Wake Me Up

Alan's musical tastes definitely changed over the years. I remember one Christmas when he was in middle school or early high school, he had a bunch of Green Day magazines. Back in late 2004, when I asked him about music he was into, it included a lot of Yellowcard, Green Day and Blink 182.

From the Killers:

Hard to listen to now.

American Idiot was big then.

When things began to spiral out of control this spring, Alan was trapped in a vicious circle, his depression driving his impulsive actions, the consequences of those actions feeding his depression. As best as I can piece together now, he never felt like he had his footing after May. Broken hearts, rash decisions, disappointments, anxieties, uncertainties, jumbled into a living nightmare. It's hard not to think -- if only he could have held on. If only he could have seen things through, things were working themselves out.

When I was 12, I had the worst dream of my life. In it, Alan had died. He was three at the time. Somehow, he would come back to the house every night. From dusk until midnight, he would live with us as if nothing had happened. There was a pervading sadness, an inescapable realization that the only reason he was with us was that he had not yet found contentment on the other side. While taking care of him -- getting him into his red footy pajamas, feeding him, playing with toys, I knew he would not keep coming back forever. Some day, he would find happiness, and he would move on without us. The thought of that happening was heartbreaking -- that we would lose him again. But it was also heartbreaking to know he was not at peace. In my dream, every midnight, he would walk out the front door and into the afterlife, looking back over his shoulder at us. Some toy or shoe or object would be left behind, but by morning, it too would be gone. When I awoke, I sobbed, and now, 20 years later, I still have never had a dream that has haunted me more.

When Alan died, I wondered if that nightmare had come to life. In a strange way of looking at things, maybe his existence living with such profound depression was like the nighttime unlife in the dream, and his death the release from it. Had we lost him twice? Had he found peace?

Any way you look at it, this was my worst nightmare, figuratively, and maybe literally. Did Alan finally wake up from his nightmare, only for us to find ourselves in ours? Every time I open my eyes, I hope for a moment that maybe it was all a dream, and I am finally waking up from it. Every time, the disappointment, the realization that he is gone hits me like a blow to the gut.