The Bench

The Bench.

A simple story we share, we that have loved are kin.

I invite you to find that place in your heart that resonates with love.

I invite you to my bench, as I know you have sat in a place just like it.

And I honor that journey in you.

Thank you.

I don’t say that to make you feel worse. I say it because I know you’re in it. You’ve got a black dog on a leash, and it is fighting to pull you down dark places, but you know that.

There’s fog around your heart, you wonder how people can’t see it? How can others not be infected by it? Well, I see it mate, and I’ve been there, right there where you are now.

Let me tell you a story.

It was a long time ago, years. I had just broken up with the girl I thought I was going to marry. Three years together. We had built a life, and then I realized, I just couldn’t do this anymore, could not keep being an emotional punching bag, so I left, ended it. And when it ended, it wasn’t just a relationship that fell apart. I did too.

Three years of love, plans, late-night talks—gone. I was twenty something, broke, and now since I had left, homeless. My heart was shattered, my head a mess, and I felt the dark begged to claim me, and you know what, that was just fine by me.

That day, I got off the train at some random stop—I don’t know which one, I didn’t care, I walked through city streets, no plan, just one foot in front of the other.

The city blurred past—cars honking, all of it just noise, that I ignored.

My chest ached, this hollow pain that wouldn’t quit. I walked for hours.

Streets I didn’t recognize. Stopping meant facing it all, Stopping meant the demons of my inner voice would get loud, and I wasn’t ready for that.

But all things must come to rest, me and my tired legs included.

Eventually, I stumbled across a little park—barely a park, really, a patch of grass with a couple of trees, some tired, worn kids’ play equipment, and a single bench.

It was tucked between some old brick buildings, forgotten, like me. I collapsed onto that bench, the wood cold and splintered, and sobbed, loud and ugly, tears streaking my face, letting every ounce of hurt spill out.

I didn’t care who saw. The breakup, the emptiness, the fear I’d end up on the street—it clawed at me, it screamed, ‘Was I wrong’, ‘I could take more hurt’, ‘why did I leave’, and the loudest thing it screamed.

‘We had a future together, you killed it’

I sat there, head in my hands, tears on my face, and cried. Time didn’t exist—just the weight of everything I’d lost, every dream I'd killed.

Nobody stopped. Nobody asked if I was okay. The world kept spinning, indifferent. When the tears finally dried, I didn’t feel better, just hollow—my tears traded for loneliness and the approaching dusk of the coming night, no trade-backs.

There was no epiphany, no relief—just empty. But life doesn’t wait, does it? I had to keep going. So, I stood, wiped my face, and walked back into the city, one step at a time.

Find a job, a place to live. It wasn’t hope—it was survival.

Fast forward several years, to a day that still makes me smile.

It was one of those picture-perfect mornings—blue sky, warm breeze, the kind of day that feels like a gift. I’m still twenty-something, but at the tail end of those twenties.

I’ve got a great girl, who would eventually become my wife. She’s my rock, my laugh, my home. Work’s great, great job, and my boss just gave me six free days off to sync with my new shift partners roster. Top that off, I just got my first month’s pay in my account, now, by my standard today it is a small amount, but at the time, I had never held so much money. I’m buzzing, practically dancing down the street with how great life is.

I’m headed to lunch with a mate, someone I haven’t seen in ages. The cafe’s a bit of a hike from my place—a cozy one-bedroom apartment in the city that I own—well, the bank owns most of it, but I’m stupidly proud of it—so I decide to walk. Why not?

The day’s too gorgeous to waste on a bus. I am in no rush, and as I say, I am buzzing with how great life is, oh and did I mention six free days off.

I take a shortcut through some back streets, places I don’t usually go. My playlist’s blasting something upbeat, and I’m grinning like an idiot, waving at a neighbors and randoms alike, I feel like life’s singing Ode to joy at me on high volume. Every step’s light, like I’m floating on that summer air.

Then, I turn a corner and see it—a tiny park, barely a patch of green, with a single bench under a scraggly tree, near some very old run-down kids’ play equipment.

You know how in the theatre sometimes they turn off all the house lights, turn off all the stage lights and then there is a single spotlight on the main character, or on one object on the stage? It was like that.

The world went dark, and that damn park bench took centre stage under the spotlight, everything else - faded to black.

My feet stop. My heart skipped once, twice. Holy crap. It’s that park. That bench. The one where I fell apart all those years ago. I stand there, frozen, as the memory hits like a freight train.

I hadn’t thought about that day so many years, and in one second, it all came flooding back to me, the crying, the darkness, the despair —it was all right there, vivid as yesterday.

I walk over, almost on autopilot, and sit down. It feels the same—rough, weathered, splintered —but I am different.

The bench is the same—but my world has walked on. I close my eyes and let the feelings flood in.

No shame, no hiding. Yesterday’s misery forged me, tempered me strong in tears both good and bad and my life’s laughter. I wouldn’t trade that pain for anything. My demons made me strong. I let the darkness in, showing it the light.

Back then, I was broken, lost, could have fallen apart. Now? I’m whole. I’ve got love, purpose, a future. I think about my girl, my job, the money in my pocket, about this lunch with a friend, I’m excited to swap stories of where our lives has taken us. The contrast floors me—night and day, shadow and sunlight, yin yang.

I sit there longer than I need to, soaking it in. Not just the good stuff I’m feeling, I let the darkness back in and show it to the light.

This is how far you have come I tell it. That guy sobbing on the bench so many years ago, he couldn’t imagine this life. I’ve travelled, I’ve lived, I’ve loved, and I’ve lost.

But that guy he kept walking, kept fighting, and somehow, step by step, got here. It’s like the universe was whispering, “See? You made it.”

I feel this deep, quiet gratitude— not flashy, not the words of some new age guru, “Gratitude is the Attitude” but the real thing: Those quiet whispered words that no one else need hear “Thank You” that sort of gratitude...

Yin yang, the dark makes the light seem brighter.

A breeze picks up, a car honks far away, there is the rustling of leaves in the park, and I smile. Just that a smile, something softer, something mine.

I stand, stretch, and head off to lunch, then I pause, look back at the bench, and once more say a soft, ‘Thank you’ then I step back into the day’s rhythm, music in my ears, bright and happy.

Lunch is great—laughs, old memories, good food and the perfect espresso—but I don’t tell my friend about the bench.

It’s not that kind of story, not for a casual catch-up. This story is mine.

It’s too personal, too raw, for the casual observer. It’s a treasure I keep close to the heart, tucked away in the bright parts of my soul, and sometimes where it is needed, I let it shine forth.

I’m telling you this because I know you’re in the dark, mate. I’ve sat on that bench. It’s not the end. Keep walking, one step at a time. Your bench is out there, and life’s light awaits. I’m rooting for you.

-End-