My first 5 years were the last of my original parents trying to stay together. Fragments in my head mostly. My earliest memories consist of my beagle puppy Amy. I loved that little dog so much. She followed me everywhere, she slept with me at night. She protected me from all the scary noises. The yelling the fighting. Everyone loved that dog. She had a habit of getting pregnant a lot, I also remember her first litter of puppies. I was sad to give them away but I did understand I think. I had a rabbit too for one Easter given to me by my Nanny, my fathers mother. It was white and shit everywhere. It left a trail of shit everywhere it went. Needless to say the rabbit disappeared quickly, probably into a stew. I had a sandbox in the backyard I played in frequently, a small wading pool in the summer. The neighbors were an old retired named the Irmals. They used to give Amy scraps of food and I remember being babysat a few times I think. I had 3 imaginary friends I played with all the time. I never named them just called them what they were. Bear, Bee, and Butterfly. Now that I write and look back maybe more fitting names were Protection, Temperance, and Love. My matchbox cars and my imagination were what I did mostly. My mother used to call me bunky as a nickname. No idea where that came from or why it was so popular for the time.
I remember my dad at night watching chips patrol laying on the couch drinking. I used to always steal his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when I was sitting on the floor near him . I tried to be sneaky about it but I don’t think it was because I was hungry I think it was just because they were his. The last time I did he spiked them with crushed red pepper and I spent an hour under the sink washing my mouth out. He used to have this laugh, it was the kind of laugh that made you laugh. I remember him walking around the house singing to anything or anybody “another one bites the dust” by queen. Just the course, anytime anything warranted it I guess. He loved Mr. bill from Saturday night live. My mother says he didn’t play with me much or at all, I remember so much more. I remember him saying “HERE COMES THE DRILL!!!” and I’d scream as he poked me and tickled the fuck out me going ZZ ZZ loud as he could every time he got me. In my last post I said there was no love from him, my mother said he just didn’t know how. I think she was wrong. For some reason I just don’t remembered my mother doing anything with me although feeding and wiping my ass was sufficient attention in her mind.
I think she worked, and I think she always hated working. I think she wanted to be a kept woman and with all the money my dad was blowing on drugs and alcohol it became fairly scarce.
With all the light above you would have thought everything was dysfunctional but yet normal but, in must come the darkness. The arguments, always about money. Bills not being paid etc.. He just didn’t come home much after that. He was usually drunk when he did. A story I am told goes Mom tried to hide grocery money from him under her pillow one night he put a .357 revolver to her head for it.As a little boy the only physical abuse I ever saw was what happened to me. I remember my mother was taking me to my aunt’s to be looked after and my Dad, drunk of course was so mad he picked me up and threw me in mid air down a long ten foot hallway. I remember him screaming I don’t want him going with that bitch.. I don’t think i was hurt, but I know that was the beginning of the end. My mom would get mad and go away for days sometimes weeks. One day she came home and found another woman in their bed with him. I only remember seeing her too while my mother was screaming. That’s how I lost my family.
My mother tried to move out, my father followed her everywhere. He beat up her boyfriends and I remember one story in particular of one of mothers boyfriends at her job (it was a frozen food factory) running from my father and him locking himself in the freezer to get away from him. He showed up to her job with a baseball bat looking for him. She must have had at least 5 different apartments. I remember the car full of furniture and my mother crying driving around town trying to lose my father following her. He loosened the lug nuts on her mustang tires once but he told her later because he said he didn’t want anything to happen to me. Sometimes I’d see in the middle of all this my father going to our church or even having a bottle of wine with my mother at the house trying to win her back. She said he didn’t know how to love her, but when someone else wanted her he did everything in his power to stop them from taking her. Due to my personality with women over the years I think I would have to agree. It’s an inner implosion of a fond family curse.
The men of my father’s family all felt like they were nothing. They deserved nothing. Maybe because when we were all children we blamed ourselves for everything. I know in my heart somehow, I wanted to fix them. My parents. I wanted to love them and be loved and be happy, go back to the way it was. The guilt of that was my start of my value in life. Then we find love, a warmth of a woman’s touch. The part that is so rare to be reached for men like us. We hoard it, we fight for it, we value it, and through our own self destructive behaviors we destroy it. We know what that feeling did for us, we know it will go to someone less deserving then us.Why less deserving? I still have yet to figure out how all these losers can fuck up and miss and be forgiven but we can’t miss once. Money and/or status perhaps,but that is another story. Now in our rage at the world, the world now has a face. The face of who stole it from us. That person then receives the wrath of all of everyone and everything that made us feel like we are nothing. If not for my personal struggle nothing is what they would ever be. If I gave in to half of my incredible impulses I would not only be a murderer, I would be the most savage murderer ever known. I have never thought of ending a life, in fact their death would sadden me. Everything up to it however, I would revel in it.
Eventually the divorce went final. My father went away. My mother started living in an apartment next to my uncle. I went to kindergarten in a little Christian school in limerick Pennsylvania named limerick chapel. Then my mother got a job at the local hospital at some point. She would come home and tell me all the horrible things my father had done to her in the past, and what a terrible man he was. I was a tiny child being used as a confidant through her divorce. I did not think that was right in retrospect, but not a lot of things my mother did were right at that time ever. Visitation became slower and more scarce from my father. I think he was seeing me to check up on my mother because I remember when he did show up wherever we went it was a party full of drinking and drugs.
I remember going to a mechanics garage and a bunch of people showed up. They tied me to a stool for hours and left. I remember just spinning in the stool thinking it was a game. I was tied to a chair and left there so My dad and his friend could go off and do God knows what. One time we went to a horse farm, he left me there in the barn for hours and I almost got trampled. He would drink and drive everywhere we went. Even after all of that, I never cared I was just glad to see him. I wanted his love.
My uncle Terry was a country boy and the oldest brother, I was lucky enough to meet him at very young age and he after we spent the day together he gave me his hat. I kept that shit-kicker hat even wore it on occasion it kind of looked like the undertaker’s hat in wwe. I do hold that memory pretty tight, in years to come I would help him out a lot more than he ever deserved. As for my Dad I could count maybe 10 visitations he came by and he was turned away from 2 of them by my stepfather for being drunk. But the 8 I had with him, I wish I could say made up for the lifetime he was gone. It did not. Just liquor, whores and drugs, and me the bastard son.