October 20th, 2025 - Intimacy
Dear TNY,
Another week where I didn’t die and we do not have “Intimacy” to thank for that.
To be honest, I tried really hard with this one. I gritted my teeth and focused my vision and deathgripped the laptop and tried to stay engaged. But it turns out it’s a bullshit story about bullshit writers and writing. I abandoned my venture into these words quite early. Couldn’t stand it. Self-centered work. Just nothing here.
That’s it. Nothing more to say.
This week I hit the sads again. The big sads. Deep, looming creatures in the darkness that haunt the shadows and cause the floor joists to groan behind you while they stalk you. A few weeks back I wrote a letter to you that had a non-exhaustive list of things that are contributing to the sads. And as the “nonexhaustive” part denotes, there’s more to say. But I’m not sure how much more I can say.
Really, it’s that I fucking can’t quit her, man. She will not prioritize me or my needs. She does not compromise. She does not see that the issue is her coping mechanism nor does she see that the people around her are enabling the problem and not willing to pursue the path of real care with or for her. She will not treat me as an equal, rather as just another extra in the made for TV movie that is her life, her being the only main character around.
And I can’t quit her. I have no reason to be sad given the nature of that relationship. Yet I am consumed by love for her. And the compulsion to help her. All the fucking signs of the universe said, “Here’s your match, bud.” To the both of us. She chooses to defy the universe. I do not. I have 10,000 reasons to not engage with her or that relationship. It’s probably been the most detrimental relationship to my mental health of all the ones I have been in. But it’s the one. The fucking universe has spoken. I’m in. But I can’t do it until she sees. Because she’ll just keep chopping me up and throwing me out like I don’t matter. Untenable.
This week I got a double dose of the reminder that I do have value, though. As the lesbian boatbuilder would put it: Angel work.
The first was a 24 year old quirky, slightly touched, wonderfully energetic and excited young woman who I exchanged numbers with at the pinball museum because she had van questions. She invited me to play pinball a couple of times. I was confused because I didn’t understand if they were dates or not. I know now they were not dates. I’m way okay with that. My heart belongs elsewhere anyway. Don’t need to damage anyone else. The second time we played pinball, we ended up talking for 2 ½ hours about her mental health, the status of her relationships, her perceptions of the world. She was so convinced she was broken. Because she was sad. Had dark thoughts. Felt like everyone was doing really well and she was not. I let her talk it out. Felt around in her words and looked for key themes, moments of insight. And I presented it back to her using her own example of perspective shift. She used to be a manhater, her words. And then she worked in the fishing industry up in AK and found that while some men were and are as toxic as we have all been led to believe, she saw that most weren’t. That they were beautiful, kind, helpful, thoughtful, and lovely. And she felt bad for all the shittalking she did in those early years. She had stated that she watched the beautiful men cower at other women’s words, and she said she understood how they were growing such animosity in them, being accused of being the worst thing when they were so far from it. She saw that two wrongs don’t make a right. So, her perspective changed. So when she told me that something was wrong with her brain, that it was messed up and she needed help, I asked what kind of help and what she thought was wrong with her messy brain. But she couldn’t articulate. I told her maybe she just needed a change in perspective. She had these very young perceptions of the world around her, what people thought, what people are supposed to think. And I explained to her, firstly, that we would all be surprised by how little most people think of us. They are preoccupied with their own shit (unless it’s me and the lady). And secondly, I explained that dark thoughts are normal. Sadness is normal. Struggling is normal. We talked about learning to accept those pieces as part of the holistic you instead of medicating them or trying to excise them, that that is the way to make peace with it all. God fighting a monster, every day. We both cried a lot.
A couple of days later in the middle of the night, she wrote me a long text saying that that conversation changed her life. That she was beginning to see now the work wasn’t going out there and finding out how broken you were, and what type of broken it is or was, rather it’s just to say, I’m okay, I’m doing my best, a good life is mostly failures because that means I’m trying and I get back up and keep trying. She told her two moms about me. She said she felt a weight lifted. That she really, when looking back on it, had always felt okay with it. The world is just telling us all right now the wrong things. And she was assessing herself by those things, not assessing for the sake of her own unique beauty. As a human. With a big, goofy smile, a dusting of carmel-colored freckles, and a laugh that involves the whole body, complete with a swinging arm and a little dance like nobody’s watching. She also was convinced that she didn’t know how to be in a relationship before that conversation. And now she feels like she is excited at what the future holds for her in that arena. And guys, I’m telling you she’s going to make a special lady out there feel so loved and so beautiful.
The second incident of angel work occurred on a date. She’s a middle school teacher, white, late thirties, who grew up poor in the south and chooses to work at poor schools. None of her students are affluent whites. They are all underprivileged black kids. We sat and watched videos on her phone that her students leave for her as surprises. They love her so much. She cried. This teacher, she said I made her feel seen. Heard. And I made her feel okay about similar things as the pinball girl. That I floated into her life to help her make decisions, one of which is to go for it and fall in love again, because none of us know how long we have in this life, so we can’t know how many opportunities we will get to fall in love (she reached out to her on and off again fella told him this and I so hope it works out and she gets those kids she’s after). So why skip one? Because you are afraid of getting hurt? What would your deathbed self say to you if it knew you were playing it safe and would end up alone? We talked about death as well. And the Collective Unconscious. And storytelling. On the second date, on the way out of my apartment to go to hers, I saw a discarded bouquet of flowers on the ground. She had mentioned that her ex never gave her flowers. So I scooped them up and brought them to her. When I opened the door to her apartment she ran over to look down the stairs and she saw me with the bags of groceries and the bouquet and she just started crying. I explained they were trash flowers and she did not care (she actually typed a beautiful poem up about them). The next morning she said I did more to make her feel cared for in 24 hours than her ex had in four years. Later, after I left, she asked to read a story of mine as she is a teacher of literature. And as soon as she finished it she sent me the following:
You’ve done so much and have so much left to do. I know it’s exhausting but I hope you take comfort knowing that this pain is your burden because you can handle it and channel goodness for so many others in need. You are a radiant light. Perfectly broken to help others.
Guys, is this the job? Because it’s fucking hard. I just had to explain to the bartender that the reason it’s taking me over an hour to drink one beer is because eating makes me feel sick unless I’m high. I’ve ravaged my body. Both physically and chemically. My brain won’t stop torturing me. Fuck, tomorrow I get on a plane and fly across the country to go help again. I can’t seem to get away from it. But I’m so fucking exhausted. I honestly don’t know how I’ll make it through all of this. At night, I slow sip beers, eat a weed candy, stuff all of my food-eating into one session, and I watch shows like The Bear and I cry because there’s so much beauty in this world. In us. But I see people turning inward, giving less, taking more.
This spring I was having a conversation with the lady about what we think this life is for. She thought it was about having as many rich experiences as possible. To live optimally. Do all the good things. I was thinking about that the last couple of days. I think we are here, as stated, to save each other’s lives. To give and give and give again. There is no experience of taking that felt anywhere close to as good as giving, to me. And the giving will matter to the deathbed self.
So maybe this is the job. Angel work. Radiant light. To keep eating the pain and trying to help people. To be the daywalker, half in and half out of this life, to ferry the warm, blue glow from the canyon of the Collective Unconscious back to you, whatever bits I can, so you feel less alone in this world.
I’m not sure. It’s something to do anyway. Until I can no longer do it.
Oh, last thing. I got so down I asked the therapist for a session. To see if rehab was an option. And it is. And I asked if he would recommend it for me. And you know what he said? No. Unequivocally. His point, which was my fear, is that I live in a sea of nos, none of which will disappear after I exit 45 days without drinking. My alcoholism isn’t addiction for addiction’s sake. Most people’s addictions aren’t. They are a means for coping with other things in life. He felt my time would be better spent on the long slow road of getting back into finances, learning to let go, being more patient, and finding more yesses.
I agree.
Well, here we go. Another adventure starts tomorrow. I’ll see you next week.
Nick
Oh, I got so down I tried to reconcile shit with my mother. I asked her to watch The Bear. She said she wasn’t going to pay for that. I said, it’s just your relationship with your kids, no big deal right? And she said watching a show isn’t the same as having me in her life. So, there you go, I opened the door and she threw a shit through it. So I shut it again.
