Whiskey, Woes, & Words

It was a warm summer evening in mid-September, and I’m driving home from a rather delightful Sunday hanging out with one of my favorite people. I fought to clear the blurriness from my vision and resisted the urge to peek at the passing cars, in case anyone caught a glance of my current state. Hot tears streamed down my face as I sang along to George Strait’s “If You’re Thinking You Want a Stranger (There’s One Coming Home).”

The King of Country has a way of transporting me to specific moments in time but, more consistently, a feeling. The countless rides in the backseat of my parent’s red ’87 Chevy blur together, with my dad quizzing my brother and I on who can speedily answer the artist and title of the song on the radio after only the first few notes. Not-so-humble brag but, I usually won. My dad encouraged competitive behavior in nearly every way possible, and I was only too eager to show how much I knew and earn the smile that I could just see in his profile as I answered at lightning-speed. Sometimes, I earned a smile and eye contact through the reflection in the rear-view mirror, which he would adjust to look right at me. I would swell with pride for answering correctly, send a smirk towards my brother, and get ready for the next song.

I paused the playlist and, focusing now on the rhythmic sound of the tires on the uneven freeway road, my former roommate that I had made this country playlist for crossed my mind and I thought, “I should text her when I get home.” I looked at the clock. It was already past 10:30pm CST and she would have been long asleep to get up early in time for her shift at the hospital.

I let my thoughts wander to what other friends could be up to and if I should reach out and…..what would I say exactly? That I just need some company and a hug? After I just left a friend’s house? Is that even what I need right now? All I know is for every person I think of, there isn’t anyone whom would have the ability to drop everything and be able to help me navigate this moment. The rational side of my brain understands that everyone has their own busy lives, and also wishing that I had that person who I could call in this moment.

I struggled the rest of the way home. Trying to think of something “legitimate” or a “good reason” to contact anyone that late at night, and as the tears began anew, I was looking forward to hugging my cat, Roxy, whose 14-pounds of fluff is perfect for tear-absorption.

I text my friend that I’m home, that I had a great day, and to thank her for sending me home with a cutting of one of her beloved plants for me to propagate. I don’t mention my current emotional state, feeling like my friend has shown up for me enough already today and I can’t ask her to hold any more of my emotional weight.

Feeling satisfied that I successfully hid my sadness with a few emojis, I scoop up the cat and collapse on the couch, burying my face into her purring chest. By now, Roxy is a seasoned pro at being patient and comforting when I’m feeling overwhelmed.

As I curl Roxy onto me and gently smooth out her fur, the anxiety-fueled spiraling in my mind begins. It’s my fault I’m lonely. I’m the one who couldn’t live with roommates anymore. I’m the one that has made zero effort to date. I mean, who wants to be around someone who is sad? Really? Who would want to be around me when the sad moments are so random? I’ve already embarrassed myself and made my friends uncomfortable, It’s selfish and too much to ask of anyone to help me hold this emotional burden.

I can’t catch my breath and I work to match my inhales and exhales to the rhythm of Roxy’s deep purrs. Finally, I can take a deep breath and feel my heartbeat slow down as the George Strait song plays again in my mind. I think about the person who consistently showed up for me and was always reliable. I grab my phone, open the messages app, look up the archived texts and find the conversation thread I’m looking for. Dad.

Changing from my usual course, I flicked my thumb along the screen scrolling to read the older texts. If I go back far enough, it will feel like I’m experiencing the texts that I know won’t be sent in the morning.

Are you winning in fantasy [football]?

Watching the game tonight?

Going to watch your Fins play tomorrow?

It is a strange feeling to seek comfort from something that used to cause so much anxiety. There was a time when I would take a deep breath when a text notification from Dad would flash across my screen. I never knew if it was going to be a link to a YouTube video, chastising me about something I, more often than not, hadn’t done yet, or just asking what I was up to if he hadn’t heard from me in a few days.

The comfort that I get from rereading these text exchanges is knowing how much my dad cared for me, in his own way. I moved out of my parent’s house at 18 and my dad wouldn’t let me get away with not having a weekly text chat or a phone call. I didn’t realize it then, but looking back, my dad was the only one that made sure I didn’t feel forgotten when I moved away from my family.

As I am getting to the texts that are closer to the end of the archive, I turn off the screen and put my phone down. I think of how complicated of a dynamic the relationship with my dad was and how I had been working on establishing my boundaries, which directly conflicted with his expectations of me. As challenging and hurtful as my dad could be, what I wouldn’t give to have the opportunity to still be working on building a healthier adult relationship with him.

It’s impossible for all that now, and I’m left with my memories, regrets, and incomprehensible shock and confusion that my dad is no longer in my life, I have been on my own for a long time now, but it is a brand-new experience to feel loneliness.

One-thousand one hundred and eighty-five days ago, my dad made the decision to end his life.

One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will become someone else’s survival guide.

–Brene Brown