Respect yourself, Protect yourself

 There is something I forgot to cover in my Uncle-Bunkle-Boinky-Head post.

NO. I do not want to do drugs with you, and neither does my husband. 

In my post I talked about my uncle having a past drug problem. I mentioned that he is the one who introduced me to weed. I feel like I need to elaborate on this more.

Keep in mind I am all for marijuana legalization. I do not see weed as a drug, so the fact that he is a pot head is fine. His bills are paid as far as I know, and I only feel like it is a problem if the person is spending their rent and bill money on weed. That is irresponsible. 

With that said, calling me to find cocaine for you because your doctor won't give you your pain medication due to marijuana in your system is another issue. If weed is getting in the way of you getting your pain medication from your doctors, cut it out until you can start again. It hurts, but until Texas comes to its senses, you do what you have to do. 

Keep in mind my husband is a recovered addict, and so am I. We split up for years and both went through our own shit. The audacity of my uncle to come to me on multiple occasions to try to get me to down some mushrooms with him, locate cocaine for him, or even find pills for him is ridiculous. I have told him that I'm not interested. He will wait a while and then come to me again. I lied to him before and said "OK, let me see what I can find" and then not pursued anything eventually apologizing and telling him I couldn't find anything. It's really sad. 

I'm not connected to people like that anymore, and I don't want to be. A good friend of mine used to go out of his way to find things for my uncle, but even he is out of the game. We don't want to go back in. We are done, and I feel like my uncle is the last piece of the puzzle.

The chiropractor did wonders. He could barely walk for a while. He was using a cane. His self medication is "helping," but I know that it's just temporary. He will begin to deteriorate again, and this time it'll be worse than before. He is killing himself, and I don't think he cares much.

As much as you love your family, sometimes you have to separate yourself to protect yourself. 

His name is Uncle - Bunkle - Boinky - Head.

This entry started over a year ago as an endearing piece about my Uncle where I would attempt to paint him in a pleasant light. Quite honestly, I found it difficult to write when I was trying to write him as he would want to be seen, so I have decided to tell the whole truth instead of giving you the bits left when all the bad is gone. What I will not continue to do is pass on the skeleton of truth as it was done to me. Forcing me to figure out everyone on my own and then ostracizing me for telling the truth and forming my own opinions.

Let's begin by allowing you to read what I had originally began to write:

"My Uncle. How do I describe him? Picture a mix of Tim Curry and Chong. He was born in England and raised on the South Side of Chicago. Now, that might confuse some in the room because he graduated high school from Spring High South. Yes, he is that old. Most of you may know it now as Westfield High School, but back then it was Spring High South.

According to himself, he was already mentally grown by the time he got to Houston, Texas. He started hustling money at the age of 12 using his bike to ride around Ponderosa Forrest. He continued doing odd jobs around the neighborhood to make money to help his mother out while she was finding herself divorced and building a new career. He was never without a job, and was always plotting.

The way he put it, he was a quiet young man with a knack for being invisible, a mature understanding of the world, and a sense of humor. One of my favorite quotes from him is, 

"They want you to act a certain way, think a certain way, or say these things....it's all bullshit, man." 

I can't remember the conversation that led up to the comment. He was either talking about school teachers or society (One in the same, if you ask me), but then he leaned back and proceeded to put on the first stand up comedy special I had seen of George Carlin. I fell in love with that old white man. He told the truth, and so did my Uncle.

He used to tell me stories. His father told stories, so I always assumed that's where he got it from. Uncle's were different though. He wasn't telling me about how he lived through historical events. No. He was telling me about how he got away with growing his own tobacco in his mother's garden and producing his own cigarettes, or getting away with a whole delivery truck load of beer with his friends. I believe they spent the weekend drinking it all. One room, floor to ceiling cases of beer, and a pathway to move through it all. It was the 1970's."

All of that is true, but it's amusing because while he was portraying himself as this person for me I was seeing something different. I noticed moments of hypocrisy.