August 18, 2026

Therapy (draft)

This is my most expensive set of notes. The result of a dozen consultations with California therapists, roughly $2,500. The content is so funny that I’m going to reap the catharsis of sharing this publicly instead of mulling over it.

—--

My separation is so pathetically stereotypical: what brought us together in the beginning ultimately bit us back. We embraced our differences. Rode the honeymoon period overly cautious. Then poor marriage hygiene turned those differences against each other. I became entitled. She shut down. Classic. For therapists it's like the flu.

Like every young couple, we shared strong values and seemingly compatible worldviews. We wanted to get married, settle in, have kids. We did all that. I loved her steadfastness and willingness to keep moving. Then it started to feel oppressive and life slowed down. I went for the stoic approach, minus the deep and constant empathy. We stayed in our freshly built family fortress, which became an enclave more than a family den. And my enthusiastic looseness morphed into a nihilistic mush that became increasingly difficult to live with.

It hurts to reflect on how our modest peculiarities, which were lovingly complementary, became antagonistic. That’s just what therapists call entropy, and why they are in such high demand.

Talk therapy seems to reify my biased, reactive emotions. Which is why I was, and remain, not particularly enthusiastic about therapy. These recent consultations have all led to roughly the same place. All pointed toward my mind being unremarkably healthy/unhealthy depending on the practitioner’s mood. It felt odd to be heard, then dismissed as “you’re doing good considering your circumstances.” That's gave their version of “It is what it is". I’m sold that there’s a ton of improvement to be done on the physiological side. Like every mammal, I’m a shitty version of myself when I’m burnt out and behing a screen. Unfortunately, my inherited work ethic is playing against me here, and sitting for hours aggravates it.

After taking all the classes I took, I raised my favorite topic with therapists: mindfulness. I was not surprised to hear encouragement to engage in mindfulness practices, but nobody was speaking from a place of experience. I felt infantilized, like: “Oh, that’s cute. Do some more if you like, honey.”

I know how profound the effects of meditation can be. I’ve documented that multiple times over the years. I’m equally aware I’m part of a cohort of burnt-out tech bros and that some solutions are known and available. Like quitting to go raise goats and make my own eco-house.

More seriously, the temporary shift to part-time could yield some peace. I slashed my paycheck in half for a few weeks, which makes me feel insecure in a different way. Getting out of the house to a proper coworking space helps.

Still, the concept of work/life balance feels bullshitty, like “happiness.” Always used by people with self-diagnosed problems or great big theories. Paying $200/h to be asked what makes me happy drives me nuts.

Four of the therapists I consulted rejected me as a patient, and suggested mindfulness over treatment. The rest said that I seemed to know what I needed. Now that I think about it, they might simply have been trying to get rid of me, for the better.

Most of what they all said was agreeable in the moment, but I left confused. All therapists were well-intentioned, but their assumptions were often based on an epistemology so different from mine that the gap appeared unbridgeable. It seems like there were some implied disagreement and I have no idea what those are beside: we're the same but different.

On my bad days, I would sum this up as “a lot of left-brain bollocks.” On my good days I’d say: “Good for them if they can make a career out of that.” On that note, all therapists, when giving their spiel about confidentiality, mentioned some version of the same opinion: being legally correct is the lowest bar for moral behavior. I’m fully behind the statement, but I doubt anyone needs to be reminded of it quite that often. If that’s the kind of thing we have to say out loud, it probably says something sad and funny about our society.

Eventually, when talking about strategies and expectations, the conversation reaches the point where one side drops something along these lines: every self-improvement method stops working eventually and there’s nothing you can do about it. Again, that’s why therapists are constantly in demand. Every process is a cycle. It’s humbling and maddening. When a rule or system breaks, you start wasting your time and feeling guilt. That’s usually the middle of the cycle. Crickets.

I acknowledged to therapists that my bastardized philosophy, wry prose-based semi-jokes, and TMI vulnerability can be upsetting. My humor landed pretty well. The smiles felt genuine. The vibe of these consultations seemed to align with the general malaise in wealthy Coastal California. At this time of year, Cerro San Luis and Bishop Peak are constantly bathed in light and fog. After a few weeks of stable routine, the beauty of the place seemed at odds with my current state.

I’ve been spending a fair bit of time in parks and noticing the homeless a lot more. I now realize it takes very, very little to get kicked out of the system. The support I received makes me want to give more. I have been talking to strangers since this wild period of intensive therapy. It’s the organic version. I paid a burrito to divorced ex-navy guy. Talked to a few of guys in a hostel who lost the little they had in divorces. And hear of a few more stories in local meetups. Salience bias perhaps?

I did not shed one tear during the whole thing. Some would say that it is a blatant sign of the problem. Of course I feel unjustly judged and castigated. But there’s not much self-pity. I am glad to feel some pain. So physical and irrefutable in its force.

I don’t want to overstate the precarity of my situation. I’m doing okay. I’m constantly reminded that I can afford to live here by the clemency of California weather, my work flexibility, and income. It may be difficult, yes, but at the end of the day, I’m fine.

One question that popped up a few times, from friends, family, and now therapists: “Could you even forgive?” The question also comes with: “I don’t think I could,” or “I can’t imagine the circumstances or work needed for that to happen.” My initial answer was a simple yes, because strictly speaking, it is. Everything is workable. Life throws all sorts of crap at us and we get to decide what we do with them. At the same time, that’s some of the craziest shit I have ever been handed. I’m sure it’s not the last episode.

I get that journaling is theoretically a healthier way to externalize without harm. But I’m not going to stop myself and fetch my notebook every time I’m bummed. That seems unsustainable without some amount of grace to be able to voice some opinions, however whack. I hear my thoughts better when I say them. I say a lot of dumb shit. If I keep it in, it festers and mushrooms.

Many have pointed out the lack of clarity and structure in my thinking, to which I’ve replied: “Neither is life.” And got only sincere nods.

The usual rebuttal is something along the lines of: resolving conflict is rarely about who is right. It is about acknowledgment and appreciation of differences. Which makes too much sense and makes me want to circle back to my previous point.

If we were all able to live up to these beautifully rational principles, relationships, and the world at large, would not look the way they do. One can easily make the conversation circular by invoking the inevitable gap between outside observation and inside experience.

I also got major sympathy when explaining an age-old bet: can a person shaped by an individualist, European, highly emotional and critical culture live peacefully with someone shaped by a more community-minded, control-oriented Eastern culture? At the individual scale, that can be a hell of a problem. At the global scale, we’ve been dealing with versions of it forever. The obvious answer is: not without major bumps in the road. That seems pretty obvious to me. Not an excuse, but a difference in worldview is not a moral failing.

I hear that mistakes usually don’t kill relationships. Resentment does. I can absolutely agree with that and extend that insight to other contexts. What it takes, for me, to avoid resentment is a mega-dose of humor and meditation.

In whatever comes next, I will have some degree of responsibility. That’s just life. That’s how it is. As far as I’m concerned, I have taken more good decisions than bad ones. That’s all I can do.

All these conversations reminded me of a comment on spiritual materialism. Therapy is just another game. Putting fuel on the fire of self-regard, as Sam Harris puts it.

I allow myself this closing note because after weeks of intense introspection, I have found a profound and stable relief in living with a crew of outcast old men. It’s funny to be kicked out for being too intense and land in a place where it’s absolutely banal to yell: “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is this shit? Can’t you keep the bathroom mat dry, you careless piece of shit?”

It’s too good.