8/16/18

Sometimes I just need to write, and I do not know why. I have an insatiable desire to create but an ever-waning desire to maintain. That reeks of discontentment, yet mainly, I feel whole. That internal conflict is most likely systemic of a deeper issue I have yet to stumble upon.

The bedrock of my soul is being uncovered daily, one handful of clay at a time, and I feel as though I am waking. I’m starting to learn who I am. I thought it might be frightening; however, when there is nothing left to do but examine the charred remains, digging becomes cathartic.

I have experienced being broken in the past; I wish I had been crushed. I am a creator, a re-builder, a re-inventor of broken things and broken dreams. Being shattered and burned to the ground seems to be preferred. When there is nothing left to rebuild and only the ashes remain, starting over from scratch becomes your only option. You cannot build on ashes; the debris must be cleared away.

As I write, I read what I have written, and sometimes the answers become clear. Sometimes they become muddled in the vortex of circular thought. But now, right here in this moment, it is clear: I suffer from a lack of gratitude for the things I have.

I have been taught my entire life that love and gratitude are actions. If I love what I have, if I’m grateful for the things and people in my life, I will work to maintain them—to maintain the relationships.

Be lonely; it’s okay. We were not made to be alone, but do not stay alone. Surround yourself with people who make you smile and laugh from your soul. Take some time for silent reflection—it will help you realign your values—but do not sit for so long that you become comfortable in isolation. Make the life you want; just remember it takes time. No matter your age, if you’re alive, you have time to try.

We rise, we fall, and we rise again. Rising again is the most important part. Sometimes we have to lose it all to see what we had—to see what matters. I’ve searched for a pattern, for meaning in the chaos, since I can remember. I still haven’t found one. I do not know the answers to life’s biggest questions, but I’ve learned what seems important to me. I’ve learned to try and see people where they are in their hearts. We’re all looking for something in this world, and it’s a world that mocks people for searching. But wouldn’t it be a little nicer if we acknowledged the search and helped one another look?

Spend time with people who make you forget you have a cell phone.

I don’t think about suicide anymore, not really. I think, however, it’s like alcoholism or drug addiction: once the idea is there and a plan is formed, the thought can never be fully removed. Bill Wilson wrote in Alcoholics Anonymous about having to move his bed downstairs one night because he was afraid he would jump out of his bedroom window. I get that. I get that very, very well.

I stopped climbing towers almost two years before I got out of the field. Everyone assumed it was because of my back injuries, and it was just easier to go along with that. The reality, however, was that I was dealing with the worst depression I had ever experienced, and I was afraid I was going to jump. I stopped carrying my pocket knife because I was afraid I would slit my wrists. I didn’t know what to do; I was terrified and had no idea how to say it out loud.

That period of depression was the death knell for my marriage. I don’t blame my ex-wife for this. It had to be absolute hell watching me implode and knowing she couldn’t stop it. I have no idea how I made it through. I hung on tightly to everything I could, grabbing desperately at anyone and anything I could get my hands on, trying to find a reason to live. Finally, it passed, but the underlying problems remained.

I would eventually return to drugs and alcohol to calm the screams in my head. This worked for some time, but not for very long. I finally ended up in the worst place I could have ever imagined. I was more or less intoxicated around the clock when my children were not home, and suffering miserable withdrawal when they were. No matter how much I drank or what I took, my head no longer slowed down. I was surrounded by people, more than ever before, yet I just felt alone. I felt dead inside, and I could no longer drink that away.

I had completely dismissed the possibility of there being a God. I had tried AA, treatment centers, willpower, church, therapy, and doctors, and I found them all wanting. I was ready to die.

Turns out some clichés have validity: it really is darkest before the dawn. During the last month or so that I drank, I started thinking how grateful I was to have people in my life for one reason alone: I hoped they would find the body so my children wouldn’t have to. I had resigned myself to dying soon. I wasn’t going to jump or do anything so overt, but I knew my body couldn’t take many more days like the ones I was going through. I rarely slept more than two hours. The night sweats were so bad I would have to wash the sheets and run a fan on the bed to dry it out. There were always traces of blood. I would wake up in the middle of the night and have to start drinking again just to have a chance at falling back to sleep. I was just ready for the end.

This is a cycle that started around age ten. Severe, almost crippling depression was covered by drugs, alcohol, sex, and any risky behavior I could work myself into—anything to make me feel alive, or at least to forget that I wasn’t. There were times of joy, certainly, but they grew more dependent on being chemically induced with each passing year.

People have hard opinions on alcohol, drugs, and antidepressants—on everything, if I’m being honest. I’m no different; however, my views might not be what you would expect. I give credit to those things for keeping me alive long enough to find another solution—specifically, to find a solution in places where I thought I had already looked.

I’ve been thinking about balance—thinking about storms. Not much can grow in darkness, but maybe the darkness is sometimes a necessary catalyst for change. When I’m playing around with a word or an idea, I usually look to nature. What does the world around me have to offer on the subject?

If seeds or plants are exposed to complete darkness during germination, they experience a rapid elongation of their cells. This is an emergency response; the plant is desperate to return its tissues to the light where it can again photosynthesize and live. It’s analogous to standing on the bottom of a swimming pool and stretching to get your nose above water for a breath of life-giving oxygen.

I often shun the darkness, thinking happiness is only found in the light. However, this may be an unbalanced view of reality. Some things can only be learned by walking in the dark; some lessons can only be learned in a storm. Right? Maybe the darkness causes an emergency response—a rapid elongation of my soul as it reaches forward, straining for the light.

I’ve had to learn to let go of the idea that my connection to a thing is tied to a feeling. It’s tied to my actions. My feelings have ruled the bulk of my life, but I’m learning that while they are valid, they are not reality. If I love someone or something, I treat it with respect; I nurture it. I do this no matter how I feel. Being a single dad has taught me this.

The same is true of my spiritual path. I just put in the work, and I do it no matter how I feel. Maybe sometimes when I feel the worst, or when I’m struggling the most, it’s because I am growing. I get this idea in my head sometimes that “once this happens, I’ll be good.” I forget it’s the road of recovery, not the road to recovery. The journey lasts a lifetime, and happiness and peace are here, now. The power is in me, but it’s not of me. It has always been there, provided I am willing to seek it.

01/06/06

It’s silent right now, and I realize that’s what I needed. No TV, no radio, no phone—just silence, and I can breathe.

It’s been two years today, and for a moment, I could hear nothing but the clock ticking on the wall. Two years ago today, at this time, I had found out just an hour earlier that my wife had been killed. I was overwhelmed by the silence. The world had stopped; my senses were in a vacuum, and the world around me was a void. There was nothing but the deafening roar of silence, broken only by the sound of my heart being torn apart.

Today, as I look around, I know that my whole world has changed beyond anything I could have imagined two years ago.

I have been forced to reexamine my every thought, my every belief, and my every action. That has been my experience with the grief process; I have seen a level of introspection I never wanted to. But on this side, I think I am emerging better—different, to be sure, but better. I think I may be becoming who I wanted to be, someone Stacy would have been proud of.

I see enough to know that the process has only begun in the grand scheme of things, but I’m far enough into it to see a change. There is still so much unanswered, so much I don’t know. Most of it, I realize, I may never know the answer to, and I may never understand. I know this, though, as I look around: I have been blessed!

To look back at two years ago—how I felt and what I thought—I realize that saying I have been blessed is the most shocking, unimaginable thing I could ever say. Yet, it is still the truth. The past two weeks, as usual, I have been a wreck, and I’m sure I have not been pleasant to be around, but today I have some peace. That’s just how it seems to go for me. The anticipation is worse; it always has been, and I guess it always will be.

I have met some amazing people over the past two years. I look back and realize that I have been angry—understandably angry, nonetheless. I have been withdrawn; “antisocial” is more like it. And still, in the middle of my anger and despite my best attempts to avoid the world at large, I have met people who love me. I have met people who care and are looking out for me, even when I did not know it. I have met people I’ve known most of my life that I never really knew. All of these people, whether they knew Stacy or not, have had one thing in common: they have handled me with kid gloves. The ones who knew Stacy have set their own grief aside to tend to me. For the first time, I see that now.

My focus has always been on the ones who did not do this; I could not see the forest for the trees, as it were. Despite my lack of perspective, they have loved me just the same.

There is always something new on this road. I never would have chosen it, to be sure, and I will never be glad that I am on it, but it’s nice to be able to see the beauty while I am here. I read a quote a couple of weeks ago by an unknown author:

“Happy is the man who is able to see the beauty even on a detour.”

I hope that is the theme for the year to come. I’m off to a good start because, for the first time in a long time, I have “hope.” I remember clearly the day hope died; it’s nice to feel its resurrection in my heart. It’s scary at times, this life; I guess the fear is a sign that I am living, though.

I hope to maintain this attitude for some time to come. I really do. There would be no greater way to honor my wife than that. That was how she lived; she always saw the beauty, even on the detours.

I think I missed my window for suicide after the death of my spouse.

Does that make me crazy?

I mean, really—who thinks like that, and how messed up do they have to be? Oh well, maybe I am crazy. I think I’m okay with it at this point.

You know, I was thinking about dreams the other day, and they are fickle things. Dreams can take you to new heights depending on what is driving them; with a little break and a little push in the right direction, they will take you to the top of the world. Left on their own, unattended, left to wander the recesses of your mind, they start to build walls and become your prison. They become the thing you never did, the place you never went, the woman you never loved!

Dreams are fickle!

The big questions go unanswered because the big questions go unspoken. This is the pervasive thought that’s occupied my mind today. What is it that I think but never say? What do I dare not whisper outside the dark confines of my mind? I’ve spent most of my life looking for answers to questions I’ve never heard others asking, so, in turn, I do not ask them out loud either.

The past two years, I’ve done more soul-searching than I ever dreamed possible; divorce will do that to you. I’ve learned that some of the big questions do not have a static answer. Every day—and sometimes every moment—I have to ask myself: Who do I want to be? What type of father do I want to be? What type of fiancé do I want to be? What type of employee do I want to be? What do I want my kids to remember about me when I’m gone?

There’s been no single defining moment, no flash of light on my road to Damascus. Just a long series of singular events that have forever altered my view of the world around me and my answers to these questions. I’ve heard people talk about how, when their first child was born, everything changed for them in that moment and they “knew.” Or when they met their spouse, or a loved one died.

When I hear these stories, I think several things depending on the day. Sometimes I think, “What the hell is wrong with me? That was not my experience.” Other times I think, “You’re so full of shit.” Most often as of late, however, I think, “How sad that your perspective has never evolved.”

As a species, we talk a lot about evolution; we talk about the importance of an open mind and heart. We tout the virtues of understanding and acceptance, and we do it all with a staggering, hypocritical vigor. I’ve seen and met precious few people who can change their mind on any subject, let alone a belief. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not an easy thing to do. If you think you’re not egotistical or prejudiced, try immersing yourself in a diametrical point of view.

My sarcasm hides my heart’s desire to live extemporaneously. I come off more jaded and predisposed than I am. All I really want—and all I’ve ever really wanted to know—is the truth about anything and everything. I’m not a man of blind faith. I wanted to be—I wanted to be more than anything—but that’s never been who I am. I’ve always been a little jealous of people who are. I see the comfort they take in their beliefs, and I’ve never believed anything enough to take solace in it.

I’m tired, I’m tired of being tired for self induced problems in a made up world. I’m tired of not saying anything about it.

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton