I wrote this journal entry -- word for word -- in November 2022 when my world blew up. It’s all true, but I won’t be fielding many questions about it. After years of heartbreak and lawyers and lies in the press and god knows what else, I wonder if there’s any room for empathy, or at least some understanding. Of course, there aren’t enough details in here to convince anyone of anything. But hopefully it gets across a feeling. What it was like. What it still is like, in many ways, although time has healed a lot of it.
Apologies for the self-indulgence. It's what I was feeling at the time.
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I’m very close to the FTX explosion. I didn’t blow it up. I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m deep in the blast radius.
Some of my friends refuse to talk to me. They fear I’m radioactive. I’m not, but they don’t realize that. In an effort to run away from the explosion, those that started further from it than I did are running away from me as well.
That hurt me more than I like to admit. Maybe they think I did something wrong. Maybe they are just selfish and don’t want the headache. Maybe they worry it will jeopardize their good work. It won’t, but they don’t realize that. Either they are exercising poor judgment or they are unwilling to go out of their way for me. Either way, I’ve never felt hurt like this before. I’m forced to be disappointed or angry at them. I choose to be angry at them, because I can’t be angry at the people closer to the explosion.
The people closer to the explosion are holding on to their lives and their loved ones. I spend an hour a day comforting them. Their lives are a kind of waking hell that only I can understand, except not even. I try to cheer them up, or at least distract them, and when I hang up the phone I weep into my pillow. It’s all too cruel to bear. Most of them did nothing wrong either.
But while I am convinced of their innocence, I struggle to convince others. I feel like no one can understand my reasoning, let alone my experience. I know more than the people further from the explosion, and less than the people closer to it. I go around and around in circles discussing the explosion with both parties. I feel like Mark Antony speaking to the masses at Caesar’s funeral – for Will is an honorable man – and then speaking to Caesar about why the people hate him. Rarely are these conversations useful. Plus, the lawyers advise against them.
The lawyers are useful and they mean well, but they don’t know how to be human. I didn’t do anything wrong. I know that, and they know that. They know that the risk is next to none. But they don’t talk in probabilities, they talk about risks. The risks are stressful and their suggestions for how to minimize them are unconvincing. That said, it does give me something to do.
I wish I had more to do. There are 16 waking hours in a day. I spend an hour comforting people, an hour spinning my wheels, and an hour talking to lawyers. With the other 13, I watch TV, hang with friends, eat food, and play games. I can do whatever I want, except for work.
I used to love working. Back in the good old days of 3 months ago. The work was important. It made the world a better place. It made me feel good. Now I can’t do it. I try to hand it off to others who can work, but it turns out there was a reason I had to do the work in the first place.
I spend time thinking about what I accomplished. What I could have accomplished if everything hadn’t exploded. I am proud. Really proud, actually. My friends used to tell me I should be proud, and my false modesty made me demur. Now I seek out my friends and brag about what I did. I’m sure they think I’m overcompensating for feelings of guilt or helplessness. But I was always proud. I always liked when someone sang my praises, it’s just now I have to sing them myself. But at least I have an audience.
I still have friends. Many friends. Almost all of my friends, in fact. They comfort me. They distract me. They spend time with me. If they think I’m radioactive, they don’t care or they’re hiding it well. My family and I support each other. They’ve always supported me, but I have never fully appreciated it before.
In many ways, I still lead a charmed life. I have my health, my wits, and my sense of humor. Some days are worse than the last, but most are better, and I expect the trend to continue. The bad days can get really bad, but as long as I live to see another day, I will eventually be alright.
It turns out that people are strong. We can survive explosions. Unthinkable explosions. Calamitous explosions. Short of death, I don’t know what could break me at this point.
I never thought it would explode, but I always knew it was powerful. It was important, and surreal, and gratifying, and I got to be a part of it.
Maybe I’ll get to be a part of something like that again. And maybe next time it’ll last. I hope it does.
