I was 9 years old when I first ran away from home. I do not recall what exactly launched me out that day but I know there were a few motivating factors. I was terrified of my angry father for one. He called me “You little shit” so often I thought it was my name. Even though he coached my little league team and allowed me to go to the bar with him after his touch football games, he often spoke with a venom that I cringe today as I recall it. Also, I was sexually abused by a young adult stranger who caught me and a friend exploring an empty home in our neighborhood. On top of that, my Uncle Steven was fond of little boys and also sexually abused me a couple of times. As I learned later, this was common with him and other adults in the extended family.
Whatever the reason, in the summer of 1974 I took off on my steel wheeled skateboard to start my new life as a 9 year old hobo. Our home on Cherry Lane in Bozarah, Connecticut was about 5 miles to the town of Norwich where I would launch myself into the world that had to be better than what I was leaving. My determination evaporated after a couple hours and I managed to use a payphone and call my parents. I’m not sure they knew I was missing.
It was only 2 years later that I discovered the sweetness of Southern Comfort, weed and petty crime. When I was 11 we moved to the Rogers Lake area where I rounded most of the bases with Heidi and I found an equal passion for shoplifting, egging houses and destroying mailboxes. My grandmother once showed me a newspaper article about Roger’s Lake vandals and her wise eyes told me that she knew it was me. I also learned that “big kids” will beat you up for no reason and that wearing plaid Sears Toughskins jeans was a good reason to be ridiculed.
Without the perspective I am burdened with today, I was thinking I had a fine childhood. Summers in the lake, girls, sports, being Evil Kienevil on our bikes, drunken vomiting in the snow, a little weed now and then, lots of adventure and the lack of parental supervision that came with being a latch-key kid in the 70’s. Apart from the verbal berating, visits from the police and a few instances of sexual abuse, I look back on it with fondness. Also, it seemed like my friends had the same experiences, so, it was kind of normal.
The summer before 8th grade, in 1978, we moved to Nashville, TN. My Dad wanted to break into the Country Music business as a songwriter. He didn’t. What did happen was that I learned that being poor and unkempt also attracted bullies and the kids I found acceptance with were in the same boat as me. I began a serious love affair with marijuana. Not coincidentally I suspect, I often wore a black, flat brimmed Zorro hat, with sunglasses, and carried a souvenir bullwhip around our apartment complex while wearing cowboy boots with cut off jeans. Like a 5 year old. I was 13. Some days I would wear a complete baseball uniform out and about despite not being on a baseball team. This is the type of thing that bullies live for. Too bad I wasn’t better with that whip. Apparently, an elderly gay man liked this look as well because he tried to molest me in his apartment but I had seen that movie before and was able to get away.
A year later we moved outside of Nashville to Bellevue,TN. We lived in an apartment complex where I began to fully explore what being a wayward teen could really mean. I smoked weed like a young Rastafarian. Stealing my Dad’s weed was a point of contention with him but I was pretty comfortable with it. I was also introduced to Quaaludes, Valium, LSD, Crank (meth), huffing spray paint, stealing cars and breaking & entering.
“Breaking In”, as we called it, was a hobby. There were a couple kids who showed me how to get through locked front doors, sliding glass doors and windows and I became proficient. I broke into a cop’s apartment and stole several guns that I traded for weed and acid. He later tracked me down but, mercifully, didn’t arrest me. Another time I stole liquor and a .38 revolver which I eventually traded for weed. I stole coin collections, food, candy from cupboards, money, weed, liquor and prescription drugs. I skipped school for weeks at a time. I stole, or helped steal, at least 4 cars, wrecked one and damaged another.
I was often in trouble and my Dad handled it by whipping my ass like a grown man. That didn’t cure me. I ran away from home a second time after stealing all the payday money from my Mom’s wallet and took a bus to CT. Upon arrival, I hitchhiked for 15 miles to Rogers Lake, slept through the early morning on the snowy ground and showed up barely alive at Heidi’s house. My grandmother came and got me and I stayed with her for a week before I was sent home to face the music. Another time I ran off, I attempted to steal the family car, wrecked it trying to leave the parking lot and rode a bus around Nashville most of the night. Clearly I didn’t have a plan beyond immediate escape. My parents brought me to therapy a couple times but gave up on it quickly. All of this was in my 9th and 10th grade years.
My antics continued in my 11th and 12th grade years although we moved to different apartments and much of my outright criminal activity ceased. Weed, acid, pills and mushrooms were all part of my life though. A close friend refused to sell me acid any more because I was doing so much. I would often go to school to score drugs and then leave. I had multiple bad trips on acid and mushrooms. Trouble and I were still well acquainted but without the breaking and entering and grand theft auto.
I lost my virginity in the summer before 9th grade and, as teenagers do, became absolutely and wildly consumed with the pursuit of girls. It was 1978-1982 and it seemed like all my friends were sleeping around. I do not know how I didn’t impregnate anyone in high school but I thank God, for all involved, that I didn’t.
By a miracle of God I graduated Hillwood High School in 1982 and a year later, joined the Navy. I knew my future didn’t look incredibly bright so I thought I’d learn a trade and travel the world. In February 1984 I left for boot camp and it probably saved my life. The military was great for me and I’ve written about it here.
The experiences of my childhood produced a screwed up kid who turned into a wayward adult. I’ve battled my demons, had great victories and suffered abysmal defeats that have harmed people I love. I wanted to be the one that broke the family curse of anger, violence, substance abuse and more. I have failed in major ways but I’m grateful that my kids’ childhood wasn’t anything like mine. I’m also grateful that God’s mercies are new every day and I’ve been able to get up when I’ve fallen.
Regardless of the baggage I carried from my childhood I know that, as a man, there was a point that I became 100% responsible for my own actions. There are simply no excuses, we are responsible & accountable. I don’t have a victim mentality and my failures are my own.
I am incredibly grateful for my parents. Things were not ideal back in the day but they were doing the best they had with the cards they were dealt. Later on, my Mom ended up being very loving and supportive and my Dad was the same. As he became “Grandaddy” he was idolized by many, including me. He has since passed away but he finished strong and I’m forever grateful for his love, support and the lessons he left with me.
As for me, I have gone from a worshiped father to alienated and now rebuilding. In my next post I’ll talk about success, failure, forgiveness and, maybe more than anything else, developing a new mindset. I hope some of the lessons will resonate with a few people.
Encouragement4Men 