Had the harassment stopped. Had the cruelty ceased. Had I been left in peace—given the chance to heal without the constant weight of torment— the ring would already have been returned. But because the harassment and cruelty continue, the cost of the ring has become the restoration of the marriage. I will not be locked into a life of endless harassment while standing alone. And yes, I still love him. This is not the path I ever wished to take, but the unrelenting onslaught has left no other way. So let it be clear: blame the abusers for the stipulation. The divorce may have been signed, but our covenant was eternal, and eternity cannot be undone. That is the truth of an eternal bond: it is forever. It has been fractured, it has been abandoned, but it remains. If he ever loved me—if he still loves me—how could he abandon me and not care? If you ever cared if you still cares please give me your hand so that I can get out of this hell. I am unable to do it myself. Over the past...

The Man I Married The man I married didn’t run off with other men and disappear. The man I married didn’t prioritize drugs and sex over his husband. The man I married didn’t manipulate and twist situations just to provoke emotional outbursts he could use to justify his running around. The man I married didn’t vanish in the middle of the night while I slept, leaving me to wake in panic, in anxiety, in fear, because he was nowhere to be found. The man I married didn’t grab another man’s hand in front of me and run out the door. The man I married didn’t lie to my face about where he was going—only to run off to a park and shoot up drugs with other men. The man I married didn’t put himself above me, but stood beside me as my equal. The man I married was a man. The man who left me was weak. The man who left me acted like a child. The man who left me forfeited his right to demand anything of me. And so I hold the ring. And I will keep it until the man I married return...

The Man Who Deserves the Ring Jeffrey promised me he would never leave me stranded in Pocatello. He promised me he would never again drop everything on me and run away. He promised—even in Boise—that he would not divorce me, that if it came to that he would go the legal separation route because he knew what marriage means within my faith. He promised he would not cut me out, that he would remain a part of my life. I never once failed him. Not once. Every time he disappeared, I was there. Every time he needed me, I answered. Every time he called, I came. There was not a single time he asked, wanted, or needed something and I wasn’t there. I have been faithful to my word. I have lived up to my promises. This time, I make a stand. This time, I demand what I was promised. Because the man who keeps his word, the man who doesn’t run, the man who remains—that is the man who deserves the ring.

Trapped in Harassment I don’t understand why I’m still being harassed. For over two or three years now, I’ve been forced to guess why certain people keep coming after me, tormenting me with the weirdest and darkest things. They say things like “clean your teeth.” What the hell is that even supposed to mean? They mock me with nonsense, twist my reality, and leave me questioning my own sanity while they sit back and feed on my suffering. This harassment has been constant, unrelenting, and cruel. It doesn’t come from just one place—it feels orchestrated, as though multiple hands are playing a sick, manipulative game. They say things like “Jeffrey caused this.” They drag names into it: the Irishes, Webbs, Russells, Livingstons, and so many others. They throw the Odd Fellows under the bus. They twist it in such a way that directly identifying them is nearly impossible without involving the police again. They use technology—voice modulators, mimicers, anonymous accounts—to hide b...

Why I’m the Worst Version of Me in Pocatello I want to start by saying clearly: Pocatello isn’t a bad place. It has its rhythms, its communities, and its charm. But for me, it feels limiting—particularly in ways that touch the core of who I am: spiritually, socially, and queerly. Outside of my marriage, my social circle here is overwhelmingly dominated by heterosexual women. That’s not inherently a problem—many of these women are wonderful, and I value my friendships deeply—but it leaves little room for me to exist fully as a gay man, especially among other men. Even in social settings like bars or queer events, the spaces I gravitate toward tend to be female-dominated. And within the queer circles I’ve been part of here, the groups are heavily lesbian-heavy. I’m not saying any of this is “bad,” but it creates a stifling dynamic: there isn’t a space where I can simply inhabit myself among people who share my identity, energy, and orientation. Reflecting back to my life befo...

Why I’m Not “Playful Enough” (And Why That’s Okay) People tell me all the time: “You need to loosen up. Be more playful. Have fun.” And yeah… maybe I should. But here’s the thing—spontaneity isn’t something you can force. If I’m trying too hard, it stops being real. True goofiness only happens when I feel secure and confident with the people around me. If trust is shaky or stability is missing, playfulness disappears. It’s not about being “uptight.” It’s about connection. If I feel excluded, ignored, or like someone has pulled away from me—especially someone I care about—it naturally makes me withdraw. My energy mirrors that. That means the silly, spontaneous side of me doesn’t show up. For example, if we’re dating and I sense distance, or if it feels like you’ve pulled away or connected with someone else in a way that excludes me, I’m naturally going to feel more cut off. That space between us creates a barrier I can’t cross, and it closes me off. Playfulness, humor, and o...

I feel sad. I feel disappointed—disappointed in myself, and in a way, disappointed in the divine. I have gone through rituals, intentions, deconstruction, reconstruction, recreation of self in countless ways. I believed these acts would shift something within me. I thought they would give me the strength to rise, to face life again, to step into the world with courage and presence. But the opposite has happened. I have become more settled in the life I am living—if you can even call it living. I have become complacent. I have become… okay with it all. And yet, beneath that calm, the fear remains. The fear of stepping back into the world, of opening myself to life again, is as strong as ever—if not stronger. Perhaps this is the message I am meant to receive: that I cannot take another blow, another hit. That my mind, body, and spirit have reached the limits of what they can endure. This year of knockdowns, of loss, of suffering, has been more than most people experience ...

Even if my faith permitted me to date, seek intimacy, or remarry, I harbor no such intention or desire. There exists no corner of my being that yearns to share hearth or bed with another man save the one I wed. On our wedding day—indeed, long before that sacred moment—I understood with crystalline certainty that I would take no other as husband, at least not without him as my partner in that union as well. Though I believe in the beauty of plural relationships, with our covenant now fractured, dating would constitute nothing less than spiritual adultery. Yet beyond the dictates of faith lies a deeper truth: no desire stirs within me for another man's embrace. No longing calls me toward a different lover or companion. In moments of weakness, I have tried to force my heart toward someone new, wondering if the divine might shift something fundamental within me. Each attempt only clarifies what I have always known: my convictions remain immutable, my core unmoved, and my lo...

After fourteen years, one of the hardest things to accept is the realization that I will never see him again. That we will never speak again. That in the blink of an eye, he was gone from my life. For years, he was part of my every day—someone I loved deeply, someone I cherished just by having him near, even if he never fully realized the depth of what he meant to me. Then, suddenly, that daily presence turned into silence, and in its place grew a void that feels impossible to fill. The most painful part is that he’s still alive. He’s out there living his life, loving life, making choices—and one of those choices is not to see me. That’s what cuts the deepest. My love for him remains, but it has nowhere to go. It has no purpose but to ache inside me, to remind me of what I once had and what I can never have again. It’s a grief unlike death. When someone dies, there is finality. A crossing. The universe itself closes the door, and though the pain is devastating, there’s a st...

A Farewell from Dustin Ray Irish-Webb To all who have known me, walked with me, or loved me: This is not the path I wanted, nor the one I would have chosen for myself. I n many respects, it is a road I was forced onto—pushed by loss, betrayal, and the breaking of bonds I believed unbreakable. I accept the duties and obligations of the path I now walk, and I embrace the vows I have taken. But I must also say clearly: I carry resentment. Not toward my faith or the divine, but toward being cut off from the intimacy that could have lived alongside it. That absence is heartbreaking, and it weighs on me daily. Please understand: I do not write for pity. I write to mark an ending. Dustin Ray Irish-Webb, and all that he loved, is gone. Broken beyond repair. What was, what could have been, even love itself—all of it is finished. There is no resurrecting him. What rises in his place is Sebastian Raphael Windsoul Luxferian, a life dedicated wholly to the divine. My vows are now my com...

Life in Zeros and Ones: A Map of Connection and Isolation Introduction Most people think of connection as a “nice-to-have.” A hug from a friend. A laugh shared over dinner. A birthday party. Something small, something warm. But connection is not a luxury. It’s the scaffolding of life itself. Without it, purpose, joy, growth, momentum — they don’t just slow down. They vanish. I want to show you what life looks like when the relational and communal pieces are missing. Not just loneliness, but a structural absence that touches everything: how you move, how you feel, how you see the future. Mapping Connection I started with a framework: 15 areas that help people feel alive and connected. These aren’t trivial; they are the backbone of a life that feels like more than survival. Close relationships – partners, friends, family, or chosen family who offer love, trust, and mutual care. Shared experiences – meals, trips, hobbies, traditions. A sense of purpose – meaningf...

In the most holy and divine name of Hades, I am not sure what will happen on August 22nd, 2025 — my Saturn return. For some time now, I have felt no passion for life, no fire within me. I am barred from those things that make life holy and sacred, save for prayer, devotion, and ritual — small comforts in an ever-darkening world. My faith in the gods, the true and ever-living, has always been deep. As a priest of Hades, I journey to meet him once a year — or, more accurately, he comes up to see me. Few know when this sacred meeting occurs; not even Jeffrey knew the exact time. It is a solemn, private ritual, deeply chthonic — meant only for the priest. The date and time are secret. It takes place in February, in sacred rites shrouded in mystery and silence. I have always performed this rite alone. One might wonder how. My husband often took excursions, and I would time the ritual for when he was away. I have never spoken of these rites, not even to him. The February before w...

It’s hard being in love with someone you’re no longer with. And it’s not just that. Because of my faith, my principles, and my own beliefs, I will never have another relationship like that again—never another intimate bond as a lover or a husband. Since I was a child, that was my dream. And for a brief, sacred span of time, it was real. Jeff and I didn’t rush into marriage. We didn’t run off for a quick license or treat it lightly. We were engaged for nearly four years before we wed because I believed—and still believe—that marriage is holy. One and done. Sacred. Eternal. To me, marriage was the hearth fire of life. In our tradition, the hearth fire is the center of everything. It is warmth. It is kinship. It is the bond that gives meaning to the world. It’s the place where you touch something greater than yourself through another soul. Now, without it, my home feels cold. I miss my marriage in ways I can’t even fully name. It was where I was priest, lover, and warrior all ...

I don’t mind being alone. I need people to understand that before anything else. I don’t hate solitude. I’m not afraid of my own company. There is peace in it, sometimes even comfort. But loneliness? Loneliness is something else entirely. When you’ve shared life with someone for 14 years—when you’ve loved so fully that every corner of your world carried the shape of another person—and then it’s gone, it doesn’t just leave an empty space. It seals the door. I still wish I was with him. I still wake up in a world where part of me reaches for him without thinking. And because of that—because of love that never died—there is no room for anyone else. My faith wouldn’t allow me to fill it anyway, but the truth is, I don’t want to. I’ve tried to connect with people. God knows I’ve tried. I’ve gone out, met faces, forced conversations, tried to pretend that maybe there’s a place for me out there. And yes, sometimes, in fleeting moments, there’s even a spark of hope. But it never la...