I’m Going Home.
Fourteen years is a long time to be cut off from the world. Most people I know can’t imagine not speaking to their parents for very long, and almost everyone I know will not go very long without seeing their parents, no matter the circumstances. I used to think that was weak. Do for yourself; you’ll be just fine. Now, I’m not sure anymore.
I have not seen my parents in fourteen years, and neither of us have indicated a great desire to see one another. The endless battling between my father and I was the main source of contention in my old house. In the end, they are better off without me, and vice versa. Read to the end of this before you pass judgment.
Not every family gets along in the traditional way; sometimes, people are better left separated. My sister and parents all still live together and have a great life. Dad has gotten a lot of his anger issues under control, my sister has finished college, and my mom gets to take it easy more often. I, of course, have a very good life at the edge of Middle America.
There’s a cold finality that sets into the center of your being when you know you can’t go home. Life becomes very simple; fend for yourself. Learn to survive on your own, or die. And dammit, you know what? I got really good at it.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when I realized I didn’t need anyone to take care of me, but it was coldly liberating, I remember that. Complete and utter freedom; free from what anyone else thinks, free to follow your own rules (and suffer the consequences), free to do as you will. I finished high school on my own, saw my first son brought into the world, all while living in the Tenderloin, where there was one bathroom per floor in most hotels.
Fighting was a rush and a release. First, I wasn’t that good at it (although I thought I was), but as I got better at it, it became so easy to let go of everything and lose myself in the moment. I didn’t have to think about the child I left behind, the hatred for my father that fueled me, I didn’t even have to think about what I’d do for dinner that night; I just had to beat the holy shit out of the person across from me.
Something I never confessed was that every single time I finished a fight, without fail, the first thing I always felt was regret. I used to think it was because of how badly I beat the other guy (I would often imagine my father while I was fighting. I went over the line in quite a few of my early fights).
But when it comes down to it…I haven’t seen my parents in fourteen years. That’s a long time, in fact, it’s too long, to live with so much hate in your heart.
Living on my own for this long, transitioning from homelessness to stability and gainful employment has taught me to think and rely on myself no matter what. I will always believe that the mind is one’s greatest resource. Learn to solve your problems, learn not to be afraid, learn to analyze and rationalize your fear. Learn to adapt; if what you are doing is not working, then try something new. Your own shortcomings are no one’s fault but your own, but if you look at them as opportunities to better yourself instead of placing blame, you can go very far in life. That I’m still alive is proof of that.
But…there’s always a but.
I cannot get close to people. Intimacy scares me more than anything else in the world. People almost inevitably let you down, right? People are out for themselves, and they’ll say the nicest things to your face while plotting your destruction. Need no one. Have nothing in your life that you can’t walk away from. Let know one truly know you and gain an advantage over you. Never place your fate in another one’s hands.
I’m almost thirty-four years old; the world is a different animal than the one it was when I was in my twenties. I have screwed up virtually every single relationship, platonic or otherwise, that I’ve been in. It’s a day-to-day struggle to keep my self-destructive tendencies in check because I hate getting close to someone…anyone.
My biggest regret? The shitty relationship I have with my kids. I can say what I like about my father, but he was there in my life. I’m a voice on the phone to my youngest son. Yes, my kids scare the hell out of me, too. All those questions I have to answer.
I have pushed away so many beautiful, wonderful people who did nothing wrong but try to love me. In the end, I found some skewed, screwed-up reason to get away from them, and I vanished.
I may be a coward, but I face my fears. This is why I’m going home for a few days…
I already set the wheels in motion. The flight’s been booked, I even got the time squared away from work (how’s that for God’s will? All the time I’ve missed, and I am not only free to go see my family, I will be not lose time for it). And now, about one week from the trip, I’m about scared shitless.
I don’t think seeing my father and mother will be like some miracle cure-all; it will be a start. I miss my hometown. I miss BART, I miss the red brick street of the Civic Center, I miss the smell of the bay on the breeze, I miss the view from the fourth floor of the Virgin Megastore, I miss the ginormous five-floor main branch of the San Francisco public library. I miss playing with my kids…hell, I miss my kids. Terry went and turned fourteen without me. We talk on the phone, but it’s not like I’m actually there, you know?
I’m tired of that fire-like fear that boils up inside me and makes me awkward when someone looks me in the eye for too long. I’m tired of expecting the worst in people (and I’m fed up of always being right, when it comes to that) I don’t want all of this rage and hatred anymore.
I have to go home for a bit.
Anyway, that’s your foray into my head for the week. Thank you for reading. God bless and be safe.
(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC
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