Dear Bishop was first posted on December 23, 2017. It was the first time I ever wrote a letter to myself. That letter opened doors and helped shape who I am today. For those curious where it all began, here’s a link to the original post: Dear Bishop.
Over time, I moved the date to August 11th—my former wedding anniversary. Today would have been my 18th.
To set the scene: I’ve just eaten a simple dinner. There’s a heavy pour of Gentleman Jack and 7-Up beside me, my vape within reach. Headphones in, volume up. Lights off. The sun is setting here in Utah. With that—let’s begin.
Dear Bishop,
It’s good to see you tonight. That was a heavy pour of whiskey, and based on the music and your drink of choice, I think we’re here to process. This year… this year has been strange.
We’ve got some ground to cover. Let’s start here: you, my friend, are still a sponge for grief. I can see the tears you’re holding back. You’ve been strong for nearly 38 years, and it’s landed you in therapy and gave you a long run as a heavy drinker. We bucked that trend, and I’m glad that season is over.
It’s been over a year since Ruger passed, and tonight you still weep for him. Letting go has always been hard for you. That inner child still has tears left over from 1993. He hasn’t healed, and I don’t know what you’re scared of. Feeling, crying, letting big emotions out—that’s strength, too. One you need to tap into more. It’s good you and Shelby have Rain. She’ll never replace Ruger, but the unconditional love she gives is healing… even if she is a bed hog.
This year you got played by an employer you gave your all to. January was a brutal start—being told you were laid off while someone else was quietly hired to replace you. Cowardly. Bullshit. But you knew they’d done it to others before. The warning signs were there. And still, it stung.
You ran the gamut of emotions in the months that followed. Every month brought a crisis—big or small, still a punch to the gut. And I’m concerned about how much you’ve withdrawn in the hard times. That’s a return to old habits, and those habits don’t serve you. Simple things have felt overwhelming, and you’ve turned them into reasons not to thrive. You need to use your voice more. Ask for what you need—big or small.
You’re still your own biggest doubter. That probably means more therapy when the time is right. Sometimes, you just have to make time. You’re an expert at putting your needs last.
But there were wins. You went camping this year—first time since before you bought the house. You explored ghost towns. You did more wrenching than you wanted, but you kept that ’95 Jeep with 230k miles alive. You even fixed a coolant leak the morning of a camping trip so the whole shitshow could still roll out. You’ve learned new skills, leaned on old diagnostic ones, and kept moving forward. Even though your last job ended badly, you picked up valuable life skills there.
You made genuine connections, too. One of them led to an early-morning text from Steve’s wife telling you he had passed, and that she wanted you at his funeral. A man who came to you for automotive service respected you enough that his widow thought of you on the day she buried him. You leave a mark on people.
Which is why we need to stop dissociating and start doing again. The podcast is waiting. The blog has been too quiet. People connect with your take on life, and by sharing, you help those who find you. Stop letting the little things get in the way. Overcome the obstacles like you have before. You can—if you get out of your own way.
Start reading again. Make time for yourself. Listen to the voices that inspire you. And we need to talk about the big one—junk food. You’ve been circling the words, but here they are: food is an addiction for you. It’s tied to grief and childhood. But it’s time to get it under control. The soda, the drive-thrus—this isn’t you. It’s stress. And it’s hurting your body. You’ve felt lousy for a while now, and you know why.
We’ve never flat-out admitted it before, but treating it like an addiction is the first step. Portion control. Fewer drive-thrus. Keep track of what and when you eat—and how much. We’ve had plenty of bad habits, but this one can kill you. And I know you don’t want to go out like that. “The man who ate himself to death” is a bullshit ending, and we’ve come too far.
Baby steps—no more “make a plan and then ignore it” because we both know that’s Bishop-talk for not doing it at all. This needs to be tackled head-on. It’s as urgent as fixing your ankle.
So, to recap: feel more. Express more. Ask for what you need. Read more. Write more. Podcast—for the love of God—more. Use your voice and your experiences to better yourself and others. Take the time you need and be clear when you need it, but also go see friends. Stop hiding.
There’s still a lot of year left to turn this around. Next year’s meeting? I expect better. None of the silent crying and holding back I’ve seen this year. You’ll do amazing things if you let yourself.
I love you.
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