The Pit Bull

A family member told me they didn’t worry about my husband because he had me.

They referred to me as a pitbull.

I think it was meant as a compliment.

But the more I thought about it.

The more accurate that description became.

Not the, fuck with my husband and I’ll rip your head off with my locking jaws.

That part is undeniably true.

I saw the pitbull chained outside.

Gets food and water.

But is never let in the house.

Trained to be mean and aggressive.

Protect.

But never shown affection.

Connection.

It’s the non-pet pet.

And it’s exactly what I’ve been all my life.

I’ve been given food and shelter in exchange for something.

For my mother, pedo bait, free babysitter, speed bag, scapegoat.

For my great-grandmother, free labor, alcoholic babysitter, free labor, medical courier, and did I mention free labor?

For my uncle, punching bag (literally, when he was drunk), molestation options, financier.

For my aunt, date chaperone, witness to impropriety, keeper of the secrets of the past life.

All very heavy burdens for an 8 to 12-year-old, not to mention the adult woman with kids. 

There was occasional affection.

I won’t deny that.

But all of it had a price.

My uncle wanting to take me to the beach with six other people in tow

My price? 

Financier.

My great-grandmother letting me go to a birthday party.

Endless guilt and anger for not helping out in the business the hour or two I was gone.

My mother saying she missed me.

Free babysitter for her 2 younger daughters with the bonus of pedo bait for her current husband.

Yes.

Definitely pit bull.