Tag: journal

Mail

It occurred to me today as I was opening and responding to a series of emails that there was a day when we actually sent letters.

My Grandmother was a prolific letter writer. In addition to Christmas cards to all of her friends and family every year like clockwork, she also loved to sit down and narrate her life to her long address book full of contacts. I fondly remember her, at the small table in her tiny kitchen, with a stack of envelopes in front of her writing up a storm. She would tell all of her friends about the goings on with the family, write about me and my exploits (always the proud Grandma) and then wet the stamp with her little sponge in a tiny pool of water and drop them in the mailbox and raise the red flag. She received and sent letters and cards every single day.

Then she would wait. For days. The anticipation of getting a letter in return was one of her favorite things. While my memories may be incorrect, I think I listened with interest as she excitedly read to me the letters she had received. I may have not liked it, but I loved my grandmother so much I certainly made an effort. It meant everything to her.

Today, the only thing we wait days for is Amazon. And if you have Prime you don’t wait long. Correspondence is now instantaneous. Literally lightning fast. For those of us who knew a world before the internet it should give a nostalgic feeling. While I hated it when I was younger, I now see the value of delayed gratification as I plod through a world built around instant gratification. Instant gratification fades fast and is less pronounced compared to the feeling of sending a girlfriend a letter from Basic Training or from summer camp or whatever and then waiting patiently for a response. Once the response came you read it and reread it, sometimes it smelled like perfume and if I was really lucky there would be a picture with it. I carried the letter with me everywhere I went. It doesn’t feel the same as rereading an email on my phone or tablet.

I wish the world would just slow the hell down.

On Kindness

Kindness. Perhaps the greatest thing a person can offer, and it costs nothing. Yet the rewards can be staggering in scale. An appropriate comparison would be investing a single penny in the stock market and reaping millions.

I didn’t discover kindness. It’s always been around. It is an attribute, even a virtue that is contained within the umbrella of humanity. But as we continue to devolve into a world sadly lacking in humanity, I adopted it not as a simple virtue but instead as a lifestyle choice. My life has never been better since.

Many years ago, I was strolling through a local park, weighed down heavily by the events of my day. I saw an elderly man sitting on a bench tossing bits of stale bread to some ducks. I sat down on the opposite end of the bench and just watched for a little bit. Finally, I said hello to the gentleman. He didn’t say anything, his response was limited to a sideways glance and a nod. I didn’t pursue it; I watched the ducks (I love ducks) as they waddled and jockeyed for position to get more crumbs. I eventually stood up and as I walked past him, I stopped, turned to him and said, “I hope you have a nice day, sir.” and I walked off. He immediately responded, “you as well, young man.” I turned and smiled, and my smile was met with one in return. As I continued my stroll through the park I encountered an elderly woman walking towards me. Instead of making eye contact she had her head down and stared at the sidewalk as she approached. “Hello”, I said. I can only describe her reaction as startled. She greeted me in return as we passed. It occurred to me that nobody says hi to anyone anymore. It is lacking so badly that we actually are surprised and sadly, suspicious of others when they engage strangers.
My attitude has always been “A stranger is just a friend you have yet to make.” I know that I am definitely in the minority. And it makes me sad.

I have made a lot of changes in my life. It is a constant and evolving process. I have embarked on a journey with a very simple yet oddly elusive goal; to be able to look the man in the mirror eye to eye and like what I see. I avoided mirrors for a large chunk of my life. It was when I finally asked myself what do you want to be? that I got my answer. I wanted to be something the world needs more of. Not a captain of industry. Not a celebrity. Not a man of fame and fortune. I simply wanted to be a nice person. A man that, at his funeral, the reflections on the deceased were of deeds, gestures and amusing anecdotes and not of fortunes and successes. If I am remembered as a nice guy, I will have lived a good life.

It is possible to be nice and still be a person of accomplishment. By adopting kindness as a way of life, as an instrument of personal conduct, there really is no limit to what one can accomplish with a clean conscience as an added bonus. Accomplishment is not limited to the accumulation of wealth and power. Accomplishment is the satisfaction that your achievements were obtained without stomping on the necks of those who stood in your way. I was very successful; dare I say respected in the automotive finance industry because I chose to do my job with empathy, compassion and a benchmark of how people wanted to be treated. In an industry renowned for cheating and lying, my little corner of the industry was based on basic respect and kindness.

As I have endured epiphany after epiphany of late as I continue to incorporate kindness as a goal and a means of personal conduct. I worry about people, especially as the effects of COVID-based isolation begin to reveal their true damage. I worry that we are losing our humanity as a result of technology, multiple screens in particular. If we don’t put the “human” back in Humanity we are doomed as a people and no technology can change that. I don’t want to live in a world like that.

No one person can help everyone, but everyone can help one one person. And it all starts with just being nice. Say hi to someone. You might be the person who inspires them to have faith in humanity again. Just watch it snowball from there.

Kindness, put that shit on everything.

The transplant clinic

I had my monthly appointment at the Transplant clinic yesterday. I am now at 5 months tomorrow since my surgery. Just last month I was deemed fit to be seen just once a month. Given my commute time (2 hours each way) it was awful tough when I began my recovery to go there twice a week. I did that for a month. Driving 4 hours in excruciating pain was not fun. The second month I went down to once a week and then twice a month. I was pleased last month when they reduced it to monthly and I made it a point to thank my Doctor. He said, “Don’t thank me, you’re the one who is making it easy on yourself.”
“How’s that?”, I inquired.
“Because”, he said, “you are doing great, top 2% of all post-transplant patients at this stage.”
I told him that at 4 months I should think so. At that point I was back in the gym, detailing cars and working part time at another gig. Apparently, I am the exception according to my doctor who told me that, at 16 weeks most are still at the “bitching and moaning phase”, still in a lot of pain and struggling to follow instructions, and still quite in need of frequent check-ups. As imcomrehensible as that was to me, it gave me some relief to know that I was crushing it.

I looked around the waiting room as I waited to be called. I studied the patient’s in the room, optimistically looking for someone who looks like they’re doing well despite the battle they are fighting, the one I know all too well. It’s a true mixed bag of patients, both pre and post-transplant. On any given clinic day there are as many as 12 patients at a time being seen. It’s impossible to deny my people-watching inclinations and I take a lot of mental notes. What I noticed is that, with rare exceptions, the pre-transplant patients look a heluva lot rougher than I did before the surgery and the post-transplant patients, some having received their gifts many months or years before me, just don’t look very healthy. The lobby is cluttered with wheelchairs and walkers and these people look so very sick. It breaks my heart.

I can attribute my expedient return to thriving existence to a few advantages I suppose. I am a bit on the young end to have had 2 Kidney Transplants. Youth, even at 56 I am considered young, is always perceived as a benefit with regards to illness.
Another advantage is my ability to conceal my illness. Having been diagnosed at 17 I have had a lifetime to learn how to deal with this disease. If you have ever read me before, you will have no trouble understanding that “dealing with this” means that I have mastered how to not “look sick”. As soon as we had children, I became a Jedi master at hiding my symptoms. For better or for worse, it worked for me.
The last, and perhaps most important advantage is that I always prioritized my physical conditioning. Even at my sickest, during dialysis, I managed to exercise and keep my weight within range. By Range I mean the parameters set by my transplant team. If I was 40 pounds overweight when I got “the call” I would have been passed over. When I learned that, I knew that I always had to be ready to go. With both transplants, I entered the operating room at an ideal weight and in decent physical condition. Not only did I not look sick, and I was, but I also looked fit. To illustrate this point, when being prepped by the anesthesiologist, he remarked that he wasn’t expecting a guy that “looked like he could kick my ass” to be on the table. We had a good laugh. His was the last face I saw before I went under. I know I was smiling when the silly juice kicked in.
I’m on the other side now and I’m still smiling.

I wish more than anything that the other patients are able to push themselves to be the very best patient they can be. Some of them are very advanced and it is unlikely that they would be able to embark on the regimen I did. But there are also many who are just morbidly overweight and past the point that they can fix it now. Even if they know that they will likely be passed over if they didn’t. All I can point to is that I was able to do it and I’m not special. I just think ahead, and I naturally think of the worst-case scenario and I then over-think it. In this case all I thought about was being called and not being ready. That made me worry just enough to do something about it.

It gives me no joy to be at the top of the chart in recovery. That was just a plan coming together successfully. I wish that the other patients find the strength to get themselves ready when they get the call and enjoy the same gift of life that I have. I further hope that my fellow post-transplant patients have a plan to get well, to get strong and get back to living. From where I stand, and I have been there, until you commit to doing everything you are required to do with every ounce of strength in your body and mind, the thing called “good health” will continue to elude you.

At that point you are merely existing, not living.

My obligation

Have you ever encountered a person that needs help, but you have helped them many times before and you just can’t do it anymore? That is a question and a situation that I have been living for days and as simple as the answer is (at least on paper) I just can’t pull the trigger. I should walk away knowing that I have done way more than enough. A whole lot more than anyone I know. But I can’t. I took an obligation to never leave a poor or distressed Brother in need. I’m a Mason.

It started years ago. A former Master of my lodge and a good friend (in fact he is the reason I joined myt beloved fraternity) called me one night late and told me his car had been towed. He needed help. He had no money to get it out of impound. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t have the money. He had a job. Or so I thought. He was pulled over for having an expired sticker. The traffic stop would reveal that he was also driving an unregistered vehicle and with no insurance. Upon further questioning it got worse, I would learn that he was homeless, unemployed and owed a shit ton of back child support. His license was being pulled by the state. I brought it to the attention of a few brothers, and we got together to help him best we could. But nobody knew how bad off he really was, and we were now involved.

I’ll keep this brief. He was so deep in a hole that he dug. Not only had he lost his job, but he also wasn’t looking for another. He couldn’t bring himself to even apply for one. He had zero savings and to make it worse his family had disowned him. It was all way beyond our comprehension how that particular nugget could occur. The obvious question was “how had he been supporting himself” but we later learned that he had taken freeloading to the level of an art form. It was apparent that nobody in his life wanted to support him anymore and that any bridges he had ever crossed were now smoking embers.
So, we (and by that I mean me) set our sights on finding some temporary lodging for him.

I found a brother and mutual good friend who had a room to spare. The catch was that he wasn’t in a financial position to feed our brother so I decided that I would give him 300 bucks to cover his food for a month. We agreed and sat down our brother and explained that we were helping him with a place to stay, hoping that with the anxiety of where the next bed was going to being removed he could then focus on getting back on his feet.
It didn’t work that way. He sat on his ass and played with his phone for the first 2 weeks. They began to argue. My friend the host told him that any help he was getting was contingent upon him making an effort to improve his situation. To make it more fun they were both calling me complaining about the other. I washed my hands of it. I told my friend the host to do whatever he needed to do, up to and including kicking his ass out, and I told my down and out friend to smarten up and get his shit together. It ended badly. At the end of the month he was thrown out.

I kept up with him and continued to support him as I could. I paid for him to get a state issued ID so that he could work. I gave him some more money. 2 months later he dropped off of the face of the map and I washed my hands of it. The word was that he was living with a member of our lodge (Masonry is a strong bond) taking care of his sick wife in return for lodging. This would go on for 2 years. Last month his new host passed away unexpectedly and his wife, the one being cared for by my lost brother, passed away as well. When I heard, I reached out to him and asked him what his plan was. He didn’t have one. Despite being steadily housed for 2 years he still had no job, money or prospects. And he was rude as hell to me.
I was floored. I asked him why he would treat me like that and he ignored me. The urge to tell him to fuck a goat was strong but I took the high road. In a most conflicted way. Despite being outraged and feeling totally disrespected I still wanted to help him. So, I spent two days making calls.

As it turns out he had already been calling around to everyone who would answer. The word was out; take this guy in and he will never leave. Alan Harper of Two and a Half Men would be a lesser leech than my friend. Still, I persisted. I lobbied his new lodge (he quit ours for some reason, probably related to why he was rude to me but I don’t know what it was), for help. More than one person asked why I would do so, given the way he had treated me. Apparently, word had gotten out. I persisted until I knew he was warm and safe, his first day on the streets would be the day the Nor’easter hit last weekend. Long story short, he is housed for now.

I’m kicking myself and I’m not because I know that I’m not a sucker, I’m a Mason and we never turn our back on a brother in need. My obligation and personal compass doesn’t allow for personal animosities. I know I did the right thing and probably will continue to do so. I just have to remind myself why I am doing it.

The right thing is always the course of action to take. His actions reflect on him, not on me. I don’t want a thank you. Every good act I’ve ever done was without expectation of something in return. Believe it or not, it’s easier that way.

I am a Mason above all else…

They/Them or She/Her

My daughter is coming up to see me this weekend. Just in time for a blizzard. I guess I’ll have some help shoveling. She’s bringing her new girlfriend with her. I’m looking forward to meeting her/them. Especially with all that my daughter has been going through lately. I delved into her mental health in a previous blog, her recent “identifying” as gay doesn’t bother me. Despite my gruff exterior and Conservative manner I’m a pretty mellow guy about social issues. Love is love and I would never presume to opine on what makes someone happy if they aren’t harming animals or children. This girl (person?) makes her happy and therefore she is important to me. I may go so far as to say that I need this person around because I think she is the glue keeping my daughter together.

But I’m uncharacteristically nervous, no that’s not the word, anxious maybe about meeting her/them. She/they is very nice, I’ve talked to her/them on the phone and I like her/them. I do know that she is very liberal, which is fine by me, I don’t make an assumption about someone or look on them any different as long as people are equally tolerant of my views. My trepidation is about the pronoun thing. So, my valued reader I will be ending the she/they and her/them stuff for now. Not out of insensitivity, it’s my blog and I can do what I want in the interest of brevity. My concern is that I feel that I may have to tiptoe around her for fear of saying the wrong thing, which I am notorious for. I hope that she is not the type to be offended by something that I say. Walking on eggshells is not a good look on me. I usually don’t worry about offending people. My old-school mentality is that people need to toughen up and stop being offended by everything. In fact, I would say that it is one of the biggest problems in our society today. People aren’t tough anymore. Feelings trump reason and truth and being offended is a lose/lose. When you are offended do you know what happens? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.
I’m afraid that I may cause problems for my daughter.

So here I am, asking myself if I am able to use pronouns. I fucking hate pronouns. It’s just identity politics and despite its dominance of the political and cultural landscape, it is dangerous. We’re all people. We don’t need anything else to divide us. When everything you do and think is based upon what you’re into or what you identify as fractures society. Long story short, I think it is to make people feel special in an increasingly anonymous world. I have no interest in making people feel special. I will not build you up artificially because that just sets one up for a fall. Artificial status makes it harder to be tough and I value toughness. I am all about reality. Life is not wonderful and even though it is in the Declaration of Independence, the pursuit of happiness is just that. A pursuit. It is not guaranteed. Life is hard and the world is a dangerous ugly place with flashes of beauty and brilliance with a increasingly smaller chance of a smattering of humanity here and there. Bottom line, she, and my daughter as well, need to learn that nobody cares about your sexuality much less what you want to be called. I’d like to be called Bill, the man with the largest penis in the world, but it’s not true (sigh). I am happy to be called by my name, I even answer to “shithead” sometimes. I don’t get offended because I don’t care. I’m not special. I’m sorry but it’s true. This is not a Conservative old man opinion, it’s a fact.

So, in about half an hour I will meet my daughter’s new love interest and I know that I will like her. I also know that I will fuck up somehow. How will it go after that? Will the fact that I’m really a good guy at heart that wants nothing but the best for both of them be lost in the shuffle if I call her “she?”

I hope it goes well. For a lot of reasons. Mostly for my daughter.

Almost Famous, conclusion

Stillwater is at a crossroads at which point their star could rise exponentially or crash into obscurity. Add to the mix their skepticism yet tacit acceptance of William, the 15 year old “devil” could either be the best thing that ever happened to them in their quest for fame, or he could destroy them. Not unlike passing a car wreck, you can’t look away. If you do, you will miss the real.

Real is a big thing to Stillwater. Russell really is about the music. Beyond the fans, the industry and the personality conflicts, the thing that is real to him is the music. Enter the most memorable segment of the movie, when an exasperated Russell, reeling from a band argument, heads out on his own on a quest for “something real”. William accompanies him, and it is at this point that the culture of devotion and love for the music by the ones that matter, the fans, is accurately and beautifully depicted. He ends up at a house party with a huge sample of his true demographic; partying long-haired teenagers who seek refuge in a keg, recreational drugs, and music. Russell is ecstatically welcomed to their party and this party is so much like ones that I, and most every baby boomer in 50 states attended. The party goers don’t swarm him, beg autographs or perform any other typical celebrity worship, instead they just welcome him. They get to know him. They share their love for music, his and every other band. They just connect in a “just say whoa” kind of way. These were my favorite people of my youth. There was no pretense, no posturing, no fights. Just good, mellow and let’s face it, stoned people having a good time talking and listening to music. It was just what Russell needed. It was real.
Of course, the party eventually gets out of hand when Russell takes acid, culminating in one of the premier moments of the film when Russell climbs to the top of a garage and deafeningly declares that he is a “Golden God!” and jumps into the pool.
In the morning, the real-world calls as the bus shows up and the band retrieves their out-of-it guitarist. Tensions are high. They are pissed at him, and he doesn’t care. The tension on the bus as they travel to their next gig is thicker than LA air pollution. As they sit in angry silence, Elton John’s Tiny Dancer comes on the speakers. As the song builds the band and Band Aids gradually lose their scowls, stop glaring at each other and begin to move. Gradually at first, then a little more. Then the drummer taps to the music and by the time the chorus hits and Elton belts out “hold me closer tiny dancer” they are all smiling and singing along. Goosebumps are had by all. And there it is, the point of it all, the thing that made the most sense to me. The music, in all of its magnificence has not only the power to inspire, but it can also heal. The band is reminded at this moment why they are doing all of this. It’s about the music. It’s always been about the music.

William never gets his interview. Russell tells him as they part ways to write what he wants. William does. He tells the truth, following the advice of Lester Bangs. “Tell the truth. All of it. And be merciless.” Rolling Stone loves it, despite the realization that the writer of their cover story (the goal of the day was to be on the cover of the Rolling Stone after all) is 15 years old. All is good in the world until the band (not Russell) get spooked about the possible fallout of the story and tell Russell to deny all of it, crushing William and his credibility. The story is squashed.

There is a happy ending. Russell, in his adherence to the “real” eventually tells Rolling Stone that every word was accurate after all. But not before going to see William and giving him the long overdue interview.

As you can probably tell, I love this movie. I turned a simple Billy Mac movie review into a think piece on my love for the music and the era. I suppose I’m so into this movie because I am also on a constant quest for the real. I have never been comfortable with pretense and superficiality. Maybe that is the best way to summarize my feelings on music today; beyond my hatred for over-production, auto-tuning vocals, unimaginative and uninspiring lyrics and music that seems to have no effort behind it is my belief that the artists of the era made the music unapologetically their way. It was quality. It was eternal. It was the hallmark and peak of their creativity and artistic vision. The music of yesterday was better, even on scratchy vinyl. I can say this because it survived the ultimate test. That of time.

One last thing…

Almost famous, a Billy Mac movie review

Rock and Roll in the 70’s wasn’t just about the music. It was a culture, an identity. Right up there with your social status, your Zodiac and other aspects of identity was the omnipresent “what bands are you into?” It was a powerful statement about who you were and what you were into.
A lot of 70’s parents didn’t get that. The cool ones did or at least tried. It was key to getting along with your kids, at least understanding them.
My parents didn’t like the music, but they understood that it meant a lot to me even if they didn’t understand it. They certainly didn’t understand what would make me sit in my room for hours on end, a stack of LP’s scattered in front of me, admiring the album cover art and dwelling on the lyrics as my head bobbed and swayed to the music. The music was my friend during the difficult adolescent years. Often it was my only friend. That my parents understood.
There were plenty who didn’t. The parents who failed to recognize the societal and cultural impact of the music on the youth, and instead focused on the sometimes-unfortunate accompanying drug use, rebellion, promiscuity and other factors that made them feel that they were losing their kids, they didn’t get it. To us, it was all about the music. The parents didn’t have to get it. It wasn’t for them. It was ours.

Enter 2000’s Almost Famous, the movie about Rock that brilliantly depicted the Rock N Roll landscape of the 70’s.

William’s oldest sister has had enough of her overbearing mother. They fought constantly about her lifestyle. She was too free, too rebellious, too sexual and too into “that music.” The sister moved out. Before she hopped into her boyfriend’s Z28 she took young William aside and told him, “Someday, you’ll be cool. Look under your bed. It’ll set you free.”

Under young William’s bed was a bag stuffed with vinyl. The Beach Boys, Zeppelin, Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, The Stones, Hendrix, The Who. Some of the greatest of all time. There was a note.
Listen to Tommy with a candle burning and you’ll see your future. His sister was a student, a disciple of the sound and William had just had the torch passed to him.

Flash forward a few years and William is now 15 and an aspiring Rock writer. Through his work for Creem, he scores an opportunity to do a piece on Black Sabbath by his DJ Guru Lester Bangs, brilliantly played by the late great Philip Seymour Hoffman. But William can’t get into the backstage door and by a chance of fate meets Penny Lane, a presumed groupie, that gets him in the door. Penny Lane is a “Band Aid”. We quickly learn from Penny, portrayed by the uber-adorable Kate Hudson, that the Band Aids are not groupies, just dedicated lovers of the music that travel with the band as fans.
“Groupies have intercourse with the bands to feel close to someone famous. We travel with them as fans, as lovers of the music. We inspire them.”
A noble distinction indeed.

Penny Lane, who eventually forms a powerful, sexually charged but never consummated relationship with William, introduces him to the band Stillwater and a connection is made with the lead singer (Jason Lee) and the guitarist (Billy Crudup, a very underappreciated talent IMO). The band is suspicious of William, to them the critic and the journalist are the enemy and the Devil. But they like him and reluctantly invite William to go on tour with them. William turns this into an opportunity, and he solicits Rolling Stone, the bible of the music scene, to commission him for 3000 words on the up-and-coming (almost famous) Stillwater. The stage is set. All he has to do to get the interview with Russell is get permission from the same overbearing mother that drove his sister out of the house. Not an easy task.

William embarks on a journey, a quest for the interview that will make him a journalist. An interview with a band that wants fame and all that comes with it. What unfolds as William travels from city to city, constantly badgered by his despondent mother (the brilliant Frances McDormand) and her omnipresent insistence that he “not do drugs” is a familiar story to me; the dynamics of the bandmates, the players (Band Aids) and the forces that inevitably seek to divide them played out before me as a teen as Superband after Superband disbanded after experiencing the collateral damage of fame. They are of course differing artistic visions, conflicts over who is in charge or the biggest star, drug and alcohol abuse, all the stuff that any fan of music has witnessed. Stillwater sees what is happening to them. They are hyper-aware that they are on the precipice of fame. They are also very aware of the elements that broke up other big bands and are present enough to recognize each incident as such and acknowledge it openly. They are at a point where their star could rise exponentially or crash into obscurity. Add to the mix their skepticism yet tacit acceptance of William, the 15-year-old “devil” could either be the best thing that ever happened to them in their quest for fame, or he could destroy them. Not unlike passing a car wreck, you can’t look away.

If you do, you will miss the real.

Turning the corner

It took a while, but I think I have turned a major corner in my ability to get along with well, myself. If you have been following my recent posts you know that despite my nothing-less-than-miraculous Kidney Transplant which restored my former physical vitality almost entirely, I have been battling some emotional demons along the way.
This is nothing new, I have been at battle with myself as long as I can remember. I have always marveled at how I could stand up to almost anyone and anything and fight with the resolve of ten men, yet my own fucked-up thinking would get me in an “arm-bar” every time. Despite everyone close to me in my life, including several bloggers on this site, telling me that I need to let go of the past (the wise and prescient Steve Markesich comes to mind) I continued to fall into the trap of negative thought. In particular, I struggled with past mistakes and established a dangerous precedent of linking them together and calling it a pattern instead of what they really were. Isolated (a little more frequent than I would like) incidents that, at face value were really not the biggest deal.
What I came up with is that I’m trying to be perfect. My ideals are too high. I can’t be nice all the time, I can’t always say the right thing, and I can’t help everyone. All I can do is put the best version of myself forward every day and hope that I do better each day. I changed my thinking. FINALLY. I gave myself a break also and that didn’t hurt as well.

I have been oddly Zen lately. I’ve been rolling with things. I’ve been less neurotic and overthinking things less. I’ve stopped trying to be nice and pleasant and instead allowed it to flow naturally. The results have been palpable. I’m on a course to establish a lifetime goal.
To be comfortable in my own skin.
To do so requires you to acknowledge that skin is a reflection of mortality. I am human after all and I need to allow myself to be just that. It’s easier than I thought.
I truly hope I can stay the course and keep my thinking on track. I have a wonderful opportunity right now. I’m healthy, feeling amazing actually. I’m working again. I have an amazing support network of family, friends and the brothers of my amazing fraternity. All of these are pieces of the puzzle that is happiness. I believe that I have rarely been truly happy, or even content. But for the first time in a long time, I see being happy as achievable.

I can build on that.

Do better

I was nose deep in a book yesterday when Mom entered the room and dropped a envelope in front of me.
“Look what I found. Your thank you letter to us for your Graduation Party.”
I looked at the envelope, there was the unmistakable and easily recognized bad handwriting. Jesus, I wrote that in 1992.

I immediately read all 3 pages. It was as if I was opening a time capsule. With the exception of some very genuine and sincere acknowledgements of my parents (of all the negative stuff I talk about one positive about my life is that I have great parents), the rest of it was classic me. Regrets, apologies, some introspection and a lot of remorse about mistakes made, opportunities wasted, time lost, and promises to do better. It could have been written last week.
After reading all of that I concluded that in 30 years I haven’t changed a bit. I’m still a fucked-up mess that is barely comfortable in his own skin. I just have a different set of things to be neurotic about now. I guess some things will never change. Not until I change the way I think.

I’m making progress on that front. I recently published a post about my troubling propensity to be really hard on myself and a couple of readers made comments that really helped me drill down on it. I opened myself to the option of just letting shit go and just do better. One blogger said that I am only trying to put the best version of me out there, that I am just dedicated to self-improvement. I think that is accurate. I may hold myself to a very high standard, but if my goal is just to be the best version of me that I can be, what is so bad about that?
I just need to find a healthy way to do it.

You see, the usual standards for everyone do not apply to me. I am in my late 50’s and I still try to look like I did as a 31 year old gym rat. Biology doesn’t cooperate with such notions but I consistently deny that. The good thing is that it drives me to work out, which is never a bad thing at my age. But I still don’t like what I see in the mirror so that is decidedly unhealthy. Part of me should be asking what exactly a 56 year old man who battled renal disease for most of his lofe, has had a nearly fatal motorcycle accident, cancer, 3 staph infections, sepsis, dialysis and two kidney transplants should even look like. In that light, I should give myself a break. Right? Nope.

I guess what matters, and I wish I knew this when I wrote that letter 30 (wow) years ago, is that the answer is to just do better. To stop the toxic behavior and stop sabotaging myself. To use the windshield more than the rear view because one is big and the other small for a reason. If I don’t learn to think like that I’ll never grow. It amazes me that I know what to do and yet fail to do it. What has changed is my determination to keep the positive at the forefront of my thinking, not have the typical epiphany after beating the shit out of myself for days about some verbal misstep or behavioral gaffe.

So after a long streak of no change and cycles that seem incapable of being broken I think I have the tools now to get my entire being on the same page. It took a 30 year old letter to see this clearly but it really makes sense now.

Giving myself a break

I don’t make resolutions. If I don’t like something about myself, I don’t wait until a cold December night to start to implement change. Yet, I do sometimes get caught up in the season and compile a rudimentary list of shit to work on. This New Year it was really a matter of timing. As the Baby New Year assumed his tiny throne and dug in for a year of unprecedented chaos, I was already taking a hard look at myself and assessing areas of potential improvement.

As great as things are going for me right now happiness still eludes me. Feeling physically strong and healthy is a wonderful and refreshing feeling but my newfound vitality is still only part of me, the emotional baggage never went away. It only stood second in line to my physical limitations and to a large degree was explained away by my illness. But now that I have conquered the physical, my neuroses and fatal flaws are now under my spotlight and frankly, I’m goddamn sick of them.

I don’t even know where to start. For as long as I can remember I have been dealing with feeling chronically misunderstood. As if “mansplaining” is the only way to make others understand me. Sometimes it is just not having a filter on my mouth, and I just say something stupid. Other times it is my body language or facial expressions. What can I say, I’m not responsible for what my face says. Other times I just get neurotic or insecure and it comes out in comments that I make. Both of these fatal flaws undermine what I consider to be my greatest strength, my confidence. 95% of the time my confidence; in my abilities, my work ethic, my ability to withstand adversity, is unshakeable. But that other 5% of the time I become markedly un-confident. And the darkness that those moments cause do an astounding amount of damage despite their infrequent appearances.

Employers and women have one major thing in common…both desire confidence. My new employer saw a moment of weakness on my part the other day and now he may be having issues with his confidence in me. This is partly speculation at this point, I think I’m more worried about the admittedly minor incident than he may be. Over thinking is another fatal flaw.
Having been broken up with twice in a year, my confidence in the romance department is shaky at best. I don’t deal with rejection well. In both instances I was taken back and caught unaware, and it hurt. I thought I was above getting hurt. Both breakups left me searching for answers and very down.

Which brings me to my biggest fatal flaw, the one that I really hope to lose this year in true resolution form. I invariably blame myself entirely. Why is that? Is it even possible that it may not be me? Looking back on my life and as I rehash every time that I sat nursing a rejection or a failed relationship it never once occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t entirely my doing. It is possible that there were other considerations and factors. This one just has to go.

I need to give myself a goddamn break once in a while. If I don’t I will never, ever be happy.