Duncan's Diary (22 page)

I no longer cared about anything. I just needed to escape and alcohol was the vice of choice as I now downed my third glass of scotch. With my empty stomach and the quick intake, I was flat out drunk in less than 30 minutes of stepping through my front door which I now noticed was still open. I laughed at that and slowly stumbled over to close and lock it. Immediately, I tripped backward and fell to the floor hitting my head on the foyer table. I would spend the night there, waking up around 4 a.m. in the morning with a headache. I was left to deal with my fragile, now broken mental state. It was on the verge of irretrievably leaving me forever.

The definition of insane, according to Dictionary.com is “not sane; not of sound mind; mentally deranged.” I think it is safe to say at this point that I was definitely not of sound mind and deranged, demented, and distraught. It is one thing to be psychotic and lose the line between black and white or to even know what the line is and knowingly cross it with disregard. It is another thing to lose the ability to function in society. To keep up the pretense of being normal while harboring activities is an art.

In order to be a successful serial killer, one must understand how to deal with the normal daily functions of life and project the pretense of normalcy. “Normal” being defined as acceptable practices that are allowed in standard society, I would assume. While this might sound easy, the oddity in this situation is the self-inflicted stress caused by our mental capacity to understand the difference between right and wrong. Knowing that I have crossed the line and the guilt associated with those activities is the issue.

Guilt is the wire that keeps humanity intact and allows us to interact within the guidelines that have been preordained as acceptable. God gave us a conscience to ensure that we did not disregard the fabric of social interaction. Imagine a world where nobody felt guilt and remorse was undefined. We would all act on our whims and fleeting desires, caring nothing about the consequences.

Billions of dollars are funneled into the very religious factions that prey on our guilty consciousness over things that we have done or even things that we think of doing. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife is a great example. Shit, even if you don’t sleep with your neighbor’s wife, just thinking about her large naked breasts is defined as a sin. You should feel guilty about doing so. It eludes me as to the gray area of when this became a true sin and when the leeches of society simply saw a way to make money on our fragile coexisting lives and thwarted that for profit.

As I lay on my hardwood floor, slowly stirring out of deep sleep, I rubbed my head and felt the large bump from the fall of the night before. I struggled with my own guilt over what I had done and what that meant to who I was, and what I was becoming. I tried to define the wording and understanding of what it was that I had wanted to accomplish and if these activities were truly making me whole.

I think that guilt was not an appropriate label for my feelings and thoughts as I did not feel remorse for my acts. I felt that what I had done was the essence of who I now was. I was no worse than the man who reads your meters and sends the information to your gas company, creating a bill that self-generates and is, then, mailed to you for payment. I had my role in life that fulfilled who I was meant to be.

My feelings were more stress, defined from the possibilities of being caught. I did not feel guilty for my actions, but instead simply felt stress from the fear of the ramifications if my actions were exposed to the world at large. Unlike the meter-reading gas occupation, which is accepted by society as normal, my actions were not socially correct. I had no desire to go to trial, or God forbid, go to jail. I am not a large man and would not function well in the type of prison to which I would be sent. Wasn’t Jeffrey Dahmer killed in jail? If you are labeled a killer, you are then housed with other killers. While I enjoyed being on the giving side of this activity, I did not want to fathom the thoughts of what might happen to me in a maximum-security prison.

I felt that I needed to find out how to deal with my stress and develop good stress-coping exercises. My anxiety level was only going to increase, and drinking might temporally relieve the pressure, but it was not a positive way to deal with issues. Counseling seemed like a great idea. Wasn’t the show
The Sopranos
made with just that very core thought as the theme? This was a show about a mobster who couldn’t deal with his actions and needed to work through his guilty, stressful thoughts.

I was not charting new ground, but I needed to deal with this quickly. My mental strength was taxed by work, divorce, kids, murders, police, friends, and affairs. It was too much to handle and more than any one person should have to cope with.

So it was with this newfound direction that I pulled myself up from the floor, which I had so uncomfortably slept on, showered, and attempted the daily grind of going back to work. The holidays were approaching, and I would have some time to take off and gather my thoughts. I needed to try and focus through the next few days and make the appearance of being a good corporate citizen.

As always, the shower helped me gain my composure as the warm water washed away my anxiety and let the air back into my deflated nerves. I gathered my belongings in my backpack; and as I had now started to ride my bike to work, I prepared for the energetic boost that always came with my 45 minute ride. I had decided to focus on getting into shape and did pushups and sit-ups in the morning, attempting to do 250 of the former and 300 of the latter. The only thing I found that subdued my stress-filled life was a nice warm shower and the isolation that came with putting on my headphones and riding recklessly through traffic. The self-absorption of listening to music while pedaling through automobiles is therapeutic in nature. You lose yourself and forget about the outside world for a while, as you pedal in rhythm to the latest pop tune. There is nothing like the beat of a Katie Perry or Amy Winehouse song as you weave through cars while thinking about a girl who has just kissed a girl, and how she feels oh, so good at doing something so taboo.

In just a few short weeks, it had achieved a portion of its designated goal. I was continually complimented on how good I looked, and everyone asked me if I had lost weight. At the ripe age of 41, I was now starting to feel physically better than I had in the last 20 years. My only issue was the mental instability that my stress was weaving throughout my mind.

I made it through the day, and I had my daughters for the night, so I decided it would be a good idea if we went shopping. I needed to start the process of gathering Christmas presents that should be delivered in just a couple of weeks. Having three daughters presents me with limited knowledge on what their desires are for gifts. I have now found it is easier to ask them and let them help me pick things out versus trying the guessing game.

I do have to give my wife credit in this department. She used to do all the shopping; and even though I disagreed with her approach of quantity over quality, it was much easier having her take care of all the gathering of items than doing it myself. My oldest said to me one time, “Dad, it is nice, but you are the only one who has ever really gotten me a name-brand item that was not from a discount store.” Her reference was to the jeans that I had purchased for her at Nordstrom’s on or around her birthday.

I don’t think my wife had ever stepped in Nordstrom’s, as she preferred the knockoffs that were equal in value—she wouldn’t pay the high markups. She failed to realize that every once in a while, it was nice to just have the real thing. Kids especially in high school are so in tune with what everyone is wearing. The groups you associate with are too often plugged into your status in the clothing line.

I took my two younger ones to Limited Too, and they tried on jeans, shirts, sweats, and sweaters. Even with the 50 percent discount that the store was promoting, I still spent close to $400. I must say that the bulk of the shopping was complete, and it was nice to head home and start the process of wrapping presents.

For the first time without their mother, the following Saturday we expeditiously picked out a Christmas tree. After strapping it on the truck, we headed home to set it up. It was a great week to soothe my nerves, having the distraction of decorating and the excitement of the holidays that only comes through the eyes and mind of a child. We had spent some time together going to yard sales this summer, so with forethought I had purchased some Christmas decorations. We had the ability to spruce up the house in holiday spirit, and it looked very festive.

We were a little short on tree ornaments, so we took construction paper and with scissors and a stapler made a great streamer that wrapped around the tree in multi-colored fashion. We hung stockings over the fireplace; and with the few knick knacks from the yard sale, the house was transformed into holiday mode.

After much debate, I conceded to giving my wife the kids on Christmas Eve. She had them for the rest of the vacation holidays after. I took the kids for the week before Christmas Eve. While the house in Burlingame looked festive, we had planned on spending the actual holiday up in Twain Harte. The little ski resort Dodge Ridge was opening up the weekend before Christmas, so it would be a nice outing to take the kids out for our first ski trip of the season.

My seven-year-old had become quite the accomplished skier; and while my oldest was naturally athletic, she had spent less time on the slopes. She still had some learning to do. All three kids could go down all the blue slopes, so it was always fun hanging out with them. It was a very good athletic family activity. So many family events are sitting around eating and/or watching TV or a movie. It is nice sharing something that is active. Skiing allows that interaction and involvement.  Granted, I still boarded, but we could all go down and up the hill together.

I wonder at times what I would do without my kids keeping me in tune with what is important. They gave me a constant reminder that the simple things in life provide happiness. While I am driving, my seven-year-old will reach up to my shoulders behind my seat and rub them softly as only a child can do. It still melts my heart every time she does this. She is attempting to reach out and do something for me to express her love in a kind, gentle way.

My older daughter looks at me in the eye, every once in a while, and asks, “Dad, are you okay? Is there anything wrong that you want to talk about?” Their intuition and perception is uncanny.

The holidays with the kids were uneventful. We skied, as planned, saw a movie, and set up the fake Christmas tree in Twain Harte for the first time that had come with the purchase of the house. The two little ones didn’t understand the concept of the fake Christmas tree no matter how many times I explained it. They had never seen one in their entire lives. We and everyone we knew always went through the process of cutting down and/or purchasing a live tree.

Even though the tree wasn’t real, it was quite life-like; and I think that confused them even more. It was a far cry from my days growing up with my grandmother where we annually pulled out the silver wired tree and set up the translucent limbs. I, as my kids, had never known anything else as a child, so it was not until I grew up that I realized not all Christmas trees were silver. The fakeness takes something away from Christmas, I believe. Even though I don’t mind the pretend trees that are green, I strongly feel that on Christmas there should be no tree in the living room that is shiny and silver.

As with my kids and all kids, it is ironic how traditions and isolation of childhood keeps you from knowing the differences that are prevalent in the world. I am sure there are millions of kids that have never even had a Christmas tree nor a present under it. Wouldn’t they be happy with a warm meal on the table to eat versus crying over not getting the latest fad toy that was being marketed as the “can’t do without holiday treat.” It’s all a matter of perspective and luck of the draw on where you were born and what status you fell into as the egg happened to hatch and you were created, I guess.

It ended up being a nice holiday and was much less stressful than I remembered its having been in a long time. My ex-wife always operated under the mindset that the holiday season had to be perfect and worked that point to death. Perfect presents, perfect meal, perfect wrapping. She warped the holiday into a stress-filled week of last-minute shopping and continued complaining of not finding this or not getting that. It was nice just relaxing and going with the flow that year and not dealing with the turmoil of her family and her never reachable, lofty expectations.

I did try to be aware of the kids being pulled in two directions that year, as it was the first Christmas that we spent as a divided unit. I think it went well, and the kids seemed to enjoy both celebrations with me and with their mom. They, in turn, gave me the distraction that I needed at such a tumultuous time in my life. The plan was to spend that week with the kids, drop them off Christmas Eve at their mom’s parents’, and, then, head out that night for my planned trip to the Dominican Republic. It would be my second trip, and my first one had been an eye-opening experience that injected me with thoughts that had led me to where I am today.

The only disappointment, I believe, was the kids were a little distraught in the quantity of gifts as most of my concentration had been on clothes. Money was all too tight this year, and the normal inundation of needless trinkets went by the wayside. I did manage to get them a couple of Wii games that were Karaoke-oriented. The two little ones enjoyed being the center of attention, and they always liked putting on a show. I had just gotten my younger one an American Girl doll for her birthday in November. That was No. 1 on the list for both of them, but I felt it was unneeded to indulge them in one yet again. More than $100 for a doll seemed extravagant.

I instead tried to focus on hot chocolate, making pies, and spending time together watching Christmas movies, and reading Christmas books. One tradition that my wife’s family had instilled in me was watching
White Christmas,
and I still enjoyed that with the kids that year. As I get older, I have more respect and admiration for older movies and the simplistic nature of how they are approached.

I do enjoy the special effects of
The Dark Knight
and the elaborate scenes that can be played out now in computer animation, but the older movies are just easy to watch and bring you back to a time in life where things didn’t seem to be so complicated.