Nobody's Child

By Alma Corliss

They say children live what they learn but thats not necessarily true, is it? Or is there an exception for me? I dont think it is true. It is a big myth to me as they say everybody is entitled to their own opinion. Well, let me give you a good example, and just to let you know, it may be graphic, so read at your own risk .
This is a cross between love, hate and anger in a person's life This is a heart that has never mended even in adulthood. I have not lived what I learned. Are you ready to hear it? Here goes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524511425

Alma Corliss

Being raised in a district on the West Indies where little Alma Corliss she is constantly searching for a place of belonging . While in her search she has embarked upon a couple stumbling blocks in her own circle , the mere people who was suppose to protect her were the ones she found herself running from, but yet no one to run to nowhere to run to ,a cellar couldn't even hide her the safest place for her was to seek refuge inside her head there was the only place she felt control , power as she lets her mind take over. Along the way she discovers a habit within herself which she craves all so often it was the new and best high she had ever felt with it she was powerful it gives her a piece of mind . When reading this book you will find out what that habit is , and why it was so powerful to me , hope all the readers will enjoy it

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© 2016 by Alma Corliss.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016910138

ISBN:         Hardcover         978-1-5245-1143-2

                   Softcover           978-1-5245-1144-9

                   eBook                978-1-5245-1142-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 06/22/2016

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They say children live what they learn, but that’s not necessarily true, is it? Or is there an exception for me? I don’t think it is true. It is a big myth to me. As they say, everybody is entitled to their own opinion. Well, let me give you a good example, and just to let you know, it may be graphic, so read at your own risk.

This is a cross between love, hate, and anger in a child. This is a heart that has never mended even in adulthood. I have not lived what I learned. Are you ready to hear it? Here goes. When I was six years old, my childhood came crashing down like a ton of bricks. My mother was caught cheating on my father—the man she said I do to, the first and last man she would ever say I do to. Anyway, it went like this. He confronted her and asked for a divorce. So knowing my mother, she said, Fine, but you have to take all your snot-nose kids with you. Mind you, she has eight flipping kids with this man, so they found a happy medium in which he would take six. I was the baby, and being the baby, you would think that I would be staying with Mom ’cause that’s what a mother would do, but she sent me with my father and my older siblings.

We moved to my father’s mother’s house in the country. I had visited there a couple of times. It was nice when I would get to go back home, but not so nice when I had to live there. My grandmother was a strict woman, plus she was now blind. Imagine that, a strict blind woman. A joke, right? Well, the everlasting joke was on me. At six years old, when I should be having the time of my life, I was forced to become a woman.

I had to clean, take out my grandmother’s urine pot, and empty it in the toilet, and to top it off, it was a pit toilet. For whoever does not know what a pit toilet is, it is two holes that are dug very deep, then two metal drums are dropped in each of the holes, and then the dirt is put back around them so they can stay still. After that, a seat is built over, so it looks like a stage but it has two holes cut out to sit on. Then they put up a little house over it for privacy, or else, passersby would be looking at us sitting down and trying to have a bowel movement or whatever else. That was one of our many downfalls we had to deal with living in Jamaica. They should have called it colon house ’cause that was what it was. I smell your poop and my poop and whoever else’s poop before I sat down. There was no door on this colon house. If you stood on the seat, everyone could see you. Also, in the morning, whenever the sunlight shone through the cracks of the colon house, or shit house as it was often called in Jamaica, you could get the of seeing what you had eaten for dinner the night before. Gross, huh?

Sometimes the outhouse would get a little shaky because it had been worn out from the rain and the sun. Also, insects feeding on the wood would weaken the whole structure. Some of floorboards would also get unstable. This sounds a little scary. Plus one of the holes, where a person would sit, would be bigger than the other. I hated to lift the top of the bigger hole. It was scary looking down in it. It was dark and wide-open except for the top where you sit. The largest hole was the only one where I could empty the pot. It sucks, doesn’t it?

Also on the weekends, I had to sweep and clean the colon house floor as if it were part of the house. I can hardly remember ever having toilet paper to wipe our butts. We only had newspaper and book pages to wipe our butts. We were not blessed with that type luxury. Well, what can I say? Things were just lamentable for us.

Anyway, my next job was to cater to all of my grandmother’s needs. I had to bathe her, dress her, and take her to her friend’s house and attend to all her needs because she was totally blind.

The house of one of her main friends was miles away. We had to walk there and back in the heat. I also want to mention that this journey was also dangerous. The speeding cars on the roads were the worst. I had to tell her to stand still whenever the cars were coming. We had to stand with our backs to the bushes so that the cars could go by. There were no sidewalks, just bushes and a deep precipice. I had to say to her, Walk, stop, step down, step up to the right—or to the left—and sit, or No, not yet, and other things like that. This was when I should have been playing red-light, green-light, or even football. (In America, it’s called soccer.) I could have been planting a garden, but I was becoming a drill sergeant, and people wonder why I am so bossy.

I didn’t ask for this role. It was handed to me, and not by choice either. Then I would sit and listen to my grandmother and her friend talk nothing but gibberish that didn’t make sense to a ten-year-old. My project was to take care of my grandmother’s every need—Go to store, and Go to aunt this and tell her this and tell her that, and Feed me, and Wash me, feed me, and while I’m at it, let me beat you.

When my older brothers felt like playing jokes on me, they would tell a bunch of lies without finding out if it was true or not. You may ask how a blind woman could catch me to beat me. Well, I could not run too far when my brothers were holding me down on her lap. They were just plain evil! Well, I got used to it, plus, it only happened when my dad would go to his lady friend’s house in another parish.

Jamaica is made up of fourteen parishes, for those of you who don’t know, and my father’s lady friend’s house