From Hopeless To Fatherhood

There are times when I looked around that neighborhood and the people in it and thought to myself “How did I end up here? How did I willingly throw away everything I had just to be homeless and broken with nothing except this needle and this empty bag?”

I used to get so overwhelmed with problems. Obsessed with all my problems. Never interested really in finding a Solution for them all, just looking for a quick “out” to forget about them. Never willing to submit myself to anything Bigger than me. I just wanted to feel better for that moment. My family is home worried about me? That’s their problem. My kid is wondering where his daddy is? He’ll be fine and I’ll get my shit together one day and make it up to him. The police are looking for me? I really don’t give a fuck. I don’t have any money? Hahahaha, never did anyway.

Then I would see the people I surrounded myself with and see what I left behind, in my child primarily, and convince myself that he is better off without me. I would emotionally and mentally murder myself with the thought that everything that was wrong with me, every struggle I went through was the fault of someone else so I could never fix anything. It was only when I decided to see that the problem was in me that I had a chance to get better.

Today it’s the same. More of the same. Same reason I struggle today is the same reason I struggled when I wasn’t sober. The biggest difference today, is that getting drunk or shooting dope and coke isn’t an option anymore so I feel every ounce of pain I allow myself to. Every unpleasant thing in my life hurts. Why? Because I’m not letting that Solution handle things for me. My problems become big enough that I am temporarily blinded. It’s temporary because the spiritual malady I still have only allows me to take enough pain before I am forced to do something about it. The same two options are still the ONLY two options for me.

Either get high.

Or seek G-d.

Today, my threshold for pain is much bigger than it was back then tho. Today, I can swallow enough discomfort to push everyone that cares for me away and end up alone. Sometimes I think that’s better for everyone. Then, there’s always a window of time where I decide to do something about it. I think my kids save me from going the wrong way.

I wish I could say that I am strong by myself. That even without my kids in my life, I would never go back to that life. But I can’t say that. At my weakest moments they unknowingly save my life. I have never been close to returning to the life I left behind. Not once in the last handful of years and sometimes I think that they are the only reasons why. I will continue to push through any hardships I have. Any life challenges. Anything you try to do to stop me from being the best father I know how to be because they need me.

I just need to remember that I am not, have never been, nor will ever be capable of doing that alone.

I always will need that Help.

There’s certain characteristics that some people have that make me want to puke. Hypocritically, the ones I hate the most, the ones I have almost no patience or tolerance for are almost always some of my biggest defects.

I spent so many years of my life blaming others for my discomfort. Blaming others for my circumstances. When I was young I suppose that was mildly justified but as I got older it should’ve went away. It got worse though. It got unbearable. You did something I didn’t like and I hated you for it. I became troubled by your actions. Or, perhaps more accurate, I became troubled by my perception of what happened or my reaction to what you did or didn’t do.

I’m in a jail cell at 16 years old with a possession and paraphernalia charge. I was crossing the bay bridge and my girlfriend and I were smoking herb. We probably had much more in our blood stream than that, but I can’t recall anything other than the herb. We had no papers, no bowl, nothing except the mountain dew cans we were drinking. So I told her I would fashion a pipe out of that but she insisted on doing it because I was driving. I tried to explain that I was a damn professional at this type of thing but I folded and let her.

She fucked up the first attempt and put the can in between the 2 front seats. I told her to crush the can but she didn’t listen. She made another one and we got high. A mile or so after the bay bridge we got yanked by a police and ended up getting jammed up. The reason they searched the car was because they saw that fucking can I told her to crush.

Long story short, I think my dad may have had to come pick us up and her parents as well since we were minors.

I think about how young I was and how angry I was. How troubled I was. How lost I was. It’s pretty crazy that I took a turn down the wrong road at such a young age. I got high for the first time in 7th grade for christ’s sake.

The last couple of days I was fortunate enough to have my ex step son over. I love that kid so much. He’s halfway done with high school already. My oldest son is the same age I was when I first got high. And I see myself in both of them.

My son constantly blames me or anyone else within finger pointing range for his problems. I sometimes have no patience for it. I hate that about myself but it’s true. I can still do that myself. I also hate that.

My problems are my problems. My past is my past… of my making. Same with my future. But are my kids’ futures (until they reach a certain age) also of my making? Somedays I hope so and sometimes I pray that that isn’t the case.

My selfishness and lack of any kind of grip on reality has me believing that not only can I bounce in the middle of the night and leave these kids and this wife behind, but that I can also take all this rent money, drive two and a half hours away and buy drugs with it, flip enough to get it back and stay high for the next week or so. 

The kids are in bed. The wife just looks at me with that look. That “I know I can’t stop you. I just want this to stop. Don’t you see what you’re doing to us? This all has to be just a bad dream look” And says…

“Be careful.”

Be careful? Careful was something I thought I was being. Reckless was more appropriate tho. The shit I did that night. I really have no business being alive. My kids should be fatherless and one of them not even born. My parents should really only have one son. The MANY (and I mean many) much better people than me, the good ones, the ones who just lost their way but never really caused half the pain I did should still be alive and I should be on the other side. The pain I have seen in the families of people very very close to me always seems to just be so unnecessary. But it’s real and it’s there. And I guess so am I. So there’s a reason for it. 

I’m not beating myself up here or drowning in my own self pity, no. It’s not like that. I’m just making an observation. 

So I took the drive, money in my pocket, paraphernalia in my dip and delusion in my head. 

I put myself around some very dangerous individuals and did some very dangerous things. The types of scenarios where guns are present. Where duckin in allies from the cops happens often. Where white boys on the block is a rarity. But the drugs. The heroin. The coke. I need that. We need that. I spent up and shot up most of that rent money. I went back with very little. The whole time I didn’t think about her, or my step son or even my own flesh and blood. Nobody. Just me and that dope yo. 

Yesterday after an especially long day at work I drove the hour plus to pick up my little, then drove the almost half hour home, then talked to my oldest about how I had to talk his vice principle out of giving him ANOTHER after school detention for misbehaving in class because “Sir, I appreciate you want to teach him a lesson and I do also, but he is trying. He is doing better. You must see that. Giving him after school detention is going to hurt me more than it helps him. I just can’t afford to take off work early again to come pick him up. Can we just give him like two lunch detentions?” and started making dinner. 

I did what I always do and fired up the beats pill my uncle gave me and began to cook. I had a moment when I could remember getting in trouble in that same school that my son is in. Sitting in that same principle’s office. Then being so shook to come home because I knew what would happen. I would most certainly get that belt. And I did. And I became very grateful for that one moment. It was very odd. Not resentful. Grateful. Happy even. Happy that my father disciplined me. And grateful that he did his best for me. And I remembered how internally disturbed I was as a kid and tried my best to hide it. 

And I thought about what Canaan must be going through. 

And I turned that fucking music up as loud as it could go. 

And my little came into the kitchen and started dancing. And I started dancing. And Canaan came in and saw us dancing and he smiled. He laughed. And he started dancing. 

Now, you can think this is corny or cliche or whatever the fuck you want, really, I don’t care. But to me… that is G-d showing Himself. 

It was without a doubt the highlight of my week. We all were singing and dancing and cooking and just enjoying our lives. No beating. No tears. No fear.

After we ate I was able to talk to Canaan with love and he seemed to not only understand where I was coming from but appreciate my view. He’s an amazing child. I hope one day I can be as strong as he is. And more than anything I hope he doesn’t have to travel to the hopeless, dark, death encouraging, desperate places I did in order to find himself. I hope that he can find his G-d before having to go through that level of pain. 

And after I missed with the first shot and probably pumped enough in me that I should’ve went to the hospital, I looked around the parking lot and scanned to see if anyone was watching me spazz out. I fucking beat the shit out of my steering wheel. Ripped my hat off my head. Pulled at my hair like a maniac. And I cried. I completely lost it.

There’s no worse feeling than when you need something in order to be ok and to not have it.

It’s scary. It’s fucking frightening. The only thing I can think of to make me feel better is gone. I can get more, but that takes time. That takes blood. That takes me risking my freedom. Hurting people. Lying. Stealing. That takes effort. I just want to be better.

So I managed to pull myself together and looked around the parking lot. There were people doing everyday things. The old black lady who was dressed like she was going to church was putting her groceries into her car. The people on the street were trying to get a hack. The dudes selling sticks of deodorant and 3 packs of tube socks were lurking, breathing in that cold air and exhaling that hot breath that I could see from 40 yards away. Everybody seemed to have a task to complete.

And now so did I. I’m bout to go get this money. Somehow. Some way. I double checked to see that I didn’t leave any in the bag. Took a cotton shot. And turned the key.

And of course my car didn’t start.

The other day I was walking in the grocery store with my two sons. We were laughing and my oldest son was trying to get me to buy everything that caught his eye.

“Daddy, these are good. Don’t you think this looks good?”

My youngest son followed suit.

“Daddy, look!!! It’s Lightning McQueen cup! I want that, Daddy”

I say maybe another time and keep on down the aisle. My intent was to get a few things, but like every time I go to the store I end up filling my cart. We got to the registers and started unloading everything. I forgot my youngest son’s favorite cereal so I sent my oldest to go get it. After one failed attempt and a quick pep talk, he came back with the Cinnamon Jacks much to my youngest son’s approval.

“Daddy look, Canaan got those Cinnamon Jacks!”

“Yes, he’s a good big brother, isn’t he, Baby Cakes?”

“Yes, Canaan, you’re a good bruva”

We checked out and got to my car. I put Keegan down and the neighboring car door opened up and two people got out.

This must’ve spooked Keegan because he looked at them and his whole face changed. He was shook and I could tell.

I moved in closer and he spun around to me so quick and rammed himself into my legs and squeezed them tight. He needed my protection.

Now, we know as adults there was nothing to protect him from. We know that everything was fine and he was in no danger.

But he didn’t know that. He only knew that shit just got real and the only thing that could fix the situation was his daddy.

Now….

What if I wasn’t there?

What if I was still shooting dope?

What if I was passed out drunk in a vacant?

What if I was locked up again?

What if I was in yet another rehab?

What if I was just living so selfishly that I was runnin the streets of Baltimore like I used to?

How would he feel?

There’s no worse feeling than when you need something in order to be ok and to not have it. 

How frightened would he be then?

I picked him up and kissed him and assured him that everything was fine and strapped him into his seat.

This was not unlike when I was at my worst and G-d assured me that everything was fine and He protected me.

…and He continues to do so…

Even when I don’t see it.

I put on the biggest front when I walked through those doors. Like, I wish a nigga would type of face on. Meanwhile, I had just come off a run and probably weighed like 140lbs. Not intimidating at all. I really acted out in that place. Locked myself in a staff member’s office. Stole the faculty’s coffee. It was the first treatment center I went to. First of many. I didn’t participate. I didn’t try to make friends. I didn’t give a fuck about getting sober or changing my life really. I just wanted the pain to stop and I wanted to get my family off my back. It wasn’t real yet. It wasn’t serious…

…yet.

But in and out of treatment centers, detox’s, jails, mental wards of hospitals, shelters, people’s floors, cars (some mine, some not), apartments and vacant’s I went… for the next like 7 years. And you better believe over that time period shit got very real. It got very serious. It got deathly serious on multiple occasions. The weirdest thing about that was, that I didn’t care anymore than when I  walked through those first treatment center doors. That’s the thing about me; I’m pretty comfortable with being stuck. For the most part at least. Pro’s and cons are weighed and if the situation looks too difficult to change, I just won’t. I’ll get locked up or die first. That’s how I’m wired.

I wish I could say I never wanted to die during that time because I did. Trust that. All the time actually. For some reason tho, I’m still alive.

Today I know why. They’re in the other room right now playing.

I recently lost a very close friend of mine. Not only me, a lot of people lost a close friend. A mother is without a son today. A brother is an only child. A father is without a son. A grandfather is without a grandson. I feel like I am on the bottom of the list of close people to him, but I am hurting over it. I can’t even imagine what those other folks are going thru.

When you run in the circles that I run in, you see and hear of people dying a lot. Young people. Good people. It happens all the fucking time. It’s tragic every fucking time. But what I’m about to say might have you judge me as an asshole or a heartless fuck but it’s the truth.

Most of the time that someone I know dies from the illness I have, I’m not even really bothered. I chalk it up as part of the game. These people knew death was a very real possibility just as I do and they played anyway. They took the risk (just as I have many many many, fuck…countless times) and they lost.

But this boy that just died I helped raise into adulthood. I poured my heart out to him and let him do the same with me. I invested all I had into him and he got happy. He got better. He loved and was loved.

BY A LOT OF FUCKING PEOPLE.

He was was one of the good guys, for real. His smile was legit and made me smile every time I saw his goofy ass. My kids loved him. I can’t really say enough about how important he was to me. But he took that risk.

And I will never see him again.

I went past that first treatment center I went to this afternoon on my way home. It’s vacant now. All the buildings around it are vacant. It’s a fucking memory. A memory that I won’t ever forget. Just like the memory of my homie that just passed away. I put that in the vault and I plan on trying my best to help as many others like him as I can until I die. Maybe one will see things the way I do. Maybe one will be able to raise his kids like I’m doing. Have a career like I have. Chase dreams, be a son, a friend, a brother.

Maybe.  Maybe not. But I will try.

In the summer of 1987 I was 9 years old. My grandmother was 60. My grandfather had gone to bed hours ago. Every night that I’m aware of before he went to the back room, he grasped my grandmother’s hand by her thumb and asked her if she wanted to go with him… She declined every night that I can remember.

After he went to bed she often called her cousin, she would sit and smoke cigarettes and do that laugh she does. It sounded like a high pitched inhale over and over.

I can hear it now.

I can also hear the way she sneezed. When she sneezed she would pretty much move her whole upper body and grip her nose or cover her mouth with the nearest kleenex or folded up paper towel that was under her perspiring glass of iced tea moments before and I would hear:

“Ish shoo!!!! ISH SHOO!!!! IIIISSSSSHHH SHOOOOO!!!”

I laughed every time. I don’t think she ever sneezed just once. it was always in at least 3’s.

So when she was 60 I can remember saying “Hey Mom, I bet you can’t stand on your head anymore. You’re old.”

She responded with a slow deep convicted voice and a half smile and folded up her crossword puzzle.

“Oh Timmy, I’m 99 years old and I can do lots of things you wouldn’t think. One of them is stand on my head, the other is I can knock your block off”

She then walked to the front door which had a diamond shaped window in it, centered in the room with a mirrored wall on the side and the rest wrapped in dark wood paneling which all rested on red carpet.

And then she stood on her head.

She didn’t even struggle when saying while upside down, “Ya see that, Kid? I’m 99 years old and can still stand on my head!”

She sent me off to the beach like everyday almost. If I wasn’t at the beach, she took me to Roses where she bought yarn. When she sent me to the beach, she gave me a single dollar bill or 4 quarters and said “You get a dollar a day. If you want more, you’ll have to work for it.” So I ended up washing the owner of the surfshop’s dog. I sweet talked fries from the corner spot and conned free ice cream and shaved ice. I used the dollar to hustle older kids in pool or Street Fighter 2… and I learned how to get in trouble.

Around 10 years later I was still a con man.

I was still talking my way through life and she was a target.

I used to give her sob stories about this and that and she would almost always bail me out. She loved me and she was just trying to do her best. She let me live in her house. She let me live in her rental house as well. She often paid my rent so I wouldn’t be homeless. She looked at me as her own child.

She once told me that when I was young I would wake up screaming for my mother and the only thing that would calm me down is if she came in while I was screaming and crying and pretended to be my mother so I would go back to sleep.

I stole her medicine.

I used her car to get drugs. I used her money to get drugs. I used her.

Over

and

over

again.

This is how someone like me treats the people that love me.

I know for a fact that I caused her more time worrying than any of the 3 boys she raised.

I will live with that until the day I die.

I don’t get to escape the hurt I caused.

Last week I came home, took my kids to the mall and received some information that my mom mom was being taken to a hospice center by ambulance.

My father told me the name of the nurse attending to her and a phone number to call. He did so with a choked up voice in between moments of long silence while he tried to collect himself.

An hour later I was on my way.

When I walked into the hospice I could hear her voice and rushed right to her and knelt down besides her.

Out of respect for my family I will refrain from going into detail about what happened there. But I stayed in the room with her, I slept in my car for a bit, I tried to just be there for her.

I pulled her hair back for her.

I held her hand.

I once promised to her that all the harm I caused her I would try my best to rectify, to make right out of all the wrong. This was the only way I knew how.

The next day I had to leave. I was a mess. A family member approached me privately and told me how proud my grandmother was of me and how she always bragged about my art accomplishments and my parenting and how bright and beautiful my children were and how I turned my life around.

I lost my shit.

The room emptied so I could be alone with her.

I sat down next to her and gripped her hand by her thumb like my grandfather always did.

She tightened her grip.

By this point she wasn’t doing much talking and when she was, well… she just wasn’t herself.

“Mom, I love you.”

Her eyes opened and locked on mine. My eyes filled with tears.

“I love you too, Honey… a bushel and a peck.”

“Mom, I gotta go now. I have to pick up Canaan.”

“Where is he? With some family?”

“Yeah mom.”

“That’s good”

“Yeah. Hey Mom, guess what Canaan got on his report card?

“What?” she said.

“Mom, he got straight A’s. He got an A in every single class.” At this point it literally took everything I had not to collapse on top of her and just cry but she filled up with life for a split second to say…

“You’re kidding me!?!”

“No Mom, straight A’s. I’m so proud of him.”

She then closed her eyes and said “Oh bless his little heart.”

I had to pull my shit together for a minute or so and I grabbed her hand a little tighter and said, “Mom, I want you to go to sleep now. I gotta go get Canaan. I want you to sleep and go find Pop. He’s waiting for you. He’s been waiting. Go find him and I’ll see you later.”

Then I told her I loved her for the last time and kissed her head.

She was an absolute angel of a woman to me. She left this earth but there will come a time when I will hear that laugh again. When I will hear her voice and see her smile. I truly believe this isn’t the end.

And I truly believe that she is in a better place and in a better position than she was here on earth.

Have you ever worked out in the heat? Worked hard in the heat? Like, dug a ditch or carried lumber or something equivalent in July? Have you ever played a summer sport? Have you ever had sex in the backseat in August? Have you ever had to make weight for a sport and worn a trash bag on you over top of 2 hooded sweatshirts and ran for 2 hours?

I have.

And with things like that come an overwhelming thirst afterwards. I mean, a thirst where I feel like I could fall out or die if I don’t get something to drink. And finally, when I get my hands on something, anything, cold to drink and it hits my mouth, there is some kind of crazy “everything is going to be fine” feeling that comes immediately.

Imagine walking around with that thirst daily. 24 hours a day. 7 days a week.

It’s there with you. It’s there when it’s cold. It’s there when it’s hot. It’s there at work, it’s there at dinner with your family, it’s there at funerals and it’s there at weddings. It’s there when things are perfect and it’s there when you think the world would be better off without you.

That’s what it felt like. The word “obsession” doesn’t do it justice. The word “addiction” doesn’t even begin to spark the true feeling that comes along with it. It’s constant desperation and constant move making. It’s living and breathing for it. The thirst is unquenchable.

I was able to calm it down with a drink. I could forget about it for a moment with a few bong hits or crushing a pill and snorting it. I could escape it for a few hours with a needle full of heroin followed by multiple needles full of cocaine. But before I knew it, it returned.

Every fucking day.

I blew up my relationships for it. I shot out my credit. I failed and left jobs to chase it. I did things, terrible hurtful things… all to quench that thirst. I became someone I never wanted nor thought I could be. Someone that my family and friends often didn’t recognize. I would cut you. I would hospitalize you. I would leave you desperate. I wouldn’t explain anything to you. I would rob and steal from you, lie to you and then lie again. I would cheat on you. I would frame you. You mean nothing. You’re fucking nothing to me. You don’t know what the fuck it’s like. You think this is easy? You think I want this? Fuck you. In fact, this is your fault. This is ALL your fault.

The above paragraph is who I was, and you can believe me or not, but my heart started beating harder and faster as I wrote it and just re-read it. It’s been years since I was that person but it wouldn’t take years to become him again. It’s not fear that caused my heart to beat faster, it’s awareness of what I’m capable of if I go back. It’s awareness of who my sons could grow up to be if I am not around.

I couldn’t count how many times I laughed with them over the past few days. I spent a single dollar bill on them today. I bought Canaan a lemon with one of those candy cane sticks in it from a street vendor at a small Baltimore festival. That’s it. They mean absolutely everything to me. And if you know me, or you’ve seen me with them, you know that’s true. You know I’m not just saying these things. My actions align clearly with my words. I don’t allow excuses of why I can’t do this for them or why I can’t do that for them, no. I excuse myself from doing other things so I can be present for them. And I will admit, it’s not always what I want to do. Imagine that. Sometimes, I’d like to be able to cut my grass without getting a baby sitter. Sometimes I’d like to be able to get a hair cut. Sometimes I’d like to sleep in or hang out with friends. Sometimes I’d like to be able to do art during hours when the sun is shining. Sometimes I’d like to spend the night out.

But more important than all of that, is being there for them. I won’t allow myself to be that person I described above and it starts with something completely unrelated to drinking or doing drugs. That transformation, that regression might be fast or it might take some time, but it will come.

Today I know that only One Thing has and can prevent me from going back and He hasn’t failed me in the 4.5 years I’ve been chasing him. And even though that chase isn’t exactly the same as it was before, I’m still running.

I truly don’t even know where I woke up this morning. I do know I’m disappointed about it. Not that I don’t know where…

…but that I woke up at all.

I managed to get some money and made my way to the metro stop in Owings Mills. When I get there I shuffle right to the ticket machine. My money goes right in and I know exactly where on the screen the next option I need to click will be. I’ve done this before. Too many times for this reason. In fact, I don’t even remember once that I took the metro for nobel reasoning. It’s always been for something evil. In any case, I’m starting to sweat. By the time I walk the short distance to the entrance the ticket is damp. I feel like everyone is staring at me. The businessmen and women. The staff. The hood rats. Shit even the little kids are ice grillin me. It’s like their eyes are talking to me. The eyes of an eight year old are sayin “You fuckin scumbag. One day your kids gonna be my age and you’re gonna be dead or in jail and he’s gonna grow up without a dad or some other niggas gonna raise him for you. Is that want you want, little bitch?”

And this kinda shit happens constantly. And when it happens, I just shake it off. It’s like when you fall and hit your head and see stars and you quickly shake your head side to side to try and get your shit back together. I shake it off and hop on the escalator.

The train is bumpy. The window is like a television to me. And just like life, the picture in it is blurry. Everything is going on outside. People on their way to work. Trees growing. Birds flying. Wind blowing. Cars driving. Shit is moving fast… life is moving fast out there. But on this train, in this body… more specifically in this cold heart, life is dragging on. It couldn’t end soon enough.

Shake that shit off.

I like to look at people. My grandmother used to sit on a bench with me on the boardwalk in Bethany Beach when I was too young to go cause havoc on my own and teach me about “people watching.” She explained that she could sit there and do it for hours. I could never sit still long enough to want to do it that long, but I do it often today.

You would think someone dressed like me, dirty like me, desperate and sick and looking like they’re gonna die any second like me…would keep their head down right? Nah, I like looking people dead in their eyes. It’s weird. It’s like I want them to see how hopeless I am. Either that or I want them to be like “Fuck you lookin at white boy?!?” So we can scrap and maybe I’ll end up not being able to look at anyone ever again.

Long, very long story short… I get my dope and get right back on the train. I decide, “Fuck it. I’m gonna bang this shit right here, I don’t give a fuck.” That was true. I don’t give a fuck. The speakers in the ceiling signal and that same tired ass voice comes on saying “For your safety this vehicle is being monitored…blah blah blah..” I look at the black dome camera mounted on the ceiling, smiling. I give it a wink, and get my shit right. The train is still bumpy, didn’t stop for me just cuz I need to shoot up. But I’m nice with it. I used to be able to take care of business driving with my knees, on an exit ramp…when I still had a car I mean. Imma get one soon though.

I wait till the doors close, somebody is two seats in front of me. I drag my sleeve up, poke my arm, pull that blood up into the chamber and boom. It’s in. The train bumped and I didn’t get it all in, so I just squirt it in my mouth. The train shuffled again, and I missed a little bit and got heroin and blood on the side of my face. I look up and this over weight black woman is looking right at me.

I look right through her and shake it off.

Yesterday I packed the kids up and my friend from Philly up and we drove to that same metro center. I was taking them to the circus. Might not be a big deal to you and believe me, I understand that. But for me, to take my kids to the circus…well, that in itself is something that brought tears to my eyes.

We went into the garage, me and the kids shouting the whole way so we could hear our echoes. It was funny when the baby tried it. Not quite loud enough to echo, but mine and my older sons laughter echoed immediately after every time. So it worked out. We went in and walked right to that same ticket machine I’ve been at many times before. I coached my friend on where on the screen to push and I had a quick flashback. We walked to the same escalator. It didn’t feel like anyone was looking at me. Went up to the landing and boarded.

The train was bumpy still, all these years later. Still bumpy. Only this time, I had my baby on my lap. He was holding my hand. When I tell you for me, this experience was nothing short of magical, you better believe me. I’m not gonna bore you with what happened the rest of the day in great detail. We went to the circus. We walked to the harbor. We walked back to the train. We drove home.

But I will tell you this:

I don’t think I will ever be able to do something as uneventful as riding a subway and not think about my prior life. I don’t think I will ever forget about how alone I was. I won’t forget about how I was suicidal and truly did not care whether I lived or died that day. I won’t forget about how my son grew up for his first seven years on earth.

I couldn’t forget even if I wanted to.

I will also tell you that I am completely ok with that because of how I felt yesterday. I felt the presence of G-d simply by boarding and riding a train. Does that happen to you? It does for me, more often than not. And especially when I’m with my kids. I look at the world differently. The train window holds opportunities to teach and grow and be taught today. It’s a very rewarding way to live and I couldn’t be happier about it.

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.