Thoughts.

The start.

When I was born everything was great. We had a nice big family. Lots of Aunts and uncles, Grandmas and Grandpas. We all gathered for the holidays no matter what it was. I'd spend time with my moms side, and then I'd go see my dads side. I loved both of my families. I liked seeing my dad, and I always lived with my mom. It's all I ever knew.

My dad was a sound engineer. He worked for big bands, and went on tour with many people in the music industry. That is, until he met Tommy Lee. Tommy taught my dad exactly how to re-ruin his life when he had been doing so good. He introduced my father to his demons he tried to put away. My dad was a good man. He built bikes, worked on cars, camped, rode bikes on the Katy Trail with us. We had fun. But when he came home from that tour, he had redeveloped a nasty habit that he wasn't planning on quitting. Meth. My mother was blind to it for a very long time. Or she chose to. He tried to hide it but I know she knew. It wasn't until he stayed awake for a few weeks and took our van out in an ice storm. He sped down the highway tweaked out. The ice and snow everywhere blinding him from all the sleep he had lost lately. Then he hit ice and slammed right into a telephone pole and folded the van like an accordion. I was a daddy's girl. I thought for years it was just because of the ice. He was 6'6, 6'7 and the wreck cut him in 4 pieces and shoved him under the steering wheel.

By that time I was 3 years old. I looked at that man like a super hero. But then he started beating my mom and sister. Would throw them around like rag dolls. Broke almost all the bones in my mothers body. So we left and never turned back. What a way to start the first moments of life, right? My very first memories were watching my father turn into a monster. Maybe that's what made things so wrong.