I am sitting here on my parents deck, at the end of such a blissful Christmas time together. Smoking a joint and drinking one more glass of whiskey before quitting for a while.

Exhausted. Burnt out. But so, so incredibly grateful.

No matter what though - Nothing feels real at all.

I can feel the carpet under my feet. I can hear the laughter. I know the smells of the kitchen without even having to see it. I’d know how to load the dishwasher even if I was blind. I feel the walls, the furniture, the couch… Just hoping the texture wakes me up to the present. If even just for a moment.

I remember smoking weed on this deck as a teenager, with angst in my veins. I remember climbing the roof to sneak out at night.

I remember hiding from my parents when all they wanted to do was love me. Being angry at them because I didn’t know how to express my pain with maturity. Hearing the arguments but never truly understanding why I was starting them.

Always a confused child thinking I was already an adult.

I wish I could take it all back but I know I never can. So these days I just try to give everything away and hope the quality time together heals even a fraction of the pain I caused. Trying to just thank my parents for never giving up on me.

Thank them with my actions. And spend our time in gratitude and accountability, hoping one good deed always forgives a sin.

I just keep begging myself to be present here. But it just won’t work.

I sit on the back deck… The one I spent the majority of my life on.

And I feel nothing.

Nothing at all.

I don’t think I can live without it though. Without being able to call my parents and share in life with them. Without being able to come anytime I want.

And still, I feel nothing at all.