This is my journal entry from October 12, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Sober Through Separation — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I arrived at my ex-wife’s house before the kids woke up this morning, about thirty minutes before anyone stirred. From now on, I’ll wait for my ex-wife to text me when everyone’s up on the weekends, since I already know their schedule on school days. I spent the quiet time reading a book about terrain theory, which proposes that health conditions stem primarily from how we care for our bodies and what we put into them—rather than from germs themselves. That idea resonates deeply with me because it matches my own experience. I’ve seen how my body’s condition depends on how I eat, rest, and live far more than on anything external. I’m looking forward to continuing the book.
Later in the morning, I went to tennis with my tennis coach and another student for a group session where he coached both of us. We alternated drills, often with my tennis coach joining one side of the court while the other person played singles. It was a great workout and genuinely fun. Last week, I told my tennis coach I needed to pause my lessons for a bit because my finances were uncertain, and he kindly invited me to join today’s session for free. His generosity meant a lot to me, but it felt better to pay my share. I handed him $40 afterward—it just didn’t feel right to take the lesson for free when I could afford to contribute. Generosity is wonderful, but fairness feels better to me.
Right after tennis, I went to a hot yoga class at my yoga studio with an instructor teaching. It was a full class, and I set up my mat next to the door so that when she opened it to balance the temperature, I’d get a refreshing burst of cool air amid the heat. Throughout the class, the girl next to me kept sniffling, which distracted me and stirred up a strong impulse to say something after class. When it ended, she put her blocks away, and I turned to her with a friendly “good morning.” I asked if I could share something that might be helpful for her. She looked skeptical and slightly defensive but said yes.
I told her that I’ve found my sinuses stay clear and I avoid head colds when I let my nose run instead of sniffing. She barely let me finish the first sentence before jumping in to explain that she was just cat-sitting for a friend and reacting to the cats. I nodded and explained that, to me, the cause wasn’t the point. It was about understanding how to work with the body rather than against it and how to let energy and toxins flow out instead of holding them in. Here she was, doing hot yoga to sweat out toxins, yet constantly pulling them back up through her nose. It made no sense. Sure, I understood the immediate practicality—she didn’t have a tissue nearby—but I suggested she could use her towel or bring a handkerchief next time. I explained how letting my nose run freely has kept me from getting sick or congested for years and how much more comfortable life feels that way. That’s why I felt compelled to share it; she might not have realized it was even an option.
She listened politely for another minute or two, then thanked me and made as quick an exit as possible. I stood there afterward, staring at my mat, wondering why people cling so tightly to their discomfort. It amazes me how often we hold on to our symptoms, defend them, and dismiss any information that might actually set us free.
After class, I couldn’t stop thinking about how differently I would have responded if I were in her place. If someone had shared something like that with me, I’d have wanted to know more. I’d be asking questions like, What book did you read that led you to that insight? or How did you even figure that out? Because for me, the path to understanding my own sinuses and breathing habits came through deep curiosity and frustration. I used to sniff constantly, which led to a stuffed nose, which then forced me to mouth-breathe. Once I learned that pattern, it became obvious that sniffling was just recycling the problem. What finally pushed me to stop was reading Breath by James Nestor. That book changed everything for me. After finishing it, I never wanted to mouth-breathe again. I’d gotten tired of having pointless head colds that I now see as almost completely preventable. Still, I find myself wondering why so many people have no interest in preventing the very things they complain about.
Even though the girl in class seemed resistant to what I said, part of me hopes it landed somewhere in her mind. Maybe next time she’s sniffling, she’ll remember what I told her. Maybe, when she’s tired of the same cycle, she’ll come around and ask me more questions. Later, I told my ex-wife the whole story, and she asked how I used to respond to things like that earlier in my life. It was a great question. I admitted that people had often tried to give me helpful advice, and I rejected almost all of it. I thought suggestions like “get God” or “quit drinking” were absurd until I did both. It’s humbling to realize how many times people tried to hand me a key, and I refused to turn it.
I also think about how often someone has said something that quietly changed my life, and they probably have no idea they did. Like the woman at a meeting who once said how relaxed and relieved she felt after getting a massage. At the time, my mind was so warped that I thought she must have been talking about some kind of sexual experience. That came straight from Sex and the City, where Samantha joked about a massage therapist “going down” on clients. That idea stuck with me and made me avoid massages altogether for years. Eventually, I became so tense and obsessed with drinking again—about ninety days sober at that point—that I was desperate for relief. I finally booked a massage and discovered it was exactly what I needed: healing, peaceful, and deeply restorative. I’ve been looking forward to my next session with my massage therapist tomorrow.
So maybe this girl at yoga won’t change anything right now, but perhaps someday she will. I know I try not to give people unsolicited advice, but it’s hard when I see someone doing something I know I could help with. It’s like a reflex and I just can’t help myself. Sometimes, making the effort to share what’s helped me feels like a small act of love, even if it’s not received that way in the moment.
After yoga, I came home, showered, and got ready before heading out to pick up the kids. We were going to the conveyor belt sushi restaurant at the mall, a place we hadn’t been since I wrote about our last visit in Author in St. Petersburg. This time, we spent only $100, which felt like a win compared to last time.
I normally don’t eat much meat, but today I went all in. I had a slice of Wagyu beef, a spicy tuna roll, two pieces of jalapeño tuna on rice, a spicy salmon roll, charbroiled mackerel, a golden crunchy roll, and a real crab California roll. I lost count at some point—five or six types of meat in one meal—but it was absolutely delicious. I had no regrets. I see meals like this as nourishing when eaten occasionally, but I wouldn’t want to make it a habit.
As I’m dictating this, my lava lamp—something I keep on in the evenings and turn off before bed—just had a dramatic moment. A huge section of wax broke off the top and crashed to the bottom, and now it’s sitting there lifeless, doing nothing. It’s funny how even a lava lamp can have its own little story.
Back at the mall, after sushi, the kids and I stopped by the fancy bathroom they have there. It took me a full minute to figure out how to raise the toilet seat using the remote. With all the high-tech buttons labeled for different bidet functions, the one to lift the seat was strangely hidden on the side. I kept spotting the bidet options but couldn’t bring myself to try them—not in a public bathroom, anyway. Maybe at home I’d be open to the idea. But a public bidet? I can’t help but question how clean that really is. It’s funny because I was just reading about terrain theory this morning and saying I don’t believe in germ theory, yet here I am worrying about a public toilet.
Still, I wonder how you even aim that thing correctly. The whole idea made me laugh out loud. My dry humor tends to come through naturally when I’m writing, and I’ve had readers who left great reviews on Author in St. Petersburg say that the humor really stands out. Right as I finish that thought, the lava lamp has another crash, sending the wax splattering down the glass. Now I can barely see anything inside it. Honestly, it’s the most exciting thing happening in my place tonight. I keep calling it an apartment out of habit, but it’s actually a two-bedroom, one-bathroom house—very much not an apartment.
After the bathroom adventure, the kids wanted to ride the animal scooters again. Last time, I paid $10 each for separate rides, but this time I went straight for the twenty-minute sessions at $20 apiece. They flew around the mall like two little maniacs playing tag or cops and robbers, laughing the half the time. At one point, my daughter crashed into a light pole and sent the base rattling loudly across the floor. I couldn’t believe that was actually her—it looked like something out of a cartoon.
Next, we wandered into the Halloween store, which was packed with horror displays. One nun figure lunged forward unexpectedly and scared both my daughter and my son. My daughter said the creepiest thing in the whole store was a clown holding a monkey head in a box that told jokes. For me, the most disturbing was a prop of a man wrapped in electrical cables, cut in half, and hanging upside down in what looked like a subway car. When you stepped on the activation pedal, the lights flickered, and he screamed like he was being electrocuted. I thought, this is some sick shit. I don’t understand why we celebrate scenes of torture and death for fun.
On the way out, I told my ex-wife I hoped the kids didn’t have nightmares after all they’d seen in there. Still, I had to admit, watching the interactive displays was strangely entertaining—especially the spider that jumps out when you step on the floor button. A couple of kids tried it and screamed bloody murder when the spider lunged forward. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a twisted kind of fun, the kind that reminds me how ridiculous—and sometimes dark—our version of “family entertainment” can be.
After the Halloween store, I wandered into a crystal shop—something most people who know me probably could’ve predicted. I browsed around for a while but didn’t find anything that called to me. Meanwhile, my daughter and my son went a few stores down to Claire’s. My daughter didn’t find anything she wanted there either, so we left the mall after more than an hour of walking around without buying a single thing besides the animal rides earlier. It actually felt good to spend that much time out without feeling the need to purchase anything.
From there, we headed over to a tennis shop to check out some clothes and rackets. I tried on one of the $50 tennis polos I’d been thinking about, but it didn’t feel nearly as good as the Mammoth Cave polo I already own. I also tested out a pair of shorts, but they felt about the same as the ones I got for free at the my yoga studio clothing exchange. Hard to justify $50 for something that doesn’t feel any better. Plus, as one girl told me recently, “If she’s looking at your crotch, you’ve already got her hooked.” So it doesn’t really matter what kind of shorts I’m wearing anyway.
My son picked up a tennis racket that caught his eye—only $25—and tried it out for a bit. He thought about buying it but ultimately decided against it. We ended up leaving a tennis shop without buying anything either. Two hours of browsing, trying things on, and walking out empty-handed felt surprisingly satisfying.
After that, I dropped the kids off with my ex-wife, who was taking them to visit her family. Then she and I sat down to go over the final details of the divorce agreement. The main issue to settle was how much money she would give me in exchange for taking full ownership of the house. The house is currently in both our names, and there’s roughly $100,000 of equity in it compared to the debt. Realistically, though, if we sold it, we’d probably walk away with something closer to $60,000 after costs and fees.
I told my ex-wife I have zero interest in selling and no desire to stay on the deed. I want her to have the house free and clear—no risk of me ever deciding to sell it later and forcing her to move. We both know someone going through that exact situation right now: one of my ex-wife’s friends has been trying to finalize her divorce for over a year, and her soon-to-be ex just started dating someone new. Now he wants to sell their shared house to get his equity out, which is forcing her to scramble for housing. I don’t want anything like that hanging over my ex-wife or the kids.
My ex-wife asked if $20,000 would be a fair amount to give me for my share of the marital assets. Considering I’d once told her I’d happily take a dollar just to make things clean and final, $20,000 sounds fantastic. It’s enough for me to get a fresh start, and it leaves her with plenty of savings. She’ll still have more than $20,000 in reserve afterward, which gives her a comfortable cushion once her student loan payments resume. Her monthly expenses—including loans, debt payments, and bills—will be over $2,000, so having that safety net feels important.
I genuinely want her to have stability. The kids spend most nights with her, and when she goes out of town, like next week, I’ll stay at the house with them so they can sleep in their own beds. They don’t seem interested in setting up beds at my place yet, so for now I just have my office and a king bed. Technically, the three of us could fit in it if needed—but having everyone in their own twin bed at my ex-wife’s feels like a much better arrangement.
I told my ex-wife that $20,000 felt absolutely fair, and I realized that amount would easily cover at least four months for me to write full-time. She paused and said she wanted to make sure the number was high enough that I wouldn’t resent her later or feel like I’d been treated unfairly. I thought about it for a moment and said, “Well, $25,000 would feel absolutely fantastic—and anything more than that would be greedy. I wouldn’t feel good about taking more.” She smiled and said, “Then $25,000 it is.” That number felt right to both of us. She’d still have plenty of savings left, the house would be entirely in her name, and she’d keep the car, which is ten years newer than mine. She wouldn’t owe me any portion of her retirement, and I’d keep my own assets—including my now mostly worthless crypto portfolio.
Earlier this year, that crypto portfolio was worth somewhere between $50,000 and $60,000. Now it’s down to around $15,000. The Internet Computer (ICP), which makes up most of my holdings, just dropped to $3 in the past few days. It’s barely in the top fifty coins anymore. I’m convinced this is due to manipulation by the criminals running these centralized exchanges that are threatened by what ICP can do. They use derivatives and fraudulent volume to suppress the price, keeping it artificially low so that most people lose interest and the ecosystem’s potential funding power is weakened. Still, even with my portfolio in the gutter, I feel genuinely thrilled about the $25,000 from the divorce. That’s enough to give me the rest of this year and the beginning of next year to focus entirely on writing books and building my next business system.
After finalizing things with my ex-wife, I drove back to my house and got to work right away. I updated my website—JerryBanfield.com—so that the headline now reads:
Two Hours with Jerry Banfield
Real Conversation. Real Presence. Real Life.
Below that, it invites people to schedule a time to meet me in person. When you click “Meet Me in Person,” it opens a page with my contact number for questions and an appointment scheduler. Visitors can now book a two-hour in-person session at my house for $333.33.
The description reads:
“You’ll love coming to my house to spend a couple of hours together to talk, play board games, cook, move, walk, work on your book, or ask any question you have for me.”
Right now, I offer one appointment slot each day, usually at 11:30 a.m., with a few at 3 p.m. I might adjust those times later, but this feels like a good rhythm to start with.
The inspiration behind this offering is simple: I’ve always imagined how amazing it would be to spend a couple of hours talking one-on-one with one of my favorite authors—someone like Eckhart Tolle. That level of personal connection feels sacred. As my books continue spreading through the community, I know they’ll reach people who haven’t met me yet but will feel drawn to connect. Some of them will go to my website, pay the $333, and come over to my house for a real conversation.
I can already picture the energy of those meetings—people showing up to share stories, ask questions, and simply be heard. Some might come back regularly because they find the experience so grounding and uplifting. Sitting with someone who truly listens and knows your story creates space for healing, connection, and perspective. It’s therapeutic—especially for loneliness—and it brings a sense of fun and renewal.
Imagine being able to sit down for two hours with the author of a book you loved and just talk. That’s what I want to offer: something real, human, and present. This is my business plan now—simple, personal, and deeply aligned with who I am.
But for this business plan to really work, I need more books—five or ten, ideally. That’s what would make it powerful. I already have Author in St. Petersburg finished, and within the next week I plan to publish the diaries for September. These entries I’m dictating now will go into the October diary book. Once those are done, I’ll have at least three volumes of diary books—something I can hand people and say, “Here’s what it’s really like to live a life offline.”
Alongside those, I’ve got I Was Famous on the Internet, which gives the full arc of my story before I walked away from the digital world. After that, I want to branch out creatively—especially into fiction. Lately, I’ve had this idea brewing for a novel inspired by a yoga crush I had at my yoga studio. I’ll fictionalize it, of course, and weave in elements of time, choice, and alternate realities—something along the lines of The Midnight Library. I just finished that book, and it’s been such a comfort as I’ve settled into living alone. Every night when I come home, I turn on an audiobook, and The Midnight Library has kept me company through that transition.
I want to write something similar but set at my yoga studio—a mix of romance, self-discovery, and quantum timelines. I’m thinking of calling it Friday Yoga Crush. I considered using “my yoga studio” in the title, but I don’t want to confuse it with the actual studio. Friday Yoga Crush feels universal—any English speaker could read that title and think, “What’s this about?” It immediately sounds like a love story with a twist, and that’s exactly what I want. I checked Amazon tonight, and Friday Yoga Crush is a completely clean search term. That sealed it for me.
What excites me most is that I could dictate this book in a week—maybe even this week or next, especially since my ex-wife will be out of town for a few days. The story is already alive in my mind, and I know I can bring it to life quickly once I sit down and start talking.
Imagine what my library will look like once I’ve done that: a book on health, a book on money, a fiction novel, several diary volumes, I Was Famous on the Internet, and later maybe a dating book and one on sobriety. Ten books, all written within about a year. Then I picture myself walking door to door through my neighborhood with a backpack full of my own books, saying, “Hi, I’m a local author. I’ve written ten different books this year—would you like one?” I’d open the backpack and let people choose.
That’s the life I want—to hand my work directly to people, no middleman, no algorithm. And from there, anything could happen. Some of my neighbors might book a session with me. Others might invite me to speak somewhere, or introduce me to someone new. I might meet a potential partner, find an independent mechanic, a plumber, a tennis partner, or just a new friend.
I want to know my neighborhood—not as faces behind doors, but as people I’ve talked to and connected with. And I want to show up with a collection of books so abundant that people are stunned. I want them to think, Damn, this guy’s the real deal—look at all these books. That vision excites me more than anything right now: living locally, writing constantly, and building real relationships one book at a time.
After updating my website to serve as a clear invitation for people to schedule in-person sessions with me, I headed back to spend the evening with my ex-wife and the kids. We had a nice, quiet night together. Once the kids were in bed, I stopped by my mom’s place and hung out for about thirty minutes before returning home.
Later, I sat down and read the St. Petersburg Toastmasters newsletter. I used to be part of that group about five years ago, but I lost interest when the meetings switched to Zoom. Still, reading the newsletter tonight surprised me—it was actually interesting. What really struck me was how few familiar names were left. Practically everyone in the group now is different from when I was active. It’s strange how quickly communities change when you step away for a few years.
After that, I found myself browsing hybrid Camrys on the the Toyota dealership website. Part of me loves the idea of upgrading, but the other part knows I want to keep my car costs as low as possible right now. Then I caught myself thinking about the real value of my time—and decided to stop scrolling and get back to something that actually matters. I switched gears, picked up my microphone, and started dictating this book again. My goal tonight is to edit a few more entries and get to bed at a reasonable hour.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.