Post by jeydon alexandre lansing; on Dec 6, 2011 22:04:31 GMT -5
JEYDON ALEXANDRE LANSING, 21, LIPS LIKE MORPHINE- PHOTOGRAPHER, BISEXUAL, BLUNT Before I start, I warn you. My story isn't filled with delightful little times of happiness and beauty. I abhor everything that has happened to me, I could care less about any of it, but it seems like I should just go on and get everything out into the open, I shouldn't hide under a facade of false facts. You see, I was born to a couple of nineteen year old's. You know, didn't use protection like mom and dad said. They decided that it would be the best to not even attempt to raise me, and they shipped me off to Petaluma, California. At first, my parents thought I was blind because my eyes were, and still are, a striking ice blue. Eventually they figured out that I was partially colorblind. It never really hindered me in any way, minus in Grammar school when I completely failed coloring. It doesn't really matter anymore, minus when I'm color correcting photographs, and then sometimes it helps. The colors that I am naturally stronger with are so easier to work with, and everything just works out. Although, being such a perfectionist, it doesn't look good enough to me, but as long as those around me liked it, I guess I can't complain that much. I excelled through my school work, a bit of a nerd if you will, and I guess it all started in fifth grade. I was considered the uncool guy. I was harassed daily for different things- my large adoptive family, my appearance, the fact I was colorblind, and to this day I don't understand why any of it was bad. Not like I could control any of it. I couldn't dye my skin another color, I couldn't correct my eyesight, I couldn't run away from home and hope to get a picturesque family. It just wasn't possible. Day by day I got a bit darker, I suppose. I transformed over a few years, and the moment I hit the second semester of seventh grade, people harassed me for being the stereotypical “emo” kid. I guess I brought that hammer down onto myself. I wore mostly black, my hair was already black and styled in the fashion, and I'll admit I started self harm because I let all the comments get to me. I fell into some drugs, and ended up with the burnouts. I was no longer doing well in school, I was no longer the nice guy I used to be. I had transformed into a nightmarish thing, something that should only be dawned in the ugliest of situations. It wasn't too easy at home either. My mom kind of acted oblivious to everything that was going on, but I knew she knew. I was a bit of a momma's boy too. I loved her to death because she was always there for me, always holding me close when I was in pain, always turning her eyes the other way when I got high, always believed me when I said the cat scratched me again... My dad, on the other hand, was a tough lover. He screamed at me if he found a bottle of pills, or a joint or blunt. He wouldn't let me out of the house. I'd often get into fights with him and have mommy dearest help me sneak out of the house. Kind of an odd situation, but it didn't really matter. I was eventually peer pressured into drinking at seventeen, and that night was probably the worst night of my life. I was easily pushed over my limit, and ended up hitting on some girl at some bar. We made our way to her apartment, as she was probably years older than I, and after that it was all a blur. The moment I woke up, I realized I wasn't in my own bed. I got up, and was about to head out from being just a teenager, when I saw the girl laying across her bed, lifeless. Apparently, my drunk friends followed us as well, and after a long, brutal fight, they basically raped her. Although, disoriented me only thought shirtless me, plus dead, harmed girl, equaled my fault. I gathered up everything and ran for my life. One of the weaker ones in the group eventually fessed up what happened, and I stopped hanging around the people. I became a loner once again. The scars reappeared on my wrists, and instead of smoking a blunt or pocketing pills, I just delved into photography. That didn't last long when the cops came to the house and pinned me to their cars, handcuffing me with ease. I guess the group of my so called friends turned me in, and I was stuck. My dad was a raging lunatic. My mom was shocked. I talked to her though, and she believed me the second I shakily told her what happened. She easily nodded, and found the guy who had originally told me I didn't do it. After weeks, I was released once again, able to finish up high school while going through countless hells of the American Judgment system. I was back and forth between being guilty and being free. The girl's parents wanted to kill me, as did my own father. People all over town were harassing me for it, and I guess I didn't blame them. This is when my old parents stepped in. I had kept my original name- Jeydon Rust- and they knew the name the second it flashed onto their television screens. Who wouldn't? It isn't just a coincidence when a kid with the same name your kid had, and roughly the same age and appearance he should have. Now both at a peak age of thirty-seven, (it took roughly a year for this all to play out) they couldn't have their one and only son from ages ago to haunt their current jobs and opportunities. They stepped in, appearing at my door step one day. Its kinda weird when you open your door to be staring into the same green (or rather, actually blue) eyes you had. I recoiled in shock, waiting for them to explain, and when they explained, I slammed the door in their faces. Could you imagine all the stuff I went through? All the hell and the pain of them not wanting me? Yeah, times that by about thirty and you have a fraction of what I felt that day. I eventually, after about a years worth of coaxing in an afternoon, met with them face to face, and the balls they had, asking I either came back with them or changed my name. I don't know why, but my dear mother urged me on to go and live with them again, so that's exactly what I did, bringing only my dog and my camera to the hell across the country. I ended up in some small town in New York to truly finish out high school, the drama following with ease. I slipped back into depression, and the more I fought it, the harder it came on. I headed into college as a rather quiet guy, learning how to master photography and its ins and outs, and before I knew it, I wasn't only somewhat famous for my horrid run in with the law, but for my photography. I settled with touring around with a band- that band being Lips Like Morphine, constantly hiding my past of murder and rape. My parents- the biological ones- always hate that I'm sitting on a tour, “wasting my life away to nothing”. My mother, the one who I actually pride to say raised me, supports me every step of the way. She's more like a friend than a mother though, and I suppose that's what made us ever so close. I call her rather often, and whenever the tour hits California, or I get a chance to head there, I visit and spend time with my adoptive siblings and her. Its nice to be able to have somewhere to always go back to, even though I don't have a proper home minus a tour bus. I guess I like tour life style, I mean, its better than sitting around doing nothing every day. I get meals daily, I have a place to stay, and I get to take pictures of music, two things that I just adore to pieces. The fact that I actually like the band I'm taking pictures of helps a ton too. It wouldn't be too nice to be listening to music I hated while I did something I loved. So here I am, lets hope nothing else happens, now shall we? I doubt I'd be that lucky. FLEA, 15, PM/AIM |
