I can’t imagine. My car’s [...]]]> He was a strong man who grew up on a farm in what’s now part of downtown Phoenix. I think you would have had to be crazy or really hate Indiana winters to settle here, with only a large mulberry tree to ever so slightly minimize the blazing summer sun.

I can’t imagine. My car’s A/C was broken for a couple of days. I thought I was going to die. Wimp.

Yes, my Dad grew up amidst much more hardship than I’ve known.

Yet he could be gentle.

He was a good provider, yet struggled with unmet dreams. Never got that cabin in Prescott.

He could be brave, courageous. Maybe that’s why I was so affected when as a boy I sat by him in church and saw his tears flow from the depth of life’s challenges. I didn’t know why then. I do now.

He loved his family deeply. Overprotective at times when fear of potential loss consumed his heart. Emotions that he wasn’t comfortable with, and that I think even surprised him, would finally be released. But he never went too far. Wait, when he chucked his putter really hard up into a tree during one of our San Diego golf outings, well, maybe that time.

He was helpful. He was knowledgeable. I could’ve used his wisdom over the years. Lord knows I could use it now.

I loved my Dad. And, although he didn’t say it much, I always knew he loved me.

Today is the 15th anniversary of his passing. On Cinco de Mayo … which has absolutely no relevance. Other than it helps me remember.

No. I think I’d remember anyway.

I miss you Dad.

Others use a more subtle, yet no less destructive, approach. They lurk just under the surface. They exist in every cell, down deep in strands [...]]]> Different Monsters, Same Outcome

Some monsters awaken immediately, plow through walls, crush cars, kill mercilessly and leave only destruction in their paths. Think Jurassic Park or War of the Worlds.

Others use a more subtle, yet no less destructive, approach. They lurk just under the surface. They exist in every cell, down deep in strands of DNA. Just waiting. Patiently. Methodically. To sneak up and attack when you least expect it. They make a mockery of the host by creating doubt and denial. Is it true? Is something there or is it just your imagination? No, you hope, it couldn’t be. And so you continue on occupying yourself with life’s next thing.

Then for reasons still yet to be uncovered it decides to awaken, to stretch, to growl. It claws away at those layers of doubt, until denial’s overpowered just enough. Is that the Monster? Only a test, the one that was never going to be needed, will tell.

On Friday, 2/22/13, Bobbie heard: “The results of your test came back positive.”

Lifelong doubt was finally vaporized, unveiling the Monster. Your absolute worst fear is confirmed. Huntington’s Disease.

(To learn more about this disease click here.)

Life’s trajectory permanently shifts.

(To provide some backstory for those who may not know, Bobbie’s my former wife and we’ve been divorced for almost 3 years. We’ve since re-established a cordial and respectful friendship that had been lost years ago. And now I share in her pain. Divorce doesn’t preclude that. She’s always been very physical and athletic, which makes it even more painful because that’s where it hits. I hurt for her. Tremendously. As well as for her husband whom I appreciate and respect. He loves her and the kids. And this also concerns our kids.)

Like so many diseases it creates an emotional disturbance that ripples out and washes over others. Already many have been touched by this situation because of who Bobbie is. Instantly likeable. Full of energy. Looked up to. A rock in her family. An overcomer. She impacts you before you even realize it.

And a physical disturbance is felt….

As I write this, she and Ian, our 18-year-old, are out taking a walk at Lake Pleasant up the road a few miles. She’s sharing the diagnosis. Trying to describe this Monster, its symptoms, and what her future will probably look like, all while walking the fine line between being realistic and hesitating at that which is too painful to share.

And then, at some point, answering the inevitable question, “Wait … so I could have this too?”

You see, it’s double-edged. As a child you experience your parent’s symptoms while also considering what may lurk under the surface. Waiting to awaken. Could that be the Monster?

This morning he was innocent of all this. Now, he knows. Another trajectory forever changed.

There’s no choice as to whom it invades. There are only choices in how you’ll increasingly and effectively share life with this ruthless, insidious, cold and calculated squatter.

And there’s no choice as to when it shows up. We commonly pair positive life issues to negative ones. It’s life’s irony. As in I just graduated. I just got the job. I just had this child. I just retired. Or. I just found sobriety. I just got married. I just started loving running. Then … this?

Really? Are you freakin’ serious??

It’s so damned unfair. So … unfair.

But the truth is, is that there’s never a good time.

Anger at God

While attempting to make sense of it all, these collective existential thoughts and emotions inevitably focus on God, expressed as a raw, unanswerable “Why?” And believe me, it’s not mere curiosity you’re relieving. True grieving includes this. It must. Even though an adequate answer seldom comes.

And while we’re discussing this whole existential God issue, please don’t share, “Everything happens for a reason.” That’s a pollyannaish reaction that only serves to reduce the anxiety of the one sharing it. If you do I may want to give you a reason to have some dental work done.

And, share that with Bobbie and I bet she will play a little beat down on you. And if she does she now has an out as she puts it. She just blames it on the HD. Kicks your butt? Blames it on HD. Cusses more? Blames it on HD. Freaks out? The HD. She laughs about this. Heck, why not?

Changing the Legacy

This Monster came down bio dad’s side. He had a difficult life. Left when Bobbie was 5. You could count the times on one hand that he came around for birthdays and such. To relieve his guilt.

No, he didn’t have a choice in it either. But something about the situation, at least in this instance, seems to add up in some distorted way. This was his legacy. As Bobbie says, “He left me this … and addiction.”

Yah, I’ll admit, it’s misdirected. But, I just gotta add, thanks a helluva lot dad.

I may be mistaken, but having observed what I did in our past and based on what Bobbie’s told me, I speculate that little was shared with Bobbie’s dad from his mom. Granted, less was known about the disease as the gene that causes it was just discovered in the 1993. So I’ll not get too accusatory or judgmental as to what was or wasn’t known or shared. But communication was at a premium. Especially emotionally. These relatives shared nothing with her.

So, especially in light of that, Bobbie’s changing the dynamic. After her talk with Ian she texted me that she feels bad — says of Ian, “He’s been through a lot.” Yes. We’ve put the kids through much. But I just texted back, “You’re already leaving a different legacy.”

But Why Her?

This Monster was never supposed to attack. It wasn’t supposed to be lurking. Living. Waiting. Not here. It was lost and forgotten. The hope, the prayer, and even a sense of certainty left you believing that it died with the last generation.

But it didn’t.

Now, a few days later, Bobbie and I talked again. She shared about how this Monster affects emotions, forgetfulness, and appetite. How its physical sensations feel as though it’s turning you inside out. And how unjust it all seems.

She has a fraternal twin who lives on the streets of downtown Phoenix. As cruel as it sounds it’s occurred to me … why Bobbie? Why not her twin? Now, I’m not truly wishing this on anyone. It’s more about the perception of senselessness that, in such circumstances, sits right before your eyes. It’s hard to see a big picture when clouded by these emotions. That only comes with history’s clarity.

But, still … why Bobbie? If it has to be–as if there’s some rhyme or reason to it, which there isn’t–still … why Bobbie?! She’s posed the same question in her anger, of course, as have others. But, as I said that she immediately said, “Because I need to do something about it. And I can. And I will.”

Now, as I write this, that tends to sound super-sacrificial. Exaggerated. Even martyr-like. But the thing is she just does that. She just thinks that way. She’s always been hugely competitive. And life for her is about overcoming adversity. If anyone can keep this monster away for as long as possible, as well as live gracefully and even humorously with it, it’s her. She is courageous and sacrificial in the face of such an adversary if it means that her kids may not have to live with it. In a very literal sense, she would die for them. She lives in that realm, where the rubber meets the road.

Lord, I don’t know how I would act in this situation, if I were in her shoes. But one thing I do know is that she’s taking on this Monster, brandishing her sword and shield, with far more bravery and grace than I ever could.

———-

A side note: We’re developing a website and it’s Bobbie’s desire to create connection. To raise funds. To share about HD. Please pass this along. Connect with us if you would like to learn more or to stay in touch. Follow her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bobbie.v.douglas

———-

For the comments: Are you familiar with HD? Or have you or someone close to you received a life-changing diagnosis? Please share….

 ———-

Your art. Ship it.

Don’t shortchange the world of [...]]]> Ship.

I like the term ship. Originally, Steve Jobs coined it. “Real artists ship.” As in, ship it. Get it out there. Don’t wait till it’s absolutely perfect to ship. Whether it’s a project, product, painting, book, blog post, song, presentation, you name it.

Your art. Ship it.

Don’t shortchange the world of your creativity just because you’re getting all perfectionistic about it. Yes, I’m speaking to you, recovering perfectionist.

“Hi, I’m Garry, and I’m a recovering perfectionist.”

“Hi Garry.”

But it didn’t really take off–that I’m aware of–until Seth Godin got a hold of it. He’s used it both in his book, Linchpin, and on his blog.  Being at the top of the connection pyramid, he brings concepts to the masses. The next thing you know we’re using it in our meetings, marketing, and, heck, even parenting. At least I do, “Ian, ship that trash out to the can!”

It becomes a part of our popular culture. But then that’s what Seth does.

It’s helped me to embrace and put to use such a term. You’re reading this aren’t you? I pressed the Submit button before it was perfect.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Otherwise you procrastinate. You never ship. Perfectionism–that sweet cover for fear–wins.

But wait. What if you never get to the point of having something to ship? In other words, because you feel that this one endeavor must be a success, procrastination doesn’t only keep you from pressing that ship button, you never even start.

Well, Seth’s got that covered. He’s again popularizing a term. In the last couple of days he’s used it on his blog. But far as I can tell this one’s his baby. Ready?

Drip.

Yeah, that’s it. Drip. As in a drip at a time. Drip. Little by little. Drip. Small steps. Drip. Consistently. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The idea’s that you reduce risk by not banking so much on the ONE thing. You don’t have all your eggs in one basket. You do it daily. It’s the passes in football. The at bats in baseball. We build stats one hit at a time.

It doesn’t mean that there won’t be those items that are the periodic 2-outs-bottom-of-the-ninth-tie-game. But you spread your risk via many tasks. It’s within the context of a much wider body of work. Not just one.

Instead of a major monthly blog post, it’s daily posts. Drip. Or it’s a painting a day.  Drip. Write many songs. Drip. Present as often as you can. Drip. Practice. Because it takes a long time to get good at something.

Consider the alternative to writer’s block: the drip. A post, day after day, week after week, 400 times a year, 4000 times a decade. When you commit to writing regularly, the stakes for each thing you write go down.  - Seth Godin

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And although it’s crucial to ship, nothing gets shipped if it never gets started. So get started. Because how do you fill an ocean?

One drip at a time.

___

“Already?”

Dang. Stephanie was great.

I’ve been catered to for a couple of days now. I just push a button and she’s there. Coffee, tea, pillows, ice cream. Relaxation. Just like I like it.

Spoiled? Yeah, you could [...]]]> It was good while it lasted.

She walked in and told me to get dressed. “Time to leave,” she said.

“Already?”

Dang. Stephanie was great.

I’ve been catered to for a couple of days now. I just push a button and she’s there. Coffee, tea, pillows, ice cream. Relaxation. Just like I like it.

Spoiled? Yeah, you could say that.

But now she’s asking me to leave. Bummer.

“The doctor’ll be here in a couple of minutes,” she says, which is always an underestimation.

“Oh, thanks.”

Most nurses–yes, Stephanie’s my nurse (what were you thinking?)–have made hospital stays far more than bearable. I mean, I remember her name but not the doctor’s.

Although. When he finally arrived, I do recall with uncanny clarity what he said. So quickly. So methodically.

“All seems okay, but …”

For me, when a doc says “but” it kicks open the adrenals like the salivary glands of Pavlov’s dog.

“… it looks like you have a some heart disease.”

What the — heck? 

“Me?” (Why’d I say that? Like there’s a chorus of old guys dressed in hospital garb in this twin-bed closet?)

“Yes, Mr. Stafford. It’s not hemodynamically significant, which means it’s currently not significant enough to require additional treatment or surgery. But if you don’t make some changes it’ll probably be necessary at some point. Sooner than later.”

And just as quickly as my bearer-of-bad-news-foreigner arrived, he left.

Stephanie handed me some information on diet, cholesterol and exercise in addition to a prescription for Crestor. Crestor? Really?? That’s for old…

Oh.

She set me up with a cardiologist. Another team member drafted to serve the ever-growing needs of a slightly-past-middle-aged-guy who’s deluded himself into thinking he was in half-decent shape. Unfortunately, it’s the other half that’s the issue.

Then she wished me “all the best,” and added, “Take good care of yourself.”

That was the last March. It’s now December. So I’m taking this end-of-the-year moment to evaluate where I’ve been. And where I’m going.

I’m not THAT bad

I thought I was in pretty good health. But, allow me to take a quick pre-hospital-stay inventory.

Fat? Tasty. Dessert? Mandatory. Chocolate? Addicted. (Drug of choice: Dove PROMISES® Silky Smooth Almond Dark Chocolate. Dark’s good for ya, right? Sure it is. Take as directed:10 squares po, prn for mild depression. Gee, I must’ve been depressed all the stinking time).

And cholesterol? Up. Triglycerides? Up. Weight? Yuuup.

Exercise? Well, I’d been riding my bike a couple times a week for like a half mile. Total. Maybe.

Hmm, I sense a pattern. As my 9-year-old daughter says, “Ya think?”

I wasn’t that bad, I justified. It’s a subtle yet accelerating slippery slope.

Accepting a lack of fitness is easy because, in our aging population, growing girth is commonplace. Looser clothes? Of course. I’m just *sigh* another sheep in the herd.

I kept doing the same thing expecting different results. Yeah, I bet you’ve heard that one.

Insanity.

It’s an inside job

An external (like heart disease or standing naked in front of a mirror, or both, yikes!) has great potential to light the fuse, to rock your ah-ha moment, to make you call in for a shiny, new Bowflex during a late night infomercial while hopped-up on Dove chocolate.

Buy Bowflex = Get ripped! Right?

With apologies to Bowflex, more of these end up living out their lives on patios, looking like over-sized rusty arachnids.

For a change to stick it’s gotta be internalized. And when that happens it doesn’t matter if it’s Bowflex or the ground. Remember push ups?

Accountability and tools help. There are books and blogs, tracking apps like Endomondo and trainers, workout buddies and running/biking clubs. They smooth out the valleys and help you get back up.

But alone, they won’t create your lasting change for you. Because this is an inside job.

And for me, one word represents this internal shift: ENOUGH!

When you say “ENOUGH!” And it comes from a place you didn’t know existed because you’re finally so sick of it that it means a death to what you’ve been, then you’re getting there.

ENOUGH is a paradigm shift. It says I don’t care what others think. I don’t care what I’ve done or not done. I no longer use that as an excuse. It’s more than mere desire or a well touted goal, it’s a commitment that takes courage because it’s only beneficial in the long run.

It elevates above the day-to-day troubles and trials and feelings that inevitably come. It must. Because feelings lie.

And it happens when you finally say ENOUGH!

Looking forward

Since saying ENOUGH, my bike and I have spent a lot more time together. Most days I ride to work and back. 6 miles. Admittedly, not huge. But more than I’ve done in recent decades. I also work out 2 – 3 times a week.

I’m not a classic vegetarian–my sushi attraction inhibits such aspirations. I take in less fat. Far less sugar. And no more chocolate. The depression’s gone. Imagine that. It’s amazing what you use to justify what you want.

My stats are better than they’ve been in years. BP’s in the 110’s/60’s. Cholesterol’s down (the statin’s already been cut in half). Triglycerides are down. Weight’s now down 30+ pounds!

My plans for the upcoming year are to keep biking and working out, lose another 10 pounds and enter at least 3 cycling races. These are mere mileposts and I’m open and willing to other opportunities.

But more than that, this is something of greater significance than just a physical transformation.

When life issues or goals–that were previously considered impossible to attain–are completed, that new (or renewed) ability is generalized to many other aspects of your life. It results in increased strength in mind and body. Greater courage. Open doors. A new path and opportunities that were previously looked over because they were perceived as impossible.

It’s only by doing that you realize this. Until your “ENOUGH” pushes you beyond the fear, until it makes you confront what you’ve denied, until it happens, nothing else will.

If you focus on results, you will never change. If you focus on change, you will get results. – Jack Dixon

What have you had enough of? What do you want to change?

___

After dinner the wife asks, “You’re single, right?”

“Well … yeah,” I said, with my answer sounding more like a question.

Then she looks at her husband and says, “ Couldn’t you see [...]]]> I was at a work Christmas party a few weeks ago and had a great time sharing a table with couple I’d just met.

After dinner the wife asks, “You’re single, right?”

“Well … yeah,” I said, with my answer sounding more like a question.

Then she looks at her husband and says, “ Couldn’t you see it? Wouldn’t he be perfect for Stacy?” Like I could be Stacy’s pet dog or something. Which is, well, totally up for debate.

I said, “Uh, hold on a sec. I’m divorced.”

“Yeah?” she says.

*pregnant pause*

“Well, ya know, I’ve learned that there are two types of people,”–please, somebody STOP me–“those who get married right away and those who don’t.”

Oh my. She had such high hopes for me.

As you read on guess where I fit. Perhaps I made this too easy.

Disclaimer: The following is a mix of broad generalizations that include personal experiences as well as observations of other relationships and isn’t representative of my marriage or ex-wife, specifically. Okay, got it? Except for the good stuff. That was all her. Of course. By the way, I don’t feel this way all the time. I’m not THAT crazy. There are moments that leak out as poetry and even surprise me.

I Don’t Want the Girl

She’s quite in demand
With not just a few guys,
And unbearably enticing
With her sad-sparkle eyes.

Her hair cascading
That she twists with her finger.
On each whispered word
With longing you linger.

But I don’t want the girl.

She’s either too old
Or too frighteningly young
With too much experience
Or absolutely none.

But she’s wholly hard-bodied
With fat leaving few traces
And marvelously squishy
In all the right places.

I don’t want the girl.

She shares deafening silence
With incredible dedication.
And if you ask “What’s wrong?”
You’ll get far less information.

She’s got a mind of her own
And expects you to read it.
You’ve got another thing coming
Should you not plan to heed it.

Nope, I don’t want the girl.

“Baggage? I’ve a little,”
As she considers her heart.
There’s actually enough
To crush a bellhop cart.

As she’s been deeply abused
In ways she’ll never let you know.
And if you scratch the scab
The blood’s sure to flow.

I don’t want the girl.

She begs you to share
The difficulties of your life.
“I’ll protect them,” says she,
But watch your back for the knife.

She melts you to the core
With her crocodile tears.
Then compares you to those guys
She’s known through the years.

I really don’t want the girl.

She can be spiritual and perfect
In most every way.
Yet become satan’s sister
On any given day.

As she flies off the handle
For no reason at all
And slams all the doors
As she storms down the hall.

I don’t want the girl.

Many demons she’s conquered
With her sword and her amour
But when she lets her guard down
She’s again backed in a corner.

So she too often traps herself
In this cage of her making
While implicating you
For the freedom she’s forsaking.

No thanks, I don’t want the girl.

Her beguiling smile
Is window dressing for what’s deep,
And the deeds that she’s sown
You’re certain to reap.

Her trust is the key
But it’s too often misplaced.
So her love stays locked up
In its impenetrable case.

I’m fine thank you, I don’t want the girl.

Now you may think with these words
That I’ve crossed quite a line.
But perhaps my experience
Has been less than sublime.

Of course, all girls are like this
There’s nary doubt in my mind
So I choose to not ever
be caught in a bind.

I will avoid at all costs
To again be maligned
From any other woman
With whom I become intertwined.

But, the issue … truth be told
That now stands out in my mind
These are excuses, doubt and fear
Since on these words light’s now been shined

The reason that remains
If you dig deep you’ll find
Through death we must someday leave
So I hesitantly choose to decline

Any life I could have with the girl.

___

I overheard the guys, just the guys, one-upping each other with the number of Thanksgiving meals they’d consumed. It’s a given that exaggerating was going on. As it always does.

“Yeah, I went [...]]]> I work with high schoolers. And on this last post-Thanksgiving Monday they gathered at the door before class. As they always do.

Photo Credit: Rene Schwietzke (Creative Commons)

I overheard the guys, just the guys, one-upping each other with the number of Thanksgiving meals they’d consumed. It’s a given that exaggerating was going on. As it always does.

“Yeah, I went my Grandma’s, then to my mom’s and then at night I went over to my dad’s. I had like 5 meals!”

“Dude. Like I went to 3 of my Grandparents! Then I had to go to my dad’s. But then I had ham and biscuits and, like, we had 10 pies at my moms!”

A few others shouted out their menus.

But it wasn’t the exaggerated caloric intake that struck me.

A long time ago in a land far, far away . . .

When I was a kid, each Thanksgiving was an early-morning to late-evening event. We’d start at my Aunt and Uncle’s where the extended family of around 20 to 30 people gathered.

4 or more cars would get packed full with food, ice chests, cups, utensils, more food, and families including grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and the like. We’d head out to our spot at a dry riverbed way out in the boonies northwest of Phoenix. And there we’d have our annual picnic.

Picnic? Shoot.

These were stuff-the-trunks-of-huge-boat-like-’60’s-cars-with-as-much-as-you-can-Thanksgiving-feasts.

We ate. We played football, and catch with baseballs and Frisbees. We’d go on hikes. We’d eat again. We’d surprise rattlesnakes and vice-versa, and killed a few over the years. Which would only anger some of the women.

Sometimes we’d bring guns yet, thankfully, no liquor. At least until our return in the evening. Then the bar in the den would open for business and we’d re-stuff ourselves with leftovers. Ah yes, leftovers.

Thing is. This was one event filled with one big, extended family. Perfect? Far from it. But especially due to the years that stretch from now back to then, I remember these family feasts fondly.

At that time we didn’t share stories of divorce. It wasn’t as prevalent and was far more stigmatized.

Divorce: More acceptance, same pain

Whether or not they realized it, this verbal sparring with meal counts offered up a taste of their home life. It seems many have divorced parents.*

As they share, they make it sound matter-of-fact. Certainly for some it’s all they’ve ever known. But for others, it’s undoubtedly burdensome. Either way it’s just messy. Kids’ loyalties are stretched as some are used to show favoritism.

Measuring awesomeness by a multitude of meals is making the best of a bad situation. The louder it’s shouted, the more it’s compensation for something missing, an inner lack that’s difficult to resolve or make sense of.

These are the guys who instead are shouting  “Look at me. I’m worth something aren’t I?” It’s about acceptance. And numbing the pain.

Solutions? I have none

And so, here I could produce some lengthy arguments or tack a credible sounding 10-point list to the bottom of this article as to why divorce sucks.

Many answers look good on paper but just don’t work very well.

So. No solutions. As I’ve only added to the divorce stats. Perhaps that helps me be a bit more aware of the pain surrounding it than otherwise. For better or worse.

So I see some kids lost in the inevitable chaos of adolescence being guilt-tripped and taught to please. And even more deeply, driven to cover up, deny, and numb their feelings.

I also see kids who are doing their best to make it work in a world where it’s exceedingly difficult to do so.

*Although the rate of divorce is higher than in the 1960’s, it’s down 
significantly since the ‘80s and ‘90s. Yet its prevalence is dependent 
on a number of factors. It’s situational and in my class appears to be 
a majority.

I’m so sorry to hear of the pain you’re going through. I’ve been there. And although I shy [...]]]>

This letter grew out of a comment on a blog post I offered to a friend who’s in a difficult situation. And I just recently spoke with another in a similar situation. It’s daunting how many this disease touches.

A Letter.

Photo credit: Ian Kobylanski (Creative Commons)

I’m so sorry to hear of the pain you’re going through. I’ve been there. And although I shy away from saying, “I know how you feel,” in this instance I think I can. This was an ongoing issue that we’d dealt with for 17 years and contributed to the demise of our marriage.

Like you I pried and prodded. I searched for bottles and cans. I tracked. I waited. I stayed up at night. I got angry at her, and even more at myself. I cried. I pleaded. I suggested. I advised. I tried to get her to see. I waited. I hoped. I prayed. I sacrificed.

I was the martyr who took care of so much and tried to hold it together. I prayed some more. I demanded. I manipulated. I followed. I spied. I played the wounded spouse.

Also, I’d ask the inevitable questions. How could I have made this mistake? How did I not see it? What did I do wrong? If only I could do it right, maybe, just maybe she’ll change. If I could only be perfect enough. Good enough. Sacrificial enough. She’ll come around.

It’s what we do. It’s common behavior for one close to an alcoholic.

And it’s insanity.

It was hellish. I grew paranoid. I kept trying to make it better any way I could. Yet that only made it worse. Active alcoholism cannot maintain a healthy relationship. Lies, shame, guilt, cover up, are at the forefront, eroding connection.

What helped?

I had to get out of the way

What does that mean? It meant seeking out the help that I needed in order to deal with this disease. I needed to begin to take care of myself. No longer take responsibility for her. I needed to quit contributing to the chaos. That sounds like it goes against what we’re taught as Christians. We’re to be selfless. Sacrifice. Live for the other. Deal with the abuse. Cover it up.

Look the part.

But if abuse, lies, manipulation and all that commonly goes hand-in-hand with active alcoholism exists we lose ourselves. We’re no longer in a healthy position to help. We’re enabling. We’ve no strength left for our own life, for our kids, to make healthy decisions.

It’s easy for us to blame ourselves and others. You’ve been blamed, I’m certain many times. It goes with the territory. Active alcoholics choose not to admit it. The shame and guilt that feeds the need to lash out goes too deep. We can do it right back. It keeps us enmeshed in the craziness and chaos.

This only degrades because, unless arrested, it’s a progressive disease.

Yes, it’s a bleak picture. And yes, miracles happen. God does heal. But it seems that when we’re stuck in this place of chaos and confusion we can get in the way.

For me, only when I let go–called detachment with love in Al-Anon–was God able to take us down a path that I’d never imagined and couldn’t have seen.

This takes education

The Word, prayer and support is a necessary foundation. But how to deal with the specifics of the disease and your reaction to it takes education.

Look at it this way. Financial Guru, Dave Ramsey, teaches on the specifics of money, in the context of biblical principles. We don’t just suddenly know how to handle money–at least regarding specific circumstances in this world–directly from scripture.

This is a far more elusive, difficult, confusing, chaotic and damaging situation than most any aspect of how to deal with money. Yet Christians tend to too quickly shun healing via groups and therapy. Sometimes we don’t want to approach it.

This is too often just a subtle form of denial. And is easily obscured. Shame follows us too. We believe that healing must inevitably come if we only have enough faith. And when it doesn’t happen, it only adds to a growing, overwhelming sense of failure.

I firmly believe that one needs to learn how to handle this situation on a daily basis. How to react. How to make decisions. How to have compassion. How to deal with anger, rage and abuse.

I finally attended Al-Anon. You’ll need people around you who have dealt with this disease. Who know how to respond to it. Who can counter the insanity with sanity. Who’ll speak truth into your life.

That’s the best chance you have to actually help the alcoholic.

Not to do it for that reason, but the obligation is now on you to change, to get better, healthier. And that process can sometimes have a positive affect on the alcoholic. The spotlight comes off of you. And as you’re probably well aware, it’s uncomfortable place when you’re forced to have to look at yourself. And he at himself.

Yet it still must absolutely come down to him taking TOTAL responsibility for HIS actions and behaviors.

What really hit my heart is when you said, “Because of my behavior, he doesn’t want to be married to me anymore.”

May I turn that around.

“Because of active alcoholism, he doesn’t want to be married anymore.”

Your decision on your direction shouldn’t be hasty. But you’ll know. Whether you’re with him or not, as you gain strength, there’s a line that becomes clearer as to what you’ll accept.

The 3 C’s

There’s one other thing I want to add that’s shared in Al-Anon. The 3 C’s:

You didn’t cause it.
You can’t control it.
And you can’t cure it.

It’s not yours.

Take care of yourself. Do what you need to do to get stronger. Reach out. It’ll help you to deal with this situation in ways that won’t be driven by fear. It’ll instead be driven by truth. And, in turn, greater courage.

I don’t mean to push much more on you. That’s not my place. But please check out these resources when able.
Al-Anon online: http://www.al-anon.alateen.org…
And one of the first books I got, it’s excellent: http://www.amazon.com/Wont-Wait-Up-Tonight-Alcoholic/dp/0345379403

And if I hear one more celeb, newscaster or blogger discuss what they’re thankful for or how to be thankful or how to keep a gratitude journal or how to exploit this holiday in any other way I’m gonna….

Oh. I’m complaining again. It comes so naturally. It’s easy to [...]]]> It’s Thanksgiving.

And if I hear one more celeb, newscaster or blogger discuss what they’re thankful for or how to be thankful or how to keep a gratitude journal or how to exploit this holiday in any other way I’m gonna….

Oh. I’m complaining again. It comes so naturally. It’s easy to do. What’s wrong seems far more obvious than what’s right.

I’ve had the opportunity recently to move from owning my own business, where I mostly heard me complain, to working in education. Now I hear others complain.

And we complain a lot. (But, hmm. If I complain about those who complain am I too a complainer? Think so. Anyway.)

Complaining’s What’s Expected

I was running late. On the way to my class, dodging high schoolers scurrying to their classes like hyperactive ants on spilled soda, I ran into our Officer-On-Duty. He asks, “How’s it goin?”

“Oh … well … it’s Monday,” I said.

As I passed, he said, “But it’s Thanksgiving week, we only have 2 days! Gotta look on the bright side!”

Thanks Officer for unintentionally pointing out my complaint.

I’m a new kid on the block. I want to fit in. I desire connection. It’s a basic need. But I’ve found that from passing comments to deep discussions, we communicate with habitual complaining. We become connected by the glue of negativity.

Complaining’s what’s expected. And it’s infectious. Like a virus, we spread to others that this is the standard. The social norm. To gain acceptance among your peers, you act accordingly.

To maintain it, just don’t oppose your nature. Simple.

And, well, why would we want to anyway? There’s so much to complain about. We’re so affected. So put upon. So … victimized. Oh my.

So we complain:

- about the day of the week.
- about our supplies.
- about the weather.
- that the meetings go too long.
- that there even are meetings.
- that the coffee’s too weak.
- that the coffee’s too strong.
- that it’s only noon.
- about the bathrooms.
- about the teachers.
- about the district.
- about our families.
- about our spouses. And … about our students.

I’ve Been Surprised

Even before I started working with high school kids I’d noticed that, overwhelmingly, the “problem” kids dominated discussions. Complaints created in me negative expectations of them. As far as that goes, even for the high school population in general.

So I’ve been surprised. The kids are, well, kids. Sure there are problem kids. Some passive-aggressives. Some walled up and unmotivated. And a few who I hope aren’t packing a gun.

Yet I don’t want to imply that I’m impressed only because of my subpar expectations. A majority of them are doing school. They’re involved. They’re giving it their best. And they kick butt with their talents, abilities, involvement, and enthusiasm.

I’d forgotten about that spark, the blind enthusiasm that exists before life has the opportunity to drop kick you a few times.

But some already have been drop kicked. And they’re especially the ones who get that attention. They attract complaints. And it keeps the wheel in motion.

We’re Attracted to What’s … Juicy

We justify it. What’s shared is often funny, shocking, or done in the name of helping … of course. Like the churchgoer who’s compulsively active on the prayer chain, we’re attracted to what’s juicy.

But any connection that mutual complaining creates begins to break down on the other side of the coin.

Complaining decreases trust and increases suspicion. What are they saying about me?

It produces cliques. I’m a friend … or else.

It distorts expectations. It spreads untruths. It categorizes, negatively. It stereotypes. Unrestrained, it kills openness, trust and relationships.

It’s like little kids talking behind each other’s backs. We’re just big kids.

I don’t want to merely place blame to minimize my part. It’s my choice to be complicit. It really doesn’t have anything to do with who I complain about or why.

The issue is that I decide to place what some think of me above my concern for others.

Am I confessing? Yeah. I want to be more aware of it. It’s my hope that by complaining about complaining I become less of a complainer.

Thanks to Endomondo.com for featuring my article: 7 Ways to Un-Slump Your Slump!

Have you lost your luster for working out? It happens to the best of us and often times it’s harder to get out of your slump than to fight against succumbing to it.

When you’re in a Slump,

Thanks to Endomondo.com for featuring my article: 7 Ways to Un-Slump Your Slump!

Have you lost your luster for working out? It happens to the best of us and often times it’s harder to get out of your slump than to fight against succumbing to it.

When you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.
- Dr Seuss

Lately I’ve been working out. Riding my bike. Eating well. Buying smaller clothes. Feelin’ really good!

Sometimes something comes back into your life that reminds you of where you were the last time you saw it and how far you’ve come.

Yesterday I did some closet cleaning (aka, that shirt’s gotta be in here somewhere) that lead to a box I’d not touched since I moved last [...]]]> Evidence of improvement

Sometimes something comes back into your life that reminds you of where you were the last time you saw it and how far you’ve come.

Yesterday I did some closet cleaning (aka, that shirt’s gotta be in here somewhere) that lead to a box I’d not touched since I moved last year that lead to a paper I’d not seen in years.

On it’s written:

Each indecision brings its own delays,
And days are lost lamenting over lost days.
Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute;
What you can do, or dream you can, begin it;
For boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The letters are meticulously written in calligraphy. On fine parchment paper. Over 20 years ago. I’d done so during one of my odd, creative phases.

Just to see if I could, I closed my eyes and whispered Johann’s words to my closet walls. Easily done. It’s amazing how synapses reconnect.

Words have power, up to a point

I was enamored with this quote and expected these words and their letters, especially by being drawn with perfection, to fortify themselves at the front lines and do battle against fear-based mediocrity. Unfortunately, the rules of this battle are more complex. Such words have power, or more accurately potential power. But like ammunition, they’re effectiveness isn’t realized until the trigger of action is pulled.

Inaction’s easy in the short run. And once caught in a fear-driven spiral of avoidance, the ability to gain a handhold to begin the long climb out often feels like grasping water.

At that time, in spite of Johann’s words,  I remained stuck. Why face the unknown? Why open doors? Why risk public failure and mistakes? Why feel the fear?

Because it’s necessary for growth. This tidbit of wisdom arrived with only a 20-plus year hindsight.

The foe

Fear held a high position for me in those days. I went through a phase where, for a number of years my daily experience of panic was that it hit unexpectedly and with increasing frequency.

Certain things and events triggered an autonomic response that made me feel like I was going to die. And I attributed it to people and places where it occurred that I would then avoid (in order to reduce panic reactions. Which works for awhile, it just severely limits your life). I learned to avoid planes, buses, crowded theaters, restaurants, malls, etc. My life narrowed.  Some days I self medicated with alcohol just to get through them.

I feared fear. And so I tried to fight the feelings with all I had. Yet that was the main problem. By constantly fighting the traumatic feelings of fear you only increase and prolong the focus on them. That just makes it worse. Nerves get more frazzled. And fear–fed by the fight–only gains more power.

Ultimately, I was diagnosed with panic disorder and mild agoraphobia.

So what do you do instead?

- – -

During the third grade, David, a respected playground bully, had me in his sights. He was a year older. Looking back, the kid was troubled. Well, bullies are.

On one winter morning, where the grass crunches and you can see your breath, he suddenly appeared at my spot at the front of the playground under the third mulberry tree. He said something I don’t recall and hit me on the shoulder.

That left me with choice. I could run, like I’d done so far. But he would just keep antagonizing me. Like he’s done so far.

Or I could invite him to give me all he’s got. I was getting worn down by this guy, so I finally did the latter.

“Hit me again,” I said (wondering what fool had said that). He hit me 0n the arm. Again. And again. And again. He gave me all he had.

Which turned out to be less than expected.

He never bothered me again. In fact … he became a friend.

Fear’s like that. Run and it bullies you even more. It keeps you in its sights. It clings to you and settles in your gut. But ask it to give you all it’s got and it can become….

The friend

Befriend the fear and the feelings. All of them. All of the time. I know that sounds crazy. But look. You’ve already experienced the worst they can dish out. So tell the feelings, “Bring it!” 

Do the opposite of what you feel. Ask fear to give you all its got and, in turn, it loses its intimidating power. In fact, it can become a friend.

Fear, back to appropriate levels, can warn of danger. It can tell you the direction you need to go in–which is far more frequently toward it. It can motivate you to take action. And it can make you stronger.

The last couple of years have offered more fear-filled lessons than the prior couple of decades. Fear’s been invited and accepted–reducing its intimidation–countless times.

Sure there are still moments when it takes effort not to fight fear (if this isn’t the ultimate paradox, I don’t know what is) but it happens less these days.

It’s through acceptance of fear, and taking action in spite of it, that opportunities appear. Benefits are realized. Dreams become reality. Some days turn to today. And, fear becomes a friend.

Older, experienced eyes now read Johann’s words.

The Goethe breakdown, nowadays.

Goethe brings it. He challenges us to take action in spite of fear and its pals, excuses and avoidance. Here are some thoughts on it now.

Each indecision brings its own delays
Waiting for the right and best answer to an undeniably clear decision is a delay tactic rooted in fear. For understanding to come you need to take action. Even without all the answers.

And days are lost lamenting over lost days
Lamenting lost days is an art form I’ve perfected. Avoiding takes today and just stuffs it into the overflowing file folder named Lost & Lamented Yesterdays. Each wasted today becomes a lamented yesterday.

Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute
Unseized minutes add up to lamented days. Then Years. Take one little step. Eat a carrot instead of a chip. Take a 5 minute walk and quit complaining. Write a paragraph. Fill out an application. Make a phone call. Telling yourself it’s too big to accomplish is a great excuse.

What you can do, or dream you can, begin it
Do something. Anything. Even if you’re not sure how to do it, or even how to start. Go from where you are with what you know and take a bite out of that elephant. Now. What’re you still doing here?

For boldness has genius, power and magic in it
It’s boldness that ignites the doing. It’s not the absence of fear. It’s having the slight edge that tips the scales in favor of action.

And action changes the relationship. Moving fear from foe to friend.

What have you overcome? Is there a situation or circumstance where you passed through fear, making you stronger? Or even into your friend? Share it.