This is me and part of why I am who I am.
In the past, I’ve been told that I’m secretive and somewhat of a mystery. If you think that’s true then please, read on. If not, well, do what you will.
Today, I’m going to share my most painful memory with you.
This is not a plea for help or even a request for sympathy. This is just a thing. I have the drive to write it down now and so I will. I feel like I need to get this stuff out for people to see every so often.
Hello. My name is Darren Andrew Gagne but a lot of you don’t know that my name used to be Darren Andrew Scheer. I was born in Hartford, Connecticut but I don’t remember it. As a toddler and young child, I lived in Cocoa, Florida. I lived in a trailer park with my mother Carol Scheer and my grandmother, Meta Scheer. I don’t know that I’ve ever met my father but I think I remember being told that his name was William. Living in a trailer park in Florida was about as good as you could expect it to be. I was allowed full run of the place as long as I came in after dark. I had some toys, a bicycle, and a small assortment of friends that I liked being around. The living arrangements were less than ideal. Cockroaches and palmetto bugs (also known as the American Cockroach - http://blog.ecosmart.com/index.php/2008/10/29/palmetto-bugs/) were a common thing and are a direct cause of my bug not-quite-phobia. That’s a story for another day, however. A lot of you have already heard it anyway.
My grandmother, Meta Scheer, was divorced from my grandfather Andrew Scheer (a truck driver) and worked in a hospital changing people’s bedding and such. She was harsh but good and did her best with what she had.
My mother Carol didn’t work. She collected social security checks and food stamps. Unfortunately, she was your typical welfare recipient. Both she and my grandmother (and, in fact, a good portion of my family on that side now that I think about it) drank and smoked cigarettes very heavily. She was, to my knowledge, a good mother. She doted on me some and, I’m told, was very encouraging about my education. There was no abuse of any kind.
To me, things didn’t seem at all bad. I was a small child. This life was all I knew. I was happy and things were simple. I wasn’t the greatest little kid. I got into some little kid trouble but it was all very minor. I did little boy things like poke at cats with sticks, get in rock fights, explore the surrounding woods and enjoy the wildlife. I collected bottles and turned them in so that I could buy candy. All of that.
One night, my mother went out for the evening. This was normal. It happened every now and then but not often enough to be a problem or make me feel abandoned in anyway. I stayed at the Champagne’s house. The neighbors across the street. I was good friends with the two youngest daughters and the two elder knew me well. They were good people and often babysat me while my mother was out. I was seven years old at the time. My mother never came home. No explanation was given to me. I was told, after a few days, that I would be visiting with my Aunt Nancy (my mother’s sister), her husband Frank and their son Paul for a while. I was very excited. I think that part of me was refusing to acknowledge that there was a problem.
I ended up living with them for two very good years. In hindsight, I feel terrible for them. They didn’t need the burden. One of my most vivid memories from my time there was when I asked my Aunt Nancy if I could call her mom. She started crying immediately and said that I could if I wanted to. I didn’t understand at the time but I do now and I feel terrible about it. I called her “mom” for a little while but it didn’t seem right so I stopped.
At the end of about two years, I was told that I’d be going back to Florida to see my mother. Again, I was very excited. I was going to go home and see my mom, grandma, and all of my old friends. I got home and things were great for about a year. I discovered that I had a baby brother that was 6 months old. His name was Scott Roy Scheer. Roy was his father’s name apparently. I’m told that his father was killed by a train but I don’t know if that was true or not. He was a good little kid. I took care of him, made sure his diaper was clean and that he ate when he was supposed to. I didn’t realize that I was doing this because my mother just wasn’t. I was doing what needed to be done. It was fine. I didn’t care. I had my mother, my new little brother, my grandma, and my grandpa (who visited frequently).
One night she disappeared again. She just didn’t come home. I didn’t see her for a few weeks. I don’t know if my grandmother hired a private detective or something but grandma told me to get in the car, we were going to see my mom. We packed Scott and myself in the car and went. It was late in the evening. We drive for a bit. I was still kind of confused about what was going on. We arrive at what I think was a bar. Scott had fallen asleep in the car. He was lucky. My grandmother went inside the bar. After a few minutes, my mother came storming out and walking quickly toward a car. My grandmother was following her and yelling. My mother ignored her and got into the car. It was tan or green or a mix between the two. I remember calling out to her and getting ignored. I was crying. Frustrated, I got out of the car and ran toward my mom’s car. I jumped on the hood and sprawled holding onto the lip where the hood meets the windshield screaming for her to come home. My mother yelled at me to get off. She even started to move the car a little bit though I know it was just to scare me. This lasted for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually I was pulled off the hood by my grandmother and we went home.
I never saw her again.
Not long after that, my Aunt Judy and her boyfriend David Gagne had Scott and myself flown up to New Hampshire where they took us in and adopted us.
I talked to Carol on the phone once a few years later but didn’t say much. Recently, I found out that she’s been institutionalized. She’s had (or has) severe mental issues associated with heavy drug use and exposure (she’d been living on the streets somewhere). Her memory is almost nonexistent. I’m told that she recognizes pictures of me and my brother but only barely. My now-mother, Judy still visits her sometimes which is why I have any information at all.
So that’s me. And that’s part of why I am the way I am. I don’t really know how to conclude this any better than that. Thanks for reading?
Today, I’m going to share my most painful memory with you.
This is not a plea for help or even a request for sympathy. This is just a thing. I have the drive to write it down now and so I will. I feel like I need to get this stuff out for people to see every so often.
Hello. My name is Darren Andrew Gagne but a lot of you don’t know that my name used to be Darren Andrew Scheer. I was born in Hartford, Connecticut but I don’t remember it. As a toddler and young child, I lived in Cocoa, Florida. I lived in a trailer park with my mother Carol Scheer and my grandmother, Meta Scheer. I don’t know that I’ve ever met my father but I think I remember being told that his name was William. Living in a trailer park in Florida was about as good as you could expect it to be. I was allowed full run of the place as long as I came in after dark. I had some toys, a bicycle, and a small assortment of friends that I liked being around. The living arrangements were less than ideal. Cockroaches and palmetto bugs (also known as the American Cockroach - http://blog.ecosmart.com/index.php/2008/10/29/palmetto-bugs/) were a common thing and are a direct cause of my bug not-quite-phobia. That’s a story for another day, however. A lot of you have already heard it anyway.
My grandmother, Meta Scheer, was divorced from my grandfather Andrew Scheer (a truck driver) and worked in a hospital changing people’s bedding and such. She was harsh but good and did her best with what she had.
My mother Carol didn’t work. She collected social security checks and food stamps. Unfortunately, she was your typical welfare recipient. Both she and my grandmother (and, in fact, a good portion of my family on that side now that I think about it) drank and smoked cigarettes very heavily. She was, to my knowledge, a good mother. She doted on me some and, I’m told, was very encouraging about my education. There was no abuse of any kind.
To me, things didn’t seem at all bad. I was a small child. This life was all I knew. I was happy and things were simple. I wasn’t the greatest little kid. I got into some little kid trouble but it was all very minor. I did little boy things like poke at cats with sticks, get in rock fights, explore the surrounding woods and enjoy the wildlife. I collected bottles and turned them in so that I could buy candy. All of that.
One night, my mother went out for the evening. This was normal. It happened every now and then but not often enough to be a problem or make me feel abandoned in anyway. I stayed at the Champagne’s house. The neighbors across the street. I was good friends with the two youngest daughters and the two elder knew me well. They were good people and often babysat me while my mother was out. I was seven years old at the time. My mother never came home. No explanation was given to me. I was told, after a few days, that I would be visiting with my Aunt Nancy (my mother’s sister), her husband Frank and their son Paul for a while. I was very excited. I think that part of me was refusing to acknowledge that there was a problem.
I ended up living with them for two very good years. In hindsight, I feel terrible for them. They didn’t need the burden. One of my most vivid memories from my time there was when I asked my Aunt Nancy if I could call her mom. She started crying immediately and said that I could if I wanted to. I didn’t understand at the time but I do now and I feel terrible about it. I called her “mom” for a little while but it didn’t seem right so I stopped.
At the end of about two years, I was told that I’d be going back to Florida to see my mother. Again, I was very excited. I was going to go home and see my mom, grandma, and all of my old friends. I got home and things were great for about a year. I discovered that I had a baby brother that was 6 months old. His name was Scott Roy Scheer. Roy was his father’s name apparently. I’m told that his father was killed by a train but I don’t know if that was true or not. He was a good little kid. I took care of him, made sure his diaper was clean and that he ate when he was supposed to. I didn’t realize that I was doing this because my mother just wasn’t. I was doing what needed to be done. It was fine. I didn’t care. I had my mother, my new little brother, my grandma, and my grandpa (who visited frequently).
One night she disappeared again. She just didn’t come home. I didn’t see her for a few weeks. I don’t know if my grandmother hired a private detective or something but grandma told me to get in the car, we were going to see my mom. We packed Scott and myself in the car and went. It was late in the evening. We drive for a bit. I was still kind of confused about what was going on. We arrive at what I think was a bar. Scott had fallen asleep in the car. He was lucky. My grandmother went inside the bar. After a few minutes, my mother came storming out and walking quickly toward a car. My grandmother was following her and yelling. My mother ignored her and got into the car. It was tan or green or a mix between the two. I remember calling out to her and getting ignored. I was crying. Frustrated, I got out of the car and ran toward my mom’s car. I jumped on the hood and sprawled holding onto the lip where the hood meets the windshield screaming for her to come home. My mother yelled at me to get off. She even started to move the car a little bit though I know it was just to scare me. This lasted for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually I was pulled off the hood by my grandmother and we went home.
I never saw her again.
Not long after that, my Aunt Judy and her boyfriend David Gagne had Scott and myself flown up to New Hampshire where they took us in and adopted us.
I talked to Carol on the phone once a few years later but didn’t say much. Recently, I found out that she’s been institutionalized. She’s had (or has) severe mental issues associated with heavy drug use and exposure (she’d been living on the streets somewhere). Her memory is almost nonexistent. I’m told that she recognizes pictures of me and my brother but only barely. My now-mother, Judy still visits her sometimes which is why I have any information at all.
So that’s me. And that’s part of why I am the way I am. I don’t really know how to conclude this any better than that. Thanks for reading?