Crikey, I haven’t posted since the earthquake. Devotion to blogging is a virtue! This particular blog is interesting in that I am trying to write as fast I possibly can, while maintaining a proper sense of the English language.

At any rate, though I have random thoughts fueling the speed of my typing, I do have an obligation to the title. So as the sounds of Coast-to-Coast AM drift through the air, I will convey some of the horrors that underscore the nature of who I am, and why I battle with depression.

For starters, my adoptive father first hit me upside the head when I was around seven or eight. This set off a trend that led me to hate him ultimately. What’s interesting, though, is that I had a friend who lived down the street from me, and as I was always running for my life by the time I was a teen, I often found myself at his house. Turns out, he went through some abusive events as well. Eventually the day came when I needed a place to stay, and my friend’s father…one day he comes flying into the room like a tornado after me!

Oh, where am I going with this? I guess it’s worth noting that these two men were military men, my adoptive father being ten years the older, with a penchant for John Wayne. Abusing boys was part of his make up, because he would never dare touch his blood daughter; and if you can’t have a boy of your own, why not adopt one? I could tell he hated his wife, which seemed an added factor of his explosiveness, but that John Wayne thing about him, it made him stay with the poor woman till I turned eighteen. Sure enough, right around my birthday, I learned from my adoptive mother on the phone, “He’s divorcing me!”

By this age I was pretty messed up in the mind. And it should be noted that my experience with my best friend’s father didn’t occur until I was around twenty-seven. And the reason for this requires explanation.

As I had to run away as a teen so many times, I eventually came to rely on construction jobs to make my way in the world. I got fairly good, though I wouldn’t consider myself having been a great guy. Nevertheless, I worked. That is, until I fell from a balcony one day.

That’s right. It was not at work either. It was a Saturday night and I had a few drinks. Why I’m side-stepping details about my ex-girlfriend’s role in all this (it wasn’t her fault or anything), I don’t know. What I can say is that I was barefoot, and I accidentally fell…straight down…into the cement. I shattered both my heel bones and my ankles. I spent the night on the couch drinking and howling in agony, then I finally had to be taken to the hospital, where I was admitted and diagnosed with the horror that would ruin my life.

After a few years of trying to heal, I came to realize I was permanently disabled. I tried to do my construction jobs but to no avail. I ended up attempting school and staying with my kind friend from my teen years, but his father was unstable and well, the rest is history. I became destitute.

And so there’s trauma from an awful adoption, and there’s trauma from having to run away, which led to many awful experiences on the street. Then there was trauma in having both my feet shattered into bits, and there was trauma in becoming permanently disabled, with the inclusion of addiction and alcoholism. (I’m completely and utterly sober now, by the way.)

Does anyone like me now?

Well, I am trying, and I will continue to post, because a blog is a depressed individual’s best friend. And now for some Mortal Love for you:




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