Archive for the ‘Husband’ Category
Merry Christmas
Saturday, December 24th, 2011If House Fails to Act, Our Taxes Go Up
Thursday, December 22nd, 2011“…nobody in this country…got rich on their own”
Sunday, November 6th, 2011Meh
Wednesday, August 24th, 2011Been so tied up with work and the new book I haven’t popped in here to say hi. So…”Hi!”
Or, for the grouchy:
“Meh.”
It’s Time to Put the Guns Down
Sunday, January 9th, 2011Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy
“Left, right, middle – politicians and citizens – sane and insane. This morning in Arizona, this age in which this country would accept “targeting” of political opponents and putting bullseyes over their faces and of the dangerous blurring between political rallies and gun shows, ended.”
The Groove Returning?
Tuesday, August 10th, 2010I think it’s coming back slowly. I went to the doctor yesterday.
My blood pressure was normal for the first time in months.
A good sign for the return of the groove…
Enjoy the Silence?
Wednesday, May 26th, 2010There was a time when I thrived on noise, hullabaloo, cacophony…loud stuff. Loud meant life. Loud was exciting–whether it was the Police’s ‘Synchronicity’ blaring from my car stereo at full blast in high school or the varied carny sounds of the state fair midway, I liked the aural stimulation.
Now in my early forties, I find loud noise–particularly sharp, quick clatters– generally objectionable, and not just because I suffer a congenital hearing loss. It’s because loud noises can shatter my thoughts, rob me of my peace. Sometimes even my wife’s innocent footfall on the stairs after her long day annoy me–though not nearly as much as the way she sounds as if she is breaking dishes rather than loading them into the dishwasher.
I walk with a quiet step–learned it in acting training years ago and never lost it. I put the dishes in the dishwasher or the cupboard deliberately, efficiently and often almost silently. Economy of movement equals quiet.
A ringing phone irritates me before I even know who’s calling.
My toddler’s cries are generally music to my ears, but there are times when her plaintive whining and screaming for cookies is a feeling akin to pain between my ears.
My wife and child have done nothing wrong, they are merely doing what comes naturally. It’s my unnatural sensitivity that is out of the ordinary. I have to deal with it.
Sensitivity to sound can also be a symptom of depression or anxiety, which I have lived with most of my life. Though not in a depressive mode now, I still lapse into severe sensitivity to sound several times a month. It makes me irritable and jumpy. Unsettled.
There’s really no cure for my issue with loud noise. There are times–usually alone in my car–when I crank the stereo way up–so perhaps it is sound that is not created on my terms is the problem? Perhaps it is my lack of control over the sound? Ooph.
Right now, as I type this alone in my house I can hear the cars passing outside, a generator running across the street and a slight ringing in my ears.
It is not silence, but it is actually pleasant.
Bald-Faced Groove
Tuesday, May 25th, 2010Getting my groove back is still the mission, and it’s one day at a time. Incremental moves getting me closer to that groove I miss so much are important.
One of those moves is to take stock of what’s going right for me, which is why I’m glad I still have hair.
Call me shallow, but I just think it would be tough for me to get the groove back if it all fell out.
Sure, Patrick Stewart, Bruce Willis and a host of others make that look work. Me, not so much. I think I’d look like Uncle Fester on a bad day; and the people who make hair paste would suffer a serious decline in their stock price.
So: I’m not fat, I have most of my marbles, no sign of old man smell and most of my hair is on my head. Not too bad.
On with the groove.
My Own Private Smoke Monster
Monday, May 24th, 2010
I read somewhere that depression was often a side effect of repressed anger.
I struggled for years to contain my anger. I was raised by generally decent people who–through indifference on one parent’s part and more than occasional cruelty on another’s–managed to produce a very depressed, angry and emotionally stunted child. That child was a target. He was sensitive and brutalized about his intelligence, appearance and future. No child should ever have to hear that their mother’s life would “have been so much better without you” or that they are “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” A father should never say “We never liked you that much.”
I survived it as best I could and the emotionally battered child is inside me now. I have forgiven my parents their failings. But the memories still linger, like tape recordings from a phone tap on my childhood. Those hideous tapes get played when things go south: a mean or unreasonable boss, liars, two-faced backbiters, people who try to take advantage of me, people I perceive as a threat to my family, etc.
You are stupid, stupid, stupid. The tape is played at half volume; just loud enough for me to hear.
The past is the past, but the echoes of that past are with me, despite therapy and the understanding that only the distance of years can provide.
I think that’s why often when I feel grievously wronged or on the defensive, I get physically sick. Not because I am frightened, mind you, but because I have swallowed something sickening.
I have swallowed platters of anger and a banquet of resentment. My guts roil not because I fear the people who wronged me, but what I would do to them if I ever vomited up that anger. Would I release a verbal torrent as deadly as the “smoke monster” on Lost? I say verbal because I’m basically pacifistic by nature. I wouldn’t harm anyone physically, though my inner smoke monster has been known to kick a trashcan or knock a few things over as it escaped the environs of my personality.
I have figuratively destroyed people in my past: unleashed a grotesque treatise on their every fault, flaw and lack of worth as I saw it. I’ve menaced those in business who have tried to screw with me–and some who have not. I’ve reduced friends and lovers to tears. I have wounded friends who to this day seem wary of my anger. It has cost me. I am my mother’s son.
In my heart, I’m defending myself. I’m protecting something– perhaps that little kid who got the short end of the stick from his parents.
By God, I couldn’t fight back then, but I will now and I will win.
I fear the sickening feeling. I fear the smoke. And fear is as bad as anger sometimes.
Now that I am a father, I am determined to keep this in check. I will win out over this. Therapy, yoga, whatever. I will channel this.
My kid will never smell the smoke.


