That weekly blog thing? Yeah, you can see it didn't quite work out that way...
I could give several reasons, but most would be out-and-out lies, and I don't do that. The truth is simple.
I didn't feel like it.
Which is a sign of being normal, of course. But it seems to be my way a lot; way too much in fact.
Throughout my entire life, I have had a constant failing that most people pick up on to one extent or another. To wit: I don't finish things. My carry-through blows. Keeping my mind on task for very long is nearly impossibl...look, a squirrel! (Yeah, it is kinda like that.)
Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like to have been born twenty years or more later; to have gone to school when the buzzword was just getting started: ADHD. Let me explain.
I was bored in school. REALLY bored. I became a disruptive element in class not because I was a dick but because I felt like I was driving a car that could go 300 mph and the speed limit was 10. In the 60's and 70's, I was told to "behave and pay attention, because you'll need this someday." People didn't understand I had it already. Imagine going to a room for seven hours a day and listening to everyone reciting the alphabet veerrrrryyy sslllooooowwllyy. That was school for me. I hated math class. "Show your work," they said. I could do that shit in my head without trying. WHAT GODDAMNED WORK CAN I SHOW? Teachers were pissed and wondered how I could be cheating so well. I wondered why they couldn't accept the fact I knew how to diagram sentences and short-divide math and what a tectonic plate was and just teach me something I don't already know!!!
It probably would have been worse if I was born in 1980. They would have slapped a Ritalin IV on me and buried my brain in chemicals. I can't help but wonder how many kids were diagnosed as ADHD and all they really were was smarter than expected.
For anyone who wasn't sure before, I will tell you: This is what the manic part of manic-depression is like. My mind is doing 90 again and I really need to sleep. Today, I was interviewed by a Chicago TV station on why Putnam County is so good at predicting the winners in state and federal races. I'm pretty certain during the course of the interview I might have shouted the formula for cold fusion and the AIDS cure and nobody would have noticed since my mind was racing faster than my mouth could keep up.
BPD2 ... simply...IS.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
It's not as easy as you think...
I'm supposed to be working, but I'm having a hard time working up any drive to do so. In fact, the last few weeks, working up energy to do much of anything has been ... let's say difficult.
One of those things most people don't understand about BPD2 is it's a paralyzer. There are days — even with proper medication and talking doctors — when getting out of bed is an agony most people would not be able to take. They're an extreme minority, but they still happen, and there's really not a damn thing you can do about it except breathe in, breathe out and move on.
My lowest point was before I finally decided I needed help. I couldn't get out of bed. Absolutely refused. I couldn't face the thought of going in to work. I'd been building toward that day for weeks and it was the day my wife decided enough was enough. She pushed me into the car and drove me to the psychiatric ward at one of the local hospitals where I spent a week off of the world trying to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Since then, it's been years of changing drug cocktails to get the combination that'll work "this time" (I go in for another visit in a week, and it's probably time to adjust my dosage again.). Eight talking doctors later, I'm in a "good" place for the most part. The last one released me, but reminded me I might need more therapy in the future.
I'm looking at a pile of press releases that I'll take back to the office this afternoon (I'm in the unsupervised Granville office this morning, which is the only way I'm getting away with this.) and type to keep busy.
I've mentioned before, but I'm certain I'll repeat often, the worst of this is people tend to look down on people with a mental illness (I refuse to call it a challenge. A challenge means you can beat it. This is not something that can be beat; only met.). Somehow, a mental problem is "our fault." It's a defect that makes us "inferior" and "unfit for inclusion in human society." Apparently, mental illness is the modern-day version of leprosy.
A note to the rest of humanity: I'm sorry if I don't fit your idea of "normal." I apologize for the fact I can still function in society well enough that I can still have a job you think you deserve because you're "normal" (although often, if our employer finds out we're "damaged goods," we may not keep that job, as some excuse will be manufactured for sacking us. It does happen, and proving it's because of our illness is tough, especially since doing so opens us up to further ostracization because it's then publicly known you're "damaged goods," and if your attempts to get your job back are unsuccessful, then you've given other employers a reason to be creative in their way of denying you a job. Yes, it happens — may Lee Studstill rot in the flames of Hell.).
More news for the people who don't like the way I am: I don't either. If I could wake up tomorrow, lop off my left arm and therefore be free of the drugs, the therapy, the days when I can't stand life (or myself) and the crippling depression and highs that come with BPD2, I'd grab a rusty dull half-inch pocketknife and gleefully saw away. But it doesn't work that way.
Today (and possibly for the next several days), I'm going through the motions. I'd rather be anywhere else but work, but I honestly couldn't tell you what I'd rather be doing; my "GAF" button is not only stuck, but the repair crew can't fix their own, let alone find time for mine.
That's why the rum is gone...
One of those things most people don't understand about BPD2 is it's a paralyzer. There are days — even with proper medication and talking doctors — when getting out of bed is an agony most people would not be able to take. They're an extreme minority, but they still happen, and there's really not a damn thing you can do about it except breathe in, breathe out and move on.
My lowest point was before I finally decided I needed help. I couldn't get out of bed. Absolutely refused. I couldn't face the thought of going in to work. I'd been building toward that day for weeks and it was the day my wife decided enough was enough. She pushed me into the car and drove me to the psychiatric ward at one of the local hospitals where I spent a week off of the world trying to find out what the hell was wrong with me.
Since then, it's been years of changing drug cocktails to get the combination that'll work "this time" (I go in for another visit in a week, and it's probably time to adjust my dosage again.). Eight talking doctors later, I'm in a "good" place for the most part. The last one released me, but reminded me I might need more therapy in the future.
I'm looking at a pile of press releases that I'll take back to the office this afternoon (I'm in the unsupervised Granville office this morning, which is the only way I'm getting away with this.) and type to keep busy.
I've mentioned before, but I'm certain I'll repeat often, the worst of this is people tend to look down on people with a mental illness (I refuse to call it a challenge. A challenge means you can beat it. This is not something that can be beat; only met.). Somehow, a mental problem is "our fault." It's a defect that makes us "inferior" and "unfit for inclusion in human society." Apparently, mental illness is the modern-day version of leprosy.
A note to the rest of humanity: I'm sorry if I don't fit your idea of "normal." I apologize for the fact I can still function in society well enough that I can still have a job you think you deserve because you're "normal" (although often, if our employer finds out we're "damaged goods," we may not keep that job, as some excuse will be manufactured for sacking us. It does happen, and proving it's because of our illness is tough, especially since doing so opens us up to further ostracization because it's then publicly known you're "damaged goods," and if your attempts to get your job back are unsuccessful, then you've given other employers a reason to be creative in their way of denying you a job. Yes, it happens — may Lee Studstill rot in the flames of Hell.).
More news for the people who don't like the way I am: I don't either. If I could wake up tomorrow, lop off my left arm and therefore be free of the drugs, the therapy, the days when I can't stand life (or myself) and the crippling depression and highs that come with BPD2, I'd grab a rusty dull half-inch pocketknife and gleefully saw away. But it doesn't work that way.
Today (and possibly for the next several days), I'm going through the motions. I'd rather be anywhere else but work, but I honestly couldn't tell you what I'd rather be doing; my "GAF" button is not only stuck, but the repair crew can't fix their own, let alone find time for mine.
That's why the rum is gone...
Monday, August 11, 2014
Fallen idols...and not in the usual sense
I hate to say it, but I wasn't surprised. That's actually the part that shocks me.
When I was in my junior and senior years of high school, I had an idol — like we all do — someone I wanted to be like so much; and the thing was I was most of the way there: We had a lot of the same look. Same fashion sense. Same sense of humor. Same hair (nearly). He was almost exactly ten years older than me.
As it turns out, there's one other thing we shared. The trouble is, I faced my demon and won. He didn't.
It's August 11, 2014 and the person I wanted to be when I was a kid — Robin Williams — is dead, an apparent suicide.
Last entry, I mentioned a lot of the signs, and he had them in abundance: Creative, funny and smart with talents in many directions. Robin Williams was almost the poster boy for Bi-Polar Disorder, if not outright depression (Media is currently saying severe depression, but I'm pretty certain he was dealing with BPD I, but we'll probably never know.). But we never saw it coming. Not him. He had it all. How could he...?
But I wasn't shocked. I think I saw it coming, but I didn't put it together until now. He'd be in the spotlight doing several projects, then disappear for a while. Recently, he checked himself into rehab. Not once, but twice.
"To focus himself after some hectic projects," his agent said.
Sadly, I also understand how he felt. In the late 70s/early 80s, Robin Williams was THE man. He could do no wrong (except, maybe 'Toys'). Mork and Mindy, comedy tours, movie roles.
Now, in the next ten seconds, name the last movie he was in.
Couldn't do it, could you? Therein lies part of the problem.
Some people start out terrific in their careers. Some blossom as they get older; George Carlin being the ultimate example of that. Most peak quickly and decline. Sadly, Williams was one of those. During the last 30 years, his shtick never really changed and he went from cutting edge to routine to a parody of himself. He could look behind him and see his shining glory, but he saw nothing to match that glory in front of him.
I understand that. Deeply. I spent 10-15 years in radio, with some of my best work in Springfield and Peoria. In fact, as a fill-in disc jockey, I won my slot with the stations' prime demographic in two consecutive years. I say "stations'" instead of "station's" because I worked at two different radio stations those years. And won. Easily.
Although it's nothing of the sort, most people see DJs as "this close" to the entertainment world. Even a small town radio announcer receives a bit of awe and special treatment from people, even if it's on a subconscious level. It's an ego boost. And it becomes a drug that's hard to break from.
I miss that "fame," that "ego boost" that made me feel like I was something special. I don't miss the people I worked for or with, though. Radio is a toxic atmosphere. I don't think I ever worked at a station where half of the staff wasn't either afraid or knifing someone in the back. But damn, the feeling of being on the air or at a public appearance and knowing that people are hanging on your every word (and they ARE YOUR OWN WORDS) is a high that I can't explain.
...and one I'll likely never have again. Theater fills in somewhat, and the occasional stand-up is better yet, but my days of reaching more than a handful of people at a time are behind me.
Now, that's the same for Robin Williams.
R.I.P., Mork.
When I was in my junior and senior years of high school, I had an idol — like we all do — someone I wanted to be like so much; and the thing was I was most of the way there: We had a lot of the same look. Same fashion sense. Same sense of humor. Same hair (nearly). He was almost exactly ten years older than me.
As it turns out, there's one other thing we shared. The trouble is, I faced my demon and won. He didn't.
It's August 11, 2014 and the person I wanted to be when I was a kid — Robin Williams — is dead, an apparent suicide.
Last entry, I mentioned a lot of the signs, and he had them in abundance: Creative, funny and smart with talents in many directions. Robin Williams was almost the poster boy for Bi-Polar Disorder, if not outright depression (Media is currently saying severe depression, but I'm pretty certain he was dealing with BPD I, but we'll probably never know.). But we never saw it coming. Not him. He had it all. How could he...?
But I wasn't shocked. I think I saw it coming, but I didn't put it together until now. He'd be in the spotlight doing several projects, then disappear for a while. Recently, he checked himself into rehab. Not once, but twice.
"To focus himself after some hectic projects," his agent said.
Sadly, I also understand how he felt. In the late 70s/early 80s, Robin Williams was THE man. He could do no wrong (except, maybe 'Toys'). Mork and Mindy, comedy tours, movie roles.
Now, in the next ten seconds, name the last movie he was in.
Couldn't do it, could you? Therein lies part of the problem.
Some people start out terrific in their careers. Some blossom as they get older; George Carlin being the ultimate example of that. Most peak quickly and decline. Sadly, Williams was one of those. During the last 30 years, his shtick never really changed and he went from cutting edge to routine to a parody of himself. He could look behind him and see his shining glory, but he saw nothing to match that glory in front of him.
I understand that. Deeply. I spent 10-15 years in radio, with some of my best work in Springfield and Peoria. In fact, as a fill-in disc jockey, I won my slot with the stations' prime demographic in two consecutive years. I say "stations'" instead of "station's" because I worked at two different radio stations those years. And won. Easily.
Although it's nothing of the sort, most people see DJs as "this close" to the entertainment world. Even a small town radio announcer receives a bit of awe and special treatment from people, even if it's on a subconscious level. It's an ego boost. And it becomes a drug that's hard to break from.
I miss that "fame," that "ego boost" that made me feel like I was something special. I don't miss the people I worked for or with, though. Radio is a toxic atmosphere. I don't think I ever worked at a station where half of the staff wasn't either afraid or knifing someone in the back. But damn, the feeling of being on the air or at a public appearance and knowing that people are hanging on your every word (and they ARE YOUR OWN WORDS) is a high that I can't explain.
...and one I'll likely never have again. Theater fills in somewhat, and the occasional stand-up is better yet, but my days of reaching more than a handful of people at a time are behind me.
Now, that's the same for Robin Williams.
R.I.P., Mork.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Like a phoenix...
This blog used to examine honor as it exists these days...
It lasted six posts...
It sucked...
I think it failed for me because I don't really believe honor exists as it once did.
But Bi-Polar Disorder II; that exists. I was diagnosed with it over 15 years ago. In many ways, the diagnosis has improved my life; and in many ways it hasn't.
Bi-Polar Disorder used to known as manic-depression, but since that conjured up "bad" images, it was re-named with a more "politically correct" taxonomy. I preferred manic-depression, since it was more self-explanatory. Some days, you're manic; some days you're depressed.
The good news is, I have BPD2. That's shitloads better than Bi-Polar Disorder. Regular BPD means you're a risk to everyone around you. Your depression will make you suicidal and your manic periods are dangerously unpredictable. The bad news is, I originally was a coin toss between the two. Yay, me.
Since my diagnosis, I've rarely been ashamed of the fact, but other people have told me that I'm wrong for feeling that way.
As a journalist, I wanted to share the story to give others hope for dealing with it themselves. My editor thought it was a REALLY bad idea.
I don't hide it. I don't shout from the top of the buildings and the hills and wear it like a hair shirt, but I also won't shy away from it.
A lot of people on my Facebook friends list have no idea I've been diagnosed and will have a bit of a time understanding. This is my "coming-out" to them.
Surprise.
For most of you, this is old hat. But it's still something you don't fully understand. Don't feel bad; there are things my wife Dixie doesn't understand about this. Hell, there are things that I don't really understand. There are — however — things I know that BPD2 is and isn't.
BPD2 is not a choice. Many people from day one have asked why I would want to be this way. I don't want to be this way. Who would? Some days are an effort to get out of bed. Some days (Much fewer for me) it's an effort to get into bed. More than once, both of those days have occupied the same 24 hour period. Imagine living in a cave and the weather outside is radically unpredictable; blizzard gives way to blistering summer. Drought changes to monsoon at the drop of a hat. Each day, you get up, get dressed and leave the home and the door immediately locks behind you. Whatever you're wearing has to get you through the day. BPD2 is a lot like that.
BPD2 is not a failing; something to be ashamed of. Society for some reason cannot accept that mental illness is any different from physical illness. Not to trivialize it, but cancer is not incredibly different from bi-polar. Both show signs of being hereditary, both can be treated but not eliminated, and neither is a result of God's vengeance. They are maladies; an unfortunate kink in the genetic make-up in the sufferer. The difference is BPD — by itself — won't kill me.
I was pretty much guaranteed from a young age to suffer from BPD2 (And parentals, please stop kicking yourself for this. It's nothing you did and there was nothing you could do to change the matter.). One of my recent ancestors was never diagnosed, but he showed symptoms of depression. I'm creative (Some days, manically so) and I was an intellectually-gifted child. I couldn't have been more a poster child for BPD2 if they tattooed the word on every one of my genes.
There's your warning: If you're a brilliant artist (whether painter, artist, singer, actor, or whatever) who some days get nearly violently stressed because the lid won't go back on the toothpaste tube, then a call to your doctor is a good thing.
So what got me to finally start writing this blog?
Yesterday, I crashed.
I don't know all of the specifics, although financial burdens have a lot to do with it. What I DO know is yesterday at 10:15 a.m., I told the boss I was taking the rest of the day off, clocked in my vacation hours for the rest of the day, then went home and curled up in the fetal position under my bedsheets for four hours.
That was the lowest point I've been to since my diagnosis 15 years ago. Although an unrelated incident pulled me up quicker than I would have recovered on my own, I'm back to as close to normal as I ever get.
So I started this (hopefully) weekly blog as a way of putting my thoughts down and figuring what the issue may be and also to let others with BPD2 know that they're not alone and there's light out there. Mostly I think, I want others to realize manic-depression isn't a choice, a failure to be "normal," or something I (or anyone else) should be ashamed of.
BPD2 just ... is. Nothing gets better for the sufferer (and yes, we DO suffer on some days, trust me.) or their loved ones until we come to the realization. BPD2 simply is; and you either accept it and do what you can to manage it or deny it and TRULY mess up the lives of you and EVERYONE around you as you deny there's something in you that can't be controlled without help.
So you've got a choice. I made mine.
Dealing with BPD2.
It lasted six posts...
It sucked...
I think it failed for me because I don't really believe honor exists as it once did.
But Bi-Polar Disorder II; that exists. I was diagnosed with it over 15 years ago. In many ways, the diagnosis has improved my life; and in many ways it hasn't.
Bi-Polar Disorder used to known as manic-depression, but since that conjured up "bad" images, it was re-named with a more "politically correct" taxonomy. I preferred manic-depression, since it was more self-explanatory. Some days, you're manic; some days you're depressed.
The good news is, I have BPD2. That's shitloads better than Bi-Polar Disorder. Regular BPD means you're a risk to everyone around you. Your depression will make you suicidal and your manic periods are dangerously unpredictable. The bad news is, I originally was a coin toss between the two. Yay, me.
Since my diagnosis, I've rarely been ashamed of the fact, but other people have told me that I'm wrong for feeling that way.
As a journalist, I wanted to share the story to give others hope for dealing with it themselves. My editor thought it was a REALLY bad idea.
I don't hide it. I don't shout from the top of the buildings and the hills and wear it like a hair shirt, but I also won't shy away from it.
A lot of people on my Facebook friends list have no idea I've been diagnosed and will have a bit of a time understanding. This is my "coming-out" to them.
Surprise.
For most of you, this is old hat. But it's still something you don't fully understand. Don't feel bad; there are things my wife Dixie doesn't understand about this. Hell, there are things that I don't really understand. There are — however — things I know that BPD2 is and isn't.
BPD2 is not a choice. Many people from day one have asked why I would want to be this way. I don't want to be this way. Who would? Some days are an effort to get out of bed. Some days (Much fewer for me) it's an effort to get into bed. More than once, both of those days have occupied the same 24 hour period. Imagine living in a cave and the weather outside is radically unpredictable; blizzard gives way to blistering summer. Drought changes to monsoon at the drop of a hat. Each day, you get up, get dressed and leave the home and the door immediately locks behind you. Whatever you're wearing has to get you through the day. BPD2 is a lot like that.
BPD2 is not a failing; something to be ashamed of. Society for some reason cannot accept that mental illness is any different from physical illness. Not to trivialize it, but cancer is not incredibly different from bi-polar. Both show signs of being hereditary, both can be treated but not eliminated, and neither is a result of God's vengeance. They are maladies; an unfortunate kink in the genetic make-up in the sufferer. The difference is BPD — by itself — won't kill me.
I was pretty much guaranteed from a young age to suffer from BPD2 (And parentals, please stop kicking yourself for this. It's nothing you did and there was nothing you could do to change the matter.). One of my recent ancestors was never diagnosed, but he showed symptoms of depression. I'm creative (Some days, manically so) and I was an intellectually-gifted child. I couldn't have been more a poster child for BPD2 if they tattooed the word on every one of my genes.
There's your warning: If you're a brilliant artist (whether painter, artist, singer, actor, or whatever) who some days get nearly violently stressed because the lid won't go back on the toothpaste tube, then a call to your doctor is a good thing.
So what got me to finally start writing this blog?
Yesterday, I crashed.
I don't know all of the specifics, although financial burdens have a lot to do with it. What I DO know is yesterday at 10:15 a.m., I told the boss I was taking the rest of the day off, clocked in my vacation hours for the rest of the day, then went home and curled up in the fetal position under my bedsheets for four hours.
That was the lowest point I've been to since my diagnosis 15 years ago. Although an unrelated incident pulled me up quicker than I would have recovered on my own, I'm back to as close to normal as I ever get.
So I started this (hopefully) weekly blog as a way of putting my thoughts down and figuring what the issue may be and also to let others with BPD2 know that they're not alone and there's light out there. Mostly I think, I want others to realize manic-depression isn't a choice, a failure to be "normal," or something I (or anyone else) should be ashamed of.
BPD2 just ... is. Nothing gets better for the sufferer (and yes, we DO suffer on some days, trust me.) or their loved ones until we come to the realization. BPD2 simply is; and you either accept it and do what you can to manage it or deny it and TRULY mess up the lives of you and EVERYONE around you as you deny there's something in you that can't be controlled without help.
So you've got a choice. I made mine.
Dealing with BPD2.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
...and then Man f%#ks it up and makes religion out of it.
Paraphrasing Kevin Smith via Chris Rock (I think I can go to hell for that.), this still strikes me as the truth of the matter. The worship of God is fine, but creating doctrines and rituals and saying someone else's doctrines and rituals are wrong is what has driven us to stupidity.
Much to my wife's chagrin, I still don't know quite where I fall on the spiritual litmus test. I'm willing to admit that there is something or someone that created and governs the universe, but the insanity that religions bring into the equation troubles me to no end. Here are some religious "truths" and then the facts. Decide for yourself.
The Bible is the Word of God.
Bullshit. The Bible was rewritten by a group of monks and advisers under the direction of – wait for it – King James (So THAT'S where the name came from!). These were translated from earlier editions of the bible and (This is the important part.) sections of it were partially or wholly rewritten to fit the beliefs of the Church of England, King James' own little start-up. This is part of the reason that sections of the Bible contradict each other (Thou shalt not kill ... unless your wife isn't a virgin when you get married, then the Bible says you can slice that wench up.).
If that doesn't fit your thinking, here's my challenge to you. Go to Israel and count the number of Johns, Lukes, Matthews and Pauls you can find. Go ahead. I'll wait.
A true Christian is God-fearing.
If you fear your God, then you've got more issues in your religion than Doane's has pills (Or maybe the problem is you. You figure it out. Go ahead. I'll wait.).
I try to lead a good life; I help others when I can and I try not to harm anyone in my day-to-day. I don't do it because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. I do it out of respect and my idea of what's right. If you're helping your fellow man because it will buy you a seat in Heaven, then you're not worshiping; you're brown-nosing.
One of my favorite movies teaches "It's not who you are, but what you do that defines you." I disagree. I believe it's who you are and what inspires the things that you do that defines you. If you do good works out of selfish reasons, then how good is it? To be perfectly honest, I hate doing volunteer work, but I still do it. Not because I expect some deity to reward me, but because it needs to be done.
The only true religion is (my religion).
This is only true if the following is true: The only good race is (my race). The only definition of marriage is (my definition). The only decent music is (the stuff I listen to). The true definition of assclown is (anyone who believes any of those three preceding sentences).
Do not misunderstand me; I am not against religion in and of itself. I AM against anything that dictates that someone is evil because they don't worship like I do, sleep with the proper sex, eat the same food (or not eat the same food) or find the whole concept of my life offensive. If you want to marry a cow, go ahead as long as you know you've got its consent. Eat dog? No problem, I may even try a slice of doberman myself just to see what it tastes like. Demean your wife and girl-child? HELL NO!! If your religion condones the degradation of someone else because of what they received in the gene pool lottery, then some evil bastard is lurking in your religion's past.
A few years ago, the catchphrase was "What Would Jesus Do?" My answer was always "Why would that matter?" You do what's right because it's right; not because you're forcing yourself to follow a doctrine someone else wrote for you.
Much to my wife's chagrin, I still don't know quite where I fall on the spiritual litmus test. I'm willing to admit that there is something or someone that created and governs the universe, but the insanity that religions bring into the equation troubles me to no end. Here are some religious "truths" and then the facts. Decide for yourself.
The Bible is the Word of God.
Bullshit. The Bible was rewritten by a group of monks and advisers under the direction of – wait for it – King James (So THAT'S where the name came from!). These were translated from earlier editions of the bible and (This is the important part.) sections of it were partially or wholly rewritten to fit the beliefs of the Church of England, King James' own little start-up. This is part of the reason that sections of the Bible contradict each other (Thou shalt not kill ... unless your wife isn't a virgin when you get married, then the Bible says you can slice that wench up.).
If that doesn't fit your thinking, here's my challenge to you. Go to Israel and count the number of Johns, Lukes, Matthews and Pauls you can find. Go ahead. I'll wait.
A true Christian is God-fearing.
If you fear your God, then you've got more issues in your religion than Doane's has pills (Or maybe the problem is you. You figure it out. Go ahead. I'll wait.).
I try to lead a good life; I help others when I can and I try not to harm anyone in my day-to-day. I don't do it because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. I do it out of respect and my idea of what's right. If you're helping your fellow man because it will buy you a seat in Heaven, then you're not worshiping; you're brown-nosing.
One of my favorite movies teaches "It's not who you are, but what you do that defines you." I disagree. I believe it's who you are and what inspires the things that you do that defines you. If you do good works out of selfish reasons, then how good is it? To be perfectly honest, I hate doing volunteer work, but I still do it. Not because I expect some deity to reward me, but because it needs to be done.
The only true religion is (my religion).
This is only true if the following is true: The only good race is (my race). The only definition of marriage is (my definition). The only decent music is (the stuff I listen to). The true definition of assclown is (anyone who believes any of those three preceding sentences).
Do not misunderstand me; I am not against religion in and of itself. I AM against anything that dictates that someone is evil because they don't worship like I do, sleep with the proper sex, eat the same food (or not eat the same food) or find the whole concept of my life offensive. If you want to marry a cow, go ahead as long as you know you've got its consent. Eat dog? No problem, I may even try a slice of doberman myself just to see what it tastes like. Demean your wife and girl-child? HELL NO!! If your religion condones the degradation of someone else because of what they received in the gene pool lottery, then some evil bastard is lurking in your religion's past.
A few years ago, the catchphrase was "What Would Jesus Do?" My answer was always "Why would that matter?" You do what's right because it's right; not because you're forcing yourself to follow a doctrine someone else wrote for you.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Welcome back...
Can I say that March and April sucked for me?
Can I add that May got off to a craptacular start as well?
...and so we return to the blog, but step away from the lessons and musings of bushido; at least for now. Today, complete and total ramblings...
Anyone familiar with my Facebook postings knows I lost a good friend on May 1 (which is why the craptacular beginning is noted). While Cliff Arnold may have been one of my employers, he and wife Elin were also my friends. Almost seven months to the day after he found out he had colon cancer, he died from it. While cancer is a terrible way to go, it was a short time filled with highs and lows. I should go out so gracefully. At various times in his life, Cliff was an Army medic, a hobo, a union worker at Caterpillar, a motorcycle enthusiast, a contemporary of Richard Pryor, an AA sponsor, and much much more. We'll not see his like again, and we're much the worse off for that.
I was just in my sixth musical. That's significant because I auditioned for exactly none of them (I counted twice.) before being cast. In fact, the only two musicals I auditioned before, I didn't make the cut. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I think that's gotta be some kind of Guinness record; or at least a Ripley's Believe it or Not.
Most heroic statement ever: "I got a job. Give the reward money to the women."
Can I add that May got off to a craptacular start as well?
...and so we return to the blog, but step away from the lessons and musings of bushido; at least for now. Today, complete and total ramblings...
Anyone familiar with my Facebook postings knows I lost a good friend on May 1 (which is why the craptacular beginning is noted). While Cliff Arnold may have been one of my employers, he and wife Elin were also my friends. Almost seven months to the day after he found out he had colon cancer, he died from it. While cancer is a terrible way to go, it was a short time filled with highs and lows. I should go out so gracefully. At various times in his life, Cliff was an Army medic, a hobo, a union worker at Caterpillar, a motorcycle enthusiast, a contemporary of Richard Pryor, an AA sponsor, and much much more. We'll not see his like again, and we're much the worse off for that.
I was just in my sixth musical. That's significant because I auditioned for exactly none of them (I counted twice.) before being cast. In fact, the only two musicals I auditioned before, I didn't make the cut. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I think that's gotta be some kind of Guinness record; or at least a Ripley's Believe it or Not.
Most heroic statement ever: "I got a job. Give the reward money to the women."
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