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On my own, finally. Yes, after years and tears of living under my mother's regime, I am finally free. Free to do...well actually I'm not sure yet, actually.
Not that my mother is a bad mother, it's just that, after a certain amount of years together, we needed space. But back to that later.
Last September I moved to my boyfriend's house here in sunny Florida. I don't know why it's called the Sunshine State; it's just as equally rainy, if not more so. Not that a girl from New York (the state, NOT the city, as people so frequently mistake me) doesn't appreciate the non-freezing-ness of it all. Because, I totally do. I've always loved Florida, my mother's father was from here. A little city in the panhandle, actually, called Blountstown.
But back to me. I am an 18-year-old redheaded girl. I have two sisters, 6 and 3. Also, two brothers, 14, and 12. I've been to Disney World three times. I am an avid Led Zeppelin fan, as well as pretty much all classic rock. Except for Rush. Because if horrible, unspeakable terror had a love affair with pure evil, and they formed a rock band, it would be Rush. Currently unemployed, due to the economy, or our lack there of, thanks to Old Mr. Bush, who I am so sick of. We can try and impeach Clinton for getting a blowjob, but for fucking up our country, Bush gets to stay and play golf in his office.
Anyway, I've had an interesting life. I was born to a 19-year-old mother and an 18-year-old father, both with their own flaws. My mother's flaws being her incredible bitchiness, an unsolvable anger problem, and a talent for staying 19 in her head forever. My father's flaws being his non-ability to do anything for 20 minutes without getting tired, his neglectiveness that has since faded away, and his incredibly annoying talent for being incredibly overprotective, incredibly 10 years late. And with that said, I'd like to point out that they both have good things about them, too. My mother has a good sense of humor, and a good heart..when she wants to. And my father? My father's generous, I guess. And blissfully unaware that his big heart and his big mouth don't do too well together. My mother cheated on my father, and they divorced so that mom could marry my father's brother.
I used to go Sunday school and church all the time at my grandpa and grandma's Methodist church. I was in the church's Christmas plays every year from the time I was one until I was like 9. I even went to the summer program at my church, which was in the middle of nowhere, so everyone knew eachother. I was in chorus in fourth and fifth grade, and I even had a solo in one concert. I was the Maid of Honor when I was 6 or 7 at my aunt's 2nd wedding. I used to go to the Jersey shore almost every year until I was like 14.
My mother's parents, the sweetest people you'd ever meet, both died when I was younger, both from lung cancer. My grandmother passed in 1997, and my grandfather in 2004. My grandmother died in bed, in her own home, because my family had hired Hospice for her. I remember she had this black nurse lady. And that lady must've hated me. I ran around the house climbing on counters trying to make cupcakes. Anyway, on September 12th, 1997, we were all gathered at my grandpa's house, because we all knew she'd go that day. I remembered being in the bathroom, and hearing my grandmother make this terrible hacking/coughing noise. I flushed the toilet and ran scared out of the bathroom. Not too many minutes later, my aunt came out and said "She's gone." I freaked out because I thought I'd heard my grandmother die. That honestly, like, scarred me for life. My grandfather was in a hospital. He went in one day, and never came home. He had a tracheotomy and my mom left me with him all night to watch him. I knew he felt bad. But it was one of the scariest times of my life. Partly because of the instructions she left me, "If he stops breathing call 911." I was 13. That was too much for me to handle. He woke up from sleep a couple times that night, throwing me guilty glances, because he felt bad.
Eventually they switched him from the hospital to a nursing home. I don't know why. But they put him on the floor with the dementia patients. I hardly went to visit him; I usually stayed in the car listening to Mest. The reason was because that place was horrible. It smelled horrible. It was so depressing. Not to mention seeing my grandfather in there..a man so full of life, loved by so many..was depressing. I couldn't. I always get upset about that, cause I hope he didn't feel like I didn't want to see him. I did. I just couldn't bring myself to.The same thing for when he was switched to the hospital. The time I did see him, a week before he died, he was speaking incoherently. That made me SO SAD. I also remember that even though he was speaking incoherently, my mother messed with his hair, tousling it the way a mother would her little boy. He said to her, in the vague reminiscence of speech, "Stop messing up my hair." I remember when we all went into the hospital as a family to see him, I would sit on his fifth floor window sill, at Horton Hospital, and stare out at all of Middletown, and Scotchtown. But finally, he succumbed on January 4th, 2004, from lung cancer and emphysema.
After that the relationship between my mother and I got worse. We fought more.
After my mother had Rebecca, in October of 2004, we moved to Ellenville two months later.
I failed there, because I was so upset over not having friends. I didn’t pay attention, and I didn’t do homework. So eventually, my mom took me out of school and put me in a program at a tech school. I went all day to a school called Ulster County BOCES in Port Ewen, NY, an hour away from Ellenville. The first half of the day I did a Culinary Arts class, and the second half of the day, I did a GED preparation class.
I know what people think about GED recipients. But the perception is wrong. I had to study four years worth of five different high school subjects in a couple of months. That isn’t easy at all. But I did it, even getting on the honor roll for once in my life. I graduated that June, and took the GED that December. It was very easy, and I scored over a 3000, which is something they honor.
During that summer, of 2006, in August, my friend Stefanee told me that her friend really liked me. And no, this wasn’t normal, since Stefanee had moved down to Miami from NY a couple years before. She told me he saw my myspace and he couldn’t stop talking about me. His name was Corey, but his real name was Alvaro. He left me a comment telling me I was awesome and beautiful. How could I NOT love that? So we talked for a couple days, until August 20th, when he asked me out. We were long distance for a while. Me, a 16-year-old girl, and him, an 18-year-old boy. I was astonished; no older guy had ever asked me out. He was a nice kid from what I could see. He always talked me through my problems, and made me laugh when I was upset. He loved classic rock, especially The Beatles. He had been born in Panama, and had moved here when he was 15. He had two autistic brothers, both to a different degree. The littler one, Bebo, was 8, and he had Aspinger’s Syndrome. He’s mildly autistic. He obsesses over things, and talks a lot. Xadhir, who was 10, was severely autistic. He doesn’t talk. He makes little noises instead. He gets over excited.
But anyhow, Corey and I spent over a year together, long distance. During that time I went through hell at home, because none of my family approved of him. I was constantly grounded off the computer, constantly grounded off the phone, not allowed to do anything, because my mother didn’t want me talking to him. And do you know why? Because my family felt that he wasn’t good enough for me, because they were selfish and wanted me to stay home and take care of THEIR house. The family who didn’t live with me wanted me not to go because they thought I was immature. So when Corey flew me down to live with him a year after we met, my family and I left on a bad note.
So I got here, to Florida, and you know what? Everything is okay. He really DOES love me for who I am. Now I’m 18, and he’s 20. And we’re perfectly happy. My mother and I are on good terms now. Everything is good.
Why am I on this site? Because I’ve been writing my whole life. Once my grandpa went to a medium, and she told him my grandmother had a message for me. And it was:
“Keep on with your writing.”
I don’t know if this was my grandmother trying to tell me how I was going to make a living, or if it was simply her telling me to keep doing what I enjoy. So I’ll keep writing.
At least I know I’m truly gifted with the English language, not just pretending to be, like a lot of girls my age. The same way girls my age take pictures of themselves sideways and think they’re artistic. Pshaw. But I’m no faker. I’ve been writing since I was quite young.
I’ve always had a knack for writing, also for history and astronomy. In fact, while most girls wanted to be a ballerina or a mommy, I wanted to be an astronomer. When most girls wanted to be a giggly blonde pop star like Britney, I wanted to be an archaeologist.
Nowadays I would like to become a morning show host on a classic radio station. Perfect for me. I love classic rock, planning things, and being charismatic. I’m quirky. I gotta alotta hootspa. I like making people laugh, for sure. Just ask my mother about lie-et soda, and how she sprayed lies all over the windshield. Or ask my friend Stefanee, about Ringo Starr.
Anyhow, writing is what I do, and it's what I'm gonna keep on doing in some form or another. I'd like to start writing stories again, but I need inspiration. And when that inspiration comes, expect to read the best story you've ever seen.
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