Should I Have A Will?

Should I have a will? It's a question many people ask, but one I never have. And if you’re anything like me, chances are you haven’t given it much thought either. Statistics say that 70-80% of Americans don't have a last will and testament! While that number should be discomforting to hear, it actually gave me some comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in ignoring one of life’s most important responsibilities. Writing a will is something I haven't given much thought to, partially because I'm so young and partially because I'm not afraid to die. Although I am afraid to imagine my family and friends grieving if/when that day should occur. It's upsetting to imagine them gathered around a conference table listening to the reading of my last will and testament. That is IF a last will and testament for me even existed, which it does not. I offer life insurance to my employees, but when it comes to taking care of myself, I think little of it. So in essence, I care more about their lives than my very own? I’m thinking that’s not normal.

I don't even have a beneficiary listed on my 401k. I'm not married. I don't have any kids. I don't even have a girlfriend. What I do have is a dog. Would he inherit the bulk of my estate? He is my best friend and the closest thing I have to a roommate. He’s sort of like my child, or at least I love him like one. So would a Bulldog qualify as my next of kin? I’m thinking probably not. But if I needed one good reason to write a will, he would be it. I want to make sure he goes to someone who can love him and care for him in the same manner in which I have. And really, shouldn’t we offer that same type of comfort and support system to all of our loved ones whether we’re alive or dead?

Sure money and material possessions are just soulless items, but it’s naive to think that the assets left behind don’t play a role in the days, weeks, months and even years after one’s death. For your family, the absence of a will only adds stress in an already stressful time. During any crisis, a family should come together and be strongly united. But when a will doesn’t exist, far too often a family becomes divided. They fight over these silly, soulless items. And why? Simply because you failed to clarify your final wishes. You didn’t take one of life’s most important responsibilities serious. And you didn’t care enough to lessen their burden.

Last night my Mom called asking for my social security number. She was revising her will and wanted to make sure that I received 1/3 (divided three ways between me and my two sisters) of my parent’s estate. Just her mentioning the word "will" struck terror in my heart! So I made countless dumb jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood and distract myself from the real conversation at hand. My greatest fear in life is losing either of my parents. I know their death is inevitable and that day will come. But for now, I don’t even want to think about it! Although for the first time, I asked the question I had never before asked...

Should I have a will?

My Mom’s answer was a short and profound - YES! I was surprised to learn both my sisters already had living wills. Then again both are older than me, married and have kids. I’m a young, childless bachelor. Although my status doesn’t matter and neither does yours. A will is for everyone - old, young, rich, poor, male, female, married, single, childless, childfull (is that even a word?). A lot of us think we're immortal, or at least we act that way by not planning for the eventuality of our unexpected death. The fact is you never know what's going to happen and when! So it's a good idea to make sure you have things organized the way you want them to be. After all, once you die, you won't be there to sort things out. And it's best not to leave those additional hardships and messy details on grieving family and friends that are left behind.

I realize I should be taking my own advice and writing a will as well. I like to find excuses not to by saying "it’s too hard" or "I don’t understand all the legal jargon." I feel overwhelmed naming people in my will and assigning dollar amounts. I have a fairly good idea what my net worth is, what my company is valued at, what my house has been appraised for, my car, my sportbike, etc. My problem is that I become an emotional mess! I feel like no matter who I name or how I divide it up that it wouldn’t seem fair. That I would hurt someone’s feelings and I wouldn't be there to apologize, or to explain, or to right my wrong. Just thinking of writing a will makes my brain hurt! So I avoid it because I’m weak, or lazy, or maybe I’m just flat out scared?

Writing a last will and testament feels a lot like writing a suicide note. It's so heavy and deep. Dark and depressing. It's so...final. Similar to paying taxes, writing a will is one of those chores in life we don't want to do, but know it's in our best interest that we do. I think if you can just get passed the unpleasantness of this task and get it over with, you’ll feel better. You’ll rest more soundly at night knowing that if the morning doesn’t come, you will have taken the necessary steps to show a final act of love to those who do see the sun rise another day.

Giving Taboo Topics A Voice

Controversy erupted when BrazenCareerist.com Founder Penelope Trunk tweeted...

"I'm in a board meeting. Having a miscarriage. Thank goodness, because there's a fucked-up 3-week hoop-jump to have an abortion in Wisconsin."

While I applaud her for being brutally honest and speaking out about such a taboo topic, I'll agree that her Twitter wording was a bit crass. However, I think everyone needs to keep in mind that people don't share the same feelings in the same situations. While one person may be devastated by a miscarriage, another person may be breathing a sigh of relief. How a person reacts to a situation isn't wrong or right, it just is what it is. We are all entitled to our own feelings, even if everyone doesn't share them or can handle hearing them.

Read her blog post and watch the CNN interview here.

(It’s somewhat necessary to at least watch the CNN interview linked above to understand what I’m talking about below.)

Penelope is right though. Miscarriages and other taboo topics should be explored. Because how else are people going to learn about, understand and bring awareness to things that happen in everyday life if we are too scared to discuss them? It's the very reason I have a Label on my blog titled "Taboo Topics" where I can discuss things that have happened in my life that others think should be hush hush/off limits topics - things like suicide and child molestation.

The reason I bring this up is not to debate miscarriages or abortion because as a man who has never gotten anyone pregnant, I'm in no position to speak even remotely intelligent on the subject, nor do I want to. Let's be completely honest, the vast majority of men out there don't have a clue what exactly a miscarriage or an abortion fully entails. We get the jest of it, but we really don't know the details of what happens in a woman's body. And it wasn't until I watched Penelope's interview, did I know just how common and frequent a miscarriage occurs. I also didn't know that the process takes literally weeks, which makes concealing what you're going through all the more difficult. We are unaware of these things because society has labeled it as one of the many taboo topics we don't dare speak of! I want to change that though. I think it's time we give taboo topics a voice. So when I read about Penelope Trunk being so brutally honest and candid about what she was going through, I wanted to stand up and clap for her, for giving yet another taboo topic a much needed voice. If we can't talk about things, we can't learn. And if we can't learn, how will we ever grow?

I'm not asking, nor suggesting, that everyone exposes the skeletons in their closet and airs their dirty laundry for all the world to see. I'm just encouraging people to talk. To educate. To bring awareness to things like suicide, child molestation, rape, domestic abuse, miscarriages, abortion, addiction, the list goes on and on. You know what the taboo topics are. They are the very subjects that are so widely misunderstood by the public because the public refuses to give them a voice. But if people would just muster up the courage to discuss them, you would quickly see how many others can relate. We are all more closely tied to one another than we care to believe.

Whether you agree or disagree with Penelope's views on miscarriages and abortion isn't relevant to this post. What I do want to know is if you think it's good or bad to discuss taboo topics? And have you ever been as candid about your personal life as Penelope or myself? Looking back, was sharing that "secret" a relief or a mistake?

I can't speak for Penelope, but I know when I came clean about my battle with depression and my suicide attempt (10/5/09 - My Deepest, Darkest Secret), it was a HUGE sigh of relief! It felt so good to get that weight off my chest. And if I helped just one other person by sharing my story, it made any of the negativity I received from that post totally worth it. What you get from me online is 100% me, but you don’t get 100% of me.

My Deepest, Darkest Secret

During depression the world disappears. Language itself. One has nothing to say. For years I never thought I would talk about certain taboo topics, like my battle with depression and my suicide attempt at a very young age. I kept that secret locked up inside of me for over 15 years! And I felt that if I ever decided to come clean with it, I would only tell someone in complete confidence, like a therapist, just to get it off my chest. But then one day, about a year ago, I had an epiphany. I knew I wanted to get it off my chest, but realized that sharing it so privately with just one other person would only help me. I wanted to do greater good than that. The way I saw it, I wanted to help other people that felt like me - other people who had walked in similar shoes. So that is why I decided to share it with the world and post about it publicly on my blog.

Suicide is one of those taboo topics that nobody wants to talk about. We like to pretend that it doesn’t exist. However, taboo topics need a voice because if we can't talk about things, we can't learn. And if we can't learn, how will we ever grow? Silence is more deafening than any sound. So speak up and speak out! In celebration for tomorrow's (Oct 6) release of Frank Warren's new book PostSecret: Confessions on Life Death and God, I'm reposting a portion of a post I wrote roughly one year ago.

FACT: More than 32,000 suicides occur in the U.S. This is the equivalent of 89 suicides per day. That’s one suicide every 16 minutes! Many who attempt suicide never seek professional care. This is my story.

I was barely 12-years-old when I became suicidal. A calm had come over me. After feeling like I was suffocating for so long, I could finally breathe again. I was choosing to end it all and I was at peace with that decision. If you’ve ever been there, you can relate to the feeling. My first attempt was immediately after school. I felt the most effective method would be to shoot myself. There was only one problem - we never had a handgun or any other type of firearm in our house. So shooting myself was scratched off the list. I thought about hanging myself, but I couldn’t find any rope in the garage. I even thought about ODing on some pills. However, that seemed lame to me. With my luck, I would just end up with a sick stomach that would need pumped at the hospital. The main goal here was to succeed. If I failed, not only would I have to live with that failure, but I would have to live in general. My family, my friends and my entire school would find out how messed up I was. I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t face the amount of humiliation that would come with not only feeling like a failure in life, but also having a failed suicide attempt tied to myself as well. At the time, in my eyes, the measure of a true failure was one who even failed when trying to kill himself.

I had stepped off the bus and walked straight into my parent’s kitchen. My Mom often complained that she never had a good, sharp set of knives. So I decided if I were to slice my wrists, I would need to put some muscle in it. I was clueless as to which was the best way to do it – to slice vertically or horizontally. I figured I would do both, just to make sure. I took out a steak knife that I usually ate dinner with and began digging it into my flesh. A small freckle became the bullseye and I used it as my marked target to begin. I stabbed the tip in and ran the serrated edged of the blade along my 12-year-old skin. I cut into the inner side of both arms. Multiple times. In all directions. Halfway up to my elbows. When the blood began to pour, all I thought about was it staining the countertop. I didn’t want my Mom to be angry at me for making a mess. For whatever reason, it never dawned on me that a blood stained countertop would be the least of her worries if I were lying lifeless on the kitchen floor when she arrived home from work.

I couldn’t see that far ahead. I couldn’t look rationally at the situation. I couldn’t foresee into the future as to what the impact of my actions would be on those that loved me. I guess I figured they would grieve, but I couldn’t fathom the tremendous turmoil I would throw my family in. All the unanswered questions I would leave them with. The guilt, the sadness, the anger. I wasn’t aware how they would harbor these emotions for years to come. I was ignorant to the fact that with just a few more slices, I would change their world forever...and I would end mine forever. It was a selfish act. A permanent solution to what I realize now looking back, were only temporary problems. During your pre-teen years, everything seems like the end of the world.

I suppose this is around the time most people have some sort of religious or spiritual awaking in their life. I however, returned to the basics. Back to what gave me comfort growing up. I began to write again, but not with pen and paper this time. I set the notebook aside and began a virtual notebook. I began the very blog you read now.

...continue reading the full/original post from
9/5/08 - The Things I Can’t Speak About, Let Alone Write About

If There Was No Net, Would You Stop Me From Jumping?

It is an iconic structure. An engineering masterpiece. A triumph of human ingenuity and muscle over the elements. A symbol of San Francisco. The West. Freedom. And something more. Something almost spiritual, but impossible to describe. It’s the Golden Gate Bridge and it’s where more people choose to end their lives than anywhere else in the world. The sheer number of deaths there is shocking, but perhaps not altogether surprising. If one wants to commit suicide, there is an eerie logic in selecting a means that is almost always fatal and a place that is magically, mysteriously beautiful. Almost two dozen people a year are reported to end their lives by jumping off the bridge which spans the San Francisco bay. Although official figures aren’t published, in order to not encourage potential jumpers, it’s estimated that roughly 1,300 unfortunate people plummeted to their deaths 200 feet below the bridge. Want another startling fact? Every day, 89 people commit suicide in the United States. This tragic act is the 11th leading cause of death in America. And studies show that more than half of American college students have considered suicide at some point in their lives. As life, or rather death, would have it...the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge, for all its beauty, or maybe because of it, has always attracted those poor souls who saw no point in going on and decided they might as well make their exit spectacular.

Inspired by a 2003 article from New York Magazine entitled "Jumpers", written by Tad Friend, there is a documentary that was made a few years back that you may or may not be aware of. It’s titled "The Bridge" and it has been surrounded by controversy since it was released. The New York Times calls it "One of the most moving and brutally honest films about suicide ever made...remarkably free of religious cant and of cozy New Age bromides. Eerie and indelible." I have the film, but I have yet to watch it. One of these days I will, but for now, it’s a topic that hits too close to home. I hope I’m not the norm in having a family member and a best friend who committed suicide. And I hope I’m not the norm in knowing countless other people who have either attempted suicide or considered it. Even I have battled bouts of severe depression since age 11, which led to "things" – let’s just leave it at that.

I’ve seen suicide from both the outside and the inside. It’s hard to put into words because the pain is indescribable. However, it needs to be put into words. Perhaps we needed "The Bridge" to paint us the visual for when these words escape us. This grim and very taboo topic is something I’m all too familiar with, but a topic that I really think people should talk about. People need not to just talk about it. They need to see it to really feel it, because God forbid they have to experience it firsthand. If people refuse to open a dialog up and shed some light on the subject, then in the dark is where it will remain. It shouldn’t be a dirty, little secret we hide and refuse to acknowledge, but that is exactly what it is.

People suffer largely unnoticed while the rest of the world goes about its business. "The Bridge" is a documentary exploration of the mythic beauty of the Golden Gate Bridge, the most popular suicide destination in the world, and those drawn by its call. Director Eric Steel and his crew filmed the bridge during daylight hours from two separate locations for all of 2004, recording most of the two dozen deaths in that year (and preventing several others). In addition, the director captured nearly 100 hours of incredibly frank, deeply personal, often heart-wrenching interviews with the families, friends and witnesses of these suicides. The film raises questions about suicide, mental illness and civic responsibility as well as the filmmaker's relationship to his fraught and complicated material. It offers glimpses into the darkest and possibly most impenetrable corners of the human mind. The fates of the 24 people who died at the Golden Gate Bridge in 2004 are linked together by a 4 second fall, but their lives had been moving on parallel tracks and similar arcs all along. "The Bridge" is a visual and visceral journey into one of life’s gravest taboos.

Suicide doesn’t discriminate. It affects men and women of all walks of life, both young and old, and of all races and religion. And after decades of debate, the Golden Gate Bridge board of directors has decided to install safety netting (AKA, a suicide net) 20 feet below the bridge’s deck. The net, made of metal wiring coated with plastic, will catch any jumpers and allow rescue teams to easily untangle them due to its design. It is made to partially collapse around anyone who jumps into it, thus preventing the person from re-jumping and completing their mission. The 3.4 miles of netting will cost between $40-50 million dollars, so the project isn’t expected to be completed for several years. Sometimes all suicidal people need is a certain amount of time to stop and reflect in order to change their mind. San Francisco is hoping this net will do just that.

I have mixed feelings on the suicide net. And of course this raises a very real religious, legal and moral debate. If someone is about to kill themselves, should you, would you, could you stop them? Trust me, you do not want to have the "shoulda/coulda/woulda" argument with yourself after the fact. By then it’s too late and you can’t bring them back. There is no mulligan. No second chance. No do-over. It’s a done deal and you are left with the "what if" questions that will haunt you until the day YOU die. But that is YOU. What about them? What about what they want? If there was no net, would you stop me from jumping? (This is a hypothetical question.)

The Things I Can’t Speak About, Let Alone Write About

This is the follow-up post to 9/4/08 - Releasing A Blog Draft Prisoner

Once upon a time there was a boy who found it difficult to express how he was feeling. It’s not that he didn’t have any feelings, it was that he had too many and was becoming numb due to the emotional weight he carried. He wanted nothing more than to shed this weight. So while shopping for Back To School supplies with his Mom, he snuck in an extra black and white speckled composition book. When she asked why he needed two, he made up some half-believable excuse which she bought. He found himself often lying when faced with a potential "touchy/feely talk". Perhaps he learned this method of coping from his tight lipped father. Or perhaps he learned it from the "boys don’t cry" stereotype society had engrained in him, even at such a young age. Or perhaps he is just making up excuses and wanting to place blame on someone other than himself.

He didn’t know how to approach certain topics. He couldn’t find the right words to verbalize it. He was embarrassed to feel the way he did, like he was being an oversensitive little girl. It was more than embarrassment though. It was sheer terror of what people would think if he were to come clean with what was going on inside him. Just the thought of it made him instantly sick to his stomach. There were times when he found himself caught and tangled up in a "touchy/feely talk". He would literally break into a cold sweat. His heart would pound, his stomach would turn nauseous and he could feel his hands begin to tremble. It was like being backed into a corner and wanting desperately to escape, without knowing how to escape. It was as if his body was paralyzed, while his head raced uncontrollably. It was that out of control sensation which he not only hated, but also highly feared. He honestly believed there would be no coming back from it. That he would always be known as the boy who had a breakdown. People would then act weird around him and he would be viewed as being borderline crazy. He just couldn’t take the risk of having that occur. So whenever asked if everything was alright or if he wanted to talk about something, his reply was always..."I’m fine."

It was an easy out and he would continue to use it for years to come. At times, he even uses it to this day. He swept it under the rug. He stuffed it down, only to have it erupt in his face, overflow and bring him to his knees. He would soon learn that this method of dealing with things only compounds the problem. And despite learning this difficult and immensely painful lesson, there are days when he still finds himself being emotionally evasive. Why? The only answer I can think of is that it’s his shield, his protection from things he wishes not to endure. He believed it to be the world’s greatest mask, whether the world saw past it or not, he wore it daily.

Unknown to his entire family and all of his friends, the boy had a passion for writing. He wrote late at night, alone in his bedroom, with just small light on. Lying on his bed was a stack of magazines and school books, items he would use as a disguise. A ploy that would go into effect if someone were to knock on his bedroom door. If he couldn’t hide his notebook under his nightstand fast enough, before they entered the room, then he would play off his writing as doing homework. It was his dirty little secret. Nobody needed to know. He wasn’t writing about anyone. He wasn’t hurting anyone. In fact, he was only trying to help himself. He was writing about himself and how he felt inside. It was brutally honest, almost always tearful and extremely raw in content. He worried not about his grammar. Sentence structure, misspellings or poor penmanship was not the focus here. It was the emotions behind the words, or rather the release of those emotions. That is what he graded himself on. And in that regard, he was a standout student, a true scholar. For the first time in his life, instead of feeling embarrassed, he actually felt proud. Proud that he found a method of coping. Proud that he was shedding the emotional weight.

It was only when he put pen to paper that he was finally able to find the words he could never fully verbalize. Something magical happened with each ink stroke. Writing was therapeutic to him and the more he wrote, the deeper he found himself falling in love with process – the experience. It became his safe haven. A place he no longer had to hide parts of himself. A place he could freely be himself, both the beautiful and ugly parts that define him. Nobody was lurking within those pages looking to cast judgment. Nobody would read his inner most thoughts, dreams and secrets. And then it dawned on him. Because of this, nobody would ever fully know him. Nobody would ever fully understand him. If he kept all these things buried in a comp book, only accessible to his own eyes, was he cheating himself? Would he eventually become cold and distant, unable to relate to others? Would he be unable to connect to the world, to all humanity? Would he eventually die alone and unknown? Deep thoughts for a kid, but I had them. Yes, I’m that little boy I write about in 3rd person.

As time moved on, I found myself writing less and less...until I eventually didn’t pick up that pen. Although, it wasn’t because I had nothing to write about or that I no longer found writing to be therapeutic. It was because a few things happened in my life that I simply could not speak about, let alone write about. I couldn’t have proof of it lying around. Things like how my middle school gym teacher molested me and a few classmates, then got away with it. Or attempted to molest me? To this day, I’m still fuzzy on the facts because I’m not completely sure more happened than my mind will allow me to remember. I question whether or not my brain has blocked parts out for my own well being – a survival mechanism. One thing I haven’t forgot or blocked out, his face. I still see it crystal clear, the sound of his voice and vivid images of his filthy hands on me. By the way, he continued teaching in the school district for years to come! I had graduated and gone on to college when one day I saw him helping load kids onto their school bus. It took everything in my power not to throw up right then and there.

It wasn’t just that though. It was other things too. Things like an unimaginable black sadness, a complete sense of hopelessness, unbearable grief and overwhelming guilt. These were just a few of the things I couldn’t speak or write about. However, they were all I could think about. I began focusing on them so intensely that I had definitely lost sight of myself and was clueless as to what feeling happy actually was. I hadn’t felt happy for so long that happy actually became a foreign emotion to me. I could not find peace in anything, not even in pen and paper. It was so bad that I questioned whether or not even a small amount of happiness would ever be present in my life again.

I was barely 12-years-old when I became suicidal. A calm had come over me. After feeling like I was suffocating for so long, I could finally breathe again. I was choosing to end it all and I was at peace with that decision. If you’ve ever been there, you can relate to the feeling. My first attempt was immediately after school. I felt the most effective method would be to shoot myself. There was only one problem - we never had a handgun or any other type of firearm in our house. So shooting myself was scratched off the list. I thought about hanging myself, but I couldn’t find any rope in the garage. I even thought about ODing on some pills. However, that seemed lame to me. With my luck, I would just end up with a sick stomach that would need pumped at the hospital. The main goal here was to succeed. If I failed, not only would I have to live with that failure, but I would have to live in general. My family, my friends and my entire school would find out how messed up I was. I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t face the amount of humiliation that would come with not only feeling like a failure in life, but also having a failed suicide attempt tied to myself as well. At the time, in my eyes, the measure of a true failure was one who even failed when trying to kill himself.

I had stepped off the bus and walked straight into my parent’s kitchen. My Mom often complained that she never had a good, sharp set of knives. So I decided if I were to slice my wrists, I would need to put some muscle in it. I was clueless as to which was the best way to do it – to slice vertically or horizontally. I figured I would do both, just to make sure. I took out a steak knife that I usually ate dinner with and began digging it into my flesh. A small freckle became the bullseye and I used it as my marked target to begin. I stabbed the tip in and ran the serrated edged of the blade along my 12-year-old skin. I cut into the inner side of both arms. Multiple times. In all directions. Halfway up to my elbows. When the blood began to pour, all I thought about was it staining the countertop. I didn’t want my Mom to be angry at me for making a mess. For whatever reason, it never dawned on me that a blood stained countertop would be the least of her worries if I were lying lifeless on the kitchen floor when she arrived home from work.

I couldn’t see that far ahead. I couldn’t look rationally at the situation. I couldn’t foresee into the future as to what the impact of my actions would be on those that loved me. I guess I figured they would grieve, but I couldn’t fathom the tremendous turmoil I would throw my family in. All the unanswered questions I would leave them with. The guilt, the sadness, the anger. I wasn’t aware how they would harbor these emotions for years to come. I was ignorant to the fact that with just a few more slices, I would change their world forever…and I would end mine forever. It was a selfish act. A permanent solution to what I realize now looking back, were only temporary problems. During your pre-teen years, everything seems like the end of the world.

I suppose this is around the time most people have some sort of religious or spiritual awaking in their life. I however, returned to the basics. Back to what gave me comfort growing up. I began to write again, but not with pen and paper this time. I set the notebook aside and began a virtual notebook. I began the very blog you read now.

I would be liar if I said today I’m completely fine and I’m no longer haunted by suicidal thoughts. I’m able to maintain a perfectly normal life and I do find happiness in some things and certain people. I refused medication and I refused consoling. In fact, I was on Zoloft once in my early 20s and it had the total opposite effect, it made me more suicidal! Although now that I’m older, I’m more mature in how I view life. I think when my best friend/roommate committed suicide in college, THAT was my awakening. As warped as it may sound, wiping up his blood may have been a blessing in disguise for me. It made me realize that even though I hold life loosely, it is a precious gift. It made me realize that Michael’s choice to kill himself is something his family, friends and I all struggle with even to this day. It’s something that no matter how depressed or hopeless I mean feel, I will never allow my family and friends to endure the pain of my suicide. Some would say a failed suicide attempt is a silent scream for help. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was the helping hand of some unknown higher power that never granted my Mom’s wish for a new, sharp knife set on purpose. Perhaps this "higher power" could foresee the future of me in my adolescent years and wanted to prolong my future. As shocking as this story may be, what’s even more shocking is that to the naked eye, I don’t bare a single scar on either of my wrists or arms. Although to me, the scars are still visible. I see each and every cut, not as healed purple lines, but as fresh red wounds.

Original Sin, Part 2 - Lela's Laugh

Just a warning, you may not want to read this post. It touches on a subject that is highly sensitive and may hit too close to home for some people. It will go down as one of the few posts I've written that has actually made me cry. Although that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It could be a healthy release of some underlying feelings of guilt that I seem to have. If you haven't read Original Sin, Part 1 - The Confessional, you may want to read that first. Below is the continuing part.

She smiled at me during reading class. I smiled back. I'm not sure what made me do that because normally I would of looked away, perhaps even made a face. I still found girls to be icky at that age. I kept my "Cootie Spray" on hand at all times, just in case a girl would get too close, or God forbid touch me. Lela was new in school. Flowered tennis shoes. It's all I can remember of what she wore. Pink and green flowers on white low cut canvas. Her laces matched the shoes. One lace pink, the other green. They were cute. She was cute. She was shy. Although, for whatever reason, she wasn't shy with me. Initiating eye contact and sharing a smile was a testament of that. Rotating from the swings to the monkey bars. It took just one recess and a handful of spins on the merry-go-round before we became fast friends. She lost her hairclip during all the dizzy fun. I promised her I would find it. I was late lining up to go back into class, but her once lost hairclip was now safely resting in my corduroy pants pocket.

I can still picture her like it was yesterday, if yesterday was 20 years ago. That small beautiful face. The pinkish hue in her cheeks. The warm chocolate color in her eyes. She had puppy dog eyes. Big and round. Soft and brown. They were adorned with the longest lashes I have ever seen. Her laugh - the kind that's contagious. She tried to conceal the dimple in her right cheek, but it made it's presence known even when she wasn't smiling. I secretly felt it was her best feature. It may of been a turning point for me when I started to discover that maybe some girls were not really icky after all, but rather adorable. How that single dimple in her smile now haunts me.

The smell of oranges. She loved to eat those. Her hands were always cold and sticky from the citrus. I feel her hand in mine as we race to the pool. Thorn bush scratches on our ankles, shins and knees. The thorn bushes were thick. We had to cross thru those. Beyond the thorn bushes to an empty pool. No water. Just cement. It all makes sense now. This is where she always wanted to go. To wash it away? But there was no water. Nothing was pure. Innocence was lost, long before the pool ran dry. There is no water pure enough to wash away the sin. I never told my Mom. I never told anyone. There was something wrong at Lela's house. Something was going on that wasn't normal. Something didn't feel right. Something felt piercing and comfortless there. Like the way worn cement from a drained swimming pool feels on the bottom of bare feet.

Her mother was soft spoken. She seemed to be kind and caring. That was all I could gather about her because she was hardly around. When I would go to Lela's house to play after school, her mother was always on her way out, either to the store or to work. Lela's father was always home. Back then, I didn't know why that was. I just knew my Dad worked long hours and Lela's father never had to. Or maybe he didn't want to? Looking back, I know he was an alcoholic. Looking back, I now realize he was alot of things, none of them good. If you would ask me to describe him in one word, I would choose "intense". He was a very, very intense man. I didn't like him and neither did Lela. Although he seemed to be very fond of her, too fond. Stuff it down and avoid the admittance of hard truths. That would be my motto to survival. She must of floated above her body and became numb to reality, or at least that is what I imagine. Sometimes you have to live that way in order to survive.

There is a law that states...if you see a car accident and you don't stop to offer help, then you are committing a crime. I may be guilty of keeping my hands clinched firmly in my pockets while witnessing a train wreck. What was occurring in Lela's home was nothing short of that. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help but see there was something very wrong going on. In all honesty, I didn't want to know. I just wanted it to get better. I was only 7. I didn't know exactly what was wrong, I just knew something didn't feel right and she didn't talk about it. Lela's relationship wasn't normal with her father. (I use the phrase "wasn't normal" to spare myself from conjuring up the repulsive memories that to this day, still turn my stomach.) I wasn't fully aware of the situation. It was confusing to me. Lela just seemed unhappy, even scared. And it scared me. I stopped going to her house. I didn't want to play there anymore. I started inviting her over to my house after school instead. She never accepted. She said she wasn't allowed. That probably was the case, but I took it as "she didn't want to be my friend anymore."

School was out for the year. The summer came and went. I returned to class late in August eager to see Lela, only to find no Lela. After the first week of school was over, it became apparent to me. Lela wasn't in another classroom this year. She didn't enroll in the private school a few miles away. She was gone. I had no idea she was moving, where she had moved to or even if she had moved at all. I have no idea what happened to her. I just knew Lela and her laugh had vanished. I hope that Lela's Mom took her to someplace nice. Someplace where thorn bushes or anything else couldn't hurt you. A place where all the swimming pools were filled with fresh, clean water. A place where she became exhausted from laughter. Where she giggled so much that she got hiccups. Where her giggles echoed across the playground as she spun out of control on a merry-go-round of fun. I hope she packed her dimple with her. And I hope she left her Dad behind.

I don't know exactly what went on in Lela's house, but over the last 20 years, I'm 99% sure her father should be serving time in prison if he isn't already. I am nearly positive that something evil took place. Things that should only be heard in a confessional. I don't like watching the movie Forest Gump. Lela is Jenny. The scene where she runs into the field and asks Forest to pray with her. "Dear God, make me a bird. So I can fly far. Far, far away from here." I hope that is all that happened to Lela - that she was turned into a bird and flew far. Far, far away from here.

to be continued...

Original Sin, Part 1 - The Confessional

There is a tiny room with one small window. Not a window that opens to look out, but one that opens to look within. As if the light pierced a stained-glass window and sliced right thru me. Illumination is not always pretty. The light is not always kind. But cold hard truths are something we all have to deal with. My Mom made me venture in. "You're big enough now that you don't have to sit in front of the priest. You can talk to him thru the window screen." I recall rolling my eyes. Just the thought of going in there made my skin crawl. The queasiness in my stomach. Beads of sweat forming on my palms. I was visibly scared. I didn't know what I should say. What exactly does an 8-year-old need to confess? What sins could I of possibly committed at that age? I was a little young to be smoking crack and sleeping with hookers. Plus I had forgot parts of the "Our Father" prayer. Would I get in trouble for that?

I dropped to my knees, slid the window screen open and began my anonymous confession. Beyond the screen Father John listened intensely. Our church was small and surely he knew who I was, hiding behind a patch of mesh. Recognizing the nervous jitter in my voice, he told me to take a deep breath and start again. He coached me along, asking leading questions. "Have you fought with your sisters? Have you said any naughty words?" Next thing I know, I find myself lying to the priest! I'm actually making-up sins to confess because I have few real sins to confess. That alone is surely a sin in itself. I could hardly breath in there and it wasn't because of claustrophobia. To say the room is just 6x8 is being generous. To Catholics, it is known as the Confessional. A place where you bare you soul. Confess your sins and ask for forgiveness. A form of emotional, mental and spiritual cleansing. Ironically, you will find the Confessional room beside the Holy Water. Even more ironic, not even the purest water can wash away original sin.

Nearly every religion has their own definition of what "original sin" is and is not. However, they seem to all agree on one thing - original sin is the first sin. I am not deeply religious. I don't pretend to be. I don't try to be. I don't even want to be. I was raised Catholic though. It's all that I've known. Although it's not all that I'm open to. Perhaps that statement right there is a sin? To look into other religions. To veer away from the Catholic church. The same church I don't even attend these days. Sometimes I don't know what I am. Obviously, I'm not a good Catholic boy. Apparently, there are many "sins" I have committed. Sins that I have carried with me well into my 20s. Sins that started when I was in the 2nd grade. Similar sins that have reoccurred throughout my childhood and into adulthood. Sins I've never before confessed. Sins I've never asked for forgiveness from. Not forgiveness from God or anything like that. Forgiveness from myself.

They are often in the back of my mind. In that unbearable lump I swallow in my throat. In the weight that lies on my shoulders, the weight I can't shrug off. I've seen their faces in my sleep. Maybe that is my punishment. For not speaking up. For not stopping it. For not doing something. Anything. Their cries for help were quieter than a whisper. Their pleas in fact were silent, but not unnoticed by me. It was just that I failed to act on what I witnessed. They didn't ask for help. Although they needed it. And I never offered it. I ignored the signs even though many of the signs were right in front of my eyes. Candid accounts I can't pretend didn't exist. Even if I close my eyes, I see them...and even more clearly. For years I pushed those memories down deep inside me, only later to find them resurfacing. In the form of a new face. With a new name. Same scenario. Rewind and repeat. I feel as if I'm watching my life on a film and I hate the role I played. The bystander.

Her name was Lela. That is where it began. The original sin.

to be continued...

The Weight Of Winter Lifts For Spring

Winter is a period of time that is long, cold and often dismal. There is a stillness in the air. A quiet everywhere you turn. Often the silence can seem deafening. You long for the sweet song of a morning bird. The cheerful chirp of a warm night's cricket. The fluttering patter of the butterfly's wings orchestrated beautifully with the buzz of the bumble bee. I want to hear the wind blow thru tree braches that are full with leaves. I want to memorize the gurgling and gulps a babbling brook makes, as the ice begins to melt and water flows free again. I want to gaze at the glow of the moon. Watch it cast a familiar shadow off a freshly cut lawn. If I close my eyes, I can almost see it. I can almost hear it. I can almost smell it. Spring awakens the senses. I believed that Spring may awaken the heart as well.

I enjoy all 4 seasons and I feel each seasonal change brings it's own blessings, as well as curses. The calm tranquility of winter can be peaceful, but it's time to covet Spring. We are eager for the weight of snow to be lifted. In it's place, Spring. With it, a new beginning. Everything is alive again. Things begin to bloom and grow. The Earth begins to soften. Absorbing everything the winter has shed. It's replaced with the first flower. The first sign of Spring. The daffodil. I've always liked the daffodil. It's warm yellow color. How the pedals fall gracefully to the sides. It's almost like a pair of lips parting to form a smile. For a brief moment, I flashback in time to when I was a kid.

It's Springtime and I'm in the backyard playing. I can hear those birds singing. And that one woodpecker who would return each year. I search for him in the trees. Trying to locate his vivid red markings amongst a forest of green and brown. I can hear the water echo as it races downstream under the bridge. Leaving the rocks beneath it smooth and round from it's continuous pattern. I run my hand along the top of the bridge. I admire each knot in the wood and how I helped my father build it when I was just 6. In the near distance I see my sister swinging on our swing set. I hear the annoying creaking in my head. A noise that back then irritated me. Today, a noise I miss the presence of. The presence of her being close by. I feel the warm wind against my skin. Blowing from the weeping willow tree. The same tree I carved my initials into and one year tried to climb. I breathe in the fresh grass. So newly cut that the drew drops can be seen lying on each blade. The green rubs off on my tennis shoes, staining them for the day. I am not bothered that my Nikes are damp and the soles are slightly green in color. I continue to run about.

I throw a football straight up into the air and my best friend tries to catch it. I can see him in that same pale blue t-shirt like it was yesterday. I can feel him sitting beside me on my parent's front porch. Playfully nudging one another in the ribs. Sharing a grilled cheese sandwich together. He practically lived there. When we turned 18, it was almost a given that we would be roommates in college. It was a bond that nobody could break. If it hadn't been for blood, I think he would of been my brother. He felt like a brother to me. He was treated like a son by my Mom. Back then, I see her leaning over to kiss the top of each of our heads telling us to be good and that my sister was in charge while she ran to the store for a few. I wish he had only ran out to the store. He would be back by now. We would throw the football around. We would share lunch together again. We would try and relive some happy times from the past. We would plan happy times to live for the future. We would reminisce and laugh. We would makeup for all these years that we continue to lose. Years he decided to throw away one day. Time we will never get back. His life tied to mine. Him and that old faded blue t-shirt I truly miss. I wish him back, but God won't comply. Instead I am filled with memories and wishes of what "would have been". Memories and wishes that will never fade like his shirt.

It's funny that when I began to write this, the idea was that it would be happy and filled with childhood memories that I cherish. For the most part, it is. I do cherish the time I spent growing up and the time I spent with him. I wouldn't of traded it for anything. I also wouldn't trade in the pain that lingers on these days. I wouldn't do that because it would mean that the past wasn't real. I want it to be real. I love the fact that he was real. Real to me. Real to everyone around him. The weight of his death has never left me. It's been several years now since his suicide and maybe I still haven't fully grieved like I should of. Whatever it is, I wish that the weight would leave me as quickly as he left this world. I think this Spring when the first daffodils begin to bud and bloom, I will pick them. Pick half of them. The same half amount he use to help me pick for my Mom each Spring in the backyard. Perhaps he will look down and mimic each pedal by parting a smile. Perhaps I will mimic that smile too.