The First Five Years

I don’t really have any of my own memories before the age of eight. All of the memories I have were planted by someone else in my life. Yes, there are occasional glimpses of my past that pop into my head, but I really can’t hold onto them long enough to call memories. The memories I’m going to tell you aren’t really memories at all but stories told to me by friends and family members so many times that I feel like I really remember living them. That being said, I can’t guarantee the stories I’m about to tell are completely truthful, but in my mind and heart, they are truth. They are what I’ve been told, they are what use to haunt me, they are what I believe.

I was born on April 1, 1971. My mom and dad were in the process of moving into their first home. They purchased a one bedroom house on about a half an acre in Santa Rosa, Ca for $11,000. My brother was 22 months old when I was born, and we had two great dane dogs named Duchess and Krishna. My parents were young. My mom was not quite eighteen and my dad was almost twenty-one.

My parents’ relationship was volatile, to say the least. As I remember it, they were always yelling at each other and throwing things. It only occurred to me many years later that my dad had a drinking problem, and my mom loved her drugs. What a combination.

When I was three or four, my dad and mom split up. My mom was experimenting with her sexuality, and my dad would have nothing to do with it or her. I can vaguely recall a great tug-o-war between my dad and my mom. My brother and I were tossed back and forth between them like we were toys or possessions rather than live, feeling people. Finally, custody landed with my mom when I was five and my brother was seven. Unfortunately, we got in the way of her “lifestyle”, so she called up my dad and told him that she couldn’t handle having the kids any longer. He had to come get us right away. Dad picked us up and moved us into a tiny house, set back from the road.

My vague memories contain a big, green bus, a piñata in the yard, and a treehouse. The memories that have been fed to me include much more than that. My dad was an abusive father from the time we were out of diapers. He abused my brother much more than me. I found out the reason later on, but there really is no excuse.

One time dad was taking us to school, I was in kindergarten, and my brother Eddie was in the second grade. Dad told us that he would leave without us if we didn’t hurry. I jumped in the truck and scooted to the middle of the seat. My brother was about twenty feet behind me, running toward the truck with his shoes in his hand. My dad decided not to wait for my brother and began to pull away from the house. Eddie jumped toward the truck and grabbed onto the door. Dad continued to drive. I’m told I was screaming as my dad dragged my brother down the gravel driveway. By the time Eddie pulled himself into the truck, his feet were torn up and bloody. Dad didn’t care. All he said was, “put your shoes on.”