See those two little kids on the left? They’re dealing with a lot, and they’re badass mofos. The guy on the right, well…

Next month marks my one-year anniversary in Colorado, and I’ve been reflecting a lot about how this first year has been, what really brought me to Colorado, and what I should be looking forward to in the future.

It’s crazy to think that just a year ago I was rummaging through my tiny, 425-square-foot apartment in Manchester, New Hampshire, carefully thinking about what I’d take with me as I headed west, and what would be left behind. My thought process was simple: if you’re not sure whether you need something, you don’t. By the time I was done I’d say ~25% of my possessions were sold, ~65% were given away or thrown away, and the remaining ~10% (mostly clothes, workout stuff, and craft beer), found real estate in my Volkswagen.

Truthfully, by the time I hit the road, it dawned on me that leaving behind 90% of my “stuff” was one of the most liberating feelings in the world. No longer was I bogged down by stuff that I didn’t really didn’t need anymore. We all hang onto so many things that we think mean something to us, but at the end of the day, when we think critically about what is and what isn’t important, we find that most of what we collect is meaningless.

***

What many people don’t realize about me is that I come from an extremely disjointed and what I’d call “critically” broken family. Very few people in my family are willing to acknowledge this – certainly not publicly in a blog – but it’s something I came to terms with many, many years ago.

My parents divorced when I was extremely young. I don’t know exactly how old I was, but I must have been a baby because I have no recollection of them ever being together. My mom – somehow – gained custody of my two sisters and I (big fail, State of Massachusetts), and my dad soon remarried and started a new family.

My mother

My mother, meanwhile, rarely worked, which landed us in steady Section 8 housing, and soon zeroed in on a new relationship with a man I’ll call “Shawn.”

Growing up, there was a lot of physical and psychological abuse in our household, from both my mother and Shawn. We were extremely poor, which made life incredibly difficult, and on top of that we were subjected to frequent, and often very severe, physical abuse.

My mother was an alcoholic with (apparent) mental health issues, and she never hesitated to let her fits of anger manifest into physical violence towards her children. Broomsticks, belts, telephones, closed fists, open fists, ashtrays, fingernails – you name it, and at some point we were on the receiving end of it in a drunken (and sometimes completely sober) fit of rage. It happened so often that I remember thinking it was the norm for all kids my age; if you did anything remotely wrong, you were beaten. Being a sensitive kid, I remember feeling doubly-awful after my mother’s fits of abuse; I’d sit there afterwards more upset with the thought that I upset her than the fact that I was in real, physical pain because of her.

As bad as the abuse was from my mother, I remember most fearing “Shawn” the most. Shawn was, simply put, the king of all assholes. He was a taller guy, at least compared to, like, 5-year-old kids, and he was ruthless. His nickname among the kids in the house was “Big Bird” because of his imposing height and lanky stature. I’ll never forget the times Shawn would snap his leather belt onto itself as he approached our bedroom for beatings, creating a psychological sense of terror that often felt worse than the physical beatings themselves. It was his sick little battle song, and my mother rarely did anything to stop it.

I think the memory that most stands out to me was the time Shawn brought a poster home from a video store as a “present” to my half-brother (who is “Shawn’s” son) and I. When he put it on the wall, I think I may have said something about not liking it too much (because, as well all know, five-year-olds tell the truth), and as a result, I was beaten across my room by Shawn until I was left trembling on my bed.

Aside from memories of personal beatings, I have so many more burned into my mind, such as the time one of my siblings – while pregnant – was repeatedly hit over the head with a telephone by my mother, or the multiple times one of my other siblings would get beaten so badly that their nose would literally gush blood, or the times my mother was hitting the bars from early until well after midnight, leaving us to figure out dinner on our own. These images will always stick with me – there’s nothing I can do to completely shake them from my memory. I’ve tried to forget about them and I’ve failed. I’ve come to accept that it’s just part of my past and part of what made me who I am today.

My father

Then there’s my biological father, who was not physically abusive to us at all. My relationship with him was different than the one with my mother; while there wasn’t physical abuse, there was significant detachment throughout my childhood. When I was very young, my father won visitation rights on Sundays to see my two sisters and I. Every Sunday morning we’d wait for him to pick us up as our mother rambled demeaning things (probably not suitable for this blog) about him and then Sunday night he’d bring us back home. It was our little 10-hour respite from her insanity.

My father is not a bad man. He’s made plenty of mistakes in his life, but he’s not a bad person. I think the biggest disappointment I’ve felt towards my father, to this day, is that he knew what was going on with our mother, but seemed so wrapped up in building a new family and new life that he didn’t try as hard as he could have to get us away from her.

Not to say he didn’t try, because he did – but the effort often felt disingenuous. I remember a couple of occasions when my sisters moved in with him, but it didn’t take long to notice they didn’t seem any happier living with him than they were living with my mother. Which, being the youngest of the three, confused me. Looking back, I think it’s because they felt like outcasts in his home. I’m not sure he ever put serious effort into trying to be a comforting and supportive father figure – it was more about making sure people “see” that he’s doing the right thing. He always seemed overly obsessed with what everyone else thought of him.

Today, the truth is I barely know my father. He intentionally hides a lot of things about his past and rarely ever gave me insight into who he actually is. Most of my Sundays with him were spent alone in the “den” playing Nintendo until it was time to bring us back to my mother. I honestly can’t think of more than one or two things he and I ever did together that we did because he knew it was something I’d love to do. It was mostly what he wanted to do, and any of my hobbies as a kid were virtual non-starters. It made me always feel like a ball-and-chain holding him back from trying to build a new life and a new family. I mean, I wish I could describe how many times I’ve had to have discussions with both of my parents about “child support” checks. It’s nauseating to think about how often it came up in conversation when I was 10, 11, 12 years old…and even more often when I was in college.

I always thought that the older I’d get the more I’d get along more with my father, but the opposite has proven to be true. I feel like I’ve accomplished a lot in my life – particularly given the nature of my upbringing – yet I can’t remember how many times my father has ever told me he’s proud of me or he loves me. That may sound heartbreaking, but the truth is this has always been my reality, so it’s familiar and just part of my individual reality. I’m used to it and expect nothing else.

*****

I could go on and on with horror stories about my mom and depressing stories about my dad, but that would make this blog lengthy and unreadable. The short of the rest of it:

Eventually, my mom cut back and stopped physically abusing us. It seemed to coincide – shockingly! – with when she stopped drinking and started seeing my now-stepfather (who is, overall, a good man that’s overcome a lot in his own life).

The psychological abuse from my mother never stopped, which is why I no longer speak with her and never plan to do so again. She’s never apologized for any of her behavior; in fact, she tries to act like it never happened at all.

***

Despite the endless stories of abuse and neglect, the truth is the two biggest disappointments over the last decade with my parents are:

1. Neither of them ever visited me or showed any interest in my academic pursuits when I was in college (which was something I paid for virtually completely on my own). Not one visit. I worked three jobs while I was in college while taking 18+ credit course loads over my final three semesters, and not once did either parent visit to try to provide moral support. My mom lived an hour and a half away, my father lived three hours away. I’ll never forget the embarrassment that came with family events on campus. I’d see my friends going out to dinner with their parents and/or showing their parents around campus, knowing full well my mother couldn’t even tell you what my major was, let alone put in the effort to visit me. My father, conversely, would tell me he had a “bad back” and couldn’t drive long distances, and then proceed to take 4, 5 hour flights to visit relatives in Portugal. You get the idea: they just didn’t care.
2. In February of this year I suffered a pulmonary embolism. It probably should have killed me and it was without a doubt the scariest moment of my life. Two relatives called to check in on me: my two sisters. Everyone else was a friend. I know my parents knew about it (because when one Portuguese person knows something they all know it), and even though it almost killed me, they couldn’t muster up the decency to call and say they’re happy I’m okay. That’s right: I was potentially on my deathbed in the ER, being pumped with blood thinners throughout the night to try and reduce the blood clots that’d traveled to my lungs, and neither of my parents ever reached out to me. I’ll never forget that.

*****

At this point you’re probably wondering: so, your childhood sucked. It happens to a lot of people. How does this tie into your move to Colorado?

Every day I look in the mirror and see several scars dotted across the left side of my face. Some of them are from genuine accidents, and others have the shape of fingernails. I remember where just about all of them came from, whether it’s the back of a hammer (which was an “accident”) or actual fingernails (intentional). I’ve thought about getting them removed, but then realize they serve as the perfect reminder of where I’ve been and what it took for me to get to where I am today.

Remember when I talked about picking through old stuff in my apartment in New Hampshire, carefully deciding what I wanted to carry forward with me and what I’d ultimately choose to leave behind? I wasn’t just deciding which pots and pans, wall décor, and clothes were coming with me, I was deciding what other types of baggage would be coming with me as well.

Because if you’re not sure you need it, you don’t.