January 31, 2024

January is my favorite month for a lot of reasons. The holidays which I have a sour relationship with are over. The intense and overwhelming pressure to be merry in the midst of friends and family subsides. The commercialism and capitalism that overtakes every nook and cranny of the internet and television ceases.

The calendar turns and a new year commences. People get lost in the allure of starting a new year. And I don’t fault them. Nothing profound really changes when the clock strikes midnight and we go from December 31st to January 1st, but in that brief moment there’s hope. Hope that whatever we dealt with in the previous year won’t cloud us in the new year. Hope that new people will enter our lives in ways we couldn’t have imagined. Hope that this new year will actually be our year. And hope these days is what I’m all about.

I’m hopeful for a lot of things this year. I’m hopeful that I’ll break old habits. I’m hopeful that the 90 days of sobriety I have now will last through the entire year. I’m hopeful that the relationship I’ve developing with this girl will flourish into something beautiful, worthwhile, and efficacious.

January has always a good month for me and this year was no different. It’s the rest of the year that fucks me up. It’s like the further from January I get the more I revert back to my old self, the self that has self-destructed at times for the sake of a good story. This year I aim to stop that and keep that same energy I had on January 1st on February 1st, on March 1st, on April 1st and so on.

I turned 30-years-old on the 17th. A couple days before that my mother hosted a BBQ for me and some of my friends. I was greeted at the door by her husband, who jokingly said, “do I really have to let you in?” Yeah, you do motherfucker. No pun intended.

As I entered I was surprised to see the living room decorated with banners and balloons. The smell of smoky chicken lingered from the backyard. I could hear my mother’s favorite hymns playing in the background. I didn’t expect my mother to put so much effort into this mini-celebration. The house felt like home, something we as a family haven’t really had in our lifetimes. My childhood home never felt like a home. It was marked by violence and a constant feeling of inadequacy. The two-bedroom apartment my siblings, mother and I shared during the pandemic didn’t feel like one either. But this did.

I rushed to the backyard and loudly shouted, “where’s my momma?” She greeted me with a hug. I kissed her forehead as I always do and thanked her for another year of dealing with my bullshit and giving me unconditional love when I need it the most.

As the night progressed, Baker Mayfield led his team to a victory over the collapsing Eagles, but my eyes and attention weren’t on the television. I glanced around and took in the moment. I had three of my closest friends laughing and joking with my mother and her husband. It was nice. I always dreamed of moments like this, but never thought they’d actually come true. My sister and her boyfriend sat off in the dining room glued to their phones, away from the action on the television, chomping away at baby back ribs. My baby brother, now 19, remained in his room playing video games and listening to Joe Rogan’s podcast. Everyone was in their own little space in the house, enjoying their time and for a moment those feelings of hope reignited. Everything felt right.

My friends and I left at a reasonable time (my mother goes to sleep at 8pm these days). I thanked her for hosting and she seemed as thankful as I was. We headed to the bowling alley then a wing spot. The laughs and jokes continued, each of my friends impersonating my mother’s husband in his drunken state. I was on a high that I didn’t want to end.

I briefly thought about drinking. It’s often like that. I don’t usually plan to drink, but sometimes a drink heightens the moment. It’s like my mind tells me “sure I’m having a great time, but you know what would make this a better time?” I guess that’s the addict in me. I quickly decided that I shouldn’t indulge given my history with indulging. One drink leads to four, four leads to a blackout, a blackout leads to irresponsible behavior, irresponsible behavior leads to shame and guilt, shame and guilt leads to more drinking. A viscous cycle that I’m all too familiar with.

I understand that age is just a number, unless we’re talking about statutory rape and things of that nature, but I do not want to take the same issues I had during my 20s into my 30s. It’s about time I grow up. I have a day counter on my phone and this shit is important to me now more than ever. It’s time. It really is time, that I get my shit together, progress, not regress and live the life I’ve always been talking about but never commit to.

As for my actually birthday, I jumped on a jet, well a plane, but jumping on a jet sounds so much cooler so I tend to use phrase when I travel. I landed in Baltimore on the morning of my 30th birthday. The girl I’ve been talking to picked me up. She got out before I had the chance to open her door, something I hate and have to remind her not to do. We greeted each other with a strong warm hug that neither of us wanted to end.

I met her in California while at work and if love at first sight exists, us locking eyes is as close as I’ve ever gotten to that feeling. My heart dropped a little when she told me she was just here visiting family and she lived in Baltimore. But as you know, I’ve been known to jump on a jet for a woman.

Much like the BBQ my mom hosted being with her felt like home. Out of respect for her and our relationship I’ll spare details and be more clandestine this go around. But I really do like this girl. She’s soft and tender, gentle and patient with me, but sharp and sassy with others. She listens intently and gives me room to make mistakes. She’s passionate, fiery, and welcoming. I’ve been open and honest with her about my struggles with addiction from the beginning and there was never any judgement, just understanding. I’ve never had that before and I cherish it deeply. She knows when to tell me yes and knows when to tell me no.

I don’t know who first said it, but I’ll credit Kodak Black. If she ain’t foreign, she boring. And she’s anything but boring. I love when her heavy Arabic accent creeps out. She keeps me on my toes and pushes the right buttons.

I wanna do things the right way with her. I’m very much an all or nothing guy and I really think I found something here. Thus it’s taking everything in me to breathe, slow down and not rush. She’s helping keep me at bay and I appreciate her for that. I really do feel like everything in my life has led me to her. That’s a very scary thought but I trust in it and I trust her to guide me through whatever does become of us.

As January ends and February begins I remain hopeful. Hopeful that I’ll figure some more things out. Hopeful that I’ll remain sober. Hopeful that Allah will help me conquer whatever battles are ahead. Hopeful that baby girl will lead us where we need to be led. Hopeful for more smiles and less tears.