My father drank black Maxwell House from a repurposed Big Gulp cup, the kind with afaded NASCAR logo and a plastic straw he never used. Every morning, long before theworld stirred, he’d fill it to the brim and cradle it between his knees as he drove to work. No cream. No sugar. Just heat, grit, and something close to devotion. On weekends, he used the Grumpy mug I bought him when I was twelve. We were atDisney World, sweating through July, and I picked it out with the kind of glee only achild fee...

I was awaiting my cue, with a few other clowns, when the foul smell of burning canvas infiltrated my senses. Dressed in oversized pants barely held up by my flimsy suspenders and my unshaven face covered in thick white paint. I called myself Weary Willie, a sad hobo clown with a permanent frown. I always got the short end of the stick, yet I never gave up. An important lesson my pa taught me, and one which I impressed on the children who came to the Ringling Circus.

As the small wind-up clock ticks along with the slow decline of the afternoon sun, small bursts of anxiety begin to rise within me. Nighttime, three years after acquiring PTSD, bring only those aching realities of a life lost forever. I genuinely miss my daily Xanax, who was my call me no matter what time, day or night, and I’ll be there best friend. The tiny oblong shaped pill, once placed ever so gently under my tongue, would melt into a chalky paste before I swallowed.