These thoughts and words have been coming for the last year, and I have neglected to acknowledge them or allow myself to write about them. I rationalize my procrastination with work, extracurricular 'fun', relationships, moving, sleep, gym, etc.. None of which really hold any weight to the importance of what I have been feeling and thinking. In my thoughts. By myself. Without influence from any one or any kind of substance. I have not planned how I would write about these things, but I am going to attempt it in the best way that I can. Free- form. No rules. Just words. I also had not planned to make it a public forum for the eyes of the world to possibly find, but here I am. And here you might be. So if there is anything to gain from writing this other than lifting a heavy weight on my heart.. I hope that there is a message in here that can assist and help who ever finds it and interprets what I say. I am allowing myself to be open to whatever thoughts and feelings come, and this is how it goes:
I attempted to run away from home when I was nine years old. Looking back on it now, I know that I was not in my right mind and clearly was not good at planning such a task. I walked out of the apartment I lived in with my mother and her new husband in pajamas and slippers. I decided that evening when I went into my room that I wanted to run away and live with my grandmother in Massachusetts. I knew nothing about her except small pieces of information that I gathered over time. She abandoned my mother and my uncles when they were very small, but for some reason, I thought that I would be an exception to the rule and she would know who I was and welcome me into her home and her life without hesitation. I walked in the darkness of the neighborhood for at least an hour, hiding from cars that went by and after a couple miles a police officer picked me up and took me home. I reference this story, because in the last year my grandmother died, alone. There is a part of me that believes she killed herself, whether it was instantly or it was a slow process. I know in my heart that she was alone and she was sad and it was a result of the mistakes that she made in life.. I don't mean this to sound cold or disconnected. I loved her. And in my later years, I grew to know her in person, and I had an understanding of why she was who she was. I would spend sundays with her, color her hair, talk to her about my life and my music. I always felt like something in her was missing though, and until she died I could never really see what that was. When I got the call from my mother about her death all I could think was, "I'm sorry you were alone." I cried. I am still grieving to some extent. Reflecting on my time with her has helped. There were times though- when I avoided her and was afraid to see her. She drank a lot, and only had spare moments of clarity within those times. My grandmother was sassy and stubborn, but if she liked you she would do her best to make you smile. I wish more people had her spirit, but I also wish that she wasn't a victim of alcoholism and abuse. There was so much potential within her as a person. It was one of those things you could always see in someone's eyes, but they couldn't see it when they looked in the mirror..
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My father kidnapped me when I was young from a visit during a custody dispute with my mother. I can tell you things that I remember during this time. In fact, the images are crystal clear and they are some of the only memories I have of my father smiling. We drove through the desert in the hot sun, and he would tell me to duck down whenever a police car drove past us on the freeway. There was a moment where we had to stop for gas and food, and I told the man behind the counter,"That's my daddy and he kidnapped me!" I didn't say it in a way that was accusatory, but I thought that it was a game and we were having fun. My father was charming. He could get away with murder, and I'm pretty sure he did at one point in the 1970's, but I don't know the full story, and I don't care to know. While my father and I were on the road, I have no idea what was happening back home with my mom. I can't really even remember if I missed her or if I was aware of the fact that what was happening to me was wrong. I do know that shortly after I was returned, I was in foster care. I was hard to handle. I would scream every night. I would cry. I would bite. I was traumatized by my experiences before and after at a very early age. I do not blame anyone for my life or the path I am on. I know that my soul chose to be here at this time and to experience these lessons and stepping stones.
As for my father... He was ejected from my life due to his reckless behavior. My mother had sole custody of me, and we lived a gypsy lifestyle. Traveling all over. Sometimes living in a van, motels, the ywca, with boyfriends of hers. It was new all the time, and we were a team. I still don't remember when I forgot about my father, but I never thought about him until I was nine years old. The same year that I tried to run away to my grandmother. A phone call came to our apartment one day, and from the tone of my mother's voice it was serious. We sat down to have dinner, and that was when she told me that my father had a heart attack. I was stoic. Pensive. Frozen. Who was my father? Only recently at that time did I wonder, because I was constantly being called a faggot for not having a dad. I was bullied because my dad didn't exist and we didn't play sports. So when I was sitting there, and hearing those words about a man who was a work of fiction to me at the time. I cried. It was all of the reality of my life cascading back onto me and reminding me of my past.
The journey to know my father and get close to him was difficult. I was in constant opposition of my parents. They could not agree on anything, because they could not agree on what was best for me. This of course is my own interpretation, and I'm sure they would tell you differently if they could. My father and I began talking on the phone, and he would send me letters and VHS tapes in the mail. He made a lot of promises and showed me a very grandiose life that he was living in Florida. My father painted a very pretty picture about living with him and his wife in their big house near the ocean with horses and boats and his karate school. It wasn't until I was sixteen that I finally had the chance to see him in person again. Then again when I was nineteen. Our letters were very frequent, and lengthy. I still have all of them in my possession. His penmanship was impeccable, and his way with words always seemed to make me feel like I was wrong, even if there were a million facts showing he was at fault. My father abused the words "I love you". I think he thought it was a band-aid for years of neglect and abuse. "I love you" became the bane of my existence. My father didn't even spell my name right half the time. He spelled it Z-A-C-K. I HATED IT. I still hate being called Zach, Zachary, and Zachy. If you loved me, why didn't you respect the name you gave me?
Shortly after my father's heart attack when I was nine, he was placed in the custody of Florida Corrections and admitted as a criminal. His battle with the judicial system lasted my whole life from that point. I always knew that he would die alone, but I held out hope he would never die in prison. Several letters came from my father in the last two years. I ignored them. I decided to stop writing him, because I thought he was selfish. Deep down I wanted so desperately to reach out to him and just shake him and say,"You don't have to pretend you're perfect. I just want to love you for who you are." I was with my boyfriend John during this time, and he heard so many stories and he was afraid of my father. He didn't want him to have our address, because my father had this crazy ability to escape and go into hiding. Yes, my dad was hunted down by the FBI when he ditched parole and went AWOL. It was a horrible experience for my family, and we constantly felt harassed.
I'm not writing about my father to list his criminal history though. I am writing about him, because he died in January of 2014. I never had the opportunity to see him one last time. I never got the chance to hear his voice on the phone. I never got to forgive him. I never allowed myself to really love him, because I was afraid he would lie and make promises that he couldn't keep. It's amazing how the way someone loves you can affect the way you think you should love other people.
Now that I am older, and I am grieving his death. I have looked inward to find answers. There have been none. So when my father died, in that time I latched onto my ex. It was a selfish move, and I regret it, but I am learning to let it go. I spent a couple weeks away from work, and I parked myself on the couch and just cried. I then moved back in with my ex, and we stayed in relationship limbo for another six months. We amicably ended things, moved into our own respective spaces, and then I decided to quit my job and come to LA. I had nothing left. All of my family was scattered and all of my friends were getting pregnant, died, or had gotten married to their partner or their career.
That's the funny part about death too though.
It makes you realize who you are, because you know what you're losing, and all you have left in your hands.. I realized that I wanted to be free, and I was not happy with the life I had made for myself.
When I looked at the rubble of what happened in my life this past year I learned to acknowledge two very simple things:
1. Love is all around you.
2. Forgiveness is not weakness.
I also observed how terribly afraid I have been to really love and be loved by any one.
John and I ended our relationship amicably, and we also ended our friendship and communication in December. That was four years of learning and growing alongside another person...
My biggest challenge was to learn how to feel everything I was experiencing without editing it. I had this horrible habit of analyzing my thoughts and feelings and self medicating so that I could have control. I would find myself resenting decisions I had made, because I knew deep down I didn't want it. I stopped listening to my heart and allowed myself to be wrapped up in a symbiotic and selfish relationship. We were merely getting high on each other and how we felt while we were together. It's that weird intoxicating part about love that people don't see all the time. To the outside everyone says,"Oh wow, they are so happy together, look at them." What is really happening is that one person is sacrificing passions and dreams to substitute it with making the other content.
Love is not meant to be selfish. Ever.
After I was single, I learned that compassion was the most important thing I needed to embrace.
Compassion made me open up myself to possibility. Compassion allowed me to let go of my guilt and it allowed me to forgive. In doing this, I happily quit living my life the way I was. I went back to center, and found the happiness within myself that I always knew existed. It has been exciting and I can't believe how simple it was once I let it happen.
My father had moments of it. Self love and appreciation, but he allowed it to become warped and twisted. Manipulating those around him for his own selfish needs.. I was always so afraid that I would become him, but now that he's gone and I see the life I have begun, I am light years away from his karma, and I do not accept it into my own path. I love my father for showing me who I should not become. I love him for being absent, because if he wasn't- I would not be who I am today.
The same goes for my grandmother. I love her for her crazy. I love her for being indifferent toward the struggles of her children and grandchildren, because if she had not been who she was- I would not be me.
We all make choices.
We all decide to find the love around us and forgive.
Unfortunately, we all make bad decisions and mistakes too.
Hindsight can be such a blessing, but the irony of it can be maddening.
I am trying to find a balance.
I am still growing and learning, and in fact I am still living in fear most of the time.
I know that what I feel is very intense and true. I know that there is nothing standing in my way any more except myself and my own mind. Which is why I am sitting here writing. I need to get it out. I need to let it go. I need to forgive myself for thinking that I do not deserve more.
I cannot live in denial about who I am. Or be ashamed for the mistakes that my father or my grandmother might have made. I will not be. I will stand up and say that I love them for existing and I am happy that I was able to appreciate them, regardless of the pain.
So, in closing.
I would like to say I am sorry if there has been any one in my life who I closed my heart to. I allowed a lot of loss and regret to subdue me. I allowed failed relationships and failed friendships to tarnish my perception of truth.
Perhaps it wasn't the right time, or maybe I was allowing my own thoughts to pull me away.
I want to be open to love.
I want to be compassionate and kind.
I want to forgive and keep moving forward.
I want to make people smile.
Laugh.
So please, be patient with me.
I will forever be a student of the world, but I want to be the master of my own heart and spirit.
I love you.
-z-
