It makes me happy to see a resident of Crazytown taking the actions necessary to move out. After all, moving requires preparation and work. No one wakes up one morning and says, I’m moving today, and successfully changes from point A to point Z. I love this resident and have been coaching him to move out for years. At first, he just didn’t believe he was living in Crazytown. Crazytown was hip, it was where all of his friends lived. The nightlife was exciting and unpredictable.

He went through a phase in which he couldn’t make Crazytown work for him — so he wanted funding. Just help with a computer. Help with a couple of bucks for food. Help for heating. He needed socks. That went on for a few years, punctuated by bouts of shouting, crying, outrage, anxiety–the whole emotional rollercoaster at the carnival.

Next, he drowned his sorrows. He self-medicated. He destroyed relationships without acknowledging his rage. He blacked out. Often. One year, the day before Thanksgiving, he called me. Someone had broken into his apartment and left the deadbolt (which had been pried off completely) in the middle of the living room floor. In the living room had been two laptops — his and his girlfriends. His laptop had been stolen — his whole means of making money as a DJ. His girlfriend’s laptop hadn’t been touched. Apparently, the thief had entered his room, and stole a pair of his very expensive hipster jeans — waist size 28. He was so drunk, he didn’t hear someone steal his pants! The worst part, in those pants was his Louis Vuitton belt, still threaded through the belt loops.

Out of curiosity, how many thieves can actually wear a size 28 skinny jean? I mean really? I’ve seen meth addicts who couldn’t fit into those jeans — they were like leggings!

Anyway, this seemed to be the Crazytown cycle. Get to “rock bottom” and quit drinking/drugging. Go to church one week in a row. Feel better for two weeks. Repeat.

Girlfriends lasted about 2 years and then moved on.

And then the big 30 began to loom on the horizon. After 9 years, he was still cycling, still living behind the 8 ball — worse than paycheck to paycheck. Less than zero, less than zero, when it came to his budget. Light began to dawn, and the false shine of Crazytown looked cheap, like the fake gold that peels off of a plastic dish. The disguises were frayed, filthy, and cracked. He quit drinking. For weeks, over two months. He was clear headed and began making good choices.

He is packing his bags. He is serious this time. He is moving. He is not perfect, there has been a short lapse and a quick revisit to his own self-tortured agony. But with that, a renewal of commitment, and a fresh perspective of why.

Why do we do what we do?