My father killed himself seven months before I was born because he didn't want to be a father. Margaret, my mother, contemplated abortion during the better part of her pregnancy, but somewhere along the line she decided not to go through with it.
When Margaret began contractions early in the morning of 11 February, she drove an hour-and-a-half to Iowa City, Iowa to have me in one of the finest teaching hospitals in the country: University of Iowa Hospitals. After several hours of labor, I pushed my way into the world nine days after my due date. I was named Lindsey Rey, after Lindsey Buckingham (guitarist for Fleetwood Mac) and my father, Reynold Scott ("Rey" coming from his first name).
The first four years of my life were far from ordinary. Shortly after I was born, Margaret and I moved to Tacoma, Washington. There, Margaret had little money, forcing her and I to live in a car for several months before moving into tiny, dumpy apartments along Puget Sound. We were constantly moving, a trend that would last a total of fifteen years.
When I was four, Margaret and I moved back to Iowa, settling on the island city of Sabula. During this time Margaret found that tormenting me with mind games was the best way of being a parent. It was not uncommon for her to approach me from left field and make me flip a silver dollar coin to determine my punishment for transgressions I never committed: Heads meant I was locked in the attic, tails meant the basement. This "ritual" was in practice until I was eleven years old, when Margaret found verbal abuse and neglect a much subtle form of punishment. I was constantly called a hindrance in her life and was left home alone. I would find myself sleeping on her bedroom floor, next to her bed, or in the hallway outside her door. Subconsciously I did this to make sure she wouldn't leave me, but she always did.
Before I entered middle school I took to self-mutilation. This was never done as a means of attention, as I always hid it; in fact, I hid it for nearly ten years. Hurting myself was a way for me to deal with my emotions, as I was never allowed to express what I was feeling or thinking. The self-mutilation was done after Margaret put me down for foolish things, like not removing my dirty clothes from the bathroom floor or interrupting her while she watched television.
In the spring time of 1997 I found myself online, building a website and establishing myself a permanent spot in chat-rooms. I became a wiz at HTML, and learned how to navigate myself online quickly. Being online and having my own website gave me a voice, gave me golden opportunities to be myself.
On Sunday, 17 August, 1997, three days before I started high school, I was beaten and raped in the small timber area that existed no more than fifty yards from my home. I wanted so badly to tell Margaret about the assault, but I thought she wouldn't believe me and that I was only seeking attention. So I stayed silent about the assault, telling no one and using my self-mutilation as a way to deal with my emotions and as a way to make myself uninvited; the scars, I thought, would make me undesirable to people, mostly men. The odd part of this is that I wore long sleeves, never revealing my scars to anyone. I shut myself in my room, never going outside, living in constant fear that HE was still out there. The only things that brought comfort to my life were self-mutilation, bulimia, writing, and listening to heart wrenching, melancholic music.
In November 1998 Margaret and I moved into a 1940's bungalow in Clinton, Iowa. I fought Margaret and the state of Iowa to continue to attend my high school in Miles, Iowa and won, being awarded with open enrollment and driving permission to drive to school.
High school was an exhilarating experience for me. I was clique-less, running amok all the typical high school groups: the jocks, the cheerleaders, the preps, the losers, the art savvy kids. Since graduating high school, I've been told by numerous people that I was the most popular person in the entire school.
Between my junior and senior year of high school I was hospitalized for a failed suicide attempt. I could say more on this, but it really was a total waste of time and is barely worth mentioning, except to say this: Someone called the police. One of the two officers that showed up at my house escorted me to the ER in the back of his police car. I had never felt so degraded in my life. "Give me the Ramones and a pack of cigarettes, and we'll call it a night," I had written in my journal over the whole ordeal. I was dubbed an angst-ridden teenager and released from the hospital three days later. It was an experience I still roll my eyes at.
After graduating high school, in May 2001 with a GPA of 1.3 (D+ average), I found myself in Port Huron, Michigan working as a house-sitter. How I landed such a position I will never know, but it was a thrilling experience. I was paid $250 a week to live in someone's house; mow the lawn in summer, plow the lane in winter, feed and water the dogs. Monkey's work really, but the whole occurrence is something that will never be topped.
After I returned to Iowa in December 2003, I was blind and aimless. I sulked in my usual depression and basically did nothing with myself or my life. No job, no real friends; just me, my sharp objects, pen and paper, and music.
In May I went to the local community college and enrolled in 15 credit hours. I didn't tell anyone, thinking that I'd jinx myself (whatever that means). Margaret, still thriving off her belittlement of me, became frustrated of my stagnancy in life and gave me until the first of July 2004 to move out. If you ask Margaret, I was kicked out. If you ask me, I left happily and willingly.
I stayed with Rachel, my best friend since 1987, for a few weeks before moving in with my best friend Ken. I figured I'd only live with him temporarily, but we ended up living together for six months before he moved in with his girlfriend.
Whiling living with him I took up drinking coffee, smoking, and sexual assault counseling, and basically started to get my life back from a painful past. I established a very strong relationship with Jen�a, a girl I'd known just as long as Rachel. She was one of the first people to know about my sexual assault, and was one of the first to see me wear T-shirts.
I flourished in college my first year. I was vice president of the student government; my duties included being a chair member on several communities, and arranging various charity events. I also achieved a 3.0 GPA; my lowest grade being a C+ (a C+ because I didn't complete a final paper, an incident that I still kick myself in the ass over).
On 26 April, 2005, I told Margaret about my rape. She turned all focus onto herself, and essentially didn't care about it. Her exact response was "I knew it [...] I'm not quite as dense as you think I am." At that moment I realized that she was unhealthy to have in my life, and I cut her from my life. -- Two emails, one from me, one from her, dated 26 April 2005, is the last contact we've had with each other.
Today I could say that I'm trying to get my life back on track, but when it was never on the rails in the first place ... I'm still thriving in college, studying to be a secondary English education with a minor in psychology. I'm planning on being a high school English teacher and counselor. I'm also planning on a used & abused passport, a log cabin in Montana, a red 1964� Ford Mustang, "tattoo sleeves," a ticket stub from a Tori Amos and Marilyn Manson concert, a souvenir from the Rijksmuseum Kr�ller-M�ller, owning every Beatles album, and having a cat named Aosis.
I'm currently -- essentially -- re-birthing myself.