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He Didn’t Want to Leave Them

There was a deafening silence before he played the answering machine. When Ron walked in and saw 16 messages on his machine, he knew in his gut that something terrible had happened while he was away. Time seemed to stand still for an eternity. He took a deep breath and played the first message. It was his sister Carrie, sobbing, barely able to get the words out; gut wrenching grief. Their brother had been found dead that morning. That part didn’t register at that moment, but it explained all the messages. He hated that fucking machine more than just about anything. He was out for less than two hours for fuck’s sake.

He took a deep breath, turned out all the lights and sat in the stillness for what felt like hours. He was aware he’d eventually have to fly home, but not at that moment; Georgia would have to wait. There were only two people who truly knew Ron and one of them was now gone. Not gone as in moved across the country or disappeared for a couple of days, gone as in dead, no longer breathing. Ron needed to process losing his brother and best friend. He slapped himself thinking he was asleep. Didn’t he dream his sister fell to her death a few months ago?

Suicide; haven’t we all considered it at one time or another? Doesn’t your rational mind usually take control? Who takes their own life? It’s selfish, it’s desperate, it shouldn’t happen. It didn’t happen.

Jay did it; Jay took his own life. That asshole left his family to clean up the mess. His daughters were too young to lose their father. Five year old innocents with nothing but crinkled photos and his stupid baseball hat. What was he thinking? Where are you Jay?

Jay loved baseball. It seemed at times that he loved that stupid game more than he loved anyone or anything else. Everyone joked and laughed about it, but maybe it wasn’t so funny. Maybe baseball gave him some peace. Ron hated when the game was on television at Thanksgiving. He mocked his brother; said stupid things like “you’re out” and “game over loser.” What an asshole Ron had been.

Ron picked up his phone to call his father, then he threw it down. Why did he have to make this call? Did Jay even think about their father? Did he even consider what it would do to him? To us? Could his father’s heart even take it? What about Jay’s ex-wife? She wouldn’t give a shit, but somebody to tell her so that she could tell the girls. They were five years old for fuck’s sake. Gorgeous twin, now fatherless. Ron paced and picked up the phone again.

“Dad, are you there dad?”

“Yea Ron, what’s up?”

“I have some bad news dad, Jay . . . Jay took his own life this morning. You there dad?”

“Oh shit, shit, shit . . . fuck! How, how did he do it? Shit Jay. No, don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know. Damn it Ron, was Jay upset about something, did something happen to the girls, to Sally?”

“No dad, nothing happened to the girls and Sally doesn’t know yet.”

“Oh no Ron, are you sure about this? Jay wouldn’t do a thing like this.”

“Listen dad, don’t go anywhere. I´ll be there in a bit, I just have to make some calls. Are you okay?”

“Ron? Did Jay take pills? No, don’t tell me.”

“I’ll be there in a bit dad, I have to call Sally.”

Ron covered his face with his sweaty hands and thought about his next move. His anger toward his brother was palpable; he was fighting emotions he detested, holding back tears and punching in the walls. Ron was the guy everyone counted on in a crisis, but this time he was letting everyone down. He needed to call Sally.

Sally was calm, detached even. She said she’d tell the girls, but that she wasn’t sure she’d let them attend Jay’s funeral. Ron was too caught up in his spiraling emotions to argue. He let her know that someone would send her the details of the funeral.

The whole family had issues with Sally. She obviously couldn’t be blamed for Jay’s suicide, but she’d certainly end up a scapegoat. She loved Jay at one time, but the depression, alcohol abuse, verbal assaults, all became too much for her and she needed to protect her daughters. Sally’s grief would not be acknowledged by anyone in Jay’s world; she’d have to deal with it on her own.

Ron was relieved that his mother had passed last year; Jay’s death would have surely killed her. Without his mother Leslie, Jay became despondent; Leslie was his only champion. Jay pissed off most of the people in his life. Still, no one sensed his desperation; maybe they did, but didn’t care.

What should Ron and Carrie tell his friends? Should they tell the truth and deal with awkward moments and stupid questions or do they say he had a heart attack? How many heart attacks were actually suicide? The twins deserved the truth about their father so that the healing could begin. Is it even possible to heal?

Include your email address for a drop in your mailbox whenever a new fictional story is posted. Thank you.

I know this story is dark, however, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded that people close to us may be hurting and need our love and support.

Suicide thoughts or support in Portugal:

Emergency: 112 Suicide Hotline: 21 854 07 40 and 8 96 898 21 50

My friend Donna is getting married and we got to have a little party with her on the beach.

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A Letter to My 80 Year Old Self

Updated October 2023

This letter needed revising — you live and learn don’t you?

Dear Christopher,

2040 is not far away and I’m certain the world will have changed; just wondering how much? Technology (AI), war, cancer, viruses, politics, and climate change will undoubtedly be factors. The big questions seem silly to ask, but curiosity has gotten the better of me. What is the weather like? How many mutations of Coronavirus have been discovered? Is Ivanka Trump president? Do three individuals possess 95% of the world’s wealth? Who in your orbit is still around? How is your health and do people reach out to see how you are?

There are of course things I’m certain remain true. Those certainties that have stood the test of time: the fear of God and blind faith, every man or woman for his or her self (greed), stupidity, denial, illness, love, and Cher. Self-destruction of humankind seems inevitable; however, I can’t help wondering if that’s how you’ll go.

The planet has always gone through stages of birth, death, and re-birth; that is a constant. The big question on my mind is what lessons have been learned? Knowing that society’s changes are often temporary and uneven, I cannot help wondering how the billions of earth’s inhabitants are experiencing their current reality. How many billions are there by the way? As usual, I digress.

Allow me to explain my reason for writing. As a pragmatic cynic, I never had much faith in my fellow humans. I watched too many of my neighbors place plastic in the organic bin (one symbolic example) . It wasn’t that I wondered if they cared, it was more that I knew they didn’t. Unfortunately, that’s what age does to you — you’ve seen too much to hold onto senseless hope. Yes, there are rare exceptions to the rule. There are moments when you think that people have changed. But, as we know, history repeats itself and humankind makes more missteps than progress. Isn’t that what being human is? Anger, holding onto it, feeling it, conveying it; has always been an issue, I sincerely hope you are less angry.

You were always one to defend ignorance, therefore, I’m certain you’re spending more time defending and less time explaining. But are you mostly happy? Or maybe you’ve been around long enough now to realize that happiness is relative.

Knowing that you are a dreamer, there are some other things I have been wondering about: for instance, do you continue to care about what others think? I suspect you do. That was an elusive lesson no matter how much you tried to detach; proving that imprinting early on is almost impossible to alter. I’m hopeful that the effects of gossip and idle chatter have softened you over time. As your taste buds only get stronger as you get older, I’m hopeful that this consistent pleasure remains intact. I can’t help imagining that the walks have gotten longer and your bedtime earlier. The quiet of the morning hours become more of a comfort, as the messages from loved ones are more than likely, less frequent. I’m certain you expect less and long for even less.

Do you continue to allow people to hurt you? You’ve worked on letting go your entire life; knowing the toll emotional pain can take. How far have you retreated into your protective shell or perhaps you have learned to recognize that when people are hurting, they sometimes lash out at others to ease their own pain or hide their insecurity. “It’s not about you,” has been your most difficult life lesson.

What I hope for more than anything else, is that you have found peace. The ability to laugh at absurdity; find comfort in your tears. Also, that loss has somehow passed you by or that time has only taken those who were prepared to let go. I know that you often think fondly of Ashley, Giorgio, and Paco. The pets who taught you more about life and love than most of the humans you encountered.

If there is anything I can help you with as you get closer to death, let it be this: time is your most precious possession. Cherish time, forget regret, love yourself first, dance when you feel like dancing, sing anywhere you like, love without fear, embrace your authentic self, if the play sucks, walk out, do not give away time to those who do not deserve it and spend time with those who do. And for once in your life, do not allow guilt to control your heart and/or mind. Lastly, I hope you are celebrating that you’ve made it this far.

With hope, love and arrogance,

Your younger self

__________________________________________

I know this letter seems negative, but I read it differently. For me it says better days are ahead and lessons learned have softened the landing. I’ve experienced enough of life to know that you have to celebrate the highs and ride out the lows.

Future Travel

Asia land & sea, end of October/November, Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, and Oslo, Norway July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Portland, Maine, Maryland, North Carolina and maybe the west coast.

Current State-of Mind

I spent a few days in Spain this week. One of my car tires blew out in a posh neighborhood outside of the city. I wasn’t in a hurry to get to a restaurant I had planned to go to, so I attempted to fix the problem on the side of the road. I’d never even heard of this green slime solution that supposedly seals the tire, allows you to fill it with a pump provided, and in theory, gets you to a car repair business. As I mentioned earlier, this is all conjecture. It doesn’t work if you have a blowout. I’m just glad I was in a populated place not far from my hotel. I was able to leave the car where the mishap occurred and walk back to my hotel. The next day my insurance rep told me to make sure to be with my vehicle by 9:00 a.m. He did mention that roadside service in Spain was slow; alas over three hours later a tow truck arrived. I have never had a vehicle of mine break down close to home. Perhaps this is why I opted to go vehicle-free for my first five years in Portugal. Cars can be a royal pain in the caboose.

I have to at least mention one highlight: I was in Spain on a Monday when most restaurants are closed. I ventured out on a walk hoping to find a place with decent food. I managed to locate a little tapas café where I saw locals drinking, but not eating. I think it’s safe to say that Spaniards do day drinking better than most other cultures (Portugal is not far behind). I walked in and this very pleasant middle-aged woman asked me in English, if I wanted a beer. I guess it’s obvious that I am American. I said yes, of course. I asked for a menu and she instead described what she could whip-up for me. She made me delicious potato croquettes as an appetizer and then I had braised beef in a savory brown sauce over frites. I paired the last dish with a Rioja. I left with a smile and a full belly. This is why I love to travel.

This is Maria. She asked me to take her to New York; it wasn’t right away, she waited until I was leaving. I certainly couldn’t fault her for trying!

Please forgive any and all typographical and grammatical errors.

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Missing in Italy

A personal story I posted several years ago — many of my readers have not read about this nightmare from my past. Sometimes I shake my head wondering: did this really happen?

Alma graduation photograph from their website (not ICA class)

I’ve waited for quite awhile to tell this story. It’s a rather sensitive matter, therefore, I will use fictitious names to protect those involved. There are people in this story who were supportive, sympathetic, and brave and then there are the rest. I should start by saying that the entire matter was surreal. As I went through the motions and experienced it, I felt as though I was on the set of a film shoot; none of it seemed real, and all of it bizarre. What I know for certain, is that it happened and it changed me.

Searching for a Needle in an Italian Haystack

It was an ordinary day at The International Culinary Center (ICC) in New York City when I received the call. At the time, I was School Director and Dean of Student Affairs. The year was the early 2000s. I had worked with others to create an Italian cooking training program in Italy. Students would start their training at ICC and then travel to Alma in Colorno, Italy for the final six weeks of their training. I had traveled to Colorno (by way of Milan) several times. Our relationship with the staff in Italy was solid and the student experience was exceptional. I was proud to be a part of a very unique cooking school experience. Most of the students were in the 20s and 30s; very mature and focused.

We did several rotations a year and enrollment was better than expected. I was the administrator-in-charge of the program; however, there were over ten faculty and staff members doing the real work of executing the experience. The cost of the complete course was close to $50,000 and because half of it was overseas, there were many moving parts. My father was born in Italy; in many ways, it felt as if I had come full-circle in my Italian heritage. While I worked with others to create the program, I learned a lot about regional Italian cooking, its rich history, and I got to try every dish taught. In addition, I was a proud judge during finals in Italy, on several occasions.

Francesca (her real name) was my contact person at Alma. What we were about to experience created a bond and lifelong friendship born out of a terrifying situation. Francesca’s call about one of our students in Italy, continues to make me anxious all these years later. There are deeply felt emotions that are never lost and never leave us.

“Chris, I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to worry too much.”

My body tensed and I stayed quiet and I listened.

“One of your ICA (at that time we called the program Italian Culinary Academy) students has disappeared.”

Francesca was not an alarmist and she took care of nearly any incident on the Alma campus, so I knew this was serious. Sal was gone for two days and no one had heard from him. His passport and toothbrush were still in his room and there appeared to be no foul play. Administrators at both schools agreed that he had probably met a girl and he was with her on a sun drenched beach. Sal’s friends and classmates didn’t believe that was the case and this caused great concern. Apparently, there were witnesses to an argument outside of a bar the night before he’d gone missing; in fact, the last time Sal was seen. The argument was between Sal and several locals. Some students speculated that the argument was over a Russian girl from the bar, but no one was certain. Francesca and I agreed that Sal’s parents should be informed. She was also going to call the Colorno carabinieri (local police).

I quickly booked a flight to Milan, packed a small bag, and headed for JFK. Alma had a car pick me up in Milan and I attempted to rest my eyes and calm my brain on the 2.5 hour drive to Colorno. It had been 16 hours since hearing from Francesca and by this time, I imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios. Growing up in Brooklyn during the 60s and 70s made me tough, street smart, and terribly jaded. Film and murder mysteries didn’t help.

Riccardo (head of the school, also his real name) and Francesca met me at the school when I arrived. There was no news from Sal and everyone was thinking the worst. Sal’s parents were on their way from the States and Francesca was arranging their accommodations. Jet lag was helping make a bad situation untenable; my thoughts toggling between despair about what might have happened to Sal and dread concerning meeting his parents. A living nightmare and nowhere to hide.

Francesca drove me to the police station for a conversation regarding next steps. I sat with several carabinieri officers asking every question I could think of. Francesca was interpreting for me and I could tell she was exhausted and worried. The carabinieri would not confirm or deny a street argument or that there might have been a Russian girl involved.

After hours at the police station and talking with students, I headed for my hotel room to close my eyes. Francesca agreed to contact me with any news.

There was one particular bar not far from the school that was popular with the American students attending Alma. Colorno is a very small town and everyone knows everyone. There were rumors among the students a number of Russian woman were available for hire and that Sal might have owed money to one of the handlers of these woman. Administrators at Alma seemed genuinely surprised to hear that prostitution was taking place under their noses. My mind took me to dark place; imagining Sal buried six feet underground somewhere outside of Colorno.

Sal’s parents arrived the evening of my first day, however, they did not show up on campus until the following morning. By then, I had slept a few hours and I was more prepared to meet with them. Alma was very sympathetic to their anxiety and did everything possible to make them comfortable. Looking back, I was actually quite surprised by their calm and decorum. They too spent time with the local police. They also took several students close to Sal for lunch and tried to better understand where he might be.

At some point at the end of our first full day, we all met to discuss what we might do next — parents intentionally left out. Alma seemed reluctant to contact the press, for fear the school’s reputation might be harmed. I believe we were secretly hoping Sal would turn up on campus behaving as if he’d done nothing wrong.

As time passed, the street argument became more of a factor; all involved were called in and questioned by the police. The carabinieri were convinced that there was no there, there. I started to feel as if there might be a cover-up and Sal’s parents were skeptical as well. Although his parents and I were in communication throughout the day during early days of the incident, I felt fairly distant from them; detached. They were understandably frustrated, tired, and concerned.

On the fourth day, none of us believed Sal would just reappear. If he had run away with a girl or decided to bail from the program, he would have taken his passport at the very least. We were all fairly certain foul play of some sort had taken place. The Italian state police were brought in after Alma’s administration began to feel as if the local police were not doing enough. Word got out to the press and just about every local and regional news outlet was covering the disappearance. When word got out that an American student was missing and there was speculation that the Russian mafia might have been involved, a search party was dispatched and the rivers and lakes in the area were dredged. I silently hoped Sal would call us to say that he’d see the reports of his disappearance and wanted to let us know that he was fine and that he was sorry for all of the trouble he’d caused. That didn’t happen, but all I had was hope.

I wasn’t sleeping very well and couldn’t help thinking that this would probably be the last class studying at Alma. One incident, completely unrelated to the cooking experience could threaten the viability of a program we worked on for two years. The pubic relations machine at both schools was working hard to highlight how positive the Alma experience was and that this was an unfortunate one-off situation. Sal’s parents were angry that the Italian police and government were not doing more to locate their son; we were mindful that they alone could potentially raise enough concern to shut us down.

His parents decided that a trip to the American Embassy in Milan might help get the Italian government to take this more seriously. I regretfully volunteered to drive them to the embassy. They sat together in the back seat; Sal’s father consoling his mother most of the way to Milan. Over two hours in a vehicle with someone crying hysterically is not easy for the person at the wheel. I didn’t say much for fear of saying the wrong thing. I tried my best to be supportive and reassuring. I didn’t think the people at the embassy would help, but it wasn’t my son who was missing.

When we got to the embassy it was a well-guarded fortress. I dropped them off as close as I could get to the entrance and parked the car. Just as I arrived they were being escorted in. The guards told me that only the parents would be allowed. I called for Sal’s father and he walked over and apologized. He knew that I would be staying in Milan that night and flying back to the States the next morning. It had been a full week since Sal had gone missing and there was nothing more I could do in Italy. Sal’s father agreed to call me if they needed anything and we said our goodbyes. I felt very sorry for Sal’s parents and I was exhausted.

I recall making a call to Gary (real name), ICA’s president, that afternoon and becoming emotional on the phone. The fear of learning that a dead body was found was becoming more and more real. Gary, as always, was extremely supportive and grateful. He and the rest of the staff at ICC were hoping for the best. He asked me to remain calm and to get home safely. The administration at Alma was also very supportive and assured me that they would do everything possible to find Sal. I flew back to the States the next morning.

Time passed and still no word from Sal. His parents stayed in Italy for a couple of weeks and then returned home when hope of finding him had diminished. They became angry, resentful, and blamed both schools for gross negligence. They claimed that we had placed their son in an unsafe environment. Sal’s brother publicly posted a scathing letter, claiming the school was completely negligent. Threats of a lawsuit were being bandied about. The students in Italy had gone on with their studies hoping to complete the program. I had all but given up hope.

Graduation at Alma was scheduled a few weeks out; I knew it would be best for be to return and attend. When I arrived on campus, the students, whom I had stayed in contact with, greeted me warmly. They all assured me that the ICC was not to blame for Sal’s disappearance. We all wondered if this great mystery would ever be solved. I met with the local and state police for an update — there was none. Still much speculation that there was foul play, however, the guilty party or parties, had not revealed themselves. I returned to New York having lost quite a few pounds and feeling like I’d let a lot of people down.

Thanksgiving came and went. Each day brought less talk of Sal’s whereabouts. My emotions had gone from remorse to sadness to anger; acceptance was not within reach. Then, out of nowhere, shorty before Christmas, a call from Francesca in Italy, Sal had been located. He had joined the French Foreign Legion. Apparently, when you join, you leave behind the material world and those you once cared about; some join to escape their lives. Sal somehow managed to slip a note with his parents telephone Number to an Asian guy who was leaving the Legion and had agreed to make a call. It was the best Christmas gift of my life.

There are several takeaways from this life event that are forever etched in my brain. First, Sal’s family never apologized for their treatment of the two schools. They blamed us for Sal’s disappearance for months and when he turned up, not one of them came forward to acknowledge they were unfair and had hurt several good people. Lastly, when Sal left the French Foreign Legion he did not contact me to explain himself, apologize or thank me or the ICC for trying to find him. Oddly, I didn’t care. It bothered others at the school and it made several people in my life angry, but I had something far more important to me, I had peace-of-mind and Christmas that unfortunate year.

Disclaimer: This incident occurred over ten years ago, therefore, I cannot swear by every detail outlined in my accounting of the story. Due to the seriousness of the situation and my own personal involvement, I can only vouch for my own recollection of what took place.

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Future Travel

Asia land & sea, end of October/November, Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, and Oslo, Norway July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025; it’s about time I visit the birthplace of my father.

Current State-of Mind

Just back from Basel, Switzerland. Three days were perfect. It’s a beautiful city, offering magnificent architecture, excellent museums and galleries, good eating options, easy to navigate transportation and only 2.5 hours by air from Faro. Transport from the airport to the city center by shuttle bus in 20 minutes (leaves airport every 10 minutes). Be prepared to spend some money, Switzerland is pricey. If you go, Steinenschanze Stadthotel was excellent and affordable. If you spend more time there, the city borders France for other travel options. Several other countries are close by.

I seldom return from vacations feeling rested and rejuvenated; Basel was a perfect city getaway.

Please forgive any grammatical or typographical errors. No AI software used in the creation of this blog.

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My Last Night With Anthony

I only wish I’d known my brother would soon leave us

Anthony was super sensitive, troubled, and a danger to himself. He was also extremely supportive and people couldn’t help loving him. He was born two years after me in Brooklyn, at a time when behavioral and psychological issues went undiagnosed. Anthony wasn’t lock-him-up crazy, but he wasn’t meant to be left to his own devices either. I knew my brother struggled, but I had my own shit to deal with growing up. Our broken home was not the best environment for personal instability. As if by random selection, I thrived in our shared dysfunction, my brother did not. Anthony was only 38 when a fatal dose of heroin took his life. He apparently had an enlarged heart as a result of years of cocaine abuse. The coroner documented his death as an accident — we’ll never know for sure. This is the story of our last night together.

I was turning 40 and finally somewhat satisfied with the direction of my life. A career that was progressing nicely, a completed Ph.D., a brownstone apartment in Brooklyn that was all mine, and for the most part, acceptance of my sexual orientation. I was ready to celebrate. I planned a big party at a friend’s Manhattan, Park Avenue penthouse. I hired chefs, entertainment, and invited nearly 100 of my closest friends and family. I had already come out as gay, but this was more like coming out as having survived my youth. I prepared a speech for the occasion where I would let those who cared about me know how much they meant to me. Anthony flew to New York from North Carolina. I was too busy during the day of my party to spend any time with him; I told him I’d see him at my party.

By the time he arrived, the party was in full swing. He walked over to me at some point, sullen and resembling death. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, I’d seen him in despair many times in our lives. He suffered from severe depression and his marriage had recently ended. I hugged him and promised him that at some point during the evening, we’d have some quality time. We passed one another several times throughout the night. I asked him to stick around for my speech because there was something I wanted him to hear.

My sister Kathy approached me during the party chaos. She told me that she knew I was busy, but she was worried about Anthony. I recall saying something like, “Aren’t we always worried about Anthony?” A failed suicide attempt in his teens left us all forever on edge. I assured her that I’d check in on him before he flew back to North Carolina. It was a big night for me and my focus was on other things.

I gave my speech and referred to him as my brother and best friend. I was hoping that would cheer him up; it did make him smile, but clearly he was in a dark place. He’d been clean and sober for a long time and I was concerned that he might be so despondent he’d start using again. Anyone who has dealt with depression will tell you that the attempt to help someone is not always met with an embrace.

Anthony stayed till the end of the party and helped me load my gifts into the car. He had an early morning flight, but he seemed eager to speak to me about something on his mind. He had a history of placing me in the center of challenging times in his life. At one point in his early twenties I found him emaciated and close to death in his North Carolina apartment. There were empty heroine vials and used needles everywhere. I carried him out to my car and drove him to a rehab facility in Charlotte. He stayed for the three week treatment and remained clean (as far as I knew) until a short period prior to his death. He traveled the country speaking to young people about addiction and his journey to a better life — a healthier life. He often credited me with saving him, although I never wanted that responsibility. It was my mother who begged me to go to his apartment on the day I found him. By then, I was close to giving up on him. Rehabilitation, meeting a woman he fell in love with, and then having a beautiful baby girl, all led to stability and some semblance of happiness. Until it all came crashing down. Back to the night we unknowingly said goodbye forever.

After loading the car, we drove to Brooklyn and went to a diner to talk. Anthony wept and shared his disappointment about a marriage that had fallen apart and the knowledge that his six year old daughter would no longer be a part of his daily life. He was devastated and blamed himself for all of it. I listened and tried my best to be supportive. His tendency toward violence and extreme anger made it difficult to absolve him of any blame. Considering his state of mind, this was not the time to chide him for his bad behavior. I liked and respected his wife, but I also felt that she had in some way brought it on — I’m certain some of those feelings came from being a protective brother; I knew the triggers that brought out the worst in Anthony. 

Hours of talk painfully passed as the sun eventually showed through the filthy diner windows. I began hearing some softening of Anthony’s sobs and a small amount of relief. His flight was due to take off soon and I needed to get him to the airport. We were both spent and weary. I was deeply concerned about Anthony’s state-of-mind, but I needed sleep. We had been there before and I knew this time we had together would only be a bandaid. 

When we arrived curbside at departures, I stepped out of the car to hug my brother. As he wept in my arms, I recall telling him that he could come and stay with me anytime. I asked him to call me when he got home and he nodded and left me with a hint of a smile. I was relieved that the night was over as I drove away. This was the last time I saw my brother. He called me several times before overdosing/heart failure in July. After his death, I asked myself if there was anything more that I could have done. The answer of course is yes, there is always more one could have done, but I’m certain that there was nothing I could have done that would have prevented his death. His last call to me was a few days before he took to the streets to find heroin. He was deeply depressed, however, that was par for the course. I know that it was Anthony’s lifelong struggle with depression and addiction that killed him. Those of us who loved him may have at times eased his pain a bit, but none of us could have prevented his death. His struggle and friendship will inspire and haunt me until I die.

____________________________________

If you are struggling with a loved one who suffers from depression, there is no formula for helping them survive. Love, counseling, mental health programs, the sharing of resources, and the support of everyone around you can hopefully get you both through this devastating reality.

Anthony is sitting next to me on the sofa. My guess is that he was a year old in this photo and I was three. In the second photo, we were in North Carolina sometime in the early 80s.

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Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November and South Africa land & sea in February. My sister Debbie and her husband Lynn, will be joining me on a visit to our father’s birthplace in the Puglia region of Italy in 2025.

Current State-of Mind

These last few weeks in Faro have been a gift. Lots of quiet time for reflection and rest. I have once again decided to steer clear of toxic individuals — I say once again because I occasionally lose perspective and use poor judgment; I needed a good jolt. It’s impossible to rid yourself of all who cause you grief; however, you can limit the number by being proactive. Taking the high road is always the best path. Healthy disagreement is good, but not always possible; therefore, when it’s not an option, walk away. Anthony and others I have lost remind me of how fleeting life is.

____________________________________

News: I have been waiting for the following (it will be a deciding factor in my remaining in Portugal):

After a long battle, Portugal passed a law on Friday legalizing euthanasia for people in great suffering and with incurable diseases, joining just a handful of countries around the world (wikipedia). Bravo!

Please forgive any typographical or grammatical errors.

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Owning Your (My) Political Truth

Half In Half Out of the Proverbial Political Closet

Many of my readers will skip over this blog and with good reason: people are sick and tired of politics. I am! Still, I firmly believe we have an obligation to take part in politics simply because it impacts all of us.

Nevertheless, so many have buried their heads in the sand or chosen to ignore politics due to its divisive nature today. I mostly blame the media for the strong divide and I don’t see it getting any better, anytime soon. News organizations have figured out that if they get us angry enough, we will engage. In some ways it feels like an addiction — we’ll reel you in by giving you a small taste of uncovered or speculated criminal behavior and then we’ll keep you engaged by sharing snippets of hearsay and innuendo. This is not a conspiracy theory, it is known truth. In a way it keeps us off-balance; always seeking the real truth and a favorable outcome. Please note that none of my observations refer to all individuals.

Woke, Liberal, Socialism & Taxing the Wealthy

I recently posted a definition of woke. Above the definition I said that if you are not woke, I do not want you in my life. I was fully aware that some people would read that statement and think that I was addressing them. Don’t get me wrong, I was being serious. But if I were to break it down, what I mean essentially, is that if you do not care for your fellow human being, I’d rather not hang with you. Now how many people would fall into that category? No one I know. But . . . if an individual thought that I was specifically speaking to them, so be it. There will be no begging in my future.

Politicians and the media have made “woke” a polarizing term because they want us to hate and distrust one another. I can’t help but wonder where this polarization will take us as a society. I’m preparing for the worst.

I am a proud liberal and I believe there is a place for socialism; words that have been demonized by conservatives. Will the world ever come together on this? Not so long as capitalism is the world economy. Unfortunately, I believe that someday capitalism will implode; mostly due to greed. I hope I’m not around to see it.

As long as wealthy individuals are contributing to politicians, taxing the rich will be a contentious issue.

When it comes to being woke, I’m not sure why anyone has a problem with it . . . I’m being honest. I don’t think some people understand the meaning of the word.

Picking Sides

I am an independent voter. I want to hear from all of those individuals wanting to represent me and I want to analyze what they have to say. The problem with this scenario is simple: our (the U.S.) political system is not designed to support an independent politician. Other governments in the world are much more inclusive (see Scandinavian governments and some European countries), where representatives of all elected parties are active members of parliament. There are a few independents in the U.S., but the majority of them are democrats who like to portray themselves as free thinking and progressive politicians. It’s difficult to take them seriously knowing that their voices will be drowned out by the majority. Angus King, senator from Maine, is a good example of a bright, moderate leader, who claims to be independent. I’m not sure of his voting record and I don’t want to get mired in detail, but I doubt he ever votes with Republicans on the highly public and media covered issues. I wish I knew more about politics in other countries. I live in Portugal and I understand very little about the politics here.

Currently, the following major issues are meant to divide us: abortion, immigration, taxation, healthcare, gun control, big versus down-sized government, climate change, and others I honestly do not keep up with.

What we have are people voting: along party lines, based on the gender of the candidate, the candidate that will vote to keep their money in their pockets, religious affiliations, and sometimes whomever their spouse or best friend is voting for. How can we ever hope to have a fair and unbiased political system? Some of us like to think that best leader will rise to the top or emerge victorious; however, that leaves far too much to chance. Also, these days the separation lines between church and state are blurred in some places. This might be one of the most dangerous outcomes of politics today.

Who is right and who is wrong? In my mind it’s about what is best for humankind in the long term. I know not everyone agrees. In the end, I pick the side preventing the extinction of human beings and a government that takes care of those in need. If we keep going in our current direction, we will indeed kill one another to the point of extinction. Mother nature can only do so much to protect us. And if you’re of a religious persuasion, history should show you that God does not prevent death, pain or destruction.

Why State Your Case

I’m old fashioned in my thinking about politics. I like to hope that people are gathering information; information that will help them decide which leader that like to have representing their particular agenda. If immigration is at the forefront for you, you’re going to want to know which leader will create policies or vote to accomplish what you believe will be an effective and fair immigration agenda. I would then use my voice to offer up my thoughts on the perspective leaders who see immigration as one of their most important initiatives: how have they voted in the past, what do they have to say on the issue, who do they align themselves with, who do they receive donations from, do they listen to their constituents, etc. Unfortunately many following politics today only listen to one side and unfortunately, that media outlet or individual is only presenting facts or information that create a distorted portrait of the truth. If you show a photograph of individuals running across the border at 3:00 a.m. with a caption along side of it: “Thousands cross the border illegally in the wee morning hours.” This clip is manipulating negative thoughts about immigrants. There is no information about why they’re running, what they are running from or toward, what alternatives they did or did not have, whether or not they attempted to migrate legally — all facts I want to know before I determine the best policy for dealing with it. Instead we have anger based on political bias. “These people are murdering our babies and taking away our jobs,” or our current leaders don’t care who they allow in to our country.”

Where is our compassion? Aren’t the majority of American descendants of immigrants?

I don’t look for conflict, when people disagree with me or have a different point of view, I’m happy to have a civilized conversation.

How You Know When People Don’t Want to Hear Your Opinion or Don’t Like What You’re Posting/Blogging

There are four ways that may inform you when people do not like what you have to say:

  1. People who normally respond to your words (posts) will just ghost or ignore you.
  2. People will straight out tell you they disagree and why (I love this). I enjoy when it initiates a good debate. Listening to all sides, not pointing fingers or placing blame.
  3. People will respond with a generic reaction: eg., you post something about Republicans holding up a vote in the House; someone replies: Republicans and Democrats, they’re all the same.
  4. People will unfriend you on Facebook. This is sort of extreme or passive aggressive, but I have come to realize that most people hate confrontation . . . and with good reason.

I find it’s best to stand by your convictions and accept whatever comes your way. Integrity wins out over comfort and being well liked. We are all motivated by different things.


“There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he must take it because conscience tells him it is right.”
― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

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Upcoming Travel

Two months at home and I couldn’t be happier. Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea end of October/November and South Africa land & sea in February. I’m learning how to be a better traveller.

Current State-of Mind

My neighborhood is finally quiet; the area schools are on summer vacation, home renovations are on hold, the work on my building has been completed (for now), and it’s too hot for people to be out on the street. The quiet is sublime. Knowing it’s temporary makes it even more special.

I don’t want silence 24/7. A little bit of city noise (traffic, sirens, airplanes in the distance) is nice; it’s a reminder that life is going on all around you.

Please continue to enjoy your summer. I travel to find truth and the best bowl of pasta.

Please forgive all grammatical and typographical errors. Thank you.

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Saying Goodbye to Mom (repost)

I held my mother’s icy cold hand and I whispered, “You can go now mom.”

Mom and me. I know, I’m working that stache
I apologize for the blurry photo. My non-digital photos are all in storage. I’m reposting this blog because it’s therapeutic for me to revisit the end of my mother’s life. It was extremely difficult and I’m only now beginning to forgive myself.

“Why don’t you feel good about this? Wasn’t it the kindest thing to do?” If my intention was to have my mother pass in order to end her suffering, that would have been kind; however, that was not my intention. In truth, I thought it was wrong to keep her hooked up to a respirator and I knew she’d try to hang on for as long as she could; mom was fiercely stubborn. We had a complicated relationship and I was tired of the drama; I was done. Before you start hating me, I’d like you to consider a few facts. For one, my mother had been in and out of hospital for several years and near death numerous times. She was resuscitated and even though she told my stepfather that she did not want to be, he went ahead and ordered it anyway. She had not completed the paperwork in hospital, no surprise to me or my siblings. When I say that my relationship with my mother was complicated, I believe an explanation is warranted. In many ways, throughout my youth and twenties, I was the parent. My mother was a heavy smoker (even during her pregnancies), a gambler, cheated on my father, a thief (insurance fraud and groceries to name two), and she did psychological damage to all four of her daughters. Three out of four of my sisters had eating disorders due to my mother’s unhealthy weight obsession. I was constantly reminding her about the hazards of smoking, begging her to cut back; also to slow down the gambling, and to see a therapist in order to deal with her self-inflicted pain. So when I said, You can go now mom, it was after many years of shame and disappointment, as well as a strong belief that modern medicine was prolonging the inevitable. Some people will say that I judged her harshly; others will say that it does not matter how awful she was, I should not speak ill of her. You can be certain that my living siblings would attest to my account of our upbringing and the chaos she rained upon us as adults.

How I handle my grief and remorse is my choice.

When she was alive she would actually say, “I know you’re going to write a book about me when I die.” That was her way of telling me to wait. The irony is that I loved her. When family members would scorn her, I would jump to her defense. But deep down I believed that she was selfish, disingenuous, and should probably not have given birth to children. True, she had an abusive father and she got pregnant when she was 16 years old, but that does not excuse the poor mothering; she knew better. I’m certain she knew better.

Future Travel

Scotland very soon — Glasgow, Oban and several islands off the coast; a brief September trip to Basel Switzerland, followed by Dubai, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and Hong Kong in late September and October; South Africa in early 2024.

Current State of Mind

Mellow, very mellow. It was sweltering hot and then we had the most glorious, cool, breezy day on Friday. It felt good to be alive.

Mom always made Christmas special
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Pain Management of the Arthritis Variety

You too? I’m finding arthritis to be very common among my peers.

Where I’m headed

My father was middle aged when I was born and old when I was in my 20s and 30s. He suffered from very painful arthritis in several parts of his body. I remember thinking, I’m going to take care of myself and that won’t be me. Wrong. . . that is me.

I started running when I was 17 years old, having been told it was a great way to lose baby fat; I had a lot of baby fat. One of my two female roommates struggled with her weight as well and so, we ran together. A combination of running and eating better helped me become a trimmer, happier young man. Running became an addiction. In truth, I ran to survive. Running was one of the only activities that would calm my brain. It provided results and allowed me to eat pretty much anything I loved. I ran almost everyday for thirty years. I ran marathons. I ran when I traveled. A few years ago I had so much pain from inflammation, I had to stop running.

Being a large man, 6 ft., 200 lbs., didn’t pair well with running. That’s a whole lot of weight hitting that hard New York City pavement. Running eventually led to inflammation of my joints, which eventually led to chronic arthritis.

I recall doing laps in my Brooklyn pool (my building had an indoor pool) and feeling cramping in feet, thinking what the heck is this? It was the early stages of arthritis; more than likely from running. That cramping and discomfort has never gone away and now, I live with it in my feet, knees, lower back, shoulders, and just recently my hands. It’s chronic and annoying as hell. I am a fairly physical person; always on the move, always challenging my physical limitations. It’s getting harder and harder to keep that up.

Five Remedies

A few of these remedies are healthier than others. I will list them in order of what I believe to be the healthiest to the potentially dangerous:

  1. Stretching — I’m not sure if stretching actually helps arthritis, but I do know it feels good. Inflammation can make you stiff and stiffness is uncomfortable and painful. Loosening up your joints can give you sweet relief. I stretch at the gym for about 10 minutes before I workout in the morning. I know that I should probably spend more time on my back and legs, but I’m always anxious to start my workout and get it over with.
  2. Devil’s Claw — Native to southern Africa, devil’s claw (Harpagophytum procumbens) gets its name from the tiny hooks that cover its fruit. Historically, devil’s claw has been used to treat pain, liver and kidney problems, fever, and malaria. It has also been used in ointments to heal sores, boils, and other skin problems (Mt. Sinai). I’ve been taking Devil’s Claw in pill form for three months. It took four-to-six weeks to feel the effects. I’m not 100% sold on Devil’s Claw; however, I did notice that when I went from 500 to 1500 mg. three times a day, it did make a difference. You never really know if it’s the placebo effect or it’s truly working. I’m going to keep taking it; it’s inexpensive, has no side effects, and it is recommended by medical doctors throughout Europe.
  3. Cayenne — Inflammation is the body’s natural response to injury or infection, and it often causes redness, swelling, pain, or heat. Cayenne pepper and other hot spices are widely considered powerful anti-inflammatory spices that can help reduce chronic inflammation and pain (HealthifyMe). I take a 1/4 teaspoon in warm water every morning. It’s not easy to swallow, but it’s another thing I believe can only help. And . . . it’s really cheap.
  4. CBD — Research suggests that CBD can ease inflammation, among other potential benefits. Research suggests that CBD’s anti-inflammatory properties may be beneficial for rheumatoid arthritis, as it affects certain cell viability. It may also have a synergetic effect on rheumatoid arthritis medication (Google). I don’t know enough about CBD to tout its benefits. I use it as a topical remedy in cream form. I purchased CBD oil (without THC) and put a few drops in body cream. I rub it into my shoulders and back and hope for the best. I wish I could tell you it works; I’m not sure.
  5. Ibuprofen — a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug (NSAID) used to treat mild to moderate pain, and helps to relieve symptoms of arthritis (osteoarthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, or juvenile arthritis), such as inflammation, swelling, stiffness, and joint pain (Mayo Clinic). The current recommendations for ibuprofen are to limit daily use to no more than 30 days. Dosing can range from 400 mg to 800 mg up to 4 times a day, with a daily maximum of 3200 mg per day. Above this limit, the negative effects of COX inhibition begin to outweigh the desired benefits of decreased discomfort and pain (Mdmercy.com). This last bit is what concerns me. I dated a medical doctor for several years. He repeatedly warned me about the long term side-effects of ibuprofen. I only take ibuprofen if my pain or discomfort is intolerable; not very often.

I’m not going to lie, I fear that the inflammation in my joints willworsen over time. The only hope is there has been tremendous relief in my right knee pain. I suffered with intense discomfort for several years and when I moved to Portugal this pain went away. I’m not sure if less humidity contributed to its disappearance or if no longer running helped it go away; perhaps it’s a combination of the two. Whatever it is, I am grateful. It gives me hope that I might find relief in other parts of my body.

Arthritis in my hands is a big concern. It seems to be isolated to the joints between my thumb and the pointing finger. Stretching and rubbing the area does help.

I hope my own experience and research has been helpful for some of you who suffer as I do. Helping ourselves through life’s challenges, empowers us to work through any obstacle to our happiness and well-being. I’m challenging myself to stay positive.

“It’s better to feel pain, than nothing at all.”

— Anonymous

Upcoming Travel

Provence (south of France) today. I’ll be visiting several wineries and returning to points-of-interest; it’s been awhile since I visited Provence. I will be seeing friends and eating well. My Airbnb has an amazing view of Marseille; a city I’ve never visited. I think this trip will do me a world of good.

Current State-of-Mind

I had a day this week that blew me away and I hope it happens again soon. I woke up on Monday morning feeling like Superman. I knew that I could and would accomplish anything and I did. I ran through my To Do list in record time and I did a lot that wasn’t on my list. My energy level was at an all-time high; I took full advantage of it and reaped the rewards.

I’ve done some redecorating in my apartment and I’m very pleased with the results. My nest has always been important to me, as I get older even more so. Minimal, colorful, and comfortable — that’s what I like. More and more, I trust my instincts and embrace the results.

“Life is a matter of choices, and every choice you make makes you.” —John C. Maxwell

As always please forgive grammatical and/or typographical errors. Especially this time as I am writing on my tablet.

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Living With Lies

How It Informs Your Life

(repost with revisions)

“There are only two things. Truth and lies. Truth is indivisible, hence it cannot recognize itself; anyone who wants to recognize it has to be a lie.” Franz Kafka

My mother’s lies taught me two things:  First, and most harmful, it was acceptable to lie, and second, secrets are impossible to keep and dangerous.

I had a beautiful half-sister who died a horrible premature death several years ago; she was in her mid-forties. Shortly before she passed, Grace found our brother Anthony, dead, with a needle in his arm; it was her birthday. She was already mentally and physically far gone by then and I’m certain, finding Anthony lifeless in her own home, must have sealed her fate.

My sister Grace or Gasha (the way we spelled it), as she was known to close family, was a troubled child. She wore thick glasses and was labeled “four eyes” by her siblings and peers. We also called her monkey because of her button nose; kids can be mean and we, her brothers and sisters, were the cruelest of all. I am not claiming innocence; in fact, I may have been the worst culprit. Perhaps it was the secret I held onto that drove me to cruelty.

My parents argued a lot; in fact, they argued night and day. My father would come home from work at midnight and my mother would dig in her hateful claws. Having been exposed to this behavior early on, I worked hard to tune them out and fantasize about a quieter world that I knew existed elsewhere. In fact, this is the reason I choose to spend a lot of time alone today. My memory of their relentless rage goes back to pre-school and a time when I was too young to understand the complicated world of adult behavior. One particular memory is vivid because it involved a lie I did not understand at the time; I may have been five or six years old.

Many angry words were exchanged during one very loud shouting match and most of those words were as difficult to comprehend as a foreign language. For some reason I held onto something my father said, “Gasha is not my child.” At the time I thought it was odd for my father to say such a thing and so, I dismissed those words from my thoughts. Every so often I found myself daydreaming and reflecting on what he said. As I grew older and more inquisitive, I continued to wonder why my father said this to my mother. I looked at my sister differently because of what my father said. I naturally wondered who her father might be, if it were not my father. I was not aware of an affair my mother had with her first husband while she was married to my father.

When I turned nine, there was a lot going on around me; my only living grandparent passed, my mother was divorcing my father and marrying my stepfather, and I was repressing my sexuality (I remember having some strong feelings toward one of my mother’s male friends). My mom and I would occasionally spend quality alone time together — rare because she had seven children. On one of these occasions, I decided I would ask her about Gasha. My mother had a way of drawing me in as a close confidant and then shoving me away. I can’t blame alcohol because she wasn’t a drunk, but her father was an alcoholic and physically abusive; perhaps it was his influence. As a child I longed for the kind of closeness where you felt honest love and affection — not likely to get it from my mother, but I never stopped trying. Psychologists would say that I will continue to search for this love until I die; I’m fairly certain that is true.

We were sitting on her bed watching an old black and white film and she was running her fingers through my hair. I may have been as happy with my mom at that moment as I would ever be. I thought it was a good time to address my curiosity.

Ma, who is Gasha’s father?

My mother pushed me to the edge of the bed and said, “Where do you get these ideas?”

I told her that I had overheard an argument she had with my father a few years earlier; she told me that I was imagining things.

“Who would Gasha’s father be if it wasn’t your father? Honestly Chris, I worry about you.”

I wanted to believe my mother, so I let it go . . . until a few years later when this happened:

I was having dinner with my father at the restaurant where he worked; a once a week ritual. Our meals were very special to me. We spoke openly and earnestly. I’m pretty sure I was in my teens at this point. I had accidentally seen my parents marriage license and came to learn that my mother and father didn’t marry until I was three years old. I’m not sure why, but it didn’t bother me. My dad told me that they couldn’t marry because my mother’s first husband was in prison and there was a law about divorce and incarceration back then. He said that they married as soon as they legally could. I shrugged and decided this would be a good time to ask about Gasha. I sort of tricked my dad and acted like I knew for certain that Gasha was not his biological daughter.

When I asked him who Gasha’s father was he said, “Joe is her father, but I adopted her and so she’s legally my daughter. How did you know about this? Did your mother tell you?”

I shared that I had overheard an argument between the two of them when I was a kid and he grabbed my face and squeezed my cheeks; something he did to show affection. He hardly ever said anything negative about my mother; I wish I could say the reverse were true.

When I asked him how she ended up with Joe while married to him, he said, “Your mother has always been a bit wild.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Now that I knew my suspicions about Gasha were true, I had to consider what this meant for my relationship with her, how I felt about my mother lying to me, and whether or not I should share the truth with Gasha and our siblings. I knew early on that it would not be fair to share the truth with her. It was my mother’s place to tell her. I was tormented by the lie. I did not approve of my mother’s infidelity and I could not understand why she denied the truth all those years ago. In my mind, I could never truly trust my mother again — in truth, I doubted her always. I’m also certain that I felt betrayed by my mother and it has had an affect on every loving relationship in my life.

My mother did eventually tell Gasha who her biological father was. I’m not sure when or where it happened. My brothers and sisters found out at some point as well. It seemed to me at the time that no one cared about the indiscretion or the lie. I questioned my own reaction to it:  had I made too much of it? Did it really matter? As an older adult, I am still questioning the lies I faced as a child and young adult — there were many others.

I recall often looking at Gasha and wondering who she resembled. When she would behave a certain way that was odd to me, I would explain it by considering who her father was or was not. Gasha had a severe eating disorder and made several bad choices in her life. She was angry, she isolated herself from those who cared about her, she refused to acknowledge her disorder, and she trusted no one. I cannot help but wonder if the knowledge that she was conceived during a torrid affair, had had a huge impact on her life and her ability to cope. Knowing her biological father was willing to allow my father to adopt her, must have tormented Gasha throughout her life; her self-worth was shattered.

My mother had a very complicated relationship with her and Gasha was resentful of the way she saw my mother treating the rest of us; she seemed to always feel slighted. I was aware of both the way she was treated and the way Gasha perceived it. I had conflicting feelings about my sister. There was a part of me that believed she didn’t belong and I’m not proud of those feelings. At the same time, I felt sorry for her.

Gasha’s downward spiral was difficult for me to watch. She married trailer park trash and she had a child with him. Her husband shot himself in the head early on in their marriage. I remember visiting her in Knoxville, Tennessee and thinking that there was hope that she’d come out on top of all the drama in her life. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Bulimia took hold of my sister in her early 20s and never let go. All four of my mother’s daughters suffered from some sort of eating disorder as a result of my mother’s obsession with weight. Gasha lived in complete denial — the disease and the consequences of starving one’s body of nutrients eventually ended her life. Her two children suffered the most; watching her abuse herself on a daily basis, had to be impossible to observe. Out of respect for my niece and nephew, I will refrain from commenting on their current lives.

The question is, was it the lie that destroyed Gasha’s life or was it her personality and the circumstances of her illness? I guess we’ll never know for sure. What we do know is that shielding her from the truth all of those years was not productive or right. If her biological father had stepped up and assumed his role as her father, might she have been stronger and felt more loved? I have to believe she would have embraced her father and adjusted to her circumstances. After all her two oldest sisters had the same biological father. But after being adopted by my father, Gasha, was instead forced into a situation she did not ask to be in and was prevented from being with a father she might have grown close with. I’m not a psychologist, however, I am fairly certain that Gasha was thrust into a situation that would have caused anyone pain and anxiety. It was a lot for a young person to take on, and in truth, she had to endure the ramifications of this terrible lie, on her own. It’s a small miracle she was even with us into her forties.

When faced with the reality of a difficult truth or keeping a secret, always go with the truth. As hard as it is to share that secret and cope with its consequences, that reality is far better than living a lie — that’s my truth.

“When you check your own mind properly, you stop blaming others for your problems.”

Thubten Yeshe

I have grown to love Alvor, Portugal and have returned to the same hotel room several times. Peaceful sounds of nature never disappoint.

Travel

So far Cuba next month is a go. There will be testing on both ends. I know there will be additional hassles, but this is something I have wanted to do for a long time. I couldn’t travel to Cuba when I lived in the States, so now is a good time to make the trip. I promise a blog or two when I return.

There are scheduled trips to France, Italy, the UK, Northern Ireland, Germany, the U.S., Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and Hong Kong, in 2022 and early 2023. COVID-19 has put the kibosh on many planned trips over the last two years; I can only hope I’ll get to go.

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Moody? Me?

Raise your hand if you’re subject to mood swings.

There are two big problems with retirement: 1) Way too much time to think, and 2) Nobody wants to listen to your problems.

So many of today’s issues have to do with the emotional rollercoaster that seems to be a ride that just doesn’t end. Whether it’s COVID-19, politics and the divide it causes, information overload, appropriate behavior versus spontaneity, a lack of sleep, family issues, the weather; to name a few.

Learning how to cope with the ups and downs of our emotions is key to finding joy in the mundane and appreciating the sublime.

How I Keep Mood Swings in Check

  • The most important way for me to remain positive and upbeat, is to sleep. If I do not get at least seven hours, I’m a mess. It means going to bed before 10:00 p.m. and keeping my bed time consistent. For me, the worst culprit for sleep interruption is a thought loop. The same concern or scenario playing over and over, keeping me wide awake at 2:00 a.m. Getting out of bed and doing something, even if it’s a trip to the kitchen for a glass of water, is the only thing that will stop it.
  • Meditation is a big help to curtail moodiness. Even for as little as ten minutes — just sitting quietly or taking a walk in the park can be restorative.
  • Consider what is troubling you and face it head on. I was moody and sluggish last week; woke up stressed, struggled with a trip to the gym (fortunately due to guilt, the gym usually wins), and pissy with Paco (my dog). I was experiencing this without considering the cause. When I sat down and thought about it, I realized it was upcoming travel and my ambivalence about it due to new COVID-19 restrictions. I decided the trip was not worth the worry — imagine paying big bucks to sit in your hotel room and ordering Uber Eats because restaurants can only do takeout. I figured out that I could reschedule most of my plans in Germany and the Netherlands, without losing all of the money I had already laid out. After spending about an hour shuffling around air reservations and hotels/Airbnbs, I felt 100% better. I realize of course that this simple exercise does not work for all matters of the heart and mind.
  • Gratitude — I’m not sure when I learned this, but I know for certain is wasn’t in my home growing up; however, considering all the things that you have in your life to be grateful for, it is a great way to put things into perspective and cheer yourself up.
  • Treat myself to dinner out. Living alone is my choice and I enjoy the solitude; however, a nice dinner out with or without friends, is more often than not, a pleasurable experience.
  • Cut back on alcohol. I find that more than one cocktail or several glasses of wine will interrupt sleep and make me moody during the day. Instead of pouring a full glass of wine, I pour half and sip.

It’s Not Fair to Other People

I didn’t have to have someone else tell me that I was sometimes moody. I figured it out on my own. I was tipped off by a question that I am often asked: “Are you okay?”

My mom was bipolar. We never knew what sort of mood she’s be in; I hated it so much. No doubt that everybody has a bad day, but keeping people guessing about whether you’ll be smiling or biting their heads off, isn’t fair. For me, this is something I should be aware of and do something about. The receptionist at my gym seems to be the most in touch with my moods and she calls me on it. Considering I walk in by 7:00 a.m., it’s a good gauge for me — I can power up the positive energy or take it down a notch; nobody likes a person who is over the top cheerful. Haven’t you had this thought: “What kind of drugs is he on?”

Clinical Depression

I don’t know a whole lot about clinical depression and other illnesses/chemical imbalances that cause mood changes. I do know that there are prescription medications that can help. Some people have no choice but to take medication. Meds should be monitored by a professional on a regular basis. I know a few people whose lives were saved by meds.

I’m trying to keep chemicals out of my body; therefore, at least for now, I’m sticking with the more holistic approach (see above). My particular situation has more to do with unrealistic expectations and being way too hard on myself; neither is uncommon.

7 Causes of Mood Swings, A. Vogel

Four Tips to Ease Your Mood Swings, Centerstone

Quotes about Moodiness (31 quotes)

Travel

I am not including my travel schedule because it keeps changing. Rather than frustrate myself with modifications, I’d rather leave it up to the universe. I think the media is sensationalizing the Omicron variant; waiting it out is more prudent. The good news is that I got the Pfizer booster and I’m fairly well protected . . . I think.

I’m going to stay local for a few days next week and spend some time on the Algarve coast. Looking out on the ocean and long walks at the beach, keep me grounded.

Alvor, Portugal at dusk

Posted on by CP

Revisiting Happiness

It ain’t rocket science.

Today

Thanksgiving has and will always be my favorite holiday. Why you ask? It’s all about the food, being with people you choose to be with (can’t speak for everyone here), and there are no presents involved. I’m attending a Thanksgiving dinner today with all of the trimmings . . . happiness.

I witnessed the death of a 17 year old girl this week and I’m experiencing a bit of PTSD. Sleep has been elusive; the tape of how it went down is playing on a loop in my head. I’m revisiting a past blog in order to break the cycle and be more present.

Thoughts about happiness has been occupying a great deal of my time lately. I’ve been taking stock of my life and wondering the following:

  1. Am I happy? I mean happy most of the time. I know there are degrees of happiness; let’s say moderately pleased.
  2. What makes me happy?
  3. What do I need to do to be happier? Or what do I need in my life?
  4. Is it okay to settle for happy moments versus overall happiness?
  5. Are my expectations reasonable? Why or why not?
  6. How do I assess my own happiness?
  7. Do others interfere with my happiness?
  8. Do I make myself unhappy?
  9. What does being happy feel like?
  10. What were the happiest times of my life? Do I ponder those moments enough?
  11. Who makes me happy?
  12. Why does being happy matter?
  13. How does my state of happiness affect others?
  14. Organic moments of joy versus contrived moments — does it matter?

I’m not going to go through these questions and answer them one by one. I am instead demonstrating where my head is at this stage of my life and how might create my own present and future. I’ll be sixty in a few months (I’m now almost 63) and whether I like it or not, age factors into my happiness. It’s a milestone that forces you to take inventory and consider your future.

Health

Health is a difficult reality. On one hand I want to live as healthy a life as possible, so that I can enjoy a good quality of life; on the other hand there are many choices that I make that bring me joy, however, these choices have a negative impact on my health. For example, my daily 5:00 p.m. cocktail. I usually only have one and I know that by itself, that is not a bad thing, but there are a couple of other considerations:  1) the cocktail contains empty calories with no nutritional value, 2) when I’m with friends, I will give myself permission to have more than one, and 3) I also have a glass (or two) of wine with dinner. I am not an alcoholic and I don’t drink to get drunk. Still, I know that I would probably drop a few pounds if I stopped drinking. Truth is I enjoy that time of day when I relax and have a drink; I enjoy the taste of a cocktail or wine. I have made the conscious decision to continue drinking and monitor my intake; try my best to keep it at two or three portions a night. I have a very similar relationship with food, which also provides for a good deal of my happiness. Most of what I eat is fresh, healthy and delicious; however, there is that ten percent of my diet that I know is unhealthy. Again, one has to know oneself and choose wisely. And get a regular check-up to be aware of what your body can tolerate.

Note:  It doesn’t help that two of my dearest married friends had cocktails at 5:00 p.m. and ate what ever they wanted and had/have very healthy and long lives. One of them just recently passed away at age 95 and the other is alive and healthy at 90. Of course I know that everyone has a different genetic make-up and many, many other factors contribute to a long and healthy life.

I have always said that I’d rather live to be 80 and enjoy the bounty of life, then live to be 90 and deny myself much of what I truly love. This lifestyle choice doesn’t work for everyone. I am happy to say that I am almost 63 years old and medication free. I workout five days a week and only suffer the normal aches and pains that come with aging.

It’s odd how little we talk about our own path. We usually talk about other people and their habits or we generalize about society as a whole. It seems that people are either ashamed of their choices or choose to hide them. I wrote about my drinking habits this week in hopes of getting feedback from my readers. Am I kidding myself? Do my habits seem healthy? Unhealthy?

Note: I have cutback to cocktails in the evening twice a week. I sleep better, enjoy food more, and spend less on alcohol.

Home

The first view is the backside of my apartment and it represents my morning view. This morning, I watched the lunar eclipse. I have a clear view of Faro, the mountains and the morning moon. This view inspires me and reminds me that I am alive and that each day is a new and different day. The morning light is filled with color; most of the year I can watch the sunrise from my terrace. I also have a magnificent view of the Ria Formosa. The Ria is every changing and dynamic.

The second view is just after the sun has set in the evening. This view is facing southwest from the front of my apartment. This view represents the quiet of the evening — soft, diffused light

Front views at different times of the day on different days:

There is a spot in my dining room where I can see both views. Depending on the time of day, every view is different and new. It’s like slowly moving still photographs marking time. I stand in this spot at least once a day to marvel at the light and color. [This has been a great reminder — I cannot take this for granted.]

Family

Family can complicate happiness. I love my family dearly and my happiness is all wrapped up in their happiness. I constantly consider the amount of control or the lack of control I possess related to their happiness. I can make my sister laugh or buy my brother a nice present; I can spend hours on the phone with my niece listening to her talk about esoteric adventures; I can daydream about how my mom would take us shopping as children, pass an underwear bin, grab a pair and put it over her head; and I can spend time remembering my four siblings who have left us. A reminder of how finite and fleeting life can be. My family, for the most part, makes me happy.

Friends

Good friends know when you are unhappy; they know it before you do. My friends question my emotional state of mind on a regular basis. Thoughts are always churning and when that’s happening I don’t always smile. When I’m not smiling, my friends get concerned and I have to reassure them that everything is okay. There are times when I am not happy — for my good friends, that’s okay.

I consider my good friends, my family. No doubt my good friends make me happy. Sometimes they make me sad, but I realize that peaks and valleys are a normal part of life.

Plans:  Travel, Entertainment, Dining and Adventure

Making plans and executing them is all about creating memories. I read an anonymous quote many years ago that went something like this:

“We don’t remember days, we remember moments.”

Those words stuck with me and I have always tried to create moments or cement moments into my memory. Like the time I was mountain biking through a dense wooded area in Mexico. For a few moments I felt as free as a bird and more alive than I had ever felt. It was exhilarating, I remember this happy moment as if it happened yesterday. I have many moments like this one and I recall these moments frequently.

Since arriving in Portugal, I have been creating these moments as often as possible.

New: This week I reconnected with a friend with whom I had been estranged from. This individual and I had been close friends for over 25 years. The how and why of the estrangement doesn’t matter, what matters is this: If you love someone and you do not speak because of a misunderstanding or something that happened a long time ago, consider a conversation. It may open a door that could lead to reconciliation. We get to do this thing called life once; why not carry love, trust and hope, rather than bitterness and pain.

The Future:  Goals and Aspirations

I have come to realize that no matter how hard I try, there are certain “life concerns” that occupy my mind. When I’m in total control, rested, and have plans for the near future, I can keep these concerns in check and focus on my positive future plans. I also know that there are times when no amount of positive thinking or intervention by friends or family, can help put me in a happy place. When this happens I make myself as comfortable as possible and allow my thoughts to flow organically. The unhappy stuff usually passes pretty quickly when I allow myself to just feel or think whatever it is I’m feeling or thinking. I’ve learned that fighting my natural inclinations only makes me more anxious — know thyself.

A Funny thing happened on the way home:

My friend Susan is visiting from Maine for a few days (2019). Unlike most of my friends, she reads my blog (as Bianca del Rio would say, “I ain’t mad at that”). So we were on a train to Tavira and I was talking about what I needed to include in this week’s “happiness” blog.

“I need to remember to make a note about how happiness directly correlates with being grateful, in my blog.”

We talked about how fortunate I am to be living this abundant life in Portugal. Not long after this conversation, we were sitting in the backseat of an Uber and the driver took us through a section of Faro I had never seen. The driver was surprised to learn that I live in Faro. She looked back at us in the rearview mirror and she said,

“Faro is a happy place.”

What more can I say.