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Why This Exists

I built this Life Operating System to answer one simple question:

What is reality trying to teach me today?

For years, I believed my job was to eliminate pain, avoid mistakes, control outcomes, and find the one thing that would finally fix my life.

None of those approaches worked.

What finally changed my life was learning to observe reality more honestly.

Not to judge it. Not to control it. Not to immediately fix it.

Simply to see it.

Over time, I discovered that reality is constantly offering lessons, information, feedback, and opportunities for growth.

My job is not to know everything. My job is to pay attention.

How Reality Works

Foundational Assumptions

Anything you can observe becomes something you can learn from.

Anything you refuse to observe becomes difficult to learn from.

Reality is constantly providing information.

Emotions provide information. Patterns provide information. Relationships provide information.

Success provides information. Failure provides information.

Emotions Are Information

For much of my life, I treated emotions as problems to solve.

If I felt fear, I wanted to eliminate it. If I felt sadness, I wanted to escape it. If I felt grief, loneliness, anger, or uncertainty, I assumed something had gone wrong.

Experience taught me otherwise.

My emotions are not problems to solve. My problems are problems to solve.

Emotions help me see what matters.

Emotions provide information about what I value, what I fear, what I desire, what I need, and where my attention may be required.

They are evidence. They are signals. They are part of reality.

The goal is not to suppress emotions. The goal is not to obey emotions.

The goal is to remain present long enough to learn from them.

Emotions are meant to be felt.

Why Observation Matters

My experiences are not “apart from” life. They are a part of life.

They are reflections of reality.

The more honestly I observe reality, the more opportunities I have to learn from it.

How I Learn

The Three Core Practices

1. See What’s Here Today

Observe reality as it exists right now.

Not as I wish it were. Not as I fear it is.

Not as I think it should be.

Simply as it is.

My job is to observe what is actually here today.

2. Recognize Repeating Patterns

One experience is an event. Repeated experiences are patterns.

Patterns reveal how reality works. Patterns reveal how I work.

Patterns reveal where growth is possible.

3. Write Down What I Discover

Insight fades. Written insight remains.

Writing transforms observations into understanding.

Writing helps me remember what reality has already taught me.

How I Participate

Guiding Values

Stay Connected

Stay connected to God. Stay connected to myself. Stay connected to others.

Isolation distorts reality. Connection helps me see clearly.

Agency Is Sacred

No one can become who they are meant to become through coercion.

Growth requires choice. Learning requires choice. Meaning requires choice.

Without agency, there is no growth. There is only obedience.

Create the Conditions; Let People Discover Truth

My responsibility is not to control outcomes.

My responsibility is to create conditions where discovery becomes possible.

People deserve the dignity of arriving at truth for themselves.

Let Me Go First

If I want honesty, I should practice honesty. If I want courage, I should practice courage. If I want vulnerability, I should practice vulnerability.

I cannot ask others to go places I am unwilling to go myself.

I Won’t Know Until I Try

Reality is the final authority.

Speculation has limits. Fear has limits. Certainty has limits.

Experience reveals what thought alone cannot.

I Already Have Enough

My worth is not waiting somewhere in the future.

My life does not begin after I achieve some external milestone.

I already possess enough value to participate fully in life today.

I Am Already Okay, and I Still Want to Grow

Acceptance and growth are not opposites. I do not need to hate who I am in order to become more.

I can appreciate where I am while still moving toward where I want to go.

The Goal

The goal is not perfection. The goal is not certainty. The goal is not getting everything right.

The goal is to participate fully in life — to remain present with whatever reality presents to me.

To remain connected to myself, even when reality hurts.

To show up. To engage with reality as it is.

To remain present long enough to learn.

To observe honestly. To recognize patterns.

To make increasingly conscious choices.

To stay connected.

To keep participating, even when life is difficult, uncertain, or uncomfortable.

And to keep asking:

What is reality trying to teach me today?

All my life,

There have been two different Michaels:

Happy Fun Michael,

and

What Is Wrong With Me Michael?

Happy Fun Michael sees life as something to be enjoyed, and experienced, and shared with people who he loves.

What Is Wrong With Me Michael believes he’s not allowed to enjoy life, or experience anything fun or happy — and he’s certainly not allowed to share life with anybody else. He messed up too many times for anybody to want to know him.

What Is Wrong With Me Michael sees every encounter as a threat. Life keeps hurting him, and he’s already been hurt enough.

Happy Fun Michael is lonely, though. He doesn’t like being alone. He doesn’t like What Is Wrong With Me Michael interfering with his efforts to participate in life.

Happy Fun Michael hates What Is Wrong With Me Michael and wants him to go away!

But Happy Fun Michael doesn’t know that when he says things like that, it makes What Is Wrong With Me Michael feel unwanted and unlovable.

And What Is Wrong With Me Michael isn’t trying to be the bad guy. He just wants someone to notice that he’s hurting, and afraid, and show him it’s okay to be hurting, and afraid. He’s been trying to tell Happy Fun Michael for decades!

And Happy Fun Michael doesn’t want to listen, because he doesn’t want to be poisoned by What Is Wrong With Me Michael and all the things What Is Wrong With Me Michael is carrying.

Both Michaels want the same thing though: they want someone to love them, accept them, and understand them.

Maybe what they need, is to realize they’re not each other’s enemies, and they’re just two sides of the same Michael.

And maybe what they really need…

Is each other.

I’m finally old enough to understand the real message in ‘Stand By Me,’ and it makes me sentimental, but not in a way where I want to go back to being a young boy… I just want to reminisce for a minute.

I want to call my friend Mike Kaufman and go hang out at his house, and maybe, if we’re lucky, catch a glimpse of his neighbor, Kim, in her backyard. But whether Kim is sunning herself or not, I just wanna go hang out with Mike.

We always had fun, and we always seemed to get into some kind of mischief and mayhem. (I think harmless mayhem really is in a young boy’s nature…)

It’s strange… as an old man, I can’t hardly remember what me and Mike used to do together… but even without doing anything, I think we still had fun. He was still one of the best friends I ever had.

We went to school together since about, 5th grade I think? And we also went to church together, and when Mormon kids made friends with other Mormon kids, I don’t know but I feel like those friendships run deep somehow.

I remember he was blind in one eye. He told me that one day during recess, and I thought about it for a minute, and then promptly forgot it.

We had the same twisted sense of humor. One time in art class, he drew a picture and labeled it, “Happy Impaled People.” It was exactly what you’re imagining it was — and I thought it was absolutely brilliant.

We never really talked about pain, or sadness, or anything dark like that, but when I look back I can see we’d both been hurt by life, even at our young age. Maybe there was some solace in being accepted by someone else who I knew was “messed up.” Like if they like me, I guess I’m alright?

We became friends at a critical point in a young boy’s life, just before puberty starts to kick in. When we started hanging out, we were still interested in Nintendo, board games, sleepovers, dirty jokes, and “little kid” type shenanigans. We knew we were no longer little kids, ourselves… but we were just barely at that age where we could still find humor in little kid things.

We were still fairly young and naive — though, as I already noted, we both already carried scars.

We liked the same music, same movies, same t.v. shows, games, and, as much as possible in prepubescence, we even liked the same girls. Sometimes, we liked the same girl at the same time. And sometimes, that led to conflict between us, but we always worked it out.

Mike was one of the few friends I never thought I was better than. I always saw him as equal — until I came home from the Navy, and saw myself as vastly inferior to everyone around me. But that’s its own story.

Mike Kaufman was a fun kid. He didn’t have to do or be anything — he was just fun to be around.

Of course, one of my favorite memories is the time we hopped his back fence to talk to Kim and her friends, who were laying out in their bikinis. (What can I say? I’ve always liked girls…) That might’ve been the first time I ever talked to a girl in a bikini, matter of fact.

But the times that stick out to me the most are the times we’d sneak out of Sunday school and go buy Jolt cola at 7-11…

The time a bunch of us stole about 15 gallons of milk in the middle of the night from all my neighbors who had their milk delivered from local farms…

Or the time we used a BB gun to shoot out a light in the park behind my house… (Carrie was there when we shot the light out. That was one of those moments where maybe I should’ve noticed me and Carrie might not have been as compatible as I wanted to believe we were…)

Or the time a bunch of us boys almost got beat up for walking past a comic book store, and making fun of all the older teenagers who were inside, playing Dungeons and Dragons…

I remember going to my first Renaissance Faire with him and his parents, and his brother, Ryan. I believe that was around the time Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves was in the theaters, and every boy I knew wanted to be a medieval hero.

I remember admiring all the people who were in costume, and thinking how awesome it would be to have a job working at the Faire, traveling the country, wearing the clothes, talking the lingo. I absolutely loved the jousting.

(And the wenches. What? I’m just sayin…)

Me and Mike talked about that Faire for days afterwards, the way that only young boys can.

It’s hard to remember some things, for sure, but I think we both started smoking around the same time. Actually, I remember being at church one Tuesday night, and me, Mike, Ryan, and Craig Lawson, sneaking out to smoke some Camel cigarettes I’d got from my friend Brad… and then when we came back in, the bishop busted us and asked where the cigarettes came from and I got scared and spilled the beans.

Was that the first time Mike ever smoked? Am I responsible for getting him, Ryan, and Craig, started on cigarettes? I may never know now…

But around that same time, we both started drinking on occasion, and smoking marijuana. I’m not really sure what else Mike, or Ryan, or Craig, might have gotten into, because that was so close to the time Carrie and I started dating, and Carrie occupies a lot of my long-term memory…

And by the time me and Carrie broke up, me and Mike had already drifted apart. We may have drifted apart even before then… I vaguely remember chasing after a couple of his ex-girlfriends, before I met Carrie. And that might have caused issues. I honestly can’t recall.

But I know that, for several years in grade school, middle school, and the first few years of high school, we were good friends.

For the duration of our friendship, Mike was my best friend.

The last time I saw him, I was home on leave. I wanna say I’d randomly run into his brother Ryan at a pool hall, with some of my other high school friends, and that led to a bunch of us going to see Mike and his girlfriend.

We hadn’t talked for years before that, and in some ways it was like we were still the same kids we’d always been… but in other ways — the ways that mattered in adulthood — we barely knew each other at all.

We made jokes, like we’d used to do… and then the jokes ran out and I just felt awkward, and out of place. It was nice to see him, and nice to catch up… but whatever brotherhood we’d had, growing up, it just wasn’t there anymore.

I don’t know if it’s gone for good, or if that was because I already had PTSD and just didn’t know it yet… or if too much time had passed between us but if we’d kept in touch, maybe we could’ve rekindled that solid friendship?

I don’t know. I’ll never know. And every once in a while, that kills me inside, just a little bit.

I wonder, from time to time, what he’s up to. I wonder what things would be like, if we were still friends. I wonder if it would make it easier, today, if I still had some of those old friends to lean on…

Or if childhood friends belong to the ashes of childhood, and moving on and growing apart is what was supposed to happen… what had to happen, as we both grew into adults.

I wonder if 49-year-old me could be friends with 49-year-old Mike?

I doubt I’ll ever know — but every now and then, I sure would like to find out.

I’m still mad at Ashley, even though technically she didn’t do anything wrong.

But it can’t be my fault.

I did everything right.

Or, so I thought…

I met Ashley a while ago. We hit it off right away! But it took me a couple weeks to ask for her phone number. (I am insecure, after all…)

The first time we hung out, I felt like there was a vibe. I didn’t do anything about it, though… because I am insecure… and also, I don’t like to rush into things. I prefer to take my time and let things develop organically.

But there was a vibe.

For real.

I’ve been alone in Lubbock, though, for so long… I would’ve welcomed her company even if I didn’t like her. Just saying.

I think that first time we hung out, though, was good. Like it felt low-key, but still a little bit vulnerable — a little bit intimate; like two people who really wanted to know more about each other, and who didn’t want to make that one hangout anything more than one hangout.

But when she dropped me at home, I was enamored.

I thought about her that whole next week.

I should’ve known there was trouble ahead when I started to text her, and she didn’t reply for 2-3 days, or more. She’d always be like, “Sorry I’ve been going through some things.” And at first, I was understanding. Because, let’s face it — I been going through some things of my own.

But fast forward about two months and she barely texts me back at all, and has only called me like, two times ever… and when I text her like, “Hey wanna hang out? Let’s go get ice cream.” She never responds.

Look…

If we were just lowercase “friends” who met in therapy and wanted to be like, texting buddies or something like that, you know, just support each other every now and then with a “You got this!” or some nonsense…

I could handle the fact that I hardly ever hear from her.

But I want more than lowercase, casual, non-committed, not-even-actually-decent-friends-with-each-other, friends.

I wanna be her boyfriend, honestly. (Or, I did, until I realized she’s not interested in me that way…)

But can’t we at least be BFFs?

We had a vibe.

The few times we have hung out in person, it’s always been fun. I always feel good when I’m around her — and her behavior and body language and blah blah blah makes me think she feels good around me…

And, look… that doesn’t have to mean boyfriend/girlfriend.

I don’t vibe with very many people. And it’s early in our whatevership. Nothing romantic has been said or done. (Okay, I did tell her I really, really like her. But I also told her I just wanna be her friend.)

I know myself, a lot better than I did when I first started talking to Sara. I know I want a girlfriend! And I know that just because I want one, doesn’t mean Ashley has to become one.

I’d really enjoy being one of Ashley’s good friends.

Except I don’t feel like she’s treating me like one.

I don’t think she’s a bad person. Not really.

I am extremely mad and hurt that she keeps neglecting me.

But… when I look at it objectively, she’s not doing anything “wrong.” Ashley is being Ashley.

I just want her to be a better version of herself.

I want her to value my friendship — and I want her actions and her words to show me that she values my friendship. I want her to think about me every day like I think about her. I want her to text or call me with life updates and with, “Bro I just made the most amazing cupcakes!” Or whatever she does to relax and unwind.

I want her to want to make me a priority… and I feel like I’ve been treated more like an afterthought.

And that’s what I’m taking away from the way she treats me! But that doesn’t automatically make it her fault that I feel that way… and that’s the part I don’t want to wrestle with.

This all would be so much easier if I could just stay mad at Ashley. Except, then I’d want to push her away completely. I’d want to call her mean names, and build up a Wall of Bitterness Between Us, that no doubt would get carried into the next friendship, and the next, and the next…

And I don’t even know if I want to cut ties with Ashley or not (mostly I don’t! But sometimes my reactive mind tells me I should, before she can cut ties with me.)

But I do know that no matter what happens between me and her, I don’t want to resent her! And I don’t want to make any decisions about how I’m going to treat her, based on the current resentment that I am allowing to build up because I don’t know what else to do right now when Ashley does something that hurts my feelings.

And when she doesn’t text me back, that hurts my feelings a lot.

But that doesn’t necessarily make her bad. And it doesn’t necessarily make me wrong, either, for getting my feelings hurt.

The fact is, it hurts me when someone I want to be friends with doesn’t seem to want to be on that same level with me. And for all I know, Ashley might want to be BFFs… and she might just be scared, or busy, or overwhelmed by life. Or really, really bad at communicating.

I just don’t know.

So, I can’t say that her behavior makes her “this kind of person” or “that kind of person.” I can only say that her behavior hurts my feelings.

And oh, man, I wish I could say that was her fault, and her responsibility. Because if I could just blame it all on her, then when she hurt me I could just walk away and go search for the next friend (who, presumably, would not hurt me). And I could just say, “Well obviously, she didn’t like me enough… and that’s her problem… and I’m better off without her in my life…”

But.

It’s not her fault that I’m hurt. She doesn’t even know I’m hurting. I haven’t told her! (And I’m so insecure, I probably never will…)

And it’s definitely not her responsibility. I sure do wish it was, though. Because if it’s all on her, then she needs to fix the way she treats me.

But when the responsibility for my hurt feelings belongs to me… man…

Now I have to sit with the feelings. And I have to ask myself the hard questions. And I have to figure out how I am going to live my life, for me… whether Ashley ever texts me back… or not…

And I’d rather do just about anything, than sit with my own uncomfortable feelings.

Apparently, even if it means staying mad at the person who isn’t even the one I’m actually mad at…

But for now… I’m still pretty sure, that somehow, at the end of the day, if I wish hard enough…

It is still Ashley’s fault.

But I really, really don’t feel good about myself, when I try to blame it all on her.

I’m taking a break from journaling every morning. Which is hard, because journaling is how I make sense of all my emotions and my past trauma.

But I’m running into this strange phenomenon:

I’m digging up more past than the amount my nervous system is able to process.

Every time I journal, it opens emotional wounds…

And some of those wounds run 20 or 30 years deep.

Some of them go further than that, all the way back to early childhood.

And some are much more recent — but still feel really intense, when exposed to the present moment.

For a couple of years now, I’ve been journaling and crying almost every morning.

And I don’t like to admit it, but I think the crying has gotten out of control.

I mean, I can tolerate it. It’s not enough, on its own, to send me back into the hospital, or to prevent me from fulfilling my obligations each day to go to outpatient therapy and otherwise keep myself alive and well.

In fact, in a lot of ways, I really love crying every morning. Probably because for so many years, I didn’t think it was allowed. And now I’m experiencing all of the healing qualities of having a good cry, and letting everything out and leaving it all behind me.

But lately, I’m noticing that the more I journal, the longer my crying spells last, and the deeper the tidal waves that wash over me when I cry…

And I’m kinda wondering if maybe I’m taking on too much? Maybe I’m trying to process more than I’m actually capable of? More than is truly healthy for me?

Like I said, it’s not keeping me from living life.

But sometimes it huuuuuuuuuurts so much. And I start to feel like no matter how much I get out, it’ll never add up to how much I keep digging up. Like if I cry ten bucketfuls in one morning… journaling might “dig up” another fifteen to twenty.

So when I’m constantly journaling — even though I’m crying throughout, and clearing away the debris — there’s always this never-ending backlog of, “Yeah, I’m doing great, but I haven’t got to all this yet!” And that makes it really hard sometimes to see that I am making progress.

And I need to see that I’m making progress, now and then. Or else what’s the point of all this deep inner work?

So, this month I’ve been allowing myself to cry every morning, when I need to… and I’ve been intentionally not journaling at all… and it’s hard, because I’m growing and learning so much in outpatient, and the reporter in me feels like, “We need a written record of this transformation! This is such valuable data!”

But I just can’t do it.

I don’t want to do it, right now.

I don’t want to push myself harder than I’m ready to go.

My nervous system doesn’t like it.

And honestly? I don’t have to move at lightning speed.

I don’t have to kill myself trying to save myself (which, realistically, is what I’ve been doing, whether I want to admit it or not).

I’ve already figured out that I’m in a safe, healing environment. My finances are set. I don’t have to worry about unexpected bills or medical problems.

I can survive just fine with what I’ve currently got. I don’t need to rush to add anything new into my life, or make any drastic, dramatic changes.

I can just… relax… and allow my nervous system to tell me what pace is safe for me, going forward.

Which feels like a cheat code, in today’s society.

But you know what? I’m taking it.

Why try to push myself to achieve that much more, when I know for a fact that I don’t have to?

It doesn’t make any logical sense.

What began as nostalgia became something much more worthy of my time and attention.

Last time I wanted to escape reality for a while, I logged onto Steam and Final Fantasy X was on sale for like, $12.

I remember playing parts of FFX on my ship, back in 2002 — before the Iraq War — and I remember I really enjoyed it… but for one reason or another, I don’t think I ever finished it.

So I decided to give it another go.

Within the first few hours of the game, I was hooked. I was completely engrossed in the storyline, in love with the characters, engaged in the battles… I was starting to feel exactly the way I felt the first time I played the game… before I ever had any debilitating PTSD symptoms.

I can still remember, clearly, what it felt like to play the game on my ship, after hours, in uniform, with no one in my shop but me… a fresh pot of coffee on, and a full pack of cigarettes within reach… and no one to bother me and nothing to do but just enjoy the moment.

And as I got back into the game, today, more than twenty years later…

I don’t know if I can fully describe what it felt like. It was like, I don’t think I’m allowed to feel this relaxed, this carefree, this “in love” with playing a good game, enjoying the story, loving the characters…

It’s not right that I’m able to have such a positive experience today. It doesn’t fit my worldview.

One of the things I loved about role-playing games when I was growing up is there’s always a struggle. The party always has a really big challenge that they have to overcome. And the main character, more often than not, has serious self-doubt, and a horrible, dark, troubled past.

When I was a teenager, and even into my early twenties, that seemed romantic somehow.

Like, how noble would it be, to have gone through some horrible ordeal, and now you have to learn how to overcome it so you can vanquish your opponent, save the world, and get the girl?

(You always have to get the girl… that’s like the most important part of the whole story right there.)

But being as I’m now approaching 50… and I have gone through a horrible ordeal… even though I am learning to overcome it…

Yeah, it’s not romantic, anymore. It’s just… horrible.

But the cool thing about art (and a good video game is art) is it can show us things about ourselves that, at first we don’t want to see. It can peel back the layers and bring us face-to-face with the parts of ourselves we’ve been trying to avoid…

And if it’s really good art, it can show us how to take the shattered pieces of our life, and start to put them back together, into something that resembles an integrated whole.

As I played through FFX this time around, getting deeper into the story, and increasingly more attached to the characters (and the eventual outcome)… something stirred inside me.

I kept running into those memories of me, on my ship; in uniform; after the workday had ended; playing a simple video game; enjoying my life…

And then I started having memories from just one year later, of being constantly afraid; waking up each morning convinced everyone on the ship was going to die; coming home from the Gulf, convinced that everyone on the ship deserved to die…

And it got to where I couldn’t hold both memories in my mind at the same time…

And for the first time since my ship entered the Gulf in early 2003… the happy memories were starting to win.

Somehow, finishing FFX became analagous to me “finishing” the steps I’ve been taking in therapy, to bridge the gap between pre-PTSD, and post-PTSD.

I honestly became obsessed with finishing the game.

At so many pivotal points, I tensed up, as the experience brought to my mind so many of the emotions I felt when we were out to sea… and I could feel myself fighting against the feelings, the memories, and the overpowering fear.

I wasn’t just reacting to the game — I was reliving the feelings I’d had on deployment, and watching myself work through those feelings in real time.

It sounds silly to say that I got all this out of a game. And yet, when the final battle was over, and the good guys had won, and the story came to a powerful close… I felt things I haven’t been able to let myself feel in over two decades.

I feel what it was like, to not be controlled by my trauma. I feel what it was like before I went to war. Before I lost myself to fear and horror.

In this moment, I feel good.

And I’m not worried about what’s going to happen in my life next. I’m not waiting for the shoe to drop. I’m not anticipating some horrible, miserable fate. I’m not expecting to fail at everything, or to suffer forever.

Mind you, this is only a moment. But to someone who’s lived so long with so much… even a moment like this feels like a miracle.

I almost don’t know what to do, now.

I don’t think that I’m “cured.” I don’t think severe trauma, or depression, or serious anxiety, are things that ever completely go away. But in this moment, I am not “under their control.”

And that’s significant, in and of itself. Because for years, my programming has been, “This is never going to change, and I’ll never get away from it.”

But for 60 hours or so, playing FFX, I did get away from it. And I don’t know, but it’s like, somehow, that put a chink in the armor… and now… maybe my trauma doesn’t have as strong of a grip on me, as it used to?

It is still there. And it is still painful to look at it, too closely.

And honestly: my time in the mental hospital, and in residential treatment, and intensive outpatient, has taught me a lot about how to cope with my trauma and how to reframe it and put it in a different context.

But FFX managed to do something that even the hospital never could: It reminded me, for those 60 hours, that there was a “me” before I got PTSD… and that version of me is still alive and kicking, somewhere deep inside… somewhere my trauma never reached…

And maybe, I can’t ever completely get rid of the painful memories. But maybe this is evidence that the painful memories aren’t the only thing driving the bus, anymore.

(I may need to play FFXII through FFXVI now, to have a larger data pool to draw from…)

She is not the source of my anguish.

She is not the thing that makes me want to commit suicide.

She brings me peace, and security, and a sense of belonging.

She brings good things into my life — things I didn’t know I was missing, until I met her.

Sara reinforces the belief that I’m already enough.

She boosts my confidence, and makes me believe I can do the impossible.

She gives me the opportunity to pour all my love into another human being, and — hopefully — to learn how to show that love in ways that are healthy and appropriate for what both of us are able to give and receive.

Or, rather, she did… until I pushed her away.

I know that probably makes it sound like I want to wife her. And honestly, I have dreamt about what that would look like. But that’s all that is, is a dream.

The love, respect, admiration, and longing to have Sara in my life — that has nothing to do with romance.

My hunger for romance is there, in the dreams I have about her… especially since I went so many years without it! But it’s not right to try and satisfy that hunger with Sara (and, truth be told, I don’t even know if I really want to).

While the desire, itself, is probably healthy, trying to pursue romance with Sara Jones is not. It wouldn’t be healthy for either one of us. I thought our relationship had to be all or nothing, though. I thought that if I have these feelings, it had to mean she’s the girl for me.

I thought I had to fight for her love.

I thought I had to show her my love for her — my desire to make her my own — and I thought if I did, then of course she would want me! Of course she would fall for me, and we would be together, and I would finally have a reason to live.

I thought when we had our fight, that I was losing her love, losing her warmth, losing her approval — and I thought I needed her approval, in order to believe in myself.

But it’s not even about approval, really… it’s actually all about connection.

Sara was one of the few people in recent years that really connected with me. We got each other, and we liked and respected one another… and when I wasn’t being a basket case, we trusted each other. And when we fought, I thought I was losing all of that.

I thought I was losing my connection to Sara Jones. And in the absence of that connection, my world collapsed. All I could see was darkness. Emptiness. Heartbreak. Despair.

My fears and insecurities took the lead, and I despised everything about me.

I told myself I was heartbroken because Sara wouldn’t fall in love with me. But the truth was so much deeper: I was devastated because I thought my actions had ended our friendship, and I didn’t know what to do to make things right between us.

I still don’t know what to do — but I can’t just sit here and do nothing.

I can’t let another friendship die simply because somebody hurt my feelings, and I don’t know what to do about it.

But the friendship IS dead… and I just haven’t received the telegram yet.

Sara was one of those rare friends who I thought truly accepted me for who I am, and where I am, in my own life’s journey. She didn’t expect me to be or do anything, but just be me, whatever that looked like, from one day to the next.

And even though that excited me, it also scared the hell out of me, because I know myself; I know my mind; I know my mistakes; my regrets; and I know I don’t deserve to be loved. Not really.

Not the way I thought Sara loved me.

I hate myself so much, I want to die.

I want to end my own life, so I don’t have to endure any more pain.

I hate this world. I hate what it’s done to me. I hate that I don’t know how to get the things I want!

I hate that I’m alone, and miserable, pretty much all the time.

But all of that already existed inside me, long before Sara came along.

It’s dishonest to try and blame any of that on her.

And that’s why I’m not healing, why I’m not able to let go of the incident and move forward with my life:

I’m putting all the blame on the wrong person. It’s not Sara’s fault I tried to commit suicide.

I chose that route all by myself.

Did she hurt me? Sure.

But she didn’t plant suicidal thoughts in my mind.

She didn’t tell me I ruined everything.

She didn’t prey on my insecurities.

She didn’t tell me I’d be better off dead, and that she doesn’t ever wanna hear from me, ever again.

I did all that to myself.

I can say I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. And that’s true; I wasn’t consciously aware that I was making the choice, or that the choice was driven by my own reaction to everything that had happened, leading up to that choice.

I spent so much time and energy convincing myself that Sara had pushed me over the edge.

That everything that was hurting me was her responsibility.

That she had done this horrible thing to me, by not being there when I needed her to be, and it was all her fault that I wanted to die…

But the truth is I’ve wanted to die since I was probably seventeen. I’ve just never told anyone.

I don’t really know how to have that conversation. How to tell the people I love: “I’m in so much physical and emotional pain, I want my life to be over so I can finally be free of it all.”

How do I say that to anybody, without making them freak out? I don’t want my friends and family to be worried about me. I don’t want them to feel like it’s on them, somehow, to keep me alive.

I don’t want anybody to have to take time out of their busy routine, just to listen to me complain about my life and how much I wish I would just die.

But also: is it complaining when my actual life is on the line? Or is it essential, now more than ever, that I tell everybody who will listen, that I want to die, that my mind is imagining ways to make it happen, and that if I don’t continue to receive help, I’m going to reach a point where I can’t control the thoughts anymore… and I’m going to make another attempt.

And, honestly, no part of any of that is because “Sara did me wrong.”

In the first place, she didn’t ever really do me wrong to begin with.

We had a fight.

Yeah, it was a big one.

Yeah, I said some really horrible things.

Yeah, we both got hurt.

But neither one of us really did anything horribly wrong… we just… fought, like people do sometimes. It hurt me, but not near enough to make me suicidal, all on its own.

Second, all my suicidal thoughts were already there, long before Sara… and even if she and I had never fought, I’d still be having those thoughts, and I’d still need intensive therapy to learn how to control them (and how not to be such a colossal drama queen when I do get hurt — but that’s another story)…

I still have to take accountability, though… maybe not for having an emotional breakdown and starting the fight between us, because I don’t think I could have done anything differently, once it all got out of hand.

But I am still accountable for the way I’ve treated Sara since my breakdown happened.

Not to mention the other friends and family I’ve distanced myself from, as I’ve tried to work through my feelings for Sara, and tried to understand what possessed me to make my suicide attempt about her in the first place, rather than just admit I need help, and take responsibility for my own choices.

I don’t really have a lot of experience, though, taking responsibility for my choices.

Everything has always been either because of something someone else did, or because of something I “didn’t know how to do any differently.”

It’s never been, “I made a poor choice, and I got my feelings hurt (or hurt the people around me).”

But I don’t think I can live that way anymore. It’s not helping me. It’s not making me happy. It’s not giving me the life I want; the life I deserve.

I don’t know how to talk about it though. I don’t know how to tell the people I love, that I live every day with suicidal ideation… or that I’ve officially made an attempt… or that I can’t say for certain I’ll never do it again…

The truth is, I’m scared. And I don’t want to scare everybody else.

But if I don’t tell anybody — then how can I ever get help? How can they help me, if they don’t know what I need?

I have to talk about it. I’m not strong enough to face it alone. And I don’t have the coping skills, or the resources, that I need. And I can’t get them, without telling people what I need, and why I need it.

But I still don’t want anybody to know.

I’m too ashamed of myself to let anyone in.

And that’s the real reason why I got so mad at Sara, and why I tried so hard to make it all about her, and to push her as far away as possible.

Because I really wanted to let her in… and, as a friend, I think she really wanted me to.

I want to let a lot of people in… but even though I’m trying, really hard…

I’m afraid of what people will do when they see the real me.

Today it’s raining.

And I am observing the rain.

It began lightly. A drop here. A drop there. A gust of West Texas wind that picked up the red dust in the parking lot, and threw it into the air.

My neighbors came in and out, one moving slowly, seemingly unaware of the occasional drops of rain on the sidewalk; the other, much more quickly, more eager to get inside before the downpour.

I went inside to grab my phone and boom — a thunderous roar. And then, the loud, steady beat of heavy rainfall.

In an instant, the whole parking lot is wet. Raindrops the size of my thumbnail come splashing down all at once, like a million paratroopers all landing in unison on foreign land.

The rain is loud, and the thunder is louder.

The sky is dark, and gray, and I can still feel the West Texas dust in the air.

My neighbor gets out of her car. She’s fifty feet from her apartment door. She’ll be soaked before she gets there.

The wind blows the rain sideways. It lands on my porch, barely an inch from my feet. It’s 96 degrees outside, and raining like it’s hurricane season, and we’re down on the Gulf.

The parking lot is nearly flooded. The rain is so loud it’s drowning out my thoughts. Thunder is hitting back to back.

I can still feel the West Texas dust in the air.

One year ago today, I was being admitted into the mental hospital for a nervous breakdown.

Well, officially, it was for suicidal ideation.

But unofficially, I had had a full-on breakdown. I’d been carrying a load far too long, and my nervous system refused to carry it anymore. I was going to have to put it down — or it was going to kill me.

Only, I didn’t know how to put it down. I’ve spent the last year, trying.

Fighting.

Learning.

Praying.

Crying.

Processing.

Journaling.

Confronting.

Tolerating.

Not-judging.

Grieving.

Forgiving.

Accepting.

Learning some more.

And, ultimately… observing.

One year ago today, I was hurting.

Avoiding.

Running.

Blaming.

Accusing.

Demanding.

Analyzing.

Expecting.

Refusing.

Rejecting.

Today, I’m observing.

Noticing what’s there.

What’s real.

What’s true.

And what feels true… but is in fact, a fantasy.

Today it’s raining.

The rain feels good. It doesn’t feel like it’s 96 degrees outside. It feels like I could step into the rain, and feel some relief.

I wish I could walk in it, and it could wash away the stink of the last year of suicidality, and restore me to somebody who always wants to live.

I wish mental illness could be washed away.

Wouldn’t it be something, if we could be baptized by one random, sudden rainstorm? And our minds and our hearts made clean, and life a simple, beautiful, easy, enjoyable thing?

I don’t know how to get rid of the stink of mental illness. How to be free of suicidal ideation. It’s lived inside me so long, I don’t think I ever will be free, completely.

Some days are better, after a full year of consistent treatment.

Some days, it still feels like I should’ve seen my attempt all the way through.

This life — this world — it’s not easy.

When I think about all the things that have happened to me… about all the things I have done to other people… about all the obstacles and challenges before me…

It’s easy to think that suicide would make it all go away.

I can’t think about the things I haven’t worked through yet.

I can’t plan for my future, without convincing myself that my future is going to be taken away from me, just like everything else.

I can’t make a five-year plan without my mind descending into utter chaos. I can’t picture me, living the life I’ve always dreamed of — and I can’t wrap my head around the idea that the life I’m living, is worth a damn.

But I don’t want to die.

I’m not ready to stop trying.

I just don’t know how to believe in tomorrow, when I feel like there are so many challenges in front of me, today.

But today, it’s raining.

And I am observing the rain.

She hurt me so deeply, I don’t know how to recover.

And still, I can’t stop wanting her.

Even though she told me to leave her alone… I can’t go on without her.

I can’t believe this is what God wants for me — for us.

It’s just not fair…

I know I’m supposed to move on. That’s what everybody’s been telling me since the day I called the Crisis Line. But I don’t want to.

It’s been almost a year since our fight made me try to commit suicide, and still I don’t know how to talk about it. I don’t even wanna believe it really happened.

I still want Sara Noelle Jones to love me.

I want her to lie awake at night and wonder what I’m doing.

I want her to cry herself to sleep, wishing I was there to wipe away her tears, knowing that I would be, if she would ask.

I want her to call me and beg me to come back to her.

I wanna build my whole life around her — around us, deeply, madly, forever in love, facing the world together, lifting each other to such wonderful heights.

I want her to tell me I’m the only man she wants to grow old with; the only one she’ll tell her secrets to.

Maybe I’m stupid. (I probably am.)

Maybe I’m longing for something that doesn’t even exist.

Maybe she’s relieved that I’m finally leaving her alone.

But every day, I hope she’ll message me and ask me how I’m doing. I pray that she’ll tell me she pulled away because she got scared, and that she wants me to keep pursuing her.

I know; if she wanted to, she would have.

I just don’t understand why she doesn’t want to. What did I do, that was so wrong, she’s not talking to me at all?

How do I go on, when so much of what matters to me is gone? How do I live without Sara Jones in my life? How do I get through one day without her?

I wish I could go back, and stop myself from picking that fight. I wish I would’ve just told her I was hurting, and I needed someone to listen, and I didn’t know how to ask her for help, but help was all I really wanted… and I blew it, big time.

I made her push me away.

It’s my fault she won’t talk to me. I ruined everything. I love her so much, and now, I have to learn how to live without her.

It might be for the better, though. She is the reason I tried to kill myself, after all.

The weird part is I knew it was coming. Like, I could feel my mind deciding I had nothing left to live for. I knew I was on a course toward suicide, and I didn’t care.

I honestly felt relieved.

I felt like, finally, my pain was going to end. I would be gone, and nothing would be able to reach me anymore. No one would be able to hurt me, ever again.

I knew if I started in that direction, I wouldn’t stop. I knew if I went through with it, I would be dead.

And I didn’t care at all.

That feels so heavy now, seeing it in print in front of me. I’m stunned to think I was willing to end my life. But I still have the scars on my right arm to prove it.

I don’t know if I should keep going with this letter, or not.

I don’t wanna glamorize suicide. I don’t wanna upset my friends or my family. I don’t wanna give anybody the wrong impression — but I don’t see any way to talk about this openly, and honestly, and not frighten somebody. And above all, I want to be honest.

I still feel like I wish I had died in my shower — not because I wanna die now, but because I don’t wanna feel like this.

I’m frustrated that one of my friends texted me at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning to see how I’m doing… and that I allowed that text to pull me out of my suicide attempt, and call 911.

I’m… confused about why I didn’t die. Why I didn’t see it all the way through. Why I didn’t see my friend’s text and think, “Sorry, buddy, you’re too late.”

Suicide is a sin, ya know? It’s a sign of weakness. A moral failure. “The easy way out.” The act of a coward.

It’s easy to say all that when it’s not someone you know. And maybe it’s all true. Maybe I am a weak, sinful coward of a man.

Maybe I should be ashamed of the fact I actually tried to commit suicide in my own apartment, simply because I had a fight with the woman I wish was the woman of my dreams, but who now is probably never going to talk to me again — and it’s my own fault for being reckless and immature, and trying to start a fight with her just so I could get a reaction… but this was definitely not the reaction I was hoping for.

I honestly thought she would choose me.

I thought she would see how much I mean to her, and how much she needs me in her life, and how much she wants me to love her better than she’s ever been loved before…

And I ruined it all. And there’s not any way to bring our relationship back to life now. It’s over and done. And I don’t want to go on without her.

I feel dead inside, already.

I don’t believe anyone is ever going to want to be with me.

I don’t believe the VA is ever going to get me the help I really need.

I don’t believe I’ll ever have the future I dream of, one where I’m happy and successful, and I’ve found my purpose and I’m living a life of meaning, and love, and deep fulfillment and satisfaction…

I don’t even know how to live that kind of life.

I don’t have the right skills… the confidence… the trust… the charisma… the determination…

I’m already convinced that I’m destined to lose; that I fail in every relationship; that I ruin everything I touch. I know; I know: those are just “obtrusive thoughts,” and if I practice, I can make them go away — or at least, make them hold less power over me.

But you guys.

I’ve been trying to change those thoughts for thirty years. I don’t know how, and sometimes, I don’t believe I ever will.

I know in my soul that I’m going to have more rainy days ahead… and that it’s partly my own fault, because I don’t know any better…

But also, if I really wanna change, I’m gonna have to come face to face with a lot of the thoughts and feelings that drove me to suicide… and I’m gonna have to pick them apart, and learn to react differently when those heavy thoughts and feelings threaten to pull me under again.

I don’t want to face any more of my darkness. It hurts, in ways you cannot understand unless you’ve tasted darkness yourself.

I don’t want to live a life that’s destined to fail. I don’t want to believe that’s my destiny. But forty-nine years of personal history prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s my past. And I don’t know how to change my past behavior.

I only know one way to look at the world, and everywhere I look, all I see is pain, and loss, and emptiness.

I believe in God.

I know for a fact He saved me from this prison before.

And I don’t doubt His ability to perform miracles! I’ve seen too many of them in my own life.

But what if… just what if…

What if I’m not able to grow beyond this failure mindset? I mean what if I’ve just had it for so long, that it’s too late now to ever try and do anything differently from the only way I’ve ever known? What if I can’t hold any more of God’s miracles in my heart?

What if I’m too tired, and too old, and too overwhelmed, for God to be able to bless me any further, because I’m just worn out and I don’t have the capacity to receive any more?

Maybe that’s a foolish position to take… but honestly, that’s where I am today.

I’m tired. And I feel old, and overwhelmed. And I don’t wanna keep hurting.

And if I have to go through life without Sara Jones… it’s going to hurt.

Even if it’s good for me.

Even if it’s the right choice.

Even if it’s setting the stage for something better, down the road.

Today, it still hurts.

It still makes me think that suicide is a viable option.

Maybe I shouldn’t be reacting this way to a fight with a girl who probably was never going to choose me anyway — but it hurts so much… I never imagined it would hurt me this much… I don’t wanna ever feel like this, ever again.

I know this is heavy.

And I don’t wanna leave you with the feeling that I’m gonna kill myself before we get to speak again. (I’m not going to; I’m just in a lot of pain.)

But I also want you to know that I don’t have any answers when it comes to suicide. I don’t know why I stopped myself, and why other people don’t.

I kind of wish I hadn’t — but here I am, still alive, in spite of my efforts to the contrary.

And, I guess, if I peel it back just a little, I’m not actively suicidal, anymore. I want to be dead; I’m not gonna lie. But I don’t have the urge right now to act on that, and to take my own life into my hands.

I suppose I do want to get better. At least, that’s what I keep telling everybody. And it’s probably true. I mean, if I didn’t wanna get better, I probably wouldn’t still be here.

I feel like I owe you something, for reading this far. Some kind of promise, or message, or moral… I don’t know; just something.

But I don’t have anything for you this week.

I’m so deep in my own darkness, I don’t see the silver lining.

I don’t think it’s really there.

I think I’m going to be very unhappy, for a very, very long time.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel like taking a chance like this, ever again.

But if I really felt that hopeless, and overwhelmed, I think I would’ve gone through with my attempt.

So, maybe, somewhere, I’m still willing to believe that things can get better. Not perfect… just better.

I don’t know how to get there.

But I can’t keep going on the way that I was.

It’s just not worth it.

I think I found a clue.

For a few years now, I’ve been sitting with my feelings every morning, for an hour, allowing myself to express those feelings any way that felt appropriate, or necessary, in order to get my feelings out.

I started doing this sometime in 2023 — probably around the time I started this newsletter.

Though, not intentionally. I mean, the two events happened around the same time… but that doesn’t mean I planned it to happen that way.

Although… sitting with the emotions probably made it possible for me to be as vulnerable as I am in the newsletter… so, maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe I just didn’t know, at the time, what my subconscious was actually doing.

But, either way, that’s not the clue. That’s just an observation…

For as long as I can remember, and for more reasons than I can fit in one letter… I’ve spent the majority of my life avoiding my feelings.

Lying about them.

Ignoring them.

Pretending they don’t exist.

Trying to do anything at all, except “feel what’s there to be felt.”

And I had good reason to. My emotions are powerful… like, even today, at 49, they make me come undone. Every. Single. Day.

I’m not talking like, “I cry at Hallmark commercials.” (Though, I do…)

I’m talking like, cry like a four-year-old in Disneyland who wants to go on one more ride and just got told it’s time to go back to the hotel and take a nap.

Yeah… it’s ugly.

And it hurts like you wouldn’t believe.

I hate it. Most times, when I cry really hard, it feels like I’m physically being ripped apart…

Like something is stuck to my insides, and the crying is tearing it loose, and forcing it out of my abdomen, up through my chest cavity, into my throat, where it’s more likely to get caught for a minute, while I question whether I’m really ready to express the emotion — or if I’d rather swallow it back down, and see if I can leave it for another time.

And it’s been like that, since the first time I sat alone in my apartment, and allowed my emotions to come out and play. It’s not like a one-time thing; it’s not a rare occurrence; it’s every single morning that I’m alive.

It got more intense when I was in the mental hospital, and at first, that really scared me. I thought I’d gone there to get help with my mental health… and I thought that more crying meant I was somehow doing things more wrong.

And I hated myself for that, for a couple of weeks.

I thought I was getting worse, and I started to wonder if maybe I was justified in wanting to end my life… because… why would I want to stick around, just for more of that? If I was only going to descend deeper into the darkness…

Well, thankfully, I didn’t.

I mean, sure, I kept crying. And yeah, for a bit, it got louder… heavier… more intense… more frightening… more all-consuming…

But then one day, it got less, somehow. Like I still cried, hard, but I told the nurses I wanted to be alone and just let it all out, and not be interrupted, and they left me alone, and they let me cry it all out, and it was one of the worst crying episodes I’ve ever had in my life!

And then it was done, and within seconds, I knew it was done. I knew I’d cried out all that I had in me, in that moment… and the pain was gone… and all that was left, was relief.

I slept that night better than I’ve slept in 20 years.

But the next day, I was crying again. Something new had set me off, and I had a whole new box of ugly emotions inside, lining up for their chance to come out… and I hated it… and it hurt… and I cried hard but I didn’t cry all the way to the end… and I didn’t get the same relief.

I still got some relief — because even crying part of it out, still releases the pressure. But what I’ve learned is that until you cry all of it out, that same wound just continues to fester, and more emotion builds up, and has to be released, and if you cry a little bit, it helps a little bit… but if you want the wound to close, and heal… you have to get it all.

But that’s not the clue, either. That’s just something I’m glad I finally figured out.

The thing is: even in the hospital, I hated crying.

In fact, I probably still do.

And that’s a big problem for somebody who spends on average, one hour per day bawling my eyes out, loudly enough to wake Caesar’s ghost all the way in Italy (and I’m in Nowheresville, West Texas…)

But my body feels better once the tears are gone.

So, I kinda made a deal with myself:

I’ll allow the tears to come every morning, but I don’t wanna be personally involved. I’ll put on my headphones, set a timer, open Pandora, and listen to 80s rock ballads while my emotional mind does its thing.

I get distracted by music I grew up with — and my body gets to release decades-old trauma.

I don’t like it, but it works.

Somewhat.

Sort of.

Kind of.

Except:

I’m still avoiding the pain.

I’m just being sneaky about it.

I’m telling myself, “I’m allowing the emotion to move through me, and that’s a good thing!” But I’m putting on my headphones so I can escape the intensity of my emotions… so… it’s like, yeah, things are moving again… but nothing is getting integrated.

And I kinda knew that, but I guess I didn’t think it was hurting me… I just thought, “Emotions out = pain gone.” But some of the pain always remained.

Until one morning, when I randomly decided not to put on my headphones, but to simply sit, in silence, and let myself cry, and let my emotional mind and my logical mind meet, while I “descend into darkness.”

And I gotta tell you: it was weird………………………………………………………………………

All of a sudden, I was allowing myself to experience myself, feeling heavy emotions; emotions that I’ve made a habit of avoiding since probably seventh grade.

I wasn’t “confronting” the emotions.

I wasn’t “embracing” them.

I wasn’t trying to fix them, or even comprehend them.

I wasn’t trying to make everything come out so I could put it down and never pick it back up again.

I was just… sitting. In silence. Aware of my emotional pain. Allowing my emotional pain. Perhaps “living alongside” my emotional pain? I don’t know.

But what I do know is that it hit different than all the times before, when my attitude was basically, “Okay, I’ll let you do this, but make it fast, and please don’t involve me in the process.”

Because now it’s like, “Oh, it’s you. I remember feeling you once before. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, or do you just want me to sit with you for a while, until you’re ready for us to go our separate ways?”

I’m not trying to avoid my feelings.

I’m not trying to control them.

I’m not trying to escape them.

In fact, I’m not trying to do anything but just… sit… and wait… and notice what comes up.

And it still hurts.

But somehow, when I’m not fighting my own feelings, suddenly they’re not as intimidating as before.

They’re heavy, but they’re not overpowering.

They’re deep, but I’m not drowning.

They’re difficult — but no part of me is “wrong” anymore, for having them.

And to be frank, I’d still prefer not to have such heavy, deep, difficult emotions.

But they’re already there. They’re already inside me.

And from where I’m standing, I can only see two options: keep them bottled up, until the day I die; or sit down and have a powwow, and learn how to make peace with my own inner self.

Someday, I’m gonna die, regardless. And I suspect, when we die, our “ugly” emotions don’t go with us…but still… why carry it all around with me, everywhere I go, between now and the day I die?

When now, I know I can sit down, and let them come up, and we can start to make friends? It feels more painful, in the moment. But now, when my heavy emotions come up, and I allow them, and acknowledge that they’re trying to show me something…

Suddenly, the pain gets less. Sometimes, a little. And sometimes, a lot.

And from what I’ve experienced, that’s true whether I actively participate in the process, or throw on my headphones, and distract myself while I cry it all out.

But it sure seems like the whole process runs smoother when I willingly participate, and allow myself to feel what I’m feeling.

So, like I said, I think I’ve found a clue.

It may not explain or justify any part of why I cry…

But it may help me understand, better, how to cry…

And as long as I’m already crying… anything that makes it easier or more accessible for me… is worthy of further investigation.

About ten years ago, I read Rich on Any Income.

I spent the next nine years thinking there was a secret way to outsmart what the book taught.

I spent the tenth year following the book’s advice.

Now I’m financially secure.

(Since becoming secure, I’ve also read these few books, and I think they can also be helpful.)

The Total Money Makeover (even though I’m not a huge fan of Dave Ramsey, this book can help if you’re in serious debt)

The Psychology of Money (I just started reading this one but it explains things in really simple terms and makes “understanding money” feel accessible)

You Need a Budget (they also have an app by the same name, which I use and absolutely love)

The Little Book of Common Sense Investing (this is a great place to begin — and possibly, to maintain — your investing journey, if and when)

That’s all I’ve got.

Five books on money that taught me everything I’ll ever need to know to go from living paycheck to paycheck, to having a six-month emergency fund, a rotating travel fund, and a total net worth almost equal to one year’s income…

And the desire (not discipline) to spend less money than I earn, and watch my savings grow each month, until I legitimately have more cash on hand than there are things I want to spend my cash on.

I don’t think financial security needs to be the central focus of my life — but I sure feel more optimistic about my plans, dreams, and goals for the future, when I know I’m at a stage where I’m not worried about money problems anymore.

Now I can spend my time on things I want to spend it on.

Like girls.

And ice cream.

And pretending to write a serious newsletter each week but really just sharing whatever catches my fancy. 😁

I wonder if I could set aside enough money each month to buy ice cream for all the girls I like…

That sounds like a worthwhile pursuit, if there ever was one.

“I need to be vulnerable, and I think I’m okay but I don’t know what’s going to happen, or if it’s going to make any sense.”

That was how I started my morning check-in at outpatient therapy.

My voice cracked as I said it, and I could feel myself glancing this way and that… which is probably why like four women all passed me the Kleenex all at the same time…

I’d been thinking about this for two days, and I knew I had to speak up, but I was really terrified I would upset her, and she’d be disappointed in me for not choosing the “growth” answer.

But I just had to say something!

I couldn’t keep it bottled up anymore…

So I took a slow, deep breath, made eye contact with my therapist, and said,

“Two days ago at the end of group, you suggested to me that ‘intentional’ might be a good choice for my word of the month; that I might benefit from being more intentional with the words I use with other people.”

Her eyes lit up, and I think she was expecting me to say I’ve chosen that word and thank you for her advice — but that is not what came out of my mouth next.

“I want to choose that word,” I said, “because I think if I do, it’ll make you happy… and I respect you and I want to make you happy.”

“But I’m not ready to be intentional yet, and if I did choose that word, I would be going against my own integrity…”

At this point, I started crying, and I broke eye contact with her and went back to scanning the room for the nearest exit.

I felt like I was floating in my chair, somehow — like there was no longer any floor beneath my feet — and I felt like I wanted to throw up. And the tears were rolling…

And I started to feel very childish, and not in a good way.

I felt afraid.

I felt weak, and exposed, and like any one of the members in IOP that morning could’ve easily reached out and eviscerated me, and it would’ve been more agreeable than continuing on with my monologue.

But I knew what I was truly afraid of, and I had to get it out.

I couldn’t keep pacifying every person who might have the capacity to judge me… to reject me… to abandon me because I didn’t agree with their opinion of how I should behave…

Even now, as I write those words, my stomach is churning.

I feel ashamed of how weak and malleable I am.

I should be able to stand my ground and to tell somebody, “I disagree.”

It shouldn’t matter if they’re my therapist, or my brother, or a friend on the Internet, or someone I’ve known for 30 years but just always agreed with because it’s safer to keep the peace.

I should be able to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

It shouldn’t be this difficult.

I had lost sleep over my therapist recommending the word “intentional,” and me leaving therapy that same day and realizing that wasn’t the right word for me, at this time.

And I understand why she made that recommendation! As I’ve become more comfortable in group, I’ve leaned more into my “weird” side, making occasional, random comments that are only intended to make everyone laugh or to get a reaction.

I’m not saying anything inappropriate, or harmful; I just get a kick out of saying things that are completely off the wall and have the potential to momentarily derail the conversation, and defuse the tension.

And something I’m just recently becoming aware of: nine times out of ten I just say stupid stuff that has no bearing on anything. And maybe, the group would be better served without my running commentary, when it is just me saying stupid things.

But the tenth time — somehow, when I’m in that mindset where I just don’t care what comes out of my mouth… one time out of ten, what comes out is actually very revealing… I actually end up inadvertently spilling my own secrets, sharing my weaknesses and insecurities, exposing my vulnerabilities…

And when they come out freely, and naturally, all of a sudden I have to take them seriously and understand what is driving the fear that makes me want to keep it all to myself.

And somewhere in that investigation, I tend to have my biggest breakthroughs.

And I don’t want to give up all the stupid stuff I say, if doing so means I also miss out on the occasional really important stuff that I’m never expecting, but always ready to examine once it’s out in the open.

So I’m not ready to be intentional, until I know that if I am, I’ll still have some way of letting the cat out of the bag on a somewhat regular basis.

Which, I kinda wanted to tell my therapist all that… but in the moment, I felt like the biggest issue wasn’t, “I don’t want to make this change and lose this secret ability I have to accidentally incriminate myself.”

The real issue was, “I don’t want to keep feeling like I can’t disagree with people I respect, or they’ll reject me, and abandon me, and I’ll lose the connection.”

Which, ironically, I don’t want that secret to ever come out… and now not only did I tell her and everyone else in IOP last week… I’ve also shared it now, with all of you.

So I don’t really know how I feel about that… hahaha…

But something that I really value is connection. And for me, part of that means the connection needs to be real. It needs to be honest, and authentic.

And if I’m disagreeing with somebody, on the inside, and going along with their suggestions, on the outside…

I can’t live like that anymore. I don’t like the person I become, when I don’t honor my own integrity.

So there’s a couple things going on here, that I’m aware of:

• I need authentic connection

• I want to make other people happy

• I value my own integrity and honesty

• I’m afraid to tell people when I disagree

• I value relationships probably more than anything in this life

• I haven’t had healthy relationships with anybody in decades

And I respect my therapist’s advice because I know she’s not just giving us textbook answers; she’s coming from a place of earned wisdom… of lived experience.

And I don’t want to admit it but as my therapist, I want her to validate my recovery. Which I don’t think is an “unhealthy” want, in this context. But I feel like “I shouldn’t depend on anybody else to tell me I’m doing it right.” But I mean, if anybody was gonna tell me I’m doing it right… it makes sense I’d want that person to be my therapist.

But the fear of disagreeing runs deeper than that.

It’s not just, “my therapist will think I made the wrong choice.”

It’s, “the whole room will think I purposely made the wrong choice, for the wrong reasons, and they’ll all disown me and I won’t belong anymore.”

And that theme has been running in my brain since probably seventh grade.

So when I caught myself worrying about all these things after my therapist said, “You might benefit from choosing to be more intentional,” I knew it was time to break the pattern. (Which ironically, is probably the most ‘intentional’ choice I could’ve made… but shhh I’m still talking…)

I let out a sob as I continued my check-in:

“I have a history,” I told her, “of doing what I think everyone else wants me to do… and I really do want you to be happy with me… but for my own benefit I can’t choose ‘intentionality’ at this time. I know I’m not ready to commit to that, and if I did, it would be for all the wrong reasons.”

And I think she understood, but not completely, because her first response was along the lines of, “Michael, I am happy with any choice you make, because I know you’re making it for yourself…”

Which was wonderful to hear.

But not quite getting to the real heart of the matter.

I pushed back, “I believe that you are, and I appreciate that. And I truly respect your advice and opinion; I just can’t allow myself to take on someone else’s point of view just for the sake of agreeing with them or pacifying them.”

And then I cried a bit more and said something like, “I’m just so afraid if I go against what you say, that I’ll be rejected.”

And she was like, “Who are you afraid will reject you?”

And my eyes scanned the room and I felt the blood drain out of my face and I said, “Everybody…”

And I didn’t feel ashamed, anymore, because at least I’d gotten it out now… but boy did I feel embarrassed, knowing I’d just shared all of that with the entire group! I was sure at least one group member would condemn me, or criticize me, for not being a strong manly man, but instead being afraid to just tell another person, “I disagree.”

I wanted to melt into my chair and stay invisible for the rest of the morning… and forget the look of compassion on everyone’s face as I cried my heart out…

It felt good to get all that off my chest, but I did not like feeling that level of vulnerable, in that small of a setting… it felt safe, sure — but it didn’t feel natural.

Maria (not her real name) looked me in the eye and said, “Nobody in this room is rejecting you. You’re one of us.”

To which my therapist added, “Nothing you can say in here is going to change the fact that we’re here for you and for each other. And we’re going to keep being here, no matter which version of you shows up every day.”

And I wanted to bawl my eyes out because it’s been so long since I’ve heard anything like that! But strangely, once I heard that, and I allowed myself to feel the sincerity in those words…

I was okay.

Not perfect.

Not “finished.” (Because I’m still crying again, now, as I relate the tale.)

Not “alright, I’ve slayed that dragon, now I’m never gonna be uncomfortable again!”

Just… okay.

But in that moment, “okay” was all I needed, to calm myself and to regulate my emotions, and get my head back into IOP and not come completely unglued and have to go scream outside for ten minutes, or be admitted to inpatient, or hide in the bathroom and finish crying…

I was done crying; I’d done what needed to be done; I’d received their feedback; and now it was time to move on and remain engaged in real time.

And I did.

And I must say — I’m pretty proud of myself for being able to regulate my emotions that quickly, and stay present in the group, and participate, and not be so helplessly overwhelmed that I couldn’t control my emotions at all.

That was a big step forward for me. I honestly feel like that might be bigger than me finding the courage to tell my therapist, “I need to disagree with you on this because I’m afraid to disagree with people, and I need to show myself that I can do and it doesn’t ruin the relationship.”

So I guess I earned two gold stars that morning:

One for telling the truth, when I was terrified that the truth would sever the therapeutic connection.

And one for staying in the moment, and learning that I don’t have to let myself always get overwhelmed by my own emotions.

And maybe a third one, for having the insight to tell my therapist, when we broke for lunch, “I need to make sure you know that had nothing to do with anything you said, but was strictly about me recognizing a pattern in my behavior that I want to change.”

And I’m not a mind reader… but I’m pretty sure when I said that to her… it did make her happy for me, for real.

I could’ve seen Jerry Seinfeld live at the Buddy Holly Hall for free, and instead, I let my anxiety talk me into staying home, and hating myself for not being courageous enough to go enjoy the show.

Which, if this was the only time this has happened to me, it might be easier to overlook. But this has become a pattern that I don’t want to repeat anymore.

It’s one of the ways I use secret self-sabotage to keep myself stuck in isolation, so I won’t have to explore what it could feel like to be free to do the thing I really want.

Because “doing the thing I really want” apparently still comes with a lot of qualifiers:

• Is it going to be safe?

• Am I going to be comfortable?

• Can I maintain control of myself?

• Can I possibly control the environment, or the other people?

• Will there be any unanticipated threats or consequences to doing the thing?

• Will I lose my mind? (This one HAS happened, though it’s extremely rare — and it’s never happened at the Buddy Holly Hall.)

• Will I like the people I encounter while doing the thing?

• Will the people I encounter like me?

• Will any part of doing the thing trigger painful memories I don’t think I’m ready to be reminded of? (This has happened at the Buddy Holly Hall, but I got through it, and lived to tell the tale.)

• Will I become so dysregulated I have to be hospitalized? (This happened once in outpatient therapy, and I didn’t like it at all! But it turned out to be exactly what I needed… so in the end, it was a positive. But it didn’t happen at the Buddy Holl Hall.)

The thing is, I’ve volunteered at the Buddy Holly Hall probably dozens of times.

I started volunteering the first week I was in Lubbock.

And, yes, every time, I get anxiety. And a lot of the time, my anxiety gets so high, I back out, cancel my sign-up, and stay home, and despise myself for not doing what I really want to do.

But sometimes I don’t give in.

Sometimes, I go to the show, and I enjoy volunteering, and I enjoy talking to patrons, and I enjoy interacting with the staff, and I enjoy the live entertainment…

And most of all, I enjoy being there, by myself, doing something I want to do, for no other reason than, “I just want to be here, enjoying this.”

So it’s not like I can’t make it to the show. I have multiple instances where I did! And, yeah, some of those experiences were frightening, at first. And some of them were draining.

And some of them were intensely emotional — sometimes during a play or a concert, I’ll burst into tears and weep silently in my seat, only a few chairs away from the nearest patron, afraid that people are going to see me but knowing that it’s just dark enough that no one can see me… and none of them are paying attention to me, anyway; they’re too busy enjoying the show.

But even in the times I bawl my eyes out…

I still have a positive experience.

I’m still glad I went.

I still enjoy the show, and I still come home with wonderful memories of the time I let myself do the thing I wanted to do.

But then another show comes through town, and I get excited and I sign up to volunteer, and then two days before the event, my anxiety kicks into overdrive, and my fibromyalgia acts up, and I start wondering if this is the show where I’m finally going to go and lose my mind in the middle of the performance, surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands, of attendees… and I’ll have to be hospitalized and I’ll make such a dramatic scene I’ll never be allowed to volunteer at the Buddy Holly Hall, ever again.

Which… if I’m realistic about all this… if that scenario was going to happen… I’m more inclined to believe it already would have…

Because each time I do successfully volunteer, I’m more comfortable in the theater than the time before.

Even if I do burst into tears during the performance, I’m still more comfortable crying during the show than I was the last time it happened.

The first time I ever volunteered really was my trial by fire.

I had just moved here; I didn’t know where anything was; I didn’t know how I was going to spend my free time; I didn’t even know, on the day I moved to Lubbock, that there were volunteer opportunities at the performing arts center.

But the moment I found out, I wanted to be part of that crowd.

And the first show I went to, coincidentally turned out to be the first time in my life I ever took an Uber. I had to figure out how to Uber comfortably, just so I could get to the theater, to find out if the experience of volunteering would be good for me, and something I enjoy… or if it would trigger me, and send me into a tailspin.

And what’s interesting is I don’t even remember, now, what that first show was. I don’t know if it was a play, or a concert, or what. I guess it doesn’t really matter at this point.

What matters is that I showed up, and I did the thing I wanted to do — without knowing if I could even survive the thing, or not.

And now, three and a half years later, I’ve spent more time convincing myself to avoid the thing, than I have allowing myself to just go and enjoy an evening of live entertainment.

Literally, probably four out of five times, my anxiety wins, and I talk myself out of going to volunteer.

I’ve missed some shows I really wanted to see! (And, to be fair, some shows I really couldn’t care less about… but was more interested in just getting out of the apartment for a night, and being around other people.)

I missed the Beach Boys, for crying out loud!

And I missed The Book of Mormon. Which, I can live without ever seeing… but as a practicing Mormon myself, it would’ve been interesting to observe that particular show…

And now, I’ve missed Jerry Seinfeld. And I’m not a huge comedy fan. It’s not like I sit and watch all the comedians on Netflix and like, “Man wouldn’t it be cool to see them live?”

But, I mean… Jerry Seinfeld? He’s practically a national treasure.

Everybody I’ve ever known grew up watching Seinfeld.

And I could’ve seen him, in Lubbock, at the Buddy Holly Hall, for free… and my stupid self talked myself out of it because I was having “high anxiety.” Like the anxiety just creeped up on me, out of nowhere. “Gee willickers! I didn’t know that was going to happen! How ‘bout that, Wally?”

As if.

The truth is, I hate myself for not going to the show.

I know, no matter how thoroughly it can all be explained away by science and modern medicine…

I know it’s my fault I didn’t go.

I know I’m the reason I wouldn’t allow myself to do the thing I really wanted to do.

And I hate myself for it.

Not because “I missed seeing Jerry Seinfeld live and in person.”

But because I keep running the same program, over and over and over again.

I want to go to the show…

And I talk myself out of it for reasons that should have been anticipated and planned for… and not “I waited until the last moment and then pretended like it hit me out of nowhere and I don’t have any control over it now and the only option left is to stay home and suffer through the pain and the guilt of once again backing out and missing out on what I really want because it’s easier for me to keep being a little baby and give into the fear and the pressure and tell myself I can’t do it.”

And I know there’s more to it than that. I know that mental health is complicated, and there aren’t always easy solutions.

I know that even though I’m aware of the pattern, and I’m not taking steps — yet — to break the pattern… I know that the pattern that’s happening isn’t my fault. But that doesn’t stop it from happening, does it?

And I want it to stop happening. That’s the part that I hate. That’s the reason I tell myself, “I hate myself because of this.”

Because somewhere, I think I should be able to make it stop happening, simply by wishing it away. I “should” be able to just man up; just go face the fear one time and prove that I’m stronger and overcome it all in one glorious moment and then… never be bothered by this particular fear, ever again.

That should work, to resolve this pain — and it’s not.

The only solution I can think of, that I can point to and say, “This should solve the problem,” isn’t solving anything at all.

And that leaves me feeling helpless, and out of control, and incredibly small, and weak, and vulnerable.

So here’s what I think is actually behind all of this (and this is just a working hypothesis):

When I moved to Lubbock, I had just spent 14 years in Mom and Dad’s house, avoiding anything that made me uncomfortable. And I wanted to break out of that. I believed moving to Lubbock would break me out of that.

When I signed up that first time to volunteer at the Buddy Holly Hall, that was proof that I had broken out of it. Because if I was still terrified of doing anything uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have gone and volunteered, that first time.

But I did go. And I loved it. And it “proved” to my mind that I wasn’t afraid anymore, and I was ready for this new chapter of my life.

And then one time, I signed up to volunteer, and I had a panic attack, or a fibromyalgia flare-up (or maybe both; who really knows at this point?) and I didn’t go to the show.

And suddenly this new thing in my life (volunteering at the performing arts center) stopped giving me proof that I had broken out of my old routine. And somehow, that made me afraid.

And then I started feeling afraid every time I volunteered, because, “What if I’m not out of the woods, and what if this time becomes the time I lose my mind in public and everybody judges me?”

And the Buddy Holly Hall was supposed to be the place where I could go and not be afraid of losing my mind — because I’d already proven to myself that I’m safe there.

And then… any time I signed up for a show, and had to cancel due to anxiety, or chronic pain… I told my mind, “See, I’m avoiding doing the thing that makes me uncomfortable, because I know I’m not safe if I go there…” and my mind started to believe that story.

And the Buddy Holly Hall became:

Every time I go, I feel less anxious and less afraid, and experience more comfort and more pleasure. But every time I volunteer, I’m afraid to go because I expect I’m going to lose my mind, once I get there.

And from there:

I HAVE TO GO, because I have to prove to myself that I’m not a little baby who keeps giving into my pain and my anxiety! Only to cancel my sign-up, the day of the show, due to elevated pain and anxiety.

I tried to make the Buddy Holly Hall a much bigger ordeal than it was ever intended to be.

I tried to take something that I sometimes enjoy… and make it part of my therapy, and my “healing journey,” and the place where I could make myself go and learn to push through discomfort, until I’m capable of enjoying myself, enjoying being around other people, and occasionally even enjoying the live entertainment.

But get this:

I already enjoy myself, and the other people, and the live entertainment, every time I do allow myself to go.

Even if I’m in pain, or facing extreme anxiety, before I go.

So what in the world is making me so crazy when I do get so anxious, or have so much fibromyalgia pain, that I legitimately do need to cancel my sign-up, and just stay home?

I’m not sure I really know, anymore… but I think it’s from trying to expect the Buddy Holly Hall to be part of my therapy, rather than just, “I wanna get out of the apartment for a few hours, be around other people, and take in a show.”

Because whenever that’s all that I want out of the Buddy Holly Hall… nine times out of ten, I make the show… and I enjoy every minute of it! Okay sometimes I don’t enjoy having to take an Uber there and back… but that’s hardly the same as not enjoying the Buddy Holly Hall…

Every time I do make it to the show, I’m glad I went. I’m glad when I’m there, and I’m glad when I go home.

But the times I don’t go… man it’s like something just takes over in my brain, and I start telling myself what a disappointment I am… and I hate myself for not being tough enough to just power through, and make myself go see the show anyway.

(Because I know, deep down inside, that if I do, I’ll enjoy it. And still, I’m choosing to not… and I hate when I do that.)

And I guess, I’d rather talk myself out of going to see a show I’d probably really enjoy… than sit with myself and examine why it makes me feel so weak and vulnerable… and what I might be able to do about it, so that the next time I do want to do the thing… I can just relax and give myself permission to go and do it, and not worry about what “might” happen… but just accept and appreciate, what is.

I wish I would’ve done that before I missed seeing Jerry Seinfeld. I’m really not happy with that outcome.

Well, this is unexpected.

Sara Jones messaged me. And I read her message and gave it a thumbs-up, and went on with my day.

And I’m happy leaving it at that.

I don’t want to respond, beyond a thumbs-up.

I don’t care to engage her anymore.

It’s not that I don’t like her.

It’s not that she doesn’t matter to me.

I almost killed myself when I thought I was losing her — so, yeah, she clearly matters to me.

I’m just not interested in going back to that particular roadside attraction.

I got everything I needed out of our acquaintance-ship… and there’s nothing left for me to see.

Which feels really strange, if I’m completely honest…

I mean, for two years, I thought this girl was The Answer. And now…

Now, I feel like talking to her would just be a distraction.

It’s her fault. (j/k j/k)

But for real, hear me out:

I tried to love her. I tried to make her the center of my universe. I tried to make her want me, the same way I wanted her. And she wouldn’t.

She refused to reciprocate on that level.

And I took it as rejection, and it drove me to suicide.

And I had to spend 49 days in a mental hospital, and 59 days in residential treatment (and lots of days in between!), trying to figure out, “How do I make life worth living, if I have to live without Sara Jones?”

And trying to figure that out — something inside of me broke, somewhere in this last year. I’ve cried over Sara Jones, so intensely, that I didn’t even notice that my shower was flooding the bathroom floor, and spilling out into the bedroom…

I spent days in the hospital, and in treatment, avoiding everybody, because I was so hung up on losing Sara Jones I didn’t think I deserved to feel good around anybody else.

I journaled about her, enough to fill the Library of Congress.

I talked about her at length in therapy.

I prayed every day for a year, for God to show her how much I love her… and for Him to show me how I can live without her.

And somehow, slowly, through all the pain… I learned that I can live without her.

I hated it, at first. Because I still wanted her to be The Answer.

But I knew she didn’t want to be.

Reality kept throwing that fact in my face, every day of my recovery journey.

“Hey, Reality, do you think Sara Jones loves me today?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, but what if I do this?”

“No.”

“Hear me out, though.”

“Still no.”

“But I mean-”

“Stop, Michael. Just stop.”

I still get emotional, today, thinking back on how much I struggled with all those feelings and desires. Not because I want Sara Jones, anymore. But because I put so much effort into trying to live a fantasy…

And the whole time, I absolutely believed it was the truth.

Part of me still doesn’t understand why it can’t be the truth.

Because how beautiful would it be, if another human being could be the answer to all my problems? If she could just waltz into my life, and take away all my pain, and plant me in front of the mirror and I could finally see the man I really am, and have been wanting to be all along?

It would be such an easy answer to everything that’s ever gone wrong.

“Oh… I wasn’t broken… I just needed someone to love me.”

It sounds so promising…

And for so many years — even before Sara Jones — I wanted it to be the answer.

I thought I was so ugly, and so irredeemable, I needed it to be the answer. And Sara kept showing me, over and over again, that it never can be the answer.

Because the question I’ve actually spent my whole life trying to answer wasn’t, “Can this woman love me?”

The question has been, “Can I love myself?” (Sometimes it’s more like, “Can I even like myself in this moment?”)

And so, whether a woman loves me or not, is kind of irrelevant. I mean, in the long run, yeah… I want a woman to love me…

But her love can never be sufficient, to fill the hole in my heart that stems from me not wanting to love myself.

Which — side note — but I feel like this needs to be said. The whole, “You can’t love someone else until you love yourself” nonsense, really gets under my skin. Not because it’s fundamentally not true… but because it confuses two separate kinds of love and tries to make them all the same thing.

And learning to love yourself, and learning to love somebody else… are not the same thing.

It might be harder to love someone else, if you don’t first love yourself. But it’s not impossible. You just might make more mistakes, if you’re trying to use their love to make you feel good about who you are (or aren’t).

Anyway.

I really believed Sara was going to be the answer.

I didn’t know I was trying to solve the wrong problem.

I was trying to figure out, “How do I keep from ever losing her?” When the better question, the whole time, was, “How do I build a life that doesn’t need her?”

But I didn’t think I could “not need her in my life.” I thought she was what was making me want to live again. I thought she was making me happy, making me safe, making me want to finally heal from all my past wounds…

And I thought if she ever left me… I could never do that work alone.

And then, I lost her. And I almost died.

It almost became one more thing I could never recover from.

Then I started asking other people for help.

I told the doctors in the mental hospital that I wanted to die. I told the nurses I couldn’t figure out how to live without Sara Jones in my life.

I told them it was my fault she stopped talking to me, and I knew I’d ruined everything, and I didn’t know if I could live with the results…

But I had to try.

And I started talking to other patients.

I started opening up, and listening to other people.

I started making room in my life, for more than just the emptiness I felt, in the absense of Sara Jones.

It was horrible, at first. Every interaction brought me to tears. I spent more time hiding in my room, or writing in my journal, than interacting with the other people right in front of me.

I thought each one of them would despise me if they knew the way I’d treated Sara Jones.

I knew I was a horrible human being — and I was afraid of how they would treat me, if they found out.

But I talked to them, anyway. And I found out that some of them didn’t think I was horrible, at all. They understood how my mind could’ve interpreted everything the way it did… and why I would’ve believed I needed Sara to save me.

They didn’t say I was right to want her to save me… they just understood how a person could end up feeling that way.

That was the beginning of my recovery.

That was when I began to question just how much I really needed Sara Jones, after all.

But I still hated myself for the things I’d put her through, and for that, I needed more than what the mental hospital could give me. I needed therapy. I needed coping skills. I needed perspective.

I needed residential treatment.

The day I checked into treatment… roughly six months ago, now… I told the therapist, “I need this to work, or I probably will go home and kill myself.” And I carried that feeling with me for probably the first 40 days or so, out of my 59-day stay.

But eventually, I started to have days where suicide wasn’t the first thing I thought about when I woke up.

I started to enjoy spending time around other people.

I dare say, I started to make friends again. Not the kind you keep in touch with, after treatment is done — but the friends I made in residential treatment, made my recovery journey easier… because for once, I didn’t have to walk it all alone.

Since coming home, and starting outpatient therapy, I’ve still struggled. Sometimes I still have really dark thoughts. And I probably always will; not because I want to commit suicide, just because it’s where my mind has gone for so many years, it feels like a comfortable place to land when I get too overwhelmed.

But I went into treatment because I was afraid if I ever cut Sara Jones out of my life completely, I could never survive.

And now… she messaged me, and I gave it a thumbs-up and went on with my day.

And I’m not mad at her, today. It’s not like, “I hate you and never wanna talk to you again!” I just, legitimately don’t care if I ever talk to her again.

I was hurting so badly, before… I needed to build a life in which I wouldn’t need Sara Jones.

And now, almost one year later… I’ve built a life where I don’t need Sara Jones.

I wasn’t expecting this to ever happen.

Now that it has…

I’m kinda wondering what else I might not need.

Idealized love may be the thing that could one day destroy me.

Not because love is dangerous, but because I keep asking it to do things it was never designed to do.

Every time I meet a girl who I think has the potential to someday, possibly be mine, I become a different person. I pour all of my efforts into pursuing the girl, wooing her, impressing her, hoping to make her love me.

Because if I can convince just one girl to love me… maybe I can learn to love myself.

Maybe I can stop questioning my worth as a human being.

I pin all my hopes and expectations on finding the girl. I think that her love, her attention, her approval, is the only thing that can fix me. I need her to fix me. I don’t know how to fix myself.

I know at my core, I am broken. I’m fundamentally flawed. I always have been.

I don’t believe I deserve to get better. I believe I’m rotten to the core, and the world would be a better place without me in it.

The best thing I can do for myself is to just withdraw from everyone, and go to my hole, and wait to die.

I don’t deserve to be alive. I know I don’t deserve to be alive.

But somewhere, there’s a girl with the ability to believe otherwise. Somewhere is a girl who can keep me alive. And maybe, if she really loves me — maybe she can convince me to stay.

I don’t want to stay. I’ve given up on myself so many times, I don’t deserve to stay. But she doesn’t know that about me.

She doesn’t see me that way.

She doesn’t want me to suffer.

She doesn’t want me to be alone.

I want to be strong for her. I want to get better for her. I want to find safety in her. I know I’m not good enough — not brave enough — to save myself. If I’m alone, I’m not even worth saving.

The fact that I’m alone only proves that I’m not worth saving.

But she doesn’t know that. She won’t treat me that way. She will be the thing that saves me. She will be the reason I stay.

She will be the one who makes me happy. She will wash away all my pain.

She will determine my worth. She will give me what I need to be happy. She will give my life meaning and direction. I will exist to make her happy — and she will devote her life to making me whole.

She will understand me. She will support me. She will encourage me to live the life I always wanted, but never believed I deserve.

I don’t know how to do any of these things on my own. But I know she can do it for me.

Without her, I can’t go on. My heart won’t let me. My tears won’t run out. These wounds won’t close, until she is here to heal them.

I can’t do it on my own. I know I’m not able to. I know I don’t deserve to. But she can change me. She can convince me that things are okay. She can pull me out of the mire.

She will see me, and automatically, she will love me. Instinctively, she will know what to do. Effortlessly, she will change me. She will walk into my life and everything will be better.

I’ll be able to smile again. I’ll be free to dream. I will learn how to become the man I’ve always wanted to be! The man God made me to be.

She will fix me. She will understand me.

She will make me want to be alive.

I can’t survive without her. I’m unwilling to try. If it’s just me, I know I’m not worth the effort. I hate myself so much, I don’t want to hear my own name.

Why can’t she be the answer? I need her to be the answer. I can’t live in a world that doesn’t include her.

I’m not good enough. Not strong enough. Not brave enough to try to work on myself, unless she’s there, cheering me on from the sidelines, waiting for me at the finish, willing to be my everything…

Because at my core, I know I am nothing. I am nobody. I’m a problem, a nuisance, a distraction to be avoided on her path to recovery. I don’t deserve her, even if I could have her. I would hurt her.

I would want her to be my everything. I would expect her to solve all my problems. I would make it her job to make me happy; to give me reason to want to stay.

I wouldn’t understand why she couldn’t make me happy. I would blame her for problems I was creating.

I would demand that she make space for me; that she sacrifice her needs for me; that she give me everything I need, when I need it, the way I need it, without me having to tell her what I need, because I will expect her to intuitively know all my needs, without fail, without question, without hesitation.

I would hold her to a standard she can never meet. She would break my heart every time she couldn’t deliver. I would resent her, but I would never tell her.

How could I? I need her to save me, and if I don’t appease her, she will leave.

I’m already losing her – and I haven’t even found her.

She’s an impossible dream but she’s one I cannot shake!

I know I can’t survive without her.

I will spend my life waiting for her to arrive, hoping, searching, praying that someday I will find her. I will try to turn every woman I’m attracted to into her. I will cry tears of anguish, and agony, and self-loathing, and loneliness, and deep, deep sorrow. I will sabotage every area of my life.

I will lose every friendship.

I will sacrifice my happiness.

I will destroy my mental health.

I will throw away every opportunity for real connection.

I will wound her so deeply I can never be forgiven. She’ll never forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself. I will carry the burden of shame and regret everywhere I go.

It will color every decision I ever make.

I will beg for salvation.

It will never come.

She will despise me. I will despise her, but I will never let myself know. I will tell myself that I love her; that I need her; that she makes me complete and she gives my life meaning, and joy.

But I will be so angry with her for all the ways she disappoints me. I won’t know how to tell her I’m angry. I’ll despise myself for thinking she’s a disappointment.

I’ll tell myself if I truly loved her, I’d never get mad.

I won’t understand why we keep fighting. If she truly loved me, she would know I’m not trying to hurt her. I just don’t know any other way.

She would forgive me for everything.

She would know I can’t help myself, and that I’m not responsible for the things my trauma tells me to do.

She would never get upset, no matter how many times I hurt her. She would know that I’m just afraid, and I don’t have any self-control.

She would know how much I love her, and that I can’t survive without her, and she would soften her heart, and give me as many chances as I need to get it right.

But she won’t do any of that.

She’ll never love me.

She’ll never give me what I need.

I’ll never find her.

She’ll never be able to fix me. It’s impossible.

She’ll never be the one.

How can she?

She’s not real.

She doesn’t exist.

For years, I’ve been looking for something else to be the thing that saves me:

• an online romance

• a respectable career

• a peer support network for myself and other disabled veterans

• church (although, technically…)

• therapy

• friends

• a mental hospital

• journaling

• crying every day like a 4-year-old in Disneyland who’s just been told it’s time to go back to the hotel and take a nap

• learning to be comfortable eating alone in a restaurant

• practicing exposure therapy by volunteering at the Buddy Holly Hall

• and now — apparently — wanting a weekend getaway with the group therapist in outpatient therapy (ooh la la)

She is gorgeous with a capital O-M-G!!!!!

And she has the biggest, most beautiful nose I’ve ever laid eyes on. (I don’t know what it is with me, and women with big noses… but Lord have mercy…)

She inspires me.

I know I’m not in love with her — and I don’t actually want to be.

But don’t try to tell me I can’t desire her! I’m not tryin’ to hear that, see. 😍

I absolutely adore her. I make it a point to always be on time for her groups. And I sit close enough that I can bask in her glory… without being so close that it would be creepy for me to look at her the way I do.

And I don’t care what that makes me look like, anymore.

(And shhh…. don’t say anything to Michael but that not caring may turn out to be the actual thing that is saving me… because I’m finally feeling what’s there for me to feel… and not feeling ashamed because of it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

A small part of me wants to imagine that her love, pointed in my direction, could set me free.

On top of being drop-dead gorgeous, she’s also well-trained, highly educated, wicked smart, compassionate, socially aware, emotionally intelligent, a grandmother, (a single grandmother, nudge nudge, wink wink), and still as wild as a West Texas Rose.

She’s basically Lubbock’s version of Nora from the original ‘Pete’s Dragon.’

No wonder I’m infatuated.

But I know she’s not the thing that’ll save me. And honestly… I don’t want her to be.

I don’t mind dreaming about her, though… le sigh…

When I first moved to Lubbock, I needed something to save me.

I wasn’t aware, yet, that I have everything I already need, to save myself (with outside help, of course… but not with outside answers… and I spent years searching for outside answers).

The first time I volunteered at the Buddy Holly Hall, the experience was profound.

I’d just moved from Seattle, and had spent 14 years prior locking myself in my room and avoiding all contact with the outside world! So just showing up at the theater was huge. But then, I also interacted with other staff, and volunteers, and with the general public.

And I enjoyed it! Even though it also made me really, really scared.

I tried to make the Buddy Holly Hall The Thing That Will Save Me. I told myself that every time I volunteer, I become more comfortable being in crowds, and being around other people (which is absolutely true!)

And then I told myself, “Therefore, all I need to do to heal is to keep volunteering at the Buddy Holly Hall, as much and as often as possible!”

And that put a lot of pressure on something that’s supposed to be an easy, low-key way for me to get out of the apartment, get around other people, and hopefully enjoy an evening of live entertainment.

And I felt that pressure, every time I signed up to volunteer.

It was never enough that I wanted to go see a show… just because I wanna go see that show.

It had to break me out of my shell. Force me into uncomfortable situations, so that I could learn to make them comfortable. Teach me once and for all that, “I’m no longer in a danger zone, and it’s allowed for me to relax now, and have fun, gosh darnit!” And if I couldn’t have fun, I was going to die trying…

For real. That was how I started to view volunteering at the local performing arts center.

It wasn’t enough that I just wanted to do something fun. It had to be an event; an experience that would change my entire future! And if it couldn’t do that… it wasn’t worth going.

I missed a lot of really good shows after that became my motivation. I got so worked up before every show — worrying that I would either lose my mind, because of all the trauma I still haven’t let go… or worse, I would go enjoy the show, and I wouldn’t have any breakthrough moments at all.

And if I couldn’t break through… why was I even going?

I’d start catastrophizing a day or two before the show. And then, on the day of, I’d be so sick with worry, I’d cancel my sign-up just a few hours before the show started… and then I’d stay home and hate myself for “not being able to push through the panic,” and I’d tell myself it was all my fault.

It was all evidence that I really wasn’t growing, at all, because every time I canceled a show, I went through the exact same ordeal — and every time, my brain acted as if it was the first time I’ve ever panicked, like, “Gee, where did this come from? I wasn’t expecting anxiety to show up today.”

But I knew.

When I signed up for a show, I knew.

I could always see it coming… and I never wanted to acknowledge it was there.

Same thing happened with Sara Jones.

I really, really thought I loved her.

And I thought her love was going to pull me out of the darkness, and set me back on track to The Life I Really Should Be Living.

I thought if I loved her enough… I’d convince her to love me back.

I tried. So hard.

I still don’t think it’s fair, the way things ended with me and her.

But I’m able to acknowledge that the ending was true. I don’t like it — but at least I’m not trying to fight it, anymore.

I almost lost my life, in that battle.

I really expected her to pull me through.

When I started working for AWAI in 2024, I thought I was on The Precipice of the Career That Would Finally Validate Me.

I needed a win! And I had one — but I didn’t know when to acknowledge that I had succeeded… so I kept pushing myself all the way into a hard, devastating burnout.

I convinced myself that everybody in the AWAI Facebook groups loved me — which, honestly, they probably did — and I convinced myself that everybody in the AWAI Facebook groups needed me to help them win — which, honestly, they probably didn’t.

But I told myself that, because of my job title, I had become Responsible For Everyone Else’s Success, or Failure, and I wasn’t about to let anybody fail. Not on my watch.

I know, now, that nobody’s success or failure is ever dependent on “Michael Glenn being their online cheerleader.” But nobody could’ve told that to 2024 Michael Glenn, in any way that he would’ve believed.

I needed an impossible mission to solve, to keep me focused on problem-solving, without yet realizing that all I was actually doing, was making my own problems worse.

(That sentence sounded a lot different in my head… but I’m leaving it, because it’s an accurate portrayal of where I was in 2024.)

I thought the mental hospital in 2025 was The Only Safe Environment in Which I Could Come Face to Face With My True Identity.

At the time, it was. I’ve never in my life been as physically and emotionally safe as I was, inside the mental hospital. I was there for six weeks, because I needed to get in touch with my own thoughts and feelings, and I knew if I tried to do that work on the outside, I would attempt to end my life.

It wasn’t a question of, “Could things go south?” It was a deep, internal, knowing, that, “If I leave here before I’m ready, things will go south.”

And I did leave before I was ready — and things did go south.

I was back in the mental hospital within 36 hours or so of being released. They’d forced me out, and I went home and spiraled, and tried to end my life.

Thank God they let me back in.

I thought if I could learn to journal, and to cry, and to just “Make Space to Sit With My Emotions,” (uggghhhh… somebody gag me with a spoon…)

I thought simply allowing my emotions, would somehow set me free.

It didn’t. It just made me need 59 days of residential treatment.

During which, I cried so hard in the shower — on two separate occasions! — I dissociated and never noticed that the water from the shower was flooding my bedroom, on the other side of the bathroom door!

It was good to cry all that out, though! Don’t get me wrong.

It just wasn’t The Thing To Save Me.

(Learning to make space for my emotions, and feel them long enough to understand what they’re trying to tell me… that has been life-changing. But that’s not what I was doing for all the years that I didn’t know it wasn’t what I thought it was.)

Showing up at church, taking the Sacrament, going to Elder’s Quorum, bearing my testimony on Fast Sunday…

“Going to Church” isn’t even going to save me.

Although, Salvation does lie within…

But the way I was doing it, before…

Look, since I came back to church in my early 30s… it’s definitely played a huge role in my journey. And I’m not going to stop attending church. I’m not going to stop believing in God.

But I am redefining what God, and church, and faith, and worship, mean to Michael Glenn. Because the way I was doing it before, left something lacking.

And the way I view my relationship to God, and church, and worship, today…

It’s my guiding star.

I don’t believe I could be Michael Glenn, and not believe in God anymore.

But not even God can save me, if I’m not willing to take an active role in my own salvation.

And I think that’s the part I’ve been missing, in all these attempts to Make The Thing I Need In Order To Feel Good About Myself, Anything Other Than Sitting Down and Get To Know My Actual Self.

And that’s why everything up to this point has failed.

And why — as much as I want a weekend getaway with the gorgeous therapist in the front row with the big, bold, beautiful nose (I really do brake for big noses…) — and if I forget all society’s rules and regulations, and all the boundaries that need to be in place to protect the sanctity of the therapist-patient relationship (and besides, she’s the group therapist, not my own individual therapist… hello…)

I want my therapist’s love, desire, attraction, attention, and approval… to tell me that maybe I am worth something, after all.

I mean… what good would it do me to lie, at this point?

I’m not trying to make anything happen.

(I’m not not trying, either…) 😜

But for real.

What hurts me more, in this chapter of my journey?

• Wanting something I know is impossible for me to have?

• Or not admitting to myself that it’s okay to want it — even when I know it’ll never happen?

Because from the Buddy Holly Hall, to Sara Jones, to journaling, to Waiting For God to Part The Heavens and Personally Deliver Me From My Trauma…

The part that’s consistently done the most harm is me not letting myself admit that I’m using this vehicle to try and accomplish things this vehicle is not designed, or intended, to ever achieve.

And somehow, every one of these insights folds into two simple rules for living:

1. Notice what’s there to be noticed (aka, “What am I observing?”)

2. Choose from the readily available choices (aka, “With what’s available to me in this moment… how would I like to respond?”)

And just like that, I’m learning:

I started this newsletter to observe humanity.

I’m discovering I’m one of them.

And all it took to drive the message home, was acknowledging that I have an innocent, harmless, understandable crush, on an amazing, talented, compassionate, gorgeous woman with a fabulous honker… who just happens to be permanently off-limits to me because of her role as a therapist.

And I’m okay with that.

Because, really, I’m not trying to make anything happen.

I’m just finally learning to appreciate what’s there, what’s real, what is (and is not) possible…

And what I’m willing to do, and acknowledge, based on the reality of what I’m actually looking at.

And halfway through 90 hours of intensive outpatient therapy?

That’s probably an incredible lesson for me to have learned.

Now, back to that veranda…

I have a difficult decision to make, and I don’t think I’m equipped to make it.

My lease runs out in about six weeks, and I need to decide if I want to stay in Lubbock, in my current apartment, where I’m lonely all the time, but where I feel relatively safe and secure…

Or move to San Antonio, and live I-don’t-know-where, and be part of the nation’s largest veteran community, and — hopefully — break out of this self-isolation, and make new friends, and new memories, but risk being scared out of my mind for however long it takes me to adjust to a new reality.

I want to move to San Antonio… so, so badly…

But I’m afraid if I do, it’ll be for all the wrong reasons.

I know, I know… I just got out of treatment a few months ago. And the reason I had to go to treatment in the first place, is because I got so lonely, and felt so helpless, that I tried to kill myself.

That seems like it should be all the reason I need to choose San Antonio, where I can easily connect with so many other veterans, I’ll never feel lonely or helpless again…

But is it really as easy as just picking up and moving to a new city?

Because there are veterans here in Lubbock.

And I’ve never tried to connect with any of them.

Well, I guess I kind of tried to… back when I went to the Vet Center… before they told me they can’t help me because they only work with combat veterans…

But aside from that, I’ve made zero attempt to meet other veterans. I haven’t even searched for Facebook groups, or Googled Lubbock veteran organizations, or anything.

I know a handful of veterans in my church, and I’m not even trying to make friends with them. So why should I think that just moving to San Antonio will suddenly inspire me to break out of my shell, and start making the connections I truly desire?

But I don’t really want to stay in Lubbock, anymore, either.

Lubbock was good for me in a lot of ways. But I don’t think I belong here anymore. But is the problem Lubbock? Or is it the way I’ve conducted myself, since I moved to Lubbock?

Am I lonely because there’s no one to meet here — or am I lonely because I’m not taking steps to try and meet new people, and build connections? I honestly don’t know.

Besides, I moved to Lubbock so I could grow closer to God.

What happens if moving to San Antonio draws me away from Him?

I don’t want to be alone anymore. And I’m afraid if I don’t move, I’ll remain alone for the rest of my life. I’m afraid I’ll stagnate, and I’ll slowly let go of my dreams and settle into a smaller life than the one I really want.

But if I do move…

What happens if I start making friends, and I’m so hungry for connection, I compromise my own values and identity to make other people like me…

And I forget who I even am?

What if I forget to rely on God?

What if I’m so happy to not be alone anymore, that I start following the crowd, and I wind up living a lifestyle I never wanted, but don’t know how to give up, because I become too afraid that if I don’t do what everyone else is doing, no one will want me around?

What if I move into an apartment in San Antonio, and am still too scared to even leave the apartment, in order to make all these new friends? Then I’d have moved for nothing. I’d be in a new town… but still practicing the same isolating behavior I want so desperately to be free of.

Then I would really hate myself.

If I did move, though, I would have access to better healthcare, since there’s a much larger VA presence in San Antonio. And there would be a bigger community of veterans for me to consider becoming part of… and maybe that would be enough incentive to at least start to break out of my isolation…

But there are other veterans — and a halfway decent VA facility — right here in Lubbock. But I’m pretty certain that even if I avail myself of all that Lubbock has to offer, it will never be enough to keep me here permanently.

I think I’m too big of a personality to be satisfied spending the rest of my life in a small town environment.

But Lubbock is growing! It’s expected to double in size within the next 5-7 years, I think… but that’s a long time for me to wait, for Lubbock to still be too small to keep me satisfied.

Perhaps most importantly, though, and for reasons I cannot explain… I feel like God wants me to stay in Lubbock just a wee bit longer. And I don’t know if that’s really coming from God, or if I’m just scared to pick up and move.

But when I moved from my parent’s house in Seattle, to Lubbock, back in 2023, I knew it was what God wanted me to do. And I don’t know God wants me to move to San Antonio. I just think it would be an easier way for me to meet people.

But if I’m not leaving my apartment, in Lubbock, and going out and making friends and learning how to build relationships again… why would I magically start doing that just because I move to San Antonio?

Wouldn’t it be smarter to practice all that stuff here, and find out if I can make friends in Lubbock and maybe that’s all I need in order to stop feeling lonely?

Isn’t that at least worth exploring, before I move six hours away, into a larger city where I still don’t know anybody and where, yes, there’s more opportunities to go out and do stuff — but also, more opportunities to get overwhelmed and paralyzed by fear, because there are too many choices and I don’t trust myself to make any of them?

So I think I’m going to compromise:

I’m going to stay in Lubbock for now. (Which my outpatient therapist absolutely recommends as the safest choice while still learning to manage my mental health.)

But I’m going to move into a smaller, one-bedroom apartment, in my current apartment complex. That way, I still get the experience of “I’m moving to a different place to see how that affects my recovery,” but I’m still in my current neighborhood, where I know I’m safe, I know what my routine is, I know where all the stores and restaurants are, I’m close to church, all that good stuff…

At first, I thought this was copping out. Like, “If I was really brave I’d just move to San Antonio and then figure everything out after I got there!” But when I step back from that idea, it doesn’t sound brave; it sounds reckless and impulsive.

And I don’t think I am reckless and impulsive, anymore. I don’t think I need to be.

I think I can grow and heal faster by being methodical, and calculated. And I think as long as I am still growing, it’s probably better to do it in ways that I know are keeping me safe, and that are not introducing incredibly more variables than my nervous system is ready to handle.

So I think moving into a one-bedroom is going to be good for me. And I don’t even think of it as a “compromise,” really; I think of it as a smart choice, given all the available data.

Moving from Seattle to Lubbock was throwing myself into the deep end, and at that time, was exactly what I needed in order to get moving again. Today, the better move for me is to dip my toes into the water, and see, “What does happen to my sense of security if I change apartments within the same complex where I already know I’m safe?”

I think it’s the perfect way for me to show myself that my safety, my peace, my security, my comfort, don’t come from my current two-bedroom apartment…

They come from the work I put into creating a two-bedroom apartment where safety, peace, security, and comfort, can exist…

And if I can create those conditions in this apartment, I can create them in a different apartment, too.

And I think it would be worth postponing a move to another city, until I’ve demonstrated to myself that I am the source of my peace and safety, not my apartment.

Doing so may or may not have any impact on my feelings of loneliness…

But I suspect if I can teach myself that I have it within me to create a safe and stable home environment… that can probably lend itself easily to, “I have it within me to create feelings of safety and ease when meeting new people and making new friends.”

And anyway, if all else fails and this experiment truly does backfire… I do have the option of breaking my lease and moving to San Antonio — or back to Seattle to live with Mom and Dad — at any time, if I really need to. Yes, I would have to pay a penalty, but if it came down to life or death, paying a fine to break my lease is not that big a deal, is it?

So why not take this opportunity to take things slow, and just see what happens?

Like I’ve been saying lately, I don’t have to kill myself, to try and save myself.

If San Antonio is too big and scary for me today… there’s no reason why I can’t put it off until some future tomorrow. San Antonio will still be there — and God willing, so will I.

I keep getting dysregulated and I don’t like it.

It started in 2024 when I decided to start sitting with my feelings.

Actually, it probably started around 2019, when I applied for VA disability.

Or maybe it was 2016, when I left the house and flew to another state so I could go to my niece’s wedding.

Or 2008, when I started getting restless at work, before I got fired and my entire world came crashing down.

Or maybe 2003, when I got PTSD when my ship deployed to the Gulf in war time.

Or maybe when I was 15 years old, and would randomly burst into tears, hanging out with my friends and suddenly feeling very frightened, and overwhelmed, for absolutely no good reason…

But I don’t think it started happening this often until sometime around 2024 or so.

It got worse during the second half of 2024, as I started reaching for more growth, more success, more achievement — more “me-ness.”

For most of the 15 years from 2009 to 2024, I kept myself too numb to be able to feel dysregulated…

But then I started wanting more out of life…

And I couldn’t just keep shutting down anymore, every time things got uncomfortable.

I wanted better results — and I was just starting to believe I could have better results! And I was journaling daily, crying daily, getting out of the apartment daily, trying so hard to connect with other people!

But I didn’t know what I was doing.

I didn’t know how to make the changes I wanted, and do it in healthy ways that would support the new lifestyle I was trying so desperately to step into…

So I got dysregulated, and I stayed there.

A lot.

A lot a lot.

I was confronting a lot of the things I’ve tried to run from, my whole life… so that was good. Or at least, I thought it was good. But the way I was going about it was messing me up… and I feel like I should’ve known I wasn’t doing it right.

But how could I?

I didn’t have a fraction of the coping skills I’m learning today.

By my own estimation, I quit engaging with life when I was around 15 years old. I just checked out. I stopped learning. Stopped trying. Stopped wanting to fight back against all the problems life kept throwing at me.

So for 34 years, I’ve been moving through life with the emotional awareness of a scared, frustrated, confused 15-year-old boy. That was the place from where I faced all of life’s problems.

So of course I messed things up sometimes…

(Actually, I still think I messed things up all the time… but that’s kind of a moot point.)

2024 was the first time I consciously chose to stop running… to stop avoiding… and try to learn to start accepting what has happened to me, and what I haven’t done about it…

And try to start learning a better way.

Because I knew, all along, the way I was facing the world wasn’t working for me.

But I never knew I could face the world, any other way than the way I’d been taught at 15 years old.

True story.

I believed that was who I am… and you can’t change who you are…

What you think, what you feel, how you behave — maybe even what kind of music you listen to (although as I write this I’m grooving to Guns N Roses, so…)

Those things, you can change.

But I think who you are, underneath the thoughts, the feelings, the behavior, attitudes, beliefs, insecurities, music choices (they will always be my favorite band and I will fight people on this…)

Who you are is eternal, and unchanging.

And I went through life, for 34 years, mistakenly believing I am the 15-year-old version of me who’s afraid of everything and resents everyone and life is never going to give me what I want because I’m a coward and a pretender and I’ve cut myself off from my own values and identity and there is no coming back from the horrible choices I’ve made and the terrible things I’ve done…

When the truth is, none of that is who I am.

It’s just things I believe about myself, that aren’t true.

But I believed it so strongly, for so long… I feel like it became my identity.

Or, at least, it became how I viewed the world, and my own place in it.

And 2024 is about when I really started to challenge that, and try to change it, and overcome it.

I say try because I legitimately did not know what I was doing, in 2024.

I’d spent so many years keeping myself numb, I thought if I just made myself feel everything… that alone would fix me.

So every day, I’d sit and I’d journal about things that were upsetting me, whether past events, or present. And every day, I’d get so worked up, I’d cry hard enough to sweat through my clothes… and loud enough that I’m still surprised no one in my apartment complex ever called in a welfare check on me.

(If you haven’t noticed, I am a bit of a loud personality. Usually, I like that about myself… but not so much when it comes to crying. I feel like I’d rather be the type who cries quietly, in secret, and nobody ever has any idea I’m doing it… but for better or worse, that’s just not who I am.)

I kept purposely making myself upset, believing if I could just bring everything up to the surface, I’d get better.

But the way I was going about it, everything just kept getting worse.

I knew how to dig stuff up — and I got better at it every time I’d journal and sit with those ugly emotions! But I didn’t know, yet, what to do with it all, after digging it up. So every day, I brought up more and more pain, and every day, it just accumulated.

I wasn’t numb anymore, but I still wasn’t getting anything out.

It went on like that until August of 2025, when I went to the mental hospital.

Looking back, I can see that I was doing something wrong, to end up in that mental-emotional state. But when I was admitted to the hospital, I believed there was something wrong with me, as a human being. And that was hard to deal with.

I got dysregulated on a daily basis during the 6 or 7 weeks I spent in the hospital. Once a day, I would go to my room, and sit in bed and sob, for hours on end. I’d tremble, and scream, and sweat through my hospital scrubs…

And at first, I thought I was going out of my mind.

But eventually… I started to realize that the more I cried in the hospital, the better I felt.

I was becoming more calm; more clear-headed; more centered. I was starting to look at my problems through a different lens. The way I interacted with the other patients, and with the hospital staff, started to change.

I started to believe I was worth saving — that I was worth fighting for.

I continued to cry every day when I left the hospital, but outside of the safety and security of a hospital setting, it wasn’t the same. I got overwhelmed again, and questioned my worth and my identity, and told myself I was doing everything wrong…

Until I went to residential treatment in San Antonio. There, I felt safe to cry everything out again, and I got to learn real coping skills, to help me move through all the things that were making me cry all the time, and making me think that suicide was a viable option.

I spent a lot of my time in San Antonio feeling dysregulated, and out of control.

But I also spent a lot of time allowing myself to feel dysregulated, and out of control. And I started to notice something remarkable:

Sometimes, when I cry, I am dysregulated. I am overwhelmed to the point that I don’t have any control over my emotions. And I need to drop everything, and cry it all out — all the way down to the roots, if necessary — in order to restore balance.

But sometimes… sometimes when I cry, I’m allowing myself to feel the emotion, and let it run its course, and it’s still painful and still feels overwhelming — but I’m actually in control of the process.

And I don’t think it’s fair to me, to label those moments as being dysregulated. Because when I’m in control, and I choose to let myself cry, I’m not dysregulated in that moment. In fact, I’m doing something very healthy by getting those emotions out, and giving myself freedom to feel what I need to feel.

But there’s still a lot of moments when I know I’m not in control; when I’m so overwhelmed my body just takes over and forces me to cry it all out, whether I want to or not.

And those are the times I don’t like, even though I can admit that they’re also necessary.

Because those painful emotions I’ve been avoiding my whole life? They do need to come out, in order for me to start moving forward. I can’t confront something I’m not even willing to let happen.

But I don’t like it, at all. And I wish there was an easier way.

Last Thursday, I had plans to go to dinner with some friends I made in outpatient therapy.

I backed out at the last minute, because the idea of being in a restaurant with other people at my table is still too scary to think about…

But I have to give myself credit where credit is due:

I’m in outpatient therapy.

I attend — and participate in — every session.

I’m making friends in outpatient.

I want those friendships to continue, and to extend into other areas of my life.

I’m willing to make plans to meet up with friends in person (even if I did eventually back out of those plans… I still made the plans and texted the invites…)

I was able, for a brief window of time, to picture myself in a restaurant, with friends, sharing a meal and a conversation, building memories, feeling connected… and in my mind, that picture felt good.

It felt like the kind of activity I want to be a part of.

From the time I sent the invites… until the time I texted everyone and said I’m not quite ready yet… for that brief period of time, I wanted connection more than I wanted the “safety” of always doing everything alone.

And, yeah, the thought of that connection scares the daylights out of me.

But even though it scares me so much that I had to back out of last week’s plans…

I still want the connection.

I want to have friends again.

I don’t know what that’s going to look like.

It’s scary to put myself back out there.

I could make friends with the wrong people, and they could hurt me, take advantage of me, and convince me to compromise my integrity in return for their approval.

I could make friends with the right people, and they could get to know me, and discover they don’t like me or they don’t want me in their life.

I could make really great friends, and for reasons nobody can explain or foresee, we could still drift apart and ultimately go our separate ways.

I could wind up alone again, after all is said and done.

I could be even more lonely than I already am, if I make new friends, and lose them…

But also…

I could make new friends, and they could add so much depth, meaning, and beauty to my life. They could give me feelings, experiences, and moments that I don’t even know how much I’m missing.

They could give me incentive to stay alive, on the days when I feel really down on myself and wonder if it’s all still worth it or not.

They could give me a reason to get out of the apartment and explore more of West Texas, and engage in some of the social activities I secretly want to be part of… but am too afraid to open up just yet, and admit how badly I want it…

They could bring my life a whole new level of meaning, fulfillment, and satisfaction.

They could help me finally know that I don’t have to carry all my burdens alone, anymore.

But I’m scared. Not just like, “Ugh, I don’t know if they’ll like me…”

But, “I’m terrified they’ll think I have too much drama and too many problems and they won’t wait to get rid of me so they don’t get sucked into it all… I’m convinced they’ll spend five minutes with me and then never wanna talk to me again… I’m afraid I’ll reach out for a hand to hold, and every one of them will only kick me when I’m already down.”

I have myself so thoroughly convinced that I’m nothing and nobody… and that no one would ever want to be my friend… the thought of putting myself out there isn’t, “Let’s take a chance and maybe they’ll prove me wrong!”

It’s, “I know for a fact this is what’s going to happen, and it’s safer for me to avoid it and always wonder, than it is to go out there and find out that it’s true that nobody wants me.”

But I’m tired of living alone…

I won’t do it anymore.

If I had to be alone for the rest of my life…

I would rather die.

That’s not an exaggeration. And it’s not a colloquialism.

It’s a statement of fact.

I will die before I will spend the next 50 years or more, living alone, having nobody to talk to, nobody to share things with, nobody to go out to dinner with…

And I’m not ready to die yet. I tried it; it didn’t work. (Sorry, is that too dark? It’s true, though — I know killing myself is not the answer I’m looking for…)

The only other option, then, is to stop being alone.

No matter how much that terrifies me.

And.

I.

Am.

Terrified.

But I know I’ve had friends, before.

And I know I’ve eaten in restaurants, with other people at my table, before.

And if I’ve done it before…

I have to believe I can do it again.

I have to show myself that I can do it again. Future me is counting on it.

But I’m too afraid, today, to go to dinner with friends, tomorrow.

* * * * * * * * * *

A year ago, my story would’ve stopped, right there.

“I’m too afraid today, so there’s no point in even hoping for tomorrow.”

But a year ago, I was still looking for reasons to die. And today, I want to find reasons to stay alive.

And dinner with friends feels like a fabulous reason to live!

So I have to figure out how to make it happen; how to work through the fear that’s holding me back.

Because my goal isn’t just “go to dinner with friends one time.”

My goal is “become someone who enjoys dinner with friends on a consistent basis.”

So it’s not just a fear I have to put up with one time, to get through one dinner so I can say, “See, I did it.” And then tell myself I never have to do it again.

No, no, no. This is a fear I have to sit with, and acknowledge, and allow to be present as I sit down at the table with my friends, and tell myself, “Dinners like this one are important to me — important enough to push through this paralyzing, overwhelming feeling inside, that tells me to turn and run the other direction.”

Old me would’ve given up, the moment I texted everyone and told them, “Hey, I’m not quite ready yet.”

I would’ve seen that as a failure. And I would’ve convinced myself I couldn’t recover from it.

And honestly… new me still feels that way, somewhat. I do feel like I failed to achieve my goal. Objectively speaking, I suppose I did fail.

I mean, I was going to go to dinner, and then, I didn’t.

But it’s not a failure that I can’t recover from. And that’s what’s different about me, today: a year ago, I would’ve quit trying, after the first failure. Today, I refuse to let go of the goal.

And that refusal is still progress. It’s still forward momentum.

It’s still one step closer to my ultimate goal, than if I’d given up, and stayed home, and isolated myself, and told myself I was a failure for not being ready to take the big step yet and go out with my friends.

Anything that cracks open the belief that “I can’t do this,” or “I’m failing,” or “There’s no point,” has to be worth holding onto.

Refusing to let go is helping me to destroy the belief that I can’t do it.

I couldn’t face going to dinner with friends last week, but instead of giving up completely, I did the next best thing: I took myself out.

And that’s not my ultimate goal…

But compared to telling myself I can never do it, and there’s no point in even trying…

Taking myself to dinner is huge.

Like, I probably can’t even appreciate yet, how powerful it is.

Last week, I took myself to dinner, alone.

Not because I want to be by myself.

But because I’m trying to learn how not to be… and this is the only step right now, that feels safe for me to take.

Someday, though, there’s going to be other people at my table.

I am going to have dinner with my friends.

Not because the fear went away.

But because I learned to stop letting the fear make my decisions.

That starts with me, sitting in a restaurant alone, learning to be comfortable in public, instead of isolating in my apartment and just ordering DoorDash.

And that’s not my ultimate goal.

But for today, I think it’s enough.

I already have enough.