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[Video Games] Dead on Arrival: How “The Sims” Competitor “Life By You” Imploded Before Early Access - Part 1
EDIT: The awesome YouTuber, Gooba, turned this post into a video! Watch here if you prefer narration. Welp. I followed this game from the first announcement, and I wanted to write an account of its rocky development process and the community reactions. Considering that today is the one-year anniversary of Life By You’s cancellation, I figured it’s about time I posted this. So, gather round gamers, and heed my tale of overambition, poor marketing, mismanaged expectations, PS2-quality graphics, and nerd infighting over use of the term “asset flip.” Battle lines were drawn, hills were perished upon, all for a game that (spoiler alert) no one ever got to play. So, let’s get into this saga. NOTE: For the best experience, please click on the image links. Also, while I mention details from Youtube videos, many of LBY's videos have since been privated, but I have a personal backup of them and am exploring options for publicly archiving them. Part 0 - The Players Life simulation games are “a subgenre of simulation video games in which the player lives or controls one or more virtual characters.” Your character may be humanoid, an animal, an alien, or anything else the devs dream up. But we’re here to discuss human-centric life sims today, starting with The Sims. Originally released in 2000 by game studio Maxis, The Sims came to dominate and define human life sims. The Sims games revolve around creating your own characters (sims) and managing their daily lives as you see fit. You can build and decorate your sim’s house, get them a job and level up their career, make friends and build romantic relationships, raise a family, or just instigate drama by implying that your neighbor’s mother is a llama. Think of it as a virtual dollhouse for grown-ups. Various installments of The Sims introduced key concepts to players (simmers) over the years, such sims aging through life stages from infant to elder, sims having unique personality traits, and sims having their own wants, needs, and lifetime aspirations. The Sims franchise is also known for bringing a sense of wackiness and cartoonish whimsy into the domestic life of your sims. You can build your sim family a quaint blue suburban home, but also have a rocketship in the backyard for adventures to an alien planet. The current installment, The Sims 4 (TS4), was released in 2014. As of 2025, TS4 still receives regular updates and new paid downloadable content (DLC.) In fact, it’s rapidly approaching its 100th piece of DLC. However, TS4 has also been contentious among dedicated simmers since its release. The game’s publisher Electronic Arts (EA) is infamous in the gaming community for cutting corners. TS4 launched with several features missing from previous games: The toddler life stage, cars, basements, pools, burglars, firefighters, ghosts, and other key elements were nowhere to be found. While many of these features were later patched in, some features, like cars, remain AWOL. TS4 also has more limited customization than some of its predecessors. For instance, The Sims 3 (TS3) had a feature called “Create A Style,” which gave players access to a color wheel for hairstyles, clothing, furniture, and other cosmetic elements. But in TS4, you can only choose from set color swatches. If a dresser and a bed don’t have matching wood tones, you’re out of luck. Additionally, TS3 featured an open world, meaning your character could visit any location in town without loading screens. Meanwhile, TS4 only loads one lot at a time. So, if you want your sim to hang out with their next door neighbor, you can’t just knock on the door and walk inside. Instead, you have to wait behind a loading screen to travel next door. While these downgrades require less computing power and made TS4 more accessible to people with lower-end PCs (more on this later,) it left many simmers wanting more. Plus, I don’t even have time to get into the countless other controversies, like constant bugs & glitches, some DLC releasing in a near-unplayable state, and the game adding a giant, seizure-inducing flashing shopping cart button to the UI that couldn’t be disabled during play. All this to say: While simmers love the domestic wackiness of The Sims, they yearned for freedom from EA’s greed and corner-cutting. Which is where a would-be competitor stepped up to the plate. Part 1 - A fresh start On March 21st, 2023. Paradox Interactive released the announcement trailer for their “upcoming moddable life-sim” Life By You (LBY). The trailer revealed several key features familiar to simmers – like character customization, building tools, item collecting, gardening, and a relationship system. What’s more, LBY teased elements that had simmers salivating, including a completely open world, transportation including cars, buses, and skateboards, and the ever-coveted color wheel. LBY also hinted at new innovations to the life-sim genre, such as a dialogue system where you could see your characters’ conversations. (Sims speak a gibberish language.) What’s more, Paradox previously published the smash hit city simulator City Skylines, which effectively stole the crown from EA’s increasingly disappointing Sim City installments. In other words: They had a history of giving the gaming community what they wanted when EA failed to deliver. There’s another tasty tidbit to mention here: The game was produced by a brand new sub-studio, Paradox Tectonic, led by Rod Humble, a developer who previously worked on The Sims 2 and The Sims 3. If anyone knew what simmers wanted in a life sim, surely it was him. So, with Paradox and a former Sims dev at the helm, many simmers took these signs for green flags. LBY could be the “Sims killer” that everyone craved. Even better: The game was coming very soon, with early access just a few months away in September 2023! Surely, nothing would happen to disrupt this best-laid plan, right? Part 2 - A Budding Community An official LBY subreddit soon cropped up, and Paradox Tectonic’s Discord server flooded with excited new members. Someone even made a fandom wiki. Over the coming months, interviews with Rod Humble and other game developers revealed more details about LBY, including their plans to heavily emphasize customization and add modding tools directly to the game. “Modding,” or adding fan-created content in the form of new gameplay or cosmetic “custom content”, is popular in the sims community. According to these early interviews, you would be able to create your own careers, dialogue trees, and even import your own 3D models for custom furniture, clothing, hairstyles, and more. All this sounded like a delicious dream life sim to many players. However, as more screenshots appeared online, something began to bug some users: the characters. While character creation is only one aspect of a life sim, it’s a pretty important one for many simmers. After all, these are your virtual dolls. But, well, let’s just say that LBY’s characters made Weird Barbie look like a fashion icon. The characters sported basic proportion issues. (See examples, one, two.) Most notably, their arms and hands were too short. In a traditional human proportion guide, the wrist aligns with the pubic bone while the hands end mid-thigh. But with LBY humans, the wrist was closer to the hip bone, while the hands roughly aligned with the pubic bone. Beyond their shrimpy “T-Rex arms,” many characters also featured other glaring issues, like misaligned and too-narrow shoulders, a hunched posture, and balled up, crab-claw-esque hands. Plus, the overall graphics could have used more refinement: The textures looked waxy, the lighting was harsh, and the purple UI felt dated. In response, gamers made edits addressing the proportion issues and suggesting other changes they wanted to see in the characters, such as softer lighting and more realistic textures. To their credit, the devs seemed to take this in stride and promised that the character models would continue to see improvement throughout development. After all: There was plenty of time to tweak these issues before the early access release date of September 2023… right? Part 3 - Cracks in the facade As part of their pre-early access marketing campaign, the LBY team posted a promotional video every Friday on their official YouTube channel. The weekly videos included clips of gameplay, character creation, building mode, and customization and modding tools. While many of these videos fostered excited discussion and speculation, one video, posted on Jun 30, 2023, rang alarm bells for many players. The now-privated video, titled “Let’s Have A Quick Conversation” showed off the game’s unique dialogue system. Although, very few comments on the video focused on the dialogue itself. Instead, many people were distracted by the rough state of the game. The characters sported stilted expressions, robotic animations, a weird purplish skin tone, and an overall low-res look. Plus, the background looked overly textured, the lighting was still overexposed, and the emoji effects during dialogue felt oddly like a mobile game. (See a screenshot here.) Put delicately, it looked like ass. Even for early access, this look wasn’t what many players expected from a game backed by a prominent publisher in 2024. Instead, it drew comparisons to Playstation 2 games and Second Life – a popular mid 2000s online game that Rod Humble also worked on. Another video showing off the character creation tools revealed that it was actually possible to change the proportion of the arms, one of the most common complaints. But you had to max out the slider, and the arms still remained a little too short. Plus this tweak didn’t address the shoulder issues, crab hands, and hunching. Curiously, older concept art for the LBY didn’t have these character model issues. In fact, older character art showcased during an LBY art live stream looked pretty good. The humans sported correct proportions and a more stylized look. Whoever was behind the initial concept art obviously knew what they were doing. So, the community wondered, how did the current models end up with so many basic proportion issues? And why didn’t the team itself recognize these fundamental flaws, especially when the game had been in development for five years at this point? We’ll get a possible answer for this later on. But at this point, early access was only two short months away. So, the issues would be addressed soon… right? Right? Part 4 - The first delay On July 26th 2023, LBY posted a video hosted by producer Rod Humble announcing that early access would actually be moved from September 2023 to March 5, 2024. According to Humble, the team wanted to address the feedback they’d received and integrate it into the game before early access. This included updates to the graphics, character models, UI, and modding tools. While many players were, understandably, disappointed at the renewed wait, they were also encouraged that the devs really were listening to the community’s feedback. Surely, after these extra four months, the game would reach new heights and become the epic Sim Killer it was always meant to be. RIGHT? Part 5 - A second delay has hit the tower Over the coming months, The devs chugged along and posted weekly videos showing off LBY’s gameplay and features, including “Let’s Plays” with Humble. A TikTok posted on December 12th 2023 showed off a series of randomly generated characters, many of which looked, frankly, scary. Beyond inducing cringe, it also sparked some pretty hilarious meme roasts. Some users speculated that the characters may have actually been from an older build of the game, given that other recent previews looked better than the models showcased in the TikTok. But why would the devs use outdated models if they were trying to build hype? Were they trying to go viral with ragebait? I repeat, these characters are virtual dolls. Yet LBY’s humans looked like dollar store baby dolls that had been left to melt in the summer sun, then hastily re-sculpted into something vaguely resembling a human – by an alien who’d never actually seen one before. Once again, the LBY community official account thanked users for their feedback and promised to implement the requested improvements. However, it was difficult to see any changes in the models. (Although, to be fair, the lighting and textures did seem to have improved.) Some users speculated that many of the fundamental issues with the models actually couldn’t be changed at all. After all, the devs had already made assets and animations using these models. If the devs fundamentally altered something crucial, like the arm length and shoulder rigging, it might mean starting over from scratch. Beyond the graphics, other users began to worriy about the state of gameplay as showcased in the Let’s Plays. These videos mainly consisted of Humble or another developer playing with basic features, like crafting, gardening, collecting, and shopping. These are all pretty basic features in Sims games. But, after months of uploads, that was pretty much all they showed off. That led some players to wonder: is that all there is? While the devs mentioned tons of cool features, like an elaborate relationship system, complex careers, and in-depth personality traits, these features weren’t showcased during preview gameplay. Instead, users were treated to riveting gameplay of “working as a cashier” and “wandering in an empty field.” However, plenty of videos showed off the game’s modding and customization tools, demonstrating how just about any of the planned features could be tweaked via a series of complicated menus. Keep in mind: While some players enjoyed the emphasis on customization, others grew concerned that the devs were so concerned with customization and modding, they had neglected to focus on, well, the actual game. Apparently, the developers believed the game needed more time in the oven, too. On February 2nd 2024, around one month before the second early access date, another video from Humble announced that LBY’s early access date had been moved, yet again, this time to June 2nd, 2024. While YouTube comments were understanding and hopeful, Reddit reacted with backlash and frustration. This was the second time early access has been moved out, and some people grew sick of the teasing. Oh well. The community collectively shook its fist, grumbled, and decided to wait and see. Surely the third time would be the charm. RIGHT??? Part 6 - The Abyss In early May 2024, with early access right around the corner, Paradox Tectonic ramped up its pre-launch marketing. They sent copies of the game out to popular Sims YouTubers and filmed promotional content and tutorials showing off the game for social media. Many LBY fans grew hyped. After half a year of delays, users would finally be able to judge if early access gameplay lived up to expectations. Others worried that it was still too early to unleash the game into the hands of the general public. After all, one sims YouTuber discussed in a live stream that he’d been asked not to play with certain features, like the building tools. And of course, the characters still looked like this. But Paradox Tectonic seemed confident in their project, and were fully prepared to launch… until the Publisher, Paradox Inc, pulled the plug and delayed the game again on May 20, 2024, just three weeks before early access. It’s interesting to note that while previous delays were personally announced by Paradox Tectonic, the game developers, this announcement came from Paradox Inc, the Publishing company. That indicated that this delay had come from a higher authority – perhaps from an unsatisfied executive. Even the devs themselves didn’t know what would happen next. LBY lingered in a state of limbo for nearly a month until, on June 17th, 2024, over one year past its initial announcement, Paradox officially announced that Life By You had been shelved. With this announcement came the permanent closure of the sub-studio Paradox Tectonic. Its first and only project would never see the light of day. This was a heartbreaking moment for many community members who genuinely believed in the LBY and wanted to see it succeed. And whether you believed in the game or not, no one was happy to see 24 people lose their jobs. Some angry fans blamed the cancellation on those who had complained and criticized the game’s previews. To me, that’s a bit like a restaurant promising a bacon cheeseburger, but posting pictures on social media of raw hamburger meat. Except instead of blaming the chefs, who ought to know that you can’t serve paying customers raw meat, you blame the customers for pointing out that the food looks undercooked. Part 7 - We Hereby Conduct This Postmortem As the community sifted through the pieces and pondered the journey, one question emerged. How did it come to this? What, exactly, went so terribly wrong with Life By You for it to implode before it even launched? Turns out, there are a few potential factors. 1: The failure of other Paradox Projects While Paradox’s original Cities Skylines was a welcome middle finger to EA’s Sim City franchise, its successor, Cities Skylines II, was a fall from grace. Initial reviews found the game in a lacking, bare-bones state riddled with glitches and lacking basic features. While initially released in October 2023, it remains controversial and still has mixed reviews on Steam. With this drama simmering in the background, Paradox corporate was likely highly vigilant for anything that could further damage their reputation - like a life sim that looked straight out of 2004. 2: It needs how much ram? LBY’s planned open world and NPCs were an ambitious endeavor, to say the least. Not only were there no planned rabbit holes (facade buildings you can’t see inside) but the town would also have a full roster of NPCs and families operating autonomously at all times, in a completely open world that’s always loaded. Needless to say, this required a lot of computing power. While many prospective players expected LBY to be spec-heavy, the actual suggestions were jaw-dropping The recommended system requirements included suggestions for an Intel Core i5-10400F or AMD Ryzen 5 5600 processor and a whopping 32 GB of ram. For reference, those are higher than the recommended specs for graphic-heavy AAA titles like Cyberpunk 2077 and God of War. With so much computing power required just to run the town, the publisher must have wondered: Can our target audience even play this? Keep in mind that many simmers are casual gamers who play on regular laptops. And since an open world and fully autonomous NPCs were promised features, reducing or optimizing these system requirements may not have been feasible. 3: Identity crisis From the beginning, Life By You had a clear identity crisis. You can see that in the naming of its characters. TheSims 4 has sims, Paralives has “paras,” InZoi has “zois.” Life By You had… humans. Seriously, that’s the official name. While having a cutesie name for the virtual people might not seem like a big deal, it exemplifies a lack of care put into the presentation. Another example: In a behind-the-scenes art live stream, the team’s art director made the baffling statement that the team elected not to have an art style. In other words, they were aiming for generic. To quote some random self help book, “if you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time.” 4: Developer woes As previously mentioned Paradox Tectonic was a brand new sub studio formed exclusively to develop LBY. It was also bafflingly small for such an ambitious title. The team consisted of 24 members, most of which had only joined the production team 2 years before the game’s public announcement. A mere 6 team members worked on the game for the majority of its development window. Further, while lead developer Rod Humble had previous experience working on a game of this magnitude, some of the devs did not. In fact, some only had experience with mobile or online games, a different beast from an open world single player title. Plus, some devs didn’t seem to understand the significance of their roles. Remember, the game’s art director didn’t seem to understand why art direction is important. Another game developer took to LinkedIn with a post-cancellation rant, explaining that the team had met internal metrics, and he didn’t understand the “rug pull” of cancellation. He genuinely considered the game in a releasable state. Another dev’s parting comments weren’t so rosy. He hinted at an internal environment that quashed criticisms from staff, stating that fan feedback “changed the game for the better, when our voices alone couldn't.” So, we have a very small team of inexperienced game devs with little clear guidance, little understanding of optics for outside observers, and resistance to internal criticism. With all that in mind, the apparent state of the game now makes more sense. 5: It’s not an asset flip, MOM Of course, I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the infighting in the LBY community throughout early access buildup. Over the course of development, the community split into loosely defined factions: Hope-Posters and Negative Nancies. The Hope-Posters spread good vibes and positivity. Most genuinely believed in the game (or at least wanted to) and were excited to discuss their planned characters or custom content. If something didn’t live up to expectations in a preview, they would be the first to point out that the game was only in early access. So it would totally, definitely, 100% for-sure be fixed later. Be patient and have faith, guys! The Negative Nancies, on the other hand, saw the writing on the wall with LBY. They were the first to lament the game’s state and to point out perceived flaws and shortcomings. The common denominator between both groups? Each held adamant, unbudgeable opinions over a video game they never played. Paradox’s Discord generally consisted of Hope Posters, and while good vibes still flourished on Reddit, the Negative Nancies were more prolific on the subreddit. The LBY sub moderators apparently worried that the narrative on Reddit was spinning out of control. So, they implemented a system wherein criticism was only allowed in the game’s weekly “Frustration Friday” megathread, much to the chagrin of many community members. Sidebar: The game also had weekly “Good Vibes Monday” threads, one of which automatically posted the same day the game was cancelled, though mods later deleted it. In one noteworthy Reddit spat, one user referred to the game as “a mundane asset flip.” (Note: The term, asset flip, refers to “low quality games produced using pre-made assets.”) In response, a moderator locked the comment and left a warning against the user for “spreading misinformation.” According to the mod, referring to the game as an asset flip was “just straight up false information” and “extremely misleading and even potentially damaging to the brand and the team's reputation.” Keep in mind: Most of the subreddit mods had no affiliation with the game. They had no way of knowing if the game was made using premade assets or not. This spat became much juicier when someone later uncovered some key information from the senior producer’s portfolio website. Namely, that LBY was built using premade models. The character creation system is built using a system called “Unity Multipurpose Avatar” (UMA,) a framework that allows devs to incorporate a character creation system within a game. UMA also provides access to free models on the Unity Store, which – wouldn’t you know it – featured many of the same issues that the LBY characters had: Too-short arms, claw hands, stooping posture, and shrunken, misaligned shoulders. Someone who also had the UMA base model, posted a side-by-side comparison of the default model in Blender vs. an early screenshot of LBY. The user later deleted the image, stating that they “didn’t want to cause trouble for the game devs.” However, screenshots of the side by side comparison exist, and the resemblance is tough to ignore. This discovery sparked mixed reactions. Some don’t consider this to be a big deal, since plenty of games use premade assets to save time or money. Others took offence. Character creation is a crucial component of a life sim game, yet the devs couldn’t even pick a premade model with proper proportions? This revelation also explains why the characters boast rampant anatomy and proportion issues and why the finished models differ from the concept art. Someone probably said “You can customize the models anyway, so why put effort into sculpting a base?” In my opinion, this decision encapsulates one of the biggest core problems with the game. While many simmers relish customization, not everyone wants to spend hours tweaking settings just to make a game playable. Customization is a fun addition, but the game ought to stand on its own without community modding. It remains to be seen how Life By You’s legacy will affect the life sim community going forward. But with more titles announced since LBY’s cancellation, it’s helpful to adopt an attitude of healthy skepticism. You can be hopeful for a project’s future while still offering constructive criticism or airing concerns. If something seems too good to be true, it likely is. Still, it’s a shame that no one ever got to judge Life By You for themselves. In the absence of a full public release, we’ll always be left wondering: What could have been? submitted by /u/Sketch-Brooke to r/HobbyDrama [link] [comments]
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Sketch-Brooke |
Jun 16, 2025 |
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One drug-fueled night killed me.
January 12th, 2024, will forever live in infamy. That Friday night irreversibly turned my happy, healthy, successful life upside down. This is a tale of party drugs. It’s also a life-and-death journey I could’ve never imagined in my wildest dreams. Call it a harrowing dive into extremes of the human condition or a case study at the intersection of medicine, pharma, policy, and brain science. As the one who lived it, writing this eleven months later is my confession — assembling the shards of a shattered world into one broken mosaic. Here goes… At my brother’s 50th birthday in Cabo, cocaine fueled the festivities. By no means a user, I’m also not a novice. I’m a typical millennial who never looked for drugs but is not afraid to try something passed by friends. For context, I’ve lived a drama-free life, successful by any metric. I have a bunch of advanced degrees and manage a small but thriving international company. I’m also an understated middle child by nature, so making noise or having weird stuff happen is not my deal. Until that night, I’d coasted without anything major ever going wrong. Being in my early 40s, my partying days are in the past, and January was the first time in probably a decade — since business school — touching party drugs. Over several hours at a place called Bagatelle, where the opening dinner of the three-day bash took place, I had a dozen+ lines and bumps of coke, sipping rum. It was a festive if over-the-top scene as our group of 40 danced atop the long birthday table, stepping over plates, while champagne magnums carried between waiters were poured directly into mouths like parishioners taking communion. It was not a typical Friday night, but all were having fun celebrating my bro. So, chemically speaking, cocaine and alcohol were the first ingredients in my blood. As midnight approached, I was handed by a banker what I was told was MDMA brought from San Francisco. I’d taken molly twice — once at a wedding in Prague, before that at a club in Aruba — and had good experiences. I didn’t particularly want to roll that night in Cabo, being late and tired from flying out of DC at the crack of dawn, having just gotten back from Colombia days before… so I nearly said, “No thanks.” But your brother only turns half a century once, and I didn’t overthink it. I split the cap in half with my fingers, swallowed what I figured was a light dose, and kept on with the party. Biggest mistake of my life. Across all years. The one that changed everything. When added to the cocaine, MDMA instantly had a negative effect. In previous rolls, I hadn’t mixed it. This time, I felt an overwhelming anxiety. An hour into that state, I had to leave the afterparty. I was consumed by unease and unable to talk. When I got back to my room at Esperanza, I couldn't sleep. It was no surprise since cocaine belabors the process of settling down, so I lay awake, passing out after sunrise. When I awoke that afternoon, the angst hadn’t abated. I stayed in my room, skipping day two of the birthday bash, waiting for the malaise to pass. I’d never had a mood disorder or taken a psych med, so long-lasting unease was entirely new. Day three came and went with me cooped up. My phone filled with messages as I skipped the close of the 72-hour celebration. And that’s when the real problem started… On the third night, when I tried to sleep, no sleep came. None. On day four, Jan 16, I flew to Mexico City for routine work meetings and events. The same pattern continued that night — and the one after — no sleep. By the end of the sixth sleepless night, having barely scraped through what would have otherwise been stress-free obligations in CDMX, I flew home to DC, assuming all would return to normal in my bed. Nothing changed back home. A seventh sleepless night became an eighth with an hour or two of broken rest, constantly springing wide awake with churning anxiety. It was as if my brain had gotten stuck in “fight-or-flight” mode with no off-switch. In my prior life, a restless night — say, from a red-eye flight, before a big speech, or a tough board meeting — would lead to sheer exhaustion the following evening, crashing hard from the lack of rest. But “catch-up sleep” never came with this bizarre MDMA insomnia. I didn’t get sleepy, no matter how many nights passed. After two weeks, I knew in my gut something big was up. After seeing my family doctor, I was referred to a psychiatrist for the first time, who began to treat me with introductory sleeping pills, starting with trazodone. These didn’t put a dent in the insomnia, and I was rotated to stronger categories of prescription. This process repeated for the next month as I worked with a growing roster of psychiatrists and sleep neurologists who wrote scripts for sequentially more heavily controlled meds. These trials included every sedative under the sun. I won’t re-list them; suffice to say, I left no stone unturned. Just the categories of sleep-inducing Rxs I cycled through, searching with doctors for one that worked, included orexin inhibitors, adrenergic receptor agonists, benzodiazepines, z-drugs, beta-blockers, tricyclics, tetracyclics, melatonin modulators, antiepileptics, anticonvulsants, antipsychotics, and, eventually, full-on anesthetics — a la Michael Jackson. I had every blood work panel done, a sleep study (sleeping 50 minutes across the night), an MRI, EEG, hired a CBTi coach, etc… nothing helped or provided doctors any insight into what had happened in my brain. By the three-month mark, I’d trialed 40+ prescriptions. Here, let me explain how so-called “psych drugs” work. When prescribed “on-label” for mood disorders like depression, anxiety, and bipolar, these drugs take weeks, if not months, to take effect. But when prescribed “off-label” for the sole purpose of promoting sleep, these same drugs either work or don’t on the first night, providing diminishing returns as tolerance builds. That’s how I was able, under doctor supervision, to test every hypnotic Rx in existence over 90 days, searching for an illusive solution. The newest “designer” meds, like the DORAs, had to be specially ordered by the pharmacy. As weeks passed, I became so desperate for sleep that I shelled out $1k for one called Quviviq (which had helped Matthew Perry), not knowing if it would work. It didn’t. Against these sleepless nights, I tried to wear myself down, spending every day in the gym and running miles outside. My goal became to tire myself to sleep. I was like a warrior fighting this battle and inadvertently got into the best shape of my life. People’s passing compliments couldn’t imagine the dark source of my transformation. Still, nothing changed at night. Piece by piece, I removed as many stressors as possible, hoping that putting one on the back burner might help. So, fighting a tug of war with my heart that exhaustion eventually won, I pushed all intensity and passion from my personal life into the background in a way that’s haunted me since. At work, I’d been doing what I could to keep on top of running a company, masking my increasingly drained appearance and depleted mental state — reminiscent of Edward Norton’s workplace struggle with insomnia in Fight Club. Anyone who saw me in those days will know that the giveaway of this scene being fiction is Norton’s eyes aren’t nearly sunken enough, as mine had become. On days when I couldn’t function, I couched my absence as “migraines” among colleagues and friends — too embarrassed to say I wasn’t sleeping, something that comes naturally to everyone, as it did me for 42 years prior. On top of this, I was ashamed by the source — a frivolous party drug, an admission I couldn’t broadcast beyond doctors. So I gutted it out in silence. Eventually, the mental and physical toll became unsustainable, and I had to start an indefinite leave of absence from the job I loved. I cut out all travel and commitments — canceling trips, reassigning roles, and appointing surrogates. Still, nothing I did to streamline my life changed the sleeplessness. I never yawned or got tired. All I could ever manage was an hour or two of medicated sleep — holding out hope with each passing week that a new drug cocktail might finally bring restorative rest. Across three months, I’d invested tens of thousands of dollars seeing all experts in a 4-hour radius of DC, most of whom don’t take insurance. Yet I was no closer to a solution, let alone a basic understanding of what medically I was facing. I went to hospital ERs, begging to be put into a coma for just one night of rest — as Jordan Peterson, who I’d met once, had done for 8 days in Russia. But not being suicidal, despite insomnia as its biggest risk factor, I could never get past triage. I reduced my daily routine to the calmest activities, sushi diet, textbook sleep hygiene… no matter what I did to LuLuLemonify my life, I couldn’t sleep. It was a hell you can’t imagine without relief — not one night. By mid-April, month four, encouraged by my doctors and the few people I’d let into my struggle, I took the next step. I checked myself into the first of a series of private hospital residencies to treat this mysterious condition with 24-hour care. Across the past two decades, I might have taken four sick days. So flying to a clinic, let alone leaving work for weeks, was out of character, to say the least. In late April and early May, I traveled to Texas, going in-patient at one of the top health facilities in the country. It’s the kind of private hospital oasis set among manicured gardens and quiet walking paths that takes away your phone on arrival, so nothing can distract getting well. While there, I was placed on a different kind of med — an SSRI — with no apparent relation to sleep. It was prescribed to treat the increasing anxiety surrounding me as I shut my life down. Lexapro, a serotonin-reuptake inhibitor, affects 5-HT, the same neurotransmitter as MDMA. Miraculously and unexpectedly for doctors, Lexapro put me to sleep. For two weeks, my life went back to normal. I flew home filled with gratitude, energized to restart where I’d left off with more passion than ever. I jumped into work and rebuilt the personal connections I’d so missed. After what I’d been through, life had handed back in a way that’s impossible to describe unless you lose yours for a while. I was beaming. No one second-guessed the positive results. After all, Lexapro targets the same protein as MDMA, serotonin — a signal fire as to what had gone wrong back in January. I felt like I’d beaten the scariest thing I’d ever faced, and for two weeks, Lexapro was my lifeline. But in a cruel twist of fate, so hard to look back on now, as I adjusted to the SSRI, insomnia came back. I stuck with the trial for seven weeks in the hope it would pass, but my sleeplessness only got worse than ever. I switched to other serotonin modulators like Trintellix, but nothing put me back to sleep. The honeymoon of Lexapro became a bittersweet memory of rest that disappeared as unexpectedly as it arrived. A few weeks later, in June, I finally saw the chief sleep neurologist at Johns Hopkins Medicine, Dr. Earley, who I’d been trying to get in with for months but is booked a year in advance as the national authority on sleep science and the brain. A family friend on the Hopkins board helped get me up the list. On hearing my story, after examining my chart, and consulting with his colleague at Hopkins, neurologist George Ricaurte — a leading researcher on amphetamine and MDMA neurotoxicity since the 90s — Dr. Earley told me what I’d taken in Mexico caused a “one-in-a-million” reaction in my brain. When combined with the volatile punch of dopamine from cocaine, MDMA created a Serotonin Syndrome that fried my 5-HT system through toxicity. Serotonin controls sleep in a way that requires a delicate balance. This is why a few days of insomnia after molly is typical, just not permanent. For most people, down-regulated receptors restore, but in rare cases, irreversible neurosis can occur. Dr. Earley told me I wasn’t the first he’d seen and referred to literature about a range of pathologies from even one-time MDMA use. With candor I appreciated, Dr. Earley couldn’t say if my brain would ever recover, why Lexapro worked, then stopped, or if anything would let me sleep again. Seeing the exhaustion in my eyes, he agreed to treat me on “an experimental basis” and ordered a weeklong sleep study for more data. Becoming the test patient to one of America’s most seasoned neurologists was both affirming, given the extremes I’d been through, and terrifying, for what it signaled about the road ahead. June gave way to July, and the 6-month anniversary of my insomnia was fast approaching. As this dreary milestone neared, I became isolated and was losing hope. I hadn’t been to work in months, had retreated from my inner circle, and lost precious parts of my life that meant the world to me. More than $200k had been spent going to the country’s top clinics — ending up at The Retreat, a full-service facility near Baltimore that runs $50k every 20 days and takes zero insurance. I'd lost even more in unrealized projects and ideas. But no price mattered, investing whatever it took to get better, knowing not just sleep but increasingly everything was on the line. Still, after seeking the best of the best, no one could stop the insomnia, tell me how long hell would last, or if it would ever leave. Doctors had also run out of medications to try, the last being the anesthetic Xyrem, aka GHB, the infamous date-rape drug from Diddy’s parties — a Schedule I narcotic prescribed by Dr. Earley as an extreme measure. The most controlled substance in America (only one central pharmacy is authorized to dispense it), Xyrem was taking forever to get approved, required passing through complex safety hoops, and cost $25k per month. Receiving it was a month away with no indication it would work where others failed. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture considered among the worst. Losing a single hour of rest makes Division I athletes miss twice as many shots the next day. The most sublime music ever written, Bach’s Goldberg Variations, was commissioned to treat Mad King Ludwig’s insomnia when sleeplessness drove him crazy. We’ve all experienced at some point the relentless feeling after one sleepless night from a red-eye. In just three days, sleep deprivation breaks prisoners of war into giving up classified secrets. So, by the time my insomnia hit the 6-month mark in July, the once unfathomable thought of cutting my life short slowly started to creep into my mind as a last resort for rest. Insomnia had become my deathbed. Compounding this was a chemical Catch-22. It’s paradoxical, but the most effective drugs doctors use for life-saving sleep come with black-box warnings in fine print about triggering depression and suicidality. So, my hopelessness around not sleeping was being pharmacologically amped up by the meds I’d been prescribed to sleep. I was trapped in a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” loop with no escape between crippling depression from not sleeping or the same from sleeping pills. This snowballing downward spiral is how — coming from a guy who’d in December 2023 been the happiest in my entire life, with a thriving company I was expanding, cherished waterfront in Canada and on the Chesapeake I’d spent years developing into gardens of Eden to enjoy forever, a skylit place in the city, financial freedom, beloved mentors and colleagues surrounding me, a dream job that took me everywhere on earth, a full heart, in short, all I ever wanted and more — by the time July 2024 rolled around, the person I’d become wasn’t recognizable as me. It was two lives. Because I couldn’t sleep… I couldn’t think, engage, or feel pleasure. I was a walking zombie who hadn’t rested since January. It was worse than anything I could have ever imagined would happen to anyone I knew, least of all me. So for an eternal optimist who’d never felt down for any stretch, much less considered the idea of ending it all in my wildest nightmares, even as something I’d understand in others suffering, never able to grasp what could bring someone to that state… by July, suicidal ideation had become my everyday battle. It’s sometimes said that self-harm is selfish. I thought that way, too. But through the unending attrition, what came to feel selfish was continuing to drag the world down with me. A clean break would free us all. Let me be clear on something. Weakness played no part in what follows. Those who’ve known me know I’m virtually unbreakable. No one builds the life I did without limitless resolve, nor could they endure the parts of this story still to come without iron will. But the laws of nature are fact. No man — no matter how resilient or brave — can fight biology forever and win. Sleep exists for a reason. We cannot be without it. There is no alternative. After spending the sleepless night of July 4th watching fireworks on the Baltimore skyline from my room at The Retreat — remembering my old life watching fireworks the year before on the Tred Avon River among friends, now a distant memory from a past life when all was well — two mornings later I gave up my last ounce of hope in ever getting better. Hope was replaced by the sinking feeling of a kamikaze pilot called for a one-way mission, summoned to his final test of courage. The universe had left one way to end the endlessness and get the rest I’d desperately sought for so long. Fighting back tears, I scribbled a short goodbye note, remembered a final time the people and life I’d been so in love with before this all started, cursed God for cursing me, and hung myself. I’ve always flown under the radar, never seeking attention. So doing the unthinkable wasn’t a masked plea, as it can be with those who choose pills or cuts and rarely succeed by design. That wasn’t me for a minute. I’d already tried every path for help. I’m a quick study and my method instead represented a decision. I made a strong noose and secured it at such a height that nothing could allow me to turn back once the process began, knowing there would be excruciating pain before blacking out. I told myself it couldn’t feel worse than what I’d already endured. So I bit my lip, prepared for that moment and the eternal unknown to follow. Against every probable outcome, I partially failed or partially succeeded — depending on the measuring stick. You could call it my first piece of good luck in six months, coming at a crucial time. On the other hand, what I did forever changed the life I had and wanted, the people around me, and all that followed. I’m here, but not in a way that feels like me — no matter how far I search for a cure this time. This story has a morose second act. Since the original intent was to share an advisory, not explore psychological torture, I hadn’t planned to delve into the next chapter of my saga since July. But because it’s all the ripple effect from January, and although it includes shameful details, I’m writing this map of uncharted territory for others who get blown off course. So here’s the rest of my tale… At the end of my third week in The Retreat outside of Baltimore, in early July, with the best doctors in the world no closer to helping me than any had been at the start of my journey six months before, I gave up. Despite sharing with my doctors a growing belief that the end was drawing near, and petrified family members calling to warn of the despair in my voice and feared was coming — naively, nurses had loaned me a 14-foot charger cable. Outside, in some woods nearby, out of view, I fastened the cable to a sturdy branch on an overturned log above a stream and doubled it twice around my neck. I’ve always been drawn to water, so above a trickling creek was the only spot on campus I could live with, so to speak, to say goodbye. I rolled my body off the edge — the noose caught, cinched tight, and I passed out. Sometime later — no one knows how long — one of the cords snapped, then the other, and I fell. Two bursts of orange flooded my head in flashes of the most intense pain I’ve ever known as consciousness returned. My eyes popped open, and I jolted back to life, like a scene from a movie. But the right side of my body was numb; I had twitching fingers, double vision, pulsating pupils, uncontrollable shivering, and other weird thermodynamic effects from starving my brain of oxygen long enough to shut it down. This was all later diagnosed as an anoxic brain injury to my left hemisphere. When alert enough to rise, I stumbled back to The Retreat and turned myself in. I was escorted to the emergency room in delirium — coping with the effects of the brain injury I’d just suffered, compounded by the insomnia that broke me down in the first place. Nothing, not even hanging, would let me escape. I was trapped in an episode of Black Mirror or The Twilight Zone. Then, in a twist of dark humor from the universe (that even made Dr. Earley laugh when he heard), I became sleepy in the ER for the first time in six months. Somehow, restarting my brain brought intense fatigue — which none of 40+ medications could ever do. So I dozed in and out of consciousness for three days as MRIs, echocardiograms, and other tests were done to look for necrosis or a heart attack. Despite my self-induced asphyxiation, I was being kept on the hospital’s stroke unit — rather than its protected psych floor. My well-groomed appearance and polished manner may have deceived doctors into not seeing the risk, ignoring what had just brought me in. That’s how, shortly before I was scheduled to be transferred to a trauma unit on the afternoon of July 9, still in anoxic delirium, I darted from the sitter watching me, when distracted, to the 6th-floor exit down the hall. Without pause, I dove headfirst down the stairwell center — figuring a six-story drop would end the suffering once and for all. But the sitter chased as I went over the ledge, catching my foot for a split-second — long enough before my sock slipped through their hands — that I flipped as I free-fell down the stairwell center. In midair somersaults, I bounced off a railing, zig-zagging my trajectory to land headfirst three floors down instead of free-falling six stories. Cries above sounded the alarm as doctors from every floor rushed to the stairwell. Peering down in disbelief, through my motionless, glazed eyes — against all odds, the Red Sea parted — I had a pulse, still. Somehow, going three floors didn’t kill me, as it did fellow musical soul Liam Payne recently. But when the back of my head hit the concrete, it deviated my eyes in a way that makes 3D-vision hard, called strabismus, and gave me “Acquired Aphantasia,” which means losing your mind’s eye. When I close my eyes now, I’m blind — every image from my life was erased on impact. So I can’t picture what anyone looks like, envision the future, lock onto my eyes in the mirror, read without saying words in my head, navigate without GPS, and a myriad of ways that shutting off your imagination reshapes you. I was told I’m a visual person my whole life, so losing this feels like losing me. In more dark humor from fate, Acquired Aphantasia, like MDMA insomnia, is exceedingly rare because rear-occipital brain damage happens less frequently than to frontal lobes, like head-on car crashes. So I’m navigating this new condition again in the dark, flying blind. After my fall, the scent of liability attracted hospital lawyers like sharks to blood, who threw the book at me to cover up errors. I was strapped to a gurney, sent to a ward, and locked away for 40 days. Much of that time on “1:1,” which is like solitary confinement, but with someone standing at arm's length, 24/7, even in the shower, even in bed. Still in a trance from my head colliding with cement, I thought about Noah in the flood and Moses in the desert. I began to talk to my shadow — this alter ego beside me — like the Voice in the Burning Bush on the mountain. Her name was Sam. When I was strong enough to walk, I walked in circles. Endlessly through that wilderness — a stranger in a strange land. Sam's voice beside me brought periodic news of the outside, beyond the walls… an assassin shot Trump at a rally, but the bullet grazed his ear… a giant bridge across the Chesapeake collapsed nearby, cars dropping into water as stones into a pond. My world — inside and out — had become magical realism, One Hundred Years of Solitude. Fiction morphed into fact in this Borgesian labyrinth. My sleepless life was the requiem for a dream. Given my apparent penchant for transforming supposedly secure campuses into deathtraps, ward leadership was terrified of a lawsuit. So that meant all eyes on me, day and night, a never-ending watch. My world was paper scrubs, paper spoons, rubber mattress, plastic pillow, no sheets, metal toilet, no lid, Stockholm shower, no curtain. Strip searches at sunup and sundown. The pattern repeated, day after day. I’d become their Al Capone… Hannibal Lecter, without the Goldberg Variations as company… the Kurt Cobain of insomnia. But their overzealous posturing didn’t matter. The moment to save me came before I arrived. I did my time, and six weeks later, was released in mid-August. Since then, I’ve survived by planting and cutting trees and long adventures with my dog — trying to keep at bay depression’s downward pull of gravity with a force I never knew existed, like I’m wearing lead shoes. Worn out by a year without rest, now navigating deficits of new brain trauma — I keep thinking back to my life before this all started and the dreams I had to leave behind along the way. I can’t understand why any of it happened, and I still can't sleep much... Most recently, I’ve spent September, October, and November fighting poison with poison by doing every last-ditch brain reset known to man, including six weeks of TMS, five weeks of Ketamine, four SGB neck injections (used by the military), and soon, triweekly ECT under general anesthesia. All that’s missing for Christmas are two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. But no brain reset touches me. My mind’s blank. My heartlight’s out. There are no more stars in the sky. When you add it up, what I’ve lived since January is so unbelievable it couldn’t be fiction — only fact. And now the sleepless nights that started it are the prelude to an even stranger chapter I’m still awakening in (no pun). I’ve never been a fan of melodrama, but I can’t help feeling like I missed life’s chance — derailing onto the wrong track one night out, my train now headed in another direction. After being the conductor my whole life, I’ve become its passenger, seeing where each day goes. I don’t know where this new ride leads. I can still write, but lost the ability to be succinct, as I have to say words in my head. It’s all sea change. The harder they come, the harder they fall. The happy, go-lucky me of December 2023 has become a distant character in a film I miss. Every moment radiates from the past. Through the fog of time between then and now, it’s a miracle and a curse that I made it. January 12 will permanently mark, in some way, the last day of my life. My night of party drugs may rank among the most life-changing neurotoxic stories of all time. I’m the exception, not the rule. But I’m not the only one. The world is full of terrified people with lasting insomnia from molly. Here’s one, another, all variations on a theme. Most get shot down by the mob who doubt a drug they love could do so much damage. You can’t understand until it happens to you. I’ve since discovered so many lives broken by this chemical’s dark side. If you look up NIH case reports, you’ll find permanent anxiety disorders and intractable psychosis brought on by even one-time MDMA use in otherwise healthy people, as I was. If you search blogs for “long-term comedown” (LTC), there are troves of devastating accounts of rolls creating neuroses lasting months, years, forever. People from around the world have contacted me to share heart-wrenching life-turns. My case is exceptional — like Dr. Earley said, “one-in-a-million” — but if I had any idea I was playing the lottery, even at one in a billion odds, even a trillion, I would’ve never taken the cap handed to me. I loved life too much to risk it. What hit my brain eventually took away the best parts of me. I can’t make sense of it, nor will I ever. I’ll also always wonder what good was waiting just around the corner if I’d only taken the other turn that night. It’s too much to think about. I don’t understand fate, but I didn’t deserve this. No one does. For 999,999 people out there, since chances are slim, you’ll soon forget my story. I would’ve, too. Before that night, I never worried. Didn’t know the first thing about meds, the brain, or drugs. Never stressed. I was living a charmed life and got lucky at each turn. Everything worked. That was my world for 42 unforgettable years. But for the next one-in-a-million, maybe, my tale gives pause before plugging in chemicals with the power to reshape a mind. We each make our own choices, but from where I now stand in its abyss, the mind is too fragile to toy with. It’s our universe, so it feels permanent, like the sun, because it surrounds us. But we don’t understand this universe, let alone what can throw off its axis and rotation for good. I learned too late. I wish I never had this story to tell. It's a “what-if” reel I’ve replayed so much that the film has burned. Nobody said it was easy, but nobody said it would be this hard. Oh, take me back to the start. I can’t change the past, but my story can change someone else’s future. Did the system fail me? No. No, in that MDMA put the writing on the wall. That was my choice, and while it may soon be legal in a bunch of countries, Mexico is not one. Ironically, that same morning, Jan 12, Mexican authorities seized on arrival a CBD lip balm from my toiletry bag — received on my birthday, three days before, bought over-the-counter in DC. So, there’s no consensus on what’s safe. No, in that I was treated by countless compassionate doctors who did the best they could. Too many to name. Most importantly, no, in that no neurobiologist on earth understands the human mind. Brain science is at best presumption. So how can any doctor be faulted for not finding my silver bullet? Did the system fail? Yes. Believe it or not, MDMA was first synthesized by Merck Pharmaceuticals, owner of the same patented drugs I’d later take to fight its damage. There’s a saying, “You break it, you buy it.” Yes, in that the very medicines prescribed to give me life-preserving sleep gave me life-destroying depression. Yes, in that nurses at a high-end facility loaned me a 14-foot cable, knowing I was approaching the breaking point from no sleep. Had that arrived in my bags, it would have been confiscated. My doctor there getting fired three days later is a smoking gun. Yes, in that I turned myself into an ER in self-induced anoxia, only to be assigned a room beside an unlocked six-story stairwell — when an entire trap-proof floor existed for patients experiencing delirium. My story’s worth telling if for no other reason than the questions that intersect here across medicine, policy, pharma, drugs, health, and brain science. But none of these questions matter to me now. I wasn’t thinking about any of them as I sat on the log, rolling back the reel of time. I was remembering the people and places I love. The story’s told. How to move on… As a kid, my older brother was the daredevil between us. He led me down our steep driveway on a Powell-Peralta skateboard, we got marooned on a jungle island in the Arabian Sea, and he showed me how to shoot BB guns and bottle rockets, climb 20-story cranes, and draft down San Francisco hills at high speed on a road bike. He taught me how to shotgun beer, chop Ritalin into lines, and, using rolled bills from summer lifeguarding, blow coke. How did I survive so many wild nights unscathed but not his 50th? He’s done 1000x the drugs. Why me? We still haven't spoken, but I forgive him. It’s not his fault. Even Dostoyevsky couldn’t imagine what lay ahead. I was always loyal to my company and the people I share it with. They’ve also been loyal for so long, flying the plane, awaiting a return, and never giving up hope. The last thing left to face is my heart. I’ve been drawn to water and rocks forever. Some of my earliest memories are collecting pebbles on the beach and moving stones in a creek near my house. Today, the two places I love most on earth — my cottage and the site of my future home — are both wrapped in rock walls and rippling waves. I learned this world from a hermit. Growing up, I spent summers at a neighborhood swim & tennis club set on woods beside the Potomac River. Each day, I’d see a reclusive man with long grey hair enter the neighboring forest — stark naked — and walk a path only he knew to a tucked-away cove. For as long as anyone could remember, he’d been building a half-mile-long dam out of stones by hand in the rapids that, across decades, single-handedly redirected the course of one of America’s most famed waterways. To this day, his handiwork is visible on Google Earth, just west of the American-Legion Bridge. Legend had it that old Crazy Ned was stuck in his infinite loop from a bad drug trip that broke him, like PBS’s strange Case of the Frozen Addicts. Looking back, Ned’s appearance in the haze of my childhood now seems almost a Biblical omen… this Sisyphus cursed by a pill to push rocks against the current forever, a Hailey’s Comet sent to me as a warning from the stars. But I never saw the sign. And now the stars — even Karlsvagyn — have gone out. There’s no place left to hide from my heart in the ensuing darkness. Coming up on the anniversary of the first night that started all the sleepless ones to follow, I keep thinking back to this time last year… healthy and strong, chemical-free, soundly sover, my world in motion, a new moon rising, crisscrossing shimmering sea-waves, embarking on what I thought was becoming — like a lightning strike — the brightest chapter of my life. I’d always heard, “From the brightest day comes the darkest night.” Now I know. One tiny cap I barely remember taking broke my nights, world, head, and heart — in that order. This December, each carol echoes a bittersweet memento to the final weeks of shining eyes one year ago, before my story began. I miss those advent nights like you can’t imagine. Last year’s nocturnes were the shooting stars of a light-filled universe, set ablaze, then vanquished. I’ll never get those starbursts back — my heartlight, the shining eyes, or why they slipped away. Here’s hoping ECT erases all the memories, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Meet me in Montauk. Until then, red wine and sleeping pills help me get back. Maybe, I will see you in the next life. Edit: On December 15, 2024, with my brain unchanged from the state it was left in by my fall six months before, with my mind’s eye gone, and my world blurry from deviated eyes and a broken mind and heart… with each passing increasingly dragged down by the weight of the January 12 anniversary fast approaching that would mark the start of a second year and the rest of my life in hell, remembering the health and happiness I still had the year before… a relentless sorrow kept pulling me down, like Sebastian’s grey horse sinking into the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story. Eventually all of me disappeared into the quicksand. I played what I thought would be my last notes at the piano, walked out of the house, and sat on a fallen tree in the adjacent woods, trying to accept what was to come. I begged whatever power had cursed me to let the ones I was leaving behind find peace again someday. Then I swallowed 4 grams of Amitriptyline — 2x the fatal dose — washing it down with wine. Either miraculously, or like a demonic possession, before blacking out, I unconsciously stumbled home through the forest, completely blind from the chemicals, lunging into trees and walls I couldn’t see and walking into windows. I ended up curled in a ball on a bathroom floor, which is where I was found and intubated, pumped full of bicarbonate and charcoal to try to save my blood and heart as I slipped into a coma. Three days later I awoke in the ICU with a giant tube down my throat. I spent Christmas in that hospital and eventually managed to make it through the first anniversary of the night that launched this story. But it hasn’t gotten any easier, only harder. Because the consciousness that returned since my OD is partial. My mind is slower, my vision blurrier, my heart more gone. If there is a lesson in my tale, it’s that when you think it can’t get worse, it can. Cause it happened three times. There is no end to my Neverending Story. Only ongoing despair. I was once a well-tuned car, cared for, maintained, navigating the twists and turns of life’s roads. Today I’m a head-on car crash passed by others on the highway. Pinned, paralyzed, trapped in wreckage I can’t escape, despite all I’ve done to try to. If there is an out other than what my burnt-out heart tells me is the only way, I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. It’s all black in here, clutching the wheel of an engine that hasn’t worked in thirteen months, hoping against hope that if I keep pressing the pedal, someday the motor will catch and my life will turn back on. submitted by /u/Northstorm03 to r/confessions [link] [comments]
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Northstorm03 |
Dec 11, 2024 |
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Why I sold my Tesla Model 3 Performance & went back to gas
I owned a 2019 Tesla Model 3 Performance for roughly two years and 15,000 miles. I'm going to distill my key learnings and experiences here, in an attempt to educate others on EVs and reach some form of closure. My ownership could best be summed-up as a love/hate relationship, ending with crazy used car values offering me the out I'd been quietly seeking. Clearly, I decided EVs aren't for me - at least, not yet. I'm not a "paid big oil shill" or someone who's trying to short the stock, as I'm sure some of the Tesla nuts will claim. I'm just a car enthusiast (disclaimer: not an engineer) standing at the same crossroads as the rest of you, wondering what sounds future children will make long after (if?) our beloved bureaucrats outlaw the ICE. Everything I'm writing here is based on my own unique tastes and preferences. How the pros and cons balance out at the end is entirely up to you. And that's fine. Choice is great. Note that this post centers on Battery EVs (BEVs) at the time of this writing, which comprise the vast majority of EVs on the road today. And yeah. This got way longer than I anticipated. But it was cathartic for me and I hope it's at least somewhat useful to someone out there. EV performance & its accessibility I'll start with what ultimately sold me on the car - Immense, instant power. The war in the "pure acceleration" category is pretty much over - just take a look at Jason Cammisa's video with the Model S Plaid vs. the BMW M5 CS and Cadillac Crazy. They're not even on the same planet. Not only is the acceleration brutal, but it's consistent (everything else held constant - more on that later). Look up any number of 0 - 60 videos on YouTube, and you'll notice that the times are all remarkably close, especially if there are multiple runs in the same video. And how could they not be? Software and traction control are fundamental to EV operation. Adjustments take mere milliseconds. The amount of "stuff" involved between your right foot and the tires is a joke compared to an ICE car. And it's basically idiot-proof - even with the Track Mode dialed to 100% hoon in my TM3P, it was nearly impossible to make a mistake. You just put your foot down and the car takes care of the rest, with literally zero drama. Electric motors are great And all of this performance comes with no mechanical sympathy. I never felt an ounce of it, flogging my Model 3 - there's really nothing to "break" mechanically in the way of the drivetrain. The entire drive unit consists of the motor, a few gears, the diff, a pump to circulate the oil... and that's really about it. No fried clutches, exploding transmissions, shredded differentials, etc... it's always ready to pounce at any speed, in any situation. Electric motors themselves are relatively inexpensive, quiet, clean, tough, extremely efficient, insanely long-lasting, and have an excellent power/size ratio. When it comes to to the task of turning energy into mechanical force, I'm not sure there's anything better. AND! You don't even have to worry about getting the motors up to operating temperature before you get on it. During the colder months, it easily takes 10+ minutes of highway driving for the oil of an ICE to warm up (you are looking at your oil and not the coolant temp, right?). I quite enjoyed leaving my neighborhood with the ability to give it full "throttle" right out of the gate. It's like teleporting straight into any 3-car gap, no matter where. (But there are limitations to this - more on that later, too.) Convenience & running costs You can also have your cake and eat it, too! There's no need to feel like a moron with a 550 HP ICE engine idling under the hood in daily stop and go traffic. My TM3P was an efficient, calm, quiet, easy, comfortable way of getting from Point A to Point B while being more similar performance-wise to a BMW M3 than a Toyota Corolla - with fewer running costs than either. True, the suspension, brakes, thermal management gubbins, etc., are largely synonymous between an EV and ICE. But when it comes to the actual propulsion, there's basically zero wear and tear. Just a dumb motor that doesn't care about much, and will probably last well past 1 million miles. With a new battery, you're basically looking at a brand-new drivetrain. And yes, running on electricity is cheaper than filling up an ICE car - this is where most of the EV "savings" materialize. In my experience, electricity in the mid-Atlantic region cost roughly 12¢/kWh and 9¢/kWh in the PNW. For my TM3P, that equates to about $10 and $8 in each region, respectively, to travel ~265 miles, assuming: A 75 kWh battery pack, lifetime consumption average of 280 Wh/mile, and a 13% charging loss, IF you can charge at home (which is key to the "get in and go" convenience of an EV - without that, forget it). Subtract oil + filter changes, spark plugs, failing chain tensioners, bad oxygen sensors, burnt out cat converters, and other annoying problems, and the running costs quickly stack up in the EV's favor. You rarely even use the brakes! Even with the initial purchase price of an EV still being notably higher than gasoline, on average, you can make the argument that it still comes out cheaper in the long run. But the wildcard here is "how long is 'long run?'" The cost of battery pack replacement isn't discussed as often as I'd like. Some of the earliest Model S packs are already starting to fail - only about 10 years later. When I sold my E46, it was approaching 20 years old. It still faithfully serves its new owner on a daily basis, today. Maybe I've only heard about the edge cases, and the Model 3's will all last considerably last longer, but I personally never got comfortable being part of a beta test. The batteries in these cars remain a delicate subject, which brings us to the poo-poo part of this post. Let's face it - batteries still suck. Electric motors are one thing; powering them is an entirely different story. Conventional lithium-ion batteries are really the only currently viable way to power EVs en masse. Part of what makes them great is that they're extremely efficient when it comes to storing and dispensing energy - especially compared to fossil fuels and other solutions in the works. You put electricity in, electricity comes back out. The leap from energy generation to use is extremely short. But they do have notable limitations around longevity, performance, and cost, especially when it comes to shuffling a 2+ ton vehicle around. Whether you're willing to accept these limitations is up to you. Degradation is inevitable At this point, the oldest Model Ss on the road at about 10 years old. Although the Model 3 pack is newer and has less cells (thus less to go wrong - 7,920 in the Plaid vs 4,416 in a TM3 LR), we don't yet have enough information to truly know what to expect from these packs from a longevity perspective. Unlikely that Tesla will ever share this info, either. If Elon is to be believed, the Model 3 pack should last 300,000 - 500,000 miles. If Elon is to be believed, fully-autonomous cars would've been shuffling us around long before 2020. We know that with proper care, pretty much any modern ICE car should be able to surpass the 250,000 mile mark without many problems. So anyone who likes to run their cars for as long as possible and buys an EV should know that they're venturing into the unknown. Yes, I'm aware that there are examples out there of Model Ss surpassing several hundred thousand miles - with the caveat being that a not-insignificant number of them of them involved battery and/or drive unit replacements at various points. There are also Hyundai Elantras out there with 1,000,000+ miles on their original powertrains. But note that degradation is only one part of the story. Upon my departure of Tesland, I can't recall hearing of anyone replacing packs due to natural degradation. All the replacement stories I came across were pack failures in one form or another. Yes, the internet is a fantastic place for angry people to vent, and it could be that the population's negatively skewed - like the Finnish guy who recently blew up his Model S on YouTube. But the reality is that if one single cell - not brick, not module, but cell - fails, the pack is done. That cell turns into a parasite. The car will struggle and ultimately fail to balance out the pack, eventually giving up one morning, telling you to GFY, and to take it to Tesla. Last I heard, replacing the battery on a Model S was ~$24,000 and ~$16,000 for a Model 3. This is just one type of sudden pack failure that I've heard about, and what makes it especially concerning is that the root cause seems fairly trivial relative to the catastrophe that ensues. Maybe it's overblown and maybe I'm being paranoid, but the chances of this happening are real, and only increase in with age... ...which is something else that affects battery degradation, as indicated by Tesla's latest shenanigan of selling "new" cars with batteries from 4+ year-old stock, claiming that range "may be reduced by 12%." (At the time of this writing: Model 3 SR drive unit + battery warranty is 8 years/100,000 miles, LR is 8 years/120,000 miles). So yes, the car is literally getting worse every day by the sheer virtue of just sitting there - especially in extreme climates. How pronounced is the impact of age vs. use vs. fast-charging is anybody's guess, but it's a reality that needs to be acknowledged. So if you're comfortable with basically ending up with a 2 - 3 ton paperweight if some electrical fault appears in the pack, and have the means to shovel cash into the Tesla furnace without much concern for what the future may hold, then you're probably less worried about the battery. I envy your fortitude and tolerance for risk - it's something I thought I could swallow, but couldn't. As I learned these realities, I became increasingly less comfortable with the prospect of keeping the car past its warranty period. Yes, an ICE can also fail (a timeworn Tesla fanatic argument), but not many ICE failures end in the car being completely inoperable - especially in modern cars which are ridiculously reliable and serviceable by anyone. Mitigation means sacrifice If you want the battery to last as long as possible, you have to be nice to it. You don't want to leave the battery fully-charged for extended periods of time, or let it drop below 10% - there are arguments that doing either of these is more detrimental to battery longevity than supercharging. But this is why the 90 - 100% block on a Tesla's charge indicator is labeled "Trip." (I don't think any other manufacturers do this... And part of me wonders whether it's a Teslan strategy to maximize rated range.) So right off the batt (ha), you're 20% down if you're concerned for battery health. It's OK to charge to 100% right before a long trip, but the lower, the better, around town. There are people who charge to 90%, 80%, or even lower on a daily basis as a result. Jeff Dahn recommends 70% to maximize life - you can look him up. Now, paying $50K+ for a vehicle like this and running it below its potential for most of its life just... sucks. Especially seeing as the car produces its maximum power output only at about 90%+ state of charge (SoC). That's right. Until they develop a battery that behaves like it's filled with a liquid, this is going to remain a reality. Batteries are only at their best when they're charged to 90 - 100% of their capacity. This becomes especially noticeable at highway speeds at a low SoC, since EVs accelerate far more brutally from a stop than from a roll. The car is still plenty quick on the highway, but this does result in some ass-clenching moments when passing cars on a divided yellow and you're used to driving around in God Mode. You put your foot down at
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reddit.com |
DegradingBattery |
Dec 31, 2021 |