My father passed away in 2005. He was not a good man and had abandoned and/or threatened his entire family. We hadn’t spoken in more than 20 years but as the eldest child, I took responsibility for handling his estate. In truth, no one else was going to do it. My aunts and uncles were relieved he was gone, claiming they could finally get a good night’s rest. My youngest brother had been MIA for more than 10 years, so we couldn’t even let him know. And my other brother didn’t care what happened to our father’s remains or his property because to him, our father died when my brother was just a young boy.
Since I lived in Florida and all of this was happening in California, I had to temporarily store my dad’s belongings on our family’s 10-acre property. I needed to return home, but I still I needed to arrange disbursement to the family and the shipment of the items that I was keeping.
Fast forward 2 years, I was now flying to California to seize my inheritance. My father’s sister and brother who lived on the family property got hooked on meth and they were now refusing to give up anything. I feared the confrontation and the very real possibility of alienating my aunt and uncle, but after two years it was time to put all of this madness behind us… even in death, my father was still destroying his family.
My brother drove 3 hours to support me, but he thought I was nuts. He tried to convince me to just let everything go, but I couldn’t. He swore that dad’s stuff was cursed, but to me, dad’s belongings were the only good things I had from him. I had tons of horrible things like shame, abuse, and abandonment, so I was holding onto these items as if they would make everything better. I hoped that his material possessions would give me the smiles that he never did. I thought that riding on his custom swing-arm Harley would be a nice Band-Aid for all of the childhood pain, and I desperately needed that refuge.
When we arrived at the property it was complete chaos. The entire 10-acres looked like a junkyard. My first stop was my dad’s RV. It was filthy and appeared abandoned, but I thought I could drive it away. Until I opened the door. As I lifted the lever I heard a noise, and then the door forcibly flew open. Flies flew out as trash, clothes, and personal belongings came crashing to my feet. The RV was stacked full of junk. When I say “stacked full” I mean literally. I could not even take the first step in. I could not see the furniture, the kitchen, or even the counter as you first entered. The smell was overwhelming. My father’s prized RV had become a hoarder’s paradise and a graveyard for the local vermin.
I started to shake and fought back the tears. I turned around to see my aunt walking towards me. “Hey! What are YOU doing here?” she yelled from across the property. In the two years since I had seen her, she had aged 20 years. She was a mess, her hair was dirty and stringy, her teeth were rotting. Meth will turn even the most beautiful person into something resembling a zombie, and she had not been exempt. This aunt is only 3 years older than me and growing up we were more like sisters, but now I was looking at a stranger.
Even strung out on meth, she recognized my horror and began walking me across the property to find my belongings that were strewn like trash across acres of land. The boat’s upholstery was tattered and torn, and there were three watermelon-sized wasp nests inside of the cabin. The boat trailer’s tires had completely sunk into the dirt and were barely visible. We found other items like collectibles in the chicken coop. The cardboard boxes were crumbling and collapsing from being in soaked in urine and feces. The smells and horror of the situation were overwhelming.
After a few minutes, my uncle stumbled out of his camper. “What the F*** are you doing here?!?” he scoffed as he stumbled towards me. “She’s here to get all of her shit” my aunt yelled. My uncle gave me a dirty look and walked away. He was flesh and bones, and the meth had obviously made him even more ornery than he was before. It was then that I realized that out of all of the siblings, he and my father were the most alike, and that realization scared me.
Suddenly, I heard something behind me and turned around to see my uncle pushing the Harley towards us. I thought it was such a nice gesture! I looked at my brother and gave him a wink; “See! It’s going to be fine!” My Uncle asked how I was going to get the Harley back to Florida, and we chatted as he wiped it down.
Just as I thought everything all was well and we were getting out of there without any issues, he took the rag, shoved it in the gas tank, grabbed a can of lighter fluid and started spraying it all over the bike. He threw his cigarette onto the Harley and it burst into flames. We jumped back from the explosion as he shouted: “Bitch, you’re taking this over my dead body!” My aunt ran over to him, grabbed the nearby hose and put out the fire. It was complete pandemonium and everyone was screaming.
This was the LAST thing I expected! What the hell was happening? My brother was in shock but had the sense to call 911. I could see that the damage to the bike was superficial so I called my uncle an asshole and walked away in disbelief shaking my head.
I hadn’t even taken ten steps when I heard an explosion. He’d lit the bike on fire again! This time I grabbed the hose as my aunt began flailing on her brother trying to get him to stop; he was going to burn down the entire property! She swung at him and he dodged her punches while continuing to toss gas in my and the bike’s direction. Off in the distance, my brother was pacing, trying to get the police to the property immediately.
My aunt finally got my uncle back into his camper and she promised us that going forward there would be peace. She begged me to call-off the cops and I refused. I was shaking; I was furious, in shock, and terrified. I grabbed my brother’s arm and we walked away looking for a place to sit down and gather our thoughts.
I looked back to make sure that my uncle wasn’t out again, and saw the barrels of a shotgun pointed at us. My uncle was sticking his gun out of the camper window, just sitting there, taking aim. I whispered the news to my brother, he told me to remain calm and assured me that he was taking me inside where we could take cover until the cops arrived.
Before we could get inside, an SUV came barreling down the dirt driveway. As the dust settled, two very large men emerged from the car. These guys resembled the band members of ZZ Top, only much, much meaner. I squeezed my brother’s arm in terror.
My uncle had called in back-ups and we were surely dead! We had a gun pointed at our backs and now, two even scarier guys were coming towards us. My brother and I just stood there, frozen in fear. My aunt was nowhere to be found. The cops were nowhere to be found. We were going to die! My brother was right, our dad’s stuff was cursed!
As the guys walked towards us, we inched back. We had nowhere to go. My legs began to give out. I was literally weak at the knees, trembling in fear. My brother tried to steady me, holding me tighter, whispering to stay calm. As these men slowly approached, they were assessing the situation and their guns were in clear sight. I looked behind me, the barrels were still there. I looked up at my brother and whispered: “Where the hell is she?” My brother, barely moving his lips, trying to not move, told me not to worry about her and to remain calm. I couldn’t. These men were there to kill us!
I had totally underestimated the madness of a meth addict and the enormity of the situation. For me, I was simply returning for my belongings, but to my meth-crazed uncle, I was taking everything he had. Tears streaming down my face, trembling and weak yet full of adrenaline, I steadied myself as the men approached. If I was going to die over this, I was going to go down strong.
From about 20 feet away one of them yelled: “I UNDERSTAND WE HAVE SOME ISSUES HERE TODAY!!?!” My brother and I stood there silent, arm in arm, as they continued to approach. A few more steps and the other one shouts “WHAT’S GOING ON HERE!?!?!!” We didn’t respond. The driver then reached into his vest and began to pull something out. I jumped back and ducked while my brother stood firm.
He pulled the piece out but we still couldn’t see what it was. I was trying to hide behind my brother, but that put me in clear view of my uncle. We were sitting ducks!
There were still walking towards us when one of them (finally) announced: “We’re DEA. Where’s your aunt and what the hell is going on here today? The cops are on their way, but we overheard the call and thought we’d come help. We’ve been watching this place for a while. Where’s your aunt?”
I could finally breathe. I wanted to throw my arms around these ZZ Top m’fers and thank them for saving us, but my legs were still shaking. We had made it through the madness, but I had no idea where things would go from there.
We might have been safe but things were hardly solved. Now, my aunt was in danger of going (back) to jail. My uncle was definitely going to jail. Every bit of our inheritance was destroyed. My brother and I were traumatized, and my everyone was enraged. I wondered if my father was watching all of this from hell and laughing.
The next day, while my uncle was tucked away in his cell, I went back to the property. My aunt had avoided any issues with the cops, but as a meth addict herself, she was pissed and unreasonable. I walked around, surveying the damage, destruction, and remembering the previous day’s events. I was still in total shock, not believing that any of this had really happened; it had to be a nightmare.
I decided to go into my uncle’s camper to see if there was indeed a gun pointed at us — like I said, the denial was strong. While a small part of me thought, he could shoot us, I thought it was a scare tactic and he was just being a total dick. But when I walked in, my heart sank. The day before, I was terrified of the single shotgun pointed at us, but the truth was there were two shotguns and two rifles, all locked and loaded, sitting right below the window. He had a small arsenal assembled, and a stockpile of ammo ready to go. My uncle was fully prepared to kill his niece and nephew and probably would have if the DEA ZZ Top dudes didn’t show up.
My flight home didn’t leave for another three days. Those days and nights were filled with constant fear because I had no idea when my uncle was going to be released from jail. We assumed that they couldn’t keep him for too long, so I was constantly looking over my shoulder. I couldn’t sleep because I knew that if he had a second chance at me, he would take it. In his mind, not only did I try to take the stuff from him, but now, I had also gotten him thrown in jail. There was literally not a peaceful moment until I left. He knew where I was, but I had no idea when and if he would appear. I was lying in wait for him to take his ultimate revenge.
As I was leaving for the airport, I was notified that my uncle was being transferred to the Bay Area for an outstanding warrant. I exhaled a sigh of relief but was immediately overwhelmed with rage because not only had this man destroyed my father’s material legacy but for four days he had caused me to live in pure agonizing terror. This was my uncle! My “family!” How could he do any of this to me? I had flown to California to claim my birthright, and I was leaving having lost more than I ever could have imagined.
A dozen years have now passed and while this event still causes total dismay, pain, and anger, I find it really interesting how ALL of my anxiety and fears were misplaced. Upon arriving in California, my worst fear was losing my aunt and uncle. Leaving, I hoped that I never saw either of them again. I denied the rational fear that my uncle was going to shoot us, and crumbled in terror at the men who were actually there to help. I laid awake for three nights, jumping at every rustle or sound, assuming my uncle had returned. All the while, the only way he was leaving his jail cell was to be transferred to a different one. None of my concerns were valid; every single one of them was wrong. I didn’t fear what I should have, and I was terrified when there was no need.
My instincts were overrun and out-of-whack because of my own perceptions. I innately trusted my family because of our association and history, and they were the ones I should have feared. I didn’t trust the DEA agents because of my own prejudices about how they looked, so I feared them and they were there to help.
This was an extreme situation, but I don’t think the lesson was any less intense. Because of my own perceptions, beliefs, and prejudices, I failed to see the true danger, and froze in despair when my escape was imminent. I nearly ran back into the arms of the perpetrator, in order to avoid my defender. My childhood pains and the need for them to heal put my brother in danger, because I was too blinded by my own beliefs to heed his warnings. Perceptions and fear blinded me to reality. Pain, beliefs, and prejudices nearly got my brother and me killed.
How often do your beliefs, prejudices, and fear affect your safety and security? How often do you turn a blind eye to eminent danger, because the perpetrator is someone you trust? Worst yet, how often do you run from those who are there to help, because they don’t look like you think they should?
Your beliefs aren’t reality. They’re based solely on your reality.
Beliefs aren’t truth, but are only your truth.
The truth is rigid, and beliefs are always fluid.
Perceptions should never become conclusions, because when you’re closed off because of feelings, you ignore facts.
And sometimes, ignoring those facts because of your feelings, can get you and your loved ones killed… literally.
