Two years ago, I had nothing. Okay, maybe not nothing

I was slowly building a bridge away from home; finally escaping the dredges of Long Island by adding hours at a job I actually enjoyed going to, despite my philosophical differences with the company. My timeline was being created; my future looked bright.

I had almost nothing. Nothing but a plan.

I was satisfied with my life, but I wasn’t happy. Loneliness was my co-pilot. My mother never had another child, and the two sons my father had in an earlier marriage haven’t been in my life since he died.

The only child in a widowed family. My mother suffered more tragedy two years later when her mother died. I didn’t know her too well, so it didn’t hit me that hard. Still, it affected my family.

Twenty-six. That’s how many aunts and uncles I have. Fifteen on my mother’s side, but maybe two of them actually wanted me in their lives. I only remember two on my father’s side. Bucha, a really cool woman who lost her eyesight, and eventually her life, to diabetes. Carlos, a man’s man who took over the family farm in Puerto Rico because everyone else wanted to move to “Nueva York”. From what I hear, I have a lot of cousins thanks to him.

Of all my family, most of them couldn’t pick me out in a line-up if I were the only one in it. Sadly, the same is said in return. Other than an aunt and uncle on my mother’s side, I haven’t seen anyone in Probably ten years. Wait, that’s not true. My aunt-in-law died two summers ago. A bunch of family was there, along with friends of hers. I couldn’t tell the difference.

For the record, I was a blatantly only child. After my father died, it felt as if my family deserted me. I gladly returned the favor on those useless, lying slugs. “We’ll be there for you,” they’d say. Sure you would, when you need something.

Since then, it was all about “Number One”. Had to be. My mother was too busy trying to fight me and blame herself for my father’s death. My uncle, who once promised to teach me how to drive and buy me a car told me to get a job, pay for my own lessons, and look for my own car. And those were the people in my life.

For the most part, I did pretty well, considering. My mom was hoping I would be a doctor; I took a much-lower-salaried career path in broadcasting. She wanted me to get my Bachelor’s at least. I chose to walk away with an Associates. Barely. She wanted me to buy a house. I continue to choose living in apartments.

To her, my life sucked, I was a loser, and she would gladly tell me so every chance she got, Every time she made me feel like crap, I smiled. She hated me, I believed. The feeling was very mutual.

Things change. Sometimes it takes time; other times something drastic occurs.

I have several things to be thankful for. I have life to mold. I have love to cherish, I have hope. That means more to me than my “career”, an unsatisfying fold of nothingness filled with egotistical idiots more concerned with who they are than the people listening in their cars or watching them on television. It still disgusts me to know a ten-year veteran couldn’t get a job in radio because the program director’s cousin was looking for a part-time job to support their college tuition.

It’s a new chapter in my life.