A Mother's Curse

By Cassidy M McKinnie

Have you ever felt miserable in life due to your childhood, past experiences, trauma, etc? Have you ever wanted to just end it all, thinking that things would be better if you just weren't around anymore? Well, this book will help you fight the good fight, regardless of what you are going through. It will make you realize that life is worth livi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649906410

Cassidy M McKinnie

Cassidy McKinnie was born and raised in Tennessee, where she currently resides. She is a single parent of two boys. She has a Bachelor's degree in Sociology and a Minor in Psychology from the University of Tennessee at Martin. She will pursue her Master's degree in Psychology at the University of Phoenix. She has lived a struggled life but that didn't get in the way of her dreams. She highly recommends everyone to keep God first in whatever you do. This is her first published book and she hopes to write more, pertaining to her life as it goes on.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Since I was a child, I’ve always had a hard life. From birth to two years old, it was just my mother and me. My biological father lives in California, and I’ve never met him to this day. My mother reconnected with her high school sweetheart when I was two, and that’s when everything took a turn for the worse. When I was three, my youngest sister was born. I remember going in the room every night to check on her. One particular night, I went to go see her, and she was sleeping so peacefully. At least I thought she was, she turned over, opened her eyes, and burst out crying as if I was hurting her. I tried so hard to calm her down, but her crying got louder. Then my mom woke up and asked, What happen?

I said, I just came in here, and she starts crying.

She said, Well, you shouldn’t have been in here.

Then she pulled my pants down and starts to spank me on my behind. While I was getting the whooping, my sister stopped crying as if she was enjoying the fact, that I was being hurt.

Years went on, and my sister became my worst enemy. She would purposely do something wrong and blame her wrongdoing on me. Then I would get punished for it. She never got a whooping, and I mean never. At age five, I had my first and only birthday party. It was the best too, because the whole neighborhood was invited, and—my Godmother was there as well. That was actually the first and only time I saw her, sad to say. I remembered having a Lion King cake. I was never into girly stuff like Barbie dolls, makeup, and unicorns; I was more of a tomboy. I liked machinery toys like cashiers, trains, and things that ran on a motor. There were a bunch of people at my party inside and outside the house. I had a crush on the guy who lived two houses down, and he came; I was excited, but he didn’t bring me a gift.

I wasn’t worried, though, because his presence was a present to me. The guy across the street liked me, but I didn’t like him, and he gave me five dollars in a birthday card.

My friend girl stayed across the street as well, and she gave me a lot of gifts with different toys and stuff. It felt like Christmas in July literally, since my birthday is in July. That probably was the reason why it was the biggest—because it was going to be my last and I didn’t even know it.

The house we stayed in was haunted, at least I thought it was. One time I was sleep in my room and woke up in the living room, naked surrounded by lit candles. It was like an exorcism was being performed on me. I got up ran in my room, put some clothes on, and went back to sleep. I kept trying to tell my mother what happen the next morning, but she was too busy to listen. A week went by and it didn’t happen again, so I decided not to mention it at all. About a month later, I had a dream that binyah binyah from Gullah Gullah Island was outside my bedroom window trying to get in. I loved the show and was a big fan of binyah binyah until that night. He was saying, Let me in or I’ll kill you repeatedly. The next morning, I woke up and my comforter on my bed was talking to me. It said, Hey, Cassie! I ran to my mother’s room and told her the three events that happened. She told me that I had a wild imagination. Forget that, why in the world would I want to imagine something evil like that. That same night I had a nightmare that three men, dressed in all black, driving a white car, was outside in the back yard. They were just standing there looking at me, not moving a muscle. I close my eyes and hid under the covers; then I opened them, pulled the cover down, and they were standing in my room. I just screamed to the top of my lungs. My mom came in the room and cut the light on and asked what happened. I told her and she insist I sleep with the light on.

That didn’t help at all, my nightmares got so bad that some nights I would sleep in my parents’ room on the floor. Other times, I would spend the night at my cousin’s house, who stayed the next street over.

Talking about someone that was overjoyed when we finally moved. I didn’t know why we moved and didn’t care either, I was just glad to be far away from there. When we moved into another house; I never once had another nightmare. So, I knew it had to have been that house.

At age six, I was in the first grade. A little boy in my class used to pick with me all the time. He would hit me then run. When I told the teacher, she would just tell him to stop, but then he’d be right back at it. One day, I came to school with a weave ponytail on my head. We were all sitting Indian style in a circle on the classroom floor. This dude got up and snatched my ponytail off, running around the room saying, I got Cassie ponytail! I got Cassie ponytail! I was so furious and embarrassed that I jumped up and ran to the bathroom in tears. My teacher came after me and told me that it was going to be okay and promised that he would never bother me again. I don’t know what she told him, but that was the last stunt he pulled on me. From that day forward, he didn’t crack a joke about my hair, my weight, or anything; he didn’t even look at me, as if I was never there. He did this for the rest of the school year. When I got home, I told my mom about it, thinking she would have empathy for me. Instead, she told my sister and my stepdad as she was laughing about it. My stepdad was the only one to have enough sense not to laugh because, of course, that wasn’t a laughing matter.

At this time, my sister was turning four, and—oh boy—wasn’t she spoiled. They came running to her every need as if she was some type of toddler queen.

She had them wrapped around her finger, but not me; I knew the game, and she knew I wasn’t the one to play with. There were several times, when she did something bad and I got in trouble for it. One day, she let the dog in the house while my stepdad was at work. My mother saw her let the dog in the house and told her to let the dog out before he got home. Sad to say, she didn’t listen like always.

So, he got home and saw the dog. Poop and piss were everywhere, and the dog was running around the house.

He asked, Who let the dog in the house? It is not supposed to be in here.

My mother replied, Tiaera, but Cassie knows that the dog is not supposed to be in the house.

My dad reached for his belt and was heading towards my sister. My mom jumped in front of him and said, No, don’t whoop her; whoop Cassie.

My dad was puzzled, but I could tell that he didn’t want to go over my mother’s word. So, I ended up getting a whooping. In that moment, I knew my life was cursed and no one was there to help me.

My sister was a very defiant child. She was so bad that the school didn’t want to deal with her. My mother would never discipline her but always wanted me to, even though we were three years apart. She would tell me to tell her to do stuff, instead of her telling her what to do. She used to make me homeschool her and do her homework.

At this time, my sister was in the first grade. I remember one time she got suspended from school, for a week for fighting. My mom told me to help her with her work. My sister didn’t want to do her work at times, and when you tried to help her, she would always say, I know what I’m doing. Her favorite phrase was I know, and she didn’t know shit.

For real, she didn’t know how to wash dishes, mop the floor, sweep the floor, or clean her room. Want to know why? Because I was taught to do it all, and she was not, but one thing she did know how to do, was take the trash out. Yep, that was her only chore. Every room in the house had a trash can in it. Which was about eight rooms, and that was all she was allowed to do. I emphasize the word allowed because she was not permitted to do anything else; everything was for me to do as if I was a slave.

One day, we were all eating at the dinner table.

Once we finished, my mother said, Cassie clean the table off and wash these dishes.

My sister said, Yeah, you do all the work, while we eat.

Mind you, my sister was seven at that time. Seven! She should have gotten her ass beaten for saying such a thing. Instead, my mother and stepfather just laughed and laughed. I walked away as if I wasn’t bothered. I cleared the table and washed the dishes. Then I went to my room, closed the door, grabbed my stuffed green animal—which happened to be a monkey—placed my back on my room door, and asked God to please, oh please, let my real father come and get me or put me in another family. This was a prayer I would say every time they made me feel sad or mad. Sometimes I would envision myself as a cartoon character or a little white girl living a fairytale life. Yes, I used to want to be white and pretty. I hated the color I was—the hair, the body, and the family. I don’t know what it is, but I love white-people hair; it’s the texture for me. My imagination would run wild, like I was Sandy in SpongeBob or one of the Olsen twins. Ashley was my favorite, by the way. If it wasn’t for my imagination, I wouldn’t be here today because, every day, I wanted to be taken out of my misery by any means necessary.

Just take a look at the cover picture; it speaks for itself. So, what I want you to do is close the book. Look at the picture on the cover thoroughly. Then place your thumb over my picture completely. Then take it off; now what do you see? Well, I see a girl that’s looking like she doesn’t belong in that picture or that family. Look at my hair, clothes, and shoes, compared to my parents and sister’s. You see the difference? Not just that, look at the placement of their hands. If I were out of that picture or the picture period, that could have been the perfect family.

My mom would always talk down to me and call me weak minded. She said I was weak minded because I didn’t know how to stand up for myself, and I allowed people to run over me. I never understood why she said that, but I did believe it for a long time, to the point that it was instilled in me. As an adult now, I realized that, when you tell your children stuff about themselves, good or bad, they will believe it, and it will grow on them. That’s why, with my boys, I’ve said nothing but good and positive things to them and about them.

There were times I would ask my mother about my biological dad. She would always tell me this story of how he didn’t want any more children and how, when she became pregnant, he said, So what you gone do? And she said, I’m going back to Tennessee, since you don’t want to have any more kids. And he said, Well, there’s the door.

The first time I heard this, I cried. I asked my mother several times as the years went by, and her story never changed. I even asked if I had any siblings, and she told me I had two sisters and no brothers. I was thrilled! She said the only time she remembered seeing them was at a hotel by the pool. I asked what their names were, and she told me. Both of their names started with an M, and I wanted to know why mine didn’t, but I never asked. Sometimes, I would daydream about what my life would be like, if I lived with my biological father or just knew him. Along with living a rich and glorious life, in California with him and my sisters. I just knew that my life would be totally different in a great way. I always wanted to know if he really said that he didn’t want any more kids—or was that something she said to make me feel better. This is something I will never know.

One day, my stepdad asked me to wash the dishes while my friend and I were playing my favorite game, Pacman, on the Sega. The ‘90s babies know what I’m talking about, but for you younglings, look it up. He came in the back room twice to ask me.

The second time, he said, If I come in here again and those dishes are not washed, you’re going to wish you did them.

I said, OK, I’m about to finish this level.

He must’ve came in about five minutes later and flipped the chair, that I was sitting in, on the floor. I was in complete shocked as I was sitting on the floor wondering why he’d done such a thing. Then on top of that, I was embarrassed because my friend had seen the whole thing. Then he said, Now go and bust them suds.

I looked in my friend’s eyes, and I could tell she felt sorry for me.

She said, Cassie, I’ll help you.

I was so overjoyed because it was a lot of dishes. On top of that, I was the only person to wash them every single day, nobody but me. Not only that, but I also had to clean the whole house every day, as if I was the maid. At that time in my life, I was wondering whether I should kill myself or run away at age ten. Now what child thinks like this, at this age? I really didn’t want to kill myself, because I knew that eventually, God was going to allow me to see my biological dad, and I had to be here for that.

Then I didn’t want to run away because I had nowhere to go. I was in a bind, and it seemed like I’d lived in a bind for twenty-three years, and you’ll see why.

At age eleven, you somewhat have a group of friends or a clique. I had both but not a clique; that was later on when I was thirteen, and I’ll tell you about that later. I had a childhood best friend; well, at least I thought she was. I remember times when we would hang out, just me and her, and she’d treat me so nice. Her grandmother would give her and me five to ten dollars apiece to go to the store to get snacks and stuff we wanted. I really loved her grandmother; I looked up to her as a second mother. I’m sure she looked at me like another grandchild of hers. She even gave my mother some money once to pay a bill. We would hop on our bikes and ride around the block, up the road to the store, and everything. She spent nights at my house, and so did I at hers. We were inseparable until other kids came around.

Kids from the neighborhood, would come ask to play with us, and once they had seen how she treated me, they would leave. She literally treated me like shit. She would talk about how ugly, fat, and stupid I was. She would also talk about my nose being big and how dark skinned I was and how I was never going to find a boyfriend. When we were alone, I would ask her why she said such things. She would always say, Girl, you know I just be playing with you. Didn’t feel like she was playing at all to me. She really hurt my feelings, but I was too afraid to tell her. One time, a guy from the other block came by my house and asked to ride bikes. She just so happened to be at my house.

He asked, Cassie, wanna ride bikes?

I said, Yeah sure.

Then she said, Don’t you see me standing here?

He said, Yeah, you can come too.

She asked, Why you ask her first anyway; she ain’t nobody. You must like her or something?

He said, Yeah, I really do.

I knew he liked me, but I didn’t like him because he had a big nose too. I didn’t want people to call us a big-nose couple or something.

Then she said, Why she ugly, fat, dark skin, and if y’all have a baby, the baby gone have a big nose.

He said, First of all, you are cute, but you don’t have any titties and no booty, but Cassie does. What kind of guy would want you? You have nothing to offer.

This girl literally ran to her house, which was across the street and four houses down. I told him that he didn’t have to talk about her like that, then I followed after her. Now you would think, that I would have said thanks for taking up for me or something. Instead, I defended her after she talked so bad about me. I was beginning to see why my mother called me weak minded.

Another time, she, five other kids, and I went to her cousin’s house to jump on the trampoline. On the way there, she left me and walked all fast and ahead like I was some kid up the block that she didn’t know. We get to jumping on the trampoline and first thing she said was You might want to get off and wait to jump cause you the biggest one on here, and I don’t want it to break.

Everyone—and I mean everyone—burst out laughing. One guy was like, Dang, girl, you ain’t gotta do her like that.

Another was like, That’s mean, but he was still laughing. I knew how my temper was, and I knew she couldn’t fight and was a huge crybaby. (That was her nickname in the neighborhood.) So, I ignored it.

Speaking of ignoring, I used to get bullied a lot in school from third grade to seventh grade. My first real friend, who is still my friend today, got bullied as well. We both had a common bully. She was so mean and cruel that everyone in third grade feared her. One time, she called me fat, and I looked at her, as if she were telling me something, and I was just listening.

In front of the whole class, she said, Oh, you not gone say nothing with your big nose. I still couldn’t bring my mouth to say anything. Mind you, this was an every-other-day, if not every day, thing.

So, one day, my friend and I were talking, and she said, I’m tiring of getting bullied; what can we do?

I said, I have an idea. How about we ask our moms and see what they say.

She said, OK, that seems like a good idea.

That night, I was eating dinner at the table, and I asked, Mom, have you ever gotten bullied before when you were a kid?

She said, Yes, plenty of times, but I just ignored it.

I said, OK, cool.

(Readers, if your child/ren ever come to you and tell you that they are getting bullied, please act immediately. Do not—and I repeat, do not—ignore it or allow your child/ren to ignore it; this is a big no-no, and you will see why.)

Then I proceeded to ask, Why are you, my sister, and I the only ones in the family with a big nose?

She said, "Well when I was about eight, a little boy was pushing me on a swing. He kept pushing me