18 Years of God Damn Bullshit: A Memoir

Scrabble

((TW// Domestic violence, guns))

Condensed version

Est. Dec 2019

Dear Mom,

I like to tell people my life began in letters.

I remember how you told me you and my dad were playing Scrabble one night, and then I was made.

F-I-G-H-T

One of my earliest memories. Dad and you fighting at our house. I was sitting on my little foam couch when the policemen came, pointing their guns. I remember how a nice one smiled at me before re-aiming his pistol. Or maybe this was one of my dream memories? After that, you told me how we-

L-E-F-T

You said after my first Christmas, even though I don't remember it. We got everything and went to my grandparent's house. My happiest memories were of there. My favorite was the-

S-U-N

Shining through those faded yellow curtains in the guest room we used to sleep in. I miss how I'd wake up in my shirt-nightgown and see Grandpa in his big chair watching his old western movies. I used to love sitting in his lap when I was little. I remember when I first met my step-dad. You said it was just after my 4th birthday. You brought him in, and I was skeptical at first, but then he drew a mustache on one of the little boys in my coloring book. I remember how I-

L-A-U-G-H-E-D

At my silly new dad. I remember you getting married, and how we got a house. The little one on the corner of the crossroads. My bus used to pick me up right in front. I remember my friend who lived down the street, the street Dad didn't like because it had "teenagers". I remember my friend, younger than me, and how she learned how to ride her bike before me without training wheels. She was in front of her house turning in circles. I rushed home after that and made Dad teach me how to ride mine without the training wheels. I remember how it took weeks, and I was always falling down when I tried to turn at the end of the driveway, but being so excited to get back on and try again despite all my scrapes and bruises. Until I finally did it on my own, but of course, I always got in trouble for riding it in the middle of the road. I remember the day I came home to see you by the door, motioning me in with your finger. I remember the swaddled infant in my Dad's arms. A bit bigger than I expected, but still mine, I thought. My-

B-R-O-T-H-E-R

Clumsy, and loud, and stealing all the attention previously directed towards me. But I remember his first steps. Dad, [him], and I on the floor of his room. [He was] barely 1-2 years old, toddling over to Dad in attempted footsteps. I remember him watching Elmo and Barney as we ate oatmeal for breakfast. I remember us in the big red Radioflyer that Dad pulled us around in everywhere. The park, the store, sometimes just around the block. I remember swimming pools in the front yard, the small plastic ones a few inches deep. And driving in my Barbie jeep with him. His hair, long and wavy. And how he grew from blocks and light-up animals to action figures and video games in the blink of an eye. Things seem to go that way. And you think, where did all the-

T-I-M-E

Go? When did I start going to school dances and having crushes and first kisses? When did I start painting my nails black and sneaking out to the beach at night with friends, and getting little stick-and-pokes, and shaving my head, and writing on my converse? And god, would someone please tell me when I'll stop writing these-

L-E-T-T-E-R-S