My Terrible Misery

Terrible misery accompanies me.  I know it’s source and I am unable to stop it.  Just as we instinctively eat because we’re hungry, I also instinctively cause my own misery when I reach the pinacle of success.  As cliche as it sounds, it did all start when I was a kid. 

My parents divorced when I was 13 and shortly after my father lost his temper and bashed my head into my desk because I didn’t finish my homework.  Imagine the terror of a 13 year old kid, laying in his bed late at night, nearly asleep. He hears his father get home.  The sound of the 76′ chevy van pulling into the driveway, the door opening and close.  Imagine my mind hearing my dad ask my mother who was laying down on the couch, watching TV, whether or not I had finished my homework.  As clear as day I hear her say, “Well no, he said he was tired and went to bed.”  Imagine the sound of my father stomping up the stairs into my bedroom, then storming across my room and grabbing me by my hair and pulling me out of bed. Imagine me getting thrown into the wall by the force of my fathers violence.  Imagine the cold, ice-filled eyes of my father shouting at me to go sit down at my desk.  Imagine the slap I received at the back of my head as I moved passed him to sit down, crying in terror.  Then, imagine the sound of my father storming up behind me and slapping me once more in the back of the head as I held onto a pencil and scrambled for my book.  See the fireworks in my eyes as my head crashed against the glossy, hard, finish of my desktop.  See now, the blood dripping from my mouth and the shattered remains of my two front teeth now sitting on my desk in pieces.  Hear now, the gasp, the sudden moan, and the cry that comes from my father as he realizes he went too far.  At this very moment my father vows to me to never lay a hand on me again and to this day, he never did. But for me, my pain had just begun.  This was the birth of who I am.

Now imagine this:  Only scant weeks after I loose my teeth, I hear my father return from bowling late at night.  I hear my mother and father talking passionately at each other.  I sneak down the steps and listen at the door.  I hear my mother tell my father that he has to leave.  He leaves.  I hear the door to the house open, and then close.  I ran upstairs and looked out the window and see my dad pulling out of the driveway, then watch him drive up the street.  I remember watching him drive to the end of the street, the glowing red of the breaklights, his turn, then he was gone.  He never returned.  The life of me and my mother and my sisters would never be the same.

Then came the beginning of the hell that came from my mother.  My grandma, my mothers mother, was diagnosed with cancer.  Grandma was nice to the grandkids but my mom didn’t have a sane relationship with her parents.  I will not go into that however since this is MY story, not hers.  My grandma’s cancer was an insane trial for my mother.  I remember the spite that my grandma had for life. Not unlike my own spite, really.  I remember my mom crying every single day, hearing her crying.  So much to deal with.  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I prayed as a child does, that my grandma would die.  That very night she died.  Here is the birth of my faith.

As 6th grade dragged onward, a rumor of great things were being mumbled from my mom.  She had put the house of for sale because she couldn’t bear to live in it any longer.  It brought her too much pain.  At the end of the school year I was going to go with my grandparents to Florida and stay there for the duration of the summer.  I’m not sure why this happened exactly but I do recall Florida being a very nice place and having a lot of fun there, alone.  I made no friends when I was in florida.  Well, my only friend was my grandparents dog, Rocky, a wiemreiner(sp).  Him and I were inseparable.  However, fate was conspiring against me as usual.

While I was pushed away from my problems and into the hands of my grandparents, my mother sold the house in order to live in a trailer park that was made for old people.  So when I returned from florida, the divorce had been finalized, child support was incoming.  My friends that I had in my old house were all gone, taken from me.  I was stripped of my friends and my happiness.  Now I was coming into adolescence… does it baffle the mind yet?  My life gets oh so much better, ladies and gentlemen.  Can I seek any moment of happiness from these times? Yes I can. However, it isn’t the happy times which shape a person’s life.  Beware, pain incoming!

So now I’m living in Holt.  A whole new school system, new people, new friends, and my lack of identity.  I began to face a crisis.  How can an already emotionally unstable boy deal with everything that he has lost?  I lashed out at my mother and anyone else that made me feel bad.  I took a knife and sliced open our couches because it felt good to destroy something.  When I got mad because my girlfriend broke up with me, I got a shotgun and pointed it at her and told her to leave.  Such uncontrollable rage boiled inside me.  Of course my mother and I warred with each other violently.  She very rarely got a hit on me because I would block her in self defense.  I never raised my fist to her, however but the instinct to do so, to pummel the life out of my mother, was there. 

My mother stopped throwing things or taking swings at me eventually as our wars evolved.  Instead she began to pile upon me the results of her own failures.  Had she just said that she wished we never had never been born, that would have been more desirable I think.  Instead it was a mental battle now, a battle of guilt and blame.  There’s no doubt that my mother loves and loved us, her children, while her own life was in chaos but my adolescence was a war.

Yes, so, back to my life.  Trailer park full of old people plus kids equals eviction.  Yes, it’s true, me and my friends and my sisters were all to blame for the eviction of my mother and her family from the only place my mom thought she could call home.  It was taken from her by old people and by a law that was unfair to families.  One old man in particular was the cause of the fight.  He lived across the street from us.  He was so deluded that he called the police on us even when nothing was happening. It’s true, one night, my sister carrie and I were watching tv, my mom was in bed and knock knock come the cops to tell us that there was a complaint of us being rowdy.  I shoved a potato up that old mans tailpipe and then he wanted to press charges and put me away to a juvenile home.  Thankfully the police had heard enough from the old man and denied him his wish.  It didn’t stop the owners of Windmill Trailer Park from issuing an eviction notice.  My mom ignored the notices however and she actually worked with Debbie Stabenow personally in order to stop the eviction.  Unfortunately the judge sided with the law but afterwards, Stabenow helped put in a law that prevents what happened to us from happening again.  Oh wait, that almost sounds like a happy ending… don’t kid yourself. 

At one time the fighting between my mom and I was so intense that I called my dad, yes, my dad, to come and get me.  I fled from my mother to be with my father in order to hurt my mom.  That didn’t last long as I just didn’t feel comfortable with him and his wife.  Only fear of my life prevented me from being anything other than a good lil boy.  I moved back in with my mom after a few months but it was back to the norm after a while.

As my mother piled guilt upon my shoulders, I became friends with a guy a named George Tej
urina.  His father had a house on Tuscany that he wanted to rent, in Holt, actually inside the city, not in the countryside.  I informed my mother, she contacted Juan and we moved out.

I want to say that just before we moved out, my life and my direction I was paving for myself, didn’t suck actually.  When I started skateboarding I entered into one of the most spectacular and fondest times of my life.

When we moved, once again I left friends behind.  Even though we were still in the same city, their playground was not mine and so they that could come to me, did, but I never went back to that trailer park.  I honestly cannot say too much bad about this time of my life.  My wars with my mother eased up considerably as I wasn’t home too often.  I grew up a bit and was just trying to put all the bad shit behind me.  My last guilt trip-war with my mom ended with me telling her that never again would she ever put the blame onto me for anything that had happened before.  It was a pivotal moment in my relationship with my mother.

The problems now came from my sisters.  In their own ways they were lashing out.  Me and George grew cold to each other as he began to hang out with the lil thugs and gangs in Holt and Lansing.  I was 110% into the punk rock crowd.  Needless to say, cocaine and pot were being sold from the house which my mom was renting, the place I lived.  These were the friends of my sisters.  I begged my mother listen to me, that these kids were up to no good but she wouldn’t hear it.

In the middle of all this I found my first love, Angela Diane Bull.  As was the case in all the things in my life which I adored, I trashed it.  I led her down a road of unimaginable pain and sorrow.  Our love was genuine.  When I was with her, nothing else mattered.  Our love blossomed like a flower and was the most beautiful thing to behold, much less experience first hand.  The problem was that she was from Nebraska and was only up for the summer.  I was going into my senior year of high school, she was going into her junior.  After she left, I began calling her.  She would write but I didn’t have it in me to write back, I wanted to hear her voice.  She wrote me the best letters, letter after letter.  Telling me in all the ways that she loved me, in all the ways that she thought of me.  Still I called her, racked up the phone bill more and more until it was of mammoth proportions…
then:
We moved out of the house on Tuscany in the middle of January as we were given notice on Christmas day by Juan and his thug son, George.  Things got so bad between my mother and sisters that my mother had both my sisters shipped up north to live with my grandparents for a few weeks while her and I moved into a location which was unknown to them.  We remained in Holt.  My mom had the phone number changed and unlisted and didn’t give it out to my sisters.  But no sooner did my sisters return home than the whole thug life returned once again.  This time my friends and I tought to retailiate which resulted in some embarassing moments and another eviction.  My mother and I began to fight again and she resorted to name-calling by saying I was her, “asshole-bastard son”. 

There was so much chaos going on in my life that I didn’t know what to do.  I started getting headaches and stomach aches all the time.  The only way I can describe how I felt was being stuck in a corner, surrounded by hungry wolves.  My own friends which were supposed to be the rebels, demanded conformity from me.  A conformity that I refused to give them. 

At 16 I didn’t get a car, I had my skateboard and chose that way to get around.  My friends turned against me eventually.  They pushed me about Angela making me feel like what I had for her wasn’t worth saving.  I eventually succomed to that pressure and broke up with her just after we moved to Burton street.  It was my last letter to her.  She tried to call me tried to write me, begged me, but it was so easy to ignore that pain.  I crushed her utterly. 

Now I said my friends turned against me and this is the truth.  Of course being young is a great excuse for ignorance and hypocrasy.  My lack of conformity to my friends ways led to a clash and the end of all the things that I loved.  My skateboarding stopped, my being in a band stopped.  My desire to even speak to these people ended.  I hated them all.  At one time while they were my “friends” they wanted me to lash out at them to strike them but they had no clue what they were demanding of me, none at all.  To release that rage would have been deadly to them all because I would have killed them, every last one.  Especially Chris, for his betrayal was the most personal and brutal to me.  I ended my friendship with them all, like I ended it with Angela, total refusal to admit their existance. 

This led me to my true friends, the ones that demanded nothing of me but for me to be whoever I want, to say whatever I felt, to feel however I wished and yes, to wear whatever clothes were handed to me by my mother and her friends.  Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs because my mom struggled so keenly to support all three of us kids.  Yes, one of the factors of guilt I’ll wear forever from my mother.

My senior year had an almost “normal” quality to it.  My mom and I moved.  This time my sisters didn’t come with us.  They were forced onto my dad, which did, without doubt, clean up their act. I said “normal” but I would say that my senior year was spent numb.  I had no direction.  I stopped skateboarding, which was the thing I loved more than anything else.  I loved to build ramps as well.  I was good with my hands and had an awesome ability to take what was in my head and make it real.  Yet, I abandoned that love and ability.  I think the overall words to use are that I really stopped caring about my life.  Up to this point I had been through a blender stuck on puree and I became the soupy remains.

After high school, my life just dragged on.  Pretty much all my choices in big events have been governed by the events from my past.  Love was a most beautiful and wonderful thing meant to die and be crushed and ignored.  Friends were precious but temporary and replaceable.  Yes, these last sentences are the epitome of the paradox of who I have become.

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~ by aeroslin on November 20, 2006.

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