80K in 30 days

Screenshot

Suicide is a National tragedy. 80,000 suicides in 4 weeks. Why isn’t mental health a priority?

I’m very close to the subject of suicide. My Masonic Riding Association Chapter dedicates its charitable activities to Suicide prevention through fundraisers such as charity rides. The president of our Chapter lost his son to it.
I have lost many friends over the years to it. There have been so many funerals. More than I care to count. It’s always the same. Nearly all in attendance were thinking the same things. They asked, “How did we not see this coming?” and “What could have been done to prevent it?” You wish for that one last chance to remind someone that they matter, and what they are going through will pass. Instead, your only option is to stand over their mortal shell and say the things that you wished you had said when they were alive. Then the realization sets in, your words are unheard now, and mean nothing anymore. It’s just too late.

I have struggled with thoughts of suicide as well. Greatly. It started when I was on dialysis several years ago. I struggled through some very dark, sleepless nights in which my thoughts attacked me. Feelings of despair, worthlessness, frustration, and exhaustion washed over me, standing guard so as to not allow any conflicting voices of hopefulness intervene. I was convinced that life was not worth living. That I was of no use, in fact a burden to everyone. I didn’t feel needed, wanted, or useful. I was sick, broke, isolated from my support network, and generally feeling that there was no reason to keep fighting. It was such a confusing time for me. I managed to get through each day. But I always knew that I had another battle in store later that night. The one thing that kept me from actually doing it was knowing what it would do to the people who love me.
Eventually, those nightly battles ended. For a while, I believed that they were gone for good. I chalked them up to a phase. I was wrong. I have battled suicidal ideations many times since. Recently, I am sad to report.

Never again, after the events of last week.

A close family friend hung herself last week in a house full of people who loved her. 12 people to be exact. Not to mention the throngs of others who have just found out. She was a mother of 5, a Grandmother of 5, a devoted wife, and a friend to all. She listened with ease, cared without end, and loved everyone in her life. She was my ex-wife’s best friend in the entire world. Now my ex, as well as her enormous family and network of friends, are left holding a giant bag of unanswered questions.

My ex became friends with Lisa when our children were very young. That friendship evolved to include Lisa and her husband. It also included her sister and his husband, along with the third brother and his family. We would congregate as 8 adults and 14 children. Restaurants were fun. I say that sarcastically, but they actually were fun. The adults were as silly and fun-loving as the kids were. For years, we spent almost every occasion with them. Summer days were spent at the pool and lakes. Weekend nights were full of raucous laughter and the joyful sounds of children. I am hard-pressed to think of many nice family days that weren’t spent with their families. Until our divorce, when I wasn’t much a part of things. Unfortunately, the memory of Lisa is a bit tarnished for me. Her friendship with my ex became problematic for me late in our marriage. I felt that the friendship was too much, a bit excessive, and I pushed back some. But I need to be clear, I had no issue with Lisa, only with the situation itself. Even after stating that, I feel awful now. I don’t know if I ever told her that my problem wasn’t with her. I am only comforted by the fact that Lisa probably didn’t hold grudges against me. She just wasn’t like that. I could have learned a lot about forgiveness from her.

The funeral is Friday. It is going to be a very hard day for all involved. The family is one of the closest families I’ve ever known. They love hard and play hard, it logically follows that they grieve hard as well. I anticipate one touching, tearful eulogy after another, each more difficult to process than the last. I plan on providing a shoulder for my ex, if she’ll take it from me. I hope she will because it is the only thing that I have to offer. It won’t be enough, but it will at least be something that I can do for her. She is devastated; there is no other word. I feel just awful for her. She will carry this with her forever. Her mental health, while never great, will be forever affected. For that I am deeply sad.

Seeing the damage done to the living, I now believe that suicide is a terribly selfish act. No one should ever have to go through what Lisa’s family is going through right now. The good memories will prevail. However, the present moment is full of whys, what-ifs, if I had only knowns, and what are we going to do’s. For context, she became a grandmother again just last month. A child that will never know how awesome her Grammy really was.
I can never do that to my family. No amount of pain or despair is worth doing such a thing to them.

Mental health is a crisis of unchecked proportions. See, Lisa was unwell. Despite her ability to help others without limit, she was unable to help herself. Her family was unable to help. My ex, who loved Lisa as much as her family did, was unable to do anything to help.

How many families must endure this pain before we realize we have a problem? I am aware that I am doing a small something by engaging in charities dedicated to this. But the irony that I have thought about ending my life in the same family-crushing manner is not lost on me.

We need to have a national conversation. NOW. https://projectsemicolon.com/

Support the Semi-Colon.

MINSKY: The Journey of an Unfulfilled Android

This is my retelling of Fargo, Season 3, Episode 3, in which the backstory of a dead character is examined. Unit MNSKY, or MINSKY, is the creation of a once-promising Science Fiction writer. His career abruptly ended after a publisher took advantage of him. The book, The Planet WYH, was a promising entry in what would be a successful series. It was relegated to obscurity in a box in the floor. The daughter found it after his death and read it. The producers of the show made a bold and brilliant choice. They told the story of MINSKY, the dutiful Robot, through an animated sequence. It is summarized above.
I am so glad they did.

My name is MINSKY, also known as Unit MNSKY. I am a small robot. I exist only in the memories of the readers of my long-forgotten author,and within the pages of a book, carefully tucked away in this tin box under the floorboards of an old house. Forgotten is my story. I’m out of service. My massive quantities of data have been mined, my metal harvested, my work complete.

My spaceship crashed here on planet WYH 2 million years ago. My pilot and friend died soon after impact. I stood over his fading lifeforce, only able to offer my one sentence, “I can help.” As I would painfully discover, I can’t help. All I have are good intentions. In this new world, I hope that is enough. My mission is to walk the earth. I aim to document all that I see.
Alone, I witnessed the creation of matter, the birth of life, the rise and fall of civilizations, and so much more.
As I walked, slowly and deliberately, the path of discovery, I was a mere spectator to the wonders before me. Water creatures left the surf to breathe air and walk. Giant creatures battled for dominance in a world that extinguished them, without acknowledgment for their conquest, with a single asteroid. I wandered through centuries of Ice and barren terrain. I saw villages morph into cities, cities become countries . I witnessed rises and descents, hopeful building of civilizations, and the wanton destruction that followed. I was witness to the creation of remarkable, benevolent scientific inventions that advanced civilization, as well as the destruction of entire civilizations at the hands of terrible weapons created by the same beings. I wandered for almost 2 million years as a mere spectator. The only time beings interacted with me was when I was an unwilling participant. See, I had to stop every century to recharge. While doing so, I was quite vulnerable. Some creatures took the opportunity to attempt to harm me. Once, one of my upper body appendages was torn off as I sat helplessly. I wasn’t offered assistance or kindness; I was taunted and berated. As an Android, I don’t experience emotions such as sadness. But I know what it is; my database prepared me for all things. My intelligence tells me that what I experienced was cruelty, a base emotion displayed by the non-evolved. Cruelty’s antithesis, kindness, was rarely offered and seemed to be in short supply.
That’s not to say that I am not programmed to offer simulated versions of “emotions”, despite being a rational Android. I occasionally extended an appendage, in its literal sense, to beings I encountered in my travels. If I saw someone struggling, I offered an “I can help”. Only to be reminded that, other than being able to enunciate the words, I am unable to act on them. One being was angry at me, upon my failing to help, calling me “useless” and “worthless”. It pleases me that as an Android I am not susceptible to verbal attacks. Besides, I am only an observer here to document and gather intelligence. A one-armed Android tasked with wandering for eternity until my mission is deemed complete.
One day, as I emerged from my recharge slumber, I experienced my first contact with extraterrestrial life since the crash landing as I found myself before several very distinguished members of the Federation of United Planets. After being recognized as the oldest sentient being in the universe I was commended for my longevity and thanked for the massive amounts of information I recorded. I was then told that it was time for me to shut myself down. I nodded in agreement, reached for my head appendage, opened it, located the switch, and shut myself down. My service was done.
I had wandered 2.38 million years. In that vast amount of elapsed time, I had observed and reported as programmed. I had done nothing else.

I traveled, but I did not enjoy.
I observed without the benefit of awe or curiosity.
I wanted to help, but I wasn’t able to.
I recorded my observations, but I didn’t learn from them.
I was done with my mission, but I hadn’t accomplished anything.
I was able to enunciate my desire to help, but I wasn’t able to help.
I existed, but I did not live.
I didn’t retire; I was shut down.
I have no legacy, just an off switch.
I had a long experience, but I didn’t have a life.
I am a sympathetic character, but I have no understanding of what that means.


Jesus, how sad is that?

I love this episode and animated short so much. The art is minimalist yet enthralling. It is both simplistic and maddeningly beautiful. It is poignant yet heartbreaking. It beautifully saddened me. I find myself affected, which is not an easy feat. MINSKY’s journey parallels so many aspects of life that it morphs into an existential meditation on the tragedy of an unfulfilled life.

Life as an observer will never be fulfilling. If you feel like you were put here for a reason, go and pursue it. If you feel like you have a job to do on this planet, take action. Don’t end up like MINSKY.


The Quiet Strength of Resilience in Tough Times

Resilience isn’t dramatic.
It’s choosing life repeatedly,
even when joy feels borrowed,
And tomorrow feels unsure.
Anonymous

I saw this the other day while doom scrolling FB reels. There are a lot of gems of wisdom, tailored to your particular crisis on social media. In my case, the FB algorithm stepped it up to Yoda mode. Who am I to fight it?
I watch those reels because no matter the topic at hand. I never fail to glean some wisdom or useful nuggets that inspire me. By inspire me, I mean it gives me some general validation. It affirms the troubled traits bothering me at that moment.
This week’s troubling trait is Resilience. I’ve been thinking about it constantly.

If you have been reading, you know that I have been faced with yet another health challenge. Upon initial diagnosis, I was very concerned. The surgery is extensive and is followed by a long recovery. I wasn’t sure that I was up for it. While it goes against every fiber of my being, I thought my good run may be over. Consistent with the theme of “going against every fiber of my being”, I also did something I rarely do. I shared my dilemma with my close friends. I rarely share my struggles. I grew up figuring out shit all on my own. Upon hearing the news of my upcoming surgery, my friends were amazing, as to be expected. They were supportive in offering help in any way, and many shoulders were offered to lean on. I appreciated such offers.
The true takeaway was how many people commented on my past resilience, encouraging me to take inspiration from that. Then it occurred to me that that is what I am known for. I’m the guy known for never giving up and rewriting the narrative. Where was that guy?

Why wasn’t my initial reaction what it was when I’ve faced a health challenge before? I had to meditate on that for a few days. I had more questions than answers. That is why the above quote grabbed me so.
Here’s what I came up with. The choice to fight isn’t always out of vim and vigor or enthusiastic tenacity. Sometimes it is merely a choice. Not dramatic but instead pragmatic. The choice is, of course, living or ending it. A choice I have contemplated so very often of late.

I am not suicidal. I am merely dancing with the notion of being done. “Done” is a common topic of thought for many people in my situation. What situation is that?
Older. Plagued by physical maladies. Not financially secure. Finding myself not needed as I once was, and unwilling to insert myself into situations in order to change it. Having maximized my usefulness and in need of a purpose. Life has become a chore, and hope for it changing fades with each passing year. The ensuing tragedy of feeling this way is that suicide becomes less about being incapable of dealing with life. And instead, it becomes more about how willing you are to continue dealing.

Resilience isn’t dramatic. No, it’s a character trait. One that fades over time.
It’s choosing life repeatedly. Yes, because the alternative is less desirable. Not to mention the damage it does to those you leave behind.
Even when joy feels borrowed. There are moments when the only happy moments in my life are vicarious.
And tomorrow feels unsure. What makes me choose life is the hope that my future will be brighter, despite all indications to the contrary.

So I will fight this in my usual manner. I will reclaim my tenacity and beat this latest challenge. Not because I have a particular desire to achieve another victory over a medical foe. I want to stick around for a while to see what happens. I’ve been to enough parties to know that if you leave too soon, you will miss the good stuff. That will have to be a good enough reason to fight this battle. Being an enthusiastic participant in my own life is something I need to get back to as it is. I miss that guy.
That guy has been conspicuously absent for too long.

How do I overcome this stretch of existing and get back to my love of living?

Facing Heart Surgery: another challenge of my resilience

Well, I shared my news with some close friends as well as on here. I don’t know what my expectations were regarding reactions, but it’s out of the bag nonetheless. As my goal is always selflessness, I’m glad nobody is making a fuss. My family and friends are there for me and that’s all that matters. They’re processing it just fine. They are all offering their help and I’m doing what I always do: downplaying it. It’s not that I’m outright refusing help. I just don’t know what to do or say because I haven’t processed it yet.

I have vowed to be brutally honest in this space. I have gained a readership because I do not hold back. I put my vulnerabilities out there for consumption. That won’t end or change today. Here it is, at first I was scared. That’s natural, I think. I don’t embrace it, but I can accept it. I worry more about people seeing me scared than anything. It’s the reputation that follows me; I’m known for resilience. For taking every punch life has thrown at me and getting up each time. It’s all I have going for me.
But when I was told that I needed open-heart surgery, I was enduring a Cancer Scare. It occurred to me that I have met an opponent that I couldn’t overcome. All I could think about was the same 2 words, Four years.

4 years of uninterrupted good health. 4 years of getting back to living my life. 4 years of not being the “sick guy”. That’s the one that gets me, the “sick guy”. I was hoping that guy was gone forever. You know the sick guy. He’s the one who, whenever someone sees him, automatically gets the obligatory, “how are you feeling?” Now, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with people inquiring about my health. It’s kindness, awareness, sometimes sympathy but more often empathetic, all rolled into one. It exemplifies the best in people and I’m a staunch believer that people are good. But after a while, it stops being warm and fuzzy and begins to overshadow recovery. Since I was 42 years old, I have been the sick guy. I had a brief respite in 2011. During this time, I had my first transplant. I bounced back most spectacularly. I was back at work in 33 days. I was exercising, socially active, excelling at work, and truly enjoying my new life of saying YES. I almost got to the point where the “how are you feeling’s” stopped. Then the kidney failed and I was that guy again. 5 years later I got another shot. It was a great kidney. My body adapted to it so well. It was clear to all that it was not necessary to ask me how I felt. Anyone could see that I was doing great.
When the prostate issue arose, I was nervous but kept going. The news of the heart surgery, not so much. It’s a big surgery and a long recovery. It shook me a bit. After all, I can hope for but cannot have guarantees that I will be 100% after the surgery. And I’m sorry, but I’m trying to make up for much lost time. And I don’t want to break the run that I am on.
Despite not giving myself permission, I felt bad for myself for a few days. I feel compelled to go into detail, to fully convey the extent of my angst. It lasted days as I battled an increasingly common enemy, the urge to give up. I am/was/will continue to be very troubled that this enemy has established a foothold in my psyche. I can only attribute his presence to one simple fact, part of me just doesn’t want to do it anymore.
I am asked at every Physician appointment if A)I feel safe, and B)If I have suicidal ideations. I have been answering “YES” to part B. It leads to a conversation, of course. I am forced to explain that I don’t want to actively end my life. I just don’t care if something else does. As I said, it stems from just plain being done. My mind was allowing me to entertain a notion I have fought with every fiber in my body, giving up. The news that I received last week could have easily given more weight to the notion. In fact, it almost did.
Then I remembered who I was.

I’m the guy who has always smiled and given a thumbs-up for the camera when things were grim. I have a collection of photos taken in hospitals after my many surgeries. In every one of them, I am clearly thumbing my nose at what could have been. I am openly defying it. I’m the guy who reacts to recovery times like I do to GPS arrival times. I scoff and say, “I can beat that.” I’m the guy that says, “I’m good”, even when it is very clear that I am not.

Well, one week later, that guy is back. That pussy worried about surviving? Fuck that guy. I spoke to my dear friend Pedro recently. I told him that I am no longer scared. I am going to fight this as I have been, stubborn and confident. He calls me C Brown, named lovingly after my hero Charlie Brown. He knows and remembers when I don’t, that I got this. And I do. There really is only one choice here, to get through it. I’ve survived 100% of my worst days, my money is on me.

Now, where the hell is that football?

the Prayer list comment

I stared numbly at the woman behind the plastic shield as she worked. She was older, late sixties at least. I sensed a quiet dignity and kindness about her. Realizing where I was and what I had just learned, it occurred to me that the kindness she possessed is a fine quality in her position. She handed me a stack of papers under the sneeze shield. As I reached for them, she touched my hand.
“You’re on my prayer list, William. I wish you the best.”
I had already suspected that I was on the cusp of another battle; her furrowed brow confirmed it. I looked at her name badge. As I stood up, I said, “Thank you, Theresa, you are very good at your job.”
She was indeed very good at her job. I’m unsure how I would present myself. I would struggle with dealing with a man who has just been informed that he is facing open-heart surgery.
I thought about the unusual, or usual, depending on your perspective, feeling I got from Theresa. Does she put all of her patients on her prayer list? Did she see something on that screen that inspired her gesture. After all, it’s her job to see patients with conditions such as mine. Is she empathetic to all of them equally? I would think that even the kindest of souls would become accustomed to the routine of sadness after a while. It should wear off. What inspired her to make an additional gesture of kindness towards me? Or is it just in my head? That certainly is a possibility. I pondered it as I walked in the cold wind to my car.

Severe Aortic Stenosis. Apparently, the quirky little heart murmur I’ve tolerated for many years has upgraded. I need surgery soon. There are 2 options, one very painful with a long recovery, and one less invasive with a shorter recovery period. I may not be eligible for the less invasive surgery. The kicker of it all…I have to wait until Tuesday to find out the next steps.

Actually, the real kicker is that this is only one of my worries. My Aortic Stenonis was diagnosed during a testing work-up for a Prostate biopsy. They discovered the heart issue on Monday. I met with the Cardiologist Wednesday. I had the biopsy on Thursday. Now I must wait at least a week to find if I have Prostate cancer. This has been a truly trying week.

I’m doing my homework. I’m trying to keep myself calm. I am versed on outcomes, recovery times, and everything I can think of. I know I can handle this.

But still, that comment…

Dinner with My Dad: A Reflection on Life Lessons

I recently came across a writing prompt that interested me.
“If you could have dinner with anyone past or present, who would you choose?”

To pick just one person that I would want to have dinner with, alive or dead, is a challenge. Most people might choose a celebrity, a poet, a musician, or a politician. I can surmise that this is the point of the exercise for them. How would I begin to pick the one person whose contribution, ideas, heroic deed, etc. inspired me to select them over any other? Another question, would it be considered trite or a wasted opportunity to choose a family member, such as my Dad?

Well, I am picking my Dad.

Dinner with my Dad would be a very particular scenario. It would be a recreation of a lunch I once had with him when I was 23 years old. I can remember only one time as a young man when he and I ever went out as just guys. We had a beer. It was special in many ways. Obviously, spending time with my dad was special in its own right. But it was also one of the first times he stopped being in “dad mode.” He was just a regular guy. As an aside, I call this the dad hat. It’s my nickname for Dad’s tendency to act based on his perception of ‘Dad’ as a role. This happens rather than him acting as a person. I admired his dedication to it. Often, though, I wished he could have just been a friend when I needed it. That day, he was just that.

I remember that I was really struggling with some heavy shit that day. He was very helpful in listening intently. He only offered advice when asked. Of all of the conversations that day, I fondly remember him saying his famous line to me. He truly believed in that line. One that I never came around to until after he died. He said, “ Bill, believe it or not, everything will work out.”

Today, if I were to sit across from him at the same restaurant, I would struggle. I wouldn’t know what to tell him first. I mean, where do I even begin? He has been gone 12 years now, and I have spent so much time talking to his headstone. I would tell him that I miss him more than words can describe. I would tell him that the world makes less sense without him around. That men like him are a dying breed. I would apologize for so many things. I would save the best for last. I survived some mind-blowing shit. I would tell him that sitting across from him is a miracle in itself. I have come around to his trademark saying. Everything, in fact, will, does, and did work out. That in no way means that my life is what I wanted it to be. It means that I understand, and that it worked out a helluva lot better than it could have.

I realize that I have described a very one-sided conversation. It’s because I have so much to tell him. I want to honor him. I will tell him how much he was right about. I have come to value his simple yet poignant take on the complexities of life. I remember the quiet disappointment in his eyes as he dispensed valuable wisdom to deaf ears. It would mean everything to me to set the record straight. I want to see the satisfied, redeemed, look on his face. A humble man, who, like his dedicated son, only wants to know that he made a difference by sharing the wisdom accrued over a too-short, hard-scrabble life.

Finally, the check would come. He would try to pay, as expected. But I would insist. It would be one more payment towards the inequity of all that he gave me, which would be frittered away. He would insist on paying the tip. At that moment, I would remind him that he has also given enough tips in his time on earth. All of this is a feeble effort. I want to show him that his generosity of spirit and wisdom are not lost on me after all. He never knew just how much his sage advice has guided me through life. It has helped me face the most difficult challenges posthumously.

Finally, we will walk out to the parking lot and walk towards the setting sun. I extend my right arm and place it on his shoulder as we walk. I say, tears welling up despite my strict no-cry policy, “I love you Dad. Thank you for everything you didn’t know you gave me.”

Suddenly, my arm was resting in the air. The persistent force of gravity pulled my arm to my side again. It is a calm evening, still and warm. I realize that he is gone, back to where he came. Disappointed at the sudden conclusion of our visit, I walk to my car. A brisk breeze breaks the stillness, blowing my trademark scally cap off my head. I laugh, pick it up and smile broadly. He never liked scally caps. He was a ball cap guy.

Quiet victories

I am 1 year free of alcohol. I am somewhat impressed with myself that I took this long to mention it. Conversely, I am annoyed with myself that I feel the need to tell anyone. Confused? So am I, and I’m the one writing this.

For context, allow me to introduce one of the most poignant sayings ever stated regarding sharing.
“Keep it to yourself because at the end of the day nobody gives a shit.”

Those who care about what’s going on in my life can always check in here. My friends, they can ask me. But overall, I have found that staying under the radar is the way I want to go forward.

Perhaps it’s callous to say what I said above about nobody caring. It’s not entirely fair. People care, but they have their own lives to contend with. I firmly believe that everyone is going through something right now. Even the ones we think have it all together. There is only one certainty in life and that is life is hard for everyone. With regards to sharing, it’s not going to mean to them what it means to you.
Additionally, I am now a convert to the notion of disappearing. You see it everywhere on social media: “disappear for 30,60,90 days and reappear stronger.” It calls upon people to work on themselves, without the benefit or distraction of the advice of others. To not be visible during the trifling changes, but to seclude until you rise like a Phoenix, visibly and decidedly better and stronger.

I bought into that mindset a while back. I desperately wanted to immerse myself completely in the idea. I daydreamed of no contact, no worries, no obligations other than what is essential, and just working on myself. But my life doesn’t allow for it. I have commitments that I need to uphold as a man. I have a family and friends who will worry about me if I’m not heard from. When I decided to tackle my drinking problem a year ago, I decided to do it relatively quietly.

Normally, when I attempt self-improvement, I put it out there for reasons of accountability. It’s a bold, risky, and potentially problematic approach unless you are truly serious. But I only do so when I am truly serious. When I decided on January 1st,2025 to stop drinking, I avoided telling everyone. Not that I didn’t have plenty of confidence that I could do it. That’s how I am wired. I get to the point where I am completely done with something, and I summon the will to vanquish it. I didn’t need to tell people because I was doing it for myself, not for them. I could care less what they thought if I failed, my own disappointment would be enough to deal with. I told family and a few friends. I then disappeared as much as I was able. I wanted to rebuild. I wanted to accomplish something I have wanted for a very long time. To regain control of my life from those things that were controlling me. It’s a logical progression after all: conquer that which makes my mental health unstable, and then conquer the mental health.
One year later, I am leaps and bounds closer to conquering my demons. The cessation of alcohol has made a tremendous difference. It was a wonderful decision all around.

I would never say this in an AA meeting because I feel that it would minimize the struggle many are going through. But I really didn’t need the program. I went to a meeting a day for the first 30 days. After the first month, my attendance was sporadic. I had learned to value the celebration of the sober life, and that’s what meetings did for me. As for the steps, despite my background in Recovery Case Management, they just didn’t apply. I know the alcoholic min,d and I know the commonalities in alcoholics. I also know that I am not like them. I was never a “blackout” drinker. I suffered a few embarrassments, but didn’t destroy my life as others have. I didn’t have any resentments to work through. I only resented the power that alcohol was gaining over my life, so the control freak in me reasserted dominance.
It wasn’t that hard for me to stop drinking because I was done with all of it. Done with arguing with myself. Done with thinking about my next drink. Tired of the inevitable self-loathing that followed.
And it’s been the best decision I have made in some time. The blessings continue to manifest.

My health has improved dramatically. My blood work is stellar. All of the inconsistencies in my labs were alcohol related. I tipped the scale at 199 this morning, which I haven’t seen since I was sick. I am down 35 pounds. I have a spring in my step and can do things once lost on me, like touching my toes. Was I surprised that I could do that! Other major concerns, such as stomach and skin issues, simply disappeared. And dare I say it, I look much better. While I can’t say that it’s the only source of good things in my life, it was the catalyst. I showed myself that I was not too old or too far gone to improve myself. That’s what is at the center of everything that I do. Self-improvement.
In a quiet, non-public manner, I disappeared while in front of everyone and came back a better, stronger me.

So when January 1st 2026 arrived, I resisted the urge to go on social media. I did not tell people of my accomplishment. The one ones that I reached out to were a Brother who is 20 years sober and my youngest son. My Masonic Brother confirmed in a single text that he, as predicted, didn’t really give a shit. My son, well he gets me well enough to know what this accomplishment means to me and why. I was fine with that.

I overshare. It’s one of the things that I have learned about myself. Keeping this milestone between just us is both new and good for me. That is who I am working towards being. Not silent but not loud. Self-assured but not cocky. Available but not transparent. I want to leave a little mystery. The world fears a quiet man. The quiet man strikes fear in the petty and inspires the rest. This milestone is my accomplishment. Done by me and for me.

So here I am, 4 days late telling you that I completed one year of Sobriety. If you give a shit, great. If not, that’s also great. Because at the end of the day, we all have ourselves to take care of before we can be any good to others.

200 miles

To survive is to be alive, long after the reason to live has died.
Author unknown

I was thinking recently about Hugh Glass. In 1823, Hugh Glass survived a Grizzly Bear attack. Then he crawled over 200 miles before he finally reached help in South Dakota. It took him weeks. He was the inspiration for the movie The Revenant. Upon reading it, I asked myself if I was capable of such a feat. The answer required little contemplation. No.
I was troubled by what I came up with.

The story of Hugh Glass caused me to explore something I think about frequently, the Will to Live. Late at night, when the demons come, my thoughts turn dark. I debate some horrible shit when I go down the Rabbit hole. When I was sick and on Dialysis, I did my best work. I thought about suicide most seriously. While in this state, I had no regard for anything at all. My life, except for the support of my family and friends, had little to no meaning. The only thing that kept me from doing it was the thought of what it would do to my family. I had ceased to live a purposeful life. I was merely existing. Surviving through my greatest trait. Stubbornness.
I was “surviving to be alive, long after the reason to live had died.”

The above phrase is attributed to the concept developed by German philosopher Arthur Schoppenhaur, supported and furthered by Viktor Frankl. It reflects the concept of an irrational, blind, incessant impulse without knowledge that drives instinctive behaviors. It further suggests that even when life feels meaningless, the act of surviving itself is a form of survival.
Viktor Frankl brilliantly explored this concept through the context of Holocaust survivors in Nazi Germany in Man’s search for Meaning. He observed that survivors often find hope and purpose in their experiences, which can lead to personal growth and resilience.

It’s a powerful thing to ponder. Sadly, I know many people who ponder it as well. I hear them say such things as, “I have no future”, or
“What’s the point?”
“There’s nothing left for me here”,
“I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
Wait, that last one was mine.
It pains me to remember. At the height of my illness, in the darkest of the dark nights, my mind journeyed to hidden places. I can still recall the state I was in. Awash in despair, devoid of interest in the future, desperate for sleep. In those moments, relief was all I could think about. Curled in the fetal position, cocooned in a blanket, I often found myself muttering to noone in particular, “I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
More than once, I said it while sitting on the edge of my bed, .38 Special balanced on my right thigh.
Those were dark days indeed.

My situation has improved since then. I received the gift of an organ transplant 4 years ago. I have made great strides in reclaiming my health, recovering my finances, and rebuilding my life. I have wonderful relationships with family and friends. I am an active Mason, and it is hugely important to me and an integral part of my life. I have a fulfilling social life. I say YES to almost every opportunity now. Having stared down my own mortality, I live like there is no tomorrow. I have a great life.
Still, incredulously, I sometimes go down the Rabbit Hole. I have learned a lot about myself recently, and I am aware that I suffer from depression. It’s not constant or consistent. I just have my moments.
Despite all of the good in my life, my dark half renders me helpless when the darkness comes. I take the negatives in my life and give them more status than they deserve. I find myself emphasizing the significant but manageable negatives in my life to the point of crisis. I then find myself overwhelmed, distraught, and looking for a way out. Which is, of course, just ending it already.
The terror is palpable. As is the frustration when I come out of it. Fortunately.

Here it is. I don’t want to die. I like my life. I may even love it; it depends largely on the day. I am living a purposeful life. The negatives of my life are manageable. Sure, I wish I were better off financially. But good things always happen to me, so why worry about it? I really do desire to have a female companion on this journey. But who knows if I’ll meet her tomorrow? And amazingly, I am doing fine without one. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I am living a blessed life.

So, back to the above quote, and the man who crawled 200 miles to survive, and the question of whether I was capable of such a feat.
I have changed my answer to a firm, resolute MAYBE. What I do know with certainty is that I would never just lie down and die. I would try. My mental health would determine how hard I tried. It would, consequently, decide how many miles I would be able to crawl. If it happens to me on a day when I feel good about myself. A day when I am at peace with who I am. Or a day that I am not consumed by self-deprecating and self-sabotaging behaviors. A day in which I feel in harmony with my resilience. A day when I knowingly wield the sword of inner strength that allowed me overcome two life-threatening diseases. This strength has also helped me face many transformational obstacles.
On those days, 201.
When the darkness comes? I would have leaned against the nearest tree. I would have sighed with relief. I welcomed the inevitable with one last “I can’t do it anymore.”

My mission in life going ahead must be to vanquish the “me” that would give up that easily. But that’s the thing about the darkness. It comes whether I want it to or not. The key for me is to always focus on the purposeful aspects of my life. I want to stay on track with my hope to die a good man. I aim to be a man who left the world a little better than he found it. At the very least, I hope not to make it worse off. I have to learn to consistently look at the good in my life.

Then, and only then, will I end the dichotomy of Living with Meaning vs. merely existing.

The Feast

What a roller coaster ride it must be to read my blog. One day I say I’m doing great. Another day I am bombarding the reader with tales of isolation, depression, and woe. Good God, I’m a mess. All I can say is, hey, at least I’m working on myself.

Post Christmas Eve, which was as good an evening that could be had with Family, I did not leave my house for 3 days. I would like to tell you that I was productive, but that would be a lie. There are days when I stay in that I am productive. I write blogs, I read, I watch movies, and I work on the Masonic tasks at hand. I would like to tell you that, but in this case, I cannot. They were wasted days. I wasn’t depressed, but motivation in any form escaped me. To make matters worse, I beat the snot out of myself for my lack of productivity.
There is a positive to this. Such episodes create awareness that I have areas for improvement, and I hope that my shortcomings will motivate me to do better. But I must say, this journey of constant improvement, while promising on paper, requires a significant amount of effort. Frankly, it’s exhausting.

I wrote quite extensively about my episode over the weekend. It consumed me for most of the weekend. I feared a prolonged spiral over it, but something good and timely occurred Sunday night. The Master of my lodge called me and told me that he was unable to attend the Feast of St. John at Grand Lodge in Boston on Monday and offered me his ticket. I was happy to accept for two reasons. First, it was a second chance after I initially declined to attend because of the cost and missed the deadline. I perceived the event as stressful since it is quite eventful and long. But I regretted this decision when it sold out. The last minute ticket was a nice and welcome second chance.
Second, I recognized the need to leave the house. I wanted to prevent myself from falling into a full-blown mental crisis.
I knew many of my close Brothers would be in attendance. I immediately looked for someone to go with me into Boston.

I am so very glad that I ended up going. It was nothing less than a wonderful day.

The Feast of Saint John is a vital event in the Masonic calendar, celebrated with respect around the globe. The Feast of Saint John is held every year, typically on December 27th. This year in Boston was an installation event. Every two years, we install a new Grand Master and new Grand Lodge Officers. The ceremony is archaic and elaborate. It demonstrates the ancient traditions of our Fraternity. The Grand Lodge of Boston was founded in 1733. It is the 3rd-oldest jurisdiction in the world. Only England and Ireland are older. The architecture and decor are nothing short of magnificent. It feels like a time capsule. These ceremonies have been performed the same way for almost 300 years. Great men such as Paul Revere and General Joseph Warren witnessed them exactly as we do now.
I had a front-row seat, thanks to a buddy, for the entire event. It was indeed a privilege to witness the ceremony. It is a remarkable sight to see these ceremonies performed in that very ornate room.
Many friends were being installed into important offices. I was grateful to be there to support them. I was honored to watch them advance in their Masonic labors.
The ceremony was followed by a sumptuous, multi-course meal presided over by the New Grand Master, Grand Lodge officers, and esteemed Dignitaries. They came from multiple countries and jurisdictions around the world. How do I describe having dinner with 300+ Brothers? Some are close, and others are merely pending because I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting them.

It was a long night but it was just what I needed. I fall into intermittent episodes of depression. Why isn’t my first instinct to immerse myself in the company of my Masonic Brothers? I am at a point in my life where I can almost break it into two categories; before I took my obligation, and everything after. Becoming a Freemason has changed almost every part of me for the better. And there is no big secret, despite the world endlessly clamoring for one, to the appeal. It’s the connection. The friendships. The bonds we create as we unite in our tasks at hand. It has been one of the greatest undertakings of my life and I plan to go as far as it takes me.

That’s the big picture. The smaller one, today in my living room, is that it saved this wretched soul yesterday.

Shadow Work

My mind knows all my weak spots, replays failures like favorite songs, questions my worth at midnight, turns memories into weapons. I fight battles no one sees, lose sleep to thoughts that never rest. The hardest war isn’t outside, it’s surviving a brain that refuses to be kind to its own heart.
Ticus Writes

I’m in a somewhat good place overall. I have been working hard on myself. I have been summoning all of my questionable inner resolve to make significant improvements in my life. I have made considerable progress in self-awareness. I am unabashedly accountable about myself and my actions.
I suspect that many men my age simply accept who they are, peccadillo’s and all. It is tempting to think, “the hell with everyone, let them handle me as I am in all my weirdness.’ Me, I’m not willing to go down that road. As a Mason, I believe in the Fraternity’s emphasis on continuous improvement until we advance to another plane of existence. Rough stone to polished. That belief supports my desire to get myself right, even if it culminates with my last day on this planet.

For all of the effort put in, it all goes out the window on days like yesterday. I really spiraled out. The worst part of it is that I saw it coming. Yet, I still self-sabotaged myself. In a very embarrassing and expensive manner.

Last week my good friend and Masonic Brother asked me to do some snow plowing for him. He is away on a short Florida vacation. He is a tremendously hard worker and needs some R & R. He asked me to come along as he managed his only account. It’s a dental practice. He wanted me to get a feel for it. I’ve plowed before, the job seemed easy. I told him I would do it.
That night I had a panic attack. My mind bombarded me with all of the reasons why I can’t do it. How I would damage the truck or some property. The idea of plowing it with cars there suddenly terrified me. It was irrational, it was annoying, and it was typical of what my mind does when I smoke weed. The next day, no longer stoned, I was still a little anxious but more confident.
Good thing, because it snowed the night before.
My anxiety flared. Despite that, I got myself out of the house and did the job. I went to his house, drove the truck to the job, and did a fine job on the lot. I chunked up a bit of grass, even left a few tire prints, but nothing terrible or costly. I felt better about myself and my abilities, but I was still anxious. I knew in my heart that I was about to self-sabotage myself.
As I pulled into his long driveway I realized that I would have to pull the truck in. I had found it backed in. So I searched (panicking the whole time), for a spot to turn around and back in. Against my better judgment, I pulled into a spot. I was immediately stuck. As I tried to get myself out, the truck slid sideways into a previously unnoticed embankment.
I knew that I was screwed. And I knew that it could have been avoided by listening to my better instincts. But they were nowhere to be found. I had done it, the self-fulfilling prophecy of being so afraid of Fucking Up that I do exactly that.
It’s resolved now, but it cost my buddy, who coordinated the removal while driving to Florida, quite a bit. I was so upset about that. I went home and sat in utter despair, beating the ever-loving shit out of myself. All I could come up with was.
“Why do I continue to do things like this?”
“Why do I have such anxiety about something I am able to do?”
“Why did I make that reckless move that caused all of this?”

It was bad. Despite my friend’s reassurance that it wasn’t a big deal, I was in a bad place. For a brief and terrifying moment, I revisited the idea of eating a bullet. I just wanted to end this shit already. Even if 100 people were in my apartment, they couldn’t convince me otherwise. I felt like the biggest fuck-up ever born.
It was at that moment that I decided that I needed to step up my quest for self-improvement.

I discovered an article about Shadow Work. Shadow work involves acknowledging and exploring the hidden parts of ourselves. It helps heal the parts that we reject and repress into our unconscious minds. It involves confronting and integrating these repressed emotions, desires, and traits to foster personal growth and self-awareness. It is rooted in Jungian psychology. In this context, the shadow self represents the darker aspects of our personality that we often avoid. The goal is to help individuals reconnect with and embrace all parts of their identity. As it turns out, there are apps for it.

I spent most of last night reading up on Shadow Work. As a Psychology major in college, I enjoyed the Personality theory of Jung. Jung expanded and broadened the narrow constraints of Freudian personality theory and Shadow work is a worthy extension of his theories.
I am going to give the app a try. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing so. I have to do it.
Because there is no way that I am going to continue to go through the agonizing, self-flagellating, monstrous tearing down of myself that I engaged in yesterday. I simply can’t do it anymore. I know that I am better than this and I owe it to myself to find the way to fix this.