I spent the weekend hanging out in the wasteland for a couple of reasons. First, it’s become something of a vacation home for me. Second, I was approaching a milestone in Fallout 76: Level 1,000. And finally, late Saturday night, I hit that magical number.
Of course, the folks I game with thought it was pretty cool. One of the lower-level players I’ve run with quite a bit asked me what it felt like to be Level 1,000.
“Does anything change?”
I told her no.
I just have a lot more paperwork now.
The wasteland is odd like that. Even after eight years on the Fallout 76 platform, you can still find new groups of people and new experiences. I could spend hours telling stories about the early days of the game, but that mostly just makes me sound old.
Retirement has been strange.
For most of my life, my schedule was packed. There was always somewhere to be, someone to see, or something that needed doing. Retirement has forced me to learn something different. If I want to stay busy, I have to create things that keep me busy.
A few years ago I bought a 3D printer.
Like many things in my life at the time, it sat in a box because life had other plans. Recently I finally unpacked it, installed a few upgrades, and started printing.
I’ve had an absolute blast.
Most of what I’ve printed has been completely unnecessary. Fan art, props, decorative pieces, things that serve absolutely no practical purpose whatsoever. Yet I’ve found the process incredibly satisfying. It is relaxing and stressful at the same time, but it has become a welcome diversion.
I suspect it’s going to remain one for quite a while.
For those unfamiliar with 3D printing, it isn’t like printing a document on an inkjet printer. A 3D printer uses filament made from various materials to create physical objects layer by layer. As I write this, I have a cosplay project running that has an estimated print time of a day and a half. I started it yesterday, and it won’t finish until sometime around midnight tonight.
I’ve basically adopted the strategy of seeing something that looks fun and immediately deciding I should print it.
Like most things in my life, I’ve gone completely overboard.
And honestly?
That’s okay.
Recovery from a stroke is weird.
One day you think, “Wow, I might actually be improving.” The next day you’re struggling with the exact same issues you thought you had moved past.
Intellectually, I understand that two steps forward and one step back is still progress.
Emotionally, I’m a card-carrying member of the MTV generation who wants everything fixed immediately.
I was fortunate in some respects. I avoided some of the more severe physical deficits that strokes can cause. I can still walk without dragging a foot. I still have muscle tone and mobility.
The downside is that pain and balance issues remain constant companions. Uneven ground can be challenging. Simple tasks in the yard or the workshop often become more difficult than they should be.
I’ve said before that the strokes gave me an entirely new skill set.
Reading about potential deficits in a textbook is one thing.
Living with them is something entirely different.
The challenge is that the strokes don’t exist in isolation.
Neither does PTSD.
Neither does grief.
Those three things don’t politely take turns. They show up together.
Grief aggravates PTSD. PTSD aggravates the effects of the strokes. The strokes make emotional regulation harder. The result is that what should be one problem quickly becomes three.
It’s exhausting.
This weekend was a good example.
There is an event in Washington that I’ve wanted to attend for several years. I saw the original announcement months ago.
And then I completely forgot about it.
When I started seeing photos of everyone having a great time, I was immediately angry and hurt. Not because anyone did anything wrong, but because I should have written it down.
One of the greatest challenges I’ve faced since the strokes has been developing systems that compensate for memory and executive-function deficits. Calendars, reminders, lists, sticky notes—anything that helps bridge the gap between intention and execution.
The problem is that I haven’t yet developed a reliable “do it right now” strategy. If I don’t capture something immediately, there is always a chance it disappears into the ether.
That’s not a failure.
It’s a reality.
Unfortunately, those are not always the same thing in my mind.
My therapist and psychiatrist have given me strategies.
Many of them work.
The challenge is that it’s much easier to discuss coping mechanisms in an office than it is to remember them in the middle of frustration, grief, anger, or self-loathing.
Perfect practice makes perfect.
The problem is that I often fail to give myself grace when I don’t perform perfectly.
That’s the part I continue to struggle with.
I can give grace to other people.
I can understand their mistakes.
I can understand their limitations.
I can understand their struggles.
For some reason, extending that same understanding to myself remains one of the hardest things I’ve ever tried to learn.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
Maybe recovery isn’t just learning how to walk through the world differently.
Maybe it’s learning how to forgive yourself for not being the person you used to be.
I don’t know.
If I were going to leave a discussion question, it would be this:
How do you give yourself grace?
Because honestly, I don’t have a fucking clue.
I think my mom eventually learned how.
And I know my dog gives grace freely every single day.
Perhaps they’re both trying to teach me something.
As always:
Be the kind of person your mom and dog hope you are.