Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Strong on the Surface
Frank Iero.
Me.
Someone I couldn't really explain without going into a lengthy, detailed rant.
I was a vertically challenged, shy, strange little boy. Well, 16. Not so littleanymore. I lacked greatly in the 'friends' department. I had no one to depend on when I needed them.
Having no friends led to the fact that I was the Belleville High punching bag. The older boys were like wild animals, seeking out easy targets to prey on. My height and weak frame, not to mention the dirty little 'not-so-secret' secret that I was gay, made me one of those targets. Endless noon-hours were spent in hiding. Sometimes they would find me, sometimes they wouldn't. However, if they didn't get me then, they'd surely make up for lost time after school.
I started going to a Youth Center down the road from the high school. There were adults that worked there, making it a safe place for me to go and escape my demons.
Why couldn't I just go home? Because my demons were there, too- all of my mother's boyfriends. Not at once, of course, but there was a new one every couple nights. They were mainly all jerks that were looking for a place to stay, a meal or two, and a ride to and from the bar.
My mother’s men hated the thought of me, and they always made sure that I knew that. Once she fell asleep, I was fair game. I was their drunken entertainment while mom slept on, completely unaware. They thought it was a hoot when she would let it slip that her son was a queer. They'd push and push to see how much of their abuse I would take... And I took all of it. They’d trip me, hit me, shove me, and burn me with all their god damn cigarettes. As I said: entertainment.
My mother was a drunk. After her and my father's rough divorce, she did all she could to keep our life as normal as possible. Her effort was mighty, though eventually she failed and her drinking spiraled out of control. I never see her sober, now. I don't get the chance. I wake up and she's passed out on the couch. I come home from school and she's out already. When she gets in, if she does, she's already three sheets to the wind, beginning the cycle over again.
It was hard having to grow up so fast. One day you’re carefree and playing with your friends, and the next your preparing supper for yourself and cashing in your mother's bottles for a few bucks.
A lot of my friends shied away from me once my parents got divorced. They didn't come over anymore, one of the reasons being that their parents knew how bad my mom was. They didn't want their children in that kind of environment. I used to wish someone was there to protect me from this environment. However, I wasn’t that lucky.
Hence, my going to the Center. It was popular among the younger kids, the older ones like me being too busy stealing cigarettes and doing drugs to care about it. I still went, though. It was one way of escaping life; the beatings, the loneliness, my mother. I didn't love her, I loved who she used to be. Sometimes I still saw it; the caring, beautiful woman she once was. Just a brief glimpse, like the flicker of a television screen, before I lose her again.
I longed to have someone I could depend on in this life.
Me.
Someone I couldn't really explain without going into a lengthy, detailed rant.
I was a vertically challenged, shy, strange little boy. Well, 16. Not so littleanymore. I lacked greatly in the 'friends' department. I had no one to depend on when I needed them.
Having no friends led to the fact that I was the Belleville High punching bag. The older boys were like wild animals, seeking out easy targets to prey on. My height and weak frame, not to mention the dirty little 'not-so-secret' secret that I was gay, made me one of those targets. Endless noon-hours were spent in hiding. Sometimes they would find me, sometimes they wouldn't. However, if they didn't get me then, they'd surely make up for lost time after school.
I started going to a Youth Center down the road from the high school. There were adults that worked there, making it a safe place for me to go and escape my demons.
Why couldn't I just go home? Because my demons were there, too- all of my mother's boyfriends. Not at once, of course, but there was a new one every couple nights. They were mainly all jerks that were looking for a place to stay, a meal or two, and a ride to and from the bar.
My mother’s men hated the thought of me, and they always made sure that I knew that. Once she fell asleep, I was fair game. I was their drunken entertainment while mom slept on, completely unaware. They thought it was a hoot when she would let it slip that her son was a queer. They'd push and push to see how much of their abuse I would take... And I took all of it. They’d trip me, hit me, shove me, and burn me with all their god damn cigarettes. As I said: entertainment.
My mother was a drunk. After her and my father's rough divorce, she did all she could to keep our life as normal as possible. Her effort was mighty, though eventually she failed and her drinking spiraled out of control. I never see her sober, now. I don't get the chance. I wake up and she's passed out on the couch. I come home from school and she's out already. When she gets in, if she does, she's already three sheets to the wind, beginning the cycle over again.
It was hard having to grow up so fast. One day you’re carefree and playing with your friends, and the next your preparing supper for yourself and cashing in your mother's bottles for a few bucks.
A lot of my friends shied away from me once my parents got divorced. They didn't come over anymore, one of the reasons being that their parents knew how bad my mom was. They didn't want their children in that kind of environment. I used to wish someone was there to protect me from this environment. However, I wasn’t that lucky.
Hence, my going to the Center. It was popular among the younger kids, the older ones like me being too busy stealing cigarettes and doing drugs to care about it. I still went, though. It was one way of escaping life; the beatings, the loneliness, my mother. I didn't love her, I loved who she used to be. Sometimes I still saw it; the caring, beautiful woman she once was. Just a brief glimpse, like the flicker of a television screen, before I lose her again.
I longed to have someone I could depend on in this life.
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