At some point after my return from University, McDonald's began operating 24 hours a day, and I started supervising the night shift full-time, from 11pm until 7am, Tuesday til Saturday. I really liked this shift for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the consistency of staff with whom I worked - I described a few of them in a previous entry. As much as I liked the shift, and as much as it did suit my personality well, it ended up facilitating a sedentary lifestyle that left me perpetually bored and unproductive. I was still living with my parents when I started the night shift, and easily fell into a comfortable routine.
Every night at 10:30 I would head to work. I managed the floor and did prep work until midnight or one o'clock, then did office work until about three. At around 3am the cleaning staff would take their breaks, and I would sit down with them to chat and play cribbage. We played a lot of cribbage on the night shift. After they got back to work, myself and the other two night staff would play cards, getting up to serve the occasional car that drove through. At five, we changed over to breakfast and then resumed our card playing and newspaper reading. When six o'clock rolled around the opening manager would arrive and we would get up and look busy for an hour, lest our rather casual approach to work be discovered and chastised.
After heading home, my first order of business was getting some breakfast and chatting with my dad, who was always up and getting ready for work. He would leave shortly before eight, and my mom would either be getting up and ready to head out, or in bed with a migraine. Once she left as well, I would procure my little bag of supplies from my bedroom, and go out to the back porch. Here I loaded a small pipe and smoked pot for a while, meditating and relaxing. Upon returning to the cool interior of the house, I scrounged in the kitchen for a mid-morning snack, usually consisting of a plate of cheese and crackers, and whatever cookies or sweets were in the cupboard. Then I'd head up to my room to watch television or play video games until the 'burnout' effect of the pot kicked in, and a powerful urge to sleep knocked me out - usually with a half eaten plate of cookies and cheese on my floor. I learned something very interesting during this phase - hard cheeses left in a warm room do not mold! They turn dark orange and start sweating grease, shriveling and shrinking into a crusty rank rectangle.
My pot smoking habits were a source of tension in the household. Neither of my parents were agreeable with me smoking up on their property, thus I made significant effort to hide it from them. Oftentimes I would go out into the alleyway just to be able to say I wasn't doing it on their property - I chose to disregard the fact that I was still keeping it in their house. My mom's distaste for the habit seemed to be rooted in her sense of morality; adherence to propaganda, and the common social perception had convinced her that marijuana was a harmful substance with no positive aspect, and that it was inherently wrong. It's legal prohibition was merely the validation of her moral opposition, and a tool to render all arguments moot. My father seemed to be more pragmatically opposed to the habit. His respect for the law prevented him from entertaining any argument for the justification of its use, but he wasn't morally opposed to smoking pot, he was morally opposed to breaking the law. He was open enough that we could discuss the issue, but my opposition to its legal status was met with a challenge to do something about it, not the passive acceptance that I was after. Regardless of the cause of opposition, what remained was that they were against it, and I was living in their house willfully disregarding their conditions. Conflict inevitably arose and I eventually moved out, after a particularly explosive confrontation.
I'm not sure exactly what my motivations for using marijuana were. I definitely liked the culture that surrounded it, and was particularly drawn to the sorts of people who indulged. If culture drew me into it, I think it was escapism that kept me enthralled; pot allowed me to turn off my brain and be passively entertained. Colors were more vibrant, jokes were funnier, food tasted better, and my level of emotional connection to music increased tenfold. That connection in particular influenced my continued use; it gave me a window to the conventional emotional experience. Music has always been a portal to emotional connectivity for me, and marijuana intensified the sense of connectedness that I was lacking in my day to day life. The problems arose not because of the marijuana, but rather because I did not know how to fill that need in any other way. Had I known why I had such difficulty feeling connected, perhaps the issue could have been addressed much sooner, but alas life is not so simple. After moving out, my habits ceased to be petty vices, and began to dominate my existence.
My routine change so that instead of coming home and smoking up once or twice while my parents were away, I was coming home and smoking up constantly. I was also providing pot for both my brother and my girlfriend at the time, and would easily spend hundreds of dollars over the course of a month. This was not disposable income I was spending on the herb either, it was rent and bill money. Fairly regularly, at the end of the month I would call my dad, and explain to him that I did not have enough money for rent. It had to be fairly obvious why I was consistently short on cash, but I had a few bargaining chips which I played well enough to win his sympathy. When I couldn't pay rent, dad came to the rescue. It wasn't easy for him, and he made sure that I knew it. What frustrated him especially was my tendency to only let him know a day or two before the end of the month. I did this because of the intense shame I felt about being unable to cover my costs, desperately avoiding the disappointment I assumed he would express.
This went on for a significant period of time, until I was thousands of dollars in his debt. It got to the point where he had to tell me he actually could not lend me more money, as he was at the end of his credit. This realization snapped me out of the childlike vision I had of my fathers resources. I do not think I fully realized how burdensome I was being, and how difficult it was for him to hold me accountable until he informed me that I had officially sapped him, and there was nothing else he could do. By the time I realized what had happened, the damage was already done and a significant obstacle was set in place; a five thousand dollar chasm preventing me and my father from relating as equal men, the only thing he had ever wanted from his sons.
It wasn't until I understood the limitations that my father was living with, that I began to finally see through the shroud of childhood innocence I had been living in. He had always been a fallback, so my sense of personal responsibility only existed within that framework. Yes, I had decisions to make and consequences to consider, but never the sorts of consequences that really force you to abandon the irresponsible whims of youth. Learning that I had put my dad in a risky position, and knowing that it was my irresponsibility that had done so instilled in me a profound aversion to dependence on him. That singular moment marked a turning point in my life. I ceased to be burdened with a sense of aimlessness, and was immediately laden with a burning desire to pay back the money I owed. I had a goal, and a sense of purpose. I resolved (albeit with a forced hand), to not borrow any more money from him, and to make positive changes that would allow me to realize my new goal.
The change of mindset did not immediately alter my behavior and choices. I still maintained irresponsible habits and made choices that did not further my progress towards my goals. The difference was that I was now aware of the choices that I was making, and they were no longer so easy to make. Tension continued to exist between us when it came to financial matters, but he could see the intention was there, and effort was being made. It was at least a powerful step forward in a lengthy journey towards mutual understanding.
At some point I decided to try going back to school and signed up for the Agribusiness program at ACC. I applied for student loans and at first felt very positive about it. Not very long into the program though, it became apparent that it wasn't a good fit for me. I dropped out of the program and used the remainder of the student loan money to pay back the large majority of what was owed to my dad. This might seem like a poor decision on my part, and it has had some significantly negative consequences, however I do not regret doing so in the slightest. I received a letter informing me that I will no longer be allowed to apply for student loans until I pay back the amount that was awarded to me, which I did not use for school. This effectively means that I cannot return to school for the foreseeable future.
As much of a hindrance as that is, it is something that I joyfully accept and live with. By using that money to pay back my father, I took away the sense of indebtedness I had towards him, and gained an affirming notion of personal responsibility. I was now burdened by the consequences of the choices I had made, and no longer allowing that fallout to be shouldered by anyone else. Paying him back bridged the chasm that stretched between us, and allowed us to relate as equals.
I continue to have to live within the parameters that my irresponsibility eventually dictated for me. I am tens of thousands of dollars in debt, and my options are limited. The important thing though, is that I have accepted responsibility for my situation, and understand that the path to freedom is rife with sacrifice. I still make poor choices. I still progress more slowly than I could if I were to really focus on eliminating my debt and making proactive choices. But I acknowledge that the poor choices I make are what hold me back, and no longer project the consequences onto anyone else. Instead of slowly sinking further into the quicksand, I am slowly but surely pulling myself out of it. And now my father can provide me with proper support - he is no longer stuck beside me in the mud, but able instead to throw me a vine, and encourage me to keep climbing.
Next post I will shift gears and look back on the journey that has brought me and my mother to a place of mutual understanding and acceptance.
Peace and sanity upon us!
Eager to read Part 7.
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