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The Scars of Who We Are Chapter VII

Filed under: Life — 5 Comments
April 18, 2013

Chapter VII: Scars will always fade,
But they will never go away,
I try throwing it all away,
But I remember everything,
Because the memory always remains…

Young boy looking through window

The year was 1989 when my parents finally got a divorce, admittedly I didn’t really understand what was going on and like most kids I had hoped it would be only temporary. But it wasn’t  My mother had cheated on my dad, with someone she had told my brother and I was just a friend. Admittedly I was somewhat suspicious when asked my brother and I to be quiet about it. Personally at the time I liked the guy, but I was six and he seemed nice enough to me, so I didn’t have a problem with him. But again I was six, below should be a recording that I accidently made, when I was trying to get my older brother in trouble, by recording him cursing on a tape recorder…..Yeah it may have been black mail, but I had grown tired of him picking on me, making fun of me and always blaming me, or getting me into trouble. What can I say, I was resourceful and I suppose I was a lot smarter

than I gave myself credit for in those days.
Believe it or not, my mom wasn’t always as nice as she sounds in this recording, remember the woman had brought another man to our house and was afraid of my dad finding out in fear that it would give him ammunition for their looming divorce.  You can listen to through here, (sorry I coudn’t find any other way to upload it to my blog.
https://sites.google.com/site/jcooperaudio/mp3/confession_.wav?attredirects=0&d=1

 

(I believe the first voice you hear is my older brother, followed by my less intelligible voice. I edited the recording down as much as I could and cut out all the blips and squeals, since most of the cassette tape had eroded somewhat. If you want to fast forward to the 3 minute mark I think is when my mother finally enters our room.)

 

 


I don’t think I’ll ever forget when I was told that I would only be able to see my dad every other weekend. Because my father was always very involved in the lives of both my brother and me, he loved, taking us to the movies and taking us to see the movies we wanted to see. Once even after our parents divorced he picked up both my brother and me and took us to see the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Then afterward he took us to Toys R’us and bought us some Ninja Turtle toys. Something he didn’t have to do, but he that’s the kind of man my father was. He was always the kind of father he didn’t have to be and treated the kids that weren’t even his as if they were his own.  And it was my father who spent time with my brother and me; he didn’t hesitate taking us to parks, fairs, or amusement parks.  He always made time for us and was rarely ever too tired, or busy to spend time with us. If I ever get married and have kids I hope I’ll be half the father and the man that was and still is.

 

This is my mom way back when, it's the only good picture I have of her anymore.

This is my mom way back when, it’s the only good picture I have of her anymore.

 

My father was and still is my hero, the strongest man I’ll ever know and I’ll never forget the day when I saw him cry. He had come to pick me up the weekend after the divorce, because my mother had lied and manipulated the court to judge in her favor and won the custody battle over me. I didn’t have any say, I wasn’t allowed to speak up and because of that I only got to see my father every other weekend, or for weeks at a time once summer began. But the day I saw him dad cry, I have no words for it.  I was there at my grandma’s with him and I was playing contently on the couch across from him with my toys; he was talking to my grandmother about everything. I distinctly remembered the very words he spoke as I heard his voice crack for the very first time.

 

 

       “I don’t know what I’m going to do…and I miss her,” He spoke, choking back a sob. I knew the sound well, from all the times I tried holding back my tears and always failed so miserably. So I froze at first, not really knowing what to do, but I doped my toys and turned to my father, feeling my own heart shatter as I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks. A part of me knew this was an adult situation and was well beyond my understanding at the time. But I stood up all the same and walked solemnly over to him, wrapping my around his neck and I hugged him. I told him that everything would be okay and I loved him. He pulled his arms around me, clutching my little shoulders as he assured me that he knew and that he loved me too. We stayed there for a while, as he apologized and I could feel him shaking as he told me how sorry he was, that he tried his best to get me and failed. I did my best try and comfort him as he had comforted me so many countless times in the past. I never did stop missing him.

 

 

When I got home that weekend, I felt as if I had aged by ten years, I had so many things now rattling around inside my head, most of which I didn’t fully understand and at the time I still didn’t get how two people could fall out of love and how they could hurt each other so much. I was thinking about that and a dozen other things a child of six had no business thinking, or wondering about.  I did want to live with my dad, but at the same time I knew I would miss my brother, then there were my friends who I knew I’d never see again if I moved. I also believed that my mother could still love me, or so that’s what I wanted so desperately to believe. Even now I kick myself for not seeing things for how they were and it was strange to think that just a year prior I was with both my parents in my aunt’s car, driving to see my uncle Skip so he could show off his new boat.

 

We had spent most of the day driving around, so by the time we pulled up into the parking lot to meet him, my dad had popped out to get a coke because he was thirsty and I started to with him, when I was ordered to stay where I was. So naturally I protested, insisting I was thirsty all the while I was watching my dad on the off the chance my mother and her sister (my aunt Terry) would permit me to go. Instead Terry produced a clear glass bottle from under her seat and offered it to me.

 

I don’t know why the sight of the bottle made me immediately suspicious, or why I had that sickly feeling that something about it was wrong and I shouldn’t partake in its contents of whatever liquid that bottle held.

 

“No thanks, I don’t like it.” I said almost immediately, (mistake #1)

 

“How do you know you don’t like it?” My aunt asked.

 

“I just don’t….Please let me go with dad and get something to drink, I’m really thirsty.” I pleaded (mistake #2 for thinking they’d show me the slightest of mercies)

 

“Then you can’t be that thirsty,” My mother challenged and I looked at the bottle again, debating.

 

 “It’s either this or you have to wait till we meet up with Skip and see if he has any drinks on his boat,” My aunt said with mock sympathy. I knew what it was even then, for I had grown accustom to having an older brother who often got me in trouble or got me to do something I didn’t want to by speaking in the same tone.

 

“What is it?”  I asked, distrustfully trying to read the bottle and my aunt’s face, because I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was some sort of trick. (Which it was)

 

 

“Water,” My aunt (lied) as she held the bottle out to me again and I stared at it suspiciously, half expecting at any moment that one of them would laugh, or give something away to tell me this was all some sort of a joke they were playing on me.

 

          “It doesn’t look like water,” I commented, smiling and almost certain my they would tell me this was a joke now and they were just teasing me. (Mistake number 3) I should have known better and shouldn’t under estimate my mom or my aunt’s depravity.

 

 

         “It’s flavored water,” my mom answered.  (It wasn’t.)

 

Her answer gave me pause,  because I did see her and my aunt drinking flavored water on numerous occasions, however I knew those bottles were different, clear plastic with colored labels, and this one was in a glass bottle with a label I didn’t recognize. (Yeah, I couldn’t really read it, but give me a break I was five.)

 

“No thanks, can I please go with dad and get something?”  I pleaded, hoping I’d get permission before he returns, in which I knew would make the answer an definitive and resounding “No,” but I saw the anger flash across my mom’s face as she accused me of lying telling me if I was really thirsty I would drink what was being offered and wouldn’t be so picky.

 

 

“No, no, I’m not lying!” I protested, panic rising in my throat, with a strong suspicion that I was about to be smacked, (Because my mother had a penchant for hauling off and hitting us, my brother or me across the face, whenever we made her upset, often this would come without warning or provocation, such as at the dinner table whenever we sat our elbows on the table, or complained of being hot whenever we sat in the backseat of the car, or accidently bothered her on the wrong day.)

 

 

        “You’re getting the paddle when we get home,” She threatened and I paled,


 

       Long ago, my mother believed her hand was ineffective in beating us kids, so she commissioned my father to craft a wooden paddle, with the holes drilled into it to reduce wind resistance, and the electrical taped handle “for her comfort” she naturally didn’t want to risk getting splinters and for whatever the reason I recalled her beating me with that paddle quit frequently. (I feared the beatings from my mother way more than my father. For the few times I warranted a beating from my father, he would only do so with the greatest of reluctance and would only give me one or two swats to my backside and be done with it. My mother however was much more severe. She would deliver so many that I would lose count, hitting me as hard as she could with each swat, which often times left large and sometimes bleeding welts against my buttocks, my lower back, or the back of my legs whenever she missed. She didn’t much care for accuracy, she prided herself more on bending over her knee and hitting as wildly and as ferociously as she could and to this day I still remember the searing pain that would flair up whenever she struck my lower back, and/or the back of my legs. If I cried, or screamed out during any of this, she would beat me more until I didn’t make a noise, then God help me if later I retreated to my room and she heard me crying. Because she explode into my room, with a belt, or tear me out of my bed with her nails biting painfully into my arms and beat me until I promised to be quiet.

 

 

So now, when I find myself sitting in a car, listening to my mom tell me how she’s going to beat me when we get home for lying about how thirsty I was, I had little choice, but to prove my honesty by taking the bottle of whiskey from my aunt. I vaguely remember squeezing my noise as I brought the bottle to my lips, partly from the noxious smell of it and to help me not taste it, then I threw back my head, gulping down the contents. Almost immediately I heard my aunt squealing with delight,

 

 

 “Oh my god, he’s drinking it, he’s really drinking it,” She squealed excitedly.

 

 

  Then I heard my mother guffaw as the two laughed and it was then the taste hit me and I could feel my mouth and throat burning as if I was drinking liquid fire. My eyes bulge out as I threw the bottle away from me and immediately got sick all over my aunt’s new car.

 

 

         My father returned shortly thereafter, right as my mother was dragging me out of the car, so that I could finish throwing up outside the car, oppose to further ruining my the interior of my aunt’s car, with the last thing I remembered from that day being my dad going ballistic as he found out what happened and how he took care of me afterwards.

 

 

 Now, more than a year later, I finished spending that first weekend with my dad and I come into the house and overhear my older brother, Dominic asking my mother why Robert, (My dad) didn’t take him away for the weekend too. I too was curious so I ease dropped and heard her explain that my father wasn’t his real father and that he was from her previous marriage and that he wasn’t Robert’s son, only I was (meaning me)

 

 

“Why?” He asked pitifully, adding how much he had loved and cared for my father. What I heard next chilled me to my core and left me feeling overwhelming pity for my older brother, as my mother said,

 

 

“Because he doesn’t love you, he never loved you, just like how your real father didn’t want you. I’m the only one who loves you, I’m the only who cares about you and wants you.”

 I slipped away after that, I felt ashamed, guilty and confused. My heart went out to my older brother with the only thing I knew for certain was that what she said to him was wrong.  I didn’t say for certain, but I knew she was being a liar, because I remembered my father and he treated my brother no different than me.  But I still searched and long for the truth. Often I would ask my dad, I saw my dad if he reason why he never picked my brother up along with me was because he didn’t love or want him and every time he had told me that he couldn’t gain custody of Dominic because he wasn’t his son and the lawyers wouldn’t allow it, but he still tried. Truthfully, my dad did care for my brother and for years would ask me about him, wanting to know what he was up too and what how he’d been. A few times he did try to see him as well as me, but my mother would never allow it. It still pains my heart to this day knowing that my brother’s opinion of my father is based solely on lies. 

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The Scars Of Who We Are: Part VI Intermission

Filed under: Life — 2 Comments
March 27, 2013

Part VI

Intermission: Our scars aren’t who we are, nor do they tell us who we were, our scars represent our perseverance, for all scars fade with time. 

 

That's me with my dad's family, ruining this family photo :P

That’s me with my dad’s family, ruining this family photo 😛

As hard as things were for me growing up, I still remained a pretty happy and go-lucky kid. Granted, I did eventually get pretty beaten down and my depression, anxiety all came much, much later, affecting me in my early teens.

But I digress, for my mother wasn’t always so horrible, she had some, if not few and far between moments where she was remarkably human and like most kids in my situation I clung to those moments, cherished them and clung stubbornly on to. Because it was those moments that made me think there was hope, a flickering possibility that my mother may have actually loved me. Which is one of the reasons I put up with what I did and why I until recently I chose to suffer in silence. No one knew the battles I fought, or why despite my worse days, I still had love for my mother, love that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times I tried convincing myself that I hated her.
I portray this same sort of Stockholm syndrome involving abusive parents in my upcoming book, “Losers” Where Kyle Reese clings to the moments where his parents had been decent towards him and despite everything his parents do to him and no matter how badly they mistreat him, he still loves and cares for them, even when he can’t possibly fathom the why of it all, even when they make his life dreadfully miserable and causing him to spend most of this days just trying to avoid his parents.

Cover design for my upcoming book. "Losers."

Cover design for my upcoming book. “Losers.”

My mom, despite whatever sickness or disorder she had, or has, did have her motherly moments which were few and far between. But all the same, they would make me feel such warmth, I would then cling so desperately to those memories, with a part of me doubting the fact she hated me, with the other part of me believing I could win her affection, thus letting her see me as her son. So for every kindness she ever shown me, I tried like hell to make those moments repeat themselves and more often than not, I was met with complete and utter failure.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I still cherish those times when I felt like my mother and I were finally connecting and even though they never lasted, I carry them still.  They were the moments when it felt that there was some sort of clarity in the air and she realized I was her son and was accepting me as such.

One of these moments came when I was very young and we were living in our house on Tando way, in Taylor Mill Kentucky. It was long after the ordeal when my mother had abandoned me and later stole me back and it was a few years before my parents got their inevitable divorce, back when my older brother and I still shared a bedroom with bunk beds. I remember it was here, that on most nights, our mother would come to tuck us in at night and she would pick a story or let us choose one that’ll she’ll read to us. Sometimes, she’d read a few pages, and some nights she would read whole chapters, or until we fell asleep. Usually she would read the Hardy boys, or from a book of fables such as Puss and Boots, the emperor and his new clothes, Jack and the Beanstalk, all of which would grow to become my favorites. But every now and then she would read something different, forcing us to familiarize ourselves with stories we hadn’t grown accustom too. I think it also helped introduce change, so we could grow to like more, or other stories, that wasn’t Hardy Boy related.

But even still I remember laying there in my bottom bunk as she pulled the book E.T the extraterrestrial from our little cabinet and I remember the book cover was a generic yellow, with a crudely drawn picture of E.T on the cover. I also remember how she would carefully read aloud every word, exercising perfect pronunciation, as if each word held a particular significance.

 

These were the moments I cherished the most, moments I’ll always carry with me, my mother may not have been that great, or good towards me, but she had moments, when she would look at me and I swear I could feel that maybe she didn’t hate, or despise me, that just maybe she actually liked me, at least a little. Granted it was rare and far between, often leaving me to wonder what I could do to make her love me at least half as much as she seemed to care for my older brother, believing if I were to accomplish some amazing feat, if I would somehow win her affection and I would finally feel what it was like to have a real and true mother, like the ones I’ve read about in books, seen on TV or act something more akin to mothers of my friends. It’s so strange to me now, I haven’t spoken with her, or seen her in years, but I can see her still sitting beside our bed as she read to us. I can see it so clearly, it’s as if I can look through this window in time and see the past.

 

Gerbil number 2, my older brother and me.

Gerbil number 2, my older brother and me.

My mother would read to us, not in a hurry, or a rush to finish. She would perfectly pronounce and shape each word, reading aloud to us with enthusiasm, and grace. She did all the voices, and would pause periodically to ask my brother and me what we thought, or felt about a certain situation in the story. She would want to know and ask what we thought would happen next and would actually have a conversation with us about the book and the events unfolding within the story itself. Which now looking back, I believe it was this and these moments with her that planted the very seeds of story-telling into my very heart and instilled in me my unparalleled loved for books. Because now whenever I finish a book, I look around and realize that everyone around me is just carrying on with their lives, as though I didn’t just experience the emotional trauma at the hands of paper, or hardback book. Because those moments with my mother, hearing her tell us stories left me forever changed and sparked within me an incomparable imagination, a sense of wonder and a deeply rooted love for the magic in the written word and the stories locked away in one’s imagination.

Man looking out office window at night

I didn’t start this series, to simply talk about how bad my childhood was, or to paint my mother as this horrible person which she was. I started it to help others, to let people know that abuse isn’t ever okay and sometimes for explainable reasons a parent or parents will pick one child to be the target of all their abuse. I can never explain it, but as a child, I did see the parallels between how we were treated and unfortunately my older brother never witnessed any of what I had to endure and I never told him either, not until it was too late….And it wasn’t always so bad, so periodically from this point on, I will inject a little intermission here to describe a positive memory involving my mother and maybe somewhere along the way, we’ll discover why I kept quiet for so long and endured the quiet torment of a young boy, sitting on an old porch swing, wishing his life was more like  his dreams, where nothing was ever as bad as they seemed and why I had so much love for a woman who showed me so very little in return. Because I do miss her in some, strange and unexplainable way and I long and pray for a day that she finds me, apologizes for all past wrongs and at least attempts to make amends for past wrongs, because I would need that assurance to know that her words weren’t hollow as they had been in the past.

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The Scars of who we are Part V

Filed under: Life — Leave a comment
March 13, 2013

The Scars of who we are. 
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Part V–From the night which covers me, as dark as shadow of the darkest abyss, with only a blanket of stars to guide my way, I thank God for my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of chance and circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Bludgeoned by both chance and circumstance my head is bloody, yet unbowed and beyond this place, past the tears and brokenness and all my despair, is my rebirth and beginning life anew. The past is behind me and if that or other demons shall menace me, they’ll find me unafraid.

 It’s never as bad you think, so many things we all take for granted, such as life. It’s like when I was nearly drowned when I was just a little over four and my mscan0016other had taken me to her sister’s to swim. Her sister had married into money and lived in a mansion with her husband Skip. The pool was immense, with an indoor pool that connected to a much larger outdoor pool. Usually my mother would leave me to my own devices and I would jump in with my little floaties and swim around having a ball and sometimes I would bring toys with me and have epic battles at sea. Usually with my old he-man, GI-Joes, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys.  However this one day, this one day, I had taken off my floaties to go the bathroom and to then wanted to lay down on one of the benches to bake in the sun. Mostly because I was tired and had after after a few hours in the pool by myself I had grown a bit bored, so I wanted to relax in the sun for a bit. My mother however had other plans, when I returned from the bathroom; she scooped me up in her arms and tossed me into the deep end of the pool.

                At the time I still didn’t know how to swim and still required my swimming floaties , but she had thought it’d be fun to toss me into the deep end of the pool. I still remember the laughing that ensued as hit the water screaming. Then how I thrashed and gasped for air, until I eventually began to sink, all the while envisioning her diving in after me, but help never came. Every time my head broke the surface of the water, I cried out and every time I saw her and my aunt laughing hysterically, neither one making any kind of move to me, in fact, they weren’t even looking at me. The memory of that will always stick with me, no matter how hard I try to forget. I know I was just a child, but I think we always remember the time when we’re almost killed. Although I must admit I’ve always had a extraordinary memory, not photographic, but I remember a lot and sometimes I feel like I remember too much.
                But did you know that when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out? It’s called voluntary apnea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out; the instinct not breathe in any water is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding. Then when you finally do let the water in, it stops and it stops being scary. In a way it’s… almost kind of peaceful, giving up and just letting the water in. But, sometimes, if you can endure that excruciating pain, making you feel as if your heart and lungs are about to explode, with your head feeling as though it’s fit to burst, if you hold on just for just a few more precious seconds of life, you slowly sink and hit the bottom. It’s then once you hit the bottom that you can find the strength to fight the shadows that are encroaching on your vision and as you cling so desperately those last few seconds of precious life, you can find the strength within yourself to fight your way back to the surface.  (And life is always worth holding onto in my opinion) So no matter how dark your world becomes, if you hold on, you may be surprised by what you find and by the courage that’s been lying dormant within you and the strength to persevere.
                Once I felt my bottom touch the bottom of the pool, I summoned what little strength I had and kicked off from the bottom, then clawed my way back to surface. I don’t know if it was really me, or the grace of God, or simple good luck, but I believe it was God who guided me to the pool’s ladder. But what I can tell you with absolute certainty, that when my head finally broke the surface of the water, and as I coughed and gasped for breath, I saw the ladder was right there in easy reach. Frantically I reached for it, hugging it tightly against me as I pulled myself against it as I coughed up a lungful for water, hearing my aunt teasing me, warning me not to drink all the water in her pool, as I climbed furiously up the ladder.

Looking up at them at that moment, I don’t think I ever before or since felt such anger towards anyone in my life. My mother and aunt just standing there, laughing like nothing had ever happened, as if I’ve done this stupid thing to myself, ignoring the fact I nearly drowned. So I took a breath and summoned up the most hurtful words I could string together.

“I hate you and wish you both were dead!” (That got her attention)
Before I knew it she had stormed over to me and I tensed up, half expecting her to toss me back into the pool, instead she gripped the underside of my arm, digging her nails painfully into my flesh as she wrenched my arm up and proceeded to beat the living crap out of me, spanking my backside as hard as she could, with the first swat knocking me off my feet, but she held me firmly by the arm, preventing me from going anywhere. I can still remember how her nails bit deeper into my arm as she continued to hit me, enough times that I eventually lost count and once she was done she tossed me the ground as if I was some little annoying plaything, that disgusted her and ordered me to be quite, otherwise a second beating would follow.
                I never did understand how I warranted the beating I received that day, or the grounding that followed. To me it seemed a bit extreme, being as I was the one who nearly died and granted my words may have been a bit spiteful, but I was still a kid and I had every right to be angry with her. It was also the first time I really began to wonder if she hated me, for she showed no remorse and never gave me so much as an apology.
                Now I know if you’re reading this, you’re thinking I didn’t have very many sunny days. But not every day was dark and stormy. Yes I know my life hadn’t always been all sunshine and rainbows either. But it’s the bad days that make us appreciate the sunny ones and for me, my sunny days were the greatest. I got to have an involved father who loved spending time with me, taking me out to movies, parks, who taught me how to play and always had something planned for us to do whenever I got to see him. I had the best grandmother in the world, who later took me in and showed me how a true mother should be and I’ll forever love and miss her dearly. I also had some pretty incredible friends who took me in, dusted me off and became like family to me. In a weird and roundabout way, it was like God saw how broken and lonely I was, so he helped me make the right kind of friends, those who would help fill the hollowness in my chest, left by mother and her family. So take it from me, the next time you’re feeling all alone in the world, take time to really think about all the people in your life, the ones you may sometimes try to push away, but always come back anyway, or the ones who simply wait till you’re ready to return to them. Someone does love and care for you and you’re special in your own way and incredibly unique and an amazing person to boot. Think about everything you’ve endured and you’re still here! You’re not just a survivor, you’re a warrior! You’re tougher than anything this life or the other throws your way. And you are, so yes life will kick you around sometimes. It scares you and beats you up, but there’s a day when you realize you’re not just a survivor, you’re a warrior and you’re a fighter. You’re tougher than anything it throws your way. You are.
                Before I get too far away from the time I almost drowned, I need to tell you I have social anxiety, which many often confused for mere shyness. This anxiety often feels like you’re drowning and you can’t breathe and I know there’s medication for anxiety, but there’s usually so many side effects you’re usually better off learning to deal with it like I have and for the most part I’ve overcame most of it and came a very long way. But like most people I have my good days and bad days and there are numerous factors, such as if I’m alone, or in a familiar environment etc. Then again I have my days when I walk into a room full of strangers and within minutes be the center of attention and charming everyone around me. But sometimes, I struggle and I feel like I’m drowning and these are the times I usually need a friend to help me out. So I decided to write this for this purpose, since I’ve experienced friends or family who has told me to simply get over it, or talk. But it’s hard sometimes and for any of us who suffer any kind of anxiety, we need a little time and patience, understanding. We will get through it, just be patient with us, believe it or not I think most are like me and slowly working through it, may never be as fast as you would like, but we can’t be rushed.
                But Like I said, I’ve made great strides in overcoming my anxiety by first getting a job where I’m forced to deal with the general public on a regular basis and whenever I’m out and feeling particular confident I try to strike up a conversation with a stranger, which is always scary and a bit nerve wrecking at times, but hey, I’m a writer and it’s my job to meet and get to know people. Also I found working out has helped me a lot, it took me about two years of working out at home until I eventually got the confidence to join a gym which I did and began making it a point to go about four or fives times a week. Becoming physically fit has helped my confidence a great deal and I found that the better you feel about yourself the easier it is to deal with social situations. So these are just my tips and I’m always trying to better myself, more so now than I have in my previous years, because I’ve learned that everyone has a story to tell and their stories can only add to your own.
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The Scars of Who We Are part IV

Filed under: Life — 1 Comment
February 19, 2013

Part IV Be careful what you wish for, because you may just get your hearts, just to discover it’s not really what you wanted at all.

 

At best my life has been plagued with turmoil, impossible obstacles, forcing me to learn how to overcome incredible adversity and accept change. No matter how how hard life got for me, no matter how dark the skies became, I survived and lived another day and despite all the darkness and pain I endured, there were quite a few sunny days, day I’ll never take back for anything. Yes, although thinking back over the rough patches of my life are painful, I’m proud of the life I lived.

 

Yes, I stumbled here and there, I struggled with an uphill battle with depression which I nearly lost as it threatened to consume my very being, but I fought on and refused to ever give up. Because I’ve always believed in something being out there, looking over me, something so much bigger than me. Because I believed in God, and I’m incredibly stubborn. That said I’ve also been a survivor. My mother tried having a miscarriage before I was born, fought to get an abortion, making it a miracle I’m even here today, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not depressed, or jaded or anything well not anymore. I had my issues which I managed to work through, sometimes I had a little help from my friends, others were family.

 

Now I can say with the utmost confidence that I love my life and I’m happy. (Granted I think I’m in love with one of my best friends and would be significantly happier if she ever sees me how I see her, but I doubt she will, but I’ll still be  happy with whatever happiness she does find with me, or whoever) But I digress, I’m happy with life and where I’m at. I’ve seen and done some pretty incredible and amazing things. I believe this may be the same with you as it was with me, I didn’t realize how spectacular my life had been, until long after the fact and I looked back and finally saw the many blessings that the Lord has granted me with.

 

Which is why I’m telling you my story. Because life…it does get better and it can hit pretty hard sometimes and some blows will knock you down pretty hard and sometimes it’ll feel like you may never be able to pick yourself back up, or even be you again. But hang in there, we’re all pulling for you, even if you never met me, or you have and we spoke briefly in person. I love you and I’m here for you, always. Because sometimes we go through these struggles and believe me, they make us stronger and define us as human beings. These struggles will give you a far greater appreciation for the good things life has to offer. Even if you can’t see it, the struggles we face now, the pain, humiliation, they don’t really last. Even though it seems like it may never end, but it will, just give it time and have a little faith. Besides if you give up now, you’ll never know how close you’ll come to victory and falling in love with the life now, or discovering something truly amazing. Because things will get better, they always do, and sometimes you just have to push through and survive High-School and step out into the world for the first time on your own and don’t be afraid if you stumble, or fall and lose your way. Because we all do, I did and we all eventually find our way back home.

 

 

Now, the last we left off, my mother had abandoned me while I was a baby, leaving me for my father to discover sitting at the top of the stairs of our home. He then took me to my grandmothers where I stayed for a week before she even tried to contact him to see if he had me. Then she arranged a meeting where she stole me from my father’s loving care and ran off with me and with my dad in hot pursuit, only to eventually be forced to give up the chase.

 

My parents separated shortly thereafter and my father felt the very foundations of his whole world crumbling beneath his feet. He knew he’d end up losing me in the divorce and my mother would win soul custody, partly because she was better at lying and squeezing out a few tears. Whereas my father has always been more honest and straightforward and more often than not too much so for his own good. So the thought of losing me along with his wife who he still loved became almost too much for him to bare. So one day he’s driving to his mom’s after a hard day’s work he loses it, he begins cursing God, accusing him of being the cause of all of this pain and strife, telling the Lord, he should just kill him since Debbie, (my mother) was going to take me. He challenged God’s hand and God listened and responded.

 Picture 3

                A semi-truck ran a red light and t-boned my father’s car.

 

                              Picture 5.

 

The damage was catastrophic and resulted in my father’s death. He challenged God to kill him and so he did, even when you think God isn’t listening, he is and when you think he doesn’t care, he does.

 

 

 Picture 2.

 

I came very close to losing my father that day and I would forever miss out on the one man who’d be my saving grace growing up and who would later teach me to be a parent, who wouldn’t simply be a good father, but one of my best friends. Words cannot express how much I admire and love this man, he’s my hero and he’s also my father and I thank God every day for him. Two things saved his life this day. The first being that he wasn’t wearing his seat-belt (I know right? nothing makes a kid more terrified of wearing a seat-belt) But because he wasn’t wearing his seat-belt he was able to jump into the passenger seat which saved him from being fatally crushed to death.

 Picture 4.

                The second thing that saved my father’s life was a woman who appeared and pictured below, who got of her car and checked on him, discovering that despite his narrow escape from being crushed to death, he had died. Paramedics were still far from the scene. But there was this woman who leaned into his vehicle and laid her hands on him and she began to pray. It was then, only then that my father came back and started breathing. Once he described this feeling to me, about what it was like to die. He didn’t see any light at the end of the tunnel, instead all he saw was darkness, but in that darkness he felt an incredible sense of peace and love. He was ready to pass on, but was told it wasn’t his time and he needed to come back and take care of me. To have a little faith, this story isn’t so much about me, but my incredible father who saved my life, my heart and my soul, simply by being there for me and teaching me about the all-encompassing love of God.

 

My dad visiting the wreckage.

 

My father as a young man, revisting the wreckage that nearly took his his life.

My father as a young man, revisiting the wreckage that nearly took his his life.

 

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Dreaming what you fear and the mornings that draw near Pt.3

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February 14, 2013

I apologize for the length of this post, but I didn’t feel like drawing it out over the next few weeks, partly because I really want to dive back into “The Scars of who we are.” Which I’ll now be able to enhance by adding a few pictures to the tale of my upbringing.

There’s something left here for me to see,
A person I have to be,
And I’m struggling to break free,
From the bonds that tie me to who I used to be,
But I’m stuck in this dream and I can’t break free,
So wake me up from this dream that never ends,
Haunting me, haunting me to my bitter ends…

                I was dreaming, but didn’t know I was and I couldn’t wake up, trapped in a prison of my own mind, living in a world that all my senses told me were real, I was living in a prison of wills.

Opening the door of the mansion, I was assaulted by the freezing winds that whipped against me, chilling my exposed flesh and sapping what little warmth my clothes offered me. Pulling my coat tighter around me and flipping up the collar to help protect as much as my neck as it could, I started down the walkway. Leaning against the freezing and howling wind, I fought to keep moving forward and not to retreat back into the house by fiercely hugging myself in attempt to stay as warm as possible, I can’t recall a time I had ever been colder.

Stepping out onto the driveway and making my way past the numerous snow covered cars that had been a part of our convoy, I spot Nick sitting in a jeep, all the way at the end of the torturously long driveway, I can almost hear him cackling over the wind and I shake my head, muttering, “Jerk,” Under my breath. Lowering my head to keep my face out of the freezing wind, I begin trudging my way down the unnecessary long driveway, towards the jeep, thankful he at least had it running, which meant there would be heat.

With the Jeep’s taillights coming closer in view and thinking of all the lovely ways I could pay my cousin back for making me walk half a mile in this weather, when I hear him screaming.

“Behind you, behind you!”

My eyes open wide as I glance up, seeing him hanging out of the jeep and standing up, with his hands cupped over his mouth as he screams and points to something behind me. My breath catches in my throat and I turn, expecting to find myself staring down a barrel of a gun, instead I’m greeted by a large black form hurdling towards my face. I don’t act, I simply react and bring my fist up, throwing all my weight into it and slammed my fist home into the snarling beast, just missing it’s gnashing teeth as I knock it aside.

Breathing heavily, I look down what I now realize is a large black dog, which was already bearing his teeth and emitting a loud rumbling grown from his chest.

“Get back,” Nick shouts and I glance up to see him pointing a 9mm at the dog.

“Don’t,” I order, signaling for him to hold with my right arm and keeping my arm extended to block whatever shot he had as I crouched down in front of the dog, offering him my other hand. The dog backs away at first and stares warily up at me and then to my cousin.

“What are you doing?” He asks, clearly irritated and worried I’m going to get my hand bit off by this dog.

“Making a friend,” I tell him and the dog sniffs at my hand, his nose is wet and cold against my palm, which he begins to licking my hand and nuzzling my arm.

“You’re insane,” Nick mutters and I do is smile because I know what I’m about to do will drive him nuts.

Standing up I order the dog up as well, grinning as it obediently obeys, so I tell it to sit and he does. Opening the door of the jeep I motion for the dog to climb inside,

“Get in,” I order and the dog excitedly whips past me and leaps up into the jeep and climbs into the back where he settles himself down.

“What are you doing? You can’t be serious?” Nick asks and I smile, waiving his questions aside and turn to climb into the passenger seat when it hits me and the feeling hits me all at once. I suddenly remember going to bed and I can’t remember waking up, or the days that followed the night where I stayed up so late. I could feel my heart beating painfully against my ribs and my breath catch in my throat, because I could feel the blistering cold winds that assaulted me, chilling me to my core.

“Hey, are you okay? You look like you just seen a ghost.” Nick’s words echoed and I turned to see him sitting behind the wheel of the jeep; the concern was evident and plain to see on his face. I tried to work my jaw to speak, but no words came out. Instead, I climbed into the jeep pulling the passenger door shut behind me. Immediately I could feel the change in temperature, the heat blasting out of the vents bringing circulation and feeling back to my face and fingers. I was dreaming, I knew it, but all this felt so real to be and I hadn’t questioned it until now, as I ran my fingers along the rough and cracked dash, before running my hand over the vents, feeling the hot air blowing against my hands.

“Are you okay? I mean are we ready to go?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “It’s just…for a second there; I thought all this was a dream.”

“This is no dream,” He retorts with a laugh and shifting the jeep into drive.  The drive becomes increasingly difficult the further we travel, It seemed the roads were littered with even more wrecked and abandoned cars and despite my insistence we keep to the roads, Nick eventually talks me into letting him take the jeep off road, a decision I would soon come to regret.

Braved the forest, braved the stone
Braved the icy winds and fire
Braved and beat them on my own
Yet I’m helpless by the river

                It didn’t take us long to get completely turned around and lost by taking the jeep off road and seeing my unease, Nick offers me a present that he had stashed behind my seat. Skeptical, I slowly reach behind the seat, feeling the dog’s cold and wet nose nudge my hand, before I find it and pull it up and onto my lap. The rifle was a Sig 552. (I only know because after I woke up I spent an hour online looking for a gun that matched the one I dreamt about.)

“Where’d you get this?” I laugh, examining the rifle in my lap and running my hand along the cool, polymer frame.

“Oh, let’s just say I found it,” he says cryptically, grinning as he watches me handle the weapon, checking the magazine.

“Oh, it’s loaded.” He informs me.

“Do you really think we’ll need something like this?” I ask, testing the reassuring weight of the small assault rifle in my hands. The weight of the weapon did help alleviate some of my unease.

“Who knows, you said it yourself, people are scared and when they’re scared they become stupid.”

I laugh shaking my head, unable to figure out how he possibly managed to his hands on something like this and floored by the fact he actually gave it to me instead of keeping a weapon like this for himself.

Angel, angel what have I done
I’ve faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
I’ve conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can’t I cross this river?

                 It takes us roughly an hour to find some old dirt roads, which we follow, Nick loves it and is having the time of his life by seeing what our jeep can do, while the dog whines behind me and I can’t stop feeling this odd sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong. It isn’t long until I heard gunshots and began noticing people with shallow and harden faces looking out from the tree line at us.

“Stop the jeep,” I bark feeling the dog’s cold nose nudging the back of my neck, before it turned to bark at Nick as if to reinforce my order.

“Stay down boy,” I whisper and the dog immediately obeys and lays down in the backseat, growling.

“Why? We’re fine.” Nick says confidently and trying to reassure me.

“I heard gunshots and I don’t if you notice, but there’s been people watching us from the woods.”

“And do what? Try the main roads again? You remember how bad they were right, besides we’re almost there anyway,” He retorts, and attempts to tell me that he knows what he’s doing and that I should trust him…But I don’t.

“I don’t care; I think we really need to turn around.” I snap back.

Nick disagrees and I reach over to take control of the wheel, when he suddenly breaks and I’m thrown forward into the dash.

Pay no mind to the battles you’ve won

It’ll take a lot more than rage and muscle
Open your heart and hands my son
Or you’ll never make it over the river

                “What-”I begin, trailing off as I see movement in front of the jeep, there’s roughly a hundred or more people coming out of the woods and in front of our path, behind them I see torches and the outlines of what I can only guess was a large encampment that they had formed to resemble something like that of a fort.

Before Nick can throw the jeep in reverse we’re surrounded on all sides and we notice that several of them are armed. Among them is a young man, with light blue eyes, and long straight blond hair. He looks like he could be movie star with his perfectly sculpted features. He reminds me though of a politician with how he moves towards us through the crowd.

He approaches my door and motions me to roll down the window and after some hesitation, I sigh weighing our options before I reluctantly oblige

“Hello,” he says, his voice sweet like poison and smiling with venomously with his perfectly white teeth.

“We’re just passing through if you don’t mind, or if it’s all the same, we can turn around head back the way we came.” I tell him, keeping my voice level, despite feeling all my senses screaming at me to get as far as I could from this man.

“Oh please by all means you should stay with us,” He offers and I adamantly shake my head in return.

“No dice, we’re in a hurry.”

“But aren’t you tired?” He asks, glancing past me at Nick, who looks to me and shrugs,

“You know, we have been driving for a while and I could use a little break.”

“No, I’m sorry, but we can’t,” I say as much to Nick as the blond haired man.

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” the man says pleasantly enough, “We won’t keep you if you’re in a hurry, but we’re all about to have dinner and we have plenty, why don’t you join us before you head back out on your journey?”

I take one look at the people surrounding us and something about them seems so lost to me and I look back over at the driver seat at Nick, who smiles back at me, giving me a small shrug of his shoulders.

“Hey, I could eat. I am pretty hungry.” He says.

“No!’ I snap, panic rising in my chest and I turn back to the man, whose words I can feel worming around inside my brain, searching for some way into my thoughts, making me feel violated in every sense of the word.

“I’m sorry, we can’t.” I say defiantly, fingering the cross I wore around my neck and silently prayed for my cousin’s and my protection.

“Oh? Are you going to let him make all your decisions for you Nicholas?” He asks, and my heart leaps painfully against my ribs as I turn to my cousin, feeling all the color drain from my face, as I see he’s pulled his gun on me.

It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
Open your heart and hands my son
Or you’ll never make it over the river
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

                “Nick,” I plead, looking him in the eye, I can see he’s struggling with whatever war that was raging on inside of him, his hands were shaking and despite the chill in the air, he was sweating uncontrollably.

“You always win, you always do. You always been better, better looking, thinner, with better friends, I’m sick of you always having to be this Saint all the time, like you don’t know you’re better than me.”

“Nick…” Is all I can bring myself to say to him, because in truth I’ve always thought the opposite and I know he’s always struggled with his weight and seemed almost envious of me because I never had that struggle, even though he’s always had better luck than I ever did whenever it came to girls and with jobs.

“I’m sorry, but I love you. You’ve been like a brother to me and if you have to shoot me, then shoot me.”

“Go ahead,” the man says, “Do what he says, shoot him all he’s doing is holding you back, that’s all he’s ever done isn’t it? Remember that girl and how she liked him so much more than you and how hard you tried making her look at you the same way?” He asks Nick.

“Do it if you must, I’m not afraid,” I tell Nick, and bring the Sig up and turn to the man pointing the barrel of the rifle at his chest, “If he doesn’t shoot me, I’ll kill you if you don’t let us pass.

(Nature, nurture, heaven and home)
It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
(Sum of all and by them driven)
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
(To conquer every mountain shown)
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

                The man looks agitated now, at me and at Nick who’s shaking and hesitating to pull the trigger and shoot me.

“Come now, listen to me and hear my words-“

“No,” I shout, cutting off as I pull the trigger on the Sig, feeling the rifle jump in my hands as it fired and I kept the muzzle aimed at the man’s chest. Though I may as well have been shooting him with Nerf bullets for all the effect the rounds had on him. He simply smiled, and his hand snaked forward lightening quick and snatched the weapon out of my hand as if I was no more than a child with a lollypop.

“See!” The man shouts raising his arms out to this sides and turning to address the crowd who was already marveling at how he survived several point blank rounds to the chest, “As I said, I am your true Lord and savior!”

“False prophet,” I growl over the roar of the crowd, but he hears me and turns on me, smiling vindictively as he shouts,

“Take them!”

(Braved the forest, braved the stone)
It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
(Braved the icy winds and fire)
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
(Braved and beat them on my own)
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

Before I knew it we were being swarmed and rough hands were dragging me and Nick out of the jeep, the more we struggled the more roughed up we would get, I eventually accepted the inevitable, while I could still hear Nick struggling and fighting them until they eventually beat whatever fight he still had out of him. We’re then dragged and thrown into a small cell, where we’re left to watch the blond haired man move through the crowd and I watch as a young couple offers him their newborn child.
I watch, unable to move as the man carries the child over to a alter, where picks up a bowl and I hear the child’s cries ripping through the night; involuntarily I test the bars of our cell. Our cell door and the bars don’t give and I watch helplessly as the blond haired man pours blood from the bowl onto the child’s head.

“We need to get of here,” Nick whispers behind me.
“I know,” I whisper.

“Hey, about earlier, I…I don’t know what came over me, I don’t think I would have shot you, but-“

“It’s okay,” I assure him; already knowing it wasn’t his fault.

“ It’s just, when he spoke; it was like his voice got inside my head and-“

“It’s okay, I understand.” I interrupt, turning around too look at him and seeing him scared and unsure of himself, a side of him and I don’t think I ever saw in him before.

“Do…do you think the others will come for us?” He asks, looking up at me and I fear the hopefulness in his tone and I know he’s scared.

“Would you want them to if they could?” I ask, gesturing to the blond-haired man as he begins addressing the crowd. I can’t make out his words and I’m surprisingly thankful for that small grace.

“Besides, they could have vanished by now like the others; we could be all that remains of our little group.” I tell him.

“Do you think…do you think that maybe we’ll get poofed out too?” (Poof being Nicks coined term whenever referring to the rapture.)

“I don’t know…” I tell him,

“But why wouldn’t we? I mean we’re good,” he says sounding as though he was trying to convince himself more than me.

“Probably the same reason why some of us vanished and the rest of us were raptured at different times. I think for many of us, we’re either being tested or we have yet to fulfill our purpose.” I explain.

“Well what’s ours? Is it to die here at the hands of these maniacs?”

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, “I think we may be here to give those who haven’t fully bought into this a choice, to show them there’s another way, a better way. So no matter what happens and what they say, refuse them and anything they may offer you.”

“Well, what should we do?” He asks, slumping against the opposite of the wall, defeated.

“Pray,” I tell him.

“Pray?” Nick echoes, “Why pray?”

“Why not?” I ask, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips at the notion of us praying in this cell of ours.

“But what’s prayer going to do?” ” He asks.

“What won’t it do?” I ask him in return.

Shaking his head he stifles a laugh and asks what I’m going to do, so I tell him, I’m going to pray with him. So I get down on my knees in the middle of the cell and I begin praying. Then I hear a sob escape Nick’s throat and I feel his arms wrapping around me as he begins telling me how sorry he is for pulling his gun on me and for bringing us here. I pause in my prayer long enough to console him and tell  him that everything’s okay and I forgive him, then we bow our heads together and we both begin to pray.

Nature, nurture heaven and home
Sum of all, and by them, driven
To conquer every mountain shown
But I’ve never crossed the river
Braved the forests, braved the stone
Braved the icy winds and fire
Braved and beat them on my own
Yet I’m helpless by the river

Angel, angel, what have I done?
I’ve faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
I’ve conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can’t I cross this river?
Angel, angel, what have I done?
I’ve faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
I’ve conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can’t I cross this river?

Pay no mind to the battles you’ve won
It’ll take a lot more than rage and muscle
Open your heart and hands, my son
Or you’ll never make it over the river

It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

(Nature, nurture heaven and home)
It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
(Sum of all, and by them, driven)
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
(To conquer every mountain shown)
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

(Braved the forests, braved the stone)
It’ll take a lot more than words and guns
(Braved the icy winds and fire)
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
(Braved and beat them on my own)
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we’ll cross the river

And together we’ll cross the river
And together we’ll cross the river

Nature, nurture heaven and home
And together we’ll cross the river
And together we’ll cross the river

Nature, nurture heaven and home
And together we’ll cross the river
And together we’ll cross the river
~Pucifer -Humbling River.

I listened to this song as I was working on rewriting what I first written down the morning after I woke up from this dream. Which because of my sleep addled mind needed a lot of work and still does. But if you’re still with me, I would like to discuss this song very briefly. To me, the first four lines are from someone who is looking toward heaven and proclaiming all their might and accomplishments and asking why they cannot enter, and what have they done to not be able to cross the river. The river is a reference to Christ and none may enter heaven except through him. As the person in the first four lines is speaking in past tense they are talking about their life.

Then the angel responds to them in the rest of the song (aside from the chorus in which both are speaking.) The angel explains that one does not cross the river by action alone, which is also based in the bible. Then the angel states that the hands of the many must join as one to cross the river, which is saying that only those united in Christ may cross the river, as anyone who joins in the body of Christ is united as one.

While I know most will likely disagree because this interpretation is of a Christian nature, just remember, I am not forcing you to believe in him, nor does he. He only extended his hand out and asked, “Will you believe and follow me?” No one who tries to judge your fallacies without looking at their own is a true Christ following Christian. Be you an atheist, or whatever. I welcome all, as Christ would have me do, your shortcomings are between you and him, not me; it’s just not my place to say or do anything about it.

The part of the hands of the many must join as one as well. Think about it, we have to look past each other’s shortcomings and join together in his body to cross the river. If you don’t share my opinion, fair enough, this is only what the song says to me, that the river is a reference for Christ, remember he was baptized in a river, and the bible says that blood and water flowed from him, it also calls him the fountain of life, and refers to his blood as the cleansing river, or flood. Which is where I got the River-Christ interpretation..

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Dreaming what we fear and the mornings that draw near. Pt 2

Filed under: Dream — 1 Comment
February 3, 2013

“And on the first page of our story, our future seemed so bright, but people are capable of such evil, even our politicians have their wicked schemes and the devil takes that to new extremes and I don’t know why I’m still alive, through all these battles and all the times I’ve lost my way, I’ve always found you there, in the grey, saving more than my life, rescuing me from so much pain and strife, even though you already died for me and set me free from the pain in my past, but you’ll always be my hero, even though sometimes it feels like I’ve lost my mind.”


I stayed up late the day before the world ended and the fear within me just would not abate, for the longer I dreamed the more deeply rooted I became, until it all felt so vividly real, I couldn’t help but believe it to be true, I was self-aware, I could think clearly and make my own choices. I wasn’t a slave to my dream, I was really me and I was leading a convoy through the desolate highways and bi-ways, leading with what I can only assume was by instinct, or maybe something more. Because I knew exactly where to go, I can’t explain how, or why, I just knew, without ever really knowing what we’d fine, but I knew we were heading in the right direction. But I was new to this whole leadership role I found myself in and I had doubts like anyone would, wondering if I was leading my friends and these people to their own deaths or not. I kept going everything that could go wrong, knowing it’ll all be on me and my head. If I got any of these people hurt or worse it would be my fault.

I was beginning to question the driving force that told me which direction to go and it was then one particular member of my group, who had always been a long time and very trusted friend found me after we had stopped to rest and push a few cars to the side of the road, with several others searching the various abandoned vehicles for supplies and whatever clues they could find to explain what was happening and why. So I was surprised when Becka found me amidst the hustle & bustle of our group moving about. She knew something was troubling me without me having to say a word and I’m usually so good at hiding my emotions, well except from maybe her.

“Everything alright” she asks and I pause in the middle of pushing a car off to the shoulder.

“No,” I confess, I could never lie to her and the truth would always come rushing out of my mouth before I even realized I was speaking. Seeing me this way and with my back to her, she rest a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she tells me, “We trust you.”

I laugh, shaking my head, telling her I don’t really even trust myself and she responds by pushing her way in front of me and forcing me look her in the eye, as she says,

“You should believe in yourself and trust yourself in this, you need to accept the role that God entrusted you with, no matter how scary or hard it gets otherwise everything will just fall apart and you may as well walk back the way we came.”

Her words hit me in such a way I’m rendered speechless and before I can respond, she turns and marches back to her vehicle leaving me shivering there in the cold. Sighing and considering her words I find she’s right and redouble my efforts to help move cars off the road. I never been much of a leader and less of inclined take compliments. It was my older brother who always told me that I was too modest for my own good and now memories of him and my family had filled my thoughts, even the ones I haven’t spoken to in years and I couldn’t help but wonder how they were handling all this, or if they even made it all.

After what felt like an hour, we managed to get back under way, and twenty or thirty minutes later I ended up I ended pulling into a very long driveway of a large mansion, recently abandoned by the previous owners. We didn’t know if it had been by choice or not, for upon our arrival we discovered that the previous occupants seemed to have simply up and vanished. Their home was left open for us to claim as our own, as they had left all of their belongings behind. Their loss proved to be our gain as we searched the mansion, finding some food, several clothes and to our surprise weapons. Our only clue to the identities of the previous occupants were that they had obviously been gun nuts, or doomsday preparers for all the good it had done them, for they were now nowhere in sight.

Taking a shotgun from the gun rack I found that I immediately knew everything about it, it was a Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun, with a collapsible stock and a fourteen inch barrel.  Which I handed off to Becka and proceeded to give her an impromptu lesson in handling the shotgun and as I started to give her a brief lesson, one of the members of my church offers to take some people out and scout around the area. I agree and turn my attention back to Becka, teaching her how to hold it and warning her about the kick, explaining that she’d have to lean into it when she fires and because of the spread she’ll want to aim at the chest, because it’ll be her best target. She smiles at my instructions, looking up at me as if I was being paranoid and over protective.

“Do you really think all this is necessary?” She asks. I want to reassure her, tell her no and this was all just a precaution, but I don’t. Instead the truth begins flowing out of my mouth before I can even think of a suitable lie. I tell her that people are scared, afraid and that many will find themselves doing things they wouldn’t do otherwise. I tell her we’ll rescue those we can and protect ourselves against those we can not, then I steer the conversation back to her gun, explaining that this model holds five shots plus the one in the chamber, so she’ll have to be conservative with her shots and to remember to reload. She smiles and shakes her head at my instructions, but she humors me anyway.

I then take some time to teach her and a few others a few self-defense moves, just in case things get bad and I discover I rather enjoy teaching and conversing with my would be students. An hour or maybe more passes, when David returns with his group and I can tell by the look of him he has bad news. He tells us things are getting bad all over and that the temperature is dropping and with it the good will of those who had remained outside. Rioting had broken out and homes were being ransacked, families murdered or worse. Yet for some reason everyone seemed to skip what was to be our new home.“But we still need supplies if we’re to make it through the winter,” I tell him and he shakes his head sorrowfully and tells me it’s too dangerous for another group to go out so soon. Typically, I would agree and would stand down. I never really liked confrontations anyway, but I couldn’t let it go, I knew a group the size of ours wouldn’t last long off what little food we could salvage in the mansion and with no power, most of the food would spoil before long. David disagrees insisting I wait, but I know waiting is not an option, I know my house is stocked with canned foods, plant seeds and survival gear I had been obsessively collecting for the past several months, and it was as if I somehow knew this would happen without really knowing that the how, why or even the when. It was only a matter of time before someone; anyone would break into and raid my home.

I open my mouth to volunteer to go out alone, but it’s my Cousin Nick’s voice that cuts in.


“David, he’s right if we don’t do something now while we still can everything we’ve done would have been for nothing and if we don’t freeze to death, we will die of hunger.”

I couldn’t have asked for anyone better to be in my corner, because Nick is a talker, gifted with a silver tongue and the gift of gab. There’s a reason he works in sales and I’ve always believed he could sell ice to an Eskimo. It’s just who he is, he’s a talker and when he talks generally people listen. It takes Nick all of two minutes to convince David we should go out and I’m caught off guard to hear Nick actually volunteering to come with me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my cousin like a brother, however he has a habit of being both lazy and selfish and it’s then that David decides to let him and me to go, but we’re to do so alone. But I feel like bringing Nick with me is a mistake, but I bite my tongue and keep my mouth shut, since he stepped up for me, I couldn’t bring myself to offend him, nor did I want to waste more time by arguing with him. I just pray I’m being overly cautious and I wouldn’t come to regret my decision of letting him accompanying me.

It doesn’t take us long to gather enough supplies for the road and I go to say Goodbye to David and wish him luck, when he hugs me and tells me to be careful. Then I hear I step to the door when Becka touches my shoulder and I turn to her and she looks so very, very sad.

“You okay?” I ask,

“Yes,” She answers forcing a small smile, “Ever since all this started, you’ve changed…it’s been good to see you like this and how much you’ve been stepping up.”

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, I never been good at accepting complements.

She turns and glances towards the door and I half expect she wants to ask me to stay, instead she says,

“It’s really bad there isn’t it?”

“Yeah…but it’s going to be okay, we’re going to be okay” I tell her, “People are just scared is all and soon they’ll either wake up or decide to come to together as a community and for the good of all of us, or…they won’t…”

Becka smiles thinly, throwing her arms around me and I tense from the unexpected hug, reluctantly hugging her back, we had been friends for a very long time and sometimes I think she’s the only one who knows me better anyone else.

“No matter what happens out there,” She whispers in my ear, never lose faith and promise me, promise me, you’ll return safe and sound, I can’t lose any more friends.”

“I promise,” I whisper back, feeling like I was making a promise I couldn’t keep.

End of part 2.

Next: the Conclusion, what do you do, when you come face to face with evil?

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Dreaming what we fear and the mornings that draw near. Pt 1.

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January 24, 2013

I had some serious doubts about posting this, but…anyway here it goes.

          “Have you ever had a dream, that you were so sure was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream? How would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?” – 1999s “The Matrix”

              For the longest time I had thought this was simply an interesting quote, written by a pair of very talented writers. Even though for as long as I can remember I’ve always dreamt in color and my dreams, have always been incredibly vivid and surreal. I have to admit usually when I dream; I very rarely ever dream that I’m myself. Instead I usually dream of stories, where I find myself in the shoes of the very characters I create. So for the longest time, it has been my dreams that have been my inspiration and is why I now keep a dream journal, jotting down whatever dream I have at the very moment I awake. Later I often go back and reference the page or pages that I had written and discover a story worth writing within the context of whatever it was I dreamt.

Without a doubt,

 I need your help,

 because I can’t figure this out,

And there’s so many things I want to say,

But there’s too many things still in the way.

And I’m just now beginning to see what it was all about.

Last night however was different. First being that as a sufferer of insomnia, I tend to be a night owl, who stays up late pecking away on my computer keys, sometimes I’m working on writing new pages for my story, or going back and editing the chapters I’ve already written, sometimes adding to, or taking out whatever didn’t fit, or properly work.

                 But last night as I sat down at my computer, ready and energized to get to work, I had that moment of absolute clarity we writers tend to get, when everything seems clear and you’re completely focused on your writing. In times like these, your fingers can barely keep up with your thoughts. Unfortunately for me, this is also when my eyelids felt incredibly heavy and after taking a moment to stare despairingly at the clock and seeing it flash 9:30 pm. I couldn’t believe it, because I usually have to force myself to fall asleep, which usually isn’t till 2, or 3:00 am. Then the more I tried to fight sleep, the more tired I felt, until I couldn’t shake it anymore and I ended up climbing into bed by ten.

                I didn’t think a bed could ever feel so comfortable, a pillow so soft and cool and as I closed my eyes I out like a light. The dream I had still haunts me even now, giving me goose bumps whenever I think, or talk about it. It was so real to me; even in my dream I began to believe it was real and I was me. I was outside and it was snowing, I could feel the freezing winds whipping against my clothes, cutting right through me, chilling me to my very core. I could even feel the snow falling and melting against my face and it was in this moment that I became self-aware in my dream and began questioning my own sanity. I had climbed into the passenger seat of a jeep that my cousin was driving. Immediately I could feel the shift in temperature, it was warm inside the cabin and after closing the door I could feel the warmth thawing my still freezing face. Rubbing my hands together to get feeling back into them, I bring my hands to my cheeks, feeling the warmth of my hands against my face. I vaguely remember going to bed and waking up with my throat feeling parched and getting a glass of water. But as I looked around the interior of the jeep and ran my hand along the rough and cracked dash I realized I wasn’t dreaming, ( Even though I was) and that I had stayed up late the night before the world ended. It had only been half a day since the end began and we had already left another human being to die and I could feel my conscious was eating away at my soul

It started out simple enough; I was out with some friends many were from the new church I started attending when something happened, a pulse of sorts managed to knock out every electrical device and as near as any of us could tell it happened all over the world and all at once. Nothing worked, watches died, cellphones became paperweights and most cars simply became lawn ordainments. No one really knew how or why this happened all we knew was that it happened and it happened in the middle of winter, making survival that much more of a struggle. At first however most people came together during this time, believing whatever happened was temporary at most; many believing it were a solar flare, or some other accident, with many believing it to be a simple blackout. Then people began disappearing, several from my group vanished without a trace and seemingly into thin air.

 It was during this that a realization hit me, that the tide of men would change and fear would win out to reason and the goodwill people were at first sharing with one another. Now I never was much of a public speaker and less of a leader. At most I would say I’m more of a loner, but I somehow found the tongue to stand up and speak up. To my surprise when I spoke, people listened (granted most were my friends and members of my church, but still) and I managed to pull everyone together. Working together we managed to find a few vehicles that could still start and we formed a convoy and began heading out of town, in search for a less populated place. It wasn’t long however until we discovered that people all over had been disappearing and the vanishings never happened all at once, which bred only more fear amongst us that remained because we never knew who would be next, or really even why. But I found myself driven to find a place for my group to bed down and to try and survive whatever it was that awaited us.

End of Part 1.

 

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The Scars of who we are part III

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January 16, 2013

The Scars of Who We Are Part III

Part 3. Pull back the curtain and tell me what you see and tell me who is it you’re trying to be and how they compare to the person that you are? So take my hand and hold it tight, I promise not to lie to you tonight, for tonight is only the beginning, when we rediscover and find out who it is, we really are.

I actually meant to have this up last week; unfortunately I came down with the flue and bronchitis, which as you can imagine pretty much wiped me out. Granted I tried to write a little on my novel but couldn’t get very far. I also attempted to work on my blog, which became difficult when all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep (I’ll spare you the other details.) I also want to apologize to the community boards I’m a part of, I really want to be more active on the boards, but while I was sick, I lacked focus. But with the help from my doctor and some good friends I’m finally better and find myself able to sit down and really write.
I’ve always been a firm believer in dreams, there’s enough automatons in the world, who are those who simply give up, or surrender their dreams, often becoming bitter, resentful and pessimistic. What the world needs, what it really needs, are dreamers. It was Robin S. Sharma who once said “Dreamers are mocked as impractical. The truth is they are the most practical, as their innovations lead to progress and a better way of life for all of us,”

Dreamers are the ones who inspire us with their works, awe us by their creations or move us by their words. I’m sure we’ve all seen one movie, or read a book that inspired you to do more, or to make more out of your life. Almost always it makes you feel like you’ve been sleep walking through life this whole time and that now you’re finally awake and seeing things clearly for the first time. Seeing just how different the world really is, but change can be difficult, but sometimes it the change that you need.

I know people look down on me and I know it’s because they sometimes see me as a dreamer, who’s head is always lost in the clouds. But it’s my dreams that me strong and it’s my dreams that kept me young at heart. Because of my dreams I learned perspective. I can see beyond and past myself and all my insecurities, I can see a world where anything is possible. A world filled with incredible joy, happiness and wonder. I see this world whenever I close my eyes, I see what we as a people can really do, I see our potential and I see it in everyone. This is why I write, because it’s my dream to do so and say what you will about my dreams, I believe that my dreams, along with yours are given to us directly from the hand of God himself, who puts those dreams within us.

Now following and believing in your dreams rarely comes easy, like all talents or gifts, they must be nurtured, given time to grow. They need to grow as I had in my earliest of years, when my mom had left home with my older brother Dominic, leaving me behind for my father to later find and rescue.

We are the fallen,
Who tear down the world,
We are the broken,
Who are lost,
We are the weary,
Who lost our way
Yet we’re looking forward to a better day,
Looking forward to a better day.

Unfortunately, I have seen proof of this, in old home videos that my dad had on rare occasion let me watch. On them, I see myself a young boy playing with my toys on my grandma’s couch. In the background I hear my grandma asking my dad about me. I hear his tale as I had heard him tell it over a dozen times before. Only this time I think it was his first time telling anyone of his account. There’s a note of disbelief in tone, and I hear his voice breaking. My dad rarely ever shows his pain, I think I only seen and heard him cry twice in my entire life. This being one of them, where I hear my father crying and from what I was told and from the numerous home videos they had me. Videos of other family who came to visit me, I know I was with my dad for over a week before my mother had the courtesy to finally call and check up on me.

Listening to stories of my parents converging has never been easy and I find the retelling incredibly difficult, (So bear with me, a lot of this I put together on my own because my mother told only part of the story, enough of which to make herself into the hero, while my dad had been more forthright.) Looking back always leaves me wondering, what if things worked out differently?

Something you need to understand my mother, she’s a masterful manipulator, I can speak from experience, she can spin a lie so fanciful and beautiful, fill it with endless depths she could make you believe you’re right handed instead of left, or that ice was really hot instead of cold. She can spin any lie and tell it with such conviction you can’t help but believe it to be the truth. She was incredible to watch, because she could feign any emotion, anger, great sadness, she could even go so far as openly weep, with tears streaming down her cheeks and a snot bubble in her nose, the sight of which will always leave you with your chest swelling with pity. I say this, because years later she once struck me so hard and so repeatedly, she caused permanent nerve damage to my right eye. Then had be convinced it my fault and had me scared to death to tell anyone the truth. When even now I still can’t control how my right eye twitches, usually when I eat, but I’ve learned to live with it.

But the truth about my mother is this, she was the greatest actress I ever seen and even in so knowing all this, my love for her was still boundless and all I ever wanted was for her to love me. (So when she manages to get my dad on the phone, this is who he’s dealing with)

She cried, begged and eventually talked him into bringing me over to her mom’s house. My Grandma Agnes, lived with her elderly mother Aida at the time, so my dad figured it’d be a safe as a meet as any. When he shows up, my dad tells me she’s super sweet, kind and very complacent. (So naturally my dad is suspicious that something is up) However, no one save myself is truly immune to her charms and that took me practically twenty two years of my life to develop, so my dad didn’t have a chance.

   We are the beaten and the downtrodden
Searching for answers in a life gone wrong,
Picking up the pieces of what’s already gone,
Living in the past,
And Standing in the midst the broken glass.
Believing we’re the lost and forgotten.
Because the flowers had yet to blossom,
But the pain is going to end,
And the sun will rise again

Before he knew it, she had talked him into bringing me into the house, showing off all the new things that her and her sister Terry S, had gotten me. One of which being a new carrier, that she kept trying to talk my dad into letting me try out. Which he reluctantly he permits, letting her put me in the new carrier. Then she attempts to talk him into putting my diaper bag down which he adamantly refuses. (Thank God my dad has some limits) So she decides to try another tactic, by convincing my dad she needed to talk to him privately upstairs and convincing him into letting my grandma Agnes watch me. Now my dad liked her enough to trust her, in his eyes she was good church going woman and she was old. So he lets himself be talked into letting her watch me, while him and my go upstairs to talk. Again she tries to slip my baby bag from my father’s shoulder, insisting that her mom may need it while they were upstairs, but my dad refuses, insisting that it’s staying on him. (Another win for the good guys…for now at least)

Somewhat defeated, but not completely out of the game yet, my mom takes my dad upstairs into Agnes’s room, which is right next to my great grandmother Aida’s room. Once alone in Agnes’s room, my mom begins telling my dad how much she missed him, apologizing to him for everything she’s done, kissing on him as she tells him how much she loves him, needs him.

My dad resisted for a bit, but his resolve begins falter, (Hey, the poor guy is only human; give him a break and now my least favorite part of the story.) My mom proceeds in her attempts of seducing my father…he tries to resists, keeps telling her no and freaking out that her mom was right downstairs and that her grandma was probably next room. But she ignored him and pressed her advantage, waving off his concerns of her mother or grandmother walking in. She begins taking off his belt and pulling down his pants and my dad tries to resist. But she manages to distract him just enough to get his pants down around his ankles.

This is when the cobra chose to strike, she rips my baby bag from my dad’s shoulder, shoves him down onto the bed, turns and races out of the room. My dad realizing that this clearly was a setup is back on his feet in no time, pulling on his pants and giving chase. He already knows she intends on taking me back, why he had no idea, but he couldn’t risk letting her having my life back in her hands. So my dad explodes out of the bedroom after her and she’s already down the stairs, he hears her shouting to her mom and my dad’s heart sinks. He walked right into a setup and he bolts to the stairs in hopes of catching my mother before she could escape with me.
Now, did I mention my mom immorality? Because as my dad reaches the stairs he hears my mom sending my great grandma Aida up the stairs, costing my father precious time as he tries to quickly push past her without sending her spilling down the stairs, or causing her any harm. By the time he gets past her, my mom is already outside with me.

“How can you let her do this?” My father asks, looking to my grandma Aida, sickened before he races out of the house just in time to see my mother pulling away.
Determined to get me back, my dad races to his truck and floors it all in hopes of getting me back. (My dad tells this part slightly more colorfully with how he’d swore he was going to kill her for abandoning me, then stealing me) So then begins the car chase, out of a subdivision, onto a freeway, then a highway, all the way up to Cincinnati Ohio, back to Kentucky, then back up to Ohio because my mom was trying desperately to lose him. She hadn’t expected my father to be chasing her, never thought he’d enter a high speed car chase in order to rescue me. She wanted me in Ohio, because that’s where her sister Terry S lives up that way, which she figured it’d be safe since her husband was truly loaded, mansion and all. (Seriously her house was literally a mansion; every home I grew up in could fit inside) My mom almost makes it there, when she gets pulled over for speeding and erratic driving.
Thinking quickly and knowing this cop was costing her valuable time, my mom leaps out of the car, crying. Balling, with great big tears streaming down her face, making her breath catch in her throat as she races up to the now alarmed police officer who’s not quite sure what to make of the theatrics. She proceeds to tell the cop, that her husband just found out she was leaving him and that he was crazy, having threatened to kill her,

(Now imagine two things if you will. One your deranged spouse just kidnapped your kid who she tried to kill a few times before, not to mention had abandoned. Now imagine how angry you’d be, how mad you’d look. Now I want you think of a cop who hears that you’re crazy and trying to murder said spouse, which let’s be honest you’re probably considering. So in case you’re wondering yeah, it’s not looking too good for my father) almost like clockwork, my dad pulls up behind the cop thinking that he finally had her and there was no way she could continue her escape now that a cop was involved. Then my dad’s heart sinks as the cops sends my mother on her way.

The officer and my old man end up exchanging some heated words, (Which doesn’t help his case) and the end results in him being forced to turn around and return home, defeated.

The days grow shorter,

The nights ever longer,

As I grow endlessly colder….

But clinging ever so tightly,

To this little light of mine.

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The Scars of who we are, part 2

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January 5, 2013

The scars of who we are Part 2
Part 2. Where are you when you can’t be found?

For what it’s worth, I think I was a pretty happy kid and no matter how dark the world around me grew, I couldn’t shake this feeling I had, that I was special, unique in some way I couldn’t quite described. I had always felt as if I was meant for something more, something greater than myself. Now this could be, that when I was born I was born both upside down and backwards, forcing the doctors to perform an emergency C-section in order to save my life. Something I don’t think my mother had ever really forgiven me for, because before then she was one of those models you’d see on T.V or magazines.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Because my first struggles had started before I was even born. This I know, I know from the stories my farther had often shared with me while I was growing up, stories I’ve always kept to myself until the day I graduated High school and my mother confirmed everything he told me was true. By telling me, how useless and pathetic I was and how she tried having a miscarriage and get an abortion.

I know not exactly something you want to tell your son, or a kid, but I grew up with both parents telling me how much the other didn’t love me. In truth, I secretly hoped that they were both wrong.

Now my dad tells me, that my mother wasn’t particularly an easy person to live with, nor was she exactly thrilled with having another kid, because she had already had a son from a previous marriage, my older brother Dominic. But my dad can be quite insistent and managed to convince her try, because he wanted a kid of his own. He wanted someone to carry on his legacy and if you ever seen my dad, you’ll see that he’s really good with kids, because he sincerely loves them. (Partially because he’s really a big kid at heart)

But for a while it would seem that fate was against them, for after a whole year of trying, they had failed to ever conceive. It wasn’t until they gave up trying which was when I was finally conceived. During which time my dad tells me my mother was becoming increasingly hard to live with, always wanting to start a fight with him whenever he came home from work, which lead to him working double and triple shifts just to stay away from her. But during this time, my dad tells me that when they would fight, she would get angry and sometimes throw herself down on our steps and slide down on her belly in attempt to get even with him and to cause some irreparable harm to myself while I was still in her womb. Once she even got so angry amidst an augment she would begin beating on her stomach, in attempt to kill or harm me while I was still in the womb, something that would always break my dad’s heart and drive him to tears and sometimes unparalleled fits of anger. Causing him to throw her down, straddle her chest and began slapping her face with fingers all the while asking her how it felt and if she liked that, then threatened of she ever did anything like that again, he’d kill her. (I can’t say I condone his actions, I don’t think a man should ever strike a woman, but in truth I don’t know how I feel about it in this kind of situation)
But on this peculiar situation, her brother, my uncle Mike who had just gotten out of prison had decided to show up at house and see my mom. (I know what you’re thinking, how much more dysfunctional can we get, but it’s true) My dad sees the marks he had left on my mother’s face and tells her not to answer the door, knowing that if her brother took one good look at her face, he would do what my father would do and try to kill the guy who did it. However my mom insists on answering the door, because it is her brother after all. So my father responds with getting a baseball bat and stands at the top of the stairs, telling my mom that if he came in and tried to attack him, he would beat him away with the bat. They were at an impasse, as nuts as my mother may have and still is, she didn’t want to see any harm come to her brother, so she agreed to send him away, which she does. The stalemate resulted in my protection and my eventual birth. (Thank God right? And see, life is a miracle within itself. I mean the mere fact I managed to make it to term is miracle within itself. My mom was also a bit into drugs and had told me once she smoked pot a few times while pregnant with me and she hinted to doing a few other drugs while carrying me. So the fact that I’m even alive and I don’t look like Sloth from “The Goonies,” I’m not eating paste, or sitting in a room gluing macaroni to paper plates is nothing short of amazing. Every day I’m surprised that I am who I am, I’m healthy, fairly intelligent and physically fit. Although I can’t help but wonder how smart I would have been if my mother wasn’t my mother, you know what I mean?)

 “We are the fallen,
Who tear down the world,
We are the broken,
Who are lost,
We are the weary,
Who lost our way,
Yet we’re looking forward to a better day.”

I was a little more fifteen months old the day my mother abandoned me. Her and my dad were on the outs, fighting all the time and so my dad often worked double shifts. Because that way, he’d be too tired to fight and could go right to sleep whenever he got home. Making what my mother did, all the more horrific. My mother had taken my older brother, packed up both her and his things and left me. She left me sleeping in my carrier, at the top of the stairs, apparently she hadn’t even bothered to strap me in.

My dad was on his way home from working a double, dreading going home. It was late in the day and he knew my mother would be up and would most likely start in on him as soon as he walked in the door. So he was debating rather he should go home, or go his mothers. On his way to his mom’s, my dad heard a voice speaking to him. (Now I can’t vouch for this, but part is every bit my father’s story. I’m a Christian, like my father before me and most of my family. I wasn’t around for this part of the story, believe it or not, it’s up to you)

The voice told my father to go home. My father, without question believes it was God and is every bit as stubborn as me, so I’m not surprised when he told me he said “No,”

“I said go home,” God ordered,

“No,” My dad snaps, “If I go home she’s going to be there and I can’t take it anymore!” My dad shouts to his windshield.

“I don’t care, I said go home,” countered God.

“Alright fine, I’ll go home,” My dad relented, “but I’m just going there to take a shower and grab some clothes, does that make you happy?” My dad asked, hearing nothing but his radio and silence. Afraid to disobey and risk the voice returning my dad turned around and headed back home.

Once home he discovers that my mom is gone. At first he Believes that she took my older brother and me somewhere and left. Yet further investigation would prove otherwise, for it doesn’t take him long to discover me asleep atop the stairs. My dad couldn’t describe all the emotions that went through him as he discovered my mother had left the house, abandoning me to my own devises. He was angry, heartbroken, astounded, he couldn’t believe she really left there. So he gathers my few belongings along with his and takes me to my grandmothers.
(Sorry folks, I’m going to wrap this up here, in part III, my mother devises a plan to kidnap me from my father, which leads to a car chase as my dad races to catch up with her in hopes of rescuing me)

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The scars of who we are, Part 1.

Filed under: Life — 3 Comments
January 3, 2013

The scars of who we are, part 1.

Intro. Life is often like our dreams, where nothing is ever quite as what it seems.
~J Cooper

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by someone else, I don’t know. All I know for certain is that some will read this thinking I’m just playing the victim, when I’m not, I’m just sharing the truth as I know it.  So if you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were too busy fighting to really take a moment to just stop and get to know me.

But that isn’t how I’ll like to begin, even though if you’re reading this now, I had just finished writing the final installment to this series, about my life, telling it as honestly as I know it. it took me a year to sum up most of my life in 17 chapters. My intention wasn’t to focus on my family, but the struggles of dealing with abuse at home and going to school and facing down the bullies that were there. But as I wrote, I found all these memories and emotions inside of me, with the story of me and my family just wanting to get out of me, so without intending to do so, it all just came pouring out.

It all started in late December of last year, when a friend heard a little of what I went through and she told a friend of her’s Shane Pergrem of True Artist Studios, check them out here http://www.trueartistsstudio.com. Who does  a lot of documentaries and had called me in for an interview. I never realized until I started talking about everything that I went through growing up about how much I needed it, needed to just talk about it. I was always afraid of being a burden, or that I would come off as a whining victim, or risk people accusing me of being a liar. When pressed I would sometimes open up and give people a few snippets of growing up with my bi-polar and my more or less schizophrenic mother. But despite everything I’ve been through, suffered, I’m still alive, I’m still standing, so I’m going to share my story with you, so that you know that things do get better, even when it feels like you’ve hit rock bottom, with no no hope of getting out, because you can. It won’t be easy, it’ll be he hardest, longest and toughest battle you’ll ever face. You may get tired or fall along the way, which we all do, but what’s important is to keep getting back up. No matter what life throws at you, you have to keep pressing forward, never stop reaching out and always, always believe in magic.

Because, that’s what I believe in. I’m a Christian who firmly believes that when God created this world, he did so with a little magic, magic that he placed in you. Because we  all start off knowing magic when we’re young. We’re born with fire, storms and comets inside us. Even when I was a boy, I would step outside myself and see a world of endless possibilities, I believed in magic, heroes, dragons and that all animals secretly had the power to speak and all we had to do was be patient and listen. talk. But not everybody could see it, that web of magic we all lived in, connected my those silver filaments of chance and circumstance, but I knew it all along. The world was my magic lantern and with it  I unlocked the secrets of the past, adventured in the present and explored the far future. When we’re kids, we don’t discriminate, beat ourselves up, or make excuses, we live in the moment, day by day, capable of seeing our destinies on tiny grains of sand and the power to sing to birds.

But as we grow older, we develop fears, doubts and become consumed by the opinions of others, becoming afraid to say what’s on our minds, our heads and in our hearts. We worry about what others might think, or do and we forget the magic that’s been imprinted, like fingerprints onto our very souls. We often take for granted the moment we feel that magic pool residing within our souls, when you finally get the chance to sit and talk to your crush and how you experience this incredible moment where time just stops and it lasts much longer than just moment. We forget to look up and see the world around us and the beauty we once saw in the clouds when we were young, staring up at the sky in awe, wondering what it would be like to fly up and sail through the very clouds we watched from the ground.

Many lose their way, we stumble and fall and forget sometimes the magic within their hearts. But the wonder and the magic of this world can often be found in the silver filaments of our dreams. But like all things,  once you get so far from it, it gradually fades away, like a long forgotten well that eventually dries up, becoming lost in the sands of time. And we fall in line with chance and circumstance, forgetting about the dreams where we can fly, or fearlessly exploring a lost cavern with nothing to light our way but the fading glow from the lantern we carry along in our trembling hands.

But me, I’m a dreamer and as a dreamer I believe  there’s a certain kind of magic locked deep within our souls and its called imagination and imagination is what keeps us young. (Or keeps me young at heart to say the least)

Of course growing up we do tend to get away from it, we stop believing in fairy-tales, the knights in shining armor, and the damsels in distress. Often with it goes our sense of chivalry and honor,  no longer do we believe in the magic of a moment which settles and hovers there in the air, and becomes much more than a moment, once sound stops and movement ceases for much, much more than a moment. Like when your hands brush against that of your one true love right before you share your first kiss and you can actually feel the electricity in the air, as your heart flutters and feels like it’s about to beat right out of your chest, making you feel weak, strong and lighter all at once.

But we often drift away from this feeling of magic, wonder and the daring to wish and hope upon a star, and every day thereafter it becomes that much harder to believe in both magic and the dreams that guide us. Which is odd to me, since we spend almost as much time dreaming as we do being awake.

But even if you lose that spark, all is not lost, believe me. Loss sometimes marks a larger return, being a writer I often lose several pages or entire chapters that I had spent half the night working on, or maybe an entire month of writing, honing, editing making it perfect, just to lose it. ( which tends to make you want to throw said computer out the window.)  Then after I finish shouting to the heavens and bashing my head against my desk and pacing the floors, I take a breath and mutter a few swears and other nonsense, before taking a another breath. Then I crack my knuckles and sit back down and start all over again, much like life. Sometimes you may lose a job, or a spouse, a save file, flash drive, or a loved one. No matter what it is you’ve lost, you eventually have to pull yourself back together and start over. Which can be daunting I know, I had to start over and rebuild my own life a few times over and it’s something that never gets any easier and it was never easy to begin with. But you do it, because you have too, because quitting and giving up isn’t an option, I survived and been through too much to have it kill me right there at the end. Besides, if you quit, I’ll never know how close I’ve came to achieving everything I set out to do.

With that said and remembering all those things I’ve said so long ago, many may call me a failure. But to me, failing is something that only happens once you’ve given up. I may not have achieved much of what I set out to do and had hoped to have done at this point in my life. But I’ve gained more than I could have have ever hoped for, I discovered that family is what you say it is, not what it should be. A stranger can become a friend, that friend can later become like a brother, who then becomes family.

I do all this because I have all these stories inside of me, characters who long to live, waiting patiently for me to tell their story. I learned a long time ago that you can never let little setbacks derail you, or become a roadblock. It happens, even to the best of us and with that I say, never lose that spark, that so irreplaceable spark, that animates and connects us all to everything. Remember your dreams, remember the simply joys you had as a child, when you were jumping from one couch to another to avoid the lava.

Even when we get so far away from the magic and the songs within us, I believe that whenever a song stirs a memory, or when you’re sitting in a darkened theater watching a moving that stirs your feelings, or moves you in a particular way.  For people like me, the people who have picked up a book and decided to just read again, this happens whenever you nose is buried in a book and you feel your heart racing as you immerse yourself in the world the author had created and you’re living the story as much as you are reading it, watching it all unfold before you as if you were there.

It is within these rare moments that you become connected with the swirling pool of magic residing in your very own heart. When you’re accompanying these characters on their journey, with your heart racing as you inch ever closer to the climax, just to breathe a sigh of relief as you reach the conclusion, for whatever it may be. Leaving you with the resolution, which sometimes brings closure, or contempt, sometimes great sadness or joy, even on the rare occasion it brings great displeasure. Because for a few minutes, these characters, these words written on a page have become real.

For better or for worse, I grew up in a magic time, in a magic world which helped save me from the darker side of life, which is why I decided to write this. The few people who have heard about my life and my childhood tell me how inspirational my life is, because I didn’t let the darkness encroach around my heart and soul, didn’t let it define me. Even in the times when it threatened to swallow me whole.

Now this may sound clique, but my story is my own. It may not be for everyone and I may be writing for you, just you, because this isn’t going to be a story all about sunshine and rainbows. It’s about my life and my struggles with growing up in a broken home, with an abusive mother and only being able to see my father every other weekend, which became the only thing for me to look forward too. My father saved my life and helped salvaged what little childhood I had and made it worth living. I love my father, despite his flaws and short comings. I know he did his best and he still tries to always be there and support me when he can. It’s not possible to admire someone more than I do my own father.
Now I ran a bit long here so, you’ll have to wait until The Scars of who we are Part II, where I’ll actually dive into my childhood and how I actually survived my own abortion or so speak. But before I go, I would just like to inform my readers, that despite everything I been through, I survived. Even my suicide attempt I survived (obviously) but more than that, I persevered and overcame my demons and all my troubles. I’m fairly well-adjusted and my life has greatly improved and my only complaint is that there isn’t enough time in the day to do everything I want to do. But I look forward to each new day with enthusiasm, curiously, wonder, and grace. So keep reading and keep living.

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