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jasonjordan24
Guest
My name is Jason, and I am 24. This is hard for a guy who is so introverted, so bare with me. I am just going to pretend I am writing for myself, but with the intention to help others. Writing is something very special to me, so I hope this helps someone. I grew up with a Christian background, but in the fake sort of way, if you know what I mean. I grew up with my grandparents, and they went to Church every Sunday and Wednesday, joined groups, etc. They were well known in their Church. But, coming from the background that I do, they had a long list of dysfunctional views. They were never the type to truly love the person, hate the sin, like most 'real' Christians are supposed to do. Instead, they judged, criticized, mocked, and even mentally and emotionally abused. Never thinking that for once, their actions had a part to play in so many people that they were doing these things to. I come from a dysfunctional family from generations, on both sides. We are not the typical, if you will, loving, close knit, Italian New York family. My grandparents were both married each, twice before their marriage now. With that, they had a separate handful of kids. None of which are theirs together. My biological grandfather, a tough, full blooded Italian New Yorker, had a horrible life. He was schizophrenic, and died from Aids due to the promiscuity of sleeping with prostitutes. My grandmother grew up as an only child up until 10, in Harlem, New York. Raised in the projects, she learned how to handle herself. She is tough, blunt, and a true old fashioned Italian. She had two younger sisters. Her mother was just as tough, and maybe that is where she learned it from. She was a quiet woman, but with a very big streak of anger. My grandmother, as the oldest child, faced the brunt of her anger. She was physically abused. But back in the day, she claims that was just the way you handled your kids. Besides that, her mother struggled with anxiety so severe that most of my grandmothers life, she didn't even know if her mother was alive or dead, because she was so drained from her anxiety. Moving onto my parents. My parents met when my Mother was babysitting for my Father's kids. He was a married, working man, with two children. She was just a lost 19 year old. Shortly after my half brother had an accident and nearly burned 80% of his body, my parents decide to runaway, and not talk or have any contact with anyone, for an entire year. My Father divorced his wife, and then married my mother. Along, came my older brother and older sister, then myself. Both of my parents struggled with mental health problems. Throughout our younger childhood, we faced homelessness quite often. We bounced from the streets to shelters to crappy motels. We had nice houses, but somehow, they never stayed in them for long. We never were able to make friends, because we moved so frequently. By the age of just five, literally right after my fifth birthday, along with my older siblings, whom were turning 8 and 9. we went into foster care. Luckily, we all got placed together. My father had allegations against of child abuse, sexual and physical. He sexually abused all three of us for years. The allegations were true, and he lost his right to have any contact with us through the courts. As a little boy, I remember being on the same exact bed where my mother laid knocked out from her anti depressants, and he abused us in the same bed where they lay. After that, we winded up in foster care. Being in foster care, at least back then, you can be adopted if you are in the house for two years. It was almost two years, and the foster parents we had were ready to adopt us. It wasn't the type of family we would have even benefited from. The home environment was harsh and cruel. Right before the two year deadline, my mother took a house. It was a dump, but we were just happy to be back. With all the new changes, we had a new addition to the family that we really didn't know so well. Our little sister was born while we were in foster care. My mother cheated on my father while we were in a shelter with a man who worked there. There was no denying that he wasn't my fathers, because my sister came out black. While we were in foster care, my mother still chose to be with my father. While pregnant, they stayed on the streets together for a while. Eventually, she moved in with a friend. After the arriving of my sister, the courts told my mother that she had to choose between my sister or my father. Well, my mother, and her dependency on men, she thought she could do both. After we all came back to live with her, her and my father remained in contact. She pleaded for him to come back. Having the risk of him abusing us again, as well as my little sister. But my mother cannot live without men, and she needed him around. She was willing to put her children in danger, again, due to her selfishness. Moving on, after two years, a new addition to the family came. My mother slept with another man, and along came our little brother. He is also half black. With all three men, all three were married when she slept with them. So, where do I end the story of the past and bring up what this story is really about? It isn't to gain sympathy, because I cannot stand sympathy. Which is probably another reason I am so closed off. No one knows any details of my life. I have never been able to vulnerable with anyone before. Well, that all changed, over three years ago. While living with my grandparents, my older brother put my sister and I in a Christian mentor program. When my mentor passed away, along came one of the new staff. I met her husband first, years prior. She took over his position, because he became one of the pastors of their church. There I was, 16 years old, laying in a hospital bed. It was the first time I tried to commit suicide. I nearly succeeded. This woman came to my room, every single day. She brought me art books, watched TV with me, you name it, she did it. Still, I tend to push people away, a lot actually. So when she seemed like she wanted to be nice, I completely shut down. I didn't trust anyone, and that is how I learned to survive. Besides the fact that she seemed 'nosey'. That was something that I was brought up to steer away from. Still, she kept on coming. For a while, she visited me, and then we lost contact. It wasn't until moving back to New York from Michigan with my then girlfriend, did I contact her. My girlfriend and I at the time were homeless for several months. My girlfriend decided to go back to her home in Chicago, leaving me in New York with no where to go or no one to turn too. Something clicked in my head. I had no idea why, because I haven't spoken to her in years. But I decided to give her a call. When she answered, she knew exactly who I was. Within no time, she decided to bring me into her home. She gave me my own room, and told me I could stay there as long as I like. To me, all I wanted to do was just get my life on track. Her husband and herself knew me from the mentoring program, so they knew somewhat the details of my background. I felt uncomfortable, and apart of me just wanted to leave at every chance I could get. But, I stayed, and I stayed for three years.