It’s been a difficult time for me. I’m coming up on one year since my biggest and scariest PTSD attack outside of my teenage years. I’m coming up on six months since I’ve heard my daughter’s voice. My birthday has passed, Father’s Day has passed, both of which are difficult for me, and my movie marathon has passed, which was a nice “right in front of me” happy goal.
There’s a lot of people that have reminded me how loved I am. I have shoulders to cry on, and cry on them I have. My anxieties are better than I can remember, but they still pop up. The support I have makes things easier, but it doesn’t make things easy.
I have warm hearts and soft lips keeping my heart fluttering and my toes tingling, but my bed is still empty. I am not alone, but loneliness envelopes me.
I have goals for myself, but find the purpose in them difficult to achieve, impossible to maintain. I don’t know what my future holds and I don’t know where to begin even looking.
I feel lost.
I was a good father – it was likely the thing I was best at in my life and it consumed my effort and time the way that only being a parent could. And now the house is quiet. My phone is quiet. I am cut off due to malice, cowardice, or both.
I have many people showing me comfort and love. I also have many people that won’t share a cup of coffee with me because of allegiances. I have people telling me that, now that I am no longer a fixture in my daughter’s life, I am no concern of theirs.
I’m smoking too much, eating too much, suicide by inches. I want to care more than I do. I look at the life ahead of me, this blank page and I find it overwhelming. I see infinite possibilities and the enormous weight therein. I think forward to my death and beyond, the potential legacy I leave behind and wonder where it would come from.
And then I think, perhaps I should be forgotten – that when the culture of mankind is studied as a lost civilization and species some millennia down the road, perhaps it would be best if my name was not etched anywhere.