Holy smokes, somebody needs to get better about updating their journal! (Don't you love it when authors speak in the third person?) Well as a result of my protracted period of silence, I'll warn you now: this update is going to be a long one. It's unavoidable, there is just too much that has happened and that I think is important enough for me to want to write about, and I'm not a big fan of abridged versions of stories. However, to answer the question of "why so long?", well, every day I say "I'm going to get to it today" or "I'll take a couple of notes, because this will be really good for my next essay" or I've just run out of hours in the day. I'm not saying that they have been productive hours, but I'm not a trained monkey, I can't just write because I think I have to. I have to think that I have something to say that is to at least some degree of importance. Mini-digression here: are these essays, chapters, entries, something else, or a mix of these types of prose? I've been wondering myself, and the three descriptors that I vacillate between, and sort of in the order of what I think is most accurate: essays, entries, chapters.
But back to the meat: I've been a bad boy about being consistent with my writing, and my punishment for that (for you and me) is that this is likely to be a long essay. There is just too much that has happened in the last three and a half weeks, and for me to skim over it would be doing myself a disservice. This writing project is, after all, primarily for me. Writers, like all artists, have a certain degree of vanity, and I think that this is necessary for the creative process to flourish. If you are creating, you are your first, most critical, most honest and most important audience. Anybody else that gets netted in the process (like you, dear reader) is just a bonus. If I create something that I don't think is up to par to what I'm capable of, I just won't let it get any more of an audience than just myself. I have noticed, at least in my case (and this is especially true with writing), the worst mistake that an artist can make is to be dishonest or untrue to one's self. Doing so always leaves me feeling unsatisfied enough that I'll hit the delete key on the whole thing, be it 100 words or 100,000 words. I think the artistic temperament can sometimes be misinterpreted as maudlin, and in some cases I'll consider that this might be true, but for the most part, when you see these grand dramatic gestures of the great master of whatever medium they work in going on a rampage and destroying what they see as inferior work on their part, they are being true to themselves and refusing to lower their standard of what they would consider to be worthy of being called great (or good) art.
Am I saying that this is great art? No, I think it probably sucks for the most part, but if the quality of the content becomes important enough to me, I'll go back over this at some point and start separating the wheat from the chaff. Right now, I am writing my history, and I'm doing it for a few specific reasons:
1) This is a very big, monumental and potentially life-changing point in my life. In my recent past it has felt like I've spent my time almost always ending up at the next fork in the road. I may have just chosen one direction only to turn the corner and reach another fork. This has basically gone on continuously since Ken died, but in the last few months it seems to have only gotten even more frequent, and every choice seems for the most part to be more monumental than the last choice that got me where I am. If and when I hit a point where I can coast for a bit, rather than feeling like I'm running emotionally on fumes, I want to be able to look back and reassess this time in my life with a new and hopefully fresher perspective. This would be nearly impossible without having this writing as a reference if and when I do go through that process. For me, and with cooking presently being my biggest obsessions so I'll use that for a metaphor, it will be like having a recipe to follow the first time that I cook or bake a new dish. So perhaps this is my "The Joy of Reflecting" book.
2) This is related to point one, but to me it is such a key part of my reasoning for why I'm approaching this writing in this manner, so it gets separate mention: my memory has really taken a sharp downturn in the last year or two. I have to think that mostly it is the all the serious illness, profound loss and life-altering change that I've dealt with, and as a result, all of the stress that this has inflicted on my psyche and my thinking process, it's really made my memory take a pretty bad hit. The other major side effect of all this stress is that it's left me scattered (worse than is usual for me), distracted, unable to concentrate or stay on task, and ultimately lethargic and sometimes apathetic. When you're knocked on your ass from the insults rendered by not only the disease but the treatment, and this is your lot more than half the time, one does, at some point, simultaneously sound a red alert and raise a white flag. In my case I've done this a lot, but thankfully I've been able to pull the flag back with regularity as well. I'm not asking for a pity party here, this just explains my compelling urge to document this period.
3) This again relates to what I've said so far, but I really think that this is a monumental point, a critical decision point, a quantum shift if you will, that will take me forward forward past this point and to the next major reference point. I have no idea where that will eventually place me (well, maybe a little, or at least I have an idea of where I hope this experience will lead me), but when I get there, I want to be able to look back and have a (mostly) honest and complete history of this period of my life. Even in the best of conditions this would probably be an impossible task without notes of some sort, but for me, it would definitely be impossible without this accounting of this period of my life. I believe that this will be a major reference point as I try to figure out where I got to, wherever and whenever that may be. I also have to say: I think this is not something that most people experience only once in their life. I know that for me, this is at least the third or maybe even the fourth time that I've hit one of these big junctures in my adult life. The difference this time is that I will actually have something that I'll be able to reference. When I look back at these past points in my life, there are definitely some significant memories, but often they are snippets, and I know that there is more that I've forgotten than I've remembered. Oftentimes, I have large gaps, sometimes months at a time, where I have only a few memories, and most of those are just fragmented and sometimes less than fully accurate memories.
4) Even though I know that I'm at least an acceptably talented writer, sometimes that is even a bit of a stretch. This is the deal: I know that I can be a lot better. I have always striven to be better at whatever endeavor I choose to take on. I can't accept mediocrity, to the contrary I spend my time on the relentless and futile pursuit of perfection. I know I can get better. I know that I can look at my work and critique it with direct and unfiltered honest criticism. I'm also blessed with a group of friends that are collectively a salon of literary talent, and I know that these friends will let me have it when I'm full of crap. Good friends can do that, at least with me, and without making me defensive or angry. I actually prefer it that way. I've never been a fan of politically correct and/or gentle criticism. I prefer my criticism to be upfront and honest. I don't even mind bluntness, as long as the purpose is not to be hurtful. So often the blunt approach to interpersonal communication is used to inflict hurt, and it usually just ends up reading to me as passive-aggressive behavior, which I find to be just as disingenuous as criticism that has all the honest feedback watered down in order to not appear that one is being hurtful. The problem with watering things down, or giving a spoonful of sugar with the nasty medicine if you will, is that so very often in the effort to spare one's feelings, feedback that has any real value gets lost in translation. Then there is the problem of lack of production. It doesn't matter how many good writers and critics that I can count as friends; writing that never leaves the brain and hits the page is impossible to critique. If I'm going to try to call myself a writer I need to actually produce.
So if you are still reading my writing, this is what you're going to get, and now at least, you hopefully know why you're getting it this way. With all that now said, it is time to move on and recap the almost month since I last posted. I'm not going to necessarily get you up to date chronologically, because that isn't how I think. If you know me, you know that my thought process usually is neither linear or chronological, I'm usually all over the place. Even if you only know me by my writing you have probably figured that out. You've seen my ability to digress, and I might add with notable frequency, and my tendency to warp timelines. That is just my thinking process, and it's served me well for almost 50 years, so I see no reason to change that. It's not done as a device, I'm not trying to be cutesy. It is just how my brain is wired. If it ain't broke, I ain't going to fix it. But enough with the explanations, apologies and justifications, let's get this party started.
So perhaps we should start with the title for this essay. Originally the title was just going to be "So Long it's Been Good to Know Ya", but as I thought it over, that could have come across in any number of unintended and unpleasant ways. At worst, it could have sounded like the start of a suicide note. Even now, almost three years out, it's still to soon to think about suicide in any manner that isn't 100% sensitive, reverent and respectful of its gravity. There is no humor in the subject, and I doubt that will ever be the case for the rest of my life. I've met people that have lost friends and/or family to suicide from 10-40 years earlier. They never joke about it. I'll hear the subject brought up in a joking manner on occasion. It's painful and depressing, but I bite my tongue. Usually these are people that have no idea of my history with suicide. Sometimes I can interject something educational into the discussion, but I never do the "bring down the room" game of making a production out of my pain. My pain is personal, I've always felt that way about it, and I don't process my pain, grief, hurt, upset or whatever you want to call it in a public forum. I'll barely talk about this stuff with more than one or two people in my life, and it's probably not the people that you would necessarily expect. I'm definitely my own flavor, and I do things in my own unique way. Love me or leave me, that is how I tick. Regardless, I wasn't comfortable with just that title. I knew what it meant, but it was just too open-ended, and it read a bit fatalistic to me, which is not where I am at.
Letting go has been a big lesson for me, really ever since losing Ken. Every time I think I've addressed the subject in every possible way, I get a fresh perspective. This last couple of weeks this is the new, and thus far the most interesting aspect of letting go that I've learned: letting go by definition equate to loss. What I've really learned and started to integrate into my approach in life is that more often than not, letting go is not a loss by any means, and is actually a gain. What I am letting go of has no value to me any more, so how can letting go of something that I come to understand is worthless be a loss? If I am losing nothing, then I am not losing, I'm gaining the ability to see what I have that has value. When I place importance on what has no value, then by definition I am saying that whatever opposes that which is perceived by me as valuable is valueless, even if, on further reflection and deepened understanding, I then realize that I put value in the wrong thing. I can't have it both ways. I can't have my cake and eat it too. This is where the rub is, and this is also where the decision-making process comes into play: if I'm able to see my situation with clarity, see that I made an error in a previous choice I made, and then correct the error, I have let go of something, I've not lost it. In the end, what I let go of was inconsequential, without value. What this means is that I have chosen to put value in what really matters.
In case you think I'm going to leave this lofty idea out to hang without giving an example, don't worry. This is going somewhere, but I just needed to set the stage before talking about what I just went through. I'm talking about still being in probate with Ken's estate. As of Monday, and barring any freak of nature backpedaling on the part of the other party (relatives of Ken's) that were disputing (contesting) Ken's will (in which he left me his entire estate), we have a reached a settlement, something that should have been accomplished much more easily (not saying this in a bemoaning manner, just an observation), but was on the verge of becoming rancorous and toxic. The deal was, though, this could only happen if I had allowed it, and to allow it meant that I had to think that it was possible that this could not be resolved in a civil manner, and also think that somebody had to lose in the process. In the end, this is how it transpired: it was accomplished through mediation and reaching an acceptable agreement for both parties, rather than having it decided by a judge's decree. I had no doubt I would have "won" if I chose to take it that far, but I also knew that I wouldn't have to, and I had to ask myself what I was really winning. Something is only possible if one believes it so; I believed that a positive resolution in this situation (for everybody) was not only possible, it was inevitable. What this accomplished in the end for me was:
1) It puts to rest a very unpleasant, unsettling and altogether foreign experience that has consumed a good portion of the last two to three years. I did my best along the way to starve the situation of emotion on my part, and to some degree I was successful. But still, there it sat: an open sore, a constant reminder of the loss of my life partner and the loss of a good and loving relationship with his family, one that I had come to call my own. It was the perfect representation of all that I had let go wrong in my life, and what the consequence of errant choices can be. It was emotional loss on the deepest level, and one that was in an infinite tape loop, replaying in my head every time I had to deal with the legal issues.
Now I'm not saying that this is even close to some of the estate disputes that I've witnessed or had shared with me, but it was my experience, and so that is all I can really reference accurately. To me, this was almost as bad as it could get. Now remember, legal precedent was firmly on my side (I have a good attorney, and he does his homework well), but this still didn't dull the pain of the experience, nor did it fix it. This is the perfect example of how being right doesn't equate to happiness. I knew I was right, and I had the law to tell me that I was right. Yet still, this is cold comfort and fully unsatisfying. This experience has finally sunk into my values system an outlook that would have served me well to have all along: I would rather be happy than be right. I'm not even talking about anybody else thinking I'm right, I'm talking about thinking to myself that I am right. If my certitude only leads me to suffer more then how does that help me? So by this test, placing the value in being right over the value of peace and happiness was a loss. Devaluing (letting go of) the need to be right has allowed me to experience happiness and peace again. By that gauge, I am richer for letting go, not poorer.
This has almost certainly colored my relationship with his family to the point that I don't see there ever being any degree of closeness again. Here again, however, letting go of the feeling of loss of the close family relationship I had with them now allows me to move forward with happiness and inner peace. This now gives me the ability, unfettered with the perceived hurts of the past, to move forward in life, with eyes open and looking forward, a heart that is at peace, and without feeling that I had to sacrifice something to move forward. I know now that the closeness I perceived was never really there. If it were, and if it had any real value, this is not where we would all be. Where I am now is at peace with letting go of an attachment that was illusory. I now understand that letting it go was not a loss, what I saw was never really there. It was a gain of personal, psychological, and emotional freedom.
There is one more thing I want to add here, and I'll drop this subject, at least for the moment: If his family is reading this (though I doubt that is likely), there are a few things I want them to know. First of all, I want them to know that I never felt any hatred toward any of them. Early on there was anger, but that was very short-lived. That anger was followed by a more lengthily period of feeling disappointment in them and the situation as a whole, but in the end I've come to understand this: even though I may never understand why this happened, in the grand scheme of things, it really is of little consequence. To give it consequence and importance is to give power to an error in perception. All that I wish for his family now is peace. I hope that they have the ability to move forward with their lives, and that they are able to do this believing that there was a positive outcome and real resolution. This was never done to hurt me, even if it felt that way at times. Everybody reacts to grief and loss differently, and I don't really have any place judging how somebody else works their process.
There is only one thing that still feels like a loss, even though I am fully optimistic that I can move past this, and that is the deep feeling of loss I have in a severed relationship with Ken's Mom. From almost the beginning, she was another mother to me. We bonded in what I felt was a very deep and meaningful way. More than anybody else in that family, I see letting go of the relationship as something that is a terrible loss for me, and I'm sure it is the same for her. You don't bond like we did without there being genuine love there. Unfortunately, however, that relationship is the innocent victim of an unfortunate turn of events, and it isn't something that can be undone. This is the one part of the whole situation where I don't yet see what I've gained by letting go of my relationship with his Mom, but I trust that in time I will understand. I never wished her ill. I never hated her, I never blamed her, and I was never angry or disappointed in her. She is the one other person who I believe has suffered Ken's loss at a depth and magnitude that is most closely similar to mine. I know where she is and has been, and I've taken a parallel, if not the exact same road. Though I will never have the closeness to her that was there before, I will say this will all sincerity and honesty: I wish her nothing less than a deep and abiding inner peace. I hope that she does not see this as the beginning of the end of her life, but is able to forge some kind of new life out of this, and have some genuine peace and happiness in her remaining time in this life. She deserves it, and I pray that she finds it. As I said, I know that I'll be able to move past the pain of the loss of this relationship, but it may take time. What is comforting, however, is knowing that I will find resolve, and when I do, hopefully I'll be able to see that I never really lost here, I may have just had to let go of something that I thought was there, but never really was what I thought it was. Again, letting go of something that didn't ever really exist will allow me to value what actually is real in my life and my relationships.
The support of my friends has been phenomenal, incredible, unbelievable, stunning, heartwarming and 100 genuine and from the heart. I don't think I could even wax hyperbolic on this when I say how overwhelming and heartwarming it has been. It's an old cliche, but like most old cliches, it really is true. Walking with a friend through an experience such as this really does separate out those who are weak of heart. Ken actually had a great little Ken-ism that still makes me laugh and perfectly describes the kind of friends I've been blessed with: "People are like teabags, you never know how strong they are until you put them in hot water". Ken possessed that kind of strength, and for it he garnered much admiration. What it also did was attract like souls into his life (our lives for that matter). You really do find out who your friends are. I am so thankful that among all my friends that predated Ken's death, save for one individual, I have maintained the kind of loving and supportive relationships that honestly, I had taken for granted at times. I've certainly not been able to nurture my frienships like Ken could. Number one, I just don't have his charisma and social skills, and two, I don't have his energy.
Speaking of energy, life in Interferon Land is plugging along. There are two main side effects that I've had to become accustomed to in the last month. The first one is in many ways the easiest, though in it's own way it is challenging, since it plays into my vanity/pride: my hair is falling out. I was warned that this is not uncommon, but still I've been praying that I would dodge this bullet. Ironically, I have spent the last three years growing my hair out. I started in October, 2006 with a military-friendly hair length. Now, I am enjoying a head of hair that goes four inches or so past my shoulders. Luckily, I have (had) very profuse (fine but profuse) hair, so at least for now, it is not obvious. The caveat, however, is that I just entered Week 17 of 56 for this therapy. That is a lot of more hair that is potentially going to fall out. The good thing is that the hair loss is well distributed instead of being patchy, but 39 weeks could see a pretty profound hair loss. Now I'm not obsessed with my hair, but I do like my long hair quite a bit. Possibly having to cut it will be very sad, but I am a realist. Keeping a head of thin stringy long hair is going to look pretty atrocious, so if it gets to the point where it looks bad, I'll have to cut it. It will most likely all grow back; that is usually the case, but if I do have to cut it and then choose to go long again, I'll be looking at another two to three years of funky-looking, in between length hair, so who knows if I will have the patience to grow it out again. I'll cross that bridge if and when I have to.
Now the other new side effect is one that is far more problematic, both for me and for those around me: Interferon has blessed me with a new, unpleasant and foul temperament. I talked about it in the last essay, and it is still an issue. As I learn more from the experiences of those who have traveled this road before me, the unpredictable, short fused, foul tempered countenance seems to be the most common and most difficult to handle psychiatric adverse reaction to the Interferon, more than the depression and more than the apathy and lethargy. It is disconcerting to say the least. Not only does it seem to frequently just pop up out of nowhere; often it is an angry foul-tempered reaction that is grossly out of proportion to the situation at hand, in addition to being mean-spirited, personal attacks and nearly uncontrollable. Often, the most seemingly innocuous communications can turn into a full-blown War of the Roses. I've really tried to prepare those close to me to handle this when it pops up. Fortunately (and also unfortunately), the ones that seem to bear the brunt of it are those closest to me. Weirdly, I've been able to moderate (semi-successfully, I might add) these outbursts with strangers and casual acquaintances. I don't even road rage anymore (actually, that sort of went away on its own a year or so ago), or get impatient when I'm out in public and people are behaving inconsiderately. I just shrug it off. Unfortunately, anything that is pent up gets slung at Brian, my friends, the dogs, my family, etc., and the best that I've been able to manage to do is to warn the humans, do my best to assure them that it's the drugs talking and to then try to keep myself out of social situations as much as I can without turning into a hermit. With the dogs and the cat, the best that I've been able to manage to do is to try my level best to choke the anger back down, and when I fail, forgive myself and then dose out as much extra love as I can. In dealing with this, solitude has most certainly been my friend.
For the better part of my adult life I had been uncomfortable with solitude. I have always liked my alone time, but it used to be that a little went a long way for me. If I needed to be alone to figure things out, that might mean an hour or at most a day or two. Save for a few weeks here and there, and up until Ken died, I had always lived with people. Roommates, partners, boyfriends, family: there was always another person living in my home. I never had ever given it a thought in all that time that maybe I should try living on my own. When it was forced on me almost three years ago, I thought to myself "well, I may not have another lover, but I'm sure I'll eventually have a roommate, a partner, some kind of cohabitant".
It's now been almost three years that I have lived life as a solitary man. I never knew that I would love it as much as I did. I really finally did feel, and strangely not until I hit my late forties, that I do like living alone. For that matter, I'll have to be fully honest and fess up to admitting that I love living alone.
I am at best eccentric. Many would probably describe me as just plain old downright odd. I would have a hard time honestly arguing differently. I have odd habits: I sleep at odd hours. Even when I'm able to get quality sleep I don't sleep and wake on a schedule that is by any stretch of the imagination normal, thanks in no small part to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, which completely whacks out your body clock. I like to run around the house naked, sometimes all day if I feel like it, and I don't find that the least bit odd. Most roommates would beg to differ on the normalcy of that. I like to eat when I'm hungry, and stop when I'm full. I rarely eat on a regular schedule, and more often than not, I don't eat traditional foods at traditional meals. I love sweets; I have an absolutely insatiable hunger for sugar. But I do not like aweet foods in my first meal of the day. My typical breakfast meal will read something like this: spaghetti with anchovies, garlic and olive oil, maybe with a little shrimp or some peas and capers. Or perhaps spaghetti carbonara with greens tossed in a vinegarette. I will eat traditional breakfast foods, but that doesn't mean that I will necessarily eat them at the traditional breakfast hour. The only time that you can bet that I will eat breakfast food in the morning and actually win that bet is to take me out to breakfast, but if you want to hedge your bet, you should probably make sure that their menu is breakfast-only.
I sing out loud and I have conversations with myself. You know those ones that you have with yourself in your head? If I am alone, it's not unusual to find me having that conversation out loud. I like to set my own schedule. It's not like I don't love doing things with my boyfriend and my friends, but if I don't have plenty of me time where I am not expected to justify my choices, or feel guilty about doing what I want to do by myself, then I become a very unhappy camper. I like being able to stomp around the house if I want, play music or television at whatever volume I want as well and choosing the content. I don't enjoy having to always take into consideration the peace and quiet of a cohabitant. I also don't like having a cohabitant disturb my peace and quiet when I choose to have my quiet time, which is the majority of the time. If you come to my home unannounced, don't be surprised to find it completely quiet; no music, no TV, only the sounds of nature through an open window. And I'll often be found reading or meditating.
I am not uncomfortable going to a restaurant and dining alone. I love to read while I eat. For one thing, it slows me down enough to allow my stomach can tell my brain that I am full, and I'll spare myself the discomfort of gorging. I also can eat when I want to eat, and not when everybody else is ready to eat. I don't mind going to movies alone. In the last week and a half I've gone to five or six baseball games alone, and I've had a jolly time. For one thing, I like not having to explain the game to somebody that isn't really into sports anyway, and I don't have to justify my love of sports. If I want to watch a game every day, and also watch Sports Center on ESPN and Real Sports on HBO, my frequent choices in television viewing, which are very different from those of most of my friends, the choice does not require justification. I could continue with a litany of other examples, but I think you get the idea.
I am a huge fan of NPR. Within NPR's programming there are a few shows that I will listen to every opportunity I get: Morning Edition, Weekend Edition, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, Prairie Home Companion, All Things Considered and Le Show. There is one more show, however, and it is absolutely my favorite radio show. That show would be This American Life, with Ira Glass. The usual structure of the show (though he will occasionally stray from it) is that Ira chooses a somewhat broad subject and he will then take three or four vignettes (segments; sort of like 60 minutes, except that with TAL all the stories are on the same theme) that will then expand and expound on that theme. Some examples of these broad themes for a show (and it is one hour long, with no commercials
have been forgiveness, summer camp, intolerance, reconciliation, reunion, switched at birth, classified ads, or starting from scratch. I've heard all of the ones that I mentioned, but about a month ago, during Ira's vacation, they replayed a broadcast from about a year ago, and I had not heard this show before. The title of the show was "Home Alone".
Act 1 was by far my favorite segment, but I'll talk about that one last. Act 2 was about a boy growing up in the streets of New York with his homeless mother. When he was twelve years old, his mother was finally able to get the two of them into public housing. Then, at the age of 15, his mother collapsed one day while they were watching television. He called 911 and then went and hid in the closet until the paramedics left, because he knew that Child Protective Services would take him away if they found him. He then proceeded to live in the apartment alone, with no money and almost no food, until his mother came home: five months later.
Act 3 was about a young woman named Jennifer, who, along with her brother and mother, was held hostage by an armed gunman for four days. Her father was a drug dealer who was involved in a deal gone bad (him stealing money and drugs from another gang). The gunman had been sent to hold the family hostage until the father would return the drugs or money that he had stolen. What the gunman (and his gang) didn't expect was to find out tough Jennifer’s mom was; frightening enough, actually, that she almost was able to intimidate the guy into leaving. The icing on the cake though: her mother was so composed, Jennifer and her brother never even knew they were being held hostage.
Then back to Act 1, and this was the story that really caught my ear, because it really rang true to me and my newly found enjoyment of living alone. This story was about a woman named Mary Ann, an elderly woman from Los Angeles who it would come to be found had lived the vast majority of her adult life alone. She wasn't married (widowed in her 20's when her husband died in WW2), had no children, and according to the neighbors, was very quiet but a good neighbor, and no other person was ever seen with her or at her home. When she became sick and went to the hospital, after being discharged, her entire support system was comprised of a woman named Sue. Sue worked in a pharmacy in Mary Ann's neighborhood, and when Mary Ann became unable to get out of the house to get her prescriptions at the store, Sue would deliver them to her house. When Mary Ann became very ill at one point, she was hospitalized. After an extended hospital stay, Mary Ann died, and this presented a problem for the county. There was a body to be buried, a house full of Mary Ann's belongings to deal with—but no family or friends to deal with it all. Luckily, there was Emily, an investigator for the Los Angeles Public Administrator’s Office. It’s her job to take care of the remnants of lives like Mary Ann’s. Emily spoke of many cases like these that she had to sleuth where someone who had lived alone for years or decades died, and there was no immediate family, or even friends for that matter, to be found. She would go into these homes and then have to retrace decades of living on the edge of society by often sifting though houses full of documents and memoriblia that had been accumulated, pack rat style, over many years.
This story really struck me: initially because it seemed so sad, but then, I realized that I completely sympathized with people like Mary Ann who, by choice, lived in solitude, and who, upon their passing, became nothing more than a name and file number in a detective's case to solve so that an estate could be dealt with. As I reflected on my feelings about the subject on a much deeper level (and having driven 300 miles that day, I had a lot of time to reflect after listening to the show), I really found that I could put myself in the shoes of a Mary Ann with little difficulty. I am by nature extremely private. I don't like to talk about my personal life. I don't like to be out in crowds and even in public that much. I don't mind extended periods of solitude. Now I'm not saying that I would ever take my appreciation for solitude to the degree of isolation that Mary Ann did, but I also don't see that as being out of the realm of possibility.
Then, on an even deeper level, this story opened my thinking in a whole other way about living like Mary Ann did. When most people hear about stories like this, the initial reaction tends to be some variation of "how sad". I will admit that is what had usually been my response to such a story. But as I drove home that day, I really reflected on my last 2-3 years of living alone. I realized that if I live the rest of my life alone, I'll likely do it quite willingly and happily. Even if my social circle closes in as I age, which usually happens, I don't think that it is likely that this will be a lonely experience for me. What living alone will always guarantee for me is my privacy, and make it a lot easier to get the amount of privacy that I prefer. The other thing that I've had to consider is a thought that I have had for quite awhile, and one that has been confirmed in my conversations with people that have lived alone for extended periods of time. They almost universally tell me that as the have gotten older, they have become more set in their ways, and less willing to compromise in the interest of having live-in companionship. I've heard this sentiment shared with me over and over, and though the words may not be exactly the same, the theme is very consistent
I've typed myself up to 3:30 am, far later that I wanted to go. I am probably not finished with the essay, but I am finished for now. I'm going to put it out unfinished, primarily because this is the only way a number of you are keeping updated wiht my. My apologies for its incompleteness and or its spelling syntactical or grammatical errors.For now, just know that I'm still here, for better or worse, and as for which one of those it is: well, that is subject to change at any moment and at whim. I love you all and I'll be back here soon.
Doggydad's Life Now: The Viral Monologues by Parry Tallmadge is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at doggydad.blogspot.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.runnymedesilkys.com.
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