Our tragic comedy of a story starts in a little town in Texas, 667 people. We always joked that it was supposed to be 666 but the town changed it because Jesus wouldn’t like that. Looking back its probably more true than not. To call it a town might be a bit of an exaggeration. Only two roads led in but no roads seemed to lead out. Deep wood racists and ignorant money bagging white people plagued our meager population. Walking along the roads you’d see various animals shot or attached to ropes where the rednecks had drug them to death for fun. Strung out faces with rotting teeth greeted you at every turn to the point of becoming a normality. Why my parents ever thought this was a good place to raise kids is a testament to salesmen.
They started with a shell of a house and for 20+ it stayed unfinished. A never ending source of grief for my mother that carried into her second marriage. My mother is of course a difficult topic for me to speak on. On one hand she raised 6 kids with little to no help from my biological father even when they were married. Home schooled us, birthed at least the last two of six at home in bed, no drugs and made damn sure the first 2 years of our lives got us as close to being superhuman as possible. I still don’t get sick. On the other hand she locked out us out the house everyday so she could run amuck on the computer sowing her seeds of despair and destruction thru the internet. Among her other labels, raging alcoholic, serial cheater, guilt tripper, selfish bully and self proclaimed victim of the world. Her lack of development can probably be linked to the foolish idea to meet/marry some loser (my father) in high school and never learn to stand on her two feet. Never following your dreams will destroy your soul, blaming your choices to not do so on the people around you will destroy theirs’.
My father, at least for the short time I knew him, was hateful, controlling, physically abusive, a workaholic, fake Christian and a coward. He choose Christianity because if God says rule the house then anything you say is law. He ruled with a iron fist and loud voice. I have very few memories from childhood of him but not a single one has even the slightest hint of a positive overtone. The last I spoke to him was over 16 yrs ago and ended with getting punched in the face by him. I was 12. Both parents where adamant about letting me and my little sister, we’re the youngest two, know that they never wanted us. The other races were breeding to fast and it was their (my parents) duty to keep up, lest we be over run.
This first post isn’t designed to insight pity or paint me as a victim of my upbringing. I made my choices and understand there isn’t anyone to blame but myself. This post is so I can begin to unravel my past in order to fix my future. I’ve done some heinous shit and I want to know how I got there. I’m sharing it in hopes of putting a human story to the red dot on a map I currently reside under.
Confessions of a Criminal 