Category: recovery

The Quiet Strength of Resilience in Tough Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Facing Heart Surgery: another challenge of my resilience

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

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

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

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

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

Now, where the hell is that football?

the Prayer list comment

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

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

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

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

But still, that comment…

Quiet victories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

200 miles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Facing Health Fears: From Transplants to Cancer Risks

I discovered an interesting trend this morning. Whenever I see a “click-bait” post about dangerous health conditions, I always click on it. “These 3 symptoms indicate heart failure. “Do you have these symptoms that indicate lung cancer?” “These factors could indicate Colon Cancer”. I can’t resist it.

It could mean that I’m a hypochondriac, but that’s not it. There’s a darker motive; I am convinced that I am going to contract a non-renal related disease and die. I could sugar-coat it, but why bother?

I should be concerned about my Kidney transplant failing. It’s logical after all, it’s happened before. But that won’t kill me. The worst-case scenario would be dialysis. Dialysis is a less-than-ideal option. I absolutely hated dialysis. I was sick. My blood work was always askew. I had terrible reactions that led to agonizing treatments. I felt terrible towards the end. When I got the call for a new Kidney, it could not have come soon enough. I absolutely dread the notion of doing it again, but as the expression goes, “But did you die?”. It wouldn’t kill me, but I can say goodbye to any quality of life.

No, I am afraid of cancer. Post-transplant (both times), I was given lengthy lectures on the do’s and don’ts of living with a new organ. Risks of rejection, hazards to avoid, the importance of faithfully taking medications, etc. I listened and understood, but it didn’t faze me. Very little did, I just wanted to go out and live again. But there was another conversation that occurred that replays in my head on a loop because it rocked me hard.
“Because you are on immunosuppressant medications, you will be very susceptible to certain types of cancer. Of which you may not be able to fight with a compromised immune system.” That statement terrified me.

It would prove to be true, the part about being susceptible to certain cancers. I have had bouts with skin cancer 7 times and counting. But I’m not afraid of skin cancer. I worry about Lung Cancer, Colon Cancer, and Prostate. All of them are diseases that I may not be able to fight while taking my current regimen of medications. It logically follows that I may one day face a decision. It could turn out to be a Pyrrhic choice in which I lose my kidney to save my life.

I’m facing such a choice now. I am currently undergoing a scare of sorts. My prostate has been problematic for a few years. I have had 2 MRIs. I have a growth that has been biopsied. My PSA is climbing, and the mass is growing. My second Biopsy is scheduled for next month. It may be terrible, it may only be something to watch. It still scares the bejeesus out of me. As does the idea of dying of cancer itself.

In the spirit of maintaining complete and raw honesty in my writing, I confess that I am not always afraid of death. There is a often discussed state of being in which people say that living has become a chore. That they are not living, but merely existing. I have those moments where I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to be here either. I have even grappled with the most difficult of decisions. Should I stay around? I don’t want to hurt the ones I would leave behind. They would have nothing to ask but why. How could I ever explain to them that I was alive enough to show up? Yet, I was also dead enough not to care if I did. That conversation is had in the darkest hour of your worst sleepless night. Of which I’ve had plenty.
Of course, I was very sick then.

Now, I go down the rabbit hole of continued existence less often. Overall, I enjoy my life. I am active both physically and socially. I have many friends that I rely on for support. I am able to live independently and care for myself, once that was only a dream. Yet, I am consumed with worry about so many things about my future. So much that the notion of just leaving it all does still occur to me.

But, this is a very big consideration. If faced with another life-threatening illness, I wonder if I would have the motivation to fight. Would I have my trademark grit and determination? Or would I say “Thank God” and just let it take me. Would I rage against that good night? Or would I fade away into it?

I hate that I think about these things. But the fact remains that I do. Frequently. It truly depends on my mood. I’m not sad or depressed. On good days I want to live forever; Head up, chest out, larger than life, ready to take on all comers. On the bad days, I would welcome an opportunity to put down my shield, stop fighting everyone and everything, and just let death take me.

It’s exhausting being me.

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.

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.