Planning my Ritualistic Morning…

I just drove over after supper to pick up my diet Cokes for the morning.  Mom heard me pull up in the driveway and was waiting at the backdoor for me with questions – lots of questions.

“How much do you make a month?” she asked obtrusively.

“About $650 dollars,” I replied.

She sighed with relief. “Well, at least you’re not over the limit.”

“What’s got you so obsessive about this Social Security?” I asked.

“Your father says you are going to lose it and you can’t work a full time job that will support you.  I just worry about you.  You haven’t worked in eight years.  That is a very long time.  I could never go back to work.”

I then sighed. “Mom, I am 38 years old. I will be fine.  I can work full time given some job experience and acclimation to working again.”

“Why do you want to work so badly?” she then asked.

“For my self esteem mainly,” I replied. “I want to be a self supporting man.  It’s a guy thing. Guy’s want to be independent and to be able to support themselves and their loved ones.”

“I just wish you would quit and stay on disability,” mom said. “You know your father will support you if you need anything.”

“That’s the problem,” I said frowning. “It is demeaning to me to be dependent on you all for everything.  I didn’t have a life.  I had nothing to do, but sit at home and feel sorry for myself – obsessing over my perceived mental illnesses.”

“You know I love you and only want what is best for you,” mom told me.

“I know,” I replied. “That’s the big difference between you and dad.  Dad just wants you and I to be quiet and complacent so he can go about his life unimpeded.  He’s not looking out for my best interests.  You genuinely are.”

I grabbed my cokes and told mom goodnight.  She stood at the door and watched as I drove off.  I love my  mother so much and hate dad has gotten her into worrying so much about me.   There seems to be this concerted effort within the family to get me to go back to the old ways.  I don’t want to go back to dying emotionally and mentally.  I want to live.  I want purpose to my life.  I just want to be me for a change after being someone else for years – someone’s sick and mentally ill son who needed to be taken care of.  Family roles are so hard to break I am learning from the opposition I have experienced. 

The Filling is Good…

Kim told me tonight she loves my house.

“It’s so small and cozy,” she told me. “Perfect for just you.”

Kim’s house is about twice the square feet as mine.  Her mother owns it and let’s her live in it rent free.  I was lamenting to Kim tonight after supper about my house being really nice looking on the inside, but the outside looks crappy.

“You could paint it,” she said.

“I would really like to put vinyl siding on it, but the cost is prohibitive,” I replied.

“Well, the shrubbery looks much better since you trimmed it,” she told me trying to make me feel better.

“Dad was going to have vinyl siding put on it, but it seems I have fallen out of favor,” I told her. “I would rather pay for it myself anyway.  I better start saving.  I’ve got to come up with a couple thousand dollars.”

Kim hugged me and told me to keep my eye on the prize.

“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe your yardcare business will take off and you will be rolling in money soon.”

I smiled.  It was a nice thought.  I would love nothing more than for that to happen.  I will keep plugging away at my daily efforts at that business hoping to be completely self supporting in a year.  Finally, I can put Social Security disability to rest.

Choices and Ramifications…

I had been homeless for about six months when I called my mother from my deceased grandmother’s house.  I had a key from when I lived with her.  Mom, her usually fretting self, immediately went into action.  She turned on the heat and made me a bed. “You’re not going to be homeless,” she told me. My father wasn’t too pleased, but what could he do?  Cast his son aside despite all his faults and drunkenness?

I had planned on going to Nashville to live.  From reading “The Homeless Guy” I knew I could get a place to sleep, three meals a day, and social worker help.  I would also have my full disability allotment to drink with.  I wouldn’t have any expenses other than cigarettes and beer.   It was sad, though, that my life had come to this.  To spend the rest of my days sleeping and eating in homeless shelters while getting drunk during the day.  I had two choices; to be put under my father’s harsh regime and live a semi normal life, or move to Nashville and probably die of cirrhosis in a few years.

I chose the former.  I realize dad can be harsh.  It is only because he cares.  I was unable to care for myself and he took over.  Many fathers would say to hell with that; he’s a grown man.  Let him fend for himself.   I was like a small child who needed care and guidance.  I always was and still am to a certain point.

When I write about dad and our interactions, you are only seeing my point of view.  You are not reading his.  I realize I can put him in a not so flattering light and I apologize for this.  He’s a good man; a responsible man. He has had to deal with two very mentally ill family members and do what he sees is best.  Despite our semi-frequent squabbles with dad, mom and I have good lives.  I have Maggie which brings me no end of joy.  I have an EXTREMELY nice computer setup and the Internet is my life. I lack for nothing except money.  I have some of the first friends in years in George and Mrs. Florene. 

I do believe trust will come with time.  It might take years, but those are years I would never have if I had chosen life in Nashville and drank myself to death.  Here, I have a fighting chance with sobriety.  I have a good life here.  Yes, it is easy to lament what you don’t have, but that is human nature.  With dad’s help maybe one day I can be independent.      

On the outside looking in…

It's an overcast and cool Friday afternoon. The shopping center is bustling with activity as people get in their last minute shopping before the stores close at seven. The sidewalks are choked with yuppie looking women surrounded by throngs of little rugrats. Rosa sits next to me and waxes poetically about her own daughter. We spend all our waking hours together these days. I keep wondering when she will grow tired of me.

"My daughter wrote me another letter," Rosa says. "She talked about being in prison and how it straightened out her life."

"I can only imagine," I reply.

"I've been in jail plenty of times for prostitution so I can't say much about it."

"Jail sucks," I reply. "I spent a night in jail for drinking and driving and learned my lesson as well."

"A pretty boy like you would get ass raped in prison," Rosa says. "You would be everybody's girlfriend."

I shudder to even think of what Rosa just said.

"When do you go see your daughter?" I then ask.

"The first week in May," Rosa replies. "She is driving here with my granddaughter to see me. I am so nervous."

"My social anxiety would be giving me fits," I retort.

"Don't put that in your mouth," A young mother says to her young son as they pass me and Rosa on our bench.

"I'm glad I and Rachel didn't have any kids," I tell Rosa. "That would have been one helluva mess."

"You would make an awesome father, though," Rosa replies. "I bet being a father would change your life for the better."

"Or drive me even crazier that I already am," I respond as I chuckle and smile. "Can you imagine me with teenagers?"

Rosa laughs and agrees. It certainly would make for an interesting family. But I would never want to pass on this affliction called schizophrenia to my offspring. My mother, her mother, and her mother's mother did. It made for some terrible and chaotic childhoods and lives. This line stops with me. I leave Rosa to walk on home feeling forlorn about the whole topic of parenthood. Somethings were just not meant to be.