I'm not one to normally share personal tragedy with strangers. It's not my thing. Kudos and hats off to those who do, and I hope you find solace in the sharing.

Today, though, will be different for me. Today is the 20th anniversary of one of the defining moments in my life, one that has shaped me and changed me forever.

Some background:

I come from a typical family. One brother, parents divorced when I was seven, father got remarried several times, mom once. But the once....

His name was Joe. Five-foot six, one hundred eighty pounds of angry muscle. Ranger in Vietnam. Abused as a kid. Fucked-up in the head. Made my life a living hell. I let him know from the beginning that he wasn't my dad and that I wouldn't consider him so, even if he did pay the bills, put food on the table and clothes on my back. Typical kid stuff, lashing out at the new guy, the replacement. The first dad wasn't all that great either, but the replacement was just that, a replacement, and I resented him for it.

I'm not gonna bore you with specific tales and examples, but I will point out that he was abusive. Seldomly physically abusive (I only went to the hospital once), he specialized in mental abuse. He had the ability to make me feel like a worthless piece of shit, ruined my self-image and, according to my mother (I don't remember this), had me hiding in my closet crying. On the flip side, he and my brother were great friends. They went fishing, camping, did all kinds of stuff together. My bro was six, young enough not to know any better, just happy to have a dad around.

He came to the family when I was ten. Fast forward six years. I'm sixteen. My mom and Joe are separated, my brother and I staying with her. She and I don't get along at all. I'm taking acid all the time, smoking pot, losing job after job, getting arrested for shoplifting....just being a teenager in Detroit. My mom has had enough of me, I've had enough of her. For some reason I call Joe. "Hey, can I come live with you?" He says yes. I go.

WTF? What was I thinking? I don't remember. Things are groovy, though. We start smoking dope together, getting along great. About three months later I come home from working at a gas station. (If you're from the city, or thereabouts, it was on 11 & Lahser. Joe lived in Southfield, around 13 and Evergreen) I walk in the house, the tv is on but I don't see him. I check the basement, the garage, the back yard...nowhere to be found. I check his room. Not there. Hmm. Maybe he's over at the neighbor's, right? So I hit the can and go to my bedroom to change. Oops. There he is.

Hanging from a plant hook in the ceiling. Dead. In his underwear. Clothespins on his nipples, cock hanging out. Auto-erotic-asphyxiation, they call it.

I'm calm as hell. Cool as winter. I call 911, call my mom, go outside to smoke and wait. Didn't cry or lash out for a solid year. And when I did I cried because I was happy. What does that say about me?

So, on the 20th anniversary of your death....

Fuck you, Joe.


M. PotPie