Four or Five years ago

I wrote this.. Has some interesting snippets from my life and it was informative to see how I used to write.

My father and I are playing Frisbee. It’s the only “sport” he’ll play with me. He loves it. His eyes light up while they focus upon the Frisbee as it nears his hands. He encourages me as I make a somewhat impressive catch. We’re playing in front of the library in Woodstock. The grass has been cut recently, spring is just starting. He’s almost fully absorbed by our game of Frisbee. A regular father would probably be somewhat distracted by the bills, or possibly whatever work he has to do tomorrow. My father isn’t pre-occupied with such bullshit. He knows what’s important; he’s planning for his next fix. He’s an addict. To the untrained eye, Dad appears to be the best father a boy could have. He loves the hell out of me. He always pays attention to me. He’s actually cool. He doesn’t sit around complaining about this “new” music, instead he sits down and enjoys it. He loves Frisbee, me, my mother, my sister, movies, books, music, and drums. I forgot one thing. Heroin. He over-dosed twice in my presence, at twelve and then fourteen. I think in total he overdosed at least ten times—eventually dying when I was nineteen. I hadn’t had any real contact with him since I was fourteen. I couldn’t see the point. I mean he loved me, but we didn’t have him, something else did. People were surprised by my cold reaction to his death. I cried sure, but that was only because I could finally express my love for him—it was safe finally. Before he died, if I loved him I thought that would mean that I would make him a part of my life. So instead I hated him. It was the only practical solution. Strangers would tell me “I am so sorry for your loss.”
And I would think, “What loss? I never even had him.” So for the first time in my life I am coping with real loss.
Aside from my relationship with my mother only one girlfriend of mine has ever shown me that sort of love. I had her. I don’t mean in the possession sort of way, I mean she loved me. Completely. She and I are in my car, a Buick Park Avenue with blood red interior, at the gas station. It’s our typical meeting place. We live about an hour apart, and we share the burden as equitably as possible—since her old Saab is theoretically incapable of such a great distance of travel. It’s raining: water pouring out of the sky, pouring like god is trying to drown us, again. She lights up another cigarette and complains about the broken passenger window. Her first puff of smoke is always so practiced and precise, just totally fake. It looks like an actress in an old black and white, those elegant women couldn’t pull it off and here time and time again she tries to do it, tries to look cultured right after she has complained about the stupid fucking piece of shit or some other equally charming description. Plus I haven’t eaten yet. When I’m hungry smoke nauseates me, otherwise it’s not a problem. So I get out of the car and walk under the canopy, safe from the rain, into the gas station. The fluorescent lighting is blindingly white, holy heroin colored, I pay the attendant quickly, slightly disturbed by the sterilized environment and walk back out to my car. She’s looking at me sweetly as I open the door. Then she has that look. No, not that look, it’s the, I have to talk to you about something look. We share everything like best friends, so if something isn’t shared it’s usually a bad idea. Only one seat belt plug works in the front of my car, so as we’re automatically jury-rigging ourselves into our seat belts she says as smoke escapes leisurely from her mouth, “I think I’m going to do mushrooms again with Rachel and Marissa.”
I respond quickly, lying, “Yeah, I have to do heroin at least once before I die.” The plan is innocent enough. I’m a selfish man. If instead of challenging her about it I escalate the situation then perhaps she’ll rethink her plan. I look at her and her eyes are shimmering with tears, her eyebrows are raised, and her mouth is half open. It’s a dopey, hurt, questioning look.
“Why would you want to do that?”
“To prove that I’m better than him.”
“But you know you’re better than him. I do.”
“So I know what could be more important than me to my father.”
She looks at me, like a pet just betrayed by it’s owner, and I cave. “I promise you I won’t do it.”
She says, “Don’t do it for me, do it for you.”
“Okay, whatever.”
And we drive off in the rain, her satisfied and enjoying her cigarette, me contemplating heroin use. It was a cheap trick but it worked. I couldn’t help it. I was worried about her. She is a dreamer, I guess like all girls. Girls used to impress me with their ability to dream in detail. To dream the color of their true loves eyes, tone of skin, brightness of smile. It’s a pretty standard dream but for a time it impressed me. Girls are taught to dream about these things. I don’t think boys are. I think we’re taught to nurture dreams of success or a job or something. I don’t know, it’s not like I *had* a dad. She dreamt about falling in love, and it working out. You know, love for real. Dreams are a vital component for addiction. Someplace better has to be imagined in order for a person to become so thoroughly dissatisfied with here. The true dreamer creates their own world, but the casual dreamer remains somewhere in-between and therefore vulnerable to addiction. I wasn’t aware that she was infected with other pre-made dreams. Dreams about college that I’m sure accelerated my loss.
I didn’t think she was dissatisfied with me, but the world was surely a source of dissatisfaction for her. She hated it, and I loved her for it. She didn’t ground me, she encouraged me to run with my madness. Since she was unhappy with the world I worried about her and drugs. She had a bad history with alcohol, her dad died driving drunk, and she drank habitually throughout what would now be called middleschool. I must emphasize my dangerous attraction to unhappy people. I wrongly associate an unhappy disposition with a person who sees the world as I do. I see so much potential squandered, and it drives me crazy. It’s not about my personal situation it’s about the way things are—but for some people nothing is enough.
Some people might say, “What if your family loved your father more?” Or maybe “What if you loved her more?” In my loneliness and solitude I am plagued by post-midnight anxiety and insecurities leaving me vulnerable to these kinds of questions that haunt me—but during the light of day, which warms my soul and summons my senses I know better. I know how little a difference more love would’ve made, such an awful truth. With my father it might have meant a couple more years of pain. With my lover it might have meant a couple more months of tip-toeing around. In neither case would a great change take place. I’m starting to think maybe I didn’t have her after all. For both of them nothing was ever enough. I still hope for her, but I’m through saving people. “Jesus Christ tried to save everyone, look what they did to him. They killed the poor bastard.”—Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion. Sometimes I get caught up in worrying about the world, bogged down in it, but then I rediscover the beauty of the world, the enormity of sensation as my lips touch lips or skin or much desired food, the overwhelming beauty of the landscape assaulting my eyes, the texture of it all—and I forget about her. I stop second-guessing myself about her beauty and charm and realize that I was for once seeing clearly—and now I need to see everything clearly, not just her. Once I do that I won’t miss her so much.