My Georgia Peach

   My father, Randall James Palozzi, was the most influential person I’ve ever known. Randy was 6’5, bald, muscular body type, but not very slim. He had a big nose, almost in crooked way. Almond-shaped brown eyes, they were always tired looking. Thin lips, the bottom one was bigger than the other. Randy loved motorcycles, poetry, nature, movies, and his two daughters. Samantha and Isabella. Randy grew up with his mother and father, Jean and Anthony. Jean had bright dirty blonde hair, 5’1, curls that went down to her shoulders, clear white glasses. We never called her Jean, though, she was always Nana. Nana had the brightest smile that could always light up any room. She was the most caring person in his life, never hurt a fly. Anthony was 6’1, with gray hair slicked back, on the chubbier side, but almost muscular. We never called him Anthony though, always Tony. My father, Randy, was best friends with his father. Except they were the type of friends that only saw each other once a month, but were still close. Nana was a flight attendant; she always had the most beautiful pin up curls. Tony and Jean would travel everywhere together. They got to go anywhere they wanted, all for free.

      While Nana and Tony were never home, Randy was left with his siblings, Rosie and Anthony Jr. No one in our family speaks of them, nor about them. He was always left unsupervised and never grew up with nurturing and protection. Not just protection from others, but from himself. At the age of 11, Randy started experimenting with drugs and alcohol. At the age of 12 he was consistently smoking weed. Nana and Tony always knew but never could discipline. “He’ll grow out of it.” Nana would say. “He’s just a kid who learned something new.” Tony would say. They cared about Randy deeply, but they never thought it would get as bad as it did. While Randy was a teenager, he used heroin for the first time. Drugs were cheap back then, $10 for a bag of heroin. Randy would go on many drug binges that would cost him time in and out of juvie. At the age of 16, he dropped out of school. He couldn't focus anymore on reality, the real world. He would come home from binges, beaten up, with a bruised face, yellowish skin, and infections. Yet, Randy didn’t care about anything, only the drugs. He was self-aware, but many times he was unstoppable. Many feelings of euphoria, then not being able to move all day.  The mold rotted in his green and white painted room. Everyone wondered, “Why are these mood swings happening so often?” They all believed it was the drugs.  In Randy’s early 20’s his father, Anthony died of a heart attack at 65. When our family found out about Tony’s death, everyone was devastated. People grab their chest, the lumps closing in their throats. The burning sensation in their eyes, salty tears falling onto their scarred heart. The scar of all the pain they’ve been through. Randy never helped plan the funeral, nor did he attend the wake. Jean, Anthony Jr, and Rosie, were the only ones who seemed like they cared. “Where’s Randy? Why isn’t he here?” Randy’s mother asked repeatedly.  We know we weren’t around that much for his childhood, but his own father? How could he? “We want to file a missing person report.” Nana, sobbing, with salty tears down her droopy eyes. The static radio blares as this message was sent. Randy was declared missing for 5 days. The gravesite his dad was buried at, Randy buried himself there too. Cops found him lying on his fathers gravesite, pills in his hand, the needles in his pocket. The bright light of the cops flashlights they carry. It was similar to a hospital room, the light was so bright he covered his eyes. The rain was pouring, just as the moonlight tears he shed when Anthony’s soul left his body. 

  Randy was taken to the hospital and left to detox. The same lights he saw earlier, he saw in this very room. The bright light he kept seeing wasn’t just from his downfall, but a blessing in disguise. He met Candy, his ex wife. Dirty blonde hair, side bangs, black eyeliner on her eyes, and a slim nose. They had their daughter Samantha. Samantha has deep blonde hair, hourglass figure, the brightest smile, and chubby cheeks. Samantha was my half sister and when I was born, she loved me very much. As Randy was getting more into drugs, he left Candy. After leaving Candy he met my mother, Kimbery. Kimmie has long curly brown hair, a bigger nose, thin lips, freckles on her arms, and the most beautiful eyes. They met while watching “Scooby Doo” at the movies. Samantha was with Randy, but Kimmie wasn’t alone. Kimmie was with my half brother, Michael. Michael was a bigger kid, 5’10, brown fluffy hair-slicked back, and brown hooded eyes. They ended up being inseparable and always together. Not everything is as it seems, especially with their relationship.

  Randy would beat Kimmie, along with Michael, till they were black and blue, Stealing money from Michaels's blue piggy bank. Showing up to Kimmie's job at Fashion Bug, pretending to rob the store. Laying in his bed crying, wanting to be sober. What’s wrong with him? Randy was finally diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Randy struggled with this as much as Kimmie did herself. They were both enablers and people who would feed off of each other. The people that would suck the life out of your body, a ghost of a soul. The wavelength they shared almost killed both of them, multiple times. Kimmie was trapped; he put chains around her heart and locked her in. Kissing her forehead every night, but stealing and beating her till her body would drop, just like a pin. 

  Some would call it karma, but others would call it pain. Randy went on a drug binge, traveling through Rochester on Smith street. Approaching two men to buy heroin, he asked for a bag. The drugs were cheap, $10 per bag. “Can I shoot up here?” Randy said to Black. Black was his street name, no one needed to know his real name. As Randy inserts the needle he feels the rush of warmth, the pulsing in his veins. “Can I buy another bag?” Randy asked. “Yeah, but where's the money?” Black replied. “My wife is just around the corner she has the $20,” Randy said with every inch of lying he could try to get away with. Kimmie was never coming for Randy, he lied, again. As he tries running, Black shoots Randy in the leg. Randy falls like a pin, the pin that Kimmie was. He falls into the snow, shivering, with cold breath. As he drags his body up to a woman's porch, 911 was called. Randy was taken in the ambulance and Kimmie was by his side. Acting like a maniac, begging and pleading for the pills in his pants. Kimmie never gave him them, as they would cause him to become the monster she perceived him as. After being taken into major surgery his femur bone was shattered.

   Randy would constantly go on drug binges, even after his accident. He was on crutches, yet continued to use them. As Randy was using he caught an infection and a serious blood clot. Randy decided it was time, it was time to go somewhere else. He left Rochester with Kimmie, deciding to go to Georgia. Michael was left behind with my grandparents for his teenage years. We get it Randy was just a guy who used drugs and ran away somewhere else with Kimmie and then he got sober and was fine, correct? Wrong, change of plans, Isabella was born. Isabella was born on October 12th, 2005, at 5:14 am.

     My father Randy rushed to the hospital when he found out I was born. Giving me the gray, pink striped, unicorn stuffed animal. I named him Pony. My dad was begging my mom for me to be named Palozzi. He was up at 7 am to make sure that we walked out of that hospital with, Isabella Palozzi. Even though I knew part of me was my father, he could only be with me spiritually. My dad was constantly in and out of jail in Georgia. But he always managed to write me letters, poetry, and the meaning of life. Dad spent every second with me when he could. He would push me on the swing, singing, “My Georgia Peach”. I loved my dad, he meant everything to me. He would play metal and rock songs to help me sleep at night. Dad only got to spend two years with me though. 

Everything changed on May 7th, 2008. The day after his birthday, my dad took his own life. After a drug binge, dad had a PICC line in his chest from the infection in his leg. My mom was leaving for a funeral at 9 o’clock and wanted my Dad to watch me. After understanding Dad didn’t seem stable enough or okay that day, my mom dressed me up. I had a pink fur coat on, a white dress, pigtails, and the cutest brown boots. I left Pony inside, we had to go back inside the house and grab him. I walked up the stairs, my tiny legs could only go so fast. But as I walked past my door, my dad, door shut, and then it hit. The bang. My mom rushes up the stairs noticing the door locked. Running down the stairs almost falling, grabbing the nearest screwdriver to pry the door open. I'm yelling “Dada where's Pony?” I'm crying, I wanted Pony. As soon as my mom opened the door, there was the last breath my father ever took. A shot glass filled with heroin, a needle into his PICC line. He fell backward and his head was bashed open. My father’s heart blew up in front of me.

   The heaviness, the tears, the lumps in my throat that wouldn’t leave. The sounds of my mother screaming in agony. It finally stopped, the voices he heard. They left his body, and his soul rushed out and hugged me. My father isn’t a bad person; he went through so much and couldn’t fight any longer. 

   My father was the most inspiring person that I’ve ever known. As he did many bad things, he was an artist and a writer. He was just like me, in every shape and form. My father wrote a book called, “My Passage” This book was never published, but I’m here to share My Passage. I’m here to show you what addiction looks like. I'm here to tell you that it's a mental illness. You aren’t a bad person. My father believed he was cursed. He wasn’t. My father was lost and couldn't find his way. God showed him the light, and that light was me and my sister. We blessed him in ways that no one else could. We filled the empty void he felt daily. 

   No matter how empty I feel without my father, he’s always with me. He has protected me from people who have tried to hurt me. He lives with me every day. Showing me the mistakes he’s made so I don’t go down the path he fell into. He guides me, he speaks to me through his passage. I love my father. I didn’t love his actions, but he’s my best friend. He always told me, “You're My Georgia Peach”