Motion Masquerade

If I had known how my absence would impact my family I might have never left. My hope was that it would bring them some peace — relief from all of the anger, resentment, and bitterness that I carried in my heart and bled all over everything I touched.

The last time I saw them I could see my pain refracted in their eyes — they were frightened. Each one of them haunted by the wraith I was becoming, scared of how little I resembled my former self. I was powerless to stop the metamorphosis and my time was running out.

My sister was also drowning and she was less fearful of death than I. The last time she had attempted to take her own life she had nearly succeeded. The next time she most assuredly would.

I saw her a couple of months before I disappeared and she promised me she was on the mend; but, she’d made that promise half a dozen times before and then ended up in the psych ward post-suicide attempt once more. When we parted she held me long and tightly — as if saying goodbye for the last time — and I saw grief behind the smile that didn’t meet her eyes. Her madness was stealing the sands from my own hourglass. We were both stranded in the eerie twilight of a darkness most people can never hope (or let’s face it, want) to understand.

My disability didn’t permit me the freedom to run around and play with my son as I once did; and, I felt guilty about not being the man he needed. The pain in my body was so great that I couldn’t stay in one position for more than twenty minutes at a time and the pain killers left me feeling simultaneously groggy and on edge. I drank to dull the rage seething inside every one of my cells; and then, felt less like a father for doing so.

Johnny is an intelligent, empathetic kid; and, he was starting to take on the role of a caretaker. He was seven at the time. I’d seen what that burden had done to my sister. I damn sure wasn’t going to let that happen to my son.

My parents were no longer living a life of their own; and though my father never came out and said it, I knew he felt trapped.

They had taken in my sister’s son in his teens; and now, they were taking care of mine. Ma loved being around Johnny and doted on him unconditionally; but, Dad didn’t have the patience being a full-time parent to a lil’ one required anymore. He just wanted to enjoy his retirement in quiet solitude.

When Ma wasn’t taking care of Johnny she was playing nursemaid to me. She chauffeured me to every specialist — orthopedic and neurological — within a thousand mile radius looking for a solution to my back problems. My folks were spending hundreds and hundreds of dollars trying to heal me; and I couldn’t be fixed. The worse my physical health got, the darker my mind became.

I once told Ma that I was in a really bleak place and needed help. She was sanding my deck at the time (My sixty-five year old mother was refinishing my deck because I couldn’t do it myself. How’s that for emasculating?) and told me that we would find a psychiatrist as soon as we got through my next surgical procedure. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was only going through with the next one for her.

My brother is my favorite person in the whole world; but, he is deeply flawed. He’s a drunk and an atheist. Aside from blood and love, we used to have almost nothing in common. But then, however, I could see myself becoming more like him, and it scared me to death.

I didn’t used to be able to understand his anger and bitterness — his resentment toward the world — but then, I started seeing things from his perspective.

He’s a miserable, lonely bachelor who thinks he has nothing to lose… and without my son — who I was no longer able to properly raise — so was I.

I used to think I could save my siblings. You can’t save others if you can’t save yourself, though; so, what good was I to them? Really?

I believed in God, but I didn’t think he believed in me.

I spent countless hours talking to my pastor about my faith, and how it was waning in the face of my difficulties.

“God never gives us more than we can handle,” he would say.

And I would reply, “I’m at my breaking point. God needs to reevaluate his metrics.”

I had always had faith. I believed I’d been a devout servant. My prayers grew angrier and more vehement. I didn’t feel like I was being heard. I couldn’t understand why I’d been abandoned in my time of deepest need nor why God would forsake my son through deserting me.

The worse my pain got, the weaker my faith became. Eventually, my heart and spirit shattered.

To be continued…

This post is in response to Motion Masquerade’s Music Challenge.