Category: childhood

Understanding Quotes: Beyond the Surface Interpretations

Americans embody a lot of things to a lot of people. One of particular interest to me is the unfinished quote. Is it a testament to laziness? Can I charitably call it brevity? We don’t even care to use complete quotes. We bother to dig into the archives for historical quotes, yet we only use half of it.
A few examples:
“The early bird gets the worm“. It means to strive to be early, ahead of others, it speaks to ambition. Yet, that is only half of the quote. The remainder is, “but the second mouse gets the cheese.” It’s actually not a positive, motivational quote at all; it’s a cautionary tale about the downfalls of ambition.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day“. On its face, it tells us that great things take time. Sadly, the oft-unused other part is, “but it burned in one.” Suddenly, the lesson becomes a cautionary tale of the temporary nature of things.
“Carpe Diem“. Seize the day, right? I can see Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, imploring his young, eager pledges to charge forward.

But the full quote is, Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero. “Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow”. We use the phrase “Carpe Diem” as a call to go YOLO. However, the phrase actually means to focus on getting things done today. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

“An eye for an eye.” A call for justice, revenge, an evening of the playing field, right? No, the remainder is, “Only makes the world go blind.” Suddenly, it’s a contradiction to its typical interpretation. Reject vengeance, for it will bring terrible results. Not a call to arms, but a plea for reason and restraint.

And, the topic dujour, how about “I am large, I contain multitudes“. This is a fragment of a very popular, oft-quoted Walt Whitman quote. It is from his 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass. You will see it on many a Hipster’s tattoo or someone’s FB page. Bob Dylan even named an album after it. Brands, mental health campaigns, and diversity initiatives frequently borrow the phrase to signal the exclusivity of all human complexity. It captures the essence of embracing contradictions and the multifaceted nature of identity.
But the full quote is actually, “Do I contradict myself? Well then,I contradict myself. (I am large/I contain multitudes.) It may be the most quoted line of poetry ever. Some variations:
“I am large, I contain multitudes, and every part of me is worthy.”
“My contradictions do not weaken me; they make me whole.”
“There is room in me for every version of myself.”
“Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds; I prefer multitudes.”
“I am the poetry of paradox.”

There are more than 30 such valid interpretations, but let’s return to the concept of the incomplete quote. On its face, to say, “I contain multitudes,” implies complexity. A testament to the multifaceted human personality. A testament to the great mind. It is also the tool of a fool. A fool quotes it to project more depth than he actually possesses. When you recognize the hypocrisy of the statement, “Do I contradict myself/ Well then I contradict myself,” you can acknowledge it as a statement of defiance. You can see it not only as hypocrisy but as defiance. This is a rejection, at the time, of the European construct of the infallible, resolute, and focused man. Whitman boldly rejects that anachronism and admits the unpopular and controversial. Man is ultimately fallible and can not only make mistakes. He can change his mind occasionally, even reverse a position if faced with a challenge to his mindset. He is capable of Self-acceptance in the face of inconsistency, and the rejection of binary thinking (good/evil, body/soul, individual/society).

Here are my two cents.
A man can be more than one version of himself.
Being a paradox is not the same as being indecisive as to your position. Is it better to “dig in” when he might be wrong? It’s conducive to growth.
Every part of a man’s being deserves a chance to shine, for every aspect of a man’s personality is worthy.

This subject is of particular importance to me. I have suffered with the consistency of identity forever. I often feel that I present the safest version of myself, that the world can’t take me at Factory Settings. I have deprived myself of true identity by allowing this. At some point, my persona morphed from that of an artist to that of a fake tough guy. I used to draw, paint, read philosophy, and embrace intellectualism through tolerance. One day, or at least it seemed as if it happened in one day, I went the path more traveled. I tried to fit in. I became what I thought the people I was with at the time wanted me to be. I still held on to the artist in me, but he was not shown to many.

At some point, I realized that I had gone too far from my roots. I lost myself in the process. I struggled with it. With my insecurities, I feared exactly what Whitman embraced: hypocrisy. I never considered three facts that, once embraced, would change my life.
1)Within me live a thousand voices, each one is true at one time.
2)Embrace the multitude of personality traits; my true friends will accept me.
3)To deny my opposing character traits is to deny myself and the world of what I have to offer.

I am proud to say that in recent months I have undergone many significant changes. I have come to understand and hold in check the less desirable aspects of myself. I have shifted my negative thinking to being more accepting and loving of myself in all of my weird glory. I have gained confidence that I never knew I had. I care much less what others think of me, I care more now about what I think of me.

I contain multitudes as well. The difference is that I plan to embrace them. Not everyone will be able to handle it. But those I call friends will not only embrace it, but they will welcome it.



A sobering reminder

I wrote this 6 years ago. I scan my previous writings for perspective on what my life is now compared to before. This was written in a very dark time in my life. At the height of my illness, I was lacking purpose. I truly struggled with the return on investment of continuing on. Everything felt hopeless. I remembered a conversation with my youngest. She told me that I was her favorite person in the world. That memory got me through it.
It really is amazing how much things can change. And how things can get better when you feel that all hope is lost.

I’m currently dealing with a tragic suicide within my circle. So many have been devastated by it. An entire extended family, as well as an enormous circle of friends, have had their lives forever altered. Instead of love and companionship, they now crave answers and understanding.
Talk to someone, folks. The poem below is real. That is how close I came. And why I didn’t do it.


When you were young

your favorite line

was “Dad, you don’t know”

well did you know?

there was a night

not long ago

I sat on the edge of my bed

or was it the universe?

one in the chamber

cursed glass of whiskey

liquid false courage

in the other hand

disgusted with yesterday

bored with today

uninterested in tomorrow

desperately seeking a reason

to carry on

I’d lost my joy

and the will to seek it

where once was strength

a cavernous

anguished

aching gash

Where was the zeal?

I’m missing the real

existing but not living

tears of pain roll

down my unshaven cheek

one, just one

fucking reason I seek

to not end it all

the safety off

just drunk enough

sick enough

to call Bullshit

on this timed-out
worn-out
overplayed phase
I call my life

then I think of you

my precious child

your first steps

the sun in your hair

your infinite

infectious smile

golden and pure soul

my heart yearns

stomach turns

my mind scolds me

at the thought of hurting you

if I was to shed

this mortal shell

in the throes of my selfish pain

I would crush you

my dear child

I had forgotten 

in a selfless moment

your love

ceaseless adoration

and your words

that I am

your favorite

person in the world

I couldn’t pull it

the beckoning trigger

for I had vowed to myself 

in a lighter hour

I would never

cause you

a life of pain

in the name

of ending mine

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.

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.

Christmas Reflections: A Journey Through Disillusionment

Christmas is a very different experience at this point in my life. In so very many ways.

For the sake of a concise opening, I will state up front that I very much dislike holidays. And I am not entirely sure why. I do know that I haven’t for quite some time.

It is Christmas, of course, given the timing of this post, that I dislike the most. I think I always have. To establish context, I’ve disliked it for many years. The reasons have changed as I’ve evolved as a man, husband, father, and now aging cynic. At the base of it, I reject the fundamental reason for the Holiday. I have never, despite fleeting moments of attempted conformity, totally believed in the Christ story. I think it is a nice idea. Part of me wants desperately to believe in it. Yet, it largely eludes me. I remain a deeply spiritual yet skeptical man.
Lack of belief aside, I played along. As I said, it’s a very nice idea, and it gives a lot of people comfort. So I played along with my family as a child and young man. I went to Church with them, I partook in the pageants, and I even went Caroling. The pageantry appealed to me to a degree. At my core, I know I enjoyed it when people were nice to each other. It was pleasant for a few weeks each year. That, of course, would fade. I learned at a very young age that Christmas, and the accompanying benevolence, was largely bullshit. A very select few celebrated the actual reason for the season, everyone else practiced rampant consumerism and excess. The charity ended when the trees hit the sidewald on January 2nd.

The consumerism in my house was noteworthy. My parents, who practiced relative financial responsibility most of the year, went full consumer on Christmas. For my dad, showing my Mother how much he loved her was a challenge. He did this by bestowing an obscene amount of gifts on her. Which of course, she would try to reciprocate, and it evolved into a big contest. I was well taken care of as well. But I wasn’t very materialistic, and my experience was watching the obscene gift exchange play out before me. I can’t find a word to describe how it made me feel, but ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘misguided’ come to mind.

When I had my own family, I began to enjoy Christmas a little. The Christmas Eve party was something to look forward to. The enticing aromas of appetizers and the exotic and abundant cocktails were delightful. Sharing all that with family and friends made it even more special. Even when I knew we had an all-nighter ahead, putting together the big toys was necessary. This was after the nearly impossible task of getting excited little ones to sleep. I hated it then, but what I wouldn’t give now to be awoken at 4:30 AM (or earlier) by excited tykes checking out the bounties of Santa Claus. We would sometimes succeed in getting them back to bed. However, it was more likely that I would make my coffee. I would then watch as three months of planning went into action. Shopping and wrapping quickly transitioned into torn paper and opened gifts before our tired eyes. It was frustrating then, but the joy on their faces remains one of my favorite memories as a father. The gifts were an easy and fun way to express our love. The joy on their faces justified all the work and stress. A labor of love with a tremendous yield indeed.
I miss those days, brief and fleeting as they were, so very much.

As the kids grew older, Christmas lost its luster. Not only to the parents. The kids no longer believed in the myth of a bearded Man with Reindeer-powered sleighs. They learned that it’s just the parents doing the best they can. And we did. Christmas was always a day that we tried to make a special family day, to mixed results. But my wife and I tried our best. Even as we went our different ways after financial hardship fell upon us. We made the most of it.

Now, we are at a special time for Christmas. The kids are all grown and have their own places. My role, and my ex’s, has evolved from caretaker to guest. Our children now invite us to their homes and wait on us. I want to clarify something. It is now their pleasure to tend to us. It is not their obligation or duty. It is such a nice transition. Additionally, there is a baby in our Christmas celebration once again, with one on the way. This year, Christmas Eve felt special once again. My little granddaughter just stole the show. Reminding me that the joy of the Holiday lies in the joy of the Children.

The hardest transition, for my ex not me, is letting the kids have Christmas day to themselves. I think my ex struggles with this one. I think she, much like me, carries a lot of guilt and resentment of how things were for our family. Consequently, she (in my opinion) tries a bit too hard. But she has accepted that they have their own lives now, with in-laws of their own to visit with. As for me, I enjoy having Christmas day to myself.

This Christmas Eve, as I said, was very pleasurable. The food was amazing, the company better, and the memories forever. Our family is thriving in so many ways. The only problem is that I wasn’t feeling well. I have been fighting a losing battle with a cold and I couldn’t wait to go home and rest. When I was invited to my youngest Son’s house the next day, I made it a game-day decision to attend.
Regrettably, I did not attend. As expected, I felt miserable yesterday and stayed home. I know I missed a good time, and I wish I had been able to go. Had I gone, I wouldn’t have been given the time and environment to stew on how much, save for the family time, I dislike the Christmas holiday. I spent the entire day alone. I never showered, dressed, or left the house. I wallowed in how the Holiday is still lost on me.
I don’t feel the religious “tug” of the day.
I think most of the sentiment is horseshit and will end as soon as the page of the calendar turns.
I resent the gross consumerism and excess of the season.
Most, not all, of the charitable attitudes will disappear with the holiday.
I have no one to be joyful with.

There it is. Nothing exacerbates my dislike of the holidays more than my absence of a special someone in my life. It permeates my life during all seasons, but it is so very conspicuous during the Holidays. So many people around me are downright giddy about sharing wonderful moments with their loved ones. While I am happy for them, it depresses me terribly. I struggle with wanting a special someone in my life year-round. This time of year the weight is almost unbearable.


The Fall of Rome

“Hell is empty, and all the Devils are here“.
William Shakespeare

I’ll say this, Ole Billy Shakespeare had no idea how prescient a statement it was. We don’t need to do a deep dive into religion or philosophy to understand evil. It is everywhere we look and walks among us. Our very civilization is collapsing around us.

I don’t know if I’m more angry or sad at the state of the world, especially in our country.
We used to be a nation of laws and ideas. We established this country on Western Christian-Judaeo values. Those values permeated the ideas behind the vision the founding fathers had for the United States. The founders envisioned a Utopian society; one free from religious persecution, outdated monarchies, stifled thought, and oppression. To support this, they created the fairest legal system in the world.
Yet we are bordering on being a lawless nation. Violent crime is more prevalent, as well as increasingly savage, every day. Theft, from looting and shoplifting to embezzling and large-scale financial scams are constant. I can safely say that when we think we have seen the most shocking acts ever, it can be topped. And it will be.

If we studied history, we would understand that mankind has always been savage. Humans have consistently engaged in slaughter. We need look no further than the Middle Ages. The torture methods from the period show that man has always had the capacity to inflict unimaginable pain on others. Seemingly with pleasure.
But we are supposed to have evolved since then. Particularly in the Western World, where we profess to have decency, morality, and compassion. We even tried to engineer such values through our Declaration of Independence. The Constitution also acknowledges inalienable human rights granted by God. To enforce these ideas, we created the best legal system in the world.
But a declining value system makes such laws merely academic.

I am not the biggest fan of religion in its broadest sense. However, I believe strict adherence to morality is crucial. It needs to be supported by those who keep it at the forefront of their actions and behaviors. This is the glue that keeps society together. People largely played by those rules, and we policed ourselves. Is it a coincidence? As the number of people who claim to be of faith declines, the crime rate goes up.
I don’t believe so.

The world I grew up in had a clear definition of right and wrong. The rules by which today’s society functions are Grey at best. I was also raised to be tolerant and accepting of others, particularly regarding their beliefs. In matters of Politics and Religion, it was to each his own. Today, we vilify, mock, taunt, seek to destroy, and even kill those with whom we disagree. It is a sad state of affairs.

There is a term that I picked up on not long ago that, once I heard it, I never forgot. The veneer of civilization. The term “veneer of civilization” refers to a thin layer of societal norms. These norms and moral codes protect and maintain order in society. It suggests that while civilization provides a framework for behavior, it is fragile. The veneer theory was coined by Frans de Waal. It critiques the idea that human morality is merely a cultural overlay. That morality is not ingrained directly in human nature.

If we are to understand Frans de Waal, adherence to a moral code is a learned behavior. It is not a dominant or durable trait. So, for the sake of conversation, despite humankind’s predilection for savage and inhumane behavior, let’s say that we have been able to maintain that veneer to date. I would offer that it’s thin and stretched to its limit. We are at a period in time in which every great mind throughout history had postulated that society would be advanced in both technology, thinking, and behavior.
Yet here we are.
Killings as a political tool (not a new concept).
Shouting and berating vs. respectful dialogue.
Violence as a means to an end and not as a last resort.
Disinformation, including outright lies, is blindly accepted as truth.
Soundbites accepted as reality vs. research and education.
Selfish, self-absorbed behavior vs. a community mindset.
Overly sexualized, offensive behavior with no regard for children or decency in general.

I could go on, but I won’t. I am getting a headache just thinking about all of it. I’m not angry about what I see all around me. I’m disgusted and sad. Can we come back from the precipice, or will we fall off the edge? At what point will we recognize that civilized behavior is essential to maintain a society that is comfortable going out in public, without fear of meaningless, random violence?

Or is it the Grand Plan that all of this break down? Without being political, we know that there is an element of society, traditionally known as leftists. Leftists have always had an agenda of anarchy. Of a New World Order in which the system as we know it collapses. By this mindset, a centralized government is targeted for destruction. As is a strong moral system driven by religious and philosophical doctrine. Additionally, a robust and fair legal system and a strong economy are under threat. We have fended these forces off to date, through institutions of education and religious belief. We emphasized education as an alternative to “lower” behavior, and we taught religion as a system of values to govern our thoughts and actions.
Is it really a surprise that education is now indoctrination and religion is declining in popularity and influence? I think not.

Behavior is all that separates us from the lower animals. As humans, we are blessed with the abilities of reason, rationality, and empathy. We also profess to have humanity, a most unique aspect of Homo Sapiens. So are we losing our ability to apply and utilize these gifts, or are we choosing to ignore them?

We had better figure out the answer to this soon. Or we as a society will follow the example of Rome. It was a society that achieved greatness in every way. However, they lost the interest and motivation to maintain their achievements. Consequently, they watched as it slowly burned to the ash heap of history.

A Dog’s purpose

The other night, while strolling through 179 channels of nothing I came across the movie A Dog’s Purpose. I’d heard of it, in particular, that it was sad. I’ve wanted to watch it but I learned my lesson with Marley and Me after I barely recovered from the ending of Old Yeller some 45 years ago.

An aside, I can watch the worst horror movie jam packed with gratuitous sex, entrails hanging from the rafters and enough blood to fill a swimming pool and I will sit, unflinching as I munch popcorn. There is no limit to the depravity I can view and call it entertainment. But I lose my mind if an animal is harmed, especially a dog.

Curiosity prevailed and I selected it and sat back in my recliner. An hour and a half later I sat transfixed as the credits rolled. It was worth the watch, in fact it was wonderful. There were a few scenes that made me tear up, including the ending but it was a joyful brand of tear-jerker.

If you’ve seen it please indulge me, this is not a movie review but instead a homage to the lead character, the beloved dog.

In short, the movie is about a dog who experiences reincarnation. It is narrated from the dog’s POV and the story takes us through about 30 years, starting with a young Golden Retriever that belongs to a young boy in the 70’s. Most of the movie occurs with this character as he loyally stays by the side of the boy as he grows into a young man. It is an extraordinary relationship and the scene when the Dog (Bailey) gets put down is indeed a tear-jerker. It didn’t help that I stood in such a Dr.’s office less than a year ago as we watched our beloved Brandon draw his last breath. The movie unfortunately nailed the pain and grief of the moment and I was impressed but sad. By sad I mean bawling like an idiot. But the movie brings the viewer back to smiling as we see Bailey emerge as a new puppy, one possessed by the knowledge that he was “back” and had the presence of ,mind to remember his past life. We are walked through several incarnations of Bailey; a German Shepherd Police dog that gets killed in the line of duty, a Corgi that dies of old age under the love of a married woman that he had been with since she was in college, and finally a Mutt that has a miserable life at the hand of an abusive owner. But the owner sets him free (cruelly, by just pulling the truck over and kicking the dog out) but our hero turns it into a blessing when he reconnects with (by the power of the wet nose) a woman from his first life. This woman was the girlfriend of his first owner and they had broken up as teenagers. Amazingly, he reunites the two, who fall in love again and get married thanks to their 4 legged matchmaker. The movie ends as Bailey miraculously manages to convince his former owner that he is indeed his old dog in a new body. It is a beautiful, tender moment and a wonderful ending to a movie.

Thus confirming what I have known since I buried my first dog as a young teenager.

A Dog’s Purpose is to form a completely unique and unbreakable bond with us, make life unimaginable without them and then leave us too soon with a enormous, smoking hole in our very souls. If we value friendship, and most people do, we are left feeling as if we have lost our best friend.

I don’t know how the chain was determined, how it was decided which animals are chosen to be beasts of burden, which are food and which become domesticated companions. The line is further blurred as we see species never before regarded as a pet; reptiles, goats, pigs, miniature horses, cows and even “wild” animals such as big cats and bears showing up on cute FB videos as “pets”. As refreshing as these friendships are none are as special and, let’s face it, as natural as the relationship between the dog and man.

I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. In fact, I have often felt that I have experienced more than my share. I’ve been to a staggering number of funerals. Dear friends in HS at the hands of tragic accidents. Family members. The loss of my father to name a few. Sadly, I think I am more “over” all of them than I am my first dog. Am I saying that a mere dog meant more to me than my father, family and friends?

Of course not.
It’s just not the same. The hole left to fill is as big as a Black Hole. Friskie, my first dog, was my earliest memory. He was a pure-bred Brittany Springer Spaniel, gun-shy at a young age and rendered useless as a hunting dog. We found him at a shelter when I was about 5. He became my constant companion, my shadow, my best friend. As a child with few friends, we were especially close. He even saved my life. Twice.

We lived on the bottom of a hill that was the main route to get to the Middle school. One day, I was playing by the street and my football got away from me. I followed it into the street and suddenly found myself being tackled. It was Friskie, who ran across the street from the other side. A school bus nearly missed him as he knocked me to the ground. We were both nearly killed. As he sat on my chest, he looked into my eyes and I swear at that moment that I was staring into the eyes of a kindly, wise old man. He was never “just a dog” to me.

I was a teenager when he died. Despite him being an older dog that lived a full, wonderful life, I was crushed.

For years I missed him. We got another dog, which I loved. Mom and Dad had a few after I went out on my own, and I loved to visit them. Their household always had a dog, my parents were in agreement with me that despite how crushed you are, no matter how big the hole they leave, another dog is the key to recovery. Not that you ever get over that particular dog, you simply need to fill the hole in your life.

When I moved in with my mother her dog, which she shared with my father before he passed, was healthy and thriving despite his advanced age. A year later, that changed. I hated to go through it again; I wasn’t ready. But I put on a good face, and I tried to love him through the concerned looks and worry. I believe that it is imperative to love a senior dog as much as you did the puppy and be there when they are in pain and to always be there when it is their time to shut their eyes forever. We owe it to them, and that is just what we did. It was terribly painful, but I have no regrets. Other than our four-legged friends not living forever, that is.

My Mom got another dog. She had to. Hers was a dog home, and we are dog people. Her new dog, a beautiful Cocker Spaniel pup named Sammy (Samuel L. Spaniel, his favorite human word is Motherf@#ker lol) is a pure destructive delight that brightens her house in ways that I can’t even count. He checks all of the boxes when it comes to loyalty and unconditional love. Although I don’t live there anymore, I visit as often as I can. I will deny this to my Mother, but sometimes I need to hug Sammy more than I need to visit her.

Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I have to wonder. Beyond what is he thinking and what his particular need is at the time, and wonder if it is possible that we have met before. That behind his young eyes is the wisdom of an old dog. One that has met me before and is as glad to be reunited with him as I. Then I remind myself that reincarnation is not real, that it is impossible. That what I am feeling is just unconditional, pure and unfiltered love.

For to love me more than it loves itself; to only think of and need me alone when I sit preoccupied with the events of my day; to devote its entire life to being there for me…THAT is a Dogs Purpose.

Explain yourself

I realized something recently. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.

This is quite a departure for me. I feel quite liberated.

It was Thursday night. I had plans to attend a Masonic function, my third one in a week. December is a busy month in MA Freemasonry, I won’t bore you with specifics. Let’s just say that active guys like me are invited to, and expected to show up at, many events. Thursday’s event was one that I wanted to go to, but I wasn’t expected to be.
I worked on Thursday during the day. I allowed myself time to get home and change and relax for a few before heading out again. I made the mistake of sitting in my recliner. I always do that, it never fails to make it hard to get up and get in the shower. My apartment is cold, I was under a blanket, and the weather was picking up outside. 40 MPH winds and snow squalls. I made a “game day decision”. I was staying home. I texted a friend that I had discussed going with to the event. I explained my decision to stay home. I then ruminated for hours over not going.
Why? Do I really owe anyone an explanation why I didn’t go?

While I am at it, do I owe my Shriners Motorcycle unit an explanation for not making any parades lately? Do I owe my friends an explanation for why I didn’t go out for drinks last week? I regretted it, do I tell them that also? Hell, why did I feel obligated to explain to my family why I missed Christmas Eve last year? I think COVID explains itself. Yet I explained myself over and over and then quietly beat the shit out of myself.
At some point, I need to stop doing that. I think now is a good time.

I don’t know for sure if it is a trauma response. As I wrote recently, I’m the only Trauma survivor who can’t specify the exact trauma. If it’s not that, it’s my anxiety. If it’s not that, then I have no explanation for why I have so many of the traits. Explaining oneself can stem from a fear of judgment. Also, a need for validation and a lack of self-confidence. There is also a need for understanding and a pressure to perform or conform. It’s all part of being a People-Pleaser. If I don’t please people around me by conforming to the current dynamic, it reveals my insecurity. It shows that I feel I am not good enough.

Pardon the dated reference, but this ^^^ is quite appropriate. If I complete just one item on my bucket list, it must be the “Know your worth” item.

Many of us were taught—explicitly or implicitly—that being understood equals being safe. We think that if we can just express ourselves clearly enough, others will finally understand us. They might then treat us better. So we explain. We clarify. We soften. We give far more context than anyone asked for. I am so guilty of that.
Understood doesn’t equal safe. Understood equals peace. To me, peace is the state of being comfortable with today, reconciled with yesterday and not worried about tomorrow. I can achieve that by simply not lowering myself to explain every decision I make or word I say.

There are days when it is all I can do is put on my mask and go out into the world. I dutifully complete tasks that, inside, send me into a spiral of anxiety. I venture out when I don’t feel well. I work when my body is screaming at me to stay in. I take on responsibilities and new projects, knowing full well that I barely have the time to fulfill them. Yet I always do. I deliberately make my life challenging. Because I am trying to lead a fulfilling life. People might have their own opinions about my station in life. However, maintaining it is more difficult than they will ever understand. What may come easy to some is a real challenge to me.
It takes everything I have to get through my day. If I overschedule myself and fail to see it through, I need to start giving myself a break. I think I’ve earned it. If I make a social faux pas, then I need to move past it. If I make a total fool of myself…Well, I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. For any of it.

Nobody owes anyone anything, and I don’t owe anyone an explanation.

My weird glory

The origin of Your Weird Glory can be found here for context: https://goodtobealivetoday.com/2019/01/14/just-jot-it-january-14-reflection/

It came up today.

Next up in the “things I wish I learned earlier in life” category is embracing your uniqueness.
This arose in the most flattering of ways today.
At our 2nd Coffee/Therapy session today with the boys, we were joined by Pedro’s lovely wife, Wendy. Wendy has been reading my blog of late, and she’s really enjoying it. She finds my diatribes useful, so much so that she wants to share it with some friends. This made me happy, after all, that’s why I bothered to start logging my life story in 2017.
We discussed the origins, the trajectory of it, and the different styles I have incorporated over the years. I talked about a Poem I had written years ago. In it, I described my life as “In my own weird glory”. We all got a laugh out of it. Weird Glory is actually a wonderful way to describe me at times. I have an irreverent, goofy, inquisitive, and thoughtful side to me. You can describe it as weird, but it’s really what makes me unique. As the day went on, I began to ponder what I now realize is the “takeaway of the day.” Why do only close friends and my readers know what a vulnerable, emotionally turbulent, weirdly glorious mess I am?

I can answer that for you. I care too much about what people think of me. I always have. I dislike it, but I’ve been unable to change it. Pedro himself, when he first met me, thought that I was a Stoic “dick” with Resting Bitch Face. Now, we’re wonderful friends. That makes sense, because when he met me, I was around a lot of strangers. I didn’t know which Mask to wear.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players”, Shakespeare famously said. The whole speech within As You Like It refers to the life cycle of one man. However, it has been widely adopted to advance the “Mask” theory. The theory? That we all wear masks to show the world the face we want them to see. It is common to believe this. We are all acting to some degree as we navigate life. That goes for me as well. I have been acting my entire life. The problem is that I don’t know the script.

I hate that at 60 years old, I still struggle being myself. I have always tried to be what I thought others wanted me to be. Often, and sadly, I was many things to many people. Not fake, just pleasing people. One of the most toxic of my toxic traits. Now, I am able to act more consistently with my character. But I always hold back something. It’s not for fear of rejection. Instead, it’s out of reticence to reveal my true self.
Yes, my dear friends know most of my sides. As does my family of course. The rest of the world has seen only pieces. Those carefully selected pieces that I am comfortable showing. Which saddens me. There are aspects of me that I would love to share with others.
I look stiff and off-putting to some. In actuality, I am a welcoming person and I love to engage in deep conversations with strangers and friends alike.
I appear confident, but well, if you’ve been reading, I’m really not. About some things, yes. But I am deeply insecure. Interestingly, if I shared this with others, I would probably be less insecure.
I appear quiet. In actuality, once I go off, I never shut the f*ck up. Today, among friends that I am comfortable with, I completely dominated the conversation. I was self-conscious about it. They didn’t care. That just proves my point.

I could seriously go on with the list but there’s no need. The point is that there is a whole side to me that I rarely show. And that is a shame. There are likely some people who would enjoy that side of me. Yet, I suppress it. When I should have let it out 40 plus years ago. I cared too much about what people I didn’t even care about thought of me. Instead, I could have developed a group of friends who would accept me for who I really was.

In all of my weird glory.

No help for me, thanks

“The child who wasn’t comforted still lives inside the adult who doesn’t ask for help.”
Author Unknown

Why is my go-to emotional reaction to inquiries about my upbringing initially negative? If asked, I don’t answer in the negative; I have adopted a Go with your second reflex policy of late. My second reflex/answer would be to say, “I don’t remember needing anything.” The real answer would probably be, “Pretty messed up.” As I read this, that’s unfair. My parents did everything they could to give me a happy childhood. What was messed up was me.
That’s a tough one to share. It seems foolish to write about this. Still, I have been thinking a lot about Childhood Trauma lately. After all, I exhibit multiple traits of a person suffering from Childhood Trauma.
The problem is that I don’t remember experiencing Trauma as a child. Yet I exhibit the following:
Avoidance of relationships: I avoid or bail out of relationships to avoid getting hurt. I do want a relationship. However, I am very battle-scarred. I will run from a person if I so much as think they will hurt me.
People-Pleasing. I am so guilty of this. I engage in behaviors that make other people happy to avoid the emotional pain of not being appreciated.
Perfectionism: I set super-high standards for myself. I rarely meet them and then denigrate myself as a failure.
Constant comparison to others: Comparing yourself to others will almost always lead or contribute low self-esteem. I am never so low that I can’t find someone doing so much better to make me go lower.

5 out of 5, that’s problematic. And begs further exploration. A far-fetched option is that something traumatic occurred that I’ve suppressed way, way down, and it’s starting to surface. That’s unlikely. I have vivid memories of my childhood. While there are many events that still haunt me, they fall more into the category of learning experiences, not Trauma. Yes, they were difficult to process and probably left some scars, but they were necessary. My generation, unlike today’s, learned lessons the hard way. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person often resulted in a punch in the face. Getting rejected at a School Dance stung a lot. Betrayal by the hand of a friend comes to mind as well. And can I ever forget the disappointed look on my Dad’s face when I acted beneath his standards?
Again, learning experiences. Rites of passage, perhaps. So why did I jump at the above quote, inspiring a blog entry?
The term “Doesn’t ask for help.”

I don’t ask for help, even among my friends. Today, I met with some dear friends, Masons, for our weekly coffee. Between 4 and 6 of us turn out to talk. The rules are no rules. Talk about anything, but if you need to unburden yourself of something, your problems become our problems. We unburden without fear of reprisal or lack of confidentiality, and we listen unconditionally. It is our own little therapy group.
It is an honor for someone to feel comfortable enough to share their innermost conflicts with you. To seek your counsel is a higher honor. I am proud to tell you that many Brothers have sought out my listening/counsel over the years. It is a true blessing among Masons. But I am never the one to unburden myself. I just don’t do that, except in very rare occasions.
I have to ask myself why.
The answer isn’t elusive. I really didn’t have anyone to talk to about my multiple problems growing up.

I learned at a young age to handle everything internally. It began out of a fear of asking a stupid question of my parents. I have always had an unreasonable fear of asking the wrong questions. It may be out of fear of appearing dumb, perhaps I feared mockery. Maybe I felt that I should know it already. I was a very mixed-up child. If I had asked those questions, it is very possible that I would be in a different place today. If this segment reeks of uncertainty, there is a very good reason. Uncertainty is THE word to describe my entire childhood. I have always, including now, been uncertain about myself.
The worries about seeming dumb, ill-informed, or just plain wrong are still there. Not always but enough. I still battle uncertainty about my intellect, competency, reputation, character, and even who the Hell I am. This is partially due to my not asking for help.

As I said, I remember having a happy Childhood. By that, I mean that even though we were not wealthy by any standard, I don’t remember wanting for anything. I never went hungry. I went to camp. I had friends. I played sports. I had an amazing Dog (my best friend) from my earliest memory. My Mom and Dad really tried.
Dad worked a lot, but until he climbed the seniority ladder in his Union, he was laid off most summers. He would work part-time jobs, and our house was always under construction. He was there, but sometimes only in body. It may have only been my impression, but I found my Dad hard to talk to about personal things. I feared him judging me to be weak of character. Toxic masculinity was a thing then. Asking for help almost always resulted in him questioning why I couldn’t “figure it out” myself. As he aged, he became more accessible. As I’m going through right now, he was reviewing his choices in hopes of having achieved a fulfilled life.

My Mom was a very different story. She worked full-time but was home at a reasonable hour each day. She was, and is, a friend as well as a mother. But, and this is a big one, she was very hands-off. As parents who had difficult parents often do, she overcompensated for her own Mother’s overbearing, suffocating parenting style. Consequently, she went the other way and left me to do my thing. I regret going down this road, but I have to point out that she didn’t see the signs. I did everything but scream for help at one point. She didn’t see it.

It got worse when my parents adopted an 8-year-old. I was 13 and well into an adolescent crisis. Puberty, as well as dealing with being bullied among other embarrassments, had me in a spiral. During this critical time, a young girl with a lot of problems was introduced into our family. She had a horrific past and needed much extra attention. This was not what I needed at that moment. My options were to vie for attention or keep to myself. My parents were lost in the transition of adoption. My new sibling required so, so much. My parents just didn’t have much time or attention left for me. So I kept everything to myself, tried to figure things out on my own, and not ask for help.

It is slowly becoming clear to me that the era in discussion may have been traumatic. During my most formative years, when I needed guidance the most, it was just me. I developed what would become a lifelong habit. Not wanting to bother anyone. This is my toxic trait. There is a long line of brothers who would gladly be there for me if I asked. I’m not going to take them up on it because it’s just not who I am. I am the guy who needs more help than anyone can give. But I will never ask for it. I’ll just deal with it in my own way.

All because I wasn’t comforted as a child. Yet I blame nobody but myself. Mom, Dad, it’s not your fault.