This is my journal entry from September 20, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I think I finally figured out what’s been wrong. This morning I went to my 8:30 AA meeting and had a nice time sharing and connecting with people. Three people said they’d be coming to the new AA meeting I just started, which is now officially listed in the Where & When and in the AA app online. That made me genuinely happy—it felt like the group was becoming real. Still, when I got home afterward, I was hit with the same heavy sadness. I couldn’t shake it. My mood has been unusually low for days now, and I still couldn’t tell exactly why.
Later, I met up with a friend to play tennis, hoping some movement would help. We played at a park. I was so down I barely cared, and it showed—I lost the first set 6–1. I was relaxed from all the massages yesterday but emotionally stuck, torn between wanting to play well and not wanting to force it. When a friend went up 3–0 in the second set, something in me snapped. I said, “Fuck it.” I decided to stop caring about winning or losing. I even said to myself, I hope I hit every shot out. I just wanted to have fun again.
I threw my shirt off—it’s a public park, so I could—and suddenly something shifted. The moment I stopped trying, I started playing beautifully. My shots flowed naturally, faster and cleaner. I came back to tie the set. A friend needed a few games to adjust because I was now hitting everything in with power and confidence. I even hit one shot so hard that even though he was way back at the baseline, he could barely get his racket on it. The ball exploded off his strings and shot away helplessly. It caught him completely off guard because I’d been playing so casually until then. That was the first game he lost all set.
I won a few more games before he regained his rhythm and barely edged out the win 6–4. Still, it was so much more fun once I’d stopped caring. We both laughed a lot, especially when a friend started clowning around. On one point, he actually hit the ball using a granny-style basketball motion from underneath with his racket and somehow won the point. We couldn’t stop laughing.
After the match, I got home a little after two, ate some guacamole, showered, and sat down to start working on my ethics assignment for massage school. We have an Ethics for Massage Therapists booklet we print online, and I needed to finish reading and answering the questions before Monday. It’s our first real homework. I’d wanted to study for the upcoming anatomy and physiology quiz, but there was too much reading here to ignore, so I dove into ethics first.
That’s when everything started to click—and not in a pleasant way. As I read, I started to feel both awful and enlightened at the same time. The ethics book talked about how massage therapists must maintain clear boundaries and avoid personal or emotionally intimate relationships with clients. It said we shouldn’t think of clients as friends or discuss personal topics like sex, relationships, money, or health. As soon as I read that, my stomach sank. I realized just how consistently I’ve pushed those boundaries over the years.
I love connecting with people deeply, and I’ve always seen my therapists as friends. I often open up about very personal things, and over time I’ll even tell them that I love them. Most of the time, they say they love me too. Reading the ethics material made me see how complicated—and inappropriate—that dynamic can be. I thought about how I consistently tip excessively, giving $100 on a 90-minute massage when the therapist might only be getting paid $30-something from the spa. The average client probably tipps $30 or $40, so my tips made me their best-paying customer by far. That inevitably created pressure for them to please me, to go along with whatever direction the conversation took, even if it crossed boundaries.
Sometimes, those blurred lines led to disaster. A therapist would start unloading their own problems onto me—dumping their personal drama during the session because they felt safe doing it. I’d leave drained and disappointed, realizing the session had turned into a therapy swap. Reading through that ethics material hit me hard. It showed me clearly how I’ve contributed to those blurred boundaries, and I couldn’t avoid seeing myself in those examples. It felt terrible, but it also gave me insight into why I’ve been feeling off lately.
The deeper I got into that ethics packet, the worse I felt. Some of the ideas I’d had for my massage and coaching business—things I thought were creative, compassionate, and even healing—turned out to be either frowned upon or outright illegal. I hadn’t done any of them, but realizing that my vision itself broke so many rules crushed me. I had imagined building a practice that felt deeply personal—friendly, emotionally connected, the kind of relationships where we might say “I love you” and genuinely know each other’s lives. I thought people would value that, that they’d pay well for it if I was open and transparent about what I offered.
But reading through the ethics material made it clear that even if I presented it honestly, it could still get me in serious trouble. If I built my website to reflect that personal level of connection, it would take almost nothing for someone to accuse me of being unethical. A jealous colleague or a dissatisfied client could point to my own writing as evidence, and I could easily lose my license. The thought of that devastated me. I don’t want to live in fear of being punished for being myself.
As I answered the homework questions, I felt disgusted. Not just frustrated—truly repulsed by how restrictive these rules are. I understand why they exist. They’re meant to protect clients, maintain professionalism, and prevent exploitation. But that’s not how I want to do business. I can’t imagine building something authentic by pretending these boundaries align with my nature. I’m not interested in crushing my vision just to conform to what the massage board thinks a therapist should be.
Then I learned that because massage is classified as health care in Florida, there are even more regulations. It’s illegal to offer referral commissions or financial kickbacks. I had hoped to create a generous affiliate-style system where anyone who referred a client would get 20% commissions for life. Apparently, that’s not allowed. And beyond that, I can’t legally choose clients based on preference. I can’t only work with people I like or invite certain people in for free sessions while charging others.
That realization really hit me. I’d pictured hand-selecting clients I felt drawn to—people I wanted to help—and maybe offering them free massages to build relationships and word of mouth. But reading through the laws, I saw how easily that could backfire. If word spread that I gave some people free sessions but charged others hundreds of dollars, it could be seen as discrimination. If anyone outside my circle felt excluded or treated unfairly, I could face legal complaints or even lose my license.
It was sobering. I’ve worked online for so long that I’ve grown used to a different kind of world, one where the rules are vague, rarely enforced, and easily sidestepped by insiders. On the internet, “terms and conditions” are more like guidelines—most at the top ignore them, and enforcement is inconsistent. But the real world doesn’t work that way. Here, the oversight is local and personal. Regulators know your name. The accountability is immediate.
Reading those pages made me see how drastically different the offline world is from the digital one I used to live in. Online, I could experiment freely and make my own rules. In massage therapy, one mistake—one misstep in ethics or communication—could destroy everything I’ve built. That contrast between the freedom of the internet and the rigidity of licensed health care hit me hard tonight. It left me wondering if this new path can ever really align with who I am.
When I think about how different local accountability is from the online world I came from, it really shocks me. During all my years publishing online, I uploaded thousands of videos and rarely had any issue with local authorities. There was only one real exception, years ago, involving a business I’d once promoted in a video. When questions came up locally, I cooperated fully with what was asked of me. That experience taught me how directly accountability can reach you in the offline world. Out of everything I posted over the years, that was the only situation that ever drew official attention.
Massage, on the other hand, is the opposite. It’s entirely local, and the oversight is close and personal. Every session happens face-to-face, every client interaction is traceable, and the laws are written at the state level. I realized that if I’m publishing books while practicing massage, I could get myself in trouble without even meaning to—especially if I ever wrote about a client experience, even indirectly. Some of what I’ve already written could even be seen as problematic. In Author in St. Petersburg, for example, there are passages where I discuss interactions with massage therapists that might raise ethical red flags if taken out of context.
Reading the ethics packet while already feeling low sent me deeper into frustration. What started as sadness turned into full-blown anger and despair. I felt trapped—like the very system meant to protect people was stifling everything creative and human about the work.
Thankfully, the day took a lighter turn. The perfect opportunity for a date came up with my ex-wife, and we decided to drive fifty minutes down to a town about an hour away for dinner at a sushi restaurant—our favorite place. We sat together watching doubles tennis on the TV while eating, and for a little while, everything felt peaceful again. I’d been worried she might be upset about me quitting massage school or about how uncertain my direction feels right now, but she wasn’t. She seemed calm, grounded, and genuinely supportive. She told me she’s been working on having a more accepting attitude through Al-Anon, and I was deeply grateful for that. Her openness helped pull me out of my own head. She shared some of her recent insights and experiences, which gave me perspective and reminded me that not everything needs to make perfect sense right away.
Even with that, I was still low by the end of the night. It’s unusual for me to feel depressed for an entire day straight, but I remembered something I’d said in an AA meeting yesterday—that I’m proud I can handle the full range of emotions life gives me. I can feel incredible joy or deep sadness, and I don’t need to drink, use drugs, or take anything to change it. I don’t need to explain it away or escape it. I can stay sober, face whatever comes, and recognize that my feelings are often signals—calls to action.
Still, after reading that ethics book, guilt lingered. I realized I might have put a massage therapist in a difficult position because of her connection to the massage school. I’d offered to help her write a book and trade services with her for massage, but now I don’t know if that’s wise. If I’m not going to continue massage school, I don’t see the point in driving all the way to Sarasota for sessions, and I don’t have a space for her to come here even if she wanted to. The truth is, I think I’m a complicated client for her. I admire her as a therapist, but the things I tend to talk about could easily blur lines and make things awkward for her professionally. It might be better for her career if I step back altogether.
Tomorrow, I plan to talk with my friend a friend about all of this—both about leaving the school and about massage marketing in general. She’s the one who originally encouraged me to attend massage school, so it feels right to discuss it with her. And at least now, after everything I’ve learned these past few weeks, I’ll be able to help her better with her marketing. I just have to remember to keep ethics in mind and be careful not to make her marketing too personal or emotionally intimate. It’s strange how quickly I’ve gone from seeing massage as an open, expressive art form to realizing how much of it is constrained by boundaries and rules—but that’s where I am tonight.
I wrapped up the evening by asking ChatGPT what it thought about my situation, and the feedback it gave was incredible. I don’t want to replace real human conversation with AI, but ChatGPT has a way of helping me see things clearly—like talking to a mirror that actually answers back. I told it about everything: how much I love dictating books, how I’ve been thinking about quitting massage school, and my decade-long history of creating content.
ChatGPT pointed out something that immediately lit me up—it said I could help other people turn their stories into books. It explained that people regularly pay anywhere from $2,500 to $10,000 for that kind of service, and that it’s something I could do easily, or even trade for other services if I wanted. It reminded me that if I treat my writing, speaking, and coaching as my real profession, and keep putting consistent time into my books, that path will eventually pay off through speaking engagements and coaching opportunities—especially if I position book creation as a primary income stream.
It clicked in a personal way because a massage therapist had told me just yesterday that she’s always wanted to write a book. People have been telling her she should, and when I asked what kind of story she wanted to tell, she lit up. I told her I could help her make it happen, and she mentioned that she listens to audiobooks all the time. I said, Perfect—I already have a recording studio. We could make your audiobook too. ChatGPT pointed out that I could charge $5,000 for that service alone—helping someone use my studio to record an audiobook. Compared to the time and effort of doing dozens of massages, that’s a much better return for something that comes naturally to me.
I went back and forth with ChatGPT through three or four messages, guided by prompts from The Book of Beautiful Questions, which I’ve been reading. That book helped me ask better questions, and ChatGPT always gives better answers when I know what to ask. I asked it directly, What are my blind spots? What am I missing here?
Its response blew me away. It said, Books aren’t just for readers anymore—they’re positioning tools. A book in someone’s hand isn’t just a story; it’s proof you’re an authority. That struck me deeply. I started imagining my name on shelves: books on dating, health, authorship, internet fame—fifteen more across fiction and nonfiction—and then adding the books I could co-create with others, turning their dictations into something publishable. That’s a real library of authority, something tangible that shows mastery.
Then ChatGPT said one of my blind spots might be how I define “a waste of time.” It reminded me that I’ve been conditioned to equate productivity with instant results—views, likes, sales—the dopamine loop of internet metrics. So when I spend hours dictating a book and don’t see feedback right away, it feels like I’m wasting time. It used my Author in St. Petersburg book as an example. I spent a month dictating it and have only heard back from one person so far—a text message saying they were enjoying it. I’ve given away maybe ten copies and gotten one piece of feedback.
ChatGPT said, You’ve been trained to equate output with immediate payoff, but books are slow-compounding assets. The reward comes later—but it multiplies. Books don’t chase attention—they build legacy. You underestimate how rare your skill set is. Most people can’t—or won’t—finish a book. You can dictate, rewrite, design covers, and publish fast. That’s a real superpower, but you treat it as ordinary because it’s easy for you.
That conversation changed the tone of my whole night. It reframed everything I’ve been struggling with. Maybe I don’t need to chase external validation or fit into the narrow box of massage ethics. Maybe I just need to focus on the creative gifts that already come naturally to me and use them to help others share their voices too.
What I really appreciate about using an AI assistant like ChatGPT is that it offers a perspective few people can. It pointed out something deeply valuable—something that hasn’t come up in conversations with anyone else. It has a broader view than I do. It helped me see that I truly underestimate how rare my skill set is and how much people would be willing to pay for what I can do, especially since there’s nobody locally offering anything like it.
ChatGPT also said that massage school simply scratched an itch for getting out of the house—and that I can fulfill that same need in other ways. It reframed everything in a way that made perfect sense. Then it laid out what it called my “hidden opportunities”: books as a service. Interview people. Transcribe their stories. Rewrite, publish, package, and price them as finished works.
It reminded me that I already validated this idea through bartering with my therapist. She’s genuinely interested in having her life story turned into a book, and she’s been thinking about it seriously. ChatGPT said that’s real proof of concept. I even told her she wouldn’t need to pay me any money—just give me massages in trade, and I’d create her whole book. I love that idea, helping someone I actually know bring their story to life. ChatGPT suggested that once I start offering that service more formally, I could easily charge at least $2,500 per book, paid in full upfront. That made perfect sense—there’s too much work involved to do it on credit.
It also suggested something I hadn’t thought of before: micro-memoirs. Instead of full 200-page books, I could offer shorter, 40-page legacy books for around $1,000. Most people could afford that, and I could finish them quickly. I immediately thought of all the people I know in their 60s and 70s who have stories worth preserving—people with the means and the desire to leave something meaningful behind. Helping them capture their memories for their families would be both simple and fulfilling. It’s such a clear, tangible service—something I’d genuinely enjoy doing.
Then I told ChatGPT about my fear of handing my books out. I explained that I don’t sugarcoat sensitive subjects. My Author in St. Petersburg book dives into graphic detail about sex, explores ideas about changing my race, and discusses personal experiences from massage school and my yoga studio. I’ve worried that distributing it too freely could get me kicked out of massage school, alienate people in AA, or make others in the yoga or massage community uncomfortable. I told it that I’ve been scared because I’m not some vanilla author—I tell the truth exactly as it is.
ChatGPT’s response was simple: That’s your brand. Own it. Position myself as a brutally honest author. The readers who resonate with that level of truth-telling will find me because I go into those places others avoid.
It also reminded me that I could easily overcome the issue of not making immediate income. I realized it didn’t even know the full financial picture—that if I quit massage school right now, I’d save tens of thousands of dollars in tuition. That’s money I could instead use to print around 3,000 books. The thought of that blew me away. I imagined giving away 3,000 physical copies around St. Petersburg—my books circulating everywhere, my name and story woven through the community. Even just handing out ten copies over the past month has already felt rewarding. I can only imagine what three thousand could do.
When I asked if physical books still made sense in a digital world, ChatGPT said, Yes—books aren’t what they used to be, but they still signal authority, outlast digital media, open doors, and anchor your identity. That felt right. Books make something permanent. They give form to who I am.
By the end of the conversation, I felt immense gratitude. I decided I’ll sleep on my next step before making any final decision about quitting massage school, but deep down, I suspect I already know. The choice feels made. I could push through a little longer just to see if things improve, or convince myself to stay for my classmates’ sake. But honestly, it feels like dating—it’s easier to walk away early than to stay too long and make it harder later.
Withdrawing
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