Shortly after my first divorce, I started therapy to begin tackling anger issues I had sharply honed throughout the years. Part of my journey to "mental wellness" included journalling. It wasn't the healthiest of practices, as I usually had a half empty bottle of Johnny Walker Black in the passenger seat. With therapy, repressed memories came bubbling to the surface. Scotch provided the lubricant to face some of my demons and wrestle them onto a page. As therapy continued and life evolved, I put the pen down and didn't think about that journal for over a decade. In the summer of 2018, I reconnected with an old friend and mentor who is also an author. We chatted about my journal and, once she read it, she began convincing me that I needed to pick back up the pen. At the time, I didn't know my personal and professional lives were about to fall off the rails. Months later, I found myself, once again, pouring my feelings on the page as well as Scotch in a glass. I began the journey of taking 77 pages of disjointed experiences and weaving them into a 400+ page memoir.

The book turned out to be about 80% true because had to create dialog and take liberties along the way for reasons I can only tell you after your finish the final chapter. I originally used a pen name and changed all the names because I didn't want anyone to connect the book to me. The honest truth is I felt empty. I poured my life on these pages and expected to feel some chathartic release. When it didn't come, I vacillated for weeks about what I would do. I finally decided to confess. Once I did, it felt like all the pressure that had been building up for years was instantly uncorked. I've dealt with the fallout of ghosts from the past but, for the most part, it's been fine. But I also never really marketed the book. Until now. So let's see where this goes.