Half-Life: A Quiet Postmodern Tragedy

May 11, 2022

Part 1 of 18

Hey there! I know I’ve basically let this Substack wither on the vine and turn into a raisin, but that’s hopefully set to change. After months of endless thought and pondering, I’ve finally been able to write. Like, almost 26,000 words write. And I ended up asking a lot of questions that I never thought to ask, and got a lot of answers that had been evading my reach for a long time.

This is the result of that exercise. I’ve called it Half-Life: A Quiet Postmodern Tragedy, and it’s a memoir. My own memoir. Before you start reading, I need you to know a few things.

I’ve only done some very light structural editing, so if anything doesn’t flow or sound right, that’s most likely why.
This piece will include descriptions of child sexual abuse and suicidial thoughts. I’ve added content warnings to applicable sections, but please know that before starting.
Any future versions of this piece may have been edited for content and/or structure.
Everything you’re about to read is true.

It’s hard posting this, but also gratifying. It feels like this is the culmination of my life’s work so far. And I’m sure it’s far from perfect, but I needed to release this now; you’ll understand why by the end.

Finally, I know this is somewhat off-topic for a Substack that’s purportedly about digital culture and communications. Rest assured, there are some connections to be drawn back to that, but more than anything else, I needed to write this, so that I can write about those things. My whole life has been shaped by the events below, and knowing more about them – and about me, even parasocially – will inform how you can interpret my own views on digital life.

With that, let’s eject some protons and decay into Half-Life.

There’s something swirling around in my head.

It’s taken many forms, ebbed, flowed, washed ashore, and churned, all while evading comprehension. Just throwing all the little lifeboats around, seemingly forever.

“Hi, my name is Nicholas; I’m 26 years old and I’m from El Paso, Texas, and now live in Dallas…”

The amount of times that my internal monologue has spoken those words at me in an idle moment is uncountably large. I never stopped to think much about it, writing it off as simple daydreaming. Maybe I’d suddenly discover my passion and gift for singing and win The Voice of Talent’s X Idol and hit the talk show circuit promoting an album. Maybe I’d write a smash novel and get to drink wine with Hoda and Kathie Lee on Today and make a fool of myself. Maybe I’d do something, anything to be seen, to put myself in front of a crowd, and own who I am. What my story is. What I have to say, and why it’s important.

There’s one problem; I never finish my introduction. It always trails off after I give out the most basic information, no one ever asks me questions. There aren’t any performances, mid-morning libations, controversies, answers, or insights – it’s just an introduction without a story.

I’ve been doing this reality show intro bit for years in my head, while creating my own stories in the world beyond my head (both of ‘em are pretty big!), but they never seemed to creep into my monologue. Sure, I’d think – overthink, even – about the events of my everyday life; I’m not above acting like Kelly Rowland composing a text in Microsoft Excel on a Nokia 9290 and being overcome with delusional angst in a music video, but those thoughts never seemed to be worthy of being “my story,” so to speak.

That’s what those little bits are, right? Reality TV, in positioning “everyday people” as its subjects, creates narratives for its characters, based on their hopes, motivations, fears, and overall identities. There’s a whole minefield to navigate with that line of thinking, but for now, I want to put it aside. Along with that, I need to put aside the delusions of grandeur, the instances of domestic squabbles and awkward advances. I need to put aside the events of the last week, the last month, the last year, of college, of dating, of moving, of fucking, of sobbing, of everything. This is important.

I’ve found my story. And it only took 13 years.

Let’s start at the beginning, yeah?

Hi, my name is Nicholas; I’m 26 years old. I’m from El Paso, Texas, but I now live in Dallas. And when I was 12 years old, I was sexually abused by my best friend. For the first time, and it would happen again and again, over the course of the next year.