60 Days in the Arena...


60 Days.

I feel the wind on my face.

I feel.

Again.

Feelings.

They're not always fun, but I'm so grateful. I got another chance.

Probably my 1,000th.

30 days ago I wrote this about what it took to get there:

"I cried in front of the Bank of America ATM as I went in to grab a $20 for another half gram…I’d already injected a gram in the 48 hours preceding that withdrawal. I saw a couple embracing. I cried more. The love of my life was gone...In a poetic twist, I was pulling into the parking lot of the NA meeting that I’ve been attending on Friday nights and looked to my left…there was that same ATM…and that same parking lot where I prayed to God for an answer. Maybe if I would’ve just opened my eyes to what was right in front of me."

Last week I drove to Houston to go find my nephew. I was tired of the cops not seeming to care. I was tired of getting no answers. I was tired of feeling my sister's heartbreak. I feel everyone's feelings. It's a blessing and a curse.

I'd already witnessed my nephew's murder. It's another blessing and curse of mine. I don't call myself a psychic or a medium, as I don't try to define it. It's a gift. I saw it as I stared at my computer screen right before I clocked out for lunch. It nearly crippled me. Warehouse. Party. Two gunshots. Head. Chest. White wifebeater. Black do rag. My nephew laying on the ground, treated like garbage.

I told my family and friends this but the authorities don't really buy the guy with the visions. Wherever the spot was, I saw the letter A across from it, actually multiple letter As. I drew it them on a picture. I had no idea what that meant.

I pulled my nephew's ankle monitor report and immediately flipped to one page. The page was screaming at me in a way that only someone with this gift can understand. I typed the address into Google Maps. There was the white warehouse of my visions. I told my sister, this is where he was killed.

So not two days after I made it to my hometown, I drove to that warehouse. It was the evening, but there wasn't a drop of fear in me. I parked parallel to a fence. Not sure why I chose that spot, but it was the first place I parked on that big, curvy street.

I looked around. I saw that I was being watched. Again, not a drop of fear. I asked the man if he'd seen my nephew. His bilingual daughter came to my car.

"Yes. There was a warehouse party. He was shot in the head and chest and covered in a trash bag right over there in the middle of April. He wore a white tank top and black do rag and they covered him in a trash bag." The spot was exactly where I parked. Chills. Goosebumps. Sadness. Anger. Rage. Heartbreak. Guilt. Closure.

We returned the next day with the detectives and one of Houston's top news reporters. I put my hand on that spot and felt every cell in me cry. Visceral tears, cutting as deep as the marrow in my bones.

Then I looked up. I saw the letter A and then another A. My nephew was killed across the street from an AA meeting.

Chills. Goosebumps. Guilt. Full circle moment.

I was clean. I got another chance. He didn't. As I hold this tag, along with my dad's ashes (he died in December and I was just now able to get them), I feel my nephew and my brother, both taken by complications of this disease that keeps granting me a pardon.

I pray this is what it takes for me to get it.

I pray that we find my nephew's body.

I still wanna hope that she's mistaken and that it wasn't him or that he miraculously got up and walked away after hours on the grass.

I have cried every day as I wake up, tears of gratitude. This is new in my recovery, this time around. It feels so different. I want my nephew to be alive. I want to help him get into the rooms. I wanna see him get 60 days clean, but I don't feel like I'll get that chance.

Little AJ, baby, this is for you.

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