It Doesn’t Matter Anymore: A Lament

It Doesn’t Matter Anymore: A Lament

3 Part Series        Part 1        Part 2            Part 3

There are some wounds that don’t stop bleeding just because time passes. People tell me to “let go,” to “move forward,” to “focus on the future.” And maybe one day I’ll learn how. But right now? I’m still standing in the middle of the wreckage, looking at the pieces of my family scattered everywhere, wondering how the hell I let it get this bad.

Buddy Holly sings, “You go your way, I’ll go mine, now and forever till the end of time.”
I used to hear that as a breakup line. Lately it sounds a lot more like a eulogy for the family I used to have.

The truth is: I miss my kids in a way that physically hurts. I miss the version of myself that used to read them bedtime stories without wondering whether I deserved to be their father. I miss my oldest daughter most of all — and the silence between us feels like its own kind of punishment. I caused it. I know I did. And I hate myself for it.

I made a shitty decision, and it cost me more than I ever imagined. People can argue consequences, justice, accountability — that’s fine. But none of that changes the fact that my kids paid a bill they never owed. They’re still paying it.

And every time I try to reach out, try to repair something, try to show them I’m not the same man who fell apart… it doesn’t land. It doesn’t stick. It doesn’t fix a damn thing.

Buddy Holly’s line keeps looping in my head:
“I’ve thrown away my nights and wasted all of my days over you.”
That’s how it feels — like I wasted years of their childhood while I was trapped in my own chaos.

Sometimes I think about the day I saw my kids again for the first time after everything collapsed. I remember the train ride back to the shelter — sitting with a plastic bag of paperwork and a hollowed-out chest, realizing I was trying to rebuild my life from absolute zero. I remember staring out the window, trying not to cry, because the other passengers didn’t need to see some broken man falling apart between stations.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I keep coming back to a verse that feels like it was written for someone exactly in my shoes:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
I don’t always feel close to God, but that verse keeps me from completely giving up on myself when I’m drowning in guilt and regret.

What I didn’t realize back then is that rebuilding your life is one thing — rebuilding trust with your own children is another beast entirely.

My second-oldest wants to stay home more now. She’s tired, she’s busy, she’s growing up. And I get it. I really do. But part of me still wonders if she’s quietly pulling away, if being with me feels like a burden she’s too polite to name. It’s been more than a month since I’ve seen them. A month feels like a year when you’re counting the distance not in time, but in heartbeats.

And then there’s the neighbourhood — the shame of being recognized, the fear of eyes on me, the leftover stench of old publicity dragging behind me like a shadow. I avoid going outside sometimes. I stay tucked away like a ghost in my own life, because facing the world feels like asking to be judged again.

Buddy Holly sings, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
I wish I could believe that. I wish I could shrug, breathe out, and release all the guilt, all the judgment, all the weight.

But it does matter. It matters every single day.
It matters every time I wake up alone in an apartment that my kids can’t comfortably stay in.
It matters every time I check my phone hoping for a message that isn’t coming.
It matters every time I look in the mirror and see a man trying so hard to be better than the ghost he used to be.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to say, “It doesn’t matter anymore,” and mean it.
But today isn’t that day.

Today, it matters.
And maybe admitting that is the first step toward becoming the father I should have been all along.

**Please note, unless otherwise stated, all images on this site are AI generated and do not resemble any real persons(s). Any resemblance to any person or place is purely coincidental.**