That's how it all starts, you know. The despising, the hate, the hatred, the sorrow, the destitute. The feeling that you're all alone.
There have been several reasons for my several week departure from svengali and its furies. They all haven't been problems, and some of them have. Those that weren't (problems, that is) probably derived from the constant thoughts of my inefficiency that have been lingering in the back of my head since I was a wee young lad. And those that were (problems, as you might have guessed) still exist. Well, a few of them anyway. I was able to provide a solution for a few of them - I'll give myself that much credit.
People have accused me of being distant. Not just now - all my life. Since I can remember and to this very day my father claims that I never talk to him, and although I always argue that that I do... I know he's right. To be quite frank, when it came to matters of the heart and troublesome soul, my father was never the right person to go to in MY mind. So I never did. And to be quite frank once again, he probably never will be. That is something that I wish I could change, but I have no hopes for it.
There are a few shining moments in my life when I seem extroverted. I think I appear extroverted to a lot of people. I've moved around a lot of times during my short lifetime, and whenever I meet a new group of people it comes naturally to interact with them, to become friends with them, and to hold them close to me. But then after awhile something kicks in. An inevitable wanting to be alone, to sit away from the world and away from the people that I have grown close to. I don't know what I can connect this particular character flaw of mine to - possible something in my childhood that I don't quite recollect clearly, or maybe the fact that two of my best friends when I was younger died in a car accident. Possibly, but I've always doubted that. Mayhaps it's time I embraced it as a possibility.
For all my wanting to be alone though, quite recently (being the last two/three years) I've been enjoying the company of my peers. There have been a few hitches along the way, such as separation through school, work, and other things of that matter, but there have been a few us that have jelled together through the thick of it. There ARE good friends out there, you just have to realize when you find one and hold on to them.
And indeed, I have. Until the past month. As I headed off to a new living domain I found myself happy. The past summer had been successful (whatever that means), productive and exciting, all in one blast. Problems with my family seemed to be resolved, and I was hoping that I was going to cruise into a bronze, if not silver/gold/platinum era of my life. I began to take classes and my new job in stride, trying to leave any unhappiness that I might have possessed before behind. Things were going well.
Then, I got four calls.
Call one - the apparent arson act upon my mothers house. "The left side of the house burned quite nicely" is what I remember my mother saying in her let- me- pretend- I- don't- care- about- this- disaster voice, while I new inside that it was eating away even more at her already dilapidated soul. I feel for my mother. Even as I type this I feel the muscle tissues around my eyes wanted to swell and mourn for all the incredible terrible and hurtful things that have happened to her that NO ONE besides me and my full-blooded sister know about. And yet, while I know all these horrid things have happened, I hear my voice on the line, cold, seemingly uncaring, only acting instinctively upon the fact that my mother didn't know how to be there for me in my younger years. I imagine that she would have been a most remarkable sister. But I love her. And someday I need to make her feel that I do.
The second call - my baby sister (born only this past summer) will not be able to live with my dad's wife for a year. As you may or may not know, my father re-married to a lovely young lady 24 years his junior, and quite surprisingly, I took to her very well. I didn't expect that I would, but for the better, I have opened up to the fact that she is now part of my family. Now, this all doesn't seem like a travesty, but think upon this: this new young wife, who I can here crying in the other room every time we leave Montreal begging my father to stay another day (she lives in Montreal, while we live near Philadelphia), must be without her new daughter, her new husband, and her new surrogate family that has accepted her openly, for most of the upcoming year. My heart breaks when I think of this. Maybe living without us (the surrogate family) could be dealt with. And perhaps the same with living without my father. But her newly-born daughter? The despair. The way she must weep at night when she thinks about this must be overwhelming.
Call three - my disheveled father informs me that he found condoms in my just- turned- fourteen year old sister's bag. In my completely dysfunctional and filled- with- scandalous- events family, my sister has been the closest person I have been to, perhaps because we born of the same parents, but more likely because when she was younger her goodie- two- shoes self was trustworthy and we stuck together, even though I was sometimes a jerk of an older brother. I remember her telling me everything, and her voice two months ago when she confirmed that she still told me everything. I remember when she told me that she would always tell me everything, even if she were ever going to consider having sex. And now, my lost and lovely sister, no longer shining bright, speaks back to both my parents, doesn't listen, and quite evidently doesn't talk to me anymore. I think I corrupted her. At least she IS being safe, but then again she's fourteen. And then again, she told me she would tell me. Flush our once closer than twins relationship down the drain and accept that she is growing, and probably will never be as close to me again.
The final call - possible cerebral hemorrhaging occurring in my fathers skull. As I've stated many times, I have never been close-close to my father once he first moved away from me when I was 6, but before then, I clung to him, crying every time he left my side. I think I cried the night. A lot. And every time my father gets sick, I want to become THAT me again, the once openly loving son, clinging unto my father, begging him not to leave, wanting to tell him that I love him. I don't think I've ever told him that I've loved him. And even if I pack my thinks from 45X Locust St. to stay and take care of him, I probably won't. I wish it weren't so.
So as I type at a computer terminal at school, thinking about homework, work, money, my family and life all at once, I can't help but feel that life is bleak. Looking at the lovely young lady sitting at the terminal beside me makes me feel worse, as I see her face smile every 2 minutes or so, while she reads the several emails that she's received today. I wonder. Are they letters from her friends? From her parents? Telling her that they love her? I don't know. I can't quite see her screen from here. Rather I see her, hear her giggle and laugh. I wonder if my emotions are as evident to her as her emotions are to me. She probably can't tell, I've always marveled and cursed myself for being able to disguise my dark feelings so well.
And to the reader: I didn't mean for this entry to be this way. I just needed to vent, write, and subconsciously share. I think it was a healthy choice. And whether or not you care, it seems to have helped somewhat. My problems and character flaws are still here, and may be for some time, but I do feel better.
Maybe that platinum era might still be around the corner.
a-freak-a-deek-io? all the time baby.