THIRD SPACE

at home, the weight of responsibility for my mother’s feelings was a bearable yet constant tension. she was worried about me, my future. my brothers, our lives.

i can’t go hang out with friends for too long because she needs me, i assume. she would be lonely without me. i would be lonely without her. she feels sad when i’m gone and soon i’ll be gone forever like dad, like my brothers who moved out and didn’t look back once.

i carried her loneliness. i kept it on my shoulders, in my hips.

i reduced myself and my interests to be what she needed- a good kid, home by curfew, not doing bad shit like my brothers (after i got caught, that is).

i resented her for it.

if she was okay, i was okay. i needed autonomy but it didn’t fit the equation. no one was taking care of her, so that was on me. even though she didn’t need it, and she carried the same burden for me.

the guilt i felt when i moved out was crushing. how could i do that to her? i tried to prove to her i was doing well but i wasn’t. i felt like i was fighting for my life.

a mule for hire. i can carry any load with momentum as long as i don’t stop for rest.

i drank myself to sleep every night to throw off the weight, comfort the loneliness, quiet the fear.

there were places i went to find refuge. not home, not work.

waffle house where i smoked hand-rolled american spirit cigarettes and ate
chocolate chip pancakes
laps around walmart at 1am with my brother
midnight bike rides
lula’s coffee shop
the dark room at FMU
randy’s house where i ate dominos pizza and drank enough PBR to get the spins every night for a summer until the band broke up under the weight of his new baby and proclivity for opioids.
playing shows at bars, houses
violent shows at the cootie hut
cornerstone baptist church
jeffrey’s creek park
the cage
the top floor of the downtown parking garage

i was almost always with friends at these places.
i almost always felt alone.

at home years later, i couldn’t find shelter from the ever-changing moods and anxieties of my ex-wife. if she was okay, i was okay. and she was rarely okay. i couldn’t go hang out with friends for too long because she needed me. she would be lonely without me. i would be lonely without her. she felt sad when i was gone and soon i’d be gone forever like her dad, like her sister who moved out and didn’t look back once.

“please don’t leave me - everyone does” she whimpers as she vomits buffalo trace and miller lite into my toilet the first night she stayed over. i promise her and god, “i will never leave you.”

the promise was meant for me.

let me carry your abandonment
i know just where to put it
it’ll be safe right next to mine
i know of denial, invisibility, the darkness of 2am
you can’t stop shaking, demanding,
“why did you take him from me?”

i won’t let you feel that

home was littered with eggshells easily and already broken. they were ground into the carpet. i stayed vigilant, carving a path through the house and out the door to dodge as many as possible but they were laid fresh every morning. is this not worse than being by alone?

pretending i didn’t want to drink, i used work to keep me numb.

at third spaces like
methodical, coffee coffee, junto, exile, falls park, the commons, dobra tea
i could drop my guard.

i took the load off and set it beside me to assess the damage.

it took buckling under the weight of carrying other’s emotions for years to realize no one ever asked me to. not my ex-wife, my mother, my clients, nor my friends. i never applied for the job and it was never posted. i worked that job as hard as i could nonetheless.

third spaces have been a means of survival - a safe haven where my motives are not questioned, my time and space are truly my own. i can reduce the scope of my obligations to private concerns, hopefully catching up on all the things i feel i need to do.

the hiding i’ve done in the confines of a cafe table...

it’s where i searched on a fools errand through the bible and the bhagivad gita looking for wisdom, any sign my existence has purpose.

i engineered perfect lives always in the future tense.

i took on work projects like they were new lovers, hoping for security, a better future. one that wasn’t like the present i inhabited. maybe this new product launch, barbershop, merch line, class, instagram post, blog, email, website will save me- get me “there.”

stumbling in the dark, i built my way out: a company that brought in the resources i needed. the ones i wasn’t getting at home. the ones i owed as penance for my absence as soon as i walked in the door.

strangers and acquaintances surrounding me somehow made the burden bearable, helped me focus.

if i’ve existed near you in a third space,

thank you

for your unspoken companionship
for not needing anything from me
for quick glances of eye contact
when we both need reminding

we are not alone

for keeping your criticism to yourself
for not blaming me for your feelings
for taking care of yourself
and by doing so, taking care of me-
a kid pretending to be a man
for everyone, including himself.

-

i have dedicated my life to the design and maintenance of third spaces.
my barbershop, my living room, my future tea house.

why you need it is none of my business.

maybe you were bored by the walls in your house.
maybe the only time he stops yelling at you is when you’re not home.
maybe caffeine is the only thing that makes you feel like the future is worth getting to.
maybe you just like my music and plants.
maybe you’re addicted to fresh starts and i’m your dealer, giving you the perfectly measured dose of a haircut we both know will grow out.

for whatever reason, i made this space for you.

because i need it, too.