December 19th, 1948 - October 25th, 1999 in Hello

Today would have been dad’s 70th birthday.

Instead, alcoholism claimed him at 50.
I was 16 and watched him wither away from the man he was to the husk he became from ages 12-16.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if he’d gotten the liver transplant. His friends scattered like roaches in the light when he got sick. I’m still itching BAD to run into a certain one in public one day.

Most times I try not to think of it, though.

There are days where I feel everything was fine growing up.

Then there are days where I HATE him with the passion of one-thousand fiery suns for putting his drunk friends above his own family.

Epitome of selfish, alcoholic, narcissisct behavior.

Was it so bad?

When I was 1 or 2 he sold my brother’s go kart without telling them. Why? Someone made him an offer and he wanted the money.

When 12 and 13 he had about three of his drunk friends constantly crashing at the house where we lived at the time seeing how they were living out of motels. Imagine being that young, getting up to go to school and having to eat cereal in your bedroom because you can’t watch your cartoons in the living room because of the above.

When I was 14 I wrote some of my thoughts down on some notebook paper, put it in my pocket and forgot about. He found it, made a HUGE deal about it and tried to get his drunk friend to read it saying, “Look Billy! Jesse wrote us a fuckin’ essay!” I busted into tears and locked myself in the bathroom. I begged to go to my grandparent’s house because I knew I’d be safe. Drunk friend Billy was living with us at the time…in a one bedroom apartment…my note was basically asking myself what the hell were we going to do when Billy’s son came to see him as he was technically homeless. Well, that never happened and he respected my privacy and didn’t read the note. I didn’t start keeping a journal till after I turned 18 though I tried once or twice. The asshole, my dad, confronted me each time with something I wrote down.

When I was 16 he admitted from his hospital bed to my mom he gave one of his friends $300 from his disability money. Never saw that “friend” again. We were in the process of buying our current house and really needed that money.

There is a lot of bad juju I keep bottled up inside, and that’s just from him! If I’m feeling brave enough I may add this to the resolution list and start opening up more about my crappy childhood.

I really hope I have so much to do tonight at work I can’t stop and think.

Fingers crossed.

Few hours later…
Second shift guy isn’t here. I’ve got two machines to run. Goody goody gum drops. I need to see the psychiatrist soon. Out of meds and can tell. Little things are starting to royally piss me off.

Yet more hours later…
Now I’m REALLY fucking annoyed. The machine that takes over an hour has another page of hard checks they didn’t show me and I don’t know what to do. My fifteen minute machine, well, the reports are coming off wrong in one spot on the KEYENCE. Thought it was just me, nope. The first shift guy’s report is wrong, too.
Would be nice to ask help but only one fab guy and a Swiss machine guy. So, I’m on my lunch break chain smoking…
And people wonder why, “Made In America,” dosen’t mean a damn thing anymore.

FUCK THIS SHIT!!!

Even more hours later…
I’m off work. I stopped caring and just ran what I could. I’m definitely going through Paxil withdrawal. I want to crawl into the fetal position and cry while fist fight the entire world. I haven’t gotten a decent amount of sleep all week due to waking up almost every hour. I’ll call the doctor tomorrow, though I probably won’t get in to see her till after the holidays. Without insurance, currently, it’ll be about $100 just to walk in. If only I could down few beers and shots right now, that would do the trick. And burn a fat joint. Ugh…

I’m going to turn my phone off, get into bed and read. Skip the shower. Don’t feel like dealing with it.

Nite folks…

Last updated December 20, 2018