I Hate Your Addiction….

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I hate your addiction.

I hate that I know the lingo of your damned existence; the way the words so easily fall from my mouth as we discuss things like “steps”, “triggers”, “and paths to recovery”.

I hate that even 200 miles away I can tell the difference between a call that is missed and a call that is ignored.

I hate that I have learned the rhythm of your tides and I can feel when you are being pulled from the sober river waters and pushed out into the drunken sea.

I hate that your love for me has been drowned by the liquid you crave as I patiently wait for your love to surface for air.

I hate that I can hear your voice as you say my name and know if the next word you are going to say to me is a lie.

I hate that you have made me the keeper of your secret, when sharing your secret would free us both.

I hate that, day by day, you steal away the dreams and adventures that I had planned for us, along with the worlds we were going to create and explore.

I hate that you were once my Salvador Dali, but you have become too encumbered by holding your vice that you have no room left in your hand to hold a brush.

I hate that I can’t yell, I can’t get mad, and I can’t lash out because I fear that every conversation will be our last and, if it is, I want you to leave this world with my love by your side.

I hate your addiction.

I love you.

I love that you are still the boy I became friends with when I was twelve years old and was afraid that I wasn’t going to make any friends.

I love that we used to laugh through class as we would cheat on science tests because you knew I would always get an “A”.

I love that you sat beside me through my depression and never judged me when the tears would fall.

I love that you agreed to any and every idea I had because you knew that, if we were together, it would always be an adventure.

I love that you were always the last one to watch me go and the first one to welcome me home.

I love that you call me every single day in January to wish me a happy birthday because you can never quite remember which day is actually my birthday.

I love that you believe that I am amazing even when my self-doubt threatens to take over.

I love that I can’t picture a life without you because you have become a constant fixture in my heart.

I love that, after all these years, you are still the first person I run to with every failure and every triumph, that you are the man that has loved me more honestly than any other man ever has, and that you are still my very best friend.

I love you.

I hate your addiction because I can’t hate you!

Father’s Day 2015: I Remember the Shoes

Dad wedding

One of the worst things about loss is that it is completely unpredictable. You never know how it is going to feel from one moment to the next, or one year to the next, so you can’t protect yourself from it.  A friend of mine who had never experienced the loss of a loved one before asked me how it felt.  The best way that I could describe it was to say that it is like walking through your house in the dark.  Without really thinking about it, you know how many steps it takes to get from the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen floor.  You know how closely you need to walk to the wall to avoid hitting the kitchen table.  But every now and then, someone will bump into the couch and move it over just one tiny little inch.  One tiny little inch is all it takes.  You run right into it, jamming your toe, and before you can stop yourself you are withering in pain while a string of expletives escapes from your mouth.  You learn how to navigate the darkness, but you cannot predict how subtle changes in life will sneak up on you and trigger a pain that is always there, just below the surface.

Today, this picture was the couch.  I stared at this picture and what I realized was that I remember those shoes.  I remember how much those shoes hurt me and how desperate I was to take them off.  I stood holding the hand of greatness, bathed in immeasurable love, yet I can’t remember how that felt.  Instead, I remember the shoes.

I am a firm believer that love, much like energy, “can neither be created nor destroyed, but it transforms from one form to another”.  I know that my father’s love did not leave this world when he did.  It simply transformed from one form to another and I found it in a million little ways over the years.

I found my father’s love in my Uncle Greg and my Uncle Dan who both stepped up in their own ways to be a father figure to my siblings and me.  Through working on the house, occasionally helping with the bills, supporting our endeavors, providing love and guidance, and sharing their stories of our father with us.

I found my father’s love in my Grandpa Tony, a man who had no blood ties to us, but still loved us as he did his own grandchildren.  His love for my father has brought me so much comfort over the years.  Even now, 29 years later, the mere mention of my father’s name stirs up visible emotion within him.  He is a reminder that I haven’t glorified my father; he really was as great as we all knew him to be.

I found my father’s love in Frank, the man who married my mother.   He became a father to me when I was 19 years old and already knew all the ways of the world.  He loved me through my arrogance and helped me to grow into a person who now knows that she doesn’t know everything. He challenged me to learn more, do more, and be more and he supported me every step of the way.

I found my father’s love in my Pappy, a man who knew me for only a moment but still offered me the world.  We met in the midst of a disaster ten years ago, and I still think about him all of the time. Somehow he saw both the little girl inside me and the woman I had become and he believed that I was capable of anything.

I found my father’s love in my “chosen father”, my Jack; another man who left this world long before I was ready for him to go.  Jack loved me with a quiet acceptance that I never once questioned.  He nurtured the learner, the explorer, and the wanderer in me.  He showed me that life is light, music, art, and taking care of things that grow.  He reminded me that there is power in silence, there is peace in silence, and silence could bring me the stillness I desired.

So while I look at this picture and I only remember the shoes, I know that my father’s love was there as I clung to his finger, and it has been there every day of my life in all of the men who have loved me with my father’s love.

Happy Father’s Day!

Lent 2014 – 14: White Noise

Oh boy, it has been two weeks and I have reached the end of everything I have to say.  Seriously, I have said it all.  This is it.  If you know me, you probably don’t believe me, because I always have something to say.  Some opinion to share, some comment to mutter, some will to force upon someone, some joke to crack, some smart assed comment to make, some word of encouragement, some endearing sentiment, something.  I always have something to say.  But what if, with all my words, I’m not really saying anything?  What if my voice has simply become a white noise that people tune out because they are so used to hearing it in the background?

I wonder all of this because I work with a very unpleasant person and I see aspects of myself in her.  I see aspects of myself in her and I loathe her.  It’s like she is every bad thing about me all rolled into one person, and I hate her for it, just like I hate the parts of myself that she mirrors.  She is noise, she is constant noise.  She is banging, and slamming, and shaking, and there is nothing soft or delicate about her.  She is bossy, and rude, and abrasive and I feel her words cutting into me each and every time that she is around.  She is arrogant, presumptuous, and assumes that she is always right.  She is a constant buzz of negative energy like a swarm of African Killer Bees.  She is noise, and I just want her to be silent. 

I see her and my mood instantly changes and I get angry with myself for letting someone have so much control over how I feel.  I see her and I get upset because I wonder if that is how the world sees me.  I see her and I find myself questioning if I could learn to love her and, in doing so, learn to love the parts of myself that are just like her.  I see her and think that there is no way that she will ever change, but if that is the case, that means that there is no way that I will ever change.

But what if that’s the answer?  Maybe she’s not the one who needs to change.  Maybe I can change for the both of us.  Maybe I need to reach out to her with an open hand of love, instead of a clenched fist of hate.  Maybe I need to show her gratitude for the positive things that she does have to offer.  Maybe I need to find a way to forgive her for her shortcomings and, in doing so, find a way to forgive myself. 

I started this post thinking that I didn’t have anything to say, but I am finishing it realizing that I haven’t said enough.  I need to open my heart to her, just like He did to me.  I need to welcome her, honor her, and thank her for being a part of our team.  I need to tell her that she has value, that she is wanted, that she is needed, and maybe she won’t need to fight so hard to make someone see that.  Maybe I won’t need to fight so hard either.  Maybe.

Until tomorrow…