And it really comes down to that.
Let me share a story I know about this guy and you can be the one to judge whether his story is sad or not.
I met him in Cape Cod. He’s around my size, enjoys the same music, loves the same sport teams, works construction. Part of why we connected. He also loves heroin. I mean he loves it. Fortunately though, he hasn’t stuck a needle in his arm or ingested any opiates in 5 1/2 yrs; an amazing feat by any account.
Those are some good things about him and his life. He tries his hardest to help another addict or human being who’s having it rough in life or struggling with any form of addiction and mental health problems. But that’s what he shows, acts upon, and uses as a cover up- a disguise masking who he really is.
Like myself, his mother passed away and he hasn’t spoken to his family since, not because he chooses not too talk but because they’ve refused his many attempts of reaching out and building something that was never really there in the first place: a relationship.
He understands the strength and importance of both of the words, love and hate, and those two words only circumvent the same two people in his life. He hates himself because he was never available during his mother’s last days on earth and he hates himself because he lost an ex girlfriend and isn’t good enough to ever get her back. Sometimes he can’t look at himself in the mirror or pursue interested flames because he is drowning in worthlessness and self doubt. My heart hurts when writing about this pain and regret because I know it’s real.
What he can’t shake is that those two people were also the only people who’ve ever loved him unconditionally, and when it was too late, he realized that he- too- can now love them unconditionally as well. But, it’s too late for that. His mother is never coming back and his ex may as well never come back also.
He sabotages every single thing that’s good for him in his life. He doesn’t believe he deserves better. He claims, if there’s a heaven or an afterlife, that he’s not welcome. He doesn’t try nor think about ways to end his misery but you can almost see- upon his straight grin and melancholy eyes- that he prays that he doesn’t wake up the next morning and instead put an infinite end to his existence.
His heart is bigger then I’ve ever seen. His decision making is who he is, always suffering from the backfire from helping another human, a suffering that’s wound him in hospitals, jails, and even the shelter in which he now calls home, located here in Hyannis. He’s not wanted by old or new friends. His family stopped acknowledging his presence years ago and wouldn’t give him a chance regardless of what he’s done to improve himself or others. He feels and sees hatred daily within himself which in return reflects his place on this planet.
And, too, I understand.
Sometimes I need fresh air and this evening is one of those times. I unlock the door and step out on the old porch, which explains the unsafe sounds I hear as I step onto it. Originally I came outside my house to enjoy a cigarette to compliment my late night cup of coffee, but for reasons I’m not sure of yet, I’ve resolved to stay.
The moons brightness is almost blinding as it owns the sky tonight. With the stars resting and the clouds too scared to pass, the moon stands alone— much like I do— until its beauty is broken by dawn as the sun takes over.
I close my eyes for a moment and hum a Shins song aloud. What sticks with me are the words in its final verse, which hang around in my mind, like if the moon dropped a diamond necklace around itself this evening; both beautiful and true. It ends with James Mercer singing:
“Love is such a delicate thing that we do- with nothing to prove- which I never knew.”
One day you can sincerely be in love, or be loved by someone and the next day that love has vanished. When it’s gone, you can try everything in your power to bring it back (like I did) but it just doesn’t.
The last time I remember seeing a moon this full— this pure— was three summers ago and three days before I found her dead in our bathtub.
Could a night be more perfect? Earlier in the day, we explored the thick forest behind our apartment in Maine and the trail we chose to follow led us to a large expanse of grass, which was dwarfed by a clear opening through the vegetation canopy above us. She mentioned sleeping beneath the stars—just the two of us, alone— so we returned just as dusk covered the east coast with enough preparations to make it til morning. I lay out across the tall untouched grass, a comforter I pulled out from one of our closets, which we never use because of a tear along one of its seams, and I spread it perfectly centered under the opening allowed by the trees. Two more blankets and a giant sleeping bag were what we covered ourselves with, and I placed the only pillow I packed with us on top of a backpack filled with snacks, drinks, and two sandwiches she prepared in the kitchen, as I showered.
Myself, I lay sprawled on my back— facing upwards towards infinity— the blankets covering my body as high as my chest, whereupon she rested her head and dreamed with me a thousand dreams. No longer did we allow the unfamiliar sounds and pitch darkness of the forest surrounding the grass area to startle and uneasy us while we slept and made love, but instead was replaced with laughter and stares of passion into each others eyes. She spoke in such a different sense, a way I’ve never heard before, and I just smiled and listened. Facing me and sitting tall after she rolled on top— her arms straight, pushing her hands into my chest, and a curl of her highlighted hair half covering her face and sticking to the corner of her mouth— the moon poked itself out from behind her head, making the only visible sight her silhouette, and I knew I loved her.
A cannon of hate exploded from her the following day, a couple hours after returning home from the wilderness, which lasted until I left for work Monday morning, three days later. A weekend of relapse, of which Klonopin and Xanax owned her, led me to believe that the very love I once felt was a farce; realizing I can’t feel so strongly towards someone who isn’t capable, at the moment, to love herself. I voluntarily held myself hostage, afraid she would somehow hurt herself in a way that’s worse than the nine attempts she made by bleaching her hair, which caused so much of that beautiful part of her to fall out and wind up clogging the sink drain.
I knew all my yelling proved nothing more than a waste of breath and strain on my vocal cords, but my disappointment and confusion drove me wild. I’d ignore her as much as possible, only paying my full attention as she began unlocking the front door to go to the store around the corner—in the nude. A goat had just as good of a chance comprehending the words I spoke, as she did, so I talked as little as possible, hoping to control what sanity I’ve got left.
I caught a break finally— for a few hours— as she passed out, but upon returning from the convenience store, the idea that she may stop breathing, overwhelmed my logic, so other than when I’d bury my ass in the armchair and divert my attention to a baseball game and its commercials, I was checking her pulse every 5 minutes.
I woke up early—as always— dressed for work and turned on the news, which was my morning routine throughout the work week. She apparently stayed awake most of the night and as I drank my coffee and waited for the weather on tv, she marched back and forth— from the kitchen to the living room— crying and yelling at me because I allowed her to ruin and burn her hair with bleach. Thankful she was sobering up now( I searched the drawer of her nightstand and found her last two Totem Poles, which I flushed without hesitation) but I fueled the argument, resenting her for subconsciously breaking our relationship up, and fought viciously before finally walking out the door and heading to work.
At coffee and lunch break, I was not surprised that she didn’t call like usual. I figured she finally got herself to sleep and I silently prayed she would stay that way for a couple days, so that maybe— just maybe— she would wake up, come to her senses, and realize she needed to get inpatient help for her addiction which she just threw 9 months of sobriety away for. My most prominent thought that day as i worked, was how grateful I was that she didn’t relapse using heroin. I reluctantly decided that she would permanently leave the apartment if she refused treatment, although I knew I’d miss everything I fell for in her, when she’s capable of being sober.
I walked through my front door just after 3:30pm that Monday, my skin caked in a mud-like substance, caused from my endless sweating and 8 hours of drywall dust mixed together and smeared across my arms, neck, and face. I crossed the living room and into the kitchen where I hung my backpack on the back of a chair. I turned the faucet on and splashed cold water on my face, then tilting my head beneath the cold stream, I drank ferociously until I noticed I didn’t see her as of yet. I took off my damp tank top and threw it down the cellar steps— towards the hamper— then started up the hardwood stairs that led to our bedroom and shower. As I reached the top and turned down the short hallway, I could hear the staticy radio blaring from behind the bathroom door, directly across from where I entered our room. I sat on the end of the bed, untied and removed my boots, tore my socks off my feet, and stood up—staring into the mirror that leaned atop her dresser. I was filthy and just wanted to shower. I walked to the bathroom door and raised my voice— telling her to turn the music down and hurry up so I can cool off— but the radio remained at the same loud volume. I didn’t think anything unusual since she never talks to me until I apologize after an argument anyway, whether I’m right or wrong, so when she didn’t respond to me after asking her to lower that noise, I simply thought I’ll put an end to this drama by surrendering and telling her I’m sorry, once she exits the bathroom.
But, I couldn’t hear the shower head running— and now that I think about it—I didn’t hear it upon reaching the top of the stairs, as I passed the bathroom door nearly 10 minutes ago, either.
I knocked hard on the wooden door. I was annoyed and tired—aggrivated and hot— and I wasn’t in the mood for these games of silence she’s played during other fights. I knocked harder this time and when I did the door popped open a crack and the song, “Time to Pretend” by MGMT, rose twice as loud as it was a minute earlier. Ironically the singer sang the words,
” I’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin, and fuck with the stars.
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.”
and instantly I thought to myself that she’s dead. I don’t know why I jumped to such serious acquasations, such as an o.d. as quickly as I had, but she usually would answer the ruckus I caused banging on the doors, just to shut me up. Anxiety ridden and prematurely searching for full breathes of air to inflate my lungs due to a sudden rush of panic, I slowly opened the door, hoping I was wrong more then I’d ever hoped I was wrong before.
I first saw her green towel bunched on the bathroom floor. I don’t know why I always remember such a mundane object— it really has no brilliance towards anything which follows— except that maybe my mind is programmed to subconsciously begin any tragic event with something that makes sense, of which a bathtowel in a bathroom does just that. Next thing that came to view was a spoon—its concaved part facing up and placed somewhat carefully on the surface of the toilet seat cover— and with a miscolored piece of fabric in it. A cotton. The bathtub— stretching the width of the room across the back wall— was infront of me now, but the image of what I saw processed slower then an NFL challenge review, and exactly how I wouldn’t believe the refs as they called a penalty against my team; I couldn’t admitt that I was staring at my girlfriend— naked and lying afloat on her back, her eyes as wide open as they were just a few nights earlier while we shared the universe and all its complications— now lifeless as I searched for any indication she wasn’t dead. But she was dead and the only indications I found all pointed in that direction.
I don’t understand what happens to the essence of time or why a thousand years are lived— between the realization of finding another human being dead and the acting in response to try and save their life— but an eternity was felt as I looked down at her. As I snapped out of my state of shock, I knelt down by the foot of the cast iron tub. I reached out and grabbed her wrist, searching and hoping for any sign of a pulse, but instead found myself holding the dead weight of her limp hand in mine. It felt cold—as cold as the bath water I just took it from— and I stared; first, at its palm and fingers that curled like four half-moons, then I turned her hand over, no longer the pinkish and pale skin that molded her body so beautifully, but instead bluish tint and grey tones meshing together, only resulting in a color not much lighter then a bottlenose dolphin.
I looked her body over; imagining a movement or some restlessness as if I’ve been mistaken this entire time, but she wasn’t sleeping as I’d hoped for. Her eyes were open— one more then the other— and her full lips still had its wrinkles and cresses from being chaped all the time. Her collarbone was prominent as ever as it rested below the water line. So was her stomach, only her breasts emerged from the water, and again, I stared at her beautiful body like I did whenever we made love. But her chest was not rising from her quick and rapid breathes but instead stayed motionless.
I know I did not cry aloud but my tears never stopped running as I stood up and shadowed her just laying dead in front of me.
I reached into the water, pulled the drain plug, and waited for the tub to run dry. I knew I had to call the police but I could not allow for a scene to accure in which my girlfriend was being studied naked before all these strangers. I wanted to respect her—as one would respect the dead— so I left the bathroom, entered our bedroom, and gathered together an outfit to dress her in; shorts and underwear, sports bra and tank top.
It was harder then I thought to dress her and it took me almost thirty minutes to do so, but I lifted her out of the tub and dressed her slowly. Her dead, lifeless weight, prevented this to be an easy action but I succeeded and carried her back to our room where I laid her on our bed.
I kissed her because I had to. I kissed her to say goodbye. I sat beside her until the police, fire department, and paramedics arrived. They did nothing except ask me what I know. I told them I found her in bed and I though I flushed the evidence of her overdose, it was clear that was the case.
I loved who she was. She was real. She didn’t beat around the bush. She was difficult to handle at the end, but I cared too much to abondon her. I tried too hard at times and I slowly evolved into somebody I wasn’t. Somebody who would walk a million miles just to make sure she was ok. I loved her; in my own way, and she loved me in her own way too. She used to look at me in wonder, in awe, and smile that long teeth filled smile, pouring her feelings upon me at once.
And at that moment, I pictured her smiling, and I knew she was with my mother—whom passed away only 6 weeks earlier— and I knew she was safe. I finally knew she was happy.
I found myself outside my apartment, standing by the side of the street, my back only a matter of feet from each passing vehicle. The driver side door- pushing against my body with brunt force from her foot and locked securly in place between us as I leaned my weight into its side- mimicked the very purpose of a wall surrounding a castle. For protection. Our emotions resemble two armies at war and this argument being one of its many battles, I scaled the wall by resting my chin atop the door. My eyes- though uncomfortable seeing the tears that began forming in hers- were ready to attack, but retreated as both sides gave up fighting any longer. Silence lingered in the air but I knew it was time for me to follow her lead and wave my flag in surrender. My shoulders dropped as I released the tension in my muscles and exhaled the last of my breath before I asked her the only question on my mind. ” Am I ever going to see you again? ” Without looking up and after what seemed like an endless pause, the love of my life wiped her eyes and softly spoke. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
The final arguement between my “ex” and I was two weeks ago although we officially broken up in the end of September. After a little over one month of not speaking and spending endless hours trying to uncover my Moral compasses path, I began a dedicated and indefinite process, hoping to get her back in my life. I never intended to date her and I made that clear from the start. Initially, we were only physically attracted to each other and agreed from day one that we’re just hooking up. The sex was fine, but that’s not what caught my attention. Through long conversations I found that she was extremely smart and responsible. Seeing her became a daily ritual and she began spending nights— incredibly sexy lying beside me in bed and falling asleep in my arms.
While she vacations in Miami I felt detached from her, and I didn’t like it one bit. Two things happened that weekend; I realized I genuinely missed her. And I started building this ugly wall in means of keeping the seriousness of what we were capable of doing here. Which was becoming a couple.
I became a bad boyfriend. I stopped giving her the attention and respect she deserved which, after a while, put a toll on her and changed he way she felt about me. If I look back at my time spent with her up to this point, I recall all these times I’d catch her looking at me in such a way I can’t quite explain. Maybe it was just that she loved me. Sometimes she looked at me in awe. I can say that nobody has ever looked at me like that before. And I’ve lost that woman; she sometimes won’t look at me at all.
Being somewhat of an introvert, caused us many problems with the liking of me from her friends. We’d be invited to their cookouts and parties— I’d sit silently, sometimes on my phone and I’d usually not talk unless I was spoken to—and afterwards she would get a phone call and hear an ear full of my rudeneas. Really though, I don’t know how to talk to them because I don’t know them all that well. It takes me time yo open up and talk. Then, because my she started changing the way she felt about me— and i could read it off her like I was flipping pages in a book— I slowly kept things inside with her and started being more and more quiet. If she only knew how much admiration and love I had for her, then maybe things would have been different, but she was clueless I respected her and whom she gave her heart to.
After the breakup— when we began speaking to each other— it was bittersweet, if anything. Picture yourself on a train or bus; you are sitting next to someone—a stranger— and it’s almost intimate sharing that ride, being so close to each other but so far away also. That’s what it was like. I knew everything about this girl but I felt as if we’ve never met.
Late one February evening— following a homemade dinner I cooked for us, which we ate in front of a lit fireplace, she rewarded me with a long overdue kiss— beneath a snow filled sky— as I walked her to her car. It was a big step between us— the gesture I anticipated all these months— and i knew by kissing me she had to lay down her guard, and chosing Valentines Day was the perfect excuse to do that. It was her gift to me; one that’s fragile and sped my pulse like an engine reving, so I gently unwrapped this present for me with my tongue and embraced her lips with mine.
The most important lesson I learned from this was never to make promises. Nobody is perfect and promises are meant to be kept— not broken. My heart spoke and when it did it promised her everything you can imagine, anything from checking the air pressure in her tires, to promising her the world. And when I promised her these things, I meant it. Making promises is a simple way of setting yourself up for failure and disappointing the recipient. Today, as I write this on my 33rd birthday, I’m more or less a failure if you were to sum up the relationship, although I gave it everything I had. What i can say warmly and sincerely is I fell in love with a woman. It was honest and true and I would never give the feeling I had for her away to anyone but myself. It was a privilege to love her, and it was a privilege to be loved by her.
I was swimming that night; my bed was like a pool of water- an ocean even, and my sheets were the waves. My pillow barely acted as a life preserver, moving back and forth from below my head and then thrown to the floor and picked back up again; repeating this action over and over throughout the night. My hands sliding back and forth- tossing the pillow around to gripping the sheets. My legs moving about, trying it’s hardest to keep my body afloat, never stopping and never tiring. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m dying; painful and slow and when I’m not thinking about how much I want this to be over with, I’m praying that something- anything- will kill me.
My days are torturous and my nights are even worse. I don’t stop yawning; tears filling my eyes and running down my face. I have sneezing attacks, maybe 10 or 12 sneezes in a row, and when I do it feels like my ribs are breaking and the air pockets are being torn from my lungs. My head explodes in pain. Not like a bad headache but more like someone is hammer drilling from the inside of my skull- directly behind my facial features- outwards, with the force of a hundred Clydesdale horses charging across a wide open pasture. I removed my hoodie because of how damp the cotton is around the neck and lower back from the sweat flowing out of my skins pores, like the pores themselves are being forced open by what’s left of my soul, which is only trying to break free from the mess of a human I became. But as wet as my sheets and clothes get, I’m attempting to warm myself by wrapping my arms around my torso. I swear that I’m now freezing to death although if I could think about anything else, other then detoxing cold turkey, I’d know my mother has set the houses temperature at a comfortable 68 degrees.
I know she is sleeping. Her pocketbook hidden underneath her side of the bed, away from my addiction and my hands. While I flop myself on my back and light a cigarette I can’t even enjoy, I begin convincing myself that I can easily sneak into my parents bedroom, crawl across the carpet at yhe foot of the bed and around its corner, quietly revealing what my mother thought was hidden and protected. A purse without cash was no longer a problem; I knew all my mother’s pin numbers to her debit cards and I could forge her signature with one of her checks. I actually practiced writing like her for hours one day while I was high so I’ve got her penmanship down to a T.
I can’t help but focus back to the physical pain and discomfort my hips and knees are in. Every angle- Every position, they stay restless, and I pictured how peaceful my night would be without my legs. I mean literally legless. Aw, how perfect that would be. Although I’d still have one problem remaining: I’m so weak and tired that my muscles don’t even work correctly. I’d be better off without them. I decide that my muscles are only weighing my body down and I just can’t remove myself from the puddle of sweat I’m squirming around in.
After turning onto my side; my legs moving like they’re riding a bike which isn’t there, I get a little jolt of anxiety and i snub my cigarette out that I just let burn down to the filter. I move my tongue around the roof of my dry mouth and taste blood, or maybe iron or mettle of some sort, and I remember my dad has to remove his hearing aides while he sleeps so he won’t hear a peep if I entered the bedroom. It’s only me against my sleeping mother and the silent of the night. I’m aware but not worried that both of my hands can not stop shaking. They may be my only nemesis in attempting this robbery. My fingers would be better off twitching upon the keys of a piano then inside of a bag, feeling their way towards my mom’s purse.
I get up and walk to the bathroom- this being my 10th time today peeing. I have no idea how my bladder holds this much urine, especially since I barely stomached the cranberry juice from this morning, but it does. I’m still constipated- I haven’t shit in about three weeks- and i dred the next couple days where I’ll basically be living in the bathroom- my ass not leaving the toilet seat.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m gonna take whatever is in my mother’s purse. If I dont get caught tonight, I’ll definitely be in hot water tomorrow, but at least I know she will never tell my dad what I have done.
In 24hrs I’ll feel ashamed and upset of what I did and although no one will ever believe me, my feelings are sincere. I hate myself so much because I can’t control this disease I have, that I’ve contemplated not only killing myself so my family no longer has to suffer but I’ve already slit my wrists and cried hysterically while gagging on the barrel of a pistol one of my drug dealers left behind after an intense night of smoking crack and shooting heroin. The fact that I hated myself so much because I couldn’t stop being this evil waste of a human, I wished and prayed and tried- by overdosing- to die every single day and it’s one of the most honest feelings I’ve ever had in my life. I was just too stupid or too much of a pussy, to actually carry through with this selfish act.
☆ This situation occurred so many times, I lost count. I stole, lied, munipulated, and hurt my family. My mother was held hostage for almost a decade because of my addiction; because of me. These actions and decisions I made- like this one- brought my entire family to hate upon me and to this day they refuse to forgive me or find a neutral ground on which I can prove myself to them.
My father and I haven’t spoke in almost 3 years, though I’ve reached out and attempted to make an amends with him like I was ablento- and succeeded- with my mother before she passed away. My brothers haven’t accepted me as family and we haven’t talked in about 4 years. And it’s also been about that long since any relatives on my mothers side of the family, last spoke to me, except my Aunt who told me i could not attend any of my mother’s ceremonies and remembrance activities when she died. That was almost 3 years ago when I was told I can not go to the wake, the spreading of her ashes, or the viewing of her body before cremation. I still remember- to this day- the things my mom asked me to remind everyone about when we celebrated her life.
My mother forgave me. For everything. But my family refuses to try. So, I could not see my mother off to heaven because the family turned on me. I was blamed for partial reason of her dying; I causing the cancer to come back so strong. I was accused of that. This is the thing though:
She died on my 17th month of sobriety. I was almost 1 1/2 years away from drugs. And my addiction was still punishing me.
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I still haven’t figured out why I was such an angry, miserable boy; hurting everyone and everything that presented itself in my life. I’m told quite often to simply leave the past where it belongs- in the past- but trying effortlessly to learn why i was the person I was while growing up and how this boy who came from such a loving, supportive family, evolved into the raging drug addict throughout the majority of his adult life. And who am I fooling? I’m still miserable most of the time. I’ve just about mastered disguising my feelings of lonliness and the on going depression I battle with, mostly igniting from resentments I hold against myself. I feel so horrible because I was a horrible child, teenager, young adult, and whatever you’d call me at the age of 32. I was evil- inflicting pain upon others because I didn’t want to suffer alone with the pain I felt inside.
This I know: my addiction is only a symptom of the way I think. I need to change my way of thinking- which will encourage healthier actions- and in return will lead to a happier life. But how? Therapy? The Twelve Steps? Smart Recovery? Meditation? Religion?
All of these?
I’m no one’s son today. When I was a child, I had my mother and father. I rarely got in trouble and though I felt comfortable to lie to my mom, I never once lied to my dad until one summer day at the age of 27. I rebelled as a preteen and by the time I was in high school, my parents stopped caring what I did as long as I continued playing baseball. At this time I was already years into experimenting with drugs but I didn’t have a full blown addiction. But at home I was a terror; depressed and angry and blaming my mother for everything. She became numb to my existence. There would be days prior to one of my explosions where I’d return home from school and the hole I punched in the wall was fixed- the mud still drying- by my mother. She’d act as if nothing happened and would talk to me like I was an alter boy, innocent and sweet.
Then one day I stopped my outbursts. They never happened again. But the depression weighed me down and anxiety took over my senses and brain waves. I started seeing a therapist but I would look at it as a game; one which I could master my munipulating ways and it worked. Not the therapy but the munipulating. By not using the opportunity that was set in front of me, I can only say those sessions did nothing for me and they failed because I wouldn’t allow myself to cooperate. Again, I was hopeless and helpless and my thoughts of dying only seemed to make the most sense, though I never went through with any forms of suicide. (It would be years later, towards the end of my heroin use, that I tried killing myself by overdosing almost on a daily basis).
I always loved people; my friends, my girlfriends, complete strangers, my family, and more then anyone and anything, I loved my mother. But I hated myself. I hated how I looked. I hated how I talked. I hated how my sense of humor imitated my fathers. I hated everything about me and i prayed and i wished at 11:11 that I would just die. I don’t know if I couldn’t kill myself because I was too much of a pussy to do it or if I was too smart, but for whatever reason I just couldn’t do it. I remember telling my mother one day that I wanted to die. She sat on the floor against the cabinet under the sink and she cried. That moment, I felt worse then I ever had before, only adding another reason I shouldn’t live, to the equation.
Until my mother’s last breathe I had parents and I was there son. Once she pasted away, my father made a collage in his head of all the suffering I have put my family through over these years of my addiction and my belief I was worthless, and shunned me from his life all together. So did everyone else on my mother’s side of the family. I’ve been accused of causing my mother to die, from cancer, through the mouths of my Uncle and one of my brothers. I’m no one’s son. Holidays and birthdays spent alone without a greeting or a well wish. There’s maybe 7 billion people on this planet and still, I’m alone. But what gets me the most- what hits home the hardest- is the second my mom passes away I become no one’s son. That easily. It’s one of the most difficult things in my life in which I can’t seem to get over.
Though accepting this moral ideology is sometimes painful and hard, caused by the past I’ve created, I have learned to stop feeling or thinking about my regrets and resentments using my mind, instead igniting that fire within and practice using my heart; by allowing it to lead the way with my feelings and thoughts. By doing this more and more, I have also come to understand what the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous teaches through the 12 Steps and the individual work that must fully be done in order to change for the better.
That hole I had- where emptiness could be found and the pity of being no one’s son- I’ve been able to fill with the presence of my Higher Power and in return gives me the ability to be Somebody’s Son.
It is my nonreligious- purely spiritual- relationship with my HP where I find the answers to my questions, confidence to challenge my fears, and ability to improve myself daily, all awhile proving too and happily impressing a power greater than myself- which is exactly the pedastool I held some of my family high upon for all these years…
As alone as I can feel at times and when emptiness tries invading my space, I consciously depend on my Higher Power and my life feels better each time I do.
“I love her and that is the beginning of everything.” I didn’t write that. F. Scott Fitzgerald did, but I agree.
I’ve been in love with this woman for some time now but it feels new. No, I didn’t spice up the relationship, nor did she, but instead the total opposite. We’re not boyfriend/girlfriend anymore. My feelings never stopped for her. I never chose to show them- express them like one might do to their girlfriend- and now that I am allowing myself to feel these emotional and private feelings I’ve always had, it’s emerging from my body in every single way possible. I just wish I had done it sooner, when the time was easier for her to understand my feelings and accept them for what they are, instead of battling within herself on how strong her feelings still are in retrospect.
I flood her ear ways with I Love You enough times now where they’ve probably lost its meaning. I say those words because in all my years, they finally make sense. They finally have a meaning and I’m trying with all my effort to make them count. I honestly doubt she’s ever been loved the way I love her and I know I’ve never loved someone else, or anyone, like I love her. But again, I say these words, I feel these words, and I’m trying to act on these words before it’s too late and these words don’t mean anything to her anymore.
She says I’m corny and i agree although I don’t know when or why I became this corny guy. I know I’m sweet when I want to be but I’ve never been called corny in my past by anyone other then her. I sometimes picture her telling her girlfriends just how corny I am and everyone getting a laugh out of it. But, little does she know, she is corny too! Maybe that she is a woman makes corniness alright, but she is just as corny as me, if not more…. and I like it.
I always have. The truth is is I’ve never showed her I like it. And the truth is, the more I’m corny to her, the more I say I love you, the more I text her and show her attention, the less she actually acknowledges me. It’s not a game; she doesn’t seem like the game type, but it’s happening and i stress myself over the act of being the one to call or message her because I’m not sure if that’s what she wants me to do or not. I’m not sure if she doesn’t want to talk to me, is waiting to hear from me, or thinks I don’t want to talk to her.
What she doesn’t understand is I want her to be a part of my daily life in each and every way. I want her to call me, even if it’s a simple 30 second hello, or I want to be able to call her and not worry about bothering her. See, for the first time in my life, I want a woman unconditionally, even if there’s nothing to talk about or be corny about, and that may be because for the first time in my life I’m unconditionally in love with another human being.
I am trying to show how much better we can be together; how much fun we can have, experiences to share, and stories to tell our friends with huge grins stretching across our faces. What we had before was a true and wonderful relationship which was covered by pounds of sand and hidden across an arid desert. After lost contact and endless searching, this relationship has resurfaced and all that was hiding the obvious is now gone. I’m just trying to lead her in the direction of its unraveling and show her its beauty.