The Agony of Biggie

The Agony of Biggie: A Story of Despair and Silent Tears

Biggie sat on the edge of the worn-out couch, his head heavy with the weight of a thousand regrets. Tyron, his one-year-old son, giggled as he tugged at his father’s shoelaces, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside the man who held him. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional hum of the refrigerator—a broken relic that barely kept the milk from spoiling. Biggie’s phone buzzed—another rejection email. "We regret to inform you…" The words blurred as his eyes welled up. How many applications had he sent? Fifty? A hundred? Each one a silent plea for salvation, each rejection a nail in the coffin of his dignity.

His wife, Shanice, had left for her pharmacy internship hours ago, but her words still echoed in the cramped space: "You’re a grown man, Biggie! Get a damn job or get out!" Her sisters, Keisha and Tanya, only made it worse. Every family gathering was a tribunal where they dissected his failures—"You had potential," Keisha would sneer, "but look at you now—a broke babysitter." Tanya, the louder of the two, would laugh, "Forensic science degree my ass. Should’ve been a plumber!" Even his old friends had slowly drifted away, tired of his depression, tired of the energy it took to pretend he wasn’t drowning.

The part-time academic writing gig paid pennies—enough to buy diapers one week, then nothing the next. His parents back in Alabama needed help, but how could he send money when he couldn’t even afford a Happy Meal for himself? Football, once his escape, now felt like a distant dream. His cleats gathered dust in the closet, his muscles stiff from lack of training. The few times he tried to jog in the park, exhaustion and shame dragged him back inside.

And now, Tyron’s birthday loomed like a deadline for his failure. No cake, no gifts, no stupid little party hats from the dollar store. Just another day where his son deserved the world, and Biggie couldn’t even give him a new onesie. The weight pressed down until his breath came in ragged gasps. Some nights, he’d lock himself in the bathroom, muffling his sobs with a towel, wondering if Tyron would be better off without him. Maybe Shanice was right—maybe he was just dead weight. The thought of ending it all whispered in his ear, a dark comfort. Just one step in front of a train. One pull of a trigger. One deep cut—and no more pain.

But then Tyron would babble his name—"Dada!"—and Biggie’s heart would shatter all over again. How could he leave this innocent soul behind? How could he let his son grow up with the same wounds he carried? The cycle had to break. But how?

Advice for Biggie: A Path Through the Storm

Biggie, your pain is real, and your struggle is valid—but you are not alone. First, prioritize your mental health. Depression is a silent killer, and you need support. Reach out to free community mental health services or hotlines. Talking helps. Second, lean on any positive connections. Even if old friends distanced themselves, someone out there cares. Reconnect with a mentor, a former coach, or a cousin who gets it. Third, explore alternative job avenues. Your forensic science degree is valuable—look into remote crime lab assistant roles, entry-level lab tech jobs, or even tutoring in science. Temporary gigs like delivery driving or warehouse work can bring quick cash while you search.

For Tyron’s birthday, remember: love outweighs money. A handwritten letter for him to read when he’s older, a day at the park, or a homemade toy can mean more than store-bought gifts. Lastly, communicate with Shanice. If she’s open, suggest counseling. If not, focus on securing your independence—for you and Tyron.

You are more than your struggles. The fact that you cry shows you care deeply. That love is your strength. Keep fighting—one day, one breath at a time. The world needs you here. Tyron needs you here. You deserve to see brighter days.

NB: based on a true story, advise on the comment section and any help will be appreciatted.