Tag Archives: Time

We Interrupt This Broadcast

interrupt this broadcast

 

Hey guys.

I’ve never written a Purpose Statement for MBTTTR, but if I ever do, I imagine it will be something close to this:

To use honest storytelling as a tool to help people achieve healthy, lasting relationships by raising awareness of uncomfortable truths regarding the things commonly causing divorce and human conflict. To courageously demonstrate personal accountability with hope that others will too. To challenge the status quo. To fight for people, all of whom have intrinsic, immeasurable value and are capable of intensely heroic, beautiful and inspiring things. To encourage men to be great. To encourage all to choose hope.

A Peek Into My Life

I’m just one guy. Divorced with a shared-parenting agreement. I’m 37, but you’d never know it from my behavior patterns.

I’m looking around at piles of papers and unopened mail and unread books on my kitchen counter. There’s a frying pan on my stove top that I didn’t clean after cooking breakfast for my son and I yesterday.

We had a Cleveland Indians-themed (Go Tribe!) casual day at work Friday and I waited until that morning to hunt around my house for the Indians hoodie I wanted to wear. I couldn’t find it, until I went down into my basement laundry room and realized it was one of three sweatshirts matted down and covered in cat hair because my old pet cat Eli used to lay there all the time.

And that would be all well and good except that Eli died the day before Thanksgiving LAST YEAR.

I wake up in the morning and I go to a job for more than 40 hours per week. At that job, I have many meetings and things to do.

Additionally, I am a partner in a young digital marketing agency which we started last year, and is now officially the thing taking most of my time.

I have a little boy at home with me 50 percent of nights and weekends. A child who has homework assignments, food and clothing and bathing needs. A child who needs lunches packed, haircuts, and new clothes.

During the rare moments we are not doing things we MUST do, he craves his father’s attention very much.

My life is:

  • Wake up.
  • Go to work to pay for house, vehicle, child needs.
  • Build business in effort to create more flexible lifestyle.
  • Write here, when possible.
  • Repeat.

Things like grocery shopping, lawn mowing, house cleaning, and laundry steal time from these things. Traveling steals time from these things. The now-ultra-rare social/family event steals time from these things.

I want no sympathy. I choose to have a full-time job. I choose to grow my side business. I choose to write here.

If I want things to change, I’m responsible for making different choices. (The idea is that once my agency is my full-time work, some of these time constraints will vanish.)

This is not meant to convey that anyone should feel sorry for me. Not by a long shot.

It is meant to help you understand a little more what my life looks like.

Which brings us to…

The Comments-Section Shit Show

I do not possess the powers of omnipresence.

I don’t even possess the powers of people with average attentiveness skills.

I am a highly disorganized ADHD-diagnosed, divorced single dad who is NEVER caught up. With anything. Ever.

What that means is, I don’t see each and every comment that comes into this blog. And when I DO see comments, I am mostly seeing them out of context on my phone’s WordPress mobile app. It’s a back-end admin tool, and things don’t look anything like what they do when seeing them on your computer or phone.

So, if you read something and think to yourself: Isn’t Matt seeing this?! WTF?, there’s a pretty good chance I haven’t.

Because, I assume, the kind of people who tend to be dickless wankers in internet comments don’t often read 1,500-word blog posts about relationship-related things, the comments section of this blog has never had any problems.

Until recently.

And as a STAUNCH advocate of free speech, I’ve always been inclined to let comments stand. I’ve been called plenty of bad things, and those comments are easy enough to find if you feel like reading through 4,000+ on the dishes post, or any of the predictably cliché blame-shifting ones from butt-hurt guys in the Shitty Husbands posts.

That’s a personal belief. That truth matters. That we must navigate life even when we don’t “like” things.

I live in the United States where every time a president is elected half of everyone is pissed off. And I feel like you can be the kind of person who takes their ball and goes home when things don’t go your way, OR you can take responsibility for helping people see things your way, so that maybe next time, the candidates who share your smarter, better ideas can win.

We MUST navigate life even when conditions aren’t optimal. Conditions are rarely optimal.

Thus, I’ve been ultra-hesitant to silence voices in blog comments simply because I disagree with them or simply because others don’t like them.

This is where I write. Plenty of people have not liked things I’ve written. But I’m not going to stop, nor change what I’m writing to placate anyone who doesn’t like my ideas.

But Then There’s This Other Thing

Despite my many shortcomings, I’m self-aware.

I KNOW that I don’t know many, many things. I KNOW that I’m statistically likely to be wrong about all kinds of things.

So, when I cringe at things I read in certain comments AND dozens of people share my reactions, it’s all very hard to ignore.

I am divorced today because I denied my wife’s right to her own reality. I repeatedly told her throughout our relationship that her emotions and thoughts were “wrong” or “crazy” or “unfair.”

And I am afraid that my instincts to stand up for the rights of people to say unpopular things may be the wrong choice here.

So, Here’s How It’s Going to Be

I’m pissed about this.

I have enough life problems and tasks. And that I have to babysit these comments and take crap from people for my lousy moderation is aggravating.

To be crystal clear on this, I’m NOT saying people don’t have legitimate gripes. The gripes are totally legit. I’m saying people have unrealistic expectations.

I’m both unable and unwilling to moderate these comments to the level required.

There have been tens of thousands of comments left on this blog since it launched in June 2013, and until now, there hasn’t been problem.

But now there is.

How We Say Things Matters

One commenter in particular leaves unpopular comments with regularity. I equate this commenter to the guy I used to see standing up on park benches outside my university’s student union screaming judgments at people walking by.

He’d hold up the Bible and yell at sorority sisters, calling them lesbian whores who will burn in hell. He’d yell at groups of friends minding their own business telling them they’re frat-boy sinners who need saved.

As a baptized Christian and churchgoer, I think there is merit believing in—and living for—things greater than yourself. In loving other people and ourselves. In pursuing truth and trying to live a meaningful, spiritually healthy and balanced life.

But that guy standing up on the bench? EVEN IF every word of the Bible is 100% true, the reality of life is that you can’t communicate with human beings in that manner and expect them to listen to you. If his goal was to GENUINELY “save” people and introduce them to his faith in an effort to help people discover Truth, he was never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever going to accomplish it by calling people sinners and whores.

Jesus, not one time in any recorded text, treated people that way nor taught anyone else to.

Thus, misrepresenting the faith is either an accidental disservice to good Christians, OR a deliberate attempt to fuck with people under the guise of trying to “save” them.

Either way, I don’t like it.

We have a commenter here who kind of, sort of, does that same thing. He believes certain things and shares them. Maybe he’s genuinely trying to help people consider an alternative perspective. Or maybe he’s deliberately fucking with people under the guise of trying to be “helpful.”

Either way, NO MORE.

I would—under no circumstances—allow that asshole preacher guy to stand outside of my house and yell at people visiting my home, my neighbors, or the people walking or driving down the street. Free speech, be damned.

Moving forward, if someone I know to be aware of this post and nonsense side drama writes anything that violates this…

To use honest storytelling as a tool to help people achieve healthy, lasting relationships by raising awareness of uncomfortable truths regarding the things commonly causing divorce and human conflict. To courageously demonstrate personal accountability with hope that others will too. To challenge the status quo. To fight for people, all of whom have intrinsic, immeasurable value and are capable of intensely heroic, beautiful and inspiring things. To encourage men to be great. To encourage all to choose hope.

I’m deleting the comment just as soon as I’m aware of it.

I’ll have tolerance for people who might not know better.

I’ll have little tolerance for people who intentionally engage, or bait, or flame someone whose ideas they disagree with.

It’s totally possible to read things on the internet and not reply to them.

It’s IMPORTANT to understand the perspectives of people who think differently than we do, because we get to use that information to correct false beliefs, or reinforce existing ones.

But in the end, all I’ve ever asked for is basic decency and kindness, and that’s apparently too hard for some.

Life tip: When 30 people tell you the things you say are indecent and unkind, it’s an indication of a problem.

I think Louis CK said it best: “When someone tells you that you hurt them, you don’t get to decide that you didn’t.”

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program.

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This is Where Everything Changed

Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory painting by Salvador Dali

The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali. (Image/dalipaintings.net)

It was unexpected.

It really was.

This is where everything changed.

That’s where I met my wife.

That’s my old apartment.

Whoa. Look at all these new buildings.

Whoa. Our freshman-year dorm is still using the same furniture.

Whoa. They banned tobacco on campus, and we used to smoke right there and there and over there.

The Taco Bell with the drive-thru we used to walk through four or five deep at 3 a.m. is gone, as well as the neighboring corner gas station where we used to buy cigarettes and cheap beer. In its place is a large new commercial development with nice restaurants, a huge Barnes & Noble campus book store, and a Starbucks.

It wasn’t the memories that shook me up, though there are plenty to go around.

It’s the time.

While I was looking over there, the world kept changing over here.

People were walking in and out of new buildings that weren’t supposed to be there. They either didn’t know the buildings weren’t supposed to be there, or had already adjusted.

Things were the same.

And things were different.

We live here in this place. And in other places the hands on the clock keep moving, and everyone living there keeps flipping calendar pages, and younger people move in and make choices and then more things change.

Things always change.

I was just a college student back before the world changed. Just a kid from a small town an hour and a half’s drive from campus.

I didn’t know where I was. A place teeming with knowledge and resources. A vast library. Thought leaders. Curious minds about that, and this, and other things.

I didn’t ask very many to share knowledge with me. When they tried to share it in classes I sometimes attended, I mostly thought about the fun things I was going to do later.

Maybe if I’d read more books and asked more questions and thought more deeply back when I was a student there, I wouldn’t have felt the shock.

Maybe I’d have known better.

Some of my friends from college still live near the city.

One is married with three kids. I’ve known his wife for years, but I’d never met his children.

Here’s this guy I have all of these memories with. And then—bam!—my entire worldview of him changes with an overnight stay at his home.

Three girls, ages 12, 9, and 5. Kind and beautiful, all of them.

The 5-year-old is magic and missing her two front teeth, and I wanted to clone her so I could have one, but don’t tell the 9-year-old because she’s great too, and knows many things about a couple of make-your-own-lip-syncing-music-video apps she thought I needed to have.

I told the sisters I was too shy to make lip-syncing videos, which probably sounded like a lie since their father and I were consuming beer and tequila the night before and seemed presumably less shy.

One of my friends corrected me: “You’re not shy. You’re self-conscious.”

Hmmm. True.

But back over here are these little people who, to me, didn’t even exist five seconds earlier, but now they do, and I love them, but probably not enough to make lip-syncing music videos to share on their favorite apps.

I was 18 when I went to college, but since I could barely remember the first four years of my life, it’s kind of like being 14.

And now 14 more years have passed.

I don’t know where the time and memories go. Like something we drop into a bottomless pit to eventually forget a little bit how things look and feel as they fall further and further away.

Walking through the center of campus on a hot, summer day, there were very few people around. Some incoming freshmen and their parents visiting for orientation. I took photos of this and that. I stopped in various places to sit and soak it in.

All of the familiarity to reacquaint myself with.

And all of the strange and new to get to know.

I would never have stopped to read an inscription back when I was a student there. In the center of campus was a small monument displaying the university seal. On the side was a quote from the university president back in the 1930s when the campus first opened.

I don’t have the quote.

But it talked about the students. It talked about me.

How this place was supposed to help students go on to do things in this world. Something about light. About hope. About truth.

After all of my wasted time and personal failings, what would the collective brain trust think about me?

Proud? Embarrassed? Indifferent?

I don’t think they’d care. I don’t think it would matter if they did. These are just the things I think about.

Because I’m not shy. Just self-conscious.

But not so much then. Not in that different time and place and life all those years ago.

Whoa. That’s where we used to throw the best keg parties.

Whoa. Our favorite old bars are now someone’s favorite new bars.

Whoa. That’s where I used to write with a pen and a notebook.

This is where I dreamed about tomorrow.

This is where yesterday became today.

This is where everything changed.

It really was.

It was unexpected.

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When Someday Gets Here

someday

(Image/riereads.blogspot.com)

I used to believe depression was code for “weak,” and that criers were wimpy losers.

I had heard of people described as “broken,” but I didn’t know what that meant.

Then I lost everything that really mattered to me, and I broke. So now I know what that means, and that if crying is wimpy loserdom, I was a huge wimpy loser, and that if depression is weakness, then I was the opposite of strong.

It taught me one of life’s most critical and valuable lessons: empathy.

Now, when someone is grieving, I can more accurately guess how they’re feeling and am better equipped to support them.

Now, when someone is crying, I know they shouldn’t feel shame, and that it might just be years and years of bottled-up shit coming out in an inevitable and psychologically necessary purge.

Now, I know what’s really at stake. Inside of a person. Now I know the importance of taking off masks in relationships. Of a good night’s sleep. Of the support of family and friends. Of health and wellness. Of peace.

When the lights are off, and it’s just you laying in the silent darkness. Just you. Not the one wearing any of the masks we sometimes wear at work or school or church or socially or on dates or whenever because we’re so afraid of people seeing the real us and running away or pointing and laughing or telling us we’re not good enough.

When the lights are off, and it’s just you? When you take a deep breath, and smile, and feel good, because you like and respect yourself? There is no amount of money we would trade that for. Because there is no thing in this world that can heal that brokenness. When you come apart internally, you feel it every second of every day no matter where you are.

There is nowhere to hide.

People try to numb the pain with alcohol or drugs or money or sex or other escapism. But it just follows you around because wherever you go, there you are, which is, I think, why people sometimes kill themselves. Because maybe then the hurt will finally stop.

Learning about that hurt—and what it really means to be a broken person—changed everything for me. Forever. There’s no going back after that. There’s who you were before, and who you are now. And they’re not the same.

There’s Always Someday to Look Forward To

One of the best things about writing this blog was the discovery that so many other people knew the same pain.

People here got it. People here really understood. It helped. It mattered. I’m not the only one.

One of the worst things about writing this blog more than two years later is that I’ve crawled through the shit, and now I’m pretty much Andy Dufresne standing fearlessly and triumphantly in the cleansing rain while the thunderstorm rages, but countless others are still desperate to find a way out.

Every day, someone in the throes of despair—someone who can’t even catch their breath—discovers this blog for the first time and finds a guy who was once just like them.

And then sometimes they write me: “I’m so afraid. This hurts so much. How do you make it stop?”

But you don’t make it stop.

You just serve your sentence and bide your time. And when the time is right, you crawl through the shit tunnel just like everyone else had to. No cheats or shortcuts. Just the way. And then you’re less afraid. Because freedom no longer represents the loss of everything you were ever sure of—of everything steady in your life.

On the other side, freedom looks like hope and possibility.

I didn’t get much right in the early days of divorce. But on my darkest days, I always chose hope. That part, I got right.

I’m so afraid. This hurts so much. How do you make it stop?’

It’s good to be afraid, because it’s the only time we ever have the opportunity to choose courage.

It’s good to hurt, because when everything’s broken, it’s the only way you know you’re still alive.

And it’s good that we’re forced to be patient. Because forcing things generally yields undesirable results.

I used to give myself a pep talk to maintain my sense of hope.

And now I find myself giving it to others.

In the context of the human experience, I think it’s one of the most important ideas I’ve ever had.

Someday will eventually get here.

When we feel like we lost everything—when we hit the floor and know it’s rock bottom—we have a few choices.

But there’s only one good one. And that’s holding the following truth close to our heart and remembering to breathe every day, because your only job is to stay alive:

If you just keep breathing, tomorrow always comes. Someday eventually gets here.

Someday. When it doesn’t hurt anymore. When everything will change.

Someday. When something inexplicably beautiful happens.

Someday. When you get to feel like you again, only now you have these superpowers because now you have courage and wisdom and strength that you didn’t have before.

Because of fortitude. Fortitude and breathing and bravely getting out of bed in a brazen attempt to live.

And finally—finally, dammit—you get to look at a puzzle image coming into focus. A picture of your life that helps explain that you could have never gotten to today—to someday—without every single experience before it. Even the bad stuff. Maybe especially the bad stuff.

In my experience, there is very little in this life better than anticipation. Like a child staring at unopened presents under the Christmas tree.

We don’t need much. Air. Food. Water. Shelter. And something to look forward to.

And that’s one of life’s secrets that not enough people think about: We ALL have something to look forward to. It doesn’t matter that we don’t know what it looks like or when it will happen.

Someday will arrive. Every single day we wake up, someday is closer.

Sometimes someday arrives. Awesome! But now we have no idea what might happen next. Afraid! Because the unknown is scary. That’s when all that courage and something like fearlessness helps. You earned those things. You earned them by crawling through the shit.

And now the wind, thunder and lightning don’t faze you. I’ve survived worse.

And now the heavy rain feels like an old friend.

Because salvation laid within.

When someday finally gets here.

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You’re Gonna See Some Serious Shit

Doc Brown and Marty McFly Back to the Future

“When this sucker hits 88 miles per hour, you’re gonna see some serious shit.” Emmett ‘Doc’ Brown, Back to the Future

I’m a time traveler.

Just like you.

And it’s actually dangerous because when you spend all your time thinking about things that already happened, or worrying and dreaming about things that might happen someday, you’re never really being alive right now. You’re never here. Right this second. I have to remind myself sometimes that there is a right now. I have to breathe slowly and really concentrate and try to not think about something that happened earlier or wonder about something that might happen later.

I breathe in. Hold. Then out. And if you only think about the air going in and out of your lungs, you have a slight possibility of being mindfully alive for a few seconds.

I’m a dreamer. Maybe it’s healthy sometimes. Most of the time, it’s probably not. Because I’m an optimist, I often imagine something and I hone in on all the positives of this possible future, and I paint a rosy picture in my imagination where everything is great and I feel good and maybe a girl likes me in the end.

I dream about big things. Like my start-up company. I catch myself thinking about the rewards of our theoretical success a few years from now even though I can’t see all the steps between here and there.

I dream about small things. Like a party or fun weekend trip coming up. I catch myself thinking about having an amazing time with a bunch of other people who are also having an amazing time and everything is awesome just like it used to be when we were young and didn’t have baggage and shame perpetually tagging along.

I’m glad I’m a hopeful person. That I’m positive and not cynical. That I tend to find the silver linings instead of being dour and pissed off all the time.

But it has a downside, too.

When you default to a position of hopefulness and optimism, or more specifically, when you imagine the birthday or vacation or wedding anniversary or class reunion or holiday a certain way, and then when you really experience it, it’s a total letdown, you set yourself up for constant disappointment.

I experience that often. I build things up in my mind and then I’m disappointed because something I thought would be great wasn’t.

When you’re a little Catholic school kid from a little Ohio town most people in your own state can’t find on a map, it’s probably not weird to end up like me.

I’d walk home from school or deliver newspapers on my paper route, looking at the houses and daydreaming about my future. The houses were all basically the same, save the customary architectural tweaks consistent with middle-income Midwest homes designed at the turn of the 20th century.

I would live in a house just like that because people live in houses just like that.

I would be married because adults get married.

I would have a few kids because Catholic families have a few kids.

With age came ambition, if not direction. I wanted more. Financial success. A vibrant social life. There’s more to life than this.

No matter how much you evolve through high school and college, it seems like the life you lived as a child grew permanent roots. Like the baggage and shame, it follows you everywhere, and you were either blessed or cursed by whatever hand life dealt you.

I was both.

Where I’m from, everyone goes to high school, and then everyone goes to college, and then everyone gets married and starts a family.

Any deviation from that path is viewed through squinty-eyed suspicion.

Why isn’t that person following The Plan™?

It’s because those rule-breakers aren’t as smart as you. You know everything, and that will be obvious to everyone when you’re in your mid-thirties and life has turned out just like you knew it would.

Today is Oct. 21, 2015. It’s the day Doc, Marty and Jennifer travelled to in the future via flying DeLorean in the Back to the Future movie franchise. The Internet has been making a big deal about it for months.

Back to the Future (and the sequels) has been one of my favorite movies since I saw it at the theater in 1985. The time-travel story captured my six-year-old imagination. I’m pretty sure the first Back to the Future film is the movie I’ve seen more than any other though I don’t have an iTunes play count from the past 30 years to prove it.

In Back to the Future II (released in 1989), the movie makers created a version of the fictional Hill Valley, Calif. they imagined for 2015.

Flying cars and hoverboards are the obvious highlights. The justice system works swiftly because there are no more lawyers. Meteorologists can accurately predict changing weather down to the second. You can hydrate a little hockey puck-sized pizza in a small kitchen appliance, and enjoy a hot, delicious regular-sized pizza just seconds later. A bottle of Pepsi costs about $50. People wear self-drying clothes. Jaws 19 is playing in theaters. Kids no longer use hands to play video games.

Maybe adults watched Back to the Future II and knew most of that was never going to happen. I was 10, so I can’t be sure. I watched with wonder.

And what I’m thinking about now is how 30 years ago, I watched someone else’s vision of the future, and with three decades (technically, 26 years) to go, none of what I saw felt especially far-fetched to me.

But I look around today and it doesn’t look at all like the future Back to the Future II painted for me, even though 26 years ago it made so much sense.

We imagined a future. But it didn’t happen that way at all.

And in the context of the cars we drive, and the price of soft drinks, and our fashion sense, I think most of us are probably okay with that.

The part of divorce no one talks about is the part where you lose all your dreams.

People tend to focus on the loss of their spouse at home, or sharing time with the kids, or the financial costs of the split.

Change is hard. It just happens and suddenly you’re sitting alone in your house, and waking alone in your bed, and going by yourself to family gatherings to look everyone in the eye who travelled great distances to sit in church pews and hear you vow “’Til death do us part” before handing you a wad of cash. They ask how you’re doing and you can’t be honest because they’ll worry about you, or you’ll bore them for two hours while dripping in failure. Because everyone there is still married.

Back in that little Ohio town where that’s just what you do.

But I don’t know that any of that is the worst or hardest part.

I had plans.

With my wife and son and the daughter I never got.

With my successful career where we never again worry about money.

With Sunday afternoons 30 years from now where I’m grilling dinner and my grandchildren are running around the backyard. My son and his family. In both directions.

Because right up to the moment you hear: “I’m leaving,” everything is going according to plan.

You never—not even once—considered an alternative future. Not like shitty alternate-1985 where Biff is your stepdad, your father has been murdered, and your beat-up mother has massively gross, plastic boobs.

In Back to the Future II, Doc and Marty use a time machine to repair the damage.

But us? You and me? We don’t get time machines. The only time travel we do keeps us from living in the now.

I’m cool with the fact we don’t have flying cars. I was never a particularly strong skateboarder, so the absence of hoverboards doesn’t keep me up at night. And Jaws jumped the (pun intended) shark after Jaws 2.

In other words, the future happened. We’re here now. And relative to the movie’s imagined society, I’m more than fine with how everything turned out.

I think that same thing can be true in our personal lives.

The future was written. I could see down the road and I just “knew” how most of it looked and felt. And it was good.

But, really, it wasn’t written. I didn’t know anything. And it was kind of shitty and horrible when it actually happened.

Something real is eventually going to happen. Something real is happening right now.

Life will write the script that was always going to be written no matter how many times we try to pen it ourselves.

Now, I know I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

And just maybe, that’s a really good thing.

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The Holidays One Year Later

happy-christmas

When you’re co-dependent and have never truly been on your own and you haven’t had sex in more than a year and then your wife leaves you, it feels like your life is over because you’re 34 and every second it’s: Now what?

You cry a lot and feel shitty and lack confidence and no women in the history of the universe have ever been attracted to that.

So much of your identity was wrapped up in your marriage and essentially all of your purpose was.

And when that identity and purpose go away, you don’t even know who you are anymore or what you’re supposed to do and it’s terrifying.

You have a lot of choices to make.

About who you want to be. And about how to get there.

But you’re still having trouble breathing. You’re still having trouble moving. You still don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror.

Being an adult is hard. And life is not always fair. And the choices we make are predominantly responsible for wherever we are in life.

If we can accept those three facts and make peace with them, we have a chance to move forward.

Especially that last one.

Because the choices we make moving forward will be predominantly responsible for wherever we are five years from now.

Something important happens during all that suffering. You get tougher.

And you figure out what really matters.

So instead of trying to win a pointless fight with your future girlfriend or spouse for no reason, you’ll act like an adult and exercise patience and kindness and sensibility.

Think of the last really awful fight you had with your spouse or partner. You probably wanted to punch them in their stupid face, because: Ugh—they’re so dumb and stubborn and mean and unfair sometimes!!!

I get it.

Now imagine a drunk driver runs a red light and crashes into their driver’s-side door at 50 miles per hour and now they’re not with us anymore. And the last thing you wanted to do was punch their face.

And you cry because you loved them more than you’ve ever loved anything. And you cry because you feel guilt and shame for feeling that way.

Perspective is a beautiful thing.

Figure out what matters. Fight for it. The stuff that doesn’t? Maybe let it go because car accidents happen and we’re not guaranteed anything because life isn’t fair, and being an adult is hard, but we should still be adults, even when it’s inconvenient.

Something else important happens.

Time passes.

You stop crying.

You stop feeling broken.

You stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Maybe you start making better lifestyle choices.

Maybe you start working out and taking care of yourself again.

Maybe you start laughing again. Laughing is important. Kids do it constantly and they’re happy and healthy. Adults rarely do and they’re sad and miserable.

And maybe you smile and laugh and are attractive again, and people like you because everyone likes smiles more than scowls and then you get some confidence back because all isn’t lost.

A year ago, I played “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on repeat while decorating the house for the holidays because it’s my favorite Christmas song, and I got sad over and over and over again as I kept pulling Christmas décor and ornaments out of boxes that belonged to my ex-wife, all with a different story attached.

I was obsessed with the idea that I would never find a girl to like me because I was mid-thirties and had a little boy and who could possibly want some loser castaway who probably deserved everything he got?

I spent the vast majority of Christmas Day alone, eating Chinese food and watching TV. It felt exactly how it sounded.

But then another year passed.

And I’m so far beyond the brokenness of yesteryear that I sometimes forget to be amazed by it all. To feel the gratitude the miracle deserves.

I felt like dying because the whole world ended.

But I just kept waking up anyway.

Just kept smiling at the people who lifted me up.

Just kept my sense of humor which has always kept me younger than my chronological age.

And now we’ve circled the sun another time. That was fast.

I’m going to break out the Christmas tree tonight and set it up for my little son who is the most-precious thing I have ever known.

I might still listen to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on repeat because it kicks ass, but I won’t be sad over and over and over again and cry like a wimp.

I’ll be hopeful. Maybe I’ll even watch Elf or Christmas Vacation and laugh some more. I’ll probably smile, even if I’m alone.

Because I don’t want to die. Because some girls will like me. Because I’m actually alive again.

Because it’s just about Christmastime and sometimes magic happens.

Because 2015 could change everything even though we don’t have all the cool stuff Back to the Future 2 promised us.

Because I recognize the guy in the mirror.

And despite all the flaws and immaturity and bad decisions?

He’s really not so bad.

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