Yesterday’s little foray into my opinion on things wasn’t really about politics at all. It was about idiocy. For the record, if the *other* side was in power and pulling the same stunts, I’d be saying the same thing. I’ve never cared much for party lines — when I listen to someone, it’s for their words, not their label. Enough politics.

Back to the jam.

I logged into the wasteland, stirred up some mayhem, and played my oddball style. A friend once told me my approach is a little unconventional. They’re not wrong. While plenty of players chase kills or grind loot, I find joy in helping new players get their footing. That probably comes from my own past — all those times in early online games when strangers helped me succeed at the basics. Last night was no different. Passing forward what was once given to me feels good.

### The Curse of Autocorrect

Of course, the real mayhem of modern life isn’t in the wasteland. It’s in texting. Like most people, I have a love/hate relationship with autocorrect. There are memes, T-shirts, entire subreddits devoted to its nonsense. One of my favorites is my shirt that says *“Autocorrect is my worst enema.”* Another meme reminds me daily: *“It’s never duck.”* Both true, both painfully accurate.

And yet, here’s the rub. There’s one correction that has haunted me for years. Every time I type *“I love you,”* my phone insists on replacing it with *“I live you.”* Harmless, right? Cute even. Except it isn’t.

The last messages exchanged with my husband the night he died went like this:

– Him: *Taking the sleepy time meds. Have a good night. I love you.*
– Me: *I live you too.* (Message marked seen)
– Me: *Sorry, love.* (Message not marked seen until days later, when a detective unlocked his phone)

That little glitch isn’t what broke me. It doesn’t send me spiraling. But it’s a speed bump, a scar tissue moment. Every time it happens, I’m dragged back into that memory — the silence, the unanswered correction, and the irreversible aftermath.

### Silent Warnings

People sometimes ask how I didn’t see it coming. After all, I worked in mental health. I’ve sat with countless suicidal patients. Shouldn’t I have noticed? The truth is, he was one of those rare, silent suicides. No glaring signs. No dramatic buildup. Just a choice, likely impulsive, and then action.

Six months before, he’d made an offhand comment that, in hindsight, was almost a blueprint. But hindsight is cruel. The only difference between his words and what happened that night was the detail of the weapon — range loads, not standard rounds. I never thought I’d remember that part, but memory has a way of tattooing the things you’d rather forget.

That’s what autocorrect does sometimes: trips a wire you didn’t realize was still live. A text meant to be ordinary suddenly opens a doorway back to the night that everything changed — my marriage, my career, my identity as a provider. Strokes later sealed that coffin, but the doubt started then.

### Training the Machine

A friend showed me how to “teach” autocorrect — to stop forcing substitutions I don’t want. It helps. Now, when I swipe, nine times out of ten, “love” actually stays “love.” A small mercy. Like the meme says, it’s never duck.

The truth is, we don’t always know what will trigger us. Sometimes it’s a thunderclap, sometimes it’s a whisper from your phone screen. But once you recognize it, you can prepare. You can decide if it’s something that needs to shut you down or just pull you aside for a reflective moment.

And for me? For every word that drags me backward, there’s a dog or a memory of my mom pulling me forward. Some triggers wound, others heal. That balance keeps me moving.