The Value of Feelings

Since getting back from my vacation a few days ago, I've had this nagging question pinballing around my head, in no small part because of my Depression's tendency to lock onto something and obsess about it to no end.

How much are emotions and all the corresponding feelings connected to them actually worth?

I suppose that because I live in America, a country utterly controlled by what's become a highly distorted form of Capitalism, I guess they fall under the purview of yet another commodity who's worth is dictated by the almighty and unimpeachable market. Which means, by that economic pretzel logic, there's no real flat rate, no equilibrium between where one person's feelings rank in value by comparison to another.

As in all things we like to slap a price tag on, which is just about everything, it all depends on relative and sometimes arbitrary factors like who's feelings we're talking about, that person's status, reputation, position, presentation, etc.,

For example: We tend to be more interested in the feelings and emotions of those in position of celebrity, financial or social superiority, potential physical attractiveness and perceived potential compatibility more than we do pretty much anyone else. If a person ticks one of those specialized boxes, then it's almost an immediate response to shift our attitudes and behaviors towards the value we see in how they feel about us.

What that means for the rest, I guess, is that no matter how strong their feelings or the motivations driving them are, the unpleasant reality is that they're not worth much more than the proverbial plugged nickel.

When I first sat down with my current therapist a few weeks ago, she asked me to put down a list of everything I was hoping to get out of the work we're hopefully going to be doing over the foreseeable I-don't-know-how-long. My response was to divide my list into pros and cons, based on what I felt like I need to change most about myself.

While a pro might have been something like Find motivation to be creative again, a con was more along the lines of Learn to stop caring about or getting emotionally attached to people.

Now the obvious critique of the latter, and my therapist called me out on it too, is 1.) human beings aren't programmed to not care about one another, as that's why emotions exist in the first place, and 2.) there's nothing productive or positive about not letting ourselves care about those around us.

Maybe so, but good luck convincing my mind of that because for most of my life and especially for the better part of the last ten years, it's been nigh-on-impossible not to feel like pretty much everything I feel has no value whatsoever.

I wish I could say that's solely the byproduct of my Depression both before and after the Breakdown, but that would totally ignore the unshakable perception that everything I feel, with the sole exceptions of my anger and my guilt/regret/shame, don't seem to be worth anything to the people I've let myself stay attached to in one degree or another.

After one episode of having those feelings go unrequited after another, going all the way back from my early childhood and on through to all the pain and anguish I had to endure with Ghost, I honestly can't think of a more rational realization to come to than what I feel and how I express those emotions isn't worth anything to whomever I direct them at either.

If that seems a little harsh, try having to live with the idea that no matter how much you grow to care about someone, it's likely never going to be seen as valuable as someone else who may end up very well making them feel worthless down the line too.

God knows I've seen it almost as many times as I've been told that my feelings aren't wanted or worth enough to be considered of value. Which leads me to ultimately wonder why I'm bothering to still hold on to them?

I mean, I can try proving to you that I'm worth your investment of affection or love or that my feelings are valid and have a higher measure of value than you may think until I'm blue in the damn face, but if you either can't or won't recognize that...then I can only conclude they really aren't worth much of anything, are they?

And that makes it all the harder to find any sense of self-worth if the people you care the most about in the world can't seem to value how you feel as anything more than what you'd find on a local dollar store shelf.

Dispassionate

It doesn't feel like it's been years since I had the energy or interest to immerse myself in the things I was once so passionate about.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a drive out to a part of the Maine coast that I'd never been to, and is my usual wont, my camera was in the seat next to me. And it was about an hour or so into the drive that I realized I hadn't pulled it out of the sling bag I bought for it and taken pictures of any sort in close to two years.

It's been just as long since I felt truly motivated and interested enough to sit down and try writing a piece of fiction.

It's been even longer since I felt anywhere near what I did when I started my pursuit of the career I'd wanted since I was old enough to know it was what I wanted to do with my life.

There were so many things I used be so passionate about when I was younger. So many things that I was interested in and cared enough about that I remember spending time I should've been doing other things being wholly fixated on my passions instead. It's the narrative we tell ourselves when we're young and idealistic — cultivating and building the treasure map that we think will lead us to the place we all want to end up at by the time we have to finally grow up.

We're going to have that career, write that book, travel to those exotic destinations, marry that person and live that life we want so badly for ourselves, because otherwise...what the hell else is the point of living in the first place?

Earlier today, I saw the news that someone I used to work with and someone I considered a friend back in the day got a true dream job that essentially sets him on that course for life. On the one hand, it's impossible for me not to be anything but happy for him. When we met, we were both struggling to find our feet in an environment where our bosses took neither of our passions for the work we both did and wanted to do seriously.

Success didn't come overnight for him, either. He had to do what a lot of people in our line of work do, which is embrace the mercenary life and bounce around the country between whatever jobs we can find. There were personal setbacks and situations he had to overcome as well, and there were a few times when the frustration became almost too much.

But because he managed to find people who saw value in his passion and the lengths he'd go to hold onto it, opportunities opened up that paved the way for the success that he genuinely worked his ass off to attain, culminating in the news he got this morning.

It's hard not to be happy for someone who's had to fight to earn something like that. On the other hand though, it's also impossible not to be anything but absolutely livid about the fact that such things never seemed to be even a consideration for me, no matter how strong my passions to reach the same heights were or what I was willing to do to see them realized.

The single most fatal malady that can utterly destroy a person's passion for just about anything is being told that it doesn't matter how bad you want it or how hard you push yourself to get it, you'll never reach it — usually because someone in an arbitrary position of authority is more interested in chopping your legs out from under you for whatever arbitrary reason they deign to come up with, and they could care less about the damage they're inflicting in the process, either.

I know I'm far from the first person who's had to face that reality, nor will I be the last. The world is full of us. People who were so passionate about so many things, only to be told we're not special enough to have them.

Have that happen enough times and the world starts to lose a lot of its luster. The color fades out of it and it just becomes a seemingly endless drab, gray morass of imposed mediocrity and low expectations that you force yourself to navigate through just to continue existing. Inevitably, it gets to the point where you just don't care anymore, because the energy it takes to find the passion that's been emotionally beaten out of you through the seemingly endless repetition of disappointment, defeat, rejection and outright denial of what you want doesn't come back.

It's why I have a whole stack of notebooks filled with stories I once planned to write, but I can't write them.
It's why I have a head full of things I want to say...but I can't say them anymore.
It's why it feels like I have this black hole where my heart used to be...because I can't care about anyone anymore.
It's why I had a whole life's worth of things I wanted to see and do, but I know I'll likely never see or do any of them.

The passion I used to have for life wanting to live it to the fullest was taken away because I was so determined to get there that I pushed myself until it broke me. And yet, if you asked me back then if I'd go through it all again in the hope that maybe the result will be different and I'll know that life actually can be fair to all of us...?

I know I'd say Bring it on.

Such is what passion can do to a person before their ambition and drive to be great are beaten out of them.

This is Where I Leave You

So I've been thinking a bit about therapy for the last few days. Not so much in the ideas of whether or not I need it, because I do, or what I'm looking to get out of it, which is to feel emotionally stronger and less toxic.

Instead, I've been trying to fully rationalize just why therapy is something I have to do at this point in my life.

The obvious and easily the most glaring reason why is the degree of both childhood and adult trauma I've held onto for most of the past three decades. That is undisputed and I fully accept the fact that that alone qualifies me for needing to talk to a mental health professional.

But I also had a conversation with a friend the other day that provided a point of emphasis for another reason I apparently need therapy, and this one bother me more than a little bit.

That point being that I need it because I want to be accepted and loved by people who, for whatever reason, aren't capable of providing either to a level that allows for a healthy relationship.

Since going into retirement in 2011, I've had times where the idea of ending it for the hypothetical right person has been a very strong consideration. As Ghost so declaratively put it the day she destroyed me, 'It's a good thing there's seven billion people on the planet, because maybe there's someone out there who'll love you...'

Well, the reality is that out of those billions, there's only three people I would've considered coming out of retirement for, and of the two I'm still connected to in any capacity, both have made it plain that I am nothing other than a friend.

Now, the most obvious option is to, of course, go out and meet more people. After all, that's how we've been cultivating new connections and relationships since time immemorial. Even in an age where we've boiled down potential companions and non-platonic opportunities to the swipe one way or another on a phone screen, it still comes down to the idea of putting yourself back out there and being seen.

Except that, for reasons I'll get to presently, is no longer an option.

Ten years ago, I started my final year of university and I remember very clearly that my aim in finishing my education was purely that. I was there to get my degree and make up for over a previous decade of lost time spent getting through a lot of the traumas that put me on the road to needing therapy in the first place.

I was not there, however, to make friends.

The reasoning behind stemmed from the duality of being married at the time to someone who possessed such a degree of insecurity and distrust of her spouse that I'd had to jettison the majority of friends I'd had when we first got together, because she saw them and anyone else in my social circle as potential threats to somehow take me away, thereby depriving her of the trophy she so badly coveted and was determined to hold onto at all costs.

Editorial Note: For the record, if you were to ask my ex-wife about this, she'll deny it vehemently and instead say I took advantage of her profound generosity and saw her as nothing but a simple meal ticket for the sixteen years we were together. Such is what happens when you fully subscribe to the helpless victim stance and refuse to recognize, let alone be accountable for, your own toxic behaviors, but I digress.

The second prong of that duality came from having endured the trauma of my primary education, which was nothing short of brutal. Said brutality came in the form of being relentlessly bullied, trivialized, marginalized, ignored and summarily rejected by the majority of both my peers and teachers who I had to interact with year, after year, after year.

Yes, I had small cluster of friends who I felt comfortable enough with that I could trust them and be more of myself when we were together. But it also didn't stop me from trying to exceed the limits of the bubble I felt trapped in, either.

It's not surprising then, that this applied most to girls whom I felt attracted to and hoped to establish potential relationships with. Being already a massively socially awkward person at the time and having that compounded by physical awkwardness and an extreme lack of both self-esteem and self-confidence, such attempts were never easy. And it wasn't long before I began recognizing patterns that would carry through all the way to now.

Upon meeting and getting to know someone, it quickly became obvious that my purpose was to be an emotional support animal. I've genuinely lost count of how many nights I stayed up late talking with female friends, listening to them cry and tell me how some other guy they were attracted to had treated them like complete shit, then ask me the same damn question...

'Why aren't there any good guys in the world?!'

I had to sit there and watch these people I cared about and harbored genuine feelings for get emotionally pulverized by guys who I'd loved nothing more than to take my own anger and frustrations out on. Or worse, it was a case where I served as the third wheel, having to watch them be seemingly happy with someone else.

All the while, biting my tongue until I practically gnawed through it because I'd learned the hard way that as soon as I spoke up and said anything about how I felt, that person disconnected from me faster than it takes to flip off a light switch because I'd crossed the rubicon from emotional support animal to interested party...and that was not acceptable.

Now I suspect the pressing question at this point is 'Why did any of that matter years later when I was an adult?'

On paper, it shouldn't. But we don't live on paper and when you had to spend the majority of your early existence endlessly trying to prove that you matter, only to have practically every aspect of your world tell you, No, boyo...you REALLY don't, that doesn't come out in the wash. All it does is further solidify the programming you're assimilating every day by people who on the one hand, tell you they love you, but then do all they can to undermine just about everything you need to be able to function like a 'normal' person would or should.

As a result, I didn't function that way. Instead, I fully enveloped myself in a bubble of willful isolation, not making any friends or letting myself get to know anyone on anything other than a working or otherwise professional level for close to fifteen years. Any connections outside that purview had to be essentially through my marriage and approved on some degree by my wife.

It doesn't take a Ph.d in psychology to understand that that's not a very healthy way to try interact with people.

By the time I reached my final year of university, it was glaringly obvious to me that I couldn't keep doing that and I owed it to myself on some level to at least try to form some new connections. So I did and what I wasn't prepared for, or in no way could've anticipated, was the amount of energy that was going to take. To this day, I don't think any of the friends I made back then fully understand just how hard it was to let my guard down enough to let them into my world on some level.

It was exhausting and I don't use that term lightly or for the sake of hyperbole.

When you've allowed yourself to operate a certain way for so long, as much as a matter of simple survival as much as it is the perception of knowing your place in the social hierarchy, daring to go against the grain on that can sap the life out of you. Especially when it's become so entrenched in your psyche that it's always there to remind you how trying to evolve into something else is a complete and utter impossibility.

Fast forward to after my marriage disintegrated and I suddenly found myself single as I was entering middle-age with a severe case of dad-bod, my hair falling out, a career I'd barely paid for that was seemingly stuck in reverse as I was trying to get the damn thing off the lot, the financial tonnage of said investment around my neck like an anchor and a head full of Depression and PTSD that decided it was the perfect time to crank it up past eleven. To me, it wasn't hard to rationalize that I was, without question, the single-most unattractive human being in history.

Seriously, I felt like I could make the Elephant Man seem like late-90's Brad freakin' Pitt, by comparison.

And yet, I was still supposed to go out and find someone else to try and be with, so I did. Except I'd quickly discovered that it might be a new century and we were all supposedly woke to the new realities of the world...but nothing had really changed insofar as my ability to go beyond the confines laid out by people I saw a potential future with.

Not only were the lines of demarcation more severely drawn. Now they were guarded by a whole hell of a lot of barbed wire, dragon's teeth and other defenses prepared to take my head off if I made even the slightest move out of my allotted space.

But here's the kicker about emotions and why they exist. They demand to be felt — even when you know it's the absolute worst thing you could let yourself do. So I did and each time, I paid for my idiocy in thinking that it might somehow end differently than it has since I first started letting myself care about people more than I should have.

The friend I mentioned at the start of this said to me that one of the things she hopes I'll get out of therapy is that I'll stop being envious of people I'm attracted to who're in relationships and still want to include me in their lives, because, as she put it, "That sort of behavior can kill friendships."

Maybe it is, but my counter to that is what's more detrimental to a friendship or even just a person as a whole — forcing someone who cares about you on a potentially non-platonic level to have to swallow their feelings because it's considered some sort of inconvenience, or making them be a bystander for your attempts to be happy with someone else, then serve as a sounding board when it inevitably goes sideways?

Having been on the receiving end of both way too many times for one lifetime, I know well enough there's no right answer to that equation. They're both cruel and hurtful actions that we all-too-conveniently compartmentalize behind the edict that just because someone cares about you on that sort of level, they don't deserve to have that affection returned in any way, shape or form. This, of course flies in the face of about two centuries of opposing social norms and conventions that we cling to for dear life, slapping them on everything from internet memes and Hallmark cards to what we tell each other when someone tears our heart out for the seemingly umpteenth time:

Don't worry. There's someone out there for you. You deserve to be loved and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

I'm no genius, but I've been around this floating ball of rock long enough to know that you can't have it both ways.

To be fair, I don't go out of my way to make friends with women in order to eventually ask them out. I've had quite a few female friends over the years who I've felt exactly zero romantic feelings for and that doesn't bother me, nor should it. And when I find myself getting attracted to a female friend, it's not because of some quantum shift in my behavior that makes me think that they're somehow obliged to date me.

It's because by that stage, I feel comfortable enough that I feel like I can start to trust them, and more importantly, I feel like I can let my guard down and be myself, warts and all. Simple as that.

It may not be the right thing to do, per current social prerogatives, but I've reached the point where it's simply easier for me to find the quickest and easiest way out of what we now colloquially call the friend zone than it is to continued to be trapped in it because I'm not considered good enough to be anything else but.

I had to come to terms a long time ago that no matter what I do or how much I try to prove I'm just as worthy of it as anyone else, no one will have me. There's absolutely nothing in that acceptance, however, that requires me to like it on any level or continue to operate as yet another someone else's emotional support animal in exchange for being called a friend.

I'm sorry, but if that's what you need, then get a dog. They'll still love you unconditionally even after you go through yet another breakup with someone who didn't care about you as much as I did before you said I wasn't good enough.

Either that or do what I'm doing and go get some therapy, because I can't be the only one who's head is messed up if this is how friendships and relationships work in the 21st century.

Self-Care, Selfishness and Stigmas

It's been a bizarre couple of weeks...which is an odd thing to say because nothing that truly fits that adjective has really happened in that span.

My life returned to the familiar pattern of getting up in the morning, hitting the gym a few times a week, going to work, coming home — rinse and repeat. Two weeks ago, though, I tossed a wrench into what, all things considered, is a seemingly milquetoast existence.

I went and saw a chiropractor in the hope that it might lead to an end of some of the physical dings and dents I've accumulated over the years. The first appointment lasted about an hour. X-rays were taken, questions were asked, cracks and pops were made.

A couple of hours later, I went and saw another doctor. We talked about some stuff. She ran some general tests and we set up another appointment for a few months from now. We also set up another one with a potential therapist with the idea that before the end of the year, a plan will be in place for me to maybe start feeling better on some level.

Now on paper, I know that nothing I've just acknowledged is wrong in any way, shape or form. People go to the doctor all the time. The chiropractor's office was full of people who, by all accounts, seemed no more out of the ordinary than I do.

The difference, though, is I don't know if any of them felt as anxious, self-conscious or out of place as I was feeling within the first five minutes after I walked in the door.

Stigma is a many-faced monster of criticism, especially now in the advent of social media, depending on where you go, who you follow or how you insulate your own particular echo chamber. For me, one of the primary stigmas insulating my own echo chamber for a long time was the idea that self-care and selfishness were the same thing sporting a different hat.

That my being in a position where I put my own needs, issues, problems, interests ahead of anything else is nowhere in the ballpark of self-care. It's pure, unadulterated selfishness, plain and simple.

This wasn't something I came to recently, either. Rather, it was ingrained in me from the time I was a kid. Me putting myself in front of anyone, regardless of the reasons why I felt it was necessary, almost always brought with it the seemingly mandatory guilt trip or other wonderful passive-aggressive behaviors designed solely to make me feel bad about not conforming to someone else's expectations of me.

In our modern, so-called 'woke' culture (a term that utterly infuriates me, because in many ways, our social awareness is causing us to go backwards at lightspeed instead of forward, but that's a discourse for another day) this seems almost unfathomable on some level. And I suppose it's my being older and 'woke' by virtue of all the hard, cruel, unfair and extremely painful experiences I've accumulated to this point, that makes me unable to understand how people who believe themselves so hyperaware of how the world supposedly works, can be so oblivious to the reality of entire generations before them not having the luxury of self-care being seen as anything other than egotistical, narcissistic pandering to the weak-minded and soft-backboned.

In my family, nobody ever dreamed of doing something that resembled what we consider self-care. Are you kidding? To them, self-care was measured by how much alcohol, tobacco or narcotics were required to get through a bad week. It was compartmentalized in the myopic drive to keep your head down at work, never complaining, never feeling like it was too much, and never asking for anyone's help unless it was absolutely necessary.

Otherwise, unless you were on the verge of having Last Rites read, you kept your mouth shut and did what everyone expected you to do, because the second you turned the focus from your obligations to yourself, then you were just being selfish.

That was the stigma I came to understand by the time I was barely in grade school: Weak people need help. Weak people cry. Weak people need to talk about what they're feeling. Weak people break. Strong people just deal with it on their own, because that's how you get tough.

So along with my ABC's and addition/subtraction tables, I learned the not-so-subtle art of compartmentalization. What was happening both with and to me didn't really matter all that much. Not when I had a mother going through a second horribly broken marriage, a stepfather who despised my existence, and an absentee father and wasn't all that interested in being involved in the first place. In that environment, the limits of what could be considered self-care was staying in the relatively safe confines of my room with my toys, books and games and using them as means to escape into areas of my own imagination where I didn't have to think about any of it.

All the things I was feeling at the time, I just crammed them into the back of my head like I shoved stuff under my bed or in the closet as proof that I'd cleaned my room. On the surface, everything seems fine and in order, but all it takes is turning a knob or lifting a bedspread and you realize very quickly that the mess is still there. They just don't want you to see it.

In some ways, the idea that such a coping mechanism seems so alien to people who're younger than me or were blessed with lives where that wasn't required seems just as alien to me. After all, I know better than anyone what my life has been and the impact it's had on both who I became and who I am now. To be fair, the disconnect works both ways, and I guess it's in my serial obsessive nature regarding psychology, behavior and trying to understand why people are who they are, that I struggle with it too.

When I became an adult, I don't think I was any different in thinking I was still young enough that there'd be plenty of time for me to get my life in order so all those compartments would be emptied of all their crap. In hindsight, I did the worst thing I could've done at the time, which is get married, and as much as I hate to admit it, I knew it and it was yet another thing I compartmentalized.

Why? Because the idea of having a family of my own, and thereby a potential support system which I was in desperate need of at the time, was more appealing than trying to continue how to figure it all out on my own. Again, what I wanted wasn't as important as what someone else wanted from me and I did not want to be known as someone who was selfish by putting myself ahead of someone who claimed they loved me enough to want to spend the rest of their life with me.

People tend to think that those moments where someone comes to the realization that putting yourself first isn't wrong can be like some grand epiphany. I wish it were that way, but in my experience, those moments were nowhere in the same ballpark as epiphanic. If anything...they were often quite painful, because they went against everything I'd allowed myself to be programmed on how you're supposed to act.

Even now, in the last two weeks, I've had episodes where my anxiety and Depression have called me out on what I'm doing and trying to do. Now, I get it. That's how those maladies work. I know that all too well because this far from my first rodeo with them. Having lived predominantly on my own for the last eight years, grappling with the logic that making the investments in my well-being will eventually pay off with the dividend of me finally being better has brought its own share of innate stigmas that I keep having to deal with.

But, like I told my friends when I finally left the Pacific Northwest in 2016, I've spent the majority of my life putting myself on the backburner to help others who needed it to one extent or another and it wasn't like they had to twist my arm to get it either. My self-identity has long been linked to what I did for someone else, even if it came at the cost of doing that might be healthier for me, including not doing anything at all. By extension, that also meant if those opportunities ever came around again, I often wouldn't take advantage of them because to do so would be selfish.

And a good person is never selfish. There's vast swathes of Judeo-Christian and 'good ol' American dogma that pounded that rule into us so many times it should've been painted on the psychological pile driver they used.

I don't know if that innate stigma will ever truly go away. I don't know if there's ever not going to be a time where I go into my doctors' office, the gym, a restaurant, movie theater, coffee shop, on a vacation, or when I'm doing anything I find personally gratifying or enriching and not feel like the whole idea of self-care is just a BS-way of trying to justify our own narcissistic selfishness to ourselves.

Editorial Note: The weirdest example of this was when I bought my first set of new bath linens in ten years last week. I mean seriously...I didn't spend a lot of money and it's not like they're somehow frivolous or impractical, so who the hell gets into existential arguments with themselves about towels?!

That bothers me. It really does, because I know at its core, that's not what self-care is. I also know that right now, I need to be doing that more than anything else because, as I've been told more times than I can count at this point, no one else can fix me and I can't fix anyone either.

So if it's up to me to put in the work, then I've more than earned the right to start making that investment any stigmas that come with that, can piss right off.

Doppelgangers

It's funny...I have no recollection of the word doppelganger until I was entering high school.

My brother Patrick first brought it up when we were trying to figure out what to call the seemingly constant endeavor all teenagers attempt — starting a band.

Being angry, socially disjointed kids, the idea of an identical and yet polar opposite version of yourself had a certain degree of appeal. So, with the stylistic choice of discarding the e's, I got acquainted with the concept.

There's a longstanding myth that we all have a doppelganger out there somewhere. On a planet that's running out of room for all of us, I suppose the odds are as good now as they've ever been.

The past few weeks of transition from where I was in Ohio to being here in Maine has been equal parts exciting, gratifying, challenging, anxious and terrifying. The one constant I've had to lean on in that time is I'm in another part of the world where I have no history and no history had reason to follow me.

Work hasn't been much different. I've had my share of good days and ones where I was convinced that I was going to be fired or laid off before lunch. Life is nothing if not cyclical, I guess, which means I should've seen this coming before it came up and kicked me in the head.

I had a meeting this afternoon with another department. The usual midweek stuff where everyone tries to touch base, get on the same page, all the usual office vernacular that comes with the territory. By the time I walked into the conference room and sat down, I couldn't ignore the reality that one of the designers, give or take maybe 2-3 years...

...is a dead ringer for Ghost.

Now I have a suspicion that my admitting this will bring about the standard-issue response that I'm either being hyperbolic or obsessive. I wish I was being the former, and contrary to popular belief, I'm nowhere near the latter.

How do I know? Because five minutes before I walked into that conference room, I had no idea this person existed. We don't work on the same floor or in the same department. And five minutes after I sat down and the meeting started, that's when my anxiety kicked into high gear and a singular thought erupted in my head.

Why the hell did she have to so closely resemble someone I'm trying so damn hard to forget?!

The meeting ended up lasting about an hour, and I couldn't have been more relieved to be back at my desk and able to fold myself into getting my work done. Working back-to-back eleven-hour days, I was already feeling more than a little punchy by that point in the day anyway, but even in that beleaguered state, I knew what was coming.

The same intrusive thoughts I've had to fight off for the better part of the last eight years.

If you'd told me this is where her and I would be at this point in time, a continent apart geographically and far, far further away than that emotionally, back when we first met in 2009 I would've told you no way in hell would I do anything to allow that to happen.

And yet...here we are...in that exact situation at this exact moment.

What I'm left with is a one-sided conversation constantly playing in my head like a broken record, recapping all the things that I did to facilitate it, trying to find answers, understanding and I guess on some base level, a form of acceptable closure, in a void of profound and deliberate silence.

It's not my co-worker's fault. How could she have possibly known that her presence in that meeting would trigger that level of emotional and psychological reaction in me? She's not Ghost, nor will she ever be and I can find a degree of solace in that.

The hard part is going to be the reality that whenever I'm walking through the office and we cross paths, part of me is going to spark into life and remind me of how much she looks like Ghost, which is going to remind me of Ghost, and then I'll have to deal with all the things I don't want to think or feel anymore about Ghost.

Such is what happens in a world full of doppelgangers, I guess.

On the topic of Asexuality and Trauma

As I believe I'm legally required to do this up front, kindly indulge me for a moment if you will.

-TRIGGER WARNING!!- I'm going to talk about some things relevant to highly stigmatized and taboo topics, even in the 21st Century, because...well, of course they are. If #Adulting and discussing things related to adulting are something you're not comfortable dealing with, then you might want to skip this one.
Normal service will be restored at a later date. 

There...now that that's out of the way...

Over the past few years, my interest in social media...and a few other things I'll get to presently...has dwindled down to pretty much nil.

In the early days of it I, like a whole lot of other people I knew, saw it as a new and exciting way to connect, reconnect and expand the boundaries of communication and relationship building, both platonically and otherwise. Unfortunately, such arenas were never meant to be kept as pristine as they were intended and so I've found little to no real use in being a part of the mob that went on to conquer and dictate how they're now constituted.

The first one to go was Twitter which, as a journalist, was once an excellent source of immediate information that was useful to my line of work. But those days are LONG gone and to be honest, I don't miss it all that much. But out of what I guess can only be described as a morbid sense of curiosity, I went back on it a few days ago to see if the landscape had changed from passive-aggressive cesspool to something a little more tolerable.

And one of the primary trending topics I noticed was one called #thisiswhatasexuallookslike...and that got my mental gears turning.

I've made no secret about my position regarding relationships, attraction, affection, love, sex, and how they apply to me. They no longer do and haven't for close to a decade now.

And seeing declarative statement after declarative statement from others who came to similar conclusions as I have, albeit for reasons far more diverse yet equally as credible as my own, I figured what the hell? Why not formally add my name into that crowd and not be ashamed of the thought?

So I did...and it took about five minutes for someone to take exception with my position, apparently from the somewhat dizzying height one might find astride a rather high horse.

"Asexuality isn't a choice or a lifestyle the way celibacy and abstinence are. I suggest you do more research into it before making incorrect conclusions."

Uh...yes...I know. And if the person who leapt to this incorrect conclusion had even a slight glimpse into how I came to my conclusion on this, I have a hunch they might not be so quick to judge.

In our current socio-cultural discourse, the knee-jerk reaction to any man saying they're not interested in either relationships or the intimacies that can grow out of relationships is to brand them with the universally damning definition, InCel, a.k.a., 'involuntary celibate.'

Since the term has come to prominence in the past 20 years, it should be noted that it wasn't a man or group of men who came up with the term in the first place. According to multiple independent sources that have reported on the exponential growth and hostilization of InCels in the last decade, a Canadian woman coined the term in 1997 as a way of trying to build an inclusive support community for people like her, who found trying to establish relationships difficult to near-impossible for a myriad of reasons.

Turns out that as the internet's dark corners grew darker, the term was hijacked by the uber-toxic underbelly we're currently are dealing with on both sides of the gender chasm, but I digress...

Throughout my formative years and well into adulthood, I knew there was something different about me in how I both perceived and processed all the emotions and impulses connected to love, affection and sexuality. All three of these aspects were profoundly impacted and to a fair degree, I will concede, warped, by experiences I would live through before I was even a teenager.

When your parents neglect you, a stepfather physically and emotionally abuses you, a trusted friend sexually abuses you and your sexuality in general is engaged when you're waaaay too young to fully process all that in anywhere near a reasonable, healthy fashion, it's impossible to know just how much that will impact not just your life, but your self-identity and how you interact with other people going forward.

Until I hit high school, I was so far off the diving board that it was scary for both myself and the friends I had at the time, and I don't say that lightly. It wasn't until I was close to graduating that my brain had evolved enough for me to start coming to terms with the conflict of the person I'd been and the person I wanted to be, but one thing had become quite clear.

Instead of being a hypersexual kid because of what I'd experienced so early in life, I had managed (in ways I'm still not entirely sure the how of) to somehow find myself on the asexual spectrum as an absolute demisexual.

That, to the uninitiated, is when a person is not capable of feeling attraction to anyone they do not have a strong emotional connection to. Translation: If I don't REALLY care about you, then I'm not interested. Full stop.

It was a weird position to find yourself in as a teenager, if I'm honest, because at a time where seemingly everybody around me was dealing with their respective sexuality suddenly kicking into gears including, but not limited to, overdrive, I was already at the point where I was just wanting to meet and be in a relationship with someone whom I felt comfortable enough that I could trust them.

Intimacy was a bridge to cross leagues down the road, which flies in the face of so-called conventional wisdom (a.k.a stigma), stating 'all men care about is sleeping with as many women as possible and damn consent or any conceivable consequences!' To be fair, there is without question, doubt or dispute, a definitive percentage of males who have an attitude somewhere in line with that. How big that share is, I have no idea and any estimates would be, at best, wildly inaccurate one way or the other.

Now, be that as I was in a monogamous relationship/marriage for 16 years and my son was the final byproduct of that, I trust you can put two and two together without me having to elaborate further about my sex life other than yes, it did exist once. That said, it wasn't long before he was born that I was becoming more and more aware that my interest in intimacy was rapidly disappearing. Sadly, my ex took this as an indication that I had been unfaithful, which was patently incorrect, but my attempts to explain what was happening fell on disinterested ears.

Even before I had my breakdown in 2011, it was impossible for me to not recognize the toll that both the stress and pressure I was under to be contributing as much as possible to that relationship physically, emotionally and financially, while also going to school to try and get my life going in a forward direction again, at the height of the worst crisis since the Great Depression, as well as my own Depression gaining strength and momentum, was taking. That strength and momentum was built upon all the horrible parts of my childhood, adolescence and early adulthood that I'd managed to compartmentalize...but I'd never dealt with them in a healthy, productive manner.

And therein lies the second part of how I've gotten to this version of me at this point in time: The impact of trauma.

Like the mythical hydra, trauma is a many-headed beast and it's brutal. In the grand scheme of things, it can be argued that in comparison to other people I know, I got off relatively light in my encounters with it. However, such a conclusion also greatly discounts, marginalizes and trivializes the amount I've had, which is both unfair and in no uncertain terms...bullshit.

Trauma is not something that can be quantified via the measuring stick and there also can be no doubt that whatever degree of it I've experienced has left its mark on many aspects of who I am. Most obvious to this discourse being that in better part of the last decade, my place on the sexuality spectrum has shifted from demisexual to asexual.

The factors for that speak for themselves. A brutal divorce followed by an extreme roller coaster of an attempt at a new relationship that ended up seeing me villainized, demonized and ultimately being banished and then Ghosted after the prospect of even a platonic reconciliation had been established six years later.

Editorial Note: In the interest of both transparency and fairness to Ghost I'm not — in any way, shape or form — suggesting that I was somehow a victim in that. I screwed up a lot in that attempt, thanks in no small part to being unable to adequately cope with my Depression and anxiety, that were running rampant in my headspace at the time. I have always and will always own up to that, but that doesn't excuse her side of it either. Not by a long shot.

As much as we like to tell ourselves that being rejected isn't traumatic because all of us have the unalienable right to reject people we don't want, that is both a short-sided and even borderline sociopathic way of looking at the situation. And look, I get it. There's no easy or painless way to reject someone's interest or affection.

I've known that since I was barely ten years-old and it's been a constant in my life ever since.

Being told you're not good enough for someone hurts like few things a person can experience, regardless of gender. And when that comes from someone you really care about, it can be psychologically, emotionally and even physically crippling to the point where, depending on the degree of trauma inflicted...the damage can be both life-altering and permanent.

You may not like that, but I don't make the rules here, so you're gonna have to go well above my paygrade to file a complaint.

Now, before I go any further, I already know the response to what I just stated so let me put it out there. So what you're saying is we can't say 'No' to someone who's interested, because we're somehow obligated to return the favor, even if we don't want to?

And let me be as monumentally clear as possible with my response:
NO. You don't 'owe' anyone ANYTHING. 
Not physically. Not emotionally. 
It is within your right as a human being to have complete autonomy over the relationships you have or want to have. Just because a person is interested in you doesn't make them 'entitled' to that interest (or anything else for that matter) being returned if they haven't earned the privilege to your satisfaction.

That said, what we forget in this is the Newtonian law of an action generating an opposing reaction. Which, in this equation means when you break someone's heart like that, the severity of the action can often generate a just as, if not more, severe reaction because emotion and logic cannot coexist in a traumatic situation or in a traumatized mind. And if that person does not have the means by which to process that trauma in a healthy way then more often than not...that's when bad things happen.

For me, I can't necessarily say I processed mine in an entirely healthy way, but I know it could've been a hell of a lot worse. I left Portland to get away from everything that reminded me of those traumas. First to the geographic middle of nowhere for two years, then to the other side of the continent, then to the Midwest and now I'm back in New England again — 3,241 miles — from all the things I'm trying to move on from.

To be honest, some days it doesn't feel like it's far enough, but then I could be on the dark side of the Moon and it wouldn't feel far enough sometimes.

I don't get asked as much as I used to about when I'm going to meet someone and start dating again and I appreciate that. After being by myself for the last eight years, there's been many a time where I've felt that initial twinge of attraction for someone, but then one of two things happen.

I find out they're already in a relationship of their own, or the same ol' verdict of not being good enough is rendered.

So now, as I move through my early 40s, I look back on it all and realize that it's probably best that I've shifted this way and just don't want it anymore. After more than thirty years of wading through my own latent toxicity and trying not to drown in other people's, there is something liberating in not having a mind solely fixed on filling that void.

That doesn't mean it's not still there, as I suspect it always will be. If anything, I've been able to learn how to work around it, so I don't run the risk of falling into it again, landing right on my ass, and then figuring out how the hell I'm going to get myself out.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back...

It's been a weird couple of weeks.

On the one hand, it's been incredible. Being back to work full-time at a company that wanted me to be there, working with people I got along with right off the bat and we work well together, in a part of the world I wasn't entirely sure I'd ever see again, let alone live in...?

After three years of either living in the back of a jeep or sleeping in some friends' basement, I'm able to sit down and write this out in the middle of my own apartment, with all my stuff around me and a comfortable bed waiting for me to fall into in a little while.

I'll wake up tomorrow and go to the gym, knowing I get paid Thursday, so I can take care of some more bills, and I feel like a more functional human being than I have in a really long time.

I genuinely couldn't have asked for a better situation to fall into my lap...and I guess that's the biggest problem I have at the moment.

Having been down this road before so many times, with the possibility that my life could finally be heading on a seemingly permanent upward trajectory, I'm waiting for someone or something to poke a hole in the surreal balloon I've been floating in since I got here and the inevitable plummet back to the harsh reality I've grown way too accustomed to.

And that it hasn't happened already is more than a little terrifying, if I'm honest.

To counterbalance that anxiety as best I can, I've been working every day to find something that I can feel some degree of happiness about. It doesn't have to be anything particularly revelatory or epiphanic, either. On Friday, for example, I found myself feeling kind of happy because a brand new set of Tupperware I'd ordered arrived.

Editorial Note: Seriously, if that's the sort of thing you're finding any measure of happiness or joy in, then you are very much refilling a tank where the gauge is reading waaaaaaay past E.

Still, for every one of those moments, I have others that are harder to navigate. Where my Depression and anxiety kick in and remind me of how fragile a position I'm still in. That at any second, it could all go away like SO many other times before now and that getting comfortable or anywhere near close to complacent would be both short-sighted and incredibly stupid.

Because of that, I've been operating at a more elevated pace than I have in a while, as well.

Being able to wait for things to come about organically is not something I'm much in the mood for right now. The motivation is there to go do everything and buy everything and make sure I have as solid a foundation under me as humanly possible, so I don't lie in bed at night freaking out about when the rug is going to get pulled out from underneath me.

Which is what happens when you've spent so long just trying to survive situations you couldn't have anticipated before they became unavoidable traps you couldn't get clear of in time. Then when you did get out it and found yourself in the friendly confines of being around people who care about you again, the idea of stepping back out into the world alone without that safety net is more than a little daunting.

Some mornings, I wake up and it feels like a year has gone by, instead of a month, and that most of that time went by so fast that I somehow squandered it.

Downshifting is hard, because sometimes it feels like backsliding. When you're wanting nothing more than to get your life in a forward-moving direction again, the absolute last thing you want is to have to slam the brakes and come to a screeching halt.

Or worse still, to have to throw it back in reverse.

But so far, I've managed to make it through the first month in one piece. I can't say the same entirely for my jeep, but at least I'm in a position where we both can get some of the attention we need to be as close to 100 percent as we can manage.

With luck, he'll be in the shop next month and I'll be in a doctor's office starting to get my own physical and emotional dings worked out. My Depression and anxiety are having a field day with that as well, trying to remind me that it didn't really help any before and it's probably not going to help now.

They've also been reminding me of just what it is I'm needing to have fixed — That I need to stop caring about people so much and letting them care about me to any degree of equal measure. 

Why? Because it hurts too much. Simple as that.

There is a part of me that wasn't there before the Breakdown, the Divorce and the Ghost, that is convinced that the only way I'm ever going to feel anywhere near the outskirts of better is to have a psychological professional teach me how best to permanently unhook that other part of me...or otherwise convince a medical professional how imperative it is that it be physically removed by whatever means necessary including, but not limited to, the use of a grapefruit spoon.

For now, though, I'm just trying to ride the waves and tread water as best I can. Tomorrow may be another pretty easy one like today was, or it may be an absolute shitshow. I have no idea. Wish I did, but IO suppose that would spoil the surprise, I guess.