Of Confessions, Secrets, Lies and Transition

Those who think they "know" me may have a differing view after this. They may decide they don't wish to "know" me. I can live with that. What I cannot live with is the life I've had for a while. And, before I confess, understand the following: this is NOBODY'S FAULT BUT MINE!

Assuming December comes around this year, I will be 44 years old. Emphasize the word "old" if you live in my house, where that word seems to get tossed around a lot. I've been male most of my life...but just in the last two or three years, I've done a lot of learning about what it really means to be a "man." Mostly through screwing it up. Most men - myself included -- only avail themselves of learning AFTER they've managed to completely screw up their lives, and the lives of the people they love. In my case, costing me four months of my children growing up, and setting every relationship I held dear back about three years.

But, you see, that's not the whole story here. Hang on...

Twenty-three years ago, in Southern California, I was a badly trained, horribly unprepared 20 year old punk kid...working retail for minimum wage in a video store; married to a nice lady; and living with mom. To forget most of this, I drank quite substantially. The marriage did what a lot of "young" marriages do...less than two years on, "Plaintiff" was gone. In the process, I had met the woman who would become the great love of my life. A mother, also in a bad marriage, and also working retail to the point where drinking on the job sounded like a really good way to burn the time off the clock (never did that, as far as I know). We had a lot of fun...it was hot, it was intense...and it brought forth a child, born on the day we got our first apartment together. I went from having nothing to having EVERYTHING: a home, a car, two of God's most gorgeous creations - have you figured out that I have daughters? - and a wife I am still getting to know.

Over the next years of trying to learn what it means to be "husband" and "father," I made A LOT of mistakes. Take, for instance, the letter I wrote to a female friend of my wife's professing my "love" and my apparent wanting to have a relationship. That apparently happened in 1989. I have no doubt that I did that; I just know this: I don't remember writing that letter; I don't consciously remember wanting to "get with" that woman; and - oddly - she's still a friend to this day. I was recently reminded of this mistake.

September 12, 1993...after a long afternoon of boozing at a baseball game and a trip to a local bar, I snapped...someone said something to me, and I just flat lost it. In the aftermath, three of the people in this world who were closest to me -- including the person who made me "husband" and "father" -- ended up with bruises, bite marks, footprints where I literally kicked ass, and a lot of unanswered questions. Interestingly, I don't remember the next three days. I only know that on September 16th of that year, I quit drinking. My next drink could be five minutes from now, but it hasn't happened since. I was recently reminded of this.

October 6, 2001...post 9/11, there was a lot of strange behavior around. You might remember it, if you're an "old" person like I apparently am. Around me was a lot of self-medicating. I engaged in it too, getting absorbed in a lot of inappropriate internet material and going into silence for long periods of time. Then, on this night, I went over the uncrossable line. At age 34, knowing better, I went on an ass-kicking mission, prompted by a lack of control. In the end, the person in this world who I love more than anything took the brunt of my rath; I ended up in custody and began a long peripheral relationship with "The System;" my kids hated - with real hate - my very existence (a rift that took over five years to heal); and four months living away from the people I love.

Surrounding that time, I got close to someone I wasn't married to...a person much younger than I, and someone who was something I was not: fun. We spent a lot of time together...and, although nothing ever happened (this person had higher standards!), the willingness to "go there" on my part was no big secret. It hurt the person I love terribly...and, even after learning my mistakes and working diligently to grow up, and I was reminded of that hurt and those circumstances for the next eight years.

In recent times, a new group of people has entered my life. They are of my children's generation. Young, smart, full of "piss and vinegar" (as the "old folks" say). Some I am closer to than others. Some are parents; some are in long-term relationships; some are just starting out in the big world; all of them are interesting people, and they have taught me a lot. Which is interesting, since I see myself as more of the teacher-leader type; to be accurate, I have spent considerable time with some telling my life story and relating personal experiences all with the aim of a better understanding for whoever will listen.

Why are these people in my life? I am quite certain a higher power put them in my path, as is always the case. Have I gravitated toward some people and away from others? Certainly...but unlike previous circumstances, there's not a hint of anything other than friendship in this mix. Good people, good conversation, and a lot of insight.

That's not to say that I've handled it all very well. Indeed, this change in my circumstances has been, at times, an enormous challenge for me to deal with. And, I've mishandled it very badly at times. To the point where the person I love most in the world and one of my dearest friends stopped speaking to me for a week and a half after I committed one of the more embarrassing foul-ups you can do...trying to convince the person you love that there's "nothing going on here" when she never suspected there was anything going on here in the first place!

Most recently, I reverted to a bad, bad behavior: when approached about something - I don't remember what - in a very physically intimidating way, I reacted by literally "pushing" back. Not good. That's old stuff that I really don't want to revert to. And it was the surest sign I know that I am not taking care of myself.

What have I learned? Well, I am a few things. First, I am a master manipulator...I can make you think you said something you never even thought of, or try to make you think it's black when it's actually orange. Second, I am hurtful...I know a hundred ways to scorn, belittle, minimize, redefine and generally verbally destroy you. Third, I have no respect. And, fourth and maybe most importantly, I am the most controlling person you've ever met.

Or, at least, that's what I am told. Oh, and that I'm also disrespectful, weak, a liar, scared, and that I'd rather run than face facts. Well, those are the facts. And before you hear them from anyone else, remember...you heard it here first!

Learning comes at a price. For me, the price is my life as I have known it. By the end of the next few months, I suspect that -- assuming I get through it -- nothing will be the same. For me, it's come down to an existence predicated on threats, distrust, and general negativity. Do I bear the blame for at least half of all this? Absolutely...and there is no pride taken in it. None at all.

While I know I'm not a great husband, father or friend...and that my teeth are a mess, my personal taste suspect and my credit rating sucks on ice...I also know how much I love my family, my closest friends, and this life I've been given. In the last few weeks, I've gotten past a serious bout of depression that caused me to alienate three people I love very much; had a cancer scare; and had a most remarkable professional experience. While I could take time to decompress over all that, life continues to do what it is supposed to do...and the majority of the time I have in this life is already behind me.

So, to anyone I've wronged...to anyone I've hurt, disrespected, angered or caused any pain to at all...please know that I know; that I am profoundly sorry for being less than I profess to be; that I regret any pain I have caused you; that I would like very much to have you tell me about it and, if you're willing, allow me to make it right if possible. If not, I am grateful for your friendship and wish you nothing but happiness and success.

To those closest to me: you have made me all the GOOD things I am today. Thank you for your love and support, and please know that you will always live in my heart and I pray for you daily. And if I have caused you any hurt, I apologize from the depths of my soul. You are great people, and you deserve better. If we continue our relationships, know that I will be a better man and a better person. If you choose otherwise, my love and respect goes with you.

Finally, to one person in particular: you have been my whole world, and there will never be another time in my life that will mean as much to me as the last two decades. You have given me your everything, and I was not equal to the task. I hope that sometime we can peacefully co-exist in this life, but for now your pain - and mine - is apparently too great. For every time I failed you...for every time I angered you...for every time I disappointed, scorned, or otherwise hurt you...I wish to God that I hadn't. Hopefully someday I will learn why that all happened. But you should not pay the price for my mistakes, nor should you feel like you have reasons to hold on to those mistakes and the resultant pain. Please...take care of yourself and be the best person you can be. You were always the best person I knew...and the great love of my life.

So, that's my confession. For whatever reason, I don't feel any better...strangely, the room has gone quiet. Maybe that's best. No one around except me, my thoughts, and this computer. Perhaps it's time to start something new and positive.

Ideas?

Parasailing Punchline

I've done a lot of things in my life. Parasailing was not one of them, until today. As noted previously, the view is extraordinary. Better still: being seated -- no harnesses -- next to my wife for the shared experience of being as close to flying as man can really get.

The punchline: the Caribbean was rough today. Very rough. So much so that the jet-ski ride to the launch boat gave me motion sickness. And, five minutes after I got out of the parasail seat, I leaned over the starboard bow of the boat and repeated my breakfast all over paradise.

I love vacation!

What I Came For

The magnificent Caribbean Sea...seen from 250 feet above while parasailing Tuesday afternoon.

Breathtaking.

I Love Me Some Dinner

At the Sun Palace in Cancun, all your meals are included. Including the filet mignon and mashed potatoes I nearly had an inappropriate relationship with last night.

Having lost over 40 pounds to get ready for this, I fear most of that weight may return.

If you're a good eater -- you know who you are -- go all-inclusive and bring a larger pair of pants.

If Michael Jackson Wasn't Dead, This Would Have Killed Him

At the Sun Palace, all your evening's entertainment is included. Tonight: it's the "Michael Jackson Show."

The faithful assemble in a ballroom and are seated around a stage adorned by a pair of video screens that have seen better days (one has a swath of tape holding it's middle together), and told to await "MJ." And, at the appointed moment, here comes a skinny, off-color, high-water-pants wearing "impersonator" to not only try to dance like The King Of Pop, but to lip-sync his performances as well.

He's backed up by four "dancers:" one, a stunningly constructed blonde-brunette lady, is the only performer who saves this show, or at least comes close. At least two of the three others rely on their ability to perform breakdance moves; the other, a dude of at least age 30, is overweight.

This travesty goes on for the best part of an hour I'll never get back in my life, and may be the gayest thing I've ever seen. It's so unbelievably bad, it must be seen to be believed -- though not on a full stomach.

How really awful was this? My wife, who loved Michael and his music as much as anyone could, was the first person in the front row (admission of guilt) to leave the room. Quickly. Before the host was finished wrapping it up.

Bad. Bad. Really, really bad.

Getting There

Like a lot of other resort destinations in Mexico, Cancun looks at the American tourist, his newly purchased short pants bursting with American currency, and asks: how can we bleed this bastard completely dry?

From the minute you are cleared to come into this country, hucksters and pitchmen of every sort and description are attempting to sell you something...ANYTHING...to get your money. Today, it's travel. Resort tours...hotels...attractions...and that most precious of commodities (to us), transportation.

Thankfully, our travel agent has already arranged a transfer for the four of us from the Airport to the Sun Palace all-inclusive resort where we'll spend the next ten days. Good thing, too...because between buses that I am pretty sure were used to haul Montezuma's men two centuries ago (and have the missing doors and windows to show for it) and the cabbies who got their careers by painting the word "Taxi" on the side of whatever four-wheeled motorized contraption they could dig up, "getting there" can be as much an adventure as the tours they want you to buy.

Our transfer does not go completely without incident: it takes nearly 30 minutes to get off the platform and into the Best Day Tours van. Bear in mind: the temperature and humidity combined make today feel like 106 degrees...and I'm a fat guy! Thanks to my bro, the lone participant in the native Spanish language, we're taken very good care of on the way. Once we're actually on the way.

On Arrival

The closest I've come to international travel is an eight-hour excursion into Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico...part of a cruise package we took in 1994.

Cancun is a whole different beast. And, post-911, getting into it is no easy task.

On arrival here in the resort jewel of Mexico's east coast, one immediately notices the heat. We've plenty of it here...at 300pm central time, the mercury is a mild 92 degrees. Add in the 70 percent humidity, and your sweat glands get the message: get busy, son...and start drenching the American before he can get too comfortable.

Cancun Airport has one of the best organized immigration and baggage claim systems in Mexico. So I am told by one of the bi-lingual locals who I happen to strike up a conversation with while waiting to get through the four hundred other people whose flights just landed at the same time ours did. When I get to the baggage area, I find six carousels full of people's prized possessions...and a very, very long queue of people waiting to get those possessions x-rayed by the Mexican government officials who have compressed those four hundred folks into three lines.

And then, there's customs. Make sure you have the right form filled out; make sure you've signed it in two places; and then go through a series of snaking lines and winding paths to get to the minimum wage government lackey who looks at your incorrectly filled out immigration forms; scans your passport while giving you the once-over, and decides you're not much of a threat to make things tough in his homeland. Three rubber stamps later and you're off to the ground transportation platform.

This is where the fun begins.