In his own words, Michael Lombardi says:
When I’m not defending the streets of Gotham under cover of night, I’m
a stay-at-home dad to two dogs and one human. I’m in my early thirties
and have been married since 2005. We met at Florida State, where I got
a BS. After that, I did a myriad of things before becoming a stay at
home dad. Most of them sucked. As work tends to do. Some day I’ll
probably work again, but I’m a pretty damn good dad, so I’m gonna ride
this out for a while.
I’m a piece of trash in the ocean. Occasionally I bump into a
school of fish, a magnificent whale, or a colony of jellyfish. I write
my story as the seas are calm and I write my story as the seas are
filled with the rage of a betrayed god on Mount Olympus.
As a kid, I was always interested in writing. It was something
teachers always said I was good at and lots of people have told me
they like my style over the years. There was a time when I thought I
might want to write or be a journalist and was basically told by the
adults in my life that people couldn’t support themselves
writing for a living.
I chose a different path. Instead of doing what I was good at and
honing my skills I chose what I was most fascinated by. Not at all an
entirely bad idea, but it was a different kind of passion. It turns
out what I was most fascinated by, I wasn’t even all that good
at. I did fairly well in high school because high school’s
pretty much a joke. I struggled in college. I actually had to repeat a
few classes. It was hard on someone that had so much success in
Now I write for me.
I’m a stay-at-home dad and don’t get much time, but
it’s really easy to fill that time with writing. I can write a
paragraph or two if I don’t have much time. I can write for
hours if I have hours to write. Generally I can’t stay focused
on one task that long, but that’s another can of worms.
I struggle with a hand full of chronic conditions. Nothing
amazingly serious. At least, not as long as I stay properly treated.
The combination of them will likely kill me, but hopefully not for 50
years. It’s for that reason that I wanted to start writing more
regularly. I started a blog, I’m Not Infectious, to chronicle my
life both with the normal ups and downs of the life of a human, a
husband, a dad, etc. as well as my life with anxiety, depression,
irritable bowel syndrome, sleep apnea and a handful of other
Along with the anxiety and depression I have other things that
don’t end up in the DSM like low self-esteem from growing up in
an emotionally abusive environment. I’m thankful it wasn’t
physical abuse, but it still left an indelible mark on who I am. And
the opening paragraph was a peek into how I feel with regularity.
I’m trash because I was never told I was anything better. In
my world are the people that come and go in groups I will never be
apart of, the schools of fish. Of course, there are the majestic
mammals of the open ocean that I bump into. My interactions are
fleeting and I always wish I had them in my life more. But
there’s also the jellyfish that are just a bunch of people that
stick together and cause pain. Think Queen Bees and Wannabes,
the inspiration for the Mean Girls.
There are over 7 billion people on this planet. There are millions
within just a thousand miles of where I live. There’s probably a
dozen people who see me as more than just trash. Those are pretty
crappy numbers. Sometimes I need to remember it doesn’t matter
what the others think or feel about me. Sometimes I just need to put
my words and thoughts out there. Even if they’re never read.
Even if it’s just to tell the universe that I while I’m
here I won’t be kept silent.
And so I write.