Member-only story
A Boy Walks Out Of A Bar
An antidote to hopelessness.
Most of what I write these days isn’t that easy for the people closest to me or who care about me the most to read. This is because folks like your parents don’t want to necessarily read about the lowest points of your life, your greatest failures, or the darkest periods you’ve endured.
But I write about them, not out of choice, but instead a necessity.
I have to write about them like others have to go to meetings, get their hand up, and talk about them. This is how I talk. How I communicate with not only the world at large but my subconscious mind as well.
I sit down and write, I read the results and I live with them. Then I publish them. It is just my process. How I process pain and loss as well as growth.
How I measure each. I collect all three and keep them in a bottle I display prominently on my proverbial mantle.
It's a process I have to trust in because something greater than me trusted me with the ability and willingness to partake in it. It’s a duty, privilege, and honor.
I walked into my first bar around five and almost fought the bouncer out front of the same bar at twenty-five, for a slight I can’t even pretend to remember. I just know he was as wrong as I pretended I never was back then.
