Diagnosis

Kobe Bryant's death affected me in a much deeper way than I could have ever imagined. Sure, it is very well known how much of a Kobe Fan I am. That was no secret. But I didn't know him personally and was definitely unprepared to deal with the influx of emotion after his untimely passing. I always likened myself to Kobe in a certain way. Not as an athlete because that doesn't even come close to being similar, but how he approached any and every obstacle. That Mamba Mentality. The tunnel vision he would envelope whenever he attacked a particular goal.

I'm just wired weird. My therapist describes it as Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. She says it could be a good thing if I could harness it and channel it in the right way. It was always more with me. If I ran one mile, why couldn't I run two or twenty? Same with life. If I made money, then why couldn't I make more money. This ever-changing goal post in my life never allowed me to reach a certain level of fulfillment because nothing was ever enough. I was burning out at a dramatic pace, and my dumbass was too blind, literally, to even see it coming.

When I retired from the military, it was this sort of relief that I could now spend more time with my family. Initially, that's what I did, but as a young man, retiring that early creates an environment of boredom and complacency, and I wasn't ready to sit around and day drink every day. Towards the end of my barbering career, I was doing entirely too much and creating a strain on my body that I couldn't sustain. Before sunrise for my before-work clients, I would be out the door, burn through the first part of the day, pick the kids up from school, rush back to the shop for my after-work clients, and finally pull into the house around nine at night. That went on for a while and was actually light work compared to my earlier days as a barber in the mall. So, like Kobe, it was time to retire and really start the next phase of my life. 

See, I never knew what I liked to do for fun because I never thought I had time for it. I would cut hair and take care of everything with the kids. For about 3-4 years, my schedule was ruthless. Kids needed to be everywhere at ridiculous times, clients demanding services at ridiculous times, trying to eat, and trying to work out all in 24 hrs. I didn't even think twice about it and just assumed that's how everyone's life was. Busy! When my therapist would emphasize, No, Taiwain, what do YOU like to do for fun? Not the kids. Not the Wife. Not the Job. YOU! I really didn't know. Barbering had just become too much. I was beginning to avoid client calls, taking lengthier lunches, and overall, just trying to find my way out. Let me tell you something about barbering; it's not what you think it is. Many clients feel like you work for them, and they're cheap as shit. It's a young man's game, to me. Owners want their piece, and when you're an owner, barbers tend to act like children and are too big of a headache at times. I had enough, and my family had enough too. 

Towards the end of my run as a barber, I had begun to notice that my body was starting to act a little weird. My balance was constantly off, and my hands had started to become very shaky at times. My eyes were noticeably weakening, but I just put that down to a lack of sleep and pressed on. I knew my time as a career guy was drawing to a close, and the lore of the stay-at-home full-time dad was looking really lovely. Now, I had already worked this gig for a short while right after I retired from the military, but for whatever reason, I had forgotten what a massive pain in the ass it was. Look, stay-at-home parents should receive some community service accommodation because, yeah, FUCK THAT! It's so boring, and you really just cater to little spoiled brats all the time. Like Kobe, I dove headfirst into the full-time Dad gig and, yep, still fucking hated it. But as I would come to find out, that had way more to do with me internally than anything to do with being a stay-at-home dad. Everyone knows my kids want for absolutely nothing. And I mean nothing! If one of them asks for a piece of the moon best, believe I'm trying to figure out a way to get up there and grab a part of it for them. My therapist believes it stems from my own trials throughout my childhood. I never knew my father. And I'll leave it at that for now. The start of the 2020 school year introduced us to our new normal. Dad would be free all the time now and didn't have to rush off to meet a client at the drop of a dime. Honestly, I missed this. I was at peace, and my phone didn't buzz so damn much anymore. I liked cutting hair. It was always viewed as art to me, but that shit had run its course. I could pick my daughter up and enjoy an after-school meal, her favorite, by the way. But I was just off for some reason. I couldn't sleep, and I was always tired.

My strength and performance were dropping dramatically, and I didn't know what the hell was going on. I had regular visits with my primary doctor, and every test would come back normal. So I just ordered more supplements and vitamins and pressed on. I was never a daily drinker type, but those one or two days I did indulge, BABY! I WENT IN. Weekend football was the worst because those were Dad's days, and I would watch football and drink beer all day. ALL DAY! I was a chill drinker, so aside from some bad dance moves or a slight slur here and there, no one ever really noticed when I had one too many. Hangovers were a bitch, though.

I knew I was closing in on 40, so that was to be expected. But this was different. One day of drinking would have me in bed for days. I just didn't feel right, but I just kept pushing. Quarantine and covid restrictions were in full swing by Mid-March, and my health was in a sharp decline. April 11, 2020, I strapped on my 100lb weighted vest, and my youngest son and I went on a five-mile hike. It was brutal. I barely made it back to the car. But, As I do, I came home and did another whole workout of squats, lunges, arm curls, and rows. See, wired weird. Around 8 pm, my eyes started burning. Like, I had been stabbed with a pencil burning. Like, a loose booty stripper coming off a three day bender burning. We tried eye drops and everything. Water rinse. Ice pack. No relief. Eventually, I fell asleep and woke up at 2:33 am to use the bathroom, but I couldn't open my eyes, and when I did, it was two sets of numbers on the clock. I stumbled to the bathroom and just assumed something was in my eye and I'd deal with it in the morning. An ordinary person would go to an eye doctor; nope, not me. I went to google. Dumbass! I assumed it was nothing but each day after that; it got worse and worse. My vision was so bad that I had to stop driving entirely. I had no depth perception. I saw two of everything and couldn't tell which was the right image. I began to struggle walking up the stairs, and my heart rate was spiking to insane numbers. I was suffering and, for the first time, scared to find out what was happening to me. That damn Google!