It was a typical day for that time in my life; I was hanging around with my friend, Josh, when we decided that we were going to "fry" that evening. That's what we called taking LSD. We went to an acquaintance, Brandon's house, for lack of somewhere better to go. At the time, I was affiliated with a group of anti-racist skinheads called S.H.A.R.P. (Skin heads Against Racial Prejudism). I know, you're wondering "Aren't all skinheads racist?". Without going too far into the history, I'll tell you that skinheads actually started as a rebellious faction of Punk Rock; rebelling against the craziness, drugs, and debauchery. "What?!", you may ask. "How do you rebel against Punk?". The first skinheads represented the middle class working youth. They were "Straight Edge" (anti-drug, and sometimes alcohol). They dressed very simply, in work clothes, and shaved their heads, keeping very neat, somewhat resembling the military way of dressing. They didn't represent anti-racism, per se, but were about being stalwart, and that didn't have room for any separatist ways of thinking. Eventually, racists took the style, probably because of it's simplicity.
My aforementioned acquaintance was also an anti-racist skinhead in S.H.A.R.P., Phoenix United Skin Head chapter (P.U.S.H.). I didn't respect him, but he was large, and handy to have around in a fight.
My friend and I were at Brandon's when we decided it was time to take the LSD. It was early evening. We drew cartoons on each other's arms, to "trip on" later. I should mention that Brandon's Dad was a Cop, and his older brother was an Asshole who was jealous of me (He once put a gun in my neck, and bluffed that he was going to kill me right then, because he was jealous that one of my girlfriends didn't like him, and I didn't treat her well enough).
Josh and I took the Acid, and, in about 40 minutes, started to feel it. As the cartoons on our arms were dancing around, and metamorphosing, Brandon's Dad came home. He was a scary dude, so we went out into the back yard. When Brandon's Dad came outside, I tried to communicate that we should go somewhere else, but it came out (and I remember distinctly) as; "Gwe getingoinnow".
I'm sure, by the way he looked at me, that he knew we were on drugs, and it felt like we ran away, but I'm sure we kept our cool, the best we could. We walked to the local mall, and tried to devise a plan, which is a laughable thing to do on LSD, especially 4X the dose, as we were on (It was called 4way, for that reason). I remember walking to the movie theater side of the mall, and staring at a movie poster. The theater was under ground, and in front of the stairs was a free-standing poster display, like the mall directories, that was cylindrical, and held 3 posters, which were back lit. The one I was staring at was of a man that looked like he was trapped inside the poster, in a fog, and was pressing against the glass, trying to get out. This was VERY interesting to look at, and was freaking me out, until I felt Brandon kick me in the head. He was like that. I think he was jealous of people who enjoyed drugs, but was afraid to take them. He's a tweaker, now, by the way. I guess he felt responsible for us, or was just bored, and wanted to get us somewhere. I called several people, including my friend, Laura, who liked, and wanted to get together with me. She came to pick me up, and I think I may have failed to mention that I had my tripping friend and an Asshole with me.
We were only at her house for a few minutes before she realised that the situation wasn't what she hoped for. I told her that we had nowhere to go, as Josh had been kicked out that day, and I wasn't going back to my Dad's house. She mentioned that her neighbor was on vacation, and I sobered up enough to talk her into showing me where the place was. She left us there, saying she knew nothing of where we were, or what we were going to do, and that we never saw her.
Laura lived in Paradise Valley, which was like the "Brentwood" of the Phoenix area, and was the setting for the movie "Pump Up the Volume" with Christian Slater. The homes are opulent, and most had alarms. This was no exception. Fortunately, I was an active Cat Burglar at the time, and knew how to bypass the magnetic alarm. We went inside, and were very trepid at first. Brandon got sick of our drug induced idiocy, and announced that he wanted to go home, indicating that we got him into the situation, and owed him a way home. I had just enough money for bus fare, but not for him, and I don't think Josh had any money. I decided to borrow the house car.
Looking into the garage, I almost fell down with joy. There was a convertible Mercedes sportster; a 450SL. I excitedly looked for keys. They weren't in the car, or around anywhere obvious. I looked in the usual places, and became dejected. I started to go back into the garage, when I saw a key rack on the wall... with the keys! There was a discussion started about who was going to drive, which I quickly quashed, since I was obviously the most qualified to do the chore.
Brandon and I got in (there wasn't room for Josh in the 2 seater), and took a breath. There was a good chance that the neighbors would see 2 punk kids driving out of the garage, while the legal occupants were away. I decided to start the car, open the garage, and just take the chance. If we were seen, we would just abandon the whole scene. I started the car, and hit the garage door button. As soon as there was clearance, I backed out, with my eyes wide open, heart pounding, and every physical function on hold, while I scanned for any sign of people. The coast was clear as I pushed the button again, and calmly drove away. I probably have never driven as perfectly by the law as I did then, until I got Brandon home. The sun was setting, and I just wanted to get the car back uneventfully...
As I pulled away from his house, people were already setting off fireworks in the street. It was awesome, and very distracting. The clouds of smoke seemed endless, and the pops were impossibly bright. I made my way out of the neighborhood as the streetlights came on, indicating that it was time to turn on the headlights. I twisted the knob, and water squirted onto the windshield. Odd. I tried again, with the same result. It was hard enough trying to drive right, without having to look for the headlight switch. I pulled, and pushed things, with every result, except having the headlights come on. I looked more frantically, to no avail. I didn't want to stop, and risk getting caught. I should mention at this point that although I was affiliated with the Skinheads, I didn't share their simple fashion sense. I was hardcore Punk. I had a Mohawk that rubbed the roof of the car, with a checkerboard pattern shaved into one side, and had nails sticking out of my clothes. I couldn't find the Damned headlight switch, so I pulled the stick that flashed the high beams. It worked, so I just held that stupid thing for the rest of the drive. Good. I had headlights. Now it was time for some music. I found my Punk station, and turned it up.
A sigh of relief released itself as I pulled into the desert road that would take me about 20 minutes back to Paradise Valley.
As I cruised along, I noticed a red Maserati next to me. There was a woman driving, and it made me laugh, because it reminded me of the classic scene in the movie "Vacation". We played a little bit, each speeding up, and getting a little ahead, until the other caught up. The road ahead reduced to 1 lane, each way, and i courteously let her get ahead. I was still beaming about this, when I noticed bright lights ahead. As i approached, reality came back to me; I am a 16 year old Punker in a stolen Mercedes on the 4th of July, in the middle of nowhere, on a 2 lane highway, with no crossroads to turn off onto, and ahead is... FUCK! It's a DUI checkpoint! Shit! Fuck! WHAT DO I DO?! If I turn around, they will surely come after me, and probably already have cops at the other end of the road, waiting for someone to try that. If I go through, looking like I do, holding the "brights" on, they'll pull me over, and throw me in jail. FUCK!!!!
I drove cool, because I had no choice. Blood was rushing through my ears so loudly that I forgot to turn down the radio. The woman had entered the checkpoint, which was a series of cones, lit very brightly by floodlights on generators. nearby was the "Paddy Wagon", and several extra Police cars, and officers. Fuuuuuuck. She was slowly making her way through, when a Cop tapped on my window, and did the circular "Roll it down" motion with his hand. I went to roll it down and.. FFUUCKK! there's NO God Damned handle! There is no switch on the door! What the F. TAP, TAAP! Now the Cop is looking annoyed. Not good. I darting my eyes around the entire car, until I finally see that the window switches are in between the seats. Why the FU..?
I roll it down, and the Officer does the hand-twist "Turn down the fucking radio!" motion. I turn it down, and he starts to say something. Unfortunately, he sounds like he's speaking through glue, and the words are dripping out of his mouth. I can't make a single word, but can read his face pretty well. I'm stammering, and probably sounding like glue, myself. He loses his patience pretty quickly, and motions me to move into the "You're completely fucked, and we're going to laugh as we throw you into the van" area. It was complete "Fight of Flight", nothing else matters, slow motion, do or die time. If I pull over, I'm going to jail, says me. If you run, you have a chance, says I. Time almost stopped, and I inched forward as the woman in the Maserati slowly pulled out of the checkpoint. Do. Or Die.
As soon as there was an inch of room to spare, I hit the gas! Swerving through the cones, I was completely focused; more than I had ever been before (and I had been in some serious situations). Of course, it wasn't long before the interior lit up RED, BLUE, RED, BLUE, and the siren started. I pushed the car for all she had, rattling the valves, and causing a burning oil smell. I let go of the "Brights" switch, and had enough light from the moon, when the road was straight. I didn't look back, or at the speedometer, just at the road ahead. I'm sure I was going about 150. when I saw the reflective signs indicating a turn, I'd pull the Brights back on. I became aware that the steering wheel felt like it was 5 feet in diameter, and the gas pedal felt like it was 2 inches tall, and 5 feet away. It felt like I was putting distance between me and the Cop, but I couldn't take my eyes off of the road for a millisecond. After a few minutes, I decided that if he were still behind me, I wouldn't be able to shake him, so I had a better chance on foot, because they'd probably call in a helicopter.
By this time, there were side streets, and a few streetlamps. However, in this neighborhood, there were no sidewalks, and the houses were far apart. The landscaping was native desert. Although it made it more dangerous, were I to lose control, this all worked to my advantage. I went through the windy streets, squealing the tires around corners, knowing that the Mercedes would easily out handle the Cruiser. I went for a while, and thought it was a good time to make my next move. Do, or die. I let go of the headlight handle, shut off the car, so there would be no brake lights, and slammed on the brakes, purposely skidding into a bush. When the car stopped, I opened the door and rolled out under the bush, and held my breath. All I could hear was my blood, and ringing. There were no flashing lights. No lights of any kind, but the light glow of a far away streetlamp. Could it be? I breathed shallowly, and listened with everything I had, and I could hear a siren that sounded like it was a half-mile away. I ran a little bit deeper into the desert, and hid in another bush, in case they found the car. Eventually, the siren sound faded, and was gone. There was no helicopter. I waited, and pondered all the possibilities; Was it a trap? Were they waiting somewhere down the road?
eventually, after what seemed like an hour, I walked gingerly back to the car, wondering if I should walk back to where josh was.... Wait.. Where IS Josh?! Where was I?! I had to drive, since I was far from anywhere that I could hitch a ride, or call someone. I got back into the car, and took the time to find the light switch. It was on the dash, to the left of, and behind the huge steering wheel, where I couldn't see it until I practically put my head behind the wheel.
Now what?
I was back in the now REALLY hot car, probably with the Cops looking for it, not knowing where I was, or where to go. I didn't know where Laura lived, since I wasn't paying attention the times I was driven there. I had to make an effort. Since I had no idea where to go, I just went, hoping that instinct would guide me, and that I would somehow evade arrest. As I remember it, I just kept turning where I thought I should, and eventually recognised the street, and pulled right back into the garage of where the car belonged.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Limbo
In every life, there is ebb, and flow. Currently, mine is in ebb, and it seems like a good time to start writing what I remember from the times when it was flowing.
I will start by trying to put my philosophy down, the best I can.
I have seen more than what I feel is my share of life, from very bad to very good, and I feel like the only reason is so that I may learn from it, and hopefully write what I have learned down, in hopes that someone else can avoid some pain, or more easily find happiness.
I see life as riding a wave; you have to paddle out to where the waves are, wait for a good one, and then paddle hard to catch it. When you're on, you must be in balance, leaning forward just enough to stay on the perfect part of the wave. When you're there, it takes very little effort stay there, once you can feel the balance. If you try too hard, you get ahead of the wave, lose momentum, and the wave catches up, and passes you by. If you relax too much, it gets ahead of you. Once you've done it a few times, you can try different surf boards, until you find the one that suits you best. It al gets easier as you gain strength, and intuition. Then you can find more challenging waves, and diffeent scenery. It's not always easy, though. Some days, the waves just aren't there, and sometimes the weather is bad.
In my life roght now, I'm just tired, and taking a break.
I will start by trying to put my philosophy down, the best I can.
I have seen more than what I feel is my share of life, from very bad to very good, and I feel like the only reason is so that I may learn from it, and hopefully write what I have learned down, in hopes that someone else can avoid some pain, or more easily find happiness.
I see life as riding a wave; you have to paddle out to where the waves are, wait for a good one, and then paddle hard to catch it. When you're on, you must be in balance, leaning forward just enough to stay on the perfect part of the wave. When you're there, it takes very little effort stay there, once you can feel the balance. If you try too hard, you get ahead of the wave, lose momentum, and the wave catches up, and passes you by. If you relax too much, it gets ahead of you. Once you've done it a few times, you can try different surf boards, until you find the one that suits you best. It al gets easier as you gain strength, and intuition. Then you can find more challenging waves, and diffeent scenery. It's not always easy, though. Some days, the waves just aren't there, and sometimes the weather is bad.
In my life roght now, I'm just tired, and taking a break.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I remember the very moment that my life started;
I didn't write down the day, but I remember it well.
I was walking down Water Street, in Port Townsend, Washington. Water is the main street in the Beautiful Victorian seaside town. It was a perfect day, weatherwise, and an all around perfect day to start living. It started when I was at the beginning of the "downtown" area. I said "Hi" to a woman, and she said "Hi" back. I smiled, and she smiled.
Up until that very moment, I had been living in a shell, afraid to talk to anyone, because I was taught that nothing I could say mattered, or was of any value at all. In fact, I felt like it was bothersome for people to even hear my voice, or have me around. This was one of very few occasions that I could get away from my very abusive mother. I had stayed with my Uncle, and Aunt in New Mexico for a couple of months the 2 previous summers, and they showed me love. I felt good around them, so when they invited me to stay with them in their new place, I was excited! At that time in my life, I had a new friend, Ian, who liked me for who I was, and it was amazing. Because of that, I started seriously contemplating why I wasn't social. I had thought about it before, but just tried to accept it. The kids didn't hate me, but I just was there. I didn't get invited to birthday parties, or even to just hang out. I could have been just as funny as any of them, if I wasn't afraid to speak. I wasn't deformed. I started to wonder if I was holding myself back.
After a lot of thought, and fear, I made a decision; I was going to allow myself to be myself, unrestrained. What did that mean? I had no idea. However, I saw people who would just speak to other people, and not be ridiculed, and I wanted that. How was it possible? I didn't know. How would I figure it out? Just try. It was a scary idea! The thing that made it possible was the idea that, if I failed, and people thought I was some jerk fool kid, and laughed at me, or hurt me in any way, I would go home, and never see them again. I knew pain, and although I didn't welcome it, I wasn't afraid of it enough to let it stop me.
The months leading up to going to visit my relatives were easier than most, because I had something. My life had little more than pain until then. Now I had something; not as strong as a purpose, but something like it. I had possibility... I had.... hope... For the very first time. If all was lost, I would always remember that feeling, and keep it deep down with the few pretty things that my mother couldn't touch.
The very moment I got into my Dad's car to go to the airport, it started. I was smiling freely. I was free.
My Aunt and Uncle noticed the spring in my step.
I sprung right down to Water street. I was free, but nervous, and apprehensive. I almost bailed out. Almost.
It was uncomfortable at first, but I looked at people, instead of the ground. I even looked some in the eyes. They looked back pleasantly. It fueled my fire.
"I'm going to talk to the next person I see.".
I couldn't back down. Ian and I would subtly challenge each other, and it helped.
A woman was walking toward me. I panicked.
"Pretend you're looking at something in the window!"
NO.
I HAVE to do it!
"She can already tell you're acting weird, because you are weird."
Maybe not?
"She'll hurt your feelings"
Maybe....
"Hi!" I smiled.
"Hi" She smiled back, and....
that was it.
My life changed right then. Thank you, nice lady. You have NO idea...
The rest of the day, I actually chatted with strangers! No one hurt me in any way. They laughed when I said something that I thought was funny. They cared about what I had to say, and spoke back. People even changed what they were doing to talk to me!
Oh, glorious day! I had never imagined such joy. I would not look back. I was a person; a real life talking, playing, living person that people wanted to pay attention to!
I was walking down Water Street, in Port Townsend, Washington. Water is the main street in the Beautiful Victorian seaside town. It was a perfect day, weatherwise, and an all around perfect day to start living. It started when I was at the beginning of the "downtown" area. I said "Hi" to a woman, and she said "Hi" back. I smiled, and she smiled.
Up until that very moment, I had been living in a shell, afraid to talk to anyone, because I was taught that nothing I could say mattered, or was of any value at all. In fact, I felt like it was bothersome for people to even hear my voice, or have me around. This was one of very few occasions that I could get away from my very abusive mother. I had stayed with my Uncle, and Aunt in New Mexico for a couple of months the 2 previous summers, and they showed me love. I felt good around them, so when they invited me to stay with them in their new place, I was excited! At that time in my life, I had a new friend, Ian, who liked me for who I was, and it was amazing. Because of that, I started seriously contemplating why I wasn't social. I had thought about it before, but just tried to accept it. The kids didn't hate me, but I just was there. I didn't get invited to birthday parties, or even to just hang out. I could have been just as funny as any of them, if I wasn't afraid to speak. I wasn't deformed. I started to wonder if I was holding myself back.
After a lot of thought, and fear, I made a decision; I was going to allow myself to be myself, unrestrained. What did that mean? I had no idea. However, I saw people who would just speak to other people, and not be ridiculed, and I wanted that. How was it possible? I didn't know. How would I figure it out? Just try. It was a scary idea! The thing that made it possible was the idea that, if I failed, and people thought I was some jerk fool kid, and laughed at me, or hurt me in any way, I would go home, and never see them again. I knew pain, and although I didn't welcome it, I wasn't afraid of it enough to let it stop me.
The months leading up to going to visit my relatives were easier than most, because I had something. My life had little more than pain until then. Now I had something; not as strong as a purpose, but something like it. I had possibility... I had.... hope... For the very first time. If all was lost, I would always remember that feeling, and keep it deep down with the few pretty things that my mother couldn't touch.
The very moment I got into my Dad's car to go to the airport, it started. I was smiling freely. I was free.
My Aunt and Uncle noticed the spring in my step.
I sprung right down to Water street. I was free, but nervous, and apprehensive. I almost bailed out. Almost.
It was uncomfortable at first, but I looked at people, instead of the ground. I even looked some in the eyes. They looked back pleasantly. It fueled my fire.
"I'm going to talk to the next person I see.".
I couldn't back down. Ian and I would subtly challenge each other, and it helped.
A woman was walking toward me. I panicked.
"Pretend you're looking at something in the window!"
NO.
I HAVE to do it!
"She can already tell you're acting weird, because you are weird."
Maybe not?
"She'll hurt your feelings"
Maybe....
"Hi!" I smiled.
"Hi" She smiled back, and....
that was it.
My life changed right then. Thank you, nice lady. You have NO idea...
The rest of the day, I actually chatted with strangers! No one hurt me in any way. They laughed when I said something that I thought was funny. They cared about what I had to say, and spoke back. People even changed what they were doing to talk to me!
Oh, glorious day! I had never imagined such joy. I would not look back. I was a person; a real life talking, playing, living person that people wanted to pay attention to!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
All suffers
It's very difficult for a person to understand another's level of impairment due to the way they were both raised.
I like the Buddhist idea that everything suffers. I used to believe that some people didn't, and those who did, suffered according to the trauma they endured, and were on my scale. For instance, my friend's sister, who was crushed when she got a brand new Mercury Montaro, instead of the Jeep Grand Cherokee that she wanted, didn't really suffer according to me; she just threw a fit. It was an important, and difficult lesson, when I understood that she really felt suffering. Her scale was much different than mine. I would like people to understand this, because I feel like a failure most of the time, because I can't work, and do things the way most do. I struggle to get basic things done daily. I have to muster motivation, and my memory is really bad. I am mentally handicapped. Not in the sense that comes to mind with that phrase, though. My IQ tests around 135. I just don't have the drive to do anything with it.
I try so hard, just to appear okay.
I like the Buddhist idea that everything suffers. I used to believe that some people didn't, and those who did, suffered according to the trauma they endured, and were on my scale. For instance, my friend's sister, who was crushed when she got a brand new Mercury Montaro, instead of the Jeep Grand Cherokee that she wanted, didn't really suffer according to me; she just threw a fit. It was an important, and difficult lesson, when I understood that she really felt suffering. Her scale was much different than mine. I would like people to understand this, because I feel like a failure most of the time, because I can't work, and do things the way most do. I struggle to get basic things done daily. I have to muster motivation, and my memory is really bad. I am mentally handicapped. Not in the sense that comes to mind with that phrase, though. My IQ tests around 135. I just don't have the drive to do anything with it.
I try so hard, just to appear okay.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Pain and misery begin, and shape my story, but are not the theme. They are the protagonists that keep me on edge, focused on my purpose of living as fully as I can, taking notes, and writing it down. I sum it up in this phrase "We who endure tragedy understand the strength of a stem, from the struggle of the deepest roots, to the edges of the triumphant flowers".
This blog is dedicated to my memoirs, as accurately as I, and those involved remember them.
My story begins with the birth of a girl in Minnesota in the late 50s. She is a runt; the 5th child of a woman past her birthing prime, at about 40. This was before there were drugs to "help" women squeeze out a litter of children, when they shouldn't have had any. This runt eventually became my Mother. She was born with spinal Menengitis, and soon had a fever that literally cooked parts of her brain. My Grandmother agreed to try an experimental treatment, and my Mother was the first person to ever survive it. Her nuclear family is not very open to talking about tings that are emotional, so I don't know much about her childhood.
"She was always strange", was about all I could get one to say.
She had health problems, including Asthma, so the family moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where the air was clear (at that time in history).
She would stand in a corner of the tall Oleander bushes that lined the back yard for long periods of time. No one knew what she was doing, or thinking.
One time, my Grandmother found her in the bathroom, bleeding from a cut she had made in her thigh, and according to my Mom, said strernly" Stop being stupid, and clean up.". From what I know, my Grandmother probably wasn't derisive in that moment, and probably showed what sympathy she could. My Grandmother was a loving, caring person, butcame from an Old World Bavarian stock that just didn't possess much sympathy.
When my Mother was in her preteens, the family was on one of their vacations in Baja Mexico, where my GrandFather liked to dive. My mother and Aunt were on their way back to the campsite from town when they were met by Mexican boys who sexually assaulted them,mostly my Mother, since she was older. My mother never told anyone, until I was in my teens.
During the '60s, my mother followed the Hippy trend, and tried hallucenogens. All I know of that is the time when she was on the hood of a '50s car, and slipped, cutting herself on the hood ornament. It was significant to her.
One day, when my Mother was about 16, her brother brought his friend Carl over when she was reading a book, sitting in a chair in the living room, in a nightie. The friend was enamored, as he had not been very experienced with girls. They talked, and eventually dated, and did drugs together. Carl was and still is a devout Christian, and would debate my Grandmother about the validity of her Catholic beliefs, which according to him was a "Cult".
When my Mother was 17, she became pregnant. My Grandmother would joke "Where was his Bible, then? If he ust held onto it, like he usually did, she wouldn't have become pregnant". In those days, abortion wasn't much of an option, especially to a devout Christian, so they would get married. Being too young, they asked my Grandfather to give them legal permission. He would not. My Grandfather was a very loving, giving man, but he did not approve.
When she turned 18, they got married on a hill in the desert, and a few months later, my older brother was born. My father worked on cars to get by, and I have no idea what my Mom did. 1 year
They rented a house together, and about 1 year later, she was pregnant again. I came to find out when I was in my 20s that I was another accident. My Grandparents (and probably Aunts, and Uncles) helped my parents with raising us. I don't know when, but at some point, when I was a few months old, it became obvious that we were being abused. My kind and gentle Grandfather told my Mother that if she didn't stop, she would be disowned. My Father's Father was long gone, and it seems that he was glad to be away from his Mother, so there was no influence from his family. Finally fed up, my Grandfather told my Mother to leave, and never come back, because she was beating my 1 year old brother. My Father's ideology was fro The Bible; "Spare the rod, spoil the child". We were in no danger of being spoiled.
Fortunately, my fist memory is a good one. I was sitting on my Grandfather's lap, in his chair, looking up at his face. It made me feel safe. He had a hole in his throat, due to cancer surgery. It didn't bother me at all. He died of Cancer when I was almost 2. Finding themselves with kids, and a home, my Parents decided to try to make a family. They wanted to have a girl, so they got pregnant with awaht they hoped, and almost expected to be a girl. Her name would be "Leah". They had another boy when I was about a year and a half old. When he was only a few months old, I hit him on the head with a glass bottle, spliting it open while his skull hadn't formed yet. You, my appreciated reader probably have an idea where I would have learned that behavior from. Luckily, there wasn't permenant damage.
2 years
My next memory was a mundane one. When I was about 2, we went to look at a home that my Dad's friend built. I was thirsty, and far too small to get to the sink. I don't know where my parents were, so I pulled out the kitchen drawers, making stairs to climb to get to the sink, and get myself a drink. I remember my first steps, too. We were at my Dad's Mother's trailor house, where I was always very bored, and ignored. My brothers and I were not to be seen or heard. We were to mostly sit quietly out of sight. I was able to pull myself up to the coffee table, and walk around it, leaning on it the whole time. I decided to try to walk without it, and took a few steps to the middle of the room. When I fell, I crawled back, and kept trying. I finally had a way to entertain myself. If you asked them, my parents would have no idea when I took my first steps.
Shortly after my younger brother was born, my Mother started to have epilleptic seizures, because the parts of her brain that cooked were scarred, and would "misfire" once in a while. My father gathered his firends to pray the demons out of her. They laid their hands on her, spoke in tongues (for those who don't know, it's psychobabble that religious people think is a language directly from God), and didn't stop until they were satisfied. To their surprise, she still had siezures.
My memories for the next few years are vague recollections of doing my best to not be seen, or heard, and enduring abuse. Occasionally, I would hear my Mother go into a seizure. She would start nto speak, and would usually repeat parts of some thing, most commonly "I..I..I...". She would freeze in a motion, of attempting to sit, or lay down. One of my brothers, or I would come, and help her to a safe position, clear her of potentially dangerous objects, and monitor her. It was instinctual, and very conflicting. I would feel compelled to help this person who hated me.
My mother was and is a very angry, bitter person. My Father admitted to me somewhat recently that when we lived in the rented place, he barely resisted the urge to end the misery she caused. He looked over at her sleeping, lifted a pillow, and started the process of smothering her to death. He would say that Jesus told him not to. I wish his jesus would have shut the fuck up.
3 years
At some point, my Grandparents decided to lift their disownment. I assume it was because they felt that my brothers and I needed help. I believe this is the year that I started to dissociate. I would stare off into nothingness. It was my only reprieve. I would get stuck, and sometimes my mom would get offended, and slap my face.
4 years
WE had a babysitter named "Dee". At the time, all I knew was that she was a kind young person in her teens. I have a very starnge memory of my parents leaving one evening (probably for the first time), and I was crying. Even then, I didn't know why. I was glad that they were gone, but they were all I knew. Soon, I settled into the idea of them leaving, and was glad when they did, because Dee would pay attention to us, read stories, sing songs; "Drifter, how I loved Youuu..." I can still hear her husky voice. She must have been the one who taught me how to read, begin to write, and become interested in art. I was able to read a bit when I started Kindergarten.
5 years
We went to a big strange place without my brothers, met my Kindergarten teacher, and looked around the room. Somehow I knew what was happening. It was a little scary, but I was looking forward to being somewhere better for a while. Somehow I knew it wouldn't be worse. I suppose it's because no one treated me as badly as my Mother, and recognised the trend. Also, my Mother didin't abuse me in front of other people, except her friend Sally, who was the wife of my Dad's business partner.
JIM and SALLY. My Dad opened a car repair business called "Der WerkShop", specialising in VolksWagens. Jim "Caveman" was his business partner. He was a character. He had never cut his hair, as fas as I could tell, and you could barely make out the gaunt shape of his face. He was tall, and thin, and was what I would call a "Biker", even though he didn't ride. He had the voice of what I know now to be a classic Alcoholic, and tried to surpress his natural tendency to curse. He would laugh one mi nute, and curse angrily the next, but was a generally pleasant person. He reminded me of cartoons of old prospectors, especially the way he would bob his head while cursing. His wife Sally was very similar to my Mom, except that she was an Alcoholic, too, while my Mom was not. Jim and Sally had a son, and daughter, slightly younger than me. She and my Mom would joke about using us to do their housework, and would talk about punishing us, in a way that sounded almost like competition.
I walked to KinderGarten by myself, about a mile. I got in trouble for dancing in my desk. I remember my teacher being impressed that I could read, and write a bit. I remember learning "The Farmer in the Dell". It made me happy to think of the happy farmer, his wife, and their cheese. Maybe it's what inspired me to dance...
6
In first grade, I remember my teacher, Mrs. Connell, showing us a way to remember names that apparently worked; we sat "Indian" style, and slapped our knees, clapped our hands, and snapped our fingers to a beat, while saying names. By 1st grade, I was bored, and my teacher became concerned. I was painfully shy. One of my most embarrassing moments that haunted me for many years was; Everyone had just formed a circle, sitting on the floor to do an activity, and I wouldn't sit down because I had to go to the bathroom. I had recently developed a resistance to defacating. I still don't know why. I think it's because I felt vulnerable, when sitting there. I imagine that my potty training was traumatic. My teacher asked why I wouldn't sit down. With all the attention of the kids looking at me, I got really nervous, and scared. Finally, I cried and said "I have to go to the Bathroom". The kids laughed, and Mrs, Connell, of course, allowed me to go.
I didn't participate well, and was held back to repeat the 1st grade.
At this time, the abuse became more ritualistic, patterned. My Mom would find something to get mad about, and make us wait either in her room, or ours. I have to tell you, dear reader, that I am crying, and feeling nervous writing about this.
I would wait in my room, knowng that at some point my Mom would call me into her room, or drag me in there, pick a leather belt, and say "Bare it". I would pull down my pants, and lean over the end of the bed, as she would begin hitting me with the belt. Depending on how mad she was, she would usually try to hit my butt, but often would be in a frenzy, and just flail, and hit me wherever. I wouod try to move around, when a certain place would be too painful. Depending on how many times she would hit me, I would have her hit my back, and legs. I would cry, and scream, and I think she liked it, because sometimes it seemed that she would be satisfied earlier, and stop. Most of the time, I believe that she hit me until she was tired. She was usually sweaty when she told me to get out. She had a leather belt that had metal rings woven into it that she seemed to use when she was particularly angry. She had one with a pattern cut out of stars that was almost as bad, and one that was just flat leather.
Mostly, she would get angry, and hit us either with her hands, or whatever was around; pieces of wood, roope, branches... One time she broke a Saguaro Cactus rib on my back.
She would joke to Sally that she had "slaves". One time, while folding socks, she was verbally abusing me, and I called her a selfish bitch.
Around this time is when she started poisoning me outwardly. When I would say someting she didn't like, I would have to drinking drain cleaner. She was into trying to sell "Amway" products, and they had a drain cleaner/ declogger called "LOC". I remember exactly what it tasted like, and how it burned my throat, and stomach. If I tried to throw it up, she would pinch my nose shut. I was a sickly looking kid; gaunt, pale, thin, with sunken dark cicles around my eyes. I was malnourished.
7
Early in the second round of the 1st grade, they decided to test me, and see what degree my retardation was, so they'd know what to do with me. I took an IQ test, which I remember being the first truly interesting thing I'd done. I scored 133 to everyone's surprise. They out me into the 2nd grade, right away. They realised that I wasn't doing my work because I was bored.
We lived in what would be considered the "inner city", even though Phoenix doesn't really have a "downtown". In second grade, I learned that kids weren't all good. Being very shy, I was picked on, and only had one friend, Shannon. Shannon was a boy that came from a dysfunctional home, too. His parents were alcoholics, andhis Father was supposedly an ex-Green Beret, who had to kill other special operations men when they were wounded, so they couldn't get left behind, and give away inteligence. His was Mother was nice, and was mostly drunk, and quiet.
I would stay at his house on occasion.
On the way home from school, I'd find different paths through the neighborhood, and abandoned lots. In a lot near my house, I found a clearing in some brush that had pornography in it. I was fascinated. I asked my Dad about sex, and he gave me his typical reply of "You're too young to know about that. I'll tell you when you're older. One night, I was staying at Shannon's house, and we played "Doctor" with his sister, mostly putting band-Aids on eachother. I decided to try to do what I saw in the magazines. By this time Shannon had gone to sleep.
It didn't work. My part was happening, but it didin't go in. I didn't know why at the time, and gave up. I knew it was for grown-ups, and just figured it wasn't supposed to work yet.
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This blog is dedicated to my memoirs, as accurately as I, and those involved remember them.
My story begins with the birth of a girl in Minnesota in the late 50s. She is a runt; the 5th child of a woman past her birthing prime, at about 40. This was before there were drugs to "help" women squeeze out a litter of children, when they shouldn't have had any. This runt eventually became my Mother. She was born with spinal Menengitis, and soon had a fever that literally cooked parts of her brain. My Grandmother agreed to try an experimental treatment, and my Mother was the first person to ever survive it. Her nuclear family is not very open to talking about tings that are emotional, so I don't know much about her childhood.
"She was always strange", was about all I could get one to say.
She had health problems, including Asthma, so the family moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where the air was clear (at that time in history).
She would stand in a corner of the tall Oleander bushes that lined the back yard for long periods of time. No one knew what she was doing, or thinking.
One time, my Grandmother found her in the bathroom, bleeding from a cut she had made in her thigh, and according to my Mom, said strernly" Stop being stupid, and clean up.". From what I know, my Grandmother probably wasn't derisive in that moment, and probably showed what sympathy she could. My Grandmother was a loving, caring person, butcame from an Old World Bavarian stock that just didn't possess much sympathy.
When my Mother was in her preteens, the family was on one of their vacations in Baja Mexico, where my GrandFather liked to dive. My mother and Aunt were on their way back to the campsite from town when they were met by Mexican boys who sexually assaulted them,mostly my Mother, since she was older. My mother never told anyone, until I was in my teens.
During the '60s, my mother followed the Hippy trend, and tried hallucenogens. All I know of that is the time when she was on the hood of a '50s car, and slipped, cutting herself on the hood ornament. It was significant to her.
One day, when my Mother was about 16, her brother brought his friend Carl over when she was reading a book, sitting in a chair in the living room, in a nightie. The friend was enamored, as he had not been very experienced with girls. They talked, and eventually dated, and did drugs together. Carl was and still is a devout Christian, and would debate my Grandmother about the validity of her Catholic beliefs, which according to him was a "Cult".
When my Mother was 17, she became pregnant. My Grandmother would joke "Where was his Bible, then? If he ust held onto it, like he usually did, she wouldn't have become pregnant". In those days, abortion wasn't much of an option, especially to a devout Christian, so they would get married. Being too young, they asked my Grandfather to give them legal permission. He would not. My Grandfather was a very loving, giving man, but he did not approve.
When she turned 18, they got married on a hill in the desert, and a few months later, my older brother was born. My father worked on cars to get by, and I have no idea what my Mom did. 1 year
They rented a house together, and about 1 year later, she was pregnant again. I came to find out when I was in my 20s that I was another accident. My Grandparents (and probably Aunts, and Uncles) helped my parents with raising us. I don't know when, but at some point, when I was a few months old, it became obvious that we were being abused. My kind and gentle Grandfather told my Mother that if she didn't stop, she would be disowned. My Father's Father was long gone, and it seems that he was glad to be away from his Mother, so there was no influence from his family. Finally fed up, my Grandfather told my Mother to leave, and never come back, because she was beating my 1 year old brother. My Father's ideology was fro The Bible; "Spare the rod, spoil the child". We were in no danger of being spoiled.
Fortunately, my fist memory is a good one. I was sitting on my Grandfather's lap, in his chair, looking up at his face. It made me feel safe. He had a hole in his throat, due to cancer surgery. It didn't bother me at all. He died of Cancer when I was almost 2. Finding themselves with kids, and a home, my Parents decided to try to make a family. They wanted to have a girl, so they got pregnant with awaht they hoped, and almost expected to be a girl. Her name would be "Leah". They had another boy when I was about a year and a half old. When he was only a few months old, I hit him on the head with a glass bottle, spliting it open while his skull hadn't formed yet. You, my appreciated reader probably have an idea where I would have learned that behavior from. Luckily, there wasn't permenant damage.
2 years
My next memory was a mundane one. When I was about 2, we went to look at a home that my Dad's friend built. I was thirsty, and far too small to get to the sink. I don't know where my parents were, so I pulled out the kitchen drawers, making stairs to climb to get to the sink, and get myself a drink. I remember my first steps, too. We were at my Dad's Mother's trailor house, where I was always very bored, and ignored. My brothers and I were not to be seen or heard. We were to mostly sit quietly out of sight. I was able to pull myself up to the coffee table, and walk around it, leaning on it the whole time. I decided to try to walk without it, and took a few steps to the middle of the room. When I fell, I crawled back, and kept trying. I finally had a way to entertain myself. If you asked them, my parents would have no idea when I took my first steps.
Shortly after my younger brother was born, my Mother started to have epilleptic seizures, because the parts of her brain that cooked were scarred, and would "misfire" once in a while. My father gathered his firends to pray the demons out of her. They laid their hands on her, spoke in tongues (for those who don't know, it's psychobabble that religious people think is a language directly from God), and didn't stop until they were satisfied. To their surprise, she still had siezures.
My memories for the next few years are vague recollections of doing my best to not be seen, or heard, and enduring abuse. Occasionally, I would hear my Mother go into a seizure. She would start nto speak, and would usually repeat parts of some thing, most commonly "I..I..I...". She would freeze in a motion, of attempting to sit, or lay down. One of my brothers, or I would come, and help her to a safe position, clear her of potentially dangerous objects, and monitor her. It was instinctual, and very conflicting. I would feel compelled to help this person who hated me.
My mother was and is a very angry, bitter person. My Father admitted to me somewhat recently that when we lived in the rented place, he barely resisted the urge to end the misery she caused. He looked over at her sleeping, lifted a pillow, and started the process of smothering her to death. He would say that Jesus told him not to. I wish his jesus would have shut the fuck up.
3 years
At some point, my Grandparents decided to lift their disownment. I assume it was because they felt that my brothers and I needed help. I believe this is the year that I started to dissociate. I would stare off into nothingness. It was my only reprieve. I would get stuck, and sometimes my mom would get offended, and slap my face.
4 years
WE had a babysitter named "Dee". At the time, all I knew was that she was a kind young person in her teens. I have a very starnge memory of my parents leaving one evening (probably for the first time), and I was crying. Even then, I didn't know why. I was glad that they were gone, but they were all I knew. Soon, I settled into the idea of them leaving, and was glad when they did, because Dee would pay attention to us, read stories, sing songs; "Drifter, how I loved Youuu..." I can still hear her husky voice. She must have been the one who taught me how to read, begin to write, and become interested in art. I was able to read a bit when I started Kindergarten.
5 years
We went to a big strange place without my brothers, met my Kindergarten teacher, and looked around the room. Somehow I knew what was happening. It was a little scary, but I was looking forward to being somewhere better for a while. Somehow I knew it wouldn't be worse. I suppose it's because no one treated me as badly as my Mother, and recognised the trend. Also, my Mother didin't abuse me in front of other people, except her friend Sally, who was the wife of my Dad's business partner.
JIM and SALLY. My Dad opened a car repair business called "Der WerkShop", specialising in VolksWagens. Jim "Caveman" was his business partner. He was a character. He had never cut his hair, as fas as I could tell, and you could barely make out the gaunt shape of his face. He was tall, and thin, and was what I would call a "Biker", even though he didn't ride. He had the voice of what I know now to be a classic Alcoholic, and tried to surpress his natural tendency to curse. He would laugh one mi nute, and curse angrily the next, but was a generally pleasant person. He reminded me of cartoons of old prospectors, especially the way he would bob his head while cursing. His wife Sally was very similar to my Mom, except that she was an Alcoholic, too, while my Mom was not. Jim and Sally had a son, and daughter, slightly younger than me. She and my Mom would joke about using us to do their housework, and would talk about punishing us, in a way that sounded almost like competition.
I walked to KinderGarten by myself, about a mile. I got in trouble for dancing in my desk. I remember my teacher being impressed that I could read, and write a bit. I remember learning "The Farmer in the Dell". It made me happy to think of the happy farmer, his wife, and their cheese. Maybe it's what inspired me to dance...
6
In first grade, I remember my teacher, Mrs. Connell, showing us a way to remember names that apparently worked; we sat "Indian" style, and slapped our knees, clapped our hands, and snapped our fingers to a beat, while saying names. By 1st grade, I was bored, and my teacher became concerned. I was painfully shy. One of my most embarrassing moments that haunted me for many years was; Everyone had just formed a circle, sitting on the floor to do an activity, and I wouldn't sit down because I had to go to the bathroom. I had recently developed a resistance to defacating. I still don't know why. I think it's because I felt vulnerable, when sitting there. I imagine that my potty training was traumatic. My teacher asked why I wouldn't sit down. With all the attention of the kids looking at me, I got really nervous, and scared. Finally, I cried and said "I have to go to the Bathroom". The kids laughed, and Mrs, Connell, of course, allowed me to go.
I didn't participate well, and was held back to repeat the 1st grade.
At this time, the abuse became more ritualistic, patterned. My Mom would find something to get mad about, and make us wait either in her room, or ours. I have to tell you, dear reader, that I am crying, and feeling nervous writing about this.
I would wait in my room, knowng that at some point my Mom would call me into her room, or drag me in there, pick a leather belt, and say "Bare it". I would pull down my pants, and lean over the end of the bed, as she would begin hitting me with the belt. Depending on how mad she was, she would usually try to hit my butt, but often would be in a frenzy, and just flail, and hit me wherever. I wouod try to move around, when a certain place would be too painful. Depending on how many times she would hit me, I would have her hit my back, and legs. I would cry, and scream, and I think she liked it, because sometimes it seemed that she would be satisfied earlier, and stop. Most of the time, I believe that she hit me until she was tired. She was usually sweaty when she told me to get out. She had a leather belt that had metal rings woven into it that she seemed to use when she was particularly angry. She had one with a pattern cut out of stars that was almost as bad, and one that was just flat leather.
Mostly, she would get angry, and hit us either with her hands, or whatever was around; pieces of wood, roope, branches... One time she broke a Saguaro Cactus rib on my back.
She would joke to Sally that she had "slaves". One time, while folding socks, she was verbally abusing me, and I called her a selfish bitch.
Around this time is when she started poisoning me outwardly. When I would say someting she didn't like, I would have to drinking drain cleaner. She was into trying to sell "Amway" products, and they had a drain cleaner/ declogger called "LOC". I remember exactly what it tasted like, and how it burned my throat, and stomach. If I tried to throw it up, she would pinch my nose shut. I was a sickly looking kid; gaunt, pale, thin, with sunken dark cicles around my eyes. I was malnourished.
7
Early in the second round of the 1st grade, they decided to test me, and see what degree my retardation was, so they'd know what to do with me. I took an IQ test, which I remember being the first truly interesting thing I'd done. I scored 133 to everyone's surprise. They out me into the 2nd grade, right away. They realised that I wasn't doing my work because I was bored.
We lived in what would be considered the "inner city", even though Phoenix doesn't really have a "downtown". In second grade, I learned that kids weren't all good. Being very shy, I was picked on, and only had one friend, Shannon. Shannon was a boy that came from a dysfunctional home, too. His parents were alcoholics, andhis Father was supposedly an ex-Green Beret, who had to kill other special operations men when they were wounded, so they couldn't get left behind, and give away inteligence. His was Mother was nice, and was mostly drunk, and quiet.
I would stay at his house on occasion.
On the way home from school, I'd find different paths through the neighborhood, and abandoned lots. In a lot near my house, I found a clearing in some brush that had pornography in it. I was fascinated. I asked my Dad about sex, and he gave me his typical reply of "You're too young to know about that. I'll tell you when you're older. One night, I was staying at Shannon's house, and we played "Doctor" with his sister, mostly putting band-Aids on eachother. I decided to try to do what I saw in the magazines. By this time Shannon had gone to sleep.
It didn't work. My part was happening, but it didin't go in. I didn't know why at the time, and gave up. I knew it was for grown-ups, and just figured it wasn't supposed to work yet.
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Wednesday, June 30, 2010
What's the point?
My reason for living is to understand the extremes, try find the balance, and write it all down.
This is an oversimplification, for the purpose of writing my first blog, and finally forcing myself to start my memoirs. Everything that I write will be true memories, and I will err to the side of underexaggeration, if I am not completely sure of how I remember the instance. As of now, I don't expect anyone to read this, as I will be using it to just write out my observations.
Since you are reading this, I hope you get something out of it. I am very open to any kind of dialog about it.
This is an oversimplification, for the purpose of writing my first blog, and finally forcing myself to start my memoirs. Everything that I write will be true memories, and I will err to the side of underexaggeration, if I am not completely sure of how I remember the instance. As of now, I don't expect anyone to read this, as I will be using it to just write out my observations.
Since you are reading this, I hope you get something out of it. I am very open to any kind of dialog about it.
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