Memoirs of an Addict Pt. II

I entered this world on the cusp of oscillation: July 21, 1989.  The cosmos explanation for my spontaneity and numerous apparent contradictions, according to modern medicine it’s bipolar and ADHD. Born to a mechanic and aspiring housewife, aspiring in the sense that while my mother worked at the time she did so begrudgingly. A reality my dad always took particular offense to.  This is my life, as only I can tell it. A story comprised mostly of self-inflicted sufferings. Drug abuse, indifference, and flawed perspective. The victimhood mentality such characteristics breed. My struggles as well as my rebirth. Enlightenment attained, a lesson in the difference between pleasure and happiness.

My earliest memories were unhappy ones.  Comprised singularly of my parents fighting.  I was three in the earliest of these memories, my parents screaming at each other, my mom taking my brother to her parents, my dad taking me to his.  For me, recalling memories which stem from such a young age doesn’t happen in the same manner as recalling recent memories. Rather than remembering images you remember feelings, instead of words you remember the tones of the voices spoken. The memories of early childhood fade and are replaced by the memories of my youth.

I reminisce over this period in a fonder light.  I recollect my childhood being one filled with pleasurable experiences, however, I don’t recall being an especially happy young lad.  At some point, later in life, someone made the remark that I wasn’t hugged enough as a child. I remember the comment explicitly because I thought of it as an incredibly dumb thing to say.  I still think it’s a stupid way of saying I wasn’t emotionally supported enough as a child but now I understand the quip. Despite the abundance of friction and lack of genuine emotional support, my childhood was better than most.  Particularly from a materialistic perspective. In other words, I was spoiled rotten.


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