HOME

Jumping off the deck after mom and dad forbade it.
being grounded to your room.
ding-dong ditch at dark.
late night water ballooning.
sleepovers.
cars in the driveway.
climbing the tallest tree in the yard after mom and dad forbade it. 
being grounded to your room again.
sprinting alongside your bike before hopping on. 
home-run derby in the rain.

These are nice thoughts, of home, for someone. 

 

My thoughts of home consist of: Do they think I’m a joke? Do they think I’m a drunk? Do they think I’m a trouble-maker? Do they think I’m a loser? Will anyone say hi to me? Will anyone want to say hi to me?
 Do I want to say hi to anyone?

Put it this way, when I see someone I know, I'm superfly on TNT, I'm Carl Lewis on 'roids, and Jason Bourne ain't got nothin' on me cuz I, too, can run flat out for a half mile before my hands start shaking. Out of pure avoidance.

I pray that I won’t ever see anyone. That way, I would never have to wonder what old friends think about me.

I’m not a hardened criminal. I've just been arrested three times and thrown into jail. What?

 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated coming back home. Not home as in the house I grew up in. That house literally burned down almost 10 years ago and now all that stands is a brand new house with new walls, new paint, new carpet, new furniture, new layout, and none of the old memories that built the first one. 

I should say - for as long as I can remember, I've hated coming home - to Cottage Grove. I don’t want to show my face in that city. I don’t want to bump into anyone I know from that city.

Nobody said anything to make me feel this way.

Nobody treated me different.

Other than the county bulletin, nobody singled me out in front of the entire CG population and proclaimed – this boy is naughty.

But I’ve convinced myself that they have. I’ve convinced myself that they should.

 

I know, I know. Half the people in that town don’t even know who I am. But the few that remain from my days do. No, I don’t think everyone spends their free time whispering behind closed doors about the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done. But I’m a product of my own actions and I have an active imagination.

 

You’d be amazed at the amount of shame and embarrassment that follows me, or maybe you wouldn't. Place me in a room where I don’t know a soul and you'll see a confident, funny, genuine, and well-behaved man. Put me in that same room with all my old high-school friends and you'll see a scared, embarrassed, ashamed, fragile, insecure, worried 30-something, who doesn’t want to be judged.

 

The first one is always a slap on the wrist, right? Well, maybe not anymore but it was when I was growing up. OK, so the fact that I actually now had been caught was really not a huge deal to me.

Besides, do you really think the first time was the first time.

I knew others that had them. I knew cousins that had them. I just figured, accidents happen. Lessons are learned the hard way. There were a lot of excuses spewing out of my mouth around that time and they felt so comforting. Soothing really. I totally believed me. So it wasn’t really the fact that I had over-estimated my tolerance again, was pulled over, failed a test (done that before) that could prove I wasn’t drunk, embarrassed myself, shamed my brother and sisters, dishonored and disrespected mom and dad, and proved to God that I’m not responsible with the life He's trusting me to manage. , but it was the details surrounding it that are the horrifying things I am most embarrassed about. 

I’m not just embarrassed by them. I’m horrified. 

I’m not just horrified by them, I’m whatever word you can think of, that I can't, that is worse than horrified.

 

Am I going to write more about it? Yes. Do I want to? No. 

…thinking about it, I do want to.

 

I no longer want to live my life in front of the curtain and never let you know what’s happening backstage.

 

So,
 

Dear Mom,