Pavlov's Girlfriend

I'm not a guy that has had a ton of girlfriends. I've had more than my fair share of dates, but because I tend to find most people insufferable, dates don't usually make it much further than two. To be fair, I'm sure I'm just as intolerable to most women as most people are to me. I've often said, and still maintain, that I'm a bit like beer; an acquired taste. On that same note, if you like me you probably really like me and if you don't, you'd like to see my entire house burn down with my family inside. That's just the way it works out.

So, I'm definitely not a ladies' man. I've had a couple long-ish term relationships, but not any that have yet developed into anything that's stopped my search. They usually end peacefully and with some semblance of us still being friends (or at the very least not enemies, which is just as good in my book). One of my relationships I dated a girl for a few years, we'll call her Tonya. I thought the world of Tonya although she had a few things that were irritating, I thought she might be the one. In hindsight I'm glad it never got to that point due to a lot of alarming things, but while I was in it, I was smitten.

Tonya and I would go on a lot of road trips together. Road trips are fun no matter what and when they're with the person you're in love with, they're even better. It's a great way to learn about someone, get lots of meaningful conversation in, and also act like idiots singing along to the radio.

While on one of our trips one day,  a thought struck me... Pavlov classically conditioned his dog to salivate every time he rang a bell by constantly feeding it whenever he rang that bell. So, he'd ring this bell and feed the dog. Every day just like that. I don't know how we measured the dog salivating, but it was proven somehow that the dog learned to associate the ringing bell with getting fed so that whenever Pavlov rang that bell, the dog would start drooling in anticipation of the food he was sure was coming.

So would this work with a person? I had to find out. But what could I do? How could I test this for myself and do my own little science experiment? I wanted to figure it out for myself. Just then Tonya interrupted my train of thought with a "Hey... love you," which I, of course, returned with a little squeeze on her knee.

A few seconds more down the road and I realized... that was it. A squeeze on the knee could be the same as ringing a bell and the "love you" would be the food. It seemed too good to be true that I had it sorted that quickly. I wanted to get started right away, but didn't want to appear too obvious... not that it would be plainly obvious what I was doing to any sane-minded person, but that's just the way my mind works. I waited until well into the drive after a rest stop which we got some sodas at before starting. I reached over, squeezed her knee, and said, "Love you," which she returned. I had only even done this this one time and I thought it was hysterical already, but had to contain it.

From then on, whether it was a road trip or just a short trip up to the store, I made it a point to do it. Reach over, squeeze her knee affectionately, and say, "Love you." She always returned it. This had gone on for several months before I decided it was time to try it out for real.

I can't remember where we were going, but it seemed like it was somewhere in or near Detroit. It was a long drive, about 3 hours or so. We might have been a little under halfway to our destination when I reached over and affectionately squeezed her knee followed by complete silence. A couple seconds passed and I was beginning to think I was a failure and then she slowly turned her head to me and said, "Hey... I love you."

OH MY FUCKING GOD IT WORKED! At least, I figured the one time of it seeming to work was enough for me. Again though, I had to keep it all inside. There's no way in Hell I could reveal that I had basically trained (read: classically conditioned) my girlfriend to tell me she loves me on cue. I kept it together and simply replied exactly as she expected, "I love you too."

On the way back, after a long day, I had to try it again. Sure enough, it was almost the same exact response. A light, affectionate squeeze on the knee, a few seconds elapsed, and she came out with it: "I love you." My mind raced at the possibilities. What evil could this be used for? Could I classically condition her to do sexual favors? Would it go that far? All the other ideas I had were no less sinister and, when I think about sharing them, come off like I'm a misogynist (like having her make me a sandwich)... so I'll leave them out. Somehow, this alone truly seemed somewhat morally ambiguous and evil.

I kept it up for a long time. Until the end of our relationship, actually.  I don't really care what you think, because I still find it pretty damn funny. It is funny. Fuck you if you think otherwise. I don't think she ever suspected anything and I never tried to classically condition her to do anything else. Although, in all honesty, I found out that Tonya was kind of super shitty to me during our relationship (a few things came to light afterwards), so I feel a little less bad about the whole thing and do kind of wish I had trained her to do other things on cue.

The Best is Yet to Come

One of the most important keys to improvement is consistently working towards improvement of whatever it is you're trying to get better at. Focus, determination, dedication, and the will to succeed will get you where you want to be in time. How much time, nobody can ever know, but you'll get there if you work towards it.

I feel as if I am consistently working every day towards being a better person. Better than I was yesterday. More moral, more ethical, more open, more honest, more feeling, and more caring. It's a shit ton of work in itself to realize and catch myself in the middle of some behaviors that have become ingrained in my personality. Traits that I'd like to make less evident or lose entirely. Although I haven't always had the greatest self-image, I don't know that I've ever actually really hated myself. The thing is, I've spent so much time talking negatively about myself and giving that impression across that I can fully understand how others might think that I think that about myself. That's one big transition I feel I've made in the past eight or nine months. Yes, the self deprecation is still there, but I can rightfully say that it's far less frequent and incredibly less earnest sounding when it does break free.

Another area I'm just now realizing and addressing is my fear of being smart. Don't jump the gun on me, I know I'm not Albert Einstein and I likely won't ever be solving any world problems with the thoughts kicking around in my head. Having said that, and I hate to sound conceited, I am coming to realize that I might be a fair notch or two above the average person. I feel like a dick even typing that. But, I think the key is not to hold that over others (which I don't think I do) but at the same time, not be ashamed to let it show either - which I have been afraid of for a very long time. My lack of self appreciation over the years hasn't really allowed me to enjoy many things about myself because to acknowledge or admit that I'm good or better at something, in my eyes, makes me come across as a dickhole. That's where the "consistently working towards improvement" comes in for me though, in this aspect of myself. Like so many other things.

I know I've said countless times that I will write here more. That I'll write more period. Somewhere, somehow. And that never comes to fruition. So, here's another aspect that I need to work towards because I've got ideas that need to escape, whether they amount to anything or not is another story... but I can't keep holding on to them. I feel like my life is headed towards something and you better believe that working in my call center job isn't it for the rest of my life. I guess that's what everyone says (only with whatever they do currently, not necessarily the call center), but I won't get anywhere if I don't start putting the work in to be the best writer, philosopher, music maker, or whatever the hell it is I wanna do. The time has come, to practice what I preach. I hope you'll see more of me around here. Even if it's rambling nonsense like this kind of is... Let's work on it, dude.

Now, even though nobody reads this, tell me... what do YOU want to improve in yourself?

The Universe Explained

Here's the thing, man. I've got it figured out. By "it" I mean the Universe. Yeah, intense, I know.

So, check it. The Universe is like a flowing river. It doesn't matter where it began, it doesn't matter where it ends or where it's headed. That's not for us to figure out. It just is. It could be some dude with huge plans decided to create the river and let the water flow freely and do whatever it wants... or it could be that the river just kind of created itself from circumstances that arose through nature. Again, it doesn't really matter.

In this river, there's rocks, sticks/limbs from fallen tree branches, shallow parts, deep parts, and all that jazz. In its current, let's pretend a little swirl gets started behind a rock somehow. Yeah, the river goes on around the swirl but the swirly gig is definitely a part of the rest of the river. There it stays and goes on and on. Hey, swirly gig! Let's give it a name. How 'bout... Adam? Adam is the first swirly gig in the river.

Adam can have thoughts, dreams, aspirations, whatever. Like any other part of the river. But, because Adam is definitely an unmistakeable part of the river, anything Adam does affects the river as  whole. Why? Well, simply put, because Adam is his own entity, but he also is the river in a weird sort of sense.

Heck, nearby there might be another one with a different name. Further down even more. All these swirly gigs are their own thing while also really being the same. It's heavy, I know.

Now get this. Let's say the rock gets loose. Dislocated. A different tree branch falls and breaks up our swirly gig Adam. Adam's not with us anymore but, well, he actually is. Adam didn't really go anywhere, he was just released back into the rest of the river. Which is all he was part of anyway, right? Maybe a few feet down the river parts of him get caught up in a newly formed swirly gig. Maybe he is just released forever. Our swirly gig doesn't really cease to be because it still is... as it was before.

Shit Talking

At the urging of my therapist/counselor, I've started attempting to make some sort of mental note (sometimes I actually carry paper with me and make tick marks) whenever I catch myself speaking negatively about, well, myself. Even if it's one of those seemingly harmless self-deprecating jabs everyone makes from time to time.

I hate to admit it, but for someone who really does feel like he's okay with himself and who is his most of the time... I talk a lot of shit about myself. While I do think this exercise is a good idea, I kind of wonder if it's maybe also somewhat harmful. Now I'm not only making the jabs at myself, but I'm making myself feel guilty each time I do it and question why I always have some nasty shit to say about myself. It's like a feedback loop.

Then again, on the other hand, I am catching myself more before it comes out of my mouth. Although, sometimes, it's just like being on autopilot and I've said something before I even realize it. And I'm sure I'm not even catching all of them myself since it's just how I've operated for so long.

I think being the fat kid has kind of built it into me. Young kids are nasty so I would destroy myself before anyone else could. At the time, it seems less damaging when it comes from yourself than to hear someone else say it. But I'm finding that it's true what they say; you can only hear something so much before you start to believe it's true. That is where I think a lot of my self-esteem issues have come from over the years and learning to hide/keep the hurt inside along with everything else that seems unappealing.

The thing is, I really do feel like I'm joking most of the time when I say these things. Well, mostly joking. But, I also understand the idea that it's probably not healthy to have these ideas about yourself in the first place so I'll continue to work on it. Sometimes, dude, I just don't know.

First impressions are for suckers

Before we begin, I can now address one reason I'm not a famous author and getting paid to write like Jenny Lawson (check out my last post, I think). Because I'm less regular than someone who only eats wheels of cheese for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I suppose if I want to be some iteration of a semi-famous blogger, I better start writing in the goddamn thing. Fuck me.

A while ago, I had a thought that I think deserves to be repeated and explored. First impressions, specifically those provided by first dates. In this day and age, even moreso because so few people actually know each other when they first meet - everyone is into online dating. Take a small journey with me.

I want you to envision one of your longest relationships. Whatever that is for you. To some it might just be a few months, to others it might be years. Better yet, remember one of your most serious relationships. When you're in a serious, potentially long term, relationship all your freak flags fly - in all senses of the word. These are likely people that have seen you dressed to the nines (whatever the fuck that means) and people that have seen you completely bare-ass naked. They'll see/hear you crack jokes that fall completely flat and they'll be there for many of your best zingers. The point is, these relationships see the good, they see the bad, they see 'em both and there you have... a long term commitment. Not the facts of life.


So let's take it a step further. Let's start out on the wrong foot and warn everyone just what kind of cesspool they may be stepping into. Don't put your best foot forward, because nobody is on their best game all the time - especially once that guard comes down. You look forward to that point in time when you can just be you so start out that way!

Qhat does that mean, Adam? What are you driving at? For my dudes; this means showing up in your gym clothes, maybe even directly after a workout sweat as hell. Don't style your hair, don't put on deodorant, no cologne... all that jazz. For ladies, show up in yoga pants, pajama bottoms, throw on an oversized sweatshirt, leave your hair undid or at most a pony tail/legitimately messy bun, unbrushed teeth, no perfume, whatever.

I think of it like this, if we require truth in advertising, that damn well better apply to the dating world as well. Because, if this damn relationship that you're trying to start heads anywhere, you're going to see all the warts anyway, right?

Can you just pick that one dingleberry, honey?

Writing ain't that hard, son!

I just finished reading this book called Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson. A somewhat famous blogger and mental illness sufferer. Overall, it was an entertaining book but I'd also have to say it was nothing special. I mean that in the nicest way possible. I read it, I enjoyed it, but I don't know that I'd ever read it again.

But, here's what struck me. While it was entertaining, the writing is not that dissimilar from my own writing. So why does this lady have a book published? Two of 'em, actually! Why does this lady get to make a living off of doing cool shit and writing non-sensical short essays and calling them chapters? I can do that too. I can fucking do that!

The catch is, I guess, I don't have any diagnosed mental illnesses. Which seems like a really weird thing to be complaining about. But, because I'm not diagnosed with anything and I'm not on a million meds, I'm far less interesting. I also don't seem to rush to write down ever somewhat whimsical or quirky experience i have. Maybe I really should start doing that. The thing is, even when I'm doing this writing I look back and see how many times I write "I" and think, "Who the fuck gives a shit about me this much? Goddamn and I a narcissist or something?". Maybe to be a blogger you have to be to some extent.

You've also got to not give a fuck on sharing shit about people that might, potentially, read what you write. I don't really interact with enough strangers to have material to write about them, so the folks that would end up here are also my potential audience. Then I'd start to piss those folks off with my (now expressed) inner dialogue and lose readership. It'd be fine at first, but then once they all dwindled down there'd be nothing left and I'd be forced to make new friends to write about and shortly dwindle down to nothing only to have to start all over again and again and again like some weird vicious cycle.

My writing has a ways to go, I realize that. I'd argue the same for a lot of these bloggers that have published books though. We're, for now, ignoring the fact that I am certain I'm the only person that reads my blog, though, that is. Jesus, I guess that'd be a good start to getting somewhere with this thing first too... getting some actual readers. Sounds like a thought.

Not Ready to Say, "Goodbye" Part 3

So the days are started to meld together and, as bad as it sounds, it seemed like dad never was going to die. I mean, that's kind of what we were all waiting for and finally having some closure and at least attempting to get back to something that resembles real life seemed appealing. A guy can only take so many repeated days of depression and watching a loved one wither away in a row. I keep re-reading those first couple sentences and I know it sounds horrible, but can't think of how to rephrase it to more accurately describe it. I just wanted it over and, being honest with myself and by speaking with the nurses/doctors, I knew he wasn't going to come out of this and be his old self. I mean, shit, he was in hospice care. That's just our modern way of basically acknowledging someone is dying without having to say that exact phrase.

One night we (my mom and I) went out to eat at Olive Garden. It was pretty close to the VA and seemed a lot better than fast-food or cafeteria digs. Nothing was particularly stand out about the meal except until the end. One of us had some leftovers and the (fairly new) waitress brought a box and was boxing it up for us to take "home." Her hand slipped, or spasmed or something, and she dropped the food all over the floor and burst into tears. You could tell she was having a bad day, she was nervous, and then she goes and has a moment that could happen to anyone and it just got to her. It wasn't a big deal by any stretch of anyone's imagination and certainly not worth crying over. Neither my mom or I were that distraught over the mediocre leftovers from Olive Garden - but I remember us both telling her how it wasn't a big deal and to forget about it. Really consoling this girl over some spilt pasta that someone half-asses from a freezer. This sticks out to me because I remember in that moment trying to get this girl to calm down about something as stupid as spilled pasta meanwhile my dad was stuck in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling and dying. I wasn't pissed at the dropped food, but I was pissed that this was something someone was wasting so much emotion on and I had to sit here and act like I gave a shit. I wanted to scream at her, "You think this is bad? Wait until you have to watch someone you love wither away in a fucking hospital while you have to go out to shitty Olive Garden for dinner! This. Doesn't. Matter. Get. Yourself. Together."

In hindsight I realize she might have been dealing with something else at home. Or maybe something similar but still had to work and this was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I dunno.

Other than that, it was all the same day in and day out. I couldn't tell you how long we were there, but it seems like it was weeks when I'm looking back at it. Until the 17th of January. I still felt stupid, it never didn't feel stupid, but I was talking to dad. His eyes did seem to move and focus on whoever was talking to him, so I had this idea that he was in there somewhere. And, yes, I talked about all the stupid shit from that other post. Divorce Court, whatever was going on in the news at the time, my thoughts and feelings on adding additional countries to NATO, and anything else my feeble mind could grasp onto.

I don't think there was ever a day that I didn't tell my dad I loved him while he was in the hospital. While I was blabbing on about stuff, I knew I had to stop and tell him just that. It seemed important right in the middle of a sentence, so I did. Then a crazy thing happened - he said it back. It was barely there, his voice was raspy and he could barely squeeze the words out, but it was there and this was the only time I can remember him saying anything the entire time we were visiting him. I still knew that things weren't going to get better, but it was a real indicator that he was there and aware of the things around him. That's also extremely depressing to think about, actually. It instantly brought tears to my eyes and it still does when I think about it.

I took the chance to talk to him more, and this is something I'll probably always feel on the fence about. I knew he was listening, so I told him everything I was feeling and how difficult it was to watch him suffer like I knew he had to be. I told him how much all the time he had ever spent with me meant to me and how there will always be certain things that make me think of him (thank Gandhi a lot of them are super cool things like the movie Pulp Fiction). The last thing I remember telling him was that if he was hanging on for me, not to. I told him it would suck, but I'd go on, I'd have to eventually any way... he couldn't be with me forever even if he didn't have cancer.

I already know the majority of people will at least say that was an honorable, or right, or brave, or difficult, or whatever thing to do. It was. I still don't know that it was right. I can't, for sure, say it was wrong either. I don't think any amount of discussion with anyone, or logical reasoning within my own head will convince me either way.

I hesitate to say something as sinister sounds as "it worked", but I don't know how else to say it. Because that was the day, 17th of January in 2005, that my dad passed away later that night. Maybe he "gave up" knowing that I was willing to march on without him. Maybe something else kicked in or took over and finally put him at rest. There's about a gazillion things that could be attributed to it - but I'll always have in the back of my fucked up mind, in some way, that I'm at least partly responsible for his death. And, yes, I know that's fucked and doesn't make sense - but neither does that damn Puff the Magic Dragon cartoon and I think about that a lot more often than I'd also care to admit.

The thing is, I said that, but I wasn't ready for it anyway. Hence the title of all these posts. But, I don't think anyone ever can be ready for something like that. Even when you know it's coming and on the horizon. I mean, Christ, he was in hospice so we knew it was coming. He was unresponsive and the doc himself said he wasn't sure how long he'd have... his eventual death was something that I had PLENTY of time to prepare for - but you just can't. I can't imagine any type of advice I could give anyone for losing someone as loved as I did my dad because there isn't any way to be ready for it. You never truly will be.

That's about all I care to share about this whole ordeal. There are, of course, a lot more details I've glossed over or ignored entirely but I think you get the general gist of the scenario. Even though I probably should have been addressing these issues a hell of a lot sooner, and not 11 years later, it has definitely helped me in some odd sense as well. I'll take this time to again thank everyone that took the time to read this and hope, maybe, it'll help someone dealing with similar issues.  As for me, I'll keep plugging along... doing the damn thing. I don't have much choice, I promised my dad I would.

Not Ready to Say, "Goodbye" Part 2

I feel obligated to start with a word of thanks to everyone that has told me, in some form or another, that they've read the previous post. And yet another thank you to those who have told me they'll be continuing to read. I think it goes without saying (even though I'm 99% sure I did in the previous post) that something like this is really difficult to write.  It truly dredges up a series of emotions that, previously, I don't even think I properly acknowledged and, frankly, are still uncomfortable to face. Particularly when my preferred writing spot is in the middle of a local coffee shop. Let me tell you, if I thought it was emasculating to order a drink with no whip, you can imagine what it feels like staring at your computer screen with tears streaming down your face and seeing people notice you but pretend not to.

Anyway, thank you to all those people for their words of encouragement with the story. Thank you for those that have acknowledged the arduous task I've set myself on. Thank you for the kind words on my writing - even though I think it's still got a ways to go. There haven't been a ton of people, and I wouldn't expect that because I think, to some extent, discussing these types of things are a bit taboo (not in a kinky way, mind you). But, because of you I've decided that I need to continue and I'm hoping that maybe some good will come of it - in true egomaniacal sense, even if it's only to benefit me. A part of me thinks that someone else out there might read this and realize that the things they're dealing with aren't that uncommon, or weird, or wrong, or whatever and if it does that, well, that's pretty damn dope too. Lastly, even if you did not take the time to acknowledge to me in any sense that you read, or are reading it, but you did, well, I think that deserves some thanks too. I really, truly, appreciate it.

I think I was at the point where I was driving home and I had just left my mom a voicemail. I don't remember any of the drive home other than I drove in silence with only the sounds of a what I'm sure looked like a blubbering lunatic to anyone that passed me and looked in the window to see the moron that was driving so goddamn slow. I don't remember getting to my mom's house, I don't remember if we went straight to the hospital that night (although it seems unlikely because it must have been fairly late into the evening), I don't remember a lot about anything following that drive. The next spot in my memory picks up when I was walking into my dad's room in the Saginaw VA.

Just picturing it I had to stop a few minutes and force myself to go on. To continue writing. I kinda thought he looked like he was dead already. There, on the bed that he would always be sitting on, happy to see me when I'd visit during the weekend, was the shell of a man I once knew. His hair somehow neatly combed like it always was (which I never understood. I'd say to him, "Dad, you're sure as hell not going anywhere. Why bother?". But it was just his way). His eyes were open and stared ahead blankly. His mouth was slightly agape. My dad was not a skinny man by any means, but he seemed lesser somehow. I remember his legs sticking out of the bottom of his hospital gown and they looked like chicken legs - just all skinny and frail. I couldn't imagine them holding anything up, not even a shitty IKEA bedside table. It had probably only been a few days into the week, meaning I had practically just left from seeing him, but everything about him had changed. Well, everything but his hair.

I was scared to walk up to him, but didn't hesitate. It felt like being in the shittiest dream you've ever had. I guess people call those nightmares. I was scared to approach him but something pulled me to him. I think I saw his eyes look in my direction - I don't know how but I know he knew I was there. It seems like a lot of people say that about people in comas, or unresponsive, or whatever and I always thought it sounded like bullshit. People wanting to attach that idea to a fucked up situation because it brought them some kind of comfort to think that their effort or time isn't being wasted or because they think it makes it more meaningful somehow. I guess I could be doing the same thing. But I'd still say that he knew I was there.

Surrounded by the sterile environment of the hospital, in a moment I'm sure I'll remember forever, everything seemed so impersonal. I couldn't focus on any one thing. I could hear the beeping of whatever medical equipment was hooked up to my dad, I could hear someone groaning down the hall way, I heard the "DING" of someone pressing the nurse call button, I could feel the world simultaneously slip away and be omnipresent at the same time. Taking everything in seemed to go on for ages, but it must have only been a short while because the nurse was still there. I remember her saying something like, "We think he's aware of everything. They like it when you talk to them - it seems to help. Go ahead." I remember thinking that it seemed dreadfully impersonal that she referred to people in a state like my dad's as "they." My dad wasn't a "they" or a "them". He was a somebody, well, I mean he was a nobody, but he was a somebody to me. I know the nurse didn't mean anything by it, but it still sticks out to me this day.

Kinda like writing that letter - it seemed stupid to talk to him. Not that I had anyone to impress anyway since it seemed that everything else dropped away, but I just really had difficulty finding the things to say. What do you say to someone who can't do a damn thing but lay there and stare at the ceiling and maybe move their eyes a little bit? He couldn't even wet his own lips, they were all chapped to hell and I remember periodically applying water to them to try and ease some discomfort. I mean, I guess, when cancer's eating your body up the last thing you want is chapped lips. Makes a lot of fucking sense to me. But, really, what do you say to someone in that state? I'm sure when you can't do a damn thing but stare ahead you'd love to hear all about how classes are going, or what happened yesterday on Divorce Court, or how I think I might have a chance with this sorority girl. It just seemed like a teardrop in the ocean. Fucking pointless.

On the opposite hand, it seemed even more idiotic to talk about the things that probably were going through his mind. And, frankly, what kind of moron would do that? "So, dad, it looks like this is curtains for you. Well, you had a good run I mean, hey, you are, what?, 78 now? I know a lot of people that died a lot sooner! You got it good! Count your blessings, you're headed to a better place." I mean, really, get off it. What the fuck could I talk about?

All I felt like I could do was stare at him and wait. And all he could do was stare at the ceiling.

The next thing I knew, visiting hours were over. I don't remember either myself or my mom having to ask - the staff said we could stay. We could stay overnight, we could stay until. A little bit down the hall there was a small waiting room of sorts. For what, I dunno, but it looked like one of those small observation rooms they put kids in in the movies with a bunch of toys to see how they play with shit. There were a couple of couches with the vinyl cushions that look like the benches in pickups, and a few of those weird chairs with the same cushion material that are wide enough for two people from 'My 600 Pound Life' to sit comfortably next to each other (if you call those cushions comfortable). They gave us some, presumably, clean sheets and let us set up camp.

The days all kind of melded together. It was all the same, over and over again. Like Groundhog's Day but without the cool ability to know what's coming or the romantic plot. The nurses would come in and check a few things here and there, change the sheets, wash him up once in a while, and be on their way. I remember staring at the "DNR" sign above his bed for hours thinking about its significance and what it meant (Do Not Resuscitate for the uninitiated. Or, "if this dude starts to die, let him.")

Somewhere during the first couple days I remember having gone to dad's house to get a tape player and some of his favorite tapes. Anne Murray's Greatest Hits (You Needed Me was his favorite), Reader's Digest World's 100 Most Beautiful Melodies, The Very Best of Perry Como (Magic Moments or Catch a Falling Star being his picks), and a homemade tape of Celine Dion singing Power of Love over and over again (a tape he made me make for him just because he liked that damn song that much. Seriously... what the fuck?). These tracks became, in essence, the soundtrack to my dad's death as weird as that seems. In odd ways, they don't affect me negatively though because these were the things he always had going in the tapedeck in whatever he was driving as far back as I can remember. Especially the Reader's Digest thing... to this day whenever i hear some of those classical pieces, I know every little nuance in them because I've heard them so goddamn much.

In retrospect, I think the tunes were more for us than they were him. It's a lot easier to think of the good times you've had with someone with a memory boost like the music that was playing in the background and thinking about those times were a lot cheerier than sitting in silence staring at the DNR sign in silence. Just waiting minute after minute, hour after hour, and day after day.

And, with that thought, I've reached my limit for the day. Thanks again to everyone if you've made it this far, I'll be back with more soon-ish.

Not Ready to Say, "Goodbye." Part 1 of... who the hell knows?

Before I get into it, I'd like to point out how, for some reason, emasculating it is to order a specialty latte with "no whip." I then feel obligated to point out that it's not because I'm on a diet or something, it's just because when I put the lid on it starts to ooze out the sides and the little pinhole thing at the top and, sometimes, when you peel the drinky/sippy part back the whipped cream shoots out right on me and gets all over my clothes and I'm just not down with that. I don't dig it. So, most of the time I just let them put the whipped cream on top and then I put the lid on and deal with the repercussions. I've tried licking/eating the whipped cream off first but it feels dangerously erotic in ways it shouldn't and I don't feel like that's something I should be doing in public. Not to mention the mess it creates by getting all over my face and then I just look really super childish. It's a fucking mess. Anyway, on to bigger things.

My therapist/counselor/whatever and I have been discussing whether or not I ever really achieved closure from my father's death. First off, I'd like to say she is, really and truly, only a counselor. But I have issues with that title. If I call her a therapist it makes it feel more official in my mind. More necessary. If I tell people I'm seeing a counselor, it sounds stupid, it sounds wimpy, it sounds like I don't have any direction in life. I guess I don't know if I do or not, but there's that. So, anyway, she's a counselor but I call her my therapist.

We're discussing closure. I couldn't say whether or not I've ever actually achieved it. I found ways to cope with it, but never actually confronted it head on. The ways I found to cope with it were, obviously, less than healthy and had caused some pretty disastrous results in my life after a while. As the saying goes, "You can run, but you can't hide." I can tell you, that shit's true, dude. Amy (my counselor) suggested I write a letter to my dad as a form of attempting to reach closure. Y'know, tell him all the shit about how his death has affected me, the things he's missed out on, and whatever the hell else I felt like was worthy of inclusion.

The thing is, I can't write this letter. It's like the thing of telling all the people the shit I wish I could. Only a little different. I can't write this letter because, well, he's dead. I don't write letters to dead people. What's the point? Who would read it? Why am I writing it all down anyway? I'm going to write it and I'm not going to read it. I'm going to write it and I'm going to immediately delete it, or throw it in the trash after tearing it up, or whatever. It's about as pointless as masturbation. Well,  I guess that's a bad analogy, masturbation is pointless but it has its purpose. Once you're done with it you are truly done, but sometimes it's just something that needs to be done. Shit. Maybe I should write this letter just to get that "release." Ah, fuck.

But, that was not my intention for this post and it's not what I'm going to do. I was going to write the story, from my recollection, of his death and the time leading up to it. I've really been slacking on writing in here and I need to get better. I still have some sliver of hope in my life thinking that somehow I might be able to make writing a source of income and happiness and be able to quit all these other bullshit jobs I've had through the years. So, here goes nothing. I can assure you that what follows, extremely few people have heard and my recollection may be a bit foggy at this point, but it's to the best of my ability. It will also be extremely difficult for me to write and you better believe, sure as you have a crack in your ass, that it's going to be long. Even though this post is already dreadfully lengthy.

My dad wasn't doing too well to begin with. He had colon cancer which they removed and thought it was successful. In a follow up visit they discovered it had come back and was inoperable. Basically, "Sorry, you're done for, Mr. Weaver. All we can really do is make sure you're comfortable up until however long it takes." I was a junior in college at GVSU at the time and was coming back to my hometown every weekend to spend time with dad and basically do anything he needed done that I could do for him. When we got this news, the talk of hospice came up. As a veteran of WWII, everything was covered for my dad through the VA. All we had to do was make the arrangements and do the damn thing. Through some tough conversations it was decided that I "wasn't dropping out of school"  (as he put it) to take care of my dad and hospice was the thing we were doing. I still would be up every weekend to visit him in the hospital (about an hour's drive away from our house) and take care of the house and things since nobody would be living there through the week. All the shit like utility bills, car payments, credit card bills, whatever else, were now my responsibility to take care of too. Mind you, dad was still providing the cash to cover them, but I was in charge of seeing that it gets paid. I know a lot of other kids have had it tougher than me growing up, but it seemed like a lot of crap on my plate between classes, keeping all these affairs in order, knowing in the back of my mind that my dad was dying, and coming up every weekend to take care of stuff. It was overwhelming at times.

A new semester had just started and that brought along some of its own stress. It must have been the first week yet because I remember looking over the syllabi for some classes the day before I got the call. A call that happened at something like 2am. I didn't answer it, I remember hearing my phone ring but not answering because it was a night that I had class the next day and I figured it was just drunk people calling. That happens a lot in college and it might happen even more when you're in a fraternity. I remember the phone ringing, reaching down and pressing the silence button, and sending the call to voicemail. I didn't listen to it until I was up and getting ready the next day. When I did, it was from one of the doctors overseeing my dad. This is the VA, so all the doctors are from some foreign land far away and their accents are thick as hell. But, I had no trouble understanding what the dude said, "Hello, Mr. Weaver, I'm calling about your father, Earl. He has recently become... uhhh... unresponsive and I'm afraid I don't think he has much time left - a few days at most. If you have any questions, please feel free to call back any time."

In hindsight, I was kind of stupid. I can't explain why, but I just went about my school day. In my fucked up reasoning, that was the thing to do. Nevermind the fact that my dad could die, probably any second, I've got to walk around this goddamn campus and pretend like nothing is going on. Maybe I thought that's what he would want. Maybe I just didn't want to deal with the reality that I had to face. Maybe I really just was a fucking idiot to think that if I ignored it, it would go away. Maybe I thought it was a joke. I don't know, but it was stupid. I still can't explain it to myself, but it's what I did. I made it most of the day as if nothing was actually going on. Just another day. I even remember stopping in the spot where all my friends hung out and chatting and goofing off like nothing was happening - I didn't even make any mention to anyone about the phone call I received. Nope. just another day.

I made it through most of the day like that. I dunno how, but I did. Another shining example of my ability to hold in emotions when they're SCREAMING to be let out. Luckily, I think I've got a hang on that bottling it up stuff. I was in one of my last classes for the day, it might have been second to last. I remember it was a writing class that was NEEDED for graduation at GVSU. I think it was WRT350 for some reason. Class started and I made it about 40 minutes into the three hour class. I calmly gathered all my things, got up and walked out. Once outside the door I started that hurried walk some people do when they are about to shit their pants but don't want to outright run and the bathroom is in sight. I did that all the way to my car... feeling tears on the verge of bursting through but never quite getting there. I wanted to cry but also didn't want to face the potential ridicule I might face if someone saw me (and of course they fucking would, it's a college campus, there's people everywhere).

I don't remember if I went home first to get clothes or what. But, I knew I wasn't coming back right away. The next thing I do remember is merging on to the freeway and calling my mom, the tears (finally) flowing freely. Of course voicemail picked up and I left what I can only assume was an almost unintelligible message that went something like, "I got a call from dad's doctors and I think he's dying, he's at least unresponsive. I'm coming home and I'll see you in a few hours."

And that's where we'll leave it until I feel like I can write more of this... But, man, I need a break right now. To be continued in part two of however many pieces it takes me to finish...

Formative Memories: An Ongoing Series of Mostly True, But Potentially Embellished Greatly, Stories based in Memory

Kids are always looking for some weird form of responsibility. We all want to be grown in a hurry because it seems to be the coolest thing imaginable. Until you are grown and then you'd give anything to be a kid again. That's not the point I'm looking for, but it's odd to think about.

I was like any other kid my age in this aspect. I wanted responsibility of some sort and, man, when a parent trusted you with a task and it seemed like it might be kinda fun too? Well that was a win on almost all levels. It was a summer day and I must have been somewhere between the ages of five to seven. Somewhere in there. Summertime, when you're a kid, seems to stretch on forever and school had just let out. I had an eternity ahead of me to enjoy everything about not being in school.

Today was going to be extra fun because dad was mowing the lawn. That meant that I'd be sitting on his lap and enjoying a grand tour of our lawn straight from the pilot's chair. Another one of those things that seems awesome when you're a kid, but as an adult are significantly less cool than you remembered. Of course, dad was up to his usual tricks; he had promised me he'd "cross my palms with silver" if I picked up all the sticks in the yard so the mower blades wouldn't be dulled. To this day, I can't imagine why we don't have blades on mowers that are just tough enough to withstand it, c'mon, people. Also, I was always disappointed (and how did I not remember?) to learn that having my palms crossed with silver didn't mean I was actually getting paid, but that my dad would simply hold a quarter in his hands and, literally, draw a cross on my palms with it and then tuck the quarter back in his pocket with a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

While I was traversing the lawn and ensuring it was clear of any debris from those bastard trees I made a discovery. An exciting one for a kid my age too: some rabbit had decided to have its kids in a little hole right next to one of our trees in the yard. I didn't know where the mom had gone, but she had left the nest, or whatever it's called, full with what looked to be five or six small, white, baby rabbits. I ran to my dad almost immediately and told him what I found and this earned me another precious task of responsibility: gathering up all the baby rabbits before dad mowed so they wouldn't be hopping all over the yard when he was mowing. Dad dug through the garage and basement and found a box somewhere that seemed an appropriate size to store them in while we mowed. He put a folded up towel in the bottom and charged me with placing them all in there and making sure I captured them all.

What seemed like a few hours later, but was probably really just a single hour, I was all set. The yard was stick free and baby rabbit free. The mom rabbit was still nowhere to be found, and it was doubtful I'd be able to catch her anyway. The babies were still kinda dumb or something, because they didn't even attempt to run away (except for one or two that I caught quickly) when I reached into the small rabbit hole. Anyway, the point is the work was done and it was time to ride that lawn mower - the anticipated highlight of my dad for sure. If I was gonna be real lucky, dad might even let me steer the tractor here and there. To a kid that small, that's practically being entrusted with driving! Driving - another one of those things that seems really cool as a kid, but as an adult I'm totally over it. I just wish I had someone to drive me everywhere these days and can't wait until self-driving cars are affordable and mainstream.

The time had arrived and dad pushed the huge grey Craftsman riding lawn mower out of the garage, popped its hood, and did whatever dads do when they pop the hood before starting the mower. I've still not figured that out, but that might be because I don't have any kids of my own - or any mechanical ability to speak of. I looked over the dashboard of the thing while he was doing that. The lever that adjusted speed was most interesting with a turtle at the bottom and a rabbit at the top, and it seemed like a funny coincidence to my kid brain. Dad finished up whatever it was he was doing underneath the hood, had my hop out of the seat and got in it himself. He patted his knee as an invitation for me to join him and ride around the lawn while he cut the grass. Finally, the thing I had been waiting for all day had arrived.

It was great riding around the lawn and looking behind us to see the path the mower made in the grass. What was once an unruly looking yard was being tamed by my dad and I in a co-effort to make our neighborhood respectable looking. After a few laps around the yard and after dad had established a good looking pattern for the grass, he decided it was time for me to do some steering. The front side of our yard was done and we were now on the side with the tree where the rabbits had made their home. This thing was hard to steer - but, I guess most riding lawn mowers don't have power steering and this Craftsman certainly didn't. In hindsight, I'd be surprised if that Sears piece of shit cost $500. Seriously, here's a picture of one, I'm surprised anyone ever bought these ugly pieces of shit:

Right in the middle of my lawn mower steering bliss, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Something white and quick to the left. It was too fast for me to discern what it truly was, but my brain quickly put things together when it was too late.

The baby rabbit that I had missed was right in line of our mower and I was steering the damn thing. "Look out, Adam!" my dad warned, but I couldn't turn the wheel that easily. I guess my dad didn't think to take over or he feared I might fall off or something, and the mower remained on its path straight for the baby. Like many of its siblings, the baby rabbit didn't even seem to want to run. He just kinda sat there placid and awaited his fate. Truly, I know the mower wasn't going that fast (10hp, come on!) but it seemed to go by too quickly to do anything. Before I knew it, the rabbit disappeared from the front of my view and I turned my head to see clumps of white fur (now dyed significantly red in parts) shoot out onto the lawn and into the clean grass.

I don't remember dad's reaction, but I do remember mine. At first, it was nothing just a brief pause in my brain saying, "That was kinda weird." Then I remember crying silently, alone later about it. I had one simple task when it came to those rabbits, and that was to get them all - and I had failed. I know now I was just a kid and kids make mistakes, but it seemed pretty heavy at the time. To this day, that day sticks with me. It' weird the things the mind hangs on to...

Emotional Vulnerability

There was a time, not that long ago, that emotional vulnerability seemed like one of the worst things in the world. It seemed to take insane amounts of alcohol for me to even be able to recognize my emotions and even more booze yet for me to let them come out. Luckily for me, I never drank all that often. But, when I did drink, I could (and would) sure put 'em down.

Then all the emotions would come boiling to the surface. Unfortunately for me, it was mostly emotions that had developed into self loathing. And a lot of that probably resulted in my inability to cope with or express my emotion. Emotion that had been built up over countless years. Way too many. Years of being teased as a fat kid, years of feeling inadequate because I never seemed to be good at anything like sports or playing musical instruments, years of failed diets, left over emotions from deaths, left over emotions from break ups, left over emotions from just the shitty stuff that seems to go on in the world. There it all was, bottled up and mostly unaddressed.

I've touched on this stuff before, I know. Sorry for repeating myself.

It exploded. It came out at a very bad time and had terrible consequences for me. There's not a lot I can do about it now, it's over and done with, but I knew I couldn't go on living life that way. I sought out a therapist and have been going religiously every two weeks. Two weeks seems like the perfect amount of time for me because each week seems just mundane enough, but when a couple weeks pass, shit happens.

You know what's crazy? I've noticed a huge change in myself. Others have noticed a change. But, nothing really has changed... and, yet, it has. I still am who I always was, but I somehow have learned that my self loathing is undeserved. I'm not as bad as I think I am and people don't seem to think so either.

I wish I would have been able to accept that earlier.

I also know it's alright to feel things. I guess that might sound stupid to some people - but I needed to learn it. It's okay to feel. This has caused some interesting side effects to me. I wasn't sure I quite believed that I had accepted this idea, until the other day. I'll get into it, but first you need a little background. To keep things somewhat anonymous, but not entirely for those that know me, I'm going to refer to my coworker as Stephanie.

Stephanie is close to my age, just a little bit younger. She's fairly recently married and one hell of a catch to any guy. She's friendly, funny, drop dead gorgeous, and has a decent career. She's moved through the ranks at my employer pretty swiftly. Stephanie is also pregnant with her first kid. It's incredible to hear her talk about her growing baby because, I swear, I can feel her excitement. I know she's going to make one hell of an awesome mom too. You can really tell just in the way her eyes light up when she mentions every doctor appointment, talks about stuff she read in magazines, or whatever. It's a great thing and sometimes I'll bring up stuff I've read just because it's such a great feeling to see someone have such genuine excitement and joy for the future.

Stephanie has a doctor's appointment to find the gender of the baby - and starts having contractions. The doc says, "Whoa, Stephanie, this is pretty crazy. I think you better stay on bed rest and take it easy until this kid of yours is ready to make his appearance." Stephanie agrees and is no longer at work.

A few short days later, a Facebook post from her husband shows up on my Facebook newsfeed. It says that Stephanie had the baby that day, prematurely, and he (the baby) had passed away within the minute.

I read this and was absolutely devastated. Seriously, I couldn't contain the tears even if I wanted to. I could only imagine the pain and suffering that Stephanie must be going through. The guilt (even though it's not her fault by any means) she must be feeling, the complete and utter sadness and emptiness. The unfairness of the world we live in. The thought that one of the things that made someone so goddamn happy I could see it in their face, even when she was feeling ill from pregnancy stuff, was taken away from them just because.... just because... just because life is unfair seemed like the complete and utter bullshit it is. To make it worse, there's nobody that can be blamed. There's nothing anyone can do and, so, all that anyone can be left with out of this situation is sadness. I can't even begin to fathom what Stephanie must be thinking or feeling - but I have a weird feeling it's not sunshine and rainbows. For something like this to happen to someone so undeserving, destroyed me for a while. It still chokes me up when I think about what she must be feeling, what she must be thinking, and what must be running through her mind.

When I read that, and had the reaction that I did, I knew something within me had changed. Because, before that would have just been another shitty thing happening to someone and that's that. That's how I would have processed it. I would have moved on to the next tragedy because, hell, life seemed like mostly shit and if you keep expecting shit, you won't be shocked or disappointed when it happens.

That's not me anymore. I'm glad for that. But, like I said earlier, I wish it hadn't taken me so long to get here. As for Stephanie, well, she's still not at work and I don't know when she's coming back. I know it's not going to be easy for her and I don't even know what to say to her when she does come back. Just the thought of seeing her though and not seeing the smile that she usually has is making me tear up...

I'd Like To

I'd like to say I'm perfect and that I've made no mistakes. 
I'd like to say love is eternal and ignore my own heartache. 
I'd like to say that everything is just as it should be. 
I'd like to say I don't understand what it means to feel lonely. 
I'd like to say I know what's up and exactly where my life's headed. 
I'd like to say I have no cares and it all works out in the end. 
I'd like to say that everything turns out like one big movie. 
I'd like to say I'm full of hope and things are going groovy. 
I'd like to say that I'm carefree and focused solely on the moment. 
I'd like to toss my hands up high and shout at the world "Yeah, so what?".
I'd like to. Sure. I'd like to. But it's plain to see. 
I'd like to. Yeah. I really would. But that's not true to me. 

Miracle on Cascade Street

Do you guys wanna hear something weird? I'm sure you do. Gather 'round, kiddies.

Yesterday I went out to breakfast by myself. It's one of my little treats I do for myself just because I'm awesome and I deserve shit like that. It's also tradition before I go to my therapy session. The nearest Coney Island for a gyro meat and feta cheese omelette, french fries instead of hash browns, and white toast. Coffee and water to drink.

If time allows, it's also an extension of my daily allotment of "me" time where I get to read, listen to new music I've been meaning to, maybe write a little bit, whatever. The rule is I can't do anything important during "me" time. Although, I could make a case for the importance of all those things. Anyway, I digress in getting to the true point of the story.

This particular morning, I had a lot of time. I got my breakfast, I read my book for about an hour, I drank a lot of coffee (bottomless refills!), and I was feeling quite pleased with myself before seeing my therapist. I had to drive straight to work after my appointment, so I was set for that with all my stuff I'd need for the day. I gather up all my things, hit the restroom, and head up to the counter to pay my bill and be on my way.

One thing some have noticed about me is I'm chronically early. Like, I'm the dude that's at work 30 minutes early just because I don't feel right if I'm not. This goes for most things in my life. I'd like to be at the movie theater early, I need to be at all concerts early, shows, whatever. If there's a specific time I need to be somewhere, I need to be there BEFORE I have to be there by a fair margin.

My appointment is at 11, which means I'm at the office by 10:35a and just chilling in the parking lot. I'm looking to maybe dust off a few more pages of the book I"m reading. I don't remember why, but I needed to get out of my car briefly and stand, so I did that. When I did, I did my little habit of checking my pockets periodically to make sure everything is there (wallet, keys, money clip, phone) and.... it's not. I dig inside my pocket to be sure and am hit with disappointment. I wasn't mistaken, something is missing. My money clip is gone. My money clip that typically has $50 in it just in case i need cash, my money clip that had a $100 gift card for a restaurant in it... my goddamn, motherfucking money clip that has FIFTY DOLLARS IN CASH THAT I CAN'T GET BACK.

I frantically search the car... it's not there. It's not under the seat, it's not in the little crack between the seat and console/door that sometimes loses stuff. It's not in my car. The only other place it could be is in the Coney Island. It probably slid out of my pocket when I grabbed my phone while I was in the booth. Maybe it dropped in the bathroom. But, it's there. There's no doubt in my mind. I call the restaurant on the extremely slim chance that someone found it and decided to turn it in.

The young girl on the other end of the line tells me nobody's turned anything like that in. I can almost hear it registering in her mind that there's a free $50 somewhere in her work area if she just finds it first. They do take my number down "just in case" it turns up. I'm not hopeful. But, at the same time (and this is a big change for me), I also am okay with this idea. Yeah, I acknowledge it sucks... but it's just money. It's not the end of the world. I can get more.

My day continues as planned. Appointment, head straight to work, come home, put on my pajamas and head to bed, all that jazz. No phone call all day. I'm still at peace with it. The thought has actually even crossed my mind that I am hopeful someone needful found it - someone who was $50 shy of rent, or maybe a parent that couldn't afford a birthday present for their kid, maybe someone facing a shutoff notice for their electricity... the possibilities are endless. Whatever though - it's gone.

Today rolls around. I get out of my PJs and into work duds. I work. I come home and get back into PJs immediately because that's just how I roll. I am thinking about heading out to a Redbox and maybe grabbing some shitty dinner. As I'm loading up my PJ pockets... there's something weird. My left hand pocket (which is typically reserved for my keys exclusively) has something in it. And, you guessed it! My money clip. No joke... and there's 8000% no way I didn't have it when I was at the restaurant and lost it. I slept in these PJs all night too and my money clip would be pokey kind of and wake me up. It also wasn't there when I put my keys in the pockets that morning as I ran out to my car to start it so it was warm.

For some reason, something like a mini-miracle happened. I was given good karma from the Universe. God decided I needed that $50 after all. Allah decided I am worthy of his many blessings. Whatever you wanna say made it happen... it did. It kinda tripped me out - but I can't help but think (in some weird type of confirmation bias) it's my reward for being so cool about it. I also kinda think it's like some sign that I'm on a good path and it's indicative of that. Or a reward again for making good choices.

I can't explain it. And, once again, I'm okay with that.

I. Just. Don't...

The other night I was driving home in some terribly shitty weather. We're talking icy roads, whiteout conditions and all that jazz. Our first real snow of the year and it was kind of dumping on us. I don't enjoy driving in snow as it is, so that didn't help any. My drive from work is, on a good day, maybe 30 minutes. Remember, I drive slow even when it's nice, I try not to be in a hurry unless necessary. On this night, it took me an hour and a half to get home. There were a couple moments when I was legitimately scared that something horrible might happen to me.

As I was driving, I kept thinking to myself about all the things we don't say to people for whatever reason we give ourselves. The people we don't tell how important they are to us. The people who don't tell how much we love. The people we don't tell how much we appreciate. The people that we live for - whether they know it or not.

I thought about other kinds of people too. People that we might have done wrong. People that we wish we could give apologies too but feel the proper time has passed. People we've ignored in their suffering. People we've turned out backs on for one reason or another. People that, for one reason or another, just aren't part of our lives.

I thought about these people and I thought about the things I would like to say to them. I thought about people that were in that category that aren't here any more to tell those things to. I thought about the possibility of me no longer being here to tell the ones left their importance and it all seemed very clear: I need to do this for these people whether they appreciate it or not. I need to do this for these people even if they don't take me seriously. I need to do this for me just as much as them because they deserve it and I don't want this burden.

As I was driving home and thinking these things it seemed like the most important thing in the world. I wanted to come home and reach out to everyone that I had thought of directly and immediately. I wanted to make phone calls, I wanted to send texts, I wanted to write e-mails, I wanted to send letters... but it was too late for all that and I was too tired. I needed to sleep.

So sleep I did. When I woke up the next day, everything was still on my mind. It stuck with me. But, a guy's gotta work and he doesn't have time to be calling around all day or writing messages. So to work I went and thought about it all day and again on my drive home (but this time less treacherous).

My drive in this morning was another scary one and, again, the thoughts persisted. I thought about it all the way in to work, I thought about it all day at work, and I thought about it on my (again, scary) drive home. Clearly, I'm still thinking about it.

So, whoever is reading this, I pose this question to you. Why, when I do sit down to even write a message, or make a phone call, do I stop myself? Why can't I do it? I wish I had an answer, but I don't. I. Just. Don't...

The past couple months have been, to say the least, difficult. But, I'm not going to leave it at just saying the least. That's not the point of this blog.

A lot of changes have gone on. Some shitty, but mostly positive. I decided to do something about what has been a mostly secretly miserable existence that I've been living for the past 12 years or so and do something about it. Stop living in misery, stop bottling up feelings, stop hiding yourself away from what you're feeling, and stop hiding away from your true self. It sounds easy enough, but for someone who's been extremely careful with who he actually reveals his true self to, it's been a challenge. See, I want the real, true Adam to be visible to all... whether they like him or not.

I've never been a ray of sunshine. I never will be. But, there was a time when I was who I was and most people liked me. Then my dad's health started to deteriorate and the charade started, I guess. The game of hiding emotions began. Why? Because nobody likes someone who's constantly worrying, someone who's constantly on the verge of tears, who can't even focus on anything truly positive because he's worried he's going to lose his best friend and dad any minute.

Besides, emotion show weakness and nobody wants to appear to weak. Particularly if you're a dude.

All that emotion stayed bottled up and emotion is like anything... it goes bad after a while. It doesn't matter what it is. It gets rotten. It turns to poison. Yeah, I could keep it under control most of the time. But sometimes the facade would slip and that was never good. I wasn't being true to myself and because of that, I didn't like myself. When you don't like yourself you remember everything negative anyone has ever said about you and start to believe it. You replay it over and over in your mind and start to see everything through the tinted fog of disappointment. Not in a magical sense, but your attitude really does determine your reality. Because of this... I mostly only saw disappointment in things.

Then my dad died. I didn't know what to do. I'd never felt so lost in my life. I couldn't let anyone know though and the game continued. Because all I focused on was disappointment, negativity, and let down... that's all I saw and furthered my misery internally. After a while it just becomes "the norm" and you get numb to it all. Like working in a factory... you just do your thing, shut down, and go on autopilot. Sure, things will crop up here and there that change it up a bit... sometimes good, sometimes bad, but it always go back to the same routine. For me this routine of life turned into a case of apathy. Life was gray and there weren't different shades of it.

New car? Oh, I guess that's cool. Dog bit? That kinda sucks. Win the lottery? Eh, whatever. And so on.

Yeah, I cared about people. I cared about stuff. But after so many years of hiding it I didn't know how to express it. And, once again, the cycle continued. Meanwhile, all this poison is building up inside me. I was a prisoner in my own mind.

Somewhere though all this, I figured something out; alcohol. Booze gave me an excuse to let the poison out. Booze gave my an excuse to express that emotion that had been building up. Booze allowed me everything that had been built up and locked away to come out... the good, the bad, and the ugly.

 I never made it a daily habit or anything, but once I got started it seemed next to impossible to stop until I was ready to turn in for the night. Alcohol allowed me to stop being selective with showing people what I wanted to show and let shit fly... but I wasn't in the driver's seat. Sometimes I'd be affable, charming, goofy, funny, whatever. Other times, I'd be a poison tip lawn dart in the neck. Crude, offensive, standoffish, and unlikable.

So that's been going on for what seems like most of my life and it caught up to me. I'm disgusted and ashamed of myself for it taking an event like it did to make me realize the error of my ways and my past behavior... but all you can do is learn from your mistakes, address the issues that have presented themselves, and hope for the best. I've been doing that since late October and will continue to seek ways to continue to stay on my path of excellence - one of which includes seeing a therapist and, in the meanwhile, giving up drinking for the time while I sort shit out in my own head.

The other part, you're reading. Or maybe nobody is and I'm just writing to myself. If I am, that's fine. Because I'm finding that writing is helpful and I've got a few ideas kicking around that need expressing, so I think I'll continue to do this and eventually get into less serious, heavy stuff. But, if I could ask anyone that reads this to take something away from this long rant, it'd be this: first and foremost, don't bottle shit up. Like I said earlier, it only gets rotten and turns to poison inside you. Poison that eventually leaks. Find an outlet, find people that you can talk to, don't be afraid to be yourself because you're probably pretty goddamn awesome - even though you might not realize it and someone might think you're way more awesome than you even thought possible. Secondly, if you need to talk to someone, if you need help sorting shit out in your head like I do, then do it, dude. There is no shame in asking for help, everybody needs it from time to time.

Alright, folks, that's all I have for now. I promise you I'll be back at least weekly with something for you to ruminate on. Writing is part of my release, and I need to keep it going to keep the demons at bay...