I’ve decided that I live on an island. I’m not quite sure how I ended up here, but it’s where I am.

Part of my island is where I am sitting now. Four bedrooms, three baths, a patio and a studio. My wife lives here, too.

There’s an isthmus that connects me to my workplace. I cross it every morning when I go to work, and cross it again coming home. But that part of the island is pretty solitary, too. I spend most of my time in my office, working over the internet to get my job done, staring into my computers’ screens, taking phone calls. Occasionally someone will stick their head in the door to say hello, but they’re just visiting. When they step away, I’m still on my island.

Sometimes I get in my boat and go somewhere. When I go to work a sound job or something else non-routine, I actually leave my island for a little while. Other people are around, and sometimes they talk to me or interact with me, and I feel engaged, a little less isolated, a little more human. But social interaction is also hard and costs me energy, so I can only handle so much. Then I need to return to my island, to find the place my life force emanates from and recharge.

I like road trips. I love to travel. And when I do get into my car to go somewhere cool or exciting, or even someplace dull that’s just different … well … I take my island with me. Sometimes my wife comes with me, but she has a whole world of her own. But I bring the rest of my island. My car is my island. I have my music, I have my air conditioning, I have a comfortable seat and my phone to keep me in touch with people off the island, and sometimes even ham radio so I can talk to strangers. It gives me a nice feeling, only because it’s a reason to interact with people that involves technology and radio and electronics. And the people I talk to are my brothers and sisters in amateur radio, all of whom worked hard to get their licenses and become one of us. So they’re kind of like short-term friends, although KC4YLX and KB4ENK (or KI4AQL of KC0RPK or KB1LMB or whatever he’s called now) and a few others are friends I’ve known for ages in real life.

I’m always uncomfortable, just a little, when I travel by air or without my car. I’m usually going to a hotel, or to someone’s house, or to a workplace, and I have no island. I feel kind of like that guy in The Terminal.  I walk through the airport and I’m just an island myself. I have my little bubble around me made of insecurity and anxiety and discomfort. People pass. I pass people. But they’re just little ships flying by my island without a wave or a smile. I smile. Sometimes I wave, because I’m sure they can see me. But other than that, I’m alone until my island becomes larger … a hotel room, a room where I have to work on code or mix sound, a radio station, a performance venue. Each of these becomes my temporary island.

When I’m home, my island is usually comfortable. I’m in my desk chair now, sitting at my computer typing this. My studio, with everything hastily lifted off the floor, is behind me. In the next room is my recliner where I sit to watch TV. There’s a kitchen where I’ve got stuff to drink and eat. Allison is around somewhere. Two dogs, two cats, and five birds are in there, which is why I’m in the one part of the island that’s almost always quiet. Thinking about life, the universe, and my little island of existence.

My island’s got a phone number. I carry the phone around in my pocket or have it beside me constantly. But my island gets very few calls. A co-worker might call about something office-related. Someone might call to offer me sound work. My best friend touches base now and then. But for the most part, it’s radio silence here. I don’t get calls to come socialize with people. I don’t get calls from friends much, either, other than from the one guy I consider a brother.

My island doesn’t get many visitors. Recently, during Hurricane Florence’s impact and the following day, we had company. Some friends, a couple who live over in the low-lying section of River Bend, got flooded out of their house. They paddled away from it, got lost, ended up at the house of a stranger, and stayed there for a while. Then the stranger’s house flooded, so they took us up on our invitation to stay here. It was kind of cool to feel like the population of this little island doubled (in human terms, at least) overnight. The dog population went up 50%, too. Wee put our heads together and got through the 7 days the island was without power.

They have now rented the vacant house next door to us, and the island’s as it was before. It’s weird to be the way I am. My psychologist says it’s not as simple as being aspie and not as simple as being an introvert. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what it is that separates my island from the world. Progress isn’t linear; I try very hard to remember that bit of wisdom. Lack of any immediate change doesn’t mean I’m not trying or that I’m not working hard at it. The battle is inside where no one can see it.

It gets lonely on this little island sometimes. Sometimes I can feel the world out there, and sometimes I feel the love. Other times what’s outside those walls is scary … even what’s above my covers in bed is scary, and I just pull them over my head, put my CPAP mask on, and concentrate on breathing.

Or I just prowl Facebook, looking for opportunities to make a puckish comment or add insight to a thread about something I know about. I have the feeling I come across as a know-it-all, but my motivation is honest. I’m not all that good at all that many things, so in my field if I can help someone, even a little, i want to. And if someone on Facebook decides it’s a good day to hurt me, read things into my words that were never there, and attribute my honest (and all too frequent) mistakes as deliberate malice, hate, or arrogance, I can just plug up Facebook’s connection to my island with a finger like the Dutch boy did, and move on. (Somehow, that Dutch boy was barking up the wrong tree, but I can’t put my finger on why.)

There, see? I’m trying to be funny and it’ll get me burned at the stake … but the people who’ll do that can’t get to my island unless they’re invited in. So there’ll be this little planet somewhere called Facebook where I’m being burned in effigy while I sit here and drink iced tea.

But this island is part of me. Sometimes it IS me. That’s part of why I was so freaked our during Florence. People probably noticed that at one point, my posts just stopped for a while. It wasn’t lack of power … I am always well prepared with power for phones and iPads and such. No, it was a mild form of panic that set in. I was afraid something was going to happen to the house, something that had already happened to so many people around me and around town. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if my island was destroyed. My wife and I would get out okay, and we’d probably get the animals out, too, but I would have lost my place to be centered, my place to recharge, the place where when Allison and I are on the same page, I find life and happiness and strength.  I feel so much for those Florence took this from.

It’s more than what George Carlin called “a place for my stuff.” It’s a place for ME. A large part of my identity is here. Why am I a ham radio operator? Because of that license on the wall. What has my past counted for? Certificates and diplomas on the walls tell a story; it’s boring to some but it’s MY story and I’m stocking to it.

There’s a photograph on the shelf of a pair of houses I found along a railroad track in northwest Georgia. They are abandoned and completely engulfed by Kudzu (an invasive vine). You can’t see a square inch of either house, but the shapes are unmistakable. I took the photo on 35mm film while standing on the railroad tracks, processed the film at home, printed it in a rented darkroom at UVa. I’m proud of it. It’s a cool memory. It’s just one of those things that makes me feel grounded here on this little island, as obscure as those two vine-covered houses.

One of the things I need to work on is finding more reasons to leave the island. Even though social time is difficult and requires energy, I think I need it. Facebook and blogs and e-mail are no way to actually have a life. And I’ve been far too dependent on those things. Artificial socialization. Virtual friends. Something in me needs to see a friendly face now and then. I got to spend a weekend with my best friend recently and it was like I’d suddenly arrived in a larger place. It was like my world, my real world, got a little larger for a while, and it got larger still when his whole family came to visit, too!

I know I’m a person who needs my alone time to recharge my mental batteries, rest, and figure out just where I am and why. I’ve got to have that bit of downtime or I seem to get very edgy and uncomfortable. I’m not sure I understand that, either. But I’m being advised by my psychologist to give myself a break … do the things I need to do to feel good about myself, or at least the ones I can still do … and to extend to myself the grace I extend to others.

I was surprised the other night when I was told I have a certain kind of patience. I don’t think I really do. I see myself as arrogant sometimes, or at least more arrogant than I like to be, particularly when it involves my life’s work. When I’m absolutely sure I’m on solid ground, I tend to dig my heels in and get pretty stubborn and demanding. It’s not a quality I am proud of but I’ll own it. I can do better than that. But at other times, when the whole question is a matter of opinion, emotion, or personal feelings, it’s different. I try to look at the other side, and I understand how they feel, but I’ve got my opinion too, and because they’re both opinions, they’re both equally valid. And BOTH sides can sometimes get very emotionally involved in their own opinions, to the point where they’ve driven a steel pin in the ground, tied a harness to it, and determined they’re not moving. I don’t know anyone who isn’t guilty of that sometimes, and I definitely include myself. Not many of the people in the world who like me know what a complete asshole I can be at times.

But get this. I have one role on this island, and it’s got to do with what drives me. I am not overly ambitious. I harbor no prejudices. I don’t set out to do harm. I am not without sin but my intentions are good. And yes, I know what they say about good intentions.  I am not proud of anything other than my few accomplishments in this world, and I know how very small and insignificant they are. I have helped to save a very few lives in my EMT days, and of everything I’ve done, those are the times where I really made a difference.

I am driven by love. I’ve spent a lot of my life alone. I’ve been married twice before my current marriage, to people I honestly loved and treasured and wanted to spend my entire life with. One cheated on me and I couldn’t get past it. The other did the same only in a more ugly way, multiple times. It’s given me a knee-jerk, polarized reaction to anything about marital infidelity. I can’t stomach it. Ever. Because to someone driven by love, it is the ultimate pain. That sort of betrayal tears out your heart, throws it on the ground in front of you, and stomps on it while you watch, dying. Then it stuffs the organ back into your chest, dirtied, beaten, bloody, and full of hurt and fear and pain, and expects you to go on. Just continue your life. The love you felt? It hurts worse than anything you can imagine, but you’re supposed to turn that off. You’re supposed to find, somewhere within your tortured soul, some trust.

After my first marriage ended I spent the better part of 10 years alone. Completely alone. I had a friend or two but I was mostly isolated. People thought I loved my work, but I hid in my work too. Computers, radio, recording, live sound, editing, voice-over … these were me. These were all I was. I dated shallow women. I dated a stripper once, because I felt safe. She slept with everybody, I knew she slept with everybody, so I could just enjoy an evening with a beautiful woman and not even think about getting seriously involved. The idea of giving my heart to another woman was UNTHINKABLE.

And ten years later I did just that. Having been alone for 10 years, I was nothing less than desperate for love. I needed someone to see me, to value me, to want me for what I was. And I thought I found that, but in retrospect, I wonder how I could have been so stupid. She said all the right things. She did all the right things. She treated me well. She appreciated me. In retrospect, though, she used me like a shake-and-bake bag. Because 10 years into that marriage, I found out about the multiple betrayals, the sneaking around, the sleeping around, the other relationships.

Did she tell me? Oh, no. Of course not. Instead, while waiting for her to get home from a night class, I got a call from a very posh restaurant in town, telling me my wife had left her purse there after her dinner with me. Being an inquisitive guy I manipulated the waitress into revealing to me that their dinner had been anything but business. I had been so stupid. I never suspected that the night class she told me she’d enrolled in was adultery 101 and that this older guy, someone I knew, this Robert Duvall-looking bastard was having sex with my wife and had been for the better part of a year. And finding out later that he wasn’t the only recipient of her favors was way, way too much.

The second divorce was rough. I was dying inside, completely destroyed. I’d moved myself into tiny, makeshift quarters, eventually got the cats and birds moved in with me, had to pay a metric ton of alimony because it wasn’t possible to prove the adultery. (I couldn’t afford a better lawyer and she had one who was on the fast track to becoming a judge.) Eventually, I even lost my beloved blue and gold Macaw, Sammy. She somehow convinced the mediator that he was worth $15,000, and I was given a choice of coughing up that amount immediately or handing him over. The day I watched that truck drive away with him inside was almost as hard as the day I found out about the cheating.

The divorce was final in 2005. I dated occasionally, but I think past baggage always got in the way. I found out the hard way that long-distance relationships are hard to do, and that brutal honesty isn’t always good even when it’s necessary. Ever had an ex-girlfriend (with whom you’ve remained friends) describe her sexual encounters with your successor? It’s not pleasant; it’s pretty heart-rending. But the pain of it helped me push away the love I still felt. The pain was useful in that way. It helped me move on. But it’s also the stuff of nightmares. Some of that is still with me.Still haunts me.

James Taylor talks about Herod in one of his songs. It’s a favorite of mine. It talks about how the three wise men dreamed about Herod’s scheme to capture them, and thus warned, they took another route home. The lyrics say,

Home is where they want you now,
You can pretty much assume that you'll be welcome in the end.
Shouldn't let King Herod haunt you so,
Or fantasize his features when you're looking at a friend.

That last part. That’s a curse. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since yesterday. It doesn’t matter how different today is. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to feel secure. The demon is out there. With the sizzling heat of pain and the piercing edge of heartbreak he has seared his image into my retinas. I might be looking at a person who is eminently, perfectly, absolutely worthy of my trust, and if I am weak or careless,that image will come to me.

The first betrayal was easier. We were not getting along well, there was a lot of distance between us, and she admitted it to me. Oh, it hurt, but I was young and resilient. Or so I thought. Anyway, it was easy to survive and was a quick, no-fault, sign the paperwork and we’re done kind of divorce. No alimony, and thank God, no children because kids don’t deserve to be born into a broken home.

I’ve been told that I don’t trust. Although some things I’ve done have been misinterpreted as distrust, I admit and internalize the fact that I have a problem with trust. It’s because that second betrayal was several orders of magnitude harder for me.

Gary Chapman’s book about the five love languages has a lot of truth in it. My language, in both the giving and receiving directions, is physical touch. It’s been that way since childhood. The other four are good and needed and appreciated, but one hug … one genuine embrace from a human being … is worth a million words of affirmation or ten thousand gifts or acts of service. It’s how I feel. Some of my friends know this. They’ve reached out and hugged me at times when they probably had no idea how much I needed it. Or maybe they did! Either way, thank you. It mattered.

So imagine a man like me, driven by love, and primarily experiencing that love in the form of holding hands, kissing, touching, physical intimacy … being forced to accept and face the fact that his wife — the person to whom he’s given his life, his trust, and his fidelity — has betrayed him in that very way! I wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t let it be true. It just couldn’t be, because I’d done the right things right down the line.

I did it to myself. When I was told what was happening, I couldn’t believe it. It was just unthinkable. There must be some mistake, I thought. I wasn’t ready to deal with my wife kissing or having sex with someone else. I had to know. I had to see. So after the call from the restaurant, and over the week or two that followed, I used my head, found out who my real friends were, figured some things out, discovered where I needed to be and when, and I saw.

God, I wish I hadn’t. but I did. No one knew. I slipped in quietly and got away cleanly both times. I was a lot more fit then and had great night vision, and getting somewhere the back way, through dense woods, was no problem. I didn’t see that much, but I saw enough to know it was real. She was there, the guy (a different one each of the two times) was there, and they were doing things you don’t do with your friends or business associates unless your profession is the oldest one. I wanted to scream, but that had to wait until I got back to my car, shaking and crying silently.

That night after the second time, I went to Manuel’s, a watering hole in a fashionable part of Atlanta, and I drank until they cut me off. Then I bought a bottle, got a hotel room, and drank until I passed out. I woke up at some point during the night and finished the bottle. Housekeeping woke me up and I had to leave. I had to drive because I was too dizzy to walk, and I somehow made it to my workplace at the time. They had a couch. I made it there and passed out again. Thank God it was a weekend.

I can’t begin to describe to you how much that knowledge, and particularly that firsthand observation, hurt me. I didn’t think a human being could live through that kind of emotional pain. I felt everything … anger, grief, pain, love, hate, fear, feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness, despondency, and yes, suicidal thoughts. It cost me my job, because I was too mentally screwed up to do it.

I had good healthcare at the time which included mental health services and I got help. I was on medication for a year just so I could function, go to work, sleep at night, and do things we used to do together without crying. I got a new bed. The old one smelled like her, smelled like us, and I couldn’t stand it. I tore up pictures. I tried to erase what I’d seen from my mind but dammit … there was a part of me, way back there in a place I couldn’t reach or destroy … a part of me that still loved. Still wanted. Still longed. It wouldn’t die. It took some really petty things later on — like taking my beautiful bird — to strangle that damned wuss in the back of my mind that was still hanging on.

I can’t seem to help anyone to understand that baggage. The woman I dated for a short time in 2005 didn’t. The woman I had a close and then long-distance relationship starting in the fall of 2005 didn’t either. Neither did the singer with whom I had a short relationship with just before meeting Allison. They all thought they understood, but I don’t know that anyone truly can. When your love language is physical touch and you’re betrayed sexually … I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can tell you I will never be the same. Part of me died, a part of me I miss. Ironic, isn’t it? The same part of me that saw the best in people, the part of my intelligence that misjudged the character of a woman I loved not once but twice, is the part I miss. I don’t know how to turn that back on. I am afraid. This has been a subject of many conversations with counselors, psychologists, therapists, and friends for the past 13 years.

So here I am on my island, surrounded by scary waters, and in those waters is a veritable Loch Ness Monster of pain that rears its head once in a while, just long enough for me to see and react to, but invisible to everyone else seeing my reaction. 13 years. Every time I look at my beautiful wife and see how desirable and outgoing she is, her easy way with people that I don’t have, her huge heart, her intelligence and grace and charm, I feel incredibly fortunate that she chose me as I chose her. And when we have the inevitable problems that any relationship faces, I’m afraid. My pulse races, tears come, and I freak right the hell out because there’s a patch cord still connected in my brain from the “problems and arguments” circuit to the “betrayal/loss” circuit. It’s stuck. I need help to get it unplugged.

And I’m getting help. I’m talking about this to a psychologist, a psychiatrist, to friends I trust. I’m trying. I’m determined. Some things can never be unseen, and some hurts do not heal completely, but I’m trying to fix those things. My adult life has been ups and downs. As ABC used to say, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. This is the Wide World of Me, stuffed onto a little island on a quiet street with a wife and a zooful of animals. And a job, and a hobby, and some problems. And a demon who needs to be vanquished.

I can’t talk about this with very many people. I’m embarrassed to cry in public and a lot of these issues drive me there with startling quickness. Over the years, I have learned to control my thoughts and carefully edit how much of myself I reveal in public, and particularly in professional situations. You will see me smiling. I’ll laugh at your jokes and might even make one of my own. I’ll perform well, even flawlessly if I can, because that’s my professional demeanor. I even get ashamed when a pinnacle of vocal performance brings tears to my eyes if I’m mixing. “Where’s your professional detachment, you jackleg?”  *

And when I get home, when I’m back here on my little island with a woman who loves me and animals who all want to lick my face off or break my eardrums, I can take down the professional walls. I can stop expending that tremendous energy it takes to keep my mind focused on the now and away from the then and the part of now that’s scaring the literal life out of me.

It’s not fair that all my insecurities and self-doubt and past pain and negativity are depressurized right in my living room, and that my wife sees mostly that. I don’t keep my walls up around her. In a way, that’s because I trust her. I open my heart and trust she won’t do what others have done to me. I am safe to let my guard down because she loves me and does not want me to hurt. Some of my hurt is stuff she can do nothing about save loving me and being there.

I’ve never told anyone this, but do you know why I love road trips so much? Oh, the reasons I give are real ones. It relaxes me, it gives me time to think, it changes the backdrop, lets me put part of my mind into concentration on the road while the rest of it is in contemplation of whatever’s getting me down. But another reason I don’t usually reveal is this:

I can be almost 100% certain I will not see anyone I know. I can drive around in that car with all my walls down. If I’m crying or looking despondent, I really don’t give a damn if someone I’ll never see again notices. I don’t care if that guy in the convenience store sees me wipe a tear while I’m filling my cup at the fountain. I can park and freak out and beat my hands against the steering wheel until they are bruised and I don’t care who’s watching. Because when I’m out driving to anywhere or nowhere, I’m accountable only to myself. Most of the time I know when I ought to pull over and calm down. Other times I know I’ve sat somewhere long enough and really ought to stop wallowing and move.

In other words, no professional detachment or demeanor is required. Nobody’s with me who will get upset or worry if I’m acting a little crazy while I get things worked out. I can sing at the top of my lungs, or scream if that works better. My safety valve can pop and nobody will know or care because it’s just me and my small automotive island and the road.

Writing helps too. I haven’t looked to see how long this post is, but I know it’s long, and I know I’ve been rambling. Just like the last entry, this is blog therapy. I’m letting some of the stuff that’s been trapped in my head out through my fingers into the computer, and I feel a little more of the load fall away with every paragraph I type. It’s not a great idea, mind you, in terms of image. I mean, who blathers on about their inner feelings like this? Who’s going to use this against me someday? I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. If you’ve had the patience and the stomach to read this post this far, I applaud you; you are more patient than most, and for some reason, you might even care and understand me a little better. But it’s not required or expected. I’m not expecting any words of affirmation, either, though I’m not turning off comments. This is just for me. Some people knit, some people play video games, some people go out drinking, but I write. And now my fingers are tired and my mind is scrambled and I need to go figure out what to do next. To my friends who are reading this: I love you. Your friendship is vitally important to me.

To my wife: I am sorry my demons have caused you pain many, many times. I’ve never wanted to hurt you and I’ve never had reason to distrust you. I’m just damaged and trying to fix myself. Thank you for understanding that.