well, I know I said I would update this regularly, but..I've been out of commission and kind of still am. Remember that little girl who brought me food? Well, she did.
See, the problem with being homeless and, I guess, any type of person, really...is that people have a stereotype about you. Her parents found out she was bringing me food. I feel as though any parent should congradulate their child on doing something to help a person out. Especially someone as young and innocent as 8 year old, Claire. She was so excited the night that she brought me food that I thought she was going to shoot confetti out of her ears if she held the plate any longer. She told me with her eyes gleaming that her parents made me a special dinner, a seperate dinner. There was a huge chicken breast and a drumstick, mashed potatoes, and a vegetable mix of green beans, carrots, and corn. I love corn and carrots, but I hate green beans. Claire sat there vivaciously next to me and watched me eat while telling me about her previous week at school while I listened intently, but focusing on nonchalontly picking the green beans out of the mix. I saved the chicken for last because it was what I was most excited about. The smell alone made the hair on my arms stand at attention and when I could barely wait anymore, I tore into the chicken drumstick like it was the last one on earth. I devoured everything on that plate and even ended up mixing the green beans into the mashed potatoes, trying to trick my mind and make me able to eat them. When I was finished, she took the plate and smiled and asked how tonight's meal was, as she reitterated the fact that her parent's had made it special for me. I said that it was very good, told her thank you, and asked her to also thank her parents. I slept the night with a full stomach, but woke up early to my stomach grumbling and turning. I quick ran into a nearby patch of trees (which had become my own personal commode) and unleashed a shit storm, quite literally. I soon felt the color flush from my face and was joined by an overwhelmingly high body temperature. I started taking layers of my sweat-soaked clothing off until I was down to my underwear and socks. I tried to walk back to my bench, but collapsed and vomitted three times. I was so weak that I just laid in the brush next to my vomit and feces and slept for what seemed like forever. Shortly after, I woke up and vomitted again, but this time I was shivering. I hurridley put all my clothing back on, while remaining on the ground because I lacked energy to stand up. I didn't even button my pants since just the thought itself was a chore. The moment I put my pants back on, my stomach started grumbling again. Panic overwhelmed my body like a tidal wave. As I stood up to move, I got so dizzy that I collapsed again and made friends with the notion of my death. The only thing I asked God for since my protection from my father was for me to not be crapping when I die. I fully accepted my fate and started to weep a little at the thought of leaving nothing, but everything behind all at once. When I was finished my second bowel movement in probably two hours, I collapsed again, with my pants down, layed in the fetal position, and fell asleep for a couple minutes. The only thing that awoke me was the realization that if I do, in fact, die right now, I won't be shitting- but will have my pants down. After adjusting myself, I laid down again and thought about who would find me, if they would tell Yolanda, if they would know to bury me next to my mother, if Claire would realize when I didn't meet her at the bench, and many other things like, for example, if anyone would even WANT to come down into the brush since the awful smell probably radiated for miles. I would rot in this spot. Nobody would know, and nobody would even care. I shed yet another tear over this thought and sat up to see if I was still dizzy. I sat against a tree for a minute or two and got up to make my way back to the bench. I felt like if I could at least make it back to civilization, that someone would see me die, and maybe...just maybe...someone would care. I slept nearly all day and only woke up once more to vomit. The next few days my vomitting and diharrea subsided gradually, but my stomach cramps remained until yesterday.
Right before writing this I had looked up my symptoms on the symptom checker on webmd and realized that the chicken that night, HAD been a little gooey. I had gotten salmonella.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Well, its been almost a year since I've written in this...Honestly, I've been meaning to, but I don't quite know how to illustrate to people what has happened. My life has basically crumbled before me in the matter of months, although its been happening slowly since my parents passed. I have been homeless again for the past few months. I slept outside and in the same clothes, as before, but this time it was a lot more difficult since I knew what it was like to be well-established. I feel like the transition from having nothing to even less was way easier to deal with then the transition from having it all to nothing. We will have time to catch up later, as I will make it a point to write in this again. Through the horrible weather, the people staring, the inquisitive children, the persistent sickness, and the lack of any materialistic belonging, I know I at least have this to write. Sadly, its the only thing I have.
When I remembered that I had to do this, I slept on a bench close to the library for several days and noticed that the employees locked every door except the side one closest to a row of homes. Luckily there was a bench on that side of the building too which quickly became my home the next few days while I checked out how I could sneak in. Although it was a public library, the employees would never let me go in, not even to use their facilities. I tried not to make eye contact with the employees because I felt like they could easily peer into my mind and know I was plotting to break into their library and use their computers...but then it hit me. It wasn't THEIR library, it was mine too! I had just as much right to be there as any other person. After all, it was a public place, was it not? No where on the library did it say "welcome everyone except for Bandy". It was that night that I placed all my fears behind me and walked through the unlocked door. I chose a computer that wasn't near a window in case someone would pass by and see the light. The whole time I was there, my stomach tossed and turned thinking "what if there is a cleaning person that comes through". My anxiety skyrocketed so much that I immediately turned the computer off and left the premises immediately. Apparently, I still needed a few days to think my plan through. Now I'm here. Typing quickly and keeping an eye on the time. Before I came to sit down, I passed through a break room where I saw a Nature Valley Oats n' Honey granola bar just sitting on the counter. I felt like it stood up and begged me to take it out of its misery. Feeling bad for the poor lonely granola bar, I made him a new home in my tummy. From the letters he sends, I hear it's better than the counter top. So, all is well.
Last time I wrote, I talked about Yolonda. Well, I got my job at the bakery, and Yolonda and I quickly fell in love. We had to remain professional among the high school kids who worked part time on the weekends, but during the week, we were all play, no cookies. All a memory now. I have to go back to my bench. There is a little girl who always sneaks food and water out to me in the middle of the night, so I don't want to miss my daily drop off.
When I remembered that I had to do this, I slept on a bench close to the library for several days and noticed that the employees locked every door except the side one closest to a row of homes. Luckily there was a bench on that side of the building too which quickly became my home the next few days while I checked out how I could sneak in. Although it was a public library, the employees would never let me go in, not even to use their facilities. I tried not to make eye contact with the employees because I felt like they could easily peer into my mind and know I was plotting to break into their library and use their computers...but then it hit me. It wasn't THEIR library, it was mine too! I had just as much right to be there as any other person. After all, it was a public place, was it not? No where on the library did it say "welcome everyone except for Bandy". It was that night that I placed all my fears behind me and walked through the unlocked door. I chose a computer that wasn't near a window in case someone would pass by and see the light. The whole time I was there, my stomach tossed and turned thinking "what if there is a cleaning person that comes through". My anxiety skyrocketed so much that I immediately turned the computer off and left the premises immediately. Apparently, I still needed a few days to think my plan through. Now I'm here. Typing quickly and keeping an eye on the time. Before I came to sit down, I passed through a break room where I saw a Nature Valley Oats n' Honey granola bar just sitting on the counter. I felt like it stood up and begged me to take it out of its misery. Feeling bad for the poor lonely granola bar, I made him a new home in my tummy. From the letters he sends, I hear it's better than the counter top. So, all is well.
Last time I wrote, I talked about Yolonda. Well, I got my job at the bakery, and Yolonda and I quickly fell in love. We had to remain professional among the high school kids who worked part time on the weekends, but during the week, we were all play, no cookies. All a memory now. I have to go back to my bench. There is a little girl who always sneaks food and water out to me in the middle of the night, so I don't want to miss my daily drop off.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
After my several expeditions to the local Goodwill, I felt a sense of accomplishment from it all, as odd as it sounds. I don't think people should feel good about themselves when they successfully steal an entire business-like outfit from a store, but I didn't really have much to be proud of these days. Okay, well, enough with the wallowing in self-pity.
So once I got my ensemble together, I dug through a dumpster near a shopping center and found an old rusty pair of scissors to cut my hair. It was so matted by this point, that I knew even with a snazzy new suit, nothing would be able to hide the fact that I had been living outside for the past several months. Once I cut my hair, I used the water from the sink to mess it up a little and hide the unevenness of my new 'do'. I proceeded down the street feeling like a new man. I consciously held my head up high to give the illusion that I was completely sure of myself. As I walked into the cafe a couple blocks down from the dumpster I found the scissors in, I somehow felt that I could get the job if I was up front with them. I had no current address because I was, in fact, homeless. I would tell them about my struggles in the past. I would tell them just how passionate and enthused I was about having a job, even if it only promised 2 hours a week and paid minimum wage. I just needed some hope at this point. With my new plan in mind, I stopped at the counter and rang the little bell that summons a worker from the back. Almost immediately, the tall, slender woman from the park came out from the back of the store and greeted me. I lost all confidence thinking about how impossible it was for me to talk to her that day. What made me think I could do it now? She was radiant. Her dark hair was pulled back and she had flour on her hands and apron. "Forgive me," she said as she moved a piece of hair from her eyes, "I was baking more cookies when you rang, and I'm a mess." She laughed at herself and put her hand on her forehead, causing a white, powdery handprint to be left there for the rest of the afternoon. I tried to talk, but I couldn't. I just looked at the floor and mumbled, "It's okay," which I followed with a nervous laugh. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER was all I could think to myself. I thought of my mother encouraging me to do things and how much she would believe in me. "What would you like?", said the lady with striking blue eyes. "I-uh...I'm.." I paused and took a deep breath and cleared my throat. "I'm Bandy...I'm here to apply for any openings you might have." She looked at me for a moment and squinted her eyes. "Do I know you?" she asked curiously. "Yes", I answered almost too suddenly. I began to think about whether or not I should tell her I was the homeless man from the park. That was my plan as I first entered, but that's no good now. It all changed as soon as I saw her. I continued with saying "of course you do! I'm your newest employee!" I couldn't tell, at this point, whether I was trying harder to convince her or myself that I had potential, but it worked. She smiled, threw her head back in laughter, and threw me an apron. "Well, lets get started", she said as she lead me to the kitchen, "By the way, my name is Yolanda".
So once I got my ensemble together, I dug through a dumpster near a shopping center and found an old rusty pair of scissors to cut my hair. It was so matted by this point, that I knew even with a snazzy new suit, nothing would be able to hide the fact that I had been living outside for the past several months. Once I cut my hair, I used the water from the sink to mess it up a little and hide the unevenness of my new 'do'. I proceeded down the street feeling like a new man. I consciously held my head up high to give the illusion that I was completely sure of myself. As I walked into the cafe a couple blocks down from the dumpster I found the scissors in, I somehow felt that I could get the job if I was up front with them. I had no current address because I was, in fact, homeless. I would tell them about my struggles in the past. I would tell them just how passionate and enthused I was about having a job, even if it only promised 2 hours a week and paid minimum wage. I just needed some hope at this point. With my new plan in mind, I stopped at the counter and rang the little bell that summons a worker from the back. Almost immediately, the tall, slender woman from the park came out from the back of the store and greeted me. I lost all confidence thinking about how impossible it was for me to talk to her that day. What made me think I could do it now? She was radiant. Her dark hair was pulled back and she had flour on her hands and apron. "Forgive me," she said as she moved a piece of hair from her eyes, "I was baking more cookies when you rang, and I'm a mess." She laughed at herself and put her hand on her forehead, causing a white, powdery handprint to be left there for the rest of the afternoon. I tried to talk, but I couldn't. I just looked at the floor and mumbled, "It's okay," which I followed with a nervous laugh. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER was all I could think to myself. I thought of my mother encouraging me to do things and how much she would believe in me. "What would you like?", said the lady with striking blue eyes. "I-uh...I'm.." I paused and took a deep breath and cleared my throat. "I'm Bandy...I'm here to apply for any openings you might have." She looked at me for a moment and squinted her eyes. "Do I know you?" she asked curiously. "Yes", I answered almost too suddenly. I began to think about whether or not I should tell her I was the homeless man from the park. That was my plan as I first entered, but that's no good now. It all changed as soon as I saw her. I continued with saying "of course you do! I'm your newest employee!" I couldn't tell, at this point, whether I was trying harder to convince her or myself that I had potential, but it worked. She smiled, threw her head back in laughter, and threw me an apron. "Well, lets get started", she said as she lead me to the kitchen, "By the way, my name is Yolanda".
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
It was around this time in my life that I met Yolanda.
I was sleeping on a park bench one day when I awoke to a wet sensation on my face. Slightly aroused and startled, I awoke to find a large collie licking the right side of my face. I jolted up and looked around to look for an owner or any person who looked like they'd be in search of a lost dog. It was just then that a tall, slender, dark-haired woman came over to me and apologized for her dog getting loose. I barely heard a word she said because I was immediately drawn into her piercing blue eyes which were brighter than the afternoon sky. I had never seen anything like her. The beauty that she so effortlessly radiated was beyond magical. I eventually muttered something that I thought sounded like, "No big deal". My mind raced to find something I could say to keep her here, but before I knew it, she was walking away with her dog in the direction she came from.
I didn't sleep much the next two nights. I just thought of how I could possibly see that woman again. I walked around town half hoping to run into her, half hoping to find a place that was hiring and wouldn't mind handing an application to a straggly homeless man. It was kind of a horrible cycle. I had to buy clothes and clean myself up before I could go job hunting; however, I had no money to buy clothes and clean myself up since I had no job. I got turned down at virtually every place I went to.
I forgot to mention that now I'm in Denver, Colorado. So I decided that the only way to get presentable clothes was to panhandle. I picked a spot near Benedict Fountain and presented people with the following statement. "Hi, my name is Bandy and I need to be honest with you. I'm terribly down on my luck and need a few dollars to purchase clothes for a job interview. Any assistance would be greatly appreciated." I then put on the sad puppy look and locked into their eyes while squeezing out a salty tear. Within a few hours I collected $25 dollars, enough to buy a dress shirt, nice pants, shoes and a belt from Goodwill.
So with my wad of cash in pocket I started the long walk up Colfax Avenue towards Goodwill. By the time I got there, it was closed. I always find myself just missing the boat in life. I'm a terrible planner and find it difficult to think rationally when there is something I want. Having more money at that moment since working at the school, I felt the urge to spend a little. I wasn't sure what to buy until I walked past a small neon tube sign hanging outside a rotting wooden building. I entered into a smokey room with a single incandescent bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. I promised myself before I entered that I would only have a beer and some fries, but like my Dad, once I start drinking I can't stop. Four beers and three shots of whiskey later, I flashed back to consciousness as I was being thrown horizontally out the side door. I landed on my cheek and was knocked out for what seems like a minute. When I came to, I attempted to shut my mouth and was shocked when my teeth wouldn't line up like they were supposed to. A tremendous pain rushed to my skull. My jaw was dislocated and I was the only one that could put it back in place. At this point I was in shock. I reached in my mouth and pinched my lower molars between my my thumb and pointer finger on each side. I counted to three and pushed with all my might to set my jaw back back in alignment. I heard a loud pop as the upper jaw grinded back in place below my right ear. Opening and closing my mouth made a melody of pops, cracks, and clicking noises. I walked behind the bar dumpster and passed out in exhaustion, drunkenness, and pain.
The next day I woke up in the most excruciating pain. I couldn't even open my mouth wide enough to eat a piece of sliced bread. I set off towards the soup kitchen to get the usual midday meal. Lucky for me they were serving my favorite, lentil and onion soup. My mood improved after a meal and I took off down the street for a stroll. Along the way, I saw a strap hanging out a trashcan on the street. On closer inspection, it was an orange Jansport backpack in only slightly worn condition. I took the bag and put my arms through it. It fit perfectly. My mouth and cheeks started raising into a smile. It felt like a passerby hit me square in the face with a sledgehammer. I later read that a jaw dislocation and a broken collar bone are the two most painful injuries.
During the next week, I frequented Goodwill stealing each item one at a time, secretly stuffing them in my new backpack, inside the dressing room. I tried a few times to beg for money by the fountain, but it was hard to talk and people stayed away from me because of the wound on my cheek.
I was sleeping on a park bench one day when I awoke to a wet sensation on my face. Slightly aroused and startled, I awoke to find a large collie licking the right side of my face. I jolted up and looked around to look for an owner or any person who looked like they'd be in search of a lost dog. It was just then that a tall, slender, dark-haired woman came over to me and apologized for her dog getting loose. I barely heard a word she said because I was immediately drawn into her piercing blue eyes which were brighter than the afternoon sky. I had never seen anything like her. The beauty that she so effortlessly radiated was beyond magical. I eventually muttered something that I thought sounded like, "No big deal". My mind raced to find something I could say to keep her here, but before I knew it, she was walking away with her dog in the direction she came from.
I didn't sleep much the next two nights. I just thought of how I could possibly see that woman again. I walked around town half hoping to run into her, half hoping to find a place that was hiring and wouldn't mind handing an application to a straggly homeless man. It was kind of a horrible cycle. I had to buy clothes and clean myself up before I could go job hunting; however, I had no money to buy clothes and clean myself up since I had no job. I got turned down at virtually every place I went to.
I forgot to mention that now I'm in Denver, Colorado. So I decided that the only way to get presentable clothes was to panhandle. I picked a spot near Benedict Fountain and presented people with the following statement. "Hi, my name is Bandy and I need to be honest with you. I'm terribly down on my luck and need a few dollars to purchase clothes for a job interview. Any assistance would be greatly appreciated." I then put on the sad puppy look and locked into their eyes while squeezing out a salty tear. Within a few hours I collected $25 dollars, enough to buy a dress shirt, nice pants, shoes and a belt from Goodwill.
So with my wad of cash in pocket I started the long walk up Colfax Avenue towards Goodwill. By the time I got there, it was closed. I always find myself just missing the boat in life. I'm a terrible planner and find it difficult to think rationally when there is something I want. Having more money at that moment since working at the school, I felt the urge to spend a little. I wasn't sure what to buy until I walked past a small neon tube sign hanging outside a rotting wooden building. I entered into a smokey room with a single incandescent bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. I promised myself before I entered that I would only have a beer and some fries, but like my Dad, once I start drinking I can't stop. Four beers and three shots of whiskey later, I flashed back to consciousness as I was being thrown horizontally out the side door. I landed on my cheek and was knocked out for what seems like a minute. When I came to, I attempted to shut my mouth and was shocked when my teeth wouldn't line up like they were supposed to. A tremendous pain rushed to my skull. My jaw was dislocated and I was the only one that could put it back in place. At this point I was in shock. I reached in my mouth and pinched my lower molars between my my thumb and pointer finger on each side. I counted to three and pushed with all my might to set my jaw back back in alignment. I heard a loud pop as the upper jaw grinded back in place below my right ear. Opening and closing my mouth made a melody of pops, cracks, and clicking noises. I walked behind the bar dumpster and passed out in exhaustion, drunkenness, and pain.
The next day I woke up in the most excruciating pain. I couldn't even open my mouth wide enough to eat a piece of sliced bread. I set off towards the soup kitchen to get the usual midday meal. Lucky for me they were serving my favorite, lentil and onion soup. My mood improved after a meal and I took off down the street for a stroll. Along the way, I saw a strap hanging out a trashcan on the street. On closer inspection, it was an orange Jansport backpack in only slightly worn condition. I took the bag and put my arms through it. It fit perfectly. My mouth and cheeks started raising into a smile. It felt like a passerby hit me square in the face with a sledgehammer. I later read that a jaw dislocation and a broken collar bone are the two most painful injuries.
During the next week, I frequented Goodwill stealing each item one at a time, secretly stuffing them in my new backpack, inside the dressing room. I tried a few times to beg for money by the fountain, but it was hard to talk and people stayed away from me because of the wound on my cheek.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Bandy early years
To sum up my last post, my father was an alcoholic and my parents died when I was a teen. My life is far from privileged and I've been through some trying times. I am now 43 years old and I'm homeless in Salt Lake City. My reason for writing this blog is because sometimes I get a little lonely and finding someone willing to listen is difficult. When I try to talk to people, they ignore me or curse at me and call me names.
Back to my story.
I am now 19 years old and still living in the same apartment in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. My job as the assistant janitor at Cuyahoga High was going okay. It was a rather warm day for early March and I was satisfied from my lunch of pepperoni and American cheese. I was sent to fix a clogged toilet at the auditorium which is located in a separate building next to the school. This single occupancy bathroom at the back of the auditorium is rarely used except by teachers during assemblies and members of the chorus that practice during 4th period. The person that dropped off a load of this caliber, big enough to make a Roto-Rooter sputter, was probably one of male tenors.
I rolled up my sleeves and made any necessary precautions to prevent a splash back. This was a big bad monster turd and I was determined to conquer it in battle. My plunger as my lance with a firm grip and a clear mind I gave my first attempt at basic combat. I tried to remove the blockage with no luck. I pictured the Knight in the story my Mom used to tell me before bedtime. He was the greatest horseback rider in all of Spain. A bright idea flashed into my mind. I felt the need to mount my chocolate-filled porcelain steed, similar to the Indians that can ride a horse standing on the saddle. Now on top of the seat staring down at my fate and freedom, I raised the rubber ended stick over my head and brought it crashing down with all my might... this was a mistake. The plunger broke a hole in the front of the toilet along with breaking the value that brings water in to the bowl. Sewage was spraying in air akin to an indoor geyser. I desperately tried to stop the flow until I was up to my shins in dirty liquid. The stench in this small bathroom was worse than my Dad's breath. Because I broke the toilet they fired me on the spot. I never received my last pay check from Cuyahoga High. My landlord kicked me out immediately when I couldn't pay rent. Lets just say that tenant rights were basically non-existent in 1966.
Now I am homeless again and on the road because I had my fill of Ohio. My library computer time is almost up.
Here is a poem I have been working on.
Bandy kept going
One day bruises will heal,
a simple pat on my back
Can I feel
A sincere compliment
all I need
Will I freeze tonight
Back to my story.
I am now 19 years old and still living in the same apartment in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. My job as the assistant janitor at Cuyahoga High was going okay. It was a rather warm day for early March and I was satisfied from my lunch of pepperoni and American cheese. I was sent to fix a clogged toilet at the auditorium which is located in a separate building next to the school. This single occupancy bathroom at the back of the auditorium is rarely used except by teachers during assemblies and members of the chorus that practice during 4th period. The person that dropped off a load of this caliber, big enough to make a Roto-Rooter sputter, was probably one of male tenors.
I rolled up my sleeves and made any necessary precautions to prevent a splash back. This was a big bad monster turd and I was determined to conquer it in battle. My plunger as my lance with a firm grip and a clear mind I gave my first attempt at basic combat. I tried to remove the blockage with no luck. I pictured the Knight in the story my Mom used to tell me before bedtime. He was the greatest horseback rider in all of Spain. A bright idea flashed into my mind. I felt the need to mount my chocolate-filled porcelain steed, similar to the Indians that can ride a horse standing on the saddle. Now on top of the seat staring down at my fate and freedom, I raised the rubber ended stick over my head and brought it crashing down with all my might... this was a mistake. The plunger broke a hole in the front of the toilet along with breaking the value that brings water in to the bowl. Sewage was spraying in air akin to an indoor geyser. I desperately tried to stop the flow until I was up to my shins in dirty liquid. The stench in this small bathroom was worse than my Dad's breath. Because I broke the toilet they fired me on the spot. I never received my last pay check from Cuyahoga High. My landlord kicked me out immediately when I couldn't pay rent. Lets just say that tenant rights were basically non-existent in 1966.
Now I am homeless again and on the road because I had my fill of Ohio. My library computer time is almost up.
Here is a poem I have been working on.
Bandy kept going
One day bruises will heal,
a simple pat on my back
Can I feel
A sincere compliment
all I need
Will I freeze tonight
Saturday, February 27, 2010
starting out.
My name is Bandy...I'm not sure how this whole blogging thing works, but i thought I'd give it a try as a hobby and as something to hold on to since I no longer have much, but we'll have time for that all later.
I was born in 1967 (making me 43 years of age) and life has consisted of some pretty interesting ups and downs. my Mom died when I was only 12 years of age and my father had raised me since. My mother was a beautiful woman who was full of life. She was very involved in my life and loved me very much. We would go to the park every Saturday morning and sip orange juice under a giant tree by the river. We'd catch butterflies and push each other on the tire swing. Those happy times changed when she passed due to a strange illness she acquired from working as a nurse in the town hospital. From then on, my life was doomed. My father became extremely distant. He spent his days in his recliner in the dark of our den watching family videos from when I was first born. Although before my mother's death, I don't really have any recollection of him being a big drinker, he was from then on. He always had a bottle in hand. I began to grow up fast, having to suddenly make my own lunch, walk 4 miles to school (because dad was usually just going to bed), clean up after him, wash my own clothing and cook my own meals. I never really minded doing this though because I loved him and I thought I was taking care of him. I got a job when I turned 14 because we didn't have money for food anymore. All the money was going to my father's increasingly dangerous habit.
I didn't stay at my job long because I was let go for poor attendance. I never told anyone what happened at home, so surely I couldn't go to work with bruises on my face. I would stay home until they cleared and then journey back into the world, only to become a shut in the next time my father had a mental break. He would call me names and tell me I "stole his wife away from him". He was clearly losing his mind, but I was only 14 years old. What could I have done but care for him in his most fragile state? Since I got fired, I had trouble finding another job that kept me around because of my attendance issue. I began stealing from the local stores for items key to my survival. I really had no other choice...and I never once got caught. I prided myself on my ability to be swift and stealthy. I mean, what else did I have?
Eventually, my father died of alcohol poisoning. I was 17 years old when I woke up on that rainy morning in April. I immediately went to the bathroom to tend to my wounds from the night before's beating. He threw me down the steps, and I'm pretty sure I broke my ankle from the fall, but I'll never know. I just limped around for the next few weeks and told people who asked that I had twisted it playing catch with my dad. Far from the truth, but I needed people to believe I had a normal home life. After washing my face and replacing bandages, I went downstairs to the den to check on my father. He looked exactly how he usually looked in the mornings- slumped over in his recliner, empty beer bottles and cans flooded his feet, but an unopened one was never out of arms length. I walked over to him slowly, unsure of how to wake him up. I didn't know if he'd continue his rant from the night before, or if he'd go up to bed like I would quietly suggest to him. As I approached, I smelled something awful. I'll never forget the smell, however, I'm still not sure how to explain it. I noticed he had thrown up all down the front of him. He still had wet lines running down his rugged face from when he had cried. I reached for him but stopped suddenly when I noticed that his eyes were open. I jumped back, as a shot of pain rushed through my whole leg starting from my ankle. After I gathered myself together, I cautiously walked over to my father again who hadn't moved since I came downstairs. I touched his shoulder, which was ice cold, and there he sat. Still. Motionless. Lifeless.
In a state of panic, I ran outside, and down the street to my best friend Kenny's house. I didn't even think about the throbbing pain in my ankle or the wounds on my face and arms. I collapsed on the front porch as Kenny's mother opened the door. I told her how I found my father as best as I could while catching my breath and crying uncontrollably. My head was pounding. She had her husband call the hospital and within minutes the ambulance came, presumed my father as dead, and took him to the morgue. I stood alone a few days later at my father's funeral, which was graciously paid for by Kenny's family. He was buried right next to my mother, and now they were finally together like he had wanted for the past 5 years.
Since I was 18 in a few weeks, I was only in a foster home until then. Thank God for that, because it was the worst place. I'd much rather be at home with my alcoholic, abusive father than at that foster home for one more day. I had, by this time, dropped out of high school, so after the few weeks in the foster home, I found a cruddy job that paid minimum wage. I lived with Kenny for a little bit until I got enough money saved up for an apartment. It was a real dump, but it was what I could afford. I often would lie awake at night and think about my parents. Think about why my dad hit me and accused me of taking his wife away. Think how my mother is doing and if she still watches over me. Think if they would be proud of me and what they would say about my very own apartment.
My hour in the library on this computer is up, so I'll write more later.
I was born in 1967 (making me 43 years of age) and life has consisted of some pretty interesting ups and downs. my Mom died when I was only 12 years of age and my father had raised me since. My mother was a beautiful woman who was full of life. She was very involved in my life and loved me very much. We would go to the park every Saturday morning and sip orange juice under a giant tree by the river. We'd catch butterflies and push each other on the tire swing. Those happy times changed when she passed due to a strange illness she acquired from working as a nurse in the town hospital. From then on, my life was doomed. My father became extremely distant. He spent his days in his recliner in the dark of our den watching family videos from when I was first born. Although before my mother's death, I don't really have any recollection of him being a big drinker, he was from then on. He always had a bottle in hand. I began to grow up fast, having to suddenly make my own lunch, walk 4 miles to school (because dad was usually just going to bed), clean up after him, wash my own clothing and cook my own meals. I never really minded doing this though because I loved him and I thought I was taking care of him. I got a job when I turned 14 because we didn't have money for food anymore. All the money was going to my father's increasingly dangerous habit.
I didn't stay at my job long because I was let go for poor attendance. I never told anyone what happened at home, so surely I couldn't go to work with bruises on my face. I would stay home until they cleared and then journey back into the world, only to become a shut in the next time my father had a mental break. He would call me names and tell me I "stole his wife away from him". He was clearly losing his mind, but I was only 14 years old. What could I have done but care for him in his most fragile state? Since I got fired, I had trouble finding another job that kept me around because of my attendance issue. I began stealing from the local stores for items key to my survival. I really had no other choice...and I never once got caught. I prided myself on my ability to be swift and stealthy. I mean, what else did I have?
Eventually, my father died of alcohol poisoning. I was 17 years old when I woke up on that rainy morning in April. I immediately went to the bathroom to tend to my wounds from the night before's beating. He threw me down the steps, and I'm pretty sure I broke my ankle from the fall, but I'll never know. I just limped around for the next few weeks and told people who asked that I had twisted it playing catch with my dad. Far from the truth, but I needed people to believe I had a normal home life. After washing my face and replacing bandages, I went downstairs to the den to check on my father. He looked exactly how he usually looked in the mornings- slumped over in his recliner, empty beer bottles and cans flooded his feet, but an unopened one was never out of arms length. I walked over to him slowly, unsure of how to wake him up. I didn't know if he'd continue his rant from the night before, or if he'd go up to bed like I would quietly suggest to him. As I approached, I smelled something awful. I'll never forget the smell, however, I'm still not sure how to explain it. I noticed he had thrown up all down the front of him. He still had wet lines running down his rugged face from when he had cried. I reached for him but stopped suddenly when I noticed that his eyes were open. I jumped back, as a shot of pain rushed through my whole leg starting from my ankle. After I gathered myself together, I cautiously walked over to my father again who hadn't moved since I came downstairs. I touched his shoulder, which was ice cold, and there he sat. Still. Motionless. Lifeless.
In a state of panic, I ran outside, and down the street to my best friend Kenny's house. I didn't even think about the throbbing pain in my ankle or the wounds on my face and arms. I collapsed on the front porch as Kenny's mother opened the door. I told her how I found my father as best as I could while catching my breath and crying uncontrollably. My head was pounding. She had her husband call the hospital and within minutes the ambulance came, presumed my father as dead, and took him to the morgue. I stood alone a few days later at my father's funeral, which was graciously paid for by Kenny's family. He was buried right next to my mother, and now they were finally together like he had wanted for the past 5 years.
Since I was 18 in a few weeks, I was only in a foster home until then. Thank God for that, because it was the worst place. I'd much rather be at home with my alcoholic, abusive father than at that foster home for one more day. I had, by this time, dropped out of high school, so after the few weeks in the foster home, I found a cruddy job that paid minimum wage. I lived with Kenny for a little bit until I got enough money saved up for an apartment. It was a real dump, but it was what I could afford. I often would lie awake at night and think about my parents. Think about why my dad hit me and accused me of taking his wife away. Think how my mother is doing and if she still watches over me. Think if they would be proud of me and what they would say about my very own apartment.
My hour in the library on this computer is up, so I'll write more later.
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