I always knew I was different. I've known it along. My first memory of anxiety was at the ripe age of 8, shortly after I was notified that my parents would be getting a divorce. The divorce wasn't that big of a deal. It was the mediation involved with the whole divorce process, as I became the lead negotiator for the young, struggling couple. Every Sunday visit involved an hour-long ritual of my Father pleading with me, begging for me to tell my Mother how much he missed her. He wanted me to convince her that he was a changed man. I was fucking 8 years old. It was great decisions such as these, that my Father had, that kept him from earning any Father of the Year Awards. I spent countless hours listening to the poor bastard tell me how great of a guy he was and how he was so sorry. This is where my Father and I differ because you won't catch me groveling and sobbing over a woman for months. Life's too short. Cry two tears in a bucket, Fuck it.
My pops tried his best. I know he did. But he just was a pretty shitty dad, for the most part. When he was around, he would take me to play ball and do the dad stuff, but unfortunately, he wasn't around that much. Apparently, he was a womanizing, drug using, alcoholic. Or something along those lines, according to Mother.
As the years passed, he eventually stopped paying child support, attempted suicide twice, was arrested a few times, and fled the state. But not in that order.
The old folk legend has the tale being told that Pops was arrested for not paying child support. While incarcerated, his father, my grandad, blew his brains out with a .357 on Thanksgiving day. Apparently, not every Thanksgiving gets prefaced with the word Happy, in Big Mike's household. So while in jail, my dad convinces two of the guards to let him attend his dads funeral. Since my dad previously knew them from high school, they let him slip out for a few hours to attend the services. Pops never went back to jail. He caught a ride to Florida and he's resided there pretty much ever since. My dad, at the minimum, is manic depressant. And that's a generous diagnosis.
I was 22 years old when my grandfather took his life. It didn't fuck me up because he was dead, it fucked me up because of what his suicide gave me. There's a bit of an enlightment process taking place when you get that kind of news. I was like, "Wow. We are a Fucked Up Bunch".
There are certain 'moments' in my life that I allowed to take away some of my Hope. That was one of those moments.
Now at that age, I had already made two quick hospital trips for anxiety attacks, had one nervous breakdown, and had already cursed out one shrink. Now Grandpa's dead? And Pops has tried suicide twice, too? Fuck. At that moment, I knew I was crazy. Any glimpses of hope that I might have been sane were now long gone. It was as if all hope was gone and I was destined for unhappiness and sorrow. I stopped caring.
I hope my 11 year old son never finds out about this. I should probably have a suicide hotline tattooed on his forearm now.
Fuck. I never thought about that until just now. My son. He lives in Georgia with his mother and he's an honor roll student. He's an amazing young boy and I look forward to spending every summer with him as I help to mold his young mind and try to pass on some wisdom.
But what if he follows in our steps? Because he's just a child, I never thought that he might fall victim to this vicious cycle. Until just now. I was only 14 the first time my anxiety caused my shakes to become noticeable.
Damn. Damn. Damn. I can only hope that he's not going to struggle like I did. I can only do my best to make sure that he'll try to live each day to the fullest, but it's tough to tell him that at the age of eleven. So I just hope he'll be okay, for now. But how the hell do you tell an eleven year old to not be afraid? I wish I had a manual for this shit. I just hope he knows that nothing is really that serious. I hope he's not like me.
My pops tried his best. I know he did. But he just was a pretty shitty dad, for the most part. When he was around, he would take me to play ball and do the dad stuff, but unfortunately, he wasn't around that much. Apparently, he was a womanizing, drug using, alcoholic. Or something along those lines, according to Mother.
As the years passed, he eventually stopped paying child support, attempted suicide twice, was arrested a few times, and fled the state. But not in that order.
The old folk legend has the tale being told that Pops was arrested for not paying child support. While incarcerated, his father, my grandad, blew his brains out with a .357 on Thanksgiving day. Apparently, not every Thanksgiving gets prefaced with the word Happy, in Big Mike's household. So while in jail, my dad convinces two of the guards to let him attend his dads funeral. Since my dad previously knew them from high school, they let him slip out for a few hours to attend the services. Pops never went back to jail. He caught a ride to Florida and he's resided there pretty much ever since. My dad, at the minimum, is manic depressant. And that's a generous diagnosis.
I was 22 years old when my grandfather took his life. It didn't fuck me up because he was dead, it fucked me up because of what his suicide gave me. There's a bit of an enlightment process taking place when you get that kind of news. I was like, "Wow. We are a Fucked Up Bunch".
There are certain 'moments' in my life that I allowed to take away some of my Hope. That was one of those moments.
Now at that age, I had already made two quick hospital trips for anxiety attacks, had one nervous breakdown, and had already cursed out one shrink. Now Grandpa's dead? And Pops has tried suicide twice, too? Fuck. At that moment, I knew I was crazy. Any glimpses of hope that I might have been sane were now long gone. It was as if all hope was gone and I was destined for unhappiness and sorrow. I stopped caring.
I hope my 11 year old son never finds out about this. I should probably have a suicide hotline tattooed on his forearm now.
Fuck. I never thought about that until just now. My son. He lives in Georgia with his mother and he's an honor roll student. He's an amazing young boy and I look forward to spending every summer with him as I help to mold his young mind and try to pass on some wisdom.
But what if he follows in our steps? Because he's just a child, I never thought that he might fall victim to this vicious cycle. Until just now. I was only 14 the first time my anxiety caused my shakes to become noticeable.
Damn. Damn. Damn. I can only hope that he's not going to struggle like I did. I can only do my best to make sure that he'll try to live each day to the fullest, but it's tough to tell him that at the age of eleven. So I just hope he'll be okay, for now. But how the hell do you tell an eleven year old to not be afraid? I wish I had a manual for this shit. I just hope he knows that nothing is really that serious. I hope he's not like me.
