The Descent VII

I was still unhappy. Still anxious. It didn’t matter what changed around me, it didn’t feel like life. It couldn’t be. None of it made sense. Why go to all the trouble to create something like this just to live this way? There had to be more.

I doubled down on everything I thought might help. I listened constantly to the recordings from the man I had seen in Washington, D.C. It didn’t matter. Nothing landed. I could tell it made no difference whether I understood what he was saying or not. I was still exactly the same. If anything, the pressure was increasing.

One night I sat thinking about my children. Not about what they had, but what I would pass on to them. Patterns. The way I moved through life. The way I felt. The constant dissatisfaction I couldn’t explain.

I loved them so much it hurt to think about it.

And I knew one thing with absolute clarity.

I did not want them to become like me.

That was the moment everything narrowed.

Whatever was inside of me that caused this had to go. Not adjusted. Not improved. Removed.

I went back to the books I had read before, trying again to understand what they were pointing to, but nothing changed. Then I remembered something else. A book that had been suggested to me years earlier. I had read it, but never really done what it asked.

There was a ten-week process in it. Twice a day, continuous breathing for fifteen minutes, along with weekly written material. I had tried it before and failed almost immediately. Every time I started, something would rise up in me that was so uncomfortable, so difficult to face, that I stopped within minutes. I told myself it was because I was tired, disorganized, not disciplined enough.

But sitting there that night, thinking about my children, I knew that wasn’t true.

I was out of options.

It was this or nothing.

I had already seen where the “nothing” path went. I could picture it clearly. My children drifting, rebelling, numbing themselves the same way I had. Repeating the same patterns without ever understanding them.

I couldn’t let that happen.

So I did it.

There was no confidence behind it. No belief that it would work. Just a decision.

Sometimes the sessions passed quickly. Other times they felt unbearable. I would wonder if I had even set the timer, how much longer I had to stay there, breathing through something that felt like it didn’t want to be touched.

At times, it felt like torture.

But I kept going.

After the first full round, something shifted. Slightly. Not enough to explain, just enough to notice. Life felt a little easier. People seemed different. Friendlier. At work, things changed. I was moved into a quieter position, less demanding, better paying. I found someone to stay with my kids while I worked. They were safe. Stable.

From the outside, things were improving.

But I didn’t believe it was done.

There was too much there.

So I did the process again.

And again, things moved. Opportunities opened. Jobs appeared. I applied in two places and was hired in both. I chose one closer to my family. My stepfather, who had never been that kind of man, offered me money to move without hesitation. Enough to make it happen comfortably.

Nothing about it made sense.

We moved into a better place. The kids had their own rooms. I gave up mine so they could have space. I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted them to be okay.

Life, for all appearances, was working better than it ever had.

But the question hadn’t gone anywhere.

If anything, it was sharper.

Because now there was no excuse left.

Everything was improving.

And still…

something wasn’t right.