It was about ten days after my prayer that I decided to take a long bike ride into downtown Long Beach. I'd stop by an ex-employer to see if there were any jobs available and then continue on to the Palos Verdes area. It would be a long ride, 20 miles or so, a good workout with hilly climbs and lots of nice scenery. I had already been riding my bike quite extensively since my car broke down; I was more than ready to start pushing my stamina limit.
I was riding up Long Beach blvd. when I got hit by a van and thrown against a parked truck. I don't remember much from the accident. According to the police report the driver said he never saw me, though he did report hearing a loud thump on the right side of his vehicle. That was my body colliding with his van that he heard, breaking off his side view mirror while shattering my ribs on my left side. The collision must have thrown me over my handlebars. My body struck a parked pick-up truck leaving a one foot by one foot indentation in the tailgate, breaking my pelvis in two different places. My body landed next to the drivers side door of the parked vehicle, but not before my head hit the asphalt so hard that it broke the bridge of my nose. I received a scrap on my right elbow and a torn rotator cuff, probably from the landing. The driver would've kept on driving if it wasn't for the witnesses who were screaming for him to pull over.
I remember barely opening one of my eyes to get a blurred vision of someone looking down into my face. That must have been the paramedic. I kind of remember being loaded on to an ambulance and being off loaded at the emergency room. Staring up from the gurney I could see emergency room personnel gathering around me as I was wheeled through the doors, and that was it. According to the medical report I had a positive loss of consciousness, I guess meaning that I passed out but hadn't gone into cardiac arrest. My memory of the experience doesn't get clear until after I was injected with morphine. By then I had been taken to get catscan images of my head, neck and midsection. From the looks of my head injury the medical team was sure I had multiple skull fractures, but the catscan came back negative. I often joke with people that it's my Polish heritage that saved me there; the Poles have always been known for having hard heads. I'm sure the Docs wanted to make sure that my injuries didn't require immediate surgery before administering morphine to numb the unbearable pain. The report said I was complaining about the pain, though I remember nothing before the morphine injection. My mind has wiped any clear memory of the traumatic experience.
My memory comes back to me as I was giving a nurse my personal information. I was fading in and out. One time I awoke to see a Doctor stitching up my right eyebrow. I asked "How many stitches?" and he replied "Oh, about 40." I would have raised my eyebrows in amazement but I didn't want to ruin his handiwork. All those stitches went to my forehead-told you I have a Polish hard head. I remember a rod being drilled into my knee for a traction device for my broken hip; I kind of wish that I was unconscious for that one. I blew bloody snot bubbles through my nose as I hyperventilated through the procedure.
My ex, my parents and my two best friends were notified of the accident, but my friends were the only ones to come see me in the emergency room that night. One of them later told me that as they were walking back to their car he turned to his brother and said "Boy, Mike sure fucked himself up this time." Once I found out that I had been taken to Long Beach Memorial Medical Center I was greatly relieved. Having grown up in Southern California all my life I knew that the hospital had one of the best trauma care units in the county. I also knew that, even though I had no medical insurance, from an ethical point of view, they would have to treat me and fix me up the best they could. My whole body felt shattered. I immediately knew that I was lucky to be alive.
Next up: When a Nice Sunset May be Your Last.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Chapter Thirteen: Why Not Join the Military?
I took my camping gear that I had stored at a friends garage and pitched a tent next to one of the local freeways. Then I tried to figure out what I'd do next. My best friend suggested that I join the military. I thought he was nuts. I had always been one to butt heads with authority and figured pacifism was usually the best route to go in life. But the more I thought about it the more it seemed that a stint with the military would be my best option. I'd be off the streets, have an income and have a purpose. Even though I thought the war in Iraq was a monumental mistake I'd always believed that the draft should be imposed anytime our government starts preaching war. The first to be drafted can be the children of the President and the members of Congress. I kinda think our government would be much less enthusiastic about war mongering if it was the lives of the family members our own supposed representatives that were on the line. I had been saddened time and again reading about the soldiers being sent over seas to "fight for our country" only to be sent home injured, maimed or in a pine box back to devastated love ones. I thought I could pitch a story to newspapers about my attempt to join the service in hopes of encouraging others to sign up. It's a tragedy that war vets have to be repeatedly redeployed to the front until they're burned out or worse. They're human beings, not expendable commodities like our country's treatment of them would suggest.
So at age 41 I decided that I would get myself in the best shape of my life. I planned on riding my bike throughout Orange and L.A. counties for three months or so until the first of the year. Then I'd try to sell myself to a recruiter who was willing to take a chance on someone six years past the maximum sign up age. At least I'd be in terrific shape by then, and if I failed to enlist then I'd just go on from there to wherever the winding road of life would lead me. I might of made one huge mistake, though, depending on your faith or lack thereof. Considering my pacifism I decided I'd sign up as a non-combatant. I still, however, said a prayer to God, asking him to show me a sign to indicate whether or not my decision was alright with him. You know the saying "Careful what you ask for"? How true. It was about 10 days after that prayer that I think I got my answer.
Next up: Prayer Answered
So at age 41 I decided that I would get myself in the best shape of my life. I planned on riding my bike throughout Orange and L.A. counties for three months or so until the first of the year. Then I'd try to sell myself to a recruiter who was willing to take a chance on someone six years past the maximum sign up age. At least I'd be in terrific shape by then, and if I failed to enlist then I'd just go on from there to wherever the winding road of life would lead me. I might of made one huge mistake, though, depending on your faith or lack thereof. Considering my pacifism I decided I'd sign up as a non-combatant. I still, however, said a prayer to God, asking him to show me a sign to indicate whether or not my decision was alright with him. You know the saying "Careful what you ask for"? How true. It was about 10 days after that prayer that I think I got my answer.
Next up: Prayer Answered
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Chapter Twelve: One Road Ends, Another Continues
One day, for some odd reason, she got dressed up like she was going somewhere. I didn't know why at first. I gave her the protein shake that I had learned to make palatable for her for lunch: milk, ice, protein mix, a little bit of chocolate syrup with a dash of vanilla extract, a half a banana , sweet and low and a half of a multi-vitamin pill blended in for an extra healthy supplement. She seemed pretty happy with it and thanked me. I said "no problem" and went to the back of the house to take a nap in a reclining chair. I woke up a couple hours later and peeked through the kitchen door and into the living room to check up on her. She looked like she had dozed off. I went back to the reclining chair and watched several episodes of Sponge Bob Square Pants. About an hour later I peeked once again to check her status. She was frozen in the same position. I walked over to her and called "grandma!". There was no response. I got closer. She wasn't breathing, and her cheek was cool to the touch. She had died, dressed in her Sunday best, an add for holiday fruitcakes in her lap, seated in her favorite chair in the house that she had lived in for almost 50 years. I had kept my promise to my grandpa.
Hardly anyone showed up to the funeral. My aunt and her banker husband gave me three days to leave the house; I had been staying there to answer calls from relatives and keep the house clean for the wake. My grandmother appointed my aunts husband executor of her will, which had been altered to his specifications with her approval. The sale of the house probably netted over 400,000 dollars. My father got 30,000 dollars, and I got 10,000 dollars. The rest of the money went to the bankers family. I didn't mind, I had long anticipated the money grab. My parents were seething. They never wanted to talk to my fathers sister again. They felt betrayed. Oh well, I thought, when it comes to greed there always has to be winners and losers.
I took the money and started to use a good portion of it to fix my broken down car. The smart move would've been to sell my car for anything I could get for it and buy a used car that was in better shape. But my grandpa had given me that car and I couldn't bear parting with it. I ended up spending nearly half the money on repairs [tune-up, tires, shocks and struts, drive shafts, rack and pinion-man I was stupid]. The rest of the money was spent on a cell phone, hotels, food, and a job finding excursion into the desert that ended up fruitless. With a small amount of inheritance left I came back to Orange County and found a job at a dog and cat kennel. I was always good with animals, especially cats. But after three months working there my car blew a head gasket, and while trying to fix the problem myself with the help of a co-worker my car was towed off the street. Now I was REALLY homeless; with no where to stay and no way to get to work.
Next up: Why Not Join the Military?
Hardly anyone showed up to the funeral. My aunt and her banker husband gave me three days to leave the house; I had been staying there to answer calls from relatives and keep the house clean for the wake. My grandmother appointed my aunts husband executor of her will, which had been altered to his specifications with her approval. The sale of the house probably netted over 400,000 dollars. My father got 30,000 dollars, and I got 10,000 dollars. The rest of the money went to the bankers family. I didn't mind, I had long anticipated the money grab. My parents were seething. They never wanted to talk to my fathers sister again. They felt betrayed. Oh well, I thought, when it comes to greed there always has to be winners and losers.
I took the money and started to use a good portion of it to fix my broken down car. The smart move would've been to sell my car for anything I could get for it and buy a used car that was in better shape. But my grandpa had given me that car and I couldn't bear parting with it. I ended up spending nearly half the money on repairs [tune-up, tires, shocks and struts, drive shafts, rack and pinion-man I was stupid]. The rest of the money was spent on a cell phone, hotels, food, and a job finding excursion into the desert that ended up fruitless. With a small amount of inheritance left I came back to Orange County and found a job at a dog and cat kennel. I was always good with animals, especially cats. But after three months working there my car blew a head gasket, and while trying to fix the problem myself with the help of a co-worker my car was towed off the street. Now I was REALLY homeless; with no where to stay and no way to get to work.
Next up: Why Not Join the Military?
Monday, November 9, 2009
Chapter Eleven: Forgivness and a Promise Kept
Towards the end of my two year stint with living out of my car I got a chance to reconcile with my grandmother. Her health was deteriorating, so I decided to make good on a promise that I had made to my grandfather while he was on his death bed.
My grandfather was a WWII vet. He fought in the South Pacific and ended up in Nagasaki six days after the dropping of the atomic bomb. He wasn't my real grandfather in the genetic sense, but he loved me like his own nonetheless. I loved my grandpa. He taught me how to shake hands like a man when I was a kid, and I always had a great deal of respect for him. It was tough to see his body slowly break down from ailments his Doctors thought might have been associated with the radiation he was exposed to in Nagasaki. Towards the end of his life he was taken to the VA Hospital in Long Beach; a shadow of his former self, broken down and weak. I went to see him one last time. He was stripped down to his underwear. His hands were bound to the sides of his bed to keep him from pulling the I.V. tubes out of his arms and the intubation tube stuck down his throat. I saw him there looking helpless and could see in his eyes that he wanted to die. I leaned over and thanked him for being my grandpa. I told him I loved him and kissed him on the forehead. I promised that I'd take care of grandma, then said goodbye. He died two days later.
I didn't want to see my grandmother committed to a rest home because of a lack of care, so I started to show up at her house everyday to check in on her. The place was a wreck; trash bags and clutter everywhere, dirty towels in the wash room, putrid rotting food on the kitchen counters, rotten food dripping with brown gunk in the refrigerator. This was all unacceptable, so I cleaned and sanitized the house top to bottom. I also learned how to prepare the protein shakes with which she was sustaining herself, since that was the only thing she could keep down. I was basically the only family member that showed any interest in doing what was necessary in keeping her out of a rest home. Her daughter, who was a trained nurse, had three kids of her own to take care of. She'd stop by every few days to check in and make sure that her mom was taking her meds. Her husband was a vice president of a bank. They had enough money to provide a day care provider for her, but why waste the money when I was willing to do it for free? My dad didn't ever stop by to visit his mom, he was just waiting for the hefty inheritance that he'd never receive. But I was there everyday, on work days as well as my days off.
My grandmother had always been a two-faced person. She seemed a friendly enough person to enjoy her company, but then she would say things behind peoples backs to turn people against one another. The whole family knew of this horrible trait, which was probably why her son and daughter never came by to spend any quality time with her at the end of her life. But I had made my peace with her. While I was taking care of her we became close, not the dysfunctional kind of close that I had known in my childhood, but a closeness minus all the bull crap. She wanted me to move back in with her, but I declined. I'd continue to live out of my car and take care of her the best I could. A strange thing happened about six weeks before she died. That two-faced side of her personality, that other side of her character that pitted people against each other, disappeared entirely. It was almost like a miracle. I called family members to come witness the transformation for themselves, but no one ever came by.
Next up: One Road Ends, Another Continues.
My grandfather was a WWII vet. He fought in the South Pacific and ended up in Nagasaki six days after the dropping of the atomic bomb. He wasn't my real grandfather in the genetic sense, but he loved me like his own nonetheless. I loved my grandpa. He taught me how to shake hands like a man when I was a kid, and I always had a great deal of respect for him. It was tough to see his body slowly break down from ailments his Doctors thought might have been associated with the radiation he was exposed to in Nagasaki. Towards the end of his life he was taken to the VA Hospital in Long Beach; a shadow of his former self, broken down and weak. I went to see him one last time. He was stripped down to his underwear. His hands were bound to the sides of his bed to keep him from pulling the I.V. tubes out of his arms and the intubation tube stuck down his throat. I saw him there looking helpless and could see in his eyes that he wanted to die. I leaned over and thanked him for being my grandpa. I told him I loved him and kissed him on the forehead. I promised that I'd take care of grandma, then said goodbye. He died two days later.
I didn't want to see my grandmother committed to a rest home because of a lack of care, so I started to show up at her house everyday to check in on her. The place was a wreck; trash bags and clutter everywhere, dirty towels in the wash room, putrid rotting food on the kitchen counters, rotten food dripping with brown gunk in the refrigerator. This was all unacceptable, so I cleaned and sanitized the house top to bottom. I also learned how to prepare the protein shakes with which she was sustaining herself, since that was the only thing she could keep down. I was basically the only family member that showed any interest in doing what was necessary in keeping her out of a rest home. Her daughter, who was a trained nurse, had three kids of her own to take care of. She'd stop by every few days to check in and make sure that her mom was taking her meds. Her husband was a vice president of a bank. They had enough money to provide a day care provider for her, but why waste the money when I was willing to do it for free? My dad didn't ever stop by to visit his mom, he was just waiting for the hefty inheritance that he'd never receive. But I was there everyday, on work days as well as my days off.
My grandmother had always been a two-faced person. She seemed a friendly enough person to enjoy her company, but then she would say things behind peoples backs to turn people against one another. The whole family knew of this horrible trait, which was probably why her son and daughter never came by to spend any quality time with her at the end of her life. But I had made my peace with her. While I was taking care of her we became close, not the dysfunctional kind of close that I had known in my childhood, but a closeness minus all the bull crap. She wanted me to move back in with her, but I declined. I'd continue to live out of my car and take care of her the best I could. A strange thing happened about six weeks before she died. That two-faced side of her personality, that other side of her character that pitted people against each other, disappeared entirely. It was almost like a miracle. I called family members to come witness the transformation for themselves, but no one ever came by.
Next up: One Road Ends, Another Continues.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Chapter Ten: Dropping Out While Trying to Make Sense of it All
I took to living out of my car. It wasn't easy at first. I had major concerns about the lifestyle: the fear of being carjacked, how I was going to stay clean without regular access to a shower, how I would sleep in an economy car that obviously wasn't suited to be a camper, finding a "campsite" for the night where I wouldn't be ticketed by law enforcement [sleeping in your car is illegal in every city in Southern California except for Santa Monica-and try finding adequate parking there] or freak out the neighbors who might be worried that the guy hanging out in his car is plotting to rob them or go an some kind of murderous rampage or rape frenzy. All these issues would work themselves out over the next few months. I already had a job working part time at an auto parts store, so I had a small income to pay for food and gas.
Through time I decided that the minimalist lifestyle suited me just fine. It wasn't that I was lazy. I had worked long and hard hours before in the past. I had both personal and philosophic reasons for striving to survive while earning peanuts. Ever since I was a teenager it seemed to me that something was seriously wrong with the material society in which I was raised. Since government is a reflection of society, that meant there was something seriously wrong with our whole socio-political system. Earning just enough money to sustain myself while living out of my car meant that I wouldn't be earning enough to pay anything in terms of federal income tax that would ultimately be used by a government that wastes away our capital resources on terminally inefficient bureaucracies and unethical, legally unjustifiable wars. Not having any children to support and not being involved in a monogamous relationship meant that I had the privilege of choosing a life of poverty rather than work to support a government that is in the process of destroying the future of our country. Once I started living out of my car I started to catch up on a whole lot of reading that I had been putting off for so many years. Over the next couple of years I read over 30 books, all biographies and historical narratives. What I learned only strengthened my views of a society and government gone mad. From an essay titled "The Humanist Revolution" written by T.H. Huxley to books like "The Prize" by Daniel Yergin and "From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Hundred Years of Western Civilization" by Jacque Barzun, the observations of people much more intelligent than myself concerning the socio-economic unsustainability of the worldwide movement towards material based societies became vividly clear. I could go on and on with this argument, but I'll spare you the rhetoric.
Political philosophy aside, I had always been dysfunctional when it came to personal finance. The less money I had, the less money I'd waste. I'd be forced to align my financial priorities along the lines of bare bones survival. I figured that in the long run, the experience would do me some good. Eventually I'd have to get a job where I could earn more money and get a place of my own. Then, hopefully, I would've learned a thing or two about being responsible with my earnings. At least that's what I hoped.
Next up: Forgiveness and a Promise Kept.
Through time I decided that the minimalist lifestyle suited me just fine. It wasn't that I was lazy. I had worked long and hard hours before in the past. I had both personal and philosophic reasons for striving to survive while earning peanuts. Ever since I was a teenager it seemed to me that something was seriously wrong with the material society in which I was raised. Since government is a reflection of society, that meant there was something seriously wrong with our whole socio-political system. Earning just enough money to sustain myself while living out of my car meant that I wouldn't be earning enough to pay anything in terms of federal income tax that would ultimately be used by a government that wastes away our capital resources on terminally inefficient bureaucracies and unethical, legally unjustifiable wars. Not having any children to support and not being involved in a monogamous relationship meant that I had the privilege of choosing a life of poverty rather than work to support a government that is in the process of destroying the future of our country. Once I started living out of my car I started to catch up on a whole lot of reading that I had been putting off for so many years. Over the next couple of years I read over 30 books, all biographies and historical narratives. What I learned only strengthened my views of a society and government gone mad. From an essay titled "The Humanist Revolution" written by T.H. Huxley to books like "The Prize" by Daniel Yergin and "From Dawn to Decadence: 500 Hundred Years of Western Civilization" by Jacque Barzun, the observations of people much more intelligent than myself concerning the socio-economic unsustainability of the worldwide movement towards material based societies became vividly clear. I could go on and on with this argument, but I'll spare you the rhetoric.
Political philosophy aside, I had always been dysfunctional when it came to personal finance. The less money I had, the less money I'd waste. I'd be forced to align my financial priorities along the lines of bare bones survival. I figured that in the long run, the experience would do me some good. Eventually I'd have to get a job where I could earn more money and get a place of my own. Then, hopefully, I would've learned a thing or two about being responsible with my earnings. At least that's what I hoped.
Next up: Forgiveness and a Promise Kept.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Chapter Nine: Coming Face to Face with a Monster
I dreamt that I was walking through the old neighborhood. I recognized the houses; California bungalow style homes with nicely kept lawns and shady front porches. As I was passing by I noticed that there was a news bulletin flashing on peoples television sets. It must have been a summers day. The front doors to the houses were open allowing me to see through their screen doors and into their living rooms. There was a news anchor on the T.V. warning people that there was a sexual predator on the loose. A picture flashed onto the screen. The face was blurred out, but I knew who it was; intimately. It was an ogre, a stealer of childhood innocence, the demon that had been attacking the inner reaches of my psyche from the time I was assaulted--a monster in the truest sense of the word.
I then found myself riding in the back seat of a car. I was on the drivers side. I couldn't see who was driving. I looked to the left and out the window to see the same old neighborhood passing by. I wasn't alone in that back seat. I looked over to my right and there on the other side of the back seat was me, as a child, about the same age as I was when I was assaulted. Then I saw who was seated between us. It was the monster. I didn't hesitate. With my right elbow I started to strike the monster as hard as I could. There was a rush of bright lights, then I woke up. I felt great! It was incredible! It was truly as if a thousand pound weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I walked three feet off the ground the rest of the day and completely lost the desire to drink myself to death. It was a psychological catharsis.
I confronted my grandmother about some abuse issues I had with her from my childhood. She denied anything untoward took place then proceeded for about an hour talking about how abusive and imperfect her childhood had been. That told me all I needed to know. Although I was calm and straight forward with my approach on the subject the conversation freaked her out. She ended up kicking me out of her house, but that was fine with me. My stay had served its purpose. I had remained quiet for too many years. It was time that I came to the defense of my inner child since no one was there for me when I was young and vulnerable. I also confronted my mother over the assault. She also played the denial game, then told me that she never wanted to speak of the incident again. She became even more icier towards me afterwards. She started to treat me like my brother before he died. Her reaction spoke volumes for her character. I felt sorry for her, figuring that she must have been put through hell as a child to be passing along the pain to the next generation. At least she had my weak kneed father to be her dependent and satiate her desire for a life of distance and denial. It never gave her any happiness. She just became colder and more bitter the older she got.
Next up: Dropping Out While Trying to Make Sense of It All.
I then found myself riding in the back seat of a car. I was on the drivers side. I couldn't see who was driving. I looked to the left and out the window to see the same old neighborhood passing by. I wasn't alone in that back seat. I looked over to my right and there on the other side of the back seat was me, as a child, about the same age as I was when I was assaulted. Then I saw who was seated between us. It was the monster. I didn't hesitate. With my right elbow I started to strike the monster as hard as I could. There was a rush of bright lights, then I woke up. I felt great! It was incredible! It was truly as if a thousand pound weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I walked three feet off the ground the rest of the day and completely lost the desire to drink myself to death. It was a psychological catharsis.
I confronted my grandmother about some abuse issues I had with her from my childhood. She denied anything untoward took place then proceeded for about an hour talking about how abusive and imperfect her childhood had been. That told me all I needed to know. Although I was calm and straight forward with my approach on the subject the conversation freaked her out. She ended up kicking me out of her house, but that was fine with me. My stay had served its purpose. I had remained quiet for too many years. It was time that I came to the defense of my inner child since no one was there for me when I was young and vulnerable. I also confronted my mother over the assault. She also played the denial game, then told me that she never wanted to speak of the incident again. She became even more icier towards me afterwards. She started to treat me like my brother before he died. Her reaction spoke volumes for her character. I felt sorry for her, figuring that she must have been put through hell as a child to be passing along the pain to the next generation. At least she had my weak kneed father to be her dependent and satiate her desire for a life of distance and denial. It never gave her any happiness. She just became colder and more bitter the older she got.
Next up: Dropping Out While Trying to Make Sense of It All.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Chapter Eight: Falling
Not surprisingly, I fell flat on my face. I didn't know how to cope. I think I had a nervous breakdown, not a good thing when you're trying to convince a new employer that you can be a strong and reliable manager. I had only been working as a coffee shop manager for six months when I requested a month off to get my head straight. That was the end of my career with that company, only I was too stupid to realize it. I took the thousand dollars that my ex gave me for my truck [I had paid off about half of the 24,000 dollars that it had cost] and took back my old car [Toyota Tercel] that I had given her to drive. That way I would have transportation minus the payments. Then I went on a long road trip, zig-zagging my way through the California desert, Arizona and New Mexico.
I was ready to excel as a manager when I got back, but my employer would have none of it. It took them a month to find three bull crap reasons to get rid of me. I knew they were bull, I'd eventually appeal my application for unemployment with an administrative law judge who agreed with my arguments. I took my last check and small severance pay and took to the road again, this time winding my way through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas and Oklahoma before just about running out of money. I met up with a friend who was visiting family, and we caravaned back to California after a week long stay in the OK. With nowhere else to go I ended up living at my grandmothers house, which I wasn't all too happy about.
It was at her house that I was assaulted as a child. There were other instances of abuse, those at the hands of my grandmother, that made the house a much less than desirable place for me to rebound. In fact, I started to drink heavily. I gained a lot of weight and started to suffer from extreme depression. I told my friends at the beginning of my stay that the experience would either kill me, or I'd be better off for it. I was sleeping next to the bathroom where I had lost my innocence as a child. The memories were vivid; I could still feel what it was like to be assaulted and penetrated. It seemed like I was falling down a hole of despair from which I would never climb out. Then I had a dream.
Next up: Coming Face to Face with a Monster.
I was ready to excel as a manager when I got back, but my employer would have none of it. It took them a month to find three bull crap reasons to get rid of me. I knew they were bull, I'd eventually appeal my application for unemployment with an administrative law judge who agreed with my arguments. I took my last check and small severance pay and took to the road again, this time winding my way through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Colorado, Kansas and Oklahoma before just about running out of money. I met up with a friend who was visiting family, and we caravaned back to California after a week long stay in the OK. With nowhere else to go I ended up living at my grandmothers house, which I wasn't all too happy about.
It was at her house that I was assaulted as a child. There were other instances of abuse, those at the hands of my grandmother, that made the house a much less than desirable place for me to rebound. In fact, I started to drink heavily. I gained a lot of weight and started to suffer from extreme depression. I told my friends at the beginning of my stay that the experience would either kill me, or I'd be better off for it. I was sleeping next to the bathroom where I had lost my innocence as a child. The memories were vivid; I could still feel what it was like to be assaulted and penetrated. It seemed like I was falling down a hole of despair from which I would never climb out. Then I had a dream.
Next up: Coming Face to Face with a Monster.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Chapter Seven: Distance and Pain
As my mate's children grew older and started to have kids of their own we started to drift apart. I always had a problem with getting too close to people. I think this started back when I was sexually assaulted when I was about five years old. It was a horrible experience, one that put an end to my innocence as a child. I had left my body while being sodomized with a foreign object. I could see what was happening to me from above; hear my high pitched squeals of agony as I was being "punished" for something I didn't mean to do. I re-entered my body as I was told to clean up the mess that was made from the horrific act. It was then that I started fantasizing about being invisible. If no one could see you, no one could hurt you. I constantly had thoughts of suicide during my pre-teen years, thoughts that carried on until my late teens. My sophomore year in high school I started drinking heavily and taking drugs figuring that one day I'd just pass out and never wake up again. When I became a young adult I decided that I didn't want to go the way of my brother so, instead of drinking and taking drugs, I started to push people away to keep them from getting too close to me. This is a tactic that I developed in high school. That's probably why my class mates used to call me "Mike the knife". By the time I got together with my ex I had perfected the technique. People would start to get too close to me, either in person or in the workplace, and I'd turn on them. With a sharp dagger of the tongue I'd say something deeply hurtful to them. I'd be an asshole straight out of the blue. That usually did the trick. It gave me the same perverse comfort that the delusion of being invisible gave me when I was a child. But in sabotaging my relationships with others I was ruining whatever chance I had at being successful at whatever I did. Particularly in the retail industry, where I usually found employment. Hard work was never a problem for me. Our success in life, however, is mostly built upon the positive networking interactions that we forge with others. I would always look like a good candidate for advancement for whatever company I found myself working for then, KABOOM! I'd blow it out of the water.
With my ex I started to distance myself from her and her growing family. I completely couldn't relate to all the love that they shared with one another. It was alien to me. At least I had a view, from the outside looking in, of what normalcy was supposed to look like. It didn't do our relationship any good. I became a weak appendage in her life, and ultimately we both called it quits.
At the time of our breakup I had been working as an assistant manager at a coffee house. I was doing pretty good; at the top of my retail managerial class. I thought our parting would give me a chance to move ahead in my life on my own two feet. Maybe after a couple of years of success we might even consider getting back together, only this time I could be the financially strong one to allow her to ease back on her career and spend more time with her children and grandchildren. The plan sounded great at the time, but I underestimated how much of a support structure that my ex had become. She was always the one to handle all the finances; pay all the bills along with whatever meager capital contributions I could make. I was allowed to float from job to job for years with her being our pillar of strength and security. I had become functionally disabled from a personal finance standpoint. She was more than just a crutch to me. She was a motorized wheelchair.
Next up: Falling
With my ex I started to distance myself from her and her growing family. I completely couldn't relate to all the love that they shared with one another. It was alien to me. At least I had a view, from the outside looking in, of what normalcy was supposed to look like. It didn't do our relationship any good. I became a weak appendage in her life, and ultimately we both called it quits.
At the time of our breakup I had been working as an assistant manager at a coffee house. I was doing pretty good; at the top of my retail managerial class. I thought our parting would give me a chance to move ahead in my life on my own two feet. Maybe after a couple of years of success we might even consider getting back together, only this time I could be the financially strong one to allow her to ease back on her career and spend more time with her children and grandchildren. The plan sounded great at the time, but I underestimated how much of a support structure that my ex had become. She was always the one to handle all the finances; pay all the bills along with whatever meager capital contributions I could make. I was allowed to float from job to job for years with her being our pillar of strength and security. I had become functionally disabled from a personal finance standpoint. She was more than just a crutch to me. She was a motorized wheelchair.
Next up: Falling
Monday, September 28, 2009
Chapter Six: Haywire in the Brain
A few years into the relationship I had a seizure. It was a big one; a grand mal seizure. I was out of work at the time, sleeping in later and later each morning while still feeling fatigued as though I wasn't getting enough sleep. One day my ex came into our bedroom to grab something or another. She found me violently convulsing on our bed. She ran outside to a neighbor that she had been chatting with over a cup of coffee and screamed "Something is wrong with Michael! Call 911!" She ran back into the room and found me blue in the face and choking. She climbed onto the bed and yelled "You're not going to die on me!", turned me to my side and started to pound my back. I coughed up a plug of saliva and blood. During my seizure I had bit my tongue, a common occurrence with a grand mal. Usually the victim will involuntarily clear their own throat, but sometimes they don't. This was the case with Olympic gold medalist Florence Griffith Joyner. If the throat doesn't clear, the victim suffocates. The actions of my ex might very well have saved my life.
When the paramedics arrived at our apartment I had awakened into a state of utter confusion. This is a not too uncommon post-seizure condition that usually lasts a short matter of time, but the emergency workers nonetheless pinned me to the bed and inserted an I.V. line into my arm, which I immediately tore off. It took five men to wrestle me to the gurney. I don't remember any of this; I was in shock and completely unaware of what was going on.
They drove me to the nearest emergency room with my ex in close pursuit. As I was wheeled through the doors I screamed "Help! They're trying to kill me!" I was sent to a vacant room where I passed out and came to a few minutes later. It's really weird waking up in an emergency room not knowing how you got there. I looked around. There were puffy clouds framed against a light blue sky border lining the tops of the walls. Probably for a calming affect on the more rowdy patients. This is the first thing I saw. I thought "Am I dead?" Then I saw the I-med pole and the line going into my arm. Then I noticed that my wrists and ankles were tied to the gurney. I found this very disturbing. Had I gone crazy and hurt my ex? A nurse came in to check on me with a disgusted look in her face. I'm sure the whole staff thought I was whacked out on drugs. I asked for my mate figuring that she could tell me what was going on. The nurse told me that she'd get the doctor. He came in a minute later, convinced that I was suffering from a drug overdose. I assured him that I hadn't done anything more illicit than pot in years. He told me that we'd just wait to see what the toxicology report said, then left the room to get my ex. She was in tears when she saw me, then told me what had happened.
The doc came back with the blood test results confirming what I had told him. His whole demeanor changed, as did the nurse's. He ordered a cat scan to rule out a brain tumor. Once that was done he came back at me with "We don't know what caused your seizure...something must have gone haywire." Haywire!? Haywire in my brain? That wasn't very comforting. Eventually, after visiting a county hospital for another cat scan and more tests, the diagnosis came back "idiopathic seizure syndrome", a medical term for "we don't know what the f..k went wrong". This, unfortunately, is the case with a vast majority of seizures. I was prescribed phenytoin [generic dilantin] and that was it. Anti-seizure drugs for the rest of my life. I never liked the way the drug made me feel. It made me lethargic, and made my depressions occur more frequently and last longer. The county doc must have thought my seizure was a fluke, because six months later he weaned me off my medication. I ended up having another seizure, though this one wasn't quite as sever. This time my eyes opened to my lifesaver, who was staring straight back at me. By the look in her face I knew what had happened. I said "Seizure?" She nodded. I replied "Shit". She didn't call the paramedics. She handled my state of confusion by telling me that everything was alright and to go back to sleep. She did exactly what you're supposed to do with a seizure sufferer. I thanked God that she was there for me.
The doc looked stunned and apologetic when he heard of my recurrence. He put me back on the drug, and I'd keep taking it for years. Finally I got sick and tired of the side affects, feeling that I didn't want to go through the rest of my life with the drug induced lethargy and depression. I preferred the risk of death. The doc told me I could have another seizure tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now. Ten years could go by and I could have another seizure. I didn't care. My mind was made up. Over the course of three months I slowly weaned myself off the drug. I never again had another seizure.
The whole experience contributed to my overall insecurity over ever making a go of it alone. It convinced me that it was better that I stay connected to my ex just to play it safe.
Next up: Distance and Pain
When the paramedics arrived at our apartment I had awakened into a state of utter confusion. This is a not too uncommon post-seizure condition that usually lasts a short matter of time, but the emergency workers nonetheless pinned me to the bed and inserted an I.V. line into my arm, which I immediately tore off. It took five men to wrestle me to the gurney. I don't remember any of this; I was in shock and completely unaware of what was going on.
They drove me to the nearest emergency room with my ex in close pursuit. As I was wheeled through the doors I screamed "Help! They're trying to kill me!" I was sent to a vacant room where I passed out and came to a few minutes later. It's really weird waking up in an emergency room not knowing how you got there. I looked around. There were puffy clouds framed against a light blue sky border lining the tops of the walls. Probably for a calming affect on the more rowdy patients. This is the first thing I saw. I thought "Am I dead?" Then I saw the I-med pole and the line going into my arm. Then I noticed that my wrists and ankles were tied to the gurney. I found this very disturbing. Had I gone crazy and hurt my ex? A nurse came in to check on me with a disgusted look in her face. I'm sure the whole staff thought I was whacked out on drugs. I asked for my mate figuring that she could tell me what was going on. The nurse told me that she'd get the doctor. He came in a minute later, convinced that I was suffering from a drug overdose. I assured him that I hadn't done anything more illicit than pot in years. He told me that we'd just wait to see what the toxicology report said, then left the room to get my ex. She was in tears when she saw me, then told me what had happened.
The doc came back with the blood test results confirming what I had told him. His whole demeanor changed, as did the nurse's. He ordered a cat scan to rule out a brain tumor. Once that was done he came back at me with "We don't know what caused your seizure...something must have gone haywire." Haywire!? Haywire in my brain? That wasn't very comforting. Eventually, after visiting a county hospital for another cat scan and more tests, the diagnosis came back "idiopathic seizure syndrome", a medical term for "we don't know what the f..k went wrong". This, unfortunately, is the case with a vast majority of seizures. I was prescribed phenytoin [generic dilantin] and that was it. Anti-seizure drugs for the rest of my life. I never liked the way the drug made me feel. It made me lethargic, and made my depressions occur more frequently and last longer. The county doc must have thought my seizure was a fluke, because six months later he weaned me off my medication. I ended up having another seizure, though this one wasn't quite as sever. This time my eyes opened to my lifesaver, who was staring straight back at me. By the look in her face I knew what had happened. I said "Seizure?" She nodded. I replied "Shit". She didn't call the paramedics. She handled my state of confusion by telling me that everything was alright and to go back to sleep. She did exactly what you're supposed to do with a seizure sufferer. I thanked God that she was there for me.
The doc looked stunned and apologetic when he heard of my recurrence. He put me back on the drug, and I'd keep taking it for years. Finally I got sick and tired of the side affects, feeling that I didn't want to go through the rest of my life with the drug induced lethargy and depression. I preferred the risk of death. The doc told me I could have another seizure tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now. Ten years could go by and I could have another seizure. I didn't care. My mind was made up. Over the course of three months I slowly weaned myself off the drug. I never again had another seizure.
The whole experience contributed to my overall insecurity over ever making a go of it alone. It convinced me that it was better that I stay connected to my ex just to play it safe.
Next up: Distance and Pain
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Chapter Five: Bad Times/Good Times
It was a rocky relationship. I had a lot of character flaws to overcome and she had the baggage of two failed marriages to carry around with her. We got engaged and bought rings for both her and myself. Then we got into a fight and I ended up flushing the rings down the toilet. It was just the kind of thing I'd do. I'd never raise a hand to her. A few times I got so angry I'd start to bash my head into a wall. That would usually break up the fight. Eventually our relationship mellowed out, and whatever flaws in the both of us that we couldn't overcome we'd just learn to accept. We never did officially get married. Ours was a marriage by trial and fire. Years later I'd realize that we had developed a dependent/co-dependent relationship. She was always the strong one. In some ways I was just along for the ride having no confidence in my ability to navigate my own way down the road. It made me weak, and that was a handicap that I'd eventually have to confront on my own if I was ever to find myself as an individual.
We had plenty of good times along the way. We always travelled well together. Our first weekend getaway was to San Diego. Through the years we'd take several trips up the coast: Santa Barbara, San Jose, Monterrey. We saw Yosemite Valley together, a must see in everyones' lifetime. My most fondest of memories was while we were on a trip to the Zion/Bryce area of Utah. It was October, just after the first snow fall of the season. The red rock spires of Bryce were snow capped, and incredible sight for the both of us. The drive back to St.George took us through an ice covered valley ethereally illuminated by a full moon. We must have passed hundreds of deer along the way, stopping on a few occasions to let groups of the animals cross the road. But the highlight of the trip was when we visited Zion one last time before driving back to Southern California. There was a snow flurry blowing over the plateau above dropping giant, perfectly formed snowflakes floating down to the high desert red rock canyon below. The natural beauty of Zion was in full display, the misty clouds above making the entire experience dreamlike. We stopped at a scenic viewpoint, my ex jumping out of the car and striding up to get a prolonged look at what seemed like the gates of heaven. She turned to me with a melting snowflake stuck to one of her eyelashes and with eyes as wide as an awestruck child simply said "Its beautiful!".
These were the kind of places she never would've thought about going to see on her own. Moments like these were my spiritual gift to her. I hope that she remembers them like I do.
Next up: Haywire in the Brain
We had plenty of good times along the way. We always travelled well together. Our first weekend getaway was to San Diego. Through the years we'd take several trips up the coast: Santa Barbara, San Jose, Monterrey. We saw Yosemite Valley together, a must see in everyones' lifetime. My most fondest of memories was while we were on a trip to the Zion/Bryce area of Utah. It was October, just after the first snow fall of the season. The red rock spires of Bryce were snow capped, and incredible sight for the both of us. The drive back to St.George took us through an ice covered valley ethereally illuminated by a full moon. We must have passed hundreds of deer along the way, stopping on a few occasions to let groups of the animals cross the road. But the highlight of the trip was when we visited Zion one last time before driving back to Southern California. There was a snow flurry blowing over the plateau above dropping giant, perfectly formed snowflakes floating down to the high desert red rock canyon below. The natural beauty of Zion was in full display, the misty clouds above making the entire experience dreamlike. We stopped at a scenic viewpoint, my ex jumping out of the car and striding up to get a prolonged look at what seemed like the gates of heaven. She turned to me with a melting snowflake stuck to one of her eyelashes and with eyes as wide as an awestruck child simply said "Its beautiful!".
These were the kind of places she never would've thought about going to see on her own. Moments like these were my spiritual gift to her. I hope that she remembers them like I do.
Next up: Haywire in the Brain
Friday, September 25, 2009
Chapter Four: From Carrying My Brother to His Grave to Getting Laid
My brother had crashed his car into a road grader, probably heading over to a friend's house to score some coke. The toxicology report showed that he had pot, alcohol, cocaine and barbiturates in his system. He had been slowly killing himself with substance abuse. All the signs were there, his path to the grave was blatantly obvious. I should have seen what was happening, should have said something, should have been there to talk with him the night he died. But I was young, stupid, self absorbed and had serious character issues myself. I was the last family member he had spoken with and I had completely let him down.
It's something for which I've never forgiven myself. For over 10 years I'd start my day off with the same prayer. I'd ask God "Why did you take him instead of me?" I was sure that my brother would've eventually overcome his addiction problems. He was the one who was an extrovert, the one who would network with the right people. He was the one who was going to be a business leader or the owner of a fine luxury hotel somewhere. A mover and a shaker. Why did God take him instead of me?
I went to college the next day not knowing what had happened. When I got back home my mother and grandmother were sitting in the living room looking grim. My mom looked at me and told me that my brother was dead. I went to my room, cried my eyes out, then went to a mortuary to help make funeral arrangements. My brother had a big heart. How appropriate it was that the day we would be choosing a coffin for him was Valentines Day.
My ex stopped by that evening to offer her condolences. Then, while talking with me outside my parents house, she kissed me. It took me by surprise. Over the next week leading up to my brother's funeral we spent more and more time together. My sister flew in from South Dakota and we'd all go out at night to smoke pot, walk around town, go see a movie; anything to escape the sorrow of my brother's passing. Our mutual affection grew, and we finally consummated our feelings for one another a few hours after I helped carry my brother to his grave. Little did we know that this would be the start of an intimate relationship that would last over 18 years.
Next up: Bad Times/Good Times
It's something for which I've never forgiven myself. For over 10 years I'd start my day off with the same prayer. I'd ask God "Why did you take him instead of me?" I was sure that my brother would've eventually overcome his addiction problems. He was the one who was an extrovert, the one who would network with the right people. He was the one who was going to be a business leader or the owner of a fine luxury hotel somewhere. A mover and a shaker. Why did God take him instead of me?
I went to college the next day not knowing what had happened. When I got back home my mother and grandmother were sitting in the living room looking grim. My mom looked at me and told me that my brother was dead. I went to my room, cried my eyes out, then went to a mortuary to help make funeral arrangements. My brother had a big heart. How appropriate it was that the day we would be choosing a coffin for him was Valentines Day.
My ex stopped by that evening to offer her condolences. Then, while talking with me outside my parents house, she kissed me. It took me by surprise. Over the next week leading up to my brother's funeral we spent more and more time together. My sister flew in from South Dakota and we'd all go out at night to smoke pot, walk around town, go see a movie; anything to escape the sorrow of my brother's passing. Our mutual affection grew, and we finally consummated our feelings for one another a few hours after I helped carry my brother to his grave. Little did we know that this would be the start of an intimate relationship that would last over 18 years.
Next up: Bad Times/Good Times
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Chapter Three: Death in the Family
My brother, being the goof that he was, called in a bomb threat to his high school just before he graduated [a not uncommon prank in the days before 9/11]. He bragged about his idiocy, was caught, and was given the option of either going to jail or joining the service. His father, being an air force officer, pulled some strings and he chose to join the air force at the age of seventeen. He got married to his high school sweetheart, fathered a child, got divorced a couple of years later, and left the service just after he turned 21. He came out to California in search of himself and to try to get to know the mother he never knew. What he found was life in the fast lane, along with an ice cold maternal mother and a brother who was his exact opposite. He was the extrovert defined; a young man who liked to play as hard as he worked. I was painfully introverted, almost to the point of being socially disabled. He moved in with his grandfather, who was by chance living in a small apartment building a few blocks away. It was the same place that my mom's friend lived, and it would be while visiting my brother that I'd start to get to know her like I never had before.
For my brother, trying to get to know our mom was disaster. She was as cold as ice as it was. When it became apparent that he was partying it up every night with loose women, booze, pot and cocaine she completely shut him off emotionally. I remember one time during the Christmas season that he came over to visit. Mom ignored him. As we left together to go out on his party rounds he turned to me with a tear in his eye and asked me why mom was like that. I replied "Like what? That's the way she always has been." When you're raised in a highly dysfunctional household, the abnormal appears normal. Dysfunction provides all the false comfort of a broken home and familiarity. I had no idea how bad he was hurting. He tried to numb himself with drugs and alcohol.
Meanwhile, I was starting to develop a close relationship with my ex. Her marriage was on the rocks. She needed a distraction and someone to talk to who cared. Her husband worked nights and she worked days. I would go over to their apartment and we'd leave to take long walks and talk. We started to become real close; the best of friends. My brother thought we should hook up, thought it would do me some good to get laid. At 19 I was still a virgin, and he thought the experience would open me up. But we were just friends at this point. It was a bit hard for me to conceive of taking part in an intimate relationship with a married woman who was also a friend of my mother's. But we were developing a strong attraction for one another. They were feelings that were to remain unrequited; at least until something happened that would change my life forever.
My brother called me one night needing to talk to someone. He sounded really down. He was working as an assistant manager at a restaurant on the other side of Long Beach, so I borrowed my grandmother's car [she was living in a house across the street from my parents'] and rode over to see him. But there was a girl I had been dating who lived close to where he worked, so I went to spend some time with her instead. I passed by his place of employment on the way to her house and passed by once again on the way back. I figured I would talk to my brother the next time we saw each other. That was a chance I would never get. Three hours after I had decided that it was too late to stop by his work to speak with him he was dead.
Next up: From Carrying My Brother to His Grave to Getting Laid
For my brother, trying to get to know our mom was disaster. She was as cold as ice as it was. When it became apparent that he was partying it up every night with loose women, booze, pot and cocaine she completely shut him off emotionally. I remember one time during the Christmas season that he came over to visit. Mom ignored him. As we left together to go out on his party rounds he turned to me with a tear in his eye and asked me why mom was like that. I replied "Like what? That's the way she always has been." When you're raised in a highly dysfunctional household, the abnormal appears normal. Dysfunction provides all the false comfort of a broken home and familiarity. I had no idea how bad he was hurting. He tried to numb himself with drugs and alcohol.
Meanwhile, I was starting to develop a close relationship with my ex. Her marriage was on the rocks. She needed a distraction and someone to talk to who cared. Her husband worked nights and she worked days. I would go over to their apartment and we'd leave to take long walks and talk. We started to become real close; the best of friends. My brother thought we should hook up, thought it would do me some good to get laid. At 19 I was still a virgin, and he thought the experience would open me up. But we were just friends at this point. It was a bit hard for me to conceive of taking part in an intimate relationship with a married woman who was also a friend of my mother's. But we were developing a strong attraction for one another. They were feelings that were to remain unrequited; at least until something happened that would change my life forever.
My brother called me one night needing to talk to someone. He sounded really down. He was working as an assistant manager at a restaurant on the other side of Long Beach, so I borrowed my grandmother's car [she was living in a house across the street from my parents'] and rode over to see him. But there was a girl I had been dating who lived close to where he worked, so I went to spend some time with her instead. I passed by his place of employment on the way to her house and passed by once again on the way back. I figured I would talk to my brother the next time we saw each other. That was a chance I would never get. Three hours after I had decided that it was too late to stop by his work to speak with him he was dead.
Next up: From Carrying My Brother to His Grave to Getting Laid
Monday, September 21, 2009
Chapter two: The Brother I Never Knew
My life changed [for the better?] when I broke up with my ex. I call her my ex, but I wasn't actually married to her. She was my life's companion. At times it seemed like she was my soul mate. I had known her since I was a kid. She was a younger friend of my mom's. They had met when they were both waitressing at a restaurant in Long Beach, California. She was 13 years older than me and married at the time; her second. She had three kids from her first marriage, the father gaining custody upon their divorce. Her second husband was a restaurant worker when they met, here from Mexico illegally to work to support himself and send money back to his parents in Oaxaca. I was just a kid when I first met her. It never would've occurred to me that we would eventually spend 18 years together in an intimate relationship. Our acquaintance would change forever with the arrival of my half brother when I was 18.
My brother was one of two children from my mom's her first marriage. It was a rocky, abusive relationship. When they got divorced he won custody of my brother and sister, then took an air force post overseas to keep my mother from ever seeing them. It was then that our mother met my father, and I was born shortly thereafter. My mom hardly ever talked about her first marriage or her other children but I knew I had a brother and sister. There was always a picture of them kept somewhere in sight in whatever living room of whatever house we'd find ourselves living in. Then, when I was about 12, I went to Washington State [Seattle area] with my mom to be with her mother, who was slowly dying of cancer. It was then that the family arranged a secret meeting between my siblings, our mother, and myself. I had never met them before. It was a short, one day visit, then they were gone; back home to South Dakota to be with their father and stepmother.
Next up: Hello Goodbye/Death in the Family
My brother was one of two children from my mom's her first marriage. It was a rocky, abusive relationship. When they got divorced he won custody of my brother and sister, then took an air force post overseas to keep my mother from ever seeing them. It was then that our mother met my father, and I was born shortly thereafter. My mom hardly ever talked about her first marriage or her other children but I knew I had a brother and sister. There was always a picture of them kept somewhere in sight in whatever living room of whatever house we'd find ourselves living in. Then, when I was about 12, I went to Washington State [Seattle area] with my mom to be with her mother, who was slowly dying of cancer. It was then that the family arranged a secret meeting between my siblings, our mother, and myself. I had never met them before. It was a short, one day visit, then they were gone; back home to South Dakota to be with their father and stepmother.
Next up: Hello Goodbye/Death in the Family
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Chapter One: How Do You Do?
I'm a homeless guy; living on the edge of existence by day and sleeping on a concrete slab at night. It's a truly tough way to live, but it's funny. Other people seem to mind more than I do. As human beings we all need to find some kind of purpose for our own existence, and I've found mine. In the big picture lifestyle, in some ways, is a mere formality.
Before I became homeless I was living a pretty comfortable life. I was in a long term relationship calling a nice condo in a ritzy part of Long Beach California home. I was an assistant manager at Starbucks, at the top of my retail class. I was driving around in a new truck with plenty of money left over to buy clothes and shoes and eat whatever I wanted to eat. My ex and I would buy ourselves an expensive dinner out on the town once a week and go out to eat breakfast on our days off. Good food was such a wonderful luxury in retrospect. I loved to cook [a kitchen and a stove-another great luxury!]. I enjoyed cooking Chinese. I had two woks and a bamboo steamer. I specialized, though, in cooking Mediterranean. One of my favorite kitchen aromas' comes from garlic lightly sauteing in a non-stick pan coated with virgin olive oil.
Sometimes it seemed the comforts I enjoyed would last a lifetime. Now those comforts seem lost to hazy memory and the passage of time. Indeed, it was another life entirely. But still I find day to day happiness in spite of how I live. And my life has more purpose and meaning than I ever realized before, even when I was living in the lap of material satisfaction. How did I get here? How can I feel more human [in the good sense] than at any other time in this silly little lifetime of mine? Well, let me tell you!
Next up: The Brother I Never Knew.
Before I became homeless I was living a pretty comfortable life. I was in a long term relationship calling a nice condo in a ritzy part of Long Beach California home. I was an assistant manager at Starbucks, at the top of my retail class. I was driving around in a new truck with plenty of money left over to buy clothes and shoes and eat whatever I wanted to eat. My ex and I would buy ourselves an expensive dinner out on the town once a week and go out to eat breakfast on our days off. Good food was such a wonderful luxury in retrospect. I loved to cook [a kitchen and a stove-another great luxury!]. I enjoyed cooking Chinese. I had two woks and a bamboo steamer. I specialized, though, in cooking Mediterranean. One of my favorite kitchen aromas' comes from garlic lightly sauteing in a non-stick pan coated with virgin olive oil.
Sometimes it seemed the comforts I enjoyed would last a lifetime. Now those comforts seem lost to hazy memory and the passage of time. Indeed, it was another life entirely. But still I find day to day happiness in spite of how I live. And my life has more purpose and meaning than I ever realized before, even when I was living in the lap of material satisfaction. How did I get here? How can I feel more human [in the good sense] than at any other time in this silly little lifetime of mine? Well, let me tell you!
Next up: The Brother I Never Knew.
Monday, September 14, 2009
TAKING A STAND IN THE NAME OF LOVE
Before I get into telling my story, there are some thoughts that I'd like to share with you.
Homeless people are the lepers of society. They're the untouchables, treated by our society as though they have some kind of contagious disease that if contracted leads one to a filthy and ruinous existence. It's usually assumed that homeless people landed on the streets from a combination of substance abuse and mental illness. Having voluntarily worked for charitable organizations that service the homeless community and having actually lived on the streets for a few years now, I can say from personal experience that this assumption in many cases is correct. A good percentage of the chronically homeless, those people whose lifestyles conjer up the most common mental images that non-homeless people picture when thinking of the homeless (the raving lunatic badly in need of clean clothing and a shower or the person passed out on a bus bench), usually do suffer from a combination of alcoholism, addiction to illicit drugs, and mental problems. But the term "homeless" applies to a wide variety of people, including people living out of their cars and individuals and families living in pay as you go motels. Some homeless people have met with financial ruin for any number of reasons. Health issues and job loss are common in today's hard times. Others simply can't afford a roof over their head working for wages that barely pay them enough to feed themselves.
I think that one of the reasons that the homeless are treated like social outcasts is that many people realize that the path leading to homelessness can be a short one, especially for themselves. Losing a job or contracting a financially devastating illness isn't too hard to imagine. Denial of ones own vulnerability takes the form of indifference to other peoples homeless plight. It's much easier to look the other way with a thousand mile stare of I don't care than to acknowledge someone who's not to different than themselves. Looking the other way is also a form of denial that obstructs the human gift of compassion. According to one of my favorite Jing Si aphorisms, "Undergoing hardship for the sake of others is compassion.". Life is tough enough, why undergo hardship for others when its so much easier to prop up ones own fragile and diminutive ego by looking down upon the less fortunate. Homeless people are an easy target for ego propping. You don't have to have much to feel better off than someone who appears to have nothing at all.
There is, however, something that we all posses that's priceless. It's the ability to love one another. Compassion is the unique human trait that truly separates us from the rest of the creatures living on our planet. We are all well aware of our human familys' ability to do harm to itself. With our collective intelligence and opposable digits we have gone from chucking spears at one another to producing nuclear weapons and flying robots that kill [military drones]. These modern killing devices aren't products of the better angels of our nature. They are products of the worst of our animal nature; the drive to dominate resources beyond natures ability to establish equilibrium and below our capacity for caring for each other in a loving manner.
Sometimes the violent issues facing humanity seem desperately hopeless, and in a larger sense they probably are. But all we can do as individuals is take a stand against compassion killing indifference to human suffering and let the cards fall where they may.
Next up: How Do You Do?
Before I get into telling my story, there are some thoughts that I'd like to share with you.
Homeless people are the lepers of society. They're the untouchables, treated by our society as though they have some kind of contagious disease that if contracted leads one to a filthy and ruinous existence. It's usually assumed that homeless people landed on the streets from a combination of substance abuse and mental illness. Having voluntarily worked for charitable organizations that service the homeless community and having actually lived on the streets for a few years now, I can say from personal experience that this assumption in many cases is correct. A good percentage of the chronically homeless, those people whose lifestyles conjer up the most common mental images that non-homeless people picture when thinking of the homeless (the raving lunatic badly in need of clean clothing and a shower or the person passed out on a bus bench), usually do suffer from a combination of alcoholism, addiction to illicit drugs, and mental problems. But the term "homeless" applies to a wide variety of people, including people living out of their cars and individuals and families living in pay as you go motels. Some homeless people have met with financial ruin for any number of reasons. Health issues and job loss are common in today's hard times. Others simply can't afford a roof over their head working for wages that barely pay them enough to feed themselves.
I think that one of the reasons that the homeless are treated like social outcasts is that many people realize that the path leading to homelessness can be a short one, especially for themselves. Losing a job or contracting a financially devastating illness isn't too hard to imagine. Denial of ones own vulnerability takes the form of indifference to other peoples homeless plight. It's much easier to look the other way with a thousand mile stare of I don't care than to acknowledge someone who's not to different than themselves. Looking the other way is also a form of denial that obstructs the human gift of compassion. According to one of my favorite Jing Si aphorisms, "Undergoing hardship for the sake of others is compassion.". Life is tough enough, why undergo hardship for others when its so much easier to prop up ones own fragile and diminutive ego by looking down upon the less fortunate. Homeless people are an easy target for ego propping. You don't have to have much to feel better off than someone who appears to have nothing at all.
There is, however, something that we all posses that's priceless. It's the ability to love one another. Compassion is the unique human trait that truly separates us from the rest of the creatures living on our planet. We are all well aware of our human familys' ability to do harm to itself. With our collective intelligence and opposable digits we have gone from chucking spears at one another to producing nuclear weapons and flying robots that kill [military drones]. These modern killing devices aren't products of the better angels of our nature. They are products of the worst of our animal nature; the drive to dominate resources beyond natures ability to establish equilibrium and below our capacity for caring for each other in a loving manner.
Sometimes the violent issues facing humanity seem desperately hopeless, and in a larger sense they probably are. But all we can do as individuals is take a stand against compassion killing indifference to human suffering and let the cards fall where they may.
Next up: How Do You Do?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Not every homeless person that you see on the streets got there from a combination of substance abuse and mental illness. Since becoming homeless over five years ago I've worked for a couple of different charity organizations to bring some kind of meaning to my life. What I found out through my personal experiences is that there are many different paths that lead to the streets. Each one of these paths, though many times sharing commonalities, is unique and reflects the individuality that we all have as human beings.
My path, like many others, is unique and reflects who I am as an individual. Since becomming homeless, I've not only discovered the depths of my own frailties but became aquinted with some of the most positive and special traits that I have to offer to the world with which I interact. My story is not an easy one to tell, and there is no simple answer that I can offer as to exactly how I became a person who is currently sleeping on a concrete slab at night. Pain is a companion constantly reminding me of how lucky I am to be alive. All I can hope for is that I can strive to be a positive and productive person who can help others. That's what I prayed for three years ago after I was almost killed in a traffic accident. Since then I've volunteered for thousands of hours of charitable service, and I hope to keep on voluteering as long as my body will allow it.
In the coming days I will tell you my story. I hope it serves as a positive connection between you and me. Take Care-until next time. ME HOMELESSGUY
My path, like many others, is unique and reflects who I am as an individual. Since becomming homeless, I've not only discovered the depths of my own frailties but became aquinted with some of the most positive and special traits that I have to offer to the world with which I interact. My story is not an easy one to tell, and there is no simple answer that I can offer as to exactly how I became a person who is currently sleeping on a concrete slab at night. Pain is a companion constantly reminding me of how lucky I am to be alive. All I can hope for is that I can strive to be a positive and productive person who can help others. That's what I prayed for three years ago after I was almost killed in a traffic accident. Since then I've volunteered for thousands of hours of charitable service, and I hope to keep on voluteering as long as my body will allow it.
In the coming days I will tell you my story. I hope it serves as a positive connection between you and me. Take Care-until next time. ME HOMELESSGUY
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