Through The Rain

Through The Rain

“I can make it through the rain
I can stand up once again
On my own and I know
That I’m strong enough to mend
And every time I feel afraid
I hold tighter to my faith
And I live one more day
And I make it through the rain”
--- Chorus from “Through the Rain” by Mariah Carey


When I was fourteen I was afraid to come to you when I needed you most. My world was crashing in on me, but I couldn’t turn to you. You taught me early on to depend on myself and not on you or anyone else for that matter.

When I was eight and the kid behind me in class used to tease and taunt me, you told me to grown up. When he cut off my pony tail, you told me that it was my own fault. Two weeks later, he stabbed my friend with the teacher’s scissors. So why would I come to you six years later?

I tried to be a “big girl” and deal with it myself. But I was too young to really handle it all. I tried to hide it from you, but at fourteen, I wasn’t good at hiding something like that. People around me took notice. You didn’t. If the principal and my gymnastics coach didn’t come to you, you would never have known—at least for a few more months. And as usual, you blamed me. Called me a whore…but I didn’t ask them to rape me.

When I found out I was pregnant, you wouldn’t even look at me. “Just get rid of it,” you said. You left the money on the counter. Two days before Christmas, your niece went with me to the clinic. She was the closest thing to support I had.

When I went away to college at sixteen, I thought it would get a little better (the whole out of sight out of mind thing). But then I needed you again. And of course, you weren’t there. After struggling my first semester (just two years after being raped), you cut me off after I didn’t make the grade. I fought to do it own my own, once again—by any means possible.

When they would crawl on top of me, I would say to myself, “I would make it on my own, once again.” The money paid my tuition. I graduated…barely. But I did it on my own.

For the next seven years, we were strangers.

Years would go buy. I would continue to try and fix everything on my own. When my “client” would hit me, I did not come to you. When I miscarried, I couldn’t go to you. When I gave birth to your twin granddaughters, it was just the doctor, nurse and me in the delivery room. When I signed the papers making myself disappear from their lives, you weren’t there to comfort me. But I got through it on my own with a bottle of Wray & Nephew and some pills the man at the club gave me.

I found my release with a blade. I’d watch the blood slowly flow from the wound—a kind of catharsis. Some iodine and a band aid would patch it for now—until the next time.

You taught me so well to depend only on myself that when someone wanted to help me, I didn’t see or understand what he was offering. I thought he was like every other man in my life—using me but not loving me. It took me a year to lower my guard and another two to allow myself to trust him. It was he who helped me to get out of the life I was leading. He taught me that I had self worth. He was more than a lover, he was my best friend, my brother and my father—the man you were supposed to be.

Nine years after we met we are still together. It irks him that you still aren’t there. When I ran into hard times after trying to follow my dream, he continued to help me as best he could. But times aren’t easy for anyone. When the letter came that said I would be on the street, you turned your back on me yet again. Because I made a promise to him not to fall back on old habits, I work two jobs and take on little projects here and there. But it’s still not enough.

As I write this I find myself trying to get help again. This time, I am begging the government for some assistance. Who would have thought, you daughter would have to result to this so that she wouldn’t have to be out on the street? But where are you? It’s ok, “I will make it through the rain.”

Thank you for letting me know that I am stronger that I thought I ever could be. Thank you Daddy for letting me know that sharing chromosomes doesn’t make a family.