This site has caused a lot of random controversy with those who feel so compelled to follow my posts and stories, so I've decided to take a new twist on things.
I'm now going to start telling the stories of my life from my earliest memory until the present day. This won't be a diary or anything stupid like that, but more like a
poorly written novel. Each "post" will be something of that like a chapter in a book. Some posts will be painfully long; some will be short. There will be times of pure
nakedness into my thoughts while others will be masked. So many people have tried to get inside of me to find out who I am, and none are successful. Some people will
claim they know who I am down to the very bones in my body, but they know so little and their assumptions are just ridiculous. As always, pseudonym will be used.
When I was young, around the age of 1 and a half, some memories have gotten mixed up in the order they occurred, but I'll try my best to keep them in order. The way a persons
memory works is a very strange and fascinating thing. I barely remember sitting on my dads lap as an infant/toddler, but I do remember something like that. I had to have been around
a year old. I don't really consider that to be my first memory though. When I was a year and a half old is when I remember the first real events of my life. My grandmother was shocked
when I told her this around 20 years later, but anyway.
I remember the scent of a freshly paved road. The road was occupied by a handful of houses and led to a cul-de-sac. At the end of the cul-de-sac was my grandparents house. When we entered,
I saw most of my family there; crying and talking quietly amongst themselves so my older brother and I couldn't hear. I sat around with a View Finder with a Smurfs reel in place, happy as could be.
Police officers were constantly coming to the front door and sometimes inside. There was nothing happy about this scene, and it wouldn't be until a few years later when I would start asking
some questions about pictures and painted walls that I would learn the significance of that day, and that day still haunts my family by actions and reactions over the years of watching people
spiral down into a hole they can't, or possibly refuse to, get out of.
A little deviation for a moment to explain a few things. My family were strong Catholics and while I'm sure other religions and family traditions do the same, I was assigned "God Parents", my like my
older brother. My "Godfather" was my grandfather, and my "Godmother" was my youngest aunt.
Okay, so anyway, I had learned that the woman in the picture, and the walls the spare bedroom that had been painted, were that of my "godmother" (now will be referred to as my aunt). The first memory I
had embedded into my brain were the days she had gone missing, and the discovery of her body. My parents were divorced at this time, but from what I hear, my dad had been a big support during this time.
I generally don't pry on this; it was the darkest time anyone in my family had ever experienced and it's not something anyone wants to relive through words, so I don't know all the details, nor do I want
to.
It wasn't until I was in my late teens that I did some research of my own to find out certain specific details, and they were highly morbid. For many years after, there was a vigil held for the families
affected by the devestation one person brough upon this select group of people. We were all victims with no true answers on why something like this happened. Do people need to be sacrificed and stolen away
from the ones they love to be taught life lessons? Raping families of togetherness and happiness and watching the aftermath of destruction and deterioration of those that were once close to you isn't my
idea of a wonderful life. The media had been ruthless for years about this, and even after the media attention died down, it all sparked up again years later.
When I had become old enough to start questioning the faith and religion that was forced upon me, events such as this and the lack of my fathers presence in my life really questioned my faith that there was
a God. I was around 13 years old when I decided that I no longer wanted to attend Sunday school or even step foot into a church ever again. Why would The Almighty allow such horrible things to happen to a family?
The bible is a blanket statement that "he does things for a reason" and we should "accept what he gives us in life". Really? If my dad was an abusive alcoholic, should I just accept it every time he gets blacked out
drunk and beating me with a belt? Fuck no. What did my family to do deserve what happened? What did the other families do deserve the same results?
Don't get me wrong - my life may not have been perfect, nor has it always been full of blissful joy and unadulterated happiness, but I wouldn't complain about life. There are some things that I wish
never happened, but we can't change our pasts, only our futures.
