"Secrets" Through Her Eyes: based on a true story

By Alonese Crets

Have you ever thought of the possibility of a young girl's ability to survive the harsh cycles that life throws at her when she is raised without a father? As the girl in the mirror desperately tried to get away from what seems like a horrific story of her life, she continuously encounters many tribulati

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Sep 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684862535

Alonese Crets

Alonese W. Crets is an Executive Director and Founder of Regent Teen Center. In this role, Alonese looks after/coordinates/manages/leads a team providing all aspects of sustenance, including mentorship and positive social development of minors and is a big believer in leading by example.Alonese has donated numerous copies of "Secrets" Through Her Eyes to underprivileged women, women social groups, and disadvantaged men. Alonese has also encouraged many disadvantaged people by speaking in group settings.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"I’m writing this book but I don’t have any intentions on reading it until after it is published. I think this will be enough to heal the pain, but it may take more. Growing up, I didn’t know the decisions I made came out of the void in my heart. I always felt like something was missing. I was clingy to men in ways that would be questioned by others looking at me. I always wanted a man’s attention and once I got it, I cherished what we had between us and put him on a pedestal. I did not care who he was, just that he showed me some attention. In my eyes, he would be capable of doing no wrong.

For example my uncle, who appeared to be happily married, bringing over to our house a younger woman that he said, was his coworker. He was always with this woman and they were always so secretive. I thought nothing of it until I heard mother on the phone talking to someone, telling the person on the other end of the receiver that the woman was more than my uncle’s co- worker. She expressed to that person that he should be ashamed of himself for bringing her around the house all the time. I then began to wonder, at my young age, what my mother meant when she said that woman was more than a co-worker to him. After several times of seeing my uncle and his co-worker over at the house eating and talking, I did not see the woman anymore, but I heard a conversation about how my uncle got hurt by this woman and no longer was meeting with her. I never saw that woman again.

Later, I found out and understood that conversation my mother was having over the phone. Even after understanding it in my teenage years, I did not think my own uncle did anything wrong and it was all the woman’s fault for the reason he had gotten into trouble at his job. For a long time I did not see the wrong in my uncle’s actions.

I remember craving for the attention of my father. I always wanted to be around him. When he was not around or had other things to do without me, I waited eagerly for him to come home. It did not matter what time it was. I waited just so he could say goodnight and tell me he loved me. He made me feel special and let me know that I was his little girl.

So what happened to me? Why was everything so screwed up for me? Throughout my adolescent years, I remember feeling lonely and wanting the love of a boy or a man; it did not matter to me. If my father, uncle, neighbor’s dad or neighborhood boys, or boys from school showed me any attention it went right to my head. I thought at one point in my life, when a boy said that he liked or loved me that it was filling that void, and that was good enough for me. I did not know that love had to be shown and proved, not only spoken. I learned very early in life the disadvantages of not having a father in my life. My father passed away when I was seven. I also learned very early in life how to take advantage of others and let others take advantage of me. Most of all I learned that I was lacking the one thing that was needed most in my life, genuine love.

My story goes like this; I was a little girl searching for love in the wrong places. I wanted to feel secure and loved by a man. It is true what they say about young girls who grow up without a father. Those girls are usually the ones who end up with the woman beater, the mental abuser, the drug addict, the drug dealer, the gang bangers, the man with multiple children by multiple women, the high school drop-out, the loser who talks a good game but still lives with his parents, the one who depends on the woman to take care of him as his mother would do, and/or, the manipulator.

Those girls also become society’s statistics as battered women, high school drop-outs, addicted to drugs, having multiple children by multiple men at young ages, strippers, street walkers, believing that it’s okay for a man to manipulate their minds to take care of him, swift women in the streets, careless women, disrespectful and disrespected women, gang bangers, or your everyday girl next door who every dude on the block comes to visit frequently. Those girls are all looking for one thing and that is the love that was missing from their lives as a child My story is repetitive at times and sketchy at other times; after all, I’m telling it through the eyes of a very young girl. But it hits home for that girl who struggles with loneliness and mistreatment from those she trusts most, so much so that she thinks that looking for comfort and love everywhere else is the right thing to do. It hits home for the girl who grew up in a household where the very thought of being around boys was considered to be an immoral thought. It hits home for the girl who is left home night after night or day after day to care for her siblings while her parents are away. It hits home for the girl who wants so desperately to have the freedom to mingle with her peers by going to school dances or a sleepover at a friend’s house from time to time. It hits home for the girl who cries herself to sleep every night because of the mental, emotional, and physical abuse she has to endure not only while at school, but also at home. It really hits home for the grown woman reflecting on her life and finally realizing she has overcome the obstacles in her life. Yes, she was raised by an unhealed emotionally unstable mother still displaying survival tactics to live and maybe she did have her own issues of instability with men, which she is not proud of, but being the woman she is now, she would not change any of the obstacles she had to overcome to get to where she’s standing today. Either scenario still hits home for the little girl within the woman that still cry out because she is traumatized of her own story.

Prologue montage

Hatred overtook me as I flat footedly stood there taking blow for blow to my head then my stomach. Desperately yelling out, Help! Help! Somebody! seemed to add more fuel to the flames. The words escaped from between my jaws powerlessly as I reached for anything that would shield me. But nothing would stop the attacks. As young as I was I found myself making amends with God. Why doesn’t anyone hear me screaming! The harder and the longer the blows became the more intense the sound was coming from my lips.

I was hearing two voices. I tried to ignore the voice whispering in my head, Run away and run away fast! The soft whisper faded into a whimper then became an annoying shriek from outside of me. I didn’t know whether to feel more fearful of the outside voice or the constant blows to my head.

Get yo ass up, you gone take this ass whipping today! The promising threat followed by another blow to my head sounded closer and more convincing than the voice whispering in my head. I wanted to respond to both voices quickly enough to stop the agonizing pain but it was no use. The more I parted my lips to speak out, the worse the blows became.

Crack! It happened. It finally happened; she accomplished what she set out to do. It must be my skull cracked in half from the beating. But why is it that I can still hear her and smell her? I should be dead. But more importantly what was that cracking sound?

I can’t believe this Bitch! She is hitting me as if I am a bitch in the streets. What the hell did I ever do to her to deserve this inhumane treatment? Damn, I did not ask for this. I was just born into this bullshit. She is kicking me now. Oh my God, please save me from this turmoil. I know there is war in heaven and right now there is a war in the Middle East, but if you would allow just one bomb to drop and hit this house, killing her, I will be the best child in the world. I won’t ever think about the opposite sex. I won’t ever bring home another bad grade from school, but most of all I won’t ever have another reason to get beat like this again.

My body lay there lifeless as she hopped on top of me, vigorously shaking my head from side to side. You better get up now or I will get you up! Unconsciously I wiggled my right pinky but it was apparent by the impatience growing upon her face that my finger did not move.

Slap! Oh my god she is going to kill me!

Bitch if you die I will kill you, get yo ass up now! As much as I wanted to respond to her demands, my body wouldn’t budge. What has she done to me Get up! By now I’m gasping for air like a comatose patient waking up from a twenty year nap. What is she doing? Oh no, she has her hand around my neck! I guess God just wanted me to be dead instead of her.

Or maybe that was God whispering, Run away, run away fast!

But amazingly and suddenly the hand around my neck released its deadly grip. What is she doing now? Where is she going? Her strong and sweaty stench left the dread air. I knew she had left, but where to?

I heard stomping feet run hurriedly up the basement stairs that lead to the main floor of our petite Cape Cod styled house. Then I could hear those same footsteps shuffle above my head in a scattered pace. She was in the back bedroom searching for something. Whatever it was she could not find it.

Movement finally came from within me, first my neck, then my arms, and finally my legs. I quickly stood up almost falling back down because of my throbbing head. I wiped the blood from over my eyes and listened intently for the sounds above me.

My brain was in overload. It was racing as fast as those shuffling feet over my head. My eyes scanned the frigid basement hastily until only one object caught my attention. It had been cracked in half and thrown aside in two pieces. Was it the object I heard cracking that made me think my skull was doomed? Before I could answer my own question the shrill sound of her voice abruptly brought me back to reality. She found what she was looking for!

My mind was made up. I would listen to the voice that whispered in my head, Run away. Run away fast! All I had to do was ascend those basement steps but I would not be making a right at the top of the landing into the dreadful house she called her home. I would be making a dash towards freedom. At least that is what I thought.

Little girl Little girl

Who would have thought that old wives tale was true; a girl missing her father will look for love in all the wrong ways! Well, I was that girl. I was a little girl craving for the attention of a man. Let me start there.

When I was six or seven, my father, Lamont, was killed. I guess because I was so young my family tried to protect me from the pain, or truth, or whatever it was, from losing him. I have a very vague memory of drugs and another woman being involved, but no real details.

I do remember my mother trying to shield me so much that she moved away from the only surroundings and family I had ever known. I will never forget how long it took for Mother and my great grandmother to drive me from Detroit to Milwaukee, a town that I later learned to hate. We moved into an apartment complex that had just enough room for us three.

School was a nightmare. I remember the little girl who bullied me on my first day even though I can’t recall her name. She pushed me so hard I fell forward and hit my mouth on the back of a chair. It was one of those old metal chairs and it felt like granite. It hurt like hell; the blood was ridiculous, my lip was swollen and I chipped my front tooth. I yelled hysterically! After the principal called my mother, she had me lie on a cot next to her. I just don’t remember what happened after that, except that I was made to go back to that school and the little girl who bullied me continued to go there too.

The only bright spot in that awful new town was the mysterious appearance of another little girl my age that came to stay with me, Mother and my grandmother for a while. She was my cousin, Sherry, from Detroit. I do not know why she came to stay or even how long she stayed. I just remember her being there with me for a while. We did everything together. We slept in the same bed together, got all of our whippings together, and took all our baths together.

When Christmas came around it became the first Christmas I can remember in my life because Sherry and I both got so many things. I don’t remember what all we got; I just remember being happy that day. That same Christmas was also when I met him for the first time! My mother had decided to invite him over to our apartment. There he stood bright-skinned, handsome and much older than Mother. She introduced him as George. I remember thinking, This is my new daddy! I loved him from that day on.

Sherry and I chattered excitedly in bed that night about this wonderful man Mother brought home for Christmas. Where did he come from and when did Mother meet him? We certainly remembered hearing her leave out some nights, while we were supposed to be sleeping. But mostly we remembered that every now and then, my grandmother would hear us playing when we were supposed to be sleeping, and that’s when we’d share our whippings.

That night Sherry and I concluded that the whippings must have been worth it to bring the new wonderful man into the household. The next morning Mother told us to thank him for our beautiful Christmas. I remember going to the broad shouldered man and saying, Thank you for my toys. He simply replied, You’re welcome, and I smiled from ear to ear.

I really liked this man and was happy he was there. I thought he was that other man that everyone told me brings all the toys on Christmas day. I just knew mother was friends with Santa Claus! Now, here is the strange thing about this; I did not see that man again for a while. That I remember.

One day, Mother came to Sherry and me and asked if we liked that man from Christmas. Of course, yes, we sounded like two chipmunks. Mother responded, Good, because we are going to his house. I was ecstatic –We are going to Santa Claus’s house!"

What a great adventure. The next day we arrived at the man’s house. But it was not for a visit, we went to stay for good!

At the new house my cousin and I each had our own room. But we stayed up late each night in one room or the other, talking about all the fun we were going to have at Santa Claus’ house. Each night came and went too soon; then one of those nights our lives were totally disrupted. Sherry’s older brother had come to get her. We were both devastated, never expecting our fun to end. We had become best friends. Most of all we had experienced living together at Santa Claus’s house. We cried inconsolably. How could that much happiness come to an end?

Mother explained that my cousin’s mother wanted her to come back home. Her brother was there to take her back on the plane. She reassured us that we would be able to visit each other soon. Sherry seemed to get over it quicker than I did because she stopped crying and ran to her brother. Before they left, she hugged me and whispered in my ear, We will be best friends forever and we will see each other again soon.

Why what my cousin said to me was so reassuring I don’t know, but it worked. I went back to bed that night feeling relieved that I would see her again very soon. But the next time I saw Sherry was five years later and I was moving in with her.

The Movie

I don’t know how long it was after my cousin left that Mother dropped a bomb on me that ended up changing my entire life. Her news had me feeling all upset again. As a child, I did not understand why my life had to change so drastically so often.

Mother came to me one evening and told me she was pregnant and that I would have a baby brother or sister. I could not understand it at first. Then she asked me if I felt jealous. I remember telling her, No, and that I was happy to be the big sister. I said that as proudly as I could. Later that night, Mother told me to go to bed and I did, but I got out of bed and went to where she and this man shared a room. I asked her to come here and she came to the hall where I stood crying. Tears welled up in my eyes for some reason and I couldn’t stop them from falling. She looked at me and asked what was wrong with me. I shyly told her then that I was jealous of my new baby brother or sister and that I did not want to be a big sister. Now, the response I received after that was shockingly scary to me. My mother offered me no comfort, nor did she even discuss her feelings with me, her only child. All she said was, Shit, I don’t believe this – go back to bed. Dutifully I went back to bed still feeling ill about the big sister thing. Before I cried myself to sleep I made up in my mind that I wasn’t going to like my new baby brother or sister either way. I just knew my mother was not going to like me anymore. We never discussed my feeling anymore after that.

One evening, Mother called me to sleep in her bed with her because she wanted me to watch a movie with her and this man. I jumped in between them and began to watch the movie. Before the movie started my mother remarked that it was a little graphic. She said I might need to cover my eyes at times and not to be afraid. Okay, I said bravely, wondering what she was talking about. The man interjected by saying to Mother I don’t think this is a good picture for her to watch with us. Mother quickly shot over an icy glare towards the man which made him utter not one other word. I watched attentively as the movie’s credits began to roll. It was an older movie about a poor family. The young boy in the movie was a slave and so were all the people in his family. I don’t really remember much of the movie, just bits and pieces of it, like the way the boy was trying to get away from the white people that were chasing him. He was sold to a white family and separated from his own family. I also remember the boy growing up. It seemed as if the boy knew that being a slave was wrong. Each time