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Layers of Oblivion is taking shape more clearly now. Be expecting regular posts from that one soon.

In the meantime, here are some chapter titles from Layers to hold you over. These are in no particular order:

Expeditions to the Overlap

Damn the Dark

Damn the Light

Bringing Down the Castle

Danny Won't Die

A Return to Exile

The Reign of Mr Fletcher

I can't feel who I was anymore. The world is greyer. What should be sweet is now bitter. What was once bitter is now painful. Maybe I'm bitter? Maybe grief is turning me into some kind of a shell of what I was?

You never know how complete your family is until you lose a member. Who knew that the orange tabby was the lynch pin for this home? So now I cry. I scream. Until there's no more voice. Grief erupts from my heart like some kind of volcano. When the bomb detonates, there is nothing else. No happiness. No peace. No breath. A feeling of helplessness so strong that you clutch at your chest thinking, "This is it. My sorrow is going to kill me."

But you don't die. You are cursed to continue feeling. Continue living. I hate every minute of this. Because everything I hoped for seems to mean nothing now. Nothing makes sense and none of it matters.

All that matters is that you're not here anymore. You don't jump on the bathroom sink to play with the running water. I don't hear your chirps when you follow us around the house. I still look at the spot where I found your body from time to time. Hoping that you're still there and not buried in the garden. That you're still here and you were just sleeping and not dead. Hoping that this nightmare would end. But you're not there. And it doesn't stop.

I don't know yet how I'll ever feel happiness like that of which I seemingly took for granted. The other furry friends can sense the hole you left. They can smell my fear, anger, and despair. I think of everything I have to look forward to, but it all just seems so meaningless.

I loved you, my baby boy. I still do. I wish I had gotten the chance to say goodbye. Instead, I get to talk to the mound of dirt every time I go to work, come home from work, or go outside for a cigarette. And I come back with tears in my eyes every time.

What am I supposed to do? Because sitting here, just letting the waves batter me while I process doesn't seem productive. My therapist tells me it's normal. My friends tell me it's natural. I know there are millions, billions of people that have gone through this. And yet I can't help but think that no one has ever suffered more than me in this moment.

Awakening. That's what he did. He opened his eyes and decided to make a change. First his diabetes. Then his weight. Now his ADHD. Life is falling into place for him. And so suddenly, we seem less similar than we have in a long time. What does that say about me then?

I thought I was managing. I thought I was just plucky, eccentric, or quirky. But this is more. He tells me how his mind was working before and after treatment. He told me about distraction. Hyper-fixation. Procrastination. Paralysis. Then it clicked. It was like looking into a mirror.

I scoured the research. I made appointments. I scheduled evaluations. Suddenly something made sense that didn't before. Like a secret kept from me my whole life. Whispers from the past come back to haunt us. For decades, we were passed around a giant web of pills, therapy, and evaluations. Everyone had an opinion, but nothing ever matched. Depression. Anxiety. Schizoaffective Disorder. Borderline Personality Disorder. But first, long before any of those, was a third grade teacher trying to convince my mom and family doctor that I had ADHD. No one believed her.

But suddenly it all made sense. The rate of co-diagnosis between ADHD and BPD is staggering honestly. All the times I was called lazy, or asked, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" They degraded us over time. They made us feel like nothing. Our grades. Our performance. Our health. They reflected the stigma. They reflected the consequences of those unheard whispers.

I didn't know exactly what to expect when I made my first appointment. A social worker spoke with me for fifteen minutes about my symptoms and the consequences of those symptoms in different settings of my life. I told her about my borderline personality disorder and extensive family history of mental illness. I told her that I felt like BPD was accurate but there was something else going on. There was something behind it or under it that wasn't being well managed. I told her that I thought it was ADHD. I pleaded with her, telling her that I felt like I was so close to the truth for the first time in almost thirty years.

She told me that because of my borderline personality disorder, she could not diagnose me as ADHD. She said I had several markers of each, but it was unclear if I really had both or was just in the overlap between them. She added that due to my family's history of mental illness, I would need a full psychiatric evaluation. Her last words were something about how she knew it wasn't what I wanted to hear. Then she told me that she understands that I feel like I'm close to some sort of breakthrough and that was because I WAS so close and am on the right track with my suspicions.

The following week, my telehealth provider told me they could no longer fill my atypical antidepressant due to my borderline personality disorder being out of their scope of practice. They'd filled it for over a year and all of a sudden they had a policy change. So they wrote two more fills and sent me on way, wishing me the best of luck. Of course everyone knows that antidepressants don't really treat BPD, but it has really helped manage my emotional reactivity and impulsivity.

Heartbreaking. Frustrating. I found a new therapist after regaining insurance coverage. I spoke to her about my concerns and she agreed that I was in the overlap and just as the social worker, said I would really need a full psychiatric workup to determine exactly where I fall in that overlap because according to her I'm actually in the overlap of three disorders (BPD, ADHD, and OCPD).

Getting into see a psychiatrist is going to take several more months. So in the meantime, I established care with a new primary care doctor that I recently met with. She told me that I definitely meet the criteria for ADHD and could benefit from treatment, but would still need a full psychiatric evaluation. And before we could move forward with treatment, we would need to get my blood pressure since both my atypical and stimulant therapy together have a synergistic effect and can further increase the risks of high blood pressure.

Don't you love the paradox? The cold, frigid paralysis as you watch your bills go overdue, appointments go unattended, assignments go missing. Life just spirals, growing further out of our orbit by the moment. Out of our grasp. And yet we don't lift a finger to stop the death march. We do nothing. We watched so many people do nothing to help us when we needed them! None of them did anything! And yet look at me now. Look at us falling, burning in a flurry of unutilized potential. We do for ourselves, just as much as we watched them do for us.

It's not that there is no fire. Of course there is fire! Of course there is will. But this machine it seems, does not run on will. There's a gap in the synapse somewhere. I can feel the gears turning. I can feel an engine somewhere inside us groaning, growing hotter. And yet it cannot move these hands to make a phone call. It cannot spur the mind to write a paper. It can't even help us remember why we walked into a room seconds after entering.

Nevertheless, fire is present. Plans, ideations! The image is completely clear. I just can't take it out of my mind and make it reality. So instead, we do the things we can. We spend hours recording census data on random counties. We write possible guest lists and seating charts for every holiday that we may host in the future. We create a map of the farm we dream of owning one day, plotting the orchard that we have yet to start on the land we do not have. We write in our journal for hours. We scroll social media all evening and into the morning hours. We play countless games of solitaire. We are exceptional at remembering what should be forgotten. We are the authority on procrastination. We are at an advanced level when it comes to doing literally EVERYTHING except what needs to be done.

Due to personal developments in my personal life, there has been a shift in focus. The writing in my journal that was being logged in my journal for the past few months does not adequately capture the tumultuousness of recent developments.

My equal in all ways that mattered. He was a professor of literature. Or perhaps he taught English as a second language? Maybe an anthropologist? We lived in a cozy yet spacious French Colonial-inspired house on ten private acres. He brings out the romantic in me. I planted a flower garden for him. All the bouquets he received were handmade and designed by me.

He enjoyed being tied up almost more than I enjoyed tying him. He was never big on getting fucked, but he let me fuck him on special occasions like Christmas Eve, my birthday, and our anniversary. Because he bent for me. Because I was important enough to compromise with.

We shared tastes in music. We pushed each other relentlessly. To be better lovers. Better men. Better husbands.

He wore an apron anytime he cooked just as I did when I cooked or did the dishes.

I loved him so much that it hurt for a second every time I heard his voice or saw his smile.

I loved with that intensity. Such a fury. I felt like my joy may explode from my body. But here's the thing. He's not real. He never existed. This cursed mind saw all the men I've loved in some capacity and made an amalgamation, soldering the best parts of them into one perfect being.

I went for another walk today. that 25lbs isn't going to lose itself, you know? I've lived here almost seven years and I've yet to explore the residential side of town. The quiet side. I almost forgot what quiet sounded like; felt like.

Houses lined both side of the street. Not mansions, but a blue collar man's dream indeed. Large front porches. Neighbors talking as friends. Kids on bikes. I saw it all. I saw us.

Could you imagine the Christmas tree in the warm light of the family room? I'd be wearing an argyle sweater vest and khakis. Maybe even a Santa hat, clutching an oversized mug of hot chocolate. The entire first floor would smell faintly of chocolate, bacon, and just a touch of pine. I'd be thinner, leaner. You wouldn't be giving yourself a haircut at home anymore to save money. We'd both have newer vehicles and mine would stay clean.

On Halloween we'd hand out candy to all the neighborhood kids. We'd sit by the firepit out back drinking coffee with maple creamer before going in to watch scary movies.

But I also saw him. I saw he and my dad smoking cigars on the back patio on New Year's Eve. I saw he and I playing in the snow. I saw him wearing a pink apron and red oven mitts on Valentine's Day. I saw us hiding Easter eggs for our nieces and nephews.

Those that I didn't see, I felt. I felt them twisted in and throughout my ribs. I saw it; felt it as if it had already happened. Like I was watching old home movies. It was beautiful and yet I hate it.

Because it all ALMOST fits! But it's still all unfamiliar to me. What use are those false memories if they are not real? Why am I haunted, taunted even, with what will not be? Why show me what I don't want or can't have like it's the greatest accomplishment of our time? What good is he to me if I cannot hold him? What good is this prosperity if it changes him?

What didn't happen. You turned from me while I was sharpening my claws, the hooks to hoist you upon. I was composing the script, preparing my methods of torture, extraction, insertion, and excretion.

You temper me. Teasing me. Rousing me from the depths. You look to me, but hide your face. You crossed the night sky but did not stay to shine. So you jettison back to your mold.

One would think I would be disappointed, incensed even. But this is a new age. Time is but a seasoning. I've waited over a year for you. What's another couple of weeks? And yet I trepidate. What will your mouth say when our lips touch? What will your body say when it is gazed upon by these, my insatiable eyes? What will the silence of aftermath whisper in your ear while we cling to each other in the evidence of the destruction we wrought upon ourselves?

Of course I'm trying to get your attention, mother fucker! Why else would you think I'd be moving these mountains? Stirring the flesh. Dressing the bone. Adorning these ashes. I'll post my own pictures and videos. Let me show your the great and beautiful man that I am. Let me show the powerful one that craves to crush you under his heel. Let me show you the salivating one that longs to squeeze the nectar from you in his grip.

This timeless crusade to get you to speak. To get you wondering. Then we'll see how you like it. Instead of the callous, coldness of control, I shall leave you only with the dust trail. The forgotten shall become the forgetful. The hollow indifference.

Impervious one. The one who walled himself from me. The one who would never share in the arsenal. The one that never brandished the weapons at my side. If you won't take my hand then get under my fucking heel!

Every once in a while, I think about you and I cringe. I hum, laugh, or talk to myself to keep you out. Anything to change my mind's channel. But then I found my efforts fruitless. Your face among the inmate roster. I remembered again how you made me a fool. How I let our history build the architecture of my naivety.

How many times did you keep the tips I left for our servers? Why didn't you say something when the owner of the restaurant screamed at us in public about the lack of tips left by our table? I watched you sit there as he shamed all of us, and you just leaned back in your chair and let his words wash over you like water off a duck's back. I didn't understand it then, and perhaps was too shocked to say anything about it at the time. I didn't want to believe that you would do something that cold. I didn't want to believe that you were becoming a person that could essentially steal from me.

But then it began to add up further. It became harder to shut it down. You seemingly never had a job. You took out payday loan after payday loan and used me as a reference behind my back. Even after we stopped speaking, you were still throwing my name around as if I'd vouch for you ever again.

I spent my paycheck buying you groceries. I spent my entire spring break taking you around to get job applications that you never filled out and then wanted me to buy lunch for you and your boyfriend.

The previous two journals were relatively laid out before I started posting them. As such I had an idea as to where they would go and how I wanted them to be arranged.

If you asked me then, I would've denied it solemnly. Now, I'll tell you everything. What I could say even then though was that I got so fucking jealous. I watched you living a life of smiles. Friendships. Growth. While I sat at home next to a phone that never rang, with friends who only wanted me at their leisure. I was waiting for you too. Were you waiting for me? I'm sorry if all the wires got crossed.

I know I wasn't helpful. Unfortunately, every time you would talk about how happy you were with friends or showed me how happy you were, I took it as an admission that you needed a break from me, or that you didn't like me as much as I thought.

Because you never invited me anywhere. You never wanted me around for nonsexual activities. There was only twice that you came over and we didn't get naked. Let me rephrase. One of those times you never even came over, which I don't blame you. I was stupid drunk after all.

I did all that I could. And it was all for naught. No one ever showed up. They never looked back. I poured my heart out into void of the internet and those I hoped would see me never did come. And for a bit, I thought that would hurt me. I thought it would crush us. And yet I am still here. Uncrushed. Unharmed. A revelation so surprising that I'm still checking my body and soul for wounds. Surely that must be a scratch, puncture, or bullet hole I've missed? But no.

Catharsis. The great discharge of emotion. Relief. I can breathe.

These were no longer just private thoughts in a notebook. No, they were real. They were shared. Evidence that my life happened. That it's happening. That I happened. And no matter how great or terrible, WE happened. WE were real. WE are real.

How long were we asleep? How much of our lives did we miss? Who did I hurt? Was it you? Was it him? Was it her? Was it me? Why has my fist only known how to crush? Why has my heel only stepped on those I claimed to love?

Why has my sleeping self craved destruction? Or was I actually awake the entire time? Sometimes, when it comes to the metaphysical, I can't always tell the difference. But we are awake now, and we have opened our eyes to a reality that has been largely untrue. It's time now to live in this world, despite its flaws, chips, and cracks, it's the one that's ours. Instead of pining for what could have been, or what I feel should have been, let's make it one we're happy with. But what does that mean? I don't think I know what peace feels like anymore. Life has always been about survival. It's always been about endurance.

I want to have dreams that are attainable. Reconciliations that are realistic. I want that farm! I want to be out of debt. I want a healthier, less painful body. I want to feel missed sometimes. I want real things. I'm tired of my fantasies spindled through my brain like some kind of rube-goldberg machine of consecutive what-ifs. I'm tired of the machine being more an inevitable reality than the world I can see and touch.