People think lonely childhoods always look miserable. Mine looked like the kind of childhood people spend the rest of their lives trying to recreate for their kids.
I grew up in the eastern Ohio foothills of Appalachia where summers smelled like creek water, fireworks smoke, and hot asphalt baking under the July sun. The hills rolled forever out there. Green and ancient and quiet in a way that made you feel protected and trapped at the same time.
Kids still belonged to neighborhoods back then. Doug, Dusty, Cody, and me practically lived outside. From sunup till supper we tore through that cul-de-sac like tiny barbarians with bicycles and footballs.
“Darkness didn’t scare me nearly as much as being still.”
Halloween felt magical in those foothills. Real magical. Not polished magazine-cover magical. Cheap plastic masks that smelled like sweat and rubber. Costumes tearing at the seams halfway through the night.
After trick-or-treating everybody gathered around giant bonfires somewhere in the neighborhood. Adults stood around holding paper plates piled with food while cigarette smoke drifted through the firelight.
Then us kids disappeared into the woods.
Hide-and-seek in Appalachian darkness felt almost supernatural. The trees looked alive at night. Every snapped twig sounded enormous.
My father believed in strength the way religious people believe in God. Maybe more.
Perfect grades weren’t optional. Excellence was expected. Emotions were treated like structural weaknesses in a building, dangerous if exposed too openly.
So I learned silence early.
Especially football. Jesus Christ, I was good.
Number 53. Bright yellow helmet with giant green stars on the side. Scrolled across the front like something out of a low-budget war movie were the words: DR. DEATH.
“Football became legal violence with applause attached.”
The weird thing is, I loved parts of that life. The fireworks. The bikes. The football glory. The girls I crushed on so hard they could ruin my entire week by smiling at me.
And through all of it I kept performing. The smart kid. The football star. The funny kid. The fearless BMX kid. Dr. Death.
All those identities stacked on top of each other like armor.
Because underneath them was a lonely Appalachian kid lying awake at night staring at shadows moving across bedroom ceilings while spring air drifted through open window screens.
A kid learning how to disappear emotionally while becoming unforgettable publicly.