Christine McDonald - Cry Purple

One Womans Journey through Homelessness,Crack Addiction and Prison to Blindness, Motherhood andHappiness

by

Christine McDonald

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Christine McDonald

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personalenjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away toother people. If you would like to share this book with anotherperson, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Ifyoure reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was notpurchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.comand purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard workof this author.

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Visit Christines authorpage at Smashwords.

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For Ricky, the light of my life,

and for Mary Christine,

whom I loved enough to give up foradoption

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Table of Contents

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This is my first attempt at writing a book.Im inviting you, my readers, to follow along as I recount myjourney of life on the streets and what came after that. Youllread how I got into that situation, my life for almost two decadesas a homeless street corner prostitute addicted to crack cocaine,and then some details of the far better life I lead now.

I grew up in a little town called Wayne,Oklahoma. Prior to our living there, we had moved a lot and I hadchanged schools a number of times.

I remember very well the difficulties ofchanging schools and attempting to make friends, which wassomething I was not good at. I wore glasses, and back then, glassesalways earned taunts such as Four eyes! and Bottle caps! I hadflattened facial features that often got me called pancake face.I remember walking down a hallway one day at school and beingcalled Madame Medusa by my schoolmates. All the kids werecovering their eyes, walking along the hallway close to the walls,so as not to touch or look at me. They were all chattering, If youlook at her, youll turn to stone! For a long time, this was mydaily hallway experience. I always looked down, not daring to makeeye contact with my classmates. Every day as a child, I dreaded, ifnot hated, showing up at school.

These things intimidated me a great deal.They kept me from being able to raise my hand in class to askquestions, as I didnt dare to draw any more attention to myself. Ididnt want to risk getting ridiculed in the classroom, as it washard enough at recess.

In addition to all of the above, I hadproblems with my joints. Some of my joints were extremelyhyperextendable, meaning I could do things resembling circustricks with my hands, elbows, and fingers, making me a freak ofsorts. However, my hips, knees, and spine were extremely stiff,much less flexible than normal, which kept me from being able torun fast. I always came in last in PE, no matter how hard I tried.I would try and try, hoping to at least come in next to last, evenonce, but it was no good. My body had such limitations that Icouldnt do any tumbling moves or do a simple cartwheel,either.

Outside in our yard at home, I would practicerunning back and forth the entire length of the yard, working andworking to build up speed. I would run and run, also spending hoursgoing up and down stairs, trying desperately to increase my speedand strength. It was only much later in life, when I was in my latethirties, that I learned that none of this was my fault, that I hadsomething known as Stickler syndrome.

On top of everything else, my mom told me Iwas mentally retarded. I need to emphasize here that I mean noinsult to anyone by using that term. It was the common term backthen for people with IQs that were lower than average, and it waswhat my mother called me. So thats why I use the term here.

Although she waited to inform me of thisuntil I was in fourth or fifth grade, this also impacted myselfesteem, adding to the already awkward school experiences I wassuffering. Once she had called me that, from that point on, Ididnt even try in school. In my own mind, once I took on thatlabel, then I felt that I couldnt learn anything, anyway, so whyeven try?

Even though my school years were generally sopainful, there were a few bright spots. I loved music class andexcelled at playing instruments. I was often selected to representour school by playing at scholastic meets and gatherings of varioussorts.

However, I would often skip other classesduring the day, choosing instead to walk through open fields,savoring the smell of freshly sunbaked hay or skipping stonesacross the water. I always felt safe alone, and loved being alonein empty fields.

When I was growing up, my home life wasdysfunctional. However, Im not going to talk about all that here,out of respect for my family and their feelings. I want toemphasize that this book is about me, about my own mistakes and myefforts to correct them. Its about my years of addiction and myjourney beyond it. I dont want to make my early home life a focalpoint of any part of my book.

When I was young, Wayne had a populationsign, reading 491, on the outskirts of town. We were miles fromeven a grocery store. I remember that when I was outside at night,the flat landscape allowed me to see lights for miles. I rememberthe night skies. The stars were ever so bright, twinkling, gleamingagainst the blackest of black, endless backgrounds.

After I ran away from home and got on drugs,never in all the cities I ever hitchhiked to, never on any of thestreets I worked, have I experienced again the clean, sweet smellof the air back in Wayne. Nor have I ever again seen skies thatblue, so crystal clear, with the most beautiful white, fluffyclouds drifting across the sky. Those endless day and night skieswere wonderful, amazing things that Ive never seen anywhereelse.

Another thing Id like to add is that sincethose days in Wayne, Ive lived in large cities where crime is thedaily norm. It seems that someone is killed just about every day inmost large U.S. cities. But that was certainly not the case inlittle Wayne, Oklahoma. So maybe, just maybe, although many thingsthere were quite unpleasant for me, a little piece of me willalways be there.

Im not sure at what age I started toselfmutilate, to cut myself, often wondering why no one seemed tonotice. I think I just wanted someone, anyone, to ask me, Whatswrong? If that had ever happened, maybe I could have let out someof the emotional turmoil I had pent up inside. But at the sametime, I always cut myself in places I could hide. Somehow, thecutting provided me some emotional relief.

Once I started using drugs, I didnt have theneed for cutting any longer. Alcohol and drugs were ways that Icould selfmedicate, helping me to end my emotions, my feelings, mythoughts. I would sneak beer or any other alcoholic drink I couldfind in the house. I would steal sleeping pills from the medicinecabinet, and when I got home from school, I would take one in orderto fall asleep, so I wouldnt have to think about the painfulexperience of attending school.

However, it was just as painful, if not moreso, for me to be at home. It was as if a deep, dark cloud hung overour house, and it hit me whenever I walked in the front door. Iwont go into all that, though. Maybe Ill save it for anotherbook.

Perhaps I was broken, somehow, at birth, as Idont remember any years in school that werent painful for me. Iwould watch others laugh in school, see all the normal people, thepretty people, the smart people. Thats how I viewed everyonearound me, seeing them all as prettier than me, as smarter than me.I was retarded, I thought, and I knew that couldnt be changed. SoI believed that pretty and smart were terms that would neverapply to me.

I would get grades like D minus minus. Nowwho gets grades of D minus minus? Applying my own reason to this, Ifigured that it was a small town, and they knew I was retarded, sothey simply let me pass classes, figuring that I would never beable to learn even if they kept me back, to repeat grades.