The Mudpack, Ain't Worth A Nickle

"They eat out of the same plate and swim in the same mud holes."

This morning, I woke at my usual time—around 5:00 a.m. I go to bed embarrassingly early, sometimes as early as 8:00 p.m. At 5:00 a.m., Bruce Willis (my dog, not the actor, though I wouldn’t have minded) was lying belly up, snoring softly, his little Boston Terrier body radiating heat like a space heater on four legs. Did you know their body temperature runs about 101 or 102 degrees? Mine does. It’s like sleeping next to a furry, affectionate furnace. But I digress.

As always, I shuffled through the motions: let the dogs out, made coffee, turned on the TV. My mornings are muscle memory at this point. But today felt different. Today, my mind wasn’t just idly wandering—it was spinning, chewing on that same damn bone from my past job.

Neurotic worry. That’s what it is. Obsessive, unnecessary attention given to thoughts that don’t deserve the energy. Like this bump on my neck—it’s an ingrown whisker, not throat cancer. I know this. But my brain… my brain can be an uninvited guest at its own house party, barging in, breaking furniture, and refusing to leave.

I recently left a job under less-than-ideal circumstances, and that departure still gnaws at me. As a therapist, I know the “how” of dealing with this kind of thing. I can quote you frameworks on worry management, behavior change, and resilience. I can outline the stages of catharsis—the cleansing release of tension and emotion. And let me tell you, catharsis is not the same as throwing a hissy fit. Anyone can throw a tantrum. The difference? Catharsis has purpose. It processes. It moves you forward.

Forgiveness? Overrated. I don’t subscribe to the pop-psych notion that forgiveness is mandatory for peace. Peace isn’t some magical byproduct of absolving others—it’s a deliberate act. You choose it. You cultivate it. The brain, of course, doesn’t make it easy. It’s a relentless machine, firing off intrusive thoughts like an endless barrage: the what-ifs, the should-haves, the loops of replayed moments. And most people, untrained in mindfulness or self-discipline, let themselves be dragged under by that current. They accept it as “just who I am.”

But here’s the thing: it’s not your fault—at least, not at first. We’re all shaped by what we’ve been through, by moments we may not even consciously remember. Like the time I was a kid on Davis Lake. My dad, in his infinite wisdom, decided to “teach” me to swim by tossing me off the side of a boat. I remember the blur of murky water above me, my small body fighting to break the surface, then his hand yanking me back aboard. That’s it. The memory ends there. But what followed were years of night terrors—waking up screaming, crying, wandering to the living room where Dad sat late into the night. “Had another dream,” I’d say. He’d nod. I’d eventually return to bed.

Decades later, I realized those terrors—the suffocating feeling, the imagery of pillows smothering me—were all about that moment underwater. Once I connected the dots, the terrors vanished. Logic didn’t solve it. Processing did.

That’s how life works: the world stamps itself on you, often without consent. And you take those imprints and make meaning out of them—sometimes twisted, sometimes comforting. Religion is a perfect example: “I need to feel safe, so I’ll buy into Heaven and Hell.” It’s all self-preservation disguised as belief. Forgiveness works the same way. If you’ve been sold the idea that forgiving is required for healing, fine. Enjoy it. But don’t tell me it’s universal. Some acts are beyond absolution.

Which brings me to The Mudpack. My final chapter at Nicholls State University. I loved teaching—God, I loved it. Should’ve started in my twenties, but life had other plans. For four years, it was bliss: engaged students, a sense of purpose. Then COVID hit. We adapted. I still loved my job. Until the president demanded we return to campus—profits over people—and my request to continue remotely was denied.

One day, venting privately to a colleague in my office, I unknowingly provided fodder for Summer, the department’s resident pretender, AKA ass kisser. She wasn’t even a professor yet, though she paraded herself as one. Word on the street had it rumored that her arrogance during her PhD program was laughable to the student body and faculty alike. Ambitious in the worst way, she took my words—snatched through a closed door, mind you—and delivered them straight to HR. Enter the resident “Give Away”, the HR director, armed with my words verbatim. I denied everything that wasn't true, resigned, packed up, and never looked back.

Time has dulled the sting. Honestly, I needed out. The place reeked of small-town politics, coddled students, and nepotism. Faculty born, bred, and hired by the same insular institution. Entitled parents treating professors like waitstaff. And colleagues? The Mudpack was a trifecta of mediocrity: the stoner lush, who, according to some students, didn’t even bother reading their work, just gave them a pass. The backstabbing opportunist who has quite successfully moved up the food chain, I am sure, using her mouth in more ways than one, and of course, the arrogant little sycophant. Not good people. Not worth forgiveness.

And here’s the lesson: I don’t forgive them, and I’m better for it. Time—not forgiveness—gave me closure. Time reminded me who I am: a man who’s lived fully, traveled the world, remained faithful in love, and refused to compromise his integrity. I sleep soundly knowing I’ve never intentionally wronged anyone.

Do not let the world bully you into thinking you must forgive to heal. You owe no one your absolution. What you owe yourself is truth. Face what happened. Feel it. Process it. Then decide who and what deserves space in your mind. Sometimes the bravest act isn’t forgiving—it’s moving on without ever granting them the satisfaction of your pardon.