This is my life. Now you understand

As far back as I can remember, I have always cheated death or should I say, life has cheated me. I am a true believer that all things happen for a reason. I was only three when the neighbor boy and I were playing in our yard which was connected. The folks were having a get together. I remember the kid walking over to me carrying a one inch thick board, raising it over his head and slamming it down on mine as hard as he could. I also remember seeing stars, actual stars like a freakin cartoon. The lump raised on the top of my head was the size of a baseball. I ran to good old Mother, and she was talking. I was crying, and all she could say was, I must have done something to deserve that.

I was allowed to skip the second grade for reasons of the adult world but I had The others were eight in the third grade. Ok, by the time I was in the fifth grade, being now, ten, while most of the class were twelve and so much bigger than I, I was the target of bullying, big time. I am talking about a rough neighborhood to begin with, and getting at least a beating a day, I was afraid to head outdoors. The bully’s would actually chase me home and if I was lucky they did not catch me. no argument at that age, I was only six six. The thing was, at the age of six, to skip, placed me into an older class. These beatings would take place until I was ten or twelve.

So when one combines the attacks I received as a kid, and parents who were constantly fighting, a father who was drunk for as far back as I can remember, I was the one they always put in the middle to measure who was right. No child should ever be put in that situation, but I survived. My father would call for me personally when he threatened to cut off his feet, having me get a towel, a pot, and two sharp knives. He would make me watch but he would never go through with the act. But at that time, a ten year old should never be put in that situation wither. Basically, I felt so alone in the world so I kept to myself pretty much.

At eleven, I remember riding my bike, alone, when an older kid started to chase me for my two wheeler, stingray with the banana seat and whammy bar. I never received presents for any occasion, but a neighbor gave me his old bike when he got a new one. This would be the start of me, feeling deserving enough to own anything or except gifts graciously, go figure. So this older kid chased me into a school yard and I hit a wall head on. The bike raised on its front wheels and my head hit the wall, hard. That must of scared him because he left. I road home in a daze but before I got their, another kid walks up to me, grabs the bike, and punches me square in the nose, breaking it. When I got home, all my mother said was, how did that happen, then she walked away. I was eleven, no love was lost.

Now in middle school, we called it Junior High back in the day, I remember three different teachers beating me up at separate times for no reasons. I went to a very bad school where the kids were running rabid. I was a good kid, kept to myself, and always taught to respect elders, and ask questions when I didn’t know or understand something. Those teachers felt I was being a wise guy so that was their excuse for beating me up.

At twelve, my brother hit me in the head with a rock. I needed three stitches which cost my Mom ten dollars at that time. She was furious with me for getting hit with that rock and refused the doctor when he offered anesthetic which would have been an additional ten dollars at the time. Are we beginning to see a pattern here? Then they send me to a two week summer camp for twenty five dollars, not to better my life but to get rid of me I am willing to guess. This was the camp where the counselors wheeled canvas belts and used them to keep us in line and as far as I could see, we never did anything wrong. Maybe it was the time my brother, me seven, him twelve, placed shards of glass into my glass of juice causing me to almost die, well, I was told to suck it up by dear old dad.

I have been hit in my head so many times, the doctors say, one more time, and I will die.

One day we moved. I was thirteen years old at that time. I was left a note at the old apartment where to go. I rode my bike thirteen blocks and found the new address, which is how I even found out we moved in the first place. The house was a three story building with basement. My brother and sisters had their own rooms, I had the unfinished attic complete with bats, squirrels, and possums. I learned to cope by slowly finishing the attic in an artistic way. The home was a duplex and the neighbor took the time to talk with me at times. He found out I was interested in writing and I had shown him some of my stories. He gifted me a typewriter. He was kind and caring and I will never forget the man for taking time on me. By the way, this happened between the time my mother threw me down the fifteen stairs for no apparent reasoning, and the time my Father came home stinking drunk and attacked me with a hammer, just because.

I have always been a smart child and despite all the roughness in my world, I always was able to articulate on paper what I was feeling. This is my forte. I believe I am here for a reason, to write, and let others enjoy what I have written. I feel as if I live on borrowed time and use it all to write. I have managed to write seventeen books with three in the works. I have written for news, media, and comedians and not to mention tens of thousands of articles. I feel lucky despite what has happened to me. By the way, those bully’s from back in the day, have since passed away which is all the revenge I need for closure. My siblings, well, who knows where they are or how they are doing. I separated from them when I found the love of my life and married. The grandparents didn’t care enough to know my kids, and as for the siblings, they are only in it for themselves. I found out during a heated argument that I was never a wanted child. They also told me, I was the reason they grew up poor. I would receive wrapped up used socks for Christmas as gifts, my own used socks go figure. Birthdays, not even a “Happy birthday Rob.” I have always d=id well for myself and writing this was sort of a therapy for me. I am for the underdog, the weak, the challenged. I fight for those who cannot. That which did not kill me, did make me stronger and believe me, I still have a lot more to say and do. Thanks for the read and google me for more insight into why I am.

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