unhappy anniversary

Five years ago, my life stopped being fun.

Now, I’ve had good times since. I’m not saying that. But it’s always been tempered by this feeling in the back of my brain. This nagging dripping faucet of a memory that won’t fade away fast enough.

I tried drinking it away. That didn’t work. So, I’ve mostly stopped drinking now. An occasional bender with friends is about all I do at this point.

I tried writing about it. A lot. In public forums and in private notepads.

I tried hating.

I tried forgiving.

I tried killing myself.

I tried forgetting.

I tried crying.

I tried nothing.

I guess I’ve tried everything I can think of.

I lost my ability to have fun that day. I became serious. I became lame.

When I look in the mirror now, I see an old man. A guy who gave up for too long.

Why?

I wish I knew.

The days aren’t as long as they used to be.

The nights, well, they’re still lonely.

I’ve been with one other person since then. That’s it. I fell in love too fast for my own good. I adored that girl. But she faded fast. I don’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was getting into. And I didn’t know what I was getting into. I think we both got what we needed out of it.

Now, I’m thinking back on those five years. Not a lot accomplished. A few road trips. A few new friends. A lot of lost friends. And a couple of great friends.

Could be worse.

Could be dead.

Could be in a coma.

Could be married to a woman who doesn’t love me.

Still got my teeth, shockingly so.

Still got some of my health, although I think I wasted most of that, too.

I’ll be 40 in a few weeks.

That’s weird to say. Not because I’m old, because that’s a state of mind. But instead because it means I’ll probably never have a kid. If I had one now, he’d be born when I was almost 41. Graduate high school when I was almost 60. That’s weird.

If I married someone today, we’d hit milestones at milestones. 10 years at 50. 20 years at 60. That’s weird.

My grandparents each made it over 50 years married.

My parents will hit that mark soon. Me? I’d have to live to be 90. Weird.

I think too much about her. I think too much about stuff like what I just typed. It’s not fun. I wish I could stop. It just doesn’t happen. I tell myself every night to stop. I wake up and it pops right back in there and I say it again.

If I had a switch, I’d throw it. If I had a place to cut, I’d slice. If I could drive to that destination, I’d start the car right this mother fucking god damned minute.

Instead, I just live. Day by day. Moment to moment. Each one different than the one before, yet very similar. Too similar, really.

It’s better than it was 5 years ago. Better than it was 4 years ago. Better than it was 3 years ago (except for the sex part). Better than it was 2 years ago. Better than it was a year ago. It’ll be better in a year.

I can, however, still feel exactly how I felt the moment I heard those words. The despair hasn’t left. Not for a moment.

I hope I’m not just holding on to it, for fear of not having it anymore. That is just a scary way to live.

I just think I hold on to things and don’t know how to let go of them.

It just needs to be replaced by something else. Someone else.

All I know is it also has to stop. Every beginning has an end. Every end starts a new. All that clichéd pap…

The past belongs there. It doesn’t belong in the present. Or the future. Yet there it always is. My brain must have some bright spot in it. Or a dark spot. I’d love to see a CAT scan of it. See where that spot is in me, and isn’t in everyone else. Or most everyone else. Who else holds on and won’t let go. Like a scared kid on a roller coaster?

It all starts with something, right? A smile. A frown. A kiss. A touch. A tear. A smell. A glance. A chance.

Unhappy anniversary.