Month: June 2011

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.