Basketcase: The Memoir (eBook)

Stoney Valentine (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023 | 1. Auflage
208 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-0445-1 (ISBN)

Infos

Life is never just a straight shot or black and white. Tragedy can strike at any moment, even when you feel the most in-control. I thought I had a handle of myself, until becoming the headline for a serious problem faced in today's America: domestic terrorism.

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Love has a funny way of making us feel invigorated and depressed at the same time. I didn't want to do many of the things I went through, but they proceeded, reeking havoc on my shattered persona. I witnessed a first-hand account of darkness in its ugliest form and fell under its spell, succumbing to an evil I never thought possible. Who was that person? How could I be so naive when everything I did was calculated?Readers interested in how addiction and mental health can put you in the most undesirable conditions, I share my life through the beginning, and the events leading to my incarceration, living inside the system during a global pandemic. Basketcase: The Memoir takes you inside my mind and what led me to make the choices that would later haunt me. But those choices didn't kill me. I survived to show how, even through the roughest life filled with bad decisions, you can find the right path.

Textauszug

History had a way of repeating itself. Born by my mother and deadbeat father, whom I never really knew, I observed a plethora of unhealthy habits, subconsciously storing them for later. I was left in the dark about my origin story, so I have always regarded my biological father as nothing more than a sperm donor. My parents both thought it best to keep me from the past and move forward, though they left me with the option to ask. I decided to leave it alone.

As a young child, my mom sent me over to his house on the weekends when she worked, needing a babysitter. Every time I went, it prompted strong fears and panic within me, remembering what type of fate stood beyond that door. The house was small and reeked of weed and cigarettes. Deadbeat usually had people over to sell his stash and smoke, but this wasn’t the worst part.

At “bedtime,” he forced me into a room and locked it shut. I laid on the bed crying out for my mom and generally crying because I hated it there. My mom usually tucked me in and read me stories if she had the time. He clearly didn’t want me there, leaving me in my sorrow for hours until I would fall asleep with tired eyes.

But visits over to Deadbeat’s hellhole didn’t last much longer because my mother, Stephanie, found Reese, whom I would later call father. They met while working at his father’s bakery and catering business. We ended up moving into a two-bedroom townhouse for a year before moving into our first house—at a cost. Where the space was more suitable for an upcoming family to build themselves, the neighborhood failed as a safe environment.

People would use our backyard as a shortcut to the alleyway. Or our neighbors would smoke out their homes to get rid of bug infestations, and then our house would take the fall. I dealt with the cockroaches crawling around the basement and in the kitchen by pretending they weren’t there, something hard to do when you’re three or four years old. The economically poor city was another problem, lacking businesses for jobs, causing many to stay hustling in the streets.

I attended a predominantly black preschool called a “Family Center,” which was fun and engaging. My teacher, Mr. Shaun, helped shape my learning to be that way by placing me on the T-ball team. I enjoyed playing sports, and having an engaging teacher or coach helped make the experience much more exciting. My parents were supportive at first, encouraging me to keep playing each year.

The Family Center didn’t have any other classes besides preschool, so I attended a Catholic school for kindergarten. Though it was close by and better than the surrounding public options, my mom pushed religion on me because a religious mother and grandmother raised her. She made me attend these nightly CCD classes and have my first Communion. I disliked the whole thing. I snuck in toys like yo-yos or Gameboys. I just didn’t see any reason to engage in being told to live a certain way or get anything valuable from doing religious services. I did, however, bite the bullet for my family until I got older.

Catholic school gave me the creeps. I honestly thought the place was haunted with its old, creaky wooden staircases paired with the cold atmosphere and unnervingly high ceilings. My fears were diminished by the curriculum, as I learned I loved art. We used to create finger paintings—we made paintings of turkeys for Thanksgiving, painted ornaments for Christmas, and dyed eggs for Easter. I loved the holidays, even if I didn’t like being religious. It brought people together.

And my parents decided it was best to be together too, joining in marriage. Reese adopted me soon after, and I received this little wooden gavel wrapped in gold bands. (Note to the courts: don’t give a child a hammer because they will hit all kinds of stuff in the house for fun.) My dad and I look strikingly similar for not being blood related—to the point that whenever the subject came up, I was seldom believed to be adopted. The world works in mysterious ways!

I was left alone a lot as a child. My first big joy when I turned four was an album by a band named “Dream Street.” Sometimes I think back and ask myself, What the hell composed me? I realized my mother and Grandma had CDs of N-Sync and Backstreet Boys, bands I enjoyed. We are creatures of imitation, and both bands were wildly popular. This is what sparked my own inner desire for music. I’d put songs on repeat to learn the lyrics to sing them, enjoying the beats’ warmth in between. It wasn’t my intention to fall in love with the music, but it was something I could resort to. That and video games.

Reese landed a job as a Volkswagen mechanic, which helped us move into the suburbs with a better school district. Between the neighborhood and school, I formed a lot of friendships that would last. I loved being around people who were smart and also sarcastic assholes. Something about it holds a special place in my heart: having the courage to make fun of yourself and others with no remorse.

At the end of first grade, my sister Megan was born. Attention lay on her more, and I kind of did my own thing, discovering video games like Halo: Combat Evolved and Grand Theft Auto. They may have been violent shooters, but with Halo, the main character, Master Chief, was saving humanity from aliens and other entities. I loved to immerse myself in these games to escape from the pains life threw at me. As Megan grew older, my parents took us on camping trips, which helped me enjoy the outdoors. Renting one of those banana bikes was a must. I never wanted to be outside unless it was to swim at my grandma’s or ride my bike to a friend’s house to play video games.

But my mom and dad became withdrawn after Megan’s birth. They began their downward spiral, using drugs and alcohol daily. Even though I was young at the time, I was intelligent enough to know what they were up to. Ordering “things” (namely, Percocets) over the phone—practically whispering—or smoking weed and drinking in the basement with their friends. The sound traveled through the vents, keeping me awake longer than normal children my age. I stayed awake at night quite often anyways, but this added to it.

My insatiable curiosity led me to the top of the basement stairs to listen better or make up a game of not getting caught. When they would come upstairs, I’d use the noise to hide behind the couches or run back up the stairs as quietly as possible to my room. Or I’d unleash toys into the hallway from the playroom. Eventually, whenever someone came up the stairs, I stopped caring and continued playing. Sleep was never on the menu. The more time I had alone after dusk, the more I enjoyed it.

Deviant behavior followed with my freedom and curiosity. My dad had a Honeywell safe that opened with a key. I don’t know why, but I picked the lock successfully with paper clips and finesse at the ripe age of eight. Upon showing my father, he was more impressed than upset by the invasiveness. I could get past some household doors too, but I never tried the main ones.

On an evening when my parents were having a date night, my aunt came to babysit. Megan was asleep upstairs while my aunt was in the family room watching TV. I carried a lit candle into the kitchen from the living room without her noticing, placing it by the sink. I rummaged through drawers for some paper to light. The noise must have alerted her because she crept behind me, watching as I burned paper within my hands and curiously enjoyed the act.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing!” she yelled, practically scaring me to death as I jumped around to face her. I couldn’t meet her eyes for a moment and shrugged. I was caught red-handed … literally. “Just don’t do this again. I mean it. I should tell your parents—my face flushed white—but I think you learned your lesson. Clean this up and go do something else.” She never told my parents, and I respected her for not ratting me out. If I was going to play with fire again, I knew I needed to hide it better. Same thing with anything else deemed unacceptable. But after that incident, I didn’t want to get into trouble, and that fear made me not pursue things that would.

***

School came easily in my early stages. Stephanie was serious about me doing well, so she kept prodding me each day, asking if I had homework and looking through my folders. She went over stuff in the morning before school, like studying for tests even though I hated it. Sometimes I gave her a hard time because I truly didn’t need those sessions, acting completely incompetent on purpose. I thought making her blood boil was funny and realized I enjoyed provoking reactions out of others. Getting on my serious side too often left me sad.

At school, we used an online learning course containing numerous subjects called “Study Island” that we’d complete once a week in the computer lab. I liked this girl but didn’t really know how to flirt at nine, so I aced some of the subjects on her account. I completed the courses at home on mine already. The “flirting” worked well enough because I was invited over to her house to play Sonic and jump on her trampoline. Unfortunately, the teacher came into the lab and caught me using her account, knowing I had no more courses to complete. My fun was over. Unlike my awesome aunt, she called Stephanie. I tried lying, but there’s no winning against Mom.

By the fifth grade, I had a crush on another girl. I figured writing a song was my best bet, and I wanted it perfect before the upcoming dance. Music has always been my best friend in expressing my feelings, whether good or bad.

At recess, one of my friends told her of my plans and made me sound creepy, so I had to fix the...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 29.5.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-0445-1 / 9798350904451