Life in The Big City.

I always thought that life in the big city would be this romantic, life-changing experience - one that I would look back to, and associate it with the best years of my life. What could ever be more liberating than hopping in your car at 5 A.M., before the sun has even risen, and driving West? Leaving everything you know behind - your family, your friends, your memories, the tiny little town you grew up in; because the city calls to you?

When I got into my car that morning, the weight of what I was about to do had not even set in. I grabbed my laptop, the bag I had packed a week before, and a bundle of my dad’s old scratched CDs, and I began to drive. It must have been about an hour into my drive that the sun began rising behind me. I could see its reflection in the rearview mirror, nearly cresting over the peaks of the gigantic mountains I’d grown up surrounded by. Its light had not yet become bright enough to light up what lay ahead of me, and the sky that loomed over the big city was of a navy blue shade. It felt as though I was attempting to outrun the sun.

As my father’s beach rock mix played, I thought back to this summer; this year, really. I did not know who I was in December. I did not know who anybody else was, either. To be fair, most of last year is a haze mixed with emotions that were a result of over-intoxication of several substances, narcotics, and love.

There was this Boy that I had met a year before, who quickly became a brother to me. He had always craved a sense of belonging - a group of people that he could call his own. And of course, I had the perfect group: the guys that I had spent the past four years with, running the football team, and running the school. And determined as I was to make him a part of our friend group, I invited him to the New Year party I was throwing at my house. On New Year’s Eve, I was cross-faded, and the voices in my head cried out in thirst for my own bloodshed.

When the party ended, we were the only ones left - the inner circle who would spend the night at my house without having to worry about asking for permission. My family.

The Boy was the first one to pass out, and he fell, face-down on the couch. That was when the rest of the guys decided to take advantage of the situation. They began belittling him in ways that I cannot remember, nor do I wish I did - they went after his looks, his voice, his personality, his clothes, and everything in-between; and I just stood there, laughing along.

I began cleaning up the mess, and the rest of the guys went to sleep. About a half an hour later, I heard the sputtering sound of a stalling engine outside, and quickly ran out. Nobody should have been coming to my house that late, and nobody should be leaving either. The Boy had gotten into his car and was attempting to make a quick getaway while everybody else was asleep. My clearest memory of that night was the weather - it was as though heaven opened up, and a flood poured out from the sky. Within a second of stepping out of the house, I was drenched to the bone. I ran out to his car, knocked on the window, and he rolled it just a quarter down, so as to not get the interior wet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him.

“I’m going home, Abe.” He said.

“What, are you nuts?” I responded. “You’re drunk, get your ass back inside. You’re gonna end up killing yourself.”

“Man, you can go to hell. You and your friends.”

“Boy, what are you talking about? They’re your friends too. They’re your family.” He burst into tears that moment - his cheeks were glowing red, and his breath reeked of vodka; to the point where I could smell it coming through his window.

“They’re not, Abe. And to be f-fair, neither are you.”

“Boy, get inside.” I said.

“No.” He snapped. “No, you wanna know something? I joined you guys thinking I’d finally found a place where I b-belong. All I found was a group of bullies who know ALL of my insecurities.”

“I don’t care. You’re not driving home under the influence.” I said.

“Then I’m sleeping here.” He responded. “In my car.”

“I’m sleeping next to you then.” I said. I got into the passenger seat, leaned it back, and passed out.

I woke up on January 1st with a pounding headache, in a puddle of my own vomit, on the gravel road in front of my house; partially digested cake and pasta, in a mixture reeking of alcohol and regret. The Boy had left. A certain indescribable guilt consumed me for a while.

The police impounded my car the next day, and suspended my driver’s license. During the summer prior to the party, I had gotten ticketed for excessive speeding when I was driving up to the interior, in order to see the girl who was, at the time, my girlfriend. These things catch up with you.

So there I was - alone with my thoughts, with no way of escaping the town, and nearly nobody that I could talk to at least for the next four months, until my suspension period had ended. And one night, I heard a voice speaking to me as though in a dream - talking about some insurmountable joy and peace that can be found in surrounding yourself with the right people. I was determined to find those right people, even though I had no way of going to see them.

I pulled out a notepad and began to brainstorm - and yet no matter how much I tried to come up with a list, only one name came to mind.

“Emmanuel.”

Emmi was my best friend in middle school. When I first moved to Canada in grade seven, my accent was one of those unbearable, Eastern European gibberish dialects, which made it nearly impossible to discern a single word of what I was saying. And yet throughout all that, Emmi walked me through the concept of how English jokes worked, he showed me kindness and he showed me love when nobody else would. And yet as soon as highschool began, and as soon as he was finished restoring the self-confidence that had become buried deep within me, I turned my back on him. I did not acknowledge any of the time and effort he had put into me, and instead I hurled myself in streams of booze, sex, addiction and violence. I was the king.

Something had come over me in that second though - something that was far more powerful than the things I had become so accustomed to over the last couple of years. So I texted him - a simple, blunt text.

“Hey, we haven’t talked in a while. You wanna grab some food?” A minute later, he responded “I’ll come get you in 15.” Thinking of it now, it somehow almost feels as though he knew I had no license.

So we grabbed food - and we spent several hours getting caught up on one another’s lives, which had been polar opposites, and yet brought us to the same place. It was then that I was able to breathe more easily, for what felt like the first time in years. He drove me home, and I went to bed, thinking “Alright, we got the ball rolling now. We got the ball rolling. My life is gonna be good, we got the ball rolling.”

I waited for him to reach out to me, to make another plan. I didn’t want to force myself on him - and besides, he had no reason to want to hang out with me. I was a bully, and he was the first person that ever had to suffer because of my actions. And so a day passed by, and so did another one, and so did another one, and so on; and Emmi had not said a single thing. And so there I was again, all alone, with a sense of false hope still lingering in me like the bitter aftertaste of an apple seed. I had harmed one too many people. I was once again all alone. Any way of escaping was gone - I had no car, no friends, no drive for anything. The only girl I have ever loved was far, far away somewhere, and she wanted nothing to do with me - and I could not blame her. I sat there, lamenting in my misery, and poured myself another glass of cognac.

A darkness came over me. In a blacked-out madness, I ran to the gun safe, loaded my father’s pistol, and I pressed it against my temple with my finger trembling on the trigger. I had been brought up in a faithful family, but I had no faith of my own - yet in that moment, it seemed that the only thing I could do was cry out to a God whose goodness I doubted with every ounce of my being. “CALL ME TO SOMETHING!” I screamed. “GIVE ME A SINGLE FUCKING REASON TO CARRY ON! GIVE ME A PURPOSE!” I fell to my knees as I pressed the trigger, which fired the bullet into the drywall behind me. I laid there, in a fetal position, clutching the pistol, and holding its warm barrel against my cheek. I fell asleep there.

Then Emmi called. The vibrations of the phone in my pocket startled me, and I rejected his call, because it felt as though it was a bit too late. I was supposed to be dead by then. What good would it have done now?

And then he called again. I picked up that time, and made up the excuse of a nap. He told me about a meeting that he was having that night with a bunch of his friends that all worked at the same church, and asked me if I wanted to go with him.

“But I’m not a church leader or anything.” I said.

“It’s nothing formal bro, we’re just gonna have some nachos and hang out. You don’t have to come, I was just wondering if you maybe wanted to meet them?”

“I’m in, Emmi.” I said.

“I’ll pick you up in 15.”

We pulled up in front of a monstrosity of a house, with a pond in its front yard, and all of its rooms glowing a soft yellow hue that shined through the wide windows. Now what I am about to describe may be relatable to some - but the only way to understand this, is if you have lived it yourself.

As soon as I walked in, I was greeted with smiles, and a warmth that seemed to flow from these people’s hearts, and pour directly into mine. Nobody had even introduced themselves yet, and somehow, I felt as though I already knew them - I felt as though they would have sacrificed everything for me any second, because that is what their hearts told them to do. I had gotten called to something good.

There were six of them in total that night. There was Pam, who is very tall and has a contagious smile. Then there was Michael, the guy that is in the middle of his pastoral degree, and yet brews mischief everywhere he goes. There was Helga - a short ginger girl that finds everything absolutely hilarious. Then there was Dana, who is a little bit older than the rest, but somehow manages to have more energy and fire in her than most people my age. Finally there was Emmi, and his older brother, Ralph - the tall, buff, clever, handsome head leader. These were the people that were there that night - however, there are at least ten more that I can think of right now, who I can give credit to for saving my life.

I had never experienced random kindness before - not as far as I can remember. So as soon as they began to ask me questions about my life, my opinions and my beliefs, I was half shocked, and half in awe. Shocked, because what kind of person asks someone about their emotional state that soon? In awe, because nobody had ever been so eager to hear about what I feel.

So we had dinner - a big nacho platter; and all throughout the meal, they were asking me all sorts of questions about my life, and for some reason that I could not explain at the time, I wanted to be as truthful as possible with these guys. Something told me that they deserved it. By the time they got around to actually discussing their church plans, almost two hours had passed, and these people knew my entire life story.

But something awoke inside of me - because as soon as they began to make plans, I started to give suggestions and insight, in whatever way I found fit. We planned a few trips, a few church services, a few fundraisers, and at the end of the night, Ralph simply asked me:

“Abe, would you wanna become a leader?”

“Hell yeah.” I responded. I said goodbye, and Emmi drove me home - but before he did, we all made a plan to go hiking that Friday.

As soon as I got home, I called the Boy. I was in an euphoric state of mind, where nothing bad could do so much as even get near me. I ranted to him about how he was right - how a group of friends should build one another up, not tear each other down - about how I had never experienced healthy friendship before, and about how all along we were all bringing out the worst qualities in one another, and our good traits simply became associated with weaknesses. So I invited the Boy on that Friday hike with us, and over the next nine months, we all went on too many adventures to count - and these people became his best friends too. Even now, I’ll scroll through the photos on my phone, and see a picture of something we did that I completely forgot about; simply because of how many things we did together. From volunteer work, to serving at the church, to getting my license back, to camping trips, to birthday parties, movie nights, wilderness exploring, stargazing, yardwork, boat rides, bonfires, loud music, falling in and out of love with one another, good food, laughing so hard that our stomachs hurt, drinks, surfing, sunsets, sunrises, advice, conversations - I had asked God for a single reason to live, and in turn, I was given a myriad; because that is what good friendship looks like. THAT is a family.

But nothing can compare to this summer. The impact that I was able to make in so many people’s lives over the last three months alone, still baffles me. Specifically, working with people that struggle with the same things that I used to struggle with - addiction; whether to drugs, alcohol, sex, love, whatever it is. It seems that I have always been a magnet for deeply troubled people; and despite the new, amazing friends that I had found, that fact still remained. Some of the people I love the most, have all struggled with that at a certain point - and I was accustomed to the way that the foul demon of addiction manifested itself in other people’s lives.

This one evening, I was watching the stars with the Boy and Annie - one of the leaders that was not present at the first meeting. I went into the bush to pee, and out of nowhere, a man walked by me, wailing and crying, smashing the ground with a metal pipe. My initial thought was “Oh boy, I’m going to have to fight this guy.” But that was until I was able to make out his slurred words.

“I am a fucking idiot!” He cried out. “Stupid f-fucking idiot. I am a fucking MORON!” I walked towards him.

“Hey, are you okay?” I called out. I was about ten feet away from him at that point. He wiped his eyes and looked up at me.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” He sat down, leaning his back against a tree. He clutched the metal pipe in one hand, and a green notebook in the other.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

It seems so bloody absurd to be writing this - because who in the world would ever tell their struggles to a complete stranger that caught them in a vulnerable position? And yet again, who else is a stranger going to tell?

“I, no it-it’s just -” he pointed to a building on the road near the field where we sat. “I-I got the girl of my f-uggin dreams in there man. And I’m messing everything up a-gain.”

“Hey, easy now man. Tell me what’s going on.” I sat down next to him. For some reason, the metal pipe in his hand did not feel like a threat. The Boy and Annie were still out in the field, seemingly oblivious of what was happening just over in the bush.

The man’s name was Ryan. He told me that he had just finished his twelve-step recovery program for a severe cocaine addiction, and he felt as though he was about to relapse any second. In fact, he was planning on it - buying some cocaine later that evening.

The “girl of his dreams” was a woman named Natasha - his girlfriend, who had been with him throughout his journey thus far. Ryan had gotten drunk that night, and after smashing a few plates and breaking a few bottles, he stormed outside, and that was why I ran into him.

“What’s with the book?” I asked him.

“It’s my journal from re-rehab.” He said. “They made us w-write stuff everyday. That’s ninety days.”

“What are you doing with it?”

“B-burning it.” He responded. “It was all for nothing.”

“You wanna read them one more time before you burn them?” I asked. He handed me the notebook, and I began reading it out loud. The first entry read “I am a stupid fucking moron goof. I don’t know how I ended up here. I did coke for the first time a year ago, and now I’m beating my girlfriend. She thinks I need this shit. I just don’t want to hurt her. I am only doing this for her, I don’t care about nothing else.”

The last sentence of the Day 90 entry read “I can finally go back home for good.”

I sat out there with Ryan for almost an hour, reading every single entry with him. At several points, I had to stop because we were both crying. After I closed the notebook, I asked if I could pray for him. He let me, and as I prayed, we were both clutching one another, drying our tears off on each other’s sweaters.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked him. “Still gonna burn it?” Ryan chuckled.

“No.” He said. “I’m gonna go back home and call my sponsor, have him come over.”

We said goodbye, and I have not seen him to this day. I watched him cross the road, and walk into his apartment building. He left the metal pipe on the ground, and I took it home with me. I hope he and Natasha are alright.

“Long pee?” The Boy said to me when I got back.

My experience that night pushed me to volunteer at a recovery centre at my church - which put me in contact with a lot of people whose stories are similar to Ryan’s. More than that, I got the opportunity to work with teenagers that were going through all the same things, or people that just needed advice. And what baffles me the most is the fact that just a few months ago, I was the one that was causing harm, and I was the one that tried to take his own life. So through that, I got the purpose I asked God for that night too.

Now, driving towards the big city seems surreal. The same beach rock plays off of my father’s CD, and the sun is still just barely peeking in my rear-view mirror. People like to romanticize life in the big city because they feel as though life in a town is too small. But I’ll say this much: do not turn your back on those you could be helping near you. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but I know that for myself at least - a phone call from an old friend saved my life. And don’t forget that just because somebody out there has it worse than you, you cannot neglect your own suffering, nor the suffering of those you know: pain is pain. The smallest actions can determine whether someone lives or dies, CHOOSE to be kind. Be who you needed.

The highway was empty. I swerved into the other lane, did a U-turn across two solid lines, and began driving back towards my town; back towards the sunrise. I hope they don’t take my license away again.