The Demons Behind Me
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The Demons Behind Me “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” - D. H. Lawrence Preface So, ladies and gentlemen, this is it. Afer months of waitng to begin to write a book, I swallowed my fear of reliving my past and revealing it into words for all of you to read. As I sit here, adding chapters, with a dirty martni (blue cheese olives, a staple to this “had an incredibly awful day” drink garnish), along with a Benedryl chaser to help alleviate the swollen eyes from breaking down and crying earlier. Anyone out there NOT an ugly crier? If so, I envy you because I am, the epitome of an ugly crier. Post cry? I look like I got hit in the face or stung by a bee with an allergic reacton. y eyes swell up and I am a freaken mess. It’s November 19th, 2018 at 2122 hours and I have hit yet another all tme low. I lost a potentally great K9 lead trainer gig, was number one in their process (allegedly) and received the good ole “unfortunately, afer further review, we are unable to proceed with your interview process due to your previous situaton with the A State Police and (name of bar that I sadly worked at for a bit that I would rather not give any publicity to).” y new job? Second chance. BIG ONE … untl site workers see me, my name, google me and cause a ti. Let’s just say I have endured a lot in my 37 years of life on this earth, but 2018 has been one hell of a slap to the face with a 2X4 -covered-in-nails-to-the-face. As I type this, I wonder if I will make the age of 40 with this depression, lack of money lef in my bank account and emotonal pain. Please know, I didn’t publish this book as a pity party. I don’t want anyone to feel bad for me, I never have nor ever will. Having the childhood I endured, datng a high profle marijuana dealer, getng into his business then moving on and making it to the absolutely best job and passion of a career in my entre life, all for it to be taken away, was all things that have made me who I am. I’d lie to you if I never thought about taking my life, there was days, weeks, hell even months that I didn’t think about suicide. But, I believe tenacity and survival are two words that can keep you breathing thru the trials and tribulatons of anything life hands you. I’m not a religious woman, I do believe that there is something of a higher God, an entty. They say that God only gives you what you can handle, well why does he or she gave me so much to endure …. I guess I’ll never know. I’d be lying to you if I didn’t always ponder the idea that perhaps in another life? I was a really awful, shity person and I am now paying for my sins in a past life. I don’t know. Anyways, please no one feel bad for me, all I ask from you is this: I truly hope that you as readers can learn what NOT to do and what to do in life. To truly be there for your children and as adults, truly know that your mistakes in life will always haunt you. BUT, and I mean but, what you choose to do with the past and present, learning to overcome the scrutny and most importantly always trying to be a beter person is the most important message I am trying to send. No one said life was easy, however your decisions will always end up in either success or repercussions, so choose wisely. I’ve always believed that people make mistakes, people can learn from their mistakes and certainly change to make themselves beter. Everyone on this planet deserves a second chance if they are willing to change for the beter. Does that mean that someone who killed multple people should be allowed to walk free amongst society and given a new life? No. But, that person who may be serving a life sentence could become something of substance inside a prison by being a speaker to juveniles who are getng in the glue and going down the path of becoming a career life long criminal. A second chance, per say doesn’t necessarily mean freedom but another chance in life to try and make some positve life choices to pay it forward. This life is a quick one and we all end up as dirt. Anyone can decide to just take up oxygen in the air and live without meaning, however we can all live our lives to try and be something of substance. Not saying you have to become a cop like I did or a brain surgeon, but just pay it forward. Donate to a charity, volunteer your hands and hearts into helping others or animals, reach your hand out to shake the hand of someone working in public safety and say thanks. Paying it forward doesn’t have to be big things, it can be a bunch of simplistc and smaller ones. I need to add that there are people in my life, amazing people who have stood by me, thru thick and thin. I dedicate this book to all of my friends who are my true family. Your love, your willingness to stck by me thru the good tmes and bad, this book is for you. You all know who you are and I love each and everyone of you dearly. Chapter 1: The Early Years I've always pondered the possibility of writng a book. Today, as I type this afer one of the worst days of my life, I decided to fre up the laptop, open a botle and fnally begin to type it. By the end, you'll understand why I began to at this very moment, type away. Up untl now? I never went thru with doing so. Years ago, during the dark tmes of my life, a friend of mine gave me a journal and a pen and told me "get writng." I guess at that tme, I never really took his words serious. Litle did I know that that acquaintance would be someone who I would revert back to an old memory back in Worcester around the days of 2003. Well, here goes nothing. I guess its ofcially tme. When most people are asked about the frst childhood memory they can recall, it usually consists of something positve, something family orientated, something of substance. I've been asked this queston before and what I can recall isn't something of rainbows and unicorns. Let's rewind to my earliest recollecton of my youngest childhood memory … I will speculate its around the age of fve years or so. I was living on Topsfeld Circle, In Shrewsbury assachusets, at the tme where my alcoholic father who I was informed by my mother sold cocaine and dabbled in the Italian mafa, was physically striking my mother in the kitchen. While he was striking her and both were yelling, I recollect my youngest childhood memory of me being at my fathers pant leg, pulling at his jeans and screaming "stop hurtng mommy." So much for rainbows and unicorns. As I grew older, I believe it was around 7 or 8 years old when my mother fnally asked me who I would want to live with if they moved into their own places. Of course, I said mom. Why wouldn't I? y father, ario Genduso, had become just someone who breathed air and was around only sometmes. He always smelled of a weird smell (to a kid, alcohol smells funny - my Uncle always smelled like beer (which was nauseatng to me) and cigaretes. He would smoke like a chimney in the living room and pass out with lite cigaretes, leaving my mother to always stay awake in concern for the house to not catch on fre. ario (who I prefer to call rather than "Dad" seeing he was never of substance in my life) would be viciously brutal to my half brother (mothers former husbands kid - that's a whole other story - that man is a peach, and yes I am being extremely sarcastc) and would treat him awfully. One day, I decided as a young 7 year old to play hide and go seek on ario. I hid in the spare bedroom and planned to jump out on him seeing he was arriving at home. I was in the room and he came home with a leather bag (cash, drugs, who knows) and came into the bedroom. I jumped out and said "BOO!" not knowing the repercussions to follow. Now, I'm not sure if he accidentally discharged the gun or shot at me out of pure fear due to probably being high on cocaine and drunk (or both), but that .22 caliber bullet fred right at me, nearly striking me to the lef side of my head and leaving a bullet hole in the wall. y mother (Linda) came in and FREEAKED, understandably so. y own father, god only knows on what drugs and how drunk, almost shot and killed his only child on accident. y mom ended up calling my great uncle Joe, who was someone she not only trusted but was also in the law enforcement world, and had him come to the house at Topsfeld to take ario's frearms that he illegally "owned." Afer that, I always would look at that bullet hole in the wall, never really understanding how in fact it could have stuck me in the head if it was 5 inches to the right, but just how damn weird the hole was in the wall.