A kid like me…
I was born a long time ago, eons actually, or so it
seems. My upbringing was unusual, odd
at best, and I longed for the conventional lifestyle that all my friends
enjoyed. Unlike many other writers, I
never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.
All I knew was that I wanted something different, far different, polar
opposite different from the murky life I’d lived until the day I turned 18 and
got ready to shove off for college.
I loved my parents… dearly.
They both were young, smart and full of freshness when they married,
poised to capture the American dream.
Two people who were worthy of admiration for their unwavering
determination. But as one life entwined
itself around the other and the children came, bills mounted, jobs became
harder to find, they were consumed by an obstacle that was simply
insurmountable, and we eventually imploded, all four of us, Mom, Daddy, my
brother and I, failing to land firmly on our feet. After Daddy died when I was ten years old, we moved to a small
town in northern Minnesota. I swear
that’s what saved my life. I was lucky
that we knew so many gentle & caring people there who overlooked the untidiness
of my wilting family and showed us the true meaning of “community”.
My mother, broken from years of mental illness and loads of
prescription medications, died five years ago.
It was only then that I stopped viewing her as a woman who could never
provide the only thing I’d ever wanted from her… an unyielding bond between the
two of us. It was only then that I
started to wonder what her young dreams had been as a girl and all that
she had lost, this extremely bright, delicate creature who was robbed by an
inexplicable foe of all that life could have offered her, should have
offered her. I wish I could have known
the soothing of her voice as she read me to sleep or felt the strength of her
support during my many failed attempts to properly examine my world. But my mother was never capable of such
pivotal parental duties. She was far
too consumed with treading the tumultuous waters of her own existence. It was never anyone’s fault; it was simply
something that just happened. I know
that now.
My book, Ghellow Road, was an extremely ambitious project
for me. I had never put as much effort
into anything else as I did with this endeavor, my blood, sweat, tears… you
name it. Why did I ever write it? One reason --> I hope that each and every person who reads
it will be touched in one way or another.
But if you glean only one tidbit, one shining morsel, I would ask it to
be this: My tale is larger than just
one child. It belongs to the thousands
of kids out there who are just like me, past, present… and future.
Tera aka T.H. Waters
