Brilliant … But Bouncy

This Seemed Like a Pretty Good Plan.

While I was drinking, several of my family members went out looking for me. Like any loving parents, mine were worried that something bad had happened to me.

Meanwhile, I was sucking in as much alcohol as I could find. I had decided to move to Myrtle Beach permanently; I was never going home. I wanted sun and sand and freedom. I wanted the things I believed I’d been promised when I moved with Larry to Florida. I wanted the things Scott had when he lived on raw potatoes. I wanted no responsibility and no consequences.

I didn’t know yet that consequences emerge directly from evading responsibility.

Then, quite suddenly, I decided that I wanted to die. Something about that teenage boy not wanting me anymore…

Wasted, I left the party and wandered down to the ocean. I stared into the abyss. It was so dark, I couldn’t see anything but black.

I wondered if I could drown myself. I thought about The Awakening, a story I’d read in school. Spoiler alert: at the end of The Awakening, the main character walks into the ocean and purposefully drowns herself.

This seemed like a pretty good plan.

I’m drunk enough to drown, I thought. I deserve to drown. My head was woozy with alcohol; the dark was holding me captive. I stood with my feet in the water; I took a few steps forward. The water was warm.

I took a few steps into the water and considered my options. I could just keep going, but …

Wasn’t I just thinking about living at the beach forever?

I imagined life eating raw potatoes and realized: I don’t even like raw potatoes. But I like peanut butter sandwiches! Why couldn’t I eat peanut butter sandwiches instead of raw potatoes?

I could.

The fickle nature of alcoholic mood allowed me to abruptly forget about drowning and stand there for another moment, listening to the waves in the blackness, while planning to be a vagrant – another good plan. Then I headed back to the party for another beer.

I didn’t notice the sunrise, but the sun was shining when I saw her.

And she saw me.

My mom was standing at the bottom of the steps near the hotel where the party lingered. Drunk beyond even my own comprehension, I wished hard that I was imagining her presence.

But no. She was there, locking eyes with me as I haltingly started toward her. The closer I got, the clearer her face became.

Hers was the saddest face I had ever seen, sad in a way I couldn’t characterize. Her skin was freckled and pale, her cheeks hollow, her eyes dark and sorrowful, almost crying. She looked as though someone had died, an infant maybe, or a beloved pet.

Maybe she was grieving for her own beloved infant.

For the first time in my life, I saw the pain in my mom’s eyes, and I knew without a doubt that I’d caused it. I felt real remorse: a deep, agonizing regret for hurting this woman who loved me. For the first time ever, I didn’t feel just shame and guilt; I didn’t just feel anger.

I felt empathy. My mom was human.

She waited until I got close enough for her to almost whisper: “Let’s go home.”

I wanted to tell her I was staying, living in Myrtle Beach forever. Instead, I put down my beer and walked with her silently in the sand, all the way back to the beach house.

And I knew, once and for all, that I’d never live on the beach.