They’ve seen how far you’ve come. They’ve seen you climb out of that, mind you several times over, but they’ve seen you beat it. So why would they leave you now, just because you are finally filling in blanks for them, telling them things they have long suspected anyways. Things that even if they didn’t suspect, probably wouldn’t surprise them in context with the rest of your life before meeting these amazing women.

So maybe I’ll go with this part of my brain. Yeah. I’ll let myself remember. I’ll let myself feel. I’ll let them see me. Of course, that means that I first need to see me. Ah, back to that starting line again… maybe a ciggie first. Yeah, nothing like a bit of nicotine to help clear the thoughts and give me some breathing room before launching into something… especially something as heavy as this. Fucking starting line…

* * * * *

I never met my dad until this past year. Never thought about him before then. It’s hard to miss something when you don’t know you’re missing it. I remember my mom partying a lot. I remember lots of men coming and going with her. I remember some of them taking interest in me. Sometimes it was nice that they paid attention to me, sometimes I wish they hadn’t noticed. I remember wishing some of them didn’t stay the night, didn’t know where my room was, or knew I slept on the couch when I didn’t have a room… whatever. It wasn’t a regular thing, only a couple times. But mainly I remember the drugs, letters coming in the mail that would make my mother pace, cry, and get high. I remember when, along with the letters, would come the landlord banging on the door, and us ending up in one of three shelters we frequented. If I really think about it, I know more time was spent living in one of those shelters than in all of the apartments combined. Then somehow we’d end up in another apartment for a while and the parties would resume. As would the letters, that as I got a bit older recognised as bills. The cycle would continue.