I must confess I now find it difficult to truly and fully relax around people who haven’t had some significant tragedy and pain in their lives. Just another one of the many things that make me a fun hang.

This is so relatable. My wife and I have had more than our share of very dark times with our kid over the years, and we were recently discussing this exact thing with another couple that has a child with serious challenges. It’s a club you don’t want to be a member of, but once you’re in, it’s difficult to relate to those who aren’t. It’s not about comparing scars (though there’s plenty of that), it’s about understanding things like this:

Why do I feel compelled to talk about it, to write about it, to disseminate information designed to make people feel something like what I feel? What my wife feels? What my other sons feel? Done properly, it will hurt them. Why do I want to hurt people? (And I do.) Did my son’s death turn me into a monster? That’s certainly possible. It doesn’t sanctify you. Things get broken. Maybe it’s because I write and perform for a living that I can’t help but try to share or communicate the biggest, most seismic event that has happened to me. The truth is, despite the death of my son, I still love people. And I genuinely believe, whether it’s true or not, that if people felt a fraction of what my family felt and still feels, they would know what this life and this world are really about.

This book is perfect. Delaney is furious and poetic and funny and honest. He’s someone I would love to spend time with. His recent discussion with Patricia Lockwood is an excellent way to spend an hour.