The smell of Zippo, lighter fluid from his army-issue cigarette lighter, almost covered the ashy smell of cigarettes, which almost hid the scent of whiskey on his breath and the sour odor of his body. I dream this memory when I am most depressed, but I never know how real it is. I can't point to the when these things happened to me. I remember him hugging me in a not paternal way, scratching my forehead with the wiry brush of his five o'clock shadow. The smell wants me to gag; the fear does make me gag, which wakes me up almost.
Still half asleep, I am beset by the ghosts that would have me follow their directions. With depression, these commands take me places and make me do things that leave me feeling guilty. Guilty for having done what I was told, guilty for my body's response to it, and guilty for the pleasure I felt. After their needs are satisfied, and my body can no longer answer their directions, after I am spent, I am allowed to sleep a dreamless sleep. The following day, traces of pain remind me of the nightmares and bring back the shame. As a child, I wet the bed to try to convince him to leave me alone, but as an adult, I developed insomnia as a defense mechanism. I often get up in the middle of the night and stay up until I can find a dreamless sleep with no room for ghosts.
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Witness
FacklitteraturThese accounts reflect my memories of what it was like, for me, as I grew up. They also reflect the fact that everything (especially what I write) is a figment of memory or an extrapolation of today into tomorrow. So, as you read my pieces, rememb...
