The Long Road Out

I hope I die soon. Really. This is ridiculous. What a pathetic life I've had. Stop. I'm done. Really. Fuck you all.  I lived with a woman who was me-first 24/7 for 30 years. And now she’s convinced she was a victim.  This is the American Dream she hoped for.   Innocent of the carnage behind her. A pure American asshole. She should be on the currency. What a disaster of a human being.  Hiding behind international covenants she’s never once observed in her family life.  I puke on you.

So strange. The trend of the last few days continues. I hate everyone! Just luck Donald. He's a twat. Maybe he's just lonely and depressed like me. I doubt he's going to improve soon, so I'm not optimistic about his future joy.

Really dark even though the sun is shining in my eyes as it rises over the eastern Sierra. Really dark. I don't want to continue. I dreamt I still owned my Chris Craft though I'd rented it to some fancy family. But I took it back for August and went for a trip in tropical waters completely alone. I was so happy to have my past back. Not being abused by anyone I knew. Just me and the water and my boat. I fell off a stool yesterday changing a light bulb. What a fucking idiot right?

That's a Dylan line. But it happened to me too and to all the others who suffer. My ignorant ex-wife torments me. The horror the horror in south Harlem. That's Conrad. She is not worth a penny. Take care of yourself own shit honey. Yesterday, fishing for your next round of cash, out of the blue, you opined that it was good we were talking without lawyers. Mina—you fucking ghosted me for years. As if this situation had something to do with me. As if I lawyered up. And not you, you sick fuck. You. Sick. Fuck. I can't express fully the evil I see in you. But I know your mom understood. And others. I would get a lobotomy if I knew it would exit the black soot you leave behind you.

The two of us were putrid. I don't know if I hate you or myself more. I'd definitely like to get even with you for your sociopathy. You hurt so many people. I'm in the top group but doubt I was your worst victim. You represent a group of man haters who are so blinded by the abuse they received from their fathers or the abuse their fathers dumped on their mothers—or are just plain sick muthafuckers. So you poison any one you can and reject everyone who sees you as a demon. Spin more bad false hurtful hateful narratives. Destroy your body with cortisol because that's your nectar. Cortisol is the fruit of what you've spewed into the world. It's far too late for you to redeem yourself. Probably for me too. Certainly for the others. I'd rather have a cocaine problem that a cortisol problem though it's a double race to the absolute bottom in both cases.

Next step in the 10 year process is splitting up our retirement funds. I deducted $300,000 from my 401k in 2021 to try to help my ex move to Montréal. She deposited $165,000 of our joint money in her private SEP without telling me. Whatever. She sucks but I really loved her. I assume this next round of "protecting women" experts know the same two things about me that every other moron Mina hired took for granted: that I'm a coke addict and a crossdresser. It's easy to behave unprofessionally when you've been fed this sewage by a woman who would know better if she weren't disabled. Again, ho-hum. I only hope these predators are competent. That would be a nice change after Vaccaland and Hrbekville and the comedy of errors that populated the last 10 steps. Imagine a world where women didn't need compromised tools like you to Pete t them from men like me! PS Lexington: you don't know me and you never will. But if you need blow a...

A friend of mine fell off the cocaine sobriety wagon for the second time in 39 years last week. I wonder how many people really stop to contemplate this personal disaster. Such a self-esteem buster. And I'm not talking about the drug. I'm talking about meeting your coked up self again. I do not believe people who have not experienced clinical depression, PTSD, or addiction are qualified to speak about these topics. They don't appear to understand how hurtful they are, and how irrelevant they sound. Of course the self-help types can't shut up. Their fuel is coaching. Coaches don't listen. They coach. Non-stop. A job for narcissists pure and simple. My ex-wife tried to coach. She used to have a line on her marketing website that said something like "let me share my passion with you." Don't know if that's still there. Not someone I'd go to in a medical emergency. Or in a clinical mental health crisis. Ironic...

OK, dude:  You've stacked the supreme court with morons who have protected sitting presidents—well, specifically you--from litigation.   And now you want to charge Obama for treason in 2016?   You are a disgusting piece of shit, Donald.  I hope you never sleep at night for the rest of your life.  I can't imagine anyone who deserves to be alone, staring at the ceiling in the dark, more than you do.  

I emailed my ex for password information on an account that is still under her email. She replied three days later and apologized saying she was traveling and hadn't looked at email currently. Gormless. She hasn't replied to email timely in three years once. She hasn't replied to a text from me at all in over 2 years. Not a single one. Clueless about the insulting and hurtful impact of her behaviors. Reminder how much better my current life is when I don't have any contact with anything to do with my past during with my ex. Live your new life David. Take responsibility for now. Look back only when joy reminds you of a past moment. Enjoy those good memories for yourself. You deserve them, unspoiled.

Or a ghoul—an envious bitter damaged baby. I do not respect her. I hope things go poorly for her. Now I have a roommate. Awkward. Not worth the trouble sone days. I don't want to live like this. I don't want to be with others. I don't want the responsibility of love or romance. I don't even really want friendship. Whoever invented this human situation is no friend of mine. Darwin explained why. If I hypothesize a god, that being is even more parsimonious and damaged than my ex-wife. I respect no god. Beauty is as beauty does. Both are ugly and barren. I want my cat. Where is he? Where is my tentative friend?

I live in a wonderful home in the mountains of California. I enjoy coming home from my activities, and treasure the beauty of the internal architecture. As I type I'm watching the just-past-full Buck moon. It floats in the center of a window like an optical scanner. Paradox: this is also my prison. I have never felt as lonely. I have never been less certain of why I am here. I do not trust my relationship with others and even my new cat struggles to understand how to bring me into his consciousness. I can't keep his gender straight when I use terms of endearment. I don't sense improvement anywhere. My favorite activities are small scale home improvement projects—hanging art, upgrading bathroom fixtures. If we desire purposeful lives, I don't think this is what's intended. It seems instead to be a guided tour of slapdash efforts to control my small environment. Outside, where foul men exist, is simply too soul-destroying. I cannot possibly share...

My experience of love was as a partnership unit so strong that my vision and understanding as an individual disappeared. Losing love was a surgical separation that left me without my heart, soul, and mind. My partnership destroyed me, and left me without myself. I am small, hurt, and afraid. I miss myself more than I miss my ex. So now I'm 70 and starting from scratch. It's a small life. Like my dad and my grandfather. I recall grander times. My dad tried to make the best of this period in his life but died of boredom and a bad diet. My grandfather died of drink perhaps—and yes a terrible diet. I may not die for awhile but I recall who I was and miss me. I will ultimately die alone as a direct result of being cut in half. My previous self was inhabited by a narcissist and a sociopath, but you can't see that from inside love. Only when cleaning up the blood in the operating theater.

I still like to dance with energy, and move through my world. I hate Trump and his ICE thugs. I always err on the side of kindness if possible. I value companionship and listen as carefully as possible, and always wish I did better. I'm a romantic at heart but I'm alone. I've had my heart broken for the first time at a relatively late age, though resilience in the face of adversity compounded the damage. In other words, when I fell, I could not get up. I still struggle to get to my knees, and I'm uncertain for many steps when I am first on my feet. I still consider my ex to be my greatest trauma and biggest failure, even though I survived her narcissism for decades longer than anyone in her life. I ended up in the same junk pile as others she hurt in the end; dumped, blamed and ghosted. This is the pattern with gaslighters—avoidance of shame, guilt and responsibility will be Mina's final edict and absolution. I believe I am a survivor of a toxic, abu...