MY BESTMAN SPEECH AT HIS WEDDING

September 18, 2010

Before I get started, it’s important to preface this speech by saying that the influential years I spent with my brother, means that he had as much of a part in developing my sense of humor as anyone. So, although I have tried to make this speech funny in appropriate areas, you can blame Nick if it's not.

The bridesmaids look absolutely smashing today, do they not?? (allow for applause) Rightly outshone by our bride, Sophie. She’s a beautiful woman and really makes a huge wave as she leaves the available-list, and I’m sure the guys will agree. And ladies, I'm sure you'll agree that today is quickly passing by without much of a ripple.

It is true, that people get us mixed up, so for those who won’t be able to tell the difference by the end of the night, and for Grandpa, my name is Dennis, Nick’s brother, and it’s true that people think I’m the younger one. 

As his only brother, I was lucky enough to be chosen as his best man. So, I will now do my best to give Nick the most uncomfortable five minutes of his life. For the record, the most uncomfortable five minutes of Sophie’s life will be coming later on this evening, courtesy of Nick.

Nick, it was nice for you, growing up with someone like me - someone to lean on, someone to count on... someone to tell on.
It’s true that Nick is funny. He is one of the funniest guys I know, for about 20 minutes between naps.

It is not true, that you ever beat me in any backyard sport.

It is not true, that Nick is the better athlete. He had talent. I had heart. But his talent was so small, and my heart had girth. And girth will take you a long way, right ladies?

It is not true (yes it is) that Nick played with strawberry shortcake dolls. 

It is also not true (yes it is) that Nick had has a cabbage patch kid named Clay. And it is most assuredly not true that that cabbage patch kid was ever “allegedly” hung from the basement ceiling by me.

Fornication. Excuse me, for-an-occasion. For an occasion such as this - I’ve spent more nights than I can remember with my laptop on top of my lap, dry-eyeing a computer generated blank sheet of paper. What are the things that I learned first as the older brother? The one who was stronger, could run faster, watch TV later, and hit the ball farther. These are big footsteps for you to keep up with.

So this is for my brother, the 2^nd man, and last man that I will ever fall in love with:

You were six months old and full of fun, in the blink of an eye, I watched you turn one.

As brothers now, there are so many things I can plan for us to do, but I turned my head and you were two.

At two, you clung on mom’s knee, but walking and independence took over when you turned three.

On your third birthday, we didn’t have to try hard to make you laugh. You were the little brother I started to adore, but when mom lit the candles you weren’t three, but four.

Four was the year that you stole my show. I realized I was just going to have to survive. Why, look at you now, you’re already five.

Now you are cool and thought the world operated under Nick’s rule. I laughed, and thanked God, because this is the year that you’ll experience school.

The big day came, you were anxious to go. I was twelve and already knew the things you didn’t know.

Before you climbed on the bus, you looked for mom and waved goodbye, she had a big lump in her throat and tears swelled in her eyes. But to me, your backpack looked like a huge bulls-eye. I grabbed a small stick, and because I let go too early, it sailed way high.

Time goes so fast, it’s hard to believe that just yesterday I playfully shoved you down. I didn’t know that when the bus brings you home, you’ll be wearing your cap and graduation gown.

I’m holding onto these moments as hard and as long as I can, because now when I look at you, I’m seeing a man.

As we grew up, I acted like I didn't care,
But you never knew I looked out for you and was always there.

It is true that after nearly 30 years of sibling rivalry, you have become my role model. And in our life of brotherhood, somewhere many years ago, our roles became reversed. I have become the one trying to keep up with big footsteps. Yours. I am the one who looks up to you. There are so many days that I didn’t tell you how much I love you. So many times that I could have told you that I’m sorry-for any shame that I brought to you.

You make me proud. You truly are an honorable man, just like dad.

Copyright 2010

Like what your read: Follow me @dgroess 

FROM ONE BEST-MAN TO ANOTHER

So it's come to this. We're all here with you, to celebrate, and then laugh behind your back when you turn away.

You've found somebody from the world wide web willing to spend a lifetime with you. Outstanding, congratulations. But wait, before any blissful celebration can be realized; before that short march that precedes the long journey of a life well shared, tradition says there are some tips you should hear.

Now, I'm sure you've already learned some of these tips, because you’re living in shameful premarital sin, so you'll just have to bear with me:

Fear not--at least, not much. We’ve come to party with you this weekend so that you can hear the experiences of your friends who have trod the marital road before you. In the next two-nights, and three-days, we will laugh at you, ridicule you, and broadcast every worst Nick-moment that we can ever remember. You will cry. Remember, we're teasing with love. 


But, this weekend we will also build on traditions, tear down some others, and present advice and hard learned lessons that will equip you with the knowledge necessary to let her run the rest of your life.

It is wise counsel, and we trust it will help you celebrate this institution as an institution that you, indeed, can't criticize.

Who can?

We can, of course.

I know that a single, divorced guy shouldn't be able to give any such advice, but I'm going to give some anyway. Just because I love ya:

1. Cheers; to the thousands of dollars you will save and then bleed out like a stuck pig-freely giving it away to your kids - Don't worry, it's only money.

2. Regarding September 18, 2010(Your wedding day! Tattoo this date on the inside of your forearm so you never forget it. On second thought, scratch that, JUST DON’T FORGET); a wedding is equal to the rise of your bride to that of goddess for a day, while you decidedly remain -- a background piece. My brother, be content, for I know this goes against the concept of Biblical headship, but you're just gonna have to wait until you leave the reception, because until then, she's in control. And you know what they say in any house of consequence--If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

3. Even though legions of relatives and friends will have assembled, and even though so many other people (not you) have worked hard for your wedding day to be perfect, remember:

It's all right to be scared.
It is not all right to crap your tuxedo.

4. Drinking guidelines for the groom: 2 waters for every 1 beer. If you test that theory, you will regret it, and she will be there to remind you every-single-day, anniversary, holiday, wedding reception…. Do you see a pattern here?

5. On the honeymoon: relax, enjoy everything, roll with problems, and don't sweat the small stuff… And don't argue on hotel balconies. Just don't.

My last piece of advice:

I know that you already do, but remember to live your life with the heart of a servant.......

So pick up my tux.

I DO NOT WANT TO BE A MILLIONAIRE

Crestview Elementary. Sixth Grade. A big day. A Huge day.

I was very excited.

The awesome part about this day was that the after school event had already been planned out. Where, when, what style, length of time. This day was so monumental that it called for bigger mood-setting scenery than the Crestview playground, yep, this called for a secret location which would have to be off-campus.

I was going to kiss my girlfriend and my sixth grade girlfriend was going to kiss me back. My friend was also going to kiss his girlfriend. Whether she was going to kiss him back, I have no idea, but as the four of us walked to the high school football stadium and went under the stadium seats, he and I were both gonna find out.

I felt like a stud. Heather didn’t care that my hair was grown out, over the ears and feathered back, or that my jeans were even lighter colored than stone-wash, and turtlenecks were big, at least for me.

Our lips met and we pressed them together for the entire pre-determined time allotment.

A nice long peck.

Stud.

My friend one-upped me and kissed his girlfriend longer using more than just his lips. Why would he do that? And why would he do that without telling me he was going to do that first so I could match him? I felt like less of a sixth grader compared to him, because I only used lips. It became a test of manhood so I went back in for more, and again, eyes closed, gave the best longest peck on the lips in the history of pecks on the lips. Turns out it wasn't good enough. She dumped me for a popular fifth grader, Mike Drabcek, a few weeks later. He was a good-lookin' kid. I was jealous.

Kissing girls in sixth grade under the high school bleachers was not an event that many other men my age had accomplished so really, Bill and I were leading the way for all of them and representing, big time.

The next year, seventh grade, I would have my first french-kiss. This one was not planned. It was also not at a secret location. It was in the hallway of Oltman Junior High, right next to the library. Matter of fact, Mr. Ullmer saw it and would eventually get me in a little bit of trouble.

I knew we were going to kiss, you didn't raise an total idiot. We’d been kissing at her locker every morning for months. I would look forward to this kiss from the very second that my eyes opened after you would wake me up in the morning to get ready for school. 

So this morning was business as usual: My every thought revolved around the morning kiss at her locker, in front of the library, no matter how many people filled the hall and walked by watching us. No difference in butterflies, no difference in greeting, no difference that I would stand next to her at her locker while she chatted with all her friends. No difference in the fact that I stood there because I knew what was coming; our kiss. I was immovable. No teacher or event or fire-drill or tornado drill or student council meeting would have been able to get me to walk away from her locker, ever.

Finally, just before the bell rings, the moment I’ve waited for--I notice her slowly lean into me, but her head was tilted differently? Before my eyes closed I caught a glimpse of her mouth; it was open. I noticed, but I didn’t think anything of it until I felt the kiss -- her mouth remained open while I kept mine shut. She got a mouthful of puckered lips and I got a face full of tongue. That kiss would scare me from her locker starting the very next morning.

I soured on open-mouth kissing for the longest time. I had flashbacks of a wet wagging tongue coming at me, in slow motion, and it stunted my growth. I’m sure her tongue never officially wagged in any way, but-wagging-is how I remember it. I was only 13 years old.

Eventually, I overcame.

Prior to both kisses, I started sweating. My hands would sweat, my upper lip would bubble-up and my armpits were equivalent to yard sprinklers.

During both kisses, it felt like all eyes were on me. Like I had to perform. My choices brought me to this situation and now I had to deliver.

After both kisses, it felt like there was a bright white light shining on me from above and it followed me around for weeks. It felt like everyone knew what I had done and deliberately took some time out of their day to size me up.

Excuse me while I fast forward twenty-five-or-so years. The most loaded question of my life is laid before me on my first day of treatment. If I were sitting on that chair across from Regis and this was the final question to win a million dollars, I don’t know if I’d have a final answer. The question is so loaded that I can’t bare the thought of contemplating the answer.

If I answer yes, it’s like unloading the chamber of the hand-cannon aimed directly between my eyes. Its admission of such consequence that I may never recover. My friends may never recover, our family may never recover and the ripple-effect is too large to imagine. If I answer no, I’m the drunk guy that you see every time you’re at the bar, telling people I’m not drunk. I’m another guy who can’t see the writing on the wall, and sadly or not, I’m willing to be that guy.

As I sit in front of my counselor, there is a very long pause and I begin to feel the same symptoms as my first-kiss experiences - I started sweating all over. My hands sweat, my upper lip bubbles-up, and my armpits were equivalent to slip-n-slides. This is becoming a test of manhood.

The five minute silence isn’t me stubbornly buying time, refusing to answer the question. I’m remembering.

I’m remembering the first alcohol assessment that I ever took. The result, I was told, was no, I wasn’t an alcoholic. I was like any other young kid who made a mistake and my actions seemed normal.

I’m remembering the second alcohol assessment that I ever took. The result, I was told, was no, I wasn’t an alcoholic. I was like any other college kid who had blacked out a time or fifty, and binged on the weekends and my actions seemed normal.

I’m remembering the third and last alcohol assessment that I ever took. The result, I was told, was yes, that chances were good. My actions were normal for a guy who is in his mid-twenties with three DUI’s and a drinking problem.

I can’t sit still and I don’t like all the eyes on me. So what do I say?

THAT'S NOT THE REACTION I EXPECTED, WHY CAN'T I REACT THAT WAY?

Last Friday I wasn’t late, but my pace sure was quicker than normal. My heartbeat; definitely a little quicker than normal.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I wrestle with the stupid pocket liner to get my phone out while speed-walking. He’s texting me: “where you at?” It was an incomplete sentence, but I didn’t let it bother me, I knew what he meant. The closer I get to our meeting place, the more unsettled my stomach becomes.

My reply is “two minutes out.” Another incomplete sentence.

I need to talk to my brother, STAT. It’s been long enough.

I walk through the entrance and knew right where to look. We’d met here a few times before some Wild games. He always sits next to the big windows, and sure enough, that’s where he was - looking out the window at the city rush of 7th street.

I look at him the entire time I approach him and eventually we catch eyes. He returns my look with a smile. Quickly, and I mean quickly, I rehearse what words I want to say and how I want them to sound. You’remybrother,Iloveyou,thisissoimportanttome...

A hand-slap and a hug is how we greet. Everytime I hug him I’m amazed at how I’m his older brother but he’s bigger. Not taller, but beefy-er. Not chubby, but a little more filled out. In his face I still see the characteristics of when he was a baby boy with the world in front of him, not this well-developed man who now has a wife, takes care of 2-step-kids, works whatever schedule is needed to provide without complaining, loves God, and has without-a-doubt grown up to be a man of great integrity.

We sit.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey.” I say back, looking into his eyes. Then I smile.

“What?”

“What?” I ask back.

We get settled in.

I grab the menu and look at it. It’s nervous fill - I’m not that eager to order.

We make small talk which calms my nerves. We talk about work and marriage and step-kids and the never ending trials of our step-kids’ dads. I know he knows why I asked him to meet me but he doesn’t allude to it. He patiently waits until I have waited a tick too long because finally, he asks me “what’s up?”

It’s been eight years in the waiting, this conversation. So I start.

“I started a men’s group.” Not even close to how I rehearsed it.

“It’s my best of friends and we get together the first of each month. We meet up and check-in with each other on where we’re at in life, our marriages, parenting. It’s a good group to help each other become better men, better fathers, better husbands... stuff like that. Anyway, the other day we happened to talk about another friend of ours and our collective concern about his drinking. That led to us talking about things people do when their drunk and how most people look for drama, for no reason. It reminded me of you.”

He looks at me with no reaction. He just listens, curiously.

“Because that’s me. When I’m drunk, I seek out dramatic-effect. I do the dumbest things for no reason. So, I told the friends in my men's group that there was something I did a long time ago that I’ve still never made amends for and needed them to help hold me accountable. That night at my bachelor party, do you remember?”

He nods-yes.

“It’s important to me that you know, I do too. I think about it nearly every day. Sorry that I’ve never spoke of it since.”

There’s silence between us, which is fine. I don’t lose composure in moments of silence. He reaches for his now sweaty glass and sips his Diet Coke. I mirror him, like I was taught to do in college when being interviewed. Apparently it helps the other person relax or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention, but, I sip my Diet Coke too.

“I remember being in some room and for whatever reason - we had no beef that night - but for whatever reason, out of the blue clear sky, I started pushing you around, trying to bait you into fighting me. It took all of my friends to separate me from you. I don’t know why I did that. I’m incredibly embarrassed.”

Nothing yet. My composure during this silence feels like it’s about to crack.

“You cried. I'm so sorry that I put you in that situation, and that I made you cry that night. I hope you can you forgive me?” Exactly how I rehearsed it.

I stop to let him reply, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks away from me.

I also rehearsed earlier that day what I would do if he didn’t want to forgive me and in this moment that he’s not looking at me, I quickly, and I mean quickly, rehearse what words I want to say and how I want them to sound.

He has my full undivided attention and suddenly my hands feel like they belong to someone else and are a hundred sizes too big and I had no idea what to do with them other than keep them under the table clutching each other.

He finally looks at me, his eyes filled with emotion and love.

“Of course I do. I love you. That was a long time ago.” Your baby-boy doesn’t miss a beat with extending Grace. And he continues to tell me things that just absolutely pull at my heartstrings but things that are just for my ears.

He reminded me, that afternoon, how to be Graceful. How to forgive.

In the face of seeing Grace extended to me, I wonder: where is my extension of Grace to others? To my friends, my former friends, my wife, my former wife, my kids, you and Dad?

I’ve been wronged, by many. Some people sober, some not, some unintentional, some not. But then, that means, I’ve probably wronged ten times that many, right? Although I don’t truly believe that they ever have to ask me for forgiveness, I do need to ask them.

Can I be intentional about forgiving others? Wait, wait, that’s not right; not “can I be” but, “I want to be.”

The Bible speaks of how we can learn of, and have, a life of God's unconditional forgiveness of us, and then from that, learn to unconditionally forgive others.

Unconditional love, sounds like something that feels good. That’s what I want to be about. 


I’m going to give that a serious whirl.

I WANTED TO CHANGE BUT IF NOTHING CHANGED, NOTHING WOULD CHANGE.

Treatment. The best thing I’ve ever done and at the same exact time, the worst thing for my confidence. Nothing in my life to this point would humble me more than my group of eight addicts, plus myself, but nothing would ever tempt me to continue drinking more than my group of eight addicts, plus me. 

I had stories of puking, and black-outs. I had stories of intense embarrassment and secretive secrets. In my world and in comparison to the surrounding company, they were white-collar crimes. These are not ideal stories, but neither are they stories that compare to those of drug-addicts. 

Hearing their stories assured me that I didn’t have a problem. I heard a different horrifying story that separated us a bit more each week, but as treatment moved forward I started recognizing characteristics in them that I knew damn well, I carried. 

But there’s the rub, my stories didn’t compare. My stories aren’t devastating enough compared to theirs and sitting next to these people, I don’t feel like a guy with a drinking problem. But, outside these walls, I’m the one who feels like the only one with a drinking problem. Again, how do I fit in?

I was lost and conflicted between the only person I knew to be, and who I wanted to be.

What was the trigger? What was the hurdle that brought me to my drunken knees every time? Sobriety easily trumped every area of my life unless it involved smooth skin, long hair, and perfume. 

Besides a drinking problem, what I learned from treatment was that I also had a major girl-ing problem. I’d get bored with the good ones, and I couldn’t stay sober long enough to get a read on the destructive ones. 

I wanted to be impressive. I wanted to blend in. And Treatment gave me the tools to do that without having to drink to feel normal. 

So, walking along the sidewalk on the very next date, I was scared as hell. Inside; my bones were shaking, my knees were wobbly and weak, and my stomach was turning at 50-miles an hour. On the outside; My Hand Did Not Shake. I was like Arthur Fonzarelli, and what’s Fonzie like? That’s right, cool. 

And then I drank. 

Against every fiber of my being, I drank, and every time my lips touched the glass/bottle I was a lit fuse of dynamite. I was the Guns of the Navarone. I would get so mad at myself for drinking against my own will that I wanted to smashed the glass or bottle and yet, I still couldn’t put it down.

I only wanted to be liked.

Weird, is not how I wanted to be known. I wanted to be someone’s prince, so I lied to them, in the name of love, I lied to them. All of them, except one. The one I’m married to today.

What was it that I wanted to hide? Was it that I was released from jail in the same year that I had been released from treatment? Was it 3-in-10? That’s heavy news for anyone. 

The only way to avoid the answer to the question of “why aren’t you drinking,” was to drink.

And so this was my life-cycle for a long time. It was vicious, it was heart-breaking and it played on a loop. 

I was smart enough to choose not to drink. 

I was strong enough to live a new clean lifestyle and not let others influence what was best for me. 

I was stupid enough to think that on the occasion, I could control it. 


The next 10-yrs passed before the lessons of treatment would take hold.

AFTER-EFFECTS

There they are, right in front of me on the other side of the glass. THE GLASS. THE FREAKING GLASS THAT SEPARATES YOU FROM YOUR VISITORS.I haven’t yet, but when the guard calls time, he’ll come in, tug my elbow and politely make me turn with him to walk away. That’s when the fight will begin.

I have fought before. In sixth grade a kid my age pushed my head into the window of our bus. It was probably for laughs, but I didn’t laugh. I would have, if he’d done it to someone else, but he didn’t, so when I stupidly dared him to do it again, he did, right into the back of the bus seat. That fight continued outside after we stepped off. There I was jumping on his back, working my way around to put him in a white-knuckled headlock and then giving him four straight uppercut lefts to the face until he fell to the ground. To finish him, I shoved his face full of ice and snow. Sorry Dave. I was already crying when I walked through the front door because you didn’t see the fight that was literally down the street from our house, and I was scared. The year before was a fight during recess. We pulled each others hair mostly, put each other in headlocks and I was punched in the nuts. That same year, defending the honor of a very shy girl, I squared off with one of the bigger kids in my class. He kicked me and I went down, fight over. In High School I was involved in a massive shoving match over a girl that isn’t, wasn’t, and will never be worth that much attention, with a mate who kept spitting in my face as we pushed each other. I didn’t spit in his face only because it was really gross and I never understood the point of spitting in someone else’s face. Either way, while I was dodging saliva, his buddy went down on all fours behind me and I toppled over him. Suddenly I realized it was 2-against-1 and I tap out.

I have fought before. 


Excuse me for a second, while I tally up the losses.


Now then. I haven’t yet, but when I turn to leave and start walking back to my cell, the fight will begin. I’m clueless how to fight labels. But that’s the next fight. Will my friends judge me as I walk away from them? Fighting someone who spits in your face is easier than fighting thoughts of inferiority. Thoughts of “please don’t laugh at me under your breath.” Are they talking behind my back? I hope not, but will this be the last visit? It’s not likely, but maybe there won’t be any thoughts running through their minds at all. I decided on my walk TO that visit: there will be no look-back for a second glance. I’ll just push through because I can’t bare the thought of seeing an expression that I don’t recognize. I know for a fact they were there to offer an amazing amount of support, so I didn’t doubt their motives; I doubted their reactions to the situation. 

When you sit in jail for any reason or any amount of time, and you have to rely on friends to climb into a number of cars (or hopefully, carpool), and drive all the way from their homes leaving actual important responsibilities behind for a couple hours, drive all the way to the local jailhouse that they’ve never been to and never probably imagined ever having to go to, walk in the doors of the jail house, sign in and register which most likely includes subjecting themselves to some type of pat-down search for contraband that they don’t have, sit in the small room while you are confined behind a bulletproof glass for misbehaving, you doubt your self-worth. The labels win. You doubt the level of love they might have for you. Worthiness is at an all-time low. 

I don’t remember a single word we all said to each other. What I can remember is each one of them talking to me over the jail phone line and when finished, passing the phone to the next person as if we were at a party smoking dope, which never happened, and as the phone was between each new set of hands, a thought: “I’m in jail talking to my friends over telephones only seen on TV.” Same thought, each exchange of hands. I don’t remember a single word we all said to each other. What I can remember are the number of moments of raw embarrassment. The number of times I wished they would leave only because I couldn’t handle being seen this way. Counting the number of opportunities there were to cut the conversation short just so they didn’t have to stay longer than they maybe wanted to. I felt bad because of a single looping thought that kept slapping me in the face of how thankful I was that these people weren’t my family members.
I envisioned you and Dad sitting in their seats a million times during the hour visit and each time felt the cringe of my face at the thought. 

Those are the things that went through my mind. A complete internal monologue of my own unworthiness as a friend, and person. 

By the time our time was up, I was prepared for the embarrassing process of being led out of visitation by the arm, letting the door close and then being hand-cuffed again when the door closed. Then, in the event that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to my own room cell, I’m led by the arm - again - until I’m literally belly-up to the thick, cold, never “welcoming” cell door.

It was the same excruciating mental grind every week for two months. I wouldn’t trade those days for gold.

A couple things learned on that initial visit; if I ever end up in jail again, upon release, kill me. But before that, please, COME VISIT. The second was a self-realization that I wished for and received an ability to go mentally numb. During days of misery and periods of what should be overwhelming sadness, I wished I could remove myself and shut it down.

At this instant, I look at my wife who is asleep on the couch, newly pregnant with our second child, and I wonder if she recognizes when I have no emotion in moments that call for it as easily as I do. If so, I wonder what she thinks of me. Has she uttered the words “He’s an unemotional jerk,” as many times as I’ve uttered “I’m an unemotional jerk?” Now we’re married, and with divorce not an option, we’re left with the unrecognizable-to-many tool of communication for when times are hard.

Now the questions are starting to over-flow. Will this be passed onto my kids? While trying to raise amazing kids, am I damaging them unknown? Who wants to raise emotionally stunted kids? Who wants to come off as “cold” to their own bride?

The instinct to care seems natural for others, yet, I consistently have to choose to care which means I have to man-up and say sorry a lot. I have to choose to be emotionally supportive. My instincts are to suck it up, push forward, and not allow emotions to dictate. My wife is emotionally supportive on cue but it doesn’t come easy for me.

Can it be overcome? Maybe, maybe not. But I’ll keep fighting.

UNEQUAL

It happens. I felt it earlier and then it suddenly hit. The swelling was amazing. It didn't start small either. 

I could feel it building and it was painful. Each step it was bigger and more severe. It was worse than the morning when a freshly sharpened, lawn mower blade sliced through the skin covering my thumb, and I watched the blood ooze out and puddle under my work boot. I didn’t actually watch. I couldn’t even man-up enough to look, but I knew what happened.

If I had to guess, I’d guess the swell was the size of my fist. No, no, that’s not totally accurate. A boulder. Oh, yeah, the lump in my throat was at least the size of a boulder. I know this because it was in my throat and I couldn’t swallow my own spit. My mouth wasn’t dry, or parched, it was just that all my body fluid was being rerouted directly to my eyes.

My mind was clear as day, but as I was led down the white, clean, sterile hallway with my hands cuffed behind my back in hand-cuffs, I couldn’t see a  thing out through the tears that were built up and burning my eyes, refusing to fall. I’m actually glad they didn’t fall and it has nothing to do with macho. I didn’t want to cry down the jail hallway, or in front of my friends, or in front of the guard. Neither would you.

I wasn’t hurt or scared about anything. I was happy. I was excited. I was so happy I was crying like a baby because friends were just down that hall, around the corner to the left, and through the door. I knew I liked these people, but I didn’t know I’d end up loving them.

So with every step the tears would build up, the lump in my throat grew and I silently prayed not to cry. They told me they were coming. They told me that there was no way they wouldn’t, so I knew who it was. Each of their faces appeared in my head. Each of their reactions was rolling as well.

Another step:    would they express disappointment? Probably. I wouldn’t be upset if they did.

Another step:    will they smile at me when I walk through the door?

Another step:    will they greet me straight-faced and regret being here?

Another step:    will it be awkward enough that it changes our friendships for the rest of my life?

I had to prepare myself. It might be anyone of those reactions. I had no say in it. I was the width of a bullet-proof metal door away from taking my medicine like a man. I had apologies to make and I dreaded it.

The guard stops me in front of the door and takes off the hand-cuffs. I’m starting to shiver with anxiety and nervousness and guilt and shame. 

Why did I do this to myself?????

I wiped my forehead, adjusted my jailshirt and a hard swallow for composer. My hair is a mess, I’m not wearing any socks on my feet, I'm hungry, I'm tired and the lump in my throat is gone.

Dave.

Christel.

Sarah.

Jenny Red.

Tom.

Kelly.

Joe.

This group came every Sunday, like clock-work. I will never forget them and they will never be replaced in my heart or in my mind no matter how much or how little we keep in touch. (On the off-chance they’re reading this, call me).

I know you and dad have choice words for my friends. Especially Dad, and I get why. We’ve talked about it a few times. You think they influenced me, and let’s be adults, they did… but it was on-stage. They inspired me to be better, rehearse longer, and memorize lines by becoming the character instead of relying on blocking. They pushed me to be more creative and showed that it was OK to be proud and passionate about the craft. They inspired me to be a better friend.

If anything, IF ANYTHING - I was the bad influence. I kept them out later; I ordered the last round one more time, every time. I’m the one that rallied the after party. I’m the one who recruited people after rehearsal. I’m the one who’d get drunk first and fastest. They are good people. It’s not their fault that I made life altering bad decisions. Nobody ever made me do anything. They never made me drink. They never opened the driver’s-side door for me. They never decided to start the car for me, I decided.

Of all the friends I had at college the ones listed above tried more than anyone else to keep me under control and then when I embarrassed myself, they never turned away. They’ve been mad at me, I’m sure they’ve felt bad for me because I’m so stupid, but they never ever ever one time made me feel inferior or  unworthy or unequal.

I can’t say that about very many people. But I can about them.