Spring evenings in Corvallis, Oregon, can sometimes direct my thinking towards more emotional states of being…admittedly, a breeze diffuses throughout my small, college-style apartment, and I’ve already entered a somewhat depressing mental abyss.

Missing your father, at least if you’re like me and that figure represents someone more than the one who helped conceive you, is a lot like losing your baby blanket.

The warmth of its presence helps bring your mind to relaxation; its “security” wraps you in a comfortable dream—and with short warning, if any, it’s gone.

It’s rare I write on such occasions—the ones when I could care less what people think of me, and all I need to do is say what’s attached to the forefront of my mind, my heart. Please, don’t get used to it.

But I feel no less compelled to continue. The expressing is far too addicting…

Is it okay to say, I miss my father?

Is it okay for a 22-year-old college student to say he is without complete happiness, because the thought of knowing his dad is locked away for the next 4 years eats away a part of his life?

Feel free to pass judgment.

Options are wonderful, I’ve realized. Having options makes for an easy life—I’ve had one particular option my entire life. Well, at least until April 1, 2010.

Whoever first said, “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone,” that person is my secret idol. It’s absolutely, 100% true.

My dad is gone—not forever, but still a long time—and I miss him terribly. There is no option to pick up the phone and say hello. There is no option to catch a flight last-minute just to meet him at the gate and give him a hug.

But why should I demand something normal, like having my dad around to talk to? Nothing has been “normal” in my life…nothing.

In my new life as a writer—sports journalist, future non-fiction author, or whatever—I’ve understood one thing: I connect in multiple ways to EVERYONE I meet.

Have divorced parents? I do, too.

Lived in scattered locations before you were 20? Me, too.

Had four relatives die in 2 years? Me, too.

Had a friend die because of drug overdose? Let’s start a Facebook group.

Today, I interview people. I interview A LOT of people. I’m a storyteller. Sometimes, though, it’s painful, because I realize how wonderfully fucked up my life has been. Believe me, I love my family, and I have zero regretful emotions; I’m only stating the facts.

They say, “It could always be worse.” I say that, also. Thank whoever is in charge that my dad isn’t dead or situated behind bars for life, or even “just” 20 years.

It still sucks, however, that I now add “I have a father in federal prison” to my list of oddities.