I'm at my high point now, so don't be sad. But here's my low point. It will take some explaining and probably leave you with questions.
I was in a 5 year relationship with a bitter, hateful woman. I moved in with her half out of necessity, half out of fear of homelessness following an inability to work due to a severe injury. I didn't love her, but I hadn't seen how bad she could be just yet so I figured it would do. We went in on a house with her 2 gay friends. It was a nice place with a garage that no one but me had any interest in. I wasn't happy but finally I had a jam spot.
I was only able to procure part-time work, so bills were just barely paid. So I sold my SG and bought a decent, cheaper guitar and a used 100-watt Laney Pro-Tube with 2 4x12 cabs loaded with celestions. It was so loud, so powerful, so ballsy. I was writing and recording my own interpretation of sludge-influenced drone metal and becoming very prolific and pleased with my progress. I had only been playing maybe 2 years at the time but in my enthusiasm had progressed far beyond what would be expected, putting every waking hour into guitar.
This went on for months, while cuntzilla was at work I would write and jam at thermonuclear volumes, then I would work the grave shift as a security guard. The moments I had to be around her were soul sucking, as I started to learn how vile and stupid she was, and how inconsiderate and ungrateful and self-absorbed and solipsistic. It was grating and stress-inducing just to think of being around her. She never listened to me play, even though I would learn her favorite shitty Dave Grohl songs on acoustic just to gain some measure of approval. I had never had such a miserable relationship, and the more I tried to appease her the more abusive she became.
Guitar was my only respite in life, and as long as I felt like a rock star with myself as the audience, I was OK. I would get through this, get well, and get out.
Until one day she came home early and heard the earth-shattering roar that was the chops from my mighty axe. I was playing extra loud. It was about 1pm, none of the neighbors would be home. I was going to see if I could bury a few city blocks under a tidal wave of boiling hot sludge metal. She storms into the garage from inside the house, interrupting my crushing riffs. "REALLY!???" she says, and repeats, "REALLY!!?" as she twisted her face bitterly. "I CAN HEAR YOU DOWN THE BLOCK." Snapping for the first time, I cry out "SO FUCKING WHAT???" I shouted at her. "No one is home! No one can hear me! No one has ever complained! FUCK YOU! And with that I returned to playing, sending her quickly out of the garage from the noise.
She called the cops and said I hit her. Slapped herself in the shoulder a few times to show them a little redness. Duluth model did the rest of the work. Bailed me out the same night, crying and apologizing. I didn't play for years. Maybe a bit.. Every week or so. I would make a half-hearted effort to practice, and even started to play bass for a metal trio. The enthusiasm was replaced with fear. My job layed me off. My condition worsened. I had to go to surgery. I even broke my hand on my own head once, consumed with rage and frustration.
5 months ago I finally got away from her. I saved enough money to buy a station wagon, and now I have my own room where I quietly jam away with my little 15 watt modeling amp. I'm getting much better.