The Memoirs of the Mistreated. Jamie R. Walker

where I found my mother high, rolling around on the sofa. She looked at me with her blank eyes and smiled. That grin of missing teeth and her face full of furrowed lines made her look like she was a pensioner. At the time she was only forty-two years old.

      •••

      That wasn’t the first time she stole from me. I had fashionable outfits and expensive jewelry that I had worked hard for taken away from me and sold for whatever she could bargain for. Each betrayal hurt me like an individual knife slit in my back, so I was forced to save my money in a bank account that my mother never knew about.

      However, once her easy source of cash dried up, she chose to turn her back on me, her daughter, the only family member left in her life. In her eyes, I was only worth her time if I succeeded in providing a means of support for her never-ending addiction.

       Once my banknotes ceased to exist, I ceased to exist.

      She would mumble nasty things when walking by me and groan about how horrible I was, but she never honestly tried to talk to me. She pretended she didn't even notice me—I was nothing to her.

      This sudden neglect from the woman who had given birth to me caused me to become quite hostile. I tiptoed around our home, avoiding her as much as I could, as I believed she was going to hurt me one day if I got too close.

      •••

      Neglect is a horrible thing. It makes you question your self-worth.

      I scanned my memory for reasons, for joyful moments which would give me hope that there was something in life worth living for. But I struggled to find anything.

      The negative memories kept piling up in my soul like trash and it reeked unbearably of suffering. I didn't know what I had done to deserve everything that had happened to me and I didn't feel like it was making me any stronger. I was becoming more and more broken every single day.

      I kept a straight face and shrugged my shoulders more often than not, yet my mind and heart were filled with excruciating agony. This pain had almost become a daily reality for me. Sometimes I felt like there was nothing left in me other than pain. It was my strongest emotion and the only reminder that I was still alive.

      My mother kept treating me like I was a shadow in the night. In her eyes, my physical existence slowly dwindled away. My presence went unnoticed, even when I was in the exact same room as her, sometimes standing only a few feet apart.

      My sense of belonging slowly became diluted as my mother lost sight of who she lived with. She treated me worse than my high school classmates had. At least they went out of their way to make me feel like shit. I was on their radar and although they made it clear I was worthless, they still paid attention to me. They noticed me.

      I didn't have many needs as a child; honestly, I only wanted to be loved—real, unconditional love, simply because I existed and not because I had something that could be taken advantage of, like my paycheck. I wanted to be protected. I prayed for someone who would hug me, hold me and just never let me go. I craved a relationship which would bring stability, an anchor to which I could return. I used to find my parents' mood swings ludicrous, but when my mother became completely neglectful, it hit me how much I appreciated her occasional acts of affection.

      •••

      I was nearly twenty years old when my mother made the decision to become a prostitute. She had finally realized that the only way she was going to make consistent, large quantities of money was to sleep with every desperate bachelor from our neighborhood.

      When she started her new profession I found it impossible to sleep while hearing the noises that echoed through our house. The bed frame kept incessantly banging the wall and to make matters worse, it was interrupted by loud moans and skin colliding with skin. She brought home men of all ages, but the streets usually supplied those past their fifties. I found them all disgusting. I pitied my mother and felt tempted to give her my money so that she wouldn't do it, yet the wound in my heart created by her neglect successfully prevented me from giving her any assistance.

      Moreover, I didn't want to participate in her horrible addiction. I had hoped that it would dawn on her what she was doing, that she should look at herself in the mirror and realize what she had become and at least make an attempt to change. But she didn't.

      She kept bringing new men home. Some of them had never married; others were divorced; many were betraying their wives. There were times they would come into the house and catch a glimpse of me. They would become startled, like they were caught red-handed in the very act of their betrayal. In most cases, that was the truth. They were cheating on the person they supposedly loved with a disgusting whore.

      In no time, my mother had become the talk of the town. She was labeled cheap and raunchy. She undercut the market for her services on purpose and the low prices she offered were meant to beat the rest of the whores residing in the neighboring streets. This strategy worked quite well. She was capable of sleeping with up to five men per a day, and soon she began to take heroin as often as when my father was still present in our lives. Sadly, her highs were never accompanied by those small acts of appreciation she used to give me when I was younger.

      Our relationship was over.

      In her eyes, I was against her because I lacked compassion to help provide her financial assistance. I deeply despised her for becoming a prostitute; it was pathetic and my father would have been outraged if he knew... Or maybe he would have condoned it if he got his fair share of the earnings.

      My parents really were okay with using each other to obtain what they both desired—drugs. My mother never scolded my father for committing crimes to provide for us. She would encourage him nearly every week to engage in another spree of robberies and would praise, glorify and worship him when he returned. They were terrible for each other; they dragged each other down and contributed to each other's downfall.

      •••

      The most despicable thing my mother ever did to me, was one day she came home with a man who was obviously quite perverted and she pulled me into the kitchen to offer me half the money to participate in their ‘lovemaking.’

      I was broken. This was the first time in ages that my mother had shown any interest in my existence, and her motive was to use me to gain money by offering me up as a sexual sacrifice. I brutally declined her proposal.

      However, that wasn't the first time she attempted to get me to participate; she tried to convince me to do so on multiple occasions. One could see greed shining in her bloody eyes every time she asked, and she was sharpening her teeth for a big payout in cash.

      The most mortifying and disgraceful thing about her actions was the fact that she clearly didn't care if I became a whore just like her. She didn't care if I lost my sense of righteousness completely and quit my job in favor of working the streets. She didn't care if I contracted some lifelong sexually transmitted disease that would cause me to slowly wither away and die.

      She simply didn’t care.

      The only thing that mattered to her was getting more money for more heroin.

      •••

      I began to get highly anxious in my own house. People knew where we lived and many men she bought home looked like they were capable of breaking into our residence and easily overpower a small woman like me.

      Once, I caught a glimpse of a man who was snooping around my bedroom window. Whether he knew that was my room or not, his intent to gain something sexual from this whore house must have been the reason he was investigating.

      This happened multiple times, to the point where I began to sleep with a hammer under my pillow. I knew that these men were stronger than me and if I were to wake with one forcefully trying to enter my room, the only place in this world in which I could create some illusion of safety, I would have had no other option but to bludgeon him to death.

      I didn't want to do this. However, my panic attacks were getting out of control. I was hyper-alert all the time and I felt that