“You're a fucking loser and you
always will be.”
“...'kay.”
I agreed with the sentiment because my
father was right. Up to this point in these 25 years of life, I can
safely say that my win/loss record at life was running into the negative,
so his assessment of me not winning and possibly continuing not to
win from here on out was not based on fallacious thinking. I also
said that because I was better than him and I knew when to keep my
mouth shut.
“If you're so broken and depressed,
why don't you just go ahead and kill yourself.”
“That's the second time you told me
that.” And it was. The first time it hurt like Hell. Because I
have problems, and living in fear your entire life of how people will
judge you for having problems is the worst thing to think. So when
you finally go to the funny farm and decide to let your family know
that you need help, it ends up confirming all your fears when two
months later your father uses that information you struggled so long
to finally trust him with to hurt you tremendously. This was the
second time though, so it didn't really hurt.
“This time I fucking mean it, you
piece of shit.” Alright, so it still hurt a little.
“I'm getting your car fixed next
week. When it's done, get the fuck out of my house.”
“Alright.” And this next week
quickly changed to “Nevermind, get the fuck out now.”
“Okay.” And I decided to just get
dressed proper and leave.
“Where the fuck are you going to
go?” he asked. “What the fuck are you going to do?”
“...why the Hell are you worried and
asking me about that shit if you're kicking me out in the first
place?”
“You know what, fuck you. Get the
fuck out you loser. And leave my fucking credit card, too.”
“I don't have it anymore, it
expired.”
“Then leave your fucking phone, it's
mine.”
“Okay.” That was initially
relieving because then the man couldn't find me.And then I walked
out. I was wearing denim jeans, a plaid white dress shirt, a white
undershirt, and old brown dress shoes that were dirtied. I had my
crooked sunglasses on that I've had since the beginning of High
School where I thought rounded frames made me look like a badass and
not a drug addict. In my pockets were my wallet, my glasses case,
and a pair of headphones attached to nothing. I had a keyring on my
belt. I had a USB with all of my writings on hand. And that was it.
It was 4:48pm on a Thursday. And this all got started when I left
my room to decide to weigh myself. Now I have an irrational fear of
scales, thanks dad.
And 160. 15 pounds gone in five days,
if you're wondering how unhealthy all of this shit's been.
Despite what transpired, I was oddly
at peace as I walked through town. People dread that the worst would
come out of a degenerating situation, and when it does and there's
almost what could be considered a sigh of relief.
“...well I intended on moving out
soon. I guess it's just happening sooner than expected.” That was
a cause for celebration. “...with none of my possessions.” That
wasn't. The worst really was the worst at that time. You could
liken it to your house burning down and losing everything you ever
owned. It took a while to set in on me, but it scared me. But with
a new mission statement on hand, I walked to my brother's place. He
wasn't home. I waited for a few hours. He pulled up and was getting
ready to leave again when he saw me sitting on a stairwell in his
apartment complex. He looked confused, and then the look on his face
settled and he knew exactly what happened. Towards his better
judgment he chose to uninvolve himself with the whole fiasco. I
wanted to leave the place with as little of a fuss as possible. My
brother would leave the place in flames, twisting his imaginary
mustache in a Machiavellian way laughing like a nutcase. I could've
easily said a lot of things to my father. If I wanted bridges
burned, if I wanted vengeance for however I felt like he wronged me,
I could've done it myself. But I chose not to. Maybe I agreed with
him on most of it. Maybe I think I'm above devolving into fits of
rage. Maybe I was too fucking tired of that shit to do it myself.
Or maybe because I become a bigger monster than he is and I'm smarter
and better than he is, so I would be able to hurt him far more than
he hurt me. But I just wanted to get out, to distance myself from
that and collect myself.
“...alright I need to go back in
there and get some of my shit back.” The concept of breaking into
your own (former) place of residence to steal things that belong to
you was odd enough as it is. There was a window. Not an actual
window, a metaphorical one of opportunity. I have fucking keys to
the house, I'm not crawling through a goddamn window. My father
leaves for work to drive school buses at around 6:30am give or take.
He gets off at 9am and is back home a few minutes later. My brother
loaned me his car, and now it was a raiding party at 7am. If you
want to know what it's like to know the amount of anxiety and fear
infesting me when I got there, imagine that you're drowning in a
river. No, I'm not going anywhere with that, that's really it. I
guess there could a deer pissing nearby or something, but that's all
I got for this metaphor, I didn't really think it through.
My stepmom was there. She was okay
with letting me in. She told me my dad already felt like shit about
it and not to worry. Not my problem, I gots shit to get before I
leave. Lashing out just because “anger” isn't a good excuse,
even if everything's hunky dory when it's done. People in prison for
assault or murder “just lost control and did some things they
regretted later”. Being the materialistic person I was, you could
say my priorities were... let's not beat around the bush, fucking
stupid and pathetic. I got enough clothes to wear, to survive. I
ripped the harddrive out of my computer, for it was me. It was my
life on this hunk of metal and tape. But I could get a lot more
shit. What is truly important to me? What is truly valuable to my
well-being, in this time of serious change where I can only take the
necessities.
“Well shit, I'm not leaving the
Nendoroids here.” And I took my goddamn Nendoroids. And my
figurines. And my manga. And a lot of my games. Don't fucking
judge me, I thought I'd never see this shit again. I can buy my own
clothes, SENTIMENTAL KNICKKNACKS ARE GONE FOREVER. I took my fucking
guitar, too. I can't play the damn thing, but I want to learn. When
I got back to my brother's place, I swear he was going to kick my
ass.
“...the fuck is wrong with your
priorities? Why do you need this shit?”
“Because I had room.” I answered.
“Why would you take your QOTSA vinyl
record?”
“IT WAS A GIFT.”
“You're fucking pathetic.”
“Yep.” But I fucking had it, so
he can fuck off.
“Go back there and get your cell
phone.”
“He said it was his. I don't want
to give him something to hold over me.”
“Fucking steal it, what's he going
to do, you're going to be in Oregon.” And I was going to be in
Oregon, that's where I was moving to. I had a lease signed ahead of
time before all this happened. I arrived at my brother's place
Thursday evening. We bought tickets to leave Saturday night. I
retrieved what I could Friday morning and evening. I had 130 dollars
to my name.
While we waited at the train station,
there was apprehension. This was the end of this particular failure,
this endeavor with these people that I struggled to make do with. As
I boarded the train, I felt like a walking cliché; dressed poorly, a
week and a half's worth of facial hair smeared onto my face, no
haircut. The only things I carried onto the main deck was my
backpack that I've had since Middle School, and a guitar slinged over
my shoulder. Someone asked me why it didn't have a case. I told
them I didn't need one. They asked me where I got it. I told them
that there was a guy who used to live in the apartment complex I
lived in, he came across as a bit of a drug addict; he was an older
man who was a recluse due to being hurt in a marriage, who stayed in
his house and practiced. He latched onto the younger generation and
watched anime and played videogames. He eventually got evicted, and
while I saw him moving out, he took this guitar and gave it to me
alongside some gear. He said he couldn't take it with him. I told
him I couldn't play. He said to learn. Then the passenger asked me
if I have learned, and I told them not yet. But it comes with me
until I do.
I arrived up in Albany the following
afternoon. My friend picked me up and we bantered. Then something
was said that let me know what was going to happen here.
“Hey, what if this doesn't work
out?” I asked him. “What if I just end up fucking this all up
again and this all goes to Hell? What then?” And he had seven
words to say to me, and only seven.
“You won't. Everything will
probably be okay.” And that was it. Those were common words,
words I hear every day. Just never structured like that. And that
was really all I needed to hear.
When we got back to his place, you
would suspect that the man's apartment had been robbed. He hadn't
finished cleaning up, which is to be expected since I was there two
and a half weeks early. I got settled in regardless. When he went
to work a day or so later, I just sat on the couch. I thought about
what transpired. Regardless of what happened, I didn't begrudge or
hate my father. I simply pitied him. His father, Frank, was an
asshole. My father hated him. When he died, they got a phonecall at
the house and my mom told him when he came home.
“Hey, your father had another heart
attack.”
“Did this one kill him?”
“...yeah.”
“Good.” And that was the end of
the discussion. My father tried his hardest to avoid turning into
that person his entire life. He worked hard, and always had good
intentions. He just failed a lot, and his anger would seize control
of him, torture him, frustrate him. It took me a while to realize
that he wasn't much better than my mother as an alcoholic, having a
disease take hold of him and make him do terrible regrettable things.
A man who approaching 60, completely dissatisfied with his life and
how it turned out, driving away his kids with his misguided good
intentions and violent tendencies. And as a failure of a son, the
only bone I can throw to this man is to understand him, and still
attach myself to him so he doesn't die like his father did. That's
the least I can do.
That's what went through my head while
I sat there alone. And then for the first time in a while, I cried.
I cried and I was laughing hysterically at the same time. The
neighbors probably thought I lost my mind as I just sobbed and
laughed and made a mess of myself. And I was able to say something
and mean it for the second time. The first time was when I left my
mother. The second time to no surprise was when I left my father.
And they're words people hear every day too, that they vastly
undermine the value of. The only thing I had to say to all this was
what left my mouth.
“I'm finally fucking free.”
