Writing this turned out to be surprisingly more difficult than I anticipated, so I took a 30-day break to meditate on my ideas and intentions before continuing.
Brock T. Sampson
As we had met in a combat oriented sport, possessed alpha personalities and weren't old enough to drink, things went from bad to completely off the fucking rails in a nanosecond. Whenever we met, we fought. Money owed, property to be returned…culminating in our final fight:
Why does she keep mumbling "Fuck it", like she's trying to psych herself up?
(To reduce the sanest to lunacy...)
(That's how far the world is from where I am...)
I hated her for making me hate her in that moment. Hate was the only thing keeping me standing. I breathed hate. I became hate.
"4 Days Later"
I'm sitting on a bed in an unfamiliar messy room. I've been drinking copious amounts of tequila to get up the courage to use the Sig-Sauer P223 I have stashed in my leather - in a way that it was definitely not designed for.
The problem here is...it's not my bed I'm sitting on. Nor is it my bedroom. Hell, it isn't even my fucking house.
My sister's friend Francis - who was known for an unusually strong set of personal ethics and extreme kindness - had decided I shouldn't drink alone. More accurately he probably didn't think I should kill myself, so he sat for hours listening to me rant about how this was a fuckup so big even God was going to be impressed. He never tried to stop me when I flat out stated my intent to take my own life. He knew better. Instead he just kept talking.
That was the first time Francis saved my life. It would not be the last.
The next day I met with my friend Bosco praying he'd have a solution. Bosco knows people. Bosco is a problem solver. Simply put: Bosco does not fuck around. Bosco had also known Her and I better than anyone.
Bosco also told me that there was an easy and fast way to get past the pain: Hate her. He advised me to: "Remember every single negative thing about her" followed with: "It doesn't have to even be real, as long as you believe it is. Demonize her. Hate her."
I love Bosco, but he's no mental health expert and abso-fucking-lutely should not be permitted to give relationship advice.
Of course, I did exactly what he told me. For the next two years.
I contacted a friend in her cities PD and asked him to meet me in uniform with a cruiser at her house with the goal of humiliating her family while I collected my belongings. Not that I needed to, what with the six zombie-looking-stoner-cum-drug-dealers carrying everything so I didn't have to enter the house.
Until that day,