so angry when people treated her badly.

  This was the only way she knew how to react after so many hateful things were said to her, and no one tried to make it stop. The teachers always ignored her when she complained, and it seemed that no one cared about what those kids were saying and doing to her, or how it made her feel. Feeling alone and not heard in the world when you’re small was the worst feeling ever.

  Although she tried and tried, she couldn’t keep herself out of trouble. It didn’t matter where she was, trouble seemed to follow her. She did her best to develop close friendships like the other kids she knew, but she just couldn’t seem to get along with anyone. Something had caused her to be this angry. Why did she have to have such rage at this age? Was it the fact that she didn’t have a father?

  There was something else looming in her mind, an uncomfortable memory that wouldn’t leave her no matter what she did. She remembered a visit to the doctor where the doctor was opening her legs and spreading open the lips of her vagina. She also remembered that her mother was not allowed to be in the room while this was being done. Was the doctor looking for something, and if not, why had he done that? For some reason, she remembered this vividly, and though she knew it was odd, she never questioned it. Thinking about the incident made her feel so strange, so she tried to push it out of her mind the best she could, never daring to ask her mother about it.

  When Shiah later became an adult, she learned about exams that were done when a child was sexually abused. It made her think back to this doctor’s visit. Had someone abused her sexually? Was her mother making sure she was okay? She didn’t remember anything else related to the memory, but she knew it had happened.

  This very vague memory was always with her, and would stay with her for the rest of her life. With of course.... No answers.

  If there was no way to know, then there was no way to heal. Poor little mama. Janice didn’t even know that this had changed her daughter forever. Her original, untainted view of the world had been destroyed.

  Growing up was nearly impossible for her with a piece of her innocence already missing. Having everything she needed was important, and she felt that she had all the outside stuff, but her thinking was messy and twisted from the beginning. She was to find out more about herself as an adult, that her out-of-control behaviors were all signs that she had been sexually abused. In first grade, she would urinate in waste paper baskets, and invite boys to touch her in the playground. What did a little girl know about having someone touch
her at that age? There was definitely something wrong, and again...

  There were no answers.

  Now, more than ever, she felt as if people were grossed out by her. She saw the way the teachers looked at her, and the way people changed the way they related to her. It was just different. She was no longer a cute little girl to them—now she was “that troubled girl.” It was how she felt about herself too. Not like any of the other kids, basically an outcast. She hadn’t asked to turn out this way. It just happened without her permission. Everything that happened to her always seemed to be her fault. The people around her made her feel crazy and act even worse, so she was always getting in trouble.

  How would she be able to live a normal life after this? What was normal anyway? As she grew older, again without even knowing it, she had become a survivor, a survivor of something she didn’t even remember. She had learned to adapt and continue on with her life, despite her pain.

  Maybe that’s what made her feel out of place all the time. The pain she felt inside could very well have been making her unable to relate to anyone. She could feel that she was looked at differently even by her own mother. The things she did were gross, and confusing to her. She was already a problem child, but it wasn’t her fault. She began to feel more and more like she was nothing but a problem.

  She still wondered if her mother loved her. Mother looked at her with strange eyes, not the way she must have when she was a baby. It felt like she didn’t like her very much sometimes, but she told her she loved her, and so it had to be true. Janice still played with her, and took her fun places, so maybe she did love her after all. Maybe Shiah’s idea of what a mother-daughter love was supposed to be like wasn’t accurate. All she knew was that she felt different and out of place in her own skin, and she was always very uncomfortable.

  Despite this knowledge, Shiah’s general feeling of being a total freak grew stronger as she got older. She knew that didn’t belong with the other kids at school. She felt it. She wasn’t like the rest of them. Of course she wasn’t. Had they been molested in their own bed, in their own home? Maybe, but even if they had, they couldn’t possibly feel like she did. They didn’t act like her, and they didn’t feel the same way she felt. She could see it. She acted differently than the other kids, and it made her stand out.