July 22nd, 2024 - Freedom to Move

Dear TNY,

Back from a two week hiatus and I just finished up with “Freedom to Move”.

It’s trash.  Character development is non-existent.  Narrative development is non-existent.  There’s no place for my empathy or sympathy.  Nothing is built here.  Rather, it’s just a mashup of words.  It is utterly the opposite of…what’s the word…triumph.  It’s the anti-triumph.

Now that that is taken care of, watch as I slide off the deep end.

Look guys.  I don’t know how much longer I can stay here.  I pick the wrong people.  I keep moving.  I pick the wrong jobs.  I keep looking looking looking for reasons to be here.  I can’t find any.  And yes, I hear you.  I have kids.  I have friends.  There are people that love me.  I get it.  But I can tell you that it doesn’t make sense. You see what you see. But you aren’t living this. Just like I’m not living your life. I’m telling you the world looks like a million highways and the only ones that lead to peace/happiness/and/or look like the right choices are death. Everything else looks like more hurt. More disappointment. More terrible. More heartbreak. And data shows that the love isn’t enough. At least hasn’t been.

I was recently rereading a story and there was a line in it that said, “Husbands are just a wet bag of need.” And however I got here, myself or others pushing me this way, that resonated with me because that’s a thought I have had. I texted a lady about it who’s been married for some time. And she said, “Then you haven’t met the right husbands.” And that’s heartbreaking because it means I haven’t met the right wives. Because for her, and because of her, he’s not a wet bag of need. And she isn’t either. They work. Together.

I don’t even know what to say right now.  I’m trying to tell you the truth.  Whatever that truth is.  I don’t know what the truth is.  I’m fucking sad.  I’m lonely.  I’m isolated.  I’m depressed.  I’m not drinking right now, which is new, but the problems are still the same.  The reality may be that the window through which I view this world is killing me.  Both of my key therapists at this point have told me that talking to me is a gift.  The one lady said:  It can be so boring sometimes on this side of the conversation; but you…you’re smart and your insight is so fresh and you’re one of the most emotionally articulate humans I’ve ever met.

Guys, why am I alone?  And I mean that in almost every sense of the word.  Why do I push away everyone who wants to be with me?  Why do I seek the company of people who can’t, won’t, and who only hurt me?  Why do I feel alone when I’m with people, like my boys?  And although most of my friendships exist on the phone, which is very isolating for humanity at large, why do I feel so alone when I visit these people?  Why am I so broken?  I was explaining to an ex today that I’m a freak.  That’s the problem.  One or two breakups, those can be explained away as maybe not my fault.  But at this point, it’s me.  I’m the problem.  I’m doing this.

I was going to write you a list of all the terrible shit I’ve done in my life.  A real Knausgaardian attempt.  But the truth is you’re tired of me too.  You don’t care how vulnerable I am.  How much love I contain.  How I see the world. 

I was watching The Bear last night with my kids.  And there’s a scene with the mom in the hospital supporting her daughter who is having a baby.  And the mom is shit.  You know?  We’ve all seen the show.  She’s so broken and she broke all her children and everything around her and she knows it.  And I forgive her anyway, guys.  We all should.  Because if we can forgive her, we can forgive the evil within ourselves.  The mistakes.  The humanness.  Anyway, there’s a point where the mom touches her daughter’s face and says, “You’re beautiful.”  You’re beautiful.  Goddamn.  And I remember being in the front seat of the teal Honda Civic in the phone lot of SeaTac and after years and years of not being seen she touched my face and said, “Nick, you’re beautiful.”  And then fucking destroyed me.  And others along the way.  Saying, “You’re beautiful, Nick.”  And I destroyed them.  They destroyed me.  Pulling our hearts out of our chests and smashing them together with the hope that they will somehow meld.  Fuse.  So that we’d know it was going to be until the End.

Guys, I’m the fucking problem. 

I’m the motherfucking problem.

I’ve got to go.

I don’t know how to maintain this anymore.  The data is overwhelming.

I was thinking about magic last night.  When we’re kids, we believe.  You know?  We believe.  There’s this unmistakable feeling when you see magic.  Even as an adult, it’s still accessible.  You know you are being deceived.  You know it’s fake.  It’s absolutely unreasonable to believe it’s real.  Yet, the magician leverages your desire for it to be real.  The magician knows we crave a world in which magic is real.  Because often magic seems like the only way we can still hope.  Like, my life will get better because magic exists in the world.  Magic is the only thing that can save me.  So I have to believe in it.  Because reality is killing me.  Now, not even my liver is dying.  It’s just me.  I’m dying.  Whatever the thing is that contains “me”, consciousness I guess, is dying.  My body is mostly healthy.  I’m losing weight because of the lack of beer.  My knee is healing, I guess.  I’m still strong.  Still smart.  I have more skills than ever.  But the magic is leaving.  So many people, I’m sure, are beautiful beings stuck in vessels that are dying.  And I have a perfectly healthy vessel that’s housing a consciousness that’s dying.

Guys…I.  Am.  Not.  Okay.

A friend texted me a photo taken yesterday.  It’s him and his, as of yesterday, new wife.  This is a guy who put a .45 to his head and it misfired.  Circa 2015.  After that, he changed his life, his career, everything.  And now he’s fucking happy.  And I’m so happy for him.

Another friend I know went on a couple of dates this week.  Likely got laid for the first time in a few years.  It’s been so bad for her that she is questioning if any of it is real.  Because it can’t be.  Because life has told her that this kind of happiness is not for her.  But there it is.  Right in her face.  And deep down, because she told me, she’s relishing it.

I don’t care to continue this letter anymore.  It wasn’t going anywhere.  I’m not making points.  This isn’t developing.

I would say that one day all of this may matter.  But it won’t.  I won’t. 

I typed up a whole other section just now and deleted it.  It was only the narcissist coming out and demanding that I’m a good person too, see!  See me!  I’m good too!

But I’m not.  Because if I was, someone would be here.  I’d have done the work to keep them or they would have done the work to keep me because I was worth it; likely a bit of both.  But that didn’t happen.

Anyway, fuck me for thinking I was going to be something.  Fuck me for believing.  Fuck me for setting myself up for failure.  Fuck me for wasting all of your time.

I’ll see you next week.

Nick

P.S. The date of this post is the one year anniversary of Ben’s death. Which means next Monday’s post will ACTUALLY be the date of his death. And my ex special lady’s birthday! Huzzah!

I can’t explain why the people in my life that I loved and trusted the most all died before I needed them to. But it’s happening.