CW: Suicide, Death, Cancer

A few weeks ago I realized I was uncharacteristically sad. I couldn’t quite piece out why that was for a few hours, but it eventually hit me. It had been a few days since the 20th anniversary of my fathers death. In what was truly a random coincidence, I was listening to an audio book about the recording of the Johnny Cash album At Folsom, and I very much associate my father with Johnny Cash. One of the reasons why the Cash cover of Hurt hits me so hard is the connection between the music my Dad listened to and the music I listened to, not to mention the fact that the song, as Cash interpreted it, is about his lifelong struggle with addiction. Dad did as well, and it was one of the the major contributors to the cancer that took his life.

He types, as he takes a moment to sip from the glass of Irish Whiskey that sits on the desk in front of him.

1999 was a hell of a year. Dad died, I put a down payment on a house with my share of the inheritance that we got, and a few days after moving in I found out that my wife at the time was hot and heavy for my best friend.

The other day was also the six month anniversary of Christopher taking his life. The two incidents are not related, but I’m just a little preoccupied by milestones at the moment. Sometimes it feels like it happened years ago. Sometimes I can’t believe so much time has gone by. A few months ago I started seeing a therapist to help me sort out my issues as they relate to his death. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a therapist, and as I’ve been working with him I have discovered that there’s a lot of stuff in my past that I really haven’t taken the time to address.

Prime Example: I’ve never given a second thought to the fact that the earliest memory I have is of the night my Father left, and him screaming from the front yard that he would see my Mother and her “fucking kids” in court. Turns out that children who come from households where alcoholism is a thing tend to not remember much about growing up in them. Self-defense thing, I suppose. The more I’ve talked with my counselor about things that happened to me growing up, the more I realize that I had some fairly extraordinary, and traumatic, events that formed who I am today and I’ve never really given myself permission to be a little messed up over that fact. These conversations came up in sessions around the anniversary of Dads passing as well, so that was a factor.

My son, Alexander, is 23 now. He’s the same age I was when he was born. He’s also a few months older than I was when Dad died (I was still 22 back in July of ’99). He seems so young. Back then, I felt so old.

I feel so much older now.

I am, of course, responsible for much of that. I have not been taking care of myself properly, and it’s showing. The irony is that, from a weight perspective, I am and have consistently been at the lowest weight in my entire adult life for a very long time now. But I have not been managing my diabetes properly, and a few weeks ago I had my first major scare from that angle. I lost sensation in my left leg from the knee down. It’s gotten much better, but it still has not fully repaired itself. I worry that the damage may be permanent.

I have a good life. I have a damned good life. I love my wife and my son more than I can possibly express. I have a great job that very often makes me feel like I’m making a positive change in the lives of people around me. I’ve got good friends, and I have been able to satisfy my artistic side through acting professionally for 18 years. When I really stop to think about it I am downright gobsmacked by how good I’ve got it.

But there are occasions when Time just decides to rear its ugly head and rain on my parade.