The Half-Life of Healing

Phone rings. Of course it does. I already know it’s not good news. Every time I start to feel halfway normal, life just lines up another punch to the gut.

Since December, it’s been one loss after another. Two friends are gone. My dad. My dog had a stroke. Every one of them took a chunk out of me, and I’ve been limping along ever since, trying to patch the holes with sugar, buying shit I don’t need, working out, working more. Nothing sticks. Every fix is temporary. Every high just dumps me right back into the same pit.

My wife keeps trying to put me back together, but honestly, I’m just a busted vase with the cracks showing. Still standing, but one wrong move and I’m in pieces again.

I’m medicated. I’m breathing. Supposedly that means I’m better. Meanwhile, life’s running a marathon and I’m still stuck at the starting line, trying to tie my shoes.

I pay off one bill, and then something else explodes in my face. Never ends.

I finally get some momentum at the gym, then one shitty week and it’s all wiped out.

I throw myself into writing—scripts, blogs, stories, whatever—and it’s like screaming into the void. Maybe three or five people toss a like my way, and I’m supposed to feel grateful for that echo. But honestly, it just reminds me how much I want someone to actually hear me.

Truth is, I’m fucking exhausted.

Not just tired in my body. It’s like my soul’s worn out.

Every loss just piles on top of the last one. Every screw-up adds to the heap. Some days it feels like I’m dragging around ten years of emotional debt. Sometimes all I can do is close my eyes, breathe in, breathe out, and hope that buys me a second before the next wave hits.

But I’m still here. Still showing up. Still trying, even if it feels pointless half the time.

Maybe the real miracle isn’t that I’m healing. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t quit. What keeps you going? Even if I never catch up, at least I’ll go out swinging.