Welcome to another episode of “why the fuck do I feel this way?”

Years ago, there was a Mel Brooks movie called *Blazing Saddles*. In it, Madeline Kahn played the character Lili von Shtupp, who had, for lack of a better description, an Elmer Fudd-style speech pattern. In one of her saloon numbers, she sang a song called “I’m Tired,” which, beneath the humor, was all about being mentally exhausted rather than physically.

That’s a distinction I’ve carried with me for years. I’ve been mentally exhausted for so long—drained by the constant hum of daily life. I used to take a lot of grief from “old what’s-his-name” for saying I was tired when I wasn’t physically worn out. No matter how many times I explained it, he never understood: I wasn’t sleepy. I was mentally done. And, not surprisingly, much of that exhaustion came from the very situation I was trapped in.

I’m not trying to drag a dead horse back into the ring and beat it, but the truth is, that weight has shaped me. I am, in many ways, still damaged goods. That doesn’t mean I’m worthless or incapable—it just means I’ve been dented. Honestly, most of us belong in the scratch‑and‑dent aisle at Lowe’s.

These days, I work on distancing myself from my past relationship and focusing on myself as *me*, not *we*. After 27 years, that’s not an easy shift. Even now, I’ll sometimes slip and say “we.” This house held so much of *us* that it’s still strange to carve out a version of it that’s just mine. Which brings me to what I call *The Purge*.

After the suicide, I wasted no time removing reminders of him. The animosity at the end was real, and I didn’t want to be surrounded by his things. But I wasn’t cruel. His trophies, college keepsakes, and other mementos went back to his parents—where they belonged. His clothes went to the VA’s clothing locker to help homeless veterans and those trying to reenter the workforce. I kept very little. There was too much harm tied to his belongings. Purging gave me a sense of control when everything else felt shattered.

At my family’s encouragement, I did set aside a box of memorabilia—things involving both of us—just in case time softened my perspective. For a while, that seemed like a good compromise. But later discoveries, the secrets unearthed after his death, made it harder to want to keep anything. I wasn’t an innocent angel in our story, but some truths still hit like a gut punch.

So the purge went deeper. And when a friend stopped by recently—his first visit since before everything happened—his immediate reaction was, “Wow, this place is totally different.” That’s when it hit me: I really had stripped away almost every trace of him. And oddly, I felt some peace in that.

Not long ago, while cleaning out a storeroom, I came across those “set‑aside” boxes. Opening them felt like looking at someone else’s life—foreign, disconnected. The items no longer hurt, but they didn’t belong with me anymore either. I passed them along to people who would value them.

Then came another discovery—forgotten cabinets in this old 19th‑century house, stuffed with dusty files, an ancient computer, and things from when we lived in Wyoming over 15 years ago. Nothing sentimental, just cobwebbed leftovers. But it was still strange to realize how much can hide behind a closed door for so long.

All of this—the purges, the discoveries, the letting go—complicates my journey at times and simplifies it at others. But one thing remains clear: I’m moving forward. I’m building confidence in myself, and in the belief that I can be better, do better, and live lighter without all that baggage.

And through it all, my dog and my mom still have confidence in me. That alone is worth carrying forward.