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[So, this is just a biographical response I wrote for my English class last year to compare my life life that of Niki Sixx, the bassist of Motley Crue.]

Growing up isn’t easy, Nikki Sixx didn’t have a walk in the park as a kid; who did though? We all fight our own wars. Some of them blow off the inner limbs, while others just leave scars but regardless you can’t come out of the war without a scratch or two when you are thrown into the frontlines by your own family. Nikki could relate, or is it me that can relate to Nikki? He was abandoned by his father, and ditched by his mother and probably wouldn’t be alive if not for his grandmother; his own suffering, his own haunting childhood and depression led to his story. This is my story.

I wasn’t planned and only just barely wanted when I came into the world. My mother and father split and I didn’t blame myself but I was the reason to blame. I don’t recall ever taking it personally, like Nikki. On the good days my mother made me out to be a saviour – without me she might have stayed with my father, wouldn’t have the amazing and spoiled life she has now. I did, however, blame myself for my mother ditching me for my step father; my whole life I’ve lived with never being enough. If I had been enough I convinced myself that she would never had needed my step father, wouldn’t forget me quite so quickly for him; wouldn’t make me out to be a monster while he became her saint. I was tainted goods; dirty and had ideas that had yet to form and were uncertain; in short, I wasn’t stable. My step father was – he was a grown man who had determined his career goals and how life would be for him. So soon my godly status was thrown out the window and I was her “********” child instead of the baby that had once saved her life. So when my mother wished I was never born, when she wanted to kill me, it was my grandmother that came to my rescue. We have always been close – and we will be until her life is ripped from this world, from me, and I’m left to at last deal with my mother on my own. I’m already running in the opposite direction with the shelter of my grandmother; some days I wonder how I’m supposed to face the monster that birthed me without shelter or protection later on but for now it’s simply too much to think about.

Monster; how many children out of fear call their mother that? In Auburn alone, my guess is not very many. Nikki suffers addiction and depression – I do too. He blames his father, his mother, and himself – I do too. I found myself shoved into a world of two fathers, one was a saint, the other was drilled into my head to be an “a*****e” and I don’t disagree with either of these titles for my fathers. I also had and continue to have an emotional wreck of a mother so broken and oblivious to her bi-polar attitude that she quickly became very emotionally and verbally abusive and at times even physically abusive. I blame my step father for becoming the saint I was supposed to be, my biological father for being such a loser who didn’t care enough to change for me, and my abusive mother for turning me into a monster and painting my wings black so-to-speak. I blame myself most of all though, for never being enough, for being myself, for my father’s blood tainting any chance at being more like my step father. All I can be is a monster; all I was born to do was suffer this fate. I grew up wanting to save people, hoping that my suffering had a cause to justify it later. I still don’t know the answer to that; I’m still suffering and I haven’t made a significantly positive difference in anyone’s life that I’m aware of.

Now I’m suffering from unofficial but rather obvious depression; even reading this book about the worst time of Nikki’s life makes me smile, makes me want to be in his drug addicted, rotting shoes. That’s generally a good sign [insert sarcasm here], when becoming a really messed up drug addict slowly rotting away with nothing but his own hallucinations seems like a good thing. In the past month, I’ve wished that were me almost every day, I gather likely 90% of the time I sit and contemplate doing something as stupid as heroin not to get high but so I can make myself suffer a little more and then just rot away. I’m practically addicted to heroin without having ever tried it – not even once in earth shattering honesty. It still consumes me, I don’t need it to be addicted to it; I know what it could do for me and I crave it. I know that it would end this, end me, and I feel an uncontrollable need for it. More than drugs though, I’m addicted to my mother. Which is the worst part, but she’s very much like a drug – she’s the thing that is slowly driving me crazy, the thing that haunts me and feeds on my body and she eats me alive but I can’t help but let her “because she’s my mother” (my all time favourite excuse to use on myself, even more than others) and I need to feed the monster. I think Nikki and I would connect a lot in that sense. I think what he feels for heroin; I equally match in feeling towards my mother. It’s sick; I thought mothers were supposed to be a good thing. I watch my friends’ mothers, how they have raised and continue to raise their children and I’m wonder. It seems so foreign and so completely wrong. I think of my friends and how they seem to be “ok”. I compare myself to them and I seem “ok” too, on the outside.

Then I accidentally think about my insides, and I’m revolted by myself; how could something so dark and insane be allowed to live? Who in their right mind could even fathom writing this far? This is the state I write my best in though; the state where part of me is screaming for a straight jacket before I lose myself in this black abyss to the point where I can’t come back out and put on my Superstore smile with my polite questions, my quiet thoughts and opinions. Nikki injected himself with needles; I like needles but I never was one to be an idiot in typical mannerisms and instead I inject myself with my mother’s abuse every day. Even after moving out, I wake up to the words “b***h from hell” and go to sleep wondering what I’m doing in English 12 Advanced when I could barely get myself out of bed a few hours before. Advanced courses are for smart people; when did I ever learn to be smart? I didn’t; all of my knowledge is based on mere survival, not wisdom. I’m writing this Book Portfolio to survive, not because I can see that I’ll gain from it later in life. There is no later – there’s only now; right here - this moment. I’m fighting for my life and nobody even knows it simply because I don’t have some terminal illness that puts me in a white room resembling death with needles and tubes stuck in me so they can get the furnace ready to make my ashes. I hope for the sakes of others that not many can feel such a strong connection to Nikki Sixx – that’s a good sign of needing some intense help. I don’t need needles – they don’t touch the place I am, I probably wouldn’t feel them even if I tried. That sweet pressure of a liquid substance being forced through your veins like my mother’s words are forced into my ears. Physical decaying can’t match the mental decaying that takes place beforehand; the body has no choice but to follow the mind. The only real difference is that Nikki was addicted to running from his problems, and I am addicted to running into mine like I’m a deer in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.