Category: spirituality

Dinner with My Dad: A Reflection on Life Lessons

I recently came across a writing prompt that interested me.
“If you could have dinner with anyone past or present, who would you choose?”

To pick just one person that I would want to have dinner with, alive or dead, is a challenge. Most people might choose a celebrity, a poet, a musician, or a politician. I can surmise that this is the point of the exercise for them. How would I begin to pick the one person whose contribution, ideas, heroic deed, etc. inspired me to select them over any other? Another question, would it be considered trite or a wasted opportunity to choose a family member, such as my Dad?

Well, I am picking my Dad.

Dinner with my Dad would be a very particular scenario. It would be a recreation of a lunch I once had with him when I was 23 years old. I can remember only one time as a young man when he and I ever went out as just guys. We had a beer. It was special in many ways. Obviously, spending time with my dad was special in its own right. But it was also one of the first times he stopped being in “dad mode.” He was just a regular guy. As an aside, I call this the dad hat. It’s my nickname for Dad’s tendency to act based on his perception of ‘Dad’ as a role. This happens rather than him acting as a person. I admired his dedication to it. Often, though, I wished he could have just been a friend when I needed it. That day, he was just that.

I remember that I was really struggling with some heavy shit that day. He was very helpful in listening intently. He only offered advice when asked. Of all of the conversations that day, I fondly remember him saying his famous line to me. He truly believed in that line. One that I never came around to until after he died. He said, “ Bill, believe it or not, everything will work out.”

Today, if I were to sit across from him at the same restaurant, I would struggle. I wouldn’t know what to tell him first. I mean, where do I even begin? He has been gone 12 years now, and I have spent so much time talking to his headstone. I would tell him that I miss him more than words can describe. I would tell him that the world makes less sense without him around. That men like him are a dying breed. I would apologize for so many things. I would save the best for last. I survived some mind-blowing shit. I would tell him that sitting across from him is a miracle in itself. I have come around to his trademark saying. Everything, in fact, will, does, and did work out. That in no way means that my life is what I wanted it to be. It means that I understand, and that it worked out a helluva lot better than it could have.

I realize that I have described a very one-sided conversation. It’s because I have so much to tell him. I want to honor him. I will tell him how much he was right about. I have come to value his simple yet poignant take on the complexities of life. I remember the quiet disappointment in his eyes as he dispensed valuable wisdom to deaf ears. It would mean everything to me to set the record straight. I want to see the satisfied, redeemed, look on his face. A humble man, who, like his dedicated son, only wants to know that he made a difference by sharing the wisdom accrued over a too-short, hard-scrabble life.

Finally, the check would come. He would try to pay, as expected. But I would insist. It would be one more payment towards the inequity of all that he gave me, which would be frittered away. He would insist on paying the tip. At that moment, I would remind him that he has also given enough tips in his time on earth. All of this is a feeble effort. I want to show him that his generosity of spirit and wisdom are not lost on me after all. He never knew just how much his sage advice has guided me through life. It has helped me face the most difficult challenges posthumously.

Finally, we will walk out to the parking lot and walk towards the setting sun. I extend my right arm and place it on his shoulder as we walk. I say, tears welling up despite my strict no-cry policy, “I love you Dad. Thank you for everything you didn’t know you gave me.”

Suddenly, my arm was resting in the air. The persistent force of gravity pulled my arm to my side again. It is a calm evening, still and warm. I realize that he is gone, back to where he came. Disappointed at the sudden conclusion of our visit, I walk to my car. A brisk breeze breaks the stillness, blowing my trademark scally cap off my head. I laugh, pick it up and smile broadly. He never liked scally caps. He was a ball cap guy.

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.

Shadow Work

My mind knows all my weak spots, replays failures like favorite songs, questions my worth at midnight, turns memories into weapons. I fight battles no one sees, lose sleep to thoughts that never rest. The hardest war isn’t outside, it’s surviving a brain that refuses to be kind to its own heart.
Ticus Writes

I’m in a somewhat good place overall. I have been working hard on myself. I have been summoning all of my questionable inner resolve to make significant improvements in my life. I have made considerable progress in self-awareness. I am unabashedly accountable about myself and my actions.
I suspect that many men my age simply accept who they are, peccadillo’s and all. It is tempting to think, “the hell with everyone, let them handle me as I am in all my weirdness.’ Me, I’m not willing to go down that road. As a Mason, I believe in the Fraternity’s emphasis on continuous improvement until we advance to another plane of existence. Rough stone to polished. That belief supports my desire to get myself right, even if it culminates with my last day on this planet.

For all of the effort put in, it all goes out the window on days like yesterday. I really spiraled out. The worst part of it is that I saw it coming. Yet, I still self-sabotaged myself. In a very embarrassing and expensive manner.

Last week my good friend and Masonic Brother asked me to do some snow plowing for him. He is away on a short Florida vacation. He is a tremendously hard worker and needs some R & R. He asked me to come along as he managed his only account. It’s a dental practice. He wanted me to get a feel for it. I’ve plowed before, the job seemed easy. I told him I would do it.
That night I had a panic attack. My mind bombarded me with all of the reasons why I can’t do it. How I would damage the truck or some property. The idea of plowing it with cars there suddenly terrified me. It was irrational, it was annoying, and it was typical of what my mind does when I smoke weed. The next day, no longer stoned, I was still a little anxious but more confident.
Good thing, because it snowed the night before.
My anxiety flared. Despite that, I got myself out of the house and did the job. I went to his house, drove the truck to the job, and did a fine job on the lot. I chunked up a bit of grass, even left a few tire prints, but nothing terrible or costly. I felt better about myself and my abilities, but I was still anxious. I knew in my heart that I was about to self-sabotage myself.
As I pulled into his long driveway I realized that I would have to pull the truck in. I had found it backed in. So I searched (panicking the whole time), for a spot to turn around and back in. Against my better judgment, I pulled into a spot. I was immediately stuck. As I tried to get myself out, the truck slid sideways into a previously unnoticed embankment.
I knew that I was screwed. And I knew that it could have been avoided by listening to my better instincts. But they were nowhere to be found. I had done it, the self-fulfilling prophecy of being so afraid of Fucking Up that I do exactly that.
It’s resolved now, but it cost my buddy, who coordinated the removal while driving to Florida, quite a bit. I was so upset about that. I went home and sat in utter despair, beating the ever-loving shit out of myself. All I could come up with was.
“Why do I continue to do things like this?”
“Why do I have such anxiety about something I am able to do?”
“Why did I make that reckless move that caused all of this?”

It was bad. Despite my friend’s reassurance that it wasn’t a big deal, I was in a bad place. For a brief and terrifying moment, I revisited the idea of eating a bullet. I just wanted to end this shit already. Even if 100 people were in my apartment, they couldn’t convince me otherwise. I felt like the biggest fuck-up ever born.
It was at that moment that I decided that I needed to step up my quest for self-improvement.

I discovered an article about Shadow Work. Shadow work involves acknowledging and exploring the hidden parts of ourselves. It helps heal the parts that we reject and repress into our unconscious minds. It involves confronting and integrating these repressed emotions, desires, and traits to foster personal growth and self-awareness. It is rooted in Jungian psychology. In this context, the shadow self represents the darker aspects of our personality that we often avoid. The goal is to help individuals reconnect with and embrace all parts of their identity. As it turns out, there are apps for it.

I spent most of last night reading up on Shadow Work. As a Psychology major in college, I enjoyed the Personality theory of Jung. Jung expanded and broadened the narrow constraints of Freudian personality theory and Shadow work is a worthy extension of his theories.
I am going to give the app a try. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing so. I have to do it.
Because there is no way that I am going to continue to go through the agonizing, self-flagellating, monstrous tearing down of myself that I engaged in yesterday. I simply can’t do it anymore. I know that I am better than this and I owe it to myself to find the way to fix this.

A Dog’s purpose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.