Dazed and Confused

I was on the phone today with my sister comparing stories of our childhood. Let it be told, I am truly relieved that what I been sharing seems to be right on the money. But something is still disturbing to me. I  believe that someone who had enough saw us alone with no parental supervision one too many times called the police and Social Services on us.

As a police officer, I am going to have to go with that scenario. My sister Gloria believes that my mother, who had been admitted to the hospital with kidney stones, informed someone there that her children were left alone and needed to be looked after. I don’t buy that story one bit. Think about it.

If that was the case, why didn’t my mother contact my aunt who only lived a few blocks away to stop over at the apartment to look after us until she was released from the hospital? Why didn’t she call my sister and have her ask our neighbors to watch us? Where was my father? With no doubt in my mind, someone dropped a dime on my parents.

I believe it was definitely one of our neighbors who had not only seen enough but heard enough of what went on behind the door inside apartment 2D. I am mad at my father now because I truly believe he wasn’t honest with me when he told me his side of the story a few months before he passed away 20 years ago.

This afternoon, I decided to go through some old pictures, and guess what I recovered? I found an old black and white photo of my dad with his girlfriend dated 1968. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that maybe, just maybe, my dad was in the arms of his girlfriend that very same day we were in the arms of police officers carrying us out of our home.

I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m totally dazed and confused now. What I do know is my therapist will need a therapist of her own when she is through with me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the type to curl up in a fetus position rocking back and forth in a closet reliving my childhood and wishing it was just a bad dream, but have to be honest here, it does bother me that I don’t know the true story of where anybody was that day.

My father had his story and my mother had hers. What I realized today while looking through the old pictures of my family is that my parents had no business having children. They should have just bought a dog instead. I can honestly say that I don’t remember seeing my father much at all beside those times he would stop by with his truck on his break.

I can see him in his bed sometimes sleeping, and in the living room watching television, but that’s it. Hell, I don’t even remember him picking me up at the local police station when I wandered off from the court-yard playing with my other brothers and sisters. I was found by a stranger three blocks away from my home in Manhattan on West Street… I was THREE YEARS OLD! 

Could you imagine if the person who found me had been a pedophile and put me inside his car and just drove away? I can go on how irresponsible my parents were back then with stories that will make you sick to your stomach, but I think you all have an idea by now what my life was like growing up at 400 West 17th street apartment 2D. I wish I could say it ends here, but unfortunately what is waiting for me on Staten Island only gets worst….

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