The Journey’s New Destination

"I’ve done horrible things to wonderful people. I’ve let terrible people stay living. I looked my family in the eye and told them, ‘Leave me to die, or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t.’" - Pat The Bunny (from the song, “Run from What’s Comfortable”)

I apologize for this blog briefly becoming a place to air personal grievances. Its content became unstable for a reason, but this was never meant to be a public diary. Frenetic publishing/unpublishing makes me look like a nut case. Maybe I am. I don't like labels, but I've softened my stances on many things lately. I have been forced to adjust. 

My life has been turned upside down again. I've gone through the normal range of emotions as a result. Normal. I stand firm in my assertion. My circumstances are a mess, not me. I am actually doing great, navigating a crisis I didn't create. That is how I know I am ready for my next step.

Writing over these last few months has been more than a pastime. It's been a vital part of my healing process. This really has been a journey. One of becoming. One of self-realization. My life is in complete disarray as I type this, yet I feel a relative calm...a peace I have never known. It's not at all strange to me. This is the life of a stable-minded person dealing with negative events, although I wish this hadn't happened. I'm proud of how I've handled it. Not perfect, not catastrophic. I'll take it.

I'll never be a "normie". That's not even a status I would seek. Normies ruin everything. My current situation is as strange as I am. This is where I was meant to land, I suppose. My story is far from fully written. "The Journey" (the blog) may be. I have bigger goals ahead. With that statement, I really need to slow down right now. I can take the time to smell the shit roses of another existential crisis. It's acceptable because I say it is.

The dreams I dreamt two weeks ago died a sudden, but predictable death. I'm single now. I'm technically homeless, but I have a place to stay. A wonderful place, surrounded by people I love dearly. A year ago, I was dying. I might still be, but not from death-wish drinking. I could be dying from cancer right now. The thing is though, we are all dying. The pace of the decline is the only aspect that varies when it comes to death. 

I am worried about getting my belongings out of my ex's house now. I understand that stuff is just stuff, and I can live without possessions. I shouldn’t have to. These are my personal effects. You know what? Fuck that. I'm getting my stuff. She has made everything as difficult as possible. Hopefully, it will all be over soon.

If I died tonight, it would be with the satisfaction that I came back strong and made something of my remaining time on Earth. I was written off by everyone I knew, except for one good person, who showed me the utmost compassion. She will forever hold a special place in my heart.

To anyone out there who is unsatisfied with their current self: please commit to changing now, before it’s too late. I'm not being morbid. I didn't know these would be my circumstances last week. What I do know is that I'm on good terms with me. Sure, I got knocked off my game for a few days, but I stayed solid when it counted. I always bounce back, much to the chagrin of some vindictive assholes I know. 

I'm nothing special, just a regular human being who chose to create a better life, out of the ruins of the former one. Don't mistake what I share as self-aggrandizement. My writing serves a different, more important purpose for me. Uninteresting people brag about themselves. Authenticity stands on its own two feet.

In the past, I would have...(rant incoming)

I feel like trash for posting about my personal life in detail a few days ago. It was a cPTSD response to something quite terrible that was done to me. I unpublished that post because it became vindictive, not just on my end. In my defense, I actually am trash. Call me that if you'd like because I can't defend myself against it. I have some unique qualities, but overall, I'm pretty much an average shitbag. Probably below average, in fact. At least I know who and what I am, which is more than I can say for some.

I’m an accused felon right now. I wouldn't be vulnerable to incarceration based on fabricated (exactly what my ex threatened) hearsay if I were an angel. Maybe I'm guilty of riding a high horse for a while. On a journey of self-awareness, an honest man calls himself out. In many ways, I am what the public record says I am. There is no denying it, I am a shitbag. There I was, trying so hard to improve my image. It was all wasted time and energy. My newfound peace is internal. Externally, I'd rather go completely unnoticed as a person from now on. 

I can't change the past or other people. What I can do is change myself in the present tense. I'll continue trying. There have been successes, but I'm a total failure in most other respects. But, even as I sit in the deepest despair (maybe ever), I'm dealing with my current heartbreak differently. When the smoke clears, I’m going to be just fine, shitbag or not.

Recovery from addiction has little to do with the substance itself. Neither in my opinion nor experience, has it ever been that way. For me, the substance was a factor, the use was a symptom, but my way of life in general was always the disease. I refuse to live that way, ever again. 

Should I blame credentialed professionals for not “figuring me out” when I was younger? I'm not sure what good it would do me. I don't fully blame anyone, even myself, but I don't feel guilty throwing shade on some credentialed practices that have failed me miserably throughout my life either. I paid money for that experience of pervasive ineptitude. My criticisms are made at my discretion. 

The services I received were ineffective, both in addiction and mental health treatment. For-profit bullshit, cookie-cutter, sausage-making treatment is just that- complete bullshit. It's just trash care to satisfy some government letter agency quota. Recipients always get blamed for piss poor efficacy. That needs to change if society is really serious about "wellness". It’s not. That’s why these methods will continue to fail on a grand scale.

This time around, I didn't believe any hype. Instead, I worked my own self-directed program, tailored specifically to me, by me. This was done within the confines of what was mandatory, plus a hundred times more hours alone, which was purely self-directed. I'm playing to win, not just merely comply.

People get into human service fields because they want to help others. I don't doubt their original motivations. The system is fucked, not the practitioners, unless we're referring to psychiatrists. They're fucked. What's worse is, they know exactly what they're doing. I've met one, halfway decent shrink, in 20 years. The others (at least a dozen or more) knowingly poisoned me with impunity, with no improvement to my mental state. Only harm was ever done to me by psychiatrists. 

What has helped me is writing, reconnecting to my music, and some wonderful people who provide peer services for both mental health and addiction/SUD (I prefer the latter term). Peers are the true heroes in these fields. I don't give out endorsements flippantly. I'm sure I've been a pain in the ass to some peer-professionals. Hopefully, they know how big of a difference they have made in my recovery, one person in particular. It's still far from the end of the line for me. My services are ongoing. 

This may be the last post to “The Journey” though, for that and many other reasons, so I'm endorsing peer practices now, in case that’s a final decision. Lived experience > book learning. Always. 

Pattern Recognition

I’ve been tossed on the street by domestic partners many times. It’s how the majority of my relationships end. My pattern is to be kicked out of whatever domicile I'm holed up in (usually for very minor "offenses") repeatedly. Next, I go through horrible hardships (use your imagination). Then I run right back into the flames, by invitation only, of course. And, I’ll do this over and over with a partner. Eventually, I’ll leave on my own accord. Usually, I shack up with someone else immediately. Where my fellow shitbags at (holla)? Yeah...I'm no fucking prize. At the very least, I'm being honest, if it matters. 

Psych wards and homelessness are almost always part of the equation with my breakups. Alcohol abuse is all but guaranteed. My last couple of incidents have ended in arrest. If there were any true justice in this world, I’d be dead. Sometimes, I despise the injustice of being alive. That’s real too. 

I cannot dwell in that headspace. Though my survival instinct may be strong, my desire is to level up from survival mode. Sadly, I have lowered my expectations again. I don't really know shit about a better life. Who am I kidding? Probably, only myself.

Things truly are different this time though. I’m breaking the cycle, once and for all. My circumstances are the same old shit. Specifics are unimportant to my story. Today, my reaction and my plan to move forward are much different than past events would suggest. 

Make no mistake, my heart really is broken, but not beyond repair. I won't make stupid choices…well, not the obvious ones anyway. Healing is still my goal. When I look at myself realistically, I honestly believe I have a lot to offer the right romantic partner. I don’t know if she exists. This breakup is not my fault. I gave the relationship everything I had, probably way more than I should have.

I am too old for this shit!

Judging by the way I’m feeling physically, I need to do things the right way for my own survival, whatever that might entail a week from now and/or beyond. My pattern of self-destruction ends now. I just can’t be a ridiculous person anymore- I don’t even want to. I quit, without notice. 

No need to repeat my sobriety story to anyone who reads my blog regularly (both of you). I got clean in early October 2023, and I haven’t looked back. No cravings, no romanticism, no positive nostalgia. I have learned to appreciate the sting of clear-minded suffering. I’d rather not suffer at all, but I expect to always, because it’s really all I know. You can either hate your life and whine about it, or you can embrace it and deal. I’m dealing.

I’m a very sensitive person, yet still not completely hardened by life. If anything, I remain idealistic. That’s probably dumb on my part. I choose to stay positive regardless. I’ll run on spite when positivity falters, and it certainly will. Whatever it takes, I’m not breaking.

Since last October, I have faced more major hardships than I could ever have imagined living through, especially in a weakened state. I fought for this life of absurdity. My continued sobriety would be considered statistically improbable. So was my living past age 32. I’m 50. Fuck statistics. They don’t apply to me.

I have run the full gauntlet of emotions over these past few days. I wouldn’t change that, even if given a choice. Pain is meant to be felt. It’s something I actually consider a privilege, considering the alternatives. What would you do (rhetorical)?

I reject the concept of numbing emotional pain with any substance, prescribed or not. It doesn't work for me. I really don’t see that “working” for many people. It’s never a long-term fix. For me, it’s preferable to face my shit when it happens. 

I found out I had cancer in December of last year. Then, I had major surgery to (hopefully) remove it in February. I discovered that I have brain damage from psych poisons along the way, and was finally referred to a neurologist to begin assessing the damage.

While recovering from surgery/cancer, I’ve been forced to live a street life during the 9 to 5 work week, for the convenience of a life partner who promised to care about me, but didn’t. Last week we split for good. I’m deeply saddened. That makes one of us. What we had was not what I define as loving, so I decided to cut my losses. It was a toxic relationship, but it still hurt to end it.

I was put in a position where separating from the person I believed would be my “happily ever after” was the only option. I will offer up no further details about any of it at this time, or any time. I’m not misusing this blog in that way again. If I continue posting, I'll discover even dumber ways to misuse the platform. 

I’ve been on Drug Court since early December. That's the same amount of time I've known I have cancer. If I had relapsed, I wouldn’t be typing. I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to be quiet while my granddaughter sleeps. I wouldn't have my daughter and son-in-law sitting near me on the same sectional couch. I’m staying with them for now.

They picked me up last Tuesday in Watertown. My daughter insisted. My stubborn ass was willing to be homeless until I figured things out in my life. It wouldn’t be the first time I've been unhoused, of course. There have been many others, always due to bad breakups. Some people are slow learners, I guess. 

The difference is that it would have been the first time I became homeless while dealing with cancer, or without any significant provocation on my end (I'm being incredibly generous in making that statement) to initiate the break up. I don’t ask people for favors. With that said, I’m incredibly grateful to be in this space. They rescued me. Yeah...rescued. Was it life or death? What do you think (also rhetorical)?

Considering the circumstances, the fact that I’ve stayed the course with my sobriety and mental stability, when I have failed so miserably to do so in similar situations, so many times in the past, says a whole lot about me and who I’ve become. My actions speak for themselves. Perhaps, I need to stop posting as much negative shit about myself. Don’t bet on it. 

I can celebrate my victories in silence, which would defeat the purpose of this blog, wouldn’t it? I'm just sick of sharing my stories right now. I’m more tired of having shitty things to fucking share! Sick and tired.

Everyone in my life thought that tapering off psych meds was a bad move. It wasn’t. It was just as important as putting down the booze. Still, being forced to hit the ground running like this makes me look insane and unstable to others. I know I’m being doubted right now, over some bullshit someone else did. I encourage that doubt. Tell me what I supposedly can’t do, move your ass out of my way, and watch me achieve what it is you believe is impossible. I have a history of doing that, too. 

People have already pissed me off with their half-cocked assumptions. I’ve ceased caring about opinions, stopped taking unsolicited advice, and I’m definitely done trying to sell myself as a good person in my writing. Think what you want. It's not my problem. It’s not even my business to know about it.

Moving Forward (another rant):

I wasn’t ever trying to sell myself as a “good person” by writing about my accomplishments. I can see how that could be misconstrued though. I was just proud of what I was doing, and still am. No matter what I do, I’m still going to be a shitbag in the minds of most of the people I know. Good. That removes a lot of pressure. 

I’m certainly not a good person. I’m just some idiot who hasn’t died from his own foolishness, yet. Nine months is not enough clean time to inspire anyone else in recovery. Every negative event in my life is going to make me look unstable, especially when analyzed by small minds. I need to accept this. I’ve been trying too hard to rebrand myself. Would Charles Bukowski do that? No. He never did. If I am a shitbag, so what? My image is unimportant to me. Most people are shitty in their own unique way. You probably are too. 

What matters to me is how I’m perceived in this living room, and in the house right across the street, where my other two children reside with their mom. There are deep wounds to heal and I have much love to give. That will be what winning looks like to me as a person now. My attempt at image repair feels worthless and empty now. I don't care about any of that anymore. I also don’t need attention, nor do I seek it.

One thing is certain, I’m definitely not done writing. This blog has been like a clinic. The subject matter is less important than the quality of the content. I’ve received welcome praise for it from people whose opinions I respect (some are writers). The praise has not just been for this blog, but also my poetry. I share that elsewhere. Most of what I have written hasn’t been shared with anyone, yet.

Those who follow my music career have told me I'm writing my best stuff now, at age 50. I have (almost) a full album of new music composed right now. I’ll finish up by restating that I’ve been busy and the feedback has been positive. I receive much more praise for my music from strangers in far off places than I do from people I actually know. Makes sense. They don't carry the bias of knowing the full extent of my shitbaggery. They only know my art. 

Me "the person" is a product I couldn’t give away, much less sell. No one wants a roughly used, barely functional, decrepit old shitbag like me around, unless we are close friends, or you get paid to listen to me (probably not enough). I’m over that sales pitch nonsense. Know me through my art or don’t know me at all. You have choices. Free will is real. 

My focus is shifting to recording new music and more structured writing. Maybe, I’ll try my hand at writing books, which was the goal all along. We’ll see if I’m ready. Writing books and music production are projects that will allow me to live a more reclusive life. That’s what I really want: solitude. 

Drug Court requires me to live a far more public life than I currently desire. Hopefully, there is an end in sight. Other than my children, my granddaughter, and less than a handful of friends and family, I just want to be left the hell alone.

What does this mean for “The Journey”? I can’t say. I don’t want to make any bold declarations at this time. I’ll just thank everyone for reading my posts tonight. Tomorrow is going to be stressful.

I don’t have anything to more to prove to anyone, other than the loved ones I've mentioned, and myself. Don’t be like me. Inspire your damn self! Inspiration is not my job. It never was. Take care.

“The Aftermath: A Breakup Story”

“If we could stay one inch this side of dying, the most terrible things we can imagine can happen.” - Pat The Bunny, from the song, “Run from What’s Comfortable”

When I woke from anesthesia after cancer surgery on February 15th of this year, I felt I had experienced a true spiritual awakening. I promised myself I would live my life with a profound purpose. I immediately longed for the presence of one person. I referred to her as "my girl". 

It’s not quite 4:00 AM in the morning on June 24, 2024. I am staying the night at my friends’ home. They are really good people. I don’t have a home. The person I longed for after surgery is no longer in my life, and the purpose I believed in no longer exists. Did I really have an awakening? Maybe it was just the anesthesia. 

Everything I’ve previously written for this blog is factual, other than my past perceptions of her. Since my my misplaced affections have been a driving force for my progress, it’s become difficult to differentiate between fantasy and reality. Those were my feelings, based on my understanding of us at the time. Everything can change in an instant. It isn’t the first time. 

My love for her helped me heal, to push myself, and to be a better person. I am better. It's undeniable. Once again, my overthinking mind attempts to explain events, feelings, energies, and overall intentions that are not my own. My love was not reciprocated. She isn't capable of loving me.

I will give myself some credit for my intellectual capacity. Taking credit is important to my survival right now. I'm not being arrogant. I need to remember my positive traits in this new reality. 

If I look at myself “on paper”, it’s possible for me to apply certain labels that will be self-defeating moving forward. I need to remember who I really am as I face theft potentially awful circumstances I would have unbearable and insurmountable just a few weeks ago. Is anything truly unbearable though?  I haven’t survived every possible hardship yet. Something will kill me eventually. 

If I still have a purpose, it is nothing close to my beliefs just a week ago. In February, I honestly believed we’d be planning a wedding for this summer. To be awake at 4:00 AM, not knowing what could happen just a few hours from now, newly single, and homeless is a long way from celebratory matrimony. Now I’m being offered help by others to remove my personal belongings from a place I had grown to call "home".

At 10:00 AM I go in front of the Judge at Drug Court.  My fate is in his hands. I have navigated the Drug Court program very well, up to this point. My variables have completely changed. I don’t have a plan. I need to know my options. I’m not on the street yet, but my ability to complete the program is very much in jeopardy. It has absolutely nothing to do with maintaining sobriety. Compliance depends on many other factors, none of which I have control over. I can control is my sobriety, which I have held strong to,  even in the worst of times. It’s not even something I worry about. Relapse isn’t happening.

During the year I have endured, the near-death experiences I’ve survived, the odds I have already beaten, and the strength I had to muster just to keep moving forward, I was able to transform myself into a completely different human being. I was trying to create a peaceful future for myself. For us.

My train could be completely derailed this morning. I will advocate for autonomy in figuring out my own life. I’m nothing special. Plenty of people live lives of suffering. Is that my true purpose? To suffer? I don’t know the answer. 

I don’t think my “best effort” was all that great anymore. I left myself vulnerable. I could blame her for everything that has transpired, but that might be delusional thinking. In the interest of self-awareness, I gave her the power to destroy me. She used that power when I trusted her not to. I have trust issues in reverse. I I bet on the wrong people. 

On Saturday, I wrote a journal entry about her abusive behavior over the last few days. Circumstances would become far worse after the entry. I’ve made the decision not to publicize that piece.

Writing is cathartic. It extracts ideas from my subconscious in real-time. Through that process, I realized that everything I believed about her was fabricated in my mind. She was never the character I imagined in my story. I began chronicling episodes of mental abuse a few months ago. There have been several major ones. One occurred the day before my surgery. Valentines Day. I can forgive and forget quickly sometimes. It’s a shitty coping mechanism. 

My February 14th journal entry stated that I wished to die on the operating table the following day. Was the spiritual awakening I experienced just the anesthesia? If so, it doesn’t erase my amazing progress. I just don’t know if I can build on it now. My love for her was basically a placebo effect…unreciprocated.

The partner I created in my mind was fictional. She isn't to blame for my misinterpretations. Not completely. I put her on a pedestal. She’s a real person with deep flaws. So am I. Regardless of the fate I’m about to suffer, it was I who constructed a house of cards on a foundation of shit.

I created a person in my mind who isn’t real. I’ve done this before. It’s a "Shawn" problem. This isn't even the first time I have gotten healthy, only to realize that my environment and my partner were toxic. I jumped from my last damaging relationship to cohabiting with her, without a gap. I now see that as a huge mistake. The epiphany was only 6 years too late.

She came into my life at a time when I thought I needed saving. I wanted to believe in something or anything so badly. I applied the fantasy elements to fill the gaps in the new story I was creating. That's what religious people do. I wasn’t well. New relationship energy doesn’t fix or save people. You are what you bring to the table. She exploited my vulnerability, but I didn’t give her my best self either. I was trying to be that person when I was unceremoniously dumped on the side of the street. 

The entire relationship was just another act of self-sabotage in a long line. How many times in life can I set myself up to fail? I feel like my head might explode. I don’t have time to manifest that glorious end right now (human spontaneous combustion). It was my choice to continue building on that foundation of fantasy. That is largely my fault. I’ve done shit like this in almost all of my long-term relationships.

It is never the fault of others for being who they are, rather than the person I imagined them as. The blame is my own. I referred to myself as codependent for the first time in my last journal entry on Saturday. I have been codependent since my teenage years. I can’t fix that now. I’m too old. To protect myself (no one else can), maybe I need to avoid relationships entirely. I'm probably incapable of being healthy and whole in a romantic partnership. 

I have already begun to forgive her. This is a loss I will mourn, possibly forever. Reconciliation is not a possibility, but I made her a piece of me. Survival now depends on my acceptance of what’s real 

Perhaps I can shift my focus to other goals. I have fences to mend with my children. I have a granddaughter who inspires me to continue living a respectable life. I know I will suffer greatly now. I don’t have a clue how to proceed. I don’t even know how to navigate life after today. The judge gets to decide that. I'll stand humble. What other choice do I have? 

I refuse to believe that my transformation has been for nothing. I skipped important steps in the process. In my defense, I felt pressured to change at an unnatural pace. The possibility of imminent death was my motivation for rapid growth. At the time, I really did need the fictional character to help me through. Now I must backtrack. The growth is real. The foundation needs restructuring. I don’t even know if I’m in remission from kidney cancer. This is madness

I need to slow the fuck down. I’m skipping steps and it’s costing me dearly. I guess it's back to basics. I only need to survive today. Tomorrow, I might be dead. I don’t wish for that to happen.

When I write, I try not to make generalizations. My statements apply to myself only. Our relationship is not a temptation I can entertain any more than I can sanely romanticize alcohol. 

Fuck. I’m not even tempted by alcohol anymore. I can’t invite the relationship into my life again either. It would likely prove equally as perilous. Obviously, by admitting to having a drinking problem, I’m also stating clearly that I was anything but an ideal partner to her.

This is not about grandiosity. I was good enough for her to beg for reconciliation during a split last year though, wasn't I? Abusive I was not. Ever. She knows that, despite the bullshit she spews to anyone who will listen. 

I don’t really value therapy and I definitely don’t have any faith in psychiatry. I can trust certain family members and friends. The support from others during this time is greatly appreciated. It’s been more than I ever could have expected. I’ve learned to expect nothing. If I focus only on the negatives, I will be ignoring the positive aspects of life. I can’t allow that. Unrequited love doesn’t erase the periphery. I’m grateful for my circle. 

For me, any kind of faith is dangerous, even faith in myself. Faith has only ever caused me pain. Trust is my absolute pinnacle and I need to make people earn it. I’m cautiously learning to trust myself, even during major setbacks. If my purpose is to suffer, I may just have to learn to love suffering. It makes for a good story, I guess. I’d love to thrive though. Maybe I’m too far gone. 

Perhaps I lack the ability to be happy and am designed and programmed to just to take punches and never fight back. I’m really good at it. 

Not long ago, I sat in a support group while a young man was struggling through his own relationship insecurities.  He was 27 and had only been intimate with a woman once. As I listened, I believed that I could offer him some insight. Me! I am 50 years old with a ton of relationship experience…

Like me, he was able to give himself praise for his intellect. He spoke articulately. I had the gall to blabber to him about “emotional intelligence” vs intellect. I’m an emotional fucktard. I hope he picked up on that and didn’t glean anything from my words. I was full of shit and didn’t even know it. That guy has his own apartment. I’d trade places with him in a second. He doesn’t know how good he has it. 

A big component of my healing process has been uncovering what I don’t know, unlearning falsehoods, and realizing that asking the right questions is more important than finding answers. If I had embarked on this process when I was younger, maybe I could have led a decent life. The majority of my existence has been spent in survival mode. 

I fully participated in therapy for 20+ years. Maybe therapists are required to surrender any insight about the human condition when they apply for credentialing. My experience would suggest this to be true. If I gave advice (I don't), I'd suggest surrounding yourself with people who truly care about what happens to you. Most therapists will gladly take your money and attempt to accomplish what a trusted friend would do for free. I don’t blame therapists as individuals. They work within a profit-driven system, ultimately designed to sell pills. 

My life has not been completely miserable. There have been amazing experiences, but I have never known stability. Lifelong, active addiction is not my story either, unless dumbfucks who falsely claim to know me are telling the story.

As an adult, I’ve been sober more than in active use. My real problem is that I’ve never gotten to know myself. I’m taking the time now, as an old man. It's probably too late for it to matter.

I chose a good title for this blog, “The Journey”. Its meaning has changed slightly. A lot of what is stated in my previous posts seems stupid now. I have made real discoveries in past posts, even while ignoring the obvious. I guess all journeys are like that. You get lost a lot.

I was born in 1973, which means I played “Oregon Trail” on an Apple IIe at Glenfield Elementary while attending 5th grade. That should have taught me some life lessons. I was too busy being fascinated by my female classmates (especially the ones with boobs) to learn the lessons that the game taught. At least I haven’t died from dysentery in Iowa…yet.