โ€œNot enoughโ€ is a filthy liar …

I’ve been lost in the trenches lately. The high of finally finding a healthy love has waned into the realities of blending a family, and helping teens navigate the murky waters of adolescence. And that is ok, it’s part of the process. Wouldn’t we like to stay in the good feelings forever? Why must we also wait and feel through the hard times? For perspective of course. To wake us up to all that becomes invisible in the rush.

I’ve been riddled with ADHD lately. I am really suffering with it. As I vibrate with an almost visceral certainty that my story will be written and shared with others, the closer I get, the further I feel. What an illusion! The Universe is a great trickster, and I’m taking the joke overly seriously all the time.

I seek something to fix this pain all the time. Chocolate, food, happy hours, snuggles…. some healthier than others. My frenzied mind that constantly is telling me I’m running out of time. Always miles ahead in awareness. I can’t even hide from existential truths long enough to allow more joy. One of my greatest tasks right now.

This morning I’m thinking back to a time when I worked 40 hours, had internship and full time school. When I didn’t breathe, and I somehow managed, and now I have way more time… and yet it seems always not enough. I’m thinking this not enough bs is a filthy filthy liar. Why are we like this? Is it an innate drive meant to help us survive ? Then why is it killing us in droves? It’s killing spirits and dividing families, and it’s simply not true. We are enough, we have enough. We are usually more than we realize, and have more than we realize.

I have relationships with Clients that are valuable and I have one fully present hour a week, and even later move to every 2 or 3 weeks as they fly out of the nest more often. These are meaningful relationships and they are just one piece of the puzzle. So why do I always see mine with my children as I can never connect or do enough? It’s deeply painful. Maybe that’s also why they feel it’s not enough? I’m afraid sometimes that my kids get even less than that one present hour weekly even. Often my love is shown to them in acts of service in between things. We can’t always see a transition as it’s happening, and after are left reeling to figure out how to adjust. That’s what I am going through right now.

I stumbled across a show the other night on Netflix. It’s called Atypical. One of the best things that ever happened. First, it’s depicts so wonderfully some of the challenges children and parents with autism experience. I love that! But the part I really identify with is how as the teens grow and face growing up, the parents are also facing who they are, and what their roles are now? They are up against feeling less needed, and being pushed away. I identify so much. My last tiny one who has begged and begged for time with me is now bristly and defiant. The breaking of my heart is audible. Mostly because I realize how many times she asked for just a moment of my presence, and I didn’t know the value. I had free front row seats to Hamilton for one of the best experiences in life, and I was lost in my head worrying about providing, and my health, and figuring out how to run a business. If I had just lifted up my head out of that fog a little more. What if I screwed up? And see even now I’m doing this thing…. because weren’t there still moments of beauty in between? But my hurried mind is always trying to skip ahead, it can’t settle down enough to just be in a moment. I know I am not alone in this.

It can never just be that I am meant to be this way. It always has to be what’s wrong with me, and how can I do better. One of those questions helps, and the other hurts. I work so hard to ask my mind to just take it one moment at a time, but it wants to bite off ten. It’s painful really. We have to work with what we have though, and find outlets, and places and people who understand our brand of crazy. And we have to work harder to see enough versus not enough. It’s our only choice.

So many hard working beautiful people suffer at the hands of perception and misunderstanding, and our own innate nature as human beings. One of my greatest missions is to be a part of alleviating this. One of the best ways to do this realistically and fairly with life’s demands is simply to realize: your story as is has tremendous value!!

Hopefully in an upcoming post I’ll be talking about how wounded people, wound people, and that there is hope for this. Listening and seeing when we hurt someone, being willing to look at our own part is the key to change. It’s messy work, but on the other side it’s so worthwhile.

My life’s work has been on healing fractured attachments. I had to begin with my own, understanding my own behavior and actions, and fight to make changes. On the other side … this space where I am healing I can see where I have been, and it makes me able to help understand when others have found themselves there. A wounded healer, and an earned secure. This work is not for the faint of heart, and it’s also not impossible. Are you ready for your life to feel better ?

๐Ÿ’œ

Lobstah pants and accidents…

The aftermath... icing my knee, note burnt hair particles in water...

It’s been way too long since I’ve made a blog post. It hurts my soul, as if I was longing for a loved one gone. Like a magnetic force I am always drawn back to my roots, my grounding force, my solace. My own mind has always been where I have found my comfort, I realized that while on this trip. My wife and I have traveled to Maine, the car ride here was about 4 hours, minus a couple of stops. We finally have a chance to be away with our thoughts, feelings, and each other. Thank God… I can breathe again. And yet as quickly as I’m ready to be away I am also pulled toward home and my beautiful children. They never cease to amaze me and the growth and evolution of our relationships are a whopper of a tale. Speaking of that: memoir is what is on my mind the most this morning. The working title is still “And Then She Danced”…

When I was around 12 years old I found a new best friend. Her name is Gena. We have since grown into our own lives and don’t keep in touch, but Facebook indicates we are both living full lives of our own design with some of the most important goals we each set out for being reflected. To make a long story short (for now, you’ll have to read my book…), I’ll say that when we met she was hip and cool. She was up with the times, knew all the MTV songs, wore make-up, stole her brothers clothes and made her own style always. I learned a lot from her confidence. She was short and cute, a voracious reader. And of course my long time crush fell immediately in love with her, and they dated… I was devastated. If I knew what it was to be gay at that time, I would have realized I was jealous of him ๐Ÿ˜‰

But anyway let me continue. She danced and I didn’t. I was always taught dancing was bad (strict Seventh-Day Adventist roots), and I also had lots of trauma making my body totally locked tight. I still do. It’s still a mission, on my mind a lot more lately. Body work I mean. Opening my hips and my chest, letting the demons that are stored within free, so my body can catch up with all the work my mind has done.

I always admired people who danced with confidence, and Gena was one of them. She had the movie Dirty Dancing at her house, and we watched it. My life was changed forever. Thrill and intrigue and I immediately wanted to have adventures and take risks and be like Jennifer Grey. Boy was I more like her character in many ways than I realized, albeit much more awkward. I asked Gena if I could borrow the movie, she let me, and what proceeded is a funny story I often tell whenever the movie comes up. I faked sick from school the next day and watched that movie over and over, pausing all of the love scenes and rewinding them, and of course any of the dancing scenes. This was my forbidden fruit. I was remote-ready for anyone to walk in, lest it be taken, or I would have been accused of terrible things.

To this day I could probably recite that movie from beginning to end by heart. Sometimes we don’t realize until we look back how much something had to do with the shaping of our mindset about life. Perhaps my sense of adventure and spirit was, to this day, to thank for coming across that movie at that time. I know that it was changed tremendously from knowing Gena and her family. So the beginning of my memoir might begin with a scene about me skipping school to watch this movie and all of my thoughts at that time…

Thinking as usual this post should have been titled “and I’ve had the time of my life”, or something of the sort. Through blogging I’m hoping to see on paper my styles and road blocks to organizing my thoughts into something enjoyably readable. This is what I am working through partly on here. You get to view content and process.

So here in Maine I’ve managed to add an item to my bucket list I never even realized was there. Thinking perhaps we all should have a “dark bucket list”, with things we wouldn’t necessarily add by choice, but by definition they end up being also an important part of our life. Something like seasoning in a soup, the flavor, making it the best part.

My dark bucket list item: “Accidentally setting my hair on fire”, while away on mini holiday. This catchy title would probably have people definitely wanting to read more.

When I go away my priority is usually ambience, coziness, and water. These are my elements. Actually, funny I should add fire to this mixture, kind of appropriate. I mean I usually like a fire place. I don’t think I’m quite adventurous enough to want to actually be on ๐Ÿ”ฅ. This clearly the product of too much multi-tasking. I had lit a candle on the side of the spa tub. I’ve never been good at gauging distance, in fact I’m remarkably poor at it. I had my hair up in a bun-like conglomeration. I had gotten lost in talking to my person and just the relaxation of it all. A couple of times we heard an odd noise that seemed like it was coming from the other room. We both looked at one another quizzically, but carried on. Turns out that strange crackling, rustling sound was my hair burning away behind my head. Her eyes widened as she saw what was happening before words could exit her mouth. I began to try and pat my head (like a true genius, at least my hands were wet…), and she finally shrieked put your head in the water, quick! I flailed about, slamming my knee into the faucet, hard enough to see stars, and also my head as I dunked under water. What followed was a hideous odor of burnt hair, and tons of tiny particles of it all over the water and in the air. Thrilling, let me just tell you…

My writers mind raced to worst case scenarios, like my scalp was actually burned in places and I would require medical attention, thus ruining our trip. This last part is what I’m always concerned with. Not my safety, but that I could make someone else uncomfortable or have made a time that was supposed to be relaxing worse for them. This has deep roots in core beliefs about being a burden. It is deeply ingrained.

Anyway the competing elements of the worst case of this scenario ended up being my battered knee and my bruised ego. My hair seems alright. Of course I haven’t dried and straightened it. In its wild, wavy state… it appears to be “manely” in tact. Ha, see what I did there? ๐Ÿ˜‰ I’m lucky for many reasons, I have a lot of hair, and now I can include this one.

We managed to calm our frazzled nerves, and my frazzled ends, with homemade blueberry pancakes that were the fluffiest gall-darn things I’ve ever had. The bacon was cooked perfectly and the fruit medley with papaya was like manna from heaven. I don’t know why I would make a Bible reference when things have been so tough for us lately in the name of religion, but that’s another blog post altogether. This place is beyond amazing. The couple has owned the Inn for years and they bring fresh homemade breakfast to the room each morning at 10:00 am, it’s only a few more minutes now until today’s delight will be revealed and experienced.

We spent the rest of our day yesterday exploring the kitschy little shops, the ones that are open anyway, much of this town is shut down for the winter season. That’s how you obtain cheap Groupon rates, and how I am able to do this. We ate at a place called Federal Jack’s rich with the history of beer brewing. Had lobster rolls and havarti with dill and crabmeat sandwich. For dessert a homemade Boston Creme pie, with an Irish Whiskey whipped cream. Ridiculous. We have made somewhat of a tradition of playing cards at bars while away and asked for a deck. It was a Red Socks Deck, and Courtney said “make sure and wash your hands after touching these”, they were sticky, but nevertheless … it was a lovely time.

Afterwards we went through some more stores and procured the cutest damn lobster pants you have ever seen, a matching set of course… and an outfit for the baby…. the one that will hopefully come more into reality around March…. we will see. The outfit has lobsters on it and says “butter me up”. It’s insanely cute. I can’t believe I am 37 and going to begin this adventure again…. even more unbelievable is how I can’t find a shred of doubt…. I thought the selfish writer was my most prominent self. It actually may turn out that nurturing mother was possible all along, and not just some attempt at having a family I never really grew into. But really of my choosing before I ever even realized how much.

All our love,

From Maine….