I remember it was way after midnight, or at 2:00, maybe. But again, this was long ago in a lifetime that seems far away from me now.
I was on The Farm and the month of August was in mid-swing. The air was hot and the sky was scattered with trillions of stars. This was beautiful. Peaceful too.
The moon was full and the moonlight shone down across the fields.
The pasture was empty of its previous tenants, namely the cows. However, there was something beautiful about this moment. I was closing in on my 18th Birthday. I was sifting through the ideas of my former self and my future world, which is also known as adulthood.
I was facing a new and upcoming chapter of what I considered to be a so-called freedom which is not to say that I was jailed or imprisoned, at least not per se. Or at least, not really.
No, I was “away” as far as being away from home is concerned. I was “away” as far as being away from usual surroundings and living in a controlled environment, which was not entirely regimented as this would pertain to my legal dilemma. However, I was away as far as being out of my element. I was away as far as being mandated to a place which was ordered by the courts.
I was away from my previous whereabouts and away from my former life.
I was away from my so-called former friends, and I was away from my past, away from the roots of my problems, and away from my environment, which was not only lifesaving but life-changing as well because had I not been removed and relieved of my old and former position, I would have been another one on the other side of the statistic.
I’d have been nothing more than a life that was chalked-up in the loss column.
I recall this late walk across the compound. We called this “fire watch,” and since I was a dorm supervisor and a senior member, I was one of the housemates who would take these late-night details and check the barn and the main house to ensure the safety of the life and property of the farm.
I remember this walk.
I remember this one specifically.
I remember how the sky was lit up and the moon touched the face of the Earth. I remember how the moonbeams shone across the fields and the trees with a smooth version of bluish light.
This was one of the most spectacular views I had ever seen.
The winds were calm but enough to cause a hiss as it blew through the leaves in the trees.
I had so much on my mind. I had so much to contend with. I was still facing the realities of my new and upcoming life, which was odd to me.
My Father was gone. He was The Old Man, and my very first hero. He had passed and life as I knew it had been quickly altered.
The Old Man died on December 29, but the mourning and the grieving process was hard for me.
I was facing the ramifications of poor decisions, which led me to nearly being incarcerated for one year, plus 90 days.
I was facing all my lies and all my truths. I was aware of my former life and how this misled me to become someone I never thought I could be.
I was aware that I missed the basic rites of passage of my young life. I never had the chance to enjoy things like some of the basic commonalities that take place in high school.
I never had the chance to go to my prom. I never walked through the hallways in my town’s high school; at least, not as a student, anyway.
All of my old friends were no longer friends. I had been removed from my usual spots and the demons were purged from my system.
I recall looking up at the sky, mesmerized as could be, and intrigued by the beauties of the sky.
I recalled the last night I was in my boyhood home before returning to The Farm. This was the night after The Old Man’s burial.
Mom was devastated. I was beaten into a silent submission. But more, I was lost to a question which is the same question that inspired this journal.
My Father just died.
What now?
Some of my so-called old friends called the house and asked to speak with me.
Mom called me down to the kitchen.
She said, “There’s a phone call for you.”
She could have said, “No,” when they asked if I was home and I would have been fine with that.
Instead, she allowed me to speak to my old friends.
I can recall the look of fear on my Mother’s face, as if she was afraid that I would run out the door and run away (again) and go out somewhere, and ruin all of what took place, and ruin all of my healing, all of my growth, and with the might of one, stupid and unfortunate decision, Mom was worried that I would go back to the drugs.
But I didn’t.
I took the phone. I knew who it was. I knew what they wanted. I knew where they were going and I knew what they were doing and what they were on, as far as drugs go.
I knew this before I even grabbed the phone—and not because I needed them to tell me. I was no different from them, at one point. So, I knew what I would have said or done.
I was asked if I was home for good.
I answered, “No.”
“I came home to bury my Father.”
“Oh wow,” said the person on the other end of the phone.
There was no, hey, I’m sorry.
There was no, we’ll be right over to pay our respects.
There was only a “hey, look, we’re going to take a ride.”
“Do you want to come?”
There was no care or concern for me.
There was only the idea to get me in the car. This way, I would be one more who was on the dangle and one more person looking for the drug—and then, I would be one more who could add to the pot and have some money . . .
No one cared about my loss.
No one cared about how I felt.
They only cared about their own social infection, or the social virus, which can slither through towns and destroy families, neighborhoods and, of course, this is the social virus that kills people every day.
I was away from this.
I got out. . .
Once I saw this and came to the realization that I was not a friend or even considered to be a friend, I realized how shallow the pools in the drug life can be. At the same time, I realized how deep these waters run and how they can drown you, and quickly too.
I saw how this could turn someone to become shallow.
And I wanted something more. I wanted something deeper.
I wanted a life.
Last night, I was looking at the sky. It was peaceful. Or should I say this was a peaceful scene in an unpeaceful time. This was a moment of clarity in unclear moments. This was a moment of serenity, despite what’s taking place around me.
I recall having a long discussion with a young man who had recently completed his tour in Afghanistan. He talked about a night where the sky looked beautiful. He lost his friends as well as his mind and even still, the heavenly bodies of the universe above were kind enough to share a small moment of purity; as if to allow a truce between the items in his heart and the challenges in his mind.
Last night was similar for me. . .
Despite the loss and no matter what comes my way, and regardless of the news which may or may not come today — I know there is beauty in the world—and similarly to the moment of understanding when I realized that I wanted more than a shallow, vapid life, or to be free from the emptiness of an untrue existence, I realized that I want more.
I want more than more.
I want more than just the status quo and more than the common mediocrity.
I want more than a settled dispute and more than the insecure lies or the inferior mindset, which suggests that yep, that’s it. This is the best it will ever be.
I want more.
I want more because I want more than the best my life will ever be. I want the best to get better, and to have my best day incrementally improve, one day at a time, just like me—getting better—one day, one minute, one hour, and one moment at a time.
I may be on a long list, and I might have to wait my turn.
I might have to wait on a line.
But that’s okay.
So, what now?
I rebuild.
That’s what’s now.
I start like St Francis did.
I start with “what’s necessary.
Then I do what’s possible and suddenly, I’m doing the impossible.”
That’s all I can shoot for right now.
But it’s early. There might be a chance for more.
But I’ll have to keep my eyes open.
The sky is quiet for now and the rain is falling.
I don’t mind that there’s rain right now.
I think we need it to break up the fights of our silly humidity and hush us to sleep, like Mom with her lullaby remedies.
But I can’t sleep . . .
at least not now.
I have a life to rebuild.
I have a plan to attend to.
Don’t you?
The Written Addiction 