A guy I worked with for nearly five years died two days ago. We were a lot alike. He was older, spent much of his early life experiencing and committing violence. He was the only person I ever met who’d probably been punched in the face more times that I have. Broken nose like me, too.

People have asked me why I never got my nose fixed. I don’t want it fixed. Battle scar. I earned that shit. Earned the right to wear it the hard way — and if it’s lumpy and you don’t like it, not my problem. Yours. Every day I look in the mirror and remember what I survived, what I made it through to be here.

I was so angry when I was young. So very angry and so violent. I must’ve been just intolerable and incomprehensible — a Rimbaud-quoting, fist-throwing nerd dervish. I can’t imagine what people must’ve thought of me. I fit in no category, checked no box, made no sense of any sort, even to myself.

But here I am, and there he was, and we immediately understood one another, both marveling every day that we’d made it through to a good life and to people who love us not in spite of who we are but because of it.

I never wanted immortality for me or for anyone, but people die too soon. Never long enough it seems.

But to quote Kesha:

I’ve been through hell and back
Yeah, honestly, it’s all made me who I am

I think my friend would’ve felt the same way. Takes so long to learn to let go. Glad I found a way. Glad he did too.