There are a few things going on in my life right now that I am feeling the need to talk about, but I need to give some backstory first. Here you will find out about my early childhood. Whatever you do, please don’t feel too sorry for me. These things happened, they made me a stronger person and I have come to terms with “most” of them. It’s the what’s going on now that I have not come to terms with.
I was born in 1978.
My father was 18 years old, my mother only 17. They married before I was born and moved into a trailer not too far from my father’s parents house. We lived there for around 3 years. I don’t remember much about the place or time. I remember the awful orange and brown shag carpet, I remember where my room and the kitchen were. I remember falling and cutting my leg open on something and crying for my mother and she wouldn’t come.
I don’t remember the day my mother left. I assume I was still in diapers, or just out of them, so around 2-2 1/2 I guess. I don’t know all the reasons why. I’ve never heard them from her. All I remember is that sudden she lived in another town and that she had a new husband and he was my step-father. I don’t remember him being very nice. He didn’t like it when I came around. I only saw her once a week.
I stayed with my father for a time. When he was 22 he started having trouble walking. At first he just dragged one of his legs a little, especially when he was tired. When he was around 13 years old, a friend and he were playing, and said “friend” gave him a karate chop to the neck. It was all in fun, but it messed up some of the vertebra in his neck. And, being young, he would never wear his neck brace. Repeated injuries in high school made the damage worse until the vertebra were so worn away that he started having problems. Because of this, we moved in with my grandparents.
Over the next 4 years, my father slowly deteriorated more. First he stumbed, then he couldn’t walk. Then gradually the paralysis took his hands away, then his breathing, putting him on a respirator. It didn’t matter me, I was too young to know what was happening to him. All I saw was my beloved father and was glad that he was there when I got home from daycare, then school. He taught me my letters, my numbers, how to spell my name. Because of him, when I started kindergarten I was already reading chapter books and was well ahead of my classmates.
But, finally, he lost his fight and his paralysis took his life. I was 8 years old.
I continued to live with my grandparents.
Part two coming when I can get the time to put it down.