[ bih-leev ]: This song is about a man struggling with an alcohol problem and is trying to break free of his addiction.
The House That God Has Forgotten Part 65: Part 1: A misguided youth.
It took me a while to write this post. A lot of rough drafts. Me not being pleased with how it looked or sounded. A way to feel a transition to go into a bunch of random thoughts and make them flow. A way to tell a story. A way to make it all work and make it make sense.
We see a lot of crime at The House That God Has Forgotten, and even as I look at the people walking up and down the halls… I can see my life through them. Most likely because I have lived through them, or they have effected me.
They have affected me. Not by how you meet that one guy that makes you make a difference in their lives, but more because I have lived in their lives. They have been a part of me. They have been my life.
A few of you will read this, and most of you will hop over it as you do most of my posts. I will have about 40 friends who will look at this post, but if this is one post that everyone should read or have people read… it is this series of posts. Not because of the ego of having people know about my life, but more because it will give you perspective.
What it is like to be on the other side.
When I worked in intake I saw all sorts of people. Many of them had drug problems, and many others too drugs, but did not see it is a problem. Smoking marijuana is no big deal right? I mean it is legal in some places?
I remember the smell as far as I could go back. It was to me like a child playing outside and smelling the rain bounce off the asphalt. It was a cloud that hung over the wall to wall carpeting of the living room floor. The sofa that sat there, and the curtains that sat by the closed window.
The sound of water in the bong was like a jacuzzi that bubbled in the night. The white rolling papers sat neatly on the table, and the plastic bag filled with it was on the table next to it.
I ran around in diapers and knew the smell. Just how I learned to roll a joint before I learned to ride a bicycle. My father told me once that when he came to pick me up from my mother’s (they divorced when I was a baby. My mother gave me over to my father. custody and all) I still went to visit her. My father believed no child should be without their mother) that I had dried up shit in my diaper. She was too busy.
“When I had you, all I wanted to do was have fun and party,” She told me once when I was older.
And the party was something she was in the middle of. I can remember sitting next to her on the sofa as a 3-year-old (because I wanted attention from her) and her forgetting I was in the room. Not because she would see I was so quiet or playing with a toy, but because she would hand the joint over to me.
I would just pass it on to the next person. At an early age, I knew what to do.
My mother has a picture of me in a marijuana greenhouse with an easter dress and my basket. I would not be surprised if they hid eggs in there, to be honest. I would show you if I had it.
My father was different, but not much better at that age. He was the one I wanted to be around most, however. I would wrap my tiny arms around his legs and never let go. I did not want to be separated from him.
But I still remember the ashtray on the wooden table in the living room. The noise when he would inhale, the same thing but different.
I remember once going to Dunkin Doughnuts to see a man. He took me to the back to watch the doughnuts getting made. I would see them slide down into the bubbling hot oil and find it fascinating. I had never seen the man before, but I remember him. I remember the doughnuts and I knew that it was not just a friendly visit.
The trips to the aeroplane with my father. My green cloth Snoopy suitcase that I adored. Once I found a glass of marijuana in it. When we came home I wanted to show it to a friend. It was gone.
“Did I dream of this?” I would doubt myself.
Somethings I think a child does not just get an idea like that.
At an early age, I would play outside with the leaves that had fallen from the trees and would fill them, roll them and pretend to smoke them.
My aunt caught me and when I called them “joints” she came up with another name so my grandparents would not flip out.
That was my life full of being ashamed and keeping secrets.
As you read this, you are probably thinking “Why didn’t your grandparents do something about it?”
They knew. But if they would have said something, I would have never gotten to see them again. They did not know what to do. They did not want to lose me. I did not want to be lost.
Even as unique as they were, they were the most normal in my life I had… and they will always have a place in my heart. They gave me normalcy in a world full of secrets.
There were no filters growing up at an early age in my life.
I would see my step-father beat my mother in a drunken rage. I would hear from her as a five-year-old how he wanted sex all the time, not know what that meant. I would watch my father date a parade of women.
One as a snuck out in the hallway on Christmas eve said: “Why do you have to give all of these presents to that brat?”
The next day they were from “Santa Claus” I knew then it was a lie.
I became forgotten, like the time my father almost had sex with a woman but forgot I was in the room. When he saw me, he yelled: “Get out!”
I did not know what that meant, so I ran out to the front porch scared. It felt like forever. We went out for ice cream after. He never talked to me about it. I never understood what was going on, but it became something that I carried on with me my whole life.
Mtv was my saviour. I became immersed in a world of music videos. I would sit there and tape-record all of the songs I liked by holding the recorder up to the speaker of the television.
The only time I went without it was the two weeks that I went to my grandparent’s cabin and we went fishing. The best part of the summer. I was normal. I got to be a kid.
I remember the first time I saw cocaine. The mirror from the bathroom placed on the table. The neatly cut straws and the white powder getting divided by the razorblade into straight little lines.
The straws going up inside their noses and snorting away. My friend and I hid so they would not see them.
Our world was not filled with just secrets from the outside, but from them as well.
We held on to the idea of being something like they find on the videos we used to watch with awe.
I used to dream I was adopted. This thought would not escape me as I got older, it just made me want to believe more.
It was the one thing that kept me going, and it never did stop. It just kept growing as time marched on.