I find it hard to believe my life is what it is today.  I’ve gone into details in some of my stories, so I am sure you can understand my doubt.  Here’s where my awe stands.

I have been healed.  No, I wasn’t blind and I could always walk, (Most of the time without falling up stairs or something.)  No, I wasn’t a mute or a leper.  I was an addict.  I can say with (almost) 100% certainty that you could take away everything I love in my life, and lay any drug in front of me, and I will not touch it.  I don’t crave it.  I don’t miss it, I don’t need it. 

I used to be a very angry person.  You can ask any brick wall, car door, sheet rock, or some people.  They will tell you, I was quick to throw a punch.  I’ve actually been told that if I punch with my left hand again it will most like shatter. (Due to some incorrect healing from several broken hands I never took care of.)  OK. Hear me on this.  I still get angry, and sometimes it’s overwhelming.  But it’s been quite some time since I’ve punched a hole in something, smashed my head against a car, wall or refidgerator.  I have prayed through all of these things, and I feel like a new person.  I feel completely different. 

I’m not writing this to brag.  Truth is.  When I seperate myself from God, which I think we all do from time to time, I am nothing.  I am a weak sorry excuse for a human being.  With God, I’m a new person.  A person who is filled with love, remorse, and who isn’t afraid to say “I’m sorry.” (most of the time.) 

I am sure Andrea can tell you some stories, and I am sure she will agree that I am a different person from even a year ago.  I am sure Andrea will tell you, if I didn’t pray through my struggles, and God hadn’t intervened, she probably would not be my wife today.  Andrea has seen me at my lowest, and prayed with me through it.  Listened to me cry out to God, and has seen the change. 

I write this rambling of what I think is a coherant thought to say one thing.

GOD IS GREAT!

Growing up, I had a group of friends that I would constitute as my “best friends”.  I met Matthew in kindergarten, under the parachute, he was about 8 feet taller than me, he walked up to me and said, “You are my best friend now.”  He was so big, I was not going to say no!  So, a friendship started.

In third grade, I met “Bobby”. (This name is protected)  I viewed him almost as a rival.  He was just as, if not more, dorky than me.  And almost as funny.  I also met Scott.   This kid was about as tall as Matthew , he was in the lunch room, and he was seeing how many chocolate milks he could drink.  I think he was somewhere around 15, and he vomited 100% pure chocolate milk all over the lunch room.  I knew we would be friends.

In fourth grade, Omar moved into my neighborhood.  He was my first “Black Friend”.  He was faster than me, better at sports than me, funnier than me, and had (has) a heart the size of Texas.  He lived in the neighbor hood with me an Matthew M.  So, we went EVERYWHERE together.

Matthew passed away five years ago on my living room couch, of a drug overdose.  He had struggled with alcohol addiction, and had come so far.  One relapse, he decided to try Cocaine, and then took pain killers to get to sleep.  Matthew was my very best friend.  I miss him terribly.

Scott told me the second day I knew him, “When I grow up, I want to be a tattoo artist.”  No joke.  I’m serious.  Through some hard times, and a lot of partying, Scott, two months ago officially became a tattoo artist.  Now that is dedication.  He is still new, but his work is really good, and I am so proud of him for making it through the rough.

Omar, his twin sister, and I are the surviving memebers of the neigborhood crew.  Most every other kid in our neighborhood died between the ages of 18 and 20.  It was rough for us, and Matthew dying was especially rough.  I think it affects him more than he will ever admit.  He works a lot, which is understandable.  It’s not that he needs the money, but hardwork keeps the mind busy, so not to distract with sad thoughts, and memories of friends, come and gone.  I miss Omar, he is rarely around, but when he is, we pick up right where we left off, and our friendship will never die.  I wish I could see him more.

Bobby.  ahh. Bobby.  We have gone through so much together.  On my 22nd birthday, I hadn’t seen him in years.  I was living at a bar, literally, because I had no where else to go.  He wandered in that night, saw the spot I was in, and immediately, packed his car with my stuff, took me to his house, and let me live there.  We both had our problems, and my addiction became the source of everything crazy.  I moved out, and back in with my dad when my mom died and we split paths.

He works in the bar scene.  He’s addicted.  I went to see him Friday.  I cried.  I literally cried, right there in the middle of the bar.  I miss my friend.  I hate seeing him like that.  There is nothing I can say to make him see it differently.  I feel hopeless.  I feel like I am watching him go down a path I have been down, and I can’t get him to turn off of that path.  There is nothing I can do.  He weighs, no more than 100 lbs. now.  His eyes are pupils.  that’s it, just pupils.  He forgets what he is talking about.  He is not my old friend, he is just a zombie.  It kills me.

Lord I pray that You will reach down and lay a hand on “Bobby”.  He needs you.  He is hurting and there is nothing I can do.  Something needs to happen.  Something needs to save him.  That something is You Lord.  I know anything is possible through You, and I pray You can make the possible a reality.  I pray You reach all of my friends, God, and show them Your intense, insane, undying Love.  I love you God,  Please, please help them.

-Amen

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)