On December 24th, 2008 I was almost 21 and drinking wine at my Grandma’s house with my family. We were having a good time. I don’t really talk to that side of the family anymore though. I got a phone call from my best friend, Kyle. I joking let my uncle answer. Kyle asked to talk to me. He sounded angry.
The next few words he said were like a a fucking nuclear bomb that seared my fucking brain for life. He said, “NineMileTower, Steve died (in Iraq). A bridge gave out, his hummer flipped, and he drowned.”
That was in 2008. I’m 37 now. I have two beautiful girls and an amazing wife. I think of Steve all the time. I ask myself, “Why do I deserve these amazing kids, wife and life, and he had to die?”
I fucking hate Christmas. I hate the stupid music. I hate fake bullshit decorations. I hate that I’m supposed to pretend that every Christmas it doesn’t fucking kill me that he isn’t here. I’m here enjoying my kids and their holiday and he’s dead.
I fucking hate Christmas.
My closest genetic link did this, finally, in middle age. They were very resistant to the idea up until this last year. Now, they’d be Oprah on it and hand out free therapy vouchers to everyone they met if they could.
I love it. I call them Name 2.0 now. The first time I said if they stated their best friend, states away from me and someone I haven’t talked to this year, called them the same thing, Name 2.0.
We go to medical doctors for physicals and then rarely do the same for our brains? That’s always presented as a bit off to me.