I once ran away from home because of a bowl of Froot Loops. Looking back, that should have been a sign. But, it doesn’t really start there. It starts much sooner than that. I’ll not mince words here as to not hurt someone’s feelings, in fact many family members may be a little upset by all of this. I love them all the same, but facts are facts, or at least, memories are memories.
I was born almost thirty two years ago. Of course, no one asked me if I was OK with that, but, it is what it is and now I am here. It would be nice to say that I was born to a well of and incredibly loving family, but, that would be a lie. At the same time, however, Its not like I was born into the worst circumstances either.
My parents didn’t have money, well at least not a lot of it. We had food, clothes and shelter. All the basics at least. Unfortunately, I was also born to an abusive alcoholic father, and a mother who can only be described as a borderline narcissist. A perfect recipe to make crazy.
The father was in jail the day I was born. Apparently stealing tires was more important than being there as your only son is escorted into this world, that again, I had no choice in joining. Upon entering my new home, my older sister simply looked at me, with nothing but love in her eyes I’m sure, and said, “its nice, but do we have to keep it.” Obviously, unbeknownst to my then two year old sister at the time, that statement would pretty much define the rest of my life.
Of course, this is all anecdotal things told to me later in life, because, let’s face it, I was a fucking baby and have no real memory of this.
The parts that I truly remember come much later in life. By much later I mean from the age of maybe five to the present. I’ll start off by saying that I was a little shit head. Constantly in trouble at school, I was nothing short of a terror. I would throw tantrums in school and at home. No one was safe from them. Of course, my father being the great man that he was, made sure to try and beat them out of me.
Of course, the man tried to beat a lot of things out of everyone, me, my sister and my mother. Now, I’m not sure the motivation, whether it be fear or indifference, but my mother stayed through years of all of us being abused. But, she did.
One story in particular stands out. It involves me running through our cinder block house and falling with my arm across a kerosene heater, which equaled instant burn of incredibly painful proportions. It covered my arm. What do you think my father did then? Was he super loving and nurturing? Of course not. That shit is for pussies. He grabbed me by the arm that house the burn, and proceeded to whip me. To be fair, I never fell on a kerosene heater again.
My mom did eventually leave him. Which lead to a string of potential new dads coming in and out of our lives. Now, the woman did work hard to provide for me and my sister. But there was always something there that made it feel like she was just a little more interested in her own bullshit than us.
I don’t want to dwell too much on them, though, because hey, this blog is about me. Keeping it simple, my life wasn’t great. It wasn’t the worst, but what kind of fucked up scale is that? My early life is measured on the scale of 1-10, where 1 is the worst and 10 is just simply bad. I’m not sure if the experiences are the reason I am the way I am, but I do know that they didn’t help.
In other words, I’ve always been an emotional wreck. Able to go from happy to bawling my eyes out in about three seconds flat. But, I also have anger issues, abandonment issues, and impulse control issues. I’ve been in two different mental hospitals in a matter of three years. I’ve tried to kill myself once and on many occasions I’ve just flat out shut down. I’ve done things I’m not proud of and that I wish with every part of me that I could take back.
That’s what put me in the hospital this last time, and what inspired me to start this blog. I’ve now been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder II, which is manic depressive disorder. Which, in short, means that I get the very low lows without the benefit of the manic highs. It causes me to have very poor impulse control.
I wanted to give this slight introduction so that you have a little bit of insight into my life. There are many more stories to tell, and quite honestly, I look forward to telling them as they pop into my head as I start this journey into treatment for my bipolar disorder.
I look forward to depressing us all.