Why Did I stop writing?

Why did I stop writing on my blog? Why so long between writing? Did I think that since I wasn’t fighting cancer my story wasn’t relevant anymore?

The short answer is yes. I’m a 48-year-old man who, through many reasons and decisions, moved in with my parents. Was I a failure, running home, back to mom and dad?  

At first I felt like that, and with that there’s the built in self-doubt and shame of not being able to survive on my own. I survived the Marines, I survived cancer, and now I was living at home.  

Those are all things that, when I first packed up and left California and moved back to Chicago,  ran through my head that I had to process.

Moving back home was the smartest, healthiest thing I could have done. My physical and mental health is the best it has been in years, maybe even decades. It’s hard to believe that for 2 decades I fought that demon, but when fighting demons you get beat up and scarred pretty badly. Many of those scars aren’t visible. I have the insides of a 90-year-old. With everything that I went through, you could say I have a form of PTSD, or mental quirks that are similar. I joke about it, and have always joked about it, that I’ve been resuscitated so many times, 47 to be exact. Now let me clarify something: this isn’t times my heart has stopped. This is the number of times it’s taken an outside source, either CPR or defibrillation—aka the paddles, someone yelling “clear,” then getting 200 joules pumped through me—to get my heart to beat again, and in a good rhythm.  

All of this adds up and has caused long-term damage, both physically and mentally, but all of it is hidden from the public eye. I mean, looking at me and talking to me on a normal day you wouldn’t/can’t really tell the differences unless you know what to look for.  

It took me a bit to come to terms with the reality that I can’t live alone. Over all the years of living with roommates, it just didn’t work out with my health issues. How can you really expect someone to truly help take care of you? This isn’t a dig on all of my past roommates, just some of them.

I digress though. When in that head space of self-pity and wallowing it felt like I would be doing nothing but moping and complaining, and who really wants to listen to that shit? Getting healthier and in a better headspace and surrounding myself with people who are positive instead of negative were the first steps to admitting to myself that I am not a failure at life.

So the long and the short of it all is I’m healthier, both physically and mentally—mostly mentally, lol—so now I’m sharing again. Welcome back to the ride. May this one not be as much of a roller coaster as we have had.

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Now In Remission
In remission for 1197 days.
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