Page 72 of Straight Dad

Depression has replaced anger. It’s like looking at life through water or something. I know it’s there—all of the pain and agony, all the loss. I want to fight it or fight for it, but it’s way easier to check out.

Every challenge in life, I’ve met with a physical fight.

Struggle? Work out.

Stress? Heavy weights, extra reps.

Problem to work out? Go for a run.

Shit day at the office? Leave it all on the field.

Losing Mom? All of the above. Plus liquor.

I can’t do anything I’ve ever done to cope or to handle the mess in my life. But I can get away.

A good nap. Zoning out on ridiculous games on my phone. A long night of dreamless sleep.

I must be on some VIP list. Thank you, George or team leadership or whomever, since updated prescriptions arrive every other week. Not going out for all of this has made it so much easier as I recover.

No clue how much this concierge service is costing me. I don’t see transactions with my bank that I shouldn’t. Not that I care. I’d give almost anything to not use that damn walker in public. I’d sell my left nut not to have to get into and out of a car with cameras flashing.

At this point, I don’t know why I have nuts at all.

My dick might as well have turned inside out. No morning wood. None. Not in weeks. Not even waking up with my hand wrapped around my cock and an erotic visual behind my eyes.

Selling my left testicle would make no difference because my dick mocks me with his refusal to participate in life.

Where anger has become resignation with the rest of my life, that is not the case here.

I need to know whether I’ll ever get hard again.

I need to know if I’ll ever have sex again.

Because I’ve lost everything.

Everything.

And if sex is part of that everything, I don’t know what pleasure there is left in life.

No joy in career.

No pain relief in my body.

No peace in my mind.

No pleasure for my manhood.

No life.

With that thought, I chew yet another pill and wait for the frayed nerve endings in my hip to stop shrieking in pain and my mind to cave in on itself.

What do I do if there’s nothing left to live for?

TWENTY-TWO

MOM WOULD’VE KICKED MY ASS

LAYTON

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