It’s unbelievable the kind of fantasies as children we brew up, in order to make this world we live seem just a bit brighter. Although I am only 20, it seems I’m still chasing a fantasy of sorts, cutting through the everyday black and white screen to see fields of Technicolor. I don’t know what I’m running for in this life, however the only thing that seems certain is that I’m running towards a hole in the ground. My perspective in life has been shaped by the narrative I’ve lived, and that narrative sure isn’t pretty.
I guess it’s pretty important to mark where I was birthed, New Mexico, Albuquerque. After that there was an empty period of darkness. Mother said my Father kidnapped me, sexually assaulted me, beat me. But hell, the only thing I believe is that when I returned is what I know and that is that I was in rough shape, beaten badly. After that, I was diagnosed with a form of Autism, Asperger’s. God that’s a stupid name. I spent my early time with my mother who bounced around with men who always physically abused her. To be honest my first memory I can ever remember was her spitting blood in the toilet. I was put away to some foster home.
God, I loved her Mary Lou, my foster mother. But breast cancer took her away when I was 10. Then, I returned with my mother and her boyfriend of ten years, Danny, 6 foot 6, 300 pounds. I was told to quit crying like a bitch at Mary Lou’s funeral. And after that, moved to some backwoods country area full of drug addicts and child molesters. We constantly moved around in that area, due to bills never being paid. And every house just got worse and worse. Spent many nights sleeping on hardwood floors with no heat or blankets. Stepdad would always be mixing his time with hard drugs and construction. Insects and snakes everywhere, so bad that may food usually had cockroaches in it. The school bus didn’t come where I lived. So my stepsister would always get driven to the busstop which was a half a mile away and I had to walk. That was the same with trash as we had to transport our trash ourselves. It wasn’t bad until winter, when country winter snowstorms would tear at me, dedicated to hopefully get out of the hell into school, even though I was bullied harshly as a kid at school.
Holidays sucked too. First memory of santa claus was my stepfather beating the crap out of my mother Christmas morning. I never celebrated my birthdays, my thirteenth was spent seeing my stepfather shooting my brand new dog with a shotgun right in front of me. Abuse was always what I expected, it was normal. Danny would always cut wood, he’d have me hold a log right under his ax as a young kid, saying he’d hope he miss. I’d come home from school, and I’d be launched with the most heinous of personal insults. I was nothing. He’d burn my personal possessions in front of me. I ran once, He found me. He then proceeded to choke me out, slam me through a caging panel, and kicked half my ribs out of place. HE tossed me into a lake when I couldn’t swim, so I would have the pleasure of drowning. Broke my nose once by smashing it against a wall. Made me work outside in 100 degree plus weather until I passed out from the heat and dehydration. Dumped trash on me when I was asleep. Raped my mother and made me watch.
To escape a living hell, I hung myself. I survived and my abuses were recorded. I then entered the foster care system again. I couldn’t handle peace when all I’ve known was hell. So I would go into the streets to fight, one time I got stabbed when a guy tried to stab my throat and my hand caught it. I did multiple stints in mental wards for my PTSD. That and I kept trying to off myself. Finally I had enough, took a kitchen lighter, and branded my left arm with the word HATE. I then was hospitalized for 4 months, where I decided enough was enough, I had to change to survive. That was a catalyst for change, however the big revelation came to me on my 17th birthday, when we couldn’t stop the vehicle quick enough to stop a girl from committing suicide. She jumped off a bridge, and all I could was watch. The fall didn’t kill her, it was the semi that smashed her head in that did.
That situation was my metaphor, the truck my past, and the girl was almost me. I’m now twenty, a tattoo sleeve to cover up the hate, and a college senior. If my story does get chosen, I hope it inspires people to always find that shred of hope to fight for a better tomorrow. I hope my past isn’t somebody’s future.