For Posterity

My life has never been glorious. True, it's never been exceptionally difficult... but it's never been as easy as it's seemed, either.

I was born the second son of an unwed mother- which in that day and age was a somewhat normal occurrence, but which still brings a small amount of shame unto me. For five years, I knew my father only through short visits which were won in a court battle which raged for the first two years of my life. During those two years, I spent quite a lot of time with my mother's mother, who's house we lived in until I was six.

When I did turn six, my parents had 'solved' all of their problems and decided to rent an apartment 'together.' Of course, it was my mother who paid most of the bills- my father was supporting not only his own mother with the help of his brother, my uncle Joe, but was also supporting Boston Tropical Fish and Reptiles (his pet store) and his outrageous obsession with animals (this was the time period where we constantly had dozens of snakes and lizards in the house, along with three fish tanks- two of which were salt-water). For seven years, my mother, my father, my brother and I coexisted in that lavish apartment. Most often, my brother received preferential treatment while I was consistently abused in one form or another, be it having been thrown backwards into a recliner because my brother had hit my back and I couldn't feel my legs or having myself devalued by my father's insistence that listening to a song for the tenth time was more important than listening to what I had to say. Regardless of all things, we were never uncomfortable in terms of finances, and I enjoyed after-school visits to my father's mother's house and weekends with my mother's mother. I loved my grandmothers very much; they were the parents that I didn't have, and my parents were the negligent relatives I never wanted.

When I was twelve, my mother's mother died. I believe a backstory is needed here.
My mother's mother lived in a two-story house with one of her ten sons. At the time, another of her sons was living on the front porch; I forget the reason. Her bedroom was right off of the kitchen. Normally, my grandmother woke up at six AM, and my mother would drop by after she dropped my brother and I off at school to take her for coffee. That morning, my grandmother hadn't woken up, and neither of her sons- who lived in the house- had checked on her. She was in her bed for hours, presumably unconscious, until my mother made her way to her house and called an ambulance. She'd had a heart attack.
She spent a while in Mass General before she transferred to another facility in some city that I've forgotten the name of. She never got her voice back from the time that she was admitted. She lived out her last few days hooked up to machines, voiceless and without hearing because the 'doctors' hadn't noticed that she needed a hearing aid.
I did not go to the hospital the day before she died. My mother says that she pointed out the window. She thought that my grandmother meant she was going to leave soon, and I guess that in one sense, she did- just not in the way that my mother had hoped. My grandmother, the woman from who's head I had once ripped a chunk of hair for insulting my father (and oh how right she was), the woman who had scratched at a scratch-and-sniff sticker with a pen, the woman who had been pickled-tink and squeezably fresh, had died.
What followed was an ordeal that I can't even begin to remember. My grandmother's estate was divided amongst eleven greedy, ungrateful children, two of whom had let her rot in her bedroom and nine of whom had virtually abandoned her once at the first chance they got. My mother didn't vie for a piece of her mother's legacy; she took a framed photo of herself, my grandmother and my older brother, and she never looked back.

When I was thirteen, my father's mother died. My father's mother had lived in a palatial three-storied house with a basement and an immense backyard. One afternoon, she told my father that her chest was hurting her, so he left work and took her to the hospital. He got her a wheelchair and told her to wait while he parked the car, but she walked herself into the hospital without him. She had a massive heart attack during her examination. Apparently, she hadn't been taking her medication for weeks. No one knows why, because she never woke up... at least, not enough to communicate. She spent a few days in a semi-unconscious state, hooked up to machines,barely alive... and then she was gone. I saw her once in the hospital. That was it. I couldn't stand to be there, I didn't want to accept that she could be like that so soon after my mother's mother had been in the same position, only she was so much better- she could communicate, she could see, but my father's mother didn't show any signs of recognition.
I learned long after she died that she'd been suicidal after my grandfather had died. I don't think that suicidal is the right word though; I could never imagine her being that bad... I can imagine her without hope. I can imagine anyone without hope, because I was without hope for so long after she died that it seems impossible that there can be a man alive today with a shred of hope left to lose.
She had been the Arbiter. She had been fairness incarnate. She had been so much more like a mother to me than my own mother had the power to be, and I don't think that there's a person in this world beside myself who can understand how or why that doesn't lessen my mother's place so much as it heightens my grandmother's. She was where I hid when my parents argued, which was ever so frequently... She had been my only refuge. And she was gone.

Shortly after my grandmother died, we began the process of moving ourselves out of the apartment that had been our home for so many years. We didn't have to make sacrifices- my grandmother's house... or, more appropriately, my father's house was only a short drive away. And we had a week to move everything there, and more than enough space to keep it since my parents planned on throwing out just about everything that had belonged to my grandmother, even going so far as to rip off the wallpaper and replace the front-room window. Like I said, we didn't have to make sacrifices... but I did. I had to, I mean. I wasn't a child anymore. At thirteen years old, I had lost my safety net. I'd lost my hope, I'd lost my direction... In short, I'd lost my mind. I'd shut down, and an inactive boy doesn't need reminders of his past. I threw out toys that I'd had since I was a baby. I threw out Baby Chick, my first stuffed animal, and I threw out my Blankie. I remember a night when I'd thought I was old enough to do that; I'd left the two of them at my mother's mother's house while I spent the night with my father. The end result was that I burst into hysterical tears, forcing my father to drive across town in the middle of the night to get them for me. But I wasn't a child anymore, so they went out with the trash, and I've regretted that decision ever since I made it.
We finally got ourselves to my father's house, and everything changed. The walls were repainted, the furniture was thrown to the curb and replaced, my grandmother's bed was shoved into the shed, my parents took the master bedroom while my brother and I shared my father's old room- my uncle was still living with us. We weren't as financially stable as we were before, so my parents argued constantly. I realized that I hated my father- it's because of him that I have more scars than anyone is entitled to having. Yelling sets me to shivering, slamming spurs me into dissociative episodes, rage causes blackouts, and I don't know how to deal with my anger in a constructive manner.
Somehow, everything going on in my life unlocked some portion of my mind, and my genius erupted forth. Where once I'd been an average student, I was now unspeakably bored by my As. Math, English, Science- it didn't matter, I mastered it with ease. I became a social being; where before I'd had only three friends, I was now the acquaintance of most everyone in my class, and where once I'd been petrified to speak to teachers, I was now having discussions with them on a daily basis.

Eventually, I realized that I was gay. To be honest, I knew that I was gay when I was twelve. I just didn't accept it as reality until after an arduous road, littered with the waste of things that I'd rather not remembered and lost in a drunken haze. What did I do? I don't remember. Did I like it? At the time, I suppose I had to have. Would I ever- I won't even finish the question because the answer is no.
I came out. First to Ashley, the girl to whom I had proclaimed my love. Then to the people who I actually cared about- my closest friends, Colton, Rob and DJ. They didn't much like it, but the fact that I still consider them friends shows that they actually deserve the title.
Eventually, I came out to my mother, who came out to my brother and father for me against my wishes. What followed was the most harsh form of mental abuse that a human could possibly endure; I underwent patronization from my brother, shunning by my father, and clumsy attempts at brain washing from my mother. I was insulted, I was belittled, I was disbelieved, I was consistently the target of personal attacks, and I heard the five words that I was secretly dreading most, the five words which ripped a hole in my chest and practically killed me by themselves. "What would your grandmother think." Does it matter which one? They'd both been better parents to me than my biological donors had been, which made it exceptionally insulting that my mother had been the one to ask it.
For a while, my life had collapsed. I put on a brave face when I went to school, and it drooped a bit by the end of the day when I was with my friends- but they always picked me up when I fell, bless them all.
Sadly, this was when David entered my life. For a long time, I couldn't talk about David without wanting to slash something, be it his throat or my wrists, but I think that I'm healthy enough to say that he was my personal Devil.

Eventually, I began to see a therapist. Well, I began to see three therapists to be honest; the first one I disliked and the second one I cancelled the appointment with, so I ended up seeing my mother's old therapist who I'd actually met as a child. Georgia Green.
Georgia saved my life. I feel comfortable saying this, because it's entirely true; had it not been for her, I would have killed myself and been happy to do it. No, it wasn't all her- I had help from teachers who I consider to be friends, and friends who I consider to be teachers, and to be honest, I'm still fighting the battle... but I'm still here, and that's a victory in and of itself I think.
One morning, I paged her. She called me immediately after, and the first thing I said to her was, "I'm too depressed," which was perfectly true; I'd just had my parents issue a chins on me, which essentially marked me as a problem child because I was depressed, and David had just 'dumped' me for the first time, and was continuing to fuck with my head. What followed was a car ride to the Mass General in Chelsea, during which I endured my father yelling at my mother and insulting me as much as he possibly could in between screaming at 'bad drivers.' I talked to Georgia. I talked to a second therapist. I endured another ride with my parents to Mass General in Boston, where I would be admitted. On the way, there was of course more yelling and accusations. In the waiting room, there were only sly remarks, accusations and quiet insults. In the room with the therapist at Mass General, there was more yelling, insults and false accusations, this time accompanied by outright lies.
The end result was that I found myself in a mental ward for two weeks. I was put on Prozak and Chlonopin. I was actually happy, and I was sleeping again.
Reenter David, reopen Pandora's Box. I'll save you the long description; a few months of sanity, 'happy' relationship, crap piled up, hospital for a week and a half. Mind, all this long time, my school performance has been suffering; I've now missed a month due to hospitalizations, atleast three times that due to extenuating circumstances, I've stopped doing homework and I can't focus in class (even though I'm still aceing the tests)... My life was a trainwreck at this point.

Let's fast forward a bit here. I clean up my act; I manage to accidentally cut David out of my life (best accident since onion rings), I clean up my act without the use of antidepressants, and it's a new school year. Sure, I was held back, but at least I get a second chance at it.
And then my parents decide that it's time to move to Florida. 1,500mi away from the friends who gave me a reason to live long enough to get to the therapist who convinced me to exist and meet the people who gave me purpose, right at the start of my actual recovery from the depths of insanity.
... Since that point forward, I've once again shut down, only this time, there hasn't been anyone to force me into action, and I can't do it myself. For the past two years, I've been uselessly enduring continued insults, accusations and assertations that I am indeed useless. I've weathered countless arguments between my parents, I've lost everything that I held dear in any sense of the word, and to be perfectly honest, I forget what it feels like to be in the company of another human being.
Ain't life grand?