Reluctantly, my ex-wife Dawn decided it would be better for Güino the tuxedo cat to come to stay with me in the apartment. We adopted him from the Springdale Shelter when he was very young. When I first moved here, even though he’d never been here, I walked in the door expecting him to run to me. When I lived in Springdale, it was a ritual. He’d run up and I’d scoop him up and hold him like a baby. He’s 13.5 years old now and weighs 9.9 lbs. I already ate tuna for supper so that he could have the juice. It’s a gentlemen’s agreement we’ve shared for his entire life. Dawn gave me about 12 packets of treats, too. Güino trained us to dispense treats constantly.
The picture of me is on the way over to my old house. I hadn’t been there since I left. I put on my cat and fishbowl brooch for good luck. When I went inside, Güino looked at me strangely. It’s true I probably look a lot different. It’s likely he thought I was gone forever. I picked him up and held him like a baby. I didn’t take a picture when I left because I was in tears.
Dawn gave up a lot letting me have the cat. She was concerned people would think poorly of her for letting me take Güino. No one should think that, and not just because I’m the selfish and lucky recipient. If something happens to me, he should go back to her. I’m not being maudlin; surgery refreshed my memory of how easily any of us could go without any warning.
Güino crescendoed his caterwauling as I drove.
It was surreal releasing him into the apartment.
He’s still anxious. If I sit still, he stretches out near me, waiting for another rub. I rolled him with high-quality lint rollers and a fur brush.
If I keep petting him, he might go bald.
We’d be twins.
Thanks, Dawn. I’ll try to keep him safe and loved.
“The internet does NOT make people stupider. It gives the stupider people more reach. And you’re one of them, X.”
Hmmm…
I think this person doesn’t like my writing.
I wonder why they keep reading?
On the same day the above fan wrote to me, another friend reached out to tell me how much I’ve been on her mind, and how much she appreciates reading the wide range of things I share. I was touched. As with so many others, I had no idea she read much of my meanderings.
To my friend who reached out, thank you. Kind words are like sunshine on a cool October morning.
PS For those who reached out privately and shared their stories in response to my post “Addiction Road,” thank you. I knew I wasn’t going to get a lot of direct engagement. Those affected by addiction often can’t find a way to succinctly bare their souls. But I can say it is liberating to yield. It’s the only way for most of our problems and mental health. We all share the same humanity, whether it is beautiful moments or debilitating pain.
Hi. It’s me, X, the guy who learned the hard lesson of discovering that I’m as stupid as anyone else. We’re all stupid; we take turns wearing the dunce cap. Mine fits a little too well. It opened my eyes to blind corners in my periphery, ones I was responsible for and failed to illuminate.
That’s my teddy bear in the picture. My friend Leigh gave it to me as a surprise when I was in the hospital. I named it Azon, short for “corazon” in Spanish. (It has a heart on its chest.) Because I didn’t want to breach her privacy, I didn’t say before that my ex-wife Dawn came to the ER and stayed there until 1 a.m. when the surgeons cut me open. She got to experience the joy of watching me throw up countless times, roll around on the cement floor, and semi-scream/groan at least five hundred times. Not many ex-wives would do that, especially with the rawness of the divorce so close. I won’t forget the kindness. Neither of us will forget the spectacle. It’s important to note that such kindness is the most difficult when we’re hurt. I’m not a Christian, but it’s as close to the ideal of “do unto others” as you’ll likely find. If she needed to see me suffer to get over the stupidity I put her through, this should adequately fill the need.
Life looks different when you’re older, after making mistakes and watching people around you mystify you with their decisions. When I was younger, I had an anger that has dissolved into recognition that I, too, contained slivers of the demons that possessed them. I’m grateful that I’ve avoided most of the dreck that worsened their lives. As a bystander, though, I paid the price.
I’m writing to a specific subset of friends and family, ones who might not otherwise see something like this and realize they have someone in their lives who needs attention.
There can be no preambulation or proverbial beating around the bushes. Time is short, even if you don’t realize it.
I wrote this with love in my heart; I’ve learned that my imperfectionism often jabs people unexpectedly, no matter my intentions. I’ve crossed the line a little by sharing parts of my experience that overlap with other people. It’s risky, but it’s also the most rewarding. Someone is going to read this and have a light bulb go off in their head.
Because of my history, I have a lot of experience around addiction. An inherent danger of such exposure is to fall into the hole, believing oneself incapable of succumbing to something that always originates with free will and repeated choices. Every addict started with no intention of losing themselves in the abyss and misery of addiction. Addiction is a byproduct, not a goal. I also hated to SEE that though I’ve acquired significant experience with addiction, my ability to pivot and behave differently in response to those in the throes of addiction hasn’t necessarily improved. I’m as helpless and stupid as the next guy when confronted with someone in my sphere who won’t “snap out of it.” When friends or family members ask for advice, you’d think I would be one of the most qualified people to answer.
Why should we shake our heads so violently at addicts? Most of us become obese, smoke, or routinely engage in detrimental behavior. We say, “It hasn’t killed me yet!” That’s true. Just as in the case of addiction, we don’t address our misbehavior until we are forced to. Addiction becomes unmanageable due to money, exposed behavior, or a decline in physical health. Addiction to things like heroin brings consequences more quickly than our national pastime of alcoholism.
In case you didn’t know, I drink. I love a good beer (and many bad ones, which many people claim tastes like dog urine), whiskey over ice, or vodka and sweet & sour. Oh, and wine, champagne, port, and several other things. Luckily for me, my like didn’t devolve into an unquenching thirst for it. I recognize how few punches it might take to drag me toward danger. I’ve experienced risk factors such as loneliness or uncertainty.
I’ll tell you a secret: no matter who you are, someone in your sphere has a secret addiction. Some take years to escalate to a point where the secrecy can no longer be maintained. Missing work, a DUI, increased self-isolation, loss of health, financial issues; these are but a few of the symptoms. By the time you note the signs, it’s challenging to pull someone away from it. In reality, you almost can’t. All such changes must start with the person in question. The harder you attempt to use logic and appeals, the more defensive the addiction becomes. They’ll appreciate the love and concern WHEN and IF they overcome their addiction. Until then, you’re just another person pointing a finger and drawing attention to their secret; disloyalty is always grounds for rejection. The agony of it is that if you love them, you’re powerless to resist the urge to try. That’s the bittersweet tendrils of love at work. It’s why I wrote the Bystander’s Prayer. All answers are unworkable. Until they’re not. Those who escape addiction look back and feel so much regret for what they’ve done to themselves and the agony of pushing away loved ones in preference to something they couldn’t escape. If the addict fails to survive, the friends and family always suffer regret.
For anyone who doesn’t know, I’m susceptible to addiction. Part of it stems from my childhood. Studies have shown that abuse and exposure to neglect or addiction hugely impact the likelihood of someone being an addict. My full siblings, parents, cousins, several aunts and uncles, at least two grandparents all suffer(ed) from addiction. For instance, I don’t have a single family member I know of who successfully stopped being an alcoholic. A few of them vilified me for my rejection of being around those who used alcohol to justify destroying their lives and those around them. It was a difficult road when I was younger. Addicts despise perceived disloyalty most of all. I was loudly disloyal and judgmental as hell. Part of that responsibility is on me. In my defense, the very environment that almost killed me taught me the lesson of escape, one I only partially implemented.
Paradoxically, I understand the addicts in my family much better than I did when I was young. As I’ve grown older, I’ve witnessed such a vast spectrum of people fail to “pull up” as their addictions wrapped themselves into their lives. It’s not about being intelligent, rich, having a family, or a good job. Addiction cuts a blind swath. I see many people doubt that their loved one or friend is addicted. They focus on the superficiality of there having been no crash. Yet. I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I can see the allure of yielding to something that gives dangerous comfort.
For years, I’ve known that addiction would be an easy road for me. As much as I got angry at my sister for her more outlandish behavior with the rougher end of the drug spectrum, I watched in horror and regret as my brother chose the traditional and cleverly hidden method to reach his addiction. He chose the slow way of drinking excessively for years. He lost his job, his health, and he died much too soon. I lost him as a brother more than once on his journey. He was as intelligent as any human I’ve ever known. Truthfully, his intelligence made any attempt to address his alcoholism dangerous and impossible. Like so many others, he had a massive wall of rationalizations to explain why he did what he did. That people fiercely loved him had little impact on his behavior. He used it to create an anger shield. I could have been him with just the wrong push. I see the arc of his progression differently now. I have a lot of regrets. Equally valid is that his addiction and intelligence outmatched me. Every course of action I chose to deal with him was turned into a fantasy of aggression.
My cousin Jimmy, who I loved, struggled with alcoholism his entire adult life. Both of his parents ultimately died from it. Cancer got Jimmy; had he lived longer, I would have loved seeing him beat his love of alcohol. I think he would have. It’s no irony that the job he loved best was for a beer distributor. He loved that job.
Recently, I posted my Bystander’s Prayer, one which outlines the grief of those around someone suffering from addiction. No matter how intelligent you are, no one owns a playbook that effectively helps us reach out to someone at the bottom of the well. I wrote it for my brother but finished it for others who were peering down into their own well, helpless, afraid, but possessed by a love that compelled them to try. Thank god for love, even as it stings as mightily as any emotion can.
Most of us approach the issue of addiction as if it is a logical one. It’s not. It’s not genuinely emotional, either. It’s a strange, impossible alchemy of pain that resists easy confrontation. Most of us walk toward the battle with underserved confidence and a lack of appreciation for how powerful addiction is. Words will not work. Love will not work. Love compels us, though. The addict can’t see our intrusion as love. It’s one of our most significant errors when we try to encourage someone to change.
People suffering from addiction loathe attention. Secrecy and omissions govern their lives. So much of a person’s life begins to tighten in on itself like a series of perverse and elliptical constrictions. Sunlight itself serves as a living metaphor for how reduced a person can become. The next black buzz or unrestrained and unseen high becomes its own reward, excluding more and more as it tightens. People, friends and loved ones alike, get flung off the carousel.
Addicts need time alone with the thing that gives them the most comfort. As the addiction grows, time and energy directed to friends, work, and loved ones diminish. Addiction is a zero-sum game; its presence removes vibrancy and connection from lives. It reduces the possibility of a full life. This results in loved ones feeling an increasing emptiness and drives them to greater heights to “get through” to the addict.
For those who don’t suffer from addiction, it’s hard for us to imagine it. We foolishly believe that it is a question of willpower or intelligence. It’s not. Addiction is the parasite that wills its victim to the next high. It is the worst of diseases: it is both physical and mental.
Alcohol is a painkiller, just like other drugs. It grants oblivion from the shortfalls or pain that the addict experiences. All addictions are subject to the law of diminishing returns. Even addicts know this. But the pursuit ensues, no matter how dark of a road it leads someone. If anyone has trauma in their past, it’s that much harder for them to give up the relief of the high to face a drug-free existence. Drugs and alcohol allow us to shortcut our way to temporary oblivion. I viscerally understand the temptation. I’ve been on guard about it most of my adult life.
Prescription painkillers are so popular because they inexplicably don’t carry the same stigma as using street drugs or liquor. There’s no distinction in terms of the effects, though. Usage of prescription drugs continues to rise. I don’t see it abating.
Most people don’t become addicts, even if they try drugs or alcohol. This fact confuses many people who’ve done drugs or drink lightly without falling into addiction. They fail to see that their brain chemistry, environment, or circumstances are not the same as that of an addict. Willpower and motivation do affect people’s tendency to fall into addiction. They are bit players in the drama, though. I won’t go into the complicated realm of brain chemistry or trauma. Science clouds the essential truth of why some are prone to addiction while others are not.
An addiction is ANYthing that grants temporary relief or pleasure yet causes later harm. And even if you’re aware of the effects, you can’t stop. It can be shopping, work, sex, food, and several other things. I’m just addressing the common usage of the word.
I learned from experience that addicts resist connections and thoughtful concern. Even mundane expressions of affection, much less pointed inquiries about someone’s well-being, can be catalysts to rejection. There is no subtle way to ask how an addict is doing without significant risk of being flung away.
With addicts, a straightforward thing you can and should do is learn the habit of lifelining. If you’re not familiar with lifelining, it’s just a word to encompass letting people know that you are, at a minimum, still alive – or available if you have an addict in your periphery.
Addicts who survive the ordeal also face the backlash of loved ones who endured anger and pain due to the addiction. It takes a long time for people to forgive such damage. Many families are forever torn. Forgiveness is a personal choice.
The pandemic accelerated drug use and alcoholism. Isolation is a precursor to more people succumbing to addiction. We had a record number of people overdose last year. We don’t have the statistics yet to know how many more chose to drink to quench the loneliness and hurt of their lives. People are social creatures, and addiction thrives on secrecy. Depression is also on the rise. It’s often a close cousin to addictive behaviors.
Again, you have a person in your life, closer than you’d imagine, who needs a little extra love and attention. There is time to attempt to reach them. Don’t be surprised if your hand gets bitten. It’s the first step.
Even as addiction rises, we don’t provide people treatment. We stigmatize them. Even with excellent health insurance, many plans will only pay for 10% of the cost, if at all. Everyone else? They have to destroy their health and lives to get help.
Because I gave away all my solar lanterns to an admirer earlier in the week, I tried to find creative ways to replace the solar lantern I’d made out of a converted and inverted blue glass hummingbird feeder.
Somehow, in my move, I still had two salsa jars given to me by the famous salsa maker Mike. I’d hoped that when he gifted me the unexpected salsa it would come with a lifetime refill option. Alas, that was not to be. Given that he allegedly is retiring in a couple of years, I see no reason for him NOT to have a side business making salsa (at cost, of course) for his legions of fans.
Using solar fairy lights kits I bought on Amazon (for about $5 each), I put both woefully empty salsa mason jars to use today. Though they are not finished, they provide beautiful light and color already. It seemed wasteful not to light them up tonight. I’ll take all of the colors I can get, especially in this place where beauty is a third-tier concern.
These kits, though inexpensive, are usually designed for larger containers. If anyone wants to make them for themselves, I can easily explain how to do it. (These also have several settings, which is surprising given how inexpensive they are.) Although I don’t remember using that many sets, it seems I’ve bought 34 kits from Amazon alone in the last couple of years. Somewhere out there, there’s a lot of light and color I’ve generated for the world.
I love that I made these out of something that held a delicious surprise.
Of course, now I’m craving salsa. A gallon a week ought to do it.
I parked at the Harp’s on Garland as I evaded the ongoing renovations to the store and parking lot. Getting out of the car and walking along the front of the building, I greeted one of the workers in Spanish. We traded comments and barbs. He pretended to hand me a shovel and said in Spanish, “If you want me to have a good day, you can have this.” I laughed as I pulled my shirt out of my waistband, revealing my exposed scar. “¡Me ganaste!” he said, even as he laughed. Yes, I did win that round.
I walked the long, challenging hills in the area, taking in the houses, plants, and people. If you want to feel your legs burn, try N. Hall Avenue or Vista off of Wedington. It was sublime, as the rising sun was overcast by clouds that diffused the light that you can only find in October. As I passed a yard whose perimeter was overgrown, I attempted to take a picture of a fox or coyote as it darted into the browning bushes with the red flowers. Its head is barely perceptible in the shadows.
I was grateful that I’d slept so well the night before; I didn’t stay at my apartment last night, and I’m thankful I didn’t. Despite seeing a counselor again yesterday for the first time in a while, anxiety crept up my spine like an imperceptible shadow. No matter how people sell you the idea of solitude, loneliness is its undesirable first cousin. People struggle against the notion that people flourish the most when they have people in their lives. I love introspection, reading, and writing. There’s a vast chasm between having people available and choosing solitude, though.
When I finished my long, circuitous walk, I passed a Razorback bus stop. A couple of dozen students were waiting impatiently. Almost all of them were staring down at their phones. When I exited Harps, I put my food in the tiny trunk compartment and left through the back parking lot, looping around the side road. On a whim, I stepped out and said, “Does anyone want a ride to campus?” I didn’t expect anyone to accept. Surprisingly, several people looked around at each other, wondering if they’d be judged for saying “Yes.” I said, “Despite how small this car looks, I can hold three of y’all in here.” Two guys and one girl stepped away from the pack, shrugging. I reached over and unlocked all my doors, as my car is manual everything. They hopped in. I said, “If you do not want to go to the same drop, talk among yourselves and decide where to go first.” They chattered away as I waited at the traffic light at the bottom of the long hill up to campus. They decided to all get out at the same building. As I drove, the girl explained to one of the riders in the back seat that she only had a slim laptop because she had photographed every page of her textbook. The two guys both had backpacks perched on their laps. “That’s genius,” one of them said. Indeed, it was. As I pulled up to the sidewalk to let them out, they thanked me. Though they probably waited for the bus without any enthusiasm, they’d been granted extra minutes for the morning. I hoped they used them well.
People ask me why I prefer old headphones instead of modern earbud ones. Part of it is comfort. But having wired ones allows me to accidentally drag everything out of my pocket clumsily when I pull my phone out. I’ve tried a few sets of wireless earbuds; so far, none have worked magic for me. It could be worse. I could choose to go old school and use a boombox. I’m not quite a boomer, though.
I have a couple of weird side effects from my surgery. One of them is an odd indentation a few inches above my belly button. The other is a valley where the scar sits. I’m eating much better, but I’m still at 150 lbs. No matter how active I am or optimistic, it’s hard to forget that surgeons removed a section of my bowels. It’s a special kind of vague anxiety that only those who’ve had it would understand.
Though I’d rather have never had surgery, I love the deepening scar. It’s a reminder that anything can happen at any time, a lesson I thought I’d mastered years ago. I was wrong. If anything might happen, it also encompasses moments of surprise and pleasure. Though I walked alone this morning, I saw beauty and felt the air around me. And by risking a bit of social awkwardness, I briefly talked to three optimistic students, all of whom are looking to the future. They probably don’t know how strenuously life will challenge them. And that’s a good thing on this October morning. There’s time for that later. Much later, I hope, for all of them and myself.
I started counseling again – with the same counselor who helped me so much earlier this year. It’s an untimely coincidence that today marks one year since my brother Mike died – and a couple of days from a year ago when the gong went off in my head that I had to transform my life before it was too late. It was a big enough surprise for her to see me at my weight, and several others when I recounted the usual “what’s been going on.” I led with the punchline of revealing my abdominal scar, now free of staples, tape, or other camouflage. Then, divorce, anxiety, and struggles that don’t seem so mountainous after hearing them out loud.
Despite it being counseling, I can’t tell you how many times we both laughed. She’ll still bill me though, so she gets the last laugh on this one. Her office is less than two minutes away.
October is Mental Health Month; however, a lot of people can’t afford help, or worse, think that care is a stigma. It’s better to be alive and thriving than worrying about the perception of keeping your body and mind from distractions. There are so many things that are a blessing in life. Counseling is one of them.
A Post With Something For All TastesWhen I had my staples removed last Thursday, the surgeon unexpectedly put a liter of glue on my long wound and covered it with twenty pieces of tape. It felt like I had a toaster glued on me. “It will fall off naturally in a week or two.” Yes, and it will also “fall off naturally” when I get one weirdly caught on the towel and rip it off. I don’t know why, but I am suddenly wide awake. With that in my mind, read the captions of all these pictures (and one very short video joke…)
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Someone wrote me and said, “I can’t believe you don’t have pithy sayings written on any of your painted tiles on the landing outside the apartment.”
Well, problem solved. I don’t think Larkma, the sprite, will mind.
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Even though I live in an apartment, I use my pest control habits to spray the dumpsters, walkways, and anything else with a great environmentally safe insecticide. It’s safe for pets and humans, too. It’s not good in lemonade, but it’s the best. I got tickled when one of the neighbors asked me to come inside and spray their kitchen. It’s been a blue moon since I posted about it, but most people can save a lot of money by doing this sort of thing for themselves instead of paying an exterminator. Especially if they pay for a once-a-year treatment and then do the quarterly sprays themselves. I’m sure I looked a little out of my element this morning, wearing a vest and looking like I was about to go to church. (If I owned an extermination company, I’d definitely have the employees dress in costume, doubly so around Halloween. I don’t think it would ‘bug’ them.)
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I made an audio joke about a pirate and his parrot problem. Wee baba!
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The word ‘ b e d ‘ looks like a bed. I think someone should make the box spring or platform section out of those three letters, both because it is creative and it would also label that piece of furniture.
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My nutritionist warned me to be careful what I eat for breakfast. She was right! I accidentally bought a box of ReinCarnation Breakfast Drink. My lives flashed before my eyes.
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Thanks to the stupidity of the English language, we have no way of knowing whether the “s” or “c” is silent in “scent.” *Now if we can get Bob to be silent, I’ll be happy.
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Understandtable: the one extra letter conveys another meaning. This type of table should be one always holding a book that enlightens you. (Even if it is the Face”book.”) Enlightenment is everywhere if you’re interested. Zen masters told us that chopping wood and carrying water is the only path. Where you learn isn’t the issue. IF you do is. You can learn a lot by just watching people – and more so if you have a good set of binoculars and/or telephoto lens.
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* Don’t get mad at me when I sing “Happy Birthday!” at a séance. Dim lighting, candles, several people around a table. It’s basically the SAME thing. * Though it seems obvious, in most cases, you can quickly determine whether someone is LIKELY left-handed or right-handed by which way they do their belt. * It doesn’t happen as often as it used to, but many people assume I’m black when they realize that my name really is X. I love that. Now that I have new people around me, I get to experiment with my list of crazy answers about my name. If I died suddenly, everyone would argue about which answer is true. It’s a shame I want to be cremated (after I die, thank you very much!) because I picture people looking for the headstone: “Duh. X marks the spot.” * I keep threatening to sneak a set of cymbals into church. People will shout “Jesus!” like they never have before when I use them. * I know where the cliché “open a can of worms” originated. I think we should change it to “open a can of spiders,” and flying ones at that. The entertainment value of such a change could be spectacular.
As I stood outside painting another big rock for my landing, I realized that they are the perfect size to throw through my large front windows. This one, the one I painted today, I stole from the remnants of a neighbor who moved out and left the apartment in a “shambles,” whatever that is. The neighbor who moved should have taken her trash with her; it would save time for her to clutter the new place like this one immediately, so she’d feel more at home.
Notes: Metal security doors are dumb when there are large, knee-high windows right there next to them. . I have a metal flipper that goes inside the jamb. It requires two hits with a battering ram to break through. This will give me time to make coffee and donuts for the police who will inevitably storm my apartment by accident, thinking I’m the drug dealer here. I’m considering putting a note and an arrow on my front door, pointing to the actual known drug dealer. It’s problematic if he sees it, though. . I do have a security camera, though I almost always leave it unarmed. And unlegged. I use it more for entertainment and as a virtual window than anything. . If you’re wondering, YES, I do paint rocks ornately or with clever messages and leave them all over Fayetteville. The rocks are free ( 🙂 ) and the paint doesn’t cost much. . I also love painting quarters and then using them in the washing machines and dryers. Sidenote to this note: you can get master keys to almost all commercial washers online. I wouldn’t of course. I just like knowing that I can. .
I had a rough few moments today. I had some great moments too. My emergency ER visit and subsequent surgery happened three weeks ago today. The bills will inevitably come. The good news is that I know the hospital is very invested in me not dying because otherwise they won’t get paid. I take solace in that!
…also, my 401k provider keeps saying, “You fixed it,” and then emailing me to say my account is not up to date. I kindly call them and say, “Hey, I almost died. Could you get this updated and fixed?” They say, “You’re good.” Four times in a row. I had to falsify a pdf form today because the fact that I’m not married evidently isn’t proof that my spouse consents to the change. 🙂
Social media is a hall of mirrors for most people; it’s primarily bright shining moments. I’m guilty of sharing a lot. Often, I reference periods where I’m lonely, anxious, or experiencing things that seem elusively difficult to solve. I don’t mention details because I am careful about revealing someone else’s story or issues while delineating mine. It’s my story to tell because it’s my life. But I think I’m respectful about needlessly giving someone else an additional slap. I’ve seen behind the curtains of so many people’s lives. Most of them have some heavy secrets and burdens.
I’ve written about how I was guilty of imploding my marriage. Most of the blame is mine; I said so from the beginning. Many people recoiled. “You don’t just SAY those things.” Uh – yes, I do. Not all the blame is mine, but so much of it is that it is just honest to say so without qualification. No one can ever know what goes on in a life, much less a marriage. Even if they think they know, they will have their spin and narrative about it. We all do this.
While I made many missteps starting in October last year, I also found a way to wake up. I’d be dead if I didn’t lose all the weight. Had I not started counseling, lack of sleep would’ve driven me crazy. In addition to all those more significant moments, I stepped back and decided that it was time to find a way to create lemon moments, apologize to people, and find ways to stop fueling negativity. Like so many of you know, it wasn’t a straight line. I didn’t have the intelligence or ability to do it evenly or without making a mess of my marriage. You have to make omelets once you break the eggs, but lamenting that you no longer have eggs is pointless.
Other than a few weeks ago when I had to threaten to kill one of my horrific neighbors (my Bobby Dean moment), I haven’t lashed out or engaged in megaphone interpersonal moments. Even when the other person tried their best to get me to be angry, I found a new way to engage. I’ve told so many people how much they mean to me, that I apologize for not understanding them sooner, and have tried to be a better me.
I got accused of not being the same me.
They are not wrong. I’m not.
Had I stayed the old me, well, I’ve already said it, it’s likely I might not be here – and that’s before my guts tried to strangle me on a random Monday.
I have a lot of regrets. Don’t we all?
Regrets are only effective when you figure out a way to morph them into an action that helps others while not repeating the same mistake yourself.
I also got accused of being egotistical and selfish, in part because I am evangelical about weight loss and finding ways to get to your goals. I can see why they’d think that, too. Just because I’m wrong about so much or have behaved like a hungry monkey at a salad bar doesn’t mean that I’m not right about some things. I’m equally enthusiastic about mental health counseling, too – in part because it is something I learned the hard way and firsthand. That’s why I’m qualified to talk about it in the personal way that I do.
The beauty of social media, a blog, or even a TV channel is that you can change it if you don’t like what you see. You can change your life if you want to as well.
I am not the sum of my mistakes. That doesn’t mean I’m not accountable for them, though. In parting, I’d like to say that I’m often the first to say, “I don’t know,” or “I’m sorry,” now. It’s shameful that I didn’t learn the lesson sooner.
Last night, I was out walking on Gregg Avenue later in the evening. Someone leaned out and shouted, “Hey X! You a**hole!” as they laughed. I couldn’t see who it was, but I waved enthusiastically. Only friends shout like that. It brightened my mood for a moment; it was much needed. The walk not only served as exercise but also as an escape. Like most escapes, it didn’t work; most tend to bring whatever’s in your head along for the ride. I envy those who seem to be able to deflect their hearts when necessary.
This morning, way before the sunrise, I got out of bed and walked the streets again within five minutes of arising. Reaching the end of the parking lot, I saw a man and a woman walking, the woman ahead of the man, her socked feet shuffling awkwardly. There’s a lot of questions in my head from that scene. I tried to imagine what events transpired to lead them into the early morning dark, one of them without shoes. They plodded along, devoid of any energy or spark. I soon outpaced them and left them far behind. They were on my mind, though.
Sundays mornings, I see evidence that people didn’t use their best judgment. Near Fossil Cove brewery, I noted an excessive number of beer cars and errant liquor bottles. A block down, someone’s ornate mailbox laid on the ground in tatters, probably from a speeding drunk driver approaching carelessly from the side road. On the opposite side of the road, I stopped and snapped a picture of the Banksy girl painted on the side of a railroad control box. The disparity of the message amidst the realities of the morning gripped me. . Yesterday, as I exited my apartment, a neighbor said, “Hey X, I hope you don’t me asking, but my mother-in-law LOVES your blue lantern. Could you make her one?”
I paused, and said, “No.” I watched the woman try to gauge me. She failed.
I took the blue solar lantern made from an inverted hummingbird feeder and handed it to her. “No, but I will give you this one.” She smiled in surprise.
“Wait,” I told her. I pulled my other metal silhouette lantern from the hanger and handed that to her as she neared her door. “Take this, too.” I explained the rechargeable batteries and how to use them long-term.
She was so happy with the unexpected gifts. Though I was now left with no solar lanterns on my landing, I was happy, too. That’s not nothing.
It’s entirely a coincidence that I’d ordered two more sets of fairy lights on Wednesday. I love how the universe sometimes surprises me. Two incidents yesterday remind me that my neighbors are watching me in curiosity to see what projects I’m up to. . Later in the morning, a neighbor headed out to walk to his job. The skies were ominous and ready to pour. “Hey, how about I give you a ride to work?” He accepted, and I spent a few minutes not only doing him a solid but was able to connect with him as we drove to his workplace and talked. . Other parts of my day were both sublime and tumultuous. The dichotomy of these days never fails to surprise me and sometimes alarms me. I understand that my intelligence often fails me when I try to assimilate the lessons and use my experience to guide me. My experience in life isn’t a detailed roadmap. Like anyone else, my heart sometimes overrides the clear path in front of me.
But I walk on, literally and figuratively.
“There is always hope,” is a truth. Equally valid is that we have to confront the day with the practical tools and options available. We have hope for the future but also must live the minutes as they come. Instead of revising these few words, I’ll post them ‘as is,’ much in the way that life speeds along in front of us.
Love, X . P.S. I’m adding a paragraph. As I posted this, the putt-putt of a moped outside drew my attention. A man stood by the dumpster, looking for treasure in the mountain of trash. I walked out and crossed the parking lot. “I’m the neighborhood weirdo,” I told him. He looked at me cautiously. Though I don’t have much money (now more than ever), I handed him a $20 bill. He said, “God bless you!” He smiled like the sunrise. “I am, if only I can find ways to see it,” I told him as I walked back to my apartment. I didn’t look back at him, because as happy as he was by the gift, I think he was about to get emotional. .
With that in my mind, read the captions of all these pictures (and one very short video joke…) 
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 