Day 365

One year.

I have been writing every day, for one year.  The chronicles are lengthy and deep, laugh-inspiring and dangerous, loving and deadly, long-winded and diminutive.  365 steps in the direction of recovery, that’s what that means.  But perhaps not.

Yesterday, my wife had a risky yet eye-opening foray into job-people-asshole-relationships.  This foray showed us that her next steps require some sort of job search, career path.  I am on board; ultimately, I want her happiness, for her to be grateful and appreciative, above all else.  I love her and we will make it work.  Luckily it was just a warning shot though, a burnt orange instead of a bright red, one that will allow us to take the next steps – while tenuously – on our own terms.  Given how things have been articulated here, recovering herself would be a way to frame this.

As for me, I am currently stepping into a new form of self-reality (I know that self-actualization is a more proper term, but the douche factor requires a less-accurate synonym), stepping into a new understanding of myself.  I started writing because we understood its value as a recovery tool for me, because we were looking for experts on me when we were the only two true ones.  As a result, we know many more of my triggers, warning signals, agitators and alienators than we did one year ago.  We also know that when stress gets away from me and us that dire consequences ensue: judge and jury, I give you broken hand.  I also know many more of my feelings, my loves and desires, my cares and Tz’u, my purpose as Don and my hopes and faith.  I feel more comfortable being who I am after 365 days, partially because we have expanded the me version of me, but also because we have explored the me version of me, which has given us an understanding of shoulds and the parts of me that are me, not black.  As we discussed earlier in the week, my wife and I know that my next steps in recovery include rest and managing the inevitable stresses of living on the edge, of giving 100% to do good and be beautiful, amazing and loving.

Odd thing is, if I hadn’t been pushed off the edge two weekends ago, I wouldn’t have had cause to have the difficult conversation with my aunt last weekend.  And if my wife hadn’t had her encounter of the fucked up kind, I would not have gone to my aunt for counsel about college teaching (a reach out that wouldn’t have happened without the difficult conversation), she would not have seen her potential for vivid expansion and I would not have found a potential perma-support in Kind Science Work Friend.  So is this really about recovery?

Through blogging, I have learned so much.  By writing, I have faced demons with my wife, with her affair, with my family, with my brother’s illness, with my blackness.  Like our summer before life happened, writing allowed growth beyond belief.  However, I will stop blogging after today and this is my final Tale as the Recovering Recoverer.  Not because I don’t love writing – I will continue to do that as a tool.  But given the acquired understanding of the last 365 days, I now understand that this is not a path of recovery, not solely.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I am recovered by any means.  I will continue to understand that I am recovering from anxiety and hyper-vigilance, perfectionism, orthorexia and disordered eating – my personal blackness.  I understand that the potential for that blackness taking over will always be there.  I understand that we will need to face every day one day at a time, with serenity and courage and wisdom.  I understand that I and we will continue to adapt our vivid to fit the current lines and colours, to use my tools and support system and stay vigilant against the blacknesses within us.

But I understand that this is only a part of me.  I have realized that I have not been writing about a path of recovery, not solely.  This is not a story about recovering from a deficit; this is a story of growth.  No, there is not an ending here, but that’s because this is a tale of a different sort – this is 365 days of life.


Day 363


This notion of finding purpose and value in others, in this being part of my Uncarved Block, to be for and of the people, it rubs some the wrong way.  I had a politely heated conversation with Naturopath last week about it.  Its influence is reflected in yesterday’s post about “taking care of myself, so I can take care of others.”  My position is that taking care of myself for others does not devalue myself.  Finding connections with others, being loved and living with them, being hurt and harmed by them, this does not devalue myself.  Hers is that it will lead to self-destruction due to neglect; martyrdom; undue self-sacrifice; broken hands; not being of the people, only for the people

I have my purpose – love, care, Tz’u, Don – and that cannot be a bad thing (as long as it does not lead to self-destruction; martyrdom; undue self-sacrifice; broken hands; not being of the people, only for the people).  As long as it stays an imperfection and does not fall victim to the blackness and its much-too-easy, oil-slick-like slipperiness into the darkness, it cannot be a bad thing.  As long as it stays mine, my beautiful imperfection, and as long as the blackness doesn’t claim it as its own, as a flaw, it cannot be a bad thing.

How the hell does this connect to The Lorax?  The Lorax speaks for the trees.

This video I found reminds the world – nay, screams at all those who I rub the wrong way with my purpose – why I do what I do.  I speak with (not only for) the exceptional but exceptional, with the amazing but marginalized, with the “disabled”:

Day 362


Take care of yourself; you’re worth it.

That is a should for me.

I find value, strength and purpose in others, in connections, in care and Tz’u, in love and Don – to be that, I need to take care of me.

Take care of myself, by using the candle a day.

Take care of myself, by limiting myself to two things a day.

Take care of myself, by having a cut-off time for work and emails.

Take care of myself, by listening to my support system (the ever-strengthened one) when they see I’m doing too much and lend a helping hand (or hug).

Take care of myself, by having food timing and systems that work for me and us.

Take care of myself, by having (and really enjoying, a forgone conclusion) sex dates.

Take care of myself, by using my anti-blackness toolbox, like happy lists, looking up and writing.

Take care of myself, by alleviating the wife-blackness-related stress, being knowledgeable of her tough hormone weeks and setting lines with her of support, for her and us.

Take care of myself, so I can be Don for others.

Day 343


Yesterday was the observance of Diwali.

The Google article that caught my eye states:

Diwali or Divali also known as Deepavali and the “festival of lights”, is an ancient Hindu festival celebrated in autumn every year. The festival spiritually signifies the victory of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance, good over evil, and hope over despair.

We shall overcome mistakes.

We will kill off the thing in our head that contextualizes what we wear, or how we act, or who we are – we will just wear, and act, and be.

We shall overcome spiral thinking, blackness-induced rage, seemingly uncontrollable racing thoughts.

Light, love, knowledge, hope, good, care, Tz’u – these things will help us overcome.

Day 342


Fuck you.

Fuck your lack of appreciation.

Fuck your lack of care.

Fuck your forgetfulness.

Fuck your lack of Tz’u.

Fuck your blindness of heart.

Fuck your perky, obligatory, false, cursory bullshit.

I didn’t do this for you.

I didn’t do it for you.

I did it for the smile on the retiree’s face.

I did it for a colleague’s peace of mind.

I never need your satisfaction.

I never need your appreciation.

I never need your heart (with all its glitter and sparkles and cupcake sprinkles).

I never need your care.

I never need your Tz’u.

But nevertheless, fuck you.

I am tired, but I am satisfied because I care, I am the Don beyond you.

Are you satisfied?  Is a life of glittery blindness worth it?

Day 322


I need help with the school newsletter.  Ok, so I don’t need help in the sense that it won’t get done otherwise.  I need help with the school newsletter to stay sane.  I put out a call for assistance; I wish I hadn’t.  If I’d stayed quiet, I wouldn’t have heard the deafening silence emanating from this place.

Show no fear and don’t flinch.

Don’t let them take your strength, and more importantly, your Tz’u, your desire to be Don, your will to love.

I’ll be the best of me, not the worst of them.  Otherwise, they will have more than one victim.

Day 307/308


I have finally gotten to the end of my 17th book.  It took a couple of days of fatigue-filled forcefulness – forever fucking my retention – as opposed to literary-inspired love that kept me reading.  Likely, I will not remember the end.  However, very often, the end is not the most important part of the story.  Here are the rememberances that got bookmarked from The Tiger’s Wife by Tea Obreht (also the ONE recommended book from this journey that did not suck serious ass, excuse my less-than educated language), to assist in my retention of the most important parts:

“Magdalena was epileptic, and therefore restricted to small distances and small pleasures. … Darisa, seven years her junior, doted on her, adored everything she adored, and had grown up with the notion that her welfare was his obligation, his responsibility.  Standing in the hallway of their house, watching the footman carry his father’s valises out to the waiting carriage, Darisa would cling to the lapels of the engineer’s coat, and his father would say: ‘You’re a very small boy, but I am going to make you a gentleman.  Do you know how a small boy becomes a gentleman?’

‘How?’ Darisa would say, even though he already knew the answer.

‘With a task,’ his father said.  ‘With taking responsibility for others‘” (in keeping with the aforementioned comments, the page number has already been lost and forgotten).

  • It is not the act of being an adult that makes you capable – and in this current climate, ME – of being a Don.  It is the act of being a Don that makes you an adult.

“When your fight has purpose – to free you from something, to interfere on the behalf of an innocent – it has a hope of finality.  When the fight is about unraveling – when it is about your name, the places to which your blood is anchored, the attachment of your name to some landmark or event – there is nothing but hate, and the long, slow progression of people who feed on it and are fed it, meticulously, by the ones who come before them.  Then the fight is endless, and comes in waves and waves, but always retains its capacity to surprise those who hope against it” (283).

  • There is purpose in Tz’u.  There is purpose in being the dependable.  There is value in being the person upon which people depend.  I find value and purpose in being that person.  I find value and purpose in fighting that fight.  I find value and purpose in being Don.  That fight, that courageously caring fight, has purpose = Tz’u.  And therefore, that purpose and value and Tz’u will ALWAYS be tied to hope and love and faith and caring and belief in flying mother-fucking penguins that ride chipped unicorns into the darkest corners of the blackness and come out with black, bile-infested blood on their bayonets (there’s the alliteration again!).  That fight, our recovery fight, will forever-ever have purpose.