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.
