The 90s

Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash

I know what you’re thinking: “Where the hell have you been?!” Honestly, I’ve been throwing myself into depression about the state of the country, the start of World War 3 and I visited my family in the Midwest for a bit. But I’m back to spin another yarn and take another trip down memory pain. Right now, I feel like the movie I DVR’d from 1945, The Lost Weekend. The main character Don is an alcoholic writer who has been sober but goes on a bender for creativity — he winds up in a sanitarium and a drunk tank. I’m only three wine glasses of margarita deep.

So, where do I begin? I guess the source of most of my misery: my fucked up family. I’ve been avoiding this topic with every fiber of my being but it seems inevitable. To address the reasons why I am the way that I am, I have to confront the truth. I’ve tried to pretend like my family is wonderful when I really fucking hate them and wish that most of them would fall off of the face of the goddamn Earth — save my mother. She’s a saint. Ok, my family in the Midwest ain’t half bad either. But let’s turn our attention to my “family” in San Diego. It all started in the ‘90s…

Siri, play ‘The 90s” by Finneas…

“I think about the 90s when the future was a testament to something beautiful and shiny. Now, we’re only counting down the time that’s left. With everything behind me, I wonder how much of it I’ll forget. I think about the 90s when I think about what I regret…”

My grandfather was the hero in this story. He was the shining example of what one would hope to be. My grandfather, born black in Pike County Mississippi in 1937 — didn’t graduate high school but served this country for 21 years in the U.S. Navy, earned his GED and graduated from San Diego State University with a degree in Sociology while supporting a family of four. That’s pretty miraculous in those days. My grandfather also managed to purchase a new home in Mira Mesa when the North County was up and coming. It was basically canyon when he bought our family home — hell, it was still canyon when I was in elementary school. You could see Intestate 15 from the playground. I used to waltz through the canyon past Miramar College to go to my friend’s house on Carroll Canyon Road.

“All the time I should’ve been so happy I was here. Wasting it on worrying just made it disappear. Now my head feels so heavy. I’m left holding up the levee…”

I had a pretty charmed life compared to some of my family members who lived in gang territory down in Southeast San Diego. I was spoiled, honestly. I lived in a good neighborhood. Most of my classmates were white. I didn’t hear gun shots at night. But that’s just the surface.

What went on inside of that house? Let’s just say the police were pretty familiar with our home due to my uncle’s crystal meth and crack habit. There were constant calls due to his violent outbursts. My uncle couldn’t keep his hands off of my mother. He was physically abusive towards her and had drug hoes running in and out of my grandparents’ home.

Now, remember when I said my mother was a saint? I was kidding. She wasn’t perfect considering her own bout with using crystal meth. But I understand why she used socially. She had to take care of my grandfather who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just after I graduated from kindergarten and then my grandmother who fell ill to breast cancer while trying to be a doting mother to me. That’s a lot of pressure. I don’t know if I could have handled it. Can I note that she took me into trap houses, but I never ingested crystal meth? That’s impressive. Also, she was present at EVERY school function I had — even if it was with mismatched shoes that one time. I’ll let that slide.

For the sake of peoples’ attention spans, I’ll fast forward to after my grandmother passed away. I lost both of my grandparents within two years of each other. My thieving ass family didn’t even let me grieve the loss of my grandparents before attempting to and eventually succeeding in evicting me and my mother from our family home that was supposed to be left to us.

Let’s start with the cast of evil characters: my evil Aunt B her less evil but still evil counterpart Aunt W and her cigar smoking devil reincarnate brother Uncle C. These people were at our house constantly visiting with my grandmother and cordoning her off where my mother could not hear them tricking my dying grandmother into changing her will to make them the trustees. My grandmother was far too trusting of her family. I know your family is supposed to have your best interest at heart and this is why it breaks my heart to have the misfortune of telling this story. My family didn’t. They had knives in our back, metaphorically speaking.

My grandmother’s own flesh and blood tricked her to steal her money and evict her daughter and granddaughter from what my grandfather worked for. My evil great uncle C even put the eviction notice in my hand when I was out playing with my friends and said “Here. Give this to your mother” with a Cheshire cat grin. Who the fuck does that to someone they love?! Not to mention — they used my drug addict Uncle to do it. By this time, my mother had quit using crystal meth socially but before my grandmother died, I witnessed my uncle brutally attacking my mother. I watched my uncle body slam my mother on top of a car in the garage. I witnessed him throwing her into a glass table. I witnessed him choking my mother. He snatched the phone out of my hand when I tried to call the police. This is his sister. He did this to her in front of his niece — her child. My mother was the sole caretaker for both of my grandparents until they both passed away. My uncle didn’t help at all. Instead, I watched him abuse my mother while he was under drug psychosis episodes.

To make matters worse, recently he tried to gaslight me and tell me that I didn’t witness those things in a phone call. Bullshit! I told him exactly how I felt. My trauma washed over me like a tidal wave. I screamed at the top of my lungs “How dare you?! You almost got me taken away from my mother! I went to school and crawled under my desk having a nervous breakdown worrying about you killing your sister! My mother! I had an anxiety attack and wound up in the hospital at eight years old! How fucking dare you tell me that what I experienced isn’t real?! You know what? No one in this family has ever given a shit about me. Not one person asked me how I was doing when my grandparents died. Not one fucking person! Not one person checked on me when I went to four different elementary schools in one year as a displaced and homeless child because of what my family did! I had to live with my father for a year when he was like a stranger to me! Fuck this family. I’m tired of pretending you love me.” And click.

After my tirade, he didn’t have a chance to respond because I hung up. Do I really give a damn about anything he has to say? No. I don’t care. I don’t care because it will never be the truth. It’s been 26 years and he can’t tell the truth or apologize. Aunt B couldn’t either before she died in 2017. No, I didn’t attend her funeral. Honestly, if I had I would have pissed on her grave. She orchestrated all of this and because of her I have suffered trust issues and depression. She fucked me up in the worst way and whenever I saw her at family events she acted as if she did nothing wrong. I feel disgusted that her phone number was the first I ever memorized when I was three years old. Maybe she was the first person I loved who didn’t really love me and the pathology developed…

I guess that’s neither here nor there. What to do with this trauma and anger? I guess I’m doing what I do best: writing. But no matter how much destruction they caused — they will not destroy me.

Author’s note: Sorry for the profanity. I was really, really, angry when I wrote this.