Happy New Year???

As I sit here writing this, music blaring in my house to drown out the sounds of the fireworks of normal humans who celebrate holidays with cracks, pops, and booms, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to enjoy holidays like this again.

It has been over 17 years since I deployed to Iraq. It’s been 16 years that I’ve been home from war. When will I be normal again? When will I be able to hear the sounds of others celebrating the holidays like this and not lose myself in memories and tears? When will sounds of harmless fireworks stop reminding me of gunshots and artillery? When will I stop picturing death and destruction every time I hear these sounds?

I fear it will never come…that day.

To all those who celebrate this way, enjoy yourselves but please remember there are people like me who are terrified to turn down the music until its over.

Happy New Year everyone!


Alright, so let me make sure its clear that Dad wasn’t perfect. He made a lot of mistakes. A lot. But…his mistakes were on a different spectrum. He pulled himself out of the hole that he was born into and made something of himself. His only downfall was that he let his mental illness take control of his emotions and cloud his ability to have relationships.

In “The Beginning”, I wrote about my dad beating me for writing on the wall and flipping the couch over with my mom still on it. That is the first memory I have of him and its the last one I have of him for a few years. It wasn’t until later on, maybe when I was like 5 or 6 years old that I remember him again. It was a great memory that hurts so bad to think about because its a short encounter with him that would be the last for a long time.

I was asleep at my Mamaw’s trailer in a shitty, white trash trailer park . My mom was not around or hadn’t come back for me that previous night so I was asleep on the couch. My cousin, Larry, was there and my Mamaw. **Larry and I grew up together like brother and sister because his mom left him at Mamaw’s a lot too. He basically lived with her. ** Anyway, I was sleeping and heard a knock on the door. I got up and answered the door. Yeah, I know…why is a 5 year old answering the door in a bad part of town but give me a break, I was five. Standing in the doorway, in the dark, at the top of the steps, is a large man with black hair and a big green duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I’m staring at him and he smiles and says he’s my dad and asks if my mom is there. Of course the answer is no so he asks to come in and sit with me. I’m just happy to meet my dad at this point so I, of course, let him in (I know, I know. Don’t say it). So, here is little ole me and this huge man sitting in my filthy trailer, me in my nightgown and him wearing his Marine green uniform, before the sun even comes up. His duffel is sitting on the floor in front of the small table and I’m sitting across from him. He asks if I want to eat breakfast together. I had to tell him we didn’t have anything to eat so he gets my shoes and we walk together to the corner store and grab one of those small boxes of cereal, ya know the ones that are supposed to be a single serving, and some milk. We walk back to the trailer, me still in my nightgown, mind you, and sit at the table eating cereal. I don’t remember the conversation or if there even was conversation. I remember him smiling at me a lot. I also remember him sitting on the couch with me watching cartoons after I was done eating. Not long after the sun came up, maybe an hour or so, he told me he had to go and hugged me and said he loved me. He left that tiny trailer that morning and I didn’t see him again until I was in the 4th or 5th grade. Not that I remember, anyway.

Dad grew up with an abusive father and an alcoholic mother. His dad sexually abused him and my uncle and beat the shit out of them every chance he got. When my dad was in high school, he had grown out his hair and dropped out. Apparently, from how Dad told it, my grandfather beat him like he was a grown man and told him to cut his hair and get back in school. Dad said that was the only good thing that man ever did for him. So Dad finished high school and started dating my mom. Dad was only two years older than her so she was only 16 when they started dating.

One day my dad went to visit her at her house. There was a guy standing outside of their house screaming and hollering for my mom’s cousin Henrietta to come outside. The guy was drunk, according to everyone who was there and told the story. My dad walks up and asks the guy to go calm down and come back when he’s not so heated. The guy tells Dad to fuck off and mind his own business. Dad said he obliged and left. He said he went somewhere and had a beer and came back with the hopes of seeing my mom. The guy was still there acting a fool. My dad walked up to him and asked him, again, to go cool off and come back later. This is where the guy loses his shit and hits my dad. He says he told Dad to mind his own business and starts to fight with Dad. Now, I don’t know how big this guy was but he had to be pretty ballsy to mess with my dad because Dad was six-foot-three-inches and not slight of build at all. Anyway, Dad said he lost his mind at this point and went into a blinding rage. He grabbed the guy by the sides of his head and threw him down to the ground. I guess, according to everyone there, Dad ripped the guys ear off when he did this. Dad said he blacked out and doesn’t remember anything except people screaming at him that the guy had a gun. He remembered feeling the guy trying to get something out of his pocket or pants and so Dad just continued to sit on the guy and punch him until he stopped moving. Mom says the guy had a gun in his pants and would have killed Dad if he had stopped long enough to let the guy get the gun.

The man ended up in a coma for a week and then died! My dad’s rage killed a man. How he didn’t go to prison, I don’t know. I guess because it was self-defense but wow, I was shook when they told me this story. According to Dad, the guy had like 5 brothers that all wanted to kill him so he joined the Marines and left. He said when he got out of the Marines he was ready to take on all 5 of them.

I tell both of these stories to tell you the two sides of Dad. On one hand, he was a gentle, loving man with a kind heart that would do anything for his family. On the other hand, he had a temper that couldn’t be matched by anyone and could lose control over the smallest little thing. When you live with someone like this, you want to be around them but you are always worried that you will say or do something to set them off. It’s a hard way to live, in constant fear of pissing off the person you love the most.

When I went to live with my dad, it was unbelievably wonderful. He had a nice car, owned his own home, went to work every day and came home to a meal prepared by a loving wife. I went to a school where I wasn’t picked on for my clothes anymore. Not that I didn’t get picked on but it wasn’t for the money or lack thereof. Dad would take us on trips to Bush Gardens or Sea World. He signed me up for ballet and tap dancing. I had a Barbie Dream Home in my room and lots of Barbie dolls. He took me clothes shopping multiple times in a year and gave me toys for my birthday and Christmas instead of using those days to give me the clothes I already needed. Rose and I had makeup parties and I’d model my new clothes for Dad as he sat in the living room telling me to go try on the next outfit. He had to see every single one. He cared about me and my happiness. I was the happiest little girl on the planet.

We upgraded our house not long after I moved to Dad’s. He bought a nice house and then added onto it. By the time he was done, it was a 3000 square foot, single story, home with a recreation room, a guest bath with a marble jacuzzi tub, and a huge back yard. This is the house where my life changed, yet again, and everything good that was just within my grasp was snatched away and replaced with hatred and torture.

Rose, I’ve told you, deserves her own posts so I won’t go too much into it other than to tell you this woman was physically, mentally, emotionally, and torturously abusive to me. She beat me, kept me in fear for my life, and always used my fear of her to get me to pamper her like she was a queen. My dad didn’t know this was going on because he was always out of town with work. See, when you get promoted and work your way up the food chain like Dad had, you end up spending a lot of time away from home to nurture the business. Looking back, I honestly think Dad stayed away so much, in part, because Rose and he were having marital issues to include her sleeping with our pastor. But that’s another story.

Eventually, though, Rose couldn’t hide the abuse from Dad and it came roaring out of her while he was home one day. She started screaming and chasing me around the house, telling Dad that she would “kill that bitch”. That’s when Dad decided to pack a bag for me and take me with him on the road. I went to a hotel with him and he went to work all day and I stayed in the hotel and watched tv and went swimming in the pool. Until Rose called me on the phone and made me believe she was coming to get me because I was supposed to be grounded.

I got so scared that she was coming there that I threw my Dad’s shoes in front of the door and took off running to the front desk, begging them to call my daddy because I was scared that my step-mom was coming to get me. I cried and cried and must have looked really silly being so upset about my step-mom coming to get me from the hotel. But, eventually, they reached Dad and he came back to the room and called Rose, who hadn’t even left the house and was just trying to scare me, successfully. They got into an argument and the rest of the trip was cut short.

Maybe just a few months later, Rose convinced my dad to put me in a Christian children’s home. This wasn’t a place for kids with loving parents; this was abandoned kids, kids who grew up with people like my mom. I wasn’t supposed to be one of those kids anymore. Yet, there I was, in a group home with kids who needed to be indoctrinated into Christianity as if they were the sinners, not the parents who had abandoned them or abused them or left them to rot in a home.

The children’s home isn’t something I really want to go into in this post but know that it was not horrible, per se. They were very strict with their religion and rules surrounding it. Everything they had, food – clothes – books – furniture – were all donated by the community or the churches they sang at when the children’s choir traveled. The important part of it is that Rose convinced Dad that I needed to be there and he left me there because of her. He let his desire to make her happy override his good judgement. That’s my opinion but, I don’t know the real reason behind it. Maybe he just wanted to avoid the conflict that was happening and skirting me off to a children’s home was the safest place for me to be and allowed it to make his marriage bearable.

Regardless of the reason, the visits with him and Rose were only once a month and Dad was definitely more happy about them than she was. He would pick me up and bring me jeans to wear or shorts, depending on the season, and she would complain that he was breaking their rules and setting a bad example. Dad didn’t care and I was happy for it.

After more than a year, I started seeing Dad change. He was… jolly, for lack of a better word. Then I found out he and Rose had split up and he had a girlfriend. He took me to meet her one day and we spent the day shopping at the mall for clothes that I could actually wear at the home. Then a few months later he picked me up and asked me if I wanted to go home. I thought he was talking about a visit but he was talking about forever. I was so happy that I bolted out of the truck and ran up to the room I shared with six other girls and started throwing my stuff together frantically. The staff were trying to stop me and I just kept telling them my dad was taking me home. They pleaded with him and told him that he was making a mistake (they were losing the money he was paying them every month, after all). I got my shit in the truck and we drove off with my Dad telling them to fuck off, if I recall correctly.

Fast forward to the apartment and my soon-to-be step-mom, Cynthia.

Dad was so happy with Cynthia. She made him feel good about himself. He didn’t have that with Rose. Rose still caused problems because she had my brothers and used them against Dad at every opportunity. But, Dad and Cynthia were silly in love and didn’t let her come between them…much.

I rebelled a bit after being locked up in a children’s home for over a year so I got into some trouble. I started smoking and hanging out with the headbangers in my school. Then I started running away. I think it was a total of 3 times that I ran away from home. Not because I was being abused or mistreated in any particular way. I was just unhappy and I think I was very jealous that Dad was so happy with Cynthia and didn’t have the same affection for me that he used to when he was with Rose. He used to spend time with me and hang out but when Cynthia was around, I didn’t exist. Plus, I was always in trouble for something stupid. Lying about using the phone or not getting a good grade in Algebra. One time they even drug tested me because I had lost weight because I refused to come out of my room long enough to get into trouble. It was easier to just hibernate in my room and be safe than to come out and say or do the wrong thing. So I didn’t eat and didn’t visit. I just stayed in my room and listened to music. Which ended with me losing 20 pounds. Go figure.

There were a couple of incidents where Dad lost his temper with me and hit me over the head with the cordless phone or backed me into my room and pummeled me with my pillows (instead of his fists) but, for the most part, I was just grounded, all….the….time. Typical teenage life.

Anyway, I went to visit Mom one Spring break (I wrote about it in my “Mom” post) and decided to move back to Orlando and live with my mom. That didn’t go over well with Dad but I was a teenager and I didn’t care about anyone but myself then.

I left Dad to go live with my mom who wasn’t around so I stayed with Rick and my brothers. Dad didn’t talk to me much. He was pretty hurt, I guess. I would have been too. Wasn’t until Rick called my dad because I was sneaking out of the house and going to see my boyfriend who was 23 years old. Dad came to Orlando and tried to scoop me up and take me home but I proclaimed my love for my boyfriend and told the cops, who had been called to help force me to go home, that I was pregnant. Dad changed right then. He promised to take me home and let me go to school and take care of me and the baby. So I did.

Dad let my boyfriend visit me and sent me to a high school for pregnant girls. There was a daycare and everything for those who had already delivered their babies. The only negative I can point out is that Cynthia and Dad tried to get me to give the baby up for adoption…to them. I could never have done that because I would see MY child call someone else Mommy and Daddy for the rest of their lives. So I told them no and I think Cynthia was hurt but I just couldn’t do it.

About five months into my pregnancy, I told them I wanted to get married. Dad was pissed, again, signed the papers, and dropped me off at my shitty new apartment and never spoke to me again for almost three years.

When my oldest child was three, I got in touch with my dad and we reconciled. I spent a couple of holidays at his house and my oldest got to meet him.

But, it didn’t last long. I got that call that killed a part of me forever. My dad had committed suicide. He had shot himself in the chest and died at work. The man who had rescued me from a horrendous future and done everything in his power to make sure I turned out different than my mom and his parents had ended his own life.

He was such a contagiously happy person that I was shocked that he had been so low as to kill himself. Where did this come from? Why hadn’t anyone ever told me? He had attempted suicide before and I didn’t even know. Apparently he was so unhappy that he was caught crying in his truck just two weeks before his death, holding a gun in his lap. He had called me two weeks before his death and apologized for being a bad father to which I vehemently argued he was not.

What could I have done had I known? Probably nothing but it hurts to think that I could have tried. He had been seeing a mental health provider that had told him he had a long road to recovery and I guess he wasn’t prepared to do it. All the shit he had gone through and the low self-esteem he had for himself just wouldn’t allow him to be truly happy.

I tell my family all the time how much they would have loved him. His boisterous laughter. His super smile. The way he’d call me a creep when I said something smart to him. Frying up steaks on Sunday mornings for breakfast. Modeling clothes for him just because he wanted to see how good they looked on me. Riding around singing Funky Cold Medina in his truck.

I miss him. I miss him so fucking much it hurts like he just died yesterday and its been 23 years.

Don’t let your thoughts and emotions do you in like they did to my dad. The devastation you leave behind is everlasting and you’ll never know how much you were truly loved and missed because you’ll be gone.


In my last post, I mentioned my parents and their failures. If you are a parent, you’ll agree that we all have failures and regrets. There’s a difference between “wow, I shouldn’t have given her such a strict curfew when she was growing up” and “I shouldn’t have dealt drugs and left my kids alone for days at a time so I could go fuck random men and smoke crack” kind of regrets. The latter is my mother.

After my dad and mom got divorced when I was young, my mom was with my step-dad. Rick was a great guy in a fucked up kind of way. He did drugs early on, was an alcoholic, and was not much of a fatherly love kind of guy but he loved me and my mom and provided for us with the skills he had. He was a construction worker…a damned good one. This man could build, literally, anything you ask him to build. He knew his shit and nobody could tell him anything about construction that he didn’t already have mastered. At home, though, he was drunk, on whatever drugs he did back then, and selling weed right out of the front door of our house.

Mom was not a bad person back then. She was a stay-at-home mom most of the time and took me swimming at the lake or to the park all the time. We laid out in the sun together in my little kiddie pool and she made me oatmeal for breakfast every morning. When my first brother was born that all changed. I don’t know what triggered it all. Was it Rick coming home drunk all the time or my dad showing back up in my life wanting visitation?

Whatever it was, mom changed from the loving person who was always there for her kids to this selfish woman who would walk out of the house in the middle of the night and disappear for days at a time. She would take me to my grandmother’s house, a shithole infested with rats, roaches, and drug addicts that were my uncles and aunts. Mom would drop me off there and tell me she’d be back later and later would come but she didn’t.

Mamaw’s house was something out of a bad dream. There’s poor people who live clean and just don’t have the money to afford a better place to live and then there’s my family. Disgusting houses with bugs and mice and rats and dirt everywhere. Mamaw was afraid to take a bath because she might fall so she stunk and had nasty feet and hair. My aunts and uncles mooched off of Mamaw’s welfare, stole her Valium and drank her beer. She was a chain-smoker so every ashtray in the house was full of cigarettes that she’d scrounge through when the money was gone to put together a whole cigarette.

When I had to spend the night, I slept on the couch most of the time which is where most of the bugs were. I would wake up in the middle of the night with cockroaches crawling on my hands and feet and face. I couldn’t put my feet on the floor without throwing something down first or I’d step on roaches. Nothing in the kitchen was edible because it was full of roaches and had chew marks from the mice. There was never any toilet paper so there was always a dirty sock or some random rag on the floor to wipe with. That’s not something a small child should have to get used to but I did.

This is where my fear of cockroaches comes from, for sure. I am terrified of them to this day. Just the other day, there was a huge roach at my work and I couldn’t even get close enough to kill it so I had to call one of my associates over to do it while they looked at me like I was silly. I can never express how horrified I am of cockroaches to anyone. They always ask me how I was in the military and deployed to Iraq during a war but afraid of roaches. Its embarrassing.

Mamaw and family didn’t stay in one house for too long. They always moved from one shitty house to another. And the time we spent there increased over the years. Mom kept leaving me there while she went to work at the topless bar or went out with her “sugar daddy” that she was dating while she was separated from my step-dad. Spending time at Mamaw’s was so regular that I actually went to school in the school district in her home area at one point. I was picked on relentlessly with my thrift store and Salvation Army clothes and used shoes. I wasn’t a dirty kid but I didn’t have nice clothes or a nice house.

When Mom was at home with my step-dad, things were better. I had nicer things and I went to better schools. I had friends and my own room without the nastiness of roaches and addicts. But, Mom couldn’t ever stay in one place for too long so Mamaw’s was always an inevitability. One that brought with it the likelihood of encounters with my Uncle Mikey. But I’m not gonna talk about him right now. He’s not worth the spit I launch into the sink when I brush my teeth.

So, at some point, Mom gave up on trying to be a decent human being. She started leaving me at home, my home, with my little brothers who were 2 years and 7 months old. My step-dad had to work so I, at age 11, was left alone with a toddler and infant. Three days went by this time with no Mom and my step-dad at work all day long, from dawn until after dark.

By this time, my dad was back in my life. He had been an absentee father for the first 10 years or so. There’s no general consensus as to why this was but when he finally started coming around, he was married to my first step-mom, Rose. Rose is several blog posts of my life, all by herself, but at this time, she was actually really nice. So, Dad gets me for weekends, twice a month, and six weeks each summer. It didn’t take long before my visits with Dad in his nice house, with all the toys and clothes I could ever want, and a loving and strong relationship became the light of my life. Dad would ask questions about my home life with Mom and my step-dad and, unbeknownst to me, he would document and use this to build his case for custody.

Mom and my step-dad smoking and selling marijuana, Mom disappearing for days at a time, dirty house, lack of proper nutrition, poor role models, and leaving me at Mamaw’s house for, sometimes, days at a time. This would all become his ammunition to involve Health and Human Services. When they would come out to the house on reports of drugs in the home, they would ask me questions and I would tell the truth. Afterward, Mom would ask me what we talked about and then yell at me for telling the truth. I would argue that I’m not supposed to lie and she would claim a white lie is okay. Within a year, Dad was asking me to move in with him and telling Mom that she didn’t have a choice, despite her efforts to fight him and tell me I couldn’t live with him. Eventually, I caved to my desire to live in a nice home with a loving family and left my mom to live with my dad.

When I told Mom that I would be moving to live with my dad, she left the house and disappeared for two days. When my step-dad found her, she was passed out in the cab of his pickup truck with slices on her wrists. They were shallow cuts and not a real attempt to commit suicide but it was still her cry for help or pity. Whichever it was, I was too young to understand it or care. I knew that she was angry with me and it made me want to leave even more. She told me that she had tried to kill herself and that it was my fault because I was leaving her. She blamed me for her depression and tried to make me feel guilty for wanting a better life. I wasn’t even allowed to bring my dog with me, regardless of who decided it was a thing, I had to leave my sweet boy with Mom and my step-dad. That dog was later put down by my step-dad because he was left on a chain at my step-dad’s sister’s house and he chewed up the seats on their boat. But I digress.

I left Mom and went to a better life and she used that as an excuse to dive head first into drugs. She got so far into the drugs that she started taking my little brothers to crack-houses with her and leaving one of them under a dresser, wrapped in a t-shirt for a diaper, while she got high in another room. My step-dad had to track her down and take the boys back over and over until she finally just left all three of them for a life on the streets.

When my visitation with Mom would come around that first summer, I dreaded it deeply. I knew it wasn’t going to be a summer of fun or anything remotely enjoyable. When I got there, I was thrown into nights of riding around in the truck while she went to get drugs or get her sisters so they could all get high. One night, she made me ride with her to a hotel where she met a man she didn’t know, who was nicely dressed, and went into his room for a very long time. She made me sit in the back of the truck, covered by an old camper shell, and wait for her. I waited, in the dark, alone and scared, in the parking lot of some hotel in the middle of nowhere (it was a newly developed area near Disney that wasn’t yet built up with hotels other than the one we were at). I would get scared and climb out of the camper top hatch and run up to the door of the hotel where she was and knock on the door. I would get yelled at and told to return to the truck and wait for her. Then, something happened that made it unbearable to wait any longer; a cockroach was in the back of the truck with me. I had learned that life could be cockroach free and that they aren’t supposed to be in your home or around your food. I had gotten used to being free from the fear of them crawling on my while I slept. I was terrified of them at this point so the 1.5-2 inch cockroach strolling around the floor of the bed of the truck with me in the dark was the last straw. I jumped out of the back, ran to the door, screaming and crying while I pounded on the door and peaked through the crack in the curtains. She finally came to the door and after telling her about the roach and showing her that I was not giving up on my mission to get out of this place, she cut the visit short and came out of the room less than a few minutes later.

After that, I couldn’t wait to go back home. I hated visiting this woman. She was selfish and did weird things that I didn’t understand or like. When I got back to Dad’s, I had to strip in the garage and we burned my clothes I was wearing and washed the rest, on the spot, in the hottest water. I was taken straight to the bathroom where I was coated with lice treatment from head to toe. The lice was so bad that my entire body was covered in bites and living bugs. When my step-mom was combing my hair, which was very long at the time, she was pulling out lice bugs the size of rice. The eggs, or nits, were so large in number that you could pile them up on the paper towel. The entire house was cleaned and bleached and I was never allowed to visit her again for the summer. I was happy about that.

It wasn’t until I was about 13 or 14 that I would hear and see how bad it really was with her. She was arrested numerous times for prostitution and drugs. At 16, I went to visit her for two weeks and when I arrived, I was notified that she was in jail for prostitution. I used the $200 my dad had given me to spend while I was there to bail her out. I didn’t see her the entire time I was visiting. She never thanked me or came to see me. I did get a copy of the police report, though, as the one who bailed her out, so I got a glimpse of her life. For less than $30, a man could have sex with my mom. For $15, she would give him a blowjob. For $5, she would jerk him off. Are you for real?

To this day, Mom is still struggling with crack and prostitution. Except now, I believe she’s realizing her age is preventing her from making money. She has missing teeth, one earlobe is ripped so the earring hole is the size of a thumb, and she has a pot-belly. She claims she’s trying to stay clean but she always finds a reason to go back to drugs. Whenever she calls, I know its because she wants money for this or that. She will pretend to care about what’s going on in my life but the conversation always leads to her monetary problems and me offering or saying yes to helping her out. After the money is on its way, I might hear from her one or two more times until she disappears again.

Every time I’ve tried to talk to her about drugs, she blames me for her fall. She has always blamed me. I took it at first but not anymore. Fuck her. I’m waiting for the call that she’s been killed or died. Its inevitable. It sounds harsh to say it but I’m not gonna lie and say I want to make it right. I don’t. She’s selfish, has never cared about anyone but herself and her drugs, and has left her family behind for a life of being raped by dealers and Johns and spreading her legs for a rock. So fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her.

The Beginning?

I often wonder where to start when I think about writing. Do you start when you were a child or do you start with the most recent trauma? For some of us, life has been full of heartache and trauma. After so many bad things happen to one person, it gets harder and harder to pinpoint the root of anxiety or depression or PTSD. You can accuse this person or this event of being the culprit but how do you really know?

I have been through so many shitty things in my life that its hard for me to tell the difference between what actually caused and what just triggers my mental illnesses. I know my PTSD and the root of that particular beast but what about the others?

To be able to figure that out, I guess I have to start at the beginning. The very beginning…the first memory I can remember. Its actually two memories that have become tangled into the same time-frame but because I was so young I don’t think I was able to attach the concept of time yet.

So, lets just say it was somewhere around 3 years old. I remember running around the yard in my daddy’s work boots. They were really big and came up really high on my legs and I had to walk funny to be able to move around. I remember my mom and dad laughing at me. That’s it. A few moments in time full of laughter and fun before the first bad memory creeps in to take over.

Let me preface this with the fact that my parents weren’t bad people. They were both young at only 20 and 18 when I was born and victims of their own shitty parents and circumstances. So, I tend to give them a little bit of wiggle room for error when I look at how they grew up and the kind of people that raised them. But this isn’t about their childhoods or them as parents, in particular, so lets move on.

Back to the first shit memory.

I was young. Young enough to still be writing on the walls with crayons. Maybe like 3 or 4 years old. My mom was home and watching t.v. on the couch while I played in my room. My doorway faced the hall which ended in the living room at the back of the couch. My dad had just gotten home from work. He was wearing a dirty white t-shirt and jeans with his work boots. He had a lunch box in his hand when he passed the hallway to go to the kitchen. He went into the kitchen and started griping at my mom for not cleaning. He asked her about some money he had left her to do laundry or something and she told him she bought beer with it. I don’t remember the exact words but I know they were arguing and yelling at each other. My mom was still laying on the couch while they argued until my dad walked to the back of the couch and flipped it over with her on it.

This whole time, I am standing in my doorway watching and listening to what’s going on and writing on the wall with my crayons. I’m not sure why I was just standing in the doorway writing on the wall but that’s what I remember and that’s what gave me the target on my back. My dad was angry and in a rage because mom hadn’t taken care of the house while he was at work all day. He looked down the hall for a second and saw me standing there. He noticed what I was doing and charged down the hallway like a bull to a red cape. I don’t remember him grabbing me, I just remember being ‘spanked’ while being held down on the bed. I remember my mom screaming for him to stop and grabbing him and him pushing her back. I don’t remember if I cried or screamed. I don’t remember anything except him spanking me and my mom freaking out and trying to stop him.

That’s my earliest memory other than the boots in the backyard.

My dad was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 1996 and committed suicide in 1997. He was abused physically, mentally, and sexually throughout his childhood by his father. He attempted suicide two years prior to his death. He struggled with anger, depression, and self-loathing and esteem issues his whole life.

His uncontrollable emotions were a symptom of his mental illness, untreated, and led to many episodes that he regretted and probably contributed to the guilt and shame he felt that led to his eventual death.

Feb 21, 1958 – April 3, 1997

I wish I had more memories like that of the boots in the yard. Most of my memories are of some fucked up event or person. Like my dreams, nothing good ever happens in my memories.

Picking it back up

I said I was going to Start writing again and I figured now was a good time. Someone told me they thought it would be interesting to read about the things I talk about on here and it made me want to get back into it. So…… here we go.

Stay tuned for all new posts. I’m excited to put words onto paper, so to speak, again. Thanks to all who have stuck around while I was on my little break ….for 2 years.

Been a long time….

It’s been a good minute since I’ve written on here so bare with me while I fumble through it and try to make sense of the platform, the thoughts, and how to put them down on here without some sneaky bastard from work finding this and telling someone about it.

The last year and some change has been a roller coaster. I love my job and have excelled at it in spite of my mental illness or the outside factors that are pushing me to fail. My family has changed tremendously in ways that I will have to get into in another post. Each change has brought with it, good and bad. Changes are still coming to this dysfunctional little family and they are scary and exciting at the same time.

For me, I’m still the same except now I have some sort of ambition to get out of the house and do something with myself. I am borderline obsessed with work to the point of being a little….scratch that….very annoying about it. I think, dream, and live work. Work, work, work. Now my entire family works for the same company so I’m surrounded by it.

I just passed the last of three very sad and traumatic anniversaries that come each year within a two week period and attempt to pull me down into some deep dark hole. I made it, again. Yay me!

This virus shit is putting a strain on everyone’s lives lately and its not looking to let up any time soon so I guess that’s another stressor to add to the mix. But, we take what we are thrown and we run with it, right?

Anyway, I just wanted to let all of my 2 readers that I am still alive and am considering posting again. If you still subscribe, thank you!

Take care of yourselves and your health!


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