Alphabet Soup for Your eSoul

A friend recently posted a question about "confessional" writers and why they do it. Well, here's the extended version of my response to that.

I am honest about a lot of personal things. For example, I think that, as a culture, we are far too self-conscious about sex. We hypocritically use sex to sell everything from cookies to washing machines, yet we have great difficulty talking about real, actual sex issues. Because of that, I'm very open when questions come up about my own sex life.

I am an unabashed feminist. I am not afraid to talk about race issues. And don't get me started on gay and transgender rights. I also like to play Devil's advocate. I am opinionated and fairly transparent in a number of ways.

Having said all that, there are parts of my life I'd rather not share with people. I don't want people to know that I have a problem with alcohol, or that I am technically homeless at the moment, or that I suffer from depression and an often debilitating low sense of self-worth. I don't want my life exposed like some Facebook version of a basic cable reality freak show. Hell, I'm going to my high school reunion in a month. Do you really think that I want that information floating around the hotel ballroom like the Fog, enveloping these people I haven't seen or spoken to in 20 years?

So why do I share these things? Because I am going through a rough journey right now. However, I am learning some great lessons along the way. And these aren't lessons that apply solely to substance abuse or mental and emotional health issues. If you get a deeper understanding of what "people like me" go through, that's great. But that's not my goal.

My goal -- my desire -- is that you can extrapolate the lessons I've learned from my struggles and apply them to your own life. You might hate your job and wonder how you've ended up where you are in life. You may be in a bad marriage. You might be afraid that you're a terrible parent. You may even have simply had a bad day because that cashier at the supermarket was kind of a dick to you. Or, like me, you may innately believe that you're worthless.

But you can look back and integrate some of the same lessons I'm learning to integrate.

I'm not baring myself so that you can pity me or tell me how strong I am. Although I appreciate knowing that I have a strong support network of people who actually care about me, I am extremely uncomfortable with that sort of attention -- any attention, really. I'm not trying to become famous. I don't get off on people knowing intimate details of my life. And even though I may write about it, I certainly don't want to discuss it. Honestly, I agonize over what I will or will not share because most of my experiences I wouldn't even discuss in detail with some of my closest friends and family.

I'll be honest; I do experience a certain amount of catharsis (there's that word again). Blogging is a sort of extension of my journaling. But, no, I don't do it for me. I do it for you.

Do you feel a little bit better about that shitty job that's so far from what you imagined when you tossed your mortarboard into the air that warm summer day? Do you feel that maybe you can address the chinks in your marriage so that you can either save it or have the clarity to see that it needs to end? Do you have the confidence in yourself to know that it's okay to make a mistake with your kids, but that, ultimately, you're doing the right thing? Do you know that when someone's an asshole to you, it usually has nothing to do with you, really? Do you know that you have value?

That's what this is truly about: you.

All I've ever wanted to do in my life is help people, and this is one small way of doing that. And if I'm not reaching you in that way, then I'll just pack it in and go back to talking about the latest recipe I've tried out or how pissed I am that ABC cancelled my favorite program. Because if I'm not helping people, then there is no point.

And, no, I don't fancy myself to be some self-help, lifestyle guru. I'm not Dr. Phil or Deepak Chopra or whoever the fuck is en vogue these days. I'm not ladling chicken soup down the gullet of your soul. I don't profess to have all the answers, or even most of them. I'm just a guy. A guy who gives a shit about other people. A guy who has experienced hurt and is still hurting, but who is learning ways to cope with that hurt and wants to pass those coping skills on to others. I'm learning along the way and making some mistakes, but maybe by sharing my walk -- and my stumbles -- something will resonate within you about your own path.

So, there. That's why I do this. Any other questions?

Riding the Subway with Baggage

I had a relapse a few weeks ago. After four months of sobriety, I allowed myself to go on an extended bender. Ultimately, it ruined my plans for my return to New York. No, I still moved. But the friend that I was supposed to stay with was, understandably, infuriated by my condition and wouldn’t allow me to stay with him. I then spent the next two days aimlessly riding the subway. That’s it, just up and down the various lines. Lugging my weighty messenger bag and huge suitcase. I then managed to hit up a few bars in the Village, just for good measure. At some point during all of this, my mother even filed a missing person report.

I wound up having one of my withdrawal seizures (in Port Authority of all places) and ended up in the hospital. On suicide watch, no less. Yup. I had a nurse’s aide sitting by my bed 24 hours a day.

During that period, I started to panic about where I was going to stay once I was finally discharged. So, I contacted a few people I felt comfortable asking, to see if I could stay with them for “a couple of days” until I could figure out my next steps. I already had an apartment lined up, but I wouldn’t be able to move in until September. I just needed a place to regroup. Unfortunately, no one was able to accommodate me. So, I now find myself in a shelter in Brooklyn until I can move into the aforementioned apartment.

This is not meant to be a confession. This is not meant to garner sympathy. So, please, I’d prefer not to receive any messages regarding any of it. I’m telling you all of this merely as background for the larger issue I’d like to discuss. So bear with me.

Recently, another friend of mine, someone I see as sort of an older sister, remarked that I’m “resilient and resourceful”. My response was, basically, that I wouldn’t have to be resilient and resourceful if I didn’t keep fucking up. I wasn’t trying to lash out at her. No, I was angry at myself in the moment.

The miracle, if you can call it that, is that I’m no longer angry at myself. I messed up. There were consequences, but there’s also a future.

I think I finally understand what serenity is. Life can be completely messed up, or even just be mildly challenging. I don’t know. It varies. Because it’s fucking life, and that’s just what it does: It varies. And you just have to roll with it.

But here’s my real revelation: prayer. I know I’ve discussed prayer before. A number of times, in fact. Praying regularly, not just in the bad times. Connecting to the divine, whatever that may mean for you. Strengthening yourself for whatever may come. And I stand by all of that.

But that’s not what hit me this morning.

I’ve mentioned before that I meditate. That’s my way of connecting. I also journal, which I consider part of my meditation. But I realized that my journaling is prayer.

Because what is prayer, essentially? Yes, it’s connecting to the divine. But it’s mainly catharsis.

When you pray – however you choose to do so – you’re sending out your hopes, your fears, your anxieties, your joy, your sadness, your mourning, your celebration… And, as I said in my other post on prayer, if you’re doing it right, you come away feeling, if not unburdened, then less burden. You come away with more of a sense of peace. Of, well, serenity.

Folks, that’s catharsis.

If you’ve been paying attention, you know that I’m an avowed atheist (agnostic, whatever). I don’t believe in any supreme being. I do believe in a connection to the universe, but not because there’s someone out there sewing it all together. So why do I insist on using the religious term “prayer”? Maybe because it’s a useful common term. Maybe because that’s what I grew up with, so it’s the only terminology I know to use. Nevertheless, I think that prayer (or whatever you want to call it) is powerful. Christians say that “prayer changes things”. As non-Christian as I may be, I completely agree.

All the junk that I described earlier, I brought that on myself. Life didn’t do that to me; I did that to me. But, because I’ve “prayed,” I feel at peace with where I am right now and am able to harness some optimism for my future. The plans that I had before coming to New York are still possible. This is just a bump, a wrinkle. There’s way more life yet to come. Some of it’s going to suck, and some of it’s going to be amazing. Some of it will be just plain mundane. But it will go on.

Hopefully, whatever life throws at you – or you bring on yourself – you can pray your way out of it. And what is prayer for you? How do you achieve that catharsis? Through exercise? Cooking? Pottery? Poetry? Gardening?

Whatever it is that brings you that release, it's prayer. And you need to embrace it. Let it heal you. Let it bring you peace. Let it guide you through this murky thing we’ve been handed that we never asked for but have to navigate nonetheless. Let it give you meaning in the meaninglessness.

Otherwise, you wind up just riding the subway from end to end, saddled with heavy baggage.