March 8, 2001: She knows…

What my pen writes has always come from the self I’ve spent seven years getting to know. We’ve shaken hands, questioned each other’s temptations and stopped to wonder if the other side was going to make it. Two times in my life, I’ve had to set aside all fears and face the path to which I created. Both times should have been enough for God to call me back home. I’ve never been proud of me. The mask wearing started as a child. I did all I could not to become my father—a reckless womanizing gambling man who demanded every inch of attention to be placed on his plate. I say this, while never getting the chance to meet him. When he died in 1977, I stood at his funeral wondering which kid he created would in fact become him. A preacher once said, “Before you die, the Lord plays back your entire life.” It was I who wanted Sande’s apology for the abortions. It was I who wanted to take the creation of the devils child to my grave. I’m almost pissed off that God didn’t make me an alcoholic or drug abuser. At least there’s a place to go to fight off the evils.