Back to see me again? Glad you made it over this way, what would you like to talk about today? Forgiveness? Ok, let’s do this.

Dear 2019,

So for you guys that have been following this story of my life for about 2 years now, I thank you for your loyalty. For those of you that are new, welcome to this crazy life! So as you all know, I live in a very small town that makes you feel like you are in a hamster wheel of hell most of the time. Well recently my work schedule changed and it allowed me to start picking up my kids from school again. I was excited about it like any other parent that misses the kids when they are gone all day. So I was thinking that this moment of picking up my 9 year old was going to be the icing on the cake. Mommy had his favorite after-school snack in the car and rounds of classical music for the ride home.

Family isn't always blood. Sometimes it's just someone, a friend who you can just trust more than anyone else, and is always there for you when you really need them to be. This is something I have learned over the past year, and it's made me value who is really in my life and who I can rely on for anything.

How can your life be ruined even before you started? Maybe not ruined, but certainly damaged. Such a damaged human being from the start. I always felt disconnected from every person, but most of all, family. I would be the one who was a goody-goody, while my sisters rebelled. They always treated me like the annoying youngest sister. The only one who wouldn't go out. The one always upset. Always jealous and longing for love and attention.

I remember back as far as four and a half years old. Vivid memories of living in a basement apartment in North Denver, my Mom being on ADC and the County Nurse coming to visit and bringing a box filled with staples: rice, cheese, powdered eggs, milk, etc. I can still see the box on top of the table, way above my head. I can still feel the sensation of climbing up on the chair to look at all the goods being pulled from the box.

I was the second-born son out of three. I was the middle child. I grew up in an average, hard working, middle class family. I had a seemingly normal childhood. I was a B average student. I was a terrific athlete. I had a big dream of playing professional football. I had no doubt in my mind I was capable of doing so. I was confident, driven and motivated to accomplish my goal. I was an unstoppable force. I wanted to make my family proud. An unexpected football injury in high school would change the course of my life. I would become a victim of America's opioid epidemic. My addiction, however, would teach me the importance of family. I would also learn the power of unconditional love, which is something the world needs more of.

It has been a while since I have checked in and just given an update on my life. How is everyone doing? Obviously you can't respond to me (unless you reach out on Instagram! Don't forget to follow) on this platform but I hope those who read this are doing great. I have been doing great as well. Life keeps throwing the usual curveballs, but I've been doing a great job at catching them.

It was the day before Cameron’s ninth birthday. I expected to hear an excited voice on the other end of the phone in Windsor, but there were only sobs and tears. Cameron’s classmate, Destiny, had died suddenly two days before, and my youngest grandson was feeling deep, deep sadness. “I’m not going to have a very good birthday tomorrow, Papa,” was the only clear sentence he managed to articulate at that point. This is the rest of the conversation as best I can recall.

Late again! My new doctor that is, who I met last year in the emergency ward after suffering a rather nasty concussion while curling.

When my grandson was born, I felt I was too young to be called grandpa. I was a very young first-time father and was only 35 when my grandson was born. So, when I made that declaration, my daughter asked: "What would you like to be called then, dad?" and I responded "PAPA!" From that point on, I was PAPA. A title I take very seriously and with the greatest of pride.

In 2002, my “mother” got pregnant for the sixth time. She had kept three of the kids, put one up for adoption, and the other lived with the dad. She wanted to get an abortion so she could keep doing drugs, but after my dad and grandma didn’t let that happen, she kept the baby, but also kept doing drugs. In March of 2003, on a snowy day, that baby girl was born, and that baby girl was me. After spending nine months in the womb, exposed to meth and god knows what else, it was a miracle I didn’t have any apparent problems, and an even bigger miracle I had turned out to have no problems at all!