Small Town, Flying High

It's fascinating. The ability of the human species to learn, adapt and overcome. Even from a young age we are capable of extraordinary feats that can leave our peers in awe. Whether it is a feat of physical prowess, or an inert aptitude towards learning, the human species has proven time and time again it's efficiency at overcoming adversity. For me, well, such things have been a life long battle. A battle which has shaped me into the man I am today and more so, one that revealed who I truly am beneath the masks I used to wear and show the world.

Life has never been easy. Being born in 1993, I was adopted at the meager age of eleven months old. My biological father was working nights, and my mother, homeless as well as unemployed, struggled to provide for me. They had a whirlwind marriage that quickly left them divorced before I was even born. My mother vehemently held a grudge against my father, leading to a break in communication even when it came to me.

One night, I was being watched by a friend of my mother while she was attempting to find a new home for us to live. My new and delicate body suffered a terrible asthma attack, causing me to be rushed to the hospital. My mother was unable to be reached for unknown reasons, and my father was not notified until after the fact, prompting intervention from Children Protective Services. After a short interlude of what would be in my best interest, both of my parents made the decision to put me up for adoption. It would be twenty six years before I finally reconnected with my biological family, and now share a happy relationship with them.

The two who adopted me and became the parents I knew were Mike and Dorothy. They were, and still are good people, caring. They lived in a simple home in the small town of Vermilion, Ohio right next to Lake Erie. My father, Mike is a painter by trade and my mother who was previously a banker, was now a fulltime stay at home mom. However, despite the love they attempted to give and the things they provided for me, there has always been some level of frustration and discourse among us ever since I could remember. Dorothy, who was unable to have children of her own did not treat me like a son, so to say, but rather only saw herself as a mother. Every conversation or decision was not mine to have or to make. She felt that being a mother entitled her to being free from accountability in her words and actions. Whether it was throwing things at me, or dismissing my feelings or mental health, from her perspective, she was never at fault. She even had a phrase she would use anytime I tried to express myself about unfortunate circumstances going on in my life: "Well are you sure? You do have a distorted view of reality." For as long as I can remember, that was and still is her response whenever I try to express myself; even when presented with evidence supporting what I try to convey.

My father, Mike was a good provider. He worked everyday, kept a roof over our heads and food on the table. Though in contrast to his efforts through financial means, he was simply dismissive of me as a person. If I could not perform a task perfectly the first time, I was only in his way. I never got to experience the gentle hand of a father teaching me how to use tools, how to mow a lawn, or how to work on my car. Even during my sporting events growing up, I can distinctly hear him yelling at my mother: "Why the hell am I here? It's stupid, I could be working." The exact words every child wants to hear from the person they call their father. I had to learn how to be a man on my own. I had no one to look to as a role model. Still, I kept pushing forward.

By the age of three I was molested by a boy who was considered a friend of the family. He and his parent's came to our house for a dinner one evening, during which his parent's looked at him and asked why he couldn't be more like me. He was seven years my senior, but to his parents, I was much more well behaved. This set off a psychological trigger in him which led him to sexually assaulting me on more than one occasion in order to assuage his insecurities. This event led to several issues later in life when trying to perform for my partners. Still I pushed onward.

Life continued on. I was bullied, picked on, chastised no matter what I said or did. This would be a common trope in my life for as long as I could possibly remember. By the age of eleven I found myself cutting. Self harm became my only form of respite from the garish life I was muddling through. I did not, however, enjoy it. It wasn't for attention, it wasn't for self mutilation. I just wanted to escape. I knew self harm was unhealthy and I did not wish to stay in that mental place, so I did what any child would do and sought out my mother to help. I asked her to find a therapist for me so I could try and manage the pain that I was feeling inside. She did; however my stay with that therapist was short lived.

After a couple of months attending therapy, I found myself much healthier mentally, and standing tall with more confidence about myself despite the incessant degradation I received from those around me. That was around the same time my therapist wanted to sit down and have a discussion with my mother. This turned out to be the beginning of the end. My therapist at the time had concluded that much of my stress stemmed from my mother. From throwing things at me with intention when I misbehaved or talked back, to telling me to shut up or be quiet when I got excited about things I enjoyed, to refusing to listen when I was having a hard time, and even forcing me to continue school work throughout the summers as a kid instead of letting me play with my friends. The therapist explained to my mother that her actions bordered on, and in some cases, crossed into the realm of child abuse. Rather than listening and making efforts to correct her behavior, my mother immediately made the decision that I was no longer going to attend any sessions with that therapist. I never had another therapy appointment until much later in life, and it was of my own volition. This taught me to seek out help for myself, rather than asking for help from another who will only protect their own best interests.

I fought my way through hell and back during my teenage years. Self harm became an on and off occurrence. School mates telling me I should take my own life, teachers reprimanding me simply for disagreeing with them or correcting them when they tried to pass off incorrect information as fact, to the continuing issues I dealt with at home; it was an arduous process. However, it gave me a resilience that would carry with me for the rest of my life.

Fast forward to the age of twenty. I had my first fiancé, Miranda. We were amazing together, despite one major issue. Her previous boyfriend, Ridge, was a best friend of mine and part of our group of about five friends. We had our ups and downs as any relationship does, however, what I did not realize was her still actively seeing and communicating with her ex despite us being together. Her relationship with him grew malicious towards me when one day they planned an attempt on my life.

I saw them all as family, friends and loved ones. That being said, I was completely taken aback when I went over to that friend's house on a cool, autumn weekend. I was invited to go over for a bonfire and to enjoy the fresh air of fall. When I got there, I was met with knives the moment I got out of my car. Three members of our group, which I saw as friends and family attempted to take my life all because I was engaged to Ridge's ex. Despite managing to get away relatively unharmed, I was broken inside. My heart and mind were shattered. I couldn't even comprehend what had just happened at the time. After a couple years passed, I realized that not all feelings are mutually reciprocated, no matter how badly we may want them to be.

Eventually my relationship with Miranda ended before we could ever get married. Which in hindsight, was a blessing in disguise. She did however, leave a pretty deep scar on my emotional stability, leading to some small issues during my following relationship with the mother of my child, Jordan.

After the initial difficulties of me learning to love and trust someone again, we found ourselves inseparable. Late night walks, baseball games, reading next to each other curled up on the couch, it was peaceful for the first time in my life since I could remember. After about a year and a half, Jordan got pregnant with our son. I was only twenty three years old and was struggling to find and keep employment. Even so, we decided to keep the baby and work together to care for him and support him the best we could.

That is until she decided to find herself falling for another man from out of state whom she met online. The same man she left me to go live with, and attempted to take our 18 month old son with her. I never imagined I could have felt more betrayed than I did when my friends tried to take my life, but this hit much deeper. My son was involved.

It took another year and a half to finally come to a court ordered shared parenting agreement, where I managed to win residential custody of my son. I was elated, but still heart broken that I now had to raise my child in a broken home. I couldn't bear to have him witness his parent's fighting, yelling or not being in his life at all. So I swallowed every ounce of pride I had, approached the woman that hurt not only me, but also our son, and begged. I sat down and begged Jordan to work with me as a co-parent. To put all of the difficulties we had in the past, and do what was best for our son. For us to be friends again, and to make our separation as seamless and carefree as possible for the sake of our son. She agreed. We managed to sort through all of the issues we both had. There were a plethora of apologies, conditions set, and things that were kept secret were spoken. Yet despite it all, we managed to reach a place where we can both be there for our son as the best versions of ourselves that we can.

So here I am, 28 years old, my son turning five, writing this story. A written synopsis of the crucible of my life. Do I still hurt? Do I still struggle? Absolutely. There is no doubt that I am still fighting each and everyday. You know the interesting part about all of it though? I am okay. Yes, I may be fighting battles with mental health, and to overcome my shortcomings, but I won't give up. I can't lose. Even at my lowest, on my worst days, I have already won. Because I am still here.