Illegal Foreign Object

I put in my time in front of a therapist. It helped — I’m a much better person than I was before therapy. I’m not a finished product, but I don’t figure any of us ever are. The anger, PTSD, depression, and anxiety are all still there — I just learned some valuable skills that help me cope when I find myself getting smacked around by the waves.

I also use my writing as a form of therapy. When I’m tapped into my feelings, I believe I do a decent enough job of getting it all onto the page. I read my own words far more than anyone else does and that’s fine by me. I made peace a long time ago with never being known as a writer (despite my Mom’s blessed belief that I have “the great American novel” in me, somewhere).

Seeing my own words before me often helps me process complex emotions. When that all works out, I can leave the feelings in the writing.

When it doesn’t work, however, it can be pretty crippling. The last time I wrote anything for this blog was about the death of my sweet Magnolia. I can tell you, after having cried three of the last four days over her passing, that I’m still not over it. I don’t know that I ever will be. My grandpa passed away like 14 years ago and I still cry when I think of him. There’s something terribly unfair about a beautiful heart just ceasing to beat, but I know that’s just the whole “ego of man” shit worming into my thoughts. None of us are actually special, save to those who believe us to be.

Still, my grandpa cried when he said grace at the beginning of every meal. Every. Single. Meal. He would pray for his wife, for his children, and for his grandchildren, and he would cry. He would thank God for all that He had given him, and he would cry. That’s pretty special (to me), and I am, at least in this one area, becoming my grandpa.

I’m good with my soft heart. It bums me out when I see someone unable to express deep love. As far back as I remember, “I love you” has always come easy to me. I believe I am blessed to have this capability because I do love so very much.

I’ve written a lot over the last few months, but none of it found its way to this site, mostly because it all felt so sad and dark. Those feelings are a big part of who I am, but they aren’t how I want to be known. I want to be known as that big fucker who gives a damn fine bear hug. I wanna be known as the guy who’ll drop everything and move you into your new house. I wanna be known as a guy capable of staring you dead in the eyes and telling you that, regardless of the heavens fuckin’ falling or the seas turning to fire, I’m here, I love you, and I’m in the mix for the long haul.