Vanishing Point

Vanishing Point

Chatted with a friend who is still serving in the military today, then with one who retired around the time I did.

My life before and now.

Over a decade ago I walked out of my unit in uniform, for the last time. I made a point to pay attention to the moment. I looked back at the building where I spent 15 years. Countless missions, exercises, deployments both near and far.

It was an intense 15 years. More like 100 condensed into a decade and a half.

It’s not the years….it’s the mileage.

When I got home the thrill and sadness of taking my BDU’s and boots off for the last time was overwhelming. I think I sat there for a while letting that moment sink in as well.

It really hits you.
Hard.

One of my new and amazing coworkers is a history buff like me. (I ponder my own personal history a little too much)
But last year I almost faded and vanished. I hit a point in my life and career where I was a ghost. No compass, North Star, finish line or any goal to reach.

Adrift.

I finally found myself, family and God again. (He didn’t go anywhere….I did)

After getting those key relationships back on track, I just needed my career….fixed.

It took longer than I liked, but I’m spoiled. (Ask my sisters)

This is my quarterly reminder that when you feel like you are invisible or fading away, you will reform and be whole again.

Just know when to lean on someone.

Keep praying.

Find your center and balance and stick that landing.

😉

Another Hole in my Heart

Due to COVID, we delayed a celebration of life for an old friend who passed away, way too young.

He inherited his Father’s weak heart, even though his own was the biggest one I ever knew.

During the speeches, and subsequent accompanying slideshows, it still felt abstract. He would appear on stage at any moment to our relief, and cries of joy. It would have a been a huge life lesson to live your life to the fullest and realize how much loss is felt from so many after you are gone.

He didn’t appear, there was no reveal, there was no ultimate punchline. He was still gone.

Maybe that’s what we are suppose to do. Take their loss and make your remaining years count more…be of greater purpose.

Honor those who are gone, each day and do something good, be a better human than the day before.

How quickly we forgot and return to our own private “starting lines”.

How quickly we take so much for granted.

Again.

Never go to bed angry, never let too much time pass between catching up with family or friends.

Never delay apologizing. Lose graciously and reconnect.

I know this won’t work for everyone in your life, and all we can do is try.

I think back to Captain Miller in “Saving Private Ryan”….his last dying breath:

“Earn this…”

It’s kind of fitting with Memorial Day coming up as well.

Don’t let others sacrifice go without earning each day you still take a breath.

Don’t Thank Me For My Service

Tomorrow I turn 57. And tomorrow my department is hosting a Military Appreciation luncheon for all Veterans. I’m really not looking forward towards either.

I’ve been retired for 14 years. When COVID started to hit, I chose a position with less stress, more hands-on work. After so many years of bouncing around job to job, and nightmare coworkers and even worse management, I finally found my stride again. I was needed, I was handling things that were fixable. I was almost back to “normal”.

I had and still do have “adjustment issues” after leaving the military. It was a very specific life, pace, and sense of purpose. I was working along side people of high character, motivation, selflessness, and passion. Yes, there was jerks and drama….but the mission outweighed all of that. I didn’t have time to abide useless people. (one of my favorite lines from “Firefly”)

I know I slip into “War Stories” too many times. I know I hold onto that past life a little too much, I miss those “Glory Days” more than I should.

I’ve been trying to tone it down…Trying. But it was such a huge part of my life and an amazing life-changing experience. It’s almost impossible to NOT bring it up.

When I joined back in 1986….it rescued me. It gave me purpose, direction…and sense of accomplishment.

As I get older, and the chronic pain is a daily/hourly reminder….I want to keep my “pride” internalized. I don’t want to flaunt it, yet I do wear my military hat with pride, but I read somewhere it helps us identify other Vets when we are out and about. Our little secret handshake. We swap history briefly and move on.

Also….my experience with some current non-veteran coworkers was not on the best of terms. And… I don’t want their “Thanks”. They don’t deserve the right when they themselves are petty and toxic.

I know it makes some people feel better to say it, and I give them a smile and thank them. Which seems redundant. Maybe some of them have family or friends who have served…or are currently serving now. So its my turn to thank those who are carrying the proverbial torch now.

Maybe a few years ago, I wanted someone’s “Thanks” but now…I just want to lay low and enjoy my history silently to myself.

And yet…I somehow mention it in conversation time to time. My military version of a Freudian slip.

One thing I can’t hide is when the National Anthem plays….and I’m facing the flag….I still get choked up and know…I help her keep flying in my own way.

Feed your head

My last couple of years was like a line from Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”.

One pill made me mellow, borderline comatose. Another pill made me hyper. When they wanted to give me yet another pill to “turn me off” at night, I decided I needed to go a different route.

2015 was a nightmare and just kept getting worse. It wasn’t so much a “Wonderland” more of a…”Mental Wasteland”. I was so lost.

In the early part of 2016, I went to my local VA and asked for help. They actually listened to me. They paid attention to what did what and what I needed.

The last couple of years my dreams were…exhausting. They were repetitive, a skipped record, never ending repeats.

My doctor prescribed Zoloft. I described my mental state as a TV store with 50 TVs, all on different channels.

So. Much. Noise.

The first day of taking my new meds was a huge turning point. I was able to focus, I wanted to “be there”.

I still had a ways to go, in finding purpose in my career. I also had to repair my family life and marriage.

This past year, as I enjoy some resemblance of calm…I no longer am chasing that damn White Rabbit.

My New Normal

“What if this is as good as it gets” -Melvin Udall, As Good As It Gets

That line in movie didn’t strike me as much as is does now. Back in 1997, I was still a hard charger, I had momentum, I was inspired, hungry, energetic.

Now…now it has a whole different meaning to me. I’ve been at my highest and lowest since then. Now…now I’m in the middle trying to get back “up there”.

The only trouble is, where exactly is “there”?

With medication, therapy, job changes, a new hobby, some better financial stability….forgiveness, from myself and others…I’m now awake to my New Normal.

I’m not buried under stress, angst, fear, crushing depression. I’m still a little cautious, jilted, a little afraid, a little angry at some people from my past, but not as bad.

Now I’m noticing I can exhale a little easier. I can look forward to work. I don’t have to look over my shoulder for my stalker. (A long story and not as scary as it sounds)

I can breathe. I mostly have peace.

It’s like a truce with myself. An honesty, an admittance that I’m a changed version of who I was.

Some days I feel like it was a coma, or a bad dream. I feel like I lost some good years wasted on the wrong people, the wrong emotions. I quit living for a while. Felt like I was just surviving each hour. Which is exhausting looking back on it.

I hope you find your new normal. It’s not always perfect, but it’s better than the day before, or the week. Month, year.

My blog title is a nod to my underlying issue. I still hold onto bitterness, regret, loss. The Past.

Like the distant rumble of the thunderstorm, I’m not sure if it’s heading away or towards me sometimes. It’s just out of sight.

My new normal.

Coal Miner’s Son

I have this small statue of a coal miner on my desk at work. (Made out of coal)

It’s a conversation piece and mostly a reminder for me of two important things: my father and his long hard life.

These help keep me grounded if I ever want to complain about anything in life.

My father was born in 1914. The son of immigrants who left Central Europe for many reasons.

His father, my grandfather I never met died in his 50’s. He too was a coal miner. My Dad described him as a short stocky man.

The only thing I have from him is his crude and wide wedding bad. It looks like something from Medieval times.

To support his mother, my father dropped out of 7th grade to work the coal mines. Just this knowledge alone about my father is heartbreaking. When he wasn’t working in the mines, he worked odd jobs, fixing Model A’s and T’s, he was a gravedigger….and such.

He played pool at the local bar and attended church regularly.

He did this for 22 years and decided it was time to find a better way of life. He told me he worked at the Fisher Auto Body plant performing different jobs there. My favorite one I remember him telling me was he would sit in a completed car shell and would ride through a rain tunnel with a flashlight and piece of chalk marking leaks in the car.

He was also a janitor at Kent State briefly and then became a machinist.

When WWII broke out, they told him to stay in the steel mill, and that his skill set would be needed even more for the war effort. My father told me one of the things he machined was 16” frag shells for the Navy.

Somewhere along the line, he worked along side a man named Peter. Peter was married with 4 children and passed away from perhaps war injuries and other causes.

My father helped the new widow around the house, and eventually ended up marrying her. I came into this world as a result of those chain of events.

He continued working in the steel mill until he suffered an almost devastating stroke.

He finally came home from the hospital a slightly changed man. Hard of hearing, numbness on one side, always cold and his speech was affected.

He couldn’t sit still and started taking long walks. This was probably his best therapy both mentally and physically. He kept busy around the house but was told that he should move to a warmer climate. This was due to his stroke and his Black Lung from all those years in the mines.

He lived a good long life and was active up into his early 80’s. Already outliving most of his friends and his brothers who stayed in the cold Northern climate.

When he fell ill, his black lung was a final contributing factor to his final hours. He was on a ventilator and would never recover from it.

Honoring his wishes, I said my final goodbye and thanking him for being such a strong influence on my life.

I held his weathered hand memorizing every detail of them. All the years of hard work they did.

I probably think of him almost everyday, and still have a thousand questions for him.

I’m fascinated by anything mechanical and involving woodworking.

I see him in the mirror and in my own hands.

This is how I keep his memory alive.

Digital Ghosts

Digital Ghosts

If you are having a beautiful day, if the Sun is shining and you are in your happy place, do not read any further.

You have been warned.

A blogger pointed out how the Internet and our Digital Age can stir up fresh emotions and memories that would have otherwise faded away with time and distance.

Let’s take a few steps back as I pose this question to you: Did you ever look yourself up on the Internet? Whether it was curiosity, ego, morbid fascination, or narcissism?

The first time I did I was slightly shocked. It was a story about a deployment I was on and had a specific quote I made. It is now forever entombed on the Internet.

Over the years I found some new breadcrumbs, public records, digital artifacts from my online life and personification.
(I am not famous just to clarify)

Recently I looked again, to make sure my name wasn’t used in vain or somebody with my name was doing something very, very bad and I would be collateral damage. I really feel bad for the John Smith’s of the world.

Just like walking through a mine field that had a path cleared and marked with flags, I stumbled upon an old one, a long forgotten pit or emotional trap. So when you see the term “Cleared Minefield” that is only lip service. No minefield will ever be cleared. Ask those who survived them. Whether physically or emotionally.

For whatever reason a small town newspaper up North started digitizing their archives. Now this was the purpose of the Internet, to have instant access to information, history and people. In this case, it was my sister’s car accident. My name was right there as one of her surviving family members.
I was barely 11 that year. Now that buried memory was converted into 1’s and 0’s in a specific fashion and cached on a computer somewhere. And here I am decades later, reliving that sunny day in Florida all over again. The true impact of loss grows each year. All the missed phone calls, sharing of life events, visits….meals shared, her own family that never happened….Gone.

I always hope putting it to words will help it go away. I was told I over-think things…it’s a good skill for planning or getting through hard problems, but there is no course of action, there is no fix. Maybe a couple glasses of wine will drown it.

Some say ghosts do exist, those kind of TV shows have a bunch of people overreacting to every squeak and gust of wind with overdramatic reactions and hype. Ghosts can be in our hearts and minds. A wisp of memory that cannot be touched or dealt with. Here is where we are truly haunted. The cure is a brave face, a forced smile and showing the world you managed to get out of bed, off the floor or out of the bottle and somehow continued to live again.

There is a cure however. Take all those negative feelings and pain, and put them to good use. Keep living. Focus your attention on the living and overcome the desire to lay down and quit.

Another way to exorcize Digital Ghosts?

Turn the computer off once in a while.

Legacy

Our parent’s legacy becomes legend.

We filter out the bad memories and hopefully focus on the good ones. No parent is ever perfect.

I reflect on her life and all the hardships she had to endure. A widow into her mid to late 30’s with 4 children would probably break most people. My father came into her life and gave her a 5th child. (Yours truly).

Somehow she kept going, somehow she made the best of whatever life handed her. She was the perfect hostess, making grand meals during family gatherings or a cup of coffee for her brothers at her “impromptu truck stop” in Honey Brook, Pa.

She had an amazing laugh, and buried the pain both physically and mentally.

She had some more challenging years later in life and towards the end, she came back to her Pennsylvania.

It’s fitting she was born just before Mother’s Day.

I miss your laugh, and wish I could tell you how amazing I think you were for how you kept going with all those hills and valleys in your life.

Happy Birthday Mom. ❤️

Accidental Purpose

How many babies are actually “planned”?

Yes, people marry and want to start a family, but how many are not actually planned?

This isn’t an argument for planned parenthood, birth control, marriage or abortion. This is about what a child is suppose to do with the knowledge (if they find out) they were never meant to be?

My mother’s first husband died young from injuries and the horrors of WWII.

She was a widow in her late 30’s with four children. My father worked with him and helped her out around the household. He may have even lent her money for various things.

I guess somewhere down that line…she felt sorry for this confirmed bachelor who was well into his 40’s and probably never really dated anyone.

As her pregnancy was confirmed, she probably felt despondent with a 5th child on the way and she was still a widow.

Depending on who’s version I believe, which came up 15 years after my birth…..she didn’t want to keep me and my father begged her to and he would marry her and support her and her four children. …and the baby.

There was and probably still a time where I believe that version. I’ve made peace (more or less) with my Mother before she died. She never knew how to apologize for anything.

It was confusing enough growing up in a household where my siblings had a different last name, realizing we had different fathers…and so on.

My childhood was never normal. Never. Ever.

So the headlong dive into my growing years, ignoring my life, history and “uniqueness” in this world….I just never looked back into the darkness.

My 15th year on this planet I seemed to age to 25 over night. Not so much as matured, I just skipped over those years most kids would have.

My youngest (older) sister died when I was ten, we were very close and the hole she left in my life will forever be there in my heart.

So after a Summer of catching my breath, sorting through the ashes of my parent’s divorce/war….I ended up living my Father. The man who fought for me to come into existence.

We lived together until my 21st birthday and I left to join the Military. Another epic tale for a later time.

My Father had a major stroke when I was about 8 years old. He was 50 when I was born. I cringe of the thought of having a 7 year old version of me running around at this stage in my life.

So with his forced retirement, I had more time with my Father than other kids. Maybe this was God squeezing in as much time with him as possible because he had less days ahead than behind.

I was there for him towards his final years when he could no longer take care of himself. I moved him closer and when he was in the hospital with no chances of ever leaving again…I had to make the decision (and honor his wishes) to let him go.

Now that I am a husband and father to my own children….I realize I do have a purpose on this Earth.

To make a positive difference in others lives…to nurture my children to do the same. To have a passion, to make a difference and to not take advantage of others as we call try to figure out this big mysterious picture.

To have purpose…that’s reason enough for me. Even if I have to define it.

Most of my quiet prayers at night of when I am struggling, I finish it with:

“Thank you for this Life.”