October 5 2023
Murphy woke up at 6:30am. I saw his round silhouette in the doorframe of the kitchen. No pants, no shirt, his underwear riding up everywhere it could up itself.
He’s got heavy feet when he walks, and he doesn’t know that he’s terrible at sneaking into the kitchen to steal a forbidden-without-permission-because-we-cannot-afford-5-gallons-a-week swig of orange juice straight from the carton. (It is frustrating that fruit has sugar. I so want to give them something that is both always delicious *to them* and always good for them. Sorry boys - you can only drink water and iceberg lettuce tears.)
Waits, his older brother, floats instead of walks. He sneaks around about 10% as much as Murph, so when he actually does sneak to get orange juice and I see it from afar I don’t do anything. It’s fun to watch him test the rules.
Murphy doesn’t believe in rules, philosophically, conceptually. He also doesn’t give a kid’s poopie if he has to go in “time-out” or whatever form of discipline I’m test-driving that week. It always feels impossible. I took the classes, read the books, and I don’t know what I’m doing.
Some days I feel like I’m on a good path. Some days I can’t seem to even find the path, and I doubt there is a path. My lizard brain starts swirling like a flushing toilet, and all I can see is failure and futility. It’s so difficult to have belief and to trust, most pointedly when the self-critical voices are yelling at me. I want to numb and fill the void. I used to do it with booze, and currently I do it with ice cream, which makes me gassy and bloated. Cookies, same. I used to do it with ice cream and cookies as well as booze, but I didn’t realize it was all performing the same function. I am an addict and so I don’t go into anything with moderation — I want all of it and I want it now.
The space I’m addressing in my body, the part I want to numb, is scarred over with fear. I’m so scared. I’m a 12 year old boy that doesn’t know what to do, looking around for the adults, only to discover that their eyes are also fear-filled. Alcohol doesn’t heal it, nor does sugar. Little nicotine pouches are better than cigarettes, but both are coping agents that prevent me from caring for the wounds.
Murphy sleep-thuds his little body across the room into my lap. I wrap my arms around him and place my right hand across his entire chest. I love you I love you I love you, I say.
I love you too, dad.