Reflections on Halloween 2019

So another Halloween has come and gone. 

Once again, The Great Pumpkin never came to visit me, and I wasn't bestowed with gifts and treats. 

This Halloween was different this year.  I'm not talking about the weather or the four inches of snow we got.  I'm not talking about the cold and the lack of leaves on the ground. 

This October, the whole month leading up to Halloween, was different.  It felt like stores put out Halloween items later, and put out less, than in previous years.  The selection wasn't as good and honestly the things I wanted just weren't available. 

I wanted Halloween dishes.  I wanted brightly colored bowls and plates with Halloween drawings on them for my ice cream channel.  I found them online but not in any of the stores around here. 

Also, the movie selection this year was terrible.  Hocus Pocus was re-played almost nightly.  The Halloween franchise seemed to have been run and re-run all week.  None of the classic black and white films were on.  Even the channel line-up for TCM left much to be desired.  In fact, I was going to get a one-month subscription just for October but after seeing what they had, changed my mind. 

Dracula, Frankenstein, The Bride of Frankenstein, The Mummy. 

There were hundreds of classic horror films made in the 30's, 40's, and 50's and it used to be we could watch them at night all through October.  Hell, those movies used to be on during the week all throughout the year, too.  It used to be a thing to watch old horror movies on a Friday night. 

But not one of the classics were aired. 

Sure, I understand that the original Friday the 13th and Halloween were from the 70's and are now 40 years old.  I get that.  But they aren't the classics often associated with Halloween. 

Worse, it seems like these movies have been tucked away, never to be seen again.  Just a few years ago, DVDs could be bought with dozens of these old forgotten movies on them. 

This year?  I wasn't able to find a single one. 

To add to the destruction of Halloween were the various news stories of schools cancelling any Halloween celebrations because they weren't "inclusive" or some gibberish like that.  There have been some great essays written about why this is bullshit.  People who are far better at writing than myself and who are much better at battling the PC horseshit that seems to be infiltrating our culture. 

The bottom line here is this--we're going to have to fight for our Halloween.  We're going to have to work to save it. 

Remember when Fox news was posting those fake stories about how Christmas was under attack?  Yeah, we're going to have to fight for our Halloween, on our fight is real. 

How do we do this? 

By celebrating it, of course!  By decorating and making as big of a deal as we can.  By working hard to keep our horror movies and Halloween programming.  By demanding our Halloweens never fade away. 

I'm not sure who is behind this but they're evil.  Soulless, even. 

I've been seeing Christmas movies being played for the last month.  How horrible is that?  Christmas movies in October and we can't even get Dracula at least once! 

A part of me things it's time we come together.  It's time we, as Americans, who want to preserve our holiday, come together so our voices can be combined into one booming, defiant roar that says "We will fight to protect and defend our holiday and we will not let you take it from us!" 

We have to fight, people.  We have to fight to defend our holiday.  Halloween is too precious for us.  It's the one holiday of the year when those of us who are maybe a bit dark, who don't find the canned happiness of the other holidays sincere or fulfilling, who love the shadows can look forward to that one night when we are able to celebrate with our own kind. 

We can't let the soulless and the generic take this from us.  It's time to fight!    

The War on Fat People

I'm not going to lie and say that I'm somehow getting any healthier.  I'm not.  I gained all of the weight back that I lost a year or so ago and then some.  My legs look terrible from the adema.  But at least right now I don't have any open sores oozing fluid.  Those have all healed for now. 

Getting back on the horse has been incredibly hard. 

My weight is complicated.  People look at me and they think I'm fat just because I'm lazy and I sit around drinking Mt. Dew and eating fast food all day.  I wish that was how I got like this. 

When I went to the clinic to get a check-up, after friends held an intervention for me, I met somebody who treated me with kindness and sympathy.  It was the first time anybody in the medical field had done so.  He told me a story that needs to be repeated. 

He told me about a doctor who realized just about all of his morbidly obese patients had experienced childhood trauma.  Some were physically abused, some were sexually abuse, while others were mentally and emotionally abused as children.  He realized he was onto something important so he gave a paper on the subject. 

He was laughed at by his colleagues. 

Fifteen years later, we're in a national epidemic of obesity, and people are approaching him and asking about this paper he delivered. 

My guy at the clinic gave me a nine-question survey.  Did you experience physical abuse as a child?  Did you see violence as a child?  Were any of your parents alcoholics or drug addicts? 

A score of two is considered high.  A score a three was a danger level and counseling was included as part of the treatment for obesity. 

I scored an eight. 

Being fat is a lot of different things for me. 

It's revenge and belligerence towards my dad, who was savage in his abuse, the details of which I cannot list here.  Sometimes, I feel like eating food that's bad for me is my way of telling him to fuck off and leave me alone.  It's the final Fuck You to a man I often describe as a middle-class Hannibal Lecter because he was a master at head games and getting inside a person's mind.  I grew up being broken down repeatedly and stripped of self. 

So there are times when I'll grab a snack at the gas station and in my mind I'm giving the finger to a fucker who has been dead for 23 years. 

And losing weight feels like I'm proving him right.  All the terrible things he said about me were true and I really was the horrible human being he repeatedly forced me to admit to being. 

Being fat is my armor.  It keeps me from being too close to people and it allows me to hide inside my apartment alone.  It keeps the women away, too, so I'm safe.  Women aren't into guys like me and that keeps me secure and safe.  But that's another blog post when I'm ready. 

A number of years ago, I gave up.  I decided I was going to either eat myself to death or die from an overdose.  And I was okay with it.  I ate more bacon than is humanly reasonable, baked cakes and pies just for myself, and churned tubs of ice cream I never shared with anybody. 

But then my friends had an intervention and I made the choice to give this life bullshit another chance.  I dropped weight and started to move better.  My clothes got looser and I was able to go for walks without hip pain holding me back. 

And then the blood flow improved to my extremities--all of them.  Hands, feet, and you know the rest. 

That caused nightmares.  Horrific ones centered around that certain awakened area and about the past. 

Then, I lost my job, and the depression got bad, so I stopped my keto diet and the weight came back. 

 I keep telling myself I'm going to do it again.  I'm going to get back on the horse and make another run at it.  Just make good choices today--that's all.  Just for today I'll make good choices. 

But that usually falls apart at some point. 

I refuse to have anything to do with the medical community but for my one person at the clinic.  If I break my arm, I'll set it myself.  If I have a heart attack, so be it.  If I OD, then I got what I was aiming at, and nobody better call an ambulance or shoot that shit up my nose. 

I cannot go back to the medical community.  If somebody like me ends up in an ER with a gunshot wound to the head, we're told that it's because of our weight, and we should go home and lose some of it.  Then, we'll get a lecture about our weight, as if we don't know we're fat.  Or worse, we don't know how to not be fat. 

"But what about this bullet in my head?" 

"Fine.  I'll write a script for ibuprofen.  Now go be fat someplace else." 

It is dehumanizing and humiliating to go to a doctor when you're fat.  Many of us would rather die than subject ourselves to it more than once. 

Doctors treat me as if being fat is the worst thing in the world you can be.  They rarely hide the disgust from their expressions. 

Losing weight means more to me than just a healthier life or better mobility.  It means I'm banking on life itself.  It means I'm admitting there is more to life than this shit and that there is a reason for me to be here. 

Losing weight is saying there is a potential for a better tomorrow.  And that is the hardest thing in the world for me to say. 

Some of you know I keep a loaded pistol on my desk, next to my mouse.  I look at it several times a day and tell myself that I choose to be here, and I can leave any time I feel like it. 

I've got a lot of friends and acquaintances who have dropped huge amounts of weight in recent years.  They all brag about how great they feel.  For some reason, I don't trust them, like it'll be different for me somehow.  Being less heavy and still miserable isn't worth it to me. 

I feel like the ground is rushing up to me and I need to pull out of this tailspin fast or I'm going to get a dirt overdose.  And that means making those healthy choices I cringe over. 

Dealing with my weight means going back into life and dealing with all of the bullshit that will come up as I do.  And it's complicated. 

I never thought I'd end up like this but here I am.  A few years ago, I lost a friend to this shit, and he didn't go to doctors, either.  I'm willing to bet it was for the same reasons, too.  Derek was a good guy and he died in his 20's.  I'm in my late forties and somehow I'm still here.  People younger than myself are dropping dead of strokes and heart attacks all over the place and somehow I'm still here. 

Maybe the universe has a plan for us all.  Apparently, the plan for me isn't to die alone in my apartment and not be found until the stench is so bad that neighbors complain a few weeks later. 

But then again, I've been wrong before. 

     

Something Wonderful, Something Special, Something Spiritual

There were a few bright moments from my childhood.  Moments I cling to because they remind me that it wasn't all bad. 

When I was a kid, my mom sent me to a summer camp full of rich kids, where I stayed for four weeks.  It was in the far reaches of Northern Wisconsin in some of the most beautiful land this country has to offer. 

It didn't matter that I was the poorest kid there.  And while I was at camp, I didn't have to worry about all the horrific crap that was waiting for me back home. 

Instead of drunken adults telling me I was worthless, lazy, and stupid, I had some of the prettiest lakes and streams outside my cabin. 

Instead of adults crossing lines no adult should ever cross with a child, I was a kid among kids, doing kid things like I was a normal kid. 

I can remember the days when the depression crept into my life back then.  I can remember having no self-esteem and knowing that I was worthless, and there were people there who countered that with words of kindness and support.  I was a troubled kid and there were people who noticed and helped me see there was something else about me that was good. 

One of the counselors, the basketball coach, took me under his wing.  He pumped me up and let me know I was a good kid with a future and potential.  I wasn't some worthless idiot like I had been told over and over by my dad. 

That guy planted a seed that wouldn't die and carried me through a lot of bad days. 

It is the nature of childhood trauma, be it sexual abuse, physical, mental, or emotional, to make that child feel they are somehow less than the people around them but at this summer camp, Camp Golden Eagle, I wasn't less than the others.  I was just like the others.  Nobody was better than me and I wasn't better or worse than anybody else. 

This was an important time in my childhood. 

My family was poor but they always got me there.  My grandmother paid for it once, my aunt paid for it one year as well, and I saved up my money from my paper route.  I spent three summers up there and even now, forty years later, I find myself clinging to some of those memories because they had such a powerful meaning for me. 

One of the reasons Mom always insisted I go is because we had some bad kids in our neighborhood who were always getting into trouble.  She was certain that it was only a matter of time before I got dragged into it with them.  One time, the police came to the house looking for me, because they were told I was fingered for some kind of hooliganism or another. 

Mom laughed and said, "He's in Northern Wisconsin, about eight hours away.  I can give you the phone number if you'd like."  The cop just shook his head and left. 

The summer camp was on Lake Minocqua in Woodruff, Wisconsin.  Gorgeous area, stunningly beautiful water, with some of the cleanest air you'll ever breathe.  There were houses up and down the lake with boat houses.  At night, we would watch retirees with their wooden boats lit up like Christmas trees cruise around the lake.  These boats were exquisite and reminded me of bedroom furniture with their stained wood and immaculate maintenance. 

We used to go on canoe trips into various parts of that region.  The younger kids went to smaller waterways, while the oldest were allowed to go on The Canadian, which I believe was in the Boundary Waters area.  I was in the middle, age-wise, so we went on a couple different trips. 

One was on the St. Germain River. 

This trip was magical for me.  I went on it twice and each time, there was something about that area that touched me on a deep and profound level.  I connected with something powerful, kind, and loving.  That area had a spiritual energy that I connected with in my own childish way. 

As I've said before, I was a deeply troubled kid, and I was rapidly approaching the age when what was left of my childhood was going to be stripped away by a host of people who made bad choices.  The spirit of that area, be it of the waterways, or the land itself, or even one that simply passed through and found me, connected with me and taught me something. 

On that trip I learned one of those lessons you just can't quantify with words and pictures.  I learned, through that connection, that there was something out there greater than myself, and that it wasn't bad.  It didn't judge me or tell me I was going to hell, nor did it reject me because I was worthless, stupid, and lazy. 

On that trip, while connecting with that spiritual energy, I was accepted for who I was.  It didn't care about those awful memories of lines being crossed I had begun to block out.  It didn't make me accountable for anything.  It just accepted me for being me. 

I often refer to that area as my Happy Place.  I often go back in day dreams.  But I've wanted to go back there in person for a long time and I couldn't find it on any map.  I had hoped to see it again before I died. 

Today, I found it, thanks to the help of some folks who were on those canoe trips with me, because the wonders of social media never cease.  I'm fairly certain now that I can actually go there again. 

I mean, once I lose enough weight to be mobile.  The weight struggles continue, unfortunately, but I'm trying.  And I'm ready to make another concerted effort with the help of friends, my medical guy, and my therapist.  Demons be damned, I'm gonna drop this weight, and I'm gonna go find my Happy Place again.  I'm going to visit it again and I'm going to connect with that place just as I did as a child. 

I had always hoped to see Dave the basketball coach again just to thank him for what he did for me.  Maybe I will, maybe it will be another missed opportunity.  But it's my hope I can just so he knows he made a positive impact in this world for at least one kid who badly needed it. 

I have a goal now to help me with my weight loss.  I know where to find a place I've been looking for off and on for years.  And today, I am able to say that there were bright moments in my childhood, and those moment carried me much further than I expect anybody ever intended or realized was possible. 

I don't remember the song from Camp Golden Eagle.  We never sang it much.  But I'll always remember the people because their kindness and acceptance of a troubled kid made all the difference.    

Another Valentine's Day

I haven't updated this blog for a while because nothing has changed.  At least, I haven't been able to make anything change.  I feel like I'm slogging through the same mud as always. 

But there is something that has changed.  I'm not madly in love with somebody who doesn't love me back.  Instead, I'm just here.  I don' t feel that deep, painful unrequited love that I normally feel.  I'm not burning because I madly want to be with somebody who either A) Doesn't realize it, B) Knows it but doesn't care or C) Ted Who? 

And honestly, even if I did feel something for another woman, I wouldn't say anything to her just because I know there's nothing I could do about it.  I'm too broke to take her out, too anxious to go out with her, and too depressed to be much fun.  So it's better that I just keep my mouth shut and say nothing about how badly I want to be with them. 

It used to be on Valentine's Day, I felt like everybody was in an exclusive club, and I wasn't invited to be a member.  But now, I don't even want to be around those people, and their little club is all bullshit anyways. 

One thing I've noticed is a lot of women I know are jaded about Valentine's Day.  They've been treated like crap for far too long by a whole list of men.  They think Valentine's Day is bullshit, too, but because they've been disappointed so many times. 

Me? 

Often I've wished I could be there for them.  I wished I could be the one who treated them right and was there for them.  But I've come to realize that I'm way too codependent for that kind of thing.  I'm high-maintenance and I need constant re-assuring that I'm somebody special to them.  In the absence of communication, my mind fills in the blanks with all kinds of thoughts about them leaving me, or talking to some other guy they prefer over me, and how in the silence they are planning to leave me. 

I've done this with friendships, too.  Ruined them in the process just like any other relationship.  And since I've got severe abandonment issues, I freak out, and totally lose my shit.  What's left in the end is me despondent and heartbroken with the knowledge that once again I destroyed something I badly needed and hurt somebody I cared for deeply.

This is why, even when I do find myself attracted to someone, I keep my mouth shut.  I have come to realize women I care about are better off without me because all I'll do is implode and self-destruct, hurting them in the process. 

I'm sure I could say, at the beginning of things, "look, I'm codependent and high-maintenance so you'll need to constantly reassure me that you're not planning to leave me and you're not cheating on me."  But why ruin the surprise? 

Hollywood says guys like me with mental illness are sweet and cute and the partner is supposed to ignore all of the dysfunction so they can fall in love with me.  After all, suicidal depression in the middle of the night is just adorable, right? 

I still think of Anthony Bourdain often and what goes through my mind is how he had everything I could ever want yet he wasn't happy.  So what chance does somebody like me have?  This is another reason why I don't want to get too close to a woman right now.  I'll just drag them down and if I don't make it, it's a cruel thing to do to them.  I've been on the other side of suicide before and I know what happens.  I can't imagine doing that to somebody who cares about me like that. 

Unless, of course, I put that in the disclosures up front as well.  "Oh, and I'm prone to bouts of dark depression and I'm suicidal sometimes so understand now you can't save me.  So, if I don't make it, understand now it's not your fault, okay?" 

I'm fairly certain Hollywood could make that charming, too.  Hollywood does wonders for making somebody like me seem worth the pain and suffering one would experience when being close to me. 

In other news, I've been writing and submitting short stories again.  It feels good but something is missing in what I submitted.  It's like the stories were missing something and seemed monotone.  Because I no longer have my beta readers after chasing them away, I'm left to my own devices, which is to say the echo chamber my head has turned into. 

But now that I'm off my meds, I feel like my writing has improved once again, and I'm more like my old self.  Hollywood says that's charming, too.  People like me get their cheeks pinched and a hug before we're left behind.  In a romantic comedy, we're the guys who die in the third act, and the MC realizes something about life, and goes back to their love interest to proclaim their feelings. 

Cue the music and oh shit, I have something in my eye.