This is the journal of a dying man. My kids won't know everything from my life.
They're barely old enough to realize daddy is sick. I sit in this room in the back of my mother's house at 33-years-old and I am facing a hole in the ground that is about six feet deep. Part of me wants to just jump in and escape the pain I'm in. Part of me wants to rewind the time, undo the things I did that will take me away from the lives I created. Were the times I had getting myself into this mess really worth the price that they'll pay without me here; were they worth the price I'm paying now? Every day I wake up to pill after pill and another day of doctors and IVs just to get through. Maybe I'll be here for the next birthday, or the next holiday. Maybe... Maybe not. At this point in my life, that shouldn't be a question. The reality of it is—my reality anyway—is every day, every hour, minute, second, every breath is a question. I can only hope and pray at this point. "Give me one more, God, please just one more. I want to see my daughters playing in the park just one more time. I just want one more kiss goodnight. I want to get to read one more bed time story. I don't want to go now, God, please let me hang on for a while longer. At least until they know me."
I can barely stand to look at my family now. I see in their eyes everything I've done in my life, and I know it has hurt them. Sometimes at night when Mom thinks I am asleep or passed out from all the drugs, I hear her cry. I hear her ask God why her son. I hear the breaks in her voice and I want so much to go to her and hold her and tell her I will be okay and that God will take care of everything. That's what my heart and what is left of my mind wants, but my body doesn't have the strength anymore to follow through. My baby sister is here for her and I trust her with everything. I trust that she'll be there for mom and dad, and when the time comes, she'll be there for my children. When it's all said and done, she is the one that will be able to tell them about me and my life and point them in the right direction. I wish there were some way for me to show them that I love them more than anything and if I had it to do all over again, I'd like to think I wouldn't made the same mistakes.
Looking out the window, I see the clouds coming. It's getting darker here and I can't see very well. The rose-colored lenses I looked through aren't making anything look better anymore. I think they've lost their effect. The scars on my arms aren't going away and the sores just keep getting worse. I think it's pretty close to the end. The bloody tissues in the wastebasket seem to agree. This will be the last entry to this journal. I have an appointment tomorrow I can't miss and this is the only thing I can leave for comfort to my girls, my sister, and my parents. I am going home tomorrow and I won't be hurting anymore.