I’ve written about growing older before, but I held back in the past; not this time.
The most awful thing about being a man and being past 50, is prostate problems. I’m not comparing it to menopause or any other female aging realities, so please don’t throw stones. I understand that prostate issues are extremely common for men over a certain age, leading me to believe that many of you will relate to this. The urge to pee many times day or night; the feeling that you haven’t evacuated completely, the fear of prostate cancer, the taking of meds to get any sort of relief, and the trickling of urine in six directions when you urinate — all horrible and unpleasant. Sleep, when your bladder is waking you, adds complications to an already elusive reality. I’m convinced a scientist or doctor somewhere has found a cure for prostate enlargement and cancer, but big pharma is keeping it from old dudes like me — it’s an industry worth billions; therefore a solution isn’t happening anytime soon.
The next worst thing is the aches and pain everywhere. Yes, yes, yes, I’d still rather be alive than dead, but that’s not my topic this week. The joints hurt, the back aches, the tendons are tight, the knees click, the hernia causes soreness, the ears itch, the blood in the legs doesn’t circulate, and looking in the mirror at that big bald head hurts your ego. And again, there is little you can do about it.
One day, can’t say which day; it may have been 200 days in a row that all meld into one. You look in the mirror and realize that the only part of your body not sagging is your pinky finger on your right hand. There is excess skin everywhere and it ain’t pretty.
It’s difficult to admit this to yourself, but you get tired. I’ve done a personal survey of all the older men I know and they all confess that at some point during the day they run out of steam. It makes sense, you just don’t have the energy of a 25 year old. If you partake in activities that are strenuous, you will get tired sooner than you once did. Naps are great, I highly recommend them.
One thing that doesn’t happen to all older men, however, it can happen if you fail to do something about it. After leaving your career or job, you could end up feeling a loss of purpose. Doing something meaningful with your life is essential for maintaining the desire to live. Personally, I don’t think watching TV or scrolling social media cuts the mustard.
Most of the garbage I’m spewing is universally true for many older men, but there is one particular thing that might only be true for gay men of a particular era and/or gay men who were closeted for a good part of their adult lives. If you hid your sexuality from the world for a long time and then consequently came out late or have never come out — more gay men than you’d think — you might be very envious of today’s young gay men.
From the outside looking in, young people appear uninhibited and perhaps sexually active early on. Obviously not true for some and not prevalent in certain parts of the world. But if you only got to be out for a small portion of your life or late in life, you’d be envious of today’s youth in a large part of the world. This could be a blog post by itself, but I fear that speaking for others might be inappropriate. So much of the activities of this sub-population is kept hidden for obvious reasons.
The “invisible” factor can be painful if one lacks self-esteem. Studies showing how older people are often ignored or discounted in society, is heartbreaking. I feel it sometimes, but as an introvert, in many ways I welcome the anonymity.
Some of the annoying things my fellow elders choose to keep hidden: hair that grows in the wrong places, body tags, thinning skin, excess gas (a lot of it), multiple medications designed to regulate all of the functions that are out of control or disruptive, and of course the loss of hearing, sight, and necessary lubrication. And there’s more that might plunge you into deeper depression.
Losing people you love is a harsh reality as you age. Friends and family who have been a part of your life for a very long time. The feeling of loss is profound and heavy. Does it make you stronger? I don’t think so, I think it makes you sad and sometimes lonely. I recall a conversation with my 87 year old father before he passed. He told me that losing people he loved was the worst part of aging. He had eight siblings and I believe he was the last to go. I don’t know if you can ever prepare for that kind of pain. Losing a life partner or your own child, unimaginable.
There are a few realities that are actually positive, at least for me. The first is work drama. I don’t miss it at all, none of it. The second is libido, as in there is none . . . gone, zip, only a faint memory. I’d rather this than thoughts of sex all day everyday, don’t miss that.
This scenario may be more pleasant than you might think.
It’s easy to allow all of the unpleasant actualities to ruin your day, but that doesn’t have to be the case. I’m embracing it all; celebrating survival and good health. There will be further posts on aging, as I age further — I guarantee it!
A friend of mine posted this and I laughed out loud. I hope you appreciate it as much as I do.
State-of-Mind
I’m a difficult person, but I’m fully aware of it. I know that I challenge people who treat me poorly. I know that I sometimes lack tolerance and put people off. There are more awful traits I own, that I don’t really need to name, because I know who I am and you don’t have to know everything about me. If I further state that I am working on being a better human, that’s only half true. I know that sometimes I cannot and will not hold my tongue. I know that cheering for the underdog is not always popular or wise. I know that people who I thought were friends, have walked away from me and people who judge me, speak ill of me when I’m not around. I’m so happy to say, these people no longer matter to me (I lie I tell myself). What matters to me are those individuals who love/like me for who I am: the good, the bad, and the pompous. Stick by me and I’ll be loyal and true.
I’m trying to avoid being an angry, bitter, reclusive old man by acknowledging what has already begun or what is coming. I might be able to develop coping mechanisms, store up some patience, and make the best of all of it.
No quote this week, I’ll let these be my last words for now.
Warning: If you believe revealing feelings or deep personal thoughts is inappropriate, read no further.
Those of you who have followed my blog for the past nearly nine years, know that I went from writing about my travels and immigrant life in Portugal, to writing about whatever popped into my head weekly, to most recently, fiction. Because writing is one of my favorite pastimes, I want to continue. But because I easily become bored, I’m going to change things up a bit. I imagine I will occasionally throw in a bit of fiction with the current non-fiction.
I’m going to cover topics I think might be relatable. Like most people, I suffer from daily ambivalence. One day I know exactly what I want and the next, I haven’t got a clue. I can’t help asking myself why that happens. So, for today, I’m going to be asking some difficult questions. I promise to attempt an answer that will be both authentic and useful. Perhaps helping me and others toward a clearer path moving forward. Always feel free to chime in.
How can I navigate the difficult days?
What I have learned (sure did take me long enough), is that when a difficult day comes along, there is little I can do to change things; especially if it’s about my mood, airport issues, illness, politics, etc. The best I can do is to take it easy on myself to soften it a bit and/or go with it. I do this knowing that the difficulty will eventually pass. It’s usually something beyond my control, so rather than fight it, I just try to wait it out. Always easier said than done.
How honest can you be with the people in your Life?
This is one of the hardest of life’s dilemmas. What I know to be true is that my truth is sometimes another person’s struggle or pain. People do not always have the tools to face or see certain things about themselves and there are all sorts of reasons for this. I can be thinking, I’m going to be honest so that they can acknowledge whatever it is and respond favorably. This rarely happens, more often than not, the person resents you and puts distance between you and them. In addition, my standards and values may be very different from those of some of the people around me. I have realized that the more grace I extend to others, the more fulfilling my relationships are. I think I may be one of those people who like to stir the pot.
“Learn how not to be mad at people for not being who you need them to be.”
– Ancestor Healing Magic, Marva
What compromises can you make without losing your integrity?
I once thought that I shouldn’t compromise or budge. Now I know that compromises must be made in order to achieve harmony. There are times when a red line is drawn. If someone wants me to do something illegal or criminal, I usually bow out. I also believe the isms, such as racism, sexism, agism, and several others, are a hard no. MAGA has no place in my heart and/or life.
Can grief teach you something about your life?
I have had a great deal of loss in my life. I have come to realize there are many ways we grieve, further, sometimes grief is stronger depending on where we are in our lives or the circumstances surrounding the loss (i.e., the age of the person or the way in which they passed). The greatest lesson for me has been to allow myself to feel the loss. Whether it’s facing a difficult memory or being swept up in your emotions. A good cry can be incredibly healing. Realizing life isn’t tied up in a pink ribbon is also healthy and it can initiate growth.
Is picking and choosing your vices wise?
There are things in life that I know for certain are not good for me, yet I partake anyway. I can’t name all of these vices; I’m too embarrassed and by naming them, I would make them too real for comfort. I have a simple philosophy that helps guide me: if it makes me feel good and poses a minimal threat to my existence, I welcome it. For example, I love wine. I don’t drink wine to get drunk, I drink wine because I love the taste and how it pairs with food. I drink it in moderation because it’s high in calories and if I overdo it in the evening, my trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night become disruptive. Another one of my vices is chocolate. I may even love it more than wine. Dark chocolate is my drug of choice and I indulge at least once a day. If I was given a choice to add five years to my life if I gave it up, I’d happily keep eating it. Add nuts of all kinds and I’m pretty happy indeed. Any good vices out there I should know about? TikTok is a social media vice, but I love it and I can’t stop.
An older man relaxes on a park bench beneath colorful autumn trees (AI generated),
I stopped at that last question for several reasons: 1) keeping it brief, keeps people engaged, 2) I’ve learned that the difficult questions we ask ourselves can be exhausting, and lastly, I’ve learned when to stop.
I’m thinking that next week will be about accepting getting old(er).
“You’ll learn, as you get older, that rules are made to be broken. Be bold enough to live life on your terms, and never, ever apologize for it. Go against the grain, refuse to conform, take the road less traveled instead of the well-beaten path. Laugh in the face of adversity, and leap before you look. Dance as though everybody is watching. March to the beat of your own drummer. And stubbornly refuse to fit in.” ― Mandy Hale
Turning 60 was a mind fuck, but not because I was older. It wasn’t the aches and pains that were my new constant companions. It wasn’t family, they were as aloof as they’d always been. Friendships had benefited from longevity and a shared history, and for that I was grateful. It was the reality of being a single gay man in a world where older single gay men primarily want to be with pretty young things; arm candy they can parade through high end restaurants. I knew this when I decided to go to a gay club in Barcelona when I was visiting there last month. I knew that I wasn’t 25 anymore, my hair was growing, but on the wrong parts of my body. I still loved music and dancing, but I was shy about the old moves that were no longer trending. I was certain I would walk into that club of 200 gay men and that I’d be completely invisible. It would almost feel as if I were shrouded in a cloak that rendered me unseen. I knew this, but the lure of possibilities was stronger than my fear of being invisible.
I paid the cover fee and rapidly walked over to the bar. My fear was quickly realized as I stood there for what felt like light years, completely unnoticed. The young, shirtless, hot bartender approached several boys without even a glance my way. I fought the urge to flee and remained steadfast in my mission to finally get the bartender’s attention. I wondered if I should confront him or push my way ahead of some of the boys directly in front of him. I opted to go the martyr route and passively waited, rolling my eyes and sucking my teeth. He eventually saw me and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks thinking that the opportunity may never present itself again.
Drink in hand, I dragged my wounded ego to a corner of the club that was quieter and darker. Beating myself up came easily, hiding even easier. I sipped my scotch and scolded myself for thinking that there might be even a remote chance of meeting a stranger. I considered leaving several times, twenty times to be exact. My head was bowed, shoulders slumped, and a frown permanently plastered on my face. I was aware of these things, but since I was invisible, it didn’t matter. I took out my phone and read my emails; disgusted, pathetic, defeated. So involved in my own melancholy, I didn’t notice the man standing in front of me.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
What? I asked.
“Do you mind if I sit next to you?”
Do as you please, I said.
He extended a hand and said his name was Carl. I looked around to see who Carl was talking to.
He said, “And you are?”
I’m David, I replied matter-of-factly.
“Hi David, are you okay?”
I was immediately defensive. Why wouldn’t I be?
Carl was unguarded and looked into my eyes. He said, “Would you prefer to be left alone?”
No, no, I said, you caught me off guard. I didn’t expect to speak to anyone tonight.
We spent the next couple of hours getting to know one another. I shared some of my manic thoughts and Carl listened. He listened hard. He told me that he had similar thoughts not too long ago, but felt emboldened after fighting testicular cancer. His cancer was in remission. Realizing how uncertain life can be, he no longer cared about what others may or may not think about him. Carl was free and for a brief moment in time, so was I.
David finally gets his drink
I’ve joined a writer’s group here in the Algarve. On my first meeting with the group, the facilitator provided a prompt for our first piece. It was an interesting process of sharing what invisibility means to each of us. We were asked to spend some time alone (in a beautiful and inspiring setting in the hills of the Algarve) writing a piece which we would later share. My group provided praise and support for the draft edition of “He Saw Me,” so I decided to clean it up and share it with you.
State-of-Mind
In a pretty good place actually. Still some sad moments, but I know that will be the case for some time. What do they say, “It’s the price we pay for love.”
Some trips planned for the fall. Still considering there might be a hobby I have yet to discover. I guess we’ll see. I’m looking forward to the fall.
“This strangely still pause between summer and autumn, greenery and gold, and the heat and rising wind that is once again readying itself to rush it all away in a climactic symphony of color and scent is—in my opinion, one of the best parts about living on earth.” — Victoria Erickson
His eyes continue to haunt me. The portals to his soul, the way he communicated with me, their intensity. We were a family of two, just Paco and me, and now, just me. Remembering Paco is easy. What is difficult for me is the void he has left behind. He was always there: beside me, sitting on the edge of the dining room rug facing the kitchen watching me cook, hoping I was scrambling him an egg, perched on the terrace in the doorway where he could watch my every move, on the bed at my feet, curled up between my legs on the sofa or trotting by my side on the sidewalk.
Yes, Paco trotted. People passing us by would notice him and marvel at his skills. He came to me this way. It was a strong, confident, regal trot. Paco was about 10 inches tall, 20 inches long and he only weighed 9.25 pounds. In early days, my fear of stepping on him was ever present. But he was smart enough to stay clear of my big feet. I know, everyone thinks their dog is smart, but Paco had more than intelligence, he had insight and understanding and a tremendous amount of patience.
I wrote about how I acquired Paco some time ago, so I won’t revisit that part of our history. I will just mention that when he joined me in Portugal he was skin and bones, weak, and fighting several serious illnesses. When Maria, his vet, told me he might not make it, I wept shamelessly in her office. He was less than a year old and weighed under four pounds. I got him home, held his face in my hands, and asked him to fight with me. I said, “If you live, we will have a life of adventure, lots of friends, and good food.” He rallied and fought for six years, until a strong and resistant bacterial infection took him from me last week. Six years that I will forever cherish.
After admiring how handsome he was, the first thing people who met him would say is, “He’s such a sweet dog.” Paco would give himself over to you within the first 10 seconds of meeting you. He made everyone feel special. He would pass along that contagious joy, lick you a thousand times, and glance over at me to let me know that he could love me and love others as well. One of his jobs (he embraced responsibility) was to greet people at the elevator outside of my apartment. No matter who it was, they were treated the same, with a warm welcome. My Amazon delivery guy looked forward to my stop and specifically asked me to order more things so he could see Paco. He was seldom met with fear and if he sensed it, he just backed away.
The thing about a dog that is not always apparent to non-dog people, is that dogs see all of you and sense how you are feeling emotionally. If you live alone and have a pet, your emotional needs are often met by your pet — certainly the case for me. Now, I’ll have to rely on myself or close family and friends.
This has been very difficult to write. I find myself stopping and starting quite a bit.
As I write today I’m feeling a great deal of anger. It seems very unfair to me that Paco was taken so soon. It was apparent to me early on that he was probably beaten as a puppy. If I went near a stick of any kind, he cowered. If I raised my voice, he made himself very small. And after the abuse, he was dumped in the woods to fend for himself, where he could die of starvation or an animal attack. And then, after being rescued and only a few years later, a bacterial infection he didn’t have the means to fight stole his life. Yes, I am angry; I’m angry at those who abandoned him and I’m angry at this fucking infection.
But I’m not supposed to dwell on any of those things. I’m expected to just be grateful to have had him in my life and focus on the future. Nobody wants to be around a grieving person. I sense it all around me, just move on Chris.
I’m not ready to move on, escape, get away, hide my feelings. I want to remember Paco all day everyday until the memories are all beautiful and comforting. For now I need to see his struggle, his cries for help, his pain. I need to see it, so I can understand his absence in my life; so I can accept his death.
I have had a couple of people suggest that I consider another pet. I don’t want to disparage those who go this route, but that is not who I am. For now, I cannot imagine the ability to love another dog. I would be comparing, resenting, and spending way too much time trying to erase memories. I need time.
I’ve been told that I did a very unselfish thing by euthanatizing Paco. That stopping his suffering was the most loving thing I could have done. These are nice words; comforting words, but I know in my heart I could have done more. Six vets confirmed his diagnosis, but maybe a seventh vet would have provided another remedy? Maybe that invasive surgery in Lisbon was the answer? Maybe if I had waited a few more days, his condition might have improved? Were the plants on the terrace the source of the infection? Of course I know on an intellectual level, these are not all rational thoughts, Nonetheless, it’s where my brain goes these days. Processing a loss is an important piece of the grief puzzle. Allow me doubt, allow me time.
Another harsh reality: Paco started getting sick 16 months ago. I had just had shoulder replacement surgery and recovery was challenging. His infection was more difficult to deal with because my arm was in a sling — back and forth to the vet; healing, hope, and disappointment, over and over again. And then in November 2025 I needed to have my gallbladder removed, again making it difficult to attend to his illness. Paco’s infection continued to return after multiple antibiotics, other strong medications, several surgical procedures, and again, many trips to multiple vets.
Over the last few months, when the infection was in his middle ear, eustachian tube, and nose, he had problems breathing at night when the mucous would build up. Early on I could flush out his nose and give him some relief, but after a while, it didn’t help. I was giving him sedatives, steroids, and pain medication. All of these helped in the beginning of the infection, however, they became less and less effective over time. I would have nights with constant interrupted sleep and the pain of seeing Paco in distress. I trusted his doctors, but being a realist, I knew in my heart that this resistant bacteria would eventually take his life.
All of this consumed me psychologically and emotionally. I talked to friends and family who were sympathetic, but who had no real answers. I also posted his symptoms and diagnosis on several animal help sites. People with good intentions, shared similar experiences or offered their sincere sympathy.
And here’s where I reveal my real feelings, feelings that continue to plague me with guilt. There were times when I would hope (I don’t pray), that Paco would die in his sleep so that both he and I would no longer experience the suffering. I should add that at times I would have these thoughts in the wee hours of the morning and then see the vet the next day after a flushing procedure under anesthesia, only to be hopeful once again. This cycle repeated four times over several months. There were two times during this period where I considered euthanasia, only because I did not know what else to do.
I noticed that I was beginning to make some bad decisions about other things happening in my life; my mind was often foggy and a feeling of hopelessness was pervasive. I’m really good at hiding pain and discomfort, but some people noticed my anxiety and would ask me about what was happening. I was reluctant to dwell on the situation; too much sharing pushes people away.
There were several individuals who were more involved and harder to share the news of his inevitable end. His groomer/sitter has been a part of his life for years. In addition, I have two very close friends with a dog that Paco spent a great deal of time with. Nina (pictured with Paco) loved Paco. They were like brother and sister; respectful of one another, tender, and always happy when they were together. Especially delightful to watch considering their size difference. Nina’s parents were also very much in love with Paco. They were involved in his life so much that I recently named them as his guardian should something happen to me. Sharing the news that Paco was being euthanized was agonizing, but the right thing to do. There were goodbyes on his last day. We’re all remembering Paco together and their presence in my life has made a very difficult reality, a bit less painful.
Some final words before I go: because of Paco’s serious issues when I rescued him, I was always acutely aware of his compromised immune system. I was often so filled with fear that I’d lose him, it became emotionally challenging. There were a few times when I was certain our time together was over, only to be proven wrong; making me grateful for the time that followed. I’m fully aware of where I am in the grieving process. I know that like Dana, Ashley and Giorgio, my dogs that came before Paco, I will someday just think of him and smile. But like people in our lives, every so often, someone comes along that stands out above the rest, Paco was that someone for me. I know he was a dog, but he was my soulmate and best friend. Knowing that Paquito touched so many in his short life gives me great comfort. Remember him, that’s what will keep him alive.
“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”
I keep a journal. If I were to look back over the past forty years, I have no doubt that I have written ‘keep your mouth shut’ 698 times, at a minimum. At this point I should just accept defeat, but it’s not in my nature to do that. In keeping with my list making proclivities:
When you speak your truth you risk having the person you are speaking to declare that your truth is not a shared truth.
What you share might be perceived as confrontational, therefore, angering the recipient.
Bringing up an issue can cause a problem to explode; becoming larger than intended.
Not sharing can cause resentment because the problem will not usually go away on its own.
You might share a confidence only to learn the information has been shared with others.
Not sharing may mean trust issues with others who sense that you are not being forthcoming about “stuff.”
Sometimes small issues fade away and lose their importance. For example, you are upset with someone because you’ve done something significant for them and they have not said, “thank you.” Time goes by and they share their gratitude about something unrelated. You may come to realize that the person may believe that they’ve already expressed their gratitude or they might be so caught-up in major concerns, that relaying thanks unintentionally slipped their mind. Forgiveness is essential, but grace isn’t always easy. A sincere thank you has always been a requirement for me.
Your thoughts can become distorted over time. It’s human nature to fill in blanks and see only what we desire to see. Speculation can be a disaster.
It’s important to first consider who the recipient of your words is — is it someone you trust and care about? If the answer is “no” for either or both, you should consider keeping it to yourself. One of the reasons I journal, make an entry and move on.
Do you have a proven track record with the individual who will hear your words? Some relationships are built on speaking your mind. A foundation can become stronger and more durable (or it can crumble to the ground).
Can you live with yourself if you decide not to share? For example, you suspect your best friend’s boyfriend of cheating. You might have irrefutable proof, but you have to ask yourself if you are prepared for the reaction you might or might not get.
You firmly believe a friend is an alcoholic. Is it up to you to get them help or guide them to assistance? Is remaining quiet even possible for you? Is it fair to discuss the issue with others who are close to the individual? Are you willing to risk losing a friend or family member? If a person doesn’t recognize that they have a problem, you will probably fail in convincing them. I have always found this to be a difficult dilemma. You can of course apply this to any substance abuse.
You may be wrong. You need to be prepared to learn that and make an apology.
Politics has become a hot button for many. I don’t mind sharing my POV, but I know my leftist woke values can be controversial.
If you know your words will not be heard or considered, why bother?
Obviously, not an exhaustive list. I’m more consumed by outcomes than I believe is healthy. I admire people who question their thoughts, shrug and move on. As I stated earlier, that’s not who I am. My sister recently told me that she was listening to some great communicator who said, “Don’t spend too much time thinking about what others think of you. These people are more than likely not thinking about you at all.” I’m paraphrasing, but I think I captured the gist of what she was trying to convey. Yes, I do believe there is some truth to this, I think most of us care a great deal about what others think; especially when we respect and value these individuals. As I’ve gotten older, I feel like I care less. Retirement has a way of helping you set boundaries, manage priorities, and dwell on things a bit less.
This took time: I couldn’t care less what certain faculty members I worked with thought or still think of me, because I have little or no respect for many of them. It’s like believing something a liar says; if a liar lies most of the time, why would you think the one thing you know is probably a lie, might be true just because they said it?You’re giving the liar too much credit. I should also be clear that there were many that I did respect and admire.
Caring about the little things a little less probably has something to do with knowing that you have already lived more than two-thirds (or more) of your life.
Please share other scenarios where speaking up or staying quiet might be a consideration.
State-of-Mind
I’m not going to lie, I’ve been in a funk. There are several things happening around me that are beyond my control. I’m a fixer. If I cannot fix something or improve upon a situation, it makes me anxious, so . . . I’m anxious now. And this too shall pass.
I love spring and early spring has come to southern Portugal; birds are singing and flowers are blooming. I’m hoping nature will lift me up. I’ve never suffered from depression; however, I occasionally go down a dark rabbit hole. I know the only way out is to switch to more positive thoughts and practice gratitude. I realize that I have a great deal to be grateful for.
“The best use of creativity is imagination. The worst use of creativity is anxiety.” ― Deepak Chopra
Those of you who know me will just read this with a knowing smile. Hopefully this blog will help you understand the decisions I make. If you don’t know me, you may read my content and relate to how my brain works or you may think me mad. I often have to remind myself that we are all wired differently. I have a neighbor who is 97 years old and in the hospital in Faro for the second time in a few weeks. I’m fairly certain he will not make it out. I’ve known this man since arriving in Portugal and I have observed him with fascination and awe. He lived in a house nearby until a few years ago; I spent time with him in his former residence; wine, a few meals, some laughter. His father was one of the individuals responsible for building the building I live in. Apparently he wanted to build a home on the building’s corner lot and the city would only allow a high rise. So he built a large seven story structure in the 60’s that is now part of the city’s historical register; the building garnering multiple architectural awards. I feel fortunate to reside in this building. He and his partner decided to move into an apartment he had been leasing to someone else. On the day he moved in, I went out onto my terrace and I observed him helping the movers carry boxes and other belongings into the building. I couldn’t help but be blown away by this. A few days later, I got off the elevator and I found him on the lobby floor filling a small hole in the marble. The man was 93 years old. That level of care for the common area where we reside got me thinking about my own intentions and what I am most passionate about.
I know that every human is different: how we see the world, how we navigate life, and how we think about ourselves in relation to the rest of society. I know that nature and nurture play a major role in our orientation to the world. When I look at this man, I see someone who is 100% invested in every aspect of life. When he is not in hospital, he conducts experiments, he enjoys eating, doing so slowly and with delight, he shops, he listens to music, etc. This is how he was only months ago, I can only imagine what he was like as a young man. When his light is extinguished, we will have lost a rare human indeed. Back to how this relates to me.
In some ways I am young — well compared to him I am. Still, when I think about my life, I consider this my final chapter. I have no idea why I am this way. I have mentioned in an earlier blog post that I purchased a term life policy when I was ten years old. I paid the premiums with my allowance. To be fair, because of my age it was only a dollar a month, but looking back, I think it was a bit premature to have such a policy. I didn’t want to leave my mother with debt. Lulu just laughed at me hoping it was just a phase; it wasn’t.
I continue to plan way too early. When I was 12 years old I flossed so that I’d still have my own teeth later in life (was repulsed by my father’s false teeth sitting in a glass in our shared bathroom). I had a bank savings account when I was 13. Trust me it only had a few dollars in it. The bank used to give you a little book, the teller made handwritten entries when you made a deposit or withdrawal. I mostly saved for Christmas gifts. I started paying rent on an apartment when I was 17 years old; I didn’t like giving my money to a landlord, so I saved for my own place. I knew in high school that I wanted a Ph.D. I didn’t really understand what it was, but I knew that if I was to get one, it would mean something . . . and it does.
There are many other examples of this kind of compulsive behavior; perpetually trying to get ahead of what might come my way. The operative word there is “might.” It’s pretty obvious that a life insurance policy at 10 years old was not practical, I should have been buying toys or candy. The big question is: Is it helpful or hurtful to look so far into the future and anticipate one’s needs? I imagine the answer is that it is both.
For example, being determined to earn a higher degree was very positive. I didn’t really have the acumen for a Ph.D., trust me it’s true. What I had was grit and determination and that’s what got me through it. Had I not thought seriously about it early on, I would never have gotten the grades needed to be accepted into NYU’s doctoral program. I kept my head in the books when everyone I knew was dancing the night away. Do I have regrets? Yes, in truth I think my desire to succeed academically meant that I pushed too many things to the side. I normally don’t like to play the coulda, shoulda, woulda game, but since I’m writing about it . . . I feel like I missed out on a lot of fun as a young person (excluding sports which I didn’t like because I was uncoordinated and bullied).
Hanging out with friends, sleepovers, weekend trips, concerts, and all of the other things young people did back then were not a part of my world, because I was too serious. I’m not sure what came first: being an introvert and, therefore, avoiding group interaction or spending so much time studying, I became a loner. I’m not sure it truly matters. I’ve come to accept who I am, the good, the bad, the insane.
The danger is that I will look into the future and decide that the obvious next stage of my life is to stay in, read, watch streamed films or series, eat, drink, rinse and repeat. I’ve already trimmed my travel schedule because getting on an airplane has become such an unpleasant and unpredictable experience. I’ve decided to mostly stick with brief, local experiences. The States is the furthest away I will travel and I will only travel there in order to see the people I love.
I’m fortunate to have friends who put up with my excessive planning. I’m sure that some will humor me and go along with plans for a trip over a year out. I’m certain others talk about how anal retentive I am behind my back. No matter, as they say, “It is what it is.”
The question is, will I plan for my own death? I’m pretty certain I will (probably because I already am). I am too much of a control freak to allow someone else to decide on the details.
Things I do to prepare:
my bedroom for sleep in the early afternoon (shades, pull back duvet, lighting)
several meals days in advance. I love the anticipation
I start to pack about 10 days before a trip
If I know I’m about to have a difficult conversation with a professional (i.e., attorney, doctor), I take notes prior to our meeting
I started taking supplements for middle and old age when I was in my early twenties
I’m usually the first to RSVP
I’m usually waiting for people at a restaurant or meeting place
I did a living will in my 30s
I look at the weather 10 days ahead (as you know, it often changes)
I used to lay out my outfit the night before. I stopped doing this because I don’t care about what I’m wearing anymore.
I save addresses in Google Maps long before a trip.
I replace things in my pantry and cleaning supplies closet long before I run out. When I die, someone will inherit paper towels for a lifetime and enough tuna to feed Japan.
I used to remove my guest’s plates from the table while others were eating. I’ve since relaxed a bit.
90% of the time I tell my guests it’s time to leave. I usually use walking Paco as the reason, but most people are smarter than that.
There are things that I’m too embarrassed to include here.
State-of-Mind
Paco update:
For those of you following Paco’s health issues, I thought I’d let you know how he’s doing. His prognosis is extremely involved and precarious, so I’m not going to say much. A bacterial infection in his outer ear spread to other places. His treatment began in early March 2025 and it’s been a physical roller coaster ever since, causing the two of us a good deal of grief — Paco pain and discomfort and me, doubts about medical procedures and of course, concern for his future. He’s been on eight different medications, four antibiotics administered three different ways, steroids, painkillers, dietary supplements, and he’s had three surgeries in the last two months. He had a procedure on Friday that may or may not have helped; I won’t know for a week or two. In the meantime, I’m giving him daily injections of his forth antibiotic and local antibiotics (this treatment being our last hope). I’ve never been through anything quite like this; it has taught me patience and more about bacterial infections than I care to know. This particular bacteria is known to resist most if not all antibiotics. I wish I could say more about it. I appreciate those around me who have provided support and comfort.
Further update (since I started this blog): his vet says she sees signs that Paco is finally responding to the treatment, but I hear congestion in his lungs and it worries me.
I’m taking a quick trip to the Loire Valley in southwest France to clear my head a bit. Stepping back has always been good for me. I think when you’re in the thick of something for an extended period of time, you sometimes lose perspective.
I will go back to short stories very soon. I just needed a little break.
“You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius
I’m using the word “immigrant” throughout this piece, versus expat, because many believe that individuals who have relocated to a foreign country use that word as if expats are superior in some way to immigrants. It’s all about perception and marketing. expat noun
a person who lives outside their native country.
immigrantnoun
a person who comes to live permanently in a foreign country.
I think the angry sentiment has a lot more to do with how immigrants are being perceived and treated throughout the world. Let us not forget that many individuals fleeing their home country have very little choice but to leave. People like me leave the United States for many reasons, however, they are not leaving due to ethnic cleansing, bombs being dropped on their homes, the inability to feed their children or themselves, religious persecution, and other unfortunate possibilities. To be void of compassion for these people is horrific. The absence of empathy in our time is astonishing.
I’m writing this piece for two reasons: first, people often say to me, “You are so fortunate not to be living here right now,” or second, “If things were different, would you come back?” I want to respond to both candidly. At first I thought I’d be setting myself up for ridicule and judgment, but in the end, I don’t really give a shit what people think of my responses/explanation. This is my platform for self-expression and I will continue to share what’s on my mind. That’s not to say I don’t care about what people think; I do. But if I’m being honest about what is in my heart and I am judged for it, that lands in the “that’s your opinion box,” In the end, it’s a whole lot healthier to refrain from listening to people who might be righteous, jealous, or brainwashed. When you lay down your head at night and you think about your actions, there truly is one person you answer to. If you’re religious, you might answer to god. As a non-believer, I answer to myself.
Why Did I Leave?
As with many things in life, it’s a multi-faceted, complicated, explanation.
First and foremost, after years of travel and discovery, it was always my intention to experience a new place that is vastly different: including language, culture, cuisine, art, music, landscape, etc. I never felt tied to one place, ever. Whenever I was living in a place and I began to feel that it might no longer be a good fit, I would move on. Why that feeling might happen is also complicated. I would have to say much of it is on me: restlessness, resentful of the behavior of people around me, financial strain, career choices — all have had an impact on my past decisions and may affect future decisions.
I loved Brooklyn, however, a work situation became untenable, therefore I quit the job. I relocated to Maine knowing that in order to remain in Brooklyn, I would need a high salary position which would only lead to more stress and health issues. I started a consulting business in Maine which took-off after three years. I was enjoying new friendships and the liberal attitudes in Portland, but when Donald Trump was running for president the first time (2016), I vowed to leave the country if he won. I was naive and jaded due to the places I had recently lived and the people I surrounded myself with. When Trump won, I immediately began the process of leaving the U.S. I would have moved to Europe eventually; therefore, in my mind I was just speeding things up a bit.
Why Portugal
At the time of my decision, Portugal was quickly becoming the number one place for individuals seeking a better life in a foreign country. There were tax and other incentives, further, acquiring a visa was not as difficult a process as it has become. Portugal is in a much stronger place economically and its citizens have had enough with the influx of people who buy up properties at a premium and receive tax breaks. I definitely can understand their resentment. On the other hand, immigrants have helped Portugal become more economically independent. In addition, vast infrastructure and aesthetic improvements have been made. Many Portuguese people would argue that these improvements have come at too high a cost; in fact, some believe that the overall quality of life has not improved, but has worsened. That’s a debate for people who know more about these things. I like to think that I add value to the overall quality of life.
I chose Portugal because of its close proximity to the U.S., its beautiful culture (music, cuisine, landscape, history), and its warm and gracious people. I’ve never looked back. In my heart I believe it was the best decision of my life . . . after coming out of the closet.
How I am Treated
The Portuguese people who are curious about my decision, often ask me the same question: Why did Americans put Trump in Office? He’s not very well liked by most citizens of Portugal and they don’t feel that they get honest answers from the media or Portuguese Politicians. Portugal has a long standing friendship with the United States; politically, poking the bear is not an option. When people find out I’m from New York, they are confused about why I would live in a place like Faro. Most are thrilled that I love their small city. For many in Portugal, New York City is a dream (just based on feedback I receive, not verified data).
Many Americans no longer agree with what the Lady in the Harbor stands for.
How I Feel About Being An Immigrant
I know it’s not practical and could never be the case, but still, I believe everyone should be allowed to live anywhere. Criminals, individuals who’d rather live off of others, and people who enjoy making others miserable, should have their privilege revoked. Who decides all that is one of the reasons it probably wouldn’t work.
I moved to Portugal because I have the means to do it. My roots in the United States are not deep. Friends and family can travel; also I do reluctantly go back every now and then. I know that there are people in the U.S. who firmly believe that I have abandoned my country and there are people in Portugal who believe I don’t belong here. As a gay man, I have always felt like an outsider, making dealing with these types of people easier. If you don’t like me or you don’t appreciate what I stand for, kindly go back into your own lane. I have developed some beautiful friendships with people here, but in truth, I will never really know what non-friends think of me.
I enjoy going to the market and attempting to speak Portuguese to the vendors. They correct me and laugh with me and I love that. I get very excited when I’m driving in a roundabout and I realize I’m in the correct lane (it’s an art form). I love discovering new dishes I have not tried before. Believe it or not, sometimes I take an eight minute, nine euro Bolt to Faro airport one hour before an international flight — only if it’s a 6:00 a.m. flight (first flight of the day). I breeze through security and I’m at the gate in 15 minutes. I love when there’s live Portuguese music at the outdoor local market on a blue sky day. Fortunately, the Algarve averages 300 days of sunshine a year. I laugh when Algarvians talk about rush hour traffic. “It took 20 minutes to get home instead of the 10 minutes it takes on a Saturday.” And imagine how awful it is to have to circle your block once or twice to have to find free parking near your apartment. One of my favorite things is paying seven euros to see a film and not having to wait in line at the cinema (and popcorn is five euros, not ten). I know it’s directly correlated to salaries and the Portuguese economy, but I don’t mind the benefits. There are so many upsides to being an immigrant in Portugal, I can’t possibly name them all. I recently learned that Portuguese people hate when anyone says Portugal is cheap and I can’t say I blame them. It’s all relative.
I’m not rubbing your nose in it. I’m sharing these things because people are often curious. It’s human nature to want to know. Except for some individuals who can spend three hours sitting next to you at a dinner party and not ask you a single question about yourself. There are a few people from the States here who are like that. Unfortunately, they are too self-involved to see it. I’m not bitter, no.
Sure there are some negatives: Americans who will only interact and be friends with other Americans, people who relocate to Portugal and never attempt to learn Portuguese. “Why should I learn Portuguese when the Portuguese prefer to speak English?” That one really gets my goat. Or “I don’t understand why they don’t carry Tylenol here.” So many of these kinds of comments. The Portuguese (generalization, my apologies) are very private people. They enjoy their families, they drive fast, they’re often too proud to admit they might be wrong, but they will run to your aid in a quick minute, they will greet you with a smile, and they will not judge you based on your socio-economic status. Healthcare is excellent and reasonable, car insurance is reasonable, and milk and eggs are reasonable. Sorry, I couldn’t help but throw in some more positives and I didn’t say cheap.
You know you’re in the right place when you have no desire to live somewhere else. I came to Faro with the knowledge that I could always go back to the U.S., that I could move to a different European country if I wanted to, or I could move to a different place close to where I live now. For the first time in a very long time, I am content to stay right where I am. I know that if I’m dissatisfied with something I can speak up. But more often I think, I am a guest in a country that has welcomed me in, it is better to behave like a guest and graciously accept some of the very minor inconveniences. I hope that answers your questions. If not, drop me a line.
Eight years in Faro.
The beautiful view from my terrace. The Ria Formosa with the Atlantic Ocean beyond it.
Current State-of Mind
My sister passed this week. I have now lost five out of 10 siblings: three half and two from the same two parents. I never felt that it made a difference, half or whole. When you share your life and love from the very beginning, it’s the same. I want to honor AnnMarie by acknowledging the sacrifices she made for me, my brother and sisters, her partners and her children. She was strong but insecure, intelligent but unbending, and she was full of joy much of her life; her laugh was contagious and I loved her for it. I hope her four daughters and six grandchildren find peace in her passing.
I would like to have a break from the reminder that life is temporary and that we are not guaranteed another moment, let alone another day.
Paco had surgery to address a serious and sometimes deadly bacteria; he is fighting hard, but I fear he is not improving. I’ll write more when he is out of the woods.
Walking away from toxicity and deliberate hurtfulness, has been a difficult challenge. Until about six months ago, I didn’t feel that I was making very much progress. I’m comfortable reporting that I am taking care of myself these days. And hey, on the flip side, for those not giving up on me, thank you. I’m no piece of cake.
“Loving life is easy when you are abroad. Where no one knows you and you hold life in your hands all alone, you are more master of yourself than at any other time.” – Hannah Arendt
It took his death to get to know him. I’m not sure why that’s such a big surprise. Do we ever truly know someone? I say I “know him” because when it was over, after he’d taken his last breath, I read the words he couldn’t speak.
Steven died on Sunday morning after a six month battle with pancreatic cancer; ironic because it’s the only cancer I fear. I had recently found out he was sick by accident. I was on line at Walmart and a mutual friend told me. He apparently kept his illness to himself; Steven was always very private and he despised people who shared private matters publicly. Out of respect for Steven, I waited.
I received a call from his family’s attorney on Wednesday, after Steven was cremated. Tyler asked that I stop by his office at my earliest convenience. I was eager to know what it was all about, but I knew Steven had no money and no other assets. Maybe there were diamonds in a vault somewhere. I had been Steven’s partner for over ten years, so if he owned anything, I would have known. We stayed in touch after we split and there was never talk of money under the mattress; Steven was a civil servant.
In truth, Steven and I didn’t talk. We chatted about this and that, we kidded one another about every imperfection, we talked over one another, and we argued, but we didn’t talk. I recall this one time when I thought we’d had a breakthrough. Steven came home from work, took a shower, spent some time at his desk and finally ended up in the kitchen. He was more quiet than usual, so I asked him if everything was okay. Whenever I would inquire he’d just shrug his shoulders and grunt. But this time he looked right at me and told me that his father died that afternoon.
“Oh Steven, I’m so sorry, what happened?”
Steven looked down and said, “I don’t know and I don’t care.”
When I tried to continue the conversation in bed, he turned away. I knew from experience not to prod. I thought we’d be attending his father’s funeral and that perhaps I’d be meeting his family, but none of that happened. His father never came up again. And this was the way we communicated for ten years.
I was anxious about the visit with his attorney. Was Steven leaving me the task of clearing up his hospital bills? Did he have a child I didn’t know about? It could be anything and a part of me did not want to get involved. But curiosity was getting the better of me, so a 2:00 p.m. appointment that day was scheduled.
It was a few hours until my meeting with Tyler. I had time to kill, so I decided to take a walk downtown to see if the loft Steven rented was empty. I arrived at his building, checked the front door, found it open and climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment. The entrance was taped off with police tape. I was confused and concerned. I knew Steven died in hospital from cancer. I assume someone would have told me if there had been foul play.
I tried his neighbors, but no one would answer the door. Feeling frustrated and anxious, I went downstairs to a coffee shop a few doors away. I ordered a coffee, sat for a bit and then decided to ask the guy behind the counter if he knew anything.
“Hi. I have a friend who lived in a loft a couple of doors down. His name was Steven and he used to come here for coffee. I’m pretty sure he sometimes also used your internet. If I show a photo can you tell me if you know him?”
“I think I know who you’re talking about. Yes, he came here quite a bit. I hear he died a few days ago. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I went up to his apartment and it was taped off with police tape. Have you heard anything about it?”
“Only neighborhood gossip. I’m not sure if what I heard is true, only that it happened in the middle of the night; sorry.”
“Wow. Do you know anyone around here who may be able to give me more information?”
“I don’t know man, you might want to go to the police.”
At that point I was even more anxious than I had been earlier. What the hell. Steven was quiet, but I cannot imagine him mixed up in anything illegal. It was getting close to my meeting with Tyler, his attorney, I figured I’d learn more then.
Tyler was a one person operation; no secretary, no assistant, no colleagues. He shook my hand and asked me to have a seat. I told him that I was surprised by his call. He told me that this sort of thing happened fairly often; the living are reluctant to share certain aspects of their will for fear of a negative reaction. I shared my experience at Steven’s apartment prior to meeting with him; I watched for a reaction, but Tyler had none.
“You’ll soon learn why Steven wanted you to come and see me.”
The silence although only seconds seemed like an eternity. Tyler then slid an envelope across his desk and asked me read the contents. He left his office to give me privacy.
Dear Jake,
If you’re reading this letter, I have passed. I apologize that I did not tell you about my illness. As you know, I have never been able to communicate my feelings very well. Rather than make a big mess of the whole thing, I figured it would be better for you to discover who I was, after I died.
I didn’t ever expect for the two of us to become serious. I tried to push you away; I hoped you’d walk away, but now matter how horrible I was, you stuck with me and endured the torture. I’m sorry for what I put you through. I’m not sure I ever had the capacity to be a good partner. I did have tremendous respect for you and no doubt a strong attraction.
Things happened before we met that I was not able to speak to you about; circumstances I was born into and did not choose. Nonetheless, I was forced to deal with it in my own way and now I have to pass it along to you.
If you recall, when my father passed I was unable to speak about him. My father was a Nazi war criminal. He hated Jews and homosexuals. You being both, made it especially difficult to discuss. I hated my father, I hated his ideology and I hated the pain he’d put others through. I’d always considered my mother was complicit, as she knew of his crimes and stayed silent.
My father was on trial in Nuremberg, however, they were unable to prove his guilt. I did not learn of any of this until I was in my 20s. A first cousin currently living in Berlin made me aware of his atrocities. Marie shared things with me that I knew I had to take to my grave. He was a horrible human being with no redeeming qualities. This is where you come in Jake.
In addition to being a murderer, my father had the habit of boasting about anything and everything. He had a friend who would come to the house when I was a teenager. My father was not aware that I was listening. Even though I had no idea what his words meant, I heard them and they remained with me. My father spoke of having a ring and a necklace in his possession. He said the ring was from a woman by the name of Rachel Schwartz and the necklace was taken from Esther Roseman. He joked about how no one could have possibly known that he had the jewelry; he also said that they were probably both dead anyway. I had not even thought about what he’d said until I was informed of his death. He didn’t have much money when he died, but he had a safe deposit box at a bank in Cleveland where he lived prior to his death.
I lied to you and told you that I was going to Cleveland for work. I apologize for lying, but again, I couldn’t speak of my father. In the safe deposit box were three things, the two pieces of jewelry and a letter my mother had written to him, blaming my father for all of the bad things they experienced in their marriage. She said that it had all to do with his devotion to Hitler. My mother said that she’d hoped he would have been convicted of war crimes. She further regretted not testifying against him. It brought me some comfort and closure, at least when it came to my mother.
Finding the jewelry reminded me of the stories he repeated to his friend. I can hear my father bragging as the names of those women were stamped in my brain. I can’t imagine that these two Jewish women could still be alive, but I’m certain they have family somewhere. I’m hoping you can find the rightful owners of these pieces. My father often spoke of a small town outside of Frankfurt where he’d spent most of his time serving in the German army. The name of the town is Rüdesheim. I hope you will be able to find their families or someone who knows them.
I know this is a lot to take in. I’m hoping you understand why these memories couldn’t cross my lips. I didn’t want to lose you Jake. I suspect my father’s friend shared that my father possessed the jewelry; these meaningful pieces in the wrong hands would not allow us to make this right. My attorney has the two pieces for you when and if you are ready to find their rightful owners. If for some reason you cannot do this, Tyler will donate the jewelry to the Jewish Museum in Berlin.
I loved you Jake; I know not the way you would have chosen to be loved, but I loved you the only way I knew how.
Yours,
Steven
I sat holding Steven’s letter for a long time. Tyler stayed away from his office to give me time to take it in. I thought about all of the moments I was furious with Steven for his silence and avoidance. I felt his love, trust, and absolute kindness; it filled me with hope. I would do what Steven asked of me without hesitation.
When Tyler returned he told me about the break-in at Steven’s apartment the day he died in hospital. He assured me that no one else knew where the pieces were. He brought them out to show them to me. It was obvious that they were beautifully crafted, fine and valuable pieces. I held them and asked Tyler to keep them safe until I could locate their owners.
There will be a Part II to this story . . .
State-of-Mind
I have recently been to the pyramids, satisfying a lifelong desire. It’s a strange feeling. On one hand you’re glad you did it, but on the other, you feel a little let down. Don’t get me wrong it was a surreal and extremely rewarding adventure. It was the hours and hours it took to get to Cairo and what I went through to make it happen.
The most notable of all obstacles was strep throat. Two days before arriving in Egypt my throat was so sore I was fairly certain Cairo and the pyramids were not in the cards. A major mind fuck and disappointment. A member of the ship’s crew told me about an English speaking Egyptian doctor I could see in Alexandria. I was achy and drained of all energy, but the pyramids were only hours away. The doctor diagnosed strep throat right away, prescribed antibiotics and he told me they’d start working quickly; indeed they did. The treatment cost me less than two American dollars. Grateful, surprised, and relieved, I had a 13 hour hazy experience in Cairo I’ll never forget. One day earlier and it would not have happened . . . probably ever. Life is a strange and glorious proposition.
I visited many other places on this trip (mostly documented on Facebook and Instagram).
Not looking for sympathy, that’s not my style. I think there are times in life we are afraid to share our feelings for fear that others will judge us. Judge me if you wish, I’m finally getting to the point where I don’t care. It’s amazing how much happier you can be when you decide what matters and what doesn’t.
I purchased a single martini glass for several hundred dollars this week. Before you judge me, let me explain. I was speaking with a friend of over thirty years about this; she pointed something out that I hadn’t thought much about, she said,
“You normally don’t attach yourself to things, so I know this martini glass means something to you, so the cost doesn’t matter.”
Yes it does; it means a great deal to me. The person who gifted me a set of four of these gorgeous Salviati Murano glasses is no longer with us. The two of us had the most complicated relationship of my life. It lasted 16 years and however twisted it was, it will reside in my memory for the rest of my life.
As with all relationships, both she and I had our own baggage. When I started working for her, I was young and naive. I did not report directly to her; therefore, there was a buffer between us — my immediate supervisor both protected me and shielded me from her darker side. Early on, I only got to experience the compelling and positive aspects of her narcissism — when the narcissist treats you as if you are the only one in the room. Praise, gifts, promises; all showered upon me whenever in her presence.
When anyone said that she was opportunistic or loved the spotlight, I would argue that it was difficult for women to stand out in a man’s world. I defended and deflected for a long time. As the years progressed, she and I became closer. I spent time with her at her country estate and she introduced me to celebrities, famous writers, and artists. If she needed something from me, it was always a gracious request. It took me years to realize that I had fallen in love with her. Not romantic love, but the love you might feel for someone you idolize.
People warned me not to get too close. I would either tell them they were wrong or I’d tell myself they were jealous. My supervisor had warned me as well, but he modeled similar behavior with her. I was promoted with salary increases several times; to the best of my knowledge, always merit based. In my 13th year of employment, my supervisor left his position and I found myself working directly for her. We had a honeymoon phase that lasted a few months. During this period, she pulled me off to the side at a party and told me that she loved me. I remained on a delusional cloud until the shit hit the fan. She had a personal situation in her life that made her angry and bitter. The softness faded and the edges became sharper. I started to see what others had warned me about.
I’d like to interject that she gifted the martini glasses to her executive team during a time of tremendous business success. We were at the height of profit and industry awards. I cherished those glasses; one because I’d felt I’d earned them and two, they were one of the most beautiful gifts I’d ever received. A few months after getting the glasses, I actually visited Murano in Venice where they were hand crafted. That trip made them even more special to me.
Returning to my final years working with this woman: I went back and forth between being blown away by her intelligence and power, to disgusted and bewildered. She started asking me to do things that I didn’t think were good for the business; nothing untoward or illegal, just not in our best interest.
I realize I’m being somewhat cryptic; I promise to explain why later. Life is not black and white and I have come to realize that living in the gray is not easy for me. I like things to be near perfect; neat and tidy and tied up in a bow.
When it became impossible for me to comply with her direction, I pushed back — not easy, she was a force and I was expendable. Of course I didn’t think so, but I knew from how she treated others, that I most certainly was. We traveled to Italy together for work. I didn’t need to be there, so I suspect I was being tested. Her loyalty test was beyond brutal and I failed. It was at that point that I realized if I didn’t resign, I would be terminated. I’d seen many before me go through similar trials. When we returned from Italy, I resigned. Sixteen years of passion for the work, compromise, falling in and out of love, and brutal disillusionment.
I’m fully aware that I was equally responsible for the disintegration of our relationship. I could have sucked it up, massaged her ego, acted as if all was honky-dory, but at the time, I was both in therapy and seeing a life coach. I felt as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I was finding it difficult to grin and bear it. I caved and my world shattered. That position defined me in every way. I withdrew, relocated, and reinvented myself. Survival mode can either break you or force you to see the world in a new way.
A couple of years after I left my position and my New York City life, this individual died in a tragic automobile accident. I took it harder than I imagined I would. No matter what my misgivings about my final months with her might have been, I would have never wished her to perish. That is why I chose not to name her in my story. I never had closure; therefore, I will never know what drove her to do the things she did and why she tossed me aside before I resigned. I couldn’t even bring myself to attend her memorial.
When I decided to relocate to Portugal, shedding 99% of my belongings was easy; I was seeking to start anew. One of the few gifts I could not walk away from was those martini glasses. They were the one part of that relationship I couldn’t let go of. I love these glasses, I love martinis, and I loved the former life they represent. Prior to leaving the United States, I shipped two boxes to my new address in Portugal. One of these boxes contained the four well wrapped martini glasses. Little did I know that they’d have to go through customers when entering Portugal. It took months and many telephone calls to finally locate the boxes. Because I did not have receipts for the contents, it cost me a small fortune to get the two boxes out of customs. When they were finally delivered to my home, one of the four martini glasses was broken. I wept openly and lost several nights of sleep.
I engaged in a failed search for a replacement glass. I contacted all of the other executive team members who had received the same gift; none of them still owned the glasses. I learned that Salviati only made a limited number, explaining why they were impossible to find. I gave up. I placed the three remaining glasses in a prominent spot in my new home. I have never used a single glass from the collection.
It’s been eight years since I placed those four glasses in that mailed box. I have checked eBay no less than a dozen times over the years. A few days ago, just for giggles and laughs. I looked on eBay. There it was, a single Salviati martini glass. The irony is that each of the four glasses has a different design and the one listed was the same glass that broke in the box that was shipped. I made an offer and after a bit of haggling, the glass was mine. It will arrive any day now and I will happily complete my collection. Early in my story I asked you not to judge me, I hope now you understand. I’m not sure why (and I may never know), but for me, this helps bring closure to an open wound. Sometimes an object can represent a time in your life, a person in your life, or a notion you’re hanging onto. These four glasses are all of those things for me. The challenge will be to keep them from breaking — they are extremely fragile. They mark a time in my life with tremendous growth and the ability to walk away when my integrity depended on it.
Is it true that everything happens for a reason? I would answer that sometimes it does seem so. The missing glass pictured above, will soon arrive.
State-of Mind
The story told here is non-fiction.
An individual I care about recently informed me that it was inappropriate for me to flaunt my lifestyle on social media. A part of me knows that I do not over-post. My intention has always been to stay in touch with people in my life that I do not see on a regular basis. When I moved to Portugal it seemed even more important to share my life experiences for the benefit of those in my circle of friends and acquaintances. But this comment shook me to my core. Perhaps a part of me thought I might be over-sharing or that people in my life that did not have the means to travel as I do, might feel that I am rubbing it in their faces.
I ran this by a few of my friends who told me to ignore the comment. They said that my travels inspire them and others. No one I spoke to seemed to believe that I over-post. But if I’m going to be honest, there are a few people in my orbit that I believe should pull back a bit on social media. Usually because they post on Facebook everyday and sometimes very superficial (i.e., I lost my keys and found them) posts. Or they post a different selfie daily. I feel very judgmental and that I might be a bit unfair about this subject, but still, it’s how I feel. And so, I have not posted about my travels or adventures in a long while. Last week a good friend said that I should go back to posting. He said that people like him missed seeing what I was up to. I heard him loud and clear, however, as I mentioned earlier, I was stung badly. I guess I’m searching for some middle ground. Perhaps I will use this platform for social sharing. I’ll figure it out.
“It’s very easy to be judgmental until you know someone’s truth.”
A wonderful world is hidden in the far corners of Neal’s mind. He created this world when he was four years old. It was safe and easy to get to. What Neal loved most about his world were all the people in his life that he knew would never go there. Neal would steal himself away as his real world got scarier.
He would frequently retreat there, but he wouldn’t stay long — the adults in his life were always bringing him back. The journey was usually triggered by something he chose not to face. There was this one time when he was about seven years old playing in his room. He’d heard his aunt Jean and Uncle Mike in the living room, but he was hoping they’d stay there. A few minutes later, someone knocked on his door.
He tentatively whispered, “come in.”
It was his Aunt Jean. She was all dressed up for church. I thought I’d heard her giving his mother a hard time for not wanting to go with them to church. They argued about this a lot; Neal mostly ignored them: Neal ignored most adults.
“Well hello Neal. Every time I see you, you seem to be a foot taller. What are you playing with? Is that a doll? You don’t think you’re a bit too old to be playing with dolls? Do you want me to tell your cousins that you play with dolls? Put them away and play with your computer games. Come on Neal, be a big boy.”
He looked down and didn’t say a word. When his aunt left, he quickly retreated to his world, where dolls were okay and grown ups didn’t tell him what to do. His uncle Mike never said anything, but he’d give him a disapproving look if he wasn’t hitting a ball or playing games that boys played.
One day Neal’s mother was in the kitchen baking. She called Neal’s name numerous times, needing him to run to the market for butter. She opened the back door and he was lying down in the grass. She shouted his name again and he didn’t answer. She marched over to where he was and screamed,
“Neal, where are you?”
He looked at her and said, “I’m right here mom, don’t you see me?”
This sort of thing happened all the time; Neal’s mother lost sleep over his behavior. She thought it might be time to take him to see a specialist. She suspected he was not like the other boys his age. She didn’t dare consider what was wrong with him, Neal’s father wouldn’t accept anything other than “normal.”
And why wouldn’t Neal escape whenever he could? His was a world where the moon filled half of the sky; where animals roamed free; where there were no other children or adults; it was quiet and safe and his.
Neal was fully aware that at some point, if his mother and father discovered his world, he’d be forbidden to go there. He’d have to keep it secret. Marie, Neal’s mother was loving and kind, but she always seemed worried about him.
Neal became a Boy Scout when reached his tenth birthday. He slowly began to feel more comfortable with his peers. Although he remained guarded where adults were concerned, he hid his reticence fairly well. One scout leader in particular took a liking to Neal, often coaching him on outdoor survival skills and recruiting him for special projects. After about a year of camping and hiking, Fred, his scout leader, selected three boys to do an overnight hike to a ridge, some 20 miles from the scout camp base.
Neal was pleased to be included and excited about the outing. He and the other two boys prepared for the trip, ready to go at 5:00 a.m. on the designated morning. The hike was difficult, but not impossible. The boys stayed close to Fred as he led them to the ridge.
Neal was feeling awkward that day; something was off and he couldn’t place what was bothering him. That evening Fred asked Neal to grab a five gallon water jug and walk with him to the stream for fresh water. Neal was happy to help, but feeling tentative about going nonetheless. They walked quietly for about a quarter mile. When they got to the stream, Fred put his hand on Neal’s shoulder,
“We walked all this way, we might as well take a dip in the stream.”
“But I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”
“Come on Neal, it’s just us, we don’t need a suit.”
Neal wanted to run away, but where would he go? He wasn’t even sure he knew the way back. He reluctantly removed his t-shirt and jeans and sat on the ground in his underwear.
“Come on, your underwear is going to get wet, be a man and take them off.”
Neal stripped down and ran into the water to cover up. Fred began undressing, keeping an eye on Neal. Before Fred even got into the water, Neal jumped out and headed toward his clothing.
“Where are you going, you weren’t in the water for 30 seconds.”
“It’s too cold, I’m shivering.”
Fred walked over to Neal, assuring him that he could warm him up. Neal noticed that Fred was erect. He had never seen a grown man’s erect penis, but he’d heard the boys talk about it at school.
“I’m okay Fred, I’ll just get dressed.”
“No, no, let me get you dried off first.”
“But we don’t have towels with us.”
“Geez Neal, you sure do worry a lot.”
Fred began drying Neal off with his own t-shirt. Neal stood by the stream frozen and frightened. Fred complimented Neal on his leg muscles, telling him that he had strong legs. Fred then touched Neal in places he did not want to be touched. Neal started to quietly weep. He hated how it felt. Fred tried to quiet Neal, but Neal began crying louder and begging Fred to stop.
Fred eventually did stop. Neal quickly put his clothes on and asked to return to camp.
On the walk home, Fred spoke softly,
“I’m not sure why you’re so upset, all I did was dry you off. I like you Neal. You’re safe with me, I’ll never hurt you. Next time relax, I promise you’ll like it.”
Fred wasn’t finished with Neal and months of sexual abuse would follow. Neal retreated to his world daily, sometimes for hours on end. Neal’s mother became so concerned that she decided to have him speak to a therapist. The only thing Neal would tell the therapist was that he was fine. The therapist referred Neal’s parents to a psychiatrist. The doctor put Neal on anti-anxiety medication; he told Neal’s parents that Neal was an introvert who suffered from social anxiety and communication issues. Neal’s mother was beside herself. By the time Neal was 11 years old, he barely spoke and rarely came out of his room.
Neal’s school announced a Scout’s day. The leaders would be coming to the school to show the children what the scouts were about. They would be recruited to join at the end of the school day. Neal was sitting off to the side (as he often did) and Fred walked over to him to say hello. Neal’s teacher was observing the interaction and noticed Neal pull away from Fred. Beth immediately knew why. She had seen this behavior before. She now had a better understanding of why Neal was so often alone.
That afternoon she called Neal’s mother and asked to see her after school. When Marie arrived, Beth was waiting for her. They discussed what Beth had observed and Marie was pensive. She was concerned, but knew that she would dare not share this with Neal’s father. Marie thought about how she might approach this with Neal and decided to sleep on it.
Marie woke up angry and resolute the following morning. She decided that the only way to know for sure was to see Fred try to touch Neal. Marie needed a plan, she needed help, and she needed her son to be okay.
She called Beth, Neal’s teacher. She shared her plan with Beth about having a BBQ and inviting Fred. She thought it would be best if they discovered Fred’s preying behavior together; erasing any doubt of guilt.
In order to protect her son and avoid getting him upset about the invite, she told Neal that Fred would be going away for a long time and that she was hosting a barbeque for him. When she talked to Neal and told him that Beth would be there, he seemed relieved.
Marie wanted to be certain no further harm would be done to her son. She would create a trap that would minimize the amount of time Neal would need to be with Fred. This was probably the hardest thing Marie would ever need to do, but Neal was in trouble and nothing could stop her.
As Marie knew he would, Fred agreed to join them for a BBQ. She asked Beth to come a few minutes early to discuss the plan. She once again reassured Neal that Beth was coming as well. Neal’s father would be out playing golf all day.
Before Marie’s guests arrived, she had work to do in Neal’s bedroom. She sent him to the market near the house for some butter and eggs. She found a couple of photos of Neal when he was two and three years old running in and out of the garden sprinkler without any clothing; she set those out on his dresser. She went into Neal’s underwear drawer and stacked four pairs on top of the dresser next to the photos. She then closed Neal’s door. When Beth got there, she showed her what she had done to prepare Neal’s bedroom. They discussed Marie’s plan.
When Fred arrived, Marie immediately noticed Neal’s body language. She was fuming mad, but she knew she’d have to hide her contempt. Beth gave Marie a look in order to show Marie that they were on solid ground. Beth adored Neal and felt protective of him, however, today was for all the children Fred had ever harmed or might someday harm.
Marie grilled some burgers while Beth kept her eyes on Fred; also making sure Neal was away from him and comfortable. She’d brought a new computer game she knew he’d enjoy. Beth was also certain Fred would behave himself in front of other adults. After dinner Beth whispered a request into Neal’s ear.
“Here’s $5.00, please run and get some ice cream, your mom completely forgot dessert.”
Neal gladly ran off to the store without Fred noticing the exchange. Two minutes later Marie acted concerned, but tried not to be too dramatic.
“Hey you two, I can’t find Neal anywhere and we’re about to have some dessert. Beth please check the shed, Neal’s been working on building something in there. Fred, can you go up and see if he’s in his room? It’s upstairs.”
Fred made a beeline for the stairs. In the meantime, Neal returned with the ice cream and Beth thanked him. Marie pulled Neal to the side.
“Don’t say anything to Fred about running to the store, I’m embarrassed that I’d forgotten dessert.”
Fred came down the stairs and said, “There you are, you little rascal.”
Beth quickly ascended the stairs, noticed the missing items and called the police. She explained that there was a pedophile in her friend’s house. She asked that they come quickly and apprehend him.
Marie had arranged for Neal to be at her neighbor Fran’s house when the police arrived. The police asked for Fred to empty his pockets. He resisted at first, but when they threatened to take him to the police station, he complied. He had taken the two pairs of Neal’s underwear and the photos. They arrested Fred on theft charges and escorted him out of Marie’s house in handcuffs.
Over the next few weeks Fred was held in a corrections facility and investigated. Several boy scouts shared horrendous instances of sexual abuse. Fred Irving was charged on multiple counts of child molestation; he confessed and was convicted. He is currently serving a twenty year sentence. Neal is seeing a professional therapist who specifically deals with sexual abuse. He is much happier these days. The world he created in order to escape reality, is a distant memory. Marie and Beth have become very close friends. Neal’s parents divorced months after Fred’s arrest.
State-of-Mind
I was one of the lucky ones, I’ve never been molested. When I lived in Maine, a teacher I had great respect for, confided in me. He told me about a Catholic priest who groomed and sexually abused him for several years. It’s a world I had always shielded myself from; too unpleasant to think about. This man’s pain was greater than I would have imagined. I still think about what he told me and his journey to wellness. Predators of children need to be fully exposed and their enablers forced to deal with the damage they have permitted. In my mind, all parties involved share equal guilt.
Paco has had an ear infection since March. After six vet visits, it has finally gone away. I know it seems like a small thing, but he was bothered by it and it was a daily struggle to keep it under control. Apparently, these bacteria are growing stronger, becoming more resistant to antibiotics and other remedies. My pet owner friends will appreciate my anxiety over this.
I’ve been feeling vulnerable, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It forces me to examine my life and all of its parts. Looking in the mirror requires one to face the blemishes one might see. At the end of the day, I need to own my mistakes and forgive myself — grace for oneself and grace with others. I guess the only other caveat is the hope that others will fully accept me as well. If they choose not to, I need to move on.
“We don’t have to wait until we are on our deathbed to realize what a waste of our precious lives it is to carry the belief that something is wrong with us.”
Papagni Pages 