Self Awareness

Early hours in rural America gives you plenty of time for self-reflection.

I’ve never considered myself “self aware” as modern pop psychology has defined the term. I think it’s because of my Walter Mitty personality disorder. Every time my ego gets too close to my id, my id does a runner and disappears into fantasy land. It’s like trying to spot someone familiar moving through a bustling lunchtime crowd on the streets of midtown Manhattan. You think you spot them by notable profile, gate or mannerism, and try to catch their attention as you push through the uncooperative masses. However, just when you almost catch up, that familiar person turns the corner, and poof, they’re gone. Frustrating, indeed, to never find yourself.

I have a detached concept of who I am and how I became that way. But it seems to be something I discovered second hand. A creation in retrospect.

And given my natural deficiencies in memory and character, I’m probably going to get most of this wrong, but here goes.

I spent my first decade in pure survival mode, doing whatever was biologically necessary to sustain life so my body and mind could continue to grow. I ate and slept and played. I developed an understanding that I was part of greater social clusters – family, culture, church – that did their best to teach and protect me, and I did my best to not be driven out of any of those groups. I also did my best to avoid being killed by my siblings or otherwise culled by natural selection. That made you street athletic and crafty. Bronx Darwinism.

Early in my second decade, I developed the lucid understanding that I liked girls. Fourth grade to be precise. It felt good to attract their attention. I enjoyed the unusual fluttering sensation they caused in different parts of my body.

Of course, as I got older, I learned there were far more pleasurable sensations involved with engaging in the feminine mystique.

I have evolved. To this day I find each woman I meet to be fascinating. They are inherently good, empathetic, and nurturing. Far more women are naturally brilliant than their male counterparts. I’ve never found that threatening. And at any age, there is nothing more attractive than a smart and confident woman.

Oh, and I have learned since becoming an author that women read books. Thank God for that or I would not have sold a dozen copies. Most men just don’t read anymore. Poor bastards.

But in my youth, I hurt a lot of feelings along the way. For that, I am truly sorry. Take solace in the fact that I really was the negative part of any equation. A selfish young man who had no idea of who he was or any impact of his actions. I wasn’t intentionally an asshole, but I never looked beyond the moment. I was never that prospective winner, the one parents encouraged for relationships. Never long term boyfriend material. Looking back, I probably wouldn’t have liked me growing up.

The one non-sexual irrefutably positive thing I learned during those first two decades was how to read. Indeed, in the end, reading probably saved me. It gave me a repeatable skillset – the ability to access information quickly. For some reason, if I could read how someone else has done something, I could quickly figure out how to mimic it well enough to get by. A means to an end. Read about a subject, usually cramming at the last minute, learn enough to pass the exams, forget what you learned after flipping over the test page, like wiping the RAM drive when you push the off button, and then continuing to repeat the process as you proceed each academic year up the educational ladder.

It turned out that right out of the gate, I have been a fast reader. Not a speed reader. I don’t follow fingertips, my mind just gloms paragraphs through my eyes. That left me with a lot of time to fuck off. I did a lot of that.

To this day, while I have had a varied, broad and elite educational experience, and I can fake being an overnight expert in just about anything, I have never mastered anything. Just call me Jack.

So, rather than being productive, I spent the latter half of my second decade making sure I experienced all of the fun adult stuff – fighting, drinking, smoking, sex – without any of the responsibility of being an adult. I ran from the thought of responsibility (still feel that call of the wild). I never cleaned up the messes I created. Repeatedly detoured any progress in life. Good times. Pure Grasshopper, not Ant.

In fact, I couldn’t tell you who I was as a person back during my teens, or where I was going, but I was fascinated by watching my friends develop into adults. My friends were interesting human beings. They selflessly shared their life stories and even the blood families that raised them. Each one of my friends ultimately found their passion, and then chased it. I constantly wondered what that feeling of purpose they reflected must feel like.

Even the friends that died along the way had their passion and purpose.

But while I was so not busy fucking off, my relationships placed me in moments along the way where I would be in the middle of some strange, interesting, and often stupid event or experience, sometimes alone, sometimes with my friends, and my inner voice would say, “pay attention, you need to remember this.” Sometimes it was when I was so fucked up I could barely stand. I never gave the recurring voice much thought. Just nodded and continued to objectively flow along, without any direction or purpose. Collecting memories.

Turns out, in retrospect, those collected moments were epiphanies.

But this distant narrative observer mindset had its drawbacks.

Over time, I have watched a lot of my close friends along the way develop into best friends with others among our evolving group, and now, in hindsight, after almost six completed decades of observation, I can see many of those best friendships have stood the test of time. Shared memories that continued long after I had drifted out of the relevant circle. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a little jealous of that. But it’s all good.

You reap what you sow, and honestly, I never put in the “above and beyond” effort with any individual to warrant the title. Don’t get me wrong, I can be a good friend. I have had many close friends along the way. Most of my close friends from my youth have appeared as characters in The Claire Saga. Each spot earned.

My way of giving back for all of those memories they shared with me.

But, in the end, even that only gets you so far.

The last four decades was me withdrawing from extended society while evolving into my best version – and certainly far from perfect – of being a husband, father and now grandfather.

I have my wife Lisa to thank for any successes I have in each of these roles these last forty years. She saw something in me worth investing her time in. She believed in me. And once committed in her role, she would never let me give up. To this day, she manages to bring out the best in me, and begrudgingly settles for my recurring shortcomings when many others wouldn’t. Love you, sweetie.

I’ve also performed proficiently, if not famously, in my profession. I wasn’t in it for the reputation. It was always a means to an end. I’m naturally good at it because I can rapidly read, become an instant expert, and I have no emotional attachment to an outcome. I also enjoy an intellectual challenge. I solve other people’s problems. The work fed the financial meter that ran my family.

It also taught me how to tell a story to strangers, and hopefully, for that, I will be remembered.

I’ve even developed into a pretty good stranger along the way. I now live my life trying to pay the mostly unwarranted blessings I have received over these past four decades of adulthood forward. Making up for times when I was an asshole. I’m still in the red on those books, but tomorrow’s another day.

But I’m not a friend who plans events to meet up with others. The kind of friend that flies/drives across country every year to reconnect. I’ve come to covet my solitude. But I will pick up the phone to talk or text, share a thought, a sorrow or a laugh. Modern technology is a wonderful thing. I reach out and touch through social media. Like now.

My family can shame more social graces out of me, but, thankfully, none of us are overly needy in that respect.

To sum up, I am happily transitioning into a forgivable curmudgeon.

And I am still an observer. A voyeur of other peoples lives.

And maybe that is self awareness.

Maybe it’s all bullshit.

What’s not bullshit, is that today is Thursday, and that means, among my other chores, I have to put out the recycling. And recycling is the perfect metaphor for today’s blog.

So, my fine, five readers, let us go forth and wrap up our summer workweek on this glorious Thursday, so that our magical Friday can springboard us hurtling full speed towards the summer weekend we work so hard to be able to enjoy.

And no matter what else we do, let us make today a great one.