Dear Melo, Part 1

A Story of My Life

A picture of Melo.

These diary journals are written to him as a way for me to cope with my past and hopefully one day be able to move on.

Names are changed or not used to protect the person’s identity. It will be going off multiple points of views, not just one. Some of them may be out of order as I recall the memories, and some information will be repeated in further parts as I may forget that I wrote them, sorry.

Dear Melo,

I will always love you, but you will never know what I went through as a child. I will never be able to express the pain and the fears that are going to be with me for the rest of my life clearly. It will only ever be a vague memory at certain points. That is because my brain has blocked so many memories for the safety of my sanity. If it did not do that, I would not be sitting here with you as you sleep. I would be far away in another life because I would be unable to control the pain and the depression that came with it. Don’t get me wrong, I suffer from depression every day, but it's bearable. I can live with it even though there are some days that I don’t want to. Melo, I think it's time though that I speak about the past and tell you what happened with what I remember. Maybe later I can open parts of the hidden pieces and share them.

This was from court records that I received after signing out of state custody:

I was born in 1997, on December 3rd. I was a small child, but I was drug addicted as my files state, so I was taken from my mother. She didn’t get custody back until I was a year old.

My memory somewhat:

By then my sister was already born and was living with my mother. I never was able to bond with my mother like my sister was, so there was a lot of tension between my sister and me, and a lot of hatred between my mother and myself. My father didn’t come into my life until a little later in my life. Compared to my mother though, I had a great bond with him. It was someone that my sister hadn’t met and been with before me.

This is going off my father's words:

I still never got along with my sister even with my father in the picture. I saw everything as a competition to my sister. One thing that my sister and I always fought over was my mother’s affection. My mother never really cared about me even as I was growing up. It was always excused as my sister was the sick one. She was born sick, therefore needed to be attended to more. I didn’t see it though.

My father gave me a lot of the attention that my mother neglected to give me, but he worked a lot as well to support us, so we were able to live in a home. This made it hard for me as I was stuck with my mother for a portion of the day. This caused a lot of negative behaviors for me that my mother was not able to handle and often complained to my father about when he got home.

My father proposed to my mother during this time so that he can become a permanent father to my sister and myself. My mother said yes as any woman would, but she had other plans. While my father was away at work, she would have men at the house and would please them as they wanted. This led to my father breaking it off and leaving, but he stayed in the picture because of me.

My mother, to try and keep him out of our lives, ended up creating a protective order against my father for abuse and used my sister and myself as leverage to get it. My mother did not get her way entirely though, as the judge allowed access for my father to see me, something my mother tried to prevent. It was later that the protective order was removed, and my father could see me freely without having to worry about the issue of being arrested if he was within a certain distance of my mother.

My memory:

We ended up living in a trailer park at the end of the entire ordeal. I was no more than four years old at the time. It was a nice place that I could remember. It was a small place though. My father would come and visit when he was off from work. My mother would bring only me up to see some neighbors in the trailer park and at first, it was harmless. As time went on though, it became the beginning to a lot journey of suffering and fighting.

There was one trailer my mother was particularly fascinated with. It was up the road from where we lived. It was just a man that lived there that I could remember. He seemed nice at first when I met him. He used to give me juice. Then as time passed and we went to this man more often he became touchy. At first, it was just my arms, then it went to my legs. From there it became sexual. My mother would sit there and watch with a smile on her face as I would squirm and ask him to stop. He never did though, and always told me that it was OK. He wasn’t going to hurt me and that it was normal for people to do that to females, but it was not to be shared with others. I did not understand what he meant, now that I am older I do now.

My mother never said a word about what happened when we went home, and I was too embarrassed to tell my dad. I felt dirty and used. I became skittish when I was near my dad because I was afraid he was going to touch me like the person up the road did, despite knowing him for a long time.

In my father’s words:

“I knew something was up, but I didn’t know what because you always acted differently when you came back from up the road. I always told your mother that she didn’t have to take you if you didn’t want to go, but she always told me to mind my business. I didn’t know that was happening to you” (referring to the issue years later when I finally spoke to him about what happened). 

This is all that I can write for now.


Your Mom

Now Reading
Dear Melo, Part 1
Read Next
Is Logan Paul a Sociopath?