Cue Diana Ross

Hello! It has been a while since I posted, and so much has changed. These past five months of my life have been some of the most challenging and rewarding months my young adult self has yet to endure. I have learned a lot about myself. I learned a lot about other people. I cried a lot. Sometimes for very specific reasons and other times for no reason at all. I smiled a lot, too. I moved into my very first big boy apartment where, for the first time in three and a half years, I was truly alone. I was able to dissect, question, and reevaluate my beliefs. I was able to be myself.

Here it is – I’m gay.

This is the most honest I have ever been with myself and I wanted to take the time to write how I was able to finally accept myself. My “coming out” story, if you will. I am writing this for two reasons: the first, because it is therapeutic for me, and secondly, I want anyone reading who may have a similar story or be in a similar situation to know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and that it does in fact get better.

I guess it is something I’ve always known. In third grade I was attending John Glenn Elementary in San Antonio. I remember this day very well because it was the first time I ever felt I had to be someone I didn’t want to be just to be accepted. It was a cool spring afternoon and my class was at recess (can we please bring recess back?). I was with most of the other boys at the monkey bars. They were all talking about how much they “liked” a girl in our class names Sarah. I was confused because I didn’t know what it meant to “like” someone. One of the boys explained what it meant to “like” someone and now with the definition in hand, I confidently expressed that I may “like” a boy in the other class named Ethan.

The faces of all the boys told me that I just had said something that was not okay. Blood rushed to my pale cheeks and in horrifying unison they all began to laugh at me. One of them, known for saying all the bad words, called me a faggot and pushed his shoulder into my chest as he walked by. Just like that, I was excommunicated from the rest of the boys. I spent the rest of elementary, middle, and high school being better friends with girls. They smelled nice and could hold a conversation, so I didn’t mind it all that much. I hid my attractions from everyone and quickly began to hate myself for not being “normal”. I tried so hard to be anything other than myself that I forgot who I was.

My freshman year of high school I became heavily involved in a youth group at a local church in my hometown. The community felt authentic and it wasn’t long before I “accepted Christ into my life”.  Youth group was a positive social outlet that I, a closeted extrovert searching for acceptance, long desired. I made a lot of friends. I raised my hands at the front. I was heavily involved in Fine Arts – a competition for the youth to use their talents for ministry. I read my bible. I listened to the sermons. I tried to be a good person. I invited people to church.

I cried. I laughed. I was confused.

I prayed every night that god would take away my attractions. I prayed that he would make me normal. I prayed that I wouldn’t be sent to hell. Not only did I have to be “normal” but now I had the fear of being rejected and sent to eternal damnation by god for something I felt I had absolutely no control over.

I prayed to be anything but gay.

I prayed that prayer for six years.

Every. Single. Night.

I never felt anything different, but I became really good at pretending. Fast forward to the end of my senior year of high school and I am deciding where I should go to college. Even though UTSA had offered me a full ride, I did not accept it because I wanted to get out of San Antonio.

A small Assemblies of God school called SAGU was consistently present at youth events and knowing a few people who had attended, I decided this would be the school for me. It was the perfect distance from home, close to a new and exciting city, and being a Christian university, I thought maybe this is where god would take away my attractions and make me normal like he wanted me to be. Two weeks before I moved in for my freshman year I won National Fine Arts and was given a $16,000 scholarship. It all seemed to just fall into place. I really felt like I was following god’s plan for my life.

Before I go into this (very recent) part of the story, I’d like to disclose that for the most part I enjoyed my time at Southwestern. I met so many amazing people (some who will be in my life indefinitely), I served as a Resident Assistant for two and a half years, gained many valuable experiences and learned a lot about myself. The whole time I kept my secret and continued to pray my prayer every night. Sadly, I was forced out the door at the end of my seventh semester and my entire experience now has a bitter undertone.

Halfway through the summer before my senior year, in a bedroom with a pillow full of tears and snot, I came out to myself. That summer I was working at a church to fulfill my internship requirements for my degree while also taking 9 hours of online classes. I was under a lot of stress. Not only because of the classes and expectations on me, but also because for the first time I realized that the person I had molded for so many years was not the person I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be in ministry. I didn’t want to lie to everyone around me. I didn’t want to pretend to be someone I wasn’t anymore. I didn’t want to sit back and watch all my friends get married while I sat back and continued to beg god to change me. The scariest part of this self-declaration was I was about to head back to an environment that was not accepting.

But, I had to get my degree. I had to finish. I was the first one in my immediate family to go to college. I had beat the odds. I had come so far. I only had 21 hours left. I had a good leadership position. Maybe it was selfish of me, but transferring out would have at least put another year of school and loans on my plate. I could keep pretending, right? I had to finish strong.

I didn’t.

I have no idea how, who, what, or when the school was notified of my “struggle with homosexuality”, but on November 27^th I was called into my resident director and boss’ apartment and flat out questioned about it. It was humiliating. I never was a good liar when confronted, so through a hot face and salty tears I admitted to the allegations raised against me. Suddenly, I realized I was a defenseless man surrounded by lions ready to pounce. This happened in the last two weeks of the hardest semester of my college career thus far. After that confrontation, I couldn’t sleep. I felt out of place. I couldn’t concentrate on my homework. A month prior I was standing on the football stadium as a Homecoming King nominee and now I was public enemy number one. As an RA, I knew what the school was capable of doing. Fearing the worst, the next day I called my grandmother. Through tears I came out to her over the phone and told her what had just happened. Being the supportive and loving granny that she has always been, she told me how much she loved me. She told me she was proud of me and told me to stop communicating with the school and that she would be contacting lawyers for advice.

My grandma is a freaking boss and I heeded her advice.

It took five days before I could meet with the Dean of Students. In the meeting, I told the dean what I was advised to do and did not answer any more incriminating questions. The dean of students notified me that I was being fired from my position as a Head Resident Assistant. I asked if I could finish my remaining 9 hours from home since taking a loan out to live at the university that just discriminated against me did not sound like a good plan. The dean said that it would be fine and that I might be required to go to counseling. That was fine. As long I was going to be able to graduate. I worked too hard to not.

I finished my last two weeks on campus as strong as I could. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I had to wake up every morning and put on my best fake smile. I ended up getting my first D in class because my mind could not muster the strength to complete the final project that was required of me. I had to tell my RA team and Residence Hall, which I faithfully served for 2.5 years that I was not returning next semester. I couldn’t answer any questions. I had to pretend everything was okay when in reality the rug to my life was just pulled up beneath my feet and then thrown in my face.

Bridges dorm was the longest place that I consecutively called home in my entire life and as if my time and investment meant nothing, I was shoved out its door.

I packed up room 209, filled my car with my belongings and left.

I was on the way to get a mattress for my apartment the week before Christmas when the dean of students called me. My grandmother was in the car with me. Hesitantly with hands shaking, I answered. The dean notified me that my case went above him to a committee and the committee decided that in order to be able to finish my degree not only did I have to go to counseling, but now they decided I would not be able to walk across the stage at graduation with the rest of my class. When I asked why the decision that I thought I had agreed on when I left was suddenly changed, the dean notified me that I had to be punished more. It took me a decade to come out to myself and immediately my worst fears were becoming a reality.

I hung up the phone with the dean and immediately had a nervous breakdown in my car.

Ugly crying, snot running down my shirt, hot tears on my face, and in between deep erratic breaths, I told my grandma what the dean just told me.

How I was being denied the thing I had worked so hard to achieve.

How I wasn’t going to be able to celebrate with my friends.

How the “committee” decided I needed to be punished.

How I felt like a failure and an absolute piece of trash.

Her response was, “and they call themselves Christians?” She patted my thigh and told me how much she loved me.

The next week I sat down and wrote a very strongly worded email to the president of the university. In the email, I highlighted all of the positive things I had done at the University in the three and a half years that I had spent there. (While I won’t list it all here, trust me – it’s long). I pleaded for him to let me walk the stage with my class. Two weeks later and three days before the spring semester began, the president emailed me back and notified me that while I did a lot of “good works” for the university, good works were not good enough and it was righteousness that mattered. (Mind you, I was not trying to be the next pope – I was trying to walk the stage and get the degree that I had EARNED and PAID for.) Righteousness did not earn me that degree…hard work and long nights did.

In his email was a contract that I had to agree to before I could register for my final nine hours. The contract stated that I would be able to walk the stage at graduation if I met the following conditions: first, I was fired from being a resident assistant and lost out on a $4,900 scholarship, secondly, I had to attend and pay for 6 counseling sessions with a SAGU-approved (read biased) counselor, and lastly, I had to attend an AG or evangelical church all semester long and prove my attendance by having the pastor from said church email the assistant dean of students to show that I did in fact attend.

With three days before the beginning of the semester and the realization that private religious institutions can almost do whatever they want – I agreed to the conditions. So, I spent these last five months meeting these conditions and trying my hardest to finish my degree strongly.

As of yesterday (April 27^th, 2018), I graduated college with my bachelor’s in Business Marketing, and two associates’: one in Business Administration and the other in Religious Studies. Earlier this month, I started a new job working at Apple. Free from the restraints of SAGU, I am now free to (publicly) be myself and honestly, I have never been more excited for the future.

I would like to end this post with a famous quote:

“If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” – RuPaul

How Chipotle, a piece of gum, and Beyoncé almost killed me.

During the summer of 2016 I almost lost my life.

This is not a joke. This really happened.

Chipotle, a piece of gum, and Beyoncé tried to kill me. Here’s how:

During that particular summer, I had decided to live on my university’s campus instead of going home. I was working part time at the admissions office as well as interning the other part time at a local church. On top of that, I was taking nine hours of online summer classes. I was very busy. To keep myself from going insane, I would often drive to Dallas and hunker down at a coffee shop to get my homework done. (I actually still do this often). There is just something about being in a city. It is my safe place.

It was a normal, hot Texas summer day. I drove to Dallas and within a few hours was able to knock out a paper that I had been procrastinating on for far too long. I needed to reward myself. Have you every rewarded yourself for doing the things required of you? I highly recommend it. The caffeine had worn off and I realized that I was hungry. I decided the best way to reward myself was by getting Chipotle. I got my usual – a bowl, white rice, no beans, chicken, pico, corn, sour cream, and cheese. Sadly, I could not afford guacamole. I got a water cup and ate my bowl in the store by myself. It was delicious.

Little did I know it was about to be my last meal.

I got into my faithful little black Corolla and began my 25-minute trek back to my university. I always keep gum in my car because I hate having bad breath – let alone chipotle breath. So, I popped a Mentos gum, rolled my windows down, put my Spotify playlist on shuffle, and twisted the volume nob as far right as possible. What a time it was to be alive. Right about the time I had made it out of Dallas and onto 35 south, Spotify decided to bless me with the anthem that is “Love on Top” by Beyoncé. Now, if you’ve never heard of this song before, please do us all a favor and listen to it right now. The story will make more sense if you have this vital piece of knowledge. Heck, have the song playing while you finish the rest of this story.

Done? Okay. Continue on.

Love on Top is a song that you have to sing/scream at the top of your lungs. It just is. I didn’t make the rules. I just try to follow them. I was in the left lane of 35 south going about 80mph and screaming this song. I am not Beyoncé, (we all must come to this conclusion eventually), but I was trying my best to hit the notes. I was nowhere close, but I was alone. Who cares? Towards the end of the song, Beyoncé repeats the chorus while slowly going up in key. It is impossible to replicate. I was trying my best, slowly increasing in key until I was literally just screaming.

That is when something terrible happened. Just as I was taking in a deep breath to continue shouting, I inhaled something other than air. The gum I had been chewing flew down the wrong pipe. It lodged itself somewhere in my throat – blocking my ability to breathe. I immediately began to choke. The kind of choking where you are not making any noise. The kind of choking that kills. I feel my face turn red and I began to swerve all over the left lane. Beyoncé continues to change key. I began the fight for my life.

“This is it. This is how I am going to die.” I thought to myself.

I slam on the hazard signal. Maybe if I pulled over and got out fast enough to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on myself, I would survive. Maybe. My body had other plans. I felt my stomach turnover a few times and then like old faithful, I projectile vomited all over myself and my Corolla. I gasped for air. Pieces of corn sprawled across my dashboard. The slushy mixture of stomach acid and the contents of my burrito bowl dripped off my steering wheel. The smell of half-digested Chipotle permeated my nostrils. Angry at myself, I slammed Beyoncé off like my alarm clock. This whole mess was her fault anyways. I drove straight to a self-car wash in silence. The smell wouldn’t leave my car for two weeks.

On the bright side, at least I wasn’t on a first date. That would have been embarrassing. Lesson learned: Do not eat chipotle, chew gum, and try to be Beyoncé. It will end in a mess.

–  Guy

That One Time I Got Arrested

It was New Year’s Eve 2007. I found myself living with Gina again in Las Vegas, Nevada. I was eleven years old and should have been in sixth grade but I honestly do not remember attending school at this time. I was living in a relatively nice house nine miles west of the Las Vegas Strip. There was a pool in the backyard but it was almost always green with algae. Although there were three bedrooms, I lived out of the living room. Gina rented out the other two bedrooms to make money on the side. There were always people in and out of the house. Some of them were nice and others looked like they had just gotten out of prison. I didn’t have a bedtime. I had no one telling me what to do. I stayed up all night with everyone else in the house. I’d walk the streets in the middle of the night. I was raising myself.

My bed was a sofa that creaked when I moved and I stored the few belongings I had underneath it. My clothes. My axe body spray. The remote to the TV. I didn’t have a lot. I had an Xbox but Gina had pawned it a week earlier to buy groceries. I wish she would have found another way to make $150… the Xbox was the only thing I really enjoyed. I spent most of the time watching television and taking walks around the neighborhood.  Sometimes I would walk a couple blocks to the nearest shopping mall and spend all day playing the demos at GameStop. The manager didn’t seem to mind. It was better than being at home. That’s for sure.

I was missing my Xbox so I decided I was going to get out of this house full of strangers and drugs and go hang out with the manager at GameStop. I put on some jeans and a gray sweater and stepped out the front door and immediately turned right back around. It was freezing outside. If I was going to make the trek to GameStop I needed a sweater. I checked underneath the sofa but couldn’t find one. I could have sworn I had some type of sweater. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the dudes who just got out of prison stole it. I never really kept anything for long.

I walked over to Gina’s master bedroom where ACDC was blasting so loud from the speakers that her door was vibrating. The door was shut as usual. I smelled marijuana but I needed a sweater. I began banging on the door as loud as possible. “MOM!”, I screamed, being the annoying little eleven-year-old I deserved to be. The music cut off.

I had been heard.

The door opened and I stepped foot into the dragon’s lair. I was usually terrified of Gina but sometimes I had bouts of extreme confidence. This was a moment of the latter. I could never tell if she was happy or not… if she was high or not. There was probably 6 people in the room with her – none of them recognizable. “What do you want?”, she snarled as she took a long draw from her Marlboro. “I need a jacket or a sweater. It’s cold outside.”, I asked as confidently as possible. It seemed like a simple request. She argued that I had a lot of clothes and I told her I couldn’t find any of them. Maybe I could keep track of my clothes if I had a dresser, or you know… a bedroom, I thought in my head. I dared not say it out loud. I did not feel like getting something thrown at me. She exhaled and her cigarette smoke entwined with the cloud in the air that never seemed to leave her bedroom. She looked me in the eyes and like every good mother would, calmly said, “Go steal one.”

Part of me wished she was kidding and that she would get out of bed and go take me to pick out a sweater. Then we would get hot chocolate somewhere afterwards. Most of me knew that was never going to happen. A boy can dream, right? Stealing was not anything new to me. I had seen Gina stuff expensive make up and candy into her bra as we shopped for groceries. I had been to Walmart countless of times by myself to get something to eat when there wasn’t anything to eat in the house. I’d grab a sandwich and eat it while looking at the toys and then leave empty handed. Her advice still hurt me. I don’t know what I wanted more: the stupid sweater or quality time with the woman who brought me into this world. Tears swelled in my eyes and anger burned on my face. Before I said anything stupid, I turned around and walked out of her bedroom and like a good preteen with some attitude, slammed the door behind me. I heard her friends laugh.

Determined to get a sweater, I sprinted the few blocks to the shopping mall where GameStop was. There was a Marshall’s just a few stores down. I walked inside and my face began to melt from the sudden transition into the heat. I was not the most athletic kid, but I was able to sprint the few blocks rather quickly to escape the cold. I grabbed a cart and caught my breath. I knew the routine. I’d go in the dressing room, put on the article of clothing that I wanted, double check to make sure there were no magnetic tags, and as nonchalantly as possible, walk out of the store. This time wasn’t like routine though. I was angry. I decided I was going to fill the entire cart with things that I wanted. Then I’d just walk out of the store. I mean what could they possibly do to me? I was only eleven years old.

I was probably inside that Marshall’s for at least an hour as I browsed through the boy’s section. I picked out some underwear, a pack of socks, a couple pairs of jeans, some nice t-shirts, and of course, a couple jackets and sweaters. Shopping is really therapeutic. Although I knew deep down that none of these clothes were actually going to be mine, I felt happy. Now came time for the great escape. It was the middle of the afternoon and although it was freezing outside, the Nevada sun was shining bright. I slowly made my way to the front of the store and as casually as possible, walked out. Pushing the cart full of goods in front of me. I wasn’t the best thief, but in that moment, I was unstoppable.

I thought everything was fine until the security officer slammed into my body.

I don’t really remember if I was screaming or if the security officer was yelling at me. I do remember being face down on the floor and watching my cart full of clothes roll off into the distance as I was being handcuffed. I do remember being escorted into the Marshall’s as the security officer pressed into the small of my back to guide me into some office. My arms were twisted behind my back and the handcuffs dug into my wrists. I assume the office I was in belonged to one of the managers. I sat down and the general manager and security officer began to interrogate me.

They notified me that the police had been called and I better be honest. I don’t remember being scared or anxious. I had been in worst places and situations. “What were you going to do with all those clothes? Where are your parents? How did you get here?” I told them the honest truth. I was never much of a liar. I told them that I lived a few blocks down the street and ran over here. I told them how I was cold and needed a jacket. I told them how I was instructed by my own mother to go steal one. They didn’t seem to believe my story. Oh well.

The police arrived and asked me the same questions. I stuck with my story. The policeman escorted me out to his car and put me in the back seat of his patrol car. This is it. I thought. I am going to spend the rest of my life in prison. It seemed fitting. I deserved it. I was not a good kid. “Where do you live, son?”, the man asked. I hadn’t been called that in a long time. “4950 E Imperial Avenue.”, I muttered, praying underneath my breath that he wouldn’t take me there. The mood in the car seemed to shift when I told him the address. He drove the few blocks to the house. He pointed to it and asked, “Here? Are you sure this is where you live?” “Yes.” I said probably shooting an eye roll. The policeman pulled out his phone and made a phone call. Was he calling Gina? I wondered.

I looked at the house that felt more like a prison than anything. I thought about how this was not the first time the police had been here. How it almost felt natural.  I thought about how the few friends I had on the street referred to the house I lived in as “the druggie house.”  A name their parents probably gave it. I thought about how just a few months prior I came home to find the whole house turned upside down and was told that it had just been raided by the police. I thought about how much I didn’t want to leave the police car.

The policeman got off the phone. I don’t recall the conversation he had but it must have been important. He looked at me through the rearview mirror, “Where do you want to go eat?”, he asked with a flashed grin. I told him how I wanted a happy meal from McDonalds. Seemed fitting enough for an eleven-year-old. Did all criminals get a happy meal before spending time in prison? I thought. The policeman was nice. He took off the handcuffs and paid for my happy meal. He explained to me how he thought it would be for the best that I did not go back home. I did not argue. He explained to me that he was going to take me to the Las Vegas Child Protective Services and they would take good care of me.

Whew. At least I wasn’t going to prison.

The policeman dropped me off at CPS. They asked me a lot of questions that I answered as honestly as possible. They gave me a trash bag and ushered me into a room that looked like a tiny version of a goodwill. I filled up the trash bag with all the clothes in my size. I finally got a sweater. They gave me a toothbrush and a stick of deodorant. My caseworker drove me to a house on the other side of town. I don’t really know what they referred to the house as but the only way I could describe it would be an orphanage. It was normal looking house but inside there were two huge bedrooms lined with bunk beds – one for the boys and one for the girls. We all shared a dormitory style restroom. There was a living room and kitchen. There were twelve other boys in the room. I was introduced to the other boys and as usual, they snickered when they found out my name was Guy. I was given a bottom bunk in the far-right corner of the rectangular room. A luxury.

A lot of the other boys cried a lot and complained that they missed home. I could not relate. I didn’t know much but I did know I did not want to go back “home”. My case worker met with me every few days. He talked about foster care and asked me what I wanted to do. I didn’t know. Was I supposed to know? Were normal eleven-year-olds faced with these questions? I just sat there and stared at the wall.

I got to know the other boys quickly. At eleven years old, I was the second oldest. The youngest was around five or six. We talked about where we came from. Some came from abusive situations, some of them ran away, some had always been in the system, and others were just waiting for their parent(s) to get out of jail. They all laughed at me when I told them I had tried to push a cart full of clothes right out the front door at Marshall’s. I never was a good criminal. The house mother, as we called her, took me to get registered me for school. I never went. I knew I wasn’t going to be here forever. What was the point of trying to make friends at school again and then disappearing like I always did? I would leave the house like I was going to school and then walk the few blocks to the public library where I’d play on the computer for eight hours. (Honestly, for the amount of time I wasn’t in school, I’m surprised I can even write).

I spent two months at that house. I spent my twelfth birthday there surrounded by strangers who had become a weird version of a family. It wasn’t easy but it was doable… like most things in life. I couldn’t complain. At least I had a bed, a jacket, and a warm meal every night. Eventually, the state of Nevada gave my Aunt guardianship of me.

Back to Texas I went.

I wouldn’t miss you, Las Vegas.

My Earliest Memory

Memories. How strange.

Some things are so easily forgotten. The names of people I haven’t seen in years. The material I studied for hours just the night before. The meal I had last Tuesday… useless information that my mind throws away. Other memories are not so effortlessly forgotten. These memories are etched into the core of my identity. They beg for a place in the spotlight of my mind. These memories are a mixture of the greatest achievements thus far and the deepest pain yet. These memories can be joyous to look back upon or gloomy reminders that life isn’t always rainbows and butterflies. Yet, they happened. They are real. They are a part of me.

  Memories. How strange.

What is your earliest memory? Maybe it was your first day of kindergarten or the time you got the puppy you had been begging for. Maybe it was the calming voice of your mother singing you to sleep or a song that never seemed to stop repeating in your head. Maybe your earliest memory is one you’d rather forget. Think back. What is your earliest memory?

My counselor asked me that once. It threw me off guard. I didn’t like to reminisce on my childhood – especially the really early part of it. When she asked me that question, I did not know how to respond. “Think about it.”, she had said in her calm counselor voice. I worked backwards in my head. Performing backflips throughout my mind to find the answer. Flashes of emotions. Smiles of people I loved, houses I had lived in, pain I had felt, sorrow that penetrated, and voices all echoed around my head. What was my earliest memory? I had never thought about it before.

All of a sudden, the windshield wipers to the locked part of my childhood came on and wiped all the blurry confusion away. I came to a screeching stop to what I knew was the earliest memory I could think of.  My face twisted and the feeling of a good cry came to rest at my throat. It was a memory I would rather have forgotten. One I did not want to share. One that hurt to think about. I wish those windshield wipers in my mind would stop working. My counselor must have realized I had come to the answer. “Well… what is it?”, she coerced. I opened my mouth to speak but instead my voice cracked and tears stung their way down my face.

It was somewhere in the early months of 2002. I had just turned six years old. I was innocent. I was curious. I was about to be broken.  I should have been in first grade but for some reason my brother and I were not in school. My brother is fourteen months younger than me so he had to be four at the time. We were living out of a Budget Suites somewhere in the restless city of Las Vegas. I now realize how abnormal that was. Kids my age should have had a place to play. A bed of their own. Maybe even a yard to skip around in. Instead, my brother and I shared the pullout couch bed of that run down one-bedroom suite while our mother had the bedroom to herself. Dad wasn’t around but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. I don’t remember how long we had been staying there. What I do remember is the night everything changed.

My mother had promised Kyle and I pizza if we stayed quiet in the bathroom while her friend came over. Her “friend” was a drug dealer. We were to be quiet while she got high. We were to pretend everything was fine. I’m not too sure if the drug was heroin or meth… either way it was a nasty one. One that changes you and begs for every part of your attention. The type of drug that tells you to make your two young children hide in the restroom while you get high. It was a drug that was more important than me. I was six years old.

I don’t remember how long we were in the restroom but when we came out I was starving. There was a knock at the door. The pizza was finally here. My mouth immediately began salivating with the thought of pizza. I loved pizza. I still do. The interaction between the delivery man and my mother took longer than usual. She came to the coffee table at the center of the small living room scanning it up and down. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hands were shaking. “It was right here.” She muttered to herself. She walked over to the front door and as politely as possible, abruptly slammed the door in the pizza delivery man’s face. The noise hurt my ears. I didn’t understand what had just happened. All I knew is that I really wanted that pizza. My mother turned around with a scowl on her face. Usually the drugs made her happier but she didn’t look happy at all. She looked like a monster.

“WHO TOOK IT?” She screamed. She was referring to the money she had set aside for the pizza. Her dealer must’ve stole it. I’ll never know for sure. “IT WAS RIGHT HERE!” She pointed out at the coffee table she had just scanned and then flipped it over and threw it at the adjacent wall. I immediately began to cry. My reaction of crying resulted in me getting a hard slap to the face. The slap knocked me to the floor and my vision blurred for a few seconds. It hurt… and not only physically. The one who was supposed to protect me from harm was doing the exact opposite. Her handprint wouldn’t leave my face for a month. The slap only made me cry harder. The kind of hard cry where you can’t breathe. I can’t remember if Kyle started to cry or not. I’m sure he was scared. The details are blurry. I remember him running to the bathroom trying to hide from Gina. That’s her name. I don’t really refer to as “mom” anymore.

She saw him and darted over to the door before Kyle could shut it. She pinned him between the wall and the door pushing as hard as she could. He was four years old. She was screaming. I don’t remember what. Probably expletives. That seemed normal. I remember she kept asking where the money was. Did she really think we took it? Did she think we were playing hide and go seek with the money? I’d rather have the pizza.

I don’t remember how long the beating and screaming lasted. Maybe my mind is protecting me from all the unnecessary details. What I do remember is waking up the next morning holding my brother tightly. It was early. The Budget Suite was trashed. The couch was flipped over. The coffee table still resting where Gina had picked it up and threw it just a few hours ago. Gina… she was asleep. I could hear her rhythmic snoring. My body hurt. It would be bruised for a few weeks. In my head, I knew what had just occurred was wrong. I knew I did not want to stay. I knew I had to leave. I had to get as far away from Gina as possible.

I was six years old. I shook Kyle awake. Eyes crusted from tears and limping, we opened the front door of the Budget Suite. The cool morning of the Nevada desert whisked across my skin. The sun was shining. I looked back into the darkness of the trashed budget suite room and without reservation, shut the door. I was never going back. We made our way to the front office. Not really knowing what we were doing but determined to get away. Upon seeing us, abused and frightened, the front desk worker immediately called the police.

Memories. How strange.