I am not okay.

 

I hate saying that out loud anymore because I know what happens next: the calls, the messages, the well-meaning panic from people afraid I’m going to hurt myself. Let me be clear: I haven’t had any thoughts of self-harm since that unforgettable day in May. Some might argue that my past substance use was a form of self-destruction—and maybe it was—but I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to survive a storm that never seemed to end. One disaster after another, until finally the Veterans Benefits Administration bumped me to “individually unemployable.” That moment, strange as it sounds, was my first breath of relief in a very long time.

 

If I believed in luck, I’d say mine’s been shit for years.

 

So when I say I’m not okay, I don’t mean I’m in danger. It just means life is heavy. It means I’m exhausted. It means that lately, things hurt more than usual, emotionally and physically. It means I’m watching friendships change—some fading quietly, some cracking under pressure. It means I’m at an age where “minor” health issues come with decisions about whether I want to live with them forever or go under the knife.

 

What I mourn the most? Losing myself. The me I liked. The me I barely remember anymore. When I re-read some old LiveJournal entries—some public, most private—I realized I was already disappearing back then. Somehow, I signed on for a life I no longer recognize, one I’m grieving deeply now. There’s so much regret. What if I’d walked away the first time he hit me? What if I’d testified? What if I’d made any different choice?

 

As my old platoon sergeant once said, “You can what-if the hell out of anything—but you still have to deal with what’s right in front of you.”

 

And right now, that’s a mountain of regret for all the time I can’t get back.

 

I tried to write a series about four major life changes, but it all felt too broad. Too sanitized. The truth is, my whole blog is about change. Every post. Every broken moment. Every grasp for healing. Trying to fit it into four neat chapters missed the point entirely. My life hasn’t been defined by four changes—it’s been defined by thousands of little ones, many of them deeply painful.

 

Since his suicide, the regret has come in waves. Waves of silence. Waves of remembering the ways he poisoned the waters between me and others. I mourn the people who drifted away during the mourning period—and yes, it still hurts that they went back to their lives while mine was still in rubble. I don’t blame them. I know the stories he told. I know how convincing he was. But the loss of connection, the loneliness that followed, has been brutal.

 

There’s this part of abuse people don’t talk about enough: how the abuser isolates you. How they twist every relationship until you doubt your own worth. Until the only voice you hear is theirs. And even after they’re gone, the poison lingers.

 

So yes, I’m sad. I’m grieving. I’m angry, and I feel alone. But I’m still here.

 

I’m sober—and I’ve been since January of 2024. That part of the story is important. I’m not coping through substance use anymore, no matter how tempting it sometimes is. My health isn’t great. I’ve got at least one total shoulder replacement coming up, maybe two. That’s what you get for riding tanks, I guess. Like the movie said: “Best job I ever had.”

 

Today, while working in the garden, the loneliness really hit me. I later escaped into Appalachia—Fallout 76, my strange little sanctuary. I know it’s a video game, but it helps. It gives me something good and harmless to immerse myself in, to distract from the real Wasteland I seem to be living in.

 

When I say I feel alone, I don’t mean I have no one. I mean that I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that this is the road I walk now—on my own, by my own choices. Truthfully, I’ve been alone for decades. Even in a room full of people, I was alone. Especially in that relationship. And no, I’m not looking to couple up again. I have no appetite for that.

 

I know I made poor choices in how I coped. But I also know I did the best I could. That may not mean much to some people, but it means something to me. And when I realized I was screwing up, I tried to fix it. Sometimes it took longer than it should’ve—but I fixed it. I had help. I had friends who nudged me forward when I couldn’t move.

 

To those who have stepped away—I get it. Truly. But I promise you: I’m still a good person. I just made some bad calls in a really bad storm.

 

And yes, I try to give myself grace. I suck at it, but I try. I always imagine my therapist smiling when I say that.

 

The hardest part of not being okay? Knowing I can’t call my mom. She’s been gone two years, and she was the one person who could always lift my chin, even when things were at their worst. She liked every single post I made on Facebook—no matter how dark or angry. When I asked her why, she said something I’ll never forget:

 

“I want you to know I see you. That you’re still here.”

 

God, I miss her.

 

And yes—for those wondering—my dad and my sister have stood by me. My dad would pick up the phone in a heartbeat if I called. Same with my sister. They’ve been rocks. But that doesn’t take away the ache of walking through another hard day, facing another major surgery, and feeling like I’m doing it all alone.

 

Would my life be different if I’d made different choices 29 years ago? Maybe. Probably. But here I am. And for now, all I know to do is garden, wander Appalachia, and keep moving forward—one breath, one broken day at a time.

 

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom think you are.

 

I wish I could tell her I’m doing better—and actually mean it.