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I… am going through a phase. I hid my “unit: paternal” as opposed to my “maternal unit; unit: mater” in a “Memory of Time” .. sorta like “opposite PTSD”
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The memory, the last good feeling: the last last fondest memory of my – so called, yet now passed – father; unit paternal .. is hidden in the memories of playing “Zelda.”
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Ima not sure why, but i remember feeling exceptionally hurt — so much that i would mumble to myself around 4 years old, that: “i cannot take this, i miss this guy too much.. where the damn iz my dad..” Follow in suit, decades of drama n trauma.. then you’ll understand the most-dreadfully, annoying “Marisol-Juanita Morales Ortiz Clan Dynasty” that added wound after psychological would to my gentle, demeanor life..
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For those of you who wonder or are already holding me in contempt: i thought until my 30s that “unit mater morales” was significantly poorer than she made herself out to be.. meaning, i learned through the grapevine that Marisol Morales — my care taker until i finally called foster care myself — was burning through money daily by buying pizza for breakfast/lunch (skipp dinner) EVERY FUCKING DAY .. while i was away at middle/high skewL.. and NONE of my so called “familia” had enough brass to help me out of famine.. my gran — juanita ortiz — just kept calling me fat & didnt eanna take care of her 40 year old daughter SO SHE WOULD SHAME ME into doing things that would have taken her some/less time than i coulda/woulda/shoulda used..
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Its tough having to walk up a mile long hill to high skewL, without coffee or money for a bologna sandwich — i was suicidal most days while in high school — missing the “paid for by the city/state” breakfast of maybe half a cup of cereal n a milk box (which, i was mildly lactose intoleranted) .. then having to RUSH through a moderatley, small high school lunch bc your Regional Prep/Vocational School bus left hella early for its trek across town.. THEN having to go to work for a few hours after school (mind you, im up 7am and busy until about 430pm daily/weekly) just to go home and REMEMBER, “damn, we dont have bread.. wow.. theres no ham in the fridge.. why the fuk are all these dirty dishes NOT CLEANED .. wth.. other than cause problems what else does Marisol Morales do all day.. n wth does the whole house smell rotten..”
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Stories of my inequity childhood b4 i went clandestine.
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SOTO; Fred Simon Griffin (name pending)
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