Humble Ends
Holding a Mirror up to the Puer Auternus
Time to put a bow on this story of the Underground Man. Turns out he has some strengths. Thanks for those who have been reading along. We’ll start The Outlaw this week. I’d love to know what changes you’d like to see going forward? Did this series go too long? Were there parts that you had to force yourself to trudge through, and conversely what were some of your favorite moments?
I’m also working on a video post, a chance to get more personal and hopefully show you more of what goes into making this stuff.
Thank you again! If somebody in your life is acting like they believe they are all alone, send them a link, or even a gift subscription. (This is not intended to substitute for real mental health solutions or medical attention.)
The first time I sat in one of those duct-taped chairs in that faded blue, glorified double-wide with its leaky tin roof and the kind of fluorescent lights that make everyone look like a corpse, I was already telling myself I’d overreacted. I scanned the room, taking in the collage of familiar ruin: the irritable foot-tappers, the chain-smokers who would make dip pouches out of coffee grounds and torn filters, and the weathered faces like canyon walls carved by water and wind. They knew each other in that primal way addicts do—by the depth in each other’s stares and the weight beneath their laughter.
Recovery. I’d seen those coin-rubbing, beaming smiles before, the reformed biker guys parroting their slogans about surrender and serenity. I just rolled my eyes. “Has it really come to this. But I was in pieces. My head was a chopped salad of kratom, coke, Xanax, and whiskey, dressed in self-deception and wishful thinking. Recovery wasn’t an idea anymore; it was the only door still open.
And let me tell you, it wasn’t the Passages Malibu pamphlet I imagined. There were no yoga sunsets, no string quartets swelling as I finally stood straight, eyes glimmering. No, there was just me, an adolescent boy in a middle-aged body, the puer auternus, sitting across from my sponsor, a veteran cop who liked to meditate while rocking in his chair like some bobblehead of Alan Watts with a badge and a gun. He’d close his eyes and nod while I rambled on about my victimhood: the way Natasha never listened, the kids who avoided me, the world that owed me some goddamn recognition for my ardor.
“Stop,” he’d say, with all the calm of a sniper steadying his crosshairs. “Did she start doing that out of nowhere?…or did your selfish behavior have something to do with it?” And I'd stutter, grasping at an empty holster for words I could use to return fire. When I’m embarrassed or ashamed, my ears get hot, itchy, and red. I’m sure this was how I looked as he surgically excised the bullshit like he was removing infected toenails without anesthesia—quick, precise, merciless.
I think it was during those grueling confession sessions, while he sat there taking notes on his phone like some sociopathic stenographer, that I finally started to see the cycle for what it was. I had designed my life to be Sisyphean: Do something spectacular, get praise, screw it up, crash, repeat. The result was a life with a low ceiling, with no room for disappointment. A psychological basement, numb on all sides, protected from pain, but cut off from joy. Now, the stakes were so much higher than ever. The games weren’t playground dares or failed auditions; they were federal crimes, marriages held together with dental floss and empty promises, kids who were learning how to manipulate and lie by watching their father.
I couldn’t escape the truth: I wasn’t the tragic artist I’d painted myself to be, taking fantastical leaps and courting death. I was just a person, terrified of being ordinary, exhausting everyone around me, demanding they meet my every expectation. That revelation landed like an anvil. My sponsor must’ve known because he didn’t say a word. He just sat there, smirking.
The thing about recovery is that it’s so completely mundane. Nobody tells you that. They sell you on the "freedom" and the "new lease on life," but they skip over the part where you’re just scrubbing dishes and changing diapers sober, wondering if serenity means “less miserable” or if you’re just missing something. You stop chasing chaos, and suddenly there’s this vacuum, a silence that feels so alien, it’s like learning how to breathe again. At first, I hated it. I missed the electric hum of problems, the heady rush of big risks. I missed feeling like a legend, even if I was the only one who believed it.
But recovery has a way of grinding you down to something simpler, something cleaner. You start to feel things without needing a pharmacy to tell you how. You sit through an entire day without feeling the urge to crawl out of your skin or run headfirst into concrete. It’s not pretty. It’s not glorious. It’s just life, raw and unfiltered and sometimes so dull it makes you question why you ever thought sobriety was the answer. But it’s real.
I remember Natasha and I standing outside that little blue building one night after a speaker meeting, the crickets chanting that relentless summer hymn. She looked at me, really looked, and for the first time, I saw something that wasn’t pity or disappointment. It was guarded, sure, but there was a flicker of trust there, like she was daring to hope. We didn’t say much on the ride home, the occasional laugh as we listened back to “Green Blueberries,” our honeymoon playlist. It hit me then, that maybe the quiet was worth fighting for.
The old urges didn’t just evaporate. They hung around, whispering about how much fun it would be to crash the car again, to feel some exhilaration. But I started telling them to fuck off. I’d picture my sponsor, rocking in his broken chair with that smirk, and I’d remember the confession that undid me in the back room of that little blue shack. “Keep moving forward,” he’d say, and I would, even when it felt like every step forward was on shaky ground.
Recovery taught me that the drama isn’t what makes life worth living; it’s the spaces in between. It’s picking your kid up from school and seeing their face light up because you had the presence to ask them about their day. It’s Natasha laughing at one of my terrible jokes, that loud, goofy laugh that I thought I’d lost forever. It’s sitting in a room full of broken toys, people who know you’re broken too and clapping for each other anyway, chips held high like tiny, plastic badges of survival.
There’s no final act, no triumphant ending where the hero walks away from the world burning behind him, vindicated by retribution. There’s just the day in front of you, and then the next, and then the next. But now, I take those days with a clarity I never thought I’d have, knowing that I’m still here, still standing, still ready to keep moving forward.