The Breaking Point

Even when you learn to manage OCD it’s still there, biding its time in the background, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Most of the time, it only gets the chance to pounce if you let it.

Mood music: “Coming Undone” by Korn

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioJ9ZHqzMT0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Lately, I’ve been giving the demon all the rope it needs to hang me.

I’ve been pushing myself hard with work, looking for more events to travel to and setting up more phone interviews per day than one can handle while still writing at least one article a day. My bosses aren’t demanding I keep this pace. I am. I know that when I slow down, I get restless. Restlessness turns to boredom. Once I’m bored, the safety is off the firearm — just in time for me to shoot myself in the foot.

I’m not just pushing myself with work, though. I’m demanding a lot of my recovery. I’m working the 12 Steps hard but somewhat recklessly, which means the risk of my tripping over a step or three is higher than it should be. That can lead to bad things.

I’m doing a lot of service these days and it feels good. But it’s filling up a lot of time, too. I have to be careful with that. There’s a saying in OA: Service is slimming. Very true. But without discipline, it can be throat-cutting as well. Somewhere in there is the right balance.

I used to have a lot of help when it came to slowing down. Pills appeared to do the trick at one point. But it was never real rest, and I paid for it by pissing away a lot of opportunities to live.

Binge eating used to seem like rest, for the first few seconds. But the result was worse than pills and alcohol.

So, you see, I’m trying to get the hang of real rest, the productive kind that helps you get back into balance.

In an effort to figure it out, I’m taking a vacation day tomorrow. It’s in the middle of a work week, which really cuts against the grain of my work habits. But I need a morning to walk along the beach and put things in perspective.

My friend Kevin is staying at Salisbury Beach for the week, so in the morning I’m going to take him up on the invitation to come hang out. In the afternoon, I’ll go pick up the family and return to the beach to spend some more time with family.

Kevin, a photographer, took this shot from the beach yesterday, convincing me that I need to make the time to go there:

I have a column to write, a podcast to produce and plenty of chores before I break away.

But I WILL break away.

Not for long, though.

That’s just not my style.

Hung Over and Junk Sick

When you have a binge-eating addiction, the feeling you get before, during and after is a lot like being drunk and stoned.

“What’s my drug of choice? Well, what have you got?” Layne Staley, Alice in Chains

Junkies have a feeling they get before binging: Their brain is stuck on having whatever  gets them off. Alcohol. Heroin. Blow. For me, it used to be food. I’m free of the aftermath, but the demon still taunts me. Yesterday was a good example.

We spent a wonderful afternoon on Salisbury Beach Reservation in Massachusetts for a reunion of folks who were in the Haverhill High chorus, marching band and color guard in the 1980s and early 90s (Erin was in color guard).

All the stuff I used to get my fix on was spread out across three tables, totally legal and there for me to shove down my throat: Hamburger rolls, chips of all kinds, cookies and all the other flour-sugar substances that are essentially poison to me.

Before I found recovery, my demon would start harassing me long before getting to the scene of the junk. Forget the people who would be there or the weather and surroundings. All I’d think about was getting my fill. Then I’d get to the event and get my fill from the time I’d get there to the time I left. I’d sneak handfuls of junk so what I was doing wouldn’t be too obvious to those around me.

Halfway through, I would have the same kind of buzz you get after downing a case of beer or inhaling a joint deep into your lungs. I know this, because I’ve done those things, too. By nightfall, I’d feel like a pile of shattered bricks waiting to be carted off to the dump. Quality time with my wife and kids? Forget it. All I wanted was the bed or the couch so I could pass out.

The next morning would greet me with a bad headache, violent stomach cramps and blurred vision. Just like having a hangover or being dope sick.

Yesterday I stuck to my food plan and my tools of recovery, and it all turned out fine. I got to enjoy the surroundings and the company, though I was still distant in spots because there were a lot of folks I didn’t know. And because of that, there were moments where I gazed at the tables of food.

At one point, during clean-up, me and Duncan took a bunch of cookies and chips and tossed them to the seagulls, who eagerly dove in for their feast. That was rather liberating for me, because I was taking the substance I’m addicted to and throwing it to the wind. It also made clean-up easier, because seagulls leave nothing behind.

Also helping me was the beach itself. The ocean always has a healing effect on me. That comes from growing up on Revere Beach.

So here it is, Monday morning. I did not wake up feeling hungover or dope sick.

Another victory.

A new day.

Learning to Fight Well

In every marriage there are arguments. They can be good for you, but only if you learn to do it with skill. I’m working on it, but I’m not there yet.

Mood music for this post: “Hysteria” by Def Leppard:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SluRyO4EA4&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve always steered clear of this topic because nobody likes to talk about arguments with a husband or wife. But there’s a lesson to be learned, so in I go. And since I’m one of those people who are still trying to get it right, this is good therapy for me, too.

Erin and I have a  strong marriage. I’d say it’s getting stronger by the day. But like every married couple, we argue sometimes about all the typical things: Money, how to parent the kids, etc.

Yesterday was one of those days. The trigger for this one, I think, is the stress Erin’s feeling about our tight finances. Money is tight because we decided to take a chance on her quitting her job late last year to focus full-throttle on starting an editing business.

She’s still trying to find the right balance in all this, and it can be a real test of her self confidence. Meanwhile, I’m in charge of the family budget and paying the bills right now (we alternate on that chore every three months and I took it over a couple weeks ago). She has good reason to feel stressed about that one, because I really suck at saving money and processing numbers.

I even had to ask my father for financial assistance a few weeks ago, and that was a killer for me.

In my view, she has nothing to be ashamed of and everything to be proud of. Sure, money is a problem. But there’s a lot of love in this house. We love each other madly, and Sean and Duncan raise the happiness level a hundred-fold. We have a roof over our heads, food on the table and I have a job that I love. And, most importantly, we have God.

As a sponsor in Overeater’s Anonymous and as a longtime journalist, I’ve seen many people who don’t have these things. I also see a lot of people who have it far, far worse when I volunteer in the church food pantry. And, finding out that a childhood friend is on the streets and jobless because he’s a sex offender really puts things in perspective.

Still, life can be no less difficult in one’s own little world. So yesterday we argued.

I used to avoid arguments at all costs. There was a lot of yelling in my house growing up, and my instinct is always to avoid situations where there is yelling. A lot of earlier spats usually started as a result of all the stupid things I was doing as a result of my OCD and addictive behavior.

So, I really sucked at marital spats early on. I don’t want to say things that will be taken the wrong way, so I throw up a wall and sit there in a tight-lipped rage. It’s especially easy to do that when the thing that started the fight is usually something that was my fault.

This would be especially frustrating to Erin, because she would literally be talking to a wall.

I still have a habit of doing this sort of thing. But I’m trying to change that.

I’m trying to open up more about what I’m really feeling. I still try too hard to put it into the perfect words, though. That can cause problems. I’m trying hard to not make an argument about all the things I think I’m doing right and she’s doing wrong because that never ends well. I know she’s working hard on that, too.

There’s one thing we’ve always been pretty good at, though, and that’s making sure we resolve an argument before going to bed.

That’s something we learned in Pre-Cana before we got married: Never go to bed angry with each other.

Have we ever let that happen? Sure. But we’ve followed that Pre-Cana advice most of the time.

We’re also a lot better at talking through things and finding some sort of resolution. Erin’s still a lot better at it than me, but I’d like to think I’m better at it than I used to be.

This much I’ve learned: When spouses don’t communicate and let their frustrations build, it almost never ends well. We’ve seen this happen to several couples in recent years. One or both sides deny any fault on their own part and make no effort to resolve things.

That’s what happened to my parents. Happily, both parents have had more success in their second marriages, both of which are going on 30 years.

As a kid I always thought happy families never fought. The truth is closer to this: Happy families fight frequently, but they do it well and always walk away from an argument stronger than before.

In Ted Kennedy’s memoir, “True Compass,” he recalled a conversation his niece, Caroline, had with Rose, the Kennedy family matriarch. Rose noted that she never fought with her husband, Joseph P. Kennedy.

“Then how did you work out your differences?” Caroline asked her grandmother.

“I would just say ‘yes, dear’ and then go to Paris,” Rose responded.

My Nana and Papa fought all the time. But their fights were more the stuff of family comedy. Papa would make a crack he knew would set Nana off. She’d yell some profanity-laced sentences back at him, and he’d look at me with a wicked grin and wink. The truth is that they loved each other deeply, and though I couldn’t see it at the time, they knew how to fight well. It was a double-edged sword, though, because others in the family have tried to argue the same way and the results have often been a lot less successful.

Anyway, I have a lot to learn about the skills of a good argument. But I’m working on it.

As for yesterday’s argument, we didn’t go to bed angry at each other.

And, as is always the case, fight or no fight, I woke up this morning loving her more than I did the day before, or the day before that.

Get Up and Live: A Playlist

Treat this post as a media player. The playlist is made up of songs that to me are about seizing life by the throat. Enjoy.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJDDxHIaaVk&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFG820EwvUQ&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dn8vzTsnPps&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVXIK1xCRpY&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdTiZB0wjs0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WkJ-ZB–G0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7eRiAnZt24&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6_C4rV7x-Y&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhfRUYUkq_0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y2dI_a3GpS0&hl=en_US&fs=1]

The Pedophile

Some people deserve to spend life in a box. But even they have a shot at redemption.

As a dad, I have zero tolerance for anyone who hurts a child. So when I discovered someone I’ve known for many years spent a decade behind bars for pedophilia, It was like a knife in the gut. Further complicating matters is that as a recovering addict, I can’t help but feel bad for this guy. But only a little bit.

He’s addicted to sex and that addiction drew him to kids. He certainly got what he deserved: Hard jail time in the midst of hardened criminals who draw the line at crimes against children. People like that wouldn’t think twice about killing a pedophile in their midsts.

So this guy has been back on the streets for a year. He’s homeless, has found it nearly impossible to find a job and is constantly watching his back. He’s required by law to register as a sex offender, and to inform people living around him that he’s a convicted sex offender.

My first instinct was to tell him to fuck off when he contacted me. But after he described his evil instincts as an addiction, I paused. As I’ve said before, when someone is in the grip of addiction, sanity and logic no longer apply.

I had to hear the guy out.

He understands why people shun him. He doesn’t blame them. He’s been working hard at putting his life back together and curses the day he was born because he hates the side of himself that led to three convictions for assaulting a minor.

In talking to the guy, I found myself thankful as hell that my addiction took the form of binge eating. I think even a heroin addict is more fortunate than someone addicted to sex, pornography and especially pedophilia.

The latter addictions hit a person like any other addiction. You hate that side of you and want to change. But you find it impossible to stop unless you’re lucky enough to find recovery. And recovery is back-breaking, emotionally-draining work.

To have a sex addiction like that has to be sheer terror and hell for someone who isn’t evil at his core.

My Faith also tells me that no person who is sorry is beyond redemption. So you pray for them and hope for the best.

That’s where my sympathy ends.

I once had a debate with my friend Ken White about the death penalty. He’s for it, I’m against it. I argued that it’s hypocritical for the state to take a life. Ken argued back that some people don’t belong in society and have to go. That includes pedophiles. Maybe they’re not evil people, but their actions are evil and if they can’t function in society they shouldn’t be in society.

It was hard to argue back against that logic. Thing is, I tend to agree with him now.

Should this guy on the streets be back behind bars or dead? I’ll let others debate that. All I know is that I’m never, ever going to meet this guy in person or create a situation that lets him anywhere near my kids or anyone else’s.

Walking around with a big scarlet letter on his back must really suck, but it’s for the best. Even he knows that.

In the years following the Manson murders, the four who carried out Manson’s orders turned against him and turned to God. They completely renounced what they did and Charles “Tex” Watson even became a minister behind bars. They sought and received forgiveness from God. But they will never get out of prison.

They may have a right to forgiveness. Everyone does. But they did the crime and have to take the punishment. They gave up their right to live among the rest of us. That’s justice.

The pedophile now on the streets probably deserves a similar fate. But for whatever reason, they let him back out.

But he doesn’t have his freedom. He’ll always be watching his back. That too is justice, I suppose.

Writing about this was not comfortable. I wrestled with myself over whether to even tackle the subject. I decided I had to because I know the evil things addiction will make you do.

I saw this as a necessary tale of caution.

I’ll tell you what: I’m just extremely grateful that my addictions revolved around food and substances. People around me were hurt along the way, but it’s easier to receive forgiveness for those things.

It’s a bitch having to relate to someone who has done far worse than me.

What’s Crohn’s Disease Got to do With it?

I’ve gotten notes lately from folks who’ve read enough of this blog to know I have Crohn’s Disease. They have it, too, and seemed to appreciate that they’re not alone. Some ask what the disease has to do with the mental illness and addictions at the heart of this blog. And so I’ve made this compilation of posts where the Crohn’s is a major factor:

The Lasting Impact of Crohn’s Disease: The author has lived most of his life with Crohn’s Disease and has developed a few quirks as a result.

The Bad Pill Kept Me from the Good Pill: Perhaps worse than Crohn’s Disease itself is the drug you take to quiet the flare ups. How the side effects from Prednisone later kept me from taking the medicine I needed to control the OCD.

Needles: The author knows what the needle feels like going in. But this isn’t what you think.

The Migraine: When the author gets a migraine, he’s reminded of what every day used to be like.

Shamed to Death: Why do people with mental and physical illness choose a slow, painful death over recovery?

The Kid Sister

The 80s weren’t all bad, thanks to the kid sister who came along.

Mood music: “Nobody Told Me” by John Lennon. I used to sing the “Everybody’s smoking, and no one’s getting high” line to my kid sister, much to her dismay.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBCdlBrgEmE&hl=en_US&fs=1]

I’ve written about a lot of the darker parts of my childhood and teen years and how they factored into an adulthood of mental illness and addiction. But those years were brightened by a particularly strong ray of sunshine. Here’s the story of my kid sister, Shira.

Shira’s 15 years younger than me and was born nearly two years after my brother’s death. I was sick with the flu the day she was born and was also going through a Crohn’s flare up.

To say she brightened the mood at 22 Lynnway would be an understatement. She was an especially adorable baby and was a welcome distraction from everything that was going on at the time.

She’s grown up now and I don’t see her much these days, but last night we got a chance to catch up at my father’s birthday dinner. She was telling me about her current job teaching English and how she wants to use her teaching skills to work more with the disadvantaged. She recently got back from Mexico, where she lived for several months. Before that she lived in South America for quite awhile, teaching the locals.

She’s quite a kid. If not for the big chip on my shoulder, I might have been more like her in my 20s. I’m happy with how my life turned out and believe I had to go through the dark stuff to get here. But Shira has really been an inspiration to me. She crisscrosses the globe without fear and has an easygoing way about her that’s nearly impossible to crack. I know, because I’ve tried.

I’ve always been the teasing sort of brother. I tell everyone who will listen that I remember when I could fit Shira in a beer mug. I remember once, when she was about 4 or 5, she told me to stop teasing.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I tease you cause I love you.”

“Then don’t love me,” she shot back.

Naturally, I told everyone about that exchange, and with more than a little glee.

Around the same time, I was having a lot of parties in the basement of the Revere house. The morning after, Shira would often make the rounds, stopping at the various friends who would be passed out asleep on my bed, on the couch or on the floor.

Even back then, no matter how much I drank the night before, I would always wake up early so I could sneak cigarettes without being seen.

I’d always enjoyed watching her make the rounds. My guests didn’t always enjoy it, but that was fine with me.

She brought a lot of joy to a family that was reeling from a string of bad breaks. She brings a lot of joy to the family today.

This post is my little thank you note to her.

Lessons of a Thirty-something

The author is reflecting a lot on things that happened in his 30s.

Mood music: “Lunchbox” by Marylin Manson:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5Fo57AXW3w&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Since my 40th birthday is next month, I’m thinking a lot about the last decade. In many ways, I’m not the same guy I was when I was staring at my 30th birthday. This has been a decade of healing, with a lot of broken scabs along the way.

At the start of my 30s, I started to come undone. The symptoms of what would eventually become an OCD diagnosis suddenly grew in intensity. The binge eating addiction entered a new era of viciousness. Some relationships imploded while others were renewed.

In my early 30s, the OCD manifested itself in some insidious ways. I was obsessed with pleasing people, especially my bosses at The Eagle-Tribune, and my mother. I was also obsessed with keeping my weight down in the face of the binging. So I exercised like a madman. In the process, I was just masking a physical decline.

At 31, I was busy being something I’m not good at — a hard-ass. My bosses demanded it. I would get wound so tight that I became impossible to work with. I was also busy trying to keep my mother and step-father happy, which was almost always impossible, especially when it came to their personalities clashing with that of my wife, who had given birth to Sean a year before.

I celebrated my 31st birthday with my mother, stepfather, in-laws and Erin at the Legal Seafood in the Peabody mall. I didn’t want a cake. My mother went nuts about it, because on someone’s birthday you give them cake. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want it. She was going to ask the waitress to bring me a cake anyway, but Erin put her foot down, because, as I said, I didn’t want a cake.

The next day, my mother called:

Ma: “I just wanted to apologize for not having a cake for you.”

Me: “But I didn’t want cake.”

Ma: “I tried to get you one, but YOUR WIFE wouldn’t let me.”

It always came back to Erin. She was always the scapegoat for decisions I made that my mother didn’t like. And yet, I pressed on, trying to make everyone happy.

By 2006 I was long gone from The Eagle-Tribune, but was still obsessed with pleasing the masters at TechTarget. And I was still trying to please my mother. It was getting a lot harder to do, since I was two years into therapy, newly diagnosed with OCD and spending a lot of time digging back into an abusive past for clues on how I got the way I did. A lot of it came back to her. And so in the summer of 2006 that relationship broke apart.

Why go on about these things? Because some important lessons emerged from the experiences that were instrumental in my healing.

First, I realized that no matter how hard you try, keeping people pleased is impossible.

Second, I realized that the only way to achieve mental health is to be true to oneself. For me, that meant surrendering to a higher power and dealing head-on with the addictions. It also meant being honest about my limited ability to control OCD without medication.

And while some relationships fell apart, others that were damaged in my 20s started to heal in my 30s, especially in the last year.

To that end, I think of Joy, Sean Marley‘s widow. She’s remarried with kids and has done a remarkable job of pushing on with her life. She dropped out of my world for nearly 14 years — right after Sean’s death — until recently. The contents of our exchange are private, but this much I can tell you: I was wrong all these years when I assumed  she hated my guts and wanted nothing more to do with me.

I have to be careful with this last reconnection. I still have a lot of questions about Sean’s final years and the OCD in me wants to know everything now. If I’m lucky, some answers will come in time. But I’m not going to push. I have no right to.

Besides, simply being reconnected is, as Joe Biden might say, “A big fucking deal.”

I used the Marilyn Manson song above as my mood music today because I think of “Lunchbox” whenever I get angry about my limitations. By the time the song is over, I usually feel a lot better.

But while the kid in the song has his metal lunchbox and is “armed real well,” I got my tools of recovery. So you could say I’m armed much better than that kid.

When Parents Fail

Sometimes, a child’s worst enemy is his/her parents.

Mood music: “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies (The Pepsi Song):

[spotify:track:1KpRBS8dbDw7LxMhuK7Bso]

If I’ve learned anything on my long journey to recovery, it’s that addicts can almost always trace their behavior back to their parents. That’s certainly the case for me. My mother was always pushing food on me. She did it out of love and meant no harm, but that and the Crohn’s Disease battle certainly tilted my addictive behavior toward the compulsive binge eating.

If a parent drinks or drugs to excess, there’s a better-than-average chance their kids are going to do the same thing in adulthood.

Recovering addicts have noted this thread in their own lives time and again at the 12-Step meetings I go to.

Chris Hoff, a good friend of mine from the Internet security industry and perhaps one of the most prolific presences on Twitter, saw a good example of this brand of parental failure in a coffee shop yesterday morning. I’ll share his tweets on the subject, since his content is all public record at this point:

Noticing a fat guy feeding his obese son three doughnuts and yelling at the poor kid for being too slow, Hoff (Twitter handle is @Beaker) wrote:

Hint: If your 4-foot-something 8-year-old weighs more than me, you’re doing it wrong. Makes me want to cry. F’ing up your life is one thing, but his? 🙁 It’s not that I’m insensitive to his plight; been there. However he’s helping end his kid’s life early by poisoning him with junk and mean words.

He noted, correctly I think, that kids inherently know what’s healthy but they still fall into bad behavior that parents either can’t or won’t stop. Often, they enable it.

I’m no saint when it comes to parenting. I’ve tried to curb my use of profanity but sometimes it just comes out in hearing distance of my kids. And I credit Erin for their healthy diets because she has always been relentless about giving the kids balanced, low-fat meals. They’ve eaten at McDonald’s maybe once or twice. That place was often ground zero for my binges, so I NEVER take them there.

But, like I said, no parent is perfect.

Nevertheless, I still go into a rage when I hear about the kind of situations Hoff was talking about. I don’t know that guy’s story, and maybe I’d be more sympathetic if I did. But letting his kid grow morbidly obese and enabling it by feeding him three doughnuts makes him an asshole in my mind. Maybe that’s hypocritical of me, but there it is.

One of my friends has a cousin who lets her son eat nothing but junk. The kid weights twice as much as both my kids put together. She feeds them the stuff because it’s easier than cooking something better. I think she’s an asshole, too. Sorry, but I do.

When you’re an addict, it’s exceptionally hard not to pass the behavior down to your children. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep trying to make them better than we are.

The shit-for-brains dad in the coffee shop either doesn’t understand that or doesn’t care.

The Perils of Service, Part 2

Volunteering can be a bitch, especially when you forget who you’re there to help.

Mood music for this post: “My Way” by Limp Bizkit:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ8Qi86i82s&hl=en_US&fs=1]

Once a month, I spend a couple hours on a Saturday volunteering in the food pantry run by our church. It can be a frustrating endeavor.

Part of the frustration is my own fault. I should be there more often, but I’m only there once a month because I’m spread so thin these days between family, work and sponsoring people in my 12-Step program.

A lot of new people are working the pantry these days. They’re not that new, mind you. They just seem new to me because I’m not there enough to be used to them. They’re good folks, but in my head — when the rush of people come in for their food — I pick apart how they do things. I’ll get annoyed if they try to process multiple orders at once because the bags of food get mixed up and chaos ensues. One guy is very serious and doesn’t laugh at my jokes.

The Saturday crew is always bitching about the Tuesday crew leaving a mess. The Tuesday crew is always bitching about the Saturday crew for the same reason.

And there I am, on my own perch, picking apart how everyone does things because I want everyone to do it my way. I am a control freak, after all. Not that I have a right to be.

These people are there every Tuesday and Saturday. I show up once a month.

If anything, they should be annoyed by me, and they probably are.

Clashing egos is pretty common among those who do service. On the recovering addict side, everyone in the room suffers from compulsive behavior. People like us usually have bloated egos. Mine is especially bloated. This makes me an asshole at times.

But I press on and do what I need to do, and things always work out.

The friction that’s always present among the volunteers at the start of a shift always eases off and we’re all getting along midway through. You can pick on how different people do things, but they’re all giving up their time to make something work.

And once I get out of my own way, things start to fall into place.

At some point in the shift, it hits me. The people in line are there because they can’t afford groceries. They’re down on their luck and doing the best they can.

And when you hand them the bags of donated food, they are GRATEFUL.

And they help me as much as I help them. When I see people who need to live on donated food standing tall, helping each other carry bags to their cars, picking up food for someone who may live at the other end of town from where they live, enjoying time with the children they have in tow, they bring me back to Earth and remind me what life’s all about.

The other volunteers — the ones who are there practically every week while I just breeze in once a month — help me too.

When I see how dedicated they are, it makes me work harder at being a better man.