The Hell I Carry

Prologue and Time

Prologue

I am not a writer, but I am passionate about my story, though it has not always been this way. I used to believe that I would carry most of these secrets with me to my grave, but I would often ask myself: what good will they do me then? Between these two covers, across these white pages, I have tried, with great effort, to stick to the facts. This story is not eloquently written with fancy words meant to stimulate the imagination; it is just simply told. There's some dialogue; my attempt to breathe life back into these bits of memory. The names of all parties involved have been changed to mask their identities. Though, there are some individuals, based upon our relationship, that, even with masked names, are easily identifiable.

My biggest reason for sharing these recollections, is to piece together the past so that I may, in light, understand the man I have become; so that I might be able to explain, to some degree, why I've hurt the people that have simply tried to heal my broken mind. Women, good women, would crumble at my feet, as I surged through life on a path dominated by destruction and self-loathing. Why? They would constantly seek formidable answers in an attempt to find some underlying meaning to my barbaric behavior. My answer, however, is not as simple as the question. To those that have asked me "why", I hope this story provides you with some closure and reassurance. When I said "It's not you, it's me" ...I meant it.

I am a selfish human being, this I am aware of now. It is one of my many flaws that I have come to accept and, though I have accepted it, I know that there is always room for improvement. I am improving, but I am not perfect. I had hoped that, by reliving these moments in my own words, I would find peace in my own story so that I, with the professional support of a therapist, could finally begin the healing process.

To my foster mother, forgive me for going against your wishes and publishing this piece. My intentions were not to disturb the peace that you have finally found, but simply, through the art of story-telling, to find my own. I know that your intentions were always pure, and your character had, for the most part, been selfless. There are many children in this world that will die, never having known the warmth and comfort of a mother's love. I, fortunately, will never be one of those children.

To my good friend Sed, thank you for the long nights and deep conversations. Thank you for being a friend in my hour of need. There is a saying that goes "in the darkest of times, good friends will show you the light, but true friends will take your hand and walk by your side." Thank you for walking with me when I could no longer walk alone.

To my biological mother, I will simply say that I understand what it is like to carry a hell, but I will not make excuses for you. A hell is a heavy burden, but it is one that we all must bear. It is, however, how you choose to carry the weight of this burden that ultimately decides your character. I wish you had chosen a different method in which to carry yours.

Finally, to the reader, please do not judge the weeds that have learned to flourish in my garden. For they, too, are just simply trying to survive. I once read a proverb that stated that the only difference between a flower and a weed is judgement. Hopefully, you will come to appreciate the dandelion in the same manner that you appreciate the rose.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

-Rabindranath Tagore

When it is all said and done, and the dust of this story has finally settled, I hope you find the time to sit in the shade and enjoy what remains.