Scars of a Soldier

By Jonathan Bonnet

"Scars of a Soldier" follows Jonathan on his journey from a teenage delinquent to a soldier in Afghanistan. Jonathan shares his experiences growing up with a rocky childhood. He exposes the raw truth of dealing with depression, suicide and drugs. Climb into his mind and get a firsthand view of what it's like to go through the highs and lows to live a normal life and persevere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richter Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463651797

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

PURPOSE

The blank computer screen before me is a filthy window between myself and the world, desperately in need of some deep cleaning; she is a desolate garden waiting to be watered. I am a painter, and she is my blank canvas.

Why is this so difficult? My laptop sits politely at a ninety-degree angle, waiting to be used. I glance at Microsoft Word from the corner of my eye as she stares back at me with desire. The words I hold inside need to be released. The page you are reading feels nothing toward me but pure hatred. She glares at me with glowing eyes of antagonism and judgment. She is pale white, like the ghost of Julius Caesar. Procrastination is a soft whisper in my ear. Together, they plan to destroy me.

As though uncovering an ancient artifact, I gently blow away the light layer of dust that has accumulated over time on my keyboard. We continue staring at each other like strangers. The backspace key has become faded from countless uses, while the other keys sit untouched, fresh, like new privates in a formation waiting to be told what to do, wanting to be used. I despise this feeling. The whistling of generators outside my room is a noisy distraction, a constant reminder that I’m thousands of miles away from those that I love. Afghanistan—what a shithole.

Before Noah built the Ark, before David fought Goliath, before Daniel entered the lion’s den, and before Jesus died on the cross, they shared a common interest. Within each of them was some form of understanding. Noah understood that God was angry at the world that he so meticulously created. David understood that there was a strong possibility that he was going to get his ass kicked by a seven-foot giant. Daniel understood the consequences of his actions and beliefs, and Jesus understood that he was the son of God with a destiny before him.

Before you embark on this journey with me, I need you to understand a few things. I’m not an author. This is not the next best seller. To be perfectly honest, I’ve never even read a book unless it was required for grade school. I’m 26 years old, a husband, and a father of two. Right now, I’m writing these words with only one purpose—so that I don’t go fucking crazy. Hell, chances are this will never leave the hard drive of my laptop. If that’s the case, I guess you don’t exist. Maybe this is a diary written for myself. Yes, that’s exactly what this is. This is the diary of my life. SPC Jonathan Bonnet of the United States Army. 11 Bravo.

Sacrifice is synonymous with success. In order to leave an imprint on this world, you have to give something up. In other words, nothing comes for free. At least not where I come from. Noah dedicated his energy, money, children, and much of his adult life to building the Ark that would someday house one pair of each animal. David sacrificed his pride and turned over his doubt. Daniel, his fear, and Jesus, his whole life. Me, I’ve sacrificed my time. Time with my beautiful daughter, Isabella. Time with my lovely wife, Melissa, and time with my handsome son, Noah. Twelve months in a foreign land away from everything I know and the ones I love most. But we all give time, don’t we, in one way or another? Time dedicated to work, fitness, receiving an education, even God. If you think about it, time is the only thing that’s real. After all, it’s the only thing you can count. As I write this diary, I’ll reflect on how valuable time is. After all, time is the only thing we can never get back.

Before I continue, please allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Jonathan. I’m a 26-year-old American-Dominican male. I joined the United States Army two years ago, and I am writing these words from Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan. My wife, Melissa, is currently undergoing advanced individual training (AIT) for the National Guard. I haven’t seen or spoken to her in months because, like I said, I give my time. We’ve been married for seven years and have two beautiful children. Isabella is five and Noah is two.

We have a unique life, an incredible bond, and a love that surpasses anything I can put on paper. We have been through events that have sought to destroy every piece of us. Instead, they’ve slowly defined us.

CHAPTER 2

FAMILY

A child is formed in the womb of his mother, innocent to the nature of this cruel world, protected by nothing but his creator. Her very body providing every single thing necessary to sustain her baby’s life. She changes physically, mentally, and emotionally with each passing trimester. Until, one day, a child is born.

I don’t know much about my mother’s life prior to my birth. She and my father split up while I was still an infant. I guess she wanted better for me. She couldn’t afford to waste time. She married my stepdad, Armando, when I was two. He was a provider, a rock. But even the tallest of mountains have their lows.

Mom is a fighter. She’s fought for everything she’s ever had. Having my grandfather pass when she was merely nine years old must’ve given her that spirit. I can still remember being a child, lying beside her as she stroked my soft brown hair, the light fragrant scent of Agustin Reyes Royal Violets baby cologne upon my skin. I remember her taking me to school. I remember our first house. I can even remember the countless ass beatings she gave my brothers and I to keep us in line. Mom’s much older now, much wiser, but that flame in her is still very much alive, burning with grace and understanding. A Pentecostal minister, she has dedicated all her time to God. Mom is and always will be my rock.

My mother gave birth to five children, cared for another for years before relinquishing custody, and legally adopted two others. Of us eight, Daniel is the oldest. Ashley comes next, then myself, Jeovanny, Joel, Alma, Trinity, and finally, Hannah. We may not all have the same mother or father, but we are a family nonetheless.

I guess it’s only natural for younger siblings to look up to their older ones. I still stare in awe at my brother Daniel with the same green eyes I did when we were children. I’m honestly not even sure how to describe him. Daniel is a leader. It’s like he doesn’t see the world the way regular people do. His insight on how things work is intriguing to say the least. He seems to know a little bit about everything but is in no way cocky. He can fit into any crowd or group of people and seems to always find a place. Everyone that meets him seems to enjoy his company. Every second with Dan is cherished. Over Unfortunately, over the years, we have lost a lot of time together. He’s a protector and burns with the same flame Mom does. We have different fathers, but no one would ever know it from the way Daniel protects us. He is my brother, and I love him very much.

Ashley, being the next leaf on this tree, is the closest to me. We have the same biological father and mother. She’s really big on family and, out of all my siblings, is the most like me. She’s taken my enlistment into the United States Army pretty hard. I wish we had more time together. Regardless of my abandonment of her, she’ll always be there for me. She’s my guide. I know that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I can always pick up the phone and she’ll be there. Ashley has four beautiful daughters and another on the way. She’d literally kill to protect them. I don’t trust many people in this world, but I trust her unconditionally.

Jeovanny and I are close. Although physically opposite, we share many internal qualities. He is kind and gentle but for some reason doesn’t really like to show it to many people. Lately it seems like he’s been a little lost. I feel like he wants so badly to make a difference in this world, to set his mark, but doesn’t yet know how. Jeovanny is a kind soul. I don’t really worry about him at all because, just like me, he has the ability to overcome any obstacle set in his path. Something tells me he’ll be just fine.

Joel is the youngest of Mom’s biological children. He’s a joker. No matter where you are or what the situation is, he can always find a way to make you smile. His greatest strength is the ability to make others happy. Even though he’s in his twenties, I always feel protective toward him. Although he’s bigger than me at this point, in my eyes, he will always be my baby brother.

Alma was a beautiful little girl. I would imagine she’s a teenager now, about 13. I haven’t seen her in about 11 years. As this diary continues, I will disclose why. She was eight months old when my mom began to care for her and about two when Mom gave her back. She was the first child I ever had to care for and I loved her very much. She had this habit I’ll never forget of sucking her fingers. It was odd because she didn’t do it in the manner of other children who suck their thumbs. Instead, she would suck her middle and ring finger simultaneously for hours. I smile now as I look back on my memories of her. She was adorable. I miss her very much.

Alma, Trinity, and Hannah are all biological sisters from the same mother. Trinity and Hannah were legally adopted by my mother in 2008. Their biological mother was a prostitute named Rebecca who attended church with my mother and stepfather at the time. Their biological fathers are a mystery. Alma has never met Trinity or Hannah, and they are unaware of each other’s existence. An issue that, one day, I’m sure we will have to address as a family. Isaiah is Alma, Trinity, and Hannah’s biological brother. Their mother has more children, I’m sure, but of their names and whereabouts, I do not know.

Trinity and Hannah are my legally adopted sisters, but, like all my siblings, I love them as if we shared the same womb. My mother and her ex-husband share custody of them. Trinity is 11 years old. She’s beautiful, growing, and trying to comprehend the world around her. Although her exact race is unknown, she has the complexion and hair of an African American woman. She’s gentle, but hungry for attention. Unfortunately, at this current time, she seeks that attention by behaving negatively, an issue that I’m sure she will outgrow with time.

Nine-year-old Hannah is just as beautiful, but she is Trinity’s complete opposite. She’s tough as nails. Has long brown hair and tan skin. We assume she’s Hispanic. Sometimes she can be a bit mean to other children, but she’ll protect her father and sister over anyone in this world. I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like, but the love I have for them is everlasting. I have their names tattooed on my arm.

You may be asking yourself, why the fuck does any of this matter? What contribution do these words make to society? What is the purpose of this all? There is none; like I said, you don’t exist. Perhaps this is all merely a waste of time. Maybe if I somehow die out here, get shot, blown up, or become a prisoner of war, someone will read the words on this laptop and understand me. More than likely not.

CHAPTER 3

BROKEN GLASS

I want to start this timeline back to when I was young. I’m 26 years old now, but I’m going to begin this diary at the age of 14, 12 years ago. After all, history coincides with time.

Education is the key to success, isn’t it? Those words were printed in bold on a banner in my elementary school’s auditorium. Every day as I ate my lunch, I stared at the Times New Roman font before me. I remember reading it and thinking to myself, if education is the key, what’s the door? You see, even on the brink of adolescence, I remember education being this giant task. It was daunting to me, something that was institutionalized by man to be taught to me in forms that I could never seem to understand. Time, for me, has been the greatest teacher. The experiences I have faced in my short span of life far outweigh anything I’ve ever learned in a book.

Experience. Such a painful word, isn’t it? On a job application under the experience section, most people pause before writing some arbitrary nonsense. The word means nothing. It’s just a synonym for time. How much time have you invested? How many mistakes have you made? Let’s get something out in the open right now. I’m not using the words in this diary with the intention of wasting your time, just mine. I’m not going to badmouth the educational system. I will not comment on the problems of our military or denigrate our president. I just want to share my time with a few blank pieces of paper.

Twelve years ago from today seems to be a lifetime. The scent of Curve cologne caressing my smooth neck, yet to produce even the slightest bit of peach fuzz. LA Looks Gel equally distributed throughout my seamlessly combed hair. The shirt that I spent hours in search of at the department store, identically matching the color of my shoes, draped across my back and chest without a wrinkle in sight. Virginity in all aspects of life embracing me. It was a much simpler time. I was a child, walking with such naiveté, ignorant, with no time yet invested in this world. I was a sponge, eager for knowledge, eager for love, and eager for experience. Little did I know all these things would come, and like a fire, consume me and my life in a whirlwind.

All mountains have their low points. Up until the age of 14, every man in my life had failed me. My father, although reconciled at this moment, was a struggling alcoholic and drug addict. We were strangers to each other. He was nowhere to be found, and I wasn’t looking. The man that I called Dad since the age of two would soon betray my mother in the form of adultery, causing an atrocious chain of destructive events. I hold nothing against either one of them. In fact, I love them both now more than ever, but at the time, an ignorant, confused hatred burned deep in my soul, and anger filled every vein that ran through my body.

My mother, despite being a fighter, couldn’t withstand the pain of a broken heart. I recall everything. What I was doing that day, the shirt I had on, even what was for dinner. All the turmoil is still so vivid to me now, years later. I will never forget. What I don’t know are the events that led up this final point. To be honest, I no longer care. The wounds created at the time, although deep, are no longer bloody; they’re no longer scabs, nor are they even visible scars.

I had a girlfriend at the time, Chelsea. She was gorgeous. We were just two kids hanging out, having fun. She and I were together after school, the day it happened. I was so innocent, oblivious to the struggles plaguing my family. At the time, I didn’t have a care in the world, life was much simpler then. I came home late that night and tried to discreetly go to the restroom, praying that Mom wouldn’t realize that I had come in so late. It wasn’t my fault; when I was around Chelsea, time seemed to fly. But Daniel and I shared the house’s former garage, which Armando converted into our bedroom, and to get there, I had to pass Mom.

My mom has always been incredibly instinctive; I swear she should have been a detective. Even to this day, she somehow seems to know everything. That day, I attempted the impossible mission of sneaking past her. I remember feeling fearful and knowing internally that Mom was already aware of every step I had made that day. We used to always joke that she probably had trackers on each and every one of us. She could always sense us from a mile away. But not this day. Something was different; and it was as if Mom was unaware that I even existed.

I opened the door to the restroom slowly, attempting to creep quietly like a soldier on patrol in an IED-infested area. Each step was more meticulous than the last. With deliberate motions, I slid around the sponge-painted wall, through the kitchen, and into my room without her ever saying a word. She stood motionless and silent in front of the sink. Her hands were placed directly in front of her, lying upon the brownish-red stone countertop that my grandfather had installed. The aroma of a freshly cooked meal followed me as I entered my room. That was a meal I would never get the opportunity to taste. Alongside the aroma followed an eerie feeling that everything was not okay.

I dropped my backpack on the floor. I can remember questioning my brother Daniel to see if something had happened while I was away. Who was in trouble this time? My mind ran through all the mischief I had gotten into that week but came up empty. Danny was completely engulfed in his computer game. Yelling at his friends through the microphone that sat on his face, he ignored my presence, just like Mom. I felt invisible. The noise of his video game was a distraction to my ongoing investigation. I tried to picture where everyone in the house was to see if I could pinpoint the problem. Trinity and Hannah didn’t exist yet. But the moment I exited the bathroom, I remember seeing Alma, through the slight crack of Ashley’s room door, asleep. Ashley was lying gracefully beside her, resting. I could hear Jeovanny and Joel playing PlayStation to my left. Laughing in their innocence. Their voices were clearly unbothered and unaware of Mom’s unnatural frozen mood. With everyone accounted for, who could she be upset with? Perhaps it was me?

Unable to solve the problem, I collapsed, throwing my body back onto my black futon that sat against the adjacent wall. I felt nothing but discomfort from the metal bars that pressed against my back as I attempted to relax. I can still feel the heat from the dryer filling the empty spaces of my room and the fragrance of soap mixed with the flavorful aroma of Mom’s Spanish cooking. I recall having this burning desire to call Chelsea. The phone, however, wasn’t anywhere in my vicinity, and there was no way in hell I’d walk back through that kitchen, with Mom on guard and clearly upset, to retrieve it. I imagined it would be in Ashley’s room since she’d spend hours at a time on it talking to her boyfriend, Shawn.

Annoyed by boredom, I attempted for a brief second to close my eyes. Then I heard the sound of glass shattering. To this day, I absolutely despise that sound. Every time I hear it, a cold shiver runs down my spine, and I prepare for the worst possible situation. Everything went silent. The game Danny was playing ceased to exist as his neck jerked in my direction and his eyes widened. The sound of the food sizzling upon the stove disappeared, and for some reason, I could no longer hear Jeovanny and Joel’s PlayStation or laughter. But that dreadful noise, the sound of glass breaking, intensified as I jumped out of my seat. Danny and I jolted across our room like a private bounding to his next covered or concealed position.

I ran out of the room, Danny alongside me, and waited for the next impact of glass to hit the ground like one waits for the sound of a crash when they hear a car brake hard and slide across the road. I braced for impact, preparing my ears to hear the sound again. I could hear my mom yelling at my stepfather in Spanish while simultaneously throwing the Indian figurines that she had spent so much time collecting in his direction. I continued to run toward the chaos with no final destination or plan. I figured if she realized we were watching, she would stop, but she didn’t. Our presence was the last thought on her mind. She was enraged; it was like nothing I had ever seen before.

I could feel my lip quivering but did not possess the ability to control it. The warmth of adrenaline began to run through my veins and my hands began to tremble rapidly. But I just stood there, motionless and frozen by the actions occurring before my very eyes. Danny grabbed Mom from behind and wrapped himself around her, holding both of her arms in a forceful attempt to restrain her. But the power of her anger was too much for him to control. I remember looking into my stepfather’s eyes as he stood witness to Mom’s reactions. There was no fear in them, not even the slightest hint of compassion. He stared at his wife of 12 years almost as if he was staring into the eyes of a complete stranger. Danny struggled to hold Mom as she jumped, slamming both her feet through the glass coffee table that, for so long, had sat between our expensive brown microfiber couches. That piercing sound again rushed into my ears violently, like a military squad breaching an obstacle in their path. As the glass shattered, I flinched; I could feel the tears starting to form beneath my eyes. My mom was now on the ground; shards of broken glass were scattered across our marble floor. Daniel stood between her and Armando.

Daniel began to scream like a roaring lion in an attempt to establish his dominance of the situation. It felt as if he were 12 feet tall, unafraid of anything that came his way. His strength grew with each passing second. It was at that moment that I realized who he was. Daniel was and always would be our strength when we were weak. I could see nothing but anger in his pitch-black eyes.

Do you see what you’ve done? All this is because of you. Get the FUCK out! he roared. My stepfather stopped and just stared at him for a second. The once-little boy he’d helped raise for so many years was now standing before him as a man. Despite his love for Armando, Danny would’ve killed him to protect Mom. Armando stared back at him, but not in fear, not in anger, not in sorrow, but rather empty and emotionless. Without saying a word, he walked past the destruction caused by his infidelity and went outside.

Mom’s anger had, at this point, slowly dissipated. However, with that relinquishment of emotion came sorrow. She cried heavily as she slowly walked past the broken glass in the living room. My body had not moved an inch. I was still standing motionless, frozen in place. Mom sobbed as she closed her bedroom door. My vision was obscured by the walls separating us, but I could hear her dragging her feet into her en suite bathroom and the sound of the squeaky door shutting behind her. It was at that moment that our lives would change forever.

She proceeded into the medicine cabinet, opened the family-size bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, and attempted to take her own life.

CHAPTER 4

DIVORCE

More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, because it is in suffering that endurance is produced.

– Romans 5:3

Sacrifice is synonymous with success. Nothing in this world is free. Not the ground that you walk on or the air you breathe. I’ve evolved over the years and have learned to be content when evil comes. I firmly believe that even in our worst moments, at times where we feel most hopeless, we are strongest. As miserable of an experience, as scary, as devastating, and as destructive as it was, it turned out to be a day of pure victory. It was the commencement of the life I now know. And the beginning of an extremely painful process.

An athlete can’t become an athlete without failure. You can’t build muscle without first being sore. This was the soreness, one instance of sorrow, one horrible moment of many to come. This was the day everything changed.

Peter denied Jesus, Judas betrayed him, his father forsook him, and his very own people crucified him.

I remember cleaning the glass off the floor, unaware and unprepared for what was occurring on the other side of the wall behind the bathroom door. My mother was at a point of almost no return as she laid alone on the cold bathroom floor, slowly and silently dying. Danny went to check on her. He entered her room peacefully, like a soul crossing over to another dimension. Still in the living room, I could hear him knocking on the en suite door. The studs and drywall may have been separating my vision, but not my imagination. I could vividly picture him and all his motions. The room and everything in it had become conceptualized clearly in my mind.

He knocked again, but there was no answer. The environment was incredibly silent and, for a moment, it seemed almost as if time were standing still. There was an awful silence, the kind where it’s so quiet that it’s loud. The silence where you hear nothing so vividly that your ears begin to ring. This sound horrified me even more than the sound of the glass shattering just moments before. I put the broom and dustpan down before walking into the room behind Danny. I stood at the door, merely observing the events occurring before me.

Still with no plan in mind, I watched patiently. Ashley, who had been abruptly awakened, held Alma in her arms, still asleep and unbothered by the chaos. I motioned to her from the door of my mom’s room, signaling her to place Alma back in bed because Ashley was five months pregnant and Alma was too heavy for her to hold. Jeovanny and Joel stared at the destruction with confused eyes. The chain of command was plainly noticeable. Ashley placed Alma safely back on the queen-sized bed in her room and began to comfort my two younger brothers who were now crying. Dan, being the oldest, took lead, and I, his rear responder, waited for instructions.

Daniel attempted to push the bathroom door open, unaware that it was our mom’s lifeless body that was blocking the entrance. I remember nothing else after this point. No matter how much I try, I can’t picture what happened next. I don’t know why, perhaps I fainted; maybe it’s locked away in some hidden vault deep within my mind. But the next thing I remember is sitting in the back seat of my stepfather’s TrailBlazer, my thoughts and emotions pouring into my lap like rainwater. I remember closing my eyes as he violently maneuvered the vehicle’s steering wheel with Mom riding in the ambulance before us. A line of law enforcement vehicles led a convoy of flashing lights and noisy sirens to the hospital. I remember our hazard lights on and Armando taking every red light behind the officers. I remember cars honking as he drove recklessly into their lane.

I buried my head into the back of the leather passenger seat headrest, the woman who had given birth to me fading away on a drive that felt unending. My head was filled with an almost unbearable throbbing pain. My brain felt like it wanted to tear through my skin and escape my body to become its own entity. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. I can still taste the salt of them in my mouth.

With my eyes closed tightly, I called on him. For the first time in my entire existence, I called on God. I needed his help. I wrestled with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit in an instant. Anger, fear, sorrow, and despair all filled my body almost as if they were a single emotion blending into one. I called on him, even though at the time I didn’t believe he existed. It was the only hope I had left. Time once again stood still. That fucking ringing made a home for itself in my ears, embedding itself into the crevasse of my adolescent mind. The thoughts of what would happen in my life without my mother overwhelmed me. Prior to this moment, I had no faith. I believed that God was a ladder for extremely weak-minded people. He was always a concept to me, a farfetched idea created by men to control humanity and its resources. A way for the rich to get richer and for the poor to stay poor.

That night, I cursed at him. I remember thinking as my head throbbed, dehydrated from the traumatic emotions I had just experienced, If you’re real like everyone says, do something and stop this. Fucking save her. You can’t exist. If you do, why would you let this happen?

My mom had just started going to a church about six months prior. The pressure in my head grew with each new thought that entered.

We never had any problems until she started going to church. Fuck church and fuck you. I hate you.

It’s funny writing this now. I can see my ignorance. My thoughts had no impact on anything or anyone. The truth is, I’ve never told anybody about this, and honestly, I probably never will. Remember, this is just a diary, and you, the reader, don’t even really exist.

Tears still running down my face, I made a deal with the Almighty. If that’s even possible. He more than held up his end. I, however, never did.

Save her, I pleaded, and I’ll give it all to you. You can have me. I’ll accept you, I’ll worship, and I’ll change everything about myself. It was nothing more than an ignorant one-sided negotiation that never really existed.

Take her and you lose, I cried feverishly. I won’t eat, I won’t sleep, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure no one ever follows or believes your bullshit. I’ll be the worst person to walk this earth, I swear.

It was almost as if I were another person. I’d been gentle up until this point. I closed the disrespectful prayer without even rendering a simple amen as I lifted my head off the headrest. My basketball shorts were damp with tears. Seeing that we had arrived at our destination, I wiped the boogers that had accumulated in the space between my top lip and nose onto the shirt I was wearing. I glanced over at my stepfather and his face is one that I’ll never forget. I no longer saw emptiness. Instead I saw pure fear.

There was never any deal; the words that I prayed held no value to God. He doesn’t need me or anyone for that matter. Everything in that moment was predetermined long before I was ever conceived. Everything occurred in accordance to his plan. I can see that now.

Everything we had known and become accustomed to in our life up until this point was about to drastically change. Although unaware at the time, I now understand the struggles and emotions my mother was facing in the moments before she attempted to take her life.

Mom’s anger mixed with pain filled the thoughts of my mind. How could she want to die? Were things that bad?

I thought about her yelling at Ashley months before. I could still hear her voice in my head prior to Ashley’s confession of her pregnancy. I could see her demanding an answer from her only biological daughter, almost as if she were psychic. She had suspected for weeks that Ashley was pregnant.

Do you want me to tell you why you are crying? I already know! she shouted. A mother’s intuition is never wrong; their senses are something that we will never be able to comprehend. I lied to my mother hundreds of times growing up. No matter how good the fib and how believable it sounded, Mom always seemed to know the truth.

Ashley was fifteen years old and pregnant. A blessing for the future of our family, but a fear in the heart of my mother at the time. Ashley had always been incredibly intelligent. She was salutatorian in her middle school and performing way above average in high school. But GPA didn’t seem to hold its value anymore. The succession of her peers meant nothing. Life was about to attack her, like infantrymen hiding in the shadows and darkness of night, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

Ashley would face the most difficult of situations. Her boyfriend at the time, Shawn, later to become her ex-husband, was not the father type. We all knew it. Ashley was blinded by love, and Mom felt deceived.

Mom was terrified and upset. She already had five children and Alma. Then, to be betrayed by her husband and left to pick up the pieces of her life, alone … how would she survive? How would she be able to support all the weight on her shoulders? The thought of having to care for a grandchild was much easier with Armando’s financial and emotional support. But he had decided that he wanted no part in the matter. He would soon abandon his family. It all seems so insignificant now. But at the time, these struggles were overwhelming to us all.

Thoughts of Ashley crying uncontrollably months before replayed in my mind as I sat, hopeless, in the waiting room of Lakeland Regional Medical Center. It was the same crying I witnessed the day she stood next to me, comforting my brothers. I could feel that Ashley was more scared than any of us. For Mom, for us, and for her unborn child.

I continued to replay all the events that year over and over in my head. Why was this happening to our family? I stood in the lobby, pacing back and forth, wondering if the woman who gave me life would soon lose hers.

Mom somehow survived this traumatic event. She spent a couple days Baker Acted, and after the involuntary examination of her mental health status, she was back home. But she wasn’t the same. Her aversion to activity, response to responsibility, and entire life as we knew it changed. She and Armando would soon be divorced. She had the responsibility of caring for six children alone, and baby Jadyn was due to be born in four months’ time. No small wonder my mom soon became clinically depressed.

CHAPTER 5

WHO’S IN CHARGE?

I broke up with Chelsea the following week. She was a good person who was just as lost as I was at the time, struggling with her own family problems. I’ve never quite understood why I treated her like shit, abandoning her as if she was nothing. I can still remember sitting like a lawyer in a courtroom, deliberating the fate of an inmate on death row. Contemplating my next move. There was no room for her in my life. Perhaps if I’d stayed, things would have ended up differently. Fate, however, had a different plan for me.

The paths of my life were written long before my birth. A predetermination by some higher authority instructed me to walk, speak, and act in a certain manner. At the time, I felt numb; no feeling or desire resided in me. There was way too much on my mind, and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want any more distractions. Chelsea and I were extremely close, but it wasn’t as if we were married. I was free, bound by no contract. So, I left with no explanation to her or myself. Just a gut feeling put into action. She wasn’t the one for me. I felt nothing as I sent the coldhearted text that ended our relationship.

Somehow, over time, I had become blind to the issues before my family and me. I lacked the desire to carry on a meaningful relationship with anyone. My morals and values began to decline at a rapid rate for the next few months. Disorder seemed to fill my life, and chaos ran the structure in which I resided. My mother’s house no longer felt like a home.

As I’ve said, Mom is a fighter. She took the necessary steps to finalize her dissolution of marriage with Armando while simultaneously battling her depression. She never faulted or folded and always maintained a flow of food on our table