Explosive, sometimes irrational, anger is a steady companion of addiction. Anyone who has lived with or been an addict will recognize the pattern played out in the pages of Mishka Shubaly’s memoir : I Swear I’ll Make It Up To You.
Shubaly holds nothing back in the telling of his story, subtitled: A Life On The Low Road. The rage that spews forth is acidic, and at times, difficult to stomach, however; this is a missive about more than inconsolable pain: it is a message of hope.
As I often do, I listened to the audio version, in this case read by the author. His voice is rough, and gravelly – a testament to years of self-abuse – and the narration raw. There were moments when I questioned my allegiance to Shubaly’s tale, and yet, I persisted, a choice I did not regret in the end.
Shubaly’s personal account reflects many universal truths: the damage created in divorce; the dark side of drugs and alcohol; and the power of the human spirit to overcome adversity, no matter how daunting.
The relationship (or lack of relationship) Shubaly has with his father resonates deeply with me, especially when he realizes that his perception of events leading to their estrangement was built on misunderstanding.
I Swear I’ll Make It Up To You is a reminder of the complexity of human relations, and a promise that life’s journey is seldom predictable, and always worth the effort.
Just finished listening to “Carly’s Voice” by Arthur Fleischmann with his daughter, Carly. Carly, unlike her twin sister, did not develop normally, and after a barrage of tests and consultations was determined to be developmentally delayed and mentally challenged – autistic, non verbal.
I’m reminded of my first car and that one intersection where the road dipped just before the traffic lights to accommodate an overhead rail line. My 1967 slant six Dodge Swinger had a cracked engine block and liked to stall out whenever moisture hit it. It would be okay as long as I was motoring along, but the moment I stopped, it was trouble. Nine times out of ten, it would be in that dip, and with traffic honking angrily around me I would have to restart the engine without flooding it – usually two-footing the pedals, ready to rev the accelerator the second the engine ignited. That car taught me a lot about patience and determination.
easily (is there a theme developing here?) The day in question, I had all three kids aboard and found myself suddenly lost in traffic in a city that I’d dwelt in all my life. I was in the left hand turning lane when I realized that I had no idea where I was nor where I was going. Sensing the tension, the kids started screaming and crying in the back seat, and as traffic grew into an angry hornet’s nest around us, so did I. A baby-faced police officer, who stopped to help, directed me through the intersection to our home, which was embarrassingly on the street I was attempting to turn onto. He waited kindly until a family member showed up.
