Lies of a Real Housewife (2 page)

Betrayal can be very painful, but when the person who betrays you is a family member or someone you consider a close friend, then the pain is always on a totally different level.

Phaedra Parks was a snake I allowed to slither her way into my life. Once sh
e got close enough to bite, she did! As she slithered away, she left me to die a slow and sure death. The heifer never even looked back.

As I replay the course of our relationship in my mind over and over again, I think of all the times she visited my mot
her’s and my grandmother’s home then sat down, removed her shoes, and ate a meal. I remember the times she played with my children. I’ve replayed each and every moment that I spent with her! The laughter, the heartfelt tears, the times when I was going through a beat down and stressed out from the blows thrown by life; she was my true confidante.

Phaedra Parks was even bold enough to stand in my absence at my very own mother’s funeral! I know your mind is wondering where I was, and why I was not there myse
lf. Well, believe it or not, I was incarcerated at Pulaski State Prison serving “OUR” sentence!

So here it is– within the first six months of my incarceration, I gave birth

to my fifth child while handcuffed to a bed. My mother died suddenly of a massive heart attack, and my grandmother died as well. They always say, “God won’t put more on you than you can bear!” Well, if I may be frank… I think that was a bit much for anybody to bear.

Sometimes our world can be a very cruel place, nothing in my life had
prepared me for the journey I was about to take.  Looking back now I know that I only made it by the grace and mercy of my Heavenly father. Brace yourself as I take you on the ride of your life. The biggest emotional roller coaster you will have ever experienced. On this ride you will experience love, betrayal, happiness, hate, shame, guilt, defeat, fear, and last but certainly not least, VICTORY!

Phaedra Parks is very calculative. She’s a smart woman. I will give her that credit. She walked away from our
treasured turned corrupt friendship with not as much as a blemish to her name. To top that, she carried her secret around long enough for the statute of limitations to run out on any criminal or civil charges. She even married our partner in crime so that he could not ever testify against her, but have you ever heard the saying, “You’re so smart that you’re dumb?” This statement was most certainly created for Phaedra Parks. Sorry, but that good ol’ Christian girl--that southern belle is a crook.

And she’s
a dumb one at that!

This is a true story of my life, and my personal relationship with renowned ‘super lawyer’ Phaedra Parks. This is the truth behind those lies.

Chapter One

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” Matthew 7:13 (NIV)

I was born in Baltimore, Maryland, and grew up a hardhead, a real

hard-knocker in Buffalo, NY. I wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody because I was raised on the streets during the 1980’s. When I was five years old, I was sexually abused by a monster. The perverted culprit was my mother’s nephew, Anthony, who was several years older than me. This horrendous incident left me in a state of desperation. In my first book, Life Beyond These Walls, I eventually wrote an in-depth perspective of this brutal attack. and the cruelty perpetrated against me. I left an excerpt of my first book in the back

of this book.  

After surviving the grisly sex abuse episode at the tender age of five, I gained the notoriety of being the black sheep of my family. My dire circumstance pushed me over the brink of early disaster, and landed me in the worst years of my childhood. It propelled me into being an angry, young girl who

was constantly in and out of trouble.

At the time, I didn’t know that the silent, inner conflict I bore would

leave me scarred for life. I found myself always fighting for, and always demanding attention from
anyone. On a daily basis, my poor mother,
Joan Milling, could’ve bet her life that she would receive a call from a representative of whatever school I was attending. And that was when I attended school. My mother would’ve been a millionaire if she got twenty dollars for every

call she received.

Yes, the sexual abuse I suffered pushed me into being a most disrup-

tive child. I felt that classmates and children in general were always picking on me all the time. It had partly to do with me being physically
so tall. My mother was five-feet-nine inches tall, my father, Ronnie was six-feet-five

inches, and my brother, Lee
Matthews, was six-feet-seven inches tall.

To make matters worse, I had allergies, and always had a runny

nose. My kindergarten teacher got mad with me one day because she felt I was disrupting her class when I asked for tissue. But I had actually sneezed, and snot was everywhere. She angrily grabbed me by my shirt, dragged me to the side of the classroom, and shouted, “You snotty-nose brat, bring your

own damn tissue next time!”

All the kids started calling me ‘snot-nose brat’. They wouldn’t stop,

so I was always in a fight. I mean, this was happening all the time! When I first told my mother that I was molested by her sister’s third son, my family chose to sweep it under the rug. This was done to maintain the strong bond of kinship. But it served o
nly to destroy my trust, and made me a fighter. I felt if my mother would no longer protect me then who would? I had low self esteem and suffered intolerable depression. Then to top it off, I had grown an

insatiable obsession for sex.

The fact that I had been through the horrible ordeal of molestation

didn’t help me or my family any. This heinous act fueled my deviant behavior and made it difficult for my mother to maintain a decent job. I hated when

they called her to my school because I would always get yelled at.

“Angela, one day your mouth is going to write a check that your butt

can’t cash! G-i-i-r-r-l-l-l! You are going to find yourself in a world of trouble one day!” My mother used to say. I can still hear my mother’s voice replaying over and over again. Her words continue to always echo somewhere in the

back of my mind.

I attended over eleven schools before I was finally kicked out per-

manently. Then I was sent to an alternative school, and was expelled from there as well. Night school became my next stop. And guess what? The result

was the same. I was expelled from there too.

Six weeks later my mother received a letter stating I would not be

allowed to attend any schools in New York State. This was disappointing to me. I felt like yesterday’s garbage, nobody wanted me. But I was a naive child whose innocence had been taken away. I had been robbed of a pain-free childhood. As a result I would be labeled a ‘troubled child’. This was the description of my shrink, the psychiatrist, placed in charge of evaluating how troubled I really was when I was nine years old.

To others I
was just rude, or disrespectful. There were some, who

saw me as a defiant, belligerent, and disorderly child. Then some people wrote me off as being uncontrollable, nasty, mean-spirited, and possessed. I was a demon, or just plain full of hate. You could call it whatever you want, but I knew that I was just always misunderstood. Deep down inside I was

mad that I wasn’t important enough for my mother to stand up for me.

Totally out of control, I was no stranger to counseling and detention

centers. I hated
listening to the repetitive cycle of questioning from the counselors. Their curiosities always wound up being compounded into the shape

of the same questions.

“Angela, what’s wrong? Angela, why are you acting out? What hap-

pened to you honey? How can I
help…?”

It all just sounded like blah, blah, blah to me! And I hated listen-

ing to them because I knew they really didn’t care. There was no bond. So I never had a connection with any of them, and never felt the urge to want to really open up. All I wanted to know was why were they in my face with that nonsense? I really knew they were being fake, acting like they really cared

about me.

What really bothered me the most was that everyone, including the

counselors, would always claim to know what was troubling me. If they knew what I was going through, then they should have been more sympathetic to my needs. They all should have been more understanding, but they didn’t know how it felt to have innocence s
tolen at such a tender age.

At five years old, I should have been enjoying my childhood, look-

ing forward to happy meals at McDonalds, and rushing home to watch Sesame Street. The only butterflies I should have felt in my stomach should have

been those
of my excitement to see Santa Claus. Instead I was molested.

I was under the impression that parents were supposed to protect

their children. They should believe when their children say something bad happened. I didn’t have that luxury. The dilemma made me wish that everyone would just get out of my face!
My mother did nothing because a family member was the perpetrator. Then my grandmother had told her to keep the

incident hush, hush and on the low.

My older brother, Lee, would tell you that I was a complete jerk

back then. The truth was I felt no one really cared about me. The counselors could care less what happened to me, and providing therapy was just a job to them. Once that ‘closed’ sign was hung on the door, I was back out on the mean streets by
myself, struggling. The counselors would be at their homes, in their perfect world with a perfect dinner table setting, kissing, and hugging

their perfect children.

My poor mother, she didn’t know what to do with me. I remem-

bered when I was fourteen y
ears old, and she learned that her baby-girl was pregnant. She was so disappointed and tried really hard to help me turn my life around. My mother even put me in a pregnancy crisis center for troubled

girls.

I was kicked out three days later, after I got caught trying to steal the sonogram machine. My mama refused to give up on me. She was determined that I was going to get my education. She never stopped stressing the fact that I needed to achieve more in life than being a juvenile delinquent. I was a teenage mother, and a high school dropout, but my mother stayed on my side. She always wanted what was best for me, and she was serious about that.