Hello Facebook World. I would like to share with you a sneak peak into my new Life Story Book entitled
" STIX - A DOMINO EFFECT ". Here is an opportunity for you to read some of my book and learn a lot about me now before the book is released to the World. Everything in my book is real. This is my life. As a man about to turn 60 years old. I have more days behind me than in front of me.

Here is part of my Book for you to really get to know STEPHEN "STIX" JOSEY....

My earliest memories are fragmented, like shards of a broken mirror reflecting a distorted reality. Springfield, a city I barely recognize now in 2025, it was a canvas painted with vibrant colors and shadowed corners. The shadows of this city in the past, however, were far more prominent, far more pervasive back in 1965 when I came into this world. They were the shadows cast by my parents' volatile relationship, a tempest that raged within the confines of the home I spent the first part of my life in.

My mother Lynn Marie Defoe Connors, a beautiful Italian woman with fiery dark hair and eyes that held a captivating intensity, was ensnared by heroin and alcohol. The addiction wasn't a hidden secret; it was a suffocating presence, weaving its way into the fabric of our daily lives. I remember during visits with her the erratic shifts in her moods, the sudden outbursts of anger alternating with periods of unsettling lethargy. One minute she was showering me with affection, her embrace a fleeting warmth in the chilling atmosphere of her apartment, The next she was lost in a world of shadows, her attention consumed by the relentless craving for the drug.

The smell of the heroin itself is indelibly etched in my memory – a sickly sweet, acrid odor that clung to her clothes and permeated every corner of her cramped apartment. This would always be a horrific experience whenever I visited my mother for the first six years of my life. I actually lived with my grandmother in the beginning of my life. My mothers addiction stemmed from the fact that her family disowned her for not aborting me because I would be born a black child. They kicked my mom out of New York. She came to Springfield Massachusetts not knowing anyone here but my dad. He wanted nothing to do with her. The Homeless community however took my mother in as a homeless 18 year old pregnant white girl. The day to day coping mechanisms was drugs and alcohol. She took a grasp of both.

Prior to this my mother got pregnant by a ladies man. My father John Lee Josey a man of imposing physical stature, though he only stood at 5' 7" he was a giant to me, he was the source of a different kind of terror. His anger was a volatile force of nature, erupting without warning. back to my mother. While my mother was pregnant it was hard for her. As mention my mothers family was racist. They told her to abort me or get kicked out of the house and banned from the family in New York.

My mother made the decision to keep me. She moved to Springfield Massachusetts where my father was, in hopes that he would help her. He did no such thing. My mother had no choice but to live on the street with other homeless people while she was pregnant with me. That is when she began to use heroine and other drugs to cope with her struggle of not having a home for herself or her unborn child. At the end of her pregnancy. Her homeless friends put my mother on a bus back to New York in hopes that her family would take her in. That did not happen. While in New York she gave birth to me Stephen John Josey. She had no where too go with me. My father made his way to the Hospital. He told my mother he was going to take me and give me to his mother to raise me. She was already raising some of his other kids at that time. When I was born I was child number eight for him. I was his first biracial kid he had. He took me to his mother from the Hospital like he said.

My grandmother began to raise me. While my mother’s addiction caused neglect, my father's anger inflicted direct, physical harm. I recall specific instances – the stinging slap that ecI’m not using big words today :)d across the room, the chilling fear that froze me in place, the burning sensation of a hand against my skin, leaving behind welts and bruises that ached long after the physical pain subsided. These weren’t isolated incidents; they were brutal reminders of the unpredictable violence that ruled our lives. The fear wasn't just about the physical pain; it was the constant uncertainty, the not knowing when the next outburst would come.

To the tragic day at just 3 years old. My father taking a pump sI’m not using big words today :) and putting the heal of that sI’m not using big words today :) through my skull and then throughing me in a bathtub to die. If not for the presence of one of my brothers mother being there I would not be here today. She sprung into action and got me to the Hospital just before I died from loss of blood. I am disabled today as a result of this trauma to my head at just 3 years old. For the last 56 years of my life I live with daily migraines 24 hours a day. I have to take medication to function on a day to day basis.

The abuse continued until I was 6 years old. At that time my mother figured out a way to come and get me. One day I was sitting on my Grandmothers back porch playing with a friend who lived next door. Her name was Paulette. We played together daily. This particular day I looked down the street and noticed an orange road runner car coming down the street towards me. Once the car pulled to the curb near me I noticed my mother in the passenger seat and a black man driving. My mother said Stephen come and get in the car we are going to go for a ride. I said okay let me go and tell grandma. She said no I already told her. It's okay just get in the car. I obeyed my mom and got into the backseat of the car. For some reason I knew my mom was not telling the truth.

Once in the car my mom told the stranger driving to pull away. The man driving was someone she had just met and hitchhiked a ride from to come and get me. The man pulled off. My mom then turned around and looked at me in the backseat of the car. She had tears in her eyes. She said Stephen you are never going back to that house again to be abused. I am so sorry for everything you have been through. I said mom it's okay don't cry. It will be okay. At the age of just 6 years old I felt as though it was going to be fine for the two of us. As we drove away from my grandmother's house, I felt a mix of emotions. Relief that I was finally leaving the abuse behind, but also anxiety about the unknown future that lay ahead. I had so many questions for my mother, but I couldn't find the words to ask them. I just stared out the window, watching the familiar streets of my childhood fade into the distance.

The man who was driving, whose name was unknown to me, seemed kind enough. He told us about his own children, and how he would do anything to protect them. My mother listened intently, her eyes never leaving his face. I could tell she was searching for something in his words, some sign that he could be trusted. As we reached the city limits we went to the next town over. My mother turned to me and said, Stephen, we're going to start over. Just you and me. We're going to leave all the pain and hurt behind, and create a new life for ourselves. It's going to be hard, but I promise it will be worth it." I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. I had no idea what the future held, but I knew that as long as I had my mother by my side, everything would be alright.

The man took my mom and I to a Hotel. We checked into the Hotel and we all stayed the night. During that night there my mother had sex with the man with me in the same bed lying next to them. I pretended to be asleep. This was her payment to him for helping us get away. The next morning the man took my mom and I to the Bus Station. The man bought two one way tickets for my mom and I to Boston. As the bus pulled into the station in Boston, Stephen and his mother, Lynn, stepped off, their hearts filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. They had left the pain of the past behind, but now faced the challenge of building a new life. With nowhere to go, they wandered the streets, their belongings in a small suitcase Lynn had brought with her.

The weight of their situation bore down on Lynn, and she felt a familiar pull towards the comfort of drugs. But something held her back—it was Stephen. She knew that she had to stay strong for him, that he needed her now more than ever. So, she pushed aside her cravings and focused on finding a place for them to stay. For one week the two of them slept in alleyways. eating out of garbage cans.

Until one day an old man who was white. Came to them and said get up and follow me. He took Stephen and his mother to get something to eat. He then took the two of them to a woman's shelter. Stephen and his mom resided in that shelter for months. It was not long until then that they found a small apartment in the housing projects of Boston. The project was called Columbia Point Projects. It was in the Dorchester area of Boston. Right next to SOUTH BOSTON. At that time it was the most racist city around. Lynn was the only Italian and not person of color living in that project at that time. Lynn stopped using the drugs. However she had now found a new copping vice and that was Bingo. She began leaving Stephen in the house alone while she would go out to Bingo. Stephen had no one to talk to our be around. He then started Praying and talking to God at the age of 6.

As the days turned into weeks and months, Stephen and Lynn created a life for themselves in Boston. Lynn was now receiving aide from the State. It was called Welfare. Stephen started attending a nearby school. Despite the challenges they faced, they were happy. Stephen excelled in school, his creative mind shining through in his writing and art. He found solace in his imagination, crafting stories and drawing pictures of faraway lands. Lynn beamed with pride as she watched her son flourish, and she worked tirelessly to provide a stable home for them. But the ghosts of their past still lingered. Stephen struggled with the trauma of his father's abuse, and Lynn fought her own battles with addiction, attending support group meetings to stay on track. Despite these challenges, they supported each other, their bond unbreakable.

One day Lynn took Stephen to the Boston Commons. They would have Concerts on the Park weekly. This day that Lynn took them to see a Concert Stephen enjoyed it. During intermission of the show. Stephen jumped up and ran to the stage and jumped on the Drum set. Lynn came running up to the stage yelling at him telling him to get off of those Drums. A man with long hair came over to them and said to Lynn its okay let him play, he is fine. The man then came to Stephen and said what is your name? Stephen gave the man his name. The man then said are you right handed or left handed. Stephen put up both hands. The man laughed so did his mother. The man then said okay let me show you how to use a Drum set. That man stated teaching Stephen a few things about the Drums. The man then stopped and said hold on. He grabbed a pair of Drum sticks from a leather bag hanging on the Drums. He said here take these sticks these are for you. The man then said I can see that you are going to doing amazing things in your life. I'm going to call you little STIX. I smiled and took the Sticks. From this day forward as an adult that name is part of my name. I call myself (Stephen "Stix" Josey). I even put a tattoo with a Drum set and the name Stix on my right arm. That really put the creative juices in motion for Stephen at the age of 6.

Lynn went on to meet a man who became my step father for the next 35 years of my life until he passed at the age of 51 from lung cancer. His name was James Ray Manuel. They called him Ray. Everyone loved him. I loved him as well as my new dad. Ray was however just as abusive as my biological dad was from years passed. The only difference with Ray is he would beat my mother and not me. Ray would beat my mother up and down the street in front of me or anyone else that was present. He didn't care.

I can remember a time when Ray was riding around in his brothers car with another women sitting in the passenger seat as he drover her around the Projects with no care in the world for my my mothers feelings. My mother got feed up with this. She seen the car parked in front of a building. Ray was not in the car. The woman was still sitting in the passenger seat of the car. My mother walked up to the car and asked the lady to get out of the car. The woman looked at the look on my moms face. She can tell my mother was not playing. She nodded her head and opened up the door and got out. My mom said Stephen get in the back of the car. I opened the door and got in the car. My mom looked at the lady and drove off with the car. Ray came running out of the building yelling for my mother to pull over. He chased my mom down the street on foot as my mom was driving away from him with me sitting in the back seat of the car.

My mom drove around the Projects for a brief moment then she went to the back of our building and parked the car in the parking area for the building we lived in. My mom and I got out of the car. We walked to our building and proceeded to walk up five flights of stairs heading to our apartment. Once we opened up the door from the stairwell Ray was standing there with the woman from the car, his brother and a few of his friends he hung out with daily. Ray walked up to my mother and punched her in the face knocking her down to the ground. He began kicking my mother all over her body. He picked her up and continued punching on her as he held her up against the wall. Blood was coming out of her mouth. She did not give him the satisfaction of crying. My mom took that beaten in silence. She looked at me as I cried. I was to young to help her. Not one of those adults watching this happen to my mother said anything or attempt to stop Ray. This was the first time but not the last time I witnessed Ray attacking my helpless mother time and time again. My mother who only stood 4' 11". Ray stood almost 6' 4" was never able to help herself.

The sounds of those episodes are etched in my memory. The sharp crack of a slap, the choked sobs of my mother, the heavy thud of my step father's fist against a wall. Reminded me of the terrified whimpers that escaped my own lips when I was living with my grandmother being abused my my biological father – a symphony of fear and pain that played out repeatedly in our tiny world. My step father put that same fear in my mother and I. We learned to anticipate his moods, to read the subtle changes in his expression, the tightening of his jaw, the clenching of his fists. These became my early warning signs, the prelude to the storm that was about to break. I'd retreat to my corner, hugging myself, trying to make myself small and invisible, hoping he wouldn't notice me.

The silence, however, was just as terrifying. The silence after the storm, the thick, heavy silence that followed the outbursts, was a chilling void filled with unspoken anxieties. It was the silence that amplified the fear, that left me wondering if the next episode was looming just around the corner. Would he hit me this time? It was the silence of unacknowledged pain, the silence that my young mind struggled to understand and to process. This silence permeated every aspect of our lives; it wasn't just the absence of sound, but the absence of love, security, and reassurance.

Our home was a chaotic landscape of emotional upheaval. There was no stability, no routine, no sense of normalcy. The constant state of flux, the shifting dynamics of our family, created an internal instability that mirrored the turmoil within our home. One day, we might have enough to eat; the next, we would be struggling to find sustenance. The simple act of attending school became a challenge due to my parents’ unreliability and the frequent changes in our living situation. Ray or my mother had a job. My mom was living off of the State and Ray was living off of her. The feelings of loneliness and isolation were profound and all-consuming. I had no consistent friends, no stable network of support, no one to confide in. The adults in my world were consumed by their own struggles, incapable of providing the love and support that I desperately needed. I lived in a perpetual state of anxiety, never fully relaxing, constantly anticipating the next crisis.

The lack of consistent parental care left me feeling abandoned and worthless. I craved affection, but the affection I received was inconsistent and unreliable, often conditional upon my behavior. This created a deep-seated insecurity, a nagging feeling that I was somehow unlovable, undeserving of love and attention. I internalized my parents' dysfunction, accepting their flaws as my own. Even now, decades later, I struggle to shake off the lingering effects of this early childhood trauma. The memories are vivid, the emotions raw. It’s a constant work in progress, a process of unpacking the trauma, understanding its impact, and working to heal the deep-seated wounds. Therapy has been invaluable in helping me process these experiences and understand their profound influence on my life.

I've learned that acknowledging the trauma, confronting it head-on, and talking about it are critical steps in the healing process. The journey is ongoing, and it’s not always easy, but it's essential. The impact of this early trauma extended far beyond my emotional well-being. It affected my academic performance, my social interactions, and even my ability to form healthy relationships. The instability of my early years instilled a deep-seated fear of abandonment, a fear that has shaped many of my decisions and relationships throughout my life. I've spent years learning to trust, to let people in, to overcome this ingrained fear. It's been a process of unlearning the harmful lessons of my childhood and consciously reprogramming my responses and beliefs. The physical abuse I endured left physical scars, reminders of the violence that marked my early years. Those scars, both physical and emotional, serve as constant reminders of the journey I've undertaken, the resilience I've cultivated, and the strength I've found within myself to overcome the adversity I faced.

This early trauma, however, was not just a series of isolated events; it was a formative experience that profoundly shaped my identity, my worldview, and my trajectory in life. I was considered a short kid coming up. Most short kids have a complex about their height. I did not. As I mentioned my stepdad Ray was almost 6' 4". He taught me how to always be confident but not cocky in everything you do in life. It instilled in me a fierce determination to overcome adversity, a deep-seated resilience that propelled me forward, even in the face of overwhelming challenges. And, ironically, it was the pain, the instability, the chaos of my early life that ultimately ignited a spark of creativity and self-expression, eventually leading me to the stage and a career in the entertainment industry.

This was my escape, my sanctuary, a space where I could express the emotions that I couldn't articulate in words. It was my path to healing, my journey toward redemption. But that is a story for another chapter. Thank goodness I had God to talk to. I spoke with God every day. Not just when I would say my Prayers at night with my mother. I spoke with God in the day time as well. God told me to start writing and drawing every chance I got. God said to become creative in the world of music. Drums is what I took to first, then piano. As the years went on I started playing Drums for the Church. I also played Drums on a Gospel Album at the age of 14. Ray was the lead singer for a Gospel Group in Boston. They allowed me to be their Groups Drummer. I had become that good. I even played Drums for my High School.

As I navigated my teenage years, the drums became my constant companion, a means to channel my emotions and find solace in the rhythmic beats I created. My passion for music and performance led me to explore the world of theater in high school. It was a transformative experience, as if the stage provided me with a shield, allowing me to shed my insecurities and become someone else for a while. I felt empowered, and the applause at the end of each performance filled me with a sense of validation that I had never known before. I was in school with Ralph Tresvant, the lead singer of the New Edition group, and Ricky Bell had a brother in school with me that played the bass guitar with the school band. I enjoyed playing drums when he was playing the bass guitar. He was the best in the school.

The world of entertainment was calling me, and I felt ready to answer. During this time, I also discovered the thrill of basketball. I played in the BNBL Basketball League in Boston, often finding myself on the court with Michael Bivins from the New Edition Group. He would pull up to our basketball games at Washington park in Boston with his white Mercedes Benz. On another note that Park is named after him now. Just a few years ago as an adult I went to the ceromony of the park being named after him. I took a lot of pictures with him and the Mayor during that ceremony.

Back to the journey while in school. The competitive spirit, the rush of adrenaline, and the camaraderie I experienced on the court were exhilarating. It was as if I had found a new family, a group of people who accepted me for who I was and didn't judge me based on my past. Bobby Brown from the New Edition group and his family had known me since I was eight, and his sister Tina, became like a big sister to me from the first time I met them. We are still like family to this day. These friendships and shared experiences helped me heal and gave me a sense of belonging that I had never felt before. Despite the darkness of my early years, I now realize that those experiences shaped me in profound ways. They taught me resilience, compassion, and the importance of human connection. I learned to transform pain into art, using my creativity to rise above my circumstances and forge a new path. As I look back on my life, I see the beauty in the broken pieces, and I know that my story is one of survival, strength, and the enduring power of the human spirit.

As I navigated my teenage years, the drums remained a constant and welcomed distraction, a means to channel my turbulent emotions and find refuge in the steady rhythms I created. But it was on the basketball court where I truly discovered a sense of belonging and camaraderie. I excelled in the game, and the competitive spirit, the adrenaline rush, and the bond with my teammates were exhilarating. It was as if I had finally found a family that accepted me unconditionally and provided a safe haven from the trauma of my past. Michael Bivins, whom I often crossed paths with on the court, became a familiar and friendly face. The BNBL Basketball League in Boston offered me a sense of stability and purpose, and it was during this time that I also discovered my passion for football.

Both sports became second nature to me, and the competitive edge I developed stayed with me for life. I relished the challenge of pushing myself, and the feeling of being part of a team, working together towards a common goal, was empowering. However, my life took an unexpected turn when I became a father during my final year of high school. The responsibilities of impending fatherhood led me down a different path, and I found myself selling drugs on the corner with my best friend, Lewis. We were lost and directionless, and one fateful night changed the course of my life yet again. A late-night visit at my friend Lewis house from my mother, urging me to come home, led to an encounter with Ray that I will never forget. Brandishing a shotgun, he gave me an ultimatum: join the Army or face the consequences of my actions. I knew Ray was not one to make idle threats, so I chose the former, and within a month, I found myself at Fort Sill in Oklahoma, beginning my journey as a soldier.

This decision not only saved my life but also provided me with the discipline and direction I desperately needed. The Army offered me a chance to start over, and although I missed the birth of my first child, Stephen Jr., due to the restrictions of not being married to his mother, I was eventually able to meet my son when he was three months old. Today, he is a remarkable 41-year-old man, and I couldn't be prouder of him and the father he has become to his four children. My time in the Army set me on a path of self-improvement and growth, and it was this newfound discipline that carried over into other aspects of my life.

After my military service, I enrolled in Job Corps to study business, and it was here that my passion for basketball re-emerged. I captained our basketball team to victory in the National Job Corps Basketball League Championship, once again experiencing the thrill of competition and teamwork. This win also brought with it a scholarship to college, providing me with opportunities I once thought were out of reach. My journey, filled with twists and turns, has taught me the importance of resilience and the power of creativity in overcoming adversity. The trauma of my early years fueled my determination to rise above my circumstances and forge a new path. And though the shadows of my past will always be a part of me, I now understand that they do not define me. Instead, they have shaped me into the person I am today—a survivor, a creator, and a testament to the enduring strength.

I can still remember as I think back on my childhood the instability wasn't just confined to the chaotic emotional landscape of our home; it permeated every aspect of our lives. Our living situation was a constant state of flux. We moved frequently, often with little to no notice. One moment, we were settled (relatively speaking) in a cramped apartment, the next we were being ushered into a new, unfamiliar environment. These were not planned moves; these were escapes, frantic retreats from escalating arguments, evictions, or the looming threat of my step father's unpredictable rage.

I remember the unsettling feeling of packing up our meager belongings, the hurried goodbyes, the uncertainty of where we were going, and the gnawing fear of what awaited us at our next destination. Each move felt like a fresh start, an opportunity to escape the turmoil of the past, but the sense of displacement lingered. I never felt truly at home, never quite settled. I became adept at adapting, at quickly assessing my surroundings, at finding my place in a new school, a new neighborhood. But the constant shifting created a deep-seated sense of rootlessness, a feeling that I didn't belong anywhere, that I was perpetually in transit. The feeling of being an outsider, an observer rather than a participant, became a defining characteristic of my childhood.

The lack of consistent parental care mirrored this instability. My mother, lost in the haze of her addiction, was often unavailable, both physically and emotionally. Her presence was erratic, a flickering candle in the wind, sometimes illuminating our lives with bursts of affection and attention, other times leaving us adrift in darkness. My step father, while physically present, was emotionally distant, his love conditional and often overshadowed by his violent outbursts. There was no consistent source of nurturing, no reliable caregiver to provide the stability and support every child needs to thrive. This lack of stability extended beyond our living arrangements and parental care; it also impacted my education. Attending school became a challenge due to the constant moves and the unreliability of my parents.

I frequently missed school, not due to illness or truancy, but because of our chaotic lifestyle. Sometimes, we simply didn't have transportation; other times, my mother was too incapacitated by her addiction to bingo to get me there. The missed days accumulated, creating gaps in my education, leaving me behind my peers, and reinforcing my feelings of inadequacy. The constant interruptions made it difficult to concentrate, to form meaningful relationships with my teachers, and to develop a sense of academic purpose. The feeling of being adrift, of having no solid foundation, seeped into every aspect of my life. It manifested in my social interactions, making it difficult to build lasting relationships. I was always the new kid, the outsider. The fear of becoming attached, of becoming invested in friendships that might be disrupted by another move or another crisis, created an emotional distance that hindered my ability to form deep connections. I became wary of intimacy, hesitant to let people get close. I feared the inevitable pain of saying goodbye, of being uprooted once again.

Even the simple act of playing was tinged with this pervasive sense of instability. Unlike other children who had the luxury of routines, predictable playtime, and consistent playmates, my childhood games were often interrupted, curtailed by the unpredictable nature of our lives. I remember attempting to build elaborate Lego castles, only to have them knocked down by my father's sudden anger or hastily packed away due to another imminent move. This taught me not to invest too much in anything – relationships, possessions, or even my own dreams – lest they be snatched away without warning. This early experience of instability instilled in me a deep-seated sense of anxiety.

I was constantly on edge, anticipating the next crisis. Every noise, every unexpected event, triggered a heightened state of alertness, a feeling of impending doom. The fear was not always rational, but it was nonetheless pervasive and all-consuming. My body became accustomed to this perpetual state of heightened arousal, my muscles perpetually tense, my senses on high alert, preparing for the inevitable disruption. The psychological impact of this prolonged instability was profound. I developed coping mechanisms to navigate this unpredictable environment. I became highly adaptable, learning to adjust quickly to new situations and to minimize my emotional investment in any given circumstance. I also developed a strong sense of independence, learning to rely on myself, to solve problems without the support of consistent adult figures.

Yet, this independence wasn't a conscious choice; it was a survival mechanism forged in the fires of instability. It was a shield against the emotional pain of reliance, a way to minimize my vulnerability. This early enforced self-reliance would later prove to be both a strength and a weakness. While it prepared me for the challenges that would come later, it also made it difficult to trust others, to allow myself to be vulnerable, to rely on the support of others. The instability shaped my personality in other ways too. I became highly observant, acutely aware of my surroundings and the subtle cues that signaled impending danger.

This heightened awareness, while beneficial in some ways, also made me more anxious and less trusting. I developed a tendency to anticipate the worst, to expect the unexpected. This created a pattern of anxiety and hypervigilance, constantly scanning my surroundings for potential threats, real or imagined. This, in turn, fed my deep-seated feelings of insecurity and low self-esteem. The constant state of uncertainty and the absence of consistent support left me with a profound sense of isolation, a feeling of not belonging, a conviction that I was somehow different, flawed, or unworthy of love and acceptance.

The lack of consistent positive interactions with caring adults fostered an internal narrative of self-doubt and inadequacy. I internalized the dysfunction of my family, accepting their flaws as my own, believing that my inherent worth was somehow linked to their erratic behavior. The relentless instability amplified the feelings of abandonment, leaving me with a deep-seated fear of loss and rejection.
Looking back, it's clear that this instability was the foundation upon which my life was built. It wasn't a smooth, even foundation, but one fractured and unstable, yet on it, I managed to construct a life, a career, a semblance of stability. But the tremors of those early years continue to resonate, and the shadows of that instability linger to this day. The journey to overcome this, to find a sense of equilibrium, is a process that continues to unfold, chapter by chapter. The pursuit of stability, of peace, is a constant quest.