The meaning of 'Family'

F A M I L Y

If there's one thing I have learned so far, it's this:

Family does not have to be blood. Blood is not thicker than water. Family are the people you love and want to be around often.Family can be anyone you want it to be.

You can have your own opinions on this and that's totally fine. But after watching the 'Generation Cryo' on MTV, I can so relate to what is going on in it. Being adopted, whether you are adopted in your family or by strangers, or even like the kids on that show and just have donors that made it possible for them to be alive and breathing, we can all relate with a few things. 1.) We want to know our biological blood ties. This is not a way to hurt the people that raised us. This isn't our way of saying 'hey, I know you raised me all this time, and now I want to ignore all the love and work you did for me and just call this stranger that carried me for 9 months/donated sperm my parent and love them'. No. It's a closure. It's closure. That's all. 2.) Genetics make a person who they are a lot. You should know your ancestry, your history. Even knowing medical history can help you with knowing what may come in the future.

For me, when I first found out I was adopted, I knew my mom, she had been in and out of my life as my older sister (which is what she wanted, all her idea) so I had no questions about who she was. I wanted to know who the man was, the guy I get my red hairs from, the guy in the pictures holding me the day I was born. I barely knew of him, I barely heard anything about him. When he and my mother had gotten a divorce, he fell off the map practically. He had been given the chance to be around and visit me if he wanted, he did once after the adoption then he quit. 

I was 16 when I got a myspace message from a boy. I had no idea who he was, he was older than me and lived 30 minutes away. He said he was my brother. My jaw dropped. I started talking to him and then got my father's phone number. Of course, when my dad who raised me found out I wanted to know him and about his side of the family, his feelings was hurt. It took a bit to realize I wasn't replacing him, I was just curious.

The curiosity got me pretty far. I lived with the man twice, getting to know my two older brother's from him, and a few other family members. It was awkward. No lie. Awkward as hell. Plus I felt out of place. No one really came out of their way to be around me, talk to me, and it had been 13 years. I wasn't stupid. By this time, social media was out there, we had not moved and lived at the same address so they knew where I was living. I gave it a chance. It was blown. I was judged because of who birthed me. That evil woman was ruining my dream of a big family and didn't even know it. What a bitch. My father, he was given a chance when my mother came crawling back to him. I told him I wanted nothing to do with her and he was to choose to take her back and have her ruin his life again or have his daughter. He chose the first and I haven't spoken to him since. 

The fact that I at least tried and gave him a chance, whether he blew it and I realized what he was like or not, I had the closure. I know now that I am better off without the added drama from either of my biological parents, one partying with the college kids, drinking his money away with the other one being a Xani gold digger. 

As for people I have had in my life, people on the maternal side that have been around, it's not so fantastic either. My great grandmother (who we all called Mother) died in 1999. Friday the 13th in August to be exact. She had a heart attack making coffee early in the morning. She was the glue that held the whole family together. When she died, we fell apart. Fights broke out over her possessions when we cleaned out her house and grudges still remain. One aunt and Mom have made up in the recent years. The aunt I grew up being around. The aunt I spent summers swimming in her pool and staying up late drinking Mountain Dew with. She always felt like I was the daughter she never had. Then the fight broke out over Mother's stuff and she was part of the family we never talked to anymore. Mom and her are great now, talking daily. Me on the other hand, not so much. My aunt that supposedly felt like I was the daughter she never had couldn't hold her tongue after I moved out the first time at 17. I had graduated high school a year early at the top of my class. I was going to college. I lived with my boyfriend and we were doing our best to make our own lives. She proceeded to write me not one, but two emails stating I was doing a wrong thing, hurting my parents by moving out, I was ugly, dressed terribly, had a terrible boyfriend and was pretty much a good for nothing nobody going nowhere in life. Well then. She has tried being nice, getting me gifts for holidays, telling mom to tell me this that and the other. But until I get an apology (which will be never since it's been 5 years) I don't have much for her either. This aunt had dropped out of high school at 16 to have a baby. She married and is still married to that man to this day. But, they're the richest part of the family we have. Why do this to me? Because I was doing really well at 17? No idea. But, that's blood for ya.

The man I have called Daddy all my life is of no blood relation to me. He is my maternal grandmother's (who I call Mom) second husband. My biological grandfather is the man my biological mother gets her evil ways from, an abusive lying man who I care nothing for. I have seen him once in my life at a funeral, he ignored me and I him. Anyways, Daddy is the closest family member I have besides my little brother who I have not seen in 4 years. He is my safe haven, the person I turn to when I need a laugh, the man that I aspire to be like, and the person I work hard to make the proudest. He has proven to me that blood means nothing. You can love anyone you want to, and make family by being there for someone.

Another man that has proven to me that family doesn't have to be genetic, was a neighbor. My previous boyfriend when I first moved from home and I rented our first place only a few miles down from where I grew up. It was a small, quiet neighborhood of duplexes, brick to exact. The man in the other side of ours was a handicap older man, with a fake leg. He sat on the little concrete area in front of the duplex all the time, watching everyone come and go. We had lived there for at least 6 months before we really go to know him. I worked a lot, so my boyfriend started to get to know our neighbors before I did. He was like that, always social and making friends. I am the type to stay to myself and in the house, but since he was a smoker and walked the neighborhood a couple times a day to kill his lungs, he met people. When he met Hauke, he was having his grandsons over. The youngest was the most adorable boy I have ever seen, and I am not even a kid person. We started grilling more with him and hearing his stories about war. He was originally born on a German island and came to America with his family when he was young. I heard all his stories about his ex wives, his time in the army being a ladies man, and his love for his sons. He had three sons and now several grandsons. What I learned first was that Hauke was away from everyone, his closest son was still 20 minutes away and no one really seemed to concerned about him, even though he was diabetic and struggling with some heart issues. 

I started getting close to him after my boyfriend had to call an ambulance as Hauke was having a heart attack. He was in his living room, as usual, and then lost his breath. My boyfriend was smoking in front of the building and saw through the window what was happening. Hauke ended up having open heart surgery. When he came back home, I started spending my evenings with him since my boyfriend worked evenings and I worked a 9 to 5 job. We started watching Two and Half men daily, grilling salmon, and sharing laughs. I realized this man was a great soul, and he was like me. His so called family was deserting him, leaving him in this duplex off in the country and away from them. Even when he was in poor health they didn't come see him. When he was struggling with his diabetes at 3 am, he'd call me to bring him all the sugar in my kitchen, not his sons. When he needed help with groceries, he called me. When he wanted to play cards, he called me. He was the grandfather I never had, and I was the daughter he never had. He sang a song in his convertible gold Sebring that I plan to do this day to play on my wedding day, since he always said he would sing it to me on that special day. When he had his last heart attack, he was taken to a hospital and then a hospice. I visited him once with another neighbor I had become friends with. His son had his cell phone and promised to keep me updated. I went to visit him again a week or so later, and he was moved. Because I wasn't kin, I wasn't allowed to know where he was moved to. I got to see him twice after he had been moved. That was it. His sons didn't care. They didn't care he was family to me now. They didn't care that I wanted to be there in his dying days. I tried everything I could. I tried emailing, calling all numbers I had, and even Facebook. Nothing. Not a damn thing. I found out Hauke died December 1 of 2010 via an internet search in 2011. I found out via google. No one telling me. I don't even know where this man is buried, and have even tried messaging the sons and their wives, with no answers. This man was more family to me than I can even begin to explain. He gave me advice I hold on to dearly. He gave me  a light in a time of darkness that I needed more than he ever even knew. I can only hope he knew I wanted to be with him, I wanted to be by his side. And I have felt so guilty for not even being able to see him in his grave. I can't buy him flowers and visit his grave. I can only remember the words he said, and have a tattoo in his memory.

'You're young. Act like it.'

'If you keep taking life too seriously, it's going to pass you before you can enjoy it.'

My tattoo on my left shoulder says Obliviscar which is Latin for never forget. I got it after I learned of his death. 

Family is who you love. Love to the fullest. Hold on to the moments with the ones you love. And never forget the people who change you.

Bitches are brutal, don't let them fool you (even me)

WATCH IT, RED
(Bonus: What's my hair color)

Let's just say I am not the best with relationships. Because I am not.

My loving, caring (READ: bitchy, hating) mother created a few fake Twitters to stalk me. 'Watch It Red' was the handle for one of them. I saw a few followers with odd names like this, and I knew who it was. I'm not stupid. She has a thing out for me. To stalk me, try and find out what I'm doing, who I am with, where I am, etc. They say haters gotta hate, well this is her full time job and she has put her time in. It should be time for her to retire by now.

My mother is just one out of many, I mean MANY relationships that have failed in my life. From friendships to boyfriends to family members, some are my fault and others aren't.

Starting in elementary school, I have been the kid you either really like or you really hate. Starting at a young age, I got along with guys. Girls despise me most of the time and I couldn't tell you why. It's weird. I have been told it's because I am confident, I don't need anyone and you can get that vibe from me. Girls don't like that. Is this true? No freakin clue. Anyways, I remember second grade I had my first run in with a girl that hated me. I was friends with one girl, and the other one hated it, so she wrote my friend a hate letter about me saying nasty things about me during a movie in class. It was written on a cheap ass brown paper towel. I, being the young Nancy Drew of my generation, found the paper towel in the trash as everyone got up to go to lunch and had my first cry about bitches. Girls are nasty creatures. We are. Whether you realize it or not, bitches are crazy and hateful. Even at 8 years old they are. And it's terrible.

As I get older, I hang out more and more with only guys. In 5th grade, I was home schooled. I developed during this time (I mean, I got the ass and boobs I have now at 23, actually, I think they may have gotten smaller). Everyone thought I was in college and yet I wasn't even in middle school yet. I hated it. When I went back to public school for 6th grade, I was made fun of for the big boobs and looking like a woman. I mean, I was 11 years old. These guys and gals had no idea what these things were and, naturally, the first reaction for anyone is to hate on things you don't know about. My guy friend told me in the hallway leaving health class that the rumor was 'You stuff your damn bra?!' Yeah that's a great way to tell me what you are hearing about me, dude. Anyways, I really started hating myself. I mean, even in gymnastics, my escape, I was the biggest girl. I grew to nearly 5' in 4th grade, and we all thought I was going to be a tall person and keep growing. Wrong. I grew up so fast, then I have stayed where I was and everyone caught up to me and passed me. And if you know anything about gymnastics and tumbling sports, the smaller you are the better. Once you hit your growth spurt and get your boobs, you're done for.

In 7th grade, I became more of the person I am now. I quit giving a f***. I went 'punk' with Avril Lavigne being my spirit animal through it all (Like posters and her lyrics covering my orange walls). I started wearing the cargo pants, the black eyeliner, converse and teaching myself to play piano and then guitar. When I started to be myself, everyone left me alone and I was some happier.

My spirit animal. But Sk8r Boi era. & only then.

Then I became friends with Tarin. Oh, Tarin. She was my first 'BFF'. She was odd, but she was the girl that once she liked you, you two would be conjoined at the hip. Her mom was the counselor at our school and drove the awesome little red convertible. The greatest thing: Tarin looked to me for everything. She awed the fact that I did gymnastics, I wasn't scared of saying things, I did what I wanted. She was the shy type, she needed someone to fuel her to do things. She couldn't do it alone. I was her yin to her yang. So, pretty much daily she got her mom to call mine (it was the days before texting, people) to see if I could hang out until late. We would eat good food, watch movies, drink too much soda, ride in the convertible on cold nights then put the top up with the heat full blasting (it was her favorite if I remember correctly), and I practically lived at her tiny older house. She wanted to be a part of the 'popular' group and I knew this. She knew I got along with everyone and she used that to start talking to them too. I didn't give a f*** if they were popular or anything. She wanted to sit at the popular table.(There was the popular table, the girl's table, and then the guy's table). We shared clothes. She started tumbling classes with me and I started going to a chorus program with her. Sounds perfect right? Nothing is ever perfect, especially with me, haven't you learned this yet?

So Tarin believed everything I told her. She would hang on to every.last.word. It drove me nuts. But I figured I would have some fun with it. I told her about the guy I really liked, from summer camp (who turns out to be gay, no wonder I fell in love) and I were a thing. Which we weren't. Because, well, he played for the other team. But I did it for shits and giggles. Who cared. He lived somewhere else. She would never know. I ended up 'breaking' that off. Whatever. Anyways, she was just one of those really gullible people. And it was fun. Then I was like 'why doesn't she get her own life?' Total Regina move. I know, I know.

She couldn't stay at anyone's house, either. Unless you drugged her. No joke. The only time she spent the night at my house and actually stayed until morning was when she had an allergic reaction to something and we gave her some Benadryl and Ben & Jerry's and she passed out. Otherwise, she would make an excuse to call her parents to come get her. Like, even at birthday parties, slumber parties, everything. It was weird and annoying to me. (A lot of things that are irrational to me and so out of the way of the goal and purpose of things tend to really annoy me. Just call me 'diva'). Another annoying thing I hated was how her parents did everything she wanted. She was an only child. They did everything to revolve around Tarin. What Tarin wanted, they did. She talked to them like dogs and I hated it. She needed to be slapped in the mouth one good time by her mom, but her mom was too sweet to do it. And I know her parents had to see how Tarin was with friends. I know they had to see how clingy she was and it wasn't healthy. But they kept it quiet.

So for Christmas, Tarin and I had a huge recital for our Chorus program we were part of. I ended up getting a duet of Silent Night in English and German with the best girl in the program, making me a major wreck of course. Looking back, obviously someone thought I had some talent. Tarin and I went to practice 1-2 times a week and of course rode together and were inseparable. It's like I couldn't get away from her. She then started suggesting we get matching outfits. I think we had a Twin Day for Spirit Week or something stupid like that is what started it. I remember the shirts now. Crimson collar shirt from Aeropostale and khakis. Ugly as hell. For Christmas, she got me a guitar. A literal, working, with amp, freakin electric guitar. Now I started feeling like shit. She was odd and clingy, but she was with good intentions. So I give it another go before blowing up. 

It takes about two or three months before I can't take it anymore. I couldn't breathe without her there. I grew up alone, on a street with no kids my own age and not allowed out of the yard (no joke, thanks Daddy for being protective I guess) so I am used to being by myself. I need alone time. I crave it. Plus, Tarin started doing more and more things like me and I was just over it. I don't like being someone's Regina. I want you to be yourself and me to be me. End of story. So, I wrote the letter. This letter said just that. That she was obsessive, clingy, and needed to grow to be herself more. I wasn't nice in it, and looking back, maybe I should've thrown the first away to get emotions out and then write a second, but I was young. 

This letter gets around. It goes from table to table. No one hates me. Everyone even says they were glad someone finally told her the truth. And I was that person. She held on to this letter, even though she hated me with a passion. I told her why didn't she frame the damn thing and put it on her wall, she held on to it so much. Her parents were the counselors, so I expected to possibly get called to the office. I almost have a feeling that possibly they were relieved someone did this? No idea. But I had put in the letter that she needed to respect her parents more, to let them live their own lives and not control them. To love them and not be a bitch. 

Tarin got to start sitting at the popular table because one girl was nice enough to invite her, knowing she used to sit with me. I took the freedom to finally go sit with the guys and started bringing a deck of cards to beat all their asses. Lunch was now full of fun rather than 'I wish ..... would talk to me', 'I want to be as good at gymnastics as you', 'Can you ask ..... if they want to hang out? I wish she would notice I exist. She's popular.'. Puke. Even now. Puke. I don't care about that bull. Take it somewhere else.

Tarin moved schools the next year. Surprised? I wasn't.

I have found her on FaBo (you know, the hip term for Facebook). She is a graduate from a really good school, was in the marching band, and engaged. Honestly, I do wish the best for her. I had to be the bad guy, but I really hope the evil letter helped her be a better person. To be herself and quit worrying about being cool and popular. And to respect your parents. 

Oh, and to quit being so gullible.

*I obviously changed her name. I'm not an idiot. We all have a Tarin.

The Birthday Curse

Holidays, well, they down right suck. It's always around November when people are idiots, everything bad that can happen does, and everyone expects you to do things for them and get them gifts but you better not expect anything in return. And, of course, there's my birthday. Right there in between Turkey day and Christmas.

If you have a December birthday, then you totally get what I mean. It just sucks. No way of getting around it. You get stiffed. 'Oh, here's a gift for Christmas AND your birthday, even though everyone else gets two gifts for each occasion.' Not my fault you're broke and get stressed around the holidays. Now give me a proper birthday, you idiots! (JK...or am I?)

What also sucks is it's cold. Unless you live in Aruba or something. Want a cool party? Better make sure you only do something inside and with a lot of heat. So all you kids with birthdays where you can grill out, swim, play with dogs, and do all these other cool things, awesome for you. I had slumber parties bundled up and an ice skating party that ended in the hospital. I like to live dangerously if you can't tell.

I didn't have a lot of parties growing up due to my dad always working out of town and due to him already being home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, he couldn't really take off more time and come in between to see me turn a year older. I also, don't give me pity, never really had friends to invite to such parties. I made an effort to change this in high school, where I had two parties that were pretty decent.

The first one was my 16th. I finally moved from the tiny ass bedroom I had been in downstairs for way too long to the loft upstairs. I went from barely having room for a queen bed and a nightstand to enough room to even tumble (not advised to try that in your bedroom). The creative side in me drew up what I wanted the bedroom to look like. I went all out. The room was orange and I painted giant ass pink, yellow, green, and blue polka dots all over the walls. I painted the window sit green and the doors, too. The ceiling was blue and the trim was pink. I loved that stupid room so much (read that Mom? I LOVE IT. Thanks for painting over it after I moved out......jeez). I invited my small group of girlfriends from Drama class and we had a good time. It's funny the first year I had girlfriends, got presents on my birthday, and had a party was my first year I was a high school cheerleader. Even though, I was hanging out with nerds. But, that's how I am.

Since I was a cheerleader, and it was Friday before the kick-off of basketball season, I had to do a pep rally. As soon as it starts, I get bashed in the nose and have to run to the locker room with blood gushing everywhere. I miss the pep rally and end up pulling a couple of clots out. Awesome.

The rest of the day wasn't bad. My parents ordered pizza, I had a Little Mermaid cake (you never get too old for Disney) and we watched movies. It was fun. I never really felt like I belonged in a group of friends like that before, and honestly, I never have again to this day. In the end, one girl ended up getting with my boyfriend at the time (for another time), one girl ended up pretty much hating me for some reason, and one has ended up moving and starting a family). It's life, I guess.

The next year was different. Different school and a lot had happened over the past 12 months. In June/July, I ran away from home, trying to learn more about my biological father and his story, I came back (not by choice) and was starting a new private school that I ended up actually loving (and finish school a year early). There weren't many kids at this school, with the biggest class I had being like, maybe 9 students. Me being the 'I don't care' type and being honest and loud (I struggle with biting my tongue, and honestly, I don't want to) I became friends with everyone. So for my birthday, I invited everyone to go ice skating. The funny part is, I had come up with the idea to skate with a boy I really liked some time before, and then, he didn't even show up. Funny how life works. It didn't matter, I woke up that Saturday, excited to have a good time on my birthday for once, hopefully no injuries, no tears, and no worries.

We picked up a few of my classmates in the minivan and picked up my cake. It was a two tier Hello Kitty cake (I am mature for my age I swear, don't judge). We had all my classmates and also one old friend I had had since middle school (who I ended up dating for three or so years started later that day).

I had a good time. I watched everyone fall on their butts, we ate cake and nachos, I got the new iPod I really wanted, saw my 50 year old dad try to skate (Skate to him means holding on to the rail for dear life and making one lap in about 40 minutes and then calling it quits) and had a lot of laughs.

When it was time to leave, I was feeling pretty boss because I hadn't fallen. Everyone pretty much had fallen at least once and I was still going strong. I was making my way to the exit of the arena when a snotty nosed brat of a kid decided to cut me off, zooming by me and tripping my skate. I did a beautiful full twist and then landed right on the ass. Like, ice to bone. Great going, you spoke to soon.

I was in pain. Lots of it. But, it would go away. We got everything together and made our trip home. There were two girls, sisters, who I had invited to come back to my house and stay the night. we watched movies and pigged out some more. As the night wore on, I realized maybe the pain wasn't going to get better. I tried laying in every position possible, trying to see if I could get some sleep. Wrong.

In the early morning hours, my dad comes upstairs and tells me we have to get up. My mom was needing to go to the hospital. Well, so much for this birthday too. My ass was killing me and now my mom was having problems. We go to the ER and as we are waiting to hear what is wrong with my mom, I decided to speak up and get my butt checked up. There was no way this was just a bruise. It felt like something was literally grinding on my tail bone, and it was such a dull ache I couldn't bare standing, sitting, or laying.

So I get a scan and a ride in a wheelchair and find out I will have to be on pain meds and sit on an inflatable donut for a while. Awesome. Because inflatable donuts are totally in. High schoolers totally have those these days. My mom had a terrible kidney stone and we were ready to go home, doped up and sleepy.

I spend the next month in a fog pretty much, having to take pain meds. It was still the myspace days, and sometimes I would wake up and find that either my doped up ass wrote some pretty bizarre shit or an alien came into my room and wanted to play a joke on me. Either way, I started hiding my laptop downstairs when I knew I had to take some pain pills.

The next year, I was out of the house. My boyfriend (the guy at the party the year before) and I were living together and I went to college. I was aspiring to bake, and went to school for culinary. We lived about 30 minutes from where we grew up. He had a little pickup truck and we went back to our hometown to see friends and such often. It was the day before my birthday and a friend of ours said he wanted to make us dinner and give me a present. So we put on our rain coats and hopped in the truck. Not even a mile from the house, a wonderful, smart blonde college girl in her brand new Ford pickup ran a stop sign (it was raining, mind you) and T-Boned us. It only popped some plastic off of her truck and completely totaled ours. She got two tickets and was at fault, obviously, but I ended up taking my boyfriend to the hospital for whiplash. Then the next day, I got a terrible migraine and ended up at the ER myself with a 'grey spot on your brain'. That's literally what the doctor told me. WHAT?! I was watching House M.D (you better remember that awesome show) a lot at the time, and was pretty sure I was going to die. Until I went to my normal Dr and he said I just had a concussion. I still deal with migraines thanks to that accident.

Even before these incidents, I had injuries. I would be baking cookies to take to my class and burn my entire area of my hand between the thumb and the forefinger, I have cut myself deeply from just being an idiot, and knocked the breath out of myself from trying acrobatics in the living room knowing it wasn't a good idea. More recently, I have had stomach bugs, tonsillitis, lost a job, and other mishappens on/around my birthday. It's not a coincidence. No way.

After the car accident, I like to try and stay home and not do much for my birthday. I have a curse.It's a freakin curse and I know it. I was voodoo'd one time. Maybe the witch that gave birth to me had a seance when I was younger and did this to me.
Thanks a lot.

My father not letting go of that railing.

My crew at the time and that awesome funky room. (cough cough mom)

Hey, 17 year olds can like Hello kitty. Keep hating.

Hey guess what? My soul sucking sister is my mother. Awesome.

So, where to even start? Let's just say I am not going to deny the fact that even though I try to live a simple life, it's pretty much far from it. I try to be the normal one, the one who is destined to do great things, spend half of my life in college getting degrees and experience, the one who is willing to try anything once, the one that sees the light at the end of the tunnel. This part is pretty accurate, it's who I am. I hard headed, stubborn, but open minded person. But we all have downfalls. Mine? I hate people.

You read that.

I.
Hate.
People.

Give me a puppy, I will ooooooo and ahhhhh and coo to it like a baby. Give me a human child, I might say hey to it.

I am like this thanks to a few people I have blood ties with. Family is just awesome right? Ha. Blood is not thicker than water. And if you have one of those huge families that you can barely fit into one house over the holidays, then great for you. I can't imagine even having a family that can stand being near each other for more than 5 minutes. It must be nice.

Let me start here.

I was thirteen years old. It was spring break in my 8th grade year. My world changed forever. My darling, sweet (READ: SARCASM HERE) older sister was actually, well, the woman who birthed me. Whoa. What? No way!

Yes way.

And no one told me these facts. My detective skills began at a young age, and I discovered the truth via a lovely old photo album buried in a closet under some blankets. The one time I try cleaning the house and be a good child, and BOOM. Hey, your life has been a lie up to this point.

So here I was, with photos in my hand, revealing the two people I had been calling my parents all along were my grandparents that adopted me at the age of 3, the older 'sis' was my mother, my dad was off somewhere covered in tattoos and drinking his life away with college kids, and my two 'nephews' were my half-brothers.

Trust me, it'll screw with your head for a while.

When you start to let the truth soak in, it's hard. You'll wake up, and your first thought in the morning is 'it didn't really happen. I dreamed it. No freakin way'. Then you see reminders, such as photos, emails, whatever it might be and BAM it's like finding out all over again. Just like a bad break up. Denial. It sucks, but it's how we humans handle things.

I was already dealing with my first 'love', his friends stealing from my house, and enough as a teenager to make your head want to explode, and this was just a cherry on top of it all.

Let me begin to describe this awesome sister/mother to you. She's quite the charmer, she's attractive, funny, witty, and will make you think she is just a good, honest, caring person. But don't let that fool you. She is out for your soul. SOUL I TELL YOU. Ok, not your soul. Maybe just whatever you might give her, especially what might be sitting in your bank account right now. She hates working. Her favorites hobbies include, but not limited to:

Shopping. I mean, she's a woman. But I mean, every day need something new type of shopping.
Ruining relationships. Especially marriages. And even some of her own. Faithful she is not.
Lying. Oooooo boy is this her favorite. She loves to lie just to do it. She loves to seem poor and innocent and in need of sympathy, attention, and possibly a few hand outs.
Drinking. She can party with the best of them, known to be found in bars.
Xanax. Her favorite drug of choice. I mean, she even had her car repo'd and her only concern was 'I had a whole bag of xannies in there!' She really has some priorities going for her.
Online dating. Yes. Even back before it was a thing. I was like, not even three and she ran of to Florida with a dude she met online, running up that dial up internet bill to a thousand bucks (it was the 90's) and vanished for a bit. She still does the online thing. She needs to keep the attention going. She can't stay faithful and loves to have gifts sent to her, so it's the quickest and easiest way to accomplish this.I can't say I haven't personally messed with her on her online dating stuff.
Dieting. Oh yes. She's one of those. The weird thing is, sometimes she's average, then sometimes she'll starve herself and be a toothpick. I do know this, after observing this creature for a few years, I have come to realize that when she has some meat on her bones, she's pretty normal. If she is skinny, you better run for the hills because that bitch is CRAZY. In other words, if you see this specimen looking like a starving Ethiopian, get her a sandwich and fast. Maybe she goes bat shit crazy because she's hungry. That takes 'HANGRY' to a whole new level.
Getting divorced. Husband number five is an available position now. Better make a good dating profile soon, make sure you say how much money you make, get a picture of you looking really nice and sophisticated, talk about the nice cars and house you own, and she will definitely enjoy if you say how much you travel all over the world. She even DRUGGED a previous husband to leave him. She put sleeping pills in his dinner, packed her shit, and she got a previous husband to drive to another state to come get her. Then she left him too. So, add Using Vulnerable Men to this list, too.
And last but not least, HATING ME. No, this isn't a typo. Not a mistake. Not even an exaggeration. I can't deny the feeling isn't mutual. She has spent a lot of her time in her life trying make me miserable, trying to get some kind of dirt on me, to ruin relationships, to ruin jobs, to ruin anything and everything. She did help with ruining the some what of a relationship I had with my biological father, but, I'll get to that later. This woman has hated me since, I am assuming, birth. She even made sure I was lonely and forgotten about in my teenage years, making them even more horrible than they should have been. She is not a mom. She was never meant to be a mother to nurture and love. And yet, here she is, spitting out three kids who were ended up being raised by someone other than herself. Luckily for the world though, she is no longer able to add to my sibling list.

This woman is a walking demon I am pretty sure. She destroys all happiness she can find. She will convince you to help her, and she will end up draining you of either a.) trust in humanity b.) all your money c.) your love and compassion in the world or d.) all of the above plus many more depending on your situation with her. She will suck your soul and leave it out in the sun to dry up and get crispy. Then she'll crush it up and put it on her salad for dinner.

I haven't seen my two younger brothers in about 4 years. One is in college, not even an hour away, and the other is 13, and pretty depressed from what I can tell. They have been taken in by their father and his latest wife, who are both pretty insane themselves. He is a drunk who loves him some cheep beers and driving cars. Awesome. He also likes prescription pills and not keeping a job. Great guy. They were around for a bit until I went sniffing out the real secrets and found the drug stash, then they ran off and DFACS was called, but oh, right, they're a freakin joke so nothing happened.

I have my brothers' initials' tattooed on my wrists in white ink. I got it about two years ago now, to ensure if anything ever happened to me, they'd know I never forgot them. They have been ripped out of my life more times than I bother to count, and now, it seems to be for a long haul. No idea what was told to them, no idea why I am not allowed to see or even speak to them, no idea why this shit happens to me. But guess what? It is what it is. Unfortunately. I make my life not revolve on the effed up past, and definitely not on my sick and twisted family members that I can thank for not aborting me in 1990. I just thank them for being sperm donors and a carrier for me in the womb, and I strive to be the exact opposite of them. A college graduate, earning my masters, keeping a job, not an addict, don't smoke, a faithful partner, and most of all, not a POS and waste of a life. #sorrynotsorry

So here I am, turning 23 in a week's time. It's been 10 years that I have known this awful truth, wishing it would go away, and knowing it's quite a story to be told. So here I am, telling it to some strangers. This is only the beginning of some good reads.