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They did this every Christmas, and normally I would be the first one down there, sipping on cheap prosecco and sharing some lighthearted flirty banter with their friends’ sons. Honestly though, I didn’t have the energy left to rustle up a smile, much less a conversation.
I felthollow.
Exhaling a ragged breath when I climbed onto my bed, I reached for my phone, and pressed the redial button.
“This is Joey, you know what to do.“
Beep.
“I don’t love you,” I whispered brokenly into the phone. A tear trickled down my cheek, and I clenched my eyes shut. “I really,reallydon’t love you, asshole.”
BACK TO TRYING
DECEMBER 28TH 2004
JOEY
My father had fallenoff the wagon before my mother had finished carving the turkey, and I ended up spending the rest of Christmas day breaking up arguments and shielding my siblings from his swinging fists.
It was during one of his whiskey tantrums that I found myself taking stock of my life, and I meanreallytaking stock of it.
I felt trapped.
I felt overwhelmed by responsibility.
I felt angry.
I felt hard done by.
I felt wronged.
But all of those feelings paled in comparison to the feeling of shame that had come crashing down around me when I found myself wrestling a bottle of whiskey from my father’s hands on Christmas night and saw my future-self staring back at me.
I'd been knocked down many times in my life, but the cold, hard reality of knowing that I was turning into Teddy Lynch made me contemplatestayingdown.
Like a wounded dog, I wanted to crawl into a hole and lick my wounds.
Because Iwaswounded.
I was fucking breaking apart piece by piece, fueled further by the knowledge that my mother was right; thiswasmy future.
If I didn’t do something to turn this around, I would become everything I hated.
I would become another version of my father, of Dricko, of Shane Holland, of Danny Fitz, of Philly Heffernan, oftheirfathers, and every other asshole from our area that had buried his head in Powers, powder, and pussy.
I was a disgrace, and I didn’t want to be this person anymore.
I was disgusted with how far I’d fallen.
Above it all, at the top of my ladder of priorities, was Molloy.
The devastation in her eyes, so similar to the pain my mother bore daily, was imbedded in the forefront of my mind, unwilling to dilute or dissipate, no matter how much time passed.
Her heartbroken expression when I climbed out of her window, the hurt in her voice, the angry words she had thrown in the heat of the moment… I had caused that pain.
I had put that hurt in her eyes, and those words in her mouth.
Me.
