STEAMPUNK17

In my late 20’s, I thought of myself as the anthesis of all good, void of integrity. And the 30s were like I was dying over and over again. I felt like death. 

I targeted the relationships of the broken, the hurt, the pain of others, as something I painted with a magic paint brush. A broken hearted problem. Cracked like a peanut shell.

What if I changed a person’s life? Like magician. God. Like an omen. A miserable amount of pain. Something I knew about and helped them to find their OWN big break.

I grew up not knowing what depression is. As weird as I am, I was raised sheltered and never had to fight for my supporters. But, this depression consumes me whole and leads me to roads not taken. It’s a lonely life.

The thrill of the chase plagues me like a bad habit. All of it. Locked in the mind, like the kind of nightmare you cannot wake from.

As informed as I am, takes self-reflection and losses. After taking a break from my college years, a fight to meld my early years with my post college years, I was disconnected from reality.

Antisocial personality: A personality characterized by impulsiveness, absence of conscience, and a complete disregard for others. Formally known as a sociopath or psychopath.

The antithesis of love is hate. I was never invited to family functions because my mother did not accept my choice to pursue a pharmacy solution to fight and battle depression. My mother would not tell me about the family get togethers intentionally, I felt I betrayed everyone and I was helpless. It was not my fault.

I internalized the decisions that were made for me and, it isn’t not my control. Simply, they are not  my decisions. I missed family events despite the fact that I never knew about them. It was psychological solitary confinement. I was never told of my family’s events. I felt that my mother’s keeping this a secret, to have the people in my life, only to turn against me.

News flash: It was not my fault people.

My mom would make me feel that I was a big disappointment because I tried to make myself a better person, that I needed help and I am weak because I am trying to nurture/and work on myself as a wonderful person.

What would be said if I was run over by a car? Or swallowed crushed glass? Or electrocution to look like an accident?

From as early as I can remember, my dad and I had been bonding over great music. I remember sitting on the couch, hands between my legs, listening to albums with him like, Styx, Fleetwood Mac, and 10 cc. During my early years – 2 ish, we’d sit on the couch and just take in the music.

He was also a smoker. I remember when I would ask him to breathe his smoke in my face. I loved the smell. At parties, I would ask him for a taste of his beer. “Drink up,” he would say, lovingly, laughing.

I am closest with my dad. Through my dad’s first and second marriage, I have two sisters. I am the oldest of three. The middle is my sister, my sister of 38 years. The youngest is 18 years younger.

Syliva, my littlest sister, is the product of my father’s second marriage. Sylvia, is probably the most well adjusted person of us all. There is inspiration in her smile. She is really focused and has a great personality. She also was the quickest out of high school to graduate college in 4 years. However, I don’t have much history with Sylvia – with one exception, I have always been her “Bro.”  Sweet kid.

Growing up, I lived in a modest 4-bedroom home in Southern California. my sister and I had our own rooms. One night, I woke up from the noises going on in the living room. In my Jammies, I tip toed around the corner and barely peeked,

….I can’t sleep,

….You guys are loud,

…..Can you please lower the music,

……I am thirsty,

….What are you doing,

…..Am I in trouble?

…..Are you doing drugs?

….who are these people?

Knock, knock.…..Who was that?…… The cops.

The cops are at the door……… They have a search warrant….My neighbors are watching…….(I stood next to my friend’s mom.) What’s going on?….. Where are they taking my parents? Are they arresting my dad? Dad, please don’t go away?

I can’t remember much of the details. I do remember that at one point, my dad was smoking Marijuana. It didn’t matter. Wasn’t everyone? He was very good to my sister and I, and I don’t need to judge.

I know what it feels like to be judged, a combination of preconceived antagonism and suspicion of guilty.

My mother and father both worked when I was young.

I began to read at the age of 3. I was reading the newspaper to my parents, who clapped when I finished a whole sentence. I remember the morning sunlight through the window, hitting the wallpaper, in stained orange color, with vertical shadows from the blinds.

The wallpaper was also textured, something I assume is common for the mid to late 70s. Cigarette smoke, was in the air of the kitchen which contributed to the 70s ambiance.

In pre-school and up to kindergarten, I was roll calling for my teachers. Sesame Street was my home school. I was young, about 2-3 years old when I learned my alphabet and I began to read almost simultaneously. My parents encouraged me to read and amazed many people who I spent my time with.

My earliest moments in the town where I spent most of my upbringing, began in 1980. I was raised in Southern California. My parents were very good to me and my sister. In ten years they will split up.

The year was 1980. My 5^th birthday was spent in a store front pizza place (Golden Crust Pizza). There was more kitchen than tables. The tables were covered in plastic sheets that had red and white checkered patterns, and a counter / cash register was 500 feet from the entrance. My parents took good care of me. Sang happy birthday, gave me presents. We had a party with the neighborhood kids in an arcade. I had no idea what was going on. This was about 2 months after we moved from NJ.

The day I was introduced to my childhood home of 30 years, I was so excited to see my dad, who had moved in a few months earlier to set up our family. I was dressed in the padded vinyl jacket and a wool beanie. Corduroy was still in style.

On my bed, was the smallest version of the Millennium Falcon I had ever seen. Could be a collectors item now, but at that time, it was a metal figurine. My middle sibling (sister) had her plushed Snoopy doll.

My room was carpeted, wall papered with sailboats, along with a dresser, bed, and light fixture from Ethan Allen furniture. I had a working fisher price record player. I played Styx’s Grand Illusion until it was warpped. I was a very audio person. My parents gave me many Disney books on tape that I could follow along while reading the pages of hits like Pinocchio, Rescuers, and Aristocats.

Our first pet was a cat named Patches. He was really sweet. He was also an indoor/outdoor cat. We lost him to coyotes.  Our back yard consisted of artificial grass, a deck and spa, and garden plants and trees running along our wall. Behind the wall was fields and fields of brush. It was a cats playground, for sure. Throughout my childhood, we owned 4 cats.

We made memories there. Cats, many sibling fights (black eyes, fractured fingers). Opossum phobias. Physical exploration. Birthdays. The first time I tried weed. The parties where I got drunk (under parents supervision).