Older and Far Away

 Quote: "All things truly wicked start from innocence."  -Ernest Hemingway

I am writing now on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. There’s an open, ice cold, Dr Pepper to my left and a half eaten sandwich to my right. It’s warm out but the air conditioner is keeping me cool. Every few minutes my phone will buzz and a text from a pretty girl I met at a bar will have sent me a messages about meeting up later tonight. I’m listening to Dashboard Confessional because it reminds me of being in high school and innocence. I’m smiling when I think about last night with the shot gunned beers and the weed that was smoked on the mountain over looking the city and the apartment I’ll move into next week. The new roommates and friends I’ve made, the internship that’s about to end and the school year that’s about to begin.

For all extensive purposes, things are good. I’ve got things to look forward to, a new girl who’s excited to hear from me, friends to go out with, liquor to drink. I feel like I’ve been places and done things. I say that acknowledging there are still miles to go but I guess its nice that I’ve steered myself into the right direction. 

There are still things that can creep up on me though. 

My 19 year old cousin admitted himself into rehab. He’s got a nasty pill habit that’s taken over in the past few months. When I got the news, I was surprised, but at the same time saw it coming a mile away. He’d driven me, my girlfriend at the time and my younger sister to dinner this past New Year’s Eve. He was sweating, mumbling and barely made eye contact. I did nothing.  Weeks later. He fought with his parents, left his house on foot and without a cell phone. I found him, picked him up and took him for a ride. He met up with his dealer and swore he’d never get high again. That if we smoked a bit, this would be the last time. I told him that he’d said it before, but went along with it. Only, it wasn’t the last time. Not by a long shot. Just the last time I’d ever do it with him. We talked about stopping with the pills and even the weed. He swore he would. 

Eventually, he’d cleaned up. But there was always something off. The stories he told, the priorities he had. We’d come a long way from the boys who sat in my tree house who had decided to be brothers instead of cousins. It was a night when our extended family had gone into crisis mode. We were young and dumb and shocked by their behavior. It fucked us up more than anyone would care to admit. We dealt with it in different ways. I would cry and broken hearted, venting my frustrations and misunderstandings to the few people I felt I could still trust. I’d always watch Dennis, 3 years younger than me but still managing to convey a stoicism that I envied.

I think its better to wear your heart on your sleeve. It hurts, sure, but you cry a few tears, talk it out and deal. I always wished that I could contain things the way he did, be stronger. Maybe I’m just getting old but I think it takes more strength to break down and put yourself back together then it does to bottle up and ignore. 

I constantly try to think about what else I could have done. Maybe I’d enabled him for too long and maybe slowly pulling away from him wasn’t what he needed. I just couldn’t take it anymore. For so long he’d listened to me, valued my opinion. But these past few months? Because I’d never popped a pill or snorted a line I couldn’t possibly understand him or his "darkness".

Those rough years gave us both insecurities. It’s why I fear girls who are both pretty and nice. If you aren’t beautiful and broken, could you ever really understand me? That’s a question I’ve yet to to answer.

A person who’s opinion I value, once told me that I’m not nearly as fucked up as I think I am. Days like today, while I sip my soda and look into my childhood backyard where I used to play, knowing that Dennis is hours away detoxing in a strange facility in a town he’s never been to, I believe them.