Scars of Who We are Chapter XV-Home

Chapter XV-Home
                 And two chapters remain.         

~For years I have ached to go back home, when there was nobody there to whom I could return.

Shortly after I introduced Rebekah to my mom’s family, I ended up cutting ties once more with my mother and began distancing myself from her and the rest of the family. In truth I just couldn't take all the lies anymore and I was done with feeling like a belittled second class member of the family. I was done with the whole thing. I tried my best to make things work, but no matter how hard I would try, nothing ever worked, I would always leave feeling worse about myself than I did before I visited.

Also sadly for reasons beyond my control, Rebekah and I ended up going our separate ways. I admit now that it had been stupid of me to break up with her, but there was drama that entered our lives from a most trusted friend who through jealously managed to create a rift between her and myself. For me the wound festered in paranoia, fear and crippling doubt, which forced me to break things off before the drama got any worse than it already had. All because a friend, a cousin who I loved as a brother, who’s betrayal had come unexpected, cutting me deeper than he’ll ever know. Torn, I ended my relationship with Rebekah and needless to say the New Year wasn't that great for me. 

                Roughly, a year later I was beginning to feel alright again about my life and where it was heading. Slowly I began rebuilding my relationship with my cousin which wasn't easy, knowing I’d never fully be able to trust him again, but we had been close since we were six and it was from this sentiment I decided not to let our relationship fall to the wayside, to be lost and scattered on the winds of time.  He made a 

mistake and I couldn't exactly fault him for it, he had liked Rebekah for the same reasons that caused me fallen head over heels in love with her.

Then as fate would have it, I ran into my older brother while working at the Kenton County Library in Newport. To my surprise we struck up a good rapport with each other, better than any we had ever had in the past. We ended up exchanging numbers for I had lost his and he mine and after a couple of days he and I began hanging out. It felt good to reconnect to his brother I barely knew. Growing up I barely even knew him, for he rarely ever wanted anything to do with me, other than tormenting or teasing me in some way. Then when he did finally want to get to know me, I didn't really want to get close to him, because I knew a little of his involvement with drugs, drinking and his run ins with the police. All the things I didn't care much for, or want any part of, also, I didn't trust his friends and knew the kind of crowd he liked to runaround with.

But during this time, he started going back to church and he left most of his old friends behind for the purpose of carving out a new life for himself. To my surprise I discovered he and I had a lot in common and shared similar interest in movies, the outdoors, martial arts and philosophical views. We were also both born again Christians, starting down a new path and it felt good to find myself going down the same path with my brother.

 In a few months I had the kind of relationship with my older brother that I used to always dream about having when I was a kid. We were as brothers should be. I trusted him without question, confided in him as you would your closest friend. After years of never knowing my brother, I had found him, just as he had with me. It only took us two decades to finally get there and to form that brotherly bond that all siblings should have.

                In time, I grew to almost forget how he used to tease and make fun of me, making the past that once was feel not so much like a distant memory, but as something that had happened to someone else.  But after a time, he began asking me about my relationship with our mother and pushing for me to talk to her, to take the first steps in forgiveness and to forget about whatever differences we had in the past. Something I couldn't bring myself to do, time and again I kept trying to explain to him without telling him exactly why I couldn't do as he asked, I couldn't go back down the road, because I knew all that would be waiting for me would be more pain and disappointment. I spent months, and a year building back up that wall around my heart and guarding myself from her. I was terrified of the prospect of letting my mother back into my heart just so that she could wreck it all over again.

                But no matter what I said, or how hard I tried to ignore and change the subject, he wouldn't stop, insisting that I just talk to her and bury the hatchet, to make amends and forget the past to start anew. The more he talked, the more I found myself wanting to tell him everything and how weary it became keeping the truth locked up within the confines of my heart. But I feared the truth and what it would do to him. Maybe I was a little selfish in doing so, fearing that if I told him, it would cause the relationship we had been building to unravel completely, because I doubted he would believe anything negative I had to say about his mother. I was also afraid of what would happen if he did believe me and what that it would cost him. Our mother was always good to him, bordering on spoiling him even, she had always been there for him, looked out for him and supported him when no one else did. How could I take that away from him and I did it wouldn't make me any better than her. If my brother listened to me and took my side it would take away yet another pillar of support that he had and he didn't have many since his real father had been a deadbeat. 

                Of course it didn't help matters much that I also kinda figured that my my mother had already told and convinced my brother of her side of things and anything that I would say would be but lies in his eyes. Because I long since saw the power of a lie and how quickly it can travel around the world, while the truth is still at home putting on its shoes. People in my experience always seem to believe the first story they hear and it doesn't that the lie can often be easier to digest than the truth, because the truth can often be far more painful to accept because of what it means. Many are all too eager to accept and believe in the lie, than see the logic behind the truth. So I feared I would lose my brother forever, or wound him beyond measure if my truth ended up costing him his relationship with his mother and it was in this I was willing to just leave things be. His relationship with our mother was his and his alone, it wasn't mine. Plus I didn't want to put him in that kind of situation that would put him between her and me, I respected and accepted the circumstances that his mother wasn't mine, the woman I knew as our mother was completely different from the one he knew. That being said, no one deserves being put in a situation where they have to choose between family and I would never envy anyone in that position.

Like myself, my brother can be infinitely stubborn and for whatever reason he wouldn't give up on trying to get me to work with him on reestablishing this relationship with our mother, whenever we were out and there was any lull in the conversation, he’d start telling me how I had only one mother and how the bible says we should honor our mother and father.

Once, I even came close to telling him the truth, by asking,

“But what if your mother or father doesn't exactly honor or respect you?”

“She’s your mother and she gave you life,” He argued,               

“Listen...I never told you this, but do you know what she told me when I was sixteen?” I asked, turning in my seat to look at him, not wanting to tell him that story, but at the same time felt so tired feeling like I was living a lie by not telling him the true nature of my relationship with our mother.

                “Look, I know you two had your issues in the past, but it’s over and done with, you can say one thing, and she'll say another, it's time to get over it and remember you're both family, forget the past, live for tomorrow instead."
                  "Its not so easy," I told him, knowing from his tone and the look he gave me that he didn't want to hear my story about when I was sixteen. So I dropped the subject and for the moment so did he.

I sincerely believe that my brother meant well and that he did really want to see our family whole again. I think it hurt him not being able to see his whole family together and seeing him like this was killing me. (I suffer from being immensely loyal to those I care about and wanting to protect and to be there for them and more than anything I wanted to see my brother happy.) I hated feeling like I was this source of contention in his life and like I was the only one resisting his pleas to repair the past as it were.

            
       Once during this time I even dreamt about it, I dreamed I gave my mother another chance and once again it ended in pain and discord. In my dream I was back home. My mother was screaming at me, accusing me of  something and telling me how I was this huge disappointment, an accident she wished that would have died in the womb. Having heard enough, I turned and went into into the room that used to be mine, but now it was mine again, filled with relics throughout my childhood. My old nightlight, my Batman doll, my spider-man action figures, my story time clock and in this dream I pulled this old burlap sack from my closet and began collecting these relics of my childhood, stuffing them down into this burlap sack, because I planned on taking it all with me, everything. All the while, my mother and step father screaming profanities at me, pulling and tearing at my clothes, shoving me as I ignored them and continued collecting everything from my childhood, before I finally turned on her shouting,
                “I’ve had it, I’m done with you and all these games, I’m leaving and never coming back, you have wish and I’m never coming back!”

                I awoke as my mother screamed and shoved me down the stairs, leaving me grasping at empty air as I fell still gripping my burlap sack. I awoke in a cold sweat and call Rebekah, who despite everything that happened between us, was still a good friend.
             I told her about my older brother and my dream, how I was struggling to find the right thing to do and her advice was for me to stand my ground. She believe the Lord was trying to warn me what would happen if I returned home, if I let my mother back into my life she would only break me again, she advised me told me to have a sit down with Dominic and just tell him everything.             

                Sadly I never had the chance, (I’m also a victim of always trying to find the right moment for such things) because one day Dominic asked me to a movie and when we pulled into the parking lot of the Danbury Theater, his phone rang as he parked his jeep he tossed me the phone saying,
       “They want to talk to you,” and he jumped out of his jeep before I could ask who it was, but I should have guessed.

He shut the door and began pacing around the front of his jeep as I tentatively brought the phone to my ear and whispered, “Hello?”

                The voice on the other ended mirrored my tone as they greeted me; my mother spoke as if she wasn't sure how to proceed, asking me how I was, about my work and what I have been up to.

                I answer, keeping my responses as short as possible, fearing my voice would betray me and hating how I still loved her even after everything that’s happened.
              Like my brother, a part of me still wanted and longed for this family. Which I didn't know until right then as I spoke with her that day on the phone, just hearing her voice made me realized how much I missed her, missed all of them  my little brothers I missed the most.

She asked about my grievances, and then gave me apologies and excuses/explanations as I spoke. We ended our conversation with her telling me how much she missed and loved me; reluctantly I told her how I loved her too.

I wasn't angry about what my brother did, at the time I actually felt a little better having talked with her. So in the weeks and months that followed I gradually allowed my brother to bring me around our mother. Naturally I was suspicious and wary at first, but gradually she managed to coax me out from behind my walls and for a while everything seemed fine. The past seemed good and gone and I began believing my mother had truly changed for the better. Yeah we still had our bumps in the road, but the ride wasn't as rocky as it once was and I was happy to finally have my family back, even though my father had strongly disapproved of me trying to reestablished this relationship with my mother and her side of the family, but this was something I myself wanted and I wanted more than anything for it work, to be real, I needed it so that I could finally heal and maybe even forget about the past. Little did I know I was setting myself up to learn why it is they say you can never go home again.

Me with my step father on the last family vacation I had.

Scars of Who We Are Intermission Part 3 Mothers.

Scars of Who We Are. Intermission Part 3

For my mother, I have this to say, I wish you never gone away,
and I would have preferred that you would have stayed.

I wasn't ever the perfect son, I often did a lot of things wrong. I suppose more often than not, I was a 
coward and often struggled with finding ways to express myself. More often than not this usually resulted in 
me writing how much I hated my mom or the phrase “I have no mom,” on my belongings, because well for
the most part it didn't feel was much a mother, to me anyway. And occasionally she would find or stumble 
upon something that I had written in a fit of anger. Which I know had to hurt her a little bit, but it always 
resulted in her giving me the third degree, making me feel two inches tall. When in truth all I
 really wanted was to have the courage, the strength of character to just ask her why, why was she always 
so hard on me? And ask her, what it was she didn't like about me, did she even remember giving birth to me 
and that she was my mother? I was very unlike my older brother, who was cool when I a dork and 
popular while I was invisible. Even when he fell into a bad crowd, got detentions and suspensions from 
school, I was always still left feeling like the bad kid, even though I never got in any kind of trouble and even 
when my brother managed to get himself expelled. But no matter what he did my mother was 
always there for him, behind him every step of the way, she supported and defended him. Even when my 
brother dropped out of school, fell into the drug scene, gotten arrested, sent to jail, she was there for him. 
She even defended him when my step-father had enough of his shenanigans and the drugs, etc and kicked 
him out of the house. All the while my mother was still on my brother’s side, so much so that her and 
my step-father almost got a divorce over this whole ordeal. 

My brother with me as a new born.

I still remember that day that my brother had forgotten, when he came by the house late at night, knocked on my window and asked to come inside. He looked aged nearly ten years, and was thinner than I remembered and he tells me how he hadn't ate in days and asks if I can make him a sandwich since he didn't want to risk going upstairs and being seen my our step-father. So I crept upstairs, made him some food and brought him a bag of chips, we talked for a bit and before he left, I stopped him and dug into my wallet, giving him all the money I had, which was about fifty bucks. I told him to take care of himself, I knew it wasn't much, but I figured it’d be enough to get him a place to stay for maybe a night, or afford him a hot meal until he got on his feet. It’s amazing how quickly some people forget the little things and quick he was able to turn his back and forget about me. But as I said before, I don’t blame him, he saw only the best in her, and he wasn't singled out like I was. Also for those who are curious my brother did eventually clean himself up and left the drug scene behind, he eventually went on to get his GED, got a good job and has started a family of his own. Although we still don't talk much. But he knows I write this blog and I pray one day he'll read it from beginning to end and maybe then we'll be able to reconcile our differences. 

  At seventeen, I was given my brother’s room in the basement, which I actually preferred; it was bigger 
than my old room and always cold in the summer. The one night at seventeen I woke up in the middle of the 
night starving, so I decided to slip out of my bed and sneak upstairs for a little midnight snack. 
I was tired and still half asleep, so my senses weren’t really on full alert, so even after I crept silently up the 
stairs, daring not to make a noise I hadn't heard any other movement throughout the rest of the house. 
So when I reached the top of the stairs I managed to crack the door all the way open before I heard my
 mother talking, so I froze with my hand still on the door. 
 

Me and my brother at my grandmother's house.

I held my breath then and I listened intently, weighing my options, with my heart pounding within my breast, too afraid to make a noise, but still curious as to why she was up and why she wasn't in her room, believing she was having a conversation with my step-father and wondering why they had to have this talk in the kitchen. Then as I slowly began easing the door shut and slip back down the stairs wince I came, I realized he wasn't in the kitchen with her, no one was, for I could hear him snoring down the hall. So I assumed she had to be on the phone, which I was grateful for and meant she wouldn't hear me retreating back down the stairs to my room, but then I heard her sob. Again I stood frozen there on the steps, with my heart hammering in my chest, still holding my breath as I quietly debated what I should do. A part of me told me to retreat and go to bed, because nothing good would come of this, because nothing good ever did.
I was moving before I even realized what I was doing, climbing silently back up the stairs, easing the door to the upstairs back open and set my foot on the smooth and cool hardwood floor as I crept up into the hall and poked my head around the corner into the kitchen, where I saw my mother sitting at the kitchen table in her faded pink bathroom and she’s crying. 

Me, my mom, my brother and my dad.

“Are…are you okay?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper and to my surprise she wasn't startled by the sound of my voice or my sudden appearance, instead she looked up at me with red puffy eyes and waived me in. 

Reminding myself to breathe, I slowly crossed the kitchen to her place at the table, not really knowing what to expect and when I make it within arm’s reach, I’m startled by the feeling of her arms wrapping around me, pulling me close, hugging me. 

  I’m seventeen and I don’t know how to react, I stand there with her holding me and sobbing against my 
chest and I had forgotten how to return affection, or show it to my mother. It takes several minutes for my 
arms to pull around her and return her hug. She’s telling me she’s sorry, she’s tells me she doesn't know 
why she’s so hard on me, or why she mistreats me as often as she does. I tell her it’s okay and that I love 
her. Which was true, I think and if it wasn't I wanted it to be. 
  
She pulls away and musses with my hair, before grabbing me and pulling me back against her in a warm hug,
telling me how sweet I am, that I have a good heart and always been a good kid. I’m taken aback, not really
knowing how one such as me should react, with a part of me believing that this was all some dream and I
didn’t want to wake up. Because here in this place, in this moment in time, my mother was talking to me, 
hugging me and making me feel this love she had for me. 

After a while I slowly pull back and sit in a chair beside her, I never talk, I just look at her and she begins talking. She tells me about her childhood, how hard her father was on her all the time, how he beaten her and her sister. She tells me this whole history of abuse; she even professes her drug use and how she never meant to drive my father away, telling me how sorry she was for how she treated me. I listen to every word, weighing each one carefully in my mind and when she’s finished I tell her it’s okay and I understand, I tell her I love her, then I make a joke and make her laugh.

my father and mother and older brother.

We talk for a little while after that and I discover I like talking to her and I like making her laugh, so by the time we hug and say goodnight, I go to bed believing things would be alright. I wish I had been right, but even though I wasn't  I still had this moment and other moments like it, whenever I would stay up late and she was still up, I would find we would connect in those late twilight hours, when sleep was at the forefront of our minds. It was in those moments we would share and talk, about anything, everything and nothing that we were most real. Perhaps that is what caused my insomnia to be so deeply ingrained into my very being, where even when I’m exhausted and I feel sleep creeping in, I fight it and try to stay awake for just a little longer. Finding that people in general, not just my mother were more real in the late hour, when you’re too tired to be angry, to lie or be false and you can only speak in simple truths. A lesson my mother had taught me, one that I won’t soon forget. 

Me!

    Thanks Debbie, wherever you are, near or far,
Thank you for being a mother to me,
even if was just briefly for mere moments at a time.

            I still love you forever and always.  .  
                        -J Cooper

The Scars of Who We Are, Chapter X

Scars of who were are, memories chapter 10,

Hard to believe this picture is five years old, with my lil cousin Derek, with me, my older brother and his now ex-girlfriend. Below are pictures of my step brother Patrick and me, followed a picture of my step mother, then of my step sister. 

             ~These memories of who I was and where I've been are important to me. Just as your memories should be to you, even when they’re painful, or mired in regret, they still make up a large part of who we are, who I am, and the person I’m going to be once my journey finally winds down. I need to remember the essence of magic and hope that I once knew and held so dear, if I’m ever to capture it again. Because life isn't a journey, for every journey ends and when it ends, we go on. There are no do-overs and second chances come as rare as a flower blooming in the dead of winter, but we learn and carry on. Sometimes we’re heavier from the burdens we take on and carry with us; sometimes we become lighter by sharing our burdens with those closest to us. The world turns and turns and we with it, plans fall apart, things change, scars fade, but the memory, the memories always remain and sometimes there’s a moment in our lives that hovers and settles for but a moment, leaving us forever and inexplicably changed in the most unexpected of ways, ways we never thought or felt before. And it’s then that our dreams take over and it’s there I see you and it seems that wherever I go, I find you, you’re there, my luck, my fate, my fortune, my life, my blessing and my curse. But it's not all about you, or where in the stars your destiny lies, it’s about the here and now and what you find in the hidden depths of your soul, it’s where we go from here, as the ashes of what was and what might have been finally settle down around us, leaving us forever transformed, this is it, this is the now and it’s when you finally decide where you’re going to go from here.
         

                 Patrick and I became inseparable, we were best friends and brothers all the same.  His eyes

were also open, he wasn't afraid to speak up and stand up to his mother for me. It was something about him I always admired, he never cared that by jumping to my defense whenever she was jumping on my case, making fun, or bullying me and how it would get often get him grounded, or chewed out, he was someone who always stood up for what was right, no matter what it had cost him.  Eventually Patrick would be the one to go to my dad about how I was being treated and I would begrudgingly confirm that Patrick was telling the truth. Often I had held my tongue Because I didn't want to cause any ripples in my father’s new marriage. He loved her and she made him happy and I couldn't bear to bear to be the the reason why he couldn't hold onto this family he had found. He loved her kids and still does as if they were his own and maybe I was a little selfish myself, because I also didn't want to jeopardize my relationship with my brother, I didn't want to lose to him, or any of my extended family. So I was willing to go through that mental abuse and more if it meant my father’s happiness and the continued bond that forms between brothers. Sadly, I would eventually see this marriage fall apart and once more I got to relive all the ugliest therein. With a part of me always wishing they would get back together and mend the fences, so that we could all once again be a family.   

    To my step-mother’s credit, she did eventually find me on face-book years later. To be honest I didn't know what to make of the friend request that found its way to my inbox, or the message she sent with. In it, she wrote me a very heartfelt apology for how she treated me. Telling me how sorry she was and asking if I could ever find it in my heart to forgive her. So I accepted her friend request, and wrote her back, telling her I had forgiven her a very long time ago, because truth was I saw why she resented me so much even back then, I knew why. Even though she had two kids from a previous marriage whom of which my father had accepted as his own, she couldn't bring herself to accept me.  I was a constant reminder to her of father’s previous marriage and how committed. I would be the one thing that would always keep him tied to her.
              

            But now I’m happy to report that her and I still keep in touch and I do still have love for her. I even told her as much the last we talked and that she was often more of a mother to me, than my real one, because Trisha did  occasionally put forth at least a little  effort in trying to get to know me and she did spend a little bit of time with me here and there. Yeah, it may have been mostly because she didn't want to watch a particular scary movie alone, or  maybe she was just lonely when my father wasn't there and just wanted a movie buddy. But those memories of her asking me to sit with her and watch a movie together are some of greatest memories I have and still carry with me to this day. Movies had become her and mine thing that we would share and do together, further illustrating how the magic of a story, in a cinema, a movie can capture the essence of magic and bring unlikely people together. I remember how she would make me popcorn and how we would talk about the movie later, about what we thought of the story and how it should have ended. And to be honest if we shared more of those moments, I would have elected left home and would have moved in with them, adopting a new family all my own. 

But at fourteen, I had fallen into the habit of spending most of my summers with my father and when I stayed with him, I never wanted to come home, partially because I know I would be left alone and because I was afraid of my mother, who had the habit of making me miserable, so naturally I loathed the idea of coming home. Home was a place that never felt really real and always left me feeling a bit out of place, like I really didn't belong, even though my mother had went from physically beating me, to full scale psychological abuse which started a year prior. I had also grown to dislike my step father, but the blunt of that came earlier in the year when he nearly broke my arm because I complained of having a migraine and wanted to lay down. Then I was threatened into lying about how I had a bruise the size of a grown man's hand around my bicep, a angry black and yellow band around my arm, that everyone had wondered how I got, but to each one I told a different story.

             Then of course was my older brother who often tormented me by either having fun at my expense or by treating me like a second class citizen, who was his dork little brother. I hated him so much at times and my mother too, for she would laugh with him as he poked fun at me and my speech problems, then whenever I would get bad and try to say something hurtful in turn, I would be the one whipped and punished. I hated my life, I hated my home more, but that didn't stop me from wanting to love it. I wanted to be happy in my home and I wanted to have the kind of life you read about, or see on t.v. I wanted to believe in the stars. 

But this one summer, I came home to an unexpected surprise; I went to my room to unpack my things and to discover that my room had been redecorated. The bunk beds that once took up residence in my room were replaced by a very nice queen sized bed and my walls had been painted to my favorite color, which at the time was red. (Now it’s blue, things change) It was then my mom popped into my room and I was taken aback by how excited and happy she was to see me. Then I saw her brow crease with worry when she thought I didn't like it, when truth was I was in shock, I was speechless. It took me a moment for my wits to return and for me tell her how much I loved it. But that was two years before I would learn the unspeakable truth that would forever weigh on my soul. But sometimes, I also wonder if she could love me on this day how come she couldn't always, why did her love sometimes wash over me like a wave, to so quickly ebb and dissipate, why was it that the waves were so few and far between, leaving me stranded alone on this island, with no place to call my home. 

                At sixteen, I came home from a hard day at school to yet another surprise, this time to discover that  my mother had thrown me a surprised birthday party. To be honest, it had been something I mentioned from to time growing up, I've always wanted one, but as I grew older I began to believe less and less in it actually happening, so needless to say I was overjoyed. 

For all of ten minutes I couldn't stop smiling, believing this was one of the greatest days of my life and for ten minutes I had forgotten about all the hurt feelings, the nasty words and all the beatings. I opened the door to the smell of steaks frying on the grill out back, mac and cheese cooking on the stove, the smell of freshly baked cookies and chocolate fudge brownies, all my favorites. 

I laughed, not knowing what to think, believing that the Lord had finally granted my one request, which was to have my mother love me as much as she did my bother. Because this was it, this was the turning point I had been waiting for and I was so tired of struggling and fighting just to stay afloat and now, now I was happy. I had the attention I had always wanted, the sense of belonging I had craved for so long and now it was finally mine, or so I thought. 

Then the pictures started the first few were of me, then I posed with a few family members, than my brother Dominic and I was still feeling euphoric, until I heard my aunt Terry remark on how handsome my brother was and right in front of me, she began insisting that he should go into modeling because he was so unbelievably photogenic and handsome. To my brother's credit, he was being modest and tried brushing the comments aside, but they kept coming. My grandma on my mother's side jumped in, as well telling my brother how it was true and that girls were always inquiring about him because he was so  handsome, then of course my mother had her say, trying to convince him of all the good money that could be had if he went into modeling, while I stood there, completely forgotten. 

For awhile I did my best to pretend not to be a little hurt, so I wore my false smile and eventually having enough, I threw am arm around my brother and saying,

                “Hey, how about we go into modeling together, you know as brothers?” My brother quickly brushed me off and laughed, while the rest of the room looked at me as if looks could kill and as I tried figuring out what it was that I said that got everyone looking so peeved at me,I feel my Aunt Terry's hand closing around my arm as she pulls me aside saying,
                  “Hey, you’re not like your brother, he’s really handsome and you shouldn't be acting all jealous because you're not and he's your brother.”

                  At sixteen, I didn't know rather to laugh or to cry, I wanted to believe she was just joking around with me, even if it was a little mean. But before I could formulate any kind of response my grandmother (on my mother's side) Pulls me around, telling me it's okay to be average and I shouldn't be acting this way just because he's really special and and very handsome.
                I couldn't believe my ears, heck I couldn't even believe this was really happening and I had thought this was suppose to my day, and all could feel was m heart sinking along with whatever positive self image I still possessed.

               Then of course my mom chimed in, I don’t know why when she first interrupted my aunt and grandma that I allowed myself to believe she was jumping to my defense, instead she launched into telling me about everything that was wrong with me. How my nose was too big and that I needed plastic surgery to get it fixed, then piece by piece she tore me apart, telling me how my hair was too greasy and unkempt, that I was too weakly, scrawny, my clothes didn't fit me right, I had poor posture, bad skin, I couldn't stand or walk right, my teeth weren't white enough, my gums weren't pink enough, etc. By then end of it I just wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and die, but of course she didn't stop there, she went as far as pointing out my speech problems, the grades I was making in school and so forth.  

              
            That day my favorite foods had lost their taste, I had lost my appetite, lost in my own depression, thinking how sorry they'll all be once I'm gone, but I played my part, I smiled falsely, pretended that everything okay; even though I was dying inside and when I finally got to blow out my candles, I wished for a new life and I hoped for love to come into my life and make sense of all of this.

            Later I would grow to suspect everything that happened was some veiled attempt to breed resentment between my brother and me, but it never took. Even when he was making my life miserable I still loved him, he was my brother and he always will be. brothers are suppose to be a pain, suppose to torment you and get on your nerves. Even my step-brother and me for as well as we did get along we often got on each others nerves, would tease one another and annoy the ever loving crap out of each other. So no, I never really blamed Dominic for anything that's happened, because he was my brother.

                But, Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had spoken out and made myself heard, to admit how I wasn't perfect but to ask who of us really was, I could have pointed out the faults of everyone in that room if I had wanted to. But I didn't, instead I retreated into my room, having always preferred losing myself in a book, a movie, a video game, or hanging out with my own friends than try and pretend I was a part of something that I wasn't. But it was okay, I had my friends, I had an amazing step brother and sister and it was they who always found me and pulled me back from that ledge that my depression had often brought me. They were my strongest supporters, my biggest fans, the people who I'll always love and never forget, remembering always there words which will stay with me until the very end of my days. I may have been just days from learning the truth. But one thing I learned from writing this blog, which is this, appreciate your family for what it can be, not what it should be, step parents, step brothers and sisters can be just as good, or sometimes even better than the real thing, family is what you make of it, not what it should be, anyone can family, friends, co-workers, even your bosses, all you have to do is let it.

Okay, this has nothing to do with what I'm writing, but I got to meet my two favorite actors last weekend and they were awesome, Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flanery. 

Scars of Who We Are Intermission part-2

Scars of Who We Are: Intermission:

Life is not all sunshine and rainbows,
It’s in constant flux, a pendulum swinging,
wildly through the many shades of human emotion,
And it’s important to remember that sometimes,
That the greatest inspiration comes from moments of,
Deep despair and in the words of Martin Luther King Jr.
“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in
moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands in
times of challenge and controversy.”
And sometimes, great darkness can give birth to an even greater light.                 
           

             During the course of sharing my story with all of you, I sometimes get asked why I didn't leave when I had the chance. Which I did have once I was finally old enough to make the decision myself, about who I wanted to live with. I still sometimes even wonder what my life would have been like if I would have made the decision to live with my father. But a few things stopped me, with the first being my older brother, even though I always felt like he resented me for being able to see my/our father every other weekend. 
              A part of my decision to stay came from the fear, what if my mother was right and I would only worsen my situation and another part of me knew I would miss my older brother. Granted, we didn't hang out very much growing up, for the most part he often preferred hanging out with his friends and I was always the dorky little brother. We didn't always get along, he often teased me about my speech, because back then I had a lot of speech problems and even though he drove me nuts, I still loved him. I still love him even to this day, despite the bad blood between us and the harsh words we've exchanged. Although after our last conversation, things seemed to become a little more civil between us. But he was always my family and despite our problems he was my brother and the times he included me in something he did, or played with me, were some of the best times of my life. He could always make me laugh, or feel better whenever he saw I was really down and out. Also, despite everything that's happened, I always looked up to him, he was the coolest brother in the world and more than anything I wanted to be just like him in every way. He was funny, smart, creative and artistic. In fact it was him who got me interested in drawing and helped me evolve as an artist, giving me pointers here and there, telling me what was good and what I needed to work on. Eventually it got to where I would draw just for him, to show him whatever thing or creature I managed to come up with, just to hear his opinion. 
 
             I never had the chance to tell my brother that I owed most of who I am today, to him. My creativity and imagination was something he helped nurture, not just with drawing.  But he taught me how to really use my imagination to create whole new worlds. He did this by sheer virtue of introducing me to role-playing games. There's something to be said about sitting around a table, with pen, paper and a variety of dice, using not just your own, but the imagination of the person or persons you're playing with. It may sound weird, or juvenile, but hey we were kids and it was something I kept up with till my late teens and was something that always stuck with me. I took to it like a moth to the flame and my brother was always the game master, planning adventures for me to take a character that I created and walk him through this world my brother created. It was his story, but I could make the choices and and change and affect it as it was being told. Of course, I was always slave to the dice and my luck to delegate my successes or failures, often forcing me to improvise and at times accept my enviable defeat, waiting for an opening to turn the tables later on in the story. 

         My brother was often tough, but a fair as a gaming master, not afraid to make me squirm or fret over fear of losing the character who I created and grow to know, making him real to me. Because my brother always made it a requirement I make whatever character I created unlike myself, then he'd kindly have me write my characters back story and formulating his origin, along with motives, what he believed in and why. Which usually meant I had to do some required reading, which meant I would have to read about the world that the game took place in. My brother was always quick to give me a little homework, as well as ask me before every gaming session what my character had been up too, forcing me to always make it plausible. (So I couldn't just give my character new abilities, talents, weapons, or resources) I had to choose more mundane tasks, such as where he lived and whatever he did in his downtime. 

   Playing these games with my brother are some of the fondness memories I have of him and I was addicted. My brother was an excellent story teller and I loved being a part of it. It was playing these games with him that helped nourish my imagination and challenge my creativity, because I learned I would often have to out think, out wit and in a sense out play him in order to survive his story, so that my character would then be able go on to live another adventure. The first Role-playing game he introduced me to, if you haven't already guessed was “Mutants Down Under” And to this day I still remember the very first character I created, because even though I didn't want to be him at first, because I wanted to be a mutant turtle, but as chance would have it, I rolled a mutant Kangaroo, who I named, “Jack.” A character who survived numerous adventures, acquiring weapons, equipment and eventually I even managed to procure an airship. All despite my brother's eventual attempt to kill off this character I had grown to love, because he had grown bored writing stories for my character and of me being the same character all the time. I also think it was because it was growing harder to give me a suitable challenge with all the weapons and various other equipment and crew I managed to pull together. So he eventually forced me to retire Jack and I later created a few other characters who didn't have Jack's luck or his longevity. 
 

               Later when my brother got me into comic books, he got me involved with another role-playing game, “Marvel Superheroes” where I was able to create my own hero. Again I wanted a character like Wolverine or one of my other two favorites Spider-man or Iron-Man, which he did let me play for awhile, before he forced me to create my own crime fighter. Who's story was he got transformed into a super-powered being when a device he created to bring vegetation to the deserts exploded giving him powers to control and manipulate the earth around him. So I called me, "Earth Avenger" Who was almost as rich as Tony Stark but not quite and this was the game my brother had the most fun out of traumatizing and torturing my character. (Seriously unbeknownst to be, he turned my best in game friend into a monster and this monster attacked me, I kinda accidentally killed him and when I did that, he turned human again. Also my character at the time was engaged to his sister....twisted right?) But I still had fun and in time I managed to create a few other short lived heroes and from there I always in some hero kick, making up my own heroes and villains and imagining I was them .

But one of my favorite games, Dominic introduced me to, was “Werewolf the Apocalypse” An amazing game. Which he eventually handed down to me, which was a godsend. Because in school I never had very many friends, until the day I heard my now best-friend Matt, talking about the companion book to this, called "Vampire the Masquerade" So I jumped in and telling him how I had the other book, which won me some of the best friends anyone can ask for. That night I was invited over to their house to play and try our hand at role-playing and it was the first time anyone had ever asked me to come over to their house, (I was in the seventh grade) So it was a huge deal for me. Then because of my brother's tutelage, I soon became the premiere game-master and we ended up playing "Werewolf" instead of their vampire and it was because of my brother that I was able to run my own game and how I became so good at it they couldn't get enough. It wasn't long either that our group swelled from just the four of us gathered around the table, throwing the dice, that soon it we grew to a group of 8 all sitting around playing in a world that we created together. Eventually I even developed and we would play Role-playing games that I created myself and we play long into the night, laughing, fighting, joking and it was in that we grew incredibly close, becoming in every sense of the word a family and all because of my brother. 
         Our potential was limitless and our imaginations were our playgrounds, we never let our creativity burn away, we weren't rotting our minds with mindless television (And I love TV and movies as much as anyone, but I'm not ashamed to admit that it makes our minds lazy and robs us of imagination and creativity, making our minds dull and blunt, when we need books to keep our minds sharp and quick) But because of these games, we were able to sharpen our minds and explore whole worlds together, for many of us and myself in particular it was my escape. It was also some of the most fun I ever had and can't think of any other time where I, or any of would laugh so hard and so consecutively have such a good time together. Our late night gaming sessions contributed to my finally over coming my shyness and I can't tell you how many times our gaming lead to us having deep and meaningfully conversations, where we would talk about anything, everything, our lives, our hopes, dreams and our aspirations. We shared everything together and in so doing, they've became my brothers. 
If you never played a role-playing game before, I can’t recommend it enough, it’s story-telling at its finest, only everyone gets to contribute, making it a live action and interactive story, with everyone having their own specific rolls to play, with one person acting as the game-master, leading them ever further down the rabbit hole.

But I have fallen far from my point. Another reason why I chose to stay, was yes, because of my brother and my friends, but also because I loved my mother and more than anything I wanted her love. A few times I thought I was incredibly close to winning her affection, longing for her to look at me and to speak to me, to fight for me and defend just half as much as she had my brother. I wanted her love more than anything and I can never explain why I loved her, even when she usually went out of her way to make me miserable, which made me hate her. But still for reasons I can't describe and if for no other reason except she was my mother and I loved her, for maybe that reason and that reason alone. Although, I am sentimental and desperately clung  to those memories of when I was younger, when she used to read to my brother and myself. 

           Growing up, was so weird, I never knew one could grow to hate, fear and love someone so much and at the same time. Despite all the beatings, the put-downs and all the horrible things my mother said to me, she wasn't always so bad. She had moments when she could be incredibly sweet and kind, even on rare occasions was able to goof off with me and I think actually enjoy my company. I lived for the moments, believing I could win her love, praying every day that God would open her eyes and she'd see for the first time what she was doing to me, what she's done and apologize.
           But there was one time, one time in all my years that she made me feel just as loved as she did when she used to read to my brother and me. I was fourteen and I awoke in the dead of night, shivering, realizing that at some point during the night I had managed to kick my covers off.  So I started fumbling around in the dark for them, when I heard someone at my door and instinctively laid my head back on pillow and laid perfectly still. Then my door slowly eased open and I closed my eyes feigning sleep, out of fear that it was either my mother or step-dad.  
          Laying there with my heart hammering painfully against my ribs, realizing that the person at my door wasn't going away and after counting to ten, I slowly peeked out through the slits of my eyes and saw the silhouette of my mother standing there in the doorway, watching me sleep., (or in this case pretending to be asleep) I immediately began praying that she'd just close my door and leave, believing she was about to haul me out of bed and start accusing me, or hitting me. Then as I watched her slip silently into my room, I could feel my body tense and I closed my eyes out of fear she'd noticed I was watching her, then I just laid there, pretending to be asleep, almost too afraid to breathe, when the unexpected happened.

      I felt my covers being pulled up around me and I went from frightened to speechless, making me too afraid to move out of fear it would break whatever magic, or grace of God that came into my room that night. Then as she hugged me and softly whispered,
        "I'm sorry, for everything, I love you," Then she kissed the top of my head and more than anything I wanted to open my eyes and throw my arms around her, I wanted to tell her I loved her too, that she'll always be my mother. But I didn't, I was afraid I would ruin the moment and I opened my eyes just enough to watch her quietly slip back out of my room, closing my door lightly behind her as she went. I don't think I ever slept better than I did that night and never felt better as I slept off into dreamland.
        That moment stayed with me for a very long time and for several nights there after I would purposely kick off my blankets in the middle of the night and sometimes would even leave my door cracked out of hope it'd happened again. Even though it never did, I sometimes wondered if this was the first time she slipped into my my room, or if she had done it on numerous nights. Even today I catch myself wondering almost absentmindedly about what prompted her to this, even if it was just the one time, often telling myself it was something God meant for me to experience and to hear. Sometimes, I wonder if it was my mother at all, or the Lord who came into my room that night and sometimes I will swear it had to be her. Believing maybe never wanted to treat me the way that she had, that maybe she hated herself for mistreating me and that maybe, there was a reason for it. Like, maybe it's all been a part of the Lord's plan and she was playing her role, so that I could later help others and know their pain and loneliness for having known their darkness. Or maybe it was to help prepare me for something bigger, something yet to come. 

        Al I really know, is that in that moment, even if it was just for a moment, I had all doubt erased from my mind and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, my mother loved me, even if it was just for a moment, because sometimes, a moment is all you really ever need. 

Maybe I'll never get it,
Because the lights are out,
And I'm just typing in the dark
Knowing you'll never know what happened to me,
 And I'm just sitting here by myself, It's just one of those things,
I never spoke about,
When the words just started pouring out,
And here we are,
Just playing our parts.
            
               Until recently I hadn't spoken to my brother for a few years. The little contact we had usually resulted in accusations and bitter words, because he blames me for some things, which I don't blame in the least, because he never seen what really went on and I never told him, not for years and all he ever got to see was the best of our mother. However this time when we conversed I refused to get worked up, angry or frustrated. Instead I met him with understanding and listened to him, which I think got him to listen a little to me. Part of our differences stems from his recent claims to me that my father abused him. Something I can't say what he says is true or not. I can only talk about my own accounts and what I've been told my step brother and step sister, who even after that divorce still love and adore my father, with both telling me how good of a man he was. That said, I don't know about my brother's past with him and I told him as much, stating that I never told him what was going on, or what happened to me, for the same reasons he never said anything to me. It could have happened and I still love my brother and if my dad did beat him, I'm deeply sorry, it shouldn't have happened. 

            ~ It's not that any one person doesn't have the capacity to accept the truth, sometimes they just don't want to, or they cannot, for what the truth would mean. So they hide behind their own logic and intelligence while the truth marches by, instead of stepping out and joining it.