My Recovery journey.
No Anesthesia.
No Bullshit.
All love.
🥰
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Everyone has had a name for it. Isolating. Manic. Avoidant. Lonely. Shutting down. The diagnoses have been flying in from every direction, from people who love me, from people who used to, from people who saw something unfamiliar and decided that must mean something is wrong. I understand the impulse. I don’t accept the label. What you have been watching is not a warning sign. It is not a crisis, a breakdown, or a manic episode. It is what doing the work actually looks like from the outside. I am unrecognizable. On purpose. By design. At great cost. And I…
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I went downtown last night. On a Saturday and stayed out until 1am with a platonic love. Not a drop of alcohol. Not a hit of anything. 26 months sober from alcohol. 67 days clean from cannabis and everything else. I woke up this morning with a clear head, a healthy body, zero hangxiety, and absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. This is what unfiltered looks like. This is what “I am love” looks like in practice.
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Every city has a haunted house. Mine is all of downtown Bellingham. The bars, the alleys, the breakfast tables, the blocked contacts, the empty chairs. I changed my name, got sober, lost almost everyone I knew, and I still have to walk through all of it. Here’s what it looks like when your whole former life becomes a ghost, and you realize you’re the one who got away.
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Probably conceived to Dark Side of the Moon. Definitely delivered to Maniac. Music has been my whole deal since before I could even choose it. These are the 25 songs that have been carrying me through 2026 so far, and honestly, some of them would shock the old me. That’s kind of the point.
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Let me tell you a little story about a guy I used to know. Drunk. Psychotic. Angry. Drug fueled. The life of every party and the death of every relationship. In a two-year span of time, he attended 94 shows at the Wild Buffalo House of Music, high on drugs and alcohol every time. And even wilder is that the “Buff” was just one of several venues he frequented. Bartenders knew him by name. So did the drug dealers. So did the police. So did the St. Joe’s ER and psych-ward staff. You could call him a “frequent-flyer” with all…
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3.5 years. Two hospitalizations. One note that said “Get help” on an empty bedroom door. This is the story of my estrangement from my daughters, what I had to burn down to become someone worth coming back to, and how I found my way back to them. This is not a highlight reel. This is the whole ugly house.
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Three days of real peace. Then Thursday happened and my nervous system decided to manufacture a full-blown crisis out of thin air. This is what it looks like when your rational mind is miles ahead and your body is still running trauma drills for a war that is already over. Also: a word to the critics, the ghost-readers, and anyone still watching from a distance. Spoiler: the firewall is up and the view from up here is worth everything it cost.
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