My Personal Story Part 2

The simple things in life are never as simple as they seem. It is kind of hard to express the pains one goes through when growing up. I remember only fragments of my childhood, because I think I suppressed most of it away. I did not go near the phone today and try to talk to my biological father who I do not refer to as father. The questions still burn in my soul and my journalistic needs want to know why.

I am not desperate, but I still think I have the right and deserve to know. After all it is my life he did screw up.

After my mother broke up with my father for whatever reason it was it was just me and her. I remember some of her jobs like the donut shop in Scarborough where my love of Apple fritters came into reality. Although I must admit, over the years the size of that donut has drastically shrunk. I remember a time when this donut could constitute as a meal. I also vaguely remember a time when she worked at a factory that made Kool-Aid or something. Oh, how I love the Kool-Aid, the cherry kind to be specific. I also remember my mom’s job at Roger Cable’s head office.

But whatever the situation my mother was a hard worker and only wanted one thing: to provide for me. It is hard to understand what she must of went through. There was so many hard times, but regardless of the pain and struggle my mother made sure there was always food on my table. But, she was never really there. It is the tradeoff really. My mother is a proud person, and I guess that is why I am also proud. Neither one of us were really the type to admit when we were weak, or try to go out and find help.

But I love my mother the same, and she inspired me in so many ways. My mother taught me at a young age how to be a man and take care of myself. I learned to cook at a very young age. As I look at my little brother now and how much he complains and fits, and I just get repulsed by it. He has had a father around all of his life, and he has had the whole world given to him. He has had so many opportunities I have had, but he lacks the respect. He talks to women in a certain way that makes me want to turn around and punch him in the face. He talks to our mother in a way that make me want to put him through a glass window. He has an I am always right sort of attitude, and an all knowing one as well. He complains when he has to walk the dog and lies about doing it. I know he is young but I would never have done that. But then again my emotional problems were not that simple. I will not make excuses for the trouble I caused because that is the cheap fools way out. I am glad I went to jail, because I learned the true lessons in life I truly needed to know. But that is another story to itself.

I remember my second father well. But, my mother’s good intention to find someone to form a family was justified indeed. I do not blame her for her decisions, even though she has apologized for it many times. But my second father, or Tony, was an asshole.

I was a happy child, and ‘was’ is the key word. Because my whole world was “crushed” after this dysfunctional family was formed. My mother would say for years and years that I was never the same person after Tony. I stopped laughing to be honest, and I stopped laughing for many years. Tony was a racist, and one that opened my eyes to the difference in people. Not to his perception but to the fact it existed. I know I was a young person but I remember a good friend of mind being thrown out of the house because he was Pakistani. This is the non graphic version of that event as well, because I wish to keep racial slurs out of this.

This is also a part of my life I never really talk about too much except to people who I have let it slip to. To me a lot of the memory has been blurred as well, many moments I have suppressed in tears and anger as a child. Did he beat me? I still can not know, but I was tortured so to say. Being an energetic child I have always been somewhat off, meaning I have been diagnosed with attention deficit disorder. But let us be honest here, who haven’t they diagnosed with that? But I have always forced myself to learn, because there is no such thing as a true learning disability. Screw that special class, give me the advanced shit.

Even though my energetic self was diffused in my childhood by abusive motives by my “step-father” I will never acknowledge that. My childhood with him was spent in my room. In my room was where I stayed while starring at the ceiling, the walls, the floors and the door. I was told to shut up if I spoke to myself too loudly, or if I banged on the door to go to the bathroom. It is really embarrassing for a young boy when he soils himself, and not because he couldn’t control it. I could not get access to the bathroom. My mother would work long hours because she had to. She was the hard worker in the house. My closet always smelt of urine, but it was not my fault. At the time though, I always thought it was. I never understood really why I was such a bad person I had to stay in my room. I was embarrassed all the same though. I do not remember why my mother finally broke up with him and ended their relationship. But I think she knew something fucked up was happening with him and me. Well that is enough of this right now.