Regret

Darkness blankets us as we drive down the familiar road, quickly finding a space in the restaurant parking lot. We walk and talk with the clock ticking as she is due at work soon, or so she said.

It was like old times, the relaxing feeling with her, talking of everything and desperately wanting her. The red hair sparkles as we pass each street light.

When the time to leave finally arrives, we stand in a dark hallway - I want to kiss her, but she keeps walking. I can not reach her. Before finally departing, she turns to face me.

“Do you regret it?”

“The time spent with dad, no.” We had talked endlessly about our fathers.

“No, all of it.”

I stand motionless, stunned, as she turns and leaves. I will never see her again, but her words stay with me - like a blow to the head, taunting me.

“Yes.” I finally mumble after a few minutes processing and debating - I decide she was right, I regret every decision (or non-decision) that led to this very spot.

I finally sit down as my life tumbles through my mind. I want to change so many things, I want to bring her back, but it is impossible and the reality stuns me. Was she ever really there?

I lean forward, face in my hands and think tears will flow, but rather a deep sigh escapes and I vigorously rub my eyes. I know, everybody knows, there is nothing to do. After all, what’s done is done.

I wake and look at the clock, there is more time to rest. I lie back, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all of the mistakes.

Dark Cloud

you can do no wrong

the sky is clear 

to do list items appear

and vanish 

i can help

tell me what you need 

i am a sponge

soaking up everything 

let's hang out

conversation flows 

laughing is contagious

smiles plentiful

plans made

show up on time 

one mistake

one wrong turn 

everything changes

mind is cloudy

too much to do

i will help later

just let me lie down

need rest

overwhelming

there is no time

smiles disappear

a quick nap

excuses made

let's reschedule

See you later

dark clouds upon me

I am fine

I wake and feel the all-too-familiar weight of life on my brain, the dark cloud has returned. 

I am fine. 

I will myself from bed, robotically dress and prepare for the day. 

I am fine. 

I stand at the door, do I really have to leave the house today? 

I am fine

I push my body - one foot in front of the other - to the car and away we go. 

I am fine. 

I don't normally drink coffee, but it suddenly seems like a good idea - jumpstart the brain, yes, I say and join the snake of cars at Starbucks.  It is bitter to taste. 

I am fine. 

Smiles and chatter assault me as I find my seat and setup. 

I am fine. 

I answer the many questions about weekend and current weather with no memory of what was said. 

I am fine. 

I stare at the screen, joining all meetings via Zoom, why am I here? 

I am fine. 

Problems arise that are quickly addressed, my stomach grumbles. 

I am fine. 

I avoid the lunch invitations and sit quietly in my car in a parking lot down the street, consuming food that is not good for me, but is greatly satisfying today. 

I am fine. 

Afternoon meetings whiz by as people flee the building early to 'avoid traffic'. The office is now quiet with most gone. 

I am fine. 

I force myself to wait until after 5 to leave, creeping out the back door to avoid the remaining prisoners. 

I am fine. 

Traffic is a mess, but easily navigated. The car returned safely to garage, I close the door behind me and flip shoes across the room. 

I am fine.

Missing

[Lighting up, the couple in an apartment after dinner, a jumbled living area]

“Are we really going to do this?” She mumbled into his mouth.

“I think so.“ He pulled away and sat back. He had been on cruise control.

“No, I want to, it just seemed, I don’t know, we’ve been so close so many times,” she reached for his neck, pulling him closer.

“Yeah, there have been a lot of false starts,” he laughed.

“Say it first.”

“Say what?” He did not realize there was a script – at home, they just went at it, but this was all new. Was there a magic word? He immediately thought of saying please.

Silence, their faces inches apart – she squinted, seeming to will him to read her mind. The hot breath on his face was disconcerting.

“I want you so much."

“I need to know it is more than that.”

“You know that.” 

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.” Her tone was annoying.

“Do I?”

“I love you?” He hoped it didn’t sound like a question. This seemed like what she wanted to hear, but it was weird to say it. He hadn't said it to anybody in years. An hour ago it may have been a true statement, but now?

“I love you too,” she beamed while reaching back and pulling the white polo over her head.

Their eyes met as he pulled his pants down and nearly tripped.

They fell to the couch. This always looked so much easier in movies. It had been so long, it was a strange. 

“Do you have protection?” She planted her left palm on his chest like a crossing guard saying stop. 

“What? No, I didn’t think this would happen.” He rolled to the right and awkwardly tried to rest on an elbow.

“I think Dave bought some a while back. It was a big box, so one won’t be missed or maybe four!” She giggled, rolling off the couch while scrambling through a previously unseen door.

He surveyed the room and its jumbled contents. There was her husband’s stereo; his cd collection; Red Sox championship hat and there on the mantle a picture staring down on him.

“Here we go!” A square package landed on his chest. 

“Give me a second,” he fumbled with it and the moment passed – he no longer wanted to be there. He felt the eyes of the husband squarely on him. He leaned back with a heavy sigh. He missed is wife.

Hello?

I wade into the water, pull the spear back and thrust forward, hitting the fish, sticking it to the sandy bottom. I remove it and eyeball my handiwork before returning to shore, laying the fish across the flat rock letting the sun do the cooking. I think back to eating fish with my dad years ago, as the bones frightened me. Dad would place bread on my plate - eat it if I choke, it would push the bone loose, which made no sense. Thankfully, I never had to find out. There is no bread out here and I am an expert at navigating the boney terrain of the fish. I wipe my hands on a leaf and lean against a tree, promising myself I would never eat another fish if I ever get rescued. I close my eyes and hear a rustling in the distance followed by what sounds like a whisper.

"Hello!?" I stand up, create a megaphone with my hands and call out. This isn't the first time I have yelled like this.

There is silence as I stand there with hands on my hips. My body suddenly goes tense as my mind tells me what could be out there. I take a few steps backwards and pick up the spear - a solid fishing pole, but a weapon? I hear more noise in the distance - a low hum and then chatter or what seems like it. I wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me, but that usually happens in the darkness - I never knew it could be so dark.

My heart races as I start walking in the direction of the the sounds, it is the other side of the island. I realize it may not be good what I find, but I don't care. 

Reconciling

[I look at the old picture - the small blonde headed boy in the man's arms.]

I am perched in dad's protective arms, cradling me in his right arm with the left one providing support. He is turned towards me, smiling while I am turned away - maybe I had just said something? Or, s he leaning back to help with the picture being taken of me? Mamaw took the picture, was it supposed to be of father and son or just me? Whichever, it is funny that neither of us are looking in the right direction.

We stand in the hallway of Mamaw's house - the shiny wood trim decorating the hallway - her bedroom door is just visible in the background. I walked that hallway so many times as a child and later in adulthood. She often was my babysitter when mom and dad were out. They are picking me up from one such night. Moments after this picture, I sit on dad's knee as everybody talks. He bounces me and I eventually puke on him and the floor. There is no scolding as they clean me and everything else - he is gentle and comforting. I felt safe with him.

It has been just over two years since dad passed away and this photograph sits on my desk - as always. It is proof, at least my own, of his humanity and love. A tear appears as I hold the picture today. I included this photo in the funeral home slide show. At one point, I told its story and it is met with shaking heads, disdain and negativity.

Nowadays, the photograph makes me nostalgic and keenly aware of my own mortality. I have a similar picture with me holding my grandson sitting nearby. Both images make me smile and stress how quickly things change.

Those who knew dad like to say I am a much better father than him, but really they base this judgement on stories - stories that have grown over the years. My memories of dad are chocked full of good moments. The bad stuff happened when I was an adult as we locked horns over and over.

I miss you dad. 

Writing as Therapy

"Here's what I want you to do this week I want you to write, keep a journal of your daily journey and/or struggles. Better yet, write a letter to those that have harmed you - lay it all out, but do not mail it. We can discuss here. Can you do that?" Carolyn, my therapist, awaiting my reply.

"You mean like a diary?" This felt like a less-than-manly concept, I knew my brothers would ridicule it if they found out.

"Well, we like to say journaling, but it is the same concept. Just keep a record and bring it with you to discuss, okay?"

"Sure, I can give it a try."

The day's session ran on a loop in my mind as I headed home. It felt good to actually tell somebody the truth and not be judged and actually take my side. Then again, were they not paid to take my side? I berated myself for once again failing to trust somebody.

I found an old notebook  in my desk and immediately tackled the day, writing details on the daily session and the rest of the day. This continued for a few days with some sense of monotony as there was nothing interesting, and then I remembered the instruction to write a letter to those that had harmed me or at least that is how I viewed it (they would strongly disagree if asked). 

I sat back in my chair and stared out the window. A picture of mom standing with me and mamaw caught my eye. I felt the emotions percolate, I turned to a blank page and addressed the letter to mom. I write Dear Mom, but strongly considered To Whom it may concern. I laid it all out, the lack of support, the parentification (I did not use the word but more laid out what happened) at such a young age followed by the overwhelming pressure to always take care of her and everything. 

Carolyn was right, it felt so good to get it out onto paper. I reread my composition and read it again, making a few corrections. The shame and anger stirred deep within me. For a moment, I doubted it, doubted all of it, but then again a board certified professional backed me up - she had actually provided the ammunition, the words for what had happened. I felt my head shaking up and down, agreeing and validating my prose. I reached for an envelope, then a stamp and prepared the time bomb. 

The letter stared at me the rest of the day as I moved around the house. Finally, I grabbed it on my way out to run errands. I drove straight to the post office, dropped it in the familiar blue box outside and returned to my to-do list.

"You did what?" Carloyn was incredulous when I relayed my handiwork during my next weekly session.

"I figured it was better to get it out there, let her know how I truly feel." I put up a good front, but the time bomb I had mailed scared me plus there had been no word from my mother, so it still had not arrived.

"Why did you think it so necessary to mail it? I specifically told you to not do that, the exercise itself is therapeutic." She sat back with arms crossed.

"I don't know, well I do know, I became more and more angry as I wrote it. Besides, it is all the truth."

"The truth according to you."

"Wait, what? We have discussed this, like almost six months now, you agree with me, you told me what it was." I suddenly felt like I had been setup.

"Yes, we have done a lot of work and I do believe and agree with you. It would be healthier to have a discussion with her, bring her in here in a safe space to hear her side, discuss and work through issues."

"Now you tell me this is the plan?" 

"These things take time, there is no express route."

"I think mailing that latter may be one." I laugh and shake my head.

"This is funny? Do you think she will laugh?"

"I never said that, but it is funny in a harsh way so we'll just see how it goes."

In the end, the letter never reached my mother. This was fifteen years ago, so I finally asked her directly a couple years ago and she received nothing. Did I address it wrong? Lost in the mail? I will never know, but it is worth noting that I never discussed any of the issues directly with mom - further therapy decided it was not the best idea.