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I have tried to write an autobiography for years. Why? Because only when it is all on paper (or screen) will it all seem real. From where I sit today, my life seems as odd and ethereal as a dream or non-linear movie.

In University, I tried writing the autobiography as a series of personal essays. That was a lovely place to start. I have also tried writing it from the beginning. That is where I will begin here. I will keep it short and free of excess.

Born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1974, the first major event of my life was being thrown out of a window as a baby. The house was on fire and I landed in a snow bank, along with three other babies. At about age one, we moved to New York. Wait. That 'we' cannot stand alone. I have to explain who 'we' means.

My mother joined a nomadic, communal cult a few years after getting married in 1963. She left her husband and took their son, never having contact with the man again. The cult moved all over the USA and Canada, even dabbling in the UK and Mexico for a time. She married a British fellow, had another son and the cult settled in New York City. They wore long, black cloaks, scary pendants, and sold extremist literature on the streets in order to fund their operations. They all lived in a rented building in Manhattan.

I was born four years after my mom's second son. My two older brothers and I only share a mother. I found out who my father was when I was six. The cult did not care for family ties and commitments, so children of cult members were kept in one place and watched over by anybody who could not successfully sell the literature on the streets.

So this is who 'we' is. The cult and especially the kids. They were quasi-siblings. But we knew, or rather believed, that we were not all related by blood. It turns out that many of us actually share one parent. Hey, it was the sixties, man.

In any case, I spent my first seven years on the East Coast and in New England. Then I lived in Denver, then Dallas, with about twenty other kids who were going to the cult's sad little private school.

I left that cult when it dissolved in 1991. I moved in with my father and his second wife. My mom was his first wife, by the way. I called all of these parental units by their first name. Only when I was 22 did I start to call my father "Dad."

So I didn't really understand family, what it meant and what relationships were all about.

I write because this confusion which has now transformed into understanding has defined my life and I have to understand it better. I write because I have countless stories in my head that are aching to get out on paper. I write because I want to be published so badly it hurts sometimes. I write because it is a mirror into who I am, what I know, what I want to know, and where I want to be and go. I write because it moves me.

I found Helium and this place has helped me make writing the number one priority for me. I know that I will be able to use this site to become a better and more accomplished... and published!... writer.

This long story is shortened. Beatings, emotional abuse, years of blood-burning fury, and almost two decades of emotional bankruptcy have been left out.

But I must include forgiveness. Seven times seventy. This has been my goal for the last decade. Forgiveness. It is freeing and empowering. I recommend it more than I recommend my grandmother's hot cocoa recipe.

Learn more about this author, Jared Garrett.
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