SHun

Relation

All relationships I have had have been affected by [t]ions. Starting with the most important relationship, my family. My mother has him the most. She has shown me unconditional love after watching me, for years, lead a life of self-destruction and deterioration. She has told me how she could never go to sleep until I was home. However every time the phone rang at night she awaited the call from the police or the hospital. Both of which she received numerous times. She has had many sleepless nights in anticipation of the phone call where she would be asked to come for body identification. She has called the cops on me numerous times because I was in drunken rages and she was afraid. Afraid of what her own son, who she loves more than anything, we do it at her. I have forgotten her birthday and Mother's Day on numerous occasions. And not missed by a few days. One year I remembered close to Christmas. My mother's birthday is November 3rd... Or fourth, but a month and a half? Come on! Son of the year, I will never get that recognition. I rarely have been able to give her any sort of emotional or mental or physical comfort. She has been verbally attacked and disrespected with words and suitable for once worst enemy. Thankfully, I have never hit her, to my knowledge, but she has been cornered, grout, and at least on one occasion nearly thrown down a flight of stairs. I'm sorry mama, I never meant to hurt you, and I never meant to make you cry... None of this I remember. None of this I doubt. I never would have done any of this had I been in my right mind, in any kind. I love my mother. I vaguely remember a time she had a slight black eye. She told me it happened at work. Now, I'm not so sure. Her house, which she works so hard to buy and maintain, was a punching bag for me. Pictures cover the holes in the drywall and immature patch jobs cover holes in bedroom doors. At least twice I kick the back door in and busted the frame because I couldn't find the house keys. Both times, the keys were in my pocket. She has hitting my car keys, and when that didn't work, resorted to removing the distributor cap to prevent the engine from starting. The years of abuse she's gone through on a daily basis cannot be properly described in a page or two. Yet she's been able to excel at work, and school, and as a mother. I can't put myself in her shoes. I can't imagine what she's felt in the heart ache I've caused her. Mother forgive me I have failed.
My father has given me every opportunity to make the right decisions and pass on knowledge and wisdom. He has been supportive. The difference between him and my mother is that my father is less tolerant. The position he takes is one of he cannot help me if I don't want to help myself. He's also asked me why I can't just stop drinking. This tells me how different his mind works than mine, and my mother's. This tells me he has no way of understanding how difficult every day is for me to get through. Some time ago before our last major fall out he mentioned, "Nobody ever said life was easy." Without missing a beat and looking dead in his eyes with pain and desperation I replied, "I know it's not supposed to be easy, but it shouldn't be this hard either." I respect and admire my father. He is a great man. He is smart, resource full, humble and strong. Unfortunately, aside from some physical characteristics, I don't see many of the qualities I respected him, and myself. I relationship has been strained due to my last episode I previously mentioned where I let myself into his house and fell asleep in a pool of vomit and my sister's bed. That was a few years ago now, but still the damage has yet to be repaired. Although he has not yet completely written me off, I'm not sure if the relationship will ever be the same. I have and will continue to separate and distance myself for a while. Not even the time he came to visit me in Connecticut and I came home hammered and challenged him to a fight in my front yard was I'm warm barest and humiliated as I am because of this last incident at his new home in front of his new family. Let me also add that even though we are the same height, my father has 50 pounds on me, is twice as strong, and was an all-state wrestler at Brockton High School. My dad would've kicked my ass that day. My father loves me. We don't tell each other that, but I don't doubt that fact though. I don't believe it sometimes, but I don't doubt it. I've seen my father cry two times in 34 years. Once was that his father's funeral and I was so shocked that I didn't even have the courage to put my arms around him and comfort him. The other was when I left California in 2002 to return to Connecticut where I would return to my life my parents desperately wanted me to escape from. It was like he knew I was walking in to a death sentence. Was it because you thought he would never see me again or because he felt like he failed as a father? I don't know. Whatever it was, it hurt him though. Only one of those scenarios are true. He has not failed as a father. I have failed as a son. Father forgive me I have sinned.
My sister Victoria. My mother adopted Victoria from Latvia when she was six. According to the orphanage, she'd been there since she was a newborn. I still remember when Papa and I went to pick my mother and her up from the airport. Victoria spoke no English when she arrived. I can't imagine how she must of felt. Being in a stranger in a new family. A stranger in the New World. But she had a smile so bright and eyes so wide for a chance for new beginnings. New comforts and love of a family that only a child yearns for, especially a child born in deprivation of those comforts and love that no child deserves. I was 14-ish, almost 15? And by this time I was well on my way to addiction. It was my responsibility to help look after her. After all, I was the man of the house. Every day I had to pick her up from school, take her home and get her started on her homework, and maybe grab her a quick snack to hold her over till dinner. I was always there to pick her up. Almost always. When we got home I want to talk to her. I didn't help her with her homework. Spent no quality time with her. Nothing. My current therapist may call this an exaggeration of half-truths, Sir and cognitive behavioral therapy identify and traits such as polarized thinking, overall generalization, jumping to conclusions, catastrophizing and, personalization, Control fallacies, blaming, shoulding on myself, emotional reasoning, or global labeling. I'm literally flipping through a worksheet that she gave me a few weeks ago that's been sitting in my backpack and most of these apply, and some I can make apply loosely I admit, but I can identify with everything. I am not disagreeing with any of the CBT approach and have found to believe in much of what I've heard so far. Seeing its application rather than being able to use the applications in your day to day life are very different though, and I have only been able to master one of these. Sidetracked, anyway, this wasn't because she did anything wrong, and it's not because I didn't like her. The only fact of the matter is, at that time, at that age, it was already too late. I was a horrible, horrible brother. I am a horrible, horrible brother. As soon as I got home I locked myself in my room, had a couple of people over, and was too busy smoking pot and drinking to give her proper attention. To give her any attention. And as soon as mom got home I was gone for the night. Me, Matt, and Victoria went to the mall. I was babysitting and he had to get something. Because I couldn't go anywhere or doing anything without being high, we sat and my Camaro and smoked a blunt in the parking lot of the Connecticut Post mom. I couldn't let Victoria stand outside the car in the parking lot by herself. That was too dangerous. Plus I may have been a horrible brother, but I'm not a monster. The best idea I could come up with at the time was roll the window down a quarter of an inch and smoke real quick while I played the radio and had her read her book. From what I remember she was giggly and kinda loose as we walked through the mall afterwards. She had a blast. Nothing like quality time with Big Brother. She was all of seven years old. As my addiction progressed, my neglect only got worse. My patience got shorter and shorter. She never asked anything unreasonable of me. I just couldn't be bothered. Soon I was asking her to help take care of me. Things like making me food or putting my load of laundry. Even worse than that though was screaming and fighting she heard between mom and me. The banging and breaking of things around the house. The cries for help and the pleas to stop. The birthdays and holidays I've missed, forgot about, or was too busy for. Yet she still is there to give me love, support, and encouragement when I talk to her today. I barely talk to her today. She talks to me like I was always there for her. She talks to me like I'm the best, little, brother in the world. I love you Victoria. I'm proud of you. I am sorry I missed it. I'm sorry I wasn't a part.
My sister Jen is actually a half-sister, but I've never viewed her as such. Not intentionally anyway. Whether she'd use me this way either I don't know. Well at least I didn't when I wrote that. I know how she views me now. Anyway, because I've only lived in California for a few years, we aren't the closest of siblings. We've lived in the same house for a while, I've been jealous of her because she's daddy's little girl, I go to her dance classes in recitals (and it didn't hurt her teachers were NBA dancers), we torment each other once in a while with nicknames like Kathy and smirks behind dad's back when he caved to her demands. So we never shared any deep emotional bond. Probably because her adult half-brother bounces around from coast-to-coast searching for a way to get by. Probably because she doesn't respect me as a role model, brother, or person. Even though she hasn't seen me at my worst (though she's got glimpses on a couple of occasions), she's old enough to know something not quite right with me. Plus, I'm sure she's heard stories from my father using me as an example. A bad example. Other than that, he's done a good job of not allowing her to be exposed to bad me. Because, there was of course the whole being excluded off the airplane in the hall pass fell in vomit in her bed thing. But besides that. When I wrote this, she would be graduating high school the following year. My prediction was I would not be invited. Fast-forward some for five years later, my prediction was correct. I'm sorry we were never close Jen. It is not because I didn't want to be. I remember when you were a baby. When I came out for the summer and Dad and your mother were still together and I would babysit you and change your diapers while your mom slept from the night shift and dad was at work. Means nothing now. I know.
Women. On average, my serious relationships have lasted anywhere from six months to six years. I have head, Mass., or lied about my true colors. Some women have addiction problems like me. Our sickness brought us together. My insanity drove us apart. The women who were not addicts like myself had no idea of what they were getting into. Those women, strangely enough, were the women I've lasted spend the longest with. Manipulation and fabrication or methods to my mysteriousness. My grandiosity. When I want something, I go get it. Camouflaging myself long enough to steal their hearts, I'm a chameleon. Women are not the only one who got hurt. It's taking its toll on me too. Because I have little to no value of myself, I hoped every girl was the one. I fall fast and I fall hard. Always. Sometimes, before we have even spoke. Reflections of the ones that have got away haunt me. Submission in relationships I have stayed in far longer than I should have in fear of being alone forever. As much as I tell myself I'm okay with being alone, the truth is, I can't have kids alone. I feel rejection when I'm alone. I get bored being alone. I can't die alone if I'm not alone. Maybe it's not the most rational reasoning for being in a relationship, but it's provided temporary relief to permanent problems. Being involved with me does have some short-term advantages, although, nothing worthy of a lifelong commitment till death do us part. As I've been dumped and rejected everything I tried. Which is actually true if u look to far into it. I tend to rely on overcompensation in some areas for the minimization of the realization of the truth in others. That I am an angry, jealous, controlling, cheating, lying, and possible to please, quick to do an eight, miserable individual, with a criminal record, I substance-abuse problem, and little to no hope for a productive future. The degrees of these defects varied from relationship to relationship. And I'm sure I'm leaving some appropriate for out, but, yeah. You get the point. They could've done better. In my defense, I am generous with gifts and surprises (sometimes), chivalrous (open doors, walk on the outside, poetic, take off my jacket if your cold, etc., etc., (if you know what I mean)), help with your kids, etc., etc. Maybe I do have some ulterior motives to my behaviors and mannerisms. And I'm sure the end does not justify the means. But I didn't learn the stuff overnight. There has to be some sincerity behind my approach, right? I don't have ice running through my veins, right? I'm not completely heartless, right? Am I?
Friends. Friends come and go. Well that's kind of generic. Everyone comes and goes. There have been a handful of people who have been solid over the years. Most fade away for one reason or another. Granted, many of these filled friendships are my fault. I have used people, let people down, disappointed them, pulled away, broke the trust, etc., etc. An acquaintance I have less qualms about violating. A person I consider a friend I don't have the intention to betray, sometimes, it just happens. Collateral damage. Only when I'm loaded. I could be a solid ally. I'm a much better friend then an enemy. When I get into my disease though, all rules and morals go out the window. Virtually every bridge I've built has been burned down. Even with the few remaining friends I have, they still hold reservations and resentments towards me. I don't blame them. My reputation is fire from respectable. I am not a monster, but I am contagious.