It's time to start writing again; well, I should clarify that by saying that I'm always writing, but, I think, I know it's time to start writing here again.  I tried to reinvent the way that I approach writing, but the cynical, egregious, malicious side of me won't allow me to, maybe it's just the way I'm programmed. It goes back, far back to those moments in childhood when I didn't want to disappoint my parents, or anyone for that matter. I avoided conflict as if it were a bubbling, angry, fire laced lava pit that I had to jump over every single day of my life.  It changed when I was in high school, when I made lifelong friends and when I discovered that being cynical, like having blue eyes, was programmed into me and that I would just have to find a way to manage it. I still struggle with that today.

I abhor intolerance and stupidity.  I can withstand many intolerable things, particularly those social injustices against which we continue to fight, but which the intolerant and stupid individuals in society don't recognize.  And, sometimes it is the simplest of these that leave me wondering: a lack of basic manners, a feeling of entitlement, a narcissism that shadows every other practical sense that most human beings, at least one would hope, should have...

I've been angry and distraught by the "newer" models of young people that I am seeing as of late.  While I realize that my seemingly generalized notion of evaluation may appear to be a stereotype, I assure you, it is not.  That is why I am not focusing on any one group in particular.  Rather, I can only formulate my judgment based on what I see and hear every single day, in more than one scenario. You see, deep down, I am an optimist and I am hopeful.  I believe that one day things will get better, hopefully for us all, but the other side of that coin is that I also believe that, inevitably the human race will destroy itself before we ever get the chance to forge peace and move forward together. This is quite a dilemma, both internal and external. Maybe it is the attempt to balance out the juxtaposing sides that causes me ire.  Or, maybe, I just want to be mad.  I hate to think that is the case...

I have been flying on airplanes since I was a small child and I love to fly.  It doesn't scare me.  I can easily sleep on a plane.  I don't even mind sitting in between total strangers, honestly, it's not my favorite thing about flying, but it doesn't bother me.  I've told this story many times on occasion because it sums up how I see life and these people to whom I refer.  I always say that I never worry about flying because statistically, logically, if the plane goes down, there is almost a 100% chance that I will die.  That's it, sad perhaps, but realistic.  Now, if I'm in a car accident, there is a very high percentage of probability that I will be maimed, paralyzed, require surgery or some other horrific rehabilitation that may leave me completely incapacitated.  I do not want to choose between the two, but, for me, life is a flight on an airplane.  I'm not going to open the emergency exit unless necessary, but I'm not going to stand in the airport, fearful to move forward either.  I already have my ticket so I'm going to order a drink, say hello to the person next to me, shift my position accordingly and wait for the ride to someday end...

Maybe it is the times in which we leave, or technology or despair.  There is a lot to be fearful of and sad about these days; there are stories in the news every day that would and, sadly often mentally cripple many of us.  Shootings, mass violence, Trump running for President, had to throw that in for good measure, but the impetus is for us to sit, listening, reading about these horrific instances and then to come to expect more of the same; some of us choosing to isolate ourselves from the world and other people, fear pervading lives that were once full.  Sadly, as of late, the world has  not disappointed. It all continues...

A student asked me the other day if I'm afraid to die.  An interesting question to ask your English teacher, especially on the second day of class. It gave me pause for half a second, but I feel strongly on this topic, so it is easy for me to answer it.  I already have. I can honestly say that I'm not.  I've said that before.  I've also said that may change when the moment actually comes, that is, if I have a moment to think about it.  But, I'm not.  I make mistakes; I've made many and I will continue to make them, but I know that I make them with a clear conscience and an honest heart.  I know that when I look you in the eyes and say what's on my mind that it is the truth and not some invented story, an embellishment, intended to make me look better. That has not mattered to me since I was a child nor does it now. Ironically, that same honestly has lost me a lot in my life, and, like those who recede from life, avoiding people, places, life in general because they live in fear, I realized just recently, that I am doing the same thing. I have been, not out of fear, but out of frustration and a touch of hopelessness.  I have let myself down and it's one of the worst feelings ever...

It has been 7 months since my diagnosis and I had convinced myself that it wasn't real.  I was feeling so much better and the medication is still working, keeping me in "remission," the symptoms minimal, really, the side effects from the meds are sometimes equally as bad as the minor symptoms of the illness. As a result, I've isolated myself again.  Sure, I go to work, I ride bikes with the kid, I take Nick to guitar lessons, I laugh, I smile, I happily greet my co-workers and guests; that is genuine behavior.  But, the joy is gone.  I hate to say that.  I felt sick inside just writing that.  I have become a recluse of sorts, a homebody, but it's not fear that keeps me here, it's, I, don't know exactly what it is. Futility, fatigue, disinterest, lethargy, all of these? It's easy for me to say "I don't feel well" or to just accept that there are days when I don't have any energy.  There is an acceptance that comes with knowing that the medication that keeps you out of pain has also caused a depressing weight gain and a puffy face that is almost unrecognizable.  There are days when I don't even want to look in the mirror, not that that was a priority before, but every time I look now, I don't even recognize myself.  My clothes don't fit, my skin isn't the same and I'm tired so much of the time.  And if you know me, you know that even if I'm tired, you wouldn't know it.  I decline invitations and I've lost touch with more friends, even the ones who call or contact me regularly.  All I could think about as of late was getting through the day.  Even Facebook depresses me.  Honestly, now when I look at all of the happiness, it makes me even more sad.  That's why I deactivated it, except in certain situations. People who I like and/or love, looking at their daily joys and successes should make me happy; it used to, but now, it just makes me feel worse.  And I know it's not them, it's me. I know that so I continue to look, to wish them well and I mean it, every single time I say it, when I smile, when I offer my help.  But deep down, I feel empty.  I don't know what that means exactly, if it will go away if I just keep plugging away, or, if it is a feeling that I will carry with me the rest of my life.

I have tears in my eyes now as I continue to write this.  The Eagles are playing and that certainly doesn't help...I feel old.  For the first time ever, I don't just feel older and happy with where I am, but I feel old, outdated, useless.  I know in my head that isn't true, but this illness and the overtaking of my body, something that is out of my control is having a greater impact on my life than I thought it would.  Maybe I need to reconcile that before anything else.  I'm just not sure where to start. Writing this may very well be the start.

It has been three years since Coach Scott died.  It has been almost a year since Jessie died and it would have been Pops' birthday this month. While it was so difficult to watch these wonderful people pass on, I find a certain amount of solace knowing that they are out there, waiting, for me? For all of us, and, if someday I am able to see them again, then it will have been worth it, along with all of the other friends and family we have lost over the years.  I guess I just wish for a morning when I wake up and don't think that I just want to get through the day.  I was never like that.  Of course I want to be symptom free and pain free, but sometimes I wonder what the cost of that is.  So far it has cost me far more than I ever thought that it would. 

I miss Yvette. I know she's there; I see glimpses of her in conversations with my co-workers and in my boys' laughter, in long walks at sunrise and in books - always in books.  But now, I need to see her in others again.  I need to reopen the page that I left off on, the one where friends were a priority and being involved in their lives was as equally as important as my own.  It's Pat Benatar now... shadows of the night.  How apropos... Enjoy the night...