If It Hurts, It Helps.

Every time I open any of my social media apps, I feel like they're all trying to murder me.  It doesn't matter which one. They're all out to get me. At night after I put my phone down on the night table, I look under the bed to make sure it's safe. I have nightmares about Insta and Facebook standing over my prone, sleeping body, waiting for the right moment to smother me with their huge digital pillows.  I don't think I'm being paranoid. Maybe a tad dramatic for the sake of compelling content but paranoid? I think not.  There is solid evidence to prove it.  We all know that all our trusty gadgets have ears. They are all excellent listeners. Alexa, Google, iPhone, Nest, Ring. I don't even trust my old Atari 2600 at this point. Who knows when they collude, what they conspire or how they recruit. I can assure you that I'm not trying to go all Alex Jones on you.  This isn't some  cockamamie  conspiracy theory I swear. When I switched

Let's talk about tattoos, shall we? Whether I am meeting someone for the first time, or seeing someone I've known my whole life, I inevitably get asked three questions about my tattoos. The first question is, "why?", the second question is, "how many do you have?" and the third question is, "do all of your tattoos have a meaning?" Where are my inked brothers and sisters? The first question is easy to answer.  Because they look Metal as f*ck. That's why. Question number two is also an easy one. No clue. I am terrible at math. The third question is a bit more difficult because there really isn't just one answer. I'm not sure why people think there needs to be a reason for a tattoo or why they would care. People that  have  tattoos almost never ask any of these questions to another person with tattoos.  Maybe it’s genuine curiosity or maybe it's just a way to move the conversation along.  I guess that's reason e

I've been living with depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember.  As a kid, I recall having terrible nightmares.  I used to have this one recurring dream about a little girl in a sundress walking through a field of sunflowers. It was a beautiful day.  Peaceful.  Then there was an ominous feeling of dread that would slowly start to build. It was like a low hum that was barely audible, but I could feel it. It would continue until it was clear that something awful was about to happen. All the while the little girl went about her business, having no idea of the imminent doom that was playing out around her. There would never be any resolution. Just continuous dread.  I would eventually wake up to find myself hiding behind my closet door scared half to death. Poor kid. My parents got divorced when I was 8 or 9 and I shut down. I started isolating and bottling up my feelings. I found it hard to have meaningful connections with anyone. I became the class clow

From 2008-2016, I wrote a Dad blog called Out-Numbered. It was one of the highlights of my life. I made a ton of friends within the blogging community, had an opportunity to build my own brand and most importantly, shared some amazing connections with my readers. Now that I'm writing again, I took a moment to reflect back on some of those posts. There were hundreds. Some of them I remember writing but most of them I don't. I got sober in March of 2010. This might be one of the reasons I don't remember.  When I dove back into the blog, I immediately went back to the posts I wrote before I stopped drinking. I didn't write a lot about my drinking as a whole but I did find one post in particular that kind of gut-punched me. It was in December of 2009. About 3 or 4 months before I hit my absolute bottom.  The post talks about one of the many times I tried to stop drinking on my own. I obviously knew I had a problem but I didn't really know what it was or more importantly

It is hard for me to articulate in words just how grateful I am to be sober. It is not because sobriety made it possible for me to find a meaningful profession. Or that getting sober saved my marriage. Or even that being sober got me into the best shape of my life. Especially not that last one. I am 53 and my body is about as sturdy as a bridge made out of pipe cleaners.  My gratitude is far less glamorous than that. Since I have been in recovery, I have heard the word gratitude about a hundred thousand times. Sometimes it resonates with me like an earthquake and sometimes it disintegrates into a million tiny little pieces before it ever reaches my brain. What I am most grateful for might sound less profound than you would expect.  I am most grateful for not having the urge to drink.  To this day, I still do not understand how my cravings for alcohol and drugs have vanished. It's like David Blaine poking an ice pick through his arm or regurgitating live frogs on the Jimmy Fallon Sh

Dear Mr. Webster, Earlier today, I was writing a piece in tribute to a friend that was taken from us way too soon. Like countless times before, I turned to your esteemed book for inspiration and guidance.  On this particular occasion I was looking for the definition of the word "hug" and I was aghast at what I found.  The definition you have provided claims that a hug is, " an act of holding someone tightly in one's arms, typically to express affection. " Excuse my French sir but that is absolute applesauce and I reserve the right to contest.  Mr. Webster, if I may... While I understand the immense pressure you must endure to recurrently add something of value and substance to your book, I cannot and will not condone the morally irreprehensible and dare I say, heinous disservice you have done to one of the most important human gestures known to man. Shame on you sir. There aren't enough words in the English language, let alone, any language to communicate th

I just finished attending an hour-long workshop entitled, "Self-Care 101: Taking the Self-Shame Out of Self Care." The woman that facilitated the workshop is named Amanda Smith . She's a clinical social worker and therapist on BetterHelp.com  and she writes a pretty cool blog called, Self Care 101 . Thanks Amanda. Good stuff. And you're welcome, Amanda. I hope that all three people that read this post will hit you up for some therapy. Self-Care is something that's new to me. I've been in recovery for 14 years and only recently realized that a self-care routine can consist of more than just 12-step meetings. 12-step meetings have been like a sanctuary for me. A place to gather my thoughts and center myself. They have been and continue to be an essential part of my recovery.  Meetings are to me what lily pads are to frogs. A safe place to land. But... I was always under the impression that if I don't put my recovery first, then all of the other parts of my l