And Just as My Father Before Me

I Too Will Never Know the Kind of Adult My Child Would Become

Generally speaking, this has been a rather shite year. At least in terms of writing. Well, in terms of far more than just writing too if I’m being completely honest. “Ha.” Pretty sure it’s a mannerism I picked up this year. I’ve been wrong before but for the sake of brevity let’s say I’m right for sure this time. I use it, “ha,” more often than I care to say. Helps get things across. At least that’s what I tell myself. Truth be told, I’m probably wrong about that but it feels like a nice social lubricant. Yeah, lube. I’m so alone I’ve fallen on the acquisition of crutches like, lube. “Social lubricant.” Out of fear of sounding too “emo” I’ll refrain from including the “end it all now” but at least you’ll know. You beautiful reader, you. Or I guess me?

How are you future me? How are things. Okay, I’ll kill the bit right there. Yes, no one is likely to read this but tomorrow me. I get it. “Self-aggrandization.” That’s the term right? Doesn’t matter. I’m stalling. I don’t know where this is going yet. I mean, I know where it ends but where it begins…. Apparently, stalling, ha. There it is, perfect. Let’s begin.

The year is over. As of the posting of this, it’ll either shortly be, or will be entirely, 2026 in the location in which it was produced. I’d have titled this, year in review but just didn’t feel encompassing enough. No. Really, just would be counter to the vibe I’ve been trying to maintain. Storytelling, calling card of the storyteller, right? Why am I still stalling. Or maybe I’m just rusty. Where’s that lube. Okay, now, we’re ready. Circle two closed, on to the next.

I started the year taking a photo. Generally speaking, I hate my face. I know that sounds specific but really, it’s as simple an answer for probably 90% of every action I’ve taken over the past few decades. Hell, I’m still wearing a mask five years after big COV. Sure I’ve the attuned to more germophobic habits but that one, the mask, that’s purely cosmetic. Depending on which side of the aisle, /more/ cosmetic than it already was ha. So anyway, I took a photo and made it a point to try to take a photo every day. Saw a thing on social media and found it engaging. By March I was out of photos. Not sure if it was negative motivation or merely the return to my shell. Either way, didn’t make it the whole year. Not that it was the only fire in the kiln but just setting the stage I suppose. Start with a failure right?

Something I did end up completing throughout the year was a tracker for “Attempts at Love.” Hard to believe but the last time I was in an actual relationship was 2004. Two decades and I’ve been alone. Important people have entered and exited my life. But nothing, by definition, that stuck. There was always this barrier and before I knew it I was losing count of the grays in my beard. Was I going to live the prophecy? Die alone after all? Considering this year I tried to make a concerted effort to connect and came up my namesake—empty—speaks volumes. But I’m moving too fast. Let’s pump the brakes a moment.

She asked me if I had any plans for New Year’s. We’re still talking. An old friend from before I killed myself. Well, before I publicly killed him and became whatever the hell I am now. She called me up one day last June or July and we spoke and have been in contact over a year now. I’m not bringing her up because of any potential romance. More because in our correspondence I have come to realize something. I’m really not him anymore. I’m so hollow. I’ve got nothing. Not to offer, especially not to gain. I ponder if she knows that I know why we stopped talking, I had forgotten and just chalked it up to the funeral run but I found it this year. The truth. That it was over before the end. Because even then, over a decade ago now, I wasn’t made to be a part of this world. The other, the else. Another fantastic title. I told her I loved her because I saw a self-help video that said to. Her and my closest, dearest friends who at that time I considered more family than my actual family. She was the only one who pushed me away. Even after explaining where it was coming from. Now she’s the only one I’m in regular contact with. But she seems to be looking for him and I’m not him.

Received a message from a dear planet just this week. We haven’t spoken in months. Not that it’s all that unusual. She did it to reassure me that we’re still good. Someone I’ve never met in person but one of the longer shared existences I’ve had since the fall. I’ll likely write to her after this as I’ve been meaning to do so. I just don’t know if she’ll beat me to it. Our relationship has been vibes. We just seem to find each other in moments most apt. Can’t really explain it. We both know nothing yet everything crucial about each other. She never knew him. Only me. Maybe that’s why she so easily became a cherished person. I want to say friend. But how does something that doesn’t exist have friends?

Without planning this at all, I ended messaging exactly 100 people over the course of the past 12 months. Medium was dating apps because I dwell in a border region an hour’s drive away from a major town. Up to three hours away from any major cities. I don’t know why I’m doxing myself. I see more cows than people on a daily basis. There, that’s it, moving on. So, out of those 100, I received messages back from 7. Of those 7, if I remove the bots, the sellers, the ones that didn’t follow up with a reply after I replied, I’m left with exactly 0 that turned into dates. Zero dates and that was me trying. Harkens back to my lowest point when I inquired from a Suicide Line Operator on when it would be an appropriate time to give up trying to live. How much suffering must I endure before it’s acceptable to kill myself. That was the mindset. Didn’t get an answer. Shocker, ha.

The point of the statistics was to show that I have tried. The next option is paying an agency. Don’t feel particularly confident about that route either but if that fails too maybe I can finally just give up entirely. Just embrace the suck. Of being alone. Like these words. One day will be tomorrow me’s last day. And then there will be no one else to see them. These words will be as alone as I lived. What a great line. Would’ve made for a great title. Too bad this isn’t where it ends. Year in review of sorts right?

I flew to my home town to see her. She had ended up in the hospital and it hit me all at once that I may never see her again. I don’t have many good memories of my time in her care. Actually I think I may only have one good memory. Just remember the pain, the suffering, how she would stand by and seemingly do nothing to stop the beatings. How I was belittled. Called a dog. A demon. A Republican, ha! My mother. When I saw her she looked so tiny. More than that. Emaciated. I left that place. I thought she was taken care of by her other children but I looked at her and that house and it was a different kind of hell. Not the one I wanted to escape all my childhood, but one that she was stuck in. I still struggle with the why I went but I’m satisfied that I did. We spoke on the phone a few weeks after I left. She figured out how to call me. And for what? To discuss her death and will. All my life there was nothing but mystery surrounding my origin. I don’t know much about my lineage. I don’t know the woman that birthed me. Not for lack of trying. She would never talk about such things and even when asked would take offense to the question. I harbor such negative memories. But then I still respect that she was my mother. So it surprised me when I asked her in our last talk, “where’s my father buried?”

I don’t know where my father’s buried. I know almost nothing about him besides his death when I was a baby. Not that I’m on speaking terms with anyone beside my mother but even before all that, no one really ever spoke about him. His legacy was as this mysterious presence that left an impact on the lives lived along side him but that’s it. No real pictures of him. No real stories of him. Not even his name is uttered. Just a broken nameplate above a workbench. This isn’t the first year I’ve thought about my father. Wondered what kind of person he was. Wondered what he’d have to say about me and the life I’ve come to live. I’ve never thought about how I may have ended up different if he were in my life but I find it unmistakable, this gnawing desire of approval from him. Would he have been proud of what I became without him? Would he see himself in me as his son? I hate myself but would he still love me? Next year I’ll be the same age he was when he died. I’ve no spouse, hell, not even a single prospect. I will likely die the way I lived. Alone. A mysterious presence no one talks about once I’ve left this place. Broken words upon a workspace. No lover, no heirs. And just as my father before me, I too will never know the kind of adult my child would become.