Moonguy's True Story

Anthony: Base on a True Story of Moonguy
"I'm not going to pretend to be something I'm not. I'm Anthony Wayne 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, Tj Hayes, was the opposite of Papaw. Where Papaw was kind, my father was cruel. Where Papaw made me feel safe, my father filled me