I Chose Water Over Wine

I’m not above being human. But when I bleed, I remember just how much it means to be just that: human.

I haven’t talked to my paternal family since my father’s funeral, and even then, we didn’t really talk so much as act out cordialities because everyone was under strict orders by both my half-brother and one of my aunts that I was not to be talked to (this was due to my having contacted a lawyer after my half-brother forced me out of the apartment my father and I shared, and took everything my father owned including cars, keys, wallet, etc.) In any case, I’ve been having dreams lately, a cross between recollections and nightmares, and so naturally I became curious as to how they were doing, because despite everything that went down, they will always be a part of my blood. I typed in the cousin I’d grown up with, but it was difficult finding him so I remembered that our first cousin had a Facebook and went from there. At first I didn’t recognize him, not because he’d changed drastically since I’d last seen him at the funeral, but rather because he was wearing a heavy amount of make-up I believe was for some kind of senior event. Anyway, I started looking through his page, his about me, his wall, his available photos, and the more I saw, the angrier I became. It was the kind of anger that gradually burns, like a small spark so infinitesimal that one need not be cautious, but suddenly, I was bursting in flames, spitting up ash and acrimonious remains.

I think even then, I’d already realized that what I felt, more than anger anyway, was jealousy. Resentment that this privileged, supercilious brat, would have the opportunity to graduate, to attend college, to not have to worry about paying the bills or tuition for school, where his next meal would come from if a next meal was possible at all, how he would major in Korean and Physics even though he has no relation to the former and his sudden interest came from a book he stole that I was gifted with by an uncle on my mother’s side; so many incriminating and spiteful thoughts. And then I thought of my father.

Before my father died, his family and I were already at odds. All because he’d sent me to his mother’s during the beginning years of my battling Major Depression, and their not having enough decency to let me live through it. They would constantly mock my having to take pills, hand me Catholic brochures saying it would save my life if I prayed, talks of what was bothering me, why I’d wanted to kill myself and why I felt sad, why I was “skipping” school, taking the door of my room away, call me, leave messages or email me about how I was being selfish and that I was “hurting” them. They would question me in confidence only to turn around and gossip with the others in haste, leaving me mute and unable to trust anyone. So I left, but not before returning to grab my things only to realize that in only a week’s time, my room had been turned into a storage room, my personal belongings thrown haphazardly, a few books missing from my collection, and a slandering message on my white board.

I never saw them again until the hospital where my father had died. The entire week was an emotional rollercoaster, from dad only wanting to speak to me, to apologizing for everything that had happened, to falling into a coma, fighting against the claws of the Reaper himself, and finally having all of his support ripped out from him. One thing that stood out to me most during that time was when my grandmother, uncle, aunt, and I, were sitting in his room counting down his final hour. My grandmother took a hold of my hand, squeezing so tight, that it was no longer the chill of temperature that numbed me, and as she did that, I kept telling myself not to squeeze back, to not give in to the momentary warmth I felt from another being in that death-filled hospital room, but I had a second of weakness, and as I was about to return the hold, she let go, so abruptly that it was like I’d dreamt the entire thing. But it was at that moment, that I knew, the ties that had held us together, as frail as they were, were no longer in tact. I wasn’t even able to say goodbye properly, to have a few moments of alone time with him, I just rushed out of that hospital as fast as I could in any direction that could take me the farthest away from him, them.

That night, I’d gotten a phone call from my half-brother asking me if I had keys to the apartment, at the time, I was at the beach with my mother talking about what had happened and what that meant for me. I said I did, I didn’t think of the consequences or even intention of the phone call, I hadn’t even the slightest of brain cells left. So he asked if I was busy, if I could go to the apartment and let him in. I eventually did, but what happened next was both surprising and unsurprising: he said I’d have to move out. To take my things and move out, and if I didn’t have a place to stay, I could move in with the family again. My mother called a family friend who was a lawyer to deal with the situation, I packed up and moved in with my mother.

Two weeks later, the lawyer called to say that my half-brother had “invited” me to my father’s funeral, saying it would be “wonderful” if I could make it. I went without question, but with my mother and brother in tow. They had me sign in as if I was a stranger, then had me stand in front with the family who was wearing white while I was a stark contrast in black. No one talked to me, barely if at all acknowledged me, the people who came no more a friend of my father’s than mine. I knew not one of those people, and I wondered about the people my dad did know, the men and wives who I’d grown up with. They never showed, perhaps were not invited, or were preoccupied with other things. My father was honored in a house full of strangers. The burial was no better, the obvious divide between our family was obviously seen, and the same cousin I’d looked up on Facebook had glared at me with scorn the entire time having blamed me out rightly through messages and emails that I was at fault for his “pain” and the fact the family was divided. Then again, sometimes the lies we tell ourselves become the only truths we know. But who am I to say he is wrong? He has every right to say or believe as he wishes.

I don’t even remember why I wrote this in the first place any more, only that I was angry and needed to have something been done about it. But now, all I feel is an engulfing sadness and an asphyxiated chest. I just, I don’t want to be the one who loses everything, but I don’t want to make it to the top only to realize that I did it for reasons other than my own. I’m tired of being angry, and yet every time they come to mind I feel bile bleeding from the very core that keeps me whole. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forgive and forget. On mornings like these, it seems very unlikely.

This entire post is childish in every way, but I feel like if I didn’t have these moments, I’d never quite be sane. Not that I usually am, but it relieves me of some of the insanity locked away in me, the demons that claw away when no one is watching.

P.S. You know what? After skimming through this (I’m not capable of full reading at 4:05AM) I think the reason for this post was to place partial blame on my father who had left me unprotected in many ways, even after his death, and the fact that scars received from childhood are always the deepest. I’m not saying my dad was a bad person, because I have many fond memories of him and he really did try his best with me, but ultimately, when the going got tough, he always left me for the lions to eat. And I think the child inside of me, never quite forgave him for that.

P.P.S. There’s one particular dream I have of my father besides the one where he’s attempting to jump out a window (I don’t remember if I ever wrote about it, I might later since both Father’s Day and the one year anniversary of his death is coming up), it’s where we are both sitting at a table in the Old Pancake House where we used to eat breakfast every morning, he: eggs, canadian bacon, and toast, me: french toast, omelette, toast, or whatever else I felt like eating that day. As we sit, it’s as if I’m waiting for my dad to say something, and suddenly, I start crying. I can’t quite explain what is going on, but my father is so clear in my mind as he says that he’s sorry, asks me to stop crying, that’s he’s tired and places his head in his hand, elbows on the table in resignation. I always wake before the dream continues, but the scene never escapes me.