There is a story in the gospels where a man had a child that was possessed by a malignant spirit. Jesus's disciples couldn't do anything, and the man pleaded "Lord, if you can, heal my son!" Jesus looked at him, and said ""If you can?' Anything is possible for him who believes." He replied "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!" Generally speaking this is where I am. There is a part of me that holds to the core teaching I had when I was a child, but overall there is nothing there. If you want to put a label on it, I would say that I am a skeptic and a soft agnostic. Soft agnosticism meaning that I don't know for sure, but I lean towards the possibility of there being a God.
What has kept me from flat out rejecting Jesus is my dad. I don't mean this in some kind obligatory duty, nor some instilled fear of hell, but the example set by my father. All that makes me likeable, respectable, honorable, and disciplined came from my father's sense of living out his faith as best as he understood it. With all his shortcomings, inconsistencies, and vulgar displays of temper my father remains an example to me of what it means to be a Christian, and a man. He is disciplined. He is determined. He is undeterred, and undaunted. He is a tough guy.
There is a myriad of examples and stories that I can tell to illustrate what I have posed, but I will only use the three that have stuck out to me. While there are those who will flat out disagree with his beliefs those same people cannot disagree that he is one of the most honest and honorable man they have ever met. They will also respect his depth of conviction, and what it means to do what you have to do even if external forces are disagreeable.

To begin, my father has had a bad back since he was fourteen. That came from the steel toed boot his father used to kick him out of bed because he would not wake up right away at 4 a.m. to tend to his duties on the farm. When Viet Nam started, he enlisted, but the damage done to his back was so severe that the army turned him away. He still worked on a farm by himself day in and day out until he was 25 so I don't know how boot camp would have been worse. After he married my mom, they moved closer to her family in Indianapolis, and he took up the trade of a mechanic. His back was an issue in the dealership garages on cold, wet, and clammy mornings; but he still went to work. There have been times that I have been woken out of bed to him roaring on those mornings. His back was hurting, and mom was putting on back brace for support while he cussed out her, God, and everything with two legs. After that he took his lunch box, gigantic thermos of coffee, and march off to work for twelve to fourteen hours. Granted, he was in pain when he got home, but he still did his under the table side jobs in his garage, and got up the next day to do the same.

Then there was the manner of discipline. While it resembled his father's, he tried to break the cycle. When I describe his physical dealings with us, I am told that he hasn't. If you look closely, you will notice a difference. He walked out with a bad back that was a limitation, and I walked away with a broken ring finger on my right hand that is forever bent because of his hands. It wasn't ideal, but you compare the two, and you can see by my bent finger that he did try. However, he didn't limit discipline to me or my brother to the physical. After the beatings, we had to read the book of Proverbs. Not a chapter. Not a verse. The whole book; all thirty one chapters. We had to do it in our rooms, and there was to be no music, or television. If there was any noise beyond the turning of those typical onion pages in the bible, we had to start over.
Once we were finished, we had to report to dad. Sitting in his easy chair watching an IU game, or a Notre Dame game(depending on the season), I thought he was being smug. That look came from what we told him what we learned by reading the book; while it looked smug, he was not being smug. What I mean by learned is that by reading that book we learned what we did wrong. In essence we got an explanation as to why we were disciplined. If we were in trouble Dad made sure that we knew why we were in trouble.
Once that was over, if there was anyway we could make right what we did wrong, we had to do it. It could be something as toilsome as yardwork, or something simple like going to the person, admitting the wrong you did, and apologizing for it. Owning it, then making it right. What he had taught us is that while there can be all the reason in the world why you're wrong, the fact remains that you are wrong, you need to make it right, and put in the effort to not do it again.
These steps in discipline taught my brother and I how to take a hit, and to be honest if our father couldn't drop being as strong as he is, then what does that say about your average built man? Yeah, you'll just piss us off. We were also taught to be men of integrity. To be honest with ourselves, and with others; and to be the best people we can be.

My father is also the kind of man that if you call him, or he calls himself out, he will step up and do a 180 degree turnabout. He will do it without excuses, or some flimsy way to justify himself that abdicates his responsibility, and nullifies his apology. Thirteen years ago somebody at church bought my dad a ticket to promise keepers(http://www.promisekeepers.org/about) in Indianapolis without him knowing. My dad went through the roof. He stomped around the house roaring "Who do those goddamned sonsofbitches think they are going behind my back?!" Lots of growling, and lots of yelling. My mom was making lunch, and she had enough. "Oh, Jesus, Delman, just go. They did it to be nice. Now show some gratitude, and go." He mumbled a growl of compliance, and went. When he came back there was a change in his demeanor.
While he was there, he listened to the speakers who were pastors from various churches across the country. They went down the list of what it means to be a man, a husband, a father, and a Christian. My took it in, and did an internal checklist. He realized within himself that he came up short. In typical church fashion, the leaders had an altar call for men who wanted to convert, or dedicate themselves to being a man of God. If anyone has been to things like this, then you will know that it is emotionally charged, and that charge wears off after a few weeks. Not my dad. He stood up, and vowed before God and 6,000 men that he was going to change his ways and be better. Thirteen years later, he's still doing it. 
A few years after this, he and I reconciled, and made things right between us. That was ten years ago. Now that he has cancer, the apologies have become incessant. My brother and I have been ok with him since before the cancer hit, and now we tell him that everything that needed to be said has been said so there was no need of more apologies.
Last year, he came out and admitted that he had been sexually abused, and the doctors found a genetic link to being bipolar. This gave us an explanation as to why we grew up the way we did. Well the bad stuff anyway, because there was more good than bad. Not once did he ever use those two things as an excuse for what happened. They happened. They were wrong. He admitted they were wrong, and he made 180. Enough said. The past is the past.

This is the example I had through out my life. For those who see me as a tough guy, or looking out for other people, or I do wrong to you and own it this is why. All that I have learned to be a man came from my father's example.  The standard I have of Christianity, I have from my father. When I say that I find christians laxadasical, undisciplined, and using grace as an excuse to be horrible to another, my father is a standard of comparison. He is why, I don't reject the faith outright. To reject the faith is to reject the things that I have been taught. It is rejecting what makes me, me. It is rejecting the good things that my friends appreciate in me. In essence it is rejecting all the things that make me human.

This is why I say I believe, but I do not believe.

I have a friend of mine who upset the leadership in his church, and he has to have a "talk" with them next sunday. This is not the first time something like this has happened, but, like me, it has been a number of years. He doesn't go around picking a fight with the establishment. He does his thing while they do their thing; however, when there becomes a conflict of interest there tends to be sparks. He posted a comment on his facebook status, and like somebody else, I wanted details. I also noted that this particular church's leadership needed to have their cages rattled because they are soft and complacent. Not just in matters of their religious tradition, but as people. He did not think it appropriate for the details to be shared online, but he did state this:

While I may learn things down the road, I will not live my life regretting what I have done. I am who I am from when I turned left, where maybe I should of turned right. As long as I learn a lesson from my actions, none can be all bad. Although, I may not learn the lessons others hoped I would. Some see this as arrogant and prideful, I see it as an open mind free of condemnation.

I find myself in  a similar way of thinking. Sadly, there has been little application on my part. In a sense this has given me the nudge to do so. A life free of self loathing, and self condemnation, and loathing and condemnation from others.

dare to dream.

Ian, Carrie, and myself went to subway last night. My mom called, and wanted to talk to me about what happened to pop on sunday. She asked "Do you know what causes an increase in appetite, hallucination, and paranoia?" I snorted. "Holy christ, mom! Dad's smoking pot now?! What a fuckin' stoner."  A couple weeks ago the doctors gave him some medication to increase his appetite so that he eat more that five small bites a day. I know that marijuana is used for cancer patients to create an appetite, and mentally feel better; it was never stated until pop had his episode, and mom looked at the bottle. She told me that Tom laughed, and she said to me "But, you can't tease him like you normally do, because he doesn't know." Oh my god! Why not?! This is pure gold!

Walking last night, Tom and I talked about it. Yeah, pop is getting weaker, make no mistake, but his reaction to finding out that he's ingested marijuana would be awesome. We had a boondock saints moment. "You know we got to fuck with him. right? Yeah." See here's the story. It's not that dad would be mortifed on some moral level, but he has always hated hippies and anything associtated with hippies. When I was in high school, and had long hair, he would yell at me constantly.

So of course plans are set to buy him a bong, bell bottom jeans, and a tye dyed shirt, because this can't go unnoticed.

:-)

When we were kids, Tom and I would walk everywhere. When we went camping with our parents and godparents in starve hollow we would venture on to the trails, or the beach next to the lake. During the nice parts of the year like late spring, or mid-autumn, Mom would take us to Mound State Park in Anderson. The trails there were awesome, but a bit boring so we would pick a direction, and walk an hour off the beaten path.  According to us, you can't have an adventure when you walk on trails. It was nothing for us to walk two or three hours at a time on those trails, going up and down hills, and pretending like we're the first explores in the Ohio Valley. When Lori, our cousin came along, she wimped out after twenty minutes; she even whimpered as she fell going up steep hills.   I was twelve, and Tom was nine. We just mocked her efforts and whining. When our mother got wind of this, she found us, and sternly told us "You need to be nicer to your cousin. She's not used to this hiking that you boys are. So lay off." The adventures, and walking tapered down as we got older, but now that Tom is going through a divorce we've been doing that on a weekly basis on the monon.
The first time, we parked at the 96th st location, and walked up to the current limit of 146th st, and back. Over all it's a ten mile walk that took us four hours to do(if you include the forty five minute stop to get onion rings and a beer), and since Tom hasn't really walked that much in a few years, he developed blisters on his feet. The next week, Carrie was off, and wanted to hang out with us. I suggested to to both of them that we park at the monon center on 111th st, and walk up to Bazbeaux's pizza in Carmel. It's a forty minute walk, and it's not a big deal to Tom or myself, but Carrie was not really liking it. She referred to it as the bataan death march history.sandiego.edu/GEN/st/~ehimchak/death_march.html. Granted, it was fun for us, and inspired a name for what we do every friday or saturday, or both.  When you cross 96th st on the monon, you're in Carmel, but when you get to 146th st, you're in Noblesville.
Ian has now joined us in the excursion, and while he finishes the walk(albeit forty feet behind us), we hassle him, mock him, and anything else that we thought humorous(farts are now referred to as "polish nightcaps"). It's all similar to what we used to do to our cousin. In all fairness to Ian, though, he does fire back so it's not as one sided, or mean spirited as it sounds.  However, during the conversation, Tom came to the conclusion that Ian needs to get laid, and that he was going to start a telethon in a fashion similar to Jerry Lewis to raise the funds. He was cautioned not to make it anything more than it is, and Tom did tell him, "Ian, charge card romances don't last." There are other things that happened. Funny things, and even heart warming things, but they will not be mentioned. What happens on the Noblesville Death March stays on the Noblesville Death March.

:-)

My supervisor was gone most of the week. Last weekend her grandfather died of prostatic/colon cancer. She came back today, and I went up to talk to her about what happened; and also to offer condolences. I'm not much in the way of encouragement, but I can somewhat relate. We talked about ten minutes, and she mentioned that when he went that he had a smile on his face. I commented "Yeah, he probably thought 'ah, it's over.''" She smiled, and agreed.

it was a good conversation.

It's also good that I can say something to somebody about this without explanation. I'm given quite a lot of leniency, and grace at work. However, I am careful that I don't abuse it. That's there for the really bad days, and on those days I just stay home while I make plans to go see a priest.

On that note, I am thankful for this job, and for the understanding from my employers, friends, and family.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

I have an expressive personality. Whether hurt, sad, happy, or upset, I vocalize what is on my mind. Moreso than usual that is; especially when I am stressed. All my energy is focused on getting through a matter, and there nothing available to maintain any kind of patience. You do something stupid in front of me, or, God forbid, you do something stupid to me, I am going to divide your ass like the red sea and cram it with my size 16's. I am not a stoic, nor are my life issues nice and pretty. If that is you that is you, and place no judgment. However when that is expected of me, then we have a problem.

People who have called me friend in times past are nowhere to be found now that I am watching my pop get worse. It's taking it's toll on me. I am angry. I am frustrated. I am hurt. My dad is an old warrior. He's superman. Now he's just a pale facsimilie of what he used to be. The reality sinks in harder and faster when I am around him. He convulses violently. He halluciates. He is disoriented about the day because he sleeps so much. Every five steps, he needs to stop because he will pass out. He has fainting spells. I cannot find the right words to best describe what is going on inside of me, but it is spilling out into my relationships and at work. These last few weeks, I have been talking to a chaplain here at work, but everything is out of control still. It's affecting people around me, and most of them have taken their leave of me. It wasn't announced. It was done silently. Typical passive aggressive behaviour. Typical behaviour of cowards and people who are afraid of things getting a little to messy for their shallow standards of friendship.

Carrie has been experiencing that by default. Because when you ignore me, or don't invite me to events, you exclude her. If you're too much of a pussy to face me, I could care less. I chalk it up as you not worth my time. I have other friends who show that they care about me, and you can fuck off. However, you do that to Carrie, then we have a problem.  Well actually, you will have a problem because you will feel the business end of my sharp tongue and blunt fists, and I have no problems taking a rod to the backsides of such fools.

Furthermore, I have seen that there is a difference in treatment concerning me and others.  I had a friend who does nothing but creates wounds and problems for himself, and then blames it on his bad childhood, or biochemistry, or some other childish bullshit excuse he can think of to escape personal responsibility. Here is what happens: People surround him, placate him, and enable him. I am over my head with something I cannot control, and I am left to the wayside. I do not understand that, and quite frankly I don't want to.

There is another friend, who went through something similar that I am going through. In fact, her father died not to long ago. Her manner of dealing with this is keeping it to herself, and avoiding people. Like I said before, I have no judgment, because that's her.  People are there for her because her dealings are in a nice pretty package, and not a malestrom raining destruction and chaos. This is bullshit.  I get the excuse that nobody understands what I'm going through, or they have nothing to say. Which justifies their avoidance, but doesn't explain why they don't avoid her. If you're going to call me friend, then fucking act like it! Because if you can't be honest with me in saying that you don't give a whit, or uncomfortable, then I will beat it out of you. I am sick and fucking tired of these goddamned liars who don't want to sit with me in this, but go to sleep just the same thinking we're friends.

Fuck
Off

Sixteen years ago when I was in college, I met a friend's dad. He was a short man. Maybe 5"5 or 5"6, and he was bald. His baldness was in the pattern of a clown costume: Full, thick hair on the sides and the back, but absolutely no hair on the top. He kept it relatively short. The kind of short where you can manipulate the hair.with a brush or a comb.  The three of us decided one afternoon to walk to taco bell for some lunch. I was behind my friend's dad, and I saw him look into his reflection on the door and primp his hair. I was dumbfounded. I mentioned this to my friend and other friends who knew his dad, and they just laughed.
When I went home, I told my dad this. "What would you do if you started going bald?" He looked at me and said, "You know damn good and well what I'd do." I really didn't, and asked him what he would do. He said matter of factly "I'd shave it." Which makes sense to me. Because that's what I do. I have let my hair grow for three weeks or four weeks. I look at the back and top of my head in a mirror, and remember why I take a razor to it in the first place. Some guys are ok with baldness, and some even wear it well. I don't, I look like a clown so I maintain my dignity by shaving it.
Fast forward to his cancer, and chemotherapy. While I was hanging out with him after church most of his hair started falling out. He would run his fingers through, and pull out tufts of hair. The original plan was to wait after the cubs game, but he wanted it done right now. So I got everything ready. He sat down on a chain in the kitchen after he had taken off his shirt, and I put a towel on his back. I plugged in the clippers, and started to shear his head. After I brushed away the cut hair, I noticed the huge patches of skin. I asked him if he wanted me to take razor to his head, he said yes. 
I soaked a small towel with hot water, and wrapped his head. Since I wanted to wait for the skin on his head to soften, I swept up the hair off the floor. Dad was really bothered by this. He thinks that a real man should be able to grow hair, and not fit the look of someone diseased. He was even told by my godmother who has been an oncology nurse for thirty five years that when the chemo is over, his hair would grow back. Mom had her head against his reassuring him that he is stil a man.
Of course, it is hurting me too, but I just turn into a wise ass. When mom leaves the room, I look at him and say "Ah, quit your fuckin' whinin' ya big baby. At least your hair will grow back when the chemo is over." I had not shaved my head for a few days, and I stooped my head down and pointed. "You see that? That's not coming back...ever."  He cracked a smile, but he was still pretty upset about it. However, with his build now, he does wear it well, and has received compliments from the nurses.

In the last week, though, things have gone downhill rapidly. He has been halucinating, not really eating, and every five steps he takes he has to stop and hang on to somebody. He has been passing out quite frequently. Yesterday was no different. He was well enough to come up with my mom when she came to pick me up from work. I noticed that he had shaved his face, but that there were still whisps of hair coming out. I know he hates that so I asked him if he wanted me to shave his head when we got to my place. He agreed, and it took a few minutes between the car and my front door.
Carrie was home sick, and I had him sit in my recliner to rest and to visit. After fifteen minutes, I got him ready for his shave. It was unnerving, because the whole time shaking uncontrollably. At first, I thought he was crying. So I stopped for a minute to look at his face, but he had a zen like look to him while his body convulsed. While I continued shaving, I told my mom that pop was shaking. She replied that he's been doing that alot. Another unnerving thing. We both got through it, and they decided to go ahead and go home. I needed to take out the trash so I walked out with my dad to make sure that he didn't fall along the way.
We said our goodbyes, I threw away the garbage, and I went inside. I don't know if there are degrees of numbness whether in lightness or intensity, but mine was pretty high. I felt my body wanting to cry, but the energy wasn't there. I decided to drive to the monon, and run for half an hour. I sat on the bed changing. Albeit slowly. Then Carrie came in and just sat with me. She put her head on mine, and we just sat there. I don't know what to say. I do know that words, and tears don't change the fact the man you knew as superman is wasting away, nor do they heal him.

Things suck right now.
I am sad.
I am also numb.

And what is a man? He is someone who has risen when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop - and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.
Than man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the scheme of things: peasant, serf , or dispossessed. but he is unconquerable.
And what is death? An end to trouble. An end to strive and fear.

-Druss, Legend(pg. 98)-

The internal wreckage has been quite hard to conceal in the last few weeks. It has been spilling over into all aspects of my life.  I've noticed that I have been quite hostile with people who I don't know, but annoy me. There have been people that I didn't  know harass me. In both instances, I wanted to fight them. Not teach them a lesson, or anything silly like that, but to have them absorb all the anger, frustration, fear, and nihilism that is wracking my body. To give you an idea, I have been feeling constrictions in my aorta. Yesterday, I banged the wall with my forearm, and roared. I didn't realize how loud it was, until the cops came over while we were having house church. They thought it was a domestic disturbance, and doug told them what was going on with me. They were very understanding, but I told them of my embarrassment, and that they were right to be out here.  I've been paying attention to myself, and there are many red flags coming up. I am seeing to this, because I don't want it to blow up.
My friends, family, and coworkers have been great in showing me patience and leniency. It bothered me at first, because I thought they were giving me a license. I don't sit there, and say "Sorry, I was a jerk, but I'm dealing with my dad dying." No, I simply say, "I'm sorry I was a jerk." Period. Because in my mind anyone can be a saint when the times are good, but it only counts when you can be a saint during the bad times. I understand now that these people are giving me grace and mercy, and not an excuse.
I also appreciate it when my friends let me know that they are praying for me, or doing charms, or whatever my various friends do in their various religious practices. I also appreciate it when they respect me enough to not ask me how my dad is doing. While I appreciate all this support, I do have one thing to say: Don't forget about Carrie. She needs just as much, if not more of the same support as I get. She's walking through this too, and while she may not know what to say sometimes, or even identify with what's happening she feels it because I do. She even has to deal with her stubborn, prideful husband to be who thinks that he has to suck it up, move on, and cry later even though he would rather stop for five minutes. The constant packing winds everything tighter and tighter until a small and insignificant thing lands, and unleashes all the raging hell from within.

Carrie deals with a lot when it comes to this, because she is torn up like I am. So next time you see me, and she's with me: ask her how she's doing also. Let her know that you're praying for her, saying a charm for her, or even sending good wishes her way. She needs support and hugs too.

Don't forget about her.

you freaked out on me today. you swore at me when I slammed my forearm against door. "Holy fuck, Ron!" Did you see what I saw today? Did you look into his eyes, and face as he talked? Did you see how his jaw had a mind of it's own when he talked, and how it moved from side to side with each straining syllable? Did you hear the gasping? Did you see the dried foam on the corner of his mouth, or the unkempt, thin, bristly, gray whiskers on his chin? Did you hear the chit chat that wore him out? Did you hear the joke I made about his reds cap, and how it went unnoticed? Did you hear how disoriented he was, and how he was confused about what day it is? No, you didn't.

You didn't know him when he was superman.

You never saw him stand up straight in the face of overwhelming pain, and conquer it.  You never saw him face a quick death when he sliced his arterial vein by accident at work, and how calm he was. You never saw him defend his son by picking up a full grown man by the neck with one hand. You never talked to him before this. You never saw how he played catch with me, or explained the strategy of football and baseball in a way that piqued an interest in me.

You only heard the bad stuff he did to me, and that's all you remember. What you hear, and what you now see.

But it wasn't all bad.

When I look into his face, I look into the abyss, and it stares back into me. The end is near, and it's breaking each sturdy joint that supports me. It hurts. It's maddening. I don't know how to express it let alone express it in a way that you would understand. I feel trapped, but I don't have the option to stop. I suck it up, box it away, and walk; but now everything inside of me is breaking, and I am on the edge of madness.

I am left to myself in this.

so you will have to forgive me for momentary bouts of madness and meltdowns...or you can leave.

Since I my birth, I have been around people with little misfirings in their brain; primarily, bipolar. Up until recently I spent my time with people who have the same thing, but it was a little different. When they freak out on me they come to me later, and apologize, but excuse it by saying "I'm bipolar." They know what they have done, they know what they are capable of, and they're on medication for it; so why don't they take the responsibility they should for what they have done? Why do they give themselves a license to do this to me again? When I roar, or even state that they shouldn't treat me like that, they cry and give me a guilt trip. That doesn't work on me so plan b is to shriek and say horrible things to me. That doesn't work either. In fact it confirms what I thought of them.

The answer to the questions is a simple one: They have been indulged, placated, and enabled by their doctors and family; and when they get out into the real world, everybody else has to do the same thing. 

I call bullshit.

If you are cognizant of what is wrong, and what you do is wrong, then you don't have the right to say "Well, this is why I behaved as such." You don't even get to say that you don't know any better. That excuse is good for a child. If you're an adult and say that, you deserve a swift kick in the back side to jar your brains. You need to stand up straight, and accept responsibility. Are these things about you legitimate? I would say yes, but you are aware of them, and that doesn't let you off the hook.

With me, I have roared, and I have said horrible things to some of my friends. I am aware of the wrong that I have done, and there are things about me that will give you insight as to why I acted horribly; but the fact remains that I have acted horribly. Thankfully, the consequences have not been at the same level as the offense, but even if it was, I would take it...quietly. When you make a poor decision the excuses don't take away the damage caused. I have friends who tell me that they understand that I am under a lot of stress right now with watching my dad die, and getting my life together. I get that,  but to me anybody can be a saint when the times are good, but it only counts when it gets hard.

Granted, I don't have the biochemical occurences, and what I have used as an example doesn't come close; however, my father is bipolar. We didn't know about this until seven or eight months ago. He also came out and confessed that he was sexually abused by one of his uncles when he was a boy. Ten years ago before all this became public knowledge my father and I reconciled. There was a lot of bitterness, resentment, and anger towards him because of the abuse I had endured at his hands. He regretted it, and he was truly sorry for what he had done. He had tried so hard to not treat my brother and I like his father treated him. He knew he had failed, but while his father gave him a broken back that has lasted all these years, I walked away with a bent ring finger on my right hand that he broke when I was thirteen.
Now that he's facing death, he has been apologizing incessantly to both of us. We tell him that at the time he didn't know any better. Which is true, because thirteen years ago it was brought to his attention about how much he had messed up, and he started making amends with the people he had hurt; he even made a 180. As the sexual abuse, and the bipolar came out into the open, he never once said "I'm sorry I treated you boys like that, but I was sexually abused and I'm mentally sick." He never excused himself. He just told us that he was wrong for what he had done, and sought forgiveness. Which we have done a thousand times over; now he just needs to forgive himself.
Knowing what I know now about him, I have an explanation as to why I went through such brutality. He was sick, and if he wasn't, my brother and I would never have had to live in a home like that. It doesn't excuse the viloence; but it does give some insight, and it gave me a whole new level of forgiveness concerning my pop. The point is what had happened was wrong, and when it was proven to him, my father repented, sought forgiveness, and lived out that repentance. This is a good life lesson that people with various biochemical "conditions" could stand to learn; because knowledge of your condition gives you a degree of responsibility and accountability. If a man in his early 60's who's set in his ways understands this, then what excuse do the people in my generation have?

I stand by my attitude and my sentiments.

If somebody flips out on me, and then excuses themselves by stating a bad past, or off biochemesitry, I will tell them to fuck off.

If you're somebody who behaves like this, pray to whatever god you believe in that you don't run into somebody like me.

...still is to a degree.


http://www.revelife.com/707035347/check-your-brains-at-the-church-door-is-christianity-anti-intellectual/?cuttag=true

 

Carrie pointed out something to me yesterday over breakfast. After every visit with my father, I am more hostile. Thing is, I don't know that I am behaving in a hostile manner. I chalk it up to being tired, and impatient. In short, I think I'm being a jerk; and I own it.  It came out on Tuesday when I blew up at a friend online. This is a friend who is all too familiar with the crap that is going on inside of me. Why did it happen? Before the conversation with carrie, I had only 4 1/2 hours of sleep. I can live and go about day with that amount of sleep if I rest. I didn't rest. I was short fused, not only with her, but with employees at the different call centers I talk to. I didn't "yell" at them, but I reminded them in no uncertain terms that they are adults at work, and should behave as such.

Last thursday, I talked to my mother, and she told me that pop is getting off chemo for awhile because he's tired. This is a big decision for him, and I wanted to be there with him. My supervisor let me take off to go to the cancer center. I had been "fine" all day, but after carrie got off work we picked up a 1/5 of Captain Morgan's 100 proof spiced rum, and I drank half a bottle to take off the edge. The next night, I drank four pints of ale, and Saturday, I had three pints of beer, and two Irish ales. They're made with Michael Collins Irish Whiskey, and ginger ale. Which is about as fru fru as I get with my alcohol; because my favorite Irish whiskey is Michael Collins. No more drinking after that, and I began my work week as normal. Wake up at 4:30, and go run on the monon for an hour.

Maybe, I'm not as tough as I think I am. If I'm fine in my own mind, but there is anger and hostility leaking out of me like oil out of a barrel that is a problem.  It's like my friends are getting caught up in the wake of my anger, frustration, and anxiety as I keep going forward. Perhaps, maybe even I can't make it on my own. Tough pill to swallow since that is what I am used, and I have taken pride in enduring and surviving stressful and brutal situations.

I'm not the tough guy you think I am, or that I think I am.

I'm anxious, angry, and fearful. Doing the best I can to suvive until it's my time. I'm not what you think I am. I am weak...

'No Man is an Island' No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

I really like John Donne, and this is a favorite poem of his. I first read it fifteen years ago when I picked up a copy of "Five Centuries Of Verse." Dead Poet's Society really had an impact on me, and this book was used at the meetings. This poem also gets in my face concerning my attitude towards MJ yesterday; however, it should also give a slap in the face to those who rebuked me for my attitude.

Yesterday, it was pointed out to me that his death meant something to some people, and that they are grieving. Accepted. It was also pointed out to me that a life lost is a tragic thing. Accepted. However, what I find unacceptable is the hypocrisy behind those logical statements. I do not hear those same people saying the same thing concerning the millions that die tragically, or peacefully everyday. What I see is token canned responses of what society deems as appropriate expressions of grief. Does it take a death in vaudeville to tap into a noble sentiment that is otherwise ignored? If every life is sacred, then the same grief and outpouring of emotion should be extended to the man, woman, and child that dies of hunger and disease half a world away.

Obviously, I can see I was out of line with various people, but I do not put on a mask. I do not hide my true thoughts, and sentiments behind a token canned response concerning the death of an entertainer. I don't put on a show. In the truest sense I am not a hypocrite. I am not an actor.

To end, I will state that while his death was tragic, I did not know the man, and I have bigger and more immediate things in my life to worry about. It's something similar that President Obama said yesterday concerning the death of MJ. "When somebody captivates the imagination of many people like he did, his passing is noticed. When it's over, I hope that we can get back to focusing on nuclear weapons." In case anybody hasn't been paying attention to the news, North Korea is itching to fire off their nuclear missles at us...they can reach Alaska. President Obama hasn't been globetrotting for the sake of globetrotting.

It's hard for me to open up. I know that sounds funny to those that know me, but it's true. There is a big difference between being genuinely honest, and blunt. More times than not, I am a blunt man...I am rarely honest. 

Before any red flags start popping up, let me preface by stating that for me, honesty is vulnerability. An unadulterated genuineness. What I have described is intrinsically scary to me, because the things I should be honest about that would help you understand me better, I keep hidden. Not from some ulterior motive, or manipulation, but shame. My shame. My humiliation. The things that make me human, all to human, are shameful to me. I don't mean the things that I have done in the past, and now regret. There are plenty of those. I'm talking about the things done to me that left me in a state that shows me me as a crumpled, battered mess. Broken bones and bruises. Shame and solitude; especially when those who are an authority figure in your life say you deserve it. Say that "you must me a bad boy to have that done to you. I can see why your father beats you so." Youth leaders, Pastors, Great-Grandmothers, Grandmothers, Cousins, Great-Uncles, Great-Aunts, Teachers, and the like telling you this; even to the point that you think that the God you're taught about is sided with them, and has left you alone to fight against a violent world...by yourself, and for yourself.
Then you find yourself as a grown man dealing with these same things from different people. Whether they shit on you, shriek at you, manipulate you, or disregard you it all hearkens back to one of many lonely days when you were left as a broken and battered mess by somebody who is supposed to protect you. There is no shelter, no grace, no forgiveness, or mercy; there is only survival. Those who don't get it put you and your past under an intense microscopic light, and judge you according to their own "life is fair and beautiful" interpretations; then throw you away because who you are, and how you survived does not mesh within their own myopic universe. These same people will tell you that they are there for you, or Jesus loves you, or that they love you then when they are met with the seething vulgar reality of the mess, they quickly forget and walk away.

Welcome to Hell. It isn't flames and agony here. It's abandonment by the people who say that they love you, but turn way when it counts. They take their deity with them, and on sundays they sing a few hymns, and pat themselves on the back so they can go to their sunday dinner  and to bed with an ease of conscience. Back to their fair life where they are supported by those around them. Where they never have to question the sincerity of love and friendship. Where they never have to wonder if those two things are sales pitches. You think I'm judging with my cynicism? I am not. I am envious of that. It must be nice to never have to wonder.

Here on this end, though, it is a completely different story.

I am not an open person, and for good reason. The people who say I need to be open, are often inconvenienced when I am. Because the times that I need to be upfront with a person I am close to, are often the times when I have a lot of alcohol in my system. Not drunk. It takes quite a bit; but it takes a lot in me to me genuine in a way that comes naturally for the people that I know. Getting down to the nit and gritty. The kernel.

My dad is dying not from old age and peaceful, but in pain and in anxiety. He's sick and tired of being sick and tired. There are people who want to make him out to be the same violent, crazed, brutal, pompus ass he was twenty years ago. My brother got a little, but I took a lot of it.  He was always smaller, and when I saw my dad go after him, I spoke up and took the blows of brick like flesh. What are you going to do you know? You're eleven, and your brother is eight; and barely sixty pounds. You know you can't take it, but you're thicker, and know that a raging, muscular 240 lb. man can do some serious damage to a small frame. So you speak up. You don't want the same thing to happen to him that has happened to you, and you take those raining blows on your head without cover. It's not a matter of pride. It's a matter of looking out for your little brother. You know what kind of hits you can take, hell, you're own father can't drop you; you know that by now. It's not arrogance. It's love.

However, that was twenty four years ago. Thirteen years ago, my pop realized that he fucked up. That he was too brutal. That in his effort to not be like his dad, he still spread a little of that violene. It was pointed out to him at a religious convention. Pop is by no means an emotional man...at least not in the way most people understand it. He's very pragmatic. When he went out for a weekend to a religious convetion he hear devout men speak on what it means to be a man, a husband, and a father. A light went off. From that time on he moved in a direction that improved himself. When he apologized for what he did to me and my brother, he didn't justify himself. He just said that he fucked up, and that he was truly sorry. We believed him. We have no reason not to. He's not one of those repeat offenders. The only difference between him then and before is that he didn't know better.

Does that make what we endured ok? No. It makes it understandable. It means that has long as we draw breath our lives are redeemable.  It means that everything doesn't stay the same.  It didn't take cancer to get my dad to realize what happened and make the change. It was ten years prior that jarred his brain.  In our family, we aren't scared of God, and we aren't scared of a presupposed check list. We are very pragmatic, and when it's proven we are incorrect there is nothing but true contrition and a 180 degree turn. Sound familiar? If you're close enough to me, it should.

So where did this all come from? I was watching a bones episode, and booth's father is similar to my own...minus the alcohol. Especially the part where he's told "you're not your father."

It also came from going with to the doctor with my dad today, and his decision to opt out of chemo...if only for the time being.

Got a lot going though my head folks, and all I can ask from my friends is to be patient as I work through this.

I really like this song, and the this last part really stands out to me...



Jesus Christ - Vengeance is mine
Jesus Christ - Leave them behind
Jesus Christ - Vengeance is mine
Jesus Christ - Please, leave them to die
Bring them to life

Without hate, without pain
Without suffering insane
Without death, without fire
Without lies that feed the liar
Without war, without games
Without fear to take the blame
Without fame, without power
Without drugs to heal the coward
Without violence, without rape
Without sickness, without plagues
Without judgment, without crime
Without hope, without time
Without two, without three
Without torture over belief
Bring us love
Let us see
Set us Free