He Does Not Know Himself

He does not know himself, and he suffers because of that. Worse still, his family is cheated by his absence.

In gatherings, when joy is the right emotion, the normal emotion, he withdraws. Not consciously - God knows he wants so very badly to engage honestly and joyfully - it is an unfortunate, automatic, self-defense mechanism that is entirely misplaced. The wrong response in the wrong situation.

The awkwardness he feels is psychologically painful and physically uncomfortable.

Around strangers, of course it makes sense to hide, to play-act, to strangle honest thoughts and smother intense emotions. He has to. They only care about themselves. They want to dominate him, to strip him of dignity. To impose their will, their thoughts, their emotions, their irrational perspective of life upon him to the exclusion of his essence. So, the turtle withdraws his head.

But family is a refuge, a chance to air out the soul and allow it to breathe. Even more important, allow it to express itself, naturally and honestly in complete absence of self-doubt. Family is a bona fide source of life.

Because his self-awareness has died, or possibly never existed - every thought that comes to mind, every word that exits his mouth, is surreal and unnatural. Nothing he says is genuine, to his enormous frustration. Sometimes the words that come out of his mouth shock him - "that's not me, why the fuck did I say that? I don't even believe what I'm saying."

Everyone else talks, laughs, and acts themselves. He is a distant spectator to himself, looking on in horror at the image he is projecting. The family is used to this. They respond to the person he is not.

Over the years, this internal battle has escalated to the point where every gathering is a war. An opportunity to vindicate himself so important to him that he can't possibly achieve it. The enormity of the significance of victory paralyzes him. So he repeats another disingenuous performance. And the hole gets deeper.

I have talked to him about this but his defenses are stout, fortified by self-delusion. I refuse to give up, though.

I like the guy.

Wisdom & Epitaph

Wife: "You've had so much strife but you're always happy. How do you do it?"

Husband: "I choose to. I can leave myself to rot in the past, spend my time hating people for what happened, like my father did, or I can forgive and forget.

Wife: "But it's not that easy."

Husband: "Oh, but my treasure, it is so much less exhausting. You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day. You have to keep remembering all the bad things. I would have to make a list, a very, very long list and make sure I hated the people on it the right amount. That I did a very proper job of hating, too: very Teutonic! No, we always have a choice. All of us."

"Izz, I've learned the hard way that to have any kind of a future, you've got to give up hope of ever changing your past."

There are still more days to travel in this life. And he knows that the man who makes the journey has been shaped by every day and every person along the way. Scars are just another kind of memory. Isabel is part of him, wherever she is, just like the war and the light and the ocean. Soon enough the days will close over their lives, the grass will grow over their graves, until their story is just an unvisited headstone.

All the above from The Light Between Oceans, by M.L. Stedman

That last paragraph is the ultimate epitaph, relevant to every human life. An unvisited headstone, the final reality.

Water of Life

 "Whiskey is by far the most popular of all remedies that won't cure a cold."

Jerry Vale

Unfortunately, quite true. However, I used to get lots of colds - at least one bad one every winter, then smaller disturbances throughout the year. I treated them with whiskey and beer (mostly whiskey) according to the wise advice of Dr. Joe.

It didn't cure anything, but it did dry me up. My nose would be running like a fire hose - I used to get nasty colds - but as I drank it would slow down considerably. It didn't dry up completely, but at least I could read a book without gumming up the pages. 

I know you think I am full of shit - just another excuse to drink whiskey - but consider the following - alcohol causes dehydration. The higher the alcohol content of a beverage, the greater its dehydrating effect. Whiskey, because of its high alcohol content, is particularly dehydrating. So if you're gonna treat your cold with whiskey, go for Wild Turkey 101, if you're man enough. Please ignore Wild Turkey 81 - it's a fucking insult to whiskey drinkers.

So yes, whiskey won't cure a cold, but it sure as hell will make it a lot more fun.

And why don't I get colds any more? I sometimes go years without getting a cold. How bizarre, how bizarre. So much so that when I get one I wonder "What the hell is this?" Then I go straight for the whiskey.

Turns out that age is my ally (except for the impending death thing). Theory has it that while the immune system weakens with age, the cumulative exposure to viruses throughout life results in more immunity to specific cold viruses. I must have done battle with some serious viruses in my life, because the infrequency with which I get colds now makes me jump for joy.

And I can always come up with new reasons to drink whiskey. 

Like nap time. Shit, man, I could not survive anymore without afternoon naps. They are glorious. But if I hit the recliner with a clear head, it's a 50/50 crap shoot that I will fall asleep quickly. Typically my diseased fucking brain will come up with things to worry about, both real and imagined. And I can't lie around for two hours waiting to sleep - I am an exceptionally busy man - getting things done, thinking big thoughts, finding solutions, and making the world a better place.

But consuming a moderate amount of whiskey (you define moderate in your way and I'll stick to my definition) eases me into a peaceful siesta. I don't drink Crown Royal though - that would be a horrible waste. Crown Royal is consumed for superior taste, and for good times. For naps, it's Seagram's 7. I keep a jug of it handy for medicinal purposes.

Like naps, or severe stress requiring quick and multiple shots of liquid courage.

A handle of Seagram's 7 cost $20. A handle of Crown Royal costs $43. You say: "For Christ sake, Joe, you are always crying poverty - why not stick with Seagram's?"

You cannot be fucking serious.