Sunday, January 4, 2009



I remind myself of him.
When I have had to much to drink.
The next day I wake up and remember...
the night before...
remember...
Years ago and the lack of awareness of his actions and words on other people.

He didn't care.
He didn't care about anyone or anything or what they thought of him.
He hid his cares in his bottle.
Most of all he never cared about his only child that should have never been.
Him, the half man that somehow found enough sperm in that one testy to create this person
this person who is somehow alive and generally well to day.
Except when I think about how much I am like him.
How much I want to hide in the shadows, hide in the bottle from the world.

He contributed so much to my callouses.
One day he was so drunk he fell down the stairs and didn't move.
I walked over to him and said monotone, dead of heart,
“Dad, get up.”.
He tried to look up and then said “aooaahh, you ruined it.”
No one laughed.

Another time he put on an old movie of me and everyone laughed... cruelly. It was humiliating.
I begged him to turn it off. I stood in front of the TV.
He quickly grabbed me by my long hair and drug me across the room screaming at me it was his house, his TV and he would play whatever he wanted.
I clutched my hair trying to stop the pain.
No one was laughing anymore.

These are some of the things I remember. I will probably never know what I don't...
what I blocked...

I don't remember what happened the last time I passed out drunk with my best friend. I don't know why I said that stupid thing to another. I don't know why every time I can't deal with reality I reach for the crutch despite how much I hated them every time they did.
Every time that bottle was more important than me.
Every time I didn't eat but my mother couldn't stand up.
Every time, he, with eyes glazed over, goosed his girlfriend in front of me while she turned to make sure I saw in her eyes I was nothing. I hate the thought of being anything like them yet I can't stop being just like them.

Now I am a boy, the boy he always wanted, that he always wished me to be. The boy he will never meet. The boy who stood up for himself and said stop ridiculing me. The boy who was thrown away for being so brazen. Now I look in the mirror and my face looks more like his than ever. Now I hear my voice and it's pitch deepens closer to his. Now, I look at myself and try to find a way not to see a monster. They interview me on the radio ask me about why I am so special. Then they ask me if I had an contact with my family over the holidays. My face must have washed with pain, anger, confusion then went blank and I said monotone, dead of heart... “No”... Dead silence. On the air. They look at me confused I could hear their minds, isn't that awfully lonely. I wanted to answer their unasked question, no, no it wasn't. It was lonely when I was 17 and already living in another city and I drank a bottle of BV for Christmas. Tell them, it was more lonely the next year when I tried to go home only to hear about how I...
And...
Instead I gave them what they wanted to hear, “My partner's family is really great, I spent it with them.”

I didn't tell them how I despise the holiday with all my soul but I still go and open presents and stockings. Or about how I put a time limit on the visit. No more than three hours. Or about how after three hours of staring at the tree and the neatly wrapped presents I can feel the bile creeping up my throat and I desperately just want a drink.

Nor do I tell them about how this holiday that is a million paper cuts all over my heart hunts me relentlessly everywhere to the point I can hardly leave my house. I definitely don't tell them about the Christmas that I realized I loathed my family as I watch my dad so drunk that he couldn't open his eyes and my cousin, sitting next to him, who wouldn't stop talking about how worthless he was. My cousin's eyes turning to me to laugh, saying I might not have a father but that is better than this.

I hold on to these memories. The serve as an ever present reminder of what I could become. Every time I look in the mirror, I remember what I could become. Every time I try to open up sexually, I remember what I could become.

But what about all the other things I could become.
Who will remember that when I say something stupid?
Who will remember that when I can't remember what I did?
Who will be there to remind me when I feel like the bottle might be my only friend?
Luckily this story has a happy ending and I can honestly answer, my friends, my neo-family.

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