Okay, So You Wanted To Know?

As promised, and not too long ago, to boot, a post entirely about myself.

... That's the wrong statement to make. It's a blog that's going to be to a certain degree about myself, isn't it? My thoughts, my experiences, information on things that pertain to my life (somehow or another)... Anyway, not gonna argue semantics.

I am a 20 year old female from the suburbs of Houston, Texas. And when I say Houston comma Texas, most people think, "Well, duh, there is no other Houston out there!"

Wrong.

I'm currently living in the middle of Bumfuck, Missouri. I know there's a lot of Bumfuck towns out there, so I had to clarify. But there is also a small town in this God-forsaken state called Houston. In Texas county, no less.

Irony much?

I'm the daughter of a highschool-dropout-turned-career-bartender and a paramedic who slaved for Rural/Metro for 22 years. Number three of my mother's total four children, but the first-born angel for my dad. And I do mean angel. He adored me and hoped some day I would follow in his (figurative) footsteps to become at least an EMT, if not a paramedic.

I say figurative footsteps because my dad really left none. He left tiretracks a-plenty, being confined to a wheelchair by cerebral palsy. Paralyzed from the waist down. But he hauled himself, a wheelchair, and all the supplies he needed out of the back of his rig on a daily basis, and the only reason he retired is because his boss forced him to when my mother and him split. Shortly thereafter, he did a month-long stint in Houston's very own psych ward at Ben Taub Hospital. Not pretty.

But after a week of daily visits, his three-year-old daughter knew which elevator to get on, which button to press, what hallways to go down, and which door was his room so she could see her Daddy every day.

Now... I was your typical teenager indeed. I rebelled. Like a motherfucker. At the age of 16, I "dated" a 27-year-old that resulted in me moving out as soon as I hit the legal age to (17 in Texas). I hated how Dad confined me to the house, wouldn't let me hang out with my friends at the mall, or anywhere else for that matter. Hell, from the time I was 10 years old and on, I only slept over at a friends' once.

So... I chafed at my restrictions. That goes without saying. Most kids do when they reach the teenage years, or so I'm told. I don't know, I became anti-social for the most part. My dad did well in the whole "instilling his child with common sense" department. I read a lot, I studied anything and everything I could lay eyes on, and it was obvious to any teacher (or adult, for that matter) that I was intelligent. I loathed the lazy, dramatic, angst-ridden children that surrounded me on a day-to-day basis, with nothing more to worry about than what kind of car Mommy and Daddy would be getting them for their Sweet 16th.

And yes, I was an angry personality. I still am. Only now, throw violent mood swings into the mix.

I'm such a ray of fucking sunshine, aren't I?

The relationship with the... considerably older man did not last. Of course not. After moving almost a dozen times in a year and a half, several beatings and a broken nose, I finally bit off my pride and moved home. That was six months after I turned 18. I was working when the boyfriend-type-thing allowed me to leave, which cost me more than one job. He would stand in front of the door to whatever slum apartment he had rented for the month and threaten to kill himself because he was so damned sure I was leaving to go to another man.

On several occasions, he did slice himself up. And instead of the swooning female he expected to get, he got greeted with scorn and open distaste.

And guess who treated his cuts? Yup. The daughter of the crippled paramedic. My Daddy taught me well. Before I was 12, I could clean and bandage damn near anything you put in front of me. And when really pressed, I could even do a rough stitch-up job. Did that on a couple of his deeper cuts.

And when he swallowed a bottle of pills? I dropped him off as his momma's house and told her to deal with the idiot, because I had better things to do than to cater to his over-inflated ego and self-esteem issues. And the sad part?

She agreed with me.

This man broke into his own mother's house to steal anything valuable he could lay his hands on, and pawn it. For beer and coke. Wow, do I pick winners, or what? Not bad for a very first serious boyfriend!

Did I mention he was a recovered heroine junkie with a background involved in attempted murder, drug trafficking, (the obvious) breaking and entering, and armed robbery?

Oh yeah. I'm an intelligent little heifer, alrighty.

Of course, I wouldn't listen to my father when he said the man was bad news. Daddy didn't know anything, and I was desperate to be loved. And get sex. Horny teenager symptom, that one. Not too bright.

He Who Shall Remain Nameless got me into the lovelier side of life: kinkier sex, alcohol, pills, and pot. I wouldn't touch powder or anything you smoked in a lightbulb. Oh fuck no. But pills? Me as a bored 17 year old who's boyfriend wouldn't let her leave the apartment, I loved pills that would knock me flat on my bored ass. Passed the hours.

And when he discovered just how much they knocked me out, and had come to the point where I detested the thought of him touching me, he got the bright idea to sex his girlfriend in the night.

Resulted in pregnancy. And I left.

Not like that stopped him. For six months, he stalked me. Calls all the night long, following me around town, tried to break into my house one night when he was drunk. Knocked out a tooth of his when he pulled that.

Then came the call when he discovered I had a boyfriend, and at my stout refusal to leave him, the death threats. And from a man with his reputation, my family took it seriously. I wasn't allowed to leave the house without at least my father and brother in tow. And if my dad couldn't come with, he at least made sure one of his several police officer friends followed me. There was always a cruiser following my van.

But anyway... enough about the negative. More about the positive, shall we?

My father, having been a paramedic for 22 years, had witnessed some ghastly things. He had been one of the men to scrape brains off the pavement after a motorcycle wreck, just one of many instances. I can understand wanting to shelter me from the world. But... maybe it wasn't necessarily the smartest thing to do? But whatever.

My dad had a shit ton of friends who were cops, paramedics, EMTS, and firemen. All of 'em, and long after he had retired. After I moved home, I became adopted by the Texas Town Volunteer Fire Department. I went through a Citizen's Fire Academy that my father organized for the department, I got my CERT certification immediately thereafter. I went to breakfast at least three mornings during the week with some of the guys, chewing the fat in a hole-in-the-wall taqueria and occasionally pausing to listen to the pagers tone out for which districts to respond. Good times.

Fire department cook off? Hell yeah I was there. And the Chief himself gave me a beer. Oh yeah. I was definitely part of the family. I loved it.

When my father passed away this past March, on Good Friday no less (what could be called irony by some), two-thirds of the fire department and all of the fire marshalls attended the funeral. They were his pall bearers, and after the funeral they flocked to my grandmother, and to me. They were the first ones to the house when the call went out that he had passed, and for the rest of the night, we had at least two firemen keeping my grandmother and I company.

I love my firemen. They are my adopted fathers, the dozens that keep in touch with me especially.

I now live, like I said, in Bumfuck, MO, with my boyfriend of a year. No, he's not a druggie, drunk, or abusive. Matter of fact, he's smaller in stature than I am, matching in mood and temperament, and no matter how big of a fight we have, he never lays a hand on me.

I love this man. Probably why I have no issues with bearing his child.

I'm due in May.

That's all for tonight, folks. I've been typing for over an hour, and my hands are starting to hurt. But that gives you a pretty good insight as to the type of person I am. More to come soon...