I Am Blessed

This is what I know.

     I know I can't keep lying to myself. I know I'm not happy. The accumulation of my consequences has outgrown any possible benefit I have in denying it. I attempted at killing an ant colony one ant at a time and it's left me with a lawn full of ant hills and a body covered in ant bites. I know it is time to dig up my lawn, destroy the facade I keep so dear to myself, and start over with fresh dirt if I ever hope to have grass as green as the other side's. 

This is what I know.

     I know I have no idea what I'm doing. I know I've given up. For years I struggled. I strived for the best: food, friends, alcohol, clothes and drugs. And now what? I've grown complacent. I've grown tired. I've grown angry and frustrated, and tired and annoyed, and scared and tired. And why? I stare into the faces of people who whine and bitch about their lives, and wish my life onto them so they can see how utterly pathetic their cries are, and yet, I fail to realize that their pain, albeit confusing to me, is valid. I don't find The Exorcist scary, but that doesn't mean I can completely disregard you there hiding behind the couch after she f@$&s herself in the panini with a crucifix. Your fear is real. I have to learn to do more than accept it--I have to learn to respect it. In giving your fear a face, in learning its name, I hope to recognize my own, if only, to combat it. 

This is what I know. 

     I know there are those few poor shmucks, that despite how far I fall, despite the bitter words of hate and contempt I spit at them, they still seem to light a candle for me at mass. They keep me in their prayers and their opinion of me never falters despite my every attempt to burn that bridge. I've learned to use this push and pull from my loved ones as a test of sincerity. To what end will you love me?  The most frightening thing for me, being the fact that there are indeed people who've yet to give up on me.  They stagger on, towards me like an army of the undead: burnt, mangled, and starved. And while their salivating gnarls are scary as shit, they are only traits that I impose onto them. I know I don't deserve them, thus beginning the most malicious off catch-22's. I push out of shame, and they love despite. So I push out of more shame, and they love despite. So I push and they love so I push and they love. I'm a monster. 

This is what I know.

     I know I know nothing. I know it's time to change that. I know I must press on. I know I owe certain people more than I can give, and I know they'd never expect me to pay them back. I know I am lucky. I know I am loved. I know I am a brother, a son, a friend, a man. And for this I am blessed. 

This is what I know.

A Cup Full Of Water

This is the only way I know how to deal with this.

My first memory as a being--as a thing that feels, and thinks, and remembers--is that of me at an age before I understood what age meant. Before I could grasp quantity that didn't involve "more" for me, and "none" for you.  I was sitting alone, which wasn't exactly out of the ordinary, but I remember thinking it was "too" quiet.  I wasn't afraid to be alone, but suddenly I was overcome with the need to find my father (it was his turn to baby sit me).  I only needed to make sure either him or my mother were sleeping to affirm my safety. I still don't have many memories of interacting with my mother prior to my father leaving us.  I couldn't tell you a single word uttered to me by my mother up until she came home with my little sister.  It's not that she wasn't present, I remember seeing her all the time.  And she of coursed did her fair share of baby sitting. My father, though, he was different.  He explained the world with a certainty that I still find inspiring.  He spoke to me with confidence, and respect.  He asked me my opinions and let me make decisions.  And when my mother forced him to hit me, he cried.  He sat me down and explained why this was happening.  He taught me about consequence, not because I was in trouble, but because despite how bad that belt hurt, I knew he was hurting more.  My actions hurt others.  I hurt others.  

He wasn't in his room.

I searched for him, afraid he had in fact left me alone, which was not something I could digest.  I see it in other children now, the comfort of touch--the safety that comes from your parents.  It's something I try to process now, how they can distill a certainty into a child that only they possess.  I hated being touched, at least I remember hating it later.  I didn't want hugs, I hated shaking hands, and I wanted to die everytime an aunt kissed me hello or goodbye. But I still needed that comfort.  I still relied on them to keep me tied to the ground.  I needed to belong to them.  I needed them to never let me go. Just please don't leave me.

I found him.  Collapsed on the floor in the kitchen as if a dog had come in and tossed him around attempting to get whatever it was dogs look for when they are engrossed with ruining every toy you buy them.  I remember staring at him in confusion, afraid to make a sound, afraid to disturb whatever it is I just walked in on.  "I shouldn't be here." I felt bad, like I had wet the bed (again).  

But I needed to understand.  I needed him to make me feel safe.  So I walked over to him and asked him if he was sleeping.  Why would he sleep here?  And why was he laying like that?  I pushed him. And then I screamed at him. And then I kicked and bit and hit him.  Nothing.  

Before I could count, before I could pronounce "tiger" and "tire" distinguishably, I understood this.  I understood he wasn't here; I understood I was alone.  I laid on top of him sobbing, begging him to wake up.  To please come back.  How I knew that phrase, "Come back," I don't know.  Where had I thought he gone?  To Sleep? 

I cried for what seemed like forever.  I cried so much the sun went away.  I cried so long, I ran out of tears (something I can't seem to do now).  And I just laid there in the dark with him, my head on his belly.  I wasn't thinking.  I wasn't asking him to come back anymore.  I was just there, with him, two shells with nothing but the sound of the ocean hidden deep inside.

 

He always had a very distinct smell to him.  I knew I would smell it on other people sometimes, but for me it was his.  I would later inherit this smell as my own, after I started binge drinking.  

Here's when I know my memory is lying to me.  How could I love this man so much already, if I can't remember anything prior to that moment?  How could I know that smell was his, if I don't remember smelling it before laying my head on him?  Why is this moment always the destination when I try to push further and further back into my childhood?  

I remember the refrigerator would start to hum for a bit, and then it would it tire, and stop, only to start back up again later.  But then, in the dark, there was a hum, that was different.  It was deeper, more pained.  I heard him try to wake up, body completely still.  

My father came to.

He groaned some more, and then coughed, and then puked.  He slowly sat up, and looked at me like I was a deer he just shot.  And this conversation will never leave me:

Juan:  Why are you sitting in the dark, mijo?

Tony: You didn't wake up.

Juan: You should have tried to push me.

Tony:  I hit you.  You didn't wake up.

Juan: Ah, I'm sorry.  Did you try throwing water on my face?

Tony:  Why would I do that?  Why didn't you wake up?

Juan:  Next time just throw a big ol' glass of water in my face.  Ok?  

Tony: You didn't wake up.

This is when he got up and he left me there in the kitchen.  On the floor.  In the dark.  With the humming of the refrigerator.  And the smell of his vomit lingering in the air.

I don't remember being relieved.  I don't remember feeling silly.  I don't remember feeling angry.  I just remember sitting there in silence. And promising myself not to forget the glass of water next time. 

At least he was in the same building.