origins

You’re Only A Failure If You Give Up

Tue, 25 Jul 2023 19:36:28 GMT

Your Son Was Shot 12 Times

Las Vegas Strip, NV

February 6, 2013

My oldest son Jeremy was a good kid.

I gave him all the values I thought he needed, though I knew he didn’t always listen.

But I knew I’d drive a wedge between us if I got too upset with what he was doing and who he was doing it with.

One day on the Strip, some guy beats up my son’s friend.

So Jeremy and his buddy chase the attacker into a parking garage with no security cameras and the guy shoots Jeremy’s friend in the shoulder.

He unleashes the remaining 12 bullets from his 9mm from 10 feet into my son’s 17-year-old body.

*****
My brother hammers on the door and jolts me out of an exhausted sleep.

“Jeremy’s been shot. We gotta go,” he says.

The next thing I know he’s driving us down the Strip past an area cordoned off with yellow caution tape…

The place where Jeremy was shot.

I rush into the ICU at the University Medical Center.

They pull out bullets from Jeremy’s torso and drop them into a metal can.

Ping. Ping.

The CT scan showed the 3 bullets that were too dangerous to remove…

2 in his gut and 1 in his lung.

His body had suffered so much trauma the doctors put him in an induced coma.
*****

Jeremy was under for 75 days.

I sat by his bedside for as long as the nurses would let me.

When they kicked me out, I’d sit in the lobby and work on my laptop or stay with a buddy who lived nearby.

People brought me so much food that I packed on over 100 lbs.

The days were a mixture of hope and despair.

One day my Mom and I videoed Jeremy twitching his toe.

Another day the doctor suggested removing his damaged lung.

“The Lord gave him two. I’m pretty sure he needs them both,” I reply, not sure if I’m doing the right thing.

“I understand, Mr. Miller. But he suffered so much trauma that we don’t know if he’ll pull through this,” he replies.

I had always believed that if I couldn’t solve a problem myself, then it wouldn’t get solved at all.

And now the weight of all the unsolved problems starts to crush me.

My two youngest kids aren’t in my life.

My wife got a court order to raise the child support I must pay.

The business I started instead of taking a high-paying chef job is failing.

My health is in the gutter.

My son is dying in a hospital bed, and I can’t save him.

I’ve no idea how I’m going to pay for the vast medical bills.

I'm a complete failure as a father…

As a businessman…

As a man.

*****

I grew up without a father, so I had to create my own rules for being a man by myself.

My internal decision-maker didn’t always get it right, but it was mine.

My biggest rule was that my decisions wouldn’t hurt anybody.

But my whole internal system had just imploded.

So I plan on going to a buddy’s house to off myself with one of his guns.

I’m so numb to the world that I don't think about the burden that would have laid on my friend.

I’m staring out the window, resigned to my fate, when my phone rings.

“Hey man, what you doing?” asks Brian, another buddy of mine.

“Not much, got a couple of things to do later, you know?” I manage to say.

“You sound different,” he says. “You alright?”

I think of just hanging up, but I find myself saying:

“I don't see this thing for my son working out. I just don't know if I can make it through it. But like I say, I gotta go do a couple of things now, so…”

There’s a brief pause on the line, then he pipes up:

“Nah, man. Whatever it is that you were planning on doing, we’re not doing that. I’m gonna scoop you up and we're gonna do something else.”

*****
Brian drives us to get some sushi.

I’m looking out the window and thinking to myself:

“Somebody else does give a fuck about you. You’re only a failure if you give up.”

I could have just put off doing the deed till the next day.

But Brian’s gesture switched something inside of me.

Here I was going to eat a nice meal on a warm day with a good friend, and Jeremy’s hooked up to machines clinging to the one life he had.

As we pulled up at the restaurant, I thought:
“You’ve got to finish the fight for your boy. His life depends upon it.”

I Don't Care For Games Today

Tue, 18 Jul 2023 21:44:34 GMT

The Man Took Me From The Bus Stop

Spring, 1979.

Houston, Texas.

The ground next to the septic tank in my grandparents' yard was very fertile.

The plum tree that grew there burst with fruit.

Now the branches on a fruit-filled tree are very pliable.

They bend but they don’t break.

Perfect for switches.

The house had a steep step to the concrete kitchen, and you had to hold onto the rail to step down.

At this time I'm 8, and my 3-year-old sister trips and smacks her face onto the concrete floor.

“Mom! Kimberly pushed me!” she screams.

“Kimberly how could you! She’s just a baby!” yells Mom.

“I didn’t push her, she fell!” I plead as my sister bawls her eyes out for effect.

“Don’t you dare talk back to your elders,” she screams. “Now go out and choose the switch you want me to whoop you with.”

I move slowly hoping she’ll forget all about it.

“Don’t you keep me waiting!” she yells from the porch.

I choose a switch that’s just long enough.

If it’s too short, she’ll get a much longer one that’ll whip its way right around my legs with every lash and leave even bigger marks.

Mom holds me with one hand and puts the switch to work with the other, and with all my hopping around and screaming trying to get away, there isn’t an inch of my legs or butt that doesn’t get whipped.

*****
I’d say my Mom wasn't really cut out for the mothering life.

Growing up, she was told to shut up and obey her elders and keep the family’s business to herself…

And never ever ask for help.

And she passed that learning down to her children.

My sister and I were accidents, as she’d been told she’d never have children.

And instead of really taking care of us, she used us as the support system for the chaotic lifestyle she chose.

The men she met in the bars she ran weren’t always solid folks.

And she’d wake my sister and me at 3 am to unload her drunken anger and shame on us.

Soon after that switch beating, I was getting myself ready for school, as Mom was still passed out from the night before.

I dressed up in a little skirt like I’d been told so people could see the switch marks and know I’d been a bad girl.

I walk slowly down our mile-long street toward the bus stop, dreading the teasing I’m about to get from the mean kids there.

But I’m so relieved that today, I’m the only one there, and I get to put off the teasing for a little while longer.

Soon after, a car pulls up and a big, strange man in his 20s or 30s I guess, rolls down the window.

“Hey I’m lost,” he says. “Can you help me?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” I say, suddenly wishing the mean kids would arrive.

“Oh sweetie, I can’t hear you. You’re too far away. What did you say?”

Now what do you do when you’re told not to talk to strangers?

But you’re also told to do what grown-ups tell you…

And not answer back?

I edge closer to the car, that’s what.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” I say again, louder this time.

The man opens the door and drags me in.

“I heard you. Now I need you to listen. I have a knife.”

My brain races, but my body freezes.

Can’t talk back.

Can’t disobey.

I nod “Yes.”

We drive a little ways away to some woods and he parks up.

“Get in the backseat. I need you to take off all your clothes.”

I get in the back seat and undress.

There’s trash all over the floor and it smells funny.
The man opens the door and drags half of my tiny body to the edge of the seat and my eyes turn to the swaying tree branches behind him because I don’t understand what’s happening.

Can’t talk back.

Can’t disobey.

*****

After, the man drives me off to I don’t know where.

Now I’m scared I’ll never see my home again, but what will happen if I speak up?

One fear overrides the other, and I find my voice from somewhere.

“My aunt works for the police department. She’ll be looking for me because I’m not in school.”

This was mostly true; my grandfather’s wife did work there, but we called her “aunt.”
The man goes quiet a minute, thinking.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it’ll break.

Maybe he hears it too, because he turns the car around and drops me back off at the bus stop.

The school bus has already left.

So I walk the 10 minutes home, tears streaming down my face, and I don’t know what’s worse...

The disgust and confusion I feel about what just happened, or the fear of Mom’s fury when I wake her from her hungover sleep.

“What? What is it? I told you never to wake me up!” she yells bleary-eyed as I stand shaking beside her.

“The man took me from the bus stop.”

*****
“What did he look like?”

“What kind of car was it?”

“Did he hurt you?”

I give the police officer the best description I can with Mom watching on.

Her scowl tells me I’m already in trouble for making her call the police into our business.

I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing.

I’m terrified of saying anything.

I know something bad happened, but I don’t know what.

And none of the grownups around me seem to really care.

*****
The police leave without any promises or reassurances that I’ll be safe.

And Mom must now drive me to school.

“Remember what I told you,” she says, chain-smoking Camels.

I nod my head and stare out the window, unable to look at her in case I burst into tears.

“Look at your elders when they speak to you,” she yells, her angry breath swirling the cloud of smoke in the car.

I look toward her, my lips quivering, but I can’t look her in the eye.

“What are you going to say when they ask why you’re late?” she barks.

“Nothing,” I say loudly, so I don’t have to speak again.

“That’s right, young lady. You say nothing. You don’t tell anyone our private information.”

As we pull up to the school it’s break time and the kids are chasing each other around the yard.

“Can I please stay home just for today?” I find myself saying out of nowhere.

I try to pull my short skirt lower to cover the welts on my leg.

“I don’t want them to see me like this.”

“Should have thought of that before you threw your sister down the steps,” she replies.

“I didn’t –” but I don’t dare continue. I take a deep breath instead.

“What if the man comes back?” I ask.

“Teach you to talk to strangers,” she snaps.

“I’m scared, Mom.”

“No you’re not.”

I give up and open the door. But she’s not finished with me just yet.

“If anyone picks on you and you don’t kick their ass, then I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Yes Momma.”

*****
I sit on the playground not wanting to be there.

I keep my knees bunched up and my arms wrapped around my legs to cover up the new bruises forming beside the switch marks showing just how bad I’ve been these last couple of days.

Kids are running around screaming behind me, but I have my back turned to them all.

Instead, I watch all the cars pass, sure the man will come back for me.

“Kimberly, come play catch!” a voice yells from behind me.

"Aw you're no fun. Why not?"

Without taking my eyes off the road I say...

"I don't care for games today.”

I Do Things My Way

Tue, 11 Jul 2023 18:58:23 GMT

Did He Call My Baby A Moose?

Arlington Heights, Illinois.

2005.

The engine whine and wind whip are deafening.

My white knuckles grip the doorframe.

Cloud wisps race by.

I can’t hear the parachute jump instructor’s words even though she’s pressed right up against me.

I can only hear the words screaming in my head…

“Why am I doing this when so much can go wrong?”
*****

In high school, I took a marriage and family class, and I was the one who adopted a baby from a different country without a partner.

I didn’t need anyone and vowed I wouldn’t get married and have a baby like most normal people.

No way…

I do things my way.

While my uber-smart older brothers went to prestigious schools, I flounced off to study fashion and be a freewheeling artist in the world.

So why did I renege on my high school deal with myself?

I mean I wasn’t even 30 and was already on my second marriage!

But it seems my body was forcing me to honor one of my high school vows, because after four years of “let’s see what happens,” John and I hadn’t gotten pregnant.

We adopt our first dog, Webber instead.

Another year without a pregnancy confirmed to us that we weren’t meant to be parents, so we adopt a second dog, Dido.

Two weeks later I feel a little nauseous.

*****
We were hard-core holistic, no doubt.

We took Lamaze classes, which teach breathing patterns and other natural relaxation techniques to deal with labor and birth pain.

No drugs, no epidurals, no C-section.

John wanted a home birth, but that was a little too far, even for rebellious me.

But when my water broke suddenly, I had no choice but to go to the hospital.

Now once the water breaks the baby has no protection, so they put me on Pitocin to speed up contractions…

And this drug goes into the baby too.

My self-doubt screamed at me…

After all our holistic plans and preparations, here I was turning my unborn child into a junkie!

John had done tons of research on what medical interventions he did and didn’t want, and I found myself agreeing to everything he suggested.

My freewheeling mind told me to go with this flow too, even if I wasn’t sure why I was doing it.

After 36 hours of no contractions, the doctor suggests an epidural.

And when they wheeled in a tray full of shiny implements, my head screamed…

“No, no, no! I don’t want a C-section!”

After all our plans, am I just giving away all my control to a room full of strangers?

“I’m so sorry,” I say to John.

He reassures me that none of this is my fault and that we’ll do what we must.

Knowing he’s not angry helps a bit, but I can’t escape feeling like I’m letting all this happen to me, instead of me taking charge and being in control of my own body.

What kind of mother will I be if I can’t even get the birth 100% right?
*****
I say I jumped out of the plane, but I didn’t really.

The instructor did, and I’m strapped to her.

At first, I can’t breathe, so fast and hard the wind that pounds my face.

I’m almost two miles above the earth, and only a brightly colored puff of nylon keeps me from being sandwiched between it and a woman I’d met only an hour before.

I tense every muscle, tendon, and ligament hoping to regain control over the situation… Over my dumb decision to jump out of a plane…

Over gravity.

I tense so hard it hurts.

Even that far up, and through all the strapping and protective gear, my instructor feels the tension running through my body.

“Let go, Johanna, and enjoy the ride!” she yells.

I take a deep breath and look around at all this beauty and feel like I fully belong there because, for whatever reason, I chose to be there.
I relax, grin, and a rush of joy fills every fiber of my being.

*****
“He’s got 10 fingers and 10 toes!” says John just after I give birth.

“It’s a boy?!” I yell, thrilled…

We had chosen not to find out beforehand, but having a boy feels right.

Plus, he’s nearly 10 lb, so I figure he’s pretty darn healthy.

“He’s the size of a baby moose!” exclaims the doctor, trying to be encouraging.

“Did he just call my baby a moose?” I ask John, and he shrugs, laughing.

As I hold my little boy, an immense wave of gratitude washes over me.

That’s followed by the tsunami of responsibility of taking care of this little being.

It’s like the feeling of jumping out of the airplane…

Terrifying and ecstatic all at the same time.

“What’s his name?” asks the nurse.

“Zane Stephen!” I say out of nowhere.

John and I hadn’t settled on any boy or girl names, so it shocks me how sure I am.

Well, look at that…

Welcome to the world, little Zane…

And welcome to the world Strong Mama Johanna!

But the feelings aren’t done with me yet…

The agonizing pain of the episiotomy hits at the same time as the regret that I brought Zane into the world with all these medical interventions.

The doubt and the pain brought up a terrifying thought in me:
“How can I do this?”

*****
“Just let the ground come up to meet you,” yells my instructor about 100 feet before landing.

By this stage, I don’t want the jump to end.

I’m filled with awe and wonder and gratitude and disbelief at the same time.

Seconds later we bump the ground and I sit there shaking with joy and laughter.

“Didn’t think you could make it, did you?” she asks as she unstraps our harnesses.

“It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. But after I relaxed into it, I just… trusted that I’d figure it out on the way down.”

Birds Of Paradise On My Grave

Tue, 27 Jun 2023 17:47:14 GMT

Mom, don't tell Dad, please!

Nederland, Texas.

January 1998.

“Mom, don’t tell Dad, please, he’ll kill me,” pleads Krissi.

“You should have thought of that before,” I yell, as I’ve taken to doing with her over the last year.

The phone rings around 9.30 pm like it does every night, and as I pick up, Krissi slams the door and stomps up to her bedroom.

She had been a sweetheart kid… until she turned 13.

“Hi Jan,” Kippy says, in that deep, laidback voice of his. “How are you and the kids today?”

My voice catches in my throat as I fight the tears.

“Sweetheart, what is it?” he presses, his voice even softer now.

“It’s Krissi. But it’ll wait till you get home.”

“Jan, come on now. You can’t leave me hanging like that,” he says.

He’s right, so I just spit it out.

“Our baby girl’s pregnant, Kip.”

And both of us start to cry.

*****

John Kipling Savoy was a Tankerman on a five-man tugboat out of Houston.

He’d fill up the cargo barges with different chemicals and they’d ship them around the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway.

He worked 20 days on, 10 days off, and was heading to be a captain.

We became sweethearts in high school and married soon after.

I soon gave birth to Krissi, then we had a gap of almost 7 years before we had Dillon, then another 3 to Craig.

When the kids played up, I was the one yelling “What the heck are you doing? You’re grounded!”

Kippy was the firm but soft hand.

He loved woodworking out in the garage with all the kids helping.

Krissi was a real Daddy’s girl, and they’d talk for hours.

When she was 12 she took a wrong turn to drugs.

We knew she was seeing a boy, but she said he was her age.

Turns out he was 17.

I worried Kip would think him old enough to take what was coming to him.
*****

A few days after that call, Kip comes home for his shore leave.

Me and Krissi watch him come up the driveway with his old duffel bag over his shoulder.

A scowl replaced his cheeky grin.

“No matter what he says, remember your Daddy loves you, sweetheart,” I say to Krissi who fidgets beside me.

Kippy drops his duffel bag, goes straight over to Krissi, and hugs her tight.

She cries into his chest, and he holds her even tighter.

*****

If there’s an emotion that didn’t come up over the next 10 days, I haven’t heard about it.

I’d never seen Kippy so mad.

He paced back and forth, swearing he’d do this and that to the boy who did this to his little girl.

In the end all he did was write nasty things about him on the kids’ scribble wall.

He wanted to take Krissi for an abortion.

But I just couldn’t bear to think of what that might do to Krissi’s little soul.

I’d rather give the child up for adoption.

And after days of arguments and threats and floods of tears, Kippy had calmed himself enough to say:

“Well, we’ll just deal with it as it comes.”

*****

“Jan, come sit down. I want to talk to you,” says Kippy the night before he’s due back on the boat.

“I’m cleaning the kitchen, what do you want?” I reply impatiently, like you do after 17 years of marriage.

“Come sit down. Please.”

Something in his tone made me sit beside him.

“If something happens to me, I want you to know what I want,” he says.

He had never brought this up before.

“Are you thinking of killing yourself?” I ask in full-on sarcastic mode.

“Of course not,” he replies, shocked.

“Then why bring this up? You're 36 years old, for heaven’s sake!” I say.

“No “Amazing Grace” at the funeral,” he says. “I want “Go Rest High on That Mountain” by Vince Gill.”

“This is ridiculous, I’m not listening to this,” I say, but he plows on.

“Don’t bury me in a suit, Jan,” he says.

“I’ve never seen you in a suit in my life, Kippy, why would I bury you in one?” I say, trying not to laugh.

“I want a wood casket,” he continues. “And no roses or carnations. I want Birds of Paradise on my grave.”

I lie awake for a long time that night.

*****
Next morning at 6 am I drive Kippy the two hours to Houston in silence.

As we near the dock, he starts to cry.

“I don’t want to go back, Jan,” he says.

Kippy doesn’t call in sick, and Kippy doesn’t cry.

“We need the insurance to pay for the baby, Kippy,” I say gently. “If you want to look for another job, fine, and I’ll look for work too but don’t jump ship. Not now.”

He nods his head, knowing I’m right but wishing I was wrong.

He gets out of the car with tears rolling down his eyes.

“I love you,” he says gently and closes the door.

As I watch my loving husband get smaller in the rearview, I’ve never been so torn up about leaving him behind.

*****
At 11.15 pm that night I wake and sit bolt upright in my bed.

Something feels very wrong, so I call my sister.

“What happened Jan?” she says with a sleepy voice, thinking it must be serious.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Must have had a bad dream or something.”

“You sure you’re okay?” she says, more awake now.

“Yeah. I’m sorry I called,” and I hang up.
*****

Next morning at 7 am there’s a knock at the door.

I see a Tahoe parked in the driveway.

Krissi had a friend stay over the night before, so I figured on even more mischief.

“Is that the police at my door? What kind of trouble did y'all do last night?” I ask them.

“Nothing Mom,” pleads Krissi. “We stayed here all night. Promise!”

“Y’all better not be lying to me. We’ve had enough of that around here,” I say as I open the door.

But it’s not the police.

It’s my husband’s good friend Kenny, the captain of another boat.

I shake my head and I yell at him:
“No, Kenny. You know what we’re dealing with here,” and I shut the door on him.

But Kenny pushes the door open and tells me what I already knew.

“Kippy went missing at 10.15 last night. We found his drowned body at 11.15.”
*****
Did Kippy pass through on his way to heaven when I sat straight up in bed that night?
I’ll never know.

He was found face-up in the water with his life vest on.

The cause of death was drowning.

No heart attack, no brain bleed, no stroke.

The Coast Guard and the FBI investigated and ruled it an accident.

Kippy was the grounding under my feet, and when he passed a huge dark hole opened up and I fell in.

And I stayed there for some time, unable to crawl out.

I prayed to God for strength because I couldn’t even raise my arm for help.

Eventually, He shone the light in the dark and my strength came from him.

For a long time, I blamed myself for sending Kippy back to work that day.

But I learned I’m not powerful enough to make those decisions.

The challenges for our family were just beginning, but just like Kippy said, we deal with it as it comes.

Being Myself Wasn’t Always The Best Idea

Wed, 21 Jun 2023 00:52:18 GMT

The First Time You Go To Prison It Doesn't Stick

Roswell, New Mexico.

2003.

At age 11, I was six foot two.

Grandma Nancy was four foot eight.

She looked like Cinderella’s fairy godmother.

But when she was mad at me, she’d climb the stairs to stare me straight in the eyes and let me have it.

She and Grandpa Fred were strict but fair.

I ate well, they listened to me, and best of all, I could be myself.

But because of the nightmare home I had before going to live with them, being myself wasn't always the best idea.

*****

They say the first time you go to prison it doesn’t stick.

When you get out you’ll do something dumb to go back because the first time inside didn’t break you.

My Dad was an aviation mechanic, which meant my family traveled around a lot.

But somewhere along that road, he took a turn down Narcotics Way.

The crap he drew into his veins sucked even bigger problems into his life along with it.

He showed me how to cook crack on a spoon and how to strap your arm to shoot it up.

When I was nine, he started to yoyo in and out of prison.

Soon after, my Mom succumbed to drugs too.

Strangers smoked crack and had sex on the family couch.

Drug-fueled violence and rage were the soundtracks to our lives.

And soon it seeped deep into my veins, and I got hooked on it too.

I was a big kid and transformed into a horror movie monster when I couldn’t take the crazy anymore.

Once I hacked my Mom's bedroom door down with a butcher’s knife.

She didn’t take that well.

“You’re locked in your bedroom shooting up with your boyfriend and your kids are out here eating cereal for dinner again and you call the cops on me?” I yell at her as the cops lead me away.

Sitting in the back of the cop car looking in at the nightmare that was my home, I say to myself:

“I want more than this.”

*****
The preacher and his wife, a pianist, became my foster parents when I was 11.

It was only supposed to be temporary until my Mom got her shit together.

She got shipped to prison instead.

So my foster parents fought in court to become my permanent legal guardians.

I called them Grandma Nancy and Grandpa Fred, on account of their age.

They grew up in the Great Depression and carried the torches of discipline, hard work, and respect as their guiding lights.

It was all “Yes sir” and “No Ma’am,” but I was okay with that, on account of the kindness they granted me.

They knew the hardships I had faced.

See, they had been my Dad’s foster parents when he was a kid.

Considering how my Dad turned out they could have judged I’d follow the same path.

But they rolled up their sleeves and got stuck right into raising me.

I always admired that.

When Grandpa Fred was angry with me, he’d talk through why instead of yelling and breaking things.

He was uncomplicated.

But I had developed a really keen sense of awareness about people’s behavior, especially adults.

And it took me some time to trust that Grandpa Fred’s anger wouldn’t lead to violence.
Not that I didn’t test it at times.

Grandma Nancy kept a Folger’s coffee can in the cupboard stuffed with $20 rolls of quarters that she’d use for offering at church.

I started sneaking a roll out here and there to buy candy bars.

Then I’d leave the opened coin rolls under my bed.

Many candy bars later, Grandma noticed some coin rolls were missing.

“Think you misplaced them, sweetheart?” Grandpa asked her as she searched high and low. “Or maybe you gave them to Mikey and he misplaced them?”

As I watch her face flush with worry, mine flushes with shame.

It never once crossed their minds to ask me if I knew anything about it.

There was no way I’d fess up now…

I couldn’t bear to disappoint them so.

But after they ran through every option, they eventually searched my room and found the ripped rolls poorly hidden under my bed.

Their disappointment was doubled because I was stealing from them and the church.

From experience, I expected a beating.

But it never came.

That wasn't their way.

They just wanted me to learn from my mistakes.

So instead, I had to walk to school for a month to think about what I’d done.
*****
Several months in with Grandma and Grandpa, I began to trust their kindness.

Me, who had been a ball of rage and frustration when I arrived, had begun to let my guard down.

And though they didn’t crack jokes or prank, Grandma and Grandpa had an easy humor about them, always ready with a smile.

So one evening at dinner, Grandma farted and no one said anything.

Now they both wore big hearing aids and sometimes the batteries ran out and they didn’t realize.

Also, Grandma had some health issues, so between those two things she mightn’t have been aware of what she did, so this helpful 11-year-old thought he’d do her a favor.

“Grandma, did you just fart?” I ask, grinning from ear to ear.

Before she could answer, my Grandpa backhanded me with shocking force.

I was struck dumb.

It stung like hell and I willed the tear trickling down my cheek to suck itself back up into my eyeball so Grandpa wouldn’t see it.

“We don't ever speak to anybody like that, especially your grandmother,” he says with that deep, steady voice of his.

“Yes sir,” I mumble.

“You can’t let your mouth be a waterfall and say whatever comes into your head, son,” he continues. “People get hurt that way.”

“Yes sir,” I croak, as I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Now apologize to your Grandma,” he says, his voice softening a little.

“I’m sorry Grandma, I didn’t mean to disrespect you like that,” I say, and I mean it.

She lays her hand on my arm.
“It’s okay sweetheart,” she says, and she means it too.
*****
I love the lessons I learned that day.

I learned empathy.

I learned that just because something’s funny to you doesn’t mean it’s funny to everyone else.

I learned you think before you act.

And I learned that despite that stinging backhand, I didn’t feel abused like before.
I felt disciplined.

I felt like I had people who want to hear me out for once.

I felt I wasn’t alone on this journey.

My Guardians wanted to help, lead and guide me, and show me a healthier way of life.

But that same sense of safety set me up for the toughest battle of my life…

I had to let my Fairy Grandparents love me…

And learn to trust that love was here to stay.

I'll Give It A Good Home

Tue, 13 Jun 2023 19:14:51 GMT

She's Taking Everything In The Divorce

Birmingham, England.

2001.

I've always had an eye for a bargain.

I pride myself on deep, prolonged research before making a major purchase because…

1. I like the investigative process, and

2. The payoff feels so good.

Whether it’s:

A Spanish holiday…

A home theater system…

A vintage car…

I'd look for the perfect balance of performance, price, and desirability.

“Bullitt” starring Steve McQueen is one of my favorite movies and is the reason I drive a Mustang today.

At the time, new Mustangs weren't even available outside of the U.S.

A vintage import was the only viable option, though examples that hadn't been ravaged by Irish weather were rare and beyond my budget.

A 1967 GT350 in Highland Green was the ultimate dream...

The iconic movie star model...

With astronomical prices to match.

So I run my bargain filter and ask:

What's the next best thing down the ladder that would give me just as much pleasure?

Turns out Toyota was also a fan of the Bullitt-era Mustang.

After months of research, I find a clean 1977 Toyota Celica 2000 Liftback in metallic green.

Toyota did an astonishing job of paying tribute to/ripping off the original, and I had to have it.

I found one across the Irish Sea in Birmingham, England, and flew over to decide if I was going to buy it and proudly drive it home on the ferry.

Even though I knew I would close the deal, given the months of research and the travel expense, I was still determined to bargain up to $500 off the $2500 asking price.

That was a lot of money for me back in 2001.

The owner, Tim, picks me up from the airport in the sparkling Celica.

Car and owner are very alike.

Both late '70s models.

Both lovingly cared for their whole lives.

Both have a faded brilliance on the outside, with a little rust underneath.

I won't venture to visualize Tim's insides, but the Celica has a cracked but original cream leather interior, a wood veneer dash, and a throaty two-liter under the hood.

Soon I’m sitting across from Tim and his wife Helen in their cozy but fraying terraced house.

It’s clear from how close they sit that they care for each other the same way Tim had cared for his Celica for over two decades.

“Our son, he's a lovely lad, but he's not doing so well. He got married to a...” Tim trails off, his face flushed from holding in his anger and pain.

He glances at Helen.

She shakes her head “no”, then smiles at me.

Tim takes a breath and considers his words.

Politeness is a very British thing.

“Our son's marriage didn't quite work. Now Jo... his wife... his ex-wife... well, she's demanding everything in the divorce,” he says to the eager Irish stranger across from him. “We're selling the Celica to pay his lawyer's fees.”

I study Tim's face.

Bright eyes, half-covered with sagging lids.

Warm smile, corners dragged down by tired cheeks.

“He's always been a good boy who sometimes makes poor choices,” says Helen.

Her kind, blue eyes mist over as she stares lovingly at the gold-framed photo of her son on the wall.

She reaches for Tim's weathered hand.

They interlock wrinkled fingers and hold each other tight.

“So, will you buy it from us?” says Tim.

It was more of a plea than a question.

“I'll give it a good home,” I smile, and hand over the check I had already filled out for the full $2500.

Their entangled bodies sag with relief and their eyes brighten.

As Tim shows me out, Helen clasps my hand in both of hers.

“Drive safe, love,” she smiles, and I promise I will.

Outside, Tim runs his hand over the car he’s loved for 25 years one last time.

“Send a photo every once in a while? If you get a chance?” he asks.

“I’ll be happy to show you its new home,” I reply, and he clunks the car door closed for me.

I drive away and watch Tim & Helen wave in the rearview and for a moment, feel the sting of the money I didn’t bargain for.

A full week’s wages.

But I couldn't bargain with them.

It wouldn't have felt right.

They'd bargained with life enough.

They deserve a good deal.

I left them with some extra cash, but more than that, I left them with the dignity of not having to bargain to help their son.

They had set their price, and I had respected it.

The drive through the Welsh countryside to catch the ferry back home was one of the most satisfying drives of my life.

Lighter of pocket…

Fuller of heart.

The Little Girl God Forgot

Tue, 30 May 2023 17:32:01 GMT

People Who Love You Don't Throw You Down The Stairs

June 9, 1983.

Allentown Pennsylvania.

It’s 90 degrees, and I can’t breathe.

But it’s not because of the heat.
Every breath hurts like needles pricking my lungs.

Even though Mom’s a nurse, she doesn’t want to hear about it.

Not today.

It’s her one day off from her 60-hour week, and she has errands to run and a hair appointment to keep.

She’s driving my sister and me to our grandparents’ house before school, and every bump in the road is agony.
“Mom please. I can’t go. To school. It’s so hard. To breathe,” I gasp with what little air I can suck into my lungs.

“It’s probably just a cracked rib from roughhousing with your sister,” she says. “You’re such a drama queen, it’ll heal itself.”

“We weren't. It’s something. Else. I promise. Mom,” I wheeze.

“Enough Lisa. I don’t want to hear it,” she snaps.

She’s not being mean.

She works so hard for her patients and family and still struggles to make ends meet.

These few hours alone are vital to her as she’s doing her best to hold it together.

And I’m not trying to ditch school.

School is my sanctuary.

So I stagger up the stone staircase that wraps around the school building.

Halfway up, I collapse.

*****

From the outside, people thought my family lived a beautiful life.

But behind the polished door, there was chaos.

My biological Dad loved me deeply and to the best of his ability.

He was also a diagnosed schizophrenic.

When he was on medication, he was the most wonderful man.

When he was off it, well, home wasn’t a safe place to be for any of us.

He hated that side of himself.

One day when I was 6 years old, he sent my mom, my sister, and me out shopping.

When we came back, he had cleaned every piece of furniture out.

As we looked around our empty home in shock, I struggled to accept he was gone.

And I knew he was never coming back.

My Mom wept with a mixture of rage and relief.

She thought her trouble with men was over.
She was wrong.

The next handsome man who charmed his way into her affections put on a great show of loving us all.

But a man who loves you doesn’t throw you down the stairs.

And a God who loves you doesn’t let that man into the house in the first place.

Why should I have to call 911 and pack my sister’s little blue suitcase and wait for the police to come and be the one to tell her we’re going to stay at my aunt and uncle’s once again?

Maybe it was because I used to dress up and spin around until I was dizzy trying to turn into Wonder Woman.

“Now the world is ready for you and the wonders you can do,” went the old TV show theme tune.

Lying here on these stone steps gasping to breathe, I realized I wasn't Wonder Woman. I was just a girl who had learned when you spend years bending over backward to make others feel better, eventually, you break.
*****

“School is the way to succeed,” stated my grandmother.

“You don’t go steady, you go study,” threatened my grandfather.

Knowing how much my Mom struggled, you’d better believe it was straight-A’s for me, pal.

They had to hire a special teacher for me and three others because by 6 ^th grade we had already worked through 7th and 8th-grade books, and they put us in a trailer to learn about mindset and positive thinking.

My whole life became a race to perfection.

School uniform cap set just right on my finely combed hair, my clean, second-hand uniform skirt swaying over my one pair of polished shoes.

When I played Monopoly with my little sister, I would cheat to win…

Because I had to be the best.
If someone was doing better than me, I’d let them know about it.

My sister hated having friends over because I tormented them.

Deanna’s clothes were too nice.

Michelle was too pretty.

Brittany’s hair was too long and silky.

So I put Elmer’s glue in it.

Because I had to be the best.

Tommy’s art project was too perfect, and his house was too nice, so I wrote “Fuck you” on his pretty little art project.

Because I had to be the best.

And sure enough, my report card was all A’s.

But my Conduct read “Needs Improvement.”

*****

“Please don’t call Mom, she’ll be so mad,” I begged the teacher who helped me up from the steps.

Mom was indeed mad as all get out.

She drove me home where I lay for a few hours in her air-conditioned bedroom before getting an appointment to see our family doctor.
“Fine. I’ll show you it’s nothing,” says Mom.

I gasp for air in the waiting room for what feels like days.

The doctor examines me and steps out of the room.

“She’s got to get to the hospital immediately,” he tells Mom. “She has a collapsed lung.”

“I’ll take her,” says Mom, her training kicking in.

“There isn’t time. She needs an ambulance right away.”

The ambulance ride goes by in a blur of wheezing and oxygen masks and terrible pain.
At the hospital, they wheel me into surgery.

The doctors put a tube in my side to pump oxygen back into my lung.

But the daytime nurse didn’t put the tube in right, and my second lung collapsed.

They told my Mom I had 24 hours to live.

How could this happen to a healthy 13-year-old girl?

Spontaneous pneumothorax (lung collapse) was their diagnosis.

Yeah, right, Doc.

I knew better.

The pressure of keeping my head held high and my chest puffed out had sucked the air out of my lungs.
I was being crushed under the weight of the daily pain I had to bear.

But why now?

Well until recently home was the storm and school was my shelter.

But all that changed with yet another moment of violence.

*****

Maria lived in the rough neighborhood where our school was.

By rough I mean she carried a knife to school every day.

I lived across town and walked to Holy Spirit School every morning after Mom dropped me off at my grandparents.

Somehow, we became friends.

And though I looked all prim and proper, I sure could speak back when I had a mind to.

And one day I mouthed off to Maria, even though I knew deep down I was all bark and no bite.

But Maria was primed to react to insults or disrespect in a different way than me.

“I’m gonna get you after school,” she hisses in my ear.

On the way home from school, she grabs me from behind and slaps me hard in the face.

I freeze.

I feel powerless.

Ashamed.

And lucky she didn’t shank me.

But I hold it all together like I had been trained to do at home.

I’m a master at not feeling.

But I’m scared as all get out and run red-faced to my grandparents' home, pulsing inside from the pain and shame.

Maria didn’t get a chance to get me again because I stopped being friends with her.

I had learned from the violence at home that one beating always leads to another.

That slap was minor compared to what my Mom and I went through at home.

But it was a very pivotal moment.

Home was where the chaos was.

School was where if I worked hard enough, I had control of the outcome.

And now that safe haven was gone.

That solidified me wearing a mask for every situation.

No room in the world for me to be delicate or fragile or vulnerable, because the world wasn’t safe…

I wasn’t even safe with my so-called friends.

If home wasn’t safe and school wasn’t safe now either…

Where could I go next?

*****

Every day of my childhood was pain and suffering.

Too little food, money, and possessions.

Too much fighting, fear, and violence.

I prayed for death and ask the Holy Spirit “Why was I born?”

The Spirit said, “You’re here for a reason.”

I yelled back, “I’m six, what does that mean?”

The Spirit didn’t answer.
A lonely silence descended.

“Oh great,” I thought. “You’re going to abandon me too?”

Still, no answer.

Why was I ever born?

I get my answer years later in that hospital surgery.

Even when my body is shutting down from all the years of abuse, fear, and pain,

God pulls me back from the brink and says:

“No, you don’t get away that easily. You have so much more to do.”

“Please let me go,” I beg.

“I’m not taking you away until the world is a better place,” He replies.

“Take this weight off me. It’s too much to bear alone,” I plead through tears.
“That’s the point,” God replies. “All of this would have broken you without me watching over you.”

God has always pitted me against a mighty mountain.

Up there where the air is thin and it’s hard to breathe.

But he also gave me a great pair of lungs and a head for heights so that I may show others the way to turn on their own God light too.

The Desire To Push Those You Love Away

Tue, 23 May 2023 18:04:54 GMT

My Head Is Dripping Into My Leather Boots

October 15, 1989 & 2012

Guitar feedback screeches over a thumping Tom Tom drumbeat...

“The Living End” by The Jesus And Mary Chain explodes and echoes around an unfinished bathroom.
Stacks of tiles in the shower.

Exposed piping under the sink.

A toilet bowl not hooked up to the plumbing.
The song's vocals punch in over the guitar's velvet haze.
“I get ahead on my motorbike
I feel so quick in my leather boots
My mood is black...” *
The music level drops and a young Irish man's voice echoes off the walls.
“Hey, you awake?” says 16-year-old Kevin.

He stands over his 39-year-old self, who's sprawled on the bathroom floor.
16 looks good: long, curly fringe covering one eye, draped in the black of late '80s indie postpunk cool…

Jesus And Mary Chain T-Shirt, ripped jeans, army surplus boots.
Life Experience Level 5…

Bravado: 95.
39 doesn't look so good.

Ruddy and bloated, stained hoody, baggy sweatpants, fluffy slipper socks.
Life Experience Level: 70…

Bravado: 30
39 cracks open his swollen eyes.

16 stands over him like an angel with acne.
“Am I dead?” asks 39, not unreasonably, as he stares into the eyes of his younger self.
“You damn well should be, state of you,” says 16, and kicks 39's foot for emphasis.
“The hell, man? I'll get you for--”
Clunk!
39 cracks his forehead on the toilet bowl as he tries to sit up. He slumps back down.
“The hell is that doing there?” asks 39 as he kicks the toilet bowl.
“It's a bathroom. It's supposed to be here. The hell you doing down there?” asks 16, leaning in for a closer look at 39 as if examining an ugly but fascinating bug.
“You're the angel, you tell me,” says 39, still rubbing his forehead.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” says 16. He tugs on 39's sagging sweatpants. “The hell are these things? What you hiding under there?”
“Listen you little shit, my head is broken here. Can you keep it down?” croaks 39, covering his eyes from the light streaming in the door. “How did you get in anyway?”
“You left the front door open again, dick,” says 16, and turns up the invisible volume knob.
The music drowns out 39's anger, and he and 16 smile their crooked smiles and nod their heads as the beat leads up to the next verse and they both sing...
“I get so wild on my motorbike
I'm breaking loose on this moonlit night
I cut the road like a sharpened knife...”
They grin at each other as the song drives towards the bridge...
“And I'm in love with myself...” continues 16, but 39's voice trails off before he finishes the line.
16 turns down the volume. 39 covers his eyes from the glaring light.
16 fidgets. 39 has got used to long silences. 16 hates them.
“So what is this? Whisky? Dope?” asks 16. “What should I avoid?”
“Red wine,” says 39 as he swallows to keep the sick down.
“Oh look at you with your fancy red wine,” says 16 cocking his head like he imagines a fancy person would.
“Better than that shitty cider you guzzle in the bus shelters,” says 39, attempting to lift himself onto his elbows.
“You're welcome to drop me some cash if you want me to drink fancier,” says 16.
“Can't afford it,” says 39.
“Living in this house? Come on,” says 16.
“I didn't build it. Dad did,” says 39.
“For who? It's huge! You married? Did you have kids?”
“Just me,” says 39.
“Shit, man,” says 16. “What happened?”
“That crushing indecisiveness you have, that doesn't go away. Nor does the inability to speak up for yourself. Nor does the never-ending desire to push those you love away just when you need them the most,” continues 39.
16 is lost in thought. “What about the Big Blue?” he eventually asks.
“Fuck knows where that is, or if it even exists. Either way, I haven't found it,” says 39.
“Look harder, you dick,” says 16, and he looks away as his eyes well up.
39 shakes his head. Sighs. Tears fill his eyes.
“Every morning I wake up feeling like this, man. And every morning I make a bargain with myself. “Not tonight,” I tell myself. “Just not tonight.” And most of the day, I hold up my end. By three, I'm even proud of myself.”
“You drink during the day?” asks 16, screwing up his nose in disgust.
“No, never. It's not that. It's the resolve to not drink that night that I fight so hard to hold onto. I make it to three, and I'm holding firm. No way. Go straight from work to the gym, sweat it out in the sauna, don't stop at the supermarket on the way home, eat whatever's in the fridge, and just go to bed.”
“So what happens?” asks 16, the disgust giving way to concern.
“Come five o'clock, I'm so damn proud of my resolve to not drink that I stop at the supermarket to get some Dairy Milk Whole Nut chocolate as a reward, which of course is right by the wine section, and next thing I'm walking out with two bottles of Rioja Gran Reserva and fuck-all Whole Nut.”
16 and 39 hold each other's gaze for the longest time since they met.

39 looks away first and rubs his squelching belly.
“Bargain with me that you won't drink tonight,” says 16 with a hopeful smile.
39 smiles back. “Arsenal are playing Real Madrid tonight. Champions League quarter-finals. Going over to Dave's. Can't show up empty-handed. Tomorrow, though. Definitely.”
16's smile fades. He looks away. His shoulders slump.
“Hey!” says 39, but 16 stares at the floor and cranks up the music even louder than before.
“There's nothing else but me,
And an empty road...” *
“Kevin! Turn down that noise and finish your homework,” yells their Mum from somewhere else in the house.
16 turns down the music. “I'd better go,” says 16.
“Run along, Mummy's boy,” says 39 as he massages his eyeballs with his knuckles to distract from the pain in his temples.
“Will you be okay?” asks 16 as he stands.
39 shrugs. 16 offers a hand. 39 waves it away. 16 shuffles towards the bright light.
“Hey, you know the last lines of “The Living End?” he asks before he reaches the door. He hates leaving conversations unresolved.
“Something about “Heather shoots” or some damn thing? Can never make it out,” 16 continues. “That is, if you haven't drunk it out of your damn head,”
39 flicks him the F-You V-sign. “Turn it up again,” he growls.

16 cranks the volume.
39 crumples his brow, jumps onto the beat, and sings along with his eyes closed...
“I'm moving too fast, I'm moving too fast,
I'm moving so fast that I can't control the wheels,
Yeah I'm going for a tree, yeah it's going for me, yeah
My head is dripping into my leather boots.” *
39 smiles as the song fades out in a shriek of feedback. He opens his eyes.
16 has gone.
39's smile fades.
He pulls his aching body upright.

His head feels like there's a bowling ball inside it.

He grips the wall to avoid toppling over.
He dares himself to peer into the toilet bowl.

He clamps his hand over his mouth in disgust.

He turns away before we can see what's inside.
39 stares into the bright light flooding the doorway.

He takes a deep breath, and staggers towards it.
He grabs hold of the door frame.

Steadies his throbbing head.
He looks back at the unfinished, dusty bathroom and the caked vomit on the floor by the toilet.
He takes the key from the lock on the inside of the door.

He steps outside into the blinding light.

39 closes the door and locks it from the outside.

* Lyrics by William Adam Reid, James Mcleish Reid

Did God Just Punch Me?

Wed, 17 May 2023 01:30:44 GMT

Three cars spin across the freeway

I've always battled for the right to be listened to.

To be heard.

To be understood.

I grew up around a voice a lot louder than mine and I kept quiet for a very long time in fear of it.

Over the years my frustration built until it sporadically and violently erupted, and I'd yell and scream all my frustrations and anger at once.

This usually didn't end well.

Over the years, I found that when you don't follow your path, design your day, or tell your own story, someone will do it for you.

Maybe this was one of the reasons I stopped believing in God and the Catholic Church as a teenager.
Maybe I had enough people on earth running my life without celestial deities getting in on the action too.

But when I moved to Los Angeles many years later, God was everywhere I turned.
My roommate Suzanna had a strong Baptist faith and wanted to take me to church.
My landlady's Pentecostal sister had just been shunned by her boyfriend because she didn't speak in tongues.

And on Saturday, September 21, 2013, I got a violent reminder that God may exist after all.

I'm 3 weeks into a 90-day stay as I pursue my work visa to move to Los Angeles permanently.

I've been hustling non-stop to get what I need – a lawyer, job offers, tons of paperwork - and I decide to take a day off and enjoy the city in my Nissan rental.

First to the Laemmle Music Hall in Beverly Hills for the premiere of a documentary about an Afghani-American family reuniting after being separated since 9/11…

A stunning film with an engaging Q&A with the filmmakers.

From there I zip across town to a Shakespeare reading at Echo Park Lake...

But my roommate neglects to tell me I'd be taking part, not just watching!
I play along though, and the group all love this shy and grouchy Irish guy wearing flower crowns and putting on silly accents for the show.
Little did I know that six months later I'd be moving into an apartment just a few blocks from the park with a wonderful woman I met that day.

Then dinner with a friend and I zip back up the 5 to my suburban rental house in Sun Valley.

I dive into the garden pool and watch the palm trees sway as the sun sets behind them. Ahhh…

This is the life.

I feel so good that though I’m exhausted, I want more.

I search the local listings and find a nighttime light show at Santa Monica Beach.

A quick shower and I'm rolling down the 405 which fizzes with Saturday night crazy.

The crash happens first very slowly…

Then all at once.

I can remember from numerous bike falls as a kid, that the drop to the ground takes an age…

Then the painful impact happens all at once.

I’m a good distance back from the car in front.

All of us Saturday night adventurers whip along in a red-and-white streaky dance.

I rock out to some Doors, fully dropping into the LA vibe.

My teenage self, listening to The Doors in rainy Galway, Ireland, would be so jealous of me right now.

Up ahead a metallic CRUNCH slaps me into high alert.

Then one set of red car lights disappear.

Then another.

Where did they go?

As a set of white lights spin around towards me, I get my answer.

Three cars spin and bounce across the busy freeway like pinballs.

I slow but can't tell which way I should steer as these metal machine whirls in the dark in front of me.

Too late, I see one coming straight for me.

I brace the wheel with both hands…

I jam the brakes…

And wait for impact.

It hits hard.

Then I hold my breath and wait for the rear impact which will surely follow.

Tires screech behind me...

But no second shunt.

Marooned in the middle lane, car crippled and not knowing what to do, I step onto the freeway and take the abuse of the drivers who don't want their fun nights out ruined by my destroyed car.

How inconsiderate of me.

The CHP patrol car rams my crippled car off the road.

The ambulances up ahead suggest others have got it much worse than me.

As I wait for the recovery truck in the shoulder, still in shock, I see a blue light towering over the white and red streaks of headlights.

It’s a cross, twenty feet tall, glowing brightly on top of a structure half a mile away.

In the Saturday night chaos, I’m the only one watching it.

It seems like it’s there just for me.

As I ride home in the recovery truck, dazed and nursing the torn ligaments in my shoulder, I wonder what seeing the cross at that moment meant.

I always think there's a hidden meaning or lesson to be learned in moments like this.

That night I had tried to do too much.

I didn't know when to quit.

I had had a great day, but I wanted more.

I got greedy.

Or did I?

Maybe I just wanted to continue writing my story that night, one that I had worked so hard to start writing for myself by moving to LA.

Maybe God knew that, and he helped me stop just short of the ultimate sacrifice the cross represented…

Crossing over from this life, with no more story to be told.

An infinite number of moments and incidents led to me stopping just in time.

I had got a punch in the shoulder from above instead of a fatal blow.

I had been given more time to tell my story in LA…

And I wasn't going to waste it.

If I Keep On Giving, Maybe Then She'll Love Me

Tue, 09 May 2023 17:39:46 GMT

I will not allow this to happen to me again.

2020.

Wichita, Kansas.

I wake at 4 am to a slap in the face.

Jill shoves my phone in front of my eyes.

“What the hell?” I croak, groggy from beer and exhaustion.

“Why do you have this on your phone?” she screams.

“What are you talking about?” I groan, trying to focus on the screen.

“This note app is locked!” she screams. “What the hell are you hiding from me?”

I don’t even have the strength left to ask her why the hell she’s looking through my phone at four in the morning.

“Must have come with the phone,” I lie, just before the second slap lands.

I won’t say every morning starts like this…

But it’s not far off.

*****

I was killing it in the funeral sales industry a couple of years before.

I was a bit overweight, sure, but healthy.

I was making a great living and was pushing on an 800 credit score.

Jill comes into my life, and everything starts to crumble.

She consumes all my time, energy, and money.

She heavily contributes to over $20,000 in credit card debt.

My work performance drops off a cliff.

My boss at the funeral home, a good guy, he tells me to quit instead of being fired so at least I have a chance of being rehired in the future.

So I go to work at a restaurant, and the drinking gets worse.

To cope with the mess at home, I’m probably knocking back a dozen beers a day.

The arguments, the stress, and my weight balloon…

And my self-esteem drops like a turd in a toilet bowl.

The list of crazy that Jill drops on me is long and wild.

The 50 calls a day to check up on me.

The “forced” proposal…

Jill gets me drunk off my face in a pool hall, drives me to Walmart to buy her an engagement and wedding ring combo-deal with the last dollars I have, and makes me propose to her in the Walmart parking lot.

Then on Valentine’s Day, 20 minutes before we’re supposed to marry, she calls it off.

The gaslighting… Jill was a demon in private, an angel in public.

Like, when I eventually confided in friends and family about how much trouble I was in, they’d say “Are you sure? She seems so nice, and you two look perfect together.”

You hear that enough times and you begin to question your own sanity.

That’s the horror of being bombarded with lies, tears, and drama 24/7…

You don’t know what the truth is anymore.

So when Jill told me first she was pregnant, then had a miscarriage, I just flat out didn’t believe her.

*****
You might read all this and ask me…
“How dumb were you to put up with all this crap?”

It’s a fair question, and one I’m still coming to terms with a couple of years later.

See, I’m a people-pleaser.

I have a hard time saying “no.”

I'm incredibly generous when it comes to not just money but also time.

I’ve never been a hookup kind of guy…

I’ve always believed in long-term love.

And I could see Jill wasn't someone I wanted to live and grow with, so I broke up with her five weeks in.

Or at least, I tried to.

But she said, “No, we’re not breaking up.”

Then came the tears, threats, and screaming…

And I backed down and stayed.

This pattern repeated itself dozens of times over the next couple of years.

So how did I end up in this situation?

My parents have had the perfect marriage for over 42 years.

From them, I learned that for a relationship to work, each person must give 100%.

But I made the mistake of taking one part of the lesson, and not the other.

Case in point…

One time when Jill was really depressed, I bought her a $4,500 English bulldog to make her happy.

Idea being, if I just keep doing more for her, surely then she’ll love me.

Problem was, she was giving nothing in return.

But this only drove me to give even harder.

*****

I finally managed to get her out of the house after months of psychological torture.

I even called my folks over to help get her out.

Then Jill’s Dad – a military high-up - threatened to slash my tires, and when my Dad told him to stay out of it, he said he'd slash my Dad’s tires too.

My Mom had met Jill’s folks early on and thought they were a bit off.

She’s a social worker and told me to be careful with Jill as an apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

Listen to your parents, folks.

When Jill did finally leave, I did okay for a while…

Then the loneliness crept back in.

I was such a mess after being with her for so long, I wondered who the hell would want to be with me now anyway?

My weight had ballooned to 280, I drank too much, was heavily in debt, and had a total lack of self-respect.
So I asked Jill back.

In my messed-up mind, I thought we could live together as friends.

Who was I kidding?

It was worse than ever before.

It got so bad that I moved out of my own apartment and stayed in a friend’s basement.

That’s when I got the call about the supposed miscarriage.

“You 're at some bitch’s house while your dead baby is in the toilet behind me,” she screams.

Now, I 100% value human life, but without getting into too many details, the likelihood of her being pregnant in the first place was super low.

Okay, here’s one detail - I used to fake orgasms.

Yeah, I know.

So I refused to come home that night because I refused to believe she was pregnant in the first place.

She threatened to kill herself, so I called the cops and told them what was up.

A while later one of the cops calls me back.

“Mr. Schmidt, your friend is fine. She seemed real sweet. Matter of fact, she asked us to check on you because she was worried when you didn’t come home. You doing okay sir?”

Dammit all to hell.

Maybe I was just in a long, never-ending nightmare and I really was the mad one.

But the end did come, and it was surprisingly painless.

A friend texts to say Jill has left the dogs behind and moved out.

I get home, and there’s dog shit everywhere, and she’s trashed the place.

Of course she has.

*****

I don’t know.
Looking back now, even two years later, I can’t quite wrap my head around it all.

You might have read this and thought it’s a long list of “she did this crazy thing, she said that horrible thing,” and you’d be right.

I can only tell this from my perspective…

How I was feeling and what I was going through.

And honestly, I was a pretty shitty person at the time too.

I swung from doubting and blaming my own sanity to doubting and blaming hers. That’s what’s so twisted about this kind of behavior.

All that fighting, all that ugliness, all that pain…

No-one wins.

But recently, I came to realize that I just had to forgive her and move on.

Because if I didn't, even though she was no longer physically there, she was still controlling me in spirit.

My work is to learn to understand what a healthy relationship is again.

I hate that this turned me bitter and ugly for years of my young life.

See, I have an incredibly big heart for people.

I want everyone to be okay, and I’ll do what I can to help them get there.

And I know this...

I fucked up and it’s my responsibility to fix all this up.

And I will not allow this to happen to me again.

I’m adamant about always telling and demanding the truth.

Anything false, anything fake, I can see it a mile off.

And I’ll protect my health and well-being with my life.

So come at me true, and I’ll treat you like family.

Come at me wrong, well, I’d say you’d best not come at me at all.

You Never Know When Your Card Will Be Pulled

Tue, 02 May 2023 17:30:26 GMT

Mr. & Mrs. Bright, your daughter Madeline is dead...

2004.

UC Davis Medical Center

Sacramento, CA.

As the anesthetic creeps through my veins, I take one last look around before I drift off.

A bank of machines beeps and hisses and hums.

Wires and tubes coil from my body and disappear into the bright lights overhead.

Masked and gowned giants loom over me.

But I’m not worried.

I feel warm and tingly and happy.

I’m in pediatric surgery having a potentially life-changing procedure called a cardiac ablation.

And as my eyes close, I picture the life I’ll wake up to…

A life of carefree baseball, volleyball, and soccer like the other kids my age.

But though I’m just 14, in less than an hour, I’ll be dead.
*****

The threat of death has hung over my life since before I can remember.

In fact, I was born dead.

See, I was born with… ready to wrap your eyeballs around this?

Wolff-Parkinson White Supraventricular Tachycardias (or SVT for short.)

Mine is a rare case of a rare disease, so I have two extra electrical pathways in my heart.

And sometimes the electrical signal which regulates my heart runs down one of those two extra pathways, which causes my heart rate to go way above normal.

So whereas a typical person’s rate resting heart rate is 40 to 60 beats per minute, mine is over 100.

And during an acute episode, mine can reach 200 bpm.

Sometimes I get a sense when it’s about to happen, and then I have to get to the hospital real fast.

The medical staff have to strap me down and shock me to restabilize my heart rate.

Sometimes they inject a drug called adenosine.

That feels like a ton of bricks crushing my chest.

It cuts off the power to my heart, stopping it dead…

Seconds later it cranks it back up again.

And that ton of bricks explodes, and I gasp for air so violently that the medical team has to hold me down.

Now all this breaking down and jumpstarting gets pretty wearing, let me tell you.

So they gave me medication for a while, but my case was so severe that the large dose I had to take for it to be effective made me fall asleep in class.
I was a smart and active student, and that didn’t wash with me.

So I nixed the meds.

Being at school was becoming real tough, because I never knew when I would drop like a stone and need to be rushed to hospital.

So after a lot of consultations with the doctors, me and my Mom & Dad decided this cardiac ablation procedure was the best thing for me.

They will insert a catheter in my groin and run a cable up through that to my heart.

They’ll use that cable to cauterize the areas on the heart which will block the irregular electrical signal and return my heart rate to normal.

A routine but risky procedure in exchange for a normal kid’s life.

Seems worth it, right?

*****

“Mr. and Mrs. Bright, Madeline’s heart stopped during surgery and we couldn’t restart it. I’m really sorry, but your daughter is dead,” says the Surgeon to my stunned parents.

My father drops to his knees just as suddenly as I used to when I had an attack.

And as my parents come to terms with my death in the waiting room, I’m coming to terms with my own death myself.

*****

Floating to heaven feels great.

I’m happy and warm.

And I see my own lifeless body below, abandoned by everyone on the medical team except for the electrical cord specialist and the guy who shaved me for the procedure.

Those guys pump my chest and shock me with paddles long after the Surgeon pronounced me dead.

They work so hard to revive me, bless them.

But I’m so happy in my spiritual body above them, that I want to tell them this: “It’s okay, you’ve done your best.

Don’t worry about me, I’m happy now.

You can let me go.”

But still these two guys keep pumping and shocking my lifeless 14-year-old body.

They just won’t take “no” for an answer.

From high above I smile at how lucky the people in their lives are, knowing they have someone who’ll fight for them even when everyone else has given up on them.

So there I am, floating above my own dead body, feeling pretty happy, given the circumstances.

And I look back on my short life, and I remember the constant struggle I had just to stay alive.

So much pain, uncertainty, and a constant running from death.

And now that it’s come, I learn there’s nothing to be afraid of.

I feel warm, safe, and loved.

In those dreamy moments, I learn that every moment of life is important.

You can be living your best life and then BOOM…

Your card is pulled and you drop like a stone.

As I float higher, I promise that wherever I go next, I will impact people’s lives for the better.

I’ll give hope to the despairing…

Light to the lost…

Love to the wretched.

I’ll show them that there will be moments of crushing pain and ecstatic joy and that it’s vital to embrace them both.

Nothing is given to us that we can’t learn to handle.

When we handle it long enough, we forge that pain into a tool to help others who struggle with the same affliction.

I know my death will be a crushing loss for my family.

And yet, in time, it will teach them a strength they never knew possible.

If even one person’s life is improved by my living and losing mine, I know it will have had a purpose.

And I realize that our purpose here on earth is not to benefit ourselves…

It’s to benefit others.

That’s the key to a successful life.

And now as I look down on those guys still fighting for the mortal life I’ve let go of, I see a new figure in the room.

A girl about my age sits in the corner, watching me.

I’m not afraid.

Hers is a spiritual presence.

A beautiful, calming, warm presence.

She’s dead too.
Takes one to know one, I guess.

We smile at each other and then she speaks to me.

“It’s not your time,” she says. “You have to go back.”

“Are you sure?” I reply with ease as if I’m talking to a lifelong friend.

“I’m sure. It’s not your time. You still have a life to live,” she replies.

“Okay, if you’re sure. So how does it work?”

“Close your eyes and let yourself drift back down. Then reach out and touch your body. And you’ll be back home in no time.”

“Okay, I will,” I say as I close my eyes and drift down toward the two determined men still trying to bring life to my body 20 minutes after my spirit had left it.

“Remember what you learned while you were dead,” says the girl.

“I will, thank you,” I say, as my spirit reaches for my body on the operating table.

And soon, I’m home.

Coming back into my body is a shocking experience.

It’s like a rough landing after a peaceful parachute flight.

I take a huge gulp of air, and life rushes through my body.

My eyes twitch open, and I see the shocked look on my saviors’ faces.

Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity as the medical team runs around to deal with the return of the girl they discarded as a lost cause.

I close my eyes and leave them to it.

It took me leaving the present to understand the power of being present in every moment.

As I drift off to sleep again - dying is a tiring business - I dream of all the things I’ll do when I awake.

This 14-year-old girl will make the world a better place.

One smile at a time.

Guided By Desire

Tue, 25 Apr 2023 17:41:44 GMT

The two waves crash and drag me down...

Before we achieve any of our goals: love, money, a film studio…

We must first DESIRE it.

Desire drives the client to purchase, and desire drives the merchant to sell.

Desire is that wave that flushes through our veins when we see, hear, smell or touch what we want.

Desire guides us through rejection, heartache, and frustration.

When the dark hours befall us, when the road cracks before us, when we're bled almost dry…

Desire lights the way.

On January 13 ^th , 2009 at Inch Beach, Co. Kerry, Ireland, Desire saved me from drowning.

*****

Inch Beach is two miles of golden sand on the Dingle Peninsula, one of Europe's most westerly points, and one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

But beauty in Ireland comes in many forms.

On this day, there were angry, broiling clouds overhead.

A 10-12mph SE offshore breeze at my back.

A vast 48°F Atlantic Ocean in front.

A perfect day for surfing, Irish style.

I had taken the 100-mile trip down from Galway with my then-girlfriend R and my friend B.

R was going to walk the shore, B was going to take his first surf lesson, I was going to surf farther out alone.

Squeezed into my wetsuit, board fin-up in the sand, I watch a few sets roll in.

No obvious rip currents, but definitely some weird cross-waves a bit further out.

“Anything to watch out for here?” I ask the laid-back Lifeguard.

“You know what you're doing?” he asks, his furrowed brow belying his chill beach-dude vibe.
“Pretty much. I'm careful too,” I reply, standing tall to reassert myself.

He carves a line in the air with his arm, cutting the beach in two.

“Stay to the right of the Guard Tower. Left of it someone who doesn't know what they’re doing can get pulled out to the open ocean,” he replies, still looking me up and down. Way to give a guy confidence before he hits the water.

I secure my ankle strap.

I watch the grey winter waters, flat out there beyond the white chop of the foreshore. A salty kiss reassures me.

“Have fun,” R chirps as I stride to the waterline, Malibu board under arm.

I loved the challenge of surfing.

When I first took lessons in 2007, overweight and unfit, I wiped out for four and a half painful, frustrating days.

Hour after hour of instruction and practice, unable to get my balance, timing or coordination right.

Gasping for air and dignity.

Why put myself through this?

From the very first time I went flying headfirst into the surf, I was hooked on the Desire to stand up before the week was out.

On the last session of the last day of lesson, I did it.

Every muscle and joint ached.

But Desire had seen me through.

Paddling out now on this chilly winter's morning, I roll under the churning white wash, resurface, gasp in some salt-sprayed air and paddle for the flat, grey water beyond.

Despite what the videos of clean barrels, monster waves and crushing wipeouts show, surfing is mostly waiting and watching.

I slide up the board and turn to face the shore.

I'm lined up with the Lifeguard Tower.

That's my guide, and I watch for it often.

A few hundred yards out, I can see but not hear the shore.

I see B practicing pop-ups with his class.

R walking alone on the golden sand.

Each of us happy in our own spheres.

Each with our own Desire.

Something makes me turn back.

You get a feeling after surfing for a while.

The ocean speaks to you.

You learn to hear it.

There it is.

A set rolling in from the horizon.

I drop to my belly, and paddle to reposition myself. Sit back up for a better view. Too far right. Drop down to paddle some more. Sit up. That's it.

A strange silence as the ocean approaches.

I turn the board and paddle. Look over my left shoulder. Nice. It will break right. The sound of the rolling ocean now reaches me.

It's loud, and low. I adjust my angle. Square on. Perfect.

The sound shifts from my left ear to my right.

That shouldn't be.

Did I turn too far?

I look over my right shoulder.

The wave builds there.

I look over my left shoulder.

The wave builds there too.

I've paddled right into the point where two cross-waves meet.

Uh-oh.

I veer left, hoping to avoid it. Too late.

The left-breaker lifts me, then the right-breaker drops me on my back.\

The board flips away, yanking my ankle cord. The two waves crash and drag me down.

Time stops as I fight to reach the surface.

One wave rolls overhead… two… three…

Held down in the grey, cold churn, I very much desire to reach the surface.

But out here, the ocean laughs at a mere human's desire.

I pop to the surface. Gulp in air. Ten seconds till the next set of cross-waves will hit.

I lunge for my bobbing board. Somehow yank my exhausted body up on it. Force aching arms to paddle towards the shore... but wait.

Which direction is the shore in?

I can't see more than ten yards in any direction: the waves are too high.

They roll towards me from all sides, as if I had been sucked into the bottom of a six-foot tall whirlpool.

The wind howls. The dark grey sky looms over. The sea churns beneath.

With no clear path to shore, which way should I go?

All I know is that I'm not sticking around. I'm going to move. Somewhere. Anywhere. Desire kicks in. Just about the same time as Fear.

The Fear surges from my belly to my chest. Squeezes through my throat into my brain. My thoughts race as the belly of my board slaps the churning water below.

The water doesn't want me to go.

It wants to claim me.

My fear wants to let it.

I think of my love R walking the shore a half mile away.

My soul brother B on his first surf lesson.

My beloved family a hundred miles away in Galway, my Mum's lifelong fear of the ocean about to be vindicated as it takes her son deep into its churning belly.

A wave hits from the left. Another from the right.

I paddle, but fear and exhaustion seizes my arms.

My breath is erratic. A short inhale. I hold it.

Smash!

A wave hits the nose of the board. I swallow a mouthful of salty water.

I can't breathe. I can't swallow. My muscles ache.

Is this how it goes down? Is it now? How long will it take for me to drown?

When I first started to surf, I read about drowning.

It's nasty.

The body does everything to keep water out of the lungs until it's physically impossible not to.

And that's when I decide. Enough. It's time to go.

The Desire to live kicks in.

Adrenaline surges through my body. It displaces the fear. My arms pump. My breath steadies.

From somewhere, I find new strength. New focus. New clarity.

There is nothing else in the universe that existed before or since this moment.

My body works at maximum strength and efficiency.

DESIRE has taken me into FLOW.

And yet though I paddled, I still couldn't tell which way the shore was, or even if I was making any progress. Waves still hit me from all sides.

If a wave knocked me off the board now, I knew I wouldn't have the strength to get back on it again.

I had to give it everything.

I had to keep moving.

I had to keep the fear from rising to my chest where it would constrict my breathing.

No.

This was not how I was going to go.

I windmill my arms for two minutes, maybe more.

Desire fights Fear.

The Desire to live.

The Desire for Shore.

And then a break in the grey water.

A strip of golden sand!

And then the heavenly view is smashed by more cross-waves crashing in front of me.

But I had seen it.

Desire had taken me from the fearful clutches of the grey deep and delivered me to the golden promised sand.

And that would be enough to take me the rest of the way.

I had a few minutes of relatively easy work to get to shore.

Time to think.

I knew I would live.

But how would I live?

A life driven by Fear?

Or a life guided by Desire?

God Has A Master Plan

Tue, 18 Apr 2023 23:46:41 GMT

“I'll Be The One In The Leprechaun Costume”

2008

New York City, NY.

I’m an Irishman in New York, and I’m hopping with nerves.

After over a year of messaging Steph on MySpace, I’m finally about to meet her.

I’ve traveled from Dublin, Ireland to stay with my brother in New Jersey for the summer, and Steph flew from the West Coast to visit her father in New York.

So I’m wandering aimlessly around Manhattan waiting for her call.

When the phone finally rings, I take a deep breath to calm myself.

“Hi Steph, are you on your way?”
“Well actually, my Dad got me a ticket for the Yankees game tonight, so...”

“So we can’t meet?” I say, knowing the answer.

“Baseball before boys, you know,” she chirps back, not seeming too bothered.

“Eh, okay. I mean, sure, that’s fine,” I ramble on, trying to hide the massive sinking feeling in my chest.

After we hung up, something else washed over me…

Relief.
Steph standing me up was a confirmation of what I suspected.

I was a fool to dream this cool girl would like me.

Nice one, Halligan…

The Irish lad swings and the Irish lad misses.
*****

2007,

Dublin, Ireland.

I’m updating my MySpace profile in my gaff in Dublin.

MySpace is the hottest online social media space at the time.

You could interact with your favorite bands, and mine was (and is) blink-182.

And the lyric that resonated with me the most was from “Not Now.”

“God has a master plan,

And I guess I am in his demand.”

Although the band had split, I hang out on their fan page with others like me, desperate for news of a reunion.

And one day I replied to this girl Steph’s comment on a post…

It was funny and showed she knew her blink too…

To my surprise she responded, and pretty soon we were texting or calling every day, despite the 8-hour time difference.

She was funny, smart, and cute as a button, and this pasty Irish lad fell for that exotic Costa Rican and Dominican girl hard and fast as a blink-182 riff.

*****
I was never a ladies’ man.

I had one serious girlfriend in my teens…

But she broke my heart.

So I threw my energy into my own pop-punk band…

But the band split and my Rock & Roll dreams died too.

Those two heartbreaks shattered what little hope I had left.

Thing is, I always believed anyone could do whatever they set their heart on.

And I knew I was destined for greater things.

But I had begun to drift.

I was a ship without a sail, allowing the waves to take me where they pleased.

At the time I was a Corporate Trainer at Sony U.K.

Every month I flew to England to get trained on Sony’s newest equipment.

Then I’d travel around Ireland training the staff at the big electronics retail stores.

I didn’t love it.

But I also didn’t know what else to do.

I knew there was something else out there for me, I just didn’t know who or what it was.

And as it turns out, Rock & Roll wasn’t done with me just yet.

The blink-182 fan page allowed me to meet the bandmate of my dreams.

*****

It surprised me how quickly and easily Steph and I clicked.

Now remember this was 16 years ago, and although we didn’t meet on a dating app., I wasn’t comfortable talking about this gorgeous, funny, and laid-back girl I had met online with any of my friends or family.

I kind of liked that it was a secret.

I was insecure enough about girls and didn’t need any more pressure or piss-taking from my friends about how we met.

All that mattered was the fun and silliness that Steph and I enjoyed.

At times I wondered what on earth she saw in me.

I’m not being falsely humble when I say that.

I really didn’t think I had all that much going for me.

But that’s the funny thing about love.

It doesn’t care what you do for a living or how big your plans are.

It doesn’t care what you can offer it in return.

It just picks two people who it thinks it can help.

And it washes over them until it shows them just how unique and precious they really are…

Until they believe they’re worthy of love too.

*****

I won’t lie.

I was butt hurt when Steph stood me up for a baseball game.

I could have said “screw this” and believed it was even more proof that I was always going to be alone.

But I knew she didn’t do it out of spite.

After I had dusted off my bruised pride, I actually kind of admired her for it.

She had come from out of town too, and her Dad had gotten her tickets to see her first love…

The Yankees.

I learned pretty quickly that when you love someone you have to love what they love too…

After all, they love you.

And looking back, I think it was a blessing in disguise that we didn’t meet that summer.

Who knows what would have happened if we had met then?

And as I flew the 3,000 miles back to Ireland, still working through my feelings, I clung to blink’s line…

“God has a master plan.”

So when I got back, I was more determined than ever to somehow make it work.

The time difference meant I would often stay up chatting to Steph late into the night.

I’d only get a couple of hours sleep before forcing myself to get up for the dull job that didn’t even bother me anymore.

Because even though I didn’t know what form it would take or how Steph and I would shape it…

I could sense a new, beautiful future slowly settling around us like a warm and loving cloak.

*****

St. Patrick’s Day

2009

New York City

“Yeah, you’ll easily recognize me. I’ll be wearing a full Leprechaun costume,” I told Steph on the phone. “Yep, orange beard and all.”

She was still laughing as I hung up to go paint the town green with the lads.

Me and a few of my best mates had flown over from Dublin for a week.

Now I was fond of a beer or two at the time, but I behaved that day.

It was late that evening when we made it across town to the bar to meet Steph and her sister.

Steph took my breath away.

And I have to hand it to her.

After two years of daily chatting, we finally meet in person and I’m dressed head to toe in a leprechaun costume.

And even that didn’t drive her away.

*****
The week we spend together goes by in a flash.

Being with Steph in person is even more magical than I had imagined.

There’s an ease about her that calms me.

A faith that inspires me.

A tenderness that embraces me.

A beauty that stuns me.

And a heart that holds me.

Our last morning together is chillier than the rest.

As we stroll around Times Square one last time, we hold each other close for warmth.

Two innocent kids gripped by love, not knowing what to do next or what the future may bring.

I turn to Steph and say the words I’ve been dreading since I arrived.

“It’s time to go.”

As the cab pulls up, I look deep into her eyes, and through the sheen of sadness, I see a deeper layer of faith.

And that gives me the strength to say what I say next.

“I don’t know how, but I’m going to make this work. I’ll do whatever it takes, for however long it takes. Are you in?”
Steph smiles and nods.

“I’m in.”

“I love you, Steph,” I say, surprising myself but believing it deep in my soul.

“I love you too,” says Steph.

We kiss and before I know it, I’m in the back of the cab driving away.

Out the back window, I watch her walk into the Times Square crowd to go about her day.

Will she have fun today?

Will she be sad for a while?

When will I see her again?

When the last glimpse of her black leather jacket is swallowed by the crowd, I allow myself a little cry.

And for a moment, some doubt creeps in.

The voice of the guy who doesn’t think he’s all that special.

The voice of all the doubters who’ll tell him he’s a dreamer.

But then I remember the calmness and confidence in Steph’s eyes when we said goodbye…

The commitment we made to each other…

We’re all in on this…

Together.

And the doubt and fear melt away.

Yeah, Halligan, you’re swinging for the fences with this one.

But this time, you’re gonna make damn sure you don’t miss.

I had done all I could for now.

And after all, God has a master plan.

And I guess I am in his demand.

I had raised my sail and now I could finally steer my ship.

Towards Steph and onward to our promised land.

One Day At A Time

Tue, 11 Apr 2023 20:51:43 GMT

You're a cancer who infects all around you

2011

Portland, Maine

“What the hell is a call center?” I ask my friend Matt.

“You know the movie “Boiler Room?” he says as he unloads the 30-rack of Pabst Blue Ribbon from his beater.

“I love that movie,” I say as we walk up the driveway to my girlfriend Bri’s house.

“So what do I have to do?” I ask, popping a beer and slumping on the bed.

“Just learn this script,” says Matt, dropping a two-page document on the bed as he downs his beer in one.

We're in our late teens, so this is how I prep for the first legit job of my life.
I'm about to prep for the first legit job of my life...
But hey, we're still just teenage kids.

*****

I quit selling drugs just two weeks before.

I had a real close call when the FBI came a-knockin’ one night looking for one of my dealer pals.

The cops had arrested him earlier and he escaped from the car so they launched a huge manhunt.

And I had secretly stashed a load of coke and guns in Bri’s Mom’s house.

The FBI didn’t find it, but I was like, fuck me, what kind of asshole am I?
These folks took me in when I had nothing, man.
It's only been a few weeks but I love this girl more than I ever thought possible.
I can't do this anymore.

So I offload the stash and after years of slinging drugs, I don't know what to do with myself.
I had been pinballing from house to juvie to group home most of my life, and had come to believe what everyone told me: that I was a worthless waste of space.

Pretty soon my money runs out…

And I’m a day or two away from going back out for “one more deal.”

Then out of the blue Matt shows up and says he’s got me a sales job at the call center where he works.

I was not going to pass up this chance to go legit.

So we devour that 30-rack and rehearse that sales script a hundred times.

There are a couple of discovery questions up front, but the most important thing is the disclaimer that you have to read real fast and word-perfect at the end of the call…

Because that’s where the call center makes the real money.

Man, for those first few hours of rehearsing, Matt makes sure to let me know just how bad I am at this.

But I’m damn persistent.

And I have a point to prove.

And somewhere around 1 or 2 a.m., it starts to click.

So I get up next morning and recoil at the sight of my hungover ass in the mirror.
“Am I gonna need a haircut?” I ask Matt as I pull on my Calvin Klein suit.

“I’ll do it for you,” he says through bloodshot eyes.

His shaky-ass hands fuck it up so bad I have to shave my head bare.

On the 90-minute drive up, we smoke some weed to tame our raging hangovers.

“So you’re sure this guy’s gonna be cool with me?” I ask.
“Don’t sweat it, job’s already yours,” says Matt.

“I bet you I’ll outsell you on my first day,” I say with the confidence the weed has given me.

“Fuck you will,” he says, and hits the gas.

We roll into this super sketchy call center in an industrial zone.

The boss Seth comes out and says: “You’re 2 hours late, Matt. And who’s this guy?”

I look in disbelief at Matt, who carries on like he hasn’t spent the last 24 hours lying to my face.

“This is the guy I told you about,” says Matt.

“I told you we’re not hiring,” says Seth as he turns to go back inside.

I elbow Matt and give him an earful: “What the fuck, dude? We came up all the way here for that?”

Matt runs after Seth, but in a way the rejection feels familiar, almost comforting.

I’d already faced a lifetime of it.

What’s one more kick in the teeth?

*****

2008

Lynn, Massachusetts.

My parents divorced when I was young, so I lived with my Mom.

We moved around so much that I could never really make any friends.

It didn’t help that my Mom was a real troubled woman, and hated me hard.

She told me I was a cancer who made everyone's lives worse, and she kicked me out time after time.

For years I bounced from group homes to juvenile detention centers and one time I tried to drink myself to death.
I failed.
And then they threw me in a children's mental hospital.

It was a nightmare - the non-stop screaming, the fighting, the boys' with the hollow eyes of old men - but it gave me some perspective...
Things could always be worse.
When I got out I stole food, robbed folks, dealt drugs…

I was in full-on survival mode.

All this anger and uncertainty led to my second suicide attempt.

I tried to shoot myself and the bullet got stuck in the chamber.

Dammit all, couldn't I do anything right?
While I was fishing the bullet out, I heard a voice telling me to go for a walk.

So while I was out, I called my grandmother.

Luckily for me, she answered.

I didn’t tell her the whole story, but I said I was out of ideas, I had no hope left, and didn't know what to do next.

“All you can do is take things one day at a time,” she says.

That was a huge moment for me.

All I had to do was stay alive long enough to make it till tomorrow.
******

Back at the call center, my friend Matt is dropping more big lies on Seth…

“My buddy Ky’s the best salesman in the world, he taught me everything I know.”

The boss looks at me, a shaven-headed, hungover kid in a suit, not convinced.

“You guys are idiots if you don’t hire him right now. Give him a chance,” continues Matt.

Finally, just to shut Matt up, Seth nods and says: “Okay, start him on the phones.”

So we go into this dingy warehouse and there are 30 pairs of eyes trained on me,

the new hotshot, the savior of the call center world.

Seth shows me to an empty desk, and I put on the cheap headphones and wait for the first auto-dial customer to pick up.

I don’t have to wait long.

And from out of my stoned, hungover memory, I drag up that sales script I had practiced a couple hundred times the night before.

“Sir, you requested information on our best-selling e-cigarette products,” I say.
“Not interested,” comes the irritated reply.

“Did you decide to not quit smoking?” I continue.

“No, I still want to quit,” says the guy, a little less sure of himself now.

“So why don’t you want to move forward with this revolutionary product which will help you quit smoking in no time?” I say.

“It’s more than I can afford right now,” he says.

“Sir it’s less than the price of a carton of cigarettes. And what price can you put on your health?” I’m feeling it now.

“It’s too much,” he says after a pause, trying to match my growing confidence.

“Then this is your lucky day, sir. I can get you a discounted price,” I smile.

The rest of the sales team look on, waiting for me to mess up.

But Matt gives me a wink of encouragement.

“That so?” says the guy, almost relieved to give in.

So I run through some basic discovery questions, and by this time I’m freeballing with the guy, and I rattle through the all-important disclaimer at the end which means we’ll keep charging the credit card until he cancels the order.

Legal, but shady as hell.
But seeing as I was nearly busted for drugs and guns by the FBI a couple weeks before, I figured this was a step up.

“I’ve signalled the guys in back to start packaging up your products right way. You have a good day,” I say, and hang up to see a room full of open mouths.

Dammit all, I closed my very first sales call.

And soon after I closed my second.

And my third.

And as I’m about to start my fourth call, a HR rep comes running down the stairs yelling to Seth:
“Get this guy off the phone, he doesn’t work here!”

So they give me documents to sign, and send me home.

Seth shakes my hand and says:

“Come back tomorrow, you got a job here, son, we can use someone like you.”

Dammit all... someone I'd just met wanted to see me again?
Maybe I wasn;t so worthless after all.

*****
I was quiet on the ride back home.

I thought back to when I was 15.

I had been living at my friend Bobby’s house because my parents didn’t want me.

But after a year, we all went to court to decide who would have full custody of me.

And no-one wanted me.

“Well someone has to take him,” said the judge.

I’ll never forget the feeling of four adults fighting in court over who DIDN’T want me.

But that was then.

Now I had a girlfriend who loved me and believed in my dreams.

A home to lay my head on.

And I had just been given my first shot at a legitimate job, and I was good at it.

I had had enough of the anger, uncertainty, and running away.

It was time to start building out those dreams…

One day at a time.

19.9 Trillion Reasons To Live

Tue, 28 Mar 2023 21:16:36 GMT

I’m only 25 and I’m tired of this life, man.

Outside of Fort Worth, TX.

Night of April 24.

Year’s 2065.

Beautiful starry night.

I brush the lapels on my tuxedo and check the shine on my Stacy Adams Oxford shoes.

My wife, my life, my soulmate whispers into my one good ear: “Happy 84 ^th , baby.”

She links my arm and we descend the staircase to a big-ass stage built out over the lake on my 1,000-acre ranch.

Hundreds of my friends and family stand and applaud.

All except for one intense young dude who watches from a distance.

Everyone else starts to sing “Happy Birthday.”

Get to that age, there’s no sweeter sound...

Apart from the phone ring updating my portfolio status.

And there’s the magic number I’ve been waiting over 50 years to see…

$19.9 trillion.

“We made it,” I say to my wife.

But soon the singing voices are drowned out by the phone which rings louder and louder and now all I want is for that goddam ringing to stop…

For those of you who know it, I’m imagining myself in the party scene from the movie “Meet Joe Black” where Anthony Hopkins tells his guests his birthday wish:
“That you would have a life as lucky as mine, where you can wake up one morning and say, "I don't want anything more."”

In that movie, the young dude watching him is Death, who bargains with Hopkins to give him more time on Earth.

The man watching me in my vision was God.

I know one day I’ll live into all this, but for now, that goddamn non-stop ringing is what’s up.

*****

United States Penitentiary, Pollock.

Louisiana.

Year’s 2014.

The ringing that won’t stop is the lockdown bell.

All hell has broken loose on my dorm again.

Word is some homie got shanked on the next dorm over.

Normally that would mean weeks of being locked up 23 hours a day.

“Exercise” is an hour in a tiny cage with just a narrow beam of sunlight streaming down from the heavens for company.

But I’m on lockdown for some other shit anyways.

As the chaos rolls on outside my cell, I slump in my bunk.

I’m reading this old-ass book from 1912 called “The Master Key System” for the third time.

This book taught me to visualize the future life I wanted, and to hold onto it so tight that I’ll eventually live into it.

And for me that’s the $19.9 trillion I’ll be worth by my 84 ^th birthday surrounded by family and friends.

But looking round my concrete cell, my bitch-ass ego shuts me down real quick.

“Yeah right. Your ass ain’t gonna do that. You ain't shit. You’re in lockdown in a maximum-security penitentiary. What do you mean, $19.9 trillion? Soulmate, great grandkids, a fucking ranch? Look at you. Fucking loser.”

At the time, that bitch-ass ego voice wasn't too far wrong.

*****

Fort Worth, TX

It’s November.

Year’s 2005.

Beautiful Saturday morning, sun shining hot as shit.

I’m deep in selling drugs and being stupid out in the street.

My oldest daughter, she’s 9 at the time, rolls up as I’m ready to head out.

“Wanna play chase in the park, Daddy?” she asks, bouncing in circles around me with those big hopeful eyes.

“Nah baby, Daddy’s gotta work, you know?” and I kiss her and head out.

I don’t look back because I don’t want to see those big eyes all sad and shit.

So I head off to work.
And by “work” I mean go to some homeboy’s house to drink and party.

But I get to that crib and everybody’s still passed out from the night before.

So I'm just sitting there in the dark waiting for these drunk-ass homies to wake up so I can get loaded, and I picture my daughter’s wide eyes looking up at me all disappointed.

And I realize I’m only 25 and I’m tired of this life, man.

Sick of all the lying and dealing and fighting and thieving.

So I look up at the cracked ceiling and put this on God.

“I don’t wanna do this shit no more. But I’m not gonna change because it’s too easy. So I’m putting it on you, bro. And whatever you decide, I’ll trust you on, but I don’t want to do this alone. God, bro, you tell me what’s up.”

Few months later, I get sent down to a maximum security penitentiary for eight years and one month for “conspiracy to manufacture and distribute methamphetamines.”

God damn, bro… that’s what’s up?
*****

My dad was murdered when I was nine.

And in my neighborhood, my options were the military, prison, or drugs.

But the military turned me down ‘cause of a tiny patch of eczema on my leg.

And my grandfather was a known drug Kingpin, so I enlist for that life instead.

Time I’m 19 I’m smuggling heroin in from Ecuador.

Six years later I’m slinging 40 kilos of coke and 1,000 pounds of weed a month.

But at the time, the new money, the real money?

That’s in methamphetamine.

And soon I’m moving 20 kilos of ice a month.

I’m rolling in the dough.

But, this game?

The higher you get, the longer the fall.

*****

It’s July 4 ^th .

Year’s 2012.

In the Pen., bad is good, and good is bad.

The crazier you are, the more respect you get.

The more you keep your head down, the sharks sniff blood and come at you.

Soon I’m running with a top crew.

We got knives, drugs, and thousands in stamps (cash) stashed in a false wall in the locker.

Hell, we even got our own Mexican chef.

Now all that shit is fought and paid for, so you hold tight to what you got.

And when the cell doors are open like today, rule is you keep your knife on you ‘cause some asshole’s always looking to get his piece of the pie.

Kinda funny celebrating Independence Day in the lockup, but whatever man, me and my crew are partying hard.

I’m fucked up on moonshine and run out.

I pack my big-ass bone-crusher knife and head out for more ‘shine.

But I’m so smashed I “fall out of bounds” into another dorm.

I find the guy who has the ‘shine.

Now he’s kinda in our group, but nobody likes him.

And I pull rank hard on this loser.

“Knife check,” I grunt as I snatch the ‘shine from him.

“It’s in my locker, so what?” Fool’s feeling brave now he’s all liquored up.

So I beat his ass down and then tell him to walk me back to my dorm so the guards don’t stop me and pat me down.

Well halfway back I turn and this asshole’s not there.

He’s rolling back up the stairs to his dorm.

I chase him down and we get into it and the ‘shine has me in a blind rage and next thing I know I’m stabbing him.

Now he’s bleeding everywhere, and I slip and fall on his damn blood.

And guess what?

The knife I just told him to get is in his hand now, and he jumps on me and starts stabbing me, and then I hear this loud pop.

He’s stabbed me right in my fucking ear.

He sees the blood and stops, thinking he just killed me.

Must be the ‘shine give me strength, but somehow I get up and stagger towards the Medical room pouring blood with a damn knife sticking out my ear.

And as I fight to keep from blacking out, these three things come to mind…

1. All the coulda-woulda-shoulda’s from my life ran through my head.

2. I can’t believe I’m going to die in this hellhole, and

3. It doesn’t matter now anyways, I’m gone.

Then I drop to the floor and as my lights go out, that third one gives me peace.

*****

Year’s 2014.

It’s two years on, and I’m still in my cell with the rioting happening outside.

Shitty as that is, at least I ain't dead.

I did die on that filthy dorm floor though.

The ambulance crew told me they brought me back...
I guess God, you weren’t done with my lesson just yet.

Let my own stupidity kill me then you bring me back to life to finish out my time?

God, bro, that's some cold shit.

But anyways today? As the homies riot outside my door? I’m reading this old-ass book I mentioned called “The Master Key System.”

It has me envisioning my future rich-ass life full of love and family and prosperity, and I realize that all the bad in my life? I envisioned that too.

I mean I drove around with ten-kilo bags of coke like I was taking pinatas full of candy to a quinceanera.

But when I stepped up to dealing ice I was warned that this was serious shit.

At every buy, another guy would say: “Be careful.” “Don’t say nothing.” “Keep your nose clean when you’re carrying this shit.”

And I couldn’t wait to get rid of even the tiniest piece of it.

That’s why I sold that last pound to some guy I didn’t know, just to get rid of it.

That guy was a snitch.

So I figured if I thought my way into all this shit, I could think my way out of it.

Because I know my soulmate and all my family and friends are waiting to sing “Happy Birthday” to me by the lake of my big-ass ranch.

And as I turn 84, the only ringing in my ears will be my phone telling me I’ve hit $19.9 trillion.

And God? I know you’ll be watching over me from a distance.

Bro, you ran me hard, but props man, I deserved every piece of it.

And even with my busted-ass hearing, I’m finally able to hear what you’ve been telling me all along.

And with your help, bro?
I got it from here.

The Lesser Of Two Evils

Tue, 21 Mar 2023 23:57:48 GMT

The devil doesn't like when you leave his party early...

Salem, Indiana.

2016.

The aluminum bat rings when it cracks my skull.

It thuds when the second blow hits my arm.

And the third blow, yeah that’s right, the third one, again cracks my skull.

Tap-tap-tap.

This slugger means business.

And as I fall to my knees, I don’t know if the ringing is the bat or if it’s in my ears.

But as I drift into unconsciousness, something sure is ringing real loud.

*****

Straight out of school I work a machine shop for six years.

I quit just two weeks after I get married.

Seems like the smart thing to do at the time.

Start installing kitchen cabinets with a friend of mine, Steve.

Steve pays good.

Cash, too.

Maybe six months in, me and my wife Joanie, and Steve and his wife Bella are at a trade show.

All through dinner the live music’s so loud my ears are ringing, and while we’re waiting for dessert, Steve gets up.

“Gonna powder my nose, anybody wants to go,” he says with a wink.

The girls shake their heads no.

And I’ve no idea what he means, so I stay put too.

But two, three restroom trips later, Steve tap-tap-taps me on the back of the head.

“Got a surprise for ya Matt, come on.”

Curious now, I follow and he drags me into a cubicle.

“Man, what the hell?” I say, as Steve lays out his baggie and straw on the toilet tank lid.

It finally clicks what he’s been up to.

And you know what?

Above all else, I’m disappointed.

“Man you’re stupid. You got a family, a business, why you doing this?” I say.

“Bit of blow, Matt, I can handle it. Stop being such a pussy,” he replies.

I shake my head, slam the cubicle door, and return to the table.

I glare at Steve when he returns all grinning and blazing pupils, and though he plays up his good cheer to our wives, his guilt won’t let his eyes meet mine.

But as anyone who’s taken more than a few hits of coke knows…

Your friend and employee scolding you isn’t gonna get in the way of your buzz.

Now I’m a guy’s already fond of his beer and his chasers, so I know me being around this situation isn’t healthy.

Me and Joanie are about to start a family, buy a house, all that good stuff, and I don’t wanna blow it, excuse the pun.

I think hard about quitting my job.

But Steve’s a friend and like I say, he pays good.

So I shut up and put up.

But though I’m a plenty big guy, and strong from hard labor, there’s a limit to the willpower inside these buzz-hungry bones.

Couple of months more of him bugging me, I give in, and blow out.

And I like it, kinda.

But man I feel real guilty.

Scared too, lest Joanie finds out.

But wouldn’t you know…

Come to find out Joanie’s been snorting with Bella behind my back the whole time!

So now me and Joanie start snorting together.

Which in our heads makes it okay…

You know, we're not hiding it, so we’re not lying to each other…

But lady coke is one high-maintenance mistress, and a year or so down the line Steve loses the business.

Lucky for me my nose isn’t buried too deep in the blow just yet, and I’m glad to take over Steve’s accounts.

Soon the money’s rolling in, so Joanie and I decide to invest in our family’s future.

So we buy a bar.

No time, man?

We make a killing.

But guess what?

Joanie and I now have access to every sin the devil can dream up.

And we both dive headfirst into the fire.

I mean, sure we’re out of our minds and shacking up with different folks most every night, but at least we’re not lying to each other about it, right?

And it all works in its own messed up way until my bouncer gets busted for selling pot, and I lose the bar.

That slaps me out of it, some.

I try to get sober.

But when the devil invites you to his party, he doesn’t look too kindly on a guest who wants to go home early.

Oh you put up a good enough fight, he’ll let you go.

But he’ll be sure to stuff your pockets with the party favors from hell.

*****

Texas.

Surely that’s a far away and big enough place where a man can be free of all this.

Free of the divorce, the meth, the numbness, the overdoses, the foreclosure, the bankruptcy, the pills.

Somehow through all that I manage to keep custody of my two girls.

As Joanie had slid into shooting up heroin, the judge thought me the lesser of two evils.

A man could laugh about it, if he had more than a few wheezy breaths left in his hollowed-out bag of bones.

But I tell you, I did learn this about myself…

I may be down and dirty, broke, and in a mighty hole with an even bigger shovel, but I still got some fight in me.

Those two precious girls of mine ain’t gonna see their daddy give up without one helluva fight.

So I get myself a job down there, a thousand miles from the trouble I been causing up here in Indiana.

Yeah okay, that’s some big-ass talk for a down-and-out meth head.

Guess Texas is rubbing off on me already.

Pity I don’t even have the gas money to get my big ass down there.

So I turn to doing what I’ve come to know best.

You ever see in the movies the guy who comes out of retirement for one last job?

Does he ever get away with it?

*****

Truck pulls up to the end of my long driveway.

Guy gets out, bigger guy, six-three, six-four, cut-off shirt, farmboy overweight.

“Who are you?” he grunts.

“Well who the hell are you?” I spit back. “You're on my property.”

“Good,” he grins. “Then you're the one I'm looking for.”

He reaches into his truck and pulls out a gleaming aluminum baseball bat.

Before I can run, guy swings for the fences and damn near lifts my head clean off my shoulders.

I drop to my knees.

He swings again.

Instead of playing in the Majors, this slugger’s trying to knock a junkie’s head off for two hundred bucks.

*****

When I wake up, he’s gone.

I'm 100% certain the only reason he left is he thought he killed me.

The blood pouring from my head told him he probably had.

But the devil wasn’t done with me yet.

As I stagger back to my house, my youngest daughter video calls me.

And here I am covered in blood, embarrassed, ashamed, and deathly miserable with who I am.

And the first time ever in my life, I decline my daughter’s call.

She could be stuck in an elevator.

Or in trouble at school.

Or God forbid hurt in a fiery car wreck.

And I reject her call.

Yeah.

This is what I’ve become.

Well, the real self-loathing will have to wait, because the blood’s still gushing from my head.

I call some friends to stitch me up because I sure don’t need any questions at the ER.

And I don’t need to spread the shame any wider than I already have.

So I Ieave both my daughters with Joanie, and two days later, I set off for Texas.

*****

As my old truck rolls south down old 69, my head sure is pounding now.

Not only from the beating I took, but from the well of anger and regret about ready to burst out the back of my poorly stitched-up head.

It’s scary, setting out into a new world like that.

Up till that point, Salem’s the only home I ever knew.

I grew up in that town.

Went to school in that town.

All my friends busy around that town.

But as the miles roll under my balding tires, and I’ve yelled all I can yell and cried all I can cry, I feel the first shoots of hope trying to push their way through the shitty dirt I planted them in.

And the tiny voice inside me whispers something I’m glad to hear, but don’t fully believe…

“It’s gonna be okay. This too shall pass.”

And I figure, up till now I’ve always been around the same people, and I've heard it said that if you sit at a barber shop every day of the week you're eventually going to get your hair cut.

Out there in Texas, I won't know anybody.

I’m sure it will be much easier to change my ways.

Move fast in the daylight so the devil won’t even know I’m gone.

By the time he notices, he’ll have forgotten all about me ducking out of his party early, and he’ll leave me be.

That’s how the devil works, right?

I settle into the drive, but just as some peace settles over me, there it is again…

That ringing in my ears...

And that tap-tap-tap on the back of my head.

Forgiveness Is Freedom

Tue, 14 Mar 2023 18:04:43 GMT

Drop Anger To Gain New Life

Michelle Maurice,

Hurst, TX.

March 14, 1993.

Dear John,

I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as you can be, given your current place of residence.

When I saw your face in the paper, I was shocked, but not surprised.

I don’t know if you remember me, but I sure remember you, for reasons I wish I could forget.

But this isn’t a letter for pointing fingers at you.

No.

Those other three girls knew to do that, and were brave enough to see it through.

I never knew it was okay to speak up.

And of course you told me not to.

So I didn’t say anything.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing now.

Well, I got the idea after drinking probably my fifth or sixth glass of activated charcoal in the ER.

Know what that’s for?

If you guessed to flush the poison from your body, you’re right.

What am I saying, course you guessed right, you were a pilot, you know about science and biology and whatnot.

But I had come to a point where I finally had enough of life, and I wanted to call it quits.

So at age 23, I overdosed on my husband’s antidepressants.

Guess I figure if I took enough of them maybe they’d knock the emptiness and despair out of me once and for all, one way or the other.

But God wasn't ready for the other way just yet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, let me catch you up some in case you’re still drawing a blank on me.

(Also I may bounce around a bit as my memory isn’t what it used to be. You’ll see why soon enough.)

So I’m married to a wonderful man.

He was the first man ever told me I was worth a damn.

That surprised me, given the kind of work I was doing when I met him.

And even though we had a baby boy soon after we married, I still found it tough to believe him, and I kept on with my hellish ways.

But let’s jump back a ways further.

I lived down the block from you when I was a kid.

Seven, eight, nine, age.

You had the pool, the arcade games, the movies, the tennis court, everything us kids would find cool.

But my favorite was the Ferrari.
And seems I was a favorite of yours too, as you rode me around in that beauty a hell of a lot.

I didn’t feel special then and I still barely feel I’m worth a dirty dollar stuffed in a g-string, despite what my husband and little boy tell me.

But soon after all that business with you started, I liked myself a whole lot less.

I wanted things to change.

I wanted me to change.

So I started by changing my friends.

But that didn’t work out too well.

My new friends got me into weed, but I hated it.

It made me feel like Homer Simpson when he’s drooling for donuts!

So I started doing methamphetamine instead.

Started off I used to eat it in toilet paper.

Do you have any idea how disgusting that is? So chemically. Ugh.

So I started snorting it, but it messed up my nose.

So I went from snorting it to smoking it and when it started messing up my lungs I started shooting it right into my veins.

And all the while my parents couldn't understand why I went from being a sweet 12-year-old kid to being a demon from hell.

I never told them what had happened.

I never knew it was okay to tell them.

And yet they did everything to help me.

So for the next 5 years, they sent me from one rehab place to another.

Now I was no pony ride, mind, but these Christian “you’re gonna burn in hell” kind of girls’ homes didn’t help none either.

That’s terrifying enough for a kid to hear for the first time, but add to that the beatings and being strapped to the bed and being allowed to pig out on watermelon before movie night and then not being allowed to go to the restroom until the pain got so bad I had to crawl there on the floor despite the extra beating.

It was that or pee myself right where I sat.

Yeah we girls were a nightmare, sure.

But we were just messed-up kids and didn’t know what we were doing.

What excuse did those supervisors have?

But anyways, on went my nationwide tour.

From a detox camp in Pennsylvania to rehab in Dallas to a girls' home in Mississippi.

After a year and a half in a Kansas home, I got kicked out for starting riots.

I ended up in a rehab back where it all started here in Texas.

By then I was 17 and they couldn’t lock me up anymore.

By 18 I was shooting up so much that the doctors couldn't even believe I was still alive.

They said I wasn't really addicted to the drugs anymore.

I was addicted to the rush of shooting up.

Now you might could wonder how I could pay for all these drugs.
Well one thing you taught me was that my body could be traded for favors.

So I traded my needle-spiked body for easy cash whenever I could.

And it wasn’t all bad, because I met my husband in one of the strip clubs where I worked.

Yeah, the one who told me I was worth more than all this.

But look at me getting carried away on random details again.

Could be I’m just putting off this part.

Just in case you still don’t remember me, this should do it.

Although there was often loads of kids around your house because of the games and pool and whatnot, whenever I was there, it was only me.

And knowing how much I liked your Ferrari, one day you rode me down to Dallas to look at Lamborghinis… as if having a Ferrari wasn’t enough!

Guess now looking back you always wanted more than you were entitled to, no matter how much you already had.

And when we got back and I said I wanted to go home, you said stay a little longer.

I remember playing on the arcade games.

I remember you calling me back to come in your room.

I remember you shutting the door.

And I don’t remember anymore.
Could be the drugs or could be I won’t let myself remember.

But I’m sure you remember full well.

Because that was only one time of many.

If it makes you feel any better, you weren't the first to do that to me and you weren't the last either.

Thought for a while I must have had a stamp on my forehead that only people like you could see.

But after all’s said and done, I guess I’m writing because I want you to know that I don't hate you for what you did.

I didn't ask for it.

I didn't want it.

I didn't like it.

But I don't hate you for it.

I’m not mad anymore.

Not mad at you, not mad at my parents, not mad at the homes or the camps or the rehabs, not even mad at me.

I’m free of that now.

I’m free from the shit that I've had to deal with and the pain that I've endured, free from all the anger and hatred that burned inside.

And I was able to do all that by forgiving you.

And strange as it may sound, I want that for you.

So though you can’t free yourself from your cell, will you at least free your mind and your heart by forgiving yourself?

Will you do that?

Because sixty years in there will be hell on earth if you don’t.
I hope you do.

I really hope you do.

In forgiveness,

Michelle.

What Do You Call A Sad Strawberry?

Tue, 07 Mar 2023 19:32:16 GMT

Finding Humor In Sadness

New Brunswick, Canada.

November 1998 or 2001 or 2007, or thereabouts.

I’m 5 or 8 or 14, give or take.

Forgive me if my early memories are a little mixed up.

That’s what happens when you live your whole childhood in a strict religious community where routine, repetition, and obedience are the fences that hold the flock together...

Without the emotional highs and lows of family love, laughter, and adventure, the days and weeks and years blend into one long straight fence that stretches off into the distance.

Sure, I remember bigger events like breaking my leg and the greenhouse fire but the exact whats, whens, and hows get mixed up.

Sometimes it even feels like I’m telling someone else’s story.

Now that I mention it, what are emotions?

I was raised to not have any.

I was raised to be seen and not heard.

And I’m an obedient boy.

I don’t like displeasing father.

Because despite training me and my siblings to not express pain, love, or especially pleasure…

Father’s discipline still hurts.

And so without proper nurturing, my upbringing was one of emotional survival.

Not one of emotional growth.

*****

Okay, wanna hear a joke before the serious stuff starts?

Sure ya do.

Dad detests jokes but you’ll humor me, right?

Great.

“Why was the nose feeling sad?

It was tired of getting picked on.”

You’re welcome.

*****

“Amen,” we recite as we open our eyes after Grace.

My siblings, Mom and I wait to pick up our cutlery until after Dad has picked up his.

“Lewis, did you complete the radio tower fencing work?” he asks without looking at me.

The three other faces glare at me, praying I give the right answer.

I stare at the poinsettia arrangement in the middle of the table.

This way I can respectfully look in Dad’s direction but can still avoid his direct gaze.

I know what to say to keep the peace, but I had been up since 5.30 am feeding animals, tending poinsettias, and swinging a sledgehammer and was too exhausted to care.

And so I answer a question with a question – an absolute no-no in my Dad’s house.

“What do you call a sad strawberry?” I ask the room, my face burning red with hope and fear.

My Mom shakes her head, and my siblings busy themselves with their food.

My Dad first lowers his fork, then his knife, and raises both eyebrows, daring me to continue.

Normally I wouldn’t have pushed this far, but it’s not like he didn’t ask for it.

I’ll get to exactly why in a minute, but let’s get back to my joke…

“What do you call a sad strawberry?” I repeat, doubling down.

There are no takers.

“A blueberry!” I yell with the abandon of a prisoner on death row who accepts he won’t be around long enough to suffer the consequences.

“You’re welcome,” I beam.

My Dad’s face contorts and freezes at the same time, as if molten lava had just hit an iceberg.

I could read the trouble I was in from the stunned looks on my family’s faces.

So to break the agonizing silence, I burst out laughing.

Let’s now rewind to the moment that caused me to release my daredevil in this house ruled by God.

*****

We live in an area of great natural beauty.

Rivers, mountains, and woods surround us, and for one whose childhood was spent yoked to farm, family, and community, this was a great relief.

The community grew, cut, and processed canned food.

We all spent long hours washing and blanching and freezing beans and peas and strawberries and peaches.

The greenhouses didn’t have AC, so I boiled alongside the vegetables while the local “outsider” kids played soccer and baseball in the cool evening breeze.

But as strict as the community elders were, camping was seen as a wholesome activity for kids of a certain age.

Hiking along a mountain ridge with endless miles of forest below, I could dream my dreams of a future life far away from here.

Which was great except that all of us kids were expected to work in the community after graduation.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the elders would ask.

“Whatever the community wants me to be!” the kids would reply.

Because if you don’t live up to the moral, religious, and professional standards of the community, you’re sent away.

And the threat of this was held over the community like a curse.

And even though there was a finite number of job options, I had no clue what I wanted to do.

I liked building stuff, so I shadowed Dad to learn carpentry.

It was also a cunning plan to draw a drop of emotion from my Dad.

Can I turn a vase beautiful enough…

Build a bridge long enough…

Plant a tree deep enough…

To be good enough in your eyes?

I toil in the fields here, I work in the shed there, I pray to the Lord everywhere and still…

Still I am not enough.

And anyway, I found carpentry so boring that I fell asleep reading books in the office every afternoon.

So I learned how to pick locks as I explored becoming a master locksmith.

Did that a few times… easy… next!

I tried craft after skill after profession after trade, but nothing the community offered ever set my soul on fire.

But the thin, crisp air atop a mountain is a great place to see far into the distance.

And up there I saw the hazy outline of my future.

It wasn't fully formed, and it certainly wasn’t a plan.

It was more of a feeling.

And I’ve told you how my family feels about feelings.

*****

“Mom, Dad,” I gush when I get back from the camping trip, bouncing on the balls of my feet like a boxer ready to fight.

“I know what I want to do after high school.”

I’m immediately struck by Mom’s frown and Dad’s eyebrow roll.

“What nonsense is it this time, Lewis?” he asks, not even looking up from his Bible.

It’s a gut punch, sure, but I straighten up and keep fighting while the mountain air is still fresh in my lungs.

“I want to start my own business,” I blurt, and stand ready to receive the loving hug I had waited my whole life for.

“That's what you wasted your trip doing? Dreaming up another of your crazy ideas? You’ll be a carpenter. Just like me,” grunts Dad, still reading his Bible.

I wobble where I stand, punch drunk on disappointment.

“Get changed Lewis, you’ve got chores to catch up on,” says Mom, delivering the knockout blow.

And splayed out on the canvas under the harsh lights I vow to never share my plans, thoughts, or ideas with my family again.

******

So it’s with this spirit of defiance that I sit down to dinner.

Though I didn’t know how to express emotions, I sure felt something burn deep inside my soul.

It was a sense that although I didn’t quite know how just yet, I would one day lay the stones of my own path, away from the crushing monotony of this rigid community life.

And I use this energy to stare down my father’s contorted features, and I feel a strange power I hadn’t felt before.

It’s the power of knowing that my future lay in my own hands.

It’s a power I’m sure emanates from deep within me.

It’s a power burning a hole in my chest.

Surely even my unfeeling family can feel it.

Surely this whole rigid community can feel it.

And I tell my joke.

And wait for the consequences.

And then I see something that I’m sure will draw out some feeling in these suppressed souls.

For outside the window over Dad’s shoulder, an orange glow lights up the night sky.

My grin drops to a grimace.

My Dad pounces on my sudden energy shift.

“You’re not going to cry now, are you son? If that’s what they’re teaching you on these trips, that’ll be your last one,” he scowls.

I shake my head and point out the window.

“The greenhouses!” yells my mother.

The whole family rush to the window.

For the next few minutes, all I remember is a pell-mell helter-skelter flurry of activity and tears and phone calls.

It’s November, after all, and the community’s entire poinsettia crop is being readied for the lucrative Christmas market.

This is one of the main annual cash injections that the community relies on.

And now it’s all up in flames.

I retreat from the family huddle and hurry upstairs for a better view, snatching the poinsettia centerpiece on my way.

And as I watch the lifeblood of the community burn in a thick cloud of oily smoke and ash and flame, I open my bedroom window and drop the poinsettia out the window and watch it smash on the driveway below.

Yes, I just destroyed probably the community’s last remaining poinsettia, and I did it with a smile on my face.

What?

Surprised that this nature-loving dreamer can be so cruel?

Well, sure, the crisp, clear mountain air had helped me form some vague, distant life dream.

But it didn’t tell me I had to be nice about achieving it.

*****

Okay, you twisted my arm.

Here’s one more for that road you’ll pave for yourself, someday.

“A thief stole my emotions.

I don’t know how to feel about this.”

You’re welcome.

What Do You Do When You Outrun Your Demons?

Tue, 28 Feb 2023 22:35:48 GMT

Go Home And Die!

“Carson, your friend Lucas jumped off the bridge yesterday.

I’m so sorry, but he didn’t make it.

Take all the time you need.

Let me know if you need anything.”

And with that, my Mom closes the bedroom door.

This is the most agonizing moment of my troubled young life, and yet it’s made almost bearable by the loving tenderness my Mom just showed me.
*****

Hurricane, Utah.

Spring, 2001.

I’m 12 years old.

Our middle school gym echoes the sobbing of hundreds of kids out of their minds with grief.

This was where we hold Lucas’ funeral.

As I stare at his closed casket in that hall of wailing grief, a familiar white heat of pain and anger burns in my brain.

I had seen Lucas just five minutes before he jumped, and he seemed fine to me.

Could I have said something to stop him?

I’ll never know.

But his decision to take his own life likely saved me from taking mine.

*****

I grew up in a very strict and religious family.

My parents were pretty great, but we were poor, and our entertainment wasn't video games or even TV, it was books.

So I read, a lot.

And by fifth grade, I had read the entire JRR Tolkien series while most of my schoolmates were still trying to figure out a fucking Dr. Seuss book.

And for that year’s science fair, when everyone else had built volcanoes, I built a hovercraft out of a leaf blower, a sheet of plywood, and some plastic skirting.

So yes, I was smart, and that doesn’t always go down well with kids that age.

I had friends, sure, but I got teased more than most.

My outbursts of white-hot anger probably didn’t help things either.

I guess I should mention I’m bipolar, though I didn’t know it at the time.

I don’t think they meant anything malicious by it, but when I was a young kid, I told my parents something wasn’t right with me.

In fact, I knew there was something terribly wrong…

But they dismissed it as normal hormonal boy stuff.

I mean we know a lot about it now, but back then it wasn’t such a common diagnosis, especially in our community.

So it ends up I don’t get diagnosed as bipolar until I’m eighteen.

And what does being bipolar feel like?

For me, the anger is so potent, so powerful and so beautiful, that it actually feels really good.

It's a high that's so expansive, I just want to lose myself in it, because the rest of the world can’t possibly understand how good it feels to be in that moment.

It’s mine, and I don’t want to share it with anyone.

But I also didn’t know how to control that superhuman power.

And that is how this twelve-year-old kid finds himself with the smooth, cold steel of a three-fifty-seven in his mouth.

*****

At Lucas’ funeral, the kids in my school showed just how deeply they can feel the terrible and inexplicable loss of one of their own.

They showed they can celebrate their friend’s life, hail his accomplishments on the football field, praise his great deeds as a friend, brother, and son, and elevate him to the level of an angel.

But those same kids also had the capacity to make some unlucky kid feel like a piece of shit.

And that kid was me.

Yeah, the smart kid who showed everybody up in English class and the science fair and pretty much every other class too.

But I thought if I just kept on doing what I loved, they’d see I wasn’t trying to make them feel dumb, I was just being me…

And hard work helped me cope.

Because hard work was the ice I reached for when the fire of the demons chasing me burned too hot for a twelve-year-old kid to handle.

*****

Not long after Lucas’ death, I get some good news that I really want to share.

I hurry to the common room where a gang of twenty friends are yakking it up. “What’s up, Carson? Get accepted into Harvard yet?” jokes one, and the whole gang cackles a little too hard for my liking.

“Not quite,” I say, losing a little of my good cheer.

“But I did just find out I’ve been made Regional President of the National Junior Honors Society,” I gush.

As if by some unspoken agreement, the whole group start in on me.

“Carson, you’re trying too hard.”

“You’re overachieving.”

“Who are you trying to impress?”

I swear it was just like being in the middle of a Hallmark movie where a pack of the popular kids pick on the weird kid and stuff him in a locker.

But they soon change the channel from Hallmark to Cinemax.

“You fucking piece of shit!” yells one.

“Overachiever! Overachiever! Overachiever!” others chant.

And for the coup de grace, someone yells:

“Go home and die!”

As I look from face to hate-filled face, I see that not even one of these kids I thought were my friends gives a flying shit about me.

And I gotta say…

That hurt.

*****

Thankfully on Fridays we get out early.

I buzz and boil and hate all the way home…

But it feels way better to be boiling in that anger than to be shat on by that pack of cowards.

Surrounded by them I felt naked, worthless, and alone.

But in my head, I felt warm and safe in the searing peace of that white-hot anger.

*****

At home, I run straight upstairs and hide in my older sister’s room, the only quiet place in our house full of kids.

I sit on the bed and stare into her warped dressing mirror.
While my brothers ruckus downstairs, I just stare and hurt and cry for hours, my whole body burning with anger.

And I see no future for the lonely, worthless, scared boy shaking in the mirror.

And I figure maybe Lucas had the right idea after all.

The front door slams and shakes me from my stupor.

I realize my Mom’s taking my brothers to baseball…

Now’s my chance.

I hurry into my Dad’s closet and with shaking hands grab his rucksack from the top shelf.
Inside are his guns.

I take out his three-fifty-seven and check it’s loaded.

Fully.

I hurry back into my sister’s room and sit in front of the mirror again…

But this time I’m not so alone...

I have this deadly plastic, lead, and steel mutant for company.

And this new friend promises a final solution to the screaming demons chasing me every fucking minute of every fucking day.

You win, you demon bastards.

But… I’m going out my way.

For a while, I hold the reassuring weight in my lap.

And then I let it rest in my mouth.

Cold. Unyielding. Uncaring.

Then I rest it back on my lap.

I go back and forth like this for hours.

And I’m still so confused.

The pain and hurt and anger feel so good that I don’t want them to end.

But then I remember why I feel this way.

The hateful voices echo in my head.

“Overachiever!”

“Fucking piece of shit!”

“Go home and die!”

Well, you get your wish, motherfuckers, and this overachieving piece of shit will get his wish too.

I close my mouth around this mutant’s long, accusing finger.

I look in the mirror one last time, and I close my eyes.

And the white-hot fury gushes inside my head like a river of fire.

And I ride that river to wherever it wants to take me.

I imagine it will take me to some fantastical world where pain and love and hate and pleasure combine in one fiery ball of ecstasy.

But instead, it takes me back to Lucas’ funeral at the gym.

I ride that river of fury through the oceans of tears shed by hundreds of grieving kids, teachers, and parents.

I ride it right into the heart of the agony that Lucas’ inconceivable death had brought down on me that day.

I ride it through the tsunami of devastation it wreaked on our whole community.

And I ride that fury until it crashes into the tenderness of my mother on the day she broke the terrible news…

And just as if it had hit a mile-high mountain, the memory of my mother’s love quenches that burning river of fury and bathes me in a warm, loving light.

And I open my eyes and take that heavy metal mutant out of my mouth, the once-cold steel now warmed by my fevered body, and I lay it down.

And I was left with just me in the mirror, a shaking twelve-year-old boy who had lost his best friend, and I vowed there and then that I would never take my own life.

I survived that day, but I knew the white fury hadn’t gone away.

I had outrun one of my demons.

But I knew there were a whole lot more waiting to take its place.

The Evolution Of A Mindset

Tue, 21 Feb 2023 23:00:36 GMT

Your Body Will Break Before The Steel

“Remember Kid, keep your head on a swivel.

The iron is unforgiving.

You fall, your body will break before the steel.

So listen to Eddie, and take your time.”

Bill slaps The Kid’s hard hat and strides off with the telltale stiffness of a man who’s taken a hard knock or two in his day.

The Kid and I are working on a suspended deck hanging below the Grand Island bridge over the Niagara River, reinforcing this old beauty while the traffic rumbles overhead.

The old timers always give the apprentice ironworkers a hard time, but it’s for their own good.

“You gotta keep the machinery in good working order, you want a 30-year career like me,” yells Bill into the wind, slapping his own behind for effect.

“He’s right,” I tell The Kid. “One in four won’t make it to retirement.”

“You mean they quit?” he asks.

“Or life quits them,” I reply, taking on the wise old man role, though I’m just 29.

I’ve risen to union steward over the nine years I’ve been an ironworker, and this Kid’s safety was now in my hands, just like mine was in Bill’s when I started out.

And just six months before, my girlfriend Stacey and I had bought our first house…

I already knew we’d marry someday, and this house would one day be our future family’s home.

Stacey was just finishing her undergrad, and money was tight.

Without my health, without this job, we’d be out on the street in a couple of months…

So I get back to it.

It’s Friday August 28, 2009 around 11 a.m.

An hour to lunch.

The strenuous physical work and the wind always rustle up a hunger.

And every lunchtime I call Stacey to trade war stories.

She worries about me up here, but she trusts me.

And I love her more than she’ll ever know.

“Number one thing up here is trust,” I tell The Kid as I hand him the magnetic drill.

His hand sags with the weight. Strong as years of ironwork make you, the heft of a mag drill always takes you by surprise.

“Let’s go,” I say, slapping his hard hat. “This bridge won’t support itself.”

The Kid shields his eyes from the mid-morning sun and scans the length of the bridge.

I’d been installing these support beams day in and day out for 3 months now, and there were hundreds more to go.

We had already erected the hanging scaffold under the bridge, and that was the platform we were working on.

Now if you’re working more than six feet off the ground, you must tie yourself off with a six-foot lanyard.

But we were only working a few feet up, so for this part, we didn’t need to tie off.

This day was like all the others.

I had already climbed up and down the scaffold to the lower decking with that heavy mag drill a hundred times that day.

But as an ironworker, it doesn’t matter how careful you were the hundred times before…

The step you take right now is the only one that matters.

And this next step mattered more than any I had taken before.

A piece of the scaffold had come loose.

My boot slips.

My body flips.

My sense of time zips.

I fall just a few feet to the lower decking.

Crack!

My head strikes the flange of the I-shaped bridge girder.

It hit on the base of my skull just underneath my hard hat.

As I lay on my back, I see The Kid’s blurry face looking down at me.

He’s talking but I can’t hear his words.

As I drift into unconsciousness The Kid’s young face becomes that of old Bill’s, and all I hear are his words of warning…

“Your body will break before the steel.”

You’ve Got To Pull This Miracle For Me

Tue, 21 Feb 2023 22:45:45 GMT

I Really Just Hated God For A While.

It’s 6.30 pm on Monday, September 30, 2002.

Jackson, Mississippi.

I’m in a classroom starting a written test for my Adult Aspire program in Business Administration.

As I get stuck in, I think of the future business I’ll be able to build for my family.

For me and my then husband, for my grandparents - Mamaw and Papaw - and for my little brothers Seth, 17, and Clay, 12.

But as is right for a boy of his age, that evening Clay and his two cousins have more important business to attend to…

Boy business.

*****

“Get on the back, Clay, we’re putting out deer feed in the woods behind our Grandpa’s,” yells Josh over the nasal whine of the ATV engine.

“I gotta sit on the rack again?” yells Clay back.

“Until you’re older than us, that’s the way it’s gonna be,” grins Joseph.

Clay hops on the rack behind the seat and Josh revs the engine.

Dirt kicks up all over Papaw’s windows as the ATV zooms off down the road.

This time of day the road’s pretty empty, so the boys zip along at a fair whip with no one getting in their way.

But Clay knows there’s one spot they always gotta mind out for…

The Stop sign at the crest of the hill.

*****

We all live on my grandparents’ 50-acre property in separate trailers.

I pretty much raised Clay when our Mom wasn't around, which was a lot of the time what with her out drinking when my Step Dad worked the offshore rigs.

And outside of his family and friends, Clay loves three things:

1. Monster Trucks

2. Wrestling

3. ATVs.

(okay, maybe 4: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoons on Saturday mornings!)

Clay and his older brother Seth would zip up and down Papaw’s driveway on the ATV, dusting up the house and cars and getting an earful from Papaw.

But though he yelled and cussed, secretly he loved seeing Clay and Seth happy.

And dusty windows were a fair price to pay for that.

*****

“Slow down, Josh, the hill’s coming up,” yells Clay from the back of the ATV.

“Yessir,” yells Josh and salutes.

Now what happens next happens quick and so nothing can be certain.

But the way the Bronco driver coming from the side junction recalls it, this ATV full of boys comes over the hill real fast and he just wasn’t able to stop in time.

*****

I’m an hour into the test and my phone rings.

I blush and quickly put it on silent, and anyways, I don’t recognize the number.

I finish out the test, and do pretty well, I think.

Then I step out and call the number back.

“University of Mississippi Medical Center, how can I help you?” a tired voice answers.

“I’m returning a missed call for Amy Renner,” I say, my heart beating faster now.

“I have some bad news, Mrs. Renner. There’s been an accident and your brother Clay isn’t doing too good.”

*****

My classmate drives me to the hospital, as truth is I’m in hysterics and can’t see right for the tears pouring from my eyes.

And as I run through the hospital corridors to the E.R., I pray to God to please leave Clay with me, he’s got a whole life left to live.

*****

My darling little brother’s body is all broken up.

His leg and arm are splinted up.

His head and one eye is all bandaged up too.

He’s so out of it that the eye that isn’t covered darts all over the place.

I hold his hand real tight until my Mom arrives with Seth.

And though I really want to let him know how much I love him…

I’m in such shock that I don’t say anything.

Turns out I never get to, either, because after that Clay is put in a medically induced coma.

“You’ve got to pull this miracle for me,” I plead with my biological father, who used to be a pastor.

He had helped heal others before, including me as a baby.

And I beg with God to let me change places with Clay, because I’ve lived half a lifetime more than him and I swear I’ll change places with him in a heartbeat.

But when my Step Dad arrives from offshore, the doctors take Clay off the oxygen machine to see if he can breathe on his own…

…

But he can’t.

And that guilt of not telling Clay I loved him when I had the chance haunts me and eats at me every day after.

And I really just hated God for a while.

Despite that hate, the weekend after we bury Clay, me and Seth get baptized…

But even that didn’t stop me turning that anger on myself and wishing that God would take me away too so I could be with Clay one more time.

*****

Months later, Clay visits me in a dream.

I’m hugging Clay so hard and I just keep saying…

“Clay I’m sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You just need to know how much I loved you and how much I still love you and miss you every moment. And I'm just so sorry.”

And Clay says back to me:

“Amy, it’s okay, I know. I know that you loved me. You took care of me and took me to all those Monster Truck and WWF meets and it's okay. You don't have to feel that way anymore.”

And I’m holding onto him so tight and I’m crying with joy that I finally get to tell him how much I love him and then he says gently to me…

“Amy, I got to go.”

Your Clock Is Ticking

Tue, 14 Feb 2023 22:53:30 GMT

There’s A Sniper On The Roof

11.20 a.m., June 12, 2006…

Two months shy of my eighteenth birthday.

It’s cloudy, but real hot.

You know, Reno, Nevada in June hot.

Luckily my pop’s shop, The Palace Jewelry and Loan Company, has good AC.

But it still doesn’t stop old Mr. Friedman from sweating.

“Jory, I tell you, it’s a great watch!” he croaks, as he lifts the silver Rolex Datejust on his thin, wrinkled wrist up to my face.

Beads of sweat pop up like Whac-A-Moles in a circle around the elegant timepiece.

“So why do you keep pawning it and buying it back?” I ask, teasing him.

Friedman points out the window with his free hand.

“You hear there’s a sniper on the roof down the street?” he asks, as I carefully inspect the watch.

“A sniper, sure, Mr. Friedman. Quit distracting me.”

Right on cue, a siren wails in the distance.

We lock eyes.

He folds his arms and grins with satisfaction.

Mr. Friedman has been coming to the shop since my grandparents bought it in 1958.

My father Darren grew up in the shop, and so did I.

As a kid I was enthralled by the glass cases filled with sparkling jewelry and watches.

On quiet days my Dad would play treasure hunt with me and let me keep whatever trinket he had hidden away.

And when I found it, as I always did, he made me recite the shop’s motto…

“Even with a store full of treasures, none are so valued as our customers and employees.”

Dad had always been fun to be around, and he made me feel safe.

“Come on Mr. Friedman. What’s really wrong with it?” I ask.

“Alright Jory, ya got me. It itches. It itches like hell! Especially in this heat!”

“Give it here,” I reply, smiling. He happily obliges.

As I strap it on, he scratches furiously at his wrist.

The office phone on the glass display case rings.

As I study the watch, Friedman picks up and hands me the receiver.

“Palace Jewelry and Loan, this is—”

“Jory, I need you to come home.”

I freeze when I recognize the voice.

“Grandma, what’s up?”

“I’m really sick, Jory sweetheart. Can you come home?” she replies, trying to control the quiver in her voice.

“It’s your grandma? Tell her I’m coming right over for that slice of cake she promised,” yells Friedman, waving as if Grandma can see him through the phone.

I turn my back on him and continue…

“I just saw you an hour ago Grandma, what’s—"

“Sweetheart please,” she cuts in, her voice cracking now.

“Yeah okay, I’ll be right there.”

I hang up and yell to one of my associates to look after the store.

As I run out the door, Friedman yells…

“My watch!”

It’s still on my wrist.

*****

Grandma sits me down.

I gasp for air in the dry desert heat.

I had tried to drive home but the streets were blocked off by police so I ran most of the way.

Maybe Friedman wasn't making up that sniper story after all.

“What’s up, Grandma, are you okay?”

She nods “yes,” then shakes “no.”

“It’s your father,” she says.

“What about him? Is he okay?”.

Again she nods “yes,” then shakes “no.”

“Is Dad okay?” I yell.

Grandma’s bony hands grip my wrists like handcuffs.

“Your father is a suspect in the shooting of a judge. The police are hunting him,” she croaks.

It’s funny what your body does while your brain processes shocking information.

Even though my mind is frozen and I think I’m still sitting down, I find myself across the room dialing Dad’s cell phone several times.

He doesn’t pick up.

The house phone rings.

My Grandma picks up.

I rush to the earpiece in case it’s my Dad.

It’s not.

A deep, official-sounding man's voice barks through the earpiece.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, ma’am. This is Sergeant Trill from the Reno police force. The Special Weapons and Tactics team have surrounded your property. Is anyone else in the house with you?”

“My grandson, Jory,” Grandma manages to reply.

“Please take him out the front door with your hands raised.”

Grandma and I stare at each other.

Has the Reno heat finally fried our brains?

***

I walk out first, hands raised, and there they are.

Two five-man SWAT units spread out in front of two black armored trucks.

Ten rifles at the ready in case this teenage kid and his Grandma give any trouble.

Now I’ve seen enough TV shows and movies to know that in a situation like this, you keep your mouth shut and you don’t make any sudden moves.

I try to control every muscle in my body…

So why do I want to shake my left wrist so bad?

Without turning my head, I swivel my eyes to look at it.

Beads of sweat pop up like Whac-A-Moles around Friedman’s Rolex.

It itches something awful.

Even with ten rifles trained on me, I can’t think of anything but that infernal itch in my wrist.

I bite my tongue just to distract myself from it.

Friedman wasn’t lying after all.

He wasn’t lying about the watch.
He wasn’t lying about the sniper.

No.

As me and my Grandma walk towards a line of rifle barrels in the hellish desert heat, the delicate ticking of the expensive watch on my wrist tells me that all of this is just too damn crazy to be anything else but the truth.
But soon, as I’m led in to see my Dad in the sheriff’s jail, I realize that every truth has at least two sides.

Compressing Time Will Expand Your Writing

Fri, 30 Dec 2022 18:18:48 GMT

When Is Losing Time A Good Thing?

Time compression is one of the most useful tools in writing.

Especially when we’re starting out, we tend to overwrite.

We think that everything that’s in our head must go on the page.

That the achievement of sitting down to write was so great that every word we write is invaluable, but…

This is what first drafts are for.

A first draft can be looked on as the “brain dump,” where we allow all of our tangled, unstructured, meandering thoughts to spatter the page.

The first draft, depending on how much research you’ve done, should be allowed to be messy.

Getting it all out is the important part.

The rewrite is where the organizing, structuring, and editing is done.

Even with experience, it can be difficult to decide what to leave out.

That’s where you must decide what the focus of your piece is.

Take a piece I wrote this week.

I described how I was packed and ready to set off on my dream trip to my Hemingway House writing residency on April 16, 2020…

But I didn’t actually leave until October 30, 2021.

So what happened in those 18 months?

Surely that’s worth exploring, right?

Well here’s what I wrote…

“And on the morning of April 16, 2020, my Mustang was packed and revving to go, and then…

Lockdown.

Eighteen months later I finally set off…”

I chose to describe a year and a half, eighteen months, 563 days, in one word…

Lockdown.

Why?

Because that wasn’t the focus of this piece.

Plus, I knew that one word was part of a global event that we each have a different experience of and attitude towards.

And I chose to allow the reader to do that mental work in this case.

So though it was important to acknowledge that the road trip meant that much more because of the restrictions of the previous year and a half, describing my personal experience of it was another story for another day.

Remember that although writing is a form of personal expression, it is fundamentally one of communication.

We must always bear our reader in mind.

We can tease, tantalize, and entertain, but we must not confuse, bore or drain our readers.

So if an event in your story can’t be cut out altogether, look for ways to compress time by trimming as many unnecessary details as possible.

This is one time your readers will thank you for delivering less rather than more.

Can You Predict The Future Too?

kevin@originscopy.com (Kevin Lavelle) — Wed, 26 Oct 2022 00:26:23 GMT

Sometimes we just know what's coming next...

Can you predict the future too?

We’ve all had those moments where we just know what’s going to happen next…

We just know.

It happened on my recent Irish trip while watching an Arsenal vs. Liverpool soccer game with my niece and nephew.

They’re Liverpool, I’m Arsenal.

Rowan & Leah are both involved in multiple sports: rowing, soccer, Gaelic football, hurling, swimming.

Four or five days a week, they’re involved in the ebb and flow of different games.

But now in the comfort of their stove-heated living room, Arsenal were ahead, and I was enjoying my coffee and homemade berry pie very much indeed.

But then a Liverpool player got the ball on the halfway line, and his teammates swarmed forward in attack.

Leah’s body straightened, her face lit up, and she kept repeating:

“Goal, goal, goal, goal, goal” in an even voice.

There was something about the movement of the players that she recognized. The patterns made sense to her.

Her experience was letting her see into the future… and she was rolling with it!

I was as fascinated watching her as I was watching the game.

As the Liverpool winger crossed to an unmarked teammate in the penalty box, her chant continued, evenly, at the same pace.

The forward received the ball and stroked it back across the goalkeeper into the far corner…

Goal.

While Rowan and his Dad celebrated, Leah just smiled.

“How the heck did you guess that?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“Just the way they moved, I dunno, I just knew they’d score.”

Well now.

And not to be outdone, later in the same game, Rowan had a stab at predicting the future.

Arsenal were on the attack, there was a scramble in the box… kicks, nudges, blocks… and Rowan got a chant of his own going…

“Penalty, penalty, penalty…”

And thirty seconds later, an Arsenal player went down, and the whistle blew.

Penalty.

Now I don’t come from a long line of clairvoyants… or at least not that I know of!

So what was going on?

I thought back to one of the first surfing lessons I had in Lahinch, Co. Clare, Ireland.

A cold, grey day, angry whitecaps, stiff offshore breeze.

Good surfing conditions.

Donncha pointed out far beyond the breakers and said:

“Watch the water for twenty minutes before getting in.”

The idea is this: the ocean is unpredictable and changes wave by wave, minute by minute.

To jump straight in you’d be guessing at where to paddle towards, or the wave frequency, or height.

But if you watch the way the waves break for at least twenty minutes, you get a sense of how the water is behaving over a longer period.

You begin to see the patterns.

You see where the waves rise, which way they break, how many are in a set, how long of a lull before the next set, which means you know how long you have to paddle out in relatively calm water without the whitewater mushing you.

And sure enough, watch it long enough, when you eventually do get in the water, you can almost “predict” what the waves will do next.

You know where the interval will be, you know where to wait for the next wave, and when it comes – sometimes after a wait of ten, fifteen minutes bobbing on the still water – there’s a shift inside you, and you just know.

So you drop your chest onto your board, paddle hard, and wait for the water to lift you…

And I recently discovered the same applies to photography, specifically street photography.

I’ve been doing a lot of it recently, and while watching an instructional video yesterday, the photographer said the same thing about crowds…

Stand back for ten, fifteen minutes, and watch how the crowd moves.

You begin to get a sense of the rhythm of how people stop, start, speed up, turn, where they catch the light, what they might react to and even where their eye might be drawn at a certain point.

I applied this practice to my feathered friends in the photo.

The sun was casting a nice shadow, and there was a good mixture of birds on the land and in the water.

So I watched their movement for a while and noticed their patterns.

Of course, individual birds fluttered all over the place most of the time.

But, over time, I noticed they all started to do the same thing.

Echo Park Lake has lots of walkers and sitters who feed the birds or leave scraps of food behind them.

That’s what all these winged wonders were ultimately looking for.

And where one goes, another is sure to follow.

I wanted to take a shot which gave a sense of a few birds all going in the same direction to some unseen destination.

And so I framed up, kept one eye on the swimming birds and another on the walkers, and after many attempts, got these two proud beauties on a quest to somewhere, one of them mid-stride as if marching to an unseen drum.

We live in a world of repetition, patterns and habits.

And though I don’t think we can exactly predict the future, when we observe enough of how the world moves around us, we can sometimes let the world fall into our vision of the future we want.

Life Is A Shelf of Backwards Mystery Novels

Mon, 04 Apr 2022 12:33:56 GMT

How do you feel when you see this photo? I get a rush of excitement… So clever, and yet so obvious.

Are You Having Cart Abandonment Issues?

Fri, 01 Apr 2022 12:30:30 GMT

When is it okay to care what other people think about you?

When you put your customer's USER EXPERIENCE first.

"Your cart is having abandonment issues..."

How cool is this email subject line?

It grabs your attention
It taps into trending popular language
It's funny.

Am I likely to go back to my lonely cart? I sure am.

Will I definitely buy what I left there? No.

But they got me to go back to the cart and take another look. Because Penguin's marketing team realize not everyone is an impulse buyer.

They know that I want at least one item in my cart. They know that I have recently bought from them. If I don't buy from them now, I will again.

Why? Well I obviously like their stuff, but they also treated me like a grown up. Plus, they lightened a situation which can often feel pressurized.

Why does this approach work? How can you apply it to your sales process?

Put yourself in the User's shoes (or shirt) first.

At each stage of the Buyer's journey, ask: what is the Buyer feeling right now?

Now you switch from asking” “How can I sell this?” to... “Why should I buy this now?”

What objections, pain points or hesitations might you have?

Well in my case, the reason the shirt is still in the cart is because I recently bought a jacket from them which I had to pay shipping for as it was below the Free Shipping threshold.

Of course since then every time I open FB there's another ad for their clothes as part of the same spring sale. So I was suckered back into seeing what else they had on offer.

Which takes me to adding the shirt to my cart. So why did I abandon the poor feller there?

Because buying this alone would also be below the Free Shipping mark. If I had bought both together, I would have had free shipping. But this was too close to the last purchase for me to feel justified paying shipping twice.

What would be a good User Experience (UX) response to my “objection” to closing the deal? Well, what if...

Penguin notice that I recently bought from them. They see I have a shirt in my cart. They send me an email: “We see that if you had bought the jacket and shirt together, you would have got free shipping. Tell you what. As it's so recent and we think you'd look the bomb with that shirt under your new jacket, have free shipping on us.”

They would have had a customer for life.

How could they follow that up to make sure I share this experience with others?

A week after delivery, they could ask:

“How's your new outfit? Do you look as sharp as we think you do? We hope so because we make damn good clothes and our customers rate our Size Guides at 99% accurate. If you're one of the 1% who disagrees... congratulations! You're as unique as your style suggests. And we don't want you to be stuck with something that doesn't show you off at your very best. Here's your hassle-free way to exchange your shirt for a different size...”

How would that make you feel?

Listened to?
Understood?
Respected?
Flattered? (Never a bad idea, when done right for your customer base).

As business owners, why not strive to be like the server who magically appears at just the right moments during your meal, then sinks into the shadows until you need a coffee refill and another spoon for dessert?

Run your own business through the User Experience filter.

This is one time when it pays to care what others think about you.

6 Ways To Find The Story Behind Your Business

Wed, 30 Mar 2022 12:27:16 GMT

We can't know where we're going if we don't know where we've been.

Maybe you work inside a business and want to better communicate exactly what you do to your customers. Maybe you run a business and are defining or renewing your core principles.

What filter do you run your business through?

Your business' Origin Story is a great way to connect with your customers.

It lets your customers know WHY you do what you do.

Here are some questions to get you started...

6. Watch current market trends in your industry:

You can build a story around how your business is dealing with a new law change that will affect your customers.

5. Look up existing Testimonials:

See what past customers liked about your business: how about doubling down on that one thing you do better than anyone else?

4. Talk to your colleagues:

Your business is full of specialists. Each has their own unique way of working. Maybe to them it's normal, but your customer may find that invaluable.

Your business is staffed with unique individuals. Honor that.

3. Discover what goes into making your product:

Customers love to know how things work. Think of the glass-walled chocolate factory floor and the micro-breweries where you see the brass vats and stills.

What part of the process can you share?

2. Research how your product was developed.

Was the spring collection floral print dress inspired by a Spanish paseo or was the head gasket inspired by the roar at Talladega?

Your customers would love to know.

1. Talk to the creator!

Who knows better than the genius who started it all? Sit them down, ask them questions about where it all started. And if you're the creator, interview yourself!

Remembering WHY you do what you do will help your ideal clients find you.

Steamrollin' My Way Through Life

Sat, 26 Mar 2022 12:16:43 GMT

“I may get there slowly, but I'll go through anything to get there,” I tell my new filmmaking friend. “I'm like a steamroller.”

I was talking about my screenwriting career to someone who had just made her second film. We shared stories about our journeys.

She's an actress who wrote movies that she could act in.

I'm a writer who wrote movies that I could be proud of.

The road to everyone's dream is different but somehow very similar.

It can be long when you're tired and want to sleep.

Your headlamps fade out when night falls.

Your wipers wipe out when the rainstorm drops.

The diners are closed when you're hungry.

The rest stops are closed when you need relief.

Most of your work is unrecognized.

When your work is recognized, it may be unacknowledged.

When it's acknowledged, feedback can be brutal.

You're filled with self-doubt. Frustration. Rage.

So you drive faster but the road ahead gets longer too and now you're running low on gas.

The road is out of your control, so why do we get on it in the first place?

Because this is your road and there's nowhere in the world you'd rather be.

You know that if you keep going you will eventually find an open diner with hot coffee and clean bathrooms and blueberry pie like you wouldn't believe.

Trying to rush the process is like speeding up to get to a gas station when you're running on empty.

Sometimes going faster isn't better.

Sometimes you need to be a steamroller.

What do you think of when you hear the word “steamroller?”

Slow? Steady? Loud?

It flattens the cartoon character into the wet tarmac?

I thought of it as steady, persistent, will go through walls.

I told another friend today about my steamroller analogy.

“You crashing through walls and rolling over obstacles sounds painful and destructive. How about think of it as you laying roads?” he asks.

Well if that didn't just blow my mind.

I had looked at my dogged persistence as something that destroyed obstacles in its path.

No wonder all the diners and rest stops were shut. They thought I'd destroy them too!

So what if I look at the same journey as me laying my own road?

Now I'm creating something of value.

Workers will help me build it.

Diners and rest stops will open up to feed and relieve us.

Because instead of cutting a destructive trench through treasured land, we're building the road of our dreams that will benefit everyone.

Experience Everything

Thu, 24 Mar 2022 12:12:25 GMT

“I just feel that you expected things to be further along and I began to feel even more stressed about it,” she says and without a breath runs on to “because I wasn't in the same place as you were and maybe it's just bad timing because I'm sick and...”

You know how the rest goes.

I didn't want to have the conversation. I was tired. I wasn't centered. I'd pushed through a tough hour-long workout and hadn't finished eating my dinner.

I had a long week with no weekend.

Things between us had been left in “let's see” limbo ten days ago, but I pretty much knew which side we'd both fall on when we next spoke.

But I answer the phone anyway.

I push my tired, hungry ass into a conversation I wasn't looking forward to.

And I don't mean I just show up but don't invest any real emotion in something that likely had no return.

I mean I stay open. Open to possibilities. Because who knows what magic might happen when I haven't already decided on the outcome?

There's an English children's book called “The Magic Faraway Tree” that my sisters used to love me reading to them when we were kids. In it, a skeptical young city boy called Dick comes to visit his country cousins Jo, Bessie & Fannie.

Dick is sure he'll be bored senseless out in the sticks. But Jo points out the window.

-----

“Do you see that thick, dark wood over there, backing on to the lane at the bottom of the garden?” she says.

“It seems quite ordinary to me,” sneers Dick.

“Well listen, Dick – that's the Enchanted Wood!” yelps Bessie.

“You're making fun of me!” says Dick after a long stare.

“No we're not” says Fanny, “and in the middle of it is the most wonderful tree in the world!” *

-----

Back to the call.

I had already had two big wins today.

I sent a presentation to someone I'd love to work with. I've spent the last week prepping it, and if we go ahead our work could really enrich a lot of lives.

And after a year of fretting about how or IF I'd get it done, I pulled off a major business deal today. That too will change a lot of lives.

So I felt the day and I had already been very generous with each other. Surely I couldn't expect it, or myself, to deliver any more?

But no, I told myself. Show up. For yourself. For those around you. For those who read your words but don't know how to engage with you yet.

Showing up is a huge exercise in TRUST.

If you don't show up, you won't experience what could be waiting for you.

This evening, I didn't want to show up for the phone call. I was sure I already knew how it would end.

And... end that way it did.

But I got to hear her laugh one more time.

That was the unforeseeable gift of showing up to that call.

When we trust, magic can happen.

After all, Dick does follow his cousins out into the wood. The wood is enchanted, and in the middle grows the Magic Faraway Tree.

Moon-Face, Mister Watzisname and Saucepan Man live there.

The tree whisks them off to the Rocking Land, Birthday Land, the Land of Take-What-You-Want and the Land of the Snowman.

Can you imagine what a dick Dick would have felt like if he didn't trust in all the good that lay in wait for him?

Show up.

Trust.

Experience everything.

Then when it comes time to end the call, you can say “Good Night,” and really mean it.

* From “The Magic Faraway Tree” by Enid Blyton

A Trip Down Hemingway

Fri, 18 Mar 2022 12:05:07 GMT

“Sometimes the greatest gift you can give yourself is the time and space to allow the story to find what it needs to be.”

That's a quote from an interview I did with the Idaho Mountain Express in November 2021. I was talking about the story I had road-tripped 1,000 miles to write: “Sunset & Time,” a time-travel detective novel... my first.

I had driven from Los Angeles to Ketchum, Idaho to be the Writer In Residence at the Ernest & Mary Hemingway House. There I would write my novel and give a public reading of my work.

The road trip took two very long, liberating days. The whole journey had taken two much less liberating years.

My short story “Bury Me In The Garden” had won me the residency in September 2019. I was due to spend two weeks there in March 2020.

I booked my hotels in Utah and Idaho. I packed my road trip supplies. The day before departure, Idaho confirmed its first Covid case. Public buildings were shutting down.

Departure morning, on a call with Program Director Martha, we decided it was best not to go. Three days later, Los Angeles was in lockdown. We rescheduled for March 2021.

We all know how the next year went. When that rolled around, Ketchum was still only part opened. But I was reluctant to put it off again: how many chances would I get at this?

Thankfully Martha and the Community Library team were extremely accommodating, and when November 2021 rolled around, I was ready.

I loaded up my Mustang and off we rode. The V-6's three-hundred and five horses growled at me, and I yelled the Stones' “Wild Horses” right back at them.

Seventy miles from Las Vegas, skirting the Mojave National Preserve, I got quiet. Plumb-line straight Joshua tree-flanked blacktop stretched way beyond what I could see.

“A long, long slow descent and then a long, long slow incline,” is how I described at the time.

I had strapped a dictaphone to my dash. Actor and playwright Sam Shepard wrote my favorite film, “Paris, Texas.” He lived in NY and when he had to go to LA for work, he'd load his dog and dictaphone into his truck and drive that fabled road west. In that cab of solitude and reflection he dictated his plays.

Hey, I was driving North to write a novel. Why not borrow from the best?

Road trips are of one of those rare times we get to see how far in the distance our goal is. I could see where I was going – the gap in the hills. But no matter how hard I pushed those three hundred-odd ponies, driving this road would take as long as the road was long.

In his Motivational Monday posts, Ryan Stewman often talks about his “overnight success” taking ten years... ten years of doing MOSTLY UNREWARDED work daily. Ten years to get to the million podcast listens per month he now gets. Ten years to build the empowering Apex empire he has today.

“The seed must grow down before it grows up. The deeper the roots, the higher the tree can grow.”

John Highley planted that gold seed on his recent Marketing Savage Coaching Call.

When “Bury Me In The Garden” won the New Writer Of The Year competition in 2007, I bemoaned it not bringing me the immediate and tangible success that I expected. After the party, the congratulations and the satisfaction had passed, not much in my life had tangibly changed.

So should I have not written that story? Are you kidding me? This Writer In Residence award was at least the second high-roller pot I had scooped into my arms after laying down those BMITG cards.

“Very often I write a story because I don't know the answer to a particular issue I'm having in my own life. The work for me is often about finding answers,” I told Joey the reporter.

So know this. The work you do contains the answers you seek.

You can't know when you will find those answers. But you should still set about your work with purpose and courage.

As Ralph Marston says in his Daily Motivator...

“Be urgent about making the effort.

Be patient about seeing the results.”

We don't know how the work we do today will pay us back in years to come.

And why do I do what I do? Here's the quote that ended the article:

“I'd like to see the visions I've had in my head for years inspire others to realize theirs.”

A dozen coffees and a thousand miles later, the Mustang's hooves crunch the gravel path leading up to the house. My high-beams startle a family of deer.

The family parts to let me pass. Their quizzical eyes ask me if I'm ready.

I'm about enter a master storyteller's house. I'm about to live into my vision.

Tomorrow: Ernest Hemingway asks me: What are you really doing here?

For my full Idaho Mountain Express interview and Reading, click below!

https://bit.ly/HemingwayHouseArticle

Crossing The Line

Thu, 17 Mar 2022 11:42:45 GMT

Why do we trip ourselves up...

→ When we're about to move a relationship forward?

→ When we're about to close the deal?

→ When we're a few strides from the finishing line?

Let's go back to June 15, 1980, to St. Theresa's Catholic School, London, England…

My heart thumps in my chest. Breath pumps like a bellows. Scuffed Gola-clad feet pound the cut grass. Yelling spectators blur by.

Up ahead, the white tape twirls as it stretches across the finishing line.

I'm 7 years old, tall, not a great athlete. But right now, in the sprint race at the school's annual sports day, I'm neck and neck with my best friend Paul.

Maybe we'll cross the line together? We double up for most activities in class, so why not on the track too?

Twenty gangly-legged strides and we're there!

I glance to the right. No-one there.

I glance to the left. Paul is falling behind. Keep this up and I'll win the race myself!

But hang on... I don't win races. Christopher wins races. I come in third, or fourth. This first place would be a first.

This doesn't feel right. I slow my stride so Paul can catch up.

I glance to the left. Paul's not there! I turn and see him sprawled on the ground. He's fallen!

I turn back, and now Christopher has caught up with me. But if I just hold on and push for ten strides, I can make it. But...

… I stop. I run back and help Paul to his feet as the rest of the pack race past.

We jog to the finish line, joint last.

What happened there? Was I afraid of winning, or afraid of winning alone? Or did I just want to help a friend in need out?

I've talked about Fortune and Reversal a few times now.

But there's a third step: the Switch.

I had run myself into first place, with a great chance to win – the Fortune.

But my best friend fell – the Reversal.

Now comes the Switch moment: would I push on and claim my Fortune, or give into the comforting pull of the Reversal?

I think I chose the easier option at the time. What would have happened if I had won? I would have to change my opinion of myself to a WINNER. I'd have to win every time then, right? What if I couldn't keep that going? I'd be a failure.

My perfectionism wouldn't let me cross that line in first place.

Thirty years later, this image somehow worked its way into my first produced screenplay: “The Line.”

Yesterday I mentioned how although me winning the short story competition didn't lead to success in the way I expected, that story did get me working with director Diarmuid Goggins. Based on this pitch, Irish television network TG4 commissioned me to write and Diarmuid to direct this film.

Because of the nature of the story, we faced opposition every step of the way: “People won't understand it... It's too dark.... It's too weird.”

Twelve years on, it doesn't seem so weird now...

Set in an Alternative Present, we follow the story of rebel teen Joe in his struggle against an intrusive government regime: nightly curfews, fines for irresponsible parents, and strict interrogations for prospective parents.

When Joe's girlfriend gets pregnant, the government won't let them keep the child because they'd be unsuitable parents.

Joe's self-destructive response gets him put under house arrest with an ankle tag. He can't venture more than ten meters from the receiver. He draws a line around his house to mark his boundary.

Now Joe faces a Switch Moment.

Will he stay locked in the prison he has built for himself?

Or will he break free, run to his love and to hell with the consequences?

Watch the excerpt from “The Line” to find out!

The Line-Ending

By the way, here's the response from national newspapers when Diarmuid and I took the massive leap towards Fortune and rejected those trying to drag us back into a Reversal:

→ “Provocative ideas slickly executed with a confident swagger.”

→ “Utterly original and thought provoking.”

→ “Powerful, challenging and absorbing drama.”

When you're next faced with a Switch Moment, will you push harder towards Fortune or be dragged back by the Reversal?

Tomorrow: Living With The Ghost Of Ernest Hemingway.

Fortune & Reversal Pt 2: Oops, I Did It Again

Wed, 16 Mar 2022 11:38:39 GMT

Please allow me to slyly quote myself,

I'm a man of words, not waste...*

“Papa lay dead for six months when another spot came up. It had a better view. Nan said he liked to sit in their kitchen and smoke and look over the headstones to the sea. No-one had sat in his chair since. Pete watched as the rain fell in the darkness and the men slooshed around the hole with the box between them. A genny fed two lights and the men wore hats like cowboys. Pete hid behind a stone angel with his plastic revolver and aimed at the grave robbers and clicked. One man slipped and landed on his backside and dropped the box. Pete slapped his hand over his mouth. Shouting and cursing but not a word from Papa. His shoes still shone after six months in the ground. Nan reached to touch her husband as they fixed the lid. Mum held her back but Nan struggled and Mum fell. A right fuss. Papa hated a fuss.”

This is the opening paragraph of my short story “Bury Me In The Garden.” It came to me almost fully formed in a dream. It was a re-imagining of my childhood visits to my relatives' farms in Co. Mayo, Ireland. I wrote it in two days.

In the judge's eyes, it outshone hundreds of strong entries from around the world and won the Over The Edge New Writer Of The Year Award, 2007.

It should have launched my fiction writing career. But I rested on my laurels and thought some writing wizard would appear and magic up that career for me.

Once again, I had earned my Fortune. Once again, I didn't reckon on the Reversal.

Oops, I did it again to your art.**

The opening paragraph of this story was the one I was most worried about sharing. This part was based on fact. Six months after he was buried in 1984, my Mum moved my Papa's casket when a better burial spot came up.

The whole thing was shrouded in secrecy at the time. Maybe it was considered disrespectful, or unholy, or some other “what will others think?” nonsense we've all worried about at some time.

As a 12-year-old kid with a morbid imagination fired by Catholic guilt, fire and brimstone, I thought it was very cool. I couldn't understand what there was to be ashamed of.

What it really showed was how my Mum would never settle for anything less than the best for her loved ones, even when they're dead.

But I knew Mum had issues around it at the time. Would she still feel that way 23 years later? It is a common concern for writers: how do I tell my truth when it might cause pain to others?

And so as I stood on the podium to publicly and nervously read my prize-winning story, the first pair of eyes I locked onto in the audience was my Mum's.

That night at the drinks celebration, Kevin the competition organizer sat me down to praise my thrillingly original work, and to ask me if I had more stories like it. I lied and said I had way more than I did, so he wouldn't think I was a one-trick pony.

“So what should I do next?” I asked him, waiting to be handed the keys to the kingdom. “The literary world has no clear path except the one you write for yourself,” replied Kevin sagely.

Not what I wanted to hear.

As a further nudge from the universe, as I left the party that night, one of the competition runners-up stopped me at the door.

“I love your story,” she said. “You're a great writer.”

“Wow, thank you, that means a lot,” I said truthfully. I admired the character she showed in genuinely supporting the writer whose story was chosen over hers.

“Winning this is a great opportunity,” she continued. “Make the most of it.”

I didn't know how to reply. So I smiled.

“But how do I make the most of it?!?” I screamed silently as I stepped into that windy November night.

The next time I sat down to write a story, it.... didn't go so well. It didn't come to me fully formed in a dream. The words didn't flow. The dialogue was forced and awkward.

Because my early effort had succeeded, I didn't yet know how to struggle through the writing process.

I abandoned that next story. I wrote a series of others through the eyes of that same 10-year-old character, Pete. I thought they were good, friends told me they were good. But they weren't hitting home with competitions or publications.

I lost heart, and I lost faith.

“You won another competition!” is what I WANTED to hear every day.

I wrote more stories over the years, but only when inspired. I didn't know at the time that TAKING ACTION creates inspiration... not the other way around.

“Write every day regardless of how you feel” was what I NEEDED to hear every day.

BUT...

… Though “Bury Me In The Garden” didn't launch my writing career the way I expected, that one international prize-winning story continued to open totally unexpected doors for me for years to come...

→ A film director read it and we teamed up to produce two films together.

→ A film producer offered to produce a film version of one my “sequel” stories.

→ I became the Writer In Residence at the Ernest & Mary Hemingway House in Ketchum, Idaho, staying in the very house in which the great author lived out his last days.

What's the lesson I carry with me today?

After every Fortune, expect a Reversal.

When you expect a Reversal, you can prepare for the Reversal. Though it mightn't be clear where the answers will come from, always be on the lookout for clues.

Funny thing for me is, I had given myself the clue all along; I had written in the last line of the story that had started it all.

“Pete came out shooting.”

Tomorrow: Crossing The Line

* Thanks, Mick & Keith

** Thanks, Max, Rami & Britney

Fortune & Reversal Part 1

Mon, 14 Mar 2022 19:52:44 GMT

Complacency

Have you ever wondered how you got to where you are today?

In your work, your relationships, your health?

Whether you're happy with where you are or not, you'll admit it's been quite the JOURNEY, right?

And whether you felt like it along the way, or whether you feel like one now, you have been and continue to be the HERO of your own JOURNEY.

The HERO'S JOURNEY is a storytelling framework first recorded in ancient Greek author Homer's epic poem “Odyssey,” written around 750 B.C.E.

Odysseus, King of Ithaca, had spent ten years fighting in the Trojan War. The poem follows his epic ten-year journey home through all his trials and tribulations.

At the time, Homer's work was as important a guide for how to live one's life as the Bible later became to Christians.

The ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle later analyzed the storytelling system prevalent in the tragedies staged at the time... simply, that a story has a beginning, middle and end: three acts, if you will.

Act 1:

Set up the HERO and their GOAL. At first, she is reluctant to accept the challenge. But she realizes she must act now and act big to achieve her Goal. This act ends when the Hero decides to accept the challenge.

Act 2:

The action and consequences escalate as an ANTAGONIST tries to stop the Hero from reaching her goal. Towards the end of this act, the Hero achieves good FORTUNE – it looks like she will achieve her Goal – but this is quickly followed by a REVERSAL, which takes the Hero to the pits of despair.

Act 3:

After the despair at the end of Act 2, we build to the CLIMAX where the Hero and the Antagonist have their big showdown. This leads to the Resolution, which shows us how the Hero, and the world around her, has changed.

Sound familiar? Probably applicable to every Hollywood movie you've ever seen, right? But why do these stories resonate so deeply with us? Why do we essentially watch the same film over and over again?

The three-act structure is more familiar to you than you might think.

Act 1: You're born.

Act 2: You live.

Act 3: You die.

How those events play out is unique to each of us. The duration, quality and experiences may vary wildly, but none of us can escape any of those three stages.

If we dive deeper still, each act is made up of lots of Mini-Stories. Birth is the first act of your Life Story, but it's the third act of your Conception Story.

Act 1: Conception.

Act 2: Gestation.

Act 3: Birth.

The crucial thing to recognize is that a strong action is needed to drive from one stage to the next.

→ The Passion of Conception.

→ The Struggle and Growth of Pregnancy.

→ The Agony and Beauty of Birth.

It might sound obvious, but when change happens, things will never be the same....

… Unless...

… Through fear, inexperience, or complacency we try to resist change, or in storytelling terms...

… If after our Fortune, we don't accept the inevitable Reversal.

The screenshot above is from the opening credits of the first feature film I edited in 1999. To say I was proud of this achievement would be an understatement.

I had a GOAL to be a Film Editor.

I had talked endlessly about it. I turned down other opportunities which would have taken me off this path.

I suffered hardship.

My faith was tested.

My desire to achieve my Goal was questioned at every turn.

I persisted through it all.

And there it was after 2 ½ years of 12–16-hour days, night shifts, swing shifts, mistakes, arguments, exhaustion and personality clashes: proof on the screen for all to see that I had edited a movie.

It was the CLIMAX of my career so far. Nothing would ever be the same again. No-one could take that away from me.

I had made it.

What I didn't realize at the time was that though this achievement unlocked the door to my career, it was up to me to turn the handle and open it.

But first, the parties. I was due a celebration, no doubt. I lapped up the kind indulgences of my friends and family. And then I celebrated some more just to be sure.

During this time, I made the mistake of thinking that the door would open all by itself. Directors and producers would flock to me and beg me to work with them, such was my genius.

They didn't come. It was clear I would have to go to them. I lived in Galway on the west coast of Ireland – a small city that had only recently emerged as a center for film when Roger Corman built a studio there in the mid '90s.

Roger Corman was the legendary producer and director who gave Jack Nicholson, Francis Ford Coppola and James Cameron their big breaks.

And I had just edited one of his movies.

So I had already reached the top of the Galway film editing world. If I wanted to progress, I would have to move to Dublin on the east coast, where the international industry was much more established.

I would have to accept that my first movie was over, and I would have to start a new one.

But I didn't want to move Dublin. I was living with my girlfriend in the house I had just built.

I also didn't really like Dublin.

I stayed put in Galway, and my film editing career stayed put too. I had to take a step sideways and down to start at the bottom of the TV editing world. Which would have been fine if that's what I wanted. But I was all about the movies.

What I didn't want to admit was that - for my career goals at least - I had already outgrown the place where I had just built a home.

I had expanded, but unless I moved to a bigger city which could nurture that expansion and encourage further growth, the gains would quickly fade.

And fade they did. I was frustrated in the TV world, which seemed much more regimented by broadcast schedules and less creatively rewarding to me.

I tested the water by temporarily moving to Dublin to edit two further films – one of which garnered me a Best Editing Nomination at the Irish Film & Television Academy Awards – but I resented my time there because I felt torn between two worlds: the world of comfort, familiarity and sporadic further growth, and the world of discomfort and rapid and powerful growth.

I rejected the Challenge.

For when we achieve something, that is when we must work the hardest. It is when we are at our most vulnerable. We think we have it licked. We won big and from now on it's easy street.

Well 27-year-old me, that wasn't the case, was it? You had to work just as hard at something you weren't as passionate about. And you festered a growing resentment that you weren't being recognized for the work you wanted to do.

You chose comfort over discomfort, but you ended up with resentment.

You thought you were already a master storyteller and should be recognized as such. But you forgot one of the fundamentals of storytelling, of the three-act structure of life:

After the Fortune, comes a Reversal.

The Reversal will come. Be ready to act when it does.

Tomorrow: Fortune & Reversal Part 2... Oops, I Did It Again.

Bargaining pt 2

Fri, 11 Mar 2022 19:14:40 GMT

Bargaining My Way Into Sleeping On The Floor.

This is one of my favorite photos of me. A good friend shot portraits of our self-styled “Tall Skinny Fucks” crew on his 35mm Canon. He framed them and gifted them to us.

This 16-year-old lived through a Jesus and Mary Chain filter. This Scottish post punk band wrapped love songs in nihilistic, drug-fueled, screeching feedback and distortion. Their deafening gigs often ended in riots and walk-offs.

The Reid brothers took the piss out of each other in stoned Glaswegian accents in interviews. With some spit and polish they could have played the record label game and become a global name for themselves.

I dressed all in black like them. I wrote poor copies of their song lyrics. I grew a motherlode of floppy hair like them. I listened to their records over and over so I could FEEL like them. Why?

They did what they liked when they liked and how they liked it.

Jim and William Reid didn't bargain with anyone.

That's the look I'm channeling here: Artistry. Independence. Love.

In this photo I'm looking deep into “The Big Blue,” the name my friend Ronan and I gave to our imagined futures.

The Big Blue was world of wide-open roads, of wild loves, of brave adventures. It was out there waiting for us. We just had to hitch a ride on the right train, fight to the death for our right not to bargain any of that away.

If we didn't find The Big Blue, we hadn't learned how to bargain properly.

For years, my vision held. I moved in with my girlfriend despite opposition from my religious Mum.

No bargaining.

I worked my way up from go-fer PA at legendary movie producer Roger Corman's film studio – through 16-hour days, poor pay, verbal and emotional abuse from higher-ups – to editing my first feature film in 2 ½ years.

No bargaining.

I turned down a six-figure job in my Dad's construction company.

No bargaining.

I won an international short story competition despite numerous prior rejections of the same story.

No bargaining.

I was stubborn, driven, and relentless in everything I pursued.

And though I was in love, creatively fulfilled and surrounded by a supportive family, there was one thing I could never bargain with...

Red wine.

I pursued that holy elixir with as much intensity as all the other loves and desires in my life.

Rhoda and I based whole holidays around vineyards in southern Spain. For one of her birthdays, I rented her a row of vines in France. The next year after harvest we took a ferry to France and drove down to the Macon region to pick up four cases of the wine harvested from her very own vines.

At night I would stay up late to have one more glass of wine. Then one more.

I was last man drinking at most parties and come dawn, would try to bargain for more.

Several times I would bargain with the red angel, and we'd cool things down for a while. A weekend, a week, six weeks... and I'd feel great. But it always felt like taking an enforced holiday, a break just to give us some space from each other.

The restarts always happened the same way: with a little bargaining.

I'll just have half a glass with dinner. I'll just buy one bottle for the weekend. Look! A whole case is 30% off!

Twenty-three years after this photo, I had lost my bargaining powers with red wine.

I'm overweight, overwrought, over-angry, over-lost, overhung, over-.... I'm just over it.

Red wine has brought me here. I never did learn to bargain with her.

What I had learned was, like in our professional lives, some people you can bargain with, and you both come out of the deal better off. Others you think you’re getting a good deal at the time, but it turns out in the long wrong to drain the very life force from you.

Even after I had woken up on the floor several times, I had bargained my way into even more punishment. What would it take to get up and stay up for good?

What would it take for those 16-year-old eyes to look into the Big Blue and feel proud of the life they had lived?

Tomorrow: Bargaining my sorry ass off the bathroom floor.

Bargaining pt 1

Fri, 11 Mar 2022 19:09:11 GMT

Bargaining my way into the nearly-car of my dreams.

I've always had an eye for a bargain. I prided myself on deep, prolonged research before making a major purchase because one, I liked the investigative process; and two, the payoff felt so good. A Spanish holiday, a home theater system, a vintage car; I'd look for a perfect balance of performance, price, and desirability.

But as often and as well as I bargained my way into a good deal, I could bargain my way into a real stinker of a self-inflicted mess, too. But first, cars.

“Bullitt” starring Steve McQueen is one of my favorite movies and is the reason I drive a Mustang today. When I lived in Ireland, new Mustangs weren't even available outside of the U.S. A vintage import was the only viable option, though examples that hadn't been ravaged by Irish weather were rare and beyond my budget.

A 1967 GT350 in Highland Green was the ultimate dream... the iconic movie star dream. The prices were astronomical. So I ran my bargain filter... what's the next best thing down the ladder that would give me just as much pleasure?

Turns out Toyota were also fans of the Bullit-era Mustang. After months of research, I found a clean 1977 Toyota Celica 2000 Liftback in metallic green. They did an astonishing job of paying tribute to/ripping off the original, and I had to have it. I found one across the Irish Sea in Birmingham, England, and flew over to decide if I was going to buy it and proudly take it home on the ferry.

Even though I knew I would close the deal, given the months of research and the travel expense, I was still determined to bargain a couple of hundred off the $2500 asking price. That was a lot of money for me back in 2001.

The owner, Tim, picked me up from the airport in the sparkling Celica. Car and owner were very alike. Both late '70s models. Both lovingly cared for their whole lives. Both had a faded brilliance on the outside, with a little rust underneath.

I won't venture to visualize Tim's insides, but the Celica had a cracked but original cream leather interior, a wood veneer dash, and a throaty two-liter under the hood.

Soon I was sitting across from Tim and his wife Helen in their cozy but fraying terraced house. It was clear from how close they sat that they cared for each other the same way Tim had cared for his Celica.

“Our son, he's a lovely lad, but he's not doing so well. He got married to a...” He trails off, his face flushed from holding in his hurt.

He glances at Helen. She shakes her head “no”, then smiles at me. Tim takes a breath, considers his words. Politeness is a very British thing.

I studied Tim's face. Bright eyes, half-covered with sagging lids. Warm smile, corners dragged down by tired cheeks.

“He's always been a good boy who makes poor choices,” says Helen. Her kind, blue eyes mist over as she stares lovingly at the gold-framed photo of her son on the wall.

She reaches for Tim's weathered hand. They interlock wrinkled fingers and hold on.

“So, will you buy it from us?” says Tim. It was more of a plea than a question.

Remember this moment: it's the moment where bargaining collides with reasoning, and we'll be coming back to it later.

“I'll give it a good home,” I smiled, and handed over the check I had already filled out for the full $2500. Though I didn't push for a discount, it was still a bargain for my next-to-dream car.

But I couldn't bargain with Tim and Helen. It wouldn't have felt right. They'd bargained with life enough. They deserved a good deal.

I drove away and watched them wave in the rearview. I left them with some cash to help their family out, but more than that, I left them with the dignity of not having to bargain to help out out their son. They had set their price, and I had respected it.

This story came to mind as I bargained with myself last night. A year ago I was sprawled on the couch, ill from various forms of inflammation, ill from the powerful drugs the doctors who thought only of symptoms and not causes prescribed, but most of all, I was ill from a feeling of powerlessness.

That's a story for another day. But last May I found the help I needed, radically changed my diet, lost 35lbs, gained energy, enthusiasm, and clarity, and was feeling the best I had in years. I had trained myself to believe in the mantra of “food as medicine,” and for the last ten months I've been monitoring every bite of food I take.

But last night I was tired and a little overwhelmed from the unrelenting pace of recent travel and exciting but escalating work commitments. It was approaching midnight, and I had a court appearance first thing the next morning. Nothing serious, just an arraignment hearing for a traffic ticket I had decided to contest, but I still needed sleep.

Instead, I bargained with myself for a little extra wind-down time before the bed-prep ritual. I fired up the TV and ran a Key and Peele compilation, and instead of the carefully measured two rows of 90% cacao, stevia-sweetened dark chocolate I occasionally allow myself, I ate three times that. Plus, instead of a ¼ cup of pistachios, I had four times that. I blew my daily diet in a half hour.

As I eventually prepped for bed, belly throbbing, I smiled with wry recognition at what had happened. In any learned behavior, there comes a moment when a decision must be made.

Do I listen to the voice of what was, or to the voice of what I want to be?

It's a delicate dance of give and take, and what I have learned is that when I bargain with myself for a little more indulgence today, I can bargain for a lot more indulgence in a couple of weeks’ time.

I know this pattern so well because I bargained with myself daily for twenty-four years over having just one more glass of wine before bed. Which is where we'll leave part 1 of Bargaining for today.

Tomorrow: Bargaining, Part 2: Bargaining my way into sleeping on the floor.

Did God Just Tell Me To Quit?

Thu, 10 Mar 2022 19:05:12 GMT

I've always battled for the right to be listened to, heard, understood.

I grew up around a voice a lot louder than mine and I kept quiet for a very long time. The frustration would build up until it violently erupted, and I'd yell all my frustrations and anger at once. This usually didn't end well.

Over the years, I found that when you don't follow your path, design your day, or tell your own story, someone will do it for you.

Maybe this was one of the reasons I stopped believing in God and the Catholic Church as a teenager. Maybe I had enough people on earth running my life without celestial deities getting in on the action too.

But when I moved to Los Angeles many years later, God was everywhere I turned. My roommate Suzanna had a strong Baptist faith and wanted to take me to church. My landlady’s Pentecostal sister had just been shunned by her boyfriend because she didn't speak in tongues.

And on Saturday September 21, 2013, it seems God was keeping an eye on me.

I'm 3 weeks into a 90 day stay as I try to get my work visa to move to Los Angeles permanently. I've been hustling non-stop to get what I need – a lawyer, job offers, tons of paperwork, and I decide to take a day off and enjoy the city in my Nissan rental.

First to the Laemmle Music Hall in Beverly Hills for the premiere of a documentary about an Afghani-American family reuniting after being separated since 9/11. A stunning film with an engaging Q&A with the filmmakers.

From there I zip across town to a Shakespeare reading at Echo Park Lake... but my roommate neglected to tell me I'd be taking part, not just watching! I played along though, and they loved this shy and grouchy Irish guy wearing flower crowns and putting on accents for it. Little did I know that six months later I'd be moving into an apartment just a few blocks from the park with a wonderful woman I met that day.

Then dinner with a friend and I zipped back up the 5 to my suburban house in Sun Valley. I dive into the garden pool and watch the palm trees sway as the sun sets behind them. This is the life.

I felt so good that though I was exhausted, I wanted more. There was a light show on at Santa Monica Beach. A quick shower and I'm rolling down the 405 which has been injected with a fizz of Saturday night crazy.

The crash happened very slowly, then very quickly. I can remember from numerous bike falls as a kid, that the drop to the ground takes an age, then the painful impact happens all at once.

I was a good distance back from the car in front. We were all whipping along, and I was rocking to some Doors, fully dropping into the LA vibe.

Up ahead a metallic crunch. Then one set of red lights disappear. Then another. Where did they go?

As a set of white lights spin around towards me, I get my answer. Three cars are spinning across the busy freeway. I slow but can't tell which way I should steer as this metal machine spins around in the dark in front of me.

Too late I see it spin towards my hood. I brace the wheel with both hands, jam the brakes, and wait for impact.

It came hard. Then I waited for the inevitable rear impact. Tires screeched. But no second shunt.

Marooned in the middle lane, car crippled and not knowing what to do, I stepped onto the freeway and took the abuse of the drivers who didn't want their nights ruined by my destroyed car. How inconsiderate of me.

The CHP patrol car had to ram my crippled car off the road. The ambulances up ahead suggested others had got it much worse than me.

As I waited for the recovery truck in the shoulder, still in shock, I saw a blue light towering over the white and red streaks of headlights.

It was a cross, twenty feet tall, glowing brightly in the night.

I was the only one watching it. It seemed like it was there just for me.

As I rode home in the recovery truck, I wondered what it meant. I always think there's a hidden meaning or lesson to be learned in moments like this.

That night I had tried to do too much. I didn't know when to quit. I had had a great day, but I wanted more. I got greedy. Or did I?

Maybe I just wanted to continue writing my story that night, one that I had worked so hard to start writing for myself.

Maybe God knew that, and he helped me stop just short of the ultimate sacrifice the cross represented: crossing over from this life, with no more story to be told.

An infinite number of moments and incidents led to me stopping just in time.

I had been given more time to tell my story in LA. And I wasn't going to waste it.

Tomorrow: How I tried to drown my own story in red wine.

Instinct Keeps Us Alive. Desire Lets Us Live.

Wed, 09 Mar 2022 18:52:12 GMT

Before we achieve any of our goals: love, money, a publishing house, a film studio; we must first DESIRE it.

Desire drives the client to purchase, and desire drives the merchant to sell.

Desire is that wave that flushes through our veins when we see, hear, smell or touch what we want.

Desire guides us through rejection, heartache, frustration.

When the dark hours befall us, when the road cracks before us, when we're bled almost dry, Desire lights the way.

On January 13th, 2009 at Inch Beach, Co. Kerry, Ireland, Desire saved me from drowning.

Inch Beach is two miles of golden sand on the Dingle Peninsula, one of Europe's most westerly points, and one of the most beautiful places on earth. But beauty in Ireland comes in many forms.

On this day, there were angry, broiling clouds overhead. 10-12mph SE offshore breeze at my back. A vast 48°F Atlantic Ocean in front.

A perfect day for surfing, Irish style. I had taken the 100-mile trip down from Galway with my then girlfriend Rhoda and my friend Barty. He was going to take his first surf lesson, I was going to surf farther out alone, and Rhoda was going to walk the shore.

Squeezed into my wetsuit, board fin-up in the sand, I watch a few sets roll in. No obvious rip currents, but definitely some weird cross-waves a bit further out.

“Anything to watch out for here?” I ask the laid-back Lifeguard.

“You know what you're doing?” he asks, his furrowed brow belying his chill beach-dude vibe.

“Pretty much. I'm careful too,” I reply, standing tall to reassert myself.

He carves a line in the air with his arm, cutting the beach in two.

“Stay to the right of the Guard Tower. Left of it someone who doesn't know what their doing can get pulled out to open ocean,” he replies, still looking me up and down. Way to give a guy confidence before he hits the water.

I secure my ankle strap. I watch the grey winter waters, flat out there beyond the white chop of the foreshore. A salty kiss reassures me.

“Have fun,” Rhoda chirps as I stride to the waterline, Malibu board under arm.

I loved the challenge of surfing. When I first took lessons in 2007, overweight and unfit, I wiped out for four and half painful, frustrating days.

Hour after hour of instruction and practice, unable to get my balance, timing, or co-ordination right. Gasping for air and dignity. Why put myself through this?

From the very first time I went flying head first into the surf, I was hooked on the Desire to stand up before the week was out. On the last session of the last day of lesson, I did it. Every muscle and joint ached. But Desire had seen me through.

Paddling out now on this chilly winter's morning, I roll under the churning white wash, resurface, gasp in some salt-sprayed air and paddle for the flat, grey water beyond.

Despite what the videos of clean barrels, monster waves and crushing wipeouts show, surfing is mostly waiting and watching. I slide up the board and turn to face the shore. I'm lined up with the Lifeguard Tower. That's my guide, and I watch for it often.

A few hundred yards out, I can see but not hear the shore. I see Barty practicing pop-ups with his class. Rhoda walking alone on the golden sand. Each of us happy in our own spheres. Each with their own Desire.

Something makes me turn back. You get a feeling after surfing for a while. The ocean speaks to you. You learn to hear it.

There it is. A set rolling in from the horizon. I drop to my belly, paddle to reposition myself. Sit back up for a better view. Too far right. Drop down to paddle some more. Sit up. That's it.

A strange silence as the ocean approaches.

I turn the board and paddle. Look over my left shoulder. Nice. It will break right. The sound of the rolling ocean now reaches me. It's loud, and low. I adjust my angle. Square on. Perfect.

The sound shifts from my left ear to my right. That shouldn’t be. Did I turn too far? I look over my right shoulder. The wave builds there. I look over my left shoulder. The wave builds there too.

Uh oh. I'd paddled right into the point where two cross-waves meet.

I veer left, hoping to avoid it. Too late. The left-breaker lifts me, then the right-breaker drops me on my back. The board flips away, yanking my ankle cord. The two waves crash and drag me down.

Time stops as I fight to reach the surface. One wave, two, three.

Held down in the grey, cold churn, I very much desire to reach the surface. But out here, the ocean laughs at a mere human's desire.

I pop to the surface. Gulp in air. Ten seconds till the next set of cross-waves will hit. I lunge for my bobbing board. Somehow yank my exhausted body up on it. Force aching arms to paddle towards... wait. Which direction is the shore in?

I can't see more than ten yards in any direction: the waves are too high. They roll towards me from all sides, as if I had been sucked into the bottom of a six-foot tall whirlpool.

The wind howls. The dark grey sky looms over. The sea churns beneath.

With no clear path to shore, which way should I go?

All I know is that I'm not sticking around. I'm going to move. Somewhere. Anywhere. Desire kicks in. Just about the same time as Fear.

The Fear surges from my belly to my chest. Squeezes through my throat into my brain. My thoughts race as the belly of my board slaps the churning water below. The water doesn't want me to go. It wants to claim me. My fear wants to let it.

I think of my love Rhoda walking the shore a half mile away. My soul brother Barty on his first surf lesson. My beloved family a hundred miles away in Galway, my Mum's lifelong fear of the ocean about to be vindicated as it takes her son deep into its churning belly.

A wave hits from the left. Another from the right. I paddle, but fear and exhaustion seizes my arms. My breath is erratic. A short inhale. I hold it. Smash! A wave hits the nose of the board. I swallow a mouthful of salty water.

I can't breathe. I can't swallow. My muscles ache. Is this how it goes down? Is it now? How long will it take for me to drown?

When I first started to surf, I read about drowning. It's nasty. The body does everything to keep water out of the lungs until it's physically impossible not to.

And that's when I decide. Enough. It's time to go. The Desire to live kicks in.

Adrenaline surges through my body. It displaces the fear. My arms pump. My breath steadies.

From somewhere, I found new strength. New focus. New clarity. There was nothing else in the universe that existed before or since this moment. My body worked at maximum strength and efficiency.

DESIRE had taken me into FLOW.

And yet though I paddled, I still couldn't tell which way the shore was, or even if I was making any progress. Waves still hit me from all sides.

If a wave knocked me off the board now, I knew I wouldn't have the strength to get back on it again. I had to give it everything. I had to keep moving. I had to keep the fear from rising to my chest where it would constrict my breathing.

No. This was not how I was going to go.

I windmill my arms for two minutes, maybe more. Desire fighting Fear. The Desire to live. The Desire for Shore.

And then a break in the grey water. A strip of golden sand! And then it was gone as another set of cross-waves crashes in front of me.

But I had seen it. Desire had taken me from the fearful clutches of the grey deep and delivered me to the golden promised sand. And that would be enough to take me the rest of the way.

I had a few minutes of relatively easy work to get to shore. Time to think. I knew I would live. But how would I live? Driven by fear or by desire?

Can you help your clients push through their fears and unite them with their desire?

They'll thank you with their custom for life.

Tomorrow: God watches my car crash on the 405 and says: Welcome to LA

Conflict vs Empathy 2

Tue, 08 Mar 2022 18:15:08 GMT

Yesterday we witnessed the CONFLICT approach to customer service.

Before we experience the EMPATHY approach, let's pick up where the Conflict left off.

So we're back at Gate E16 as Delta loads their human cargo onto their “payload-optimized flight.”

“You better step aside and pay the thirty dollars to check your baggage, or I'll remove it and you from the flight,” growled Mr. Gruff.

I did. I stepped aside and gave my card to Mr. Gruff's startled-looking colleague. Even he seemed stunned by the whole deal.

“I just don't understand his attitude,” I said to Mr. Startled, my hand shaking as I took my card out of the reader.

Mr. Startled's eyes widened, but his mouth stayed shut. Maybe he too feared Mr. Gruff's wrath.

Mr. Gruff snatched the bag tag from the printer, slapped it on my bag, and shoved the receipt in my hand.

“Take the bag down to the end of the bridge. Someone will take it from you and load it into the hold.”

“Shouldn't you take--” I started, but....

“Next passenger!” He growled and moved me along.

I wheeled my crush-the-corporation roll-on down the dog-legged air bridge, chewing on a bowl of anger, embarrassment, and guilt. I had already started writing my self-righteous angry email to Customer Service in my head.

Is that how we want our clients to feel after interacting with our businesses?

I reach the cabin door. No Attendant. The hungry, tired passenger line snakes behind me. Ever seen how quickly the anger builds up in a moving line forced to stop for unseen reasons? Where should I leave my bag before the line bites me? No-one from Delta was there to snatch me from the snake's venomous jaws, until...

Enter EMPATHY.

Or David as his friends and family more than likely call him. He was the greeting Attendant on the plane, and he saw me pointing at the check tag on my bag over the stench of fuel and the whine of engines.

“Just leave it in the corner behind you and come on board!” he said reassuringly.

Now I didn't want to leave my bag unattended behind me, not knowing if someone actually would load it. The concern was heightened because I hadn't planned to check it and couldn't think if there was anything inside that wouldn't survive the checked luggage Demo Derby.

But the snake behind me slithered ever closer, and it was time to abandon my offensive cargo and get on board.

Before I could get a chance to tell him what had happened, David could see I was troubled.

It must be upsetting for you to have to check your bag when you weren't expecting to,” he said in that same tone, full of genuine concern.

Boom! My anxiety deflated like a burst tire.

What had he just done? He recognized and met me at my pain point with EMPATHY.

“I know it's not your fault,” I explained. “But your colleague back there just had this aggressive attitude I don't understand.”

“I'm sorry you had to experience that,” he continued.

Right there, he empathized with me, but didn't condemn his colleague without knowing more details either. David is a smart one.

As my body relaxed and the anger and embarrassment drained from me, he ANTICPATED my remaining pain point.

“Someone is picking up your bag right now,” he said looking past my shoulder as I got on board. As I walked down the aisle, heard, seen, understood, I deleted my mental letter of complaint.

Now this was a great save. I am not a pain in the ass customer. I'm not overly demanding or unreasonable. I understand that delays, mistakes, and plain old bad days happen to us all. It takes a lot – nowadays at least – to fire up my anger. Mr Gruff fired it up. Mr. Empathy cooled it right down and... was that job done for him?

Nope. David had acknowledged the customer service problem. Now he set about putting it right.

The drinks trolley came rattling towards me an hour into the flight. David recognized me right away.

“Can I get you anything to drink today, sir? Any snacks you can see yourself enjoying with your drink?” he said in a simple and friendly way, never lapsing into over-enthusiasm either.

“I'll have a coffee, please,” I said, happy to recharge.

“Would you like two?” said David without hesitation.

Now as an Irish transplant to the U.S. who still gets a kick out of free coffee refills at diners and restaurants, you bet I wanted a second coffee.

SURPASSING EXPECTATIONS.

He wasn't done though. Later my neighbor in Row 23 asked David for some earbuds to watch a movie. They were $2, which she paid for by card.

“I'll be right back with those buds, ma'am,” he assured her.

But he wasn't right back. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed but no buds for my row buddy. After he had finished his rounds, he passed our row again.

“Oh my gosh I never gave you your buds? I'm so sorry. That's no good at all, you sitting there unable to watch your favorite movie on my account. Would like a glass of wine to make up for it?”

This guy...

Disembarking, I thanked David, and once again held up the line behind me as I not only thanked him, but explained to him all the things that I felt he had got right. He was genuinely pleased that he had made such a difference to my experience.

I gave him my card and asked him to email me. I told him I'd love to ask him some questions as I was starting a new business and he had just given me a great lesson in customer service.

And so off I went, happy that I had told him how much of a difference he had made.

But what about Mr. Gruff, you cry!

Well, let's rewind to just before takeoff. Mr. Gruff boarded the plane and strutted down the aisle on a mission. He passed Business Class, Comfort Plus, now he was in the cheap seats and he kept on coming. Was he coming for me? Did he just uncover another one of my insidious corporation-crushing plans?

No. He stopped by an older lady a few rows in front. It started like this...

“Ma'am, I explained the situation to you, and yet you took your extra bag on anyway. I've tried to be reasonable with you, but you now have two options: you pay thirty dollars to check your bag, or I escort you from the aircraft.”

I couldn't hear her replies over the fan noise, but she put up some resistance. Mr. Gruff was just too much, though, and he took our lady's bag off. Surprisingly, he left her on board.

Looking back a couple of days later, I tried to empathize with both Mr. Gruff and David. Maybe Mr. Gruff is under incredible pressure from his supervisor to load the plane quickly. If so, would that supervisor approve of the knock-on effects of that pressure on the passengers?

Maybe David has a lot of support from his supervisors on board. Maybe he's rewarded for his positive attitude.

Or maybe David is just a smart man full of empathy, who genuinely loves anticipating and correcting his clients' pain points.

EMPATHY or CONFLICT?

I know which one I'd rather have on my business's front line.

After a flight in the skies, tomorrow we take to the ocean for...

How DESIRE saved me from drowning.

Conflict vs Empathy

Mon, 07 Mar 2022 18:16:15 GMT

CONFLICT.

EMPATHY.

They both get results.

Which one would you rather have drive your business?

As I prepare to launch my new venture…

ORIGINS Copy…

I learned a huge lesson in both conflict and empathy yesterday at Dallas Fort Worth Airport, TX

It’s 3.46pm CT, on Sunday March 6, 2022. I'm approaching Gate E16 at Delta's Terminal E to board my 4pm flight home to Los Angeles.

I had spent the weekend at John Highley's Marketing Savage Elite Mastermind in Frisco, TX.

John is helping his chosen Elites to build and grow not only the businesses of our dreams, but also our characters, our integrity, and the ways we interact with the world around us.

John is building LEADERS.

The PA system crackles.

"We are now boarding passengers in Zone 2. Once again, we do remind you that we are at capacity, and we are operating a payload-optimized flight," growled the gruff Delta attendant to an uncaring audience.

"One roll-on and one backpack per passenger will be permitted. Anything extra will have to be checked and paid for," he continued.

Fine by me. I shuffled towards the gate with the same baggage as I had flown in with two days previously. It was roughly the same size as every other roll-on squeaking its way to the gate ahead of me. But our Attendant wasn't finished...

"If you try to board with more than one roll-on and one backpack, we will remove you from the flight," Mr Gruff announced with some sadistic pleasure.

Wait... what?

As I swiped my boarding pass, Mr. Gruff turned his verbal tirade onto me and my roll-on.

“That's an oversized baggage item. You'll have to check it. Step aside,” he growled.

“It's the same size as it was when I flew two days ago,' I replied, snapped out of my travel stupor by his aggression.

Mr. Gruff pointed to a barely visible baggage outline stenciled on the bottom of his podium.

“If you can prove it's smaller than that, you can take it on.”

I could feel the crowd's annoyance building like a wave behind me. If I didn't catch the wave or duck under it, I'd soon be swallowed up by its hungry jaws. But I wasn't ready to wipe out just yet.

“I just took it on a Delta flight-” I tried to continue, but...

“I don't care what you got away with before, right now your bag is too big and you better step aside and pay the thirty dollars, or I'll remove it and you from the flight.”

I was dumbstruck. How do you begin to answer a threat like that? For me, I couldn't move past “what you got away with before”, like I had spent the weekend concocting some devilish plan to bring down a multi-billion-dollar corporation by sneaking a (suddenly) oversized bag on board a quick flight to LA.

My temper rose. I got flushed. No words came out. Yet...

... As it's late, I'll pick up this story tomorrow.

Tomorrow: How Do You Solve A Problem Like Delta?