Thank you for being part of my life

A self confessed curmudgeon

with a cozy Christmas heart.

You were my first friend

at my first full time job

and became my best friend

when we both quit together.

Our humour was the same

our conversations effortless.

You took me to my first drag show

and shared the joy of pride.

You were my first editor

and my best champion

You had the confidence in me

that I never had.

You were the first to listen

the first I told.

And when it was time to go

your hugs were always the best 

You meant so much to me.

It was hard to watch you suffer.

I hope you now have some peace

Thank you Michael

for being a part of my life.

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you excerpt from chapter: THE MASK

"Were you bullied as a kid?"

I've been asked that question a lot, especially by Pdocs and therapists. I'm not really sure why. I know my dad was. Someone shot a firecracker at him when he was little. I know my friend was after he did a whoopsy in his pants on a Grade 6 field trip. I've seen people bullied my entire life, both adults and children, but I have never been the target.


I guess the Pdocs and Therapists were trying to establish if there was some childhood trauma that could inform my depression. I told them nothing was there. My childhood was happy with no need or want. My only fear was that of being bullied, and I took steps to protect myself.

I watched in silence as others were attacked. Empathy would surge through my veins, but never with enough courage to help. When they were bullied, I was too. I made note of the target, his tragic flaws and what made him so susceptible to abuse. Then, I made sure I never made the same mistake myself. I internalized what I saw and shared in the shame and tears, all the while doing my best to blend in so as not to be the next target. I'm sorry to those I let down. I should have been there for you. Instead, I ran away and hid behind my mask (figuratively, not literally). I adjusted my expression and manner based on whoever I was with. People saw in me what they expected. And it worked. I was never bullied.


Over the years, though, I became my own worst enemy. Behind my mask, The Critic was relentless in his criticism and ruthless with his words; he cut me down again and again, draining me of my worth and self-compassion. By trying to hide from bullies, I created my own, worse than I had ever witnessed.

...

The Gift

 My 100 word story "The Gift" was published by Five Minutes today.  Below is the story.

My mother has Alzheimer's. Whenever I visit we mostly sit as familiar strangers and talk about the tea. Once in a while, though, there’s a small window, five minutes max, when her eyes sparkle. One day I pointed out a misshapen clay pot I’d made for her. I suggested she throw it out. She smiled and replied that a little boy had made it for her using his own hands and all his love. "I’ll never throw out any of your gifts, John." We shared a moment, a memory, and then it was back to how tasty the tea was.

Christmas songs are powerful

I like Christmas music. It is full of nostalgia. Some songs more than others.  Some have a key lyric that triggers a memory, a feeling or a thought. The following are some of the songs that strike the deepest chords, the ones I embrace every year.


Home for the holidays

"from Atlantic to Pacific,
gee the traffic is terrific"

This rhyme is unexpected and makes me smile every time. It has also become a chuckle between my daughter and I. Happy moments remembered each year makes these line special.



Have yourself a merry little Christmas

"Through the years
We'll always be together
If the Fates allow"

This used to trigger my depression. It highlights our happy intentions that in the end are beyond our control. After hearing it so many times at work, I am able to handle this song better though these particular lines still makes me sad.



Happy Xmas

"So this is Christmas and what have you done?
Another year over, a new one just begun."

These lines hit me hard. When I looking back over the year each Christmas I feel like I have done very little. My dreams are still beyond my reach and I have not really done much.



Frosty the Snowman

"Frosty the Snowman (snowman)
Knew the sun was hot that day (hot that day)
So he said, "Let's run, and we'll have some fun
Now before I melt away."

Now I know this is just a silly song but these lines hit me as existential, the fleeting meaning of life. We are all snowmen. Let's have some fun before we melt away. I think way too much!



Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer

"All of the other reindeer
Used to laugh and call him names
They never let poor Rudolph
Join in any reindeer games"

The other reindeer are bullies. They make Rudolph's life miserable. They only appreciate who he is after Rudolph accomplishes an extraordinary feat (he saves Christmas). The vast majority of us never get that chance. There is nothing you can do that will make people suddenly change their opinion of you. Most of us are shut out of the "reindeer games" forever. We will never be extraordinary.



Baby it's cold outside

"Say, what's in this drink."

I realize this is suppose to be a harmless song, more coy than anything but this lyric has not aged well.



Silver Bells

"Strings of streetlights even stop lights blink a bright red and green
As the shoppers rush home with their treasures"

I love these lines. They remind me of when I used to do all my own shopping. I would go into the city in search of just the right gifts. I often had no idea what I was going to buy my friends and family so the trip was always a quest that covered the Eaton's Centre and the shops  all around. Heading home, my purchases were definitely "treasures".



It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

"There's a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well
It's the sturdy kind that doesn't mind the snow"

This song reminds me of going downtown and seeing the magic of all the lights and decorations of the Eaton Centre, the tall Christmas trees at City Hall, the festive windows of the Bay.



Silent night

"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright"

These lines remind me of a mid-night Christmas eve service service at church. Snowflakes  were falling softly outside when my Dad leaning over and whispering "Merry Christmas" at exactly 12 o'clock.

Christmas songs are definitely powerful. I enjoy many of the memories they highlight. That said though, by the end of the holidays I am happy to more back to non-Christmas music.
By then it is time to move on and make new memories.

Excerpt from Oblivion: Outsiders

Early on in my life I realized that there were “outsiders”, those who were picked-on, excluded and made fun of and so I made it my ambition to never stand-out.  In the media, in entertainment, the outsiders are glorified and made triumphant (Revenge of the Nerds, Forest Gump, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer) but in reality, everyone knows this is a quaint fantasy.  

Most people are not capable of opinion altering feats, in fact most people are never even given the opportunity. They’re classified and excluded from the reindeer games forever.   My chameleon abilities allowed me to befriend teachers and bullies, gays and geeks.  No matter the situation, I was never an outsider.  I never had to prove myself worthy because no one really took notice. It was a comfort to barely exist.

Safe & Happy

Today is my mother's birthday.  She would have been 89 years old. Red was her favorite colour.  The cardinal was her favorite bird.  Every time I see one of these happy birds, or hear their cheerful song I am reminded of her smile. As a kid playing outside, it meant I was safe and happy. As an adult I know that I was loved.

Octopus's Garden

A simple song. A basic ukulele cover.  Wishful lyrics about an escape from it all.  Yes, I too would like to go and live in an Octopus's garden.

The original is just as inviting.

Another Octopus song.  This one is also an escape, but this time it's an escape back to my past, and those carefree moments I spent with my young children. I will never forget the smiles we shared.

Even the instrumental is relaxing.

Octopuses (I always thought it was Octopi) themselves are fascinating creatures. Three hearts, blue blood, intelligent, cellular suicide after laying eggs - what's not to love?

Seven years ago

Seven years ago today I watched as she took her last breath. The laboured sound that had wheezed for hours, suddenly stopped. It was over. And in that instant everything about her became a memory. I miss you Mom.

Remember

With bated breath I turn the crank and tighten the spring three times. The sequence is set, the gears in motion. Slowly the drum turns, and its pins begin to pull on the comb. At first it releases isolated notes, that seem to make no sense, until suddenly a simple melody is pulled from the reaches of my mind and its familiar tune draws a smile across my face. I remember. I was on the floor in the living room of my childhood home exploring the souvenirs of my father's travels. Each treasured music box touched a different point in time, a happy time when my life was lived not planned. Nothing like it is now: a series of Cognitive Behavioural strategies laced with Aripiprazole, Bupropion and Duloxetine. And yet, still, every once in a while, I hear a note, an isolated hope that seems to make no sense. I used to ignore it but now I tell myself to keep listening, to let it float to the reaches of my mind and maybe, just maybe I 'll finally remember the once familiar tune.

Good-bye Mom

Five years ago my mother died.

I can still hear her last laboured breath 
and the silent relief that followed.

She had long been lost in a fog of dementia
Speaking absent words from distorted thoughts,
and her frustration with cancer's constant pain 
had left her miserable with life and all around her.

She was not who she once was,
those last weeks and months;
no longer my confidant
no longer my friend.
She was gone.

I never wanted to admit it;
that I never got the chance to say goodbye 

when it mattered most.

But I'm ready now.

Good-bye Mom

I know you loved me and were always proud.

You're always with me

Your hugs, your kisses, your affection, that I'll never feel again, still comfort me, as warm as sunshine on magnolia buds. Your love, that sparkle in your eyes I'll never see again, remains in my mind as vivid as tulips bursting forth. Your encouragement, your praise, your pride, that I'll never hear again, remain in my heart as cherished as the first sounds of spring. Happy Mother's Day Mom. You're always with me.

A pregame pep talk for the ages

This is a story I wrote that was published in the Globe & Mail (Nov 29, 2011).


It's a cliché, but some of the most memorable moments in sport often hinge on the coach's pregame pep talk. The most influential one I have ever heard was at my son's first Timbits hockey final.

After his first season of early-morning practices and extra time spent on the backyard rink, my son still skated in a one-foot scooter style. He could make a wicked right turn, but that was about it. The rest of the team pretty much matched his skill level, except for the one kid who could actually skate and stickhandle at the same time.

There we were in a room full of six-year-old boys and their excited fathers. Our team was the "feared" Bruins. The kids had actually wanted to be called the Bumblebees because the uniform was black and yellow, but the coach vetoed that for a more storied hockey name. The dads were relieved. It didn't matter that none of the kids knew that a Bruin was from Boston or that it was even a mammal for that matter. It was clearly the proper name for a black-and-yellow team.

The excitement among the adults in my son's dressing room was palpable. It was the first game our sons would play on the full ice and the score was actually going to be kept on the scoreboard. The parents would not have to use their fingers this time. It would be an official win.

Moreover, for many of the dads it was their first direct experience with "playoff hockey" in a very long time, if ever. We were all reliving our own moments on the ice.

I played hockey as a kid for three years and scored one goal. I remember it as clear as a bell. It was the first game of my third season. There was a mad scramble in front of the net, as happens in most games involving little kids still struggling with the concept of blade on ice.

I was in my usual position outside the crowd. I am not a particularly assertive person and driving hard to the net was not my style. Rather, I stood by the hash marks expecting a whistle and therefore being better prepared to return to the bench.

At any rate, there were nine players and a goalie falling over each other looking for the puck when suddenly it squirted out and stopped in front of me. No one knew it was there so I had plenty of time to plant my skates firmly and line up the puck on the back of my stick.

I could not do a wrist shot and, surprisingly, I had enough wherewithal to know I had to get the puck up in the air and over the scrum. Clearly I had a great deal of time to think this through. I positioned myself, visualized the shot and mentally crossed my fingers, then managed to shovel the puck just high enough that it toppled into the net. I was mobbed by my teammates. I scored! I have no idea whether we won or lost but I had scored.

After the game my brother, who was eight years older and so much cooler, congratulated me with genuine enthusiasm. He was impressed with my new season pace of a goal a game and proclaimed, "You are going to have a hot year."

I remember basking in his excitement and forecast. Alas, it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment that I will always cherish. I retired from hockey with a career stat of one point.

My son's coach turned to the chalkboard – one more hockey accessory yet to be put to use this first season – and wrote one word on it: FUN. As he wrote, the room fell silent. He paused for a moment with his back to the players, then emphatically underlined the word and turned to his team.

"Okay Bruins. Listen up! I want you to remember one word today: fun." He turned and underlined the word one more time, then threw down the piece of chalk to punctuate the drama. The room was spellbound. I smiled. This was perfect, I thought.

The coach looked around the room at each player, then suddenly became animated. He pointed to the word and repeated it. "Fun. Do you know what that stands for?" He paused for a moment.

"F. F stands for fast skating. I want everyone skating as fast as they can at all times. U. U stands for up the ice. Drive the other team's net. This is the last game of the season and I do not want to see anyone holding back. Finally N," he paused to make sure he had everyone's attention. "N stands for no-nonsense. We are here to play hockey, not fool around. We are here to play hard. We are here to win. Now get out there and show them what the Bruins are made of. On three give me a 'Bruins!' One, two, three, Bruins!"

All the dads eagerly joined in the final cheer, then congratulated the coach on his speech. Some even asked for a paper copy to mark the moment. With a pep talk like that, I am sure we won. To be honest, though, I can't really remember.

After the game, my son was overwhelmed with excitement.

"Did you see that? There was a real ref wearing a black-and-white striped shirt on the ice!"

That became the highlight of the game for both of us.

It was then that I stopped keeping score and my son's hockey games became more about the Bumblebees and less about the Bruins.

I just want to remember

I want to remember my dream,
that first fruit, just ripe, hanging ready.
I know now it was never really there
but to just see it once more,
to feel that anticipation,
that taste teasing my tongue...
I just want to remember how it felt.

Hiding

I found the perfect hiding spot years ago. No one ever noticed me.  Very quiet.  Very secure.

Then I took one little peek out, just to take a look.  I was not even really sure I wanted to be found. And suddenly you spotted me.

It has been very lonely in here but also very safe. 

Somehow you have convinced me it is time to come out of hiding. I trusted you. You took my hand in yours, and coaxed me with such kind words. 

What were the chances you would be looking at just the right time?  It was only a little peek, for the briefest of moments.  And you spotted me!

Thank you.

Cicadas

The cicadas are droning in the trees today. I have not heard them much this year. It has not been hot enough. For me they are a sound of summer.

As is the sound of a single engine airplane making its way across a bright blue sky. I remember laying silent on the grass on the back hill behind my house, looking up and just listening to these sounds

At the time, it was a moment, just a break from playing. But looking back, I remember it as so much more. It was home.

Clay Pot

One day I was looking at my mother's precious trinket shelf and noticed an ugly misshaped clay pot I had made for her when I was a little boy. I had dug the coarse clay myself from the river that ran through our backyard and fashioned and painted it with primary hands.

When I looked at the pot, I was embarrassed by the naive craftsmanship. The inside was not uniform, the outside was not smooth. The blue poster paint had bled and stained the surface. It was obviously inappropriate for the porous material.

I gave my mother permission to throw the pot out and assured her I would not be upset.

My mother glared at me, offended by my suggestion. She informed me that it was not up to me; that a little boy had made her that clay pot with his own hands, and with all his love. She had no intention of ever throwing it out.

I suddenly realized that I was as important to my mother back then as I was at every other moment in my life. She did not ever see me as potential, as becoming something more but rather always as a result, as already being there.