Number 1-6
Everyone has a story. Our minds sometimes forget chunks of those stories that belong to us. Sometimes we canât stop our brains from protecting us. Iâve always thought that if no-one is around to protect us, our brain kicks into survival mode; just long enough to make us simply forget. Thatâs why I became a writer. Iâd like to say that I write down every single thing that has happened to me but thatâs unrealistic. Becoming a writer has let me remember the things that have attempted to drag me down. Number One: My FatherWhen I think of a father and son, I imagine a role-model. A man that is raising a boy into a man, a man that teaches his son how to fish so that in older years his son will never go hungry. All the little things that I imagine, I never received. Instead there was a large void there. I didnât get a man as a father but an alcoholic. A victim that has been grasped tightly by a brewed beverage. Iâve never had an addiction; unless you count Cola. Caffeine has been my way of life, a fuel that helped me stay up at night. It was me and this computer against the world.
When I say "The World"âIâm referring to "My World." A world that I didnât choose but was thrown into. I was born early, born into a life that wasnât safe for children. I existed as an infant to one person; Beads.Number Two: BeadsBeads.
Whatâs your first thought? The objects that come together to make a necklace? A bracelet?I think of one person. My great grandmother. A woman that wished that I was born into this world safely. She prayed every night for my health.âPlease Lord, Donât let that innocent child be born addicted.âThere were videos in health class about children that were born addicted to hard drugs. Theyâd shake, withdrawing from the amount of drugs that were running through their tiny bodies. This wasnât what dragged me down. This list Iâm creating is just a part of my life story.See, Iâve always been a loner, a loser, someone that was never meant to be defined as "normal"âI didnât function like the rest of the kids at my high school. I was introverted, my face always sucked into my computer screen.So how does Beads drag me down, you ask?She died.You heard me right. The one woman that supported me, helped me survive infancy. She passed away to the greater beyond. A place where she could finally fulfill her dream of cuddling with James Dean and rock out with Elvis Presley. She was my support system.Her death made me go back home.What was home? A place where my mother and father resided.It was far from home for me but by law; this was where I landed.Number Three: HomeWhen Beads was alive, I thought of home as four walls, a roof and a stove that was always cooking something delicious. She was a woman that could smile and light an entire room. She was the one person that never lied to me. Sheâd stop me and tell me to stop being such a hard-ass on myself, sheâd tell me when my clothing didnât match and she told me the truth of my childhood.
My childhood; home.Itâs a twisted story, a misunderstanding of life.My parents never expected to have a child out of their partying days, my mother rushing to the store for a "plan b" pill which failed. A pill that never didnât work. My grandmother protesting that their child was a gift, not an accident. My grandmotherâs pleads didnât stop them from stomping down to the abortion clinic.Rejected.Number Four: RejectedI was rejected from my mother and my father but that never stopped me. I try to remind myself of these things daily. That I beat the odds of something that was never noticed as a "failed procedure"âwas it the drugs that had my motherâs reproductive system fucked?
That fucked up reproductive system held me for 7 months, born 2 months earlier than expected. A child that was placed into a capsule to develop a little bit better. My grandmother was there everyday, watching over me. Where were Ma or Pa?Neck deep in an ember bottle.Nose snuffed with white.My nose was stuffed with tubes, my heart was fighting to beat. It took me two months before the tubes were removed and my heart didnât have to work as hard. When those two months were over, Beads held me and fought for adoption.Rejected.Iâve settled now for the never-ending outcome of being rejected. Rejected before birth, rejected at birth, rejected at school, rejected at home, rejected in my love life. I felt like a CD that was always being played, removed and played again.Eject. Eject. Eject.Iâm seventeen now, rejection hasnât phased me in awhile. Without Beads around, I knew not another would ever accept me. The school halls always looked at me as if I were a species of alien, but just like every other alien; I had ONE friend.She didnât care about the stares, the whispers or giggles. She didnât find me weird, she didnât reject me and she didnât threaten to leave. I was an outcast, someone that nobody was willing to get to know. That made me a mystery. But when the news came out...Number Five: The NewsWe all know what news could mean. It could be good news; it could be bad news. My life consisted of bad new that lacked any sign of good. After Beads died I was forced to live with my father, he told me promises like none other.
âI promise Huds, I know I havenât been a good father...but I promise Iâm stopping the drinking, the drugs... Iâll be your father.âIt didnât take long before he was arrested, drunk and blazing high beyond the trails of the H train. Thatâs right, he was on a ride straight to hell/heroin. Drug use doesnât affect you until itâs right in front of you. You donât have to be the one using it to feel itâs wrath. He had me. He told me a promise that he never planned on fulfilling.He saw me as damaged goods.Number Six: Damaged GoodsI always think of the food that has been outdated for a day and the store throws it away in the back dumpster. A place I have found myself eating at. It was an all you can eat.
Even that was useful.I was damaged goods. There was still good within me, but I was damaged and people fed on it. Theyâll always feed on it. I thank Beads for everything, wishing that she was around to lift me up with her spirits.People knew I was damaged. They knew I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. They knew that my father was a druggie alcoholic which makes me the same. A school day never went by without someone finding me; asking me for the latest. To their disappointment, the latest what? I was no longer good to them, no longer of useâdamaged I was.So, I have one question for you.Do you... think Iâm damaged?
