The Turning Point

For three long years, I looked for a place where I belong... I’ve lived from one side of this country to the other in hopes of finding it. But at each place I've lived in, there was always something missing. That one piece of the puzzle that no matter how perfect the picture ever was without it, its absence distorted the whole image. The one fragment that separates the difference between the welcome from the unwelcome, the familiar from the strange and the friends from the foes.

It all started back in the Summer of 2003 in St. John‘s, Newfoundland. I had the perfect job, the perfect family, the perfect life and yet still, I felt that feeling of being lost. I felt like I had let my dreams die, and would never know how things could have been if I only tried. These feelings soon led me into a deep depression, seducing me with suicidal thoughts. It wasn’t long after, that I turned to drugs and alcohol in an “attempt” to kill this pain. Soon this “attempt” became a lethal addiction, and take it from me- addiction is a terrifying thing. Now my wife is not nor will ever be a rocket scientist, but it does not take a rocket scientist to figure out if somebody is an addict or not.

“Jake, you need help! Why are you doing this?” she said. At the time, I had no intentions of giving an explanation to her or anyone. I had become this vicious madman with no other motives then a feeling of emptiness, and living in a world of what could have been. My wife and I fought for several hours and that’s when I snapped. Between her yells and my daughter’s cries, I took the keys to my ‘01 Chevy Silverado, started the ignition, pulled out of my driveway and left.

I drove all the way from St. John’s to Port Aux Basque that night, and any Newfoundlander or person that’s been across the island knows just how far a drive that is. The only stops I made on that stretch of road were at several Irving Big Stops to get a cup of coffee, and put fuel in my truck. Other than those stops, all I did was think about where do I belong, where is my home? At this point I had no clue, but I was determined to find out.

The next morning before I boarded the ferry to Nova Scotia, I called my wife and told her that I loved her and that one day, I would be back. In the course of the next three years, that would be the last time I would speak to my wife. From then on she wouldn’t know where I was, who I was with or if I was even alive. At that point, I rolled down my window and left my cell phone there on the docks of Port Aux Basque, along with my life in Newfoundland. As for my addiction… It came with me.

For the first year I lived in a sleazy apartment building in Toronto, Ontario. I had bought myself an old acoustic guitar at some rundown pawn shop. It had a strange smell to it, and was chipped in several areas around the body. It may have been in rough shape, but it had this sound to it. To me it was the sound of freedom, having a clear audible volume with a rough raspy tone, in which combined had a sound so amazing it could only be compared to the phenomena of stars colliding.

I already knew how to play the guitar, I learned by ear in my early teens idolizing artists such as Tom Petty, Bon Jovi and Johnny Cash. I wrote some songs while I was in Toronto, songs that reflected my inner-demons. Between jobs, I would make some spare change to feed my addiction by playing my songs on subway corners throughout the city. A few bucks here, a few there, it didn’t matter to me just as long as I could feed it.

One night, I came home to my apartment to find it broken in and a few thugs inside waiting for me. I knew why they were there… I had fallen deeply into debt with a local drug dealer and failed to pay up. The thugs beat me up bad, real bad. I spent months in the hospital, in and out of ICU. When I was well enough to leave the hospital, I went back to my apartment, took my guitar and things that weren’t broken and left the city with no intentions of coming back. Whatever part of my life was missing, I knew for sure was right then and there that it was not in Toronto, Ontario.

The next year, my life had no consistency as I shifted from province to province looking for my place. In Quebec I found no comfort because besides the fact a majority of their population spoke French, I was already sick of the city life as it was, being left with that bitter taste in my mouth since Toronto. In Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta I tended to feel very out of place, unfamiliar with flat land and the surrounding areas. All the while that I traveled cross country, these strange lands, I managed to play my songs everywhere I could. People began to recognize me, giving me a nickname.

Everywhere I would go, people would know me as “The Wanderer”. It seemed strange to me, but I didn’t care. The more people listening, the more money I could rack in that I could use to feed my addiction. As I traveled back and fourth the provinces that year, people from all around requested me to play one song I wrote in particular. It was called “The Turning Point”. I don’t remember the verses much, but the chorus went something like this:


“I travel cross country roads, looking for my name. But no matter which way I go, everything’s the same. Just looking for answers that I can’t find - I missed the turning point again…”


I didn’t really get why people liked that song, I mean really, its not that good of a song at all. The only reason I can think of is maybe it was an inspiration, an anthem for lost souls that understood where I was coming from. I was growing tired of this inconsistent way of life, I was burning out badly. That’s when I had my second trip to the hospital… not for a beating this time, but because I overdosed on drugs.

I was legally dead for two minutes. Fortunately for my sake, the paramedics were able to bring me back. But those two solid minutes of mysterious death opened up my eyes. I had two choices, to clean up my act or die. The answer was simple, because I couldn’t die yet… I still hadn’t answered the question that boggled my mind those two years ago when I left everything behind… I hadn’t found a place where I belonged. The day I got out of the hospital, I threw out my collection of bottles and syringes vowing never to succumb to them again. Later that day, I climbed in my truck, and started a journey towards Nova Scotia.

For the past eight months I was living in Sydney, Nova Scotia clean as a whistle. I was rebuilding the fragments of my life, holding a solid job busting tables at Don Cherry’s restaurant. As my system was cleansing itself of the two years of abuse I gave it, things began to seem a little clearer. In those 8 months of healthy living, things were making sense when I had my break-through… I knew where I belonged… It hit me like a brick… I immediately got in my truck and booked a seat on the next ferry to Port Aux Basque, Newfoundland.

These years wasted looking for some place I belong when I knew where it was all along. I was in Newfoundland, and on my way back to St. John’s. I realized how much I missed my family, how much I loved them… I didn’t know what to expect, did she remarry? Is our daughter okay? Is she angry?… I expected the worse, but I was determined to make it work…

After hours of driving and anticipation, this was it - the moment of truth. I walked down the path to my old door, and knocked… I didn’t know what to expect, verbal abuse or a slap in the face… Truth is, my expectations were wrong… She was in shock at first, but with open arms she hugged me, crying in joy and relief… My family took me back, without conflict, without bitterness and without hatred… Now that’s what I call love…

I guess in the end, I finally realized that everybody has a place they can call home. Sometimes its right under your nose and you don‘t even realize it. You take advantage of it, abuse it and abandon it. But take it from me, whoever said that you can’t go home again was dead wrong. Home is where the heart is, and as long as there’s a heart, you can always go home.

THE END