Log, summer 1996

Log

Lord, give me strength, give me love for myself. Peace of miind and heart. Help me love myself, trust myself, give myself some credit, some slack. “For Goodness sake be gentle with yourself!” I do my best. I am lucky to be alive, to be free, to have a ƒamily. Love, freedom, joy, I have so much more than I see, than I need. And I have you.
May 20, 1996


I’m standing there, thigh-deep in the only slightly frigid water of the Bradley Park swim area, watching my wife swim, when the voice of a small girl says, “Go after your dreams!” as she launches herself past me into the, for her, chest-deep water. She paddles fearlessly, resolutely, in a semicircle and back to where she started. She sees me standing there open-mouthed, staring at her and she adds, “Thats what my mom always says”, her confident, thoughtful grin bubbling up to her eyes and lifting her head a little higher. “I’m the only one in my family who can frog paddle,” she says as she plunges out again and then, under her breathe, “Or dog stroke or whatever...” I took her for a prophet but I couldn’t say just what she meant to me. My dreams are much too far away. Either too long ago or somewhere in a distant, undefined future. Even those I bring near to hand are unformed, fearful of being identified as something real. I wish I knew her mother.
I don’t even have dreams at night much anymore, not that I remember anyway. Do our dreams die a natural death or are they murdered by life? Should we try to resurrect old ones or move on to new ones? What do I do with my new awareness of the “death” of my dreams? Are they truly dead or only sleeping? Some dreams are murdered. Slain by abuse. Tell me Lord what are my dreams? I don’t know anymore. The only one I know for sure I have right now is to write. Does it have to be occupational to be a ”real” dream? I need to write, whether I do it or not, I need it.
May 21, 1996


What now my love? Now that I’m freer? Now that I’m not so compelled to do what’s “right”? Now I do and be and speak and see the truth more readily. About myself, about my family, about my life. It makes things harder sometimes. Things aren’t so black and white. I used to think , no matter what, this is a great life . Anything is better than what I had before, but it’s not necessarily the greatest. It is a “wonderful life”, I won’t be jumping off any bridges soon (there’s an angel to dissuade me), but unlike Jimmy Stewart, I’m not seeing affirmation pouring in at the happy ending right now. Oh they’re there alright but rather difficult to spot. Like a straight board in the wood pile these days. Anyway, things aren’t as great as I thought. My wife was so gracious as to point that out to me last night. “There is a lot of stress in your life right now”, another way of saying “Things are pretty tough”. Oh, well, its better to see it as it is and deal with it than live and die denial. And die you may or wish you could when reality doesn’t match up with the story you’ve sold yourself.
I sold myself a bill of goods starting when I was five years old. I buried the most significant events of my childhood and spent the rest of my life reacting to them. I always wondered why my inner life did not match my outer one. Always out of sinc, always hiding especially when there seemed nothing to hide. Always on the outside looking in at my life unable to reach in and touch it or ,seemingly, to do anything about what was going on. “Hey, look out ... , no don’t do that..., ahh ,not again you dummy”. It all seemed to happen without my consent. Without my knowing just what was going on.
So now I’m learning how to live with a new awareness, a different point of view.
I have come to realize I have choices. I no longer feel I need to be subservient to survive and perhaps I’ll be OK if someone doesn’t like me or if I don’t like them. This new awareness means I don’t have to lie to myself about how I feel. Whatever I feel is OK, what can I do about it after all? It doesn’t mean I act on everything I feel but it does mean its OK to feel ,whatever... I am emotionally free for the first time in my life and I am scared. There are more choices than I knew. One thing about being compulsive, you usually know what you’re going to do. When you’re dominated by an unremembered past you feel strangely justified in what you do, after all, you’re not responsible. You feel you have no choice. With freedom comes responsibility. Scary, but I’ll take it and not because “anything is better... “ rather, because its what I want.
Later, 1996

Dear God, how am I to go on when I’m feel overwhelmed by getting up in the morning, anxious about puting on my clothes, fearful of going to work. How can I be a “man” in this world when I’m afraid to shovel snow. Fear of life, fear of death, loss of hope, strike me sometimes when I ‘m watching a movie, brushing my teeth, getting out of bed. Less often a love of life strikes me unawares, in the middle of cleaning a laundry room, driving home, shoveling snow. So perhaps it evens out a little but why the fear, the anxiety, the fear shaking me down to the bottom of my stomach, an almost constant gnawing at my soul. Help me lord to find hope and peace.
What now my LORD? AM I TOO WEARY OF LIFE TO BE STRONG? Is my heart too worn from a life lived in fear, subconcious or concious? Why can I not have hope?
Deep down, is my faith only a comfort and not my base? Lord, help me to know the person of Jesus. Help me to get beyond my fear and whatever else keeps me from him.
Fear of all. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of commitment, fear of loss. Fear of responsibility, fear of mistrust, fear of closeness, fear of being alone. Fear of giving up, fear of getting stuck, fear of too long a time, fear of too short. Perhaps what I need is Now.
Even later, 1996

So what now? Now that I’ve changed? Reba wants a boom box, Darrell needs a truck, so does Bill. The boys need toys and clothes and so does Lila. What does Cathy need? Her old husband back. Well, she can’t have him. He’s gone. I can only barely remember him and that’s not enough for you or me. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone to bring him back. I wouldn’t do it if it was. Sorry. Get used to it. Give the new me a chance. I think you’ll like him once he grows into himself.
Too late, 1996