Have you ever been curious about the who, what, when and why’s of generation “crack baby”? What about the life of a survivor of familial bondage and sexual abuse? Ever cared to walk a day in the life of the forgotten, the oppressed, the used and abused? This book of life experience, will pique your curiosity indeed. Not everyone is born into royalty or privilege. Some of us have been fighting oppression since our conception. Some of us were born into poverty and depression. Despite the negative upbringing, some of us have actually made it. Maybe not financially, but mentally, emotionally and spiritually, some of us have truly made something of our lives, out of the nothing that life handed us. This book offers perspective. I promise you happiness, heartbreak, pleasure and pain. Most importantly, this book offers opportunity. Mothers please build unbreakable bonds with your daughters. Fathers please be the safety and protection that your daughters can count on. Siblings, respect your siblings because in the end, they are your friends for life. Society, rise above the acceptance of bullying and abusive behavior. Abuse victim, become an abuse survivor.

Welcome to the young world of Natiliha Johnson. Born and raised in the heart of Oakland California, during the "crack baby" era, Natiliha survives 5 years of sexual abuse, under her mother's roof. Feeling unloved, disrespected, and misunderstood by her mother, siblings, and family; Natiliha is faced with broken dreams, irreparable familial bondage, psychological oppression, and abusive relationships. Unsure of who to trust in her world, she seeks refuge in spirituality and lifelong friendships. Will the weight of life circumstances leave Natiliha defeated? Or will she allow life to work in her favor? Here's life.... through the eyes of a child abuse survivor.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jnaha/book-of-life-experienced/paperback/product-23083838.html

I, Natiliha J’zi Johnson was born on a hot summer day of September 6, 1985 in the projects of Oakland, Ca. I was born a crack baby. Everybody that knew my mother and my father, knew it too.

My mother had just come off her drug binges and started feeling labor pains. At the time, she thought she was just going through withdrawals, so she asked her dear, loving baby daddy Nathan to fix her another hit.

Nathan had just witnessed Mary convulsing in her sleep every 5 minutes for the past 30 minutes prior to her waking up asking for another hit. “Mary baby, I don’t think you need another hit, I think you might be in labor. Let’s walk on down to this hospital so we can have this baby right quick, then when we get home, you can have as many fixes as you need babe.

Ms. Feisty Mary wasn’t trying to hear nothing about no pregnancy, she just wanted the pain to stop. “What in the hell do you mean when we get back from the hospital? I’m fixin to have this baby right here on this damn floor, so get my needle ready!”

Needless to say, I was born a crack baby, on the living room floor of 1305 E 34th street in the projects of east Oakland, Ca. Mama seemed more interested in tending to her high, than she was to ensuring that she gave birth to a healthy baby. She was in such a hurry to give birth that she no longer concentrated on the pain. She just started pushing like she was trying to get the last of a turd out of her ass, slowing up her day. I’ve been told that my neck ends up wrapped around the umbilical cord, and if it wasn’t for the help of an off duty Nurse who heard Mama yelling from her apartment down the hall, then I probably would not have made it. I don’t think that would’ve bothered Mama one bit. Her first loyalty was to herself, second her wants and needs, third came the man in her life, fourth was anything that didn’t interfere with those first three things. Children were never a priority for her. In fact, I can remember hearing her say I hate you kids more than I heard I love You.

Being born a drug addicted baby was the first strike I had against me uncontrollably. The next strike was that I was born dark skinned, skinny, with reddish brown hair. So they teased me for it. They, meaning my father, my siblings, my cousins, aunts, and friends. But that isn’t even the half! The final strike against me was that I lost my mother to my father. Because he molested me, and when I finally got the nerve to tell my mama on my daddy, I became the enemy; his and hers-simultaneously.

Imagine being me for a day. Could you imagine? Would you even want to? I wouldn’t wish my struggle on my worst enemy. But somebody had to do it, so God nominated me. Here I go. All 28 years of my story.

My mother isolated herself from her family when she met, and made, 6 crack babies with my father. They say hurt people, hurt people. That could be the case, who knows. My parents are secretive and it shows. It shows in how they parent, in how their kids now parent. By the time I was born, I already had 3 siblings. Lenae & Shardae Cole, my 6-year-old twin’s sisters from Mama’s previous relationship. Then there was Tyiesha, the first of Mama’s drug addicted babies, she’s a year older than me. Little would I know; life was hell for them. By the time I turned 5, I would understand why. At age 5 is when my innocence was stolen, my observant nature taking its place. I remember it like it was yesterday. The night my view of the world and people would forever be altered.

It was sometime around Christmas of 1990. I had turned 5 years old, three months earlier; I was now on Christmas break from school. I remember, because I had a bunch of Christmas gifts all over my bed from family. It was the middle of the night; Mama was nowhere to be found. I hadn’t seen her for days. I remember missing her. Lenae and Shardae were away with their dad for the holidays, so it was just me, Tyiesha, and my other siblings. My little brother Johnny who was 4 and my little sister Trinity who was 3, were off in the room they shared down the hall from the room Tyiesha and I shared. The babies Marcus who was 1, and Jessica who was about 2 months at the time, were in my parent’s room in their cribs sleeping. Tyiesha and I were in our room as well, situated to the right of our parent’s room.

I remember being woken up in the middle of the night. I was being lifted out of my bed by my father, being taken into my parent’s bedroom. The only feeling I felt the minute he lifted me out of my bed was fear. The observant person in me knew that the fear was valid, that whatever was happening, was not good. That observer in me was right. He took me into their room, stripped me naked. He started fondling me, forcing me to do things to him. He kept telling me, or rather whispering to me, that he would kill my mama if I told her. I believed him. I believed him because, I remember an incident where my mother and father were fighting one night. All of us kids were in our bedrooms. I remember hearing what I now know was a gun cocking, then hearing my Mama crying while yelling to my father, “Gone and kill me. You going to take me away from my kids!?” Maybe those words were his wake up call, because he just ended up leaving the house.

Laying there with the smell of alcohol on his breath, violating me, his daughter, I started to get a disgusted view of him on top of fear. From that day forward, that fear I felt, stayed with me. For years, and years, and years. I feared people after that, especially men. Nathan molested me off and on for 5 years, right under my Mama’s roof. Those 5 years shaped my personality, shaped my outlook on relationships, people, feelings, everything!

In those 5 years, Tyiesha and I were sent to a foster home for 1 year. Mama went to jail, got out, got clean, got me and my sister back. Picking up the pieces, carrying on with life like nothing happened, we moved to North Oakland. Unfortunately, the damage of the 1st ten years of my life was already done, so the person I became, had become the consequences of their actions for the next 18 years.

One thing I can say about Mama, even though she may have been a drug addict and a sucker for my father; one thing she was not, was a punk! During that time, I learned how to defend myself against men from watching her. On many occasions when my father was drunk, he made my mama his punching bag. But she always made sure that that was short lived. Mama owned this electrical knife that she used every time Nathan beat her. She'd slice the same hand that he'd use to beat her with too. He’s be screaming and hollering every time. She did that so many times, that the last time she sliced him, Nathan came home from the hospital telling Mama that the doctors would be forced to amputate his arm if he had to come back in there to get it stitched up. Her response was always, "Well that's on you! You hit me again, that's exactly what they'll be doing to it. And I betcha!" What is even more crazy is that even though she always sliced him, he always came back!

The Letter

It’s June 10, 1996, another long, boring, slaving, summer day for me. Right now, I’m in my room that I share with my 12-year-old sister Tyiesha. In my oversized walk in closet, I’m working on making it spic and span so that it, along with the rest of the room, will pass my father’s militant inspection.

Today is a day like many others. Nathan woke up in a militant mood, so doled out chores for everyone in the house, except for himself of course. Everything we do in this house has a time and place. That includes eating, laughing, and using the bathroom. I’ve never been to prison a day of my life, but I can imagine it being pretty similar to my living situation.

We all wake up around 7 am on this beautiful Saturday morning. Like clockwork my mom calls upstairs to us at 8AM.” The food is ready, y'all can come eat.” This is one of the few luxury times that we kids get to come downstairs out of our rooms. We all come downstairs in single file, walked toward the kitchen, passed our father sitting on the couch in the living room, with his big hearty meal in front of him enjoying the T.V. This is another luxury we get to only hear as we are eating our food in the kitchen on the floor. We have a beautiful dining room table, but are only allowed to eat there on holidays or special occasions.

As we get into the kitchen, Mama hands us off our plates, then one by one, we take our plates, sit in our desired location on the floor, preparing to eat as much as we can, as quick as we can. Because of course our meal times are timed, so if after 15 minutes you haven’t cleaned your plate, then too bad for you. Not only do you not get to finish what is left on your plate, you then are punished by standing in a corner holding a telephone book until Nathan is done being entertained. How is that for a Saturday for a house full of kids? It isn’t fun, please believe.

Now 8:20 AM, Mama walks back in the kitchen to relay militant Nathan’s message. Nathan is the enforcer, with Mama passing along his message. This time, she is listing off our chores for the day. “Tyiesha and Natiliha, clean your room and each of those closets top to bottom. Johnny and Marcus clean your room, your closet, and the bathroom, your daddy doesn’t want to see a crumb! Trinity, Jessica the same go for you two, clean those rooms top to bottom. Your daddy said if he finds anything out of place, everybody is going to be standing up in that corner!”

Of course curious me, asks, “Mama, so what do you got to clean Mama?” I knew better than to ask about Nathan because he never cleans.

“I’m going to clean the backyard.”

We piled our plates in the sink, prepared to head back upstairs in a single file line to get started on our delegated chores.

I am the last to leave the kitchen. As I follow my siblings upstairs, my mind starts to wonder about a lot of different things. I wonder if daddy will finally stop coming in my room late at night to make me come downstairs to touch me? I wonder if Mama knows or ever knew what he does late at night while she’s either drunk at her sister’s house or locked in her bedroom, drunk? Will he ever be man enough to do more than fondle his kids and give orders? Will she ever be woman enough to stand up to his militant, abusive ass for the sake of her kids? Will I ever be strong enough and bold enough to finally tell my Mama on my Daddy? If I do tell Mama, will it finally end the militant torture that me, my brothers, sisters, and mother have endured at the hands of Daddy? I hope she believes me!

Today was the day that I decided I was no longer going to remain silent. I was tired of being fearful every time I walked passed my father, or any man for that matter. I was tired of, the ball in the pit of my stomach and in my throat every time daddy Nathan looked my way or called my name. I was ready to move forward by putting this painful secret out in the open once and for all. This was my summer vacation, by my 12th birthday, I would be starting Jr. High. I wanted to have as much confidence, self-assurance, and fearlessness in me as possible. I was ready to be a big girl.

As I walked through the living room, I walked quickly, with my head down. I didn’t want to give Nathan any eye contact because I was scared. Just as I made it up the second flight of stairs to my room, “Nat!” I froze, and that ball in the pit of my stomach returned, along with the gripping fear. My father had just called me by the nickname my family gave me.

Millions of thoughts ran through my mind. All of them, thoughts on how to run away. You see today was going to be a life changing day for me and I knew it the moment I woke up this morning. I decided I was going to tell Mama today, and either he’s moving out or I am. That was the plan and that was the only thing in my thought process.

“Huh?”, I answered.

He waited a full minute before he said anything. My heart was pounding the entire full minute. What does he want!? I knew that since Mama was home and sober, I didn’t have to worry about him calling me into their bedroom or the bathroom or living room right quick. After a full minute of silence, Nathan finally responded, “Make sure you find a place for all them clothes in your closet. I don’t want to see anything hanging from rails other than hangers.

With a sigh of relief, “Ok”, I answered as I hurried upstairs to my comfort zone, my closet.

Turning on the closet light, closing the door, I got to work on making sure it was spic and span. At the same time, I was trying to figure out how I was going to finally let out this secret that I had been too scared to tell for the past 6 years. Telling Mama face to face was out of the question. I tried, too many times for years, but the words never seemed to come. Next, I thought about having one of my brothers tell her for me, but I nixed that idea just as quickly as the last idea. I felt like, if I wanted this secret out -then I wanted to be the one to tell it. Plus, I didn’t want to drag them through my turmoil. Finally, I decided to just write her a letter. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

I grew excited inside of my closet so I started looking for my diary and a pen so that I can start in on my letter. I convinced myself that everything was going to be fine now, just perfect. I’m going to write this letter, pray that it reaches Mama, and all of my worries will be over. We will be a big happy family without him. At least that is what I kept telling myself.

Since the room that I shared with Tyiesha was facing the backyard, and Mama was going to be in the backyard cleaning, this seemed like the most logical option. I would drop the letter out of the window, and that way I know she’d get it.

I did just that. I completed my chores, got my closet spic and span with not even a piece of lent left to be found, then I put together the letter:

Dear Mama,

I’m writing you this letter because there is something I’ve needed to tell you, but I’ve been just too scared to. For the past 6 years starting when I was 5, Daddy has been molesting me. every time you leave at night and sometimes when you leave during the day. He always finds a reason to call me while sending everyone else in the house, to the store, outside, or to bed. He makes me do things to him. I’ve tried telling you lots of times, but every time I open my mouth to say something, I just get scared and the words don’t come out. I hope and pray that you believe me because it took a lot of strength and courage for me to finally tell you what I have been going through for years. I really, really, really hope and pray you believe me.

~Natiliha~

The Rest of The Story is Here:  http://www.lulu.com/shop/jnaha/book-of-life-experienced/paperback/product-23083838.html