Just a Random Thoughts for the Day (Free writing from the top of my head)

I feel, sometimes, that I am dancing through life to a song only I can hear. As if the things that seem to make sense to me, seemed skewed to others. I see the looks on their faces. I can read their thoughts. I know that they look at me with some sort of curiousity saved for hybrid animals in the zoo. It's not that I think I have two heads or something. It's more that...I am different. Unique. Strange. Odd. And some people embrace that. And other ridicule it.

The song sets it beat to provide the steps that send me through the magic of my days. I rarely notice that my steps are not aligned with the norm. I am just me. It's not until someone points the variances out to me that I become concerned. Am I really so different? Do I really see the world so differently? Is the fact that I don't dismiss my dreams so much different than everyone else? I honestly don't know.

It has taken me 50 years to get this comfortable with who I am. I am not aware of all I am. I know that I am surprised by what people say...good or bad. I know that I don't mind being the fool, but I don't like looking foolish. There is a difference, you know. I have looked the fool many times in my life. I have been played for one even more. I have wised up over the years. It doesn't happen as often. But, there are those that still try.

Someone told me this evening, while at work, that they felt they were wasting their time working where we work. I heard that and thought, well...what the hell am I doing then? I don't have fulfilling days everyday. They are not always the most pleasant. But, for the most part, I enjoy it. I enjoy helping people. I enjoy making a difference in someone's day if I can. I hope that isn't wasting my life? Because, I think I might want to do it for a little while longer.

I overheard some others talking in the lunchroom today about how they didn't know what they were going to do if someone didn't take them to the fair tonight for the last evening of fun. This person wsa asked if they really like the person that they expected to take them. They said no, but he would do in a pinch. I found that odd. I mean, to think that she thought so little of this person that she expected to think enough of her to want to take her to the fair. I know the fair isn't the biggest deal in the world. But, it was the callousness of the statement that bothered me. She made it sound like this guy really liked her and she was just riding him out until someone or something better came along. And with that attitude, she actually believed she had a right to be angry if he didn't call to volunteer to be her funnel cake benefactor. The discussion was loud enough that most of us in the room had to hear it. I assume that is what this young lady wanted. I sat there for a very long time thinking just how much this whole thing seemed to bother me. The reason is clear to me. Maybe not to others. Lets just say this...for those of us that walk around every day with a heart full, the thought of this kind of attention from someone who generally cares is a gift we dream about. To see it wasted on someone so unconcerned for the feelings of another...is almost too much too tolerate. I know that most of the people that heard it just thought of it as the rantings of a young girl who is very full of themselves. And I agree with that. But, my ears also heard the sound of emotions being manipulated to avoid...what?...boredom? How jacked up is that?

I heard something else today that was just as hard to hear and just as painful. Someone telling me that they hoped I find someone, that I was too good a person not to have someone care about them. They also said, that I was very nice...but, that nice guys finish last...especially with women. This whole conversation stemming from a discussion about my current love life...which is non-existent. It seemed to me they were probing, looking for information. As if, by saying nothing was happening in this part of my life, that I was lying to them. I am not sure why all this hurt so much. I guess it's like the person getting condolences after someone close to them leaves them...not dies...just leaves them. It's offering sympathy for a failure, sort of...a shortcoming. And that is very hard to accept.

I find it frustrating to hear people make light of emotions and affections. I find it difficult to hear others joke about these things. I am guilty of it and I am ashamed of myself when I do it. You want to tease someone for the outfit they have on that day...they made the choice to wear what they have on...so, knock yourself out. You want to judge someone on the hairstyle they have? Again, a choice...for most people anyway...and left open for some teasing.

But, to tease or ridicule someone for their emotions...their feelings...the way they conduct their relationships with friends...and how they choose to show their heart? That isn't just wrong...it's evil. These are things, that for the most part...take no conscience effort. It is part of our make up. It's in our DNA. And, to say that is the subject of humor or scorn...well, it's unforgiveable. And it's cheap. The one thing in this life we have very little control over is who we love and how. The heart wants what the heart wants...the brain plays little part in true romance. If you have to think too much, it's not romance. It's a decision based on facts, figures, and opinions. Nothing more. And they way we treat those people close to our hearts...well, that is what makes us special and unique. And as long as it is positive, loving, and caring...it should be seen with appreciation of spirit. Nothing less.

My mind has been traveling weird paths lately. I am not sure that I know all the reasons why it has been happening. Quitting smoking? Emotions running a little crazy? It seems that I feel the need to unload my past that I have carried around and kept under wraps. It's not that I am overcome with the need to share. Actually, it's quite painful at points. But, the reaction...the understanding...the appreciation...and the feeling that some people actually get what goes through my looney mind...well, that has done a lot for me in accepting who I am to myself. So, I will continue to do it...as long as you read...or even it you don't.

Why?

Because there are just a few things I am not ashamed of in my life. Who I am. What I am. And what I will become. These postings tell that story. How can I be ashamed of them? They are me!

Real Love

Have you ever been in love?

I am not referring to the “Ohh, it’s so perfect, he’s perfect, I’m perfect…everything’s perfect” love. And I don’t mean; “After all this time, I guess I just gotta” type of love either. And certainly not the “This is the best that I can do” kind of love either.

No, what I mean is that kind of love that just haunts you. It runs through your system like an uncontrollable freight train, jumping tracks and reeking havoc on your entire life. I am talking about the kind of emotion that shows up when you least expect it and fills you with a sense of wonder about every other time you ever thought you were here before.

Have you ever been in love?

If you are still not sure, allow me to give you some suggestions that may help to stir your answers. What this kind of love is can be difficult to answer. The descriptions of this vary and yet it can be detected with the naked eye pretty easily. What I can tell you is what it’s not.

Real love is not easy. Never has been and never will be. Sometimes it defies all odds. It can attack the meanest amongst us and have them seeing the world so differently. It is hard work. It’s hard work finding it, it’s hard work holding on to it, and it’s hard work keeping it like new. If it’s easy, it’s not real. Real love keeps you up nights. Real love has you believing in impossibilities. Real love has caused men to go to flower shows and women to sit through Sundays in the fall with rapt interest. Trust me, if either of these two things are happening, there is real love in there somewhere.

Real love is not convenient. Usually occurring at a moment when it’s the very last thing we are looking for. It has absolutely no rules. None. All the qualifiers that we think we have are gone. Love that is straddled by rules is not real. You don’t have real love being decided by a vote. It’s not determined by a checklist. It destroys all preconceived ideas and sends them packing. It doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. It doesn’t see the neat little lines that we all draw. Have you ever heard someone say; “She/He is so not his type.”? But, when you look closely, you see they are happy. That is real love. Real love has no types. It has no poster child.

Real love is not just an emotion. It is it’s own animal. It lives and breaths and has a mind of it’s own. It swallows up the least expecting and takes over your life. Real love will have you believing in fairy tale stuff, like happily ever after. Real love doesn’t beat down for shortcomings of others, but has you examining your own to make a change so you can be a better person for them. Real love is first thought in the morning, last thought at night. Real love has you wondering what the other person would think about your decision on lunch. Real love doesn’t have a script. There is no blueprint. Real love has you missing the touch of a hand on your face and the heavy breathing (okay, possibly snoring) of sleep. It removes your ideas of what is right and wrong. It changes your whole being. And does it with very little effort.

Real love can’t be ordered off the internet. I know, I have seen the commercials. But, real love isn’t on the other side of your wi-fi connection. How do I know this? Because real love is normally not that well informed about the other person when it hits. You don’t get to see their personal resume ahead of time. Now, understand, real love is not based on looks either. Real love is based on presence. It’s based on what occurs in those moments when you are in the same general vicinity. Not in the same chatroom. You can't feel magic with your fingers on a keyboard. And believe me, this stuff is magic.

Real love will not be judged. It doesn’t need approval. It can not be clouded by the prejudices of the outside. It can be allowed to fade away if we ignore it due to our listening to the crowd. It’s not so much that it gives up the fight as much as it determines that the fight has been lost before it had a real chance to get started. It will give it all it has to save itself, but if not acknowledged, it will move on to more deserving individuals and leave you wishing you had acted differently.

Real love can haunt you. You can try to ignore it, but it will keep showing itself to you. You can try to run away from it, but it will follow you. It will tear your life apart, if you let it. People claim that the times we live in today, with divorce rates as high as they are, proves that real love is a myth. I disagree. What this proves is that we have a large percentage of people that have settled for less. They took a shot without feeling the magic of it and they found out in very short time that “forever” in the wrong place is one hell of a long time. There are those that stick it out anyway, living a life where they are miserable, unloved, and feeling neglected. But, they feel they made promise or it’s for their kids that they stay. And, when this happens, you know God weeps.

Yeah, I said God. Where do you think this love thing came from? We didn’t invent it? Only God could create something so beautiful and perfect that is also so frustrating and heart wrenching. People say no one and nothing is perfect, at least not since that son of His was here. Well, I say real love is as perfect a beast as we have on Earth. It doesn’t need the permission, care, or support of anything to survive. It attacks with perfect form and has the ability to change lives and fortunes. It is the perfect emotion. Even when it’s the last thing you want.

Real love changes our rules. Not because we want them changed, but because they just have to change. We want to put someone else’s needs, desires, thoughts, moods, and feelings ahead of our own. Not sometimes, but most of the time. And on those occasions that we don’t, we want to apologize for that. Real love makes us want to try new things, not because we want to impress, but because we really want to understand what makes the other person happy.

One more observation before I go. Real love may not need to be fed to survive, but it does need attention. It does need acknowledgement. And it needs respect. And, most importantly, it needs acceptance. Not the acceptance of others, because real love doesn’t give a damn about that. It needs the acceptance of self. Because the other thing that real love is, is few and far between. You can ignore it away. But, the price you pay is a real possibility that you will never see it again.

Have to admit, I am no expert here. All of this is culled from experience. Have I known it? Yeah, one time…a very long time ago. She was an amazing human being that I allowed to get away and I regret it everyday since. And that damn “Real Love”, just left me be for a very long time. I tried to force it a couple of times, like a lot of us do. The thing about real love is that you can’t make it happen. It doesn’t develop just because we put the effort in and try real hard. Real love just is, for better or for worse, sickness and health, and all that stuff. The vows are a very good guide to use when there is doubt about how you feel. Look at each one and determine if you really can live through all those things with this person and not want to cut and run. If you can honestly say you can, then you very well may have real love. But, there are so many of us that have taken those vows, knowing when we agreed to them…we just weren’t sure. We just didn’t think we could get past all of them. And that is just a stupid, stupid thing to do.

Real love, for all it’s independence, does need to be fought for. It needs you to be willing to put everything on the line to have it. Because, when you do that…and only when you are willing to do that, does it come and save your life. It blesses you with gifts that you never imagined. And it makes you stand in awe of yourself. In awe of what you have nurtured and fed. In awe of what other people’s envy. And in awe of what will come to you as you continue through this life. The effort that is put in is repaid a thousand times over.

I don’t think there is a lesson here as much as an acknowledgement. A admittance that I believe in this very real, unexplainable, amazing human emotion. It is as real as you and I. And it wants nothing more than to find us. To grow in and with us.

We just have to believe in magic. And be willing to pay attention.

An change in the question

I remember the first time I asked God the question. My life, up to this point, hadn’t always been a dream, but it had it’s moments. Enough of them that I rarely questioned my reasons for being. I just went on with my days and figured that no matter what lay around me, if I kept my head I would get through unscathed. I just wanted to get through life and try to miss as many bumps in the road as possible.

I had been living in Cincinnati for about a year. A post divorce relationship had come and gone and I was doing my best to move on. Was walking through life, just trying to get by and not hurt anyone else. In the last couple of years, since my divorce, I had seemed to be doing a lot of that. I had spent my free time trying to prove to every women that I met just how mad I wasn’t at their species. I was trying to show that my bitterness meter was at a low number and that I held no ill will.

I was lying through my teeth. And still, I had not seriously asked myself the question. Not until this day.

I was visiting my third doctor in the last ten days. It seems that my complaints of stomach pains were actually being taken with some seriousness. I assumed that an ulcer that I had when I was younger was flaring up again. I went to my regular doctor, who sent me to a gastro guy. After a upper and lower GI series, I had been told that I needed to see another doctor.

An Oncologist.

The day before going to his office, I was sent to the University hospital for more tests and x-rays. Blood was taken, throat scrapings. I was laid on a table, given something that still ranks as one of the more disgusting things I have ever ingested and had some sort of biopsy done from my stomach, taken down through my throat with, what I assume must have been some huge hospital tool. I would describe it better, but whatever I drank knocked my ass out.

What I remember from that day mostly is not being afraid. It couldn’t be happening to me, there had to be some kind of mistake. There had to be some smudge on a test or a blood mix that caused some false positive or negative…whatever it was that made them believe I belonged here getting poked and probed. What I did find a little disturbing was that my experience with doctors up to that point had been very similar to what I remember about being in the service. Everything was hurry up and wait. But, not this. They were simply in hurry up mode. And, after the feeling of being special wore off, I started getting just a little bit annoyed. I wanted to go home, turn on the television, make myself a sandwich and just forget about this.

But, I couldn’t. If it just would have been about the pain, I would have just kept going on with my days and lived (or died) with it. But, the first time you turn to the bowl and see blood red all over the porcelain, you know that this isn’t something you can walk away from. You have to face the facts, something isn’t right and you have to go to the people that make these things right. The people in the lab coats and with anal thermometers only (what the hell is with that?). And, never fails…the coldest hands outside a morgue.

And still, I hadn’t asked the question.

I was sitting in his office the very next day at 10 am. I was going to be late for work and I wasn’t happy about it. I had called work and told them that I had this appointment and that I would be there as soon as it was over. I assumed I would be told I would need to drink some chalky tasting bottle of stomach smoothie and that all of this had been some crazy mistake. I just knew that I didn’t have what I needed to have to have to see this doctor. Not this guy. That is just how I thought about it, because I couldn’t say the word. Not out loud and not even in my head.

I remember sitting in his office, more books lining the walls than I had ever seen outside a library. I had the thought that everyone has when faced with this many books in someone else’s possession.

“Have they really read all these things?”

I remember sitting in this room looking at the walls. Anything that could keep me thinking about anything other than what I was there for. Diplomas and pictures lined the wall. Nothing unusual there. What was interesting was that, in a fairly modern building, this office looked like it was ripped from some 19 century home. High ceilings, chair rails, heavy crown molding, and beige walls. Very little character to them, which gave them all the character they needed. Outside the door to his office, it looked like any office building. But, not this room. Like he ripped this right out of some south Philly row home.

After about twenty minutes, he entered. He nodded his head at me. No hello. No nice to meet you . Just a nod. Not the start I was looking for. I had never met the man before this, but I assumed that he would have been a little warmer if he was walking in with good news. I was starting to get scared.

He stared at his charts for what seemed like forever. Finally looking up to tell me that after all the testing and the biopsy, they determined that there “may” be a growth on the lining of my stomach. Actually, there was a growth. They knew that my ulcer had done some damage. But, it was the center of the damage that was the concern. They believed that it wasn’t just an ulcer, but that some malignancy had formed on the weakened area of my stomach lining and the top of my intestine. They believed that it had to come out.

He told me that my exposure to therapy prior to surgery would be minimal. Mostly because, with the growth being surrounded by damaged tissue, the chance of shrinking it prior to surgery was slim. What the aim with therapy would be was to damage the active cells causing the malignancy to shrink as much as possible. My biggest concern, the thing that needed to happen more than anything else was for me to get healthy again prior to surgery.

See, the pain in my stomach and the blood in the bowl had freaked me out a bit. And for about two months, I didn’t eat very much. I dropped a lot of weight very quickly. Close to forty-five pounds in less than three months. Part my diet, part due to what was going on inside me. I lived on water and pudding for the most part. Almost anything else caused serious discomfort. And blood.

Hearing these words, I still couldn’t say the word in my head. It still had not passed my lips. I tried to ask him if I had…you know. But, I couldn’t. I just thought that if I could keep from saying it, it wouldn’t be real and all this would go away.

I was wrong.

I sat in that chair as he talked, staring into space. I heard very little of what he had to say. I saw the pictures of x-rays, I looked as he showed me the shadow on the lower part of my stomach. But, I didn’t see it. I was lost in my thoughts. I was drifting away in my own thoughts. I wanted to be anywhere else. I wanted to be in a woman’s arms. I wanted to be drifting around a softball infield. I wanted to be front row at a concert. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.

And, still I hadn’t asked the question.

I remember focusing on a picture on his desk. Kids. A wife. Things I did not have. He was telling me that things in my life could change. That due to my age, the therapy could cause some destruction of some basic biological functions of the body. He said that I may have a reduction in Testosterone. He said that for a while, sex drive will probably disappear. The hormone reduction could be counteracted with chemicals…synthetics that raise that level back to normal areas. With that, sex drive should return. There is something about the word sex that gets your attention, no matter the context or location of the discussion. Here I was sitting in a oncologist’s office and all I could think about is that he was telling me I may not get it up again. Oh, the male ego and the stupid places it takes us.

And even with all that, still the question wouldn’t come.

I went through with his therapy. I laid on those damn tables and I allowed them to shoot that poison in me. I did this and still tried to maintain the diet that he prescribed to me. I tried hard to lay off the pain meds he was giving me. I just didn’t want to be numb. I wanted to feel this. I wanted to know what was happening to me. So, I saved them for night time, when I needed to sleep. Not every night, just nights that were worse than others. I missed very little work. I looked at it as my saving grace. The place I could go to forget for a little while. My crew did their best to cover for me on those days I would leave the floor unexpectedly to run to the men’s room to deposit the high protein lunch into the toilet. There were days that I would hide in the training room until cramps and waves of nausea passed. But, I believe that I only really missed one full day until I checked into the hospital.

I was in a city that I had friends and no family. My family and I were at odds. I had walked from them after my divorce. I felt I needed to get away from their soap opera. I love them all, but I had reached a place where I refused to be seen as responsible for everything bad that happened in their lives. I don’t think they hated me so much as saw me as failing them by leaving with little notice. The reasons for all this is a different story altogether. One for another day. The point is, I was virtually alone. And I liked it that way. Because, the last thing that anyone wants in that situation is pity. All you want is for someone to help you up when you fall, but let you go when you get your legs. To give you a hug when you feel overwhelmed, but know when to give you your space. My friends at the time were very good at these things. They were amazing and I owe them my life for what they did for me. I haven’t seen most of them in many years. But, they live in my heart…I will never forget them. And their love and generosity is something that I still carry with me to this day.

I was in their hospital for four days. You haven’t lived until you hear someone refer to the “damaged material” that was removed from your body. I remembered from my youth, some Sunday School teacher telling me that God makes no mistakes. That always confused me. Armadillos? Still haven’t figured them out. But, anyway, I digress. If He makes no mistakes, how can the human body have “damaged material”? They told me they believed it was a success. That all the growth and the damage done from my ulcer was removed and my stomach was sealed. I was told that, they were able to put everything back together well and that I would only have the bag for a short time.

Bag? What bag?

Yep, I had to shit in a bag. And change the bag. And put on new bags. And deposit the bags. Can anyone say, “Chick Magnet”?

I had the bag for about 4 weeks. Initially I tried to hide it. But, it becomes impossible. You have very little control over what happens or when. It just happens. And you become as nasty as a dirty diapered baby real quick. And if it happens at work, you really get noticed.

That’s right, work. I missed a total of 7 days of work, including the surgery and hospital stay. I was told to take a month off. That wasn’t happening. I told my work that I could come back on limited duty and work. I told them that walking was good for me (not a lie) and that an eight hour shift was just fine as long as I didn’t lift anything heavy (sort of a lie). I just didn’t want to sit in the house and feel sorry for myself. Because, ….

Still, the question had not entered my mind.

Two weeks after the bag came off and I was allowed to return the amazing schedule of my morning constitutions (who just said TMI?), I was told that I was needed at my oncologist’s office. I figured this was his official release of me. He was going to tell me that all was good and that he didn’t need to ever see me again. We were a week from Halloween. That meant 5 weeks from Thanksgiving. And I had plans of eating like a healthy man.

I was wrong. What he told me was that the blood draws that I had taken when the bag came off showed some suggestion of active cells (still can’t say the word at this point). I couldn’t believe it. I just didn’t understand. I had done everything they told me. I ate what they told me to and gained weight. It was like getting a condemned man healthy to kill him. They got me healthy so they could cut into me and fill me full of their poison. And now they wanted to do it again. And that is when the question came from my lips. I walked outside that medical building, into the parking lot, to my car…stopped…looked to the sky and….

“Why me?”

The most selfish, narcissistic and stupid question a person can ask.

I went home that night and did what I did best. I got on the web. I searched for everything I could find to tell me what was going on inside me. I was trying to figure out how this had happened. How this could possibly be happening to me.

“Why me?”

What I found was my shame. I read stories about people losing their entire stomach. I read stories of people having to live with that bag for the rest of their lives. I read stories of children who had been injected with so much of that poison that they were now sterile. So, if they did survive what this evil disease had in store for them, they would never know the joy of a child. I read stories of people losing every hair on their body to have very little of it come back. I saw pictures of the bloated bodies of people that had spent their lives lying in a hospital bed surviving on liquid refreshments from a bag and morphine.

And I felt ashamed. I felt so friggin’ ashamed.

I went in and did their therapy. I spent another 6 weeks, three times a week getting that shit put through my system. My hair thinned but, didn’t fall all the way out. I didn’t get bloated. And I wasn’t in a relationship, so sex drive wasn’t an issue to be noticed. My friends did their very best to take care of me when I would let them. But, that was rare. I just wanted to get through it on my own, like a blip in time and then go back to my life like nothing ever happened. I knew that it would be hard to do, but it was my goal. About the fifth week, I started working out at the rehab center. I felt I was losing strength and didn’t want to lose anything at work. I wanted all of me back (except the damaged material).

It took about six months for me to get back to what I thought I was before all this mess. I moved right after that and relocated to Flint, Mi. I was chasing love again. But, what I found was another group of pretty amazing people. I have much love for my Flint family of friends. And I miss them daily.

I have been through a lot since this period in my life. And I spent a lot of time asking that question over and over again.

“Why me?”

It’s a pure “To God” question. As if God is going to take time out of his busy schedule to let you know exactly why you got a ticket for slow rolling a stop sign when everyone else was doing it, too. I mean, as serious as all this stuff has been, if God deemed it important enough to interrupt his work on feeding the hungry, saving the wicked, and loving the world…I would have been kind of pissed. Okay, may be not at the moment, but later on…for sure.

So, the point of this story? Well, this situation…the end of my second marriage…losing contact with my step-children…moving to a place that I hardly knew anyone….all this had me very aware of all my limitations….real and imaginary. And I lived in a lake of them…swam with my doubts…and soaked in my insecurities.

At some point, honestly I think it was the promotion. It was the thought that after such a short time, they thought I had what it took to fix a huge problem in a very important area of the store. It meant a lot to me. And it started the climbing out of the cave that I had been living in for a very long time. A cave that protected me from pain, frustration, disappointment, and…..

Cancer. (there I said it)


I had believed that I could hide from life and never have to deal with any physical or emotional pain ever again. But, that is not an answer. That is a death sentence. Not a physical death sentence. But, one of a mental and emotional sentence.

So, I dug myself out. At first, I told myself that I had to so that I could run this department. There is also the fact that my attention had been grabbed months before. That attention was becoming a distraction for me to try and hide in the cave. It was the last part of my personality that I allowed out of the cave…the personal life side. The emotional side. I kept thinking that I had no right to think that anything like that was possible for me anymore. I am too old to think that way. I am damaged. Emotional scars are the most visible. More visible than the physical ones that were left by this whole episode in my life (okay, I would have to pretty much strip to show them, but you get my point).

What I finally discovered was that I had to change my attitude. I had to change my thought process. I had to change the question.

“Why me”, no more!

It was time for a change. I remember sitting in my room when it crossed my mind the first time. Sitting in the dark thinking about where my heart was taking me. Thinking about where my job could be taking me. Thinking about where my life could be taking me. And I thought; …

“Why not me?”

I came to a decision that I had to start asking that question now, before it was too late. Living your life in a cave has it’s downfalls. You don’t seen the sun coming up or going down. You lose track of time. You don’t realize that your life is slipping away. And before you know it, your life is gone. Sitting in that cave kills you faster than any cancer cell.

So, “Why not me?” has sort of become my slogan in recent months.

Why not me…

To find happiness?

To become an ASM?

To be the man that I always wanted to be?

To be a friend that I would want?

To make a difference in the lives in the people that I care about?

To fall in love.

So, I don’t ask the “Why me?” question any more. I don’t waste my time with that thinking. Positive. That has to be the answer. I am not perfect with it. I still have some self awareness issues. I don’t take compliments well. And I don’t see some of the things people tell me that they see in me. But, I am happier about who I am now than I have been in a very long time. And for that I am grateful. Because, what it comes down to is….

“Why not me?”

Hurting for the sake of hurting

It's been approximately 14 months since I have seen my step-children. To say that this has been a difficult year would be an understatement. I was married for over 10 years...we were together for 2 years before that. The youngest child was just a little over three years of age when I showed up on the scene. Their father was the poster child for absentee. He only wanted to spend time with those kids to make their mother's life more difficult. When he had them, he hardly acknowledged them. They believed that it was the way father's acted. I set out to show them differently.

I was not a perfect parent. There really is no such thing. We all make mistakes. We all do things we wish we could go back and change. I know that I did everything I could out of love for each of them. I love them like my own and there is absolutely nothing I wouldn't do for them.

Their mother had done all she could to poison my relationship with the kids as soon as I was gone. The first couple of weeks were filled with emails telling me just how they missed me. Just how much they wish I could and would come home. It took their mom about 6 weeks to convince them that I was selfish and didn't love them. Coincidently, it was about the same time I refused to send her money to fix her car...or should I say my car...but, the one I left there for her as I got on a bus heading northeast.

So, imagine my surprise when a month or so ago, I get an email from my step-daughter. A beautiful young lady of 18 years. Smart and athletic, every parent's dream child. I was and am so proud of her. She knows that. She knows it very well.

She sent a few emails to let me know that she had been thinking about me. That she wondered how I was and when I was coming home, if ever. I softly explained that there was no chance of that. That I was home. That I was trying very hard to create a life for myself here. And that, no matter what, they...her and her brothers, would always be such an important part of my life. And if I could do anything for them, they should let me know.

She informed me last month that she as planning to get married in the fall. Her and her boyfriend had been dating since last October and were very much in love. I told her she may be too young. I told her all the things a father probally should, while trying be supportive. I told her that I would support her decision, no matter what it was. But, that I was worried for her.

A week after this annoucement I received an email with an attachment of a picture. The picture was one of her, in a wedding dress. It looked big, unfitted. It look off the rack and in need of tailoring. She told me that she went to the store just to window shop and saw the dress in the store and just loved it. She said that her mother told her that it was too much. She said she loved the dress.

I didn't agree to pay for it right away. I told her that sometimes we have to get what we can afford. That it wasn't about the dress, but about the love in the room and the reason for being there. She said she knew that. But, she, like all little girls, dreamed of a big wedding that she was never going to have...but, she thought she could at least get the dress she wanted. I agreed. $1400.

I saw the store name in one of the pictures that she sent to me...on a display on a shelf behind her. I looked it up online and called them. I told them about the situation and that I would like to pay for the dress. The women at the store told me that she wasn't sure who I was talking about or which dress. She told me that my step-daughter needed to come back to the store, select the dress, get measured, and then and only then, could she create a bill for me to pay. I told her that I would send her there right away.

I sent my step-daughter an email and told her about the conversation with the store owner. She said that she would do what she had to do and would let me know when it was time to call them back. After about a week, I emailed her again to check the status.

Today, getting home from work, I openned my email to find one from her. She wanted me to send the money directly to her and that she would pay for it herself when she went back to the shop. She said it would be easier that way, and...oh, yeah, she needed an additional 200 for alterations. I wrote her back and said that I would prefer to deal with the shop directly and I wanted to know how she knew how much the alterations were if she hadn't been back to the shop.

The next email showed me just how wrong I was about this whole thing. I had thoughts of being asked to walk her down the aisle. It would have been uncomfortable, but I would have done it. Her worthless father doesn't deserve the right to do it. And I would have been so proud. I spent a few weeks believing that I would see my step-children again. It filled my heart with hope for so much in my life. So, so ....so much.

Her last email told me that she just wanted the money. That she wasn't sure which dress she was getting, but I had already agreed to the amount. She said her mother told her that if I really loved her, I would send her exactly what I had agreed I would pay the bridal shop. That I would send it to her. No invitation to come, no walking down the aisle. I was a checkbook...for a wedding I am not sure even exists.

How low can people stoop? So low that they use their children to get all they can. Taking all I had in the world wasn't enough. Taking my step-children away from me isn't enough. Forcing me out of my family in shame and sadness isn't enough. Another ride around the merry go round was in order.

I tell you this, there is nothing on this Earth I want more than to trust people again. I want to believe that most people are good and don't want to do anything to hurt anyone. We expect this from strangers, acquaintences...when we can't get it from people that we care about most.

I have had moments recently of feeling that I am softening again. That I have allowed myself to feel again. That I gave myself permission to be happy again. And she has done her best to take that away. And...today...she is winning.

The Hitch

The young boy was doing what he loved. A leather glove on his left hand. The smell of leather oil and summer flowers drifted in his nostrils. He was on a field, doing what he loved more than anything. He did it with a concentration that exceeded his seven years. He wanted to be perfect. He wanted to be Willie Mays. But, there was a problem.

His father and his coach had pointed it out to him many times. A slight hitch in his throwing motion. An extra movement at the shoulder, like a pump, that caused a momentary delay in his release of the ball from his hand. His throws were rarely off-line, but when they were, the hitch was blamed. When the ball arrived to it’s destination late, the hitch was blamed. He had spent hours trying to work it off, to remove it from his follow through. But, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop doing it. It was part of him. No cutting it away. Maybe he could just play first base. It was kind of boring, not as bad a catcher, but you didn’t have to throw as much. The hitch could stay and few would be the wiser. But, his love was shortstop. His legs had speed and agility. He had the range of a cat and didn’t mind getting dirty to get to the ball. And the shortstop had the largest area to cover in the infield. All the running and jumping made it his passion. But, the hitch. The darn hitch.

He was holding his position at short. His friends covered the outfield, with another hitting batting practice shots through the infield. Every ball that came his way was another opportunity to try and find a way around the problem. His feet were always set. His mind always seemed to be able to see the ball hit just a moment before and he was rarely out of position. All that didn’t make up for the hitch. He thought; “First base, here I come.”

Distracted by his disappointment, a ball shot past him and he leaned just short of making the catch. The ball sailed through the infield, into the outfield and out of play. The rule was, your miss, your chase. Balls were valuable and they never let one go unfound. So, he turned and started on his fetch mission.

As he got to the edge of the park, there sitting on a bench, was the oldest person he had ever seen. His hair was white all over and his beard, cut short, looked like Santa Claus on holiday. He was a stranger to him, but for some reason the warnings of parents and teachers just didn’t seem to enter his mind. Almost immediately, he knew there was no threat here. So, he continued forward to pick up the ball and return to his friends.

“Hey there, young man. What happen, sun get in your eyes?”

The boy leaned down to pick up the ball. He rose and stared at the man sitting there. He couldn’t place the face, but something about him seemed familiar. For some reason, the boy thought he had seen those eyes somewhere before. He paid a lot of attention to eyes ever since his English teacher (Mrs. Brishaber, whom he had serious childhood crush on, like, forever) told him about someone being quoted for saying that they were the gateways to the soul or something. He had heard all this talk in church about the soul and how it was this magical thing that made each of us special. He thought that if he looked long and hard at the eyes of others, he could get a glimpse. He stared at the old man for a few moments, trying to get a peek. Trying to determine if his idea of safety was accurate. To see if this was a monster in grandpa’s clothes.

He didn’t see that. What he saw was general interest. And wisdom. Kindness. And, for a moment, just a flicker of understanding.

He explained that he had been thinking about something and just wasn’t paying attention.

“It’s that hitch in your throw, isn’t it? Now, don’t look surprised. I have been sitting here watching you boys for weeks. I don’t know a lot of things, but I know this game. And I know a good ball player when I see one. You son, you have potential. But, you have one problem.”

“I know, the hitch. That’s what my dad calls it, too. He said it’s like the hitch of a wagon that slows down the horses. Only this slows down my delivery.”

“No son, the hitch is not your problem. The problem is you are thinking about it too much. You have allowed the unorthodox movement in your delivery own you and you are starting to let it feed on your confidence. You have to let that go. It’s not important.”

“It is important. I will never play in the bigs if I have this thing. Late throws are the death of a shortstop. The ball has to arrive on time. Accurate but late throws are just that, late. That’s what my coach says.”

“Son, can I tell you something? They said a similar thing to a boy not so long ago. It seems that he had this odd stance at the plate. He stood in the batter’s box with his neck cricked over like he just got out of bed and had slept wrong. The bat was mere inches from his back shoulder and his hands rode the bottom of the bat just under his chin. He was told from a very young age that this wouldn’t work. He had to change it. But, it was what made him feel comfortable up there. He worked on his bat speed from that stance. He learned to move his wrists quicker than most and he learned how to control is bat. He is in the bigs now, boy. He is one of the greats. He may not be remembered like Mays or Ruth. But, someday people will remember him not only for his amazing ability to play this game or his unusual stance, but because he paid the ultimate price to try and make a difference.”

The boy tried very hard to put all that in perspective. What was this man saying? Who was he talking about?

“Just ask, boy. I’ll tell you. His name is Roberto Clemente. When you get done here, you go home and you ask your dad about him. I know for sure, being that he is from Pittsburgh, he knows just who I am talking about. And, son…he is going to have amazing memories to tell you about. Just ask him. When given the chance, your pop can really tell a good story. And he has a bunch.”

“How do you know my dad?”

“Oh, we have known each other for a very long time. I haven’t seen him in a long time. Life has it’s rules, you know? And sometimes they mean that people leave us. I hope to see him again soon, when I am done here.”

“Done here? Like dead, you mean?”

The boy knew he shouldn’t have said that. It’s not nice to talk about death with old people. His mom told him old people are too close to it to want to talk about it.

But, the old man just laughed.

“Not exactly, no. I just have a job to do.”

“A job? Aren’t you too old to be working.”

“You are never too old to do what you love, son. Never forget that.”

The boy started to walk away, ball in hand. He was thinking about what the man had said. Could he speed up his arm, not lose accuracy, and overcome the hitch? Instead of trying to delete it from his motion, could he find a way around it? He wasn’t sure. It would be a lot of work. He would have to practice twice as much. But, the best he ever felt was standing in the grass waiting for his shot to make a play. Plus, what else did he have to do this summer?

He turned back to the old man and thanked him. Told him he would try to work through it. Told him that he would take his advice.

“Hey, boy…come back here a second.”

The boy looked back at the man. Again, he saw something in his eyes. Something that seemed so familiar. Something that told him something very important was about to happen. Because, there was wisdom in those eyes. And something else. He just didn’t know what. He just knew that his parents had told him to be respectful of older people. That they may just have something very important to tell us. And that, as long as we didn’t get too close, we should not only hear what they had to say, but we should listen, too. So, he turned back to his friends and relayed the ball back into the infield. He yelled that he would be there in a minute and he turned back to the old man.

“Listen boy, this is important. You have to remember that those slight differences in all of us make us who we are. Sure, there are some that may see those differences and ridicule them. The reason for that is jealousy and envy. They are afraid of unique because they are afraid of standing apart. Don’t ever be afraid to stand apart. Know yourself and make the best of what you have. You only go around this thing one time. You have to grab it all with no room for fear or hesitation. There will be times when you will be so afraid, that you won’t want to move. In those moments, move! Just make a move. Right or wrong, it’s better than doing nothing. Nothing gets you nothing.”

The boy stood there soaking this all in. He felt like this man was reaching inside him and filling him up with some kind of magic gift. Some sort of window to his own soul. Could the man see through his boyish eyes? Could he see his soul?”

“Listen boy, one more thing. I know right now this may not seem to make sense to you. I know how you look at those pretty little girls as the enemy. But, that’s going to change. And you are going to know a lot of them. I mean, a lot of them. And a few are going to try and steal from you what makes you unique. You have talents, boy. You have something inside you and it’s not meant to be stuffed in a box and kept hidden away. And one more thing. There is going to come a day, a little ways from now…when you are going to meet a woman that will change your life. You will find that the road to happiness is not always easy. And you will get bumped and bruised along the way. And those scars are going to make you want to run from her like a dog with it’s tail between it’s legs. There will be obstacles to your happiness. But, whatever you do…no matter what anyone may tell you…never give up the fight. Trust me, boy. She’s going to be worth it. Because in the end, when you put down your glove and bat for the last time, you will know that what’s really important isn’t what others may think. But, what you know in your heart to be true. And, that is one awesome power. Now, that’s enough. You run back to your friends and work on that motion. You’ll get it. And you may not make it to the bigs, but you will always find your heart in that grass out there.”

The old man rose from the bench and gave the boy a wink. The boy just sort of stood there, not knowing exactly what to do. He wanted to call out to the man. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t sure he understood what he was trying to tell him. What was the point? And what’s all the talk about girls? All he wanted was to play ball. Girls just wanted to play with dolls and do their hair. Gross stuff. Why would he waste his breath telling him about girls?

He started to turn, to return to his friends. The confusion in him was full. He just wanted to get away from this strange man and get back to his place. The one place he felt at home. It was just then that another errant ball sailed past him, heading towards the bench where the old man had been seated. His friends screamed that he was already there, go fetch. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to get the ball. As he turned, he saw the old man rising, ball in his hand. He turned it in his bent and twisted fingers for a few moments. Just staring at it. Then a smile broke out on that wrinkled face. It was a smile drenched in memory and love. Something deep inside him had been touched. The old man looked up and saw the boy. He smiled again. And with a ease and grace, sent a perfect strike back to the boy.

And in the middle of that motion, at the top of the delivery…the boy could have sworn…he saw…just a hitch.

Perspective

The arrangements had been made ahead of time. We were trying very hard to keep it civil. All the fighting was done. There was very little left to say. The months apart had quieted me. Putting down the bottle helped. I started to realize that this process would go a lot easier if we could act like adults. So, when she told me that she was moving out of her parent’s house into her own place and she wanted a few things from the house we had shared to get started, I agreed. A list had been created and division was done. We both did our best to keep our heads and just push through what is always a difficult time.
I told her that I would leave a key in the mailbox and that she could come in the afternoon. It was a crisp January Saturday and I was going into work for a few hours to clean out my in box and prepare some document production requests. I told her I wouldn’t be home until around 6:30 and she assured me that she would be done by then.

That evening, as I turned the corner on to the street I lived, I realized that she had misjudged her timing. Her car was still in the driveway and the trunk was up. A small U-haul trailer was attached to the rear, filled with the things that were leaving for a new home. I almost kept going past, to give her more time. But, I thought maybe she was waiting for help with a particularly heavy item and I pulled in and started for the door.

She was standing in the foyer as I walked in, a little shocked that I was there. She said that she hadn’t realized the time and that she would be out my hair momentarily. I told her that wasn’t a problem and I grabbed a soda and headed for the back porch to catch a smoke and give her some space. I knew this had to be as hard on her as it was for me. I knew what was happening was for the best, but actually seeing your belongings in a trailer to be taken away by someone you thought would be sharing them with you forever was difficult to say the least. I lit my cigarette and started thinking of all the ways it had gone wrong.

_____________________________________________________________________________________


I had been writing in some form since I was nine years old. It started when my parents split up. My father was not a fan of weakness, especially from his one and only son. He didn’t want to see any tears. It just wasn’t manly. So, to express what I felt, I wrote. I wrote everyday.

I remember him questioning me on the amount of notebooks that I seemed to need for school. And when I requested them the following summer, his suspicion grew. Although I always did well in school, he knew for sure that I wouldn’t be doing school work during my time off. I hid my writing from him. I am not sure why. I think it was the fear of showing weakness. I thought he would see it as something that only overly sensitive little boys do and that wasn’t going to fly for his son. Slap pads on my shoulders or a glove in my hand and he was fine with that. But, writing? No, that just wasn’t going to do. I knew that as sure as anything. So, I hid my writing in the darkness of night, under the covers with a flashlight and a few well sharpened pencils.

I wrote about things that nine year olds should never have to write about. The fear of being a part of a broken home. Being separated from my mother and sisters. About the nights that Dad would sit in the chair in the living room, scotch in hand, Sinatra on the stereo. I wrote about the monsters that I felt were following me and doing these terrible things to my life. And I wrote about Colleen, who lived down the street.

In the summer after my tenth birthday, I came home from a basketball game at a neighbor’s house to find my father sitting at the kitchen table. My notebooks, which had been hidden under my mattress…all the way in the middle so no one could reach, were lying in the middle of the floor. He just stared at me for what seemed like forever. He rose from the chair after a few minutes. I was locked in place. He picked up each notebook one at a time, slowly and deliberately; as if to pile on the disgust that he had to even touch them. When the last one was gathered, he walked to the trash can…looked back at me and let them drop.

The message was clear. This is garbage and we don’t save garbage.

It was many years later before I picked up a pen and tried to create again. I will say that initially it wasn’t easy. I carried around that vision of my father’s look as he dropped my words into the trash. I knew that I never wanted to see that again. But, I was grown. I lived on my own. I had served my country. I could do what I wanted. As long as no one ever knew.

It wasn’t until six months after I was married that my secret was discovered. By then, I had many notebooks and journals full of narrative and fiction that started and never finished or completed, but was never satisfied with. I knew there was some gem in all of this, but I just couldn’t put it together. I kept trying to write a novel or a screenplay, but I couldn’t seem to put multiple stories together so they made one cohesive unit. I was never satisfied. And I never shared it. At least, not intentionally.

I came home from work one Wednesday evening, not surprised that she wasn’t home. Her and my sister had taken Wednesday nights to be there “Girls Night” out. I never asked. I don’t think I wanted to know. I went into my room, to my desk and opened the locked lower drawer. This is where I kept my notebooks. Safe from prying eyes. Safe from judgment.

I tried to get some work done, but was just feeling tired. I went to bed early that night. A long weekend of work was looking me in the face and I just wanted to get some rest and not think about what was going on for “Girls Night.”

It was about 2 am when I woke up. I thought she had fallen asleep with the television on. I heard laughter and some muffled talking. And over it all, a voice talking in a cadence that resembled an untrained actor reading from a teleprompter. I turned on my bedside light and started out of be to investigate the situation when I was frozen in my tracks. The bottom drawer of my desk was open. I was sure I had closed it. Had I locked it? I couldn’t recall. I never forgot. Never left that open. But, I was so tired. Could I have done something so stupid?

As I got into the foyer just outside the living room, I realized there was a small group of women there. My wife was propped up on the arm of the couch, my books on the table and one in her hands. She was reading out loud the words that I had written for no one.

And they were laughing.

I stepped into the room and it got quiet real fast. Everyone stared at me, the oxygen just sucked from the room. In that vacuum, I stood solid, not sure exactly what to do or say. So, I turned on my heal and headed back to my room. The laughter broke out as soon as I closed the door. In the morning I went to the living to find all my things scattered about. I picked them up, returned to my desk and locked them away in their safe place.

“You do realize that now, they aren’t just your’s anymore? I have known about the for a long time. It’s not the first time I have read them. It’s not the first time we have reviewed them and considered what a joke you are. They aren’t just yours anymore. They are the entertainment of all.”

I got up from my desk, went to the shower to get ready for work. I never spoke of that night again.

About two years later, the law firm I was working for upgraded their computer systems. All the desktop workstations were put up for auction to the employees. I was lucky enough to land one with a laser printer. I took it home with a few dozen floppy discs and proceed to transcribe my stories from my notebooks. Once a book was completed, I put it in my briefcase, took it to work and had it shredded. I then would save everything onto the floppy discs. I figured that I would never have to worry about that horrible night occurring again. She didn’t know how to turn on a computer, much less bring up anything on those discs. I just had to keep my printing to a minimum. No hard copies. No real need. No one was ever going to see them. It was no time before I had to buy another dozen discs to hold all of what was pouring out of me. My dreams, my visions, my thoughts and prayers. All collected on these flimsy discs. Security of the day. I felt safe knowing they were safe.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

I finished my smoke and headed back inside to see if she needed my help. I thought that if I was kind to her, if I remained civil, it would all go smoothly and be over in no time. No pain. No ugly words. Just a good bye and have a nice life and it would be done.

I looked through the main part of the house and didn’t see her. I couldn’t think of anything on our lists that included anything from my bedroom. The spare room I had turned into a den of sorts, moving my desk and computer there. I called it my sanctuary, the place I could let go. The door to that room was open, but it was empty. I noticed the bathroom door was closed and headed for it. I then notice a sound.

Snap. Clink.

At first I thought it was glass breaking. I had a vision of her in the bathroom freaking out a bit and dropping something made of glass. But, the sound was too tinny for glass. It was something else. Something I couldn’t identify.

I knocked on the door and asked if she was okay. She hesitated and the sound stopped. She told me she was gathering the last of her hair and skin products and that she would be out in just a moment. I turned to walk away and…

Snap. Clink. Snap. Clink.

The sounds were getting faster. I detected the second sound seeming to be something striking porcellin and then a faint sound of water. Again, I was at a loss.

“Are you sure your okay?”; I asked.

“I am fine. Just one more minute.”

Snap. Clink. Snap. Clink.

I tried to turn the handle, but it was locked. Something inside of me was telling me I had to get in there. Something was truly not right. After a few attempts at knocking and shaking the door on it’s hinges, it opened.

She stood there with a smile of accomplishment on her face. She had succeeded in whatever her goal was and I was very afraid to find out what that was. I backed away from the door as she exited and told me that she was completely finished and that she would be leaving now.

I entered the bathroom and looked around. I couldn’t find the source of the sounds. I couldn’t figure out what could have been happening here. I sensed her presence and turned to find her standing in the doorway, a smile across her lips.

“Lift the lid, if you are so curious.”

I did.

And there, swimming the water used to remove our waste, were thirty some odd broken floppy discs. By the time I could turn around and ask her why, the front door was closing and she was gone.


_____________________________________________________________________________________

A few of those writings were still on the small hard drive of that old computer, but most were not. The only copy was on those discs. Those thoughts, dreams, feelings, concerns, fears, and stories were gone forever. Such a waste. Such a painful waste.

It took me about ten years before I could think to start writing again. I kept it on my computer, locked away in a secure folder. I would save them to thumb drives that never left my possession. I trusted no one. I shared very, very little.

It remained that way until recently.

Why?

I think it was the realization that there was nothing to be ashamed of in my words. All they were, really, were just my thoughts and experiences. And, those are the things that make me who I am, just as all that occurred in all this are just pieces of the puzzle that create what sits here typing now.

I also understood that there was no way anyone was ever going to really know me unless they had the chance to see inside my head. Unless they got a glimpse of what makes me who I am.

So, with fear set aside, I share. I don’t apologize for what I write anymore. I am not ashamed of it. I am not concerned of what others may think.

Because in the end, to anyone that doesn’t understand…they are just words.

But, they are my words.

Time to turn the page

I stare at the words for a very long time. It seems that I have been looking at them forever. The writing is in my hand. I recognize the turn of phrase, every nuance in the lines. I see the stanzas, wrinkled and torn, that showed the pain. I see the spots dripped with tears of joy over what was being expressed. This represents my world, the way I saw it. The way I have seen it for some time. But, it was just my vision. The meaning shared with no one. The expression falling short. It holds me now. I can't seem to take my eyes away.

This represents months of work. But, then again, it represents so much more. It expresses a release of so much that held me back. So much that kept me from becoming who I could be. What is shared here is the begining of starting over again. It shows the opening of a heart.

Light is fading around me. The words are getting harder and harder to see. I know that it's time to move past this. Not to close the book, but to only turn the page. To move to the next chapter. As hard as that seems to be, I know in my heart for the good of all involved, it's what's needed. And yet, hesitation continues.

Taking a deep breath, I muster up the courage to try to find the next focus. The next muse in this neverending gathering of my thoughts, fears, joys, loves, and all the rest that make up who I am. It's time to see the truth. And realize there isn't a damn thing I can do to change it. I can't write another ending. I can't muster up the words to change the outcome.

So, wetting my finger and thumb, I reach for the corner of the page. I begin to start the process of letting go.

Maybe, just for another moment, I will hold onto the joy of all this. And remember never to forget. Just for another moment, before I turn the page.

Grace

I will be honest, the last few days have filled me with a strong sense of awe. I don't mean to sound as if I making more out of anything than there is or could ever be. It's not about that. It's about the grace that has been exhibited.

Imagine this, someone comes to you and says they are going to give you a job, great benefits, and outstanding pay. Sounds amazing. Who wouldn't want that? Now, the catch is that the job is scraping out the bottom of septic tanks. Wouldn't that seem to be a bad luck falling all over you? I mean, everyone wants more money. And the benefits are always a good thing to have. But, the payoff is a little tough to receive knowing exactly what is delivered upon you. Now, think of it this way. You are not given a choice whether to take it or not. It's just there. You can walk away, but the job isn't going anywhere...at least not right away.

That has to be what this must feel like. Someone lets you know that they have something inside of them for you that everyone on Earth is looking for in their life at some point. To have someone think so much of them, that they can't think of much else. To have someone think you are beautiful, inside and out. To have someone tell you that the thought of the touch of your hand on theirs keeps them up nights. And the catch? It's not who you want it to be. Probably not even close.

My concern over the last few days has been that I would lose someone that I find becoming a good friend. I value friendships more than most things. Jobs come and go. Relationships like marriage have a very high fail rate. Life changes all the time. But, the one constant that I have found is the love and concern of friends. It rarely wavers. And that is a valueable thing. And a very difficult thing to risk. Especially when it's really only just getting started.

That risk, plus the risk of being ridiculed has kept my mouth shut about this, except for vague references, for a very long time. I should have known better. I should have trusted my judgment of character.

The grace that has been shown in the last couple of days has reminded me that there still are some very special people left out there. The grace that has been shown has touched me more than I can put into words. This is a special person. But, to be honest, I knew that already. What has happened over the course of the last 72 hours or so is just proof to the belief. Like a miracle rewards faith, grace has rewarded me with so much. So, so much. A sense of peace. A sense of being seen for who I am. I released a secret and got repaid with a kindness and a sense of concern for my feelings that we don't see very often. Nothing else may have changed very much, but this blessing has shown me that the only way to true happiness is to take the risk, trust your judgment, and allow your faith in others to be rewarded.

If this ended tomorrow, not another word between us, it would not diminish how I have felt recently. It would not remove the smile from my face. I would miss. I may even mourn the loss. But, my heart would always be guided by the reminder that when handed this "gift", her grace saved me.

A Crush versus a Torch

If you have read any of this stuff, first…I am shocked. I never thought that I was interesting or that I had anything to say that anyone wanted to hear. I have been a writer for a very long time in this vein. But, I have always kept it to myself. Sharing it would be exposing something that I wasn’t sure I wanted everyone to know. I still have moments of doubt. Fear of being considered foolish. Fear of feeling silly. But, fear is something that we all have to face head on. So, lets go…shall we?

Another thing you may be thinking is that I tend to write about things concerning pain or disappointment. I am here to say that it’s not all I think about. As a matter of fact, I rarely think about it at all. The reason is that I write it out and get it out of my head. It’s something I learned as a child. It’s something that I learned even more as I grew older, went to school, and learned more about structure of a story (whether it’s fiction or non). I don’t believe I am gifted. I just do my very best to write exactly what I feel in my heart and what I think in my head. If that is narcissistic, then so be it. But, it helps me to stay grounded.

In that context, there seems to be some curiosity about some things that I have posted. Those posts would be about a “crush”, I believe it’s been called. First, I honestly believe I may be way too damn old for a crush. I don’t know, maybe not. But, it seems such a childish term for what is going on inside me. And what that would be is happiness. I wish I could explain it more than that one simple word. And yet again, is it really that simple?

What I have noticed lately is just how unhappy so many people seem to be. Whether it’s about their personal life, work life, or something in between. I am not talking about everyday bitching. I am referring to a general unhappiness with the way things seem to be. And that disappoints me more than I can explain. Because, if those that seem to have so much aren’t happy, what chance do those of us that are trying to regain themselves again have in this quest for peace, love, and happiness?

Getting back to this curiosity, I admit that I am at fault. I have said things that obviously refer to someone and the internal complexity of what it is doing to me. I claim that. Guilty as charged. And the curiosity is natural, because I have failed to identify this person. I have served up a very personal side of myself without giving up the payoff pitch. There are some that believe they know. What they know is the past, a glimpse of a mistake that I made. Not really a mistake, more like a distraction.

What occurred is that I told a couple of people that I may be attracted to someone that was completely out of reach…for many reasons. I am not saying that I wasn’t finding the person attractive. She is truly beautiful. But, what she also is, is not near. She was safe to hide behind. What I started to realize is that what I had done is to claim feelings for someone that was a safe distance away from me so that I had not to show myself at all. No risk, no chance of getting hurt. No chance of being rejected. But, something really quite surprising and amazing occurred while I held up this false flag.

While I hid behind this lie, a light started to glow much closer. I tried very hard to ignore it…for many reasons. I tried very hard to convince myself that I was mistaken. But, that damn light just kept getting brighter and was shining right in my eyes.

Allow me at this time to apologize to those I seemed to lie to. I tried to tell one of them the truth not long ago. But, I was concerned that I would look like some fickle fool or someone chasing any thing of the opposite sex. Nothing could be further from the truth. Okay, when I was young…I sort of lived that life style for a long time. But, it’s not who I am now. So, again…to those people (they know who they are), I apologize.

So, this “crush” has been my secret for a while now. I didn’t want to face it at all. I thought that it was silly to think that anyone like “her” would look at me at all. I still have some doubts. But, doubts don’t change feelings. They just stop actions. They freeze us in place with the feeling that taking any next step will cause the ground to fall out from beneath us. But, it doesn’t mean that they are not valid. Doesn’t mean that the feelings aren’t real. What some have called a crush, may just be a torch. There is a difference, you know? A crush is a weightless thing we walk around with, like a feather that tickles us once in awhile and makes us giggle. A torch is heavy and never lets you forget that you own it. It shines on you and as the light gets brighter, the ability to hide what you feel becomes much more difficult. People notice. You can’t keep from leaving hints all over everything you say and do. And your own hints make you smile.

First let me say, that by all appearances…this is one sided. I will also say that the only two people that really know who I am talking about is her and I. Not because I have said it, but because I think to her it has had to become obvious. And that makes me smile and shake with fear all at the same time. I can’t sleep. I feel tongue tied around her some times. I believe, in those moments, that the words are just pouring out of my skin. I think about it all the time, my emotions going up and down with my belief in miracles and my doubts in my ability to attract this woman…probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. No, not probably.

The last week and a half have had me walking a little taller, feeling like the past has finally let me go and allowed me to feel again. For those of you that really know me, I have been shut down for years. I have made no secret of that to anyone that has had the curiosity to ask. I know there are some that say I don’t say much at work. Granted, I may not initiate conversations often unless it’s work related, but when asked, I answer…with truth, cause that is the only thing I can do.

There is a very good chance that no one will ever know more than what I am saying right now. There is a very real chance that nothing will ever come from all that is stirring inside me. I told a friend not long ago, after meeting his girlfriend, that he shot way over his head and hit a bulls eye. Meaning that he was walking with someone way out of his league. First, I hope he knows I was joking. But, in this instance….my feelings, if aimed properly, have me shooting for a place beyond the stars and I know it. I know it more than anyone.

But, here is the point. The real reason for writing any of this. Even if my shot misses badly, no one can ever take the last few days of smiling, excitement, and a feeling of acceptance away from me. In the last year here in Ship, I have met some really amazing people. Some have made me laugh, some have me praying for them daily, and others have made me think more than they realize. This person has, without even realizing it, made this silly fool think that his last chance really wasn’t his last chance. That there is a world out there that very well may want me to be a part of it. And for that, I thank her more than I can say.

And for it all, I am truly grateful that the light shined in my eyes and handed me a torch that has, so far, been an amazing thing to carry. That sound you here is the sound of the stone wall around my heart falling away. Can you hear it? Do you think she can hear it? God, I hope so. And, the only hope is that it makes her smile.

That Very Last Night

(Understand that this may not be the easiest thing to read. I struggled with posting it because it’s so damn personal and not a pretty time in my life. I only post it for two reasons. One, it explains a decision I have made in my life and it explains the person I am today. I apologize for anyone who may find it uncomfortable reading. I am not asking for pity or for anyone to see me as a victim with this. It‘s just my story. And, for better or worse, it‘s what makes me the person I am today. Good or bad.)

I remember the last night clearly, surprisingly. I had worked a twelve hour day getting ready for a trial in New York. I had stopped in a bar with a few co-workers for a few drinks in center city Philly just to unwind before going home. I had been doing a lot of unwinding in recent weeks. Things had gotten kind of dark for months. I was working an average of 70 hours a week. When the lawyers you work for tell you to slow down, you know you are working too much. But, I didn’t care. It was all I had. It was the only way to keep me from thinking about my life, or lack of one. In the time of living alone, I had spent very little time with family and friends. When you are going through something personal and painful, people tend to shy away, as if whatever you may be going through is catching. I don’t blame them I would have been afraid of me at that time, too. I wasn’t a pleasant person to be around outside of work. For some reason, once I hit that office, I could turn it off. I could shut it out and focus. I still do my best to do that, just not for the wrong reasons. When doing it for the wrong reasons, it’s like wearing a sandwich board that has “Stay away, a friggin’ mess here!”
My first wife had moved out two months before, for the very last time. I guess I should say that I asked her to leave me. I had found her with another man for the fourth time in our marriage. I worked too much and she found comfort in other men. I can’t say that I blamed her. I was nobodies dream. I didn’t get angry or violent. I didn’t destroy property. I just asked her, politely, to leave and never come back. It was the smartest thing I had ever done in my life, but not the easiest thing to live with afterwards. My guilt was thick and was starting to become overwhelming. I knew that I had never strayed. I never so much as looked at another woman. But, I did seem to live a life that didn’t include her. I think I treated her like a painting hanging on the wall. A very nice thing to look at when I had the time to do so. I just didn’t take enough time to really see. Especially after the first time. By the fourth time, I was almost numb. My friend helped. My very good friend.
I got home from the bar sometime after 10 pm. I immediately went to the bedroom I had shared with a woman I thought I loved and thought who loved me and changed my clothes and put my briefcase on my desk. I put on my favorite sweats and went to my freezer. That is where I kept my best friend. The one friend I had at the time that was always there for me. It never judged me. It never called me a fool for taking her back all the other times just to get slammed again. It never made me feel like I had nothing left to give. It was my friend.
It was a one liter bottle of Stoli vodka.
I grabbed a glass, sliced a lemon, and filled a bowl with ice and went to the living room and sat on the couch. I loved that couch almost as much as I loved my friend. I bought it just a few months before because I couldn’t bear to look at the old one. The memory of what I saw my wife doing with a friend of mine on day was just too much for me to live with in my house any longer. I didn’t sell the old one. I had a burn pit in the back yard. I took an axe that I borrowed from a neighbor and I chopped it into pieces and burned it too ash. I am pretty sure my friend, Stoli, was there for that, too.
At about 11 pm, I had made the decision that it was time to figure out what the hell I was still doing hanging on to a life that seemed worthless. I did it the only way I knew how, I went to my desk and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. I drew a line in the middle of the page and wrote “Pros” and “Cons” on the top.
At midnight the “Cons” heavily out-weighted the “Pros”. I stared at the page for a very long time. Reading each “Con” brought visions to my mind. Memories of days past. Memories of pain received and delivered. Emotional pain, not physical. Never physical. Just the emotional abuse that her infidelity caused and the emotional abuse that my complete lack of attention can cause.
I didn’t marry the first time until I was thirty. At the age of twenty-nine, I told anyone that would listen that I would never get married. My parents were broken before my age hit double digits. All of my sisters, who are all younger than I, had been married and divorced by that time. I wanted nothing to do with God’s blessed union.
But, then I turned thirty. I wasn’t twenty something anymore. I wasn’t a kid. It was time to grow up. Time to put the childish things of my youth away and start being responsible. She just happened to be the one I was dating when this decision was made. It was a very stupid thing to do. It was a great mistake. But, I believed that by saying those words, “I do”, would change my heart and my life into what it was supposed to be. Into what everyone told me it was supposed to be. I was very, very wrong.
I couldn’t come to terms with what was going on in my head. I was struggling and didn’t realize just how much. I looked at my lists like a work project. Make the list of priorities and facts. Prove and justify the facts. Make a knowledgeable decision based on those facts and then argue it until there was nothing left to say. I kept thinking that there had to be something that could save me from this feeling of being so absolutely alone. So absolutely pathetic.
The biggest thing was the fool that I had become to everyone who knew me at the time. I kept taking her back. I can’t say that I forgave her. That is a different animal all together. I just didn’t want to fail. I hate to fail. I know that it’s part of life. I realize that we all mistakes. But, at the time, I didn’t want to believe that I would fail at this…not a marriage.
I do remember pouring the last of that beautiful liquid into the glass, putting in ice and lemon and taking a long pull. The burn in the back of my throat was the very best feeling. It was the reminder of just what it was for. Too cause a little lovely pain into the body of someone who had refused to deal with and face the damage in his life. The wreckage behind me blurred to a jumble of ghosts that I could justify wasn’t really there. I looked at those moments as escape. A way to rise above the damage and believe that I was what I once was. Young. Strong. Important to someone. It had been a very long time since I had felt that.
I won’t say that I actually thought of a way to end it. I did have one idea. At the time, I had a antique stove that had a oven with a pilot that had to be lit every time the nozzle was turned and the oven used. I thought I could just turn it on, not light the pilot, lay down and go to sleep. It would be over. No pain. So gutless. The crazy thing, the reason I dismissed it was the only other living creatures in my home besides me were two cats that I loved very much. “Francis Albert” because he was strikingly white with amazing blue eyes (for Sinatra, for those who may not understand the reference, who was known as old blue eyes) and a beautiful black cat named “Sammy”…again, for Sammy Davis…I know, horrible way to reference the Rat Pack. But, I loved them and didn’t want to hurt them. It was winter in Jersey, too cold too put them outside to keep them safe. So, I dismissed that idea.
At some point I passed out. I don’t remember what time, exactly, that it was…but, my best guess was sometime after two am. I woke up at six am on my new couch. I rolled over and saw the glass first. Have to admit that my first thought was the realization that I had finished my bottle and had not saved any more for a new day. I then saw my lists.
“Pros” “Cons”
I froze. It dawned on me what I was looking at. It was the justification for my life. It was the argument for my existence. It was my life’s eulogy prior to death.
And it scared the hell out of me.
I spent a very long time sitting there staring at my words. The paralegal in me started to take over. I realized that it wasn’t about the number of points under each heading. Volume wasn’t the important factor. I stared at it until I could find the answer to the importance. And then it hit me. Like a brick between the eyes. Under the “Pro” heading:
“Because I want to fall in love. With myself and someone else. “
That was November the 12th, 1994. At approximately 2 am on that day, I had my very last drink of alcohol. No withdrawals. No “DTs”. I went to the meetings for a couple of years. I honestly found some help there, but mostly I found a singles group without alcohol. And that was not what I wanted. In my sobriety I discovered that I better figure out who the hell I was before I tried to figure out someone else. I was scared of my life as a sober person those first years. I hid from alcohol like a scared child under his blanket afraid of the boogyman in the closet. Until I realized, like that child, I was afraid of something that I created and made strong. I just had to decide that I didn’t need it.
Am I an alcoholic? Who answers that? I never found myself in a gutter. I didn’t miss work because of it. I wrecked no cars and didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t get drunk and start bar fights. I just used it as an escape. What I really had become was lazy. I worked real hard, but in the rest of my life I put forth little effort. I took care of my friends, my family but I never tried taking care of myself. I was sliding through life thinking that all I had to do was glide on the ice and not hurt anyone on the way. Beginning to end, that was all that mattered. When I would fall, I would reach for my friend. My very good friend, Stoli.
The change that I have developed over the years is the understanding that I have to reach for my own soul, my own heart in those moments of crisis. I have to remember who I am, what I am, and get up and keep on moving. It hasn’t always been easy. I have been tempted. It’s been a while, but I have. But, the lesson someone like me has to learn the hard way is that no matter how much you drink, the pain and the problems that put you in that barstool will still be there when you sober up. No magic vodka cocktail makes that go away.
It’s been a very long time since that night. I think of it on occasion. In moments when I feel as if I don’t have the answers. When I think that happiness escapes me. And I shake myself a bit, change my focus, and take the next first step. And I walk a little further away from that person that sat to write that list.
He is dead. Dead a very long time. His memory lives in that part of me that most call our inner voice. His only reason for existing there is for the reminder of just how strong I am.
And, mark my words, I will never be that weak again.
One day at a time.

Do you make a sound?

The question has always been, if a tree falls in a forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? I always found this kind of lame. My logical brain tells me that physical presence has no bearing on what occurs when a huge hunk of wood hit’s the ground. Of course it’s going to make a sound. It’s the only answer that makes sense.

My question has always been, if it does make a sound, who is the sound for?

People have looked the original question and only thought of it as some magic trick that God or Mother Nature could play. Remove sound during the crashing of a tree to the Earth. But, what the question is really asking is if an act needs a witness to be real and viable? I would say yes. Although the act wasn’t seen or heard, the ripples from it’s occurrence will still travel across moments to touch something/someone somewhere. Again, the question comes down to whom it’s for and why, doesn’t it?

I remember, years ago, reading a story in a Philadelphia newspaper about a man who weekly would put an envelope with twenty dollars in it in various places of the city where the homeless would gather. He would write on the envelope; “Pray for me.” After a few years of doing this, someone brought it to the attention of the reporter who researched the situation to try and figure out who was behind this act of buying prayers. It seemed such a selfish thing to do. The reporter spent weeks trying to figure this out, talking to groups at homeless shelters and soup kitchens to see if anyone had spied this person leaving their prayer request and donation. After about a month, the reporter was sitting in his office when a dirty, scary looking man walked off the elevator and into the lobby. The reporter’s phone rang and he was called to the front, being told that someone was there to see him. When he spoke to the obviously homeless man, he learned that this man read his column every day. That he had been following the story of the mysterious benefactor. He told him he thought there was something he should know. He then pulled a dirty envelope from his pocket and handed it to the reporter. Written on the outside were the words, “Pray for me.”

“Open it up. Look and find what you need to know.”; said the homeless man.

He pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill. He flipped it in his fingers and looked at the man with questions in his eyes. He wondered what more he was supposed to see. The story was the same as it had been. Nothing seemed different, nothing new.

“No, man…look closer. Really look.”

The reporter brought the bill up closer to his face to really see and inspect it. In very small print, written on the border of the government ink, were the words, “And I will pray for you.”

The envelopes being found would have to be the tree falling in the forest. No one saw him put it there. And the story seemed odd. Those who heard of the story assumed this must be some guilt ridden person trying to make something he or she had done right with God.

The bill and what was written on it were the ripple. A seemingly hidden action, making it’s way out into humanity. Although it had taken people this long to realize that these two acts were linked, once it was reported, it was only then that people started to understand the effect. Think about it. Once the bills were spent, how many people would have the chance to see those words printed on a bill? How many would think or so desperately want to believe that they had been placed there just for them? And the true magic of it all is his or her hope that no one would link the two events. They didn’t want credit. They only wanted the ripple.

I have carried that story around with me for a very long time. I have tried very hard to remember the thought process of the person who would take the time to distribute these envelopes.

And it has always occurred to me that it isn’t about whether or not the tree makes a sound. It’s the silent effect of the ripples that it causes that have all the power. And in those ripples we find the best of ourselves. Even if no one ever hears. Even if they never know for sure.

July 4th, 2010 Rants

Okay, lack of sleep makes my mind wander to the trivial. I am not going to lie, I am fully aware that I have way too much time on my hands. But, sometimes…the only way to get this crap out of my head is to put it to paper and share it. So, here are a few things that have crawled through my mind over the last few days.

Elin Nordegren aka Mrs. Tiger Woods - Really? $750 million? Three quarters of a BILLION dollars. That breaks down to, if she were to live another 45 years, approximately 1.7 million dollars a year. Need it broken down more? That is just over $45,000 a day. For being a wife and mother. Don’t get me wrong, what he did was disgraceful. He should be ashamed. And I don’t believe any clinic cures anyone from being a dawg. You don’t sit in a few group sessions and cure yourself of chasing Denny’s waitresses. It’s something that is there created by power, arrogance, and a complete lack of respect for self and others. And that is an infection that the mortal man has a hard time letting go of, reference Billy Clinton. But, $45,000 a day is the punishment? The money is going to come from golf and the only club this young lady has ever swung has been at his windshield. Okay, it was a really good stroke that had him slice his Escalade into a tree, but not worth this kind of payment. I don’t feel sorry for him. But, he is paying a very high price for chasing a few waitresses. Someone needs to introduce the man to the concept of a “tip”. You just leave a little more than the check and then you leave. You owe your waitress nothing more than that. I’ll bet this is a lesson he will never forget, being reminded every day when he writes that check. And lesson number one in the “cheaters” handbook is, never, ever give your phone number to the woman on the side. This is proof positive that when men think with the wrong head, our IQ points drop in half.

George W. Bush - I read recently that our former president is receiving anywhere between $300,000 and $500,000 an appearance to have him speak. There is also talk of building a library for him. Really? Are our memories so short that we don’t remember the eight years this man spent publicly showing the world just what a disgrace our educational system has become. He can’t string three sentences together without a speech writer, a vocal coach, and cue cards. And people are paying him to speak? Our president is supposed to be the best representation of our knowledge, class, moral integrity, and common sense. When are we going to come to terms that we made a huge error in judgment (twice) and put this walking puppet back in his box, never to be seen again?

Paris Hilton/The Kardashians/Housewives of …wherever - We have made “celebrities” of people for doing…ahhh….nothing. Look, I don’t expect some deep thought provoking revelation from every person I come across. I realize that is too much pressure to put on the human race. But, damn…why these people? Paris Hilton is famous for two things….the hotels with her last name and a sex tape. That’s it. Everything else we know about her stems from those two things. Her ancestors spent lifetimes creating a name on a product that represents one of the bests in what they do. And she has spent somewhere around thirty years turning that name into a joke. The Kardashians? Are you really aware of how we know them? Two things. One, their father was a best friend of O. J. Simpson, he was one of the lawyers that represented him and if you watch that verdict tape, you can see, by the look on his face, that he was the most surprised person in the room when he realized his buddy actually go away with it. The other thing? Bruce Jenner. A lot of people hardly realize who he is, but when I was a kid he was “the” athlete. He was the cover of the Wheaties box. Now, he is the butt of most of the jokes on that stupid, stupid show. And that brings us to the “Housewives…” . All of these types of shows are born out of the MTV show “Real World”. The first couple of seasons of that show were actually interesting. Soap operas in real life. But, once those involved realized they could get famous doing these “reality” shows, the show went in the toilet. And everything since has been just another trip into the bowl. But, they are everywhere. And the truth in the matter is that it’s not really about who is on it. It’s the fact that, America, apparently really enjoys watching train wrecks. It’s the Jerry Springer effect. The guilty pleasure that we don’t want to admit we watch, but we catch it once in awhile just to convince ourselves that we aren’t as screwed up as we think we might be. Not compared to those nuts. Free therapy. What’s next? Where is the next step on this ladder into brain dead distraction? I am not sure, but I will tell you this…the thought of what it could be scares the hell out of me.
And for the sports fans:

LeBron James - Okay, he is a amazing ball player. He came out of high school, straight to the pros and lit it up. But, over the last few months, with his contract with Cleveland ending and his move to free agency, he has been mentioned on ESPN and other sports programs delay. It’s the LeBron James auction. Who’s going to be the biggest money bags to get him to come to their team? I will be honest when I tell you that I will be shocked if he leaves Cleveland. But, if he did, that wouldn’t bother me as much as the hype over all this. He has had his name mentioned in the same sentence as Michael Jordan. Really? The greatest player ever to lace them up? Really? Here’s the problem with that….HE HASN”T WON ANYTHING! A great talent? Sure. But, you can’t put your name in the same sentence as MJ, or Magic, or Bird, or Wilt until you win at least a couple of championships. MVP is an individual award. Basketball is a team sport. Win the trophy and then come to me with this argument.

I guess that’s enough for tonight. Need to get some sleep. Happy 4th all.