The Night My Mother Tried To Arrest Me

The Night My Mother Tried to Have Me Arrested – A Reason To Push People Away

April 27, 2014

By: Rock Kitaro

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In the summer of 2004 my mother had just called the cops on me in the midst of an argument in which she claimed that she felt threatened by me. I wasn’t on drugs. I didn’t have any abuse problem or was physically violent. I never even curse (in this situation). The police were called to our house due to a verbal dispute in which my mother claimed she felt threatened. For this, she tried to have me arrested.

The cop, a very understandable yet stern fellow, slapped cuffs on me, brought me out to his squad car and kept shouting at me.

“You’re seventeen son! SEVENTEEN! And you’re about to throw your life away.” He barked.

On what charge? I didn’t do anything wrong.” I growled, my face heated with frustration.

“We can book you with disorderly conduct, son. Now is that what you want?”

The flashing red and blue lights lit up our middle class single story brick house. The neighbors…my future friends were watching. This sort of thing didn’t happen everyday in my neighborhood. But its like they say. You hold something in for so long…you’re bound to explode.

Before I continue. I want to point out that I love my mother and cherish her. The events that I’m about to disclose happened a decade ago and I’ve already spoken with her about this release. She completely understands why I’m doing this and even laughed when I told her what the title was going to be.

To help you explain the events leading up to the night in question. Allow me to paint the backdrop. Or you can scroll ahead until your reach red colored font to jump to the “what” instead of reading about the “why”.

As much as I’ve tried to bury the past and move on from it… I have no choice but to bring it out when it comes to people who come too close to my heart. I have a tendency to try and push them away. They discover that beneath my veneer of confidence and determination, I’m very insecure about what’s genuine and disingenuous. They discover that deep down I’m very distrustful of others, I question their motives and I’m quick to move on if I feel a relationship isn’t beneficial.

“Rock, I care about you!”

Sure you do.

“Rock, I believe in you!”

You barely know what I’m capable of.

“Rock, we’re friends!”

You don’t know me.

I don’t think this is normal behavior. People have suggested that I talk to a psychiatrist or take some kind of medication, but I’m reluctant to use those devices while I’m still young and healthy enough to explore my personality to a greater extent, capable of changing or improving without it.

That’s not to say, I have no friends. Because I do. The few individuals who I call my friends know who I am and accept me just the way I am. But ever so often, I meet someone who for some reason inexplicable to me, is drawn to me wanting to be more than just a buddy or acquaintance. And instead of my embracing them however innocuous they’re intentions may be, I throw hurdles in front of them. I observe them like a science experiment trying to find out what it is that they want from me.

I can’t be cool. I can’t leave it alone and ignore the possibilities. It’s hard for me to hope for the best and simply look at the good in others while I have a fervent belief that everyone has a critical flaw, a dark side to them. If a person is reserved or never reveals it to me after a year of a so-called “friendship,” I suspect that they just don’t trust me to know. Or they’re afraid of revealing it to me, or anyone else.

It is very intrusive of me, I know. But because I am not a reserved person, with no shame or fear in telling others deep intimate personal details about myself… That unknown drives me crazy, especially when the person is telling me that I can trust them.

I can completely understand that saying of, “I’d like you more if you were a little less perfect.”

And this is why.

From the age of 10 through 17 my parents forced me to study with Jehovah’s Witnesses. This memoir isn’t to inform on their practices, but imaging being able to celebrate Christmases and birthdays and hang out with your peers after school and at youth centers then at the age of ten, having it all stopped.

I know the religious group has somewhat of an unsavory reputation if you’re not adequately familiar with the organization, but I can testify and stand in front of the masses to declare that they are without a doubt, the nicest most friendliest sort of people I’ve had the honor to associate with.

Association…that word holds strong merit in the world of Jehovah’s Witnesses. When my parents became submersed in the religion, seems they took to heart the idea of “bad association spoils habits”. Thus, my brothers and I weren’t allowed to associate with friends from school or other kids in the neighborhood unless they were Jehovah’s Witnesses. That means no phone calls. No going over to someone’s house to just chill or hang out. My parents had effectively created a bubble over our worlds. And to some, that would seem like a good thing.

But when you create bubble for your children and teach them according to the principles of only one set ideology, especially one based on religion, I believe that you’re really preparing them for a world that does not exist. When that child grows up and gets out into the world, they’re going to have a rude awakening because all the other children have had at least twelve years of social experiences that you’ve kept the child from enduring. The other teens have gone through the trials and tribulations of friendships, betrayal, love, rejection and a period of accepting themselves. So when your child leaves the nest, he… I basically had to hit the ground running to catch up with the mentality of peers who had years of experience over me.

When I reached the age fourteen. I decided that I didn’t want to be a Jehovah’s Witness. But that didn’t stop my parents from forcing me to continue going to their Kingdom Halls, the meeting place for JWs.

So picture this. After a week of going to school with peers I couldn’t associate with after school, I’d have to attend Bible meetings on Monday and Wednesday nights during the primetime hours, just in time to get back home and get ready for bed.

Saturdays were filled with chores from the moment we woke up. After chores at around 1pm, we had to read a Jehovah’s Witness publication called the “Watchtower” in preparation for the Sunday meeting. Our TV programming was heavily regulated with all of the cable channels having blocks on them unless it was PG or a lower rating. If we wanted to watch something that was locked, we had to get permission to get my mom or step-dad to come put the code in.

Then came Sunday. We woke up, arrived at the Kingdom Hall at around 10am. Get home around 12:30pm. Then we were then told to go sit at the dining room table to “discuss” what we learned at the Kingdom Hall in a “family meeting”. But sometimes we’d end up waiting for hours before our parents even came to join us at the table. And when they did, they’d spend another two hours telling us what we should be doing and how horrible we were doing. We were finally able to take off our Sunday clothes at around 5pm and try to enjoy the few precious hours we had left before another arduous week.

Now picture all of that…when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t want to be a Jehovah’s Witnesses. Picture it going on for weeks…months…years… When I was younger, I couldn’t articulate mature enough reasons why I didn’t want to go, so it made me look selfish and ungrateful. My parents, and sometimes my older brother, prayed on my strong conscience to guilt me into participating with the Witnesses. Using classic hand-me-down statements like:

God gives you 168 hours in a week. All he’s asking you for is six where you devote your time to him.”

Or

“Man can’t direct his own footsteps. Its like flying a plane in the middle of the night with no instruments.”

Compared to those statements, what fourteen-year-old can match wits with it without sounding like an arrogant little brat? Not to mention that I am an honest to goodness Christian. I just disagree with the Witnesses philosophy on worship. I believe that a relationship with God is between God and me. Congregations are nice, but not absolutely necessary. Also, I believe that you can devote yourself to God by the way you live your life. Not just through prayer, reading the Bible and entering some manmade establishment that was declared holy. But like I said…At fourteen. I didn’t stand a chance.

So I grew angry. Like a Gorilla growing from an infant to an adult in captivity, my fury became more aggressive and turned to hate. But I was never violent towards my parents. I found alternative means to release my anger. Practicing martial arts was one. Hurling around these large blue barrels in the backyard was another. But mostly it was through my writing. I hated the world I was in, so I created a new world to escape it.

That’s why it urks me when my parent sometimes talk as though they’ve always encouraged me to write. They didn’t. I can’t remember a single family meeting where there was any encouragement or support for what me or my brothers wanted to do. If there were, it was probably so rare and outnumbered by the negative conversations that I can’t remember it.

Things weren’t so peachy with my summer visits with my father either. When I was twelve, several friends and family members knew that I had a good singing voice and thought I should continue to pursue that avenue. My dad heard me sing and told me that I couldn’t. He said my voice was too deep. Was he joking? Dry humor I suppose.

When I was sixteen, I wanted to be a detective. I was big on these “Clue” books in which a crime was committed in every chapter and you were supposed to predict who did what and why. I was good at it. I learned about the kinds of evidence, the importance of an alibi, motive and the process of elimination. At sixteen, my Dad told me I was stupid. He said I wasn’t smarter than any adult.

Don’t worry. I’m not trying to portray myself as angel by any means. I was far from your average Oliver Twist taking abuse without countering with my share of sharp witted rebukes, I assure you. I tossed back my own share of scathing remarks and my attitude was a hot mess of passion and fury when I was f**king fed up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about my face contorting while my skin turned green, my muscles protruding through my shirt and ending with my flipping over that dining room table during a “family meeting”. I was a big boy. I could’ve done it. It would have been glorious.

But amongst all of that…I showed an astounding sense of awareness with the following prediction:

“I’ll never forget this.”

If you’re reading up to this point, I’m sure you’re getting the picture. But allow me to clarify that it wasn’t all hell. My parents didn’t abuse drugs or beat me and my brothers mercilessly. There were good times where we went on some awesome vacations. We always had clothes on our backs, food in our stomachs and a shelter to sleep in. But the battles I fought were mostly cerebral. So its hard for most to understand or even feel sympathy for me. To them, it’s like “what are you complaining about. You got it good compared to me!”

The contradictions. The separate sets of rules from my divorced parents in which they used me to get back at one another. The way they used guilt and religious oppression to try and get me to think a certain way or follow the path that they believed was best for me…

Simply put, there’s just something in me that kept me from submission. But not all children are the same. Maybe it was all of the King Arthur books I use to read. Or the Greek Mythology I was into. Or maybe it was the fact that I was into Michael Jackson who at an early age rose into stardom and was molded into a great artist. I believe that some children have a talent in which they know early on that they want to do something great. Something that will last beyond their lifetime. And when you have a child like that in your midst. Shackling him for so many years…

It was unbearable.

I’m not claiming to be any kind of child prodigy or musically or intellectually precocious by any means. But I wanted to be. I dreamt about it. Something about history being passed down through generations appealed to me. The fact that we know a man named King Henry VIII divorced so many wives in the fifteenth century. That we know a man named Alexander the Great conquered half the known world thousands of years ago. That a man named William Shakespeare wrote a play called “Romeo and Juliet,” and have that story passed down through the sands of time.

It’s odd… I don’t care about living forever. I just don’t ever want to be forgotten. This is the dream that I carried with me even as a toddler.

The first time anyone reached out to me to encourage my growth as a talented artist was when I just turned 17 in August of 2003. My Drama teacher told me that she saw so much potential in me, and to use that negative influence around me as motivation to succeed. Which was so remarkable to me. There are people who are fortunate enough to run on encouragement and positive support. But I had very little of that. Instead, I had a seemingly endless supply of negative energy. Needless to say, a bonfire was set that has never gone out. I needed to pull myself out from that mental hellhole. And the first step was that I needed to have an awesome senior year.

First step. I needed my senior year of high school to be spectacular. I needed to live it like the rest of my peers. I needed to have a social life that was truly me. Not me pretending to be someone else to fit in. I needed to learn. I needed to fail. I needed to stumble to grow. And I did! From August of 2004 to August of 2005…it was truly one of the best years of my life. But it almost didn’t happen.

Going into the summer of 2004, several things happened to pave the road for my awesome senior year.

- I had my own car.

- I had a job working at KFC.

- My older brother was off at Savannah State University.

- My little brother had decided to live with my Dad in Texas.

- My youngest little brother had decided to live with his mother.

Thus the house was to myself. No one to tattle on me. No one to account for, to pick up or drop off. My parents even tried to get one of my cousins to come live with us because this cousin was living at a grandparent’s house. And In a spell of evil, I spoke out against it. I know that sounds terrible. Its sounds selfish, because it is. But I needed this to happen.

Then… on one night in July, just weeks before the start of school. An argument took place that almost torpedoed my ship before it ever left the docks.

When you hear the basis of this argument, you’ll smirk and probably furrow your eyebrows by how foolish it was. But it wasn’t the basis of the argument that exacerbated the situation. It was a matter of power and authority in which, after six years…I simply had enough. When parents tell you that you can’t or aren’t allowed to do something, sometimes they really are just better off saying, “because I said so” instead of giving what they think is some logical reason.

I say this because…It has been my belief that ideas and reasons are like structures, foundations, buildings and bridges. No matter how important or influential you are. No matter how many people look up to those ideas. No matter how long they’ve lasted. ALL IDEAS can be destroyed or invalidated. You poke enough holes in a bridge and it will collapse. You poke enough holes in someone’s idea or their reason, the same thing happens.

There’s a quote from “Amistad” the movie. In which Sir Anthony Hopkin’s character John Quincy Adams says… “Without the 1/10th mastery of grace, such erudition is worthless.”

Didn’t know that at age seventeen.

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In 2004, the whole “on demand” feature was just beginning to get popular with cable television. Being that my step-father worked for the cable company, we had privileged to have all of the on-demand programming. Only, they didn’t have any locks on them.

So on that ill-fated night I came home with my eldest brother who was home from college for the summer. My mother started talking about how she was going to put locks on these on-demand channels the same way there were locks on all the other channels.

And that just made me very upset. I was seventeen, but in less than thirty days I was going to be eighteen. And yet, it was a priority for her to put locks on these channels to prevent me from watching movies that could be a “bad influence”.

And what’s worse. My mother was of the opinion that if me and my brothers brought anything in the house that dealt with violence, magic, fantasy or modern (worldly) influence, that she’d have a hard time sleeping because demons were evidently prevalent in the house. Which, if you’re me, you’d have a hard time believing because I always carried something of that sort with me. But my mother thought that by simply watching a “bad program” on TV in the house, it was the same as bringing in the likes of a bloody crucifix.

As we began this argument in which I tried to reason with her, I primarily wanted her to understand that I believed her self-righteous theories made no sense. In a subconscious sense, I wanted her to just admit that she was doing this because it granted her another sense of power or authority over me. I wanted her to admit that this was but another case of “control”.

I asked her if she trusted me.

She said that she did trust me, but wanted to keep me from being “tempted.”

I then told her that according to that logic shouldn’t she put locks on the programs in her master bedroom as well. To keep herself from being “tempted”.

If you’re a parent, I’m sure by now you’d think I was way out of line. Disrespectful and such. And to that aspect, I’d agree. But at the time I thought to myself, to hell with being respectful. I sat through hundreds of conversations where logic and rulings were preached to me. I had seen enough of the contradictions and inconsistencies. The hypocrisy and chauvinism girdling my throat with the justification of because “they brought us into the world.”

As I sat there for nearly two hours listening to my mother lecture in circles with what she thought was sound logic, I mentally growled, “enough…”

Perhaps it was the feral tone in my already defiant glare that scared my mother. Or perhaps, she was genuinely afraid by the unknown of what I might do. I was well over six feet tall and carrying around 270lbs. But I swear it. I did not raise my voice to shout at her. I didn’t raise my fist to her or give her any indication that I would physically assault her. My older brother and step-dad were there. You could tell by the suppressed smirks on their face that even they thought the argument was silly and were slightly amused.

The most I did to give probable cause for a possible “disorderly conduct” charge was when I finally barked back at her when I was trying to walk away.

You see my mother, in our debate, began shouting at me. She was sitting less than five feet in front of me and I don’t do so well with aggressive loud noises. It’s why I can’t stand watching horror films in the theater. I’m not frightened by the unsightly images, but it’s the sudden spike in volume that puts me on edge. It distorts my senses and inhibitions. And when someone’s shouting at me in an oblivious display of aggression, it’s like striking a match near a fuel pump.

If I continued to sit there, I knew something bad was going to happen. I was going to curse at her or punch a hole in the wall. So I did what I thought was best, which was rise up from my seat on the living room couch and try to walk away towards my bedroom. She followed. Still shouting at me.

She shouted. “Come back here and sit down!”

That’s when I barked…or yes, shouted… “You sit down!”

And I guess that was the climax. Because after I told her that, she became quite histrionic to say the least.

“Nah-uh! You’re not about to tell me what to do in my house! I feel threatened. It feels like you’re threatening me. I’m gonna call the police and have them haul you out of my house!”

At this point, she stalks back to her room. My step-dad and brother separate me telling me to calm down. And I did. I went back to my room, threw some punches at this cat stand we had (don’t ask). And even my brother came in there telling me that I was right in my reasons. We both, on the spot, came to the conclusion that the real reason why my mother was upset was because she was embarrassed. We’ve never had a family discussion in which one of the “children” poked so many holes in the parent’s logic. I suppose that’s what frustrated her the most.

As we rejoined into the living room, my mother wearing a furious look of fire and brimstone, there were several knocks at the door. My step-dad answered. I see the flashing red and blue lights before I see one of Richmond PD’s finest.

A cop comes in and asks what’s going on. My mother of course puts on a convincing act, painting me out to be this viral loose-canon of a child. As if I had struck her mercilessly and she was at her wits end with me, leaving her with no options but to call the police.

This whole while, I’m watching her in utter disbelief. “Are you sh**ting me?!” kept rattling through my cognitive.

My brother understood the gravity of the situation and kept shaking his head. At this point, I was so f**king fed up with her, and their house and their rules. I kept thinking to myself, what the hell is wrong with her? Why would she do this to me? Would she really go to such lengths to put me in my place over an argument? My heart was crushed and the whole idea of “family being there for you” went right out the window. It seemed as if the idea of being born in a family was more so stigma than a blessing. And it killed me.

After taking my mother’s statement, the officer reproached me for being disrespectful and told me to apologize.

Naturally, I refused.

He told me that if I didn’t apologize, he would take me to jail.

“Do it. I’m ready to go. Just get me the hell out of here.” I said, my cheek muscles twitching in rage.

The cop obliged by slapping a pair of handcuffs on me, hands behind my back. I looked at my mother as the cop walked me out and saw that there was no sadness in her eyes. No remorse or regret that her son was being hauled off. It was as if she truly believed from the bottom of her heart that she was doing the right thing. That going to jail will actually change my mind about what’s right and wrong.

In the middle of the night, the cop had me sitting against the hood of his car as he lectured about how bad it was in jail and that the arrest would be on the record for the rest of my life. He kept saying, over and over again that “I was only seventeen and throwing my life away.” I can’t remember his face to the exact detail, but I’ll never forget the voice. I’ll never forget his mercy.

And each time he told me that disheartening statement, my brain reverted his words and I kept telling myself, “My mother is throwing my life away.”

The anger and sadness could no longer hold back the flood gate of tears and I would’ve gladly welcomed Armageddon happening at that exact moment.

Then something happened. A high level of self-awareness and perception. It was as if part of me detached from my soul to create another personality. This persona saw how desolate and hopeless I was.

It was like, the persona put a hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s okay Reggie. I understand. You did your best. Best let me handle it from here, eh.”

And just like that, my defiance took a complete 180. I remembered my goal. My perfect senior year. I had come so far and made so many moves to get where I was. To throw it all away over a stupid argument, no matter how significant it was upon my pride as a man. A bruised ego can heal. An arrest record could make life complicated.

As if I was suddenly baptized in a river of remorse and repentance, I told the officer that he was right. I thanked him for helping me understand the errors of my ways. Then he brought me inside to talk to my still angry mother. I cried my eyes out and apologized, with some lame excuses like I’ve had a lot going on with me, and that I was stressed about the upcoming year. I told her that I had no right to talk to her like that. And that I was so so sorry.

It worked. My mother angrily accepted my apology. The cop took off the handcuffs and stressed about how lucky I was to have parents who were so forgiving before taking off.

It was the last time we ever had a “formal” family meeting in that house. My parents stopped making me attend Jehovah’s Witnesses meetings. They eased up a great deal in trying to control my actions, and more importantly, my thoughts. And all it took was letting them think that they had conquered me. To project a sense of submission. A mask of shame that I wore for no more than two days.

Meanwhile, that glorious senior year lasted ten marvelous months. And it was worth all of the pain and suffering to experience it. I had my first girlfriend, my first kiss, my first date, my first party, my “best friends” hanging out and going over to people’s houses. Getting into trouble and doing crap just for the hell of it with our whole lives ahead of us. It was amazing. Just as I predicted it would be.

Believe it or not, my relationship with my parents got better as well. People ask why I want to change my name. And I think the answer is this.

When you’re angry with someone who’s wronged you. And that person will never apologize or admit that they were wrong. And yet you want to love them so much that you force yourself to simply let go of the past. It isn’t easy. I honestly didn’t stop throwing the past in my parent’s face until I was 23. And going by a different name played a major part in simply letting it go. My older brother also changed his name. I bet he has a story to tell as well.

My mother’s not the same person she was ten years ago, nor is my father, my brother or myself. All of us have molded to accept one other and the different roads we’ve chosen to travel. I can now speak to my mother freely and share my thoughts on the world and the people in it. I even joke that one day I’m gonna take down the whole Jehovah’s Witnesses organization and she can just roll with it. I cherish her more than any woman alive.

Which brings me to the reason why I decided to write this memoir after so long. That incident had such a profound effect on my life, but I don’t remember telling most of my friends and associates about it over the years. So why now?

Well…as you can probably guess there was a person who meant a lot to me. She understood and liked the positive, happy, committed side of me. But as she got closer to me, I wanted to tell her that even though I “seem” like a positive glowing beam of light. That light was fueled by years of anger and animosity that I’ve learned to use as motivation. It’s how I was able to lose 158 pounds. It’s how I was able to come back and graduate from a film school after taking time off from it. It’s how I am able to write whole books and spend weekends and time off in completely loneliness, devoted to accomplishing my works. If anyone is going to call themselves my close friend, they need to understand that. I need them to understand it. Otherwise they’re no different from everyone else. An audience member watching a brilliant performance.

I don’t think she understood this. I don’t think she could comprehend it. So I pushed her away.

I pushed people away because I don’t like depending on others as a source of happiness, unless I feel that the person is genuine and honest. Even now with my closest family members, I don’t like to depend on them for something as simple as lending a listening ear. I feel that when you put them in such a position, especially in my case where I’m taking a gamble on them understanding what I’m going through over a mundane phone conversation, I’m actually putting them in a position to disappoint. I want to love my family. So I try to refrain. I don’t mind being alone. It’s the process of getting used to being alone that causes suffering.

Believe it or not, I told this girl that I was a dark evil son of a bitch, a monster. But I’m not dark. I’m not evil. I’m not a son of a bitch and I’m not a monster. Truth is when I describe myself as such, it’s actually a twisted effort of displaying my humility and modesty. I’m actually very reflective and constantly wonder if I’m doing or have done the right thing. And when I’ve reflected on what I’ve done and found out that I’ve done something wrong, my conscience beats down on me. Even if the only one who knows what I’ve done is me.

I’m over-analytical and choose not to take things a face-value, because I have a history of doing things for ulterior motives. I’ve endured so many situations where family members and certain friends have things for me for ulterior motives, when initially I thought it was out of love, generosity or the fact that they simply liked me.

But as I’ve come to learn, everything happens for a reason. Even if the reason is “no-reason”. There’s a reason why they don’t have a reason. And in the beginning, I believe it’s safer to assume people are as smart as you. Better to overestimate, than to underestimate until you are able to discern what’s what.

This is why I think I get along so well with older people a lot more than most of my own peers. They’re more experienced and more seasoned individuals who are able to understand without my having to spell everything out for them. I don’t have to worry about them taking a joke the wrong way, or them being “creeped out” by compliments or getting offended by a general stance on a moral debate. My older friends are more open minded. They’re listeners and understand the importance of a “mutual relationship.”

Whereas some peers of my generation even over the age of twenty-four still seem entitled, as if the world owes them something without them having to work for it. As if being offended means they should be owed some sort of restitution. As if all the bad things that have happened to them are someone else’s fault…like the government, the economy or the people they’ve chosen to surround themselves with.

For the past April and March of 2014…I was very unhappy. Usually, I’ll be sad or depressed for a day or two, and then I’d bounce back with vigor, smiling and laughing as though nothing had happened at all. But I was depressed for well over a month. It was frightening a bit, because I haven’t been so depressed for so long since my teen years. I wondered how long it would last.

Then, I talked to my older brother last Monday. Lol…that chin-stroking, preachy old goat. I’m still choking up over the fact that he’ll be thirty-years-old this August. Where have the years gone?

He told me how proud he was of me for accomplishing so much.

Proud of me.

My friends try to tell me that they care and that they’re proud of me all the time. And yet, as I’ve explained…I have a hard time believing them when they don’t know what I’ve been through or who or what I am. But my older brother knows what most of I’ve been through growing up. When you’re in the thick of it, still striving to succeed with a very slow rate of progress, it’s easy to forget how much you’ve accomplished, or how far you’ve come.

When you begin to doubt yourself and second-guess your motives or intentions…sometimes it really does take someone who’s been there with you for years to remind you that you’re not the monster you think you are. It carries more credence. Even when I tell most people how much weight I’ve lost, if they’ve been average or slender their whole lives, how can they possibly fathom it? And that’s what family is for.

Virtuous was how he kept describing me. Virtuous…

He told me that life is what you make of it. That life is what you choose to see. If you only look at the negative, then that’s what you’ll see. And to some degree he’s right. Even with the friend who I pushed away, she’s such a nice girl who’s caring and at least wanted to understand. But for some reason I chose to focus on the probability that this girl would never understand the complexities no matter how hard she tried.

It’s a lonely road I’m on, but it doesn’t have to be. I just keep making stupid moves by growling at those who come trying to lend a helping hand. My awareness of this problem, I think is a step to change. But to understand it, I had to identify the why. That’s why I wrote this memoir. By the grace of God, I will change. I want to change. I’m sure there are those who have had it worse than me. I shouldn’t be complaining. I should see the good in what has happened. I’ll get there.

2 comments on “The Night My Mother Tried To Arrest Me

  1. Pingback: The Night My Mother Tried to Have Me Arrested – A Reason To Push People Away | Stage In The Sky

  2. Pingback: A New Generation of Outlaws Duel it Out In Rock Kitaro’s Release of The Three Kings of Ybor | Tampa Florida

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