Pat, 44, Orland Hills
>>The prompt: 400-word autobiography
I’ve always wanted more out of life. I grew up in an EXTREMELY religious household with tons of restrictions. I’ve always tried to get more—never got it.
Got married to Sherman at nineteen—guess it was because he asked me. I wanted more from marriage, never got it. Wasn’t he supposed to work? Guess he didn’t think so. Got divorced a year later.
Later I met John. I loved him. Two months later, I was “with child,” his child. Did I really want a baby—being religious and all? At twenty-two, I had my baby girl. Later, he started flaking out. I wanted things to be better between us. They weren’t. Four years later, I married him anyway—guess it was because he asked me. Men aren’t supposed to hit women, are they? Guess he didn’t know that. Got divorced two years later.
Dated interracially for while—I wanted more from him—a real commitment. I was twenty-nine. He’d never marry me. He was married to his beer. Isn’t a constant overindulgence in beer called alcoholism? I guess he didn’t think so. Broke up with him three years later.
I hate my low paying job, my car keeps breaking down, I’m broke all the time. I hate being the only single parent at functions. I do love my daughter. How can I love her if I hate everything, including me?
Dated off and on for years. Still wanting more—I never got it, until I met Anthony and fell in love. Three months later, I was 36, we got married—HEY, he asked me. Then, I ‘m downsized from my crappy job, got severance pay, bought a semi-truck, started a trucking company. I’m thinking, now I’m really on top—this is what it’s like to be happy. That’s what I get for thinking.
My daughter’s an adolescent with a mental problem. Anthony’s a mental problem acting like an adolescent. They fight more than Tyson & Holyfield. The trucking company’s going to #@$!. We should have more. I’m tired of struggling. When you start a business, aren’t you supposed to work at it to earn enough money to live? Guess Anthony didn’t think so. Got divorced three years later. I was forty and thrice divorced. But I was happy for a few months.
I’m forty-four and still looking for more. The fat lady hasn’t sung for me yet.
Pat – Age 44 – Orland Hills, IL
from 400 Words, Issue 1–Autobiographies
page 70
1 Comment