Category: legacy

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.

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.

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.

The very bad day

In keeping with yesterday’s post’s theme, I have to say something. Yesterday was not my best round of golf.

It started with a text from my youngest daughter. Our relationship is very complex at the moment. Several dynamics are at play. She is estranged from her mother. The whole situation has caused a lot of strife in the family. My ex-wife seems to think that I can somehow influence my daughter to change her mind. I would never do that to her. It isn’t up to me to change her mind. For what it’s worth, I have never blamed her for cutting off her mother. I know their relationship well, and I understand and appreciate her perspective. I absolutely want them to work it out, but not at the compromise of my daughter’s mental health. I am in the middle. Trying to save my family.

My support of my daughter has strained my relationship with my ex-wife. Still, I have tried to be there in every way for my daughter. Lately, it seems that she also has a problem with me. Frankly, I don’t know what to do about it. Boundaries are vital to her and her mental health. I do my best to honor them, yet I seem to violate them anyway. Friday morning, in a text conversation, she revealed hostility about something that I apparently did. My first reaction was to lash out, and I chose to disengage and think it through. It worked out, or so I thought, and we had a civil conversation later. I even told her that she had a valid point. I try to be an adult after all. I thought it was over and we were good. Until the next day, when she began a text conversation by railing against our President. I carefully replied that I know she and I have differing opinions on the man. I thought I did the right thing. She became very agitated. She started blowing up my phone with comments. She was furious and done with me over it. Didn’t I disengage?

I know why she hates the man. She is gay and she, rightly, hates him for his anti-LGBTQ opinions. I get it. She accused me of calling it “politics”, as if I don’t know it is a personal thing to her. Of course, I understand it, I just don’t want to engage in heated arguments over a US President. With anyone, not just her. I was, and still am, very upset with how she treated me. I feel insulted and very minimized as a father. The urge to challenge her is there, but I really don’t want to make it worse. But, as a man who values accountability, I don’t want to just forgive the disrespect either. I feel that I have been very amenable to her boundaries. But what about mine? Am I expected to allow myself to be treated like that? I really don’t know what to do. I’m sad and I’m hurt. I love her so much and really want her in my life. I wish I knew what to do.
In alignment with the Golf metaphor, this round was a rain-out.

Yesterday, I was dealing with all of the thoughts above. During this time, I went to an event held by the Shriners with my oldest daughter and granddaughter. It was there that an opportunity came up. I had the chance to address a Brother Mason I know has been publicly disrespecting a friend of mine. I confronted him. I don’t feel bad; he is not a good man. I laid into him without raising my voice and presented consequences. It was effective. In golf, it was a good swing. I silenced a bad person and did it in a way that won’t come back to me.

Then, I went food shopping. It was an uneventful, if not chaotic, shopping experience. But I managed to get through it. Until the parking lot. Putting my cart away, I almost got backed into by a car backing out of a space. Without considering if I was at fault, by not paying proper attention, I called him out. He mouthed off to me, and we had a verbal exchange. It was pretty harmless, but I’m not proud of how I acted. I’m sure he’s not thinking about it. But I wish there were some way that I could tell him that I’m sorry. It’s just not who I am.
For that, I wish I had a Mulligan.

With the exception of confronting a bad man to defend a good one, I wish I could have a Mulligan for the whole damn day.

Butterflies

“What do you see?” He asked.
“Butterflies”, the little girl said. “So many Butterflies.” She paused. “Did you know that God paints every color of a Butterfly’s wings with his fingers?” She stared intently, tears in her eyes, at the outstretched arms on the statue of Jesus in the Hospital Chapel. She anticipated being gently carried away in those welcoming arms. To a place where the pain would not follow her. She sat and wondered if her reservation had been made. Her journey in this phase of existence was about to end, and she was ready to move on.

The little girl was a character in a movie I watched today. The movie ripped my heart out of my chest to say the very least. It was a faith-based movie, of which I have been watching many lately. They pull my heartstrings and I willingly let them. I indulge in these movies because I am chasing a feeling. I am seeking what eludes me. It is the unwavering belief in Salvation. As well as the strength of conviction that true believers possess.

At an age where many people crave comfort, I continuously subject myself to things that make me feel. I immerse myself in anguish, joy, grief, terror, happiness, longing, desperation, and triumph. My response to becoming numb to everything around me is to force myself to experience powerful emotions. It is a conditioning tool of sorts. It is a necessity for the truly empathetic person, of which I consider myself one. Unfortunately, there is one emotional state that I subject myself to that remains elusive: unconditional faith.

I want to feel it. After what I have been through in my life, I do believe in it. By many accounts, I have no solid explanation for why I am still around. I have every reason to believe that a power beyond our understanding has kept me around. And it’s not as if I don’t believe in God. It’s the notion of being received into the arms of a Creator in a flowing robe, standing at the base of a stairway of gold that ascends into the clouds that I struggle with.

The issue lies in the fact that I am not eternity-focused. I struggle with the people who restrict themselves in this life to enjoy a better one when they die. I believe that one can lead a full and fun life without being a wicked sinner. I myself believe that I lead a good life. I have a moral code. I treat others with respect. I am kind to all creatures great and small. I try to leave everything better than I found it. Further, I believe that our legacy is what we should be concerned about. I hope that when I die, enough people remember me as a good person. But that’s not enough for most people; all they talk about is Heaven and how to get in.

Heaven is a nice idea. It’s an old-fashioned construct that appeals to human sensibilities. The notion of an end to suffering, reconnecting with loved ones that have passed on, seeing favorite dogs running towards us with wagging tongues and frantically wagging tails, is a lovely one indeed. But, for a young child about to succumb to Leukemia, the idea of embracing Heaven is as sad as it is beautiful. That child is embracing a better life, not having experienced any semblance of a full life here.

Life is to be experienced. It is not to be modified for a chance at something not guaranteed. I liken it to not driving a car in order to keep it nice for the next owner. Live a life, a good life. The meaning of life is to make a difference, not sit on the bench to not get injured. I choose to think about Heaven as a place to go when I have worn out my welcome here. I don’t want to leave a good-looking corpse. I want to skid-steer my bike into my final parking space, tear off my helmet from my scarred and sunburned face and yell,”Hell yea, what a ride!”

Then, and only then, will I be ready to admire the Butterflies. Until then, I am going to continue to live, feel, and experience. While I’m doing that, I will find time to chase the elusive feeling of undying faith I’ve been discussing here.

Finding Motivation: Embracing Inner Strength

I finally found some motivation. While I haven’t spiraled down any drains of negative thinking and self-flagellation lately, I have been a tad unmotivated. I think it’s the weed; maybe it’s time to stop that. Like I did with the Drink, when I get sick of something, I will have the strength to stop. I am good in that respect.

I rarely do anything that even resembles bragging, but sometimes I am proud of myself. I have resolve. I find ways to tap into reserves of inner strength. I do not need to rely on others to pick me up. Recently, I have learned that no matter how low I get, I can pull myself out of it. I have this ability. I’m glad to have it.

Some people take a hard look at themselves in times of crisis. I do it as a matter of habit. I often joke that nobody can ever be harder on me than I am.

I made a comment to my lady friend that I was proud of a recent accomplishment. She took me to task for invoking the notion of pride. I know where she is coming from. She is a deeply religious person and she is coming from a place of humility. I admire it. But I also disagree. Pride and hubris are profoundly different things.

Humility is not thinking more of yourself, it is thinking about yourself less. I try to embody that in every aspect of my life. I strive to be selfless in all that I do. I deflect compliments, I share credit, and I genuinely want others to succeed. I don’t think of myself as much as I think of others.
BUT, I have come a long way.

Not that long ago, I was barely able to care for myself. I was sick, broke and despondent. A few short years later I have accomplished almost everything on my vast bucket list. My Bucket list is an “as it were” list. As my goals for a happy life came from a place called Rock Bottom. My goals were lofty then, given my situation. Lofty but challenging nonetheless. Getting my own place, being able to support myself, maintaining my newfound good health, and getting in shape. I have done all of that. Why am I not allowed to be proud of all of that?

I know what bragging is. I’ve seen it a million times. But “humble bragging” at an awards ceremony and exclaiming happiness at accomplishing goals are two very different things. I am not pleased with myself, I am merely pleased with my life.

I get what she is saying. It comes from a good place. But everyone needs to understand something important. Your current status in life is measured by where you were before.

I was very sick. Now I am not.
I was a borderline alcoholic. I have been sober for ten months.
I was living with my mother. Now I have my own place.
I wasn’t contributing, only taking. Now I work, volunteer and mentor.
I was in terrible physical condition. I am now at the lowest weight I have been in 10 years.
I was in a BAD place mentally. Now, I see the signs and am working on preventative measures.
I had no clue who I was and what my mission was. I now know my purpose and am living it.

I was there. Now I am here. And I’m proud of that.

Dream drinking

I dreamed that I drank alcohol last night. It’s one of several times that I have done that. I want to make nothing out of it, yet I remember it vividly. That is unusual for my dreams of late.

I go through phases where I remember my dreams, but for the most part, I usually don’t. I always remember the ones in which I dream that I slipped up. I have a strong inclination to do better. I don’t want to fall back into old patterns. It seems this desire has permeated my subconscious as well.

The unusual aspect of last night’s nocturnal revelation, and the others, is that I didn’t consciously decide to drink alcohol. This realization came after the fact. Instead, I realized this after the fact. I don’t need to apply much psychoanalysis. That realization merely illustrates how familiar my relationship with alcohol was. It’s no secret. And realizing that just increases my resolve.

There is no question that I have thoughts about drinking. Not to resume my former pace, but to have the “casual” drink. For example, my oldest son asked if I would make an exception and have a Toast at his recent wedding. I chose not to. It was a non-issue. I suppose I could have, because I really don’t believe that I am an Alcoholic, have one or two. I was never really a fall-down drunk, so the likelihood of devolving into dangerous behavior is unlikely. I’ve said before that my drinking never took me to levels that many Alcoholics have. I had a habit, a troubling dependency. But not an addiction.

I have just completed 10 months alcohol-free. I avoid the word Sober because I indulge in weed, medicinally and occasionally recreationally. That is known in AA circles as “California Sober,” and it is a hot issue in the Recovery community. People in Recovery can be a bit militant in their approach. We do not see eye to eye on the matter. I don’t ask their opinion on it, and they can shove theirs in the orifice of their choice. The goal of AA, and my goal in particular, was to stop consuming alcohol. I did that. That’s why I rarely go to a meeting.

I feel good. I’m lighter. I’m physically fit. I’m happier and healthier in mind, body and spirit. My life has done nothing but improve since I started this journey. So I may continue to slip up and accidentally order a drink in my dreams. But in reality, I am past the cravings, temptations, and associations. Why fuck it up now? Even I can’t self-sabotage this.

Or are those famous last words?