Yesterday was a day I will never forget. My dad had been in and out of the hospital over the last few weeks for having his blood sugar going from dangerously high to plummeting dangerously low as we introduced insulin. It was so hard to get regulated it seemed, and adding to the stress was the fear of every dose of insulin given, he could end up in hypoglycemic shock. I was wearing out. We finally got it regulated, and I felt like I could breathe again.
As if my dating life wasn’t already a laughing stock, with the choices in my age group amounting to the leftovers of broken marriages, divorce settlement beat downs, and the complete failure to commit (launch) types scrambling around in the age of Tinder. Now I have been dealt an even harder blow. My dad’s health has declined and now I am struggling to keep him around as long as possible.
Those of us who have suffered loss, tragedy, and lived a not so stellar life are very familiar with hindsight or we never truly overcome it. The point where you can say you’ve been granted an epiphany of understanding the situations you’ve endured, and can grasp acceptance is all thanks to the mysterious and necessary gift of hindsight.
I have a choice to make, and by God I am not comfortable making it. I work part time as a bartender to make ends meet (but mostly to have a profitable social life and save money for retirement) and being an almost introverted, extrovert I seem to have adopted the job as a means for socialization.
I lost one of my oldest best friends at the end of September. Misty and I met in the 4th grade at Woodstock School when she and a group of students transferred from a small private school which was closing. I was probably one of the most shy and withdrawn kids on the planet at the time, but not Misty. She was larger than life, despite being tiny, and was naturally a jokester.
I have one tangible regret. Never wanting to be the reason someone hurts, I make it a point to try my hardest to never be. I'm not saying there isn't a few (probably many) people who go around telling "This is why I hate her" stories, but their recollection of it is usually biased and not 100 percent correct. The reality is the fault is usually 100 percent mutually culpable, with the exception of this one time I am about to divulge to you. I have never really shared this in its entirety with anyone, but one person, and I am feeling increasingly anxious as I type. It needs to be said, so here it goes.