“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.
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