Anthony: Base on a True Story of Moonguy
"I'm not going to pretend to be something I'm not. I'm Anthony W. Hayes III, but you can call me Moonguy. I'm 23 years old as of June 6, 2025, and I've got a story to tell—a story about growing up with challenges, finding strength in family, and holding onto hope no matter what life throws at me. I wasn't born with a golden spoon in my mouth. Nope, I came into this world with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and spina bifida occulta, a birth defect in my lumbar spine that started hurting when I was 17. Life hasn't been easy, but I refuse to let my struggles define me. What defines me is my spirit, my dreams, and the people who've loved me through it all.
Some of my earliest memories are like little treasures I keep tucked away in my heart. I was maybe three or four years old, living in Lincoln County, Kentucky, and my favorite place was Granny Gladys's house. It was an old house with creaky floors and walls that seemed to whisper stories of the past. But what made it special was my great-grandfather, Papaw Ray Boy. He was tall, with kind eyes and hands that were rough from years of hard work but so gentle when they held mine.
Every night, I'd grab my sippy cup—usually filled with milk or juice—and toddle down the hall to his room. My blanket trailed behind me like a little cape, and I'd peek through the door. "Papaw?" I'd whisper, my voice small in the quiet house.
He'd smile, those eyes crinkling at the corners. "Come on in, little man," he'd say, lifting the edge of his blanket so I could crawl in beside him. I'd snuggle close, feeling the warmth of his body and hearing the steady thump of his heart. It was like the safest place in the world. Sometimes, he'd read me a story from an old book, his deep voice making the characters come alive. Other times, he'd tell me about his own life—how he met Granny Gladys, the pranks he pulled as a kid, or the time he and his brothers got caught sneaking out to fish.
One night, he told me that fishing story. "We thought we were so smart," he chuckled, "creeping out with our poles in the dark. But your great-grandma, she was sharper than a tack. Caught us coming back all muddy and made us scrub the whole house!" I laughed so hard I almost spilled my sippy cup, picturing Papaw as a boy, scrubbing floors with a pout on his face.
Those moments with Papaw weren't just fun—they taught me things I didn't even realize I was learning. He showed me what love feels like, what it means to be safe and cared for. With him, the world made sense, even if my ASD made it hard to understand people sometimes. I didn't have the words back then, but I felt it: Papaw was my sanctuary.
But then, when I was four, everything changed. Papaw Ray Boy passed away. I don't remember much about how it happened—my mind's fuzzy on the details, maybe because I was too young or maybe because it hurt too much to hold onto. What I do remember is the emptiness. It was like someone turned off the lights in my world. I'd wander into his room, hoping he'd be there, but it was always quiet, always empty. I'd sit on his bed, clutching my sippy cup, tears running down my face, not knowing how to make sense of it.
Granny Gladys would find me there. She'd pull me into her arms and say, "He's still with us, Anthony, in our hearts." I didn't get it then—what does "in our hearts" mean to a four-year-old? I just wanted Papaw back, telling me stories, making me laugh. That loss hit me hard, and even now, at 23, I feel the sting of it. But I also carry the warmth of those nights with him. They're a reminder that love doesn't go away, even when the person does.
Papaw's love was a bright spot, but my childhood wasn't all warmth and light. Growing up poor sucked, and my family situation made it even tougher. My Biological Father, was the opposite of Papaw. Where Papaw was kind, my father was cruel. Where Papaw made me feel safe, my father filled me with fear. He abused me—physically and emotionally—and those scars run deep.
I remember being six, playing quietly in the living room with some old toys I'd found. We didn't have much, so I'd make do with whatever I could. I was trying so hard to be good, to stay out of his way, but it didn't matter. He stormed in, his face red with anger. "Can't you ever shut up?" he yelled, even though I hadn't said a word. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in, and shook me so hard I thought I'd break. My heart pounded, and I wanted to cry, but I bit my lip instead. Crying made it worse.
When I was eight, he hit me for not finishing my dinner. We didn't always have enough food, so you'd think he'd be happy I ate anything. But no. "You ungrateful little brat," he spat, smacking me across the face. The sting burned my cheek, but his words burned deeper. I felt like nothing, like I'd never be good enough.
The worst came when I was seventeen—He grabbed me by the collar, dragged me to his room, and pulled out a shotgun, almost pulling the trigger, if he did a Bullet will go straight into My Brain. "You think you're tough?" he snarled, pressing the cold barrel against my temple. "I could fucking kill you right now." Yelling in My Ear.
Time stopped. My whole body went numb, and all I could feel was terror. I thought I was going to die, right there, with my father's finger on the trigger and almost putting a bullet in My Brain I thought I was Done for. I couldn't move, couldn't scream—just stood there, waiting for it to be over. But he didn't shoot. He shoved me away, laughing like it was some sick joke. To him, maybe it was. To me, it was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
That moment stuck with me. Even now, I get flashbacks—sudden, sharp memories of that gun against my head. They hit me out of nowhere, making my chest tight and my hands shake. My ASD didn't help. I couldn't figure out why he was mad or how to stop it. People's emotions were a puzzle I couldn't solve, and with him, it was like every piece was a trap. When I'd get overwhelmed—too much noise, too much yelling—I'd have meltdowns, curling up or rocking back and forth. He'd scream louder, "What's wrong with you? Why can't you be normal?" I didn't know how to tell him I wasn't normal, that my brain worked different.
My mother was my shield. She'd step in front of me, taking his anger so I wouldn't have to. I'd hide behind her, listening to him yell, feeling guilty that she was hurting because of me. After, she'd hold me tight and whisper, "It's okay, baby. I'm here." Her parents—my grandparents—gave me a safe place too. Their house was quiet, steady, a world away from my father's chaos. But even with them, the fear followed me.
By the time I was 18, I was done. The abuse, the fear—it was a weight I couldn't carry anymore. I'd spent years hoping my father would change, that he'd see me as his son, not a punching bag. But hope ran out. Every time I saw him, my stomach knotted up, waiting for the next blow. I couldn't heal with him in my life.
It hit me one Tuesday afternoon, sitting in my room at my mom's house. The walls were bare, just a mattress and a few things I'd scrounged up, but it was mine. I stared at nothing, feeling the exhaustion in my bones, and thought, "I can't do this anymore. I deserve better." That was it—the spark I needed.
The next day, I went to Lincoln County High School. I'd graduated in 2020, but I still knew people there. I found Officer Preston Milton, the school resource officer. He was always around, calm and steady, helping kids with their problems. Maybe he could help me.
I knocked on his office door, my hands shaking. When he looked up, I almost ran. But I stepped inside, my voice barely working. "Officer Milton, I need to talk," I said.
"Anthony, what's going on?" he asked, his eyes kind but serious.
I took a deep breath, and it all spilled out. Tears mixed with words as I told him about the abuse—the hitting, the yelling, the gun to my head. I didn't hold back, even when my voice cracked. It was like letting go of a secret I'd carried too long.
He didn't interrupt, just listened. When I finished, he leaned forward. "Anthony, I'm so sorry you went through that. No one should have to live like that." Someone believed me. Not just my family, but someone with authority. It was a relief I can't describe. He picked up the phone and called the police right then. Within hours, they were at my father's house, making sure he couldn't touch me again. I cut ties that day—no more calls, no more visits. It was over.
Freedom didn't erase the pain, but it gave me room to breathe. The flashbacks still came, but they weren't as sharp. My family stepped up even more. My mom became my biggest supporter, pushing me to talk about it, to heal. My grandparents kept their home open, a place where I could just be. And Chad Peavley, my stepfather who'd come into our lives when I was 12, showed me what a dad should be—patient, kind, never angry. Aunt Violet and Uncle Justin brought the light back. Violet called me "Doodle Bug" and made me laugh with her wild ideas. Uncle Justin teased me about my old pacifier habit—“Get that sissy toy out of your mouth!”
My ASD had its challenges, but I learned to work with it, not against it. Some days, the sensory stuff was a lot. Too much crowds of people could send me spinning. But the hardest part was understanding people, reading their emotions and cues, change topics when I'm talking, I can't help it. I still get it wrong sometimes, but I'm learning. And I've got a great support team that helps me figure it out.
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