One of the main things that keeps me writing in such a cryptic manner about my life, is that I do not want to come off as disrespectful toward anyone. At all. Ever.
Even if it does come across that I may seem angry or hurt, it isn’t anyone’s fault at all – I choose my own reactions to things. Sometimes I forget this, and I end up hating myself for running my mouth about shit too much. I try to tread ever-so-softly on that baseline. The idea that we’re all sharing our experiences, that they’re all intertwined in some way or another.
Coming off as disrespectful would demean that idea.
I’ve been through a lot of really weird shit in my life. Some of it has tested my resolve, while some of it was certainly of my own doing. Most of my early life I was dead set on destroying myself, whether it was through drugs, alcohol, purposely poor choices, or just stupid reckless abandon. I was a fucking mess, for sure.
I’m quite confident that if you took a handful of people together from throughout my life, and put them all in a room together and had them share stories about me, you would come out of that room thinking they were all talking about different people. I’ve been a lot of different things for a lot of different reasons. Not to mention being something different for a lot of different people as well. The consistent part, or at least the part that I’d like to hope has been consistent, is that I’ve always done the best I can possibly do in any given situation.
Although, I am quite sure that there are people out there in this great big world who would probably beg to differ. And they’re not half wrong at all.
You see, sometimes I get totally fucking paralyzed. Yes, I am openly admitting this. I’m not sure what triggers it, but when certain situations arise, I just do nothing. I shut the fuck on down. I stop answering my phone. I ignore e-mails. I don’t do a fucking thing. This is just Standard Ops for me when the shit gets too weird.
When this happens, it is almost a certainty that someone within my world will have their feelings get hurt. And it isn’t that I am unaware that this happens – they mostly let me know right quick-like that I have disappointed them in some way, which does kind of fuck me up a bit. But for some reason, the part that fucks me up(admitting this makes me feel odd, FYI) for realsies, is that the person that is hurt/offended/disappointed thinks this will somehow change this pattern in my behavior, or even impact the situation at hand in some way. I’m not that malleable, really.
Granted, plenty of amazing people have influenced me throughout my lifetime, and had some kind of impact that brings about some more flexibility and change in my internal workings and make-up. But on the whole, I’m just a mess of ideas and actions/reactions, built from the ground up out of my own experiences. And due to the fact that I am not nearly as intelligent as I like to delude myself into believing I am –
I fuck shit up all the time.
Here’s the shitacular and uber-honest part of all of this:
Half the time, I never really even feel badly. Seriously. I just feel, I don’t know… numb is the only word that comes to mind, which makes it sound even more demeaning and selfish than it is meant to, but that’s the only word that comes flashing into my mind right now. It sucks that people get their feelings hurt when I shut down, but I cannot be some dancing monkey or the clown with the water pistols all the time. I love my people, I really truly do. The people I have in my life are all amazing and beautiful, and I love them all like we share the same DNA. But I just sometimes need to shut it all down and do me, and me alone.
That’s just about my chosen family, the people I choose to surround myself with. My given family? Shit, son. That’s where the monster lives.
I disappear on my family all the time, man. I am The Disappeared Boy Formerly Known As Sean Hamilton Doyle.
I’ve tried really hard to figure it out, too. A lot of it is totally based out of fear. A lot of it is also about preconceived notions of who I am. Yes, given bloodline family knows who you came from, so they kind of have a handle on the make-up of you. But when your life has been as weird as mine, it isn’t that black and white. My given family knows who they want to know.
Not everything is ever as it appears to be in life, from what I have been able to gather and suss out on my own. My Parental Units were not saintly. They were human. And now that they have both passed away, so much of my life is in a constant state of flux and questioning on my end of things. As much as I thought I knew them – I just didn’t. Like everyone else on this rock, even parents wear a mask when they feel like they have to. Difference being, at least in my case, that the masks are all I really know. I cannot discover their true identities through the good graces of my family telling me about them, as I have 23-skidoo’d the fuck on out on them, too.
There have been plenty of things that have gone down in my life that some members of my given family refuse to even acknowledge, which is fine – I sometimes like to bury my head in the sand about unpleasantries as well. But in doing so, it discounts my human experience, which in turn creates distance. I’m grown, you know? I’m grown, an orphan, and a fucking survivor. None of those things can ever be taken away from me, so questioning it only makes me want to split, which is even easier for me than I wish it was.
When my Parental Units packed up house and moved us out to the desert, it really fucked things up for me in a lot of ways. I lost the closeness and warmth of what I thought my family was. I lost out on so much by being out there, where the scorpions and the spoiled rich kids dwell. They took a kid from Brooklyn, with wide-open eyes and a wide-open heart, and dropped him right smack in the middle of a school full of haves, where I was the super-secret have-not. I was too fucking smart, which turned me into a smartass of the highest caliber, basically just pissing on my teachers because I was bored and restless. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I just didn’t. Ever.
I grew up all kinds of fucked up, really – always knowing deep inside of my heart that I belonged to Brooklyn.
It took me a number of years to gather up the testicular fortitude to bring my monkey ass back upstream to Brooklyn. My cousin helped me get here, expressing on my behalf to members of my given family that I truly needed to be here, to be near family. To be home.
And, as has been the pattern since my spawning, The Universe got me real good as soon as I let my guard down for a nanosecond. It was only Day Four when my grandmother had a massive stroke/heart attack combo right in front of me in her kitchen.
She didn’t even make it through the summer.
Shit just kind of snowballed from there. Death. Non-Consensual Polyamory. Alcohol. Chasing loose women. Xanax. Reefer. Hitting the wall. Running away for 90 days down in Arkansas. Trying to get clean. Hitting my stride with my writing. Getting conned – not once, but twice, by the same person. Cancer. A call for help. Running to Santa Fe to take care of my father. Hospice. Battles. Morphine. Death. Wills. Estates. Strokes. Hospitals. Deaths. Trying to drink myself blind. Chasing loose women. Mixing the Xanax, the reefer, and the alcohol in disturbingly dangerous levels. Wage Slavery.
Cut to rightfuckingnow:
I don’t know how I got here, but I’ve been sober for almost two years now. Not a drop of hooch. Not one bar of Xanax. Not one puff of reefer. I held down a job like a motherfucker, up until recently when this War President economy fucked shit up for everyone, and they had to close up shop. I’m married to a wonderful and amazing woman who just so happens to also be my best friend in the world. I’m open and honest in the friendships I have now, and developing those friendships feels good to me, like there’s no reason at all why I would skip out on anyone. The Wife and I even rescued us a little wiggly critter of a pitbull, and we love her dearly. Shit, I’m so grown I have a dude who walks our dog for us half the week because we work so much.
I’m going to keep on working hard on the me inside of me, because that kid? That kid is still kind of broken. I’m going to keep on trying to keep my head pointed forward, instead of being on that constant backward swivel it used to groove itself dry on. I’m going to keep staying in touch with my amazing and beautiful sister, who was missing for far too long from my life. I’m going to keep on growing.
I just sometimes get all fucking choked up inside, because the people that I truly miss the most aren’t around to see it. To witness.
I’m going to work on not disappearing anymore.
I miss my family.
It’s time to fix that, too.