An Evergreen Refresh Note from Rob (2026): Thirteen years ago, I sat down to write what would become one of the most difficult, raw, and shameful reflections of my life. At the time, I was still untangling the wreckage of an eighteen-year relationship and using the wrong tools to cope with massive anxiety. I split this story into three parts for dramatic effect back then, but looking back now with years of clarity, sobriety, and growth, it stands as the exact moment I had to look in the mirror and face my own darkness. I’m sharing this series again, with minimal edits for continuity and family aliases, to remind myself of where I’ve been—and how far the rebuild has come. This is Part 1.
The following is a re-telling of an event that occurred on the night of Saturday, June 8th into the morning of Sunday, June 9th, 2013. It is on a very short list of the most shameful experiences of my life. It has taken me literally two weeks to process everything that occurred, get multiple perspectives on the chain of events, mend the most essential fences, and finally have the nerve to re-live it. I chose to write this now because I realize that this blog may one day burn some bridges with its brutal honesty; and I want to show future readers that I am just as willing to hold myself to the same proverbial fires.
June 7th was The Auteur’s birthday. She and a friend had tickets to the Pitbull concert that night, so we were going to get a small group of people together Saturday night for a belated celebration. I was EXTREMELY anxious about giving The Auteur her birthday presents that night. This is primarily due to the fact that the STBX never really cared for ANY gifts that I ever got her. Seeing constant disappointment over the better part of 18 years together made me think that I was just a bad gift-giver. Then, of course, there were the years when neither of us could afford to exchange birthday or Christmas gifts. Combine those lean times with the inevitable disappointment that occurred when I tried to give gifts, and after a while, I simply stopped trying. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not like I ever bought the STBX a can of bug spray or a vacuum cleaner. In fact, I put a great deal of thought into every gift I ever gave her. But, as I’ve come to realize—like every other aspect of our marriage—nothing, and I mean NOTHING, was ever “good enough” for the STBX.
We had all agreed to meet up at Phred’s apartment. I wrapped up The Auteur’s gifts there and was really panicking. Planning to have a drink or three before going out, I brought along my Jägermeister and Red Bull. Hey, beer had been bothering my stomach the last few times I drank it—this was my rationale in my anxiety-ridden mind. Rather than taking my second Inderal to help settle my nerves, I decided to self-medicate the way alcoholics do. Rather than doing it through beer, as I always had in the past, I reached for the Jäger.
Oh, and it worked all right. My nerves were calmed… i.e., I had a pretty good buzz going by the time The Auteur and her friends arrived at Phred’s. God, she looked so beautiful that night, as she does every night. I remember a moment there in Phred’s kitchen where we were holding each other, looking deep into each other’s eyes, and I had an epiphany: I realized that everything would be okay as long as we were together. I was just ecstatic to see her. And I was so relieved when she liked the gifts I had gotten her. I realized then how dumb it was of me to be so worried about whether or not she would like them. Neither The Auteur nor any other woman I have ever met could ever be as impossible to please as the STBX. Holding any other woman to that low of a standard is a disservice to them all.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty good at this point. The problem with me and hard liquor is that I don’t realize just how hard the sauce is hitting me until it’s too late. When I had my epiphany, I should have put the brakes on the drinking then and there, but I didn’t. I should have heeded the wisdom of my epiphanic moment, but I didn’t. Little did I know that I was about to completely lose control that night.
Next Up: Click here for Some Kind of Monster – Part 2, where the night takes a turn and the illusions begin to shatter.
Rebuilding a life takes grit, consistency, and a lot of ‘Option C’ thinking. Whether I’m closing in on 1,000 consecutive days of blogging or reflecting on the decade of work that brought me here, the mission remains the same: No glitz. Just the work. New to the blog? Start your journey here to see the blueprint and the ‘Tricorder’ perspective behind the rebuild.
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The article “Some Kind of Monster – a near-tragedy in 3 parts” first appeared on Rebuilding Rob.
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