So it's been a while, still struggling, still surviving. But I also have gained a better and greater understanding of what makes me tick and how. I've done some soul searching and didn't necessarily like what it was that I found. Some memories should stay buried as they serve no purpose other than to harm.
Perhaps it was not love that I needed but acceptance, understanding, compassion ... never pity.
I want to tell my story, because when I am gone, all the memories of past events, family gatherings, familial history, stories, so many stories, all gone. 
One of my greatest regrets is not hearing/coaxing stories from one of my aunts who had an eidetic memory and writing them down, or recording them. She was amazing. None of her grandchildren, or anyone else that I know of, showed any interest in her as a repository of massive amounts of personal history. 
So I'm hoping to be able to leave a little something behind and I'll add and expand as I am able.
In all likelihood no one is going to read this and if they do I hope that (it's actually for my grandchildren) they paid attention in English class because I'm not writing this in German. Not that I couldn't, it would just take me about five times as long, and ... "ain't nobody got time for that" 😃 (or even know/understand that reference).
So I'm struggling with, where to start. Can't just start on the day I popped out of my mom and into the world. There were still "formative" things afoot that I had no control over and which would mark me (and my mom) for the rest of our lives. 
So I'll start with what I know from family history and personal stories I myself heard from some of the folks in this narrative. 
On my fathers side of the family, hmmmm, what can I say that is truthful and still respectful ... darn it, it's just not going to happen, Ok, here's the deal. From what I know (grandma let it slip once) my grandfather was a lifelong member of the Southern Baptist church and Ku Klux Klan, very right wing, white supremacist evangelical ... blah blah blah, evil person, end of story.
So here's a story that I heard from my mom that she said my dad told her one evening when he was at home drinking instead of being out drinking. 
When he was 7 or 8, maybe 10 years old his mom sent him to the store to buy some things she had run out of and needed to finish ... I think it was baking ... with a list and the exact change he needed to pay.
Guess it was something they always got so she knew how much it cost. 
Anyhow, my dad comes home with exactly what was on the list plus a piece of candy that he had in his mouth.
Since he didn't have enough money to buy the candy it only goes to reason that he stole it, right?
My grandfather, an upstanding pillar of the community, big honcho with the klan and church, took my dad and chained him to the tree in the front yard with a sign around his neck "I am a Thief!" and left him there all day and well into the night before my grandmother was allowed to unchain him.
Turns out the grocer had given my dad the candy for free because he was such a good boy to run an errand for his mom. 
My mom, who told me that story, said that there were other horrible things that my dad had told her and she'd seen/heard herself, but she wouldn't elaborate. So those stories are lost, perhaps for the better. 
But it does set the stage for more drama to come.

My dad, the youngest, joined the Army as soon as he could. For some reason that I could never find out he was discharged from the Army, maybe he'd done his allotted time/tour, I just don't know, and rejoined the military in the Air Force. 
While he was still in the Army he was stationed in Germany where he met my mom. He was barely 19 and she was a few years older than he, 23, 24. They fell in love and she became pregnant with me.
Here's where my story begins and my mom's gets worse.
At that time, seeing as how old my dad was, barely 19 he needed to get parental permission to get married.
"What in Jehovah's jaundiced jowls do you think you are ... blah blah blah" or so I imagine would have been the reaction of my grandfather after finding out that his future daughter in law was a Kraut and to top it off, Catholic.
Needless to say he didn't get permission, that is until they found out my mom was pregnant, and even then it was a struggle. They finally got permission to marry sometime in April, I was born in March.
The only flaming red haired little mixed bastard in the family. My mom and I never lived that down, she for stealing their son and me for having the audacity of being born without their permission. 
My dad tried to stay stationed far away for as long as possible I suppose, but there were times worlds collided and it was never pretty.

What else can I say/write other than my brother, Mathias, and I grew up in two totally different households. Years later we talked and he does not remember any of the things I do, we also diverged greatly over the years as far as ideology/religion/politics/everything. He is so far to the Right of my Left in thinking that it is difficult to find any common ground anymore. And that's very sad.
Mathias was the jock, the wrestler, the cool guy who taught himself to play guitar like a God (I was very proud of him and boasted about him whenever I could) he could take a car apart, put it back together and have a pile of important looking parts left over and have it running better than it did before.
Although he was three years younger than I, I still looked up to him because he did things I so wanted to be able to but could never even dream of achieving. 
Even as teens, we started to drift apart and I think both of us never really tried to keep any relationship alive.
"Mathias stories" will have to wait for another day, they'll be there, just not quite yet.
I can only guess at the demons that haunted my dad and I try to keep any thoughts of him far away. But I guess I'll have to revisit some of the worst days if I want them to be remembered in my story. My dad drank and my dad worshiped at the altar of pussy, just not my moms. He was inherently racist, maybe through no fault of his own ... I mean, look at where he came from. My grandfather was very bad, my dad was bad but he tried (I think/hope) to be better.
I prayed and prayed, "Lord God in Heaven, do NOT bless me with a son. I wanted that cycle to be broken. God/Gaia/Goddess, whatever is out there interfering with our lives, decided to bless me with two wonderful daughters, whom I love so very much to this day and until my dying breath. 

A whole bunch of little vignettes along the way and I'll get to them in due time. But now, I need to get these other things down and I'll flesh it out a little more at a later date.
 

I’ve died so much on the inside that I am thinking of allowing the outside to follow suit. Love yourself, find your bliss, confront your fears, do what you love … all these things I’ve been told, all these things are far beyond my reach. What I lack, need, desire, is love, true, real, honest love. I need that more than I need the air to breathe to keep this failing body going another day. Not only as a recipient, but as the giver of. I long to be able to openly love again, to be happy, to have those endorphin's kick in and my pupils expand and my skin to pimple every time I see my, certain someone, and know that those sensations are returned in like. That’s never going to happen though. I am not that man, I am not any man actually, just a beat, whipped and terribly abused little boy stuck in a body not of his liking or making. Forever afraid and forever quick to judge and hate and think the worst of people instead of the best. Forever afraid.

Evenings are the toughest. The hardest time to stay present, and not fade away. I struggle with the fact that there truly is no one in my life, no one that really cares, and would be deeply touched should something untimely happen to me. I NEED someone, so terribly badly, I am so very afraid to be alone much longer. It is no longer enough, it never was, but I now know that there's no use in waiting anymore. There isn't going to be anyone, ever again. Apparently I'm not worth the trouble or effort. I'm done.

Here and now, in the beginning, let a new life, a new perspective come to fruition. I'll do myself the kindness and unburden myself here in the hopes that it will prove cathartic. I am floundering and struggling on a daily basis and find that it is getting harder to stay present. My mind (and heart) wander and dream of a place (and person) that is not to be, can never be. There’s no one to tell, there’s no one to share with, no one to bare myself to, to whisper of my shattered dreams, no one to tell about the barbs of pain that wrap not only my body but my soul, the very core of my soul, no one to share the hidden corners with, no one to hold and stand hand in hand and gaze upon the rising sun, or its setting in all its glory. No one to keep me from falling farther, no one to keep me from letting the light escape, no one. Ever will I try to improve myself through research and through meditation in the hopes I'll find peace, or a semblance thereof in this lifetime of yearning and learning. There's a lesson hidden in every lifetime, and it's ours to find.