text: To say I’m scared is an understatement. Terrified? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe horrified? Definitely not horrified. How about mortified? Yeah... that’s the word. I’m absolutely, positively, mortified to see my family. I wish I could just turn around and run down the faded red brick steps directly behind me, jump into my 2005 light blue Prius and drive back to Chicago. But I can’t. I’ve been standing on their porch so long I fear that the snow has frozen my feet in place, making escape challening. I didn’t want to come either, I don’t even know that I would be welcome back after everything I've done. But my sponsor, Sammy, convinced me otherwise. He said it would be good for me, that I have to start somewhere and sometime. And besides, the holidays are all about forgiveness, right? I can hear laughter inside and what sounds like Julia Louis-Dreyfus playing Margo in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation . From what I can make out, she just got blinded from Clark’s massive light’s display - one of my favorite scenes. As I lean to my right and look at the window, trying to catch maybe a glimpse, an inkling of the TV I notice the dingy white draping’s, likely the same ones from when I was a kid, pulled shut, obscuring any view of inside except for the pale-yellow light leaking out through the crack in the middle. Looking up, I can see smoke rising from the chimney. It’s pale and hard to see against the light-polluted December sky, but it’s there. Dad probably has the fire going in the sitting room to warm the stockings hanging on the marble mantle and getting things ready to make smores with my nieces and nephews. I was jealously hoping that my siblings wouldn’t be here tonight, that maybe they all would be with their in-laws, but as I pulled up, I noticed a series of cars, all with I assume their custom license plates: a maroon Honda Odyssey minivan named “Crist6,” likely Jasons; a silver Ford Escalade, “Crist3,” probably Jenni's; and a Black Subaru Outback “Crist4,” which would be Stevie's. My sisters kept their maiden name after getting married, something our parents protested for some reason, but I always admired. The truth is, I have amends to make to all three of my siblings and both my parents. Amends that, while a part of my narcotics anonymous, or NA, program are supposed to help me stay sober and show those I've hurt that I have changed, amends only seem to open up old scars, making them bleed once more. I don’t think it’s helped that I’ve been putting this off for as long as I can. When I made my amends to my friend Ben for stealing and pawning his grandfather’s golden monocle (but in my defense, who just owns a monocle and leaves it laying around) to buy drugs, he threw a fresh coffee in my face and walked away. Which, while burned, both from the hot coffee and his reaction, I can understand. Even though he may never forgive me, and I’m not sure that I would if I was him, I still desperately want his forgiveness. I was told when I started this that the hardest part isn’t always confronting people and making amends, but rather dealing with the fact that even though I’ve changed and I am deeply sorry for my actions, the people who I hurt may never forgive me. That includes my family. My addiction started when I was fourteen, a freshman in high school. I was, and I guess still am, the runt in my family. Jason’s fifteen years older, Jenni thirteen, and Stevie twelve. So, I largely grew up without them around, or when they were, they were just visiting from college, holidays, or to introduce their fiancés to mom and dad. Around the time I started high school, mom and dad were fighting constantly, screaming curses and shouting “how dare you” and "I would never" at each. To be honest, I never knew what they were arguing about, but for some reason I always felt like it was about me. Call me selfish, I know, but they never fought before I came out as gay to them and whenever I approached the topic with either of them, they would deny that it had anything to do with their arguing. I never believed them, though. The night of the Sadie Hawkins dance at my high school, which I neglected to attend, my junior friends from band picked me up and we drove to a party at the local college. We had gone to parties there before, with our parents just thinking that we were seeing some movie for the tenth time, and seemingly none the wiser about it. The first couple parties we attended, I didn’t drink or take anything, instead opting to just be a harmless little wallflower. But the night of the dance, the arguing had progressed to the point the cops came to investigate a "domestic disturbance". Of course, there was nothing for the cops to find other than an older-middle aged couple yelling at each other and a cowering fourteen-year-old boy sitting up the top of the stairs, hugging his legs closed. So when I got to the party, it had reached the point that I just wanted to forget. Forget everything. Forget mom and dad. Forget the almost non-existent Jason, Jenni, and Stevie. Forget myself. I didn’t care what I drank, snorted, or popped. Anything would do, anything to just finally get some peace, and it worked. I don’t remember too much more from that night except waking up to an unfamiliar ceiling decorated with the harshest lights and a gaggle of doctors hovering around my bed. Mom and dad never yelled at or punished me after my overdose. They both refused to talk about it with me. But I noticed their arguing only got worse after that night and remembering the dark, blissful silence, I did whatever I could to return to that point. Eventually, I flunked out of high school, would steal and sell things from around my house. I never discriminated, but jewelry always sold the best. For next eight years, I was in and out of rehab, constantly calling Jason, or Jenni, or Stevie to transfer money or whenever they would visit, I would solicit rides or more money from them. Jason missed the birth of his first child taking me to rehab because mom and dad were too tired to take me again. I managed to steal thousands of dollars from Jenni as she never knew how to say "no" to her little brother. As for Stevie, when she her and her boyfriend visited, I got high and screwed him. Although the last one doesn’t seem like that big of a deal in the long run, I guess they were planning on getting married before that incident. Mom and dad kicked me out after six years, and I lived on the streets after. Eventually it got to the point that I was in and out of the hospital for overdosing at least once or twice a week and that’s where I met Sammy, and he took me to an NA meeting and got me help. That was three years ago and a total of five since I’ve seen my family. And now I’m still here, standing on the faded red bricks that make up their porch, staring at the old oaken door, wanting to knock but can’t bring myself too. I’m, as I determined, mortified. There is a tiny, almost delusional, part of me that they’ll hear me out, hug me crying, expressing their joy that their little brother and son are back in their lives, and we’ll all roast smores and finish National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation as I get to meet my nieces and nephews, and everything will be alright. But the realist knows that is likely not how it’s going to go, and instead, I’ll be turned away. Shunned. Banished. Excommunicated. I slowly raise my arm, clench my gloved hand into a fist and bring it to the door. I lightly rap-tap-tap the door, just enough so I think they can hear. I slowly lower my arm back to my side and stand there, the snow falling around me. I wait for what feels like hours, but is probably only a couple minutes, and there’s no response. Nothing. No shuffling near the door, no loud voices exclaiming that their “Coming!” nothing. I raise my arm to knock again, but then quickly lower it, and turn my feet around, disturbing the fresh snow that slowly cased my boots. I’m halfway down the steps when I hear the door behind me open and what sounds like a little kid, no more than five say “Who’s there?” I turn around and there’s a girl, standing in the doorway in Polar Express pajamas with long, strikingly blond free flowing hair and a finger in her nose. I just stand there, my mouth refusing to work. “Daddy,” she shouts, “There’s a weird man at the door staring at me.” “What’s that pumpkin?” I hear a dismembered voice say as a man comes to the door, dressed in a blue sweater and gray slacks, his blonde hair parted to one side. Jason. “Are a caroler?” Jason asks me. I don’t respond, instead choosing to stare up at him. He looks older, but more or less the same. I guess I look a lot different than the last time he saw me, but being half obscured by snow and poor lamp light can’t help. “Are you okay, man?” Jason says. Suddenly, everything feels too real. I can feel the fear welling up in my stomach about to burst and flood the rest of my body. I back away and swivel around, my head swiveling left and right, trying to remember where I parked my car. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Chicago. I need to see Sammy, go to a meeting. I need to not face them. I can’t face them. I’m snapped back to reality by a hand my shoulder and Jason’s voice, “Hey, are you alright?” I turn around and look at him, not saying anything as he stares at my face, perplexed. I don’t know what to do or what to say, and I don’t think he does either as he slowly starts to recognize me, as his eyes go wide and his mouth cracks open, emitting no sound. I can hear my legs screaming at me and my muscles urging me to turn back around and run away, but arms didn’t get the memo as I wrap them around his body and start crying into his chest, choking out weak “I’m so sorry!” between sobs and rivers of mucus. I’m not sure how long we stood like that before he wrapped his arms back around me, and I can feel tears falling on my head mixing with the snow, and Jason says, “It’s okay, Arthur. Let’s go inside.”