Felt Messy, Might Delete Later

November 11, 2025

In my 20s, I didn't think the fun would ever end. I thought I'd be one of those old-person ravers who never stops.

But now that I'm in my mid-30s... Oof. I dunno. I don't feel old, but I do feel tired. It's hard to tell if it's because I'm done, or if it's because I'm just not in the right headspace to enjoy things like that right now.

The past several years have been wild, and I don't think I've processed them in full yet. (In general, I'm bad at processing my feelings. They just go in a pile and eventually become facts from which I can more easily distance myself.)

You'd think that the pandemic would factor into that. I'm sure it did in some way that I haven't realized yet. But overall, COVID felt like more of a net positive for me. I kept my job and fulfilled my long-held dream of working from home full-time. My partner's industry (building trades) suffered, but our rent was so cheap that it didn't matter. We got married in late 2019, so it was sort of nice to spend a lot of time together like that.

Then 2021 rolled around. My mom died in December of that year. In the years prior, she had been in the process of getting on the donor list for a double lung transplant. She was a lifelong smoker as well as a professional welder who worked unmasked for more than a decade, and she was at the end of the road with COPD. She eventually chose not to move forward with the transplant process.

In the end she lived with my older brother and her husband, my stepfather. Both died in 2023. My brother died of fentanyl overdose in my old bedroom.

My stepfather, I think, died of the crushing loneliness of being such a shitty and selfish person that everyone abandons you. I felt bad for him in a way, but we did not have a real relationship for the entire 25+ years that I knew him. I never loved or even liked him.

His existence continued to haunt me from beyond the grave. For reasons I won't get into, I was the sole person in charge of selling the house all three of these people died in. I was lucky to have my partner and younger brother to help.

For the next six months, we worked on clearing a decade's worth of dusty detritus from the house. It was an ordeal; none of the people involved live anywhere near the house. Many weekends and many miles went toward clearing it out, fixing it up, and getting it sold.

During this time, I was continuously badgered by my stepfather's youngest son, who was among those who stood to gain from the sale of the house. But it was a weird sort of badgering. He'd do it through my sister, never contacting me directly. I think this is because he was deeply uncomfortable talking to me.

Which he had every reason to be, given that I made no secret of my disdain for him. He is a sexual predator, and seven-year-old me was one of his victims. Having to deal with him, after all of these years, filled me with anger and disgust. But it also gave me the opportunity to finally confront him.

He did end up getting the money, and immediately complaining about the amount. That stopped when I sent him a final message detailing exactly what I think of him, and exactly why he was lucky to receive anything at all. It was satisfying, and I wish I'd done it sooner. I don't know why I was trying to spare anyone's feelings in holding that hurt so close.

Still. Dealing with this piece of human garbage caused me more stress than anything else between 2020 and now. I got shingles in 2024, and I believe that was the result of this stress.

And I think I am still reeling over this series of events (which, obviously, stretches back much further than the 2020s). I mean, I must be. While I've talked the situation to death with my partner, this is the first time I've ever written it down. (Yes, I know. GeT tHeRaPy. Shh.)

I'm not really sure why I'm choosing to share this on my silly little Neocities website. Back to my first point, I guess this is me explaining why I'm too tired to go to concerts that start at midnight right now, lmfao.

But I'm also thinking about a couple weeks ago when I asked how to decide what to share on the internet. Reflecting on it more, I am not that worried about the consequences of anonymously sharing personal details about my life. I mean, who cares? I've said nothing here that I'd be ashamed of IRL people knowing.

The problem is (and has always been) the fact that personal writing is super hard for me. Sitting down to articulate this stuff is not exactly torture. I mean, I like having done it. But it's exponentially more difficult than sharing, like, my stupid playground memories from 1998.

But I don't want it to be that hard, in no small part because one of my goals is to write a longer, more personal essay about my mom. So here's this little warmup exercise. Quick, somebody archive it cuz I might delete it later.