Tag: health

Dad talk

I was recently asked what my Dad was like when I was younger.

I love talking about my Dad. In fact, I visited him yesterday. I talked a lot, in fact, I did all the talking. Primarily, because he can’t hear me through 6 feet of dirt and a Veteran’s Grave marker. He may have died 10 1/2 years ago but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. 

One of the things I remember most about my Dad was a conversation we had towards the end of his life. As Parkinson’s ravaged his body, transforming him into a shadow of the mighty Oak he once was, he became briefly interested in his legacy. He didn’t have much regard for how people felt about him and he wasn’t a man with many regrets, but he was concerned about how he was as a Dad. I was shocked when he brought it up.

“Do you resent me for being out of the house so much”?

I had never really thought of it. He worked all the time. Side jobs, overtime, helping my Grandfather. “Out” wasn’t out with the boys or time spent on himself. It was work. Other than that he was home being a great Dad. And, it wasn’t as if I had a reference point to compare his time home to others. All of my friends’ Dads worked, most of them a lot. I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be, the parents provide so the kids can thrive.

“Not at all, Dad”, I replied. “I didn’t resent you ever, about anything. I admired your work ethic and I always looked to you with pride for your accomplishments.”

A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He caught my reference. I was reminding him of something he thought about every day of his life, his upbringing. My Dad came from very humble beginnings. He lived in the poorest section of town, one of 4 kids. Of he and his multiple cousins, Dad was the one with the work ethic, the good eyesight and the desire to do better. I mention eyesight because it has been theorized that my Dad was the product of an affair. His entire family wore thick glasses, Dad could spot a feather out of place on a Hawk’s tail at 2000 feet. Dad was also the only one to make something of himself. He joined the military, learned a skill, joined a Union, bought a house. Instead of being happy for him, he was chided by his family as the “Rich one”. To them, Middle Class was rich. Me, I was the “Rich Kid”. I hated them for that. I developed a “fuck’em” attitude early on.

So, knowing all of this, I never had a problem with his hard work. It was all for us.

But the real matter at hand here is what was my Dad like when he WAS home. The answer is simultaneously simple and complex. He tried too hard, because someone in his life didn’t try hard enough. He had very high expectations for me, but he forced a lot of them on me because he never had the opportunities I had. He wanted to be an amazing father and husband, but he put on metaphorical “hats” (Hubby hat, Dad hat, Neighbor hat, etc) and in the process denied himself some of the more genuine moments of family life because he couldn’t just relax and be himself. Those moments were rare but so very special.

I am not a revisionist historian. I don’t paint the past pretty colors in an attempt to make it more palatable. I didn’t always get along with my Dad. He pushed me very hard at a time when I was too mixed up to handle my own problems. He didn’t recognize those times when I needed him to take off the damn hat and just be there for me. I don’t blame him, I just feel that at times he was more worried about outrunning his childhood than being present in mine.

I am glad to say that, later in life we became close. We closed the gap, evened the playing field as it were. He went on to be a loving and doting Grandfather to my children and I think he made peace with most of his demons.

He died young from a terrible disease. He is missed by a lot of people. Most of all by me.

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.

Half a man

I made a very difficult, but in hindsight good decision recently. I removed myself from the dating scene.

I am only recently back in the game of life. For the last 8 years, I have been alive but I was not living. Illness had taken almost everything from me. I bounced back and set my sights on getting back to a “normal” life. I wanted to be closer to home to see my family and friends, live on my own, be able to work again, get back into Freemasonry and work on my “causes”, and perhaps most of all, meet someone to share my life with. I was so hopeful to recapture “relationship me”.

Very few people know that I am a true romantic. I am a believer in relationships. I have no problem with monogamy. I love the idea of having someone to come home to. Someone to share affectionate and silly moments with. I’ll just say it, I want to love somebody. But as the song goes, I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.

Ten days after deleting my dating profile I feel a weight has been lifted. The whole process of Internet dating only served to throw gasoline-soaked logs onto a bonfire concerning my anxiety and self-esteem. Unanswered chats with someone I was interested in, dates that didn’t go anywhere with people who were nothing like they presented on their profiles, all of it weighed on me and ultimately felt like rejection. I don’t do well with rejection. So for the sake of my mental health, I ripped off the BandAid.

Now that my head is clear I have to address a possibility that I had not considered; I may be broken. I have managed to nearly seamlessly rebuild my life and put behind me the events of the last ten years and have made peace with most of it. But I can’t make peace with the many heartbreaks. Every relationship I have been in has left a mark. One in particular left a cannonball-sized hole in me. And despite how badly I want to be with someone, the hurt and reluctance to repeat it are still there. The only positive about heartbreaks is the “rebuilding” phase that always follows a breakup. I have done so much rebuilding in every aspect of my life and I found it to be challenging but manageable. Relationship me is not having as much success. Which leads me to conclude that I am half a man. The good half is strong, resilient and doing well in life. The other one, well…he needs to give himself some time.

I find great comfort in a beautiful song that I was just turned onto. It’s called Half a Man by Dean Lewis

I was wrong to say I loved her, I was wrong to think I’m right
When I told her it was over, oh my darling I had lied
I’ve been running from my demons, afraid to look behind
I’ve been running from myself, afraid of what I’d find

But how am I supposed to love you when I don’t love who I am?
And how could I give you all of me when I’m only half a man?
‘Cause I’m a sinking ship that’s burning, so let go of my hand
Oh how can I give you all of me when I’m only half a man?

I am not clinging to a lost love like in the song. But I think I’m clinging to an unsustainable notion, that I’m complete enough to be in a relationship. Clearly I’m not and that is just going to have to be OK.

Happy Freaking BDay

I was recently at a Birthday party for an elderly friend of mine. While standing around sipping a drink and watching the festivities, the subject of memorable birthdays came up. It occurred to me that I didn’t have one. Until it hit me that there was one from my childhood that certainly stood out.

I’ve never cared much for Birthdays. So what? It’s the yearly anniversary of the day you were born. It’s not an accomplishment until you reach old age. 50 is a big birthday I suppose, it is a significant milestone to have survived until Middle Age. But even the benchmark of 50 is not middle age, we humans have a benchmark of 100 years for a lifespan but that is actually exceedingly rare. The average life span for a man in this country is 76.4 years over both sexes. Perhaps that is why many call 40 Middle Aged. Either way, I truly don’t see the point once you’re an adult.

I’ve always been this way. I suppose that it is statistically rare for a person riddled with neuroses and anxiety, prone to overthinking and making mountains out of proverbial molehills to be dismissive of something as culturally significant as birthday celebrations. Still, the fact is I’m historically and notoriously dismissive of “look at me” moments and other silly shit. Additionally, my anxiety makes it painful for me to sit in front of a stupid cake covered in stupid candles as people sing to me. It’s embarrassing on every goddamn level. It’s a free meal at Applebee’s at best. My children can confirm, that when my birthday rolls around and the congratulations start rolling around my response is to politely say thank you and then move on. 

Having said that, there is one Birthday that stands out to me. The details are fuzzy as to how I found myself in this situation, but I remember being at a Birthday party for my then-friend John. It was a typical elementary school party; several classmates and family gathered around. Games, a clown, cake, and ice cream. Typical, right? Here’s the catch, John and I shared a Birthday. I suppose my mother could clear it up, on the off-chance that she would even remember, why it was that I was sent to another kid’s B-day party when it was also my own. But that aside, I kept my mouth shut. As I said already, I don’t particularly care for “look at me” moments. At this age, it’s because I just don’t give a shit. Back then, it was pure anxiety talking. 

Somehow, it got out that it was my Birthday as well. I don’t think I told anyone but I may have. The end result was an entire room full of people feeling bad for me and “wishing they knew”, and “would have brought something”. I hated the tension of it, I tried to be dismissive ( as well as a middle-schooler can) and wished for the whole thing to be over. It was one big goddamn pity party and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Finally, unable to deal with the pall that had been cast over the party, I called mom to come pick me up. She didn’t answer so I walked home. I’m sure some people thought that my departure was because I was sad, but it was actually to escape the attention on me. 

It’s significant that I recall this, I find it interesting that I exhibited such dismissive, self-deflecting behavior even then. It is something that has been prevalent in my adult life as well. I do not like attention on me yet I continue to be involved in high-profile events and a member of groups that do good work. In fact, I can venture to say that Awards and very public honors and congratulations are a big part of the organizations I belong to and I still run the other way when the praise comes my way. 

I suppose that I could drill down on that side of my personality but I’m comfortable with it. It’s one of the few things that I like about myself. I don’t seek praise, I share kudos with all involved in a successful outcome, and I always deflect praise to live up to my dedication to live a humble life. Not to mention that despite having a healthy ego and somewhat positive self-image, I genuinely hate being in the spotlight to the extent that I will run from it.

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.

Settling in

I’m all moved into the new digs. I’m not quite prepared to say that I have started a new life but it’s certainly a nice change of pace. I recognize a twinge of uncertainty within but I know myself, that’s normal. I second-guess everything so I’m not going to let my anxiety get the best of me. This could be a good move for me and it will take time to know if it’s the right move. Change is hard, especially for me. It’s also a known fact that there’s give and take, pluses and minuses in everything. At the end of the day, I will either be able to reconcile them or not.

I’m giving up a few things. For starters, I lived with my mother in her lovely home. Quiet, surrounded by woods, clean air to breathe, and access to a lake. The people in town are friendly and I am well known and respected in the community.
I now live in a loft of a large apartment in a busy area. While I have full use of the entire place, it doesn’t feel like mine so it will take time, if ever, to feel comfortable.
I will miss my mother and it troubles me that she is having difficulty understanding, now that I am healthy again, I don’t want to be a guy who lives with his mother. I’ll visit her often, but it’s not enough for her.
While the people in my previous town were friendly, I was very far (2 hours) from my family and friends. Now I am within 30 minutes of everyone in my life. Not to mention that I am an active Mason at heart and it has pained me for the last 5 years that I was forced to miss a great deal of it because of my distance.

I think overall it will be a good move. I really like my roommate and any growing pains will resolve themselves I’m sure. The dating scene is very active here and I am already meeting people. I tentatively have a job detailing cars, which is what I did up North. The only, if any, drawback to that is that I hope I am not forced to give up my very solid book of business in my previous town. Not only do I make a good living from them, my clients are very nice and I consider many of them friends. And oddly, despite detailing not being an essential service, my clients value my services and need me.

I didn’t cover everything but I’m sure I will be exploring this more as I continue to acclimate. For now I just want to get acclimated and let things just happen.

Growing pains

It’s been a busy few weeks as I have been winding down my detail business up North and making my move to my new digs in Southern NH. It has been difficult on both fronts. My customers continue to offer me business despite my stated completion date for the season of 10/31. I’m torn between shutting it down and taking the opportunity to make money. I kike money and I think anyone in my position would do the same. As for how my living situation fits into this, I have yet to spend more than a couple of weekends at my new place because I need to drive back up for jobs during the week. It’s not a big deal other than not being able to settle into my new residence. I’m just anxious to start a new chapter.

I suppose that my work commitments aren’t the only obstacle to my moving. I am becoming bittersweet about moving away from Mom. She has been making comments lately, despite initially being supportive of my move, that suggest that she is unhappy about my leaving. This is problematic, I based my decision heavily on her opinion. I will miss her as well, I have told her this repeatedly. I love her with all my heart and she is my best friend. But I have been living with her for 6 years. Ever since I fell ill in 2017. Now that I am well again, I want to rejoin the ranks of the adult, which includes having your own place. Or in my case, sharing an apartment with a roommate. Anything but living with your mother. I was hoping for a smoother, happier transition.

As for the rest of the transition, I like my new space. It is sparsely but tastefully decorated to my taste. My roommate, who is one of my dearest friends, gives me plenty of space. We hang out quite a bit but also have plenty of our own space. Another very important aspect of the move is that I am so much closer to family and friends. I have already taken advantage of the close proximity to both and I feel really good about it. This morning I went to a function with friends at the lodge and then had lunch with my daughter and I only did an hour of driving, not 4!

Growing pains are necessary and tend to wear off sooner than later.

the get together…conclusion

from previous post:
The days of hanging with the boys were the happiest times of my life. Hands down. Of course, I wanted to experience it again.
Also, I wanted to see where I fit into things, being the one who has probably experienced the most change (only everything in my life).
Lastly, I would be lying if I didn’t make note that I have had yet another glimpse into the abyss and I needed to create another memory.

It was good to walk into the bar area and see Scott and Mark. While the years take a toll on us all, they both look exactly the same. We had a drink at the bar and moved to a table when Neil got there. I don’t know Neil as well as the others but he has been part of the group for a long time and he’s a really good guy. I like him a lot.

The evening immediately took on a familiar note as we naturally eased into conversation. There wasn’t a whole lot of catching up to do, through FB and occasional text exchanges we knew what each other was up to for the most part. It felt like the old days. So, as I did in the old days, despite my sincere desire to not do so, I devolved into behaviors. Inappropriate behavior and over-sharing.
When I look back at the old days, the old me if you will, I deeply regret my behavior at times. I was very immature and insecure. I had no direction or foresight. I lived for the day and put everything else off. As the other guys were making good decisions, embarking on their careers and setting up for their futures I was content to drink, make inappropriate jokes and sexual banter. For some reason, I chose to make those “my thing”. The class clown if you will. It would be many years before I would realize that I wasn’t funny. I was just a moderately likeable knucklehead.
I didn’t want to be like that anymore.
But when it came time to talk about what I’ve been up to I offered up some tidbits about my health, my love life, and work. I shared the good news about my health and minimized my latest bad news. I boasted about the many wild sexual experiences, in unfortunate detail in hindsight, and left out the fact that I had been left heartbroken and sad very recently. I spoke of my side gig, all the while knowing that everyone at that table had more in their checking accounts than I had to my name. There’s the insecurity again.

As anyone with generalized anxiety knows, things often seem worse to us than would appear to others. And I know that, as I overthought the evening, I probably didn’t come off as badly as I thought. In reviewing the antics that I am embarrassed by, I came to the conclusion that I just wanted to fit in. Perhaps part of me wanted to show them that I have changed. But they probably don’t care, they’ve all changed also. But despite all the changes in their lives, I still look up to them all because they did things right and are living the lifestyle that I wish for but don’t deserve. As they are buying second homes and preparing for retirement, I am living with my mother and have no prospects for financial security and all that it brings. I don’t begrudge them anything.
I’m happy for them.

As for the behaviors that I am not proud of, there is one simple takeaway. I need to grow the fuck up.