In my life, I have collected a vast assortment of 'What If' moments.
As I sit here writing this blog entry, I can't help but consider all the paths my life might have taken had certain events not happened how and when they did. I'll discuss a few.
What if I weren't born?
Well, my mom and dad certainly wouldn't have stayed together. In the time since my mother's passing, I've learned from others some important details as to my birth. Apparently, I was the anchor that kept my parents together. Though my mother was in an abusive relationship, the pregnancy made her stay. Great - so my spawning kept her in a bad marriage. And I wonder why my mother and I never really connected! Deep down, she probably despised my existence. Everything that was wrong in her world was manifest in me. When my mom was real bad off before her demise, I asked her if there was anything she needed to tell me; anything that she needed me to know before she was gone. She said nothing. There is one positive spin on my parents staying together... my younger siblings. Josh, James, Julie - you each hold a piece of my heart. You are my family, forever and always. Nothing will ever shake us. You are my rock and my everything.
What if I'd gone off to a proper college?
This one is a frickin' joke and upsets me to this day. I like to think I'm a smart guy. At the very least, I'm versatile, eager to learn and quick to pick up information. Some perspective: I had no desire to be my high school class valedictorian because it meant nothing to me (the soured-up socialite that took that honor can keep it). If I'd wanted the "honor", it would have been mine. To this day, I still laugh at our graduation ceremony. Literally, I fell asleep on stage with the other honor graduates out of sheer boredom. Upon graduating high school, I'd been accepted to not one, but three different colleges. Those institutions were Boston University, Emory and Washington University in St. Louis. Did I go to any of them? No. Why? Because I was too nice of a guy. I hung around Southside Virginia for the sake of an unnamed family member to assist in their entrance to community college. Yet, they ultimately never went to school because they copped out. And there I was - a guy that could have gone on to a finer institution... dealing with rudimentary hogwash at a two-bit rural community college. It still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And to think - my folks didn't assist one bit with college. Not a book, not a class... nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not even a "Kiss my ass, Jared". You know... taking some interest in my continuing education would have been appreciated.
What if I'd spoken up sooner?
I've never spoken about this information publicly, so please bear with me.
The year was 1999. I cared about a fellow classmate in high school very much; had for a few years. I'm not going to say I loved her because I was young and wouldn't have even known what love was. Not only was I young, but I'd never even had a date with a girl. That being said... I had feelings for someone quite special. We were friends and worked together on our school yearbook. We exchanged emails fairly often. Sometimes we'd eat lunch together. I was still a timid young man, though. Talking to a girl was scary, to say the least. As her senior prom rolled around (she was a year ahead of me), it took me forever to work up the nerve to ask her to go with me. And... I waited too long to ask. Some other schmuck had asked her already (yes, he was and forever will be a schmuck). But, she didn't get weirded out by my asking. Surprisingly, she responded positively to my asking. Even though she graduated, we stayed in touch. We'd call each other on the phone and talk. Finally, roughly two months after her graduation, I'd worked up enough courage to ask her out again. And... this time she said yes! I was thrilled beyond anything I'd ever known at that point in my life. She said that she'd already made plans for that evening, but that we'd definitely go out the next day. Boy... was I a happy guy.
Then, the next day came. She was gone.
Little did I know at the time that the plans she had for that fateful evening would lead to her own passing. I won't go into details out of respect for her. Many of you, my former classmates, will know the particulars of what happened. If you're curious, contact me directly for further info. Albeit, I was devastated. I didn't show my pain - I bottled that up too (just like everything else). There I was, facing my own fear and realizing a horrible truth - I waited just one day too long. What if I'd asked her out one day sooner? I could have saved her life. I could have taken her to a different place to be around better people. I could have done something... anything... and she'd still be on this planet.
I was one day too late. It was all my fault.
To this day, I still can't listen to Don Henley's The Boys of Summer without choking up. That song was playing on the radio when I learned she died. The girl in the song? That's her - brown skin shining in the sun indeed. Her face will never leave me. I can close my eyes and still see her. Sometimes, at night, thinking about all this and her keeps me awake. What am I saying - it's quite often in fact. Now obviously I can't speculate that we'd have worked out. Who knows where life would have taken us? But, had I of spoken up one day sooner, perhaps a beautiful young woman would still be with us. I'll always carry this burden, as I should.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
It ends with me.
I've come to two important conclusions recently.
1. I can't make my father be the man I want him to be.
2. I was powerless to change my deceased mother into the woman I wanted her to be.
For too long, I've carried this expectation that they'd change and become the people I want them to be. Too many years of cutting them slack. Too many years of making excuses. How illogical of me! I can no more expect my parents to change than I can the stars not to shine. People are who they want to be; nothing more, nothing less.
Many years on, even through all of his faults and transgressions, I idolized my father. I thought he was impervious to the darker side of human nature. Even when he was physically and emotionally abusive, I made excuses for his behavior. Oh, his father abused him... and his father before him. He can't help it. Perhaps that was my own fault. How can a man reach such lofty expectations?
At this stage in my life, I can look back and understand the scope of my situation. I'm a little bit wiser and a little more jaded. My father is going to be who he wants to be -- a civil servant trying to be a part of the 'in-crowd'. The problem? The 'in-crowd' despises him and laughs behind his back. He's stuck in a podunk community that neither likes nor appreciates him. He's also a devoted subject to a "god" that bestows no blessings. A man without a family, either by force or by choice - what kind of "god" does that to a man? To explain away the death of your own wife as a possession of evil spirits and the devil? That's absurd and foolish. Yes - you said this father. Dare not you try to say otherwise.
Father, remember that conversation we had many years ago about the Book of Job? The story of Job is a core element of my atheism. That's why I don't believe in your "god", or any other. Any "god" that would destroy a man, all for the sake of winning a bet, is no "god" at all. Children make bets over games at recess. Gamblers make bets on sporting events. Such a being is petty and foolish. Even if your "god" were real, I'd curse his name to the ends of the Earth. I'd rather die faithless as a decent, compassionate man than blindly support a god of pettiness and cruelty. A man that ventures to the grave with honor needs no shepherd to light his path into the darkness. What does that say about you? A man of logic and reason... I think not.
Understand this - Mother didn't die because the devil performed some bit of trickery. Mother died because she smoked cigarettes for more years than I care to count. She valued her smoking habit more than her own health. That was her choice - not the result of some absent "god" or even an attentive "devil".
And here we are... Mother has been gone for almost two years. Her being gone is mostly irrelevant - she took no more of an interest in my life than a rock. I actually feel more guilt for not being upset that she's dead than any real sadness for her truly being gone. I find myself unable to sleep at night; I toss and turn battering my brain. I ask of myself "What kind of monstrosity must I be for not being upset? Am I really this cold and detached?" Father has moved on to someone new, though I suspect my mother wasn't even dead yet before those new "waters" were being tested. Ahem. He has his "god" and his new partner. Good riddance.
But he doesn't have me. He doesn't have two of my siblings. Our family as we once knew it is no more. The unit is dissolved. Mother's passing destroyed the last unexplainable linchpin that held this shambling laughing-stock of a family together. Without her, we are free of any due responsibility to each other. In that, I probably find the most sorrow of all.
I just wanted a normal family. We could have lived on a normal street with normal neighbors. Our friends could have been normal. We could have taken normal vacations without yelling and fighting. The holidays could have been normal and free from guilt. My first date could have been normal. I could have actually hung out with school mates and done normal things - parties, movies, weekend adventures. I could have had a normal self-image with a normal degree of self-esteem. We could have just been normal people in a normal world.
I realize normal is a subjective term. Some would even say there is no such thing as normal. For a child, there is a sense of normalcy, though.
Normal is loving your child and not treating him or her like a possession. Normal is not employing your child like hired help. Normal is not hitting your child. Normal is not making your child feel helpless and pitiful.
All I ever wanted was for us to be normal. I wanted my father to be normal. I wanted my mother to be normal. I see now that I expected too much. Moving on with my life is my only choice.
On one of the last occasions my father, mother and I spoke, they chastised me for not wanting children. "When are you going to make us grandparents?" they would say. For that matter, I can recall many moments in even my early and mid-twenties when they heckled me for not having kids yet. There's no way I'd ever be responsible for bringing a new human life into this horrible world. More importantly, I'd never allow even a glimmer of a possibility that I'd treat a child as poorly as my parents treated me. That beast is in me, no matter how much I diminish it. I couldn't live with myself if I ever yelled at a child... if I ever hit a child. Yet, they could not understand why.
The sins of the father will not be repeated... not on my watch.
It ends with me.
1. I can't make my father be the man I want him to be.
2. I was powerless to change my deceased mother into the woman I wanted her to be.
For too long, I've carried this expectation that they'd change and become the people I want them to be. Too many years of cutting them slack. Too many years of making excuses. How illogical of me! I can no more expect my parents to change than I can the stars not to shine. People are who they want to be; nothing more, nothing less.
Many years on, even through all of his faults and transgressions, I idolized my father. I thought he was impervious to the darker side of human nature. Even when he was physically and emotionally abusive, I made excuses for his behavior. Oh, his father abused him... and his father before him. He can't help it. Perhaps that was my own fault. How can a man reach such lofty expectations?
At this stage in my life, I can look back and understand the scope of my situation. I'm a little bit wiser and a little more jaded. My father is going to be who he wants to be -- a civil servant trying to be a part of the 'in-crowd'. The problem? The 'in-crowd' despises him and laughs behind his back. He's stuck in a podunk community that neither likes nor appreciates him. He's also a devoted subject to a "god" that bestows no blessings. A man without a family, either by force or by choice - what kind of "god" does that to a man? To explain away the death of your own wife as a possession of evil spirits and the devil? That's absurd and foolish. Yes - you said this father. Dare not you try to say otherwise.
Father, remember that conversation we had many years ago about the Book of Job? The story of Job is a core element of my atheism. That's why I don't believe in your "god", or any other. Any "god" that would destroy a man, all for the sake of winning a bet, is no "god" at all. Children make bets over games at recess. Gamblers make bets on sporting events. Such a being is petty and foolish. Even if your "god" were real, I'd curse his name to the ends of the Earth. I'd rather die faithless as a decent, compassionate man than blindly support a god of pettiness and cruelty. A man that ventures to the grave with honor needs no shepherd to light his path into the darkness. What does that say about you? A man of logic and reason... I think not.
Understand this - Mother didn't die because the devil performed some bit of trickery. Mother died because she smoked cigarettes for more years than I care to count. She valued her smoking habit more than her own health. That was her choice - not the result of some absent "god" or even an attentive "devil".
And here we are... Mother has been gone for almost two years. Her being gone is mostly irrelevant - she took no more of an interest in my life than a rock. I actually feel more guilt for not being upset that she's dead than any real sadness for her truly being gone. I find myself unable to sleep at night; I toss and turn battering my brain. I ask of myself "What kind of monstrosity must I be for not being upset? Am I really this cold and detached?" Father has moved on to someone new, though I suspect my mother wasn't even dead yet before those new "waters" were being tested. Ahem. He has his "god" and his new partner. Good riddance.
But he doesn't have me. He doesn't have two of my siblings. Our family as we once knew it is no more. The unit is dissolved. Mother's passing destroyed the last unexplainable linchpin that held this shambling laughing-stock of a family together. Without her, we are free of any due responsibility to each other. In that, I probably find the most sorrow of all.
I just wanted a normal family. We could have lived on a normal street with normal neighbors. Our friends could have been normal. We could have taken normal vacations without yelling and fighting. The holidays could have been normal and free from guilt. My first date could have been normal. I could have actually hung out with school mates and done normal things - parties, movies, weekend adventures. I could have had a normal self-image with a normal degree of self-esteem. We could have just been normal people in a normal world.
I realize normal is a subjective term. Some would even say there is no such thing as normal. For a child, there is a sense of normalcy, though.
Normal is loving your child and not treating him or her like a possession. Normal is not employing your child like hired help. Normal is not hitting your child. Normal is not making your child feel helpless and pitiful.
All I ever wanted was for us to be normal. I wanted my father to be normal. I wanted my mother to be normal. I see now that I expected too much. Moving on with my life is my only choice.
On one of the last occasions my father, mother and I spoke, they chastised me for not wanting children. "When are you going to make us grandparents?" they would say. For that matter, I can recall many moments in even my early and mid-twenties when they heckled me for not having kids yet. There's no way I'd ever be responsible for bringing a new human life into this horrible world. More importantly, I'd never allow even a glimmer of a possibility that I'd treat a child as poorly as my parents treated me. That beast is in me, no matter how much I diminish it. I couldn't live with myself if I ever yelled at a child... if I ever hit a child. Yet, they could not understand why.
The sins of the father will not be repeated... not on my watch.
It ends with me.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Fumbling and stumbling.
If I've learned anything from the last week, it's that I usually fail to recognize when I'm enraged. When I'm caught up in a moment of anger, I have a hard time seeing that I'm mad. Instead, I usually feel remorse after the fact when I've calmed down. This has taught me one thing - I must learn to recognize anger as it happens, process if it is logical, then calm myself down. Here's one example...
Earlier this week, I went for a bike ride as I do normally. As many of my friends know, I've started to ride a bike in order to lose weight. My large size is quite hard on my bike (just as hard as the riding is on my joints, but that's another story). Needless to say, lots of things will malfunction on my bike and require regular maintenance. Take my handlebars of instance. Regularly, they will rotate downwards as I ride the bike; so much so that the break grips will pitch straight up. At that point, I can't even use the breaks because I can't reach them. It seems no matter how hard or often I tighten the handlebar joint, they'll still eventually slip and rotate. Well, I reached my breaking point this week and lost my cool. I couldn't get my allen wrench into the handlebar socket to tighten it back down. After fumbling and stumbling, all the while getting madder and madder, I finally flipped out. I was already mad before I even attempted to fix the handlebars; my ride was totally uncomfortable and both of my wrists were screaming in pain.
Now imagine this next part...
I literally ripped my shirt off, hurled my water bottle and stormed off inside my house. I left everything in my bike bag - phone, wallet, keys, everything. I finished stripping, hopped in the shower and just let it all out.
I WAS A TOTAL MESS.
The take away from all this? I let my anger get the best of me. I 'hulked' out over nothing. Instead of staying calm and getting the right size allen wrench to fix the handlebar, I probably had the wrong size. Much less, I was letting my pain and frustration manifest in a manner that's not positive. What did I have to show for acting like a jerk? Nothing. This got me to thinking. What could I do to remind myself that my anger is in control WHILE I'm actually caught up in the moment? I need some sort of visual cue to tell myself that I'm not in charge at the moment. I'm still trying to decide what to use in order to cue myself. If any of my readers have suggestions, they're totally welcomed.
On a partially related side note, I came to see that my lifelong weight problem is absolutely linked to my emotional distress. The extra weight that I carry is a physical representation of my emotional baggage. As long as carry this extra weight, the emotional baggage that I carry will continue to haunt me.
I'm a thirty year old fat guy with daddy issues. Crazy, right?
Earlier this week, I went for a bike ride as I do normally. As many of my friends know, I've started to ride a bike in order to lose weight. My large size is quite hard on my bike (just as hard as the riding is on my joints, but that's another story). Needless to say, lots of things will malfunction on my bike and require regular maintenance. Take my handlebars of instance. Regularly, they will rotate downwards as I ride the bike; so much so that the break grips will pitch straight up. At that point, I can't even use the breaks because I can't reach them. It seems no matter how hard or often I tighten the handlebar joint, they'll still eventually slip and rotate. Well, I reached my breaking point this week and lost my cool. I couldn't get my allen wrench into the handlebar socket to tighten it back down. After fumbling and stumbling, all the while getting madder and madder, I finally flipped out. I was already mad before I even attempted to fix the handlebars; my ride was totally uncomfortable and both of my wrists were screaming in pain.
Now imagine this next part...
I literally ripped my shirt off, hurled my water bottle and stormed off inside my house. I left everything in my bike bag - phone, wallet, keys, everything. I finished stripping, hopped in the shower and just let it all out.
I WAS A TOTAL MESS.
The take away from all this? I let my anger get the best of me. I 'hulked' out over nothing. Instead of staying calm and getting the right size allen wrench to fix the handlebar, I probably had the wrong size. Much less, I was letting my pain and frustration manifest in a manner that's not positive. What did I have to show for acting like a jerk? Nothing. This got me to thinking. What could I do to remind myself that my anger is in control WHILE I'm actually caught up in the moment? I need some sort of visual cue to tell myself that I'm not in charge at the moment. I'm still trying to decide what to use in order to cue myself. If any of my readers have suggestions, they're totally welcomed.
On a partially related side note, I came to see that my lifelong weight problem is absolutely linked to my emotional distress. The extra weight that I carry is a physical representation of my emotional baggage. As long as carry this extra weight, the emotional baggage that I carry will continue to haunt me.
I'm a thirty year old fat guy with daddy issues. Crazy, right?
Monday, April 29, 2013
Mental booby trap.
I experienced what I can only relate as an "emotional panic attack" this weekend.
This past Saturday, I traveled to the Triad Highland Games in Greensboro. Being my first ever Highland Games experience, you'd think I'd be ecstatic. Those of you that know me understand my fervor and excitement for my Scottish heritage. Scotland is like my home away from home - a dream destination that I hope to visit and/or move to one day.
Needless to say, the event did not go as well as I planned. Instead of being happy and excited, I was miserable. Looking around at all the history and culture that I mentally swim in almost daily... I just locked up. Oddly enough, I grew distant and became horrible company to keep. I resorted to being short and snippy with people. The sad part? I didn't even know I'd morphed into a vile monster until after the fact. In the midst of my ass-hat extravaganza, I was unaware that I'd channeled a pool of dread into my demeanor.
And there I was - pushing away people that cared for me and wallowing in my own anger.
Eventually, I fell out of my funk after watching border collies chase sheep for forty five minutes. As if in a stupor, my anger switched to guilt and I emotionally turned off. By the time I made it to lunch, I was an emotional wreck. Trying to hold myself together, I felt it bubbling up.
And by it, I mean my age-old sense of never being good enough for my father.
It just kind of spilled out of me while I was driving. I can't fully explain why I had this "emotional panic attack", but it felt like I wasn't deserving of enjoying my love for Scotland. The fact that I attempted to assimilate into the Scottish culture more directly sprung a mental booby trap. Better yet, a demon reared its head and said "No, you don't GET to be happy. You must SUFFER!"
I realized at that moment that I'm thirty years old and not fully capable of letting myself be happy. Why? Because I'm still trying to satisfy a tyrant that lorded over me as a child. I must admit - it takes a POWERFUL man to control your life long after you've exiled them from it. Therein reflects the hold he has upon me. I can't let myself be happy because I was never given the command to do so. It sounds strange, I admit. If anything... I just feel guilty and ashamed for letting it get to me. Jared Manning - a passionate bastion of strength and independence... and I can't even allow myself a moment of joy. I punish and torment myself every day. Over what, though?
What did I do to deserve this hell?
The torment spilled over into Sunday. More of the same emotional distance was in order. I floated in and out of concentration, even when performing simple household tasks. I couldn't even cut carrots and make dinner without feeling empty and utterly pathetic.
Someone very dear to me levied a powerful judgment over the weekend. They suggested that I am self destructive when I reach for happiness.
Were they right?
This past Saturday, I traveled to the Triad Highland Games in Greensboro. Being my first ever Highland Games experience, you'd think I'd be ecstatic. Those of you that know me understand my fervor and excitement for my Scottish heritage. Scotland is like my home away from home - a dream destination that I hope to visit and/or move to one day.
"Slàinte mhath!"
And there I was - pushing away people that cared for me and wallowing in my own anger.
Eventually, I fell out of my funk after watching border collies chase sheep for forty five minutes. As if in a stupor, my anger switched to guilt and I emotionally turned off. By the time I made it to lunch, I was an emotional wreck. Trying to hold myself together, I felt it bubbling up.
And by it, I mean my age-old sense of never being good enough for my father.
It just kind of spilled out of me while I was driving. I can't fully explain why I had this "emotional panic attack", but it felt like I wasn't deserving of enjoying my love for Scotland. The fact that I attempted to assimilate into the Scottish culture more directly sprung a mental booby trap. Better yet, a demon reared its head and said "No, you don't GET to be happy. You must SUFFER!"
"Suffer my boy! Mwahahahahahahahah!"
What did I do to deserve this hell?
The torment spilled over into Sunday. More of the same emotional distance was in order. I floated in and out of concentration, even when performing simple household tasks. I couldn't even cut carrots and make dinner without feeling empty and utterly pathetic.
Someone very dear to me levied a powerful judgment over the weekend. They suggested that I am self destructive when I reach for happiness.
Were they right?
Sunday, April 14, 2013
A temporary fix.
Interesting fact... I'm much more fun when I've got a few drinks in me!
It's 1:30 pm on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. The birds are chirping. Sunshine is all around us. The trees are releasing their pollen and turning our vehicles a lighter shade of yellow. All in all, it's quite a marvelous day.
Alternatively, I've been in a horrible, depressed mood all morning. No real reason to be so... just have been. In the course of correcting my mood, I've ingested roughly five shots of whiskey in forty-five minutes. I feel great!
As I sit to write this blog post, I must face a harsh self-criticism. I shouldn't use alcohol to make myself feel better. Now mind you, I don't drink that often. In fact, when I do drink, it's usually just one mixed drink in a pint glass. I definitely don't meet the criteria of an alcoholic. Alcoholism runs in my family, though; I must be cautious with my drinking habits. I do find it terribly amazing how alcohol can make one forget all their sadness and animosity... even for just a short while. Scratch that -- forget is not a proper word. Perhaps I should say subdue. Yes, let's rephrase that.
Alcohol can subdue all the sadness and animosity I feel.
It's a temporary fix to a long term problem. It's also one I shouldn't be exploring. It's too late now though. Best to write about it, get the emotions out in the open and move forwards.
The other point I'm reminded of in my libatious debauchery is how, no matter the positive progression I make towards emotional wellness, the rot that exists in me will always be there. A small fragment of the poison that has tainted my existence shall forever hook itself to my being. Again, this blog aims to educate myself in how to best contain that poison. Perhaps my heart needs a hazmat suit?
It's 1:30 pm on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. The birds are chirping. Sunshine is all around us. The trees are releasing their pollen and turning our vehicles a lighter shade of yellow. All in all, it's quite a marvelous day.
Alternatively, I've been in a horrible, depressed mood all morning. No real reason to be so... just have been. In the course of correcting my mood, I've ingested roughly five shots of whiskey in forty-five minutes. I feel great!
As I sit to write this blog post, I must face a harsh self-criticism. I shouldn't use alcohol to make myself feel better. Now mind you, I don't drink that often. In fact, when I do drink, it's usually just one mixed drink in a pint glass. I definitely don't meet the criteria of an alcoholic. Alcoholism runs in my family, though; I must be cautious with my drinking habits. I do find it terribly amazing how alcohol can make one forget all their sadness and animosity... even for just a short while. Scratch that -- forget is not a proper word. Perhaps I should say subdue. Yes, let's rephrase that.
Alcohol can subdue all the sadness and animosity I feel.
It's a temporary fix to a long term problem. It's also one I shouldn't be exploring. It's too late now though. Best to write about it, get the emotions out in the open and move forwards.
The other point I'm reminded of in my libatious debauchery is how, no matter the positive progression I make towards emotional wellness, the rot that exists in me will always be there. A small fragment of the poison that has tainted my existence shall forever hook itself to my being. Again, this blog aims to educate myself in how to best contain that poison. Perhaps my heart needs a hazmat suit?
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Stirred memories.
I dreamed of my maternal grandmother last night.
Typically, my dreams are comprised of mundane events; I'm cooking, shopping, walking through forests, taking a bath, attending a party. It sounds weird, but my dreams usually involve me living a normal life somewhere (and somewhen) else. Sometimes, people from my life will come into my dreams - friends from grade school, the occasional family member, but usually they're strangers to me. Last night was haunting, though. The dream has stuck with me all day. The details are fresh in my mind.
My dream starts out with me in my grandmother's kitchen. Like she often used to do, my grandma is mixing up some powdered milk. As she turns to put her milk in the fridge, she takes a fall in the floor. Mind you, I never knew my grandma to be one for falls, but that's neither here nor there. As she falls, I can see the milk flying through the air and spilling all over us. I get down on my hands and knees and try to pick her up. No such luck, though - I can't get her off the floor. Then, as if I psychically broadcast a call for help, people from all points of my life begin to enter the room. Many of you probably reading this blog were surely there. Exhausted and in despair, I call out to everyone to help me get her up. Yet - no one can hear me. It's like they're phantoms passing through. Crying and still trying to get my grandma up, she looks over to me.
"It's alright Jared, you've tried your best."
I'm crying hard at this point. Eerily, I feel like I was really crying in my sleep; the sensation was that powerful. I lay across my grandma's chest, not understanding why I can't pick her up. Looking at her feet, I notice that they've disappeared. Steadily, my grandma is vanishing. As I look on in disbelief, I can see her eyes staring at me one last time.
And with that... she's gone.
I awoke in a cold sweat this morning, feeling quite peculiar. No... perhaps a better word would be shocked. My heart was racing; my neck was wet... and I've walked around all day feeling like I was hit by a ton of bricks.
My maternal grandmother was always great to me. I can't think of a single memory that involves anything painful. The same goes for my grandpa; they were both incredibly kind to me. From what I know of them before my birth, I know they were different people. That being said, I have an understanding that grandma and grandpa changed in their later years.
As you can see, the old hat doesn't fit me too well anymore. My head (as you know from a previous blog post) is a little big for the cap these days. I've kept it clean and secure all these years, though. It means a lot to me. More than you might think.
So here I am, left with a disturbing dream and stirred memories. That's nothing new in my book.
Typically, my dreams are comprised of mundane events; I'm cooking, shopping, walking through forests, taking a bath, attending a party. It sounds weird, but my dreams usually involve me living a normal life somewhere (and somewhen) else. Sometimes, people from my life will come into my dreams - friends from grade school, the occasional family member, but usually they're strangers to me. Last night was haunting, though. The dream has stuck with me all day. The details are fresh in my mind.
My dream starts out with me in my grandmother's kitchen. Like she often used to do, my grandma is mixing up some powdered milk. As she turns to put her milk in the fridge, she takes a fall in the floor. Mind you, I never knew my grandma to be one for falls, but that's neither here nor there. As she falls, I can see the milk flying through the air and spilling all over us. I get down on my hands and knees and try to pick her up. No such luck, though - I can't get her off the floor. Then, as if I psychically broadcast a call for help, people from all points of my life begin to enter the room. Many of you probably reading this blog were surely there. Exhausted and in despair, I call out to everyone to help me get her up. Yet - no one can hear me. It's like they're phantoms passing through. Crying and still trying to get my grandma up, she looks over to me.
"It's alright Jared, you've tried your best."
I'm crying hard at this point. Eerily, I feel like I was really crying in my sleep; the sensation was that powerful. I lay across my grandma's chest, not understanding why I can't pick her up. Looking at her feet, I notice that they've disappeared. Steadily, my grandma is vanishing. As I look on in disbelief, I can see her eyes staring at me one last time.
And with that... she's gone.
I awoke in a cold sweat this morning, feeling quite peculiar. No... perhaps a better word would be shocked. My heart was racing; my neck was wet... and I've walked around all day feeling like I was hit by a ton of bricks.
My maternal grandmother was always great to me. I can't think of a single memory that involves anything painful. The same goes for my grandpa; they were both incredibly kind to me. From what I know of them before my birth, I know they were different people. That being said, I have an understanding that grandma and grandpa changed in their later years.
My grandmother and grandfather - Fannie Mae and Edward.
If not for my grandma, I probably wouldn't have my deep love for baseball. We used to watch the Atlanta Braves games together on television. She loved the Braves (and the handsome Chipper Jones) and I'm a staunch St. Louis Cardinals fan. We'd get into some heated arguments about baseball, especially when the Cardinals were in town to play the Braves. I'd always accuse the Braves of using corked bats. To this day, I can still see grandma's face every time I'd tell her that (she'd sour up and scoff). To be honest, it was grandma and grandpa's fault that I'm a Cardinals fan anyway. On a trip out west, they stopped in St. Louis and purchased my brother Josh and I Cardinals baseball caps. When they brought them back to us as souvenirs, I was hooked. Sitting at their kitchen table, I can still recall slipping that baseball cap on for the first time. Instantly, I was a Cardinals fan.
My first Cardinals cap.
As you can see, the old hat doesn't fit me too well anymore. My head (as you know from a previous blog post) is a little big for the cap these days. I've kept it clean and secure all these years, though. It means a lot to me. More than you might think.
So here I am, left with a disturbing dream and stirred memories. That's nothing new in my book.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Time for an upgrade.
I believe my journey into a written dialogue about my past has generated a positive influence on my daily life. That's not to say that I don't have eruptions of anger; I still find myself fuming over simple and mostly insignificant matters. Yet, I've seen improvement in how often these moments come, as well as how long these bouts of anger last. Perhaps facing all of this built-up aggression (as well as depression) in a very public and honest manner was a good idea after all.
In regards to how public I've been with my past, I never suspected that I'd be willing to open up in such a way. I spent decades hiding these facets of my life from the world. I got so good at covering this information up that much of it has been lost to time. While I can be very sociable and vocal with folks, that's always been a degree of me "putting on my game face" to get through life.
The man on the inside has never really been well represented by the man on the outside.
This journey I'm currently undertaking is a way to make these two different versions of Jared meet. There are parts of my outer self that I really like -- able to read people, knowledgeable on social commentary, comedic, friendly. I want to incorporate these traits into my inner self. Even better, I want to replace painful and negative pieces of my being -- highly critical at times, easily enraged, prone to self-punishment. Am I working on Jared 2.0? I think so. I've been long overdue for an upgrade. I compare it to installing Windows 8 on your old computer that's still running Windows 98 -- it's impossible without also replacing your core hardware.
I am the man robotica.
In regards to how public I've been with my past, I never suspected that I'd be willing to open up in such a way. I spent decades hiding these facets of my life from the world. I got so good at covering this information up that much of it has been lost to time. While I can be very sociable and vocal with folks, that's always been a degree of me "putting on my game face" to get through life.
The man on the inside has never really been well represented by the man on the outside.
This journey I'm currently undertaking is a way to make these two different versions of Jared meet. There are parts of my outer self that I really like -- able to read people, knowledgeable on social commentary, comedic, friendly. I want to incorporate these traits into my inner self. Even better, I want to replace painful and negative pieces of my being -- highly critical at times, easily enraged, prone to self-punishment. Am I working on Jared 2.0? I think so. I've been long overdue for an upgrade. I compare it to installing Windows 8 on your old computer that's still running Windows 98 -- it's impossible without also replacing your core hardware.
I am the man robotica.
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