I was a bright, curious girl with a heart full of dreams. I lived with my mother and father, who loved me dearly. However, life was often unstable because my father struggled to manage our finances. He had a habit of not paying bills on time, which led to frequent moves from one place to another. At times, we went without electricity or running water.

From a young age, I learned to adapt quickly to new environments. Each time we moved, I made sure to carry my favorite belongings: a large stuffed monkey named Smiley and a well-worn book of ghost stories so they wouldn’t be lost. These items provided me with comfort and a sense of continuity amidst the chaos.

My mother was the one who worked tirelessly to support our family, while Dad did not work most of the time. By the end of her workday, she was often so exhausted that she seemed distant and unable to offer much support. Her fatigue left her with little energy to listen to my stories or provide encouragement.

Despite this, one of my cherished memories was listening to the captivating family stories they would tell. Their tales of sometimes crazy adventures and family history filled my imagination with wonder and excitement.

Making friends was always bittersweet for me. I would form a bond with a new friend, only to move away shortly after. This constant cycle of making and losing friends made me feel lonely, but it also taught me to cherish the moments I had with each person I met.

As I grew older, I started working small jobs to help support our family. However, my father would take my paychecks, which made me feel even more insecure.

After my parents separated, my father decided to move back to California. Since he had just undergone major heart surgery, I went with him to help out. Unfortunately, life continued to get worse. I didn’t have transportation to get around, and even after securing a job, I couldn’t start because I had no way to get there or a way to pay for the uniform. My dad spent most of his time with a woman he had met and was rarely around, often leaving me alone with nothing to eat.

Eventually, he pawned me off to live with his brother so he could be with his girlfriend, whom he later married. Unfortunately, my uncle was just as unreliable as my father, and life with him was equally unstable.

After a short time, I decided to move back to Arkansas. When I returned, my mother was living with my grandmother. Being back with my mother and grandmother provided a sense of familiarity and stability that I had longed for.

Through these and other experiences, I became resilient and resourceful. I learned to rely on myself and found strength in my creativity and resourcefulness. No matter what life threw at me, I always found a way to keep moving forward and hold onto hope.

In the streets near my childhood home, I navigated a delicate balance between innocence and vulnerability. At four years old, I was a small girl with scraped knees and bruised elbows which were a testament to the relentless torment inflicted by my older cousin, Dale. He lived next door, and our lives intersected in ways that left indelible marks on my young soul.

Dale’s favorite game was to ride his bicycle quickly and deliberately into mine whenever he could. The pavement became my adversary, and my scraped limbs bore witness to Dale’s twisted game. I’d pick myself up, tears streaming, and wonder why he targeted me. Was it jealousy? Cruelty? Or perhaps something darker lurking within him?

If I was at my uncles house, playing with Denise, I knew to be home as twilight approached. As I prepared to leave that’s when Dale would start whispering tales of the boogeyman into my ear. He painted a vivid picture: gnarled claws, eyes like dying embers, and an insatiable hunger for little girls who dared to be outside after dark. My heart raced, and I’d sprint home as fast as I could, his taunting voice echoing, “There he is! He’s going to get you!” Once safely at my door, out of breath, I could hear his maniacal laughter as I slammed the door closed and locked it.

Sadly, this is only two examples of the torment, both physical and emotional, that he put me through. Eventually, my family moved to another town where healing began. The scars remained and eventually Dale’s cruelty faded into memory.

I have such mixed feelings about Dale. On one hand, I loved him; on the other, I was terrified of him. His tortured soul left an indelible mark. I hope he was able to find the peace he deserved. His life was a storm of anguish, and at age 57, he departed this world, leaving behind a legacy of pain and unanswered questions—not just mine, but others who loved him as well. Whether he ever discovered peace remains a mystery, concealed within the folds of time.