18 Years of God Damn Bullshit: A Memoir

Confession

Driving into the gravelly lot, I had pretended to be asleep, which wasnt entirely a lie. My
back had grown accustomed to the hump in the middle of the back seat, and my legs had
officially locked into the fetal position, as if they were remembering a time I couldnt. Hours and hours of staring into the deep navy sky, like a bolt of silk that stretched across the western coast.

I had wanted them to carry me in, but I knew that was too much to hope for. They had already gone inside, exhausted from driving nearly nonstop for the past week. And of course, I wasnt 6 anymore. Though short, in the grand scheme of things, 10 years of a humans lifespan
can be the difference between innocence, and a paradise lost.

As stillness and silence stretched, I took in the knowledge that I was home.

It had been a few weeks since I had made it to __________. A native _____, I marvelled
at the abundance of coffee grounds that you had to make, and the presence of heat, despite my hope that I had finally left its clutches. Sadly, the north had smouldering summers too.

It had already been close to a month ago when my father and new step-mom signed the papers in a parking lot in ___ _______. The blue pen scrawled over solid lines, the air thick with
anticipation, and the catharsis of finding myself in my fathers arms for the second time since
talking to him again, and the first time since knowing I would be able to go home with him.

Home, Id say to myself. The air mattress on the living room floor was home. The pictures of my
father, step-mother, and little brother on the wall were home. I was allowed to eat anything I saw in the kitchen, and drink tea anytime I wanted, which was something I was glad to be thankful for.

But in truth, the conversations Id had with my father since regaining contact hadnt been
entirely reassuring. They were always in the presence of my case workers, or through phone calls with 10 other kids in the background screaming and fighting over movies or video games.

There was just only so much I could say then. In my whole life, I have only known my father to be truly fond of two things. Driving cars, and driving them fast. And with the pandemic in full swing, there was nothing more enticing than the empty freeways, and his bright sports car that sat pristine in the driveway.

Our routine would be every weekend. When my dad was off of work, and my step mom away visiting her mother, hed walk up to my bed and say, You wanna go for a drive? And without fail, I had my boots on before his feet left the doormat.

This day was one of those days where we had been out since noon, cruising the empty
freeways at the speed of light, techno music blaring so loud my feet were often numb when we
got home.

Sometimes wed laugh about whatever fight had caused my step mom to leave for her
mothers this time, or Id listen to my dad talk about work, mentioning concepts and phrases with words I only knew the meaning of separately. But most of the time we were in our own thoughts, kindred in that we both were more content in our own head spaces than in the real world.

Eventually the stretch of the highway met its end, and night had long since fallen, so we headed home, stopping by our favorite Mexican place that was always open, and knew the difference between carne and ground beef.

When he stopped by the gas station, I knew it was going to be one of those sort of nights where he talked about the past, and Id answer his open-ended
questions about myself, his way of seeing how alike we really were.

We had probably been sitting on the living room couch for nearly an hour, if not more; I can never remember, for in those early days of quarantine, time passed differently than it does
now.