Functional, not fine(Part 3)

When Things Got Quiet

For more than twenty years after my divorce, I was playing catch-up financially. I worked two full-time jobs just to make ends meet. Did I squeeze every dollar until it screamed? No. I wanted to enjoy life a little. I didn’t take big vacations. I didn’t buy expensive items. I gave my family what I could and kept moving forward.

Working that much did one thing very well — it kept me busy.

Being busy meant I didn’t have much time to think. I didn’t dwell on the fact that my kids were growing more distant from me. I didn’t dwell on the fact that I wasn’t the husband I should have been. I didn’t dwell on the fact that I wasn’t the stepdad my step-kids needed either. In fact, when I was home, I often made things worse. I focused more on what the kids were doing wrong than on being a steady father figure. I failed to provide stability when they needed it most.

For a long time, work kept all of that pushed down.

The real shift came when I went from two jobs down to one. At the time, I was working 24 hours on and 24 hours off — and I did that for several years, not counting track days and occasional overtime. Eventually, I gave up the overtime too. That’s when the quiet started.

With more free time came more thinking.

Thoughts I had buried for years slowly worked their way back in. Regrets. Guilt. Loss. Things I had avoided by staying exhausted finally demanded attention. Around the same time, I started applying for additional VA disability benefits. I had no idea you could file for more after your initial rating. None.

That realization hit me hard.

For years, I had struggled with issues directly tied to my military service — financially, physically, mentally — and I had no idea help was available. I couldn’t stop thinking about how different the last twenty-five years could have been. That weight knocked me flat.

I fell into a deep depression.

I lost interest in things I used to love. I stopped fishing altogether. I’d cover the boat back up instead of cleaning it and taking it out. I went on trips that should have been once-in-a-lifetime experiences and felt almost nothing. Other trips that should have had me over the moon felt average at best.

Old calls started creeping back into my thoughts — the bad ones. The sadness from my divorce resurfaced. The pain of watching my kids grow up away from me came back with force. My anger got worse. My patience got thinner. I was miserable, and it became easier to show it. I could see the concern in my wife's face, and that hurt even more. 

I stopped wanting to go out. Even simple things like dinner felt like too much.

At this point, I’m on my third different psychiatric medication. I’ve been working through mental health therapy, and I’m starting another PTSD-focused treatment as well. I’ve been writing my blog more, trying to get what’s in my head out on paper. Sometimes it helps. Other times, it just highlights the same thought that keeps circling back: I am broken.

I know I have a problem. I know I need help. I know I need to talk about what’s going on. I don’t have answers yet, and I’m not pretending this is fixed.

But I’m not ignoring it anymore.

I didn’t fall apart — I finally stopped outrunning myself.


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