a senior in high school, I needed cash. I got a job washing dishes at the golf club across the street from the school. Three of my good friends were already working there, and the pay was fairly good. I added the job to my already full plate, and I’m glad I did. On busy nights, we worked hard, but it was fun in a way, especially when my friends were working with me. As kitchen staff, we assisted in food preparation and closing duties. As a reward for my hard work, I was always assigned to the Sunday shift. This shift was the best, as I would get all the leftover buffet food, and trust me—it was well worth it. All the other dishwashers wanted to work the Sunday shift, but I was the one getting it.
All of the hours spent working kept me insulated to some degree from the degenerating politics in my parents’ relationship. Yet I went through a lot of stuff that I pray no one else ever goes through. A lot was said and done, preying on my soul and pushing me to the depths of a dark world. It was even more difficult because I looked up to my parents, and their values are instilled in me even today. Suddenly, my entire world had been turned upside down with what seemed like the snap of a finger.
I remember sitting on the couch at the country club, waiting for my shift to start, and thinking, “What did I do in life to deserve this? Why me, God? Why?” The kids at school had money and easy lives, while I had to completely run on overdrive for most of my life with my family dynamics in ruins. I had to fight to get everything—I had to fight just to exist—so why was it that others had so much handed to them? I sat on the couch where millionaires came to relax and thought to myself, “I am smart, athletic, and, most importantly, good-hearted. I put the needs of others in front of my own and yet I have to struggle with my family life and finances. This just sucks!”
As the months went by, I was working out every day and putting on some serious weight. I started training when I was sixteen, adding forty pounds onto my frame. I worked out for an hour and a half a day, even after work, I took vitamins, ate like a mule, and drank protein shakes religiously after every workout. As a senior, I was a chubby 245 pounds; I had gone from the scrawny guy to the big guy. I was strong and benched over 280 pounds, shoulder pressed ninety-pound dumbbells, but I had a round face and a bit of a gut. I told everyone that I’d be a monster once I lost fifteen to twenty pounds. However, cardio was not my strong suit back then, and I did not lose the excess weight.
I think the weight was a subconscious symbol of pain in life, seeing my parents’ marriage fail and my mom battle with her personal demons. My grades slipped to the point where I was barely attending classes, showing up only to ace the tests so that I wouldn’t fail the class. I chose fun over responsibilities, and even when my entire world was crumbling, I was still somehow slowly pushing through. Some days, I immersed myself in movies and books to escape.
Whatever obstacles presented themselves, I lived through more drama in my first twenty years of life than most people do their entire lives. Somehow, it made me stronger, and maybe wiser to some extent. My mom battled with alcoholism. The bottle consumed her every thought and stole her from me. To make matters worse, my dad left her when she was at her lowest point, leaving me to attempt to save my mom on my own when I was sixteen years old.
My dad moved on and started a new family. I wasn’t sure how to approach this situation. Needless to say, we’ve had a hot-cold relationship ever since. He even left the business to my mom and began working at a factory, cutting all ties with her.
I tried helping as much as I could at the deli, but it wasn’t enough, and we needed more help. My mom could not work every day, as her health was in decline. At my high school graduation, no one from my family attended as I received my diploma, and I cannot lie: it hurt.
My mom then hired a gorgeous girl to help us out at the deli on a part-time basis. Beata was a smart, good-looking, brown-eyed girl. I remember her coming to the store with her parents on occasion, but now that she was working here, it made work a lot of fun! Her long, dark hair and tanned, smooth skin was more than eye candy for me! Finally, a curve in the road of life to be thankful for, although being older than me I figured she was way out of my league. I thought I didn’t stand a chance. We talked for hours about anything and everything. She was so down-to-earth and knowledgeable; it was a breath of fresh air. I found myself having fun for the first time in a long time.
There were times when the deli was really prospering, as Beata and I were outgoing and had good rapport with the customers. Our products were from select distributors known to be of high quality, even though we had to drive 250 miles each week for the items. We tried desperately to get rid of the vultures picking away at the business. My mother’s drinking buddies brought her alcohol and then took three times the value in products, free of charge. They were supposed to be friends, and this angered me. We had to deal with many kinds of people. Being 240 pounds helped to get the message across to various people to stay away.
I also started my college education with the Human Services Foundation to learn the art of dealing with people in service fields. I excelled in psychology but did not much care for school. With a distraction like Beata working alongside me, I skipped more than a few classes. After months of working together, we finally started dating.
That period of time was life-changing for me, as I had more fun than I could remember and my confidence began to soar again. We frequently traveled to Toronto and Niagara Falls just to get out of the city. To me, that was more than I needed, to see and experience the world with the prettiest girl in the world. It’s funny that most good things in my life have happened when I wasn’t searching for them—case in point with Beata. She really is my angel from heaven.
My dad was working at a factory making good money, and because I was looking for work after college to start my own life, it was a quick fix. The factory was hiring summer students for $7.00 less per hour than they paid regular workers, which was still a lot. I accepted the job in a heartbeat and got to work. The conditions were terrible. It was hot, smoky, hazy, polluted, and it entailed hard manual labor with some power-tripping supervisors added to the mix.
A month into the job, I was more than acclimated and a productive employee, so much so that they offered me a full-time regular employee position. I could not complain about the job, as it paid well, but the beginning was hard, as with any new beginning. I woke up in the middle of the night to cramping forearms and hands, and every day I blew from my nose black sludge mixed with blood.
Beata and I had a plan: work for about a year, bank the money, and I would become a police officer. For a number of reasons it never happened. It was easy to get sucked into the thought of big money even though I had much bigger plans for myself. I got used to working the three-shift rotation, meaning each week we switched from working mornings (my favorite) to afternoons (my least favorite) and nights. After a year, I started working on the newer automotive line, which was easier and involved less lifting and welding. The months quickly turned into years.
As my relationship with Beata blossomed, my family life was still in the toilet. I was still trying to help as much as I could with my mom and the deli, but things were quickly declining. My mom’s health was getting worse, and even her doctors weren’t doing much to help the root cause: alcoholism. I wish I would have done more, maybe by taking her to Alcoholics Anonymous if she would have agreed, but she likely would not have. I had dozens of heartfelt conversations with my mom where I begged her to stop drinking for her sake, as well as for my sake. It was always the same, we would break down, my true mom would come through, and then a day later she would be reaching for the bottle again. It was becoming the norm for her to be in and out of the hospital at that point.
My dad and I were constantly at each other’s necks, figuratively speaking. He gave me yelling lectures and went on rants that made no sense, offering no real insight or help. I think he was taking out his anxieties and regrets on me, and I was done taking it, as I had for too long. I was my own man now, and I still showed respect, but also stood up for what I thought was right.
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