It was a cold Saturday morning. I was sitting on couch in my apartment downtown Sydney looking at my phone. I just finished chatting to Black Ring. He was doom and glooming again. The country was going to shit, the world around us was fucked, he was fed up with housing crisis hysteria, rising cost of living and, most importantly, “change from the baseline”.
I was trying to figure out what is this “baseline” he was talking about. Comparing to mid-90s in Russia, nothing seemed to be going to real shit too much. Just stunk a little.
I excused myself and went to the shower. This is what I needed. The streams of steamy hot water to wash away the cold Australian winter blues.
I got out of the shower and stood in front of a mirror. And then I saw it.
Two grey hairs sticking out of my pubes. Shining bright like two diamonds. Like two outcasts refusing to conform to the darkness of the rest of my unkempt bush.
This is the beginning of the end, I thought to myself. You know you are old when your pubes turn grey. One by one, until they are all grey and your dick looks like a snow covered cone on a pine tree deep in Siberian taiga. The remote desolated place where no woman would go.
It was a moment of truth. The unspiritual awakening. The sledgehammer of time hitting me on the head. Something needed to change. It was my life and it was ending one day at a time.
Last fifteen months passed in a daze. The year of despair and wasted opportunities. With almost nothing to show for it. Two months of hypomanic craze followed by a year of, I can’t even call it depression, more like a mere existence. I existed but I sure didn’t live.
“It’s a complex trauma,” my psychologist said after masterfully reframing my psychotic break followed by an episode of paranoid delusion into something really positive. Like I am better off after having a breakdown.
“There are two things that will significantly improve your mental health,” he continued. “You need to stop drinking and block all communications with her”. He was talking about my BPD obsession and, I believe, the primary cause of my breakdown.
Never put your dick in crazy. Everybody knows that. I knew that. I though I was smart enough and had everything under control. Not so fast. Trauma bond, the dance of wounded souls, the emotional rollercoaster. It will creep on you slowly and then hit you like a ton of bricks. You won’t know what happened until it’s too late.
As I walked from the shrink’s office, I pulled my phone, sent last text to BPD and went on a blocking frenzy. Phone, email, WhatsApp, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat. Did I forget anything? Oh yes, I did. LinkedIn, MeetUp, Line. Is that it? I think it was it. Mission accomplished. The healing starts now.
I went to the pub and got smashed. Not so fast. Only half of the mission is accomplished. I need to be a good guy and listen to my shrink. Another beer, please.
On my second visit he was shocked. He said, he expected me to get off booze easily but not so easily with cutting BPD off like I did. If you break your leg in the wild and it gets infected, and there’s no antibiotic, you cut it off to prevent gangrene from killing you. If your soul gets infected, and there’s no known cure… other than cutting the contact… And so I did.
After a month of whatever therapy I was administered, I felt I returned to a semi-functional state and I jumped back on the apps. This when I met DV and runaway wife.
To be continued…
The rest of the series are here:
Yoylo PUA 
> This is the beginning of the end, I thought to myself. You know you are old when your pubes turn grey.
We are deep into the territory of “horrible over-share,” but if that is what you’re worried about – I “went grey” 15 years ago. It isn’t the “end” of anything. Most of my youngest girls “came” to me when I was over 50% “grey.”
Keep your body hair trimmed short. Play through.
Viva Yoylo.
LikeLike
Oversharing is my second name, Nash. I wrote a few paragraphs about you as well that I will weave into my later posts. You’d probably hate me more after I do lol
LikeLike