This is the City

This Is the City

(This is a personal reflection not a condemnation but needs to be respected as my reality even if it is not yours)

I’m going to make something absolutely clear, because some people just don’t seem to understand.

Yes—my drinking here in Pocatello has been out of control. I’m not denying that. I’m not trying to hide from it or excuse it. But I need you to understand something that most people never will: it’s only here.

I don’t drink because of some demon inside me. I don’t drink because I can’t handle life, or because I’m weak, or because I’m trying to escape myself. I drink because I cannot stand Pocatello.

This place does something to your spirit. It presses on your chest like a weight you can’t breathe under. It dulls everything bright, crushes everything hopeful, and turns every dream into dust and noise.

When I stop drinking, the misery doesn’t fade—it sharpens. Sobriety doesn’t bring relief here; it brings clarity. And clarity here is agony.

I’ve cut back, tried to steady myself, tried to pull it together, but nothing changes. The days still bleed together in the same gray sameness. The streets are still lined with tired faces and broken dreams. The air itself feels stale, like the ghosts of every person who’s ever tried to leave and couldn’t.

Here, there is no reason not to drink. No reason not to numb yourself. Because nothing matters here. Life has no meaning for me here.

I don’t want middle-class America. I don’t want to live in some sanitized fantasy where the goal is just to pay bills and die quietly. I don’t want the “normal” life that everyone here seems so proud of while they’re slowly suffocating.

I want a gay life.

A vibrant life.

A life full of culture, music, art, movement, connection, and soul.

But that’s not what Pocatello offers. Pocatello offers stagnation. It offers the illusion of safety while quietly killing your spirit. It’s the kind of place where people confuse survival with living.

People who don’t live here—or who have been exceptionally blessed here—don’t understand what it’s like for the 90% who actually carry this city on their backs.

Ninety percent of the people here are working two jobs, sometimes three, with side hustles just to keep bread and milk on the table. Forget about vacations or comfort—most people are just trying to keep the lights on.

Financially, this is one of the easiest cities in America to fall behind in. You can work yourself to death here and still be broke. It’s a place where you can put in twice the effort and end up twice as deep in the hole.

That’s not some emotional exaggeration—it’s the math.

Pocatello is a place where you have to go into debt to survive. The wages are about half of what people make elsewhere, and yet the cost of living is climbing to match Boise and Salt Lake. People keep saying, “It’s so cheap here,” but that’s a lie built on old memories and denial. It’s only cheap if you’re not actually living here on a local paycheck.

In reality, it’s impoverished. It’s stagnant. It’s a place where the rich stay comfortable and the rest drown quietly.

I used to own a cleaning company here. We cleaned out countless apartments and homes after people finally gave up. Not because they wanted a new start or were chasing a dream somewhere else, but because they simply couldn’t take it anymore.

They packed what they could carry, left the rest behind, and walked out. Some ended up on the street. Some moved into garages. Some just disappeared.

That is the reality of Pocatello.

People love to talk about how this city has “good people” and “small-town charm.” And sure, there’s kindness here—but it’s buried under exhaustion. People are too tired to live, too tired to dream, too tired to care.

This is a place that feeds on resignation. It tells you to be grateful for your suffering, to smile while you sink, to call despair “humility.” It tricks you into thinking that settling is peace.

But it’s not peace. It’s paralysis.

And that’s why people drink. That’s why they use. That’s why they go numb—because feeling everything in a place like this hurts too much.

So no, I don’t care if I’m seen as a drunk or an addict.

I don’t care what people whisper.

Because it changes nothing about my life here either way.

You can be sober, clean, and strong here, and you’ll still feel crushed under the weight of a city that demands everything and gives nothing back.

That’s why this place is toxic.

That’s why it’s dangerous.

Not because of crime, or drugs, or sin—but because it kills the light inside people and calls that “normal.”

Pocatello isn’t just a city. It’s a trap disguised as home.

And some of us—those of us who still dream, who still burn, who still believe in color and freedom and love—

we were never meant to survive in a place like this.