Penance and a Plan

"These blood red eyes 
Don't see so good 
But what's worse is if they could 
Would I change my ways?"

["these days", the Black Keys]

When the trailers hit for movie The Dark Knight Rises, there was this great quote that Selina Kyle (Anne Hathaway) whispers in Bruce Wayne's ear: "There's a storm coming, Mr. Wayne. You and your friends better batten down the hatches, because when it hits, you're all gonna wonder how you ever thought you could live so large and leave so little for the rest of us."  It stuck in my head back then.  I really looked forward to the movie.  It's been stuck in my head again recently, but for a very different reason.

A few weeks ago, we saw the #MeToo hashtag movement begin.  And there's been plenty of it.  For many men (especially the cis straight white middle class ones like myself), I expect there was some disillusionment as to just how much.  There were cracks in the dam, and now it's a downright flood.

If you're a man who prefers the company of men, and who has never taken the time to really get to know and listen to women, you may not have realized just how pervasive it is.  If, on the other hand, you're someone who enjoys getting to know women, and have gotten close to some, and sat and listened, then it likely came as no surprise.  I made a post about statistics on Facebook, and how when I would teach it in a class the facial expressions made its accuracy clear to me, but that was only half the story.  The rest is this:  of the women I've gotten to really know in my lifetime - lovers, close friends - who reached a point where they felt they could truly confide in me... those numbers were a heart-breaking truth that left zero room for doubt.  Each story (after story, after story...) was a harrowing experience just to hear; I can't imagine living them.

And so at long last, this dark secret about ourselves as a society that we've been denying and pushing aside for years has come crashing irreversibly forward, and we - and by we I mean mostly men - are being forced to come to terms with the guilt of our crimes, whether explicit or simply complicit.  And one way or the other, my brothers, we are all guilty.  You may put your hands in the air and cry foul and say how you've never assaulted, or perhaps never even harassed, but in the very least, I expect, you would have to admit you've ignored, disbelieved, laughed along, or otherwise participated and therefore contributed to a culture that doesn't simply permit, but promotes.

When I posted #MeToo, I did so very reluctantly.  I'm well-aware that my experiences are trivial compared to those of women around me.  Was I ever sexually harassed by an employer?  Sure, but not routinely, not all my life, and not in a way that left me wondering if it was safe to be alone with them in the stock room.  Was I ever sexually assaulted?  Sort of, in a complicated, drunken tale, but not in a way that left me feeling violated and traumatized, and not in a way that would make me fearful of drinking or even make me end that relationship.  I was reluctant to say anything because I don't deserve to.  If someone is talking about their cancer, you don't tell them about your broken toe.

The next day I saw a post by a woman suggesting that men posting #MeToo is just one more example of the irrepressible white male voice, co-opting even this to somehow make it about themselves.

And she was right.

Us white men suck at shutting up.  I'm very, very bad at it.  (He wrote...)

Following #MeToo came #ItWasMe, as men, feeling the weight of that guilt, thought the best way they could support women in the moment was to acknowledge their own roles in the culture we've built and must now work toward correcting.  I began soul-searching, rifling through my hazy memory banks of many moons ago.

What a complete-and-utter asshole I was through my childhood.  For a pencil-neck geek, struggling to survive in an all-boys Catholic school and neighbourhood rife with knuckle-dragging neanderthals, I was surrounded on all sides by toxic masculinity, and I drank it up.  I drank it up.  And what I didn't agree with I got very good at smiling along with anyway.  So despite my own constant struggle for survival, I managed to somehow find time and ways to be a real pain to half the species.  We didn't know, back then, just what tools we were being, of course, but that doesn't excuse it.  Our blissful ignorance does not reduce the trauma of our victims.  I comb through my memories, finding those "laugh along" moments where the victim was clearly not at all 'cool' with what was happening...  There are a few in particular that leave me thinking "damn, she must have been traumatized by that".  In my preteens, our two favorite games were "guns" and "CCK" (chase, catch, kiss).  A telling indictment of our culture, isn't it?  Make war.  Take sex.

I wonder where things began to turn for me.  Perhaps when I started having girlfriends in my late teens I began to finally see them as equals.  Or maybe when I got away from "da hood" or out of high school I started to see the light.  I don't know.  Maybe it was much later.  It certainly wasn't overnight.  It was bit by bit.  I know I am not now the person I was at 20, or at 30, or at 40, or hell, even a couple of years ago.  I also know there are things about me that have changed considerably for the better, but I also know there are things left I can change.  I will change.  I must change.

I will become better.  And to my brothers I say:

We can and must all do better.

Along with #MeToo and #ItWasMe came a handful of posts asking and answering the question of "what can we do?"  I read them with much interest.  I've spent some time and given it considerable thought.  I've started making a list for myself - starting with one item many men won't much like - but which they need to hear (and, sadly, from another cis, straight, white, middle-class male), so I offer it nonetheless.  And when you read the first item, you might think this whole post self-contradictory, but press on, it will make sense in the end.

Below is the start of my list.  It's for me.  Other men are welcome to adopt it or adapt it.  They're welcome to write their own.  They're welcome to put their heads in the sand and "ostrich" on past, too, but when I get to my #3 they shouldn't be surprised if I come find them, if they're any friend or acquaintance of mine.

So without further adieu, here's the start of my plan:

#1 SHUT THE FUCK UP.

This is something I suck at, and as a collective group that cis, straight, white, middle-class males all truly, truly, TRULY suck at.  We drone on and on and have opinions on everything and how to fix everything and are always very cocksure that our solutions are the right solutions and drown out everyone else's.  We're "fixers".  We're raised to believe we have not just the power but the responsibility.  How cliche is it that in our relationships we constantly find ourselves hearing our wives or girlfriends complain about something, looking simply for emotional support, only for us to meet them with suggested courses of action instead.  They walk away upset and disappointed and angry.  We walk away confused and frustrated.

Because we suck at shutting up.  We suck at listening.  We never learned how to do those things.

It's time to learn.  We can't listen while we're talking, and right now ours are not the stories that need to be told and heard.  The stories that need to be told and heard right now belong to those who've had their voices quashed or ignored for the eons that have led us to this place.  "But I still have an opinion!"  Sure, but it's not our turn to talk.  It's our turn to shut up and listen.  All our lives, we have lived with the privilege of having opportunities to speak and be heard, while around us others were not afforded these chances.  It was so dreadfully commonplace we didn't notice.  Swing a dead cat and you'll hit someone with the audacity to complain about things like "Black History Month", oblivious to the fact that portioning out 1/12th of the year still left the other 11/12ths to the white, eurocentric history we've been retelling ourselves for decades.  It's time to wake up and sacrifice what our privilege has afforded us in the interest of helping others.

Instead of sharing my opinion on everything,  I will endeavor to find and share the voices that need to be heard.  I will take my voice (Facebook feed, blog, whatever), and lend it to them instead.  How about a TED talk on domestic violence from the perspective of a woman who suffered domestic violence?  How about bathroom bills from the perspective of transgender persons most affected?

My voice is a privilege, and that brings me to my second point:

#2 I need to learn to recognize and acknowledge what privilege I have.

Privilege comes in many layers.  I'm cis, straight, white, male, and white-collar middle class.  That's a lot of steps on the ladder of privilege.  Shy of running for office, returning to Christianity, or becoming much wealthier (none of which I desire), there's little I could do to be in a more advantageous position than I am already.

We live in a culture where men like me enjoy an enormous amount of privilege and if they can't see that they really haven't been paying attention.  I park at the back of the parking garage and walk across it without once thinking to myself "Will I get beaten for being black?  For being gay?"  When a stranger I'm doing business with needs to meet me to pick up or drop something off I wouldn't hesitate to give them my home or work address, or go to theirs.  I don't stop to think "Will I get raped?  Best meet in a crowded, well-lit, public place..."  

In my late teens and early 20s, I used to walk home alone at every hour of night, past one of the worst neighbourhoods in the city, into another of the worst neighbourhoods in the city.  (Something no young girl's parents would let her do, obviously.)  I did this despite a childhood filled with the fear of "getting jumped" by kids from the rival school on the walk home (which proved true on several occasions). Because until I was actually mugged as an adult, I was not conditioned to fear.  Society didn't tell me "learn to be afraid, and learn to live with it" the way it does others.  Society told me the world was my oyster (and "man up" and take it).  And when I wrote a friend and told her about what had happened, she wrote me back and told me I might now understand the fear that every woman has constantly that the man following her might have a "gun/knife/fist" in his pocket.  That last word stopped me in my tracks:  "fist".  A fist in his pocket?  Of course he has a fist in his pocket.  Fist.  Fist?  What a strange thing to say!

Between 8 and 13 I'd been in enough street- and school-yard fights I'd probably not have been able to recall them all.  I'd been punched in the face and punched faces past counting.  The idea of fearing a simple fist was incomprehensible, because for me, the fist was likely the ending of a horrible encounter, not the beginning.  In my mind, it wasn't the prelude to a rape or mutilation or broken bones or life-long trauma.  It was just a fist...

I stopped walking home alone at night after that encounter.  Instead, I always have cab fare handy.  It's a privilege my rise to white-collar middle class affords me.  I'm now privileged enough to afford living without that fear.

In fact, I live nowadays with the privilege of thinking (hoping) that the fist (and worse) is behind me, in the past.  It's not a part of my day-to-day.  There are an enormous number of people for whom this is not true in our society, and likely won't be in the entirety of their lifetime. The only thing they've "done to deserve it" was being born the "wrong" colour, gender, or sex.

We can't understand, appreciate, and sympathize with the plight of others until we recognize how good we've had it, and then, once we understand the power we've been given, once we've learned to hold it in check, we can learn to use it at the right time and in the right ways.

Namely:

#3 When the time is right, I have to open to my mouth.

I need to ask for the opinions of the ones not being heard in the meetings.  I have to challenge why a crucial task was entrusted the male coworker and not the female.  I can't laugh along with the misogynistic joke, but I must instead be clear that it wasn't funny.  I need to make people aware that their choice of language is discriminatory, in case they weren't aware.  ("I got gyped" is racist.  Did you know?)  And some language is actually very gendered and misogynist.  (Why is my nastiest swear word a body part I'm rather fond of?  Doesn't even make sense.)

I needn't be overly aggressive about it; that's kind of defeating the point, in a way.  I will simply ask.  I will suggest.  I will politely address the elephant in the room.  I will make people think about all the things they do and say and put out into the world.

Because that world is being shared by a lot more people than them.

And for those cis, straight, white, middle-class males who haven't yet learned to STFU and listen, they're going to need to hear it from one of their own.  We may be the only ones they can hear.  We're the only ones they're accustomed to hearing.  And that's part of why I wrote this, despite point #1 above.

This is a culture evolution.

This is men telling men:  "Not cool, bro."

I can do better.  We can do better.  It's time to do better.  And this list of mine?  These are only the beginning.

Many years ago, when I was a teen, there was this crazy thunderstorm that happened one night when I was in Greenwood, Nova Scotia.  It was a massive, massive downpour with bolt lightning crashing across the sky, the likes of which I'd never before seen.  Everyone ran indoors and shut windows.

I went outside, briefly, to stand in it, awestruck.  I wanted to feel the warm rain pound down on me and wash over me, and hear the crashing thunder.  I wanted to catch a glimpse of Mother Nature in all her unstoppable fury.  When days and days of oppressive humidity finally "broke", I wanted to experience it.

"Wasted times and broken dreams 
Violent colors so obscene 
It's all I see these days 
These days"

["these days", the Black Keys]

Man Up

"I'm a tenor in the choir but I sing a different song

Of how the where's and why's of now all prove I don't belong

But I'm staying I've planted seeds and plan to watch them grow

I've watered all my wishes dreams fulfilled more seeds to sow

And I promise to learn to love the way I've learned to fear

To unknot all the inhibitions tangled in my hair

To let my ego mound in piles around the barber chair"

["Sea Lion", Sage Francis featuring Saul Williams]

Ego is the greatest impediment to progress.

That's something I've learned from working in the IT industry for years in Quality Assurance, but it applies as much to your personal life as it does to my professional.  Your most difficult opposition is yourself, and the best advice in war is to know your enemy.

An acquaintance once told me I was the most self-aware person she'd ever known.  I took that as a compliment.  It's something I work at (whether I want to or not).  Happiness occurs in only one place - inside your head - so finding it, in my mind (pardon the pun), involves a lot of self-reflection and soul-searching.

Which makes it the opposite of toxic masculinity, really, and spells how machismo is a surefire path to struggle and despair.  Manly men are supposed to just do, not sit around thinking about feelings.  But without reflection, without becoming self-aware, self-improvement and real happiness will always remain outside your grasp.

And if thinking about things is the opposite of manly just doing, I'm about the last person Nike should ever consider a spokesman, and perhaps the least manly man you know.  Because thinking - including about myself, what makes me tick, what makes me feel, what makes me happy or sad - that's what I do.  In fact, it's an irrepressible habit nowadays.  I probably couldn't stop if I wanted to.

It would behoove a great many people to do a little more of it.

More importantly, there's a particular group of men that I'd like to invite to do a little more of it, because they need to.  Actually, their kids really need them to, even if they fail to understand it's in their own best interests.

My child coming out as trans was incredibly transformative for me.  It's been a unique gift to me from my child for which I will be forever grateful.  It has been the impetus for me to really dig deep, and to find some things about myself that needed to change and evolve and grow, to root out and destroy antiquated notions, and to become a better person.  Coming to terms with my child coming out has made me a better person and I eagerly look forward to writing my "v46" post later this year.  But today is not about me, or him.

Many moons ago, I joined a support group for parents of trans kids.  The first session I attended I went because I needed the emotional support.  I had just found out.  I was struggling to make sense of things.  I needed information.  I was ignorant.  I have no problem admitting that.  Most people are.  It's been a while now and I still have things to learn, but that's ok: it means I have room to grow, and that's a good thing.  I cried about it, probably for the first time.  I needed that.

The second session I attended I went more so for the "technical support".  We needed information about drugs and medical procedures and paperwork and name changes and schools and camps and bathrooms and swimming and on and on.  It's extensive.

By the time the third session rolled around, Liza-Ann asked if we actually needed to go, because we were no longer sure we had anything to take away.  I suggested it was our chance to pay it forward, to be those supportive people we found when it was our first or second session, for others who'd be coming for the first or second time.  Ours had been a pretty positive experience.  Things were on the right track for us.  I wanted to be able to provide hopeful examples for others struggling.

For many sessions, this was our primary reason for going.

When we reached a point where we definitely felt like we'd "paid it forward", I reached a point where I was now the one asking if it was something that needed to continue.  This time it was Liza-Ann that suggested to me a very good reason to go: because he sees me going.  While Dan may not be privy to what gets discussed in that room, he understands that my attendance there is about supporting him. It's about talking, but also about listening.  It's about learning.  I've often said that 'time is the only real commodity; you don't know how much you have left.'  Seeing me take the time out to go to those meetings is visible evidence of my commitment to supporting him.  So I continued.

During that next session, I realized there was another - tragically-ironic - reason I should be there:

I was the only man in the room.

I'm not getting into all the details of why exactly, because what gets discussed in that room stays in that room, but if I could - and perhaps even unfairly - summarize my conclusions, it would be that fathers seem to have a far harder time coming to terms than mothers do, and that I blame that almost entirely on toxic masculinity.

I'm not suggesting these non-attendees are all misogynistic, homophobic, knuckle-draggers, not at all.  I'm sure most are just everyday, average guys like me.  Rather, I'm suggesting that people always care more about what others think than they should and that machismo and institutionalized misogyny (on the part of both men and women, I've come to find) are invisible cancers that run far deeper than we realize.  And they are resilient.  They are so very resilient.

What I'm asking of these gentlemen is simply this:

Dig deep.

If you have a problem with the idea of your child being transgender, the problem is yours, not your child's.  The problem occurs inside your head.  The problem is your way of thinking.  You are the problem.  Don't tell me it's because you don't understand or don't know how to be supportive; I'd have met you at the meetings already, asking questions, getting the answers you needed.  It's because you don't know what it means for you or you're afraid of what it says about you.  It's about your ego, and ego is the greatest impediment to progress.  Is your ego that fragile you'll risk sacrificing your own child (or in the least your own relationship with them) to protect it?  You've been a prisoner to yourself for too long.

You need to start digging down deep and asking yourself "why?"  And if you have the courage to keep asking "why?" often enough and long enough, with the tenacity to dig far enough, you will find those cancers.  Why does your child's gender matter?  Why does gender ever matter?  Why does society feel this need to always put everyone into these tidy little boxes with labels on them?  What's so hard about words like 'they' or 'person'?

When you've dug deep enough to find these cancers within yourself, all this programming instilled in you as a child, you will find with it an opportunity to begin the process of excising it, and an opportunity to grow and evolve as a person.  You will find a way to come to terms with your child and what this means for your future together.  You will find a way to be supportive and to become a better parent, at the same time you become a better person.

You will find an exhilarating freedom I cannot begin to describe.

Rise up.

Discard the bullshit you were spoon-fed by society as a child.  Poke the house of cards built on lies.  Read.  Learn.  Explore.  Experience.  Relax and let yourself be fascinated by the many splendors of a complex world.

Rise up.

But first, you will need to dig deep, really deep, and that takes courage.  So if you're ready to do this - and I say this about as ironically as one can -

It's time for you to man up.

"And make a graceful exit from my vexed and troubled years

I've decided I've been invited to my own resort

Where knights can leave their armor neatly piled by the door

And every woman, child, and man will gather by the shore"

["Sea Lion", Sage Francis featuring Saul Williams]

Thrall

"Cry freedom cry
From a crowd 10,000 wide
Hope laid upon hope
That this crowd will not subside
Let this flag burn to dust
And a new a fair design be raised
While we wait head in hands
Hands in prayer
And fall into a dreamless sleep again
And we wave our hands"

["Cry Freedom", Dave Matthews Band]

A while back, the news reported that they'd started rounding up gay men in Chechnya and putting them in concentration camps.  I felt sadness, depression.  It's a feeling I know and recognize.  I have my coping mechanisms.  We all do.  Some days I can cast them aside easily; other days they feel like an erosion of the soul and lead to a period of despair: an hour, a day or two sometimes.  It's also a feeling with which I'm all too familiar.

Recently, as bill C-16 came nearer and near to finally becoming law, I saw the online comments of people whose discontent with having to keep pace with human evolution compels them to embrace their desire for a 'simpler time' with militant enthusiasm, wrap their ignorance in the guise of 'protecting free speech' or some such, and spew their vitriolic bigotry out into the world.  I felt frustration and anger.  The modern age of social media has given everyone a microphone, but clearly most have never heard old idiom about 'two ears and one mouth'.  I'm usually pretty good at "leaving the woman at the river" but like everyone, I have my hot-button topics that allow certain things to get under my skin.  A stranger commented on a friend's post about C-16, quoting Arsehole Psych Prof from U of T, and I struggled, barely able to resist the urge to chime in.  He's a Psych prof, not a legal expert, and that was the best opposition they could muster?  Do you get plumbing advice from your dog groomer?  Have you actually read any legal opinions (i.e. completely disproving what he suggested) or did you just need someone, anyone, to put forth as the champion of your small-mindedness?  But usually, when "duty calls", I remind myself the folly of arguing with idiots: they drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience.  It's a situation, a feeling, with which I'm familiar, and for which I have my coping mechanisms.  (Like ranting here, for example.)

A few days ago, in a small Alberta town, a Pride flag was destroyed for the second time in only a few days.  But on reading it, I didn't feel angry.  I felt... proud.  I remembered Satyagraha.  We're winning.  Keeping putting that flag back up.  Again and again.  They're only drawing attention to the issues for us.  The dinosaurs are in their death throes.  A newer, better world is coming, whether they're ready to face it or not.  It's hard, sometimes, to remember that.  It's hard to shake your head at the asinine, breathe deep, and let it go.  But we must.

And I remembered a different feeling, one I felt almost a year ago, when I stood in Bannerman park after the Pride parade and looked around at all the people.  There were people from all across various spectrums of sexuality and gender, as well as race, religion, and colour.  It was a tremendous cross-section of human existence.  "The world is full of all sorts of fascinating possibilities when you let it be," I thought.  And I felt something, an odd feeling, that I didn't recognize.  It was a feeling that would take me a long time to put my finger on.  Clearly something I don't experience often.

It was awe.

I've meant to write about it for ages, but never found the right time and context.  It was standing in a place awash with the emotion of a congregation of people embracing love in its many splendors.  It is impossible to describe, except to say that it is a force unstoppable.  And now, when I hear about burned flags or defaced crosswalks, I think of that unstoppable force.  The tide has turned.  We are the storm.  These are their pitiful acts of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.

Mandela was right: love is stronger than hate.

"Lines around your eyes betray your age
Portraits of the battles you have waged
Let go of all your doubt and all your fear
We will wake up searching in the dark
Solitary sparks
We will wake up
Only for a night
Taken by the tide of morning light
We are glowing embers in the dark
A billion tiny timeless glowing sparks"

["Solitary Sparks", The Fortunate Ones]

The Ties that Bind

"You're not there
To celebrate the man that you made
You're not there
To share in my success and mistakes
Is it fair?
You'll never know the person I'll be
You're not there
With me"
["You're Not There", Luke Graham]

We live inside the prisons we construct for ourselves, with bricks of experience and the mortar of other people's opinions.

I was watching a movie recently where a character said 'you either learn to hate your parents or you end up becoming them.'  It struck a chord with me.  This past year, I keep coming in circles back to something uncomfortable of which I've been long aware, but which I've never much spoken.  It's not a big deal, just a niggling little thing, but because more recent events have brought "Pat as parent" to the foreground of my mind, and into this one-sided conversation I call a blog, it's perhaps significant enough that it's worth talking about.  Today seems an appropriate day.

I am an arrow to my parents and a bow to Dan.  And I've always tried to ensure, as much as possible, I place the least weight of expectation on Dan I can.  I tell him I want him to be happy, and whether that's single, partnered, gay, straight, atheist, theist, firefighter, chip truck owner, recycling collector, veterinarian... of little concern to me.  The weight of "find your happiness" is the only thing I want to burden him with.  It's burden enough.

But as for myself, I was raised by a generation that had it much worse than us, and wanted much better for us.  And we got it!  My life has been so much more comfortable than the lives of my parents, and I'm grateful for it.  I love them for all they did for me.  There is certainly no lack of appreciation on my part.  I think of the times and the circumstances, and marvel at what they accomplished, really.  But when they wished us well, it carried with it an air of urgency, of destiny, of responsibility to excel, and to become the thing they knew we could be.

I have always or near-always written of both my parents in a pretty positive light, particularly my mother.  I knew Betty only as a child knows its mother.  She died when I was 21, so I never really had an opportunity to get to know her "with adult eyes".  But this doesn't mean I have a rose-colored view of her, or of my father.  Every human comes with their share of good and bad, praiseworthy qualities and flaws.  My parents are no exception.  That I should remember and regurgitate the good is a choice, not ignorance.  When one dwells in the past, there is little point in allowing yourself to dwell in the bad if you can choose to dwell in the good.  So with some reluctance...

My mother was a demanding woman.

Deep within me, there is this tiny seed of doubt, planted there many moons ago, that still whispers "what would Mom think?" at many things I do or choices I make, most particularly as a parent.  I didn't become the doctor or the lawyer I was supposed to.  I didn't marry.  I didn't even stay Catholic.  I don't even believe in god (the way she did).

With Dad, despite his not being the wordiest of men, he did make it a point to let me know he was proud of me and supportive of me.  I also had the opportunity to know him as an adult, for him to see the man I'd become and continue to become, and to know that he "liked how I turned out", so to speak.  I don't feel this same burden of responsibility with my father. 

With Mom, I never had that opportunity.  I was barely grown and she was gone.  So much has transpired since then which she was not alive to witness.  In my waking mind, I know she would be very happy with how things turned out.  She'd love Liza-Ann.  She'd love Dan.  She'd love the house, the job, the everything.  I think she would be proud of the man I've become, even if she'd not have necessarily approved of all the little steps along the way that led here.  But the waking mind is not the problem, which is why the reassurances of others can be of no comfort.

Salvation from the yokes of expectation we wear is not found in satisfactory answers to the questions; it can only come from not asking the question. 

The doubt is an annoying splinter at the back of the mind, a little piece of unresolved childhood, a chess game unfinished with its pieces still on the board, poised a few moves from certain victory, but without the fallen king, without the handshake at the end and the friendly acknowledgement you've done it.

Some time back I suggested that when people quote Buddha as saying to 'kill your god' or 'kill your parents', they're actually misunderstanding and misquoting him.  It was one of many things I 'put a pin in' recently.

As I understand it what Buddha supposedly said was more akin to "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him, for he is not the true Buddha."  Within the context of the conversation he was having at the time, his point was that if you find someone professing the truth, promising you a path to enlightenment and salvation, they are a charlatan, because finding the truth is about looking inward, not outward.  No one has all the answers you require.  You have them.  You need only search inward to find them.  Much as he repeated in a lot of what he taught, he was encouraging his disciples to think for themselves and 'trust in your own experience of the world'.  (In typical fashion, mankind founded a religion based on his teachings, and over time distorted his advice until we're telling people that a peacenik recommended patricide.)

The Taoist view is very similar on this point (and many, many others).  The pursuit of happiness and enlightenment is largely a journey of self-discovery, a burrowing down into our own souls to find and discard false notions, until the weight of all the little prejudices, fears, and expectations we've taken on during the course of our lives can be set aside, and we are finally free.

These notions are ideas I've carried with me for a long time (irony?).  I understand that one need not leave the room to find happiness.  It's in here with you.  But you may need to remove some things from the room first to find it.  Likely your cell phone, your slavery to consumerism, and a whole pile of shit you've come to accept as truth over the years about which you're horribly naive or downright wrong.  I've been on this path for some time.  I've dug deep and ferreted out a lot of things, and I've gotten pretty good at understanding what does and doesn't make me happy.  I've pulled out or rewired a number of things I found when I looked inward, and I feel my life is better for it.  And I feel I'm a better person for it as well, if that counts for anything.

There is, in some circles, another interpretation of what Buddha meant about the whole 'kill your teacher' thing.  Buddha maintained nirvana requires us to 'let go of our attachments'.  Most people think of this in terms of material things, but those are only the most obvious.  These "attachments" go well beyond, including even things like romantic love.  And it must also, therefore, include expectations: the expectations we place upon ourselves, and the expectations placed on us by others, which we choose to accept and carry with us - the expectations of our gods (as told us by religion), of our teachers (through instruction and testing), and of our parents (through guidance and discipline).  'Kill your god.  Kill your teacher.  Kill your parents.'

These yokes are of our own choosing.  We take them on, perhaps too young or too naive to understand the burden they represent, and then we choose, daily, to keep on carrying them.  The only time we really find the impetus to divest ourselves of the ego-investment we've placed in the opinions of others typically comes with break-ups:  with friends, with lovers, and with former employers.  The relationship has ended, and so we are free to take all the things they've told us about ourselves and which we chose to believe, and rationalize them away one by one, telling ourselves how they didn't really know us or appreciate us, how their perspective was flawed, or how they're not as smart as we are, until we've finally, bit by bit, devaluing those opinions (and people) to the point where we are prepared to completely invalidate them as worthless, to happily discard that yoke and move on.

When I wrote my last post - a pretty personally revealing one - I said to Liza-Ann that I was able to do so because I no longer much cared about the opinions of others.  She - quite correctly - reminded me I did, just not the opinions of anyone who would be shocked or bothered by it, or would consider what I revealed embarrassing.  (Wise.  I love her.)

This tiny seed of doubt I carry that my mother gave me is a yoke I continue to take on every time I allow myself to wonder, and ask myself the question.  It's not her fault but my own.  She, like so many others, merely provided a blueprint.  I placed the bricks.  I carry the question within me, until I find a way to lay that burden down and stop asking it.

But I'm not Buddhist, and the only way simple way with which I'm familiar to arrive at the necessary decision of I no longer care how you (would if you were alive) judge me, passes through that rather dark place where I'd rather not travel.  I enjoy my child-like awe for her memory, where I gloss over all the bad parts and choose to remember her in the best possible light.  It makes it especially hard to not care.

Dead or alive, I don't know how to hold someone in high regard and simultaneously disregard their opinions of you.

So until I find another path, that splinter remains.

"When I was born, they looked at me and said
what a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy."

["What a Good Boy", Barenaked Ladies]

Those Things We Don't Talk About

"I'm not too big on parties
Never know what to say
And everywhere I stand
I seem to be in somebody's way
Well, I don't mind conversation
Or a friendly chat
But to stand alone in a crowded room
I'm not too big on that"

["Not Too Big", Ron Sexsmith]

Grab a tea.  Get comfortable.  Buckle up.  This will be a long read.  It was a long write.

This is that one where I'm going to write about a few of those things.  Those things are things I sometimes talk about with close friends.  Those things are things I've alluded to or danced around in my writing in the past, and addressed head on once or twice but usually not in too much detail.  What exactly are those things?  Well, that's actually bit hard to say.

I'm writing about the way certain things happen in my head, nowadays and in the past.  But I'm hesitant to put particular names on those things, because I'd be choosing words I'm not sure I truly understand.  I am someone who adamantly clings to precision, and I've never had any sort of clinical diagnosis for any aspects of the mental states of which I will be writing.  In fact, I've never been tested for any of these things and I've never spoken with doctors about these things with the exception of the frequent insomnia that troubled me throughout my teens, 20s, and 30s.  But know that my reluctance to put names on those things isn't because I feel embarrassed by them (though that was true when I was younger).  These days, if I felt shame over them, I certainly wouldn't be putting them out there in writing for the rest of the world to see, would I?  Rather, I suspect it might be irresponsible of me to invoke particular words for those things without ever having seen a professional and had them put so fine a point on it.  And out of respect for those who have been to professionals, and been diagnosed with... well... things, I've no desire to diminish anyone else's experience in any way, or to "stake claim" to anything not mine, so to speak.

Let me also be explicitly clear about something important:  I'm generally a pretty happy person these days.  I count my blessings.  I enjoy my life.  I've a lot to be positive about these days.  And I appreciate that, and precisely because it wasn't always like that.  Most of these things don't happen much any more, and when they do I recognize them, employ one or more coping mechanisms I've developed through experience, and do what I need to to go about my day.  I've gotten very good at this (I'd like to think), and so they're mostly just "little foibles" to me now.  Liza-Ann sees and knows me enough to know when I'm inexplicably "off", but I imagine with most other people I've gotten so good at hiding it, you probably never even notice.  I could be wrong, but if so, don't feel like you can't tell me.  I'd rather know.  Then we're both on the same page.

So I'm writing today not to exorcise any demons of my own, but for two other reasons:  First, because I know there are some people in my life (my partner, in particular) who have never had some of the experiences I'm about to describe, and I'm hoping to make it a little easier for those people to understand those of us who do.  Second, in honour of Bell's "Let's Talk", I'm publishing this when I am in the hopes that those who do have similar experiences will know they're not alone, and this may help further the conversation around mental health.  I want readers to feel a sense of hope, if that's possible, because I feel like I've overcome a lot, and arrived somewhere good, and maybe anyone with similar experiences will feel they can too.  If we're really lucky, maybe something in the ways I deal with my things is worth trying for someone else.  I wish these were things I could have spoken more candidly about when I was younger.  Regardless, I'm glad I can now.

Much of what I'm about to describe won't make logical sense.  If you know me, you know I'm an exceedingly logical, thoughtful, (over) analytical person.  Yet much of it won't make sense.  If I could make it make sense, I would.  Trust me, I've tried.  Every time these things happen, I try again.  And for someone who's never had these experiences, that's the hardest part.  You see someone struggling, the compassion in you swells, and you try to apply logic to help them 'sort their problem'.  But if simple logic would have fixed it, they'd have figured it out on their own long ago.  That you do this is, of course, the logical response.  Indeed, in spite of the fact that I can relate to some of these experiences in others, I still immediately jump to trying to apply the same useless logic arguments.  ("But what do you have to be sad about?"  Nothing, yet I'm still incredibly sad.  THAT... is the real problem.)   And then I mentally scold myself for it, because I should know better.

Sometimes the problem isn't rational, it's chemical.  Maybe it's hormones.  Maybe it's something cross-wired in a brain.  Maybe it's something I ate.  I don't know.  I wish I knew.  I don't.  I know the symptoms.  I don't know the cause.  And I know what does and doesn't work for me.  That's all I can provide.  Honestly, I'm not truly sure if these things even qualify as things, now or in the past.  Maybe they're just "facts of life".  What do I know?  But I'll put them out there anyway.  Do with them what you will.

So, with that ridiculously large preamble out of the way...  

The Worst Thing:  Sometimes I haz a very bad sad

During my youth, I experienced a great deal of sadness.  Given the circumstances of my life at the time (and yes, I know I had many things to be thankful for as well), growing up watching my mother's health and mobility spiral downward until she died when I was 21, I experienced many long periods of sullen contemplation, alone in a quiet room.  In my family, medical matters of any sort were considered very private, physical certainly, and mental most definitely.  So I didn't talk to anyone about these downswings, with one or two drunken exceptions, until I saw a grief counselor briefly after mom died.  It was only a few sessions, but it did open a door for me.  I confided more in close friends following, formed closer bonds with siblings, and unpacked a lot of tangled emotional baggage that I'd been carrying for years.  The worst episode was before that, probably when I was 17 or 18, when, one morning in February (not sure why I remember that), on a Sunday (not sure why I remember that), I sat up in bed, quiet tears streaming down my face, and contemplated whether I wanted to go on living.  I remember many of the mental gymnastics, but I will spare you the details.  (If discussing it would somehow be helpful to someone, speak with me privately.)  If I recall correctly, about four hours passed before I got out of bed.  I made the right decision (obviously).  I have never been to that dark a place in my mind since, though I probably came near it once or twice in my 20s and early 30s.  Thankfully, I can tell you today that I don't recall the last visit, because it's been too long to conjure.  And I have no intention of ever finding myself there again.

In my early teens, I tried to find solace in faith, good little Catholic boy I was being raised to be.  But faith is the opposite of logic, and I'm wired for science.  Catholicism failed me miserably, and after several changes of religion, I landed on Philosophical Taoism (which is not at odds with logic, in my mind).  Discovering Taoism has helped me immensely ever since through many of life's ups-and-downs, but since it is predicated as much on logic as it is belief, see above regarding how much good logic can be when things happen.  This is not a condemnation of Catholicism, Christianity, or faith in general.  (When I condemn organized religion, it's for other reasons.)  If, as a means of coping, it works for you: excellent!  Enjoy.  I once met a pair of Mormons on the doorstep with the bold proclamation "No, I haven't found Jesus, but I'm a Taoist, and MY FAITH SUSTAINS ME!"  It was a joke to amuse myself at the time, but in hindsight, it's also kind of true.

Many periods of sadness I experienced, even the intense times, were in fact logical responses to bad situations.  Things felt desperate because things were desperate, or at least could reasonably be perceived that way in my circumstance.  None of this was the fault of my parents, they were great.  Neither did it have anything to do with abuse, or trouble at home, or at school, or anything of the like.  It stemmed just from being a working class family dealing with my mother's MS, all the changes that brings to a family dynamic, being a skinny nerd, living in a seedy neighbourhood, and so on.  No one is to blame.  It's the hand that was dealt.  That's how it played it out.

I did a lot of drinking in my teens and 20s, and while much of it was social, at least some of it was definitely motivated by a desire to self-medicate, to escape, to forget.  I expect most people have that experience to at least some degree, so it's probably not remarkable.  I never tried drugs, for which I'm nowadays thankful, since I am self-aware enough to understand my propensity toward addictive behaviour.  After mom died, I went out drinking one night and got completely shit-faced, and on waking the next day decided I'd rather eat Pringles every day than become an alcoholic, so my days as a 'skinny nerd' ended as I packed on the pounds at the rate of two cans per day for months.  I don't regret this.  It's easier to put down Pringles than alcohol.

But as I passed into my 20s and 30s, I also discovered a difficult truth:  that while much of the sadness went away as my life got better and I gained more control over life's circumstances, I am sometimes still prone to irrational downswings, usually just for a period of a day or two, and less and less frequently as the years go on.  This may come as news for some of my friends reading this.  Nowadays, it happens... I'd guess about one day every two or three months.  A few days a year is very manageable.  It's also much milder than it was in the past.  When it happens, I know it's happening.  I feel it.  I ask myself why I feel sad and can't come up with a rational explanation, but I can't stop feeling that way.  The fact that I, as such a logical creature, cannot simply will myself back to sensible thinking and feeling is a special kind of madness-icing on the sad-cake, making me irritable at my own "weakness" (note the quotes) on top of the sadness.  I try to stay civil as best I can, but I don't think I'm much fun to be around.

Then I employ my coping mechanisms as best I can.  After all these years, here's where I've gotten:

For this particular issue, I tend to isolate myself from others.  I remind myself that it will pass:  within a day or two all will be well again.  I know this.  I can't make the sad stop, but I can believe it's only a matter of time.  The experience of this past decade or more has taught me this.  That much my logical mind can still grab on to.  I just need to not panic, to pass that time as quickly as possible, and to not allow myself to look into that dark place I looked so many moons ago (which as I said, I haven't in ages).

My best bet is to bury myself in a solitary activity that is capable of completely focusing my mind.  Activities like watching Netflix are generally useless.  Watching a show allows my mind to drift in different directions.  It would have to be one really goddamn engrossing show to do otherwise.  The frustration of being unfocused just heightens the feelings.  Origami used to help, but nowadays unless it's something new and particularly complicated, I could do some of that shit in my sleep.  I start folding, my mind wanders, emotion wells.  No good.  A complex and lengthy video game with a lot of depth and detail, something especially good with the "chase the carrot" pacing, is an excellent refuge.  Something epic or world-building is ideal.  I probably owe Sid Meier a big thank you.  If I can bury 18 of the next 36 hours in a video-game frenzy, the mood will likely have passed before I realize.  I finish the game and feel fine.  Done.

Writing can be immensely helpful, especially if the irrational sadness has at least some roots in something logical.  Then the constant editing and refinement process, in order to present the material in a sensible fashion for readers, is a means of sorting through these undercurrents in my own head, such that publishing may bring closure, or at least expedite things.  If the sadness is truly irrational, then writing about something completely unrelated may still create sufficient mental focus to push the feelings aside while I type.  There are many things on this blog that were borne of this process, distractions to take me away from something inexplicable.

I've learned over time which music in my collection inspires anger, depression, happiness, and so on.  It's not always obvious.  Surrounding myself with the right auditory input helps.  This is especially true if I have to work.  I don't tend to take "mental health" sick days.  I probably should, but again, because of the whole "unofficial" nature of these things, I feel like I can't or shouldn't.  Obviously, perky music is usually the order of the day.  (Everyone should bookmark this wonderful thing.)  Being sad and listening to sad music is often a recipe for disaster, though there have been times in the past when it helped by accelerating the process.  Again, throw away logic.  The closest explanation is probably akin to when people say things like "maybe you just need a good cry".  "Well, let's get on with it then, shall we?"  Since I tend to gravitate to music that stimulates me lyrically, I don't actually own a lot of peppy stuff in my collection that can elevate my mood, but I do keep a few albums around for this very purpose (Ok Go, Red Hot Chili Peppers).  I also have a few things in my collection I consider incredibly beautiful music, but which I find so emotionally disheartening that I only allow myself to listen to them in happy, stable moods and only a few times a year.  (But not like, really happy moods, because who wants to ruin that?)

In my 20s and early 30s, I sometimes dulled my senses using induced fatigue, intentionally staying up until the wee hours watching late night talk shows and then getting up early and taking less than my usual amount of caffeine.  This left me zombie-like and more able to cope with the stress of the day.  It's a horrible idea and I (almost) never do it any more.  I cannot recommend that.  It's stupid and doesn't really work.  It often makes things worse.  I understand this now, but back then I didn't know better.

Because I tend to isolate myself, unless I inexplicably cancel social plans, I imagine (rightly or wrongly) people around me probably don't notice when these days happen, with the exception of Liza-Ann.

This Other Sometimes but Brief Thing:  Cognitive Disso... I.. but.. FAAACK...
 
I'm a person who plans everything.  If you've ever spoken to me and it's a conversation I've started, and it's about anything other than "how's your day?", there's a good probability I had at least the first several exchanges rehearsed in my head before you set eyes on me.  It's like planning a chess opening.  I do this with as many of my conversations as I can, habitually, even when those conversations are casual ones with friends where there's zero reason to be the least bit nervous (away with you, logic!).  I make one exception where I won't allow myself: "matters of the heart".  I suppose in some sense, this means Liza-Ann experiences a 'more honest' version of me than others do, because she witnesses more emotionally-spontaneous responses than anyone else.  She also has much more opportunity to be the one starting the conversation.

If you're someone who knows me personally, please don't be offended.  I'm not trying to one-up or trick anyone.  It's a way of creating a sort of "conversational footing" for myself to start things off in the right direction.

I've done this for as far back as I remember, and I know I created my "special exception" rule at 21.  (Fun fact?  It was based on something from the bible!)  If I plan even conversations, you can bet your bottom dollar I plan everything else in my life as much as possible.  By the time the car is a block from the house, my mental GPS has mapped the optimal route between the five places I need to go on errands.  There are a few odd exceptions, like not always taking a grocery list.

This is both a good and bad thing.  I enjoy foresight.  I consider it the real definition of genius thinking.  But these mental house-of-cards I construct have a glaring weakness:

Whether it's because I was unexpectedly interrupted during the middle steps of one of my elaborate plans (e.g. someone dropping by, the phone ringing unexpectedly), or because I suddenly realize I've made a mistake and omitted something from the plan, it sends me into a confused mental frenzy.  It's brief.  It lasts only a minute at most, usually much less.  During that frenzy I probably can't string together a decent sentence.  It's not exactly panic.  It's difficult to describe, because it doesn't feel like fear, more like frustration, or agitation.  I'm highly agitated.  It's a rapid ramble, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud, of incomplete thoughts as I scramble to incorporate this new information into a revised plan.

The most common example is something people will never witness.  When driving in the car by myself, running errands, I realize there's something I forgot and my whole mental-GPS-routing is invalidated.  I hurriedly take two spontaneous wrong turns and find myself going in the complete wrong direction.  I may then need to actually pull over for a second, calm myself, rework the plan in my head, and finally start off in the right direction.

This could be a common experience.  Maybe it happens to everyone and with great frequency.  Perhaps it's completely unremarkable.  I honestly don't know.  I only seldom witness it in others, but since people don't normally see me doing it, I can't tell if it's something we all have, or just me (and that one friend I've watched it happen to).

It's unpreventable but it's brief.  My only "coping mechanism" is to stop myself from what I'm doing and take a "mental breather" to re-work the plan (e.g. pull over rather than to take three more turns down side streets in different directions while feeling like a total idiot).  Then I move on and basically pretend it never happened and do my best to forget that it did.

That Constant, Mild, but Invisible Thing: I Both Love and Hate Dealing with People

I love to socialize, but I really prefer to be in control of the circumstances of my socialization.  For example, I hate almost all incoming phone calls.  I didn't plan that interaction.  Why are they calling?  What will they want to talk about?  Why now?  Is it because something is wrong?  Could I not answer?  What if it's an emergency?  THIS ISN'T PART OF THE PLAN.  Hello?

It's not to say I don't sometimes like people calling or dropping by unannounced.  It would depend on who calls or drops by unannounced and what I'm doing at the time (see above re: elaborate plans getting interrupted).  I love the company of my friends - to a degree, I need my alone time too - but I dread conversations with strangers to the point that I can easily lose sleep over knowing I have to talk to one the next day.  And it doesn't have to be a complicated context, where such fear might be reasonable, it can be over the smallest things.  I will scour the whole damn section or even store twice before I'll ask where to find something.  I will make excuses for not asking.  If the waiter or waitress forgets something, it feels like an act of courage for me to ask, in spite of the fact that I'm only asking them to do their job and it's probably something really trivial like "do you have any salt?".  Liza-Ann's brother-in-law works managing a garage.  This is where I will forever bring the car now, because I know jack shit about cars and the idea of bringing a car somewhere and having some guy I've never met say "yeah, from what you tell me, it sounds like your fribbled breg is not snickering properly with your ignu" will leave me feeling "he thinks I'm an idiot for not knowing this", and this is absolutely horrifying to me.  Denny has no idea how much stress he's saved me in the last decade.  (Well, if he reads this I guess he does now.)

Recently, Dan admitted one day he didn't quite get the haircut he wanted because he didn't want to correct the stylist for fear of hurting her feelings.  I was reminded of my own typical haircut experience:  in the shop where I go, there are two women who work there regularly.  One gives a decent cut.  The other is more experienced and gives an excellent cut.  I'd prefer her, obviously, but if I enter the store and her line is longer (which it usually is, because I'm not the only one who knows this), I go with the lesser option, not because I don't have the time to wait, but because I'm afraid of offending this person I see for 30 minutes maybe six or eight times a year and whose name I didn't even know until recently.  It's not because I like her (ambivalent).  It's not because I'm attracted to her (I'm not).  It's because I can't bear the thought that she might give me a dirty look and make me feel awkward.

I can't watch shows like The Office, because I empathize with characters in awkward situations onscreen and it makes my skin crawl.  This whole genre of awkward-situation humor is anathema to me.

If you invite me to a house party where there will be a large number of people I don't know, expect me to make an appearance and likely leave after an hour with some excuse as to why I can't stay.  If I'm there longer than that, either Liza-Ann is having a good time and I don't want to ruin it for her, or I've found enough people I know to cling to that I've found a way to endure.  If I'm not drunk and wearing a lampshade, I'm probably not "having a blast".  (If I am drunk and wearing a lamp-shade, it is the way I've found to endure.)

I don't consider it an inconvenience to give a friend a lift somewhere or do any other such small favour.  On the contrary, I welcome the opportunity to do a friend a good turn.  Love them.  Seldom refuse.  But I hate asking someone for a ride unless they are in my closest circle of friends because it feels like a horrible inconvenience to me, despite the illogic of this reversible scenario.  In fact, even some of those friends, people I've known for 20+ years, I hate asking the simplest of favours, not that they'd ever refuse.  I hate the thought of inconveniencing anyone.

YET...

I was able to overcome shyness at a young age enough to do public speaking, classroom instruction, work presentations, and so on.  In fact, I do these things confidently.  I don't usually feel nervous preceding these events.  Oddly, I somehow defer the tension until after.  It's weird, right?  I can prep a presentation, give said presentation, and then only later, after it's all said and done, will a wave of "was that alright?" pass over me.  I'd love to tell people how to do this, but I honestly have no idea how I got here.

Similarly, for all my distaste at the thought of inconveniencing someone or having an awkward conversation with a stranger, I don't shy away from confrontational conversations (counseling, arguments, etc.).

The confluence of all these things about the way I interact with other people is very incongruous, but the relative visibility of each means most people would probably never describe me as "shy".  I organize social events and invite them out.  I love to host.  I speak in front of groups.  I run meetings.  I organize teams.  I lead.  I provide advice.  I talk things out.  I do all this stuff but... I'm afraid of hurting my barber's feelings, or of asking a coworker for lift home.

That said, I still do.  I don't exactly have a "coping mechanism" for this thing because while I hate those conversations, while I dread those conversations, while I frequently feel nervous even talking with people I deal with on a regular basis during those conversations, it ultimately doesn't prevent me from having (most of) those conversations.  Sure, I don't always get the haircut I want, and sometimes go to a second store unnecessarily to find something the first one had, but I still get what I need, the car still gets fixed, and so on.  When it truly matters, I'm able to invoke the courage to do what I have to do to get by.  One thing that really helps, and it's a simple thing:  the mere presence of a close friend with me gives an incredible boost when it comes to working up to opening my mouth.

I'm grateful that while I feel this thing, struggle with it, and usually succeed in overcoming it, I expect there are others around me who also feel it and struggle with it but who are not so successful in overcoming it all the times they need to.  I understand them.  I get it.  My heart goes out to them.

All those other things...

I, as do many highly-organized, fastidious planners, joke frequently about being OCD.  Most of the people who joke about being OCD are, of course, not actually.  They are simply highly-organized, fastidious planners.  They may enjoy being highly-organized, fastidious planners, but they are not compelled to be.  They do not feel irrepressible urges to do certain often-illogical things.  They simple understand the merits of being neat.  They find it rewarding.  OCD is an iceberg:  the tip - behaviour - is visible.  The base - compulsion - is much larger and not visible.  I feel quite certain I am not, in fact, OCD, because while I do experience some odd compulsions:  1) they are either harmless and unnoticeable (backing out of a parking space the exact reverse of how I entered, even if it puts me in the wrong direction), 2) through force of will, I am able to overcome them (I can back out the other way, if I make myself), and 3) they do not consume a significant portion of my day or limit my ability to function.  Through the course of a lot of self-awareness over the last number of years, I've come to determine a large number of these behaviours are more habitual than compulsion.  Any anxiety I feel at forcing myself to do something "against the grain" is usually very mild, a discomfort.  I may experience slight agitation while doing it or at the thought, but it doesn't linger.  I actually use a few of these behaviours to my advantage.  For instance, I only need to talk myself into starting certain unpleasant tasks, knowing that once I begin, my compulsion to finish with overcome me.  Somehow, lying to myself this way keeps working.  (Away, logic!  I tricked myself again!)  At the end of the day, joke as we do about what I'm like, I know I don't qualify to be that particular thing.

I'll go in water deeper than my head with a life-jacket on, and even frolic.  If you try to get me into water deeper than my head without a life-jacket, I will literally punch you in the neck before I go in the drink.  I don't think this thing technically qualifies as "hydrophobic", but I've almost drowned twice, and the indescribable surge of fear I get if my toes can't touch bottom makes me want to bite off my own tongue.  I can probably make myself tremble just by closing my eyes and imaging it, if I could make myself close my eyes and imagine it.

And... done?

There's probably more.  I'm full of little "foibles".  But that's got to be most of it.  These are the ones that come to mind and which I'm willing to talk about, at least.  I've catalogued all the misfiring, nonsensical bits of my brain.  It feels oddly rewarding.

I wrote this with very little trepidation, very little emotion at all.  It mostly seems so matter-of-fact to me now.  (Though I'll admit, I may will experience a wave of "should I have done that?" right after I hit 'publish'.  Nope.  It's arrived early.)

I wrote all this because, well...

This is who I am, this is how I've been, and I'm ok with it.

So, yeah, it's been a winding path.

So if you're someone whose path has been a little crooked too, or who feels right now that you're a little lost in the woods... you're definitely not alone.  There are a lot more of us who've come this way than you realize.  I heard that even that loud, obnoxious guy in the office who loves giving presentations is a complex mess of really weird shit inside his head.

Persevere.  Find a way.  There are people who love you, and want you around, even if you don't feel like much fun, even if don't feel like you owe it to yourself to keep going, even if you don't want to keep trying.  If nothing else, maybe you can feel like you owe it to someone else who loves you to keep trying, for their sake if not your own.

That's what I thought one Sunday morning in February nearly 30 years ago.

[To my friends who struggle with... things...  This one was for you.  Kick the darkness 'till it bleeds daylight.]

That Straw Dog

"Fire, fire, the bridge is on fire
Burning away your last connection
Fire, fire, our bridge is on fire
Your social skills resemble arson

You seem okay with this
So deleterious
Remorse for you is not an option

What’s the matter, Beavis?"

["Arsonist", Puscifer]

On the night of November 8th, 2016, I went to bed at a normal hour, confident that the morning would bring the expected result in the US election, the one I'd whole-heartedly assured my son was a definite thing.  At about 2 or 3am, I awoke to use the washroom.  I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep if went back to bed curious, and so I went to take a peek at the current situation.

In the hours that followed, I chatted by Facebook Messenger with an American friend out in California who was up watching the results roll in.  We tried to convince one another that things could turn around, and that the projections were wrong.  She just needs... well, if she got... and... and...  I can't recall if I cried or not.  I know I wanted to.  A part of me wanted to wake Liza-Ann and be in her arms, but I knew I'd be a sack of shit at work the next day (at an important first meeting at the start of a project, no less), and didn't want to wish the same fate on her.  Sleep well, I thought, it might be the last good night's sleep in a while.

I eventually decided that I needed to at least try to sleep, so I turned in at about 4am (I think), and eventually drifted off wondering to myself, how do we explain this to our child?

It was with great fear in my heart that we woke him the next morning, and the three of us sat on his bed.  We talked and talked.  Dan was resilient.  He listened patiently.  He asked questions.  He was bothered, just as we were.  But, like ourselves, he took a deep breath, stayed calm, and got back to the matter of his morning routine.  We put on our bravest faces and went about our days, and I discovered quickly that my disheveled state was no more remarkable than that of my shocked coworkers.

It was at least a few days before I didn't feel a steady state of anxious.

In the weeks that have followed , we've discussed it further among ourselves, and I've certainly discussed it with family, friends, and coworkers aplenty.  So I can no longer remember exactly all the things I rationalized that morning, the various points I made to diminish my own dread to within my capacity to cope, and to find what inklings of hope I could to help Dan and Liza-Ann keep it together too.

But I remember some of the key points, so I'll repeat them here.  And bear in mind:  I'm not a political pundit.  I'm not a journalist.  I'm just some guy, on the outside looking in, and wondering how the hell did that happen?  I probably didn't go into all the detail then that I will now, but it accounts for the ongoing conversations between as well.

So...

He does not have the support of all Americans.  Not even close.

The divide in popular vote has increased since that night, but even then I argued:  first, he only got half the votes, and second, only half the people voted.  The US has a history of exporting democracy, but aren't as keen on practicing it.  Voter turnout in the US tends to trail a great many developed democratic nations.  And in their recent elections, it continues to slide downward.  (Don't be too proud, Canadians, we're not much better.)  So if only half the nation voted, and only half those voted for Trump...  Now I know many would say that among those who didn't vote, it might be reasonable to assume they would split along the same lines.  I spend my day-to-day dealing with "metrics" and "key performance indicators" at work, and I know (read: preach) how dangerous statistics and assumptions can get.  But first, I'm trying to find some hope here, goddamnit, so sure, maybe I'm deluding myself, and second I don't believe that to be true in this particular case for this simple reason: since virtually all the polls leading up to the election were predicting a Clinton win, anyone making a deliberate choice to not vote was making a choice to allow that expected result.  If someone was adamantly pro-Trump and thought he was going to lose without their vote, wouldn't they go vote to help him?  I believe a lot of the "no shows" were a way of expressing "neither (but I expect Hillary will win)".  "Why did Hillary lose?" isn't the question I'm asking or answering here.  That's a whole other kettle of fish.

Next, from those who voted Trump, remove from that list those staunch Republican voters who are so party-minded that they'd check a box with Gumby on it as long as Gumby had "(R)" after his name.  ("Pokey (R)" as his running mate, of course.)  Even within our multi-party system in Canada, there are people we know who always vote for Party Whatever because, goshdarnit, that's how they were raised and who their pappy voted for and who they've always voted for and their kids will vote for.  I believe the two-party system of the US is even more polarizing in this fashion: consider the very notion of "swing states" vs those that simply... always vote the same.  That's party loyalty.  There were, I'm sure, Republicans who plugged their noses and checked that box.  And while it's no secret that I'm not a fan of the Republican party in general, I do not see them as the enemy.  They can be, or at least should be, people who can be reasoned with.  Honestly, I thought it would be better for them as a party if they'd swallowed their pride, thrown Trump under a bus with a "not our values" send-off, and willfully lost this election with the intention of running a better candidate next time, in the hopes of building confidence and integrity and a stronger base in four years.  (I still wouldn't vote Republican were I American, but I'd have more respect for them.)  But then, it's been eight years for them, they're probably too proud to swallow that pill, and I'm not a political analyst.  (Also, I fantasize they still have a secret plan to impeach him and put someone else in.)

My point is (was and still is):  I do not, in my heart, believe that 50% of Americans want to run around firing guns in the air, grabbing women by the pussy, and putting straws in their beer so they can still drink them through white hoods.  I don't believe that.  It's not even close to the truth.  In fact, to portray all Trump supporters that way, to think it's that simple, is to misunderstand what motives them, to misunderstand what happened, and to misunderstand where the problems lie.  You can't fix problems you don't understand.  You need to look, to listen, to actually hear instead of just waiting for a turn to speak.  Then you find a path forward.

The good news:  those 'deplorables' are a small number.  

The bad news: it only took a relatively small number of deplorables to put him over the line and into office.  Because: electoral college.  Because: the predetermination of states voting along party lines.  Because: media portraying Hillary as a sure thing.  Because: media portraying a false equivalence of capability and relevant experience.  Because:  the DNC hi-jinks that put Clinton ahead of Bernie put a sour taste in a lot of mouths (mine included).  Because: Trump ran a campaign designed to drive down voter turnout knowing the undecideds weren't the ones going to make him win, but the already-decideds.  Pussygate?  Bring it on.  It's dead-cat politics at its finest.  Keep that media cycle churning.  Piss people off so they don't vote, because the ones electing Trump have already decided and already stopped watching.

The good news:  they're a relatively small number.  This shock to the system serves as notice that we all need to be more politically active.  We all need to stand up and be heard.  We all need to understand that indifference can be equally as devastating as ignorance.  We also need to sit down and listen.  You need to take those people who voted him in in spite of being offended by his misogyny, xenophobia, or racist attitudes, and ask why? and then find a better middle-ground where they don't somehow still feel disenfranchised by a group espousing equality and justice for all.  Win them over.  Show them the merits of a better position.  That's what progress is: a path forward together, not a tug of war over the same sloppy pit.

We're Canadian.

Apologies to my American friends, but yes, for the next few days I welcomed my wife and child with "Hello, fellow Canadians!" as a way of lessening the blow.  I know we'll still feel the effects.  I know we'll feel it less but it'll still be very real.  And I have compassion for my American friends, I really do.  But yes, I admit, it's a part of how I coped.  I reminded myself, Liza-Ann, and Dan that we'd have to get on a plane and fly hundreds of kilometers per hour, for hours, to even reach the edge of the country that chose him.

Democracy is a flawed system, but it's what we have.

I'm fond of the old quote 'Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.'  Barring dictablanda socialista clementia (secular socialist benevolent dictatorship) which has never and will never occur, democracy is basically what we're left with.  The American electoral college is stupid.  Two party system - screwy.  Multi-party system in Canada... pretty much as screwy, just in different ways.  Making multiple decisions with a single vote (who represents me locally, federally, as leader...)... is godawful unbearable.  They've been talking electoral reform south of the border for ages.  We've been talking electoral reform north of the border for ages.  Problem is catch-22:  only the party in power can make the changes, and if the current system put them in power, why the hell would they change it?  (Solution: make it very clear that not changing it might cost them re-election, especially if it was a campaign promise.  Mister.  Trudeau.  *COUGH*)

There is no big red History Eraser button.

Yes, the "leader of the free world" is someone who hasn't watched the what is the merit of proportional response? episode of West Wing and doesn't understand why the use of nuclear weapons is a Really Fucking Bad Idea™.  He's a dangerous man with dangerous ideas.  But he's not a dictator.  And in spite of the fact that he's theoretically in charge, for shit to get done it has to be palatable enough to make it past a Republican government.  Granted, there's plenty of things I don't consider palatable which Republicans do - and those are the battles people will be fighting the next four years (abortion, bathroom bills, gender pay gaps, way too much to list here) - but as for having let the clown out of the box, I do not believe there's a big red "Screw It" button in a room somewhere to which he's given the key and can walk inside and start Fallout 5: Live Edition!, just because he's not a fan of Alec Baldwin's work.  It's not that simple.

Will he say stupid and rude things to other foreign leaders?  Of course he will.  And they'll regard him in much the same way we do: with the incredulous, awkward laughter of someone watching a toddler have a temper tantrum.  I don't lay the smack-down on toddlers who misbehave, and I have to believe that calmer heads will prevail when it comes to foreign heads of state.  Hollywood has a history of portraying the Russians and the Chinese as maniacal ne'er-do-wells for the purpose of spinning a tale, but that doesn't make it true.  Sting sang "...if the Russians love their children too".  Yes, I have to believe they do.  I have to.  I'm relying on it.

And I refuse to believe that one man, no matter how powerful, and even given four years, especially not that man, can undo what years of progress have brought.  He is not weakening our resolve; he is hardening it.  Go look at pictures of the turnouts for Women's March on Washington and all the sister marches.  

So yeah, he won.  Every dog has its day, even the straw ones.  

He is just one man.  

We are the unstoppable force of human evolution.

"Bullies are almost always outnumbered by the bullied. 

We just need to organize."

[Ivan Coyote]

Heartache

"love hurts
love scars
love wounds
and marks any heart"
["Love Hurts", Nazareth]

Recently at my child's school there was an opportunity for some anonymous gift-giving.  He sent a number to friends as well as one to a burgeoning crush.  Sadly, he received none himself.  His generosity was unsurprising, and equally unsurprising was that he's reached an age where these children are all becoming so single-mindedly focused on the objects of their affection that they start to neglect the valued friends around them.  I remember this from my teenage years, and certainly not "fondly".  But... it's a thing... I get that.

Dan's path is unlike mine for a number of reasons.  I get that too. I understand his journey will be vastly different.  Regarding the elephant in the room, I've spoken with enough trans adults closer in age to him than to me to understand that despite being on a road less traveled, his path still has incredible potential for wonderful, fruitful, loving and learning relationships.  Different?  Sure.  Full of possibilities?  Absolutely.  As you might guess, this is one of the most common, immediate, and pressing fears that comes to mind among parents of gender-queer and gender-creative children.  But this thing he suffered, perhaps his first little bit of heartache, this crossed a sort of boundary in my mind and caused much self-reflection.

Every time something bad has happened in his life... The Never-Ending Nosebleed from Hell, The Great Smencil Incident, Why You Don't Put Cayenne in Soup When You Have Small Children... each time, there's a certain benchmark in my head I use to settle my unease, to unburden my parental guilt:  When he's older, will he even remember?

There are probably all kinds of horrible things that happened to me as a child, but there's only certain things I remember.  That's not to say that they haven't somehow shaped me as a person or molded my behaviour, but I do think I can safely say that, on a day-to-day basis, they have no significant impact to my happiness as a person because I can't even bring them to mind when I try.  As Dan has gotten older, I've often questioned him about events of the past so that I can observe as the sliding window of his memory leaves things behind.  I was pleased, for instance, when he reached a point a while back where he could no longer remember being age one, which meant he could no longer remember a life without me.  Selfish, I know.

In worrying "Is this a traumatic event that will stick with him?", I ask myself "Do I have memories of things like this?"

I have very few memories of anything before about age thirteen.  I have some, both pleasant and unpleasant, but they are few and far between and relatively insignificant to me.  Nothing I'd remotely call "traumatic" except maybe one so vague I can't tell if it actually happened or if it was maybe a recurring dream I had as a child.  And I hesitate to call it trauma when I'm not sure it was even real.  There's no lesson to be taken from it.  I discard it.

But starting about the age Dan is now... well this is the beginning of the heartbreak years.  I remember those all too well.

I turned out fine.  I know that.  I'm in a great relationship now and I've had other successful relationships in the past.  I've had an average number of girlfriends for a Canadian male, I know that.  (Because yes, of course I looked it up.  We all know what I'm like.  Shut up.)  

But memory is a strange thing, and has a way of distorting truth.

One of the fundamental ideas in Taoism is the notion of "P'u", the uncarved block.  We are usually not made happier by learning and remembering things, but by letting go of them and forgetting.  Everything that "carves" us takes a little something away.  We long to be whole again.

Over time, as we forge identities for ourselves, the way we are seen by others becomes fixed in people's minds, and in our own as well.  We build a sense of self, and once carved, that block doesn't much change later, the carving only becomes slightly more refined.  I am able to see myself as overweight when I look in a mirror, because it's right there in front of me, but the rest of the time I'm 'a skinny nerd', because in my mind, it's what I've been all my life.  Despite the fact that I managed to somehow develop a certain charm in my 20s that lead to more dates than the "dry spell" that was my teenage years, and despite the very happy relationship I'm in now, I have always and likely will always see myself as "unsuccessful" when it comes to women, because I was raised in a culture of "more is better", it became a piece of my identity early on when numbers were low.  It became carved.  It cannot be un-carved.

There is virtually nothing I can do to protect my child from the heartache the teenage years bring to many of us.  It's a path he will have to walk himself, and I can only hope that at the end, he finds the kind of happiness I have, and ultimately becomes someone he can love.

Yes, you read that right.  See I have little doubt he will become someone others will love.  That's hardly the point.  He's already an incredible and incredibly lovable person.  Smart, kind, clever, witty, funny, interesting... the list goes on.  But I need to believe he'll become someone who can love himself.  That's harder.  A lot of people don't.  Many don't even really try.  It was a journey for me, and one I am forever glad I took, because if I was still spending my life judging my worth on a barometer filled with the whimsy of Duran Duran fans (no offense boys, some catchy tunes there), I'd be pretty miserable.  I'll never look like Corey Hart; I'm trying for a rough approximation of Richard Gere.

This one piece of me, this small cut in the wood that I lament, this does not stop me at the end of the day from knowing, accepting and loving myself for who I am.  Boohoo.  Whatever.  If anything, it's a reminder of humility.  I'm comfortable in this skin.  My best ever advice to others is always to learn to do the same: stop focusing on finding someone else to love you, and start with getting to know yourself.  Happiness happens in one place.  You need to make peace in there.

But that said, I do remember my heart breaking, and don't look forward to watching his.

The Poisonous Fire Hose

"Twisted mind,
Withered brain
You know I'm going insane
I just tell them to get back
When they tell me how to act
I've got the world up my ass"

["I've got the World up my Ass", Puscifer (cover of Circle Jerks)]

I find myself dwelling mentally in odd spaces of late, outside my typical comfort zones.  It's not that I fear confrontation, coping with bad news, or hearing about the deplorable state of the world.  My typical mental "comfort zone" has room for those things.  I digest.  I cope.  I have my mechanisms.  And truly, if you sift through the constant barrage of media, the world is actually getting better, it's just not reflected that way.  But that media reflection, that's part of the problem, and it doesn't stop there.

In recent months, partly because of things like watching Bill C-16 work its way through the Senate, largely because of things like Trump and Syria, I feel like I'm dealing with "death by a thousand cuts".  Facebook feeds.  Group feeds.  News websites.  Comments sections on wherever - which yes, I know I should never read.  Bit by bit, it grinds me down.  Bit by disheartening bit, it depresses.  I've found myself blocking more and more people on social media, but it's still never enough.  Part of me wants to just unplug from it.  I am tempted.  But I know I'd be giving up the good with the bad.

I'm a problem-solver.  It's deeply ingrained in me.  Every situation I see or hear I want to respond to.  I always have an opinion.  I always have an idea.  (I clearly should have become a cab driver or hairdresser.)  I've a distinct lack of "yeah, whatever".  I hear strangers arguing and realize they simply misunderstand each other and want to interrupt.  I hear someone at the front of a line I'm in trying to argue with a clerk and want to go stand beside them and present a clearer argument and see justice done.  When it comes to social media, it's often hard for me to avoid arguing with idiots on the internet, which is a rabbit hole that should be avoided at all costs.  (They drag you down to their level, then beat you with experience.)  I understand that I don't have the solution to all the world's ills - the "piss-n-vinegar" years are well behind me - but I still feel a compulsion.  Every time, a desire to fix things rises in me.

And so I find myself trapped in the middle these days:  I feel too exhausted to fight every battle, constantly eroded by the daily toll of shared news articles, yet feeling as though I've somehow disappointed or failed those I profess to represent when I'm not there for them every step of the way, writing the letters or sharing the posts or whatever.  I console myself with a Taoist parable about how 'the wind can't blow all the time, and if the heavens must sometimes rest, so too must we', but it's not enough.  I remain burdened with guilt.  I feel like I should be screaming from the rooftop at Canadian senators, but all I really feel like doing is calling up a certain U of T professor to tell him he's an ego-maniacal cunt and I hope someone he loves comes out to him soon so he's forced to face the depths of his ignorance in the most emotionally-invested way possible.  Emotional investment seems to be the only path left that spurs some of us to learn now that we're drinking our information from the poisonous fire hose.

I believe in stepping up, I do.  But the problem with the modern day social-media frenzy is that in 'the global village' you know all about all the problems, and there are far too many problems to jump in and help fix.  Even when you pick and choose your causes, the fact remains that "the little guy" will be out-gunned, out-spent, and out-lasted by governments and monolithic corporate entities.  Open Media vs the Big Three.  Standing Rock.  Muskrat Falls.  Suddenly I have an over-played Billy Joel song stuck in my head.

Ultimately, the problem for me (read: us) is this:  within the span of our generation, we've gone from being largely ignorant of most of the goings-on in the world except what's happening locally, to having more information at our fingertips than we can possibly digest.  Unable to fully digest all we're seeing has led to "news" often being little more than 140 character tweets, and considering ourselves "informed" when all we've done is skim a misleading, sensationalist headline.  That won't keep us from having an opinion, mind you, or from further propagating what we thought the story was.

The pendulum has swung heavily from one side to the other, and we need to find ourselves a reasonable medium.  There has to be a way we can filter the daily torrent of shit in which we find ourselves awash.  But the problem is that I can only conceive of two solutions, and neither of them is particularly appealing, and may not even be possible:

First, we have selective, willful ignorance.  As individuals, we choose what to consume or not consume, and therefore what to give a shit about or not give a shit about.  I don't have to stress over the things to which I'm blissfully ignorant.  I don't have to feel compelled to do something about them; I don't have to feel guilty if I choose not to.  But this is something that's currently culturally unacceptable.  It's barely acceptable when someone is unwittingly ignorant ("What do you mean you've never heard of Allepo?"), so imagine the reaction when someone professes they don't want you to enlighten them.  ("Nope, and I don't want to.")  Such a position leads us to assume they are an individual lacking in compassion, as opposed to someone whose compassion reserves are simply run dry.  Even people I know who regularly suffer from anxiety and depression are still tuned-in to the daily barrage of everything-wrong-in-the-world through Facebook, Instagram, etc., we don't hesitate to regurgitate these details to them, and we still expect them to be informed, like the rest of us.  How merciless are we?

The second possibility that comes to mind for me is based on an interesting contention made in a YouTube video I found Dan watching the other day (sorry, don't have the link).  The argument was that when we moved from a subscription model for news to an advertising-based one, it caused the decline in quality and the move to infotainment, which spiraled into the disgusting mess we somehow still call "journalism" today.  The current design is meant to be pure click-bait, with little regard for the quality of the content itself, and little regard for the idea of repeat-viewing by a loyal customer base.  And that means it's all exaggerated and usually fear-mongering, and even more dire and emotionally-draining that it really needs to be.  Is it possible to reverse this trend?  Is it possible for us to return to the idea of fact-checked, impartially-delivered, spell-checked, well-researched and well-written articles for which we would actually pay out of pocket for such quality?  Are we willing to buy back our sanity a piece at a time, demanding a pressure gauge and filter for the firehose from which we daily drink?

I'm sincerely hoping someone has a third option I haven't thought of.