PROLOGUE: They say I used to be a happy person. They say I used to smile. They say I once was a caring and loving person. But something changed along the way. I turned heartless. I became bitter. I was consumed by pain, overwhelmed with anger. This is why.
Born, March 1980. Raised in the hood of Fayetteville North Carolina. A time when white and black didn’t mix. My mother, Filipino, my father, Black. I was the light skinned curly haired mixed boy in the hood. So I was picked on daily. A guy, one of the big homies, I’ll call Marquell used to take my lunch money from me every morning on the side path on the way to the bus stop. I hated riding the bus. Around the age of 14, 15 I would just skip the bus and walk to school. Every single day was a battle. I grew up when hoods where gangs. My hood was Bunce Rd. Hoods we beefed with where Holiday Park, Hollywood Heights, Campbell Terrance, the Oaks and others. And though when there was a gang fight, my hood always had my back, the same ones who had my back would jump me and beat me up. I had to fight almost on a daily basis. The hood I grew up in was so bad, at one point white people didn’t even want to drive down that road. The G’s and Big Homies would put broken refrigerators in the road, a robbery set up. Some got robbed, a few died. But being raised in the hood wasn’t enough. I grew up in a crack era and in a heavily saturated crack infested environment. Finding a bag of crack needles and gun shootings were the daily norm. I was given my first blunt to smoke and my first yellow-ish brown rock to sell at 10 years old. I was forced to steal jewelry out of stores for the big homies to sell. And stealing from the corner store, well, its just what we did.
I can say my father was a hard worker. He never instilled working and its importance to me, but seeing him work showed me a lot. My father was also a very ‘secretly' mean man. Ask anyone outside the house, and he was a saint. He did all he could for everyone. I guess thats what made him a good man. But inside the house was a different world. My father was very old school. His household was you say yes sir, no sir, what I say is what goes, and you have nothing to say about it. You get up every Saturday early and find work to do. I was an only child, so between our house, my grandparents house, a small farm, I had plenty of work. Every Sunday you got up and went to Church. Which I never understood. The place full of the most fakes. My father the biggest fake. Inside my fathers house consisted of being beaten, covered up with gifts. So I appeared to be a spoiled child. I was thrown across rooms, choked, bruised, welted. My father hated lies. Oh he would get you for lying. How ironic that would be 30 some years later. One time I was beat so bad all the blood vessels one side of my face were busted. Not much pain to it, just looked like red freckles all over on one side. My mother drove me to the hospital and she told me I had to tell the Dr I ran into a tree riding my bike. My fathers house!
He was a bad alcoholic at one time and dabbled with the crackheads. He used to beat my mother. Put her out the house. And yet she was so loyal to him. She was an instigator. And though she never beat me, she would pinch me all over my body, to the point of bruises and blood clots. She would tell me how bad I was. How much of a trouble I was. She would tell me how bad my father was going to beat me when he got home. She never stopped him from beating me or took up for me when he did. I never understood that. One time I had a cut and wanted a band aid. She put band aids all over my body. Arms, legs, chest, head, back. When my father got home from work they laughed about it and then she pulled them all off. Though band aids art a waxing, as a child, it wasn't pleasant.
I can remember she was so mad at me one night, I heard here in the kitchen tell my father, ‘tomorrow he has to go’. I had no idea what she meant. But I would find out years later. I can remember finding a card one day, it said congratulations on your adoption. I showed it to my mother and asked her about it. She giggled and told me that it was meant to be a birthday card, but the store was out of birthday cards. I was very young, 6, 7. I just believe her, plus, you didn’t questions things in our household. It was a big pet peeve of my fathers.
I hated my life. I used to pray to God that he would kill my father on his way home from work. I ran away from home at 14, 15 years old. I was gone for a week or two, before the people I was staying with told me I could no longer stay there because they couldn’t afford to keep feeding me. It was the hood. I was cool wit it. So they brought me home. They came in sat and talked for a brief moment. Once they were gone my parents where so mad, my father beat me. At the age of 17 after a heated argument with my mother, I left home. That was in 1998.
The hood really ate me up then. The streets became my friend. The Crips become my father. In and out of jail. Homeless. I slept in a storage unit at night, ran the streets all day. I even slept in a few cars.
I had my first child at 20. I married at 21. My intentions was to be a man and be there for my child and wife at the time. But the Demons had other plans still. My wife at that time and I were married legally for 8 years. But we lived tougher, like actually together less than a year of those 8. Our relationship was hell from day one. As she turned out to be a very vindictive woman and sour baby mamma. She and her mother always said I didn’t look like my parents, and one day they convinced me to call and ask if I was adopted. I hadn’t talked to my parents now in over 5 years. So I call, my mother answers, I asked her if I was adopted. Her answer was no. But not without a pause, a hesitation and an uncertainty in her voice. My father gets on the phone all mad, and asks who told me that. I made up a story about receiving a letter stating I was adopted and if I wanted more info to call a number. He insisted I mail him the letter. I said I would and that was the end of that conversation, and it was back to no speaking to my parents. Many years later I found out he threatened to kill anyone in his family, twice. Hummm. Why?
In 2003, after getting out of jail, I was tired of my life. I was fed up. I was going no where. It was time for a change. I went to God. So sincere, so real. And after a few months, change came, and life was almost worth smiling about. I had a few great years. Served in the Marines. Fought in Iraq. Became a Realtor. Ran a Behavioral Healthcare company. Everything was going as I desired for once. For once. Big house, cars, plenty money. I remarry, and I fight for custody of my 3 kids I had with my x wife. As she was not allowing me to talk to them or see them. Whooooo, the stories with her. She was out there! Finally after 2 1/2 years of fighting in court to prove she was keeping the kids away from me, I was awarded full custody of my kids effective 5 pm that evening, and she was immediately detained and went to jail. This was the happiest, and the best moment of my life. I had my kids!! This was life! I loved it. But the Demons did not, and they refuse to let me be.
After my x wife got out of jail, she began causing me all kinds of problems. Lies, manipulation, back and forth to court for fictitious claims. And even though I was doing the right things, and the courts always sided with me, it began to weigh me down. Take a toll on me. Stress me. She was a thorn in my foot. One day, after a long hard troublesome day, I gave up. I called my x wife and told her at spring break I would voluntarily send the kids back if she promised not to be toxic like she once was and that no matter what she wouldn’t keep the kids from me. Of course in tears she agreed and she was happy. Spring break 2011, I send the kids back via airplane. That moment, I regretted it. I hated it. It ate me up, every day. Every night. Every night. Every day. Constantly. Why did you do that. You are a fool. Your kids will hate you. And everything went back to the way it was. She did all she could to hinder me from being in my kids lives but thats a story in itself!
2006 out of the blue, I get a phone call from my father! Wait. I ain't heard from this dude since I left in 98, but he managed to find my number after all those years to call and tell me if I want to see my mother again alive, I need to come home. WTF. Ok, so at this point, in my mind, I'm like this is my mom, I need to go be there for her regardless of the past. I go visit her, she lost her memory, had a stroke. So most of the time she couldn’t remember my name. Though no strong bond or relationship was formed or reformed. I stayed in casual contact via phone to check on her, dropped in during the holidays. After all, she is my mother right!? 2010, she dies. My father is very ill. 2012 the company I thought I was going to retire from went out of business. Over night things changed. This was the beginning of the Demons declaring war against me.
2013 I lost everything. House, vehicles, again, I was partially homeless. My great life was turning into a nightmare. I often wondered, where is Family. All these years. Why has no Family ever been there for me. But, I just took it as, this is how Family is. It wouldn’t be until later in my life, I realized why they were never there, and what Family is supposed to be. My fathers health gets to the point where he can no longer live alone. He refused to stay in a nursing home, hell I don’t blame that. I made a decision to go stay with him, and be there for him until his last breathe. Even though since 1998, he was never there for me. Even though he beat me as a child. Even though he has never hugged me, told me he loved me, said he was proud of me, even though, I was there for him. I treated him good, I cooked for him, cleaned his house, his yard, his clothes. I took him to his appointments, to get his medication. I bathed him, wiped him. I was his caregiver. 8 months I spent with him. I neglected my own family, my own kids. I was there for him 24/7. But why? The only reason I could come up with was, I was his only child, no one else was there for him and the Bible says to honor your father and mother. My father died Jan 3 2014.
A few weeks before he died, going through papers at his house, I find a letter from a lawyers office. It was a letter stating that I was adopted. Huuh!?? I was 33, and I was not who I thought I was. My name wasn’t even my birth name. This devastated me. This explained a lot.
Things started to make sense. Like why my father was so secretive. Why he beat me. Why me and my parents never bonded. Why my mother wanted to get rid of me the next day. Why that card said congratulations on your adoption. Why it was so easy for a parent, to just let their child go and never communicate with them, check on them, help them, be there for them. I have 6 kids. I will die for each one of them. It explained why I have an attachment disorder. Why I was and am so able to cut a person out of my life, with out a care, second thought or worry.
Its funny how my father beat me for lies and lying. And he lied to me my whole life, then took it to his grave. It’s funny how everyone in the family always says how good of a man he was, and talked so great of him as if he was God, but twice he threatened to kill anyone in the family that told me I was adopted. 33 years! He instilled some sort of fear in them. Such a nice guy.
At this point in my life, everything was wrong. I went from on top of the world, to rock bottom. Depression kicked in, becomes my best friend. I was lost. I didn’t know who I was. There were so many unresolved issues between my parents and I. Why did they hide it from me? Why didn’t they ever tell me? Who was my real mother and father, why did they give me up. I decide to find out for myself.
After about 7-8 months of searching and some nice folk in a Facebook group, I located my birth mother. I found out I had a brother, that looks just like me too, but one big distinction, he was… never mind you will see. I also had a sister. I found out I was given up at 8 months old. I found out I came out ‘not white’ in a time when white and black didn’t mix. I found out I was a disgrace. A misfit. So I was misplaced. I found out I spent the first 3 years of my life in a facility. I found out my name, was not my birth name. I found out that my birth mother had a white baby just 2 years after giving me up, and another white baby just two more years after that. Back to back, and she managed to keep and raise them both.
The depression becomes my life and at this point and has consumed my life. The Chronic Pain wont let me go. The anxiety wont let me stop. And no one knows it. I tried to kill myself. Barrel to my head. Only thing that stopped it, was a flash of my two little boys. Between the pills, for the depression and the chronic pain. The demons constantly taking over in my head. The death of my parents. Finding out I was adopted and that I am not who I thought I was. That the life I have was forced upon me. Between the haunting memories I try so hard not to remember. Between losing everything I worked so hard to gain. Between being alone, not having parents, not knowing where I come from, where my roots are. Between knowing that my birth father was a one night stand with a black guy. Between knowing I found my birth mother, flew to meet her to try to see what a mom is, with an open mind and a forgiving heart and being neglected by her still. Between the lack of a college degree, and a not so pleasant background, between my skin not being black enough to be accepted black, but black or brown enough to be tossed out by white. Between the unfair child support system. Between the pain I face daily in my mind, emotionally, mentally. Between it all, I have to stand tall, strong, proud and act like everything is ok. I have be a husband, a father to my kids, the man of the house. Between all these things, and so much more that you will discover in this book, is why I am the way I am. THIS IS WHY.