Escaped the Monster

I worked over 60 hours in 4-ish days for Hurricane Ian.

When my unit would finish a mission or exercise in the field we would sometimes have an ENDEX party. Even if it was just sitting around with a few colds ones. We usually just sat there and enjoyed the deafening silence of the night and looked back internally on what went right and what went…not-so-right. And no matter how bad it may have been, I couldn’t wait to deploy with my brothers and sisters in uniform on the next mission. Because I knew they had my back.

Now I sit alone with my 3-finger pour of Jim Beam and my dog on my lap. She wondered where I have been.

I sit watching a cloudy sunset with the remnants of the beast still rotating it’s reach in the western sky.

We dodged another fatal storm. Maybe luck, maybe a century old blessing by the natives.

My liver was probably happy with the reprieve this week. Now I slowly sip the warmth and reflect on when I was younger and bolder, heading out to the disaster zone.

I enjoy this peace and quiet knowing my bed awaits me when I’m ready to sleep.

Cheers.

Chemical Imbalance

Such an easy excuse to be depressed. Or to have anxiety.

But what exactly throws that “balance” out? Would having a “normal” and sheltered life cause me to have a different experience in this world?

Or did I start with a few strikes genetically? The pin was already pulled on my grenade just waiting for the count to finish. 3 seconds, minutes, months..decades?

Did having an adventurous and challenging career buy me some time? Fueled with exercise, alcohol, massive amounts of Caffeine help keep me one step ahead of the guys in white jackets with giant butterfly nets?

I ran away from my childhood and late teen years. It was a dead end. I needed change, to be someone else. To be….Somewhere else.

To do anything else than just exist.

Early attempts at therapy only reminded me of my past.

The next attempt they prescribed the wrong things. Terribly wrong things.

I needed one to get me going, but another one to turn it off. This was a red flag for me.

Eventually I found a care provider that actually listened to me. Of how I had all these TV’s in the store window all tuned to different channels. How I latched onto anger and anxiety. I couldn’t let go of it.

Either he was good, or I was lucky.

The first day the Zoloft kicked in….it changed some things. It was “quieter”. I felt some relief.

I know we change as we get older, but some new sources of stress have tried to break me again. But I somehow managed to keep just a few inches ahead of it.

Now I need to look deeper within. I need to do some more work on myself.

The meds are helping, but if I drown them with a stiff drink, I need to restrain myself.

My eating habits are horrendous at times. I’m not a young man with insane metabolism anymore.

I am finding balance in work and life finally. Releasing what’s actually important.

Now I just need to find it inside….

Lighthouse

Lighthouses seem to be a perfect metaphor for those who are lost whether physically, emotionally, or just with life in general.

They are there to help avoid the rocks and shoreline, but also give you a point of reference during your journey. Maybe to signify you are almost there.

I’ve noticed that a lighthouse can be manifested and represented by people, or choices.

When I was in my darkest days, I sought for any shimmer of light. Just to show me the edge, or ending to my situation at hand.

I turned to prayer at night before trying to sleep. Hoping there is a higher power, listening to their billions of faithful followers.

I’m too impatient and greedy to share “them” with anyone. I was told you can’t treat faith like an ATM. I know we also tend to not give thanks for either answered prayers…or when things are going great.

Ego is usually a narcissist.

Early in your life, your parents, siblings or other adults may have served as your proverbial guiding light. (If you were fortunate to have a normal childhood)

Now it may be your significant other or best friend who guides you to safer shores.

Most days at this point in my life I don’t leave the safety of my home port. I’ve gone beyond that horizon. While I miss the adventure of the unknown….I find solace in staying still and avoiding the rip currents and rocks just out of sight.

The Table

The are only a handful of things that stay with us all of our lives, memories (good and bad), family, friends and sometimes something you wouldn’t pay very much attention to. In this case, a table. As far back as I can remember, this table has been in my life in some way, some place or another. What’s amazing about this particular table is that is had two very distinct lives. (I bet your coffee table can’t top that) The family story goes an Uncle was stationed overseas in Belgium. After the war…early to mid ’50s. He found this shipwheel, either on a ship or somewhere nearby. They had it made into this table with matching chairs. I wonder what that ship was when it was “alive”. Did it fight in the war, carrying supplies, civilians…spies? Did it ferry refugees home after the war ended?

Usually the story would end there with the death of the ship. No, this wheel took on a new life.

Through twists of fate and bartering among family, it ended up with mine. There are probably dozens of pictures, some Super 8 film of this table in our lives. One has me walking under it as a toddler. My mother swears she remembers the specifc day when I was tall enough to catch my head on it finally. I remember making it my fortress, cave, clubhouse…

I think the most important thing is the life events that happened around it. Endless meals and prayers were said around it. Family recipes where shared and pot luck and endless summer family reunions. (When it was our turn to host them) Easter Baskets were placed upon it. The booty from a sucessful Halloween haul was inspected and sorted on it. A budding artist spent hours creating his finest works of art ever.

(Nobody could draw a better John Deere tractor in action as viewed out the back window.)

At one time our house was an informal truck stop for my numerous uncles who would stop on thier various routes that just happened to pass by. Coffee, more food and quite the collection of dirty trucker jokes would fill the dining room.

Laughter…..lots of laughter went around that table. Sometimes from a joke, a tall tale by my Grandfather, and my uncles of course. Or from the youngest of five who would mix and match punchlines. Laughter from a baby born into the ever exnandina familv. Laughter at weddings, rehersal dinners, birthdays, anniversaries…

Sadness, sadness was there too. The death of a family member was felt and wieghed upon as we sat there. Sadness of wondering when my father would come home from the hospital after his stroke. (It felt like 10 years to me) Sadness of sickness, loss of a job, and sadness realizing that it was time to move south.

Hope…..hope was there. The house was different, the climate far too hot…but the table was still there in the new life. By now the table traveled thousands of miles. Hope that new friends could be made….more family would make the long journey to visit.

As with some families, they get broken and divided. The table was moved yet again, numerous times. And eventually made the journey North again. More memories made around it, only sadly, with less and less family to be around it.

Now this year, it’s time for another transition.

Where it ends up I do not know. I only hope if not with family, then with someone who will make new memories around it.

Acceptable Losses

I think part of growing older is accepting what is and is not important. Also what you want versus what you actually need.

When my parents divorced, I felt like the world was ending. Not having BOTH parents in my life 24/7 was unthinkable.

But…I ended up with my Dad…and got to know him better. I learned to be self-sufficient, cook, clean…for myself. At 15.

I avoided a train wreck in my mother’s new marriage/relationships. Yes…plural.

Once I found some footing…which still took until I was 21, I somehow survived. I escaped my little hometown and set out to see the world on my own. Mostly.

My life could have been so much different and tragic if I stayed with either my mother, or never left that little town that was slowly dying each day.

Even though I write about how “harsh” the past was….I wouldn’t trade my current life for anything.

Acceptable losses.

To Want

There was a time when we couldn’t keep our hands or lips off each other.

Flesh upon flesh. Desire. Hunger.

Whenever darkness fell, we pounced on each other. Throwing our clothes to the floor. Being one. Moving in sync. Feeling the warmth, the passion. The heat.

Every waking thought was of her. I grew thirsty for her touch. To be within arms reach.

Whispers and moans in the dark. Encouragement to do more of this, or more of that.

Tugging of hair, grasping of flesh to pull one closer. To be one. Every nerve aflame. It was like diving into the Sun.

When the climax would come, our souls would leave our bodies and float into heaven briefly.

Slowly we drifted back down to this flesh and blood existence like cinders from a slowly dying bonfire.

Gasping for breath. Sweat on the skin.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But after years and decades. Familiarity bred contempt. Days turned into months…

More cross words than those of unconditional love. The walls of promise became a prison. Comfort over drastic measures.

Security over….change.

I would just want to hold her and smell her scent. But even that is a rare occurrence.

We are just familiar roommates. Cell mates. Heavenly bodies trapped around a black hole of….routine.

I’d probably die without her. In spite of my needs. And pain.

I’ve found brief comfort in others. A sad cry for help and a selfish temporary fix.

Her gravity and history alway brings me back. There is no escape.

This is when “For Better or For Worse” really tests your commitment.

As our bodies age and hair turns grey. Our options are limited. Maybe that’s how God ensures you stay put.

For now, I will dream of those days from long ago. And drift off into a hopeful slumber of peace and serenity.

Til Death Do Us Part..

Jenny ‘86: Epilogue

I kept digging into the history of Jenny.

I couldn’t stop. Everything was there on the internet. It just needed to be dug up.

She was married at least times since we dated.

She had children from at least 2-3 different men. She stole, she drifted.

It looks like she finally found peace. And I hope my message from left field didn’t destroy her calm. Or brought up those bad memories.

I ponder if I “rescued” her and have her stability. Security.

I think we could have made it work. The sex was fantastic. Not that it’s a guarantee of happiness. Or a long and healthy marriage.

Learning about her past was addictive. Sometimes I felt dirty and perverse. But I had to know what happened to the exotic little blonde.

She got beaten up and worn down. But she somehow made it.

I mustered up the courage to let her go again.

As my blog says…The Past is a Cold Harsh Mistress.

Nomad

With the magic of the internet and Google Earth, I retrace my childhood and younger years on the road.

I use to take any road with no destination in mind. I just wanted to see something new…something else.

What was around the next bend? What lies ahead over the next hill?

Who would I meet next? What was I trying to outrun, leave behind…

To forget.

The cassette mix tape would play endlessly. Some songs fast and furious, others introverted and morose.

These songs foretold future love and heartache. They promised better days ahead. They also warned about loss and crushing failures.

Decades later they proven to be true and hold an even deeper meaning.

Back then as the view in the windshield shifted slowly, I was waiting for something, anything else. Something or someone new.

I embraced my self-imposed exile. I held onto my loneliness. No one could hurt me then. Disappointment was rare. If I just kept picking a new road, chase a new temporary love. Touched new flesh. A different gasp in the darkness. Just to feel new and alive.

Lips upon a new nape. A different scent.

Now that everything is the same day in and day out. A new prison of routine. I revisit those roads that granted me a brief escapism.

Maybe that’s why I listen to those older songs. To transport back to my untainted self.

Now I just roam in my mind. Digging deep for memories and perspective.

A nomad without a tribe. Without a destination. I’m already there and cannot leave. I’ve been around every bend and over every hill. Nothing is new.

Now when I close my eyes for the night, I drift in the twilight world and pray I find something magical and new. Just a change for once.

Just once.

Time Machine

Various photos in a box or photo album. Some color, some black and white, the older ones that may be before your time have a sepia tone to them.

You can look back on so many versions of yourself. When you were naive to the world. Everything was new and exciting.

You didn’t know loss up to a certain age. Everyone and everything was suppose to go on forever.

I see who died too son and are now long gone and wonder what they would be like now. I see the older generation and if I was fortunate, I can see their younger selves.

I have two favorite photos of my father in his early 20’s. He looked older due to his time in the coal mines at an early age. His harsh features already reflected someone who knew hard work. Who understood sacrifice.

Moving forward…in the past, I see my life in snippets of good and bad times. Always smiling regardless of what that moment held.

I ponder the what-ifs of actual time travel and what I would try to change. One small nudge could have huge repercussions later down the timeline. Everything in this life happened due to the minutes and hours beforehand. Like that proverbial pebble tossed in the stream, causing Eddie’s and minute flows and swirls.

Maybe I truly am at peace. For I don’t want to go back and change anything. It’s easy to try and save a loved ones life. But my “now” wouldn’t be what it is. My three children each in their rooms, laughing, creating, talking with a potential life long mate.

This little rescued dog on my lap wouldn’t be here asleep and at peace. Reminding me of what unconditional love is.

My aches and pains are my daily reminders of a career that pushed me to limits that may have broken others.

These photos are pieces of my soul.

Pictures are our story, a time machine and a reminder of what we had and what we eventually lose.

…and what we need to hold onto.

Forever.

The Occasional Christian

My Faith in God is questionable at times. Science and Technology have made it harder to believe in him.

But every once in awhile, something happens that points to either divine intervention or receiving Grace when I probably do not deserve it.

I wonder if the word “probably” is even in the Bible? God seems to be pretty clear on things.

Like when he told his followers, not in charge of the Ark of the Covenant, to not touch it…and someone does, they are struck down dead.

Not maybe, not probably, but definitely.

So when God says he forgives, I guess he must mean it. Those times when I doubted him, myself, my fellow humans…he kept surprising me.

When I was at my lowest, betraying my marriage vows, when I lied, and gave up “talking” to “Him”, he still gave me Grace and eventually a path to get back on track.

And then when things are going well, I don’t thank him for those times.

My Pastor who is the first person to help actually dive deep into my Faith for the first time ever, pointed out we try to use Faith and Fortune like an ATM Machine. Never paying attention to the fees and remaining balance.

When I judge, criticize and have hatred in my heart…I think he is “probably” disappointed. 😉

Only when I am beaten down, and at my lowest, I kneel before bedtime at the Altar of Elusive Sleep. Only then I reach out to him among the many other believers and hope he hears me.

I pray for direction, insight, hope, a specific chain of events and outcomes. I pray for forgiveness, yet again.

One thing I do say at the end, is “Thank you for this life.”

Knowing that I wasn’t planned or conceived in wedlock. But yet here I am, trying to make a difference for the better, for the greater good.

I try to leave some kind of legacy, create children who will go out in the world and find their own purpose.

I’m 50+ going on 100 most days now.

I have less days ahead than behind. I want to believe there is some kind of heavenly reward, a finish line. A justification.

I’m afraid that all this debating, all this Hope and belief will just end in silence and a dark abyss.

For nothing.