Undoing what has been done.

Now that I am older and have accumulated some experience I naturally see things differently.   Who doesn't right?  In my process of helping others I have found myself repeating a theme lately; it is not actually possible, from the inside, to see the true effect of the unconscious programming that has occurred to us in life.  Recently I have been helping a friend who has a bully for a father much like my own.  As I speak to him I am fully aware that he cannot see the impact of that on his own life.  He cannot see the true ramifications of a father who constantly puts down and abuses a child.  Realizing this, I must also realize it is true about me as well.  The difference between this friend of mine and I, is age.  My being a decade and a half older, certainly gives me some insight, and using his life to see my own is part of that insight.

Being raised hyper-masculinized has had unseen impacts on my life, all my life, but as I said with age I am slowly unraveling them.  I no longer remember what was pounded into my mind, specifically, I just know it's there.  Money has always been hand in hand with my masculinity.  In this society, from the moment I was born, it has been expected of me to work for a living.  Money has always been at the center of my sense of self, but let me be clear; this was not my choice.  They pounded it into my head; a real man goes to work.  Those who raised me were so consumed and stressed about money it practically ruined their lives, and in their ignorance they were ruining mine as well by forcing it on me.  

Look around you.  How many say this culture is jacked, then turn around and comply with its social standards?  This energy of the masses affects us all.  So you see, the idea that my manhood revolves around a paycheck is not merely my parent’s idea, but this cultures idea, but more importantly it is you too.  Yes, you read that right, most importantly it is you.  I doubt anyone reading this has set themselves free of this cultural energy.   It is easy to say a thing, to think it, but to truly be aware of what is going on is another thing all together.  

This is difficult work that requires suffering.  This is why no one does it; everyone avoids suffering.  In my situation the suffering has been not having money.   The illusion created by this culture is that not having money is bad.   Greed defined.  How can I disassociate money and my sense of being a man if I were to always have money?   The point has been, to come to terms with myself as I am without money.  To be a man, no matter what the circumstance is the goal.  Can you see the hyper-masculinization still breathing out of me?  So much concern about being a man, like I said, it was beat into me. 

To learn to feel alive and manly in my own skin regardless of social stature (a job), is tantamount to my spiritual growth as a human being.   If someone asks you where you work, they are not actually interested in where you work, they are sizing you up.  They are categorizing and labeling.  They are associating your worth as a human being with what you do to make money.  It should not matter how much money I have.  Since when does a job define a person?  In this culture one is looked down upon if one is male and does not have income.  Literally made fun of.  If I had a dollar for every time I have taken criticism over this I would not have had to stress about food.  Even those who realize this fact will still do it to me.  They too, are not aware of the unconscious programming that this culture instilled in them.  They admit the culture is whack, but continue to subscribe to its rules. 

After decades of fighting with this, fighting the shame of it all within my own sense of Self I have finally let it go.   No job, no income, defying these social norms with my sense of dignity intact.  It is a deep feeling.  Freeing.  There is no shame.  No guilt.  No regrets.  I've spent a huge amount of my time helping others and never received a dime for it.  A majority of the time people have been so unaware they did not even realize I was helping them.  Even then, during those times, I was bitter on the inside for not having any money, always feeling smaller than those with money.  Like everyone else, because of my unconscious cultural brain washing, I thought that money was the marker of success.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.  Saying that now, I fully realize how stupid I was.  How stupid they taught me to be. 

It's one thing to think a thing, even to realize it, but another all together to actually truly KNOW it.   Of course, for years now, I could easily ration it out in my mind that money has no bearing on my manhood, but the feeling persisted no matter what I thought or said.  It has been a true battle.  The truth was, the truth is, to actually realize something one must do the thing.  It's like the hot burner on the stove.  We can say we know it is hot, but we don't really know until we touch it. 

You see, there was no way to undo the indoctrination by this culture with a pocket full of money.  I would always be trapped in the illusion of feeling like a man because I had grip.  I would be fulfilling the lie.  It took suffering, not having money, to undo it.  This reinforces what I have said about suffering.  Suffering is not bad.  Suffering is the teacher.  Going without money isn't really suffering, it just seems that way in a culture of greed. 

So this one is for those who criticize, yet are unaware.   Not many things I enjoy in life more than saying I told you so.    While you have been selling your integrity for a paycheck, I found mine.  So busy selling yourselves out, you don’t have time to find the truth, yet I am the one failing at life?  I think not.

I feel ready now to do what I was meant to do in life, and it doesn't have shit to do with making money.  

Mind Bending

The mind bender came to me from James Hillman in his book The Soul's Code.  Having been studying astrology, or personology as two of my favorites call it for almost a decade now, this story has been quite profound on my psyche.  My worldview has to completely change once again.

Fraternal twins were separated at birth.  They immediately went to different step mothers.  Later in their lives they were studied because of the nature of their circumstances.  In interviews they both gave explanations for why they were perfectionist.  One twin said he was a perfectionist because his mother was too, and that she ingrained it into him.  The other said he was a perfectionist because his mother was really lazy and he was compensating for her.  Okay, that bends my mind.  Thinking about how deeply this phenomenon affects all of our lives is quite profound.

Think about it.  These twins have completely elaborate life experiences built into a life story explaining why they are perfectionist, but the truth is they were born that way.  It's just who they are.  It is quite difficult to wrap my mind around this.  Not them being born some certain way, but that they had complete life stories for a particular personality trait explaining why.   What does this say about my own memory, and my own life story?  This is why spiritual masters say to stop thinking and just be.  This is why they say stop judging.  These twins, via their explanation for their behavior implied a positive/negative to the behavior.  That in and of itself is a judgment.  The twins built stories around why they were the way they were, instead of just accepting themselves for who they were.  This information greatly clarifies my own inner vision of Self.  I too am a perfectionist, but had blamed it on my environment much like these twins did. 

All of my twenties I had deep beliefs for why I was the way I was.  I had blamed most of it on her, on my upbringing, on the abuse I suffered.  It by no means excuses the circumstances, but it changes my life story completely.  This shreds much illusion regarding just who I am.  It gives me power back knowing it had nothing to do with them; I simply am what I am.  But aren't we all this way?  We were born a certain way, and from that day on there has always been someone telling us who to be.   The very culture we are born into contradicts this inner voice by constantly telling us who to be. 

Maybe for you it is another trait, or like me, multiple traits, but I bet society, or culture, or family, or a church, or school  has been telling you to be some one certain way; telling you that you must do this or that to become good or bad, or to receive a reward or a punishment.  But what about our stories playing in our minds for why we are the way we are?  This culture tainted that vision too.  One could argue that the part of our mind that builds the story is the source of the illusion; the ego.  The story builder of our minds was forced to base the story on lies.  It happened before we could realize it was happening.

Honestly, can anyone say our personal stories are true after hearing this story?   Thinking about all the other stories I play about myself in my mind, replaying over and over again, regarding why things are the way they are, can they be any truer than these twins' reasons for their personality traits?  The study of personology has helped me come to terms with myself more than any other thing I have studied.   It has given me a base from which to judge the content of my life.  An anchor against the current of cultural thought. 

This knowledge really only leaves me with one choice left, and that is to just live in the moment.  To live like I do not even have a past, not the stories at least, not the personal touch.  They cannot be taken as legitimate; they are not real.  My stories are just something my immature mind made up to give me a sense of control in a world of chaos.  Until now, not ever knowing otherwise, continued to perpetuate those stories too, because I thought they were real.  That is what the ego is for after all; that is what it does.  But now the story is different.  It has to change.  Those stories no longer exist.  They have been shattered.  It's just me now, right here, and there is nothing else to it.

This might scare some people.  Realizing it is all a lie is difficult indeed.  I think some people won't want to go there.  They sense the loneliness of it all.  Letting go of all those stories leaves one standing very alone.  I'd say those who stop in fear haven't yet realized their potential.  They are not aware of what they are truly capable.   They are afraid of what they could be, of shining so bright no one can see them. 

Electric Blanket

A friend of mine was over the other day.  We were just hanging out talking about hippie stuff, which is the usual for us.  My friend is living in a camper on her grandmother's property, and we were discussing ways to deal with the cold so that she wouldn't have to use propane.  Understandably, it makes her nervous to fall asleep with propane burning inside the camper being that her son is sleeping in there too.  I suggested buying electric blankets, and as we were discussing this it brought up a powerful memory. 

It was one of those rare times I made one of my brothers cry.  Possibly the only time I ever made him cry for a reason other than us fighting.  He cried because of a gift I got him; an electric blanket.  Actually we got both of my half-brothers electric blankets.  Rare too, that I would buy anyone a present for such a worthless holiday.  Strange seeming to me now, but I was married at this time.  I think it impacted Rachel too, as she too came from a very poor family.   I couldn't have been over 23 or 24 years old.  I had only been out for about two years or so.  At that time those experiences were quite fresh in my mind.  JoAnn was living in this old farm house out in the middle of nowhere which was her normal way of living.  Even in her thirties she still was not capable of taking care of herself or my brothers.  She was married to a man who gave up most of his paycheck to child support, so she was reduced to living in a broken down old house.  It was all she could afford.  In the winter it would be freezing inside that house.  There were open holes in the house that allowed cold air straight into the area where my brother slept.  This was little different from the times when I was a child dependent on her care. 

He was miserable living in there.  When he realized what we had gotten him he literally cried.  I could never understand how he couldn't stand her like I couldn't stand her.  She was, and still is, the source of all his suffering.   I was free from her to a certain degree even then.  I no longer depended on her for my well-being, physically anyways.  I still had a lot of growing up to do at that point in the journey, like I said; I was only 23 or 24.  My brothers though, still to this day have not broken free.  I've always wondered how it is that they do not see it. 

I've always wondered this, and not just regarding my brothers.  I see this phenomenon everywhere.  I see this failure to understand how badly they were let down only to see them turn and do the same thing themselves.  Perhaps in a different way, perhaps to a different degree, yet it is happening all the same.  Letting their own children down in their failure to see what was done to them; they pass it on.  How do they not realize they were abused and neglected?  How can they not see they were not taken care of?   How is it possible to love one’s Self and at the same time not stick up for one’s Self?  I can see it in myself; I was abused far greater than they, so much so the recognition was forced upon me.  Is that what it takes, pure physical abuse?  I think they do not want to see it because of how painful it is.  I am a master at handling pain and it is difficult to go there even now.  It makes me shake. 

I have fought with this same brother more than once over the years because of this issue.  He sticks up for those who abused me to my face if I let him.  He believes that because it did not happen to him in the same way it did me that they are acceptable.  What does that say about his belief regarding me?  Regarding himself?  Regarding all those abused as well?  How could anyone love me and at the same time love my abusers?  I say they cannot.  I say some people have a belief regarding what love is without actually looking into the matter.  He is passing on his false idea of love without questioning it.   From my perspective he chooses to ignore the wrongs in order to maintain his belief that he has good parents.  He cannot tolerate the belief that they actually did not love him.  Like I said, it is too painful for him to do otherwise.  His desire, his ideal of a parent, is greater than his desire to love himself.  How can he love himself if he has never seen it done?

I have known more than a few over the years who suffer this fate.  Most actually.  Their desire, their belief, to have loving  parents is far greater than their desire to love themselves.  It is greater than their desire to actually find out what love is.   What I am not okay with, regarding my brother, is his ability to neglect his own child in a similar manner.  At that point, we part ways.  He actually believes I am bad, that I am wrong, for my contempt for our parents.  It was his actual father, my first step-father, after all, who abused me the most.  Adding fuel to the fire, not only did JoAnn neglect me, but she used my brother’s ignorance against me to uphold her own beliefs.  How could she not side with him in this?  To do otherwise would mean she would have to come to terms with what she had done.  Intolerable on both of our parts, and for this we are forever parted. 

It was just another for the hatred which I held for JoAnn.  I had to buy my brothers electric blankets because their own mother could not provide for them.  How is this not pathetic?   She couldn't ensure that they would not freeze at night.  How could I not hate this woman?  When she moved out of that house it was the last time I ever helped her move.  All of my brothers were there as we were loading another truck, yet once again.  Her fifth marriage had come to an end.  Unable to accept his own failure in life he was self-destructing.  For her to be leaving him meant he had to of truly been on another level of failing.   Once again she was moving to some dump somewhere where no one would see how terrible she was at taking care of her kids.  Once again she was leaving all kinds of stuff behind, saying she didn't want this and that, being sentimental.  I said to her, "this is why you don't have shit, because you are always leaving your stuff for douche bags."  She only cried.  I had no sympathy for her.  We reap what we sow after all.  Why should a mother who neglects her children have anything?

How could I have sympathy for one who suffers knowing what she had done to me?  She has never once been even slightly apologetic.  My concern was for my brothers, not her.  I was not there to help her move, I was there because my brothers were uprooting their lives once again, just as had been forced on me so many times.  Unfortunately back then, my own head was not far enough out of my own ass to know how to help them effectively.  I have always failed in this regard.  I am yet to successfully open their eyes to the neglect they suffered.  They have Stockholm Syndrome.  They love their abuser and this causes them to be abusers themselves.  It is a sad state of affairs.  I worry that they will never wake up.  I worry that they will have to repeat it again, which means their children will do the same.  This is the fate of those who do not realize; lessons are repeated until learned.  The karma for not handling business is passing it on to one’s children.  The only thing that ever prevented her from rising above this situation was her own ignorance.  No one held her back.  No one ever stopped her from becoming a better person.  No one stopper her from improving herself.  It was her choice, just like I have the choice, like my brothers have the choice; we all have that choice to make.  She choose to be a victim and has remained that way to this day. 

For many years, decades, I was at war with myself.  Was I bad for feeling like I did?  Was I wrong for being unable to tolerate her beliefs?  Rare is the person who expresses empathy regarding this issue.  Most people hold to the motto, love your mother no matter what.  This answer did not work for me.   No one ever actually answered the question, and now as I help others deal with this issue I see that I cannot answer it for them either.  It is an individual, personal, decision in which there is no right or wrong answer.  The only thing that must be answered for is the karma.  No choice is consequence free.  After all these years the only consequence of note has been the loneliness.  It is lonely business sticking up for one’s Self among so many who do not.  It took nearly a decade before I finally did what was right.  I told them to fuck off.   All of them, but that is another story.  

Sense of humor

I've never had a girlfriend whose parents liked me.  That statement is still true to this day.  Chris was no exception.  Her parents hated me.  I would have too if I were them.

I sealed the deal one night.  Chris and I rented movies.  She liked to rent movies and just stay at the house and hang out.  That was fine by me.  I had no problems having her all to myself.  One of the movies we rented was Faces of Death.  It’s a classic movie with nothing but scenes of people or animals losing their lives.  It has all kinds of weird stuff in it.  Anyways, her parents were gone and weren't going to be home till later.  Trust me we made sure we handled business well before her parents got home.  She was very careful about her parents not knowing about her sexual activity.  What parents wouldn’t be concerned about this?  Well, besides my mother that is.

The movie was about over when her parents got home.  We were laying on the floor in the living room.  They came in and sat on the couch to watch the end of the movie with us.  Gossiping about how weird of a movie it was.  A scene came on where a guy jumped out of an airplane.  His parachute didn't open.  He plummeted all the way to the ground.  When he hit the ground a huge cloud of dust appeared in the air.  Not like a mushroom cloud from a bomb, but like a balloon being blown up.  It was a big ball of dust.  Then all of a sudden you see this mangled figure come flying back up out of the dust cloud. 

The dude bounced.  He literally bounced off of the ground.

No joke, I have quite a laugh.  My laugh can be heard quite well and it stands out more than a bit.  I could not stop myself from laughing.  It was hilarious.  He bounced again!  The dude bounced twice.  I had tears in my eyes.  Her parents just sat there and looked at me.  To them it was not funny at all.  Someone had just lost their life.  Needless to say, they never liked me and were glad to see Chris and I break up.

I've always had a different sense of humor.  I cannot help but laugh when people fuck themselves up.   Instantaneous laughter.  I recently watched a video where a guy tried to do a backflip but landed on his face.  One of those videos that goes viral on YouTube.  I laughed till I cried, just re-watching it over and over.  So funny.

Years later, in my mid-twenties, I found myself in the presence of the man who abused me the most as a child.  It was my younger brother’s wedding.  His father.  I was suffering this man’s presence for my little brother.  All my brothers were there.  She was there too.  The whole family was there.  My little brother would have been very hurt if I did not show up for his wedding.

You know how it is at weddings.  Prior to the event everyone is hanging out socializing.  There was a group of guys standing around talking, telling stories.  Small talk.  Douche bag was telling a story.  There were like six or seven people standing around listening.  I don't remember what he was saying, but he was talking about someone getting hurt.  He and I were the only two that laughed.  We laughed at the same time, in the same way.

I doubt anyone else noticed my face turn white.  I felt sick.   There was this man standing in front of me who had practically ruined my life and when he said something really messed up, I spontaneously laughed.  I was sickened.  I wanted to murder him on the spot.  Just beat him to death with my bare hands right where he stood.  When this event happened I was devoted to not be like those who had raised me, yet there I was, laughing out loud at someone getting hurt; just like him!  This man is lucky to be alive.

I realized right then that my sense of humor had been given to me.  I wasn't really researching yet so I had lots of unanswered questions.  I laugh at the most morbid of things because of why?  It seems that humor is passed on.  It seems to be a learned behavior.  Even now, after all of my research I cannot explain it fully.  Where is the boundary between the stars imprint at birth and the molding of one’s environment?  There is no boundary.  It is all meshed together.  A definition of the terms cannot actually be given.  There seems to be no solid ground to stand on.  No one way. 

In my thirties my brothers and I went to a comedy club.  We were the only ones really laughing at the opening comedian.  We thought he was funnier than the main event.  He was saying messed up stuff and we were dying laughing.  The rest of the place was not laughing so much.  Josh and I talked about that too, later.  He is self-conscious about it just like I am.  The depth of imprinting done by parents is beyond comprehension. 

Somehow this man imprinted on me a morbid sense of humor.  He taught me how to be cruel.  How many other things did he imprint on me?  How do I undo it? 

How does one undo all of that?

One picks and chooses it seems.  I decided that laughing at these things is not actually hurting anyone so it is not worth the effort it would take to undo it.  Undoing something that deep, which goes that far back into one’s life, takes an enormous amount of hard work.  That kind of change requires constant internal vigil.  It's not hurting me or anyone else to laugh about these things. That guy who bounced off the ground is dead after all.  Harsh as it may sound what difference is it to him if I laugh or not?

The hardest part was letting it go.  I had to accept that no matter what I did I was going to be like those who raised me in some ways.  I had to accept that there is nothing I can do about it.  It was a bitter pill to swallow.  I had to be okay with it or I would forever feel flawed and broken. 

Who knows?  I could have been born with a morbid humor and just happened to share it with him.  But why do my brothers have it to?  How did they get it?

The things he imprinted on me that did hurt others, those things I got rid of, or changed them into something good.  I put all my energy into getting those things taken care of.  In light of all the crap I had to deal with, my sense of humor was just not worth the energy.  Who cares if someone doesn't like what I laugh at.

I hadn't taken that turn when I was sixteen.  I wasn't trying to undo it yet.   That night at Chris' house I realized I was fucked up on a different level.  Her parents made me feel fucked up by the way they talked to me. The way they looked at me made it very clear.  They could tell I was a fucked up kid.   I knew what was up by how they treated me.  I saw my fuckedupedness in a new light.  It was another piece of straw on the camel’s back.  It was another event tightening the spiral. 

Why did she let this man do this to me?  That my hatred of her was greater than my hatred for him saved him.  That my hatred for both of them was greater than my hatred for myself saved me.

I really did hate her

There are so many little stories I could tell to show you how crazy it was.  My life has been a phenomenon of sorts.  The only times in my life when lots of stuff is not constantly going on is when I am spending large amounts of time alone and back then I was never alone.  If I am out in the world, socializing, you can be sure lots will be going on.  I feel less anxious in a way if I am out in the world creating change.  Like a pendulum swinging back and forth, completely alone to utterly social, back and forth I go. 

Like I said, I was very social then.  Chris and I were in the process of breaking up.  We loved each other so it was difficult.  Being alone back then freaked me out.  I associated being alone with something being wrong with me.  Alone equaled wrong.  I was looking for another girlfriend while I was still talking to Chris.  Cruel I know. I have stated clearly that I have always regretted this. 

I had people over at my house from Golden Coral.  Not a lot of people.  It wasn't a big party or anything.  Everyone was doing what people do at parties.  We ended up on the back porch smoking.  Rachel was someone I worked with at Golden Coral.  She was older than I was so she was not in school.  I never remembered seeing her at school either.  She was completely new to me.  It was just her and I outside talking.  It was cool out.  For years I clung to the image of her hair blowing across her face as we talked that night.  Those images saved me later in life.  At times they were all I had.

We were talking about music.  I grew up listening to a lot of 80's glam rock.  You see, when boys were around I could not talk to girls honestly.  The very second boys realize that I can connect with girls they immediately start hating on me.  I didn't have the confidence back then to prevent it from happening. I couldn't talk about the music I really liked if boys were around.  It was inevitable they would call me gay.   While the other boys were banging their heads to something unintelligible to human ears I was listening to We Are the World.  I wore out my Love & Rockets cassette.  I had every Madonna cassette at one time.  When I was a kid I would record my favorite songs off of the radio onto cassettes and just play them over and over again.  I still do it today just without the cassettes.  Music saved my life.  It was my drug before I knew there were drugs.  It still is my favorite drug.  That night it also scored me a girlfriend. 

We clicked.  I liked her.  Rachel knew what it was to have a cruel father.  We had a great deal in common beyond attraction.  She later told me that night on the porch was the first time she saw that there was something to me beyond the façade.  She thought I was just a dumb jock until she actually talked to me.  I realized she was intelligent like me.  She studied people too.  I fell in love.  Not that night, but I assure you it happened.  I did not know it then but I had just met someone who would both save my life and destroy it at the same time.  I did not know then that I would end up marrying this girl. 

JoAnn's life was on the rocks.  I was riding high and her life had once again gone to shit.  We all knew this was inevitable.  We just never knew when things were going to go down.  She could not survive without a man.  Literally.  I have experienced this in my own life so I understand her plight well.  Without someone else helping pay bills she couldn't pay them all.  It was a fact.  She was always very good about keeping the details of her shenanigans to herself.  That is why we never knew when shit was going to go down.  I never knew what would be happening when I got home.  No one ever did.  Who knows what happened between her and Bob.  They were both cheating on each other I am sure. 

I'd broken ground with the clique, which was a huge accomplishment.  School was going well.  I am a junior at this time.  I had the best wrestling season to date.  I went 23-8 and never weighed in over 205 lbs. as a heavy weight, which capped at 275.  I even qualified for state.  I was beating guys I couldn't put my arms around.  I had a job with people I got along with.  I was dating a girl who was on my level in certain ways. The only bad thing in my life was my mother.  I really did hate her.  What she did next though was intolerable. 

She moved.  AGAIN!  Husband number four coming up.  He lived on a farm outside of Fayette, MO in the middle of fucking nowhere.   Even now, after all this time has passed I can’t help but to feel rage.  That fucking cunt.  Seriously, it was bad enough to move again, but to move us to the middle of fucking nowhere?  Over the top.  We ended up living in some rinky-dink farm house out in B.F.E with Josh and I sleeping in the basement yet again.  It was a 1A school district.  They did not have a wrestling team.  It just was not fair.  I had been brainwashed by her that I couldn’t go to college because of her poverty.  Wrestling was my only shot at going to college.  

The bitch never thought about anyone but herself.  Husband number four was a ranked correctional officer.  At least this time she moved up the ranks a bit.  He owned land.  He had an actual salary.  He was going to college so he could be even higher ranked.  What a fucking cunt.  

 The only good thing I can say was that he actually seemed to be a nice guy.  He was fucked up, don’t get me wrong.  Anyone who falls for JoAnn can be anything but fucked up.  No not fucked up guy would marry her.  It is a requirement just to date her that one be fucked up.  He was a nice guy though in that he never seemed to get angry.  Believe me, I was pushing JoAnn’s limits because I hated her so much so he had reason to be angry.  I was living in his house after all.

I couldn't stay in Fulton.  "Normal" people didn't like me so there was nowhere for me to stay.  I had to go with her.  She was always throwing it in my face that I was not old enough to move out.  She would call the cops.  She always did.  She didn't want to be the mom whose kid moved out at sixteen.  I was going to be starting my senior year in a new school.  I didn't want to be the new kid again.  I had just risked my life more than a few times getting myself established in Fulton.  Fuck I hated that bitch. 

She would always say, "I am doing the best I can."  I didn't know to say it back then, but I know what to say now.

Bitch, your best wasn't good enough.

On the subject of drugs.

I never had money really.  She somehow always managed to get my paychecks.  She was really good at this.  If I ever got a couple of bucks, alcohol was first thing on the list.  Sometimes we would drink before school.  We didn't care about anything really regarding school.  The clique I was trying to get into didn't go to high school.  In high school it was only the jocks I had to worry about, and the others associated with the clique.  I had to worry about them saying something that would discredit my rep.  I was going into this blind, but I knew the basics.

Moving around a lot as a kid taught me things about socializing that a lot of others didn’t learn.  I always had to pay very close attention to the entire goings on between the cliques and within the cliques.   Always being the new kid this information is vital or one risks being permanently outcast.   Ultimately it was a tradeoff because I lacked a lot of information all the other kids had.  I do not have the experience of actually being in a legitimate clique so to speak.  I do not have long standing memories with long standing friends.  I have the exact opposite.  There is only one situation in life where I do not feel socially awkward, and that is when I am around those raised like me.   JoAnn kept us on lock down, me especially.  I was ignorant about so many things.

I smoked cigarettes for a couple months when I was thirteen until I got caught.  It is a powerful drug.  We just wanted to be cool.  I smoked a bit in the seventh grade too.  We would sneak into the government building and buy them out of the vending machine.   Living in Fulton with her again, I started smoking.  It was cool.  I wanted to seem tough.  I wanted to impress girls.  They laughed at me when I coughed at this party.  I wasn't used to smoking.  It gave me such a head rush.  I cannot stand to be laughed at.  I went and bought a pack of Camel no filters.  Two packs later I no longer coughed when I smoked a filtered cigarette.  Girls weren't going to laugh now.  

This should make it painfully clear the affect my parents’ ignorance had on me.  Not only them, but the entire culture really.  Only an idiot kills himself to impress girls.

I finally got a joint.  I was a sophomore in high school before I got my hands on some cannabis.  When you are sheltered like I was it is not easy to just get drugs, but a friend sold me a joint.   It was a very negative connotation to be labeled a pot head back then, but I finally scored.  That sweet intoxicating smell.  Oh how I love that smell.  It's a tragedy too, because if one smokes for any length of time they lose the ability to smell it.  From the very first we were in love.  I took the roach to school with me the next day.  I kept it in my front shirt pocket all day so that I could smell it constantly.  I just sat around in school high as a kite waiting to get high again.

I was doomed from birth.  People all the time wish to label those who do drugs negatively.  They are bigots just like the racist or the sexist.  It is no different than labeling gay people negatively.  They have no choice in the matter.  Causing others to feel negatively about themselves when they cannot help who they are is an extremely destructive thing.  At fifteen I did not stand a chance at fitting society’s definition of good.  Give me something that would take me somewhere else and I had no choice but to want to do it.  None at all.  Might as well say I am bad because I wanted breast milk when I was a baby.  At fifteen I was getting black out drunk already and regularly.  I would go and go and go.  Just like now, but at fifteen I had no control of myself whatsoever.  It is the difference between doing something when one hates one’s self and when one loves one’s self.  These two stories show a clear distinction between the two.  Back then, deep down in my heart, I wanted to crash and burn.  I wanted to go away and never come back.  The pain and energy perpetually burning away inside me made me want to die.  The problem wasn't drugs.  Drugs just speed the process up, whichever process it may be. 

My very first job was at a Little Caesars Pizza.  It was weird for me.  I was jumping from crazy intense dysfunction to this sterile performance driven bright light machine.  Certain things seemed to simply be understood and I did not understand them.  It was disorienting.  Awkward.  I was embarrassed to work there.  Once it was no longer challenging I moved on.  I ended up in a Golden Coral.  This seemed to be the perfect place for me.  I got to do something I love to do and I was surrounded by equally fucked up people.  No social awkwardness at all.  I could write a book about the craziness of just working there if I remembered it all.  Far too many drugs between then and now for all of that.  Working there was very important to me because that is where I met the ex-wife.  You will meet her soon enough.

I am like a Native American; if you give me whisky it gets really sketchy.  A powerful drug.  No adults have ever seen me drunk on it.  Nor do they want to.  I don't allow it to happen.  Every once in a great while I will do a shot of Crown.  That's it.  When I was fifteen I would get Evan Williams 750 mL at a time.  It's cheaper than Jack and honestly I think it is smoother.  Half way through a bottle of Evans and I am generally blacked out.  It was a thing to see how far into a bottle Ben could get before shit went sketch. I've always been a light weight.  It has never taken a lot to get me drunk.  Everyone has always known this.  On whisky though, I take it to a whole new level.

Chris and I broke up.  She found me out.  I was cheating.  I didn’t really try that hard to hide it.  I had to be the one to fuck it up.  Like all immature boys do, I clung on afterwards anyways. I love her after all.  She was supposed to be at this party.  Some of the clique was there too.  The party was a mix.  The goodies and the badies, the yuppies and the toughs, this made for a rare scene back then.  These two almost never mixed.  Remember I had friends on both sides, but I wanted in the clique more than anything. 

I was in angst because of the girl situation.  The clique was bored.  Yuppies throw terrible parties.

They decided to go get a bottle of Evan Williams.  They knew if they got me drunk entertaining shit would ensue.  Broke just like me and yet they spent their money to see me crash a party.  They really were bored.  Needless to say, they partied hard.  Twenty minutes later Stacy, he was one of the main ring leaders, showed up with the bottle.  Hour later I am drunk off my ass.  Belligerent is not the word.  Because the clique was there none of the goodies would stop me.  I was making people drink it with me.  Shoving people.  Someone shoved me on the shoulder and I just punched them.  They didn't do anything back.  At one point someone was holding me up by my belt loop and I would just punch people.  They never did anything back.

I finally went outside to take a piss.  When I walked back to the door a guy was trying to keep me out.  I can't remember what he said but he was trying to get me to go home.  He was standing up to me because the other guys were not around.  He failed to get the door latched before I got to it.  He was pushing against the door trying to keep me out.  I shoved the door open.  He went with the door so that he was standing with his back against the wall.  I hit him right in the mouth.  His hat flew up and his glasses kind of popped off his nose.  It was quite comical because he just slid down the wall just like it happens in the movies.  I’m serious.  A part of my mind was like, that really is how it happens.  When he sagged to the floor I kneed his head into the wall a couple of times before his girlfriend saved him. 

I was blacked out.  It took me awhile to put it all back together again.  I was told they made everyone leave and my friends got me out of there so I wouldn't go to jail.

The next day I was at work.  I was so hung over.  When I had to go in early I would drink pickle juice.  The manager of Golden Coral came back to the cook line to tell me that someone was here to talk to me.  I flushed.  All the blood rushed to my brain.  Flight or fight.  They told the cops.  Time to go back to jail or time to run like hell?  My boss said it wasn’t the cops.  Whew!  That was close. 

I turned the corner only to see the guy I wrecked at the door of that party the night before being towed in by his girlfriend.  She informed me that what I did was wrong and that I should apologize to him.  I could not not smile.  I told him I was sorry.  On the inside though I was laughing so hard.  He had braces so his lips were just shredded.  He was standing there in his hat and glasses, lips shredded, looking at me like, please don't do it again.  His girl was pissed off.  She stomped out.

Everyone was looking at me.  I just laughed and went back to work bragging about my drunken escapades.  If you give drugs to a fucked up person, fuckedupedness is what you will get.  My friends didn't give a fuck about me.