It was a purple, and green incredible Hulk tricycle. I was 3. It was in our living room, with a ribbon on it. I asked My mom why it was here, and was it for Me, as My birthday was close by then. She told Me it was for a neighbors son, and they didnt want him to see it. She then gave strict orders it wasnt to be touched. So all I could do was sit and look at it longingly, wishing I had one like it for Myself. On My birthday, it had My name on it, and a card saying happy birthday to the greatest son. Parents can be silly....

We were shopping in a store, I was nearly four years old. Something caught My eye when I was looking on a shelf. A toy tool kit complete with functioning drill. I remember clinging sweaty little plams to the package, pointing at the little plastic parts, and bright wrapping. Tonka always had nice toys. So did Playskool. Several times passed we went to the same store, and I still say the pretty box and sighed to Myself, saying nothing. maybe I didnt have to. it was wrapped, and waiting for Me on My birthday. The only birthday I ever had a party for.

We were bad kids. Between all of us we had our parents ripping their hair out. I was 8 years old. Christmas eve came, and we knew Santa wouldnt be coming to see us. How could he? Mom and Dad were adamant, Santa wouldnt come to our house, so we should be lucky for a candycane. The hours passed that night, and in the morning we woke to a strange, but odd sight. I refused to come out of My room, and instead cried for My misfortunes. but beckoned by My siblings I went out shuffling My feet, in My Winnie the Pooh jammies with the little closed off feet. Pouting. In front of our Christmas tree was a big brown bag, and a note tied to the tree. behind them, was to this day the largest pile of presents Id ever seen. The note was wrtten in a handwriting I didnt know, the bag full to the brim of black coal. Santa gave us the benifit of the doubt. And things were brighter than they proved they would be. Again, I was surprized.

We were in a homeless shelter. Sometimes called emergency housing when talking about the poor, on welfare. ironically enough this "shelter" was in one of NY's richest neighborhoods. It isnt easy being the poor kid, surrounded by wealth. Its a cruel teasing. The time was Christmas, long ago....we had been moving around every few months for the past few years, for as long as I could remember. I went to 4 diffrent schools for 3rd grade alone. It was Cristmas eve, and someone came to our house and they brought a tree with them, randomly, unknowingly to our parents as well. As a child Christmas represented goodness, and to have even a tree was special. I even colored a fire for the fireplace which of course had no fire. Several hours later, there was another knock, late in the evening. it was a young couple, in fur coats. They told us they had a surprize for us. Out in their car, was 4 large bags os something. Presents. They left us smiling, and wishing us a Merry Christmas.....I never found out their names.

It was our first new home, rented, and out of shelters. In the earlier months, we had been told that all of our personal belongings, entrusted to the welfare dept for storage would be given back to us so we could try and live seminormal lives. All of our things, wedding pictures, baby pictures, furniture, toys, clothes, and hierlooms, without our knowledge, had been liquidated in a public auction. All because welfare decided to not pay for the storage anymore. They tried to claim it was all junk anyway. Just because we were poor how could we have anything of value. So anything that wasnt of value, was thrown away, everything else was sold to the lowest bidder. My moms wedding dress, the bed all of us were concieved in, solid wood cannonball bed. It alone weighed 400lbs. All wood furniture, a new couch, TV's. Junk they said. It was all investigated, and they finally admitted wrongdoing. We were compensated with some beds, and a couch. Thats it. My entire life was stolen from Me, and we got beds. That Christmas, in bare home...we had a small tree. Christmas day came, and beneath the tree there was one present for each of us. Wrapped in a black garbage bag. I knew, they in their pride tried the hardest they could to give us a good Christmas. Poor and with nothing Ive never felt so proud of them. Mom and Dad. I cried. I was 13 years old.

I heard music over the loudspeakers. Jingle Bell Rock. And they were serving chow in the mess decks. it was Christmas eve, Adriatic Sea, 8 miles from the costs of Bosnia, and there was a chance we would be going into combat, Christmas Day. Dinner was turkey, ham, and all the fixings. There was a USO show in the hangar bay with comedians, and some musicians. The Commandant even came by, to wish us a happy holidays, and to praise our sacrifices. I pulled firewatch that night, as the clock struck midnight. The gear all lined up on the ramp to the flight deck, weapons, ammo, and gear. It was My first Christmas away from home.

The sun was a hot one this day. There were celebrations all over, and I wasnt in the mood. It was Christmas day. And I was told to report to the beach, for a "mandatory good time". Okinowa isnt where I thought I would be. So far away, and longing for a new chance somewhere diffrent. I didnt know what I was going to do. I went scuba diving instead.

She was crying on the phone. We lost the baby, and she was blaming herself. All I could do was listen, and promise her she wasnt a killer. Tell her how much I loved her. And it was then I proposed marraige, and told her I would give her all the chances she wanted for children. It was November. Weeks passed, and she grew distant. I knew something was wrong, but she told me there was nothing wrong. I called her. A man answered. I aksed for her. I aksed where she was, she replied "in bed".

With him?

"well yes".

Why?

"why not?"

Your leaving Me arent you...

"yes"

Why?

"your too nice Patrick...."

Fuck.

Christmas eve, I stripped and waded into the Atlantic ocean. Letting the cold take My pain away. Clutching the silver promise band on My ring finger, I prayed, and asked God why Me. Why did this have to happen. He never answered. That was My first unsuccessful attempt at dying. I hate and love Christmas. There are many times I want My heart to stop in place, and save me from what comes next. it never seems to get better, and I have less now, than I ever did.

I have no faith anymore. I have nothing to show me there is anything worth sticking around for, except for a promise I made Myself. To not quit. To not waste an oppertunity, My one oppertunity at life. So here I remain. I know Im diffrent. I also know I think diffrently than most. But I am by no means alone in memories like this one. One of many in fact. I couldnt have been the only one looking to the sky that day. I couldnt have been the only one in pain, praying for the end to ccome. And I wont be the last. Know I am here, watching out for those like me. Maybe, I can help a few along the way. And live forever in their hearts and minds....as a good man. A decent man. An honorable man. That is where I will find heaven.