He sat in the dimly lit room and stared at the two bottles. The place was quiet. They were all away at some church function. His mind felt numb, enveloped by a fog that he knew the whiskey and pills could not clear.
The one thing I’ve been consistently good at is failure.
It’s a cruel sort of talent—
not the kind they write songs about,
not the kind you put on a résumé.
But it clings to me like smoke after fire.
I’ve failed as a husband.
I’ve failed as a father.
I’ve failed as a leader.
I was supposed to do what was right —
and I didn’t.
I didn’t.
The memories of each failure burns like a torch to my very soul. They replay in my head as piercing reminders of when I lost them—
or maybe they lost me—
Since then I haven’t made it a week without the whisper:
“You could end this.”
A thought soft as silk,
but sharp as a razor in the dark.
It’s not melodrama.
It’s math.
The weight keeps adding.
And I’m sinking under the sum.
I finally clawed out some fragile peace—
in dirt and sweat and honest labor.
The only thing lately that doesn’t feel like a lie
is the blister on my palm,
the ache in my back.
And the silence.
the silence.
Not judgment. Not performance.
Just the hum of being human.
But now they’re angry.
Angry that I’m not dancing the same old puppet jig.
“You’re distant.” “You’ve gone astray.” "You've become someone else"
No—
for the first time in my life, I haven’t.
I’ve stopped pretending.
I laid the mask down,
and they trampled it like a broken toy.
Now I’m a problem to fix.
A patient to medicate.
A man to be steered back into their idea of useful.
Where were they
when I was bleeding inside,
smiling on the outside?
Where were their questions
when I was drinking myself numb
just to make it through one more performance?
They don’t want me.
They want the illusion I used to be.
They want the tough guy,
the agreeable servant,
the great teacher, the functional fraud.
But I am none of those things.
I am broken.
I am burnt ground.
I am a cracked foundation
with ghosts living in the walls.
And I don’t know if I can stay afloat.
Not with this storm inside.
Not when drowning sometimes
feels like the only kind of peace
I’ll ever understand.
I don’t want to die.
I just don’t know how to live
as me.
Not the version they approve.
Not the lie they praise.
Just me.
And maybe that’s the real tragedy.
That the moment I try to be honest—
I lose everyone.
Even myself.
Slowly he stares up at the ceiling. Puts the whiskey and pills back in their places. Out the door. A long walk. Sunlight. Wind. Trees rustling.
One more day.
I can make it.
One more day.
-Cyn
