Relationships

Me, Them, or Us

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I just listened to a speaker at a local Unitarian church. This gentleman was a deconverted pastor who came to a realization in 2012 that God does not exist. This must have been a very difficult and poignant idea to bring to consciousness and embrace. Standing firm in the belief meant publicly refuting everything his life was centered around: identity, purpose, fulfillment, and community. To varying degrees, those four items are integral components of the human condition and if a contemporary paradigm is shattered, another must be built in its place. Interest in hearing this speaker stemmed from a continued search for existential truth while I try to rebuild my own life paradigm. The last item, community, resonated with me as the lack of one has been so isolating and lonely. When left exclusively to my own thoughts for too long, the plunge into self-loathing and self-sabotaging behavior is never far behind.

The concept of community as a human need has deeper meaning than simply the world one lives and operates in; a practical definition might be, participating with other human beings in shared experience and intimacy. The criteria of shared experience is easy to meet while shared intimacy can be, and has always been for me, quite elusive. Within a healthy community, intimacy is and should be exercised to varying degrees but at its core, intimacy requires trust. It involves feeling comfortable enough to show all facets of oneself, including those very shiny facets that reflect the light and the ruminative ones that absorb it.

Falling into the western societal male gender role means being tough and “manning up” to get the job done, whatever that might entail. Weakness and sensitivity are deemed feminine, only to be hidden away, buried under layer upon layer of virile manhood. When it comes to emotional fortitude, I have been weak, especially in the past but still at times today. Perceived threats to my identity, real or imagined, have elicited feelings of inadequacy and shame. Overdeveloped sensitivity to these threats creates a risk-mitigating shield of fear that prevents authentic connection. The cycle has repeated over and over.

In the past several years I have been able to openly talk about this fear and others. The more open I am about it, the more comfortable I become and the less my behavior is negatively influenced. It started with a single trusted confidant and grew to include support group members. Now a willingness exists to talk freely about it with almost anyone who will listen. Unfortunately there are few individuals, if any, where a mutually deep level of intimacy exists and I am often left wanting in attempts to communicate on a very personal level.

I still don’t trust many people to let them in to the inner sanctum of my identity. Purposely going to that level outside of a structured institutional setting would be a new endeavor and it is understood that practice is necessary; gaining proficiency allows that mistakes will be made in initial attempts. It also means dealing with the aftermath of vulnerable communication by the inevitable replaying over and over in my mind of what was said and how it may have been perceived and interpreted. But the fact is, and I know and truly believe this on an intellectual level, desensitization will occur again and the aftermath of anxiety will lessen the more often I am vulnerable.

The first step is to identify a group and consistently participate within it to find those with a similar background and/or communication style. Close relationships of any kind are built upon consistently “showing up” for the other person or persons, whether it be a structured setting or otherwise. Fits and starts are part of the modus operandi that keeps the shield in place. Since determining to set a new paradigm after coming off the latest substance relapse, which ended September 15th, 2018, I have tried alternate support groups in Refuge Recovery, SMART Recovery, and a group at the local men’s center, all of which have been attended between one and three times. As of today, I have also attended two meetings of a Humanist group. I even went back to an old AA meeting twice.

The point is, I dabble but do not commit. And this creates a vicious cycle where I remain isolated through fear, the isolation leads to feelings of terminally awkward uniqueness, which then perpetuates the fear of being exposed as awkward, which justifies my isolation, and so on and so on. The pertinent question to myself as I write this: how much internal conflict and turmoil is necessary to commit to a community, with all its flaws and human fallibility on full display?

Beautiful Boy

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My father, sister, and I went to see Beautiful Boy last night at the Uptown Theater. Once again, gratitude took hold when noticing the ability to experience extremely divergent emotions without being all-consumed by any of them; laughter before and after the movie mixed with the general pleasantness of belonging, and grief and sadness of the movie subject matter mixed with painful personal memories certain scenes brought up.

While I can’t say that my father and I ever enjoyed the closeness that Nic and David displayed both in print (I read the book too), and on the screen, there is a tenderness that my father has always had which is incredibly endearing. He showed up in my life, both as a child and adult, in the best way he could. In seeing David’s anguish and desperation trying to save his son, it reminded me of tears my father shed and commitments he made personally. One 1988 stint in a halfway house cost more than $20,000 (equivalent to $42,000 today at an average 2.5% inflation rate) and he was there for all family groups and events.

It’s just that I was so damn angry at him for the divorce and the way my feelings were shoved aside. After reviewing old posts to see if one of the most, if not thee most traumatic life events has ever been described in this blog, it wasn’t found in the posts I thought it might be. It may still be back there somewhere but nevertheless it’s good to write it down again. While it used to be something I couldn’t speak about due to the pain experienced, it was worked through enough during psychoanalysis sessions to allow for current free expression.

One day at age 11, I came home from school and saw dad’s car in the driveway, which was unusual for 3 pm on a weekday. I walked inside to find mom having a meltdown and dad standing there with the guiltiest of looks you could ever see: he had told her he was leaving her for another woman. Obviously the plan was to break the news to her that day and at that time. It just now occurred to me how incredibly stupid it was for him to not think how it would be for me to walk into that situation. But I digress, for the actual event which caused so much pain took place 6 months later while meeting his new girlfriend for the first time.

Dad moved out the day he told mom he was leaving and every other weekend he would come and stay at the house and mom would then leave. I knew ahead of time that he was going to be bringing P over to stay with us during one of his visits. Anxiety and fear set in for the entire week prior to her impending arrival. By the time she showed up Saturday morning, I was PISSED. Anger was the only emotion expressed freely around our house and the rageful exhibit always arrived without notice. Thus I had no idea what to do with this most intense anger, having not been felt at this level for all of my 11 years.

She came over Saturday morning and after a few intolerant hours I went into my room. Finding all the things I could which were associated with my father, they were broken, torn, and otherwise destroyed. One year, Dairy Queen had a promotion where an ice cream sundae would be served in a different miniature football helmet with the correct NFL team color and corresponding decals. It took several weeks to accumulate all of them but we did that together, and the memory of the excitement of going there with him is still etched in my mind. Those helmets were prominently displayed on my shelf and I broke all twenty-eight of them.

The Empire Strikes Back was popular around that time and he had given me a toy fighter aircraft from the movie. It had its specific place reserved on the top and to the left side of my dresser. It was broken into 3 pieces. There was a baseball from an MLB game we attended together that had signatures from all the players. It came in a clear plastic display case which sat on my nightstand. I broke the case, took the baseball out and cut the cover off of it. Over the years dad and I put together several model airplanes and cars, all placed in their respective locations around my room. I was very proud of them, but in my anger broke every one.

I don’t remember all the specific individual things besides those but there were several more. The point is that these were all things I adored, were displayed prominently in my room, and which were chosen because in my young mind they represented my father in some way. I assembled all the broken pieces on top of my bed and said, “hey dad, can you come here?” He walked into the doorway of my room, looked at the debris on my bed and called to his girlfriend to come take a look. I will never forget what he said:

“Look what a great son I have…” He walked out and shut the door.

As the anger subsided I thought to myself, what have I done?? These were things I loved and which represented time my father had spent with me. What kind of monster would do something like that? I crumpled into the fetal position at the foot of my bed and sobbed for what seemed like hours. I remember trying to get up several times but whenever I did, I would be confronted with the destruction I created in the center of my bed. With no emotional fortitude to deal with that reality, I would again fall to a sobbing heap on the floor.

In those first hours after The Destruction, the greatest pain came from the belief that I caused irreparable harm to the relationship with my father. Things already weren’t the same with him being out of the house. What would happen now that his feelings had been so hurt by his only son? Had I pushed him even further away? Once again I wondered what kind of monster could do something like this?

It was the first time I definitively remember thinking that something was fundamentally wrong with me.

I stayed in my room the rest of the weekend until P left, along with all the destroyed items. No one came in to help me process what happened, not even mom when she returned home. I next had to go about the business of deciding what to do with this debris and couldn’t bear the thought of just throwing it in a garbage can. Some of it was beyond repair, like the baseball and some of the football helmets, and had to be thrown. Doing so just pushed the incredible shame I was experiencing deeper into my soul. Some items I tried to repair, like the model airplanes and cars.

So Stage 1 of this first identity crisis was the actual destroying of things and the response of my father. Stage 2 was the anguish of deciding what to do with broken and symbolic pieces of my father’s love. Then came Stage 3: the new normal. Belongings that were not thrown away and put back on my shelves had repairs that were made by an 11 year old. The cracks and the super glue were glaring highlights of the emotional crime committed. The things that used to be on my shelves represented dad’s affection and the interest he took in me; empty shelves and fractured symbols were ominous reminders of what had been lost.

Trying to place myself back in my 11 year old mind is impossible to the extent of remembering what I was hoping for. Whatever it was, I don’t think it was a conscious thought. Having gone over this event in great detail during psychoanalysis, the belief is that after calling him over to see my anger at the invasion of this new woman in our space, I wanted him to come into my room, sit down on the bed, put his arm around me, and tenderly ask what was wrong.

(Movie Spoiler Alert) The last scene of Beautiful Boy is Nic back in treatment sobbing in a chair while David sits stoically and distrustfully in a chair next to him. Nic continues to cry and David eventually places a hand on his shoulder. At the touch of his hand Nic’s catharsis increases and he turns sheepishly towards his dad. At that point David leans into Nic for a full embrace and the movie closes with that: a father and son both scared and bewildered by what life has thrown at them but not willing to give up.

My eyes welled up in the dark theater and then the lights came on. Had I been there watching it alone, in no way could the flow of emotion been stopped. Even now as I write this post at home, alone, tears have come several times.

My father is a great man and I love him more than he will ever know. We have both changed greatly over the past several years and now enjoy a relationship that is closer than ever. I was glad to be there with him last night. I was glad to experience the confluence of feelings and memories while being able to objectively observe how wondrous a multi-faceted emotional life really is. In the course of three hours I felt anxiety, love, belonging, calm, hilarity, sadness, shame, guilt, empathy, longing, jealousy, regret, and loneliness. By paying attention to what naturally flows through my mind during these periods of reality, I in turn feel alive in a way nothing else can simulate.

When we parted ways at the end of the night I really didn’t want to. I wish we could have gone into my sister’s condo and all spent the night so we could still be together in the morning.

I love you dad and I’m grateful to be your son.

Her

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I’ve made a vow that despite knowing others may read my posts, the value in doing this for me centers on being authentic. I’m not trying to get published or develop a following to make money. Rather, it’s a means to exercise something that I believe I’m good at. And,  most importantly, to sort out some of the monkey-mindedness that has gotten me into trouble so much in the past.

For the past two years, I’ve managed a bar and restaurant part-time on Friday and Saturday nights. I’ve dated a couple of the customers and made only a couple attempts to date some of the staff, to no avail. Since my divorce in 2010, only 1 of the 15 or so women I’ve dated have been over 32. I am in my mid-40’s. Its not that I’m opposed to dating someone older. In fact, I’d prefer it. However, that person has to have taken care of themselves for me to be attracted to them physically.

My parents bought me my first weight set when I was 10 years old and I’ve been an avid fitness enthusiast ever since. I go to the gym 5 days per week on average and for the most part eat very healthy. Also, I can thank my parents for the genes that have given me the outward appearance of someone younger. In guessing my age, most people arrive at between 30 and 35.

So to date someone my age, they have to have the same traits: a long-term interest in heath and fitness that is apparent in their appearance. Besides the attraction factor, the other piece to it is the mutual interest in a healthy lifestyle. If someone doesn’t get the relative importance I place on exercise and diet, then there will be conflict. Another factor to consider is the interest I have in the science of the mind and body; the two aren’t separate components but inextricably linked. One can’t live without the other. My emotions are felt in my body and they affect my behavior, which is exemplified by the action my body takes. So making the most and best use of this mechanism that I’ve been given, my body and the brain that lies within it, is a spiritual pursuit that allows me to comprehend the world and the place that my short life has in it. I look for that same belief and pursuit in a partner.

Regarding younger women, I do not go out of my way to pursue them but if they initiate flirting or interest, then I reciprocate. So that’s how the vast majority of my relationships since my divorce have developed. It starts with an indication of openness to dating from them, which I suppose is most often expressed as flirting. I will then reciprocate and sometimes something more develops.

But, as most might expect, it never lasts. The longest relationship I’ve had in the past 7 years has been… (drum roll please)… 10 WEEKS! Yep… a whopping 10 weeks. Usually it fails somewhere along the 6 – 10 week range. What happens? It’s usually a 50/50 split whether they end it or I do. If they end it, the most often cited reason is …(drum roll please)… THE AGE GAP! What a surprise! If I end it, it’s because they act their age and I can’t deal with the immaturity and/or inability to communicate.

I am an expressive person. I like to talk about deep subjects like meaning and feelings. When I was 21 that certainly wasn’t the case. Looking back, the raw material was there for the substantive personality I enjoy now but everything back then ran on autopilot without much conscious direction. Meaning and feeling discussions were despised as talking about those thing typically meant I was in treatment.

So why bring all this up? A woman named D. And she is perhaps the most attractive woman I’ve ever dated. (Note: younger people don’t say dating, which is far down the relationship spectrum towards engagement. What I call dating is now referred to as “talking”  LOL, OMG!) D initiated this whole thing and for about 4 glorious weeks she is all I could think of. Then the rug got pulled and all the text messaging and Snapchatting came to a streaking halt. My therapist suggested that I might be addicted to that type of communication and after considering it, she is right.

I loved getting the good morning text and the sleep tight texts. The snap chats of her getting ready to tan drove me insane. I kept looking in the mirror wondering if I could possibly keep up with this woman. A local radio station has an annual contest to select 12 women to be in their calendar and she is one of the current bunch. In fact, she is Miss May! (I can’t even look at the calendar because I’ll miss her too much) I see the way men look at her and she talks about all the suggestive messages she gets, both creepy and not so creepy, and I am intimidated.

So the middle of last week is when it all came to a head and the next day I was feeling really down and once again, lonely. D works at the bar and restaurant I manage and we were together there on Friday and Saturday night. Friday was a little awkward but Saturday was great! We laughed, flirted, kissed once, and even …(drum roll please)… TEXTED after!  My Love-o-Meter was going strong. Texting continued into Sunday morning then abruptly stopped in the afternoon. The Love-o-Meter plummeted.

Last night I was resigned to just ending it and woke up this morning feeling relatively good; still down but definitely not out for the count. By early afternoon I had some mojo flowing. Then she sent me a Snapchat. She hadn’t sent a Snap to ME in like 4 days. It was of her dog. I didn’t respond. Then came a text message about work related drama. I felt compelled to call. She answered, we talked, and Love-o-Meter was back up.

Now I’m trying to cold turkey it and having some withdrawal symptoms. Time to eat some chicken breast and broccoli then go to the gym. But I better charge my phone first as I’ll be checking it between every awesome set.