Tag: love

MINSKY: The Journey of an Unfulfilled Android

This is my retelling of Fargo, Season 3, Episode 3, in which the backstory of a dead character is examined. Unit MNSKY, or MINSKY, is the creation of a once-promising Science Fiction writer. His career abruptly ended after a publisher took advantage of him. The book, The Planet WYH, was a promising entry in what would be a successful series. It was relegated to obscurity in a box in the floor. The daughter found it after his death and read it. The producers of the show made a bold and brilliant choice. They told the story of MINSKY, the dutiful Robot, through an animated sequence. It is summarized above.
I am so glad they did.

My name is MINSKY, also known as Unit MNSKY. I am a small robot. I exist only in the memories of the readers of my long-forgotten author,and within the pages of a book, carefully tucked away in this tin box under the floorboards of an old house. Forgotten is my story. I’m out of service. My massive quantities of data have been mined, my metal harvested, my work complete.

My spaceship crashed here on planet WYH 2 million years ago. My pilot and friend died soon after impact. I stood over his fading lifeforce, only able to offer my one sentence, “I can help.” As I would painfully discover, I can’t help. All I have are good intentions. In this new world, I hope that is enough. My mission is to walk the earth. I aim to document all that I see.
Alone, I witnessed the creation of matter, the birth of life, the rise and fall of civilizations, and so much more.
As I walked, slowly and deliberately, the path of discovery, I was a mere spectator to the wonders before me. Water creatures left the surf to breathe air and walk. Giant creatures battled for dominance in a world that extinguished them, without acknowledgment for their conquest, with a single asteroid. I wandered through centuries of Ice and barren terrain. I saw villages morph into cities, cities become countries . I witnessed rises and descents, hopeful building of civilizations, and the wanton destruction that followed. I was witness to the creation of remarkable, benevolent scientific inventions that advanced civilization, as well as the destruction of entire civilizations at the hands of terrible weapons created by the same beings. I wandered for almost 2 million years as a mere spectator. The only time beings interacted with me was when I was an unwilling participant. See, I had to stop every century to recharge. While doing so, I was quite vulnerable. Some creatures took the opportunity to attempt to harm me. Once, one of my upper body appendages was torn off as I sat helplessly. I wasn’t offered assistance or kindness; I was taunted and berated. As an Android, I don’t experience emotions such as sadness. But I know what it is; my database prepared me for all things. My intelligence tells me that what I experienced was cruelty, a base emotion displayed by the non-evolved. Cruelty’s antithesis, kindness, was rarely offered and seemed to be in short supply.
That’s not to say that I am not programmed to offer simulated versions of “emotions”, despite being a rational Android. I occasionally extended an appendage, in its literal sense, to beings I encountered in my travels. If I saw someone struggling, I offered an “I can help”. Only to be reminded that, other than being able to enunciate the words, I am unable to act on them. One being was angry at me, upon my failing to help, calling me “useless” and “worthless”. It pleases me that as an Android I am not susceptible to verbal attacks. Besides, I am only an observer here to document and gather intelligence. A one-armed Android tasked with wandering for eternity until my mission is deemed complete.
One day, as I emerged from my recharge slumber, I experienced my first contact with extraterrestrial life since the crash landing as I found myself before several very distinguished members of the Federation of United Planets. After being recognized as the oldest sentient being in the universe I was commended for my longevity and thanked for the massive amounts of information I recorded. I was then told that it was time for me to shut myself down. I nodded in agreement, reached for my head appendage, opened it, located the switch, and shut myself down. My service was done.
I had wandered 2.38 million years. In that vast amount of elapsed time, I had observed and reported as programmed. I had done nothing else.

I traveled, but I did not enjoy.
I observed without the benefit of awe or curiosity.
I wanted to help, but I wasn’t able to.
I recorded my observations, but I didn’t learn from them.
I was done with my mission, but I hadn’t accomplished anything.
I was able to enunciate my desire to help, but I wasn’t able to help.
I existed, but I did not live.
I didn’t retire; I was shut down.
I have no legacy, just an off switch.
I had a long experience, but I didn’t have a life.
I am a sympathetic character, but I have no understanding of what that means.


Jesus, how sad is that?

I love this episode and animated short so much. The art is minimalist yet enthralling. It is both simplistic and maddeningly beautiful. It is poignant yet heartbreaking. It beautifully saddened me. I find myself affected, which is not an easy feat. MINSKY’s journey parallels so many aspects of life that it morphs into an existential meditation on the tragedy of an unfulfilled life.

Life as an observer will never be fulfilling. If you feel like you were put here for a reason, go and pursue it. If you feel like you have a job to do on this planet, take action. Don’t end up like MINSKY.


The Quiet Strength of Resilience in Tough Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner with My Dad: A Reflection on Life Lessons

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

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

Well, I am picking my Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shadow Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moving forward

I’ve been in a good place recently. I feel well, my upcoming biopsy is on my mind, but not consuming me. I’ve maintained the weight loss and am getting frequent comments of support. Also, I am rapidly approaching the 12-month milestone of sobriety. It pleases me that I’m not tempted to imbibe despite the high prevalence of alcohol everywhere during the Holiday Season. Additionally, my mental health has been better. In particular, I am struggling less with the self-worth issues that have plagued me.

I really don’t understand why I struggle so with self-worth. Particularly at this stage in my life. I am definitely on the back nine of life. I have nothing to prove to anyone. My children are grown, and by all measures, successful. The worrying never ceases as a parent. However, now that they are grown, my children are a source of comfort, not worry.
My career is over. Any work I undertake going forward will be done at my discretion and on my own terms. The days of worrying about my job are over. Gone with it are the endless attempts at pleasing thankless employers through giving entirely too much of myself. Now, money is about survival.
I have a thriving social life. I actually have more events to attend than time to do them. While most men my age, according to studies, have few friends, I have an abundance.
Things are good because I’m trying to look at things through a different lense.

I have been feeling overwhelmed of late. I continue to ignore my limitations and carry a full calendar. I do too much and then lament how tired I am. It’s because I can’t say no.
As an active Mason, I have the ability to be out as much as I want. There is always something going on. Being known as an active Mason, I get invited to a lot of events. Masonic events are a true joy for me. I truly enjoy the company of my Brothers, some of the best men I have ever met. And Masonry itself, what can I say, I love everything about it. The civility, historical significance, the fraternal atmosphere appeal to my very being. It is hard saying no because everything is a “can’t miss.”
But it takes a toll on me. I get so tired that I need time to recover.

Since my recovery I have been Jim Carrey in Yes Man. I hit the ground running and started to live my life as if living itself were dependent upon saying YES! After spending so much time dealing with being sick and potentially without a future, I began to spend my time enjoying being healthy with the prospect of living a full life. I love saying Yes.
But then I got tired. I began to have difficulty bouncing back from too many nights out and required more rest. Every instinct told me to take a break, that not everything requires me to be there. So I took a small break. That wasn’t the answer. Slowing down is the exact opposite of what I need. If I have to pick one, because I am totally incapable of walking a line down the middle, I have to pick being busy.
I can rest when I’m dead.

What I have come to realize is that being active has been very good for my mental health.

Explain yourself

I realized something recently. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.

This is quite a departure for me. I feel quite liberated.

It was Thursday night. I had plans to attend a Masonic function, my third one in a week. December is a busy month in MA Freemasonry, I won’t bore you with specifics. Let’s just say that active guys like me are invited to, and expected to show up at, many events. Thursday’s event was one that I wanted to go to, but I wasn’t expected to be.
I worked on Thursday during the day. I allowed myself time to get home and change and relax for a few before heading out again. I made the mistake of sitting in my recliner. I always do that, it never fails to make it hard to get up and get in the shower. My apartment is cold, I was under a blanket, and the weather was picking up outside. 40 MPH winds and snow squalls. I made a “game day decision”. I was staying home. I texted a friend that I had discussed going with to the event. I explained my decision to stay home. I then ruminated for hours over not going.
Why? Do I really owe anyone an explanation why I didn’t go?

While I am at it, do I owe my Shriners Motorcycle unit an explanation for not making any parades lately? Do I owe my friends an explanation for why I didn’t go out for drinks last week? I regretted it, do I tell them that also? Hell, why did I feel obligated to explain to my family why I missed Christmas Eve last year? I think COVID explains itself. Yet I explained myself over and over and then quietly beat the shit out of myself.
At some point, I need to stop doing that. I think now is a good time.

I don’t know for sure if it is a trauma response. As I wrote recently, I’m the only Trauma survivor who can’t specify the exact trauma. If it’s not that, it’s my anxiety. If it’s not that, then I have no explanation for why I have so many of the traits. Explaining oneself can stem from a fear of judgment. Also, a need for validation and a lack of self-confidence. There is also a need for understanding and a pressure to perform or conform. It’s all part of being a People-Pleaser. If I don’t please people around me by conforming to the current dynamic, it reveals my insecurity. It shows that I feel I am not good enough.

Pardon the dated reference, but this ^^^ is quite appropriate. If I complete just one item on my bucket list, it must be the “Know your worth” item.

Many of us were taught—explicitly or implicitly—that being understood equals being safe. We think that if we can just express ourselves clearly enough, others will finally understand us. They might then treat us better. So we explain. We clarify. We soften. We give far more context than anyone asked for. I am so guilty of that.
Understood doesn’t equal safe. Understood equals peace. To me, peace is the state of being comfortable with today, reconciled with yesterday and not worried about tomorrow. I can achieve that by simply not lowering myself to explain every decision I make or word I say.

There are days when it is all I can do is put on my mask and go out into the world. I dutifully complete tasks that, inside, send me into a spiral of anxiety. I venture out when I don’t feel well. I work when my body is screaming at me to stay in. I take on responsibilities and new projects, knowing full well that I barely have the time to fulfill them. Yet I always do. I deliberately make my life challenging. Because I am trying to lead a fulfilling life. People might have their own opinions about my station in life. However, maintaining it is more difficult than they will ever understand. What may come easy to some is a real challenge to me.
It takes everything I have to get through my day. If I overschedule myself and fail to see it through, I need to start giving myself a break. I think I’ve earned it. If I make a social faux pas, then I need to move past it. If I make a total fool of myself…Well, I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. For any of it.

Nobody owes anyone anything, and I don’t owe anyone an explanation.

No help for me, thanks

“The child who wasn’t comforted still lives inside the adult who doesn’t ask for help.”
Author Unknown

Why is my go-to emotional reaction to inquiries about my upbringing initially negative? If asked, I don’t answer in the negative; I have adopted a Go with your second reflex policy of late. My second reflex/answer would be to say, “I don’t remember needing anything.” The real answer would probably be, “Pretty messed up.” As I read this, that’s unfair. My parents did everything they could to give me a happy childhood. What was messed up was me.
That’s a tough one to share. It seems foolish to write about this. Still, I have been thinking a lot about Childhood Trauma lately. After all, I exhibit multiple traits of a person suffering from Childhood Trauma.
The problem is that I don’t remember experiencing Trauma as a child. Yet I exhibit the following:
Avoidance of relationships: I avoid or bail out of relationships to avoid getting hurt. I do want a relationship. However, I am very battle-scarred. I will run from a person if I so much as think they will hurt me.
People-Pleasing. I am so guilty of this. I engage in behaviors that make other people happy to avoid the emotional pain of not being appreciated.
Perfectionism: I set super-high standards for myself. I rarely meet them and then denigrate myself as a failure.
Constant comparison to others: Comparing yourself to others will almost always lead or contribute low self-esteem. I am never so low that I can’t find someone doing so much better to make me go lower.

5 out of 5, that’s problematic. And begs further exploration. A far-fetched option is that something traumatic occurred that I’ve suppressed way, way down, and it’s starting to surface. That’s unlikely. I have vivid memories of my childhood. While there are many events that still haunt me, they fall more into the category of learning experiences, not Trauma. Yes, they were difficult to process and probably left some scars, but they were necessary. My generation, unlike today’s, learned lessons the hard way. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person often resulted in a punch in the face. Getting rejected at a School Dance stung a lot. Betrayal by the hand of a friend comes to mind as well. And can I ever forget the disappointed look on my Dad’s face when I acted beneath his standards?
Again, learning experiences. Rites of passage, perhaps. So why did I jump at the above quote, inspiring a blog entry?
The term “Doesn’t ask for help.”

I don’t ask for help, even among my friends. Today, I met with some dear friends, Masons, for our weekly coffee. Between 4 and 6 of us turn out to talk. The rules are no rules. Talk about anything, but if you need to unburden yourself of something, your problems become our problems. We unburden without fear of reprisal or lack of confidentiality, and we listen unconditionally. It is our own little therapy group.
It is an honor for someone to feel comfortable enough to share their innermost conflicts with you. To seek your counsel is a higher honor. I am proud to tell you that many Brothers have sought out my listening/counsel over the years. It is a true blessing among Masons. But I am never the one to unburden myself. I just don’t do that, except in very rare occasions.
I have to ask myself why.
The answer isn’t elusive. I really didn’t have anyone to talk to about my multiple problems growing up.

I learned at a young age to handle everything internally. It began out of a fear of asking a stupid question of my parents. I have always had an unreasonable fear of asking the wrong questions. It may be out of fear of appearing dumb, perhaps I feared mockery. Maybe I felt that I should know it already. I was a very mixed-up child. If I had asked those questions, it is very possible that I would be in a different place today. If this segment reeks of uncertainty, there is a very good reason. Uncertainty is THE word to describe my entire childhood. I have always, including now, been uncertain about myself.
The worries about seeming dumb, ill-informed, or just plain wrong are still there. Not always but enough. I still battle uncertainty about my intellect, competency, reputation, character, and even who the Hell I am. This is partially due to my not asking for help.

As I said, I remember having a happy Childhood. By that, I mean that even though we were not wealthy by any standard, I don’t remember wanting for anything. I never went hungry. I went to camp. I had friends. I played sports. I had an amazing Dog (my best friend) from my earliest memory. My Mom and Dad really tried.
Dad worked a lot, but until he climbed the seniority ladder in his Union, he was laid off most summers. He would work part-time jobs, and our house was always under construction. He was there, but sometimes only in body. It may have only been my impression, but I found my Dad hard to talk to about personal things. I feared him judging me to be weak of character. Toxic masculinity was a thing then. Asking for help almost always resulted in him questioning why I couldn’t “figure it out” myself. As he aged, he became more accessible. As I’m going through right now, he was reviewing his choices in hopes of having achieved a fulfilled life.

My Mom was a very different story. She worked full-time but was home at a reasonable hour each day. She was, and is, a friend as well as a mother. But, and this is a big one, she was very hands-off. As parents who had difficult parents often do, she overcompensated for her own Mother’s overbearing, suffocating parenting style. Consequently, she went the other way and left me to do my thing. I regret going down this road, but I have to point out that she didn’t see the signs. I did everything but scream for help at one point. She didn’t see it.

It got worse when my parents adopted an 8-year-old. I was 13 and well into an adolescent crisis. Puberty, as well as dealing with being bullied among other embarrassments, had me in a spiral. During this critical time, a young girl with a lot of problems was introduced into our family. She had a horrific past and needed much extra attention. This was not what I needed at that moment. My options were to vie for attention or keep to myself. My parents were lost in the transition of adoption. My new sibling required so, so much. My parents just didn’t have much time or attention left for me. So I kept everything to myself, tried to figure things out on my own, and not ask for help.

It is slowly becoming clear to me that the era in discussion may have been traumatic. During my most formative years, when I needed guidance the most, it was just me. I developed what would become a lifelong habit. Not wanting to bother anyone. This is my toxic trait. There is a long line of brothers who would gladly be there for me if I asked. I’m not going to take them up on it because it’s just not who I am. I am the guy who needs more help than anyone can give. But I will never ask for it. I’ll just deal with it in my own way.

All because I wasn’t comforted as a child. Yet I blame nobody but myself. Mom, Dad, it’s not your fault.

I wish I read these sentences earlier in life

  • You won’t always get closure; learn to move on without it.
  • Discipline will take you places motivation never could.
  • Not everyone you lose is a loss; some exits are a blessing.
  • If it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive.
  • You become unstoppable the moment you stop seeking approval.
  • Your future needs you more than your past ever will.

I would like to credit for this intro, but I saw it on a FB Meme. Sometimes you hit gold just reading the musings of others. Sometimes it’s all garbage. But if you try hard enough you can find something thought-provoking if you open yourself to the opportunity.

You won’t always get closure; learn to move on without it. This one, Ugh. I wish I had a dollar for every minute I sat stewing about a conversation, an argument, or a break-up. Closure is essential for the overthinker. It is critical for the anxiety sufferer. If an overthinker says he loves you, then believe them. They’ve thought of every reason not to. Adversely, if you dump an anxiety-ridden over-thinker without a reason, they will invent every possible reason. These reasons may be logical or completely unfounded. Still, they persist. When the simple goddamn truth would have been enough. Hurt, anger, betrayal, they can all be overcome. Lack of answers sends me spiraling. I have had a string of recent break-ups/unexplained endings that devastated me. As I am known to do, I blamed myself for everything. I constantly asked myself what I did/said and replayed countless scenarios on a loop. When a simple “I don’t like you because you _______ would have been fine. As I said, anger subsides. Not getting closure may be easy for some. Not for me. It is enough of a reason to stop dating altogether. It hits me hard.
I really need to stop insisting on closure.

Discipline will take you places motivation never could. It is timely that I came across this today, as I have recently committed to being more disciplined. I am not motivated. I want to be, I try to be but I’m not. Because I don’t practice good habits. I don’t create schedules for myself. I don’t manage my time well. I promised to work on being more disciplined. By creating good habits, I will find motivation to achieve my goals. I haven’t made major changes yet to my routine, but I am making solid baby steps. I feel very driven, dare I say motivated, to achieve this. I’m confident that I will. But the above sentence is as true as can be.

Not everyone you lose is a loss; some exits are a blessing. This one doesn’t need much elaboration. It’s perfect as it is. It does tie in with the first sentence nicely, though. I spent much time commiserating about the lack of closure. Now, I realize those who failed to provide closure are welcome departures from my life. I am a caring, considerate person. I have no place in my life for someone who treats me poorly.

If it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive. My peace is everything to me. Even now, at this advanced stage of my life, I am not at peace. But I am working at it as hard as I am able every day. To be at peace is my life’s goal. When I see the word expensive, I realize it pertains to the cost of peace. I know the cost can be monetary as well as emotional. Example: I love my motorcycle. Riding it is one of the only sources of true joy I have. But it’s very expensive. The payment is causing me distress. It’s bordering on costing me some of that peace. Another example, my efforts in Freemasonry provide me with peace. Over-scheduling myself in those efforts is stressing me out. The more commitments I make, the more I worry about fulfilling them.

You become unstoppable the moment you stop seeking approval. I have always cared way too much about what other people think of me. It stems from me always seeking the approval and validation of a father with whom I had a complicated relationship. I am confident in what I bring to the table. I am able and qualified. Yet, I am terribly concerned about what people think of me. There is a caveat. I’m not so concerned about being liked. I want to be respected and considered a man of good character.
I have made great strides in this area of late. I have become more confident, and surprisingly, a lot more bold and assertive. I am close to being comfortable enough with myself that I may be able to rise above my inner “People-pleaser”. Once I can do that, I will not need, nor desire, the affirmation of others.

Your future needs you more than your past ever will. I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment. It’s particularly poignant to a person who spends as much time ruminating over past deeds or misdeeds as I. I may never move completely past this, but I am committed to doing my best. Dwelling on the past wastes a massive amount of time. It also poses a massive threat to my mental health. I have plenty of goals. I will never accomplish them if I continue to focus on what cannot be changed. This one may be the most important of all.

I’m fine

“Lives are like rivers; eventually, they go where they must. Not where we want them to.” Not original, I caught that while re-watching one of my favorite HBO miniseries, Empire Falls. But poignant nonetheless.

Empire Falls is a bleak but engrossing take of a down-and-out town full of down-and-out people struggling with life in a once great Textile town in Maine. The people struggle with the decay of their beloved hometown. The misery is only exacerbated when life carelessly and cruelly gives it a glimmer of hope. It’s a tough watch when you are feeling down. When it showed up in my feed I immediately clicked on it. Knowing that it will affect me, and still choosing to watch, says something about my current situation.
The river of my life has chosen its own course. I have no choice but to go with it and see where it takes me. The logical next sentence would be to observe that it is in violation of my plan. But truth be told, I never had a plan for my life.

I have never been future-minded. In High School I didn’t think that much about College. I had the grades, but again, no plan. When I started College, I did it because that’s what people did. I never gave much thought to what I wanted to do with my degree. I did get a quality Liberal Arts education that I’m proud of. I am well-read and widely considered a good conversationalist, with a strong foundation in many subjects. I’m a frickin’ blast at Cocktail parties, but that’s about it.

I took a few years off after H.S. I attended a local University as a commuter and wandered academically for 2 years, and dropped out. I worked menial jobs, drank, and fucked around a lot. I would finish, 7 years after I started. Largely because my Father gave me a legendary guilt trip over not graduating. Nothing motivates me quite like being told that I can’t or won’t do something.

I would get some decent jobs eventually. They required a degree, but I never used it. My minimal career success was due to my personality and ability to talk to people genuinely. But even in my career, if I can call it that, it was a winding road and lacked a plan.

Once I got sick, it no longer mattered that I didn’t have a plan. My new plan was to survive. When first diagnosed, my condition could have gone several directions. It went in the worst one. At my lowest point, my plan became one of making some type of life for myself. I can honestly say that I have done that. But to further utilize the River metaphor, I’m not charting the path. The path is dragging like an undertow.

I don’t know what I thought my life would be at 60. I never dreamed of riches but I thought that I would be in a good place. At the moment I am most certainly not. I have always been happy with enough. I’m not materialistic or greedy and if I had a lot I would probably donate it. I don’t even have enough. I’m struggling financially. I wish with all my might that for once in my life I didn’t have to worry about money. But here I sit, the walls closing around me still.

I thought that I would be happy, or at least content. While happiness has always eluded me, with the exception of fleeting moments, I have been content. I am so far from content now. I’m restless. I’m scared for my future. I want to be anywhere but where I am.

The one thing that I thought I was was healthy. I have given everything I have to reclaim my health, and I beat the odds in so many ways. Or have I? Next month, I go in for a second Prostate Biopsy this year. 2 MRIs in 1 year and a scary high PSA have deemed another biopsy “advisable.” I’m not saying I have Prostate Cancer, but all the signs are pointing to it. It’s at the forefront of my mind almost all the time. Occasionally, I forget about it and something future-related comes to mind, and there it is. The voice that says, “Uh, dude, you may want to see if you have a future first.”

For now I will continue to be good ol’ “Smiling Bill.” I can keep up the back slapping, the glad handing, the thinly veiled lie of “I’m fine” when asked. I am still an optimist, and I can play that role better than anyone I know. But I really am anything but fine. I’m not broken, but I am perched precariously on the edge of the counter just waiting to get knocked off. When I hit the floor…the pieces are going to be all over the damn place.

Isolate before it’s too late

I was out Ubering today. I picked up a ride into Boston. Southern NH to Boston isn’t a bad ride without traffic. Still, I tend not to take those rides. Uber has a shitty policy on leaving the state. They have no problem sending you over the border. However, they won’t allow you to pick up a ride to get back. In my case, the NH border is 35 miles back before I can get another ride. As a result, I will take one if the money is good, and the traffic is moving. When I got a ride offer at 2 PM I gambled. I made a good call.

My passenger was a guy my age heading into a meeting with friends. He was friendly and talkative. That, combined with flowing traffic, made it a good ride. As I dropped him off, my phone rang. The timing was perfect, as I don’t answer my phone when I have a passenger. It was Wilky, a Masonic Brother, whom I ride with quite a bit. He’s a gentleman’s gentleman. The call caught me off guard because I had never gotten a call from him before. We’ve exchanged texts and FB messages. I was intrigued.

He was just checking in. He was concerned that he hadn’t seen me in a while and wanted to make sure that I was OK. That gave me a real warm and fuzzy feeling. I respect and like Wilky a great deal. But he’s not a part of my immediate circle, for lack of a better term. For him to notice my absence was surprising, but heartwarming nonetheless. I assured him that I was fine, just busy and, after a few minutes, we ended the conversation. As uplifted as I felt at that moment, I also felt bad. I lied to him.

I have been conspicuously absent lately. Sure, I have been busy. But only at fulfilling commitments, of which I have too many at the moment. The fun stuff, the invitation-only and impromptu gatherings, have not been on my calendar. I am not feeling social. I’m overwhelmed emotionally, mentally exhausted, and my anxiety is crippling me. My life has become a series of “Have to’s” instead of “Want to’s”. I have to be where I said I would be and do what I have to. But I want to be on my sofa.
Sadly, I tried to take some time off and stay home. Since I got my own place, I have cherished those days when I stay in and do nothing but relax. That is not the case lately. I have trouble relaxing now. I feel anxious about being lazy. I chastise myself for not leaving the house and go somewhere, anywhere. Even when I have no place to go. When I do go out, I struggle to come up with a plan of what I am going to do. Then I get mad at myself for not being productive. I don’t have a job, where do I have to be?

When I do go out, it’s far too “peopley” for me. I find my love for people isn’t what it usually is. I have been easily annoyed, even driven to anger in traffic and public places. I control it for the most part, but it eats at me. When I act on this anger, as in my regrettable verbal parking lot exchange earlier this week, I feel guilt-ridden. Which only makes me want to isolate more.

I’m the person that nobody worries about because I always show up when I’m needed. I’m the person who says, “I’ve got it,” when I really don’t. People know (think) I’ll always figure it out. I deal with things quietly because I don’t want to let people down. And despite being a person that many come to with problems, I rarely share mine. Sharing will elicit attention. People want to help, I dread the constant offering of support. I don’t want it. I just want a break.

If I am to keep my commitments, my schedule will be mostly full for the next 18 months. I honestly don’t know if I will make it. The urge to just get in my car or on my bike and just fucking GO is overwhelming.

As a person that loves people, I really want to be alone.