The story thus far

48 years 3 months 3 days – no this isn’t a song from the musical RENT, it’s how old I am.

Lately, I’ve been going through a bunch of old writings and realized I was trying to be some sort of guru and spiritualist, knowing nothing, really. And I see it a lot nowadays. People who have no training, no control over their lives becoming some kind of spiritual healer because it’s a distraction from healing the self. So, I’m not doing that anymore. I’m just going to share what I know, which isn’t a lot, what I’m dealing with, which is a lot (but everything is relative, right?), and if you find some nugget of inspiration to do anything positive, well that’s just lovely. Let me know if you do.

I am currently on the other side of a divorce. And then more recently on the other side of the end of a relationship with the woman whom I had an affair with that helped me get out of that marriage because, if we’re being honest, I didn’t have the courage to do it myself. I also have a tendency, for better or for worse, to “burn my boats”. It has always been this way, but I don’t think it needs to be that way. I’ll add that to the list of things I need to figure out.

I’ve always fancied myself a writer. Most of my writing was silly, weird, sometimes serious…did I mention weird? (Sorry for the ellipsis, I’ll try and keep them to…a minimum). There was a lot of fear around whether it was “good” or not, which is subjective, I know, but try telling ME that. This is a theme that will come up quite often: is it good? Am I good? My now ex-wife, upon finding out the pottermore.com put me in Slytherin said “I knew that when I met you.” How sweet. Avada Ked— aww, never mind. It probably won’t work.

I know we’re calling this thing a “blog”, but it’s really a “bliary” (web diary), because I just want to track my state and doing it with an audience will be fun. A few summers ago (most likely 2019) I was low, like really low. I don’t know if I could have hurt myself, but I thought about it. I was hoping someone would come by while I was out on a run and just beat the shit out of my. I would often get a bought of George Bailey Syndrome: the idea that everyone would be better off if I hadn’t been born (If you’re not familiar, go watch It’s a Wonderful Life).

Tears streamed down my face as I contemplated checking myself into the Emergency Room. I had no one. I was in the middle of a separation, I felt so guilty about being in a relationship with the woman whom I had had the affair with, my dad had just died and left a rift in our family to do money and inheritance — I quite literally had no one except a 9 year old girl that I needed to be whole for. At least I needed to be whole in front of her. In the end, I decided to call my doctor who, because he’s awesome, got on the phone with me right away.

My doctor is very conservative when it comes to medication. He’s more of a get some exercise and eat a damn vegetable sort of guy. When he told me that I’d probably benefit from an anti-depressant, I knew that I had done the right thing. I should have done it years ago. It’s terribly disappointing living with a person who works in the mental health field for 20 years, who never once suggested it. At that moment, there was such relief – just relief that I was getting help that was long overdue, and much needed.

There was an impetus to all of this that had happened several months prior to all of the events that I’ve recounted. It involved a fight, a therapist, and a psychiatrist. And it changed my life forever.

[Note: to my plethora of friends who are writers, grammar enthusiasts, spelling hard-asses — know this: I don’t care. Unless something written is an egregious mistake that could be construed as something else, or I have mis-remembered a fact, keep it to yourself. I’m not editing this, because if I do, then I feel like I won’t tell the story and get lost in the mire of correctness. But thank you, all the same. 🙂 ]