Blog Post About a Blog Post I Didn’t Publish

Let me tell you about something I did for the first time since I started writing my blog. 

Since Tuesday, I have been working on a piece far exceeding my 1,000-word limit. I revised it repeatedly until it said exactly what I wanted to say, the way it needed to be said. Then, moments ago, I decided not to post it.  It was about an incumbent wannabe politician – a local yokel who did damage to a town.  While serving as an elected official, this individual filed a lawsuit against the same government he or she represented. He or she cashed a fat check written by the taxpayers he or she had sworn to serve.  The same taxpayers – friends – showed their disdain.  The incumbent lost to an unknown.  The voters said, “Enough is Enough.” 

I had pages about it—deeply personal stuff, the real story. I read it out loud to myself, and I loved it. Then I read it out loud to myself, and I hated it.  It’s scathing.  And even though it is true, I can’t post it.

Great Thinker - But Could He Hit Gronk in the End Zone?

The original quote did not come from Tom Brady, but I recall him saying that holding resentment or anger is like drinking poison and waiting for another person to die.  I looked it up.  It came from Buddha.  Tom is the greatest competitor ever – but he’s a weird dude, too.  It was quite a Californian thing to say – and I believe he believes what he said.  Like Giselle is off with the karate teacher, making babies, while Tom is chewing on a rare tree bark that keeps him looking young.  He probably sent a lovely baby shower gift. 

I suppose if I had a quarter of a billion $$$ sitting around, it’d be easy to forget the ones who did what they did.  Or, with that kind of cake, life’s stresses would be significantly different, so it’s tough to follow along with Brady’s mentality. Brady will never know what it is like to worry about the food and shelter essentials. The way of the Buddha has to be easier with Crypto, CBS, and a company of your own.

Without Brady and the Buddha, it is easy to blame others for the things that have pained us.  And let’s be honest.  The blame game works. 

Then there is a point—the one where we stop blaming and start accepting. The mess I am in is my own. I made it. I have to clean it up, like we try to teach our kids, anyway.

On my first day of AA one of the fellas told me I was going to be okay – so long as I didn’t drink, went to meetings, and asked for help.  I went Meatloaf.  Stopped drinking, went to meetings – lots of them.  But I’d be dammed if I asked anyone for help.  Two outta three ain’t bad, right?

Sorry. It’s On My Top 10.

Asking for help is really hard, and you'd think asking for assistance would be easy for a guy who's spent so much time and energy helping others.  The only help I thought I wanted was someone to waterboard me or whip me — anything but write about me. I hated being written about, and that’s one of the reasons I decided not to waste my written words on dirtbags.  There’s nothing to be gained from it. 

But here’s the thing: writing about them – what they did — felt like taking my power back. For a minute. Until I realized it wasn’t power. It was poison.

I’ve spent the better part of 2025 trying to stop drinking the kind of poison that sneaks into your bloodstream and tells you you’re justified. That you’re righteous. That they deserve it.

Maybe they do.

But I’ve also learned that resentment, like relapse, doesn’t start with a drink. It starts with a thought. A headline. A memory. A name. A draft blog post that you read out loud and realize — this ain’t me no more.

So instead of hitting publish, I hit delete.

And that’s a first.

That blog post wasn’t for the readers. It was for revenge. And I know enough now to know that’s not why I’m writing anymore. I write because it helps me feel human again. Because it helps me tell the truth — not just about what happened, but about who I’ve become since.

So tonight, I’m not here to rage. I’m here to recover.

And if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever wanted to hit send on something scathing, shout something justified, or drop the truth like a hammer — I get it.

But maybe don’t.

Maybe write it. Read it out loud. Love it. Hate it. Then let it go.

Because sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t speaking out — it’s choosing silence. Not because they deserve it. But because we do.

Thanks, Tom.
Thanks, Buddha.

And thanks to Mike C., the guy on Day One who told me I would be okay, even if I didn’t believe him yet.

Turns out, he was right.