Guy Ampiro, April 4, 2025
I grew up in a highly dysfunctional, super racist, prejudiced, judgmental, narcissistic, and rather sinister family in North Jersey back in the 1980s through the late 1990s, then again with the nuttiest bunch of degenerate liars, politically connected cheats, and elected frauds in the late 2000s into the 2010s. The point is: these were right‑wing conservatives, and I vied endlessly for their attention, compassion, and love. Sadly, with this sort of vibe—this strange brew not even worthy of Motley Crue status—they lived by a kind of silent code in a predominantly minority community of Democrats, Black and white liberals, inner‑city socialists, and community‑program types; you know, those who allegedly desire to make change.
Though I could care less for a family like mine, if you couldn't already tell, they raised me by the Italian‑Irish guilt, shame‑placing, and blame‑shifting psychological code of “let’s swap our intelligence and mental prowess, fortitude, and knowledge with these misinformed youths.” Not true. Yes, they believed such truths existed, though they were far from it—mostly small‑minded pea brains insufferably stuck in timeless, false‑pride loops.
I still remember the moment I finally stepped into a booth at eighteen years old for the 2004 presidential race, desiring so badly to vote for Howard Dean, to get that young, rebel‑rousing energy into office. That didn’t happen. You see, until 2020, every time I slid that curtain closed, hidden from all, I’d pull down the Republican lever and check off every conservative name, including all players—especially the sixth man, usually a local representative who appeared to be a clearly evil degenerate of no relation to my own den of thieves, yet just as sinister and idiotic.
But those people raised me—despite my hatred, my angst, and my desire to be loved, acknowledged, and validated. The real embrace of my own father—recognition, pride, and understanding—was an unseen force that stopped in 2020 with my second vote for Donald Trump. What I found in its place was an openly vulnerable, numbers‑heavy recovery community that betrayed me just the same.
No matter how deep I dug in, drank the Jim Jones Kool‑Aid, or swallowed it all, it was never my truth. I was merely given a stage for four years where I could use the gifts of my maniacal, conservative, possibly alt‑right, Sicilian‑Irish, drunk, and criminally insane sociopathic family—to manipulate and control an entire community. My own vulnerability became performance, a dark act of desperation for their attention and validation, disguised as recovery.
The message is clear: that an addict—any addict—who lives without inner work eventually faces his reflection. Lies caught up with me after years of deception and relapse. Without genuine stepwork, the 3½‑year stretch I called “clean” was paper‑thin, and soon enough, I was seen for what I truly was: an NA thief, a toxic member of a community that finally excommunicated me through community‑based trauma.
Honestly, who could blame them? Who would even listen? As Eddie Mush might cry, even if I were on a streak of bad luck or near some true emotion in dire need of help—no one. As my own mother would tell me, “The boy who cried wolf” became my story.
My name’s Guy—Guy Ampiro—and I am the psychologically and emotionally manipulated offspring of degenerate gambler parents surrounded by a family so disastrously, yet ignorantly and pridefully, brainwashed by the right‑wing media parade. In the end, most of them died. The few remaining were never truly family at all, and none became a success worth the grain of salt they once tossed in false pride.
This is liberating. This is music. Sadly, my father had soul like that—but it was twisted, sinister, and cruel. He was a huge pusher and seller of lies birthed from a conservative, alt‑right agenda while leading an illegal street‑world empire, pretending to care about values he himself violated.
Being his offspring, I discovered that he didn’t care about me either, no matter the spotlight of being “the owner’s son.” Yet for all who are marred or scarred by such a mark, know this: that beast cannot define you forever. It never defined me.
It made me feel more distant from them all, and in time—at age forty, literally last year into this very month—I finally learned how to detach and start anew. I didn’t vote for Trump this past November; in fact, I didn’t vote at all. But that’s growth. These growing pains are necessary and welcome, for I am finally free—able to, when the time comes, step into that booth again, slide that curtain aside, and relive my Howard Dean youth once more and forever after.