Seven Parents, Daughter to None: A Memoir

By Melanie Hope Lang

How does one overcome a lifetime of trauma and deception? Melanie Hope Lang's early life was one of hardships, abuse, and difficulties on multiple levels. She suffered through a string of six fathers and an indifferent mother. During this formative period, she learned an important truth: we hold the keys to our destiny. This book confronts the demons lurking deep within. By finishing this tale, readers will perhaps discover their own strengths and come to understand a terrifying piece of the world that should have never existed. Seven Parents, Daughter to None is Melanie's emotionally charged story of growing through adversity to become a powerful voice for others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667854830

Book preview

Prologue

What am I running from? Where am I going?

After forty years, I have been trying to forget and bury my past. You see, I wanted to escape my parents, all seven of them, and the childhood they drug me through. So, when asked where I come from or who my parents are, I provide short, vague answers. The shame was too deep to share, and I feared judgment from those who didn’t know me.

After a lifetime of running and hiding, I decided now was the time. No more secrets. No more hiding. Between you and me, friend, we will face them head-on. Yes, I call you my friend. You wouldn’t be here if you did not have a few secrets or memories of your own. Maybe we can take turns, story for story. I’ll tell you one of mine, then you can tell one of yours. Perhaps you can write them down. Either way, you should become a little lighter, a little bolder, a little freer. So, I’ll go first.

Where to start... One would assume the beginning, but some stories are not important. Other stories are necessary for you to understand the people who surrounded me and how I have ended up where I am.

Perhaps, a little background information. First, I come from six fathers but belong to none. Darren is my biological father, but I didn’t discover him until years down the line as a teenager. Before and after he came into my life, I had a menagerie of stepfathers. To help you, I have named each chapter after one providing a timeline.

Moreover, I’m one of ten children. God, I don’t even know their ages or who is the oldest. I could ask, but knowing I don’t have a clue signals the lack of closeness within our family. My siblings are a combination of blood, marriage, and adoption. By design, the typical American family.

You can imagine that so many fathers would imply many homes. I’ve lived all over from Texas to San Diego and back again. I have lived in some places more than once and others for only a moment. No, I am not a military brat, nor were my parents involved in a career that required them to travel. The dozens of reasons and more than two dozen moves will give you a start for framing my story. Accept that I have no roots.

Chapter 1

David: Photographs

2018

Of all the things I dwell on, the way she treated me, how she let others treat me, how she tried to end her life more than once, and the men she brought into my life, our final fight is the one thing I regret.

Like many others, I lost my momma too soon. Just when I thought I was enough for her to see me as her daughter, she once again refused the role of mother, leaving me curled into a ball, sitting on the closet floor of my bedroom. 

My husband, Daniel, sat behind me on the vanity stool and rubbed my back in slow circular motions, allowing me to have my moment, whether it be to yell and curse or sit and sob. I had just finished the first when I tried to confront Momma. Now, I needed release deep within.

Using the closet as a shield, I was reminded of my childhood, hiding in my closet from the monsters lurking beyond the door in the temporary structure I called home. But this time, I didn’t hold my breath as I cried to conceal my presence, afraid to be discovered. Instead, I held my breath so my children wouldn’t hear me and come running in to console me. I couldn’t tell them what had happened or where I really came from. 

As I pulled my knees close to my chest and buried my red face soaked in tears against my legs, my mind trailed to the conversation she refused to hear. Momma was responsible for the six fathers and countless men she carouseled through my life. Yet she refused to hear the truth when I tried to confess what they had done to me, what she allowed to happen.

If she would only listen, to hear me out, I would tell her about all of them. David, however, was the first one I hid from in the closet. He was the first man I came to fear.

1987

He didn’t want to be a father. My brother and I were a package deal that came with my momma. As a child, my fondest memory was a family moment. My older brother Luke and I sat perched in the wide hallway of our third rental in Irving, listening to 70s records with my momma and David. Momma called the music groovy, a word I hadn’t heard before, but I liked the way the word spilled out of my mouth when I mimicked her. She sat cross-legged, swaying her shoulders to the beat while snapping her fingers.

David playfully pulled Momma from the plush dark brown carpet where we sat with her, and they danced in a picture-perfect moment. Her dark straight hair rested slightly past her neck. She reached up to rest her hands on David’s shoulders as they created their own dance in rhythm to the music. The way they smiled at each other made me believe I was lucky to have two parents who loved each other more than anything else.

Isn’t this what a family is supposed to look like? How else are parents supposed to act?

They seemed exceptionally happy; I was still young enough to be happy, too. My innocence was still present. These were the months leading up to the loss of trust.

Creedence Clearwater Revival preached as you sensed the house was as alive as the electric guitar wailing in the background. His voice was distinct and filled every crevice of our home with positive energy. Everything was groovy.

Children thrive on the peace and love that comes from family interaction. So, I grasped those memories until they faded into mere dreams to balance out the fear and sadness creeping in unsuspectingly when we let our guard down. Even in joy, sadness creeps in. While we lived on Falcon Street in a modest house, I loved the moments I truly got to be a kid.

My friendships with other children down the street provided me with ample opportunities to learn when my own parents were unavailable. Someone’s dad taught me how to ride my bike with only one training wheel and took the other off when I supported myself without leaning to one side. Racing bikes around the block educated me on the adrenaline of competition. The walking trips to the park with other families reminded me work comes before play. Walking myself to and from elementary school gave me independence.

When Momma was home from a busy week at the airfield, she filled the gaps with her own lessons. Planting flowers in the backyard demonstrated the cycle of life. Thanksgiving at our house when extended family was invited taught respect for your elders.

On the surface, we appeared to be a functioning family. At least, we tried to behave like a loving family those first years up until I was seven.

My parents were aviation engineers, which kept them busy working long hours throughout the week in Dallas. Sometimes, if school was out, I would have the lucky chance to tag along with them to work.

I recall running up and down the aisles of many skeletal planes at Associated Air Center as they installed electrical wiring. The aircraft came in for updates or to be built from scratch. Their hangar was one of the many stops planes made before their release to the world. I was familiar with at least a dozen different airliners by seven but had never flown in any.

Most of these planes were not civilian. Momma worked on private jets like Air Force 1 (according to her), an aircraft for a sheik, and one space shuttle. Pictures of many of these planes before and after their completion lie in boxes among my momma’s effects. When I take a moment to sift through stuffy old albums, they smell like memories and mothballs used to preserve time.

I don’t recall any of them in particular, but I wouldn’t have realized what I was playing on if I had. When not running circles around my momma while she stripped colorful wires and connected one to another, I colored on colossal graph paper meant for designs and blueprints. The prominent architectural desks required me to sit on a tall stool instead of the shorter swivel chairs in the office. Swinging my feet back and forth, I hummed to my own tune.

I thought I was a hotshot, pretending to be busy working on important house designs. Dreaming, this would one day be our house, one we owned and didn’t ditch when money was tight.

I would sketch with childish abilities and color everything in vibrant shades. Everything I drew included oversized bright flowers surrounding the yard. Every associate in the office treated me as their own, spoiling me with candy, soda, and whatever they found to keep me occupied for the long hours of the day.

Honestly, I enjoyed watching my momma study blueprints and David discuss details with his peers. They were important people everyone looked up to, not only me.

Doesn’t our childhood seem incredible? Isn’t this the life you dream of having as a child? Does our family appear too good to be true?

Our family was a pretense. In the first few years of living in Irving, I learned to classify what happens behind closed doors from the facade out in the open. Secrets were the building blocks of our family. But now I’m an adult, I’m allowed to have a voice. I’m allowed to decide for myself what to hold in and what to reveal.

Most people, including extended family, didn’t know about the goings-on at our house. Luke and I understood we shouldn’t talk about them either. Momma reminded us not to talk about what they did at home before visitors came over. If we did, Momma would say, the police might come and take ya’ll away.

Frightened I would lose her, I swore to never tell. With that oath, I became an enabler allowing my parents to do as they please as long as they still loved us. This promise will haunt me forever.

Despite our agreement with Momma, Luke and I suspected much of what we witnessed was wrong. Since kindergarten, teachers and McGruff the Crime Dog taught us even cigarettes were harmful. Nevertheless, our house reeked like an ashtray. While at school, other kids didn’t want to sit by me, turning their noses in disgust. But I was nose blind until I was at school for a few hours. By then, I realized the odor was unmistakable; it was me. My hair and clothes permeated the air around me.

At only six years old, I realized my parents abused drugs and alcohol. Sometimes, their cigarettes smelled funny and resembled those in the pictures the D.A.R.E. officer showed us at school. He instructed us to call a hotline or tell a teacher if we ever saw anyone using them. But I made a solemn promise and feared being taken away.

Plus, Momma was constantly popping pills to bring her up and snorting coke to bring her down. She carried the bottles with her everywhere she went in case she needed them during a hard day. In my innocence, I thought all parents behaved this way until the police officer taught us differently.

A shame flushed over me as my cheeks turned bright red. A shame of embarrassment, not only the knowledge about my parents but also knowing this was one of a handful of secrets I was hoarding. An embarrassment for ourselves that would eventually become resentment.

Understand, Luke and I were not self-absorbed but craved our momma’s love, attention, and affection. Our fear was for them before it ever came from them. Once we experienced how warm and loving Momma was, we only wanted more as every child would. Momma gave long hugs, folding you into her chest and sugars on our forehead and cheeks. Her crooked smile was genuine and passed compliments and encouragement. Wherever Momma was, was home.

So far, you may think our childhood wasn’t so terrible. I’m not trying to convince you to pity us or believe we were worse off than anyone else. I have read the horrific accounts of those starved, beaten, and so much more in my lifetime. There is no doubt in my mind many have suffered more. Although, I have also learned my childhood fits among those fragmented lives. What I want you to understand is appearances can be deceiving.

Why should I trust you? Why should I reveal everything now? Or should I hold in their secrets? Don’t you and I deserve a voice?

What I went through is best divided into parts and explored from the beginning of abuse to the end. In order is the only way to understand how and why a parent was capable of such horrific behavior. You simply don’t begin by talking about the worst moments.

Although the traumatic experiences in my life are numerous, woven between are those beautiful moments, too. The ones about how Momma used to be ours. The majority of those precious memories came much later for me after starting my own family, breaking the cycle of what I was born into. But, before I can reveal my success, let me explain why I had to escape.

***

David kept a picture of his daughter, Amanda, in a golden frame made of thin metal with frosty glass on a bookshelf among Momma’s dainty teapots, ruby dishes, and eclectic collection of books. I thought the image was a picture of me for the longest time as I passed by the shiny frame, sitting high above me on the tall bookcase. But I couldn’t remember the scene or anyone ever taking my picture in the unfamiliar place.

I resembled her: petite with long brown hair. The photo was taken at Christmas in front of a brightly lit tree like the one we had. However, the tree was not ours with its white lights. Ours were filled with a rainbow of colors and contained oversized handmade ornaments my momma fashioned from Styrofoam balls, colored thread, and beads. The home was not one we had ever lived in with its dark furniture.

At some point, I asked about the mysterious girl who stared back at me during one of the weekend routines cleaning the house. My weekly chore was dusting, which I hated but was afraid to show my resentment. Instead, I mumbled under my breath with such distaste you’d think I was driven into slave labor. Besides, the task seemed fruitless as the very next week, the same dust bunnies made their way back to the shelves, knick-knacks, and artificial plants surrounding the house.

Momma collected many items to be carefully wiped, set aside, and replaced after cleaning the surface beneath. I would spend hours Saturday mornings after my cartoons standing on a dining chair, reaching on my tiptoes, working my way down the line of bookshelves. Every chip, crack, and flaw on the fine porcelain teapots was embedded in my brain. And then the mysterious object stood before me: the picture frame.

As I dusted, I asked Momma, Why don’t I remember this picture?

She replied, That’s Amanda, your dad’s other daughter.

Where is she? my innocent self inquired.

She lives with her momma in Arkansas, she provided a short explanation and walked away as if escaping any further interrogation.

And that was the end of the discussion. I continued dusting like a good girl. But I wanted to know more. My mind still turned as the questions multiplied. I had a sister! However, I was only beginning to uncover a layer of family secrets. I didn’t understand half of them in those early years, for better or worse.

Why couldn’t she be here with us? Why haven’t we met her? Didn’t David want to see her? Did he miss her?

***

David was an alcoholic. Somehow, I rarely ever spotted the bottles. Every day, when he came home from work, he reeked of alcohol. His clothes absorbed the stench that seeped from his pores and body as he sweated throughout the day. By bedtime, he barely stood straight, swaying on his feet while desperately planting them in the ground. Yet, he still tried to function. David continued to drive, work on projects in the garage, and hold a conversation, hoping you wouldn’t realize he was halfway through a bottle of vodka.

Momma and David didn’t fight much, or at least I didn’t think they had. I firmly believe Momma tried to shield us from her disappointment in David when he drank. They never fought in front of us, so arguments were taken to their bedroom behind closed doors.

One day, I found David sitting on the steps leading to the backyard. His face was buried in his hands and bowed toward the concrete path at his feet. Momma emerged from the bedroom, walking out silent in the opposite direction. For the first time, Momma stewed in anger at something David had done. David, on the other hand, pouted in regret.

As she walked past me in silence, she carried her purse over her shoulder and keys gripped in hand as she stormed to the front door. Momma pushed the glass screen door handle with a jolt and allowed the frame to rattle with the slam behind her. Wherever she was going, she was leaving us home alone with David.

As expected, I wanted to play outside like my brother and the other kids on the block. I had been waiting for them to come out of their bedroom to ask for permission. But, since Momma left, I couldn’t ask her. So, I cracked open the glass door to the backyard where David sat. He didn’t acknowledge me at first, sniffling in despair. I hated seeing him upset but didn’t want to stick around to watch him drown his sorrows.

Standing around impatiently waiting, I fidgeted with my bare feet along the edges of the metal frame beneath my toes. I made little sounds to remind David I was still behind him waiting. Then, finally, he raised his chin up. His face was wet from tears and flushed red from sobbing. The gin blossom covering his nose was brighter than usual as he caught a shiny reflection from the summer sun. His attention had turned to me as a light bulb went off in his head, and he straightened up.

You’re as pretty as a picture. You look like your momma, you know, he complimented with a smile hidden by his thick brown beard.

His tiny brown eyes behind his huge wire glasses surveying me. I smiled at the compliment because I thought my momma to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

I’m gonna take your picture.

Reluctantly, I agreed as if I really had a choice. You didn’t say no to your parents. You were never asked; you were voluntold what you were doing. As many can relate, disobeying or talking back welcomed a swipe on the butt or a slap across the face. Which depended on the level of their agitation.

Luke and I learned you kept your opinions and feelings to yourself for the sake of your hide and cheek. Before now, we were merely disciplined as needed. But as David’s drinking and Momma’s agitation grew, the force behind their hands did too, leaving us to be cautious and sometimes fearful of their misguided punishment.

He left me to retrieve a wooden stool from inside the garage next to the backyard and led me with a heavy hand on my back, urging me forward. Then, leaning down, he picked me up with his hands under each of my arms and lifted me with no effort. David sat me on top of the stool as I leaned against the dry, brown privacy fence.

I stared out across our spacious yard at the wire fence along the other side, the giant maple tree in the center, and the continuing fence along the back. I hoped this wouldn’t take long so I could go play down the street with the other kids. Not surprisingly, their faint voices and high-pitched laughter from running around taunted me.

His camera usually hung on a doorknob in their bedroom inside their room. David turned and rushed off to retrieve the required equipment. Seconds later, he was back unbuckling the camera from the thick leather case molded around the device. The lighting, David explained, is natural outside.

He adjusted the camera with knobs and clicks until he was satisfied with how the lens focused. I fidgeted on the stool, kicking my feet at the wooden footrest below and squirming as I sat on the round seat, impatient. Without anything to do, I was already feeling bored and restless.

David turned more knobs and spied through his oversized lens, snap-snap. Adjusting. Snap-snap! Then, he stepped closer to me to move my long overgrown bangs from my forehead and back toward my ears. Brown and shaggy tendrils lay at my shoulders in wavy unkempt strands. My smile was unnatural, forced with teeth grit together.

Again, he stepped back. Snap-snap! Zooming in close again, he adjusted the focus around the lens. David paused from the camera and reached for me, touching my chest over my pink terry cloth short sleeve shirt. I can still recall his oversized heavy hands. The touch felt awkward and left me frozen. No one was supposed to touch me there or like that. Somehow, I sensed his affection was wrong. These weren’t the same hands that hugged me with fatherly love before.

David smiled at me and moved back. Snap-snap!

Smile, he said, but I didn’t. Smile for me, he encouraged. Still, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I sat uncomfortably on the stool in the sweltering Texan sun against the dried-out wooden fence in my navy shorts and now tainted top. Once again, he stepped close and touched me. I didn’t want to smile; I wanted to cry for Momma. If I could only jump down and run away. Instead, I remained stiff.

Hardly able to breathe, I held my breath for long moments, counting in my head like I would underwater, before exhaling to grab another gulp of air. 8, 9, 10, 11…Distraction was the only way to fight back the tears. Somehow, even at seven, I sensed I wasn’t supposed to be touched this way. But the touching went on, and the photoshoot ended.

What am I supposed to do? How do I make him stop? Do I tell Momma when she gets home? Will they get into another fight?

Let’s let the pictures be a surprise for your momma, okay? I remember him saying just before Momma came home.

But she never found all the pictures. Recently, I stumbled on the photo David gave her, one taken at the beginning of that day. I ripped the memory into shreds, determined to eliminate the stain from history.

Yet, as I flip through memories pressed in yellowing albums, I continue to discover traces of that picture framed with others as a collage in the background of other captured moments. No matter how hard you try, you cannot escape the past. You cannot erase it; suppress it. The slightest signs in daily life act as reminders.

When David died when I was nineteen, I inherited his camera. His parents mailed me a large package containing an assortment of nostalgic items: his wallet, glasses, driver’s license, and the camera. Staring at the eclectic menagerie of items within their cardboard crate, I shivered at the memories attached to them.

Snapping back to the present, I picked up the camera with such force and threw the machine against the wall. A combination of metal and plastic busted into fragments as small as I felt beside them. No longer would this weapon, capable of so much destruction, capture fear. A dead man doesn’t need it, nor did I want to give a monster new life.

Even after David abused me, I struggled to love him though love is what you’re supposed to feel towards your parents. From that moment, I never wanted to hug him when the stench of alcohol was strong. Since the first time he touched me, I stopped going near him unless I was forced. His presence was dirty, like him, like me, like the dry, brown fence.

How does prey avoid the predator who lived with them? How do you remain hidden?

Chapter 2

David: Hero or Beast

1988

What makes a man a father? Do children and parents have some silent contract that binds them?

David’s drinking worsened over the next year. His lack of care for the children in the house was more apparent than ever as he stumbled in a drunken stupor naked from his bedroom to the bathroom. In shock, I averted my eyes and changed my course to get as far away as possible. I hid in the only place I figured I wouldn’t be noticed: my closet. My hideaway became a safe haven for me. Better David doesn’t acknowledge me and makes me stick around. This legitimate fear haunted me as long as we were under the same roof.

My momma would come home from work and go searching for me. Each time, she found me in the tiny walk-in closet below the exposed light bulb glaring overhead. I sat kneeled on the matted-down carpet playing with my Barbies and stuffed animals, talking to myself. The closet provided safety, or at least I believed I was secure with no windows to reveal I was alone inside.

The door opened as I gasped.

What are you doing in there? she asked quizzically. I had forgotten all about hiding after what was probably hours and stayed in the self-made prison, content to be left alone.

Just playing, I told a half-lie. Still wide-eyed and caught off guard.

Momma shrugged off my behavior as typical child’s play. But, over time, I wondered if she suspected my hiding spot was not some