Life Broken: Journey of an Overcomer

By Cassandra McClinton

A real life story that happened to a young woman that helped to shape her life for the rest of her life. Love, drama, sexual misappropriations from a little girl barely four and a half years old until the age of adulthood. The tragedy that would happen to her was meant to kill her, but she did not die-she

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cassandra McClinton Publishing
• Release date: Mar 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958518243

Cassandra McClinton

I'm a soon to be 48 year old multi-talented individual that loves to write. I write about the things that have been real in my life. I also sing and write songs. I have 4 adult children and the mother of many more with 6 grandchildren that cannot wait until my books hit the shelves and digital platforms throughout the world. It is my time and I am happy to work my way into what I know God has for me.

Book preview

Introduction

Hello, my name is Cassandra McClinton, and I have decided to share my life with the world. I chose not to put sugar on any part of my story, so I am not hiding anything but revealing all. Never had any doubt in doing so that someone may be inspired to take the next step into their destiny and walk boldly in their purpose. Sitting silent would be just wrong. We often wonder why we go through so much even though we see ourselves as good people. But what we fail to realize is that just because we are what most would call good people, it does not exempt us from the trials of life. Good and bad times help to shape us into the people that we are to be. Trust me, I did not like everything about my journey, but I had to go through all the things that I did in order to make it to where I am inside on today.

I am the mother of four adult children, three sons and a daughter. Although I birthed five, four live, I have taken care of many. Recognizing my call as a child advocate and mother to many, I just did what came natural to me as a mother. And being abused myself as a child, any child that I could save from the same hurt and mental anguish that is what I do. I also have four grandchildren and one on the way, three boys and a girl. All of my children are musicians, artists, gifted by God to do plenty. All raised in the church just like I was. My children watched as I went through from the floor to the adults that they are now. I never hid much from them because I needed them to know that we all mess up at life, but we get back up and dust ourselves off and keep it moving. Nothing stops us but death from achieving that of which God has for us. It is up to us to keep pushing until something happens.

OMG! What a run I’ve had. Although my life is only getting started, I have had to go through so much to get to where I am now. I am in a better place today. I have been so many acts of sexual molestation away from almost bearing one of two of my uncle’s children, a drink away from alcohol poisoning, a pill away from fatal overdoses, a lick away from being beaten to death, a thin line between marital sex and rape, a bullet away from killing a man, two hundred mashed sleeping pills away from premeditated murder, a turn of the wheel away from vehicular suicide, and a moment away from losing my mind!

Oh, yes, a lot to take in at first, but as I share my story with you, I pray that you will understand the reason I’ve chosen Life Broken as the title for my book. I have only listed a few of my life-changing events and experiences and the victory even in the eyes of inevitable defeat! Oh what a story to tell. My life has been changed forever at the hands of another. I never want anyone whether enemy, foe,  or friend to go through what I have! Not everyone was built for such a life. But there is a way of escape. Knowing when to take advantage of that way of escape is key to one’s survival. Life was meant to be enjoyed not despised and or regretted. Trust in God, and you can and will survive everything that the enemy, Satan, throws at you. This is who I attribute my victory to. Although I have come so far, I still have a way to go. However, I am careful not to repeat the same mistakes ever again. When you learn better, you can do better. Changing behaviors that have gotten you nowhere can prove extremely helpful in wanting a better, more successful existence. And boy, did I learn the hard way. Come go down memory lane with me as I take a harsh look back into my struggle to just be me. I pray that someone is helped by way of my journey. Enjoy, laugh, cry, get angry, happy, downright mad, be encouraged, strengthened in your faith, learn from my mistakes! If you learn from mine, maybe you will not have to go the same route. But then again, it took all those things to happen to me so that I could be the person that I am today.

Oh, how some of those storms hurt, but they were a must. We all have a road to travel. Yours may not be mine nor mine yours, but the outcome should equate to a many lessons learned! LOL. I just pray that someone is spared the pain that I had to endure because of my environment, ungodly male family members and disobedience, just to name a few reasons!

I have got to warn you that some of the content and words as well as adult situations may not be suitable for young children. But because these things did happen and I’m telling my story, I must keep it real!

And because I’m disclosing factual content, accounts, situations, events, and real memories that include others, some names will be changed to protect their identities and reputations. This work is factual, but destroying lives is not the intent. Helping just one person or family will mean that my work has been done. I pray blessings upon your heart and anyone attached to you in Jesus name! Amen and praise God!

Chapter 1

A Confusing Childhood

Being born a female child to a poor mother and unconcerned father was a death sentence for many, many African American born children. Born in the South during a time when black folk were still fighting for the equality of the minority, this was not just a black fight but for all minority races. In the minds of many of the whites, we were considered the unequal counterpart!

I remember being around four or five years old being with my mother in a little downtown area of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, four or five years after the assassination of one of our strongest civil rights leaders, Dr. Martin Luther king Jr. Being faced with a thing that a child my age should not have even cared about, but because I was wise well beyond my age, I recognized that there was Whites Only written above one water bubbler and Blacks written above that other water fountain. Yes, I learned to read early. I remember asking my mother why there were two different looking water fountains, and before she could explain it to me, I ran to and drank from the Whites Only fountain. I knew at an early age that I wanted better for myself than what was being presented to me. My mother quickly snatched at me, but I didn’t let go until my thirst was quenched by the ice-cold water from that fountain marked Whites Only. It makes me laugh when I look back. I laugh because even then, I was a stubborn go-getter where I wanted on the impulse that I had to do it, have it, be it, say it when I wanted. And boy, later in life that may have posed a big problem or two! LOLBVS!

No matter how smart and driven as a child, those things did not stop me from being abused sexually and mistreated by those same abusers. My abusers were supposed to be protecting me but chose to molest me from the age of four to twelve years of age. Uncles are supposed to help their sisters raise and protect their children, not to welcome themselves into the habit of playing in their niece’s panties!

Being told repeatedly, If you tell, I’m going to deny it, hurt you, kill you, She is not gonna believe you, made me afraid to tell. My sister and brother and I were left with my abusers on a regular basis because my mother had to work in order to provide for us. And no matter how much we told her that we didn’t want to go to my grandmother’s house, she didn’t catch on to what was being done to us! I was always stressed about the activities that were taking place because I couldn’t avoid anything that was happening to me. Whether at their house or at my own, I was still being touched, rubbed, massaged, licked, grinded on in my sleep or awake! These two did not care about what they were doing to me. I was being made to feel violated, strange, funny, good, nasty, afraid, and confused all at the same time. Keeping secrets had become a skill mastered at an early age.

Both younger uncles were not sharing with each other the fact that they were playing in their eldest niece’s private parts. So on any given visit to babysit, I was being molested by two different relatives at the same stay. How messed up is that? I started to expect and enjoy the multiple orgasms. Since this was the only interaction that actually felt good coming from them both, I looked for it to happen every time either one was around me without my mother present. Hell, I had my first self-inflicted orgasm at five years old. I continued this behavior when I felt like it, and I felt that I wasn’t being watched or going to get caught, and this behavior continued several times a day. And this was on top of the other manipulation from my sexual predators.

I remember always waking up out of my sleep feeling slippery wet and feeling throbbing and pulsations in my hard muscle between my swollen lips and deep inside myself. It felt so good, like pains that anyone would welcome simply because the pains felt too good to just be pains that only hurt. So since it felt so good, it couldn’t be wrong, but why me? And as young as I was, I still remember so much, and this leads me to believe that it was not just me that went through this mess.

I can recall my sister being almost two years old, and I was lying on the right side of the full-sized bed with her for a nap. My youngest uncle was lying on her left side facing my sister and me, and all of a sudden, my mother snatching his ass up and threatening to beat the shit out of him if she ever caught him playing in my sister’s diaper again. That was my first memory of ever hearing that phrase, playing in private parts! But I’m wondering why would she then allow that little bastard any other opportunity to do that same thing again to any of her children? I am so confused about this. I will never understand that! Yes, I am angered by this. However, my mother was not the only person or parent that should have been there for me. My dad just checked all the way out.

Speaking of my dad, where was he? Off doing him. Because of his selfish character and nature, I was out of sight and mind! But some other woman’s kids got to enjoy his presence. All those things going on with me, but he found solace in the bottom of beer cans, so he drank plenty and was busy trying to forget that he had a child that needed his ass. My protector was an absent drunk. However, was an African American female child supposed to survive under those conditions? I was literally alone on that boat! Vulnerable prey for male relatives, my mother’s boyfriends, male family friends to do with whatever they chose to fulfill their fucked-up way of thinking concerning the boundary-less relationship with a female child that just happened to be closely related to their punk asses. I am so angered by this every time I think about it as an adult that knows for sure that it was not my fault. But that is after many years of psychotherapy, psychotropic drugs and prayer, praise, faith, and all that good stuff.

This angers me so much because I cannot understand the fascination of any grown-ass man having a baby under him in a sexual manner when they should be looking after and protecting. But instead, they used me to play out or fulfill a sexual need. Instead, they looked at the child as a need to use as stimulation for getting off. And forcing this secret to be protected after or during each count of molestation for over eight years and opened my body up to the need for sexual stimulation. Something I could have waited to feel for the first time by my first real boyfriend as a teenager or, even better, my husband on my wedding night.

I was being fondled, massaged on the clitoris, fingered inside me, orally licked and sucked, and tips of tongues slid in and out of me until I would throb and pulsate sometimes so violently because it hurt so good. Craving it more and more made me always play with myself. I felt guilty because they made me feel good. This went on for years with my two relatives.

The older and more filled out my body became, the more things I was introduced to. One day, my mom dropped us up the street as usual at my granny’s house. Usually before five o’clock in the morning. My mom was going to pick cotton so she could make some money for bills. After all, she was forced to take care of us by herself. We got in the house and was told to go lie down and go back to sleep. The bedroom was not that huge and had trunks with clothing and boxes with clothing, shoes, and other items in them and were all packed, stacked up, and running along the walls that were not blocked with beds.

The room was always dark and funky. It reeked of funky feet and unwashed clothing and bedding. There was a queen-sized bed facing the south end of the house where a full-sized window was just above it. My aunt slept there. At the north end of the room were a set of heavy-duty bunk beds stacked against the wall from east to west. A few feet along the east wall was another window clothed with dark curtains. The floor had some old, dusty, and dirty rugs on it.

The musty odor took the room hostage. No luck of fresh air because it stopped before even entering the room. And every morning, we would have to lie down with our predators as willing prey for the kill. All would just seem to lie still, too afraid to move because of the fear of being used as sex toys. What a convenience for my offenders. I was made to lay in bed with the younger one who was all of about five years older than me. Told to lie down, go back to sleep, and to shut up while doing it by my aunt, my mom’s youngest sister.

This particular morning, my offender preyed on me in a very different and dangerous manner. He proceeded to pull me closer under him and that funky-ass cover. It was hot that day so we didn’t need a cover. Momma dressed me in a cute little dress and sandals, perfect for the weather, but too easy of access for what I was exposed to.

After pulling me in to him, he started pushing himself onto me, mashing himself, and then rolling his bottom half on my butt. I was filling in fast, so my butt was a nice size, my breasts were in a bra and very tender but very plump. My hips had already formed beautifully, and I was starting to feel myself. My urges were stronger than ever, but I knew I was in trouble because his usual activity had changed.

As he was grinding into my butt, I could feel his thing getting bigger and harder. Caught up, he kept rubbing himself against me through his clothes with my dress up around my waist. He slowly started to undo his pants and let his penis hit my backside. Every time he thought he heard something, he would stop moving and pull my dress down. When he heard the way was clear, he would start again. His breathing was so much different than before. It was deeper and heavier and he was much more grabbier and massaging my breast and feeling down front, rubbing my clit until it was so hard and big and my twat was soaking with slippery wet juices from inside me. I tried not to want it, but that was what I knew that felt real good. I started grinding back real slow, so he wouldn’t know or feel me moving.

I do not think that he was even aware of what I was doing because he was so caught up in what he was feeling as he proceeded to try dicking me. His penis started coming from the back of me, then pushed slowly to my front, hitting real slow and soft my swollen lips and sliding from bottom to top of my clitoris. I was scared but kept moving toward himself, but he got bigger and harder and he started slipping the head of his penis at my vaginal opening, and at the same time, I squeezed my thighs and opening back on him, and after a short while, I felt myself pulsating on the tip of his penis. Inside, I was deeply pulsating and breathing and throbbing for a while as I jerked hard. I must have orgasmed three or four times before he was done helping to take my innocence, which was gone when he first touched me so many years before. Then he left me wet from the stuff that shot out onto me between my legs, hitting my entire private area, and then he did it all over again before cleaning me up and then going to sleep!

Hell, I got scared silly because I learned about penises, sperm, and babies in school and vowed that I would tell somebody what they had been doing to me for all those years when my mother was