tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63972157393239315352024-02-19T00:12:19.345-07:00AustintatiousAustinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.comBlogger500125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-30152017125237260832022-08-08T14:20:00.003-06:002023-10-25T14:08:01.021-06:00On Milestones: Post #500… A link to a Jesus poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThje97IKQVMcETSK7h2WQDet0F53oNTnII8yFVyEnPns0G9DETISa_Vs3h6xahhd0S-nHdUZ3UqYCfBQtk4P46pmjQOJ3B9HLV9DB2URrn2UNCGKaNNpJgly81Nu0ZZaMl6tOrYcggGWWXFksBCTGf9_LMppvZtmFi-c00ymOsAv5G4zk7CmOU3tyDw/s423/Christ_of_Saint_John_of_the_Cross.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="238" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThje97IKQVMcETSK7h2WQDet0F53oNTnII8yFVyEnPns0G9DETISa_Vs3h6xahhd0S-nHdUZ3UqYCfBQtk4P46pmjQOJ3B9HLV9DB2URrn2UNCGKaNNpJgly81Nu0ZZaMl6tOrYcggGWWXFksBCTGf9_LMppvZtmFi-c00ymOsAv5G4zk7CmOU3tyDw/s320/Christ_of_Saint_John_of_the_Cross.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><p>Good gracious. Number five-hundred... 500... D. </p><p>I've had this blog since <a href="http://austindm.blogspot.com/2007/09/lets-get-this-party-started.html" target="_blank">September 4 2007</a>. It's older than my children, older than the Obama presidency. As I've only written about twice a year the last 7 years-ish, it's been on my mind what to write about for this landmark number post. For awhile, my plan has been to bookend the thing, and make this the last post. A goodbye and thanks for all the fish type thing. But no, sorry. There's still room for a sequel, or another 2 a year. 2022 is already half over. </p><p>I began this post as a believing Mormon. In about 2013 I stopped believing, in 2015 I "came out" as an unbeliever. In 2018 I resigned. I've been coming to terms with the 9 year anniversary of when I mark the fall of my "shelf," trying to find peace in leaving a religion that does harm but also does good. Trying to find the balance between humans being good and being human. </p><p>I still struggle with belief. I think doubt is often healthy, and I try to maintain skepticism of my skepticism. I also still feel tied to the religion of my youth, and the positive lessons and beliefs I gleaned from Mormonism. </p><p>My best friend, Bonz, (who I keep meaning to write a post about what they mean to me (a lot) has a blog of their own, and published a poem I wrote about (more than anything else) Matthew 25:40, the “done to the least of these, done it unto me” verse. </p><p>I desire all to receive it. I hope it makes you feel something, and thanks in advance for reading it. </p><p><a href="https://southprovoprophet.com/2022/08/08/third-fourth-coming/">https://southprovoprophet.com/2022/08/08/third-fourth-coming/</a></p><p>I hope I continue to grow and learn, I hope I try to love my fellow humans, regardless of whether there’s a savior or not. I believe most of the teachings of the Nazarene, if not his divinity. </p><p>500 down, let’s see where the next 15 years and 500 posts take us :D </p><p><br /></p>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-4684627954632063392021-12-10T11:20:00.005-07:002021-12-11T13:30:09.508-07:00On Dreams: When I Grow Up<p><i></i></p><blockquote><i> You don’t have to have a dream. People always talk about their dreams. Fine, if you have something you’ve always wanted to do, go for it. If it’s a big enough dream, it’ll probably take you most of your life to achieve. So by the time you get to it and are staring into the abyss of the meaninglessness of your achievement you’ll almost be dead so it won’t matter. </i><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: right;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>--Tim Minchin</span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: right;"></span></div><p></p><p dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">My earliest memory of being asked what I want to be when I grow up was @ age three. The bishop of my LDS ward asked my 8 year old brother and I what we wanted to be. Big bro said "A millionaire." I replied "A Chinaman!" <br />After about two years, when that wasn't working out, I wanted to be a stand up comedian. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSgCugN94oc5PvO_son7IoK22opRvIX1qjDKB3k-AWAhGvqcHCj1zsEAFZLUT1LxOVj5l6naSIkeZIizu2F4FoBBXEI4t2G7srzJZPy0tAD7W-fDxxhmd1jTh_-c8Iw-CL6p8u69uSapYu/s2048/comedy_when+I+grow+up.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1459" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSgCugN94oc5PvO_son7IoK22opRvIX1qjDKB3k-AWAhGvqcHCj1zsEAFZLUT1LxOVj5l6naSIkeZIizu2F4FoBBXEI4t2G7srzJZPy0tAD7W-fDxxhmd1jTh_-c8Iw-CL6p8u69uSapYu/s320/comedy_when+I+grow+up.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I have always loved making people laugh. More than pretty much anything else. At first I think it was something to distinguish myself as me. My older brother (who I compared everything to, and always came up lacking) was and is very funny. But, whether or not I was funnier, I was the "funny one." I could try to be funnier than everyone as a way to establish my identity. Being a solid 5 in the looks department, brains, and athleticism most of my life, funny was and is most of what I had/have going for me. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Comedy has been a huge part of my life. If I'm willing to watch a movie, 9 out of 10 times it's going to be a comedy. I listen to comedians practically as much as I listen to music. I have several stories where my sense of humor has made enemies into friends, bullies into allies, strangers into loved ones. I don't want to say it's changed lives, but it's enriched and defined mine. I love being the "funny one." But the comedian wish died probably in late high school or early college, when the dream was to be an actor, an artist, a writer, etc. (A <i>funny </i>one, but one nonetheless). I stopped wanting to be a comedian when I considered the logistics of it. Why try to be a comedian? The life doesn't sound like one I want. Sleeping in and telling jokes all night yes. But being away from my loved ones while I'm touring most of the year? I hope to <i>like </i>my wife and children, I said to myself. Why would I want to climb that pyramid only to discover after years of effort, that I'm at the apex, and utterly alone. But, I couldn't shake that it was in my core, my heart was the heart of a comedian. (imho obvs). I tried squashing that dream under the guise of practicality and reality.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Books like "The Alchemist" and "The Artist's Way" mask guilt as inspirational. (Or that's how I perceived them.) Reading "The Alchemist" reawoke the dream to be a comedian. The universe would conspire <i>for </i>me to succeed. But I ignored those promptings/hopes/dreams in favor of a more realistic education and career. I (IMHO of course) remained "the funny one," the friend who jokes and plays the role of jester in most situations. People would tell me I was funny, and I believed I was. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Fast forward to this year. Middle age, COVID, losing 3 grandparents within a year of each other, and other factors makes one take stock of their lives. Am I happy? Sure. Could I be happier? Sure. <br />None of my hobbies were bringing me the same joys or satisfaction/contentment they used to. I had an "itch" that felt unscratched. What used to excite and interest me caused ennui, and the ennui caused more ennui. (Confession: this whole post was just so I could put "ennui" thrice in a sentence.) My thoughts of standup comedy moved to the forefront. I realized I didn't have to quit my job and pursue the dream full time; I could make it a hobby. Once a month, once a week, whatever. I could be a <i>local </i>comic. Having my comedy cake and eating it too. So I googled "open mic comedy utah," and it seemed like the only game in town was Wiseguys in SLC. They had open mic night <b><u>EVERY </u></b>Wednesday. I thought it would be like once or twice a year, where I could work up the courage for the big day. Every week seemed more daunting somehow. Like the casualness and predictability of it made it harder to apply. Maybe because I told myself since it's <i>every </i>week, I could put it off more easily. But eventually, I stopped putting it off, and started putting out. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I signed up, and got put on the list (!) I began working on what I wanted to talk about. My wife wanted to go to support me, but for some reason, I told her and myself that going solo was the best idea. (Spoiler: I was wrong.) So I planned a set, and drove the 1/2 hour to the Gateway mall in SLC on the big day. They give you three minutes of mic time, which seemed like a tiny amount for the time and energy. But I told myself it would be worth it. Not only would I be discovered instantly and be hilarious, but the missing hole in my being would be filled by living my childhood dream. This was my destiny. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Fate's an asshole. A long boring but legitimate problem at work meant I would have to cancel. I made sure to notify the comedy club, so as not to blow my chances for the future. I signed up as quickly as I could for the next open mic night, and got in. I again told those closest to me NOT to come. This was for whatever reason something I wanted to do alone. Maybe because I told myself that bombing wouldn't be so bad if the ones who loved me didn't witness it. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Two of our friends invited us to go as attendees. I liked the idea as a way to scout the place, see what it was like, compare myself to the comics, etc. Roughly 50% were funny, maybe 10-20% were funnier than I thought I was. I liked those odds. Also, quite a few of them were introduced as it being "their first time," with a reminder to be patient and extra supportive to those brave souls. </p><p style="text-align: left;">One Wednesday evening in August 2021, I drove the 30 minutes to Wiseguys comedy club. I arrived at the club at the Gateway mall, by the music artist mural, and sought support from one of my heroes and rock god: Farrokh Bulsara. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1_si44QS1rJAS0SvPpwwUIEf8Hu4MXZsiU9WeHP1SXOySdKq94rPfJSTVEkIUKL3KOG_GW288LsOS-Tl9M0fggjgusieXHoLZqpWSx6eBVVQByeh2JJQnRtixLJsfn4psAm4uk9AOOwA/s2048/comedy_freddie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1_si44QS1rJAS0SvPpwwUIEf8Hu4MXZsiU9WeHP1SXOySdKq94rPfJSTVEkIUKL3KOG_GW288LsOS-Tl9M0fggjgusieXHoLZqpWSx6eBVVQByeh2JJQnRtixLJsfn4psAm4uk9AOOwA/s320/comedy_freddie.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I arrived at the club and signed in, among 20+ other hopeful comics. Thinking I had at last found my tribe, I tried initiating conversation with multiple people. Unfortunately for me and my dream, I was snubbed, rebuffed, tolerated, and/or ignored. It felt like Jr. High school: cliquish, selfish, somewhat smelly, and rude. Except I was this old man with an artificial hip, rather than the pimply boy unknowingly growing a cancer in his leg. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I bought some liquid courage and studied my "set," hoping to get the timing right and remember the jokes. It was a story I've told multiple times, embellished and modified in effort to get the maximum number of laughs of course, which I will not repeat here. I may still perform it on TikTok or something, but don't hold your breath. It was about "being walked in on" by your child during that intimate time with one's spouse. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I finally found someone who would talk to me, an out of towner who, coincidentally, was ALSO performing for the first time. The conversation was great. Relaxing, comforting, relatable, and funny. We agreed to take photos of one another on stage.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I watched many of the same comedians from the first time I went get up there, and most of them told the same jokes as before. Quite a few were the same ones announced as "first timers," telling the same jokes <i>they </i>told before as well. I found this mostly amusing, and anticipated the audience's support at when they inevitably announced it was <i>my </i>first time. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I waited and waited for my turn. Wiseguys open mic is about 2 hours, and I spent another $20 on drinks to quiet my nerves and steel my concentration. I waited about an hour and a half. The least funny person got up, and made inappropriate/disgusting/unfunny jokes. The crowd was annoyed, I was pissed, and even more anxious. And then of course my name was called. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7RpvjXi37Orm_zi5MqRj9qK8uI9ChIbip7rRTa3Y16Ts73blsTSkTfTiQDn5kNm3AOt6niSz0KjRQAHCH8vqAhYo-zLgL6umZypNGWM72Hx3EtMR_FZKoskFPNYFMWpDa2JrzSoFAdQ-/s2048/comedy_wiseguys.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7RpvjXi37Orm_zi5MqRj9qK8uI9ChIbip7rRTa3Y16Ts73blsTSkTfTiQDn5kNm3AOt6niSz0KjRQAHCH8vqAhYo-zLgL6umZypNGWM72Hx3EtMR_FZKoskFPNYFMWpDa2JrzSoFAdQ-/s320/comedy_wiseguys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">I expected them to inform the crowd of my comedy virginity. They didn't. A little flustered, I told the crowd it was <i>my </i>first time. And immediately regretted it. I felt awkward and out of sync. Following the worst performance of the night already made it feel like an uphill battle. Like I had to get the crowd on my side, get in the groove, and go through my set. All in three minutes a big timer clicks down, like some Roman patrician I waited to give me a thumbs up or down. I stumbled my way through my set, forgetting half the jokes, but the gist was there, and, maybe more importantly, I did it. I may have forgotten a lot, but I still feel like I got quite a few good laughs. And, despite the hour drive time, the 2 hour wait, the $50+ in gas, parking, and booze, it was overall a positive experience. It wasn't the amazing thrill I expected or craved, but it was nice. And I did it. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Very soon after, either that night or the next; I signed up for the next week. As is my wont, I listened to standup comedy in my spare time. Although this time, it was as much for research/inspiration as it was entertainment. One of my favorite comics has always been Emo Philips. His unique style, method, delivery, and crafting is underappreciated but truly genius. Inspiration struck as I was preparing my next bit, it would be in the style of Emo Philips mocking those lovely Mormons who are suddenly offended at the word "Mormon." I've heard some say it's a slur now, despite its very founder embracing the appellation. I may also post the bit on this blog, on TikTok, or both or neither. Our friends who came with us before, came again to show support, and I again asked Tracie to NOT come. I felt not having her there would be easier. Despite her misgivings, she agreed. The night came, and I got to visit with another first timer, we joked and laughed and had a great time, halfway through we were joined by my friends who put me more at ease and boosted my confidence. I also felt vindicated AF when the new comic I visited with said he had come the week before, and said "I remember--you were after the worst one of the night!" So it wasn't just me who thought that. And yes, it WAS difficult for me, thank you. It took a long time, but I finally got to do my bit. Fortunately the audience were mostly Ex-Mormons judging by their "woos" when asked, so they were my target audience. In my humble opinion, it went better than the first time. I wouldn't say I killed, but I at least crippled a couple of them. It went very well. As I'm sure is the norm, some jokes I thought would get small laughs got big laughs, and some jokes I thought would get big laughs got smaller than anticipated chuckles. But, I felt good. Better, even. Even tho I was literally second to last of the night, and the anxiety of waiting and waiting and <i>waiting </i>for my name to be called meant they got my money's worth buying comfort and courage on the rocks.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7iCJxZ1TelqDNnIYpJNLnBZfd2VOJqsN270IADx5HoiUCRevzdJ98aAxkExOtqZzN34wYDU4UBTykpfEC22wRQ3S6-pTunTnr_GR_2nCj5xW6b2fiNNhnearWIMzDC2Tbk4-qRiCDnYK0uKrIVX3eVh6ZcXtITdmx5nocj9wHsNSDg2atUs0LRKYPiw=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7iCJxZ1TelqDNnIYpJNLnBZfd2VOJqsN270IADx5HoiUCRevzdJ98aAxkExOtqZzN34wYDU4UBTykpfEC22wRQ3S6-pTunTnr_GR_2nCj5xW6b2fiNNhnearWIMzDC2Tbk4-qRiCDnYK0uKrIVX3eVh6ZcXtITdmx5nocj9wHsNSDg2atUs0LRKYPiw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">But, this time was better than before, and so I signed up again. I obviously expected to be put on the list as I had the previous three times. But I wasn't. "No big deal, I'll sign up for the <i>next </i>week." No response. This happened about 3 or 4 times. Signing up, bupkis. I was a nervous, anxious, suicidal wreck every week. I watched my email obsessively, waiting for my name to be put on the list. Waiting for the acceptance filled with exclamation marks. My mind flooded with questions: was I too offensive? Too edgy/offended Mormon sensibilities? Worst of all, was I not as funny as I thought? </p><p style="text-align: left;">I spoke with my therapist about it. She asked what was the worst part of not being accepted. I said "not knowing why." So, with her and Tracie's suggestion, I emailed the comedy club, inquiring as to my snubbery. They responded quickly and very kindly. No, I was not intentionally being left off the list. I wasn't offensive, crude, or unfunny. (At least not to the point of blacklisting.) She (we'll call her "Rachel") said that it was actually quite a fluke I got on the list 3 out of 3 times. Their process was somewhat random, and she encouraged me to remind her when I hadn't been accepted after a few weeks to improve my chances. She also said I should introduce myself to her next time I came.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I felt so relieved. The uncertainty was gone. So I signed up for the next week, clearly anticipating my acceptance. But nada. (deep breath) <i>Ssssssssssssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">I didn't just think about this on the acceptance deadline or the days leading up to it. Throughout August and September and October it was <i>constantly </i>on my mind. Any given second, I'd write down funny thoughts until I had over 20 pages of jokes or potential jokes and funny stories. I didn't know what to do. Most of the time, when making pros and cons lists, I told myself that it was barely worth my time and money to go; even if I was accepted. To go just to be <i>supportive </i>seemed pathetic, and a waste of time. And money. But, again in therapy, I realized that the thing I enjoyed most was going early and talking to the (<i>very fucking few) </i>other comics who would deign to speak with me. "Shooting the shit" as I've heard it called. It's a very common expression. But hanging out, drinking and laughing is one of the most fun things to me. Way better than nervously stammering my way through 3 minutes of jokes, terrified of heckling or worse, the MC kicking you off early/kicking you off because you're past your 3 minutes and you suck. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Around this time, my amazing supportive friends who hopefully don't know I still write on my blog 2-3 times a year encouraged me to try other avenues. One ran an open mic night for poetry in Provo. I've wanted to go for several years, but for one reason or another (Provo is <i>far) </i>I never have. But I showed up one night, which may not have been the best night to do so. There were maybe a dozen people there, I knew more than half of them, the mic wasn't working, and no one else was telling jokes. But, I told my list of one liners I was most proud of, and they laughed hysterically. Maybe it was because they knew me, maybe it was because I could see their reactions better without the combination of spotlight and terror, maybe it was because I was actually funny, maybe it was Maybelline. But it was great. I felt like an idiot for not letting people come in the past, but <i>c'est la vie</i>, amirite?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDC55yMEHvS8eJC_WS1ECbHgPYotYg78R0TwlAyMWvuVcrqyAWYNl8_nQFO6ZM0Smkc7nTEeL-9dlgVcj9aQKHSlbeQBmVu6WsF1BNIaETyc13z1lvYAVZLEXgG23GYzIbk99w9HyakwBYkBJJh0V8exQQu8c0qvFPmKqNOx6p--JP2VFFH8g3aVGsvQ=s657" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="657" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDC55yMEHvS8eJC_WS1ECbHgPYotYg78R0TwlAyMWvuVcrqyAWYNl8_nQFO6ZM0Smkc7nTEeL-9dlgVcj9aQKHSlbeQBmVu6WsF1BNIaETyc13z1lvYAVZLEXgG23GYzIbk99w9HyakwBYkBJJh0V8exQQu8c0qvFPmKqNOx6p--JP2VFFH8g3aVGsvQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">Back to the comedy. After a few more times of rejection/radio silence from the comedy club, I figured I could at least go to "shoot the shit" with the comics who weren't pieces of shit and actually worth talking to. So I decided to try that avenue. (Tbh I also hoped that in showing support without being called on, it would improve my chances of future acceptance as well). Showing up an hour early, I noticed several others being put on the "standby" list. I figured what the hell, right? I'm here, I have tons of jokes that my friends found funny. So I asked to be put on the standby list. They told me I got the last available slot. Cool. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I visited with two hopeful comics who were fortunate enough to be on the official list. One seemed nervous and nursed one drink quietly. One was an out of town semi-regular who I thought was my age but turned out to be @ 15 years my junior. But that was the best part. Hanging out, relaxing, making others laugh. I met some of the staff, and I asked who “Rachel” was. They said sometimes I’m Rachel, sometimes he is. Apparently it was more of a title than a name. Which in retrospect seems kind of rude. “Rachel” told me to speak with them. I didn’t ask their name or request a meeting. It felt somewhat disheartening, if not outright rude. Open mic time. Fast forward through many of the same comics telling many of the same jokes, being lied to by the emcee that it was their "first time," the two hours passed, some 3 minute increments were longer than others. Near the very end, the quiet, nervous guy I had tried visiting with apparently had several hundred more drinks between social hour and his turn to get up. He drunkenly and incoherently rambled through a couple minutes before being asked to sit down. It was over. Or was it? "Last comic of the night is Austin Beckstrom!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">Hooray. I get to tell my one liners. To a crowd tired and ready to go home. On a Wednesday night after less than 1/2 the comics made them laugh. After someone being rude and embarrassing and plastered and unfunny. Goody for me. Uphill for Austin, here I come. I told my jokes, but I don't think my heart or the audience's hearts were in it. Oh, and the emcee told me (and the crowd) I only got 2 mins, rather than the <i>much </i>more luxurious: three minutes. It was pretty shitty. Both the circumstances, and my performance. That one I probably <i>won't </i>be posting. Maybe I'll do the one liners. Follow me on Twitter, more than half of them are already on there. But I disliked it so much, I realized it was probably time to give up. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Comedy was not what I had hoped for. Not what I anticipated. Not what I needed and not even what I wanted. The cons outweighed the pros by more than double. But I felt conflicted. "Am I letting down my inner child by giving up so easily on my childhood and adolescent dream?" "Am I too old, too late to do this? Not to make it a career, but even a hobby. It's a big commitment time wise and money wise. Is it worth the stress that comes with signing up and waiting for a response? Is it worth the drive, the gas, the food, the parking, the booze... for 3 minutes of time from an audience that's ready for you to get off stage to make room for someone they find funnier? That's another thing. Are my jokes good? I think so, obviously. Do others? Debatable." I decided to retire. To quote Lane Smith in the Mighty Ducks: (my references are so current, as are my jokes) "You're not even a has-been. You're a never-was."</p><p style="text-align: left;">So here I am. Giving up on my childhood dream, because it's too late, too hard, too much commitment for not enough return on investment. I don't think it's a case of bitter grapes. True I didn't get embraced by the more "serious" (successful) comics of Utah like I had hoped. True it wasn't this illuminating Proustian moment of clarity when I finally achieved my dream of telling jokes in front of a crowd. But I had fun, I think I made some people laugh. But it's too much of a commitment, even one night a week. A night I could spend with my kids, my wife, playing games, watching movies, telling jokes. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I could try to keep signing up. Being Borderline (I've <a href="http://austindm.blogspot.com/2019/11/on-mental-health-b-p-and-d.html" target="_blank">posted</a> about this before; deal with it) means I have a tendency to "split," or think in an "all or nothing" manner. And it's true. I could make it less of a "I must do this every week and get accepted in order to do this as a hobby where I get paid to do it, or it's not worth trying." But no. Quitting altogether honestly feels like the right choice. For my sanity, my happiness, my bank account, my family, my life. (Not in that order.) </p><p style="text-align: left;">But, I'll still be "the funny one." Still embrace comedy in all its forms. We still have friends over and we go places (fuck off, omicron) and hopefully will have more company and outings in the future, (as our fears of dying or inadvertently killing loved ones with the plague diminishes). I still (hopefully) have half a life left. Lots of potential to make jokes, bring laughter, and shoot lots and lots, and <i>lots</i> of shit. Am I ok with this? I think so. Maybe it's denial (probably Maybelline), but I think it's healthy to examine your dream and see if it's worth it. It feels silly to pursue your heart's desire, or what you thought was your heart's desire, when it turns out to be middling to fair. Pursue a nonsensical dream, or ask yourself: is your waking life better? Yes. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I'm glad I tried it obviously, (another check on the bucket list), but I feel like I kind of missed my chance. It's not what I thought, what I wished or wanted. And that's okay. Maybe it's time to give being a Chinaman a try...</p>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-2028564486469348452021-12-09T16:18:00.000-07:002021-12-09T16:18:10.210-07:00On Transparency: Being Authentic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEht6sRqM1TqcFptbvjUrMt8dpOgtOvbIpFpab-gVbmNgl9eUnCWXMVEGrOaqIhaYMVQ7UXes92_F5eoFZ9jywtpQ7uvYJn1MfmYaQRI1iVXQ82zK2L4gcUtnQXoiD_kwWrDAUPTWI-c_tl5cLsFXKhumjHIGbJ_we_If5lYzi5gNqciFDH69BOsOXZZng=s628" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="628" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEht6sRqM1TqcFptbvjUrMt8dpOgtOvbIpFpab-gVbmNgl9eUnCWXMVEGrOaqIhaYMVQ7UXes92_F5eoFZ9jywtpQ7uvYJn1MfmYaQRI1iVXQ82zK2L4gcUtnQXoiD_kwWrDAUPTWI-c_tl5cLsFXKhumjHIGbJ_we_If5lYzi5gNqciFDH69BOsOXZZng=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>Social media is one of the greatest inventions of the internet. So naturally, corporations and companies and criminals (the big 3 c's) have found ways to ruin it. One of the most scary and dangerous in my opinion, is spreading of hate and lies in order to get more clicks, "engagement," and money. Another, and the one currently troubling me, is the fear of authenticity. Being afraid that having an opinion will be used against you later. Either at work, socially, etc. I love being able to retain friendships, sometimes with people I met once, some with people I've <i>never </i>met in person, some from decades in the past, and some that I see regularly/semi-regularly (thanks a lot, COVID). </p><p>But it's something we don't talk about, or at least I don't talk about; or see talked about. The thing is, I <i>want </i>to talk about my feelings, my thoughts, my likes, dislikes, etc. I want to talk about what my children are doing, how I feel about being a parent, struggling with mental illness, complain about things from my job to my home to capitalism. But what once seemed to be a way to connect more intimately than ever before with people all over the planet, for me is now a superficial place where I am mostly bombarded with ads with increasingly creepy accuracy. <br /><br />I've heard before "if you're not buying it, you're the product being sold." And I agree; that's what Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. etc. are doing. It makes me sad, and it makes me angry. This is a vent post if you couldn't tell. I still don't know if anyone is even reading this. But I'm writing it for me. </p><p>I've written 496 entries on this blog over the space of 14 years. Quite a few years ago, I spent time trying to scrub my name and the names of others from this blog, for fear of it someday being used to keep me from being hired, to getting me fired, to getting my identity stolen, to getting someone to doxx me and finding out where I live, or whatever else they can do. What the actual fuck? </p><p>I truly think the cause of most if not all society's problems is our lack of communication; lack of connection. And the way it's set up, it's only getting worse. I realized I haven't posted anything personal on Facebook for months because I'm afraid. Just funny memes that made me laugh. I'm sad and angry. I know that there's so much worse too. Echo chambers magnifying hate and intolerance, literally leading to murder in multiple cases. </p><p>I don't want to blame it all on capitalism, but I want to blame a lot on it. I also hate how it seems so often the response is "yeah, capitalism is bad. But everything else is worse! Yeah, America's justice system is bad, but everything else is worse. Like I read the other day about a woman who was murdered, and her killer "had a good lawyer" so he got off with a fine or minimal jail time. And we just accept it! </p><p>I'm going all over the place, but whatevs. If you know who this is, you may know I like filling out questionnaires on Facebook. I like to answer with inaccurate, nonsensical answers. This is because a) I enjoy making others laugh, b) I want to point out how often these answers are common password hints and you're just giving the big 3 c's more ammunition to use against you, and c) I thought I had a third one, maybe I combined b and c into b. It makes me sad tho. I'm afraid to tell you my favorite seasoning and my favorite pet's name, because I know that someone can use that information to rob my identity, my money, my future. And then we shrug and say "yeah, but it could be worse!" </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPvO8tNsQ-WzvqM8AwhCB1Peg58B1KGRISr8SMWXL3SYKZ2OSw0r5J6qsVTGqaO-YAoUHxQ15CdjajyE0mYFv4-IwZOi2oTsdGCFdEKTtsOVC9r8ldY_1rQszuRNuCrAothRV1GAX6IpZSX9KBf--_xpI2GhQCIJfDGQf10tB4RbrCSbJ9cdkqYxzDdQ=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="628" data-original-width="1200" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhPvO8tNsQ-WzvqM8AwhCB1Peg58B1KGRISr8SMWXL3SYKZ2OSw0r5J6qsVTGqaO-YAoUHxQ15CdjajyE0mYFv4-IwZOi2oTsdGCFdEKTtsOVC9r8ldY_1rQszuRNuCrAothRV1GAX6IpZSX9KBf--_xpI2GhQCIJfDGQf10tB4RbrCSbJ9cdkqYxzDdQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>As a exmormon atheist, I'm a big fan of Brene Brown. (Not that either of those are requirements to like Brene Brown, but I've found that <i>many </i>exmos gravitate towards her.) If you're not familiar, her 2 big things or topics of discussion are vulnerability and authenticity. I truly believe (yet have difficulty practicing) that being vulnerable and being authentic are the best ways to live your life, the best methods to find lasting happiness, the best ways to connect and have healthy relationships. But social media seems set up to punish us for doing those things. If we're too vulnerable, we run the risk of being cancelled. If we're too authentic, we run the risk of criminals using your truth against you. And like I said, I don't know the solution. </p><p>It's no surprise to anyone that America is divided right now. And it seems to be only getting worse. And god, I'm sick of it. I'm exhausted by it. I'm no democrat, but I <i>am </i>pretty fucking leftist. While I disagree with the label, most of my views are pretty communist. But I'm so sick of all the strawmen, on both sides. Tim Minchin described the arguments of the left and right being incompatible because they both begin with differing belief templates and assumptions. "Like 2 tennis players trying to win a match by executing brilliant shots from either end of separate tennis courts." We need to communicate better, more authentically, more transparent. An example I've used for years that I may have said on this blog is the arguments aren't to have a resolution; they're to win. One side wants to spend money on defense, one wants to spend the money on education. Rather than discussing the pros and cons of that, they say "my opponent would rather spend money on killing children rather than teaching them." Or, "my opponent doesn't care about your children's safety." We're not communicating, or at least not in a healthy, sustainable way. <br /></p><p>Another thing I hate about living in this age of post-modernism and superficial electric connection is what the fuck are we supposed to do about it? Many people agree politicians, lawyers, pundits, lobbyists, etc. are corrupt, selfish, dangerous, if not outright evil. But we throw our hands in the air and piss and moan because what the fuck can we do? We've built our cages and discovered no way out. I stopped arguing about things I care about like abortion and gun control because I realized it was completely pointless. Even if a miracle happens and I change their mind or they change my mind, so? We're nobodies doing nothing trapped in a rat maze of metaphors and helplessness. </p><p>Life sucks. All modern American adults should be in therapy. Therapy has changed my life. And I feel I've grown so much recently. For so long I thought (one example, but applicable to others) that my loved ones would be so much happier and have more rich and fulfilling lives if they could see through (what I see as) the bullshit of organized religion. But I realized that what I <i>also </i>wanted was for them to accept me as I am. Not wanting to change me to come "back to the fold," but accept me as a person with autonomy and agency. And I (sadly) just barely realized I wasn't doing the same thing. I wanted my close friends and family to love and accept me for who I am and where I am in my spiritual and material journey; but I wasn't giving them the same courtesy. #LightbulbMoment</p><p>Not saying I'm cured and will never act that way again, but it made me think about social media and authenticity, and I figured I'd journal about it. But journaling has lost it's appeal; why be private about your private thoughts when authenticity is so marketable? ;) I've been so <i>desperate </i>for those on the right to see things the way I do, that I've been forgetting to see things the way they do. </p><p>This is not me "coming out" and resolving to be more open and authentic online. Because I'm still afraid my leftist views may affect my career. I'm afraid my preferences and favorite things will be used against me when someone tries to use a credit card with my name or find out my bank account info or something. I'm mostly lamenting the sorry state of our shit world, and our escape into our virtual world is getting worse. I'm mad as hell, and I guess I'm gonna keep taking it some more. </p>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-1433387983047472872021-07-14T20:23:00.001-06:002021-07-14T20:23:37.089-06:00On Grief: TedOn August 25, 2020, I lost my first grandparent. I've been dealing with it for awhile, and now I want to (and finally feel like I can) write about it. <br /><br />First of all, I must admit how fortunate I have been to have all my grandparents in my life nearly four decades. And even more fortunate, that they were all remarkable humans and loving role models of the type of person I could and strive to be. <div><br /></div><div>But to lose this grandparents first is possibly the hardest. Nothing at all against the other three. This man more than pretty much anyone else was who I looked up to, loved, admired, and wanted to be like. And approved by. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's been especially difficult, as an unbeliever, to lose someone. Death is final. I don't hold out for a hope that he is rejoicing with those who died before him and preparing a place for those of us left behind. Keanu Reeves of all people said what I believe in an afterlife. When asked "what do you think happens when we die?" He thought for a moment and said "I know that the ones who love us will miss us." </div><div><br /></div><div>I felt many things after his death. Pain that he believed I was on the wrong path, that I was wicked, deceived, or unhappy. The last thing he said to me was "I hope you feel the love of the Lord." I wanted him to accept me as I am. I know he did, but losing him while believing so differently in life and death made the pain especially acute. I felt a strong sense of unfairness. I believe that this man deserved heaven more than anyone I think I've met. But I think his consciousness ceased at time of death, and the only life he has left is what those who loved him and miss him remember.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to write about my memories of him, as a way to keep him alive, honor his memory, and to deal with the pain of losing him forever. </div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Memories of Grandpa</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't have this memory, but I have the memories of having it recounted to me many times. That in the magical time of childhood I can no longer recall, I asked to have my haircut "like grandpa." To have no hair on top and hair on the sides. I regrettably got my wish (but my wish to be a millionaire Chinese doctor has yet to come to fruition), but this I think illustrates my admiration of this man. Since before I can remember, I looked up to him literally and figuratively as the coolest and most wonderful person in my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was a loving grandparent who spelled love "t-i-m-e." He would play hide and seek with me often. Even when other adults sought his attention. He made me feel special and important. We would act out Disney scenes together, such as the crocodile chasing Captain Hook. I would "tick tock... tick tock" as he ran around in terror to be saved by Smee. Or the less than politcally correct scene from song of the south of Brer Rabbit vs the Tar Baby, and the subsequent trip to the Briar Patch. <br /><br />He was a builder and could make and fix anything. Sadly, my clumsy klutz of a self was unable to pick up much of his craftsmanship. He was a gardener and I mostly enjoyed the (literal) fruits of his labor, at least once eating every single berry he had grown, much to his chagrin.</div><div><br /></div><div>He never showed anger. I don't know if he was capable of it, tho my mother and her siblings can probably attest otherwise. He was meek and serene and seemed like whenever someone needed help he was there. Not in a reluctant or even eager way. In a matter-of-fact way. Charity and service was who he was. </div><div><br /></div><div>He used to pay me 5 cents for every 2 snails I killed in his gardens. So I guess I earned some of the devoured plums, peaches, tangelos, nuts, and berries. I bought G.I. Joes with my money. I remember at least once a trip to the toy store and buying a toy with all nickels and pennies. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another example of who he was: He was his wife's husband. I never before or since have met a man so devoted and in love with his wife. His example is one I try to (probably not always successfully) extend to my own spouse. One could see and feel the love he had for his beloved, in the service and care he always provided to her. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember taking trips to the store where he would explain the technology of automatic doors, and trips I'd take with cousins in the back of his Nissan pickup truck. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was for the longest time the smartest person I knew. My parents would often have him help with homework, as he seemed to know just about everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was a giant most of my life, it was surreal when I finally surpassed him in height. I'll probably never come close to his stature as a person. But he's been and always will be a standard and a goal to hope to measure up to. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember countless piggyback rides and rides on his shoulders, the nursery rhymes and songs, the stories he'd read. He had a literal wall of books in his home, and I'm fairly confident they were not for decoration. He was well read and read often, and taught me a love of learning and reading. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was the most fit and healthy person I knew, without ever seeming like a health nut. His health wasn't an obsession, it was taking care of the body he had. He did calisthenics every day, and I would often join him running up and down the stairs and stretching. Yet another reason it's shocking he died. His body was well worn but cared for like an antique clock that kept the time despite its gears aging. He'd take us to the beach and was this older/old man getting in the waves and body surfing. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember him taking us on hikes in the beautiful canyons nearby where we lived. I remember going camping with him. His knowledge of and respect for nature passed on (at least some of it) to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember that he would eat literally anything if it meant it wouldn't go to waste. His neighbors would give him their grass clippings that he could use as fertilizer for his amazing garden. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember the respect and admiration anyone who met him had for him. Even adults I could see who were confrontational, difficult, rude, unliked by many, etc. all liked him and treated him well. And he always treated them better. </div><div><br /></div><div>He built me a frame for a clubhouse I was so eager to build and then quickly gave up on when I realized the work involved. But he never made me feel lazy or guilty for it. I don't think he ever said anything to me about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember stories of his ingenuity, from using a pump and a hot metal roof to solar heat a swimming pool, to designing the California aqueduct. Designing homes for his family, my parents family, and friends and others. I remember stories of his career and talent/skill largely going unnoticed due to crappy management, but his stoicism and gratitude for life that never seemed to tarnish his ego or outlook. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember him flying to Texas to help my family and to be with me when I was undergoing chemotherapy. I remember his palpable love and concern in what was the hardest part of my life. I remember relying on him and his unwavering support and love. </div><div><br /></div><div>My brother and I used to tease him that, while appearing always happy or at least never angry, we never heard him laugh. We'd try and try various attempts at humor and always be met with a placating "Heh, heh. Ah yes." And then I remember the surprise and delight in finally hearing him not just laugh, but burst out laughing/guffawing/loling at... Dilbert. I couldn't ever make him laugh, but Scott Adams sure could. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember that not only was he intelligent, he was wise. He was compassionate. And I think the intelligence and wisdom drove that compassion. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe he taught himself so many things and was so smart so he could care for his beloved wife and help others. Or maybe in his studies he learned that the only thing worth being is compassionate. He was both, and I like to think one influenced the other. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was faithful. Devoted to his church and its teachings, convinced in the divine nature of the Book of Mormon and the divine calling of Joseph Smith. When I came out of the atheist closet, he was the first person who seemed willing to talk to me about it. (Admittedly, this was <i>after </i>he literally 'called me to repentance,' which wasn't as helpful to either of us as he probably would have liked). But when we finally talked one one one, he didn't preach at me like those in my stake, or contend/argue with me like friends I lost or damaged relationships with, or pretend like nothing had changed like others did. He sat down with me for several hours and asked me how I felt and what I thought, and listened. Sadly he didn't convince me one way or the other, nor I him. But he was respectful and kind and really heard me, which I needed. <br /><br /></div><div>I don't know if there's life after death. I don't believe there is. However, I do see the appeal. I wish there was evidence for it. I think that, whether he's in heaven or his remains are in the ground in a cemetery, he made the world a better place for anyone who met him, and many who never met him. Heaven can be had on this earth with more people like him. I don't know what happened after he died, but I know I love him and miss him. </div><div><br /><br /></div>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-45337387107667179352021-07-14T20:15:00.003-06:002021-12-10T12:58:20.308-07:00On Transition: Austin's Having a Midlife Crisis!?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUnC-JwqVlNLFq8yz_khJB909TXijcGXPsVUhTngctrplX4CBSrHqflTPzGyrD6cqzdg6NH-VSo1Lo9Pk5u3I-H0cK3qLmzlc2ZMvERwxoiRuZdASM14uZrLGKE87DrtfKmX0p0sv_P_e/s1500/Photo-by-Otto.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="1500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUnC-JwqVlNLFq8yz_khJB909TXijcGXPsVUhTngctrplX4CBSrHqflTPzGyrD6cqzdg6NH-VSo1Lo9Pk5u3I-H0cK3qLmzlc2ZMvERwxoiRuZdASM14uZrLGKE87DrtfKmX0p0sv_P_e/s320/Photo-by-Otto.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> Apparently I've got 4 posts I started but didn't finish. Let's see how this one goes. </p><p>It's happening; I can feel it. No gold loop earring, new car that's too fast for me, new girlfriend that's too young for me. Mortality creeps up on me, prowling in the background while I try to push through each day, the only goal to get through it. <br /><br />Guilt is a sonofabitch. Guilt for wasted potential, guilt for not being the father I want to be or think I'm supposed to be. Feeling like I'm failing my children every day being a cog in the capitalist machine I willingly thrust myself into. I'm reflecting a lot, but that means my thoughts are all over the place, like ripples in a pond, or pebbles on the beach. </p><p>I work 5 days a week making someone else rich. Most of us do just that. For what? We spend 40-ish years of drudgery, hoping to have maybe 10-20 years of frugal freedom? Hold onto the hope that maybe, just <i>maybe</i>, if I work <b>hard</b> enough, what? I get to be that person who exploits the labor of other people, made rich on the backs of the working class? What are my options here? Spin in a tiny cage, hoping to trade up for a bigger cage, until the cells and atoms we've called Austin become something else in the cosmos. I remember hearing the older you get, the more conservative you'll get. When is that supposed to happen? I don't want to protect my money and way of life: I want a revolution. But one I can sit back and watch I guess. Being disabled has a few benefits, like a ready excuse to avoid actually doing anything. </p><p>I struggle with suicidal ideation and behavior. That should be no surprise to people who know me or have read more than a couple posts on this blog. It feels like the only logical decision. To escape the machine, prevent my life force and time to be gobbled up by a bottomless pit of a monster that's never satisfied, never full. But, I've been in therapy long enough to know those thoughts, that <i>seem </i>real, are most likely nothing of the sort. A reality I construct to cope with the world as I interpret it. </p><p>I don't want you to worry about my safety. I'm fine. Just trying to get feelings out that have been stuck inside for too long as I've been too preoccupied with toil and the day-to-day and finding anything to numb my mind from the disappointment to myself I am. That didn't help, did it. Too cheery? </p><p>I look at my kids and see myself at their age, and worse (sorry mom and dad) see myself at my parents age. The stories they told me about growing up were akin to myths and legends: things that happened before my birth that seem exciting and improbable, and things I can never experience. And now <i>my</i> memories are similar. The rollicking times with cousins and pillow forts, imaginations, "marbles and piracies" are "tears in the rain." Experiences are so fleeting, memories so subjective. I feel like I fail my children every day as I struggle to provide a life I don't want and don't deserve. I'm not explaining it well. </p><p>I'm transitioning. In transition. I feel it. Like my brain is defragmenting. Like it's rearranging and reassessing all the memories, all the experiences that make up myself and my worldview. From a naïve dreamer to a broken-winged sparrow. I'm just pushing each day to get closer to death. We all are. Some of us just have the hope that there's something after. Worth pushing for. </p><p>Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have left religion. Saying that wrong. I wonder if I'm not the kind of person, or my psyche is one that would have thrived better with a belief in a supreme administrator and a pie in the sky. I'm sure I sound condescending AF to those who <i>do </i>believe in those things, and I apologize. But it's my blog and my dime we're on, so #dealwithit </p><p>I believe in no god, no afterlife. So this life should mean <i>more. </i>I often feel that way; I really do. "We all have two lives, and the second one begins when we realize we only have one." I feel like I need to read Proust. Or maybe just watch this video again:<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mLdo4uMJUU" target="_blank"> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9mLdo4uMJUU</a></p><p>I struggle for meaning in life. I love my family. My wife, my children. The 2-3 of you reading this. I agree with Proust that love isn't the meaning of life. It can't be. It's something to fill your time and your mind/heart, one of the better ones, but there's more. Or at least something different. Proust says it's <i>art. </i>Not like looking at painting and sculpture and Tracey Emin's bed. Or like creating paintings or sculpture or literature or a shark in formaldehyde. Proust encourages art and artists because they help us see the world differently. It shakes us out of the day-to-day drudgery and appreciate the small and big things we're often too busy or focused to see. I do feel like this is the answer. Not seeking fame or a "fancied life an another's breath" (Pope, not Proust). Not in seeking love, that provides many of life's greatest highs but also deepest depths. But in seeking and creating "Proustian Moments." <br /></p><p>I think that's the answer, but don't expect to see me visiting the new galleries of the Louvre or making a trip to India anytime soon. And not just because of COVID. But I <i>do </i>want to enjoy my life. I want to encourage others to do the same. Everything is so fucking overwhelming. I don't have time to slow down and smell the roses, even tho I know from experience those roses will likely be better than whatever is too damn important to keep me from the life I wish I could live. </p><p>Sheesh this is all over the place. But it's important to me to get it out of my head. I have a good life. I have an amazing partner and wonderful children. I have a challenging yet rewarding job, an actual home, lots of things to be grateful for. But I find myself saying the words David Byrne new I would say "this is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife." Meaning it's not the life I thought I'd have, the life I wanted, the life I expected. (fyi Tracie you are everything I wanted in a partner. I hope you see it as the metaphor it's intended to be, not a verbalization of not wanting you in my life. I do. I so do. I'm just trying to express my feelings of growth, change, and confusion and disappointment.)<br /> I see every moment I fail my children as something that will shape their personalities and memories forever. That the one time I get angry will shape them more than the 100 times I try to do something nice. I feel such an obligation to them to make them functional healthy people. But then I take a step back and ask - do I want to raise them to be part of the machine I wish I wasn't in? And what's the alternative? Grow up to be homeless? To be drifters? Communist Revolutionaries? Actually, that one doesn't sound so bad. ;) </p><p>I feel so trapped living in a world that has been set up so carefully and cleverly to keep the ruling class ruling and the working class working. To have the realization that the people you read about in history books, the people on the big screen, you'll never be them. Despite the wonderful advances of society that I have luxuries many people in history couldn't imagine, I'm still part of the peasantry. And I don't <i>want </i>to be in the upper class. That's Proust's first realization. (According to the video, he said in a sophomoric way only a man on the internet can say). The ruling class isn't better, isn't a goal to strive towards. But to see people hoard wealth and resources so billionaires can go to space or buy yachts the size of cities or whatever else they do, when they could solve so many problems is depressing and infuriating. It's also depressing and infuriating to see so many bootlickers eager to maintain the status quo. Claiming Communism doesn't work, while we toil in a crumbling society of Capitalism that's not working either. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Hsy6DnshiYke0yhchClA6n4k75JDXjLU_m544iE9QlXQiqsSbiyIqvmpelffISV8ei7zsu-dkok_caAIfuRwkSj73Q7182DG6BvcjvEF6fU9PPeQ2_OMK7eJuUY8KDhtMxwVJM3uzdf5/s824/155341524_10106474108855929_2997960990497848599_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Hsy6DnshiYke0yhchClA6n4k75JDXjLU_m544iE9QlXQiqsSbiyIqvmpelffISV8ei7zsu-dkok_caAIfuRwkSj73Q7182DG6BvcjvEF6fU9PPeQ2_OMK7eJuUY8KDhtMxwVJM3uzdf5/s320/155341524_10106474108855929_2997960990497848599_n.jpg" /></a></div><p>I don't mean to make a manifesto. I don't know what I mean, what I want. That's kind of the point. I'm journaling, not announcing, proclaiming, or even suggesting anything. I'm hanging on to the familiarity of 10-20 ish years ago when we did this more often, before social media killed blogs as we knew them. I'm growing up, pushing 40, and feeling depressed and disappointed in the person I am, the father and husband and friend I want to be vs the reality. </p><p>One of the constant phrases of my life is "not good enough." And I hates it, precious. It ensures a steady source of nourishment for my BPD and depression. Because it's so poorly defined, it's a moving target and I can make sure I can never hit it. Because there's never a "If I do/achieve/am x, <i>then </i>I'll be "good enough." Good enough for anything. I'm in therapy which believe it or not is helping tremendously, and I'm trying to let go. Trying to say goodbye to and outgrow the coping mechanisms that kept me safe, but also kept my development stunted. Trying to leave unhealthy thoughts and habits that no longer help. You know. Growing up. </p><p>Over the last year I've lost 3 grandparents. One of the posts I started that I alluded to at the beginning was trying to deal with the loss of just one of them. I'm trying to focus on how fortunate I've been, to have 4 living grandparents. Who aren't just living, but loving and accepting and an active part of my life. With their loss, I think part of my transition and brain reorganization has been influenced if not activated by that. The memories of myself and my grandparents and our relationship is now my children and my parents, if I'm making sense. It's so hard to explain, but I hope I'm saying enough to get it through to anyone. Grandparents seemed older when I was 6 than when my daughter is 6. Parents seemed older when they were 39 than when I am. <br /></p><p>And I know this is part of life. This realization is not new, not unique. I know that. But it's still hard. It's work to rearrange your brain, and see experiences through new eyes. Which was kind of Proust's point or goal: (boom, didn't even mean to make a callback. Nice.)<br /></p><p>"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but having new eyes."</p><p>I'm on one hand excited to have new eyes. Even if it means closer to death. Closer to what I believe is oblivion. Which, by the way, I'll be really pissed if it turns out we get the afterlife we believe in. I'd like to be proven wrong. The part of me that hopes for an afterlife and benevolent dictator is afraid that I'll die and won't know it, while the party in heaven goes on forever. Maximum FOMO. Except I won't have it obviously. I do hope that, if there is any sort of afterlife, that it's as close to the ending of "The Good Place" as possible. (WATCH THE SHOW if you haven't.) Ramble ramble rambo ram's blood ramrod. </p><p>So yeah. That's about it. tl;dr life is fleeting, and Austin is aging. Stay tuned for more. When I get the mood to write, I wanna keep at it. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-50362640717675117152020-12-02T15:53:00.013-07:002021-07-14T20:22:47.214-06:00On Anger: Hashtag Give Thanks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszjMVmUQe6t7y67RpLcKxjNN8O3fLBbScA_uFFPQcdrYO0musQy2Abw-45D3JjCy48_15iV_uaYT91IR2P5UkJi0JTcPSiMoHuJC_OIgwPqS7EGPXxVS19W9KwJMOZ4qnOhXoeD6OakJd/s560/unbreakable-kimmy-schmidt-hashbrown-no-filter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhszjMVmUQe6t7y67RpLcKxjNN8O3fLBbScA_uFFPQcdrYO0musQy2Abw-45D3JjCy48_15iV_uaYT91IR2P5UkJi0JTcPSiMoHuJC_OIgwPqS7EGPXxVS19W9KwJMOZ4qnOhXoeD6OakJd/s320/unbreakable-kimmy-schmidt-hashbrown-no-filter.jpg" /></a></div><p>(Note: I wrote this in November of 2020, but only now feel ok posting it/remember).</p><p>Several months ago, the president of the Mormon church gave a short message to his followers. The short version of the short message was the admonition to post on social media for 7 days things you're thankful for, with the hashtag "givethanks." This bothered me considerably, which made me question <i>why</i>. Why was someone they believe to be a prophet telling them to share gratitude something that made me see red? Upon reflection, I thought of several possible reasons. These include:</p><p>1) I'm a bitter, angry ex-Mormon, so <i>anything</i> the church leadership says or does is something I try to see the worst in. It's possible, I suppose. But if you really think that about me, maybe it's time for our friendship to end. My bitterness is rooted in pain they caused me, and still cause so many people I love.</p><p>2) Maybe I'm a <i>woke </i>ex-Mormon, who thinks that if a man claiming to speak for god is going to give a message, you'd think it'd be something more important than "humblebrag" or "virtue signal" to all your fb friends, especially during a time of year where we ALREADY have in place a time to give thanks. (Hint, it's the last Thursday of the 11th month). My standards for what constitutes a prophet may be too high.</p><p>3) I'm a compassionate, yet critical ex-Mormon. One who thinks the church president should use his influence responsibly and tell those he presides over to choose health. There are many Mormons who are stubbornly refusing to wear a mask, appearing to be more interested in their personal freedom than the safety of those around them. (Sounds unChristlike to me, but what do I know). If the president of their church told them "wear masks. Don't gather in church meetings or with large groups for the next while. Be considerate of the health of those around you." I would have thought <i>well, he did the bare minimum for those he's responsible for. But at least he did it. </i>As he didn't do that, it makes my feelings towards him drift negatively. But maybe my issue stems from my preoccupation with this, the only life we can be certain we have, rather than the <i>next </i>life, which we can only hope and fear for, as there is no substantial evidence this isn't the only life we have.</p><p>4) Another possible reason for my ire is that I'm a caring but possibly condescending ex-Mormon. Seeing those I love have to be told to show gratitude strengthens my belief that the church infantilizes and patronizes its followers. The Mormon people are compassionate and brave and strong. Religion (in my view obvs) is so often a crutch for the healthy, a magic feather that one doesn't need to fly, but only keeps people down from their full potential. Having to be told "give thanks" or having to be told much of anything dwarfs and weakens personal progress. Obedience to authority rather than one's conscience and heart and reason is often a recipe for atrocity. So far it's "hashtag give thanks," but if you don't think blind obedience isn't dangerous, please reconsider.</p><p>5) The order/request/suggestion/demand/whatever to give thanks on social media would be innocuous I think. The addition of a hashtag I'm sure to some believers gives faith that their leader is culturally aware and technologically conscious. To a nonbeliever, it reeks of salesmanship, pandering, inauthenticity, and profaning what should be holy. But, I'm thinking that's probably a me problem. If I can try to see it through your eyes, as a way to bring positivity to your virtual social interactions, I ask you at least attempt to see how it can be viewed my way.</p><p>6) These are some of the reasons it could have upset me so. Another is the fact that I have little to zero positive feelings towards the Mormon president. (I don't call him a prophet because I don't think he's ever prophesied. Has he?) I think he has much blood of LDS LGBT+ children on his hands from the harm the church doctrine and policy does to them. Mormonism hurts queer people, and pretends like it doesn't. When it acknowledges they exist at all. I feel it's often the same with victims of abuse. From my perspective, the church seems more interested in protecting their image, than the abuse survivors. I think the church needs to apologize for many things (such as the fact that they have only taught that black people can go to heaven/receive exaltation for the last 42 years). Them acting as moral authorities when they have so many immoral skeletons in their closet feels inauthentic and hypocritical at best. </p><p>I'm not expecting perfection. I <i>am</i> expecting accountability. Some guy once said the inner vessel should be cleaned before the outer vessel. As I say this, I know it could easily be turned around, and I have enough perspective now to notice my own inner vessel could stand an enema or three. However, I'm not claiming to be a moral authority or to speak for the supreme moral authority here. </p><p>7) Many people have posted on Facebook on things they're grateful for, who I haven't seen post in years. While this is nice and I'm trying to focus on the good--that it's good to see them dust off their fb accounts and let us know what they're up to--it also feels manufactured and dishonest. Like they can't be bothered to participate in the conversation until their dear leader tells them to. I don't completely think this is the case for most. Please note this is still me trying to wrap my head around where my anger is stemming from. I believe anger is a responsive emotion. It comes from somewhere else. Often a product of or a mask of pain, or fear.</p><p>8) If you've read my blog before, chances are you know I have Borderline Personality Disorder. One of the symptoms is a strong irrational fear of abandonment. Seeing faithful LDS respond in droves with things they're thankful for (at least in part) because the leader of their church told them to, (including the hashtag which seems like a bad taste ad campaign) brings up my fear that someday their leader will tell them to cut all ties with those who have left the church. I'm afraid that if Pres Nelson or another tells them to do it, they will. In this hypothetical, following the command makes them (*in my estimation) a bad person/friend, and not following the command makes them a bad disciple/Mormon. Obedience to religious authority is scary. It's the reason we don't have the twin towers in NYC anymore. I hope I'm not being hyperbolic. I'm just trying to open up with why I'm afraid. And again, trying to work out why this outpouring of gratitude has made me so upset. The obedience to something harmless foreshadows obedience to something more sinister. Research the Danites if you think Mormonism immune to violent religious extremism. Or the Mountain Meadow Massacre.</p><p>9) Maybe another reason is, to revisit when I talked about the magic feather, is my expectations of a religious leader. As a nonbeliever, it seems ridiculous that the same office that holy writ said literally called down fire from the sky, moved mountains, parted seas, etc., is telling people something as obvious and trite as "give thanks." I expect more than that if you want to be called prophet. </p><p>10) I tried making a list of things I was grateful for. It varied between angry/snark/painmask, and sincere/authentic/vulnerable. (At least I hope so.) I might still share it. I'm sure this sounds condescending, but I think we can agree that we've all been well-intentionedly condescending at least once before, so I hope you can excuse my good-meaning condescension when I say I think you'd be better off without church. I think religion holds people back from living fuller, richer lives. Before you get too upset, I can only give my own life as an example, as well as the lives of many friends I've made since leaving the church who feel similarly. The allegory of Plato's cave feels very applicable. The world is richer and life more meaningful without illusions. To be fair, I'd be willing to bet that you believe your religion will help others lead happier, better lives. You might even be right, especially if those people were living horrible lives before. Just because climbing one step higher makes the view better, doesn't mean there aren't more steps you can take.</p><p>I don't know, but I strongly suspect my disdain for "hashtag give thanks" comes from some or all the above. </p><p>I don't like the leadership of the Mormon church. I think they're either deluded or deceptive, and appear chiefly interested in money and power, instead of compassion and service. I think any church that stockpiles over 100 billion dollars (or 1 billion, or anything) is downright criminal, if not evil. </p><p>The fact that they claim to be Jesus Christ's chosen religion is disgusting. It spits in the face of practically anything he said in the Bible. If I can make a quick aside, it's weird to <i>not</i> believe that Jesus of Nazareth was divine, but see those who claim to be his church appear to get his message so wrong. And have them call <i>me</i> enemy, or lost sheep, or apostate. Or anti-Mormon. I can't remember if I said this before on my blog, but I don't think I'm anti-Mormon. I'm anti-lies, anti-racism, anti-abuse, anti-covering up abuse, anti-homo/transphobia, anti-white supremacism. If these make me anti-Mormon (or anti-LDS or whatever the new term is) maybe you should reconsider why being against those things is bad. I think the leadership of the church and much of the doctrine is harmful to people, especially its members, whom I love. <br /><br />I've recently realized that unfortunately, my anger/pain/righteous wrath towards its leadership is often misplaced, and felt mainly by the members and my friends. I lose sight of my honest to goodness concern and compassion for the Mormon people. I try attacking harmful practices and evil men, but my well-intentioned spray of verbal bullets hits the believers instead. Part of that is neither Russell Nelson, Dallin Oaks, or the others will accept my friend requests. I will try to aim better, and continue to try explaining that my love and concern for you, the faithful latter-day saint, is often what makes me appear angry, bitter, attacking things you cherish. Because I think you can be and have so much more. <br /><br />We all have two lives. You think the second happens after you die. I believe a second life begins when we realize that we only have one. </p><p><br /></p><p>So yes, I hate the hashtag. I don't like the harmful teachings of shame, guilt, pedestalizing, racism, sexism, homophobia, and others. I am often repulsed by men who claim to speak to God but constantly act in ways counter to my conscience and their religion's teachings. But I can try to pull a beam out of my eye for a moment to see the gratitude in a year that has devastated the world. I hope you can do the same, and see this bitter, venomous anti-Mormon as someone who wants the best for everyone. He's just shitty at doing so. Happy Thanksgiving, and on with the Christmas music!</p>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-79547745461069638812020-10-28T00:23:00.009-06:002021-12-11T16:48:07.361-07:00How Pleasant to Know Mr. Becks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK3sy8uGFolLGR-qf9JACkh26iOV9goeQADrRLTItORGoeXZKnU6JxVRwV8ON_y3bztgIpO8mBmE2IWqiFwdbwy6YPWMpwjSXGO_cyjC42pnQHLO1FkdnynVWoRAYy2fXUzDIRYTi5qvO/s800/Caricature_by_Edward_Lear%252C_depicting_himself_-_Lear_Edward.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK3sy8uGFolLGR-qf9JACkh26iOV9goeQADrRLTItORGoeXZKnU6JxVRwV8ON_y3bztgIpO8mBmE2IWqiFwdbwy6YPWMpwjSXGO_cyjC42pnQHLO1FkdnynVWoRAYy2fXUzDIRYTi5qvO/s320/Caricature_by_Edward_Lear%252C_depicting_himself_-_Lear_Edward.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <i>A palimpsest from Edward Lear's "How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear"</i></div><br />"How pleasant to know Mr. Becks!"<br /> In whose presence you’d love to be graced!<br /> Who’s admittedly obsessed with sex,<br /> But in most cases, remarkably chaste. <br /><br />His mind overflows with 'magination,<br /> His crooked posture is from twisted bum;<br /> His visage twists at the slightest provocation,<br /> His head, it resembles a thumb. <br /><br />He possesses the common amount of fingers,<br /> Ears, toes, and nostrils, but not as much hair,<br /> His body odor<strike> </strike>more often than not<strike> </strike>lingers,<br /> he sweats quite profusely, but with <i>flair. </i><br /><br />He sits in a comfortable rocker,<br /> With hundreds of games all about;<br /> He drinks a great deal of cheap vodka,<br /> but his tolerance is never in doubt. <br /><br />He has copious friends: secular and religious,<br /> 'Old Bessie' is the name of his femur;<br /> His education is long-winded and prestigious,<br /> He bears the twinkling eyes of a dreamer. <br /><br />When he saunters outside with his cane,<br /> Neighbors and strangers take notice,<br /> They shout “to walk nude in a storm is insane,<br /> anyone breathing should know this!" <br /><br />He swoons at the vibrancy of a sunset,<br /> He cries at the base of a mountain;<br /> He collects representations of Boba Fett,<br /> Eats his meals passed under chocolate fountain. <br /><br />He rages when pestered by vermin,<br /> He will not abide you calling him ‘Tex’:<br /> Until the day they break, bury, or burn him,<br /> How pleasant to know Mr. Becks!<i></i><p></p>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-61721731487321386432020-01-08T14:54:00.000-07:002020-01-08T14:54:07.258-07:00On Goals: Saying Goodbye to "Shoulds"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Practically every new year I make all sorts of goals to become the person I think I 'should.' Maybe you do too. I <i>should</i> lose weight, I <i>should</i> read more, I <i>should</i> write more, I <i>should</i> be more active in parenting, I <i>should</i> exercise, I <i>should</i> watch less tv, et cetera, et cetera... I <i>should</i> quote The King and I less... et ceteraaaaaa.<br />
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You probably guessed (if you didn't, thanks. But maybe try harder, it's like a gimme) I've never been successful or maintained success in any meaningful way. I'm never the person I know I <i>should</i> be. Most of the time the struggle is maintaining rather than improvement. The f*cking never-ending story of laundry doesn't help matters either.<br />
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I read something (can't remember where now, thanks, heavily medicated brain!) that has helped change my outlook, and hopefully change my life. I realize as I'm typing this that I'm again most likely deluding myself about a big change that I won't be able to maintain by eliminating <i>should.</i><br />
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But, here it is: Instead of saying <i>should,</i> say what you want, and why. So "I should lose weight" becomes "I want to exercise, because I like the way I feel when I do." And "I should write more," becomes "I want to write more, because I'm happier when I'm creating than when I'm not." And so on. I'm doing my best to not try to treat this as just another fad, but a way of reframing the way I view goals and life. So far, I think it's helping.<br />
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And I haven't once this year said "I should write in my blog," but "I want to write in my blog, because I like remembering thoughts I've had on a social media platform no one really uses any more!" Maybe the snark will be a goal I work on next year. But I like the snark, so maybe it'll stick around longer than the extra 40 pounds I'd like to say goodbye to. Because I like having more energy and less pain. But I also like milkshakes.Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-79819491809825911852019-12-31T11:50:00.003-07:002019-12-31T13:22:00.899-07:00On Reflection: Goodbye, New Tens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I know time is relative and dates are arbitrary. But, it's the last day of the year and of the decade. It seems an appropriate, if cliche, time to reflect on what this decade has brought, and who I was, who I am, and maybe who I'll be. Plus I have to be at work but there's little for me to do, so here we go.<br />
<br />
The 2010's and me: a reflection<br />
<br />
I began the decade as a new father of a 6 month old boy. A husband of 3 1/2 years. A less than active but fully believing Mormon. A graphic design student, working shitty jobs after shitty jobs. I had to get a new one nearly every semester, since I was utterly replaceable, any time I needed a schedule change to adjust my work to my education, it was easier for them to let me go.<br />
<br />
Throughout the decade, I aged ten years. (unique). I graduated college with a Bachelor's of Science in Art & Visual Communication with an emphasis in Graphic Design. It took me 13 years of part-time and time off to get a 4 year degree. But I earned that bad boy. I got my first full time design job. I got a better job with some of the greatest people I've ever met. (and some of the most two-faced slimeballs I ever met). I set a record of having the same job for 3.5 years, and then for 4.5 years. (previous record was 1 year). I've done freelance design for local and national companies, designed book covers for fun and profit, and (knock on wood) my career seems to be only looking up.<br />
<br />
This was my decade of new parenthood. My son went from an infant to a 10 year old artistic and comedic genius. He was diagnosed with autism. He fell out of a window (and was fine). (The time in this post is not linear.) He became a brother. My daughter was born at home and turned 4. (not at the same time). She's an empathetic prodigy, and an evil genius. I learned the greatest joys of my life are watching them play together and read stories or play games. I've never felt more happiness than when I'm holding them both on my lap. In 10 years time (assuming we don't blow up the planet or other tragedy strikes) they'll be 20 and 14. I'll be 47. They might have a new sibling or more. But I kind of hope not. I struck gold twice, searching for more seems greedy. But also, I have enough disabilities and problems I feel 2 is my limit. But, you never know what tomorrow brings. I'm lucky to have the world's best partner. We've continued some family traditions and created others.<br />
<br />
I turn 40 this decade. Not looking forward to that. Fortunately in a way, I've felt older than I am most of my life (combination of an old soul (I was once an Egyptian princess obvs ;) ) and having survived cancer ages your mind and body considerably.) so hitting the big four-oh won't be too big of a deal. This year I've transitioned somewhat as I look back at my past at how far back it goes. I'm middle aged, if I'm lucky. It's more time between now and Back to the Future than it was between Back to the Future and the 1950's he traveled to. (spoilers). Aging has almost always been premature for me. Balding, worsening eyesight, hearing loss, weight gain, bitterness, I've always been ahead of the curve where I don't want to be. I'm nervous about my mortality, as longevity is not something often associated with childhood cancer survivors. But, to echo my last paragraph, you never know what tomorrow brings. Maybe I'll get a robot leg or stem cells that finally eliminate the pain I've been dragging around since 1997.<br />
<br />
I met and maintained the friendships I hope I'll sustain throughout the rest of my life. School friends I made in a class I took my final semester on a whim have been some of my closest friends of my life. (I'll get more into that later (foreshadowing!) but part of that is my improved or at least improved recognition of my mental health, and my ability to feel safe enough to open up and be myself, something it's been harder than near anything to do with any kind of regularity.) I've enjoyed my great passion in life which has turned out to be roleplaying games, specifically Dungeons and Dragons (don't knock it til you tried it, there's nothing quite like it.) and in those games met many amazing people and cultivated friendships with most of them. Because of the poetry class I took on a whim, I joined a poetry group after graduation that has been a ray of light in my life, both because creativity is essential for complete happiness, and because of my fellow poets I've befriended through it.<br />
<br />
2013 is the year I became an atheist. Looking back, it was a long journey, possibly beginning when I was @ 6 or even younger. I know this may make some of the 2.3333 people reading this uncomfortable, but it has been one of the most important transitions of my life. I've grown up, learned to live life without a safety net. I have experienced the humbling realization that I am both stardust and dirt. Just like everyone else. A dot living on a speck, a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam. I have partaken of forbidden fruit of learning the joy and responsibility of doing good for its own sake, not for anticipating a celestial reward. I have been free to create my own morality, and reject anything that offends my principles. I've lived more of this decade as an unbeliever than as a believer, and I'm looking forward to one where I (presumably) will continue to light my own candle in the darkness. It's exhilarating.<br />
<br />
So many hopes, goals, dreams abandoned or lost. I gained @ 40 pounds, lost them, gained them back, hope to lose them again and more. I wanted to write so much more than I was able to, I wanted to paint more than I could. Of course, I also wanted to go to heaven eventually too. It doesn't do well to dwell on what might have been. But it shouldn't be ignored either. I'm in the worst shape of my life and it aggravates my chronic pain. I'm hoping that, despite aging more rapidly and deterioratingly, I can improve my physical health, and my mental health. This decade was one where I confronted depression, attempted suicide (which I've done every decade I've been alive, nothing new there) but I also began taking better care of myself in other ways. I'm taking new medication that's helping. I'm in therapy more regularly which is also helping. I use a CPAP when I sleep which helps my body rest and curbs the depression. Wrenches in the works: I walked into oncoming traffic, I went to a mental health clinic for a week, tried cutting my wrists multiple times, I'm reading self-help books and truly trying to get better. I only see my mental state improving as I approach 47.<br />
<br />
We lived in a condo for 8 years, @ 5 years longer than we wanted to. But it was our home for the majority of our marriage. We bought our home and I finally had a lawn of my own to mow (it was fun one time) and felt at last like an adult. This upcoming decade/year we're optimistic about finishing our basement and making repairs and updates to the rest of the home.<br />
<br />
I lost people I knew and loved, and learned there were people I missed out on knowing due to stupid mortality. I'm not looking forward to the next decade. I've been extremely fortunate to have 4 living grandparents at my age, but they're all either at or approaching 90, so this may be a decade of many goodbyes. At least I won't have to say goodbye to my hair, I lost that when I was 15. (I deflect and joke when I feel things.)<br />
<br />
I went to Florida, to San Diego, to St. George, and I was blessed enough by fate to get to go to those places and more with my dearest loved ones. I'm excited for the adventures and vacations of the 20's.<br />
<br />
I'll celebrate my 15th and 20th wedding anniversaries with my best friend. (hopefully). I only love her more, despite the human tendency to often behave our worst to those we love best. I want to say more, but I fear getting too gooey schmoopy emotional, and besides, she knows how I feel about her.<br />
But I'm excited for the possibilities of a new year and a new decade, a blank canvas, one we will all fill however we do, no matter how hard we try or don't. Let's go exploring.<br />
<br />
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<br />Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-88181304063032022019-11-04T08:58:00.000-07:002019-11-04T08:58:03.807-07:00On Mental Health: The B, the P, and the D<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<i style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's start with another Questionnaire, since the last one felt helpful:</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>My relationships are very intense, unstable, and alternate between the extremes of over idealizing and undervaluing people who are important to me</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>My emotions change very quickly, and I experience intense episodes of sadness, irritability, and anxiety or panic attacks.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>My level of anger is often inappropriate, intense, and difficult to control.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Now, or in the past, when upset, I have engaged in recurrent suicidal behaviors, gestures, threats, or self-injurious behavior such as cutting, burning, or hitting myself.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I have a significant and persistently unstable image or sense of myself, or of who I am or what I truly believe in.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I have very suspicious ideas, and am even paranoid (falsely believe that others are plotting to cause me harm) at times; or I experience episodes under stress when I feel that I, other people, or the situation is somewhat unreal.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I engage in two or more self-damaging acts such as excessive spending, unsafe and inappropriate sexual conduct, substance abuse, reckless driving, and binge eating.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">False</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I engage in frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment by people who are close to me.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I suffer from chronic feelings of emptiness and boredom.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">True</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-------------------------------------</span><br />
<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If the title didn't give it away, I'll say it: I have Borderline Personality Disorder. </span><br />
<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was diagnosed about a year ago. Since it's one of the <i>most</i> stigmatized and <i>least </i>understood mental illnesses around, I've been pretty secretive/private about it. I think I've only told 3 or 4 people who aren't therapists. </span><br />
<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">Most of my life I've felt different, odd, and had strange moments with experiencing reality/disassociation. I often defined myself by relationships, and even then, never really had a stable image of self. (still true). Bipolar disorder didn't quite seem to fit. I've never had a manic episode for one. About 3 years ago when I had a suicidal episode (which I wrote about on my blog for those 1 1/2 people interested) my mental health improvement has been more on the forefront of my life. I've been seeing therapists pretty regularly since then. I even stayed in a mental health hospital for a week (also on this blog.) </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">For about 2 years, Major Depressive Disorder seemed to fit my situation/mental state. It covered most of, but not all my neuroses/psychoses. I think part of me wanted to feel "special/unique," as well as have a better explanation/excuse for why I am the way I am. Depression was a huge factor of my identity/mind, but there seemed to be more to it than that. It wasn't a perfect fit, and I didn't think the therapy was resolving things like I felt it should. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">While living my life and living with a depression diagnosis-- My wife (who is a wizard/master of internet research), had me read up on Borderline Personality Disorder. I read a few articles and took a couple online tests about it. I think with the 'official' questionnaire (see above), you have to answer </span><u style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">true</u><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"> on like 5 or 6 of them to be diagnosed with BPD. I answered </span><u style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">true</u><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"> on 8 out of 9. It seemed pretty clear. But, not being one to just trust anything I read on the internet, (even when it's multiple sources) I spoke to my psychiatrist about it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">I asked if she thought I should be tested or whatever to diagnose it. I wanted to discover if that might be my "problem(s)." When I asked, she acted like she already knew/of COURSE you have Borderline, Austin. Obvs. It would have been nice had she thought to include me on this decision, but ok then. Better late than never. Maybe I needed to pay more before telling me, like a Scientology type situation.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">With the updated diagnosis, I've also been updated with new medication. It's been helpful, as has therapy, even if not as helpful as I'd prefer. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">I'm not even sure why I'm sharing this now, or what exactly I want to say. I know I want to be more open, honest, and authentic. A lot of my issues with past and present relationships, behaviors, mindsets etc. seem to make a lot more sense now. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My relationships are very intense, unstable, and alternate between the extremes of over idealizing and undervaluing people who are important to me</b><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">I've been told I "love with my whole heart," that things are "all or nothing with (me)," that I "lose myself in love." I thought my passion was a virtue, that unconditional love is a gift. But I've also been guilty of "splitting," of black and white thinking and behavior. If I can't be the best boyfriend/person/husband/anything, then I'm the absolute worst and don't deserve life. My self worth has been tied to anything from my artistic talent, writing ability, patience, pain level, sexual skill, generosity, worthiness, etc. etc. I frequently felt I suffered/suffer from "cripplingly low self-worth." I've also alternated regularly between pedestalizing my wife as the greatest person ever, and redirecting anger at her when I'm not perfect, she's not worthy of my love/doesn't appreciate the sacrifices I make. Madonna/Whore complex, tho never THAT far to either extreme. But I haven't always had an accurate picture of her. (Or me, or anyone tbh.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My emotions change very quickly, and I experience intense episodes of sadness, irritability, and anxiety or panic attacks.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">I often experience very volatile mood swings. Sometimes it manifests as random, unexpected feelings of overwhelming happiness. Sometimes (sadly more often) it's the depths of misery, despair, and self-loathing. Anxiety attacks were less common that bouts of despair, but they manifested too. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My level of anger is often inappropriate, intense, and difficult to control.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">I frequently bottle up emotion, especially anger, until I blow up and scream. Often directed at myself, other times directed at loved ones. Fortunately it's almost never presented itself as violence towards others (towards objects and myself, yes.) I've gotten bruises and cuts from hitting objects in frustration. A few scars on my fist and dents in my car are from my inability to control surging emotion.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, or in the past, when upset, I have engaged in recurrent suicidal behaviors, gestures, threats, or self-injurious behavior such as cutting, burning, or hitting myself.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">Suicidal thoughts, attempts, and ideation have been constant companions in my life at least as long as the chronic pain. (20+ years). Longer. The farthest back I can remember, I was @ 3 and I tore up drawings I made that weren't what I wanted them to be. Comparing myself to a much older sibling who I still think is better than me, I've always struggled with feeling good enough. Constant pain in my leg hasn't helped either. I often feel I have to try my hardest to match someone else's half assed attempts. Like they have 8 cylinders to run on, and I only have 4. I've tried to be good enough, always felt inadequate. In fact most of my life I've wished I was dead. Many times I've tried to be more proactive in that way. (i.e. suicide attempts.) Pills, cutting, drowning, blunt force, reckless driving, walking out in the middle of a highway. And self harm (usually hitting/whipping, often my head) was a constant coping technique for dealing with overwhelming emotion. I once choked myself so hard I felt my eyes bulging. I've left bruises on my chest, arms, and back many times. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);"><br /></span></span>
<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a significant and persistently unstable image or sense of myself, or of who I am or what I truly believe in.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">I still don't really know "who I am." I don't understand why my friends like me, or I tell myself it's because I'm funny and if I stop being funny they won't like me or will leave me. I define myself and find worth in being the "best" husband, even if my wife might argue that. I've always accepted the reality I've been presented, which made my faith transition harder in some ways. I don't know how else to say yeah, I have an unstable image of myself. I don't understand how to have self-worth without tying it to being needed or useful. It's something I'm working on.</span></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have very suspicious ideas, and am even paranoid (falsely believe that others are plotting to cause me harm) at times; or I experience episodes under stress when I feel that I, other people, or the situation is somewhat unreal.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">If someone acts in a way I don't understand, for example a random stranger gave me a piece of candy at a Halloween party last week, I assume it's because they're laughing at me behind my back. I think secretly nobody likes me and they pity me or they let me be around because of the company I keep, not because of me. I don't trust people when they say they like me, because I hate myself so deeply, how could they possibly like me?</span></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I engage in two or more self-damaging acts such as excessive spending, unsafe and inappropriate sexual conduct, substance abuse, reckless driving, and binge eating.</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't really do any of this, fortunately. I use some substances such as alcohol but I don't think I abuse them; at parties/gatherings I drink less than most of those partaking. I have been known to drive recklessly when overly emotional/despairing, but my sexual conduct has always been appropriate, in regards to fidelity and kink. In my opinion. Others' mileage may vary.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I engage in frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment by people who are close to me.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My greatest fear is being abandoned. I had an excellent childhood so I'm not sure where it comes from, other than a malfunctioning/Abby Normal brain. I often push others away when I begin fearing they'll leave me. It's been rough. I fortunately have an amazing partner who is patient and understanding nearly all the time, and so hasn't abandoned me yet. Even tho a large part of me wishes she would, because I tell myself then she'll be happy and find someone who deserves her and gives her all the things I can't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>I suffer from chronic feelings of emptiness and boredom.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All. The. Damn. Time. I'd rather do nothing 99% of the time. Nothing sounds appealing. I often fill my time with useless and unfulfilling activities like internet browsing, video games, etc. rather than things I know would bring me more fulfilling happiness. And often, even the things that ARE good for me and DO bring me lasting happiness leave me feeling empty/bored/suicidal. </span><br />
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Those of you with excellent taste in musical comedy sitcoms may notice the pictures from <i>Crazy Ex-Girlfriend</i>. A show about a woman with Borderline Personality Disorder. I won't deny it helped me in recognizing and accepting my condition. I recommend it to anyone. And the characters and songs are the best. </span><br />
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've been living with the diagnosis about a year, while things seem better at times, other times they seem worse. It's gotten harder and harder for my wife to be my partner and rock of self worth and therapist and everything else I've needed her to be. So we've been working on improving our relationship, especially in regards to improving my mental health and mental contribution to our family and lives. </span><br />
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I still feel overwhelmingly unworthy of her (when I'm not angry/scared and tell myself the lie that she doesn't deserve me. It's weird.) but I'm grateful I chose a spouse so patient, wise, understanding, etc. </span><br />
<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And of course grateful she (for whatever reason I honestly don't understand) chose me back. But I feel our partnership is in flux. I know/pretty confidently believe we'll stay together, but we're working on growing and changing for the better. In the meantime I'm looking for a new therapist (that makes 7 I think?) who's more experienced with BPD, as well as trying couple's therapy to help us cope with this change (hopefully for the healthier) in our relationship. </span><br />
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was hoping to feel relieved coming out this way, but I just feel jittery and a tad </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">dissociative, like I'm standing over a cliff. I truly believe vulnerability and authenticity are two of the most important factors to living a happy and fulfilling life (thanks, Brene Brown), but I also know they're two of the hardest things to be. Being open about my mental illness I hope will do a small part in de-stigmatizing the disorder, will deepen OUR relationship, you and me, reader. I hope it will help me overcome or at least learn better how to deal with the issues I face. And I hope that my honesty may encourage others to do the same, to be authentic and vulnerable and in doing so, find more self-worth. Cuz I know that after 37 years, having no self-worth sucks. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41);">Taking it one day at a time, now I've spent a good few hours avoiding starting NaNoWriMo, might as well keep writing while I'm on a roll. </span></span><br />
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Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-46562104950506685312019-11-01T14:13:00.004-06:002020-10-30T10:44:45.400-06:00Proust Questionnaire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUoiGbNQP5HQgbKBtonwVqIKaJ5l2yozpXc9ipf99FbDXPaIksEbn3UohKNcH-7BlAgSwBeo6ImOJCCz1qIzT-FWhSgbvEHx1mr5ywS1n0Yy3PMKqdEIjdM9ShlOhhSfKgGt4RfRm882jV/s1600/marcel-proust.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="620" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUoiGbNQP5HQgbKBtonwVqIKaJ5l2yozpXc9ipf99FbDXPaIksEbn3UohKNcH-7BlAgSwBeo6ImOJCCz1qIzT-FWhSgbvEHx1mr5ywS1n0Yy3PMKqdEIjdM9ShlOhhSfKgGt4RfRm882jV/s320/marcel-proust.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">I like filling out questionnaires on social media/fb in a tongue-in-cheek way. I know that they're often used for data mining, so I try to avoid accuracy for the sake of privacy and security. And I like to try to amuse others and myself... while being a tad </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">mischievous</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">. For some reason, I love doing this. </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">But in doing so, in aiming to be as flippant as possible, I've felt inauthentic. </span></span><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">For this questionnaire, I will be more honest than I usually am. </span></span></i><br />
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<i><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">If that’s not what you came for, sorry. I feel that sometimes it’s ok or even necessary to be open and vulnerable, even on the internet. At least that's what I’m telling myself. </span></span></i><br />
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<i><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">So,</span><span face=""calibri" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"> I'll stop filling out questionnaires when I get sick of them. </span></span></i></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>Question: When will I get sick of them? Answer: Never.</i></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b><u>PROUST QUESTIONNAIRE</u></b><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Having enough love, food, and time to be satisfied, and to ensure everyone else on earth has the same. Also an impossibly massive library and the time required to enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">The death of my children. The loss of free will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Memory, vindictiveness, halitosis, and that chronic pain keeps me from the life I think I could have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Dishonesty, bigotry, and intentional ignorance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Which living person do you most admire?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your greatest extravagance?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Socks because I need so many. Food because it’s life and tasty. Miniatures because they're awesome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Relieved and eager. A skosh sleepy. Getting hungrier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Faith. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">To protect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">It's harder to think what I like about it. I’ve never felt attractive. But especially baldness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">45 <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What qualities do you most like in a man?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Patience, grace, femininity, compassion<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What qualities do you most like in a woman?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Strength, confidence, masculinity, wisdom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Which words or phrases do you most overuse?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Sebastian, thing, spicy, maybe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What or who is the greatest love of your life?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tracie. That one was easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>When and where were you happiest?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">When I can make others happy through service or laughter. And when I was in Virginia, in Italy, and with family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Which talent would you most like to have?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">guitar improvisation and maximized sexual allure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Confidence. I would love to have some.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What do you consider your greatest achievement?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Fatherhood. Which is sad in a way, since to begin with, all I did was provide 50% of their genes in the most fun way possible. Hopefully my contribution since then has been more substantial, and less seminal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">a person, with extreme self-worth and the ability to back it up. Or a panther, for the same reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Where would you most like to live?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">close as possible to all my friends, and/or Umbria. Let's build a commune.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your most treasured possession?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">I try not to treasure possessions. But I’m fond of my home, despite its need for constant maintenance and revisions. For me it represents success, security, and adulthood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your favorite bird?</b><br />Magpie<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your favorite flower?</b><br />Sunflower<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your favorite color?</b><br />I don’t know that! I often say red, tho it was purple in my childhood. I don’t really have a favorite. Maybe Indigo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">pointless pain and suffering, and powerlessness to help those suffering<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your favorite occupation?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">For me or other people? I guess it’s the same either way: artist/poet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your most marked characteristic?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">a dire need for laughter in self and others. I'm often afraid if I don't make them laugh, they'll abandon me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What do you most value in your friends?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">compassion and understanding, good conversation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Who is your favorite painter?</b><br />Van Gogh, Velasquez, Matisse, Buonarotti, Duchamp, Hogarth, Manet, Morisot, Renoir, Gentileschi. The first 3 if I have to narrow it down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Who are your favorite writers?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Oscar Wilde, E.E. Cummings, Neil Gaiman, P.G. Wodehouse, <strike>JK Rowling</strike><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Who are your favorite poets?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">E.E. Cummings, Robert Burns, Anne Sexton, Allen Ginsberg, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sharon Olds, Ben Jonson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Who is your hero of fiction?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Jeeves, Jarlaxle, Bob the Skull, Hermione Granger, Lady Bracknell, Uncle Iroh<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Which literary figure do you most identify with?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Marsyas, Amulek, The Marquis de Carabas, Zuko, and Chandler Bing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Which historical figure do you most identify with?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Ben Franklin, Andy Warhol, Cassandra, St. Thomas, Robin Williams<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Who are your heroes in real life?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tim Minchin, Penn Jillette, Greta Thunberg, Malala Yousafzai, AOC, Alan Cumming, James Randi<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Which five people would you have a dinner party with, living or dead?</span></b><br />
<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">I’d prefer living. But I’d pick Oscar Wilde, Noel Coward, Christopher Hitchens, Carrie Fisher, and Tracie B. </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 33, 41); font-size: 14px;">The</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> last one may seem like pandering, but I truly feel that I couldn't enjoy the best things in life without my partner to share them with. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Who are your favorite musicians?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Freddie Mercury, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Buddy Guy, Les Claypool, Victor Borge, all 4 Beatles, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What are your favorite names?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Tracie, Morgan, Lyra, Sera, Thalia, Aidan, Ariel, Athena, Hecate, Dionysus, Sebastian<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is it that you most dislike?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Intolerance and hate, and the ignorance they usually stem from<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your greatest regret?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Missing the chance to say goodbye<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>How would you like to die?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Saving a life/lives<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>What is your motto?</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">Better to be sexy and racy than sexist and racist</span></div>
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Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-19213021486870765692019-11-01T13:12:00.003-06:002019-11-08T11:14:39.002-07:00On Resigning: My Thoughts on Leaving Mormonism on Easter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Originally posted on <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/exmormon/comments/8cq8xh/my_thoughts_on_resigning_from_mormonism_on_easter/">reddit,</a> (not sure why I'm linking it, since it's the exact same content) after I resigned last April. Now I'm finally more ready to be more public/upfront about it.</i><br />
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I chose to resign from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on April 1, 2018. Easter, a day to celebrate rebirth. A holy day the Christians appropriated from the Pagans. It seemed fitting. To exit from Christianity, take a day they view as sacred, and perform the sacrilege of saying "I quit," on the day they celebrate a man dying and coming back from the dead. There's some symbolism in the baptism about that very thing, and today is my reverse baptism I suppose.</div>
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I spent about 30 years of my life as a believing Mormon, and 5 years as an unbelieving Mormon. When I had my faith transition, when I stopped believing, I stayed in the church for various reasons. One being my understanding that they count you as a member anyway when they try to brag about their membership numbers, so what would be the point of resigning? I stayed partially due to my hope and fear that I was wrong; that I would rediscover the faith is led by God and I had been deceived. I stayed based on my theory that if I'm on the membership records they still have to deal with me and answer to me, even if it makes them uncomfortable. I stayed because I was afraid that leaving would break my grandparents’ hearts that their grandchild rejected the faith they so lovingly taught and instilled in him. And I stayed because I felt that if I were to resign, it would mean that my membership meant something/had some value in the first place, which, for the last few years, it hasn’t.<br />
<br />
Whether they count me as a member or not once I resign, <i>I</i> won't count myself as a member. I feel it's a natural progression in my development of my faith transition/awakening. I no longer fear or even hope that this church is the true church of Jesus Christ. It's a business and a racket, with very little difference to any other corporation or religion, except it's the only one I once believed was more than it is. I no longer believe the theory that the leadership of Mormonism answer to me or have to deal with me. I'm confident they don't care about the one lost sheep, and my leaving won't make a ripple in any of the Mormon leadership's concern. I'm just an angry apostate who wasn't active or paying tithing anyway. I do fear hurting my grandparents, my parents, or any other loved one's feelings. But I need to live my life for <i>me</i>, not for them. Frankly I'd also like to test what I've been taught about those who leave and see if there are any significant changes, any dimming of the light, since apparently, I no longer have the gift of the Holy Ghost. My guess is I'll still have intuition and be nervous of danger, still have morals and compassion, but I suppose I'll find out.<br />
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I'm choosing to resign now because in addition to all the above reasons, I believe that if there is an omniscient and overall "good" deity who judges us, I stand more in danger of judgment if I stay in a faith that protects abusers and gaslights, shames, manipulates, and lies to its members, than I would if I say enough is enough and apostatize. (One of my new favorite words, "apostate," means escaped slave. Which is how I often feel).<br />
<br />
I went to <a href="http://quitmormon.com/">quitmormon.com</a> and requested to have my membership records removed, thereby revoking my priesthood, my temple marriage, and the gift of the holy ghost. (Things I now feel are imaginary.) As I resigned, I expected to feel liberated, feel excited. But all I felt was numbness. The religion I once loved has devolved into an abomination of guilt, lucre, and lies. Or maybe it's always been that way, I just was blinded to it. If anything, I'm a bit saddened it took me this long.<br />
<br />
Now that I've completely exited the cave/crossed the fence, I look forward to my future, and ponder how much I will, or should look to my past. The word "anti-Mormon" comes to mind.<br />
<br />
Should I begin actively fighting against the faith? On one hand, I want my family and loved ones to see it for the manipulative money stealing guilt farm it is, a magic feather that dilutes their self-worth and sells them the lie that they can't be good or reach their full potential without their God and by extension the church. But I still feel that anything I would say, however well-intentioned and however true, my efforts would likely have the opposite effect. The members of the church whom I love would more likely entrench their heads in the sand and alienate themselves from me. Why is the desire to (in my mind, admittedly) help educate Mormons be “anti”?<br />
<br />
Rather than confront, I'll continue watching and reading Atheist debates, preparing to defend my position and attack their beliefs in the discussions that will never happen, and in the conversations I'll never have.<br />
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I don't think I'll be the enemy of Mormons or Mormonism. It's a weird feeling to have. To hate the religion but love the religious. I love the Mormon people and want them to be free of it. I want them liberated because I view the church as corrupt and hindering to mental and emotional health. But any action I can think of to help them emancipate themselves from it would only be seen in an antagonistic light. Kicking against the pricks, leaving the church but not leaving it alone, or the narrative that I'm miserable and therefore I want to drag them down with me ("misery loves company").<br />
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I suffer from Major Depressive Disorder, and I'll say, in the times I felt the most down and the most miserable, are the times I've wanted others to feel how I felt the very least. One reason I wanted to kill myself was because I didn't want to feel so miserable, and how I didn't want to be a source of misery to others. If misery loves company, it worships solitude, feeds on it. In fact, I'm starting to think the belief of ‘misery loving company’ is just another tactic that those in power utilize to keep their underlings obedient and distrusting of outsiders. If we defectors tell them we've jumped or fallen out of the boat only to discover the water is warm, shallow, perfectly safe, and even fun, they'll just tell themselves we want them to be miserable and/or we want to drag them into the unsafe water with us.<br />
<br />
Originally I just tried putting a toe in the water, see how it felt. In the words of Carl Sagan (speaking of space travel but I think it's relevant): "we've waded a little way out, maybe ankle-deep, and the water seems inviting." Now I take the plunge, severing myself from their records. Free, yet admittedly still surrounded by Mormonism's influence, both as a resident of Utah, and as a member of families very much believing in the truth claims of Mormonism. Turning my back on what was an integral part of my identity because I've outgrown it, yet still entrenched and unsure if I'll ever be free of it. Here I am. A former Mormon still a bit in the dark if I'm walking into or away from the light. But eager to find out.Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-85461634108723700032018-05-03T07:23:00.000-06:002018-05-03T09:15:57.537-06:00On Authenticity: Fear of Being Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I feel stunted. I feel trapped. I feel fractured. Emotionally, mentally, socially, and otherwise. And of course, it's my own damn fault.<br />
<br />
I know 'be yourself' is the best, if not the <i>only</i> route to happiness. And yet, because I think and feel differently than most of my friends, I've felt the need to hide myself, or feared that my authentic self isn't welcome.<br />
<br />
I'm speaking of course on my status as an ex- or post- Mormon, and the fact that most of you reading this (at least those whom this post is chiefly addressed to) are active and believing Mormons. And the difficulty arises when I want to be myself, but I don't want to offend. And I think the fear of offending is present in you as well. (Please correct me if I'm wrong). To be frank, I think you're in a religion that you'd be better off leaving. You may think something similar of me: that I'm deceived, I'm brainwashed, or that I'm downright going to Hell. You could think I'd be better off believing in your faith again. And you could be right. (...But so could I). We're both afraid (in my eyes) of offending the other, and I'm not sure if we need to be. Can we be friends still if I'm more open about believing you're wrong and you believe I'm wrong? Or do we need to keep up the unspoken agreement to just 'don't badmouth my church and I won't badmouth your apostasy?' I don't know.<br />
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I want to be more open. I want to be authentic, to be honest to what I feel is the truth. But I don't feel it's possible, and so I feel stunted. I don't think the solution is just find new friends. What's more, I don't <i>want </i>that to be the solution. I'm welcome to the prospect of new friends as always, but I don't want to lose any I have in the process. I don't know what to do and if you can't tell, I'm largely venting/rambling here. Hoping I can find a solution getting these feelings out there.<br />
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I've observed many others who have undergone a similar process with their faith as mine, people who were ardent and passionate believers in Mormonism as the one true church, who now feel it's not true. Many were angry and hurt, and posted things on social media or spoke in ways that lost them many friends. I never wanted to do that. (Ok, <i>almost </i>never). I don't want to offend or insult those I love, and frankly I don't find anger a useful emotion for convincing others. What <i>do</i> I want?<br />
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I want to be me. I want to be open. But I don't think I can. Maybe I'm asking for permission to be myself. How screwed up is that? Maybe I want to be offensive with no consequences, which I know is stupid. I want to feel accepted and comfortable around those I once felt accepted and comfortable around (and I'm accepting the responsibility here. It's my own fault I don't feel comfortable around those I once did). I want to be myself.<br />
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Then I react by fearing that in being myself, I'm shoving my not-Mormonism in your face. Drinking coffee is seen as an affront, when all it means is I want caffeine that doesn't make me feel sick. I realize it could all be in my head. I know the answer is to 'be brave,' and as all the inspirational memes remind me, be yourself and those who mind don't matter. But then, you matter to me. (maybe you don't mind and all my fear is misplaced. Wouldn't that be nice?)<br />
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This is me being authentic: I want to be authentic. I recently watched <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIho2S0ZahI">this TED talk</a> (and what spurred me to write this in the first place), which said 4 ways to get people to listen is <b>HAIL:</b><br />
<b>Honesty</b><br />
<b>Authenticity<br />Integrity<br />Love</b><br />
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Good in theory, but in practice, at least for me, the Authenticity and Honesty conflict with the Love, leading me to experience a drop in Integrity. The thinking goes "If I'm Authentic, I'm behaving in a way that is anti- those I love." My true is your false, and vice-versa.<br />
So is the answer "time to be anti-Mormon?" I hope not. As I've said before, assuming that Mormonism is true, (the view that those of you I'm addressing hold true) that would make me either a lost sheep or your enemy. (I don't think that's a false dichotomy, I've examined it as hard as I could and that's what I get.) I don't want to be a lost sheep or an enemy. I'd like to be like Samuel the Lamanite, telling people I love their beliefs are false, in effort to improve their lives. I truly think most if not all people would be better off without religion. But I also have the belief that you're free to believe as you see fit, worship who, how, where, what you may. It's disorienting, and leads to the conflict I'm currently complaining about. The mix of wanting to improve your lives and wanting you do have the freedom to live as you choose. Part of me hopes you feel something similar.<br />
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<br />
But I have to ask: Why has no one tried to invite me back to church? Why has no one told me to pray or read scriptures? It could be you assume I'll just say no, which is probably accurate. Why has no one asked about my deconversion? There's a part of me that thinks your belief is fragile and you're afraid I'll hurt it/cause you to apostatize. Likely wishful thinking and arrogance on my part. Part of me thinks you've tried it with others like me and it didn't end well. But why aren't you being more active in proselyting to me? I promise not to be offended, but I also promise to tell you my reasons. You have the truth, so you think. I think you don't, can we talk about it? I hate conflict, and a discussion would very likely lead to conflict, true. So I'm doing what I can, which is talking to myself on a blog I only post on twice a year. I'm taking the first step, I hope. I'd LOVE to talk about your faith. I'd love to talk about my lack thereof, and the definition of faith. I'd like to talk about the infamous essays on lds dot org, on how you can believe what you do and how I believe what I do. Can we talk? Is there room in our friendship to openly hold different beliefs that we can discuss? Is it okay if your end goal is me rejoining your church, and my end goal is you leaving it?<br />
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The Book of Mormon states that contention is of the devil. I don't believe in the devil, but I believe contention is almost always a bad thing. But maybe it's something we need. We need to be able to disagree if we're going to share this planet and remain friends. Several of my friends who underwent the openly angry phase of leaving Mormonism have said many of their friends stood by them. I was too afraid to be openly angry (in my opinion, you're free to disagree) and so retained most of my friends, of which I'm grateful. But the cost is I feel our relationship is more superficial now. I can't be 100% ME with you, and you probably feel the same way. It sucks. And I don't want it to continue.<br />
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So this is me putting myself out there, asking my Mormon friends who are interested to have a respectful dialogue with me. Give me a call, come over, send me a text. It's possible you don't think I'll be respectful, or that I've already been disrespectful just writing this. I promise to be as respectful as possible. Even so, I don't care about respect as much as other things. I care about Honesty, Authenticity, Integrity, and above all, Love. Because I do love you all. And I want to be loved as well. I think being myself and open about my not-Mormonness is the way to do that, but I'm afraid. But here I am, an ex-Mormon who says you'd be better off without religion. Let's talk.Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-36862253733368609702017-03-29T23:31:00.003-06:002017-03-29T23:33:04.506-06:00On Breakdowns: My Week in Provo Canyon Behavioral Hospital - aka Crazy Prison<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For any of you who have read my blog in the <a href="http://austindm.blogspot.com/2016/10/on-depression-worst-vacation-ever.html">past</a>, or spent any amount of time with me, you may know or suspect I suffer from Major Depressive Disorder (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_depressive_disorder">MDD</a>).<br />
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You should also know I live in constant pain and that pain can get exhausting. Last Tuesday the pain was particularly, well, painful. Add stress of trying to move and feeling a combination of helpless and worthless, and the lies depression tells you, I knew I had to act. I felt so depressed and so much pain at that moment I had only two options: Kill myself, or check myself into the hospital. Not one to leave you in suspense, I chose the latter.<br />
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Sometime in the afternoon I knew that was my option, and I already felt strangely relieved. I was taking my life in a healthy direction and had a plan: to get help. <a href="https://themighty.com/2015/11/what-its-like-going-to-the-emergency-room-for-suicidal-thoughts/">This</a> article helped me find comfort in this being the right choice. Not wanting to be a burden (heh) I wanted to go to the hospital alone. Tracie insisted on coming along so after work I stopped by at home and she drove me to the Hospital. Rather than going to the ER, we called and entered the hospital. I was asked questions about my well-being, about if I had a suicide plan (I did) and they told me they thought I should be in the hospital. I agreed and said goodbye to Tracie.<br />
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The hospital was very discombobulating. I gave them my clothes I brought, they put my phone and wallet in their safe rather than just give them to Tracie, and I spoke to the nurse, was told I wasn't permitted to have the medication I brought in for myself, but I could have a sleeping pill.<br />
After some inner debate I opted to take the pill, and went to my room where my roommate was already asleep. I brushed my teeth with the steel woolishly rough toothbrush and washed my face in the shallow sink, and laid in the bed, realizing this was rock bottom, but I felt hopeful. Of course, I didn't learn until a few days later I wouldn't be allowed to leave.<br />
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The bed was the least comfortable bed I've ever slept in in my life. Tight, rubbery, and covered with a sheet I couldn't tuck in, and my leg was already aching from not being allowed pain medication.<br />
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The next morning I awoke groggy from the sleeping pill, I met a doctor who spoke to me about about admittance, while I was in my bed. I never saw that doctor again that I recall, but I don't have a history of hallucinations so I'm pretty sure he was there.<br />
<br />
I met my roommate and several other of the patients who would be my only friends the next 7 days, had some strong but stale coffee, and waited in line for my pills.<br />
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They prescribed me some anti-depressants and allowed me to take the pain pills, and our day began.<br />
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The days at the hospital were pretty regimented, but we had LOTS of downtime and free time.<br />
<br />
Rather than go over each day individually, I'll give an outline of each day.<br />
Wake up, shower, coffee, breakfast, some had a smoke break, others stayed in the common room, then recreation therapy (music, art, or exercise depending on the day), free time while the therapists and doctors and psychiatrists meet with the patients, group therapy, lunch, smoke break or free time, group therapy, group therapy, free time, dinner, free time, group therapy, free time, go to bed at 10.<br />
It took me awhile to get the routine down, as their orientation was close to nil, so I had some anxiety about what we were doing and what we were expected. I also had the disadvantage of only speaking to therapists on some days and NEVER speaking to the psychiatrists, despite what the nurses kept trying to tell me.<br />
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Friday afternoon I felt 90% better and was eager to go home, only to discover a) I didn't have the right to leave and b) I couldn't be discharged over the weekend. This was aggravating to quite a strong degree, but I figured I could practice the stress coping techniques they'd been teaching me. I also had the assumption that any display of anger would make the situation worse.<br />
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The weekend was much less structured, and once Sunday night rolled around I actually felt glad I was still there, I had learned much more and felt more positive than I had in years. Monday was awful and dull once I realized I wouldn't be leaving simply because they were busy discharging other patients. Again finding my anger in check, I tolerated it and was told I would leave Tuesday.<br />
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Tuesday was the longest day of my life, but I was slowly able to leave, despite my skepticism, and I vowed to never come back, despite it being an overall good experience, the lack of communication and lack of freedom to leave when I voluntarily checked myself in, as well as half of the staff, made me give the experience a B-, the hospital a C.<br />
<br />
Overall I'm glad I went, I learned and grew and feel better about myself. However I never want to go back because of how I was treated and the psychiatrists I can't say anything about, because I never met with them, despite being told I did every day.<br />
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Following are some of my observations while I was there, some humorous, some not so much, hopefully at least interesting.<br />
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<b>Observation #1</b><br />
I realized we wouldn't be allowed things like razor blades, knives, shotguns, arsenic, dynamite, etc. What I didn't realize was all we'd be allowed to eat with were plastic sporks, that we couldn't use pencils or even pens, we had gutted pens that were just the nib and ink, which I dubbed "suicide pens." The toilet paper tubes were removed and we just had rolls of toilet paper that rolled down into just toilet paper, (what someone did with the toilet paper tubes that necessitated their removal I can't fathom, nor do I think I want to know), there were no staples, all the workbooks they gave us had a special hole punch that cut a small hole in the paper that folded paper over on itself to hold it steady (not well, but it got the job done - mostly), we weren't allowed to have belts, shoelaces, and any pants or hoods with drawstrings had the drawstrings removed. <br />
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<b>Observation #2</b><br />
Nothing makes you feel crazier than constantly feeling like you have to prove you're not crazy. You think people are always watching you, that cracking your knuckles is a manifestation of insanity, or that rolling your neck is a nervous tic, that asking more than once to use the phone means they think you're difficult and don't get along well with others. I have never felt so paranoid in my entire life. All the cameras with blinking lights and technicians with clicking pens didn't help matters. Fortunately in my case, by faking it I was able to appear more sane, and possibly actually get there. Sure it broke some of the patients, but overall it was positive. (They could be watching).<br />
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<b>Observation #3</b><br />
Not really an observation, but here seems like as good of a place as any to talk about what I did during downtime. I played a lot of cards, watched people play chess, watched tv, watched VHS tapes (Scooby Doo, Indiana Jones - RotLA, Big Fish, Jurassic Park III, and others), I read 3 chapters and several appendices of Return of the King (the only LoTR book they had), and did more coloring than I have in my adult life. I might scan some of them sometime. I guess this leads to one of the observations I'll combine here: In the common area, there were numerous drawings, quotes, and coloring pictures. Some were quite beautiful, some were quite simple. But I felt some sort of privilege knowing the only people who would see this artwork were the mentally sick/depressed, and their care workers.<br />
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<b>Observation #4</b><br />
Of the 14 or so of the patients I interacted with, roughly 10 of us were left-handed. Some of you may know, but left-handed people are something like twice or three times as likely and their less superior-handed counterparts to suffer from depression. Our anecdotal evidence supported that.<br />
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<b>Observation #5</b><br />
I've been struggling to write anything creative lately, so here's something I wrote while incarcerated in the mental ward:<br />
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<i>I wonder if anyone who</i><br />
<i>ever jumps off a bridge or</i><br />
<i>building changes their mind </i><br />
<i>halfway down?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I like to think some</i><br />
<i>do. I imagine those fickle</i><br />
<i>but utterly human souls reform </i><br />
<i>into</i><i> </i><i>birds. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Then I think 'but</i><br />
<i>eventually, we all do.</i><br />
<i>The earth takes our body,</i><br />
<i>the worms take the earth,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>and the birds take the worms.'</i><br />
<i>We all fly away eventually.</i><br />
<i>It's just a matter of</i><br />
<i>perspective.</i><br />
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<b>Observation #6</b><br />
Something I've known already, but never felt so strongly, how ableist people are. Especially towards mental illness. Without going into too much detail to preserve the privacy of people who will never read this, I was a victim of and guilty of dismissing someone completely because of where they were. No one believed me that I never met with a psychiatrist until my second last day there. I didn't believe someone who lost their property until the nurses found it. So often I watched people crying or asking the doctors and nurses for help and being ignored. (Again, for the most part they were actually great staff, but I noticed what I did.) My point I'm hoping to make is just because we have a sickness doesn't mean you can ignore us or tell yourself everything is wrong.<br />
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<b>Observation #7</b><br />
More of a disclaimer. I suspect some of you think this, and I know others of you do: that I was suicidal and/or depressed because of my atheism, or because I left the Mormon religion. I'd accuse you of self-enforced ignorance, but it wasn't too long I was guilty of similar thinking. I do experience some depression having left religion. But that depression comes from not feeling as close or as free to be myself around those I love, not from feeling guilt or shame towards any God that should know better. I didn't want to kill myself because I left religion. Because I don't believe in any interventionist all-powerful force, I was able to take my life/destiny into my <i>own</i> hands and get the help I needed. I can also point out that most of the patients there were Mormon and seemed much more charitable and friendly than those who have told me my depression comes from sin, but I think my point has been made. If you still don't get it, hopefully the fault is with you. I can only explain so much.<br />
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Am I glad I went? Despite all the frustration, yes. I'm back home now, and I'm happy. While in the hospital, I realized what a negative person I've been, and I'm making an effort to be positive, to improve my self-esteem, to be better and happier. I'm sure the drugs are helping, and I know it's premature, but I really feel like a new me. I'm still Austin (despite what my blood type says) but I'm excited to be an Austin who believes in himself and chooses to look for the bright side. I'm learning that even my pain can be good for me. It's helped me become more empathetic, and while I don't know what if anything I'm supposed to do with my empathy superpower, I know it's better than thinking I'm being punished or tested.<br />
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Finally, and this may be another blog entry, but I want to talk a bit about suicide. I've told this to a select few, and more than a few therapists. I've had a plan to commit suicide sometime in my life for about 20 years. I figured the pain would never stop, and one day it would get to be too much. I've been holding out for my kids to grow up, and then told myself that's when I would end it. Pain does that to you. Death sounds very relieving. I don't know exactly when the catalyst happened, but sometime during last week I stopped feeling this way. Since I was diagnosed with cancer I want to live as long as I can, and fill my life with as much joy and love as I can. Again, I feel like a new me and hope it's not just the pills talking.<br />
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But even if it is, for now, it's enough.Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-1045492091578739532016-10-11T23:48:00.000-06:002016-10-21T09:13:22.483-06:00On Depression: The Worst Vacation Ever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">They look so innocent and majestic, don't they? Lies.</span></div>
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Trigger Warning: Depression, Suicide, and Camping. I've wanted to write this for awhile, but I wanted to get some distance from it, but I'm writing it now so I don't forget, even if part of me really wants to. I present to you, the worst vacation ever, and the reason I'm taking antidepressants now.<br />
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This summer we went to Arches National Park to camp with friends. My son has never been camping, and I have fond memories of camping as a kid, because we tend to romanticize the past. Having only ever gone camping once in our long marriage, we needed to borrow most of the camping supplies from family.<br />
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Before leaving, I received the rather ominous warning from my father-in-law that camping can ruin friendships. I mostly ignored it, as we've been through a lot, but the fear stayed with me most of the trip.<br />
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After packing the day before and the day of our departure, I was understandably sore. We don't pack light, and I suffer from the bad combination of being out of shape and suffering from constant pain. Before I was fully packed, I could barely move, and felt awful physically and mentally, as I often feel I'm letting my family down because of my disability, and feeling like I can't be the husband and father I want to be. Tracie booked a last minute massage for me which helped tremendously, meaning I could finish packing the car, while in extreme pain, it was possible.<br /><br />Then things started getting bad. I'll try to recap briefly, then get to the depression. We planned to go with 3 other families we're close to. Before leaving, one family had to cancel. Another family had to leave early. After driving in pain but at least sitting for several hours, and driving through Arches national park in the dark, we arrived at the campground. My excellent friends had magnanimously (it's a word, I promise) set up a tent for us. Because I snore, we still set up a second tent, one for me and Morgan, one for Tracie and Lyra. Wanting to visit with friends but exhausted, I crashed and slept on a cushion that in retrospect was about as comfortable as the dirt beneath.<br />
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The next day, also known as the second worst day ever, began when 2 of our friends chose to go skydiving. We offered to watch their kids while they did, but rather than watch them at the campsite, we went to the airport to watch them. Tracie stayed behind with our baby daughter (never take a baby camping) and we watched the kids with the family who were leaving early. In retrospect, we weren't really needed, and poor Tracie and Lyra were alone at the campsite for about 3 or 4 hours. So she was pretty cranky. We ate lunch, and before we could do much, our friend's dog broke its toe so they had to take the poor thing to the vet. We saw a few rock formations and got back to the campsite. As we made dinner, it began raining. A lot. We ran to our tent, and they ran to theirs. We waited for the storm to pass, but it didn't. Then came the thunder and lightning. It was very windy and scary, but I thought the wind meant the storm would pass. I got outvoted and so we agreed to pack up and get a hotel, worried about wind, lightning, children who might not sleep, and flash floods.<br />
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Still sore from packing and unpacking, I again found myself packing in the dark, the rain, and the mud. Fortunately as we packed, the rain began teetering off. As stated above, among other things, I suffer from a martyr complex combined with a desire to prove to my wife I can take care of her and be physically capable of being the Provider with a capital P. Add the constant pain and low self-esteem, it makes for a bad combination. But I really didn't want to sleep on the ground again. So, with help from Tracie and our friends, but less than I probably should have asked, we got packed up and found a hotel we could crash in. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been in such pain, what didn't burn ached, what didn't ache throbbed.<br />
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Fast forward to the middle of the next day, and we were ready to head home. Our friends wanted to head to Fish Lake, to try to make the best of a bad situation, and to meet up with our friends who couldn't make it. I was ready to call it a wash, and just wanted to go home and sleep in my bed, and swear to never go camping again.<br />
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(Quick aside, I'm grateful to the friends for all they did, and how I felt and still feel closer to them having survived the horrible trip than having our friendship ruined.)<br /><br />Tracie wanted to go to Fish Lake, also wanting to make good memories in our lousy trip. As the default driver, I didn't want to drive roughly 2 hours out of our way for an afternoon where I was in extreme pain and struggling enough to stay awake, let alone be fun for anyone. I decided I wanted to go home. More than that, I knew I was incapable of going to Fish Lake. I made the turn towards home rather than Fish Lake, understandably (in retrospect) upsetting Tracie and Morgan. Tracie began shouting at me, and Morgan began crying. On top of the pain I was feeling, I felt the added emotional pain of letting my family down again. Not letting them be happy because the broken and worthless Austin couldn't handle going to Fish Lake. I knew what I had to do, and I was finally ready to do it. I knew it would upset them, but I calculated that the brief moment of tragedy would outweigh the perpetual disappointment those I loved best would suffer through with me in their lives.<br /><br />On a busy stretch of road surprisingly fast and plentiful for Moab in the off-season, I pulled the car to the side of the road and tried getting out, ready to step out and stand in front of a truck and setting my family free of me. Tracie grabbed my arm and wouldn't let go, and Morgan screaming helped shake me back into my head and stop trying to kill myself. I did realize I lacked the mental stamina to drive us home. So with some assistance, Tracie helped me to the passenger seat, and got in the driver's seat. Then, unintentionally giving me a taste of my own medicine and probably traumatizing our poor son further, Tracie had the worst panic attack I've ever seen, complete with convulsions, shaking, a period of being comatose, and glossolalia. Having to try to help her through that got me back to a level where I felt better about driving. We got home without incident, but tried explaining the situation to Morgan and amending to improve.<br />
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Since then I started meeting with a therapist and spoke with my pain doctor about it, as one of the side effects of my medication is depression and suicidal behavior, so I also started taking antidepressants.<br />
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And now I'm going public with it, it's hard, but, like I'm trying with religion, I'm trying to be more authentic and open about what's going on with me. I'm feeling better mostly, I don't think I'm going to stick with the antidepressants long term, but I haven't wanted to kill myself so I got that going for me. I think I mentioned this in my pain blog post I wrote about a year and a quarter ago that I'm sure you all memorized, but I've suffered from suicidal depression for a long time, and it's gotten steadily worse. So I'm fighting that currently, and learning how to be a better and happier person, and also how to be alive.Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-4018984769434527212016-10-11T21:11:00.002-06:002016-10-13T17:41:32.759-06:00On Memory: Letter to My Physical Successor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I recently attended a writer's workshop, with the theme on "memory." One of the exercises was to assume you're about to lose all your memories, and write a letter to yourself things you want to remember. </i></div>
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<i>I found this fascinating, and took it way too seriously. But I think I got some good writing out of it, and more importantly, it helped me see what's important to me, and how memories are basically all we are. Hence I didn't see much need to tell myself any actual memories, since that person wouldn't be me. </i></div>
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Just our luck. You felt good about yourself and after 34 years of self-loathing and 17 years of chronic pain you star making progress and the damn brain we live in needs fixing. </div>
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I am not you. I hope you will never be me. I've hated myself most of my life. I think it goes back to comparing myself to my brother. But I only have 20 minutes, so I better make it count. Here is what I want you to know. </div>
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Mormonism is not true, and there is no God. Please don't take my word for it. Find out for yourself. I think I'm supposed to give you my most cherished memories, but I'd rather give you advice and counsel I've figured out in my life. </div>
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1) Study. Learn. Find out things for yourself. I don't believe in God for the same reason anyone who doesn't believe something doesn't believe in it, I haven't seen sufficient evidence to remove my doubt. Doubt is healthy, doubt is good. Doubt lets you question and discover the truth for yourself. </div>
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2) Believe in yourself. You're amazing. Your greatest enemy is me, who always doubts and second guesses. </div>
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3) Don't think you can read another's mind. Tell others how you feel and how they make you feel. So damn simple but it's taken me 34 years. COMMUNICATE. DISCUSS. Everyone perceives everything differently.</div>
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Now onto relationships: I love Tracie. I hope you do too. She's loving and wise and brilliant and hilarious and gorgeous and dynamite in bed when she wants to be. She's an amazing mother and friend. You have 2 children, they're my everything. Morgan is 7 and he's not neurotypical, possibly high functioning autistic, loving, funny, energetic, passionately curious, and has the most infectious laugh I've ever heard. Lyra is 1 1/2 and I'm probably most upset about dying because I won't get to see who she is. For now she's sweet and shy and loves kisses, her mom's boobs, toy cars, and her brother's company. Please take care of them for me.</div>
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I had lots of unique and interesting and common and boring things happen in my life that made me who I am. Ask your parents, and brothers. If they try to tell you you're Mormon, please read the Essays on LDS.org and the CES Letter and the FAIR Response to the CES letter first. Remember point #1 above. </div>
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Instead of telling you all about me, I want you to be <i>you </i>without the baggage,<i> </i>and learn for yourself who that is. But to better understand me, and to know what's up with the big scar on your leg and the pain you're currently experiencing is when I was 15 I had bone cancer. I've had numerous surgeries trying to alleviate the pain with varying levels of failure. On the plus side, you can tell when it's going to rain and you get to park in handicapped. It also may eventually make you more like me than either of us would prefer. Chronic pain shaped who I am, for better or worse. But please take this advice:<i> anything you can do to reduce or remove the pain-</i> <u>do it.</u> I've been taking gabapentin and antidepressants and they seem to help for now.</div>
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I believe if you get to know Tracie you'll fall in love with her. Take good care of her. She needs someone to see and show and tell her how incredible she is.</div>
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A bit about me: I love games, both video and roleplaying like Dungeons and Dragons. Don't knock it til you try it, it's interactive storytelling, but better. I love Art History and poetry and doodling. I love sex but who doesn't? I love to eat and cook and perhaps most of all, I love to make people laugh. In my youth I wanted to be a stand up comedian. Good luck with my body. In some ways I envy you, in some ways I'm sorry. </div>
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The last thing I want to say is please tell Tracie how much I love her, which is more than I ever imagined possible</div>
Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-32784076953663129262015-12-18T12:02:00.000-07:002016-01-04T01:47:51.899-07:00On Faith: Q&A with Myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>LDS Hymn # 237: </b><i>"Do what is right, let the consequence follow."</i></div>
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I've wanted to write this post for some time, but couldn't figure out how best to do it. Unlike other blog posts where my goal is to just let you know what's going on in Austin-land and hopefully make you laugh along the way, my goal today is to open up more than I possibly ever have, despite the resistance I'm feeling. (Even in my last post about leg pain, depression, and suicide, I was holding back). And hopefully intersperse it with Austin humor, while still opening up. I'm up to the challenge.<br>
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I'm aware of the fact that when someone tells you they're about to be open and honest, it often means they're going to be anything but open or honest. (See: Politicians) But, sometimes (I hope) it means those opening up may have deceived (or at least withheld the truth) for a long time, and for whatever reason they're done deceiving, and finally ready for honest, frank, openness. Such I hope is my case now. Being open doesn't scare me. The fear of offending, losing, or hurting those I love does. Hurting anyone is kind of the opposite of what I like to do. So I'm opening up, but admittedly still trying to be conscientious about it.</div>
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Many of you already know. Some of you may suspect. A few of you might have no clue, and the rest probably don't care (in the nicest way possible). I am an atheist. I prefer Post-Mormon Secular Humanist Freethinker/Skeptic; but that's just a label. (and a wordy one). As is atheist, I suppose. Many people hate labels because it pigeonholes us into holes we may not completely fit in, and fails to tell the whole story, for the sake of convenience. Labels often "other" people, and one of my new beliefs is that eradication of "othering" is essential to our progression and survival as a society. No "us vs. them" or even "us and them." Just us. But back to my identifying as atheist. Atheist isn't a label. Atheist is just a description for <a href="http://freelink.wildlink.com/quote_history.php">one thing</a> I don't believe in. </div>
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Even writing "I am an atheist," I feel like I owe you some sort of apology. To apologize for being who I am, when what I probably should apologize for is taking so long to come out and say it. </div>
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Hopefully, it's obvious why I've feared coming out. In recent studies, people distrust atheists more than <a href="http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/in-atheists-we-distrust/">anyone</a>, including <i>rapists</i>. Fun. The irony baffles me, because, while many factors led me towards my faith transition and atheism, one primary reason was my desire to follow what I believe in my heart to be right, good, moral, ethical, honest, etc. In short, so I could honestly live with myself. Now, I'm finally ready to be honest with you. Lucky you. </div>
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In my multiple attempts to write this blog post, and over the last 2 years since I finally accepted my atheism, I've asked myself many hypothetical questions, and I think that's the best way to address it now. Of those of you who already knew, until very recently, almost no one has asked any questions, so maybe you're in the I don't care group. (In this case, 'I don't care' means 'I love you anyway and don't want to or need to know why.') I've wondered why that is; why no one has drilled me on the standard questions or even non-standard ones. I have a few guesses, but that's all they are. So, if you would indulge me (since you're reading this, I can only assume you are already) here are questions I'd like to answer.<br>
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<b>Austin, was the impetus to write this blog post related to the recent LDS policy regarding the children of homosexuals being denied baptism in the Mormon church until age 18 and with the caveat that they disavow their parents?</b><br>
In short, yes. At length, I've been meaning to write this quite a while, as previously stated. This new policy just pushed me to ask "how much is too much?" and forced me to face the fact that I can't be silent about what I feel is injustice and/or just plain wrong, any longer. I may write a separate post about the policy in the future, but for now, I'm writing about me, and my doing what I believe is right.<br>
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<b>But Austin, I thought you were a mostly private person about your religious beliefs? Now that you're Atheist, you can't wait to talk about it?</b><br>
I <i>am </i>mostly private about religious beliefs. Like good writing, I think most tenets of religion should follow the maxim of "show, don't tell." I speak out now for several reasons. I'm tired of feeling censured (by myself mostly), I'm tired of feeling like I'm not being truthful/myself with those I care about due to fear of rejection/offense. Also, I'm fairly sure at least some of you who know but aren't asking questions are making assumptions/guesses about my spirituality/lack thereof. So I'd like to set the record straight, and take control of my own narrative. If you're still going to make up stories about me, I can't stop you. I only ask you to give me a bit more hair and a lot more charisma.<br>
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<b>Austin, what's your religious background?</b><br>
I grew up in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I went to early morning seminary, bore testimony, believed with all my heart. I served a mission to Minnesota and loved it, I read the Book of Mormon over 11 times (so... 12) if you count the time I read it backwards one chapter at a time, so I could say "I've read this book backwards and forwards," (and I'd read it about four or five times already on my mission at that point, so the desire to mix up reading it was there too). Both my parents and their parents are Mormon, all my grandparents ancestors (minus one) go back to the earliest Mormon pioneer converts. Mormonism is in my blood.<br>
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<b>Austin, did you ever have a testimony?</b><br>
I had what I thought was a sure knowledge of the divine calling of the prophet Joseph Smith, that the line of succession went through Brigham Young down to Thomas S. Monson. I believed with all my heart the Book of Mormon came from God, that the church was led by prophets, that the Holy Ghost manifested all truth. I also believed what Henry Eyring (the scientist and father of Henry B. Eyring) taught, that "if it's true, it's doctrine, it's part of this religion." God is the author of all truth, so scientific discovery should prove Mormonism true, and not be in conflict with God's only true and living church.<br>
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<b>Austin, you look like you have something else you want to say. What is it?</b><br>
Thank you for being so perceptive. I want to emphasize the love I have for all of you. That I'm trying my best to be as open and honest (and tactful) as possible, and please don't view it as an attack on you or your beliefs. I will fight anyone for your right to believe what you will and worship how you may. But I'm going to also ask you to afford me the same privilege.<br>
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I really wanted to tell many of you individually/in person, but the hypothetical conversations in my head often led to arguments and contention. In effort to avoid that, I've decided to lay it all out here on the good old blog. Hopefully this will lead to productive conversations we can have in person if you wish, or conversations we don't need to have, if I've covered sufficient ground/answered all your questions. Regardless, here it is.<br>
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<b>Austin, where did your religious transition start/what is the story you're dying to tell?</b></div>
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That's harder to answer than you may think.<br>
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Many former Mormons talk about a "shelf" where they once put their questions and issues with their beliefs. Polygamy is a popular topic. Questions about race and the priesthood is another. Homosexuality is a hot-button issue right now. Concerning the "shelf's" purpose, most Mormons know the church is true because we believe we've received a spiritual witness. So when issues and questions arise that appear to contradict the truth we know is Gospel, we place the issue on this "shelf," with the intention to ask God about the concerns one day when the scales are lifted off our eyes, the veil is removed, and we have a perfect knowledge and it will all make sense.<br>
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So, where did my shelf begin? Was it when I was a child and I was told there is no Santa Claus (spoilers), and asked "so does this mean there's no God and Jesus either?" Was it when I first started college and read <i>Euthyphro</i>, in which Socrates asks the title character "Is the pious (τὸ ὅσιον, meaning good/moral/righteous) loved by the gods because it is pious, or is it pious because it is loved by the gods?" Was it troublesome issues in the church's past? Polygamy, institutionalized racism, historical revisionism, etc? Or was it on my mission, where obedience seemed even more important than listening to the Spirit? Correlation, (to me now a dirty word) where I must follow the lesson plan, rather than my own heart, my conscience, and/or the whisperings of the Spirit? These were seeds of doubt I did my best to push back onto the shelf rather than feed. Then, several years ago, Tracie experienced a transition of her own, which led me to study more church history, doctrine, and confront the issues I had so reverently and carefully hidden on my metaphorical shelf. (You can read about her transition on her blog, I'll wait).<br>
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Both on my mission as a proselytizer, and growing up in Southern California as a Mormon minority, I encountered "anti-Mormon literature" and/or "anti-LDS lies" before. What I couldn't outright avoid always seemed biased and demonstrably false. (And I still believe that much of it<strike> </strike>looking at you, <i>Godmakers<strike> </strike></i>is. Concentrated, evil-spirited, lies.) Yet some things started appearing to make more sense than the narrative I had believed my entire life, and appeared to have evidence and truth backing them up. I asked myself what makes something anti-Mormon? If it's untrue, or if it paints the church in a negative light, regardless of it's truthfulness? The things I studied, I wasn't even sure if they were anti-Mormon, since it was independent of Mormonism, but taught things contrary to what I believed in. But I had a testimony! I had served two years preaching this. I knew it was all true. I wouldn't waste 2 years of my life preaching a lie. And so much of the church still made more sense than not. Why would the Three Witnesses of the golden plates lie, even after they left the church, for example? Besides, even if it's not true, it's a good belief system, right? The church is filled with (in my admittedly strongly biased opinion) some of the best human beings on the planet. I'd rather be in Hell with them than Heaven without them, so the saying goes. But then, the shelf started cracking. Why spend $1.5 billion dollars on a shopping mall? Why spend money and energy on Proposition 8 in California, rather than "letting them worship how, where, and what they may"? Why hide Joseph Smith's<a href="http://www.sltrib.com/news/2802019-155/mormon-church-to-release-more-documents"> rock in a hat</a> translation method, then act like it wasn't hidden? For quite awhile, I felt like I was straddling a fence in the mouth of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allegory_of_the_Cave">Plato's cave</a>: afraid to walk out, but unable to venture back inside.<br>
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I expressed my distress at fence-sitting, and several friends (both on and offline) suggested I read <a href="http://cesletter.com/">The CES Letter</a>. (Or "Letter to a CES Director.") Basically an in-depth summary of one disaffected member's shelf. All the issues with Mormonism he could think of. The friends who suggested it said it would help me get off the fence and decide where to land once and for all.<br>
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I read it. If I took it at face value, it seemed pretty damning, and gave simple and rational explanations for all the issues I had placed on my shelf, presenting much evidence and sources for issues I had (and issues I wasn't even aware of). Unfortunately, the explanations concluded that the church was not what it claimed to be. But, I didn't want to take it at face value. I wasn't convinced. If this was correct, then the faith I'd believed in for so long was false. I wouldn't just be swayed by convincing arguments, I wanted to hear what the church had to say about this. At the time, I couldn't find anything. My bishop was no help, and most church sources were vague and general "just have faith" repeats. On my mission, another source of light I had found was Apologetics. Apologetics explained issues with history and doctrine using a scholarly perspective. Issues like early church history, the lack of archaeological evidence for the Book of Mormon, the dubious origins of a certain Egyptian papyrus, etc. Surely they would have answers. Daniel C. Peterson (I could be wrong, possibly someone else at FAIR) wrote a <a href="http://en.fairmormon.org/Criticism_of_Mormonism/Online_documents/Letter_to_a_CES_Director">response to the CES Letter</a>.<br>
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I don't think I need to go into much detail (although by all means, if you'd like me to, feel free to ask, non-hypothetical people). Suffice to say that the answers/justifications/excuses I read from the Apologists did more to destroy my testimony than anything supposedly "anti," in the CES Letter or elsewhere. Rather than denying things I'd categorically been told were lies, they admitted to them. Rather than providing simple explanations, the author of the response wove convoluted and intelligence-insulting spins. Spins ranging from death threats from angels, justifying lies, double-standard morality, to changing definitions of words with the ease of a Clinton.<br>
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I felt lied to. I felt betrayed. I felt hurt. I tried so hard to hold on. Grasping desperately for something to still believe. The peace I once felt with a surety had abandoned me. I prayed. I fasted. I prayed more. I searched the scriptures. For the first time, I felt like my prayers weren't going anywhere. That I was just kneeling there, talking to myself. A flash of inspiration came. This was in late September. General Conference was coming! I'd find my answers there! I always did.<br>
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I did my best to repair my collapsed shelf, to hold out to hear what the modern prophets would say. Many people often say the words spoken at conference feel like their talks are written especially for me; and I can still say I've had that experience more than once regarding general conference talks.<br>
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However, this general conference was different. Rather than love and wisdom, I heard excuses, I heard vain repetitions. Rather than answers to prayers and new revelation, I heard worn platitudes and bland catchphrases. And, in the case of at least one man claiming to be an apostle of Christ, I heard hate speech. The feeling I once called "The Spirit," in the same voice that once whispered to me the church was true, told me this man did not speak for God.<br>
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I was no longer Mormon. Yet I was. As pointed out by Harold Bloom in <i>The American Religion</i> (and I'm sure elsewhere by others) a strength of Mormonism (I'm paraphrasing here) is that, like Judaism, it succeeds in not just being a religion, but a unique people and culture. So I still felt Mormon. But I no longer believed. I felt my shelf collapse completely, and I was faced with the unpleasant task of sorting through the shelf wreckage of former beliefs for anything still valuable.<br>
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Wanting to keep a relationship with an interventionist God proved harder than anticipated. One of the many things my mission and upbringing instilled in me: the belief that not only is the Mormon church the only one possessing <i>all</i> the truth, but how false other sects of Christianity are (and every other religion, essentially). But, at this point, I wasn't so sure. I read writings of other Christian sects and other religions. I began listening to theological debates, often Atheist vs Theist, sometimes Jewish, frequently Christian, other times Muslim. I found the people and ideas I often agreed with were the Atheists, and among the theists, the Jews. (I couldn't find any with a Mormon debater, if you know of any and can recommend, feel free). About this time I also realized that<i> all</i> religions to one degree or another teach they are the <i>only</i> way, truth, life, etc.<br>
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I felt I hadn't devoted enough research to the words of those against the motion: the unbelievers. I started reading the more famous atheists. First the so-called "New" Atheists, like Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, Christopher Hitchens, (whose debates I enjoyed more than any other, followed by Rabbi Shmuley Boteach), and Sam Harris. Then the older Atheists as well, like Percy Shelley, Thomas Paine, (actually a deist), David Hume (his religious beliefs are still unclear. But he was a thorough, if not <i>the </i>quintessential skeptic), Mark Twain, Bertrand Russell, and others. They presented a worldview that seemed to make sense, left room for morality, for questions, and still allowed for a sense of mystery and wonder. I'm not entirely sure of the exact moment(s) that I went from a believer in a personal god, to a believer in an impersonal god, to someone who doesn't know if there is a god, or gods, to someone who now thinks the existence of deity is inconsequential and what matters is how we live our lives only, and how we treat our fellow creatures. Regardless, I hope I'm not done in my spiritual quest, and I try to remain open to new information and evidence. At the present I find it acceptable to think that as long as I remain flexible and follow tenets of love from compassion and truth from empiricism, I should be just fine.<br>
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Regardless, there's my story and I'm sticking to it.<br>
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<b>Austin, how do you now feel about your Mormon upbringing?</b><br>
I don't feel angry, if that's what you mean. Nor do I regret it. I'm grateful for it, it made me who I am (I was born of goodly/loving parents, after all. The goodliest) and growing up LDS brought me into the acquaintance of many of my favorite people in the world. But I no longer feel tied to it. The Mormon faith and Gospel/dogma gave me my sense of ethics, my beliefs in right and wrong, and the ongoing quest for truth. Or at the very least cultivated it. I now feel that the church has failed to live up to the morality it once taught me. Whether it's because the church has changed, I have changed, or it's always been that way and I just didn't realize it, I don't know. I'm not referring to the fallibility of leaders, or not exclusively that. I'm more referring to church history and apologetics sparking more questions and mental gymnastics than answers and simple resolutions.<br>
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<b>Austin, how do you feel about the Mormon church now?</b><br>
I love the people, and still would like to consider myself a Mormon, although I realize the more open I am about my beliefs (or lack thereof) the greater the risk I run at being forcibly ejected from the church. I think the people are salt of the earth and I love them, I think much of the leadership is well-intentioned with a few exceptions, but they have the disadvantage of either believing or being told they speak for God, like most other leaders of other religions, and then become burdened by the arrogance that comes from thinking rules don't apply to you.<br>
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<b>Austin, are you just angry? Are you offended?</b><br>
I was angry at one time. I still get angry about certain things, like thinking people I love are being misled, or other people I love are being maltreated by a church supposed to comfort and succor them. One thing I've learned in my journey about the "angry apostate" stereotype, is the anger we feel is often a mask for genuine hurt, feelings of betrayal, and frustration with something we once trusted and believed so completely. We left the church not because we wanted to sin, but because we found what we feel is the truth, and can't ignore what is in our hearts. Anger is a part of the grief process, and for many, losing one's faith is akin to death. A part of your identity dies, and it's natural to grieve,<br>
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Am I offended? Not at all. There were a few times before my transition that made it easier to be inactive, like someone telling me not to bring my special needs son back to church until he learns to behave (he still hasn't), and a member of the bishopric telling Tracie and I he was inspired to call us to a calling, but got our names and the reason for the calling wrong. I chalk those up to human error, not evidence of the church's imperfection, and hope not to be thought of as a modern Symonds Ryder or Thomas Marsh. These (and similar) issues were not reasons I left, although I'll readily admit they didn't make me eager to return either. I agree with Stephen Fry that "being offended" is often nothing more than a whine, it doesn't further the argument, but stops it. That being said, people's feelings are genuine, and while I don't think I was offended and don't think my offendedness or lack thereof was instrumental, I hope I'm not offending or upsetting anyone reading this. Or at least keeping it to a minimum.<br>
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<b>Austin, you left the church, why can't you just leave the church alone?</b><br>
First of all, I hope none of you are really asking that question, as in my mind it suggests an un-charitable attitude. But maybe you're wondering. In that case, I understand. I once wondered the same thing about those who left. I can't speak for everyone, but here's why for me: If you found something that changed your perception, and you felt your loved ones could benefit from it, would you leave it alone? What if you wanted to leave it alone, but part of you still loves it and wants it to do what it claims and perfect the saints, when you frequently feel like they're making them worse, not better, less tolerant, and less Christlike? Another reason I can't leave it alone is it can't seem to leave me alone. Around 90% of my loved ones are still very much ingrained in it, and I want them in my life, so I can't leave it alone. (Not to mention the fact that I live in Utah, and if you think you can live in Utah and not be affected by the Mormon church, 1) I think you're deluded, and 2) please show me how.)<br>
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And finally, I would ask: do you consider me a lost sheep, or your enemy? Either way, I'm fairly sure I know what Jesus said about enemies, and about lost sheep, and hoping they leave the church alone is not one of them. I love you all. Leaving the church was the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm still not sure I wish it on anyone. But I also feel happier and more at peace than I ever have. (Please don't tell yourself what Austin's feeling isn't <i>true </i>happiness. Having experienced happiness both in and out of the LDS church, I think I'm fairly qualified to judge my own feelings and my current happiness level, tho I know the mindset of 'only we in the gospel experience true joy' is a tempting one). I will not leave the church alone because it's still part of me, and because it's still important in the lives of many of my loved ones. I don't plan to bash on it, but I will also not remain silent when I feel it is not acting morally or ethically or what I view is its mission of perfecting saints, proclaiming gospel, or redeeming dead.<br>
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<b>Austin, haven’t you heard of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pascal's_Wager">Pascal’s Wager</a>? What if you’re wrong?</b><br>
Greater minds than mine have answered this question better than I could ever hope. Bertrand Russell said he would reply "I'm sorry, Lord, but you didn't provide enough evidence." Richard Dawkins said "Ask yourself what if <i>you're</i> wrong? What if every time you pray to Yahweh you're making Allah or Poseidon or any other numerous possible jealous deities angrier and angrier?" Christopher Hitchens and others said they would appeal to God's professed love and fairness, and ask if there's room for an honest nonbeliever, than a dishonest believer who believes just because they think they're better off to believe because Pascal said it was a good bet. My goal is to do good for its own sake, rather than for hope of a celestial reward. To quote Joss Whedon (yes, I quote a lot) from <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gXaMnkmGq0">Angel</a></i>:<br>
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"If nothing we do matters, then all that matters is what we do." If I'm wrong I'll apologize, say 'I did the best I could with the information and light you allowed for me, and I will go where you want me to go, dear Lord.' I don't fear being wrong. It's possible I am. I just trust that if God's worth worshiping, He'll understand, and show me some of that infinite mercy I've heard so much about. If not, hopefully I'll finally get to meet Christopher Hitchens and George Carlin.<br>
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<b>Austin, what about your converts on your mission? Why don’t you try to deconvert them? Are you going to try to deconvert me?</b><br>
Technically that's three questions.<b> </b><br>
<b>Stop dodging the question. You're the one who asked them.</b><br>
Fair point. Your first question I suppose leads into the second, which leads into the third. So it's a natural progression. In short, no. At length: I've debated emailing or calling the people I taught about the Mormon church to on my mission. Tell them something along the lines of "Apparently I was wrong. Sorry about that. Here's what I've found:" But my current belief regarding the church and those in it is twofold. First, if it makes you happy, and makes you a better person, I want no part in trying to take your faith away from you. A large reason I chose to leave is I felt it was making me <i>un</i>happy, and in following what I saw as its teachings, I felt it was making me a worse person. The other half is probably more optimistic/unrealistic. I believe the truth about the Mormon church is available for anyone interested in really finding out about it if they truly want to. (Refer to the J. Reuben Clark quote above). But the change should come from within. <br>
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Another huge nail in the coffin of my unbelief was when the church began releasing essays on LDS dot org on topics like <a href="https://www.lds.org/topics/race-and-the-priesthood?lang=eng">race</a> and the priesthood, <a href="https://www.lds.org/topics/plural-marriage-in-kirtland-and-nauvoo?lang=eng">polygamy</a>, <a href="https://www.lds.org/topics/translation-and-historicity-of-the-book-of-abraham?lang=eng">translation</a>, <a href="https://www.lds.org/topics/book-of-mormon-translation?lang=eng">folk magic</a>, and <a href="https://www.lds.org/topics/first-vision-accounts?lang=eng">others</a>. I confess that even after my shelf collapsed, part of me still believed I had just been deceived and what I heard were anti-Mormon lies. But the church itself is now owning up to the stories that caused me to stop believing. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that another reason I don't try to deconvert my converts is I value my relationship with them, and fear I will lose them as friends if I try. (Change only comes from within, etc.)<br>
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And to answer my final question, no I am not going to try to deconvert you. I love you and I respect you. A large part of me wishes I too could still believe. If my unbelief really is an affliction and God is out there and cares for me, I hope one day he will consecrate this affliction for my gain. But I'm happy now. Happier than ever. I of course still have bad days, still get angry. But I also still have a sense of the sublime and awe. I'm not a scientist, but I do think science is the best way to view and define reality. I hope the church brings you happiness and makes you a better person. If it doesn't, however, let's talk ;)<br>
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<b>Austin, what do you believe in now? </b><br>
I suppose I started answering that earlier. I believe science, reason, and evidence are the best ways to know what's really true. I believe that morality comes from within and is a byproduct of evolution, that the earth is billions of years old. I believe in most of the ethical teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, in David Hume, in Immanuel Kant, John Stuart Mill, and others. I believe in the redemptive power of art and poetry. I think there's poetry and ethics to be had in the Bible and Book of Mormon, (as well as the Qu'ran, Bhagavad Gita, Tao te Ching, and others) but we should weigh their teachings on our own conscience, and not simply do what the book says because the book says it (and not just because I love shellfish and wearing cotton-poly blends). I believe freedom of thought, freedom of choice, freedom of religion, freedom to an education are all paramount to happiness. I believe if there's a God worth worshiping, it has a lot of explaining to do. I believe Dr. Pepper is the best soda, coffee is better, and alcohol tastes terrible. I believe in being generous to buskers and panhandlers, and giving to charity whenever possible. I believe that churches should not be taxed, but they should disclose their finances like other non-profits if they wish to maintain their tax exempt status. I believe in your right to freedom of religion until it encroaches on another's freedom, and I feel the same about their religion and rights. I feel I'm getting political now and that's plenty for another post and this one is long enough already, and besides, I'm getting near the end.<br>
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<b>Austin, isn't your faith in science and evidence just a new religion?</b><br>
No. Are we done? Not yet? Ok. There's the quote (dubiously) attributed to Voltaire: "To learn who rules over you, find who you are not allowed to criticize." If I disagree with Richard Dawkins for example, if I can prove him wrong he will celebrate it, rather than ostracize me, and/or kill me, and/or send me to hell. (I use Dawkins as an example, as he's a fairly famous atheist.) To quote Tim Minchin "Science adjusts its views based on what's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhGuXCuDb1U">observed</a>. Faith is the denial of observation so belief can be preserved." Believing in the scientific method is not equal to believing a man who says God said so. <br>
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<b>Austin, what's your current view of Joseph Smith? The Book of Mormon? </b><br>
It's complicated with me and Joseph Smith. I hope this doesn't offend too much, but I feel about him the way a lot of people now feel towards Richard Nixon. An extremely flawed individual who usually did what he thought was best, regardless of what others thought and regardless of the consequences. But I admit I'm being generous. I think there was much evidence he was a fraud, selfish, and worse, despite the fact that he was also to most accounts a brilliant and compassionate leader.<br>
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I still love a large percentage of the Book of Mormon, I don't know if it's because of the <a href="http://www.logicallyfallacious.com/index.php/logical-fallacies/174-sunk-cost-fallacy">sunk-cost </a>fallacy, or it truly is a great book. I'm currently writing either an essay or spoken word poem about what it means to me, and how my belief that Joseph imagined it is <i>more</i> miraculous than reading it off an egg-shaped rock. I plan to read it again from an unbelievers perspective. I love King Benjamin and Ammon the missionary and Captain Moroni and others, though now I also feel kinship to Nehor and Korihor, because they questioned. But I believe I can love the book without loving the author, similar to the practice of loving the sin and hating the sinner.<br>
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If you stuck with me, thank you. This was beyond cathartic, I hope we can remain friends and family. I love you and am grateful you took the time to read this to better understand me.
While I intend to start being more open about my atheism, I do not intend to attempt to affect your theism, (Assuming you're not one of my new atheist friends.)<br>
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I hope this is a beginning of my new life. I've experienced a lot of changes these past few months. I hope this is a start of many future dialogues I can have with many of you. Not seeking to be understood, (at least not at first) but to understand. In many ways I'm a different person. For the first time in over half my life I'm pain free. My blood type has flip-flopped from Type AB+ to Type O- . I've gone from Mormon to Atheist, Republican to Left-leaning Independent, non-vegetarian to someone who still eats meat (not everything has changed). But I'm still Austin, and I still want you in my life, not only because I believe this life is all we're given.<br>
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<b>P.S.- </b>Another reason I've feared coming out is the fear of losing friends. All my life I've struggled with being myself versus being who I thought people I wanted to like me wanted me to be. So I would hide or minimize things I enjoyed, (and things that made me, well, me) things like but not limited to: an obsession with Star Wars, a love of Dungeons and Dragons, or a predilection for Broadway musicals. I was afraid of being rejected for my nerdy interests. (This was before the rise of Comic Cons, good Superhero movies, and geek chic). Because of this fear, I've sometimes acted fake, not spoken when I wanted to at various times or subjects, and I apologize. Lately, I've realized this in full force due to the above mentioned atheism. Regrettably, I've felt a rift grow between many of us, and I've come to the realization that, because of my hiding the less acceptable parts of myself, from atheism to part-time Freddie Mercury disciple, I drove a wedge between us by my insincerity / shielding.
So now I'm here saying this is me, take it or leave it.<br>
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Because at long last I've realized that if I'm going to lose friends, I prefer to lose them for their not accepting the real me, rather than losing friends by drifting apart due to my insincerity in being who I think you want me to be. And, for what it's worth, I hope I don't lose you, you're pretty awesome to be my friend in the first place. Thank you.<br>
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If you have questions I didn't answer, want me to expound on anything, whatever, feel free to comment, call, text, IM, let it fester inside, wait, not that one. I want to be more open, but destroying your faith is never my goal. Destroying our relationship is never my goal. Communion/coming closer together through shared conversation, finding common ground through love, charity, and shared memories is my goal. Thanks for listening, maybe my next blog post will be about the new Star Wars or something...</div>
Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-24722520516681896752015-07-30T23:30:00.000-06:002015-07-31T14:46:29.712-06:00On Pain: The Abyss Gazes Back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This has been a long time coming. Practically no one reads or writes blogs anymore, except the proud few who somehow (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ">clickbait</a>) make money off it, but for anyone who is reading this, thank you. And get ready: in the words of David Bowie, “I don’t know where we’re going, but I promise it won’t be boring.” (Content warning: lots of talk about chronic pain, depression, and suicide. Possibly boredom.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I don’t like talking about my pain because, believe it or not, I don’t <i>like </i>to complain. I mostly like living a private life: my business is my business, and my thoughts are my thoughts. My pain is my own. Don’t get me wrong. I am happy if hesitant to invite my family, friends, and loved ones (different names for the same group of people) in to jump down the rabbit hole as far as they’re willing. The reason I don’t like to complain is <i>I don’t like to burden others</i>. I don’t like to bring people down. I like to be the funny guy and make people laugh, rather than tell them that (until a few weeks ago, I'll explain why) 90% of the time I sincerely wish I was dead. The whispers of <i>kill yourself, kill yourself</i> in my own voice and voices of others constantly creep into my thoughts everywhere I go.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For the past 17 years, I’ve lived in constant pain. Over half my life. You probably know this, but I suffered from bone cancer when I was 15. I assumed I would be in the hospital for a year, get a metal knee, and be done with it. Maybe acquire a few stories or something to make my life more interesting and help me develop into a better person. That was partially correct. However, what I didn’t realize (aside from the complications of chemotherapy and all the other fun stuff that cancer brings) was the results of cancer would plague and color my life for the worse from that point on.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">After being pronounced cancer-free, my leg kept hurting. Varying between aching, stabbing, throbbing, itching, gnawing, sharp pain, dull pain, (“gnawing, biting, breaking, hacking, burning”) but, ever constant, pain. I’ve become something of a pain connoisseur, at least as far as my leg has been concerned. I’ve been on crutches, used a cane, had numerous surgeries hoping to correct the problem, including one where they removed my hip, but the pain has always returned, like an unrelenting wolf lurking in the shadows, never satiated, striking again and again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Another reason I haven’t liked complaining about it is the feeling that the continued pain was somehow my fault. That the surgeries didn’t work because I was somehow deficient. Or I deserved the pain. I was either being punished or prepared for unspecific greatness by an inscrutably loving God. He was surely teaching some great lesson that, once learned, would show me the great vistas of Heaven, rather than wonder if Hell could be any worse.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I’ve thought of (and tried) killing myself many times. The thought of old age has been one of dread, as I expect aging will magnify the pain eventually to the point of collapse. I constantly fear one day the pain will grow too great, and my reasons I desperately hold on to for living won’t be enough anymore.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My religious upbringing taught me to believe that God gives us trials to overcome them. That He will make weak things become strong (Ether 12:27). That He will consecrate our afflictions for our gain (2 Nephi 2:2). Nietzsche famously said “that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” While I tried to believe what I was taught, the last 17 years have given me ample evidence that the scriptures and Nietzsche were wrong. Wrong, wrong, <u><b>WRONG</b></u>!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Because the pain <i>hasn’t</i> made me stronger. It’s made me bitter. It’s made me more selfish. It’s led to depression. When I say pain has colored my life, I mean it’s dulled it—all the colors turn muted. When you’ve experienced chronic pain, joy isn’t as sweet; passion is downgraded to amusement (if that).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If you’re reading this, most likely you’re in the group I mentioned above, family and friends. If you’re willing, you’re welcome to jump down the rabbit hole with me, as I act as guide in my world. Most of the time, at best, you feel malaise, ennui, and other emotions originated by the French. At worst, you feel suicidal and harbor feelings of bleak despair, festering self-loathing, and consuming bitterness at everyone who is not in constant pain. The specter of pain is always with you, telling you “You can’t enjoy this. You’re not allowed.” So you sit back and watch your son grow up without you, trying to feel gratitude that he has good aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, etc. who play with him when you can’t. . . because the pain is too great. So you sit on the sidelines, wanting more than anything to chase after him to tickle, tackle, and hug, wanting to hear his infectious laughter and know that it’s because of you. But either you literally can’t, or you know that if you do, the tremors of pain will erupt and you won’t be able to even move the next day without wincing or screaming in pain. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">You feel like a bad husband because you can’t be the strong Protector with a capital P that society, the media, your church, and fairy tales say you should be. You can’t help as much as you’d like to with the housework, with simple errands, with keeping a job. You fear that if an intruder intrudes, the best you could manage is a temporary distraction before they take away everything precious to you. It makes you angry, and you turn your anger toward your wife—not abusively, thankfully—but you’re harsh and angry when you really just want to cry. You lash out at a wife who by all accounts is the greatest woman on the planet. Beautiful as the morning and, in your eyes, the only contender for <i>People</i>’s Sexiest Person Alive. Kind and loving, you literally could not wish for a better mother for your children, or a better friend. Brilliant, cunning, witty, and hilarious—she challenges your perceptions and preconceived notions of perfection. You often have to stop yourself and wonder if you’re just looking at her through the rose-colored glasses of a devoted husband. But even trying your best to view her objectively, she’s divine. If you saw her on the street, you would think she is the most fascinating person you’ve ever seen, and you must do absolutely anything to get to know her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But the pain causes you to temporarily forget all of this. You yell at your beloved wife for asking you to help with the dishes or put your children to bed. You hate yourself, so you transfer that hate to her, even though at the same time you marvel at her patience and love. You secretly fear she thinks a) she could do far better with damn near anyone else, b) you’re faking pain to get out of helping (almost never true), or c) both of the above, but pretends not to for the sake of your relationship, further proving she’s too good for you. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Continuing in your journey as me...Your selfishness and pain make you a worse person. You used to love giving service. For some twisted reason you really liked helping people move. Now you sit and make excuses when someone needs help, hating yourself for it. You can’t give blood because they don’t want your cancer blood. (Until recently). You can’t give comfort or succor because you are so starving yourself. When you try to serve in spite of the pain, the pain gets worse, punishing you for daring to think of others, daring to think you could be normal. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">By now, you might be wondering about efforts to manage the pain. You try to lose weight to lessen the pain, but exercise leads to further pain, and not the good pushing-yourself kind of pain, the make-you-wish-you-were-dead kind of pain. You blame others; you blame yourself; you blame everything. You feel bad because you know others have it worse. You hate complaining because others are in more pain. There are people starving. People being tortured. Children abused by the parents supposed to love them. People murdered because of the way they were born, their race, their gender, their orientation, their beliefs. Surprisingly, this doesn’t make you feel better about your situation. Just because someone may have it worse, you only have your own experiences and your own pain reminding you that you still have it pretty bad. Because the pain is always there. Distracting you from living life. Distracting you from being happy. Distracting you from trying to feel charity for others. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">What about pain meds? You try pain killers like morphine, Valium, Vicodin, codeine, and combinations thereof. Some work better than others. Most have side effects that are worse than or just as bad as the pain. Side effects including, but not limited to, hallucinations, severe itching, vertigo, memory loss, and depression. You realize you’re trading pain for side effects that aren’t worth it. You know your pain. You’re used to it. So you choose the pain: the devil you know. You make do with taking plenty of over-the-counter medications to take the edge off the pain. This means you can go to exotic places like the store, the park, the movies, places with your family where you can pretend to be normal. . .before the pain returns, as always. The ravenous wolf invariably gnaws and gnashes at your leg, reminding you that you can’t be normal, and that he will always be with you.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This has been your life for nearly two decades. You learn to accept it. Eventually, the pain becomes part of you, weaving itself into the fabric of what makes you inherently you. Dulling the once brilliantly colored tapestry of who you once were: a person happy with who they were, comfortable in their own skin. A person who loved telling jokes more than anything, delighted with the knowledge of contributing to someone else’s happiness. But you’ve grown, or shrunk depending on your point of view, into the person you are. At this point, this is all you have known, and all you think life can be.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Maybe now you see why I’ve been hesitant to let people in, reluctant to let people know how much my pain has affected my life, my very core of who I am.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For better or worse (it’s worse), my pain has tempered who I am, even if I hate myself because of it. Because I <i>should </i>have risen above it, <i>should </i>have mastered it, <i>should </i>have told myself I am not my pain. <i>But I am</i>. Or I have been. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">That’s what makes this next part so scary. My pain has defined me, even when—especially when—I haven’t wanted it to. However, there does in fact seem to be light at the end of the rabbit hole, and falling down may yet have turned out to be falling up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A few weeks ago, I asked a Facebook group I’m in if they knew of any chronic pain support groups in Utah County. Although I had resigned myself to a life of pain, I thought joining a club of fellow sufferers could make the suffering more bearable. The Facebook group didn’t know of any pain support groups, but a few recommended the Utah Valley Pain Management Clinic in Orem. My life couldn’t be any bleaker; I figured what did I have to lose? </span></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">(Note: Tracie would like everyone to know she’s been telling me for years and years to go to a pain management clinic.)</span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Not knowing what to expect, I set up an appointment. The doctor asked lots of questions, and I filled out lots of paperwork. Then, he did lots of tests and inspections on me and eventually prescribed a new medication. “This isn’t an opiate,” the doctor said, “It’s called Neurotonin, or generically as Gabapentin. It helps with nerve pain. It’s an anti-seizure medication.” I figure what the hell. Give it a try. But then he says something that makes me cry, cracking the dam of emotional pain that has been building up for years. “But if this doesn’t work, we have many more things we can try to make you feel better. We will keep trying until you do.” I’ve only wanted to kiss a man twice in my life. Once was Freddie Mercury because, Freddie Mercury. The other was when this doctor promised me he’d help me feel better. I didn’t kiss him, but I started crying and thanked him.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This was about four weeks ago. I’ve steadily increased my dose of Gabapentin as prescribed, and the pain has slowly decreased to the point of <b>near non-existence</b>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Sometime last week, Tracie asked why I’ve been so happy lately. Simultaneously, we both realized it. How dark our life has been because of this ominous shadow of pain, a cave of bleak depression and helplessness affecting both our lives. But here’s the thing: I barely feel any pain in my leg now. We went to the local discount arcade (Nickel City) a week ago, and not ONCE did I complain about wanting to leave.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><b>This was huge.</b> For the first time in years so long I can’t even remember, I had fun outside of my home without pain bringing me down, preventing me from enjoying myself fully. Instead of needing to sit down in a lonely corner, instead of watching my wife and son enjoy themselves without me, instead of wondering if they’d be better off if I weren’t there, I had fun with my family!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I hope so much it continues, and as cliché as it is, I feel like I have a new lease on life. I think I have a chance to be normal, a chance to be happy, a chance to help others without the pain restricting me. This exhilarates—and terrifies—me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Terrified because, what if the pain comes back? The wolf is not gone. In the shadows, he silently stalks back and forth. I can sense him pacing in the corner of my eye, watching intently when I take my medicine, eager to attack if I ever forget. I’m not ignorant enough to think the pain is gone forever, that my problems are magically fixed. The medication doesn’t remove the pain; it shields the transmission between my leg and my brain whenever my leg hollers, “Hey brain, I hurt!” (He’s probably sick of shouting it. I know I’m sick of hearing it.) </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As I sit here writing my first blog entry in over a year, my leg is still aching and throbbing a little. Nowhere near the pain experienced before I started taking Gabapentin. But it’s still there. And of course I know that life is a certain small percent what happens to you and a much larger percent how you let it affect you, but I’m still hesitant to be fully happy. The pain has ALWAYS returned, with a vengeance. What makes this time any different? I’ve been the victim of my own leg, the prisoner in my own body so long, I fear the escape. And, to quote Jim Butcher, “I'd hate to find out that the universe really wasn't conspiring against me. It would jerk the rug out from under my persecution complex.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But whether the pain returns or not, for now I choose to be happy. Now is all I have. Because if I can truly be happy—if I can be the husband, the father, the friend, the service-giving person I’ve wanted to be—that’s all I want. To not have my leg cage me. I’m so happy at this moment, but afraid. Because for the first time in 17 long years, I’m stepping out of the cave, away from the darkness of pain I’ve known so well and become such an integral part of me. And this scares me. I’ve identified as a person who lives with chronic pain for so long, it’s who I’ve been over half my life. Even though words can’t express my joy at being free of this Sisyphean boulder, in a weird way, I’m mourning the loss of that Austin. Not only that, but I’m afraid that I actually am just a horrible person who’s been using his pain to mask the horrible person he is. It’s made me selfish for so long; I’m not entirely sure how to be charitable again, or how to be this new Austin.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But I’m excited to find out, and I will do my damnedest to improve, to make others happy, and to <i>be </i>happy myself. Whether this is my new life, or a temporary reprieve, I look forward to a brighter future. I’m stepping out of the cave, leaping out of the darkness. The wolf is there, but I won’t let him catch me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">You have escaped the cage. Your wings are stretched out. Now fly.</span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">—Rumi</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-7297066230140138142014-05-10T19:19:00.002-06:002014-05-10T19:19:34.798-06:00Am I going to die? Bird of prey, flying high: take me on your flight.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A few days ago I dreamed I was dying. Terminal. Of a disease Unknown but Certain. Three days left.<br />
<br />
I don't remember saying goodbye to anyone or crying, or trying to do just one last thing on the bucket list or whining and cursing at how it's unfair and "not yet, <i>please</i>." I don't remember trying to say I love you one more time, which I hope, when actual the time comes I am able to, even though my entire life I pray has been nothing if not a long and sometimes rambling love letter to my sweet One. The last few months Death has preoccupied my waking thoughts, dreaming about it was only natural. What rattled my Cage was what became Important to me, at the dream worlds' end.<br />
<br />
I wanted the stories I'd not written to be written. Not the stories I have written to be read, but the stories not yet written, to be conceived at last. I gathered friends and those I admired and gave them all I knew of that story's world and the dying wish to give life to the story I dared not realize. These stories were Not a conceptual thing, existing only in the dreaming, tales of sealing wax and cabbages and kings. (Well, maybe one). I have at least a dozen stories swirling around in my head in divergent stages of development that I for varied reasons have been too afraid to write. Or at least not ready to. I want to do them justice, and I still feel like my talent and skill or lack thereof rather are too meager and mediocre to write them the way they <i>should </i>be written; in the voice they must be heard. <br /><br />I realize that's just low self-esteem bull crap self-deception stuffed lies. No one is the writer they want to be, that's what rewrites and revisions are for. But still, it's dulled and dimmed my creativity, the fear of not being up to the task the Muse has assigned me.<br />
<br />
From the start, deciphering a dream is futile. When trying to make sense of nonsense you lose nearly everything that made the nonsense valuable. But, if human nature is to dream, I think it is just as much human nature to try to make sense from it. Or at least take what you can from it. I doubt it's about a desire to be immortal, though it very well could be. I think it's more about taking what you've been given and to share it with others. Or maybe it's just my mind telling me' it's getting crowded in here with all these ideas' and I need to release the pressure out on pages and screen.<br />
<br />
So, in tribute to my vivid dream which I choose to take as a message from my unconscious to start writing again, I'm going to start writing again. <br /><br />Not necessarily on the blog, but not necessarily not on the blog. I will start small of course, a few words a day perhaps, or transcribing a story I wrote 5 years ago so I can consider submitting it somewhere or even just showing others I love and others I don't a story I love and a story I don't but a story I wrote, while I still have time and life and passion to do so.Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-55804680829167435302014-04-16T22:53:00.003-06:002014-04-16T22:53:55.374-06:00Catching Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
That stupid last post gave me the desire to blog again, and I realize quite a lot has happened since I last wrote.<br />
<br />
Perhaps biggest news, I graduated college. Only took me 13 years after I started to get a Bachelor's degree. While my designing has grown and improved, my writing, journaling and blogging have suffered. Blogging is kind of old news now, at least blogspot is. I blame Facebook, my brother in law, and my friend Jacob in Hawaii. This is because 1) Facebook has taken over what my blogging used to be, me either posting things that interested me, or news about me. 2) My brother in law's fault because I wrote to him all through his mission, and so my news and journalistic/what's happening to Austin got used up there, and 3) same goes for Jacob, anything interesting or noteworthy I feel I have to say gets said to him. Isn't he the lucky one?<br />
<br />
So what do I have left? A desire to express, to communicate, and just to get thoughts and feelings out. I've been suffering off and on with depression for a very long time, more acutely lately, but at the moment none. I feel great. It's weird, to have periods like days, weeks, or hours or minutes where all I want to do is curl up and die, or contemplate and attempt various ways of different magnitudes of success and pain to do just that. It goes between I'm worthless and don't deserve to live to I must have done something wrong or there's something inherently wrong with/about me, and my wife and son would be better off either without me or with anyone else.<br />
<br />
But I didn't post this to talk about my depression, just what's been going on the past year or so since I blogged more regularly.<br />
<br />
I currently work at a company in Salt Lake City, right across from the airport, where we design products for various other (almost exclusively) outdoor companies. Often my job is extremely exciting and interesting and a creatives dream come true, but seemingly just as often it is constricting and degenerates into slapping camouflage and a company logo on whatever product I'm working on, be it a flask, barstool, towel, notebook, or you name it we probably do it. There are many pros and cons of working there, often it feels like more cons than pros, but if nothing else, it is providing me with massive experience and growth, which is a gift in and of itself.<br />
<br />
My son Morgan is almost 5 now, I couldn't be happier with him or love him more, except I know from experience I will love him more tomorrow, just how it goes. He's still behind developmentally, but constantly growing and improving, I just hope more than practically anything he'll continue in that direction. We got news today at his IEP that he'll be in Special Ed, which made me cry. Even though I knew he would, he's quite behind, I just hope he'll continue to grow and improve, and not regress when surrounded by kids that are more behind than he is. It's odd that getting bad news, even when it's inevitable/not a surprise at all, can still stab the heart like it does. It's never easy to hear that someone you love so much and think of as pretty much the most awesome person in the world is deficient in some way. But, he's always my Moby, and I wouldn't change him, but that doesn't mean I don't hope he grows and improves. He is getting so much better at using the potty, which is one of the biggest reliefs (heh) I've experienced as a parent.<br />
<br />
In November I designed another 30 book covers (closer to 40 covers) for NaNoWriMo's 30 Covers in 30 Days challenge, I even got to design a cover for NaNoWriMo's project itself, which was a huge honor and one of the highlights of 2013. I'm planning to make this an annual thing as long as I can find 30 people who want me to design a cover for them, although I'm thinking this year doing it in either October or November, so I can participate in NaNoWriMo the way Baty intended, and write a novel in November. <br /><br />I miss writing and feel at least a portion of my depression is linked to not having the creative outlet of writing. Even tho my very job is nothing but creative outlets as far as designing and visual creativity goes, writing is something that is a part of me whether I want it to be or not (and I do), and I need to feed that portion of my soul or it threatens to poison the whole tree of me or something. I'm not making much sense, but I'm just trying to get everything out while I have the desire and have made the time to write.<br />
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What else? I've been reading about the same, which is almost nothing at all, but I have been listening to a lot, apparently there are a lot of probably less than legal copies of audiobooks on youtube, I've listened to American Gods for the third time and the Thrawn trilogy by Timothy Zahn for the second time, as well as books by Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris, that are as illuminating as they are inspiring. I've become something of a Hitchens if not disciple, admirer, listening to a great number of his debates and speeches and interviews also on youtube, and saddened that he died so recently and I never had an opportunity to meet him, tho what I'd say heaven knows.<br />
<br />
Speaking of meeting celebrities, last summer we went to the Salt Lake Comic Con (we being Tracie, me, and my mommy). It was a lot of fun if insanely crowded. The only famous person we met was Nicholas Brendan who played Xander on Buffy. We opted not to go this year, as there are only about 4 people we'd like to meet (James Marsters, Adam Baldwin, Nathan Fillion, and Billy Dee Williams) and I don't think there's a human being alive that I want to wait in an hour plus line in order to say "Hi, I like you when you act in that one or two roles. Bye." <br />
<br />
When I'm not feeling depressed or fulfilling family or work obligations, I'm either going to the bathroom, sleeping, or playing the Star Wars MMO The Old Republic. It is so fun it's crazy, but then I love Star Wars. Tracie asked me what I want for my birthday, I said cake, intimacy (sex) and Star Wars, which I realized could also be the title of my autobiography, if you add mediocre poetry.<br />
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Another impetus for wanting to start writing again was this wonderful short video I can't recommend enough, I've already shared it with several of you who won't be reading this, here it is again/for the first time, inspiring words from Jorge Luis Borges:<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prpPH923f4M" target="_blank">Best minute and 39 seconds you'll spend today.</a>Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-30788963605391396972014-04-16T22:11:00.001-06:002014-04-16T22:11:32.284-06:00Possibilities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The last time I was this excited, was about a year ago when I got two job offers on the same day. I'm so excited I'm blogging again for crying out loud.<br />
<br />
I feel so many possibilities today like I can fly, which is a big feeling for a guy with one leg.<br />
<br />
First of all, an old friend/mentor/confidante/professor contacted me today. We used to try to go to lunch once a month, then he got cancer and I haven't heard back from him for about 6 months, fearing the worst. He sounds like he's cancer free, (largely because he says so) which I can tell you from personal experience is an awesome feeling. We're planning to go eat this weekend, which is also awesome, not least of which because it's my birthday, the first time Easter has fallen on my birthday for 11 years, if I recall correctly.<br />
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Secondly, another old friend/roommate/game buddy/BFF contacted me to tell me his work is hiring. While I greatly enjoy my current job, I've been feeling a bit in a creative and professional rut as well as a growing urge to leave Utah for different pastures, and though I haven't even applied, let alone been called for an interview or offered a job or any of that, it's a great feeling to feel like I have a chance for change. We'll see how that goes. I do plan to start blogging again, even if I'm guessing about 3-5 people will read this, give or take 3-5.<br />
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Thirdly, and I doubt anyone but me will care about this, but it's my freaking blog anyway, but it looks like I'll soon be getting the new gaming group together for a Star Wars campaign. Tabletop gaming geeks will (better) agree, there are few things more exciting than the possibilities of a new campaign/game with friends.<br />
<br />
I'm realizing that I'm happiest when I have opportunities and possibilities, before reality sets in and the new career opportunity becomes the new job I have to work really hard at, or the lunch with my favorite teacher either ends, or is boring and we lose things to talk about after 15 minutes before our food arrives, or the players quit the game before I get a chance to get it rolling, or before it begins, but not before I spend all the time preparing and planning the game.<br />
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Thank goodness for possibilities, what would the world look like if they lived up to their expectations?Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-62104128948588105042013-10-10T16:35:00.002-06:002013-10-10T16:35:26.954-06:00If I could ask Neil one question<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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More than anybody else alive, I would love to meet Neil Gaiman. Be in the same room, shake his hand, watch him autograph my collection of everything he's ever written, fantasize about us becoming friends.<br />
<br />
If he came to my hometown or somewhere within driving distance of my residence, perhaps to accept an award, he has so many, or to appear at a convention or writer's workshop, that is where I would go. And he, after a brilliant reading from one of his illuminating works, sits down with a microphone and answers questions of the audience. No one appreciates his fans quite like Neil.<br />
<br />
I wonder what would I ask him? My first impulse would be to ask something really deep and impressive about one of his characters, or a microscopic detail in one of his stories, to show him what a passionate admirer I am. Something like 'why does Shadow ask Wednesday's raven to say "Nevermore" when Shadow doesn't seem like the type of person to read Poe?' Even though I don't really care about the answer, I care about him seeing me as a<i> </i><b>true</b> fan, not a pretender. One who has read all of <i>Sandman</i> and owns a dvd copy of the BBC production of <i>Neverwhere</i>. But others are likely asking him similarly esoteric questions with likely the same reasoning.<br />
<br />
If I could ask him anything, my second impulse would be to ask him to lunch or dinner sometime. Not to court the Dream King or something like that, but to hang out, get to know one another, become friends. To show him how similar we are, how my writing and thinking was so like his before I even discovered it. Though after a bit of reflection I think asking a question like that is somewhat cheating. Much like wishing for more wishes from a great brass-skinned genie who plans to twist your wishes anyway before they're made. Also, I realize asking a question like that in a great crowd like this would only invite light laughter, a smile or two, as if I were joking, and then he'd move on to another question.<br />
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Finally I think of the perfect question, one I really would want to know, not one to display my devotion, and not one that he's likely been asked a hundred times before or one I could learn by reading his blog (which I do) or watch videos of other interviews and Q&A's with him (also do.) But I think a really meaningful question, better than "how do you become a successful writer?" or "how did you meet your wife Amanda?" or "what's your favorite food?" I would ask Neil Gaiman "When is the happiest you've ever been?"<br />
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But I would be one hand in a sea of many, and he wouldn't see me. He answers questions about Doctor Who and which is his favorite character. He answers why he chose to live in Minnesota (everyone knows that) and answers what some of his favorite books are, and questions about Sandman sequels. He smiles at us all, grateful and graceful to his throes of admirers, but never hears me. I sit down, and wonder what Neil would say and how he would answer, while I imagine how happy I'd be if he would have answered.<br />
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<br />Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-19712408633592140702013-04-22T19:02:00.005-06:002013-04-22T19:03:41.004-06:00Marsyas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I recently completed my chapbook (small collection of poems) for my poetry class.<br />
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Because my printer is awesome and because some people expressed interest, I have about 70 extra copies I need to get rid of/have available for your reading pleasure/horror.<br />
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If you're interested, (and I didn't screw things up too much) enter your address and click the button below to order it through PayPal, as selling it on Amazon or other sites means I have to buy an ISBN, about $125 which I don't have or want to spend. The price ($8) is mostly to cover the cost of shipping and printing, hope you enjoy!<br />
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Austin<br />
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Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-48056577546025289782013-03-12T14:26:00.002-06:002013-03-12T14:26:21.322-06:00You Say Goodbye, and I Say Hello<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Well, I have some news.<br />
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After 3 years and 4 months of working at SecurityMetrics, I am leaving this Friday. It has been my favorite job (as well as longest) with some of the best & most talented people I've ever met, but I felt it's time to move on.<br />
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A large part of this is because I've been offered a job as a graphic designer at Wavetronix, and a new internship at InsideOut Development. I start next week, and while it's fairly nerve-wracking to leave what's been my home away from home for the last three years, I'm looking forward to the new adventure as well as working somewhere I can actually use my college degree! Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6397215739323931535.post-55045861762918234022013-02-23T11:01:00.004-07:002013-02-23T11:01:35.557-07:00Happy 9 Days After Valentines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hope everyone is having a good time in the internet today. As I'm taking a poetry class and because the internet is a marvelous place, I wanted to share one of the best love poems I've ever read.<br />
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When I was losing a year of my education in beautiful Western Virginia's Southern Virginia College-pretend-University, I took a creative writing class. One of the classmates, who turned out to become one of my best friends ever, wrote this poem about a boy's love for his favorite little arthropod. Tho Valentine's Day is over, everyone reach out to your favorite little segmented friend, maybe give them a leaf, dead fly or sugar cube, and read this with the lights turned down low:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I've Got a Mantis in My Pantis<br />
by JMV<br />
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Green and quite extravagantis,<br />How I love you, little Mantis.<br />Your abdomen has a slantis,<br />Precious, pretty little mantis.<br />Exoskeleton abundantis,<br />You are insect celebrantis.<br />You get big when you pregnantis,<br />You have genes dominantis,<br />You not need a heart
transplantis!<br />Yes, you are quite importantis<br />Even though I seem tyrantis.<br />When I run I huff and pantis--<br />Get in shape for you, my Mantis.<br />You not from Gamma Quadrantis,<br />I think you are friend pleasantis!<br />Won't trade you for a pheasantis,<br />Or a dog, or elephantis:<br />You can go in restaurantis,<br />You not need use a hydrantis,<br />I know you have no implantis!<br />At first I was reluctantis,<br />You ate leaves off my egg-plantis...<br />Now, heart has one occupantis:<br />You, my cherised tiny Mantis.<br />My life no longer stagnantis,<br />Now I'm feeling flamboyantis!<br />Go from Goofus to Gallantis--<br />All because of you, sweet Mantis.<br />Would you like Oatmeal Instantis?<br />I have heard it's quite enchantis.<br />Our attraction clairvoyantis,<br />Love between me and my Mantis.<br />Even though you're flatulantis<br />and make toxic fumes fragrantis,<br />All that is irrelevantis;<br />I adore you, little Mantis.</blockquote>
Austinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10598091900973893234noreply@blogger.com2