What is a home? I suspect that the answer is different for different people. For me, it’s the house we are selling. I grew up here but didn’t move here until I was 37.

My first night in this house was the most alone I’ve ever felt. I was about to finalize a divorce; I was financially ruined, and I was about to learn how to be a dad. I had 1 week to make the place safe to live in for my 4-year-old daughter and 6-year-old son. We had no plumbing in the house, exposed electrical wires, appliances, furniture, or anything, just my clothes, tools, guitars, and a pit in my stomach.

I had worked 60 to 80 hours a week for most of Ian and Elena’s lives up to this point. And sure, I had changed a few diapers and dried a tear or two but for the most part, I was at work. Not only had I missed a lot, but I also didn’t know how to be a dad. I had never been alone with my kids for longer than an hour and was terrified.

I would like to tell you I did well and took to it like a fish to water but that would be a lie. I was a train wreck of a human. Many, many nights I’d fall asleep crying and telling myself “At least no one died today, and everyone ate” I had no frame of reference for this life.

I was sober when we moved in but that didn’t last long. 4 or 5 months maybe. Something had to give, and my sobriety was the weakest straw.

I did my best to shield my kids from my addictions, but I couldn’t hold it together any longer. If I wasn’t blackout drunk or too high to speak, I mainly just yelled. I would pass out on the couch in the living room most nights and think “Please don’t let my kids find my body, not like this.”

That went on for 1 1/2 years until my last night out which ended in this house too. I left my home in handcuffs covered in someone else’s blood and I have never been lower.

Two days later I came home. My furnace had died while I was in jail, it was -15 in my house. The pipes were broken, and nothing worked, I was back to square one. I laid on the couch and detoxed in the subzero temps and just waited to die. The convulsions would surely kill me or so I hoped but clearly, I’m alive.

I spent most of the next year with my head down and mouth closed. When I wasn’t in court or a meeting, I was remodeling the house and trying to repair my relationship with Ian and Elena. Over the next 6 years, life would take many unexpected turns and this house would see them all. I’ve hosted friends, held meetings, had my heart broken and I’ve laughed until I’ve cried. My mom got to visit me here once and I was sober and got to make Thanksgiving dinner for her. It was on my stove in my house, and I bought all of it. It’s nothing fancy but I feel like a king compared to where I started in this life.

I got married, right here in this house. My wife has helped turn this house into a home. We’ve had two more children, and this is the only home they’ve ever known. It’s the longest Ian and Elena have ever lived anywhere, it’s the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere, it’s our home. 

It’s served us well, but it’s time to move on. This place wasn’t big enough for 3 when we started and today, we are 6 strong.

Saying goodbye has been a very hard thing for me to do. I never thought a guy like me would have anything to call his own.

It’s only fair I post this here; I started this blog under the name “Now What” as an outlet for my divorce. I’ve deleted most of those writings, there were some things, some thoughts that no one should ever see. It’s taken me 8 years to learn the answer to that question, now what? Now we move on, we put one foot in front of the other and we just keep moving, that’s all there is. I’ve never seen any turn that my life has taken in advance, not far enough in advance to make a difference at least. Life just happens. It only happens however, if I’m alive and involved; so now we move on.

Unpopular opinion, but it’s one I’m adamant about. Children are not the priority in a family, your spouse/partner is.

Don’t misunderstand me, it’s a photo-finish race most days, and those lines are blurred as they should be.

I have four children, two from a previous marriage and two younger ones from my current marriage. I’m not going to dissect my previous marriage; it’s been over for a long time. We are friends and honestly, I couldn’t do this life without her help sometimes. But what I am going to say is that I’ve learned a few things from my failures. That’s the issue of a society where everyone wins, there’s immense value in failure, in being broken and realizing you were wrong.

I’ve learned that I wasn’t the best parent to my older kids when they were little, I had a short fuse, I was in a bad mood, and frequently drunk. And I was usually gone. I never abused them, but I taught them to leave me alone and I’m not sure I’ll ever live long enough to overcome that. They still love me, but there’s a gap there and I created it.

I’ve also learned that I wasn’t half the husband I thought I was. See all the above and add on things like an inability to see where I was at fault, being cold and distant when “my needs”, as I saw them, were not met. As a result of thinking “it’s all about me” I was rarely my wife’s advocate, but frequently her accuser.

Fast forward 8 years and now I’m perfect no, wait that’s not right either. But I’m trying today, and I hope I’m doing better.

Having a 13- and 11-year-old and a 2 1/2 year and 5-month-old has brought the past into focus for me. But more than that, it made me appreciate how short this ride is.

What happens when the kids are grown? God willing as the saying goes, I hope I’m still alive. But I hope for more than that, I hope I’m still married to this wife. Not because she’s perfect, spoiler alert, she’s not. But I’ve clearly stated I’m not either so I’m not throwing any stones here. But we are perfect when we choose each other. We are perfect when one of us is down and the other one just steps in without being asked. This life is challenging sometimes, to say the least. But it’s a good ride with the right company.

Being married has almost nothing to do with being blissfully happy. But it has a lot to do with what you do when you’re not.

This life is better than I deserved. I’m not sure any of us deserve anything, really; we just have at it. It’s the “having at it” that I actively avoided for a long time.

I don’t talk about it often, and I’m not sure why I would, but my life has had more than its fair share of ups and downs. I never expected I’d have much, and I never really wanted much anyway—just enough to not worry, and for no one in my home to go to bed hungry unless they wanted to. But honestly, I never thought I’d have that either: a home. I never thought I’d have kids. I never thought I’d live past twenty-five.

In some ways, I did die at twenty-five. I died on January 6, 2004, the moment I found out Stacy died. I woke up for just a moment on June 1, 2010, walking out of the hospital after Ian was born, and I freaked out when I realized what year it was. I didn’t handle that realization well; I disappeared back into my head for almost another eight years. Then, I woke up walking out of a jail cell on February 18, 2018, and this time, there was no going back under.

I now have four amazing children, a happy home, and a wonderful wife. We have our moments, but we laugh more than we cry, and I think that’s as good as it gets. We’re not getting ahead, but we are not falling behind. I have a job that’s better than I ever hoped for; I’m not even sure I’m qualified for it, but they seem to like me. I have a host of friends—we don’t talk or see each other as often as I might like, but they are there, and so am I when we can be. I’ve taken the longest possible route to get where I’m at, but I don’t know how else a guy like me could have done it.

I wanted to die for so long it just seemed like the norm; I didn’t know there was another way to live. I no longer want to die, but I know now that I’ve done the best I can to clean up my side of the street for when I do someday. I know I’ve finally lived; I’ve finally found some peace in this world.

I’ve had some health scares over the last couple of years, but most days I go to the gym, and I try. I have this constant thought: “This might kill me, but at least I’ll die trying to get better.” They told me that gratitude is an action, and I’m so grateful I get to try today.

I spent some time one summer with my aunt when I was around thirteen. I don’t remember exactly how long I was there; I just know I was there long enough that it felt like home, and I never wanted to leave.

I didn’t eat very often as a kid, and I don’t think anyone really paid attention to that. When I lived with my dad, he didn’t cook, though he’d take me out when he had the money. We usually had some groceries, but never much. When I lived with my mother, there was no food in the house at all. She refused to cook, telling me stories about how she would never be oppressed by a man again or told what to do. While I can appreciate her perspective now as an adult, at the time, I was just hungry. My sister and grandmother would cook, to be fair, but I wasn’t around them often. I just kind of slid through the cracks; no one was watching.

My aunt’s house was different. It was clean, it smelled good, and it was decorated. I had never been in a home that was “decorated” before—there was never any “extra” for things like that. She cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for me every day, or we went somewhere together. She taught me how to cook—or at least the basic ideas.

I don’t know if she remembers any of this, but we made stew together. We just talked and laughed while we did it. We would go on bike rides in the evening; it was the best summer I ever had as a kid.

I love to cook now. I spend most of my days planning various meals for my kids and my family. It’s important to me, and I’m grateful for the ability to do it. It has taken a long time and a lot of work to not just be angry about the things that happened when I was a kid—and honestly, not eating was a minor thing in the grand scheme. But I’m not angry anymore; I haven’t been for a long time. The upside to that peace is that I can look back now and see the good memories. This one is my favorite.

Some days I feel the weight of living several lifetimes inside of one, and today is one of those days. If we consider childhood its own lifetime—and I do—an argument could be made for several, really; but one will suffice, and that was Iteration 1. Then there was you, Iteration 1.1, and there was symmetry on every level. I died with you on January 6, 2004—only no one told my body.

When I sobered up on February 16, 2018, I had a bit of a breakdown while walking out of a jail, broken and barefoot on a cold winter night. It wasn’t the cold; it wasn’t the pain of detoxing from the alcohol and opioids; it wasn’t the fact that I was looking at real prison time; and it wasn’t for any reason any sane person would ever struggle with. I broke down because, for the first time since that cold January morning in Englewood, I realized it wasn’t 2004.

I lived that moment over and over for fourteen years in my head and never told anyone. I would frequently forget where I was because, in my mind, I was always in Colorado, no matter where I was or what was going on. I had a break because I had lost fourteen years, and it all hit me at once. I had remarried, started and closed a business, taken over a large division of a Fortune 300 company, had two wonderful kids, divorced, and fallen far, far from the grace I had once known. And I did it all while still tangled up in you—I missed the whole ride.

I didn’t know how to let you go. It turns out that letting you go was never required; you’ll always be a part of me, even in Iteration 1.4.

When I was in rehab for the fourth time, I met a man I was willing to talk to. I told him the whole story. I had not been honest with or spoken to anyone in fourteen years, and that was the beginning of my freedom.

Rumi said, “The beauty you see in me is a reflection of you,” and I see your reflection everywhere. I no longer believe that we ever die; we’re just transformed. I have a beautiful life today, and there is nothing incompatible about happiness and sorrow. I can love deeply because I have loved and been loved deeply, and lost, and I’m still here. Knowing that life carries on has removed some of my fears. I know it does because I still see you in the crowds; I see you everywhere.

Giving yourself to someone, heart and soul, is not a thing to do lightly. In the process, part of you becomes that person. The fallout feels like an amputation: something is missing, but you’re not sure what. It may sound like I’m saying it’s not worth it, but nothing could be further from the truth. There can be no sorrow without happiness, and there can be neither without risk. I wouldn’t change a thing.

It is 3:37 am, and all is calm in my world. I am overcome by a feeling of peace in this moment—a moment I have needed for some time now. It is silent; everyone in the car is asleep except me, and that is okay. I take some pride in being able to provide a safe, quiet space, not only for myself but also for the ones I love.

​I look to my right and I see the woman I love. Her work shift starts in eighteen minutes, and I know she is exhausted. In this moment, however, she appears at perfect peace—asleep and not in pain. I want to give her more; I want to beg her to stay at home until she finds a better job, but I suspect she will go in anyway, so I say nothing.

​These are my “lottery dreams”: financial independence for the ones I love. I have no real desires of my own other than to take care of my own. I am not sure when that paradigm changed; however, it is much more peaceful than wishing for things for myself that I will never obtain. I wonder what she is dreaming. It is never as simple as it appears on the surface—”girl pretty, fire good.” I am not a Neanderthal, and I suspect few really are; I suspect the Neanderthals may have been given a bad rap as well. Still, I am driven by those instinctual desires to protect, to provide, to build a fire, and to raise a family. So, I look at her in this moment and I know—I know there is nothing I would not do for her to make her life better.

​A dystopian daydream has crept into my night, and my night has become day. As the sleepless hours strip away the bonds of reality, I can see the fabric of society begin to unravel. Peeling away like the skin of an apple in the hands of a chef with a sharp blade, that skin is my security, and it falls to the floor.

​Exposed and bare now, I oxidize and begin to change. In whose hands do I place myself now? Left alone, I’ll brown, wither, and rot. But maybe this peeling away is how I’m transformed.

​Optimism and cynicism: my eternal companions, my two wolves, forever at war. Which wolf will I feed?

I’m far from perfect; however, I’ve never claimed otherwise. I get lonely, I feel rejected, and I struggle with my self-image. I have waves of self-doubt and self-pity. These things are less than attractive, but such is the human condition, and we all have our moments.

​What’s different today is that I get up and I try, even when I do not want to. Maybe it looks that way to people, maybe it doesn’t—trying looks different on everyone. I’ve struggled with depression and thoughts of suicide since I was ten years old. I’m no longer on any medication and haven’t been for two years now. I’ve spent most of my life seeing counselors and therapists and being on medication. I have rarely given any of them or the medications a fair shot, but sometimes I have.

​The truth is, I’m actually better today—better unmedicated than I’ve ever been. But I still struggle. I really think everyone hates me sometimes. Sometimes I really hate me. Some days I avoid sharp objects; some days I can’t bring myself to shower or change clothes. For several years, I could barely go into public, much less a store alone. Most days, I’m okay to do all these things now. I’ve just never stopped trying, even when it felt like I was walking through quicksand. Even when I was terrified I would burst into tears if someone looked at me. Even when I felt like my heart was splitting in two because I just wanted human touch and was too scared to ask.

​When someone says I make things look easy or that I appear put together and calm, it kind of breaks my heart. I feel like I’ve let them down. The things that have helped me most the past couple of years have honestly been seeing other people openly struggle—or openly with me, at least. There is solace in numbers: seeing them struggle and actively apply the same principles they have taught me to get through.

​I’m tired of holding back. I’m tired of saying I’m okay when I’m not. I’m tired of being afraid of letting people see me. And I’m scared to death of people seeing me. I don’t know how much more loss I can take. That’s the fear. What if you see me and leave?

​What if fear wasn’t a factor?

I can hear the water moving below. It must be moving fast for me to hear the rapids from this distance. The sound of the wind blowing through the ponderosa pines dominates the area. The gray sandstone outcropping I’m sitting on has been windblown smooth, clean of the small loose rocks common in the area—a perfect place to sit and take in the view. My feet dangle over the edge; I’m fixated on the rushing water below. I can barely see it; however, it peeks out between the trees and curves of the canyon. The distinctive white torrent of rapids in a shallow mountain stream—it must be a 1,000-foot drop, but it’s peaceful.

​I’ve always been at home in the mountains, sure-footed and safe, like it’s where I was meant to be. I can hear my dad faintly telling me, “Be careful on that ledge, boy.” I’m far too happy on the edge to care, and I ignore his concern. This is where I’m at home: staring into the void, knowing it’s either get it right or never get another try. There’s freedom in that thin line; there is power there, and it’s where I’ve always been happiest. I must have been twelve when this happened. This was the last time I lived in North Idaho. My mind wanders to this memory frequently, and I’m not sure why.

​It’s dawn on a Midwest winter day. The sky is its familiar gray that reminds you of seasonal depression commercials. I look to the east; it’s something I do every time I’m above the tree line early in the morning. I’m fascinated with the pink hue that litters the gray sky. Sunrise is the only chance to see the sun here sometimes, and I’m always grateful to be up early enough to see it. As the sun makes its way above the horizon, for a moment, it paints the sky a brighter shade of pale. I turn back to the west, and the reminder of where I am hits me; the prevailing winds bite my skin. Why do people live in a place where the wind hurts—where the wind hurts and there are no mountains?

​This is a thought that plagues me all winter. Then the peace of where I am settles in. I’m on my mountaintop; I can see above the trees, a view of the Midwest that most never see. There is serenity here; there is absolute peace in the silence. This is not my normal view. Normally I’m on a tower. The edge, the horizon, the empty space below me is all in my field of view, always. This is a rooftop, however—only 90 feet—but it’s on a ridge and the view of the valley is amazing. I’m drawn to the edge; it’s a ritual with me that’s never lost its appeal. I need to walk to the very edge; I need to look over the side and stare into the void, the empty space between me and the ground, and center myself.

​But today is different. Today I can’t go. I’m frozen in place, paralyzed with fear of what happens if I look down. I know that if I look down today, today I’m going to jump.

​Then I wake up.

​It was just a dream, but the fear was real. The resolve, however—the resolve once I’m awake to follow through—is very real. That sense of power has returned, standing on the edge. The thought of “knowing it’s either get it right or never get another try”—there’s power there, there’s a needed sense of control, and I realize this is what I’m lacking.

​My life has seemed largely out of my hands for so long now; I’ve often referred to myself as a passive observer in my own existence. I’ve made decisions and taken actions and have clearly played a role; however, the role has always felt powerless. A lack of power is still my dilemma.

​Faintly in the back of my mind, I hear another voice, a voice saying the same thing as my dad: “Be careful on that ledge, boy.” Only it’s not my dad, and his words are different. He’s telling me that “the thought of suicide is the thought that my life as I now know it has to end.” He’s telling me to be careful on that ledge—that the feeling of control, that feeling of knowing that I hold the power of life and death, is an illusion. He’s telling me that physical death is not the answer, but the need for an emotional death, a spiritual death, is.

​And I know he’s right.