Here are some pictures from my recent trip to Chicago -- words to come later:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037590&id=220400154&l=fef1e7be30
Shameless Self-Promotion
15 years ago
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
12.04.2009
My Explanation of the Details
Okay, so here's what happened.
On Thanksgiving, I had to work 11 hours, from 8am to 7pm. My entire family were set to leave for Iowa to visit my stepdad's family for the holiday and they weren't going to be back until late the next night. So, when I came home to find an empty house, I reasoned that they all had left, and I spent the rest of the night woefully sad and alone. I took a shower, went into the office and spent the rest of the night listening to music at insanely loud volumes and watching movies.
The next night, I was in my bedroom when my stepdad walked in and asked, "Hey Andrew -- have you seen your mom?" I looked at him, confused, and asked, "No... Wasn't she with you...?" He replied, "No -- she stayed home to be with you, so you wouldn't be alone on Thanksgiving." I said, "That's odd, because I've been home alone the past two days. I haven't seen her since Wednesday morning, when I left for work." For a couple seconds, we just stared at each other and we came to the same conclusion at the same time: she spent Thanksgiving with her boyfriend.
She didn't get home that night until around one in the morning.
For the next two days, I was so pissed at her that I couldn't even stand the sight of her. I completely ignored her and disregarded her, trying my hardest to not even look in her direction. On Sunday afternoon, she finally confronted me in the garage while she was waxing her new car. She asked, "What's your deal, Andrew?" I asked, "Excuse me?" Again, she asked, "What's your deal? Why are you ignoring me?" I replied, "You know -- I really don't want to get into it, because I know I'm going to say something I'm going to regret." She said, "Spill it. What's your problem with me?" I took a deep breath, and as calmly as I could, explained, "Well, I'm pretty upset that you would leave me home alone on Thanksgiving and not even call to see how work was, or if I was having a good day. I'm even more upset that you would lie to your entire family, then abandon them." Upon hearing that, she took a few steps forward, got right in my face, pointed her finger at me and barked, "I WAS home -- YOU'RE the liar!" And, that's when I... snapped.
Let me first explain that I have years and years of bitterness and resentment toward my mother built up inside me. The amount of pain and heartache she's caused my entire family and me hasn't eased with time, and God hasn't fully taken it away just yet -- it's just been sitting inside me, becoming more and more potent. So when she got in my face and dared to accuse me of lying, everything I've ever wanted to say to her came pouring it, like an artesian well.
I shouted, "I can't BELIEVE that you would ditch your entire family just so you could go out and do whatever you happened with some other guy. I can't BELIEVE you would be so callous, so heartless and so soulless to want to have nothing to do with your husband, your youngest daughter, your only son or your granddaughter! I can't BELIEVE you would be so selfish! I can't BELIEVE it!" Over and over, she kept telling me, "I WAS home! You're a liar!" I finally said, "Mom, YOU'RE the liar. I was home that entire night and YOU weren't. I spent Thanksgiving alone, fighting every urge to find some whiskey and drink myself to sleep."
That's when she said the most hurtful and heartless thing I couldn't even imagine someone saying to a total stranger. She very coolly shifted her stance, squinted her eyes at me and retorted, "Well. It's not MY fault that you're nothing but a loser alcoholic -- just like your loser, nothing of a dad."
Now, I'll admit, even though I had already snapped before, that comment sent me into a spiraling anger that bordered along madness and insanity. I completely lost control of myself.
I called her every foul name I could think of and used every profanity that came to mind, shouted and screamed, pounded the table. What's peculiar about this entire situation, is that I've never gotten angry about anything; I get frustrated all the time, at times I get upset, but I've never been passionately angry about anything. I was always wondered what it would be like if I were to, one day, blow up at someone. On Sunday, I got my answer -- it was an absolutely terrifying experience. I was shouting as loud as I could, my voice scraping and becoming more and more hoarse, my face was hot and deep red, I even slammed my fist repeatedly on the countertop. At one point, I slammed my fist down as hard as I could while shouting that I actually thought I had broken my hand. A jolt of pain went through me and my entire arm went numb. When that happened, it was like I had an out of body experience -- I saw myself for what I had become. I saw the spit drooling down my chin, the redness of my face, my swollen fist.
After my tirade, she very coldly said to me, "You are no longer my son. I'm disowning you. I never want to see you or hear from you again. Get out of my sight, get out of my house and don't ever bother coming back."
Annnnd, so now I'm living in Saint Charles with my friends, the Nashes. I have no idea where my life will be taking me from here.
On Thanksgiving, I had to work 11 hours, from 8am to 7pm. My entire family were set to leave for Iowa to visit my stepdad's family for the holiday and they weren't going to be back until late the next night. So, when I came home to find an empty house, I reasoned that they all had left, and I spent the rest of the night woefully sad and alone. I took a shower, went into the office and spent the rest of the night listening to music at insanely loud volumes and watching movies.
The next night, I was in my bedroom when my stepdad walked in and asked, "Hey Andrew -- have you seen your mom?" I looked at him, confused, and asked, "No... Wasn't she with you...?" He replied, "No -- she stayed home to be with you, so you wouldn't be alone on Thanksgiving." I said, "That's odd, because I've been home alone the past two days. I haven't seen her since Wednesday morning, when I left for work." For a couple seconds, we just stared at each other and we came to the same conclusion at the same time: she spent Thanksgiving with her boyfriend.
She didn't get home that night until around one in the morning.
For the next two days, I was so pissed at her that I couldn't even stand the sight of her. I completely ignored her and disregarded her, trying my hardest to not even look in her direction. On Sunday afternoon, she finally confronted me in the garage while she was waxing her new car. She asked, "What's your deal, Andrew?" I asked, "Excuse me?" Again, she asked, "What's your deal? Why are you ignoring me?" I replied, "You know -- I really don't want to get into it, because I know I'm going to say something I'm going to regret." She said, "Spill it. What's your problem with me?" I took a deep breath, and as calmly as I could, explained, "Well, I'm pretty upset that you would leave me home alone on Thanksgiving and not even call to see how work was, or if I was having a good day. I'm even more upset that you would lie to your entire family, then abandon them." Upon hearing that, she took a few steps forward, got right in my face, pointed her finger at me and barked, "I WAS home -- YOU'RE the liar!" And, that's when I... snapped.
Let me first explain that I have years and years of bitterness and resentment toward my mother built up inside me. The amount of pain and heartache she's caused my entire family and me hasn't eased with time, and God hasn't fully taken it away just yet -- it's just been sitting inside me, becoming more and more potent. So when she got in my face and dared to accuse me of lying, everything I've ever wanted to say to her came pouring it, like an artesian well.
I shouted, "I can't BELIEVE that you would ditch your entire family just so you could go out and do whatever you happened with some other guy. I can't BELIEVE you would be so callous, so heartless and so soulless to want to have nothing to do with your husband, your youngest daughter, your only son or your granddaughter! I can't BELIEVE you would be so selfish! I can't BELIEVE it!" Over and over, she kept telling me, "I WAS home! You're a liar!" I finally said, "Mom, YOU'RE the liar. I was home that entire night and YOU weren't. I spent Thanksgiving alone, fighting every urge to find some whiskey and drink myself to sleep."
That's when she said the most hurtful and heartless thing I couldn't even imagine someone saying to a total stranger. She very coolly shifted her stance, squinted her eyes at me and retorted, "Well. It's not MY fault that you're nothing but a loser alcoholic -- just like your loser, nothing of a dad."
Now, I'll admit, even though I had already snapped before, that comment sent me into a spiraling anger that bordered along madness and insanity. I completely lost control of myself.
I called her every foul name I could think of and used every profanity that came to mind, shouted and screamed, pounded the table. What's peculiar about this entire situation, is that I've never gotten angry about anything; I get frustrated all the time, at times I get upset, but I've never been passionately angry about anything. I was always wondered what it would be like if I were to, one day, blow up at someone. On Sunday, I got my answer -- it was an absolutely terrifying experience. I was shouting as loud as I could, my voice scraping and becoming more and more hoarse, my face was hot and deep red, I even slammed my fist repeatedly on the countertop. At one point, I slammed my fist down as hard as I could while shouting that I actually thought I had broken my hand. A jolt of pain went through me and my entire arm went numb. When that happened, it was like I had an out of body experience -- I saw myself for what I had become. I saw the spit drooling down my chin, the redness of my face, my swollen fist.
After my tirade, she very coldly said to me, "You are no longer my son. I'm disowning you. I never want to see you or hear from you again. Get out of my sight, get out of my house and don't ever bother coming back."
Annnnd, so now I'm living in Saint Charles with my friends, the Nashes. I have no idea where my life will be taking me from here.
6.29.2009
A Bubble Maker's Dream
Lately, it seems as though my life is a bubble maker's dream; everyday, something shifts, something changes, something is moved by the winds of anything. There are times that I genuinely feel that my life no longer has any direction, that I'm just floating on the breeze and going where it takes me; "nobody knows from whence it comes or to where it goes."
Last Tuesday, my mom kicked me out of the house and I had to move to Josh Riley's apartment in DeKalb. Then, he talked me into signing a lease with him for a crazy expensive apartment in Sycamore. Then, he told me that his little brother would still be living with him (thus, since the new place has only two bedrooms, he wouldn't have much room for me). Then, my mom apologized and asked me to move home. Then, on Saturday night, my stepdad drove to DeKalb to repack all of my things and I am now, once again, living at home.
For how long?, who knows.
Notwithstanding my current homelessness, the horizon seems hopeful. I'm really hoping I can get some serious coin saved up so I can take my Eurotrips in the Spring and the Fall of 2010 -- 2-3 months in Ireland in the Spring, teaching English as a second language in the Fall for six months. I'm also hoping that the substitute teaching gig will fall into place; maybe I can get a night/weekend job as a waiter to supplement my income.
Who knows -- maybe Daddy's Day Magazine is going to be successful, so I can get wildly rich and never work again. I can't wait to be The Man.
The sun also rises.
Last Tuesday, my mom kicked me out of the house and I had to move to Josh Riley's apartment in DeKalb. Then, he talked me into signing a lease with him for a crazy expensive apartment in Sycamore. Then, he told me that his little brother would still be living with him (thus, since the new place has only two bedrooms, he wouldn't have much room for me). Then, my mom apologized and asked me to move home. Then, on Saturday night, my stepdad drove to DeKalb to repack all of my things and I am now, once again, living at home.
For how long?, who knows.
Notwithstanding my current homelessness, the horizon seems hopeful. I'm really hoping I can get some serious coin saved up so I can take my Eurotrips in the Spring and the Fall of 2010 -- 2-3 months in Ireland in the Spring, teaching English as a second language in the Fall for six months. I'm also hoping that the substitute teaching gig will fall into place; maybe I can get a night/weekend job as a waiter to supplement my income.
Who knows -- maybe Daddy's Day Magazine is going to be successful, so I can get wildly rich and never work again. I can't wait to be The Man.
The sun also rises.
6.13.2009
Distance
Over the past two weeks, I have noticed a considerably sized chasm between my loved ones and myself. Everyone, really. I noticed it most this afternoon, whilst vacuuming the pool.
My mom sat at one of the tables, doing some paperwork, and the entire time she was sitting there, I just kept thinking to myself how little patience I have for her mere presence right now. Then I thought back to this morning's goings on, when I lent my stepdad an ear for the better part of five hours and listened to him drone on and on about how miserable he is. Then I thought back to the last conversation I had with my sister, when she told me about a whole slew of things I never knew about my mom.
And the more I thought about all of this stuff, the more frustrated I became. I just got more anxious, more testy, more angsty, more pissed off.
That's when it occurred to me: there is a battle raging and I am fighting this thing alone. And that's when I felt it--this great divide, this great chasm, this great distance that is separating me from my loved ones.
A couple weeks ago, I described my situation to my friend Joel and he said, "My God -- you are cut off from community and you are dying." The moment he said it, I realized it was true. And, at that point, I had only been away from my community, my people, for half of a week.
I'm not going to lie: there is a strange part of me that misses DeKalb. I take that back -- there is no part of me that misses DeKalb. It would be more apropos for me to say that I miss some of the people there.
When I lost my job in January and felt like I was at the end of my rope and even considering reverting back to my days of alcoholism, there were a handful of people that God had swoop into my life to help me pick up the pieces and carry on. He sent me some dear friends that I communed with on a daily basis; if I wasn't hanging out with one friend, I was with another. I spent afternoons with one person and evenings with another. I got used to constantly having someone there that cared about me and would call me, even if I hadn't called them in a couple days. I got used to having someone there would encourage me and laugh with me. That's become especially true with a dear, dear friend of mine who shall remain nameless -- I've gotten so used to hearing this person constantly reminding me of their love for me that, if a day goes by and I don't hear those words, "I love you," (I admit it), I feel a little empty inside. I feel a little hollow. I feel a little...
Cut off.
Now that I'm back in Yorkville, I feel like a stranger in a strange land. It's a shadow of something Jesus told his disciples: "Only in his hometown, among his relatives, and in his own house is a prophet without honor."
Granted, I do have a couple friends here: there's Little Bretty Poo, who lives down the street, and Jeff and Meggie, who live down the street in the other direction. I hardly ever see these people, though. It's nobody's fault and I'm not casting blame -- we're all busy people. Jeff and Meggie are married and should enjoy each other's company, Little Bretty Poo is home from college, just for the summer, and can't squeeze me into his itinerary without two weeks notice. Besides, he is now dating and should enjoy the company of his lady. Besides, I work every single day except for Monday. On the weekends, when everyone else is off work, I work two double shifts in a row (24 hours in two days!).
But, because of our commitments, I'm out of my element.
I was hoping my Love would be able to rescue me, even if it's just a simple phone call -- just so I would have some sort of contact with the outside world to make sure I wasn't actually totally alone. Our lines of communication, though, seem to have been cut.
I need to find a community here in Yorkville. I need to find a group of people that will remind me everyday that fighting the good fight of faith is worth it. I need that encouragement. I'm not the loner I thought I was.
At least I'm not anymore.
My mom sat at one of the tables, doing some paperwork, and the entire time she was sitting there, I just kept thinking to myself how little patience I have for her mere presence right now. Then I thought back to this morning's goings on, when I lent my stepdad an ear for the better part of five hours and listened to him drone on and on about how miserable he is. Then I thought back to the last conversation I had with my sister, when she told me about a whole slew of things I never knew about my mom.
And the more I thought about all of this stuff, the more frustrated I became. I just got more anxious, more testy, more angsty, more pissed off.
That's when it occurred to me: there is a battle raging and I am fighting this thing alone. And that's when I felt it--this great divide, this great chasm, this great distance that is separating me from my loved ones.
A couple weeks ago, I described my situation to my friend Joel and he said, "My God -- you are cut off from community and you are dying." The moment he said it, I realized it was true. And, at that point, I had only been away from my community, my people, for half of a week.
I'm not going to lie: there is a strange part of me that misses DeKalb. I take that back -- there is no part of me that misses DeKalb. It would be more apropos for me to say that I miss some of the people there.
When I lost my job in January and felt like I was at the end of my rope and even considering reverting back to my days of alcoholism, there were a handful of people that God had swoop into my life to help me pick up the pieces and carry on. He sent me some dear friends that I communed with on a daily basis; if I wasn't hanging out with one friend, I was with another. I spent afternoons with one person and evenings with another. I got used to constantly having someone there that cared about me and would call me, even if I hadn't called them in a couple days. I got used to having someone there would encourage me and laugh with me. That's become especially true with a dear, dear friend of mine who shall remain nameless -- I've gotten so used to hearing this person constantly reminding me of their love for me that, if a day goes by and I don't hear those words, "I love you," (I admit it), I feel a little empty inside. I feel a little hollow. I feel a little...
Cut off.
Now that I'm back in Yorkville, I feel like a stranger in a strange land. It's a shadow of something Jesus told his disciples: "Only in his hometown, among his relatives, and in his own house is a prophet without honor."
Granted, I do have a couple friends here: there's Little Bretty Poo, who lives down the street, and Jeff and Meggie, who live down the street in the other direction. I hardly ever see these people, though. It's nobody's fault and I'm not casting blame -- we're all busy people. Jeff and Meggie are married and should enjoy each other's company, Little Bretty Poo is home from college, just for the summer, and can't squeeze me into his itinerary without two weeks notice. Besides, he is now dating and should enjoy the company of his lady. Besides, I work every single day except for Monday. On the weekends, when everyone else is off work, I work two double shifts in a row (24 hours in two days!).
But, because of our commitments, I'm out of my element.
I was hoping my Love would be able to rescue me, even if it's just a simple phone call -- just so I would have some sort of contact with the outside world to make sure I wasn't actually totally alone. Our lines of communication, though, seem to have been cut.
I need to find a community here in Yorkville. I need to find a group of people that will remind me everyday that fighting the good fight of faith is worth it. I need that encouragement. I'm not the loner I thought I was.
At least I'm not anymore.
6.08.2009
A Good Day
Today was a good day -- a much needed good day. Don't get me wrong, it didn't start off in a bed of roses, but its finish was impeccable; the only way it could have been any better is if my love were here to share it with me.
Mondays are my mom's day off, so she was to be home all day today -- I knew I had to be away. Far and away. I can't stand being anywhere near my mom as of late; her mere presence is enough to make my blood boil inside of me. Her mere presence is enough to send me into a state of hysterics. Her mere presence is enough to ruin a perfect day. She has nothing short of a toxic personality and I wasn't going to let her fumes poison this glorious Monday.
So, without any direction, without any plan, without any place to go or be, I got in my car and drove off. Whilst cruising around, with the windows down, to Peter Gabriel's Secret World Live double album, I decided to get some essential chores done: I emptied my change jar and deposited over $30 of coinage into my checking account, went to the post office and changed my forwarding address and then headed over to the Village Grind, a little mom and pop coffee shop in downtown Oswego.
After a small iced mocha and a home-baked chocolate chip cookie, I decided that I'm never going to Starbucks again.
The atmosphere inside was tremendous -- there are five different rooms that are connected in this shop, with homemade nick-nacks that are for sale decorating the walls. The floors are all hardwood and the shop is dimly lit, to make for a homey, comforting latte-sipping experience. I sat at a table in the corner with my coffee and biscuit, re-reading the Book of Ruth and watching the other patrons around me enjoy their beverages. I reasoned that this shop would be my new office space away from my office -- what better place to get some writing done?
Afterward, I headed out to the pool, despite today being my day off as well. Inside of the pool's clubhouse there is a small, makeshift workout room -- it has an elliptical, a couple treadmills, an exercise bike, some free weights and a couple machines that, at the very least, will make you feel like you have the resources to get a decent workout available. After running on the elliptical for half of an hour and burning a little over 240 calories, I swam for another half of an hour. If I do that everyday (which I am more than capable of, seeing as how I'll be there everyday this summer), I imagine I'll be looking a bit leaner by the end of the summer.
Now I'm going to segues to my next point:
To help me monitor my progress, I am going to post a new picture everyday on [ the drew ]. I've seen this done before and it has the potential to be pretty cool. The "photo-a-day" projects that I've seen are usually, at the very least, interesting. Granted, all of you out there in Reader Land will only be able to see my progress by seeing my face, but hopefully you'll be seeing my face grow slimmer and slimmer as the summer progresses.
And so we begin:
Come to think of it, after seeing this picture, perhaps I should invest in Rogaine so's that I can get rid of that empty space underneath my nose where my mustache should meet.
Mondays are my mom's day off, so she was to be home all day today -- I knew I had to be away. Far and away. I can't stand being anywhere near my mom as of late; her mere presence is enough to make my blood boil inside of me. Her mere presence is enough to send me into a state of hysterics. Her mere presence is enough to ruin a perfect day. She has nothing short of a toxic personality and I wasn't going to let her fumes poison this glorious Monday.
So, without any direction, without any plan, without any place to go or be, I got in my car and drove off. Whilst cruising around, with the windows down, to Peter Gabriel's Secret World Live double album, I decided to get some essential chores done: I emptied my change jar and deposited over $30 of coinage into my checking account, went to the post office and changed my forwarding address and then headed over to the Village Grind, a little mom and pop coffee shop in downtown Oswego.
After a small iced mocha and a home-baked chocolate chip cookie, I decided that I'm never going to Starbucks again.
The atmosphere inside was tremendous -- there are five different rooms that are connected in this shop, with homemade nick-nacks that are for sale decorating the walls. The floors are all hardwood and the shop is dimly lit, to make for a homey, comforting latte-sipping experience. I sat at a table in the corner with my coffee and biscuit, re-reading the Book of Ruth and watching the other patrons around me enjoy their beverages. I reasoned that this shop would be my new office space away from my office -- what better place to get some writing done?
Afterward, I headed out to the pool, despite today being my day off as well. Inside of the pool's clubhouse there is a small, makeshift workout room -- it has an elliptical, a couple treadmills, an exercise bike, some free weights and a couple machines that, at the very least, will make you feel like you have the resources to get a decent workout available. After running on the elliptical for half of an hour and burning a little over 240 calories, I swam for another half of an hour. If I do that everyday (which I am more than capable of, seeing as how I'll be there everyday this summer), I imagine I'll be looking a bit leaner by the end of the summer.
Now I'm going to segues to my next point:
To help me monitor my progress, I am going to post a new picture everyday on [ the drew ]. I've seen this done before and it has the potential to be pretty cool. The "photo-a-day" projects that I've seen are usually, at the very least, interesting. Granted, all of you out there in Reader Land will only be able to see my progress by seeing my face, but hopefully you'll be seeing my face grow slimmer and slimmer as the summer progresses.
And so we begin:
Come to think of it, after seeing this picture, perhaps I should invest in Rogaine so's that I can get rid of that empty space underneath my nose where my mustache should meet.
6.02.2009
A Little On Edge
I have to get out of Yorkville, first chance I get.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Last night, as I was laying on my futon, watching Extras in my bedroom, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, walk past my door, then stop in the kitchen. Some things rustled, a chair was pulled out and pushed back in, the door to the garage opened and shut, the car outside started and that was it.
It was about one in the morning.
Two hours later, the garage door open and shut, the footsteps went past my door and back up the stairs towards my mom and stepdad's bedroom. I knew it was my mom coming and going in the wee hours of the morning, because my stepdad, Bob, was sound asleep in his recliner in the living room with the television still on.
The question, then, is, What was my mother doing leaving the house at one in the morning and not coming back until three in the morning?
God only knows, but I can imagine.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Last week, an old coworker, Ron, showed up at the pool and got drunk. I confiscated the wine from him and kicked him out after he offended me by making fun of my faith and said wildly inappropriate things to two fourteen year old girls that were swimming.
Two days ago, he showed up at the pool again and volunteered to watch it a while I went to DeKalb to move a couch out of my old apartment. As appreciative as I was that he did that for me, I, once again, had to ask him to leave after saying wildly inappropriate things to some women who were sunbathing and was behaving like a genuine ass. He even introduced me to one of his buddies there as "my stepson, Drew."
That pissed me off. A lot.
But imagine my chagrin when I learned that Ron drunk-dialed my mother last Sunday (the night I kicked him out): "Heya baby -- give me a call sometime."
To make matters worse, when I called my mom today to let her know about all of the things Ron did to piss me off and earn his place as social outcast, she defended him! Not only did she defend him, but after I told her all the reasons I couldn't stand the man, and all the reasons I think he is absolute scum, she replied, "I'm sorry you feel that way."
All of this adds up in my mind to lead me to believe that my mother has slept or is sleeping with Ron.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
For the past two days, I have been trying my damnedest to get some of this freelance work done -- I've had it on my desk for two weeks now and have still only finished two of the seven articles I expected to have done by now. Furthermore, I have three articles awaiting me from Daddy's Day Magazine that I have to finish proofreading and editing by tomorrow morning. So I thought that if I buckled down tonight, put on my headphones and shut the door behind me, I'd be able to zip through all of it by midnight, no problems.
The only problem is that I live at home with a nine year old sister named Morgan and two parents that are dysfunctional, at best. These three people combine for a lot of noise, whether they are arguing, or fighting, or popping into my office every five minutes to give me Cubs vs. Braves updates, or give me apartment complex/pool gossip updates, or Webkinz updates, or just to simply annoy me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Needless to say, I am a little on edge as of late. All this time, I thought my younger sister, Gail, was crazy, irresponsible and stupid for making the decisions she's made in life. I thought she was just another idiot that fell to the wiles of peer pressure, succumbing to drug and alcohol abuse. Now, I have a better understanding of her motivations! This place is a madhouse and even I would do just about anything to get the hell out of here!
To all my friends who have called me in the past couple days and have been made a victim of my malice, I am so, so very sorry. I don't mean to snap and I don't mean to offend. I am under a tremendous amount of stress.
I know this is the enemy tripping me up--this isn't God testing me to see how I respond to overwhelming stress. I know it's the enemy because I snapped both times my best friend sent me text messages telling me which verses in the Bible I should read for comfort.
I flipped out.
"Who is Josh to tell me how to live my life?? How does he know what I'm going through?? Who is he to make suggestions and give advice??"
I was legitimately offended for no reason whatsoever. I was a wild beast in a cage and Josh did a very kind, very gentle thing to comfort me. My parents and even other friends, on the other hand, are picking up sticks and poking them inside the cage just to get me riled up or to hurt me more.
That's how it seems anyway.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And old friend, Sandor, sent me an email and told me he received a vision whilst praying for me. Here's his email:
Hey Drew!
I just read your posting about leaving Dekalb just now. And I was praying for you and the Lord spoke to me, and I felt led to share it with you as a word of encouragement.
I saw the words "Silver Springs" like I was looking at a sign on the road. I wondered why I thought that sounded familiar, then I remembered where it was. It is in Yorkville, Il. I actually went there when I was a kid on a field trip.
I believe the Lord told me that you will go there, if you have not already, and He will minister to you deeply and profoundly.
"They shall not hunger nor thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite them: for he that hath mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall he guide them." (Isa. 49:10)
I also got these verses for you as well: Jer. 31,1 Kin. 17:1-6, Isa. 35:7, 41:18, and Matt. 6:24-34
Take care bro.
Sandor
I think I'm going to head out there tomorrow with my guitar and my Bible to see what God has for me. I could use some quiet time with God to refocus and to recast my vision of my life.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Last night, as I was laying on my futon, watching Extras in my bedroom, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, walk past my door, then stop in the kitchen. Some things rustled, a chair was pulled out and pushed back in, the door to the garage opened and shut, the car outside started and that was it.
It was about one in the morning.
Two hours later, the garage door open and shut, the footsteps went past my door and back up the stairs towards my mom and stepdad's bedroom. I knew it was my mom coming and going in the wee hours of the morning, because my stepdad, Bob, was sound asleep in his recliner in the living room with the television still on.
The question, then, is, What was my mother doing leaving the house at one in the morning and not coming back until three in the morning?
God only knows, but I can imagine.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Last week, an old coworker, Ron, showed up at the pool and got drunk. I confiscated the wine from him and kicked him out after he offended me by making fun of my faith and said wildly inappropriate things to two fourteen year old girls that were swimming.
Two days ago, he showed up at the pool again and volunteered to watch it a while I went to DeKalb to move a couch out of my old apartment. As appreciative as I was that he did that for me, I, once again, had to ask him to leave after saying wildly inappropriate things to some women who were sunbathing and was behaving like a genuine ass. He even introduced me to one of his buddies there as "my stepson, Drew."
That pissed me off. A lot.
But imagine my chagrin when I learned that Ron drunk-dialed my mother last Sunday (the night I kicked him out): "Heya baby -- give me a call sometime."
To make matters worse, when I called my mom today to let her know about all of the things Ron did to piss me off and earn his place as social outcast, she defended him! Not only did she defend him, but after I told her all the reasons I couldn't stand the man, and all the reasons I think he is absolute scum, she replied, "I'm sorry you feel that way."
All of this adds up in my mind to lead me to believe that my mother has slept or is sleeping with Ron.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
For the past two days, I have been trying my damnedest to get some of this freelance work done -- I've had it on my desk for two weeks now and have still only finished two of the seven articles I expected to have done by now. Furthermore, I have three articles awaiting me from Daddy's Day Magazine that I have to finish proofreading and editing by tomorrow morning. So I thought that if I buckled down tonight, put on my headphones and shut the door behind me, I'd be able to zip through all of it by midnight, no problems.
The only problem is that I live at home with a nine year old sister named Morgan and two parents that are dysfunctional, at best. These three people combine for a lot of noise, whether they are arguing, or fighting, or popping into my office every five minutes to give me Cubs vs. Braves updates, or give me apartment complex/pool gossip updates, or Webkinz updates, or just to simply annoy me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Needless to say, I am a little on edge as of late. All this time, I thought my younger sister, Gail, was crazy, irresponsible and stupid for making the decisions she's made in life. I thought she was just another idiot that fell to the wiles of peer pressure, succumbing to drug and alcohol abuse. Now, I have a better understanding of her motivations! This place is a madhouse and even I would do just about anything to get the hell out of here!
To all my friends who have called me in the past couple days and have been made a victim of my malice, I am so, so very sorry. I don't mean to snap and I don't mean to offend. I am under a tremendous amount of stress.
I know this is the enemy tripping me up--this isn't God testing me to see how I respond to overwhelming stress. I know it's the enemy because I snapped both times my best friend sent me text messages telling me which verses in the Bible I should read for comfort.
I flipped out.
"Who is Josh to tell me how to live my life?? How does he know what I'm going through?? Who is he to make suggestions and give advice??"
I was legitimately offended for no reason whatsoever. I was a wild beast in a cage and Josh did a very kind, very gentle thing to comfort me. My parents and even other friends, on the other hand, are picking up sticks and poking them inside the cage just to get me riled up or to hurt me more.
That's how it seems anyway.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And old friend, Sandor, sent me an email and told me he received a vision whilst praying for me. Here's his email:
Hey Drew!
I just read your posting about leaving Dekalb just now. And I was praying for you and the Lord spoke to me, and I felt led to share it with you as a word of encouragement.
I saw the words "Silver Springs" like I was looking at a sign on the road. I wondered why I thought that sounded familiar, then I remembered where it was. It is in Yorkville, Il. I actually went there when I was a kid on a field trip.
I believe the Lord told me that you will go there, if you have not already, and He will minister to you deeply and profoundly.
"They shall not hunger nor thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite them: for he that hath mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall he guide them." (Isa. 49:10)
I also got these verses for you as well: Jer. 31,1 Kin. 17:1-6, Isa. 35:7, 41:18, and Matt. 6:24-34
Take care bro.
Sandor
I think I'm going to head out there tomorrow with my guitar and my Bible to see what God has for me. I could use some quiet time with God to refocus and to recast my vision of my life.
6.01.2009
Hills and Valleys
I have some good news and some bad news.
THE GOOD NEWS:
Things are going well right now -- a little too well, perhaps. I keep waiting for something to go wrong, because it doesn't seem entirely natural to me that life is meant to be this... okay.
Megan and I are doing wonderfully. For those of you who may not remember, I mentioned her a few weeks ago (about a month ago actually) in a blog about going to Columbus, Ohio, but haven't really touched on her since. Our semi-pseudo-relationship couldn't possibly be any better than it is right now. Well... If we lived a bit closer to each other, that would make things better. But besides that, we couldn't be better. Albeit true, we have hit a couple really rough patches very early on in our relationship, we are pressing through, staying the course, a thousand points of light.
A thousand points of light...? That doesn't make any sense.
In the words of a dear friend of mine, we are laying low the mountains and filling in the valleys so that we may walk a straighter, more level path.
THE BAD NEWS:
I really don't know what this woman sees in me. This is probably just some self-esteem issue that I need to work out on my own; I'm probably a really great guy with a world of promise to offer. But, when I look in the mirror, I don't see that guy. I don't see the man she describes as "cute," "funny" or "sweet." I don't see the man that she claims to love.
When I look in the mirror, I see a derelict. I look at my shaggy hair and my unkempt beard and I wonder "Only a mother gorilla could love a face like this." I argue that the only reason she even remotely likes me is because we haven't seen each other in a long time -- "You have no idea what I look like now!" (as if I could change so much in one month)
It astounds me that a beautiful, talented woman like her could see anything in a guy like me. It astounds me that ANY girl could see anything in a guy like me. I marvel at the fact that there have been women in my life that have genuinely liked me. I marvel! In fact, there have been two occasions when I've had a girlfriend and it bothered me so much that she liked me that I freaked out and broke up with her. Is this normal behavior?? I'm not so sure it is. I even told Megan the other day, "You should probably end everything with me, move to France and marry a wealthy Parisian who'll bake baguettes for you and drink coffee on Les Champs-Elysees with you everyday." Megan should be with someone who has something to offer -- not me.
It just doesn't make sense to me.
Maybe I'm being a little harsh on myself. Again, this is probably a self-esteem issue that I need to work out for myself.
Maybe.
MORE GOOD NEWS:
I really love my job. This summer, just like the summers of the two years previous to this one, I am working at the swimming pool at Courtyards Village West Apartments in North Aurora. That's right -- I'm the poolboy.
Okay, it's true -- this picture was taken two years ago, when I was still moderately attractive, but there's not much different about this job today than the way it was two years ago. I still sit around with awesome sunglasses, working on a tan and reading. So far, this summer, in only five days at the pool, I've started and finished three books. The best part of all, is that I actually get paid for this! And I get paid well! I really shouldn't be making more than minimum wage for the work I do there, in all honesty.
MORE BAD NEWS:
I need help, everyone.
I need prayer. I need grace. I need motivation.
As you all know, I just moved home to Yorkville and, already, I am itching to get out of here. Living here is going to be such a trial and I'm going to need to have such an enormous amount of motivation to keep myself going without getting bogged or dragged down.
My mom and stepdad, Bob, hate each other -- a lot. They have both filed for divorce from each other numerous times, but, for some reason, stay together and keep hating each other. My sister, Morgan, is always caught in the middle of it and I pity her.
My mother is an egomaniacal, self-centered, self-serving, sociopathic woman. In spite of her marriage -- a holy vow of loyalty to one spouse made before God Himself (which she has now made four times) -- she has a handful of boyfriends on the side that I know about and who knows how many others that I don't know about. She's not ashamed of her extramarital love life at all -- the other day, she even let me listen to a voicemail that one of her suitors left while he was drunk. "Hey baby -- give me a call back sometime." Why the hell is my mom showing me this??
Last night, I came home from my best friend's, the Jorays, house around 12:30 only to find Mom in the living room, on the phone to one of her boyfriends while her husband was sound asleep upstairs. There are times that she leaves in the middle of the night and doesn't come home until 6 or 7 the next morning.
Then there's Bob -- a lazy, lazy, lazy man who does nothing to help and nothing to better himself. He comes home from work, plops down in his easy chair, reclines it and watches television for the rest of the night. And he doesn't move. He falls asleep in that chair around midnight (with the television still on), wakes up at 7, then watches whatever show is on the channel he fell asleep to until he has to go to work. I leave the house, he is watching TV. I come home and he is still watching TV.
I cannot stay in this toxic environment much longer. If I stay here longer than the summer, I am going to implode. This behaviour is going to chip away and chip away at me until I am reduced to a pile of dust that is whisked away by the faintest wind.
THE GOOD NEWS:
Things are going well right now -- a little too well, perhaps. I keep waiting for something to go wrong, because it doesn't seem entirely natural to me that life is meant to be this... okay.
Megan and I are doing wonderfully. For those of you who may not remember, I mentioned her a few weeks ago (about a month ago actually) in a blog about going to Columbus, Ohio, but haven't really touched on her since. Our semi-pseudo-relationship couldn't possibly be any better than it is right now. Well... If we lived a bit closer to each other, that would make things better. But besides that, we couldn't be better. Albeit true, we have hit a couple really rough patches very early on in our relationship, we are pressing through, staying the course, a thousand points of light.
A thousand points of light...? That doesn't make any sense.
In the words of a dear friend of mine, we are laying low the mountains and filling in the valleys so that we may walk a straighter, more level path.
THE BAD NEWS:
I really don't know what this woman sees in me. This is probably just some self-esteem issue that I need to work out on my own; I'm probably a really great guy with a world of promise to offer. But, when I look in the mirror, I don't see that guy. I don't see the man she describes as "cute," "funny" or "sweet." I don't see the man that she claims to love.
When I look in the mirror, I see a derelict. I look at my shaggy hair and my unkempt beard and I wonder "Only a mother gorilla could love a face like this." I argue that the only reason she even remotely likes me is because we haven't seen each other in a long time -- "You have no idea what I look like now!" (as if I could change so much in one month)
It astounds me that a beautiful, talented woman like her could see anything in a guy like me. It astounds me that ANY girl could see anything in a guy like me. I marvel at the fact that there have been women in my life that have genuinely liked me. I marvel! In fact, there have been two occasions when I've had a girlfriend and it bothered me so much that she liked me that I freaked out and broke up with her. Is this normal behavior?? I'm not so sure it is. I even told Megan the other day, "You should probably end everything with me, move to France and marry a wealthy Parisian who'll bake baguettes for you and drink coffee on Les Champs-Elysees with you everyday." Megan should be with someone who has something to offer -- not me.
It just doesn't make sense to me.
Maybe I'm being a little harsh on myself. Again, this is probably a self-esteem issue that I need to work out for myself.
Maybe.
MORE GOOD NEWS:
I really love my job. This summer, just like the summers of the two years previous to this one, I am working at the swimming pool at Courtyards Village West Apartments in North Aurora. That's right -- I'm the poolboy.Okay, it's true -- this picture was taken two years ago, when I was still moderately attractive, but there's not much different about this job today than the way it was two years ago. I still sit around with awesome sunglasses, working on a tan and reading. So far, this summer, in only five days at the pool, I've started and finished three books. The best part of all, is that I actually get paid for this! And I get paid well! I really shouldn't be making more than minimum wage for the work I do there, in all honesty.
MORE BAD NEWS:
I need help, everyone.
I need prayer. I need grace. I need motivation.
As you all know, I just moved home to Yorkville and, already, I am itching to get out of here. Living here is going to be such a trial and I'm going to need to have such an enormous amount of motivation to keep myself going without getting bogged or dragged down.
My mom and stepdad, Bob, hate each other -- a lot. They have both filed for divorce from each other numerous times, but, for some reason, stay together and keep hating each other. My sister, Morgan, is always caught in the middle of it and I pity her.
My mother is an egomaniacal, self-centered, self-serving, sociopathic woman. In spite of her marriage -- a holy vow of loyalty to one spouse made before God Himself (which she has now made four times) -- she has a handful of boyfriends on the side that I know about and who knows how many others that I don't know about. She's not ashamed of her extramarital love life at all -- the other day, she even let me listen to a voicemail that one of her suitors left while he was drunk. "Hey baby -- give me a call back sometime." Why the hell is my mom showing me this??
Last night, I came home from my best friend's, the Jorays, house around 12:30 only to find Mom in the living room, on the phone to one of her boyfriends while her husband was sound asleep upstairs. There are times that she leaves in the middle of the night and doesn't come home until 6 or 7 the next morning.
Then there's Bob -- a lazy, lazy, lazy man who does nothing to help and nothing to better himself. He comes home from work, plops down in his easy chair, reclines it and watches television for the rest of the night. And he doesn't move. He falls asleep in that chair around midnight (with the television still on), wakes up at 7, then watches whatever show is on the channel he fell asleep to until he has to go to work. I leave the house, he is watching TV. I come home and he is still watching TV.
I cannot stay in this toxic environment much longer. If I stay here longer than the summer, I am going to implode. This behaviour is going to chip away and chip away at me until I am reduced to a pile of dust that is whisked away by the faintest wind.
5.27.2009
So Long, DeKalb
As promised, I am updating my blog to fill you in on some things you have probably missed unless you are intimately acquainted with me...
. . . .
The most drastic change is my new surroundings. Well, maybe not "new" so much as it is "familiar;" I moved home, last week, to Yorkville, Illinois. Glorious, glorious Yorkville. Everyone knows I lost my job back in January, and it may come as no surprise that I endured the entirety of my six month unemployment benefits period without finding a job. Sure I sent out well over 150 resumes in those six months and only interviewed with three companies, but I just couldn't manage to land a position.
I think, when you're unemployed for six months and have no prospects, it's time to start packing and head home.
A few friends disagreed -- they thought I should stay in DeKalb and "stick it out." Well, that's a nice sentiment and I do appreciate their desire for me to stay around so that we can continue our friendships in a more geographically desirable situation, but I think that "sticking it out" in DeKalb would have ultimately been wildly irresponsible on a few levels:
1) I have a passionate dislike for DeKalb. Sorry, but it's true. Northern Illinois University is a wonderful school and a great campus, but the rest of DeKalb is a hodgepodge mosaic of down and outers, stragglers, rednecks, yuppies and other scary, scary people. The town is run down and has no real cultural hotspot besides The House Cafe (which, I will admit, is fantastic) and a series of bars. I've been wanting to leave DeKalb from the moment I got there. There's absolutely nothing for me there. To have stayed would have been to perpetuate my misery.
2) My understanding is that the unemployment benefits period expires after six months. Two weeks from today will mark the sixth month that I've been unemployed and so, to my understanding, I will stop receiving handouts from the government then. It would be foolish for me to stay in DeKalb when I can't pay my rent nor any of my bills.
3) If I'm going to achieve any of my goals (namely, moving to Ireland, traveling, buying a house, opening up my used bookstore), I'm going to need to save up money. Unfortunately, I cannot think of a career in DeKalb that will enable me to do that whilst paying the outrageous amount for rent I was being charged. Furthermore, living in Yorkville puts me closer to the places where work will be easier to find (Aurora, Naperville, Oswego, Chicago). Living at home, where I have no rent or utilities, will enable me to save exponentially more money than I would have been able to save on my own.
4) It's time to do something different. Retreating to homebase will allow me to gather my thoughts, calm down, get perspective, reorganize, recast my visions and more focus to follow through.
So it is "So long, DeKalb!" Don't hear me wrong -- as excited as I am to be out of that place, it is going to be a strange experience moving home. First and foremost, I am going to miss some of the people I am leaving behind. Inasmuch as I am, in a way, "leaving them behind," I want them all to know that I'm not abandoning nor forsaking my relationships. Just because I live in Yorkville doesn't mean we're not friends anymore. Right? I will have some fond memories of DeKalb, though those memories won't have anything to do with the town itself -- my memories will be of the people that helped me get through the past few years.
And now that I'm home, I will have all the time in the world to reflect on those memories. I've been living here in Yorkville for about five days now.
Things are okay.
Things are decent.
Things are what they are.
I knew going into this that this wasn't going to be a bed of roses, or a walk in the park, or a walk through a bed of roses. I knew that moving back to my chaotic, dysfunctional home would be a challenge -- I knew it would be a dogfight keeping myself motivated to face another day. I am going to need God's grace to be able to make it here. I understand that.
I am hopeful that by strangely looking forward, I will make it through this.
. . . .
The most drastic change is my new surroundings. Well, maybe not "new" so much as it is "familiar;" I moved home, last week, to Yorkville, Illinois. Glorious, glorious Yorkville. Everyone knows I lost my job back in January, and it may come as no surprise that I endured the entirety of my six month unemployment benefits period without finding a job. Sure I sent out well over 150 resumes in those six months and only interviewed with three companies, but I just couldn't manage to land a position.
I think, when you're unemployed for six months and have no prospects, it's time to start packing and head home.
A few friends disagreed -- they thought I should stay in DeKalb and "stick it out." Well, that's a nice sentiment and I do appreciate their desire for me to stay around so that we can continue our friendships in a more geographically desirable situation, but I think that "sticking it out" in DeKalb would have ultimately been wildly irresponsible on a few levels:
1) I have a passionate dislike for DeKalb. Sorry, but it's true. Northern Illinois University is a wonderful school and a great campus, but the rest of DeKalb is a hodgepodge mosaic of down and outers, stragglers, rednecks, yuppies and other scary, scary people. The town is run down and has no real cultural hotspot besides The House Cafe (which, I will admit, is fantastic) and a series of bars. I've been wanting to leave DeKalb from the moment I got there. There's absolutely nothing for me there. To have stayed would have been to perpetuate my misery.
2) My understanding is that the unemployment benefits period expires after six months. Two weeks from today will mark the sixth month that I've been unemployed and so, to my understanding, I will stop receiving handouts from the government then. It would be foolish for me to stay in DeKalb when I can't pay my rent nor any of my bills.
3) If I'm going to achieve any of my goals (namely, moving to Ireland, traveling, buying a house, opening up my used bookstore), I'm going to need to save up money. Unfortunately, I cannot think of a career in DeKalb that will enable me to do that whilst paying the outrageous amount for rent I was being charged. Furthermore, living in Yorkville puts me closer to the places where work will be easier to find (Aurora, Naperville, Oswego, Chicago). Living at home, where I have no rent or utilities, will enable me to save exponentially more money than I would have been able to save on my own.
4) It's time to do something different. Retreating to homebase will allow me to gather my thoughts, calm down, get perspective, reorganize, recast my visions and more focus to follow through.
So it is "So long, DeKalb!" Don't hear me wrong -- as excited as I am to be out of that place, it is going to be a strange experience moving home. First and foremost, I am going to miss some of the people I am leaving behind. Inasmuch as I am, in a way, "leaving them behind," I want them all to know that I'm not abandoning nor forsaking my relationships. Just because I live in Yorkville doesn't mean we're not friends anymore. Right? I will have some fond memories of DeKalb, though those memories won't have anything to do with the town itself -- my memories will be of the people that helped me get through the past few years.
And now that I'm home, I will have all the time in the world to reflect on those memories. I've been living here in Yorkville for about five days now.
Things are okay.
Things are decent.
Things are what they are.
I knew going into this that this wasn't going to be a bed of roses, or a walk in the park, or a walk through a bed of roses. I knew that moving back to my chaotic, dysfunctional home would be a challenge -- I knew it would be a dogfight keeping myself motivated to face another day. I am going to need God's grace to be able to make it here. I understand that.
I am hopeful that by strangely looking forward, I will make it through this.
12.24.2008
The Cruel Irony from the Family Called "Brown"
Three years ago, my grandparents — the Browns – removed me from the family. My younger sister, who was 16 at the time, hit a rough patch in her life and, dreading embarassment for the entire family because of her, my grandparents acted. They understood the drugs and they understood the alcohol (teenagers will be teenagers, after all). But when Gail gave birth at the young age of 16 to a black baby (my niece, Keira), that was the final straw. Instead of supporting my sister and showing a little heart, they chastised her and shunned her (a cruel irony from the family named Brown, if you ask me). They continued speaking to my mother (their daughter), but only out of spite — they ridiculed her, manipulated her, and insulted her parenting. Mom wouldn’t stand for it, so she shunned them in return.
That left me.
When I first moved to DeKalb for university, I still had a relationship with my grandparents. In fact, during that Spring semester, I received a D in a class because my professor refused to allow me to retake the final that I missed, so my beligerent grandmother called the department chair and demanded an explanation (turns out, my professor never asked if allowing me to take the final was okay)! A few months later, when the worst of my sister’s problems was coming into fruition, Grandma emailed me, saying, “Whenever you have time, Deda and I would like to come visit your new apartment and have you take us on a campus tour!” I wrote her back: “If you don’t have time for my mom, my sister, or my new niece, then I don’t have time for you.” And that was the last I’ve heard from them since.
About a week ago, I was talking with my cousin, Katy. Her family’s going through some rough times (as is mine, coincidentally), but is trying to save face and act like everything is normal and hunky dory. She told me that both her mom and her dad are going to our grandparents house for Christmas, even though they are in the midst of a separation. “It’s going to be really awkward,” she said. “You should come over just to experience that!”
“Oh, yes, because my presence there will calm everything down!” I replied.
My cousin is a really great kid. She’s four years my minor (the same as my sister — they were born three months apart) and one of the most mature 19 year olds I’ve met in quite some time. She and I truly represent the future of our family. When our grandparents inevitably pass on, there will be a generational void to assemble all of us together for holidays and birthdays and other sorts of familial gatherings. My mother and her mother have a sordid past and, even though my aunt has reached out to our family in our time of need, ignoring the wishes of her parents, her offers of help have fallen on deaf ears with her sister. They don’t talk anymore — at all. So when the Browns are no longer with us, it truly will be up to Katy and I to “assemble the troops,” as it were.
“Well, it’ll still be awkward, but at least they’d be happy to see you,” said Katy.
“I’ll tell you what — call up the Browns and ask them if they’d mind if I came over,” I said. “Because I do kind of want to see everyone again — especially you and your family. But I have a feeling they’re still upset with me.”
After Katy called and spoke with them, it turns out they do want me to come. They also said they’d enjoy it if my mom, youngest sister and stepdad came. However, Gail and Keira were not invited. They are still unhappy with her and, though they claim their reasoning is that they just don’t want Gail’s drug culture and gang lifestyle around the other kids who will be there, I still believe they see Gail as an embarrassment. That will be a deal-breaker for my mom — I know it will. That was what made her turn her back on her parents all those years ago — their incapacity to empathize, their heartlessness, and their inability to offer any sort of help.
And so it seems as though nothing has really changed. I hoped that my grandparents were building a bridge to reconciliation, but as it turns out, they’re still burning it down.
That left me.
When I first moved to DeKalb for university, I still had a relationship with my grandparents. In fact, during that Spring semester, I received a D in a class because my professor refused to allow me to retake the final that I missed, so my beligerent grandmother called the department chair and demanded an explanation (turns out, my professor never asked if allowing me to take the final was okay)! A few months later, when the worst of my sister’s problems was coming into fruition, Grandma emailed me, saying, “Whenever you have time, Deda and I would like to come visit your new apartment and have you take us on a campus tour!” I wrote her back: “If you don’t have time for my mom, my sister, or my new niece, then I don’t have time for you.” And that was the last I’ve heard from them since.
About a week ago, I was talking with my cousin, Katy. Her family’s going through some rough times (as is mine, coincidentally), but is trying to save face and act like everything is normal and hunky dory. She told me that both her mom and her dad are going to our grandparents house for Christmas, even though they are in the midst of a separation. “It’s going to be really awkward,” she said. “You should come over just to experience that!”
“Oh, yes, because my presence there will calm everything down!” I replied.
My cousin is a really great kid. She’s four years my minor (the same as my sister — they were born three months apart) and one of the most mature 19 year olds I’ve met in quite some time. She and I truly represent the future of our family. When our grandparents inevitably pass on, there will be a generational void to assemble all of us together for holidays and birthdays and other sorts of familial gatherings. My mother and her mother have a sordid past and, even though my aunt has reached out to our family in our time of need, ignoring the wishes of her parents, her offers of help have fallen on deaf ears with her sister. They don’t talk anymore — at all. So when the Browns are no longer with us, it truly will be up to Katy and I to “assemble the troops,” as it were.
“Well, it’ll still be awkward, but at least they’d be happy to see you,” said Katy.
“I’ll tell you what — call up the Browns and ask them if they’d mind if I came over,” I said. “Because I do kind of want to see everyone again — especially you and your family. But I have a feeling they’re still upset with me.”
After Katy called and spoke with them, it turns out they do want me to come. They also said they’d enjoy it if my mom, youngest sister and stepdad came. However, Gail and Keira were not invited. They are still unhappy with her and, though they claim their reasoning is that they just don’t want Gail’s drug culture and gang lifestyle around the other kids who will be there, I still believe they see Gail as an embarrassment. That will be a deal-breaker for my mom — I know it will. That was what made her turn her back on her parents all those years ago — their incapacity to empathize, their heartlessness, and their inability to offer any sort of help.
And so it seems as though nothing has really changed. I hoped that my grandparents were building a bridge to reconciliation, but as it turns out, they’re still burning it down.
11.17.2008
The Darjeeling Limited
The past few days, I’ve been watching the Wes Anderson films. Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Tonight, I’m watching The Darjeeling Limited.
The movies chronicles the journeys of three brothers who are travelling, by train, through India. It is the story of how the three reconcile after a year of silence that proceeds their father’s death and their spiritual and physical journeys to discover themselves and each other.
The movie means a lot to me. All of Wes Anderson’s movies resonate with me, but this one, in particular, touches a part of me that is sensitive.
I’m an only child. I have two half-sisters, but I don’t have any siblings that I share all of my blood, all of my genetics, all of my life with. Gail is my oldest sister — 19 — and my youngest sister is 15 years my minor — she’s only 8. Her name is Morgan. They too are half-sisters. Our mother has been married four times and the three of us all have different fathers.
I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother. I don’t know what it’s like to have another man in my life who I live with, compete with, grow with, mature with, fight with, argue with, and team up with. While other boys in my neighborhood were in their backyards wrestling or playing ball or building forts adorned with signs that say “No girls allowed,” I was standing alone, barefoot in the grass, with a ball and nobody to throw it to.
My father attempted to fill that gap in my life as best he could. We wrestled on the living room floor, played catch, talked about girls at school. I appreciate his effort and I love him all the more for it, but that isn’t a father’s role in a boy’s life. We both knew that.
I’ve always wanted a brother, though. Sometimes, I thought that maybe I did have a brother. I was convinced that he had been taken, removed, abducted. Perhaps by his own volition, even.
* * * *
Baseball cards on the spokes of the wheels.
Sit atop my handle bars, on parade in the
cul
de
sac.
Wave to the people, wave to the people.
Bloodied my lip in the backyard,
muddied my slacks in the backyard,
studied the way the blue meets the green in the backyard.
And when the sun kissed the horizon,
we’d spend the night writing poetry on walls with crayons.
I’m the one who got the beating.
I’m the one who ended up being
the scapegoat
for all our silly games.
* * * *
My stepmom’s sister has two sons, Tom and Eric. When I was a kid, living with my dad and stepmom in Joliet, I used to go over to there house all the time, just to hang out. I helped Eric with his paper route, Tom helped me understand the importance of relief pitching. They came to my house to swim in my pool during the summers, we played street hockey and baseball the rest of the time.
They were the closest I had to brothers at the time. I don’t even talk to them anymore. Not even when we’re sitting right next to each other.
Last year, I was homeless for six months. I lived in my best friend’s family’s guest room because all of his family wanted me to stay in DeKalb, rather than move home to Yorkville. His name is Tim–I’ve known him now for three years. Tim has three brothers: Ryan, Aaron, and Joshua. These four guys are tight. They’re bonded together and are inseparable. They have each others’ backs and are always the first to stand up for one another, even though I have seen them get into it themselves on more than one occasion.
The time I spent with them… There are mixed reviews from both parties represented. I know my presence wasn’t easy on them and, for that, I am eternally ashamed. I’ve never meant to be a burden on anyone, I’ve never wanted to be, and I hate it when I feel like I am. At the same time, I think my presence was partially a blessing. At least I hope it was. Tim and I always felt like brothers before I moved in. We hung out all the time, had deep heart to hearts, and yes, fought and argued. But we always had each other’s back, too. I think everyone knew that if they wanted to mess with Tim, they had to mess with me too. Of course, Tim also had three other brothers to back him up. So it’s fairly obvious that no one really messes with Tim.
Sadly, just like my step-cousins before them, I don’t really talk with them anymore. The saddest part of that saga, is that our lack of communication isn’t for lack of trying. We’ve just drifted apart. And as much as I wanted them to be in my life, as much as I wanted them to be brothers, we’re at different parts of the road.
Jeff is another man that I consider a best friend. We worked together a few years back at a Christian bookstore in Oswego. He and I became really close during our time there. Business was usually slow and when it was, he and I would walk around the store picking up books, chatting, and reading excerpts to each other. We learned a lot together, our faiths grew together, and we came to understand the real meaning of having a relationship with Christ in that store. When Jeff got married, he asked me to be his best man. It’s funny — as much as I was hoping he would ask me, I kind of figured he wouldn’t. Just because he has brothers and friends he’s known longer than he has me. But he asked me. Of course I said I would. And I did.
After his wedding, though, he started fulfilling his role as a husband and family man and we, too, drifted apart. Fortunately, he and I are drifting towards each other again. So many things have transpired in the year of silence and we have so much to catch up on, but, like The Darjeeling Limited, I’m looking forward to the spiritual journey it will take for us to discover ourselves and each other.
Now, I have three more brothers — my Bros: Tim, Dustin, and John. These guys mean the world to me. Tim and Dustin are both married, John is engaged. Dustin and his wife are even expecting, right now. Their daughter will be born in the next few weeks and I’m looking forward to being an uncle, even if it is only by association. We all have different goals for our lives and none of them really match up. If all goes as planned, the three of them will be living in Illinois, a few hours away from each other, and I’ll be living in Ireland, almost a full day away from my brothers.
As much as I don’t want it to happen, I imagine we’ll drift apart too. And like the three brothers in The Darjeeling Limited, we’re all going to have to make the effort to stay Brothers, “the way we used to be.”
The movies chronicles the journeys of three brothers who are travelling, by train, through India. It is the story of how the three reconcile after a year of silence that proceeds their father’s death and their spiritual and physical journeys to discover themselves and each other.
The movie means a lot to me. All of Wes Anderson’s movies resonate with me, but this one, in particular, touches a part of me that is sensitive.
I’m an only child. I have two half-sisters, but I don’t have any siblings that I share all of my blood, all of my genetics, all of my life with. Gail is my oldest sister — 19 — and my youngest sister is 15 years my minor — she’s only 8. Her name is Morgan. They too are half-sisters. Our mother has been married four times and the three of us all have different fathers.
I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother. I don’t know what it’s like to have another man in my life who I live with, compete with, grow with, mature with, fight with, argue with, and team up with. While other boys in my neighborhood were in their backyards wrestling or playing ball or building forts adorned with signs that say “No girls allowed,” I was standing alone, barefoot in the grass, with a ball and nobody to throw it to.
My father attempted to fill that gap in my life as best he could. We wrestled on the living room floor, played catch, talked about girls at school. I appreciate his effort and I love him all the more for it, but that isn’t a father’s role in a boy’s life. We both knew that.
I’ve always wanted a brother, though. Sometimes, I thought that maybe I did have a brother. I was convinced that he had been taken, removed, abducted. Perhaps by his own volition, even.
* * * *
Baseball cards on the spokes of the wheels.
Sit atop my handle bars, on parade in the
cul
de
sac.
Wave to the people, wave to the people.
Bloodied my lip in the backyard,
muddied my slacks in the backyard,
studied the way the blue meets the green in the backyard.
And when the sun kissed the horizon,
we’d spend the night writing poetry on walls with crayons.
I’m the one who got the beating.
I’m the one who ended up being
the scapegoat
for all our silly games.
* * * *
My stepmom’s sister has two sons, Tom and Eric. When I was a kid, living with my dad and stepmom in Joliet, I used to go over to there house all the time, just to hang out. I helped Eric with his paper route, Tom helped me understand the importance of relief pitching. They came to my house to swim in my pool during the summers, we played street hockey and baseball the rest of the time.
They were the closest I had to brothers at the time. I don’t even talk to them anymore. Not even when we’re sitting right next to each other.
Last year, I was homeless for six months. I lived in my best friend’s family’s guest room because all of his family wanted me to stay in DeKalb, rather than move home to Yorkville. His name is Tim–I’ve known him now for three years. Tim has three brothers: Ryan, Aaron, and Joshua. These four guys are tight. They’re bonded together and are inseparable. They have each others’ backs and are always the first to stand up for one another, even though I have seen them get into it themselves on more than one occasion.
The time I spent with them… There are mixed reviews from both parties represented. I know my presence wasn’t easy on them and, for that, I am eternally ashamed. I’ve never meant to be a burden on anyone, I’ve never wanted to be, and I hate it when I feel like I am. At the same time, I think my presence was partially a blessing. At least I hope it was. Tim and I always felt like brothers before I moved in. We hung out all the time, had deep heart to hearts, and yes, fought and argued. But we always had each other’s back, too. I think everyone knew that if they wanted to mess with Tim, they had to mess with me too. Of course, Tim also had three other brothers to back him up. So it’s fairly obvious that no one really messes with Tim.
Sadly, just like my step-cousins before them, I don’t really talk with them anymore. The saddest part of that saga, is that our lack of communication isn’t for lack of trying. We’ve just drifted apart. And as much as I wanted them to be in my life, as much as I wanted them to be brothers, we’re at different parts of the road.
Jeff is another man that I consider a best friend. We worked together a few years back at a Christian bookstore in Oswego. He and I became really close during our time there. Business was usually slow and when it was, he and I would walk around the store picking up books, chatting, and reading excerpts to each other. We learned a lot together, our faiths grew together, and we came to understand the real meaning of having a relationship with Christ in that store. When Jeff got married, he asked me to be his best man. It’s funny — as much as I was hoping he would ask me, I kind of figured he wouldn’t. Just because he has brothers and friends he’s known longer than he has me. But he asked me. Of course I said I would. And I did.
After his wedding, though, he started fulfilling his role as a husband and family man and we, too, drifted apart. Fortunately, he and I are drifting towards each other again. So many things have transpired in the year of silence and we have so much to catch up on, but, like The Darjeeling Limited, I’m looking forward to the spiritual journey it will take for us to discover ourselves and each other.
Now, I have three more brothers — my Bros: Tim, Dustin, and John. These guys mean the world to me. Tim and Dustin are both married, John is engaged. Dustin and his wife are even expecting, right now. Their daughter will be born in the next few weeks and I’m looking forward to being an uncle, even if it is only by association. We all have different goals for our lives and none of them really match up. If all goes as planned, the three of them will be living in Illinois, a few hours away from each other, and I’ll be living in Ireland, almost a full day away from my brothers.
As much as I don’t want it to happen, I imagine we’ll drift apart too. And like the three brothers in The Darjeeling Limited, we’re all going to have to make the effort to stay Brothers, “the way we used to be.”
7.02.2008
Brown & Gold Shag Carpet
Brown & Gold Shag Carpet
This is my first memory.
It is not a memory of a birthday party that none of my friends attended, or a picnic that was ruined by an army of mosquitoes, or a haircut that made me look foolish despite my insistence to have it styled that way. It is not a memory of a beach on a warm, summer day, the sensation of cool, green grass between my toes, or even the scent of the breeze. It is not a quiet, sneaking thing that hides in the recesses of my mind.
This is my memory that I cannot shake, and it is my first.
I was sitting on the floor of the living room; a brownish golden light poured into the room. The early morning sunrise made the off-white blinds and tan curtains seem like stained glass. There was a musty scent in the air that pervaded the entire apartment and made some first time visitors gag upon entrance.
A deep blue sofa, two lamps, a television sitting on top of an end table, the whirring of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the silent whoosh of the ceiling fan.
I must have been around four years old. My mother, stepfather, and I were living in a two bedroom apartment in Batavia, Illinois—the town where Mary Todd Lincoln was institutionalized after her husband, Abraham, was murdered while the two of them were watching a play.
I have always found it a little eerie that I lived less than a mile away from that institution. I find it equally eerie that the city of Batavia has converted that institution into a low-income housing complex. I suppose that in this age of consumerism, not even insanity is a monument worth commemorating.
I was watching Saturday morning cartoons, sitting there on a patch of hideous, brown and gold shag carpet. It was the kind of carpet that if one were to shuffle across it, one would not be surprised to kick up a cloud of dust, some spare change, or possibly even a Volkswagen Beetle.
And it covered almost the entire apartment. The living room, the hallway, the two bedrooms, the closets and even half of the kitchen. Only the bathroom was spared the sight of that horrible carpet.
I didn't mind so much the way it looked or even the peculiar odor that was deeply embedded in its fibers. I hated, though, the way it made my skin itch. I sat cross-legged on the floor every Saturday morning, directly in front of the television and for the duration of whatever show I was watching, I would be relentlessly scratching at my legs. My mom would always remind me, in less than amiable tones, that the couch was a mere few feet away from me.
I'd like to believe that she was looking out for me and was merely trying to protect me from contracting some sort of horrible disease that was probably wound in the fibers of the carpet. Or perhaps she was more concerned about the wellbeing of my eyes or even my legs. It would have been a shame were my retinas to have been fried due to them being glued to the screen.
As true as both of these fates could have very well been and as much as I would like to believe that Mom had carefully considered both of them and was merely looking out for me, I find it more likely that she was simply annoyed with my constant scratching and was looking for a way to get me off of the floor. I find it even more likely that she didn't want me watching television at all and would have rathered I read a book or participated in some other activity that required my utmost silence—like sitting in the corner, staring at the wall, or playing in the street.
But that's just how she was and such mind stimulating activities weren't part of my daily life at that point. I didn't have time for that.
Of course I could have sat on the more comfortable sofa, but that would have been a definite setback! As irritated as I was with the carpet and the condition of my legs, I wasn't at all interested in sitting more than two feet away from the television for fear that I might miss something important in the fast-paced storylines of my favorite cartoons.
Some sacrifices must be made.
Tom and Jerry was my favorite cartoon of all, with The Real Ghostbusters and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles coming in a close second and third, respectively. Even at a very young age, I had a good understanding of the social implications of the show, though I of course couldn't explain them with any sort of eloquence.
Essentially, the premise of this show is that the cat and the mouse fight each other just because of their social roles as cat and mouse. Tom, the cat, sees Jerry, the mouse, and something inside of him clicks: I must chase this mouse with reckless abandon because he is a mouse and I therefore do not like him. Hilarity ensues as Tom comes up with every trick in the book to capture the elusive Jerry, but always to no avail as Jerry has several tricks of his own.
In the end, Tom and Jerry always seemed to arrive at an understanding of each other and even displayed a certain amount of amity towards each other. A certain simpatico, if you will.
I wished real life were as simple as the cartoons I watched.
While I was enthralled with my show and my scratching, I hadn't realized that I had the volume extremely high until I heard my mother and her husband, Paul, stirring in their bedroom.
My mother remarried in 1988 or 1989—I can't remember which, but it hadn't taken her too long to find someone new to marry after her leaving my father. Paul was a construction worker and, like most construction workers (at least the ones I have met), he spent most of his free time at the local bar. Not coincidentally, this is where he happened to spend most of his paychecks.
I didn't understand why he had to go to this place. If he was as thirsty after a hard day's work as he said he was, we had plenty of drinks at home and I would have been more than happy to share my juiceboxes with him.
Paul stumbled into the hallway, belched, and squinted into the sunlight, holding himself up against the wall. He was utterly disheveled and wreaked of liquor. He approached me slowly as he shuffled over the carpet, his feet heavy with a hangover.
“Good morning!” I chirped, as innocently as a boy my age could.
Paul looked up at me with this look that said “Are you serious?”
He burped, then sighed, scratching at his navel with his middle finger. “Go back to bed, Andy. It's early.”
I have always hated it when people call me Andy. Even as a four year old, I thought it was such a juvenile name: Andy. Andy isn't the name of a cool kid or even a moderately cool kid. Andy ranks up there with names like Marcus or Elliott. Andy is the name of the fat kid with Coke-bottle glasses who eats paste and occasionally wets himself during class. Drew, on the other hand—that is a cool name.
I turned away from him and focused my attention back on the screen. I think I even made this weird nose with my mouth—like a pft!—as if to say, Yeah, whatever dude. “I'm watching Tom and Jerry.”
“The fuck you are,” he bellowed through another belch—he was still drunk. He stomped towards the television and punched the power button with his clumsy fist.
“Hey!” I whined. “I was watching that!”
“And now you're not. Now get your ass back in bed!”
“But...”
“Go, God dammit!”
“But...”
He took a few steps closer.
“Andy...”
My innocent, puppy eyes and whiny complexion turned to stone.
Looking back, I can only see this event as a rerun of the moment David faced down Goliath. The lumbering giant stomps his way onto the battlefield and bellows, “I ask for a fight with a man and you send me a boy!” The shepherd boy, David, plants his feet to take a firmer stance and pulls out a sling and a knapsack loaded with his artillery—five smooth stones—to challenge the sword and spear Goliath wields. Goliath chuckles—no, guffaws—at the sight and between bursts of laughter retorts, “What am I? Am I a dog that you should come at me with a stick?”
David's reply is epic: “You come at me with sword and spear and battle-ax. I come at you in the name of God.”
This, of course, enrages Goliath. He steps forward, expecting David to quake; but the boy does not. The giant takes another step forward and raises his right arm across his chest and prominently displays the backside of his hand and motions that if David keeps standing there, he will soon be tasting it; but the boy does not move. Goliath takes one last step toward David so that he is standing nearly toe-to-toe with the boy.
David, the shepherd boy, does not shake. David, the future king, does not run away. David, the man after God's own heart, does not even move. He loads his sling with a single smooth stone and glares back at the giant with a dogged determination.
Goliath furrows his brows and challenges him with his eyes: Make your move.
This is it. This is that moment.
This is that moment that the little boy with the water-wings stands at the edge of the dock and works himself up to jump into the water for the first time; and even though his daddy stands there with open arms and promises Come on! I will catch you! Jump!, he still doubts all of his surroundings, his assuring father and, most of all, himself.
I closed my eyes and loaded a single smooth stone into my sling.
One.
Two.
Three.
Jump!
“You're not my daddy,” I said. I turned my stoic face to meet his gaze and with all the bitterness my four year old body could muster, coldly followed the phrase with, “I don't have to listen to you.”
He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and yanked me up to my feet. He took an awkward, hard swing at me with the back of his hand, but missed in his drunken stupor. He tripped up a bit, but never let go. The second time he swung, he didn't swing as hard and he didn't miss. His open palm made direct contact with my left cheek and made a muffled clap!.
I didn't cry. Though tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, I did not cry.
I looked up into his heartless eyes and shrieked, “I hate you! You're not my daddy!”
He pushed me to the ground with the clenched fist that had been holding my shirt. The force of his shove made me roll once or twice until I stopped against the wall. “Now, go!” he yelled.
I don't think I was as scared as I was bewildered. I was watching a cartoon about a cat and mouse who fight each other and now, here I was cradling my swelling, bright red cheek in my hand for comfort as my Smurfs t-shirt absorbed the blood dripping from my nose. And even in the heat of the battle, that God damned carpet was still making my legs itch!
Stuff like this never happened in my cartoons: I didn't know how to react or what to do. The cat and mouse always became friends at the end of the program! I couldn't foresee any simpatico coming from this event.
And, of course, there was the thought: Where's Mom? Why won't she save me?
Paul stood over me, slouching at the waist, arms dangling at his sides. His beer gut spilled over the elastic band of his underwear and his long, deep breaths made it seem as though he had just run a marathon. Even though this battle technically belong to him (after all, he was the one still standing), he looked defeated. A hint of exasperation across his face. His stance made him look pathetic and even in my fear of him, my Goliath, I felt stupid and slightly embarrassed for ever being afraid of him in the first place.
The way he was glaring at me under the weight of his eyelids told me that if I didn't do something, he was ready to strike again. I ran to my room, slamming the door behind me, and slid my weakened body under the bed, making sure my mattress hid every inch of my skin. Through the door, I heard Paul take a few steps then collapse in a heap of drunkenness. I felt vibrations under me as the floorboards absorbed his deep snores while he lay there, with his face down in that brown and gold shag carpet.
I never again told Paul that he wasn't my daddy to his face. Then again, I never called him daddy either.
And this is my first memory.
Copyright 2008, thisbelongstodrewmoody
This is my first memory.
It is not a memory of a birthday party that none of my friends attended, or a picnic that was ruined by an army of mosquitoes, or a haircut that made me look foolish despite my insistence to have it styled that way. It is not a memory of a beach on a warm, summer day, the sensation of cool, green grass between my toes, or even the scent of the breeze. It is not a quiet, sneaking thing that hides in the recesses of my mind.
This is my memory that I cannot shake, and it is my first.
I was sitting on the floor of the living room; a brownish golden light poured into the room. The early morning sunrise made the off-white blinds and tan curtains seem like stained glass. There was a musty scent in the air that pervaded the entire apartment and made some first time visitors gag upon entrance.
A deep blue sofa, two lamps, a television sitting on top of an end table, the whirring of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the silent whoosh of the ceiling fan.
I must have been around four years old. My mother, stepfather, and I were living in a two bedroom apartment in Batavia, Illinois—the town where Mary Todd Lincoln was institutionalized after her husband, Abraham, was murdered while the two of them were watching a play.
I have always found it a little eerie that I lived less than a mile away from that institution. I find it equally eerie that the city of Batavia has converted that institution into a low-income housing complex. I suppose that in this age of consumerism, not even insanity is a monument worth commemorating.
I was watching Saturday morning cartoons, sitting there on a patch of hideous, brown and gold shag carpet. It was the kind of carpet that if one were to shuffle across it, one would not be surprised to kick up a cloud of dust, some spare change, or possibly even a Volkswagen Beetle.
And it covered almost the entire apartment. The living room, the hallway, the two bedrooms, the closets and even half of the kitchen. Only the bathroom was spared the sight of that horrible carpet.
I didn't mind so much the way it looked or even the peculiar odor that was deeply embedded in its fibers. I hated, though, the way it made my skin itch. I sat cross-legged on the floor every Saturday morning, directly in front of the television and for the duration of whatever show I was watching, I would be relentlessly scratching at my legs. My mom would always remind me, in less than amiable tones, that the couch was a mere few feet away from me.
I'd like to believe that she was looking out for me and was merely trying to protect me from contracting some sort of horrible disease that was probably wound in the fibers of the carpet. Or perhaps she was more concerned about the wellbeing of my eyes or even my legs. It would have been a shame were my retinas to have been fried due to them being glued to the screen.
As true as both of these fates could have very well been and as much as I would like to believe that Mom had carefully considered both of them and was merely looking out for me, I find it more likely that she was simply annoyed with my constant scratching and was looking for a way to get me off of the floor. I find it even more likely that she didn't want me watching television at all and would have rathered I read a book or participated in some other activity that required my utmost silence—like sitting in the corner, staring at the wall, or playing in the street.
But that's just how she was and such mind stimulating activities weren't part of my daily life at that point. I didn't have time for that.
Of course I could have sat on the more comfortable sofa, but that would have been a definite setback! As irritated as I was with the carpet and the condition of my legs, I wasn't at all interested in sitting more than two feet away from the television for fear that I might miss something important in the fast-paced storylines of my favorite cartoons.
Some sacrifices must be made.
Tom and Jerry was my favorite cartoon of all, with The Real Ghostbusters and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles coming in a close second and third, respectively. Even at a very young age, I had a good understanding of the social implications of the show, though I of course couldn't explain them with any sort of eloquence.
Essentially, the premise of this show is that the cat and the mouse fight each other just because of their social roles as cat and mouse. Tom, the cat, sees Jerry, the mouse, and something inside of him clicks: I must chase this mouse with reckless abandon because he is a mouse and I therefore do not like him. Hilarity ensues as Tom comes up with every trick in the book to capture the elusive Jerry, but always to no avail as Jerry has several tricks of his own.
In the end, Tom and Jerry always seemed to arrive at an understanding of each other and even displayed a certain amount of amity towards each other. A certain simpatico, if you will.
I wished real life were as simple as the cartoons I watched.
While I was enthralled with my show and my scratching, I hadn't realized that I had the volume extremely high until I heard my mother and her husband, Paul, stirring in their bedroom.
My mother remarried in 1988 or 1989—I can't remember which, but it hadn't taken her too long to find someone new to marry after her leaving my father. Paul was a construction worker and, like most construction workers (at least the ones I have met), he spent most of his free time at the local bar. Not coincidentally, this is where he happened to spend most of his paychecks.
I didn't understand why he had to go to this place. If he was as thirsty after a hard day's work as he said he was, we had plenty of drinks at home and I would have been more than happy to share my juiceboxes with him.
Paul stumbled into the hallway, belched, and squinted into the sunlight, holding himself up against the wall. He was utterly disheveled and wreaked of liquor. He approached me slowly as he shuffled over the carpet, his feet heavy with a hangover.
“Good morning!” I chirped, as innocently as a boy my age could.
Paul looked up at me with this look that said “Are you serious?”
He burped, then sighed, scratching at his navel with his middle finger. “Go back to bed, Andy. It's early.”
I have always hated it when people call me Andy. Even as a four year old, I thought it was such a juvenile name: Andy. Andy isn't the name of a cool kid or even a moderately cool kid. Andy ranks up there with names like Marcus or Elliott. Andy is the name of the fat kid with Coke-bottle glasses who eats paste and occasionally wets himself during class. Drew, on the other hand—that is a cool name.
I turned away from him and focused my attention back on the screen. I think I even made this weird nose with my mouth—like a pft!—as if to say, Yeah, whatever dude. “I'm watching Tom and Jerry.”
“The fuck you are,” he bellowed through another belch—he was still drunk. He stomped towards the television and punched the power button with his clumsy fist.
“Hey!” I whined. “I was watching that!”
“And now you're not. Now get your ass back in bed!”
“But...”
“Go, God dammit!”
“But...”
He took a few steps closer.
“Andy...”
My innocent, puppy eyes and whiny complexion turned to stone.
Looking back, I can only see this event as a rerun of the moment David faced down Goliath. The lumbering giant stomps his way onto the battlefield and bellows, “I ask for a fight with a man and you send me a boy!” The shepherd boy, David, plants his feet to take a firmer stance and pulls out a sling and a knapsack loaded with his artillery—five smooth stones—to challenge the sword and spear Goliath wields. Goliath chuckles—no, guffaws—at the sight and between bursts of laughter retorts, “What am I? Am I a dog that you should come at me with a stick?”
David's reply is epic: “You come at me with sword and spear and battle-ax. I come at you in the name of God.”
This, of course, enrages Goliath. He steps forward, expecting David to quake; but the boy does not. The giant takes another step forward and raises his right arm across his chest and prominently displays the backside of his hand and motions that if David keeps standing there, he will soon be tasting it; but the boy does not move. Goliath takes one last step toward David so that he is standing nearly toe-to-toe with the boy.
David, the shepherd boy, does not shake. David, the future king, does not run away. David, the man after God's own heart, does not even move. He loads his sling with a single smooth stone and glares back at the giant with a dogged determination.
Goliath furrows his brows and challenges him with his eyes: Make your move.
This is it. This is that moment.
This is that moment that the little boy with the water-wings stands at the edge of the dock and works himself up to jump into the water for the first time; and even though his daddy stands there with open arms and promises Come on! I will catch you! Jump!, he still doubts all of his surroundings, his assuring father and, most of all, himself.
I closed my eyes and loaded a single smooth stone into my sling.
One.
Two.
Three.
Jump!
“You're not my daddy,” I said. I turned my stoic face to meet his gaze and with all the bitterness my four year old body could muster, coldly followed the phrase with, “I don't have to listen to you.”
He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and yanked me up to my feet. He took an awkward, hard swing at me with the back of his hand, but missed in his drunken stupor. He tripped up a bit, but never let go. The second time he swung, he didn't swing as hard and he didn't miss. His open palm made direct contact with my left cheek and made a muffled clap!.
I didn't cry. Though tears welled up in the corners of my eyes, I did not cry.
I looked up into his heartless eyes and shrieked, “I hate you! You're not my daddy!”
He pushed me to the ground with the clenched fist that had been holding my shirt. The force of his shove made me roll once or twice until I stopped against the wall. “Now, go!” he yelled.
I don't think I was as scared as I was bewildered. I was watching a cartoon about a cat and mouse who fight each other and now, here I was cradling my swelling, bright red cheek in my hand for comfort as my Smurfs t-shirt absorbed the blood dripping from my nose. And even in the heat of the battle, that God damned carpet was still making my legs itch!
Stuff like this never happened in my cartoons: I didn't know how to react or what to do. The cat and mouse always became friends at the end of the program! I couldn't foresee any simpatico coming from this event.
And, of course, there was the thought: Where's Mom? Why won't she save me?
Paul stood over me, slouching at the waist, arms dangling at his sides. His beer gut spilled over the elastic band of his underwear and his long, deep breaths made it seem as though he had just run a marathon. Even though this battle technically belong to him (after all, he was the one still standing), he looked defeated. A hint of exasperation across his face. His stance made him look pathetic and even in my fear of him, my Goliath, I felt stupid and slightly embarrassed for ever being afraid of him in the first place.
The way he was glaring at me under the weight of his eyelids told me that if I didn't do something, he was ready to strike again. I ran to my room, slamming the door behind me, and slid my weakened body under the bed, making sure my mattress hid every inch of my skin. Through the door, I heard Paul take a few steps then collapse in a heap of drunkenness. I felt vibrations under me as the floorboards absorbed his deep snores while he lay there, with his face down in that brown and gold shag carpet.
I never again told Paul that he wasn't my daddy to his face. Then again, I never called him daddy either.
And this is my first memory.
Copyright 2008, thisbelongstodrewmoody
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