How I Lost God – Which Turned Into a Long-Condensed Story of My Dysfunctional Life: Part One

As I read your blogs I find that most of you have God in your lives to help you through the bad times. I wish I had God. I used to know God when I was young. It would be nice to have someone stronger than you, that through faith in Him, you could lay your problems before and He would help support your weight and carry you until you could once again hold your own. I wish I had that. You see, God and I don’t have a good relationship anymore. We have lost each other somewhere. Hell, I don’t know if I even believe in Him at all anymore. I really feel that He isn’t out there any longer; at least not for me anyways. Put it this way, I want God in my life. Man I wish he were here when I needed Him, but He’s not in my grasp any longer. I truly wish I had my wife’s infallible faith, yet not by the means in which her and her family received theirs. When she was a kid her older sister had a rare type of cancer in mid-childhood. After a long struggle they were told that the chemo didn’t work and ultimately were told that she wouldn’t make it threw the night. Everyone, I think, gave up hope except her mom and her strong faith in God. The next morning she was totally healthy and she no longer had cancer. Still to this day she doesn’t. They all learned that He was real that day. But my life didn’t guide me towards an undeniable miracle to solidify my Childhood faith. I lost mine. I think my father’s relationship with God has destroyed my faith. I’m not one of those people that place blame on others for my flaws, but in this case I guess maybe I am. Let me explain. My father is actually a preacher. He wasn’t always, but he is now. The thing is, my father has always been a mean, evil person inside, or at least he used to be. You know, I think that in my subconscious as a teen, my mind decided if God could love him and let him represent Himself to the flock, which we all are, that God himself mustn’t truly exist. I am currently still on the fence with this one. I don’t know if I actually believe that he is out there or if I’m an unwilling atheist. What a horrible word. My elderly grandmother would jerk me up by the ear if see read this and likely move up here the 1000 miles and pray at the foot of my bed nightly until my soul was cleansed and I changed my views. I wouldn’t put it past her. I wouldn’t want to see the tears that I would cause her.

I was raised in church you see. My mom has always been deeply religious, as were her parents, my grandparents. We were a close family. A lot like a stereotypical southern black family, which are very spiritual, keep all their kin close, and would support and do anything for their family. I miss that. I think our family’s deep spirituality and tight family structure stems from both my grandparents being children of immigrants and their parents’ strong beliefs that they brought with them to this country. My grandma’s parents where Turkish and my Grandpa’s father was from Spain and I’m not totally positive but I think his mother was French. My dad’s heritage is Scottish, Irish, English, and German. So as you can see I am a very multi-racially faceted person. Imagine all that rolled-up into a dark complexioned causation, with brown hair and blue eyes. Weird, but it’s me. My wife’s parents actually thought I was half Black or Mexican when they met me, especially after they saw my mother for the first time.

Anyways, I digress. More than 30 of us would show-up at my grandparents’ house and head to the Baptist church together. My dad never went to church and actually talked shit about it in front of us every chance he got. We all would then met back up along with a ton of other relatives after church and eat and visit one another. We were really close. It was like a family reunion every week. Growing up, my parents weren’t there for us, my mom’s family always was, but my parents acted as though my half-sister and I were holding them back from the things they wanted to really do. He is my real dad and my sister’s step-dad. They left us alone often when we were young. My sister was 2 ½ years older than me and took care of me most times, although she was very hateful and treated me like shit most of the time. She once purposely handed me a pan of hot grease and told me to put it in the sink and turn the water on, when I was every young, and laughed as I screamed when I was burned. I still carry a few small, discolored scars on my side, because like most small kids I hated to wear shirts. At least she fed me anyways. My mom was nice to us, but she just was very neglectful. Here’s a small example of how much they really cared about me. They only have 4 pictures total of me growing up: The 1st pic I am 2 or 3, standing by a merry-go-round; the 2nd I am also very young posing on my grandma’s porch with my sis and 2 cousins, all of us dressed in our Sunday church clothes; the 3rd is a middle school pic that actually has proof stamped on it. They didn’t even buy my school pictures. It was the one they send home so your parents can see what they will look like if they actually bought them; and the 4th is a charcoal portrait of my early teen visage done at a flee-market. The rest of my family own lots of pictures of me. It never really hurt me or bothered me until my wife and I first got together, back before we were married, and she asked my mom to show her my baby pictures. I had never really thought much about it until we left that night and my wife told me that it wasn’t normal.

Quick Facts: I was born in Charleston SC. At the Naval Base Hospital. My father was based there and it was where they met. Somewhere and somehow around that area anyways. He got out and moved us to his home state of Ohio when I was 1 year old. Most of my Mom’s family all relocated to NC while we lived in a small town there in Ohio. I spent most of my prepubescent summers living with different relatives to get away from my home life after we moved to NC. After growing up and talking will these different relatives, a few revealed that they had thought long and hard about trying to adopt me and raising me as their own, but in the end I always ended back up at home at the end of those loving summers. I spent most of my life when I was home and in the house, in my room, where I drew and read fantasy novels and lived in the fantasy world that I created in my mind. I have always been very artistic like most bipolar people seem to inherently be. My children both have my drawing ability, although my daughter really excels with her talent.

My dad was a very abusive man. I was beat daily for arbitrary minor things with slaps, punches, and belts. My dad once picked me up by my hair right off the ground and punt-kicked me in the ass into the house (hell, maybe it was football Sunday and he wanted a try-out with the Bears,) because I passed the hedge that constituted the boundary to our yard, because he told me not to leave the yard. I was one foot passed it standing on the sidewalk talking with my best friend at the time Jason. I didn’t men to leave the yard. I think I was 7 or so at that time. We both talked about it many times while growing up. I don’t even remember the beating that day, but the kick stays with me always, probably because it was done in front of my friend and humiliated me. We joked that it was why I had a cowlick in the back. He was even more mentally and verbally abusive. When I was growing up my dad was a biker and a drug dealer. He never had anything nice to say to any of us, my mom included. I really don’t know why she stayed, other than I can now see that she had a very low self-esteem. If we brought home a C on our report-cards we were spanked and grounded. Who cares about bringing home good grades, right? He was going to find a reason to slap me around that day anyways. I’m not looking for empathy here; I’m just trying to explain why my adolescent mind decided to hate God for loving this man. He is a big man – 6’4’’ – and has always used bullying tactics and intimidation to get his way even after becoming a preacher. He actually lost a few churches due to his abrasive demeanor and hate of anyone disagreeing with him. I think he is PB honestly. He has just recently finally went to a therapist and is on some sort of meds. How could you make it to 53 year’s old before you realize that you need help? The only person that had the balls to ever stand-up to this man other than me later in life, was my wife. He treated my kids and her like shit a few times too many and she washed her hands of him. I still visit and take the kids over to see him, but he isn’t allowed in my house any longer. My mom comes over to visit and often he is with her, yet must remain out in the car in the street. She said that through God she forgave him recently to get the hate that was weighing heavily on her heart, but she will never forget or give him another chance to mistreat her again. Therefore he still isn’t allowed over and I support her on this. As you already know, we split-up when a big argument over this issue escalated and I threw a can at her. You don’t fuck with my wife and especially not her kids.

He cheated on my mom at least once that I know of, back when I was a child and they split-up for a few days as I remember. I remember my mom pulling up on them with my sister and I in the car and trying to run him over. I recollect her screaming in rage and us screaming in fear. I recall that time slightly even though I was only 4 or 5 at the time. At that young age you can usually only recollect traumatic or very strong events, and for that powerful experience or emotion, it makes it into your long-term memory. My mom and sister along with her friend and her kids went to an Amusement Park and I was made to go with my father to his mistress’ house during this small and only split-up. I still remember this lady talking to me in a coddling voice and playing Rubber Ducky on the record player for me because I was so distraught over knowing that my sister was riding a roller coaster at the time. I still have never ridden a roller coaster. We had planned to go to Disney World last year before my wife’s unfortunate work injury. Anyways, we then moved from Ohio to NC, where my mom’s family lived – I’m guessing so they could make a new start after the adultery. This was probably a blessing in disguise, because it brought me for the first time to an extended family that loved me and always showed and meant it, and took me away from my isolated world of neglect and hate.