As a matter of fact, I’m crying. I’m crying because I wish my life was like that movie. Mama would be ashamed if she saw me like this. And so would my son. So would the rest of my family. Hell, I’m ashamed. But I also don’t wanna die no time soon. I know I’m fucked up. And I’m an alcoholic. But at least I’m finally admitting it to myself. And maybe this knowledge and acceptance can make me stronger instead of weak. I’m the one who’s been letting all this bullshit break me down to nothing. But I ain’t gotta accept being fucked up—’cause basically everybody is, when you get right down to it—but it’s what I do with this insight that can help me walk through, around, and over the hard stuff. I need to see this as an opportunity to learn how to live. The only way I’ll stand a chance is sober. I should’ve known this a long time ago. But, hell, fuck the past.

Right now all I want is my family, and especially my mama, to be proud of me. I want them to know that I’m a good person, that I’m a strong black man. That I can be responsible. Can take care of my son. That I can be a good father. That I’m smarter than they think. I just want to feel necessary and needed. Want to feel important to somebody. I don’t have to be important, I just want to feel important. Up to now I’ve been in love with the wrong thing, ’cause alcohol ain’t my buddy or my girlfriend. It sure ain’t my wife. All this love been killing me. And I’m tired. Tired of not thinking clear. Tired of not remembering. Tired of falling down and not being able to get back up. I guess I been dead, Mama, but I think it’s time for me to stand up straight and tall like you taught us to. It’s gotta be a whole lot easier than this.

Loosening the Knots

It’s ten o’clock at night and I’m putting groceries in the trunk of my car. As I lift another bag out of the metal cart, I bang my knee into the back bumper. “Shit!” I scream, but there’s hardly a soul out here at this time of night, so no one even hears me. “Fuck!” I say even louder, and then kick the car. I throw the last bag in, not even thinking that it could be the one with the eggs or something breakable in it, but I could care less right now, because that bumper shouldn’t have been in my fucking way.

When I get in the car I start it up, but I don’t put it in reverse. I just sit here, because I realize that I just got mad at a bumper. Now that I think about it, I’ve been mad about a lot of things lately. I’ve got a sister who hates me, a cookbook that’s not even close to being finished, an ex-husband who has resurfaced and suddenly wants to be a father again, and basically everything and everybody seems to get on my nerves in no time flat. I’m always running into or tripping over things and have gotten more cuts and bruises on my body this past year than I have in my whole life.