The Bloody Doors Off

I have Country Roads stuck in my head.

Not the John Denver version.

This one

(Yes, my love. You’ll have to go to the blog and not just read the email if you want to understand the reference.)

What does that have to do with the title?

It doesn’t.

It was in my head, and it wouldn’t leave.

If you wanna discuss love as a topic, I’d say in this moment I am quite against the concept.

Oh, fuck, don’t get me wrong. I absolutely fucking love my wife and family and my good friends.

But love gets you fucking hurt.

Because you get attached. And one day.

They’re ripped out of your life.

Just like that.

Usually with no notice.

And even if you’ve steeled yourself against the inevitability.

Think you’ve made your peace.

It’s still sudden.

Closure is bullshit. Which now makes me laugh because earlier this year, I thought I’d actually found closure with a piece of my past. That a door had been opened, an old friend walked in, we shared virtual tea, and wished each other well. Maybe we’ll meet the next time you’re in the city and grab a coffee.

But that’s just an end of a chapter.

It’s not the final line of the book.

The End is hundreds of pages yet to come.

You only get closure when the curtains are pulled shut one final time.

Careful not to squander the opportunity.

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads

Family’s come to mean so much to me.

Especially after mum passed.

And I envy those who still have a chance. To make things right. To make them batter.

I didn’t.

I had started to.

I’d gone through a self-imposed exile with my family when I was younger. Working the midnight shift for fifty weeks a year, made the isolation easier to nurture.

But if you ask me today why I’d done that, why I was willing to shut myself off from my family.

I couldn’t tell you.

There was no justification for it.

Granted, I was undiagnosed as manic/depressive (and later bipolar 2) at the time. Something in my chemically imbalanced brain must’ve won over the rational section of my brain.

So maybe a part of me feels like I have unfinished business with my mum. Some act I need to perform. A puzzle I have to solve. A story I have to write.

I am most certainly NOT writing a one-man show. Nor would I ever fucking consider acting in such a debacle.

I’ll think about it. I suppose.