Acceptance

If there's something I can look back on in my life and be genuinely happy about, it's that for the most part, I've been very accepting of the people I've let into my own little sphere.

That's not to suggest I don't have my biases or prejudices or that I am somehow immune from being judgmental of people. I wish I could say such a thing and keep a straight face, but the fact is I am no less capable of it than any of you. I guess that makes us even in that respect.

I've had friends and acquaintances who are gay, straight, bi, Black, white, Asian, Hispanic, handicapped or fully-functional, crazy and sane.

I also am keenly aware that we all come into every new relationship, plutonic or otherwise, with the baggage we carry from what our lives have been up to this moment in time. A theory I have is that we also hope that the people who we encounter going forward can accept that we are shouldering that baggage and not have it impact their overall view of who we are.

When I was a kid, I had a friend who suffered from spina bifida which left her paralyzed from the waist down, and one night she shared with me some of the more embarrassing aspects of what such a life entails, all the while completely horrified that I would be so repulsed by her revelations that I would no longer want to be associated with her.

When she finished, I responded with a a single word. "So?"

I was working at a local mall in my early 20's when one day, an old friend from high school came into my shop to check out some movies. Naturally, we started chatting about other people we knew and when one particular name came up, she asked me, "Have you heard what happened to her?"

Not having the slightest clue what she was insinuating, I told her as much, hoping I would be told something other than our mutual friend was dead, horribly maimed, or rotting in a Hungarian prison.

What I got instead was told to me in rather terse whisper as to apparently not alarm anyone else in the store, "...she's a lesbian!!"

Now I'm pretty sure those other customers had to wonder what I found to be so funny when I started laughing like I did, because it was truly one of those moments you can't script, especially when I gave the same exact response.

"So?"

When asked why I could be so nonchalant about it, my reason was really quite simple. If a person can figure out these sorts of things about themselves and not only find acceptance, but also happiness in reaching that level of self-identification and awareness, then who the hell am I to tell them they somehow got it wrong or not accept them on that same level?

In many ways, I am profoundly envious of those people because it's something I've never really been able to do for myself.

I'd like to tell you that I know who I am and what I'm about, but the truth is for the majority of my life, I've only accepted the negative aspects of myself and a lot of that came from being conditioned to do so. Growing up, it wasn't a case of getting reinforcement for what I did right as much as for what I did that people found wrong.

I won't go so far as to boast that I was a genius or prodigy at an early age, but I knew my stuff and I was proud of that knowledge. But when I'd express that knowledge either in class or even at home sometimes, it was perceived me showing off or being a "smart-alec," thereby making other people look bad.

So I'd shut up and became conflicted for a long time about how I could express the fact that I wasn't an idiot and wasn't trying to talk down to others simply because I knew more than they did about a particular subject. It falls under the Pavlovian principle of repetition building truth. If you hear something enough times, from enough people, you learn to internalize it so that becomes something you live by.

It wasn't a matter of my intelligence either. Over the years, I accepted virtually every fault that I seemed to possess when it came to my looks, my social skills, ability to do jobs, write a book, go to college, all of it. Not only could I not see any hint of positives in myself, but I shunned the people who tried to convince me that I had them as well.

I couldn't accept that there was anything else in here but some diseased, half-mad freak who knew things no one wanted to hear and had nothing to offer anyone else. That had been my life for nearly 30 years.

Even now, with the realization that there is more to me than just all the negatives lodged firmly in my mind, it's still very hard for me to not look at myself in a similar way. Mistakes are still magnified and the moments where I think I should do something the "right" way and don't still bring a high level of self-scrutiny.

I guess the important part, though, is I'm learning how to undo that programming and become able to accept the fact that despite everything, I'm not as terrible a person as I've been convinced of for so long.

Eventually, I'd like to think it's okay to finally come to the realization that there's more to us than just the ugly things we become convinced exist inside us.

Cerebral Overdrive

It may be a cliche, but in the realm of my existence, there is more truth to it than I often want to either accept or admit.

There just aren't enough hours in the day.

I've always had an active mind, even when I was a toddler. My family would always tell me and friends that I'd been a precocious, constantly active child. I'm sure nowadays I'd be classified with high-end hyperactivity, Attention Deficit Disorder and whatever other maladies we like to tag modern children with these days.

As I grew up, it became clear to me that I was obsessed with the concept of learning. I wanted to assimilate as much information in a given day as I possibly could through whatever means necessary. If I could read about it in a book, I would devour it, then try to commit it to memory as fast as possible. If I had to learn it through physical repetition, I would do it over and and over until I was content that I'd gotten it right.

I was a small but potent engine of osmosis and assimilation as I realized I wanted to learn about everything. It wasn't a matter of being smarter than the next kid and I bristle at the notion of it being all about my ego. Contrary to popular belief, I really don't have all that much of one to be honest, and my ego is much more an anti-ego given its profound ability to point out the negative aspects of myself.

It was just a matter of satisfying my extreme curiosity and my almost manic need to just experience as much as possible first-hand.

The big issue, though, is when that mania gets going, my brain just doesn't want to stop processing the incoming data. While there is a benefit in that wanting to stay active in a particular stream of consciousness, there is also a danger for such a hungry mind too.

There's only 24 hours in the day, which means at some point you need to stop, rest, and recharge the cerebral batteries. Yet, for reasons that I don't really understand, 24 hours just isn't enough time for my day.

I realize this whenever I'm sitting at work, or at home, and I don't feel like I'm doing anything I'm considering "productive." Yes, I may be writing a story for the paper, or conducting an interview, or washing my dishes, or researching and writing out parts of the book I'm working on, or even sleeping. There's nothing wrong with doing those things, but somewhere in the back of my mind, exists a construct which is always pointing out that I'm running out of time in the day and I should be doing something else.

I should be exercising, reading a new book, traveling, taking photographs, talking with friends, learning something I haven't learned before or changing a perspective which has become calcified and stale in my mind.

This realization has returned to the fore of my consciousness in the last couple of weeks as I was once again made aware of how absolutely fantastical the age in which we live has become. I used to joke with my friends that, "Everything we need to learn can now be found on YouTube." and as I had just bought a very cheap guitar for the process of finally learning the instrument, I would prove my point by learning it not from another person, but by going online and doing so there.

Well, sadly my guitar is sitting the bag I bought for it and I haven't picked it up in some time because I have yet to find a YouTube channel with lessons that work for me. However, earlier this week, I discovered something much more potentially profound in TEDTalks.

TEDTalks, for those unaware, are a series of short lectures from a diverse collection of some of the more prominent thinkers across all areas of global culture. They're updated nearly every day and at this point, there's more than 1,000 of them online, and I am completely hooked on them.

At the same time, I've also rehabilitated the part of my brain that has always fed off the act of reading, so now I can pick up a book and not only get through it, but I can also take considerable enjoyment from each new one I open up. Combine that with my desire to finally get my own book moving and start discovering more and more of both what's out in the world and what exists in myself, and I'm usually climbing into bed at night wondering if I can squeeze a few more minutes out of the day to do just a little bit more that I hadn't done the day before.

It's both an exhilarating and disconcerting place to find myself again, however, because of the simple and inescapable truth.

There just isn't enough time in the day to fit it all in. Not yet, at least.

Passions

I came to a realization over the weekend which I find quite alarming.

There's a lot of things in this world which fascinate me and that I am passionate about, and for reasons that defy logic, I'm ashamed of that.

Off the top of my head, the list is long and somewhat distinguished:

Music
Movies
Books
Writing
Video Games
Astronomy
History
Philosophy
Travel
Photography
Cooking
Boxing
Fencing
Swords
Baseball
Cars
Culture
Anime
Art
Computers
Technology
Aircraft
Friends

Like I said, not a bad list, and while it may not be as comprehensive as it could be if I gave it more thought, I could probably add a good five or ten more.

There's also nothing I can see on that list that can be considered taboo or somehow inappropriate in "civilized" society. I also know there's a lot of people who like these things just as much as I do and have no inhibitions about it at all.

So why do I?

When I'm hanging out with my close friends, I'm perfectly fine getting into hardcore geek-fu discussions about all that stuff (so much so, we started a podcast about most of them last year. Here endeth the shameless plug.) But when it comes to meeting new people or engaging in casual conversation, when they start moving into any of these topics, my first impulse is to just clam up or else I risk opening my mouth and portraying myself as a colossal dork who knows so much trivial crap I will dominate the conversation and leave the other parties looking for the closest available exit.

This is going to sound incredibly flippant, and that is certainly not my intent, but it's the best analogy I can think of at the moment to define how I feel about it.

I feel like I'm in the closet when it comes to the things I'm really passionate about.

I know I shouldn't have to either, but for whatever reason, I've got it in my head that I can't like the same things everyone else does. Like somewhere along the way, I got disqualified from being part of such interests and that as soon as I do join in, they somehow become less "cool," because I'm now attached to them.

But I like them. A lot. I love talking, experiencing and learning about all these things and I shouldn't see that as a source of embarrassment, but rather as a point of pride.

I like the fact that I have such a wide range of interests and passions that fill my life. I would rather have that than find nothing interesting at all or being delusional and assuming I already know everything.

That would be a much more shallow existence, I'd think.

Love and Marriage

While going through my morning ritual of checking Facebook and social media between bites of slightly soggy cereal, I saw a post from a former co-worker that she and her husband are getting divorced.

I'd like to say this was an anomaly of news I've seen as of late, but if I think about it, since my own divorce two years ago, I've know half a dozen people who've gone through the same thing, and at least another dozen who were in non-married relationships that fell apart as well.

Considering I don't have that many friends to begin with, it's not a great statistic.

Now I'm not going to make this a political rant and I am definitely not one of those condescending, sanctimonious clods who stands on a soapbox and bangs the ol' "Family Values" drum when it comes to marriage. But as someone who suddenly found himself thrown into the dating pool while the relationships of people around me continue to come unraveled, it leaves me feeling very conflicted.

As a guy who wants to be in a relationship and can say I'm in love with an amazing woman, with how fragile such things have become in the 21st Century, is it really worth it to try finding that person anymore?

The reason I got divorced was actually quite straightforward. Seven years into my marriage, I was tired of my life being nothing but jumping from trivial job to trivial job every year or so, making tiny salaries and barely being able to contribute to the plans my wife and I had for our future. So I made the decision to go back to college, and my wife wasn't thrilled about it, but I didn't give her a choice.

When we first got together, we'd made an agreement that I would quit school to work and help pay the bills while my ex finished her college education and at some point, we would reverse it and I'd get my opportunity. So I called in the favor and were it not for the fact that I'd already started the ball rolling on it, I truly feel she would've done everything she could to make sure I didn't do it.

In hindsight, that decision sewed the seed for the destruction of our marriage, because my days went from working in sterile, mind-numbing cubicles to being in class eight hours a day, then working one of three jobs at night or on the weekends, and doing homework until I finally passed out. I threw myself into getting my education and our relationship suffered because of it, because I wasn't home very much and when I was, I was preoccupied with other things to not give my wife the amount of attention she wanted.

And she wanted a lot of it.

Because I was also going to a college where women outnumbered men 2-to-1, there was also the not-so-subtle inferences made by my ex that because I would sometimes have to spend nights on campus and I was making new female friends, I just HAD to be sleeping with at least one of them.

*For the record, in my 16 years as part of a monogamous relationship, I never cheated. Not once. Nor did I ever even consider it, no matter how many female friends I had. I will have words with anyone who says otherwise.

On this point, I want to be crystal clear. Yes, I realize my decision was selfish. I wanted to have my life be more meaningful to me than it was, and I didn't care what anyone else said about it, including my wife. But I also did it because I knew (as most of us think we know) that having a more advanced education will lead to better opportunities and help not only me, but my wife because the burden wouldn't be entirely on her to bring home the proverbial bacon.

Ultimately, the final straw in our marriage, sadly, was when we made the decision to start a family. With college over and my journalism career underway, the expectation was we would have a child, now that we were both approaching our mid-30's. So we did, even though we were in massive financial debt due to my college loans and fiscal irresponsibility on both our parts (I'm as guilty of it as she was and I will freely admit it), and even though I'd hoped to be able to work one job after I graduated, I was still working three of them.

Keep in mind, this was 2010-11, when we were up to our necks in the Great Recession and that had a HUGE impact on not just us, but a lot of other people, whether we want to admit it or not.

By the end, we both instinctively knew that we were in trouble, and tried to talk about it. Unfortunately, it didn't work and when I finally imploded and suffered a total nervous breakdown following the birth of our son, my wife was done. So she left and the rest is history.

Divorce is complicated. It's messy and I don't care who you are, it puts your heart and self-identity in a blender and then hits "Pulverize." And I don't know a single person who ever went looking for it when they made the promises and commitments to their spouse. We don't, because we want to love that person, unconditionally, and we've all grown up knowing that "lucky" couple who managed to stay together for 30, 40, 50 years or more and thought if they could do it, why the hell can't we?

I have no idea. As I said before, I'd like to think I'm as worthy of being in a stable, loving relationship as anyone else on this planet. But with how gut-wrenching it can be when those relationships fall apart, I also have to consider whether or not it's better for me to put myself back out there and try again.

At this moment, I'm really not sure about that either.

Naked Singularity

I absolutely love astronomy.

One of the first books I ever had in my library as a child was this gigantic picture book all about the solar system, and even though I couldn't pronounce the planets at that age, I distinctly remember sitting in my room for what felt like hours, just totally immersed in things like Jupiter's Great Red Spot, or the Asteroid Belt, or even little Pluto, which I consider a planet even if we're not supposed to anymore.

By the time I got to middle school and began studying astronomy in earnest, I became fascinated with the concept of a supernova. As far as we know, there is no greater destructive force to exist in this universe than when a star explodes.The amount of energy released can annihilate whole planets, change the orbital paths of entire solar systems, create nebula and comets and is the true unstoppable force matched only by the immovable object of its counterpart, the black hole.

I suppose in some ways, it can be considered the ultimate Yin/Yang expression, but as we human beings are always trying to confirm our place in the universe, as well as our connection to everything outside our own tiny speck of interstellar real estate, I keep coming back to a question that I'm not entirely sure how to answer.

Why do I seem to feel things so much more intensely than the average person?

I know that's both a generalization and an assumption because it's impossible for me to truly gauge my own emotional combustibility versus everyone else. At the same time, however, I can only go by what I feel from day to day.

And what I feel, more often than not, is like I'm two breaths away from erupting in a cyclone supernova that will tear this place apart.

*Editorial Note: Don't ask me why, but I find Cyclone Supernova to be a killer name for a rock band. Anyway...

It's not just relegated to the times where I'm angry or frustrated, though they are often the times in which it manifests most easily. On those rare occasions when I'm happy and can relax and enjoy myself, I do all I can to soak it all in and project what I'm feeling back into the mix so I can keep my Yin flowing through me as long as possible.

The times I've felt truly, passionately in love, the intensity of it has been so strong that more often than not it actually becomes a detriment to forging any type of relationship, much to my chagrin.

And when my feelings become brooding and fill my head with self-loathing and the full strength of my Yang is unleashed...well...I've already explained what that's like.

To me, it seems like such a cop-out to say that my emotions are like this because I truly don't know any other way how to feel what I feel, but in actuality, based on what my life has been to this point in time, how can I honestly not be expected to have more emotional volatility than someone who's had a more easy-going life?

I've been told I don't know how many times that I need to learn to keep my emotions in check, but here's the catch. Emotions are both autonomic and subjective. Yes, it is completely possible to react in a particular way to an external stimulus, be it a person, a thing, or a situation you find yourself in. But there is the other side of the emotional coin where your mind reacts to the same stimulus without so much as a thought.

It's those instants where in a nanosecond you can go from being perfectly relaxed and calm to being so enraged or excited or amused that after you've had a chance to step back from it, you're left scratching your head a little bit wondering, "What did I get so angry about?" or "Why could I not stop laughing about that?"

I realize there is only so much about myself and how I feel about things that I can functionally control. A lot of that has to do with my own self-expression and perception when it comes to emotional reactions of other people. At the same time, however, it is incumbent upon those around me to understand and accept the fact that for whatever reason, what I feel is so strong that it's often takes all I can to restrain myself so as to not overwhelm them.

Because I really don't know any other way, and that is the best I can figure out at this point in time.

Scars

Okay, let's cut to the chase, if you'll pardon the expression.

Yes. That is my arm, and yes, those scars are real.

I know they're real because I put them there, though at two very different points in my life.

The bottom one came into being when I was about 17 years-old. The top one came not even a year ago.

I'd like to tell you I got because of something noble like fighting off a bear or defending a lady's honor from a gang or something, but no. I got them because...in those moments, I hated myself so much that I didn't even really think at all. I just acted.

You may ask why in the name of common sense would I do something like that? The simplest answer is common sense had nothing to do with it.

It came down to cause and effect. I screwed up. BADLY. And just feeling as terrible as I did on both accounts wasn't freakin' good enough. A more severe and lasting symbol of punishment was needed. In all honesty, I don't remember how much they both hurt, or the blood, or how long they took to heal.

I just remember feeling with every fiber of my being that they belonged there. They serve as a reminder to me of just how much I can hurt someone I care about, as well as how dangerous an unrestrained mind can be.

According to the Mayo Clinic, whom I would like to think know what they're talking about when it comes to this stuff more than most junk you find on the internet these days, defines such an act as:

"Self-injury is an unhealthy way to cope with emotional pain, intense anger or frustration. While it may bring a momentary sense of calm and a release of tension, it's usually followed by guilt and shame and the return of painful emotions."

Their assessment isn't wrong, at least not from where I sit. When I made the reflexive decision to go grab a knife and gash myself with it, I was emotionally as far down in the abyss as I think I'd ever been, even with everything I've gone through (which, sadly, is quite a lot). Except in this case, where I could say it was another example of how dangerous and twisted I became while being completely folded into my Yang, there is another aspect which I cannot overlook either.

The reason why those scars exists is because I was completely and unbearably heartbroken. I wish I had a better excuse, but there it is.

In those moments, I felt so alone, so dejected, and in so much mental and emotional pain that in my mind, I needed some kind of physical marker to identify what I felt and why I felt that way.

Did I feel better afterward? A bit. I've heard people who get tattoos tell me that while it hurts like hell for the first few minutes, there comes a point where the body and mind begin turning that pain into something akin to an endorphin high, which is why they say getting inked can be somewhat addicting after a while.

When I look at them now, though, there is also the guilt that comes with why they exist in the first place. I will say I've been able to let the first one fully heal in the years since I put it there. It took almost 15 years, but it got to the point where I didn't mentally tear it back open anymore.The second one may take as long, I don't know. In some ways, that's not entirely up to me.

We all bear our own scars, either on or underneath our skin, and each one tells a story of times where we weren't as careful as we should've been. And the lesson we take away from them is often to not put ourselves in such a position where we can stand to get hurt like that again.

Obstacle Course

I knew I'd go through times like this.

The times where my Yang would mount a comeback, like a dictator overthrown in a rebellion and determined to make a last-ditch, all-out effort to reclaim the power they believe is rightly theirs.

This last weekend was an interesting test of my resolve. As I wrote on Saturday night, when I actually should have been asleep, I was angry about being in the middle of what was a truly ludicrous situation.

Someone who'd been a good friend decided I was now an enemy because I called her out on her own self-loathing and lack of motivation in her life, and for reasons that defy logic, she tried to pull in my best friend from college, (whom I had a major falling out with about two years ago) into our argument.

*Editorial Note: It took me nearly ten minutes to write that last sentence because every time I tried to come up with the most concise way of explaining it, I actually broke out laughing because it gets more ridiculous the more I think about it. Seriously, I expect those who read this to roll their eyes and shake their heads along with me because of how genuinely silly it is.

Now as I said, my college friend and I are not on speaking terms. Right now, she's on the other side of the country attending grad school (in my hometown of Boston, of all places). But we reached this point in no small part because of me and my wonderful Yang just taking a great friendship and burning it to the ground.

That said, I found myself with a big problem. Since we're not on speaking terms, do I risk contacting her to at least convey the truth of the situation or do I just try to ignore it altogether and hope it snuffed itself out on its own?

Then something truly unexpected happened. She contacted me.

When I was a kid, one of my favorite shows to watch was called "Superstars" in which professional athletes from all sports came together to compete in a series of Olympic-style events and it always ended with an obstacle course.

I've never run one personally, and given my current physical condition, I'm not exactly Ninja Warrior material yet. But last weekend is about the closest thing I've come to running one in a while.

I talked to friends, sought advice, weighed the options and more importantly, I just sat down with my Yin and tried to figure out what to do. Sure, the Yang was there too, offering the usual sledgehammer tactics in a situation where subtlety and a calm head was necessary.

So I sat down at my laptop and hammered out what in reality was a badly-written email (in my defense, I was so freaking nervous I could barely think straight long enough to just get the damn words out), explaining the situation, offering some facts and clarity, then sent it off.

I didn't get a response, nor do I honestly expect to get one. I guess it's like that classic trope of two warring factions putting aside their grievances long enough to deal with a mutual threat. Once that battle is over, however, the likelihood is the factions will return to their sides and while coexistence was briefly possible, they're just not ready for that yet.

It definitely was not how I had hoped to reestablish contact, but I'd like to think I handled it as well as I could've under the circumstances. It wasn't perfect, but it's also a first step, and having watched my dear son get his feet under him as a baby, first steps are always small.

Ultimately, I know where I want things to be between us but I'm not ready to get there yet and I know that too. I don't see that as a personal slight either as much as I see it for what it is.

A goal at the end of a big obstacle course.

Women

I will never, EVER tell anyone who they can and cannot be romantically involved with. If you're straight, gay, or bi, it doesn't matter to me. Never has. Never will.

Everyone deserves to be in an adult relationship with someone who they love and are loved by in return. You do.

I would like to think I do too but as I said when I started this blog, I will be honest and sometimes brutally so.

I love women. I love everything about women. But for the love of all that's holy, I can't figure them out at all, which is probably a very big reason why my few attempts at relationships have always ended the way they have.

Growing up in a broken home and seeing my mother get divorced twice by the time I was 11 years-old, I had a very clear idea in my mind of what sort of lover I didn't want to be. By the time I was a teenager, there existed a codified, inviolate set of rules in my head that I not only felt set me apart from most other young men, I thought they would help me establish myself as someone worthy of a woman's affections.

They are:

1.) Under no circumstances will I ever strike a woman, no matter how angry or upset I find myself.
2.) I am not superior to any woman and I will not treat them as objects or possessions.
3.) I will not cheat.
4.) If I do something wrong, I'll own up to it and do all I can to make it right.
5.) I will not push a woman any further than they are willing to go. No means no.

And I decided that I would conduct myself in a manner befitting a gentleman. I would be as respectful, kind, genuine, honest, polite and mature as possible, because the father figures I had for most of my life were the opposite of all those things. I would not be my father (or worse my stepfather) and I would earn someone's love. I wouldn't take it by force.

Now I figured with that framework in place, I could show a girl that I wasn't an axe-murderer or my singular goal was to get into their pants, because I knew those kind of guys. I saw them every day around school and overheard my female classmates complaining endlessly about them. I hate those guys. I hated them then and nothing in all my years has softened my disdain for men who think they can treat women they claim to love in such a belligerent, cro-magnon fashion. And I figured as long as someone like me was out there, you ladies would realize there was always someone better for you.

Then I suppose a funny thing happened. Nothing happened.

Seriously. I couldn't get a girlfriend if I begged for one, and by the time I was 18, I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider that option at least once. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what it was about me that seemed so terrible.

When I finally found myself in a position to finally have a "real" relationship, I jumped on it, in part, because I honestly didn't know if another such chance would come around again. So I started a relationship that spanned 16 years, 10 as a married man, and after my ex-wife traded me in for a younger model, I was even more confused than I was before.

In my lifetime, I can say I've been in what I can only describe as honest, genuine "love" three times. And all three times, I've whiffed. Completely. And that is not the fault of the women who had my heart at that particular time. From my perspective, I was trying too hard. I thought I had to be the PERFECT guy, because otherwise, what was the point?

At this point, I have no idea at all what women really want or even if I can connect to them in a way that makes a potential relationship possible. But I want to know and I want to understand. Hopefully I will, because we all deserve to be with the person we grow to love.

Even me.

Hazardous Waste

Some days, I wish people came with warning labels that read the following:

BEWARE: CONTENTS TOXIC

We put warnings on everything else these days, cigarettes, plastic bags, electrical equipment, medications, etc.

I'm sure if I'd had one slapped on my forehead in the last few years, it would've spared a lot of people I care about a whole lot of headaches.

One of the most profound books I read when I was in college actually turned out to be part of a class I didn't end up taking. It was John Hersey's Hiroshima, which chronicled the lives of six survivors of the first nuclear detonation used on human beings. Had I stayed in my East Asian Studies class, I would've learned more about it in greater detail, but due to a clerical error, I was told after I signed up that I didn't need it to graduate. But since Hiroshima is a very small book, before I sold it back to the bookstore, I decided to read it.

It took about an hour and I actually still have it.

The reason I mention it is that for the survivors Hersey spoke with, they didn't realize the full extent of what had been unleashed upon them when it happened. Yes, there was absolute physical destruction throughout the city from the blast, but in terms of the radiation exposure, some did not see the first signs for days afterward. And while some effects were temporary, others were much more permanent.

The bitch about toxic people is that they can be nearly impossible to differentiate from non-toxic ones, because there are so many varying levels of toxicity. Some people can be somewhat subtle about it while others, let's not kid ourselves, are just out-and-out radioactive and leave fallout-style devastation in their wake.

Because you're dealing with emotional toxicity, though, the signs are much harder to spot. If it were as simple as identifying a zombie or a leper, then I'm sure it would be easier to flock to healthier people. 

Some of the people I've cared about most in this life have proven to be the most toxic to me. Not only did they feed me their own toxicity, but I expanded my own the longer I was exposed to them, and in turn I irradiated a lot of truly good people. It can be a vicious cycle and it leaves those who don't want to get drawn into it no choice but to evacuate as fast as they can and not come back.

I sure as hell don't blame them for doing so. Had I been aware enough at the time to truly see what was going on, I would've hauled ass with them. Instead, I stood at the proverbial Ground Zero and absorbed every isotope I could take in. 

As much as I wish it made me into something cool like the Incredible Hulk, it didn't.

It made me a self-destructive, masochistic jerk. 

Hopefully, the half-life for getting that out of my system once and for all won't be long.

Histrionics

Now that I've finally had a chance to sleep this morning, I think this will go a little easier.

One of the biggest and most valid complaints I think could be made about me and how my life has gone to this point is this.

I am very good at attracting and generating drama.

Now if I were a writer on par with a guy like Aaron Sorkin, I could take said drama, put it in witty script form, and in theory, live quite well on the hog for the rest of my natural days.

Since that avenue remains closed for the time being however, I prefer to do what is actually a simpler thing:

Get as much of it out of my life as possible.

I think one of the biggest stumbling blocks we have when it comes to our evolution as people is we get introduced to drama about the time we reach high school, then we become used to it, then we thrive off it, then we create our own. The perpetuating cycle continues until we're adults and more often than not, we don't even realize what we've created.

What I created over the last 25 years or so was a field around myself that attracted and generated useless drama like Jupiter sucks up passing comets and asteroids.

And as I write this, I feel stupid going back to this, but it's similar to the realization of how passive-aggressive I've been during that same span. From my vantage point in the center of it, I didn't know. It didn't feel weird or out of place to me. Being knee-deep in drama was what I've known since I was about 14 years-old.

It made me feel important. Like I was being useful to people and gave people a reason to be concerned about me. That is until they got quite understandably tired of it and said "No mas."

Not that I ever plan on going to Jupiter anytime soon (though I've always wanted to, I won't lie), but I would imagine somewhere on that amazing planet, amidst the storms and gas, there is a pocket where things are pretty tolerable. That's where I resided in my own dramatic field.

But here's the problem. The BIG problem. Drama is exhausting, it's stupid and it's pointless. It's one thing to have a friend or someone you care about who's dealing with a serious issue and they need help. You help them deal with it, pick them up, brush them off, and you collectively move on to happier things. Happens all the time and that's how it should work.

There are people in the world however, who once that obstacle has been cleared, whether they realize it or not, they go out of their way to find (or sometimes create) a new one, then go back to the same people and proclaim their sky is once again falling.

I don't like to admit I've been one of those people for a LOOONG time, but I am. I will also admit that while I bear a degree of responsibility, my mistake was also in associating with those who created strong dramatic fields of their own, and we all just happened to gravitate to one another. When drama is all you know and what you feed off of, it is very easy to forget there's also comedy, music, action, adventure and the fantastical out in the world too.

You just have to be willing to change the channel.

Chaos

I should be asleep right now, but instead, I'm sitting here in my living room with a million different thoughts and a singular emotion running through my mind.

That emotion is anger, and at the moment, I am righteously pissed off.

I'm pissed off because I've found myself in a situation I couldn't have foreseen, and to be honest, it is so juvenile in nature that I really am not sure if there is anything to do about it other than shake my head and wonder how I could've ever been attached to such people in the first place.

I could try to explain it, but even as I go back through it in my head, it sounds so preposterous that I will not insult your collective intelligence by doing so.

But it still makes me mad, in part because I'm in no position to end the situation or even inject some much-needed truth into it. Honestly, I'd love nothing more than to grab the two people I'm tied to in this rather unpleasant scenario and shake them until they see the truth.

Only I can't do that, because I can't change people. I can only change myself, which is hard enough, let me tell you.

As I said before, in being so entranced in my Yang for so long, I began listening to and associating with the wrong people. People who inevitably held me back and allowed the Yang to become more firmly entrenched in my state of mind, than reinforcing my Yin and helping me to evolve.

In fairness, that was also a conscious decision on my part, given where my head was at at the time, so I do not escape some level of responsibility for that.

But in doing so, I burned a lot of those who were trying to help and show there are in fact better people in the world, if only I could give them a fair shot. And I feel horrible about that, I truly, truly do. Some of them I've been able to get back in my life. Others I can't, and maybe I never will.

The simple truth is I don't need any more chaos in my life. I need order. I need structure and a grounded foundation for my soul to truly heal.

I've had enough chaos for more than one lifetime. I'm done with it.

Change of Venue

Okay, so it's technically midnight, which means by the wibbly-wobbly-time-wimey rules, I wasn't able to get an entry done for all of yesterday.

I have a legitimate reason in working two jobs on Fridays at the moment, and with a busy deadline week at the paper, my mind happened to be elsewhere for most of the day.

It happens and it's far from a bad thing considering the alternative. That said, onward to the meat of the argument.

I've been in this part of the world nearly 25 years now, and every year I've told myself it was the year I would leave the oft-rainy Pacific Northwest and Portland, in particular, for somewhere "bigger and better." Now having been here nigh on a quarter-century, one would think I've grown attached to this little city with a ton of bridges and 250 days of precipitation.

And I have in many ways. As much as I call Boston my home and always will, it's not that I entirely hate Portland either. For it's size, there's fun places to go, it doesn't seem too imposing like mega-cities like Chicago, which frankly scared the heck out of me when I was last there six years ago. There's also the beach out the west, the mountains to the east, and for the most part, the people are as weird as the city touts them to be.

That's also not to suggest that I'm solely looking at the northeast as the only place I want to go back to. I'll admit that if I got a phone call tomorrow saying I could go back, have a career that I want and live in New England again, I would seriously consider it. But having seen other cities in this country too, I've been thinking a change of scenery would be a positive thing for me.

Because the problem is being in a city that while I like it, it has so many things that I'd be better served to forget.

As children, we have a natural tendency to leave where we grew up and not go back. Often that choice is voluntary. You go off to college, get a new job, start a career, etc., and that entails finding a new place to settle down. When the choice is not yours to make, however, it makes the desire to get back to where you're comfortable and in familiar surroundings.

I didn't have a say in coming to Portland. I got put on a plane with a ticket and that was that. 3,094 miles later and I was the proverbial Stranger in a Strange Land, and while I can honestly say I grew up here, met some truly great people and saw some amazing things in this city, a lot of those memories are tainted now.

So I've been looking at jobs in other cities like Seattle, San Francisco, Portland, Maine, and even in states I haven't been to before like Minnesota, Vermont, Colorado, and even New York. Will they pan out? I have no idea, and even if they do, I still need to convince myself that it's the right move for me.

After all, pretty much everyone and everything I know is still in this part of the world. Even though it might do me a lot of good to get a new start to my life somewhere else, I'm also realistic enough to know it won't help me by going somewhere that will make me take a step back, rather than keep moving forward.

Nightmares and Realities

Let's talk, you and I. Let's talk about fear.

I didn't write that line. It's actually the first line in Stephen King's introduction in his anthology Night Shift. Seeing as how he's as qualified as anyone to discuss the subject, I figured it rather apropos.

It's one thing to have a bad dream that wakes you up in the middle of the night.

It's another thing entirely to have dreams that made you afraid to even put your head on the pillow or turn the light off.

For nearly 20 years, I've had a recurring nightmare that seemed to be waiting for me when I fell asleep every night. It didn't involve monsters, or spiders (of which I am an unabashed sissy about), or drowning, or things lurking under my bed or in the closet. My consistent vision was of me waking up from what I found to be a long dream and everything I'd achieved and seen in that time had all been a figment of my imagination.

And in reality, I'd never left the one place I never wanted to be in the first place and never, ever want to see again. I was back and I was never leaving.

When I was little, I doubt I had any more bad dreams than the average kid. At least, if I did, I don't remember them. But I know this much, going to sleep knowing with some certainty that before you wake up again, your mind will create a scenario that makes you question the very nature of reality, sleep quickly becomes an option, rather than a necessity.

Math has never been my strong suit, but I know how many nights I should've been asleep to get ready for work or class the following morning and my ex-wife would find me wide awake either playing video games, dinking around on the internet, watching TV or doing something, anything, other than putting my head on a pillow and getting some rest.

When I became single again, I'd like to tell you it got easier to deal with, but it didn't. If anything, my mind ratcheted it up another notch and rather than waiting for me to go to sleep, it would start churning out things right when I was on the cusp of sleeping. They were often worse nightmares too. Like I was stuck in horrifying situations that made Saw and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre seem like a Mel Brooks screwball comedy.

That was usually when the spiders showed up, if I'm honest, and they sure weren't Charlotte either.

In all the years since they started, I'd tried just about everything to make them go away. Warm milk, exercise, melatonin pills, reading books, taking walks, going on drives, you name it, I've probably done it.

And I like sleep. Very much so. I had then and still have a comfortable bed and pillows. I have clean sheets that keep me warm at night and when I get a full night of restful sleep, I suspect I feel as good as anyone else does.

At this point, trying to determine the exact origin of the nightmare is probably not worth the time. The nice thing is that since my Yin usurped my Yang as the dominant voice in my head, it hasn't come back. Not once. Even better still...the spiders are gone too.

For that, I am even more grateful.

Foundations

I was thinking about this last night after I got home from work and as I see it as a valid point, it's as good a time as any to address it.

No, I haven't found "God" and that is not the catalyst for the about-face I've done.

When people ask me why I don't subscribe to Judeo-Christian/Catholic religious philosophy (i.e. why have I not accepted Jesus as my personal savior yet), my response is pretty cut and dry.

It just doesn't work for me.

Being a longtime atheist, there is also the generalization that I believe in Satan and that I consider people who lean on faith to get through their issues to be somehow diseased or delusional.

Hate to disappoint you, but that's not me either.

I understand the need for faith and to believe in a God or Messiah. Truly, I get it, and I don't hold it against anyone who utilizes it to better themselves. Everybody needs something and it would be incredibly arrogant of me to presume the rest of the world is wrong and I'm somehow right because I'm not a believer.

Now I will admit, the development of extreme fundamentalism in Christianity in the United States during my lifetime and the politicalization and weaponization of both it and Islam are heavy factors in my inability to just fall in line with what their "messages" are. But that's my choice. In my heart, I'm a cynic. I look at the world and see a lot of things wrong with it which the greater masses choose to ignore and some (not all) say the only solution is to put our collective faith in a "God" and that will solve everything.

With respect to their views on the matter, I just can't do that either.

Which brings me why I'm writing this post. What I found wasn't a "higher power," but rather, I found an internal one.

I found Me. The real Me. Not the distorted, twisted construct that I've considered myself to be for most of my life, but a more three-dimensional human being again, and I didn't do it alone.

I've always been interested in Asian culture, history and philosophy, and a few years ago I began reading about Taoism and Buddhism (especially Zen Buddhism). Their lessons on being able to change one's self from within connected with me in what I can imagine the Bible or Koran do with Christians or Muslims looking for guidance, wisdom or direction.

It also wasn't some grand revelation and thinking I'd somehow been "saved." It was more along the lines of "Wow, I get this, and it seems to get me." And the most appealing part is I can practice and study it under the radar. I don't have to go to church every Sunday, nor do I have to pray twice a day. I don't need to "testify," put bumper stickers on my car, or try to convince others why I'm going to Heaven now.

If I need to do some studying, it's there. If I need to do some meditation to clear my mind and refocus, I can. If I want to talk with friends about it and impart some of what I've learned, that's okay. I find that both exciting and incredibly liberating.

Now does this mean I'm going to start donning monk's robes, meditating in the street or spouting off "Confucious say" all the time? I certainly hope not, and please slap me if I do.

But in order to rebuild a home or a skyscraper, sometimes you need to tear it down to the foundation and start over so it will stand up to everything that will try to knock it down. I realized I needed a new foundation.

Please pardon the dust.

Splinters, Part II: The Dark Half

Among my many boxing movies I own is "The Hurricane," which chronicles the story of Ruben "Hurricane" Carter, who was accused, tried and convicted of triple-murder in the 1960's New York as he was on his way to being the next Middleweight champion of the world. His case took almost 30 years to resolve, but it was proven in court that he had been wrongly convicted based on shoddy evidence and was eventually freed.

Denzel Washington portrays Carter and while it is based on a true story and does take the usual "Hollywood creative liberties" we see in most biopics, there was one scene that I think best identifies the splintering of personality I mentioned in my previous post.

After Carter was incarcerated, he is kept in a holding cell for the span of several days during which, he begins branching off into three distinct personalities. The first is timid, scared, meek and almost child-like. The second is hyperaggressive. The fighter. He rules the ring, he won't be intimidated, and if you're going to beat him down, be prepared to go through hell to do it. The final one is the intermediary, the real Ruben. He understands both sides, can communicate with both sides and has to figure out which one is right or wrong, while also adding his knowledge to the mix.

It's a powerful scene and Washington, of course, pulls it off no problem. And the first time I saw it, it struck a distinctive chord with me because I've been there.

By the time I was 10, I found myself engaging in two distinct personas. I am far from an expert in psychology or diagnosing anything more than the Common Cold, but from my perspective, I thought it was what schizophrenia must feel like.

Because I could be fine on a given day, be no different than any other kid, and in the blink of an eye I could shift from Yin to Yang and what would go through my mind when that happened was truly, genuinely frightening.

My Yang is daemonic. There's no other way to describe it. The voice that resonates in my head everyday can be both seductive and bombastic when it wants to be. I know that may be hard to understand, so maybe this will help.

Two weeks ago, I agreed to get out of my apartment and meet some friends at a local Renaissance Faire for the afternoon. It's not a place I would usually go, but to be honest, I like medieval culture and history and while I didn't dress up as they did, I didn't think it would be a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Then I got there, and from the second I walked in the gate, my Yang was already chatting.

"What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here. These people don't like you. They can't stand you. Look at them, all out here having fun in their silly get-ups. You stick out like a sore thumb here, freak. You are a freak, you know that, right? You know as soon as you go sit down and open your mouth, you're going to say something that's going to ruin their whole day.
Just go home. GO HOME! HEY, IDIOT! WALK AWAY, DON'T SAY ANYTHING, GO THE FUCK HOME AND DON'T EVER COME OUT AGAIN!!"

My friends had planned to stay for a couple of hours. I barely lasted 30 minutes before I was back in the car and heading back to my apartment as fast as the speed limit allowed. I got home, locked the door, and even in the relative safety of my apartment, it kept going.

"What were you thinking? Nobody wants you out there, because nobody likes you. You can't trust them. You know that. They all hate you and they're just going to hurt you, and I'm tired of seeing that. I'm tired of seeing you sit there and take it and cry like a baby. Stop being a baby and just do what I tell you."

The dialog didn't stop until I finally fell asleep that night. Very late that night.

As I said, I'm not an expert on how the mind works. I just know how my mind works and over the course of my life, my Yang has grown profoundly stronger and more of a presence in my life than my Yin, in no small part because I let it. I cultivated it, fed it, and more importantly, I listened to and believed it implicitly while punishing and starving my Yin.

I can't do that anymore. Not if I'm going to get better.

Paradigm Shift

Okay, let's deal with the pachyderm in the chamber shall we...?

Until recently, I had no clue just how much my behavior revolved around passive-aggressive patterns.

That's not a joke, nor is it in itself a means of being passive-aggressive. I really, honestly, and completely did not know, because I honestly didn't even know what the term meant.

I have since learned. Oh, how I have learned it. I wish I'd been educated about it a hell of a lot sooner as it would've probably spared me and a lot of other people a whole hell of a lot of headaches from banging our collective heads against the wall waiting for me to figure it out.

All I can tell you is from my perspective, it didn't feel that way. It was just me expressing myself in the ways that were most comfortable to me, and when you find an operating mode that not only is comfortable but gets the sort of reaction or attention that you want, you're going to stick to it.

Since beginning to research it, however, I've realized how intrinsic those patterns have been in my life, as well as how long.

They've been there a long time. A REALLY LONG time, and not only did I not know it, but as I grew, so did they, as I suspect all acquired and learned behaviors can. The bitch of it is the not knowing I was doing it. Not being able to recognize it in myself, but the simple and potentially unpleasant fact is I can't change what I don't know.

And I didn't know. I've been on this planet for 36 years and it wasn't until about 18 months ago that someone had tried to convince me how passive-aggressive I'd become.

I wish I'd listened. I wish I'd been in the frame of mind to not react in the very way she tried to tell me about and start trying to figure out what it meant. But I didn't.

Now does this mean that I know about it at this point, I think it will suddenly go away? Again, I wish, but of course not. You don't undo a good 25 years of established, entrenched behavior overnight. I know that and hopefully those around me do too.

The next step for me is to keep doing more research, start reading books and getting information on the most effective way to deal with it, because I also don't presume to think it's something you can permanently remove from your mind. At some level, every one of us is capable of and probably exhibits some level of passive-aggressive behavior every day of our lives.

I know there's times where I'm probably going to slip back into that mode, even after I put the work in. If I may ask a favor of you going forward, it's this.

PLEASE, if I'm interacting with you and I start falling back into that groove, point it out to me. I know it might be unpleasant for you, and I apologize up front, but I can read books and websites and talk to doctors until I'm blue in the face and my eyes are crossed.

I also have to be able to recognize what triggers it for me, then work through it. The only way to change behavior is through repetition, trial and unfortunately the occasional error or two.

Now that I have a little more knowledge than before, I will try and keep the errors to as few as I can.

Friends

I owe people an apology.

I owe a LOT of people apologies.

More importantly, and I suppose somewhat selfishly, I owe myself an apology.

But it's long overdue on multiple levels, so here goes.

I'm sorry I gave up, took off and went into hiding.

Yes, you. Me. All of us.

I could give a long, methodically plodding explanation for why it happened, but I can honestly do it in one simple sentence.

In my heart and in my mind, I didn't deserve any of you and thought you all were far, far better off without me.

Seriously. It's that simple. I could drop the cliche of "It's not you, it's me," but in this instance it's actually accurate.

I felt I had nothing to offer to your lives. No positive reenforcement, no moral support, no experience, no wisdom, no humor, no anything, because for the longest time I couldn't see it in myself. And I was so afraid to engage any of you in anything that resembled actual interactions that whenever the opportunity presented itself, I made for the first available exit and didn't look back.

I thought what support you gave me was just window dressing, and I thought I couldn't learn anything from what you had to teach. I figured I was too old and too damaged to figure it out or follow your lead.

I was wrong, and I have no problem at all admitting it.

It's like winding a mainspring on a watch. The tighter it's wound, the longer it will run, but also the better the chance it will snap under the pressure and the whole long piece of metal flies apart.

It took a while, far longer than it probably should've, but the mainspring that powered all the self-loathing and self-destruction through my whole life finally broke. That's the best I can explain it, but it was that sudden.

What I needed to both understand and accept is that my fascination with the amazing things you all do (even if you don't realize they are), are in-and-of themselves a learning experience for me that I need to take advantage of.

I don't know everything and I never thought I did, even with two college degrees and a library full of books stowed away in this noggin' of mine. But I thought I had a pretty good grip on how the world worked and more importantly, how people worked.

Turned out, I learned from the wrong people. So I'm switching sides. I'm going with you guys instead, because at least I know you're going in directions I want to go, and they sure as hell aren't where I've been.

Thanks for still being here when I got back.

Splinters

If I had to put a finger on when things started really coming apart for me, it would probably be when I was about eight-years-old.

For reasons I will never truly understand, my first stepfather was an honest-to-god son of a bitch. To this day he will never admit that fact and my mother still is quick to defend him, but as I have learned in the years since, an unpleasant fact is no less a fact just because you don't agree with it.

He came into our lives at a time when we needed him, because my father had run off to Louisiana after realizing he was more in love with a bottle and the powder he could whale up his nose at that point than his family. So when the new guy came along, he helped keep my mother and her two kids from being in a considerable world of hurt.

By the time they married a few years later, though, things had definitely changed in my life. I learned for what may have been the first real time what hating someone and being hated by someone feels like.

Now before I continue, as a point of fact I want to make it clear that I was in no way an angelic kid who never did anything wrong and was beyond reproach of any sort. I would disobey my mother and not do chores or my homework, I would stay up late, I'd horseplay with my brother and so on. If I really look at it, though, I seriously doubt I was any different at that point in my life than 99 percent of children on this planet, because for all my faults, I was also a smart, curious, compassionate, and well-mannered kid too.

Then things started coming apart.

It started when my curiosity got the better of me and I discovered pornography WAY earlier than I should have. My stepfather kept it in a locked drawer in the roll-top desk in the house and at the same time, my brother learned how to pick locks using paper clips. And since I was of the impressionable age where I wanted to do everything he did, it doesn't take a math genius to see how this equation pans out.

A few months later, one of our neighbor friends, all of 13-14 himself, molested me at his house. It only happened the once and it wasn't such a traumatic thing that I had nightmares about it for years afterwards. But the fact remains it did happen, and not only did I not tell my parents about it, I didn't tell a soul about it for a good 25 years.

Why it took so long, I have no idea. I guess it was easier for me to just heal up and move on from it than it was from a lot of the things that would come later on.

Then there was my stepfather himself. When he was in a good mood, he could be as personable as anyone. When you pissed him off, however, he could make you feel very, very small, very very quickly. Apparently, I had the knack for pushing his buttons and setting him off better than anyone because I never seemed to do right by him.

At that time, I was playing Little League ball and had somehow gotten myself grounded (the reason is lost to me at this point in time), but I had a game scheduled and my brother convinced me to go, even though I told him I couldn't. So I did. The game got rained out and when I got back, my mother and stepfather were waiting for me, and when I told them why I went, they didn't believe me.

I kept being told over and over again, "Stop lying to us and blaming your brother, and tell us the truth!" Even though I was telling them the truth, unpleasant though it may be. So I told a lie that they accepted as the truth. I told them it was all my idea and I did it because I didn't think I needed to follow their rules.

I was eight-years-old and all I wanted to be was an eight-year-old kid. I wanted to go have fun with my friends, have cool toys to play with, watch Saturday morning cartoons and eat cereal with too much sugar and prizes at the bottom of the box.

When my stepfather started getting violent towards my mother, that was the end for me. I was sitting in my room one night and heard a crash downstairs. Thinking a lamp or something had broken, naturally, I went to check it out. I came down to find my mother washing her face off in the kitchen sink and having no idea what had happened.

Turned out my stepfather had tried to hit her in the face with a glass of whiskey and his pitch went high and outside, shattering against the living room wall. I followed her into the living room and he came back in, ordering me back up to my room and not to come back out. I did as I was told, but to this day I wish I'd stood my ground or called the cops or did something other than leave her alone with him. Even though he never laid a hand on her, it still bothers me.

My mother was married to my first stepfather for less than two years, and in that time, I went from being about as happy-go-lucky a child as you would meet to a moody, temperamental, argumentative, combative, untrusting, passive-aggressive one.

The last thing I ever said to him in person, after we had moved out and were back on our own, was when he came to the apartment to see my mother. I was in the driveway playing baseball and holding my aluminum Little League bat.

I looked him in the eye and told him, "If I hear a crash, or a scream, or anything like that, I will come up there I swear to God I will beat your fucking head in."

I don't care where in the world you live. No 10-year-old should have to say that to a grown man.

Full Retreat

I don't entirely know when I started thinking running away from anything and everything was the best idea, but this much I know.

As a go-to move, it's my bread and butter.

So much so that in the last four months or so alone, I've dropped nearly every friend I had on Facebook, turned myself into a perpetual hermit, cannot stand to be out in public for more than an hour at a time and for the most part walk around like I stole Harry Potter's invisibility cloak.

And for the life of me, I doubt I could give a decent explanation why.

Or maybe I can, but I just don't like the reason.

I'm running away because in my mind I have to. I'm running away and cutting all ties because in my mind, I'm not supposed to have friends or people who care about me.

Seriously. You're not supposed to care. Not about me. Not about what I'm doing or how I'm feeling. I am Mr. Irrelevant, the Disposable Friend! Just take him out, use him to your heart's content, then chuck him in the trash where he belongs when you're done! No fuss, no muss, only $19.95, order now while supplies last!

That has been playing through my head for I don't-know-how-long. But the fact remains that when you a mindset and perspective like that, getting attached to people is far from easy.

So I would go online and see people on social media talking about how great their lives are, what their kids are doing, the vacations they take, and "Oh golly gee, aren't we all so lucky to have everything we ever wanted?"

And I would fold myself into the Yang a little further and get so angry and bitter and jealous that I could punch a hole through the sky or scream a mountain into sand. Then one morning I got up, went to work and on my break, I started pruning my Facebook tree. By the time I was done, less than 10 percent of the people I knew were left, and I didn't just prune those virtual branches carefully with bonsai shears. No, I slashed them with a ruddy great sickle so there was no chance they would ever grow back.

And while I did it, I kept thinking to myself, "See, that will show them. I don't need them anymore. I don't need anyone. They don't give a shit about me and my shitty little life, so I won't give a shit about them and their lives of bloody Riley."

Did it make that much difference, though? Not really. The world kept turning and I don't think any of those people noticed, because if they were smart, they tuned me out a long time ago.

I don't blame them if they did, either. You can only stay afloat so long with an anchor tied to your leg, and I have been nothing if not a big freakin' anchor for a good amount of years. Sooner or later, one has to cut the line or be pulled down with the anchor and given the human aversion to drowning, you attack that line with every ounce of energy you can muster.

Like I said in my first post. I grew to really like being down below everyone in the abyss of the Yang. It's quiet there. No one to bother you with trivialities. It's just you alone in the dark with your thoughts, whatever they might be. Except mine were telling me non-stop all day, every day, the same damn thing.

"You're not leaving here. I won't let you. They won't miss you because they don't need you. You can't have what you want and you will only have what I tell you. Do you understand? If you try going back up there, they'll only hate you more and you won't have a choice but to come back down here. And when you do...I'm going to kill you for disobeying me."

When you have a voice like that relentlessly going off in your head, day after day, year after year, you'd be amazed how fast you can tune the world out, and everyone in it who wants to keep you up, and let yourself just sink.

That might explain why I never could actually float when I was in a river or lake or swimming pool. I never gave the world a fair chance to hold me up.

A Fresh Start

I've been doing stuff like this for way too long. At least, it seems that way from this side of the glass.

Hi, I'm me. By all appearances, I'm not the me you might remember and in all honesty, I'm not entirely the me that I remember either. You see, there was a time when who I was then was totally antithetical to who I am now. To take it from the Buddhist construct of Yin and Yang, it could be argued that I was on the light side, or Yin.

I was happy, married, surrounded by friends and people who gave me love and support and had what seemed to me to be a solid purpose to where and what my life was ultimately going to be.

The problem is, however, that light cannot exist without darkness, and while I enjoyed my time in the glow very much, it was resting atop a very large void of blackness that I had skimmed along my whole life. Eventually and somewhat inevitably, the thin veneer separating the two gave way and in I went.

And there I've stayed.

On this point, I feel I must be clear. It wasn't just one thing which broke the proverbial ice and sent me plunging into this perpetual abyss. Like all situations where you find yourself on unsteady ground, the first cracks can start with the very first step you take, then track you down the farther out you dare venture.

Mine started when I was a boy. The exact time and place, I have no idea, nor does it really matter in anything more than an arbitrary perspective. What matters is it happened. The cracks formed and despite my attempts to out run them, I fell in to the dark and what I found there cost me practically everything I hold dear in this world.

As much as we dislike the darkness in ourselves, which we try to ignore, I've tried over and over to explain this to people. Anger, self-loathing, self-hatred, self-destruction...yes, they all exist on the other side of our minds and most people have both the training and the resources available in their psyche to ignore it the greater majority of the time.

Of course, there is no way to truly shut those things out entirely and we all struggle with the archetypal "daemons" every day of our lives. Such things are often temporary, however, thanks in large part to an influx of positive stimulus from those around us who we lean on when such support is needed.

But not everyone makes it out.

For the last two years, despite my painted smile and well-rehearsed stiff upper lip and mockery of an attempt to just "soldier on," in actuality, I've been totally and completely folded into my own Yang, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that part of me REALLY liked it there.

You see, there is an undeniable fact of being that immersed in anger and passive-aggressiveness and fear and doubt and uncertainty. It can feel really, really good. I mean intoxicatingly orgasmic good. I have never tried a single narcotic in my life, but I know a great many people who have, and when one compared heroin to a three-hour orgasm, it doesn't take much to see the appeal.

Same applies with spending so much time focused on the negative and being so blissfully, infernally angry that you feel nothing else and cannot wait for the next thing to set it off, because you know instinctively just how good your going to feel wanting nothing more than in wanting to burn the whole world to cinders.

So I suppose, after that long dissertation, we come to the fundamental question.

What are we doing here?

Well, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just lay the cards on the table. I'm 36 years-old. In my lifetime I have survived physical, mental and sexual abuse, I've been through three divorces (two of them before I was 10, the other my own), left my home at 12, was in prison at 19, have been written off and discarded by the greater number of society as nothing more than a criminal of the worst order. I've lived on the streets, been left for dead, stolen money to eat, taken advantage of the generosity and kindness of others, and have a great deal of red ink in my ledger that needs to be paid back in full, with interest.

I've lost friends to death and idiocy, beautiful amazing women who I've loved with the passion of a sun who I lost because of my own insecurities and fear of inadequacy, a son who shouldn't have to go through his life wondering where or who his father is, a career I've fought tooth and nail to earn but feel wholly unsatisfied with, and I live in a world I barely understand and in all honesty, terrifies me as much as it exhilarates me.

I am here because I've spent too much time in the dark, and if I don't get out now, I may never make it out at all. I am here because I want my friends and the people I love back in my life and I owe them that much and so much more.

I am here because it's time to stop hating myself so much, to work through what I need to work through, and give myself a well-earned and much deserved break.

I am here because this is where I need to be. In the light. I need to remember and to know that this world and everyone in it is not my enemy and I am not theirs. That I have something to contribute and that despite everything I have survived, those things do not define me and I have to, once and for all, find a way to let them go.

I am here to start over, but to do that, I have document where I'm coming from and what I'm feeling along the way. I am here because I have to be and because I know I can be something better. Something greater. I have that in me somewhere. I just need to find it again.

So I will be here every day, rain or shine, whether I want to or not, for no other reason than I need a gauge and a release valve. This will be where I come to figure out what I'm feeling, especially when I'm taking a backwards step, so I can figure out why and keep myself moving forward.

It won't always be pretty and at times it may get downright disgusting, but life isn't always pretty and recovery is often disgusting.

So it begins.