I’m moving warehouse. I hate it. I’m meant to hate it, moving is hard. It will be better when things are done, but it’s hard to imagine. Time will pass I reassure myself. In a couple of months this will all be a distant memory. I wake up and have to work. I am paying people to help me, but they need to be managed. I am paying $300 a day for a forklift hire so I have one at each warehouse while we move. The quicker we move the quicker I can send it back. I am haemorrhaging money, I can afford it. I will be more profitable in the new location, but it hurts. I spend my days packing up all my stock and old displays that have been there for over 7 years, it’s a mess, it feels like it will never end.
I am moving my living premises – I live in my warehouse. The new one will be so much better. I will have a proper bedroom and living room. I am only living in this one by default. I never intended to live here. Out of economic desperation 7 years ago I looked at the small tea room and thought I could convert this to a bedroom and minimise expenses. Now I spend weekends with my two young daughters in this tiny room, having to walk through the dirty warehouse to use the toilet and wash from bucket. Despite how much better things “should” be I hate moving, packing up all my shit, memories of the past, feelings supressed. I’m a mess.
I’m moving my business from my exes to my new warehouse. We separated years ago, but she continued to run one of my businesses. It felt practical, but was also dysfunctional. She took care of my business and in return I paid the mortgage and some of the living expenses. I didn’t realise how much my value as a man was derived from my “supporting” her and the kids. This feels like a divorce (if we were ever married). It’s like I am having an organ removed. I want the future. I don’t want to have any business or financial connections to my ex. Taking the office furniture out of what was my office for so long, removing my stock from the shed in her front yard – what used to be my front yard, the one we bought together. I should be happy for the future, things will be better, but I am overwhelmed with grief.
It’s time for my son to leave the hospital. He has been there a year. His prognosis was good. He was told he may even make a full recovery. I watched him deteriorate. I watched him take his last steps and heard him say his last words. I promised him he would get better. Then a few months later I said sorry he only got worse. I said goodbye to the son I knew and welcomed a new angel into this world. The move to his mums should be good, but change is scary as he leaves the security of the institution.
I finish work and go to the beach to vape my sativa and walk along the healing ocean. I put my headphones in and listen to my house music as I hit the vape. The colours brighten ever so slightly and the base deepens an octave. I walk away the stress of my day. Then the panic comes. I’m lost, this is horrible, things will never get better. My heart quickens, my chest constricts. I will never enjoy anything ever again, this is my life, I just have to deal with it now.
What the fuck’s going on? Maybe it’s the weed. No, the weed is my friend. Am I having a panic attack? Centre yourself in the moment. I look at my feet, I’m walking. I look at the ocean, it’s beautiful. There are no threats here, you are in no physical discomfort, all your needs are met. Everything is ok right in this moment. My breathing calms. I look at the ocean, it really is beautiful. The sea breeze on my forehead soothes me.
I just had an emotional flashback. I was almost 4, my father died, my dog died, mum had a new baby, and then we moved house. All this happened within a couple months. They explained to me what death was. I thought I understood, but I just wasn’t quite sure how long he was going to be away for. They said forever. That sounded like a long time, I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long. We had lived on a farm with horses. I would watch the horses from the lounge room window. Now we lived in the suburbs, I thought I should be excited by the pool. I was an only child with two parents. Now I had a baby sitter I hated.
Could this feeling of terror and hopelessness I experienced now at 44 years old, walking along the beach that I loved, smoking my favourite strain of sativa, be the same I experienced around my 4th birthday? Could that feeling have lasted over 3 years until I got sick from Kawasaki and became delirious for 2 weeks? The tears flow. I look at my hands. I am a 44 year old man. I have education, resources, and experience. I don’t have to go through that for another 3 years. I am the parent that I didn’t have back then. Poor little Nicky, so confused, so afraid, so without hope.
Maybe I don’t believe in God, but there is a power in my life that directed me to the youtube videos by Richard Grannon and then book: CPTSD – From Surving to Thriving. I watched and read these only last month. I don’t know how I would have navigated that had I not been directed to educate myself prior. There is love, there is hope.
Red Pill Recovery 