I Hope You'll Still Recognize Me

It was a cold chilly night. The kind of night that required a bed sized for a king with blankets that could wrap you up tighter than a chipotle burrito. Matthew, Tyson, Ken and I were in a studio making music. Getting high promptly after a successful session. “Here, try this.” Matthew said. I looked at him with a concerned expression baiting for an explanation. “It’s just weed, we got it from Oregon. This is the good stuff. Take a big hit”. At the time marijuana was no stranger to me. I inhaled as much as I could. Matthew was right, it was good, too good.

As I fixated on the arrow patterned walls with paint older than the great depression, I began to shape faces out of the grim decorations. Nothing recognizable but enough to demand the nights cold embrace shut out by a stained glass door. I closed my eyes for a moment, taking in the chills the wind would send into my bones. I opened my eyes with my face pressed against the ground, “Where am I?” I asked myself. For the next hour I would find myself wondering who I was, what anything was. Dear mother, I began to think of you though I could not picture you, I could not remember your name. I was driving home barely conscious when a loud screeching noise and the smell of burnt rubber encapsulated the tight space in my old Honda Accord. The tree that stood tall before me with not so much as a scratch on it made its presence known on the front bumper of my car, but I made it home. After this moment I spiraled like a bowling ball placed on the edge of a steep hill. I often asked myself how I got to this point, and why it was so hard to leave. This event would bring forth a question that had been burning my subconscious since childhood. What exactly am I supposed to feel?

Dear mother, I’ve been alive now for twenty two years thanks to you. I entered this world with a full head of hair which you would soon come to stylize for years to come, such was your dream, to be a hairstylist. Did I ruin that dream upon my entry into your life ? A question I’ve never had the courage to ask, and never will. You blessed me with three younger siblings. When we could only afford to put five dollars in the gas tank you made sure we were all fed. I’ve never met a mother more determined than you. You were never strict but you were always close.

You built a foundation to ensure no harm ever came my way. Even when I left you behind for my own ambitions. You were never strict but always close, though at times you were distant. As a child I despised the idea of being separated from my father. The man to stand in as his replacement was a man I couldn’t come to understand. Through your marriage you changed, we all did. Once it was over speaking with you became difficult, I became quiet. In the years to come I would find it difficult to communicate with anyone.

I left you or rather I stayed behind as you left, and for a long time I was lost. I’ve taken more drugs than I care to admit in the mists of finding myself again. The kind of intoxications that could leave a person in trouble with the law. The kind of intoxications that you prayed I steered clear from. The kind of intoxications that could damage our communication, they became my solace yet guided me to a seemingly bottomless pit. On the cold hard floor I found nothing. Nothing waiting for me, nothing to remind me who I was supposed to be. In this space my memories of you and my siblings are all that kept me from sinking beneath the ground. I’m beginning to resurface now.

Connecting with you as I got older helped me crawl my way back up the hole that could swallow a mountain. Though I find myself feeling nothing as I shuffle through life. I came to realize that since the moment you changed I gradually lost the ability to feel, to understand emotion. I don’t blame you for my declination as it’s my own fault for becoming a recluse, but I wish you never left my side. Would you still be proud of me if you knew what I have been doing? I feel like I have changed since my time in the pit. I hope you'll still recognize me.