Furnace
Ex-Bluelighter
"Sit down."
He was sitting on my bed. I pulled out my chair from my desk, and sat across from him.
"What was it you wanted to say?"
I looked at him as he asked me that question. Was he ready for everything that I was about to tell him?
"The money I made last year at the graveyard and the pipefitting plant...I spent it on getting high all summer long."
I expected shock in my father's tired eyes. The black rings around his eyes are typical of older East-Indians. He worked a lot during that 18 month stretch where I wasn't sure if I was going to be alive by the time my trial started.
"What else?"
I knew I had to come clean about everything.
"I did a lot of cocaine. I smoked weed almost everyday, as well as drink. I did a lot of ketamine. Remember that surprise anniversary party?"
My father nodded in recognition.
"I was so wacked out on ketamine that day. I had been doing it from when i woke up to the last few hours I was awake that night."
My father is a passionate man, but I have only seen him cry once. When his dad died in 2001. I saw a tear roll down his cheek.
"Do you need help? Do you want to go to rehab?"
"No" I told him. "I just wanted to tell you that I had a problem during the time I was waiting for my trial. I've been clean for a while now, and that's the truth. I don't want to go to rehab. I'm doing fine by myself."
Before he left my room, he asked me,
"Why did you feel the need to tell me this, Taz?"
"I did it b/c I needed to. I wasted my time and your time. My money, as well as yours. There was a problem with me, and all the while, I blamed it on my trial, but in reality, the problem was me, and i'm accepting responsibility for it."
He was sitting on my bed. I pulled out my chair from my desk, and sat across from him.
"What was it you wanted to say?"
I looked at him as he asked me that question. Was he ready for everything that I was about to tell him?
"The money I made last year at the graveyard and the pipefitting plant...I spent it on getting high all summer long."
I expected shock in my father's tired eyes. The black rings around his eyes are typical of older East-Indians. He worked a lot during that 18 month stretch where I wasn't sure if I was going to be alive by the time my trial started.
"What else?"
I knew I had to come clean about everything.
"I did a lot of cocaine. I smoked weed almost everyday, as well as drink. I did a lot of ketamine. Remember that surprise anniversary party?"
My father nodded in recognition.
"I was so wacked out on ketamine that day. I had been doing it from when i woke up to the last few hours I was awake that night."
My father is a passionate man, but I have only seen him cry once. When his dad died in 2001. I saw a tear roll down his cheek.
"Do you need help? Do you want to go to rehab?"
"No" I told him. "I just wanted to tell you that I had a problem during the time I was waiting for my trial. I've been clean for a while now, and that's the truth. I don't want to go to rehab. I'm doing fine by myself."
Before he left my room, he asked me,
"Why did you feel the need to tell me this, Taz?"
"I did it b/c I needed to. I wasted my time and your time. My money, as well as yours. There was a problem with me, and all the while, I blamed it on my trial, but in reality, the problem was me, and i'm accepting responsibility for it."
