Blarobbarg

Well, my last journal sucked and I had absolutely no incentive to write in it. I created my thread, "Your Official Opinion On...," to write and see other's opinions. So now I'm killing two birds with one stone by making a new journal in the style of my short lived but popular thread. Hopefully I won't let this one die.

I have several ideas for features kicking around, but will share none of them right now because I don't care.

As with my last awful journal, these are pretty much all going to be spur-of-the-moment, adlibbed posts. From my mind to my fingers to you. The quality isn't going to be anything mind-blowing, but hey, whatever.

That said, I'm going to kick this off with a bang (and ignore the very premise I started with). I'm going to give you my life story and some songs that are forever a part of certain memories. I highly suggest listening to the song while reading.



To start it off, Mozart's Requim. Whenever I think of my early childhood, Mozart is always a part of it. My mother was a firm believer that, in the words of that Babysitter from The Incredibles, "Mozart makes babies smarter!" This song, along with much of Mozart's work, is firmly a part of my childhood. Because of it, classical music as a whole is given a very sad twist, no matter the piece. Just read, it will make sense later.

I was born in 1992 into a less-than-stellar situation. My mother had married a crazy man. They had met because she was a bartender at a restaurant chain that he was a frequent patron of. They hit it off and began to talk. They were both ex-hippies that really enjoyed pot and alcohol. They both loved gardening. They both hated religion with a passion. They were both more-or-less outcasts from their families because of their "I don't give a ****" attitude. They were both psychologically traumatized from abusive childhoods. They had a lot in common.

But my father was severely bipolar, and suffered from bouts of incoherence and violence. He abused pharmaceutical drugs and was an alcoholic, which really didn't help his already unstable mental condition.

My wonderful mother in her sweet naivete loved this man, and love makes you do stupid, stupid things. She thought that she could fix him. She thought that he would get better. So they got married.

My parents decided to laugh in the face of the advice given by all their friends and family (or at least family who still cared about them) and start a hydroponic gardening business. They didn't have any dreams of their own, but they were building them together. It was like some sort of pot-haze fairy tale.

I was born, and my parents were ecstatic. My dad loved me to death, my mom was happy about starting a family after many years of despising the family unit as a lie and a farce. The business was slowly growing, they had a baby, and life was good.

Then, three years later, my little brother was born. He was an accident. My dad hated and wanted nothing to do with him. One time my mother came home with me, from grocery shopping I believe, and my father was shaking my then-toddler brother, yelling at him incoherently. I can only assume that he was jacked up on some sort of pills, as he often was.

Life spiraled downhill from there. My father's fragile mind was overwhelmed with the stresses of family life and business ownership, and he went head-over heels into all-out addiction and abuse. He yelled often. He did things to my mother that she refuses to speak about. I have mentally blocked much of the worst of the abuse, but from what I do remember and from talking with my mother, I know we were in a very bad place. I’m not going to go into detail about the things that my brother and I suffered, but I’ll sum it up with words from my mother that she told me once I was old enough to talk about it.

“I was seriously considering running away with you two in the middle of the night to Canada. No-one would know, not even family members. Because no matter where we went, he would always track us down and pull us back in.”

In the middle of it all, my mother, an avowed atheist, went to the lowest place she knew of… a church. Although I don’t know much of how this happened or why, I know that while there she was “born again” and became a Christian. When she came home and announced her change to my father, he was foaming at the mouth and raging, and attempted to kill her. I don’t know why or how he didn’t, but we’re still alive, so I know he failed. After her conversion, he got even worse. Whether or not it had anything to do with his hatred of Christians I am not sure. He came and went with no explanation, and his time with us was mostly terrifying.

Eventually, after yet another drive home with him ranting and raving and screaming, my mother gave him an ultimatum. Either he would have to leave, or she would take us and go to Florida. Bizarrely, because he literally hated the idea of us enjoying ourselves, he left. And thus, in a strange, manic moment; he was gone. For the time, anyway.

And that’s Part 1 of this story. Part 2 later.

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