The End of 2022

A Year of Strife, Struggle, Success

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The End of 2022

Well, folks, here we are. The end of the year. Scary, isn’t it? This has been a rather strange year for all of us, and a very tough one for me personally. (And yet also filled with joy.)

In June, 2021, I left New York City thinking I’d be spending the summer in California between my parents in Santa Barbara (they’d left nearby Ojai after several decades), my sister in Westlake, and my former Bay Area residence. But less than a month after I landed in LAX my father was diagnosed with stage 4 metastatic Melanoma. I ended up leaving Manhattan and staying in Santa Barbara to care for him along with my mother.

The second half of 2021 was incredibly stressful in connection with my father—filled with hospitals, visits to the ER, the nasty effects of Myasthenia Gravis (Google it), physical rehab, etc. For the first three months I lived with my folks, which I hadn’t done in twenty years. It was necessary, good and very hard psychologically for me. My mom and I are close but we clash. Dad needed a lot of care. Yet I was profoundly grateful to be able to be there for him/them.

By the time the metaphorical smoke cleared it was 2022. I’d been so focused on the immediate tasks at hand that I hadn’t realized six months had passed in a blur. By February dad’s MG symptoms (inability to swallow; bad eyesight; slurred speech) had improved. The MG had begun in October, 2021. In January I’d gone solo backpacking in Romero Canyon, east of Summerland (just south of Santa Barbara). I hadn’t backpacked in several years, which was rare, due to living in NYC/Covid/no car/Dad. It felt good. Rejuvenating. Being in nature has always been a source of spiritual relief, ever since my father took me for the first time when I was a kid in the early nineties.

But soon after Dad started to get better—early spring, 2022—I got worse. Not physically but emotionally. I realize now I’d been in such a fight-or-flight adrenaline mode caring for my father that I hadn’t truly processed much of what’d happened. I’d left my dream location. Living in Manhattan had been a romantic dream since my teens. In spring of 2019—a year after a very hard breakup—I’d finally done it; I’d left the Bay Area for the city that never sleeps. To be a writer in Manhattan: That was my goal. But a year later the pandemic hit. Lockdowns ravaged the social experiment of New York City. Then in early summer of 21 my dad was diagnosed. So I came back—unexpectedly—to California, this time to Santa Barbara, a beautiful town, for sure, but a town I did not know and had no friends in.

In addition, largely due to Covid, but also to my personal circumstances, I hadn’t been with a woman in two years. The desperation and loneliness cannot be described. I remember wanting not just sex (that, yes) but to simply run my palms along a woman’s smooth skin. I craved it like water after a day of not drinking.

With the combination of all these things, and at last able to comprehend what had happened, I slipped into a deep, dark depression. Clinical depression runs in my family. I’ve never felt truly suicidal but I’ve had ideations. This time was different. I actually thought vividly about ending my life. I even went so far as to begin making plans. I wondered: Who do I know that can get me a gun?

Yet I held on. The weeks and months passed. I read voraciously; that was about all I did. No money was coming in. I was broke. Book editing had dried up. I didn’t have the mental strength to look for other more conventional jobs. I laid on my couch. I slept. I read. I spun around and around and around in my head. Life seemed borderline meaningless; pointless; absurd. I read Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus to try to understand life/death more deeply, and to philosophically comprehend the conceptual underpinnings of suicide.

The worst thing I did: Online dating. Three apps. Four. Five. Seven at my worst. First dates: exhausting. No chemistry. Stilted conversation. Narcissists. Women with deep trust issues. Broken women. Women who hated men. You name it. Many were great people but we just didn’t connect.

Finally I got a therapist. I picked the first one on my insurance list in-network. A specialist in CBT—cognitive behavioral therapy. I told her everything. She was kind, patient, practical. She gave me real life advice and criticism, contrary to every therapist I’ve ever had, who usually asked me ‘how I felt’ and nodded a lot.

Slowly, over the months, I started to improve. I’m sober 12 years but hadn’t been going to meetings. I changed that. I started going outside more often. Hiking again. (Trails are nearby.) I took walks along the ocean. I joined a freelance editing site and got some work. My therapist suggested I try walking dogs and join the Rover app. I did—surprising myself—and not only loved it but started getting work right away. One by one I deleted online dating apps. I kept two but started caring about them less and less. I was busy again. I felt more or less content. The scary thoughts had dissipated. I was plugged into the AA online community. Writing had become regular again. Loneliness was still present but it affected me much less. I saw my parents several times a week and walked their dogs.

Meanwhile around June or July , 2022, my father started to regress again. Coughing. Fatigue. No MG symptoms; he’d vastly improved there. But something wasn’t right.

In late August I went on what I assumed would be a typical date. It turned out to be a life-changer. We met at a Mexican restaurant in the early evening. My first thought when I saw her was, Wow; she’s beautiful. I was so used to women not looking like their photos, or being five years older than their profile claimed, or 40 pounds heavier. (Yes, I know women deal with the same issues on their end, with men.) For three hours we stared right into each other’s eyes. The conversation never once grew slow or awkward or silent. Neither of us touched our food. The place was closing by the time we stood up. Our waitress had left, shifting the bill to a different server. That night became the catalyst for our relationship. We’re in love and it’s glorious; it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. There have been many women in the past. Many loves. But not like this. She’s it. I mean, IT. I feel understood by her. Loved. Felt. Seen. Heard. The relationship isn’t flawless, but what relationship is?

We’ve been together a little over four months now. My father’s cancer is growing (slowly, thankfully) in his lung. They found a new tumor in his brain again (he already had one removed from his cerebellum last year). We’re at the point of “clinical trials,” because he’s now too high risk for surgery removal and most doctors fear the return of MG. Yet one doctor is going to see us. Thank God. My father is doing much better all things considered: The MG is 85% improved. He’s not in any physical pain, which is a humungous blessing. And we’re meeting with an expert who specializes in Melanoma.

I am turning 40 in two days, on New Year’s Eve. It’s both magical and insane. As a young wild teenage punker, no one, least of all myself, thought I’d make it to 21. My behavior was out of control, and that’s putting it mildly. High-risk doesn’t describe it. Death-wish gets a lot closer. Yet I made it to 27, when I hit bottom and got sober. I passed my 30th birthday. At 35 my ex left me with a broken heart and a lot of debt. The globe shut down in 2020. I was nearly 3,000 miles from anyone I knew. Through the bleating background noise of our polarized political turmoil; through all the craziness of depression and loneliness so deep I didn’t know you could crawl that low; through all of it. I made it. I’m here. Forty. Some of you no doubt think that’s young. But trust me, for the lifestyle I led once; given the genetics I carry: It’s something of a small miracle.

With retrospect, wisdom, insight, experience: I’m grateful for all of it. Every single bit of the journey. Because it all made me stronger; it all made me who I am today. Nothing occurs in vain. Everything happens for a reason, if not literally then figuratively; spiritually. I’ve found that letting go is crucial. When I stopped trying to control every aspect of my life, I stumbled into freedom. I found love. I accepted responsibility. I basked in great joy. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is easy. Not for me. I’m intense. Needy. Wounded.

And yet: I have everything I need.

Happy New Year. May 2023 be a new adventure for us all! May we learn to accept things just as they are. Easy to say. Hard to do. Yet life experience has taught me: It’s worth it.