I'm in a bad place.

A really bad place indeed.

I figure I should get all of this madness out into the bright light and judgmental eyes of the digital world.

Why?

To answer that question, let me back up to 2011.

Between 2005 and 2011, I suffered a series of nervous breakdowns that crushed me, almost into rubble. After a decade of only the Spoose knowing how bad off I was, I opened up to my family doctor and spilled my guts.

Two things happened. First, I received my first dose of the miracle medication Lithium. Second, my doctor told me I'd probably never get better if I didn't get all of chaos out of my noggin and lay it bare for the world to see. She said if I didn't want to see a therapist, I wouldn't be comfortable enough to see one until 2021. I needed to write it all down and let people read it.

That's when I started a blog that turned into the book A Cautious Descent Into Respectability, and fractured my relationship with most of my family to this very day.

It helped a lot.

Fuck... it probably saved my life.

Jump to April 2020, and the reason I finally started seeing a therapist My second oldest child, Stephen, killed himself in a meth-induced psychosis.

I've never been able to move past it. Most days, I can barely contain my sorrow and rage. I feel like my soul was shattered that day six years ago.

My life was destroyed that day.

I'm NOT blaming him. He had his personal trauma and demons, and he fought them to the bitter end.

Before his death, I was fighting for my disability benefits due to mental health reasons. I'd finally received them two years ago. But despite my problems, I did things. I worked on the house. I did the dishes. I went places. I visited friends and family on the regular. And most importantly, to me, I was a writing machine. I was cranking thousands of words on the regular, and I was happy with the quality and quantity.

Not anymore.

It's been YEARS since I worked on any of my various book series. A few short stories and one novella are the grand total of my work product. I'm full of ideas, and I've made serious attempts at starting several products. But the words won't come anymore. The one thing I know I was made to do, I can't seem to do anymore.

I'm thinking of quitting.

Then, in October 2023, my dog Lexi (formerly Stephens' dog) died of cancer. She was the last direct connection I had to my son.

And she was such a good girl.

Since then, I've hit rock bottom. Oh, there have been some good things. The Spoose gave me a puppy in January 2024. No, the house has Little Miss Maddie, The Mischief Maker. She brings us all joy.

But despite the good things, I'm sliding into a state of decay.

I do nothing.

I eat too much.

I don't wash enough.

I don't change my clothes often enough.

I don't shave until the Spoose says something or I can't stand the itch anymore.

I don't do chores.

I never leave the house unless I absolutely have to.

I've been ignoring the budget, and I'm the one who's supposed to handle the money.

I just don't care enough to try.

I'm lost at sea, and the sharks are circling.

So what was the point of this depressing word vomit?