This is my storyline. My perspective. If you can’t swallow that concept, you probably shouldn’t continue …

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You might think this is a fairytale, some twist and turns, but never a carriage. Some horses, both happy and deadly in so many ways. This all starts one sunny day in 1986. I was 3, yep 3. We lived in Hawaii for just over a year, well at least me and the little sister. I remember waking up in what resembles a car bed, you know plastic and red. To the sound of splat over and over again. Just closed my eyes, climbed off my bed headed for the door, 12 “big kid” steps. As my feet hit the carpet that lined the long scary walkway to the stairs, I rub the guts of gecko’s from my bare feet.

We all slept in one room, bunk beds. One day they came to take another old person away. So, we finally got to move downstairs. At one point they’d yell so loud, lock the door from the other side. As instructed by my big sister, I climbed out and pushed the yard slide through our short window, we’d do that every time the others would cry. See our parents were caretakers. Not all of the people were safe to be around. We couldn’t afford food let alone living on our own, even back in 1986.

By 4, I hadn’t spoken more than a few words. I dare not cry, make a sound after dark. I’d pee the bed until I was 12, that’s all I want to say about that. I found a different way to get what I needed, I couldn’t make eye contact without blinking. Sometimes I would pass out from crying. My ears always hurt, I couldn’t stop digging at them. The cultural way of holistic healing was embedded in me during those times, I am sure it’s why I am the way I am these days.

The biggest tomboy, I just wanted to be a boy. That’s what my dad wanted. At least what I always heard. Come on, my name is Austin. Bullied and picked on for my unapologetic me; seriously busted lip, black eyes, the works. I came stomping my shoes into the house, How to be Hawaiian rule #1 don’t wear shoes into the house, and said, [Hawaiian accent] “Eyy, Ma. The kid down the street, ma. He want beat my ass, ma!” She gasped, grabbed my arm, tears started to fall from her eyes. It was the first time I not only made eye contact with her, but called her anything other than Wilma.

By 5, the little sister and I were on our way back to the main island. I swear there were chickens on that plane with us. Again all I can remember is how bad my ears hurt. Closed my eyes and we were home, California. With my mom and dad, Wilma and Jerry. The rest of our family came later. School was weird. I’d either run in circles or out of the classroom looking for my Wilma….

written by Just Rant Already

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Eventually I will write my story and put it all in a binding. Until then I can’t continue this chapter. Just leave off where I’ve left it another day.