You see the fedora. You read the “Mob” metaphors. You might think this is just a character I play—a costume I put on to make mental health look cool.
It isn’t a costume. It’s armor.
And I didn’t buy it off the rack. I forged it in the fire of a twenty-year war with my own mind.
If you want to know who is sitting behind this desk, we have to open the file. No redactions. No plea deals. Just the ugly truth.
The Origin Story (The War at Home)
They say a mother’s love is the strongest force on earth. I grew up with that love—unconditional and fierce. But even that wasn’t strong enough to shield me from the battles my father was fighting.
He was a violent man, an alcoholic, and a domestic abuser. I watched the person I loved most get hurt by the person who was supposed to protect us. That does something to a kid. It plants a seed of rage that grows in the dark.
I didn’t cry. I got angry. That rage became my shadow. It followed me out of childhood and into the streets.
The Rap Sheet (The Spiral)
By my teens, I was a walking jagged edge. I wasn’t just a “troubled youth”; I was a teenage criminal. I was looking for chaos because chaos was the only language I spoke fluently.
My twenties weren’t much better. I was a frequent flyer in the psych ward—locked in, medicated, and released, only to spin out again. The doctors started handing out labels like parking tickets: Bipolar Disorder. PTSD.
We spent years throwing pills at the wall to see what stuck. Nothing did. I was passed around from counselor to psychiatrist like a bad check. So, I took matters into my own hands. I self-medicated. I tried to drown the noise in the bottle, but the demons learned how to swim.
Then, the final boss showed up: Panic Disorder with Agoraphobia. The world started shrinking. The walls started closing in.
The Bankruptcy (A Liability to Love)
I got married at 20. I was a child playing house, dragging a lifetime of untreated trauma down the aisle.
I was a horrible husband. There is no nice way to say it. I was volatile, unstable, and a liability. She didn’t understand mental health—and frankly, she shouldn’t have had to carry that weight. She was smart enough to walk away. I don’t blame her. I would have walked away from me, too.
That was the bottom. Alone, divorced, diagnosed, and hiding inside a shrinking perimeter.
New Management (The Turning Point)
But life, in its strange mercy, gave me a second act.
I met my second wife. She wasn’t just a partner; she was the other half of the equation. She understood the noise in my head. She didn’t try to “fix” me; she helped me navigate the minefield. For the first time, living with the disorder felt possible.
Then, my daughter was born.
That was the moment the switch flipped. I looked at her and realized I could not be the father my father was. I could not let this generational curse bleed onto her.
I realized that “hoping” to get better was a lie. “Motivation” was a scam. The only thing that worked was Action.
I needed a strategy. I needed to run my mind like a business. I needed to become the Enforcer of my own life.
The Business Model (Why “The Coping Capo”?)
I created this persona because the soft, clinical approach didn’t work for me. I needed something harder. I needed a Code.
- I treat anxiety like a shakedown: I don’t pay the vig.
- I treat depression like a bad business partner: I cut ties and get back to work.
- I treat panic like an enemy soldier: I use grounding tactics to secure the perimeter.
I wear the suit to remind myself that I am in charge.
I am not a doctor. I am a survivor. I have been to the psych ward, the jail cell, and the bottom of the bottle. And I climbed out.
If you are down in that hole right now, listen to me: You don’t need pity. You need a protocol.
Welcome to The Family.
DEEP