It’s been a pleasant and relatively quiet Sunday—both in the real world and in the wasteland. Today was one of those slow-motion days where you tackle simple, comforting tasks. I began coring and peeling two dozen tomatoes to make a black bean and corn salsa. It’s one of my favorites. The bounty of fresh tomatoes felt like the perfect excuse to pressure-can a batch I can enjoy over the winter. Hopefully, this one turns out as well as past batches.

 

I’ve already made a run of taco soup recently, another go-to meal since my bariatric surgery. That cookbook from my bariatric surgery practice has become a lifeline—high-protein, low-carb recipes that help keep me on track. Comfort food reimagined.

 

While the salsa simmered, I took a trip into the virtual wasteland to knock out my daily challenges. Those challenges add up to points, which add up to rewards for the season. The current season has about six weeks left—maybe more—before the next big update. Bethesda has been clever about timing it with the new season of the Fallout TV show in December. I have to hand it to them—they know how to build excitement.

 

When I’m online, I usually livestream on Twitch. I do it with no dreams of going viral. My life’s already public enough through this blog. Anyone can take five or ten minutes here and learn more about me than I probably intended. Inevitably, someone pops up trying to sell me on banners and graphics, pitching monetization and “growing my brand.” But doing it on that level requires a regular, sustained commitment and more energy than I’m willing to spend. I enjoy the game. I like bringing news, witty commentary, and the occasional double entendre. But I’m not trying to be the next Twitch visionary.

 

What I am trying to do is create a safe, public space for myself. And in that, I’ve succeeded. My regulars—some of whom play along while we chat—make streaming a good time. When one of them disappears for a week, I find myself genuinely concerned. I don’t know his real name, just his PSN ID, but our conversations feel as real as sitting face to face. Maybe we lose body language in this digital setting, but the connection is still genuine.

 

I started streaming at my speech therapist’s suggestion. Combining conversation with gameplay could help me regain some control over my speech. Whether it’s working or not, the handful of people who regularly speak to me while I stream have been an incredible part of my recovery.

 

Still, I’m noticing changes. Between my strokes and my PTSD, I feel like I’ve developed some kind of ADHD-like behavior. My attention span feels like a squirrel after a dozen Monsters. I’ll set out to do one task, spot another mid-stride, start that one instead, and suddenly everything spirals. It’s a definite shift from my pre-stroke self. Not insurmountable, but frustrating.

 

This mental shuffle also stirs up grief memories. Sometimes I see something and think, “Oh, he’d love to know this.” Then I remember: he’s gone. Lately it’s been, “He would’ve hated this,” followed by, “Doesn’t matter—he’s gone.” I don’t know if this is progress or just another form of grief. Maybe it’s simply the reality of living in a timeline I never expected. People may not always understand it, but I’m learning to accept that—and myself—in the process.

 

I also find myself worrying about how I appear to my in-laws. I don’t hold them responsible for his actions, and I hope they know that. If anything, my deepest sympathy is for their anguish. We’re cordial, but the part of my brain run by those Monster-drinking squirrels still worries I’m doing something wrong.

 

And yet here I am, livestreaming and blogging—putting my life out in public while wanting no constant focus on me. It’s a strange dichotomy, wanting to share but not demand attention. I guess if I really wanted that, I could open a Truth Social account and send messages in all caps.

 

The truth is, the only ones who truly need to know what’s going on—usually before I do—are my dog and my mom. They always do. And maybe that’s the reminder worth leaving here: be good to the people (and animals) who actually show up for you. Your dog and your mom already know you can be.