Tuesday, October 16, 2012

A special skill



Along the way I developed a special skill of sorts. I always feel like I am in that movie Napoleon Dynamite when I use the word skills.  It's like I am talking with the goofy haired kid discussing what abilities we have to bring to the table.  I may not have good drawing skills, but I can sure peer into someone's soul.  I had no idea when I was younger that I was developing something that was going to give me an ability few others possess.  I was just trying to feel close to other people.  I was simply trying to fill a hole within myself.  I just wanted to not feel alone, to not feel broken, to not hurt anymore.  One of the ways I would ease the pain was by talking about my life, my childhood specifically.  Telling the story helps let it go.  By doing this it opened the door for others so that they could do the same thing.  I have had a great many friends over the years and we have shared our stories together.  We healed each other.  I have always been a great catalyst in this regard.  It made it easier for them to tell their story when they contrasted it with mine.  More often than not my childhood was more traumatic so it alleviated a great deal of self consciousness others had regarding their own story.  It made it easier for them because I would always go first.  I had no shame in mine and that freed them of theirs.

It goes a bit deeper though.  It wasn't always just about healing.  It happens to be something about me that just is.  As they say, if you do something long enough it just becomes who you are.  People feel safe talking to me about certain things.  You see, people tell me their secrets.  Not just regular secrets but the deep down inside dark secrets.  People tell me things they don't tell anyone else.  I have always known the darker side of life because of this.  The average person never sees this side of people, the secret side, for whatever reason, but I have always wanted to know why, so I kept my eye open to the dark. 

All my life people have looked at me crazy because I will say, such and such, about someone, which will completely contradict what they are thinking.  It must be that I am crazy right?  I can’t possibly know what I am talking about.  They will ask me how it is I know that about such and such.  I'll say things like, "that guy beats his kids when no one is around," or something like, "She cheats on her husband whenever she gets the chance."  More often than not, even my personal friends do not believe me at all. I just shrug and go on.  They just think I am being arrogant or something.  For me it is like seeing someone's aura, except it is not visual. It is just a "knowing" I get when I see people do things in a small way.  I am always that guy standing around paying attention to what no one else is paying attention too.  When I see some small happening, for instance, a sharp word spoken to a child in some certain way, it shows me the dark side of that individual.  Not because I am gifted or something, but because I have spent so much time studying people.  This is not something that can be taught to another person either.  One must learn it alone, and it seems to take a long time to refine.

A classic example is the story of the promiscuous girl.  If you didn't know, all girls are promiscuous just like boys are.  Girls are just taught to be ashamed of it, so they hide it much better than boys do.  Honestly, for me now, this is the easiest to realize simply because I have seen it so much.  Imagine a social gathering.  You know the typical setting.  Ten to fifteen people, everyone knows everyone to some degree or another.  People are gossiping like they do.  Maybe someone isn't at the party and usually is, so people are talking about the person who is gone.  Maybe the person gone is having problems with her boyfriend cheating so she couldn't make it because they are breaking up or are at home fighting. Cheaters always try to keep each other locked down at home.

 Surely we have all witnessed this before?  Or at least know the couple of which I speak.  Peggy, a girl at the party, is saying that she would never cheat on her husband like such and such does.  Or she is saying she would never stay with a man who cheats on her.  She gives her emotional reasons like most females do.  It is wrong, it would hurt him, they have a kid and it might split up the nuclear family bleh bleh bleh.  In our setting, everyone knows Peggy, and they all agree with her.  Peggy is a nice person, she would never cheat, and no one is even questioning this.  If you would pay attention like I do, you can see me though, as I often am, standing in the circle, acting uninterested yet coyly watching it all go down.  We all know a Peggy or two don't we?

What you don't know is that Peggy cheats.  The problem I have though is that no one seems to know this but me.  What you don't know is that in this situation I can get at this Peggy girl any time I choose.  I say this because I have known a few people just like Peggy in my day.  They create this huge façade about how moral and great they are, but in reality she is a cheater just like the rest.  I will never forget the first time a heard a girl convince everyone of how good she was.  They were friends of mine, friends of hers too.  They all believed her.  I just stood and watched it all go down.  The very first time I met a Peggy was in high school.  I really crashed and burned too because I let her secret out.  Shouldn't she have been the one that crashed and burned?  Nope.  No one believed me!  She made me out to be the bad guy and everyone helped her do it. 

I learned my lesson that day.  I don't let out the secrets anymore.  I was young then, and we all have to touch the flame once in awhile to learn our lessons don't we?  The whole social scene turned against me because I was lying about Peggy.  Lying?  I wasn't lying.  I slept with Peggy!  It turned into such a mess.  I lost friends.  I lost social standing.  I made enemies.  You see I learned that day that when you let someone's secret out they turn on you with a vengeance.  They turn mean and nasty.  They, themselves, do not wish to admit to reality.  It engages their ego, and as they say, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  I was just being idealistic.  I was doing the right thing whether I liked it or not.  To me the right thing was acknowledging the truth.  She was lying to everyone and I thought they should know. 

I'm getting on forty years old now.  I am no longer some naive high school punk.  I have lost count of the Peggy's I have known.  I am not saying I slept with them all.  Honestly I avoid them.  I am just saying I know who they really are.  In my life now I have held so many secrets, for so many people, it has created pessimism in my life.  I should say, it seems like pessimism to others.  I don’t live my life thinking it should be some picturesque thing.  People will often call me negative or say I am just tainted or something because of my past.  This is not true.  I am simply a realist.  I see what is really going on.  Seeing the dark side is a double edged sword; I get to know the truth, but I never get to share it.

Being abused as a child is another way one can see what I mean.  The woman who raised me always tried to hide the truth.  I though, always wanted to know the truth.   Growing up I got to see both sides simultaneously.  It was a perpetual state of affairs.  I got to see her façade and reality at the same time.  The darkness within our home and the façade that they all created to hide it simply couldn't be hidden from me.  I was in both places at the same time.  I saw it all.  It taught me to see through the lies people create about themselves.  It taught me to see the mask that people wear, and to know it for what it is.  I've spent my whole life living those lies for other people. I spent my whole life living in the darkness they created.  When I see parents act like mine did, and I see how their kids act too, I know what is really going on. 

You see, everyone will say Peggy is a good parent.  They will say, "Look, she has a job, she goes to church, she does this and that for her children.  I see something different though.  I see what is really going on.  One of the greatest works of literature is The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli.  He successfully compiled his understanding of human nature.  In it he says, "Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel. Everyone sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are."  When I read this for the first time it gave me chills.  It made me realize I am not one who judges by the cover.  It made me realize how my childhood forced me to see what was really going on. 

I could list examples for weeks.  I could write a book alone on the lies that people live. I have friends who have burned me really badly and I still keep their secrets.  If knowledge is Power, then the secret of others is True Power.  That was what I ultimately learned.  Keeping those secrets gave me a certain power in and of itself.    

Don't believe me?  Start paying attention to what people actually do instead of what they say they do, and you will soon learn that the world you live in is dark indeed.  Be warned though, to do it well, you must first learn to see it in yourself. 

Friday, October 12, 2012

They let me out


I was only in that juvenile center for about five months. She had to throw a fit to get me out though. They did not want to let me out at all. They wanted to send me to one of those boy homes. I don't remember what they called them, they had catchy names, but all the kids in juvy said they were bad places to go. I took their word for it. They didn't want to let me out of that detention center because they knew what I was to some degree. They knew I was only going to fuck something else up. They knew it was only a matter of time. They knew what my parents were. The lack of remorse really bugged them, and it should have. I really didn't feel bad about anything I had done, or did, or was going to do. For her, it was one of those things she did to seem like a good mother. She didn't want to be the woman whose kid was locked up. I know the truth though. For her it was a victory of sorts because she could say, "See, he went to his dad's and look what happened," as if it was his fault entirely or something. It was like she was in a competition or something with him about who was the better parent. What a joke.

I did not want to go live with her at all, but I had no choice. They refused to let me go back with him because he was an alcoholic. Because I committed so many crimes both parents had to undergo some counseling too. My juvenile officer put me on house arrest, and she, the woman I lived with, would literally call the cops on me when I did not behave. She finally had a bit of control over me because my probation officer was helping her keep me reigned in. She still couldn't stop me though. By this time nothing could stop me. I still did what I wanted. She only made me craftier about it. I hated her guts, and every time she called the cops, or called my probation officer on me, I just hated her even more. How proud I was, I had a mother that called the cops on me if I didn't behave. How awesome is that? I hated the town I lived in too. None of the kids liked me. All the moving around always made me the new kid in town. I was constantly bullied and made fun of. I was so fucked up, why would they like me? It is never good to be the new kid in town when you attract attention like I do.

She was on her third marriage by this time. Actually her third marriage was one of the reasons I had wanted to go live with him so badly. I have to give that guy some credit though; he never laid a hand on me, never not once. He actually only ever yelled at me one time. Me and her were going at it pretty good one day and he slammed his hand down on the dresser and shouted that he had had enough. I just stood and looked at him. Of course the hair on the back of my neck was raised. For what had been done to me anytime a male raises his voice towards me I am ready to go instantly. He left the house for awhile.

The third husband had two boys of his own from a previous marriage. That meant sometimes there would be six boys in the house. Those two boys had issues just like I did. Their mother was just as crazy as mine. This was one of the reasons why I fought so hard to go live with the biological sperm donor. Being in poverty as she always was we never lived in nice houses. We lived in a house in Tebbetts, MO once. I went back to this house as an adult once. I couldn't believe how small it was. I can't believe eight of us lived in it. It only had one bedroom. Her and Bob made the living room their bedroom. When she lived with Bob, the third husband, she was just as messed up as before, I just wasn't being out right physically abused. The mental abuse never ceased. Each time she remarried, the guy was a little bit better than the previous one, I'll give her that. Not smarter, just a little more nice than the previous one.

The house she was living in when I got out of juvy was the nicest house she had ever lived in. It had enough bedrooms for my brothers and me. I actually had my own bedroom down in the basement. It was on a nice street in Fulton. We could no longer be immediately identified as dirt poor just by looking at the house we lived in. We had moved up in the world a bit I guess.

Within a year of being in Fulton I was somewhat established with my fellow dysfunctional hyper masculinized drunk drug using friends. These people were not really my friends we just shared some common themes. We were fucked up, our parents fucked us up, our parents were fucked up. We just wanted to party, to be cool, and to do what kids do in small towns where there is nothing else to do; get fucked up. As always, I had to take it a step further than the rest.




Thursday, October 11, 2012

My first arrest


I can’t call him dad. He wasn’t a dad. I definitely can’t call him father; it’s obvious he was not a father. It is too wordy and awkward to call him the biological sperm donator every time I refer to him. His real name is irrelevant. It doesn’t come across correctly in all sentences to just refer to him as him. As old as I am now, one would think I would know the way to handle it, but I do not.   To me he's just another douche bag.

Anyways.

I just sat there smiling. I think it confused them or something. The officer was explaining to us, him and I, that they could not keep me in the jail because I was only thirteen. It was illegal or something for me to be in a real jail at that age. The police were quite shocked when I just showed up at the door to their station by the way.  I just didn't have anywhere else to go.  They called the juvenile detention center in Columbia and those people were on their way to pick me up. I was going to be staying there until the courts decided what to do with me. My future was now in the hands of a judge. I had turned myself in at the police station so that my father wouldn't put it to me again. There was no reason to take another beating and go to jail, so I just skipped the beating and went straight to jail.

I had finally snapped inside. I did not care anymore. I didn't care, so much so, that I was actually proud of what I had done. Fuck every one. Fuck you. Fuck them. Fuck the whole world. All anyone had ever done was shit on me. I had decided to do a little shitting myself. It was time to return the favor. The animal in me was now in charge. They raised me like an animal, so an animal is what they got.

I had gone on my first crime spree. I was only charged with a couple of felonies, the rest were all misdemeanors. For each crime that I was charged with an alphabetical letter was attached to it. My list of charges went into the double letters. Double g or something. I used to brag about how many charges I had racked up. They didn't get me for everything either. It was mostly vandalism. I mean I was only thirteen and pretty naive at that because of how she had raised me. I wasn't out trying to rob people, or get rich or something. I was out to make people suffer like I suffered. I wanted others to hurt like me. I didn't master mind some great crime spree. I simply went around town and the surrounding country side destroying shit. Destroying anything I could. People's property, their cars, their mailboxes, whatever I could get my hands on. If you didn’t know, it hurts like hell to hit a mail box with an aluminum bat when the car you are in is going 30 mph. The first time I did it I thought it broke my arms or something. I was pouring paint on people’s cars.  Just doing random and mean things. I salted a yard or two. The worst of it was when I went around knocking over tomb stones in grave yards. This was the worst of my actions. The only thing going on in my mind was fuck those people. I had a serious chip on my shoulder. Worse yet, I felt no remorse whatsoever. This caused a great deal of concern for those working in that juvenile detention center.

There is great freedom in not caring anymore. It is intoxicating. When one decides in their heart that they do not care what the consequences are there is no greater freedom. I didn't know it then, but this principle saved my life, but not at this juncture in the story. Or maybe it did.

Some friends helped me accomplish all this. I didn’t have a car so they were helping me get around. Because I am so passionate about the way I do things I have always been able to get people to tag along. No matter what I am doing I can always find someone to join in. Running away was a felony charge back then and they were accessories to it. I think I was gone for about a week before I turned myself in. I had no money, no food, no family, no nothing. The last couple of days I was staying in the ghetto in Mexico, MO. I know now that it wasn't a real ghetto, but if you’re a small town kid, it was a ghetto. Kids would run around at night with golf clubs and whatnot looking for trouble. They were just like me. The cops didn't go there unless they just absolutely had too.

My friends were having trouble covering for me though; their parents wanted me to go away. They didn't want another kid to feed, to house, to take care of. Their parents were probably more like mine than I realized; their kids were a burden to them too. Their parents didn't know yet that I was a criminal on the loose. I told all my friends to just blame it all on me. They were very worried about getting into trouble too. They were not like me and they were not looking forward to going to jail. They didn’t think it was nearly as cool as I did. So they did exactly what I said and blamed it all on me. It was my doing after all. I didn't have a problem taking the fall. For some reason I was proud of what I had done.  I think they just got some community service. 

I know now why I was so proud, even though the realization of it hadn’t happened yet in my mind. It will be a few years yet before I figure it out. Her second husband did a certain thing to my mind that plagued me for a long time. He hyper masculinized me. I had become proud of being violent and destructive. All that being called a pussy really took a toll on my psyche. All that verbal abuse infused in my mind that to be a man I must be tough, violent, aggressive, strong, and most importantly not a pussy. Not ever having a father figure made it even worse. I had to be my own male role model, which meant I had to be even tougher. The only typical hyper masculine trait I did not exhibit was in regards to women. I just wanted a woman to love me and I would do anything a woman said to get that love. Being quite feminine myself, but not realizing it, kept me from outright abusing women like the men in my life always had. I unlike those men could identify with women on a different level.

When I got to the juvenile detention center I still had the smile on my face. They were greatly troubled by this. I was interviewed by the staff to access my mental state and then placed in a room with another kid. What I did not know was that they recorded everything said in those rooms. They had microphones and speakers in the ceilings of the rooms so they could listen and then chime in whenever they wanted. They always made sure to listen in on the new kids. The kid in the room with me got into trouble for letting me talk about why I was in there. It was written in the rules handbook not to do this, which they made us memorize.  I just hadn't read it yet, so I was bragging about what I had done, literally.

It was cool to me being locked up. I was proud to be locked up. I knew right then they were just going to love me. I knew right then, these people played head games. I knew this because they didn’t stop the conversation until after it happened. You see, I was smart enough to know that if we weren’t supposed to do it they should have stopped us before it happened. But they let it happen and then handed out the consequence. This is very typical behavior in the justice system. I knew these people couldn't lay a hand on me though. The worst they could do was confine me to a room and lock the door. That was laughable to me. I didn’t give a fuck.

I wasn't bitter about being in there. I was bitter about my life. It was fun in a certain way.  It was something from my hyper masculinized perspective that I was going to get to brag about to other kids once I got out. I was going to be the kid in school that went to juvy.

I had some life changing moment in there though.

I remember a counseling session. The counselor said something to me that left me stunned. She said, “Ben, just because you think something, doesn’t mean you have to do it.” I was pole axed. Dumbfounded. That had never occurred to me before. I think my mind deepened instantly. I have always remembered that moment.

I remember taking my first IQ test while be mentally evaluated.  They do all kinds of tests to make their college degrees worthwhile.  There was never any real help in there.  The staff there had no idea what it was like to have parents like we did.  The guy giving the test was as shocked as I. I had just learned that I was not stupid. Being called stupid all my life I just assumed it was true. It was not true! I couldn't believe it.  I felt giddy.  I was elated. I was told only a small portion of the population had a higher IQ. How could this be I thought. I am a loser. How can a loser have a high IQ? Just goes to show, intelligence and wisdom are two very different things. Very different indeed. My intelligence could get me into trouble quicker than you could blink an eye. It always has. Having a high IQ does not make life easier.  Actually it is the opposite.  It didn’t mean I was actually smart. Give me a puzzle and I can figure it out quicker than most, but being able to figure out a geometric puzzle helped me not one bit in life. So naturally, when I got into trouble, I did it better than most. Trouble is trouble though, whether done well or poorly. I knew it then, and I didn’t care.

The craziest thing was the kid in the padded room. He was deathly pale. He was never allowed out of his room if others were out of their room. All of our doors had to be locked before his could be unlocked. They waited until night time when we would all be locked in before letting him shower. He would only get to go outside, the real outside that is, maybe once a week. If he was allowed out of his room he was always fully shackled. He had been in that room for over a year by the time I got there. He stayed in that room the entire time I was there.

He had a twin brother in a different detention center. They had killed someone and neither would confess. There was an older brother involved too, but he was old enough to be in a real jail. Since they couldn’t prove who pulled the trigger the court process took a long time I guess. None of the brothers were willing to sentence the brother who pulled the trigger to a life sentence. I wouldn’t do that to my brother either. They shot a guy in the face at point blank range with a hunting rifle. That was all I knew. He never got to talk to anyone really. He never talked to me. He just sat in that padded room all day and all night. He was just a kid like me. I have never forgotten that look in his eyes when we would look at each other as I passed his room.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Let me back up a bit


I missed a critical situation or two. Everything's so complex, so complicated, it's tough to manage it all, and some I am saving to tell when I am older in this story. I can't spill all the beans right away. We have a long ways to go yet.

Upon moving to his house I began drinking. I also started smoking cigarettes. I also started a life of crime, but I didn't see it that way yet. These are very typical things for one who hates himself. It doesn't matter if you’re a kid or an adult, if you hate yourself, you self destruct. I was an angry pissed off kid with a huge chip on my shoulder. With the freedom, because he did not keep me locked down at home 24/7, the downward spiral was growing tighter and tighter. Because I was so dysfunctional I attracted dysfunction. Some kids thought I was cool because I was so fearless. It was cool to do what we were not supposed to do.
  
This stuff all happened before the prom.

I remember once when I came home so drunk I literally passed out sitting at the kitchen table. I was too drunk to walk up the stairs to my room so I just sat at the table. I woke up in the morning super hung over and because his empty drink was on the counter still smelling of Kessler I had no choice but to vomit in the sink. I was only thirteen and they never said anything to me. This was a common occurrence with my dad and step-mom. Not the passing out at the table, but them not ever saying much about a lot of the stuff I did. Maybe they too were afraid to make me even angrier about my life. Maybe they were just too ignorant to know what to do. I don’t think they had any clue at all as to what was going on with me.

I came home once from a party with my chin split wide open. I had accidentally walked into the wrong room at this house party. I thought it was the bathroom, but I opened the door to two people having sex. I said something about it to other people at the party. To me it was funny. I guess the guy didn't want people to know so he came after me because I said something. I didn't get much warning. The guy came storming out of the house and threw a beer bottle at my face before I even knew what was going on. I managed to turn my head a bit before it struck me, but it still shattered across my chin. I had to walk over 8 miles to get home that night because they kept driving up and down the gravel road looking for me. Needless to say I was covered in blood again when I got home. Man did those high school guys hate my guts.

I remember getting blacked out drunk at a different party once. I got so drunk I couldn’t function. I was lying on the ground unable to do anything while a bunch of guys just stood around me laughing at me talking shit, all the while kicking me. Those bruises too were nothing compared to what I knew. Eventually some girls stopped them. I didn't care. I was getting that drunk because deep down I really just wanted to die.

I remember having beef with a town bully. He vandalized my house once. My dad was really pissed off about that one. This particular guy though was as crazy as me. He was twice my size so I couldn't confront him face to face. I had to use other tactics to make his life more like mine. I know all the good ways to get at a bully.

I had been busted in the previous months for partying more than a few times. He knew I was getting into fights, the busted chin, the busted nose, and other guys coming to my house looking for me. One party though was actually in my house. I got busted because I forgot to run the dishwasher, so when they got home and opened it up it smelled like a brewery. He was pissed off about that one too. They made the mistake of leaving for a night or two. Who doesn't throw a party when their parents leave? What was really funny to me was that a girl got so drunk she pissed in their closet all over their shoes thinking it was the bathroom somehow. I never even tried to clean that up. That is still funny to me. Who does that?

They were beginning to catch on to my antics. They were beginning to see that they did not have the control over me that they thought they had. They were beginning to see that I was not some good little boy who did what they thought I was supposed to be doing. But you see, when drunks lose control they rage.

When I went to live with him he never touched me really. The worst he would ever do was yell at me or some say something mean. I would get grounded or get extra chores, but he never touched me. Until that day anyways.

I didn't come home one night. Or maybe it is better to say he realized I was not home for once. I was chasing a girl so I took some extra risk. She had a friend with a car so I just never asked them to take me home. We stayed out all night. Of course we were drinking. I would drink whenever I could get the stuff. I got blacked out drunk the first time I ever drank. I was reckless and suicidal, but was managing to hide it as best as I could. No one had a clue as to what was going on inside my head. No one, not my parents, not the people who worked at the schools, not the people in the churches, no one, was capable, or knew what to do regarding me.

When I got home he was furious. I really am like a cat in so many ways. It was one of the reasons I got into so much trouble as a kid. If I wanted to do something, I did it. It was that simple. It still is that simple. As the pain inside of me grew the care of consequences lessened. He and I were arguing. It never mattered what I said, they always thought I was lying, and to them, I generally was. I didn't want to get my friends into trouble so I couldn't tell him what we were doing. I couldn't tell him we were just driving around in a car drinking trying not to care about this fucked up world. We were just being kids.

He grabbed a fly swatter. It was one of those kinds with the metal wire for a handle with the plastic swatter part on the top. It only took two swings for the plastic part to fly off. He didn't care, he was in a rage. He just kept lashing me with the wire. He just kept swinging. Every time he hit me with it I would turn my back towards him then immediately and defiantly turn back towards him and just look him in the eye. I refused to cry. Didn't he know I could take a beating? I knew I wasn't strong enough yet to take him. I wasn't strong enough yet to beat his ass like he deserved it to be beat.

I just held it in. What I did not know is that one cannot hold it all in. It just doesn't work that way. One way or another it has to come out.

Monday, October 8, 2012

She was so beautiful


Every day between Chemistry and English class I would see her while walking through the halls. To be honest it took like two weeks before I was sure it was even happening. Like waking from a dream I had to pinch myself to be sure I was actually awake. She would look me right in the eyes. She was so beautiful. Short with short brown curly hair. Smart, curvy, fun and cheerful. True, I was only like fourteen years old, but she was the most beautiful girl that had ever paid attention to me. I have always been a sucker for a beautiful face. I knew instantly she was not like me, so why was she meeting my eyes? I mean if it keeps happening day after day it simply cannot be anything other than her having some interest in me?

I had no idea what was going on. None at all. I had no friends to talk too about such things, and if I even mentioned that this girl was checking me out I would be laughed at out right. Trust me, I tried. One day in the locker room I brought it up, thinking I was cool, and the guys immediately turned on me. Instant ridicule. Anyways, this girl was way over my head, and everyone knew it including me. I was a sophomore, she was a senior. No one in her grade even talked to me. That gap was so wide there was nothing I could do to bridge it. One of the most popular girls in school was checking out the most self conscious boy in school. One of the most secure girls was giving one of the most insecure boys the eye. She was top of her class, she had it all. How could this be?

Because she created such a feeling of awe within me it was nearly impossible to feel anger while in her presence. I just couldn’t put the anger to words, it seemed silly to say such things to her. It was magical because she made it all seem so silly.  It was like all my troubles just went away. She was nice to me. She seemed genuinely interested in me. She was so well put together. I just couldn’t be angry. She picked me up once after school and we went to her house to watch movies. This was huge, I mean mega huge. This had never happened before. I fretted over this date something fierce. I was so self conscious. What do I do? What do I say? Her parents are going to hate me? She is going to figure out the truth about me? Her parents loved her, there was no way they were going to like me. They took care of her. This girl was my exact opposite and because I was so caught up in my feelings I never saw what was really going on until it was too late.

Because of how poor my parents were I was made fun of a great deal growing up because I did not have the same stuff as other kids. We all know what this is like to some degree. My shoes were always too big because they didn't want to have to buy a new pair if I outgrew them before I wore them out. Even when they would break down and buy me Nike shoes, they would be the cheap out of date ones. I knew before they were even paid for I would be getting teased at school the next day. My clothes were always generic. My father threw a fit over having to buy me special shoes for sports; that cut into his alcohol, it cut into his music. My wrestling shoes were always the cheapest they could find. The one thing I was good at and I couldn't even get nice shoes for that either. I had no money for dates. I had no possessions at all. Why was this girl paying attention to me? Didn't she know? Didn't she know how much of a loser I was? Didn't she know I wasn't going to have a car at sixteen? Didn't she know I wasn't going to go to college? Losers don’t go to college.

I was flawed and ugly; worthless. Yet, here this girl was talking to me. What I didn't know then was that girls found me to be attractive. What I saw in the mirror was the exact opposite of what I guess girls see when they look at me. I still don’t really get it. When I look at my reflection I look a caveman, or something. What I didn't know then was that the boys never liked me because the girls did. If I could go back and change anything about how I saw myself, it would be this. I suffered so much because of this one little detail, this one little lie that I repeated over and over in my head. This girl was checking me out because she thought I was hot! If you would have told me that then I would never have believed you.

This is when the real fighting started. Hell, I didn't realize the truth about why males have always hated me until I was in my thirties. When the girls started openly paying attention to me the real fights began. At the time I took it personal. The way males treated me in school almost perfectly matched up with how the step father treated me. I just thought everyone hated me. Those guys didn't hate me, they were jealous.

Once we started actually talking in the halls it was pretty much affirmed. It was officially public that this girl liked me. I thought the other guys picked on me before, but I had not seen anything yet. It makes so much sense to me now, but back then they were just solidifying my rage. My hatred was about to materialize.

Can you believe it? She asked me to go to her senior prom!

My parents really did hate me. He waited till the last minute to get a tuxedo for me. Those are expensive you know. He didn't want to pay for it. All the tuxedo's the other kids would have were now gone because he waited so long. They only had certain ones left in my size. I ended up with a tux that had those thin vertical pin stripes on it. I was suddenly living a nightmare. It made me sick to my stomach. I haven't really talked about it yet, but because of the childhood I had, I had serious anxiety issues. To say I was self conscious is a serious understatement. I was a worrier, a perpetual constant nonstop worrier. I was going to be going to the prom with one of the hottest girls in the school looking like a complete dork. My parents never seemed to get enough of humiliating me.

The dreaded day arrived. Just like the first time I went to church camp, I was both super excited, and in a complete state of dread. I didn't know how to dance. I didn't know how to act like a boyfriend to this girl. I was hanging on by the seat of my pants.

It was the typical prom. Cheesy decorations. Lame music. Prom is really all about the girls you know. There wasn't a single thing there that boys wanted to do except sit around and stare at girls. No one commented on my tux to my face, but I knew that they knew.

Her parents lived outside of town. She was having a party after the prom at her place so that no one would be drinking and driving. I was going to be spending the night with her!

I didn't tell you about her ex though did I? I didn't really know about him either until that night. Can you guess who he was? That’s right, the senior stud. Tall, athletic, blonde. Everything I was not. The dude was immaculate. He literally was the most popular guy in school. The best looking. Top of his class. Star football player. The works. And guess what, he was at that party. They had drama going on between them, but I didn't know anything about it. I didn't have any clue about the drama of being a senior in high school with a boyfriend. I didn’t know about the silly games boys and girls play with each other. I didn't even really know what it was like to have a girlfriend.

A couple days after the prom she dumped me. I am sure everyone saw this coming but me. It crushed me. I didn't blame her for not wanting to be with me, I blamed her for using me. Being dumped in that fashion right after the prom with the whole ex boyfriend and all, even I was not that stupid. All I ever wanted my whole life was just for one single female to like me and not betray me. I just wanted to be loved. I  couldn't not feel betrayed. It was more than I could bear. Of all the things one could do I did not deserve this. I did not seek her out, she came after me.  What she did not know is that the very worst thing one can do to a motherless child is play with their heart.   The pain is overwhelming.

The furnace is primed. The mold had already been made. It is time to cast the iron.  A person can only take so much shit.

My first real fight



Somehow I got the money to go to a basketball game with a girl.  We had dated over the summer if that is what you call it when you're that young.  She was new to the town too, which is probably why she was there with me.  I was still the new kid in town as far as high school went.  Having only spent the one year in Centralia, the eighth grade, I knew nothing of high school.  I had no idea who was who.  When we got to the game some older guys started picking on me right in front of her; right in front of everyone.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I was so sick of being picked on, so tired of being made fun of.  This was the straw that broke the camel’s back as they say.  As I like to say, I reached up between my legs and pulled them down.

I said, "Right now mother fucker, the park right now!"
He acted all tough; he had called me out right in front of everyone, so he was caught, he had to go.  This guy was a senior, I was a freshman.  It didn't matter.  I was so fucking pissed off.  I was so sick of everyone shaming me and picking on me.  No more.  I was going to beat this guy’s ass.

I think it was actually a friend of his that gave me the ride to the park.  When we arrived, there was already a small crowd of people there to watch, and I didn't care that they were all his friends.  All of this happened very quickly.  You know how it is, someone says fight, and they all come running.  I didn't know it, but this was about to be glorious. 

We squared off.  He came right at me.  I faked a left and stuck him in the nose with a hard right.  Oh, it was so magnificent.  The first real solid punch of my life and it landed as perfectly as could be, right in his fucking nose.  He came back in, I did it again.  Faked the left and stuck him right dead in the nose.  He's bleeding now.  He came back in again, I did it again; right dead in his fucking nose.  I'm talking shit.  "You want to make fun of me?  You want to call me a pussy?"  His friends stepped in and stopped the fight.  The dude was bleeding profusely.  His eyes were watering so badly he couldn’t fight anymore.  I'd say that first punch took the fight right out of him.  We both had blood on us, but I never took a punch at all!  I was elated.  I was shaking from the adrenaline.  I finally had stood up for myself! 

By the time I got back to the high school everyone knew what had happened.  Benjamin Stevens had beat up a senior.  When I walked through the doors someone at the end of the hall yelled my name and suddenly there was a mob heading my way.  I turned and ran into the night.  What I did not know is that I had just busted up one of the more popular guys in the school.

I won't lie.  I was scared to go to school the next day.  There really had been a bunch of people trying to chase me down.  When I got to social studies I quickly became aware that it was my teachers son whom I had beat up.  So much for a fresh start at a new school.  She never really said anything to me, but both of his eyes were black as could be, so she could not have been happy.  No mother wants to see her son beat up whether he deserves it or not.  I think she also knew a bit of the truth in the matter too.  I think she knew he had been picking on me.  That fucking guy had it coming.  His friends didn't agree though. 

His best friend called me out that next day at school.  Not being able to stand being called a pussy anymore my dumb ass showed up at the park.  I had no business fighting this guy.  He was much older and much more physically developed than I.  His friend thoroughly kicked my ass.  Still to this day my nose has never bled so much as it did that day.  I leaned over with my hands on my knees and the blood was running out of my nose and my mouth both at the same time.  The blood came together on its way down and it looked like a faucet had been turned on.  My brother and I walked home.  It could not have been a pretty scene seeing me all covered in my own blood.  I didn't care.  It was kind of cool actually.  I was no longer afraid.  I had just had two fights in as many days.  I had been being beat when I was two years old.  No high school kid was going to beat me like a grown man could. 

I was instantly aware that losing a fight was nothing.  Making sure they knew I was not a pussy was everything.

Having my first taste of real fighting, having realized I didn't have to take it anymore, the tables were turning.