Untitled.

That’s what I felt like I did today.

And for me, well that’s a great day.

I can’t lie, I was nervous. Beyond nervous.

I don’t know how many times she’s told me “I feel like you two are going to be best friends one day,” or something similar.

A part of me has always wanted that.

For weeks we’ve been trying to schedule dinner, and one of us has always had to cancel. It’s been an epic game of tag.

I woke up feeling anxious, knowing that at some point we were going to see one another. Afraid he wouldn’t see me as good enough for his daughter, or worse, afraid he would view me as lesser of a person.

He has met me once in passing, and that was fine.

But never to really sit down and talk.

This 6’4” guy with a gut and a heavy New York accent sits across from me; he holds a laundry list of credentials, specifically being 1 of 4 people in the world who works for this company of 90,000 people; being a gunsmith for several police departments; working on motorcycles after being an amateur motorcyclist from Honda when he once lived abroad in Great Britain. My nerves calmed and he spoke about random memories of Allison growing up, his eyes gleamed...he doted.

This dude is incredible. I really, really enjoyed him.

He shook my hand after giving Allison a long and heartfelt hug, “until next time,” as our hands parted.

While I seek to expand beyond my comfort zone, often times, I fall short.

There is safety in familiarity, yet I want to explore the unknown.

My desires leave much to be desired.

It is unfair to you, that my words fall beyond reach of my actions.

Yet, this is the reality that we both must live, we both must explore.

We are both left to discover.

No matter, my words fall upon deaf ears.

My emotions, unseen by a blind eye.

What I ask, is that of respect.

The respect that I seek, is your polar opposite.

Instead of the embrace, retreat.

Not in emotion or isolation;

I am desperate.

I am remorseful.

I am determined.

she said. I laughed, no, I scoffed.

I scoffed at the idea of “positive self talk,” despite how often I pushed my kids to do it. I laughed because what does that even mean? “You can do it Christian,” I said in my most condescending talk.

Until just a few mornings ago... when I actually tried it.

“This is my bubble. This is my zone & this zone is going to remain positive. No one’s negative energy, no negative behaviors, nor any ounce of bullshit, will encroach. This is my space. And my shit is going to be on top of the world.”

I’ve been doing this for four, maybe five days. And it’s been working tremendously. I mean it. It’s actually starting to piss people off at work. I’ve been leaving work happier despite it remaining difficult. People at work have been super negative, and it’s like I deflect it. When I used to succumb to the negativity. Worse, I was spewing the negativity. But man, I am really working on everything that Claire asked me to and I am feeling pretty great!

It’s going to sound fucked up when I say it, but I need to.

I need to praise myself, despite how shitty of a situation.

I’ve been watching the boys the last 10 days, since my sister is out of the country (thankfully she returns tonight). One of the first days I was here, I happened to stumble upon a bottle of teal capsules (some sort of unknown med) with no sticker on the bottle indicating what the medication was, who it was for, etc. The capsules whispered to me, and I felt temptation. I plugged in what little information I had of said capsules, into google. Moments later, an answe. And in that answer, a mental siren started going off. A siren followed by hazard lights. Followed by red flags. Every one of my senses had a warning. Yet my brain ignored them.

It was a stimulant. While it wasn’t the powerful stimulant I once sold my soul for, it was a stimulant.

“Two..? Or would it it take three?” my mind said, calculating what it would take to feel the high, the euphoria that I faintly remember. I shook the bottle, and the whisper grew louder... the pills echoed. There I stood, knowing those meds were most likely for my middle nephew, and I weighed my options. I opened the bottle and grabbed a capsule. Between my thumb and index finger it gleamed. I closed my fist. I remembered those moments of disappointment.

I remembered their faces. Nephews. Sister. Allison. My kids. Autumn. My nephew... and then, my face. I stopped. I breathed. I put the capsule back. I closed the bottle. I put it back. I thought, “maybe tomorrow,” and when tomorrow came, it didn’t phase me.

A relapse that never occurred.

A relapse I refuse to touch.

I am getting the “Sunday afternoon before I go back to work” blues. I have come to realize that my job no longer makes me happy.

I’ve worked there 2.5 years almost, and while it rewards me, it’s difficult.

I’ve had my share of child trauma, and that pushed me to want to do my job for such a long time. And somewhere along the way, I’ve lost sight of that.

“He goes through an entire list of jobs you’ve ever had, and this one is the most meaningful.”

Yes, I want to change lives. I know that I want to help at least one out of the hundreds I’ve encountered. I want to say that it isn’t your fault. I want to say you’re allowed to be angry. But I don’t find the love in what I do anymore. I don’t know where I’ve lost that. I have no momentum.

I asked one question, but he didnt answer it In the way i wanted him to.

Except that this job, matters.

“You’re not grounded. You are constantly sitting by the door ready to go. One foot in, and one foot out. Nothing grounds you.”

“ I have to push away all of the negative self thoughts, to get to anything. But there’s nothing there.”

I do hate myself. I do. And it isn’t my fault. I hate it. I hate that you couldn’t find a single moment of happiness in there. Nothing. I’m mad. I just want to be normal. I want to find my happiness. I want to find grounding. I want it all.

And that requires change. A change, I’ve never known.

“I’ve done hundreds and hundreds of reikis before. And it’s like I’m giving myself reiki.”

I want to, but I’m afraid to do the work. I’m afraid to sift through the debris of my life, and go through the upheaval that I will undoubtedly experience. I’m afraid to look at myself in the mirror and say, you’re worth it christian. I’m afraid to go through life, without knowing.

It was overwhelming.

The whole, “whoa, you have trauma and could probably benefit from DBT or tapping therapy...”

And that’s fine. There were things, all of the things, that I was already aware of. And there there were things that you could not have possibly known, but you said.

And then there were things that were far beyond my mind could fathom.

Positives if my reiki master session:

Learning more about Allison, and having things that we each knew, solidified. It was reassuring, comforting to hear that she is on a healthful path and that she is where she needs to be.

Knowing that despite my trauma and the excess baggage of my 0-18 years, still have allowed us to be fantastic for one another. Not that I had any doubts.

To talk to my dad. “Did he have a mustache...?” (Yes, he had a hard time growing out facial hair) “he keeps pointing to it and he is so proud of it” “he knows you go back to “if he didn’t pass, your life would be entirely different and he is sorry, but stop doing that.” “He has always seen you as male, and he fully embraces it.”

It was a lot. And to hear this, meant the world.

I know I have a lot of trauma that I still don’t address.

But I could not have asked for a better present and a better person to be in my presence during this.

Part of my homework is to start journaling more, and to start communicating how I feel without filtering it. So here I am.

and slammed it on the table.

My eyes refused to meet hers, the fear of my weaknesses showing were far too great.

The tense silence permeated the room. I stared at the can and focused my attention to the intricate detail of the American-made Hefeweizen... none of the art made sense. A man walking with a candy corn balloon in a land that seemed not ofnthis world...along side him was an alien, a monster maybe. Showing him the glory that was nothing of Earth. The pink backdrop... my eyes fixated on this interesting can that held the contents to a drink that I barely enjoyed, and proved to be the demise of much of my family. The escape. The escape that I yearned for, but could not bring myself to go... my biggest fear.

I yelled, “I’m a fucking man-child. I’m 32. I can’t even take care of myself. And why? Do you have the answers, Allison? I’ve never been good at it. Never. And here I have a job where I’m supposed to tell kids how to make better choices and how to do things differently, so they don’t have the same fucking outcome as me or those like me.” She stared, with those dark brown eyes that were reddened by tears. By frustration.

The last month has been hell on our relationship.

A tear streamed down her face. I took another drink. She didn’t speak. I took another drink.

I wasn’t drinking to get drunk. I never do. I rarely get drunk.

She told me she didn’t believe those words, and that I was more than what I ever give myself credit for. She refuses to ever let me humiliate myself. She refuses to ever raise her voice. She refuses.

Her words poured together, and apologies broke up the silence. Her endless and unnecessary apologies. It angered me. She wasn’t apologizing for what I needed her her to apologize for.

Prior to the table conversation, I told her I needed space. Familiar.

“I need space, I just don’t know what is going on anymore. And I’m angry. And I don’t even know what I’m angry at Allison.” She stood by the table, with her gangly arms strewn across her chest. Her defense mechanism.

I began moving about, grabbing shit that I didn’t need, but in the moment I felt those were the items I needed. But my brain all over the place. I kept stopping. Irritated that I couldn’t think.

“Why, Christian? Stay, this is OUR home.”

I kept yelling, raising my voice, ALL WE DO IS FIGHT.

I kept grabbing things, and putting them down. My body was fighting me, and that angered me more.

She sat down at our table that we spent days picking out. A beautiful mahogany table with white tweed cushions on the chairs, a wine rack built along the side. She didn’t speak. She waited. I waited. I wanted the apology that she didn’t know she needed to give, and I couldn’t tell her.

“This is how is starts Allison. A year into it, by a year and a half we are done.”

We were are coming up on a year and a half.

I went to the kitchen, and stood. Staring at her. Yelling. Nothing awful. Just yelling about how this is why we needed space. I said “you won’t talk. We either fight or we sit in silence.”

Her voice broke, and a tear streamed down her cheek. “We don’t talk because I don’t want to get screamed at.”

Fuck. There it is. The one thing that triggers me, that I didn’t think I was doing. But I had been. For 3 weeks. Angry at my situation and taking it out on her.

“So now I scream? Is that right?” I laugh. I knew I did. I always do.

“That tattoo you want.. speak when angry and you’ll make the best speech you ever regret, Christian it’s true.”

I know. I know it is. I stood there.

“If I don’t give you the answer you want, or I don’t answer fast enough, you get angry. If I don’t use the correct verbiage, you get angry.”

I know. I know it is. I stood there.