BOOHER, Donald

[DONALD EDWARD BOOHER]

DONALD E. BOOHER

You think you know the dark side of humanity?
Take a minute and walk in my shoes.
See if you survive..
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HAI THURRR~ MY NAME IS YODA and I HAIL FROM EASTERN, USA!
AREN'T YOU JEALOUS ;] YOU CAN CONTACT ME BY PM. OH, AND I'VE BEEN ROLEPLAYING FOR ELEVEN YEARS NOW!

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* / FULL NAME

[/b] Donald Edward Booher
* / NICKNAMES[/b] Donny
* / AGE[/b] 18
* / GENDER[/b] Male
* / SEXUALITY[/b] Homosexual
* / MEMBER GROUP[/b] Artist
* / CONDITIONS[/b] Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Sanguinarian Syndrome, Photosensitivity
* / FACE CLAIM[/b] Ian Somerhalder
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* / LIKES

[/b]
-storms
-having fun
-boys
-chocolate
-sex/romance

* / DISLIKES[/b]
-discrimination
-bullies
-bees
-salty food
-cologne

* / POSITIVE TRAITS[/b]
-sex appeal
-sense of humor
-likes to help people
-imaginative
-creative

* / NEGATIVE TRAITS[/b]
-horny all the time
-very picky about food and how he eats it
-posessive/doesn't like to share
-dirty minded, he loves to talk about sex and what he wants to do to people
-overly sensitive most of the time
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* / HOMETOWN

[/b] Mount Union, Pennsylvania
* / PARENTS[/b]
Donald Edward Booher Sr., Adoptive Father, 64, Retired Veteran
Joel Alan Baer, Biological Father, 61, Retired Veteran
Peggy Ann Basore, Biological Mother, 37, Unemployed, Estranged

* / SIBLINGS[/b] Discussed in the history.
* / OTHER FAMILY[/b] Extended Family

* / HISTORY[/b]
My mother had given birth to me when she was only around eighteen years old. At the time, her world consisted of: drugs, alcohol, sex, and men. She was just a teenager who wanted to always be free and having fun. Needless to say, her plans hadn’t included me at all. Though with the way she went from man to man with reckless abandon, not caring about the alcohol or drugs she put into her body, her unexpected pregnancy was nothing more than a hindrance to her. By the time she found out she was pregnant, it was too late for her to have an abortion. So, as the months passed her stomach continued to grow and men found her less attractive. Let’s face it, single men don’t exactly look at a pregnant woman and call her beautiful. My mother hated this fact as she was addicted to sex and the things she was given by the men for sex. The truth was, the men just loved how my mother was blessed with delightfully full feminine curves. Especially her overly large breasts. If there was one thing people could say about my mothers side of the family, it was that we were gifted when it came to looks.

On the night of February the first, I was born. The man my mother had been dating at the time immediately adopted me as his own because he knew my mother was unfit. I was immediately named after him and declared his son. He wasn’t my biological father, but nobody would be telling me that. My mother was forced to make the required stay at the hospital before she and myself were released. According to all the medical records the doctors had on my since my birth, I had been born with Cradle Cap, which could easily have been cured with Baby Oil or Vaseline. The doctor told my mother to use Baby Oil on my head to rid me of it. Oops, her first mistake, nobody had known that I was allergic to Baby Oil and it burned my scalp red and raw. Needless to say from that moment on Baby Oil had been banned from the Booher Residence. I also had Psoriasis on the bottom of my feet. It would especially act up in the summer and begin to crack and peel before the soles of my feet became smooth and hardened against the earth. From the very moment we got home, things with my mother never changed. The very night she left the hospital carrying me in her arms, she went out drinking. She’d left me with the man I’d know as my dad so that she could go out bar hopping, drinking, and having sex with this guy or that guy. Basically any guy who’d have her in his bed. Pathetic, really, her desperate need for attention from men merely to feel that her existence was validated by their petty and pious desires of lust and a drunken f**k.

I rarely ever saw my mother because I was always at home with my father. Dad was the one who did all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and dishes. He was the one who bathed me, rocked me to sleep, took me to the doctors when I was sick, and comforted me when I was scared. My mother was never around, not even for my birthdays. On my birthday, my father would always buy me cake and ice cream, making me feel normal and like any other loved child on the planet. Back then it was both a happy time, and an unhappy time. The only birthday my mother ever remembered was when I was only a year old. She didn’t show up to tell me she loved me or to see how I was. No, she didn’t make an appearance at all. The only thing she did to acknowledge my existence was to send a faded, old birthday card that she’d informed my father she’d like to see in my photo album. A photo album, the record of what was to be the tortured existence of a sensitive soul. Slowly, the years began to pass as I aged. The numbers of my birthday cake changing from one to two and so on. My mother flitted in and out of my life, always abandoning me anew for some man, doll, or dog that she found she simply adored and could not leave behind. No, she’d never leave behind her Indian dolls, her dogs, or the men she cherished merely because they kept her supplied in alcohol and were supposedly a good f**k merely because they were employed. Even now I find myself disgusted at the thought of it all. She was supposed to be my mother, someone who cared about me and loved me unconditionally. Someone who was supposed to be there to instruct me and guide me in doing the right thing and following my heart. But she never was. She never was. Even when I turned five and started going to school she never came around to acknowledge that I even existed. Birthdays, Halloween, Christmas, Easter, she was never there at all to celebrate with us. We all wanted her there, my father, me, and my siblings who had started to arrive, all younger than me. That’s right, even if my mother had no love for me, she continued sleeping around on my father and had four children after me. I was her very first. By the time I was six I had three younger sisters and one younger brother. Though not precisely in that order. Courtney was my first sibling to be born, my first sister. Crystal, my second sister, followed not but a year and a half later. Then, less than a full year afterwards, my brother Bower was born. When my final sibling was born, my last sibling, it was my sister Josie. Out of the five of us, it was myself, Crystal, and Josie who took after our mothers side of the family. We all had dark brown, curly hair and very fair features.

When I was six years old, that is when my stepmother came into the picture. Apparently my dad had been dating her a small bit because he felt lonely even if he was raising us all. Understandable, and completely acceptable. I do not hold him accountable for my stepmothers actions in the intervening years. If anything, I see him as a victim as well. Ever since my stepmother moved in, my life was again turned upside down and ripped to pieces before my eyes. She hated me, there is no other word to describe it except for hate. From the very moment she moved in I was the target of her anger. She knew by looking at me who my biological father was, the father that I’d never met and yet shared a genetic link with. This was a fact she loathed, knowing I was named after the man she’d soon be marrying and being called his son when I wasn’t biologically his at all. I think the thing that annoyed her most was the fact that I was named after him and would always be known as his firstborn son. If one knew the extent to which she went to make it known that I was unloved and unwanted, even at home they’d tremble in rage. Rage not against me, but against her. Even now I can recall every single moment she’d refuse to let me eat something by saying ‘You’re too fat to eat. Put it back and leave it or the other kids.” or “Get out of the fridge you d**ned pig, you disgust me.” I was just a child and already I had been bearing the brunt of abandonment issues from my mother, loneliness and heartache as I had desired to feel my mothers arms around me and to know that she loved me. So for my stepmother to be adding more stuff on top of that was insane, and yet she did it. When I’d cry about something she had said to me, she’d beat me until I stopped crying. Or else stand me in the corner until I was too exhausted to stand any longer. There were even days she made me sit in a chair in the living room all day where I was only allowed to get up to go to the bathroom when she said I could and to eat when dad said a meal was ready. I wasn’t even allowed to say anything on those days, not a single word. The woman was evil, pure evil.

Every summer since I was seven she took us camping, or should I say, forced us to go camping. True, the other children loved camping, especially her two daughters named Jennifer and Paula who were both older than myself. Both of them looked severely different. Paula clearly took after her mothers side of the family while Jennifer took after their fathers. If I had to describe Jennifer and Paula, I’d say they were the very definition of Ying and Yang. Jennifer was the fairer looking of the two, loved animals, loved to swim and have fun. Paula was very much like her mother. Demanding, broody, always angry about something, very snobby and stuck up, and always looking for something she could blame me for or throw at me. My childhood was supposed to have been a happy one, and yet my only solace all those years were the books I’d been reading about witches, magic, spells, and flying. They were like the lifeline of my sanity. I even dreamed about them, and in my dreams I was always loved and wanted by the characters from my books. They were more my family than my actual family were. At least when I was asleep I found love thanks to the well written words of the authors who’d placed pen to paper, inspiring endless numbers of people or generations with the tales they had to tell. Other than the books, my other solace was the solid wooden wall that my bed was pressed up against. Each and every night I’d curl up next to the wall, snuggling as close to it on my bed as I could get. I’d sleep facing the wall, hoping it would protect me and shield me from stepmother. I guess I viewed it as my protector, an Angel who watched over me while I slept and kept me safe.

As if my home life wasn’t bad enough, I was always picked on in school. My peers were always making fun of the hand me down clothes I had to wear that my father and stepmother got me from places like The Salvation Army and The Clothing Bank. Places where all the clothes had been previously worn and owned by other people. I’d never been given new clothes unless they were underwear or socks. I was never taken shopping for new clothes and school supplies. Any school supplies I got were what the teachers gave me. In the family I lived in, there were seven of children at first when my stepmother moved in with my father. Then when she had two sons to him, that made us a total of nine children and two adults. Quite a large family. Though through it all, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that I was the most hated, and most unwanted of the lot. I’d never chosen who my biological father was or what family I had been born into. I could not control what my mother did or where she went. I didn’t know my biological father and my stepmother used me as both her verbal and physical punching bag on a daily basis. No matter where I was, at school or at home, the verbal and emotional abuse never stopped. I had to live the nightmare, remaining silent and burying my emotions deep inside myself. It was torture, always wondering if I was wanted, if I was loved. The question still haunts me most days. What if all I had ever been was a mistake? A mistake caused by a night of drunken sex in which the condom slipped and changed everything? The thought of this being true made me want to cry, it still does. From the age of six onward, the years slowly passed for me, each day a nightmare and each year an imprisonment that never seemed to end. Would there ever be anyone who would save me? Anything or anyone who’d give me hope?

Even then, as I lay there every night dreaming of being loved and wanted, I knew I wasn't. Not even close. Each day seemed to pass slowly, the pain of their words and what they did to me being hidden away inside me as if I was a treasure chest or a jewelry box. I couldn't help it. If I responded to it, it only got worse, and if I didn't respond to it, they still did things to make it worse or found another way to keep having at me. It just didn't seem as if anyone was truly able to stop it all. I wanted it to stop, told them to stop, even turned to teachers and relatives for help. Needless to say, nobody helped me. I had to help myself. So, from the age of eleven until I was sixteen it all continued to build up inside me. The hatred, the sadness, the sorrow, the worrying, the questions, the tears. Then one day I could stand it anymore. For so long I had let it all build up inside me and I could take it any more. At this moment, the resolve it had taken me so long to build had to be shattered or else I'd truly lose not only myself, but also have been begging them to end my life.

That night, after supper was finished, I left the house without a word. I remember my stepmother asking me where I was going, but I never answered her, I never answered any of them. I walked the three and a half blocks to my aunts house, the home of my aunt Donna. Admittedly she lived in public housing, a small apartment of her own with two bedrooms and one bathroom. But all the same, I turned to her for help. I could remember struggling to hold it all in as walked those three and a half blocks. Looking back on that walk I can honestly say that was when my true walk to liberation began. When I arrived at my aunts house, I told her the entire story of everything I had suffered and endured. Everything you've read up to this point I had told her. It came rushing forth from me like a new well bursting with the precious waters of cleansing. All the abuse, torture, mockery, all of it was revealed to my aunt. It was she who suggested I call Children Services, which I did so. I couldn't even speak to the agents on the line because I was crying so hard I could barely breathe. My aunt had to take the phone from me and explain the entire situation to them. Needless to say, that night I never returned home. After the agents from Children Services heard my story, they knew I could never return to the house I'd grown up in because of everything there.

After my aunt had hung up the phone, she in turn revealed something to me. She looked at me with honesty and caring in her eyes. The look of pure love a mother gets when she is holding her first child in her arms, as if she'd do anything to protect that child, even sacrafice herself. The things she said to me only confirmed all my worries and fears. What she confirmed only made me more desperate for safety and stability. The revealtion she made to me, was this:

"This summer when Judy came over to my camper.." Judy was the name of my stepmother, Judy Thompson who also went by Judy Breon from the former husband who fathered her two daughters who were older than me, and Judy Booher once she had married my father, the man who had adopted me. "she came over to my camper and sat right down in front of me and Sylvia, your grandmother, and said: I hate Donald and wish he was dead. If I could kill him and get away with it, I would." Needless to say I was shocked and horrified by this revealtion. It explained so much. It explained all the times when she was going to let me drown, all the times she refused to allow me to eat, the time she had her daughter try to run me over with the jeep that summer. It explained everything. If it hadn't been for a big picnic table getting in my stepmother and stepsisters way, I'd have been an instantly dead corpse under the tires of that red jeep, with my head more than likely severed and burst open like a freshly popped grape. It was that picnic table that saved me at that time. Nothing else but a picnic table and a tree.

By the Children Services workers I had been told to wait for them on the corner outside of my aunts apartment. Which I was all too glad to do. As I waited for them, they had gone to the house I had been raised in to confront my stepmother and my father. Needless to say, my story was confirmed...[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

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THIS APPLICATION WAS MADE BY MIADAY PARADE AND IS FOR HER USE ONLY.

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