2012 06 06 Hello, My Name Is,

Hello. My name is Deon, and I'm an alcoholic.

I have always been an alcoholic. From the time my feet first hit the floor, I was headed towards my first drink. It was perfectly inevitable, totally unpredictable, and strangely unstoppable.

I will always be an alcoholic. I will always have the cravings and feelings to want to drink. Some days those feelings will stay in check. Other days, those feelings come roaring at me like the cows at the Flood farm during milking time in the new revolving carousel milking parlor.

Are you all cocking your head sideways right now with a confused look on your face? Good. Here we go then.

I remember the first time sneaking a drink of beer from a bottle. It was the most disgusting thing I ever tasted in my life, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't get the taste out of my mind. It was bitter, sweet, strong tasting beer, that bubbled up my nose and made my eyes water, and although I coughed and choked at the first taste, I knew that one day, I would have myself another taste of this amazingly awful tasting stuff.

I remember watching the grown ups who were drinking it. They all seemed to be laughing and joking and having one hell of a good time. They all seemed like they were the best of friends, and having the best of times, and it all seemed to be revolving around those bottles and cans of beer.

Our family used to go to my dad's company picnic in the Summer time. It was a wonderful event that I looked forward to every year. It was full of family and softball games and football games and three legged races and miniature golfing and swimming. Everything a kid could want.

I remember one of those picnics, I think it was north of Lewiston, somewhere out towards Turner. Anyways, I remember walking up to the drinks cooler, which was electronically refrigerated. Nothing but the best for my dad's company picnic.

I remember opening up the top door of the cooler and reaching in for a can of soda. As I opened it up and bent down inside to reach the sodas, I caught a whiff of the pungent aroma of the beer inside the cooler. I stood there for a few moments, completely caught up in the smell. Completely enamored with all of it. I looked around at the grown ups who were having the best time, and all, who seemed to have a beer in their hands, or on the table in front of them, or on the beach sand beside them.

I stood there, with my head stuck down inside the cooler, and breathed in deep the smell of the alcohol. I breathed it in deep, and wished I was a grown up. I wished that I was able to pick one up out of the ice cold water of the cooler, open it up, and guzzle it down.

Alcohol always had the same effect on me as I grew up. It always seemed to manage to completely consume my total concentration, whenever it was around. It always seemed to whisper to me how great it was, and how wonderful it would be for me to feel it's full effects. It called to me, over and over again, and I kept listening.

I guess I am very fortunate that my folks didn't drink much. They used to have a few drinks at functions, and other events, but for the most part, neither of them really drank much. I am sure that if they did, I probably would have cut loose a lot younger than I did.

I suppose that starting to drink in junior high was still fairly young though, and I suppose that wanting to get drunk every weekend from then on was a sign of things to come. Like I said, I was an alcoholic, waiting to happen.

Through my school years, I always worked and manipulated my week of school, trying to line up some of my friends to go drinking with on Friday and Saturday nights. My school week didn't seem to matter much to me until I had achieved my goals and lined up some friends and some alcohol for the finale of the week. There was usually some drugs of some kind that were also involved, but it all revolved around alcohol.

sorry Mom and Dad, but it's true. I loved to drink, and did so whenever I got the chance.

Those first few attempts at getting drunk were just awful. Puking and dizzy walks back up Kingsbury Hill towards home, it all seemed to be a losing effort. I wasn't very good at it, and swore again and again that I would not ever get drunk again. I couldn't experience the sickness and the throwing up and the incredible headache the next morning any more. I didn't care much for lying in bed with one foot firmly planted on the floor, while my room spun around the universe. I didn't like the feel in my nose after I had thrown up. I didn't like the taste in my mouth the next day. All of it, I just didn't want it any more.

As the week rolled on though, it kept calling to me. It convinced me that the next weekend would be better than the last one. I would handle it better, and all would be right in the world.

Alcohol promised me the world in the beginning. It told me that I would always be better off with it as my friend. It would never let me down, and would always be there for me when I needed it most. It seemed that I always needed it most. I always wanted it more, and worked harder to get it. I wanted all of the people I considered my friends to want it as much as me also. I needed them to crave it and have the best time with it, as I was surely trying to.

I was possessed with alcohol at such a young age. It grabbed hold of the unsuspecting teenager and had it's way with me. It, and eventually other drugs, spun around in my head twenty-four/seven. Even before I knew what in hell was going on, it was planning and conning and manipulating my life. Molding me into the alcoholic that it so looked forward to getting to know.

Did I have an addictive personality? You bet your ass I did. Right to the hilt. As far as the eyes could see, I was working right along side of that bottle of booze. I would be the best little drunk this bottle ever saw.

I am an alcoholic. Always have been, always will be. My next drunk is just one drink away. My next OUI is just , well, that's a lot farther away now than it used to be. I guess in some way, God was looking out for me? Or at least He was looking out for everyone else. Ha. It seems there was a point in my life when it didn't matter where I was going, if I was driving, I had a beer between my legs, and several more on the floor of the back seat, not very far from me.  I remember rushing to the little corner store after work to grab a six pack. That first can, the way it bubbled down my throat. It was perfect in every way.

I have lied with alcohol. I have cried with alcohol. I have strained and completely wrecked relationships with alcohol. I have wreaked havoc with alcohol. I have been ripped apart by alcohol. I have had it up to here with alcohol, and hopefully that is enough.

I spent so much of my life thinking about ways to hide getting drunk. I'm not sure if you're aware if it, or not, but I am a fairly big guy. I don't hide very well, especially when I'm drunk. Hello?

I have spent so much time trying to convince myself that it was all worth it. I have wasted so much time, letting alcohol take up so much of my time. I have wasted so many wonderful days that could have been. I have wasted so much, and thank God that I haven't had to pick up a drink today.

Oh of course, there were a lot of happy, fun times with alcohol. There were so many joyous, happy occasions, as long as I had enough to drink. There were so many wonderful things that it let me have as it was sinking it's teeth deeper into my innocence and unsuspecting ignorance. It kept allowing me to have things to have, crave, lust for, yearn for, and desire. I just wish that I could have noticed all of the things that it was keeping from me.

I had so many passions as a child growing up. I had so many wonderful things in my life to look forward to. I remember jumping out of bed each morning because I couldn't wait to get out there, and be me. There were so many wonderful things in my life, and so many things that I liked to do, and that I actually was very good at doing.

Over the years, alcohol stripped a lot of those things from me. It ripped away so much of my passion. It tore away from me a lot of the things that I held so tight to. It promised me that everything would be ok without these things in my life. It convinced me that I would be better off without all of the clutter and chaos in my life. It swayed the passions and strangled the cravings for life as it replaced them with false hope and misguided aspirations.

I am an alcoholic, and I choose to live today without it. I have so much to live for today. I know how much alcohol took from me, and I am fully aware of how much it is still waiting to take from me, if I let it.

I suppose if I chose to, I could blame this alcohol thing on just about anybody, or anything. I could justify why I drank so much for so long. Just put me on Dr. Phil, or Oprah, and I could easily convince any unsuspecting soul that it wasn't my fault. I could wrap my head around any twisted logic that I could muster up.

Unfortunately, it would all be a pitiful attempt at putting the blame on anything except where it belongs, with me. It was all me. 100 percent me, and no one else but me.

There are a lot of people out there in the world that don't struggle with the addictions of mind altering substances. They are very fortunate in that respect, and I can honestly say that I will probably never understand how their psyche works. I used to wonder what was wrong with me. Some people still do. I always wondered why I craved the taste and feel of alcohol so much. I often wondered where my life would have led me if I could have been stronger and wiser with my decisions. I know that hind sight is 20/20, and it isn't going to do me a bit of good. I am where I am because of the choices I made in my life.

It is so simple, to just not drink. That's one of the good old sayings in A.A. Keep it simple stupid. I used to wonder what that meant. As I figured out what it meant, I wondered why it took me so long to figure out what it meant.

Actually, I am still working on it.

I plan on writing about being an alcoholic only once in this blog. Like politics, I will deter from it, and rely on other things to plot my blog posts.

I do have things in my life these days to be grateful for. I do have purpose in my life. The kind of purpose that I never knew about. There has always been a purpose in my life. The purpose had always been there, and I continued to overlook it on a daily basis. The purpose was plain to see, but hidden from view. I hid it. All on my own. Well, me, and alcohol.

There have been so many passions of mine that have been misplaced over the years. So many wonderful things that were shoved into the back of the closet. So many incredible events that were overshadowed with the dull gray clouds of alcohol. Sometimes, it seemed to rain every day, and I just stood outside in it. No umbrella. No rubber puddle stompers. No rain coat. Nothing. Just me, standing there, like an alcoholic, looking up into the dreary sky as the rain fell, wondering why I was getting wet.

Only one thing, only one set of points should come out of this post.

I am powerless over alcohol. My life had become unmanageable with the use of it. I can not manage to keep away from alcohol on my own, and still struggle with it a lot of days, as I do with my other addictions. god can help me to stay sober, and give my life new purpose. If I step back, and let him guide me, I will have a much better chance.

I think I will let Him.

2012 06 02 All In Time

Holy Crap! It's June!

I can't believe it. Where did the spring go? The last thing I new, I was pulling the strings tight on my hoodie to keep the wintery chill off my head as I took the dogs outside. That was just, umm, the day before yesterday, right? No? well, it couldn't have been more than the week before, right? No?

What the heck is going on? Where is the time going? Who ripped all the pages off the calendar? Somebody make it stop!

Ok then, I feel better. I may not look better, but I do feel better.

Remember summers as a kid? Remember how they seemed to last forever? That is, until the second week of August, then the same calendar page ripper had his way with it all. Even back then, when you least expect it, the time just seemed to fly.

The longest span of time known to man, or known to a kid, was the time from Thanksgiving, until Christmas. Those were some of the longest weeks, days, hours  of my life. Every day, it seemed that Christmas was one day farther away, not closer. How did that happen? How could time play such a mean trick on us kids? I mean, it dragged, and crawled, and rolled like molasses uphill on a cold wintery day, and then, whappo, it was gone in a flash! Before I knew it, it was the middle of January, and Christmas was long gone.

When my son, Matthew, was born, I remember thinking to myself, "Man oh man, 18 years is a long time. I am going to be raising him with my wife forever." Well, I am here to tell you, forever was gone in the blink of an eye, as well as the twelve years past that! I don't know where the time went. I don't know how he grew up so fast. I don't know how I grew so old so fast either. I mean I don't even look like I am old, umm, what? What's that? I do? Me? Huh? Really? Man, time sure has it's way with certain things.

It really isn't fare, why I look so old, and my wife still looks like she is 23. What's up with that? This is some practical joke, right? someone put her in stuck mode, and flipped my "Wicked Far Ahead" button, right?

No matter how old I feel, or look, it's just a state of mind, right?

Please note, if you say, "no", I'm coming after you.

Life as a kid. It didn't seem to move much. It just was. Time really wasn't too relevant back then, it just was. I was just always looking forward to the next ball game, or the next trip to the ocean, or the next snow storm, or thunder and lightning storm, or Summer Rec, or the next kid thing, or I could go on and on, and so could being a kid.

I go back again to the beach behind the Seaview Restaurant in Lubec. Walking down on the shore near high tide. Sitting down on a rock and shoving a stick down into the sand. Waiting for high tide, and as it crept closer up the sands, I watched as it finally touched the stick, completely surrounding it, then after some of that time thing, it slowly started backing away once again. Before I knew it, the tide had slid out thirty or forty yards, and I was left, sitting there, looking at what had just happened, wondering where the time had gone.

The tides, like the ticking of the clock, they just never stop. Everything, everywhere I look, just seems to keep moving. Nothing ever stands still.

Funny how quickly the first day of school ran up around the corner and turned into the last day of school. New years day marched through to New Year's Eve in another blink of an eye. Life just keeps happening, one day, one second, one year, one month, one minute at a time. It all adds up, in time, to time. Pretty amazing to think that the clock has never stopped ticking, not even once, all these years. Can you hear it on the wall? Tick, tick, tick. It's always moving. It never stops. It never cares what's going on, it just keeps being, and ticking, and turning, and spinning and moving ahead.

It does seem to move quickly sometimes, and slowly, other times. Just last month, when I went to visit my folks, I noticed that the first few days crawled by very slowly, but then, before I knew it, I was on the plane, heading home with a head full of memories.

Where does the time go? How does it seem to hide on us, and then, out of the blue, "Here I Am!". How the heck does it do that? Is someone in control of it all? An official universal time keeper? Is it God, or maybe one of his friends?

I don't know what it is, or how it happens. I don't know who to blame, or thank, or ask. I don't know where it went, or who put it where, or what's making it go by. I don't know why I start a lot of my sentences with the same words. I don't know who ate the rest of the chocolate chips either.

Ok, I do.

I can't help it, the bag of chocolate chips always seems to get lighter, with time.

Can you hear that? Listen. Shhhhh. Hear it?

Tick, tick, tick.

It just never stops.

2012 05 25 Thanks Sarge

I took a ride back from Portland a few days ago. I was with my mobility instructor, rosemary. Her and I have been through quite a few lessons together, and this particular trip back to Waterville, and back to my home, well, this was the final touches of my last mobility lesson.

Earlier that morning, I had started my day, wondering and worrying about what kind of a day lie just ahead of me. I sat in my house and thought back to the dozens of mobility lessons that I had taken part over the last twenty or so months. I reflected back on where I was, where I had been, and what I had gone through over the course of those months. I remembered the fears, the worries, the anxiety attacks, the good feelings, along with the bad. I remembered how far back those first few lessons seemed. I remembered how it felt the first time I put ecluders on, and started cracking away with my cane. I remembered the first time I went down a flight of stairs with my cane. I remembered trying to walk in a straight line across an open parking lot, and winding up walking around in a circle instead. I breathed in deep and remembered it all, all at once.

As I sat in Rosemary's car, heading back home, we talked about all of the learning experiences. We talked about how different I was on that day, compared to how I was back in the summer of 2010. We talked about how I had grown, and matured, and how much I differed from that scared individual in those days back in 2010. She drove, and we continued to talk. I never realized how fast an hour and a half ride could go by, until then. In the blink of an eye, we were pulling into my driveway in Clinton, and the lesson was over. The thirty or forty experiences were over. I had finished my Orientation and Mobility program, and was the better for it.

Earlier that morning, as I sat in my house, preparing for the lesson, I got a sense that this lesson would be the end result of so many grueling, and difficult times out in the streets with my cane, and of course, Rosemary.

I was all set to carry out the plans that I had come up with to figure out how to get from my home, to the Apple Store in the Maine Mall in South Portland. I was  going to have to take three different buses, and get help from individuals on multiple occasions during the trip. I had a few weeks to plan out this trip, and found that on a couple of occasions, I got twisted up in the method, and quite confused. I still have a hard time organizing things in my head, and usually have to stand back and think things through a few times before I feel comfortable with the results.

With all of the planning, and all of the worrying, the day finally came, and I was staring it right in the face. I realized that I was totally in charge of the days events, and it felt electrifyingly scary. I felt frightful that perhaps I had forgotten one or two critical steps that would end up totally throwing a bag of wrenches upon the days events. I still do worry allot that even though I work through and plan accordingly, that there will always be something that will be overlooked because I can not see it. I suppose that this uneasy feeling will follow me around for some time to come, and that I need to realize this and work through things with a more methodical approach.

As I stepped on board the last bus of the trip, the Portland Metro that took me from the Concord Coach Terminal in Portland, out to the Maine Mall, I breathed in a sigh of relief. I still had one more piece of the puzzle to slowly put in place, but I felt at that particular time, that I had done it. I had managed to plan and carry out a trip from my house, to the Maine Mall, where I was supposed to meet up with Rosemary.

Even though I couldn't see any of what had taken place that day, I saw the movie playing out in my head as the day went along. I played that movie again and over and over, and relived that day a hundred times since then.

I know now that all of the experiences over the last couple years have all been worth it. All of the stumbling, and tripping, and bumping into things, they have all been worth it. All of the wrong turns, and the traffic lights, and the walk, don't walk signals, and the turning traffic, and the sounds of chaotic confusion, they have all been worth it. All of the uneasy feelings, and the uncertain feelings, and the frightful moments, they have all been worth it. They have all led me to here, exactly where I need to be. Exactly where I have to start the rest of the journey from. exactly where the familiar becomes the unfamiliar, and all of the experience starts to take shape. Exactly, or a close facsimile.

I know that every time I leave my house, I will have another mobility lesson, and that I will always be in learning mode. It's just the way my brain works now, and I am very grateful for that.

I owe so much of who I am, and what I am capable of doing to Rosemary. She showed me what I had inside me. She showed me that the frightened child inside could infact, come out and figure it all out. She showed me what I am capable of doing, and with the right guidance, how many obstacles and difficult problems I can work my way through. She showed me that there is always a way, and there is always a reason. She showed me how to stand tall and walk with purpose. She showed me that through it all, I am right where I am supposed to be.

I am right where I am supposed to be, and there are more places where I am supposed to go.

I will sweep with confidence, and walk tall with my cane as I go and find out where those places are. I truly believe that Rosemary will always be just two steps behind me as I make my way.

Love Ya Sarge!  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

2012 04 30 Open Your Eyes...

Here we go again!

Another rip roaring, incredible start to a wonderfully amazing day, and all I had to do was open my eyes!

You ever wonder how so many different types of days all start the same? You ever wonder what makes one day veer to the left so much farther than the day before? You ever wonder how quickly your frame of mind can change, as it pin balls it's way into, and through the day?

Well I don't know about you, but I wonder about it all the time.

I wonder how we can keep all of these different scenarios sorted out. I wonder how I am able to sift through all of the different people, different characteristics, different problems, different likes, and dislikes, and still find the pillow at night.

All of the days start the same. All of the days have similar possibilities. All of the days have the same number of clicks on the clock. All of the days start with the sun, and end with the sun. Sprinkle a few stars and a couple full moons in between there, and you have yourself one unpredictable stage show.

I usually start my days the same way, every morning. Over and over again. Open my eyes. Walk the dogs. Take my daily supplements. Start my pc. Check my email. Write a little bit. Read a little bit. Grab a yogurt and banana and join my wife in the living room to catch up on some news. Do my exercises. Notice how much my exercises don't seem to be doing any good. Take care of my business in the bathroom, then I head for the dish pan.

By the way, I have the cleanest, softest hands in Clinton. Ha! It's been two years since I rolled a tire, and I still have ground in dirt from back then. Can't get it out.

I would like to say that waking up every morning, knowing that I have so many wonderful choices in my life, well, it keeps me grounded and whole. It keeps me humbled and amazed. It keeps me faithful and blessed. It keeps me from lying in bed all day. It keeps me as I am.

My sister told me once of a phrase that really tells it all. It caused me to step back, and take a look at what was really around me. It helped me to realize that through it all, under, over, around, amidst it all, the only real thing we have is right now.

She told me the simplest thing that made the most sense of anything I had ever thought about.

She said,

Stop.

Breathe.

This is it.

That was it. That's all she told me. Simple, and oh so true.

Waking up every morning, knowing that I have the people in my life that I do, it gives me a sense of belonging. It helps me realize that I am just a small part of a much bigger picture. I am just one ingredient in a casserole dish extraordinaire. I am but just one spoke in a rolling Ferris wheel in the amusement park of the ages.

I am who I am, because of all of you. I am who I am because of the many faces and smiles that I have managed to collect along the way. I am who I am, and I thank you all for it.

Are you ready?

Set?

Ok then, open your eyes, and,

GO!

2012 04 22 Once Upon A...

Once upon a time, there was a man who was a man who had a dream that he had a dream of being a man. It was the man's dream. was it a dream to remember, or was it a dream to forget? Only the man who was the man who had a dream that he had a dream of being a man, knows.

A man who knew the man who was the man who had a dream that he had a dream of being a man, had a dream himself that the man who was the man who had a dream that he had a dream of being a man, told the man about the dream that he had. Therefore, the man who was the man who had a dream that he had a dream of being a man, wasn't the only one who knew about the dream

Another man who wasn't the man who was the man who had a dream that he had a dream about being a man, or the man who knew the man who was the man who had a dream that he had a dream about being a man, woke up from his own dream. All this time, he was the one who had been dreaming about the man who was the man who had the dream that he had a dream of being a man. He was also the man who had been dreaming about the other man who knew the man who was the man who was dreaming that he had a dream about being a man.

This man, who had been the man who was dreaming of the other men all along, rolled over in bed, checked the time on his alarm clock, and fell back asleep.

The end

2012 04 17 Dusty, Rusty Butt

I sat there in disbelief. I sat there in shock, with waves of fear and panic swelling inside of me like high tide.

I am sorry Mr. Lyons, but I am afraid there isn’t anything more we can do for you.” The neurologist continued, “It appears that your vision loss is permanent. Once again, I am sorry for your loss.”

With those words, all  of my hope was dashed from existence. I could not believe what I was hearing. I could not believe what was happening to me.

I sat there in the exam chair in Boston, alone and blind. My heart rose up in my throat and then sank like a stone, sending ripples through the  pool of my past. What in hell was happening to me? What had I done wrong to deserve this? How could I correct my shortcomings and get this train back on the rails? What in hell do I do now?

A thousand visions came screaming through my mind as I sat there in that exam room at tufts Hospital. I sat there alone with my thoughts and fears. The doctor kept talking to me, but I couldn’t hear any more of what he was saying. The blow had been struck. The final upper cut sent me spinning down onto the mat for the count. I lay there on the mat, completely disoriented and totally vulnerable to every fear imaginable. I lay there, trying to get up, but unable to. I lay there on the mat, a beaten man, drowning in a sea of humility and self pity.

He kept talking, and my mind kept racing out of control. I saw flashes of myself as an old man with a cane, bouncing down a corridor from wall to wall. I saw myself sitting in a dark room, lifeless and alone. I saw myself, lost in the haunted woods of a fearful future, without any hope of finding my way back into the world that seemed now to be just out of reach. I saw myself again and again struggling with everything under the sun.

Only once in my life had I ever experienced quite the same feelings of complete despair. The day when my wife and I found out that my new born son had the same cancer that I had been born with. The same cancer that was the main cause for my sudden vision loss that darkened my world just a few short days before. That day, much like this one, was a gut wrenching, never ending stormy day.

As I was pushed in my wheelchair back to  my hospital room, I felt a sense of hopelessness and disbelief. I thought I was going to die. I just felt that bad. The waves of fear and anxious torment came at me one by one. Their never ending barrage took their toll on me as I struggled to make sense out of any of the horror novel that I had been thrown into. A fever of anger rose and fell inside me. The tides of destruction were ripping through my heart and emptying my soul. Like a pummeled, battered and bruised boxer between rounds fourteen and fifteen, I sat in my chair with my head hanging down in defeat, dazed and confused. I

Wasn’t sure what round we were in, but I knew that it was far from over.

The call was made back home with the news, and also a plea for someone to come and get me the hell out of Boston. I hated that town. I hated the state and the county and the street the hospital was on and everyone that worked there. Hell, I hated everyone and everything. How could the world keep turning when I was going through this sci-fi movie from hell?

I sat in my hospital room unaware of anything going on around me. There were still people in the hospital being saved as I sat there, but I couldn’t have cared in the least. The hospital kept on being a hospital. The hospital that I had such great hopes for just a couple of days earlier. I was confident that when I came to Boston, they surely would be able to fix me. They would surely be able to help me see again. They had to.

Unfortunately, they didn't because they couldn't, and I hated them for it.

As the hours rolled by, I sat there waiting for my son to come and take me home. A movie played over and over in my mind. It usually started a little different every time, but it always ended the same, with me being alone in a dark room. Alone and blind and scared and frightened and just a pitiful mess. Every movie that played out in my mind had me cast as the main character in a sightless dark and cruel plot.

How was I ever going to be able to go on? How could I ever learn how to live this way? How was I ever going to be a grandfather, or a father, or a son, or a husband, or a brother, or a nephew, or a cousin, or an uncle, or anything? I had too much to do. I had so many things that were unfinished. I needed to be able to see. I needed, wanted, craved, yearned for and desired all of the things that had been stolen from me in the blink of an eye.

My son finally did show up, and he helped me out of the hospital and across the street to the parking garage. The world around me outside was as dark as my room inside the hospital. They were the same place. They were the same thing. So was I.

Once we crossed The Tobin Bridge and were out of Boston I finally did get a chance to take a deep breath. I could sense the world still going on around me as we raced up the interstate towards Maine. Knowing that we were going home had some kind of affect on me. I had a calming soothing feeling for the first time in a few days, and it felt good.

My son turned to me in the car and said something that still echoes in my head to this day. He spoke to me words that I have tried to live each day since then.

“You know dad,” He said. “It looks like one door has closed, but I think another one will open up for you.”

I started to cry under my breath and as he touched my arm I felt at that moment that somehow, everything would be ok.

I prayed to God that afternoon to take control of my days, to take the steering wheel and help me through the journey that was ahead of me. It is a struggle every day to admit that I need help, and guidance, and support, but I do.

It has been almost two years, and I still hear my sons words. I hear his words and I am going through the open door. I am going through and I am excited today. I am excited because of the possibilities that lie before me.

I am still blind. I still grieve and morn the loss of my sight. I also know that all of my grief and sorrow and disbelief will not help me get through this day.

I made a commitment to myself to take any challenge head on, and to not pass up any opportunities to live and learn. I am looking for new doors to open myself. I did lose my sight, but I still can see.

I have prayed many days since then and continue to ask God to give me the strength to get through a day. Just one day. This day. There have been many days, and I have pulled through each of them a better man. Well, I should say, most of them.

Those dark days in Boston are behind me now. My story and my life race on as I hang on for dear life. Most days I can probably see things more clearly than ever before. With the loss of my sight, I have discovered the visions of my future, and hold tightly to the memories of my past. The possibilities are endless, countless, and limitless. I feel more excited now over the possibilities than probably any other time in my life. Blindness took away so  much from me, but it is also willing to give me everything that I will open up my eyes to. My future lives inside of me, and nowhere else.

If I can manage to get my dusty, rusty  butt up and out of my complacently, comfy chair, I should be ok.

Anyone seen my cane?

2012 04 12 Mini Scripts and Video Clips

As I sit here, staring blankly at my computer screen, I ponder what I should write. My mind wanders across my life in a torrent of mini scripts and video clips of my life. A never ending reel of movie highlights plays before me, skimming the top, and once in a while, diving deep into my past to dig up little golden nuggets of memories full of smiles, and tears, and everything in between.

I scour my memory for things that have seemed to slip my mind. I search the canyons and dry river beds of my thoughts for the lost pages of the novel that is me.

I sit and wonder some times just what to write about next. Different things come to mind, and as I sort through them, one by one, I am flooded with emotions from my past.

I also wonder if I should just write about my dreams, because they are rushing at me, night after night, like never before. More vivid and clear, the moments and faces and feelings associated with my recent countless dreams, fill my head as I wake every morning.

I can’t say that I recall dreaming of things that have taken place since my vision loss, more so the dreams are of times from when I could see. Tale after tale of wonderfully imaginative adventures that leave me wanting more. Maybe I should start writing about them?

I ponder on my poetry, and it’s meanings. I have written quite a few poems this past year, and it seems that one theme is captured more than not, without even trying. My poetry seems to revolve around my vision loss, and all that surrounds it. I write about colors, and sights, and beliefs, and obstacles, and clarity, and faith. I tend to write a lot of poems in the prose form. Up to a few months ago, I did not know what that term meant. I do now, and I enjoy writing in it. I write what feels good, and flows well from within. My style is my own, and I have no other. I am what I write, and what I write, is me. I can not get away from my writings. They have become a huge part of who I am, and where I am heading. I can not overlook the words that jump out onto the computer screen from my fingers.

I do forget about mostly everything when I am writing. Time flies, and the stories, for the most part, just sort of, appear. I don’t know where I go when I write, but I can assure you that I do go somewhere. I lose all track of time when I write, and I forget that I can not see. The material part of my surroundings take on a new form, or perhaps I should say, they exist somewhere other than here.

So many times I have started a piece, and before I knew it, it was complete. Then as I go back and read through it, I really don’t remember writing most of it. It's like I'm reading it for the first time. I seem to get transfixed inside.

I do plan to keep on writing. I hope I never lose this passion for writing that I seem to have found this past year. I crave to be in front of the screen, and yearn for the sound of the keys popping under my fingers. It is such a good feeling to me to hear that popping sound. Sure beats the hell out of that old hunt and peck sound that I had grown accustomed to just a few short months ago.

The stories in me will hopefully make their way out onto the screen, one by one. I feel so full sometimes of the tales and the stories and the poems and the words that live within me.

There are so many clichés and catch phrases that sum up what I have gone through. I am them all, and they, me. I guess that I am sort of a cliché myself. I always went with the flow, and hardly ever went against the grain, for fear of being singled out. That fear is no longer welcome in my life, and although it does find it’s way back in from time to time, it knows that it is going to be confronted with a different point of view.

I turn to the left, and hear the spinning of the dryer beside me. As it turns, the seconds of another day spin right along side it. If I can get my mind to spin fast enough, I can keep up with it. Tumble dry, and static free.  Wouldn’t that be great?