I didn’t know anything about Harry Bliss except that drew covers for The New Yorker. I picked up his graphic memoir, You Can Never Die, and learned so much about his life. The pieces came from his journal. He wrote about his dogs, his family, his work, and his personal issues.
My kids have always wanted to get a dog, but I have been strongly opposing it. Of course, I understand all the benefits of having a dog around, but also know that I can’t handle my emotions. Once I attach my emotions into a dog, I won’t be able to carry on if the dog passes away. Reading his entries about his dog Penny and how he and his wife dealt with Penny’s passing, I am confident that I had made the right decision.
Memories of his parents weren’t so good. He describes it as, “ living with family dysfunction marinated in narcissism.” He reveals:
Two years ago my mom told me that for most of my life, up until I was in my thirties, my father thought I wasn’t his son. I know, crazy! My mom became pregnant with me shortly after a trip to California to visit her parents. So, naturally, Dad always suspected she cheated on him while she was out west… traveling with her three kids!
If what Mom told me is true, it explains a lot, mainly why my father treated me like I was the child of another man who fucked his wife.
He writes honestly about his drinking:
I am an alcoholic. There, I admit it. Now leave me alone. My wife worries about my drinking, and sometimes I do too, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve cut back. The truth is, drinking makes my life better. Don’t we all want a good quality of life? Of course we do. Some find coffee improves the quality of their mornings, and others find that it’s certain foods, working out, nature, meditation, money, drugs, or sex-so many choices! But for me, it’s booze.
On bullying, which I am going to quote a long passage, Bliss writes:
A few weeks later, during one of our neighborhood soccer games on the front lawns, Marky was playing with us. At one point he tripped and fell on the ground. I piled on top of him, gave him a few punches in his ribs, and when we both got up, I kicked him back to the ground. I was surprised to find his father watching the whole thing. Marky’s father came over and helped his son off the ground, and as he did this, he leaned over to me and said softly, “Harry, don’t you ever lay a hand on my son again.” When he said this, I was silent; I didn’t respond. I believe I was in shock. He put his arm around his son, and together they walked back to their home. I simply turned around and walked back to my house.
The whole thing felt so strange. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. I went into my bedroom, shut the door, and sat on the edge of my bed. I have a vivid memory of crying, bawling my eyes out. It wasn’t the kind of crying I was used to—angry crying. This was another kind, maybe it was shame crying. I bawled in that room for about ten minutes. I remember this because I put on “Riders on the Storm” by the Doors to drown out my sobs so that no one in the house could hear me. I know that song is about eight minutes long.
Something had happened to me. I realized that Marky, this poor kid who I bullied, had people who loved him and cared for him. He had a father and a mother and a little brother, a family. If they found out what a bastard I had been to him, it would’ve broken their hearts. I suppose sitting there on the edge of my bed I understood this, and I couldn’t stop crying. I hated myself. I still hate myself for what I put that kid through. Marky’s family moved away that year, and I never had the chance to tell him how sorry I was for hurting him. I wish I could go back in time and be Marky’s friend, but I can’t.
You Can Never Die is poignant, honest, and sometimes hilarious. Reading his memoir makes me want to go back to my blog entries, which are 10,161 posts at this time, to put together my own memoir. One day I will.