Everything I Never Wanted to Be

by Dina Kucera

  When you watch an addict, they change. Every time you see them, they are different. Not in a good way. A piece of their goodness is gone. Piece by piece, they become someone else. Every time they use, they are robbed of something precious that makes them who they are. It is stolen and floats away while they are high until they are empty of any trace of the person God brought to the earth. After that, you have to search and dig to find something good in that person. Is the person you used to know still in there somewhere? Or have you lost that person forever? And you mourn the person who used to fill your life with such hope. The person looks different and talks different... the person becomes someone else. So there’s a constant feeling of missing someone. The person you knew just isn’t there anymore, and all those years of their descent are lost forever. She may recover—you pray she recovers—but she will come out on the other end a different person. You never really get back the person you lost.

  The past couple of years we have had Carly away from home in treatment facilities more than we’ve had her home. So we miss her. But she’s different now. Who do we miss?

  We miss the girl she was before she started using. She started using as a little twelve-year-old girl. I hardly remember that girl. But sometimes when I look at Carly and she smiles or laughs really hard, I see that little girl again. Just for a second, I remember. And it makes my heart happy.

  Michael is John’s son. Michael was raised in Chicago by John’s first wife and by Michael’s stepfather, and John was not permitted to see Michael. I guess Michael’s mother felt that the tension between John and Michael’s stepfather was so extreme that it was in Michael’s best interest for John to move on with his life. John was not happy about this and was very depressed for many, many years.

  Michael was John’s world. John adored Michael, and could tell stories forever about how amazing Michael was. John would get periodic updates from his sister, who also lived in Chicago, about Michael’s baseball career. John would also get newspaper clippings with Michael playing baseball and doing great things. Although John wasn’t there to watch all of this, he was so, so proud. Every opportunity John got to show the clippings to someone, you could see the smile and pride in his face. But that would be as close as John would get to Michael for almost twenty years.

  MySpace is huge. It’s a tool on the web to keep in touch with friends, network, or be stalked by a serial killer. I’m old, but I’m very hip. I have my own MySpace, and I still believe to this day that mine is the best MySpace on the World Wide Web. All the girls have a MySpace as well, which is great because this way I can find out what’s going on in their lives by what their pages look like. If they’re happy, their pages are happy with happy music. If they’re depressed, their pages are depressing with horrible violent music.

  I am a social networking enthusiast. I will join every different site so I can be like popular people. In the morning I dress Mom, give her breakfast, and then I check my computer people. I check my MySpace, my Facebook, my Twitter, my Blogger, my Soul Pancake, my Live Journal, my e-mail, my IMs, and then I check my voicemail. I weave in and out of Google. You don’t even have to go to college anymore. Recipes? Google it. Heart condition? Google. Herpes? Google. Mental illness? Google. By the time I check all these important things, it’s time to get Mom a late lunch.

  We tried to find Michael periodically, hoping he would be living out on his own in Chicago now that he was older. We also thought he might try to find us if we didn’t find him. John had last seen Michael when Michael was five years old. Now Michael would be twenty-five. So we “MySpaced” Michael. Nothing.

  Then one day, Carly was sitting at the computer when I remembered that Michael had a brother. We had never tried to find the brother, but if we found the brother, we could find Michael. I gave Carly the name, she typed it in, and there he was... the right name, right age, right city... just standing there in the MySpace photo, waiting for Carly to send him a message.

  So Carly sent a message, and he responded back confirming that he is Michael’s brother. Carly told him that she is Michael’s sister, and that she just wanted to say hello to Michael—if Michael was okay with that.

  About an hour later, Carly received an e-mail from Michael saying that he got the message from his brother, and that he didn’t even know he had a sister.

  Carly and Michael talked back and forth on the computer all that day. Then John walked in the door that evening.

  I ran to the door and said, “You’re not going to believe who Carly is talking to right now! Michael!”

  John said, “Michael?” like he didn’t know who I was talking about.

  I said, “Your son, Michael!”

  John looked like he was going to pass out. He walked over to the computer and said, “Are you kidding with me?”

  It turned out Michael lived in Las Vegas, which is four hours away from us. We made arrangements for John and Michael to talk on the phone. That first telephone conversation worried me because John is not much of a talker. But they talked and talked like they hadn’t been apart for a minute. They talked about their team, the Cubs, and every other sport in the world. When I stood by the window and heard John talking to his son, I was overwhelmed with emotion. John and his son, talking.

  The weeks went by, and John talked to Michael almost daily. We made a plan that we would go to Vegas to see Michael, and then he would come back with us for Thanksgiving to meet his brand new sisters and our family, which would be his family, also. Sorry, Michael. You can pick your friends...

  The problem was that we had some stuff going on. Carly was back to using all the time again. And unfortunately, so was Andy, who was now officially Carly’s boyfriend. Andy’s Suboxone was five hundred dollars a month, and when he ran out of money, he relapsed. Jen had a new girlfriend, and April had domestic issues on the horizon. We had waited twenty years to see Michael, and we found him when our lives were in the worst turmoil ever.

  So I had to get the family perfect so Michael would accept us. Everything had to be perfect. We had to be the opposite of what we were. We had to be the completely normal family from suburbia, so Michael wouldn’t know that we were like the Titanic, two feet from the iceberg. I had two weeks to turn our lives into something amazing so we didn’t frighten Michael and make him run away screaming.

  It was a huge event that Michael would be at Thanksgiving dinner. John’s family, who hadn’t seen Michael since he was a baby, would be at dinner as well. I had a small concern about John’s sister, Cheryl (aka, “if there is something inappropriate to say I can’t stop it from coming out of my mouth”). She would be bringing the sweet potatoes. I felt that I could make my family normal in two weeks, but Cheryl? That was a whole other bowl of cherries.

  I bought new dishes, new silverware, napkins with fallish rings to put them in, and a beautiful tablecloth to bring it all together—everything for twenty-six dollars. The dollar store. That’s what I had to work with. I placed all the things on the table a week ahead of time to make sure it looked great, and it did. It looked more like fifty dollars. It looked very “normal.” How could Michael not accept us when I’m like Martha Stewart?

  When the time came, John and I went to Vegas to see Michael. I haven’t told you about me and Vegas yet. Vegas is another issue for me. Money is not money in Vegas. It’s credits. I could lose every dime we have in forty-five minutes if I am left alone. Regrettably, Vegas isn’t something I can address at this second. But I’ll get to it as soon as I finish telling negative things about everyone else. Anyway, this time we weren’t going to Vegas to gamble. We were going to see John’s son.

  John and I pulled up to the apartment where Michael lives. We were both nervous wrecks, thinking, What if he hates us?

  Just then, a tall, handsome young man walked out. We didn’t know what Michael looked like, so we didn’t know if it was him or not. Then he smiled, and he looked just like the baby pictures we have all over the house. It was him. He looked just like my husband—ridicu
lously handsome.

  Michael approached us, smiling. John smiled. John was so proud and happy. John hugged Michael. I hugged Michael. Michael got in the front seat and I got in the back, and immediately we all started talking and never stopped. The nerves were gone.

  Michael is so amazing—relaxed, a great sense of humor. His mom did an awesome job with him. I adored Michael five minutes after meeting him, and still do. I mean this guy is the coolest young man on the planet.

  Thanksgiving Day with Michael was an incredible day. Not perfect, but really, really great. One of the most incredible days I’ve ever had in my life. Michael blended immediately with everyone, even Cheryl.

  With Cheryl, it’s black or white. You either love her or hate her, and I think Michael loved her. We spent the day eating and laughing and laughing some more. We took hundreds of pictures of Michael, Jen, April, and Carly. The kids. After it got dark, we had a fire in the outside fireplace, and we sat around it and talked about all the years. Later that night Michael, Jen, and April went out somewhere, and even though I hate the drinking, I loved that they went somewhere together. They came home hours later, and seemed to have had a good time, laughing and talking.

  In our household, we seem to always have two extremes happening at the same time. Thanksgiving Day with Michael was great, but we had trouble brewing all day.

  That morning, as I stood by the table admiring my work, John walked over to me and whispered in his angry voice, “Carly and Andy are fucking high.”

  I knew my Martha Stewart Holiday was going to be ruined. Nothing ruins the holiday magic like heroin.

  I spent the day trying to send Carly to various rooms so people wouldn’t notice that she would be saying something and then, in mid sentence, fall asleep. It was very uncomfortable and embarrassing. It was absolutely not something John or I could address on this particular occasion. We just had to do the best we could. We didn’t want to have a domestic on a holiday with a house full of people and a new son.

  We had previously been successful at shielding John’s family from Carly when she was high. So this was their first time actually seeing her this way. We had told Michael about Carly’s condition, but I don’t think people really comprehend heroin addiction until it’s slouching next to them on the couch.

  I walked into the living room, and Carly was sitting on the couch in front of her aunts, uncles, and cousins, sleeping, sitting up. Her eyes rolling back into her head. You couldn’t really talk to her about it because she was so high. I’d tell her to go lie down, and she’d lift her head and say she wasn’t tired. I’d pull her in the bedroom and tell her to stay there. Thirty seconds later she’d float out and talk to people, not knowing what she was saying, and then fall asleep standing up. It made me sad because I knew this wasn’t the real Carly, but Michael didn’t know that. This was all he knew about her.

  The day before Michael left I was feeling strong, so I decided to talk to him about Carly. I sat on the couch next to Michael and said, “You know, Carly...” and then I started sobbing uncontrollably. I said, “She’s such a good person... if you knew her... she’s funny and beautiful, and I wish you would just give her a chance...”

  Michael looked at me in a really compassionate way and said, “It’s okay. There will be many other times that Carly and I will be together. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.” It made me love him even more.

  If we are lucky enough to have ten really extraordinary days in our life, that Thanksgiving Day was one of my top ten. We’ll never be able to top it. I love that I have three daughters and a brand new son.

  In my house, we talk freely about alcohol, heroin, meth, coke, pot, OxyContin, and other drugs. We also talk about sobriety, rehab, hope, God, and faith. We make constant jokes about drugs and alcohol because it takes away the pain of the thing.

  John bought some really expensive silverware from Jen because she was selling it as part of her new job, and well, we want her to love us. We spent $380 for silverware to help her out. I told the kids not to use the thirty-five dollar spoons for heroin. That’s what the old spoons are for. More morals.

  Two of my daughters have boyfriends and one has girlfriends. If you’ve never had to deal with a daughter’s relationships, this is how it works.

  Your daughter walks in the front door, crying and holding a suitcase, screaming, “I changed my phone number! I don’t ever want to talk to him again!”

  I try to comfort her, but then I ask the question, “What happened?” Stupid, stupid thing to ask. Because she tells me.

  “First of all, he’s a drug dealer! Did you know that?! He’s a fucking scumbag! He’s high or drunk all the time! That stupid son of a bitch! And you know what else?! I walk in the door the other day and he’s wearing my bra and panties! I swear! He runs in the room and slams the door like the little fucking girl he is, and I say, ‘What the hell? Why are you wearing my underwear?’ And the dumb ass is so drunk he says he didn’t know they were mine! He made a mistake and put them on! And you know what else?! He killed a family of six in Kentucky! The whole fucking family! He blew them up in their own van! Then after their van blew up, it careened off the road and hit a bus filled with nuns and tiny children and that bus drove over a cliff. A grand total of sixty-seven people dead! Then he drives off and nobody ever found out it was him! Can you believe this guy?! And he has the nerve to cheat on me when I have all this information?! Is he fucking crazy?!”

  The phone rings.

  “Tell him I’m not here! Then tell him to fuck himself and hang up!”

  Three days later, it’s my birthday. She walks in with Hell Boy.

  I pull her aside and say, “Uhm... why is he here?”

  “I love him, Mom, but...”

  “But what?”

  “Stop trying to run my life, Mother.”

  “But he...”

  “You’re not perfect, Mother.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “Jen’s girlfriend calls her a whore all the time.”

  “But I’m worried...”

  “Stop judging.”

  Prince Charming walks over with his bouquet of dead flowers, hugs me, and says, “Happy Birthday! What are you now? Twenty-five!” Hilarious.

  If you want your daughter to get married and have six children with someone you hate, order her not to see that boy again. This makes the boy hotter than ever. Now she has to have this boy, and she will go to any length to see him and be with him just because you said you can’t stand the guy.

  So now when she walks in the door with some shit sack who is wearing an ankle monitor because the authorities are tracking his movement, you should say, “He’s the one!” Tell your daughter you can see they have a terrific chemistry, and say things like, “He’s a keeper,” and “You shouldn’t let that one out of your sight,” and “If I were thirty years younger, I’d grab him up myself.” She will get this look on her face like she’s standing on the side of the highway with a flat tire.

  Then when she’s not with him, ask why not. Tell her you realize that because of the ankle monitor, his time out is limited, but that she should be on the phone with him when she’s not with him. Send him an e-mail or a text message. Just do not let someone else get to him because you already consider him “family.”

  I guarantee, not only will you never see him again, neither will she.

  My heartbreaks are no different from the heartbreaks of other people. The things that break our hearts might be different, but the heartbreaks are the same. Be especially wary when somebody says, “It couldn’t get worse than this.” Hold on. It could. But it’s like the waves in the ocean. They roll in and they roll out. It’s good, it’s bad. When it’s bad, remember that a new wave is coming. It will get good again. You can’t stop the wave. It’s life.

  People don’t understand, so you don’t say anything. In the darkness, lying in bed at night, you cry into your pillow so you don’t wake your spouse. Then you wake up the next day and try to smile so the other fa
mily members don’t know how broken you are. But then you wonder if they’re as broken as you are. Do they cry at night when no one can see them? I bet they do.

  Shortly before our Thanksgiving with Michael, my doctor prescribed Klonopin for me for night terrors and anxiety. I took it. It was one week before the anniversary of my six years of sobriety, and because of the prescription, I wasn’t considered clean and sober anymore. It was a difficult choice. But I knew better than to completely hurl myself off the cliff and buy a twelve pack of Heineken because that would never end. The Klonopin is a temporary thing until things calm down. I hope that time will be soon.

  There are millions of people out there who live this way, and their hearts are breaking just like mine. It’s okay to say, “My kid is a drug addict or alcoholic, and I still love them and I’m still proud of them.” Hold your head up and have a cappuccino. Take a trip. Hang your Christmas lights and hide colored eggs. Cry, laugh, then take a nap. And when we all get to the end of the road, I’m going to write a story that’s so happy it’s going to make your liver explode. It’s going to be a great day.

  God,

  The big things in my life are obvious. The kids, the finances, Mom. But I’m trying a new thing of really paying more attention to the little things. Because the little things are what make the big things tolerable.

  Each morning I get my cup of coffee. The real treat is when I put my French vanilla creamer in my coffee. It’s the first drink that takes you to a whole other emotional place. I enjoy it, standing at the sink filled with dirty dishes, and I smile each time.

  The other day I got my car washed. I got the lemon scent. I’m not kidding when I tell you my car smelled like a lemon factory. It was unbelievably gratifying.

  What I’m trying to say is that I’m grateful. For all these little things you put in my life that make me smile. The creamer, the smell of lemons from a little cardboard that is shaped like a lemon. I’m grateful for avocados. I’m grateful for hot tea. I’m grateful for Earth, Wind and Fire and James Taylor.