my fifth step

[honeydumplin]

There was a full moon the night I stood at the bottom of my
parents driveway on the side of the road. I'll never forget,
looking up into the night sky at this very large full moon,
blaming it, as if it were to be held responsible for what had
just happened.

I can remember during the middle of fight with my father,
looking at him and telling him that I was the monster that he
created. Nothing else about that argument can I recall, other
than finding myself standing there with a paper bag of clothes,
shortly after the sheriff's office had been called.

I disagreed with her on everything under the sun, and the
rain. When the sun was shining, she'd insist upon an umbrella,
and when the rains came she basked in the glow of the sun.
Her reason behind the decisions, which justified her rationale
hit me in the face often. She was a control freak. I was obsessed
with the abuse.

The only time I chose to be around the woman who'd pick
me up on the side of the road that night was when I wanted
to either eat something from her house, drink her wine and beer,
or sleep in her bed. When I got tired of her company,
the only thing she'd see was the back of my head going
out the front door to chase another drink and a hit.

I used individuals, establishments, employers. Much more
if they were close to me, than if they were strangers.
The bar I'd set for others crept higher. It was a set of standards
no one could have possibly adhered. And so the isolation. And
so the bar for myself crept even lower.

I moved into a garage apartment, a short walk from my preferred
surroundings, party central, the battlefield that choices become.
Those that, for quite some time, laid the ground work for what
was to evolve.

Even without wheels, how much ground could be covered
either by walking, getting a cab, or catching a ride, was incredible.
When all else failed I would take the last bit of change I had and
call up this woman, and she'd come and pick me up from a bar,
or in some cases, a street somewhere in a desperate state.




Back at my little apartment there was this steady flow of alcohol,
pot, coke, and any form of humanity or lack thereof that would
accompany it. Ex-cons, future cons, wives cheating on their
husbands, husbands hiding from their wives, cocktail waitresses,
street *****s, and crack queens. Invariably, stuff would disappear,
and I would have no idea if I had lost it, left it somewhere, or perhaps
had it stolen.

This place was not Fort Knox. Half the time the door was unlocked.
One night I remember, I gave someone money to go score. And when
they didn't come back, I thought oh well, guess I was took.
Well, the next morning she returned, and still innocently, what scam
there was continued to work. I let her right back into the apartment.
Something told me though, when she picked up the only cast iron
frying pan I had that this wasn't going to end pretty. Some guy
suddenly appeared as her escort.

Well, after realizing that she wasn't getting any more cash from
me, she gently smacked one of the windows, and walked out the
door with the pan still in hand. When I followed her out, that's
when I spotted the dude with her, and let's just say, I'm glad that
the window was the only thing that was broken. She knew enough
to keep that pan though.

And it was exactly things like this, that fear that was now
beginning to grow. I started looking over my shoulder.
I gained yet another excuse to despise people, even when
their motives were sincere.

If this is what it takes, telling it, sharing it--for once opening up
about it, I want that. If that's what it takes in order for a guy like
me to stay sober, then I want to be that guy. Inventory
does this. It keeps me coming back to the point of not only
recognizing the perspective, but also the true relativity of
taking responsibility for the past in all of its forms.