I am a much better speaker than a writer. I am putting what I did manage to write here, but if you think you can help me turn my adventure of a life into a book please contact me as soon as possable.
John Boulden
On good and evil:
One mans perspective
Introduction
At the time of writing I will be nearly thirty one years old. Ever since I turned thirty about a year ago I started thinking about writing a book about what I have done with the life I was give. I wanted to take stock of my actions and experiences and really have a good look at myself. I know right now that some people may want me to sensor things, I know loved ones will caution me to moderate my tone, or clean up some of the details.
I can't. I need to write down everything that happened, if only to get it all out onto paper. Some of the things I have seen in my life could be assumed to be fantasy. Some of the stories I will tell with this little tract will seem embellished. So I challenge you, who ever reads this book and says 'bullshit' to anything I have recounted, contact me. I can provide some kind of paper work, scarring on my body, or testimony of people who were there. I really don't want to make this a picture book, simply detailing a list of my possessions and funny stores about them, but I do feel like it is up to me to provide proof.
With that in mind, the only thing I will change are names in a few places. I haven't asked anyone for permission to write this book. Everything I write here is true to the best of my knowledge, and I feel like I can stand by everything I have written.
So the title is pretty grandiose. I feel like it was the only thing that would really capture what I was getting at with this book. I feel like I have seen real evil, but every time I have I have seen other people step up and be unbelievably good. Absolute strangers stopping and helping when they really could have passed me by.
In the current political climate of the United States I see a whole lot of evil. Donald Trump is cavorting around on the international stage, like a pissed off teenager playing the role of president in a high school play. Our congress is paralyzed by corruption and fear, and our Supreme Court seems more partisan then ever.
I look at this situation and I feel like I have to act. I feel now that my whole life has been preparing me to go out and seek peace between people. Again, grandiose, but screw it. I look at my leaders and see nothing but corrupt incompetence and ass covering self interest.
If I am going to step forward and ask anyone for support while I work on learning how to be a good spokes person for the people I feel like I need to tell you who I am. So this is me. I would encourage anyone who says they agree with me and my positions to read it. Always know who you are supporting. In the interest of fairness and honesty please remember, this is my perspective on things. You may find some of what I write disturbing. I sincerely apologize for that. This is my recollection of events and my opinions on the events I describe.
One last note, if you happen to read this and notice I am talking about you under a different name, think about it before you call me out, because you will self identify.
Part One, My Youth
My original name, as far as I can tell, was John Michel Wojcik. I was born February 26th 1987. To my knowledge my mother was almost 16 when she gave birth to me. We'll call her Pam.
Pam met my father, we'll call him Carl, in a strip club according to Carl. She was 15, and if my birthday and all the other information about my conception are correct, that means she had just turned 15. He was a twenty something drug runner for a biker gang. The last time I spoke to Carl, he was in a group home having just served a prison term for indecent exposure and child abuse.
I know this may sound harsh, but my mother is also brain damaged. Apparently she was born with water on the brain. I have no idea what medical condition she meant by this, but she was clearly disabled when I met her in 2006. She also told me that she was stuck in the head with a cast iron frying pan when she was a little girl. I believe her, she has a lazy eye to prove it.
I want to be clear before I tell my story. Pam was a disabled child who was subjected to horrific child abuse, and in my opinion was groomed and raped by people like my biological father. She is a victim, and life has really been hard on her. Carl on the other hand is a pedophile. There is just no other way to put it.
So please understand that as I recount stories here about my time with Pam and Carl, know that I do not hate Pam. When I have spoken to her it has been abundantly clear that she has not developed into an adult. I look at her actions after the adoption, and I see a woman who was never cared for. A woman who can't even really understand the consequences of her actions. Pam, if you read this, know that I forgive you. I hold no hate in my heart for you, but I cannot have much to do with you because the pain is still too raw. Forgive me for not being strong enough to let you into my life.
I have no such forgiveness for you Carl. My very soul turned to ice when you mentioned in a phone call that you wanted to meet my children. If you identify yourself, let me tell you now. I will die before you ever come near my children. You are a predator, and regardless of if you had a rough time or not, you are functional enough to know better. You raped my mother. Even if you didn't know she was a child when you met her in the strip club, you knew she was when you got her pregnant again with my sisters. You knew what you were doing, and the fact that when you got back in touch with me you had just been released for exposing your dick to a teen age girl just proved to me that you will never change. I could have excused you for being high for pretty much most of your life. I could have tried to see that you were a misguided youth who never had a chance. But you had every chance to change, you could have stopped chasing under aged girls, you could have not continued your statutory rape of my mother once you realized she was 15. But you didn't. All that mattered was if you felt good, and in pursuing that you have damaged countless people along the way.
After the age of four, when my sisters where two and one, we were rescued. The courts took us away, placed me and one sister, Susan, were place with the Boulden family. I will name and shame the Boulden family. It is my opinion that Skip and Karen are two of the dumbest criminals on earth. I will go into more detail in the stories, but ya, they have been hidden for long enough. Last time I checked, Karen had just been found out by her sisters and cast out of the family. She had been discovered draining her mothers bank accounts after a nasty fall. No one knows how much Karen took from my grandmother, but from my experience it would have been everything not nailed down.
Skip on the other hand is almost entirely alone. I don't think any of his kids have all that much to do with him. I know Kelly, Skip and Karen's only biological child, checks in on him from time to time, but she is off starting her own family, and got out of Maryland as soon as she was able. I won't really comment on Kelly too much, other than in relation to what Karen and Skip were doing. I have no issue with her, and even though we don't have a whole lot in common, she is my sister, and I don't wish her any harm.
Maybe if this takes off I will put a family tree in the back of the text. It confuses the hell out of me some times and I lived it.
I spent 12 hard years with the Bouldens, until the night before my 17th birthday I had my final argument with Karen. I was put out of the house, and taken in by the Smiths. I will protect the Smiths, because they Protected me.
They took me in when they already had five children. They fed me and kept me safe. They could have turned me over to the state and not been involved, but they decided to live up to the highest aspirations of their christian faith. If anyone are living saints, it's the Smiths. In the two short years between escaping the Boulden house and joining the Air Force they were able to correct failings in my character, and impart to me some real honest wisdom. I honestly think I would be long dead if it were not for the Smith family, and the religious community they introduced me to. I am still unconvinced on the subject of God, or gods, but I cannot bash the message of Jesus Christ, because his message is what motivated and inspired the Smiths.
They made sure I became a good man, and for that I am forever grateful. Know that I have only changed the name to protect you, but I think it's pretty clear to anyone who knows me who this family is.
I cannot eat raw ravioli.
Some of my earliest memories are not very nice. I can remember having to run across the street, barely dressed to ask the Johnson family for help. That is the real name there, and if anyone can identify your parents or grandparents from my story please let me know. That couple are another two people whom I owe my life.
I remember having to ask them to open bags for cereal. I remember Ghost Buster marshmallow cereal because of this. I remember Mrs. Johnson always coming to the door and fussing me. She would kindly open whatever package I had, and sometimes I would go home with a treat.
Most of the time I would share this with my sister, Sue. I knew Heather existed, but she lived in the next room over, and that door was always shut.
I feel like at this point it is important to paint the scene. Pam, Sue, Heather and I lived in a small three room house. It could have been two trailers converted into a small house, but I think it was once of the small stick built houses built just after WWII. Very small, very cheap, very basic.
If you divided the house in half centered on the middle hall way looking to the back door it was my room with Sue at the front corner, than Heather's baby room in the middle, than the master bed room. On the other half was an open kitchen with a door way leading to the sitting room. This opened onto a back porch which looked over some wet waste ground that was over grown with every weed you could think of.
There was crap ground into all the carpets, and most of the rooms were bare floor boards. I can only clearly remember one time where I know I saw needles, but know what I know now about smack houses, this was a classic.
Waterbed with holes in it in the master bedroom, locks high up on the outside of my room, different men always coming to visit Pam. Between the men and the drugs she kind of forgot that she had kids. When I saw Carl he really just came over to play Nintendo on a working tv, or try and get Pam back after another break up.
His visits, I must admit, are little points of happiness. I can remember getting to play Duck Hunt for the first time. So started my life long love of video games. Some kids got stuff toys or blankets, I got Mario on a screen.
My 'bedroom' that I shared with Sue was simple. Wood floors, one night stand with a black and white antenna equipped TV. We had two wheeled couches which I could push together so Sue would not fall off in the night. The windows didn't lock, so I was able to get out too get food sometimes.
We had a lamp at one point, but I got caught trying to get into the house from the out side one night. Pam was not happy with me. She got so angry that she picked up the lamp, and smashed it in front of my feet. I have no idea why I did not run away, but I was transfixed as she picked up one of the shards of glass and pushed it into my left food.
I look at that scar every morning in the shower, and I remember. I have no memory of what happened next. The memory seems to end after I feel the glass push out of the bottom of my foot. I don't know what happened after that.
But I remember I learned to pick the lock on the window they installed. Some how I had smuggled a stick into the house from the waste ground out back. I was able to push it into the window frame and pop the window open somehow. and I was able to get out. I stole a can of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli and a can opener. I ran over to the Johnson's and asked for help opening it. I never did get the hang of the can opener. Mrs. Johnson opened the can for me, but also gave me a plate of their dinner. I remember it clearly, Roast Beef slice with new potato and greens. I crept back into the room, gathered my sister and the feast in the closet, closed the door, handed sue the cold can of food and ate a hot meal for the first time I can remember.
I still feel guilty about it. What kind of monster hordes a hot meal like that? I really have a problem with it. I feel like it shows some moral failing in my core being. Like when you strip everything away I am a selfish bastard at heart.
I have spoken to sue about it, and she forgave me, but I still cannot eat cold ravioli to this day. When I was in the military I would leave the room if someone started snacking on one.
So ya, it's kind of a garbage fire right now, but I started getting up set because I am only four years old when the writting stops and I still have the post adoption family, being fostered, going to war, having 5 kids, developing PTSD, trying to kill myself, being enslaved, and ending where I am now, locked in a court battle and mining herkimer diamonds in New York state.
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