The Long Road Out

After these last years, and the crises that precipitated them, I'm sad.  I'm medicated for depression and PTSD and continue to be in therapy and other treatments to try to "cheer up," if nothing else. The treatments have offered benefits including periods of richer self knowledge, effective grieving, better listening to myself and others. And,  new skills at setting boundaries and clearer communication of my needs.  Thank you "that makes sense," and "this is not working for me." Cheering up?  Hasn't happened.   I keep hoping, though today it's almost 2 pm and I haven't gotten out of bed.  A rugged lonely day in a strange city.  Maybe I'll face the day and take a shower after I finish this post to myself.  Perhaps not.   Am I a shell of the man I was?  Probably, but I still feel substance inside.  I feel weighty, though soft and perhaps sick.  But not like a shell.   Am I a heartbroken romantic?  That would be fun, but...

 I witness so much ugliness--my own, the daily news and the puppets who participate in it, and of course small, mean actions from individuals. Ugliness encroaches and colonizes.  It’s opportunistic and impatient. I, at least, always found you beautiful.  You were beautiful to me. Always. What have you done?  Why your current defacement?  Are there people who find you attractive now? Are there people who see you and respect you more? Are those the people you hope to attract, or control, or befriend?  Are you more attractive to your desired tribe?  More importantly, to yourself?  You won’t communicate so I will never know your story, but as someone who lived with you for decades,  I can't imagine a version of you who would not look in the mirror now and scream for hours.  Clearly I don't know you, and even more clearly, never understood who you were (unless you were under duress at the time you moved to Montreal and flipped somehow?). You ...

On a sunny mid-day walk in London, completely alone, I'm struck by the fearful hate for family and friends my ex-wife spewed across her lifetime. A powerful short bolt out of the brightness. Bam.  That was a solid hit. She's long moved on to others…and I'm certain someone in that new group is being hurt badly by her.  Equally certain my ex knows it's that individual's fault. (Only men had to fear in the past...apparently she's now an equal opportunity demon across the rainbow?) The pieces of her regularly shatter, and she redesigns herself with startling rigidity—but since there are no shards for shame or guilt or apology, each iteration has the identical fatal flaw.      She has no other way to reinterpret herself: It is your fault that I'm empty inside . A specific call out: my ex had no understanding of her own sexuality.  Based on current scant evidence, she's even more unhinged about sexuality than she was when we were together.  This is...

Thanksgiving has passed. Once again I have a long weekend without a single plan.  Feels almost normal to have long periods of unstructured time. Not threatening as much as it did two years ago.     The concept of disfigurement is still on my mind this morning.  The way I am disfigured by trauma and grief of course. I’m still addicted topic. They are my default state.  I’ve worn the veneer off my neural tableware, fretting it so much. I’m one of billions sharing suffering on this fine day, and how many will suffer further this hour, this minute?  How many will take self-destructive steps, knowingly or not.  Cutting off the hair you love to spite your face.  Ignoring your ill parent.  Being a shitty shitty friend when a gesture of kindness would cost nothing. We humans, me included, are large language pain models.  LLPMs!  Can Trump send out the jackboots and begin the formal part of his programs when he’s not official yet? I’m more c...

Though my dad was born in Brooklyn (of British parents who had recently emigrated), he returned to Birmingham before he was one.   I'm now the remaining Foster—with my brother but he's struggling.   I have lived in New York City most of my adult life, and only recently left on my own uncertain way.  However, I've flown to London for ten days over Thanksgiving.   I have barely any agenda, though I have enjoyed time with business and personal friends.   I've been napping and reading on the couch at my rental flat most of the time.   It occurred to me if I died here, which is highly unlikely, I would have closed the circle on my immediate family's entire journey.  My dad was an engineer.  I wonder if he'd enjoy the symmetry or mathematics of that. Or surprise me that he liked the poetry or narrative. I bet he’d appreciate the distance the four of us travelled together. The force and angle of trajectory too.   Honoring...

I increased my anti-depressant dose last week.  50mg of Zoloft generic, which is apparently a pretty light dose but twice what I started with months ago. I am curious if I'll feel differently.  Another 3-4 weeks before I'll know, according to my prescribing psychiatrist.   After a week, I feel like I've moved into a plastic tube that's part of a large hamster cage.  The tube is eternal, and everyone else is outside.  I walk along the tube and I can hear the voices but they're slightly muffled.  Sometimes I can see people smile at me as I pass...or maybe it's not me they're noticing.  Their own thoughts, or a voice on their cell phones. Do I look strange here, inside the tube?  I feel myself aging.  My stomach is slightly upset I think.  Even if I could talk to those who pass by, would they like me?  Would they care about my needs?  I'm afraid to answer those questions. My depression is a long thin road.  The tube I'm in is...

I keep working at reaching for love but my heart isn't leaning that way. Perhaps I'm tired. Perhaps an extra glass of wine takes the pain and loneliness away. Watching Krystalnacht play out in the US is a terrible breach of contract with the remaining portions of our population that weren't already abused. Club'm to death, as Lou Reed sang in the 70's. I feel the bat will be swinging for me soon. The rain in London falls on the dead. The roof leaks. I'm trying to stay social but I worry about how avoidant I feel, and how frequently I try to schedule and then don't follow through. Am I forgetting? Or too exhausted to not take the easiest path, which is silence. I love my companions and appreciate the valiant few who are still with me. I am filled with thanks. But is there a silent will to accept that I never feel connected once I leave the room? If so I am ashamed of my own authenticity. Craving something that I cannot experience and not seeing my...

Alone myself, and mute too: here's what I wish. I wish that you are frightened, but realistically.  Not based on your paranoia.   Dependent on others to lie to you about your prospects. Ignored by those who want to help you. (Because you've alienated them—not because they're bad people, though perhaps some are vile.) Finally aware.  In your conjured and celebrated imagination, which is your only reality, broke.

I feel threatened as a hostile critic of this populist junta—and of our crazed mob behavior. And who knows what a US passport will offer soon. Can't get in—can't get out?  But I can't compare my situation, holding one, to the experience of families in the US that gave undocumented parents or children or friends. They face the new daily sense of being judged by grotesque slobbering dogs who we will never see.  Running in the snow or sand helps with strength. But this is quicksand  Quicksand doesn't offer any benefits.  Remember Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan?  He always escaped in the end and got back to the jungle. Where the fuck is the safety of the jungle when your neighbors are potential vigilantes?  When you're sharing Thanksgiving food with family and friends and wonder if there will be a raid.  Uninvited visitors. 

A new low level in fundraising!  A wonderful woman from my high school class.  Subject:  She  is in the Quarter-Finals and voting starts NOW!  Voting in the Quarter-Finals is open and your favorite lady is closer than ever to taking the title. Thank you for Helping Women Now® with the National Breast Cancer Foundation through their mission to provide early detection, education, and support services to those affected by breast cancer.

I think I came here to London to be alone. Wish I'd brought Ceci. She's what matters the most. I have calls and therapy and I will try to keep in touch with my remaining community while I'm here. But I'd also like to disappear. To see no one. To start fresh. To get a new perspective on myself and my sorry condition. I don't know if I'm healthy, or if this is really my life I'm experiencing. Isn't that weird? Probably it's too much to ask of a trip to London by myself to answer these questions. But it's not as if I'd expect answers if I was locked in my bedroom in Truckee. I do want to escape and hide. Wish I had my cat…the two of us. I'm not leaving her again. Tomorrow I will see no one.  Saturday I will again.  Maybe I’ll watch some Netflix.  It’s been over two years. Netflix was so great when COVID began. 

 I suffered PTSD for a long time after my wife left me and my dad died.  My wife eventually returned four months after his death, but I was damaged and unable to grieve.  We muddled on for another 10 years but looking back I can't remember a single loving gesture, and there were increasingly insane arguments about random nonsense.  I believe my wife was miserable the whole time, and I was unable to comprehend that.  After all, she'd come back, and I'd accepted her, even after she fucked up her marital responsibilities during my dad’s death   I believe this was the deepest trigger of my trauma.  I recall the shock of immediately knowing I was disfigured, irreparably. There were many earlier moments, but after 2012, my life became a numb toil. After the mortars exploded in front of me. No one has handled the death of a parent worse than my ex.  I'll give her that!  Bottom 0%.  Her parents have died since then so now we could empathize abou...

I believe you didn't know how. You didn't learn as a child and so you were unfamiliar with giving and receiving as an adult. I believe I gave you support that didn't match your needs. I cannot recall any support I received from you, and I can recall you complaining when I asked. And going absent. Withdrawing into other love affairs at times. I so wish you had been capable. You had your own issues to sort out, and rarely made any progress on your own agenda. Nothing left for me when I dearly needed your love. Real love. The sort of love that derives from kindness. Other-centered love. I would have thrived with some of that.  Maybe returned even more of it to you than I did.  

I lived with an individual who had periodic vasovagal  syncope.  She also had Addison’s Disease.  She may have had some moderate behavioral disorders.   I had my own variability, primarily around trauma.  Also a mix of chemicals…wine, edibles, coke.  What did it all mean?  We were both PatSD much of the time I suspect. I certainly was and my ex had anxiety that most likely should have been treated.   A vasovagal response (also known as a vasovagal syncope when fainting is involved) occurs when the body overreacts to triggers, leading to a sudden drop in heart rate and blood pressure. This causes reduced blood flow to the brain. What Happens in the Body? 1. Trigger occurs → Activates the vagus nerve, part of the parasympathetic nervous system. 2. Heart rate slows down → Causes a decrease in cardiac output. 3. Blood pressure drops → Leads to reduced blood flow to the brain. 4. Fainting  (syn...

In early 2023 I engaged counsel in a non-litigation contract to represent me in an uncontested divorce. We spent $100,000 without resolving anything in five months. Then I hired a mediator for $8000. In 3 1/2 hours, we agreed on the terms of our separation. The retired judge opined that we were well within all the equitable distribution precedents of New York State, and even offered a refund since the mediation had been easy and without drama. Great huh? $200,000 (and 14 months) later the two sets of lawyers have not agreed on the documents. We have negotiated minutia and edited documents in meaningless ways. I love my lawyers but this isn't a legal system. It's organized extortion! Or perhaps picking over the carcass of a ruined 28 year friendship that I once valued. I'm not even including anything my ex-wife may have paid. Uncontested? I didn't contest. I know that. I can't speak for my ex, her lawyers, or my lawyers. No one paid me for being an e...

Here are some ways that you can confirm that the myth of US exceptionalism is pretty much laughingly naïve.  Just in case you missed it, I'll highlight the "close the doors and shutter the windows" news on western democracy, especially the culturally and religiously fundamentalist version practiced in the United States:   Tesla Cybertrucks "rust" when exposed to magnets.  Our kingmaker, Elon Musk, can't make solar roofs.  He can't grow social media companies even when they're the biggest on the planet, and he can't make a truck that works in a country that cares about their pickups more than they care about educating their children. Netananyu has joined Putin as a world leader who can no longer travel to 122 countries around the globe.  He's charged as a war criminal by the ICC.  Welcome to the list…call Henry Kissinger to ask how this impacts your ability to fundraise globally.  This is the world's leading legal venue for h...

I can't say whether I'm too needy or not needy enough or just the right amount of needy.  Just that I would have loved more acknowledgement and some affirmation during my marriage.  I didn't feel safe or certain so much of the time, and I also had a constant sense that I disappointed my partner.  Not enough sex.  Not enough money? Not enough overt expressions of love.  Too many nonsensical arguments and no progress toward resolution.  The same bad patterns over and over, I suppose.   Now I have even less, since my recent divorce.  I notice that my family constellation contract, now cancelled but still a factor in how I view myself, rejects affirmation from friends and other sources.  The only source that mattered was the primary woman in my life.   My ex was not the right person to offer this kind of "love."  Again, maybe I'm a mess—but it's what I feel I needed.   I lived on an empty fuel tank of love for s...

I understand that. But imho my ex-wife has more than used up her "get out of jail free" cards with family and friends and husbands and me (three major times). So honestly all I really care about is what I want to do. She didn't ask about my needs once in 28 years. Of all the people on the planet, I care about her needs the least anymore. You owe me, honey. You'll never repay a cent, and I won't forget you until you do. The color of your rotten soul. 

Oatly, the milk alternative, has clever marketing material on their cartons of grain-based milk. Along with morning granola, your milk cartons question whether oat milk is “anti-cow” by asking whether dairy milk is "pro-cow." 1500 cows in parallel stalls. Moo. Similarly, those who currently complain that computer intelligence is "anti-human" should consider this simple question:     Were Google search results pro-human? ChatGPT results are better than traditional Google search rankings for two primary reasons.  First, my understanding is that vector math is replacing matrix math, which, though matrix math made a few people very rich in the late 1990’s, is primarily a way to provide the answer that a supplier bid the most to offer.  Matrix-ranked relevance times price equals the truth. The 2nd reason: vector math calculates relations  tens of millions of them.  It is a math of connection. It forms relationships. Matrix math ranks relevance....

I have been a broken antenna, ever attuned to the weak signals from my ex-partner.  To other important women in my life.   Another image would be the ears of a horse…or a cat…always rotating to indicate the direction of highest interest.   Cats and horses notice everything.  My ears don't rotate, and my antenna has been too alert, but faulty.    I learned to listen for every nuanced signal, of course, from infancy…as we all did.  Some of us were cut off early and learned to do without.  I started pre-natal, and I'm still doing it 69 years later.    I know that this kind of outward focused listening device is inappropriate for an adult.  I know that now.  It was a behavior that got me the attention and praise and love and acknowledgement I desired at age 4.  It probably stopped working by age 5.  And it certainly did me no favors by the time I met my ex at age 39.  I listened incorrectly, hea...

Here's one easy understanding (and note that the CIA is not even listed—that's because it's SECRET!!!).  70% of 2.3M federal civilian jobs are military-related WSJ. The Department of Government Efficiency will likely face opposition  to any cuts to government, especially in the military.  Their median salary is $97K, vs $61K for the median U.S. worker WSJ

I feel sad, some remorse, lonely, and very small.  I don't feel like I matter to any one.   I acknowledge all these feelings.  They make sense.  I'm traveling back east where I once lived, and passing through airports we often shared.   Sigh.  It does make sense, despite the anti-depressants and all the other things I've tried to regain a sense of value and place.   I heard my friend's voice for the first time in over a year yesterday.  She sounded afraid and anxious.  She probably dreaded the call?  I don't know but still she's the person I most want to be with, and she's part of me.  I wanted to comfort her but she'd just reject me as always and then I'd be hurt.  She has nothing to offer me except pain…she wants me to know I'm not worth her attention and certainly not worth her care or kindness.   As I wrote yesterday, she only said one thing…she wanted her money from our settlement agreement.  ...

I'm selling my home in NYC.  It's difficult, sad, and necessary as part of a divorce settlement.  It's also challenging because of my depression and PTSD, and I'm doing it alone, wandering in my dry emotional wasteland.  Add Trump and his catalog of grostesques and I'm in deep trouble. Not as much as my ex apparently, who can wring attention out of any situation and cut me off from the support and human connection I need.  We had a call to reduce the price on the apartment yesterday.  I heard my ex-life partner's voice for the first time in over a year.  What did she have to say?                                   " This is my last shot at money ."   That's what she had to say before she more or less lost her shit.  She has Addison's Disease, so I'm sure fight or flight responses are difficult to contain.  W...