This is my story to tell. Some of you, as you read this, may think it's more of a story about my mother than it is me, but I'm the one left to tell it. As you read on, you may, or at least you should, come to the conclusion this story affected me more than anybody else. It would be very hard for me to argue with that notion.On my 11th birthday in the spring of 1967, my life would take a turn that in many ways I'd never recover from. I think-hell I know-the same would hold true for my mother.She was a difficult woman, would often be physically and mentally abusive to me, but after that life changing event on my birthday, that changed and not for the better. She became even more unstable and my own personal nightmare. The spring turned into summer, then fall and then winter. Winter meant Christmas time. I knew this would be something we wouldn't be celebrating much in 1967. No one had to tell me that as there are some things even an 11-year-old boy can figure out.My father also made a change in his life shortly after my birthday. This change also affected my mother and now, after all these years of sorting it out in my brain, me too.
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