I stared at this page while on my break at work. Thoughts race, but my fingertips remain still. This is my first blog. “The intro should be perfect.” I said aloud while alone in my truck. Questions flooded my brain as I began to feel anxious. Do I start with “hello?” Do I introduce myself, even with my name in the small description I wrote? Should I use the same greeting for each post? Will I open my email tomorrow to a message proclaiming my wrongs? Should I tell the people closest to me that I'm creating a blog? When will I stop questioning myself and take action? Writing my thoughts has answered everything I was unsure about. I'm brushing any lingering anxiety off of my shoulders.
Partnering with passion and that very anxiety, I'm taking on this new challenge. I'm hoping to learn more about myself and help others while doing so. I've chosen the topic that I know most about: addiction. In the beginning I'll give background on my adolescence. Today you'll get to know my parents.
I am not a professional writer. In fact, up until a year ago, I had zero interest in any of the arts. Since finding the write.as platform a few months ago, I knew it was a matter of time until I joined. Today is that day.
I was born in the West Michigan area in 1981. The first child of a young, recently married couple, My father, Jim, was 30 years old at the time. He was a hard-working, blue-collar man of few words. His adult life began in an unimaginable way. Shortly after high school graduation, Jim enlisted in the United States Army. This wasn't his choice. He joined by way of the military draft. The last ever by the American government. My father hasn't spoken about this with me. I imagine his fears were overtaken by his loyalty. Forced to leave his family, friends, and country to fight in Vietnam.
His choices made for him, there was little chance of emotional growth. To survive he had to take another life. My dad lost his virginity on a night out with his battalion. This wasn't his plan either. Finally, enduring a homecoming filled with disdain from his fellow Americans. He was set up to fail. I can see exactly what shaped the rest of my father's life.
I haven't spoken to my dad in over two years. This is my choice, not his. I'm hoping to change that and be able to give him a call. Writing this synopsis of his early adulthood has given me a new viewpoint. I don't have enough strength to dial his number yet. I will get there.
My mother hasn't received correspondence from me either in the past few years. The onus is on me to reach out to her as well. As my younger friends would say, I have ghosted both of my parents.
On a cold, snowy December night, my mother, Joan, arrived at the hospital. I have no doubt there was a smile on this 24-year-old expectant mother's face. In her hand, a tote bag. It included my first outfit, a teddy bear, and a handmade Christmas stocking with my name knitted on it. There's no doubt that most of my creativity comes from my mother. I still have and cherish the teddy bear and the stocking.
My father's young adulthood was unenviable. I sometimes wonder if trauma attracted him to my mom. Her childhood shouldn't happen to anyone. My grandparents were strict on her. The term “God-fearing” was literal in her household. If you did not behave, they believed you'd go to hell. Joan was only useful to her parents as a babysitter. Forced to watch her younger brother. She was parenting him more than they were. I'm not sure that her parents ever wanted children.
I can recall countless times that my mother would tell me how much her parents despised her. During recess one day, she got hit in the face. Not by a first, but a large rock. A boy in her class had thrown it. My mom was belittled and punished as well. Her parents then added insult to injury. Taking the side of the rock-throwing boy was devastating.
Now in her early teenage years, my mom was maturing. She began to realize her parents didn't have her best interest at heart. Joan started to become social, popular, and a little rebellious. That was a stark difference from what her parents had attempted to mold her into.
One day, she was late returning home from school. Whatever her reason was for being off schedule isn't important. Joan being late didn't produce that afternoon's happenings. Here it gets devastating.
Her 9-year-old brother had already gotten home from elementary school. Younger children have shorter days than those in high school. He was playing outside, as boys do. Unsupervised, he wandered towards the small creek near their house. No one saw him alive again.
I don't know who found him. Nor what exactly took place, but he drowned that day. My mother was not home, her brother was there with his mother. After the drowning my grandmother did what she always did. She used my mother as a scapegoat for her inability to parent. All the responsibility for the drowning was on my mother. Placed there once again by her parents. She was once again damned to hell by God.
It's evident to me that the pain and resentment this caused took its toll. The people that she needed the most were furthest away. This made grieving her brother's death impossible. It also contributed to the formation of her adult life. Later trickling down into my development. This is one reason I've chosen not to be a father myself.
I don't have many early childhood memories. Through this blog I can heal. I'll reveal some of those memories. I do feel good after writing about my parents' lives. It gave me a perspective I didn't have. Next, I'll get into my adolescence, siblings, and my teenage life.
I've been contemplating whether I want to tell my story in order. It is important for me to cover my time growing up. Once I get into my adult life, I'll post relevant topics. Everything won't be chronological. I have so very many meaningful, lesson teaching, and reflective events to talk about. Sometimes I'm surprised that I've made it this far in life. Cheers to that, everyone!