Over the past few years I’ve made it clear that in my younger years I was not the poster child for good kids everywhere – or anywhere, for that matter.  I did things that led to trouble and often lied in an attempt to stay out of that trouble.  I still carry the guilt of my thoughtless actions even though they occurred in another life many years ago.  And at least one person still carries the resentment they felt toward me when I wronged them those many years ago. 

I started smoking at the relatively early age of ten years old.  I didn’t inhale initially, but just holding the cigarette and puffing on it made me feel grown up.  Within a year or two I was smoking like a pro.  In those days, kids could buy cigarettes anywhere just by telling the cashier they were for your dad and a pack was far less expensive than they are today, only around fifty cents.  Before too long, my parents caught on to my nasty habit and tried to put an end to it through punishments and long family discussions.  Naturally, it had no effect and I continued smoking.  Their next plan of attack was to withhold my allowance, which worked well, but since my father was a smoker too, I would just take a pack or two each week from his carton – something he apparently never missed.  And if I couldn’t snag a deck of his Parliament Lights 100’s, there were enough teens in the neighborhood with the same habit from which I could bum a few smokes.

This worked out well for a while.  My parents thought I was off the butts yet I continued to smoke regularly.  I didn’t really need any money at the time, so withholding my allowance didn’t pinch me – until I discovered drugs.  Within a few months of smoking my first joint, I started to crave the high that accompanies it.  With no allowance, I had to depend on the kindness of friends to catch a buzz.  With no conscience, I found an alternative.

I knew at that time (I was around 15) that my parents were having marital woes.  My mother made the mistake of confiding in me that she was saving money in an effort to move out.  Going one step further, she told me where: in a small metal lockbox in her nightstand.  Within days, I had picked the lock, stolen $20 and bought a small bag of pot.  This was the first in a long string of thefts from my very own loving family.

My mother was and still is a very organized person.  She knew exactly how much money was in the box before I took it.  But, like most parents, she didn’t want to think I would do such a thing, so she let it go; until I went to the well one too many times.  Upon determining that she wasn’t losing her mind, she confronted me and after lying over and over, I finally came clean and admitted my crime.  The disappointment in her face is still burned into my memory.  I have since apologized on more than one occasion, but to this day I feel terrible about sabotaging her only escape from a loveless marriage in an effort just to get high.

I stole no more money from her and within a short time she had enough saved up to finally leave the house.  I was to continue living there with my father and my sister since I was still in school.  My father had always been a hard-working man who frequently held two or more jobs at once.  One day, while he was feeling no pain thanks to Pabst Blue Ribbon and Canadian Mist, he told me of a savings account he had.  The money wasn’t in a bank, but was instead tucked into the pocket of a suit he had in his closet.  He then showed me the suit and proceeded to pull out a wad of cash the likes of which I’d never seen before.  He claimed there was around $1200 in nothing but twenties and I had little reason to doubt him.  That evening, when he went to work, I became $60 richer and bought enough weed and other drugs to keep my friends and I high for weeks.

But, of course, it didn’t last for weeks and I ended up coming back for more.  And more.  And more still.  Dad never seemed to notice it missing – or if he did, he never asked me about it nor did he make an attempt to move it.  Within a couple of months (and several hundred dollars later) my father suffered a stroke and ended up in the hospital then rehabilitation for about three months.  During that time, I moved in with my mother but continued to siphon off his hard-earned money until, very quickly, there was none left at all.  By the time he returned home, unable to speak or even walk without help, all his cash was gone.

My sister came to me shortly after he returned and explained that Dad had brought her to his closet and was trying to convey some imperative notion.  I was unsure if she knew about the money’s existence or not and didn’t want to offer any insight.  It wasn’t until a few years later that I admitted to my mother what I had done.  When my sister got wind of it, she wanted to kill me since she felt my father had blamed her for the vanished currency.  Over twenty-five years later and her feelings haven’t changed.

Fast-forward a year beyond my father’s stroke (before my admission of guilt) and you’ll find my father living in Florida with the son from his first marriage, while my sister and I lived with my mother.  I had yet to rediscover my conscience and, while between jobs, I needed money.  I had already pawned most of the valuable things I owned, so started looking for the valuables of others, starting with, yet again, my dear mother.  Mom played accordion and she owned a beautiful one with mother-of-pearl inlays, a leather-bound carrying case and little faux diamonds in the keys.  Without a momentary concern for her wants or needs, I pawned it for $80 and never got it back.  Shortly thereafter, I did the same thing with a little black-and-white TV my sister owned.  They both knew I was the thief, regardless of how vehemently I denied it.  Years later, around the same time I admitted taking my father’s money, I finally admitted those thefts as well.

My mother forgave me, as mothers do.  I felt an even heavier debt to my father, though, which hung around my neck like a lead chain for years.   Ten years later when, I heard there was abuse occurring in Florida, I decided to bring him back up here where he still had family that loved him.  I got him into a nursing home and took care of his finances, medical bills, entertainment and more.  I admitted my aching guilt to him when he finally settled in, and he seemed very quick to forgive me, patting my hand and nodding his head.  To this day, my sister holds my crimes against our family very close to her heart, and while I can’t blame her in the least, I do wish things were different and that I hadn’t caused this cavernous rift between us.

If I had any advice to give anyone who would still entertain the idea of taking my advice, it would be to steer clear of drugs and maintain a strong conscience.  If you lose control you may commit acts you’ll be unable to rescind and destroy relationships you’ll be unable to rebuild.