Who Am I?

I have been told that I need to find myself again. That I have to remember who I am. That I have been dropping pieces of myself, pieces that are killing me. I have been told I must take a look under the mask.

But just who am I? And how do I find myself? Do I even want to find myself? I am afraid to take a good look at myself and try and figure just who I actually am. I'm not sure I even understand these questions.

Where do I start? I'm really not sure.

I have written a lot about my life and how I feel about things. Written about my issues with motivation, empathy, acceptance, feelings of abandonment, and the need to be liked. Have I already answered these questions, but I just can't see the answers? Or am I just too afraid to look at the answers that are already there?

I don't know what to say that I haven't already said. This is really bugging me now, and I'm sitting here drawing a blank, trying to find words. I have been able to get things out in my other posts, the words just seemed to flow, but not now.

Who am I?

Am I buried too deep in this maze I have constructed of cages, masks, beasts, and buried feelings? Will I be able to dig my way out? Do I even care? Or is this again just something that is expected of me? What if this is the real me? The feelings of no self esteem, of not being adequate, the need to me liked, of not being motivated. I am so confused. I don't know who I am.

What am I?

I am just a man that always tries to please the people around me. A man with an overpowering need to be accepted and liked by others. A man that has lost himself trying to be what others think I should be. A man that tries to distance himself from others so as not to feel the emotions of pain and hurt. I am told this is what causes my depression. I this really true? Or is the depression caused by me feeling bad about the way that I already am? Maybe this is what I am, and I just need to accept it.

"The emphasis shouldn't be on discovering who you are (what is buried beneath) but on facilitating the emergence of what you'd like to experience."  -  Who Am I, Psychology Today

Is this a better question than 'Who am I'? That the important thing is asking myself what I would like to experience, not who I am? This sounds like something easier to answer.

So, what do I want to experience? I want to experience a life without the need to please everyone. A life without feeling I am being judged for everything I say or do. A life of feeling adequate, of feeling that I am on equal footing with everyone around me. A life without fear of doing what I want regardless of what others might think of me. I want to experience a life of acceptance for being myself, not what I feel others think I should be.

I want a life where I can be assertive enough, to tell people exactly what I think and what I want to do. I want a life without fear.

How do I get there from here?  I don't have the slightest clue. I'm still looking for that road map.

So, who am I? I guess I'm still just a scared little boy who is afraid to experience life. One still afraid of the boogie man that might be hiding under my bed.

My Navy Days - Boot Camp

I joined the Navy before my senior year of high school on the delayed entry program. By signing up early I was  guaranteed the training I wanted, aircraft electronics. On July 8th, 1980, three weeks after graduation, I said goodbye to my family and friends, and hopped on a bus to the processing center in downtown Los Angeles. I was ready to start a new adventure. 

The first thing I remember after getting to the center was them herding us into a room where we were told by a so called doctor to strip naked, face the wall, bend over, and spread our cheeks. He then proceeded to walk around the room inspecting us for any signs of hemorrhoids. I remember this because of the comments he made; "Ooh, nice". "Oh yes, I like that one". "Mmmm, no tan lines, you dirty boy".  "Uhuh, I could sure do that". He might have been messing with us, but I think he was a bit light in the loafers. Even if I did have hemorrhoids, I was so puckered up after hearing those comments you wouldn't have been able to see them.

After we were processed it was back on another bus heading to the Naval Training Center in San Diego. Where the fun would begin. The bus stopped half way between Los Angeles and San Diego so we could have our last civilian meal before before getting to the training center. It was a Bob's Big Boy we stopped at. I had the best burger I had ever eaten.

My first day in boot camp was a long one. We got new clothes, that weren't anywhere close to fitting. We got all our hair cut off by the fine barbers at the training center. We had to run a gauntlet of corpsmen giving us shots with airguns. What the shots were I have no idea, I just remember them making us do push-ups afterward with sore arms.

The barracks

The second day we were divided into companies, mine was Company 161. We marched to our barracks where we were taught how to make our beds and fold our clothes the Navy way. We then marched off to chow for some of that great Navy food. When we returned to the barracks, our company commanders had totally destroyed the barracks, clothes and bunk parts everywhere. We had to do push-ups in the scattered piles of crap. It was fun trying to do push-ups with one hand on a mattress, and the other on a pile of underwear.

Most of our time in boot camp was spent in classrooms learning all about the Navy. Except for marching everywhere, we didn't have to do a lot of physical exercise. I can't remember much of what our classes were about, I was usually just trying to stay awake. We had one instructor that carried a mallet. If he caught you sleeping he would slam that mallet down on your desk, usually breaking the desk. The mallet didn't break the desk, it was you jumping out of your seat that did the trick.

One of the things I remember was a device called the buttercup. It was basically a water tank that looked like a room on a ship. It had a bunk and a few other things in it. They would start filling the tank with water through holes in the wall. You had to stop the leaks using whatever was in the room. Luckily I would never have to put that training to use. I think they would have been better off teaching us how to drink alcohol without puking.

What a punk I was.

Most of our time not spent in a classroom was spent marching and drilling on the parade ground. We learned how to march in columns, how to march in lines, how to wheel, how to do turn, we learned how to do all kinds of marching. By the end of boot camp we would be a real drilling machine. After book camp I would rarely march in formation again, it was time well spent. Again I wished they had taught us how to drink without puking.

In order to graduate from basic training we had to do a two and one half mile run. Since we didn't do much exercising I took it upon myself to make sure I would pass. I would go out every night after we were done with the days activities and run. I would go on to pass the test. I weighed 203 pounds when I joined the  Navy, I was 175 pounds by the time I was done with boot camp.

One of our little pranks - pushing the racks together.

We did our share of pranks when we had the time. The usual stuff, shaving cream in or on the shoes, short sheeting the beds. One of our favorites was to wrap dental floss around a guys rack while he slept, basically we would tie him to his bed. It was always fun to watch him try to get out of his rack in the morning.

About half way through basic training we had to do our service week. That was were you spent the week doing various duties around the base. I was assigned to the scullery, that was where all the chow hall dishes were washed. It was so hot and steamy in there that I broke out in a whole body rash. I spent the rest of the week in our barracks painting our company's "go to hell" flag. A pretty fair trade I would have to say.

Our "Go To Hell" flag.

I remember the letters I got from my family and friends. I still have those letters in a bag at home. One of the people that wrote me was a girl named Kris, I really liked her, and got a lot of letters from her. One of the people I went into then Navy with didn't make it through boot camp because he ended up with flat feet. He would go home and end up marrying Kris.

When it came time for graduation we would march out to the parade ground in our dress uniforms,  stepping in perfect unison, to be hailed by our families. Or that was the plan anyway. We had marched for two months using the cadence of our company commanders, when we marched to the parade ground, it was to a band playing Anchors Aweigh, the cadence was different. We ended up looking like a long centipede with everyone out of step. so much for our perfection. We were standing there so long at attention that a  couple of the guys ended up passed out. It was nothing like we planned.

Goofing off in our spare time.

All and all, my time in boot camp was pretty good, after growing up with a former Marine for a dad , and the discipline that went with it, boot camp was like a vacation. And I was free.

I feel good

I feel pretty good today.

I got the results of my MRI yesterday and everything was clean, but that's not why I feel good. What made me feel good was Dani's reaction to the news. I could tell that she was really relieved, that she cared. I had no idea just how stressed she was. The hug she gave me was wonderful. She reminded me that I do matter to other people, that I am loved and appreciated. I have been carrying around these feelings of worthlessness for so I long that I just assumed that was how others saw me. I thought I would be able to fade away without anyone noticing. I was wrong.

Where to go from here?

I have identified that I have a lot of unresolved issues. Acceptance, abandonment, appreciation, self assertion, self esteem, just to name a few. I have built walls to keep people out so I wouldn't have to feel emotions, so I wouldn't have to feel pain. 

Recognizing problems and doing something about them are two different things. Just because I acknowledge that I have issues doesn't mean I know how to resolve them. I'm not sure where to go from here. But I know I have to stop analyzing and start doing something. It is easier said than done when it comes to tearing down these walls I have spent years building. I guess I just have to start chipping away, brick by brick.

I'm afraid that I have held my feelings inside for so long that I won't know how to release them, or even how to control them if I do let them out. I realize I will have to make myself vulnerable, expose what I think are my weaknesses. That is going to be hard for me. I have always been taught to be strong for those around me. To never show weakness.

I sometimes wonder why I have let this go on for so long, why I have always felt the need to hide myself away, to keep hidden what is the real me. Do I fear what I might find? Could it be that bad? I guess the first step would be to make a positive comment instead of the negative ones I always seem to end up with. That what I might find a good person, not something to fear. I just assume I won't like what I find because that is the way I see myself now. If I could see myself as I know others see me, maybe I wouldn't be so afraid.

 I'm not even sure how to switch a negative brain into a positive one. How to change all my negative views of myself into positive ones. Am I my worst enemy? How does one build themselves up when there is nothing to work on?

I'm driving cross country in a broken down car, and no road map. I'm still lost. I know it's an unmanly thing to ask, but I could use some help with directions.

A Drive in the snow

A short drive in the snow around the Antelope valley. 1/2/2011

Top ten H.L Menckin Quotes

H.L. Menckin

Henry Louis "H. L." Mencken (September 12, 1880 – January 29, 1956), was an American journalist, essayist, magazine editor, satirist, acerbic critic of American life and culture, and a student of American English. Mencken, known as the "Sage of Baltimore", is regarded as one of the most influential American writers and prose stylists of the first half of the 20th century. Many of his books are still in print.

 10. Before a man speaks it is always safe to assume that he is a fool. After he speaks, it is seldom necessary to assume it.

9. A man may be a fool and not know it, but not if he is married.

8. An idealist is one who, on noticing that roses smell better than a cabbage, concludes that it will also make better soup.

7. Democracy is a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance.

6. For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong.

5. I believe in only one thing: liberty; but I do not believe in liberty enough to want to force it upon anyone.

4. I hate all sports as rabidly as a person who likes sports hates common sense.

3. Say what you will about the ten commandments, you must always come back to the pleasant fact that there are only ten of them.

2. If women believed in their husbands they would be a good deal happier and also a good deal more foolish.

1. We must respect the other fellow’s religion, but only in the sense and to the extent that we respect his theory that his wife is beautiful and his children smart.

Lighten Up.

I thought I would liven it up a bit by posting some pics I think are pretty funny.

 Anytime I start thinking I have a bad job, I remember it could always be worse.

 

 Mmmm...Nothing like a beef sundae for desert.

 I told you women have too many moving parts.

I have no idea what they were thinking when they made this.

I wonder who designed this one?

 What is there to say about this except that I want one.

Appreciation

What do I say about this? We all want to feel appreciated, to know that we make a difference on other peoples lives. We want to feel we have a purpose.

I have the problem of not feeling like I really matter to anyone, like I would never be missed if I was gone. I feel like the invisible man. I realize this is in my head, and not the truth, but still I can't help feeling this way. Maybe it ties in with the abandonment issue, that I feel people can just walk away from me without giving it a second thought, with me soon forgotten. That I was just some amusement for people to pass away the time when they were bored, or waiting for something better to come along.

Why do I think like this? That I don't matter to anyone? I wish I knew. Maybe it's just my way of distancing myself from others to save my own emotions. Maybe I feel like I am saving the emotions of others by not getting too close. Either way I don't feel appreciated, or that I matter much to others.

I have never been able to take praise very well, I always feel like it's just others trying to humor me, or saying what is expected of them. I'm sure there has been times when people have had genuine praise for me, that they have appreciated something I have done. I just tend not to believe it. I usually feel the same when people express concern for me or my well being, I tend not to believe them. I feel they are just doing what they have been taught to, what is socially required. That, or they are just trying to make themselves feel better.

I remember once not to long after I had moved to California from Arkansas, I believe I was still nine. I had this book of riddles that I liked to read. My mom and dad would have me read the riddles to guests. Everyone would have a big laugh. I thought I was doing pretty good telling those riddles, until I heard my dad say that the riddles were stupid and everyone one was laughing at me, and that silly Hillbilly accent of mine. I still feel like that boy, never getting why people are really laughing, and at what.

Deep down I know the reason I don't feel appreciated is nothing more than me not appreciating myself.

Abandonment

I think I have had abandonment issues for a long time, I have just buried the fact.

My dad, who I never met, chose money over my mom. I never gave it much thought, but deep down I think it has always bothered me. Have I not accepted the fact that I was abandoned by him? I have an entire family out there that I have never met, and with the exception of my dad, I have no idea if any of them even know I exist.

My grandparents who raised me until I was nine then handed me over to my mom. I have so much love for my grandparents, and still miss them terribly. But do I still have unresolved issues with them? They didn't fight when my mom wanted to take me to live with her. They would later tell me it was to keep peace in the family. Have I mistaken what they did for abandonment?

I felt this way when Rick, the last friend I really bonded with, got married. I felt like I had lost him. I felt I was being abandoned again. I remember going into the bathroom after his wedding ceremony and just crying. I was happy for him, yet so sad at the same time.

And now this.

I thought I had built an impenetrable wall that no one could breach. But I was wrong. I left a door open in that wall and didn't realize it until someone had already walked through and got inside. And now I don't know how to get them out. All I know is that I am in pain, a pain I haven't felt for a very long time. I thought I had found a friend, someone who understood me, but I don't know now. They are gone, I feel abandoned again. How do I deal with this so I can get on with life?

Is the fear of abandonment the real reason I have never been good at bonding with people? Do I fear the pain so much that I don't let myself get close to people? I think what I feel right now is just a remember of why I put up the wall in the first place.

I just want it all to go away so I can recede behind my wall again, and bolt the door shut. At this point I would rather feel nothing, numbness, than the pain I am feeling.

My Childhood, Part 2, California

My first memory of California was the drive from the airport after flying in from Arkansas. I wouldn't call it a drive home, because I had never been to that house before. I had always wanted a Big Mac from McDonald's. I had never had one, we didn't have any McDonald's where I lived in Arkansas, but I had seen the commercials on TV, and they made it look so good. So we stopped at a McDonald's between the airport and the house. I got the Big Mac of my dreams.

I think to say that moving from Arkansas to Southern California was a culture shock would be an understatement. It was like moving to a different planet. I had moved from a place where outhouses, and lack of running water were still common place, to one of the worlds largest metropolitan areas.

1972

It was difficult settling in to my new environment. My mom had just married, they had just bought a house in the San Fernando valley. The person I would now call Dad was a twenty-four year old man that had been with the Los Angeles Police Department for two years, after serving in Vietnam in the marine Corps. My mom had a job at Peterson Publishing company as a secretary to the artists that drew for Cartoons magazine. They were busy with their careers, their new relationship, the house. I just tried to stay out of the way. My dad did end up adopting me. He had been in foster care for a good part of his childhood, and didn't want to be just a step-dad.

My first friends were a couple of kids that lived on the block, Jeff and Steve. Jeff was the leader of our little pack. Steve and I were more laid back. I also befriended a kid who's parents would drive him from the 'bad' part of town so he could go to a decent school. His name was Pete. He would come over before school, after his parents had dropped him off at school, and my parents had left for work. We would look at my dads 1971 Playboy Playmate calendar, and watch Dennis the Menace.

I don't really remember how I took being separated from my grandparents. I do remember crying a lot when I was in bed at night, writing them letters, and the occasional phone call. I wish I could see those letters again, just to see what I was writing, because I don't remember. I think I have blocked a lot of it out.

I never really bonded with my mom or dad, oh sure I loved them, but it wasn't the same as with my grandparents. Maybe I was afraid to get too close to them, I'm not sure. And besides they were busy.

My dad tried getting me into sports. I started playing Pop Warner football when I was nine. I wasn't very good, not aggressive enough, I didn't like hurting people. I played for four years. He got me a set of golf clubs, I wasn't very good at that either. He even had me try track and field. That one went over really well.

Jeff, Steve and I were a pretty tight bunch, a mini gang almost. We called our selves the Three Stooges.  Jeff was Moe, Steve was Larry, and I was Curly. We would do most everything together, it usually involved making some kind of trouble in the neighborhood, skateboards, bikes, BB guns, movies, and pranks were the order of the day, along with a few broken windows from dirt clods (purely accidental I assure you)

1976, when I was fourteen, would turn out to be a very good year. It was the first time I tried pot. Steve's older sister Jamie gave us some left over seeds and stems from her stash. We put it all in a pipe and smoked it. I don't think we actually got stoned. We just thought we did.

It was also the first year I tried smoking. We didn't really inhale, just acted like it. My dad caught me taking a pack of cigarettes. He sat me down with a pack of Camel non-filters and made me chain smoke until I vomited. I wouldn't smoke again until after I went in the Navy.

That was also the year my mom, Jeff, and I took a trip to Arkansas. We drove the 2000 miles in an 1972 Ford station wagon. My mom smoked the whole way there with the windows rolled up because the air conditioning was on. It's a wonder i didn't get lung cancer from that drive. The popular songs at the time were Afternoon Delight, Teddy Bear, and Don't Go Breaking My Heart. It was fun to go back to Arkansas to see my grandparents, family, and friends I had left. I was excited to see them all. 

While on that Arkansas trip I was introduced to the wonderful world of masturbation. I was visiting my friend Allen, he casually asked me if I had ever masturbated. I told him that I hadn't. He said that I didn't know what I was missing, and how great it was. After we got home from the trip, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about. So one day I locked myself in the bathroom, and tried to figure out this whole masturbation thing. It took some trial and error, persistence, and a bit of hand soap, but I was finally successful. My world would never be the same.

Patti McGuire

Steve's dad got him a subscription to Playboy magazine that same year. Needless to say we spent a lot of nights at his house analyzing those playboys, page by page. Playmate Patti McGuire would become my dream girl. She would later break my heart by marrying the pro tennis player Jimmy Connors. Steve also liked to put a mirror under the bathroom door so we could spy on his sister. He was fun.

In 1977 when I was 15 we moved from the San Fernando valley to a small town on the edge of the Antelope valley named Acton. Again, I had to leave the friends I had made. Jeff's sister and one of her friends had come up to help my mom with the new house. The first night there the three of us decided to play a friendly game of strip poker. My mom came in in the middle of the game with a bowl of popcorn. Either she didn't notice us all in our underwear, or she just didn't say anything. We continued to play until we all had lost.

I was 16 the first time I got drunk. My parents had gone out for the night. My friend Scott and myself decided to raid the liquor cabinet. We started with beer, went to wine, and ended up drinking Southern Comfort. After I was done puking I was able to make it to my bedroom and pass out. Scott peed on the floor. When my parents came home and found the puke and realized that Scott had peed on the floor, they went ballistic, I was sure I was a dead man. When I woke up the next morning, yes I had survived the night, I had a horrendous hang over. My dad made me rake all the manure out of the horse stalls. I think that was the longest day of my life. He also grounded me for a month.

1979

I had my first girlfriend when I was 17, a girl named Carol. We met while working at a summer job in Mammoth CA. ran by the Forestry Service. She had had a rough childhood. She still carried the scars from when her dad would put out his cigarettes on her. I was amazed at how well she turned out after such abuse, but she was lucky enough to have been adopted my a couple of wonderful people after being removed from her abusive situation. Her adoptive dad even drove down from Fresno just to check me out, and kick my ass if necessary. She wanted to remain a virgin until she was married. I respected that.  But she was the one to give me my first hand job. When I tried to return the favor it didn't so so well. After me fumbling around for a while she finally told me she could do it better herself. Women have so many moving parts, I would need more training, but that is the subject of another story. After the summer job was over we split up and both returned to our homes, some 200 hundred miles apart.

In 1980, three weeks after I turned 18, I was on a bus heading to San Diego for Naval boot camp. My childhood was over.

A short Note.

I wanted to take a break from my normal writing to scribble down a note before I forget about it.

I thought of something while I was writing about my childhood yesterday. People have always told me that I have had issues because I was taken from my grandparents. I always thought I was able to deal with the situation. But I now think that maybe I haven't.

While writing about my experiences in Arkansas I remember my times there with love and understanding. I was accepted, I didn't feel I had to please anyone for them to love me. The love was unconditional. Then I started writing about my experiences after coming to California to live with my mom and her new husband. It was different, it seemed what I started writing about was my attempt to be accepted, to be loved. I was trying to make my new parents happy, I say new parents because I didn't really know either of them. My mom was usually torn between my needs and trying to keep her new husband happy, I feel I got lost in the mix sometimes. I remember sitting in my bedroom listening to them argue about me, about my flaws. 

I never felt unloved when I was with my grandparents, ever. I did with my parents, I felt their love was conditional.

I don't think my dad ever told me he was proud of me until I was 24. When he was diagnosed with cancer and I quit my job at Rockwell to return home to help the family and run his business.

My Childhood, Part 1, Arkansas

I was born a poor black child. Well almost.

I was born on June 26, 1962. Somewhere outside of Detroit Michigan, To an unwed teen mom. My dad was from a wealthy eastern family, and in the Air Force at the time. My mom was a poor farmers daughters who had been living in Battle Creek Michigan. The story according to my mom was that they wanted to get married, but my dads family said they would disown him if he married my mom. He took the money.

After I was born I was given to my grandparents to raise me. We lived on a farm in a small Arkansas town. My mom continued to work in Battle Creek, and would eventually move to St. Louis, then to California.

My earliest memories were of us moving to a new house. I remember Grandad complaining about the new house having a phone, and how useless they were (sounds like me complaining now about smart phones). Mamaw (that's what I called my grandma) won, the phone stayed. I loved growing up on the farm, I had lots of relatives close by, lots of friends and cousins my age. I had free rein of the place. We didn't have much, but what we didn't have in material possessions was made up with love and caring. I have never since felt the love they gave me, the unconditional love of a parent, the safety and security they provided. My most cherished memory is of me laying on Grandad's belly at night while we watched TV. I can still recall the smell of sweat, diesel, and the fields on him.

Me and Mamaw

Me and Grandad

I remember so much from that time. Almost all good memories.

I had a tendency to get car sick so the school bus driver would drop me off at his house in the mornings. I don't remember his real name but everyone called him 'Pinky'. I was one of the first stops on his morning rout, and his house was right down the road. He would drop me off when he went by and his wife would watch me while he finished picking up the other kids. I would watch Zorro and drink hot cocoa while I waited for him to return at the end of his rout to pick me back up and take me to school.

The School bus

That same bus is where I learned the meaning of the word 'Fuck'. It had been scratched on the back of a seat and some older kids told us what it meant. Then myself and my friend Allen convinced another kid to say it to his parents when he got home. We told him it meant 'hello'. That is one time I wished Grandad had won the phone controversy when the kids mom called to tell my grandparents what we had done.

I remember being struck by lightning, well almost. I was playing on a swing set in our front yard during a thunderstorm. Lightning struck a power pole, arced to the swing set I was on, and ended up catching the house on fire. It scarred me more than anything, at least that's all I think happened to me.

I loved to play in the yard, my favorite toys were John Deere tractors and the equipment that went with them. We would build fields and do all kinds of farming. I even had a little John Deere riding tractor that I loved to ride around on.

The chicken yard was another of my favorite play areas. I would dig old things up, rusty bolts, broken glass, things like that. I dug up a small dog figurine once, I gave it to Mamaw, she kept that thing for years on her what-not shelf. One time while playing in the chicken yard I took it upon myself to tease one of the roosters. He spurred me in the eye. We had fried rooster for supper that night.

I remember my first dog, a big white dog named Snowball. He was hit by the mailman and killed. I remember it was around mothers day because the mailman had just delivered a big fancy mothers day card for Mamaw. They gave me a baby duck once, I kept it in a box by my bed. It hung itself on one of the box flaps trying to get out. I buried it out back, but dug it up a few days later. I usually had a red eared slider in a little plastic turtle container that had a neat little island with a palm tree on it. The turtles usually didn't last too long either as I liked to take them out and play with them, and would usually end up losing the darn things.

I made my first kill at seven. I had just gotten a new bb gun for my birthday. I took it out back and found a sparrow in a tree. I took a shot and killed the bird. I remember feeling so bad about it. I realized then that I didn't like to kill things. But I did like to go squirrel hunting with Grandad. He would have me go around a tree to flush out the squirrels so he could shoot them. Somewhere I still have a picture of me skinning a squirrel.

I remember my great grandparents, they lived in a small house in town. My great granddad would tell me gory stories of WWI, and how the KKK would ride through his town with torches when he was a kid. He was also an old moonshiner from the Ozark mountains. We would go for walks and he would throw a quarter on the ground in front of us without me knowing, then he would pick it up saying that he had just found it. He would always get a laugh watching me run around the yard ooking for quarters . He liked to watch wrestling on TV, he would sit backwards in an old wicker chair and wrestle with the guys on the TV

Four Generations

My mom would come down to pick me up once in a while on the weekends to take me to St. Louis.  She had to take me kicking and screaming, I would grab on to whatever I could find because I didn't want to go with her. They had to pry me from the car port post once. I think it took all three of them to do it. I remember once she took me to a drive in restaurant on the way out of town, the ones where they put the trays on your door, called Dog n' Suds. Our server was black. I got a baseball card with my meal, the player on the card was also black. When the server handed me the card I looked at my mom, pointed to the card and said "look mom it's a nigger". I didn't know any better it was the way I was raised. I remember this event because I don't ever think I have seen my mom so embarrassed. I did like the convertible she drove. She used to wear sun glasses and a head scarf when she drove with the top down.

My First Model

I had my first erection, first one I remember anyway, when I was about eight years old, I woke up with it and thought something was wrong, so I ran yelling to Mamaw to show her my sudden affliction. She told me I had nothing to worry about. This was also about the time I remember my first sexual stirrings, thanks to a picture of Vampirella on the box cover of a model. I talked my grandparents into buying me the model. I don't remember if I actually built it. I also discovered playboy when I was able to sneak a peek at one while we were at a laundromat. I went next door to a liquor store to buy a soda, and noticed the Playboy on the magazine rack. I had to pick it up and take a look to see what was inside.  As I looked at the magazine, I remember having a tingling  feeling , that feeling scared me, I dropped the Playboy and ran out of the store. I don't know if I ever did get that soda.

Me with my cousins Jamie (right) and  Sarah (left)

I had two cousins named Jamie and  Sarah, they were sisters, and about the same age as me. I remember we would spend a lot of time together, playing. I had a habit of pulling my pants down in front of them. They lived in a house with no running water, no indoor plumbing, and they had an old pot bellied stove for heat. Our favorite thing to play was caveman. Their mom, my aunt, would make pitchers of iced tea with about two or three cups of sugar in it, you could almost stand a spoon up in the stuff. Their older brother liked to catch bullfrogs to eat. I loved frog legs when they were good breaded and fried up. Jamie and Sarah and i would poke around the frog guts after they had been cleaned, just to see what we could find, what we found was usually just crawdads in the intestines.

My best friend was Allen, he had a little sister named Patty that had a crush on me for some reason. She would follow me everywhere and always wanted to play Tarzan and Jane. I never pulled my pants down in front of her. Allen's family didn't have plumbing either, but they did have running water. Allen and his sister would take their baths in the kitchen sink.

My mom would eventually move to California, I don't remember how old I was when she moved, I didn't really know her so I didn't miss her. I do remember flying out by myself to see her in 1970 when I was eight. We went to Disneyland and I got to meet her new boyfriend, the man that would later become my adoptive dad. When I returned from the trip I remember Grandad crying when they picked me up. I asked why he was crying and Mamaw said it was because he was happy to see me. I think it was because he knew what was about to happen.

This was about the time I felt my first signs of what would later become depression. I remember sitting on a bench in the school gym watching the other kids run around playing. I felt I was somehow different, I felt sad and didn't know why. All the other kids seemed so happy. What I can't remember if I felt this way before or after I learned I would be moving to California, and leaving the only parents I had ever known.

My last memory of living with my grandparents was the day I finally left for California to live with my mom and her new husband. I was sitting in the bath crying, begging Mamaw not to make me go. Telling her how much I would miss everyone. She told me I had to go.

How Odd

I feel okay today.

I wanted to write something profound. But I am sitting here and nothing comes to mind, nothing I want to write about. I did try and finish something I had started, but the words just weren't there. Drawing a blank.

Why is it that I have no problem writing when I feel depressed? The words just seem to flow out of me. But when I don't feel so bad I can't think of anything to write about? The words are blocked. Is my brain so messed up that I only have thoughts and feelings when I am depressed? Or is this part of it? That when I don't feel depressed it is just my mind shutting down? Is it just another aspect of the depression, my brain trying to trick me into thinking I am feeling okay? How odd, I guess I just need to think of something that makes me sad.

This is almost fun, trying to figure out my head. Like I am playing a game with my brain, it's to bad the brain is winning right now.

Baggage

Why do we have so many hang-ups? Why do we feel the need to carry all this unnecessary baggage with us throughout our lives? Baggage that just weighs us down, that won't allow us to concentrate on what is important. 

I admit I have  a lot of hang-ups, things I have carried with me since childhood. I know they are mostly a bunch of crap, useless things that have no relevance in the overall scheme of living. But I can't seem to shake them.

I come from a very conservative southern family. I've spent a good part of my life trying to overcome much of what I was taught regarding race, sex, religion, gender roles, bigotry, and a bunch of other stuff that doesn't come to mind right now. In other words, I've spent a good part of my life trying to overcome my hang-ups. Trying my best to not judge people, or the circumstances surrounding their lives. Trying to accept everyone for who they are, without condition. I will be the first to admit, I don't always succeed.

I have spoken of cages and social conditioning. And in part I feel I have broken free of the cage, but I have found that I have brought a lot of baggage with me. Baggage that I need to throw away. Why would I break free of the cage and still bring so much with me? I don't know why, but I know I am carrying it. Carrying a lifetime of conditioning that is hard to get rid of.

I still find myself unable to do certain things, to think in certain ways, to get past thoughts I know have no meaning. I still act in ways that I know do not matter, ways that can hurt others. I still have feelings of right and wrong that I know are meaningless, just mantras I repeat without thought.

I would like to think that I have an open mind. But do any of us really have open minds? Or are our thoughts and actions the result of our conditioning without ever realizing it? Just forming our opinions and actions about things through the filter of our hang-ups? 

Next time you form an opinion or act in a certain way just think to yourself, why? Is it a result of reasonable thinking? Or is it the result of some hang-up you have? Some form of conditioning you have been taught? Just a reaction without thought.

Why?

I need to break free of my head, it is driving me crazy. I keep thinking, over analyzing everything. I get a thought, a feeling, and start running all the possible scenarios through my mind. It is driving me crazy. When I do finally spit something out it is usually the worst possible outcome. Negative. I see it as something I have done wrong, some flaw in myself, or that nobody cares.

Do I have these negative outcomes to my thoughts because I have no self worth? Am I just feeding my feelings of worthlessness? Is it just self fulfilling prophesy? Self pity? Maybe it is just the way I am, my nature. Something I have to accept and stop worrying about it.

I need to be able to think about things and not have them turn into more feelings of my uselessness, my hopelessness. Do others think of me as I think of myself? If they do I understand why they wouldn't like me. Why they would think I am nothing to them. What is it about my brain that everything has to be negative? That I think people don't really like me? That I think they just humor me for a while until they tire of me? Am I just projecting my feelings of worthlessness on others?

I really would like to know what people truly think of me, what I really am to them. At least then I would know if it is just me, or if these negative thoughts I have are how people really see me. Do people take me seriously? Or am I just thought of as some child? A toy to be put away when others are done playing with me. Are people afraid they will hurt my feelings so they just put up with me as long as they can? Do people just tell me what they think I want to hear? I need to know these things. Maybe then I could get on with my life.

The smallest comment, or lack thereof, can send me into a long thought process, an endless cycle of analysis, that always ends in me thinking that I am nothing, just a speck, worthless. Depressed. I am sure I am just making mountains out of mole hills, but that doesn't help, I can't shake these thoughts.

All I know is that I don't know how long I can keep this up, I am so tired. As you can tell by now I am having a bad day. Don't worry, I'm sure I'll get over it.

Getting My Ass Kicked

I'm setting here with my head spinning with thoughts. Thoughts of What? Anything and everything. I am in a fog, enveloped with sadness. And I can't figure it out. Is it just some chemical imbalance?  Just the way I'm wired? Or is it some long lost issue I have never come to terms with? I don't know. All I know is that it is kicking my ass.

I find myself unable to concentrate, to focus. I just wander around in my head looking for something, searching. I don't know if what I am looking for is there, or even what it is that I am looking for. Will I recognize it if I do find it? I just want it to stop. I want to reach into my head and tear it out, whatever 'it' is.

I'm so tired I don't know what to do anymore. I just want to sleep so I don't have to deal with my brain. But even sleep doesn't always help, I just wake up with more thoughts going through my head.

There are times when I wish these beasts were never released. It seemed so much easier to go through life numb, without emotion. All I had to deal with was the guilt associated with not being emotionally there for the ones I loved. Selfish, I know. At least I wasn't getting my ass kicked by my thoughts, by my emotions.

All I had to do was let people believe I was just "easy going". Not let them know what I was really feeling.That I had opinions that differed from theirs. I didn't have to worry about being assertive, they saw me as the easy going person that didn't mind just going with the flow.

I feel like giving up and just going back to the way I was. But as long as there is part of me that needs to be happy I guess I will keep on trudging along.

There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am.
I have become comfortably numb.

The Mask

We all wear a mask. You might not be able to see it but it is there.  What is this mask?  It is our need for others to see us not as we truly are but as we would like to be seen. We pretend. What would happen if we were able to throw off our masks and show our real selves to others? Would that be such a bad thing? Are we so frail that we feel we can't let others see us as we really are? Or are we just afraid of what we will see in ourselves?

One of the reasons I have been writing is in an attempt to remove my mask. To be able to look in a mirror and see me for who I really am. I admit it's a scary idea. I might not like what I find. I fear others might not like what they find in me either. But I feel I need to know. When I write of beasts, cages, acceptance, happiness, long rides, it is just my attempt at tearing off the mask. To expose what lies beneath. To say this is who I am. I had a glimpse behind it for a short while, and for good or bad I want to see more.

I think to be happy again I have to find out what is behind my mask, to see the real me. I have hid behind it for so long that I'm not even sure I can remove it now. What if there is nothing there? That I find I have become the mask?

The Cage

There used to be a show hosted by Art Linkletter called 'Kids Say the Darnedest Things". We all had a good laugh at the silly things the kids would say. But what if the things they were saying was the real deal, our true nature as a species? What if we thought they were silly because we were looking at them through our social 'masks'? What if we are the ones who are actually silly for buying into the the years of social conditioning? Conditioning that has turned us into nothing more than shells of our real selves.

We live in a cage we call "society". Most don't even realize they are in a cage. Some do see the bars, but they want to be there, it makes them feel secure. Some just want to break free of the cage and be free. The kids? They haven't been put in the cage yet.

If you look at the different societies scattered across the planet you will find that what is taboo in one society is considered normal in another. For example, here in America tattoos still have a social stigma attached to them, but in other cultures tattoos are considered normal, a basic component of society. In Samoa there are three recognized genders with no stigmas attached to any of them, they believe that people are what they are.

What if all that we believe about right and wrong when it comes to society, and culture is bullshit? What if by our trying to fit in to what is considered normal is actually the root of our negative feelings? That most of what ails our society is the repression of our most basic needs? We have piled on so many rules of behavior and thought that it would be amazing to find anyone without feelings of guilt or shame.

At our core, we as humans have two elemental needs; self preservation and reproduction. But it seems that those two needs are the ones we put the most restrictions on. We set up complex rules so sex can only be acceptable under the strictest conditions as dictated by our society. We must repress our sexual desires because others tell us to act on them is wrong. Why? We tell our young that they must sacrifice themselves in the name of god or country. That they must give up their need of self preservation so others may preserve theirs. Why?

We spend most of our lives with these feelings of guilt and shame, If someone is not willing to die for god or country they are called cowards. If someone has sex outside of what society says is acceptable, they are called whores, sluts, or adulterers.We try and suppress our needs, our feelings, our desires, even die because that is what society says we have to do. We base our thoughts and actions on what long dead people have dictated is the way we should feel or act. We let our lives be driven by what was written in ancient texts by people that have no connection to us what so ever.

What if we were able to get past this, evolve, or better yet devolve into acting on our real nature?  Why should we have to suppress our thoughts, our desires, because they are not considered normal in our society, when those same thoughts and desires are accepted in another society? I envy those who are able to break free of their social bonds, break free of the cage, and live their lives the way they see fit, those that are happy with what they are and celebrate the fact.

Wouldn't we all be so much better off if we felt we could be ourselves, be accepted for what makes us happy? No guilt or shame because we want to be free of this cage we call society? In other words be like those kids we all laugh at for being so silly.

I'm Pissed

I'm pissed. At who? Myself. I am not willing to stand up for myself. When something bothers me I don't do anything about it. I don't express my feelings. I keep that which bothers me inside and let it stew. I shut down until my feelings subside. Those feelings are still there, just buried, piling up as time goes on.

I have been told that I need to be more assertive, that I shouldn't let others walk on me. That is easier said than done. To be assertive you must feel it. You must have the confidence it takes to stand up for yourself. Something I don't have. I would rather let others just push me around.

I have been this way for as long as I can remember. People say that I'm 'easy going'. That's not it, I'm just too afraid to rock the boat. Too afraid to tell others when something bothers me. Why am I this way? I have no idea, it's just who I am. There are times I just want to scream out, to shout at people and tell them the way I feel, to give them my opinion. But I can't seem to do it, and it's so frustrating. Is my fear of upsetting others so great that I can't even risk expressing myself? Or am I just a coward that is afraid of confrontation? I have a feeling I am just a coward.

I wish I could be more assertive. I know I would feel feel better about myself, it make me feel more confident. I envy those who have no problem being assertive, those who are willing to do what they want without fear of what others will think. Those who will stand up for what they believe in regardless of the cost. Those with courage.

Every time I bury a feeling, don't express how I feel, I know that I am burying part of myself. I have guilt, but that guilt is not based on what I do, but instead it is based on what I do not do. I don't stand up for what I believe in. I don't stand up for those things in life that I would really like to do. I don't stand up for those that I love like I should. I'm afraid. I have no courage.

I think maybe this is the way I am hard wired, that there is nothing I can do about it, that I should just accept the fact that I am not assertive. Maybe I need to find a way to be happy with the way I am and try not to worry about it. Just let people have their way with me and accept it. Either that or I need to stop being a coward and find the courage, the strength to assert myself.

Motivation

There seemed to be a time when I was motivated, when I had interest in things. I had lots of hobbies and  wanted to experience life, not so much anymore. I come home from work in the afternoon and don't know what to do, I just stand there for a moment, then end up either taking a nap, sitting in the chair watching TV, or getting on the computer. I don't know where my motivation went, where my interest in life went.

For as long as I could remember I have had a love, a need, to draw. I can remember getting in trouble for it as long ago as the first grade when I would draw on my assignments instead of actually doing the work. I took art all through school. I painted our "go to hell flag" in boot camp, which was nice as it got me out of working in the scullery. After boot camp I would do drawings for people in my squadron, and even signed up for the Art Institute, you know, the one where you had to draw the pirate on the match book covers, then send it in so they could tell you how talented you were just to get your money. After the Navy I continued to take some art classes at the local college, and drew for other people. When I worked at Rockwell I used to do ink  murals on the bathroom stalls. I just always had the need to draw. Eventually I ended up at Watterson College for commercial art, where I met my wife. I really loved that time in my life, I had met the love of my life, and most of my daily activities were centered around art. For a while I sold sketches on ebay. The job I have now allows me the opportunity to do technical drawings and other graphics.

In addition to my interest in art, I have had many other hobbies over the years, tabletop and video gaming, remote control cars and boats, painting miniatures, photography, reading, just to name a few. But that is all gone now, I have no motivation or interest to do any of those hobbies anymore. I did try and get back into sketching a few months ago. Dani even went out and bought me pencils, paper and markers. I did a couple of drawings and that was about it. I still have cabinets full of games, tons of unpainted miniatures, RC tanks, books, and other stuff. Just no interest in doing anything with any of them.

But my lack of motivation extends past my hobbies, it effects my everyday life in many other ways. I don't feel like doing much of anything really. Everything seems like such a chore now, even the basic family activities I should be taking great joy in doing. I'm not sure what happened, or exactly when I lost my motivation. Is this all part of life? Just something that happens to some of us as we get older? I don't know the answer to that. Could it be that my brain is just overloaded? That all my effort is spent trying to control my mind? I doubt it, because when I was younger I seemed to do the most when I was depressed. My art was a release, where I could spend hours just concentrating on what I was doing and not worry about my problems. What has changed since that time? I'm not sure.

Sometimes I think it would just be easier to get rid of everything, my art supplies, my games, my books, my other toys. They are just taking up space. But part of me can't part with my stuff, you never know, I might find my motivation again. But luckily I don't have to worry about getting rid of anything, I don't have the motivation.

I know a lot of it has to do with the fact that I can't seem to focus, to concentrate on a task like I used to be able to do. I have lost the ability to clear my head, I keep thinking about my problems. I don't seem to have the patience that I once had, I get bored after a few minutes. I remember my dad telling me when I was young that boredom was just a sign of laziness. Could that be it? That I am just lazy now? That my lack of motivation is nothing more than me being lazy? Or is it that I can't get out of my head long enough to accomplish anything, and have just given up on trying?  I do know.

I would like to get back into my hobbies, to take joy in my family activities again. I just don't know how to get to that place anymore. I feel lost, like I left the path but didn't even realize it until it was too late.

Acceptance

I sometimes wonder if I don't mistake my need to be accepted by others for empathy. What if my need to help others, because think I feel their pain, is really just my need to be accepted?

I have written in a previous post about my need to provide sanctuary to those in need, that it makes me happy to help others. But the more that I think about it, I think it might be my need to be accepted, to be liked, not empathy. Do I really care about others? Or do I only care about myself, and my needs? I want to find out.

I do have the need to be accepted, to be liked, to blend in. Some have described it as the 'chameleon' effect. I hold my feelings in because I don't want to upset others, I fear they will not accept me, not like me if I am confrontational or assertive. I have been told I let others walk all over me. This is true, but I feel it is better to do that than deal with not being accepted. Could it be that the cause of my depression is not due to keeping my empathy inside, but instead from keeping my feelings buried so I can feel accepted by others?

Does it really matter if people don't like me? Does it matter if people don't accept me for who I am? Probably not, but still, I can't help feeling it does. I know deep down that for the most part people have more respect for someone that is able to tell them exactly how they feel, someone who is assertive. But I just can't get to the point of acting on that knowledge. I still feel that I must do what others want in order for me to be accepted. I feel the need to do what people think I should do. I feel the need to be liked. I feel the need to be that chameleon.

Does it really matter if what I have is the need to be accepted, or real empathy?  Could I have a need for acceptance and still have empathy? Am I just getting two separate needs of mine mixed up with each other? I don't know, and I'm not sure how to find out at this point. You would think that after 48 years inside my head I would have had all this shit figured out by now.

Happiness

4/4/11

I do not feel I have the right or authority to impose my feelings on others. I do not want others to act in certain ways just to make me feel better. I do not want others to deny themselves happiness just because they are afraid to hurt my feelings. My feelings are my own, I have to deal with them. Besides who says my reaction to situations are right anyway? I feel if you truly love someone their happiness is what matters most, and you will find your happiness through their happiness.

Why do I bring this up? It's just something I have been thinking a lot about lately. It seems to me that we get caught up in our own feelings and insecurities, that we forget about the ones we love, and their needs. We try and control them out of a fear we will get hurt. But that fear is usually just a projection of our own insecurities.

We all have our wants and needs, why can't we act on them without fear of hurting the ones we love? We let our base emotions, our social conditioning, rule how we feel about others, rule what we think is acceptable for others to do. We are so afraid of getting our feelings hurt that we try and deny the ones we love that which will make them happy. Why do we put our own feelings above the needs of the ones we love? What if we could always be happy for the ones we love, regardless of what they do, as long as they are doing what makes them happy.

I wish I could express this better, I have it in my head but am having trouble writing it down. maybe I can try an example. If I feel jealous or envious of something my wife does, who is at fault? She is such a wonderful person, I know her heart, and it is good. I know she loves me, and wouldn't act out of malice. So is she at fault for dong something that makes her happy? Or am I at fault for putting my own emotions ahead of her needs? I would put the fault on me for putting my feelings of jealousy over her need to do something that makes her happy. I feel I should not even have those emotions, they are nothing more than my insecurities, and social conditioning.

I wonder what would happen if we just threw off our social restraints and conditioning? If we would stop thinking the way society says we are supposed to think? Stop feeling the way society tells us we should feel? Be free. Be happy for each other, love each other, unconditionally. I know this is a pipe dream. We are an egocentric species that will almost always put our own feelings before the needs of others, myself included.

Another Beast

The beast I wrote of before is not alone, there is another. This one I did not need to keep in a cage, no need to keep it locked up, I just had to hide it away from others, and myself.

This too is a mighty beast.

This beast is empathy. It can be just as powerful as my other beast, just more passive.

For as long as I can remember, I have always been able to project the feelings and motivations of others on myself. Most times this does not cause problems. It was helpful as it let me understand the feelings of others, and listen without judgment.  But on occasion it can cause major issues. I have been a "yes" man, I am unable to tell people no, I don't want to hurt their feelings. I have problems picking sides in an argument, I usually see both sides. I repress my own feelings as not to upset others. But I know this needs to change. I have to be able to express myself, and still be sensitive to the feelings of others. It will be quite a balancing act for me.

When I was younger I had the need to provide others with a sanctuary, a place where people could go to get away from the problems of everyday life, or at least a place where they could go to talk about their problems without judgment. I don't know how many 'strays' I have adopted, usually women who associated their self worth with sex. I would try and show them there was more to themselves. To give them a place where they could be themselves for a while, without pressure. A place where they knew their self worth was not between their legs.

It seems as the years passed I buried this need to help others. This need to try and help them feel better about themselves, to provide sanctuary. When did I start hiding this beast? Where did it go? I don't know the answers to these questions, but I do know it is still there, just hiding under the surface. I have been told I need to let it out, that it is as much a part of me as any other appendage is. I must exercise this beast. To keep it repressed will kill me as sure as a cancer would.

Where do I go from here? Well, I'm not sure. With everything that is going on I don't know if I have the strength, or motivation left to let this beast out.

But I know I have to help others, to provide sanctuary. It's who I am.

The Beast

4/3/11

I have kept a beast locked up inside of me for a long time. A beast that survives on love and pain.

I let my guard down long enough for someone sneak in and pick the lock to it's cage. Now this beast is out, and it's kicking my ass. I can't even fight back. Maybe part of me doesn't want to fight back. Should I at least try to fight this beast? Should I try and put it back in it's cage? Do I let it continue to kick my ass? Or do I leave it out and try and control it? I'm not sure I can control it even if I tried.

It is a mighty beast.

What is this beast? This beast is my emotions, my feelings. It is that which I have kept buried for so long, so long that I almost forgot I had this beast. It seemed easier to bury everything so I wouldn't have to hurt, wouldn't have to feel pain. I tried to starve the beast.

The opposite of love is not hate, it is pain. A person can hate without ever loving. But a person cannot feel pain without first loving. This beast demands love, and as long as I kept it in it's cage I could starve it. Now that it is out, it will be fed.

I have always had problems bonding. I think it was because I was taken from my grandparents when I was nine. I had spent my entire life with then, they were my parents. Since then I have felt it was better not to get too close to anyone for fear I would have to feel what I felt when I was taken from them. Besides my grandparents, I could count the number of people I have bonded with on my fingers; Allen, Rick, Dani, Chris, Jessica, and Aaron.

Even if I wanted to put this beast back in it's cage I'm not sure I have the strength, I have drained myself just trying to keep it locked up for so long. But I'm afraid if I don't do something it will keep kicking my ass. The question now is do I attempt to put it back in it's cage? Or do I try and control it?

What will this beast do to me? I don't know, only time will tell. But I feel I must defeat it, or die trying.

"Love is not self-sacrifice, but the most profound assertion of your own needs and values. It is for your own happiness that you need the person you love, and that is the greatest compliment, the greatest tribute you can pay to that person."
-Ayn Rand

A Long Ride

I would like to take a long motorcycle trip.

Where do I start? Is this going to turn into another obsession? I know I will never do it, so I should get the whole idea out of my head right now. I can't though, it's just the way my brain works. I get an idea in my head and it is all I can think of until the next idea comes along. I have a bad habit of not following through, I just obsess.

But the idea of a long motorcycle trip sounds so good to me right now. The need to just take off, be by myself, be alone is overwhelming. The idea that I could just travel with no plan or intentions other than to get my head straight is compelling. I think how nice it would be to have no schedule, no place I have to be, no responsibilities for a while. Just let me, and my brain wander for a time.

As I said before, I know I will never follow through with this. Why? For one I am just a dreamer, not  really a doer. I am a procrastinator, I have the ability to put things off until I stop thinking about them. I have no motivation to actually do what is necessary to get a trip like this going. Maybe if I just took off one day, not take that right turn that would take me to work, but instead just kept going straight. 

Where do I want to go? Nowhere. Wherever the road takes me. Wherever I end up is where I want to go. I do admit I would like to see trees, ferns, the fog, the ocean, maybe even visit my grandparents graves. Maybe I Just want to experience a bit of the world again. Would I want to visit old friends and family I haven't seen in years? Maybe, but then I wouldn't be alone. But maybe that is something I need, to reconnect with people from my old life.

It is a nice thought, I just wish I could actually do it. If by some chance I actually did take a trip would it actually help? Is it actually possible to find myself? Or is 'finding myself' all a myth?  I have no idea? But I would like to think it would help. What if I do find myself and it is something I don't like? What if I find I like being alone? That being alone is 'me'. What if I find I like being on the road so much I don't want to return to my life? The thought scares me. 

And besides, I don't own a motorcycle.