Craigslist Confessional: A Collection of Secrets From Anonymous Strangers by Helena Dea Bala

Author:Helena Dea Bala [Bala, Helena Dea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Literary Collections, Interviews, Family & Relationships, Marriage & Long-Term Relationships
ISBN: 9781982114985
Google: -oG2DwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2020-07-07T23:19:44.352953+00:00

Damon, fifties

Once, a very long time ago, I had a good job, a loving family, and a white picket fence. I started my own business, worked hard, and collected the toys that the wealthy have—a boat, a mansion, a few Harleys. I worried about the things you probably worry about—the stress of work every Monday morning, the bills that kept piling up, and the fact that the more we had, the more it didn’t quite seem like enough.

Then, following the financial crisis in 2007–2008, I lost my business, my family, and my home. I lost everything.

You know what they say: when it rains, it pours. The same week that our business went under, my wife’s younger sister, Sarah, was killed in a tragic car accident. She was dating a naval cadet who was set to graduate the next day. They were on their way back from the ball before graduation when he lost control of the car and crashed. Sarah died in the wreck. He was able to get to the highway to flag down help, but he was struck and killed instantly. I was depressed, and we needed money and a car; I was looking for a job, any job, to pay off our bills and debt. I worked anything I could get my hands on—lawn care, mechanic, pawnshop—and drove a dead woman’s car around all day.

After months of trying to dig myself out of a financial hole, I gave up and started making some very bad decisions. For one, I started sleeping with my landlord. She was married, and her husband was a cop. But she was attractive, and she made herself very available, so it was easy to make irrational choices. The first time, she asked me to help her move some things into her beach house. She came on to me—she was very aggressive—and I didn’t resist. She wanted to leave the window open so that people could watch us. I let her do whatever she wanted. She was exciting and made me feel alive, and for those few hours that we were together, I wasn’t focusing on my problems. After fourteen years of sobriety, she got me drinking again. We started going to bars every night. Twice, I rode the Harley to Key West and, another time, to Bourbon Street in New Orleans—drunk and high. My wife found out eventually, of course, and she left me.

I don’t blame her. Things got really hard for us, and I wasn’t a partner to her. I didn’t deal with it well. We needed a steady hand at the helm, and I was out cavorting. I thought it was situational depression, but the doctors diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, too, and put me on medication. I was very active and social during this time, but I also felt dulled, lethargic, and sleepy. What they say is right: on the medication, the lows don’t feel so low, but the highs don’t feel quite as high, either. It was like draining

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