Category: People

Moving forward

I’ve been in a good place recently. I feel well, my upcoming biopsy is on my mind, but not consuming me. I’ve maintained the weight loss and am getting frequent comments of support. Also, I am rapidly approaching the 12-month milestone of sobriety. It pleases me that I’m not tempted to imbibe despite the high prevalence of alcohol everywhere during the Holiday Season. Additionally, my mental health has been better. In particular, I am struggling less with the self-worth issues that have plagued me.

I really don’t understand why I struggle so with self-worth. Particularly at this stage in my life. I am definitely on the back nine of life. I have nothing to prove to anyone. My children are grown, and by all measures, successful. The worrying never ceases as a parent. However, now that they are grown, my children are a source of comfort, not worry.
My career is over. Any work I undertake going forward will be done at my discretion and on my own terms. The days of worrying about my job are over. Gone with it are the endless attempts at pleasing thankless employers through giving entirely too much of myself. Now, money is about survival.
I have a thriving social life. I actually have more events to attend than time to do them. While most men my age, according to studies, have few friends, I have an abundance.
Things are good because I’m trying to look at things through a different lense.

I have been feeling overwhelmed of late. I continue to ignore my limitations and carry a full calendar. I do too much and then lament how tired I am. It’s because I can’t say no.
As an active Mason, I have the ability to be out as much as I want. There is always something going on. Being known as an active Mason, I get invited to a lot of events. Masonic events are a true joy for me. I truly enjoy the company of my Brothers, some of the best men I have ever met. And Masonry itself, what can I say, I love everything about it. The civility, historical significance, the fraternal atmosphere appeal to my very being. It is hard saying no because everything is a “can’t miss.”
But it takes a toll on me. I get so tired that I need time to recover.

Since my recovery I have been Jim Carrey in Yes Man. I hit the ground running and started to live my life as if living itself were dependent upon saying YES! After spending so much time dealing with being sick and potentially without a future, I began to spend my time enjoying being healthy with the prospect of living a full life. I love saying Yes.
But then I got tired. I began to have difficulty bouncing back from too many nights out and required more rest. Every instinct told me to take a break, that not everything requires me to be there. So I took a small break. That wasn’t the answer. Slowing down is the exact opposite of what I need. If I have to pick one, because I am totally incapable of walking a line down the middle, I have to pick being busy.
I can rest when I’m dead.

What I have come to realize is that being active has been very good for my mental health.

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.

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.

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.

Mulligan

I love Golf. It’s a wonderful outdoor activity. It’s good exercise. It’s challenging both mentally and physically. It involves dexterity, precision, and muscle memory. It’s also maddening. Don’t let the Pros on TV fool you. There is nothing harder than to hit a little white ball straight and far. If that isn’t challenging enough, there are obstacles of sand, water and trees to make it more interesting. It’s an unforgiving game in many ways.
Just like life itself.

The key to Golf, unless you’re a professional or in training, is to not take it too seriously. Golf is like sex, you have to do it a lot to be good at it. But people who don’t have sex often still want to be good at it, and the same applies to Golf. There are those who are great at it but don’t take it too seriously. And then there are those who suck and get angry when they reveal said fact. And then there’s everyone in between. The happiest golfer plays to their strengths. They know their limitations. They break down their game into 3 categories. Good swings, bad swings, and Mulligans.

I don’t have to explain the good swing in detail. It’s the one that went where the player wanted it to. It’s the one that makes you come back. Even if the day was otherwise full of bad swings. Bad swings are the ones that don’t live up to our plan. It was either a miss, a slice, a shank, or a dribbler. They are maddening. Sometimes they require a “Mulligan.”

A “Mulligan” is a free swing. A do over. It’s named after a real person. He made a bad shot, and his peers deemed that he could hit it again. While it is not allowed in professional play, the regular “duffer”, or hack player, often utilizes one or more during a round. If the challenges and intricacies of Golf are a metaphor for life, that’s an interesting twist. Golf, unlike life, occasionally allows you a do-over.

I have embraced the Mulligan in life. I have been mercilessly unforgiving of myself for most of my life. I hold myself to a standard that nobody can achieve and the beatings I give myself are also on a next level. But occasionally I think about playing a round with my Son on a beautiful summer day. We’re out playing for the camaraderie. We’re playing to escape the daily grind. We’re only being slightly competitive; mostly, we’re trying to just enjoy the moment that will become a memory. I just hit a bad shot off the tee. It’s the first bad shot of the day, and we’ve been enjoying the close play. My boy tosses me a ball and says, “Do it again”. It’s an allowable do-over. No questions asked. I set up the ball, take a deep breath, and swing. The shot is long and straight, landing and bouncing past my boy’s ball on the fairway. I feel good again, I made good on a mistake.

Life doesn’t allow Mulligans. Every tee shot you take in life needs to be played from wherever it lands. No exceptions. I’ve been hitting out of the woods, behind trees, and out of sand my entire life. Some shots sailed onto the fairway, others fell short or got lost altogether. I can’t erase them. But if I can’t forget about them, at the very least, I can forgive myself for them.

Some days I hit some good shots. Most days I hit a few bad ones. The bad ones have been keeping my mind racing at a frenetic pace. They keep me up at night and ruin otherwise peaceful moments. But each day I get up and swing again. The new day is the Mulligan. It is not a continuation of the last round. If I can remember to look at each day in this vein, my life is sure to get better.

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.