Here it is, a new world now. Or I can say here it again because the word is ne every day.
It is morning and the sun was kind enough to shake off yesterday’s clouds.
I think that’s a good thing. I think it’s good to shake off the old business that was left behind.
I am unsure about the upcoming weather. I don’t know if the weatherman is right or wrong or if the sun will be around enough to enjoy the weekend. I might take a ride out to Shinnecock canal and fish for flounder.
Just for the nostalgia.
Just to feel an old feeling.
At the same time, nothing looks like it used to so, I don’t want to get my hopes up and plan for a feeling that doesn’t come my way.
I know that years have gone by.
I know that Father Time sneaks up on us.
I know that age jumped in and somehow, my body does what it does.
I know what my body doesn’t do as well
And so—
I was thinking about all the times when I was young and someone told me, “You’ll understand when you get older.”
And it’s not that this isn’t true.
It is.
I just wonder how much more do I have to learn or find out.
I remember when someone would tell me, “You’ll understand when you get older.”
I would tell them that this is something old people say.
I remember people telling me, “You’re young. What the hell do you know?”
And I would say, “You’re old. You haven’t been young for a long time, so what the hell do you know?”
I think arguments like this create a stand-still rather than build a bridge.
“Build bridges. Not walls.”
I think this is great advice
We tend to think we are right all the time, and so, listening and being open to outside opinions or information will often close like a gap in a door that shuts too fast.
I will say that it is a strange thing to be much older than my doctors.
I will say that it is strange to talk with people and hear about the year they were born.
I remember when I was that young.
I suppose I understand more about the resentment towards youth, which is a projection of the things I wished I had done.
I’ll tell you this; age is not just a number. I can understand the importance of having a good or positive outlook. I can see why there are benefits to having a good mindset.
I can see why it pays to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.
But I am not always so positive and the anticipation of “What’s to come” can make me crazy.
Either way, it’s all out of my control anyway.
Right?
It has been more than a year now. Or longer, maybe.
It has been a while since I have been down to where the palm trees remember my story and the beach at Fort Lauderdale recall my long walks in the sand. This was me as I entered a new stage of life.
It has been too long since I put my legs into the ocean, down by where the water is a beautiful shade of blue, and the contrast of heat from the sun and the coolness from the waves brings along a feeling of forgiveness.
I need this.
I remember walking on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. This was towards the end of your time with us.
I remember thinking how life changes. I remember thinking about when I was younger and how I swore that I would never grow older.
I swore that the future was for old people.
Yet, I am older now and perhaps I am older than I ever assumed I would be.
There is a natural order of life. And I understand this.
We are born. We live. We grow. We learn.
We age and eventually, we close our eyes for the last time.
Someone told me there is a dash between the year we are born and the year we die.
Our job is to make that dash between those years mean something.
I can dig it. . .
I cannot say that I remember the last time we saw each other.
I don’t remember the last time we took a walk. And I don’t know how well our last interaction was because the role reversal was strange and uncomfortable, to say the least.
No one talks about this. No one talks about patience or the lack thereof. No one talks about the decision making, or the paperwork or the preparation it takes when being the healthcare proxy or having to make decisions.
No one talks about having to sign a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order, which is what I had to do because you had a living will.
And while I understood life has its turn and so do we, there was still the son in me, who bottled the feelings of anger and frustration because no matter what anyone says, everyone needs their Mom.
It was hard for me.
It was hard to have to field the phone calls from the nurses and the doctors. It was hard to think about the fact that there were things I wanted to show you and people I wished I introduced you to.
There are things I never accomplished and there were things I wished I had tried or at least dared enough to try.
Years have gone by and sometimes, it’s like I can hardly remember your voice.
But I try.
I think about the morning phone calls and how you would say, “Good morning.”
I think about the times you tried to have me redirect my thinking or how you’d tell me, “don’t sweat the small stuff.”
Nothing is the same anymore, Mom.
Not even me.
My health is not like it used to be.
My body does not respond the way it used to.
Nothing works like it did.
Nothing tastes like it used to.
And to be honest, I get scared sometimes.
I’m afraid that I shook the wrong hand too many times and the deals I made with the devil fell shorter than I expected.
I am afraid to face the consequences of my actions or the ignorance of my beliefs because all the while and back when I assumed there was a plethora of tomorrows; my procrastination worked against me—and now I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I love the wrong people.
Then again, love is a special word and if love was love at all; then none of what happened would have ever taken place.
I don’t know if I am going to end up alone or find myself mindless and toothless in an old age home with diapers and an oxygen tube in my nose.
I don’t know if I am going to be like the reverse of a cat lady, —alone and talking to myself and to inanimate objects as if they are real.
I remember when I had to clean up your apartment after you had gone. I saw how you occupied your time or how you kept your sanity. And this was crazy.
I saw the pills and the amount of medication and thought to myself, “Good God! What the hell was I thinking, letting things get like this.”
But control is not something we have when it comes to other people.
I’m sorry, Mom.
I suppose my biggest fears are partly based on my outcomes and the aftermaths of my decisions, or more to the point, my fears are the equal reasons to why I am where I am.
Self-fulfilled prophecies are unfortunate and real.
I can attest to this.
I don’t want to die alone.
I don’t want to work the rest of my life away.
I don’t want to be like the others I know, who work into their old and gray years because they need to keep their health insurance—and when they finally retire, they die nearly as quickly as the party for the retirement started and ended.
I am afraid.
I am.
I am not afraid of growing older, so much. I am not afraid of the unknown abyss or the forever sleep or what comes after.
I am not afraid of the damned or the demons who I was told would come and take my soul.
Besides, I don’t know if my soul was ever mine to begin with, which means that I am not too sure I was authorized to sell my soul to begin with, —and if this is true, than all deals are off because I signed off when I was not a valid signer—if that makes sense.
My soul and my heart and my belief in God are always a question for me. And I am not sure what I believe.
I know what I wish were true. And I know what I prefer to believe.
I like the idea of salvation. I love the thought and the feeling of being forgiven and absolved, as if to be washed or cleansed by the waters of a divine bath.
I like the idea that there is a being, far greater, and far more powerful, and far more loving than we understand.
I love the idea that you are out there, somewhere, and that somehow, you are guiding me—but the signs and the symbols and all the little things that used to come my way are gone now.
Maybe I don’t look for them like I used to.
Maybe I shook the wrong hand too many times and danced with the devil, once too often.
I don’t know.
I am nothing close to who I wished I would be.
I do not like what I see, Mom.
And I need you.
I need your help.
And I know . . .
I know . . .
it’s not like I was the best at listening when you would talk to me and give me advice.
I know.
I know.
I’d always argue and tell you how you don’t understand. And maybe you did and maybe you didn’t.
But no matter how old a man is, a son always needs his Mother’s love.
I am sorry for the way things turned out.
I am sorry that it’s been so long since my last letter.
I have some enemies at the gates.
I have friends in hiding.
I have wolves in sheep’s clothing and I have the evasive questions about love and whether true love exists for someone like me.
I know why I am where I am.
And I know this is not where I want to be.
But I’m stuck, Mom
I’m really stuck.
It’d be nice to hear your voice or see a sign.
And sometimes, I think you look down at me and you’re mad—and that’s why I don’t see your signs anymore.
Please don’t be mad at me.
No one stuck by me like you did.
So, don’t leave me now.
Your baby boy is doing okay.
But like I said, I don’t care how old any man is,—every son needs his Mom, and everyone needs one of their Mom’s special dishes. I could use a plat of your chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes.
I’ve been cooking a lot.
But cooking alone is not always what it’s cracked up to be.
I talk to my girl when I do this.
Not like she is with me or we are together.
But I talk like she is watching me cook
and I act like she’s there, —but she’s not there and to be honest, this might be how I am, from now until the hour of my death (amen)
But if this is bound to be me,
then this is bound to be me
and so be it.
Let me see you, Mom.
I’m not tough or strong and at the moment, I’m no different from a crying boy who needs his Mom.
Help me, Mom.
Please
Your son.
B—
The Written Addiction 