The belief system in our household was chaotic. Some days we went to church, while on others, my parents threw parties that included alcohol and drugs. My mother demanded that I embody whichever persona she presented. If she portrayed a free-spirited hippie, I was expected to be a free-spirited hippie; if she focused on being God-fearing, she would bombard me with questions about faith. I could never match my mother’s extreme expectations, which resulted in mental and verbal abuse. This conflict intensified until Jimmy finally confronted my mother, urging her to decide on her preferred way of living. He promised to remain committed, regardless of her choice—even if it meant following God. The ceaseless changes became too overwhelming for him to handle emotionally. I clearly remember the tension during that time, hoping my mother would choose to follow God.
Then, my mother disappeared for over a week with no communication. During her absence, Jimmy began drinking excessively. I could see his heart breaking; at twelve years old, I attempted to provide support. Jimmy discovered Patty was at one of her old hangouts. Ignoring my warnings, he went out to find her and ended up getting arrested for driving while intoxicated. A few months later, in another bout of drunkenness, he sought her out again and faced another DUI charge, resulting in his imprisonment. We lost our home and moved to a low-income area in South Fort Worth with Patty.
My mother, lacking any prior experience raising children on her own, found taking care of my sister and me incredibly overwhelming. She would often vanish for days without notice, leaving us alone in South Fort Worth. Understanding that seeking help from any of her relatives could lead to conflict and danger, I resorted to shoplifting food and clothing for us. When my mother was present, the physical abuse increased, putting my younger sister in danger. I found this intolerable. Having cared for my sister for years, I was determined to protect her from our mother. Our home became a battlefield as I confronted my mother about her treatment of my sister. While I never struck my mother, I would deliberately provoke her to shield my sister from harm.
Now and then, my mother would pick up her Bible, and life would be more peaceful for a short time. I always appreciated the reprieve, yet her wavering faith was partly to blame for our hardship. One night, I overheard my mother praying in the living room. She quoted Scripture about the time God had rained down manna from heaven. By this time, I was so angry that even her voice made my skin crawl; I was furious with her on-and-off faith. Then, my mother entered the room where my sister and I slept and placed her hands on me as she prayed. Not wanting to have another physical or verbal battle, I pretended to be sleeping as I simmered angrily; I thought that if God saw us; He didn’t care.
