My parents are good people, they deserve a healthy son. The way they raised me was a natural pathway to punk. Their support, of course, was privileged
but authoritarian. Issa lil complicated but I wouldn’t trade it for none. Pop Pop peaced, I got the Citizen, and it doesn’t quite fit my wrist. But I might still grow into it. I should’ve told him he’s the realest. And a nigga got no inheritance. Oma told me she dipped into it to pay the prison of retirement, and the abuse those in homes often get. I wouldn’t have found my own way if y’all raised a lesser man. Family history explains my choice and how I let the treatment stand. I’m, of course, culpable in how I let life come to pass, and I would rather pick out a switch than say why I sat on my hands. 5 years gone, justified away, left me a suicidal fanatic; the next 5 years spent at war with each and every accrued habit. Looking through family photo albums and thought, “All because of some freakin.” We weren’t always fighting to close the gaps in our independent streaks and I was especially closed off because of my outside social treatments. Age old omertàs chain us in iron-clad silent agreements. Then I learned some family secrets, and that trust gained gave me reason to share with them that I was seeking peace in death because I was fucking tweaking. That was back in 2017 when my anxiety was peaking panic attacks that were so frequent I’d pass out when they’d start creepin. Felt I had shit else to lose. I told my whole family the truth. I was having hands put on me paired with wild mental abuse. I’m just one nigga this happened to
and there’s four of us in this group, the statistic is 1 in 10 so the math right there for you to do. Obviously my family was worrying abt me. They watched me in my misery and troubling surroundings. I’m grown and could’ve phoned home and got over all my doubting, but I was in my head and couldn’t hear those thoughts over top of the shouting. I was keeping all my shit straight, bills paid whether or not I ate. With my style, it was no way for them to know I wasn’t safe. I learned that same night my grandma (Oma) lived that same life. That was half the surprise, my mom was there when she became Pop Pop’s wife. After that it was a little funny, she said, “You could’ve saved all of yr money. All that you spent on therapy, you’d still have, if you just came to me”
supported by 564 fans who also own “(Five Years And) My Family”
One of the most unsettling albums i have heard in a while. Chat Pile creates a grotesque blend of noise and groove that brings me back everytime. scarface6204
