I turned 30. A few days later Mum turned 60. 30 years ago I was born. It was a Tuesday. The doctors fucked up her C-section so she spent her 30th in the hospital; sick as a dog. Dad visited with my brothers and sister. They brought a sponge cake. It wasn’t the grandest of birthdays. Once they realised they’d left clamps inside her they opened her up again, got them out, and she recovered.

I turned 30 on a Thursday. No fanfare. No spongecake but I had my health. Over the years I’ve grown to the idea that we share a birthday together. A handful of days is all that separates them, but between us a lifetime of experience. At 30, Mum was married with 4 children of which I forever remain the youngest. When I turned 30 I was (and am) single. No kids and painfully alone.

It’s a fight. A struggle. 30 years ago though Mum was fighting in a war. She wanted out of the marriage I know, and it’d be a few more years yet until she gathered the strength for that offensive.

10 years ago I would have seen a multitude of differences between us. Not at all able of connecting the dots to see how we are alike. Today, I see a plethora of similarities that truly connect us.

In the 30 years since I was born Mum has found new purpose. Indomitable strength and vision. My first 30 years have been a muddle of soul-searching, struggles and discovering who I am. We’ve walked different paths that lead to the same destination. Thanks for being that guiding light Mum. Happy birthday to us.

It’s been nearly 6 months since Dad passed away. I think I’m fortunate that looking back now, I don’t have any regrets with how our time was spent; there’s no part of me that looks back and wishes things were different. Ultimately, everything that passed between us, every interaction and shared moment, defined and shaped our relationship and helped nurture the peace I feel now. In those last few days watching him sleep, hearing him breath, I truly loved him. I am forever grateful that he was half the reason I came to be, despite 20 years protesting it.

I think most of the issue was I only ever looked at Dad through the lens of a son. I only allowed or rather, wanted him, to exist and behave as a father alone. I refused to see him as his own man who had his own dreams, loves, passions or ambitions, instead I tried to frame him around how I perceived he failed. He was a flawed man who I held up to the flame of my ideals yet acted surprised when the image burned to cinders. In the end though, I’m glad I was there and I know he was glad too.

Despite his brain tumour constantly shredding his faculties from him, I look back on our last 10 months and can count more beautiful moments than we’d shared in the last 10 years. What struck me the most was the day I was out walking him in his wheelchair through streets from his youth and we were talking about the years I spent farming. At the time, Dad was always insistent that the life I was leading was beneath me and I ought to move home and go to university or study in some capacity to forge a more financially viable career. I reminded him of how often he used to berate me for sticking it out so long and he was stunned.

Dad said to me “did I really say all those things? I didn’t really say that to you did I?”

“Yeah mate you did, but it’s long gone now so don’t worry about it”.

“I’m sorry I said those things Nicholas, working as a farmer was the best thing that ever happened to you and I’m proud”.

Who would have known that this short exchange absolved 27 years of my angst.

I miss you mate.

Dear Nick,

I’m writing this to you from that place just over the horizon. We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. Together we make a whole. We have our differences though. You’ve got some tarnish and grime whilst I shine brightly. However, I only shine the way I do because of your sacrifice. You take all the shit and I receive the accolades. This makes you the better person than I’ll ever be. We’ll never share the same outlook. You’ll never see the world as I do but I hope someday the world looks at you the same way I do. If it’s any consolation I don’t think I’ll ever feel as alive as you do.

Thanks for not giving up yet Nick. We’re in this together.

So, Dad is dying. I’m still not sure how I feel about all of this. I’m at odds with his conduct. He’s actively emotionally manipulating people again. At a time when we should all be standing together he’s making himself the most unlovable person. Against the pity and the greed, his very real battle with cancer is being lost.

To top it off I’ve returned to feeling lonely. Although it’s hard to judge whether it’s the culmination of everything going on around me, my continuing/progressing loneliness or whether it’s just “time enough” that I have another bout with depression. This time feels particularly rough. My heart is akin to lead and I have visions of tearing the wretched thing from my chest.

Perhaps I should seek help; go back down the path of medication? I feel like it is the one thing that inhibits me. I piss so much time and energy into the wind. I’m becoming less creative over time. This is the first time I’ve actively written in months. I keep putting it off, hoping that slow-dripping saline that is my apathy will run its course and I will subsequently feel better.

But I never do.