The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of Life
Sweat rolled down my cheeks after another restless night of sleep. I walked into the bathroom at 3:37 am. I have no clue who the man in the mirror is staring back at me. What is my body trying to tell me?
I’m 38 years old, sitting at a countertop in my sister’s house, looking back on my life, not understanding how in the fuck I ended up here. Yes, I have a plan. But that doesn’t mean anything when you feel like you are in a tug-o-war with life.
I know writing is a way to look at the dark side of my life. Yet, I still feel clueless. A man with an MBA. A combat veteran. A father. A writer. I’ve even sat silently in the desert for four days alone.
That’s the problem.
I’ve done so much shit that I don’t know who the fuck George is.
I remember being my daughter’s age, riding bikes all day long after school for freedom. Then I grew up and left that little boy alone in the night’s dark shadows.
Since my divorce, I’ve felt like I’ve been searching for that little boy. Sleepless nights. Mindless sex. Hard workouts. More sex. Therapy. Writing. I left the personal training world. My father died.
They say time heals all wounds. But how long does it take to heal a wound that not even a tourniquet can save?
I feel like Tom Hanks on an island talking with Wilson the volleyball, alone with no one to understand. This could be another story I tell myself, which could be part of the problem. And now I’m back here writing from my heart with no intent.
I am shedding a tear, thinking about never having a cup of coffee with my dad again. Not giving a fuck about the million thoughts running inside my mind, but instead sharing my feelings with anyone who ever reads this.
Is this proof that I am changing? Does this even matter? Maybe it comes with experience? Perhaps it’s the sobriety talking? I don’t know. But I do know that life is pretty fucking hard.
Okay, here’s the part where I switch the tone to remind myself of all the good shit in life.