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When I think back to my earliest memory, it was a good one. I was 5 and it was my birthday! I was so excited because my aunt made me a rainbow bright cake! We had all gathered at my aunts house to celebrate, me! One of the only times I actually remember a party in my honor. That was a good day! I’m blessed for that day because so many terrible ones would follow, I just didn’t know at that time.

My parents divorced around that time as well. My mother was very bitter and angry and never talked good things about my father. She accused him of child abuse and made up an entire story that I would have to later share in years of therapy. So many years I wasn’t allowed to see my father. So many years I didn’t know what happened nor what was actually true.

As the years passed, it seemed so did my mother’s love for me. I remember times when my mother would use the bathroom and clog the toilet. She would make me stick my hand down the toilet to unclog it, pulling up in my hands her waste.

The Department of Child and Family Services (DCFS) was called once because she threw a Tupperware cup at me and it sliced my head open. She coached me all the way to the hospital about what not to say and what was ok. The school called DCFS as I complained of my head hurting and let the lady know what happened. As soon as the guy left our house, she was in my face, screaming at how lucky I was that she couldn’t touch me for 30 days but beware for day 31. I felt so blessed for those 30 days! To this day she would try and convince you that she tossed the cup and I was merely in the way. My sister would tell you, she remembers that day.

I remember the days I was told how much I was hated and wished I was never born. I remember always being in trouble, even when I did nothing wrong. Beatings that always consisted of me pulling my pants down and bending over the couch, and you’d better not move or it was so much worse.

When I turned 11 years old, I had had enough. My grandmother, my favorite person in the world, had a stroke and passed away. I felt I had no one. I had no reason to be here on earth. I decided it was best to end my life. I took 2 bottles of pills and a glass of milk and drank every pill down. On the last pill, my sister walked in the bathroom and realized what I had done and started freaking out. When I got out of hospital, I was sent to foster care. I don’t remember how many different homes I’ve been to over the years but it was enough. Seemed like every 30 days it was a new family. My sister recently found out I was in foster care. I thought she knew. She was told from my mother that I had a drug problem and was in rehab getting the help I needed.

When I was 15 years old, and couldn’t go to anymore foster homes unless it was permanent, my mother decided to drop me off in another city, about 2 hours away, with a guy I had met and not known long. I called her and asked her to come get me because things weren’t going well, she responded with chilling words I will never forget, “you’re on your own now, you figure it out.” When I did figure it out, I found a half way house in Chicago for women that agreed to let me move in and get a job so I could pay rent. My mother drove to Rockford, signed papers saying I was emancipated and left without as much as a hug or wish for luck. Why was I so unlovable? I never understood. What had I done that I was so hated by my own mother all growing up?

Many years later my questions would be answered with as much honesty as I had ever heard coming from my mother. “What did I do that was so terrible that you hated me so much?” And her answer was simple, “You did nothing. I just didn’t like you and don’t know why.”

Guest Author Bio:

My name is Julie Fuller. I was born in Ottawa, Illinois. I currently reside in Austin, Texas.

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