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The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…
Chapter Two: An Introduction
“We all have special skills…We have to work together.”
—from the film Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle
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Everyone has secrets that make them who they are, and everyone must lie from time to time to keep those secrets. Some have more secrets than others and tend to lie more than most for reasons we might be incapable of understanding—a person in your own life might come to mind.
That person may lie because they are simply uncomfortable with being honest. Or because exposing their secrets makes existing in this world more difficult than it already is. Writing this story required I use fake names to protect identities: Is that lying or twisting and modifying the truth?
I asked myself this question when reading Jordan B. Peterson’s book 12 Rules for Life, where rule eight says this: “Tell the truth—or, at least, do not lie.” I purchased that book after reading a review that called its author “The wisest man in America today” but before reading an opinion online that ripped him for being “Preachy and overly idealistic”.
We humans are tough to please—Maybe that’s why I lie? I would like to say I twist and modify the truth more than lie, but that would have me lying to you already, because the plane truth is, I do…. I often lie.
Whatever I say here will be misinterpreted by people that don’t know me. Maybe that’s why I lie? — Because it doesn’t matter.
Wherever I look today I see people trying to be enhanced or altered versions of themselves, or not themselves entirely. Maybe that’s why I lie? — To fit in.
Society celebrates celebrities and material goods today but not often friends or simple acts of kindness. Maybe that’s why I lie? — Because people sort of suck and don’t deserve my truth.
I can’t speak to why everyone might lie but can tell you why I think I do: It’s a defense mechanism…I use it to this survive this painful, cruel, critical, and judgmental world.
To tell this story however requires I share many of my secrets with you. And so, I’d like to start here with what I think are some big ones. I was teaching at this Recovery High School because I, myself, am an addict in recovery. An addict in recovery who, on May 27th, 2016, accidentally burnt his house down.
Yes, I’m a fire-starting-lying-addict-teacher who openly calls himself a loser. Are you sure you want to read this story? I know better than to try and tell you what to do, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I played with the idea of making it sound like I started that fire on purpose here. Had I done that you definitely would have gotten the wrong perception of me however, and that would have been super counterproductive to what I’m trying to do here. See, I believe that’s a major reason why so few new friendships and relationships are starting up today: wrong perceptions.
Had I made it sound like I started that fire on purpose here my mother might have also killed me. She still thinks MOY is to blame for that fire somehow. You’ll know what MOY stands for later. I can’t tell you all my secrets right away…
That fire I started—the one that would leave me and my family homeless for a time—was most definitely an accident. It was a result of a cigarette I was having on my back porch at two in the morning. But why was I smoking in the first place? Cigarettes? I mean…What type of person smokes cigarettes?
That’s something the younger me would think. It’s something the older me still does. Does knowing I smoked cigarettes have you questioning my character, or does it increase my bravado?
What in the hell does bravado mean?
I’m a questionably curious character and I like to play with words. Even if I don’t know what they mean sometimes… Aren’t a lot of people like that though?
Today I can vividly recall being huddled under that fire-lit sky that cold morning. I lifted my chin up to look at the smoke swirly high into the darkness above me—you couldn’t smell the smoke, only the cold air that morning.
Beneath my feet, buried deep underground, was my heart…right where it belonged. With my hair in a little ponytail and a scruffy beard on my face, my thirty-three-year-old self watched that house burn believing life would forever be defined by my struggles. My hair was the longest it’s ever been then because I was on a mission and wanted to look the part.
As those flames danced their way through the roof—entertaining the audience that had gathered outside—the strange beauty of that scene mocked me. The endless failed attempts to put my life back together danced with those flames, and right then my dream of achieving some sense of redemption, just like my house, went up in smoke. Poof.
That was a difficult moment no doubt, but how I felt then might be considered just another day for someone like me.
The flames of shame and fear and guilt rose inside me like the sparkling fire reflecting in my eyes that cold morning; the same feelings and emotions one battles to get sober. Prior to that fire I had been uncomfortable in my own skin for what felt like forever. Looking at that house burn I knew my real-life bad dream would continue— Poor me.
At the time of that fire, I was working on the story I quickly mentioned in my Disclaimers. I hadn’t finished the story but remember how it began…
I was sitting on a firm brown leather seat on a yellow school bus. With my head pressed against an open window my eyes were closed, and I was feeling the breeze on my face while listening to a friend tell the story of the four homeruns I hit in a baseball game the day before. “It would have been five,” my friend said, “but the jerk’s fifth went just left of the foul pole.”
This friend telling the story, Timmy, had hit three homeruns in the game before and was having some fun teasing me for showing him up that day. With my head against that window—pretending not to hear all the good things being said about me—you might say I was practicing false humility on that bus: I’m pretty amazing…I smiled on the inside.
Not until I got off that bus and entered school did I realize what I’d done. With a spotlight on me in the entranceway of the school, I held the straps of my backpack and looked down to see sneakers, socks, naked legs, and the bottom flap of my t-shirt. And there, right in the middle, a piece of personal skin just poking out…for everyone to laugh at.
Realizing I had showed up to school forgetting to put on my pants; and my underwear for some odd reason, I covered myself and tiptoed to the bathroom. Hiding in a stall I placed my head against the stall door and tried to think of a way out of this predicament I was in. When the embarrassment turned to anger and tears started pooling up, I punched the stall door. That’s when I woke up.
The clock I woke to read: 8:53 a.m. Turning on the television, I saw something unknown happening. Ten minutes later I watched a plane fly into the World Trade Center the morning of September 11th, 2001.
That real event happened my first month at college when I was attending the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Seeing it happen I ran to the hallway to yell for my roommate Jay who had just walked out of the room to use the bathroom. Prior to seeing that second plane hit, the people on tv didn’t know what had happened to the first building.
Yelling for Jay would then wake me up again in present day…in a psyche ward.
The beginning of that story was sort of your dream within a dream beginning. Like in that movie Inception; where you’ll find this gem of a quote: “An idea can transform the world and rewrite all the rules.”
I had written an entire chapter about what I just covered here in only a few short paragraphs. It’s funny how time can make things not so important. Then again, sometimes funny things can become important in time—you should probably remember me saying that here.
My attempt at writing that story didn’t go well. I hinted at that in my Disclaimers by comparing myself to Loki getting smashed by The Hulk. The fire you now know about barely scratches the surface.
People in recovery will use the words “Rock Bottom” to describe the moment an addict must turn things around or die. Yes, they use the word die. And no, it’s not them being overly dramatic.
What I’ve learned however is that this rock-bottom-thingy is not often a moment in time, but instead a duration of time and a collection of moments. I’ve also learned that this rock-bottom-thingy—for not only addicts like me but for anyone—can become your entire life.
This story started with this Rock Bottom line at one point. Before scared and doubt-filled me went and changed it, again. How you start a story is important, I read, you need a hook to get peoples’ attention.
Maybe I was trying too hard when I started this story that way. Maybe that’s why I was ignored, again. Let’s just say it hasn’t been easy getting your attention fishy fishy.
As far as that fire I started goes, no one was physically hurt. For that I am grateful. That fire is also what put me on the path that brought me to this Recovery High School. For that too I am grateful. But it isn’t easy staying grateful… Do you maybe know what I mean?
Attending AA Meetings a year or so after that fire I listened to people who had been through difficult experiences like me. Sitting in a basement of a church; sipping on a black coffee, I remember a speaker saying: “Losing everything one thinks is important can be a freeing experience”.
I HATED (all capital letters) hearing that then. You can understand why with some of what I’ve just shared with you. That person wasn’t wrong though. For once a person experiences such loss; and swallows that pain day after painful day, they can go about their life without the fears a privileged life can sometimes create.
I do not advise someone go out and lose everything though. For failure at that level can make a person quit on life completely. Yes, everyone loves a redemption story. The problem is most people don’t get them. They just keep falling. Trust me…I know.
There are moments in one’s life when positive words are infuriating. Since everything seems to be about money these days I’ll use that as example.
The burden of money is real and becoming more and more troublesome for many of us as I write this. It would be nice to not let the anxiety associated with that reality consume me—like books you’ll see me reference in this story advise—but many of us don’t have much of a choice at the moment…Am I lying?
Part of my big dream for this story is for it to be read by classes of high school students someday. I imagine them reading this and discussing when I’m “lying” verse when I’m “twisting and modifying the truth” or adding things for ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY.
Like the students in my story, I believe doing this as a group would help them better decipher reality from fiction when consumer entertainment in the real world.
I felt punched, kicked, and walked over the past ten years or so. Some of that was just my head, but giving up completely has been a recurring state of mind more times than I care to remember. That feeling is real to me and I wish it on no one. Not even my worse enemy. As that worse enemy is usually me, I’d be wishing pain on myself anyway.
This story isn’t supposed to be just about me though. And so, let me change gears here for a bit.
As a kid I learned that fire was a tool that changed world. Not until recently did I learn how fire changed the world.
Food. With fire came the ability to cook food, providing us humans a wider range of food options to choose from. Fire changed humanities perception of what was possible when it came to the food we could eat. That is what tools do: they change perceptions of what we humans think possible.
Based on that definition, as the teacher in this story, feel free to call me a “Tool” if you’d like. That’s a joke by the way…. BAZINGA!
Doctor Sheldon Cooper uses that word “Bazinga” in the show The Big Bang Theory when he’s trying to make a joke. I use it here to introduce another tool that changes perceptions of what we humans think possible: Entertainment.
In an episode of The Big Bang Theory, there’s a scene where Sheldon is watching an old film of his dad talking to his football team at halftime. “I know we’re down by a lot,” his dad says, “And if I’m being honest with you we probably aren’t gonna win this one. In fact, we definitely aren’t gonna win this one. If we do lose, that doesn’t make you losers. You learn as much about what you are and what you’re made of from failing as you do from success. Maybe more. You can spend the next half feeling sorry for yourself, or you can get out there and give them hell.”
That speech from Sheldon’s dad spoke to me on a personal level as I’m sure it did millions of others. Entertainment is most definitely a tool, but really it’s the stories and messages that change perceptions of what we humans think is possible.
When do you think we humans first started telling each other stories?
To answer this question let us imagine ourselves way back in time. Way, way, WAY back; when we humans were first learning how to use these sounds we could make with our mouths to create words.
With fire, stories must have multiplied as they were told late into the night. Some of those stories might have shared information—the necessary and dry stuff—but entertaining stories is probably what we humans looked forward to.
Manipulating information in an entertaining fashion was a skill needed to tell stories in a way that would keep our friends around that fire engaged. And it probably didn’t take some of us long to discover how good this human mind was at that. When someone discovered they were especially talented at this, a storyteller was born.
Sitting under many of the same stars we have above our heads today, we can imagine ourselves telling stories that would light this world of ours on fire someday.
Stories might have helped us mentally escape the harsh reality that was our existence back then. We might have been scared of being attacked by lions, and tigers, and bears, and used those stories to feel safe. What are we humans scared of today? What are we using our stories to help escape from now?
Lions and tigers and bears…oh my.
There must have been music too. Talented members of our tribes must have turned story into song. My mind likes to mash time periods together when I think about this. Right now, it’s imagining Ivan B singing his song Don’t Look Down to a bunch of cavepeople around a fire.
“I’m scared I’m wasting my time.” —This singer uses his song to tell his friends around that fire how he’s feeling— “I’m scared I’m losing control of my life. I’m scared of commitment. Of calling anything mine. I would be lying if I told you I’m fine.”
Did Ivan B just get serious on us?
“It’s always the outsiders who end up outstanding…Pride is a poison that infested our planet…Our view of everything is such a mess…I feel like happiness is something everybody should have.”
My goodness, I think he did. Ivan B must have needed to get a few things off his chest. Words—what other magic are you capable of?
Teaching this class my story follows had me studying entertainment. Doing so ruined much of what I once very much enjoyed unfortunately. I see more and more of trying to tell me that people will laugh at my mistakes and failures. As someone that has literally asked for people to laugh at him, I find the suggestion annoying.
Those that chase dreams on stage, or on screen, or on playing fields, will certainly be ridiculed by people acting like jerks—especially on social media—but dreamers like me working in secret won’t often find themselves being laughed at. I’ve also yet to come across someone “praying for my downfall” like a song I heard recently suggested. Most people simply have a hard time seeing past the mirror if you know what I mean.
What I mean by that is people are selfish and can’t see past their own interests, but that’s me being overly harsh as I believe most of us are in survival mode for one reason or another today and have had the ability to believe in others vacuumed away from us.
To any dreamers like me out there, if you’re intentions are good people won’t often laugh at you for chasing a dream…but they won’t often support you either. They may simply do you the favor of ignoring you and then maybe forgetting about you. And yes, sometimes that hurts more and so it’s not exactly a good thing, but that’s the Dreamer’s Burden.
Still——Dream On my potential friend!
As a lifelong dreamer, I should probably mention here that writing is like a new toy I’ve only recently discovered. A new toy I must apologize for playing with inappropriately at times in the story ahead. The students you’ll be meeting shortly will tell you I find myself funny, but I’ll let you be the judge.
A year or so ago I planned to release a version of this story as a podcast. I figured if people didn’t want to read my story maybe they’d listen to it. After going through the difficult process of recording the first five episodes, I released them only to receive a threatening email from Facebook saying I’d been reported for copywrite infringement.
The message was a scam I think—everything is a scam I think—but I still used the opportunity to scrap that uncomfortable plan of mine.
I don’t often let myself hear compliments. The doubters in my head block them from me. On my Facebook page for The Real GOOD Loser someone wrote “History in the making” in the short period I had those episodes available. Thank you to whoever that was. It meant more than you know.
In that version, when I said writing was like this new toy I’ve only recently discovered, I referenced a scene from the movie Jumanji: Welcome to Jungle. I recorded the audio from that scene and let people listen to it. That’s why I believed that copywrite infringement email held some merit.
The part of the movie I recorded was when Jack Black; playing the role of a high school girl turned boy for the game, first discovered he had a penis. You’ll have to trust me that it was funny and that it made sense, still doing that had me referencing the male genitlia twice in this introduction.
Was I trying too hard? Was that experiment of pushing uncomfortable a bit too much? Is that why I was ignored…again?
I got the idea for that when my three boys were playing the “penis game” while eating dinner at a Texas Roadhouse. This game consists of one person saying that silly word and daring the next to say it louder. Getting mad at them giggling at each other, I said I’d embarrass them with that word like they were me someday and hoped writing that part into my story would do the trick.
Did I just win their game?
When I was just a child myself—years before standing in front of that burning house and before that real-life-bad-dream 9/11 event—you might say I was “That Kid”.
Freshman year of high school I was elected homecoming king and class treasurer by my peers. I was an honor roll student and an all-star athlete. I was a mixture of Zack Morris, A.C. Slater, and Screech from Saved by The Bell for those that might get the reference.
Friends that knew me then might tell you I was a quarterback and could kick fifty-yard field goals wearing my construction boots. They might remember turning on their televisions and seeing my youthful face when I was selected HighFive Athlete of The Week by a local news channel for baseball my senior year. Those friends knew me before I became me—when I seemed capable of magical things.
Yes, it sure felt like I had some “magic in my bones” for time. Just like in that song Bones by Imagine Dragons. Not so much anymore. I only share the information here to illustrate that addiction and mental illness can affect anyone. I am living proof.
The only team sport I play these days is softball. I play for G.A.A.M.H.A. (Gardner Athol Area Mental Health Association). Friends on that team might remember me whacking a homerun or two over the green monster in center field where we play. I hope they remember me handing out candy during games though. That’s something my dad used to do. He always had candy for me and my friends at the little league field when I was kid.
Addiction does not end or even begin with just substances. And you don’t need to have an addictive personality or emotional instability like me to suffer. Anyone with a phone in their hand knows that.
I have lost more than I wish to try and explain in life. I have attempted to sleep days, and weeks, and months away battling sole-crushing depression and mind-swelling self-doubt. I have been a chronic failure and spent a lot of time hating myself; regretting bad decisions and punishing myself more than anyone could ever wish to punish me due to the P.A.I.N. I’ve endured.
P.A.I.N. is an acronym I created for this class I was teaching. It stands for Personal Anguish Introduced (by life) Naturally.
I’ve done some good things in life but remembering them hasn’t helped me much. If you’ve ever dealt with severe guilt and regret, I’m sure you can relate. Getting healthy for me meant reinventing myself. A nice idea but a tough thing to do when you carry so much baggage. And believe me, I carry baggage—a mother of new-born-triplets traveling on vacation amount of baggage.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
That’s another thing I heard people say at those AA Meetings. Hearing that annoyed me as well, but could it be true?
Did I have to suffer and struggle to become a teacher at this school and then write this story? … Did I have to fail attempting to get it discovered to finally piece it together in a way that might speak to as many people as possible?
I’ve been told “this is nothing new” when discussing the problems of the world.
Children are growing up in a world their parents can’t possibly understand, but those same parents grew up in a world their parents couldn’t possibly understand, and the same could be said about their parents before them. They all survived the experience, and so will these children…most of them at least.
Does that sound as insensitive as I think it does?
I believe we’re at a time in history like none before. A time when we must change or die. Is that too strong an opinion?
I wrote this story believing feelings of peak frustration and maximum chaos would have many of us looking for change. I knew things wouldn’t get better on their own and that somehow we would have to come together and make it happen. Reality was my ultimate adversary when I wrote this story…and with it I hoped to beat it down—Muhamad Ali style.
Clearly I have many hopes for this little story of mine, but allow me to share just three of them with you now:
One.
I hope this story will help liberate people controlled by fear.
Two.
I hope this story will help unfreeze hearts that are currently frozen.
And Three.
I hope this story will help inspire dreamers chained to a reality unsuitable for magicians.
I wanted to encourage humanity to choose a different path forward. To do so would require I talk to snakes, tame lions and dragons, and whisper to giants. All of which might engulf every inch of crazy your mind can currently handle. But that it is the mountain we are climbing here, and you deserve to know.
Things haven’t gone great for a lot of us recently. I know I’m not alone. But maybe Sheldon’s dad was right: “If we do lose, that doesn’t make you losers. You learn as much about what you are and what you’re made of from failing as you do from success. Maybe more.” Perhaps we haven’t really lost but only gained some perspective.
Let this story be a reminder to those that have forgotten the power of words. Let it be a dare to anyone that has lost faith in tomorrow. Let it be a cry for help, and a scream for change. The challenge ahead is monumental—and downright daunting to be honest—but our class objective here is simple: To make us dream again…of a future brighter than this reality we are all stuck fighting in today.
Since trying to change the world sounds pretty dumb to many people, as we prepare to embark on this journey together allow me to now imagine you and I as Lloyd and Harry in their Dumb and Dumber movie. Unafraid, jump on this little moped with me and let’s go looking for that pretty lady in the snowy mountains of Aspen…just like in that movie—let you and I call that pretty lady Destiny.
“Here, I have an extra pair of mittens—you should probably put them on before we get going…this reality is one cold b-word.”
Dear class, I’ve thrown a lot at you here. In the story ahead what is real and what is not will be explained at the end. For the time being, try to enjoy the ride. This world gives you enough to worry about…Am I lying?
The Teacher’s Playlist:
Not Afraid by Eminem
“Come take my hand.”
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(End of chapter 2)
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Recovery High School 