I used to HATE Sunday mornings. I'd wake up angry. Really angry. Angry that I was still alive, that I was out of drugs, out of money. Angry at what myself for what I had done the night before.
One Sunday morning in particular will stick out with me always.
The night before, I had been getting high (of course) at my neighbor's apartment. I was living with my Mom at the time, and she was sick of me shooting heroin all the time. I hadn't been stealing from her or anything but I was always high and being an asshole or on suboxone and being an asshole.
Anyway, we had run out of dope. I decided to go home, but my Mom had locked me out. I didn't have a key and she had gone to bed. So I began throwing small stones at her bedroom window, calling the house phone etc.
This went on for a while, probably not as long as it seemed to me. Eventually I lost my patience and threw a bigger rock through her window, breaking the glass and probably scattering some of it onto the bed she was sleeping in.
Still, she didn't get up.
So I called 911 and told them that I feared my mom was suicidal, that she had been drinking, and that I was afraid she was dead or dying inside her apartment.
Mind you, I could have easily just slept on my neighbor's couch.
The police and paramedics show up. The whole neighborhood is watching as they break the deadbolt on my mom's front door. The police make sure she's okay and then they leave.
I go inside and go to bed.
Words cannot describe the guilt and self-loathing I felt the next morning.
Now it's Sunday morning. I just went with my roommate to walk his dogs. There's no guilt, no remorse, no misery. I felt the Florida sun on my back and it felt good.
One Sunday morning in particular will stick out with me always.
The night before, I had been getting high (of course) at my neighbor's apartment. I was living with my Mom at the time, and she was sick of me shooting heroin all the time. I hadn't been stealing from her or anything but I was always high and being an asshole or on suboxone and being an asshole.
Anyway, we had run out of dope. I decided to go home, but my Mom had locked me out. I didn't have a key and she had gone to bed. So I began throwing small stones at her bedroom window, calling the house phone etc.
This went on for a while, probably not as long as it seemed to me. Eventually I lost my patience and threw a bigger rock through her window, breaking the glass and probably scattering some of it onto the bed she was sleeping in.
Still, she didn't get up.
So I called 911 and told them that I feared my mom was suicidal, that she had been drinking, and that I was afraid she was dead or dying inside her apartment.
Mind you, I could have easily just slept on my neighbor's couch.
The police and paramedics show up. The whole neighborhood is watching as they break the deadbolt on my mom's front door. The police make sure she's okay and then they leave.
I go inside and go to bed.
Words cannot describe the guilt and self-loathing I felt the next morning.
Now it's Sunday morning. I just went with my roommate to walk his dogs. There's no guilt, no remorse, no misery. I felt the Florida sun on my back and it felt good.