INTRODUCTION

My life experiences have inspired me to write this book because other people might be experiencing or have experienced similar things, and I hope that I can help someone push through their pain by sharing mine.

My name is Shawnti Refuge. This book contains information that may trigger some individuals. It definitely will make somebody mad, but I don’t care. I’ve held it in for so long; now is my time to let it out. You are about to read real-life accounts of MY LIFE, as told by ME. Some names have been omitted to maintain the privacy of those involved, although they don’t deserve it. I am a lady, so I will continue to carry myself as such. Hit dogs will always holler. Just know that these situations really happened. Nothing you are about to read is exaggerated. Everything that you are about to read will make you feel something, whether it's laughter, sadness, or anger. This shit is real.

Chapter ONE

EARLY LIFE

I'm from Beaumont, Texas, a small town about 81 miles outside Houston. I was born and raised there. My dad named me after his Army buddy. His name was Shawnti, and it means peace. I didn’t learn this until I was an adult. Looking back, my childhood wasn’t the greatest. From what I can remember, I spent most of my time with my grandmother, whom I adored. My mom worked, and when she wasn’t working, she went out on weekends with friends. I remember waiting for her to come through the door after a night out. She was the most beautiful woman in the world to me, and I wanted to be just like her.

My mother and I didn't have a great relationship as I became older. She was a young mother. She had me when she was 20. My dad was young, too. They were high school sweethearts. I've never seen my mom and dad together as a couple. They divorced when I was two years old. From what I was told, we used to live in California. I don't remember that, but I have seen pictures from when we lived out there. My dad was in the Army, so he traveled a lot. I've heard that my mom left my dad while we were in California because she wanted to move back home to Beaumont to be closer to my grandmother. She was the youngest, so she was the baby and wanted to return home where it was familiar. Let my dad tell it: my mom left because she no longer loved him. Boy, was he wrong.

At the time, I thought my mom was a great mother sometimes. I equated her greatness with always having what I needed physically, like clothes, shelter, and food. She was physically abusive and in a physically abusive relationship for a while after she married for the second time. I remember her being with her second husband; he was physically abusive towards her, and I used to get my ass kicked all the time. Looking back, she was taking her frustrations out on me because she couldn’t defend herself against her abusive husband. She eventually left him and ended up with another man. Here enters my little sister, who is six years younger than me. I thank God she didn’t have a kid with that second husband. He recently died. May he rot in Hell.

I used to think that my little sister was my baby. I got to name her and everything, but things quickly changed when I started being ignored by my mom. Now that I’m an adult, I was jealous of my little sister. She got all of the attention, and I got none. To me, she got everything she wanted. Her dad was in her life. I wasn’t getting it either. Yes, I know this is a normal feeling, but mine was taken to the extreme, leading to us not getting along for most of our childhood.

At the time, my dad wasn't physically present in my life because he was traveling due to his demanding duties in the Army that required him to be away from me, so I assumed. Later, I found out he traveled due to the woman he was with whom he later married, then divorced some years later. (He told me this when I was an adult.)

I would refer to him as my telephone dad because he used to call me all the time, and he used to provide for me financially, but I never really saw him in person. I used to see him once a year. It would either be me going to see him or he would come to see me, depending on the circumstances. He wasn’t nurturing like a father, although I didn’t know what that was then. I just knew he wasn’t it.

It was my greatest joy to spend time with my grandmother, who did not want to be called grandma, mom, or anything like that. Rosie is what she wanted to be called, so that is what I called her. She raised me and has always been kind to me, even as a child when I didn’t deserve it. She always treated me with the kindness you were supposed to give a kid. We had a great relationship. I miss her so much. She passed away when I was 20.

If I could describe myself, I would say I'm smart, independent, stubborn, determined, and an overachiever who’s always out to prove someone wrong about me. I can be mean sometimes. I can also come off as uncaring. I am also, at times, nonchalant, and I still have that tendency. I blame the Aquarius in me. It’s either that or a defense mechanism. As I got older, I always said I would never be like my mom. Now that I've said that, I realize how much I can be like her, and I wouldn't say I like it. When I say that, I don’t mean she’s a bad person because she’s not. She can be too giving and definitely to the wrong people. She’s also an avoider, especially of essential things. I've been getting better and not adopting the same traits she has. I think, in some ways, I am like my grandmother too: kind, giving, selfless.

Growing up, there was no affection. I didn’t know what that was. We didn't say, I love you, or hug each other. My mother didn't do hugs, but my grandmother did. I thought this was normal at the time.

We didn’t sit at the dinner table and discuss our day like the families did on TV. I wanted to live like that. Hell, I wasn’t asked about anything, not even my grades. Until a few years ago, I still didn't talk about my feelings to anybody. I felt weird at the thought of even sharing my feelings with anyone. I kept it to myself because that’s what I knew. That’s what I thought I was supposed to do: keep it all in and push through.

Once, I remember we were at my grandmother's house, but my grandmother wasn't there. My stepdad, who used to abuse my mom, and I were the only ones there. My mom had not yet arrived. Sometime during the day, I told my stepdad I wanted to call my dad, and he allowed me to do so. He told my mom when she got back, She wanted to talk to her daddy, so we called him. She got so furious that she kicked me out the door with her feet, and one of the neighbors, Mr. Green, saw her. She never did that again after he told her that if she did it again, he would contact child protective services & tell my grandmother. I was no more than four years old. YES, I remember that clear as day.

When I was in the third grade, she got mad at me for something the day before the first day of third grade. I did or said something to get in trouble, but I don't remember what it was, but she was mad. She wore a belt with indentions in it. She took it off and motioned as if she would whip me, and I started running as any kid would when they saw pain coming. She made a motion like a whip cracking, and the belt caught me on the side of my face as I ran away. I cried, of course. That shit hurt. I kept feeling this stinging sensation, so I hopped up on the sink in the bathroom to look in the mirror to see why my face was stinging. Instead of circle loops on the belt, there were stars. A line of swollen stars and broken skin was on the left side of my face near my eye.

As a result, I went to school with a line of stars on my left cheek on the first day of third grade. I was so embarrassed, especially since my second-grade teacher came in to check on his previous-grade students. I turned my head when he entered the classroom so he wouldn't see it. I was hoping that he didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t.

There was no verbal apology from my mom when she did me wrong, but she did offer me food as an apology. Now that I think about it, giving me food was her way of apologizing whenever she wronged me as a kid. That’s probably why I was a chubby kid. That time she hit me across the face, her boyfriend at the time (my middle sister’s dad) said, Don't you think you hit her too hard? She told him she would hit me harder than that next time. After that, she thought about it and came and gave me a popsicle. That was her way of saying she was wrong, I guess.

My mom wasn’t all bad. During my childhood, I did have happy moments, like when I was in dance. Yes, I was in tap, jazz, ballet, and gymnastics. I loved it all. For the longest time, I wished I never quit dancing. Shit, I still wish I never left. I probably would be a dance teacher or own a dance studio somewhere.

I made sure I was the best dancer in class. I used to get all the solos and would be in the front for the group dances, and some of the other girls were mad. I remember when the teacher heard two of the girls teasing me and calling me fat. She was so upset she held a conference with the parents and my mom. I had no idea they didn’t like me. I didn’t even hear them talking about me. I wasn’t bothered either when I did find out. I knew I was a better dancer than them, and they were jealous. To this day, I wish I would have kept dancing. I'm sure my life would have turned out much differently, but everything happens for a reason.

I knew I was favored in dance class. I loved it. My teachers were always friendly to me and encouraging. That’s something I didn’t get at home. So why in the hell did I stop going to dance class? MIDDLE SCHOOL is why. My dumb ass thought I was too old to be taking a dance class. I just quit going. No one in my family encouraged me or made me continue dancing. More on that later…

The resentment I felt towards my mother impacted how I was a mother to my children, as I found myself doing some of the same things my mom did to me regarding not showing much affection toward them. Let’s be clear. I didn’t abuse them, but I did discipline them. We’ll get into that later too.

There was a time when my mom and I didn't speak. I didn't call her for two years when I moved to Houston. I had so much anger built up towards her, and I blamed her for so many things that went wrong in my life that I just needed my space from her.

That's something I've always said. My plan was to get out of Beaumont and away from my mom when I turned 18. That's exactly what I did. I never got along with her during my childhood. So, in other words, when I moved to Houston, I was like, I'm grown, and I don't have to talk to you anymore.

Over the next two years, I did not communicate with her. One day, I decided, okay, let me talk to my mom. Anyway, my mother and I have started a relationship again, and we talk, though we have never been the best of friends. Now that I am a full-grown woman, I know we will never be because we are not on the same page, and that’s unfortunate.

We have this weird relationship right now, and I don't know what to call it. Because she still triggers me, so I take her in doses. She doesn’t provide motherly support. I can’t talk to her about my thoughts, feelings, or issues because everyone in Beaumont would know about it. How do I know? Because any time my sisters tell her something in confidence, she tells me about it. I learned a long time ago not to tell her my business.

Whenever I went to my aunt and uncles for the summer as a kid, they would take me and my cousin on trips, and we would go to AstroWorld or the beach. Those are my favorite childhood memories. Those were the times that I felt loved, cared for, important, and free like a kid should. I miss those days, sometimes. Those people from back then aren’t the same today.

I had a friend in middle school who spent the night at my house. You know, like girls would in middle school. My mind goes back to a time when we were sharing secrets. I confessed to her that I thought I had sex with this guy and thought I was pregnant. Yes, I thought, because I didn’t know what sex was then. She told her mom, and her mom called my mom and told