I cheated on my ex-wife.
That’s the part people usually whisper. I’m not whispering. I’m not bragging either. This isn’t absolution. It’s a crash log.
I’ve done things I regret, and things I’ll never regret even if I probably should. I’ve lied. I’ve ghosted. I’ve hurt people I loved and people who loved me. Sometimes just to feel something. Sometimes to feel nothing.
I’m not telling you this because I want forgiveness. I’m telling you because you need to hear it.
Maybe you’re the one who fucked up. Maybe you’re mid-fuckup right now. Or maybe you’re on the other end, bleeding from someone else’s mistake.
Either way, I want you to know:
You are not your worst moment.
But you are responsible for what comes after.
I didn’t cheat because I didn’t love her. I didn’t cheat because I was bored. I cheated because I was trying to disappear into something that wasn’t me. The attention. The chaos. The control. The dopamine spike.
For a little while, I didn’t have to be the guy who couldn’t finish the things he started, the guy who couldn’t connect with people, the guy who kept breaking under the weight of a life he was supposed to be able to carry.
That doesn’t make it okay. It just makes it make sense.
This isn’t about cheating, not really. It’s about all the ways we self-destruct because we don’t know how else to survive. Drinking. Doomscrolling. Ghosting. Rage-quitting our own lives.
The fucked-up thing about shame is that it doesn’t stop you. It invites you back. Especially when you’re neurodivergent. Especially when nobody ever taught you how to handle failure without becoming it.
I lost her. I lost friends. I lost respect. I lost myself.
And no, I’m not the victim. This isn’t a redemption arc. This is a guy sitting in the crater of his own life saying, “This is what it looks like when you don’t stop the cycle in time.”
I’m almost three years sober now.
I’m in recovery. From alcohol. From gambling. From collapse. From the idea that survival means silence. That feeling is failure. That honesty is too expensive.
I’m still rebuilding. Still rewiring. Still finding ways to live that don’t require me to disappear just to cope. And no, I don’t always get it right. But I get it better.
If you’ve fucked up: you’re not broken. But don’t use that as a shield. You have work to do. And if you’re the one who got hurt: you don’t owe anyone your forgiveness. But you do deserve your own healing.
This isn’t advice. This isn’t absolution. It’s a map of the crater, just in case you land here too.
I fucked up. I’m still here.
And I’m not done trying to do better.