Memoirs of a Crack Family.

All good stories involve cops. This is not true. Although it is one of those things that popped into my head, when I opened my laptop to find a word document titled “Random Family shit”, a file I vaguely remember writing, under the influence of gin and my family.
The first excerpt read:

“And I was like no F***ing way,

“And they were like, yes f***ing way, cause he f***ed his way across Europe and into Asia” (my mom, on Charlemagne, Incest, and Midgets)

This is not that funny, till you get to the midget part, which I am still uncertain of its relevance. Although the entire thing came up cause I was giving my mom a hard time for getting so drunk the last time I saw her that she peed herself while trying to explain to me and my sister why incest is sometimes okay, cause everyone is related to Charlemagne (but don’t worry we don’t believe her, we might be from Georgia but even we aren’t that messed up)
Apparently I agreed to write “Memoirs of a Crack Family” on this trip, which I do admit has some potential but I honestly doubt I could ever do it. I fear that we would all be too ashamed. Which brings me to another point.
I often feel guilty of things more rational people tell me I have no business feeling guilty for. For example, I was sexually assaulted when I was 14. I never told anyone (related to me) till I was in my early twenties.
One of my younger sisters was sexually assaulted when she was 14. She never told anyone either, we didn’t find out till she tried to kill herself. I have always felt responsible, not because she was assaulted. I know I have no control over that.
I feel guilty cause I never opened up. My sisters never saw me struggling, and when it happened to her, she felt so alone, and so afraid to share, that she shut down. She tried to kill herself. I never said, you are not alone. I was never an example.
There is this entire, “It Gets Better Campaign” for GLBT kids who get bullied, which is great, its empowering. But what about all the other groups who suffer silently, who slip through the cracks of society. What about the kids with alcoholic parents? What about the kids who are abused, what about the runaways and the vagrants?
I wrote a post on a forum explaining why I don’t think I could ever write a memoir, it would hurt too many people that I actually care about, in spite of, and because of their flaws. And one of the responses was. You should write one, think of all the people you would help. And perhaps this is true. Perhaps I could help people, but at what cost. And is it selfish of me to even ask this question. How much harm is it worth to save one person? Am I responsible to tell these stories?


Second excerpt:

It was 5am

“So I was driving this black guy home that I just bought coke from, but I didnt really know him, back to south side…and I got pulled over, and they asked me if I had been drinking, and I had two beers, so he had me blow, and I blew a .09, 1 point above the legal limit, so the cop said ‘let me tell you what, you leave your car here, have your friends come bring you back tomorrow, and I’ll drive you home.’

So we get in the car and were driving, and the cop asks me “Ma’am have you ever been arrested by Baldwin County Sherif’s department before?”

“Yes sir, a few times”

“Were you ever arrested with a guy who was crying?”

‘Yes sir.”

“I think I arrested you before”

"I think you might have."

Then we pull up to the house, and all of these people are outside, and they scatter like cockroaches into the dark, when they see the cop car, and he tells me to have a good night and be safe.