An Honest Reflection

December 31st.

It's been a whole year... a whole year and I haven't been able to stop. In fact, I think I've gotten worse. I've hurt so many people with my actions, but that's not why I want to stop. I want to stop because every time I just lose myself, all control just gone in the blink of an eye. It's terrifying to think that a person can just disappear like that, just become someone else, but every time I'm just left with the consequences. Like I'm taking care of a petulant child and I'm the only one to blame because I let it happen.

Last year I made the same exact promise, in the same exact scenario. The only way I'm gonna stop is if I take the decision out of my own hands. I need help, because I can't stop on my own. Maybe mom would understand, hell dad was just like me. Coming home late at night or early the next morning, smelling like death. "The smell is always the worst part," I used to think when I was younger, but then again I hadn't experienced the aftermath first hand at that point. I guess things like this are hereditary.

I remember in a moment of lucidity dad talked about wanting to stop, wanting to just give it all up and take charge of his life and own up to years of mistakes. That was the week he died. Slipped on a ladder at work and broke his neck on impact. Maybe he could've changed, maybe he could've stopped. Maybe.

Thinking about him makes me wonder what kind of advice he'd give me, what he would've done if he hadn't died. Maybe mom would know, but I don't think asking her would do much good. She's been in the elder care facility for the last five years. I had no other option. She was my only family and the dementia had only progressed further.

I went to see mom last weekend, as I had the weekend before and the weekend before that. Every week she would call me "the handsome man", as if it was our first time meeting. It hurt, but I couldn't show her that. It made her so happy to have some company. I would sit with her for a few hours each week, telling her stories and listening to her own. She loved talking about her son, me. She would tell me he was such a good boy and so good at school and how he always waited for daddy to come home. It seemed like she didn't have any memories of me as a young man. I'd like to think it was because she couldn't, but part of me wasn't so sure.

Whenever she would talk about her husband or his relationship with their son there was always a grim look on her face, like she was afraid to talk about it. I knew she was afraid of dad, hell so was I. She wouldn't talk about dad in much detail even when I pressed her. Whether she didn't remember or just didn't want to talk about it I'll never know.

Dad was the first one to give me a taste of our shared habit when I was fourteen. I was hooked immediately. It filled me with a sense of power and a feeling of ecstasy, like I could conquer the world. The second time I was alone. Hell, I think it felt even better like it was my own little secret even from dad.

After dad passed, I think that was when I started to lose control. When I started to give up control. I'm not sure if at the time it was a willing forfeiture of my restraint or it just deteriorated beyond my control faster than I could realize. In either case it was gone and I couldn't get it back no matter how hard I tried.

That's why I need to stop. It was one thing when it was every so often. Lose control, wake up, and then back to reality. But now... now I'm losing days at a time. Maybe I don't just have dad to thank for this affliction, maybe I've got a touch of what mom's got too.

I want to stop, I have to stop. I can't keep doing this to myself and even though she wouldn't be able to process it, I can't keep doing this to mom either. I've never had many friends since I started the old family addiction, but every one of my boyfriends has been the victim of it. Every time I get close to someone new, one day I'll just disappear, wake up, and then deal with the mess I've left myself.

Maybe if I just stopped meeting new people I'd have more control. NO! This time I need a professional to help me. I've tried so many times to just STOP, I feel like I'm going crazy. The other part of me is slowly gaining more and more control, swallowing my life. I need to end this. No more resolutions, this year I take the control out of my hands. I will not lose myself to the other, even if that means ending the charade of self control.

I've got the number and tonight I call. I get the help I need. I finally stop this train wreck of a life I'm living.

I've written down what I'm going to say when I call. I feel like I have to or I'll somehow fuck it up. Here goes:

"Hello, I'd like to report a crime. My name is Richard Michael Royce. I live at 639 Rutherford Street. I'm responsible for the deaths of thirty-seven men over the course of the last twenty-five years. I've kept a trophy from each of my victims. I will stay on the line until the officers get here, the door is unlocked. I am unarmed and will come quietly... and I'm sorry."