"Feelings are like children: you don't want them driving the car, but you don't wanna stuff 'em in the trunk either."

-- Unknown

Just Like Starting Over

Today marked a week back at the gym. I still feel pretty blah when I'm there, and my cardio is more than a bit off. Before the heart episode, I'd be doing 150 strides per minute on resistance 6, and my heart rate would be in the 120s. Now I'm doing 130 spm at resistance 2, and my heart rate is in the 140s. But I'm not giving up. I'm never, never, never, going back to being fat, drunk, depressed, and angry. My diet is currently protein shakes and V8 juice, with one meal of chicken and vegetables or something similar in the evening. I may have to up it a tad when my body hits starvation mode, but I am so done being fat. So done.

My Life, a few pics from later years

I don't have a whole lot of pictures of myself during the times I've just been writing about. Let's face it, why would I? But here are a few so you can see how bad it got.

This is probably at my worst. In Murfreesboro, TN, with Marie, who'd led my youth group back in Belgium. I was probably around 350 here.

Christmas 2009, at my brother's in Charlottesville.

In class at Sewanee, my first year. They had this on their website.

High school reunion, with my buddy Eddie G.

 Maggie! 

 Another high school reunion, this time in Orlando. With Aileen, Lynne, and Joelle from Belgium.

 This one is especially embarrassing. I look like Jabba the Hutt. That's Zoid with me, aka Brian Kelly who you know from earlier posts back during my hike.

My Life, Part IX

I'll tell you a secret about fat people: they hate themselves.

Ok, so it's not a secret. But it's true.

I had been overweight, intermittently and to varying degrees, since shortly after my parents' divorce and my father's remarriage. There were times when, looking back, I can see that I wasn't really overweight. But because of the emotional issues caused by being overweight from the time I was a child, I couldn't see it. I would get down to being really thin, but still have a slight belly roll; but I'd look in the mirror and still see a disgusting fat person.

Being overweight affects every single aspect of your life. Your physical health, your emotional and mental health, your love life, your social relationships and therefore your job and every other thing you do; even your leisure activities are dictated by your being fat and out of shape. And when you're fat, you assume that every negative thing that happens to you with other people is because you're fat. A lot of the time it's true: being fat is one of the two unforgivable sins in our society (the other is being unsuccessful). But not always. And sometimes, it's actually your insecurity stemming from your belief that other people reject you because of your weight--it's off-putting and turns people off.

But again, it is also true that people judge and dislike you. There's just something about being seriously overweight that makes it difficult to be liked--much like having a gross physical deformity. You have to make an effort to look past it and still like someone. It's not right, but it's human nature. Some people make the effort, but many don't, and even those who do have a hard time because you're so used to being reviled and rejected that you struggle against letting anyone close, like someone who's drowning or caught in a burning building will actually fight their rescuers out of panic. All the rejection, the mockery, the judgement gets to you, and you begin to feel like a freak and a monster.

Add to that all my other issues: the emotional scars of my past; the chronic pain and physical limitations of all my injuries; my repeated failure to find the right path in my life and make a success of it; and worst of all, the intense and crushing regret of knowing that most of it was my own fault--the result of my own bad choices. And what you get is not even a train wreck of a life--it's a plane crash.

After several years in Tennessee, in almost complete isolation, I saw that my lifestyle and issues were rubbing off on my daughter. And I was very concerned. So I sent her back to live with her mother, for her own good. She needed to have friends, and a social life, and to snap out of the depression and funk that she had followed me into. But that left me alone.

I had been very lonely for a long time, but I had always had one or more of my kids, at least. Now I was truly alone. And I loved my kids so much. Even long ago, before the divorce, they had been my chief comfort. When we would move out of a place, the last thing I'd do would be to go into their rooms, empty now, and just stand there, remembering the things that had been on the walls, and the feeling of their presence, and I'd get a little emotional. When I was away at war, and didn't know if I would ever come back, the thing that I turned to most often was pictures of them. I'd just gaze at the pictures, and remember how it felt to hug them, and how they smelled, and the sound of their laughter. And now they were gone.

I almost gave up. I descended deep, deep into melancholy and despair. I moved out of our place because I couldn't stand the memories, and into this shabby little old shack, which I guess I subconsciously felt was exactly what I deserved. It was a miniature version of the house in Fight Club. Brown water, peeling paint, floors that were permanently grimy, windows that were painted shut. The spare bedroom had a big stain on the floor that looked like it was the place where someone had died. I stopped using electric light after dark, and only lit the place with a few candles and the woodstove. I liked the dark. I kept a full bar on the counter, and made good use of it. The refrigerator was mainly full of different varieties of beer and wine, and various mixers for the hard stuff on the counter. Life was sleeping most of the day, getting up in the afternoon or evening, then sitting up all night in the dark; sometimes watching movies or messing around on the computer, but often just sitting and staring at nothing. And drinking, of course.

But, inside, some things had begun to change. I'd begun exercising a bit; mainly just going out for walks. I was making progress, spiritually. My issues were being brought forth and dealt with one by one, and I was feeling better inside. Not anywhere near good yet, but better. I had begun using relaxation and meditation to clear my mind and ease my stress levels. And I had decided to bring a quietness to my life by turning off television and radio permanently. They were nothing but a constant source of noise, confusion, and aggravation. The banality and stupidity had become unbearable, and I realized that I would never find peace as long as I was being bombarded with the inane evil of the world of pop culture. After I had done it, I realized just how much my mind had been filled up with useless garbage by them. My subconscious felt like a pool that had gone from being greenish-black and filled with leaves, bugs, and refuse, to one that was crystal-clear, aqua-blue, and sparkling.

The biggest change I made, though, was determining to start letting other people into my life again. I had been going to church, very intermittently, for years. But I never let anyone get close to me. So I started going on a regular basis, and trying to make friends. And I enrolled in grad school. I found a program just up the road from me in Sewannee, at the University of the South, in creative writing. My undergrad degree was in that, and it had been my real hope for years for making something of myself. When I found this program, I felt like I had been led to it.

But it was terrifying. It was an intensive summer-only program, for working adults (a lot of teachers, as you'd imagine). And that meant spending a lot of time with other people, which meant being exposed and vulnerable. The first year I was there, I was scared and defensive and put up a front to keep from letting people in. But they started to get in anyway. It's hard to convey how difficult this first step back out into "the world" was for me. It was a lot like what long-time inmates of a prison feel upon being released: you'd think it would be intense relief and joy, but it's actually fear and anxiety. Or like someone long trapped in darkness stepping out into the sunlight. I more or less made an ass of myself in my efforts to hide my heart from everyone. By the second summer, I had actually begun to make some friends. Only one of them turned out, in the end, to be a true friend though. And that was Maggie.

Maggie was twenty-three, smart, funny, talented, and very cute. And we clicked from the first minute we met. But it was never a romantic relationship. We just liked each other. There was playful flirtation, and eventually a special kind of intimacy, but neither of us ever seriously entertained the idea of dating each other. Our relationship was like Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation: what I call a romantic friendship. She was my special friend, and I just loved having someone to dote on, take care of, and be good to. And she liked it too.

In between my second and third years at Sewannee, my brother and his wife invited the kids and me to spend Christmas with them in Charlottesville, where he was studying at the Army JAG school at UVA (he's a lawyer for the Army). It was an absolutely lovely time. I loved Charlottesville (even though it bears the name of my stepmother), and most of all I loved being back together with my kids, plus my brother, his wife, and their young son. It took me back to very early times, of feeling loved, warm, and secure with my family all together when I was a small child. So I decided that it was time for a change, and that Charlottesville was the change I needed. I loved that it was rural, Blue Ridge Virginia, but also urbane and bohemian with lots of culture and class.

But that didn't mean that everything immediately got better. After I got here, I sort of sank back into the morass of isolated despair and sadness. I made some efforts to find a church, but didn't have any luck. The one I'd been intending to go to when I moved, I'd found out had just changed denominations, and I was hesitant to get involved somewhere where there were tensions and divisions and politics. So, by the winter, I was in probably the worst place of my life, emotionally, until recently. My place had a huge floor-to ceiling window in the living room (which had very high ceilings), and I would sit and stare out at the darkness, thinking about drifting eternally in the cold abyss of space, utterly alone. I was keeping my daughter's cat at the time, and she has issues with other cats so that she spends all day every day hiding under the bed, and you have to keep the door closed so the other cats don't harass her. But once a day, at least, I would go in and visit her, and spend some time so that she could come out and not be alone. But it made me realize how alone I was, and sometimes I'd hold her and actually shed tears for our shared loneliness.

I knew I needed something in my life, so I decided to give that church a chance. And I liked it, so I started going. But only sporadically again, and being careful not to expose myself or open my heart.

Then I hit rock-bottom, and I cried out to God. And I immediately understood that I had to die to myself. So I did. I struggled with it a bit, but I did it. And from one day to the next, my heart was changed. Where I had been filled with bitterness, anger, and even hatred, I was suddenly full of love, joy, and peace. And I wanted nothing in the world more than to just love other people. My heart was full to overflowing with the love of Christ, and I wanted to share it.

I threw myself into church, and into the people that had begun to become my friends. I started looking for opportunities to volunteer, and to do good in the world. I reverted to my old habit of picking up hitchhikers and helping anyone I passed who needed it: giving money to street beggars, and offering to take them for a meal, or help them in other ways like a place to stay for the night or a ride to another town. And when I went back to school the next summer, I was full of love and joy, and determined to be a true friend to everyone there. In other words, I'd been Scrooged.

And I had begun to really lose weight. By the time I went to school that year, I was down by more than thirty pounds from my previous year. And I felt better.

Of course, I wasn't perfect yet. I still had issues and weaknesses. I still did wrong and committed sins. My joy and peace were somewhat precarious, and I would get hurt and temporarily lose them. But the change and improvement in my life were so drastic, in my eyes, that I thought others couldn't fail to see it too. I spent as much time as possible helping other people. I carried luggage and groceries, held doors, offered rides, tried to be a friend and supporter when people were down, and generally did whatever I could find to do to be kind. One girl collapsed and had to be rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery, and I was the only one who visited her. After she got back, I checked on her all the time to make sure she was comfortable, and drove twenty miles or so to Wal-Mart in the middle of the night to buy her a fan because her room was too hot. And I had no designs on her or anyone. I just loved being able to help.

Then came Amanda. I had seen her around--after all, there were only thirty or so students in the program and we all lived in the same dorm, except for a few who'd brought their spouses and rented a house nearby. She was cute enough, but not really my type, and besides, I wasn't really looking for anything anyway. I'd heard that she was some kind of musician, a fiddle player or something. So one day, a bunch of us were sitting downstairs in the day room or common area, and the subject of her music came up. I said she should play for us sometime. So she went and got her instruments, and sang us a couple of songs. We were all blown away. This girl was good. One of the girls had joked that she had a "girl-crush" on Amanda, and after the songs I said, "Now I have a crush too." I was half-joking. I was scheduled to meet up with my old friend Eric, who'd taught me guitar, in Nashville in a couple of weeks. We had done it the year before and had a great time. He goes there once or twice a year to study mandolin with Roland White, who used to play with Bill Monroe and his Bluegrass Boys, and won a grammy as part of the Oh Brother, Where art Thou? soundtrack. So I thought if I could introduce Amanda to Roland, it might be good for her. I invited her to come along with me to Nashville, and she said "You should come with me to Memphis next weekend!" She had a concert there, and didn't like driving herself, and plus we both just thought it would be a lot of fun.

So I agreed, and I drove her to Memphis. We Had A Blast. We had one of those days like in the movies, where two people just meet and click. She kept saying things like how much she liked me, and how cool I was. She took a picture of me and posted on her twitter, with the caption "lovely". She read the chapters of the book I'd been working on, and absolutely loved them. I listened to her newest CD in the truck, and absolutely loved it. And we sang all the way to Memphis and back. She said she loved my voice, and remarked on how I could change it to sound like whomever we were singing with on the stereo. When we stopped for gas, she stepped in really close to me, like she wanted to be kissed. But I still didn't think there was a possibility of romance, so I just hugged her. She put her arms around me and held me tight, and said "I adore you." We shared a hotel room (her idea) and, although I was a gentleman, it was so incredibly nice having a beautiful woman floating around the room, just being a woman. Standing at the mirror in nothing but a towel, doing her hair and make-up. Talking. Laughing. Smiling. But my heart had been dead so long, I still didn't recognize what was going on with it.

At the concert, I had agreed to do security for her. It started out as just a way to put it on her expense account and have my part paid for, but after she told me some of the things that had happened to her on the road, I took it very seriously. At one point, she was on her way to the stage (they had to go through the crowd) and some guy stopped her to talk. Just a fan, but she looked scared, and her eyes darted around. She saw me standing not far away, watching closely, and she relaxed and smiled. I can't tell you how good that made me feel. After the set, I met her at the stage, took her hand in mine, put her behind me, and led her through the crowd. Backstage, people were drinking and having a good time. She bent over in front of me, asked me to rub her back, and made very suggestive pleasure sounds. Then she sat on my lap and said "We need to get naked." I'm sorry to be so graphic, but I think it's necessary to demonstrate that there were very clear signals on her part because of what happened next.

We went back to school, and she gave me the signed CD you see on the post below. And I started listening to it over and over; all the songs were about falling, or being in love. And at last it got through my thick skull what was happening: I was falling for her. I know it's amazing to think anyone could be so stupid, but I just thought it was absolutely impossible that such an attractive, amazing young woman could really be interested in me. Even though she had said several times on our trip that she didn't care what a guy looked like, it was what was on the inside that mattered. And told me her ex-boyfriend was older than me by three years.

So I debated with myself what to do. I consulted with Maggie. I called Jessica. And I wrote Amanda a love-letter.

I won't try to speculate what happened in Amanda's head and heart in the weeks between our trip and the letter. But I know that I saw the friend of hers, whom she'd gone to play with, "working on" her while we were there. I've been around enough to recognize when a man is working on a woman. And she's married to him now. So that was one factor, I'm positive.

Whatever the case, a few days after the letter, she came to me and said thanks, but that she was getting back together with her ex. And I said, ok, I just wanted to let you know. And I still want to be your friend, to which she agreed.

But things got awkward. So I talked to her, told her that I sensed I was making her uncomfortable, and that I was going to back off and leave her alone completely. She said "no," not to do that, emphatically. I said I was sorry for giving her that letter if made her uncomfortable, but at the time I'd thought it might make her happy, even if she didn't want to give us a try. She had confided in me her heartache, melancholy, and loneliness in the aftermath of her recent breakup. She'd said to me at one point, that she was fine sometimes, but sometimes turned into a big, weepy, girl-mess. So after we got back to school, I'd given her a handkerchief with a note that said "It's alright, sometimes, to be a big, weepy, girl-mess." Anyway, I'd thought that, at the least, it would make her feel good to know I cared for her. And she said "It did, at first. But then Carly said I should..." and stopped. Carly was her roommate.

So I can surmise that there was some wrong and bad advice from other people at school about me. Based on what happened after, I guess they made me out as some sort of psycho. Everyone knew I was a veteran, and that I'd struggled with depression and stuff. I guess that makes me volatile and violent in the eyes of the modern world, trapped as it is in permanent mass hysteria.

But Amanda never gave me any word or clear sign that she wanted nothing more to do with me. I thought we were still going to be friends. And of course, being in love, I still hoped she might change her mind and things would work out between us. But one night, as a few of us were sitting on the front porch of the dorm having a little party, she said something very cruel to me, which told me without any doubt that she now found me repulsive. And it shattered my heart. I had no idea that things had degenerated so, and I still don't really know why or how. I clammed up, and just sat there drinking. And drinking. Most people left, including her. And I kept drinking. New people came. I got blinded, falling down drunk, but still didn't talk. Then, in an agony of unbearable pain, I picked up an empty glass bottle and threw it at a wall. I guess I wanted something to be as shattered as my heart.

By the next day, the story had become that I'd tried to throw the bottle at somebody's head. Maggie's, ironically; my best friend and the last person I'd hurt. Not that I'd hurt any innocent person, ever, for any reason. I had decided to leave school anyway, out of heartbreak and humiliation. But when I was halfway through packing my truck, the campus police showed up and said they had to escort me off the campus. The cop obviously thought it was ridiculous and unwarranted, but had to do his job. This is the atmosphere in academia today. Then they brought me a letter that said I was banned from ever coming back. Not that I would have anyway. So I left, more ashamed, humiliated, and heartbroken than I'd ever been in my life.

I know it was bad form and asinine to break that bottle, and I legitimately startled people. But they overreacted to the point of ludicrousness. Maggie (who is still my dear friend) says that I had frightened people by acting sad in the days previous, and I know it's true that I'm transparent and wear my heart on my sleeve. I do think it's pretty messed up, though, that a man showing his feelings is such a crime. But that's the way the world is, and I'm grateful to her for having the courage and honesty to help me see it.

I went back home to Virginia, and to another very dark and hard time. But now I had the church and my new friends, and the changes that the Lord had made in my heart to help me through it.

"Reverse" Love Songs

Most love songs are written by men for women. And rightly so--there's so much more to love. But I love hearing it from the other side. Not only feels nice, but helps me understand how it works with them. Here are some of my favorites.

Alanis Morrisette - "Head over Feet"

Amanda Shires - "Kudzu"

(In case you're wondering about the inscription, she called me "Mike the Scot" because I recited Robert Burns for her in the Broad Scots dialect.)

Jewel - "Morning Song"

Sheryl Crow - "Strong Enough"

Alanis Morrissette - "Everything"

Yeah, Alanis gets two: she's so honest. "I resist your love no matter how low or high I go." 

Adele - "One and Only"

My Life, Part VIII

I stayed on the meds for about 15 years. I would try going without them for a while; but then the pain would come back--the terrible emotional pain that I had constantly been in for most of my life, since my parents' divorce (but which had grown and become worse as the bad experiences and misery accumulated). I had lived with it for all those years, with a vague sense that something was wrong. But having the meds to numb it showed me how bad it really was. Like when you don't really realize how hot you are on a sultry summer day, until you go into an air-conditioned building.

But, being on the meds, I didn't really do or feel like doing the work to deal with the underlying issues which caused the pain. There was always this nagging voice--conscience, the Holy Spirit, or both--that told me to stop taking them, But I rationalized and chose the path of reason and sense again. I was relatively comfortable the way I was. I had no social life, no friends--no, literally no friends, nothing but my kids and my distractions and hobbies. And I was content. People sucked anyway, and I had always had problems truly fitting in. I had never really been liked and accepted anywhere, so why not just give up and sour grapes the whole world?

So I turned curmudgeon and recluse.

I worked for a year or two in the prison in Phoenix. But my physical problems were getting worse. My injuries had been becoming more and more painful. I had post-traumatic arthritis all up and down my spine, my hip and knee ached and limited my activity, and the lower-back injury from the tank accident was getting so bad that I sometimes had to just sit or lie down all day. It had degenerated to the point where everyday household chores were a major challenge. I was constantly having to ask my kids to do something because my back wouldn't take it. And I was spending a lot of time at the doctor, for that and other issues. Working full-time was proving to be too much, especially in the setting where I was.

And it was a terrible, horrible place to work. If I say that these were the worst people I'd ever worked with, you'll assume that I was talking about the inmates. But it's a toss-up in my mind. The correctional staff were petty, officious, backbiting, and gossipy. There was an Orwellian atmosphere of hypervigilance and paranoia--like under Soviet Communism. They even showed us films about how we should be watching out for and reporting the tiniest "suspicious" actions or words of fellow workers. And then there were the inmates. Most of them crude, cruel, violent, animalistic, evil men. The evil was palpable, as soon as I walked into the yard every morning. And the inmates were resistant to education, recalcitrant, manipulative, and just generally horrid. With a few exceptions.

Well, it was a toss-up which group was worse for the first half of the time I was there anyway. Then they moved me to teach a class on the sex offender ward, and there was no contest who was the worst. Just the most despicable, horrid people on the face of the earth, and not just because I knew what they had done. There are certain personality traits common to sex offenders. Not every one has all, and there are different types of offenders with different types of characteristics. Child molesters, for example, tend to be very obsequious and eager to please. Violent rapists are usually overly macho and belligerent. You get the idea.

I told them when they brought up the idea, that it wasn't a good idea to put me on the S.O. yard. Someone I loved had been hurt by one of them once, and I hate them. I mean, a few are relatively decent guys who just did something dumb: been with a girl who looked twenty but was fifteen, stuff like that. Still wrong, of course, but not as vile as the others. One guy was even in there for urinating in public (charged with indecent exposure). Anyway, I wasn't especially careful of their feelings. One thing I forgot to mention: they're all the whiniest bunch of babies you never want to meet. So one day, I'd had enough of their whining about how unfair everything was to them, and told a roomful of them that they should stop complaining, because they were lucky they had what they'd got, instead of what they deserved, which was death. Apparently that was against prison policy. For some reason. I dunno.

So, what with that, and my health problems, and the fact that it had come out that I was looking for a new job, it wasn't long before they found a way to get rid of me. And truthfully, I was thankful; I wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway. And that was my last job. I applied to have my VA disability increased to 100%, and also applied for social security. The VA came through in less than a year, but social security took about five.

While I was waiting for the VA, I had to live on unemployment and my partial pension, so I moved out of the nice house I'd been renting and into a cheap apartment. At this time, only my youngest daughter was with me. The oldest son had stayed in Florida when I'd left, and the other two hated Phoenix and moved back to their mother's for a while. No, wait I misspoke. I had already moved out of the house, and was staying with my mother, so I could use the money I'd been spending on rent to pay child support, as all four were with her at that time. The divorce had been uncontested and we'd agreed on terms, which hadn't included any set amount for child support. She knew without any doubt that I'd always do whatever was in my power for the kids, and it changed according to how many were with each, and how much money we both were making.

But a few months after the two middle ones had gone back to Florida, the youngest decided that she wanted to come live with me now, since I was alone. (And, I think, because her siblings irritated her). That's when I got the apartment. It was a pretty tight time, financially, but it was a good time for my daughter and me, alone together. We became closer than we'd ever been, as she'd always been Mommy's baby.

Other than my relationship with her, though, I was going downhill fast. I completely withdrew. Tried to avoid any contact with other people as much as I could. I took, for instance, to grocery shopping after midnight, so the stores would be empty. I didn't really sleep anyway.

I had been becoming an asshole for some time--at least since my last couple of years of college in Florida. Part of it was because I was so busy, and so tired. I was taking classes at two different campuses, one about 50 miles from my house, and the other about 30 miles from it in the other direction. I was working a job as an editor at a legal publishing company about halfway in-between my house and the campus that was 50 miles away. The kids were all in school, and involved in activities, and my wife was working too. And we had a house that required maintenance, a menagerie that required constant care (and which she and the kids were constantly forgetting to do things for), which included 12 or so cats, 6 or 8 rabbits, 2 dogs, and various birds, turtles, hamsters, and other assorted small creatures. So I'd come home late at night, for instance, after everyone was in bed, and have to check that the rabbits had food and water because they'd constantly forget. And then there was living in Florida--the heat, the traffic, the rudeness. But of course, it was ultimately my own issues that turned me into what I was becoming.

And there were, increasingly, upsetting incidents as I became angrier and more isolated. Arguments with rude clerks, for example, or conflicts with bureaucrats over stupid policies. I wasn't violent or anything; just grumpy and often insulting. But it was exacerbated by my size and appearance, so that it would often get blown way out of proportion when, in my view, I had only been trying to stand my ground and argue my point. I see now how I must have come across, but at the time I felt persecuted and misunderstood, and that drove me further down the path I was already on.

I should go into that a little further. I've always, my whole life, had trouble fitting in, as I mentioned in an early post in this series. Not only did I have my challenges with social interactions, but I had put on a few pounds after my parents's divorce. I was never more than chubby as a kid, but among kids even a few extra pounds sets you up for being ridiculed and rejected. And that on top of the damage my stepmother was doing. If you haven't been there, it's hard to express how miserable and lonely it is for a kid to live in that kind of environment. When an adult is constantly treating you with scorn and contempt, it gets inside you and stays there. So, although I managed to some degree to function as I became an adult and then a father, it was never easy and I always still wrestled with these issues. And as I met with one failure after another, it only reinforced it all, and made me believe fervently that there must be something seriously wrong with me. Why was life so much easier for everybody else? Now that I have some perspective on it, the wonder is not that I didn't do better with all my disadvantages, but that I managed to accomplish as much as I did.

When the VA came through, I got another back-pay check and we used it to get the hell out of Phoenix, which we both hated. I wanted to go somewhere cool and green and shady, and we set our sights on Appalachia. We ended up in Tennessee, where I devoted myself fully to becoming an misanthropic hermit.

There was another side-effect to the meds, which only became apparent in the long term. They caused me to gain weight. I've always, as you can see in my pictures below, struggled with an extra 10 or 20 pounds. But the Prozac, coupled with my increasingly sedentary lifestyle due to the constant, severe physical pain I was in, caused me to get seriously overweight. I reached 350 at one point in Tennessee. And of course, the bigger I got, the more my injuries hurt me, and the more depressed and withdrawn I became. It got to the point, with the pain in my back and joints, that I couldn't mow my own grass anymore, and if I had to go shopping at two different stores, I'd go on different days, or at least go home and rest in-between. They gave me narcotics, but I was always very careful with them, and refused to take them every day, much less several times like it said on the bottle. I had no interest in becoming an addict on top of everything else.

I had, however, not long before we left Phoenix, committed myself to returning to seeking God; to increasing and deepening my relationship with him beyond where it ever had been; and to finally dealing with my issues and getting myself more or less fixed. I started praying regularly and in new ways: following prayer-book forms and learning the practices of the Christian mystics. And when we moved to Tennessee, although I was outwardly becoming worse, I also had a sense that the next several years of my life were going to be a kind of retreat and seclusion while the Lord worked some serious changes in my soul.

Eternal Light Shine upon Zoe

My best friend from high school, Eric Myers' 17-year-old daughter committed suicide a few days ago. Eric wrote and recorded this song for her when she was a little girl. Rest in peace, Zoe, and the Lord have mercy upon you.

Recovery, again

Made it to the gym today. There were a few flutters, but felt ok overall. Not great: still feel tired and a bit weak, and my cardiovascular fitness is a bit off. But I can't wait any longer to start back: feel like a bloated, lazy slug.

How Not to Get Your Ass Kicked by the Police

This is one of the best things I've seen in ages. Sorry about the language.

My Life -- The Bad Stuff

I've been having an awful week. Hit new lows, and just feel positively rotten.

So I'm going to tell you some of the stuff about my life I've been holding back. Hell with it.

I've almost died multiple times. When I was a baby I had a fever. When I was a little kid I ate poison. When I was about five I collapsed from dehydration while playing outside. I already told you about the alcohol poisoning when I was fourteen. And the tank accident when I was seventeen--or wait, did I?

I was in a tank that drove off a cliff. I was in the commander's hatch--the guy who is half outside, up on top of the turret, and the driver lost control. We headed for the side of the road and a cliff, and just before we rolled, which would have crushed me, he had the presence of mind to turn and go straight down. That's how my back got hurt.

What else? The truck accident. Pneumonia. Another hospitalization for dehydration in basic training. There's more, but that's all I can think of off the top of my head.

Another time, I was inside the turret of the tank doing some kind of maintenance, while the engine was running. Normal procedure--during the winter we'd go to the motor pool, run the engines for a while, to keep them in working order. Some linkage in the transmission snapped and the tank started moving of its own accord. I had to scramble down into the driver's compartment while the vehicle was in motion, and slam on the brake. The motor pool was full of other soldiers from my company, and I didn't know if it had killed or injured anybody until after I had stopped it, and opened the hatch and raised my seat. It hadn't, but those seconds before I found out were some of the scariest of my life.

Almost shot my best friend. It was the height of the Cold War, and we were on guard duty up near the Czech border. My sergeant thought it was funny to tell us new guys stories about East German terrorists and Russian agents (which were actually based on truth), and had us all worked up. In the pitch black, I heard movement while I was on roving patrol, and challenged: ("halt, who goes there?"). I got no answer, and challenged twice more. I pulled my weapon, and heard the footsteps coming toward me. I was a hair's breadth from squeezing the trigger when my buddy's voice finally answered.

I woke up on the operating table once. I was getting hernia repair surgery. I could feel them cutting, but I was paralyzed and couldn't move, speak, or even blink. After a few minutes the anesthesiologist noticed my vitals coming up (I heard the conversation) and gave me another dose. I told the surgeon later, and he was skeptical until I recounted what they had said to each other.

I'm told I used to be rather attractive, and I guess it was true. But not just to women. All through my teens and twenties I had dudes hitting on me. Which was weird and creepy, but I always tried to be polite in refusing. When I was fifteen or so one guy who had stopped to give me a ride when I was hitchhiking tried to get forceful about it. I stood up to him, and escaped unscathed.

Stared down the barrel of a gun more than once.

Had a knife pulled on me. By my wife.

Had to fight some guy who was trying to kill me. He tried to start a fight over something stupid. I tried to walk away. He hit me in the back of the head with something, then started kicking me in the head while I was down. I'd seen people killed like that when I was a cop, and knew my life was in danger. And my son was watching. So I told him to go get my friend Palmer, then I pulled my knife (I had been fishing) and stabbed the guy. I had been dazed and almost knocked out by the blow to the head, so I couldn't just fight him. He lived.

Oh, and I was just recovering from another concussion when that happened. This heavy wood-and-iron rocking horse had fallen off the top of a high shelf onto my head. My wife came home to find me stretched out on the couch, delirious, with a blood-soaked towel to my head and a trail of blood leading to the bathroom and back. For some reason, I refused anesthetic when they stitched it up. Don't know what I was thinking: just confused after the head injury.

Been bitten four times by brown recluses, while in my bed asleep. The thing about recluse venom is that it stays in your cells, and if you're bitten again, the old venom becomes active again. So every time is a little worse. If it happens again, I might actually go to the hospital.

Been through hurricane, tornado, earthquake, fire, and flood. Looking forward to a volcanic eruption one of these days.

Saw things. As a cop and a soldier. You know, body parts. Crushed bodies. Broken minds. Ruined lives. Absolute worst thing in the world is the way a woman is emotionally and mentally shattered after a sexual assault. Just makes me want to cry like a little child. Then there are the people I had to be around, inside the jail and the prison. Lunatics. Demoniacs. Child molesters. Rapists. Murderers. One guy they sent me for a teacher's aide had robbed a Buddhist monastery. Lined up the monks and executed them all. A woman in one of the county jails, whom I'm convinced was possessed, shot her boyfriend five times then cut him in half. She used to argue with herself in two different voices while holding a Bible and gesticulating wildly. I had to take an eight-year-old boy to the mental hospital. Procedure said I had to cuff him, but procedure be damned. I left his hands free and let him take some toys with him.

And then there's the bad stuff I've done.

When I ran away from home, my father offered on the phone when I called from my friend's house to let me go and live with my mother. But I had been counselled not to tell him that that's what I wanted, and I didn't. Then, when we went to court to try and get what he had offered to begin with, I made it sound like it was his fault--that he was the one who I didn't want to go back and live with. I guess I didn't think anyone would take it seriously that I was afraid to go back and live with an abusive woman. I betrayed my father, I lied to him, I lied about him. And I never got to ask for his forgiveness--he died a few years later, before I'd worked up the courage to talk to him about it.

When I went back to college after my accident, I had been in a place of spiritual change and turmoil. And I was thoroughly sick and tired of typical evangelical Christianity. One day, a girl in my class tried to "witness" to a guy in class, and I criticized her for it. I can be sharp-tongued. Made her cry, and leave the class. Probably the worst thing I've ever done.

Had to hurt people, physically, as part of the job. Which doesn't bother me if a guy deserves it, but sometimes he doesn't, but it's necessary anyway.

And have had to be fairly awful to people as part of the job too. But also, became a hardened asshole and was unkind sometimes when I didn't need to be, especially when I was working the jail. It does something to you. Like that experiment in the seventies when they made college students into jailers and prisoners.

"Love without courage and wisdom is sentimentality, as with the ordinary church member. Courage without love and wisdom is foolhardiness, as with the ordinary soldier. Wisdom without love and courage is cowardice, as with the ordinary intellectual. Therefore one who has love, courage, and wisdom is the one in a million who moves the world, as with Jesus, Buddha, and Gandhi." -- Ammon Hennacy

My Life, More Army Pics

Just reconnected with some old Army buddies, and found some more pictures to add.

Hanging out in the barracks 

You can't see me... 

 The inside of a tank

I'm cold just remembering this. Tanks have heaters. Unfortunately, when you're tactical, you're not allowed to use them.

I'm saddened to learn that so many of my old friends from the Army struggle with the same kind of issues that I do. But it also makes me feel a little better about myself: less pathetic and weak.

Wednesday Night Waltz

Soon my friends will be meeting on Wednesday nights again, enjoying the warmth of food and fellowship, and the light of learning. I'll miss them.

My Life in Pictures, continued

My Grandparents. Grandpa died just after this, then Grandma, years later: both from cancer. And both refused treatment--just stayed at home and let the disease run its course. I'm sad, and I miss them, but I get it: it was wonderful to have them to talk to and visit, sometimes, but sitting around totally alone, with no real friends or purpose in life, waiting for a child or grandchild to call every once in a while is just not enough to live for. I didn't understand then, but I definitely do now.

 

My wife had this blown up and hung it over Bethany's bed while I was away at war, so she could sleep.

 Playing video games with the boys

Playing GI Joes with the boys

At the airport, coming home from the war

Official Army photo from my last tour of duty

Out somewhere in Germany; Freilandsmuseum, I think: a reconstructed pre-industrial village. Very cool. With Adina.

Home from hunting, with my friend Palmer and his ginormous dog Duke

With the kids, in my hospital bed in the living room

Getting the kids baptized. I had progressed from a walker to this crutch.

 Disney World. Only a cane, now.

Playing Star Wars with Michael. I played with the girls, too, there just don't seem to be any pictures of me playing Barbies. ;)

Not actually a mugshot, despite its appearance

My brother's wedding. Onasaki Mitsuo-san, beside me, is a real Samurai of ten generations' heritage, and teaches Japanese swordsmanship.

 Another at the wedding. Onasaki-san and I declared war on all the bottles in the house.

dyin' alone

Don't read too much into it. It's just a song I like.

My Life, Part VII

I told you that I had become depressed with the ending of my hopes for a career in the Army, and that I had developed anxiety issues after my accident. And I told you that I withdrew from my family and my life, and retreated into escapism. But I didn't tell you the link between the two: Prozac.

During the year and a half that I was recovering physically from my accident, I had finally gone and sought help for my depression, and now, anxiety. And they, of course, put me on meds. The pills helped at first: lifted the heavy weight of bad feelings and allowed me to start actually dealing with the issues underlying them, and also to start functioning again. But they had another effect as well. They numbed my feelings and left me in a state of permanent detachment. I still had feelings, but I didn't fully experience them, if that makes any sense. I could be angry, but look at myself objectively at the same time and say, "Hm, I'm angry right now. Fascinating."

And so, I went about my life and obligations mechanically, out of a sense of duty, rather than out of passion and love. And, though I was "comfortably numb" I was, in another way, more dissatisfied than ever. Nothing meant anything. And so I found things to occupy my mind, to distract me from the emptiness of being me. Or of being me on Prozac, anyway. Again, not making excuses: I'm responsible for my actions and decisions. Just explaining how it happened.

So, I went to college, intending to major in English Lit. I had imagined grey-haired professors in tweed jackets talking about Shakespeare and Dickens, and examining them on their literary and artistic merit. What I got was embittered feminists and opinionated homosexuals grinding their philosophical and political axes. At the expense of everything that I valued about literature, art, and culture. It was too late, by the time I realized just how bad it was, to switch my major. But I switched my focus from literature to creative writing, so at least I had to take fewer lit courses.  I had always wanted to write anyway.

For those who haven't experienced it, it's hard to describe how difficult it is to be a white, heterosexual, monogamous, conservative, Christian man in academia today. In other words, to be the personification of everything that is scorned and reviled by the current academic climate. And then, to be a veteran and an ex-cop on top of that: you may as well be walking around with horns and a pitchfork. Oh, and anti-feminist, which was probably the most damning thing of all. Not misogynist, just complementarian. I think feminism is at least as bad for women as it is for men. I don't want to cry about it, and I dealt with it at the time: stood my ground and fought for my beliefs, even though it got me in trouble more than once. But it really starts to hurt your feelings after a while. 'Nuff said.

Around 1999, I reached a point where I couldn't--or was unwilling to--take any more of my wife's nonsense. We had an ugly, horrible fight, I don't even remember what over (there were so many), and I left. I got a room in a fleabag hotel and proceeded to get drunk. But in the wee hours of the morning, I was awoken from my alcohol-induced coma by loud and continual banging on my door. Turns out that my wife had, for no reason other than spite, called the police and taken out a restraining order against me. She knew damn well that I was completely incapable of harming her or the children, and my kids will confirm that to this day. My mother got caught up in the hysteria, and she and my stepfather joined in, too. I ended up in the hospital under a 72-hour "observation". But it was manifestly apparent that there was no merit to it, and I was released in less than 24 hours, and the restraining order dropped before it even went to hearing. She even went, after she had calmed down, to the courthouse and admitted that it was unfounded and unnecessary. And my mother had realized within a day or two that she'd been misled, and tried to make things right. But the fact that it had been in place created a permanent record in the files of the county, which showed up on any thorough background investigation. I've forgiven them all, but there's a wound there that's probably never going to go away.

We stayed separated for a few months. Then she came to me, apologized, said she was trying to change, and that she loved me and wanted me back. So I forgave her, and moved back in.

But, once I graduated, I couldn't get a job in teaching because of the restraining order. And tensions started to build again. Money got tight, and we got behind on our mortgage, and she started to slip back into her old ways. For three or four years after the separation, things had been better. But I had told her when I agreed to come back, that I wasn't going to put up with that crap anymore, and if I left again it would be forever.

The consequence of that, however, was that she turned her cruelty from me to the kids. But hid it from me, of course. Especially toward the two who took most after me. It was when I started to see this, on top of things beginning to deteriorate again between us, that I seriously started to consider ending it for good. My kids were teenagers by then, and beginning to see clearly themselves. They came to me one day, told me that they had had a meeting, the four of them, and that they thought I should leave her. I was moved to tears. What amazing and unselfish kids.

I didn't act on it right away: I still wanted to do the right thing. I had arranged a payment plan to catch up on our mortgage, but it was going to mean a frugal Christmas, and I told her how much we had to spend. And she went and spent four times that much. So we were going to lose the house. The only option was to move back into my mother's place (not with her, just a place she owned). But my wife absolutely refused. I tried to explain that we had no other option. She threatened to leave and get her own place. She was bluffing, trying to force me to give her her way. But I said, "Ok." And that was that.

Like I said before, I don't blame it all on her. I know I made mistakes, and did wrong, and failed. But I'm not going to be falsely noble and take all the blame to myself either. I'm just telling it like it was.

And we've resolved things now. We're able to talk like reasonable adults. She's finally gone and gotten professional help with her issues (and she had ample justification for her issues from her life before we met. I'm not going to tell her secrets here, but I knew this all along and it's one of the reasons I tried so hard to put up with her). After we split, she still called me almost every day for about two years, just to talk. And I let her, even though I didn't really want to, and even though she was already with someone else. And, about five or six years ago now, after I had embarked on my journey of spiritual renewal, I called her and said, "I need to tell you two things: One, I'm sorry for everything I ever did to hurt you. And two, I forgive you for everything you ever did to me." A couple of years ago, when she split up with her third husband, I went and helped her move (and made sure she got out safely). So I consider that resolved.

I ended up finally finding work at the community college at which I had done my first two years. I didn't have a Master's degree, so I taught remedial college prep courses, adult ed., and GED.

When we had divorced, I made a promise to my kids that I would not bring anyone else into the house as long as they were at home (we let them choose who to live with, and three of them ended up with me). I made half-hearted attempts at dating, but not only had I made that promise; I also knew I wasn't ready for a real relationship yet. And I don't lie to women. So, as you can imagine, most women weren't really interested in waiting around for several years to see if maybe I would be ready to get serious once all my kids were grown. So I just kind of settled into being single.

Except there was Jessica. Jessica was the first girl I met after the divorce. I met her on an internet dating site, we communicated online for a while, and we went out once. Then, late one night, I got a call from a little girl. It was Jessica's daughter. Her mom wasn't feeling well and she was scared and didn't know what to do, and my number was on the refrigerator. So I got directions to their house, drove over, and took care of her. Jessica still talks about how much that meant to them, but I don't think she's ever realized how much it meant to me, to be trusted like that, and to have the opportunity to be a good man and to take care of a vulnerable woman and a little girl in need. Nothing in the world makes me happier.

So Jessica and I sort of dated, but really just became friends. I was totally up-front with her about my intentions, my promise to my kids, and where I was emotionally. And she accepted it, and accepted me, and we just had companionship and nothing else. And it was lovely.

But, after a while, she began to pull away and become distant. I found out later that it was because she was developing deeper feelings for me, and knew I didn't return them. But at the time, I didn't realize that, and we ended up losing touch for a while. A couple of years, in fact.

Then came the summer of 2004, when we got hit by four successive hurricanes. I had not been getting as many classes to teach, because another former instructor had returned and they gave her some of mine. We were left in serious financial trouble, and I decided that I needed something more reliable: a full-time job with salary and benefits. And I thought I might like to live somewhere where there were no hurricanes. I found one in Phoenix, teaching adult ed. and GED prep. to inmates in a state prison.

My Life, Part VI

What I always wanted was to have a real family, and raise my kids right. I wanted to have a little homestead farm, where I raised most of our food myself: chickens, turkeys, pigs, a milk cow which I could get bred to a beef bull, and raise the calf for meat. Vegetable garden, fruit trees, berry vines, nut trees, herb garden, and my wife would raise the flowers. A pond. A patch of woods for deer and to cut my own firewood, and a trout stream. I even had it mapped out on graph paper, as well as plans for my dream house. I would work the farm in the mornings, and write in the afternoons, while my wife homeschooled the kids, with me helping out for certain subjects. Big family dinners, with lots of kids, and friends over for dinner parties. Teaching my kids to be good people, to know and do what's right. Classical education, with good literature, good music, Latin and Greek, true history and theology, and watching the kids grow and develop their own interests, and become amazing independent humans beyond anything we could ever have planned for them ourselves. And then, when they were grown, holidays with all the sons- and daughters-in-law and the grandkids in what everyone agreed was "home".

But none of that ever happened. Mainly because of my foolishness and disobedience in marrying the wrong woman, too young.

The years of my life that most people spend discovering who they are, what their interests and aptitudes are, going to college, exploring new ideas, mastering their skills and learning to excel, meeting people who stretch and challenge them. Falling in love. I spent working my ass off trying to support a wife who didn't appreciate me and who was never satisfied with anything; who I couldn't make happy no matter what I did or how hard I tried. And four kids, whom I loved with every fibre of my being, but who were not receiving the upbringing they deserved and I wanted for them, because I lacked the time, the energy, and the money to do it right, and their mother didn't share my vision.

When, for example, it came time to put them in school, she resisted homeschooling tooth and nail. I still have a letter she wrote me (I was in the field at gunnery), where she begged me not to make her homeschool, and talked about how she needed time to herself. Not because she thought it was best for the kids to send them to public school (who could?) but because she wanted those hours for herself. But I saw that, even if I forced her to do it, her heart wouldn't be in it and she would be resentful. And I knew that, in the end, she'd just make all our lives living hell until she got her way anyway. So they went to public school. (We couldn't afford private for four of them).

I also learned later that she would undermine me. I'd set rules, or mete out punishments, and as soon as I was gone to work, she'd throw it all away so that she could be the nice one and make them like her more than me. But then she'd lose her temper and be totally unjust and arbitrary to them. I tried and tried to explain to her that the key to parenting was consistency, and that she needed to draw a line and act on their disobedience before she became angry. But she never listened. Her favorite tactic was to find whatever was dearest to their hearts--an upcoming trip to Disney World, for example--and use it ad nauseam to blackmail them. "Clean your room or you don't get to go to Disney World." "Go to sleep, or you don't get to go to Disney World." "Hurry up, or you don't get to go to Disney World."

My biggest regret about my marriage is not how it ruined my life, but that my kids had to grow up with such a mother. They deserved better.


So, we moved to Florida. And to some of the worst public schools in the country. When we first got there, we planned to stay long enough to get on our feet, then move somewhere better, like Tennessee, or Virginia. But we got stuck. Florida is a swamp, both literally and metaphorically. Almost everyone we knew dreamed of getting out, moving to the mountains, starting a new life. Except, of course, for the New Yorkers who had come down to retire, and thought it was the best place in the world.

I had applied, after I got out of the Army, to get my disability benefits through the VA. But it takes ages, and you've usually got to fight them for it. So in Florida, I went to the Job Service and met with the VA rep, who told me that Florida had a state vocational rehabilitation program that would help me get some training. It wouldn't send me to college, but I could use it to do something like get certified as a mechanic or an HVAC tech. I decided to try truck driving, as it seemed to promise pretty good money. I also tested for the Post Office, but that too takes forever.

I finished the school and got a job as a truck driver, and the next week the Post Office finally offered me a job as well. But I decided that since I'd gone through the training and already accepted the job, I'd go through with it. It wasn't bad. I missed my family. And I found that my honesty was going to limit my earning potential, because in order to really make money you had to cheat, to break the laws, to keep two sets of logs so that you could circumvent the safety regulations. And I wasn't going to do it. But I figured I could still earn a decent living.

In order to understand the next part, I have to bore you a bit and tell you what a jake brake is. You know that loud, annoying roaring sound big trucks make sometimes? That's the engine brake, or jake brake. Trucks have an unsynchronized transmission, which means you can't downshift without first slowing down the engine RPMs. Which gets really sticky when you're going downhill with a load. So, in order to spare the brakes, they have jake brakes installed, which slows the engine itself down, so you can downshift without overheating your brakes and causing them to fail. Which is bad.

The problem is that they're so loud. And many truck drivers abuse and overuse them. And so, many towns and localities have noise ordinances against them, and when they're broken, the tickets usually get sent directly to the trucking company. So my lovely company decided that they just weren't going to have jake brakes on their trucks, so they wouldn't have to pay the fines.

I had been working all through Appalachia for a few weeks. Up mountains, down mountains, over hills. And I guess I had overused my brakes. On the way from Kentucky to Virginia, on a mountain called Sand Mountain in West Virginia, I lost my brakes completely. I had just passed a sign that said "8% grade, next 5 miles", so I had another 4 miles or so of steep, twisting road to try and get down. Then I came upon a runaway truck ramp. But there was already another truck in it. I thought about trying to coast down to the bottom, but I had already accelerated to 65 or 70, and knew I wouldn't make it. I'd go over the side, or run over some other vehicle. I thought about just bailing out, but I thought the truck would probably kill someone. With my luck, a family of six in a minivan. So, I decided that the only thing to do was to stop the truck, one way or another, and the only way was to use the other truck in the ramp.

It took them three and a half hours to get me out of the truck, which had been crumpled around me like a Coke can. After the impact, the first thing I did was check to see--I don't want to be crude--but check to see if everything important was still in place. Then I looked down and saw my foot in a very odd position. My knee had been hyperextended, disclocated, and twisted around, and, I found later, all the ligaments torn loose. My hip was dislocated. My chest was pinned by the steering wheel, some ribs cracked, and it was hard to breath. The engine had been forced back through the firewall, and was pinning my leg, and the manifold was burning it. The trailer had pushed up into the back, and my seat was forced forward into an awkward position. And it hurt. I can't even describe how much it hurt. It hurt so much that, if I had had a gun, I would have shot myself in the head just to stop the pain.

I prayed that I would die, or at least fall unconscious. Didn't happen. So I just prayed. I didn't know whether I was going to die, so I closed my eyes, let out a deep breath, and said "Into your hands I commend my spirit." Then I remembered...I know it sounds dumb, but I remembered something I'd seen years and years ago on Kung Fu, about using meditation to deal with pain. So I surrendered to it. I "became one" with the pain, and accepted that this was where I was and was my reality. And it became bearable.

When people finally started to arrive, and the fire department and all were there working, they all remarked on how calm I was. No screaming, no cursing, no complaining. The only exception was when, after they had cut away everything else, then were using a chain and winch to lift the steering column off my lower leg, the chain slipped, and the steering column snapped back onto my leg, fracturing the tibia. I cursed and called someone something unkind. But then I was quiet again.

As each piece was removed, I thought that that was what had been trapping me, and I'd struggle to get loose and get out, only to find that I was still stuck. When I finally was free, I found that I couldn't really move because my hip and knee were dislocated, so I had to relax and let a fireman lift me out. (Insert cheesy metaphor for relying on Jesus here).

Later, in the hospital, a state trooper brought me my Bible and prayer book. He said that, normally, in an accident like this, they found the scene littered with pornography and illegal double log books. But they'd found only one log, perfectly legal, and my Bible and prayer book. Then he said, "There was only one space inside that truck with enough room for a human being to exist, and that's where you were sitting. Your God was looking out for you."

So after the accident, I couldn't walk. We got a hospital bed set up in our living room, and I spent six or eight months in initial recovery. The physical therapist came to the house, and nurses. But my wife had to do most of the caring for me, of course. Which she did, but she also quickly became sullen and resentful. At one point, she had a total meltdown, and my brother had to come down to help. Not to help with me so much, but to support her, to take her out to get away, etc. Then I had surgery to reconstruct one of my knee ligaments, and I started the road back to walking again. But something had changed.

For one thing, my wife finally went to work. My worker's comp was ridiculous, because the company was based in Arkansas, which has the worst worker's comp laws in the country. And all the kids were finally in school. So she had been volunteering at their elementary school, then after my accident they gave her a job as a teacher's aide.

I don't know how much of it was the job, and how much was my accident, but she had lost all respect for me. Seems she couldn't handle being married to a cripple. Of course, I didn't see this right away. I was actually going through a time of deep appreciation and increased affection toward her. Once I was up and around enough to start driving again, I started doing things like dropping flowers off at her job and planning date nights out with her. I bought her a new ring (the original had a tiny little diamond), a beautiful one with roses carved from rose gold, and planned to re-propose and have a vow renewal ceremony and a little romantic getaway, since we'd never had wedding nor honeymoon. But she became distant, dismissive, and disrespectful. Once, she was recounting to me a conversation she'd had at work, and said she'd told the person that she was "sorta happy" in her marriage.

So I gave up. It's not an excuse, and I'm responsible for my own actions, but I did have reasons. I gave up, and I retreated into escapism. I played video games, I collected things, I watched movies, I read novels. I still went about my daily business, pro forma. I took care of my family, and went to work and school when the time came for those things. But I withdrew. I was only party there, and no longer put my whole self into my family.

It wasn't just the marriage. From the time I'd come home after the accident, I was overwhelmed with an intense anxiety about the future. How was I going to protect and provide for my family now? I'd always relied on my ability to do whatever needed to be done, physically. And now it was gone. I couldn't even walk, much less work or fight or evacuate them in an emergency. It was intense and crippling, and eventually became an actual neurosis: the culmination of all the stress and pressure and grief that had been my adult life.


I also, during my recovery, began a process of deep spiritual reflection. I had, for some time, been growing dissatisfied with the kind of religion I had been practicing. Contemporary American Evangelicalism was shallow, and trite, and unsatisfying. I longed for real sacraments. For a connection to the earliest Christians. For a deeper, more meaningful expression of my faith. So I went on a journey of discovery. I gave up to the Lord everything I believed, except that He was there, and started from a place of as open a mind as I could create in myself, to discover what I should believe and why I should believe it. I won't belabour this already long post with details (I may make a separate one later, if anyone's interested). I'll just say that I discovered sound, logical, rational reasons to believe in God, in the Trinity, and in Christ. That I discovered the Church Fathers, the Ecumenical Councils, and the true meanings of Catholicism and Orthodoxy. And that I began to discover the sacramental life: the life that finds Christ in everything and everything in Christ, and sees the true beauty of life and creation.

I had these two conflicting currents in my heart. Anxiety, despair, and escapism on the one hand, and faith, hope, and obedience on the other.

Then something happened that should have shown me that God was caring for me, and led me to the path of faith. The VA finally came through. They were granting me disability at a substantial percentage, and not only was I going to be receiving a monthly paycheck for the rest of my life, but I would be receiving back pay for all the time it had taken them to make up their minds. And, best of all, I would qualify for vocational rehabilitation, which meant they were going to pay my college tuition, buy me my books and supplies, and give me an additional living stipend above my regular disability pension.

But I chose the wrong path. When I first received the news about college, I had decided to move to the northeast Tennessee/southwest Virginia area and go to a small Christian liberal arts college, followed by seminary. But then I decided to be "practical" and "realistic": to give in to fear, in other words, and to just stay where we were, attend local public college, and try to do something which would allow me to get a decent job. I majored in English, with additional courses in education, thinking that I would teach high school after graduation while working on a graduate degree that would eventually let me become a college professor.

My Life, More Pictures

The birth of our first daughter, Bethany. And my first attempt at a beard. 1989.

The kids. Must have been 1991.

In my police academy uniform. You can see the pallor from fatigue and the bags under my eyes. That's our youngest, Adina, beside me. 1992.

The kids and me at the office Christmas party: Alamosa County Sherrif's Department, 1993. That's the captain in the Santa suit.

The family, when I was a deputy sheriff: 1993 or so. Toby is making his first look: we call it "Blue Steel". He should have been a male model.

The ex and me in Germany, 1994. Can't believe I'm still wearing that calculator watch.

With Bethany, outside the in-laws' house. I was almost in shape to go to Special Forces selection.