I’m sitting here at work outside smoking a cig, taking a 5 minute break. Since I have been here and had some time away from the intimidating blank screen that always seems to be before me. I have received many messages from my son. He was telling me how sorry he was that he came off snappy and rude. That I thanked him for and gave him credit when he did by telling him so. I don’t understand why he can be so open with me but so closed off to the only man that has ever remained in his life. Not by choice. He wants to be there because he loves him. He’s the only male figure to have remained in his life even when I wasn’t there. He and my son even made plans to stay together when I got home, if I didn’t stick to my word on my sobriety, and stay out of jail. Nick was going to continue living with him regardless of where I chose to go because it was stable and safe. They were both fed up with me going back and forth. Jail was a revolving door for me for may years. The thing is, I have done what I said I was going to do. I quit taking money and having to tell lies on what really happened to it. It’s so much easier living the truth. What was I ever thinking, in my many fuck-up’s along the way, that I’d ever be happy living how I was. It was chaotic as fuck. It was also all I have ever known.
The way I watched people live around me while I was growing up was awkward. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to graduate high school and then off to college. (That was a big if). I knew that I had a very low self esteem and I tried to make myself be like the other regular kids I went to school with. It was very difficult because I didn’t come from a family with money. I grew up receiving had me downs from my sister and other people that donated used clothes to the less fortunate. My father made it a rule that just because I wore one outfit on a Monday didn’t mean it was dirty and he would make me wear it twice in the same week. Sometimes it was back to back. It made me shrink inside myself and question why I had to be the odd one in the group. The one that was always made fun of and talked down to. My sister would try and pick out my clothes and sometimes even get up early enough to do my hair. She battled with school herself and quit during her middle school years. She was always violent and would fight anyone she didn’t like or that tried to intimidate her. I had the privilege of riding the school bus with her a few times. I loved that. If someone even looked at me sideways with her just a few seats behind me, she made it clear I was her little sister and they we’re to leave me alone or else. They got the hint. It was no secret about whether she would fight someone or not. She tried teaching me to stand up for myself all the time. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a cancer, but I wore my feelings and my heart on my sleeve. I’m the biggest cry baby you’ll ever meet in your life. The few little scrapes I did manage to get myself into were few and far between. Every time though she’d be right there watching yelling at me that if I didn’t kick ass and stand my ground that she was waiting to kick my ass if I failed. Not wanting to go rounds with her I did what I was told.
Of course every time someone had to call the police. I had a charge as a minor for one encounter on a day I basically skipped school. Supposedly this girl I ride the bus with had been talking crap about me and my sister made me confront her as she was descending the steps off the bus. Naturally she side stepped me to avoid what I was trying to get out of her. I think I ended up throwing the first punch, smack, push, what have you. I don’t even know, or remember if I was even struck by the girl. I just knew what I did to her hurt her real bad. Shem was running away from me trying to get home. I came up behind her and plated the hardest smack against the side of her head that I could. Little did I know that I struck her ear, and the way my hand made contact with her head made a suction cup and I damaged her eardrum with that hit. I knew I hurt her because it caused her to drop to the ground instantly. I walked away from that scene with butterflies all in my belly and my adrenaline pumping. I couldn’t get in trouble for the fight if I had been hit first. So I had my sister and I think my cousin to punch me in the arm to leave red marks and hopefully a bruise. It was my only shot at getting away with what I had done and saying she started it.
I was a follower. Now I’m standing my ground for things that are right and true. I’m trying to anyways. I’m not perfect and I know that I never will be. At least now though, I know the difference between the two. I want people to remember me when I’m no longer here. But I want it to be in a positive way. Yes I have relapsed and gotten messed up a few times since I have been home. As I said though, I’m not perfect. I’m not trying to be the Bible thumper and go around preaching all these great and wonderful things that are going to come if only you live your life a certain way, all the while I’m still getting high and deceiving everyone else that I talk to. Hypocrite I try not to be. It reminds me too much of my father honestly.
I think I’ll continue to keep praying for the strength to remain clear headed and not clouded by the use of drugs while saying what I think. Is there such a thing as a functioning addict? I mean come on. People want to know the truth. A part of me thinks that yes it’s possible. Certain drugs give you the edge your looking for and the urge to want to be better and do better. I know that for a fact. I work everyday and come home tired like everybody else. I also am under the influence of Suboxone on a daily basis. So does me saying all these things still make me a hypocrite because I am under the influence of medication everyday? I really want to know myself. Someone speak to me. I feel as though I’m alone in the dark with my words and my thoughts…