Chapter One: My Entrance

Dear Internet,

My name is Andrew G. and I'm 17 years old. I live in socioeconomically sheltered Northern Virginia, and I regularly attend high school. I get pretty good grades, and I fancy myself as an intelligent, able, and strapping lad. I enjoy the company of women, wine, and weed. Also, I pride myself on the fact that I have pretty few illusions about what the 'real world' is.

But I have a problem. There is a hellish creature, devoid of any capacity to think or feel, that lurks on the nightmare edge of my consciousness, perpetually keeping me in a prison of negativity.

My mother.

For the foreseeable future, this Blog will be my account of living with Patricia G. I don't want to spoil the fun and spill all of my stories and Oedipal emotional upwellings in one post. The best part is that this story still ain't done. I've got a little over five months until I graduate, a little over six until my eighteenth birthday, and a little over seven until I officially move out.

So, let's play some Tetris, motherfuckers. I guess I'll start with the first ever traumatic experience, when I learned that my mom might not hold completely healthy unconditional love for me.

I was in the sixth grade: chubby, impressionable, and eager to have some fun. It was my second year taking Gifted/Talented classes at a new elementary school, and my social network was understandably meager. My after-school activities usually included taking the bus home, eating, and absorbing the glory that was Cartoon Network. I was also pretty new to the idea that people could develop and explore hobbies outside of vegetating and getting fatter.

Mitch, the kid who sat across from me (and later good friend), successfully pitched the idea that I should come down one of these Wednesday evenings and join his Boy Scout troop. The Boy Scouts seemed less depressing than sitting around watching Mid-September days blend into Autumn.

After spending all of the fifth grade living at a separate apartment, my parents had 'reconciled' their issues, and my Dad was back in the house. I figured joining the Boy Scouts would be an easy sell to Mom and Dad. What self-respecting middle class parent would ever deny their child an opportunity to join this emblematic, American Hitler Youth? (Ha, ha)

"Mom, I want to join the Boy Scouts. My new friend Mitch told me about it, they meet up every Wednesday at the school, and, and..."

"No."

"Why not? Please mom, it's the Boy Scouts."

"No. Don't you remember the time we tried to sign you up for football, and you cried the whole time?"

"Well, yeah. But this is the Boy Scouts!"

"What has gotten into you? It's those new G/T kids isn't it?!? You want to try all these new things! You're changing! I BET YOU'RE ON DRUGS!"

Text will never convey the extent of my heartbreak. I burst out crying because I just didn't know where this rage-filled outburst came from. For the next two hours my mom grilled me. I crumbled in front of her onslaught. Everything she said was wrong, but it still stung. I was peppered with questions: What's wrong with me? Where do I get my drugs? Who are these new friends?
This was the first time in my life I had felt seriously threatened by my mom. I recall the tears continued, while the rest of that night is an emotional blur in my memory.

In the morning, my mom approached me bearing hugs and sorrys. And so I returned the sentiments. Because she's my mom, and that's how I'm supposed to feel, and that's what I'm supposed to do.

A few weeks later, my Dad actually took me to a Boy Scout meeting. But it wasn't at Mitch's troop. Or anyone else I knew for that matter. Whether it was the stigma my mom created, or something else, it kind of sucked and I never went back.