Category: spirituality

The gentle sobbing

The phone buzzed through my Blue Tooth hearing Aids and I looked at my mounted phone. Pickup scheduled for 12:50. I checked the clock on my dash. I realized that I had 20 minutes to finish a 10 minute ride to the pickup.
This is the opportunity to stop at CVS. I needed some gift cards and wrapping paper. I looked at the location name, Innovative Psychiatry. I quickly decided that I would rather be early on this one.

I pulled into the parking lot and a young woman was turned away from me looking for a at her phone. As a ride share driver, I know this scenario well. When arriving at a pickup, the person staring at the phone is your rider. I stopped the car near her and she recognized me as her driver and got in the car. I swiped the app and it revealed the destination as a local Emergency Room. I asked the young lady if she was all set. She was. I pulled out of the parking lot.

I drive in silence. My passengers don’t seem to mind. A quiet cabin does not bother me. I realized today that sniffling and gentle sobbing were a poor alternative to music. Also, it was breaking my heart.

I have seen it so many times. A person will be sent to the ER after a particularly trying appointment. My passenger was clearly in such a situation. It took everything of my being to not say something to her. I do believe that she may have welcomed a kind word or small talk. Still, odds were that whatever was consuming her did not need a chatty Uber Driver. I focused on getting her to the Hospital. It was a silent ride, only to be interrupted by gentle sobbing.

We arrived at the ER quickly. I unlocked the door for her and I was surprised when she spoke.
“Thank you for the ride. Have a good day, sir.” So hurt but still managed to find manners and civility. I chose to reply.
“I really wish you strength to get through whatever it is you are dealing with.” Her smile was genuine but so very sad. I watched her walk away and I felt helpless.

It’s not my problem to fix. All I can offer is kindness and the young lady needs so much more than that. This saddens me every day, regardless of the season. But during the Holidays it hits harder. So many manage to get through their lives, one day at a time. But the Holiday season, so chock full of fake bullshit and corporate created fake joy, hits hard for some. Grieving a lost family member and facing your first holiday without them is challenging. Being alone in life while everyone raves about family, friends, and parties is difficult. Struggling with addiction as the world binge drinks around you adds to the holiday hazards. I don’t even know, not could I begin to surmise, what is hurting my passenger today.
But I feel just awful for her, as well as those I didn’t personally interact with today.

I am not really sure what “the point” of this post is. I felt compelled to write about one of the dozens of people I interacted with today. I do not know what the source of her sadness is, nor do I think she needs me to feel bad for her. But I do. I am full of love for people. All people. I care and I can’t “dial it down” or pretend it’s not who I am. I suppose I’m inevitably headed in a predictable direction

That is to say, be nice to everyone. We truly don’t know what anyone is dealing with at any given moment. I attempted a kindness today, even though I only did so by shutting my mouth for a change. But I know that everything I say, and don’t say, matters to someone. Let’s at least not be the reason that some poor soul is sobbing in the back seat of my car.

Legacy?

I was recently asked how do I want to be remembered? What an incredibly timely and often thought-about topic.

See, I am all about Legacy. I live my life every day in such a way that should I not wake up the next day, I hope that I will be remembered fondly. I leave each person in my life in such a way that should it be the last time we see each other, that memory would be good and not a regret.

Having said that, I am not living to die. If you knew my medical history, and how truly close I have come (several times) to dying from a chronic illness and related episodes, then it would make more sense. But I, more than most people, really don’t have a lot of time left and I can justify such a mentality. I want to build a legacy, and perhaps most importantly, I want to do it by changing the world, my world, one charitable of kind transaction at a time.

Let’s get this out of the way right away. I don’t want to be remembered in a lofty way. I don’t care for people to be in awe of honors, accolades, and accumulated wealth. I have earned very few honors, I hate accolades, and I am poor and expect to be until that day comes. 

Here’s what I want. I hope that when I die, my son will honor my request to give me a casual service and an open bar. At that bar, I most desire that a glass would be raised to my character. I hope that my friends and acquaintances will remember me as a good guy, a charitable soul and that I made a difference to somebody. Then I want people to share stories of the weirdest/funniest/most awkward/stupid/embarrassing thing that I did or said in front of them.

See, I haven’t had much luck laughing at myself in my life. But I have no problem with others doing it for me. As long as their memories of me make them smile.

something has got to give

Right now I should be at an event at the Shriners. I had every intention of going but I didn’t.
Last night I had every intention of going to another event. In fact, I was dressed and ready to go. Then I couldn’t find my keys. I had a complete meltdown as I frantically searched high and low for them. I exaggerate not one bit when I tell you that I tore my loft and most of the kitchen, the place I had last seen them (and where they were eventually recovered) apart in a complete panic.
My roommate’s girl found them for me, but by then it was too late for me to go to my thing.
I realized today that I am actually glad that I didn’t go, I would even go so far as to venture a guess that I may have mentally sabotaged myself. I didn’t want to go. In fact, I don’t want to do fucking anything lately.

I thought I was just being lazy. I have those moments. To listen to my doctors, friends and family tell it, I am busy enough most of the time that I should allow myself those days, as they remind me that I am after all disabled and can cut myself some slack. But I haven’t left my room, except for the food shopping I did yesterday that led to my lost keys. Other than that I have been isolating.

Isolation is not entirely new to me. I do it once in a while. I have been doing it more lately, I must admit. But it’s getting more intense; one new development this week has been my ignoring almost all phone calls, family excluded. In addition to not wanting to do anything, I don’t want to talk to anyone either. And some of those people are starting to notice and are concerned about me. But I won’t discuss it with them because I don’t want them to worry about me. I want to talk to someone about it but that, for sure, would make people worry about me.

I don’t like this. If for no other reason, it doesn’t make sense. I have a good life. I am in good health. I have been to fucking HELL and BACK and I came out on top. I thumbed my nose at my mortality and I am doing everything that I once thought was lost to me. I even have a female companion. That is an area of my life that caused me great anxiety, worry and heartbreak.

I also have to ask, why did I have the overwhelming urge to end my life last week? Out of nowhere, while with family of all things, I suddenly didn’t care if I lived or died. I didn’t make any plans, or pick a means or a place, and I didn’t write a note, but I couldn’t have given less of a fuck if an asteroid hit the house I was in at that moment.

And then, just like that it went away. I am not in a good mood, but I scoff at the thoughts that racked my head last week. That depressive episode has morphed, deescalated perhaps, into a shameful state of apathy. I am a lot of things but apathetic is not one of them. Yet, here I sit, marveling at the effort it required just to write this blog.

Something has got to give. And soon.

Quality time

I’ve always enjoyed “Down-time”. Somehow, I went from never having any time to myself; I worked a lot through school and carried a maximum course load, I pulled at least 2 all-nighters per week in college and worked full time, and after college, I worked 2 jobs. Once I became a family man, my life only got busier. I always craved a day, or even a few hours to myself life never really allowed it. In the off chance that I did have some free time, time without a wifey-issued “Honey Do” list or a parental commitment, I enjoyed finding a movie or a documentary that interested me and I would enjoy it with a whiskey and maybe a hit or two of some stinky weed. That was all my life allowed.

When illness took me out of the “busy” phase of my life I found myself with the opposite problem, too much time on my hands. It was dreadful for me, the transition of paces. In addition, much of the downtime was, and I’m not sure if I’m phrasing this properly, but much of it was unusable. For starters, I was on dialysis. Dialysis is incredibly time-consuming and none of it is valuable. It consists of waiting, forcing yourself to be still for over 4 hours with a painful needle in your arm, and treatments often resulted in my feeling nauseous or outright sick. When I was home, between sessions, I slept a lot and generally felt ill.

Unusable.

Once I got used to dialysis and managed to find some quality of life, I recognized that I needed to get some joy in my life. It is fair to say, as I look back, that I had limited expectations of my longevity. So I created a bucket list. Instead of accomplishments and destinations, I made a list of things that would make me happy. Having concluded long before that real happiness has eluded me in the past, I was determined that if I can’t die accomplished, then I would at least die at peace.

The first item on my list was therapy. Not in the form of a psychiatrist or Psychologist, but in wind. Wind therapy is expensive but remarkably simple. All you need is a motorcycle. So despite feeling sick all of the time, despite lacking funds and despite the naysayers who warned of the dangers I bought a bike.

I absolulely love riding my motorcycle. While I enjoy the comraderie it provides, motorcycling is very social and many treat it as a Brotherhood, I also enjoy accumulating bugs in my teeth while riding alone. The fresh air and smells of the countryside does wonders for my mood, and hanging corners provides just enough adrenaline to remind me that I am ALIVE.

I really can’t close on a better note. There is a difference between prolonging the inevitability of death and actually feeling alive.

Getting outside, preferably with my Iron Steed, is the simple pleasure in life that keeps me going.

Old Movies

One of the many things I enjoy about my new Lady friend, and there are many, is her knowledge and passion for older movies. As a movie lover, it is a genre I’ve always wanted to explore but for some reason, I viewed it as a challenge, a project that needed to be approached systematically. I find that odd, as I do many things I do because I don’t approach any other entertainment genre in the same way. Nevertheless, I largely avoided the genre, as if I was waiting for someone to come along and show it to me. Someone to give me the “must-sees”, the highlight reel, the time-saver. Well, I met her and we have begun my journey. I have to say that I have really enjoyed it and am looking for more. Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Gilda and The Quiet Man are in the books. Next on the list remains a mystery, but I have given my list of actors I want to see; Spencer Tracy, Jimmy Stewart, Jimmy Cagney for starters. Definitely more Rita Hayworth and Ingrid Bergman, and looking forward to Liz Taylor, Marlene Dietrich and as Elton said, dearest Marilyn. I am not only looking forward to seeing these movies, I can’t wait to watch them with her.

I don’t know why I waited so long to embark on this journey. Not only am I fan of all cinema, but I am a lover of all things past. It is not a reach to state that I was born in the wrong decade. I have fantasized as well as written about growing up in a different time. I love the notion of the roaring 20’s, dressed to the nines and dancing with rebellious and fine women. I fancy being a young man in the 40’s, when post-war optimism and a sense of triumph ruled the air and men wore suits to Baseball games. I can imagine myself cruising the strip in 50’s America in a Rat Rod, listening to Doo Wop (one of my favorite genres) on the radio, hair slicked and a pack of Lucky’s rolled into my sleeve like John Milner in American Graffiti. I wonder aloud if I would have been a protestor or a staunch member of the status quo in the tumultuous 60’s as cultural change and paradigm shifts dominated the landscape. That’s what movies do for me, they make me think of the “what if’s” in life. It takes understanding who you are and what you stand for to an entirely new level; you ask yourself the hard questions of yourself; Am I a product of the times? Would I have been a different or better/worse person than I am in this universe? Which raises so many other questions.
If I had lived in a time of war, would I have been a hero or a cautionary tale?
If faced with the notion of great sacrifice, would I have done it with dignity and decorum?
Would I have been a face in a crowd or a person that stands out?
Would I have followed the norms of the time or would I be a voice of change?

Of course, all of this is pure fantasy. With my health conditions and the technology of the times in question being what they are/were, I wouldn’t have lived very long. But if we were to suspend reality for a brief moment in time, I have so many fantasies about growing up in different decades. It would be good to ask myself why I suppose. Do I believe that the past were better times or just different times? I ask because looking back at the examples I have given above, I mentioned the good aspects of those eras but they all had a tremendous downside. The 20’s, despite the “roaring”, would end in the Depression, an era that was nothing less than brutal for all Americans. The 40’s would entail a World War in which I may have died. The 50’s were not entirely peaceful as well, we were at war again. The 60’s were dominated by incredibly divisive politics, cultural upheaval, racial violence, and polarization and destruction of the American family, not to mention that I may have gone to Vietnam.

Yet, when we watch old movies the times become glamorous. American History is written by the victor and Hollywood was the storyteller. They took liberties and painted a wonderful picture of a country that is not always that wonderful. And that’s ok, because we don’t go to movies to see how bad things are, that can be seen all around us. Movies are an escape from reality, a dalliance with fantasy, a reminder of bygone eras. In old movies I get to observe so many things that are non-existent today.
Masculine men who projected strength and virility, men who dressed well for all occasions, men that were chivalrous and treated women as ladies. To that point, I love seeing the portrayal of women who were proud to be feminine, women that enjoyed the differences between the genders and embraced the power that comes with it.
On that note, it is also fascinating to see how bad behavior, men striking women or making unwanted advances, or acting badly in general, has gone the way of the Dodo.
Then we have the observations of technological advances; isn’t it interesting to see the old cars, hand-cranked telephones, telegraph machines and typewriters? Who doesn’t come out of It’s a Wonderful Life without marveling at what Banks used to look like?

I am really enjoying this process and look forward to where it takes me. Of course, it is an added advantage that I have someone great to snuggle on the couch and watch with. After all, what are the odds that “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine”

Service

“When a person can’t find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.”  Viktor E. Frankl

As a big proponent of both finding your purpose and acting upon it, I have always loved this quote. While some may realize their calling early on in life, others may take until the twilight of their life. Additionally, not everyone will realize or actualize theirs. I’m a believer in man as an accomplished creature. Man is not created to merely exist, but to accomplish, to create, to build, to leave his mark on the world. We are supposed to leave a legacy, even if it is to just leave the world a better place than you found it. That will likely be the extent of my legacy and that’s ok. I also believe that if you change just one life for the better you have lived a fulfilled life.

With regards to the Frankl quote, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’ve distracted myself with the pursuit of pleasure. But I have definitely distracted myself. I haven’t been prioritizing the good things that I want to do. Instead, I have spent too much energy and time on pursuing hobbies and my great Achilles heel. Women.

In the excitement of returning to my original stomping grounds, I was energized by the changes awaiting me. To see my family more, to get more active in my Masonic endeavors, catch up with friends, work part time, and maybe meet a nice woman. I have accomplished all of the above, with the exception of the woman. I spent so much time and kissed a lot of frogs and all I have to show for it is a smaller bank account and a bruised sense of self-esteem. Last weekend, I endured my final indignity at the hands of a woman who badly misrepresented herself in both looks and personality who then rejected me because I wasn’t her type. Despite the fact that we had been talking on the phone for 3 weeks, in which I was repeatedly told that I was her type. I took it the way I took every previous indignity for the last 5 months, I felt as if there was something wrong with me. I went home that night and deleted all of my online dating profiles. At first, I scolded myself for being impulsive. One week later I think it was the right move. By freeing myself from the perhaps exaggerated desire to meet someone my head is clear. I need to assess why I want to be with someone as badly as I do, and the only way to do that is to remove myself from the situation. For whatever reason, I don’t think I’m ready to date. I’m still a bit broken. With that knowledge in hand, I have decided that I want to work on myself. There is no way that I can be happy with somebody until I’m happy with myself. And the only time I’m really happy is when I in some sort of service.

I have a call to service. It’s not a brag, it’s just how I am. I enjoy helping other people. It provides me a fulfillment that little else does. Relationships are a lot of work for me, I give all of myself and I rarely get back what I expend. When I work with others in my various charitable endeavors, I give the same but I receive the greatest sense of accomplishment I can describe. I get back more than I expend. I think I’ll do more of it.

It feels good to rid myself of the distractions and focus on what makes me happy. After all, when it is all over I won’t be, nor do I want to, remembered for whoever I was in a relationship with. I will, however, be remembered (or not) for what I may have contributed to the world.

My favorite furball

One of my earliest memories was of the day we went to adopt who would become my best friend in the world. Not to put too fine a point on it, but there were times when he was my only friend. He was very hairy, didn’t say much, and smelled awful when he was wet. But he was a great listener. I suppose that’s par for the course for a Brittany Springer Spaniel.

I don’t remember everything about the day but the important details come to mind. I think I was 4 years old. I remember it was a very long drive. I also remember a long dirt driveway and the dust our big Ford truck kicked up. I remember there were many dogs running off-leash inside a fenced-in area, which is my true idea of what heaven must look like. I remember my Mother calling it the “Daisy Hill Puppy Farm”, an homage to The Peanuts, and the origin story of my favorite cartoon character Snoopy. Incidentally, Snoopy was introduced to the world 3 months before I was born.

I was playing with the dogs. Even to this day, if I’m in a room withI’m not even sure I knew why we were there, it was a regular occurrence to get in the car and just go somewhere. My Dad knew so many people, I stopped asking questions and got in the car when he said “Let’s go for a ride”. So up until the moment when they came over to me with a beautiful brown and white Spaniel with kind eyes, I wasn’t aware that we were leaving with a dog. It was all a big surprise.

We gave him the name Friskie. I think there was a dog food of that name. It was a fine name for him. He immediately became my friend, my ear and shoulder, and my companion. Wherever I went on foot, he would be right next to me. When I wasn’t home, he would be perched in his favorite spot, on top of the concrete stairs at the front door. Most days, when I came home from school, I would find him there, tail thumping excitedly on the concrete, his full attention on me. It makes me sad to think of the times, and they were often, that I would walk by him without acknowledging him as I dealt with whatever childhood and then teen angst that was bothering me. He always forgave me and got some good head scratches in return. If only I had known back then that while my life had many aspects to it, Friskie only had one. My family.

Not long after we adopted him, I learned why (as well as a 5-year-old can know about purebreds) a valuable Hunting Dog with a documented pedigree (papers) was at a shelter and not by the side of a hunter. As a pup, for some reason, he became afraid of loud noises. He was gun-shy. This rendered him useless as a Bird Dog (Brittany Springer Spaniels are class A bird dogs) and he was placed for adoption.  I do not know if my parents knew this when they adopted him, I would like to believe the shelter told them, but even if they did there could have been no way to be prepared for the first Thunderstorm or Fireworks. It was heartbreaking, no other word can come close, to see the terrified look in his eyes. The friendly sparkle in his eyes was replaced by abject terror and he was inconsolable. Many a 4th of July and weather event was spent holding him down with blankets and consoling him. One of the biggest arguments my dad ever had with a neighbor was over his use of a miniature Cannon on the 4th. My father asked him nicely to stop and the neighbor said “The hell with you, it’s just a dog” and thus ensued a feud that would span years.

Except for his crippling fear of loud noises, he was as good a family pet as anyone could ever hope for. He was loyal, playful, loving, and a part of the family in every possible way. He was also smart. Very smart. He picked up on verbal cues, knew an impressive amount of commands, as well as intuitive when it was required of him to be a support system. If you were down, he was lying next to you. If you pushed him away, he would sit before you and put his head on your lap. As a messed-up kid, and then teenager, our routine was that he would lie on his side and I would lay my head on him. I spent many hours with my Friskie pillow and I will always love him for that.

That, and one other small incident.

I lived on a busy street that led to the Middle and High School. Cars and School buses raced up and down it all day. Mostly on the way down. There was no fence on the edge of my yard. Friskie never went far and knew what cars were. As for me, I also knew what a fast-moving Chevy would do to me. 

And then one day I didn’t. 

The neighbor kid across the street called for me to come over. Friskie was across the street, sitting and watching me. The neighbor kid’s dog was trying to get Friskie to play with him but his eyes were on me. For some reason, I stepped off the curb to walk across the street. Unaware of the School Bus coming down the hill and bearing down on me. As I stepped off the curb Friskie bolted towards me. He barely escaped being hit by a car but he never flinched. Three-quarters of the way across the road he launched himself mid-air and tackled me, knocking me back into my yard. The bus missed us by no more than 2 feet. I was too shaken up to move, but several cars stopped to make sure I was ok. And every one of them patted my amazing best friend on his head and told him what an amazing boy he was. 

He was just that. He was an amazing boy. I was fortunate enough to have him with us until I was a Junior in High School. Even as he slowed down, a stroke had taken a lot from his mobility, he had that twinkle in his eye and he remained a wonderful pillow when I was sad. 

I will never forget the Summer day when I drove to the family camp in NH to meet up with the family. When I pulled into the campsite, Mom and Dad were sitting on the edge of the deck waiting for me. I got out of my car, greeted them, and immediately asked where the good boy who normally sat next to them waiting for me was. Their faces said it all. I sat down in silence and cried, one of the few times that I have done that. I was happy that he wasn’t suffering, he had had another stroke, I was just sad for me. I didn’t get to say goodbye to the best friend I ever had. 40 years later, I still cannot think about that day without a tear forming. 

He is buried in a plot of land owned by the Animal Hospital that put him down. I drive by it once in a while. Sometimes my destination demands it. Other times I drive by it on purpose. Every time, the memories of my Good Boy come to me. I suppose that as long as I live, I will continue to do so.

I’m ready

At one point in life, there is that moment in which one must reconcile what they are versus what they think they are. I have had more than one such moment, but yesterday I arrived at one of my more painful but necessary epiphanies; I have limitations that I must own up to and embrace.

After a series of brief bouts of employment that all ended with my leaving due to illness or fatigue, I recognized that I have been trying to do things that my physical condition simply will not allow. To be precise, I am on Disability for a reason and it’s time that I own that.

Disability, as does Social Security, allows recipients to work on a limited income basis. If earnings do not exceed a designated level, you can keep your benefits without penalty. It is not a lot of money but it does make a difference. To me, the ability to work part-time provided more than additional income, it allowed me to feel useful and accomplished, even if to a lesser degree. Before I became sick the second time, I had a meaningful job with great responsibility, the ability to help people, and very lucrative compensation. I went from that to being unemployed, living in a small town with my mother, and nobody needing me for much of anything. I hated it, I lacked relevance. Work has always defined me to a degree, and it left me with a void.
Once I was able to return to part-time work post-transplant, I was excited. Unfortunately, what followed was my enthusiastically accepting positions that, had I thought deeply before accepting, ended in disappointment as I was forced time and time again to quit due to health reasons. Primarily, my compromised immune system caused me to get sick frequently and profoundly. But instead of realizing the problem at hand, that I need to have realistic expectations about what I am capable of doing in my current condition, I instead beat myself up about being a quitter.
It took too long, but I finally realized I needed to accept that I have limitations. And that’s ok.

If I can find work that is appropriate for me, unfortunately I think that means not being around a lot of people, then I will pursue that. Otherwise, I am going to graciously accept the help from Disability and focus on what makes me happy. And to not feel bad about it.

This is my chance to do what makes me happy. I will find my relevance in doing some good, I want to get more involved in Masonry, The Shriners and my motorcycle club. Charity and volunteerism is good for my soul and I can never do too much of it. I want to enjoy the Granddaughter that will arrive in April. I want to exercise more and be outside as often as possible. I have never given myself permission to do one thing in my life and it is time; I need to let go and just see where things take me and stop trying to control everything.

I need to do this. I need to take the limited time I have left and find my true calling in life. I’m fortunate and blessed enough to know that I may have several callings, now it is time to immerse myself in one or all of them.

Of all of the elements of this epiphany, one stands taller than the rest. It is definitely time that I gave myself a break. For once. It will be a record change of pace.

Calling the Universe, I’m ready so please show me the way. I’m ready.

Negative? Not me

Every once in a while someone will say something about you that you will ponder, and once adequately pondered, say out loud “That is so NOT me!”

I’ve been collaborating on a podcast with my good friend and roommate Steve. It is in the early stages of development; in order to have a successful podcast you need to be known, and the only way to get known is to create buzz for yourself by advertising, promoting, and telling anyone and everyone that you are doing a podcast and would you listen? This works to a degree, but in order to get the more sophisticated podcast listener you must have a body of work. For the sake of this conversation, let’s say that 50 episodes is a good body of work. Still, there are many success stories out there that made thousands before they made it.

The idea for our podcast came from the many spirited conversations that Steve and I used to have in which we either agreed or were on opposite sides of an issue or an idea. We embraced our differences and it wasn’t long before the idea of a podcast was offered up. So we started it. And, due modesty aside, I think we have an interesting, stimulating, accessible and intelligent podcast. Upon reaching 50 episodes, we agreed that we were onto something good and were ready to promote it. We had a good format, good ideas, and limited but positive feedback. We interviewed Steve’s childhood friend and published author Mark Michalisin with the agreement that we would promote that particular episode as our coming out and we would all share it to all of our social media. As hoped, it generated interest, and while it wasn’t enough to get us established, our friends and family gave us solid reviews and favorable input. Not everyone loved it, but respected it. We are frequently very candid on controversial subjects, we lean politically to the right but are very fair and balanced and always open to an opposing voice and we had a few. Of the 2 of us, I got the only negative review. One of Steve’s friends said that I was very negative and didn’t seem like a nice person. In particular, I indulged in some name-calling. I thought they were clever mockeries of truly despicable people, but her assessment of the name-calling was fair and I rolled with it.

To speak in a public forum one must be prepared to receive criticism, differing viewpoints, and in some cases harsh rebukes. We will never please everybody, nor do we want to. So I didn’t mind the feedback. I knew that she didn’t watch the entire episode, only a clip that we generated. Had she watched the whole thing, she probably would not have felt that way. But again, I took it in stride.

The experience was good for me. I believe deep down that we all have a perception of ourselves with respect to how we present to other people. I am hyper-aware that many, (most?) people think they project differently than they actually do. Me? I know exactly how I present. And to my critic’s point, I can come off very contrary to my true self. I get carried away and I am passionate. My emotions are strong and I feel things intensely. I can be harsh. I can be relentless. I often take a stand. I can even be a bit self-righteous if I truly believe in something. My fatal flaw is that I will go to great lengths to make a joke. But I am not negative. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am known among a very large circle of family, friends, and acquaintances to be an eternal optimist.

I was sick for a very long time. I struggled with Kidney disease for most of my adult life. Although the disease didn’t significantly affect my ability to function normally until my late 40’s, at which time I became unable to hide, and this is important to understand, the severity of my illness from friends and family anymore. I didn’t want to bother anyone or make them worry. I just rolled along. I have never understood why people found that so inspirational but they did. I am of the belief that we really only have 2 choices, as Andy Dufresne famously stated in Shawshank, “you either get busy living or get busy dying”. Before I saw that movie, I felt that way. What am I supposed to do? Curl up in a ball and die? By the sheer virtue of not dying I survived. Not to inspire anyone, not to look like a hero, but to do what we all do…get through each day and the new challenges they bring. I suppose I did it in such a way that people deemed me an optimist, but what else is there to do? We all have a lot in life and we need to make the most of it.

Beyond my optimism, I would point to my sense of Gratitude that serves me the best. I recognize that I have been given blessings, more than I deserve that I need to be grateful for. I can honestly say that a Higher Power may be the reason I am here to tell this story because I have been too close to death too many times to be a coincidence. It causes me to look at life in a different light than most people, an attitude of gratitude creates a domino effect of kindness, generosity and genuine appreciation. THAT is inspirational because people need that nowadays.

And it is in no way NEGATIVE.

Anniversary

I received a notification today that this is my 11th anniversary of WP. Wow. That’s the longest I’ve ever stuck with anything.

To be fair, it wasn’t until 2017 that I became a frequent participant. I had always struggled to find a theme, something that I could build on. Well, my entire life collapsing in a span of 6 months in 2017 certainly filled that need. I told my story.

I told a story of failed health, of being at the bottom, lying on my back looking the only place I was able. Up. Because, short of a six foot burial plot, I had sunk that far. When I began blogging, I had little to occupy my time so telling my story became my new pastime. The blog served a purpose. I achieved badly needed catharsis. I dedicated myself to transparency and brutal honesty and then forced myself to read it and face whatever revealed itself to me.

Then I got well. My story was told. I took a break from blogging. I figured that I had nothing to tell. What I failed to recognize was that I was starting a new life. I’m not the sick guy anymore. I have more to my identity, and more importantly, I have an obligation to deal with the myriad character flaws that my journey of discovery and reconciliation revealed to me. My story is not until I write the last chapter.

I think I’ll continue the streak and get a few more years out of this. Basically the same approach I take with my life.