"And if I Die in Raleigh, at Least I Will Die Free..."

     As my friend and I continued along the 2,300-mile road trip to the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina (a journey which some might have found tedious), I remember thinking to myself, 'Now this is living.'  We sang, laughed, and talked about life.  We shared our hopes, dreams, secrets, and fears.  Having been friends since we were in elementary school, we had grown somewhat apart over the years, and this was our chance to reconnect.  We told stories, made jokes, and reminisced over the many years of our friendship.  She thanked me for inviting and convincing her to accompany me on this journey -- I was glad I did.  As we drove through the red rock of Arizona and New Mexico, the vast desert of Texas, the green plains of Oklahoma, the lush forests of Arkansas, the smoky mountains of Tennessee, and finally, the rolling hills and blue skies of Carolina, I don't think I have ever felt more at peace with the world.  I felt I was exactly where I was supposed to be.  I was finally getting to see for myself all the world that is out there, waiting to be experienced.  I knew I belonged out in the world, seeing and living it all.  I can honestly say that sitting in a car for 36 hours alongside one of my oldest friends and seeing this beautiful country firsthand was one of the best experiences of my life, and one I'll not soon forget.  We indulged in Mexican food in the Southwest and enjoyed the tenderest, juiciest steaks of the Midwest.  The journey from the beaches of southern California to the mountains of North Carolina is an interesting one because the countryside gradually becomes greener and greener, the further east you travel.  Whether it's the arid southwestern deserts that go on for as far as the eye can see, or the smoky blue, forest-covered mountains of the east, it is equally as breathtaking.  We watched golden sunsets and pink sunrises stretch across the land as we stared out at the road before us, and more stars than I think I've seen in my lifetime.  They say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes in a blur -- well, I'm pretty sure that when that day comes for me, what I will see are the memories of the landscape flashing before me as I stared out the window on that long journey to freedom.

"Headed Down South to the Land of the Pines..."

     I have always been a dreamer; restless at heart and a free spirit.  Amidst the turmoil and emotional upheaval I was enduring at home, I longed to escape, to fly away.  I was envious of many of my friends, who were fortunate enough to go far away for college, mostly on athletic scholarships.  I felt somewhat alone, and stuck, here at home while my best friends were having the time of their lives at school, some without a care in the world.  I felt trapped in the dark abyss that was my father's mental and emotional state -- I knew if I stayed here he would bring me down with him, as I could feel my own emotional strength wavering.  It then occurred to me that I did not have to stay here; that the only thing keeping me was, well, me.  It so happened that my best friend was away at school in North Carolina, in a tiny town in the Blue Ridge mountains.  Her parents purchased a house for investment purposes, and for her to live in while she attended school on a soccer scholarship.  Due to her team's rigorous summer workout and practice schedule, it was decided that she would remain there for the duration of the summer, rather than come home for the break.  I was working at Nordstrom and was nearing the end of a semester at junior college at the time.  I saw an opportunity in that my best friend (more like a sister) had a home for the summer in a place far, far away -- I knew this was my chance to get away like I had always dreamed.  I realized I had to leave my comfort zone and the security of my job, friends, and hometown.  I just had to see what I was missing out on in the world.  Surely, I thought to myself, there must be more to life out there than staying here and continuing to allow my emotionally dependent father to constantly lean on me... Right?  The decision was made quickly -- I would set out at the end of May and make the long, 2,300-mile drive from Orange County to Asheville, North Carolina.  I convinced a close girlfriend to make the journey with me (she was recently laid off and collecting a hefty sum of unemployment compensation each month) -- I think I might have thrown the "you only live once" argument at her in order to seal the deal.  We set off on the 36-hour drive with excitement and anticipation in our hearts.  We were going to see America, but it felt like we were off on an adventure to see the world.  I felt free.

"Things Fall Apart..."

     The tenacity of the human spirit never ceases to amaze me. It is astounding, the number of beatings the soul can take and still remain [relatively] intact. I never thought of myself as a particularly strong person, let alone any stronger than anyone else or special by any means -- I simply have always thought, 'This is my life; this is how my particular story goes'. So, I was always a bit confused when friends or family members would express admiration or praise of my strength and perseverance when it came to dealings with my father and his deterioration. To me, I was simply 'dealing' with it and handling it day by day. It became 'business as usual,' so to speak. Being that I was always closer with my dad than my sister was growing up, he began to lean very heavily on me, emotionally and mentally -- more so than anyone else. At a young age, I ultimately became his emotional punching bag. While my sister made perhaps the smarter decision and quickly withdrew from him at the early stages of his downfall (people can only unload upon you if you let them), I for some reason allowed him to unleash his pain and agony on me. Looking back, I think I did it because I thought that if he let all his pain out on me, then eventually he'd get better. In other words, I was fully willing to take it all on as my own pain, in the hopes that it would cure my dad (that was a naive thought -- you can only help someone so much, and you definitely can't take it upon yourself to cure them). I think what happens is, after so much wreckage, the soul begins to become immune to different degrees of pain -- it all becomes relative, I think as a sort of defense mechanism. After a while, nothing felt worse or more agonizing than anything else; I was beginning to go numb. While friends and family members began to drop my dad and cut him off left and right (he simply became too much to bear for many people after a while), I continued to be his outlet for whatever darkness was rapidly developing within him. He would scream at me, rage at me, swear at me, cry to me, and start all over again. I was being drained emotionally by the minute. Sometimes, after not hearing from my dad in days and attempting dozens of unanswered phone calls, I would show up at his apartment at the time and pound ceaselessly on the door, only to find that he had been in bed for three days straight in a bout of deep depression. He would go days without eating, showering, or opening the curtains. He was literally living in a black hole, and time after time, I would go attempt to drag him out. Many of the times, I did not know whether I would find him dead or alive -- I had to prepare myself each time for both possibilities. Each day I lived in constant fear of my dad killing himself, but it was (awfully enough) a fear I became accustomed to.
     I sometimes wonder in awe how I managed to survive such a constant, grueling battle. I guess when it comes to people we love, we can endure much more than we'd ever dream possible. Therein lies the beauty of the human spirit -- things fall apart; the world crumbles around us, but I have witnessed the indestructible strength of the soul.

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"

-W.B. Yeats

"The Miserable Have No Other Medicine - But Only Hope." - William Shakespeare

     As a result of my father's rapid downward spiral from the time I was about 17, I was somewhat prematurely thrust into adulthood.  I was still in high school, but my dad on a whim decided to quit his nearly 30-year gig as a successful film editor in Hollywood, much to my mother's chagrin (my father was, obviously, the primary bread-winner of the family).  He said he quit for the sake of his mental health -- looking back, I guess I will never know if that decision helped him or hurt him more in the end.  At the time, I whole-heartedly supported his decision; he was working 18-hour days, almost 7 days a week, and was never home with his family.  He was very nearly killing himself for the television series he was on at the time, as most people in the film industry do.  It is a dark and grueling life, quite opposite from the glitz and glamour the general public has come to view Hollywood as.  Your life belongs to Hollywood -- those part of it quite literally give their blood, sweat, and tears to that life.  A career in the film industry, I have learned from experience, is not often conducive to a solid, successful marriage and family life; that is the harsh reality of that world (that is why we all-too-often witness the demise of celebrity marriages).  When it comes to a career in the film industry, it seems, it is difficult to have it all -- a successful career and a happy, stable marriage.  My father was having to rely on substances just to survive the excruciating nature of his work and schedule.  He always said it was no secret that many people in the industry rely on alcohol and drugs to keep them going and to keep their mind at ease -- he was no exception to this (if you doubt my allegations of substance abuse in correlation with the entertainment industry, consider Lindsay Lohan).  It is a hard and lonely life.
     Anyway, maybe it was the best decision for my dad at that point and time in his life (I guess he was thinking, 'YOLO!').  However, while maybe a good decision for his own mental health, it arguably did not make our family life any better.  What was supposed to be a mental health-related temporary hiatus pretty much evolved into premature retirement, a retirement for which neither of my parents were financially or emotionally ready.  My dad, believing fully in his well-deserved break, began living as though he was on a very extended vacation.  He was spending money frivolously and with no regard (at that time we still had quite a bit of it), partying with his friends, and living a life of leisure.  My mother continuously inquired as to when he planned on returning to work, to which he always responded with a vague and acquiescing response.  As the months passed by, it became clear his intention to go back to work was decreasing -- albeit his substance use was not.
     My parents had always forced a sense of financial independence upon my sister and me growing up, although now it was becoming more crucial.  My mom was maintaining her full-time job to keep up with my dad's hiatus and spending habits, I took on a part-time job at a grocery store, and even my younger sister had a job at an arts and crafts store.  We were all working, with the exception of Dad (that seems odd, right?).  And so, after school, as all my friends would head off to either sports practice or to relax at home, I would head to work to bag groceries and push shopping carts for the rest of the evening -- my weekends were now devoted to work, as well.  It had been made clear to me by my parents that if I wanted to do or buy anything, I was to pay for it myself.  Additionally, I was required to pay for my cell phone, gas, and car insurance.  While I don't contest the legitimacy of this request by my parents (I believe in bestowing some responsiblity on children, financial and otherwise), I will say that a lot of my friends had it easier.  However, I did not necessarily mind working -- I somewhat enjoyed the sense of responsibility (and the extra spending money didn't hurt, either).  I will say, though, that my dad was very generous with the cash handouts back when he first went into 'retirement' -- as I said, he still had a lot of money stashed away from all those years of making six figures (another lesson learned: money doesn't last forever when you spend it like it's going out of style, no matter how much you made previously).
     My last couple years of high school continued, my father showed no signs of improvement, no intentions of getting a job, and my parents' marriage seemed to worsen by the day.  After the infamous 18th-birthday-party-overdose (which he later confessed was a suicide attempt -- really, you couldn't have picked another day on which to try to kill yourself?), it finally reached the point where my mom had to kick him out of the house, I guess in order to shield my sister and me from his all-night party/drinking/drug binges (even though I think the damage had already been done).  As I witnessed the deterioration of my life as I knew it before my very eyes, I did not falter.  I kept telling myself that things would get better -- that they had to get better, because how could they get worse?  Hope is sometimes the only light that guides us on an otherwise darkened path -- so that is what I did.  I hoped, because that is all I had.  To say that hope alone is enough to sustain us through troubled times is not an understatement -- I have lived it; I know its power and beauty.

Bele Chere: A Motto To Live By

     When I was 18 years old, I could not fathom the possibility that my parents even did drugs, let alone comprehend the fact that my dad was overdosing on a cocktail of cocaine and Somas at my 18th birthday party.  I had insisted that an inflatable bounce house be part of the shindig (much to my mother's dismay), and I stood in a stupefied trance as my father began foaming at the mouth and collapsed on the living room floor, while my friends bounced away in the front yard, completely oblivious to the dark events which were unfolding just inside the house.  While watching him slide to the floor and slip into incoherence and unconsciousness, I remember vaguely thinking that I had asked my dad to promise not to embarrass me at my birthday party, and that he was failing miserably.  A few party guests did happen to be inside the house to witness the beginning of the debacle, and (obviously much less oblivious and naive than I) quickly sprang to action.  I observed, dumbfounded, as my then-boyfriend and my best guy friend caught him and gently lowered him to the floor as he began to collapse.  Several friends gathered around and immediately began to attempt to revive him, or at least keep him somewhat conscious.  Someone in the distance screamed, "Call 911!"  Meanwhile, the kids bouncing out front became alerted to the fact that something was going down inside the house, and began to run in to see what all the fuss was about.  My mom was frantic and crying, and groups of previously sheltered, innocent teens huddled together, horror and confusion written clearly on all their faces.  I think I remained frozen in the same spot as all this took place before me -- it was only a matter of minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.  As the paramedics, fire trucks, and ambulance came roaring down the street, lights blazing, the neighbors began to emerge from their houses to watch as my dad was wheeled down the sidewalk on a stretcher -- and all I kept thinking was that he had failed on his promise to me.
     Some might consider a little hiccup such as that to be a bit of a 'downer' or 'buzz kill', to say the least.  But when you are newly 18, young, have your whole life ahead of you and are surrounded by awesome friends, you can bounce back from anything -- and that night, so did I.  After the ambulance tore away through the night (and I went into what must have been some state of shock, looking back), my friends took charge and got my birthday party back on track.  Miraculously, it was as though that nightmare never happened, and it seemed that's all it really was -- just a nightmare.  We had cake, sang happy birthday, and opened presents.  We had toilet paper wars with the boys, sang, danced, stayed up all night, and laughed endlessly.  In that moment and on that night, we were still kids, and we were carefree.  Our hearts were still as light as air, as young hearts are before they are weighed down with the understanding and knowledge of the darkness of the world.  It was as though God was granting me that one last night of childhood, of true freedom... of innocence.  It was His gift to me on the eve of my 18th birthday, allowing me and my friends to somehow forget the events of earlier that night and savor the last day of my childhood.  That night was both dark, yet beautiful.  Bele Chere: Means, 'beautiful living' -- Look closely, and you'll find its meaning in life's darkest corners.