How to Get Even (With the World That is To Blame For All Your Misfortunes)!
“A young protagonist riding a turtle into the New York City sunset, never to be seen again.” - Jay Ruttenberg
It's been three thousand seven hundred and some days since I started to get even. My long and arduous journey for revenge started ten long years ago. The bloody crusade still rages today.
It started when I got my father killed. Picture, if you can, a wet and cold February morning in seventh grade. Overnight, a wintery mix has descended on your inner-coastal New Jersey town and the streets are covered. The lame ass Catholic school you attend closes its doors and you get a day off. Nirvana! Valhalla! Heaven with 72 million virgins!
You are stoked. It’s too wet and slushy for your parents to force you outside. You can sleep in! The perplexing tentacles of puberty have just started their puppeteering and the stress from having insane BO and the physical toll of growing and expanding in every direction leaves you dog tired. Maybe later you’ll play video games and then squirm on your pillow in the way that makes your penis hungry.
Uph! What’s this? You have to shovel. Says who? Says Mom? Fuck that shit. You don’t want to shovel. This is your day off. The streets are closed, no one can drive anywhere. You don’t give a fuck if the driveway is clear. Fuck you, Mom. You’re not doing that shit. Why’s it always you anyways? Your sister’s older, she can shovel. You were shoveling in fifth grade, why can’t that dork down the hall do the same. You should be teaching them young. Some day, you all won’t be here to coddle him.
Fuck! Fine, you’ll shovel. What the fuck? You’ll shovel, but first you’ll go completely off the handle. Lose your shit. Scream, pout, stomp your feet, slam doors, put your snow boots on in such a way that you might break your ankle. And this is your right. You’re twelve, almost thirteen, life is hell. “Obviously, Doctor, you’ve never been a 13 year old girl.” Obviously, bitch mom, you’ve never been a twelve year old boy on a snow day.
Because of all the dilly dallying and scream fighting, by the time you get out on the driveway it’s pretty much clear. Your dad is at the bottom, about twenty yards away. There’s probably ten scoops left, maybe fifteen. It’d take you five minutes tops. Your dad sees you and smiles and waves and calls you down to him. He seems genuinely happy to see you because he’s a good person and wants to spend quality time with his son, he doesn’t just appreciate the helping hand. You–psycho demon spawn from Hell–are not happy that your dad is being nice to you. In fact, you lose your shit again. Some kind of Custer's last stand. You’re already out of bed, you’re already outside, the shovel is in your hand, you’ve lost. Just fucking shovel the driveway.
But you won’t. This is your hill and you’ll fucking die on it cause fuck everyone. Instead of shoveling, you trounce over and throw your shovel at your dad’s feet. He laughs it off and says he’s happy you're out here to help. You snap back with a quick retort cause you are an asshole. This is not good for his heart. More specifically, his blood flow. 6.7% of all heart attacks in the US happen shoveling snow. This isn’t a heart attack though, it’s different.
He, just as sick of your shit as everyone else in the house, tells you to go inside. You go nuts, freaking out about how you “have to help!” “How will it get done without me?” you ask, like an asshole.
Then he wobbles. You figured he slipped on the ice. You laugh, finally the tension is broken. Maybe you’ll actually shovel now. And then your dad bends over. In a whisper he asks for water. You laugh. Laughter left over from what you thought was a slip, and laughter from the nerves crawling up your neck. An unfortunate nervous reaction that won’t go away after today. For the rest of your life you’ll find funerals and hospitals very funny. “Chris, go get me water.” You start up the driveway. Walking slow, knowing that if you run it’ll feel much more real than it is, you reach the garage and pull out a water bottle. You go back down, give it to him. “Go get Mom.” “Are you alright Dad?” “Yes, just go get mom.” This time you run.
Mom sees you and before you can start she’s on your ass. “It’s not done! Did you do the bottom, the sidewalk? Did you scrape off the ice and get the snow off the cars?” “Dad–” “No, don’t make Daddy do it. You do it! He’s been–” “No! Dad needs you!” “What do you mean Dad needs me? You’re out there, just help him.” “No. Mom! Dad really needs you!” “What? What do you mean!” “Dad says he needs you!” “What do you mean? Is everything alright?!” the tone of concern in her voice finally matches your own. “I don’t know!” you yell back. She bounces off the couch and sends you back outside, telling you to bring him another water.
You run back out and bring your dad another water. He’s sitting in the snow on the side of the driveway now. His eyes are closed. When you get back he opens them, but he’s not looking at anything. You put the second water in his hand. “Thanks,” he mutters.
You keep looking back at the house. How long could it take to get out here? You dance around your dad. You don’t know what to do. You can see him breathing. It looks hard. Where is Mom? What is taking so long? You keep looking back at the front door. Desperate. Your dad takes off his hat and puts it down in the snow next to him. You pick up his shovel. You don’t know where to look.
Finally, there’s mom. Walking down the driveway in her pajama pants and an old zip up sweatshirt. She couldn’t find her boots, she explains as she approaches. With all the years of social work and marriage under her belt, your mom is well equipped to handle the situation. She doesn’t get over animated. She doesn’t show concern. She knows your dad and she knows how to know what to do. Quickly, he’s up on his feet. Mom has him by the waist and she’s supporting him as they walk inside. They take multiple breaks. Your mom jokes and Dad feigns a smile. It’ll be alright. You follow behind, still holding the shovel in your hand. You are a few steps behind–watching. Too scared to talk, you just listen. The breathing and the rushed whispers accented with smiles.
When you get to the garage your mom asks you to finish the driveway. Somehow, you’re disappointed and a little pissed off. Surely, shoveling the driveway doesn’t matter at a time like this. There’s no reason to keep up appearances right now. She can see the agitation on your face. “Just do it Christopher. Just in case we have to go to the hospital.”
You stalk back down the driveway. You don’t have gloves on anymore, where did they go? You put down your dad’s shovel and pick up yours. Five minutes later the snow is gone. The driveway is clear. Your ears are hot so you take off your winter hat.
All the roads are closed. The hospital is further than you’d want.
You’re back at school the next day. Of course you are. You don’t miss school for anything. Education is important. Your ancestors sacrificed a lot for their education, so will you. School is weird. Outside of the regular bizarre occurrences of a seventh grader, you don’t really feel like you’re there. Usually an involved and know it all student you’re reluctant to raise your hand. You don’t talk much at lunch, and ask to sit out in Gym. You are the gym class hero of fable. You just don’t feel like it today.
Mom came back late last night–the roads were clear by then. She looked tired when she came into your room to say goodnight. She got you on the bus this morning and then followed behind until you turned left and she took a right. Your dad did not come back from the hospital last night. It’s alright, you tell yourself. No one has mentioned it. And so goes the next week. Wondering about your dad, fading in and out of school, getting nothing but positive news from your mom.
People start showing up. Your grandparents are there one day. Then your aunt. Your neighbor comes and wakes you up at 5AM to take you next door because your mom has already left for the hospital. One night, late at night, you hear your mom and your aunt talking about your Uncle, your dad’s best friend from college. Why was Uncle Ted at the hospital? Why aren’t you? Adults are being very nice to you. You get to start at the basketball game on Sunday even though you usually come off the bench late in the second quarter. Your parents' friends are hugging you and asking you if you’re alright. You tell them yes, why wouldn’t you be. Your religion teacher tells the entire class to pray for your family. “...and pray for the Kuran family, let God give them strength in this time.” You’re a member of the Kuran family, why are they praying for you? No one tells you.
After the prayer session you ask to go to the bathroom. You sit in the far stall and stare down at your shoes. Your ears get hot and tears start bouncing off the tile. Soon, you're sobbing. Another student, an eighth grader, comes in, hears the hysterics and asks if you're okay. You tell him you just miss your grandfather who died three years ago. He gives you a hug and you cry into his shoulder. The two of you weren’t friends. You only knew of him. He walks you to the Nurse’s Office and leaves.
You ask the nurse if you can call your mom. She says no. You say you just want to talk to your mom, you just want to go home. She says school is the best place for you to be right now. Lying on the bed you think of your dad. The Nurse asks you if you want to go back to class and you say yes.
Back in class, on the prayer board, in your Religion teacher’s handwriting, The Kuran Family is written in the center in green marker. It’s huge. Fucking bitch. Fucking whore. The anger comes from your stomach. You can feel the tears rushing back. You want to kill her. Fucking bitch. You think of all the curse words you know. She, that Scottish Wanna Be Nun, asks you if you’re alright. In a cool, measured voice you say yes while staring at the ground. She seems taken aback by your tone. The shock of someone who is “only trying to be nice.” When you sit down in the back of the room you bury your head in your arms and try to pretend it's not happening. One of the kids at your table, some fucking loser, some fucking freak, some fucking cuck, puts his hand on your shoulder and pats you two times. He rubs your shoulder and you want to die. No one tells you why.
They did eventually tell me. It took a couple of years and I’m still not sure on all the details, but I’ll tell you what I know now. My father has a history of blood clots. It happens a lot in tall athletes. He’d been dealing with issues for years before that February in seventh grade, but it never seemed too serious. It was always, as long as you stay on top of it, you’ll be fine. You’re healthy, you’re young, you’ll be fine. And he was fine. Until he wasn’t. The cold temperatures and the heavy snow messed with his blood flow and he started clotting again that morning. He went to the hospital that day and for the next few days they tried all kinds of procedures to break up the blood clots. Nothing worked and they had to recommend a surgery. This was at CentraState hospital in Freehold, NJ. Fuck that place. I’m not sure what the exact procedure was, but the doctors messed up and my father died, maybe. It’s really unclear– no one will talk about this part to this day. Once I can remember some doctor saying everything stopped. That’s the big payoff though. When I said I killed my father this is what I’m referring to.
Obviously, logically, I know I’m not responsible. The bad doctors, the family genetics, the long commutes up North that my dad holds responsible, these are all more likely explanations for why it happened. However, I still felt and feel responsible for being an asshole that day. It’s weird.
On with the botched procedure. They brought him back, but because of the intensity of the procedure and the medicine my father was on, a bleed started in his brain. This procedure had a success rate of 97%, better than condoms. If it did go wrong, which it rarely did, the consequences weren’t that bad. Maybe some immobility or nervous systems issues for a few days, and the blood clots wouldn’t be gone. There was an infinitesimally small chance of it going very wrong, very very wrong. A fraction of a percent of a fraction of a percent. Bingo! Big winner! We hit the lottery. The shithead doctors managed to medically induce a stroke. Maybe his heart stopped again, again it's unclear. It was really bad though and it wasn’t supposed to happen and it still did. The entire left side of his body was paralyzed. It wasn’t supposed to happen, he was healthy, he was young.
No one ever told me any of that when it happened. The only explanation I ever got was from my Mom. “The left side of your dad’s body is speaking Spanish now, but part of his brain is still speaking English. His body just needs to learn English again and he’ll be okay.”
The Stroke, which is the only way the entire months and years of turmoil are referred to in my family, I probably could’ve dealt with. At the end of the day, things would be okay. My father was still alive. I was still in school. I still had my friends. People came from all over to support us. My siblings did fine with it, maybe. Well better than I did at the time. (I think, we really do rarely talk about it.) I, at the very least, was the most public with my struggles during The Stroke. Classic middle child syndrome, doing anything for attention.
There is still a lot of shame surrounding how I acted during that period of my life. Even though I was twelve, barely thirteen, I still get hot when I think about all the shit I did. But, it was the beginning of me getting even. I was taking out my revenge and anger on everything and everyone around me. At home it was screaming fights with my mom and my sister and incessant bullying of my little brother. At school it was worse and more performative. I ripped a tile out of the ceiling, I took a pen and stabbed a hundred holes in a bus seat, exploding the ink capsules in the upholstery so they’d have to replace the entire seat. I called my teacher a “bitch!” I asked the priest in front of the entire middle school if you went to hell if you masturbated. I booed at the eighth grade talent show in the middle of someone’s performance of Total Eclipse of the Heart. I started tackling during two hand touch football at recess. I tried to get my teacher fired because she touched my shoulder one time. I told the girl I liked that she was a loser in front of all her friends, but I used a different word.
And no one did anything. I never got in trouble for any of it. All the teachers saw it, the principal knew about it, the other parents, and no one cared. Occasionally, my mom would get a call home just to let her know what I was up to, but it never led to anything besides another screaming match. They all knew what was going on with my dad and they could all figure out what was going on with me.
Instead of discipline, adults would lecture me about responsibility. “You’re the man of the house now, Chris, you have to start stepping up.” “You know what you’re doing is wrong. We know you’re smart enough to realize that. We feel we don’t have to explain that to you. We’d love to see the maturity level we expect from a student like you.” “It’s like we’re all in a canoe and you’re purposefully paddling in the wrong direction. We need you to be an example for everyone else, so many people look up to you.”
I think it would’ve been better if they just suspended me or expelled me or whatever they’d do for someone’s whose father they didn’t know. Instead, all I got was a weird complex. Abruptly, because of a tragedy outside of my control, they wanted me to end my childhood and step full fledge into adult life. I was 12 and already letting adults down. They were counting on me and I couldn’t perform. (Looking back on The Stroke, my sister, only in 9th grade at the time, really had to be an adult. She essentially raised my youngest brother for a year and half with my mom always with my dad in rehab. She had to figure out her first year of high school with people she didn’t know and then came home to my insanity and the fighting and the screaming. We were all looking up to her, really, and she was there for us.)
Since seventh grade I’ve felt older than my peers. I briefly got a glimpse into the realities of adult life during The Stroke and it stayed with me. People got sick, money ran out, you could only count on so many people, it's terribly lonely, the line between success and failure is paper thin and not for you to decide, at the end of the day people don’t want you to feel better they just want to feel better about you. Most importantly, the stakes are high, there is little room for error. It can, and will, all go wrong if you take your eye off the 8 ball for just one second. You have to be the best, you have to crush it, or you’ll lose. That’s the only way to get even.
That’s how I got even in high school. I was the best. I had to be. The only way to win is to win. No distractions, no hesitation, kill, kill, kill. Any sign of weakness is terminal.
Picture, once again if you can, you’re in junior year of high school. The lame ass Catholic school you go to is the perfect place to win. You do it all and you balance your schedule perfectly. Get to school at 6:30 AM, finish homework until first bell at 7:55, first class Honors religion, second class AP Lang, 45 minute activity period, attend student government, national honor society, model UN, justice club, or latin club meeting, 11:15 AP US History, period four AP Environmental Science, Cross Country After school, ride home, homework from 8-1:30 AM. Not surprisingly, you are very depressed. You don’t sleep enough, you don’t like any of the students in your classes, you don’t get along with teachers, you get angry at your friends for being happy, you have legitimate anger issues that are very unbecoming. Often you pace around the halls cursing under your breath about something that happened or didn’t happen to you. Fueled by pure rage. Trying to prove to everyone, but most importantly yourself, that you’re not a little kid anymore. You can handle things. You are an adult and you’re ready for adult responsibilities. Nothing is too much. You’re plate can always be fuller. Seventh grade was a fluke, you are ready for everything.
And you let things slip by. You don’t ask girls to dances. You spend less and less time with your friends. You stop doing things you enjoy. You don’t find things funny anymore. All you care about is what’s next. How can you be the best? How can you gavel at RUMUN? How can you win President? How can you PR this weekend? Fuck! You don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself. Everyone is in your way. They don’t know what it's like. They’re all kids, you’re not. You’re above all their petty dramas and rose petal crushes. Fuck them! They’re so immature.
And then, one March morning, you’re sitting in AP Environmental Science and you think something very bad. And it’s very scary and you don’t know what to do. Adults deal with this all the time though, you can just deal with it too. You feel distant from your friends. You don’t want to talk to anyone. You’re a nightmare at home, screaming at everyone. Losing your shit over the littlest thing. It’s like you're trapped in Jello. It's translucent, you can see everything go on around you, but you’re still choking on the Jello and you can’t move through the mass.
The pressure is crazy. People are looking up to you after all. People are counting on you. You can’t let them down. Powering through depression is awful, but you do it. You accept the fact that everyday will suck and then maybe one day they won’t suck anymore. And that’s how you get through it. Put your head down and power through. There’s always extra reserves. The tank is never really empty.
You graduate a year later feeling like you missed out on something along the way. When did everyone start having sex? All of the sudden you feel very young again. You feel twelve again. Everyone seems so much older and more ready for what’s next. You though, you’re shockingly unprepared. Adulthood, once so confidently captured in your hand, feels far away and uncomfortable. You still need to get even.
I went to college next and it was different. The stuff of seventh grade and junior year kind of faded to the background. I didn’t think about crushing it as much or being the best or letting people down. It helped that I was 3000 miles away from the places I felt those feelings. I could deal with the feelings better. There was a general disregard I adopted towards most things. It all doesn’t matter. None of this matters. None of this is real. It helped that I went to school in Southern California where the weather is always perfect and everything is very nice.
All of these emotions were less immediately pressing in my life. The situations came up less, there were less chances for something to set me off. I guess that’s why you run away, to put some distance between you and your problems. However, I had to keep running away because the problems kept catching up to me. I went to Los Angeles, and then I went to Utah, and then back to LA, and then to Sacramento, and then to New York, and then back to LA again, and then to Maine. Every time I’d start somewhere new I’d pretend like it was all different. It worked. I could pretend for a little bit I was someone else, someone who wasn’t trying to get even. But, eventually, something would happen and I’d be reminded that I wasn’t yet even. Fortunately, I set it up so I could always leave. I always had an escape hatch. Right when I started feeling my problems again I could leave, and I would.
It happens the most with relationships. Pee in vagee type shit. I’m awful at it. Not sex per say (but who really knows. The other day I was talking to some friend of an acquaintance and she was telling me about how bad this guy’s bedroom game was and it was just awful. The scrutiny! If someone talked about me like that I would castrate myself maybe. Which is an indictment of the problem.), just being emotionally intimate with another person. It’s not my jam. Not my cup of tea. Whenever it gets too much I physically leave wherever I am. I’m about to do it again. Prepping mentally right now.
The Catholic upbringing for sure has to do with it, possibly. I was really buying into Jesus at crucial ages of sexual exploration. However, that’s a cop out. Even if it took till sophomore year of high school for me to jerk one out, I was quickly putting up record numbers trying to make up for the years I missed. So what is it? Why am I unable to be emotionally intimate with people I care about? I started writing this tonight to figure it out. Draw the line all the way back, beautiful mind style, to where I figured it all began.
I have no problem being emotionally vulnerable here. I can write whatever I want and not care. “The magnetic pull of imagining you there and me here. I want to be with you. So awfully, it kills! Why not die for love? One more soul given to the mighty crusade. We could solve the mystery, me and you.” I wrote that. Posted it. Don’t care who reads it. My great uncle in Indiana? Hope he relates. But telling a girl she’s pretty or I like spending time with her in person, in the flesh(!), kill me. End my life right there. I have no problem putting my name on this, no embarrassment. A girl I like could read this, I could know she read it, I wouldn’t care. I still wouldn’t be able to ask her out on a date.
I think, more generally, that’s what I mean when I say I want to get even. I want to feel normal. I want to be able to have regular relationships and think regularly about regular things. I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly behind, like I’m still figuring it out. So much of it comes so easily for me, no struggle at all. Then, simple things, they escape me. Why? Can I figure it out? I don’t know.
It’s been ten years and some days now since I’ve been conscious of this feeling. This feeling of trying to get something back that I lost. Some part of me that is missing that I can’t be whole without. I want to get even, and my entire life has been trying to get that piece back.
I think I lost the plot somewhere. But it’s been four hours now and I’m going to bed. Joan Didion said this would help. Who knows if it did.
TL;DR
I illogically blame myself for a family tragedy and because of this and the fallout surrounding the incident I only feel comfortable being intimate with strangers or people I will never see again. Can’t let them down if I never hear from them again.