Last edited on: August 30, 2026, 2:53 pm
I was told that I was born on the living room sofa on March 28, 1965. One of myearliest memories is of striking that same sofa with my hand and watching a cloud of dust rise up into my face, sending me into a coughing fit. It is a small memory, but it has stayed with me, perhaps because so much of my early life seemed to happen in places where I felt unseen, unsafe, or forgotten.
As a child, I had a bleeding disorder. A bloody nose could continue for a long time, so I was often not allowed to leave the house. At Christmas, our family sometimes received a large green cloth bag of stuffed toys from the Salvation Army. Even then, happiness felt complicated. If I reached for a toy, my mother would scold me and make me put it back.
My father often came home drunk, and there were times when he kicked me across the floor. Yet, for reasons I could not understand then and still struggle to explain now, I loved him and would run to greet him when he came home. My feelings about my parents were confusing and painful. I believed my mother disliked children in general, and I grew up feeling unwanted. I believe I was the youngest of eleven children, with six brothers and four sisters.
Some memories from that time are difficult to trust completely, but they are powerful. I remember my mother leaving me by a light post and driving away without me. I also remember being placed in a dumpster. One day, our house was raided by the police. I remember seeing my father dragged down the stairs by his hair, looking badly beaten. The rest of my family was in the living room, and as I recall, they were arrested. I had already learned how to avoid attention. My memory may not be perfect, but I remember standing alone and looking at myself in a mirror for what felt like three days. Ever since then, mirrors have carried a painful meaning for me.
For much of my life, I have struggled with feeling unworthy of existence and ashamed of how I looked. Depression, anxiety, and panic attacks have often followed me. I remember being abused, though many details are missing from my memory. I used to have nightmares, but when I woke up, I could not hold on to the details. I am not a doctor or psychiatrist, but I have wondered whether my high anxiety helped me survive what I was going through.
In 1970, my older brother, my sister, and I entered foster care. I do not remember exactly where we first lived, but I remember a small, one-story house in a suburban area. I failed kindergarten there. At that school, I was already expected to know how to read, write, and do basic math, even though I had not been prepared for any of it.
My sister ran away shortly after we arrived. In later years, I heard that she died of a drug overdose. That loss became one more painful part of a childhood already marked by separation, confusion, and grief.
In 1971, we moved to upstate New York, near a small village close to the Adirondack State Forest. We lived in a rundown old house that may have belonged to Sir Holland. It had been vacant for about twenty years and still had both gas and electric lighting, a dangerous combination that may have contributed to a fire that had burned half the house in the 1950s. People in the area thought the house and land were haunted, and we usually had only one trick-or-treater a year, if any.
The house had three stories, a flat roof, and a porch that was wrapped around two sides. Inside were long hallways, a spiral staircase at the back, and chandeliers that were half gas and half electric. The attic was beautiful in a way the rest of the house was not, with solid cherry wood paneling on the and ceiling and solid cherry wood flooring.
In 1972, my brother abused me and was later sent to a juvenile hall, where he supposedly died by suicide. My brother and I had shared a room in the back of the house, and he took advantage of my fear of the dark. I have always assumed that my father may have abused him as well, and that my brother was repeating what he had known. Because of that, I have never held it against him.
For most of my life, until very recently, I was an extreme introvert and rarely had friends. I was bullied often in school, especially by girls, though I have never understood why. For reasons I still do not fully understand, girls terrified me, and I usually avoided them. When I could not avoid them, I generally got along with them, but fear still shaped how I moved through the world.
At one point, the New York State Department of Health had me go through a four-month psychiatric diagnostic evaluation while I stayed at a Salvation Army group home for boys. During that time, I attended Binghamton High School. I did not always understand why things were happening to me, but I kept moving forward.
The few friends I had during those years were Black, and they were proud to be called Black. I still do not fully understand why they accepted me, but they treated me with respect. They talked roughly at times, but when they realized I was nearby, they used fewer four-letter words. Sometimes that made me feel set apart, as if I were different, but they were good friends. I loved and appreciated them very much.
After high school, I attended SUNY Oneonta, where I completed a two-year business major. My first job after that was at Co-Optics of America as a laboratory clerk. Before long, I became a laboratory supervisor. That step mattered to me because it showed that I was capable of responsibility, leadership, and work that others could trust me to do.
I entered the military in 1988 and completed basic training at Fort Campbell. When I began, I was overweight and could not do even one push-up. By the end of training, I was able to do the required number to pass, which I believe was ten. That experience taught me that even when I doubted myself, I could still grow stronger through discipline and effort.
When I signed up, the military wanted me to go into nuclear physics, but because I lacked self-confidence, I declined and chose the infantry instead. I served with the 101st Airborne Division, Air Assault. Near the end of that assignment, I was offered either a field grade commission or duty station of choice. I chose Hawaii as my duty station, which I later believed was the worst decision I could have made. Looking back, I think I should have taken the commission and made a career in the military or at least chosen South Korea instead. Hawaii was extremely difficult for me, and I did not fare well there.
On February 6, 2025, I found myself at Heaven Helpers Soup Cafe. It was 4:21 p.m., and I was preparing to head out to the cafe for a bowl of soup. That simple moment, sitting there and noticing the time, reminded me that my life has continued despite everything I have survived.
My life has included neglect, abuse, fear, loss, confusion, and regret. It has also included survival, work, service, friendship, and moments of unexpected kindness. I have carried pain for many years, and I still struggle with anxiety, depression, and memories that are incomplete. But the fact that I am still here matters. My story is not only about what happened to me. It is also about the child who endured, the young man who kept going, and the person I am still becoming.