Just to check in:

I went out to eat with a friend of mine two weeks ago, and on the car ride over to the restaurant, he updated me on the multi-generational alcoholic mayhem he’s currently enduring inside his home. 

“I’m hiding her vodka bottles underneath the bathroom sink.”

The car he drives is old and beat-up, and he doesn’t wear a seatbelt, which is mainly for show and not something I would usually be concerned about, but as he told me story after disturbing story about his family’s disease, I became, well, concerned.

“Don’t you need to talk to…someone?”

His life appears to be at some crisis point, or will be any minute now. He disagreed. 

“I’m talking to you! Who else do I need to talk to?” 

My thoughts: A psychiatrist. An interventionist. A rabbi. Maybe an exorcist. 

But I can’t deny that his trust in my ability to listen, then perhaps solve his problems, lit up my ego like an airport runway.

However—and I say this with both envy and frustration—he seemed extremely okay. He wasn't overly dramatic or self-pitying. Or maybe he was unwilling to overthink it, because sharing how stressed he was would come off as weak-minded. Or maybe he thought it would be a gross betrayal to the people close to him who are genuinely suffering? Either way, he wasn’t the one who needed help.

I wish I had more of those qualities, but part of my “healing” is a willingness to share my misery or frustration openly, then ask for help like a sucker. Now, part of me thinks I should keep more of my issues inside since it’s all so minor compared to my friend’s situation. If I’m not hiding vodka bottles from my loved ones every single day, what am I even praying for serenity from?

We rolled through downtown LA, and he played Tom Petty songs, ones where Petty sounded younger and unsure, the kind of voice you’d hear on unreleased demos, but my friend hummed along and tapped the steering wheel as if all the songs were “American Girl.” He asked me about the state of my life, my family, and my recovery, and even though everything is excellent, I downgraded it to “not bad” because that felt less boastful.

The rest of the night, we mostly talked about football and whether Los Angeles was a good Christmas town. After he dropped me off at my front gate, I stood and watched his shitty car drive away and wondered what unfathomable scene he would enter into when he got home. I wondered if the police would ever be called, and if that would make his life better or worse.

The next day, Julieanne and I picked the kids up early from school to buy a Christmas tree. As they went to the lot, I went to Chase Bank for cash to tip the guys who would tie the tree to the car's roof. 

On my walk back, someone called my name, and I turned around, but for the life of me I did not know who it was. He was older, very gray, and hunched-looking. But he walked right up to me and extended his hand. “It’s [name of old sports reporter].” 

I hadn’t talked to this person in 15 years, and never even met him in person. In my gossip-mongering era, I’m certain I had made his life unpleasant and stressful, but for the most part, we got along. “I thought I recognized you,” he said. “I just wanted to stop and say hi—you looked happy.” 

I was startled by that remark. I felt a little exposed, guilty even—what strange happiness had he seen on my face? I don’t smile much, at least I don’t think I do, but maybe I can’t hide my new radiance.

When he knew me—or what he thought he knew of me—15 (or was it 17?) years ago, my life was, admittedly, fueled by what you could call a performative darkness. But that was gone, now, at least today it was.

I shook his hand with my two hands like a crazed politician because I wanted to show appreciation for one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. We promised to get coffee one day. 

As I walked away, I thought about how many times I have heard people describe their depression as a type of happiness amnesia—that they were unable to identify when they were happy anymore, that their everyday existence was filled with a prolonged blankness. This interaction on the way to the Christmas tree lot was a good reminder that I'm currently free from this affliction.

Then I thought of my poor friend from the night before, hiding vodka bottles, speeding through The Hills without a seatbelt, careening into something. I believe he’s suffering from the opposite problem—he has lost the ability to feel sadness. I wonder which is worse.