How many lies can you tell? Ask yourself- I fucking hate everyone I have done- but guess what I told them constantly. I told them everyday to get to work- then I told them everyday to get through work. I am so sick of lying. So I am telling the world I am in hopes I will stop. I been drinking for about a week and half- and it’s a miserable existence. I say it’s self-medication- but it’s self destruction. Why do I torture myself like this I wish I know. Spending money on this poison instead of saving it. Hurting those that love me with every sip I carelessly and shamelessly guzzle. Becoming a person I actively hate. So today I am going to get one percent better by not taking that first sip. Then tomorrow I will continue by just not taking another sip. And if I want to drink I will beg the world for help- reach out and talk to someone. Or just write it down here for the world to see. I went over 3 years not drinking- and yet one drink in September has unleashed 3 months of utter agony. I am terrified right now-I been up since midnight unable to sleep. Just a constant running mind- full of shame and hatred for what I keep doing- and for the lies I kept spewing. But today will be different- I am delusional optimist and I know it will be better. Because any day sober is better than the hell that is drinking. So I start a new chapter of my life today- an honest one. I don’t have much right now but I do have hope. And that’s enough to get me by.
Windpipe Blues
Suicidal plans, thoughts, and ideation are the last resort of a tortured brain that has nothing left to distract itself from when hope is lost, and all other alternatives have faltered. It’s not that the thought of suicide doesn’t terrify me- it’s just the thought of living is just so much more terrifying. I write this through tears because I don’t want to die- but living with this fucking brain has been so hard. I know I need to focus on the good- the positives- that this brain allows me to create words that are more expressive written down than most other humans could muster- yet I don’t write for a living- I just write for the few people who read this blog. And believe me I am grateful for every single one of you- but my dream for writing is bigger than this blog. Maybe my pain comes from not forcing myself to write more- not going all in on writing. Writing should be my daily focus- it’s what I earned my Masters in. It’s how I escape the torture from my mind. I been up since 3:30 AM because my anxiety is through the roof about having to go to work in the morning- and yes I do know I should feel blessed to have a job- but I also know I shouldn’t feel this brutal pain in the middle of my chest for hours before I have to go in. A brutal feeling I know alcohol would cure in a moments notice- also a brutal feeling alcohol would only intensify later on after its initial affects had worn off. The pain of alcohol is never in that first sip- the pain is always afterwards- the pain you inflict on yourself and your loved ones. The pain of despair, agony, and fear that you have fucked up once again and let the world down. You feel weak, sad, and as if you had accidentally drowned a bag full of kittens. The remorse seems like an infinitely powerful reminder to never imbibe those spirits again until that pain creeps back into your chest – a pressure that feels like a vice grip against your windpipe- a surge of black evil energy hovering like a storm cloud above your heart making it hard to beat. Sometimes you wish that energy would just stop it from beating at all- and that vice would just crush your pipe so you no longer had any breath left in your life. Being absent from life seems so pleasant sometimes. But then I realize the selfishness of such a statement- and it does one or two things to you; it either forces more alcohol down that windpipe of yours to drown out those feelings- or it forces you appreciate the beautiful things that are in your life- the people and family who still support you to this day. It makes me appreciate those that read this blog daily and root for my success. But it’s hard not to drown- even when you see a life preserver just inches away. Sometimes it just seems easier to let that preserver slip through your fingers…and embrace that liquid death. Because no matter what that alcohol poison will eventually kill you- It may not take your actual life- but it will take your soul- which is seemingly the worst death of all. But today- I will grab that life preserver and hang on for dear life- because I really want to live no matter how much despair I have to go through to keep living. I will do it today for my family, my soccer players, you my readers, and most importantly myself.
1 Percent Better
It’s really easy to pretend everything is alright- or to stuff your emotions so deep down you are lower than the graves you wish to avoid and never feel or think about- until that one day it’s not. And that anger- fear- hatred- ball of shame is coming back up in ways that have nothing to do with the trauma itself- and your losing your temper in Verizon store because your ready to snap on Xavier over a sim card that won’t work- or you pouring down wine into your throat ready to feel the pain of drinking on a medicine that literally makes alcohol toxic to your body- so the pain from hatred you feel inside can also match the way you feel all over- knowing that the punishment will be worth it in some sick and twisted way because feeling pain is better than cosmically “feeling it”- then you have the validate the tissue paper and look at what exactly is driving these emotions inside you- and what tiny habits you are going to undertake to combat them.
It’s funny sometimes in therapy I don’t want to validate the tissue paper- in my head I am like “I ain’t no pussy”- which is troubling on its own and holds back ultimate growth- but it is one of those old automatic habits that needs to be first recognized- and then ideally extinguished from my brains automatic response tablet. Reaching for the tissue to dab your eyes when tears are swelling takes guts- trying to pretend your not about to burst into to tears- or just using your grubby fingers instead in my broken brain is a sign of weakness- my old school way of stuffing my feelings inside so I don’t have to deal with them. I been needing to validate that tissue paper a lot these past two months because growth dealing with trauma, and just life itself can be daunting when you are finally willing to deal with that heavy, uncomfortable bile that’s habituating inside you. Being in the middle of a journey can suck- but it’s where the most ultimate growth is found because it’s most daunting and uncomfortable lag of a voyage there is.
Throughout this latest journey I have had a couple highs- but mostly lows- ornery fucking lows. I figure it’s the middle this is where most of the shit hits the fan- which is an awful saying. Like why is shit hitting the fan- I have dealt while working in Residential a room that a resident had covered in his shit- like painted that motherfucker with his hands as the brush. My co-worker first solution was just to cover the room in bleach- unfortunately the shit and the bleach get the transformed and combined to make this room feel like if of Saddam Hussein dirty bomb had gone off. My eyes were bloodshot from the chemicals- and my nose burned- which did mean I couldn’t smell- and after while you just put your head down and cleaned up all the shit around you until it was done. It’s a lesson I wish I took more from at the time- because yesterday my twisted brain decided the proverbial shit needed to hit the fan- and that I needed to punish myself. It decided since the Antabuse is fully in my system now- meaning any alcohol would make me epically sick- that a bottle of wine was a good idea. I ensure you it was not a good idea.
Being vulnerable sucks- even worse not being validated for that vulnerability can even be just as troublesome and dangerous to our long term sustained growth. Sometimes we just want someone close to us to hear how we are instituting small changes in our life to get better and be praised for it- that validation is important because it tells you that person is trying to install life changing habits- and anything to better our mental health and life as a whole should be wholeheartedly applauded. Real change is slow- it takes a lot of time before “overnight” results are witnessed. Validating a close one’s progress-no matter how small or new is huge- and a genuine way to help keep that new change occuring for them over the long haul.
So I created new habits- even the way I phrased this sentence was intentional to create such habit. I didn’t write I am trying out new habits- because that sentence promotes doubt. When you are not all in- you get to live in the comfort of what it I could of been if just this happened- or it’s the beauty of wasted talent- it’s comfort in believing you are talented- but not believing you are talented enough to be vulnerable by trying to utilize that talent by going all in- meaning having your mindset to embrace the reality that failure will hurt- but the hurt of never trying will hurt hell of a lot more long term.
I wrote most of that before I went back inpatient- I was in the Portsmouth BHU for a week or so before Thanksgiving. I felt fine being in there- I seem to strive in such places- the outside world is where I struggle. I am so angry and full of despair and hate it. I responded to these feelings by drinking again and I fucking hate myself for doing it. But I am trying to change my habits- and I really want to so that’s why I am being honest on the only forum I know how to- writing on this blog which my failures at life are well documented. As usual my meds aren’t correct- I am fearful about money- I am about to file bankruptcy and lose my car. It’s hard to be positive but fuck it I am going to try. I have a new job that doesn’t pay well- but I get to work with elementary school kids so that’s a plus- I need to remind myself of the little things that are good in life. I am worried I am always going to be alone- crazy and one breakdown from going back inpatient. I know this doesn’t have to be my current reality and future though- and I am going to really work on altering my mindset- and creating these new tiny habits that will hopefully lead me to success-and maybe money and love- though my past says that won’t come anytime soon. But these small shifts of mindset will eventually pay off if keep at them daily- and one day they will pay off. Because even feeling 1 percent better tomorrow morning will be a huge improvement. Because honestly I don’t think I can feel any worst than I do today- so by that logic tomorrow definitely has to be better. And I can build off that little bit of success- because I have to get better. I love you all my readers- and I will damndest to get better so I can continue to share my journey with you. The last few days have been rough- but tomorrow doesn’t have to be.
My Mind is Practicing Tricks on Me
I am always fascinated by the mind and using techniques honed from sports to battle my own. I don’t think like most people- bi-polar is a terrorist- attacking your vulnerabilities when you least expect it-blowing up your life and leaving you left to pick up the pieces out of the shambles of your existence that got left behind. Each “episode”- be it manic or depressive- can destroy any remnants of your once normal life. Most people- at least those I know- don’t generally think about the overwhelming appeal of killing yourself when everything in their life is on an upswing- but that happens to me alot. Sometimes the better my days go-the stronger the urge is. I know these are false flags- my brain being like the Geto Boys and playing tricks on me- but no matter how many candles I stare at I still have to practice the distress tolerance of knowing these are just thoughts- and thoughts without deliberate intent are not actions.
I sometimes wonder if this is my minds actual defense system- a way of practicing dealing with these thoughts during good times in order so I won’t act on them during the worst of times. It sounds crazy- but practice does make perfect. So maybe my suicidal ideation on my best days is simple a way to protect myself from those urges on my worst. And this way of thought- if you relate it to the idea itself- would be a pretty transformative way of looking at suicidal ideation as a whole- as the fact my brain does its fire drill- a way of prepping myself for the worst- when I am at my healthiest. It’s not say I am overly excited about this process or prospect- but it’s a pretty positive spin on something in my life that has always been so troubling to myself.
I think it’s also freeing in a way- it makes me want to dare greatly because a healthy fear of death- or knowing that everything can end in a moment makes me want to push this life even further- and push those I care for to even greater success. It doesn’t mean I always make the best choices to get there- I can be too impulsive, I will speak my mind without thinking because I believe the cause is just without thinking of long term consequences of said words, and I will be beyond loyal to a fault. I will overlook certain situations- or continue down unsteady paths to get to the mountain peak because I am fearful if I don’t the success I desire won’t be achieved. This is both a blessing and curse- because sometimes I get lost on the trail without any sense of direction- making myself hike through utter misery to get to a path easily travelled by others who didn’t barrel past the sign post that would have shown them the easy way to the top. But I think this stubbornness also always me to create things no one else would- because they fear getting lost to much- the easy path might lead to a beautiful view- but the perception of how you see it won’t be the same once you arrive at that same summit.
This all leads into my current biggest fear that one of best friends might have cancer- we worked out today and he is waiting on a biopsy- but worried since his lymph nodes are swollen all over- he is constantly tired and aches all over. I did remind him of the one positive,”Even with cancer you can still out bench me.” Keeping it positive in the face of such uncertainty- and pain comes naturally to me. Am I personally inside freaking out because of this potential future of course- and do I judge myself for a couple weeks ago wanting to end my own life because my brain doesn’t work right. But I am learning that perspective is just that- perspective. I can beat myself up about how selfish I am about being depressed when I have my health- and my friend here could be giving a death sentence through no fault of how own. He is sober, vegan, works out daily, and has a six pack. But I realize that would be the easy way out because it would not force me to empathize with him truly. Instead of dealing with the pain of possible losing one of the few people in this world I can be honest with- I could instead deflect to the comfort of my own self-hatred. And when I realize I was possible following into that line of thinking it made me pretty fucking sad- self hatred is sometimes a cocoon for me- it’s easy to do because over the years I practiced it a lot. But showing up for a friend- being there genuinely in one of their darkest times is fucking hard. And something I damn well going to get better at- because a worse fate would be to not be at his side if this fucked up universe bestows this on him- and you best believe I am going to be his tag team partner to fight the battle this if it does become unfortunate truth.
Practice does make perfect. And even though I am greatly flawed human- everyday I am practicing to be a little bit better-a little bit more vulnerable, and a little bit more emphatic. Because the end like Billy King said about practice; It’s a lot easier to go all in on life when you know what you have to give to it.
Drowning Spiders
So it would have been my sister Tricia’s 50th birthday the other day and she would have been in better shape than me currently at 41-she always did have a metabolism that let her eat dessert for breakfast, and a willingness to make sure she got a workout in even if it was before she was about to give birth. I remember her on the elliptical working out to some probably terrible gym class techno remix of Barry Manila with the her belly bulging with James inside- while the rest of her looked like still like the aerobics instructor she still was. After time passes it’s the little things you remember after someone has been gone for almost twenty years: it’s those little things you miss most. Memories are an etch a sketch: never permanent and one shake from being lost forever. I still feel lost and I wonder how different everything would be today with her and the kids here. But that kind of thought unfortunately only clouds the present: a soothing thought instead is what can I do daily that will make all three of them proud: and it’s bizarre the desire to make those we lost those most proud- sometimes at the expense of those living closest by- but honoring those we lost seems natural- for our fear drives us to believe we would forget them if we do not. Rational thinking is never found when heartache and love is involved.
I think as I reflect on this latest crash of my life is what led me back to the desire for the ultimate sacrifice was a hitting a tsunami when I was expecting a few big waves. You see my habits had prepared me to fall off a few big waves without drowning.
One was debt- I was broke and getting broker by the moment. I had took out a bunch of loans, and racked up several credit cards to pay for my soccer teams and it’s players believing I would always be able to fundraise my way out of it- but nearly five grand for every fall and spring season- coupled with indoor costs began to pile up- and I as I lost my discipline- these spending habits started to spiral as my credit score started to plunge. We as humans can tolerate any action as long as we believe it is just and right- just look at religion and its death toll on the world for causes deemed holy and righteous. I kept spending because it was for the kids; I kept spending because it was too honor my sister and her kids; and I kept spending because I was too terrified to admit I couldn’t keep spending. Soccer had consumed my life and admitting I was starting to fail at one aspect of it- the one piece I seemed to have so much success at to the outside world- would admit I was failing at all of life- or so my distorted thinking thought. I so desperately wanted to not fail for once; I set up habits that would ultimately doom myself to fail. A catch-22 of refusing to be vulnerable because vulnerability would mean asking for help; or even worst saying no to some players or a team. I justified by saying I didn’t want to let even one player down- not realizing my actions could bring them all down instead.
So i kept pushing ahead- avoiding looking at bills and making promises to pay creditors with money I didn’t have. Then another wave hit- this wave was radiated with beauty- a women I had a crush on for a year- a real life Cleopetra- the dopest Ethiopian you could not just let pass by had stole my heart- calling me out of the blue after paying one of players for my phone number. I forgot all about my money troubles as the spiders in my belly caught all the feelings I had hid from the world for so many years. I had used soccer as an excuse not to be vulnerable to a female- and here I was letting my guard down. She visited me before work and brought me a coffee- the coffee was cold by the time it got to me- for the commute was a bit long- but it warmed my soul because she had thought enough of me to bring it first thing in the AM. Before she left- we kissed and I let my body tingle with excitement. I hadn’t felt so good in years- and just like a dream she was gone in a day. A ghost left to linger in my dreams- a ghost who left all these spiders in my belly catching all emotions I hid from the world with the webs they weaved so deep- a ghost with my heart that I refused to show to the world- now stolen and lost forever. Instead of being vulnerable I numbed out the emotion. But numbing never works- emotions tend to find their way out like shrapnel blown up in pressure cooker home made bomb. Wounded I was- but refusal to admit I was became the plan. Suffer on with a smile- and if you are smiling you surely can’t be suffering right.
Then I switched jobs- leaving the comfort of a job I loved with kids I was happy to see every day for the allure of more money. The idea being I could make up for my money woes-make enough to exterminate those spiders in my belly- and hire an exorcist to chase out the ghosts of love past- and catch up to those creditors whose late payments were passing me by daily like they were singing that Pharcyde song.
https://youtu.be/a-mAK3uB2_0?si=REOWzx4_fvvGBxHA
But money can’t kill spiders in your belly- no matter how many gold coins you swallow. And not dealing with the issues in your head can’t be fixed with dollar bills in your ears- and running never gets you to the destination if you are instead sprinting as far away from the finish line as you can- so another wave hit and I started drowning. This wave was the left hook to the jaw- because what they don’t teach you in life is sometimes all your problems can manifest themselves into Voltron- and become one big ass motherfucker who refuses to be numbed- who refuses to be ignored- and refuses to let you ghost them. And when that last blow hit me that’s when I retreated to the desire to no longer want to live another breath. Petrified-but still unwilling- maybe unable- or maybe just too fucking lost by this point to realize I needed to be honest and vulnerable- I decided to hide from reality by drinking away all the pain that had engulfed me. But the liquor- being that devil itself-was just there to seduce me that those end thoughts were the only good thoughts I had. Liquor- the pure poison it is to my brain- justified all the negativity swirling in my confused vessel. It was the elicitor that made me see a way out of the mess I had made- and made me thinking If I drank enough of it with the right combo of pills I would never wake up. A sleeping beauty to the world-one last sleep and no more problems. I tried it before and failed- but this time the bottle whispered you would get it right. You always fail at first it reminded me- the second time is the charm- and all your anxiety, fears, and beliefs you will never find true love won’t ever haunt you again. And when your that desperate it all sounded to good to be true. And for a moment I truly wanted that fate to be mine. But something inside me pushed myself past it- to ask for help- to be fucking vulnerable to life. To go to the ER and admit to the world I wanted to kill myself- and I am terrified I will. Broken, beat down, and hallow to life – but at least honest- I wept. At that moment I didn’t think happiness would ever be in my radar again- but at least I found a life preserver through the cascading waves taking away the air from my lungs. So I clung to it- hoping to find my way back to shore. Knowing when I got there I would be exposed to the marathon of life I had run away from. A marathon I am gladly back running today. Far away from the finish line for sure- but at least on the path towards the finish line this time.
Don’t Break
Living with bi-polar is like being in a car accident in the rain while hydroplaning- the more you fight against and try to brake- or not drive into the terror the worst your outcome. It’s only when you embrace you have to drive into what your instincts are telling you not to do- then do you survive.
My life was hydroplaning and here I was with two of my soccer players in the back about to careen off the road. I had been here before so I knew not to brake-my brain slowed down and could feel the wheels not touching the asphalt. Maybe I was so hyper focused because there was other human beings in the back I cared greatly about- but a calmness took over me in the midst of the storm that was spewing down water like buckets of gatorade being pour over coaches who have just won the championship. I knew not to put my foot on the brake-any sudden breaking could cause us back into oncoming traffic or cause the car to flip over. So I took my foot off the gas and glided into the safety of the grass median between highways. Maneuvering onto the grass the car stopped hydroplaning- and then with some nifty avoidance of guard rails and without flipping over- I was able to stop the car without any great incident other than losing my front bumper. In the back I immediately asked Paul and Dedieu if they were alright- “Coach, I thought we were going to die.”
We made it to practice 20 minutes later. The car- like my life was still drive-able- a bit banged up but still able to get to its next destination.
Both my players soon shook off the near death experience and went to practice without a seeming care in the world other than being the best player on the field. Soccer was something they could control in their life- a life that was always uncertain as refugees from Africa.
The whole time not being able to have control I did not think about death- that idea never popped in my mind- which is bizarre because a desire for death has chased me for the last twenty years. Living with bi-polar is often a nightmare- something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It’s having constant suicidal ideation even on your best day- you start to train your brain that those are just thoughts- and thoughts aren’t real- but it wears you down. You worry if you are actually feeling happy or just manic- meaning this happiness is just a sign that a crushing low is about to hit you like a left hook from an opponent you didn’t even realize you were fighting. You are treated like a guinea pig by doctors who throw medicines at you and hope it works for your chemistry. You learn you have to be on constant guard- I got to put in work like I am Kobe Bryant chasing the greatness of Michael Jordan just to be at most people’s level of stableness. So each morning I do a gratitude list- and currently read from “Daring Greatly” a Brene Brown book on the topic of vulnerability- which is always fun to see in print all the ways you have not coped with your issues. It’s part refreshing and also shitty- so I can’t just numb myself to the world and function- I am going to have to lean into these uncomfortable emotions, and feelings I have. It sucks realizing when you numb one emotion- you numb them all. There is no secret way to numb sadness without numbing joy at the same time. For so many years I thought I could just do that- but unfortunately feelings are a package deal- and no matter how hard you try to just avoid one- you end up avoiding them all. So I am trying to do that- lean into all my feelings and failing miserably sometimes like this past week- but always being able to get back up from that damn left hook by writing about my vulnerability now.
When I went inpatient they changed my meds. They took me off the one med that had me stable for over three years- the med that kept me out of hospitals, kept me working, and a stability led me to create Panther Elite and to win a volunteer award tomorrow night at The NH Spirit Awards- to try a different medicine. The thing with inpatient- they don’t have enough time to work on why I crashed my life- why I couldn’t take my foot off the brake- and why the suicidal desires had become so overwhelmingly strong again. So they throw a pill at it and hope for the best. And for a bit I felt immensely better- I was putting in the work and that overwhelming desire that life was always going to be a living hell- where I wanted to slice my heart my in half was gone. I remember weeping my first night in-patient that happiness was always going to be an illusion to me- a magic trick that seemed real but I knew was false. When you are that low- you will cling to anything that will bring you some brightness. So I clung to the belief Lithuim would set me free because that’s what my doctor said- forgetting my past year’s success to only focus on the past two weeks of torture I endured. So I went to work- I worked on this great book “The Power of Letting Go” by John Perkins- read it and did the activities- writing about my fears past and present-the ideas I was clutching onto that were holding me back- and made sure to go to every group offered. I was the ideal patient and thought I was finally going to be happy. But funny thing happens with these short stays the happiness can be fleeting- especially when the benzo they gave you to help detox from alcohol was making the agitation- and well pure assholeness that lithium was going to unleash on myself at bay. By the second to last day of my stay inpatient- I started feeling super agitated and annoyed. I tried gratitude lists- didn’t work- I tried only thinking positive because you can’t think two thoughts at once- it didn’t work- I justified it was just some fear about leaving. But i didn’t voice these thoughts out loud because I desperately wanted this medicine to fix everything- and the more I learn is no pill will fix my life- at best it will just keep my brain like a relatively calm ocean instead of a tsunami- and allow me to do the work to get and stay better.
So I left inpatient and the anger only increased over the next few days- the anger and the thoughts of suicide and with every moment my desire to want to end it became more strong. So with the desires wanting to become a plan I did what was my oldest coping habit- I numbed it with alcohol. It worked for the first couple hours- then maybe I passed out- then become the plot to drink more but keep it secret so nobody knew-and then what I really don’t know. That’s the problem with alcohol and numbing there is no solution- nothing that actually works when you use it. So I went to check back into the hospital- but they told me another stay inpatient would not be therapeutically beneficial for me-apparently I tried to hard the first time around- and even though I was on this new med they had changed was making me feel like life was not worth living- I should find somewhere else to go. I mean I was bitter- you have people that don’t go to groups there and come and go all the time- I was being shown the door for trying too hard my last time. I was shocked- dumbfounded- and left to wonder what the fuck I did wrong. All I wanted to do was get better and then being told you’ll be fine- you just had your chance inside so live with the outcomes. So I did and I drank again. I was angry that two bottles of wine for at least an hour could put me at so much ease. But I knew that couldn’t last so I stopped- and I started writing this.
I figure writing is better than inpatient anyway- and I get to share it with all you- my loyal readers. I am taking Antabuse again which will luckily not make even the idea of alcohol not an option again- it’s a medicine that makes you ridiculously sick if you try to drink on it- and getting back to basics like practicing gratitude and writing. I know being honest with this universe has helped me in the past- so I figured I try it once again. The things is no matter how much my brain tells me I want to kill my self- I know it’s not true. So everyday that voice gets less loud- the things I am grateful for start clouding out its babble. And I know I am nowhere near a finishing line- because living with Bi-Polar 2 is a journey- where the only way to survive is to lean into every part of it with your whole heart while out working it like an athlete training for an Olympic spot. So that’s what I am going to keep doing- grinding everyday- making my jaw just solid enough for those left hooks that come out of nowhere. Because as powerful as bi-polar seems it’s also heightened its own cryptonite- it’s ability to make me write and see the world different. Without all these hardships I don’t think I would have developed the empathy I have- and without that I don’t think I would be as nearly as effective as a coach and teacher I am. So why I hate bi-polar with a passion- it’s also been an enormous blessing in my life. And I know today to be grateful for any blessing in my life- regardless of what they are or come from.
Pretty Little Words
For so long I dreamed of a love I feared. A woman whose beauty made a beach sunrise full of shame for it could never be as radiant as she was. A beauty that I could try to grasp with my fingers- but never hold onto because she couldn’t love someone who couldn’t love themselves. How can you love me she would plead- when you hate your own being so much. She was right- but I would lie telling her loving you would be my cure. You are my muse and I will show the world the perfection you are. And even though she was more enchanting than any Disney princess could be- she wasn’t living in a fairytale. I have heard all your beautiful words before she sighed. You hide behind them so you don’t have to open your heart to me. You seduced me with your passages of ultimate romance- made my heart flutter with desire and yet – when I try to touch yours it’s colder than two AM on a desperate winter night. You can say you love me- but you only love the idea of “love”- it’s a concept you write about so you never have to feel it. She was right. I tried to speak but she silenced me. My heart breaks whenever I look into your eyes- those eyes that made me fall in love with your sadness. I realize now they are nothing more than an Emerald dead sea. A painting made to trick females into thinking you care. I am not sure where the tears come from when they rain out of your eyes because it’s sure not from your heart. You are like a magician with the sleight of hand to make me believe you were truly ever in love with me in the first place. And the saddest part is you conned yourself into believing you really do love me. But deep in your belly you know it’s not true- because you hate yourself so much you used me as a distraction to not feel. Maybe one day you’ll be capable of love- but it won’t be with me- and it won’t be today. A woman too amazing for this world- a woman i couldn’t even dream of making up in fiction because of the pureness of her beauty, kindness, and intelligence was leaving me. I tried to protest but the words never came out- instead I watched as the tears trickled down her tender face. She stared into my eyes one last time before leaving me with one last shrapnel of truth- when you write about this- and I know you will- remember to remind the audience through your pretty little words- that this woman you loved ohh so much left without you even putting up goddamn fight. Because without your words to protect you- you are a coward- whose only notion of loving someone else is how well you can portray them on a piece of fucking paper.
Sandwiches and Losses
So when I last left you readers I was pondering an indoor soccer team to honor my lost family members- and less than a month later I have almost twenty players signed up and two teams under the Panther Elite banner. We also were just featured on the front page of the Sunday Concord Monitor newspaper- so yeah a lot of big things happening this past month.
https://www.concordmonitor.com/For-Pat-Bernard-free-indoor-soccer-eases-pain-43492824
I am making sandwiches. Chicken, turkey, ham, on a small sub role with cheese. I am my sister making lunches for her kids- my kid’s just happen to be over a baker’s dozen of soccer players who don’t always have enough food at home. So I hit the grocery store on game days, and then to Dick’s to buy three pairs of indoor soccer shoes for the game tonite, and to look for a goalie jersey with the padding for my rec team goalie- the goalie gloves I just bought him are already broken in from all the practice he does at the park by his apartment complex. There is no soccer nets there but he makes do regardless. They didn’t have any youth sizes so I venture to the soccer speciality store next to the rat pizza arcade with the animatic prog rock band and find the perfect jersey; the one with the special padding on the elbow to help cushion his dives on all the goals he will stop.
I am currently better at making sandwiches then winning games. My sandwiches work well together- the cheese spilts in perfect half to evenly cover the sub roll, the meat nestles in between the cheese- as the bread engulfs it all in a warm hug. My team has yet to gel so perfectly. Although we are supremely talented we have yet to come together as a team. We haven’t won any games yet-we are 0-4, but my talent for delicious sandwich making is spreading and apparently getting players wanting to sign up for the team. Also spreading is the fundraising efforts for funding the team. I am overwhelmed, and humbled by the generosity shown so far. We have raised almost $3, 000 dollars so far!
I think one thing I want to highlight is where these kids come from, and the horrors they have endured. After the newspaper story came out my smallest player, who I am pretty sure is so strong he can carry twice his body weight, and can also charm you with a smile even when when he is being mischievously naughty, asked “So, Coach your brother killed your sister.” I told him yes, and he looked at me perplexed, “Why not you too?“ So I told him, “My brother was suicidal, and she went over to help him. But his brain was broken- like he wasn’t himself because he was sick. So he didn’t mean to kill them it just happened. And that’s why he didn’t kill me. He didn’t mean to kill anyone.” “Ohhh…ok.” Fully satisfied with that answer he got into line simply stating, “I am going to get breakfast now Coach.”
The interaction was unique in he didn’t react in the typical American student fashion- the idea of murder of family was not a unique concept to him and he was more curious at the why he did it. He also approached to ask me very straight forward in the same way he would ask what time the game was- or was he starting tonight.
I coach kids from Nepal, Burundi, Tanzania, Rwanda, and beyond. Some have arrived as recently as 2019-others as far back as 2012. The Assistant Manager- my nickname because his brain sees soccer better than his body allows him too right now- lost his brother in a car accident this past summer. Sometimes he speaks as he is still alive- even though he understands he is dead. I get it- sometimes it’s just easier to think of that person as still alive because their presence still burns so hard in your heart. These players come from families with intense trauma. They have witnessed their family killed, raped and kidnapped. So my goal is to make lasting new memories from them. Whether the pure enjoyment they get from blasting and singing along to CJ’s Whoopty and being addicted to blue cheese on the ride home from games, or gorging on the mouth watering chocolate covered pretzels my mother expertly baked for them-
it’s trying to make this team as much as family as possible, and give them the confidence they might be lacking. And while our record and on field teamwork is experiencing some growing pains- we are filling the net with memories that can never be forgotten. Which to get corny for a minute is all that really fucking matters in the end.
Soccer Dreams and Birthdays Wishes Too
On a cool crisp Sunday I sit next to my sister, niece, and nephew’s gravestone as the leaves paint a backdrop trinity of yellow, orange, and green as my dreams hover like lost leaves clutching to a branch now too cold to let it stay.
It’s my sister’s birthday today, and on her birthday I am trying to figure out a way to merge soccer and music to honor her, and to benefit the refugee and at-risk students I coach and work with. I knew being closer to her and the kids would allow me to figure out the best way to forge ahead.
This year Tricia would have turned 48. In the past birthdays, and anniversary’s were always brutal for me. In those days, when depression clung to my neck like two chains of sorrow and sadness, I always dreaded fall coming. In the past it was just the culmination of all my fears, repressed emotions, and the boiling cauldron of hate I kept bubbling in a dungeon locked in my belly over their murders. I ran from fall for over fifteen years, and then fate intervened this year and I became a soccer coach and everything changed.
Now mind you when I first signed up to coach I had no clue what I was doing, getting into, or that it would spark this idea to help these kids. I became a coach because the middle school I work at was in desperate need for coaches so I jumped in. My experience with soccer ended in 6th grade, and It wasn’t a sport I watched or even was any good at playing. I had no connection to it so going into my first practice of tryouts I figured I’d just get my Ted Lasso on, and let the power of positivity propel me. For the record I have never watched that show- and my coaching style definitely runs the gamut of emotions from Bobby Knight to Nick Sabin to Pete Carroll.
As my loyal readers know I learn best from jumping right in- usually failing at first- and then finally excelling. I mean I failed at making Mac n cheese once when I was babysitting for Tricia and making food for my tattletale niece Gillian. She wanted microwaveable macaroni and cheese- which to most people is very easy to whip-up. Yet I was a jabroni and forget to put water in the bowl for the macaroni. Yes, at nineteen years old I screwed up making microwavable mac and cheese, which I think is nearly impossible, and yet I managed to ace that test. So I ended up burning the noodles and making the house smell awful like cabbage water that has been left on the dashboard of a car in the middle of July for weeks. As soon as my sister came home Gillian sauntered right up to her and sold me out, “Uncle Patrick made the house smell.”
When I was real young I was really close to Tricia, but as I got into my teens we would always fight. I knew how to terrorize and push her buttons. I perfected the annoying little brother role so well that one afternoon while watching MTV’s The Grind she got so enraged at me she broke the TV remote controller by chucking it at my head. Luckily, I ducked. But after she had Gillian all that changed and I become the go to baby-sitter, and was no longer the ten year old terror looking to torment my nineteen year old sister. Yet she did get her revenge because this team to most was a terror- on the field and off.
This is how my season started via posts on Facebook:
9/18: I am not saying I am the greatest soccer coach in the world- but my team is undefeated after our first game. After a dominant 2-0 pre-season- including a thrilling 2-1 win over a very physical and aggressive girls B team- we are now poised for a championship run.
9/25: Still undefeated as a coach after 10-0 and 8-1 victories on the pitch. I am not saying I am John Wooden yet…but there are some people saying loudly on the internet I might be the greatest Middle School B Team 2 coach in recent history. I mean I am humble as they come- but the internet doesn’t lie.
Our first game was on the road versus Wyndham Summit. On the bus the kids were blaring and losing their minds to Cocomelon- a YouTube kid’s show where this cartoon Cailui looking like family just redoes nursery rhymes and popular kids songs. When I was in sixth grade I was getting into trouble because my friends put on a mixtape I made during gym class and the lady gym teacher was not as impressed as I was that the Wu Tang Clan was nothing to fuck with. However the power of cartoon positivity did the trick to fire up the squad and we won 7-5.
Tricia also had horrible taste in music. Like, brutally bad. In her car she would play really cheesy Euro techno. The stuff you hear in 90’s aerobic classes-which was fitting since she was a personal trainer and was always in ridiculously good shape. Things that were not in as good shape though were my ears as this dreck pulsated them- however James and Gillian loved it- vibrating and bouncing up and down in their car seats with huge grins plastered on their faces. My sister also loved Barry Manillowe, and even went to see him in concert. Before she passed she was going back to school to get a nursing degree. She had always wanted to be either a nurse, or a school teacher. She really would been great at either since she was such an amazing mom, and person.
Speaking of amazing my team had the leading goal scorer in the league- a charming sixth grader from the Congo with immense talent that should had been on the A team had he tried out. In our first game he scored five of our 7 goals, whiles assisting on the other two. Luckily I worked with him during camp this summer and found out he was a ringer and snatched him up fast. You will learn in coaching that a talented player can make your life a lot easier by covering up any defects your team or you as a coach may have. And believe me I had and still have plenty of defects when it comes to coaching- but I think my ability to connect with players, and my Bill Belichick like love of history and strategy has me ever improving.
Things we also led the league in was getting yelled at by the referees for swearing, players being sent to PPR(where you get sent when you get kicked out of class),being in ISS( internal suspension), and coaches with red cards. Think a sober middle school version of the 1986 NY Mets meets Bad News Bears. I relate well to the kids that get into trouble a lot, and I made that abundantly clear a couple days after the dreaded anniversary of their deaths when I received a red card versus our top rival Shaker in a showdown for first place.
The first time we played Quaker we lost 7-3- it was our first loss and first time we had trailed in any game. My team fell apart as soon as we went down- arguing with the refs and themselves. We stopped hustling to plays and played abysmal team soccer. We had faced adversity and failed our first test, and I was determined that would be the last time this happened.
The rematch for first place was set for October 4th- but this year my brain was not locked into a cycle of despair over that previous horrible day- but rather in a YouTube k-hole of soccer formations and false 9 videos trying to figure out the best line-up and game plan to defeat Quaker.
The God’s of rain pushed the game back to Wednesday, and the rematch was an epic back and forth match. We scored early in the first half- but immediately gave up a goal right back to them as they tied it up one to one. Quaker was able to sneak another goal in late and we ended up losing 2-1.
Reflection made me realize that I was definitely more emotional and hyped up then usual for this game- first I really wanted my players to realize they were the better team and could beat them if they just played together. Also I think it was definitely a release for me embracing my new normal. One of the strangest feelings I think for those that dealt with anything that took away their spark for life, and had them living by a nightlight is how to live life with out the comforter of depression. For those blessed with never dealing with depression, or any debilitating mental health ailment, tragedy, or setback that destroyed your whole world view- this might seem like a very foreign concept. But when happiness has alluded you, either by circumstance, bad brain chemistry, or a combination of both, living a life without it can be terrifying to embrace. So when your biggest pressing worry is a B league middle school soccer game life is going pretty good.
But if you listened to a supposedly “concerned” Quaker parent my red card exit occurred after I had cursed out my players, then the refs- then like I was cosplaying 2Pac exited the field with both middle fingers in the air. I wish I was making this up- but they sent this to my athletic director and principal. Obviously they knew this Quaker mom was full of malarkey-but my AD, who is a really talented and successful coach, needed to bring it to my attention because of perception. Just getting a red card gives me a target on my back. It doesn’t help I am extremely loud, and animated on the sidelines- I pace a couple miles each game- but I never would yell or curse out a kid. I do loudly praise them for their hard work on the field- but I am also not changing my whole style cause some rich asshole doesn’t like me or my team- but I will definitely keep myself more in check from now on because I understand- regardless of reality- I need to be even more careful about my actions because people like that will prey upon it. Also I need to not be so damn stupid next time a situation like this occurs. I got thrown out arguing subbing rules during throw ins. I finally lost it when the ref let their team sub on our thrown in- and then the next play they had a throw in, and I had a sub waiting and I asked, “So can I illegally sub now,” and he goes no- and my last words were, “So I guess we are the only team that has to play by the rules now.”
But the perception of me, and my team that Quaker parent had on me motivated me to realize how I could honor my loved ones by giving kids a chance to play indoor soccer come November and the winter months. A lot of the kids I work with deal with negative perceptions that are not their fault. Having options like this to learn and grow at a sport- while also bonding with and forming life long friendships with teammates is huge in a child’s development, and the perceptions others may have of them. Indoor soccer costs can be exorbitant- so that’s why I am trying to keep costs low for the families- and free for those that can’t afford it.
And that’s where you my loyal readers come in. Do you want to stick it to a bunch of rich private school snobs? Do you want to help refugee and at risk kids? Do you want to be able to find out if we won the championship in the B league, and have exclusive reports on how we are doing during the indoor season? Well I got a deal for you so you can donate to help the cause, and for every dollar donated I will put up more takes from the soccer pitch, new dj mixes, post some betting tips, offer leaf raking services from the kids, and hell if you need a tutor I can do that for your student in need- any hustle needed will be offered to help these players out. The idea is hopefully we can raise enough money to ensure price is not a barrier for any player, and also help make sure their jerseys and equipment costs are covered. Ideally we are looking to raise $2,000, and to use this soccer adventure as a real life example of what a non profit dedicated to my sister would be able to achieve. You can donate at the link below, and believe me any donation I get I am beyond grateful for.
Gratitude Coming
I think one of the biggest torments of severe depression- or any bout with any debilitating mental health issue- is the absolute solitude nature of its torture. The anger, sadness, and frustration intensifies inside you without anywhere to go becoming a venomous arrow paralyzing you to the world outside of your own thoughts. You become a volcano whose eruption only blows up itself- it’s lava pouring back inside the earth leaving the ground trembling with flaming fears. Such intense self-reflection leads to at times periods where our lenses to life are skewed to reality. Self-absorption becomes our sin because connection to others seems so far away- a distant land too many miles to seek out alone. When you are in the midst of a depressive bout the ability to actively connect with others is a foreign language. Spoken words are never understood anyway when you yourself have lost your voice. So you turn even more inwards losing your connection to the outside world.
For me that loss can plummet to even greater depths where death seems like the best option available. When life is strangling you slowly then suicide seems the comforting solution over that ever present drudgery; that is a life that seems to be rather a slow death suffocating all glimpses of hope, love, and life out of it-dooming you to a life lived cursed as a hollow tomb- a Monet to the outside world- but strictly walking dead inside. It’s not that suicide is ever truly appealing- it’s thought of peace it brings that becomes so alluring.
Thinking back to the past seems more like a vivid nightmare than real life-years either seem closer to the past, or, further from the future then they actually are. A kaleidoscope calendar fills out the remnants of my memories of these fractured times.
Back in those dark days gratitude lists got me by. I learned that when your brain is fighting itself you have to become like the dirtiest player in the game, Ric Flair, and use any tactic at hand to win. The brain can’t think of two things at once- so no matter how bad your depression, sadness, anger, fear, or any of the smorgasbord of emotions that are occurring at the time are- you can always mindfully take a moment to barrage it with some goodwill. Because at the times when you are feeling that low it’s those bright moments you can always cling to as you struggle to climb forward. So use gratitude like Omar used his shotgun and leave your brain shook shouting, “Gratitude Coming” across all hemispheres.
Using gratitude is one of the simplest tools you have at your disposal in battling these ailments. Whether it’s starting each day by listing five things on paper, keeping a gratitude journal, or just focusing on a tiny comfort in life like fresh socks and underwear will guarantee your first thoughts each waking morning will be full of positivity, hope, and thankfulness. With practice those peaceful moments can expand to peaceful mornings, afternoons, and beyond. Remember the practice of gratitude is just like lifting weights- the more you work at it the stronger you become. And with that strength comes a better connection to oneself and the world around it. Gratitude started me on my journey to wellness, and you best believe it is indeed part of my “code to living” till this day.
Patrick Bernard 