by Kyle Tibbetts

Created on: March 27, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

I am me. There is no other like me, nor would I ever wish for such a thing. I have faults about me that sometimes I wish that I could rid myself of, but then, that just wouldn't be me. If you can compare, dear God, I hope that you can handle it far better than I have in the past, even presently. But none the less, I am me, and this is my story.

Like many, I grew up in a broken family. My father, an alcoholic, and a very jealous man. It only seemed right that his first born would grow up to follow in his footsteps, although we always say, "I will never be like that man!", but it's not how we see ourselves anymore, it's what others see in us. The only thing that I did not take from that man, was his ability to turn his back, and walk away from what should have been everything in his life. Us. My mother, such a beautiful woman, so strong and determined to make it, to provide a better life for her children. I know that at times it must have felt unbearable, so overwhelming to her that we had to struggle, but we were making it, we were together, and we were happy. So many sacrifices made for the well being of her children. Night after night that she would not eat so that we could, or she wouldn't sleep wondering if the man that called himself our father would come and take us from her. Not because he cared though, no, never, because he knew that if he had us, he wouldn't have to pay her the money to make sure we were ok. It's funny how money even then played a role in whether or not you were loved, or even thought of for that matter. We had very little. What we called home for some time was actually a school bus that belonged to my mothers' older sister, that had been converted into kind of an RV. They would use it to go on hunting trips when the season was open. It had heat, and beds, running water, everything you would expect to find in a real RV with the exception of a bathroom. It was located conveniently down the street from the truckers' lodge that my mother waitressed at for what little money she would get. As strong a woman that she was then, and even now, it still amazes me how like my father I really have turned out to be. I was three then, we were in Alaska, and it was the last time that I felt him to be my father.

Eventually, after a long time of being down, moving from home to home, my mother finally met who would later become my step father. He was in the Army, stationed in Anchorage, it was only by chance that they would meet. Mom didn't want to

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