The Struggle Within...Part Deux

If you haven't read part one of "The Struggle Within", now might be a good time.

This post has also been a while in the makings.  A lifetime, to be exact.  They say be careful who you point the finger at, because you always have three fingers pointing back at you.  We as humans are very quick to focus on the skeletons in the closets of others.  But we wish to ignore our own.  Pretend they don't exist.  Hide them in the darkest corners and recesses of our minds.  Why?  Why should anyone be ashamed of their past?  There is nothing you could've done that is that embarrassing.  Your past is part of who you are today.  Like it or not, you should embrace it.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." - George Santayana.  Personally, I've learned from every mistake I've ever made.

If you've read the first installment of this, then you know I've lived a lot of life in 40 years.  But that is still but a mere sampling of the things I've experienced.  This installment will expose some of my childhood skeletons.  Am I dong this for you, the reader?  Not really.  No offense, but you have your own skeletons that you need to exorcise.  This is for me.  I have come to a point in my life where I am ready to turn on the lights in my closet.  It's getting full.  I need to clean out some skeletons and cobwebs.

I've known my whole life that I'm adopted.  And I'm okay with that.  I know that another man and woman gave me life, while my parents gave me A life.  Notable difference in the two.  I have come to terms with many things surrounding my biologicals.  I still communicate with my biological father, Bruce.  In fact, I'll be driving from Elkridge to Cumberland this Saturday to see him for the first time in 20 years.  The story of that first meeting with him is for another installment.  My biological womb on the other hand?  Well, for starters I cannot bestow the "M" word on her.  She wasn't.  The only thing I ever want to say to her face is "Thank you, bitch."

Growing up, I was teased.  A lot.  Some of you may remember "Ricky The Nerd."  I was the resident 98-pound weakling of Woodbridge Valley.  I got beat up.  A lot.  I was raised in an upper-middle class Christian home, so I was taught to never fight back.  And I didn't.  And my raising also plays into one of the largest and darkest skeletons in my closet.  I'll get there.  I remember in 7th grade at Johnnycake Junior High, word got around that I am adopted.  The "running joke" for the majority of that year was calling me "Orphan Andy."  I actually stood up for myself for the first time in my life.  I remember my reply like it was yesterday.  "At least my parents got to choose me.  Your parents got stuck with something that looks like that?"  Shut him and the whole class up, real quick.  I also remember the tears in my eyes of anger and frustration when I turned to face him and say that.

Moving forward to my teen years now.  After Johnnycake, I went to Arlington Baptist.  I thought maybe getting into a private school would be better.  Yeah.  I was wrong.  It may have been worse.  There were a lot of elitist kids in there.  The haranguing continued.  My freshmen year, I asked out every girl in the 9th grade.  Every one of them turned me down.  The only way I could cope with that level of rejection was to make a joke of it, making fun of myself in the process.  That year, I asked out every girl in the school.  Freshman, Sophmore, Junior and Senior classes.  52 girls.  Every one of them turned me down. 

Remember that religious upbringing I mentioned?  This is where it comes into play.  Religious upbringing plus a Baptist high school equals bad results for some people.  I had so much religion jammed down my throat and up my ass that I ran.  I ran as far as I possibly could in the opposite direction.  My entire high school life, I was a practicing Satanist.  Yes, even in Arlington.  By the time I got to Woodlawn, it was very evident.  Anybody remember "Rick The Goth"?  I wore all black, listened to death metal, hung out with the ne'er do wells, the whole nine yards.  My time as a Satanist exposed me to world of things that most people cannot even begin to imagine in the worst wet nightmares.  I have been demonically possessed.  I have participated in animal sacrifice rituals.  I have been harangued by every conceivable spirit of malicious intent.  I no longer have these problems.  I no longer do these things, but I live with the memories.  For now.  Someday, my memory may fail and I may forget.  I actually hope not.  I don't want to go through that ever again.

Now, you may ask why I'm exposing all of this deep, dark information.  Or, you may not.  Either way, I'm doing it because I'm at a point in my life where I need to start moving forward again.  Right now, I'm sitting in a Starbucks in Washington Harbor.  I've realized that the only way to move forward is to embrace the past.  Every decision I've made in 40 years, be they good or bad, have molded me into the man I am today.  If there is only one thing I can impart on anybody in my next thirty years, it's this...

No matter how bad you think it is, it can always be worse.  You could have to live with the person you hate the most.  And sometimes, that's yourself.

The Green-Eyed Monster (or...why I'm such an idiot)

Jealousy is a double-edged sword.  It can be a sweet, endearing, even attractive quality.  In small doses.  In larger doses?  It can be damaging.

I have a very jealous side.  I try to keep it under my thumb as much as possible.  I let it out occasionally.  In small doses.  When it occasionally slips out in a larger amount?  I become a full-blown, boneheaded jackass.  I upset people that I care about.  Which in turn, upsets me.  I tend to internalize everything, anyway.  I've spent the better part of 20 years keeping everything tightly bottled.  I've cried in front of one person in 20 years.

I can be an ass to people I love when my jealousy flares.  An ass without any right to be one.  So when I tell you to keep your jealousy under your thumb and only let it out in small doses, believe me it's for the best.  It's a double-edged sword.  It'll hurt the one you love, and yourself.

I'm sorry.  You know who you are.

The Struggle Within

We all have one. For some it is worse than others. But everyone has a struggle within. This is mine. I feel the need to get some things off my chest. I hope in doing so, it may help you to deal with your's.


I will not bore you by going back to the very beginning of my struggle within. I will jump to August 10, 1994. On this day, things changed drastically for my future. I was working for Sears, Roebuck & Co. as a dock worker. I had just finished unloading a 150,000 piece truck for Christmas. When the truck was finished, I was faced with a choice. To take a break, as everyone else was doing, or to take the initiative to finish some stockroom sorting that needed to be done. I chose the latter. At 09:30, I was on top of a 9-foot shelving unit, precariously balanced on the edge. I lost that balance due to mitigating circumstances. I fell, landing on my tailbone on a concrete floor. I crushed my L1 vertebrae to a 19-degree angle on impact. 6 more degrees and I would've been paralyzed. Or not here to type this. After my release from the hospital with a 4 level fusion from my T11-L2, it took me 5 years to learn how to do basic things. Like fucking.

Fast forward to January 8, 1999. The day my father found my brother dead in the basement of my childhood home. He was 29. I was working when it happened. My father called me that evening at work. I knew something was wrong. He never calls me. Allow me to give a brief backstory. My brother started a long, uphill battle against drugs and alcohol at the age of 13. In and out of prison. I knew before I got to my parents' house that they had found Greg dead, in the bathroom in the basement. Doubt the veracity if you wish. After my parents telling me of this, I insisted on going downstairs to look. I had to have my reality check. My closure. Upon looking, I saw what was left of my brother's life. A blood stain on the floor and a puddle of blood in the toilet. I was the lead pall bearer. I refused to leave the grave side until they had lowered his casket into the ground. There had to be absolution in my head. My brother, who would kick the ass of any neighborhood bully who fucked with me...was gone.

Fast forward to August of 2000. My third grandson was born. Fast forward 13 months, to August 24, 2001. He had been diagnosed with an atypical teratoid rhebdoid tumor on the brain stem. He was the 6th known case in the world. That cancer is typically only found in the pancreas or liver. I sat at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland and held his hand as I watched his heart monitor drop to zero. I watched my grandson die. I sang an accapella solo at his funeral.  I still have a Mickey Mouse tie...THE Mickey Mouse tie...I wore at his funeral.  I've never worn it since.

Fast forward to August 4, 2004. My youngest granddaughter was born. A beautiful little girl. Grandaddy's little girl. The only person in the world who could drag me to the floor to watch the Teletubbies. I hate the fucking Teletubbies. But for her...in a heartbeat. At the age of 18 months, only days after recieving her MMR shot, she was diagnosed with Autism. High functioning/borderline Asperger's. She no longer communicated with us. She no longer smiled her beautiful little smile. By the age of 5, the only words she knew were a selection of Spanish words. That she learned from Dora The Explorer.

 

Fast forward to the past 5 years of my life. I was in Texas.  I left my family behind. My grandchildren, my son, my parents. Everyone. Did it hurt? Yes. Horribly. I saw my son twice in the time I was in Texas.  I've since reconnected with my son, my oldest grandson and my oldest granddaughter.  I've seen my youngest granddaughter at a distance.  Her mother and grandmother and I agreed that it was best that way.  It breaks my heart, but I will ALWAYS do what's best for that little girl.  All of the latter is possible because I'm back in Maryland again.  They say all roads lead to home.  Mine just happened to take a 5 year, 1600+ mile detour through Texas.

How do I hope that by sharing this I have helped you? By allowing you to see that there are others with personal demons that bother them everyday. I live with the permanent mental images of my brother's blood stains and my grandson's heart monitor hitting zero. They never go away. I have suffered with suicidal tendencies since the age of 16. That's 24 years at this point. I made myself a deal, lo those many years ago. If my reasons to die ever became longer than my reasons to live, then I would end my existence.  More recently, I made a promise to a special certain someone.  A promise that I wouldn't leave this planet before my time was up.

Every day, I find another reason to live.

Age is a relative concept (or...why I won't be having a midlife crisis)

Age is a relative concept. It really is. I kid around about being old (I'll be 40 on November 29th), but it's all in your approach to the word. Compared to someone in their 80's? I'm young. Compared to someone in their 20's? I'm old.  Now, that being said, you may not think of me as old at my age. It depends on your mindset. Mine is different. I am the age that I am. I am neither old, nor young. The day I turned 27, I started telling people I was "almost 30". On my 30th birthday, I woke up, looked at the clock/calendar and said "Yup. I'm 30. Time to go to work." It was just another day.

Since turning 37, I have done the same in regards to turning 40. It's just another day. Another revolution around the sun. That's all. You can bet your teeth, tits and toes, I won't be that middle-aged man who is balding and buys a Corvette so I can drive around with the top down, feeling the wind across my scalp (not that I'm balding, or intend to go bald...lol).

At this point (if not sooner), you may have asked yourself "What the fuck is his point? Why is he telling me this?" Truth be told, an epiphany came across me...so to speak. I recently posted on my personal Facebook page a "Thank You" to all of my true friends. The ones who have not been judgemental to me because I don't agree with everything they do/say. Unfortunately, yes there are people like that everywhere. Even in the great state of Texas.
The ones who do not fall into the group of true friends are merely acquaintances. Ships that passed in the night. We hung out, had some good times, a few good parties, etc. But, I'm getting older. So are they, but I've accepted it. They haven't. Learn to recognize the difference while you're still young. It makes a world of difference. They are the ones that want life to be all about partying. They are the ones who think that if they party 6 nights a week, they'll never grow old.

hits buzzer

WRONG-O!!!!!!

I know. I seem to have trailed off into a blathering drivel. Stay with me. Here is where it all comes together. Over the course of the year, I have seen posts both here and on Facebook by people saying "Oh my god! I'm turning 25! I'm so old!" To these people, I say GET A GRIP NOW. If you can't handle 25, you'll never be able to handle 40. If you don't, you'll be that middle-aged man who is balding and buys a Corvette so you can drive around with the top down, feeling the wind across your scalp. Or that middle-aged, menopausal woman who feels like she can stay young as long as she stays in a whiskey bottle somewhere.

Don't do that to yourself. You'll only make yourself old, faster.

Learn from life. Accept what it has to offer. Learn something new every day.

Be young, just don't be immature.

Thank you (or...what I'd say to your face, given the opportunity)

This writing has been many years in the making. About 19, to be exact. This past Thanksgiving, I saw many people on my Facebook posting about things that they are thankful for. Ultimately, it led me to realize that those two words can say so much more than people realize.

Thank you.

40 years ago, on 11/29/1973, you gave birth to me. Thank you.
9 months later, you gave me up for adoption. Thank you.
You gave me life, then you allowed me to have a life. Thank you.
That however, is where the "thank you's" stop.
This is where the "fuck you's" start.
You abandoned me. You abandoned my sister. You were more interested in dick and drugs than being a mother. You chose to CONTINUE to use drugs while you were pregnant with me AND my sister. YOU are the reason we both suffered through drug addictions. For that, I say FUCK YOU.
Let me take you through the life you missed. The life you CHOSE to ignore. And still do.
I learned to swim. Without you.
I learned to ride a bike. Without you.
I learned to fight and defend myself. Without you.
I learned to shave. Without you.
I kissed a girl for the first time. Without you.
I got married. Without you.
I had a son. Your grandson. Without you.
I met my sister. Without you.
I met my biological father. Without you.
I had grandchildren. Your GREAT-grandchildren. Without you.
I got a divorce. Without you.
I met an even better woman. Without you.
That's the Reader's Digest version, bitch. That's all you have the right to know.
No. Fuck that. You have no rights in regards to me. That's all I'm willing to tell you.
Almost 19 years ago, you decided to call me. AFTER I started searching for my sister. You're a bandwagon-bitch. I gave you my LEGITIMATE contact information. You said you'd send me my birth certificate and baby pictures.

YOU DIDN'T SEND ME A GODDAMN THING, YOU WORTHLESS FUCKING WHORE!

You gave me a bogus phone number AND a bogus address. You told me that your "new family" didn't know about me OR my sister. Are you that ashamed of me? Of us? What are we, your dirty little fucking secret?

FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You know what? There's something else I can thank you for. ALL of my mental and emotional issues.
I feel like I'm never good enough. Thank you.
I have severe self-esteem issues. Thank you.
I fight with self-hatred daily. Thank you.
I have deep fears of my loved ones leaving me. Thank you.
I suffer from suicidal depression. Thank you.
I am Bipolar. I inherited it from you. Thank you.
39 years and 4 months have passed since you decided to give me up for adoption. Since you gave me A life.
I have a mother. She was my Mommy when I was little. My Mom when I was a teenager. In adulthood, she is my Ma. She may get on my nerves, but I still love her.
You will never be deserving of the privilege of hearing the word "Mother" come out of my mouth in regards to you. You will ALWAYS be "Carla".
Am I bitter? Perhaps a little. Not bitter that you gave me up. Not bitter that you ignore my presence in this world. Bitter that you FUCKED ME UP.
Am I thankful? VERY. Thankful that I didn't have to grow up with you and have you fuck me up even more.
With that, I bid you farewell. And one last thank you for making me into the monster I am today.