I’m Doing Alright, But …

John Agliata

2 years ago

The drive home last night was a bit rough, which wasn’t entirely surprising. I’ve been around a lot of people the past few days, hadn’t slept past 4:30 a.m. for four or five days, and, in general, this has been one of those “Big Feels” times that seem to happen to me.

There are these times when I can be in the middle of a crowded room, laughing and joking with a bunch of really good people who are having a similar good time … and yet feel completely alone. I have been blessed with seeing the things that come Next, with knowing what awaits, and it sometimes makes being Here and finding meaning very challenging. Last night was one of these times.

On the drive home, I shut off my music, nixed the podcast, cracked the window to let in the cool night air and just took stock of where I am and how things are.

I’d like to think that, for a guy who has been through what I’ve been through, I’m doing OK.

I’m 48-years-old, have an amazing wife and two boys Here. One is well on his way to being a successful adult. The other is following keenly in his brother’s footsteps in his own unique way. They love each other.

I have a job that finally pays me what I’m worth, a side gig that feeds me creatively, a few people who like to read the drivel I write and a dog whose tongue doesn’t quite fit in her mouth.

I’m smart, I’d like to think I’m funny, I have helped people survive deep and dark moments, and think I have hopefully inspired at least one person to be a better human. I have a deep appreciation for the simple and quiet, am able to think and feel my way through nearly any situation, and I experience life deeply.

I have a roof over my head, a bitchin’ collection of T-shirts and a range of emotions the average teenage girl would be like, “Wow. Really? Impressive.”

In my life, I survived a less-than-idyllic-despite-all-outward-appearances home situation, was blessed with some of the best high school friends a guy could ever ask for, a Second Mom who loved me, and I have dozens and dozens of teenage memories to reflect on that make me smile.

But …

I’ve also handed my newly born son’s lifeless body over to a nurse, never to see him again. I’ve faced an impossibly small coffin at the front of a church and, on wobbly legs while ravaged by chicken-pox-induced fever that God must have thought served some purpose, walked toward it — toward it! — to take a seat nearby and listen to an amazing man of God try to make sense for all of us gathered just a few days before Christmas of what had happened over the previous four months.

I’ve battled through Thalassemia and Lyme’s Disease and mono and COVID (twice) and been ravaged and broken by Longhaul COVID. I’ve lost a gall bladder, gained some screws in my ankle to stop the routine sprains and breaks. And speaking of breaks, I’ve put patches on those suffered by my all-too-vulnerable heart time and again.

I received my first concussion in a basketball game we lost 165-3, my third while singing in a dorm room, and I don’t even remember right now how I got my fifth and sixth. That’s probably not a good sign.

I was bullied to the point I faked injuries and illnesses to avoid the bully in the gym locker room, a bully whose ass I knew I could kick if he would only stop hiding behind his much larger, stronger, menacing friend when I finally would get angry enough to fight back. I know I’m supposed to let that shit go, but I find myself hoping his life is miserable and wouldn’t be sad at all if I found out he was dead. And I feel a little bit bad about that.

I have been abandoned en masse by my earliest friends — friends in whose houses I slept over and whose mothers I called “aunt” because we were so close — and I lived to find new friends.

I’ve found myself staring at a concrete bridge support from a few football fields away while calculating in my mind just how fast I could get my car going before impact.

I’ve greeted the morning in a place I was not free to leave and came home to a family still there, still able to see their daddy, and worked my ass off to rebuild my shattered self, only to have to do so again less than a half-decade later.

I awake every morning now with pains in my hands, pains in my neck, pains in my back, pain in that still all-too-vulnerable heart.

And yet here I am ... dadding with the best of them, repairing what needs to be repaired, doing what I’m supposed to be doing to lead my family, to do my job, to try to stay as healthy as possible — though, if I were to be honest, I could and should be doing more.

I eat better than I ever have — not because I really want to but because I have to. I avoid most sugars, eat oranges instead of donuts when given the choice at a spread laid out at a company training. I smoke more cigars than I should and drink more bourbon than I should … but I keep that shit under control because I know my family history and will not repeat it. I’ve broken cycles and improved on the too-often unspoken sins of the past and hopefully … hopefully … have left my boys in a better place to move forward, to lead their families, if God should grant them one.

I’ve given those boys a realistic picture of what it means to be a man, what it means to be an adult, shown them without intention that it’s OK to fail and get back up and try again and fail and get back up and try again and again and again. I’ve let them know it’s OK to have regrets and to make mistakes — my God, so many fucking mistakes.

I come home to play cards with my son instead of sitting at bars. I stay sober and clean and present. I meditate and journal and go to yoga, though that hasn’t happened in two months now, which isn’t a smart move. I retreat into float tanks and disappear for an hour to come out refreshed and renewed.

I take my wife on weekly dates and write love notes on her bathroom mirror and hide romance coupons in her purse or her makeup bag. I live for the day when I’ll be able to roll into the driveway with her brand new orange Jeep Wrangler.

I have seen so much. I’ve watched an eagle soar over the glaciers in Alaska and shot a Russian boar from 75 yards and reeled in a beast of a tarpon and 15 walleye in an hour. I’ve ridden all the Mountains at Disney World in one evening … one glorious evening when everything — everything — was perfect. I’ve smelled the fragrant flowers on Capri and skied pitifully down a mountain in Colorado, eaten lamb in Croatia, spent three days in the deepest of jungles of Costa Rica.

I’ve read at least, what, 500 books? 1,000? Who knows? I’ve had three of my own published. I’ve written a blog post that went kinda-sorta viral and has more than 20,000 reads and led people to say “Yes! This! This is what I feel!” I’ve been published in newspapers in New York, Iowa, Ohio, Michigan and Minnesota.

I’ve driven a Ferrari 160 mph on World Wide Technology Raceway and met Arthur Ash, bowled with one of the daughters from Gimme a Break, seen Patrick Ewing in nothing but his jock strap and knee pads and jumped out of the way to avoid getting hit by a golf cart driven by Billy Joel, who, by the way, I’ve seen in concert four times, including from the front row with my wife the last time he came through town.

I’ve struck out the final batter to win a baseball game.

I’ve danced in the rain, made snow angels, walked out of the cornfield at the Field of Dreams, became engaged at Roseman Bridge in Madison County, honeymooned in Hawaii, became a newspaper editor at 22 and invented a whole new career for myself when the need became apparent.

I won thousands of dollars playing roulette when the wheel kept coming up on that one date in December that marked my first son’s birthday and death day, again and again and again, and used that money to buy gifts for those who supported us throughout that time we waited for the inevitable to happen.

I’ve loved, laughed, hurt, hated, cried, smiled.

I have never given up, even when giving up seemed like the best option. Every single day I have gotten out of bed and tried.

Once again, but …

Here I sit, 48-year-old, and there are about three people who could honestly say they know me. I’m talking really, really know me.

One lives with me and loves me deeply, even after a whole lot of shit. One lives in Ohio, and we go months without talking before falling back into life together like the old friends we are. The other is gone from my life, as it should be, which doesn’t mean it always feels good or makes sense.

A lot of things don’t make sense to me, sometimes.

If I had the choice, I wouldn’t be where I am now with my life. Afforded the opportunity to go back and try again, there would be a lot of things I’d do differently — a lot. I understand the Butterfly Affect and how changing even one small thing could create an entirely different and not-necessarily-better outcome, yet I’d be willing to take the chance that alternative choices at certain points along my journey would have to — have to — create a present that wasn’t reached after so much struggle.

I would have a bigger tribe — not a lot bigger but certainly more strongly developed. I’d be able to easily think of that person or people who would be able to stand up at my funeral and say, “Let me tell you about John …” but as it stands now, if I got hit by a bus today (which seems to be my go-to when it comes to death), the best I can hope for is that someone who reads this junk that I write learns I’m gone and, before any sort of memorial service, says, “Hey! You should just read some of his stuff! That’s the stuff you missed when he was alive! That right there is the real John so few people took the time to get to know.”

Why didn’t they take that time?

That’s one of those things I’ll add to the “a lot of things don’t make sense to me” pile and move on.

I pulled into my driveway around 9:25 last night. I love my Humble Country Home. It’s removed from the chaos of life, and the night sounds are restorative. I shut the car off, listened to its tick-tick-tick, opened the door and hauled my tired ass out of the seat. As much as I love my Humble Country Home, I hate my Shitty Little Car.

The night was cool. This is my time of year. I’d love to have a spring, two falls and a short winter. The stars shone brightly, giving me a glimpse into the past. That’s the kind of stuff that fascinates me.

I sat down on the driveway, lit up one of those too-many cigars I smoke these days. I tell myself it’s cool because I don’t inhale. It worked for Bill Clinton, so …

I’m doing alright. I really am. I wouldn’t have been able to say that six months ago. I can today. Progress is good.

But …

I’m pretty sure this isn’t the place for me anymore. I’m thinking that I’ve extracted all I can from my time in a meatsack. My heart still beats, my brain still works, and I’m committed to living because hey, perhaps some of the things I’ve seen and done and learned would benefit others and make them feel less like … this. I’m just waiting for those people to come into my life — or for me to stumble upon them and do it right.

I have a bucket list of things I still want to do.

I want to own a sports car.

I want to go to Australia.

I want to hold my grandchild.

I want to return to Trevi Fountain with my wife.

I want to attend a New York Yankees playoff baseball game.

I want to own a cabin far, far away from any human sound.

If someone told me today I had six months left to do all of these things, I would do my best. But if they all didn’t get done, I’d be fine with that.

Better things await.

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