The beginning.

I was born the same day that Freddie Mercury died. I don’t know why I’ve held onto that for so long, but its ironically fitting. I learned the fun fact when I was a teenager, just turned thirteen. It only makes sense such a legend left the day I was brought into the world, honestly. To me, one life cycle has to end to allow another one to exist, right? That’s me convincing myself.

My earliest memory, is being in a mobile home with my mother and my step dad. I was probably 2–3 and I remember how scared and uncomfortable I was. I don’t remember how I knew, but I know I hated the place. It could’ve been that we were in the middle of nowhere, no grass just dirt. Or maybe the memory of the swarm of wasps that had to be eliminated before we could occupy the shit hole. Or, possibly the mouse that ran through the arm of my shirt while I was trying to reach a toy that had gotten kicked under my bed? Maybe a combination of all of it, if we’re being frank.

One day, I remember I hadn’t seen my mom come home in a while, and I remember knowing something was wrong. That afternoon, my grandmother and her partner showed up. I at the moment just thought I was going to visit my grandmother, who even at that age I knew I loved incredibly so. I wish I could have known the truth though. That very visit turned into the rest of my life. I’d never really understand any of it until a lot later in life, either.

I remember letters. Only a few of them, though. I remember how pretty I thought my mother’s handwriting was. How excited I got to see them. At this point I was already in school, maybe 6? I know I hadn’t seen her in a while. I knew I missed her. I knew that I still wanted so badly to be with her. I didnt understand what I had done. Why didn’t she want to be there? Why didn’t I have a mommy and daddy like the other kids at my very religious (this is hilarious, in hindsight) school?

I asked my poor grandmother these questions often, and she would always keep her answers loving and positive. She always made sure to reassure me it was not my fault, that my mother was just lost, and dealing with things. I know now how heartbroken she was. I didn’t really understand until later in life, that while she was answering all my questions she was feeling the same guilt, if not more. I mean, this is her daughter. She time and time again exclaims how she always took wonderful care of my mother. How she had all she ever desired. Of course my mother argues that sentiment, but that’s a story in itself for a later time.

I waited one day, for 6 hours in my driveway, outside in the summer heat for my mother to finally show up, after telling me she would be picking me up for my birthday. I believe that was the moment I finally gave up. I didn’t want to be made a fool of. I didn’t want to allow her to hurt me anymore. So, I didn’t. I removed everything of my memory of her. I had thought she was so beautiful. I wanted to be just like her. Then, just like that, she became the most insignificant being I had ever known. I hated her. I hated her for making me feel like I didn’t matter, for making me carry this “survivors guilt” if you will. If I hated her, it would be easier to forget her.

Fast forward to my sophmore year in high school. It was a couple weeks into the year, when I got home from the bus and my grandmother was home. I was a “latch key” kid. I had my key, and would leave school and be home alone until usually five or six when she or my step grandfather would get home. It, indeed, was a different time than it is now. At this time I hadn’t seen or spoken to my mother in probably 6 years. I had already accepted my fate. I knew my grandmother as “mom” now.

Her being home when I left school was usually signal that something was up. She has always been a dedicated and hard working employee. It was rare that she missed any days, at all. She sat me down at our kitchen bar, and dropped the mother of all bombs on me. “I have found your mother, and I need to tell you something.” Of course, in utter shock and disbelief, I asked what happened. I just thought she was really bad off on drugs, or maybe had died? I don’t know. Every situation ran through my brain in the matter of 4 seconds.

“You have a brother and sister.”

You can imagine my reaction, I’m sure. Absolute confusion, followed by anger, disbelief and finally sorrow. These feelings ran through me in about as much time as it took to process the original statement. I didn’t understand. “How?!” “Why?!” What was it that made her decide to go about her life, as if I wasn’t part of it, and have more children?? On top of that, she’s actually mothering them. While I waited all these years for her to return. I had finally rid my mind of her existance. And it is all thrown back at me in this very moment.

I couldn’t ask my grandmother any more questions, it wasn’t her job to answer for my mother. I wanted to call her, so I did. I planned it all out. Everything I would say. Some profound (or I thought, atleast) rebuttals to any answer she gave. I thought of every response she would have, and how to counter in the most hurtful way possible. It was only right, since I had hurt so long.

“Where have you been?”

“In Nashville.”

“How old are they, what are their names?”

“ — — — — and — — — , and they’re 3 and 4.”

It was at this moment I let loose. How could you disappear and carry on with your NEW, happy ( or so at that moment I thought) family and allow my siblings to not know me? How? Little did I know there would never be an answer to give. There just isn’t one. I don’t believe I’ll ever understand, or that I’m even meant to. It’s just how the cookie crumbles for some people.

As I was growing up with my grandmother, I had severe abandonment issues. I always thought I was alone, and everything was going to leave me. Imagine thinking you a single bastard child with no connection to where you came from, then BOOM. You are the oldest sibling, of people you never knew existed. It’s a life altering thing, ya know? None the less I always kept my anger and hate for our mom, not them. They have no control. They didn’t ask to be brought into this world, just like I didn't. They were at no fault, and I knew that from the moment their existence was made known.

That’s how my story starts, and for today that’s where it will end.

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