I AM NOT HIM.
-
10. That was his age when his mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. The tremors came first. Then the stiffness. Then the quiet humiliations she tried to hide. He learned them all by heart — the sound of her medication bottles, the way her feet would freeze mid-step, the look in her eyes when her body wouldn’t listen.
Being the oldest. Three younger sisters who still needed their hair braided, their lunches packed, their nightmares soothed. So he stepped up. The boy who were barely even a child was forced to grow up.
At first, his father was still steady. Working. Trying. Loving her in that desperate, helpless way men sometimes do when they can’t fix what’s breaking. But somewhere between hospital visits and late-night tremors, the drinking started. Quietly. A beer after she fell asleep. Whiskey in the garage. Then more. Louder. Sloppier. Grief soaked in alcohol. By fourteen, he knew the routine: Send his sisters upstairs when voices got too sharp. Pick glass out of the kitchen tile. Help his mother to bed when his father couldn’t stand straight.
Starting sleeping lightly. If she fell, he wanted to hear it before she hit the ground.
Learning how to braid hair from online tutorials. Walking his sisters to school. Signing permission slips when his father forgot. Cooking dinners. Paying bills when he could. And then, one night he chose to be seventeen.
He went out. For once.
Ignored one missed call. Trusted his father when he said: ‘’I’ve got it.’’
When he came home, the house was too quiet. His sisters sleeping, his father passed out. And his mother — on the bedroom floor. He was the one who found her.
After her death, the drinking got worse. And at seventeen, he became what he’d already been for years: the parent. Raising three girls while still being a boy himself.
Years later, looking nothing like the boy who braided hair before school. Being tall. Broad. Solid in the way that makes people step aside without realizing they’ve done it. Strength earned the hard way. His arms and chest are covered in tattoos, most of them deeply personal, most of them hidden under black ink and sharp lines.
Uncomfortable receiving care or pity — he doesn’t want it. Being the kind of man who fixes your car without mentioning it, paying your bill secretly, stays awake while you’re sleeping. Equating love with responsibility.
Terrified that if he relaxes, somebody will die.
Always being in control of himself; how much he drinks, how angry he sounds, how long he stares. Terrified of becoming his father.
If someone is upset, he feels it’s his job to fix it. If someone he loves struggles, he takes it personally. Not knowing how to exist without being needed.
Not doing casually well — when he cares, he cares fully. Protective without being possessive. Overly aware of his partner's safety. Though, he struggles when the roles are reversed and someone wants to take care of him.
He doesn’t break things. He breaks himself. Having a bad day? He will train harder. Sleeps less? He pushes further. He will run until his lungs burn. Lift until his hands tear. Work double shifts. Always saying: ‘’I’m fine’’ when he obviously isn’t.
Working as a firefighter, daily saving people to make up for the one time he didn’t. The adrenaline lives in his body — eating him up alive, loving every single second of it.
Under the muscles and ink, he is still the boy who answered every cry in the night.
-
-
-
-
