My First Kiss- after more than 300 reads- this is the second edition/hackers.

We moved to Hudsonville Michigan when I was about nine years old. My stepfather, which I did not know that until I was around fourteen, would soon make enemies of the general community by hitting golfballs in the school yard, across the street from the duplex we lived in, on Sundays. Since Hudsonville was a zealously religious community, they frowned on everything but church and family gatherings on Sundays. It wasn't apparent to me at the time but now I see how he failed to research the community before moving there to regain employment, especially since I have done the same- minus the golf balls.

While attending, Hudsonville elementary, I was fitted with a musical instrument for my body type- the trombone. This really began my music education and was much more intense than playing the recorder- and more interesting as well. I felt like I was on the way to chasing down my dreams of being a musician, as well as working towards getting the attention from my immediate family, that I was so starved for all of my life thus far.

Had I known it would be a bigger part of my extended reality, I don't think I would have just wished it to gain positive attention from my parents.

I had a wish to be famous but it was only to get the attention of just one person in the whole world- my mother.

Sooner or later we found a piece of property with a small cement block shack and some outbuildings on it in Marne Michigan. We began going there on the weekends to fix the place up enough to live in. It was the fall of my tenth birthday when we moved in. I was a gangly boy with, unknown to me, visible emotional wounds- and though caused by severe familial trauma and just as noticeable a bed-wetter. 

It was here that I began writing, mostly because I was a deep thinker- brooding constantly while nursing my various mental contusions. I did so because of a comment a teacher had made a couple years prior that stuck in my head- "creative writing".

Come to find out...

She said this because of some of the trouble I had gotten into over confusion about a blown up picture of the moon that my dad had- telling the kid in my class that he went to the moon. One kid asked his name, I said, "Strongman". The kid scratched his head, remembered "Armstrong", and the relationship was accepted as substantial. I still laugh at that, and how kids digest things. We were all confused- especially me. Now even more so than ever.Sooner or later we had added on to the place, which gave me my education in the building trades and processes. If I was to never become a famous musician, I would become a great laborer, gaining my mothers attention in that regard. Having no toys, the woods became my shelter and my mother gets the credit because when I was bored she would tell me to go out in the woods and gather up a leaf from every different type of tree and figure out what it is.

It was while doing this that I became best friends with my real mother- Mother Nature. It was while with her that I felt safe and secure. Everything that I needed was right there with her- water, air, food, the birds and animals and their beautiful voices. They sang and spoke to me when I listened, and when I was not listening because of my tears and grievances. 

I think my mother should at least get the credit for giving me the three greatest gifts that she never really intended to give me but for any other reason but to just have me out of her hair- music and nature and the mother that I found there.

Sooner or later, my "father" would quit his job and take up Golf full-time, giving lessons and shagging ball on a range that we rented from Elkterra Country Club. Mostly it was just a convenient way to chase skirts, which he did as a side hobby. And although we made a lot of money from the driving range, we were still without for various reasons related to skirts and golf. And, yes, he did write a book but mostly it was an ego trip, I think. It fell short of success because of the lack of financial dedication, or a better word- and more operable, would be COMMITMENT.

I was twelve or thirteen when I began working the driving range, selling and shagging golf balls to be hit on the range by people warming up for their leagues or what-have-you. It wouldn't be long before someone would notice the long hours I spent working there while "dad" was out giving lessons or playing golf... or actually what it was was gambling on the course. But he had a dream and I was a believer- or captured supporter we'll call it. 

Anyway, people would call child protective authorities and have him cited for child labor laws. He would talk his way out of it and everything was fine but they noticed just the same and there may be something of it on file somewhere. I am betting that it is nowhere in MY police record though.

Well, he would have group lessons and as many as twenty people in a group at times. One of the people in the group, come to find out, was my Aunt Cheryl- my mother's brother wife.

My mother's brother happened to be my favorite uncle- Uncle Gary. Well, had I know that Uncle Gary would soon lose his sentiments for me over it, eventually making it known that he blamed me, I might not have felt so bad when I learned the truth.

And for a minute, my mother paid attention to me but it was only out of her grief over finding out she was being cheated on after thirteen years of marriage. And had he not left me abandoned with no way to go home, he would not have been caught till who knows how much later than when he did. And that was only because I had someone take me to his hotel room where he was working on writing his book.

Finding a woman's bag and belonging there, I left the hotel very afraid. Had he found me there, I don't know what he would have done. I might have been successfully killed that time- he would have tried harder. 

During one of my parent's fights around that time, whether before he was caught or after, he would make a comment about being my father for so many years. Well, me being a thinking kind of fool, I quickly did the math in my head- like when I exclaimed my true age at the drive in when he was trying to get a discount to get in. It was then that it dawned on me that he was not my real father at all. Now I was confused, relieved, angry, and befuddled. Who was my father, if not him? And why wasn't he ever there for me?

It wasn't long before he left. And I was soon to discover that the source of my psychological disturbances had gone with him as well. No longer would I have to feel the hood of the car. No longer would I fear being at the table for dinner. No longer would I have to fear having been at a friend's house when he came home from work. No longer would I find peace by going to or staying at school. No longer would I have my pants yanked from me to see if I had hit puberty yet or held down and forced to kiss my sister. No longer would the shower door get ripped opened while I was in it. No longer would I be told that I had been peeing in the shower because there was condensation on the ceiling. No longer would I be baited with semen like substances like hair conditioner, dripped on the toilet, or by porn being left out, only to be spied on through the cracks in the walls or door. And it wouldn't be long before I no longer wet my bed. My healing began when he was no longer there to constantly pick at my scabs to keep my wounds festering.

My dreams were of having my own wife and raising kids that didn't fear my coming home. But because of my visible mental wounds, I would never have a high school sweetheart to help put all of that into motion.

Having never been loved, or not ever knowing what love was, I was truly handicapped in the worst way possible. And soon, I would become handicapped even further by alcohol, confusing it's sweet kisses for the affection I so desperately searched for.

Thanks for reading my stories. I sincerely hope that you find value in what I am trying to do.

I am always watching- leave comments below.

Thanks-Zach 4-12-17