Spring Breeze and Trying new things.

Spring is supposed to be the time when new things start. New life flows from the earth. Grass turns green, flowers bloom, the sun returns from its 5 months hiatus. People fall in love. Summer brings summer love, vacations, rediscovering the great outdoors.That's the narrative that society has accepted.

But it's never felt that way to me. Maybe it was all those years of school. Perhaps it was growing up in a household of academics and marrying and divorcing an academic. It's probably something to do with learned behavior and expectations. It might be that my favorite baseball team has seemingly had it's season over before summer for the past 5 years.

Spring was the end of school. The end of an era. That grade was over. Friends wouldn't be seen every day. The order and structure of the year would dissipate. Spring was bittersweet. So longed for but it signaled the end. Summer vacation was like a weird beast that only came around for a little while and changed the entire world.

Fall was when the new year began. New teachers. New friends. New challenges. Growing older, stronger and bigger. Becoming the next step. Fresh clothes. Fresh books. Fresh trapper keepers or binders. It was exciting. It was the birth of something new.

All my life spring has felt like an ending. Events in my life have followed suit. It usually begins in March. It feels like most funerals I have attended, a thankfully small amount, have been in March. Most of my romantic interpersonal relationships have ended between March and June. And there's that baseball team thing too.

After 34 years, it's easy for my pessimistic nature to carve things in stone. Assuming that this the world and it is flat and we really don't need to talk any more about it.

But the world isn't flat and spring doesn't have to be an ending. Luckily and somewhat embarrassing lately I have tried to work on changing my actions. Doing the same thing expecting a different result is the definition of insanity after all. So I need to do different things. New things. Things that make me grow.

Sometimes it doesn't work out so well. Gathering many of the spare sticks in the yard and breaking them down for the fire pit led to a lovely allergic pollen congestion.

Sometimes it does. Last night, as the sun was just setting, I picked up my daughter from dance. Which I have done almost every Thursday since September. We usually head straight home and get our evening started. Instead I had the impulse to take them down to Minnehaha Falls in the dying light and walk around for just 20 minutes. It was perfect. Today instead of video games and netflix before work, I tried a very light workout and spending 20 minutes outside in the sun. Soaking up the vitamin D. Trying something new.

I am sore and I'm sure I may regret the lack of sunscreen tomorrow. But it felt good to try something new. To sit in the sun in silence and listen to the birds and breeze. To breathe and try and slow the run away train of thought that constantly runs my mind and my heart. Hopefully this spring will be seen as just another day, another moment. Not the end of something but the beginning.

Dream a Little Dream

1. 
   Dreams are successions of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. - Google.
   
   
   
   Dreams are a pain in the ass. - Adam
   
   
   
   Here it is, 4 am. Luckily not the day after Christmas. But all the same. I am awake and disquieted.
   
   
   Tonight it was a dream about the speed/life/id force being sucked out of my body and needing other people's help recapturing it and putting it back in.
   
   
   Red and yellow lighting that had to have been stolen from repeated viewings of CW's The Flash represented the energy pulling extracted from my body. I spun around and around like a tornado as it ripped out of me. I could feel myself tossing and turning from pillow to pillow as I did so.
   
   
   That's part of the weird joy of my dreams. The consciousness. Like I can almost pull myself out of it. But not quite.
   
   
   It was a pattern. The lightning or whatever would be ripped out by some unknown force. Then it would crackle and explode back into me. A reverse spin of course.
   
   
   It took the pattern of so many of my dreams. A series of events that always unfolds the same way and has since I was a child.
   
   
   1. An elaborate process of creation (puzzle, build, speed force withdrawl)
   
   
   2. Repeatedly increasing the process and the speed of the process.
   
   
   3. Building anxiety about trying to keep up with the conveyor belt, the screaming monkeys or the stomach churning vertigo from constant spinning.
   
   
   4. Complete systematic failure. Conveyor belt collapse, puzzle disintegrates, bridge burns, monkey's throw poop. Etc.
   
   
   As I kept spinning it was obvious that I wasn't going to be able to continue. And as my body grew weak, it became apparent that some of the force or id or energy had been lost or broken or flawed. Energy crackled from a spot in my chest where I had put the pieces back together wrong or had missed a step in my twisting panicked state. The missing energy or id or bleepity bleepity corrupted the entire process and me and it spread and spread and burned and burned....
   
   
   BOOM.
   
   
   Awake. Wide awake.
   
   
   
   Sitting up with a jolt. Double checking my chest to make sure that it didn't explode.
   
   
   It didn't.
   
   
   But tell that to the part of me that decides that sleep isn't really something we want to do again tonight. Thanks but no thanks. I'm good.
   
   
   It's anxiety. It's stress. It's all things that will pass with time and patience and morning light.
   
   
   It might even be the left over Chinese I had before bed.
   
   
   Whatever it is, it's been an uncomfortable guest for most of my life.
   
   
   But luckily, I deal. I have dealt and will deal again. It's not going away and it's a part of me. So I gave it a theme song. Everyone needs a theme song. You know you have one in your head right now.
   
   
   So my dear recurring dream, my inescapable and traitorous nighttime sidekick, this song's for you.
2.  

The Ache.

It comes on slowly and with little warning.

At first, a twinge of memory or a random inkling of longing.

Then the weight. So heavy and hot and pronounced

It burns like fire, it's arrival announced. 

I push it away. I drench it with drink.

I fight my own mind. I resist the think.

Silent screams pound through my head

It’s permanence, its solidity that I dread. 

Yet with time it starts to wane.

It becomes a fire I can contain.

Proving yet again, though I often doubt;

There is no fire - I can’t put out.  

Winter. Discontent. Content.

The winter of our discontent

Richard:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Richard The Third Act 1, scene 1, 1–4

My good friend, William said it first, but every person who has dealt with winter has echoed his refrain. Winter sucks.

Some more that most. Only because the winter we are in the middle of, always seems worse that the ones we remember. Unless it's about school closings or snowfall. Then history has no clue of our pain and suffering.

I have a genetic predisposition to depression. I am also human. Too often those walk step by step. The winter with it's cold, frost, lack of sun and general ability to do anything without feeling like air itself is trying to kill you, is an excellent accomplice to depression. The Starscream to it's Megatron, the Harley Quinn to it's Joker, the Bud Light to it's Bud. In short. It's all bad.

I think mid February is the worst. Christmas cheer is dead. Signs of spring are sparse. This year the tortured midwest doesn't even get to brag about snow fall as the North East has taken that on like Miley Cyrus adopting ratchet as a label.

It's February 19th. And today I realized just how much this winter has taken from me. Hope. Energy. Faith. Excitement. Contentment.

Winter and it's forces bring me discontent.

Let me brag a little. I've paid off a stupid (yes my own past) amount of debt in the past few years and I have almost made it to a plateau, financially at least. I have jobs for good reasons, either flexibility for being a father or for a company I love or a field I am fascinated about. I have to really amazing children who have dealt with all my failings in the past (divorce) and present (not speaking french) that make me less afraid about the future (middle school). I have loving family and friends and some day a really kick ass dog who can eat treats out of my mouth and be there when the night terrors hit. i have a really functional and productive relationship with my ex wife. Which media has told me will never happen. I own a photo with a personal autograph from Mr. T.

That is some cool shit.

 But winter still kicks my ass. I hate the cold. I hate the snow. Shoveling is a bitch. Skiing seems like oddly scheduled suicide. My feet don't work with blades or broomball boots. I was not made for this.

Today. Today was good. It hurt at first. Being reminded of my selfish flaws. My tendency to act a child and only think of myself. It's a defense mechanism and it's hard to ignore. But someone I respect and love called me on it. It was needed. It hurt. But it was true. Once again I had started to let the seasonal depression win. Annoyingly. Yet repeatedly.

The comment shook me. It made me focus. On the job immediate at hand. At the job of fixing my easy to accept depression nature. It was good. It made me laugh with friends at work. It made me value those interactions.

After work, I went to relax. Same pattern as I have had for years. The comfortable place with the good people. As always it was what I needed. Laughs aplenty. Smiles. Jokes. Comrades. It made the stress melt away. I laughed. I played dice games. I never for one moment gave a thought to winter and depression or any of that.

William is never far from my heart. And I realized that Winter does suck. It does bring discontent.

But it is made glorious by the Sons (Daughters) of York.

Those friends, colleagues, something mores, that can't be denied. 

Thank you for being my sons and daughters of York that make this discontented winter better with a glorious sun. 

Every Night I go Wandering

The second U2 album I ever purchased was Zooropa. I loved The Joshua Tree. With or Without You was a favorite song with I was 10. Which is probably some weird sort of foreshadowing for my romantic life but I digress. Zooropa. Overall the album isn't a favorite. Numb is ok. Sticks with you. But it doesn't have the power or haunting lyricism of The Joshua Tree. Zooropa was the beginning of my odd love/hate with U2.

Anyway. The very last track of the record is The Wanderer which features Johnny Cash. In the mid 1990s, I had very little familiarity with Cash. In fact I believe I only knew him for A Boy Named Sue. However, this strange soulful voice over early 90s techno beats has always stuck with me. It's easily the most played track on the CD and honestly is probably the only reason I even remember the album. Bono wrote the song with Cash in mind as the vocalist and it couldn't have been sung by anyone else.

Each night, I wander into dreams. Sometimes I wander into wonderful possibilities and hopes. Often I wander into a dark and terrifying nightmare that startles me out of my slumber. I've gotten quite good at knowing when the dark is coming, when I should wake myself up. It's an odd feeling. Like pulling myself out of water.

Many nights my dreams have a searching or looking theme. Something I have to find. Someone to discover. Something to fix. And many of those nights I can't find it. I discover failure. I can't fix.

So I awake. In a cold sweat. The dream still clinging to me. And sometimes part of me gets stuck back there, on the other side and I feel oddly incomplete. Tonight I awoke and that clammy awful feeling was there. But so was Johnny. And his wandering.

The haunting melody. The painful yet hopeful voice repeating in my head. A song I haven't heard in years. Spontaneously in my head. As comfort.

Yeah, I left with nothing. Nothing but the thought of you. I went wandering.

Thanks music. You're ok.

The long drop. - Depression

It happened in a moment. As it has happened every time since. A single revelation, moment of self righteous clarity. I can't.

It was a different I can't than the others. Not I can't believe this has happened. Not I can't believe that I lost my job. Not I can't believe this is my life. Not I cant belive im all alone. Not even I can't do this anymore.

Those thoughts had filled my brain for months. During the loneliness. During the unemployment. As the bills began to over flow the mailbox that I refused to open. As the texts and calls and emails went unanswered. They came even when I tried to drown them. Even when I thought I'd cried them all out. Even when the medicine was supposed to make them go away. Those I can't were always there.

They sang like a chorus of horrid angels chanting my failures in my mind. In my sleep. Suffocating my dreams and aborting my hope.

They sang as I drove in the pitch dark. Radio silenced. They were the one sound I could hear as I parked the car. Their rhythm and cadence mirrored my steps along the sidewalk and on to the bridge.

I moved to the beat of that hypnotic self hate. The echo's of every fear, doubt, failure and mistake I'd could pull from memory. All the pain I had internalize for years gave it strength as my fingers curled around the cold hard railing. Tears streamed down my face as I closed my eyes. The sound of liquid hate swallowing me up as I opened my eyes and stared into the black.

 Into the the long drop that would end my pain. Would finally silence that damned chorus of hate. My eyes burned, my muscles clenched. Every nerve raw and ready, longing for the dark bath that would wash it all away. The chorus of dark twisting and building until almost reaching an ugly and final crescendo...

"Jump asshole!!!!"

I spun on my heel to see the tail lights of some ugly and busted Chevrolet Impala head across the bridge and heard the haunting cackle of car load of jackass young men.

Rage exploded out of me as I unleashed the largest amount of ineloquent bile I could. Which at that moment amounted to a mumbled, "fuck you."

How could they!? How could they step on my moment, this grim ending, this sacrifice that would purge my pain and give me glorious freedom from this sysphisian life!!! Outrage!!

Didn't they care about my pain!? My need? How selfish. People don't think about anyone else. What completely self absorbed jerks.

I sat. On the concrete bridge and wallowed in the macabe humor that I had even failed at this. I even laughed. A sad selfish laugh.

The chorus, broken by the flash of rage and the hint of light from a tiny laugh, was gone. My mind was silent. And it came out as a whisper, almost as a prayer.

I can't be this selfish.

I can't do this to them.

I can't.

So I didn't. And that moment is there every time the chorus starts a new refrain. It is there each time I hear that whisper again.

My pain is mine. Its my chemical imbalance. Its my dark chorus to hear.

I can't give it to them.

I won't.

Engagement Story.

Often I do things I don't plan on doing. Tonight was no exception. In the middle of watching a cooking show, a benign cooking show. A show that shouldn't have any impact on daily lives on history, on stories that my kids should know, something happened.

A man proposed to his girl friend. A proposal.

At that moment. I realized that my children didn't know how I proposed to their mother. So I decided to tell them.

This shouldn't be a big deal I guess. But it is. Because we're divorced. We don't live together. We don't love each other like we did in that moment. It's not the happy ending.

Tonight, all I could think about was the fact that they needed to know the story. To hear what I felt. To hear my nervousness, my panic, my clumsy non-proposal that was more honest than a simple "will you marry me" and more indicative of the need, fear and passion that I felt at that moment.

I told them the story. I told them of my fear, of my nerves, of my shock. I saw their mother walk off the plan. Ring in my hand. Hidden in an Eddie Bauer hoodie. Hands gripping it as hard as I could. Words. Usually something I had no shortage of, seeing vacant and absent. I told them how I saw her walk to me and brought out the ring.

I didn't ask her to marry me.

I told her this meant she couldn't leave me again. Which was because of the long distance relationship we were in. And because I didn't know how to ask.

I even showed them the ring. Yes I have the ring. It was given back. That often happens in divorce. But I've kept it. Because despite the chaos. Despite some vitriol. Despite the rough and horrid times. It's an heirloom. Heirloom is history. The ring. Even though things didn't end as planned, is their history. They deserve to know.

I told the whole story. I showed them the ring. I told them how nervous, how scared, how petrified about life I was. I put on a hoodie and showed them how I looked when their mother walked off the plane. Scared. A child. But convinced I was ready.

It doesn't matter that I wasn't. It doesn't matter that things didn't end as their mother and I expected. It doesn't matter that we are divorced.

It matters that they know the story. That they know the love in my heart when I proposed, the love and fear and ecstasy that encompassed it all.

It matters they see the ring. It matters that they know how I proposed. It matters that even though our current lives don't fit the prescribed status quo, they were born of love.

I was madly in love when I proposed. It matters that my children know that.