It's My Birthday, and I Think I Need Help

Today is my birthday. It's the worst one I can remember.

And it didn't even start today—it started the night before.

Earlier this week, I slipped into a valley of despair. Not sadness. Not frustration. Despair. The kind that clings like a tick, latching onto whatever emotional mess is nearby. It doesn't care if the subject is small or if the issue has already been resolved. It just needs an opening. This time, it latched onto something between my wife and me. A private topic. One we've talked about at length. One I thought I had closure on. I should have been okay. But despair doesn't care about logic. It sank its claws in, dragging my mind through briars and fire for two full days. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.

My wedding anniversary was the weekend before my birthday, and halfway in between those dates, my wife and I were supposed to go to a concert together—a concert I was borderline desperate to attend. It was canceled and rescheduled. I was devastated. I had poured emotional energy into that event, and losing it hit me harder than I expected.

We pivoted. We came up with a spontaneous day trip idea—something cool, something meaningful, something with the kids. It was last minute, so hotels were booked or stupidly expensive. So we said, "Screw it. Let's do the drive anyway. It'll be worth it."

But while my wife was at the office—overworked, overstimulated, and overtired—a fellow tenant came in frantic, dragging one of his clients to her desk with a problem she could solve. She explained she was booked. He offered more than fair pay to fix it—quickly. She said yes. And in that instant, my birthday plans were gone.

She canceled on me and the kids, and I said it was fine. I told her I understood.

But I lied.

I did mind.

I don't usually care about birthdays. But this time? I did. Because she picked me. And us. It felt like, for once, the family mattered more than the clients. That meant something. And then it didn't. And it's not her fault—she's the only income producer. When you own a business, cash flow is king. And when you're living off one stream, every dollar carries weight. Every opportunity feels like survival.

But that doesn't make it suck any less.

My birthday was effectively canceled, and now I was primed for the next phase of my cycle: anger. Just like despair, it never attaches to the right thing. It doesn't show up when it makes sense. It picks the first target in reach. And this time? I tried to stuff it down. I knew what was happening. I could feel the demon rising, but I still couldn't stop it. Just hours before my birthday, she came home that night, and I exploded. Not with violence. But with volume. With emotional recklessness.

I used to be able to sleep that off. Reset.

Not anymore.

Something in me has changed. There's no filter. No buffer. No cooling system. I woke up the next morning and carried my anger with me like a badge. Was the issue valid? Maybe. Was the scale of my response justified? Absolutely not. And the worst part? I couldn't shake it.

I tried. I cleaned. Rearranged furniture. I yelled. I argued. I moved things just to feel like I was doing something. None of it helped.

Then, later into the evening, it all vanished. I felt... happy. Calm. Like someone had dosed me with THC. Like a fog had lifted. There was still resentment in the air. Unspoken pain. Unease from what I had stirred up in the house. But I was ready to cuddle on the couch like nothing happened. Like I hadn't been prepared to throw it all away 12 hours earlier over something so small, and it almost feels comical now.

Around 4:00 PM that day, we were in the car. I was still boiling, not even sure why. Someone said something. I snapped. My wife looked at me with this tired mix of hurt and fear. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I pulled out my phone. Looked up medication. Downloaded an app. Took the mental health questionnaire.

I scored high. Higher than I expected.

It hit me like a punch in the gut.

I've been on the fence about meds for a while. I like my highs. I hate my lows. But now, even the highs are unpredictable. The lows are dangerous. And the crash... the crash is getting harder to survive. So there in the car, angry with myself, angry with the app, I accepted what it was telling me.

I need help.

And now, just hours later, writing this with a sudden, gentle calm resting over me, I believe I made the right choice. I think I need medication. Not forever. Maybe not even for long. But right now? I need to be leveled. I need something that keeps the dam from breaking whenever I feel a shift in the wind.

Because I want to deal with my past. I want to heal. I want to stop hurting the people I love.

My wife doesn't deserve to carry the cost of my storms.

My kids don't deserve the fallout of my frustration.

I know what trauma did to me. I've written about it. Studied it. Survived it.

But surviving isn't enough anymore.

I need to start living.

So yeah—today is my birthday.

And today, I finally admitted I need help.

It's not too late... is it?