family – The Tao of Bill

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.

A project

Yesterday I received some good news. I have a project to do. I love the idea of having a project. After all, it’s snowing outside my window.

Ok Bill, what do snow and a project have in common? What is the link in your twisted little mind?
Simple. It’s winter. I hate winter. In the cold, gray days of winter, I battle daily the constant urge to isolate. I feel the need to distance myself from friends and family. I also face the persistent urge to consume illicit substances. The urge to drink, despite having completed 11 months of abstinence from booze, is powerful right now. My thinly veiled control over my Weed consumption is challenged as well. A few puffs at night may have began as a way to calm the chaotic maelstrom I call a brain. But it can easily become a real habit.

In the summer, I am busier than a one-armed paper hanger. In the winter, I have to find ways to stay busy. It is truly the difference between peace and spiraling down the drain of doubt and despair. It’s about motivation. I touched on it in yesterday’s post. I need discipline to find motivation. That’s where projects come in. When I have to complete something I always do. Because the only thing I hate more than boredom is not completing an assigned task.

If you have read me at all, you will know that I am an active Freemason. Masonry is a volunteer organization dedicated to self-improvement and charity. Being a Mason can be exasperating. If you truly love it, you end up dedicating a major portion of your life to it. I must truly love it because I am doing something Masonic all the time. When I’m not, I’m riding Motorcycles or hanging out with friends who are also Masons. I love everything about it.
So much in fact that I want to do more.

The Grand Lodge of MA announced last month that it was offering 25 spots in the 10-month Masonic Leadership Institute. This is a renowned leadership program modified and adapted to the unique challenges and aspects of Freemasonry. I jumped at the opportunity and got my application in early. Masonry is a fraternity steeped in history and tradition. It relies on the consistency of its leaders. They maintain time-honored traditions. Simultaneously, they recognize new technologies and apply them. The fraternity grows and adapts to the changing world around it. It offers the active and enthusiastic Mason an opportunity to improve their skills and develop strategies to lead the fraternity. It is not a secret that the high-profile nature of the program shines a spotlight on the Brothers who enroll. I am sure that many who applied are seeking some measure of recognition in the interest of advancement.
I just want to serve.
In my humble opinion, a Mason should focus on the core tenet of service. Otherwise, they are in it for the wrong reasons.
That is what my application essay was centered around. They must agree because I was accepted.

I now have a project. A project that I cannot wait to explore. My love for Freemasonry exudes from my every pore. To learn more about how to make it better for others will make it better for me as well. I don’t want advancement, I want new opportunities. Opportunities to expand my horizons. Opportunities to meet new people and share experiences. Opportunities to make a difference. Again, if you’ve ever read me, that matters to me.

I love the idea that I can focus on developing and sharpening my skills for the higher calling of service. I embrace the idea of refining my mindset and improving my thinking. Not only do I love it, but I also need it. It may be the one that stands between surviving the winter with my Mental Health intact. The other option is clear. It means fighting the urge to drown my anxieties and insecurities with depressants. This struggle will continue until the days get longer.

I wish I read these sentences earlier in life

You won’t always get closure; learn to move on without it.
Discipline will take you places motivation never could.
Not everyone you lose is a loss; some exits are a blessing.
If it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive.
You become unstoppable the moment you stop seeking approval.
Your future needs you more than your past ever will.

I would like to credit for this intro, but I saw it on a FB Meme. Sometimes you hit gold just reading the musings of others. Sometimes it’s all garbage. But if you try hard enough you can find something thought-provoking if you open yourself to the opportunity.

You won’t always get closure; learn to move on without it. This one, Ugh. I wish I had a dollar for every minute I sat stewing about a conversation, an argument, or a break-up. Closure is essential for the overthinker. It is critical for the anxiety sufferer. If an overthinker says he loves you, then believe them. They’ve thought of every reason not to. Adversely, if you dump an anxiety-ridden over-thinker without a reason, they will invent every possible reason. These reasons may be logical or completely unfounded. Still, they persist. When the simple goddamn truth would have been enough. Hurt, anger, betrayal, they can all be overcome. Lack of answers sends me spiraling. I have had a string of recent break-ups/unexplained endings that devastated me. As I am known to do, I blamed myself for everything. I constantly asked myself what I did/said and replayed countless scenarios on a loop. When a simple “I don’t like you because you _______ would have been fine. As I said, anger subsides. Not getting closure may be easy for some. Not for me. It is enough of a reason to stop dating altogether. It hits me hard.
I really need to stop insisting on closure.

Discipline will take you places motivation never could. It is timely that I came across this today, as I have recently committed to being more disciplined. I am not motivated. I want to be, I try to be but I’m not. Because I don’t practice good habits. I don’t create schedules for myself. I don’t manage my time well. I promised to work on being more disciplined. By creating good habits, I will find motivation to achieve my goals. I haven’t made major changes yet to my routine, but I am making solid baby steps. I feel very driven, dare I say motivated, to achieve this. I’m confident that I will. But the above sentence is as true as can be.

Not everyone you lose is a loss; some exits are a blessing. This one doesn’t need much elaboration. It’s perfect as it is. It does tie in with the first sentence nicely, though. I spent much time commiserating about the lack of closure. Now, I realize those who failed to provide closure are welcome departures from my life. I am a caring, considerate person. I have no place in my life for someone who treats me poorly.

If it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive. My peace is everything to me. Even now, at this advanced stage of my life, I am not at peace. But I am working at it as hard as I am able every day. To be at peace is my life’s goal. When I see the word expensive, I realize it pertains to the cost of peace. I know the cost can be monetary as well as emotional. Example: I love my motorcycle. Riding it is one of the only sources of true joy I have. But it’s very expensive. The payment is causing me distress. It’s bordering on costing me some of that peace. Another example, my efforts in Freemasonry provide me with peace. Over-scheduling myself in those efforts is stressing me out. The more commitments I make, the more I worry about fulfilling them.

You become unstoppable the moment you stop seeking approval. I have always cared way too much about what other people think of me. It stems from me always seeking the approval and validation of a father with whom I had a complicated relationship. I am confident in what I bring to the table. I am able and qualified. Yet, I am terribly concerned about what people think of me. There is a caveat. I’m not so concerned about being liked. I want to be respected and considered a man of good character.
I have made great strides in this area of late. I have become more confident, and surprisingly, a lot more bold and assertive. I am close to being comfortable enough with myself that I may be able to rise above my inner “People-pleaser”. Once I can do that, I will not need, nor desire, the affirmation of others.

Your future needs you more than your past ever will. I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment. It’s particularly poignant to a person who spends as much time ruminating over past deeds or misdeeds as I. I may never move completely past this, but I am committed to doing my best. Dwelling on the past wastes a massive amount of time. It also poses a massive threat to my mental health. I have plenty of goals. I will never accomplish them if I continue to focus on what cannot be changed. This one may be the most important of all.

Repeat patterns

I realized a disturbing thing this morning. It’s starting again.

“It” is the winter doldrums that I thought I was beyond. I managed to survive them last winter, but the year before was a winter I’d rather forget.

In the winter of 2023 I was coming off a high. I had moved into a new place, my first time on my own since my illness. I was riding a wave of optimism, newfound independence, and embracing new opportunities. That lasted a few months. Then it got cold out. Then I began to notice a side of my roommate that I had never seen before. I became torn about my new life not living up to expectations. I wasn’t seeing my family any more than before. I thought I had been lonely before, when I lived with Mom. As it turns out, I would be lonelier than ever before. And I was surrounded by good people.

I got to a point where I went out only when I absolutely had to. I maintained my commitments in Masonry. I saw the kids when the opportunity arose. I went shopping when I was out of food. As my roommate situation worsened, I only went downstairs to make meals. Other than that, I stayed in my loft. I drank coffee in the morning and watched TV. I would switch to alcohol around 2-3 in the afternoon. Then I would begin my daily weed habit. During all this, I indulged in terrible food and avoided exercise as if it were my ex-wife. My fat, depressed ass was glued to my recliner, and I had no clue how to unglue it.

Of course, this would eventually reveal itself to be functional depression. I had a buddy who used to joke that he was a “functional” alcoholic. He was just a regular alcoholic who managed to live up to his responsibilities. Well, to draw the same line to my depression, I was barely functional, if at all. I did the very least I could to get by. It went on for months. I emerged from the winter fat and drunk. As Dean Wormer of Animal House famously stated, “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life.”

The sunlight, or lack of it, has something to do with it. I’m solar powered. I love sunlight and get outside as often as possible. Early sunsets and gray skies are not ideal for me. But they’ve never knocked me out of the game for the entire winter.

Last winter, I did better. I was aware of the signs, and I made preparations. I I committed myself to fulfilling plans, not blowing everything off at the last minute. That is one trait I absolutely have to get rid of. The drinking was about the same. However, I quit cold turkey on January 1st. This action removed alcohol from my list of afflictions. I still endured some moments, but overall it was a better Winter.

It is now Tuesday afternoon. I haven’t left my apartment since Sunday morning. I had some quick work done on my car then, but I went home right after. I was tired from a long Saturday and thought I just needed some rest. Yesterday, I wanted to get out early and go work out. Around noon I gave up on leaving and put my robe on. I tried to be productive. I did some writing, read a few chapters of a book. Mostly, I napped and prepped some food. It was a wasted day.

Today, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. I have a Dr. Appt at 2:30 and a Masonic meeting tonight at 6:30. I wanted to do other things today. I wanted to follow my plan of going to Planet Fitness. I also planned on doing some Ubering. I should have left the house hours ago. Yes, my back hurts a lot today. That may be a viable excuse for not working out. However, I have no excuse for not making some money. Here’s what’s not viable. I haven’t showered or shaved in 3 days. I lack motivation to do the simplest of tasks. I don’t answer my phone, and I only return important texts. Last night I prayed for motivation. I prayed for clear-headedness. I asked for the strength to get up early and get out today. Well, I managed to get up early.

Something has got to give. I hate the idea of returning to the patterns of 2023; I still feel myself heading in that direction. I hope I find the strength to pull myself out of this. I can’t lead a life or purpose sitting in my recliner.

I’m fine

“Lives are like rivers; eventually, they go where they must. Not where we want them to.” Not original, I caught that while re-watching one of my favorite HBO miniseries, Empire Falls. But poignant nonetheless.

Empire Falls is a bleak but engrossing take of a down-and-out town full of down-and-out people struggling with life in a once great Textile town in Maine. The people struggle with the decay of their beloved hometown. The misery is only exacerbated when life carelessly and cruelly gives it a glimmer of hope. It’s a tough watch when you are feeling down. When it showed up in my feed I immediately clicked on it. Knowing that it will affect me, and still choosing to watch, says something about my current situation.
The river of my life has chosen its own course. I have no choice but to go with it and see where it takes me. The logical next sentence would be to observe that it is in violation of my plan. But truth be told, I never had a plan for my life.

I have never been future-minded. In High School I didn’t think that much about College. I had the grades, but again, no plan. When I started College, I did it because that’s what people did. I never gave much thought to what I wanted to do with my degree. I did get a quality Liberal Arts education that I’m proud of. I am well-read and widely considered a good conversationalist, with a strong foundation in many subjects. I’m a frickin’ blast at Cocktail parties, but that’s about it.

I took a few years off after H.S. I attended a local University as a commuter and wandered academically for 2 years, and dropped out. I worked menial jobs, drank, and fucked around a lot. I would finish, 7 years after I started. Largely because my Father gave me a legendary guilt trip over not graduating. Nothing motivates me quite like being told that I can’t or won’t do something.

I would get some decent jobs eventually. They required a degree, but I never used it. My minimal career success was due to my personality and ability to talk to people genuinely. But even in my career, if I can call it that, it was a winding road and lacked a plan.

Once I got sick, it no longer mattered that I didn’t have a plan. My new plan was to survive. When first diagnosed, my condition could have gone several directions. It went in the worst one. At my lowest point, my plan became one of making some type of life for myself. I can honestly say that I have done that. But to further utilize the River metaphor, I’m not charting the path. The path is dragging like an undertow.

I don’t know what I thought my life would be at 60. I never dreamed of riches but I thought that I would be in a good place. At the moment I am most certainly not. I have always been happy with enough. I’m not materialistic or greedy and if I had a lot I would probably donate it. I don’t even have enough. I’m struggling financially. I wish with all my might that for once in my life I didn’t have to worry about money. But here I sit, the walls closing around me still.

I thought that I would be happy, or at least content. While happiness has always eluded me, with the exception of fleeting moments, I have been content. I am so far from content now. I’m restless. I’m scared for my future. I want to be anywhere but where I am.

The one thing that I thought I was was healthy. I have given everything I have to reclaim my health, and I beat the odds in so many ways. Or have I? Next month, I go in for a second Prostate Biopsy this year. 2 MRIs in 1 year and a scary high PSA have deemed another biopsy “advisable.” I’m not saying I have Prostate Cancer, but all the signs are pointing to it. It’s at the forefront of my mind almost all the time. Occasionally, I forget about it and something future-related comes to mind, and there it is. The voice that says, “Uh, dude, you may want to see if you have a future first.”

For now I will continue to be good ol’ “Smiling Bill.” I can keep up the back slapping, the glad handing, the thinly veiled lie of “I’m fine” when asked. I am still an optimist, and I can play that role better than anyone I know. But I really am anything but fine. I’m not broken, but I am perched precariously on the edge of the counter just waiting to get knocked off. When I hit the floor…the pieces are going to be all over the damn place.

Isolate before it’s too late

I was out Ubering today. I picked up a ride into Boston. Southern NH to Boston isn’t a bad ride without traffic. Still, I tend not to take those rides. Uber has a shitty policy on leaving the state. They have no problem sending you over the border. However, they won’t allow you to pick up a ride to get back. In my case, the NH border is 35 miles back before I can get another ride. As a result, I will take one if the money is good, and the traffic is moving. When I got a ride offer at 2 PM I gambled. I made a good call.

My passenger was a guy my age heading into a meeting with friends. He was friendly and talkative. That, combined with flowing traffic, made it a good ride. As I dropped him off, my phone rang. The timing was perfect, as I don’t answer my phone when I have a passenger. It was Wilky, a Masonic Brother, whom I ride with quite a bit. He’s a gentleman’s gentleman. The call caught me off guard because I had never gotten a call from him before. We’ve exchanged texts and FB messages. I was intrigued.

He was just checking in. He was concerned that he hadn’t seen me in a while and wanted to make sure that I was OK. That gave me a real warm and fuzzy feeling. I respect and like Wilky a great deal. But he’s not a part of my immediate circle, for lack of a better term. For him to notice my absence was surprising, but heartwarming nonetheless. I assured him that I was fine, just busy and, after a few minutes, we ended the conversation. As uplifted as I felt at that moment, I also felt bad. I lied to him.

I have been conspicuously absent lately. Sure, I have been busy. But only at fulfilling commitments, of which I have too many at the moment. The fun stuff, the invitation-only and impromptu gatherings, have not been on my calendar. I am not feeling social. I’m overwhelmed emotionally, mentally exhausted, and my anxiety is crippling me. My life has become a series of “Have to’s” instead of “Want to’s”. I have to be where I said I would be and do what I have to. But I want to be on my sofa.
Sadly, I tried to take some time off and stay home. Since I got my own place, I have cherished those days when I stay in and do nothing but relax. That is not the case lately. I have trouble relaxing now. I feel anxious about being lazy. I chastise myself for not leaving the house and go somewhere, anywhere. Even when I have no place to go. When I do go out, I struggle to come up with a plan of what I am going to do. Then I get mad at myself for not being productive. I don’t have a job, where do I have to be?

When I do go out, it’s far too “peopley” for me. I find my love for people isn’t what it usually is. I have been easily annoyed, even driven to anger in traffic and public places. I control it for the most part, but it eats at me. When I act on this anger, as in my regrettable verbal parking lot exchange earlier this week, I feel guilt-ridden. Which only makes me want to isolate more.

I’m the person that nobody worries about because I always show up when I’m needed. I’m the person who says, “I’ve got it,” when I really don’t. People know (think) I’ll always figure it out. I deal with things quietly because I don’t want to let people down. And despite being a person that many come to with problems, I rarely share mine. Sharing will elicit attention. People want to help, I dread the constant offering of support. I don’t want it. I just want a break.

If I am to keep my commitments, my schedule will be mostly full for the next 18 months. I honestly don’t know if I will make it. The urge to just get in my car or on my bike and just fucking GO is overwhelming.

As a person that loves people, I really want to be alone.

Deflection

Saw this on my FB feed today.
“Nobody grinds harder than the man who’s tasted failure, pain, rejection, loss, disrespect, loneliness, and heartbreak at a young age.
Use all the pain as fuel.”
Author unknown.

I was at a function recently and was presented with an award by my peers. It was an amazing gesture of thanks for an event that I had sponsored for a distressed brother. I was honored, but visibly uncomfortable with the public accolades. After the dust had settled, I was talking to a Brother whom I respect greatly. He said, “It’s okay to be recognized, Bill. You do a lot for people.”
I replied that I don’t do things for acknowledgment, I do them because I can.
“It’s because you’ve been through some shit, and you know how it is to be down.”I suppose it’s true. My past comes through when an opportunity to help someone arises.

I know how this sounds. As I write this, I am painfully aware that I am opening myself up to charges of hubris. I swear on all that matters to me that I am not about that. I have reached a unique point in my life. I am really not about me anymore. I like my life as it is, but I’ve gone as far as I can. I’m in a acceptable rut. I have my routine and the things that make me happy. The rest of my time is for my fellow man.

My old life was marked by constant errors in judgment, poor decisions, and struggles in interpersonal relationships. Then came the illness. At the culmination of my illness, I hit the ultimate place of learning: Rock Bottom. From the depths of that pit, I experienced despair and loneliness. I felt hopelessness, dependency, and isolation. I also faced failure, pain, and rejection. The loss and heartbreak were overwhelming. The prospect of an early conclusion to an unfulfilled life terrified me.

My friend Eric recently started dialysis. He told me, “Situations such as this reveal to you who your friends really are.” That resonated with me profoundly. While I did have some very solid support while sick, I dealt with my situation mostly alone. I learned some hard life lessons. I discovered a great deal about who I was. I also realized what I wanted out of life. I vowed that if I were to get better, I would do better. In particular, to channel my own experiences to help others.
Then I got better.

For a few years, I talked about my experience. Maybe too much. I was so happy to be on the right side of the dirt. I shared my story with anyone who wanted to hear it. I believe that everyone has something to offer. Different perspectives inspire new attitudes. Sometimes it only takes a reminder that, no matter how bad you have it, someone has it worse. I utilize the charitable nature of Freemasonry as a tool to help people. Masonic charity is true charity; often done anonymously, and always done without expectation of accolades or anything in return.

Now, in this phase of life, I rarely even talk about my illness. I’m not the sick guy anymore. But I walk with all of the memories of him. The lessons of my past life have changed my perspective. When someone catches my attention, my mind turns to the adage “Be kind. Everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” It keeps me grounded. It’s what causes me to deflect compliments and accolades.

My oldest daughter wrote the following in my Birthday card in July. “Dad, you are the most selfless person I know.” I have been very clear in stating that I don’t like or need compliments. But that one I’ll take as fuel to grind even harder.