It’s 4:30 am, and the alarm rings loud; you jump out of bed and try to clear your head.

Time goes by as you sit, ponder and think about the times that have gone by. Tears well, the memories are hard. You think of your family and not your paternal family, but your family forged through hard times, good times and the times you could wish you’d forget.

You make your way to the kitchen, grab the coffee, mug and boil the jug. You pour the rum, mix the coffee for its time for your gunfire breakfast.

The pain gets harder; you try to numb it; the only way you know is to drink and swallow pills. Slowly the pain fades, but it’s only temporary.

You know you have mates, brothers and sisters who you can talk to and confide to, but you still feel like the emptiest and loneliest person alive.

You look up, a blazer, neatly placed with pieces of tin, they represent the past, you think, how? Why? When will it end?

Anzac Day for so many veterans is a fucking lonely day. If you know a veteran, reach out to them, ask them how they are going, sit down with them, take them out for a catch-up; you never know, that little interaction may save someone’s life.