Back story

To whom it may concern,

I would like to start my first blog off with a little back story. Sometime in 1983 my mother met my father, and she fell hard for him. He was 14 years older, married (although not legally) with kids. They started dating as he was separated from his kids mother. He moved her to Louisiana and as the story goes things did not work out and she went back home to Kansas, found out she was pregnant and had a miscarriage. Just a few months later they got together again, and she moved back to Louisiana. They split for good sometime in 1984 and she moved back home. She found out she was pregnant again and pop February 9th, 1985, I was born. Maybe the story should start even further back in June of 1975 when she was in a car accident at the age of 15 where she broke her neck and became a quadriplegic. Fast forward to 1985 when I was born. She was living with my great grandparents because my dad did not know I existed yet. He had gone back to his wife, married legally by now, to be a father to my siblings, a brother and 3 sisters. As the story goes, my mom sent my dad a letter letting him know of my existence, she wrote back (I have the letter) saying my dad wanted nothing to do with me and to never contact them again. This would be the first feeling of abandonment I would endure. Since my mom was paralyzed from the waist down, I did not have what most would consider a normal childhood. My mother was unable to have a job, so she was on disability her entire life. She did end up getting child support although I am unsure when that started and for how much. We lived with family at times and on our own in low-income housing. I was unable to do a lot of things since she was fearful of the state getting involved if I were to get hurt. I was never unattended even when I got to the age most kids could walk to the bus alone; I was never alone. We had personal care workers at the house a few times a week, that was normal to me. It wasn’t until I was about 8 or 9 when able to have sleep overs. Those little things seemed normal to me at the time, it was my mom’s way of protecting us. She always dreamed of being a mother, that was her most important job, but it wasn’t just a job to her, I was her life. By the time I was 8 can recall having a “dad” for several years, Larry, he was good to me, but he held a gun to my mom’s head in a drunken argument one night, so she left him. He was an alcoholic; I didn’t know that at the time. She met a man (I will call him T) while attending Emporia State University less than a year later, he was significantly younger than her. They fell in love, and they moved in together. Finally, I lived in a house, a real house not an apartment with bugs and gross smells. A real house in a nice neighborhood. My mom seemed happy, and I had things I never had before, more clothes than I ever had, toys and a really nice home. I felt like we were really happy and thriving. I had some good friends and felt safe..until I didn’t.