When I say I came from messed up origins, I mean that. Before I go any further I will say this; I know I could be far worse off and have many more problems than I do. I am in no way saying I have it worse than anyone else. We all have our own problems and they affect each of us differently. You will see as I tell this story just how far from normal my early years were though. I thank my mom and my mom alone for the way I turned out.
I was born on a Wednesday afternoon a few months before the seventies came to a close. My mother was 19 at the time, my father 21. Their union was not a happy one nor one born out of love. My mother had been given little choice by her adoptive mother, go with your boyfriend or become homeless because I’m kicking you out. Not much of a choice at that age. So they got married and I was the result. I blame neither of them for this, it simply was.
Although my mother was miserable she remained with my father for my sake. By the time I turned four she simply could not take it anymore and announced her intention to divorce my dad. I know she had a lover and that lover’s ex-wife (or ex-girlfriend) happened to be my babysitter in our tiny rural town. I remember very little of this time except for one event that stands out in my mind. My mother and I were in the trailer we lived in, my father was outside mowing the lawn. I was standing in front of the glass screened door watching him when he hit a rock with the mower. The rock hit this door and shattered the glass. It was loud and very scary. I wasn’t harmed, but this is what I remember from this time.
From this point what I’m writing will be a blend of memory and fact. I was too little to remember all this on my own, and I’ve done a damn good job of erasing a lot of it, but I’ll try to distinguish what is memory from what I learned.
When my father’s mother (Mim in these entries After Suicide – Part 1 of 2 and After Suicide – Part 2 of 2) found out that my mom was divorcing my dad, she decided that my mother should be punished. First she decided that because my mother carried around a spare pair of underwear for me that that meant she was molesting me and began spreading this around our small Georgia town. I don’t remember anyone talking to me about my mom supposedly molesting me. When that accusation wouldn’t stick and she found out who my mother’s lover was and thereby who my babysitter was, she decided the babysitter was molesting me. This accusation held more water for people, and so she spread that around instead. Continue reading