Well go me—I’ve started at least three different blog entries, only to lose steam and drop them for something else entirely.

It’s the ADHD shuffle meets stroke recovery meets ambition far beyond my current physical capacity.

 

This weekend I actually got some work done in the yard, revisiting projects I had previously abandoned. Of course, I’d start one, then walk past another half-finished task, pause, and think, “Let me just look at this real quick…” Next thing I know, I’m doing neither. Just wandering.

 

Since my strokes, memory issues and energy miscalculations have become my personal sitcom. I still plan my weekends like I’m in my forties with a fully functioning body—and then I find myself exhausted, confused, and wondering why I thought I could handle five hours of manual labor.

 

One thing I’ve gotten better at, though, is taking my phone with me. I record thoughts as they come while I putter around outside. Sometimes I get a nugget of brilliance. Other times, it’s incoherent rambling that even I can’t decipher later. This weekend was full of good starts, none of which panned out—until this evening.

 

I was watching a stream of reels and TikToks that friends sent me. Among them was a flurry of content on narcissism and how narcissists groom their victims. It’s weird how these pieces suddenly feel personal. It makes me think: when should I have known? What could I have done differently? But ultimately, that kind of backward thinking isn’t productive. It’s not about what I didn’t do—it’s about what I do next.

 

Tonight, I talked with someone about my life, and we touched on something hard. When someone tries to isolate you from your friends—whether through manipulation or brute force—it creates an intense attachment to the people you *are* still allowed to love. I went through that. On more than one occasion, I was physically assaulted because I refused to stop seeing a friend. The lies, the gaslighting, the attempts to poison my reputation—it was all part of the plan to keep me alone.

 

And here’s the kicker: after he died, I found out even more was said about me. Some things were so outlandish, I half expected to hear I was the second gunman on the grassy knoll. It turns out I wasn’t just repairing *my* mistakes over the last two years—I was also trying to undo a much longer campaign of destruction.

 

For men of my generation, especially, there’s a twisted belief that we have to stay in relationships at all costs. And if you’re a male victim of domestic abuse? The support systems are often confused at best, dismissive at worst. When I tried to navigate the legal system, the DA’s office literally didn’t know what to do with me. I wasn’t the textbook victim.

 

But I had allies. Friends who stood by me. Family who didn’t back down. And every time I leaned on them, the abuse escalated. I was attacked at least three times because I wouldn’t abandon someone I cared about. So yes—I’d take a punch, or even a bullet, for my friends. That’s why I fight so hard to protect and nurture those relationships.

 

And as always, I’d take a bullet for my dogs or my mom. Just make sure they get the love they deserve, too.