“Kiddo”

When he was a little boy, he would always follow his big brother around. The house, school, everywhere. “Beat it, kiddo” was always the answer he got when he was noticed like a shadow.

The Cigarettes

Every morning he would watch his mother through the screen door, hiding behind it while noticing her inhale and exhale the smoke. The smoke that caused him to “never touch the godforsaken things”, and the smoke that eventually killed her. The day he started was the day she died.

The Father

“He’ll be back,” his mother lies, avoiding answering where he went in the first place, “he always comes back”. This time he didn’t. His relationship with his father went from bad to nonexistent, not hearing a word from his father until he was twenty-three – when he got an invitation to his funeral.

First Criticism

He is nine years old, sitting in the waiting room of the psychiatrist’s office. He’s not supposed to hear the words behind the door, but he can’t help but eavesdrop. The voices are loud, making it easy. “Your son needs medication and intensive therapy, probably for the rest of his life.” “My son’s not crazy!” “We don’t use that word here, ma’am. But your son’s a very sick boy.”

The Music

He loved the hard beat of the rock music. Older rock, classic bands like Motley Crüe. It was what saved him when there was nothing else. Until the day his girlfriend called him a “manic depressive” and smashed his records, storming out of their apartment. He donated the record player to a youth center and never listened to them again – the records, and his girlfriend.

Fantasies

To go somewhere where no one knows his name or who he is, not even himself. Somewhere where everyone is crazy and no one makes sense, just like him. All his life he waits for this, but he can’t seem to find it in the drafty apartments and broken relationships.

His Journal

“I’m not sure I ever believed in God” was the only entry he let me read.