The Art Of Falling Apart

How To Loose Everything Before Breakfast

March 16th. Day One.

Or you could call it Day Zero—it really depends on how you want to look at it. I am counting from when the disaster happened, so I think of yesterday as Day Negative-One, which is the day that everything just stopped. Today is the day after that. It is the day of what comes after the disaster, the first day of whatever is going to happen now.

I am writing this from a hotel room that costs more per night than the hotel room is worth to me. The hotel room is not a *nice* hotel room. The hotel room is the kind of hotel room where the carpet in the hotel room has a lot of memories, and the shower in the hotel room makes a sound like a whale that is dying. The hotel room was the first place I found when I drove away from my house last night, and at this point, I am not being picky about the hotel room. I am really thankful that they had a room available. They did not ask me a lot of questions about why I was checking in so late at night with a suitcase full of socks that do not match and a dead look in my eyes. The hotel staff just gave me the key. I went to my room. I had a suitcase of mismatched socks with me. The hotel had a vacancy. That is all that mattered to me at that time.

The room has a painting above the bed. The painting is of a sailboat. I have been staring at the painting of the sailboat for an hour, trying to decide if the painting of the sailboat is the ugliest thing I have ever seen or just really honest.

The artist who made the painting of the sailboat clearly had no idea how to paint water, so they just did not paint any water. The sailboat is floating on nothing at all.

The sailboat is suspended in a beige, empty space, going nowhere forever. I feel like I am a lot like the sailboat in the painting.

I did not sleep. That is not entirely true. I slept for forty-five minutes, lying on top of the scratchy comforter, still wearing my clothes from yesterday. Then I woke up with a cramp in my neck. I felt really confused, like my brain had forgotten where the sailboat and I were, and it was upset about it. I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the sailboat. I remembered the sailboat and where I was.

Oh. Right. My life is over.

I was lying there. I could not sleep again. The sleep just did not come to me. I was wide awake, thinking about sleep. I really wanted to sleep, but sleep was not happening for me.

So I am sitting here with my notebook, because this is what I do now. I write things down. I do not know why I am doing this. I do not know who I am writing this for. Maybe I am writing for myself. Maybe I am writing for someone who will find this notebook after I am gone. They will read it and think that I had a really bad day. Maybe I am writing for no one at all. Maybe it does not matter who I am writing for. I am just writing in my notebook.

I really need to get through today. Then I have to do the same thing tomorrow. The day after tomorrow is not going to be any different. The math is really getting to me—it is so exhausting.

I am really bad at starting things and ending things too. The part in the middle is what I am good at. The middle is a safe place to be. When you are in the middle, you know where you are. You have gotten used to things by then. Your daily routine is set. You are not at the beginning anymore, which can be really scary, and you are not yet at the end, which is also scary because you do not know what is going to happen. When you are in the middle of things, you are just living your life. Doing your thing. The middle of things is where life feels normal and easy, like you are just going through the motions of your life, and that is a pretty good feeling—being in the middle of life, being in the middle of things.

I was right in the middle of things. I had a wife that I loved, a job that paid the bills, a house that was my home, and a routine that I followed every day. My life was pretty simple. I had a coffee mug that I used every morning. I even had a parking spot at work that I liked to park in. Every week I would go to the Thai place down the street because they knew me there. I had a life that was mine. It was not perfect. But it was a life that I knew and understood. The Thai place, my job, my house, my wife. Everything was familiar to me.

Now I am back at the start. The beginning is not a place for me to be. I really do not like it. The beginning is very tough for me.

Beginnings are supposed to be exciting. People always say that. It sounds nice. You hear things like "every ending is a new beginning." "When one door closes, another opens." "The only way forward is through." These are just things people say when they do not know what else to say. Beginnings are not always exciting. These sayings are not helpful. They are words that sound good together, but they do not really mean anything. Beginnings can be scary and hard. Saying something like "every ending is a new beginning" does not make it any easier. It is something people say to sound wise, but it is really just empty talk.

The truth is, beginnings are really scary. Beginnings are like empty spaces where something was before. Beginnings are questions that do not have answers. You are standing at the edge of a cliff with no map and no rope. You have no idea if there is water at the bottom or just hard rocks when you look at beginnings. Beginnings are like that.

The thing about cliffs is that you cannot stay there forever. You have to do something about cliffs. Cliffs are not a place where you can just stand. Eventually you have to jump off the cliffs or climb down the cliffs or turn around and walk away from the cliffs. But turning around is not something you can do when there is nothing behind you, no other option than the cliffs.

So I am going to jump. Jumping it is. I will do some jumping.

Or falling. Same difference, really.

---

I talked to my mother this morning. I say "my mother." It is not that simple. She is the woman who had me. She always makes sure I know that. For thirty-eight years she has been reminding me of this in different ways. My mother is not a simple person. She is a lot to handle. My mother is the kind of person who sends me things to read about how bad gluten is—she thinks I will actually read them. My mother does things like this all the time. There are people who always ask when you are going to have children at every holiday dinner. They ask this even after you have told them multiple times that you and your wife are not sure if you want children. These people love you. But it feels like they are squeezing you too tight, like a big snake wrapped around you. They are like family members who give you a hug that is too strong—it is the kind of love that feels like being squeezed by a boa constrictor.

I told her about the divorce. I did not want to tell her. I knew she would find out sooner or later, and I would rather she heard it from me than from her friends who talk about everything. The divorce was something I wanted her to hear from me directly. Her friends are really good at spreading news—better than the people who work at the CIA, who are supposed to be very good at finding things out and keeping secrets.

She said, "Oh, honey." Then she stopped talking for a moment. After that she said, "I never liked her anyway." She really meant what she said.

My mother says a lot of things that are not true. She really liked my wife. She always said that my wife was very practical, that she was levelheaded, and that she was good for me. Now that my wife and I are getting a divorce, my mother is saying that my wife was never good enough for me. My mother has a way of changing what really happened so that it fits what she wants to say. This is something that my mother does all the time, and it is very tiring. My mother's ability to change the past to fit what she is saying now is something that bothers me a lot. My mother and her way of rewriting history is exhausting.

"I thought you said she was the girl for me," I said.

"I said she was practical. I did not say she was the person for you. She is practical. That is what I meant. I was talking about her being practical, not whether or not she is right for you."

"Those are the same thing."

"No, they're not. Practical is for jobs. Right is for life."

I do not have the energy to argue. I never have the energy to argue with my mother. Arguing with my mother is like trying to wrestle fog. When you try to wrestle fog, you just end up feeling tired and damp.

She asked me about my father, which I found interesting. This is because they got divorced twenty years ago, and she usually acts like my father does not exist. I said that my father is doing okay. He is getting better. He is being tough to deal with. My father is the same as he alwayss.

She said he was always stubborn. This was something she liked to talk about. She liked to criticize her ex-husband. She liked it more than things she did for fun.

"Yeah."

"Are you okay, honey?"

I have a question that should be easy to answer. This is a question I should be able to figure out. But the words get stuck in my throat. I do not know what to say. I do not know if I am doing all right. I do not know what it means to be all right. Am I breathing? Yes, I am. Am I thinking? Yes, I am. Can I make sentences? I am not so sure about that.

I said that I am fine.

That is what people always say. That is what they want to hear. They have a way of talking to you. Nobody really cares if you are doing okay or not. They just want you to tell them that you are fine so they can feel happy about asking you how you are doing. They want to hear that everything is okay so they can stop worrying about you. Feel good about themselves for asking how you are doing with your life.

"Good," she said. "You will get through this. The thing is, you are strong. Getting through this is what you will do because you are strong."

People always say things like that. They say "You are strong." What does that really mean? I do not think I am strong. I am a person who had my relationship end. I lost my job. I almost lost my father all on the same day. The relationship breakup, the job loss, and the thing with my father all happened at the same time. I am not strong. I am just still here. Is that what people mean by strength? Is it just that I do not have any other choice?

After I got off the phone with my mother, I lay on the bed. Looked at the sailboat again. I thought about my wife—my ex-wife—and what we talked about last night. The conversation with my ex-wife was still on my mind. My ex-wife told me she had known something for months, maybe years. She said she was waiting for the right time to tell me. But my ex-wife realized there was never a right time, so she just chose a moment to tell me anyway.

She said that she believes we have been finished for a long time. She also said that she thinks we both understand that the relationship is over. She thinks that we have been over for a while.

I am not sure if I knew that. Did I really know that thing? I do not think I knew that for sure. The thing is, I just do not remember knowing that.

I do not think I did. I think I thought we were fine. Not great, maybe. But fine. We had a routine that worked for us. We had a system that we followed. We had dinner together most nights. We watched the same shows, and occasionally we had s*x on the weekends when we were not too tired. That is what marriage is, right? That is what marriage is. It is not like there are fireworks every day. Marriage is a partnership between two people. It is about companionship. It is two people who share a life together. Marriage is about sharing things with the person you are married to, like the marriage we had.

But apparently, that wasn't enough. Apparently, "fine" isn't the same as "good," and "not terrible" isn't the same as "happy."

I did not see it. Or maybe I saw the situation and I pretended not to see the situation. Maybe I was so busy being comfortable that I did not notice she was not comfortable.

I am to blame for this. I know that. I do not think she is the villain and I am the one who was hurt. I think I missed something. The whole thing was something. The whole thing was right in front of me. I did not see the whole thing because I was not paying attention to the whole thing.

Now I am here, in a hotel room with this ugly sailboat, trying to figure out what comes next. The hotel room is not so bad. That sailboat is really ugly. I have to think about what I will do.

---

I want to tell you what I know:

I'm thirty-eight years old.

I do not have a job. This is a tough spot for me to be in. My life is pretty stressful now because I am not working. I wish I had a job.

I do not have a wife.

I do not have a home, technically. I have a suitcase and a credit card and a few nights' worth of hotel points from the hotel. The hotel points will help me stay in a hotel for a few nights. I am using my credit card to pay for things. My suitcase has some of my stuff in it. I have no home, just my suitcase and my credit card and my hotel points from the hotel.

I have a father who is recovering from a heart attack and a mother who thinks gluten is a conspiracy made up by the government. My father is going through a tough time after the heart attack. My mother has a strange idea about gluten. She really believes that gluten is a government conspiracy. This is what my mother thinks about gluten.

I have a notebook and a pen. I really want to figure out something that just does not make sense to me. I am talking about this thing that does not make sense. The notebook and the pen are what I have. I hope they can help me understand this thing that does not make sense.

That is it. That is the inventory of my life at this moment. The inventory of my life is not much. But the inventory of my life is what I have got.

I have this belief that if I just keep writing, something will come out of it. Something useful will come out of my writing. I think that if I write a lot, I will finally get something that makes sense. Something that makes me feel like all the bad things that happened were not bad things that happened for no reason. I want my writing to make me feel like all of this was worth it. I want to write something that makes my writing feel like it is more than a bunch of words on paper. I want to write something that makes me feel like I am doing something with my writing. Something good will come out of my writing—I just have to keep writing.

Maybe I am wrong about this. This could all just be a mess. I am a fool for trying to figure out what it means. I mean, what if life is chaos and I am wasting my time trying to make sense of chaos? Life is chaos. I am just trying to find some order in the chaos.

But I am going to keep writing. What else will I do with my time? I will just keep on writing because that is what I want to do. Writing is what I am going to do, so I might as well just keep at it.

The sailboat is not moving. I am not going anywhere either. The sailboat is just staying in one place.

Not yet.

But soon.