Hello, My name is Jimmy, this is my first post for this blog. I am thrilled to be part of this blog and to share my message here. My reason for sharing is to hopefully help the reader find hope, healing, inspiration, and courage in what we are sharing. Enjoy the journey and feel free to share with others.
“Hey, Jimmy”,
Oh no, who from my miserable childhood knows me? I cringed as I turned and met the smile of a fellow nerd Drake (name changed). He and I had spent a year together in a Pickler ward (name Changed) back when we were in Jr. High. He moved out of State. I moved to a very loving Plum Park ward (name Changed), it was one that helped to save my life. Prior to living in that Ward, I spent The previous 8 years in a small rural town of Arizona. Everyone in that town called me Jimmy and when I left I vowed to not be called Jimmy. I despised that name. Now, here I was Coming out of an ARP Meeting and even worse to my estimation a PASG Meeting. ARP is short for Addiction Recovery Program, and PASG is for guys addicted to porn. In order for you to grasp my terror, You gotta understand why I despised the name Jimmy. For that, you need to know my story.
Disclaimer:
My Story has changed over the years, and not because the facts have changed, but because over time my perception of those facts have changed. So as I share this story, facts (reality) and fiction (the story I told myself) became blurred. So for those who know me, the details of this story are not meant to create wreckage, There has been enough of that in my life. This is not a gripe or a blame piece, nor is it an exposé. I will change the name of folks and try to be as general as I can to prevent future harm. I will also leave out the most of the graphic details because perception is not reality, yet when the two mix heartache can follow. I ask your forgiveness in advance if any of this causes you the reader harm. I pray instead that my story will bring you hope and healing and inspire you with the courage to be compassionate both with yourself and others. (Note all names have been changed.)
I was born with a digestive disorder that made me projectile puke everything I ate for the first two weeks of my life. Two things came of this, the Doctor recommended goats milk, so all my siblings took a turn at milking goats every morning until I was 8 years old. Something I never had to do. Now, I don’t remember them complaining about it, but I am sure that it wasn’t the most fun thing to do in the bitter cold mornings, and I was held face out away from everyone for most of my infancy. This might be one of the reasons why I had an aversion to touch for most of my adult life up until now.
At 4 years old while my siblings were playing a game on the hill next to our house, I got in the way and my sister fell on me and I fell on a barrel cactus. As horrible and vivid as that memory was, it pales in comparison to the memory I have of a conversation between one of my brother’s best friend and I. Between our house and that hill lived the Black family, and when I went to get my brother Justin for dinner, Barney told me to go away. I persisted and he became upset and told me that I wasn’t Justin’s real brother. “you were adopted”. I went home asking my mother what adopted meant. She answered and then punished my brother for telling me that. My story had just changed for good. From then on the suspicion started. I began to wonder and found evidence all over the place that this might be true. I have 3 brothers and 5 sisters all older than me. My oldest Nephew was a year younger than me and the next older brother was 5 years older than me, so why not. So I started calling my mom and dad, Grandma and Grandpa. The funny thing is when I spoke frankly with them about this as an adult and after I finally saw my birth certificate, they said, “We always thought that was odd, but didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You were a very sensitive kid.”
At that same time I met my first friend… we were best friends. His name was Cloyd. He taught me football the way 4-5 year olds would. And yet he moved right after this time. That hurt more than anything. Then soon after my Father’s Mother died. I cried because in both case, I didn’t get to say goodbye.
My dad was a loving man, but busy running the local grocery store and teaching school and coaching sports. I remember him lovingly wrapping my blistered hands with gauze the day that I decided to pick up the Harley Davidson Motorcycle that was driven by a boy that had come to visit one afternoon. My family called him “Bonehead” because that was what everyone called him. I think that was his nickname. I also remember my dad treating my foot after I stepped on a nail by the church after primary one Wednesday afternoon. Each time I got seriously hurt my dad was there giving me a blessing and fixing my hurt. This was the dad I cried for when he died a few years ago of cancer, who I still grieve for as I write this now.
Things changed when I started school. I didn’t want to become too attached to anyone. My grades were good until I got to 2nd Grade. There we had a man for a teacher. He threw temper tantrums and made threats that scared me. I started to believe that men were mean and bad. I didn’t like him and became very suspicious of all men, including my dad. That same year we moved and got to ride the bus. My next door neighbor had a mental disability and was bigger than me. One day she took me by surprise from behind and almost choked me to death with a scarf and beat me repeatedly in the face. It went on forever, and the man who drove the bus stood by and watched. He punished me for not fighting back. He thought it was his duty to make me a man I guess.
This was only the beginning of a series of fights and trouble brought on by kids bullying me. My father owned a grocery store in the town. And the local mine went on strike. So folks were coming to my father asking for assistance. One day, a kid my age and his mother came in asking for credit for groceries. My father turned them away because her husband had put $400 of credit on some fancy tires he didn’t need the month before. Although healthy for the pocketbook, his was not healthy for my social status. To the strikers, I was a “scab”. Which meant I had a target on my back. I came home each day exhausted from running every recess. My father saw this as being lazy so he made me walk/run around the field between our house and the river 2 or 3 times per day.
Eventually, the bullying got so bad that by High School, I believed that my dad saw how bad it was getting and wanted to get me to a safer environment. So we moved to the Valley of the Sun. Things got much easier then. I had a new start, but the scars were already there.
(Stay tuned for more)
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