This Is How I Love, in a raw 15 minutes

Perhaps we sow the pains of love deep into our hearts at the beginning so that when the harvest comes, we can be confident in what we knew all along: that it was not meant to be. Even though it has been years past my last leaping off the love cliff, it is still a mystery to me how I became so hurt. The truth is that I am not like most people. I do not love like most men. I do not share their indifference toward the objects of their affection, as those they could be tossed away after just a few weeks of sadness. No, I am not like most men. The truth is that I do not sow the pains of love in my heart at first. I am never confident and I am always reckless.

When I jump, I do so from the highest point, the point at which I am the most fearful. And when I fall, I do not do so gracefully or carefully, like neither swan nor parachute in tow. Where most would scream, and where they probably should, I enjoy the view. I take deep breaths of fast moving air that would choke most men, maybe even some women too. I hear my own pulse as though I had stuck fingers in my ears, and listen for their pulse to come into beat with my own. As the line reads, “So close that your hand, on my chest, is my hand.” And so it goes. Falling in full force, in all the depth and breadth of my soul, into what most would realize was an abyss.

And no matter what may seem an obstacle, a sharp edge of conflict, a blunt blow from feigned naivety, a magnetic charge of codependency and attention seeking, I see as growth, life budding, when it is actually rotting. Where most would bail, and where they probably should, I take a few drinks, numb the natural nerves of injury, of pain, and clumsily bounce along.

Let's be clear here: I am not a principled man. I do nothing to fulfill a belief in “true” love, in chivalry, in honorable choice, in genuine selflessness. So, at the end, even as it was at the beginning, I am reckless and fearful. Another author once wrote, “No one ever told me grief felt so like fear.” The paralyzing grief at the bottom, just as the paralyzing fear at the top, stuck on the edge of something deathly beautiful, is why and how and from where I love. No, and cheerfully I say this, I am not like most men.

And I guess all of this is just to explain why I will never be in another relationship. I am not like most men: I am far more passionate. And passion, my friends, is not a friendly thing. Give my passion its head and it will ravage a life like a starving beast. It is not careful, it is reckless, nor confident, but terrified, and never, ever, in my heart will a woman find safety, nor will I.

Facebook Thingy I Thought To Post Here

25 Random Facts About Me

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I know every song in the movie Grease by heart.

2. When I was young, I spent most of my money collecting Garfield books and read them constantly. I believe this explains much of my personality.

3. Four days ago I was walking lost in the middle of the desert at midnight with three bottles of beer (yet sober), a bottle opener, a dead GPS, and no idea where I was or where I was going. True story.

4. When it comes to cleaning dishes, I would rather throw all of them away and buy new ones.

5. I entirely loathe running.

6. I purposefully make my room a manageable mess (like a nest) so that few people besides me can be completely comfortable in it. I love my room.

7. On occasion I go to strip clubs, order coffee, and visit with the patrons and strippers. No tips, no dances, nothing sexual. The conversation and company is completely chill and fulfilling. Most people I have told this fact to seem find it offensive, naïve, and desperate behavior. I wish they would come with me just once.

8. My first and only experience with illegal drugs was with a homeless guy. I bought him dinner, so he gave me a joint. We smoked it in front of the hold-in-the-wall Mexican place after finishing our meal. Good times.

9. This is my favorite number.

10. Crockpots are perfect companions for poorly graduated employable bachelors. I have two.

11. My “list” for what I'm looking for in a woman differs greatly between theory and practice.

12. I play guitar, and can play for hours at a time, but I do not know any songs by heart.

13. I'm typing this list on a 46” Sony HDTV that I hooked up my homemade computer to.

14. When I was about 4 years old, I imagined myself as strong as Superman, picked up our family TV and fell over backwards, breaking my collar bone.

15. Yes, I have an eHarmony profile.

16. I think tetherball should be an Olympic sport.

17. At various points in my life I have been “diagnosed” with a social anxiety disorder, depression, PTSD, and I'm currently take medication for all of the above. Most shrinks say I open myself up too fast by talking about personal details with large expectations of trust and end up.... Oh. Drat.

18. Semicolons are punctuational hermaphrodites that have no place or purpose in the English language. And yes, I vote Republican.

19. Sometimes I listen to house/techno when I read.

20. I have only one ultimate goal in life: Be Happy. I am absolutely sincere and seriously silly in pursuing it at all times.

21. I'm pretty sure that I scare/intimidate most people, and I am dangerous I guess, but I'm more good than I am bad.

22. I usually only eat once a day.

23. I once attempted a backflip on a snowboard and ended up knocking myself out cold. I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up laying there, I felt ridiculously manly and I laughed. It hurt though.

24. Sometimes I have a hard time finishing things, following through/up, commitment, etc.

Dear Journal

As selfish as it may be, bear with me as I tell you a little bit about myself. I fear that I have become an alcoholic and a rather brutal viking philosopher. I am drinking my 5th rum and coke as I write, but I barely feel a thing. Apparently, the events I experienced in war have proven more potent than I originally prepared for. Actually, I believe I could never have prepared myself for them. Nevertheless, I am constantly dedicating myself, with great effort, to live in the present. The memories I have collected (that damnable combination of chemicals, compounds, and grey cell matter) are each and of themselves the worst nightmares I have ever had actually happen. I wake up to them and attempt to fall asleep with them every day. Yeah, it basically sucks. War, apparently, is the smartest of onions. Each day and week, event and tragedy, connected through a series of sights, sounds, smells, and reflections of the continuously deep. Dumber men than I, whom I wish at this point that I was more like, have much less problems than I do. The experiences of war are not for those caught up in critical self-reflection. I am depressed, seeking help, but functional.

Yesterday I returned from a trip to Las Vegas. Upon the crest of intoxication, which I rode rather successfully for a few hours, I met many intriguing people. Apparently, I have a knack for bring out the worst in people, especially while intoxicated. I met a prostitute at the bar while ordering drinks, who groped me while suggesting me take a shot with her (which, of course, I should buy). I met a lover, a bright woman, who fell in love with a football player on scholarship, who then dropped out of college, and married after nine years on the chase. I met a beautiful journalist, who recently graduated college looking for a good break, to whom I spilled more secrets than I should have given my security clearance. I met a make-up artist, who was sitting alone in the smoking section disgusted with the Las Vegas scene, and who was willing to share in the disgust with myself. I met (or rather, who literally ran into me on the steps) an overly intoxicated girl two weeks out of a six year relationship, accompanied by two valiant girlfriends, whom I guided to taxi to the best of my drunken ability. I was awarded with a kiss. To sober up, I went to a nearby cafe, when I was approached by a brother and sister in town for a stylists' convention. The brother was a homosexual, who originally approached me with hopes, tagging along his sister. The sister was far less caked-out than her brother and interested me far more. After an hour of conversation, the sister opened up to me enough to let me know that her brother had attempted suicide two weeks prior. The fresh scars on his wrists, cut vertically instead of horizontally, gave his desperate need for attention away far prior to her telling me this. She came to meet his aid in Las Vegas, and admitted to me that she was merely prolonging the inevitable. She came to tearing up quickly, and I was left to merely hugging her and kissing her on the cheek as she told me the full story. To sum it up, a shitty childhood met with a suicide of loved ones.

Over the course of six hours I met and learned these people. It was an amazing night. However, I am thoroughly ashamed of it. I feel guilty every time I am drunk, even though it was (since I forgot to bring my medication and was going through withdrawals) the only way I am aware of to keep myself sane while around my family. I hope I never and always have the same such nights in my future. Thanks for listening Abby.

With no and many regrets,

Benjamin

To Be Loved

To be alone in this world is the most horrifying and terrible of circumstances. But to be loved, by merely just one, is the most valuable and beautiful thing in all the world.

Something I Wrote While Deployed

The Lost City of Hope

There lives amongst us a vast population separate but identical in flesh. They walk under clothing, uniforms, and cover, circulating air through their hollow form. They are filled with intangibles, intentions, perceptions, judgments, and rabid emotions. Like ghosts, their transparency is apparent, yet our senses respond to their matter. They look like us, like they are indeed people, with all of our unique qualities. We expect them as themselves, without even realizing that hope, without even defining it a hope of ours. They appear that much alike us.

This city is a nightmare not unlike the horror films of Resident Evil, 28 Days, or any of the other countless zombie flicks that turn the seemingly human into a creature of raw fleshly instinct. Yet, even worse, there is no flicker in their eyes, no distorted faces, no long fangs or dragging limbs of indication. A guise of the regular, the normal, the average, the drastically ordinary middle covers them from insight and discernment. They wear professional attire, uniforms, jeans and t-shirts, shorts and sandals, boots and camouflage.

And here I am. Lost in this city. I have been here all year, lost and losing my way. The ancient stars are different here, as unrecognizable as the traitors and impostors that I am sworn by an unbreakable oath to support. It is my mission here, to support them, to assist in their success. And, as I think about it now, the ultimate success and rise to power of this population of hollow humans is more frightening to me than the true terror of Hell itself. Empty souls, constantly feeding themselves without ever satisfying that which drives them to consume each other. I never knew such a transformational evil existed in those who were once children, walk with two legs, use thumbs, grow hair on their heads and wear sunglasses. My conscience is in a traumatized shock. Stared and stunned, flashing strange galaxies. I am hurt, but feel no pain; I am sad, but feel only indifference; I know who I am, but I cannot discern the individuals around me. A thunderstorm or the sun itself could hover closely above my bare head and I still would not be in want.

Like Hollywood zombies, I wonder if this population has been consumed by an alien infection. Perhaps it starts at the heart, eating away all compassion and empathy. It might disturb the nervous system, leaving its host to shake uncontrollably with adrenaline rushed rage. And at the worst stage, could the infection explain the disappearance of the host's bones? Everyone I see infected is left without a backbone, pacified into an almost jellied electric form, reacting like a limp joint to the slightest red rubber triangle bumps and breezes of conflict.

The metaphorical population I have described is the literal group of 45 U.S. Army soldiers I am a part of. I am deployed here with them, and have been since January. I cannot literally describe these people. They rarely appear to be people still, but mainly live as barely animals. Inanimate objects give me a better vocabulary to describe them. A door that only slams closed, never open. A mirror that criticizes every person it reflects (his motto is proudly preached by him as “Perception is reality.”). A legal pad and buddy fountain pen cynically recording their perception of broken laws, even violations of gravity. A badge representing authority disregarding the authority of badges. A 'New King James' Bible hosting the stripping competitions of red party cups. Dumbbells following their reflections in gym mirrors like cats on laser pointers. Communism spreading democracy by strictly enforcing communism. Humans dressed as soldiers, assuming their identity, acting the part, childishly and furiously denying their alter-egos, punishing each other for lacking in heroism.

I am scared I have become one of them. I am afraid I did not adapt to the best of my ability. There is no telling what has happened to me while I was and while I remain here. I wait to come home, to rediscover my old surroundings, arriving at the reunion of my civilian relatives, and looking in the mirror for the first time in months. I hope the mirror lies to me. I cannot wait to shed this uniform.

Lost

So, it's 3:00 am, 3 hours after Thanksgiving. I said the initial hellos, gave the greeting handshakes, 2-3 pat masculine hugs, faux cheek kisses, then tipped the glass and whispered the self-encouraging “here we go.” And so I went. Some cleaning, cooking, terrible football, good beer, dressing up, sitting down, uncorking and thanksgiving later, here I sit pregnant with turkey. I wasn't drunk, but I might as well have been, because everything tonight and the past few days has been surreal. I don't know how to describe it. Like a visit to the zoo? Snorkeling in a glass-bottom boat? Virtual reality in black and white 3-D? A late night pop-up picture book? I feel like walking up to somebody and asking, “Hi, my name is Benjamin, do you know a place where I fit in?”

Ever go to those places where you're living life on the balcony rather than on stage? When there, or here as it were, I mostly think back to my past: the mango juice in Ethiopia, the tea and curry in India, the carne asada backyard BBQ in Mexico, the crawdad buffet in Missouri, etc. No, I'm not hungry. None of the above were about the food. No dressing up or down was involved. It seems like I should be at these places, but I know that if I were there, I would feel the same way. Out of place. Not at home. Traveling. Transient. Passing through, if not around. I don't know what has happened to me. Did I climb a beanstalk somewhere? Who kicked me out of the plane over this place? It is so weird to feel as an alien in your hometown. Even without knowing my place, I feel so incredibly that this is not it. Perhaps I should just keep my bags packed.

And yes, I'm slightly terrified. Even more so because of the relative truth I recognize at this moment: I don't know who I am. Scary how my environment can make or break that for me. Most everywhere I go I surmise that if these people are my mirrors, then I'm in some sort of Fun House at a county fair. You'd think I would realize by now that it doesn't really matter whether I am the polka dot or the stripe, it just is. So I'm not really learning as much as realizing the vast amount of crap I have to learn and be if I am to belong at all. Sort of a 'pick your adventure' type thing. I'm still a kid, like most adults. I need some help, like a hint guide or a GPS Magic 8-Ball. Actually, I need a lot more than that. A lot more. I need someone or something to fill this void between me and everything else.

I need someone to ask me “What happened?” Just crack the flood gates a bit. Ask me a question. Approach me, offering nothing but me and my story. Hand me an empty spoon, glass, or bowl; give me an opportunity. A moment to tell all, as far as all can go in a conversation, and let it spill out wherever in may into the flooded low lands of mercy. I sit silently hoping for permission, an invitation or request, into the realm of listening that I long to be a citizen of. I am here anxiously awaiting a voice of open ears and eyes; drunk or sober, sane or fucked up, classy or bootstrapped. They don't even have to remember our conversation.

I do not know how long I can contain it. I do know who I can trust with it. I try, as always prior, to the trusting. Though I am left with few choices, I prefer it that way. So many have dropped and let shatter much of what I cherish, a tragedy we all share. I have learned that when standing at the door of potential invitation. I feel like a door-to-door salesman. Pathetic, but with a significant product. Pathetic, crying for attention, especially so much selfless attention, but just as real as old. Alienated in a 'I am me but this is not me' sort of way.

Then again, this reminds me of so much. Being out of the country for a year, readjustment, also known as just adjustment, has to occur. After a long trip, coming home is always the hardest part of leaving it.

Ten Minute Poetry?

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to sit outside
Gonna let the sweat dry
From the inside without
Wrap to unfold to laid out
A hold, a control of me
Just to be

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to cry
Sit down in the shower
Let my eyes die
Taste my salted wet
Smell the ocean set
Upon steam off my broken heart

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to breathe in deep
Let my mind sleep
Through the errant flow
A concentrated blow
Let it glint my soul
And take me all down

For a few broken minutes
I'm going to sit outside
Look up in the sky
Stare at bugs in the light
Feel small in the night
Zoom in at the stars
And see the flames of space

For a few broken minutes
I'll feel the earth turn
To learn its trembles
Like they were my own
In sync with all I need
Balance and symphonies
Of silent time

For a few broken minutes
No one but me to need
Life without hope
A chance for pause
Stopping the cause
Broken space and time
To sit and unwind

Therapy Notes

The budget came close to $3,000.00 in therapy bills. So, I thought I would post my raw self-actualization notes taken on loaned paper from my final session. If not for you to read, then they're for me to remember.

DOUGLAS L. ZABRISKIE, LMFT
Licensed Marriage Family Therapist, MFT 28192

Cognitive Behavioral

• Project into the future and becoming afraid
• come back to "NOW"
• Catastrophize - asking "What if?" (see above)
• Practice meditation, prayer, breathing
• Deal with practical present issues
• Becoming okay with uncomfortable feeling
• Insecurities - non-real
• Practice relaxing

• Feel anxious - attach to cause
• start to panic
• Practice saying "I have an uncomfortable sensation in my body, but there is no need to tense up or panic."
• Tolerate bad feelings
• do something with energy
• Little boy feelings
• don't expect so much from yourself
• give yourself a break FREQUENTLY
• go to safe place
• bunker, fire pillar
• have your inner adult take over with "Dad talk"

• Give yourself positive affirmations
• Remind self of character, accomplishments, etc.
• Remind self of security
• "I'm attractive to women"
• Practice "I want to be..." instead of "I don't want to be..."

• I'm lovable
• Important part of friends/family
• I am lovable even if I'm insecure

Biggest Lie  ------>  Negative - If I get your complete energy and attention, I'll be okay

• Laugh. How much attention do I really need?

• Keep evaluating trust

Best Response ---> I'm significant and I belong

• Let go of emotional control
• will kill relationships
• Start slow, but with honesty
• less emotional intimacy
• lower expectations
• don't let initial attraction rule you
• Trust unfolds, you don't need to create it

Relationships

• Blame others or self
• Back off, time, think about what's really bothering you
• Awareness practice
• safety experiments - trust tests
• Do they accept me?
• start with little things
• Counteract punishment effect
• tendency to not trust women
• suspicion, paranoia of cheating
• healthy intimacy boundaries
• laugh at ridiculous fears/feelings
• jettison the issue FREQUENTLY
• Don't ask why or what if
• you'll get stuck
• why doesn't matter, how you react to situation does
• Recognize betrayal fantasies
• realize present truth (laugh, see above)
• Recognize and practice disengagement from being approved, adored, or understood
• in conversation - angry, upset - recognize
• people often misunderstand, not fully accept
• What is my perceived need?
• they don't have to understand
• Reprogram negative beliefs about women
• tolerate discomfort - no deeper cause or meaning
• not mom, sister, cousins, etc.
• many women are trustworthy

                                            

Storytelling

Our story begins just like any other story. Our story begins today, the day all stories are created, when the history of our thoughts are loosely reconstructed into a chronological development that climaxes into our great experience. And we, the collective consisting of the reader and myself, all partake in its development. I write the information vaguely connected to actual experience, and the reader reads skimmingly across the vast plains of such information in search of, well, a good story. Since I know this, I try to incorporate many treasure tales into the lines of text that can be discovered by the reader, thus proving his worth as a reader and mine as a writer. All of this is merely to explain how it is “our” story and not just a made up fiction, which is it, but who cares.

Hence, no story is ever told again. Each time it is reconstructed with a secret encoder (the storyteller) and a unique decoder (the listener or reader, well, at least the reader, since most listeners become their own storytellers and audience after a short time). Which brings me to my first point: there are few audiences for storytellers in the world of voice. The best stories are spoken in places one can read a book, ponder some silent thought, or anywhere else with a pint and friends. Few listen. Few understand. Few acknowledge their understanding by saying something other than “I understand.” Unless following an order, nobody should ever say “I understand” to any speaker. “I understand” should be a demonstration of understanding, not a statement of it. Only the speaker can declare if the listener understands. For example, the listener can simply repeat back to the speaker what they have heard. Is this not the easiest demonstration of understanding? If someone is explaining some problem they are having to me and follow their explanation with the question “Do you understand?” I simply repeat back to them their explanation of their problem. “I'm upset because you suggested I was an idiot, understand?” “So, you're upset that I suggested you were an idiot?” “Yes.” And then they continue. Once I am declared as understanding, the speaker feels automatically able to continue their story because the value of the story has been reflected by the listener.

It is amazing how unimportant people feel if they are not listened to appropriately. Just like learning a new language, a new speaker must be learned, decoded, placed in context, and received with translated acknowledgment. There is little difference between a listener who only acknowledges understanding by their declaration of it and a foreigner who receives instructions with a silent smile and a nod. I cannot recall the amount of times I have spoken to individuals who couldn't even realize the language I was speaking, much less the words, and far less the meaning. How did we become so self-absorbed that we have run out of stories to tell about each other? When did we stop learning to communicate to other humans? Perhaps school has taught us a standard of communication that must be adopted in order to be useful. Perhaps some people who went to school are just jackasses. Perhaps jackasses need a lesson.

What if we shocked the world by displacing everyone into another culture? How would you act if you didn't recognize a face, a landmark, an article of clothing, or even a syllable? At what point does the level of desperation to connect with other humans break the self-absorbed jackasses in all of us? Must we reach to the degree of shell-shocked displacement to disrupt our aging self-reflection and reproductive autobiographies?

So try, just try, to tell a story about someone else. Tell one you've heard. Tell one you've heard told. Tell a story you heard was told to a guy who once listened to a comedian talk about an email forward he received from a friend about a group of people in another country learning the tales of a remote culture. It's entertaining, fun, easy to listen to, and best of all, it's not just about you. Who knows, if you're not talking about yourself, people might find you easier to listen to.

My Safest Place

My safest place is my own creation. It is a mental retreat, a cognitive reality, where I can exist without trouble. It is immune from every attack; spiritual, emotional, or physical. Within such walls, I am loved, appreciated, respected, significant, and I belong. I am worthy of the highest affection. I am a child, but I am also a god.

My safest place is a bunker deep in the middle of the largest, hottest desert. It is huge, but barely visible as it sits level with the surrounding sands. Yes, it is air-conditioned, but my favorite features are on the outside. It is no mere ivory tower; it is a fortress created for my ego to rest.

Surrounding the bunker are my boundaries maintained by an unseen force with an ultimate desire to love and value me. At least 200 yards out swirls a wall of sand circling with hurricane force winds. This wall serves as a warning to all who pass that they must be nice to me. In fact, the wall will only harm you if part of you harbors any ill-will towards me. If you are seeking me out so that I can fulfill some need of yours, it will not let you pass, whether I want it to or not. If you are not coming their for me, me when I am at the most selfish, then you are not welcome.

Within the wall of sand is a large pillar of fire. The fire is my favorite feature due to the fact that is the most threatening and the most protective. It is a purifying fire. I mean no harm to anyone, but this will harm you dearly if you choose to approach it with any other motive besides love for me. If you want me, it will burn you. If you merely like me, it will burn you again. If you are willing to criticize me, it might even kill you. In fact, if you merely came to be silent and listen to me it will still burn you, because every person knows that listening involves much more than being silent. If you came to relate your life story to mine, you will not make it past the first step. Even if, unbeknownst to you, that you will lie, emotionally manipulate, argue, or fight for any of your own control or rights in the bunker, you will be reject here first. The fire is a brilliant ego check on all who enter. None can fool it. You are either their for me, in my world, or you will be harshly rejected.

Lining the inside of the pillar of fire is a soft pillow of clouds. Thicker than a snow storm of dandelion pedals, it quiets every noise for me and comfortably dims the heat and light. And within that comfort, lies my bunker.

It is a magical place, filled with objects and space and time that arranges itself according to my wishes. I can do no wrong within it. I cannot hurt a soul, nor can they hurt me. No angry words are spoken there. There is no drama, no gossip, no liars, no manipulators, no challenges. Here I am valued, protect by the forces outside me. Here I am loved, comforted by my surroundings and the environment created for me. Here I am respected, without argument or conflicting personalities. Here I am appreciated, where my creations hang on the walls, sit on the floor, as beautiful and perfect as they are in my mind. Here I can exhale, close my eyes, rest and relax with selfish freedom. Here I am safe.