Woke up this morning from a dream about a former bar coworker, dead now for several years, to learn that overnight a guy from that same crowd had died.
Most of the folks I know from those days had/have dual diagnoses (primary mental health condition with comorbid substance abuse), including me. So many people I know from those years have died that I can’t remember who among them are still alive. Some left of their own volition in various ways; others didn’t. Some cleaned up, moved on; some couldn’t.
I was afraid I’d be a lifer in the bars, as much as I hated that life. My hip saved me, got me out of there, demanded that I get surgery and never return to working on my feet. I got out and now I’m losing my body and my mind; but so many I knew from those years have lost their lives.
A requiem is but a rest; from the Latin, ‘requiēs,’ which means eternal rest. Some people like to say, “I’ll rest when I’m dead,” and I suppose I’m one of them. Being disabled is a full-time job; even from my hospital bed, I was trying to sort various things out via my phone. I’d like to rest, one day. But not yet. I’ll wait until there’s no turning back.