I have a step son too. Well, I guess after a divorce, what is a step son? Anyways, you won’t hear me talk much about him. He’s all grown up. A 23 year old man, went back to California to finish up college at UC Berkeley. Majoring in neurobiology. Fantastic GPA. Using the scholarship I set up for him. Well that probably covers the rent, food, cell phone, and some fun. From what I understand his mom pays his tuition now. I’m not giving him anymore of my GI Bill. He already got half of it. But the rest. Nope, his mom can pay some of his shit and plus after the divorce, he doesn’t qualify for my benefits.

He has my name but I never could adopt him. Although I tried. There was a time when he was close to the center of my world. There was a time that people didn’t know I had a daughter because all I talked about was my step son. He’s doing this. Up to that. Hanging with these kids. Doesn’t like his English teacher but he still does the work pretty well.

He was 6 when I met him. His mom had him on a pizza and burger king diet. He was filled with poisonous anger. Hadn’t seen his biological dad in years. Only remembered that man as a main character in the scenes of domestic violence he witnessed as a baby.

It took like four solid years of consistent presence before he stopped hating me. From the time he was 6 until about 10, he snarled at me pretty regularly. But every night, I’d call his mom into his room at night. We tuck him in together. We three hold hands and say a night time prayer before turning off his light.

I did some big stuff too. Bought him the exact cool video games his friends had. Took him fishing. Took him camping up on Korean mountain top.

When I got back from Iraq, and his brain was like, “hey this guy came back!?! And I gotta admit, things are way better when this guy is around. When this guy was gone, my mom was always an absent maniac. When he is around, mom at least tries to be nurturing. We need this guy. I need to let him stay.”

Then from the ages of like 10 until 16 things were good, sometimes really good. From 16 until 18, he and I were best buds. He let me teach him how to play baseball. Probably him paying me back because I let him teach me how to play video games.

When he went off to college. He called me everyday. Never called his mom. So she didn’t know. She didn’t believe that he was having full blown anxiety attacks everyday. She was so busy trying to blame me for the tax problem she created... So how could I blame her for not having any bandwidth left to help deal with her son’s emotional issues.

I didn’t understand what happened to him in California. Probably never will. It’s his life. His mind. And the missing pieces to the puzzle exist in his developmental years. Probably. And I have no idea what his life was like back then. The backstory his mom sold me, has proven to be a complete bag of lies designed to manipulate. So no answers there.

My step son claims he can’t remember any of the specifics of his childhood. No memories of the stuff before I married his mom and our family came together. So no answers there. Do I believe he can’t remember? What does it matter.

I guess it doesn’t matter at all. Not to me. Not anymore. Not after I watched the apartment security tape that clearly showed him taking all of my personal possessions out to the trash.

People say, you gotta learn to forgive. I say I don’t care. And not caring, being numb to someone, that’s a form of forgiveness. It's better than wanting revenge.

Those trash bags. When he threw all my stuff away, it was October 13th between 10am and 1pm. It took a few hours to get it all out. I had been staying at the bath house since October 10th so I wasn’t at home. I was out taking a break from getting dunked on everyday. His mom always insulting me. Taking a break from biting my tongue, not able to say anything about my ex-step-son's taking an extended two year break from college, living at home, sleeping all day, playing video games all night. Him going into my teenage daughters room, laying on her bed, playing with his phone, while she tried to do her homework. Him telling my teenage daughter that she should choose a side because “mom and dad are getting a divorce.” Me paying him to tutor my daughter, so he has something to do. Something positive. Then finding out he spends the tutor sessions ramming through subjects that he himself doesn't understand, having my daughter attempt practice problems way outside her wheel house, then telling my daughter she can't do it because she is the type who is stupid at math. Him telling her that he is the type that is smart, not her. And was he spitting in the shower or jerking off? Either way, he leaves some crust on the bathroom wall that he doesn’t clean up. If I say anything about this shit, his mom claims I blame all of our family’s problems on him. He uses mental health as an excuse to get out of taking any responsibility for his misbehavior. I meditated so much during those days. My iphone health data says I was meditating for about three hours a day during that period of my life. Anyways, those trash bags.

He threw away my wedding ring, my dog tags, the big box filled with the short stories I had written over the years, my military awards and decorations, my late grandpa’s hat, that hat that still smelled like him that made me feel like he was with me when I wore it, my socks, and the card board boxes I make into closet organizers.

That security tape, not the best quality but I could so clearly see the look on that cunt’s face after he threw my life away. All of the material stuff that gave me an identity, in the fucking trash of that apartment. Gone forever. His fucking facial expression. Like pure relief. Like he just got done taking a huge shit. When he got the last bag in the trash, he adjusted his ball cap so it sat on his head, like, he fucking looked like a guy who just won the fucking world series.

After I saw that, well, I don’t talk about him much anymore. Him throwing away my life, that’s the only story that my brain wants to tell when it thinks about him. My brain. No maybe it's my heart. Some powerful commander in me feels so betrayed when I ignore this fucking massive act of war and talk about the good times with that guy.

My heart. No maybe my soul. It's like, don’t you dare call that guy your son anymore. Don’t you dare talk about all the hugs. Those nights you cut him some fruit and took it to his room and asked him how his homework was going and then kissing him on the forehead and then telling him you know he just turned off his video games when he heard you coming and then letting him know you trust him to slowly grind through the homework for a bit and then rush through the assignment late at night. That you know that’s just his routine and it seems to be working. But, please change it up, when the results aren’t good, but you trust him to get a pretty good grade. That you still remember what it's like to be a kid. That you appreciate that he never misses assignments. That you love him. Good night. I’m going to bed.

I’m putting it to bed. All that shit.

Don't ask me about that kid, that guy. That former son. Demoted to step son. Demoted to ex-step son. Designated for another demotion to just somebody that I used to know.