Unwanted in Life


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.

No One’s Son


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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).

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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.