the house(s) that built me

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     today my friend and I went walking around our old neighborhood, the one we and our other friends were convinced we dominated during the summertime and after school until the street lights came on or our parents whistled for us. Those were our prime days, when the strongest emotion you felt was falling off your bike, “high” meant good grades, and members of the opposite sex had cooties. It was the days before every one had to grow up, the days before divorced parents became reality, and before, sadly, some of us started dying off.
     needless to say, the trip down memory lane contributed loads of nostalgic feelings, ranging from good to bad.
     I visited my 2 old houses, which funny enough, were right next door to each other. Long story short, my family lived in one house, and my aunt lived in the one next door. My aunt moved out approximately the time my parents divorced, and my dad moved in to her house, while my mom stayed at our old house. It’s difficult to the max, I know. Our family’s original house was one we designed ourselves. It was ours, designed to our liking. At first, I remember it being as if it were out of a movie. We were so happy. The happy memories were Christmases when presents wrapped around the living room, playing with my little sister in our gigantic Barbie house, and movie nights in the living room.
     But as I got older, things changed. The fresh paint grew old and started chipping off of the walls. We outgrew our Barbie dolls, and smiles turned to unheard tears hidden behind the walls of our bedrooms. The yard that we put so much effort into trying to beautify with flowers wasn’t as beautiful when it’s filled with all of your mother’s items after your father threw them outside one night during a fight. I don’t remember the last time I walked in that house, because for some reason I hoped it wouldn’t be the end. That is why anytime I leave a place for the last time, I make sure to get one last image of it in my head.
     the other house didn’t have very many good memories due to the fact that it was a hard year living in those conditions. My mom was gone and it was just my dad at work and out at bars. I found myself caring for my little sister, making her meals, playing with her, making sure she washed herself, etc. Neither of us wanted to live there. We accidentally flooded the entire front half of the house one day during that summer, and that was really bad, however we find ourselves laughing at it now. Despite the difficulties of having to grow up quickly and the rotation of different women in our house, I don’t hate this house. I don’t hate either of them, actually.
     People ask me from time to time questions such as “If you could burn down your old houses, would you?” “If you could walk around your old house would you?”
     No. I could burn down my old houses, I could throw grenades at them and obliterate them to pieces, I could go in with a hammer and just go to town, but that won’t take away the memories of what I have. Here’s the real issue with that:
     It wasn’t the houses. It was the people. And every experience in the many different places I’ve been have just made me into who I am. “The house (s) that built me” literally built me. Piece by piece, they’ve all given me something, whether it be strength, or courage, or even listening skills. I’m forever grateful for that.
     Now there are new families in those houses with new coats of paint, new furniture, and most importantly, new memories. And although they may never know what went on in the owners before them, they’ll have their own things to worry about.

PS
I am currently selling T-Shirts to raise money and awareness to child abuse prevention. I will be donating any money raised to a charity in time for VDay, a holiday that fights back domestic violence.
The link to order these shirts is right here: http://https://www.booster.com/breaking-the-silence?type=1&side=front

Please help me break the silence.

Until next time,

Tay❤

Until next time,

Tay❤

breaking the silence

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“Don’t you remember I’m your baby girl? How could you push me out of your world? Lied to your flesh and your blood; put your hands on the ones that you swore you loved..”
     For the Love of a Daughter- Demi Lovato

Throughout my entire childhood, I was always told to keep my mouth shut when it came to personal topics. When I was younger it was “Don’t ask why the boy has darker skin than you.” Or “Don’t ask to go to the bathroom outloud in front of everyone.”
However, as I grew older it became “Don’t tell anyone that Mommy and Daddy are fighting.” “Don’t tell anyone Daddy threw you out of a chair.”
One of the main ones was “Don’t tell anyone at school what’s going on.” Why couldn’t I tell my favorote 3rd grade teacher what was happening? It perplexed me to no end. By telling this to the brunette 7 year old who wore headbands like her favorite shirt, you manipulated her. You manipulated me.
Most people who suffer from child abuse are taught to keep their mouths shut, whether it be out of fear or because they’ve been manipulated into thinking it’s okay. No one will speak up. It’s as if all across America a deep, dead, silence has washed over. Well I’m breaking the silence here and now.

My name is Taylore Nicholl Mullins. I’m 17 years old.
And I am a victim of child abuse.

Was that too taboo for me to say? Did I offend anybody? Or should I have kept my mouth shut?
Should I keep my mouth shut for the every 10 seconds a child abuse report is made*?

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         Caylee Anthony http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2572946/As-Casey-Anthonys-legal-woes-continue-memorial-site-daughter-Caylee-sits-abandoned-overgrown.html

Should I keep my mouth shut for the children like me who had to hide bruises underneath clothes at school, afraid to run at recess because their sleeve may slip down?
Should I keep my mouth shut for the between 4 and 5 innocent children who die of child abuse every day in America?*

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3 year old Scott McMillan. http://fox59.com/2014/11/07/boy-3-dies-after-being-beaten-strung-up-by-his-feet-while-being-systematically-tortured/

Why?
Because it’s the truth?
Here’s the truth.
My father was abusive. Many would find that hard to believe, but he was. He was a brilliant actor though, I had to give it to him. As soon as we were out of that front door it’s like he slapped on a mask full of deceit and lies. On social media too, you’d find millions of pictures and happy statuses about his oh-so happy life.
But just because someone’s life looks crystal and clear, doesn’t exactly make it so.
Nights were normally black as coal, with a raging volcano inside my dad waiting to erupt at any second. We walked on eggshells attempting to avoid waking it but sometimes, we’d step too hard and lava would spurt everywhere.
But did I tell anyone?
No.
Because I was taught by YOU that I couldn’t, remember? I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut.
I am 1 in 10 children.
Think it’s easy to overcome the effects of that abuse? You’re wrong. 80% of abused children will meet the criteria for at least one psychiatric disorder by the age of 21*. Even if the abuse ended in their early childhood, it haunts them for eternity.
I was lucky to leave my dad’s house this past year and have an amazing support system help me glue my broken and missing pieces together again. But it wasn’t easy. I still, to this day, have nightmares about him. He haunts my dreams. He hovers over my brain like a vulture ready to attack it’s prey every day. Most children aren’t as lucky as I was. Many have it way worse. And sadly, sometimes the vicious cycle of abuse is perpetuated through offspring.
Somewhere in America tonight, there is a child crying himself to sleep because the hand of his abuser went too far. He is helpless. He is broken. And the only savior he can count on is us.
We have to cut the taboo stigma that lies around talking about child abuse. These children need us, and if we are going to help them, we have to be able to talk about it.
People these days are too focused on their blessings or wants that they forget that not everyone is as fortunate as they are. “It’s too complicated to talk about” is most excuses.
Okay then. Well, go back to playing your Candy Crush but you have no room to complain about how our world is deteriorating at your family gatherings when it is deteriorating because of people like you.
We have to change it.
Justice will be served to my father one day soon. But WE have to help those who cannot help themselves

Until next time,

Tay❤

https://www.childhelp.org/child-abuse-statistics/
http://www.safehorizon.org/page/child-abuse-facts-56.html

when a heart breaks

  

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  The time on my phone reads 12:04 am but I can’t help thinking that it’s wrong. It has to be later than that. I’ve been tossing and turning for what seems like 8 hours. I can’t sleep. Eyes shut. Eyes open. An itch on my forehead. Was that a noise inside my closet? No. Just my imagination. Eyes shut. Eyes open. Eyes shut. Eyes open. So I’ll try my best to do what used to come so easily to me; write.
     A few months ago, if someone asked me to write, I’d be able to spit out 20 or 30 pages of well written, delicately intricate words woven together to create something beautiful. Now it seems like I can barely get out a sentence. The words are there in my brain floating in frozen clouds above the space where I’m supposed to be able to release them with the snap of a finger. They just float further and further away. The weight of the world pulls them away from me and I’m stuck here, feeling like a 1st grader with my pathetic attempt at meaningful writings. I have constant paper balls everywhere of scraps of things I wanted to write. Nothing comes to me anymore.
     The time is now 12:11 am and still nothing has come to me. I’ve tried a poem. A story. A venting of my feelings about how someone can wake up one morning and decide they don’t want you anymore, about how I think it’s stupid that we have to wear collared shirts to school, or even how the pizza in the cafeteria is just a trangular piece of cardboard with red sauce on it. But none of these things matter. They don’t amount to any of the huge ideas in my brain that I can’t get out. Writing used to help me get my over thought thinking out onto paper so I could easily fall asleep.
     Another thing, I haven’t been able to sleep in 4 days. I sit and stare into an abyss of dark ceiling but never can I sleep. When I do sleep, however, it doesn’t last very long. Which I’ve sort of concluded as the reason to my lack of creative juices up in the writing department of my brain. It may also play a factor in my need for sleep. (Duh)
     I don’t know what to write and it’s killing me. I used to be able to. And everything I wrote was good. It mattered. It’s been almost 2 months since I wrote something. How sad is that?? It’s 12:24. Geez, how am I going to get through classes tomorrow? “Sorry, Mr/Mrs. I was up all night tossing and turning in my bed because my mental instability is surely doomed for it is spiraling slowly out of control with every second that passes by.” Yeah, I’m not one for reading minds but I’m pretty sure that one won’t slide.. I guess if you’re reading this nonsense piece of rambling you could give me ideas of something to write about.
     Maybe something will come to me soon.
     Or perhaps maybe nothing will ever come again.
      Sleep tight.

-Tay