I Am Jack's Utter Self-Loathing

(Unfinished, dated 12/12/2007)

Alright you, it's time we had a talk.

We both know there are things going on that are completely out of control, and it's time to grab that rope, burn or no burn.

I won't get into specifics here; it's neither the time nor the place, but this crap you pull on yourself is costing money, causing stress, and creating an environment that isn't good for anyone in the family. How can you concentrate on what's real and true? Truth is you can't, and I can't either. The only "real" and "true" is the facade you wear every day as you dress for work, give a progress report, talk about school and

Deal?

Unhinged

There was a conflict, which was caused by me answering a non-inflammatory question, and then answering another. There was a warning before the second answer, and a prediction of the outcome, but it was pushed for, and so given.

My prediction was spot on.

Despite my apparent handle on myself and the situation, I found myself feeling confused and emotionally disoriented. I became angry that my warning had not been listened to.

I unhinged.

I shouted, but only briefly. No dishes were broken, no doors kicked in. But I unplugged. Completely. And sat in my own personal abyss for a good few hours. I couldn't muster any memory of the original conflict. I was alone in my mind and in my heart, and couldn't remember how I got there, and was certainly without a clue as to how to get out.

This kind of thing worries me greatly. My apparent ability to ostrich and emotionally ditch myself in the real world could prove dangerous in the wrong situation. Parts of me are dividing, which contributes to a better of understanding of Inside, but also makes it easier for the Team to separate if one or another part gets caught up on a detail, or can't navigate a change in the emotional landscape. It could be disastrous.

It's All in Your Head

Well, yes. Yes it is.

But if by "in your head" you mean a perception manufactured by interactions of brain chemicals and synaptic patterns, then I ask you: what isn't? Isn't what we as biological beings perceive through our traditional five senses truly nothing more than our brain's interpretation of electrical impulses sent via our optic nerves, eardrums, taste buds, receptors in the nasal passage, and nerve endings in our epidermis?

Ever seen The Matrix? There's an elaborate, entertaining, and brilliantly told story based solely on the idea that the whole world we live in is a lie, fed to us via biochemical cocktails administered in the right order to produce a tailored perception. Ever taken a philosophy course? For thousands of years, men and women from every culture on our world have asked fundamental questions about what we are, what our purpose is, whether any of the things we think we are surrounded by our whole lives are even real...and what "real" would even mean if the answer was yes. Even heard of psychology? There's a science based 100% on learning how our minds interpret input and feed us a reality that may or may not be the same as that experienced by those around us, and then figuring out ways to manipulate the reality of those whose are different and make theirs more like ours.

So when you give me that look to test whether I'm joking, or ask me if I'm serious, or comment about metaphysical bunk, I will indulge you, and smile. And then you will return the favor by seriously considering that while you think you have your two feet firmly on the ground, and tell me about the things that are truly important and real, you are merely experiencing a similar illusion, custom made for you by your brain and fed to you through a filter of social expectations, cultural influences, and interactions with the people you've surrounded yourself with.

And then we can begin to truly communicate.

Believe

There is more here than we can perceive. As humans, our tissue-synapse based senses are woefully limited in their abilities to detect the world around us. As members of a society ignorant of this fact, we are taught to ignore our other perceptive abilities, and therefore lose them.

If you've never considered this, don't dismiss it simply because it doesn't appear in scientific or medical journals. This isn't just mysterious metaphysical pseudoscience. Take magnetism, for instance: it cannot be seen, felt, heard, tasted, or smelled, yet as a scientific society we know full well that it not only exists, but is a defining force in world we live in. The structure of the atom and the interaction of molecules to form everything from the basic compounds that sustain the chemical systems in our bodies to the weather resistant properties of that stain you just put on your deck would all be considered fiction to a society less scientifically advanced than ours, all because of the attitude that something needs to be seen (heard, felt, tasted, smelled, etc.) to be believed.

Well, don't believe it. We were all given the ability to detect the world around us in more terms than the five senses afford. True, there are forces which are beyond both our perception and our understanding, but this isn't what I'm talking about. Every one of us has an internal antenna that picks up signals the people and things around us are broadcasting, absorbing, or reflecting. The mood in a room, the serenity of a hidden waterfall, the calm of a place deep in the earth, and the joy of a child are all examples of these signals. Can you think of any that you've experienced? Focus on them a moment, and you'll start reaching for the tuner knob on that antenna.

It is one of my greatest goals to broaden my ability to perceive the world around me, and therefore more fully appreciate the gifts I've been given in this lifetime, in this place, with these people around me. Please, join me.

The Rules

This is something I've worked on intellectually for many years. When I was younger, I could tell you lots of these from memory. I think there were more. Obviously, they didn't all stick by the time I decided to write them down. Dated 28 October 2008.

The Rules

1. The Golden Rule: Treat others the way you want to be treated.

2. The Ketchup Rule: Even if a little is good, more may not necessarily be better, no matter how tempting it may seem. (May also be called the Peanut Butter Rule.)

3. The Iceberg Rule: If you see a bit of something, chances are good there may be a lot more to it than you can tell. Akin to the phrase 'where there's smoke there's fire.'

4. The No-Fault Rule: Don't use other people's mistakes to excuse or justify your own.

5. The Control Rule: You're the only (adult) person you can control. Period. End of story. Any efforts or expectations otherwise will only lead to disappointment. The basic premise behind this rule is RESPECT. The corollary of this is don't expect or allow anyone else to control you. Respect yourself and others enough to take care of your own business and keep it at home, without interfering with others' lives and/or their (in)ability to do the same.

6. The Reciprocation Rule: Don't expect someone else to do a thing for you just because you'd do it for them. This does not override the Golden Rule (#1) because of the Control Rule (#5).

What If

Something I dug up, written for fun and originally submitted to (and rejected by) McSweeney's, dated 28 March 2006:

Imagine how the great moments of history would be different if...

- the library at Alexandria hadn't burned
- the Seahawks had actually made an effort in the second half of Superbowl XL
- L. Ron Hubbard had lost the bet
- Cornwallis hadn't surrendered, but made a final charge and defeated Washington's forces
- zombies really were imaginary
- Adolf Hitler's career as a street artist had paid off
- Lucious Malfoy hadn't handed Dobby that book
- Julius Caesar hadn't crossed the Rubicon
- Firefly hadn't been cancelled
- Deagol hadn't found the One Ring at the bottom of the Anduin

Crush

(16 November 2009)

It is beginning: my tween son has declared a crush.

He did so nonchalantly, and, to his credit, to his mother. This is a great indicator of self-confidence, which is actually the best part of this whole business. I don't have to explain to anyone of the male persuasion how ominous a prospect it is to let your MOM know you like girls, let alone any adult, or any of your friends, or anyone outside the family- or friends circles...because this opens you up to judgment. And becoming vulnerable to anyone at age eleven simply is not a choice made without a great deal of self-reliance.

(unfinished)

No Can Do

(19 February 2010)

As a depressed person, I know there is only so far I can go in life. I say this in the face of the "can-doers" who would tell me that, no matter what, I can do anything I set my mind to, those who would say, "If it is to be, it is up to me!"

Sigh. Of course, they're right. But that take-life-by-the horns mindset comes with a necessary set of personality traits and social skills, many of which are, by definition, not part of a depressive's emotional repertoire.

(unfinished)

Overplay

(15 May 2009)

I tend to overplay my hand.

I'm used to losing, you see, or at least being the underdog in any given situation. Of course, that's more related to my personality than any actual game being played, but that's really beside the point when perception is your reality. So when I am inadvertently dealt a decent card or two, I blow it.

It's not that I lack a poker face. I'm no pro, to be sure, but I know enough about body language and panic reactions to keep a cool head when I need to. My downfall is my confidence: I just don't know how to play my bets.

When I think I can win, I start strong. Compared to my normal demeanor, this creates suspicion. I rush the game, and by the time the river comes around my effort to draw a high pot has only resulted in everyone but the real players folding. Then underdog kicks in again: I doubt my abilities face with the prospect of 'true' talent, and either fold myself or brace for the inevitable double slap of luck and odds.

So it is in personal situations, too. I learned early that humility is a virtue, and though I had my days of experimenting with that notion (turns out Dad was right) I mostly keep my ideas and words to myself. Though not technically related, this personality trait is tied to my confidence.

The whole sour stew puts me at an automatic disadvantage when compared to others with more confidence, and less humility. Even when I have an answer or solution, the loudest person in the room is usually heard first, and when their idea inevitably fails, and my time has come around, I am criticized for holding my tongue too long. So it goes, but I've learned to live with it.

So when I find myself holding an ace, I'm set at unease. Unused to having any advantage, an awkward confidence sets in. The thing teeters like an amateur tightrope walker, and by the time I've figured out how to play my advantage, it's fallen and my opportunity to win is gone. I step before I know where I'm headed, and rush right into a hole.

But not this time.

Ignorance

Left in a Facebook discussion for the US Army fan group, 15 March 2010:

When those ignorant of what it means to be an American express their disdain for our country's government, people, or armed forces, it's an insult to anyone who's ever known or loved one of those True Heroes who ensure our freedom, and a vilification of those who have died for it. The right to exercise freedom of speech comes with the responsibility of knowing how to do so responsibly and respectably. If you're lucky enough to have this right, and fortunate enough to be completely unaware of what it takes to provide it, count yourself in a privileged minority, and consider just saying "thank you" to a veteran, or attending a Memorial Day service. America has never been perfect, but we've more than earned our place at the global table, and helped preseve that of many other nations. Repeated for posterity: If you can't stand behind our soldiers, feel free to stand in front of them.

SMRT

(16 April 2007)

All in all, I like to consider my brain as very functional in all the traditional ways, and then some. I can critically read Dante is its historical context as well as appreciate the humor of the Knights of the Pactoganal table in Dragon Fable. I occasionally win chess games without the forethought of a Master, and understand the complexities of sequentially casting Divine Plea, Avenging Wrath, and Sacred Shield *before* engaging a high-level monster in melee combat. I equally appreciate my progressive metal Dream Theater epics, the Moonlight Sonata, and an hour of either Ira Glass or Garrison Keiler (even if I don't know how to spell his name). I see harmony in a combination lush gardens and natural overgrowth, the beauty of a 100-year old fountain nestled in the middle of nowhere. I can explain how benzoic acid fragments under electron ionization in LEGO terms without being condescending.

In the everyday game of life, I consider myself a low level Renaissance man. I have many strikes against me which I will not recount here, but most can be undone with (unfinished)

Struggle

(10 February 2010)

There are days when you tell yourself what kind of man you're going to be. Some of these days are major milestones in a man's life: high school graduation, first day of college or boot camp, college graduation...or the day you decide not to re-enroll, the discovery that you'll be a father for the first time, the day that child is born, the day you irreparably disappoint a mentor, the day a loved one dies. And many more.

For me, it's not uncommon to set very similar expectations on every such day, though as I get older they just become more mature versions of themselves. Sometimes, you decide to drop a bullet point or two, whether because they may no longer apply to the man you'd like to be, or maybe because you've come to believe such an expectation is no longer realistic. Those days, depending on the abandoned expectation and the reason, can be little life-changing tragedies.

In my experience, what matters most are not the conclusions you come to on those days, but the actions you take after the decisions are made. A man struggles his whole life to define himself, and any day he commits to becoming one kind of man or another is a pretty major event. Though some may be hasty or spontaneous, no decision is made lightly.

But more than drawing an idealized future version of yourself, it's an even bigger personal struggle to make that man a reality.

Excerpt

Excerpt from 26 April 2006 piece:

I think it's fate that we all find ourselves alone at this time of our lives. It's a lesson that tries to teach that we, ourselves, are really the only people we have on this earth, in this life, and that to rely on another human for anything is a gamble at best. Then we're confused by what a healthy partnership really is. One thing it is NOT, I know, is to meet the others every need. Some needs, probably most, can only be met from within. It's a tragic thing that with all the people on this earth, and all the reaching out, and after thousands of years of timeless philosophy and poetry and religion, that it comes to this: we are still ultimately alone, too confused about our own nature, too afraid to ask for help. And if we're lucky, it takes one whole lifetime to understand and find the key to our happiness. Most people reach the end without even knowing there's a difference. I am luckier than them, but maybe not as lucky as the ones who find the answer. I can only hope.

The Diminishing Returns of Self-Discovery

Personal enlightenment is a fabulous thing, at least in theory. It's something I think all intelligent people strive for at some time in their lives, to one extent or another, and through a combination of that effort and various occurrences beyond their control, I think most people achieve some degree of it, or at least enough that they reach a kind of equilibrium between the things they wish for and the things they have.

In my own journey, I have a long list of both intentional efforts and accidental consequences (cataclysmic and otherwise) that brought me to my own state of self-awareness. It hasn't always been pretty, but I think I can safely say that it has been effective. I know myself pretty well; I think better than the average person of my age and background. I can't always tell the difference, but I know people around me notice from time to time, and that's a more accurate measure of growth anyhow.

However, not all progress is permanent. I have the unfortunate flaw that I am human, and so frequently relapse into previously unenlightened States of Self. I am prone to the effects of brain and body chemicals, as well as core input, that alter my states of well-being. Many a potentially life-changing resolve made during the morning shower or commute is lost to fatigue or minutia by the end of a day. This is why I haven't yet painted the hall, finished my degree, made a stock portfolio to speak of, built a 50" chest with 17" biceps, bicycled across the state, or written my many novels.

Of course, this is one major reason I maintain this blog: to stick pins into those ideas and experiences I think are worth saving in the hopes that they won't fall off the map, and maybe (just maybe) they'll help me figure out what I'm doing on this rock. In a discussion with a friend about her own very similar journey, it occurred to me that despite my best efforts, I may never quite reach my Optimum Self, if only because my brain/core capacity isn't high enough to hold onto everything I learn along the way. I suspect that once I reach a certain level of self-discovery, diminishing returns start to kick in.

As an analytical person, I naturally think of this in context of the phenomenon's origin: mathematics. Diminishing returns is the idea that a thing's effectiveness will decrease after a certain amount of it has been gathered.

See Figure 1. Point α along the x-axis theoretically represents the optimum point of self-awareness, after which the relationship between the self-awareness and the benefits thereof is no longer linear (assuming it begins that way at all), and learning more about oneself has less and less positive effect.

Figure 2 shows the many possible shapes of the graph after point α.

• "A" shows true diminishing returns, where the y-axis continues to increase, but at a decreasing rate. It continually takes more and more self-awareness to have the same effect as a lesser amount previously.
  
• "B" is what I imagine happens in an environment without diminishing returns, such as a monastery. Obviously, these are ideal conditions, and not a realistic scenario with a modern Western lifestyle.
  
• "C" is what I typically do: get to a certain point of understanding, then become distracted, or disenchanted. Whatever the cause, I fall off the wagon.
  
• "D" is what I'm going for: even if my quality of life isn't continually improved, I want to keep learning who and what I am. I think if this path is followed, the graph will eventually turn north again and I will reach another period of growth.

Well, now that I've beaten this horse to death with imaginary mathematics that probably don't apply anyway, suffice it to say that I'm still learning not only what's happening inside, but why I even make the effort. It's a noble one, to be sure, but I still have a lot to learn about how to apply the lessons I gain along the way. Wish me luck.

Another disclaimer: It may have become glaringly obvious during the reading, but I don't have an education in philosophy, psychology, theology, medicine, counseling, or energy healing. I write what my gut tells me. While I welcome your input, any disrespectful attempt to call me out on a point of my own ignorance may result in undesired consequences. You have been warned.

A Vision

(25 July 2006)

A three year old girl plays in the fountain. A light rain begins to fall, but she pays no mind. She marvels at the falling water and laughs when her cheeks get hit with raindrops. Her tiny feet splash, wetting the cuffs of her rolled up peach capris, while a man sitting on one of the low steps with her sandles smiles. She calls him Daddy. A warm breeze carries lavender and marigold over the water, and the cardinals call in the courtyard trees.

Untitled

(15 August 2006)

I'm falling down again. In the last 3 days I've seen increasing changes in my mood and energy, and today the light came on. I'm scared as hell.

I'm on the verge of a major commitment and I'm unsure whether I should make it. I'm on my own at work and I'm not sure I can handle it. I'm missing a dear friend. I'm unsafe at home, or at least I perceive that I am.

I don't want to go back on medication. Self-administered has been restricted, which is in itself a good thing, but symptoms reappear like so many gophers popping their heads up to ensure the coast is clear. And once those suckers start chirping, the whole colony heads out unhindered.

There is a relationship I've abused, and at least two jobs I've fallen down on. The relationship needs immediate remedy; the jobs are urgent but just jobs. Energy-tapping devices (biking, music, hard labor) should be in full force this week. But I'm not sure I'll pull myself out that quickly. The yard sure could use it, though.

My Drug

(18 October 2006)

My drug is free. I can catch it in small doses on TV commercials or magazine ads, internet news sites and billboards on the side of the road. My drug is handed to every mainstream adult in America every day, and they don't even know they possess it.

My drug is legal. It's used to sell everything from cars to clothes to sports drinks and beach toys. It's plastered on labels and posters. Anyone can have my drug without fear of incarceration, even minors.

My drug is invisible. When you have it with you, nobody can see it, and if you told them, they wouldn't care. They might even show you their own stash. You could look at my drug a hundred times a day and never see it.

My drug is clean. It doesn't smoke when it burns or make your clothes smell bad. It won't stain your fingers or give you cancer. After using, I look and act just the same as before. Even when I'm high on my drug, I integrate socially with the best of them.

My drug is silent. Using is a quiet affair and easy to conceal. It's not time consuming and can be done alone or with a partner. And the destruction it renders is something you can never detect.

Backlog

This will not be a proper post.

Beginning with that previous post, Poem, I will periodically publish content written long ago. It will be dated. Though the original reason for writing may or may not be apparent, the reason for posting is simple: posterity.

I maintain this blog only because I must write, and the stuff I produce are breadcrumbs. Sometimes those crumbs lead me back to a place I was happier, other times they show me how far I've come. Sometimes, they are a contrast to better places I've been when I find myself lost in the woods.

The posterity posts will also be breadcrumbs, though not necessarily placed in order.

Poem

Coward, 12 May 2009

When the days of you and I have passed
What remains will ever last
Upon my heart in dark and darker places.

Those who pass will know not love
And tender souls that might above
will fall--

And I will be repeated,
And I will be repeated,
And I will be repeated?

And all will have been for naught.

This must be the thirteenth step:
Close your eyes, this is only going to hurt
The rest of your life.

And Tinturn Abbey may as well be
The fucking Elysium Fields to me.
I am no warrior--just a simple coward.

And these are perfect places
I will never be
I will never see.

Just a simple coward
Is all I'll ever be.

Untitled Short Fiction

"Thing is, I'm not welcome there anymore," John said as he eyed the place sideways.

His wife looked at him puzzled for a moment, then deliberately diverted her attention. "Then where are we going to go?" she asked simply, looking away from him.

John sighed deeply, and the pain in his forehead let him know he wasn't hiding his anxiety well. He looked directly as Melissa. "I don't know. We'll find someplace." He added, "I'll find someplace."

"Well Jesus Christ, John," Melissa snapped, this time making full eye contact. Her gaze was unforgiving. "That's what you said last week. And the week before that you told me this place wouldn't be a problem. And in June it was all, 'Baby, we on a roll!'" She huffed to stop herself, looking away again. "This isn't going to work, John. I'm going without you." She shook her head and picked up the baby seat. "See you later," she said, as she walked away.

Fury From the Sky

At the place where I work, I volunteer to lower the US flag to halfstaff on those days when it's appropriate. Usually, it's to honor a fallen American, especially those from Michigan. Looking back, I've lowered the flag seventeen times since September 11, 2008 for various men and women, young and old, according to the Governor's emailed announcements. I feel a sense of duty to them and their families, and since I'm not serving myself, I do what I can to thank them for their sacrifice.

Today, I lowered it for Army Sergeant Dillon B. Foxx, of Traverse City. Now, I didn't know this young man. It's a coincidence that I have family in Traverse City, and that caught my eye as peculiar. What really got me, however, was his unit: the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment. I'm pretty sure this Army unit is a direct descendent of the one my dad served in. Back then, it was called the 508th Airborne Infantry Regiment. My dad served at Fort Kobbe, in the (Panama) Canal Zone. Over the years, that unit saw changes in mission and location, and was absorbed into the 82nd Airborne Division.

I've been lucky in that I've only known a few people who have died in the Middle East. I've been luckier in that I am able to live my life as I see fit while others defend my right to do so. It might be cheesy of me, but I feel a connection to this particular soldier, this particular sacrifice.

Reaching

I am in a fog...or at least, I was three days ago.

I don't know how depression is classified medically, but I know how it affects me.

I currently take what's been described as a mild anti-depressant. At the time I started it, nearly ten years ago, I was on half the typical dose for those given this drug. Like many people, I knew I had some problems. Like most young men, I believed my lack of self-discipline was the main issue, and all I needed to do was buckle down and get my head on straight, and all my ducks would fall neatly into a row. The idea that any alteration in my brain chemistry (1) was to blame, or (2) would fix my shortcomings, was ludicrous. I was, after all, a whole being, created like any other, but simply existing in different conditions than those who had more successful lives and healthier relationships. The challenge for me was to find the correct conditions in which to live, and success would be mine as a matter of course.

Trouble is, by the time I was 25, I had been married four years and had just become a father. I had tried and re-tried to finish my college education until I ran out of money and got kicked out of the College of Engineering and Computer Science. Fine, I thought, I'll go another way. And I did. To make lots of long stories short, by the time I was forced to deal with my depression, I had firmly entrenched myself into a pretty specific set of emotional, social, and economic conditions, and the search for that lofty optimal setting was looking pretty grim.

There's also a fact that only hindsight can provide. Though I still believe that self-discipline is the biggest factor in changing my life (and really, who ISN'T this true for?), I was wrong about the brain chemistry thing. As it turns out, the way depression works--at the brain chemistry level--is pretty straightforward. It amounts to sitting someone with short arms down at a wide table and asking them to reach across. They simply can't do it--not while sitting down, anyway. And for that person to be at a table with many others, most of whom are perfectly capable of reaching across the table, and be expected to do exactly the same things as those others, is expecting too much. When they try, it's obvious they're struggling. Some can eventually do it, but only with great effort, and the possibility of being ostracized or pitied.

So it is with depression. People with that kind of limitation don't like to be recognized or singled out. We hide, try to blend in. When we're reaching across that table, next to our long-armed family members and coworkers and friends, we don't like anyone to notice the trouble we're having. It's usually obvious to those around us, but only that we're failing to achieve, or commit, or follow through, or some other desirable end result. What isn't obvious is the reason. Typically, that doesn't matter. The end result is more important, and any "reason" for failing to get there has a label: excuse.

I got to a point in my life where I realized this was happening, and cutting down on the number things I had to concentrate on wasn't an option. Therefore, in the storm of my life's accumulated tribulations--marital problems, work challenges, home ownership, parenthood, etc--I threw in a little towel. Fine, I said again, despite my better judgment. I'll take the damn pills.

And to my immense surprise...nothing changed. Nothing inside, anyway. The way I described it then was like this: if you are accustomed to going through a door and running down a hall to another door, you really are only aware of those two, and they're the only ones you'll consider using, even if that last door always leads to trouble. But if you slow down a bit after coming into the hall, you might notice how many other doors are available, and possibly make another choice. Another favorite desription is related to navigating a turbulent ocean with rocks jutting up all around. When that ocean is calmed, those big rocks are still there, but more easily avoided, and furthermore, smaller rocks become apparent which were hidden before. Not all of these are avoidable, but at least in a calmer sea they are visible beforehand, whereas before they would have taken you completely by surprise. So it was with my reactions to certain stimuli, and things that were happening to me as a result of decisions I had no idea I was making.

My only regret is the loss of some degree of creativity. I blame my loss of interest in Liberty Fleet (and my part in its eventual demise) on my meds.

But I know now I need these drugs, and that was a difficult thing for me to come to terms with. Being drug-free has two major effects.

When I'm off meds, my mind begins to float. It becomes free from those things that would restrain it longer than a moment, usually longer than it takes to complete a task or make good on an obligation. It moves among all those stations of my daily existence--work, family, chores, mortgage, timesheets, dinner, kids' schedules, marriage, etc--as a function not of their relative importance to my life as a whole, but their immediate demand for attention in a given moment. Off meds, my mind goes adrift, prone to every crashing wave on the stormy sea of adult responsibility. The pilot, you see, isn't paying attention to the instruments.

This, of course, is not the most devastating effect of my depression. In fact, in an existence that entailed less responsibility, it wouldn't be much of a problem at all. I guess that is likely the reason I wasn't diagnosed before age 25. Granted, off meds I become an irresponsible flake, but many young adults go through a stage closely resembling this at one or more points in their lives. I even venture to guess that this first set of symptoms may not even be depression-related at all. Indeed, the way it reads, it looks more like an attention deficit or executive processing thing. Whatever else may be at work, however, I cannot possibly deny that I'm depressed. The second major effect ensures that.

I state this factually because when I'm unmedicated, I very easily slip into all the standard descriptions of a depressed person: difficulty concentrating, feelings of hopelessness, loss of interest in hobbies and relationships, and persistent sad or empty feelings, among other things. I take myself too seriously. On the few occasions that I smile, it looks more like I'm twisting my face than being happy. I am uncomfortable in adult social settings, afraid someone will "out" me because I obviously (as far as I can tell) don't fit in.

Usually, the trouble starts when I just put something off a little, then I drop a few balls, then I'm missing deadlines (real and perceived), and before I know it I've effectively dropped off the face of the earth. It all ends in avoidance and isolation, followed by feelings of guilt and worthlessness over all the people I've disappointed (or pissed off) and all the things I've let go or lost track of. I tell myself I'm just not cut out for that kind of role in this life: the role of a successful, happy, satisfied person. Or the role of someone who can take care of his family.

I know all of these things about myself. I've had to learn them to survive without ending up in a cardboard box or padded room. I've seen the cycle at work over and over. In fact, until a few days ago, I had been unmedicated for almost a week. I hate needing them, but no matter how much I would like to hit a reset button in my soul and get a clean slate, times like this make it impossible to forget my limitations. I guess that's why the insurance company calls them "maintenance drugs."

I sometimes wonder when (not if) I'll end up in that cardboard box or padded room. I do legitimately fear that I'm losing my mind at times. I already have an embarassingly bad memory. There are times I am unable to do a simple calculation in my head, or look at a word like "are" and fail to recognize it. I have fits of stuttering, when I've never before had any trouble speaking. I even go through old blog posts and wonder at the intelligence and self-worth of the man who wrote them. I fear for my sanity sometimes, but I know that if I'm ever going to truly lose it, there isn't anything I can do to stop it.

So I take my medicine, and I'm at the table again, short arms and all, but this time equipped with my booster seat. It's not comfortable admitting I need one. Most days, it feels like I'm pretending...pretending to be normal, pretending to be healthy, pretending to be CAPABLE. I don't like that. But the alternative, pretending that all the effort I must go through to reach across that table when everyone else simply has to extend a hand is normal and healthy, is without a doubt the greater of two evils.

Baron

My best friend is dying.

I've known him 13 years. He knows most of the things about me that I hide from others, because they're parts of myself that I hate. None of them have ever affected his love for me. He's seen me at my best and worst. Thankfully, he's more forgiving than anyone I know. We've fought each other and cried together. He's permanently scarred me, and I'm a better person because of it. He is my dog, and I'm losing him.

Baron is one of the four beings on this earth I've called 'Best Friend,' and he epitomizes the title in dozens of ways. He is loyal and faithful and loving and gentle. He's been a caretaker, watching over our family for what has amounted to almost 54 collective years. Our children grew up with him, and he was always the first to meet each new child whenever we'd bring them home, even the ones that weren't babies.

Baron's been called the most relaxed person in our house, and I never realized how true it was until now. Through all the emotional dysfuction and marital stress and diminutive bullcrap that goes on day after day, year after year in our house, he has remained the same, and he has loved us through every long hour of it. He has an old, passionate soul, and we were lucky to have him with us for so long.

But now his body is old, too. He hasn't been up or down more than two stairs in over five years. For the last year, he's been unsure on his feet, especially on uncarpeted floors, and prone to accidents around the house. (It's embarrassing but true. If your grampa made the house smell bad, you wouldn't put him out, would you? Neither would we our dog.) Now he can't walk at all. He barely eats and even then only because we insist. He goes through spells like seizures where his left side tightens up and his jaw locks shut. His body is failing him. Though he doesn't express pain, I know he is miserable. In two days, our vet comes back to town, and will help Baron escape the prison he's trapped in.

Baron is the reason that, for the rest of my life, loyalty and friendship will always be symbolized by a yellow dog. He will be sorely missed, and deeply mourned.

I know general Biblical wisdom is that animals don't have souls, et cetera, but I think that's all divine manifest destiny talking, and Baron has been more than just an animal or a companion. In truth, we didn't own Baron any more than we own our children. He was just part of the family, and he loved and cared for us in his own ways as much as we did for him. I don't know what anyone else will call it, but he has something inside him, something that will live on, something I hope to see again.

Memories of Baron:

Right after we bought our house, we got our dog. Baron came to us from a stray rescue organization. It was cold outside as we walked from pen to pen, looking at dozens of animals of every type. I don't know how many pens there were, but when I got the pen where he was, I was done looking. We approached the fence and every dog inside ran to meet us, some wagging, some barking, all excited. Every dog but one: a beefy yellow lab mix. He stood back and watched us, and I knew I had to meet him. Soon after, we took him home. Knowing his approximate age, we assigned him a birthday of July 4th.

We don't know what his breed is, other than the yellow lab part. That seems a minority, given his body shape and short hair. I always wondered if it was pitbull because of his barrel chest and the shape of his head. He also has a curious upside-down-Y shaped ridge atop his skull that goes from the top of each eye socket to the back of his head, so Rhodesian Ridgeback has also been suggested. Whatever the case, he looked menacing in his day. His big teeth and loud bark kept would-be punks away from our house and out of our yard. Many people crossed the street when I walked him, rather than pass by us.

Baron was a runner in his younger days. We think he ran away from his first family. This is likely the same family who spent thousands of dollars on him as a puppy. He was 1½ when we got him, and his first trip to the vet revealed very faint scars on each side of his back end. An x-ray revealed that he'd had reconstructive surgery on both hips. Many times he'd see an open door or gate and run for the hills. When we'd go after him, he treated it like a game. The Wife has a fantastic story involving a slushy winter night and a Toys 'R Us shipping dock. Twice, we thought he was gone for good, but just like all the times we found him quickly, he'd simply followed his nose slowly through everyone's backyards.

I will always remember exploratory walks in the empty fields across our street after the state hospital was torn down. I will always remember telling him to stay off the loveseat all day, then coming downstairs each morning with him fast asleep at the end of it. I'll always remember when he was left alone for longer than he liked and stripped the end of the couch down to bare wood. I will always remember the look on his face after being caught--many times--eating crayons and the multi-colored poo we always found a couple days after. He still loves crayons; I caught him as recenty as a month or two ago.

I'll never forget the time he bit me, and the lesson I learned. He knew my mind that day, and he was right to come after me. He put me in my place. (Thinking about it now, that incident started with the discovery of a pile of crayon crumbs.) After I put him out of the house and wrapped my bleeding (and soon-to-be infected) arm, he and I had a talk on the deck, and I said I was sorry, and he said he was too, and we were best friends again.

Santos called him "Big Boy" and Dhiara called him her boyfriend. Both my boys have used him for a pillow, a footrest, a comforter, and a means of locomotion. My daughter hugs him and his head is bigger than hers. He graciously lets her drape him with stuffed animals and use him as a prop in her games. He loves these little creatures who came into his house well after he was an established resident, and they love him.

My Sixth Sense

Human history is rife with examples of profound and universally accepted ignorance. It's usually not something you can hold against the people in any particular time period (unless, oddly enough, religion was part of some larger "truth"'s denial). The Ancient Greeks, for example, were perfectly content with the idea that all matter was made up of some combination of four basic elements: earth, air, fire, and water. An educated person from that culture would be able to rationally and logically explain it, and someone who didn't know better would be suitably and understandably convinced. Physicians from Mesopotamia to 19th century Europe wrote for over 2000 years about the four humours--black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood--substances which composed the human body, and whose balance or imbalance caused differences in physique and mood. Before the mathematics or instruments existed to discover otherwise, the observation that the sun moved in an arc across the Terran sky led to the belief that it orbited the Earth. And as recently as 500 years ago (well AFTER aformentioned mathematics and instruments existed), many predicted with conviction Columbus's disapperance shortly after he sailed off the edge of the planet.

Of course, now these are all silly examples of a simpler time, and a simpler race. We can compare ourselves to such folk and feel proud of our advancements in art and science, in culture. Of course, we can see the truth now. We know the deal, and we'll never live in the dark again.

Right? Maybe not.

Prehistoric Man never knew about his brain. Any attempt to explain it or its function would have been lost, except to point it out as that pink fleshy thing that spills when you open the skull. But the first day he came up with the concept that adding one stone to another created a sequence, or looked into the sky and wondered what are those white dots up there? instead of taking them for granted as backdrop, or realized that collecting seeds from one fruit and leaving them in the ground yielded more fruit, he fundamentally understood something about the brain's purpose. It isn't that he could have explained what just happened, but he was definitely aware something HAD happened.

The modern state of our science and technology is admittedly astounding. It used to be, as recently as a few centuries ago, that an educated person could eventually be taught all that had been collectively learned by his or her cultural academia, and still have enough lifespan left to practice be recognized for it. We are now well past that point, and that is truly amazing.

However, I wonder if it really makes us more advanced as a species, or just gives us a greater license to justify our modern ignorance. Such advances have taken thousands of generations, and millions of thinkers who looked at the information they'd been given and realized it was insufficient, that it did a poor job of explaining something that they either observed or understood on a deeper level. For many of the early thinkers in any given era, there were no means of discovering, but like prehistoric man, they became aware of something. Their ability to even perceive a thing was a small step ahead of their peers', and a first step in what would eventually change the history of our entire species.

I believe we may be on the edge of such a discovery now. Oh, I am by no means well educated, nor am I exceptionally intelligent. But part of me has, for my entire life, been aware that something else is going on in this world, or specifically, with myself as a whole being.

Now's the part where you skip down to the next entry, if you're generous, or click the 'Next Blog' button at the top of the page if you're not. And I wouldn't blame you. But if you're at this point already, maybe you'll follow me just a little further.

We as physical beings have certain sensations that tell us what's happening around us. We use our observations--provided by our well-understood five senses--to collect these sensations, and then we reason, to the best of our ability, their causes and consequences. Take something as simple as gravity. We know it exists and how it works; we all have observed it our entire lives and taken it for granted. But it took theoretical physicists, beginning with (if you believe the myth) Isaac Newton and his apple, asking centuries of questions before it could be accurately explained. (Even now, current accepted theory doesn't give us the whole picture. Go read Hawking.)

Now take something slightly more complex: magnetism. This is another thing we've all observed our whole lives (or at least since the first time you pulled yourself to a standing position against the fridge and slid down because you grabbed one of those silly plastic fruits holding up a shopping list). This isn't, however, something we can all explain. Once observed, though, we understand and accept it. It's just always there, even if we can't measure it or create conditions to artificially induce it. We just all know that, unless it was created artificially, a magnet never ever loses its ability to stick to our fridge.

Imagine, for a moment, that magnetism was not something universally observed or understood, but you, a lonely pilgrim in your simple human journey, discovered it. Not discovered in the traditional sense of course, because in truth, it will have always existed. What would you call it, and therefore how would you explain or refer to it to people you wished to communicate it to? If you wanted to explore it, would you know how to go about it? Would you have been lucky enough to come across a cache of magnetic materials to experiment with, or something randomly lying around? If the latter, would you assume it was an isolated phenomenon, or something due to the place you found your materials, or something relating to the position of the stars and planets, or something related to your accepted divine being?

And all these what-ifs apply to something we can put our hands on, something we can see, bring someone else to and know they'll make the exact same observations, something we can photograph and measure and publish in a journal.

The discovery I think I've made...isn't so much of a discovery, because I believe it's always existed, and not just in my life, but EVERY life. It isn't something tangible, it isn't something that has a name, or something that can be measured, or photographed, or published, or shown to a person. Or even, as we're both coming to understand, written well about.

Prehistoric man discovered, by realizing he could think and reason and question, his brain. What I am exploring is something I've named my Core.

What I'm talking about is the thing inside us that is a kind of perceptory organ. It's similar to the emotional device called a heart, but has more than an emotional function. It's also similar to what has been called intuition in that it can 'listen' to things outside our normal perception. Our cores tell us when someone is sad or angry or attracted to us, and broadcasts to others when we are. Our cores give us a sense that something is wrong, and may guide us on a course of action. Our cores ache and need healing when a loved one dies. Our cores can send up red or white flags, and ring alarm bells about a stranger who may only be standing at the next slot machine. Now, some people--smart people, mind you--will say that all this is physiological, a result of pheromones and body language and brain chemicals. Those people may be right. But like prehistoric man wondering at the stars in the sky, I am wondering whether these physiological signals point falsely to what I am describing, or the thing I'm describing actually dictates that physiology, the way the brain affects the body by releasing adrenaline, or the way the body can affect the brain if we indulge in too much sour mash. And sue me for saying so, but if billions of people can believe in a greater power for no apparent reason, and be believed just because they have a name for this believe ("faith"), then I can name and describe a possibly-fictional system of the body/mind/soul*.

This is closely connected to my belief in body energy. There are well documented accounts of chakras and chi and the like from numerous cultures going back (how many?) years. Has anyone besides me wondered why energy therapy is NOT part of modern medical practice? Maybe it's because we can't see it, or measure it, or quantify its magnitude or effects. I'm sure there are people out there who know some or all of the reasons, but I'm not one of them. It doesn't make body energy any less real, but it does make people look at me funny when I bring it up in conversation (which is very seldom these days.)

How the Core, my newly identified metaphysical sensory organ, relates to body energy, or anything else, is still an unanswered question. I'll never know for sure, not in this life. And even if I had some answers, they would be tiny, delicious little revelations useful and understandable only to me. But one of my biggest discoveries has already occurred: that naming this sensory thing has allowed me to move forward in exploring it, and exploration has always been the point all along.

*Just to be clear, I am not a faithless man. While I won't quote you all the biblical stories as solid fact, I think anyone who believes THIS is all there is to life is an ignorant fool. I also believe in a single god/creator/supreme being/higher power, which I suppose technically makes me agnostic. I give thanks and pray and ask for help like most people who identify themselves as religious. I hold my beliefs for many reasons, most of which come from observations made...with my core.

The Folly of Youth

Today I was reminded of one of my most egregious mistakes. It hurt.

This is one of the great errors in judgment which affects an entire life, and calls into question the validity of everything which preceded it. The sacrifices I made to commit this act have never ceased to cost me something every day since. Some days it's more noticeable than others, but I know it happens. Some measure of trust is lost, and my word isn't as good as it once was. There are moments of awkwardness when old friends realize what's changed, and then the coldness begins. The friendships I so desperately need to keep myself grounded are no longer available, and this above all else causes the most regret.

Is this selfish of me? I think it is, but I don't see any other way of explaining it. Mine, after all, is the only lens through which I'll ever view the world, or any of my own actions. And though I may mourn my losses unknown, the fact that I lack the perspective of those who I hurt or pushed away only serves to enlarge my sense of wrongdoing.

I've made partial amends, but I know I'll never have back what could have been mine. I know compared to others' crimes, mine is minuscule: nobody died, no laws were broken, nothing was stolen. But there was abuse and destruction, and I am still haunted by this regret. It's true that everyone has moved on, including me, but I still can't possibly fathom why I would ever risk so much for so little.

As I Am

Newsflash:
I'm kind of sick of trying to make everyone happy with who and what I am. Though I thought I was doing this before, maybe I was mistaken. So let me be clear: from this moment forward, anyone who wishes for me to be involved in their lives will do so on the condition that they stop criticizing the things I do and say, the way I live, how I think, and who I am. Anyone unwilling to meet those conditions can kiss my merry ass.

Why the tirade? I'll tell you. In the last two weekends, I've been out with "the guys" on two occasions. This is unusual for me. I rarely go out on weekends, and when I do, it's almost always a family or couples event. Also, I rarely drink more than one or two adult beverages on any given outing, if I drink at all. I'm not given to excess. So on the occasion that I do overindulge, I'd like everyone to recognize that 99% of the time I'm perfectly functional and sober. Also, I think I deserve a damn break: I'm 36 years old. I'm a good man and a hard worker. If I want to get drunk with the guys every now and then, so be it. So long as I continue to earn our family's decent living, don't come home and trash the house, don't blow the car payment on booze, don't wake everyone up when I get home, don't operate under the influence, or any other such behavior that constitutes conduct unbecoming, leave me the hell alone.

And on that subject, the first of the two aforementioned weekends, I did, in fact, overindulge. It was partly by accident; I'm not as young and robust as I used to be, apparently. It was partly on purpose (see the last half of paragraph 2 above). And I did feel like hell the next day. But guess what else I did the next day? I got out of bed on time (before 7am), showered, and went on to meet every single obligation I made that day (which, taking into account I was volunteering at a meeting of ~100 exchange students, was considerable). I puked. I felt like crap. I cold sweated and I'm sure I was pale. I don't know whether anyone other than my wife could tell, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Because every single time I needed to excuse myself, I did so graciously, and I came back within a few minutes, and every moment in between those episodes I was on track, body and mind. To make my original point: nobody suffered that day because of what I did the night before EXCEPT for me, so anyone who wishes to pass judgment can, well...refer to the last sentence of paragraph 1.

The second of the two aforementioned weekends, I did not, in fact, overindulge. I made this decision consciously as both a physiological and financial matter. I volunteered to drive instead, believing I ought to contribute something to the shindig, as it was an impromptu birthday party for a buddy. Good times were had by all. Two guys got pretty plastered, as was their right. The birthday boy got to pick the bar because he's into one of the waitresses, which is also his right, and after seeing her totally understandable. As it happened, I ended up next to this woman (with my buddy on the other side). This led to the perpetuation of a certain label these guys (with whom I work) have given me, which isn't entirely respectable. I usually take it in good stride; after all, we're all just guys messing around with each other's heads. But they insist on doing this at work, where (surprise!) there are lots of other people who DON'T really know me, who DON'T really understand that ALL of us guys actually qualify for that label on more than a few occasions.

The people hearing this joking are people whose professional respect I am trying to either earn or keep. Though I already knew it to be true, it struck me today: no matter where we go, or what I do, when I'm with these guys, I will always be the one who gets this label, and no matter how much I might tone myself down, they'll always adjust their rating scales to ensure I fall into the category they've chosen. It kind of pisses me off. I have realized the only way to change this (because appealing to their mature sensibilities will only serve to get me a new label) is to be a dick about it, call a spade a spade, and basically tell them to STFU.

And so, I'm done. I'm canceling my subscription. All of y'all who want me around are just going to have to put up with me. Any of y'all that have something negative to say may at least get walked away from, or at most get told where to shove it. I've got things to do and people to take care of, and I don't have time to try and fit into your expectations of me. If being your friend means bowing to your criticism or taking your crap, go find someone else to be your friend. I'm all done. Have a nice day.

Circle K

A coworker noticed my serious nature and inquired whether I was in a funk. I replied that no, I was in fact in a groove, getting lots done, but as a result realizing the daunting amount of work ahead of me this week. Does this mean I'm in a funky groove?

* * * * *

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.

I looked back over my writing a week or so ago, and it was apparent then I'd skipped more than a few significant events in the past months. I've let more than a few affecting news stories go uncommented on. I've let more than a handful of emotional benchmarks slip through my fingers. I've let many a family event go by unrelated. I've changed a bit, and documented none of it.

This is a problem for me. It's a problem because my memory is terrible, and also because normal means of documenting daily life are erratically or completely ignored in our lifestyle. Paper journaling, that classical, elegant predecessor to blogging, is simply out of the question. Pictures are taken mostly of (or by) children, mostly at events which are more important to us than them, and are almost universally forgotten about until the memory card is full. (And then, as is probably the case in most households, promptly forgotten about AGAIN until the computer's hard drive crashes, which prompts lots of regret and moaning about lost digital images that hadn't been looked upon for longer than it took to offload them from the camera.)

* * * * *

Yes, the Circle K reference, which I thought was so funny, and might appeal to other children of the 80's to whom Bill and Ted's excellent adventures were such a milestone, was written yesterday. The train of thought got lost in a work day, and when I picked up on it today, it was gone.

I mention this only because it's a perfect example of the emotional benchmarks I said I've missed so many of. Here it was yesterday, I felt I had something to say (really, there was much more coming), sat down to say it, and then *poof* it was gone, in a puff of orange smoke.

As I said, this is a problem for me. I told a friend who also blogs recreationally that writing is critical. To not get out those thoughts or words or feelings in their time of validity is to lose an essential part of yourself to the maelstrom of day to day life, from which nothing escapes unless there's an overdue dollar amount attached to it. And unlike more concrete aspects of thought (like those overdue dollar amounts for instance), you can't put your need to write aside and remember where you were emotionally or intellectually that day when you finally have the time to record it. You don't get much of a backlog; the Muse will only wait so long.

These thoughts make up who I am. How I express them, consciously and otherwise, through my words and actions, creates a kind of user interface for everyone in the world with whom I interact. My children will know me each day by how I love and discipline them, by my expectations and disappointments. My coworkers will know me eacy day by my expertise, curiosity, and professionalism (or lack thereof on any count). My friends will know me each day by my opinions, my sense of humor, and our shared experiences. My wife will know me each day by how I express my love for her, and how I care for our marriage.

I am known--and judged--by everyone around me in so many different ways, and by so many words and actions, simply by how I express what's inside.

So, what IS inside?

Some days I think I know, but what's known really is only valid in any given context or situation. Most days, I'm only going on program, following a mental to-do list or maintaining a routine of tasks because they're familiar or necessary or both. In this way, those exterior words and actions are there for all to see, expressing the stuff inside me which I am taking no trouble to either monitor or maintain. This seems counterintuitive.

In any conversation with myself, all that stuff inside is the whole point. Of everything. Even when I'm only "on program," as far as I'm concerned all those things I spend my entire day doing are specifically for the benefit of those around me, and are a direct result of the interior desire to provide for them. Maybe that comes out through my actions, or maybe it just looks like I'm running myself ragged, but either way I do it not only because I must, but because I want to--not only for them, but for myself.

So anyway, my whole purpose in ever thinking about about the insides are to make sure I keep getting better. It's important to me that I am a good, productive person, and it's important to me that I become more so as I age. The ONLY way I'll ever be able to benchmark any such progress is by taking some kind of snapshot of what's inside from time to time, and comparing it to other such snapshots.

This is just a very long way of saying that unless I blog (or otherwise write) those thoughts or emotions or events that strike me on occasion, I'm only shooting myself in the foot: I have no way of knowing whether I'm making any progress in my personal development. So I better get on the stick.

And on the subject of lost trains of thought, there it goes. But what I managed to get out in my short expressive window was, I think, pretty good. It helped me, anyway. And if that's not good enough, I respectfully suggest you hit that "next blog" button at the top of your screen. After all, this isn't here for you; this is my own gift to myself.

FYI

Just to let everyone know, sometimes dads need relief from talkative kids, too. And their cell phone bills. And the crap they dish out as they perpetually try to deceive their moms...er, parents. I'm just saying.

Seriously, am I the only one who notices this??

March Forth

Today I turn thirty-six.

That doesn't really mean anything, aside from a new driver's license and probably some gray hairs, but considering how the last few weeks have been going, it's as good a time as any for some serious reflection.

I've done a fair amount of introspecting in this blog, from childhood and parenting, my Divine purpose, my chemical nature, and even my personal drains. I don't consider any of these insights to be revelations of any type. In fact, I barely consider them more than shadows flickering about on my cave wall. I'm struggling to understand myself on a daily basis most of the time, and no amount of flowery prose will ever make it any easier. All I really hope for in my writing is a way to talk myself through a given situation. If I become better as a result, that's usually just a happy side effect.

This year might be different. Of course, it might not, just like any other year that didn't make a damn bit of difference (except the aforementioned gray hairs). But I've got something scary on the horizon. I suppose one benefit of the very crappy economy is that I'm rethinking much of how I've become accustomed to living, what I take for granted, and what might happen if any of the blessings I've been given were taken away.

I'm not just talking about my job. One year ago, I was still mourning the death of my father as my wife watched her mother fade away. Just in the last month, I've had to face a situation I never wanted to be in, where I was forced to decide between two terrible outcomes: one long and slow, the other harsh and immediate. As the year thaws and new prospects begin to bud, I anticipate finding myself in a worse-than-usual self-induced pity party with respect to all the areas of my life in which I've disappointed my much younger, hungry-for-life self.

Of course, I've not been that person in a very long time. And I must remember that when I was that person, I was also a person riddled with the wounds of dysfunction and codependance. I'm not finished battling those demons (maybe I never will be) but I'm healthy enough now to know what I want, and who I am, and who I want to be. I'm playing a different game now, with more chips on this side of the table and fewer on that, and now some key cards are in the hole never to recovered, but I'm much more prepared to win than I ever was when that nerdy, lanky kid looked out into the world and saw no boundaries. That poor child: he also saw no steps along the road or any mechanism for success. He fell off a cliff long before he noticed it was even there.

I'm not that kid anymore, for better or worse, but I still look out into the future and dream, knowing the journey from here is a bit more limited than it was from way back there, but there's still a long way I can travel. And inside, I know it's not about how many years I have left on this earth: it's about how much I'm willing to make it work. Looking around all my circles, I have found people accomplished at both ends of the success spectrum: those who have set and achieved major life goals in less time than I spent trying to pass Calculus II, and those who decided early in their lives what they weren't capable of, and stopped right between the good-enough living and the couch.

I wonder, if anyone looks at me in that light, where they see me. I look at myself and don't even know for sure. I have days when I'm solidly one or the other, for sure, but all my slacker days are well earned by hard labor, and all my superstar days are just that--days. I know I'm capable of going beyond a handful of fantastic 24 hour periods, and I know in the end I won't be satisfied with less than my best.

I used to think I underachieved because I fear failure. While it's a pretty big factor, the real reason is the opposite: I fear success. And conversely, failure is comfortable and easy. Not settling for failure means stepping into unfamiliar territory, putting your neck on the block, exausting yourself with no end in sight for rewards that are as yet untangible. I know that's not the whole story, but it's the part I tell myself right before I sit down with two hours left in a day and the mental list I carry around is put away until tomorrow. "Why put off...when you..." Oh, shut up.

And then one day, you wake up and you're 36, and you realize you've done that for a few too many days lately, a few thousand days in fact. Not that you haven't anything to show for it, the good things in life still come, and you're not a complete doof. There are three beautiful kids I get to squeeze when I come home each day, that pretty lady who has put up with me for so long and still likes to kiss me, the faithful yellow dog who sticks with me no matter how awful I become. There's the bathroom I tiled, the pantry I built, the piles of firewood I split and stacked with my own two hands, and the closet I adapted for my vertically-challenged 6-year old daughter. All these things are solid reminders that I am a good person, a decent man, and not a complete failure. All these people love me whether I make the grade at work or finish my degree. Sadly, these aren't the only things that matter, not if I want to live in a house, or drive a car, or feed my family, or be insured, or retire one day. That's just now how the world works.

I can do better. And what I realize more and more is that I owe it to more than just myself. And so today, March 4th, I open my eyes to what I need to do. I still feel like that lanky kid sometimes, staring off into the unknown, not knowing how to proceed, but I have gained some wisdom up to this point, and to let it go to waste would be to decide yet one more day can pass on the couch, in the comfort of my own failure. And I just can't let that happen. SCW

Parenting Takes Balls

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
--Dr. Suess

As parents, we do a lot for our children. Obviously. I know that by about my third day as a new father, I had realized practically everything I would be doing from then on, forever, would be done, in one context or another, for my children.

Lots of things are done deliberately: bathing, feeding, changing diapers, soothing boo-boos, administering discipline, helping with homework, begrudgingly handing over the credit card for that Homecoming dress she has to have--you get the idea. But it takes some deep thought to realize just how much of parenting is done behind the scenes. You need only watch your five year old repeat your exact words and reaction to spilling dinner on the kitchen floor ONCE to realize this is true. If you haven't been through this, trust me when I say this is not a pleasant realization.

Once it hits, though, you get to the bread and butter of being a parent: your job, ultimately, is to raise this tiny human into an adult, a productive, responsible, successful, (wealthy?) adult. (If our own adult lives are any clue, we are also raising our children to move out and never call us except when they need something or every 3rd Sunday when they remember to invite us over for dinner. Which, by the way, starts in twenty minutes.) And if our own childhoods are any clue, the majority of the tools used to form these ideal future versions of our kids are not the obvious ones, like making sure they brush their teeth before bed, or finish their homework before playing World of Warcraft. In fact, the most enduring actions parents take occur between those deliberate, business-of-family-and-parenting moments.

We miss most of these moments, and if we catch them at all, usually we only realize it after they've passed. I stopped trying to keep track of most of them long ago. Instead (unless I want to make myself crazy), I try to focus on what we at work call key performance indicators, or KPI's. I watch the kids' reactions to too much homework, or punishment, or being told no. I listen to them in their room when they're supposed to be in bed, at the games they play or how they treat each other when they think no one's paying attention. I know most of what they're learning from me comes from the example I set in my own reactions, how I treat their mother, how I speak to people on the phone or strangers in public. I know much of how they learn to live their lives will come from how they see me living mine. Which is kind of scary to me.

My wife and I do try, as every parent does, to steer this colossal effort toward what we think might result in success. There are certain experiences we each think are important to provide to our kids with something we consider valuable. Even though, say, starting the kids on an allowance to teach them financial responsibility qualifies as one such effort, the others, and possibly the most valuable, come in another form: a family tradition of one sort or another.

One of these traditions comes up regularly Christmas time: the tree. It is our tradition, or has been most of these last ten years, to lug the biggest box in the house up the basement stairs sometime after Thanksgiving and assemble a 6' tall construct of green ribbon and twisted metal
that kind of resembles a pine tree when it's all done. Each year we do this, and each year we invariably mumble about how next year we'll get a real tree, even though we know full well this requires a family trip out in the cold to the impromptu tree farm beside Kmart, competing child's favorites (and the inevitable complement: the appearance of favoritism), haggling with a guy who has not shaven for days only to pay God knows how many score of dollars for something that will only end up on the curb in four weeks or less, all the while hoping you weren't taken advantage of. Not to mention all the damn needles on the carpet in January. Yes, we decide to do this each year because we want to provide our kids with fond memories of a special time. How this passes as meaningful I can't say, but both The Wife and I do hold it close to our hearts. Maybe we think having a "fake" Christmas tree means we're somehow "faking" Christmas. Who's to say our kids don't consider the sight of the giant box on my shoulders just as joyful as seeing a real tree get tied to the top of the car for the trip home used to for me?

Every person has these meaningful events: KPI's that mean we've reached some kind of milestone of happiness or success. We learned them as children from the people who shaped our lives, and we try our hardest to pass them on to those whose lives we hope to shape. In a way, these events are like baseballs thrown forward in time by people who hope we'll be able to pick them up and throw them forward for our own kids. Like when Dad lets you cut the last half inch of the chosen tree at the tree farm, even though the saw is as long as your entire arm, and kneeling down puts you chin-deep in dirty, stepped-in snow; or when Mom lets you help make the apple pie everyone can't wait for, even though you already broke one dish and get flour all over the floor in the process; or when Grampa lets you sit in his lap and read his paper to him, despite the fact that he can do it himself in a fraction of the time, and there are only fifteen minutes until dinner.

Some of these baseballs are real; others are imagined, learned from TV or watching how an envied friend's family interacts with each other. But real or otherwise, these baseballs are of immense perceived importance to us as parents, and regardless of their source, we treat them as timeless and hope our kids will believe things have always been done this way. We do this because we want them to do the same things with their kids later on, and that will somehow validate our success as parents.

After losing my dad, I looked around and saw more baseballs laying around than I ever realized were there, and most were already in my hands ready for launch. Some, like the Christmas tree thing, have always been kept close at hand, but never thrown, or not thrown often, for one reason or another. I know that my kids probably won't ever consider a real Christmas tree an essential part of a "real" Christmas, whether that's okay with me or not. But I can only hope that thus far, I've made good choices, deliberate and otherwise, on which balls I have been able to throw, and that I've thrown them often enough to land one in a place each of my kids will be able to find it when they need to, and that it will give them some kind of happiness when they do.

Because as a parent, no matter what their age, your children's happiness is KPI Number One.