PixlBit

At one time in my life, my gaming collection took up a rather large portion of my bedroom wall. I had the mediocrities, the "products of their time (i.e. Combat, Battle Arena Toshinden, Zero Tolerance, etc.), the unplayable horrors of the digital age (2600 Pac Man, snes Pit Fighter, Cosmic Carnage, Deadly Towers), the misunderstood masterpieces, and the certified classics. I was unhappy with my life, and that shelf filled me with minutes of the artificial sweetener that I thought that I needed.

I was an awful, self-absorbed husband and an impatient stepfather. I did many things right, but those examples became my comforter to blanket me from all of the things that I had done terribly wrong. "Well, I may have fucked up, but I DID take Trent to a concert in Chicago and I took Jenny on a date last Friday." For seven years, I was a man who let his invisible rut rot him from the inside out. I knew that they deserved better, but I couldn't muster up the courage to give it to them.

After seven years of marriage, in October of 2012, she had finally had enough. We separated, and I had to move back in with my parents until the divorce was finalized. For two months, I made a handful of half-assed attempts to explain myself in the loose hope of getting her back; needless to say, my bullshit efforts did nothing to sway her. I started drinking heavily, isolating myself from the outside world. At thirty-four, I was suddenly sixteen again. 

Then something amazing happened: I started taking note of the world around me.

My parents asked me if I wanted to visit my brother and nieces in South Padre Island, Texas. I had never been, and I thought that a change of scenario could perhaps have a placebo effect, so I excitedly accepted the invitation. As it turned out, my brother's wife had presented him with divorce papers on December 22nd. She left him and my two nieces to live in Dallas. We spent the evening of December 27th bouncing from bar-to-shithole bar, mutually reflecting on our lives. We talked about the lost loves of our lives, the beautiful naïveté that salvaged us in our youth, friends who had passed, friends who disappeared from our lives, and the fear of facing a future without our parents. For the first time in three months, I didn't feel alone. 

During my visit, I sat on a bent plank of a picnic table that overlooked the ocean. I watched my nieces, free from the shackles of hindsight, kicking up bursts of salt water on the shore. Their laughter cut into me, but it also filled me with a sense of relief. If life can be okay for them, then there was certainly a good life for me.....somewhere.

My parents stayed in Texas for the winter to help Zak with the girls as he adjusted to being a single parent. On the plane ride home, I wrote my final goodbye to Jen. I thanked her for having a warm heart, possessing the patience to put up with me for as long as she did. I promised her that I learned a few valuable lessons about myself, and that I would be better to the people in my life. I wished her the happiness that she sought, and certainly deserved. As soon as I got home, I mailed the letter off. I was out of excuses, and I was well-aware of their lack of value.

I spent the remainder of the winter working on myself. I volunteered at food pantries, where I helped people with real struggles. I made amends with old friends, apologized to people who I had wronged, and said "yes" more often than I ever had before. I also traveled, made friends in new cities and states. I visited Graceland, listened to amazing music on Beale Street, saw Paul McCartney on a whim. I took a torch to my sadness, and warmed myself by the fire.

In April, I remembered that I wanted to live in Seattle, once upon a time. The only problem was that I had no money, save for the $175 in my checking account. Enough for the three tanks of gaa that would lead me to my stone bed under a bridge, a state or two away from the great Pacific Northwest. I would need thousands of dollars to make it. 

The answer was tucked away in several labeled boxes. My hobby, my obsession. I spent three days convincing myself that I had no further use for them. So, I starated putting a dollar value on everything. I sold my Nintendo DS collection (108 games strong) fIrst, to the tune of $625. I made a short list of what I wanted to keep, and what could go. I had a copy of Final Fantasy 6, a game that I couldn't get rid of, on the GBA, as well as on the virtual console, so I parted ways with my mint copy of Final Fantasy III on snes. I spent a small fortune on boxes, packing supplies, tape, shipping, eBay charges, etc. After an entire summer of being a regular patron at the post office, and clearing space in the basement, I had over $3,000 to my name. I put in my notice at work, accepted a one-time monetary gift from my parents, and reserved a moving truck. I had goodbye drinks with old friends, late night talks with my mom, and conversations with my two stepsons where I was able to apologize for my actions. 

My divorce was finalized on September 12th of 2013, the day before I left. We walked out of the courthouse laughing; the hard feelings felt buried, and we shared a moment of brevity where we talked of good future and a wealth of possibilities. Finally, we hugged, wished each other the best, and said our goodbyes. All that remained were the memories. We let go of the rest.

Throughout the 2,100 mile journey, I would occasionally smile when looking back on 32 years of life amongst the cornfields, the choking heat of July, and the picturesque frost of January. A happy childhood, filled to the brim with a wealth of life-long friendships, a caring family, and more love than I ever deserved. What would the next thirty-two years bring? Would I prosper, or would I crash and burn, succumbing to the foolishness of a teenage dream? The crossroads, bi ways, overpasses, country roads, and open fields belonged to me, as well my interpretation of them. I suddenly felt like my nieces, splashing in the cold winter waters of Texas. This moment and the next. What happened before suddenly didn't matter. There was a freedom that was reassuring. The art of letting go.