The original entry

It is not a cry for help, I am Xen. When I cry for help, it tends to be audible and actually involve tears.

I mean, yes, that does tend to be your way. Your neurotransmitters cry wolf too often for you to keep ignoring that you might have a mental illness, and you consider writing to be asking for help enough, but volume and moisture tend to be your methods.

I very much doubt I could turn out a single poem or story of that color, because that is not where my talents currently reside.

You were never a poet, but I defy you to say that you are not the slave of stories. You may not have been writing them -- you fool -- but stories comprise your cells.

I confess that I wasn't inspired by anyone around me dying, nor any actual prom queen.

I am fifty percent sure that no one sent you a letter -- how could they? -- and you are just pretending to give yourself an excuse to write this.

He's quite happy, just was (and possibly is) a melodramatic teen.

And a melodramatic teen you will remain far too long, my boy.

At first, publicly, I stated that I felt old when realizing that these issues were concretely creeping into my life.

I wish you didn't feel old. You aren't. I don't usually feel old, and I'm twice your age.

I was once told that men fear marriage because, in their feeble male brains, marriage equates to death and death is a force to be feared. If not death, they view marriage or any of the supposed shackles of domesticity as stagnation (do you know what stagnation leads to? That's right, death!)

Marrying my wife was one of the best decisions I ever made. She has helped me grow immeasurably as a person in a way that benefits me daily and which has noticeably improved my writing. She is my favorite person in the world. Whenever I hypothesize to her changing my past (and what am I doing writing to you except that?), I always add, "But I want to end up back here with you. If I can't do that, I don't want to change anything." She is worth any sacrifices you will endure.

Marriage does involve a slowing down. We both work, though Amber did not when the two of us started cohabitating. She is tired often -- nature of the beast, it seems -- and more of an introvert than me.

These aren't shackles. I would usually rather do nothing much but be around Amber than do something exciting without her. Excitement would not be as worthy in her absence.

Until four months ago, I was in a long term relationship that, left unchecked, may have someday led to something far more domestic then leaving my toothbrush and razor in a baggie in the top drawer of her nightstand. It was checked and deemed in need of revision in the form of a break-up, though not by me.

It was never going to get there because, to Kate, you represented shackles.

As any dumpee, I took it poorly, though I cannot judge its rightness or wrongness now. But I am happy now and so is she. We have evolved or devolved to this point at hand.

Some people handle being dumped better than you do, with more grace. But you are practically a child and have abandonment issues. We can understand you, even if that understanding does not necessarily come with forgiveness.

I hope you are happy. You, at the bare minimum, seem to be getting better.

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Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. He has published four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings. He likes when you comment.