I wrote a book. I thought since it has to do with travel at the end and how I used to write I should post it here and get back to writing more about feelings, thoughts, and keeping it real. If you would like to purchase the book the Amazon link is above.😊
This is the cover of my book!
I remember the day my godmother came to the house. My mother had her fake sweet voice on. I mean, I guess it wasn’t fake, it was one of her personalities. “Bri, Aunty Carol is here to see you.” I might have been hungover or sleeping, I don’t know. I just knew it was weird since I wasn’t expecting her. She came in and gave me a big hug. We sat down at this crappy kitchen table in my grandmother’s basement surrounded by tons of stuff. Hoarding– just one of the many fun issues my mother and grandmother have. Aunty Carol started telling me how my sister had been practicing driving with my stepmom. She said how my stepmother had a brain aneurysm while my sister was driving. She talked about how she was in the hospital. She said how she was in a coma. She then said how my stepmom woke up and didn’t know who my father or sister was. I thought for sure the next part was going to be that she passed away. It was not. The next part I will never forget. She said, “Briana I am really sorry, but your father is gone.” I instantly started to cry hysterically. I was so confused as to how he was gone??? So while crying I mustered out, “How?” She said, “I am sorry to say this and I don’t want to believe it, but they say he killed himself.” Crying harder and even more confused, “How?” “Where?” I just didn’t believe it. He had to have been murdered. After all he had been through, that’s it? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. It didn’t make sense. My godmother answered me, “They are saying he shot himself in the head at his house.” “No, no, no, no he didn’t!” I cried and cried for hours after my godmother left. I don’t remember much after that moment. I believe I had to work that night. I went into work. I was numb, but still kept thinking about it even though I wasn’t sure what to think. My father had actually died months ago. He was long gone. I never got to say goodbye. Sometime after this happened my sister and stepmother had to move back to Rhode Island. My father left them with nothing. My stepmom now remembered the past but couldn’t remember five seconds ago because of the aneurysm. My sister was 16 years old. I got her a job with me and introduced her to my friends. It was then that I found out what I couldn’t remember from when I was a kid. My father was a recovered addict. Heroin was his addiction. He may have relapsed at the point when I wasn’t allowed to see him anymore. My sister said he must have relapsed again after her mom’s coma. She said she would come home every day from school and he would be on the couch chain smoking cigarettes nodding out. He also stopped showering and shaving, which was nothing like my father. She said the day he killed himself he took a shower, shaved, and told my sister I just want to tell you how much I love you Justina. My sister was only 15. She thought it was weird but didn’t expect the cops to show up at her school a couple hours later. I now realize this is when I lost a big piece of me. It took me 20 years to pinpoint the day I lost hope. I was angry at my father for not fighting for me when my mother stopped letting me see him. I was used to being on my own, but I think I was holding onto the thought that eventually I would talk to him again and we would have pasta with meatballs and Christmas again someday. That day would never come.
