Seven years.
That’s what the math says. Seven laps around the sun without pouring another single malt glass of gasoline on the fire in my head. And here’s the kicker — I’m going to hit that milestone in Greece. Sun-bleached stones, family around me, and the kind of blue water you can drown in without ever being angry about it.
Seven years is a weird number. Long enough to go from no grey hair to several of the bastards. Long enough for the wrong person to fall in love, get married, and get divorced. But in the rearview, it’s also just… seven quick blinks. One minute you’re white knuckling through the shakes, the next you’re looking at your passport wondering how the hell you got here.
That’s the thing about time: it cares very little for your perception of it. Enviable, in that Mel Robbins sort of way.
I think about the early days — the darker days — a lot less than I used to, but from time to time, those stormy skies roll on in. Back when mornings tasted like copper and depression. Back when I wore a uniform that came with a front-row seat to the end of the world, one 911 call at a time. I can still see their faces, the ones I couldn’t save. They stick around like stubborn spectral slivers, setting up camp in the corners of my mind, waiting for quiet moments to wiggle and sting.
But somewhere along the line, the noise in my head got softer. The nights got less haunted. Some nights, anyway. And love — the real kind, the kind that asks nothing of you but to show up — slipped in and started doing the work that no bottle ever could. Love in the laughs of my family. Love in the ridiculous warmth of a dog sleeping against my leg with all four paws pointed skyward, bare belly for all to see. Love in the simple fact that I get to wake up tomorrow and be part of their world instead of just stumbling through mine.
When you open yourself to it — to love — a lot of things tend to change. And change for the better. Several years ago, there wasn’t a hope in hell I’d be boarding a plane halfway across the world; but here I am. Bags packed, passport ready, pangs of excitement tickling my belly — and I can’t tell if it’s a warm fart coming or butterflies.
Seven years. A long time. No time at all.
In Greece, I’ll watch the sun drop into the water with my family by my side, and I’ll raise a glass of something that won’t hurt me. Something that won’t rob me of myself. I’ll think about what it took to get here — every bad decision, every loss, every moment I thought I couldn’t make it — and I’ll know I’d go through it all again if it meant ending up right here. I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one God damn blemish. Because it was the stumble that led me to the trail I needed to find to start the journey back.
Here’s the thing — I’m a better version of myself now than I ever was. I think that’s why I was able to find someone so special in Sheena. Sheena, and the girls.
Because for the first time in my life, I’m full. And not even the best whiskey I ever drank could touch this kind of drunk.
I’m flyin’ high, folks. All without one damn drop.
To steal a phrase from my old life… cheers. To seven good years.
P.S. I’m writing this now because in Greece, I plan to just take it all in. I’ll have plenty to write about when I get back.
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