Well for today's confession is something that is a little out of the ordinary.
Now saying this as a Furry... out of the Ordinary is a hell of a stretch.

But the little nuances of my life have helped shape me and who I am. I am sure I was not the only person growing up who used to play in an elevator, and pretend that I was on a rocket ship. Soaring for Mars or the moon or through the stars. To use my imagination and pretend that I was driving in the Indy 500. Or soaring across the sky in a fighter jet. That I was in a submarine exploring the depths of the explorable. I know I was not the only one who played video games or board games at home by themselves. Pretending that the game of life is how it should be. Or that some how this tournament that I was fighting in was some how based off something that actually took place.

Life as a Kid is supposed to be remarkably easy. But with a family who's father owns a small business, was a Vietnam war veteran, life isn't easy. Parents hide behind their shroud of lies and truths to protect their children. Hoping that one day when they are old enough their children will understand why dad just didn't want to talk that day. Why dad would leave for hours on end in the evenings to come home at 3 in the morning. My realization, was when I was 12 years old. My father had gone out drinking. He walked in the door, & when I say walked I use the term loosely for, stumbled in laying his hands on everything he could touch to keep himself steady and standing.

My father to me was always a great man. And I loved him and still do to this day.

He made his way to my room. Kicking things over and knocking things off the walls. I thought he was just in one of his moods that my mother had always warned us about. I heard the knob on my door turn slowly and there my father stood. The hall light illuminated him from behind while the pitch black of my room, I could barely see his face. I could only hear him breath. He straightened himself as best he could and walked toward my bed.

I laid there and pretended to sleep.
He sat on my bed a moment and ran his fingers through my hair. Muttering to himself how stupid he had been in the past and that one day he would change. He laid down next to me speaking in half whispers to me thinking I was asleep. "My boy. I remember the day you were born. It was cold and you were almost born at home. The snow made it impossible for the ambulance to get to the house. And no one's car would start. we were so worried about you that we called everyone we possibly could. Trying to get the battery in the truck to start. I wanted to be the one to take your mother to the hospital." He spoke for an hour. Telling me of the date of my birth. And how I was the most precious thing to him in the world. Until finally he fell asleep.

There lay my father. In a stupor and passed out with the smell of whiskey on his breath. And all I could think was that this is the most my father had said to me, the most he had ever shared with me in my life. I in some way. Was happy. I woke up the next day to find my father gone. He had woke up and I can only guess that he didn't want to wake me. My father promised my mother he would stop drinking. The entire day my mother was glowing while my father was at work. Happy that one night of talking to his son in his sleep made such a change. I didn't find this out until later in my life. But to me. It was the first time I had seen my mother that happy in a long time.

A few months down the road, my family and I watched my father's temper soar out of control. He never laid a hand on anyone. But everyone was afraid it would happen. He had his good times. My father took me to learn how to shoot. Enrolled me in karate to learn to defend myself. We would go fishing and come home to dinner and things were the way they should have been. My father bought a bike at a garage sale. I had tried learning once before, but I had fallen off. And because it was one of the neighborhood kids that was trying to teach me. He had forbidden me to ever ride a bicycle again until he was there to watch me learn.

My father eventually took the bike out of the garage and got me to learn to ride. Enough so that he could trust me out of our yard or private drive. My sisters wanted to go on a bike ride. No more than in the subdivision where we lived. A block or so. Pretty harmless. My father agreed and allowed me to go under the provision that my sisters stayed close and watched me.

My father trusts me.
I got the bike which was a little to big for me. We rode up the street and I pedaled as well as I could. As we neared a hill my sisters coasted down and I followed. As the speed picked up I felt the bike begin to sway under my weight. As I attempted to use the pedal bakes I instead hit the kick stand which sent myself and the bike skidding down the road. My face hit first. I skid and tumbled down the road. And I felt the concrete on my body. It was cold and hot. But didn't hurt. I screamed for a moment and lay there crying. I picked up the bike using it as a make shift crutch to help me walk. My legs wouldn't support my weight for some reason. I was drenched in blood and felt my body grow colder as I walked. What a relief.... It was 102 degrees outside.

My sisters turned back because I was not there. And could only follow the trail of smeared flesh and blood across the pavement to where I was. I thought i was screaming. I was crying. The tears stung my flesh, and while I thought I was yelling. I only whimpered for my father. Daddy. My sisters lay me down on the ground and everything went dark. I feel some men lift me up and put me in bed. This isn't my bed. I hear my father. His voice is not strong as it usually is. I could hear my mother's voice quiver and shake as she cried while the EMT's talked to them.

I arrived at the hospital and it was quiet. I am sure it wasn't. They did what they could and let me rest for an hour or two. Put me into a wheel chair and took me out to the truck. The ride was bumpy and long. Days went by and I couldn't walk, I couldn't talk, I couldn't see. I had been cut off from the world around me. Only able to hear and barely able to move.

My face, neck, Chest, left arm, and legs were badly lacerated, I had suffered a concussion so I was not allowed to sleep for sometime. Only lay there and endure the pain. My tears soaking the gauze on my face and stinging the torn and badly scrapped skin under my eyes.

I spent a month like that. Only my imagination to keep me entertained. My father and mother sat with me. As I lay on the couch. Carrying me to the bathroom if I needed and watching my every movement. I wasn't able to eat. Instead I was handed shakes and other material which was ground up into a fine paste with a blender so that I could drink my meals. My father was strong. My mother was resilient. I know now. They wept in their bed at night praying I would not pass in my sleep.

I slept maybe three hours a night. The pain of it was more than anyone that age should bare. When today if something like that happens. The child is hospitalized and fed pain medications until they are healed. I couldn't be kept down. Once I had my strength. I wanted to go back to life. I still couldn't eat. I watch other kids play in the sun. I could not. If I went outside. Someone had to walk with me to keep me steady and cover me with an umbrella. I was a cub scout then. My father was the Scout master for our local pack. Troupe 961. It pained me to see my father walk out of the house for scouts and I was not allowed to go. I had an old school desk in my room. Something to allow me to study. By this point my homework and school work was being sent to me so I could work on it at home. I sat there in my desk working on what i could. My hand writing was horrible because my writing hand was still wrapped in gauze.

In the middle of a math problem. I dropped my pencil. Not good. I wasn't allowed to bend over. I am strong. I can do this. I lurched forward feeling the skin on my body stretch painfully. As I reached out and took the pencil in my hand I smiled. What I didn't expect was the pain involved with a simple smile. I felt the skin on my face crack and split and the pain returned quickly. That searing hot and cold mix. I immediately stood up. Which was not the most intelligent thing to do as I slammed my injured hand quickly into the metal edge of the desk.

I fell to the ground in pain. My body hitting the ground as hard as it did shook the floor in our small home. I heard my father run through the house and into my room. He knelt beside me and yelled for my mother. It sounded like a whisper. Is this what my life is going to be like? I just laid there as my father picked me up, and put my on my bed. I don't know what happened to that old desk. My mother later told me that because the desk had been the reason I was hurt, my father threw it away. A week later. My father bought me an actual desk. Nothing fancy, but it had drawers, and could be plugged into the wall for a lamp and anything else that was needed. I later found out, that caused a fight between my mother and father. My accident had placed the entire house in financial distress. The bills were piling up and tons of "final notices" were sitting on the kitchen table.

My mother after several hours of shouting, finally told my father that she was going to get a job to help pay the bills. This was my fault. I hadn't noticed how small the meals in the house were becoming. Or the fact that one night for dinner everyone had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. While I was being fed shake like meals. I was a little nosy. I had decided to go into the kitchen and walk around. I stood at the window and looked out at the sun. It made my eyes burn, so I turned away. I found a receipt for something from the hospital... "safe meal, for critically injured children"... $105 for a three times a day meal. I had been eating these for a month.

I had a good head for numbers then. Math was my favorite subject in school. I was eating more in a week, than my father brought home in two.

Dinner time came around. And while everyone gathered around to get their food. My father put on his smile and brought me my shake. I told him I wasn't hungry. I did this for several days. I wasn't going to watch my family go hungry because of me. I heard my parents talk that night. They were worried something was wrong. I won't lie, at night when I heard people sleeping. I would get up and take small sips of the shake my father brought to me. Only to add water to it so that it would look like I hadn't eaten.

About a week later my father picked me up and carried me into the kitchen to eat. I saw him pull what was left of the last box out and start making my meal. My mother looked at my father with a worried look as he placed the shake in front of me. And tried to convince me to eat. It had been a week of nothing but little sips of shake substance in the middle of the night. I was tired, weak, and gave into hunger. As I sat there and drank my meal, I watched my father cook up hamburgers. I missed hamburgers, the smell was at that point next to heavenly. I don't know if it was desperation or being tired of being treated like glass, but I asked if I could get up.

As dad put the burgers on peoples plates, he had made a few extra for everyone else. When mom had bought the meat, she had not planned on my accident occurring. The burger meat was supposed to be for my birthday dinner. I had not known this, but I walked out of the room and laid down on the couch in the living room. I faced the back of the couch so that no one could see me or here me cry. I was hungry, and tired of causing my family pain. I had however out of stubbornness saved my family from having to spend $700+ on me that week from my refusal to eat.

I wanted these bandages off, I wanted to be normal again, I wanted my family to be back the way it was.

After dinner, my father walked into the living room with the rest of my family. My sisters say on the floor. My mother on the couch next to me trying to check if I was ok. I wasn't but I told her I was. My dad turned on the TV and put the new Indiana Jones "Raiders of the Lost Ark" into the VCR, the movie started and everyone got quiet, I whispered to my dad if it was ok if I got some water. He said it was alright. I got up and went into the kitchen. The smell of hamburger meat still hung in the air, taunting me as I got my glass of water.

It was to much to handle for me I guess. I grabbed clumsily at one of the paper plates and took a burger, it was still warm. I broke it down into pieces small enough to fit between the holes in the gauze that was left for my mouth. It hurt. The pain of chewing racked my body with pain as I chewed the piece of meat. The taste however, was fantastic. The juices trickled down my throat and filled my mouth as I painfully but happily swallowed each bite. I heard my mother tell my father that she was going to the store and would be back in a moment. I couldn't tell her I loved her with a mouth full of hamburger meat. She left before I could swallow, so naturally I continued eating.

I had taken to long. My father walked into the kitchen as I stuffed the last of the hamburger into my mouth. I cried from both pain and joy as I ate the meat. My father only watched. I turned around to see my father standing there. Smiling as only he knew how. No one can reproduce that smile. He scooped me up in his arms and held me close. crying softly into my shoulder. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry. He asked my why I ate the food when I was told I was not ready. I could only reply that I was ready. And tired. I wanted real food, and I wanted to see my family eat like they used to. Dinner had become so quiet since the accident. And I just wanted my family back.

To further explain, since the accident. My father had lost twenty pounds and my mother over thirty. My sisters had even lost weight because of me. I was more than ready. Some months passed and it was time to take the bandages off. My oldest sister insisted on being there with me to hold my hand when they removed the gauze. She felt responsible for the accident, though she didn't tell me this until I turned twenty one.

The doctor removed the bandages slowly to uncover my face, the scabbing and red tissue pulled away to reveal my face. My sister, threw up. My mother told me I looked fine, I knew it wasn't true. She reassured me with phrases like "There is my baby boy" & "I am so happy to see your face again."

It was October, life had all but returned to normal, I could tell people were still worried about me when I slept at night. I wanted to go out for Halloween, but I wasn't able to put on any costumes due to how "new" the flash on my face was. I was at this point, banned from going outside in the sun at all.

Now That I look back on everything, I guess I could have gone as a ghost or something, wore a sheet to cover my face, Instead, I made a joke of it to make people smile. I got out one of my old Sunday suits that barely fit me. The waist size was still the same but I had gotten taller. The stitches in my skin for months had left marks that looked truly gruesome and The striped shirt that I wore with the small suit coat was perfect. I crept into my dad's workshop where I found a large metal ring which was used to hold down bolts on the axles of cars. I put it on and screwed to bolts in. I wet down my hair slightly so it would lay flat. That Halloween, I was Frankenstein.

My father thought it was funny, and allowed me to go out. My mother on the other hand didn't like the idea and followed me the entire time in the car. Making sure I had water and a place to sit if I needed.

My family is extremely devout baptist. But my parents at this point just wanted us to have a normal childhood.

More months passed and I gradually began to be "normal" again.

I would say sometime in January, I was told by my father that since I was strong again & able to do things on my own, he wanted to know what I wanted to become when I grew up. I told him, a comedian. This did not fly. In fact it went over like a lead balloon. My mother was not pleased either. My father told me he was going to show me what I wanted to become. To show me, that it was not the type of life I wanted.

My mother wasn't sure about my father's idea. But she allowed it for some reason. That night. My father took me into the car, and we drove into downtown Saint Louis. The Fabulous Fox Theater. The Place was huge. The Show, was George Carlin. His Opening Act... 7 words you can't say on TV.

I enjoyed it, but I think the lesson that was supposed to be there was somehow lost on me. I did however take up music, something my parents encouraged.

I look back at some of the hardships I have endured in my life. My Father and mother split up when I was fourteen. And when I did get to see my father I was happy. My father always used to say to me, When you turn sixteen we are going to go out on the front lawn. And Then I am going to beat your ass, and until you can beat me or I give up. You will know I am still man of this house. This wasn't meant in malice. It is just how he was raised. I actually looked forward to it. My father wasn't the type of person to just hit someone, he needed a reason, and a good one.

A few more years pass, and it is my sixteenth birthday. Dad hadn't been around that much and was working a lot. My friends and I went snowboarding the night before and came back to town just in time for my birthday dinner.

He had come to the house the day before to give me my birthday present. I wasn't home. He left the gift with my mother. He had to work on my birthday, and couldn't get out of it. When we got out of the car, there were several cars sitting outside. Lots of people sat around and turned their attention toward the car from the window when I got out.

I proudly walked to the middle of the front lawn and stood there. I was waiting for my fight with my father. The one I had planned for, to just hug him tell him how much he meant to me. And to tell him he would always be the man of the house. Or at least until he told me to be.

My mother walked out from the house. I had been standing there for twenty minutes. My best friend's mother said something to him. He ducked his head and walked inside. My mother hugged me tightly and I returned her hug. She asked me to come inside. I told her no. I was waiting for dad. I heard my sisters start crying when I said it. My mother said something to me that nearly made me stop in time. That moment frozen forever in my mind. As if felt like the words echoed in my ears. My mind blank and the look frozen on my face. Like some statue built to commemorate some old war. The words that changed who I was in a heart beat. "He's not coming. Here this was from your father. It's your birthday present."

The last time I touched my father. Hugged him, Spoke to him, or heard his voice. Was Christmas day. And the present he gave me for my birthday, was a pocket knife I still carry around today.

My father passed away. January 10th, at 4:43 am, from two back to back major heart attacks. He was 43 years old.

I couldn't tell you the amount of different life lessons that I hope you take away from reading this.My only hope is that you take at least one.

Your parents. Your true parents. You only get two, cherish your time with them as long as you can. Never utter words of hate to them, you never know how long you will have them in your life. Remember your life is your own, and I would be no kind of person if I didn't tell you to live it how you want. But remember, your parents are a big part of who you are. Even if it doesn't seem that way sometimes.

And as for my Confession...

I love hamburgers.