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The Wit And Wisdom Of Duncan Brenner

Today is Duncan’s 8th birthday, and we’re all very proud of him. In honor of this special day, I share with you some of my favorite Duncanisms. Let’s begin with his retelling of the morning he was born:

Mood music:

What happened:

Erin’s labor pains came on violently and we rushed to the car. I sped out of the driveway and slammed the pedal to the floor as we approached the train tracks. As we went over the train tracks, the water broke. At the hospital, I accidentally slammed Erin’s hand in the car door.

How Duncan tells it:

“When I was being born, you drove over the train tracks and mom cut her finger from breaking her glass of water.”

Now for the random stuff I hear from my precious boy on a daily basis:

–Me: “You’re a good kid, Duncan. I’m proud of you.” Duncan’s response: *rolls eyes* “Go away, Dad. You’re spoiling my fun.”

–Casually uttered from the mouth of Duncan as he walks by, strumming his severely out-of-tune guitar: “Nobody puts Baby on the shelf…”

–Duncan, puzzled to learn that Darth Vader killed the Emperor in “Return of the Jedi”: “Where does he get off killing his own boss?”

–Duncan, catching me with my shirt off: “Really, Dad. Do you have to be such an ape?”

–Duncan, upon learning he’ll be an attendence monitor in class: “Wow, that’s great! And I don’t even know what an attendence monitor is.”

–Duncan pounced on me, pounded his elbow into my spine and kissed my bald head, telling me he just gave me a “love ambush.”

Duncan and his good friend Gabby

–Duncan, watching a rack of CDs fall on a girl in the bookstore (the kid was freaked out): “I hope those CDs don’t get a scratch in them.”

–I threaten to smack Duncan in the butt (I’d never follow through). His response: “You don’t want to. You don’t know where this butt’s been.”

–Discovered the password Duncan uses for his online “Poptropica” game is “Farts of Doom.”

–Duncan, in full tattle mode: “Sean threatened to punch me out if I talk during the car ride. Now go punish him.”

–“You’re a stupid old shoe everyone steps on cause it’s ugly.” — Duncan’s attempted crusher on his dad (He was angry because I got Sean some gum and he was feeling left out. In hindsight, I can’t say I blame him.)

–“Hanging out with you is challenging.” Duncan, after I wrestled him to the floor in a good-natured game of rough housing.

—Duncan, twirling his toy lightsaber: “You can call me Jedi Bob.” Sean: “I’d rather call you an idiot.”

–Duncan on Santa: “If you don’t believe you don’t receive.”

–Duncanism of the day: If the inside of my head was empty, I’d be light-headed.

At bedtime, I read Duncan a book about how to deal with your feelings when you’re angry. One page notes that it’s OK to get angry with God for life’s unfair twists, as long as you keep praying and get over the need to blame Him for everything.

Duncan says something stunningly insightful for a 7-year-old. Or, perhaps, he’s just proving again that kids have a clearer picture of the world than we grown-ups have:

“Dad, I don’t see how people could get mad at God,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because while we’re all busy getting upset down here, we have no idea what God is doing up there.”

That’s probably the best way I’ve ever heard someone explain that God has a plan and we have no idea why things happen the way they do.

But Duncan is pretty certain about one thing God’s not doing up there:

“I know this much,” he says. “God’s not picking his nose, because he doesn’t like that.”

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I Miss The Fighting

In yet another sign that I’m not playing with a full deck, I realized this morning that I miss the fighting between my best friend and his father.

Mood music:

It’s another stray memory that came to the surface as I went to the wake and funeral for Al Marley. Al and Sean used to have some blistering arguments at the dining room table over religion and politics, appearances — you name it.

At the funeral this morning Father Dick mentioned how he used to have a lot of conversations about faith with Al. One of those talks was about Sean’s tendency to dye his hair multiple colors. Al was conservative and dressed that way. Sean was the opposite. Father Dick said it took a few conversations to convince Al that Sean’s hair dye was no big deal.

Erin suggested I have a sick sense of humor — which I do — because it takes a sick person to enjoy a situation where two people are erupting into anger.

But here’s the thing: To me, it was always a lovable anger, the kind you might identify with friends and couples who bicker constantly but hug and smooch afterward.

Al and Sean used to have a battle of wits. Did they often get angry at each other? Absolutely. But their love and respect for each other was always there on the surface.

One afternoon during the 1988 presidential election season, Al looked at me with those intense, sparkling eyes of his, took a drag on one of the many cigarettes he’d smoke in one sitting, and warned that Michael Dukakis would be as disastrous a president as Jimmy Carter.

“Carter didn’t do what he had to do during the hostage crisis,” Al said. “He just sat there in the Rose Garden wringing his hands.” Al rubbed his own hands together for emphasis.

“That’s total bullshit,” Sean bellowed from the other side of the table. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. But the next hour they were hugging, laughing and bantering about something else. They always made up.

The arguing was always over meaty subjects. Religion was another one they would get into intense debate about. Al was a traditional Roman Catholic, but Sean liked to challenge all the traditional beliefs. He just loved to pick an argument over the deep stuff.

Looking back, I think that sitting there watching the arguments made me smarter. It definitely inspired me to do a lot of research and challenge conventional wisdom. Watching two sharp guys go at it is a good educational experience. It’s one of the many gifts those guys gave me.

I’ll bet they’re going at it right now, and loving every minute of it.

I hope so.

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A Vision of Death And Rebirth

At the wake for Al Marley yesterday, Father Richard C. Messina gave a stirring description of what he thinks the afterlife might look like.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/ZADcJdFY-0w

He described how people get excited when a baby is on the way.

“The baby will be here soon!” friends and family will say. Then the baby arrives and the aunts, uncles, grandparents and family friends come to meet the little tyke. It’s the beginning of life.

That, Father Dick said, is what it must be like in Heaven. Everyone who went before you is up there saying, “Al is almost here! We’ll see him soon.” Then you die, and everyone up there excitedly comes to greet you.

“I have no doubt Sean was there to grab him by the arm and pull him to the other side,” Father Dick said.

I know he’s right. In the room in the funeral home where they show a slideshow of the deceased’s life, there were some pictures of Sean I hadn’t seen in a long time: Sean, with a jet-black mohawk, cutting his father’s hair, wedding photos, family trips to the beach in the 1970s and 1980s.

Buried in the slide deck was another picture I hadn’t seen in a long time. It’s my brother Michael and Al, sitting on a log. They appear to be doing something with a fishing line. Both have big smiles on their faces.

Of course they did. They were both madly in love with the sea.

Seeing that picture was probably the closest I came to losing it. But I never lose it in public.

I know Michael was there with Sean to greet Al. I can picture them getting on a boat and sailing into the clouds. It makes me smile.

Everything is going to be fine. Better than fine.

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Deal With It, Get Over It And Get Out Of My Way

It’s been an emotional few days. I came to the edge of a relapse. A father figure died. Then there was the 9-11 anniversary. This stuff can burn a person down to nothing. But I don’t burn like I used to.

Mood music:

It’s funny how people react not only to their own adversity, but that of others. Some people become incapacitated with grief when a pet dies and some of us want to say, “Fuck, man. It’s a pet. Get over it and stop crying in front of everyone.” But that’s just us judging someone without all the facts.

When I come up against difficult things, I write about it. One now-former reader lamented that my blog is “soooo depressing” that she can’t read it anymore. That suits me fine, because she was the type that had all the answers and told you how you should live. She was an expert in everything, but she never really understood the purpose of this blog, which is to stare the horrors of life in the face, describe it honestly and deal with it. Life is full of depressing things, but when you can face those things head on, there’s a ton of joy and beauty on the other side. That’s my experience, so I try to share it without telling you what to do.

And that’s what this post is about. Dealing with adversity and learning to get over it.

Yeah, I came close to a relapse last week. I did what every addict does — I reached a point in my recovery where I got so comfortable and felt so in control that I started getting sloppy. It’s funny how this happens, because when we feel in control it usually means things are falling apart behind the scenes. In my case, my father having three strokes tired me out enough that I started forgetting to do the things a person in recovery is supposed to do.

I went to a 12-Step Big Book study last night and the chapter of the night was perfect for me. It was about people who relapse because they think they have their addiction licked. They have that one weak moment that sends them back down to hell.

Going to a meeting the night that chapter was on the table was a classic case of God trying to tell me something. That something goes like this: Life is full of the good and bad. Deal with it and get over it. And, above all, don’t binge over it.

I write this stuff down and share it because we all have moments where we need that kick in the ass. My ass stings pretty good right now, but I’m feeling very grateful for it.

When you become paralyzed by the hole in your soul, the thought of dealing with it is terrifying. But when you finally take that next step, it’s one of the best, natural highs out there.

Last week I started to deal with things. I told my wife about my sloppiness and decided to declare myself in breach of abstinence and sobriety. I decided to tear it down and start over.

Yesterday I left my sponsor a message telling him I was sorry for being such a lousy sponsee. Now we’ll see if he wants to stick with me or if I need to find someone else. At least I took that step.

This evening I’m going to go to the wake for a man I looked up to, and it will be with a sense of celebration, not sadness. He lived his life as we all should: To the full. He earned a ticket straight to Heaven, and that makes me happy. I’ll admit I’m a bit nervous about seeing his wife and daughter for the first time in many years. They haven’t been happy with me in that time and tonight probably won’t change things. I don’t want to be an uncomfortable presence. I’ll just do the best I can.

I have all the coffee I need and I packed three abstinent meals for the day. I guess you could say my pistol is fully loaded and I’m ready for what comes next.

I have a busy work day, and I couldn’t be happier about that. I do, after all, love what I do.

I have to deal with my feelings about ending the estrangement with my mother. This week, I’m going to talk to Erin and carve out an action plan.

If you see me twitching and talking to myself, don’t worry. I’m dealing with life and getting over things I can’t control or undo.

Out of my way.

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He’s With Sean Now

I write a lot about my friend Sean Marley in this blog because he helped shape the man I became and the struggles I face. Right now, I’m thinking of his dad, Albert J. Marley.

Mood music:

Al died a couple days ago. I got the word from one of the Marley cousins, who told me, “Al is with Sean now.” I’m sad, but more than anything else, I’m grateful — grateful that he was such a big part of my formative years.

This post is a tribute to Al. I practically grew up in his house and he treated me like one of his own.

My fondest memories with him involve the sea. We lived on Revere Beach, but he’s really the one who taught me to appreciate it. The Marley home was a cozy, loving place in the 1980s and early 1990s. I spent so much time there because it was a happier place than my own home two doors down. At least that’s how it felt to me at the time.

The Marley house was steeped in seaside decor, especially the sun porch. I loved that porch. In the summers I’d sit there sucked in as Al told me one story after another about his ocean experiences. He was a captain in the U. S. Coast Guard and a past commodore of the Pleasant Park Yacht Club in the neighboring town of Winthrop. He was an Army veteran. He loved to tell me stories about those days as he sat in his chair and chain smoked.

He always had a story. One day their Irish Setter Shannon was busted after finding and devouring a box of doughnuts. They found the box and a trail of powder that led under the kitchen table where the dog was hiding. This reminded Al of the time a previous Irish Setter they had tore into a roast beef on the counter while they were all at Mass.

Like any good Irish-American sailor-storyteller, he embellished every detail — how much he was looking forward to the roast beef as he sat in church, how they came home to find pieces of the roast all over the house and how the dog cowered under the kitchen table, just like Shannon did after demolishing the donuts.

Al was in his element on the water. He would take me and anyone else who wanted to go in his small boat on a tour of the outer Boston Harbor islands. And nothing made him prouder than when Sean took the wheel of the boat. Whenever Sean took the helm, Al would glow with pride and give his son a kiss on the cheek.

He meant the world to my brother, Michael, too. He gleefully taught Michael everything there was to know about the sea, fishing, and oceanic culture. He eventually got Michael a job at the Pleasant Park Yacht Club. He was devastated when Michael died.

After Sean’s death, I didn’t see the Marley family much. Everyone moved to different towns and moved on.

But the family will always hold a place deep in my heart. By now the reader knows how much Sean meant to me. Now you know how much Al meant to me, too.

—

MARLEY, Albert J. of Winthrop, and Ft. Meyers, FL, formerly of Point of Pines, Revere, passed away on September 8, 2011. He is the beloved husband of Barbara A. (Indresano) Marley. Son of the late Albert E. and Mary E. (McMackin) Marley. Devoted father of Grace (Marley) Cloutier and her husband Jeffrey of Freeport, ME, and the late Sean J. Marley. Cherished granddad, of Marley, Maxine, and Samantha Cloutier. Dear brother of Mary L. Andrews of Falmouth, MA, and the late Elizabeth Marley and Paul Marley. Also survived by many nieces and nephews. Funeral from the Maurice W. Kirby Funeral Home 210 Winthrop St. WINTHROP, on Tues, Sept 13, at 9am. A Funeral Mass will be held at St. John the Evangelist Church at 10am. Relatives and friends are invited. Interment will be private. Visiting hours are Mon. only 4-8pm. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the West Roxbury VA, c/o Voluntary Services, attn. Cardiac Unit, 1400 West Roxbury, MA, 02132, or to St. John the Evangelist Church 320 Winthrop St. Winthrop, MA, 02152. Albert was a retired Insurance Broker and the owner of A.J. Insurance Co. He was a graduate of Merrimack College, a U.S. Army Veteran and a Captain in the U. S. Coast Guard. He was also the Past Commodore of the Pleasant Park Yacht Club and a member of the Mass. Bay and Commodore’s Club of America. For guestbook and directions, go to www.mauricekirbyfh.com.

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A Loss Beyond All Reason and Comprehension

I’m praying hard for my co-worker and friend Joan Ritchie Goodchild and her husband Bryan. Bryan’s uncle and cousin were swept away in the flash flooding Tropical Storm Irene caused in Vermont Sunday.

Mood music:

Here’s the basics from the Burlington Free Press:

The body of Rutland Water Treatment Plant Supervisor Michael Garofano, 55, was found Monday near the raging brook feeding the Rutland city reservoir he and his 24-year-old son, Mike, went to check Sunday afternoon.

The younger Garofano is missing and “feared dead,” state emergency management officials said. A search was under way for his body.

As Joan said on her Facebook page yesterday: “The whim of fate can be incomprehensibly cruel and unfair.”

There’s not much I can say about this other than that I’m sad and my heart aches for Joan and her family.

I’m going to keep praying for them and I ask that you do the same.

I’ll end with a couple random thoughts:

–First, this quote from Mister Rogers rings true, and, understanding his words as I do, I know this family will pull through:

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers–so many caring people in this world.

–In times like these it can be easy to wonder how the fuck God allows these things to happen. I wanted to kick God in the guts when my brother died, when my parents divorced, when my friend Sean Marley committed suicide. When the unthinkable happens, it becomes impossible to comprehend the big plan.

But as Mister Rogers said, the helpers always come. They always help you through the ugly stuff.

This will be no exception.

But that doesn’t make this suck any less.

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This Is No Place To Make Amends

After running the post “Bully’s Remorse” a few days ago, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, writing it was a mistake. Or maybe it simply didn’t go far enough.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:5rpRzNcJZqKQXk9PIjreB6]

Like many topics in this blog, I wrote it to yank another skeleton out of the closet and acknowledge that as a teenager, while I was getting bullied and should have related to others who were bullied, I just turned around and kicked around someone I thought was weaker than me.

It’s not the first regret that I’ve mentioned here. In another post, “One of my Biggest Regrets,” I wrote about a New Hampshire reporter from my Eagle-Tribune days who I was terrible to. I called her early one morning to chew her out over a story that didn’t get done, knowing full well her husband was due to have heart surgery that very morning.

It’s a recurring theme here. I tell you about someone I was a awful to, and it’s like I’m making an amends to that person.

But I’m not, really. Amends can only be made face-to-face. In that regard, I’m stuck in neutral.

This all occurred to me after a friend with her own experience in being bullied sent me this message:

—

I remember being picked on from as early on as 2nd grade all the way through senior year of high school (alternative school, you know “short bus”, “the troubled kids”) I got there by trying to kill myself. I still remember what one of the intake workers said about my overdose: “Hey, you know that could get ya killed…hahaha”… trying to relate to the poor depressed girl. I replied, “Yeah, that’s the point.

Being tormented by my peers in one of the hardest things I have tried to let go of in my life. There is a pile of abuse material, neglect, alcohol and drug addiction (of my family), homelessness, being a foster child, being locked up in psyche…etc., that I could talk about…but, somehow being alienated by the people ( your peers), perhaps even those that could of helped you in that situation, hurt, and still does.

If you remember me from “around the neighborhood”, Bill, its probably because I was the scapegoat for a lot of other kids’ nastiness, including my own sister. So, am I crying in my tea (sorry, I don’t drink), here? I hope not. I’m doing the best to let you know how your “friend” probably felt: useless, self-hating, desperate, and alone.

I hope he was stronger than I was, I hope for you that he is doing well, and can laugh it all off.

My personal opinion is that you are making amends to make yourself feel better. If you want this person to know how you feel, that you are sorry, that you wish you had not done the things you did…..don’t write a blog about it, don’t say: ” hey if you happen to see so and so let him know I wrote a blog about him, cuz I’m so fucking cool … hire your own private detective, find the guy, meet him face to face, and make your amends. That’s being a man. Abuse creates monsters, and what children do to each other while growing up is abuse, sometimes with fatal consequences. I wonder if Columbine would of even happened if adults had a “no tolerance” reaction to any abuse, because they know, and they let it happen all the time.

—

The line that really cut me to the core was the suggestion that I wrote that post to make myself feel better.

Because in hindsight, it’s true.

Coming clean here is an important step. But I’m really not making my amends unless I’m doing it directly to the person who needs to hear it.

It’s time for me to put the process in motion.

There are many people I need to make peace with.

regret

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41 Years

Some people get depressed on their birthday. Not me. The fact that I turn 41 today is a freak of nature. But a year into my forties, I know I have more cleaning up to do.

Mood music:

Item: When I was sick with the Crohn’s Disease as a kid, I lost a lot of blood and developed several side ailments. I’m told by my parents that the doctor’s were going to remove the colon more than once. It didn’t happen. They tell me I was closing in on death more than once. I doubt it was ever that serious. Either way, here I am.

Item: When the OCD was burning out of control, I often felt I’d die young. I was never suicidal, but I had a fatalistic view of things. I just assumed I wasn’t long for this world and I didn’t care. I certainly did a lot to slowly help the dying process along. That’s what addicts do. We feed the addiction compulsively knowing full well what the consequences will be.

When I was a prisoner to fear and anxiety, I really didn’t want to live long. I isolated myself. Fortunately, I never had the guts to do anything about it. And like I said, suicide was never an option.

I spent much of my 30s on the couch with a shattered back, and escaped with the TV. I was breathing, but I was also as good as dead some of the time.

I’ve watched others go before me at a young age. Michael. Sean. Even Peter. Lose the young people in your life often enough and you’ll start assuming you’re next.

When you live for yourself and don’t put faith in God, you’re not really living. When it’s all about you, there no room to let all the other life in. So the soul shrivels and hardens. I’ve been there.

I also had a strange fear of current events and was convinced at one point that the world would burn in a nuclear holocaust before I hit 30. That hasn’t happened yet.

So here I am at 41, and it’s almost comical that I’m still here.

I’m more grateful than you could imagine for the turn of events my life has taken in the last six years.

I’ve learned to stop over-thinking and manage the OCD. When you learn to stop over-thinking, a lot of things that used to be daunting become a lot easier. You also find yourself in a lot of precious moments that were always there. But you didn’t notice them because you were sick with worry.

I notice them now, and I am Blessed far beyond what I probably deserve.

I have a career that I love.

I have the best wife on Earth and two boys that teach me something new every day.

I have many, many friends who have helped me along in more ways than they’ll ever know.

I have my 12-Step program and I’m not giving in to the worst of my addictions.

Most importantly, I have God in my life. When you put your faith in Him, there’s a lot less to be afraid of. Aging is one of the first things you stop worrying about.

So here I am at 41. feeling a lot better about myself than I did at 31. In fact, 31 was one of the low points.

But I’d be in denial if I told you everything was perfect beyond perfect. I wouldn’t tell you that anyway, because I’ve always thought that perfection was a bullshit concept. That makes it all the more ironic and comical that OCD would be the life-long thorn in my side.

I just recently quit smoking, and I’m still missing the hell out of that vice. I haven’t gone on a food binge in nearly three years, but there are still days where I’m not sure I’ve made the best choices; those days where my skin feels just a little too loose and flabby.

I still go to my meetings, but there are many days where I’d rather do anything but go to a meeting. I go because I have to, but I don’t always want to.

And while I have God in my life, I still manage to be an asshole to Him a lot of the time.

At 41, I’m still very much the work in progress. The scars are merely the scaffolding and newly inserted steel beams propping me up.

I don’t know what comes next, but I have much less fear about the unknown.

And so I think WILL have a happy birthday.

OCD Diaries

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A Call From My Mother

It’s Wednesday morning. I’m working from home, face behind the computer. My kids and two neighborhood kids are tearing though the house, overturning everything in sight. Then the phone rings.

Mood music:

“It’s been five years,” the voice on the other end says. “Can’t we fix this?”

It’s my mother. I saw her at my cousin’s wedding two weeks ago but we largely avoided contact. We’re six years into an estrangement that I think is the result of shared mental illness.

Can we fix this?

I really don’t know.

I want to. I’ve never been happy about what happened, though I felt and still feel that the split was necessary.

Some folks think this stuff is simple. Life’s too short not to get along, they say. But life is far more complex than that. Relationships with a history of abuse? That’s one of the most complex and confusing beasts of all.

I’ve had a lot of love and blessings in my life in the last few years. I’ve come far in overcoming addictions and mental illness. Even the family discord has served a purpose. Somewhere along the way, I’ve found myself.

It would be nice if I could mend some more relationships. But I have to be careful.

At the wedding, my Uncle Bobby, the last of the siblings that included my grandmother, took me aside at one point and said life is too short to hate.

He is absolutely right.

But hate has nothing to do with it.

Mistrust, hurt feelings and deep disagreements over right and wrong? Absolutely. But not hate.

If it were about hate, all this would be cut, dry and easy.

I’ll have to do some hard thinking over this one.

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You Can’t Be Everyone’s Friend

I once wrote about an obsession with the Facebook friend count. I worried about offending people who de-friended me. Lately I realize it’s ok if I can’t be everyone’s friend. I’m even warming to the idea.

Mood music:

I’ve always had this stupid idea that I needed to be everyone’s friend. Even when I was bullying someone, I’d turn around and try to be their friend. I always wanted everyone in my family to like me, even when I was busy hating them.

I’ve carried that into adulthood and got obsessed about it with things like Facebook. This morning I glanced at my friend count and it was 1,713. I could have sworn it was 1,715 a few days ago. So I started looking around to see who might have gotten mad at me. I noticed that three relatives had disconnected from me. A year ago that would have bothered me a lot more than it did this morning.

“At least my ‘friends’ seem to be sticking around,” I thought to myself.

Sarcasm aside, I do think I’m turning a corner with this whole like-dislike thing. Slowly, it’s sinking in that I need to do a better job at listening to my own words. At the beginning of this blog is a post called “Being a People Pleaser is Dumb.” I wrote about how I wanted to be the golden boy at work more than anything back in the day, until I realized it was absolutely impossible to please everyone all the time. In fact, some people are unworthy of the effort.

I’ve had to learn that lesson all over again in the social networking world.

When people walk away from me online, I figure it’s because they don’t particularly enjoy this blog. So be it.

You can’t be everyone’s friend. You shouldn’t be everyone’s friend.

I’m slowly warming to the idea that if some people don’t like you it’s because you have the stones to take a stand on the things you believe in.

You either like me or you don’t. It’s all good.

I’m connected to a lot of people I’m not particularly fond of these days. It’s nothing personal. I just find find the whiny, woe-is-me status updates grating. Facebook is full of that stuff, along with all the self-righteous, pre-manufactured statements people wrap their arms around.

But it’s your profile.

Do what you want with it, and I’ll do what I want with mine.