Dot dot dot.
Like some blinking white screen (that you'll never see) with nothing on it is supposed to provide you with such a dramatic effect, for me it was 30 minutes from the three dots to the first line. For you, 2 seconds.
2 more seconds.
I have things to say. Regardless of my writers block for the past three and a half years. I am just now trying to put into words thoughts and emotions that I've had for a long time.
Through all the transition, all the home changes, the foster care, group homes, failed relationships etc etc etc, this has been the only thing I've been able to do right.
That's tell you a story that you can follow along with.
Writing demands a setting. A plot. How does one derive a plot from real life? For a plot you'll need purpose. You'll need a climax, and eventually one day, an ending.
I am that purpose. There are many climaxes and I shall not be able to write my ending.
My story won't make it to Netflix or Hulu. Yet you'll see i can relate to Dee Dee Blanchard and Ruben The Hurricane Carter. I've been abused. I've been lied to. I've been lied about. I've been wrongfully incarcerated. There are many stories Hollywood has provided you with to keep you entertained.
This isn't Hollywood. This isn't television.
But it is reality.
My mother made up a fake story to keep my from my dad. She lied to me, my family, including her own mother, to keep her one prized possession (me). So prized in fact that she allowed me to become institutionalized to prove the lies. Only that caught up to her, eventually.
My father was a coward. To my family who will read this, you'll see it my way even though his memory is still something painfully pondered. Have you ever been exiled from a family because you look like someone who has died and people don't want to deal with the pain?
I've had multiple kids with multiple ex-girlfriends; and one ex wife.
I haven't kept a job longer than 2 and a half years. I've held over 50 jobs since I was 15. At 37, I still don't know what in the hell I want to do with my life. It used to be an exhilarating thought. Now its scary as hell.
Don't get me wrong here, I'm not a victim. I'm not a survivor either. I haven't survived yet. I won't "survive" until I have a relationship with all my kids, until they're grown, until I know ill never be homeless, or never have to endure another night in the cold.
By the time I'm at that point, it will be too late to celebrate. Too much time will have transpired. I just hope ill get to have the moment to realize it.
My parents left me with nothing. Hardly a name really. I've had to make that for myself. What a lousy job I have done to get that to stay in tact.
Finally at 37 though, I'm ready to tell the story. Im ready to make heads or tails of what's really happened. I feel like this will be the best therapy. Not sitting in a room, feeling cold, watching a clock, trying not to open up too much because I won't be able to conclude the way I need to.
This is the beginning of my conclusion.
Thanks for reading.
