I have funny memories from when I was younger and less-responsible and, of course, I have funny memories from back when I was younger and did less-responsible things too.
I remember the times when I’d pass a little pipe around in a circle of friends to make my eyes red and expand my mental horizons by killing one million brain cells at a time.
We used to laugh about questions like, “why do people drive on the parkway and park on the driveway?”
And there were more questions like this.
However, I am far removed from that time of my life. I seldom talk about these things, unless, of course, I run into someone from my youth—but in all fairness, I never run that much at all, and I mostly keep to myself these days, which means I rarely see anyone from my past. Except for you, of course.
I understand that perhaps this time of my life was a gateway to unfortunate things that blossomed before exploding. I know the delicate thunder changed into the emotional massage that changed to an explosive mushroom cloud that came from a deadly substance abuse.
I understand that as I am now, or as a parent, I would have a heart attack or a conniption if I had to have a child like me when I was in my teens.
I look back now and shake my head.
I shake my head when thinking about the phone calls that came to my home, to which Mom had to answer the phone, and the inevitable questions went something like, “Are you the parent of Benjamin J Kimmel?”
Nothing good ever came after this sentence.
Not once.
Mom hated these calls. I know she did because she told me so. She told me more about them later in life—and we laughed about some of them. But even years after the date, some of those calls were nothing to laugh about.
Enter the gateway.
Enter the early signs.
Enter the weed phase. Enter the psychedelic phase. Enter the exploration phase and the experimentation phase. This is where my rebellion began.
Enter the starting gate and I will say that you have entered my teens. And we are here, now, figuratively speaking, of course, entering the so-called rebellion and the rebellious music and the wild or tragic anthems of my youth.
Enter the young mind in search of answers. Enter the insecure confusions of a small teen who was trying to be bigger. This is where the insecurities became insurmountable. Therefore, I wanted to be someone else.
I wanted to be something else, aside from me. I wanted to be larger than some scrawny awkward teenager.
I wanted to be more than someone who never believed in himself. I never felt connected to anyone. I wanted to be more than awkward and better than afraid.
I wanted a life . . .
But I had what I had.
So, of course, I found better ways to disconnect. I found ways to surf the mindset of something more colorful or justifying, at least this way, I could have an identity.
Enter the scene of a teenage bedroom with secret hiding compartments and, of course, we cannot forget about the felt, black-light posters, glowing from the purple lights nor can we forget the flashy lights that spun around the ceiling.
We cannot forget to describe the music posters on the wall and some on the ceiling, nor can we forget the stereo which sat atop my dresser.
There was a closet which held a few secrets, like the jugs of gin that I stole from someone’s house.
By the way, this is not to say that I enjoyed the taste of gin, by any means.
YUCK!
However, the gin was stolen from a house that was owned by someone who stole the remnants of an old liquor store, and due to that person’s greed and alcoholism, I stole the gin because that person never drank gin, so the missing gin bottles remained unnoticed.
To complete this vision, we cannot forget the small album collection to the right of my stereo, nor can we forget the television, which was small, nor can we forget the bed, without a stand and placed on the floor (because it looked cool that way) nor can we forget about the tapestries I hung over the window, so no one could see in.
This was my sanctuary. Infected and crazy, yes,
but still, this was my sanctuary nonetheless.
There was one tapestry of Jim Morrison that hung down across one of my two windows. Jim hung across the window that faced the front of my house.
The other tapestry was the polar-opposite when it came to genres of music. This tapestry was a band by the name of Slayer and the otherwise satanic theme of a black and red tapestry hung across the other window in my bedroom. and this window was legendary. This is the window that faced the side of my house, just above my driveway, and yes, this was my escape route too.
I used to sneak out and sit up on the roof of my home at night. I would drink the gin, which was awful, but worthy of its trick. I would smoke weed here. Sometimes, I would enjoy the colorized abandon of some eight-hour trip that came with crazy letters known as LSD.
There were other trips up here, which were sad or tragic, or deadly. But that will be in another chapter.
I remember this time.
I remember the dreams of somehow breaking away, or vanishing, or finding my worth someplace else. I remember flipping open my flip-top lighter, somewhat romantically, as if I were acting like James Dean, and lighting the end of my Marlboro Red cigarette.
I was 14 or 15 and I looked like I was six.
I remember blowing out the exhaled smoke up to the nighttime sky. I practiced this move to look cool, all the way down to how I would return the lighter back into my pocket.
Everything was about my posture, or how I looked.
I remember the rehearsals on the roof of what I wanted to say to people. I remember thinking about my strategies on how to escape or get away.
Just to split.
Put it in the wind and take off.
Who would notice?
Who would care?
I often talk about the question: if I could go back to my lowest points in life or, more importantly, if I could go back to when I was desperate or on the edge, or at the points that I recall the most, if I could find me when I was ready to quit or throw it all away, and if I were able to reach back to that version of me, I wonder what I would say.
I wonder what I would do to try and make me change the events of my life.
Would I climb on the roof and start talking to that teenage version of myself and tell him to put the gin away because that shit rots the gut.
Would I say put out the smoke?
I probably looked ridiculous.
I never wanted to be any of these things. I wanted to be memorable. And I was memorable—at least the police would say so, and so would the other authorities from the neighborhood.
I don’t know why we fight or head down the opposite paths of where we want to be.
I don’t know why loved ones hurt loved ones, nor can I understand why two people who share nothing, but passion and attraction separate or fight.
Why do we say mean things that defy our truest nature at heart?
I am searching. Then again, I have always been searching.
I am beyond the midway point of my journey, at least I assume this because of my age.
To be honest, perhaps my road is closing in. Or maybe the unforeseeable end is closer than I realize.
Maybe I am facing a time which is no different from the times when I would take to the roof of my childhood home. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Only, I don’t drink at all, let alone the bottles of gin that I stole from Big Mike’s basement.
Maybe this is nothing more than another turning point. Maybe this is a moment of awareness. Maybe I find myself at a time when one door closes, and another one is about to open.
So, I hope.
I am in search for peace.
I am looking for an answer to the riddles in my head.
Or no.
Maybe I am evolving and the moment at hand is enough to make me see the world in a different way.
I want to step aside. So, I can breathe.
I want to resign my post or leave the fight and surrender my weapons.
I want to leave the war to someone else.
I want to buy fruit from the farmers’ market and know the people who work there by their first name. I want to see a show. I want to watch a black and white movie that dates to a time of the American Dream and purity and happiness.
I want to leave the contradictions behind me and forget about the curiosities, like, why would someone on death row be on suicide watch?
I guess we can’t cheat the hangman from his due. We can’t stop the gossip. We can’t control the rumor factory. We can’t stop time nor can we pick up where we left off.
Today marks a new chapter.
No gin. No rooftops.
Just life on life’s terms, for now.
So let’s get this going.
And thank you Wednesday for showing up when you did.
I almost didn’t make it.
But, I’m here,
so –
Let’s see what we can get done.
The Written Addiction 