We all have secrets.
We all have secrets and we all have regrets.
Often, they are miles apart.
Often, they are the very same thing.
I have
always been a shit disturber (no pun intended). As a matter of fact, my
humorous debauchery has always come from a more intellectual place versus an
intentional slant or behavioral flaw. It comes easy for me, this laughing at
pain and taunting defeat and death but I am no clown. It is more a reflex now
but in my past I would often play with this sense, just for fun. I constantly
tested the waters and pushed the limits. I have always been a smart-ass, a
joker, an asshole some may even claim.
I knew right away just how pissed off
people would be if I did it. Grade 3 had been uneventful from what I can remember.
When Mrs. Geizler handed out the assignment, I had no intention to do anything
but what she asked. Her mistake was allowing us to pick the historical figure
we had to write about. As Captain America
I learnt, early on, when in doubt, don’t.
I have
collected comics books for most of my life. In my early teens, I used to spend
all my income/allowance on them so securing the yummy treats I loved so much
suffered. Instead of working harder and
say cutting more grass, I used to slip into the A&P and steal anything I
had a hankering for. For weeks, sometimes every day, I would hide candy in my
clothing or delicacies in my underwear. I got good at it and for a those few
weeks I lavished myself in the opulence of thievery. Like an idiot, I
recklessly enjoyed myself. I do not recall ever considering the fact that I
might get caught. With two Jersey milk bars,
one each tucked down into my socks, I stood in the packaged meats/fish isle
considering what sumptuousness to cram down into my nether region. For some
stupid reason, I settled on a can of lobster meat. It was apparent rather
quickly that someone saw me slide the goods down into my pants. As I casually
attempted to stroll out the entrance, I assume it was the manager who
intercepted me and asked for the meat hidden in my crotch. After an
interrogation, they called my folks and they called the cops. A police
officer took me home. My Mom greeted me at our front door then the cop drove
away. “If you’re going to steal
something, why the hell would you steal a can of lobster?” was really all she
had to say. The rest was left to my father. I sat contrite and I swore I would
never do such a sinful thing again. I have to fess up. After all the chastising
and all the consequence, I sat on my bed and I didn’t know what to do. With the
door closed and locked and the curtain completely drawn I reached into each
sock and pulled out my compensation. I ate both right then and there.
You may be sunk, if you can’t be subtle.
I started
smoking on my birthday May 15th, 1983. I turned 18 years old. I had just seen
the film Risky Business (1983) with a
few friends and was inspired to follow the leader. I finally quit in the spring
of 2015, well sort of. For almost 4 decades, I puffed away at death regardless of any
future cost. It was the angina that forced me to quit. Lying on the living room
floor feeling like I was having a heart attack was surreal. Strange, all those
years of wishing I could get off this planet and there I was begging that it
not be my time. From what I understood, my condition was an “expected”
consequence of each cancer stick. It was like I had rammed a whole cigarette in
one of my arteries. It was a constant challenge, the trying to stop. I would
quit then restart, then I would quit only to start again. Withdrawal was a
deadly game, a test of will and the only guarantee was heart disease and yellow
fingers. Over the last 40 odd years, I have scrubbed those fingers more than I
have scrubbed my own ass (so to speak). It was frustrating to have something
control me regardless of what the end result might be. They say its easier to
quit a heroine addiction. I wouldn’t know but I understand. I would secretly
puff here and puff there as I could not seem to fully kick this habit. It was
much more than that. Eventually, all that secret smoking paid off. I went from
2 packs a day to 2 smokes a week in under 5 years. The secret to this grand
reduction lies in not quitting. I simply reduced or used another method. I have
gone weeks and months without a cigarette. I haven’t consumed a whole fag
since. A drag here and a drag there and soon enough there are partially smoked
butts sitting in the tray. I know why it lingers. While more an explanation
than an excuse, it has been hard to completely quit when I continue to smoke
marijuana in the exact same manner. It’s pretty much the same thing. I will
fess up. I have never really quit smoking although I haven’t had a cigarette in
years.
You can never quit something if you don’t want to.
I have to
confess, over the years there have been certain people that I treated as
disposable. It was a common theme although not a regular one. I just decided
one day to move on without even consulting them. Occasionally, I become a ghost. Yes, there were reasons for these
dismissals but in hindsight, a few were entirely impulsive rather than planned.
Even though I had spent so much time and effort in order to establish them, I
then tossed them away like garbage or the last Ed Sheeran CD. Once I have had
enough, once the decision has been made, this cold and unfeeling monster
infrequently sets in. It’s a difficult thing to get past it. Suddenly and the
attachment is gone and complete ambivalence finds its place. I think it’s a
natural proclivity, a coping skill although not always a pleasant one. I met
her when I first moved to Kitchener , long before
Paris
Regret usually occurs once we’ve been caught.
After my
first partner died in 1995, I spent years deep in grief. He jumped from a
building and he abandoned me. I have never really gotten over it. Even though I
went on, continued with my life, there is constant lingering and questions
remain that can never be answered. I have never, not even once, gotten mad or
angry at Doug for his decision. I have not cursed nor have I rejected him. What
he did never mattered, my loyalty to him
has always remained. It’s been more than 25 years and little has changed
in his regard. His stone is still as cold as it ever was and his pictures still
bring me sadness every once in a while. Without a choice in the matter, I have
carried on and rather successfully I must say. I have to fess up. As the years
have gone by, every hour, every minute, the pain has always lurked about. At times, I am
haunted. There is a deeply rooted connection that clearly seems to have no end.
I have learned to live without him regardless of whether I wanted to or not. I
have to fess up. Sometimes I wish I had never met him and that he had not met
me. Not so much for myself, to make it easier, but for him, to have the chance
at a full life and, at least, a better chance at happiness. I would sacrifice
it all just to know he was somewhere else, breathing, smiling, living a
different opportunity (and I do not mean in heaven). It’s not hard to imagine a
life without him, I just wish he had experienced a life without me.
If I can’t be close to you, I’d settle for a ghost of you.
Most people
rarely get to experience the true nature of other people. We may get glimpses
depending on the closeness of the relationship but we can never really know
another person. We can try to walk in their shoes but all we get is athlete’s
foot. It is impossible for anyone to know another individual better then they
know themselves. Human beings tend to hide their flaws, they have private
thoughts and hidden secrets. The only person who ever really knows the truths
about you is you, no one else. We all dance alone regardless of what or who our
partner might be. It’s the same for everyone. When those intimate parts of
another person become visible and tangible, we tend to remain strangers but
with a grudge to bear or hurt feelings to heal. Arguably, you never really know
someone rather, you know what they want you to see.
“Well we all have a
face
That we hide away
forever
And we take them out
And show ourselves
When everyone has
gone
Some are satin some
are steel
Some are silk and
some are leather
They're the faces of
the stranger
But we love to try
them on”
(The Stranger, Billy Joel 1977)
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