I Guess Journaling Does Help

October 6, 2022

Hi. My couple’s therapist said I should start journaling to “process my feelings.” What a riot that is. What am I, five? No, I’m a 40 year old man that has been “processing my feelings” my whole life. But that’s besides the point. Really, the only reason I’m even writing in this damn thing is because my wife threatened to divorce me if I don’t. What an ultimatum! “Write nonsense into a journal and then I won’t take the kids and leave.” So fucking dumb. But here I am. Not that she’s been a joy to be around lately, but I also don’t want to go through a divorce either. 

Why am I even writing anything? It’s not like she’ll know. I’m in our office and just need to make it look like I’m writing. She promised not to read it anyways, so that’s enough for today. I’m just going to drink my beer and write nonsense to fill the page in case she glances at it. So that’s what I’ll do. The cat in the hat sat on a mat and had a chat with a rat. Sweet Caroline! Bum bum bum! Words to fill a page. The page the words they fill. This beer is good. I’ll grab another after this. 

Looks long enough to me. ’Til next time! Not. 

-Craig 

October 9, 2022

My wife got on my ass again to write in this stupid journal. She was pissed that I didn’t do it yesterday or the day before and screamed at me to do it today. I thought I’d be off the hook since it’s the weekend. I gave her a piece of my mind and told her how stupid it is that I should have to write in a journal or else we would get a divorce. She said that wasn’t the point, that she wants the man that I used to be back and that I need to take therapy seriously. I told her that therapists are whack jobs and the husband is always wrong and that this was bullshit. We argued for a bit. I think you can guess who won that though since I’m even writing this. (If you need a hint, it wasn’t me).

I think I’ll take some time to myself this time. She’s still fuming mad and I brought a six pack of beers into the office this time, so I’ll take my time. Take a couple swigs, write a couple words, really stretch this thing out. Too bad there’s no TV in here since the game is on. I’d rather miss part of the game though then deal with her! Note to self: get a TV for the office in case this happens again! a TV would realy help these times. I don;t want 2 wryte in this stoopid fckin jernal.

“Til nex tim

-Criag 

October 10, 2022

I guess I deserve an award because I’ve written in this thing for two days in a row. Good for me! Wow! I did it! 

Our therapist said that I need to give myself positive reinforcement when I make “constructive change.” I’m surprised I even heard that over my protest of being at the session during Monday Night Football. On top of that, my wife said I needed to journal, even though we just got back from our session. She said I was absentminded at the session and that it was like talking to a brick wall. Maybe if she didn’t schedule sessions during my hobbies I’d be a little more present! Monday’s are for drinking beer and watching football. She doesn’t respect that or me. I don’t say shit when she goes to pilates every Wednesday, or when she goes to book club every other week. I don’t mess with her hobbies so why does she mess with mine? She knows when football is! 

I’m going to keep this one brief so I can deservedly get drunk and watch football. 

I hope there’s not a next time. 

-Craig

October 11, 2022

My stupid wife caught me drinking while I was writing my last journal entry, so now she literally pats me down before I go into the office. I’d hide a couple somewhere in here, but she gets home from work before I do so I have not time. Why does a grown man have to live with so many damn rules? I swear I would be happier without her. I don’t even know why I care if she leaves or not. And the kids? They’re spoiled rotten and still hate me too. Little brats. At least there’s no football tonight that they’re all ruining. How’s that for practicing positivity Dr. Asshole? (That’s the therapist. His name is Dr. Bayli and he’s a prick. Always takes my wife’s side.) 

He’s always telling me that I need to do this and do that. That I should stop drinking and hang out with the family more. That I should stop watching football every Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Thursday and plan a family activity with my kids. That I should start helping out around the house more. All of this is just echoing what my wife is saying during our sessions. I’M ALREADY HEARING IT FROM HER, WHY SHOULD I BE PAYING TO LISTEN TO IT FROM HIM TOO?!?!?! But that’s what I’ve heard therapy is like. They always blame the guy and never the wife. The same goes for divorce. The wife always gets the kids, and the house, and the alimony. What does the guy get? He gets told to change everything he enjoys just so that he doesn’t loose everything he’s worked so hard to get in life. 

He treats my wife like she’s done no wrong either. She complains a lot, he never tells her to change that. She yells at me instead of just talking to me, he never tells her to change that. She leaves her towels on the ground and I have to pick them up and put them in the hamper so she doesn’t miss them when she does laundry, but he never tells her to change that. 

Maybe if she changed then I would. Until then, what you see is what you get. I work hard and I deserve a good life. 

-Craig 

October 12, 20022 

I figure out a loopehole and my wife doens’t even know it. If I go to the bar befor I come home, then I can drink all I wan. Stuupid bitch! I won! Alls I gotta do is act good wehn I got home and than I say, “Oh hi hunny. I’m gunna jurnal!” So there I am. 

I se two pages so I’m just gonna sit her until that bich cals me 4 dinner. 

-Crag

Octaber 15, 2021

She left. 

December 25, 2022

I thnk I knead halp. aLOan on Krismass. 

-Cr

April 9, 2023

I just got back from rehab. Well, I got back a week ago, but I forgot about this journal until I I found it in a box that I was unpacking in my new apartment. Reading it back made me sob uncontrollably. I was awful, completely unhinged, and so angry and inconsiderate. But I won’t dwell on it. I’m better now, or at least on the road. 

After driving extremely drunk on New Year’s Eve last year (I’m amazed I even made it home that night), I woke up on New Year’s Day hungover as ever. I’d gotten used to this state. The headache, the dry mouth, the disorientation and wondering why I’m waking up on the bathroom floor. I got up and looked in the mirror. The man that looked back, I had never seen before. The dark circles under the eyes, the unkempt hair and beard, the 20 extra pounds since Sue left me; I was finally disgusted and ready for a change. I had lost everything, the cliched “man at the end of his rope.” But, like the others that had come before me, it was everything I needed to seek treatment.

I walked into a rehab facility the next day. Of course, it was a busy time of the year, so it really wasn’t the picture perfect walk-in-to-a-glowing-doctor’s-arms-waiting-by-the-door-to-help kind of situation, it was more of a wait-here-for-3-hours-and-question-why-you’re-doing-this-the-whole-time kind of situation. That was my first test passed, however. I persevered and stayed, despite the many walk-outs I witnessed, and they found me the room that I would call home for the next ninety days. A drab room; green walls, stark white, springy bed. I should have hated it, should have ran away the minute that I saw it, but the pictures of Sue and my daughters in my head made that an impossible scenario. I did this to myself, it was time to repent. 

To give some context, Sue walked out on me on October thirteenth last year. I know the exact date thanks to this pathetic, sad, depressing, anger inducing, journal. I had been so angry that Sue called me out on my drinking at home that I thought I could sneak it past her by going to the bar before going home. Yeah, I “fooled” her for one night. The next night, she met me by the door with the girls and their suitcases and told me they would be staying in a hotel for the next couple nights, and expected me to find a place I could stay long-term because her and the girls would be coming back to the house, and expected it sans me. I guess I wasn’t as clever as I thought. We aren’t divorced, thankfully. Her brother, our middleman messenger, told me that she was about to serve me with the paperwork, but didn’t when she found out I was in rehab. That glimpse of hope is what got me through.

Rehab wasn’t all that bad. While the shakes made me want to crawl out of my skin the first few days, once I was settled in, I was actually able to face my demons. I worked with a fantastic therapist, Dr. Carlson, who helped me realize the severity of my anxiety. I remember being very anxious in my twenties, often times feeling like I was living in a body that wasn’t made for me, my mind racing, playing out scenes of death and destruction all around me. That wasn’t going on of course! I was just working a nine-to-five and coming home to the the typical suburban home life. I had it made, but my mind couldn’t comprehend that. That’s why I turned to the bottle. Wild Turkey 101, Jim Beam, and my favorite, IPAs; the “medicine” I chose over seeking professional help. It started with a few drinks every weeknight. As the tolerance grew, so did the quantity. A fifth used to last a month. By the end, that was my warm up for the night! Anything to stop those horrible thoughts my brain was making up to fool my fight-or-flight response into action. 

Anyways, I won’t bore you, the wide-eyed reader, that I’m sure will only be me in the future, with the details of rehab. It was about what you’d expect. Group time, therapy, bad food, and thoughts turning happier, safer. Dr. Carlson was amazing to work with and I really owe him everything. He helped me replace those terrible thoughts with ones of joy and abundance. He made me self-reflect on the negative things I thought of myself, replacing those thoughts with thoughts of confidence and pride, with a happy family and a wonderful life. He made me, ironically, realize the importance of journaling, how it can help you organize your thoughts and emotions, and how it isn’t just scribbling random nothings just to appease your wife (I enthusiastically vow to journal daily as I’ve found it helpful in rehab. I had a different journal there, but switching back to this one just seems symbolic). He made me realize that my drinking problem wasn’t without cause, though it certainly wasn’t the right answer. Many people with my mental ailments turn to something to help. I just happened to choose sweet, sweet Jim Beam. I’ll forever miss the burning sting in my throat and the oaky aftertaste. I will NOT miss the baggage that came from it.

I haven’t let Sue know that I’m out yet. When I think of her, I think of her with a man that cooks, and cleans. A man that comes home and gives all his attention to her and the kids. A man that goes to her pilates class with her and reads the same books for book club. A man that loves her for all of her triumphs and flaws, makes her laugh when she has a terrible day, and builds her up every step of the way. A man that I am becoming. I just need the finished product to be perfect. She deserves it. I’ll get assimilated to every day life again and then I will reach out. I’m scared as hell, but wish me luck. 

Until next time, my friend. 

-Craig