The Good Son — Bigger Than Christmas

The Good Son. When you're the only son, I guess this title trips you up sometimes, just by default. One of the benefits or mortifying truths of writing these things and posting them immediately is the feedback. It's just incredible how off the reservation my memory has lurched in so many ways and with such solid collaboration from multiple people. Make no mistake, I ruined Christmas for everyone that year. If only I was a sociopath; what an achievement to have that much power. But I'm not; I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a sociopath. If anything, I suffer from pathological empathy at times, although not much of that has been on fucking display in these stories. I really don't know how far the ripples of my collapse traveled outwards, but I know I fucked Christmas up for everyone I truly cared about. Even the dogs were confused. They couldn't make sense of all the excitement right on the verge of happening and then just people crying. They don't like people crying much at all.

I woke up today to some messages about what I posted last night. I want to get this right. I so desperately want everyone I love to be seen in the best possible light. No one came at me, correcting me or pointing out flaws or selfish oversights. I think we all agree on the overall story. I'd become a junkie. My parents found out, and everyone had an awful Christmas and then some. And maybe that "some" lasted for years. But my memories are very different at key points. What seems to have happened is even worse than my recollection. I guess even in my memory of my worst moment, I spared myself some dishonor.

The whole filmstrip trip with Jack to cop and get loaded in my Dad's corvette seems to agree with the general sentiment. But it wasn't that I just arrived home with no Christmas presents and a sock full of dope after Leslie calling and spilling the beans. No, I'd found some whole new level of tunnel vision to travel down of which I have no memory.

I fell in love with Leslie in our rural or at least semi-rural little town. I became friends with her sisters. And I certainly became friends with her parents. Her Mom was like some European princess who had somehow been shipped off to some backwoods plantation and told to wait, and eventually, her flock would follow. By that, I mean she was regal. I truly loved Leslie's Mom. I'll say the same thing about her Dad, so you may not believe it as maybe it feels like I'm just trying to curry favor after the fact. But it's true. I loved them and, more importantly, I really liked them both a great deal. What this was bound to do to them was no small issue to me. I guess I just thought that the explosion in my own house would be so tremendous that I'd just never hear of any repercussions, like how they put out forest fires with dynamite. If the thing blows up big enough, there's just no oxygen left for the flames.

But Leslie's Mom. She was regal in the best way I can describe it. She held her head high without cruelty. She maintained appearances without demeaning others. At least, I never saw this side of her. I just knew I could make her laugh and felt completely open around her. She was an actual friend if such a thing can be said about the mother of a girl you not only love but have wild sexual fantasies about.

Leslie's Dad was just kind. While my Dad was kind and outgoing, it seemed like he was kind and inward inviting. He was ready to accept you if you came into his orbit. My Dad was more about widening the orbit. Both were beautiful, and I think that's why they liked each other.

Jesus, I pray that this is not the moment that propels someone to message me and tell me that our parents didn't actually like each other. That somehow, I have all this fucked up too. But I don't. My parents loved Leslie's parents because I loved them. God, there was so much love rolling around the hills of our youth, and even without the heroin, I don't think any of us really understood how precious it was. Nothing matters in this life except love. It forms the basis of every fear, every desire, every question and hopefully, every answer, and yet we talk about it like it's some throwback hippy trapping that we should be vaguely embarrassed by. I love you. You. You who are reading this right now. I realize it's a fucking easy and empty thing for someone who's caused as much pain as I have to say, but I do. I have to. Otherwise, I'm just that same shell, looking at my shoes in the garage, something in the shape of me, but not actually a person, just a malformed scarecrow. So, believe it or not, I love you. I don't really care what you think of me saying that. I'm not an idiot. I know how it sounds. But the cost of this life is telling people you love them even if it confuses them. I've tried everything else. Nothing works.

And so, this is what I didn't remember. Evidently, we all had plans for my family to go to Leslie's house and have dinner with her family or maybe just desert or who knows? The messages haven't got that detailed. But there were plans, and I just never showed up. When it was time to go, my parents were left wondering where I was. Long before cellphones or even pagers. I was just a no-show on the night before Christmas Eve when we were all meant to go to Leslie's and be happy. I mean, that's always the plan, right? Be happy. And happiness is a purely good thing. It's not something to be cynically debased. And I was nowhere to be found. From what I gather from my Mom and Leslie, some phone call occurred likely from my Father in some perplexed, worried state of mind because, remember, my entire persona my entire life was The One Who Never Causes Problems. And I guess, I hope. I pray that Leslie just said something like, "Jesus! I just can't do this anymore. I'm out of ammo. I can't keep lying for him and for me and for us." And somehow, it all came out. Jesus Leslie, I did so much to hurt you, but putting you in that position to talk to my Dad at that moment is the worst. And it's just today that it hit me. And it only hit me because we spoke. I had no sudden epiphany where I saw my fault. I was faced with it. My memory of the night was a little easier for me. I was still to blame, but there was some choice on your part. There really wasn't, I don't think. 18 months of watching my inane and delusional daydreams and deflections came to a screeching halt holding that phone next to your dark hair against that beautiful ear on the other end of my Father in God knows what sort of state. I can't write any more about this because I wasn't there. I was off somewhere getting high. So, I'll shut the fuck up. But Leslie, you're the hero of this whole thing. I suspect it's not any honor you want, but it's the truth. Someone had to have the guts to derail this catastrophe, and you took your shot.

I talked to my Mom today. She read what I posted. I asked what she remembered. She tells me she was sitting in the family room waiting up for me after the phone call. The gig was up. She remembers my Dad had gone to bed. Likely not to sleep but somewhere dark and alone. She remembers me coming in, and she started crying. She told me that all I said was, "I'm still the same person Mom." And we hugged. That feels good to hear that. It casts me in a beautiful, vulnerable childlike light. But I don't deserve it. Even if I said it, I was trying to escape the wrath. Maybe I wasn't. Perhaps it was real. The whole night is so fucked up no matter what memory you go with. And I think of so many friends who had nights like these weekly, daily for years. Friends like Richie, whose parents tried to hug him back to life for years, didn't work. You see, this is the thing. This is just one story. It's my story. It feels incredibly singular and important to my family and me. But people have these moments, and people die from Fentanyl and Meth and Xanax and bullets every Godamn second. But this is all I have.

The pain I caused my Mom was enough, no matter how mundane. And I can imagine wanting her to believe that underneath this heroin addiction, I was still her son who went on picnics with her, made candles with her, and decided to let me take off days from school to just hanging out like buddies. I want to imagine that. Someday she'll be gone, and these memories will be all I have. No one should outlive their parents. What do we do to deserve such pain? If we could only just die together in the same exact flick of a switch of a bored nurse in some Johns Hopkins back room. How far is Heaven? I'll go tonight.

At some point, my parents called my Uncle Bud. Uncle Bud, the doctor. Uncle Bud the doctor and the fisherman, and the lover of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I had a chance to get him a signed Koufax ball once, but it fell through, and it killed me. What I wouldn't give to hand Uncle Bud a ball signed by Sandy, his hero. Again, my memory of the next day, Christmas Eve, is foggy, but Uncle Bud is there at some point. I guess he came because there was a family crisis. I remember sitting on the couch with everyone around me and being silent while Uncle Bud asked me questions about my use. I knew nothing about addiction then; I knew nothing about getting sober. I'd never conceived of a place like a rehab. I just knew that if I didn't get enough of this stuff in my body, I wanted to die. I actually felt like I would actually die. I knew intellectually that wasn't the case, but I'd experienced enough kicking to see that it felt like a fight or flight reaction to imminent death. And so I'd do anything to get it in me. Imagine being that strung out on pizza, or apples or reader's digest. It's ludicrous. But man, I'm telling you…

I always thought the best of people. I still do. I don't give myself a pat on the back for it, it's likely naivety, but I felt like Uncle Bud was there to help. But I just felt like there was a huge part of this thing he was missing. It was all about detox meds, and somehow I knew it went way beyond that. But he drove there for hours on Christmas Eve. And God love him for that. It's truly one of the main reasons I wanted so much to get him that Koufax ball. The worst part is I got one. Signed to Mike. I cherish it because Koufax is my hero, too, but if one of us deserved it well..

The day went on, and I know I tried to cop Dilaudid from a friend who Jack knew in town. A friend of a lot of us. I won't mention his name. I was on the basement phone trying to arrange for me to somehow get there and him run out, and some whole big fiasco, but my Dad came downstairs, and it was all over. Later that night, I found some Librium in an upstairs bathroom, crushed them up, and tried to shoot them with a filed-down basketball needle taped to a turkey baster. I did that. Imagine all the steps of such a project and all done in moment-to-moment secrecy. I wound up with just a big welt on my arm and felt nothing.

I asked my Mom today what she remembered from Christmas day. She told me she walked into my bedroom, and I was asleep on my stomach with my face pointed toward her. She says she remembers that clearly. I told her I couldn't even imagine sleeping in my bed. She said, well, you were. She told me she sat on the bed, and I woke up, and she told me I was going to rehab today. She tells me I begged to have at least Christmas Day at home, and I'd go tomorrow. Somehow that's what happened. I remember talking to the intake guy on the phone. The place was called Changing Point, a place outside of the city. It's funny because I've been that guy on the other end asking all those intake questions so many times since starting to do what I do now. I've done so many "intakes," "pre-intakes," and "BPSs." And I was just trying to get one more day. It's nice to think that I just wanted to spend Christmas with my parents, but I'm sure there were some ideas of somehow getting high one more time.

But, it was arranged. I'd prevailed. I was going in the next day. I was relieved, actually. The game was over. I was no closer to heroin than I was to, well, imagine the most wildly filthy and fantastically decadent person's body you can summon. I was that far away. And I was tired. I'm sure I spoke with Leslie, but I don't remember. My memory of those 3 or 4 days can't total more than 2 and a half hours total. What the fuck are we here for if nothing ever sticks?

By the end of the day, things had settled down. It was the three of us, Mom, Dad and I, just talking. The poor dogs were still a bit bewildered but attempting to settle in. We don't care enough about how our choices and actions affect our dogs. They're little pieces of God sent to keep the fire from swarming over every tent. Every village. At one point, and I surely remember this, my Dad gave me my Christmas Present. Just typing those words breaks me up. He said, "I got these for you, pal; we'll see what happens." He was so excited about how excited I was with the Dodgers winning the 88 World Series, and he just assumed I'd been building a life there with Leslie that he got me what any real Dad would. I opened up this envelope, and it contained a voucher for 1989 Dodger Season Tickets.

I just can't even go on