Over the years, I have often felt the need to tell my story to someone. I dont know why but maybe its just to get things off my chest for whatever reason. You can choose to read or not, comment or not. I can remember a lot of things which still give me nightmares to this day. I think about them every day and Im not afraid to admit they cause me problems to this day. I have been trying to get over my past events for a while and I feel im getting better every day. For a lot of reason I cant not go to a therapist because I have trust issues for good reason, atleast to me.


To me, this is my self therapy. I will be chaning names and what not to protect myself. You can assume this is hypothetical and none of this really happened. You can post what you like but I wont be responding to any posts until I have finished. Im thinking that this may take longer than even I expect and I wont be able to finish all this in one day. Think of it as a journal. I dont know how much of this has to do with my ADD but im assuming a lot of events which happened have held me down and my ADD didnt help any. Anyhow on to my story.

My God. I just busted out 6 paragraphs over the past hour and I lost all my work. :mad: Cigarette time! Ill rewrite later.

I learned an important less about saving your work before posting on the net.

Welcome to the forums!

Stories R Us! :D

My name is *** ****. Usually when you write something like an autobiography, you start with your name and what type of person you are. I don’t know if I can give a clear answer to that because I don’t know who I am sometimes. I certainly like to think I have a good heart but I know I have done a lot of wrong in the eyes of the law and what some would say in the eyes God. I don’t know where I went wrong, but I did somewhere down the line go wrong. I sometimes think that I might go to hell because of the things I have done. Is there such a place ? Maybe if God is who they say he is, that being a person who can forgive you no matter what you have done, then maybe I have a shot at something better in the afterlife. Don’t judge me just yet. You haven’t heard what I have to say.



I was born premature and was delivered by cesarean section. My mother showed me the scar on her stomach to prove it. I was born underweight and perhaps this was the cause of my ADD or maybe it was genetics….who knows? Maybe my ADD was caused by all the time my parents dropped me on my head. Yes, my parents still laugh when they tell me stories of how they accidentally dropped me on my head in the movie theatre because they were busy watching the movie and grabbing popcorn out of the tub. I started to scream like a madman and they would run out of the theatre because every eye would be on them. Maybe it was the time my dad dropped an anvil on my head. I even have to laugh at this one. My dad told me more than once how bad he felt when I was playing underneath his legs in the garage and he dropped it on my head. He says, “man you must have had a hard head because that should have killed you! You screamed like a madman! I’m surprised you aren’t retarded now.”



Anyhow, while I was in the hospital being a pre mature baby, my mother was also in the hospital on her deathbed, or so she calls it. She said she was in a lot of pain and she wasn’t sure she was going to make it. She told me that she had a visit from The Virgin Mary herself. I don’t remember much about this story other than she was saved by Mary. Maybe it was just the painkillers or the shock but she swears it was true. Sh*t, my mother lived and is still with me to this day so who can prove her wrong?



I guess my mother had a hard time with pregnancies. She had one miscarriage and then she had the pre mature birth with me. After that, her next child was born severely retarded and died at the age of 2 weeks. I think I must have been around 6 or 7 years old when this happened. I cant remember much about it but I’m sure it was hard especially for my mother. I’m still sad sometimes that I never got to know him. I wonder some times what it would be like to have a younger brother. Maybe it was best for him, you know? Life works in strange ways and we really cant control a lot of bullsh*t that happens. We just have to pick ourselves up and move on because life doesn’t stop for anyone. Life can be cruel that way.



They use to call me “The Screamer” in the hospital. You could hear me scream from a mile away. I wound up gaining the weight I needed and except for asthma which I would find out I had later on, I was a healthy baby boy. I was a always a little bit small for my age but my mother isn’t exactly huge. She’s what you would call petite and I think the majority of my genes come from her.







My mother is a great woman and I have a lot of love for her. Like any person she has flaws. I consider my mother a *****. I wouldn’t say she is racist but she is intolerant for any opinion other than her own. For example she will refer to black people as spooks or use Portuguese words which I can’t spell. She might refer to my friend as the fat Canadian kid or the skinny Jew. It’s funny really because when I ask her not to speak like that she says, “well he is a skinny Jew, so what’s the problem?” I don’t blame it on her. I think that is the way she was brought up. If anyone is to blame I guess it would be my grandparents.



My mother isn’t what you would call a normal mother either. In fact I don’t really know who wears the pants in the family. Its common to hear my mother saying to my father, “Shut your fat mouth” LOL or “Shut up you idiot, I wasn’t talking to you!”

My parents have been together for a long time and love each other, but you wouldn’t know it without knowing them.



My mother doesn’t take crap from anyone. Another trait which she got from my grandfather. She is tough in her 5’2 110 pound body. She will tell anyone off at any time if she feels like it. Maybe that is just a Portuguese trait. All my family from my Portuguese side is that way. They don’t take any crap from anyone. It must be a pride thing. Whatever it is, my mother has it running through her veins. My Grandfather proudly told me how she knocked out the biggest bully in school for picking on her. She was never picked on again by that person but she was suspended from school. It was worth it to her.



Nowadays she is old and frail. She has arthritis pretty much everywhere, back problems, stomach problems and can barely walk without having to hold on to something. Its sad to see but that’s just life. She often cant remember things and repeats herself a lot now. One thing I can say about her, is that she and my Father have always been there for me no matter what and I appreciate them to the fullest.



So enough about my mother for now. What can I say about my childhood?

I was born in ********, California. That was southern Cali. My parents were young and just getting started so in other words, we were poor. Our first apartment was a little one room place on top of a gas station. That lasted about one week until a bullet flew through the top floor window and stuck into the side of a wall above my baby crib. Over the years we bounced back and forth from house to house over a dozen times. Another place we had was next to train tracks. Every day a train would fly by our house and I would be outside waving to “Joe” the train conductor. At least that’s what my name for him was. I would be out there every day at 3 years old waving at Joe and he would wave back and blow the whistle for me. I don’t really remember that but I have seen pictures of me near the tracks so I assume that’s what happened. Somehow I can see it in my head though.



Around 6 years old we settled into our own home. A real home with carpets and a doorbell and it even had a tangerine tree in the backyard. I still love that home and I remember everything about it. This home was like the gateway between heaven and hell though. There were a lot of good people in the neighborhood at the time but I grew up there around the same time the neighborhood started changing for the worse (is that even word, worse?).













It was on a street about 2 miles long from end to end. It was Lafayette street. Straight and narrow no curves or anything. If you went down one way, you would come to a beautiful park. You could go and see hundreds of thousands of butterflies in these huge trees. People traveled miles and miles away to see them. You could throw a rock at the trees and see thousands of butterflies scatter. At the time I didn’t know it, but it really was incredible. Its funny what we take for granted. The park which I’ll call “Was beautiful park or WBP” truly was beautiful. I learned to play baseball there and even ride a bike. It’s a whole lot different than these parks Im now use to no the East coast with just grass and a few benches scattered here and there.



Down the other end of the street was the town high school and the only house with a swimming pool. Now that I think about it, the high schools or schools in general are so much different than what Im use to now. West coast schools as far as I can remember are all outside. They have lots of blacktop concrete and grass and walkways which you can ride a bike down. East coast school are all indoors for obvious reasons and are usually locked during the non school hours. Ugly and boring as Id put it.



Anyways this street was my stomping ground. I lived on the end of one of the blocks in our new home. I met my first real friend here. I was about 6 and he was 10. We will call him David. David rode his bike by one day as I was racing toy cars down my driveway and from that day we were best of friends.



David was what you would call hyper. Maybe he had ADHD now that I come to think of it. He was a tall skinny white kid and had a dumb look to him. He wasn’t the brightest kid and loved to get into trouble. I was 4 years younger than him so he was almost like a role model to me. Whatever he was into, I was into.



Anyways, my first school was a Catholic school. You had to dress up in uniform and all the teachers were nuns. There was a church on the premises and we were required to go to church every day. The only thing I can really remember about that school is that I hated it. Up until 3rd grade I was a straight A student. 3rd grade was when my ADD first started showing itself. I couldn’t concentrate on the work or the task at hand. My 3rd grade teacher once told me I was stupid and would never amount to anything. I showed her by jamming my pencil straight through her hand and sending her to the hospital. I was beaten by the “head nun” with a wooden paddle and sent to work off my sins by cleaning the church every day for a year. My parents stuck up for me. I mean, what teacher would say that to a young child? But then again, what type of 3rd grader would stick a pencil through a teachers hand? How about a kid with ADD that had begun to have anger and behavioral problems.



My first fight came in the same school and as long ago as it was, I can still remember it. It was with a Mexican kid named Brandon. He was supposedly the toughest kid there because he was Mexican and from the hood. Even at that age we had stereotypes of people, funny aint it? Anyhow I beat the crap out of him for tripping me. Back then that’s the only way we knew how to fight, We would trip each other. When he got back on his feet, I would put leg behind his foot and shove him back down to the ground. Well, the bell rang and because everyone was scared of the nuns we rushed back into the school and the fight was over. I remember all the kids looking up to me because I beat someone up. It felt good actually. I made more friends than I knew what to do with and I felt like I was king of the world. Maybe I remember that fight for a reason. It was a turning point in my life. Here I was a stupid kid or so my teachers told me. I was becoming withdrawn from my peers because I felt inferior to them. Now I was popular and liked again. Perhaps this is how I learned to get attention. I acted out and I was rewarded and respected for it. It is amazing how we interpret things as children and how they grow with us into adulthood.



With all the problems I started having in school, my new found friend, and my new found way to deal with people started to shape the way I grew up. By age 10 I was a monster. I remember being at a fair one time that my parents took me to. The fair came into town and was on the ocean every year. My first time at the fair I can still remember. I cant remember anything about the fair but the parking lot. There was another young kid there and Im not sure exactly what happened but he must have been a monster as well. King Kong Vs Godzilla! Well he got the better of me and he put a piece of glass through my eyebrow and cut me with it! I remember blood running down my face and my mom running over to see why I was screaming. I don’t even think it hurt that much. I must have been screaming because I had never seen so much blood before. I still have the scar over my left eye to remind me of it. That was one hell of a fair though and I left it with a battle scar!

Its funny because that’s what it was to me. I was proud and showed it off to all my friends.

My friends were idiot kids too, because they were like “woah cool”!





At this age I guess we were real impressionable. I didn’t have a lot of parental guidance because my parents worked long hours and I was left to raise myself. David and I roamed the streets getting into things we shouldn’t have. I probably grew up too fast. David was 14 when I was 10 and trouble followed him. David lived on one end of the block and I lived on the other. Next door to David a kid moved in named Donovan. Donovan wound up becoming my first black friend and he was also older. In fact he was older than David by a couple of years. David looked up to him and I looked up to David so it just came naturally that I looked up to him as well.



The thing about Donovan was that he wasn’t a normal kid. He came from a family that was full of gang members including his mother. I never met his mother but many years later I found out she was locked up somewhere for doing God knows what. Donovan lived in the house with his older brother. Donovan wasn’t a gang banger but more like a wannabee. His brother on the other hand sold drugs out of the house and was a real full fledge Blood.



Now the stupid kids that we were, we thought this was all so cool. We actually knew a real life gang member and not only that but his brother sold drugs, cool huh? I was only 10 so what the hell did I know about right and wrong and bad influence? Donovan didn’t last long. He moved away or something a short time later but he had mad his impression upon us. I wasn’t really a trouble maker but I was pretty wild. I still had respect for my elders and didn’t talk back to anyone. I was always a respectful and polite kid but I just liked running the streets with the other kids.