To Wallow or not to wallow

Every once in a while, we get the chance to do something in our lives that matters and we’re excited about and talk about, then the damn rug is pulled out from under us and we’re sitting in the dirt wondering what the fuck happened.

We have a couple of options at this point:

  1. We can wallow in our own piss and misery.
  2. We can find something else to motivate us and get our ass up and work.

Number one is the easiest, number 2 is where we really learn about who we are, what we want and how hard we’re willing to work for what we want.

The dirt is comfortable and it keeps us closer to the easy life, but it doesn’t do anything to improve who we are.

Getting our ass off the floor and working on our life, that’s the best path, maybe not the easiest, but it is the best.

Dig in, climbs the walls, breach the battlements and steal the damn throne, that’s what we’re made for.


When we decide to follow our dreams, it will be harder than we thought it would be.

We must orchestrate everything to make sure it happens. This goes for our family life and how we’re able to afford to take the monetary hit.

I like to say I work three jobs, but only get paid for two, but that’s not really true.

I think my writing helps me do the other two.

My writing frees me up and lets me do the other things that help my family. When I’m published and I hopefully don’t have to do those other jobs, I’m not sure what I’ll do with the free time I may have.

Right now, I’m writing more than I ever have and that is what I’ve wanted for the last ten years.

I see the improvement in my writing by get words every day and I see how hard I’m working to make everything work and I’m more proud of what I’m doing than at any time in my life.

I love what I’m doing and more than any other time in my life, I love what I’m doing and how I’m helping the world get better, either through my words or through my actions working for campaigns.

Two Years Later

Two years ago I had the closest thing to a mental breakdown.

At the time, my grandfather had passed away and I went to Utah for the service.

For most of the previous 15 years, or so one side of my family had abandoned me based on what my biological father had told them about me.

This left me and my wife alone to be ourselves and it is probably the reason I’m more of an extrovert than before those 15 years.

When I went to the service, my aunt who I hadn’t talked to in years offered a place for me to sleep and I took her up on it, though it was hard being around people who had treated me so badly for so long.

I went to the viewing, though there were a few moments I went outside because I saw all the people that I felt had abandoned me, including my sisters, and being in the same room with people who’d done that to me was the hardest thing I’d done.

I walked within five feet of my biological father, but neither of us looked at each other.

For the following month, I slept a lot, missed work and eventually got shingles from all the stress I was feeling as well as the depression.

My family and I went to my aunt’s though my wife was uncomfortable and so was I for the simple reason that my biological father had turned my wife and I into these villains, mostly my wife.

In the months that followed, my spiral swirled to the point in the middle of the following March that I stood on the ledge at the hotel I worked at in Las Vegas and stared at the ground.

I wanted it to be over. I didn’t want to hurt anymore, I didn’t want my wife and kids to see me suffer and most of all I thought the world would be better.

I stepped off the ledge that day, called my wife and told her I needed help, but didn’t tell her about the ledge until later.

A couple of weeks later, I started Transcendental Meditation.

TM helped me deal with things, it isn’t a cure-all, but I’m able to deal with life better since beginning TM.

Today, and mostly this time of the year, I have bouts of depression. I think about who I am and what I’ve done in the last two years, and I’m happy about getting my wife and kids out of Vegas.

I’m excited about my writing and I love myself, though that comes in and goes sometimes.

I’m mostly happy.

We all deal with depression and I’ve lost family to suicide.

Please if yo need help, ask someone, talk to someone and find help. I almost jumped and would have lost the last two years of my life.

Suicide prevention hotline


Purpose and Legacy

It’s in the inactivity of who we are that our minds are clouded by the things we find purpose in.

Finding purpose in our lives is the utmost effective way of living our lives.

We must find purpose in the life we live. We must endure the tragedies, falsehoods and

We must endure the tragedies, falsehoods, and betrayals others set upon us, for it’s in overcoming these that we’ll truly find purpose.

The strength we harbor in our souls will be the mast and sails leading us through the difficulties of discovering our purpose.

Purpose legacy and the endgame of what we need to accomplish is the light at the end of our lives.

Our endgame should be our legacy.

It should be the one thing that differentiates us from others.

Within our souls, we find that the world is how we make it and because of that, those of us who find our purpose will be the leaders of the future.


Walls fall down, people run, the graphic disturbance of the night is done.The blast, the last man running, 

I see the blast coming, 

I wait for the gun, the muzzle flash, the random gun, 

The damage is done, the life of the man they’ll no doubt talk about.

When they wake up, the night will be eclipsed by the screams and shouts.

I see the flash and I drop, 

His life, my life, their lives and the world stops,

The power of the gun, the words in my mind, the life before me cut out, 

His hers, theirs and ours.

I wait, the bathroom, but he’s there. He’s waiting, the muzzle flash, my life gone, hers…his…theirs.

I wake, but the night is still screaming. The blackness is coming, the pain…it’s almost gone.

I’ll never hold him again, her again.

Another flash, my life gone: hers…his…ours.

Never Letting Go

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We reach out to the world, trying to discover our soul.

It comes back to us in fits, stuttering and trying to stand.

We abandon what we loved of ourselves in the hope of finding something that was missing, to realize, it was there; we just weren’t paying attention to it.

Some days, weeks and months have been like this lately.

I feel my life, but yet, it isn’t where I want it to be, so I return to what I love about who I am.

I love that I’ve been given the opportunity to write, as much as I want and that my wife and kids support me as much as they do.

I see the gift of writing and being creative standing in front of me. I understand how precious the gift is and wonder why I left it in the first place.

I was chasing what I thought I needed but realized I have what I need. I understand how powerful writing is. I learned that at an early age, but often forget it.

Today, I’m writing something that is truly me, and I love that about it. I create from memories, dreams and thoughts, but now that I’ve fallen in love again, I won’t let this precious gift of writing go again.




pablo (22)

Today, while I sat, reading Neil Gaiman’s new nonfictiony book, sitting next to my wife, who was multi-tasking, an ever-present sketchbook next to her, I watched a conversation.

Our daughter clambered between us to watch my wife’s colored pencils perform.

I don’t often see the interaction of teacher and student, of which I often think of them as.

I’m either reading a new book or writing something of my own.

The rarity of the occasion was more pronounced by the effort our daughter took to watch her mom create, color then create and fill the sketch with more colors.

I love the creativity in our house and the way in which our kids absorb creating through us.

My son crafted a lovely story a while ago. It’s one that I’ve asked him to expand upon and last night, he brought me cover sketches for it.

I told him, “Worry about the story, the cover will come later. If you need help, I’m here.”

I hope it helped him.

I wonder how why some kids don’t create things and I’m reminded of my childhood and having to hide stories I’d written, then I know.