Today’s entry steps away from the daily stories about Whiskey Kitty and into heavier territory. This is one of those days when the curtain pulls back and the stage lights feel very bright.
I’m facing three potentially fatal illnesses. That has a way of focusing the mind. When your body starts sending serious messages, you don’t just think about the future. You think about the past. You start asking the quiet questions.
What have I done with my life?
Who have I helped?
Was I a good man?
The answers don’t always come wrapped in sunshine.
I haven’t always been a good guy. My books carry humor and anger because my life has carried both. While I talk about recovery today, there were long stretches of addiction, poor decisions, and emotional wreckage. Even the shorter memories can sting. Sometimes I look back and wonder if I left more damage than good behind me.
One memory stands out.
When I first came into AA, I developed a quiet admiration for a woman in the group. I kept it hidden, built it up inside my head, and eventually wrote her an anonymous love letter. What I thought was heartfelt came across as intense and unsettling. She was uncomfortable and it scared her. The longing I described felt like pressure to her, not romance.
Not long after, I attempted suicide and ended up in a coma for three days.
When she learned what had happened, she approached me once I recovered and said, “I’m sorry.” Then she walked away.
But the truth is, I should have been the one apologizing to her.
No one could have seen that situation coming. I was a confused, hurting young man trying to manage emotions I didn’t understand. My relationships reflected the same chaos I carried inside. It wasn’t her fault. It was my pain spilling outward.
My life is full of stories like that. Regrets. Misunderstandings. Moments where I wish I had been stronger, clearer, kinder.
When I shared some of this with my mom, she said something simple:
“Look more positive. You’ve done a good job taking care of the kitty. She loves you.”
At first it sounded small. But the more I sat with it, the more it felt like a quiet truth.
Maybe the story of a life isn’t written in grand heroic chapters. Maybe it’s written in small acts of care. Feeding the cat. Showing up. Staying alive. Trying again.
Maybe the hero shows up late in the story.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because here’s the reality. If I keep smoking, I’m not just reflecting on my life. I’m shortening it. With the health risks I’m facing, cigarettes aren’t a habit anymore. They’re a slow exit.
This is the hard step in front of me.
Not philosophy.
Not regret.
Not memory.
Action.
I have to quit smoking so I don’t kill myself through addiction.
That’s the battlefield right now. Not the past. Not the mistakes. Not the guilt.
Today.
Breath by breath. Choice by choice.
Maybe the hero doesn’t arrive at the beginning of the story. Maybe he shows up in the final act, tired, flawed, and a little late, but still willing to fight for the ending.
So here it is, written down where I can see it.
Once again,
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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