I grew up in Pennsyltucky. Thanksgiving was a 5 day weekend. Thursday, Friday, the regular weekend followed by the first day of buck season. Wednesday night was a clusterfuck. Kids back from college. Hunters from Pittsburgh. Visiting relatives. My little hometown bars were 5, 6 people deep to get served. I may love you and love to see you, but you’re getting in my fucking way. You know those people that have month long birthdays? My holiday season started with Labor Day, my birthday, Halloween, the current subject of this prose, followed by Christmas and then another year shot to hell. So at that time in my life, let’s not give sobriety a chance to raise it’s ugly head, shall we? Then Thanksgiving day found me looking for a party that was generally no where to be found. Or at some place where I’d temporarily worn out my welcome. Maybe stop in for a beer and make holiday wishes to a gathering of unfamiliar family at a bar where I was invited to stop by for aforementioned beer…

This year Thanksgiving Eve finds me sitting “home”. Alone.  Sober 30 years. Mourning the loss of Jill, my partner of 20 years. She got her wings about 4 months ago. I’d been her main caregiver, and even though I knew it was coming, it’s been devastating. Most days I wake up (if I’ve slept) and the first conscious thought I have is that she’s no longer here. So “starting” my day feeling empty and broken hasn’t quite put me in any kind of holiday spirit. Not looking for sympathy. Or empathy. Not even trying to explain how I feel. It’s more of an expression of what, in essence is beyond satisfactory description. Cuz if I keep it inside too long, my head, heart and soul express the desire to explode. Or implode. And I genuinely fear what I know my demons are capable of…

So, world at large, just listen and hold on to me, don’t try to fix it. The way I’ve been feeling you might get hit with a fucking shovel. Why is that so hard to understand? Don’t know what to say? Then don’t say anything, just let me know you’re there…