There are holes in his house that match the general size of his hands. His bedroom door has a crack in it. The knob of the front door has left a nasty little imprint on the foyer wall behind it from where he was stormed out. And then back in after his mother chased him outside. There are rubber marks in the driveway from the screeching of his tires and tread marks in the grass by the road from where he cut a turn too tightly in his road rage. There are marks of rage, pain, despair, and loneliness all over his house.
He doesn't live alone. Not technically.
The people who love him do not treat him or his other loved ones in such a way. The people he loves are 250 miles away, laughing and carrying on without him. Sure, they miss him, but they aren't going to cry themselves to sleep at night over his absence. Not every night at least. Not like he has done.
There's enough salt on these floors to stock a restaurant. There have been far too many tears spilled on his behalf. Because of him.
The house is afraid of his next out burst, and so is he. College is stressful enough without a phone call from your dad informing you of his departure from the house you grew up in. College is depressing enough sometimes without listing to you mom cry on and on about your father. College is lonely enough without knowing that your sister is a mere five feet away from your mother during these phone conversations, wishing she could help. Wanting to help.
Then he came home. Came home to help, both emotionally and financially. He came to be with one family while leaving another behind. One morning while getting dressed for work, his mother became strangely vocal for 7 30 am. She was laughing. No she was yelling. No she was pleading with her husband. He was doing something or would be doing something that would hurt her. Why couldn't he this. The son could see it and he had just woken up.
She cried. She didn't just cry. She wept. She mourned over the results of that conversation and quickly became a child. She was defeated and lonely and sad. Curled up on the couch like a puppy, she was actually whimpering aloud her husband's name and no one was there to help her.
Except her son.
He put down everything and rushed over. He was in disbelief that this was happening, that someone could be so upset over the emotional loss of a person that they would crawl into the fetal position on the couch. And then the hypocrite son looked around at the house he was systematically destroying and took a deep, humble breath. Holding his mother like a child in his arms, he knew he had not been the source of strength and love that everyone needed at that time.
Where was his source? Where was his loving embrace? That's what he missed most about his father during the days and nights that he didn't see him: his touch. He spoke to him on the phone. He shared daily life's events with him over texts, but he rarely got to hug his father. The half-felt, one-arm side hugs were not good enough and in fact, they made his father seem distant and afraid of commitment to the family - which he was.
Nights are scariest, because his mind is still in gear while his body tells him to shut it down. His emotions are wrecked from the day's events, but his mind wants to think through things and remember and ask why why why?
Why did Dad leave? Why won't he come back? Why does Mom treat him like a hotel quest but me like an employee when we get home from work.
When will I see my father again?
He was now laying in bed in the middle of the night, thinking about the "good times". These entailed his mom and dad being united - against him. They would open season on their son all year round and lay into him for the most trivial of mistakes. Sure, they were trying to teach him a lesson, but the spit coming out of his father's mouth while he just screamed at his son showed their true intentions.
And these were the good times.
And yet, he laid there wanting to hold his dad close. He knew he was lonely. He could imagine him there in a one bedroom apartment, away from his family, away from his home, but too damn prideful to change the situation.
He could imagine his mother and sister in their rooms down the hall, both silently sobbing themselves to sleep while he watched TV. And all of this made him think back, strangely, to playing catch with his dad at 12 years old. His only goal then was to show his dad how much he had improved as a ball player. All he wanted was his father's approval. He just wanted attention and love and for his dad to be proud of him.
He wanted his mother and sister to feel safe around him and to be comforted by his strong words of encouragement. He didn't want to be the crazy one running around punching holes in walls. Oh, God, what had he become.
And all of these thoughts were now rushing around in his mind, heart, and soul. It was nearly two in the morning, but he couldn't cry himself to sleep. He had gone beyond that emotional point; nothing made him cry anymore.
He laid there looking at the old glove he and his father had played catch with, and hugged it tight. He could not cry himself to sleep this night. All he could do was hold on to himself for dear life. He would have to hug himself.
No one else would.
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