Everyone has the stereotypical view on family, a mom, dad, and a couple kids.
From preschool on you get told, "take this home to mom or dad." In kindergarten you're asked what your father does for work. Everyone expects that your tucked in my your mommy and daddy every night. The harsh reality of this is that, simply, this isn't always the case. These stereotypes are merely stereotypes.
All my life I've known that I've grown up different. I have not grown up like lots of other kids. My friends have moms and dads, siblings even. I've grown up ignoring hard times in school or other places that when you or you as a group is asked what you father does for a living. Excusing myself to the bathroom when the topics arise. Life without a father is different. Life being adopted by an old lady? Well that's different to. This is my story, not all of it, not just the "important" things. This story is however, unheard to many ears.
My father died while I was around 6 or 7. I was young, but not young enough to not know something is wrong, not know that pushing everything away immediately would cause problems later in life. I was at home and had been told my daddy was in the hospital, but know one would tell me why. When I'd ask the topic would be changed. Avoided. I had tried to stay home from school to go see him but I wasn't allowed to. This angered me, however, my anger would continue to grow.
It was on this day that I'd come home from school just to find out he had passed away. I was initially told that it was a heart attack. I remember running to my room and slamming the door, breaking anything I saw that I could break. From this day in my life, I'd become angry, hateful, and unknowing. I pushed all of the hurting away, I buried everything I could. I was later enrolled in an anger management session at school which I had to attend regularly. It has now been just recent where I've found out what really happened as to why he was in the hospital in the first place.
I refer to my father as he for a couple reasons, yes he loved me, yes he tried sometimes for me, yes, he was an addict. When I was born I was born with drugs in my system. My mother and father were regular druggies and alcohol abusers. My father later went to a few months of therapy, my mother however, did not. She continued her addiction. When I was about one month old my parents were very high on crack and decided that they could leave me alone for the evening, this evening turned into all night and into the morning. In the time that my one month old self was already spending an unnecessary amount of time alone, they were drinking and abusing drugs and I was taken away from them. I was supposed to be eating on a two hour maximum basis, which I had missed for eight feedings.
After this incident had quieted down and my father was in rehab my birth mother refused any help. She continued to abuse, and continued to ignore my existence. Since this day in 1999, I have not heard one word, or seen my birth mother. I do know, from my brother, that she is still using. My brother and I have the same mother, but I hadn't found out about him till just six months ago. My father, killed himself. He overdosed on crack cocaine.
Some may think my life has gotten better since then, in ways it has. For those ways I am thankful. Through elementary school I was often made fun of, I never felt as though I had a place, but it was not until middle school that it grew to be a larger problem. In middle school I was constantly made fun of, pushed around and hurt both mentally and physically. I felt as if it would be better if I wasn't there, or even if I just stopped going to school. I tried to always put on a face but inside I was hurting. I felt alone and unwanted. It wasn't until the end of with grade when I started getting better, little bits at a time. During that summer, a little of the end of eight, and half of freshmen year I had a setback, honestly a major one. This topic however, I will leave unspoken and let your imagination arise and take control.
Sophomore year the bullying had died down, relationships that were just hurting me were ended and I was starting to see the light. I was being pulled out from the dark by people who have no idea they were helping me that tremendously. I now see a point in living. There is a reason for me being here. Yes, I do hurt sometimes. There are things I wish so badly that I could change, but I can't. It is time for me to deal with that. I have my close friends who help me so much and are here whenever I need them. My friends have an understanding and unconditional love and want for me, even though others haven't.
I, am a survivor.
