As much as this blog is about me telling my story of; where I came from, where I intend to go, babbling on for lack of better thing to do, and airing my dirty laundry, it is also about finding out more about myself and growing. If you have been following thus far, no doubt you already know that I am very much a work in progress. My daily struggle consists of so many things...What are those things? Let's find out.
I am always concerned with my diet.
I have an overbite that makes it hard to enunciate sometimes.
I drink too much, and don't like to stop once I start.
I spent my entire savings on my MBA.
I don't have a job right now.
Sometimes I smoke cigarettes.
I haven't spoken to either of my parents in years.
Although this is the short list of my daily concerns, I will choose to expand upon one that has been speed-walking through my head often lately. Probably because it was my fathers birthday this week (no, I do not know how old he is, and no, I didn't call)...and even if I wanted to call, I wouldn't know the number to dial nor the address to send a singing happy birthday card to. (that sentence was me justifying my action, or lack thereof)
About 5 and a half years ago I received a phone call from one of my father's friends, Petey (guy that bought me my first tattoo) saying that my father needed me, and me only. I was 2.5 hours away at school and hadn't spoken to him in about a year at that point. Feeling compelled to find out what he could possibly want, or if this could be something terribly urgent, I drove down. After driving down 476 and getting to my grandmothers house 3 hours later, I found him crying on the edge of the couch.
"Whats up?" I asked, after an akward wave hello and grabbing a diet coke from the fridge.
What came from his mouth was neither English nor coherent. He was crying so hard that I could not make out his words. He was ashamed of himself and I was ashamed of him too. He pulled himself together and described to me what he had been up to the last year or so. It started with stories of parties, old friends, drinking, flea and tick spray, medications, seperations, cheating, stealing, heroin, crank, cocaine, pills, weed, fish tranquilizers, advil, rehab, car crashes, and eventually a full on mental breakdown. Much to my surprise, this consumed not only the last year, but the last 30 years.
"What brought you to that level?" I questioned.
After the accident he began taking pain medication for his injured back. Not so slowly, addiction set in, and lines blurred between reality and what was happening in his state of submersion under medication. Of course, he had dealt with addiction in my life before, and was a regular at AA, NA, and other meetings that were great for networking to score some dope. He seldom worked, and like I mentioned in an earlier entry, he slept for most of what I remember before I left. The friends he was staying with were nice enough to let him stay for free while he was between rehabs and half-way houses. They were also nice enough to enable him to continue on his destructive path, and when they weren't anymore, he left.
Pain medications of all shapes and sizes. "I ran out of pills and booze, so I took her car and went out to buy some heroin" he said. (In ever questioned who her was but assume it was the woman whom he was staying with between places)
It was at this point that I truly realized the grasp that being away from the world meant to my father. It was everything to him, and his anebriated, high state, was his normal life. My entire life had been spent visiting him in rehab, leaving him with my mother, coming back to the half-way house that he lived in, visiting him in rehab, and watching the cycle repeat. I knew many faces of my father, and each was dependent on which substance he was under the influence of at that moment. I guess I will never really know who my father is, but can remember times that he was sober, and I think I remember liking him, if that was him at all. That night on my grandmothers couch, something inside of me changed. It is as if my father died that night. It is as if I stopped loving him. He didn't die, but I think I did stop loving him.
I was so mad. I was so hurt. I was ashamed of him. And how could I not love my own father?
He lied to me for so long. He wasn't getting better. He wasn't really trying, and he loved the attention he got when he was down. Playing the victim was his best and only role, and I would never again recognize it.
Now comes the struggle part...With the passing of each day, and the likelihood of his further deterioration I question my decision to eliminate him from my life. As a self-preservation strategy, I decided long ago to put him behind me and not look back. The days tick by, and he grows another year older, and I find myself wondering, if I could get to know him now, and if he is different or still the 40 different faces that I never knew. On long bike rides I often wonder if he still loves me. Does he think about me? Should I find him? Should he find me? If I were to find him, what in the hell would I say? If he found me, what would he say? Is he reading my blog? Why is Pluto no longer a planet? (again, I digress) There is so little that I know about him, and his current situation.
What do I know? Well, let's dive right in.
He is living in a group home in a Philadelphia suburb. Not sure which suburb, not sure which group home...and that is about all I know.
So back to the struggle. My father will not likely make it to the Guiness Book for the oldest living man, and likely is not in the healthiest condition of anyone walking this earth. These things all plague my mind and set it wondering if I should go ahead and give this relationship another shot. I hear of people that do not have this opportunity, and since I do have a living father, maybe it is time. Maybe through the course of this blog, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to reach out to my gnarley alcoholic/drug addict father. Maybe the only logical resolution to this stuggle is to create an action plan...
The action plan.
1. Write down a series of questions and topics that I would like to speak about.
2. Grow some balls.
3. Find his number.
4. Call him on a random evening when I will be likely to get an answer.
5. Be inquisitive, not confrontational.
6. Don't chicken out.
7. Write about it afterwards.
8. Learn something
lincoln
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