What I haven’t yet said about this depression cycle is that I’d been hanging out with a nice guy since the fall and that came to an end. We were never officially dating and he made it clear he just wanted “to be friends,” but there was so much comfort and regularity to our hanging out that it swept me into fantasyland. While I was building a future in my mind, he continued communicating that he was “just my friend.” And I simply couldn’t hear it. I was in my own world.

And now he’s back with his ex. And I’m with 30 years of emotions bubbling up at a pace I’m struggling to handle.

I feel so naive. I’m 36 and I dated one guy for two years—that’s the totality of my committed experience. I fear I have the emotional-romantic skillset of someone two-fifths my age. It frustrates me that I experienced an identical pattern with another guy just a few years back and I repeated it again. I feel like a toddler learning to walk. It’s so embarrassing.

The good news is that this time around I’ve realized so much. All this deep dark shit has been coming up and a lot has actually been passing through. It’s amazing what I’ve learned through my time with this man. I feel so much gratitude for these lessons, and it’s also incredibly painful to pass through this territory. I’ve been on a rollercoaster with a six hour loop the goes to the highs and to the lows. Up-down, all day, every day. I feel crazy.

In recent posts I’ve lied through omission. When I grieved for my grandmother the other day, I realized that her death left me feeling a gigantic loss of love—a black hole in my gut—that remained unobserved ‘til just a couple weeks ago. Interestingly, I’d been unconsciously attempting to plug that hole with romantic love. That familial and romantic love crosses wires was a fascinating epiphany to make.

When I wrote that I’ve used “straight acting” gay men to “feel straight,” I meant that I used this guy to feel that way. As a child in this society I learned that “straight” was “good” and “gay” was “bad.” And Catholicism taught me that “bad” was “sinful” and sins meant hellfire forever. Certainly I wasn’t bad. I was just 7. And yet I’ve poured endless life-energy into being a “good boy.” The bizarre twist of mind, which only an ego can pull off, was how I felt like a “good boy” when hanging out with “straight acting” gay men. I could see a “good” reflection that brought me comfort. For a few minutes I could take a break from that mental programming, which, minute by minute, has been sapping my energy since childhood.

Every belief we hold is a concept, and every concept we hold in our mind is like an open program left running in the background of your smart phone or computer. The processing power of the brain is being horribly taxed by this. In my subconscious mind “straight is good” has been running and running and sapping my strength since forever. I’m left in a perpetually exhausted state.

Our brains hold so many concepts, and therefore have so many programs running in the background. I imagine there are thousands running at all times. As I understand it, a realization, an epiphany, a deep cry and release, results when a concept is dropped and a program goes offline. It frees up energy for us.

The largest, most complex bundle of concepts in my mind, the permanent feature, the key aspect of Walterness, is this endless attempt at perfectionism—an attempt to be “good” at all times. I realized last week that when I’m in bed and a man is holding me, the entire perfectionism unit turns off for a short while. It is an immense release from eternal struggle. Suddenly my whole system is flooded with energy that is no longer being wastefully sapped. Yet later, when I’m alone again, Perfectionism goes back online. What results is that my mind becomes addicted to the person I’m with. I pine for them. I crave my next fix. I’m a total addict. And quite simply, I use them.

And they either stay and resent me or they run away.

The other day when I was walking through the field and unburdening my soul, I watched as a couple dozen robins hopped and hunted in an expanse of last year’s dead grass surrounding me. I noticed that when I stood still they’d hop around me and even approach me. I could watch them and experience them closely. There was harmonious acceptance between us. And yet the moment I walked toward them they’d immediately fly away. What I learned is that I can become more like a birdwatcher, a person with healthy boundaries, a person that allows others to feel seen and respected.

I also learned that it would do me well to stop moving towards people with an insatiable hunger for closeness and affection. Because people fly away too.

I’m fairly open about my emotions on Facebook in large part due to the feedback I get from people, whether it’s comments or private messages. It seems clear that many friends enjoy those posts. In the last few weeks I’ve written on sadness and winter blues because it’s been my experience lately, and if I’m to be with integrity it seems I ought to share the whole spectrum of emotion. I appreciate the check-ins from friends and supportive conversations.

This morning it seems I may have processed the bulk of what’s been weighing me down these last few week. Due to its scale and intensity, I’ve called the heaviness lodged in my chest “Cosmic Sadness.” It seemed so big, so unchanging, and so permanent.

And then I watched this wonderful performance this morning, and listened to the lyrics with my eyes closed, and found myself suddenly, unexpectedly, and intensely grieving my grandmother’s 1992 passing. Who knew? Perhaps such deep unprocessed grief requires the hardship that six months of winter can provide in order to reveal itself.

It is so interesting what hides in the shadows of our unprocessed emotions. May it all free itself.

Thank you to winter for your lessons.

Thank you to Gram for Love.

https://youtu.be/HNug41DLAHw

I was very young and I remember being at the zoo with my mom and my dad, my cousin and her parents. I watched as my uncle picked my cousin Vanessa up, way up, and placed her on his shoulders. She was up so high! And she waved her arms and she screamed with joy!

It looked amazing! I could barely believe my good fortune in learning that dads came equipped with this feature; I had no idea! I had never seen it before.

I can’t remember what happened next. I’m not sure if I asked to be picked up or simply hoped I would be. I do remember that my mom told my dad that he should pick me up too. He gave her a look and it scared me. With reluctance, he picked me up and placed me on his shoulders. I imagined my father was angry and I sat on his shoulders with the joy and comfort of a limp handshake.

It wasn’t fun at all.

I looked over at Vanessa and she waved her hands in the air and laughed. And I did that too, because it appeared that’s what one did when one rode on shoulders. But I didn’t feel that way on the inside. I felt uncomfortable sitting on my dad. I acted like I was having more fun than I was.

A few days ago, I sat on the toilet watching an American Idol clip for a few minutes before I had to leave for work. A young gay man was about to sing. He shared a story of leaving his small town and heading off to the city. And then he began to sing and it was beautiful. I noticed I was having an emotional response—something stirred inside—and I decided to close my eyes, listen to the music closely, and observe my internal workings.

And the young man sang, “If you dare, come a little closer,” and my mind’s eye showed me how I distance myself emotionally from men. And the young man sang, “Around and around and around and around we go,” and before he finished singing the line, something deep and primal and made of stone broke off inside me and freed itself. The body had exorcised another demon. And I sat there on the toilet and cried very deeply.

It appears that on that day at the zoo, as I sat on my father’s shoulders feeling unloved, that I must have begun the construction of a wall inside; a wall that separated my father from me. I must have walled off a lot, because as the gay man sang “around and around,” my mind’s eye showed me another image, long forgotten, from that same day at the zoo. I was riding a horse on the carousel. And as we went around and around, my father stood behind me and his hand rested lightly on the small of my back. He was protecting me and keeping me from falling. And for the first time in my life, as I sat on the toilet before work and watched that video, I felt the warmth and the love from that touch.

And, with the subtlety of lightening and thunder, that love, which I had long ago walled off, returned home.

(This is a photo of Vanessa and me from that day.)

I spent 5 hours in board meetings this morning which I very honestly enjoyed and it’s late afternoon and I’m about to head home.

In the office, it’s just me, the archivist, and our museum’s most loyal volunteer who remain. Suddenly two women and two 10-year-old girls drive into the yard. Shit! This date had been set up 3-4 weeks ago, and we had all forgotten about it. These girls were working on a “school history project” to learn about Alexander Lucius Twilight, our museum’s specialty. And they had just driven an hour and a half to get here.

I beg our most loyal volunteer to stay and tell them about Twilight, which she agrees to do. We sit them all along a long bench and the volunteer begins her Twilight speech, which she knows like the back of her hand.

The women ask extremely particular questions and I wonder if they know more about Twilight than I know. It soon comes to light they’re working on a project for the NATIONAL HISTORY FAIR! This is no casual “school” report! They’re working at a collegiate level; they want primary sources; they want inside our archive! We are completely unprepared.

I panic. As the new director and I learn the ropes we have been hurdling over a lot of disorder. I hate failing.

My mind is spinning and struggling to figure out who fucked up; was it me?! Can I blame someone else? Where did the communication breakdown occur? This is bad! I shuffle everyone over to the suddenly disgruntled archivist. She is mentally unprepared for the sudden visit and makes no attempt to hide her annoyance. The women seem confused by her unhelpfulness and attitude; the volunteer and the girls become quieter. I feel embarrassed and angry. And like an awkward elevator ride, we all stand crowded inside the archival vault. The atmosphere is tense. The archivist produces nothing of value for their project.

I’m irritated. I’m trying to save face and make our organization look competent. I attempt to break the weirdness. I smile a lot and crack jokes. Are they happy yet? I make more humor. Is it working? I have an idea to offer a consolation prize of showing them inside the dark and cold museum that’s closed for the season. As we head out into the snow, I can hear the archivist still grumbling behind.

The door to the museum has 3 inches of ice blocking it and it’s not opening. A board member happens to drive down the road and within minutes begins banging at the ice with a metal shovel.

And while we might be in the middle of nowhere, somehow an Uggs-wearing Canadian woman comes walking down the dirt road, looking fully out of place. She pounces on us and talks at record speeds. Chaos reigns. The board member chisels, the girls are bored, the Canadian is crazy, I’m freaking out, and the women are annoyed because they “arranged this visit a long time ago!” It’s 3:50, I have an appointment at 4:00, I’m plotting my escape, and the Canadian woman tells us about her house on Lake Massawippi, her broken leg, her aneurysm, the hole in her heart, the man who cheated on her, and everything she knows about the Amish.

At this point my ego is schizophrenic. I fail to take control. I want people to think highly of me, to think I’m competent and good, I’m pissed at the archivist, I feel bad for the girls, I feel embarrassed in front of the women, I worry about what the board member thinks of me, and I feel absolutely baffled by the chatterbox from Canada. And the door STILL won’t open.

I offer the last thing I can think of; I bring them to Twilight’s grave.

Except for one of us, we walk silently, dejected. The Canadian’s oblivious joy overcompensates for us all. She’s the one in control here. She tells us about her recent operations and the metal plates and stitches in her leg. As the story turns to her new infection it’s all just too crazy to keep resisting. At last, I submit, and a genuine smile breaks across my face.

Heavens, I had such a good cry tonight. I was listening to a podcast, and one person said to another, “You are BRAVE!” And those words hit me like a ton of bricks. I had never considered that for myself before. I have always identified as scared and weak, and so afraid. My high school years were dreadful and I lived in fear of everything. I was afraid of walking down hallways, and entering bathrooms, and going into the library, of walking through the “girly” home ec classroom to get to my French class. I felt limp. The kids relentlessly called me Pansy and Flower and those names stung me so deeply. I hated everything. And I never once considered that I was brave. I think until tonight, when I heard those words, and I closed my eyes, and examples of my fearlessness kept coming and coming and coming. And I cried so deeply. So much came up from the depths and passed away.

I am very brave.

(And don’t be surprised when I finally get a pansy tattoo!)

Say you’re walking alone at night and it’s dark and you see a man coming from the other direction. Maybe you get scared and turn around and head the other way, right? It might seem like the smart thing to do. 

At the time, you clearly see the man walking in your direction and it seems like you’re turning around in order to avoid this particular person. Simultaneously, there are unseen images of the past cycling through the subconscious mind. 

While I’m looking down the street and seeing the man in real time, my subconscious mind might be seeing a traumatic past event I survived. Perhaps my subconscious mind is seeing images from the local news about someone being raped and killed. Maybe my subconscious mind is remembering a time a parent or teacher told me to run away from strangers. Maybe my subconscious mind is remembering an old newspaper article about a strange man in the area. All of this could be going on in the darkness of my mind and I’m not conscious to it!

So I turn away from the man and walk in the other direction. It seems to me that I’ve reacted to the man before me. It is truer that I’ve reacted to the images of the past that are passing through me subconsciously. 

Though it is quite possible the man walking down the street is harmless, the man in my mind is definitely not harmless. The images in my imagination are what’s responsible for the change in my behavior.

With meditation, one can become more in touch with the images that pass through our minds; the images that guide our behavior. When the eyes are open, the images we see are so loud that our subconscious images are overlooked. With eyes closed and in stillness, we can become more aware of the fainter images passing through our minds. In time, the capacity to see these images grows stronger. 

Back in March, I was working on my fears around “middle America.” One question I really love to use while meditating is, “when you think the thought [I’m afraid of middle America], what images do you see of the past or future?” 

Immediately I saw images of Matthew Shepard in my mind and I began crying. There he was, tied up to the fence, in the cold, and dying alone. The image in my mind was so vivid it’s as if I saw it in person. That image lives in me and I overlay that on top of “middle America.”

And when I think about “middle America,” and “red states” and “Republicans,” I’m not even aware that this scary image is informing my behavior. With this sort of violence frozen in my subconscious mind, what Republican can stand a chance with me? I put this on all of them. 

Another example: Since I was very young I’ve bitten my nails. I’ve tried to quit for almost 20 years. Often times I’ll have success for weeks at a time and then I’ll relapse. I’ve noticed for years that I often relapse on busses, on flights, and while driving. Just today I realized why! 

When I was in elementary school, a previous classmate of mine died in a car crash. It was in the wintertime, and her family’s car went off the road and into a river where she drowned. Today I realized that I had an image of her dying in the car in my mind, and that this image runs in the background whenever I’m traveling in a vehicle. That image is frightening–and I’d be crazy not to bite my nails when that’s what’s running in my subconscious mind. 

For now, I’ve moved one more thing from the “darkness” of my mind “into the light.” 

How many thousands are there left in the dark? 

What ghosts guide my hand?

This past week I led three different groups of people on meditative walks. The first two groups were “well behaved,” but the last had a group of trouble-makers. The walk is meant to be slow and meditative and I meandered and took many corners. A group of six seemingly hurried people walked past me and it was very stressful for me. How could I guide my flock if they were ahead of me? I walked with so much agitation and annoyance. My mind was stuck in, “What is WRONG with these people!”

A couple hours later we were guided to fill out a worksheet on a stressful situation when we felt ashamed of ourselves. With no hesitation, a memory arrived of a day when I was walking on a super crowded sidewalk in China. I was so irritated and stressed out by the crowdedness and lack of breathing room. And at the peak of my stress a person in the crowd behind me grabbed my arm and without any thought I spun around in extreme rage. I raised my hands as if to strike! When I saw that it was an old lady–a now very frightened old lady– I felt so disgusted with myself. I’ve thought often of this moment since, and haven’t been able to forgive myself.  

As I worked through the worksheet I realized that two stressful beliefs gave rise to my reaction. The first was an uncomfortable and racist belief, “What is WRONG with these people!” (meaning the Chinese people and what I understood as “their” lack of personal space.) With that thought, I saw that my stressful morning walk stirred this memory up when it came time to write our worksheets. The second belief underlying my behavior was this idea that the woman had inappropriately disrespected my personal “bubble.”

I remembered being very young and in school. Our teacher was telling us that every person “had a bubble.” The bubble was about a foot outside of us and we were never ever to “pop” a person’s bubble without their permission. We were always to respect every person’s bubble. To pop a person’s bubble was wrong. 

And I realized that I had *literally* believed my teacher. And in the moment I believed her words, my subconscious mind created a bubble just outside of myself. And from that moment on I’d been living, very much literally, inside my own bubble.

And when the lady in China grabbed me, she burst my bubble at a moment of extreme stress. And I lost my mind and reacted in rage.

My partner and I were sitting outside in a gazebo when we worked this worksheet. The weather was so beautiful and the sky was bright blue with puffy white clouds. I had my eyes closed as she facilitated me through all of these memories. I was seeing the images in my mind very vividly. When I experienced the realization about the “bubble” memory, the concept of “my bubble” popped in my mind. And my bubble friend, who protected me all these years, dissolved. I had graduated my need for it; it’s job was done. 

And for the first time in 30 years I saw the world outside my bubble clearly. In the exact moment my bubble popped, I felt the breeze brush the hair on my arm. My defense system had been breached!

I don’t say this metaphorically– It seems I lived in a bubble for 30 years. When I opened my eyes my world shifted. Everything seemed larger, clearer, and more alive. I was so acutely aware of everything going on in the distance. The wind danced the branches of the trees across the park and it’s as if I saw that for the first time. The woman sitting before me was so beautiful and alive and present. Her smile was so warm. My body was so relaxed. My mind was so calm. I saw the world anew; a rebirth. 

Later that day I had a post-bubble realization regarding anger. I saw that my subconscious belief that I lived in a bubble allowed me to disregard people’s reactions to my anger. Since my mind saw that all my anger took place in *my* bubble, I saw that it was mine, and that no one had a right to criticize me for my anger or even react to it. In my mind, my anger was wholly within my territory. It’s almost as if I believed people couldn’t see it. And when my bubble popped, I could see so clearly that my anger had been in the larger world all along and impacting my friends and family. 

I see that clearly now. I want to apologize to all of you who I may have hurt with my anger. I can see that my anger has real world consequences and impacts people and impacts you. If you would like to remind me of a situation when I disrespected you, I welcome it. I am very open to listening and making it right. Please reach out to me.

I could write several posts about the last 9 days at the Byron Katie seminar. For now, I’ll just say that I’ve been practicing listening today and really taking in and feeling what folks say to me. Since it was a day of goodbyes a lot of people came up to me and said things. Nearly everyone said something that was the *opposite* of what I had been believing all week. It’s been amazing to drop my defenses and simply hear them. 

I had been a “mic runner” all week running around the room of 300 people and delivering the microphone. I worried I was clumsy/slow/in the way/inefficient. A person came up to me and said, “Thanks for mic running all week. You were so graceful!” 
I was a walk leader every morning, and led groups of about 100 people on a 30 minute walk. I felt so anxious every time. I felt I was going too fast or too slow. I feared people were judging me. I feared the path I chose wasn’t friendly enough for less agile folks. Three people came up to me and thanked me for being a walk leader and said they loved my walk. One person was an old lady who didn’t speak English and she mimed it to me!
As a mic runner I was very visible to everyone. I’ve been unkind to myself lately about my hair and ragged traveling clothes and my body. A random guy came up to me today and said simply, “Hey man, just wanted to say I really like your style and your clothes and I thought all week, ‘That looks like one cool dude!'” 😂
That’s just some of the things I allowed myself to hear today and consider. It’s been a heartwarming practice. ❤️
(And it works just as well when the comments are negative and I’m still working on that. 😅)

If I had a religion, it might be a simple call to remind oneself that humans are apes, and to do this all the day long. Forget a call to prayer five times a day, this religion demands we never exceed an hour without remembering that humans are apes. 
I look out at the world before me, and see that the apes have organized sound into communication, fashioned solid homes out of Earth, made clothes out of plants, and have mined Earth for petroleum, plasticized it, and woven it into chairs to sit on for rest. 
The apes are magicians. 
And which ape plasticizes its own petroleum into a chair for its own rest? None. The apes rarely do anything for themselves. The apes make eyeglasses in order to see the World more clearly. But how many apes craft their own eyeglasses? None. For which ape can craft its own frame, and glass, and science, to pull off this task? Not one among them has this power. 
The apes have a sense of community and harmony to make the ants blush.