From Hopeless To Fatherhood

It’s been like 4 hours since I realized I lost that shit. I think I’ve also lost like 5 pounds of sweat just looking for it. Meanwhile, my son and stepson are basically looking after themselves. I think I should pack em up and go to my boys house and see if he’s got anything. I’ve got like a half hour before I start to get real ill.

Fuck. Let me go check the car one more time.

I walk outside and the air is cold. The kinda cold that would’ve made my eyes tear up if I wasn’t so dehydrated. The kind of cold that in a few years is gonna have me sleeping in my car shivering. It’s gonna have me in a rest stop bathroom on 83 in between Bmore and York for 45 minutes at a clip, just to get warm. This is the cold that’ll have me posted up in the library for 6 hours after I cop my dope because where the fuck else am I going to go? Home? You think I can go home and face them? You think I want them to see me like this?

I’ll go to the library and figure out a way to stop living like this. What I mean is, I’ll figure out a different way, a better way from the 3,000 ways I’ve tried before.

Fast forward thru about 6 or 7 years of the most brutalizing, torturous, pain ridden and pain inflicting, death and despair filled, emptiness and hopelessness you can possibly fathom to today.

My phone went off at 5:45, I was still asleep. I got a voicemail a few minutes later saying that schools were closed. WTF? I looked outside and everything was white. An hour or so later I get a text saying that work is canceled. Perfect.

The baby woke up in a great mood and he stayed like that all day. My oldest was in a great mood when I saw him. He kept disappearing to build some city or something on his laptop. He surfaced to practice his sarcasm and “allow” me to make him food, nachos on request for lunch.

I feel like I have a mini me on my hands when dealing with both of them.

My 2 year old is talking up a storm but mostly using words in a language he must make up as he goes along…and does so with enthusiasm. He has a sense of humor already and I love it. He gives me kisses all day and says “Daddy I luff you” after every time. He calls for his brother when he’s out of eye shot.

But today he did something that I never expected.

Today my oldest son was in his room and out of no where the baby said to me “Daddy, where Canaan? Where Canaan, Daddy?”

I said, “I don’t know, call him.”

“Canaan! Where are you?”

Canaan hollers back from his room. The baby runs down the hall and stands outside of his door.

I’m standing at the end of the hallway looking.

“Canaan? I luff you. You take a medicine?”

I almost dropped to me knees.

My two year old son was making sure his older, epileptic, seizure prone brother took the medicine he needed so that he wouldn’t have a seizure.

Now, I understand that children parrot those around them. That’s fine. That’s partly the point here. That today my kids are hopefully going to be parroting the love that I give them instead of the evil I spread before.

Another point is that my 2 year old chose that subject manner and delivery to parrot in the first place.

But the most important part to me, happened on the other side of that door. I couldn’t see it. The baby couldn’t see it. But my heart felt it.

I imagined how much Canaan’s heart must’ve filled up with love at that moment.

The baby only knows so many words. But he knew the words perfectly to make sure his brother is ok and make sure he knew he is loved. Canaan has gone through more heartache caused by me in his first 7 years on this earth than most do in their lives. But not today.

As a father, I don’t think I could’ve felt another example of pure love more moving than I did at that moment. I am so blessed to be able to experience and see these things. I am so blessed that not only can I be present (physically, mentally and emotionally) to see these things in the first place, but also that my vision is no longer clouded with hate and remorse, so much so that I only saw things that served me and could never be open enough to receive any kind of Divine Love long enough to learn how to spread it around.

I knew as soon as I opened the bag that I got beat. I still had hope that there would be some dope mixed in with the powdered cleaning product that was used as a cut though. I guess it was a cleaning product. It could’ve just been the scare tactics that the D.A.R.E. program brain washed me with in elementary school. You know how they would say “You never know what these drug dealers are mixing in with that stuff. It could be bleach! Or they could be sprinkling rat poison on that marijuana to make it stronger. You just don’t know.”

I never bought into that, it must’ve just still been lurking around in my brain.

In any case, I wasn’t ill yet so I guess I wasn’t desperate enough. I even managed to wait until everyone went to bed. But you better believe as soon as that happened I made moves.  I unzipped my pants and took the needle out of the cut on the inside of my zipper. I took the cap off. I poured the powder in. Drew the water into the tool. Squirted it in the bucket… and looked up for a second. I was in the bathroom and got lost staring at myself, but not in the “Damn I’m sexy”  kinda way. It was one of those moments when you see your reflection, but you don’t see “you.”

Drug addicts often say “I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror.” That doesn’t mean they think there’s somebody on the other side of the glass looking back at them like that bathroom scene in the Romeo & Juliet movie. Or at least I guess they don’t. Perhaps on certain drugs that makes sense, but what I mean is, I looked at myself and I saw the man I had become. It was terrible. My physical apperance was sad. Eyes sunken in, surrounded by darkness. Skin pale. Scruff on my face. Finger nails black. But what was more impactful was what I saw inside of me. I was tortured and beaten badly on the inside. My own flesh and blood was asleep in his bed, probably hoping that tomorrow would be different. Maybe tomorrow my daddy will be nice. Maybe tomorrow he’ll get my stuff back, maybe he’ll take me to the park or the movies or maybe he’ll love me. I can’t imagine what he must’ve thought. I was broken and to make matters worse, I was tortured and beaten by the only person that I would ever let do that…

…me.

I teared up. I continued to look at the reflection and everything went glassy and blurry through my tears. I couldn’t stop and I didn’t have a choice. When I’m in it that deep, I don’t have a fucking choice anymore. I drew the shit into the needle, tied off, took a deep breath and pushed that plunger.

My arm was on fire. Like, so on fire that the hospital became an option in about 20 seconds. But I felt the dope. There was just enough to satisfy me. The danger associated with shooting up ajax wasn’t big enough for me to blow my high. Fuck it.

I walked out of that bathroom and blew right past the mirror. It wasn’t even there anymore.

Right now as I type this, I have two sleeping children. Both with something going on in their chests and the baby stuffed up in his nose. My oldest soldier sounds like he has the voice of a 65 year old black man who’s having another go at puberty. (I’ll give you a minute to visualize that one)

My baby has woken up twice and he’s probably going to wake up 4 more times before the sun rises.

Tomorrow I will wake up and thank G-d for another day and ask Him what I need to do and then I’ll do that. And I’ll work hard and I’ll come home and do it again. And I will look in the mirror and be grateful. I will look in the mirror and see the man that I have become…

…and I will be pleased with that.

It’s a funny thing how today I can look in the mirror and see myself, but see a completely different person then I did before. I could never go back to being that man. And fuck all that “One day at a time” bullshit. I know I couldn’t. There is nothing imaginable that would deter me from being available to go in there and scoop that little soldier up when he’s crying and hold him and whisper to him that I love him.

Nothing.

So they have my car surrounded. They’re yelling, they may have even been screaming. The only thing I made out was “Driver, turn off your engine. Passenger, put your hands outside the window and open the door slowly.” The stranger, the mid 40 year old, drunk, black  man riding shotgun looks at me and asks if I’m dirty.

“Of course I’m dirty! What do you think!?!”

The knockers roll up to the car, 4 or 5 deep and blast open both doors. They remove the guy I was riding around and sent him on his way. They pull me out, right on the side of the road. I’ve got a needle in my sleeve while they’re frisking me.

I am emotionless.

The only thought I had, I mean the absolute ONLY thing I was thinking about was how am I going to get out of this without getting arrested so I can finish what I started. No thoughts of my son. No thoughts of my parents. No thoughts of my wife. Nothing like that. Just one thing. The thing that held as much importance to me as the air I breathed.

The dope.

They finished searching me, roughed me up a little and threw my keys in the middle of the road. I was numb. Not angry. Not sad. Certainly no joy, hadn’t felt that in years. The best way I can describe it is…empty.

This afternoon I left Baltimore city and went home to pick up my son. He had an appointment at John’s Hopkins neurology department. I knew going in he was going to have to have blood taken. I also knew he was not a fan of that. We got in my truck and rolled back downtown. We listened to music and talked for a bit, then he fell asleep. When we got there I turned around and watched him. He looked like a little angel. I knew he was not about to enjoy what we were going to have to do.

He woke up and we went in. He asked if we could stop by the cafe, which we found out was closed. So we asked the security officer if there was another one. He gave us directions to the cafeteria.

“Go up two escalators, then make a right (as he pointed left) then make another right…wait, never mind. Two escalators, then a left, then a right and the cafeteria will be on your left.”

As we walked away I looked at Canaan. Didja get that? He said loudly “Yes” so the guard could hear him, then he looked straight ahead and said quietly “No, Daddy. I didn’t”

I laughed and we went over the directions again. He played with the words, saying a left then a right, right? I said “Right”. We ate some breadsticks with cheese and he drank a chocolate milk.

He made sure to split the last breadstick in half and offered it up. He is such a naturally good kid. I couldn’t ask for a better child.

We went upstairs and waited. Talking and cracking jokes. We made it fun. Then we got called back. He was checked out, then we waited for the phlebotomist. When we got in there everything changed. I tried to be honest with him, while still making less of the situation than it was.

The guy checked my son’s pipes and chose an arm. I knelt down on the floor between his legs. Holding one hand and his other wrist. The tears poured. He looked at me right in my eyes and begged me to “DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS DADDY! PLEASE!!!!”

It killed me.

I kept my composure, I concealed my feelings and calmly explained why we had to do this. I made him focus on me. I reminded him to breathe. He listened and the needle went in.

He cried harder.

He looked at it and I had to coach him back to my eyes, reminding him to breathe the whole time. It was working. He was calming down. Then the next tube filled up. And then the third. I was telling him what was happening to assure him everything was ok, so he would be less inclined to look. The needle came out and it hurt him again. He cried some more and I comforted him. I told him how proud I was and that he was a soldier.

We left, went to the pizza place where you can build your own slice. His first slice had ham and pineapple, his favorite. We played a game where you have to find the words that the other person sees outside. We had the best time. He laughed a lot. He got another slice then we went for milkshakes.

On the way home I had a Spiritual Experience.

I have been in a really tough place lately, shying away from what I know to work. I have been so caught up with life, that I haven’t been as tight with G-d.

Canaan changed that for me on the way home. He sang at the top of his lungs. It was so funny that it brought me to tears. And when that happened…

…I remembered what life was about.

It’s not about all the stress and hustle.

It’s not about anything of this world.

I can be happy no matter what provided I see G-d everywhere.

And today I saw Him in my son.

And today…I am grateful.

If you want the truth, I willingly walked away from my family more than once. I didn’t always do it for selfish reasons, but mostly that was the motivator. I was either too “busy” for them, didn’t want to deal with them…or too caught up in getting wasted that I just couldn’t focus on anything besides myself and the next drink or drug. On top of all that selfishness that I let run my life for right around 20 years, I also walked around harboring resentments. These resentments stemmed from either real events, made up events or events that happened but I perceived them as being way worse than they actually were. Some of these resentments didn’t even involve me, I just involved myself.

So the reasoning behind me walking away from my family was always different. A few times I did it for noble reasons. I know that sounds like hypocrisy, but for someone who once had a severe reliance on things of this world, which caused me to become very sick…I assure you I absolutely had to isolate myself from everything for a period of time and just focus on G-d.

I had a good amount of time to reflect on this over the past couple of days. I recently have made an effort to be available to all of my family on whatever level I can. With some family members, I am obviously closer; My children, my mother, My father’s brother, etc… These people live close to me and I see them all the time. With other family members it’s a bit more difficult. My father lives just out of arms reach, my Uncle lives on the other side of the country, my cousin lives in a neighboring state, my brother…well, he’s still my brother. But we all have our own lives. We are all busy. But are we too busy? Am I too busy? I often tell myself I am, but is that true?

I am pretty much living life to the best of my ability today, I parent my children, I have a good job, I call my parents to see how they’re doing, I try my best to help people… I do all these things. But what really has prevented me from reaching out further? I think I’m too busy. Or am I just still thinking of myself? I can’t remember specifically the last time I visited my grandma. I only remember certain events. I remember eating her cooking and laughing with her about her accent. I remember the time that I finally grew tall enough that she had to look up to me (this wasn’t very difficult). I remember going to her house for xmas and thanksgiving. I remember the bedroom that she had set up for us kids when we spent the night. I remember the day she told me what my spanish name was. I remember exactly the way she put her arms out to me when she saw me…and how she smiled…and how she would always say “Awe Teemy, Ju look so hahn some”

She was always kind to me. I can’t remember a time that she wasn’t.

She was someone I walked away from. I separated myself from her.

Today I helped carry her to her gravesite.

I’ll never have the opportunity to be a good grandson to her again. I did love her, but I’m not convinced I showed it very well. I’m not beating myself up about this. I’m simply acknowledging a fault of mine. This is a good thing. If I can slowly point out things about myself that I don’t like, things that G-d doesn’t want me to be, I can change them. I can align my actions with the type of person He wants me to be a little better. I’m ok with that.

I’m living in the house that she lived in for over 20 years. I love this house. It is full of memories. I plan on making more here. I can only hope that they are full of joy and happiness. I can only hope that I can make my family feel as loved as she did.

Think about the most terrifying moment of your life. I’ll wait…

Prior to yesterday, the scariest moments of my life were about me. I’ve had some real big boy shit happen in my life and the lives of my loved ones in the past 3 years, and before that I don’t remember much, but most of the time I’ve  known that G-d would take care of us. Even if I didn’t see it at first, you know, in the middle of it… it didn’t take long for me to see what He has done for me and that He wouldn’t change now. So even when I was walking into a court room about to go to jail…I was ok. Even when the relationship I am in with the woman I wish to spend the rest of my life with is on the rocks… I am ok. Even when my baby boy had to get put under for a medical procedure… I was ok. I have moments of discomfort, some bigger than others, but in short order I am redirected toward G-d.

Last night was no exception, but it was different.

Last night was a life changer.

It happened quickly, out of the blue, all of the sudden…

…in the middle of the night. The lives of the woman I love, my step son and mine were impacted. Just like that. My son’s life was affected too, but he didn’t even know it at the time.

The bedroom door busts open. The room is completely dark. I see light coming from the hallway and hear my step son, panicked, voice full of fear:

“SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH CANAAN!!! HE ISN’T BREATHING!!!”

Without thought I am up, his mother at my side. The few steps to his room seemed like a mile long. I arrive at his bed and see something that will never escape my memory. My 10 year old son, laying there lifeless, eyes wide open, pupils filling his entire eyes, the light reflecting off the saliva on his face. It was terrifying.

I try to snap him out of the trance like state he is in. I feel his heart. It was beating faster than I even knew a heart could beat. I shake him, we’re all yelling, we get no response.

I pick him up and carry him to the living room. Everything is happening so fast. None of us really knew what to do. I sit him up thinking that he will wake up. I thought he was in some sort of dream state, like sleep walking where the mind is asleep but the body functions. I thought that was why his eyes were open. But when I sit him up, his body goes limp. His neck won’t hold up his head. His mother and brother are yelling his name, I know they were saying more but in my head everything was echoing. I know I responded to whatever they were saying, or at least I think I was, but at this moment I can’t recall any of the words. I just remember getting up, running to get my shoes, his mother running to get socks and a sweatshirt on him. His brother more upset than I have ever seen him. It was a bad scene.

I carry him outside, run to my truck and I’m holding him with one arm trying to find my keys with the other. It’s freezing out. It’s the kind of cold that should wake up anyone. But not my son. He is still like dead weight in my arms. I had to switch arms and get my keys out of the other pocket. I’m struggling.

I get him in the front seat, screaming for him to wake up. He is shifting back and forth. But not coming out of it. Strap his seatbelt on. We’re off. I keep my right hand on his chest expecting to stop feeling his heart beat at any second. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.

Twenty minutes in…

We arrived at the ER and I run as fast as I can to the other side of the truck and scoop him out. I hustle him inside wailing for help. While I’m holding him, he vomits.

Then they bring in a wheel chair, I put him in it and he vomits again.

We rush to the back, nurses are all over him. Asking him if he hears them. He is now able to gently slur some sound from his mouth but no words yet. Maybe ten minutes later he is able to talk. He doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know where he is.

Now, imagine how scary that was for a 10 year old boy.

Eventually they took some blood. For this procedure (which happened about 3 hours from when my eyes opened) he was himself. He was smiling at the nurses. The one nurse said “Now Canaan, I’m just gonna stand here and hold your arm, ok?”

Canaan quickly responded “That’s never a good sign.”

We all laughed, including him. Then they took the blood while i kissed his salty tears from his face, gripping his other hand while he tried to break the grip. Multiple hours and multiple doctors asking me a million and one questions later, we are discharged with the knowledge that he had a seizure and instructions on what to do next. On the way out of the hospital I carried him to my truck. I was both relieved and shook at the same time. My faith that G-d was watching over us, restored.

Think about the most terrifying moment of your life.

Mine lasted the better part of 5 hours in the middle of last night.

Tomorrow is another day.

We scrambled from store to store…just trying to find something worth pawning. We went to a major discount department store. We took a cart, a duffel bag and headed to the dvds. I filled that duffel bag with new released dvds. I covered the bag with some shirts I grabbed off the rack and wheeled the cart to the garden center. The car was coming around the side. I threw the bag over and threw myself over the fence. I cut myself badly.

We were a solid hour away from the spot to sell them, frantically pulling off the stickers the whole way. Sweating. Shivering. Choking down vomit and clenching my ass shut to avoid shitting myself. I could pull maybe 4 drags off a cigarette before I had to stop. My vision was blurry as I constantly panned the road looking for cops. The ride was the worst part.

I remember seeing all the families in the store shopping. Spending their hard earned paychecks on gifts for their kids. The last time I saw my kids I screamed at them. I threw up in the bathroom, screamed at them for something minor and left. That was days ago. But these families were happy. They were pointing at this and that. “So and so would love this” or “Dad could really use that”. I couldn’t even begin to think like that. Sure I would love to be able to do that kind of thing, but I’m not able. I’m not built for that life. I’m a junkie…have been since 14 years old.

There is truth to that.

At that time in my life, I wasn’t able. I wasn’t willing. I wasn’t capable of doing anything but serving myself. G-d wasn’t in my line of sight. At all. I mean, why would He be? I couldn’t even breathe. I couldn’t do anything. I was shit. A complete piece of shit. So, I believed that I would always be a junkie. It would never and could never change.

This past weekend I went out with my girlfriend and two other friends. We went to several stores and a shopping mall. I purchased gifts. I laughed. I pointed out things that other people would like… and I bought them. We got coffee and cracked jokes with each other. We had lunch. We listened to music. We made memories. And the sole purpose of being there was to get something for others.

I sometimes just sit and look at my life. Today I was at a traffic light and I was doing what every other American does at traffic lights, I was looking at my phone. I was looking at pictures of my family and just smiling. I’m so blessed. I feel like my life couldn’t get any better, but everyday that passes…every year that passes, I prove myself wrong.

And it was just a matter of trying to not try. I just gave up. I asked for help and did what I was told. I listened and breathed. I can’t imagine living any other way. Actually, for me…any other way isn’t even living.

I know you have seen the Matrix. So in those scenes where Neo is about to get shot by a million bullets but he appears to be moving in slow motion, dodging all of them, but for all intents and purposes the rest of the word is moving at normal speed…

My nose is running so bad. It’s fucking freezing out. December in Bmore is nothin nice. December in Bmore when you’re dope sick is even worse. The trip in to Coldspring was brutal. I almost got off the metro at the Reisterstown Road Plaza stop just to get it quicker, but it was a longer walk, and it was a gamble so I stayed strong and stayed on. Yeah, I can do that for dope. I can do whatever it takes to get high. It’s everything else I fail at. So I get off the metro, smacking my shoulder into everyone in front of me as I hustle past them towards the steps. I bounce down the steps, two at time. The security guard gives me the same shitty ass sideways look that he always gives me as I roll past his booth. I’m a damn surgeon when it comes to putting the ticket in the gate to get through. Everyone else seems to get caught up.

At the bottom of the escalator is the normal team of guys trying to sell their “day pass, yo. I got that day pass.” They get passed by too. Up the steps to the street, over the tracks…2 blocks up on the left by the fugazi of a car repair shop I check for my girl. She isn’t there.

I shuffle up  to the McDonald’s where I overdosed that one day, nobody there that I want to see at least. So I’m at the corner now. This old head comes up to me where the crippled old man is sellin loose ones. She said “Damn honey, you better zip that vest up, sugar.” I respond “Nah Mommy, that shits busted.” And just like that, shit slows down…

…I see my man across Park Heights walking up. But not everything is slow motion. Everything to my left and right is moving at normal speed. Everything between me and him is in slow motion though. I run his way. Earlier in the trip I could barely walk, but now I can run.  He sees me and flags me around the building to wait for him. I do…and the world is right.

Today on the way home from work I called my boss. I asked him about taking a few days off around the holidays. He insisted I take a whole week, paid. I was shocked. I mean it’s in my contract at work and all, but it was just weird to hear. The truth is, I qualify for 2 weeks off.

Paid.

This week I’ll get paid and I’ll be able to get presents for my people. My son. My father and step mom. My Mother. My baby momma. My brother. Hopefully my cousin. I should be able to get something small for everyone and still catch up on bills. I’ll get to be available to whomever wants to see me or my kin. I’ll be willing to drive to meet people. I’ll be able to do for everyone else. I won’t have to worry, be completely consumed…with me.

What I’m hoping is that for a few minutes, on that week that I just get to be with my family, seeing my kids playing. Playing with them. Laughing with family. That the world slows down long enough for me to capture that memory. Capture that Love, so that I never have to substitute anything or anybody for it again.

Perception is a funny thing. It can change monthly, weekly, daily or by the hour for me. One minute I can’t take anymore and the next is filled with patience. Meaning what is intolerable at one moment can be perfectly acceptable the next. You wronging me can easily change to you doing what you need to do, and really has nothing to do with me.

A few years ago my perception had me believing that I would never be anything more than a drunk. Never be a father. Never be a good son. That you were a problem and if you would just mind your own fucking business…everything would be fine. I don’t need you, any of you. I only need you if I need money or an alibi or the like…but certainly nothing of merit.

My job was to feel better, that is all. Everything else in life could wait until that job was accomplished.

My life was shit. I pretended to be happy. Meanwhile I was smashing the dreams of my wife, destroying any ideas I had about how I would one day parent my kids if I ever had them. And torturing the two kids I had at the time. I’ve discussed this before, but one of those kids is no longer my responsibility to parent. This is not how I wanted things, but my perception is different.

Today I know that everything will be fine. I am able to show up when called on. Today that child that I once was a complete monster to, called his mother to inform us that he has a game tonight. His mother and I are both ill (not “ill” like I once was, legitimately sick). I even cancelled plans with a friend because I didn’t want to leave her sick with the kids. I told him that she or I would find a way to be there. The day went on. I progressively felt worse.

Needless to say, I’m about to gear up and carry my oldest son to his brother’s game. I am able to do this because today I perceive my role as a giver rather than a taker. Today I know that by doing for others I will feel better. I try to do this as often as I can. Sometimes, I fall short of this way of life…and every time that happens, I pay for it. People get hurt.

So right now I’m going to get off here and go get my son ready, kiss my ex wife and go be a father…even if my son isn’t “mine” anymore.

I don’t know about you, but when I was growing up I always felt semi guilty on father’s day. I always felt like I wasn’t a good son. I never heard from my father that I wasn’t a good son, nor did he ever feel that way. I just never felt I gave him a reason to consider me a good son.

This feeling resurfaced after many years of not giving a fuck whether I was a good son or not. When I became a father. I spent so much time thinking about myself, that when father’s day rolled around, I focused on what I hadn’t done. What I hadn’t provided. The memories I robbed my son of. The time I spent foolishly. The pain I caused. The tears I produced.

The fear I instilled.

My idea of being a father was discipline. Physical or otherwise. I was a piece of shit. I was a high and drunk piece of shit. I did things to my own children (my step son included) that you wouldn’t do to an enemy. The lies I told, disgraceful. My behavior was inexcusable. I later discovered that I acted the way I did because I was selfish. Because I didn’t get what I wanted. Because you didn’t act the way I thought you should act. I took my frustrations and self pity out on you, them and everyone.

This morning I woke up to my youngest son shuffling around in his crib. I checked the time. I grabbed my phone, with my vision a bit fuzzy and read “7:05”. I hopped right up, walked over to his crib and just watched him. He rolled over several times, finally pausing on his stomach for a second and picked his head up. He looked away from me, then looked in my direction. He looked up and saw me, and smiled as big as his face would allow. He smiles all the time. He laughs all the time.

I scooped him up and walked in my oldest son’s room. The lights were out and the TV was on. I laid my baby next to him, and heard “Happy Father’s Day!”

It was from the mouth of my step son. It made my eyes tear up. This child has every reason to never speak to me again, but for the last year or so, I have been doing everything in my power to make right the harm I caused him. When I heard that, it made me feel like it has been working. My oldest son quickly followed suit.

I changed diapers, fed children, cleaned up, did everyday things. I called my father.

Today is no different than any other day, which is good. Because today was another strong example that G-d is working in my life.

I woke up in the same clothes I’ve had on for days. The jeans I’m wearing haven’t been changed in weeks. My finger nails are black, my beard is thick. My eyes sunken in. My teeth feel like they’re wearing a sweater. My arms hurt, and are bruised badly. My heart is empty. I slowly pull myself from the back seat/trunk. I learned that if I put the back seat forward, I can lay on it, and halfway extend my legs into the trunk. It’s colder, sure, but no one walking by can see me. If I lay in the front seat, anyone could see me. Enemies, civilians, dope boys, police…anyone. So I avoid that. I bury myself in jackets, dirty sweatshirts, whatever is in my car. My home.

When I finally make it to the front, I mix up a shot. It’s rare that I save any, so the shot is usually a cotton shot. Then I go hack for a bit to get my gate shot (first shot of the day). Then I post up in the crack house for hours. I try and run to get the county kids dope from people they are too scared to be around, areas of Baltimore where you can get shot, stabbed or at least beaten for no reason at all. The only problem is, everyone in the crack house is doing that. So I have to be patient. Most of the time I get frustrated and go out and get some real money. I would boost from Walmart, packing up a duffel bag full of DVD’s that I would sell to the store in Fells Point. This would make me enough money to stay high for at least 2-3 days because I would cop dope by the gram or gram and a half, repackage it, and sell it.

When I was living this way, nothing else mattered. My dreams would revolve around the big score, finding a bag of money or the dope boy’s stash in the alley or some shit. I would fantasize about getting my life together as well, but that was way more far fetched than finding money or a g pack of dope. I knew that part of my life was over. I knew I would never be a father again. Never have “her” back. Never have a house I needed to pay rent for. Never have a real job. Never pay bills at all. Never have cable tv. Never be around my family. Never not have active warrants or not be on probation. Never have arms that didn’t look like I just had on a sweatshirt made of barbed wire. None of that.

This weekend I start my journey with a new house. I need to do a lot of work to it, but it will be mine. I’m just renting it, but if I continue on the path I’m on, I should be able to buy it within the next 2 years. It has a fenced in yard. I will have both of my children living under the same roof. My ex wife will also be there. There is more than enough room for everybody. When you have been through what I have been through, you become very grateful for what you have and become willing to share it. I am no exception.

I had no part in obtaining this either. Actually, I played a very small part in anything I have today. I merely showed up. I asked G-d for help, and He helped. Simple as that. My results are not just my results either. Countless others have come from far worse places than me, became reliant of G-d, and have had their lives, and their family’s lives turned around.

I have been watching HGTV for design ideas for painting the walls. Me, watching HGTV. Are you fucking kidding? But I’m doing it. And I’m going to go to work, bust my fuckin ass, save what little money I can, come home, cut the lawn, paint some walls, read to my kids, eat dinner, do dishes, make beds, all that. I’m going to do that. Someone who lived in his car, lived on the streets of the grimiest city on the east coast. Me. And my family, however unconventional it is.