It would be ironic if it weren’t so damn tragic.

My ex-wife and I were both pretty horrible when we got into a fight... She hit first, but I don’t think that really matters considering I hit back. Things got very hairy towards the end and I was eventually hospitalized after having a breakdown brought on by alcohol abuse and PTSD. She could somehow shrug off what we did to each-other, like she had a greater tolerance for violence or something. For a long time I just thought she was fucking crazy. Crazier than me that is. Later I accepted she was sick. Then I admitted we both were. Now... well, things feel a little inside out.

I explained what had been going on between my ex and I to a therapist the hospital assigned and she handed me a book called “Stop walking on egg shells.” After reading it I was entirely confident she had BPD (even more so now after everything I’ve learnt). The therapist went on to describe it as a “dustbin diagnosis” and painted a pretty grim picture when discussing her chances of recovery. I used to tell people I spent my time in ward 9 carefully planning my escape from the surreal nightmare our relationship had become, but the truth is, after what I’d heard &amp; read about BPD, I fucking ran has hard and fast as I could without giving it too much thought.

I sold my PlayStation to pay for the divorce which took under a month to finalize and turned out to be the most civil part of our entire five year relationship... 

Go figure.

Successfully shrugging all responsibility for the failed marriage by painting a picture in my head of a promising young man breaking free from the clutches of a mentally deranged monster hellbent on ruining his life was pretty easy. The vodka and meth fueled decent towards rock bottom which followed wasn’t. It took me a long time to get there and by all accounts I should be dead or in jail. 

After drifting in and out of rehab for two years I was eventually institutionalized and correctly diagnosed as being borderline towards the end of 2017. 

I have been sober for a few months now and I can’t say I miss the euphoria of firing up a lolly as much as I am the resulting chaos. Without knowing it constantly trying to stave off some personal or professional disaster, recovering from yet another horror inducing hangover or just simply focusing on slowing down my breathing to try and avoid fucking OD’ing in my aunts tub were all wonderfully effective distractions...

Having set all those aside (for the time being anyway) my obsession with self has lifted long enough to see what I’ve done to those who love me. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own unrelenting unhappiness I’ve never taken the time to consider anyone else’s... Hence thirty three and single. Hence unemployed. Hence living with parents. Hence on reddit at 01:00 AM writing a post I’m convinced will be the beginnings of my best selling autobiography...

To be fair it’s not the craziest idea I’ve had this week: Up until this morning I was on track to start a business pickling Jalapeños in our backyard, but realized I couldn’t let that distract me from qualifying as a foreign language teacher so I can move to a different continent to be with my Tanzanian girlfriend, which feels like a much more grounded endeavor...

“Not-your-average-Joe’s-Jalapeños...” 

That’s what I would have called it... Fuck it, let’s make it the title of the book too... Might as well. 

In AA they talk about the gifts of recovery, but so far the only thing I seem to be unwrapping is yours truly and as I tear through the layers I just seem to get stranger and stranger...

Not-your-average-Joe’s-Jalapeños...

Not average at all it turns out.



