And the world just turns around.
Nothing stops. Not for a second.
Time is always moving, which makes me sound like a broken record because I always talk about the immovable presence of time.
The clock never stops ticking.
Or think if anything, I think about it like this:
A second is always a second and a minute is always a minute.
There will be no change or negotiating this fact.
Time does not stop.
And maybe this is not always a bad thing.
Or maybe this is neither good nor bad.
It just is what it is.
Time is just time, no matter how deep we attach ourselves and no matter how intimate the moment is, time is never going to change.
I know the Earth is moving.
I know we can’t feel the rotation, but I did have some drunken nights when I could feel the bed spin. Or wait . . .
There were a few nights that I was drunk enough that I had to hold the wall to keep the room from spinning, —but something tells me that the rotation of the Earth and the drunken spins of the room are not the same thing.
The world turns.
There’s wind and there are clouds and the movement of the Earth is a constant thing.
I know we have been taught this since grade school.
The world is tipped on its axis and spins around the sun and hence, the day turns to night and night fades to daylight.
Time is unstoppable and undefeated.
I remember the morning after The Old Man passed away.
Then again, how does anyone forget about the morning after their first hero dies?
Mom stood outside of our home, which was a home that was built, furnished, and run by her husband and my Father
The Old Man.
Mom stood on the front steps of our home, perhaps she was too numb and still in too much shock to process the fact that he was gone.
Mom told me that she saw how the traffic lights still worked. The bread truck still made its way down Merrick Avenue in the morning and the news on television never skipped a beat or missed a story.
She told me how she couldn’t believe it.
She said how she just lost everything she had.
She lost her lover, her husband, her rock and her comfort.
Mom lost her best friend.
Mom lost her husband and the father of her children and no matter how deep this hurt, nothing stopped or even paused to ease her sorrow.
What a world this is . . .
I remember when this happened.
I was sitting on a bus and trying to make a deal with God. I was on my way home to say goodbye to my first example of what it means to be a man,
How does one prepare for this?
The Old Man was my hero and yet, The Old Man and I had a list of arguments and resentments and troubles and challenges.
I wished we got along better.
I wished he was proud of me.
I wished I wasn’t such a disappointment.
I wished I was the son he wanted me to be.
But at best, I was only me.
I decided to bring this to God, Himself.
I said that I would go willingly.
I offered the idea to “Take me instead,” because what good was I?
What have I done for the world or for anyone else, for that matter?
All I knew was how to break things or hurt and destroy or self-destruct.
“Take me,” I said
“His life is worth more than mine.”
And I meant this too. I meant every word.
Why fight it?
I never graduated from high school.
I humiliated my family.
I embarrassed my Mother and hurt The Old Man down to his core.
I was in the newspaper for what i had done.
Everyone in ton knew that I was down and that I was listed as just another suburban letdown or disappointment. Most people just saw me as a junkie, or a misfit, or as someone who would find his way to an early grave. And they were almost right about me.
Take me . . .
Why not?
I knew my conversation was not going to be heard or considered. And even if there was a God listening to me, I knew that His will would always be done.
I remember being told, “Thy will not ‘my’ will be done.”
But why listen?
Or why would God listen to me and answer my prayers?
Why?
I was too wrapped up in my own selfish ego to realize that selfishness can be both tragic and deadly – and it was literally almost deadly, in my case.
I was no different from the serpent or the demons.
I was that one who passed the torch or tempted with forbidden fruit, just like the other demons and serpents before me.
I was the one who ignited the flames of an outrageous sickness, contagious and mad, yet I slithered to survive and gained grown just to die young.
I slithered and snaked and somehow, I found myself on the other side of survival.
I was living with a survivor’s guilt that was just as painful.
I wondered why I got away . . .
why me?
Why didn’t I die?
How come one the bullets that flew by didn’t hit me?
Why was I the one who dodged the landmines?
How come I never took the shrapnel or lost my life when others, like me, lost theirs?
Was I so special?
Not if you asked me!
How did I stay safe while stepping across the same minefields?
Why?
Or should I ask how?
To be honest, I was fine to die, which I say is obvious.
Being fine to die is apparent for most who lose their way.
I was fine to go, which is a common thing in the land of cellophane bags and little packets that kill your soul before they kill you.
Yes. I was that one, puny and weak.
I was that one.
I was eager to seek protection from the demons with an angel’s wings and hungry for a poison that euthanized my mind, one dose at a time.
I do not mind qualifying or sharing this and nor do I mind detailing the progression of say, a substance that has been around for longer than anyone we know.
To be clear, it’s not a lack of awareness and it’s not an unknown thing that overdoses kill.
In fact, it is true that that one death can kill entire families in an emotional or figurative sense.
I know. I’ve seen. I’ve heard.
None of this is new to me or to anyone else.
Read a book . . .
Watch the news.
Listen to a neighbor.
Even those who swear how drugs do not come to their house have to find out the hard way.
Do you know how many parents I’ve met who swore to me, “Not my kid!” and yet, it was me who they called when they found out that yes, it was in their backyard too.
I do not know why I am still here.
I suppose that there is a plan and perhaps I will find out what that plan is
one day.
I remember the December of 1989.
I was living on a farm and learning about a new way of life, which I have managed to keep (at least for the most part.)
I begged God to take me.
I asked Him to let me switch places with my Father.
But then I was told about the words, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Begotten Son—that whosoever shall believeth in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
I was not around when that happened.
But in my heart; I know that while I had my talks with God, The Old Man had his talks with God too.
I’m sure that he said that he would go quietly—but just take care of my son.
I believe this because my Father so loved his son that he give his life, so that I could have mine.
I had no interest in living clean or getting sober before this happened.
The Old Man’s death sparked an inspiration to change and walk the line.
I was doing what I could and saying what I had to say, just to look good for the judges and stay clean for my probation officer.
And then one day, I heard this:
“I’m proud of you, son.”
If you don’t know what it feels like to hear those words, then you can’t know what it feels like to finally hear them when you swore otherwise.
“Stay like this,” is one of the last things The Old Man said to me.
He meant sober.
He meant off drugs.
“Take care of your Mother!”
“Yes, Pop.”
I will
Dear Pop,
I managed to do what you ask, minus a few setbacks.
I did like you asked with Mom.
And it’s funny too.
I do the work you taught me when I worked with you.
I understand why you were frustrated.
I understand why you lost patience.
And there are so many times, I wish you were there to see how I handle myself at work.
I think you would laugh.
I think you would shake your head.
I think you would say, “GOOD!” because someone has to tell the clients the truth . . .
I think you would say a lot of things but out of anything, I just wish I knew that you would be proud.
Mistakes, faults, defects and all
I just want you to be proud me
Please
The Written Addiction 