I met Bryan in 2009. I was in my second semester at the University of Texas at Dallas, and he was in his first. I was 27, and way too old for college. Bryan was 23, he was already a highly qualified BMW mechanic, and was too young to already be reinventing himself. We were both electrical engineering majors. The class we shared was called alternative energy sources. Our professor was an 87-year-old Russian Nuclear Physicist who had written some of the texts that we would be studying. The accent was so strong, as was the Nuclear agenda. Bryan was a jokester. We would sit next to each other twice per week in class, and the jokes would write themselves. Our professor had probably competed against Einstein in building the nuclear bombs that ended World War II. We learned so much about alternative energy sources. The wind could power the entire world if properly employed, but the carbon and animal costs of these windmills would be far greater than using nuclear power. Solar power is essentially free once your solar panels are up. The return on investment of a solar project is 10-20 years. This ROI would be 5 years with nuclear power. Coal is an abundant natural resource and is an inexpensive form of energy. The downfall is the immense human fallout. Everyone who lives within 500 miles of a coal power plant has an increased risk of lung cancer, COPD, asthma, and a variety of other ailments that most people think are “environmental”. Yes, it’s environmental because of the giant coal plants spewing smoke and toxic chemicals into the sky environment. Judging by casualty numbers alone, Nuclear power is much safer than coal, and it isn’t close.

It didn’t matter what the energy source was; it could never beat nuclear power. Nothing could. Nuclear was supreme. Our professor was still teaching this message when he died the following year. I’m assuming the cause was not nuclear-related, or he could be in opposition to his own statistics. We would walk out of that class in our best Russian accents, proclaiming that we will beat these weak Americans at the Cold War because of our advanced Soviet nuclear capabilities.

Bryan doesn’t deserve a post because we had so much fun joking together. Bryan deserves a post because he was the kind of guy who shows up.

When things weren’t going well in his home life, Bryan would show up by himself to our kids’ birthday parties. It meant more to him to show up than be at home with his own problems. Bryan would stay at the party and help clean up. I never thought maybe he didn’t want to go home. Bryan’s girlfriend was beautiful, hilarious, and incredibly kind. She seemed to have an old soul and told the best stories. We loved hanging out with them.

We live two lives.

One life is the life our friends know about.

One life is real.

We get to decide how much overlap there is. We get to pick which of our friends to let into the real, and which we keep in the superficial. The shallow end of the friendship pool. The water is warm here, and everything is fine. Really, it is. Look at the smiles in our photos. That has to be real, right?

Our real selves experience so much more. We are uncomfortable. We are anxious. We are insecure. We have pain. We are suffering. We feel like we can’t tell anyone, we don’t want to drag them out of the shallow end. The water is so warm there, and everything really is fine. We don’t want to drag anyone else into our suffering. We don’t want anyone else to see us in pain.

Our engagement party in Dallas ended in karaoke. My wife Izzy picked out an Oasis song with me and realized just as the song started that she was way too drunk to sing. Those songs are all vocals, and they only sound right with the nasal British accent. I failed horribly by myself as my wife blanked out and acted as if she had never heard of singing. My all-time favorite moment of the night was when Bryan took the microphone and sang Frank Sinatra’s My Way, making eye contact with me the entire song. He serenaded me. I haven’t been serenaded before or since then. Bryan was so funny, and that moment was the pure version of him. He just wanted other people to be happy. He wanted to host and feed people and enjoy the good parts of life.

There was one time Bryan let us in.

We were gathered together with some close friends at a bar in Plano, Texas. Bryan’s long-term girlfriend, and mother of his child, had just left him for a married man at her workplace. He found out that she had lied about having a college degree. She told all of us she was a Texas Longhorn. Most of her stories were lies, and their fun relationship had much smoke and mirrors.

Bryan had been addicted to methamphetamine in high school. The Bryan I met was incredibly smart and level-headed, but he loved to drink. We knew Bryan as a fun drunk with a past history of drug addiction. No big deal, lots of us have been hooked on drugs, glad it’s in the past. Bryan revealed that he had recently been doing meth with his girlfriend. There was an incident with the police and a gun. He said she was waving it around and threatening to kill herself. We saw a glimpse of the darkness that Bryan had been holding back from us.

Bryan was born with the blessing and curse of having a trust fund. A trust fund officially means that there is money in a fund somewhere that pays your bills, pays for your house, but you can’t take it out and spend it freely. There are rules about who can access it and when. What you don’t realize about having a trust fund is that you can’t really trust anyone. Are they hanging out with you because you have money? Is your girlfriend leveraging for a piece of the fund?

She left him because she found out the trust fund was worded in a way that she would never be able to access the money. That was the only reason she shared her life with my wonderful friend Bryan and had a child with him. She faked interest in this whole life with him and vanished the moment she found out it wouldn’t pay.

Bryan was devastated, but we could sense some relief there, too. He dodged a bullet. This woman could have ruined his whole life. What if he didn’t find out for 20 more years? As painful as it must have felt, I thought Bryan was lucky to be getting out of that relationship.

Bryan had a great house to party at. This house was from his first marriage. I didn’t know him when he was married the first time. The pool was a big rectangle, and it was perfect for water volleyball. We played volleyball in Bryan’s backyard all summer. A few weeks after the split, there are some new people at Bryan’s party. They seem a little younger, but I think nothing of it. I find out one of the younger girls is Bryan’s new 18-year-old girlfriend. Facepalm. Come on Bryan, 2 weeks later. I’m not one to give relationship advice. Maybe this younger, beautiful girl is completely in love with my 30-something friend with a beer gut and scruffy beard. I’m sure it’s not about the trust fund.

She grew on us. Bryan’s girlfriend was beautiful, hilarious, and incredibly kind. She seemed to have an old soul and told the best stories. We loved hanging out with them. They were married, and the Texas hill country ceremony was beautiful. Bryan was an engineer. He always had a good job. We never got to work together, but there was a time when we worked in offices 5 minutes from each other. We would meet for lunch. I would have a beer. Bryan would have a few whiskeys. We would go back to our jobs. I couldn’t ever call Bryan an alcoholic because I was right there next to him.

The Colleys moved into a larger, more beautiful house. Bryan and his wife had a child, a beautiful boy. Then they moved again into a larger, more beautiful house at the lake.

Bryan and I grew apart. I moved from Texas to Colorado. We saw each other a few times per year, but it gets hard to keep up with your friends over long distances. I didn’t worry about Bryan. He always seemed in a good mood when we texted, and we had fun when we were able to get together. After I moved, Bryan would text me about coming out to Colorado to chop wood and hunt elk in the mountains with me. He would say he is coming without his family, that he’s going to take some time off. Nothing would ever come of it. The man-to-man macho plans never materialized. We would get together with our families, but Bryan and I never went on a fishing, hiking, or hunting trip, no matter how many times he suggested we should. It never seemed real to me, just macho ideas that he would throw out. Bryan told people that I was one of his closest friends, but I never felt that close to him. We were the kind of good friends who talked about projects together, but not good enough friends to actually work on projects together or tell each other about what hurts inside. He was busy, I was busy. It’s hard to find quality time with your friends when you’re both married, work as engineers, and your friends live in other states. We were best friends when we were together. I would never mention this here, but Bryan is gone, and I think he would love that I include this game we invented. Don’t play it, it will change your life for the worse. It’s the simulate your partner’s orgasm game. Full O-face, actions, noises, grunts, that thing they do with their nose, where are they even looking? Oh my gosh, I just have to say that it is the funniest thing in the world. Try it with another couple, and you will be ruined for the rest of the night. Every time you meet another couple, you will imagine them doing each other’s orgasm emotes until you finally ask them. Prepare to die laughing. I am a part-owner of the game so I can share the Partner’s O-Face game freely with the world.

One of my favorite times with Bryan was my friend’s bachelor party in Miami in 2018. Bryan and I arrived one day late and missed the stip club debauchery. Bryan and I both had beautiful wives and families. We didn’t go to strip clubs. We weren’t there for that. We wanted to go fishing, and we were excited to go on a man trip with no diapers to change. You don’t get many man trips when you’re married. The first day, we realized by the way the groom was talking about the bride that the wedding wasn’t even going to happen. The second day, we caught a huge barracuda and released it. We caught so many fish that day off the Florida coast. Bryan loved boat life. He had stories of growing up on his dad’s boat on long trips to the Bahamas, catching mahi, and cleaning them on the boat. Bryan and I grilled the fish while the drunkest and most sunburnt men took naps in the rental house. It felt like Bryan and I talked that whole trip. No expectations, no plans, no family to serve. We enjoyed the few days together eating fresh seafood and telling each other stories on the beach.

Something changed in the last few years. Bryan’s drinking was problematic. There was a police report that said he was drunk and got physical with his wife in front of his children. Bryan had been a drunk as long as I had known him, but a fun drunk. Not a sloppy drunk, not a driving drunk, not a violent drunk. I lost a lot of respect for him then. I don’t associate myself with people who talk down to women. I certainly don’t associate myself with men who were violent and out of control with their wives. We talked to them about the incident, and he said he doesn’t know what he did, that he was blacked out drunk. I kept Bryan at arm’s length. We talked occasionally, but I didn’t make plans with him. Bryan quit drinking. I did not. There were a few trips where we went out to eat, and it was just awkward that my buddy wanted to drink so badly but couldn’t. I wish I was sober then to share the experience with him. Ask any alcoholic, and they will tell you that quitting is a sure sign that someone has a problem. I felt like Bryan quitting drinking and struggling with it were just signs that he was weak.

I didn’t talk to Bryan about drinking. He leaned on my wife as sort of a sponsor for some time, but he wanted to talk to her all the time, and it was too much for her. I still kept Bryan at arm’s length because of the police report of violence towards his wife. When she cheated on him, and they split up, I rooted for them to break up. You can’t tell your friend not to get back together with his girl. I couldn’t tell my brother Travis, I couldn’t tell Bryan, man, that woman is dragging you deep into something you may never get out of.

Bryan had a beautiful soul, but he was so sad. He drank alcohol like he was thirsty for it. He never made a face when drinking straight whiskey or vodka; he just gulped it down.

I am great at to-do lists. I can think of thousands of things that need to be done. I love listing tasks and putting check boxes next to them. I have emotional goals that have been on my to-do list for years. These emotional goals usually come from something that comes up during therapy. One year before Bryan passed, after talking to my therapist about my lack of close friendships, I added a check box and wrote: “be a better friend to Bryan”. Bryan and I were casual texters at that point. I don’t talk to any of my friends on the phone, so I thought I’d start calling him and get plugged into his life again. The box stayed empty for a while, then I had a really rough day and needed to talk to someone. I thought I could give Bryan the opportunity to be there for me when I needed someone. Maybe this would connect us in a closer way. I called, but he didn’t pick up. He texted back that he was working late on a meeting with people in other time zones. We agreed to catch up soon. I found another friend when I needed one. I continued to text with Bryan and called him a few more times, but no answer. Married people with kids and jobs don’t have a ton of free time. We never talked on the phone; we casually texted a little more, but nothing changed. We talked about lofty, manly plans, but nothing concrete. I never checked the box. Eventually, I erased “be a better friend to Bryan” because it seemed like we were stuck as casual long-distance friends that wouldn’t ever make real plans for 1-on-1 time together. We could only see each other by coincidence, if one of us was passing through the other’s state with family and pets in tow.

I was 60 days sober when I heard the news that Bryan had allegedly gone on some type of a bender and shot himself. He is not the only reason I’m still sober, but you can never have too many reasons.

When Bryan passed away in 2025, we found out there were police reports filed once per month over the last three years. On paper, it’s a clear unraveling of a violent addict. If you dive into the reports, most don’t detail much of an incident at all. No bruises, no signs of physical altercation. There are two people who know what happened, one of them is dead.

Bryan’s wife gave us three different accounts of Bryan’s passing.

1. Bryan was sober from alcohol for the last 6 months. Bryan was taking prescribed Klonopin for depression; the Klonopin was prescribed to him by a psychologist. Bryan had quit the pills cold turkey due to sexual side effects. He did not properly wean himself off the prescribed medication and began drinking heavily. He became so inebriated from alcohol that he could barely stand up to stumble into the bathroom to take his own life. She was outside talking to the police at the time it happened.

2. Bryan had multiple online doctor accounts that he would use to get pills prescribed. He was mixing Klonopin with benzos and drinking heavily for days. His wife and family left to get a new family dog, and he was too drunk to go with them. When they returned, she called 911 because she feared for his safety. She was on the phone with the 911 operator when she heard the gunshot.

3. In the end, he knew he needed rehab for drinking and pills. His only chance to go to rehab is to tap into his trust fund. He has not been at his current job for long enough for the insurance to cover it. He decided not to go to rehab, then went on a 3-day pill and alcohol bender that culminated in his suicide. Bryan had been drunk for days. He was inebriated and violent. His wife called the police because she was afraid for her own life. She was on the phone with the 911 operator when the police pulled up outside. Bryan peeked outside, saw the police, went to the gun safe, pulled out one of his guns, went into the bathroom and ended his life.

Bryan worked from home the day that he died. The surveillance footage inside the house showed Bryan casually eating lunch 25 minutes before the alleged suicide incident. He did not look like a man on a multiple-day bender of drugs and alcohol. Bryan communicated with his coworker, who is also a mutual friend of ours, that day about normal work things. From his work that last day, he did not appear to be inebriated. To my knowledge, Bryan’s family has still not seen a toxicology report from the alleged suicide incident.

The pull of a battered wife with years of records showing abuse ensured that this case was labeled a suicide. There was no investigation, there was no phone record analysis, and there were no interviews with Bryan’s work colleagues that he had communicated with during his alleged life-ending bender. Bryan’s phone was never secured by the police; they never accessed his company laptop. The case was closed very quickly. Bryan’s family received no support or information from the police. To my knowledge, nobody is fighting Bryan’s fight today. Bryan is dead. I’m writing to keep him alive.

I don’t have a lot of friends. Even 1400 miles away, it hurts so bad to lose one.

I’m writing a book and starting a podcast to normalize talking about trauma. I want to help people let out those stories that can burn a hole inside of you. The truth is that if you’re telling the story, you survived. The fact that you’re still here gives other people hope that there is something on the other side of their pain. I want to tell the stories that remind us why we’re human. I want to bring experts on to share life survival tools, not coping mechanisms, but ways to live a full life that you can believe in and feel good about.

Bryan is still alive in the multiverse that already has the podcast. He listens during his daily commute and sometimes at the gym. He read the book. He knows it’s not about being fixed but just being. This multiverse Bryan is single; he’s trying it on his own and finding himself in the process. He is curious about his future. He knows he deserves to be loved. He is free from shame. He is Nate Bargatze. He is the funniest low-key dude. The same guy as Bryan, but without the weight of the sadness holding his shoulders down and draining the energy from his voice.

I heard Bryan’s voice a few weeks after he passed. He said, “It’s ok, let me go, I did it.”

Then later on, the same voice said “Man, that fucking bitch killed me, go after her.”

It was Bryan both times.

Why do you kill someone so beautiful like my brother, Travis, or my friend Bryan? How could you push them to their deaths? How can you break them down and watch them self-destruct? You fill someone full of gas by promising you’ll love them forever, then you stand out of the way, lighting matches and tossing them haphazardly, like you don’t even care if they explode or not, but secretly you can’t wait to see them go up in flames.

Because they are selfless and will keep loving you long after you’ve stopped loving them? Because they are soft? You’ve made them spineless somehow. You don’t manipulate someone dramatically in a sly business move or sleight of hand. You study their habits, turn them slowly. Every day can be a slightly more fucked up normal. You learn their patterns. You find out how changes affect them, then one bit at a time, you tighten the screws. You make them your puppet, and you convince them it was their idea, and that now they could never live without you.

13 years before Bryan died, my brother Travis, took his own life. I spoke at the funeral, but I didn’t speak about him. Everyone knew he was the kind of person who would put everyone’s problems on his shoulders, but had his own problems he never solved. I spoke about life, how special it is, how we are all surrounded by these amazing people in our lives. I spoke about appreciating life and living every day as the celebration that it is. I spoke about looking around you and seeing the people who love you. Bryan’s death brought out the need to share something that is heavy on my mind.

At some point we’ve stopped taking care of men. They’ve got this. Look how strong they are, look how much they can do. They are our fathers, our brothers, our sons, and they all matter, each and every one. Being the strongest means it’s the hardest to show a weakness, a crack in the shield, to ask for help, and in the end, it wasn’t ever the shield that was beautiful; it was the cracks. It was how we weathered the storms and who we sheltered. We are the wrench turners, the builders. The things we build with these splintered hands hold the world together. We are the fixers, but we can’t fix ourselves, not alone. No one ever has, though many have tried.

When Bryan was alive, I thought of him as weak because of his alcoholism and lack of control over it. After he was gone for one month, I stopped thinking of him as a drunk. I think of him as a sad friend with the kindest eyes.

Yes, this is too soon to write this post. There were parts I didn’t want to remember, but also parts that I didn’t want to forget.

How can I leave this story here with all of these unknowns?

A few weeks after Bryan’s funeral, my wife and I were on vacation, my catastrophist brain got a deep hold of Bryan’s whole situation and the infinite amount of possible paths that led to his untimely demise. My brain was a swirl, I felt hot, my deepest breaths felt whisper deep, my heart raced toward oblivion. What if.. and then...but if..how could..that’s why...things started to connect, new realities began to form. I said no. I got off the train. I bypassed the infinite stream of Dateline scenarios flooding my brain.

I breathed in to the count of 4, I held it to the count of 7, I exhaled to the count of 8.

I breathed in to the count of 4, I held it to the count of 7, I exhaled to the count of 8.

The thoughts slowed down enough for me to realize that, sure, there were some alarming facts mixed in, but most of what I was looking at inside my head were thoughts. Thoughts weighted with the emotion of losing someone I loved, but still thoughts. Thoughts manufactured by my brain to try to make sense of it, to try to blame someone, to feel anything but sad. I loved Bryan since the day we met at alternative energy class that day in Dallas. I never stopped loving him, but at the time when he was at his lowest, I made the decision to care less about him, to let him figure himself out.

I’m going to honor Bryan’s legacy by being a better friend.

Beware the Succubus.

When she sat down next to me and began the conversation, I wasn’t expecting anything to come of it. I had graduated from high school last year and Cindy was a senior this year. Cindy was close with my roommate and best friend Kris. They had known each other for years. Bro code put Cindy off limits. Our home could have been condemned by a thorough enough inspector, but for now, it was our party oasis. We had a palm tree with color-changing neon lights that we rented for $6 per week from Rent to Own. We rented a huge TV and a PlayStation. Our spot was the party spot. Anytime we turned the palm tree on, people would show up, and the party would start. Cindy and her friends came to one of these random parties, and Kris was not there.

Cindy was beautiful, but she didn’t give you time to think about that. She had a calm coolness. An unspoken confidence. A quick wit and an ability to fit into any setting. She fiercely protected her friends. Cindy was fearless. She had fire inside of her. Cindy sang like Janis Joplin. Cindy sang Bobby McGee at our high school talent show. She had this soul that seemed too big for a teenage girl. I don’t know where she got it from.

Cindy had my attention and told me this story that happened during the final semester of my high school senior year. From January til May 2000, I was unhoused. I lived with friends, the same Kris from above, and anyone else who could offer me a couch. I have a post about Trust that talks about this time in my life. Cindy’s mom was my speech teacher during this same time. She was a great teacher, but this is also an important intersection in my story. When you're 18 and unhoused, you can call yourself in sick to school and excuse your absences. I abused this privilege and had one too many absences in speech class. I missed graduation because of this and had to make up this one speech credit in the summer of 2000, after all of my classmates had graduated. During this time when I was homeless, and really had no life plan and nothing going for me, my speech teacher pointed me out to her daughter and said I should meet me because I was cute and smart. I must have been giving off a perception that I had my life together. I did not.

This was hilarious to me. She pointed me out? I didn’t even pass her class.

Cindy told me she liked me then. I’m sorry Kris, and to all of bro code, but when someone like that tells you she likes you, you don’t argue. I had girlfriends before. I remember spending a lot of time working on breakup speeches. It’s not you, it’s me. You deserve someone better. I remember having a 90-day rule. I was always ready to move on from a girl. I didn’t know how to love someone. I didn’t know how to be patient and watch something grow. Cindy taught me patience when I tried to rush. Cindy taught me grace when I didn’t treat her the way she deserved to be treated.

One of Cindy’s best friends dated one of my best friends, and they were eventually married. We had such a fun crew then. You couldn’t watch the movie Clueless with Cindy because she knew all of the words, and she would make it uncomfortable for everyone. Cindy was too much in all the right ways.

We spent a year this way. I didn’t know how to be a boyfriend, but she was willing to teach me. I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. I didn’t feel worthy of love. I didn’t feel capable of loving anyone. She saw me, but not just me. She saw someone that I could become. She latched on to that future version of me, and we talked about being married someday and having children. I was in love with Cindy, but I wasn’t really sure what that meant or how special it was. Cindy went to prom. I didn’t do proms, but Cindy already had a prom date lined up when we started dating. Cindy graduated from high school, and we were both free.

I didn’t have college plans. Cindy was accepted to Oklahoma State University in Tulsa.

It seemed like there was an expiration date on our relationship. Cindy had to leave. She gave me the choice. She said we could try to make this work long distance, or we could split up, see other people, and stay friends. I was 19, I didn’t want to be tied down. Did I have the capacity to love? Did I deserve love? Was this really it? I’m great at breaking up. I said we should split up and see other people. Then she left for college, and I immediately knew this was really it.

I missed her so much. I was working on carpentry projects with my uncle, making money to pay rent, living the same life in North Dakota. Cindy was in a real city, meeting new people and living her best life as her new self. We talked on the phone often. This was 2001, I bought calling cards to call her long distance from wherever I was staying. I was the small-town boyfriend calling her from back home.

The September 11th attacks happened. I remember working on replacing a roof with my uncle. We had been roofing for weeks in a small town riddled with hail damage from a recent storm. All of the days were the same. Pry off the old shingles, throw them in a dumpster. Unload the supply truck, carry 80-pound bundles of shingles up a ladder, tarpaper the roof with staples, staple the shingles with nails. In every neighborhood, a lady would bring us homemade pie. That lady would be our next customer the following week. All day long in the hot sun, we watched planes fly overhead, leaving their white trails across the blue sky. On September 11th, I woke up to excitement from my older brother, Travis. We were staying at my grandpa’s farmhouse together. Travis had the TV tuned to the news, and the first plane had already hit. Was it an accident? Was it an attack? This question was answered 17 minutes later when the second airplane hit the World Trade Center. This felt personal, this felt like an attack. In a small town in the Midwest, it didn’t change our lives. I remember looking up after injuring myself dropping a load of shingles on the roof, and the sky was calm and clear. No airplanes, no white trails. It felt weird. I think we stopped work at dusk that night. There seemed to be no sense in setting up lights to work nights when our country may be going to war. Some of my friends and I had talked about joining the Marines, but I had never fully looked into it. I felt this calling much stronger now. I thought I might join the military in the future, but felt like I had some living to do first.

The week before Thanksgiving, I finished a large construction project with my uncle. I was paid in a large wad of cash. I stole my brother’s 1991 Ford Escort, left him a note with $300, and hit the road for the first big romantic swing of my life. To be fair, my brother had previously rolled the Escort onto its roof after colliding with a rural mailbox while intoxicated. The roof was a little caved in, and the quarterpanel looked like it had been carved open by a can opener. In 2001, I didn’t have a cell phone. Cell phones didn’t have GPS then anyway. I drove from North Dakota to Oklahoma using a Rand McNally road atlas. I was delirious, driving backroads through Kansas, and was completely turned around near a lake. I nearly got the car stuck. I stopped at a Walmart somewhere for provisions. I locked my keys in the car, so I’m standing outside the car with two bags full of groceries, trying to break in without drawing too much attention to myself. I got some dirty looks as I forcibly broke out the corner triangle-shaped window and reached in to unlock the door. Back on the road. No big deal, just a bump in the road and a little extra wind in the backseat. A few miles down the road, I’m pulled over by the Kansas Highway Patrol. Someone called the police after seeing me steal the car from Walmart. They thought I was a thief. I explained laughingly that I had actually stolen the car from my brother two states ago. The patrolman did not think any of my story was comedic, but he let me talk. He found out why I was out here in the middle of the night with a broken window and a stolen car and no plan. The officer let me walk. He had obviously taken a few big romantic swings in his life too.

I made it to Tulsa in the evening. Tulsa is a lot bigger in person than it is on the road atlas. I drove around aimlessly. A tiny car in a huge city. I know, Tulsa, but if you have seen where I’m from in North Dakota, you would know why Tulsa seemed like such a modern metropolis. I finally found a hotel. I called Cindy. She wasn’t home. She was out with some of her college friends. I left her a message to call me back and decompressed for a bit in the hotel. She called me and asked why I was calling from an Oklahoma number. I said I’m here. It was late, and we agreed to meet up tomorrow. She came to see me and played coy. I know she had probably met some amazing new man in her life, after all, I had told her to. Remember, I’m the expert at breaking up. Within a minute, she let her guard down, and we were us again. We were the same, but somehow it felt better being together after being apart for so long. She told me about her life in Oklahoma. The things she was doing there and the places she would go. Cindy’s dad was a preacher, and Cindy sang in the choir at the church she attended with her sister in Tulsa.

This time in Tulsa was partially spent acquiring replacement car parts for the ride home. Besides the window, there was some tailight damage, and the Escort needed some maintenance. Cindy thought the car was hilarious. There was something special about this time we had together. We were out in the world, away from all of the friends and family we knew back home. We could just be ourselves. We didn’t have to cater to anyone or jump to meet any schedule. During slow times, we would have reading time. I laughed when she told me this. Like I said, when Cindy tells you something, you just had to believe it. I didn’t read. I was a bad boy. I was too cool for reading. I had a goatee. I was a man, and the men I know sure didn’t read. “I don’t have a book,” I protest. “Come to the library downstairs, we have plenty of books you can borrow”, she replied. Cindy was living with her sister and her sister’s husband, Joel. They had a modest home and were extremely generous and kind to me. I picked out a book by James Thurber called The Thurber Carnival. James Thurber wrote in the 1940s in the same comedic memoir style that I have since fallen in love with. These simple stories of life were captivating, funny, and held important lessons. Do not tell my friends, I thought, but I like reading this James Thurber book.

I was not there for family, I was there for Cindy. Cindy didn’t care. Cindy gleefully dragged me along to Thanksgiving with Joel’s family in Arkansas. Arkansas was incredible. I had never seen backroads so curvy or met people so friendly. I didn’t feel worthy of any of this kindness, but they made me feel like I belonged. The fried turkey was the best bird I’ve ever eaten.

During this trip, Cindy and I talked about having a family. Things I thought would always be unsettled now felt permanent. I knew I didn’t have to look for love anywhere else ever again. This was it. Whatever happened, we would be together again, and someday we would be in the same place again and live life together. I would join the Marines someday, and we would live somewhere near the sea. She could stay home with the kids until they are old enough for kindergarten. We’ll build our new lives out there in the world, we decided.

The trip was over too fast, and we said goodbye.

Guys, don’t take romantic big swings; it’s not what she wants. Can you imagine how short this story would be if I had planned the trip to come see her with her instead of on my own? I think I was afraid she might say no, that she might choose Tulsa over me. I was afraid that she would forget me.

I left Tulsa with a smile on my face. I had the thing that everyone is searching for. I had felt this feeling so good, it’s what makes life worth living through the bad parts. I found my person. We were in love again, and it wasn’t the same. It was better. Being apart made us appreciate each other more. The long distance showed us that we really wanted to be with each other. I called my other best friend, Chris, before heading home to North Dakota in the dilapidated car I stole from my brother. Chris was working for a rigging company that was attempting to disassemble giant pieces of equipment at a pork factory in Dubuque, Iowa. He said they were extremely shorthanded, the pay isn’t good, the hours are worse, some of the people are ok, and whatever clothes you wear you will have to dispose of before you leave.

10-12 hours later, I arrive in Dubuque, find the hotel, and locate my friend Chris, wasted drunk. There is a party in the room, I think. After a few beers, I realize this is the crew. Some of these guys are bosses, others are laborers. There was some type of drunk job interview that was mostly laughing and dirty or injury jokes. The next day, after trudging through ankle-deep pork grease in some rooms, I find myself 40 feet up in a man lift with a giant chopsaw disassembling a section of the pig rollercoaster of hooks that ran through the entire building. We worked 13 days for every one day off. There were no weekends; just every other Sunday we had off of work. It was a bad job, but it was fun in a dangerous way. I found out Cindy was coming home for Christmas, and I would be home then too.

The first time I saw Cindy over Christmas break, she was in a car with her friends. Cindy had very cool friends. She played it cool like she wasn’t that excited to see me. She was very coy. Then she let me know it was just a game she was playing, and she let me in. I can still feel the warmth when I think about her. She had a kindness that radiated out of her body. When she was on your side, she made sure you knew it. Her middle name was Joy, and that describes her. You wouldn’t have picked a different middle name. She really was Joy. We connected, we had fun. I took another romantic big swing and bought her the exact Christmas gift she wanted with the last of my rigging money. I grew up celebrating Christmas on Christmas Eve with my mom’s side of the family and Christmas Day with my dad’s side. Cindy was busy on Christmas, but I asked her to come to Christmas Eve at my grandma Esther’s house. She had no plans. She was in. Cindy was only in North Dakota for a few weeks, and I assumed she would be busy most of the time. With her time, she wanted to be with me. We had quality time, we had nothing time. I met some of Cindy’s family, she came to Christmas Eve and met around 25 people at my grandma’s house. It was seamless. She just jumped right in and became part of my family. She had met a few of these people, but most were new to her. I fell asleep on the couch. I’m a notorious overeater, and I love naps on Grandma’s couch. I woke up from a blow to my face. More blows. Glitter. Bows. I’m being attacked by wrapping paper balls. My first reaction is that I’m appalled that Cindy might see this barbaric activity on Christmas. She’s right there throwing the balls. She helped them attack me.

My default mode is notoriously reckless. I remember driving too fast on that Christmas trip when Cindy was with me, and later thinking this isn’t just me in the car. This person is precious, and I shouldn’t drive 110mph like that in a wrecked Ford Escort. Cindy was a good driver. She understood when you could drive fast and when to slow down. North Dakota is dangerous in the winter. A patch of asphalt can look like the rest of the road, but a combination of daytime rain or snow melting and nighttime freezing creates a slick black layer that leaves your car uncontrollable, regardless of what speed you approach it. Cindy didn’t mind me driving like this, but what was I thinking? I had never thought about someone as precious before. It felt like months ago we were just kids, but now we were doing something important. We were talking like adults about a future that wasn’t all dirt bikes and Pontiac Trans Ams. It was a stable home with a trampoline and a playscape in which to grow a family.

Cindy had some days in another town with relatives. I remember we got back together on New Year’s Eve. I don’t remember whose idea this was, but we planned a party at my brother Travis’ house in Max. We were all too young to drink, but Travis could buy us all booze, and we could have a party there, and everyone could sleep on couches and extra rooms, so nobody had to drive home. The pictures from this night are wild. I don’t remember much of it at all, but there was a whole roll of pictures taken. Nothing was digital in 2001. You had to put film into a camera, take the 24 I think photos, then put the film in a dark container and drop it off at a processing center. You find out what your photos look like a few hours later. Surprise! They are mostly bad. The lack of instant feedback really hurt the quality of photos taken by amateurs in the pre-digital era. All the pictures are silly, we all had so much fun.

A few days after New Year's, Cindy and I spent the night together. There were no plans, just us. I remember the twinkle in her eye as we touched fingers and talked about this beautiful, imaginary future that we saw together as we gazed into the ceiling together. This future only ever existed in that moment, but it is so precious to me. Things were too good. The next morning, I had to leave for Phoenix with the rigging crew to work more 13-day weeks of 12-hour days at a shuttered pasta factory filled with 130-foot-long noodle dryers. Cindy would leave for her grandparents’ house before departing for Tulsa the following morning.

We drove the whole way to Phoenix with the only stops for food and fuel. The guy driving, Cody, he seemed like a great employee, a solid dude, maybe a friend someday. I had no idea Cody was on meth. I thought he was just energetic and great at driving. I took naps, and we were always between the lines of the highway when I woke up.

We checked into the hotel in Phoenix. We were ecstatic to find an IHOP across the street. I don’t even remember the time, but we loaded up on beer and liquor. A few of the other crew members ventured into the streets of Phoenix. They told us they were looking for marijuana, which we fully supported. They were actually buying meth. I don’t do meth, no offense if that’s your jam. I did actually snort a little bag of meth one night with one of my best friends. We were told it was cocaine, then later that it was actually meth. We stayed up until the sun came up just talking. What do you do after the sun comes up on meth? I think you're supposed to go get more. I remember feeling strung out, trying to drink it off as the world restarted a new day around us.

We get the party going in the motel room. Our room was just guys drinking. The other rooms had the hard drugs in play. I remember watching the clock, thinking about where Cindy would be on her trip. She had a long drive and left the day after we did. There was no sense in calling until she got to her destination. Once she was plotted to be home in Tulsa, I would call her sister’s house line to check on her.

The phone rang, and I paid no attention when someone else in the hotel answered, then handed the phone to me. A man’s voice said it was Joel. I had been to his family’s Thanksgiving 5 weeks prior. I didn’t recognize his tone. He was tense. This sounded urgent. How did he even find me at this hotel on the tumbleweed edge of Phoenix? I don’t remember the words, but I remember the important parts. Black ice. Head-on collision. Cindy had left her grandparents’ house the morning of January 5th, 2002, on her way to Tulsa for her second semester of college. I don’t know if she wished she could call me that morning. I was somewhere between North Dakota and Arizona, asleep in the backseat of a work truck. I imagine she left the trip the same way I did. Thinking it went too fast. Wondering how two weeks could have been that much fun. I don’t know if she felt the same relaxation, that easiness, that comfort of having the hardest part of life figured out like I did, but I think she did.

Cindy died that day. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Our last days together weren’t any kind of perfection, but they could not have been any better. We had figured out a rhythm that we could exist in together. Nothing was urgent; there was nothing rushed. There was always a time in the future where our rhythms would reconnect, and things would be the same again. It never mattered how long we were apart, until the day her part of the rhythm stopped. Mine kept beating the same no matter how many times I wanted it to quit. That phone call shattered my world into 1000 pieces.

I filled my hoodie full of cold Budweisers and went for a walk in the desert. Drinking and crying, I walked aimlessly. I scaled fences. I walked through open doors of empty buildings. I walked with the cactus and pleaded my case to the stars. I knew I couldn’t commit suicide. I had faced down the barrel of my own shotgun at 12 years old and realized that would not be my way out of this world. I decided it wouldn’t be suicide if a car accidentally hit me. I walked down the middle of a highway on the outskirts of Phoenix. It was night. I walked along the middle stripe as cars passed in each direction. I accepted that one of these headlights would be the last thing I would see. Any end had to be better than the pain I felt in that moment.

Red and Blues. The flashing lights travel for miles in the desert. Great, I thought. What could make this night worse? Jail.

I haven’t mentioned that I didn’t have much money. I spent the last of the Dubuque money on Cindy’s Christmas present and our time together. I showed up in Phoenix broke and ready to work for cash. When I got the phone call, I admitted that I couldn’t afford a flight for the funeral, but maybe I could get a loan from a family member. Joel stepped in very quickly and paid for my flight. Cindy would be cremated, then the funeral would follow. No casket. No face. No holding a moment in the presence of their dead body. Ashes in an urn. There is no right way to die. I admire the idea of spreading ashes. We spread Travis’ ashes deep in the Badlands of North Dakota in 2013 after he died from suicide by shotgun. I remember Cindy’s wake was just flowers and some pictures of her. It didn’t feel like her. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like closure.

Now I was about to go to jail, where I couldn’t pay bond because I was broke. I would probably miss the flight home and the funeral. The worst day of my life just got worse.

But it didn’t.

The police officer had a chaplain with him. Someone had called the police after nearly creating a bumper sticker out of me on the split highway. The chaplain was very kind. The police officer was patient. We had a conversation. I told them about Cindy. They felt my pain in that moment. I’m sure I was breaking some serious laws that night. I didn’t go to jail, but they couldn’t set me loose. They asked where I was staying, I asked them to take me to a different hotel. I wanted to be alone. When I got there, I counted the rest of my cash. I had enough to take a bus to the Grand Canyon. The next bus left the next morning. I settled my mind on the plan that I would jump off the side of the Grand Canyon. That seemed different enough to me from a gun that I felt I could do it. I liked jumping off things. The first part would be adrenaline, the second part would end my life. Technically, I wouldn’t be responsible for my death. Maybe I slipped. Gravity killed me, or the rocks, but not me.

The hotel phone woke me up. Seriously world? Hasn’t the hotel phone done enough already? You can’t get away from a landline. My grandma Esther’s voice instantly softened me. I unclenched my jaw for the first time since the last phone call. My friend Chris had found my location by talking to the police. He found my grandma’s number and called her to give her the news of Cindy’s passing and tell her that I needed her.

I did.

She was exactly what I needed. My grandma Esther survived 30+ years of marriage to her abusive alcoholic husband. She survived breast cancer. My Grandpa Lyle died at from lung cancer. Even at the end of his life, he still smoked, and everyone who cared for him had to suffer through the smell of the thing that was killing him. Grandma Esther loved my Grandpa Lyle despite his faults. She knew a better version of him, but she stopped mourning that version long before she died. Lady Esther, as her adult children call her, sees the good in everyone and feels she has been given so much time on this Earth to serve other people. My Grandma Esther is deep into her 80s. She is the wisest and kindest person I know. My grandmother talked me off the ledge that morning in Arizona.

The moments were so long as I tried to plan this round trip back to North Dakota for the funeral. Something happened on the trip. I avoided eye contact with strangers and tried not to talk to anyone. I kept meeting people and connecting with them over the thing that makes us the most human, grief. I met wives who had lost husbands. I found out one of my coworkers had lost the love of her life in a motorcycle accident. I met parents who had lost children. Grief was all around me, and I had never realized it before. I had a notebook, and I started writing. I knew my feelings were important. I felt they could help others get through this tragedy somehow. Cindy was someone I loved and planned a life with. She was also something else to so many more people. Cindy touched so many lives. I knew I had to write something and read it at the funeral. I felt like this was my place.

I wrote something tragic and sad and beautiful about the life we planned together and how everyone can appreciate each moment a little more and hold the ones we love a little tighter.

I stood at the podium when it was my turn to speak. I did not have the strength to say these words. I couldn’t have said them on a good day, let alone at my girlfriend’s funeral. It felt like someone’s boot was resting on the back of my tongue. I prayed for the strength to say these words and help these people. I felt it was my purpose at that moment. I read the poem in a strong and steady voice. People burst into tears. My father even cried. I couldn’t look at anyone after that. They give you that knowing look like they saw underneath your bandaid. They know how deep your wound is, and they want to help, but can only hug you and awkwardly shuffle away back to their lives. There was nothing in that day that could have made it any less painful for me. I was maxed out. When I read the words, I felt the whole power of the universe flowing through my body. I didn’t even feel like I could stand, but something was holding me up there and delivering these words out of my body. Words that connected with people and let them know they are not alone in their suffering.

I don’t know what I said. I don’t feel like I was ever there. Travis had the only copy of the poem, and it’s gone forever. After I read it, I felt like I collapsed inside, but outside I remained upright and positive during the 1000 handshakes and hugs that followed.

I learned to write with my emotions and to speak them defiantly, no matter how painful they are.

Showing up and speaking at Cindy’s funeral redefined who I was. There was an inflection point. A definitive before-Cris and an after-Cris. Before Cris seemed a little grifty and unstable, after-Cris had this confidence that could move mountains. I gained a new perspective on myself and I opened new prospects for my future.

Our country was at war. I could not live in my old existence any longer. The old places reminded me of her. The old friends reminded me of her. I needed a clean break and a new life. The Marines started sounding more interesting. Basic training couldn’t be as bad as crying myself to sleep every night in my grandma’s basement. War couldn’t be as bad as the battles that were happening inside my head.

Luckily, the local mall had a Marine recruiting office. I went to look for the recruiter, he was not in his office. I waited for a while in the mall and came back. No Marine recruiter. I come back another day, and the Marine recruitment office has a paper note on the door indicating the Marine recruiter is gone for lunch. I’m sure Marine recruiters are hardworking, wonderful people. I’m just telling you my experience.

I end up in the Army recruiter’s office. He is very busy moving paperwork around and processing candidates. He tells me he can offer me a better deal than the Marines with more options, and that the Army uses better weapons and equipment.

After 90 days of paperwork and bureaucracy, I signed my contract, enlisted in the US Army, and began the next step of my life.

I told the next part of my story already in My Best Friend, Alcohol. You can read that here.

Cindy’s death was the worst time the world ground me into pieces.

What helped? Therapy. Telling my story to trusted friends. Journaling. Plant Medicine. Being open-minded. Spirituality. Meditation. Reading. Writing publicly. Learning others’ stories of grief. In the 24 years since Cindy passed away, I have had so many interactions where I learn the other person has lost someone. Grief is the universal language. Live long enough, and we all grieve someone.

What hasn’t helped? Time. Danger. Being an adrenaline junkie. Structured religion. Pretending that it wasn’t a wound. Escaping my life and joining the Army set me off on a wild adventure, but I never really went back to where I came from, physically or emotionally. I’ve probably told 20 people about Cindy over the last 24 years. I only started grieving properly a few years ago. I repressed most of my grief for about 20 years, and it would come out in unpredictable fits of sadness. Grief is the emotional pain that I was masking with alcohol.

It’s hard to believe that Cindy has been dead longer than she was alive. When I lost her, I never thought I would forget her face. I didn’t think there was any chance that I wouldn’t be broken forever. I committed to shallow relationships, I never thought I would get married and start a family that I’m in love with. I thought my chance with her was my chance at happiness. A chance I missed. The truth is that when the pain was too heavy to breathe, I kept breathing. When ending my life seemed easier than it would be to go on living, I found something to enjoy. All the moments aren’t going to be great, but things get better, and we feel better about the ones we’ve lost after we have lived through some more experiences. One day, you can look back past the sadness and just see the love that was there. The love you’ll always feel. The connection you’ll always have. I feel like I am connected to a star in space. I know someone in the next phase of this life. Whatever challenges await us there, I’m sure she’s up for it.

Cindy taught me to lead with kindness. She taught me that I am worthy of love and that I can actually love someone. Cindy taught me how to love someone with all of my heart. Cindy taught me to appreciate the days you have with the ones you love, they are finite, and they are precious. If anything matters at all, it’s love. If you ever have a choice in a decision, follow your heart.

A life lived isn’t about the number of days separating birth and death, or the accomplishments scattered between. A life lived is measured by the impact you had on the lives you touched and the people you loved, and all of the ways that everyone got to love you back.

Rest easy friends, take care of yourselves, and know that wherever you are in your grief journey, you are not alone.

-Cris

There is a reason why I am here.

There is a reason why you are here too.

Now say the words out loud. There is a reason why I am here.

Maybe you can understand why I felt so strong and alive to finally take hold of those words, control the way I say them, and actually mean it.

There is a reason why I am here.

I have a purpose.

My life is not a jumbled mess of abuse, abandonment, violence, addiction, and depression that was thrown up into the air by the galaxy and caught inside this pale bag of skin for no reason.

I have a purpose.

My pain has a purpose.

My suffering is a lesson so that I can help lessen someone else’s suffering someday.

My distance from life is not by choice but built in tiny layers of loss, cemented by countless teardrops that I’ve cried alone.

Because it’s my grief and it’s a part of me, and to love myself, I have to love my grief too. I have to connect my pain to some future purpose that will not be fun or rewarding but will be absolutely essential to someone else’s soul remaining intact just long enough to take that next breath. The next breath won’t be any easier than the last one was, and time will never lift that weight from your chest and let you breathe. You have to lift it and become strong because it will be just as heavy tomorrow.

Connection is the greatest human force. It’s why humans thrive, because we care about each other, and that’s why we built a society that takes care of the poor and disabled. How do you get that human connection back when it feels lost, hidden, or broken?

There are categories that people build for grief; it should take 7 years for this stage, and 5 years for this stage, and I remember reading books and buying into this falsehood that we call time. There is absolutely no such thing as time. Time is imaginary and created by humans to have a unit for mathematical equations, but inside a person, there is no time. This is why we are always late. The next second is the same as every other second inside of you, and the passing of time does not heal wounds because there is no time. A soul only begins to heal its wounds by getting lost in other connections to other wonderful souls. The wound changes and evolves as we grow. Sometimes it’s colorful and nice, but every once in a while, everything lines up perfectly and you see straight into the deepest joys and the deepest pain, and it will always be just as joyful and just as painful, if just for a glimpse, then your brain blinks and it’s gone.

People mask grief because there is supposed to be a success point where you’ve beaten it but that’s not how nature works. Even simple creatures often bond for life, and to think human bonds can be broken by concepts as simple as time and death is to think a dolphin can be separated from the sea.

When I met my wife, I felt like I was still wandering through the desert, trying to figure out how to take the next step and the next breath. Once I became a father, I started to feel like I mattered again; my kids gave me a reason to start caring for myself. I had never imagined myself growing older but suddenly I wanted to live as long as possible to see what kind of people they become and to see the lives they touch along the way.

The next part is the hardest. Everyone has their challenge, and naturally, as humans, we sit silently and suffer and ponder the source of our pain. Why me is the question, but the hardest question to grasp is how. How do we fight through this pain to the next breath? To the next minute, to the next day, and here we are in the middle of this life, but we are tired because our grief is so heavy. So what is the reward for carrying the pain of our loved one’s loss? What have you gained and what is it worth?

Then you see the pain on the face of a stranger, and there’s no escaping it. A face can hide 1000 emotions, but not grief. It’s a grimace, a look away, a lip quiver; you can see the tears he’s holding back. He lost his brother too, but it’s been months, not years. His little brother was an Army soldier whom he looked up to. Since he was a soldier, he’s my brother too and I would do anything for a brother and we talk and his pain doesn’t go away and mine doesn’t either but maybe that next breath is easier for both of us because now he knows someone who went through it 10 years ago and sees a future for himself and I see a grieving brother through the lens of someone still going through it and I can feel that raw passion and love for someone that you fully expected to outlive yourself.

The next part is swallowing your inner desire to suffer in silence and speaking up and being a voice for someone else.