From Hopeless To Fatherhood

I’ve always felt like I was a loner. Not a loner in the sense of I preferred to be alone, or that I only hung out with myself. No, more like in a room full of people, I was the only one like me. It’s really odd too because I never thought I was different in a bad way. It was more like a “All these girls want to be with me, and all these guys want to be like me” kinda way. This only changed when I had a child and wasn’t equipped to take care of him properly. Actually, it didn’t change until I REALIZED that I couldn’t take care of him properly, which are two totally different things. So when it did change, it went from what I mentioned before, to a “Nobody who has kids is as bad off as me” kinda way. With that on the forefront of my brain during the day, it was an easy decision to make when the option arouse of “Should I get fucked up before returning home?”

I was already a complete piece of shit anyway, and at least if I was high or drunk  I would be more active at home. I had an opposite effect with most drugs, heroin got me amped, coke slowed me down. The drink could go either way. So I stayed wrecked all the time. I never enjoyed anything in retrospect. I remember thinking my neighbors liked me, they probably just acted like that to keep me on their good side.

I just had a shifty way about me. People in general had it out for me, and in turn…I had to be on the defense. So I went from thinking I was the hottest shit on the block, to feeling like, well….that I was just another piece of shit on the block. Nothing I tried was working. I mean it would for a little while, then ultimately it faded into destruction. Picture that old cartoon with the road runner and the coyote. I was the coyote, and life was the road runner. I could never get ahead and I would try anything even if I just got blown up trying it last Saturday morning.

Today, I recognize that I need other people. Not in the sense of I need to get things from them, no. I need to interact with them and see where I am needed in their lives. The only problem with that is, is that sometimes I beat myself up a bit when I can’t do what I want for them. I would love to buy my father a boat, but I struggle keeping my car gassed up sometimes. I would love to put my mom on a cruise to somewhere, but I also need to get a bit more independent. My grandmother needs to get out of her house, she’s there all alone and far too old to be, but there is nothing I can do about it. And every once in awhile, I forget what my primary purpose is, and I beat myself up for not spending enough hours sitting down one on one with someone talking about spiritual principles. My son also needs me though, I am in charge of showing him how a man should live. I can’t do that if I’m beating myself up. I can’t be a good trustee to my son if I’m worrying about anything actually, I just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and in turn show him where to put his feet if he wants to live right.

I forget how my G-d judges me. I forget I’m not in the results business. G-d judges me on my effort and not my ability. My  job is to do my best and show up. When I do that, you aren’t on the other team. We are not different. No matter if your G-d has 8 arms, is blue, has you eat his flesh and drink his blood, or will turn you into a cow after you die, we’re all the same. And no matter what, when I am moving my feet in the direction of G-d, I am never alone.

I have about 3 vague memories from father’s days past. One of which goes like this. I was living in a town house with my son, step son and wife. After waking up, or being woken up rather, I believe I snorted some  kind of powdered opiate (as I hadn’t found the needle yet, because that was for junkies) and we went to the New Town diner in Owings Mills/ Reisterstown. It was packed. Families were lined out the door, sitting on the vinyl covered benches, little kids parked on their mommy’s and daddy’s laps, local children’s artwork from the kids menus posted on the wall of the waiting area….and me. I reluctantly gave my name to the thick accented hostess and went out for a smoke. It was raining, and I posted up right by the front door, under the awning exhaling smoke with no regard for the families that were forced to walk through it. The noise of the restaurant escaped the heavy front doors every couple of minutes obligating me to turn and look to see if our name was called.

When it finally was, we were escorted to our seat and I asked everyone what they were getting, but really didn’t care. The waitress came over, also from another country, and asked us what we wanted to drink. When I told her a Yuengling, my wife got embarrassed and laughed it off, but I was serious. It was definitely before 11am. She brought the beer in one of those mugs that was made to look like it held a good bit, but I knew better. I directed my family’s attention to the fact that if I wanted to, I could pick that mug up, chug it in one gulp, and put the defeated glass mug on the table in about 5 seconds. I knew this would get a reaction from my son of “No way Daddy.” Which it did, and I quickly responded with a smile and produced an empty mug as promised. The waitress returned to take our food order, and I ordered another one, and another one, and another one. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember what we did, if it was fun, where we went, if I called my dad…nothing.

This morning I woke up, my son was sleeping. When he opened his eyes, I stuck my tongue out at him, and he smiled and in his typical early morning raspy voice said simply “Happy Father’s Day.” I thanked him, kissed his soft lips tainted with his morning breath which didn’t bother me at all, and went outside for my morning routine.

I spent the day trying to do what was best for my son. I helped him see his mommy. I picked her up, and the three of us went to the harbor, to Port Discovery, to the comic book store, to the park, to her mother’s house, to a meeting and then watched the sunset. I remember every single detail of every part of the day. I remember how good it felt. I remembered to call my father. It is very gratifying to be of service. I don’t just get relief from helping those who are afflicted with the spiritual malady I have, I welcome any opportunity to be of service. And if that means forfeiting a day that is typically devoted to dad so that I can help my son and his mother, than that is what I am to do. It’s not an option for me to pick and choose where to be helpful. I don’t have that luxury, I need to be grinding out as many chances I have to practice principles or I will find myself in the gutter again.

I spent so many days thinking of myself, doing what made me feel right, that I would be a damn fool to think that I could forgo an opportunity like the one I had today. The trick is, I never once let my son, nor my ex wife know what I was doing. I just let them enjoy the day, while G-d let me enjoy mine.

In writing this blog I realized something. For every memory I’m making with my son today, I probably have 50 bad ones I’ve made in years prior. There was a point in my life where this realization would be depressing. However, it was not. It was actually motivating. To me, going back to the way I lived before isn’t an option. Some people would say that it’s bad to think that way. Some would say that it’s dangerous. I respectfully disagree. Don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying “I got this.” I’m simply saying  provided that I continue to do what I’m doing and hopefully more, G-d does. G-d’s got this. So the reason for my motivating discovery is this: There is going to be a point when the numbers of good memories I’m currently making are going to surpass the number of bad memories I’ve made provided that I rely on Him. HA! How do you like that?

I spent countless hours in doctor’s offices before getting sober. I did this for a number of reasons. One, and the obviously most important, was to re-up on meds. I could not function without them. I was on the kind of medication that if I ran out, suffering in bed wasn’t an option. The option was to manipulate my very kind, loving female doctor into writing me another script. If that didn’t work, the option was to cop some from the many people I had met who got the same or a similar script to sell me some. It’s weird like that, when I’m doing dirt…I meet dirty doing people. When I’m living by spiritual principles, (or at least trying my best to) there are 2 kinds of people I meet. People with whom I have the experience to help, and those who have the experience to help me. Both of which are vital to my self preservation. The third option, was to go in the hood and cop the much cheaper alternative. You may be puzzled as to why this wasn’t the first option. It’s because I viewed me taking Oxy Contins as acceptable because I have a legitimate back problem, and whether I was taking the amount I was supposed to, or the method that they were designed, or even if I was obtaining them in a legal fashion was irrelevant. I had a tendency of lying and telling so many half truths that I believed my own lies. Today, I take no medication at all.

I used my son as an alibi to get more pills. I would fabricate tears, I could do this because my back hurt so bad  and my heart as well. I was the shell of a man, completely broken down. I hated you and myself. So I would cry to my doctor “Yeah but you don’t understand. You have kids, could you imagine if your son fell down and was screaming crying and a hug and a kiss would heal his ailments and you couldn’t bend over to pick him up? Well, that happened the other day.” She was scribbling a script moments later. This didn’t last forever though. Eventually I was going to several doctors, getting better and better at manipulation.

My son caught some bad poison ivy on his neck the other day on one of our many walks through the woods. It is so peaceful walking with him outside. We both have very active imaginations and we utilize them for hours outside. Anyway, he got some poison ivy on his neck which quickly spread to his little nose, big lips and around his eyes. We went to the doctor today after the ointment I tried yesterday didn’t work. So, I was able to be there to help him. I was creating another memory that is good. We got the script, and went to Walmart to fill it. We had to wait, the lady said “It’s gonna be about 45 minutes. Is that ok?” My very extensive experience with pharmacies told me that just like the time quoted from the drug dealer, I was to add about 20 minutes to that. Even with that, I responded “Ok, that’s fine. We’ll find something to get into.”

So my son and I walked around, playing games, I took some pictures of him, we drank some soda, and before I knew it, it was time. We picked up the script and headed home. When I told him that the syrup that he was about to take was steroids, he responded very playfully “Oh daddy, I’m gonna paint myself green and Hulk out.”

That memory is one I won’t let go. That feeling I got when he said that, that smile I had, his little giggle, all of it is so important to me. This is why I can can comfortably say “going back to the way I lived before isn’t an option.”

You know how when you aren’t exactly in a good mood, but you’re not in a bad mood, and either the same person or multiple people ask you what’s wrong enough that you find yourself in a terrible mood all of the sudden? It’s like you don’t need a reason anymore to get pissed off. In fact, you find yourself getting homicidal at points throughout the day over things that wouldn’t even catch your eye any other time. Why is that? It’s the snowball effect. For me personally, I have mentally plotted, fabricated extremely vivid, disturbingly violent events that were to happen if only you did such and such one more time. You mother fucker, if you get that close to my bumper again, I’m jamming on my brakes, and not just to scare you (I buckled this seat belt for a reason.) And once you slide into my car, I’m hoppin out, grabbing this bat wedged in between my seat and the door, and braking your window, pulling you out, and splitting your mother fucking head open, getting back in my car and going home to cook dinner.

It was all about my comfort level. It was all about my fear. I resented you and myself so much, that I let THAT run my life for me. I was not about to let you disrespect me. Oh, and if you tried to in front of people, whether I knew them or not, some real bad shit would pop off. I’m no tough guy, but you’re gonna be sorry you disrespected me while you tend to your wounds. Please note, that I was this person when I was by myself, with friends, with enemies, drug dealers, drug users, strangers, coworkers and my son. He saw all of it. I hopped out of the car plenty at red lights with him in the back seat. “Let me get this straight, you’re putting my son’s life in danger, and think that’s gonna fly with me? Canaan, sit here, stay in the car…”

I would say this aloud while driving, right after I shot dope and coke, right after I snorted two 80’s of Oxy Contin, right after I polished off the last of the Southern Comfort. But I wasn’t putting my son’s safety at risk. No, I had everything under control. I always had it in control. Dope boys in the house, under control. Driving around with drugs and kids in the same car, under control. Blacking out drunk and waking up on the couch while the kids are sitting there watching cartoons hungry, under control. I cringe sometimes thinking about it. I am shocked that my child can even look at me in the eyes sometimes.

Today I woke up and made him some breakfast then we went to the arts and crafts store. I don’t remember having any problems at all on the road. I am certain I had no weapon on me. I wasn’t blasting vulgar rap music with my son in the back seat. We walked around the store, looking for something creative to do. We got some materials (and some candy) and returned home. (damn it feels right to say “returned home”) We started on our projects, while they were drying, we went to the pool. Now, you must know that I have dangerously red sunburn on my back, but we went to the pool.

We swam around, more like he jumped around in the water while I sat on the sidelines with a towel draped over my shoulders like I was James Brown. We ate some snacks, swam some more, and left. We went for a walk in the woods. We came to a place of shade, and took advantage of it, sitting in the grass talking and appreciating our surroundings. We pretended to be soldiers from another time. “Daddy, this is medieval times. Well, not really medieval times Daddy, but just the weapons from then daddy. Nobody has guns. Ok Daddy?” I agreed that this was not only an ingenious idea, but immediately went from being a 32 year old man, to an 8 year old sword (big branch we found on the path) toting side kick. My son, who was asked by me to lead the way, had a bow and arrow (again a stick with a natural bend to it, and a smaller straight stick). We went to the playground, where we found ourselves playing “eye spy” and my son found a wild blackberry tree where we snacked for 15 minutes, dying our finger tips purple.

My thoughts today couldn’t have been more pleasant. And no one felt a need to ask me what’s wrong. My son is sleeping right now, not me, and both our bellies are full. I’m going to go smoke, talk to G-d, and thank him for everything I can think of. Then tomorrow, I’m gonna do it all again. People, this way of life is not hard, at least it doesn’t have to be. It’s not a daily struggle. It’s much easier to see what I have rather than what I don’t. And damn if it isn’t more rewarding to give my time rather than take your peace of mind.

Eyes open. The pain sets in. The first thought of the day is “Did I remember to save some?” The thoughts of the night prior run through my head. I spent all the money I had to ensure I would have some for this morning, but the mental tape I just played of last night’s events proved otherwise. I’ll have to take a cotton shot. I find the empty baggies and vials, gather up whatever used cotton balls that were previously used to filter the dope and coke, and set up shop. Frantically scraping bags and using paper clips strategically bent a certain way so that I could get every last speck of drugs from their containers. I was an expert at this. Grab a spoon, preferably one my wife won’t miss. I put everything in the spoon. It’s a pitiful amount. Then spray the water in. The smell it makes when it’s heated makes my mouth water. The whole time I am doing this, I am trying to snatch the thoughts of “how am I going to get more?” from the jumbled mess of every other thought in my head. It is torture. I put the solution in my arm, and I’m off. I don’t think about my family, I don’t think about my health, I don’t think of my safety or freedom. I think about the task at hand, my primary purpose. Get to the hood, hopefully get a tester or two (The free samples of heroin they give out when a new package hits the streets) and get busy getting money for more. I know a few boosters (kids down to run in stores and steal shit to pawn later) that will surely need a ride around, even if my tags have been doctored and I have no valid license. These details meant nothing to me, they were as significant as what color socks I had on.

I was a monster. I only cared about one thing, and if you were in my way, I ran you over…but only after I got whatever I could get from you. My son included. I have to say, it’s not easy writing this, but it is the truth. And contrary to some people’s opinions, I have no reason to lie and hide anymore, so I do my best not to. A few people have expressed already that they appreciate this, and I have no intentions of stopping.

I told you that, the description of how most of my days went, to tell you this: I live a different way today. I experience no pain when waking up. I actually am thrilled to start another day. I find my direction, usually outside when I’m done my cigarette, and get busy being a daddy. “Canaan, good morning honey. Did you sleep ok? You know you were talking in your sleep right?” Canaan laughs, “Really daddy? What was I saying?” I pause and give him my most serious face to let him know I mean business. “You said something about wanting nothing more than to get a new Barbie playhouse, full of the most beautiful Barbie dolls and then having a tea party.” He drops his head in the pillow with laughter, “HEEYYYYY, NO I DIDN’T DADDY!” I confirmed that he didn’t and we both laugh it off. Breakfast needs to be made, and I think about if I were 8 years old, what would I want. So about 6 to 7 minutes later, I call him out and watch his face light up when he sees waffles with 3 kinds of syrup and Teddy Grahams arranged neatly in a circle around the plate. A child that acts as if he can never eat half of what is put in front of him regardless of the original amount on the plate, finishes in record time.

We play, watch tv, draw, go to the pool, laugh and carry on, hug and kiss, and we talk about G-d….Yes, that’s right, I talk to my son about G-d. I share my experience about G-d much like I do “the new guy” only in 8 year old language. And I am here to report that it’s working. My son equates saying thank you at night for everything he has to why he’s been sleeping through the night soundly. This is a blessing. I love this life. And furthermore, I recognize that I have something to offer, but only when I let G-d handle everything for me.

When I pray in the morning I ask for few things. I ask for direction primarily. You see, I feel that although I have been shown a path, a spiritual way of life, I still can suffer from blindness. I have such a high level of sickness, that I need to re-up on direction daily, and often a few times a day. I’m not saying that I am at risk of falling off my path, but….if I don’t do certain things, I am sure to revert to my old ways. Shit happens quicker than I prefer inside of me at times. One minute it seems as though the world is collapsing on top of me and the next it feels like the sunlight of the spirit couldn’t be any brighter. In the blink of an eye in the past I have shifted gears from doing the right thing, to stealing your car. SNAP! Just like that.

When my son and I were at the swim club the other day, the other very cloudy and eventual rainy day, we were swimming around with each other. He was laughing, I was laughing. There was little to no sunlight out, and the water temperature was tolerable at best. He teased me with the occasional splash, and the classic “Hey daddy, look at me”. A few mothers showed up with their kids and my son and I continued to play on our own. I noticed my son glancing over at the kids playing. I couldn’t help but think about my son’s half brother. And that he doesn’t see him nearly  enough. One of the kids had a bucket and let it drift to the center of the pool. My son decided he wanted it, and grabbed it. The mother of the bucket owner shouts over “You can play with it, it’s alright.” So my son thanked her and trudged back over to me.

He kept holding the bucket upside down and forcing it under water trapping an air pocket in the top (which was really the bottom of the bucket since it was upside down) and was quite proud of his new discovery. He did this several times, everytime just pushing the bucket under water, then pulling it up out of the water. I explained to him that after he pushed the bucket under water, if he slowly tilted the bucket to one side he could watch the air escape and the big bubbles from that air rise to the surface. He did that and was surprisingly pleased.

This reminded me of the transition from hopelessness to happiness and vice versa and how quickly it can change. You see, the moment I stop living as my heart screams at me I should. When I stop seeing what I can give, and start seeing what I can take, the shift will happen. When I stop relying on G-d for direction, the bucket starts to tilt. The love I experience starts to fade, the air escapes the bucket. The thing is, when the air escapes, when the G-d reliance and love escapes me, something else has to take its place. The bucket takes in more water and sinks to the bottom of the pool, away from my son’s grasp. And my experience has shown me, that when the love escapes me, when I shun the direction of G-d, I am immediately filled up with selfishness and fear. I start to sink to the bottom. And what comes along with that is loneliness, despair and hopelessness. And if I ever decide to take that path again, I am sure to be out of my son’s reach once again.

I refuse.

So, my son is 8 years old as I have disclosed before. But, I have not been his “Daddy” for 8 years. True, he has always called me daddy since he could say it, but I was not always around for him to be called daddy. It’s not like I have been away for his whole life, but for around 2 years I was. And even when I was around him physically, I wasn’t there emotionally and mentally and you can most certainly rule out being there as a role model. I was very sick. When I was “there”, meaning living under the same roof, I was usually intoxicated, high, or struggling with sobriety. Oh, and just so you know, sobriety is no struggle, I just made it that way. Anyway, I played with my son when I could, I took him places when I could, I bought him things when I could, I laid on the floor and drew pictures with him when I could, I coached his tee ball team when I could, etc…. The problem with that is, I was only doing it when I “could”. This does not mean, when I wasn’t at work, making dinner, running errands and so forth. “When I could” means, when I wasn’t going to the store (which meant hitting up Coldspring and Park Heights), or sleeping it off, or vomiting, or stealing shit, or sneaking in the bathroom to take one more shot because the one I took a half hour ago didn’t hold me.

But, when I was there, he called me daddy. And if anyone ever asked about being a father, or commented about how much it seems that my son loves me, I played the role of father of the millennium. I told them all the good things I have done and omitted all the things I hadn’t. I told them about all the things I bought, acting like it was a worthwhile struggle to budget the money so that I could provide more for the family, when the reality was I was selling our food stamps for dope and coke. The reality was I was pawning the game systems we bought for them. The reality was I was using the eight dollars I scraped up for gas money so that I could get in town and hack (drive people around for money). So that I could quench my thirst. I was using the money I could’ve been, I should’ve been spending on food to buy what I needed so I could struggle for 15 minutes searching for a vein in my neck.

I was an aggressive father. I snapped when I got angry, then tried to be the kids best friend when I felt sorry for them and myself, and couldn’t understand why they were scared of me. My step son caught the worst of this behavior. He was older, and never deserved to witness a third of what he witnessed. What am I saying? That poor child didn’t deserve to see anything he saw. He was, still is a good, very thoughtful child.   I walked around with a warped view of fatherhood. I had a delusional chip on my shoulder about the way my father parented me because I got hit with a belt a handful of times growing up. The truth as I know it today, is that I deserved that and much more , even though I believe there is never a reason to hit a child…..ever. I vowed never to hit my kids when I had them, and that didn’t hold true. I live a different way today, and because of that I never have a reason to hit my son.

A lot is different today. My son’s sentences include the word “daddy” about every 3 words. And I don’t mind at all. In fact, I think it’s cute. “Hey daddy, look at this daddy. I made this thing, and daddy, isn’t it cool?” I had given up on the idea that I would ever be in a position to be privileged enough to be a daddy again, to hear those words escape my son’s lips again. I didn’t want to live anymore because of this. G-d wasn’t ready for me to die though. I see today why I didn’t. I am my son’s daddy. I love hearing that word when he says it. Sometimes, shit right now as I’m typing this, my eyes are tearing up a bit just thinking about it.

I have zero desire to put anything in my body except love. He needs me, and I need him. And we both need G-d. And right now, at this moment, we all have each other. And I am happy. And he, well, he has a loving present daddy.

This morning I woke up, my son quickly followed suit. I did what I always do when I wake up before him. I quietly watched  him sleep. I do this for several reasons. The first of which is that I rarely get to see a more perfect example of what G-d has done for me than giving me one of His kids to look after. Yes, I truly believe I am my brother’s keeper. And yes, it is my pleasure to “look after” all His kids. However, the idea that He blessed me with the job of a trustee for this little boy overwhelmingly fills my heart with love.  So I watch, I breathe and I fuel up for the day with love in my heart. I have enormously joyful moments in watching this sleeping angel that I have never managed to find from the needle or in the bottom of a bottle.  In fact, the only thing that I have felt that has ever been close to this inner peace that I feel when watching my son sleep, is in helping a broken man find his path to G-d. Followed by the moments that I had with my ex wife when we were “in tune” with each other, which were few and far between as a direct result of my selfishness and self seeking motives.

The second reason that I thoroughly enjoy the moments I get when the sun is peeking through the blinds onto my child and no artificial light is in the room, is that I see how natural it is to love and be there for my child. This may seem odd to most. Shit, it feels odd to say.  The status quo for parenting is that this starts at the child’s birth. Well, not for me. Like I said before, I was (still am sometimes) extremely selfish in my ways. And of course I always loved my baby, but I had the most powerful distraction any man like me could have. I was so distracted with “self” as they say, that I lost the power of choice to do the right thing. Now mind you, this has nothing to do with drugs and alcohol, but everything to do with a lack of G-d. So, even when the drugs and alcohol were removed from the equation, the lack of G-d was still there creating more and more problems, and more and more reasons (excuses) for me to justify being a complete douchebag.  I had another family in the needle, in the bottom of glass vials and tiny ziplock baggies and I had a very seductive mistress residing in a  Southern Comfort bottle.

Today, because I have found a spiritual solution to my spiritual problem, I can appreciate moments like the 4 to 5 minutes I spent just admiring G-d’s handiwork. Just living in the moment. It seemed as though there was no outside world this morning, just me, my son and G-d. Then it happened. He started squirming around, shifting his weight from one side to the other. He stretched his arms and legs, eyes still shut. He reached up and wiped his mouth, covertly gazing through squinted eyes, and BAM!!!!! Shot up like a rocket, stating “Daddy!!!!!! I was drooling in my sleep!!!!”

I admitted I did the same, went downstairs to use  the bathroom, and without premeditation started tearing up and laughing at the same time. I am able to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up, and furthermore, I am able to have a genuine smile on my face for him to see. These are the moments, the undeniable reasons that I believe in G-d. And not just believe, but chase. I do everything I can to be as close to G-d as I possibly can, because I know through my own personal experience that without Him, I am unable to see things like I saw at 7:46am today.

Hello whomever you are.  My name is Timothy, I am 32 years old.  As far as worldly things to brag about, I have none.  This is not because I lack the ability or intelligence to earn the money necessary to purchase such things, it is because I spent it on more important things. Things like heroin and cocaine. Things like crack and booze, like countless amounts of pills and weed,  like Newports and fresh sneakers.  To you, the prior statement couldn’t sound anymore ridiculous, especially coming from someone who has an 8 year old son. However, I can assure you, that if I didn’t do what I did I would probably be dead or in a mental health facility (both of which I have experience with.)

I don’t know why I’m doing this. I have always searched for creative outlets , and writing has always been present in my life. It’s just I feel the visual art I produce is easier to share. So all of the half filled (if that) books I scribbled my thoughts in, are probably buried in a landfill right now.  At least if I ever want to go back and read what I wrote, or allow someone else to do so, I can by doing this.

So, let the mother fucking games begin…..