The Product of a Broken Heart

by Crystal Ismael

  Startled, I lifted my hand out of the water without saying a word. I knew I couldn’t tell her the truth, but I was too afraid to lie.

  “What did you think you were going to do, Dana! Get in that bleach water?” she exclaimed, interrupting the answer I was trying to come up with in my head. She looked around at all the damage I had done to her bathroom, from the bath, the bleach, and the odds and ends that I let fall as I swiftly tried to succeed at my plan.

  “I guess not,” I replied (that’s all I could come up with), as I stood there trembling inside. I was trying to come up with a reasonable explanation in case she asked the same question twice, as she sometimes did.

  “I’m relieved that you know that, Dana!” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes until I thought they would get stuck in her head.

  I twirled my fingers, hoping this would end the conversation.

  “Now let out that water and get out of my bathroom!” she shouted as if she wanted the whole neighborhood to hear her! “Get out!” she yelled firmly again before I had the time to move one foot, letting me know that no foolishness was permitted today.

  I was just surprised that I didn’t get a whole lecture on what I had done, a lecture that would be dragged out all day and into the next day. Trying to keep the smirk from my face, while relieved I didn’t have to tell her the whole story of why I decided to bleach my skin. I released the water, giggling to myself, and ran out of her bathroom, briskly grabbing my book bag, which I had dropped off in the center of the living room floor.

  “Surprised she didn’t yell about the book bag on the floor,” I whispered to myself as I headed to my room and slammed the door. I could hear her mumbling while opening and closing doors, looking for anything else I may have gotten into.

  I switched positions in my chair and placed the photo album down, laughing at that moment. “I never got around to that bleach water,” I whispered to myself, chuckling uncontrollably. Organizing the photo album, I thought about how many women were lost in a world that define beauty for them, a world that is continuously defining what and who they should be, how they should dress, how to talk, how they should wear their hair and so on. Leaving them blind to the vision and knowledge of who they truly are. It’s in those moments of blindness and confusion, we tend to tell the Creator, “You made your creation wrong; you somehow made a mistake when you made me” by allowing ourselves to be hoodwinked into what the world view as beauty.

  That was me. I hated the very things that distinguished me from other ethnicities—the fullness in my lips, the texture in my hair, the fullness in my body. I tried to be a race and a color that I was not and never will be. I thought I could never be beautiful, I didn’t fit into the western world idea of what beauty was. At that time in junior high, I just knew it was not in the cards for me. I tried to identify with the world by starving the very individual who was made to stand out and be different, never grasping hold of the wisdom to know that I was created to be different, to lead and not follow, made to walk with authority and not fear! Instead, I was avoiding the me that was screaming to be set free. I was trying to be every other ethnicity, while mimicking everyone else culture and taking on an identity that was not mine, and conforming to an image that was never created for me.

  I glanced into the mirror hanging from the wall across the room and realized how the night I was molested skewed how I viewed myself. Before, I liked myself! I loved myself to the point of dressing up in the mirror with play makeup my mother had bought for me, playing outside with the kids on the block, laughing and so on. I expected to grow up and be someone of importance. I used to twirl back and forth in my room, smiling from ear to ear as I held my dolls in one hand and my mirror in the other. I saw how the image in the mirror became the image I programmed myself to later hate.

  I learned how moments and situations in life can steal your vision of yourself if you are not careful. Though I was ten, the principle of the matter remained. I later learned after much heartbreak and tears, that neither people nor issues can define who I am. I was defining myself by my situations. A man I trusted to watch over me, took what was supposed to be saved for my husband, so I determined I was worthless to any man that approached my presence. My father left, so I wasn’t lovable. I thought my mother didn’t care about me or what I did, so I wasn’t of importance. I told myself this over and over until it penetrated the very core of who I was, as I saw her coming and going from the many jobs she took on. By defining myself based on my issues, I started to rely on my issues to shape the very being of who I was.

  “Dana, why do you keep putting heat to your hair? You are damaging it!” Mother yelled as I was walking out of the restroom to go into my room. Why would she buy it? I thought in anger. If she didn’t want me to use the flat iron, why would she buy it? I screamed from within. It was a Saturday morning and surprisingly my mother was home catching up on cleaning and cooking.

  By this time, I liked my hair straight. I didn’t enjoy wearing my natural hair, who would enjoy kinky hair I said under my breath. It looks as if someone just woke up and decided not to do their hair for a week or so I said under my breath. “What did you say Dana,” she asked firmly taking her eyes off the tv and placing them directly on me. I just like my hair straight I said while walking off. Why does she care? I wondered as I watched her turn her attention back to the tv clicking the remote, flipping through the channels, most likely looking for a soap opera or a courtroom show she became interested in.

  “That’s crazy, Dana,” she continued, not moving her eyes from the television as she continued to flip through the channels, nodding her head as if agreeing with herself.

  I glared at her as I went into my room. Why, suddenly, does she care about what my hair looks like? As the anger boiled in me over why she thought it was crazy to straighten my hair, I decided to settle this conversation by saying nothing at all. After holding back the tears building up in my eyes, I threw myself on my bed and put the blanket over my head. Couldn’t she say, “Dana, your hair is gorgeous today” or “Dana, you look great today”? That would have been perfect! I thought to myself as I laid on the bed with the tears flowing.

  “Why does she care what I look like anyway?” I repeated to myself, hoping for a justifiable answer. As I screamed from within, I knew I was just trying to be like the pretty girls I had seen at school. Since straightening my hair was not doing the trick and the whitening soap had no effect, I became angrier. I picked up the remote and threw it at the wall, kicking and screaming. Before I knew it, I was in a ball on the floor, crying, sobbing uncontrollably … just like that night.

  I could hear my mother in the living room. “Dana! You better stop all that noise,” she screamed over the TV and continued on with her soap opera that she finally found.

  Trying to hold the sobbing, I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to pull myself together. I found myself dizzy, forgetting I had not eaten anything today. I was starving myself because I wasn’t thin like the popular Caucasian cheerleaders whom everyone seemed to adore, the ones who looked like cloned Barbies or as if they could have jumped straight out of a magazine.

  Glaring over at them as I ate my lunch the next day, I thought they were so perfect. Their hair—how it blossomed in the sunlight, as the rays of light peaked through the window and hit perfectly on them, and how they laughed and flaunted their perfection as they twirled their hair. When they ate, I noticed they managed not to let the food touch their lip gloss. Opening their mouth, wide enough just to put the food in, while managing not to touch their lips. They had to have bleached their teeth or something, because they had the whitest teeth I had ever seen. As they giggled and talked about their weekend. I lowered my head so I could listen without them thinking I was weird from staring. They made it sound like they had participated in some kind of magical event over the weekend, as they twirled back and forth in their seats trying to keep still while the excite
ment boiled over, swinging their hair from one side to the next, and then quickly putting stray strands behind their ear.

  After the bleach incident with my mother, I had been completely depleted of the energy of even trying anymore, I thought to myself as I watched the cheerleaders get up and walk off, giggling and walking together in unity. Coming in from school that day, I hoped I would at least see my mother. As I walked slowly up to the house, I knew that was nothing but a hopeless wish, as I slowly walked up to an empty driveway. The house was totally silent, except for the game that my brother was playing.

  “Hey, Jay,” I said as I slipped past his room, waving one hand at him, knowing he would not answer. Why would he? He kept his headphones on, I screamed! His tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he played the video game, moving his arms from side to side. Ignoring the fact that my mother was not home and my brother had lost himself in the game system, I threw my book back down in my room, gathered my pajamas and headed for the bathroom for a shower.

  As I turned on the water and waited for it to warm up, I slowly paced the floor. I could feel the tears build up in my eyes as I felt the hurt and pain of what was going on. Quickly wiping away the tears that forced their way out, I took off my clothes and slowly placed my feet inside the shower, feeling so frustrated with myself. I screamed from within as I caught a glimpse of myself in the shower mirror. Why does she have so many mirrors? I wanted to yell. Why does there have to be a mirror in every room? I wished I could have asked my mother. I looked at how my stomach hung down, how my breasts never went through the perkiness stage—they went from formed to hanging. The anger took over when I began to bathe myself and horrific images of that night began to flash in my head, only prepared to haunt me for the rest of the night.

  As I washed my breasts and remembered they had been fondled with, tears started to flow even more. I could still feel his cold hands as he placed them firmly on me. As I washed my stomach, I gasped for air as I can still feel the heaviness from that night as he laid on top of me. Moving the towel down to my private areas, I tensed with the fear I had felt that very night. The tears began to flow more and more. The quicker I wiped them, the faster they streamed, until I found myself bawling in unstoppable tears right there in the shower. And just like that night, I knew help was not on the way.

  Chapter 4

  Junior high was over, and surprisingly, I had made it. I realized that entering high school was a lot different from entering junior high. In high school, it seemed the boys were a little more mature. I had breasts, which seem the boys were after, at the time. I had them in junior high, but the boys then thought it was too much of a mommy look! High school boys loved them, and that was exactly what they wanted when they came after me. I had the hips and the butt, which got me the attention from the football players, basketball players, and who ever decided to take a second look.

  “Man, Dana, you look good,” they said as I walked down the hallway at school.

  All they saw was my looks, nothing more and nothing less, and that was what got me noticed. I didn’t care how I got noticed just as long as I did, I told myself every morning as I got dressed for school. I made sure I picked out the tightest pants to show off my curves and the shirts that enhanced my breasts. I wanted to feel needed, to feel love and to at least feel cared for. I didn’t know the things I really needed were not on a high school freshman boy’s mind.

  The more I got noticed, the more I began to show my skin, since that’s what attracted the guys. If skin and breasts are what they want to see, then that is what they get. Who is here to tell me I am wrong? Who told me any different, I would tell myself. I gave them what they wanted because, in some weird way, they were giving me what I thought I needed—attention. Attention to prove that being molested was okay, and that I was okay (knowing on the inside, I was dying). Attention to prove that being raised with no father didn’t hurt me. Attention to prove that though my mother didn’t show me attention, I was still getting it regardless. Attention to cover up any hurt and pain I tried to forget or at least bury. Attention to hide myself from dealing with what was hurting on the inside.

  Somehow, what these guys needed me for was nothing more than what I was portraying I wanted them to have, and that was my body. I gave them my body in return for love, being cared for, and being hugged on every now and then. I needed someone to come and heal what was damaged, but soon realized those shoes were too big for anyone to fill. So time after time, I was returned with hurt after hurt, and constantly being used.

  Pain after more pain was what I was left with. I told myself, “I’m not dealing with this, nor life. I want to kill myself, damage myself, take myself out,” I said as I stood in front of the mirror with the knife in my hand, tears rolling down my face. “Who am I? Who is this God who says he loves me that would allow something like this to happen to me?” I quoted the scriptures I was taught in Sunday School class when I was younger. The one the Sunday School teacher made me remember. John 3:16 was a every Sunday ritual. “For God so loved the world” it would start out. God doesn’t love wasted goods, I told myself over and over as I gripped the knife tighter in my hand, squeezing it with all the strength I had in my body. I don’t know how to handle life anymore, I cried out from within.

  “Dana!” my brother screamed over my silent crying. “Dana, the telephone.” He continued to yell out.

  Gasping for air, I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, amazed at the reflection staring back at me, as the tears streamed down my face.

  “Dana,” my brother yelled again, “come get the phone.”

  Quickly wiping my tears with the back of my hand, then wiped the excess on my jeans. I sucked in my desire for not living and went into the living room, where Jay was dangling the telephone by the cord with a smirk on his face. Not really wanting to talk to anyone, I snatched the phone from his hand, while rolling my eyes, thinking at least it took my attention from what I was about to do.

  “Hey, Dana,” Jason said on the other end, with a loud, energetic tone.

  “Yes, Jason,” I said, still trying to hold back the tears that were still forming in my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, ignoring the tone in my voice, warning him that I did not want to talk. “I have those pills if you still want them.” he carried on.

  “When can I get them?” I replied before he could finish his sentence.

  Jason was my hookup guy. He always supplied me with the pills and drugs I needed for little to no charge. At the beginning of my freshman year in high school, I began to take Xanax, handlebars, and ecstasy, I developed a horrible habit of smoking cigarettes and marijuana just to keep myself calm from the loudness and chaos of life. My days eventually began to revolve around taking pills, pills to get up and pills to go to sleep, until, pills were all I knew to stay alive, and jason understood that.

  “Hello, Jason, are you there?” I asked, as I heard nothing but silence on the other end. “Jason!”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here, Dana. Come get them now,” he said before quickly hanging up the phone.

  I’ll be back jay! I screamed out as I grabbed my shoes by the door and dashed out the door. This will definitely help me get through the night I thought as I started down the sidewalk.

  My mother didn’t know what was going on from day to day. She often had her days confused. It would be Monday, but she would swear it was Friday, so I knew she wouldn’t even notice the dysfunctional habits I was starting to dabble in. I was staying awake during the day to get my next fix at night. I didn’t see too much of my mother. I stayed in my room and only came out to eat and use the bathroom, for she didn’t know if I was dead or alive, I would sometimes ponder. She rarely checked, apart from the sudden yells down the hall to see if I was home, but most of the time, she was sleeping, preparing for her next fix, which was work.

  The school week had quickly gone by, and the weekend was upon us.
I was sitting on the porch on a very hot Saturday afternoon. The wind was stiff, and the sun was blazing, a perfect day to be at the beach, I thought to myself as I wiped the sweat from my face. My brother had locked himself in the room, and my mother had just left for her weekend job, where she stayed every other weekend. I was on the porch listening to music on my boom box when I noticed him.

  Oh, how I thought I was in love at that moment when he walked by. As I stared at this tall, dark-skinned boy, it literally felt like my heart had sunk into my chest. I watched him, biting my bottom lip, and batting my eyes as his long arms moved along in sync with his legs. I saw a slight grin on his face, as if he knew that I had my eyes on him. I stood up, showing off my shorts and hips as I flicked my hair from side to side in hopes that would get his attention. As he continued to walk. I moved towards the sidewalk as I fiddled with my shorts smiling and waving as he continued to walk by. He got far enough to turn back around and smile at me one more time.

  After a little investigation to find out just who this guy was, I found out he was barking on twenty years old. Yet here I was, fifteen and on the verge of dropping out of high school, which didn’t matter to me. I felt I was old enough and experienced enough to date him. I considered high school a waste of my time anyway. Nobody there understands me, I thought to myself. Teachers seemed not to care. My mother didn’t care, and it seemed my father didn’t care either, if he did he would at least would make it known. So, what does it matter if I stay?

  Not long after that day, which I jotted down in my heart and journal as our first encounter, he walked slowly up to my porch the following Saturday while I was sitting on the lawn chair, and softly said, “Hello, I’m Christian.”