Pantophobia

When it comes to battling anxiety, finding yourself back where you started is extremely frustrating. When things are good, years melt by. We forget that we deteriorate infinitesimally, that wellness is not a constant. Only when I have become again ensnared by anxiety and hypochondria do I look back and regret how I was not mindful of each good day when I could wake up, grab a cup of coffee and feel on top of the world.

I have survived what my wife and I can only describe as The Summer From Hell, which consisted of a cross continental move in tandem with purchasing our first home. The plan was sound enough: both of us had arrangements with work and I had parents in my home state where we could stay until the home-buying process was complete. Both of us would be living rent free for a while, which would let us rack up some funds to survive the fall out of making the biggest purchase of our lives. We would have to be apart for a month or so at times, but I had cared for our daughter by myself before and would even have help from my parents. I couldn't imagine where our plan could go wrong.

As you can guess, I must have a terrible imagination because most everything went wrong. Almost immediately after having arrived at my parents place, my wife and I discovered they had a bed bug infestation in the works. My parents have never seen a bed bug and thought they were flees. Thankfully, Susan has lived through some rough times in Chicago and knew what they were right away. Unfortunately, we didn't find out until after we had moved every single one of our suitcases inside. You see, you get free bags with South West. And when you're moving across state, you really want to capitalize on those extra bags. Bringing every single article of clothing with us seemed like a great way to save precious space in our moving pod. It also just happens to be the best way to ensure some kind of unwanted hitchhiker will come along with you in a house full of bed bugs. 

Consider the following scenario: Every article of clothing you now posses is now potentially infected with bed bugs. Where will you go? Who will you call? More importantly, what will you say to them? "Hi friend, I was just wondering if I could come over with about 5 suitcases of clothing and disinfect them for bed bugs at your place? Also, can I sleep at your house? I don't have a place to stay right now." Add in details such as house hunting was supposed to happen an hour south and anyone who could help is an additional hour north, and you suddenly find yourself doing things you would openly shame someone for. 

For the next several days we hotel hopped. Susan would find us the best deal possible and we would spend our time disinfecting early in the morning and then leaving in the early afternoon to run around with a realtor all over our chosen city. On weekdays, I logged into my office remotely and worked out of the hotel to the tune of my frustrated toddler who desperately wanted to be anywhere else than stuck in a hotel room with Dad, who needs her to be extra extra quiet while he's on the phone. To be clear, we did not hotel hop necessarily to avoid bed bugs. We did it to avoid having to potentially spread them to another friends home.

We would spend the day inflaming our lungs by spraying rubbing alcohol on everything that could not stand to go through boiling water and high dryer heat, which if you're a skinny guy encompasses about 90% of what you own. Many shirts were accidentally shrunk that day. We ended up buying "known good" outfits and keeping them in a separate bag while we cleaned. We we would then have to attempt to repack what was otherwise neatly vacuum sealed away back up and into our rental car as fast as possible in order to make it to our appointments with the realtor on time. We were often late, showing up scrubby, exhausted and wearing whatever was on sale at target to house shop.

Perhaps it was our disheveled appearance which seemed to drive our realtor to essentially disregard everything we said to her. We would have honest, heartfelt conversations about school districts, proximity to urban locations, even possible bus access, because we are city people who have to compromise for the sake of their child. On our first outing, we were shown a home 40 minutes away from the city, in the middle of a forest, which was gutted from top to bottom. There was no sink or refrigerator present. The walls had been stripped. Random cables and other debris were scattered everywhere. I thought to myself "she must not think we're actually serious and is trying to get rid of us". For the rest of the house hunt, I would earnestly consider getting rid of her and finding someone else. I still think I should have. If it wasn't for the 24/7 bug cleansing nightmare coupled with trying to live my life on the go, I probably would have. Instead, I just convinced myself that everything bad she showed us was just a fluke. A random happenstance. We would find something eventually, for sure.

It went on like this for several days, until finally Susan, my canary in the coal mine, could sleep through the night without seeing or experiencing a bite. Susan, as a side note, is extremely allergic to bed bug bites where and my daughter and I are not. However rough things felt for me, they were magnified for my poor wife, who lost hours of sleep due to itching throughout the night. 

A small light appeared at the end of the tunnel, however. Our realtor eventually did show us a place that the both of us instantly fell in love with. We then immediately lost that place to a person who paid the entire asking price down in cash. Our realtor showed us a second place I frantically dug up from the internet trying to find something, anything that could possibly work for us. The market was hot, she said. So hot people were overpaying and she warned us not to overpay ourselves. I can trust my realtor, I thought. My realtor is thinking about me and my finances and wants to help me make the best decision I can. She is there to help me. When this second place turned into something my wife and I really liked, we decided to put an offer in. There was only one other offer, a "strong" offer according to the seller's agent. I had to act fast, I thought. I went ahead and talked to my realtor about offering 5K over the asking. Then I second guessed myself and asked her if she thought 10K over asking was too much for this house. I specifically asked my realtor for her opinion, if she thought 10K was over and if I would be in good shape knowing our budget and what we had to work with. She assured me this was fine, gave me lines about "Comps" and threw some realtor jargon at me that I didn't understand. My realtor is here to help me, I thought. So I went for it.

While everything turned out okay as far as the sale of the home goes, I spent the next 3 weeks panicking over realizing that I would have to pay the difference in cash if the home did not appraise at our offer price. I would potentially have to negotiate for the appraised value or possibly lose out entirely. When the negotiations did start, the seller's agent was a bear. My home inspector pointed out a number of things that had clearly been neglected and needed to be addressed. Most importantly, an aging roof and some significant masonry damage to the chimney. The agent responded saying they would give us a few grand off the price and leave us to fund the repairs ourselves. This one point of debate created two Remedy extensions and had me in serious talks with my wife over calling the entire thing off and just renting.

I was ready to give up. I think I did, on some level. It was right around this time that I began to lose my ability to cope with stress. Complaints about my work started coming in, which maddeningly coincided with calls from my Realtor and Loan agents wanting paperwork, approvals, and updates. My daughter could not be contained. She had to be with me, where ever I was. Disciplining her became difficult. I couldn't keep her in the corner without her melting down and melting down inevitably blasted whoever I was on the phone with and I was always on the phone. She ended up watching at least 2 seasons of My Little Pony back to back. Throat tightness ensued. Strange boughts of stomach acid arrived. My IBS reared its ugly head and I became so constipated that when I finally had a movement, it was hard as stone and caused be to bleed. 

And then my best friend's wedding happened. I wrote a speech. I danced. My brand new phone broke. I went to cedar point only to find out that at 35 roller coasters make me partially black out for some reason. Maybe I was low on calories, maybe my blood sugar was low. I don't know. It deeply pains me to say that it was almost a collateral incident. Between the hotels, the bugs, the home buying insanity, my friends wedding passed like the wind. I apparently gave a very, very good speech. I wrote something on the back of a napkin 24 hours prior and I remember none of it. 

It wasn't more than a few days afterwards that I found out my best friends wife was pregnant during the wedding but had suddenly miscarried and lost twin boys. It was to be her second miscarriage. When I read the news on Facebook, I instantaneously broke into tears. Joy. Death. Life. Pain. Wealth. Suffering. What did any of these things mean when they all happened viscerally. simultaneously with a rapaciousness that wilted the senses?

My parents place being treated for bugs, I stayed there for a while. With everything clean and stored, I stayed with my wife's friends parents because at this stage we were reaching and we knew it. They were close to where our new home was to be and it made the closing process easier. I will always be indebted to their kindness to my daughter and for their general leaving me alone while I sorted out my life. 

Eventually came the move. We closed. My daughter and I moved into our home as soon as we could with our luggage, waiting for our moving pod to arrive. 

The pod did not arrive for another two weeks. I spent the first weeks in our home without furniture, my daughter sleeping on a cot and I sleeping on the floor with pillows and blankets from Good Will. It was rough, but we got through it. At least I didn't feel guilty sticking anyone with watching Vera, which is hard for anyone but sometimes I had to give her to someone else whether they liked it or not for my own sanity, what little of it remained. 

When our things did arrive, I invited my family down for a visit/house warming/ please for the love of the gods help me move this stuff in kind of thing. Near constant badgering won me free movers with the moving company, whose staff couldn't have cared less about me until I made it a point to go on a rant on the BBB about them. 

They came, things were moved, and they left.

The next morning, Vera was overjoyed to show me the bug she found on the couch. 

It was a bed bug.

If I don't die of lung disease, it will be a miracle. I spent the next week treating our entire home with amorphous silica, which in small amounts is completely harmless. I dusted heavily enough that I eventually had to throw open windows, put a box fan in, and vent rooms for a few days while the dust settled, because I dusted everything. Our brand new expensive mattress...our couch. The nightmare which I had envisioned for 75% of the move had finally, in my mind, come to fruition. My brand new home, with all my belongings, were about to be terribly infested with bed bugs. 

As a side note, A 4oz container of dust later and a LOT of washing/vaccuming later, and it appears we're still bug free. It's the little things, I guess.

I started contemplating suicide. I realize that's pretty dead pan delivery, but there's no other way to say it. I was so miserable that the idea of sending my daughter off with my parents while I sat in my car breathing exhaust was starting to sound like it might be preferable. These thoughts were quickly dismissed for a time, but they came back when my wife arrived and reality set in. This was home now. This is where I would be living. Suddenly every home-improvement project was sounding a 5 bell alarm in my head. After a little bit of reading, killing myself started to sound like a lot of work though. Oh and a break down! I eventually sequestered myself away in a room, called the suicide help hotline, sat on hold for about 20 minutes before being discovered by my wife wondering what on earth I was up to. I then went to the other end of the house and cried. Hard. Cried staring at my phone wanting to call someone and not being able to muster up the gall to do so any longer.

I decided to throw myself into a project: My office. My office was going to be my safe place, my happy place, my go away and let me heal from the world place. I would paint it a happy vibrant green color so I would always have green, even in the winter. All I had to do was fill in the gaps in the wood paneling and then I could paint it. 

Turns out sanding joint compound is dusty. I did come prepared for this and wore a dust mask. I vacuumed up the mess and painted. 

At the hardware store a day later, I gradually became aware that my breathing felt constricted slightly. How I avoided my hypochondria so long, I don't know. This time, however, I decided to google my symptoms.

I immediately diagnosed myself with acute silicosis and had one month to live. I also had a panic attack that made driving home from the hardware store feel like trying to land the space shuttle. 

My temperature was 100.8 and my heart beat was out of control. I asked Susan whether she would take me to the ER later if I asked her to and she said she would. I tried to lay down. Nope, still can't breathe normally. Took one of my wife's Adavan. Still did not feel right. 

I spent at least the next 3 days on google trying to figure out if I was going to die. I say at least because I'm honestly not sure how many days I spent like that. I could have Pleurisy, I could have Silicosis, I could have COPD. I imagined tiny shards of silica cutting my lungs to ribbons and slowly losing my lung function and dying. The damage wouldn't be seen on an X ray. No one would believe me. I was going to die. I was going to die and there was no cure. Throat tightness was back. Stomach acid was back. I spent hours trying to calculate how much silica I might have breathed in. I read horror stories of people who had been exposed to massive amounts of silica and suffered catastrophic damage to their lungs just days later. 

My wife tolerated me for a few days before urging me to a Walgreen's Wellness Clinic. They won't find anything, I told her. Also, they won't believe me. So I go in, paid 200 something dollars for a nurse to listen to my self diagnosis. She then checked my oxygen levels and my breathing and said everything was good. Gave me an inhaler for "chest tightness" and sent me on my way.

And that about covers it up until today. 

I can tell you that just recounting these things at this point has sent my pulse upwards. My chest is tight and I have a knot in my stomach.

I wish I could say "but it all turned out right in the end", but I can't because I'm still waiting. Funny thing about anxiety: It will give you all kinds of symptoms and then turn around and make you doubt what is actually wrong with you is anxiety. There is more than one account online people who have spent thousands on every test imaginable only to find out that they are actually suffering from hypocondria, GAD, or some other form of anxiety and that there is physically nothing wrong with them other than that. Yet still, the symptoms persist. They will persist even if you feel "normal" because people living under the crushing weight of their anxiety normalize the state they are in.

For the last 2 weeks, I have been experiencing throat tightness, chest tightness, random chest burning, unusual mouth waterings, and a near persistent muscle-like tightness in my stomach. I don't get hungry any more. I only eat because I know I have to. Although I've come away from the part of this where I feel like death is eminent, I am still largely in a state of discomfort. I get around but there's something going on. That "somthing" is likely, very likely, almost 100% likely to be Anxiety. And yet there is that 1% of me that insists: You have an ulcer. You have a hiatal hernia. You have GERD. You need treatment. You need a doctor.

It's sometimes difficult to focus on what is going on around me because of my symptoms and the thoughts that accompany them. 

Yet, I've been through this before. I should know better. I went through a terrible divorce where I could not eat or sleep properly for months. I was 100% convinced I was about to have a psychological break. I must be Schizophrenic. I must be about to go insane with no hope of recovery. I was braced every day for it.

And it never came. I got therapy. I lived in the city. I carved out a new life. Things got good. 

And then I promptly forgot that things were ever bad. 

When Buddhists teach Mindfulness, it sounds like an incredibly small thing. When you talk to other people about it, it sounds like the most trivial peice of information you could bestow upon them. Most people go "Oh yeah, well, I do that." the moment you mention it.

Mindfulness is a radically massive practice and concept. It lets you soak in more experience in the experience of your life. It's absurdly easy to blow past life until the bad stuff slows you down and makes the days feel like weeks and the weeks feel like months.

If we consciously slowed down and did the same for the joyous, peaceful, health-full moments of life, would it make the bad times not as bad? Perhaps. At the very least, we would enter them mindfully, knowing they will pass.

As much as I'm still convinced that I have a hernia, and let's face it, after the summer I've had, it would not be a surprise that stress hand done me over like that, I still hold on to the fact that it's probably just anxiety. And thankfully, that means that there's a good chance this will all pass. 

Even if I see a doctor. Even if I something is wrong. That too, will pass. These thoughts at least give me hope that normal, healthy days will come again as well.

And when they do, remind me to sit on my new front porch with an iced tea.

And to be mindful of it. 

Going Corporate

I recently started a new job that has been taking me downtown a lot. I won't lie, it's a pretty sweet deal, but it's left me musing about several things which I feel should be given life through writing. Sure, maybe there are some other things going on with me, but we'll blog about that later. I need to get this out before I pass out for the night.

Every morning I wake up and get on the L and move downtown. I usually get off at Monroe. It's about a 10 minute walk to my office from there, but sometimes it feels shorter. Mostly because I am busy taking in the morning sights. Thousands of people bustling to where they need to be, heavy morning traffic, moister-laden clouds drifting past the skyscrapers like some sort of eerie urban-jungle mist. It's really quite something for those who haven't seen it. Perhaps those who have just don't think much of it? These are the kinds of things I let soak in. I take the full gravity of it into my mind because it is typically these average things that are so overlooked.

I mostly look at the faces that walk by me. There are thousands of them. Some I may see again, though I'd probably not know it, but others I will probably never see again. I think about what they wear, where they are going, what they do, what their morning means for them. It's a lot of things, really. It's interesting to look through the crowd and see the individual. It's interesting to think about what they're doing, about what we're all doing in this certified urban giggle in the mid-west. 

I've also noticed the odd type of rain the city seems to get. It's sort of a light sprinkle? But constant. My theory is that moister is being carried off of the lake and through the city, but the buildings cause the clouds to slow down just enough to drop a bit of their moister. It seems everyone has an umbrella readily available, except for me, that is. Oh well, I'll figure this whole city thing out eventually.

When I get to my office, I swipe a badge and head on upstairs. The building is as beautiful on the inside as it is on the outside. I grab my morning coffee and look out over the Chicago river as I listen to the daily stock buzz on the LCD. It's usually this time that I space out, lost in all of the things that could be or may be. I think, Am I smart enough to do this? To be here? I usually worry if I'm out of my league. I remind myself that the best I can do is simply be myself and do the best job I can. My therapist reminds me that I'm pretty smart, along with everyone else. I tell myself the best way to approach this is go in, be awesome, and act like it's impossible to fail. I think about what the future will be like if I succeed..being awash in collared shirts and suits, dinners, parties, and  if I were able to let things run to their extremes, the luxuries of the working professional.

I wonder if I'll be able to attain and maintain that level of professionalism, and whether a part of me might be lost in that. I swore a long time ago that no matter how stuffy, corporate, serious, and upper crust things may get for me, I will always be myself. By myself, I mean someone who hasn't lost how to be a real person in the process of growing. I'm still going to love cartoons, cereal, dance music. I'm probably still going to dance when no one is watching and I'm probably still going to skate and play video games (when I can find the time, of course). And of course, I will always be kind and loving to those around me. Having said that, I am very excited about exploring this new and strange world I find myself in. I hope I can adjust accordingly.

Oh, and, side story, I heard a new coworker of mine mention something about marriage and waiting for stability. Ah, the poor guy. I wanted to lean in and tell him the secret, but I'm sure he'll figure it out on his own.  The secret, of course, is that stability is an illusion. We merely ride the wave crests in the ocean of change. It may last for a time, but it will eventually sink back into the ocean. The world is by it's very nature unstable and we are better people when we recognize that. It's good to have predictability, of course, but that's about as good as we can do. When you loose everything, you learn you have no control, but you also learn that neither does anyone else. We're all looking to control parts of our lives, but the best we can do is throw things up in the air, see what sticks and bank on it for as long as we think it'll hang there. Things can always change. They will change just like that.

 What I can control for the time being, I do my best to do so. What I can't? Well....perhaps it's best left to the breeze.

Dreams Never Let Go

The last two weeks have passed without much incident. Things are going well and I feel like I'm making some real progress moving forward. I've come to a place inside myself where I feel it's in my best interest to be alone for a while. A good while, I should think. I'm happy because for a change it hasn't come from a place of anger or bitterness, but more from a desire to learn from and about myself. I have a lot of things to sort through, a lot of things to do, and I think it'll be a long time before I become the person I want to be. I can get there, I'm sure, but it will take time.

Two days ago, I finally got around to calling an old friend I'd been meaning to catch up with. It was good to hear her voice again; reminds me of easier times, when things seemed clear and straightforward. I admit feeling a little guilty as I'm sure I talked her ear off, but we did get to exchange some local gossip like old times. I'll be flying out there in November, as usual. Some traditions should never be broken, no matter what storms we weather in life.

We talked about the divorce; I wonder when that will seem normal? I felt a lot stronger inside discussing it than usual. I have my own theories about what went wrong and why things happened the way they did now. I no longer blame the entirety of it on myself, in fact, I wonder if I played a part in it at all. There were so many things about Jessica that I had overlooked.

At any rate, I've started dreaming about her again. It bothers me on some level, I feel, because I don't have any control over that. I've done as much as I can to cut her out of my life after what she did. It was the only way I could keep myself from drowning in depression. I used to dream about trying to find her, about finding her sleeping with her boyfriend or about her telling me she had. Lately, it's been a bit different. I dream she's asking for me back, or trying to hold me, but I just push her away and end up crying. Sometime, she tries to convince me that she loves me still or that her and her boyfriend have not slept together. Either way, the dreams are torturous in ways I can't even begin to explain. I hate them.

I dreamed last night that we were talking, she tried convincing me again and I laid out quite simply that she would have to make her boyfriend move back to Delaware and never speak to him again; That if I found out she had so much sent him an emoticon, I would move back out. Then I woke up.

It's given me a lot to think about this morning. Like, is it really worth it to take someone back under even those circumstances? I don't think so. The trust is gone, the covenant is broken. Truly, it would take an act of God to put us back together. Still, it was unnerving to learn that there is still some part of me that wants her back, despite everything. It wants to forgive her unforgivable acts and love her. Somehow, it keeps hoping and wishing that this will somehow all work out, like some sort of story book; that maybe she'll come to some realization someday and we'll get back together and the universe can go back to resuming the natural order of things. It's a part of me that I know I need to  let go of, yet I can never manage to kill that last little sliver of hope. I think it's because I promised never to give up on us; a promise I made not just to her, but to the core of myself.

I realize how many dreams we had built  together. We used to dream about our careers taking off, about maybe affording a house someday. We dreamed about our kids, what we would name them, when we would have them, what we would name them. Sometimes, we'd dream about running a bed and breakfast together, just the two of us, somewhere in Ohio. We used to dream about a simple life, just us, with our animals and our children, living on whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables, living out near the woods together, happy and content. We didn't want to be rich, just...well....middle class.

I've tried to let go of those dreams, but it turns out the dreams won't let go of me. They manage to keep floating around in my mind, hoping somehow it'll all work out, even though I know it's not going to.  Truth be told, they're still things I want. I'm just having a hard time seeing how it's all going to work out without her. I had never pictured anyone else in her spot. Ever. Imagine 5 or 10 years down the line, standing next to someone completely different, having a completely different life. That's crazy to think about. It can happen, though. It can happen in the blink of an eye.

Most days I try to think about each day on its own. We're taught to constantly think about the future and somehow we end up regretting our past. I try to just live in the moment and getting out of my own head as much as possible. I keep pushing for that better day where I'm smarter, wiser, and happier because I know who I am. I know it's possible, somehow. It seems incredibly unlikely now, an infinitesimal speck of a chance of happening, but I have to keep trying. I have to keep dreaming, no matter how scary it gets.

Brain Storms

I've been running into problems lately. Not serious problems, mind you, but...problems. Or are they? It's rather hard to explain, but I'll do my best.


I'm intensely creative. An old friend of mine used to tell me that my nature was one of constant and intense learning and creation. If my mind isn't going, if I stagnate, it literally begins to cause me an amount of stress. I need to be busy, under the pressure of a deadline, and the joy of seeing one of my brain-children out in the world and functioning exactly as I dreamed it. That's just how I am.


Since I've been essentially released from being responsible for anyone but myself, I've had a lot of time on my hands (did I mention I quit playing online games? I mean it, a LOT of time). It hasn't been exactly helpful that things have king of been slow at work, too. It's times like these when the flood gates open. I may be content to just enjoy things, but my brain refuses. It needs something, anything to fiddle with. It has to be working on something. Unfortunately, I am also someone who doesn't do small time. My brain doesn't just think big, it thinks monolithic. If that were not enough, it also appears to be wired for perfectionism. Every thing done by the books, right the first time, everything it should be and more. 


This is a source of infinite frustration with me, as you can imagine. When my boredom reaches it's zenith, as it has for the last two days, my adorable creative desires mutate. It morphs into some raging, all-encompassing, 3-eyed results monster. It wants10 things done today, now, this minute. It pulls me in every direction, unintentionally pulling me apart in the process.


I've done my best trying to handle this facet of me effectively, but I'm not the best at it. Yesterday, the Results Monster came out doing a buck eighty and hit me dead on. Some of the things it wanted to accomplish? Well,  let's see:


Learn Python
Learn C#
Write a fantasy novel
Create custom wireframe geometry for Elder Scrolls: Oblivion
Learn how to properly use Blender
Learn how to create custom WorldSpaces for ES: O
Create custom items for ES:O
Mount my old HD through a IDE/USB adapter 
Learn Spanish
Write a song, complete with sheet music
Oh, yeah, learn how to play the piano
Learn how to construct an effective plot
Cook Dinner
Did you write that Fantasy Novel yet?


It's rather obvious, in retrospect, how I managed to become mildly depressed in the middle of my perfect, sunny July day, though I would have disagreed at the time. Perhaps, in the space of a few years, each of these ideas could be meted out and seen to a sort of fruition, yet somehow my brain was ardently convinced it had to do these things right fucking now. This inevitably leads me to a sort of wistful depression where I feel I can make no immediate progress at all. I lay as a frightened stargazer; gazing up at the chaotic storm, the strobe-lightning flash of ideas, too overpowered by the sheer amount of work to begin.


I woke up late this morning: it's rainy outside. I'm fixing a sandwich when the song I've been trying to work out for 3 weeks pops into my head again. Can't it just go away for a while? I didn't always use to be like this. I used to feel organized, I was organized. You know, when I was in college, I used to have outlines and...


Once again, I have another life-epiphany: Bite-sized chunks. Why do I forget this? I'll never know, but it's true. I get so caught up in how grand the final end of each task will be that I  set it on a pedestal, too focused on how fantastic it will be to see how it will actually begin. My creative process completely bypasses the Step-by-Step procedural logic that I execute in my every day operations. Silly brain...


How will I resolve this? Haven't a clue. I have a strange compulsion to outline EVERYTHING. This is, however, only one method of sketching out how something will work. It is clear to me now that the first thing I should tackle is how to keep organized and realistic during the creative process. Oh, and something about taking one thing at a time and having patience, I guess. I'm hoping that this is one of those revelations I can hang on to (nothing sucks worse than having to learn a lesson a 34th time), but knowing me, I wouldn't hold my breath. Still, a guy can certainly try.


Incidentally, if you are toying with the idea of writing (as I am), might I suggest this great website on writing. Being someone who has had many 'creative writing' courses, but never something that I felt was strictly formal, I deeply enjoyed this. I feel there is much to be learned here.


Now, if you will kindly excuse me. I believe there are some bullet points that are about to fly.

On Being Different

I cannot begin to tell you how much I envy the "Manly" men of this world some days. You know the type. They wake up, shave with a rock, bathe in a raging waterfall, and then wrestle a grizzly bear just for kicks before breakfast. Next, they're off to work building entire log cabins (somehow, with just an axe). Later, they ride home on a wild horse just in time to fish a 15 lb bass from the lake for dinner before finally falling asleep in their massive tree-house-style ranch.

Ok, maybe it's not exactly like that. Still, this is the perception I am bombarded with on a regular basis. It is a stereotype of the worst kind. I believe it has been less of a stereotype that I have developed personally and more of one that has been impressed upon me, but it is a stereotype nonetheless. That should invalidate it, right? I wish I could push it away, but the frequency of which I am personally judged against this stereotype is immensely irritating. I have been left with the impression that, somehow, there are 'guy' guys and then there is me. I'm different, they propose, though they are quick to add how great it is that I am so different. Regardless, when you are told you are different and in such regularity, you begin to question the nature of that difference.

Then it hit me this week. I had a rather disheartening conversation with someone I can genuinely say I had an attraction to at some point. Based on that conversation and several others, I'm coming to grips with the fact that I strike a wide audience of females as being homosexual. These people have assumed me to be gay and are surprised to find out that I'm not. I'd be interested to know how many males think this about me, but I suppose it concerns me less because I am not attracted to males (ironically enough). It does concern me, though. Not to sound callous, but I enjoy sleeping with women, yet I am repeatedly placed into what is dreadfully referred to as the "friend zone" by women I am outright attracted to. It has become so frustrating that I often times find myself settling for overly confrontational women and/or aggressive, which is something I have avowed never to do again. Now, I have exactly 0 against people who indulge in same-sex relationships. I think it's great we live in an era where it is becoming increasingly more acceptable to do so. It's seems America is taking tiny progressive steps to moving past our puritan phobias, but are our stereotypes still getting the better of us?

Take this article for example. Now, there is clearly an intolerable discrimination against the Gay community taking place here. Your blood could be infected, regardless of your sexual orientation and self-reporting is hardly an accurate method of screening. Tests, not discrimination, should be used. Still, it brought to mind, for me, the aforementioned issue. How could they say this man appears gay? What was the criteria in their mind that solidified their sweeping generalization?

We can put a lot of things forward just from the photograph: He is very slim, his feature are very fair and soft. We can further imagine, perhaps, that his voice is a bit higher. Maybe he likes to talk about clothes or how he loves animals. He could enjoy music about falling in love, liberal about dispensing hugs, and dreams of a big wedding someday. What have we done? Have we not just described a stereotypical female?

That is the question my mind toys with. We are told that a strong, empowered, emboldened female is correct and progressive as a society, yet we look down on men who take it upon themselves to be caring and like to sew quilts. Worse, we are categorizing them as having a different sexual orientation and, according to the article, just for how they look. It's not just him, it's me too. It's a lot of guys out there and from my personal experience, I can tell you it is immensely painful and frustrating. I want to be sensitive and vulnerable and not judged as being too feminine or gay, just as I'm sure there are women out there who want to be strong and assertive and not be called too masculine or butch. We aren't trying to be anything, we're simply ourselves.

It brings to mind the struggle of the Transexual, who perhaps has the sort of enlightenment that is needed in this moment; that the gender roles we attach to our facets do not define us. Bench pressing 500lbs does not make you a man any more than baking a cake and petting your cat makes you feminine. We are not consigned to any one gender role, same sex relationship or not, since the essence of these roles are based on purely trivial, meaningless things. Attempting to affix labels based on these preconceived notions of gender or sexual preference is small mindedness of the most stupendous kind.

How can we address this properly, though, when we perceive someone acting in a manner in which our culture would have us define as Gay or Feminine?  Perhaps being aware of our silent assumptions, as we sit engaging in conversation with a man wearing pink and giggling about how adorable those shoes are. Perhaps he is and maybe he is very proud of this label. But since I cannot tell what labels he identifies with, as he tells me how much he enjoys fuzzy, adorable kitten. I keep my assumptions to myself, no....I suspend them. I sheath them, knowing how very sharp they are and how very deep they can cut. I smile and enjoy his company, comfortable with someone else who is comfortable with exactly who they are.

Home, In Retrospect

I was born and raised in a town in rural Ohio. I think I've ran across two people my entire life who knew it's whereabouts in a conversation. There are about 5 churches at my last count, all with regular attenders. We have one stop light, one general store, and a soft serve stand that's been going strong for as long as I can remember. School is a bus ride away; across corn fields, around hills and over some hills, too. That's Ohio for you, lots and lots of hills. You can see them all the way out to the horizon, covered in trees were visible any time of year. The winters can be pretty insufferable, but if you can make it past that, it's a lot like living in a post card.

If you're looking for thrills and excitement, I hope you like driving. There is no public transportation; if you want to go out to eat, you're driving for a half hour. Come to think of it, if you want to do *anything*, you're driving a half hour! That's what comes from living in the country. You get peace and quiet, but it's exactly that; no fancy restaurants or shopping malls, no race-car style highways, no live production theaters. It's a simple place built on simple, honest living. It is a world unto itself; No street signs selling you dreams of what you could be or what you could have (Not that anyone there cares), no trains, planes, or crowds of people demanding your attention. Though, you may run into a tractor or Amish buggy on your way to work. I suppose that's excitement, right?

The people that live there are far from simple, though. They might come off as simple, I'll give you that. You'll not find a populace outside of Texas with better drinking prowess or of better automotive repair skills. And yes, we have our Rebel Flag wavers. Don't be put off, though.They're hard workers; hard workers with strong work ethics. They don't make a living like a lot of other people do, not unless they're driving for an hour and ahalf to the city (and some most certainly do). The ones that work local make it by the old fashioned way. They're teachers, dentists, and pastors. They're farmers, hunters, and factory workers. They're about as real of people as you can get. We've got our crazies, our drunks, and are socially inept, but in my experience, you'll not meet a group of people that is more compassionate and honest as the folks back home. 

I can't help but look back and smile at all the quiet lessons that were taught to me over the years. Lessons like how to forgive someone; even though they don't really deserve it, how to get up and go to your job every day without fail; unless you're on your death bed, and how to have compassion for the least among us because they are people too. I was taught to believe in true love, that there is some greater plan for things, and that we're all part of something together that is bigger than all of us. I learned about community and sticking together (which is probably why I still love to pay double to shop local). Over the years, I've come to realize that that is my idea of beauty, in a way. Everyone working together, our own strengths and weaknesses combined, to accomplish whatever goal is necessary. As it is for the individual, so it should be for the whole, I believe. 

I moved away recently; first from my home, then from everything I've ever known. I've been watching the process outside of myself with a mixture of amusement and disgust. The best I can say is that it is a strange animal of experiences. You expand your horizons; opening your mind up to new tastes, sounds, and ideas. You learn ways of doing things that you never thought would be possible before. You meet people that aren't different on the outside, but different on the inside in ways you never imagined, who've had experiences you can barely comprehend.

You cannot walk away unchanged. You become a different person, in a sense, and you can never go back. Oh you can go back home, for sure, but in your mind, it will never be quite the same. The world is no longer a simple place with simple goals. You'd merely be sitting in a quiet neck of the woods for a moment. The world is out there loud and fierce and there is no forgetting that. The voice of the world cannot be silenced and it will ask insistently, "Who are you? What are you made of? What do you stand for?" There's nothing quite as frightening as experiencing the questioning, demanding, judging eye of the world upon you for the first time.

So yeah, maybe I was learning how to climb trees while you were learning about the fine arts; maybe I was imagining laser gun battles battles with the kids from the block while you were worried about actual guns; and maybe I was wondering why I was treated different because I was a little geeky when you were being treated miserably just because your skin was a different color. I can't change how I grew up, but I can decide who I become. I'm here now and I'm here to learn from you. I want to know all your stories and all the things I missed living in a place best described as "sheltered". Because some day, I'm going back home. When I get there, maybe I can teach everyone a little about what I've learned. I won't lie to them; hell, I'll tell them it's scary as hell. Maybe, though, I can teach them some things that will help them along the way. 

After all, no one can stay home forever.