It’s Thursday.  It’s September 25th.  It’s the day after my (step) father’s birthday.  I received a text yesterday at 1:33 pm, that said, “Reminder, Dad’s Birthday, September 24th.”

So.  in honor of my step-dad, but REAL father, Jerry T. Dennis, here are some stories I remember about him, and a little bit of his history.

If you don’t know my dad, I compare him to SuperMan, and RoboCop.  He seriously will live through just about anything.  My dad is in a wheelchair from a car accident he had, as a result of heart attack while driving.  (They said it’s a wonder he lived.)  As a result of that accident, they had to rebuild the left side of his body.  His insurance didn’t cover it, so, he didn’t get his hip, or the metal things he needs in his leg.  About a year ago, he suffered a stroke, thus, losing most of the right side of his body.  The doctors said he would completely recover, but from his lack of motivation and depression, he did not do the excercises.  He used to tell me, “I buried my wife, and a daughter, I am alone and I’m old, I am a recovered alchoholic and drug addict,I will eat what I want and do what I want.”  My dad is stubborn as a mule. (He’s from Texas.) My dad also has small fits of dementia, probably brought on from diabetes, which can make life with him interesting. He also suffers from Hepatitis C.

My dad is funny in the fact that, with all of that going on, he knows his kids so well.  I called him yesterday to explain that I honestly thought his birthday was the 26th. To which he replied, “I know, you think that every year.”  Wow.  It’s amazing that my father is able to do that.

He is also the man who sat me down a year ago, when I started drinking again and Andrea left me and said, “Son, I don’t interfare with your life, and I let you make your own stupid decisions.  But, Andrea is the one for you.  I don’t know what you’ve done to screw this up, but I am sure you did something.  If you have any brains in you, you will straighten out and get that girl back.”

Before that, my father never once told me what he thought about any of my girlfriends.  He never once said anything about my decisions.  He simply told me he loved me regardless, and would support any decision I made.

I am starting to think my dad has always known whats best for me.  He has always known what I need to do to grow up.  My dad is…. My dad is…. I don’t have words.

When I was 10 years old, my mom got sick of my dad’s drunken stupers.  She told him if he did not quit drinking she was taking the kids and leaving.  That was a Saturday night.  The next day I woke up and my dad was gone.  We were certain that he had left us.  about 2:30 in the afternoon, my dad showed up with more life than ever.  He had all sorts of goodies he had gotten from a church.  He told us that he had quit drinking and accepted Jesus Christ into his life.  My dad has not had a drop of alcohol since. (15 years)  Looking back, that was probably my first experience with the Holy Ghost. If I only knew then.

One day, my mother and I got into a HUGE fight.  My dad grabbed me, took me to his jeep and started driving.  (Like he always did to break the tension.) In the middle of one of his long LOOOONG lectures, I inturrupted and said, “Dad, you’re an idiot.  Mom is cheating on you! She has been for a long time!  Why don’t you just leave.  She is using you! She doesn’t Love you!”

That’s when he looked at me and said something I will NEVER forget.

“Son” He always made sure I knew he considered me a son. “Son, The day I married your mother, I promised you, Adrienne, and God that I would never leave your side, I would never let you down, I would always be here for you.  I am not going to break that promise.  I love you son, that is why I am still here.”

wow.

My dad, now is weak.  My dad now needs someone to help him.  In all honesty I get annoyed.  When he calls I dread it.  I love hearing his voice, but I still kind of dread his long stories.  As he grows older, he makes a little less sense.  I can’t wait to hear the end of the conversation when he says, “I love you son.” Still reminding me that my father didn’t abandon me, just a guy with some sperm and a temper.

His ability to forgive and love unconditionally is a true example of Christ’s love.  And I guess my relationship with him sums up my relationship with God sometimes.  He is strong, has always known what’s best for me, and has always always loved me, unconditionally.  A lot of his suffering was so I didn’t have to. I dread to hear what God has to say, because I might not like it.  But I long for the end of the conversation when he says, “I love you son.”

Looks like I have a lot more “family issues” than I care to admit.  I’ve been confronted with this issue recently, and it pains me.  It hurts like that voodoo guy in Indiana Jones has ripped out my heart while it is still beating.  That’s it.  I feel like I am watching my heart beat, knowing it’s not inside my body.

Growing up, my folks had addiction problems.  My older sister, Adrienne was very much a caretaker in teaching me how to be a caretaker.  She would tell me, “Sometimes Mommy and Daddy need to be alone, so that’s why we have to cook for them.”  She would tell me, “Mommy and Daddy are tired, we need to get them ready for school.”  She would tell me, “Mommy had to go to a clinic, she tried to kill herself, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love us.”

That’s how I became Uncle Brother Andy.  I don’t know how much of their childhood my sister and brother remember, but I remember every single second.  I remember their first day of school.  I remember getting beat up on the bus, by the bully Evan Sheffield, because he tried to take my brother’s book bag.  That was the first time my lip ever bled.  I remember him beating me up the next day at school, because he was pushing my brother, and I stopped him.  That was the first black eye I ever had. I remember chasing him down in the woods while he was swarmed by bees, pulling his clothes off of him.  Carrying him inside, and throwing him in the shower, to get the bees off of him. I remember having too much back swing in baseball and hitting his face with a bat.  I remember him almost needing reconstructive surgery.  I remember feeling awful.  I was just trying to teach him how to hit a home run. (A feat I never accomplished)

I remember when he cut his knee, from ankle to knee, to the bone, and sitting in the emergency room with him all night, while my mom sat in the waiting room on the phone.  I remember gathering him, my sisters, and my dog up, when our house was on fire, and dragging them out of the house.  I remember running back in to wake up my parents.  I remember when he was really young, he wouldn’t take a bath unless I was in there with him, making him laugh. I remember stepping in between him and mom several times.  She NEVER laid a hand on him.  I have scars, physically and emotionally from protecting my brother.

I remember running in when my folks were fighting, and telling him, “It’s ok, Mommy and Daddy are just tired.”  I remember telling him, “Mommy had to go to a clinic, but she still loves us.” I remember getting him dressed for school, I remember helping him with homework, I remember teaching him how to play Nintendo, the computer, and how to pick locks. I remember teaching him how to tie his shoes.  I remember getting him his first three jobs, so he could work with someone he knows.  I remember painful things, I don’t think he would appreciate me putting online. I remember when he loved me.  I remember.  I remember like it was yesterday.

When I was an addict, you could say that I was not the “Big Brother” to look up to.  I was not the kind of person that anyone would respect, and frankly he was embarrassed to be related to me.  I would have been to.  When I sobered up, I moved in, and I tried to parent him again.  It’s hard not to.  To me, I helped raise him.  I was too hard on him, but it’s because I care.

I knew he didn’t like me.  I just found out that he will not speak to me.  He won’t come to my Father’s Birthday dinner if I’m there.  He said his life is better when I’m not around.  I wonder.  Can that be entirely true?  Would his life have been better if I had not interfered?  I don’t know what to say to him to make it better.  I don’t know if there is anything to say to make it better.

I can’t say anything else.  I am getting anxious remembering his childhood.  I am getting anxious thinking of how the future will be.  I am sad.  I love my brother.

My first word was “mama“. My mother was an addict. For years she struggled with everything ranging from alcohol to pain killers, From Marijuana to cocaine. We had a relationship that can’t be described. I could try, but nobody can grasp a mother and her children’s relationship unless they are involved. Most of my life we spent arguing, and I was in and out of the house. Our addictions and stubbornness clashed in a big way.

Don’t get me wrong I love my mom. I wish the entire world could have met her, so they could see first hand, that so much love, beauty, and strength only needs about five feet of woman to live. Even fighting with her addictions and Hepatitis “C” she still tried her best to keep us clothed, fed, and feeling loved. Let me say even in out biggest fights, I never felt like she didn’t love me

When it seemed like no one else was there, I could always count on my mom. My biological dad left, and my mom worked as a server to take care of, and support me and my eldest sister. What a woman. My only regret is not being there when things got tough for her, as she was for me. Imagine if she had her children to hold her, to tell her she had a problem, maybe she wouldn’t have gone overboard.

My mama overdosed on June 9th, 2005. (Seen above with me, quite a few years ago)

So.  Here I am again.  Embarking on a seemingly impossible journey to persue the whereabouts of my “Bio-Dad”.

I was doing some writing today, and realized that this is a pretty huge turning point in my life.  I know he hasn’t been here for 25 years, but I know people have flaws.  I know people have stories.  I know people have circumstances.  I know people need forgiveness.  Who knows if what my mother told me was true, but the fact is, I constantly wonder.  What is he like?  Does he miss me?  Does he have health issues I need to know about for my own well-being?  Is he really where I get my temper? Is he really as good looking as my mother told me he was?  Did he really leave because he didn’t want a second child?  Is he married?  Has he started a new family?  

I don’t know.  Maybe I am setting myself up for a disaster.  But, I feel like I would rather have a beautiful disaster than constantly wondering, pittering around the Earth with bitter feelings that I do not even know are justified.  The opportunities are endless.  

What I know: 

I know my “Bio-Dad’s” name is Donald Francis.  (His middle name might be Andrew)
I know my “Bio-Dad” is probably 46 or 47 years old.
I know he rides, or used to ride Motorcycles.
I know he had a father who was an amazing pointalism artist, also named Donald. (I believe)
I know he has brown eyes.
I know the last time my mother saw him, was in Dallas Texas, or somewhere near there.  

If he’s anything like me, he is stunningly good looking with a great sense of humor.  If he’s anything like me, he thinks about me, at least once a day, just like I think about him.  If he’s anything like me, he’s hot headed, but also a friggin genius.  

If anyone knows anyone who knows anyone who might be able to hunt this guy down, or help me out, that would be great.  We could launch a full forced internet force team if anyone wants to get on board.

I have prayed and prayed about it, and I feel like I at least need some closure.  Maybe he does too?  Heck, I’ll take the chance.  Who knows, maybe he turned his life around like I did.  Maybe he is a completely awesome dude now, and wants to teach me how to ride a motorcycle?  I don’t know.  

Anyway.  Why don’t we pass this blog around, and see what the internet can do?  It could be an awesome testimony!

Comments? Suggestions?

Hit me up!

I think we all have them.  I think everyone has that dark part of their mind, where they bury their deepest most painful memories, thoughts, and places.  As I write this, my heart is pounding.  The memories are running through my head, my veins, and I am almost nervous to dig these up.  I have told my Fiance stories of this house.  We have even driven by there.  Every time I see it, my eyes water up.  It’s the house I lived in on and off from the age of 9 or 10, all the way to 22.

The fights, the screaming, the drinking, everything rushes through me like a flooding river of emotions.  Don’t get me wrong, I do have some great memories there.  Playing in the woods with Matthew and Omar.  Parusing the neighborhood like we owned it.  But the pain greatly outweighs the good.

You see, this was the house where everything went wrong.  If you look on the top of the garage, that is our patio.  That is where my Mom told me she had Hepatitis C, and she wasn’t expected to live long. The patio is where my mom would sit before she got sick, drinking and smoking dope.    To the right of the front door, That was the master bedroom, that is where my father tackled me to the ground, and then had a heart attack directly on top of me.  That is where I was when I realized I could get punched by my mother and not flinch.

The first window from the left.  That was our kitchen.  That is where everything crazy happened.  I was actually thrown through that window by my mom’s friend. (On accident)  The kitchen, with the little 12 inch TV, is where the late night drinkings happened.  Where my older sister passed out of near alcohol poisoning on New Years, 1999.  It’s where my dad has had one heart attack, and where my mom held a knife to her wrist, threatening to kill herself.

The next window over, that was our dining room.  That is where my mom and my sister had a good amount of their fights.  Where I would have to get in between them.  taking punches, crying for them to stop.    That is where my dad had a fit of dementia and tried to comb his hair with a switchblade, and I had to wrestle him to the ground and pull the knife out of his hand. (My dad is a large large man) That is where we only had dinners on Thanksgiving, and that turned into a fight every year.  That is the room the first (and only) time I punched my dad.  That room is a room filled with emotion, tears, and brotherly love.  A lot of my anger was unleashed in that room, a lot of my (what I thought was) growing up took place.

Downstairs, is where everything else took place.  More fighting, more mistakes.  Downstairs is where I saw my best friend laying dead on our couch in our living room.  Downstairs is where I drank myself to a near coma when I found out my sister had died.  Downstairs is where I was drinking when I found out my mother was in the ICU from her car accident.  Downstairs.  Downstairs.

I can’t even begin to get into the drug use that took place.  I can’t even begin to say how ashamed I am for my actions just as much as my families actions.

I am almost embarrassed to say how much I am shaking from piling this all together.  How much it all still hurts.  How much I hate that house.  The stories don’t end there, but my nerves do.  I can’t begin to talk about everything else that happened in that house.

I truly believe God reached down and pulled me out of that mess.  Being evicted from that house, (Not the first time we were evicted, and not the last) was a great thing that happened to me.  Getting out of that house was God’s Saving, amazing beautiful love.  Even before I loved Him.  Right now, I am sad.  Right now, I am overwhelmed with emotion from just looking at that picture.  Right now, I know God has me, and that is what makes this OK.  That is what gives me the strength to publish this post.  Jesus Christ is lifting my heart, and allowing me to love.  Allowing me to let go.  Finally.

I pray that God can reach down and take this anxiety away.  I pray that God can touch someone else with this post.  I hope you know that God can remove you from the most sticky situations and make them great.  I pray you know that God doesn’t want you to hurt.  He’s waiting, arms open for you.  He loves you already, regardless of where you are in your life!