Wednesday, January 14, 2015

In the beginning....

Every story has a beginning.

Except for mine.

It's as though someone ripped the first chapter out of my life story. I want to know what happened in the time my mom found out that she was pregnant to the day of my earliest memory. I get a different story from every single person I ask. Of course, no one's story really adds up either. I don't know the full truth and I never will.

I once over heard my step-grandmother talking about my mom's alleged cancer. From the scraps of the story that I could overhear, she was apparently told that she could never have kids again. My mom has never acknowledged this. Perhaps she told my dad that she couldn't have kids and then surprise, "I'm pregnant!" I don't know.

This is what I do know.

In 1987, my paternal grandfather was in a horrific crash. He was an accountant and he worked on cars as a hobby. A coworker asked him to take a look at her daughter's car. While on his way, someone ran a stop sign that had been stolen the previous day. My grandfather later said that he had two options, swerve and try to miss the car and potentially flip his truck. Or he could just slam into the car and kill everyone inside. He swerved. I'm not sure if he was conscious upside down in that ditch or not. I know that most people on the scene thought he was dead-or not far from it. A gruesome little detail that he loves to include in this story is that when they pulled him out of his wrecked pickup truck's back window, they caught the side of his face on a sharp piece of metal and scalped him. Apparently the one side of his face slipped over to the opposite side. I'm sure that was a sight to see.

What does this have to do with me, I'm sure you're wondering. My grandfather is a man of his word. While laying in a hospital bed with a fractured skull, broken ribs, and God knows what else, he politely asked his son to drive out to his coworker's house to look at her daughter's car. His son obliged and went over a few days later. My dad knocked on the door and my mom answered.

I don't know many more details than that. Mom once admitted that they went on a few dates but that she found him to be immature. I've never gotten his side of the story.

According to my mother, she was at work in either a bakery or deli. She really didn't feel well that day but went into work anyway. As she was helping a customer, she bent down to get something when she had a realization. She said that she stood up, looked at the woman, and said "Oh shit. I'm pregnant."

My mother never told my father that she was pregnant. Her mother apparently told my grandfather that she was going to the doctor and may have some news later. My grandfather was completely oblivious and walked away mumbling something about hoping it wasn't anything serious. A few minutes later, he was back. Is she pregnant, he asked? Yes. Yet he did not tell my father either.

I need a moment to explain this family dynamic to you. My grandfather has been married three times. His first wife was a nasty woman. They got divorced and she kept the two kids. His second wife was named Pickle and tried to pronounce it with a French accent. It didn't work. Everyone knew her name was Pickle. She was also a horrible person. They got divorced after less than a year of marriage. Then comes my step-grandmother. She was only 19 at the time they got married. He was in his 40s. That was in 1979 and they are still married today.

My father and my aunt hate her. Terribly.

When my step-grandmother found out that my mom was pregnant, she asked if anyone had mentioned it to my dad. Of course, they hadn't. She thought this was terrible and went and told him herself. I'm not sure of what his reaction was. I often wonder if someone other than her had broken the news if he would have reacted differently. I doubt it, but you never know.

At any rate, my father, my sperm donor, has not once ever been apart of my life. I'll record my feelings on my dad later, but his decision to bastardize me is probably the greatest mystery of these first few years. I will never have an answer to it either.

I was born early in the morning in March of 1989. There's a funny story that goes with this. My mom is a pathological liar and claimed that someone poured water on the floor and slipped forcing her to go into false labor. More than likely, she fell on her own and went into false labor. Either way, she was in the hospital before she ever went into labor.

I was expected to be born sometime in the afternoon, yet sometime after midnight, my mom felt weird and called the nurse. The nurse took a causal look, stiffened, and walked over to the phone and called the doctor. I was on the way. Mom called home where the entire family was staying. The plan was to have the entire group go to the hospital at their own pace. This plan was frantically put into motion.

My maternal grandmother is one of those dignified Southern ladies. She wears a hat to church, for Christ's sake.Yet even with such short notice, she refused to meet her new grandson without looking her best. The entire family waited for her to find the right outfit, to put makeup on, and to fix her hair. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was ready. She went flying through the living room and out the front door in such a rush that she forgot to put on her pants. That story has been told for years.

Anyway, I was born in the middle of the night. Interestingly enough, my paternal grandfather was there when I was born as well. Mom said that she looked down at this scrunched up face wearing a hat and looked up to see a scrunched up face wearing a hat, she just sighed.

The rest of the time is a blur.

Here's what I know. My mom did not really raise my sister. My mom did not really raise my brother either. My mom did not raise me at all.

Apparently, she would drop me off at my paternal grandparent's so they could watch me while she was at work. Often, that would mean having me overnight. At some point, she dropped me off and was slow to pick up. Eventually, she stopped returning altogether.

I've been told that she would randomly come back and that I would cry when I saw her. I felt so bad knowing this when I was younger. It's really heartbreaking when you used to cry at the mere sight of your mother.

I used to care. I really don't anymore.

All I know is that I've been at my grandparent's since 1989. I am almost 26 years old. I am sitting in the same bedroom that once contained my crib. That, you see, is one of my biggest problems.

And this, is the end of the pieced together chapter one.

2015: Clarity

I have always wanted a blog. I'm not sure that I wanted it to be like this though. I've decided that I should take the time and examine my life. How I got here. Where I want to go. What should I do next.

What you need to know about me the most is simply this: I am unhappy.

I can't really remember the last time I was truly happy. I've been battling depression for years. Sure, I've taken medication for it. Felt great up until I gained 60 pounds. That negative self-body image really can counteract any antidepressant. (That and being forbidden to sit on furniture...but more on that later.)

I'm not really sure what I am going to do. I have been contemplating suicide for a long time. It's not that I want to die, it's more that I don't want to go on living. I am afraid of death, for sure. I hate pain. I also have the fear that things will happen the moment after I leave. The biggest thing for me though, is I am afraid of change.

You'll see that I am the biggest whiner around. I'm sure that I can easily turn my situation around but I am paralyzed to do so. Why? I don't know. Perhaps this blog will help me in more than one way. Perhaps not. I guess we'll have to see. Either way, 2015 is the year. I cannot wait any longer.