Dear you,
I'm ready now. It's taken me sometime to get my thoughts together and honestly, this is a painful process for me but I will do it for you. I am, yet again, faced with the question of: Where to begin.
As a kid I grew up in the middle of nowhere in a log cabin home. I lived in a place called West Hills. It was a really really small town and it's ironic that they call themselves a city. All we had was a small gas station called: The Store. It had a small cafe in it for a couple years but that was soon removed for extra storage space and we had an elementary school.
My dad was my hero. He used to throw me up towards the ceiling and I would laugh and shriek with happiness. I remember one time he threw me up so high that I could see all the dust on the ceiling fan by the balcony. I was daddy's little girl.
My dad was what you'd call a badass with a bald head, goatee, and motorcycle stuck in the old west. His motorcycle was dark red with suicide handlebars and a bald eagle engraved on the side. He would take me for rides by tying a belt around me to the back of the seat.
He was a tall, muscular, red head who worked construction. I used to wait up at night for him to get home and it became a "mutual agreement" with my mom that I could stay up and do whatever I wanted as long as I was quiet and in my room.
My mom and I reached this "agreement" because of my terrible temper. I blame my temper on two things: my dad and my hair. My dad always told me to blame it on the hair, so that's exactly what I do. Some kids whine, some kids cry a lot and are sensitive, others are just downright picky. I would throw fits and temper tantrums, not small ones either. I'd throw tantrums that I still remember to this day. I would kick and scream and yell for hours and hours. I'd try to kick down my door and if my mom would leave and go to her room I'd come and try to kick her door down as well. I still have this lovely temper, it's better controlled but it's still there. I'm always angry about something deep down. Always. I can't remember a time when I wasn't.
My dad is the king of temper tantrums though. He's not abusive but he gets very angry, very easily. It's something you just kind of get used to. If you didn't do the dishes right he would come in and slam something down on the table and yell a slew of curse words for a good 10-15 minutes and then he'd say sorry, take a deep breath, and go back to normal.
Another thing I inherited from my father is our facial expressions. We look pissed off and angry. If I relax my face I get asked, "what's wrong" "are you ok" "did I do something wrong" and the answer is always the same. It's just my face. I've also been told I look like I'm glaring at everyone or just want to kill everyone. This is all true but the moment we smile the entire thing disappears and we look like the happiest, nicest, people. My father and I also are wild and crazy and are always up for an adventure. We also have laughs that make the house echo and just kind of explode. We have a little too much in common. He's the only person who can tell what I'm thinking and why and I love that about him.
My mom is almost just as crazy as my father. My father's wild and crazy and my mom's insane and silly. Both of those people created me. My mom is one of my biggest examples. I love her so much. She's what you'd call a hippie at heart born in the wrong century. She can be seen in a long flowing skirt, looking up at the moon, dancing to Neil Young, and burning incense. She's a free spirit and she's also the strongest person I know. My mom is my best friend.
When I was little she'd work in the garden all day long while my brother and I played games collecting rocks and laying under the big willow tree in the front yard and petting our dog, Shelbie. She's my rock and despite everything she's always been there for me. Her favorite thing to say is "If you ever need to talk to me about anything, and I mean anything, I'm here for you". My parents were a match made in heaven.
As a kid my family always had parties at our house. My mom's best friend, Tracie and my dad's best friend, Monkey were always over. Tracie had a daughter named Lexis who became my brother and I's best friend. My favorite thing to do was play in the pool and "tan" while our parents smoked cigarettes and sipped beer. Life was good and simple then.
My dad though, drank whiskey, and lots of it. He was a rowdy drunk and was always ready to have a good old fashioned bar brawl. Things always went too far with my dad. What would start out as fun and games would often end in broken furniture or a broken bone. Things grew worse and worse and my parents fought a lot. My mom would take my brother and I to my grandma's house often to get out and one time we never went back.
The alcohol ruined their marriage. I remember walking into my mom's room at my grandma's and seeing her crying with the phone in her lap. She informed me that she was so sorry but her and dad were getting a divorce. I had heard this word before. Divorce. I was only six and didn't know what that meant but I knew it meant I wouldn't be living with my daddy anymore. I gave my mom a hug and walked into the bathroom to collapse on the edge of the floor and cry into the roll of toilet paper. I met an enemy yet again: Divorce.
I didn't understand that alcohol was the cause of this divorce until years later. My dad stayed for a while but drank more and more and eventually just left and moved down to Moab. He didn't ditch us but he left. He tried but my dad's a selfish man.
