By the time 1998 rolled around I was having serious sleep disturbances. The stress I was living under made sleep difficult. A dangerous and threatening neighbour was evicted from upstairs only to be replaced by one more dangerous and more threatening: a pimp with his girlfriend/sex slave/whore and their five year old son. The noise from the thumping gangsta rap and the loud voices made it very difficult for me to feel safe. I was not looking for work since I was convinced that no one would hire me for anything and I wasn't selling any art.
I was also displaying very poor judgment in my choices of friends and there was a danger that my life and home would be soon overrun again by needy parasites. By June I was being evicted. I stayed for a couple of days with a friend downtown then on my father's invitation I took the ferry to the small coastal community where he lived and stayed with him three to four days a week. Weekends, plus Fridays and/or Mondays I stayed with friends in Vancouver.
I still painted and actually sold a few pieces. I was also doing house cleaning for Dopey on Fridays for a modest fee.
My father at first welcomed me, but within a couple of weeks I could hear him screaming at me at night from his bedroom to get out. The next morning he would deny that there was anything wrong and that I shouldn't worry. It was lovely there for a while, almost idyllic, for the summer anyway. I went on long daily hikes all over the place, enjoying the forest, long country roads and the beaches.
I was, however, ill. I had been through another breakdown in June, upon my eviction. I lost almost everything, keeping only my clothes and a few precious books and personal belongings that I could pack and carry with me. I had no idea what I would do and no plans for employment since I felt completely unable to look for work. Somehow I still survived without having to go on welfare, thanks to the small wage I received for cleaning Dopey's apartment and art sales.
I wondered if I was reaching the end of my life. I had no vision or dream, I saw no future. I could function only one day at a time. Strangely, I felt very close to God during this time. Even if I seemed to be lost in a labyrinth I was strongly aware of Jesus being lost in there with me and walking beside me as I sought to find my way out.
My father became increasingly spiteful, sniping and cruel. He was drinking and obviously very miserable. I could do nothing right in his eyes. Eventually after a few glasses of wine he would disclose to me that we were no longer father and son. He never explained even when I demanded him to. Likely he was dead serious about disowning me because I had changed my name. A spiteful, nasty, mean-spirited man with an incredible capacity for resentment and bitterness. Little did I know that he was even then on the cusp of developing Alzheimer's.
Two days before Christmas, as my father's cruelty built to a dizzying crescendo I almost killed myself by drowning. I sensed some kind of divine resistance and intervention and simply returned that night to my father's only to hear his shrill voice screaming yet again from behind his closed bedroom door that I should not have left the porch light on, that it was costing him money and that I should get out of here and go find a place of my own.
Needless to say I was not welcome there Christmas Day, even though I was very sick and could hardly walk. So, to keep the miserable little man happy, or at least as a Christmas gift to the man who was once my father, I staggered to the bus stop on Christmas morning and stayed away for almost two weeks. I recovered my health. I recovered no love for my miserable ex-father.
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