Baby Brian

 

My name is Brian, I’m 30 years old, and I’ve done nothing with my life.  Sounds a bit harsh, I know.  But the truth isn’t always easy to swallow.  I’ve spent the past 10 years essentially wasting away, floating from job to job without concern for my future.  Now this sudden realization has hit me, and I ask myself, “what the hell are you doing with your life?”  The scariest part about this, is that I currently have no answer to that question.

But I guess to know how I got to where I am today, it’s best to start back at the beginning, horse before the cart, ya know?  I was born and raised in a small town, to a lower class family.  We didn’t have much, but there was usually always food on the table.  My childhood was some what uneventful, barring a few potentially traumatic events that I’ll get into later.  We had our ups and downs, same as everyone else.  But I had more friends than I could count, school was a breeze, and things were good.  Well, at least I thought so at the time, but in retrospect I realize that things might not have been as lovely as I thought they were.  You know, it’s funny how we can experience so many fun and amazing things in our lives, but one harrowing event can scar every happy memory you’ve ever known.  And when these scars occur at a young and impressionable age, those scars last.  So to get it out of the way, lets start with the scars first.

I guess if I’m going to do this for myself, I’m going to be as brutally honest as I can.  Starting with probably the most disgusting and horrible thing about my past, one that I haven’t even thought about in many years, but here goes.  When I was around the age of 9, I was sexually molested.  An older boy from my neighborhood with the decisively innocent name of Timmy used to come over often to play.  If I had to guess I would say he was around 14 or 15, which is only a gap of roughly 5 years, but at that young of an age, 5 years is huge.  My mother had always objected to our friendship due to the age gap, I would get angry with her when she would mention it, but mother knows best.  I can’t really tell you anything of the specifics of what happened, because honestly I do not know.  What memories I haven’t blocked out, are simply not worth dredging up.  My father caught him in the act, and physically threw him out of the house.  My parents both drove down the block to confront his parents, while I waited in the back seat of the car.  All I can remember is that Timmy had one of my Nintendo games that I really wanted back, and I never saw it again.  No charges were pressed, but that was the last I ever saw of him.  The last word I heard was that he was sent to a juvenile delinquent center for breaking and entering and theft.  I still want that game back.

The next event that certainly helped shape young Brian, for better or worse.  Was witnessing my sister being struck by a moving vehicle.  I was 12 years old at the time, and I watched the whole thing unfold.  The impact was so severe that it literally sounded like a shotgun being fired, this is an analogy that I always assume people think is hyperbole, but it’s the honest truth.  Her head hit the front bumper of the SUV so hard it put a dent the size of a basketball in the hard metal.  She lie in the center of the road, approximately 100 feet in front of the truck that hit her she flew.  I watched my mother fruitlessly attempt CPR on what was practically a corpse at this time.  I watched a large man run out of his house and try to pull my mom off of her, saying that she might do more harm than good, and he was right.  But try telling a grieving mother in shock that she can’t save her baby.  Good luck.  I wasn’t faring much better, they told me that I was running in circles crying, but I have no recollection of it.  A neighbor picked me up and sat me in a chair, I faced away from the scene of the accident, afraid.  Fortunately, my sister survived, but barely.  She was rushed to the hospital, and immediately doctors and counselors prepared us for the worst.  But somehow, some way, she finally woke from her coma.  I think the total time was around 6 months in intensive care, another month or so in a general care unit, then a good 6 months at a rehabilitation center.  They had to teach her to walk and talk again, but she was never the same.  Sometimes I wonder, as morbid as it may sound, if it had been better for everyone had she not survived.

I would say the last traumatic event of my childhood, was my fathers drug problem.  I would have been a teenager at the time, probably 16 or 17.  The start of his habits it seemed to coincide with my sisters accident, I’m not sure if they are directly related or not.  It started out harmless enough, a bit of pot smoking in the garage while he shot darts with friends.  But soon that turned into jars of meth hidden away in the loft, and police search units with drug dogs.  I guess fortunately he caught wind of police interest in him, due to one of the friends he shot darts with getting busted, so they were able to clear everything out in time.  But he lost his job of nearly 20 years due to all the rumors circulating.  I heard whispers at school, and even some direct confrontations at the lunch table, in which I denied everything, despite having seen it all with my own eyes.  I never had the best relationship with my father, he was never there for me as a child, plus he had another major problem with alcohol.  So this event certainly did not make things better between us.  Today, he is a drastically changed man, he limps around with a cane and a smile on his face, being overly sweet to everyone he meets.  But it’s not enough for me.  I remember the man that used to get drunk and belligerent, beat me much harder than was necessary.  I remember how he used to like to pin me against the wall by my neck to exert dominance, practically choking a small child.  I wonder if this is why I have such a fear of things/people touching my neck?  I can remember nearly fighting children who would grab the back of my neck at school.  I’ve never made this connection before until now…

Well, as horribly depressing as all this may sound.  It’s actually quite empowering to get some of these things off my chest.  The first traumatic event is one that I have never told anyone in my entire life, so to at least feel like I’m talking about it is more of a relief than I would have imagined.  It’s good to confront your demons I suppose.  And I know that despite all of this, I really have no reason to complain, my life was not so bad in the grand scheme of things.  I certainly know people who had it much worse than me.  So maybe in my next entry, we can discuss some of the more joyous moments that shaped me into who I am today.

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