I want to be loved...

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.” ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

I want to be loved. I want to be cared for. I want to be liked, respected. I want to matter. I want others to think I’m okay. Often times I think about my funeral. I imagine what people may say about me in my passing. I think about the ending of the story of my life and does it end well or in tragedy. I am not perfect, nor will I ever be. Probably better to not be perfect as I need a reminder where I need to grow as a person.  I want to be okay with me. I want to look in the mirror and know and be comfortable with the person I see. I want to smile more, laugh more. I want to let down my guard more. I want to feel safe more. I want to be less scared; scared of myself and the world.
For those who take a minute out of your days to read this please know it means the world to me. I find it strange that anyone cares what comes out of my mouth.

I’m glad you’re listening…makes me feel like it matters and that you care.
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Who am I and why am I here?

Who am I and why am I here is a question that I ask myself daily. I was asked to address a conference for mental health recovery and this was the title of my speech. I believed the committee assumed I would be bringing answers to this questions not spend my hour discussing why I continue to ask myself this question. I have always longed for a different “version” of myself. 
     I have never felt comfortable with myself. When I look in the mirror, I sometimes don’t know the person reflected there. Most days I struggle through feeling scared. Not scared of the world, but scared of how I am reacting to it. Many people have observed and commented on my “laid back” demeanor. This has taken years of self-reflection and practice to keep my emotional state on a level plane. I know at times I project a “stand offish”, intimidating, mean expression on my face. I do this not by choice. This is part of my natural self-defense mechanism- (insert fight or flight). I do not want to mean or thought of as someone who is a jerk or scary. I really am not. One of the saddest and meanest things anyone has ever said to me is, “no matter how hard you work on recreating who you are, people will always know the true you by the expression you carry on your face and in your eyes.” This was told to me over twenty years ago and it haunts me. It’s not like I am trying to be someone I am not. I was given an opportunity through recovery to change the way my story ends. This is what I call the “gift and curse” of recovery. I believe that if I or anyone else wanted to write the story of my life, I have been given the ability to affect the outcome of how that story ends. This is what I am doing. 
To be continued...
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I didn't want to die but I didn't want to live-by request and censored by request

The first time I cut my wrists,
a great light came over me,
not only had I found a way to release my sadness but I also found the perfect way to illustrate my emotions. I had this mark on my body that conveyed a message for all to see. A message that could only be interpreted one way, I was hurting. My self harm was a perfect complement to my substance abuse, I could intoxicate myself, cut on myself to amplify the high, release my sadness, and send a message to those around me that my life was spiraling out of control and that I had deep rooted emotional issues. I wore the cuts on my body like huge billboards, “I’M HURTING”. I never wanted to kill myself but romanticized the idea that I could cut deeper, more, bigger and come close to death. In fact the closer I came, the better it felt.

The more I cut, the better I felt.

What started as an experiment with emotions and pain quickly developed into an obsession.
I cut on myself everyday; designing patterns of marks that somehow exemplified the number of times I had felt pain. The only problem is I didn't have enough skin. I cut on cuts, I cut on scabs, and I cut and cut. The group of people I hung around were impressed with my cutting. Other kids at my high school, with whom I had never spoken, came forward to compare their cutting to mine, an exchange of desires, dreams, and shared pain; a somewhat intimate exchange. Finally they must have thought someone we can relate to and someone who needs us. I never wanted to gain any relationships from my self-harm, only bring attention and resolve to the destructive nature of my own existence. I became obsessed with using different instruments to cut with razor blades, utility knife blades, broken glass, pins, and needles. As the sensation of cutting began to numb, new ways became a last option. I began to burn “blue circles” into my wrists using a cigarette. I would lie in bed and choke myself. I would punch myself repeatedly in the face and stomach. I didn't want to die but I knew I didn't want to live.
B

A shot of Haldol and too many questions.

Sometimes we ask so many questions that we miss the answer.
Sometimes we ask so many questions because we do not want to hear the answer.
 I have had a stressful week. I again found myself in the middle of brokering an outcome for a person who was in mental health crisis, working with a friend trying to get her significant other into treatment for drug addiction, working two jobs, and trying to be a colleague, professional, husband, father, and attempt to take care of myself. Although not everything I was involved in this week worked out in the way I wished, I accomplished much and helped many in the process. At mass this morning my priest discussed prayer. He discussed that if you continually pray and ask for blessings you sometimes never notice what blessings you have. He asked that we pray without words, to listen. I needed this. Sometimes I become so overwhelmed with the life I forget to look around and see life. Stress has a way of doing this. So I encourage you to take a few minutes, find a quite place, close your eyes and listen.
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25 years of change

"If you do not change your direction, you may end up where you are heading" Lao Tzu

This weekend was the summation of an eventful week for me; I attended my 25^th High School reunion. I have never attended one before and had many reservations about being there; I could have easily skipped it. I was asked by a friend and former classmate to attend and after some pandering by him and few others, I got up the courage to go. I was not “popular” in high school, I wasn’t in any clubs, didn’t play sports, and really struggled through the whole process. I was constantly in trouble, multiple suspensions, expelled my junior year, and dropping out my senior year. I was under the care of a psychiatrist beginning my sophomore year for suicidal ideation and self-harm. I was heavily medicated and had developed a severe substance abuse problem. I was involved in the criminal justice system and was constantly in trouble outside of school. The last two years of high school are truly a blur. I remember very little about any of it, by design. I was incarcerated at the age of 17, my senior year of high school. After some time away from the world I made a decision to never return to the place where so much harm existed for me and others. While my classmates finished school and graduated, I was beginning to author a new ending to the story of my life.  I had no idea what this story would read like and was very scared that any moment by book would end. I knew that redefining myself would be a huge undertaking. I call this the “gift and the curse” of recovery. While my classmates walked across the stage receiving their diplomas I intoxicated myself for the last time. While they dreamed of college, families, careers, I dreamed of the same. 
Together we dreamed of our future, our change. 
While we celebrated 25 years since graduation, I carried with me in my pocket, my 25 year coin from Alcoholics Anonymous.  I am glad I attended the event this weekend it was wonderful to see so many people. Many have changed so much, I know I have.
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Where is Peace?

Where is peace? I asked myself this simple question multiple times a day and night. I am victim of inner turmoil on a nonstop basis, anxiety, nervousness, worry. At times my mind races at a pace that my heart picks up to keep pace. I have learned many techniques to ease my anxiousness. I look at myself in the mirror every morning and become scared. I don’t know who I have become, what I am supposed to do, how I am to act. I have a clear understanding of what is expected of a productive member of society and what is considered appropriate versus not. I have honed my moral compass to what I believe is an acceptable social level. I believe in the tenets of good values, I practice these and seek others who share similar believes and practices.

As I age and look at myself, I notice the landscape of my physical identity slowly change. My hair is greyer; my skin has begun to take on new identity. I have to remind myself that life, happiness, is not a destination. I must continue to work on myself, to continue to look at myself and push forward. I still have much room to grow, to become a better person. Those of you who knew me previous to this journey you know how far I have come.

I still have many character defects. I still fight with my inner-self constantly. Peace is a journey. I look at myself daily, take a deep breath, and challenge myself to be better person.

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In search of Peace

    Looking for peace of mind-Weko Beach, Michigan, 7/13