Fifteen or twenty years ago, I used to come here every Monday night. I'd sit right here at the bar after my shift at the restaurant and drink as many beers as I could with a couple of other guys before they closed the bar at midnight. I am still friends with one of them, Facebook being reasonably good at creating opportunities to stay connected with people who would otherwise drift away over the years. That man, Andrew, and I keep our contact up despite him now living in the United States.
But here I sit and who should be beside me but another one of the those men who I had lost track of, now misplacing his name somewhere in my grey matter. This is the first time I have seen him since those days and I was, to say the least, rather surprised to see him. He’s in his eighties now, a frail façade of the man he once was. At first I was glad to see him, his face bringing up many good memories but as I realized what he being here meant I became sad. He has literally been coming here every Monday in the decade and a half since I stopped. He drinks until he can barely walk and then gets in his car and goes home.
What an existence. What a waste of so many years. Drinking in a bar by himself day after day and going home to an empty house is a life which I, from time to time, have dreamed of. Just enough social interaction that I could not be accused of avoiding the world but never having to deal with people on anything other than a cursory level. My mental illness has made me idolize this man’s existence, something which he would likely say is a choice but is probably something which has been thrust upon him. I’m not sure who I should be more sad for: he and his life of solitude and monotony or me and my streak of green running down my spine as part of me envies his life.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there is an uncomfortably large part of my soul which is awaiting the death of my mother so I can be alone once again. She is a pain to live with. She drags me down on a daily basis. My mom is responsible for a great many of my negative coping mechanisms which have led me down the path I am on and I struggle seeing her do those harmful things she inadvertently taught me so many years ago. I crave what solitude this man of a forgotten name has every day. I am resentful of the things he makes me focus on, no longer able to ignore that dark side of my mind. Self examination is a healthy thing when done in a controlled manner. This is nothing but a trigger and I am facing the consequences as my fingers clack on these keys and I am tempted to sit here and get as drunk as I used to be to try and forget these uncomfortable thoughts.
