CONFESSIONS OF A BIPOLAR FIREFIGHTER

AuthorHouse

Contents

Acknowledgements...........................................1Disclaimer.................................................5Preface....................................................7My Youth...................................................13Middle School..............................................30Seventh Grade..............................................30Eighth Grade...............................................40Ninth Grade................................................48Tenth Grade................................................63Eleventh Grade.............................................77Senior Year................................................89Thumbing...................................................101The Rest of '69............................................115Bipolar....................................................1221970-1973..................................................128Salvation..................................................155My Early Family............................................174Firefighting: The Early Years..............................182Family and Church..........................................200My Family: Part Two........................................211The Nutt Children..........................................222Around My Wife's Death.....................................238James L. Finally Breaks....................................2492001.......................................................259Annie Wilkes...............................................2679/11.......................................................271Homeland Security..........................................281Our Relationship...........................................290My Last Days as Chief: Columbus Fiasco.....................297Rehab......................................................304I Retire...................................................312Running for Mayor..........................................320The Last Debate............................................333Prologue...................................................340Cast of Characters.........................................342The Story Unfolds: Setup Number One........................352Setup Number Two...........................................357The Mickey.................................................366The Next Day...............................................382Wait, It Doesn't Stop......................................394My Vengeance...............................................406God's Ways.................................................437References.................................................457

Chapter One

It's not easy to lose all the time, but I promise you I can do it. Drew Carey, Jim Carrey, Cliff Clavin and Rick Moranis fail on the silver screen, but I have done it to myself and others throughout my real life. You know, my life would be comical if it wasn't true.

Your best bet in understanding me and how I tick will be if I start at my youth. For starters, I was a breach birth, which means I entered this world ass first. I was born in a small Northeast Ohio town that I like to call Worn Out. We get maybe 40 days of sunshine a year, and it always seems overcast. The area received more rain than Seattle a few years ago. They say the buildings used to make bombs during WWII called the Ravenna Arsenal were built in Northeast Ohio because of the cloudiness. Have you ever heard of seasonal affectional disorder? Well, some of us have it all year round. I'm not putting a blanket over everyone, so let's just say it's prevalent.

People visit from areas around the country and shake their heads at the way some of these people act. They could watch an old woman have problems with her supermarket cart and not lift a finger. A simple "Hi" or a smile is hard to come by. It's sad, isn't it? I tend to be happy and upbeat when I'm manic, and even that pisses these people off.

My family moved from Worn Out to a more rural area seven miles away named Champion, Ohio when I was 2-years-old. The new homestead had neighbors nearby but was still considered the country. I wasn't exactly sure why we moved, but I have a gut feeling.

Abuse takes different forms, but some say sexual abuse experienced by a small boy is the worst because of how the young male child's machismo is affected. I can recall one instance while living in Champion when I was passed from one man to another. I remember telling them "It hurts, it hurts" and then crying. Since I wasn't facing them, I can't remember what they looked like. I do recollect one man having a hand with his ring finger cut off at the second joint. I can also recall one of their names. This created a memory tattoo that could never wash away.

Repressed memory is a bitch. It's like you're fighting shadows your whole life, which I think is how your ups and downs start. You start reflecting back to that horror, then try to live your life, and then reflect back. Do-overs or erasers are not an option. Life travels from subliminal flashes of unimaginable pain and back to reality. Having this reoccur repeatedly throughout the course of a lifetime can be as unhealthy as it gets. There is never any sustained joy or happiness.

Out in the country we ice-skated, fished and ate wheat and berries in the field. Isn't that pretty normal? Blackberries grew in the woods in our backyard. We put them on our cereal, which I thought to be a big deal. A stream ran a few houses down and was stocked with multiple varieties of fish. My half brother Rich Jr. claimed bluegill, catfish, and a few exotic fish such as pike or pickerel were in the stream. An older kid lived three doors down from me, and he hunted with his dad. I used to see deer hanging and squirrel pelts at their house and wished Richard, who I thought was my dad when I was younger, would do that with me.

Richard worked afternoon turn at a manufacturing plant and was never home. He was the type of person to follow the carrot on the stick by working the afternoon shift for the extra 25 cents an hour, which is not uncommon today. Or did he choose the afternoon shift so he could drink after work? I do remember getting slapped and beat with a cane made from whatever wood grows in Borneo. The wood had rings around it and was four feet in length and had on one end a steel white door knob. Occasionally, I would get the door knob end.

My lifelong friend John T. used to live caddy corner across the street from me when we were younger. He told me he used to be able to hear me scream from the beatings. I would like to see the cane again just to bring back some of those good old memories. Richard would always say "Why don't you straighten up and fly right?" after he slapped me. Later in life, me and a buddy named Jim who I worked with down at the fire station used to laugh hysterically about this. I think Jim's old man used to slap him around too. You laugh to hide the pain.

I wasn't a bedwetter and didn't torment animals or start fires, but something was definitely amiss. Maybe I used to burn ants with a magnifying glass, but everybody did that. Didn't they? I recall one spring day during the first grade getting a crack or two for grinding on a girl in a sexual way. Now where would a first grader learn that? A similar thing happened again one more time in the third grade. I guess it's "normal" for kids to experiment with their sexuality, but in my case I knew it was wrong. I felt dirty, unclean, and...