Safety First

When a friend told me he wanted his kids to feel safe, like he had always felt when he was growing up, I thought, wouldn't that be nice, what a novel concept, for a child to feel safe. The last word I would use to describe how I felt as a child would be "safe."
It wasn't the first thing I thought when I had a child, either. I thought, "What the fuck?" I felt, and still feel, like I don't know shit. Like I was out of my depth and about to drown. Like someone made a terrible mistake, allowing me to go down that road. But sometimes I look at those people who torture toddlers and bury them in the woods, and I feel somewhat more qualified. Somewhat.
So I try to make my kids feel safe. I mean, they have enough to worry about: spelling tests, crocodiles under the bed, ghosts, all manner of strange noises and monsters in the closet. No need for them to worry prematurely about the monsters out in the world, or within their own father.
Safety remains illusory for me. I once knew someone who said she felt safe with me, and I wondered how she could, when I didn't feel safe from myself. Like now. Pockets of safety exist, the kind you want to bottle, but they slip away like a train. Safety and comfort retain appeal, perhaps because they remain elusive. The chase holds the thrill, not actually obtaining the object of pursuit?
Perhaps comfort and the perception of safety breed complacency and, because of that, one should strive to avoid them. I'd like to try it. Mostly I remain resigned to never knowing the comforts of safety. But the hunt keeps me occupied. Maybe I should enjoy the rare moments of peace when they arrive and not wonder about their duration.

Fanatic

As the weekend approaches, so too does that most American of rituals: football. I like football okay, mainly because I'm in a few low-stakes betting pools, but I don't absolutely have to watch games. I nominally root for a particular team, though I don't beat my wife if the team loses.
No team flag hangs from the front of my house, nor does a 10-foot tall inflatable football player adorn my front lawn. I don't attend games, so it goes without saying that I don't arrive in the parking lot in the morning and start drinking. News reports this week said police in Foxborough, Mass., home to the Patriots, put 102 people in protective custody because they were intoxicated during Monday's game against the Jets. I bet many of those people had Pats jerseys on, which begs a question: Presumably these people are adults, so why would they wear, say, a Tom Brady jersey? When I hit the convenience store Sunday morning, depending upon which local team plays at home, I'm apt to encounter a throng of people proudly sporting their team's insignia.
All right, so what? Not a big deal. They're not hurting anybody. At least not until they get shit-faced and loudly profane in the presence of minors. I've witnessed near-physical altercations in drinking establishments because, well, somebody liked the Cowboys and somebody else didn't.
So I'm left to puzzle over such strong identification with people who, for the most part, live radically different lives from the majority of the population. These fans who so identify with their teams talk about them as if the fan is actually a member of the team, saying "we," for example, in reference to the team. an Eagles fan might say, "We're going to beat the shit out of the Giants." Make that "fucking shit," since it's an Eagles fan. Sometimes a fan's attire makes it seem as if he or she actually will play that day. Are their lives otherwise so bereft of significance that they have to fashion themselves near-athletes? This phenomenon isn't limited to football or even professional sports. Some youth soccer coaches dress like they're playing in the World Cup.
Sports offer an escape. It's just the extent to which some people are escaping.

Matters

A man named Andy Andrews appeared on my TV screen a few Sunday mornings ago on one of the multiple praise-God channels. A late-middle-age couple who appeared to be husband and wife hosted this program, and they spoke of redemption and rescue from the edge of the abyss. The first thought that occurred to me, though, was whether this fucking guy's name really is Andy Andrews. Is his full name Andrew Andrews, but that was too weird, so he made it Andy Andrews? Apparently that is his name, and he has a website that bills him as an inspirational author and speaker.
On this particular show, or at least the part I watched (sometimes I just can't change the channel, so mesmerizing a spell having been cast by such peculiarities on my screen), these people discussed a book by Mr. Andrews called "The Butterfly Effect: How Your Life Matters." From what I gathered, Andy Andrews asserts in this book that everything everyone does matters. He says on his website that "every single thing you do matters...."
As an example, Andy Andrews cites Joshua Chamberlain, whom he describes as "a school teacher from Maine who made one move 150 years ago that positively impacted an entire nation. By charging the enemy without ammunition–and defeating them–he set off a butterfly effect that lasts to this day." Andy on this TV show said Joshua Chamberlain's actions at Gettysburg during the Civil War altered the course of history to such an extent that otherwise the world would not exist as we now know it. While Joshua Chamberlain indeed appears to have exhibited gallantry at Gettysburg, Andy may have been reaching. How the fuck does he know what would have happened had Joshua Chamberlain not ordered his men to charge? The North might have won, anyway. Or maybe the South. Andy contended that had Mr. Chamberlain not singularly preserved the Union, nobody would have stopped Hitler. Andy can't know this, but he used it as the foundation of his argument that everything we do matters.
Let's not even take him literally, like that piss I just took matters to anybody but me. Let's say a ripple effect exists. My mother has told me a story roughly seven thousand times about how she once buried herself as a child in a pile of leaves in the gutter of the street and her father dashed to her rescue and fished her out just before a car about to park would have run over her. For the sake of argument, let's also say this isn't apocryphal. It logically follows that if the car had compacted her along with the leaves, conception of my siblings and I never would have transpired.
So, how would that have changed the world? Much as I considered the majority of my youthful indulgences significant, in retrospect I'd have to say they didn't much matter. Okay, I got good grades, went to college on a scholarship and got decent jobs. As a result, I own a house and my kids have a relatively cushy situation. That doesn't matter to too many people, aside from my immediate family. But as far as I can tell, I haven't changed history's course. Wait. Maybe if I hadn't bought that house, a group of terrorists would have moved in and hatched a nefarious plot in which they would have blown up the local elementary school and killed the future doctor who was going to come up with the cure for cancer. Maybe that will be one of my kids. Maybe one of my kids will become president and keep us out of a war that otherwise would have cost the lives of thousands. Probably the older kid. The younger one would get us into a war. But I can't hang my hat on either of those. I'd like to have Clarence the angel visit me and show me the world as if I had never existed. Alas, it won't happen.
And I can't help but think that so much of what I do and have done makes a difference to a relative few. That's enough, especially as it relates to the children. But the premise that we all matter remains unconvincing.
What about all the stuff that matters in negative fashion? The father throws his toddler off a bridge in Baltimore. The mother drowns her babies. Or drives her car into the canal with the kids still alive and strapped in the back seat. Those kids won't cure cancer.
Beyond the obvious and the immediate, we just can't know what matters. If I punch you in the fucking head, it will hurt. I get that. Putting my dick in a vise, likewise. On the other hand, surely winning the lottery would please me, at least for a while. Only pretenders claim to know anything beyond. The Pollyannaish fucks who try to persuade you that they know. They believe it, though, and that makes them dangerous.

Happiness

Here's a New York Times headline from Nov. 16, 2010:

When the Mind Wanders, Happiness Also Strays

The article goes on to say, basically, that people who focus on the task at hand are more likely to be happy. That when the mind strays, unhappiness can follow. Even people who think about pleasant activities when their minds wander are vulnerable to, if not unhappiness, then being less happy than those whose minds weren't wandering at all.
Furthermore, even enjoyable activities don't necessarily stop the mind from wandering, and the evidence indicates that a wandering mind causes unhappiness, as opposed to unhappiness causing a wandering mind.
When the researchers contacted people to determine their states of mind, people engaged in sex were happy, at least until the phone rang. Personal grooming, commuting and working ranked low on the list of happiness-producing activities. I can see that. I hate brushing my fucking teeth. I also commute too much, which can really suck.
But back to the matter at hand. The article contains a quote: “Life is not long,” Samuel Johnson said, “and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” It contains a few other quotations, similar in nature. Reminds me of John Lennon's observation that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
I've conversed with therapists on the mind-wandering subject and self-talk. They both possess destructive capabilities. Positive self-talk requires so much effort after conditioning has instilled in one a proclivity to skew toward the negative. Like John Hiatt says, "It takes every drop of energy just to run my brain." So, then, the challenge lies in preventing the mind from wandering. I'm relatively ignorant when it comes to meditation, but it seems as if that's one of the objectives, to not think about anything. How do we do it, stop the mind from wandering? The more you think about keeping the mind from wandering, the more it wanders. The more it wanders, the more unhappy you potentially become. I don't know if people can learn to keep their minds from wandering. I think you can learn to cope more effectively when your mind does wander, but I have a natural predisposition to mind wandering. If I didn't, I guess I couldn't write any of this shit. I've long since resigned to being fucked when it comes to that.

Condolences

I just finished this book, in which a New York Times reporter writes about his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan. The book provided more insight than the many news articles I've read, and, near the end, got me to thinking about someone with whom I used to be friendly.
The writer, Dexter Filkins, gives the reader a look at some of the people exposed to, and behind, the mayhem. So maybe when we see that two more soldiers have died in Afghanistan or Iraq, we can move beyond the desensitization and consider that they were someone's son, brother, father, husband. They had interests. They had feelings. They lived. They're dead.
For what? Afghanistan, ok. The people ultimately behind 9/11 took sanctuary there. But Iraq? The weapons of mass destruction never materialized. I guess you do what you have to, but when I've been irresponsible, people haven't died as a result. Regardless of what I think about the war, people have died. People with names. People in the book.
Which brings me back to the person with whom I used to be friendly. She had a son who joined the Army and went to Iraq. He came home from Iraq and went back. Then he came home and shot himself. And she seems to be on a mission to ensure that other service members get the help they need before they kill themselves. She bought my son a nice book for his birth, though she always wished girls upon me. When my second son arrived, I sent her an announcement, gloating a bit, that I had foiled her by having another boy.
I suppose as a mother you have to channel your grief somehow, lest you fall into a despair similar to that which claimed your son. Maybe she can get a small measure of consolation by effecting something positive from this personal tragedy. You carry this child and change his diapers and nourish and love and endure the hurt and the angst. Then he shoots himself, tormented by a bus full of burning Iraqis, mostly women and children.
I can't say I though about her much until I read "The Forever War." Life intervenes, after all, and each of us contends with idiosyncratic demons. I sent a card but recently wondered whether I expressed my sympathy adequately. I don't think so, but I remain skeptical that an adequate expression exists.

Growing Pains

Kirk Cameron appeared on my television a few days ago, not in a "Growing Pains" rerun, but as someone who knows what God wants me to do. So I got to thinking: What are Kirk's credentials for knowing what God wants or that God even exists?
Did his acting experience inform his religious perspective? Did Alan Thicke, who, after all, played a psychologist, help lead Kirk down this highway of discovery? Was it Tracey Gold, and her experience with anorexia, or did that kid who played Ben have a role? Maybe it was the burgeoning Leonardo DiCaprio who pushed Kirk down the highway of enlightenment.
Perhaps the more important question concerns why God chose Kirk, as opposed to, say, any one of his cast mates. His website, which, incidentally, plays the "Growing Pains" theme song, says Kirk was an atheist but then became a follower of Christ. The site also says he often receives invitations to share his story of faith at churches and schools, and a link invites you to hear that story. Clicking that link leads one to a site called wayofthemaster.com, where you can listen to and/or purchase ostensibly inspirational messages.
Now, Kirk and his wife are involved with a camp that provides a respite for terminally ill children and their families, a laudable endeavor. I don't know if they try to proselytize at Camp Firefly, but I did read an excerpt from Kirk's autobiography in which he engages the parent of one of the children in a conversation that sounds religiously judgmental.
I don't know Kirk Cameron. He may be a great guy. But he's on TV coming into my house telling me he knows what God wants me to do. And I know I can change the channel, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't believe that he knows. He, and those of his ilk, think they know. And were I to discuss it with him or any of the others face to face, they likely would say that I just haven't made the discovery yet. Again, faith isn't rational, so trying to counter a faith-based argument remains difficult, if not impossible.
Sometimes I have this fear that they're right and I have it all wrong. That I'm fucked in this life for my skepticism and failure to take comfort in religion and I'll be fucked in the next life because God will be there saying, "You should have believed, you stupid shit. I had all these people down there spreading the word and still you were skeptical. I gave you Kirk Cameron, dumb-ass, and still you failed to heed the call." And then he will banish me to Hell or whatever because God doesn't tolerate intellectual curiosity, let alone dissent. And in Hell I'll have to watch "Growing Pains" reruns for all eternity.
Kirk is telegenic, but does God really need to wrap his message in that kind of package? Why couldn't he have given the late Gary Coleman a chance? "What you talkin' 'bout, sinner?" Or Urkel? Or that girl who played Natalie on "Facts of Life"? I suppose Kirk appeals more to a certain demographic than your average religious zealot, so maybe a method does lie behind this madness. Maybe someday the joke will be on me, and all manner of religious faithful will revel in turning me away from that sought-after spot in the afterlife. No matter if I'm a good person.

Who Are You?

Who among us is as he or she appears to be?
As a younger person, I thought older people, ostensible adults, had it together. That's why I believed my mother. I thought at some point you crossed a line and maturity lay on the other side. My notion of maturity meant that the insecurities and pettiness and general lack of knowledge about life dissipated once a person crossed that line. But it ain't so.
Maybe I was at fault when I perceived my elders as being different from who they were. But I wasn't completely at fault. Because how people behave doesn't necessarily reflect who they are. Sometimes flashes of the real person break through. But certain societal norms or perceived political correctness can bring pressure to bear, and the person forsakes core beliefs.
Sometimes people want to look good to someone else. At least they think what they do makes them look good. In so doing they draw conclusions about what the other person finds appealing. Better to be oneself and attract people who find that appealing, rather than draw someone to you by acting differently from who you are. Does outside acceptance outweigh being genuine? Do people lose sight of who they are or want to be because they're caught up in putting up a front for others? We can tend not to let other people make their own decisions with respect to whether they want to be around us. We want to hoodwink them because we're too insecure to believe they might like us.
Sometimes, however, people can't even own up to who they are. They can't admit it to themselves. They don't like themselves, so they fashion another persona.
Expectations also can influence self-acceptance. Parents have expectations. Kids can try to live up to those expectations and run the risk of losing sight of who they are. I guess the rebellion stage of life comes into play when children begin to realize that they have tried to live up to parental expectations for too long and need to plot their own course. But the specter of those expectations never completely disappears, and those expectations become imprinted on the child, who now has imposing expectations for himself.
I have heard it said that people gravitate toward partners who reflect their parents. Boys marry their moms, and girls marry their dads. In some cases, I suppose. But what else draws people together? Have you ever seen two people walking down the street and wondered about the circumstances that rendered them a pair? And so many couplings go awry. Is it just the human condition that predisposes us to involvement in such relationships? Does an inherent vulnerability make us helpless to avoid them? The facades people construct early in relationships likely influence longer-term compatibility. Maybe, though, nobody would find a significant other if everyone put their true selves on display. Perpetrating a ruse provides a way to hook someone else, then, when that person knows who you really are, it's too late. They've either come to love you despite the deviation from what you first put forward or they fear being alone or financial dependence has arisen or whatever.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and almost don't recognize myself. I have to take another look, a closer look, to make sure it's me. Antidepressants can muddy the water. I find it hard to distinguish who I am when I've stopped taking them. Do I recognize this person? Has medication turned me into someone I'm not supposed to be, even if the person who doesn't take drugs tends to have a grimmer perspective? I can still be dour while taking medication, but it feels less authentic. Pessimism tempered. But is that bad? I don't see how it can be, but then I have to come to terms with this fundamental alteration of my psychology/biology. On the other hand, how I am without medication fails to promote longevity and can inhibit beneficial human interaction.
I feel like a child, trapped in the past and trapped in the present. As that cantankerous TV doctor House said recently, "Everybody lies."

On Again

I'm considering a resumption of this off-an-on affair I've maintained for about 16 years. I call my mistress Effexor, but she also goes by the much more seductive moniker of venlafaxine. Effexor is always willing, though sometimes apathetic. Our separation has been difficult. Can't live with her, can't live without her. Can't kill her.
Each time I reunite with Effexor, we enjoy a bit of a honeymoon period before lapsing into our familiar, sometimes-monotonous routine. That is the point at which I resolve to dump her as soon as something better appears. Codeine dalliances have made me feel pretty good. Why can't there be an antidepressant that makes me feel like that? Some kind of medical rationale must exist. One being that codeine and its ilk addict people. I'm not sure wherein lies the difference, but breaking up with Effexor holds plenty of pitfalls, also. For some reason, though, regulators sign off on antidepressants. As I think they should. I just remain unclear about the distinction between being addicted to one drug and not another, especially when one appears to have as many side effects but isn't as effective. Everyone should take drugs that make them feel good, then maybe they wouldn't go around killing each other. Opiates lose their effectiveness after a while, but so do antidepressants. So I want the drug companies to develop an antidepressant that makes me feel like opiates do and that won't lose its punch. Come on, motherfuckers.
Effexor makes me put on a little weight, but not because of her cooking. She occupies my thoughts while I sleep, though not peacefully. She makes me sweat, though generally not because my heart races in anticipation of seeing her. We share a certain familiar comfort, though it can breed contempt. I can be sad when I'm with her, but I'm a tragic case without her. I'm resistant, but I know I'll end up with her eventually. The long and winding road leads to her door.
Spirituality has no place in her life. God matters not. When my mother told me as a young lad that the Virgin Mary doesn't refuse children's prayers, I believed her. So I prayed. I prayed for relief from how I felt. I prayed for some kind of deliverance from the pain. I wondered, as I do now, how my years of suffering fit into God's plan. The plan that he has that we can't question. Gotta have faith. I didn't get relief, so eventually I puzzled out that what my mother told me was bullshit, though she believed it. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe a reason exists for pain, from my earliest memories into adulthood. Perhaps a pleasant surprise lies in wait. It could happen.
But for now now I worship at the altar of Effexor. When I lie in pain, I know I can expect reasonably prompt relief. I can't wait for eternity for my reward, for the waiting very well could hasten the arrival of eternity.
Moments occur that I wish I could capture even while Effexor and I remain apart. An airplane glides, silhouetted against the early-morning sunshine, and peace descends. And in an instant, the train carries me away from that moment in time. Effexor precludes such heightened-senses moments, for she deadens me, but in so doing, keeps me alive.

The Swarm

Someone I had known for more than 30 years committed suicide a few weeks ago, making him my second longtime acquaintance to have killed himself in the last few years. I knew a third guy who hanged himself, but I didn't know him for as long or as well.
In the most recent suicide, the guy jumped in front of a train, in what ostensibly wasn't a cry-for-help kind of deal. He had conviction. I wonder if he checked the train schedule in advance or just figured there would be one coming along, as there usually is. He probably knew the schedule, because if he just walked up awaiting a random train, he might have had too much time to reconsider, conviction notwithstanding, or something else might have happened in the intervening time to foul up his plans. Someone might have seen him, suspected something and and called the cops. I don't know precisely where he stationed himself, but likely not on the platform, since other people wait there. And if he had jumped on the tracks in front of people waiting on the platform, one of those fuckers probably would have tried to save him. I wonder what was he thinking in those last moments.
What does the suicide method say about a person? Stepping in front of a train makes a splash. Literally, I'd think. Is it better than pills or a gun or a knife to the wrists or hanging or turning the car on in the garage? The carbon-monoxide method seems potentially the most peaceful. The train thing fucks up the day for a lot of other people, and the person who jumps in front of that train must know it's sensational. Sure to get media coverage beyond your run-of-the-mill hanging. The train method involves publicizing your pain to a much greater extent than privately offing yourself. There appears to be a fuck-you aspect to it. And it's selfish to the extent that it screws up the train schedule. And someone drove that train and probably has lasting images of a person split into about 750 pieces.
What remained to put in a coffin? Did his family even have to buy a coffin? Did he arrange the funeral in advance? Did he leave his affairs in order, or, in addition to coping with the loss, do those left behind face the additional burden of having to sort out bank accounts and car registrations and whatever else? And stuff. Everybody has stuff. More stuff than they probably realize. Not as bad as these people, but, still, most people have too much stuff. Someone else has to sort through that shit, throw it out, give certain things to certain kids. Whatever. How many soccer balls? He coached a high-school soccer team for years and once asked me to coach the freshman team at that school. My schedule precluded me from doing it, but I wonder now if anything would have been different had I taken him up on the offer. Not like he wouldn't have killed himself, but I might have more insight into it. Or maybe I would have found my calling and pursued a coaching/teaching path and be happy about that now. Well, maybe not happy, but more satisfied.
Was he selfish? He had five kids. Five. A couple of whom are young. They might miss him. Or, even if they don't, they have to live with the notion that their father killed himself. Fairly or not, that carries a stigma. They also will be left to wonder whether they possess a genetic predisposition to killing themselves. Or maybe they'll consider suicide a viable option when they encounter difficulties. Their lives have become more complicated. Did he think about his younger children before killing himself? Did he wonder how they would process this? Whether they would even be capable of comprehension? What does their mother even tell them? Eventually they'll find out the truth. Did he feel the pain so acutely that his relief became more important than their well-being? Because I look at my kids and think, 'What in the fucking hell?' because to me they're scary little miracles in whom I see myself and I become disconcerted and bewildered considering how my perspective has evolved.
Some people apparently can't fathom getting to the point at which taking one's own life is the only remaining option. Thresholds vary. Perhaps some people who have committed suicide endured only a fraction of what others have endured and continue to endure. Or maybe the cumulative effect of a thousand travails finally weighed too heavily. For some, the prospect of another day can loom like a cloud of dark smoke belched from an smokestack. Some can't take it. Not one more day of work at a dismal job, not one more doctor's appointment, not one more trip to the garage to have the car fixed, not one more bill, not one more day of taking out the garbage or cutting the grass or shoveling the snow or taking a shower or brushing your teeth. Or at least you can't do it straight. So you drink, as my recently departed acquaintance apparently did. Platitudes aside, drinking offers only a temporary respite. So you smoke weed or pop pills, but the longevity of such diversions is limited.
And being intelligent poses an additional challenge, since intelligence can spur a search for insight into the affliction, as opposed to an acceptance and a search for remedial activity, like drinking, without guilt. Intelligence also can hasten a sense of failure, since a smart person probably considers an inability to meet obligations a deficiency, whereas a stupid person considers it a birthright.
When awakening in the morning brings on the sensation of having been kicked in the gut, the dawning of another day holds less appeal than it otherwise might. Perpetual sadness proves a powerful deterrent to living. On the other hand, many times when I've thought I've known what was best for me, I've turned out to be wrong. I think. Suicide simplifies life for the person who commits it, since that person ceases to exist, at least in this realm, and ostensibly gets to leave behind all the niggling bullshit. But taking suicide off the table also simplifies matters. When it no longer remains an option, a person can channel energy elsewhere, like into what he has to do to try to resolve the issues that prompted suicidal notions in the first place.
A swarm of bees enveloped my kids recently, and I ran into that buzzsaw to get them out. And they stung us repeatedly. But my kids know I'll dive into the swarm. You have to travel into the swarm, not away from it, via the train or otherwise.

No Good Deed

This morning, as I regrettably do most workday mornings, I took the train to New York. A crowded platform typically awaits people getting off the train, with only relatively narrow passageways to slip through en route to one of the various stairways or escalators that cough up travelers from the bowels of the train station.
Sometimes people stand in the middle of these narrow tracts through which others must pass, essentially precluding their passage. This particular morning, as I squeezed through, my backpack bumped a woman. I said excuse me and looked back. She appeared to be near tears, but I kept walking. My concern, however, for a fellow traveler got the better of me as I reached the next set of stairs.
I was going to be better. I was going to rise above the par-for-the-course nature of this shit-heel blight of a city. I was going to put my humanity on display. I went back to see if she was all right. Not from having been bumped, but she just appeared to be in some kind of distress. So I say: "Are you ok."
To which she screams: "You pushed me."
And I say: "I said 'excuse me.' "
She screams: "Why did you push me?"
I was like, "Wow," while weighing her disproportionate hostility. I'm standing there, and she starts to funnel up the escalator, with plexiglass providing a barrier between us. She's ascending, among the throngs, screaming "Fuck you, fuck you," while I stand and watch through the glass, contemplating this gesticulating Manhattan hyena, trying to summon the intestinal fortitude necessary to maintain my dignity. I once read something about composure being the ability to keep your head when people around you are losing theirs.
I don't say anything. But I'm thinking: If you're fucking fat ass hadn't been taking up three-quarters of the platform, I wouldn't have come anywhere near you, you fucking cunt. If you had taken three fucking seconds to consider that there might be other people out here and not just worry about your own fucking self, this might not have occurred. Fucking cunt.
Try to maintain your humanity in a city like this. A city in which wealth and avarice abut the filthy and impoverished street panhandling and the huddled masses beat like ticking time bombs.

The Road Not Taken

Sometimes the paths down which I haven't traveled appear to hold more appeal than the ones I have followed and leave me wondering "what if?"
Only a hair's breadth seems to have separated a potentially vastly different life from the one I now know. It's probably best to relegate those "what ifs?" to the trash-bin area of my compartmentalization and not dwell on them, but, still, some linger.
For example, what if I had squeezed the trigger when I held the loaded gun to my head when I was 17 or 18 or whatever I was? I didn't think it was loaded, so imagine how surprised I would have been had I squeezed the trigger. If you can be surprised and dead. Or would there have been a moment between squeezing the trigger and its penetration of my skull when I would have realized that it was loaded?
That would have been an accident, but I can substitute any number of times when I considered doing it deliberately. Had I done so, I like to imagine the "It's a Wonderful Life Scenario." My girlfriend would have become an old maid. Mr. Potter would have taken over the town. But, really, I would have spared myself a fair amount of pain, though probably not much would have been different for everyone else. That girlfriend split, anyway. She would just have gotten an earlier start. I can't say my family would have ended up much worse off. I can't imagine how it could be much worse off.
The people who know me now and might not like to think about my absence would never have known me in the first place. So they'd be all right. The kids wouldn't exist. There could be some aspects to this of which I'm unaware. Maybe I've saved people's lives without even realizing it. And maybe in saving those lives I've touched a number of other lives. Maybe if I hadn't been driving on a certain day in a certain place, there would have been an accident that killed a child. Much of this remains beyond my capability to process. Being a natural optimist, I guess I just have to allow for the possibility that I've done more than I realize.
What if I hadn't gone to that elitist all-male high school? I would have had more time with my friends at the public school, which could have been detrimental to everyone's well-being, considering the activities in which we engaged when we were together. Maybe we were just making the most of our time during those times. Would I have had more girlfriends than I had? Perhaps, and that might have been good. But, who knows, maybe someone would have gotten pregnant. I wouldn't have gotten as good an education at the public school, but I still could have ended up in the same college. Like my friends who went to the public school and didn't bust their asses to get by. Or maybe, with a different girlfriend, I would have gone to a different college. Maybe I would have liked the area where the different college was situated and stayed there. Then I probably wouldn't be working where I do. Which leads me to my next point.
What if I hadn't taken this job? As a journalist, I'm pretty sure I made the wrong career choice. I don't think I need to verify that with a bunch of sources, either. What else would I be doing? I got in to law school but decided not to attend. If I were a lawyer, what kind would I be? The corporate guy putting in a bunch of hours making a mint? Public defender? Someone who makes sure the contract is all squared away when you're buying a house? Who does your will? I think not becoming a lawyer probably was a good idea, since I've tended not to enjoy exposure to them. Those motherfuckers always search for an angle. I've often thought I should have pursued a medical degree but, while in school, I sucked at chemistry and biology. By the time I started to care about that shit, I would have had to make up a lot of ground. Too late now, and the doctors I know decry all the red tape. I could have become a teacher and coach, but that would have left me wondering about opportunities forgone. If only I had had the benefit of hindsight then.
What if I had never tried antidepressants or gotten electroconvulsive therapy? I don't think I'd be dead if not for the drugs, but perhaps if not for the ECT. So, what if I hadn't had ECT? Who knows?
What if I hadn't gotten married? What if I had married someone different? It all gets murky.
When I considered leaving the high school I attended, a teacher had lunch with me and told me that it might be a mistake to leave but that I couldn't treat it as a mistake. Once I did it, that became the new reality, and if I went along treating it as a mistake, it could become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
A whole universe exists. Different people in different places. Perhaps a seemingly mundane occurrence could have caused a seismic life shift. If I hadn't gone to college there and that professor hadn't recommended that I interview for the internship and I hadn't gotten a job with the company, I wouldn't have met people with whom I've had 20-year relationships. But I would have encountered an entirely different group of people. If I had gone to that restaurant five minutes earlier, I might have met someone and my life might not resemble what it has become. Maybe the guys in the Lifetime movies have it down; they lead those parallel lives, with one family here and the other family over on the other side of town. Or the people who have the life at home with the family but have the girlfriend or the boyfriend or whatever. We walk a fine line between being who we are and who we're not. I guess the more we spend time on what if leads to less time dedicated to what is.

The Persistence of Memory

Memory sometimes has served me well. I didn't have to study too hard for tests in school, at least the ones that required only a regurgitation of information. Those tests made up the majority, as opposed to exam questions that required consideration. The recollection of people's names has come relatively easily, which sometimes can help to avoid awkward situations. I used to think others should remember me as easily as I remembered them, but I got over it.
Learning new tasks at work probably would have been more difficult had recollection not come easily. But having the ability to remember also can lead readily to boredom, since those tasks require less concentration than they would for someone who can't remember as well. So, memory has its upside.
The downside consists of having too much information. That can lead to fatigue. When you're predisposed to depression, you likely have experienced many more events that you'd rather forget than remember. Problem is, you can't. That post-electroconvulsive-therapy period, during which I retained only fragments of memories, while somewhat disconcerting, also provided a welcome relief from the tyranny of remembering. Maybe that's why drinking holds appeal. Alcohol can induce forgetfulness. I'm scared to quit drinking for good, because then I'll remember every fucking thing. "Ignorance is bliss" came from somewhere.
I've also noticed that different people remember the same events differently. So that's interesting. Except most of the people I know can't recollect things as accurately as I can. They think they can, of course, because that's their recollection. This seems particularly to apply to females. I think sometimes the differences may result from how we process events to begin with. If we didn't see the situation the same way to start, I suppose we never would have memories that agree.
Some people bend memories to extraordinary degrees to suit their preferences. I envy them. Many don't even do it deliberately. It must be liberating to have that kind of mind, the one that enables you to remember things how you want to remember them and not how they really occurred. And not even know you're doing it. That seems like a key to happiness, but I'll never know.

Stages

Life plays itself out in stages. The earliest stage from which I've retained potent memories involved my maternal grandparents, with whom I spent an inordinate amount of time. My father would have needed to be present more to qualify as a stage. Same for his parents. From them I've taken away snapshots, as opposed to the feature films of other aspects of my life.
These phases necessarily pollute one another, though they retain separate identities. Sometimes I circle back to a previous phase and get momentarily confused about which phase I'm really in. Phase confusion. Like when you meet someone you used to know or a childhood friend. But all the intervening stuff has changed me, so as much as I might feel nine years old again when I see that boyhood friend, the feeling proves fleeting. Maybe people don't really come full circle unless they're infirm. You get old, you lose control of bodily functions, you regress cognitively. Then you're coming full circle. But, otherwise, the accumulation of life's travails and joys and learning experiences forever preclude you from a return to ignorance or bliss.
I recently experienced a stage overlap. My mother, having lost part of her brain to a stroke, for the time being resides in a facility about a quarter-mile from the one in which I underwent electroconvulsive therapy. To visit her, I went past the place where I spent, I think, three weeks. Before trying to locate her new residence, I wouldn't have been able to get back to my ECT place. So I pulled into the parking lot of that place, and I saw myself standing outside the door smoking a cigarette 16 years ago. Where does the time go. For a brief instant, I occupied that space and time again, and then I pushed it away. Buried for the time being in its own compartment.
Now the stage has changed, but every once in a while I feel the tug of a preceding one. I have children. If there were a waiting period to have children while the authorities did a background check, like there is for a gun, would I have been allowed to have children? We're sorry, but you're way too fucked up to have children. I don't think I could buy a gun, but kids, all I needed was a partner. And who would be those authorities who decide whether someone else can have a child? The Supreme Court? Three generations of imbeciles is enough? Catholics? Protestants? Atheists? Me and you and a dog named Boo? Because sometimes it seems like the inmates are running the asylum. Sometimes I look at the kids and the house and myself and wonder how I could be the same person. ECT isn't like having a wart removed. If nothing else, there's a psychological residue.
Some phases appear to be a function of age. As a young man, sports played a prominent role. I outgrew that, but now my kids' involvement has reignited a certain passion that had lain dormant. Stage confusion again. Except now I'm not as physically capable. So the intervening years have influenced the extent to which I can immerse myself in what at one time had been an integral part of life.
The stage that has the longest-lasting impact has to be the one in which people live with their parents. It never ends for some, but for most, it's a stage that consumes an influential chunk of time and contains numerous substages. These substages sometimes give rise to parent-child conflict. Like experimenting with drugs and drink and contending with hormones. I suppose some skip the drugs and drink part. Other people get tattoos and dye their hair pink. Whatever. Burgeoning independence provides a transitional time in which we're transferring to another stage. College, for some, offers this opportunity. Then comes marriage, or just living on one's own. And divorce. Or having kids. Then you have to start paying attention to stuff that previously didn't register, like shit that's fucked up for people over a certain age.
So, what's the next stage. No way to know, I suppose.
Funny that my mother is losing her mind right up the street from where mine lost me for a while.

Let's Be Honest

What's wrong with honesty? I think I've caused myself, and apparently others, more grief by being honest than if I had lied. When did lying become such an integral part of how we interact? With Adam and Eve, I suppose, if you put stock in that.
Some people lie to protect or benefit themselves. Lying can produce tangible gains, like when people take credit for something they didn't do and get a promotion. Or people lie to their spouses or significant others and say they're not cheating. I guess they think they're protecting their lives at home while still being able to cozy up to someone else. If the life at home is worth protecting, then why venture out at all? As a trial run to see if they really want to give up their current lives? That doesn't work, because the parallel life is just bullshit from the start. When people put on their best faces, as in the early stages of a relationship, they're not being entirely truthful. So the person with whom one has an affair likely isn't exactly honest. And even if that person is honest, the relationship isn't. The principals don't have to deal with money issues and kid raising and illness and family affairs and how sometimes someone looks real good and other times not so much.
Sometimes lying appears to derive from self-preservation. Officer, I had one drink, when really it was one drink every 20 minutes for two hours. Worth a shot, I guess. O.J. got away with a big lie, so it does pay off sometimes.
Lies at other times can appear to be virtuous, like the guys who lied about their ages so they could fight in wars. And sometimes people lie to protect other people. But when they do so, they take something away from the other person. I'd rather have someone tell me the truth and then decide for myself what I want to do with that. People too often assume they know how another person will react. Maybe that's right at times, but maybe they don't give the other person enough credit, or at least the ability to decide for themselves. Then, when the lie gets exposed, the relationship is in a worse position than it would have been had the person told the truth in the first place.
For other people, lying appears to be a game. They've gotten away with it, so they do it again. And they're good at it. They even come to believe their own lies.
Sometimes those who are lied to are party to the lie. We allow other people to get away with lies because we want the lie to be the truth. I think it's in the U2 song "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?" where he sings "You lied to me, 'cause I asked you to." The liar and the person the whom the liar lies each have culpability. I'm over that, though. I've had people lie to me, and I'd rather not have that anymore. "I'll take my sorrow straight," as Iris DeMent says. Of course, it's going to happen. The kids lie. But their lies are understandable. They're so self-interested and afraid of getting in trouble that they can't help themselves. Some grow out of it, and some don't. If nothing else, I want my kids to grow up to be honest and willing to accept responsibility for their actions.
The Ten Commandments say you shouldn't lie, the part about bearing false witness against your neighbor. I'm too busy coveting my neighbor's ox to bear false witness. Apparently even Catholic people don't abide by them. I didn't know that.
So, how much of what we see is a lie. The maxim that "nothing is ever as it seems" appears pretty close to the truth. "Pretty Close to the Truth" is a Jim Lauderdale song. There's also a line in a Joe Henry song in which he says he never cared much for truth. Maybe that's the key. Maybe I've cared way too much about truth. And what's the difference, anyway? Does it matter in the end? And what is truth, as asked by Johnny Cash, and Kid Rock. House says lies form the foundation of all successful relationships. That's the fictional character House, played by Hugh Laurie, to whom I apparently have many similarities. The fictional and real House. But, really, how much of what we see in a person truly represents that person? Much less than we think, I think. But we idealize. We need to idealize. We need diversions. We need to see things the way they're not because, well, we just can't handle the truth.
Maybe my epitaph can be: The stupid son of a bitch didn't lie enough.

Football

We in the U.S. know it as soccer, but most of the world calls it football. Football makes more sense to me, since, well, the players primarily use their feet, except for the goalie. I played soccer for a number of years, all the way through college, and it largely funded my education.
Nevertheless, I have a few gripes:
--I don't know of any other game in which a team that has possession so frequently puts the the ball up for grabs. For example, goal kicks generally don't appear to be intended for a particular player as much as for a general area of the field. The same applies to goaltender punts; here it is, go up and get it. Of course, the opposing team stands as much of a chance of coming up with the ball as the goaltender's own team.
--Injury time, also known as stoppage time, consists of minutes added to the game clock after regular time has expired. The additional minutes ostensibly make up for time lost to injuries over the course of a game and the time it has taken a referee to hand out yellow-card cautions and red-card ejections. Part of the problem appears to be that the referee is the only person with knowledge of how much time needs to be added. Maybe someone else keeps track. I don't know for sure. But it seems subjective. And, if a team has a free kick because of an opponent's infraction, and stoppage time subsequently expires, the referee allows it, as far as I can tell. I suppose that doesn't differ greatly from U.S. football, in which a game can't end on a defensive penalty. But what about the stoppage time to account for the injuries, yellow cards, etc. that occur during the first stoppage time? Stoppage time could have no stopping point because the referee has to continually add on for the delays in each previous stoppage-time session. And why not just stop the fucking clock as you go along? The clock stops for injuries and substitutions and out-of bounds plays in basketball and football and hockey.
--Penalty kicks can determine the outcome of a game, even the World Cup final. For those who don't know, a penalty kick involves just two players: the goalie and the kicker, who has an advantage in that he gets to shoot from 12 yards away with nobody between him and the keeper. Basically, if a player can shoot hard and not miss the net, which is 8 feet high by 24 feet long, he should score. Sometimes the goalkeeper guesses correctly when he picks a side to which to dive and stops the shot, but it pretty much shouldn't happen. Five shots per team in a shootout. If the score remains tied, then each team shoots once until somebody misses and the other makes. Hockey uses shootouts to determine winners of tie games during the regular season, but not so in the playoffs. They play until someone scores. So why can't soccer teams do the same? Probably because so few fucking goals occur and the game could last for 10 hours.
--As the World Cup recently demonstrated, referees remain fallible. England wasn't credited with a goal for a ball that clearly crossed the line. The referee disallowed a U.S. goal for reasons nobody can discern. Argentina received credit for a goal against, I think, Mexico despite the offsides position of the scorer. So, referees screw up. No big news there. But soccer officials appear to adamantly refuse to resort to video replays, even for disputed goals. I'm not sure how ensuring that calls are correct detracts from the game, but then there would be even more stoppage time to add for the time consumed during video reviews.
--Perhaps soccer's most disturbing feature derives from the drama. Not the drama of narrowly missed opportunities during a hotly contested match, but the drama when every one of these motherfuckers finds himself on the receiving end of a foul. If you've never seen a professional soccer game--and the higher the level, the greater the drama--you should watch just for this. Nearly every time a foul occurs, the victimized player screams out in agony and writhes in pain as if, I don't know, someone had just disemboweled him. In fact, disembowelment might be a suitable penalty for the perpetrator of such drama. If hockey players acted that way, they'd be run out of the game. Hockey players get teeth knocked out and finish the game. They get stitched up and reappear on the ice in five minutes.

Hurt

I focused on the pain, the only thing that's real. --Nine Inch Nails

It gets boring if you talk about your hurts too long. --A Florida fishing captain, as related in the book "Fly Fishing for Sharks."


What do we do with the hurt, the hurt that has been visited upon us and that we have brought to bear on others? The hurt that has accumulated in us like mercury in fish tissues, sometimes seeping out like toxins, rotting the flesh, revealing itself as each slice of the fillet knife peels away another layer?
One option involves suppression. One therapist with whom I spoke likened it to stuffing dirty socks down your pants. They get musty after a while. Some people appear capable of tucking those dirty socks away and apparently not thinking about them again. They create their own reality and exclude such poisons. To some extent, I envy people with this capability. I can't do it. Maybe if I practice.
Another option involves confronting the hurt head-on. This approach has its drawbacks, principally sadness. I think some people might be biologically predisposed to dwell on the hurt. Still others appear to believe that it elicits sympathy or otherwise makes them noticeable.
People can cross a point at which pains becomes so much a part of their fiber that no way exists to completely escape. Cognitive therapy can help manage the pain. Hard-to-implement techniques exist that can help one to, instead of dwelling on the pain, letting it flow on down the river, away, out to the sea. One ally in letting the pain go would be a faulty memory. A sharp memory can be as much a curse as blessing. Maybe electroconvulsive therapy's effectiveness stems partly from memory impairment.
The optimal approach to dealing with life's tribulations would be to acknowledge them, process them and let them take their rightful place in the dustbin of history. Doing so would free a person from the burden of bearing so much weight so much of the time. You also wouldn't be the person who lives a life denying that the pain ever existed in the first place. Such denial informs all manner of subsequent relationships and deprives them of the potential richness.
But, alas, this resembles a voice in the wilderness. Most people I've observed go about living within the cocoon of their own perceived reality, wary of venturing forth for fear of the predatory bird awaiting beyond the shelter. And they don't know how to contend with the other strange creature, the one who acknowledges the pain, the one whose candor takes people aback, whether that person has let the pain go or not.
Kids, as with everything else, complicate the matter. Their disappointments pose much more of a challenge. I can process my own pain, rationalize in a way that might make me feel better and ultimately face up to it. But I can't get inside their heads and give them the coping techniques or the fortitude. The inability to do that compromises my capability to lessen my distress that has resulted from their distress.

Subtext

Surely texting validates one's self-worth. I feel better when I receive or send a text because hacking away on my cellphone makes me fit in with the multitudes, the people on the train or on the sidewalk or driving the car next to me.
Maybe they're all tweeting. Maybe I should tweet. I have a bunch of stuff to say, some of which might seem familiar. A sampling:

--Mean people suck.
--Sometimes girls with prominent breasts wearing tight-fitting, low-cut shirts act like you shouldn't be looking at them. What's up with that?
--Save Darfur.
--Save the whales.
--Let go and let God.
--Always give 110%.
--I had oatmeal for breakfast (after I put in a good workout...woo-hoo!).
--Here I am walking.
--Here I am on the train.
--Here I am driving (woo-hoo!!).

The Ocean

I pissed in the ocean yesterday, and I wondered how that fared against the BP spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Even if everyone in the water (and it was crowded) urinated simultaneously, I suspect it wouldn't stack up against the spill.

Changeling

I have heard people say change is good. Perhaps that can be so. But I'm not good with change.
The status quo typically provides the path of least resistance and the most appealing option.
Change, like a bent train track that sends me heading toward a derailment, triggers in me immediate dread, and no amount of logic or intellectualism can calm the storm.
Even less-than-optimal situations remain familiar, and this familiarity doesn't so much breed contempt as provide comfort.
I'm an often severely depressed guy who hates his commute and job and has a penchant for binge drinking. Who would want to change all that? It reminds me of an early "Beverly Hillbillies" episode in which the oil-company executive wants to persuade Jed to provide access to his land. I think it's Pearl who says something to Jed about having no heat, no running water, and an outhouse that's far from the main residence, etc. He tells her that she's right, that a man would have to be a fool to give up all that.
Hence the sabotage. I am a saboteur. A self-saboteur. The question appears simple enough: Why fuss with medication if it would help you? Why drink if the aftermath of drinking can upset the delicate balance you (sometimes) maintain. I'm not sure I know why. Does self-destruction derive from a genetic deficiency?
My recent 24-day abstinence from alcohol serves as an example of a good change, though relatively short-lived. The beauty is that I can resurrect it. I think the hiatus benefited me more psychologically than physically. I found comfort in knowing that I could forgo drinking.
Some justification exists for tampering with medication. They're called side effects. If a medicine were effective and had no side effects, I'd stick with it. Sleep issues are foremost among them. Having to contend with depression while going to a job you don't want to go to and lacking a decent night's sleep doesn't equal a recipe for bliss. I know a lot of people lack sleep and don't like their jobs, but depression exacerbates the situation. And the situation exacerbates depression. Reciprocity.
Running through the woods recently, I've come across turtles on paths far from water. I've also spotted them on roads. They must be in some kind of migratory or reproductive phase. Change elicits in me a desire to pull my head back inside the turtle shell, to not deal with anyone, to shelter myself from the weight that the world brings to bear, from oncoming cars and joggers alike.

Love Song

My mother used to sing me a little ditty, apparently a version of an old folk song. The song apparently went something like this:

Oh, you dirty little devil,
Does your mother know you're out,
With your pants wide open
And your pecker hanging out?

Then there's the sanitized version:

Oh, you dirty little bugger,
Does your mother know you're out,
With a hole in your pocket
And your shirttail out?

And my mother's version, kind of like a love song to her baby boy:

Oh, you dirty little nigger,
Does your mother know you're out,
With a holey in your britches
And your shirttail out?

Comin' Around Again

If you Google "Effexor withdrawal," you'll be rewarded with a host of results, many of which, from my less-than-scientific survey, detail the horrors of the ordeal. Go to askapatient.com, and you'll find plenty of examples of people telling you to avoid Effexor at all costs, that it's the worst medication in the history of the world, that Wyeth is evil, it's worse than coming off heroin....I've come across blogs on which people discuss their Effexor experiences.
One common refrain among those experiencing withdrawal concerns brain zaps. For lack of a better description, the cognoscenti describe the sensation as such. I can relate. For me, they typically occur when I turn my head suddenly and feel as if all the components fail to move in unison. Imagine "The Six Million Dollar Man" when the bionics are activated. N-n-n-n-n-n. Somehow my brain trails the rest of my head. Effexor withdrawal also makes me feel like I want to jump out of my skin. The way I imagine colicky babies feel when they clench and scream.
I've usually approached the reduction of my Effexor dosage gradually, one-quarter of a 75-milligram pill at a time. After a week, the next quarter. That has worked fairly well, though it hasn't been without incident. Any dosage adjustment, up or down, carries collateral effects.
So, here I go again. I've been taking 150 milligrams for the past month, and I'm going to taper. A little more aggressively this time, since I can't get a good night's fucking sleep. And the higher dosage has caused greater anxiety. Besides, I haven't had a drink in 23 days, and I don't feel like I'm losing weight. This I attribute to the Effexor, since I haven't altered my eating and exercise habits. Previously, I've taken Effexor and Remeron in conjunction, and then I was able to sleep. But Remeron packs more weight on people than any other antidepressant, from what I've observed. So, no Remeron. The doctor prescribed Klonopin for sleep. Klonopin is supposed to be among the most addictive medications available, though. I took it, anyway, and it made me drowsy, but it didn't alleviate the disruptive dreams and therefore offered me no respite. I must say, after about 10 days on it, the withdrawal was unpleasant. However, the Effexor withdrawal had disrupted sleep, so I have taken an ad hoc Klonopin.
I do like to take a Tramadol every now and then. Well, two at a minimum, since one doesn't do shit. Tramadol is a painkiller, which allegedly affects serotonin and has a weak affinity for some receptor or other. It's a pussy painkiller. Not like oxycodone. Originally I had it because I had some shoulder and back issues, but now I really just take it to take the edge off. I've told the doctor as much. I don't really know what the difference is between taking Tramadol or Effexor or whatever. If it works, why not use it? There seems to be a stigma attached to certain drugs. Effexor has the government's stamp of approval, so there's no issue with taking that. But from I can gather, it's as addictive as anything I've ever used. And it makes you fat and you have crazy dreams. I was held captive by bin Laden's group one night, and they didn't decapitate me or anything. I had some concern, however, that one of those goons was going to stab me in the leg. He didn't, at least not before the alarm came on in the morning. Antidepressants can tax your liver, make you heavy, inhibit orgasm and raise your blood pressure. Why not just drink? Yeah, I suppose you can function more effectively on the medicine, but it delivers less pleasure. A certain hypocrisy exists concerning one's approach.
Some doctors with whom I've been i contact have dismissed the side effects as inconsequential. I've read similar accounts from other patients. I guess if they see something that works, however ungracefully, particularly for patients with stubborn afflictions, they don't want to abandon it.
Perhaps salvation lies in the next new thing. Agomelatine has received approval in Europe but not in the U.S. Some have provided testimonials as to its effectiveness, but, like everything else, it's a mixed bag. It is supposed to help with sleep. I'll be dead before the appropriate medication surfaces.

The Devil Inside

How do you tell your children about the beast who lurks within? When their uncomprehending eyes witness the latest eruption, when alcohol distorts behavior, when depression wraps its tentacles around your heart and brain and threatens to drag you into the abyss, how to explain?
I favor candor, but the desire to inform without frightening necessitates a certain balance. Anxiety and concern already occupy too much of Son No. 1's time. At least I have a frame of reference that helps to guide my approach. As an angst-riddled youth, I had nobody to whom I could turn for comfort. I try to ensure that he does.
Along those lines, I recently explained a transgression to him by indicting my behavior. I told him it's not acceptable for me to act like that, in case he thought it was all right. He said he didn't. My wife says the kids idolize me and that if I do it, they're likely to think that they can, too.
I suppose I could attempt to conceal the inner turbulence, but what happens when the kids experience the rage or the melancholia or the general disillusionment and wonder about its origins? When I consider the manner in which I was raised, and the resulting confusion, I'm convinced that the direct approach, tempered based on a judgment regarding the child's intellectual and emotional capacity, outshines obfuscation. When I consider my youth, I can't help but wonder what might have been had anyone possessed insight into the afflictions that beset our family. Perhaps it would be unreasonable to expect that from someone within the family, since such recognition presumably would lead to remedial activity and mitigate the unpleasant circumstances. Instead, the path of least of least resistance apparently offered the most attractive route. Maybe my mother's coping mechanism was such that she convinced herself that she was providing a true account. Many times she told me that I offered sage suggestions, yet she ignored them all. The one that most readily comes to mind involves my recommendation that we sell our big house and the associated responsibilities, while simultaneously ensuring that my brother(s) no longer would live with us. The alcohol, the drug selling, the violence, the disruptive late-night partying and wall-rattling decibel level made the situation unappealing for someone who hadn't yet hit his teens. And the household maintenance, which fell disproportionately to me, became one more burden to bear. But my mother, her faculties now further compromised by a stroke, never did reach the point at which she could extricate herself from my brother, from the co-dependent and dysfunctional.
So, does recognition equal a remedy. Not necessarily. The mere fact that I recognize self-destructive tendencies and their collateral effects doesn't mean that a solution comes easily or quickly. Were it so, I likely wouldn't be wrestling with this question of the day/week/month: How do I explain myself to my kids? Do I even need to explain myself? The ethos of a previous era would suggest that such introspection is counterproductive and that we owe our children no such consideration. This doesn't make me feel enlightened, just marginally sensible. I don't blow smoke up my kids' asses. If one of them swings at a pitch over his head, I ask why he swung at a pitch over his head. If they do well, I tell them they did well. I try to hold myself to the same standard, and maybe I'll have credibility with them if I at least set a good example in that respect. Not that acknowledging one's transgressions should necessarily lead to exoneration. But it's a start.
I joke that the kids will reach an age at which they'll resent their parents. The progression seems natural. But I hope that, on the other side of that resentment, they consider me worthy of their love and admiration. Maybe this is all an academic exercise. Maybe they won't experience even a fraction of what I have.

Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder (A Dry Spell)

I got a bad liver and a broken heart
And I've drunk me a river since you tore me apart
I don't have a drinking problem
'Cept when I can't get a drink. --Tom Waits

There's a lot of doctors that tell me
You better start slowin' it down
But there's more old drunks
Than there are old doctors
So I guess I better have another round. --Willie Nelson

However much I booze, there ain't no way out. Pete Townshend

There probably are about a zillion other songs that deal with drinking. Relationships likely top the list of song subject matter, but I bet drinking is up there. I remember a Country song, even, where the guy sings about how life isn't fun since he quit drinking. Actually, it's called "You Ain't Much Fun,'" by Toby Keith. I just looked it up.
Anyway, I think I need to take a shot at abstaining from alcohol (pun intended), at least for a while. There just have been one too many times of too much drinking. Or a hundred too many. Or a thousand. I don't know anymore.
I don't think I'm an alcoholic, but some people, using certain definitions, probably would consider me one. Frames of reference differ. While some people might consider four drinks excessive, my friends and I consider it a minimum, an appetizer of sorts. I am, however, an alcohol abuser. I have difficulty controlling the quantity I imbibe, once I get started. And I don't really see the point of having a few beers. I drink for the altered state.
The gastroenterologist tells me he can feel the edge of my liver, indicating the organ is fatty. Fatty liver can lead to hepatitis, which can progress to cirrhosis, which killed my father. My liver-function blood test came back normal about a month ago, and if the liver is indeed fatty, it will repair itself during abstinence. If you drink, days off apparently are a crucial aspect of maintaining a healthy liver. I take plenty of days off, which is one of the reasons I don't think I'm an alcoholic. The GI doctor routinely tells me to stop drinking. He says he doesn't know if I would end up as one of those people whose organs start to fail as they age, but he fears I could be setting myself up for problems in about 20 years.
There's no time like the present to, at the least, take a break. To let my fatty liver slim down. To prove that I can do it. Reasons always abound for procrastination. I'd like to see how I feel, physically and psychologically, after abstaining for a while. To see how I feel on an antidepressant without alcohol. I have to say, though, that I have felt pretty bad in the past without alcohol and antidepressants. Pete Hamill, in "A Drinking Life," said he felt better after about a month after he stopped drinking. I exercise pretty heavily, so I wonder if I'll lose weight. Probably not, because of the antidepressants. I had about five drinks the night before I ran a half-marathon last month.
Is alcoholism/alcohol abuse a disease? The doctor says it is. Give me a fucking pill, then. The ones I'm taking don't cut it. I have observed that for some people there's never enough alcohol, while others can take it or leave it. There has to be a physical component to that. I don't think it's my fault that I have difficulty stopping once I start. I don't set out to do it intentionally. Maybe my ultimate goal should be to get to the point where I can control it. First things first, though--a break is in order. Perhaps I won't want to resume after a hiatus.
So, how do I go about this? The GI guy told me all the people he knows who have quit drinking (mostly patients, I'd guess), say AA is the way. One day at a time. But I don't fancy standing up in front of a roomful of people and introducing myself as an alcoholic. Particularly because I don't think I am. So many denials must make it seem like I'm trying to talk myself out of the realization that I actually am an alcoholic. Except I'm not. Anyhow, these programs say you have to admit a problem exists. I do acknowledge the existence of a problem. But I don't see 12 steps as the route:
Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over our addiction - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Maybe, maybe not. I don't think so, though.
Step 2: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Am I insane? I've never thought so. And who is this power greater than ourselves?
Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.
Here I would have a problem. Is there a difference between steps 2 and 3?
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
I do this routinely, anyway. I'd be happier if I were like my mother and avoided a moral inventory at all costs.
Step 5: Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
I've admitted to myself and the people who matter. Again with God.
Step 6: Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
Does anybody detect a pattern here?
Step 7: Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings.
Oh, for Chrissake.
Step 8: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
I'm not aware of anyone I've harmed with whom I haven't made amends.
Step 9: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
This seems like a substep of step 8.
Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
Don't think I have a problem here. And this is like a substep of Step 4. Step 4b.
Step 11: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood God, praying only for knowledge of God's will for us and the power to carry that out.
This seems redundant.
Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to other addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
I don't think so.

With two steps containing substeps, it's like only 10 steps really exist. And if you combine all the God steps, that would make one out of six. When you combine the substeps with their paternal steps, and you've combined the God steps, you're left with five steps.
I didn't have the greatest experience when I went to Adult Children of Alcoholics meetings when I was in college. Those people were serious. I mean, I didn't feel great, but some of those folks seemed like their heads were going to explode. One night, a gentleman who must have been about 25 years my senior, struck up a conversation with me. I shudder to think of this now, but he invites me back to his condo, and we're going to meet his younger friend there. So we're there, and this guy has a piano, and he's playing French love songs....I know, I know. But I really didn't get it until my friends laughed so hard that they nearly pissed themselves. I did manage to get out of there physically, if not psychologically, unscathed. There was another time when a gay guy expressed interest in me, but even I couldn't miss that signal: He said I didn't have be gay to let someone suck my cock.

So I figure I'll just take this break on my own. For how long, I don't know, but I'm looking at maybe a month. Maybe less. I'll see how I feel. A month seems to be the experts' consensus--if you can abstain for that long, you don't have a problem. I don't want to entertain the prospect of not being able to drink under certain circumstances.
I quit tobacco on my own more than three years ago, so I can abstain from drink, I suspect. My habit involved primarily smokeless tobacco. Copenhagen. For the longest time, I chewed my thumbnails and rendered them useless. Now I have thumbnails, perfect for opening cans of tobacco, and no tobacco on which to use them. The effects of tobacco withdrawal immediately descended upon me and convinced me that I had made a grave mistake by having used tobacco in the first place and that forgoing it somehow precipitated my peril. I became lost in the throes of depression, which provided an impetus for me to resume medication. I remember the distinct moment when the withdrawal peaked, forcing perspiration out of my body in a shudder, as if in a final purge. My jaw stopped hurting, and the lesions inside my mouth that appeared after I desisted, the ones I swore were malignant, began to heal. The tingling in my back and neck subsided. According to what I've read, that tingling resulted from the increased oxygen flow, in the absence of nicotine. Who knows? Maybe it's all bullshit. But there are documented similar experiences. And I know what I felt. Some people, on the Internet, of course, say withdrawal from smokeless tobacco affected them more negatively than quitting smoking. I think another person said it was harder than heroin. Or crack or something. I can't relate to that. It did suck. So far, nothing even remotely similar with respect to alcohol. See, I told you all I'm not an alcoholic. Withdrawal from tobacco demonstrated, to my surprise, that I had a physical dependency. Not so with the sauce. That's good, though I'm not trying to justify the sometime abuse of alcohol.
A big part of the difficulty in relinquishing tobacco involved psychology. I had grown so accustomed to chewing tobacco when I...did virtually anything. Walking the dog. Washing the car. Fishing. Working out. Reading a book. And on and on. Alcohol hasn't achieved the same prominence. It couldn't; I'd be dead. I do, however, have some questions. During the times in which I would normally drink, what am I going to do now? Caroline Knapp, in her memoir, "Drinking: A Love Story," wrote about watching the movie "Clean and Sober," with Michael Keaton. Apparently he comes home after rehab and is sitting in his apartment wondering what the fuck to do. She said she felt just like that. I don't feel so much like that. The kids alone can keep one pretty busy. I suppose I can try to be constructive in the time during which I normally would drink. But I've also wondered what I'm going to do with no vice. I can't remember living without a vice. I need an addiction, goddamnit. I'm addicted to addiction. Negligible caffeine, no tobacco and no alcohol for a spell. I risk becoming an ascetic.
I never had an epiphany regarding tobacco. I didn't awaken one morning and think, 'I've had it.' I did have a lump inside my mouth, though, that may have started me down that course. The dentist said it was nothing, but when it didn't go down after about six months, I visited the oral surgeon. He said it was a fibroma, from biting my cheek. He removed it with some radio-loop technology that enabled him to scoop it out, the smell of burning flesh left in its wake. He sent it for a biopsy, anyway, just in case his certainty about its benign nature proved incorrect. I remember how I felt when I detected that lump and it wouldn't go away, and perhaps that provided the catalyst for me to stop. With drinking, I've similarly not had an epiphany, exactly. I have recently felt as if I haven't been setting the best example for my children, so that weighs on my psyche. As a youth, I thought that an approximation of me to my father fell outside the realm of possibility. As someone with a few more years under his belt, the notion that fewer dissimilarities exist than I thought has proved disconcerting. But, alas, he left his family and drank himself to death. He left me.
I have felt more that the manner in which I've been drinking has run its course, just as I felt with the tobacco. If I resume drinking, the pattern has to change. The manner in which I've approached drinking over the past few years doesn't lend itself to long-term sustainability. Maybe 20 years. Maybe 30. I don't know. Perhaps fewer. I'm reminded of a woman I read about in a Wall Street Journal science column concerning longevity and genetics. A researcher on aging is quoted as saying: "I have a woman who recently celebrated 91 years of cigarette smoking," says Dr. Barzilai. "She is 106 now."
Nevertheless, the medication I take taxes the liver a bit already, and even though my liver function remains sterling, it could use a rest and I could refrain from piling on. And that smoking 106-year-old is probably the exception. More than once I've put not just myself, but my family, in a precarious position. I might have a disease, or at least the seeds of one, but that doesn't mean I should spread it. People with AIDS shouldn't have unprotected sex.
Abstinence, even if temporary, does carry some benefits. I'll have more money. When I quit tobacco, I started putting away $40 every two weeks, roughly the amount I spent on Copenhagen. Over three years, I saved more than $3,000. But what is money when compared with overall well-being? In fact, money is part of well-being. I'm not yet convinced that abstinence enhances well-being. I won't wake up in the morning with a headache, though they usually go away within a few hours. But I won't wake up not recollecting what transpired the night before...at least not because of drinking. I guess my health will benefit, though the doctor has said that my cholesterol numbers, which are off the charts in a good way, likely have benefited from drinking. Maybe I'll lose weight. I think I've exhausted my list. Perhaps I've fried too many brain cells drinking, rendering me unable to compile a more comprehensive list.
The negative aspect of teetotalling I suspect is hard to convey to people who aren't as inclined to seek respite through the bottle. The absence of a lubricant makes me an even more antisocial miscreant. With alcohol, confidence increases, apprehensions fall by the wayside. The troubles with which I'm so preoccupied go on hiatus. Beer is one thing. It can taste good, but I wouldn't drink it if it didn't have alcohol. It can make you feel bloated sometimes, also. Whiskey is quite another matter. I'm not into the aesthetics of drinking like the aforementioned Caroline Knapp. She described the shape of the bottle, the beads of sweat on the outside, the sounds of the pour. Her writing on the subject contains some eroticism. While I do admire the color of a fine bourbon, the therapeutic effects don't begin until it hits the tongue. A few passes under the tongue, a few brushes with the upper palate, the burning sensation, followed by the swallow, the whiskey's coursing. Then the aftereffect, what the pretentious connoisseurs call the "finish." How long the burn and the taste linger. These aficionados say you taste with your nose; I can smell some vanilla sometimes in bourbon, but I guess my nose and palate are unsophisticated. I don't get the grass and citrus and oak. Orange peel and lemon rind. Peppery, buttery. Toffee. Pair it with this food. Beer people do the same thing. Give me a fucking break. It all brings to mind a "Rescue Me" episode in which Maura Tierney says it all tastes like alcohol to her. Touche. Of course, my use of French words, especially in a confessional of this nature, might seem pretentious, also. Right on.
What I'm doing involves breaking a pattern, not completely abandoning a life of sin. That's what I'm telling myself. I could have used a beer while writing this, also.

The Suicidal Possum Meets the Indecisive Squirrel

The possum, standing on the roadside as daylight waned awaiting a car in whose path he could run, spied soft headlights in the distance and prepared for his denouement.
As the vehicle approached, the possum gathered his resolve, like a Baghdad suicide bomber, when out the corner of his eye he discerned movement. His concentration thus unraveled, the possum found his opportunity usurped by a squirrel that sprinted past him and into the path of the oncoming car.
The squirrel, lacking premeditation and perhaps foresight, appeared to have second thoughts about his mad dash into the street and turned back in the direction from which he had come, like a furry gray rodent stricken with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But as soon as he had turned back, he thought it reasonable to reverse course again, the 50-mile-an-hour vehicle quickly closing the gap in a 25-m.p.h. zone. The bemused opossum watched as once more the squirrel turned toward him, changing direction for the third time.
"Squirrel," the opossum asked, "what the fuck are you doing?"
But the squirrel again had headed for the opposite curb, at which point he could have measured the tread of the vehicle's front right tire had he been so inclined. Apparently not so predisposed, the squirrel again veered toward the possum and the car passed.
"What are you doing?" the possum inquired.
"Fuck you," replied the squirrel, "and what were you doing standing there like that alongside the road, anyway?"
"I was waiting for my chance to get across."
"Bullshit. I saw you from 50 yards away, and you had plenty of time to cross before that car came. You're being disingenuous."
"Well, I was preoccupied for a moment," the possum answered.
"Preoccupied with what?"
"With whether or not some stupid squirrel would come along and mess up my chance to cross the street."
"I don't think so. I've seen enough possums flattened like pancakes to know that you're either the dumbest creatures that ever lived or you have suicidal proclivities."
The possum blew out a thin stream of breath and settled back on his haunches, asphalt pebbles pocking his skin. "I was thinking about health-care reform and financial-market regulation."
"I don't have time to think about that. I'm just worried about getting across this road."
"I hear ya," the possum replied.
A cool breeze carried stinging roadside particles along on a current of air.
"This is it, squirrel."
"What do you mean, this is it?"
"Well, what else is there?"
"For one thing, if I ever get across this fucking road I'm going to scavenge for some acorns. I can't go a day without some." The squirrel lifted his right leg and scratched his ear, staccato-like.
A car slipped by, and the animals felt the vibrations of the pulsing bass beat.
"I hate that shit," the possum said.
"Me, fucking, too."
"You ever go in that yard there?" the possum asked, gesturing with his head over his right shoulder.
"Yeah, some dog."
"That bitch won't leave me alone."
"They're like that," said the squirrel. "Don't kid yourself that they're not. Sometimes she seems friendly, but then the teeth come out."
A car, with a dead deer lashed to the hood, passed.
"You suppose they hit that deer with the car or shot it and tied it there or picked it up off the side of the road?" asked the possum.
"Shot it, I guess. Deer don't have anywhere to go, then they get shot. Could be you splayed on the front of that car."
"Or you."
"See you next time, possum."
"Yeah, squirrel, maybe so, maybe so."

Cleveland Avenue

My maternal grandparents occupied a thin slice of a house on Cleveland Avenue in Trenton, New Jersey, the city of my birth and the recent subject of a History Channel "Gangland" show. Until I reached school age, I spent most of my days in their care.
Gram played the bad cop, a stout, white-haired Irishwoman with severe spectacles outfitted in plain, loose-fitting dresses and seemingly always sporting an apron. She scolded, against the backdrop of the pressure cooker's thwap, thwap, thwap in the hallway-like cooking area, when Gramps took me to Harry's and loaded me up with candy before dinner. Jesus and the apostles bore witness as they sat at their Last Supper table overlooking my grandparents' dinner table. The cast-iron radiator, folded like intestines, hissed intermittently beneath the decorative cover on which I used to sit until the heat became too much.
A narrow hallway connected the kitchen to the "parlor," in which I used to nap with Gram on a couch the color of a faded salmon. My head rested on her ample rump as Jesus, with the sacred heart exposed, overlooked us there, too, a palm leaf tucked into the frame. Stained-glass windows on either side of the fireplace helped keep the room suitably dark, and on the fireplace itself hung the old Irish blessing that i read countless times as a child but failed to grasp: May the road rise to meet you/May the wind be always at your back/May the sun shine warm upon your face/The rains fall soft upon your fields/And until we meet again/May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
Part of my problem stemmed from the fact that my grandmother's name was May. Syntactical confusion set upon my young mind as I tried to parse meaning. Was this fireplace-hung banner of sorts directly addressing my grandmother? If so, it didn't make sense, telling her the road rise up to meet you.
Uncle Tommy, my godfather and namesake, lived with my grandparents. His wife had died, but I'm not sure when, relative to my birth. Uncle Tommy had been a Seabee in World War II and then worked as a tool-and-die man at General Motors forever and smoked unfiltered Camels by the carton and drank a lot of Schaefer beer. He also bowled. He once observed me trying to remove small pieces of fractured asphalt from our driveway and likened the activity to "picking fly shit out of pepper with boxing gloves." He also made his own bullets, ostensibly for hunting, in the basement, but I don't remember any venison. As Christmas approached, he would tell me that he was going to shoot Santa Claus, which would induce more than a little anxiety in me. He also infuriated me by feigning interest in feeling my muscle, and when I would flex my bicep, he would squeeze my head.
He scolded me when I, home sick from school, would run the hallway like a 10-yard dash, and I, momentarily chastened, would retreat to the family room and Felix the Cat. Uncle Tommy eventually gave up the cigarettes and the beer, when diabetes threatened to exact a severe toll. He, loquacious like his siblings, in his later years liked to discuss his grocery list and his job as a hospital parking-lot attendant.
Uncle Tommy liked auto racing, specifically the Indianapolis 500. I once wanted to watch a basketball game instead, and he called me a "nigger lover." He yelled down the hallway to Gramps: "Hey, Dad, he's a nigger lover." The 6-year-old nigger lover--the worst kind. I hadn't been embarrassed before about liking basketball. I'm not sure where Uncle Tommy slept when Gram was alive, since the first floor of that house had only one bedroom. Aunt Virge and her brood lived on the second floor. After Gram's death, he slept in the bedroom with Gramps. My mother attributed such cohabitation to the Depression, when it sometimes was a necessity.
My cousin Joanie lived there sometimes, too, I think. She was divorced from Bob, who had served in Vietnam. Bob once shot up his parents' house with a shotgun. He also held hostages at a local drinking establishment, and his profanity-laced tirade appeared verbatim on the front of the local paper the next day. Joanie had a rabbit, which she sometimes kept tied up in the back yard. I spied Gramps one day from the kitchen window as he gave the rabbit some slack in the tether and then jerked it back, bringing the rabbit up abruptly. Not just once, either. So I, naturally, did the same the first opportunity I got. This time, though, Joanie spied me from the kitchen window. She took exception, and I became confused.
I remember sitting in the doorway that led from the family room, a.k.a. parlor, to the louvered-window front porch with my leg extended across the stoop. Gram didn't walk so well, with diabetes having claimed part of her foot, and I wanted to see her trip. She was on to me, though, and made a remark to the effect of my wanting to see an old lady trip. She surprised me more than once, taking the time one afternoon to regale me with a story about how she once beat up the school bully, the other kids henceforth taunting that boy by threatening to sick May Keenan on him. She also gave me the A.A. Milne book "When We Were Six" on my 6th birthday. She wrote a note inside the front cover telling me about how she and her siblings never could fall asleep as they lay awake on Christmas Eve and awaited the sound of bells on Santa's sleigh. She wrote that I was getting to be a ripe old age and that I was a very special boy. I gave that book to my son when he turned 6.
Gram died not long after that, when I was in first grade, too young to really grasp but old enough to appreciate the attention I received. Another lifetime. The mailman happened by while I played outside our house as the post-funeral reception took place. He asked me what was going on, and I told him my grandmother had died. He asked her name, and when I told him, he said he was glad it wasn't anybody he knew.
Gramps, the retired 40-year fireman, used to take me to the church carnival, where I would lob ping-pong ball after ping-pong ball toward glass bowls on shelves in an effort to win a goldfish. He made me soft-boiled eggs and would walk me around the block at Christmas to see the lights. When my mother and I would leave his house, Gramps would run along and knock on the car window, delighting me to no end. The grandchildren, 15 in all, if I'm counting correctly, fell prey to his failing memory, and he variously would refer to us as George or Harry. We have no Georges or Harrys in the family. But he usually gave me a dollar, just because, and he ran alongside my bike as I was learning to ride on two wheels. Cancer claimed him in 1979, 10 days before my birthday, and I ensconced myself in the bathroom and cried with abandon. I saw him the day before, a shell of his former self, less than a hundred pounds and fetal-like in his bed, and Jesus, head bowed, hung on the crucifix on the wall.