Chapter 2

Being a man, there are some things that no one will ever tell you and things you must figure out. When I found out my sister was dead, I wanted to cry; I wanted to scream out in agony and fury against the cruelty of the world. But I could not. My mother needed me now more than ever. The years following my sister's passing were dark in the Jones Household. My mother would not leave her bed, which meant she lost her job, and therefore, the debt we had been safely handling started to pile up. I got another job as a food delivery driver to cope, which meant I spent even less time at home, but I made sure that when I was there, she got home-cooked food most of the time, and I just talked to her. Eventually, she found stability in God, yes, the one from the Bible. I was never a big religious guy; we would go to Christmas and Easter mass because we were technically Catholic, but I never gave much thought or faith to it. 

She found her faith again and started attending church service thrice weekly. She got her teaching job back and regained the vigor of life once again. Even if you do not believe in a higher power, it still has a place in the world and, in this age, should be a topic just left to each individual. So, at 29, my little family unit of my mother and I stabilized again. Thank goodness, too, because that food delivery job sucked. 

Seeing my Mom finally in a happy place again, I turned my attention to something of vital importance and long-neglected—my mental health. I could feel the signs, the fracturing in my subconscious. I had felt it for a while but could not do anything about it. My father had passed, but I couldn't grieve. My sister passed, but I couldn't grieve. My mother needed my full support, so I could not find an outlet. This fraying and fracturing, accumulated over 11 years, was taking its toll. I could feel my cynicism growing and empathy waning. I was losing my humanity. 

I took advice from a deskmate at work and saw a Counselor. Samantha Green. To this day, I still thank her for changing my life. We talked a lot in that first session, which lasted about three hours. We spoke about my childhood and life so far, which led her to suggest I try to get back into sports again. At that point, I was too old for athletics in my mind, and I had a little bit of a belly from all the work I did. I only found out amateur leagues existed when I started looking. I joined a Sunday soccer league for a 50-dollar fee, and from there, the world gained color again. 

I was out of shape, but not the most there. I had yet to learn the soccer rules; I always thought it was European, but I wasn't the least knowledgeable there. I regained the joy of exerting my muscles, the ecstasy of competition, and the brotherhood of teamwork. We might have been 13 old dudes looking to have fun, but it was my saving grace and the balm my strained mind needed. For seven years, we fought together and pushed each other, all of it accumulating at this moment to go to the State Championship but falling just short. This may have been my last year playing, but the love I had found for the sport that saved me and the camaraderie of the teammates beside me was something I could carry into the rest of my life and the next. They were tears of sorrow, yes, but they were also tears of joy and gratitude for the life I had lived.