A cult can't worship me without knowing my history...

My childhood was probably not what you'd consider normal or run of the mill.
I grew up in a small town where more than half the population spoke Swedish better than English, and everyone had their own little weird quirks.
So combine that with me dealing with my mother and her issues and voila! You get me....

My mother wasn't really my role model.
If I had to describe her in one word, it would be "flighty".
She embraced the Hippy persona only because it went along with her, self indulgent, free love and live for the moment desires.
In reality she was highly narcissistic, materialistic and high strung.
She wore her self proclaimed "Hippy" status like a get out of jail free badge that excused her from any responsibility for any of her actions.
She went through husbands and boyfriends like they were potato chips.
And every time things ended badly, it was their fault, not hers.(or at least that's what she believed and what my Nana would tell everyone.)
The truth of the matter is this...my mother wasn't a commitment person.She was more the self-indulgent person.
When she'd begin a new relationship or get married,she would be calm,content, satisfied...kind of like someone had shot her with a tranquilizer dart.
Of course it would eventually wear off and then she'd rattle her cage until she broke free to peruse the universe looking for another mate.
Perhaps that's why I am a commitment person and very loyal to people?
I honestly had no respect for her lifestyle choice.
Probably because of the way it affected me.
I was just a ball and chain to her and she dragged me where ever she chose.

Meh...I don't know.

During one of her tranquilized moments,(her marriage to her third husband), I actually lived with her and not my grandparents. She and the R&R bought the house right next door to my grandparents.

The R&R was a dentist in the military.He was from Kentucky and stationed at the local base. My mother met him through friends after she'd written husband number two a "Dear John" letter when he was in Vietnam.(my brother's father)Yaz-a-ma-taz's dad never came back either. No, he wasn't killed, he just went home to New York and never even came to see my brother(who was born during his tour of duty).
I think the rejection while my mother was pregnant with his child was too much for him and he may have even speculated that the child wasn't his.
My mother had a way of bringing suspicion out in people.

R&R was the closest thing my brother and I had to a real father during our youth. He spent time with us and took us places. I felt cherished and loved.
He did all the daddy stuff and we even called him daddy.
He would make my brother and I brush our teeth and then chew on those shitty red pills that point out where you missed when you were brushing.
I fucking hated those damn things.
But R&R was a lot of fun.
He played guitar and I would sing for him. His favorite song was "House of the Rising Sun" and I knew all the words to it. Not too shabby for an eight year old, huh?
He drove a blue Road Runner. I loved it because he'd go fast and play his music loud.
It always felt so liberating to be in that car, going fast and listening to Deep Purple at ear bleeding decimals. The windows would be open and I'd smell the pine forests around us and feel the wind whipping my hair around....
It just made me feel alive. Like everything in the world was good.
That's probably one of the things about me that has always been a part of who I am....I can't remember a time when I didn't tune in all my senses to feel life coursing through my veins...
I felt so stifled and boxed up most of the time that feeling free was just the best feeling...
Or maybe we are just born with certain traits we can't explain?

R&R would always stop at the store and buy Yaz-a-ma-taz and I treats. Of course that would be followed by vigorous tooth brushing but to me it was always worth it.
We really felt special.
I know my brother loved R&R just as much as I did.

Then R&R got orders to go to Thailand.
I was devastated.
I knew it would be the end.
I knew at eight years old that my mother would ruin it while he was gone.
And of course she did.
She began to run around with "A-lot-of-Pot" just months after R&R left.

A-lot-of-Pot was a Hippy from Massachusetts. He was a creepy guy who lived in a shack in the woods. He had no electricity and subscribed to Mother Earth News.He grew his own weed and was a massive pot head. He had left Massachusetts to come to Maine and become one with nature, but I suspect his father threw him out because he was lazy and a free loader.
He was just as flaky as my mother, so actually they were pretty well matched.

She'd drag my brother and I with her, driving R&R's Road Runner, and go out to A-lot-of-Pot's place.
We'd sit in the car for hours, waiting on her, reading comic books and drinking soda and eating Reese's Cups.
I hated her for it.
Of course I wasn't stupid because I knew what they were doing.
And I knew I was helpless to stop it.
So I kept my lips closed and tried to turn a blind eye to it...but there was resentment.
Resentment lived between my mother and I for many years.
Fortunately my brother was too little to know anything. He was only four and didn't realize what was happening.

So once again we began to stay with Nana and Pa a lot. My mother stayed in our house, alone, or with A-lot-of-Pot who would probably sneak in the back. All of my toys and things stayed at my house while I stayed at my grandparents.
I was pretty angry about it.

So one day, right before I turned nine, Beachy and I broke into my house and went to my room and played with my toys.
My mother was gone and I was tired of being locked out of my life.
And that's how I felt, even at eight...like I was locked out.

We crept in through the basement and went directly up the stairs to my room. It was immaculate of course,(my mother had a "thing" for a clean house and she couldn't stand a mess).
So very carefully, Beachy and I played with my dolls.
We played with my play kitchen.
And you know, I can still remember feeling like I was doing something bad because I was playing with my toys.

We made sure to clean up the best we knew how and sneak out of the house.
This went on for a week.
We'd wait for my mother to leave and then we'd sneak in and play.

Then my mother went upstairs to clean and knew my things had been disturbed.

She never said anything to me, but yelled at Nana to keep a closer eye on my during the day because I and my little friends had broken into HER house and made a terrible mess of it.

After that day, I didn't want to step foot in that house again. Well, not unless by some miracle R&R came back.

That all changed when I turned nine. I decided that I was tired of being locked out of my own home and kept away from my own things.
So I broke into my house again.
And I broke the cellar door that led outside so she couldn't lock me out.
I felt pretty damn victorious.

Well...at least until the bear got into her basement and destroyed it.
I can still remember my mother screaming to Nana and Pa, "I COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED IF THAT BEAR HAD BEEN ABLE TO GET UP THROUGH THE BASEMENT DOOR! MAMA! YOU HAVE GOT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT CHILD!"

And so I became the enemy.
Flighty had declared war on me and we became rivals.
I was nine years old.

So I lost myself outside, every day, playing with the gang and getting into mischief. Wandering the streets and roads and forests, just trying to stay out of everyone's way.

And yes,R&R came back, but briefly. He'd heard about Flighty running around with A-lot-of-Pot. He came home to confront her and get his things. She tried to lie to him, because after all, he was paying the bills. He didn't like that, not at all and he beat the hell out of her.
She wore those bruises around like a badge too as if to say, "See? I am a victim. It's not my fault."

The worst of it is that when I went to say good bye to R&R, he told me to leave. He said I wasn't his kid and he wasn't my daddy and I needed to leave him alone.
It really hurt me, but I didn't blame him.
I guess it's hard to not think that a child of my mother's would be like her.

But I'm not like her.

Maybe that's where I need to end this story today....