Although the back and forth would continue between my upstairs room and downstairs basement, I was too numb to even care at that point. I had started drinking at work, and would dump the cans in a bin at the back of the storage facility. Immediately after leaving work, I’d make my regular stop to the store, picking up an assortment of booze to accompany me for the night. I could never find my footing with Brenna, and our marriage would freeze and defrost as often as a slab of meat for dinner that you never manage to cook. The only consistencies, outside of the empty beer cans and bottles that would carpet the floor of these rooms, were the mattress and TV, where I’d inevitably pass out drunk to the sound of Ray Donovan. As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, my life became a blurred mess of missed opportunities and increasing isolation. My friendships started to suffer as I pushed everyone away, preferring the company of my own misery and the numbing embrace of alcohol. My creative projects, once a source of excitement and purpose, began to collect dust as I lost interest in the things that used to drive me. Sunday Night Screenings, Morning View, the Bud and Roach Show – they all faded into the background like a distant memory. My marriage was crumbling, my career was in shambles, and my health was deteriorating, as I sank deeper into darkness everyday.

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