The Narrative

In my early years, I grew up under the influence of the Grateful Dead and random couch surfing hippies who’d diddle themselves in front of me as I tried to mind my own business and watch My Little Ponies, Strawberry Shortcake and Sesame Street.

The middle part of my childhood was spent living the life of a lonely military brat in foreign countries where we were mostly unwelcome. It was spent as a helpless sacrifice to the scared schizophrenia of a fringe wing-nut who took pride in being from Texas. And also briefly, as a naive hostage of the same psycho Texan who sometimes skewed towards Southern Baptism and a perverted perception of “God.” He spoke in “tongues” and after that, you never knew if you’d get beat, touched or loved like Jesus would love you afterward.

As I came into my later teens I had no choice, I took life into my own hands. I packed my shit up and moved out at the lovely age of 15. For a while I lived on couches and off the kindness of friend’s concerned parents – but that sort of concern and welcome wears out. And it’s just fucking embarrassing and self-defeating to have to explain at that age, “Yep – I’m screwed at this age because my 40+ year old adults are less mature than I am…”

Then I met the drug dealer whose mother ran a hygienically disgusting foster home of a dozen or so underfed, “special needs,” parent-less children. This became home for a significant amount of time. I stayed for four-years among crack babies, cockroches, hunger, angry foster teens, cocaine, meth, heroine, teen pregnancy, crank, LSD, and a misery that I couldn’t drown out – no matter how hard I tried. I spent my nights either doped up or crying for mom. And I’m not gonna lie, there were a few nights of violence… just “a few.”

It’s a wonder I am here today.