Chapter I: Roots

 

A piss puddle and rude awaking at 4am in a hot house in suburban Atlanta that her parents had bought her was how my mother started the day I was to be born. Fools and dreamers, my parents had been through bouts of fertility issues and I was essentially a miracle to them in the beginning. Little did they know I was to become one of their greatest rue's. 
13 hours, many 'fired' nurses, and a fuck load of ice chips later, I screamed my way into this world. Long red acrylics adorned my mother's fingers as she took hold of my the first time, my father in suspenders, slacks and a button up, it appeared to be the start of a happy family. 

 

Father, Dad, whatever you'd like to call him, was in truth little more than a broken man who hadn't had a pleasant childhood and had found the first woman who's demons within reminded him most of his own mother's. 

The Southern Bell, Mom, chose what name you'd like was a whole different monster. Borderline personality disorder, schizo effective, alcoholism, and drug addiction were all well hidden behind the mask of a highly articulate and well educated southern bell who towered over most humans at well over 6ft and 250lbs. Her motto like many borderlines was simple; I hate you, don't leave me. She'd charm you with her wit, extensive knowledge of meaningless bullshit, use you, abuse you and take anything and everything she could from you until you'd been spent. Then you'd be cast aside and deemed useless. I observed this on many, MANY occasions in my childhood. 

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The steam rose from the manhole covers on Peachtree blvd in Atlanta as my parents left the hospital and took me home. The humidity hung heavy in the air, leaving one feeling damp when navigating about the city and enraged while sitting in traffic on 285. 

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The first five years of my existence came and went with little issue. Immune problems arose, behavioral difficulties, but truly at that time there was no signal that I was to become what I am today. 

During the dog days of 95' I found myself standing in the downstairs guest bath of our house in Atlanta staring deeply into the mirror. How long I stood staring into that mirror, to this day I still have no clue. What I do remember clearly however were the words I was obsessively repeating over and over and over again while I starred into that mirror. 

 

"Who am I?"

"Why am I here?"

"Why is this happening again?"

"Who am I?"

"Why am I here?"

"Why is this happening again?"

"Who am I?"

"Why am I here?"

"Why is this happening again?"

"Who am I?"

"Why am I here?"

"Why is this happening again?"

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Over and over again. Toe beans connected to a cat that loathed my very existence marched towards the guest bath, the sound of him marching my way pulled me from my trance. I walked through our home, colors appearing brighter, the carpet felt softer on my feet, birds outside singing clearer, it was as if I awoke from my trance finally a conscious, aware human being. 

 

Starring into the mirror, for however long I did, opened up something within me, perhaps a doorway to my consciousness actually being conscious. The problem you can see here is of course, as my superstitious mother would say, doorways of such a nature are not meant to be opened and even if opened, are meant to be closed as soon as possible. 

To no surprise to anyone, this moment, at the age of 5, standing the guest bath of the house in Atlanta my life began.