I was born on October 16th to Ruby Lynn Prothero, of course I wouldn't learn who she was until much later in life. I was given up for adoption and placed with the woman I consider to be my real mother, my mom, R. Noble. She was married when she adopted me, but divorced a year later and remarried the man I would grow up knowing as my father (now deceased).

The growing up years were hard, I didn't have many friends, I was a very angry child, mostly due to the abuse that I suffered at home. My father was not only physically abusive, but mentally abusive as well. He would tell me things such as "you're a fat, ugly little girl and no one is ever going to love you", or when I would say my prayers at night, he'd come in and tell me that he didn't know why I bothered to pray because even God didn't love me. He even went so far as to say that my own mother didn't love me and that's why he had me and she didn't.

In the end, that statement would prove to be true. My father made my life a living hell, the only escape that I had was sports which I excelled at. I loved them all, basketball, softball and volleyball were my favorite but in the end, I stuck with softball. Because I wasn't part of the "in" crowd, I never got to play basketball, even though I was one of the best on the team, so eventually I just quit. I loved to write and singing was my passion, though I never did it much around the house. Anytime that I would sing I was told to shut up, or be quiet. Many have asked over the years, where was your mom? Well let me explain.

I was one of eight children. My two sisters and I were adopted before my mom married my dad. When my mom married my dad, he had been previously divorced and had left behind three sons, then together my mom and dad had one son, my little brother who I still adore to this day (you big sissy! lol). My mom worked hard, hours and hours every day to help to provide for the large family that she had taken on. My dad was sick for the first years and then his ex-wife was declared an unfit mother and his children had to come live with us, that is where the nightmares really began.

My "brothers" tried to rape me on more than occasion, even though I was only two years old when they came to stay with us. My oldest "brother" taught me how to steal money from mom and dad then give it to him so he could go buy drugs. I guess he figured I was still a baby so to speak and wouldn't get into as much trouble as he would have. Well, it worked for awhile, until mom caught on to what he was doing. By then his drug habit was out of control and he cornered mom in our kitchen and threatened to beat her if she didn't give him money. She threw him out that day and I never heard from him again.

It was during this time that the boys started to light the candle at both ends so to speak. They hated mom and would do anything to make sure they undermined her in front of my father, which as you can guess started more fights than you can imagine, violent fights. But mom was always there to step between us kids and my father when he would come after one of us. I can still picture her little 5 foot nothing body in his 6 foot plus frame shaking her finger at him and telling him he wouldn't touch the kids. She did her best and that's all that anyone can ask.

It got to a point that my father would come after us when she wasn't around to protect us. We initiated the "buddy system". My "buddy" was my little brother. Whenever my parents would start to fight, each of us kids had a hiding place to go and you took your buddy with you. Because I was older, I was responsible for my little brother Matt. We would hide under the stairs behind what seemed like hundreds of boxes and would cringe when he we heard him pacing the floor above our heads calling our names, trying to coax us out of the only place we we ever really felt safe, but we never gave our spot away, we never came out.

Matt would cry because he was so small and it was dark, lonely and terrifying. I would sing to him softly as I held him in my arms the best any seven year old would hold her six year old brother and I'd pray that Dad wouldn't hear us, wouldn't find us, and I'd pray that it would be over soon and wishing at the same time that I'd never been born. The scene would be replayed many times in my childhood, over and over the same scenario would take place. My tears would begin to fall the moment my brothers eyes would close.

Usually we both fell asleep, me holding him in my arms, the only place that I think either one of us ever really felt safe for many years. Things progressively got worse and when I say worse, even I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until I looked back over the years while I was talking to mom on the phone last night.