It's late, like three in the morning, and I'm sitting here on a couch 380 miles away from my own, drinking probably my fifth glass of wine swapping melancholic stories with a man I haven't seen in five years. I heard he was back from out west so I asked if I could visit, and he didn't say no but I also knew he would never say no. He isn’t a no-saying kind of guy. But he is kind and caring and also daft and forgetful, and I use his return to the east coast as an excuse to get away for a minute. I’ve spent the last few years feeling hollowed out, and quite frankly I can't believe I’m not dead in a ditch or something. 

Late summer nights in West Virginia get colder than someone might expect, which is the only reason we’re on this couch and not out on the porch in the first place. Almost a decade ago he taught me how to make good French press coffee. Today he taught me some secrets behind a decent cocktail. We spent most of the day with our legs stretched off the porch, letting the hot sun burn us from the knees down. We took turns untangling the things we know about each other. I thought he had a reason to distrust the Church, but no, he’s just always been sacrilegious. He knows that I’ve had some career success but laughs at my lack of enthusiasm over the awards and speaking invitations. We both know none of it really means anything in the long run. 

His roommate’s massive pit bull pouts and throws his weight around. The dog, Max, wants to sit on me but he’s just so damn big and sheds white fur like falling snow, so we pull his dog bed closer. Eventually we start talking about the serious shit. We talk about heartbreak and joblessness, the guilt that comes with a modicum of success, sexual harassment policies at summer camps. And I don’t know why but I’m telling this guy, who starts his emails and texts with hi friend, I’m telling him the one thing I can’t tell anyone else. And he does the most miraculous thing: nothing. He just sits there and listens. No grimacing or frowning or gentle hand placement on my arm. He just listens and lets me get this horrible thing out, and neither of us know then what kind of damage I’m doing to my own addled brain, but it doesn’t matter because at least I’ve pulled back the lid of this fifteen-year-old box and said yes, I do know what’s inside. When I’m done, he looks down at his empty goblet and tells this little joke, he says oh no my glass is broken, and pours us both another serving of wine. 

When I’m back up north I’ll find a therapist who specializes in PTSD and processing trauma. I’ll start coming back to West Virginia once every couple of months because my friend has introduced me to his friends who all burn bright holes in me that refuse to be doused. Suddenly I have something I’m afraid of losing. In January for my birthday we’ll be up until sunrise again, this time sitting in a circle with six others singing songs by the Indigo Girls and reading Henry Miller to each other. In January, I’ll learn why some people drink in excess not to dull the pain but to dull the joy so it doesn’t break you in two. And at the end of that night, one of those new friends will hold me by the shoulders and tell me I’m so glad you’re alive. And for the first time, I will agree.