Never a Break, It Seems

Dan was missing his mother. He wanted to go and spend time there with her in Acton. And he said he missed his "sister" Emily. Emily is his HALF-sister. Meagan is his sister. I'm going to be completely honest with you, Ms J. I couldn't care less about Emily. Emily is NOBODY to me. Nobody. She's the illegitimate child of my ex-wife and her ex-boyfriend. I wish Emily had never been born. Now don't misunderstand me, Ms J. I don't dislike the child. I just don't love her. I may never love her. I resent her. Isn't that awful? I don't tell Dan and Meagan how I feel. I will never tell them how I feel. But I'm telling you, Ms J. I wish she were never born.

So anyway, I drove Dan to Acton on New Years Eve. He had packed a huge bag and stuffed it full of clothes. And his medicine. Enough for six days. I hugged him outside Kelly's door and said I'd miss him while he was gone. But secretly, I was REALLY looking forward to having a Dan-free week here in Mimico. My own space again. Solitude. Without any of that ungodly screaming and loud thrashing of guitars, that Dan calls "music." A clean kitchen that stays that way all day. Television off. Peace. Quiet. Listening to my own thoughts. NOT having to listen to Dan's mindless and continual chatter about drugs and TV shows and "death metal" bands with names like "Carcass" and "Dying Fetus" and "Blood for Blood" and "Skinless" and "Slayer" and "Megadeth." Disgusting, appalling bloody gore, without a trace of artistic merit. Noise.

I nod my head and feign interest. I must be a horrible father, Ms J. But his music sickens me. And he talks non-stop. He talks about starting a band. But he doesn't own an instrument and has no idea how to play one. He says he will teach himself to play the guitar. Electric guitar. The louder, the better. He says Emily shows musical aptitude. He plans to buy her a guitar when she gets a bit bigger, so she can join his band. Emily is ten months old.

And Dan claims to be able to communicate with Tara, the cat. This frightens me a bit.

"She sends pictures to me, Dad. Like an empty food bowl. Or a dirty litter box. Pictures. I send pictures back to her. That's how we talk. With our minds. Cats don't really understand words. They communicate with images. It's a new skill I've developed."

Yeah right, son. You're Doctor friggin' Doolittle.

I even asked him last week, point blank, "Do you honestly believe you can talk to Tara, Dan?"

"Yes, Dad. I can talk with her. Nothing too complicated, of course. But simple messages, yes."

This can't be normal, Ms Journal. These cannot be rational thoughts. Can they???

Dan is 18 years old. He's not 6. But he seems quite capable of conjuring up the most fantastical of fantasies. Hockey player. Rock and Roll guitarist. Cat whisperer. Come on. Let's get real, shall we? It's very difficult to listen to. I haven't actually refuted the things he says. I haven't gone far towards telling my son he's a fanciful dreamer. I just clench my jaw, and suffer it.

Should I let him know I think he's full of shite? I don't know what to do.

I went to a party last night with some theatre friends. Jenn and Jane. Andrew and Stacey. Larry. I enjoyed myself. I laughed. I drank lots of red wine. I socialized with adults. It was good. Good. And I came home today, planning to do some housework. Read some blogs. Post here. Read my e-mail. Yes, I was quite looking forward to using the internet this week. This quiet, peaceful, solitary week.

But the phone rang a few minutes ago. I almost didn't answer it. But I did. Guess who?

"It's getting really stressful here, Dad. Mum and Gary have been fighting all day. I don't even have a place to sleep unless I sleep on the couch. Tim's in my old room downstairs. I don't want to stay here any longer, Dad. Can you come and get me?"

Sigh ...................................................

"Can you deal with it til tomorrow, Dan? I'll come and collect you tomorrow after church."

I was really planning to have a friend here for lunch or maybe dinner tomorrow, Ms J. Christine. I enjoy Christine's company. And she's cute as hell. But instead, I have to drive an hour each way to Acton to get Dan.

Good-bye, quiet solitude. So long, internet. Hello Dying Fetus. Cat whisperer. Walter Mitty.

These are my thoughts today, Ms Journal. This is how I feel. I must be a pretty selfish father.