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The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could...
Chapter 15: Emptiness
“The Force, it’s calling to you…just let it in.”
—from the film Star Wars: The Force Awakens
*
“Look at this noob sweating.” Watching the game of Fortnite being played on the television in front of him, Nel says this leaning forward on the couch while one of my boys yells the word “Push!” repeatedly.
Pras has the controller in his hand as all eyes in the room focus on the chaotic battle on screen. I struggle to follow the action and listen to a language that is foreign to me.
The words “33rd Place” materializes on screen.
Announcing, “He’s a hack,” I watch Pras throw the remote on the couch beside Nel.
Week twelve of the school year brings us to Thanksgiving in the year 2020. It is late in the afternoon and already getting dark outside as I watch the boys playing this video game from my desk across the room. Nel and Pras accepted my invitation to join us today and so we are all hanging out at my place above my parent’s garage.
Seeing Pras throw his remote just now reminds me that most kids have absolutely no clue on how to cope with losing. People will say that’s a parent’s job, but with this pandemic I think we’re all being reminded of how important interaction in school is for things like this. Never mind the fact a very small percentage of these kids have capable parents as it is—I’m not supposed to say that though.
Listening to a group of kids say “kill this kid” to each other might have me looking like a not-so-great father or teacher at the moment. But that person wouldn’t know our children’s world currently revolves around this game. My youngest isn’t with this group at the moment as I sent him into our bedroom after he had a full-blown hissy fit after getting killed in this game. I call it a “hissy fit”, but in the world of Fortnite it’s called “raging”.
Fortnite was a way for me and my youngest to stay connected with the twins when we were all in quarantine, but now I fear I’ve created a bit of a monster as he’s constantly getting upset over this game. The things he says when I take it away are embarrassing to say out loud.
“I hate you.” — “You’re stupid.” — “You’re the worst father ever.” — “No one likes you.”
My son doesn’t know I often feel like no one likes me or how much I’m trying to do for him today. He doesn’t get this stuff yet, nor should he. One day he might, I just hope he doesn’t have to feel like me for it to happen.
“You can’t say mean things to people,” I told him with almost tears in my eyes after taking that game away recently, “you don’t know what they’re going through.”
My son didn’t know what I was going through that day, and I didn’t tell him. I gave him his game back shortly after as an experiment to see what he would do. He went and played his game and left me feeling alone and sad.
He is sensitive and sweet, but this game brings out another side of him. Talking to Sirena about him and this game, I told her his behavior concerns me. Telling her why, she got annoyed: “He’s just a kid,” she said, “don’t let him play the game then!”
It’s not that simple in my opinion. I want him to be able to play this game as there are times I like hearing him and his friends talk to one another. How they sometimes talk to one another is another issue entirely.
I don’t hate the game necessarily. I even try playing it with the boys. I’m the “med guy”—the Med Bazooka is kinda my thing. I do have a bunch of complaints about the game, however. A person sitting next to me when the words “2nd Place” pops up on that screen might understand some of them.
Like usual though I have to keep my thoughts to myself and swallow them because everyone knows: “If you aren’t first you’re last in this world!” I just dream of living in a world where we use a game like this to bring kids together in a more positive way is all—shut up Jose!
None of my boys are masterful losers like their dad, but my youngest is awful at it. After losing a game of cards last night he went to our room to mope. I might have pushed his buttons by laughing at him but like to think I do it out of love.
People say he looks me, but he is wired so much like Sirena that I feel like I’m being punished lately. He’s even gotten into this habit of making me give him backs rubs every night. When I told Sirena that I joked and said her and my new song was gonna be Eminem’s 25 To Life.
I’ve come to accept I still love Sirena for some crazy reason, but she’s not making that easy lately. Most kids are focused on themselves and winning when they are young, some more than others, and this wonderful boy of ours is one of the others I tell her. She once respected my opinions on things like this, but doesn’t appear to care for them much right now.
When I went to check on him last night, after losing in that card game, he was still upset. “I don’t want to do anything in life,” he said still crying about a game that meant absolutely nothing. Unlike his mom, I don’t care about him winning or being super smart, hearing him say things like that bothers me more than she cares to understand at the moment.
People can debate nature verse nurture all they want, but our environment is doing an awful job nurturing good behavior in kids today. A difficult life won’t force humility on him like it did me if I can help it, so he will need to find that elsewhere. Sirena hates hearing me say stuff like this, and I hate saying it sometimes, but I say it because I’m rather certain its true.
“My ten minutes are up.”
As if on cue, my son walks past me and goes to join the boys around the television. If he knew what I was thinking right now he’d be so mad at me. Like his mom, he does not like me questioning his behavior. I warn him that people will remember him more for how he behaves than his winning someday—he’s just a kid though…he has time.
Pras and Nel showed up today wearing collared dress-shirts. Earlier my boys went in my closet and put shirts and ties on themselves thinking they were funny. Watching this group of boys dressed up playing a video game is deserving of a picture. I quickly take one without them knowing thinking maybe I’ll send it to Lily later.
Leaving the group, I watch Nel walk towards me sitting at my desk. At each step his knee bends and then each foot follows sort of a little slower; it’s a feature of his walk I noticed the first day I saw him. Nel is a cocky kid. This walk and those expensive sneakers he’s always wearing adds to this little persona of his.
When I was young people thought I was overly cocky before getting to know me. So, I shouldn’t judge him. But I still do. “Judging, judging, judging,” my son would say to me right now.
“What does ‘SAP’ mean?”
Nel stops his strut at my desk and notices a yellow sticky note on it. “Nothing,” I lie not trying to invent something to tell him.
I started writing notes like this when I see things that irritate me on Facebook. There’s no emoji to let someone know you think they’re a moron—probably for a reason—so whenever someone’s words or opinions disturb me I take a sticky, write SAP or CAP on it based on my diagnoses, then jot down the initials of the person I find irritating.
Facebook has given a microphone to every idiot and meany on planet. It’s not a debate at this point. Doing this sticky note thing is silly but its helping slow my current descent into madness I think.
Deciding Nel doesn’t need to know what politician the initials “J.J.” stand for—or why I consider him a Stupid Ass Person rather than a Confused Ass Person—I wrestle this note off my desk and throw it in the trash.
“What’s that?” Nel asks looking over my shoulder now.
“It’s my vision board,” I answer. “I told you guys I had one…that’s it.”
Nel focuses on one of my more personal goals on this white poster board hung on the wall: “Books to Write”, it reads. I watch him use one finger to move down my list: Social Recovery 101… Exit Ticket… Lean In … Make It Real … Enjoy the Ride … Dream On … An Addiction to Believing.
“Why seven books?” Nel asks pulling his finger away.
Feeling like this might be some sort of special moment, I answer his question. “Because that’s how many I’ll need to re-write history Nel,” I tell him.
“You should write about this pandemic Mr. J,” he says. “That’s a million-dollar idea right there.” Not stopping to ponder my extraordinary pronouncement or let me comment on his million-dollar idea, Nel moves on. “Your place is really nice by the way,” he says.
“Thanks, Nel… I’m glad you approve.”
When Nel teased me about living with my parents I brushed it off; knowing he was trying to sound cool in front of Pras and avoid the seriousness of what was going on with Lauryn. In that moment, I told him that laughing at myself is my super-power. “Nobody takes the ‘L’ better than me,” I said; throwing in a Fortnite reference after I had told him and Pras my boys would want to play this game with them today.
“Can we talk alone for minute?” Nel asks looking serious.
“Sure,” I reply, “let’s go to my room.”
Nel clearly has a lot on his mind. Standing up, we sneak past the group of boys playing their game and head towards my bedroom for some privacy. Pras looks at us but doesn’t say anything.
Nel probably imagined me living in some small apartment when he heard about this place. That however is most definitely not the case. I remember being annoyed with my dad for building this addition so big ten years ago. But it’s worked out well for me and serves as a daily reminder that I don’t always know what’s best.
My dad built this house when he was a young and ambitious builder in the early 80’s. He still is that person somewhat but having such a big house means there’s always something that needs to be done around here. We are always putting “Band-Aids” on things I mentally refer to it.
“You’re living the life,” my dad said about me living here with my boys recently… and being single actually.
My parents’ involvement in my boy’s life has been a blessing. And the little amount I pay to stay here has made my life survivable. Still, I spent most of my childhood looking forward to getting out of my parents’ house and look forward to maybe getting out again. When or how, I don’t know, but I do—Sorry dad.
“Jesus,” Nel says following me into my bedroom, “Big enough tv or what?”
Nel is overwhelmed by the 72-inch television sitting on our bedroom bureau. “We got it this summer,” I tell him. “It’s our movie room.”
Shutting the door behind me, I see Nel look around.
He looks at the bed sitting directly on the floor. Then at the bunkbeds. Then at the posters, puzzles, and pictures that litter almost every inch of the walls. Before he can speak, two of my boys burst through the door I had just shut.
“Dad—” my youngest says, “Can we rent Jumanji?”
“Pras said he loves that movie too,” adds one of the twins.
My mother was concerned about having these students over today; worried we’d get in trouble because of the pandemic. With everything going on at school, she got over it and ended up making us a bunch of deserts. Which explains some of these boys’ hyper behavior.
If I learned my enabling skills from anyone, it’s my parents. Here there is a plentiful supply of sugar and fun; which made this the fun house growing up. But it also makes my life crazier than it already is—hence my dreams of escaping someday.
“Yes,” I say to their movie request, “But you gotta give Nel and me a minute first.”
“Can Vinny come over?” my youngest asks.
My son is holding his iPad. I see Vinny’s face looking out from its screen with that stoic white-blonde hair that reminds me of the wrestler Ric Flair.
“That’s just way too much today bud,” I reply. “Gram doesn’t need it any crazier here—I told you guys already. Be happy she let Nel and Pras over please…sorry Vinny.”
Earlier my twins—my little entrepreneurs—asked if they could have their friend over when showing Nel and Pras the plastic fishing worms they’ve started to make and sell. My boys obviously want their friends to come hang with the big kids. How cool.
Accepting my decision, I use my body to gently coral my boys out the door so I can have this talk with Nel.
“Hey dad—” my youngest says through the crack of the door, “The world’s a terrifying place…be scared of everything.”
This is a quote from that Jumanji movie they just asked me to rent; it’s an on-going joke we have. My son gives me his big rabbit toothed smile as I shut the door on him.
Having my students over today doesn’t seem that strange to my boys. They often see me do weird things; like say hi to strangers. I recently told them the story of when I picked up a hitchhiker. Maybe doing that was a bit strange or crazy or weird of me… “But he was really nice actually,” I told them.
Honestly, I think I’m more scared of people I know than strangers these days. I didn’t tell them that, but I thought it.
“Mr. J,” Nel says as I turn around, “where’s the 50 First Dates poster?”
Nel has a big smirk on his face. This question must have been growing inside of him as soon as he saw this room that looks a lot like the one I wrote about in that Ham Sandwich story. They did read it and found it funny thankfully.
I turn around and point at the poster above the door. “It’s right there,” I tell him.
“No way…” he says sounding amazed.
Nel walks towards the poster above the door. I move a step and watch him read a quote written on another poster to the left of that 50 First Dates one:
Be sure to do what you should—it reads— for then you will enjoy the personal satisfaction of having done your work well, and you won’t need to compare yourself to anyone else, for we are each responsible for our own conduct.
“What did you want to talk about Nel?” I say to the back of his head after a moment.
Nel turns and looks at me seriously. “Lauryn wants to know if you’ll visit her,” he says. “She’s back at her mom’s place now.”
Lauryn spent a few days in the hospital after having a small breakdown with everything that happened. I know I’ll say yes to this request but feel a bit nauseous at the thought of the conversation Lauryn and I might have.
“Of course, I’ll visit,” I say trying to sound like a strong adult again. “Have her text me and we’ll figure something out.”
After a short talk, Nel and I leave the bedroom and join the other boys in the living room. My youngest is back to being his cute self and gives me what I think is an apologetic look.
My son might be worried I’m still upset about his behavior from earlier. What he doesn’t know is my mind is now concerned with other more adult things. I smile back at him…grateful to be here worrying about that behavior I find concerning.
*
Article Title: P.A.I.N. Through Emptiness
Dated: Friday, November 27th, 2020
“Sometimes I feel like I really don’t belong here.”
— from the 1997 Disney film Hercules
People tend to like me I think, I’m positive and cheerful most of the time—when I’m on my game that is—but I wouldn’t say I have many friends today. Even if I could have a lot of friends… would I want them?
Friendships seem like a lot of work to me these days— Or am I the one that’s a lot of work these days?
I find having adult friends difficult now. When I replied to a friend’s text that I was busy and couldn’t get together he responded with a thumbs up the other day. That was it. He’ll tell me later I’m paranoid for thinking he’s upset with me after receiving that text. But that’s how I feel. It’s just one of the many reasons I prefer being alone or hanging with my kids I think.
If I could clone myself and be the person someone wants me to be all the time I would. “Have a copy of me for yourself,” I’d gladly say to those that might want to be my friend. “Do with it what you want.”
That’s not possible though and even saying it makes me sound a bit crazy…but you all know I’m a bit crazy already.
Life has forced me to keep certain things about myself private. Saying that might have you wondering what things I must keep private given all I’ve shared with you already. But today’s article hits on a very sensitive subject for me: Depression.
You all know about that fire I accidentally started back in 2016. Things worked out rather well for me actually. Insurance came through and I had the opportunity to build my family a beautiful new home. That however did not make me happy. Having built many homes in the past, seeing that house torn down after the fire had me looking at everything I ever built as pointless and temporary.
Have you ever felt like you were done trying? … Forever? … Well, that’s sort of how I felt then.
My wife, me, and my youngest son lived in a small trailer behind that burnt down house during the rebuilding process. On Christmas, I remember my son bouncing up and down on my chest wanting me to wake up because Santa had come to our little trailer. I urged him to start opening presents without me, but he refused to begin without his dad.
That was a role I wasn’t much interested in playing then.
That Christmas morning, I remember my son patiently waiting to open his presents as I pulled myself from that bed, prepared myself a cup of coffee, and headed outside to have my morning cigarette.
Yes, I was still smoking cigarettes after that fire. Yes, I was a loser…or so I told myself.
I did not successfully stop smoking cigarettes until just last year when I began this job. I just couldn’t get it until then. Smoking cigarettes made me feel like I could breathe sometimes. Which is funny because smoking cigarettes makes its hard to breathe in the long run. We addicts are funny. We might as well accept it.
Addict or not, we all do this to a degree. We fill ourselves up with stuff and things to cover up painful or annoying or unpleasant feelings. Sometimes we do it to simply deal with the boringness of life.
Society has trained us this way I think. “Do whatever to feel okay in the present” —the commercials might as well just tell us the truth— “And deal with the consequences later…sucker.”
After that fire it was suggested I participate in Electroconvulsive Therapy. Electric shock therapy with a fancy name; ECT Treatment it’s sometimes called. Studies show this treatment can help with depression. Unfortunately, there was no amount of electricity that would jumpstart my passion for living at the time.
The fact I participated in that treatment should tell you how seriously depressed and lost I appeared then. My favorite part of that treatment was when they would insert a needle into my arm. That needle would put me to sleep before they did whatever it was they did. Counting down from ten, I was grateful to say goodbye to this world for a bit… sadly, I kept waking up.
Please know I was not suicidal but learned to understand why someone might be. I was simply not excited about the rest of my life is all. “Life is short,” people say. To me life felt much too long then.
I’m not anti-treatment. Or anti-medicine. Or anti-much. Normally, I just go with the flow. Back then I did whatever people told me to do. I had done enough fighting to make things happen my way. “Tell me what will make this pain go away,” I might have said, “and I’ll do it.”
There are benefits to touching that level of sadness in one’s life. It can help us look at people with more compassion. It can however also have us looking at people with more bitterness.
My councilor at the halfway house referred to those moments as “All hope is lost moments”. To me that’s when a person feels out of place or alone in this world and fears never feeling like they’ll belong again. Listening to Adele sing Hold On or Easy On Me will bring even the strongest person to tears during these times—trust me…I know.
I had titled this article P.A.I.N. Through Depression but changed it to Emptiness out of respect for this diagnosable disease of the mind. Also, because I believe the word emptiness is more relatable to a wider audience.
When I burnt my house down, I DOUBTED my life would ever get better. I was ANGRY with myself and the world. The shame I felt had me WORRIED sick. My days were spent not knowing what to do next and I was full of ANXIETY.
Do you recognize these words?
The days were long then and I was tired all the time, but I barely slept. The emptiness was consuming me from the inside out. Nothing in life much interested me anymore. Not even my boys. I was unable to see past my own misery and felt incapable of being anything to anyone.
What would they want to do with me anyhow? I was pathetic… A lost cause…. Maybe they would be better off without me?
In that trailer there was this uncomfortable black leather couch. On that couch I would lay flat on my belly with one hand at my heart and the other at my stomach in this “Dead Man’s Pose” I called it. I remember feeling the firmness of that hard leather on my cheek while listening to lawns being mowed, cars driving bye, and birds chirping outside.
The world outside that trailer was on play, but my life was on pause. No—my life was over…or so I told myself.
Someone had left a card in my mailbox in front of that burnt down house one day. On that card was the Saint Francis Prayer and a note on the back that read, “Bring your sorrows and trade them for joy, from the ashes a new life is born.”
I hated the way the optimistic words tasted on my tongue when I received that card. I vividly remember ripping it into pieces: “F happy people,” I might have said throwing that card in the trash.
The edited version of the f-word doesn’t do it justice here…
“F—F—F… Super Double F Happy People!” There, that’s a little better I guess. Thank God I didn’t do Facebook back then. That might have pushed me over the edge.
While doing that electronic shock therapy I attended CBT classes; Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is its fancy name. Nothing was able to penetrate my slumbered mind at the time though.
Before that fire was when I first began imagining this class I’m teaching you now. Before that fire I was smoking half cigarettes, taking hits of weed, and drinking too much caffeine in an attempt to distract myself from reality——and the doubt that came with it as I tried putting all this together.
My councilor at the halfway house would say: “I was busy trying to tell everyone how to fix their shit rather than fixing my own shit first.”
In that trailer I started to think people were right about my ideas and my dreams. I started believing I might be crazy—like they said. I thought my life was unfixable and didn’t want to participate in it anymore, so I tried sleeping it away… but couldn’t much succeed at that either.
At the halfway house a year and a half after that fire, I was given the Third Step Prayer as part of the AWOL program I did there; A Way of Life is its fancy name.
That Third Step Prayer I did not throw away. Instead, I taped it to the wall beside my bed. On it now is a quote I scribbled from that show Westworld I told you I like.
“Any man whose mistakes take ten years to correct is quite a man,” that quote reads.
I invite you to look up that Saint Francis and Third Step Prayer. If you’re like me and that word God makes you cringe or uncomfortable sometimes, try and do what I do: Use the words from those prayers as a reminder to love others even when they don’t, or can’t, love themselves.
I do love you all by the way. :0)
WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:
“Sometimes things have to fall apart to come together.” In your journals reflect on this statement I heard someone say at an A.A. meeting once, and how it makes you feel at the moment. Write whatever but fill one page.
The Teacher’s Playlist:
In the Colors By Ben Harper and The innocent Criminals
“When you have awoken from all the dreams broken, come and dance with me.”
*
(End of Chapter 15)
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Recovery High School 