I am a changed man. I have been "working on a post" for months, but the work has been scrapped. Feelings have been mulled over, insights have been gleaned, lost, and gleaned once more. My life has changed.
I am a changed man.
Since my last post, I have made some of my life's biggest accomplishments and endured some of my life's biggest trials. The accomplishments are mostly career-oriented, and they have to do with being a lawyer, currently in my third position, and walking bravely down a path I have feared for a long time. I am not supposed to be a lawyer forever; I know that. The practice of law is black-and-white, it is formulaic, and it is notable in its specificity. Artistic expression is not usually the friend of a lawyer. To practice law, I put the artist in me on a shelf in my heart, where he sits--quietly, patiently--waiting for me to feed him the fruit of love: music. To practice law, I wear a suit of armor, protecting my feelings, projecting my prowess, and repressing important parts of myself.
I don't mean to say that practicing law is misery; it isn't. I have fun at my current job. I work hard, and I laugh hard. I work long hours, take long train rides, write long briefs, and I fill myself with knowledge I couldn't find anywhere else. I am grateful for the law, because it has brought me to this point in my life. There are tools in my toolbox that are only there because I am a lawyer. Those tools will be with me forever. Moreover, being a lawyer has helped me encounter people in this world who I would likely have never seen elsewhere, and I love people. Being a lawyer pays my bills. Being a lawyer gives me a career I can talk about with strangers. But I am not supposed to be a lawyer forever. I am supposed to use music in my life and my profession. Music is the thing that wakes me up in the morning--literally and figuratively. Music gently lays my head to rest at night. Music is my life's passion and my heart's voice.
Music is what I will do forever.
Almost six months ago, while on my way to court, I severely broke (and left wrist) my back by falling down the subway steps. My broken back is still an issue, and it will be with me forever. I have surgery coming up to potentially fix the latent, chronic pain that I feel at all times, but I will always carry with me the increased likelihood of reinjuring my poor spine. I laugh now when I think about my surgeon coming in after reviewing my scans, a mere week after my accident. He remarked, off-handedly, that I had "pulverized" my L2 vertebrate. At the time that word knocked the wind out of me, and understandably so. In a matter of seconds, I went from a chubby, young lawyer, stuck in a dead-end associate position, running around New York City like a crazy person, making 5 court appearances per day, to a chubby, young lawyer, stuck in a dead-end associate position, who was crippled. I couldn't shower, I couldn't walk, I couldn't wipe my own ass. My entire world changed in a split second. It is a funny coincidence that I write on this blog, again, about my world changing. When last I wrote a post like this, my dad had just gotten diagnosed with what turned out to be terminal cancer. Yet again, my world view shifted, my eyes grew wide, and I surrendered to the inevitability of my circumstances. Where my father's diagnosis left me emotionally crippled, my back break left me physically crippled.
As if to offset the tragedy of my injury, my dear friends allowed me to stay with them for the two weeks proceeding after my fall. I slept on the couch of two of the most wonderful human beings who I know. During the day, they would sit with me, talk with me, let me rest, reassure me, and advocate on my behalf with medical professionals. I was shown love in every way that I could imagine. Hell, at one point, one of my closest friends had to literally wash me in the shower. (As an aside: true friendship might be when somebody says to you "can you lift your balls, please? I need to clean them.") Despite the beautiful showings of compassion around me, I sunk into a deep and dark depression. It took months before that same close friend had the compassion and courage to tell me that I needed therapy. She was right, of course. Thankfully, my therapist, Bob, is only ever a phone call away. He got me back on the right path, gave me some new tools, some old insights, and a healthy dose of reality. But through breaking my back, I really broke my "self," and I used the opportunity to rebuild the "me" who I had lost.
What I found when I began the painful, and still incomplete, process of rebuilding is that I want music in my life again. My career should fulfill me, because I am a workaholic. When I am at a job, I will stay until it is complete. I work long hours at my current firm not because I have been directed to stay (although it is strongly encouraged), but because there is work to be done, and it is mine to do. If I am to spend most of my life at a job, that job needs to be my passion and at least part of my life's fulfillment. Thus, I am not supposed to be a lawyer forever.
I am not completely positive on what path music will lay before me, as I write today, but I am entirely assured that music is the key to my future. I happen to have the great gift of close friends and loved ones surrounding me who understand that my soul resonates in music, so no matter the course I take from here, I will never be far from a supportive word or needed hug. Regardless, music is my future, and so is writing. I could, but won't, count the number of times I've made some grand pronouncement on this blog regarding my new-found passion for filling it with my own musings, but this time it is different. The quote that titles this entry is from the recently departed Maya Angelou , whose passing has greatly affected us all, including me. I know that music is my path because it satisfies me to know it, and that satisfaction grows as I continue to emotionally accept music back into my life. As I accept music, so to do I accept writing about it. Thus, writing on this blog satisfies me anew, as well. Writing here is "right." Expressing myself in writing is "right." And so this blog has found new life, just as its author has, in the rebuilding of what was broken. Music and writing are back for me, and it's right.
Right will satisfy you.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Sunday, June 01, 2014
Friday, July 09, 2010
A Moment, A Love, A Dream Aloud
Long time, no blog, eh? Whatever, if you aren't used to that by now, you never will be. Man up, this is how it is going to be.
Speaking of my cold-heartedness, it has recently been a topic of interest to various people in my life that I don't cry. Ever. Before we all jump to the same logical (albeit incorrect) conclusions, I don't refuse to cry, it isn't a 'macho thing', and I would cry if I could. People have called me "dead inside" and "cold" but what I always find fascinating is how quickly my capacity to love is forgotten in a backlash of 'why aren't you more sad? (sic)' I defend myself, usually, by giving specific instances where I might have cried, given different circumstances. Here are a few of note:
---
When I saw "My Sister's Keeper" with my good friend Nicole, I could have cried for days. That movie is like somebody killed a thousand puppies with a kitten cannon for shits and giggles, then made you call EVERY pet owner and give them the bad news while they told you about their terminal cancer. I'm talking sad here, people. The problem? Everyone else in the theater. Imagine, if you will: Me, sitting in a theater full of sobbing women. Not crying. Not tearing up. Not softly sniffling. SOBBING. I was simply too uncomfortable to cry. Nicole, thankfully, understood, and we then went to see "The Proposal" immediately afterward to give us each a pick-me-up. Note, please, that given different circumstances, I would have cried.
When my father called me to tell me he had cancer, completely blindsiding me and wracking my world, as I knew it, I was too shocked to react at all. By the time I actually felt anything I had rationalized the scenario a thousand times in my head, and I went straight to recovery-mode, never stopping off at the sad station. (you're welcome for that analogy carrying on JUST too long) Note, had there been some sort of build-up or prior indication, I might have been better prepared to be sad, but as it turns out, there was no warning and shock seems to be a stronger emotion for me than sadness.
When I realized I was going to fail a class for the first (and last) time of my life, I could have cried. I called my parents, hoping for a light scolding followed by some good old-fashioned TLC from the parentals. Not so much. What I was confronted with was some epic guilt followed by a very pragmatic talk about what my options were from that point on and how I would recover from this tragedy, never considering how I was feeling at that moment. Note, had I simply dealt on my own, I probably would have cried it out like a child falling from a high-chair.
---
Those are just a few samples of stories I use to try and illustrate my unique inability to cry. This post, however, isn't really about me, so much as it is about an opinion. Here's my opinion, I think that I don't value sadness as an emotion enough to cry.
Still with me? Alright, good.
In a day, I feel any range of emotions: happiness, anger, frustration, hatred, bliss, joy, glee, depression, most of all, love. Rarely do I feel 'sad.' Instead, I feel other emotions. And I realize many of those words are synonymous, but I identify different feelings with each of those descriptive words. I am not sure when I chose to not be sad, but I must have chosen it, because I haven't cried since I was a child. Even my parents can't recall a time that I was sad and cried after the age of 8 (broken wrist). For every second that I might waste feeling sad, I think that I am able to experience another moment of love, instead. I don't recommend this lifestyle to everyone, obviously, as it doesn't always turn out well for me. I do, however, think that optimism combined with a lack of valuation for sadness has really taken me far in my life and if you have the cajones to do you that way, then it should be a viable option. People will stress the importance of all the emotions in your life, etc. however I am confident when I say that you just need to make sure you feel SOMETHING. Numbness won't take you places, but ranking and ordering how you feel is taking life by the balls and riding it all the way home.
Sadness, suck it. Crying, suck it. Love, welcome home.
That's what I'm saying.
Seacrest out.
Speaking of my cold-heartedness, it has recently been a topic of interest to various people in my life that I don't cry. Ever. Before we all jump to the same logical (albeit incorrect) conclusions, I don't refuse to cry, it isn't a 'macho thing', and I would cry if I could. People have called me "dead inside" and "cold" but what I always find fascinating is how quickly my capacity to love is forgotten in a backlash of 'why aren't you more sad? (sic)' I defend myself, usually, by giving specific instances where I might have cried, given different circumstances. Here are a few of note:
---
When I saw "My Sister's Keeper" with my good friend Nicole, I could have cried for days. That movie is like somebody killed a thousand puppies with a kitten cannon for shits and giggles, then made you call EVERY pet owner and give them the bad news while they told you about their terminal cancer. I'm talking sad here, people. The problem? Everyone else in the theater. Imagine, if you will: Me, sitting in a theater full of sobbing women. Not crying. Not tearing up. Not softly sniffling. SOBBING. I was simply too uncomfortable to cry. Nicole, thankfully, understood, and we then went to see "The Proposal" immediately afterward to give us each a pick-me-up. Note, please, that given different circumstances, I would have cried.
When my father called me to tell me he had cancer, completely blindsiding me and wracking my world, as I knew it, I was too shocked to react at all. By the time I actually felt anything I had rationalized the scenario a thousand times in my head, and I went straight to recovery-mode, never stopping off at the sad station. (you're welcome for that analogy carrying on JUST too long) Note, had there been some sort of build-up or prior indication, I might have been better prepared to be sad, but as it turns out, there was no warning and shock seems to be a stronger emotion for me than sadness.
When I realized I was going to fail a class for the first (and last) time of my life, I could have cried. I called my parents, hoping for a light scolding followed by some good old-fashioned TLC from the parentals. Not so much. What I was confronted with was some epic guilt followed by a very pragmatic talk about what my options were from that point on and how I would recover from this tragedy, never considering how I was feeling at that moment. Note, had I simply dealt on my own, I probably would have cried it out like a child falling from a high-chair.
---
Those are just a few samples of stories I use to try and illustrate my unique inability to cry. This post, however, isn't really about me, so much as it is about an opinion. Here's my opinion, I think that I don't value sadness as an emotion enough to cry.
Still with me? Alright, good.
In a day, I feel any range of emotions: happiness, anger, frustration, hatred, bliss, joy, glee, depression, most of all, love. Rarely do I feel 'sad.' Instead, I feel other emotions. And I realize many of those words are synonymous, but I identify different feelings with each of those descriptive words. I am not sure when I chose to not be sad, but I must have chosen it, because I haven't cried since I was a child. Even my parents can't recall a time that I was sad and cried after the age of 8 (broken wrist). For every second that I might waste feeling sad, I think that I am able to experience another moment of love, instead. I don't recommend this lifestyle to everyone, obviously, as it doesn't always turn out well for me. I do, however, think that optimism combined with a lack of valuation for sadness has really taken me far in my life and if you have the cajones to do you that way, then it should be a viable option. People will stress the importance of all the emotions in your life, etc. however I am confident when I say that you just need to make sure you feel SOMETHING. Numbness won't take you places, but ranking and ordering how you feel is taking life by the balls and riding it all the way home.
Sadness, suck it. Crying, suck it. Love, welcome home.
That's what I'm saying.
Seacrest out.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
"I am very sensitive to people's energy, so I meet new people and get exhausted"
As is typical, I have forsaken the blog for a while. I recently read an article saying that blogging was considered "uncool" by the younger generation. To this I say: shut up little kids. Bitches.
Anyway, now that that is out of the way, it is time to proceed to the subject of my blog: Drag Queens.
You might as yourself, "What is he talking about Drag Queens for?" and you will have to read the remainder of the blog to find out. My last semester really flew by without much of a hitch. I got some grades, most of which were good and satisfying for me. I made the Dean's List and Honor Roll (because I'm pretty sweet). And I, generally, have been riding pretty high.
Until...
A few weeks ago, my dad called me to tell me about my grandpa getting his heart valve replaced. The replacement went very well, and my grandpa remains in pretty good health, all things considered, and he now the proud owner of a brand new heart valve. In this same call, my father let me know that he was having some medical problems of his own.
He drove himself to the hospital, (because my mom had to play tennis that morning...classic) thinking that he had appendicitis, complaining of side pain. When he arrived they did a physical exam then took and x-ray and found a lump growing in his chest. After a CT scan, a Dr. friend of ours gave him a tentative diagnosis of lung cancer. A needle biopsy confirmed the presence of cancer in his chest, and also on his liver (explaining the side pain). My father, being the intelligent man that he is, got a second opinion. My father and mother went to University of Michigan for said second opinion, and the lung cancer specialist there informed my father, without seeing the scans, that it is more likely that he had thymus cancer, a particularly rare form of cancer that is very rarely researched and has never been cured. Long story short: my father has Thymoma. It has already metastasized to his liver and he starts chemotherapy this coming week. Now for pros and cons.
Pros:
- My father is in very good shape for his age
- He will be able to take more chemo than most cancer patients
- He has a great Oncologist in Saginaw to administer his chemo
- He is under the care of the foremost expert on this type of obscure cancer
- He has beaten cancer twice before (Melanoma and Thyroid Cancer)
- He can fight this for a long time
- After each remission (of which I hope he has many) he will have 6 months to 2 years of remission before having to go under more chemotherapy
Cons:
- His cancer is potentially terminal (largely uncured)
- It is already Stage IV (the final stage)
- It might kill him one day
Neither:
- Life is officially different forever
From here on out, my dad will be a cancer patient. It is still very surreal to admit that fact. My emotions, understandably, have been all over the place for the past week or so but I have finally gotten my mind around this whole thing. Prayer prayer and more prayer is going to be my approach to this whole thing, and thus far, I've been able to hold it together well enough to keep on keeping on. What I am most thankful for is that, aside from my family business going south really quickly, the rest of my life is heading in a grand forward motion. I'm studying, I'm getting decent grades, I'm getting involved, and I'm setting realistic career goals for myself.
This whole experience has already begun to push me. I have a professor whose mother died while she was in law school and she became incredibly motivated to work hard and succeed, because she knew that with her mother sick and dying, there was always someplace (home) that she should be other than law school, so if she was going to be away from home, she had best make it worth her while. I am adopting this motivation technique, however, I am applying it to my whole life. I'm not just going to study more, I am going to live more. I'm putting myself out there. I'm working out. I'm eating healthier. I am becoming a better me.
Already I have become a better version of myself. A version that I like. A lot.
Now, at this point, after the bad news and emo self-reflection, I'm sure you are wondering how the hell is this post about Drag Queens?? Well, you see, in three weeks, my father's hair will be falling out. This, of course, will require some sort of hair replacement. My endeavor, this week, is to find my father the most fantastic Drag Queen wig that the world has ever seen. I am open to suggestions, but as it stands now, I am eagerly shopping online for drag wigs. It will be an epic gift and I will be sure to post pictures once they have become available.
I admit that my segue from illness to shemales is flimsy at best, but would you really have wanted to read the post if I had said the subject was "terminal cancer"? Yeah, me either. Hell, I didn't really want to write it.
Anyway, now that that is out of the way, it is time to proceed to the subject of my blog: Drag Queens.
You might as yourself, "What is he talking about Drag Queens for?" and you will have to read the remainder of the blog to find out. My last semester really flew by without much of a hitch. I got some grades, most of which were good and satisfying for me. I made the Dean's List and Honor Roll (because I'm pretty sweet). And I, generally, have been riding pretty high.
Until...
A few weeks ago, my dad called me to tell me about my grandpa getting his heart valve replaced. The replacement went very well, and my grandpa remains in pretty good health, all things considered, and he now the proud owner of a brand new heart valve. In this same call, my father let me know that he was having some medical problems of his own.
He drove himself to the hospital, (because my mom had to play tennis that morning...classic) thinking that he had appendicitis, complaining of side pain. When he arrived they did a physical exam then took and x-ray and found a lump growing in his chest. After a CT scan, a Dr. friend of ours gave him a tentative diagnosis of lung cancer. A needle biopsy confirmed the presence of cancer in his chest, and also on his liver (explaining the side pain). My father, being the intelligent man that he is, got a second opinion. My father and mother went to University of Michigan for said second opinion, and the lung cancer specialist there informed my father, without seeing the scans, that it is more likely that he had thymus cancer, a particularly rare form of cancer that is very rarely researched and has never been cured. Long story short: my father has Thymoma. It has already metastasized to his liver and he starts chemotherapy this coming week. Now for pros and cons.
Pros:
- My father is in very good shape for his age
- He will be able to take more chemo than most cancer patients
- He has a great Oncologist in Saginaw to administer his chemo
- He is under the care of the foremost expert on this type of obscure cancer
- He has beaten cancer twice before (Melanoma and Thyroid Cancer)
- He can fight this for a long time
- After each remission (of which I hope he has many) he will have 6 months to 2 years of remission before having to go under more chemotherapy
Cons:
- His cancer is potentially terminal (largely uncured)
- It is already Stage IV (the final stage)
- It might kill him one day
Neither:
- Life is officially different forever
From here on out, my dad will be a cancer patient. It is still very surreal to admit that fact. My emotions, understandably, have been all over the place for the past week or so but I have finally gotten my mind around this whole thing. Prayer prayer and more prayer is going to be my approach to this whole thing, and thus far, I've been able to hold it together well enough to keep on keeping on. What I am most thankful for is that, aside from my family business going south really quickly, the rest of my life is heading in a grand forward motion. I'm studying, I'm getting decent grades, I'm getting involved, and I'm setting realistic career goals for myself.
This whole experience has already begun to push me. I have a professor whose mother died while she was in law school and she became incredibly motivated to work hard and succeed, because she knew that with her mother sick and dying, there was always someplace (home) that she should be other than law school, so if she was going to be away from home, she had best make it worth her while. I am adopting this motivation technique, however, I am applying it to my whole life. I'm not just going to study more, I am going to live more. I'm putting myself out there. I'm working out. I'm eating healthier. I am becoming a better me.
Already I have become a better version of myself. A version that I like. A lot.
Now, at this point, after the bad news and emo self-reflection, I'm sure you are wondering how the hell is this post about Drag Queens?? Well, you see, in three weeks, my father's hair will be falling out. This, of course, will require some sort of hair replacement. My endeavor, this week, is to find my father the most fantastic Drag Queen wig that the world has ever seen. I am open to suggestions, but as it stands now, I am eagerly shopping online for drag wigs. It will be an epic gift and I will be sure to post pictures once they have become available.
I admit that my segue from illness to shemales is flimsy at best, but would you really have wanted to read the post if I had said the subject was "terminal cancer"? Yeah, me either. Hell, I didn't really want to write it.
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