I had just taken a beating in court. Five days of legal torture, representing myself because I was out of money, while my soon-to-be ex-wife threw every lie, every exaggeration, every twisted half-truth at the judge, hoping something would stick. And, of course, some of it did. Enough to ruin me. Enough to turn my life into a smoking crater.
And let’s not pretend I was innocent. My own shenanigans didn’t help. I gave them the ammunition; she just pulled the trigger.
When the gavel came down, I had nothing. Not half. Not fair. Not even a handshake for the years I put in. Just the cold realization that I was officially fucked.
So, I ran.
Packed up what little I had left and drove to Sherwood, Portland, Oregon, with $11,000 in cash and no plan. Rented a basement studio—six months of purgatory, waiting for the court’s final decree to officially strip me of everything I had ever built.
No job. No direction. Just a slow, daily leak of money—rent, beer, bad decisions.
Then the phone rang.
“James, those buyers? The ones looking at the last section of your strip mall in Idaho? They want to buy you out. Full control of the HOA. They’re offering $280,000.”
$280,000. Jesus.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, but it has to happen fast.”
See, the court had put a chokehold on my assets, but that little voice—the one that had been whispering ever since this mess started—told me: Take the money and run.
So I did.
The money hit my account, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I felt alive again. Until reality kicked me in the teeth.
I had back taxes to pay. A lawyer had a lien on the property. When it was all said and done, I had enough cash to not be homeless—but not enough to be free.
I went to a pawnshop to see about buying gold. My father’s idea.
“Dude,” the broker said, “you’d need a pickup truck to carry $280K in gold. You can’t just walk around with that shit in a suitcase.”
So much for that plan.
Then the final divorce decree arrived. And it was even worse than I expected. She took it all. Everything. The court didn’t split anything down the middle. They split me in half and handed my better half to her.
I could’ve fought. I could’ve hired a lawyer. But I was already drained.
Still, I paid $100 to see a men’s rights attorney in downtown Portland, just to see if I had a shot. He pulled up my case, skimmed through it, and let out a slow whistle.
“My God,” he said. “This isn’t a divorce. This is a murder trial. You have nine binders’ worth of legal warfare stacked against you. If I take your case, the court will bury me in paperwork, and you’ll pay me a fortune just to lose.”
Then he leaned in and said something I’ll never forget.
“If I were you, I’d disappear under a rock and live your life until the money’s gone. Because this woman? She’ll chase you down. If you buy a house, she’ll take it. If you open a business, she’ll take it. That money isn’t yours—it’s just a target on your back.”
In other words, spend it all.
That was his legal advice. Burn through the cash and vanish.
I walked out of that office thinking, Jesus Christ. This is Sedona.
Meanwhile, I was shacking up with a Greek girl in Portland, spending more nights at her place than my own. My lease was about to expire. And my body? It was breaking down. I knew something was wrong, but no health insurance meant no real answers.
So I went to one of those cash-upfront clinics, sat across from a young doctor who smiled too much.
We talked. I told him everything—about the divorce, the court battles, the depression, the drinking.
At first, he laughed at my jokes. Then, as I was about to leave, he stopped me.
“Can you come back in for a second?”
He sat me down in front of a screen—one of those mental health checklists. Questions about depression, suicidal thoughts, hopelessness.
Then he sighed.
“Sir,” he said, “everything you’ve been through… that’s a hell of a lot for one person. I can’t prescribe you anything, but you should talk to someone. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Then the bastard hugged me. And I almost broke.
So I followed his advice.
$70 an hour for a psychologist in the back of a Presbyterian church. Sat down. Told her my life story. Rags to riches to ruin. Abuse. Mormonism. The endless cycle of trying to fix things, only to watch them burn.
At the end of our session, she smiled.
“You remind me of Tony Soprano,” she said.
What the fuck.
“You have an incredible life story,” she added. “I could listen to you talk all day.”
Great. I’m a goddamn HBO character.
I paid for that?
I walked out of there wondering if I should just go to Sedona, live in a cave, and let time erase me.
Then the snowstorm hit.
Portland shut down. Roads iced over. I parked my truck and sat there, listening to the voices in my head—replaying everything. The lawyer’s advice. The doctor’s concern. The psychologist’s weird fascination with my life.
And I realized—I was done.
My lease was ending. The Greek girl was nice, but she wasn’t my future—just another distraction. I had a truck. I had cash. I had no real reason to be anywhere.
So, I did what I do best.
I walked up the icy hill, made a wonderful dinner for the Greek girl, fucked her three times, and when she left for work the next morning, I packed my bags, walked down the hill, loaded up my truck, and headed south.
Just me and that little voice in my head.
Maybe Sedona was calling. Maybe nowhere was calling.
All I knew was “you never pay for real estate twice”, I wasn’t looking back.
