A few years back, I was in desperate need of getting my life back on track, simplifying, and cleaning out the unnecessary remaining cobwebs of the mind that still existed from a shitty lengthy divorce. I did not really have a clue on future direction; take the path less traveled or the conformist path cluttered with the billboards of mankind. Is it worth getting up in the morning to fight society … or sleep in and let the world win? Basically, I was a complete and udder mess badly needing some focus and direction if I was to ever exit the cave I’d crawled into.
The ex-wife had taken me to the cleaners financially and emotionally, there was not much of a man left, just a skeletal shell of a person trying to survive the challenges day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute, and well you get the idea. I was the most jaded fucked up version of myself ever. So many unanswered questions of existence, forget the meaning of life, I was just hoping to get through the fucking day.
I slowly tried to pull myself up by the bootstraps, dust my sorry ass off and get busy living or die trying. I needed a plan, kind of a disaster recovery plan like the project I was working on in the office only altered for my personal existence. Step one of the strategy I decided on was to read some motivational and self-help books. I figured I was too gun shy to seek professional therapy, so self-preservation was the logical first step.
Where to start … fuck it I’ll try the library.
However, the real therapy began by returning to writing.