AAAAHHHHHHH

I think my best stretches mentally were the ones where I wrote on the old blog a few times a month. There are the three hand-written stream of consciousness pages I try to do every day, but those mostly just keep my head above water. I get that shit out and that clears the way to get to the kind of stuff I really want to say, like I did in my post the other day.

I was touched by the number of people who reached out and encouraged that. It’s not for everyone, certainly, but I do it because it makes me feel like my best self and it indirectly benefits my kids, in theory, because it creates a better version of me. And then directly, there’s a simple, refreshing component that people who have been through similar shit get out of it.

I actually just had a facebook memory tonight from a random former co-worker from 7 years ago that said, “Can i just tell you again how much i love reading your blog?” it really means the world to me that anyone reads it at all, but to take the time to inbox me or comment or say anything encouraging is honestly life-changing.

Because, my world…the one inside my head…is fucked. There’s not an accurate portrayal of who I am in my own mind. there are just replays of my past mistakes, stupid things I’ve said, times I’ve come up short, etc. but, then there’s how people have always seen me. And what my head tells me is true and reality are two different things. I am loved more than I’ll ever actually comprehend. The negative voices are too loud to hear it most of the time, but when kind words do get through, it’s pretty fucking sweet.

I think my favorite response to one of my old blogs was one that just said, “ahhhhhh”. Aww fuck…see…this. This is why I have to keep doing this. I’m back to the tears. I just searched my facebook messenger. I got it all wrong. It was actually “AAAAHHHHHHH.” Followed by the part that got my eyes all sweaty, “that’s me breathing in the whoosh of fresh air I just got.”

99% of my friends (both the real life and imaginary facebook ones) could either never read or would maybe eye roll their way through my blog. But, give me one “fresh air” message and it’s insane how much of my life long self-hatred gets undone with those seemingly tiny gestures.

and that's what it is. fresh air. I’ve lived a life deprived of that for the most part. The freshest of air was the oxygen in the room of that saint of a therapist I had. Oh, yeah so…story time. She met me for the first time on my birthday. It was a Sunday. You know how busy therapists are always like “swing by on the weekend”?

She wasn’t taking new clients and was going to hear my story and recommend another therapist. Instead, she took me on as a patient. No reason to. except for the part where she was the one who was meant to pull me out of what felt like darkest blackness.

She didn’t charge me. I saw her for at least 4 years. my total bill was zero dollars without insurance. That shit does not happen. so, that’s actually pretty fucking embarrassing that I would stop writing even if it’s just a single person who gets something out of it. you give. That’s what you do...give back in thanks of the person who saved you. (and as i reread that, it feels pretty fucking selfish, because i get a ton out of the writing/creating process, so please...take from this so i don't feel so bad)

And that’s actually why I sat down to write. I realized that most of what I said in the last blog post, I’d said a million times before. Over and over again in the old blog, I’d repeat the same stories. The only difference was I’d plug them into different installments. What happened was what happened, but how it related to that day’s thoughts came out on these pages in different ways.

And there is healing in that. So I wanted to come back out here and say “tell your story”. Tell it a million fucking times. Where it hurts the most. What went wrong. What you fucked up. It’s “AAAAHHHHHHH”, I promise. That’s the power of telling the truth. Someone will get you. Someone will relate.

There is shit that has happened to every one of us that is not okay. The quote I said the other day, “scream if you want, no one can hear you.” Every time it makes me think of Jerry Sandusky’s wife sitting upstairs, as he abused boys in their basement. Those of us who have been abused. It’s the biggest mind fuck, because that was an adult. Who was supposed to protect us. but, they let us down.

We were forced to live their twisted version of the truth. if we screamed then, they shut us down. But, now, as adults, we can scream out and actually be heard. We tell our story. As many times as we fucking have to. And each time we speak the truth of what happened, we take some of the power back.

And so, me telling the same story a million times is me advocating for the child within me whose heart and mind were broken at an early age. Queue the Avett brothers, “I’ll scream til I die or the last of the bad thoughts are finally out.” I’m going to keep screaming. And it might be a rerun, but it doesn’t fucking matter, because it helps me. And it means something to a few of you. I was fake for long enough. And you can’t break cycles living in a fake/plastic world.

Like, out here, I can be the real me. And I have to have space for that. I can’t say I really fit into an Instagram obsessed world. Trying to fit in. or match resumes. Or, really, look good on any level is too much when you already have it settled in your head that you’re not good enough. Any level of rejection whatsoever is scale tipping. And my mental health can’t afford that.

So, I celebrate my shortcomings. I talk out here like a god-damn pirate hooker, because I actually liked talking to people at my old bar and that’s the dialect most commonly used in dive bars. A wise bartender once told me “alcohol is a bit of a truth serum.” And i much prefer a world where it's "i'm fucked up, you're fucked up" so let's just talk this shit out.

Bar life versus church life was “AAAAHHHHHHH” vs thou shalt not. For me, it's living the filtered/keeping up appearances life vs living in the much more comfortable "i am pretty fucking far from ok" life. phony conversations vs whooshes of fresh air heart to hearts. Nobody fucking talks like the King James version of the bible, but everyone has pain they are dying to be able to talk about. 

Oh shit…and see…when I walked into my therapist’s office. There was this big picture of Jesus on the wall. And I muttered to myself “this is not going to go well.”

And therefore, we’re back to the other story I’ve told dozens of times. when i first met with my therapist, I skipped the bible study version of what was going on in my life. The version that zero percent of people would write out in their Christmas card. But, instead I went with the real. and that’s where it got good.

It was something like…I got kicked out of the house. Depressed as all get out. had to move from shitty hotel to shitty hotel. Couldn’t see the kids much. People reached out, but I shut down and wouldn’t respond. I kept the blinds closed and the door locked.

It was dark and cloudy.

But, then, like all good bible stories, I made the life-changing decision to medicate my wounds by spending time at a strip club. And that must have been a sight to see. Super Christian matt. Skipping Wednesday night accountability group at church to spend time with broken-hearted girls who liked money more than themselves.

The crazy thing is, it turned into “AAAAHHHHHHH”. The last prayer I prayed at church was basically, “fuck this. God…come get me if you’re real.” I vividly remember walking out mid service as I prayed that.

And, again, as in all the famous parables, God sent me a stripper to change my life path. So, I met a girl. And in the darkest of my days, when my normal circle was giving me judgment and just a complete lack of appreciation for what it is to be depressed and down-and-out, a stripper smiled at me.

It mattered zero percent that she was paid to smile. It mattered 100 percent that literally anyone would take two seconds to smile at me. I felt un-smile-at-able. But, “gabrielle” and I struck up a weird, life-changing friendship.

So rewind to the jesus-picture therapist office. I tell this story, right? Oh also, she’s like 85 years old. very grandmotherly. Very Christian. But, I am fucking done with going through the motions and acting like I’m okay. So I tell her the story. The hotel room. The darkness. The shutting out of friends. The stripper. The smile.

And then I said the day after I met the stripper, I woke up and opened the blinds. I reached out to the friends that I’d previously shut out. I called Dr Grace to make an appointment.

And in an instant Grace flipped 35+ years of the wrong kind of Christianity, because she stopped me and said, “Matt…it sounds to me like Gabrielle is an angel.” Are you fucking kidding me man? Literal buckets of tears. As I said in the last blog, I was impossible to make cry. I shut down many years ago.

But, grace unlocked the dam that had been waiting to burst my entire fucking life. It felt like “AAAAHHHHHHH” times a whole lot. It wasn’t “well, sinner, you did it this time.” It wasn’t, “I can see why your wife kicked you out. you’re an idiot.”

It was 100% undeserved grace.

And, as I was writing that out…thinking back to how bad my state of mind was, I was thinking how it really is unbelievable that I didn’t need meds of some kind to get me through that stretch. That’s the power of actual grace. When you know you don’t deserve something, but get grace where you’d previously gotten judgment, that’s a pretty fucking dream come true anti-depressant.

so, then…did God actually answer my “fuck this” prayer? Shouldn’t I be fast-tracked to hell for praying that in the first place? Who the fuck knows? But, I think so. The answered prayer part moreso than the highway to hell part. Tears. A miracle for me, no doubt. The stripper is an angel. That’s a pretty fucking golden plot twist.

Many years later, it’s still a tears inducing story for me. Dr grace was actually the one who convinced me I needed to get divorced, which I just assumed, as a good Christian, was not an option. But, look what happened? grace intervened and I’m a giant mess now. It’s great.

No, but really. Who I would have been had I not met strippers and therapists and tried to continue the super Christian family tradition of marriages do not end. I cannot imagine how different things would be for me and the kids. contrary to what I’ve said, I actually do like myself. I can’t get out of my own head a lot of the time, but there was something about Grace loving me to pieces that did allow me to see parts of me that I do adore.

And in the marriage and at that church, I could not have found that. So, the net is I came back to life. Ta da! Grace and lots of therapy and years of writing have helped a ton, but I’m a pretty big train wreck, still. “fucked up, but working on it” is the bumper sticker that I’m shooting for with this life I live.

Insta-gram worthy, I am not. But, meet me in a dive bar where we can drop the bullshit and get to the real. in! It’s funny whenever I get on the tinders or the bumbles, I end up depressedly deleting the apps, because they weren’t necessarily designed for older, ab-free, below average looking men. But, ya know…keep working on loving yourself first, matt. If Disney taught us anything, it’s that a smiling stripper and free therapist are right around the corner.