March 22, 2016
1 PM
Central City Brew Pub
I am sitting in the local brew-pub admiring the eyes of the
waitress. The seats at the bar are very good for this. I don't mean ogling the
waitress, far too young and completely out of my league, but instead I am
participating in one of my favorite pastimes; people watching. Behind me,
jovially humming to himself sits a man; obviously a regular but not so well
known that the staff yells his name when he comes through the door. Fifty years
old and quite overweight, he has, probably even to him, a full head of hair
which minimizes the effects of the crow's feet that surrender the secret of his
age to those paying attention.
The beer before me is quite citrusy, quite a smack to the
palate from a pale ale. It reminds me of the vapours that fill the air when you
cut into a fresh grapefruit, essential oils exploding from the fruit and
settling up on everything like a soft, spring dawn mist.
I'm not supposed to be drinking. I'm not an alcoholic but I
am medicated and those prescribed drugs do not retain their effectiveness when
they encounter alcohol in their travels around my blood stream. I am trying to
numb myself today, and this one beer will not do the trick. In matter of fact,
I doubt any amount of beer will accomplish my goal but I have to try something
because existing with a functioning brain that malfunctions is something I am
unable to bear today. Another beer is on its way.
The chubby man behind me has stepped up the level of his
musical game making his love for the classic Star Wars theme quite apparent. He
has also added chatting to his repertoire, although his audience is a mystery
as I am the nearest to him, and nothing coming out of his mouth is being
directed in my vicinity. While it may be true that he has a secret earpiece in
his right ear, currently facing away from me, I am guessing not.
On the TV is a baseball game. This in itself is hardly a
remarkable occurrence. However, the history being made today will not be
determined in any part by the numbers on the scoreboard in left field or even
by the teams playing when the day is done. But, the political ramifications are
lost on no one that is taking the time to watch and I suspect even a great many
who are not watching. In the stands sits American President Barack Obama.
Again, not normally a surprise but it is the location of this game and the
person sitting beside him that make it a remarkable occurrence and even the
most important sporting event in the last half century.
Raul Castro, brother of the once dictator of the island of
Cuba Fidel Castro sits in the stands beside the American President as the Tampa
Devil Rays take on the Cuban National team, in Cuba. This is the first time in
nearly 90 years that an American President has visited Cuba and today we
finally have some tangible evidence that the animosity of the Cold War is
beginning to subside. Over fifty years of distrust is being pushed aside in an
attempt to move forward from one of the most petulant intra-country
relationships in the history of the Western Hemisphere. Once on the brink of
nuclear war, these two countries have decided to open up a dialogue and, rather
than focus on the hostility, errors, and tragedies of the past, they are
beginning anew. Like the second game of a double header, the past will only
effect the present if they chose to allow it.
If only we could do that with our own pasts. Another beer
has arrived.
The martinis being served to the chubby man have not lived
up to his standards. Not that I can blame him. A gin martini with a lemon twist
should not be served on the rocks with a lemon wedge dropped into it. Rather
than get angry, the man drank what was served and upon ordering the next round,
specified instructions were sent to the bartender through the waitress. After
all, a bartender working the day shift in a brew pub would have very little
training and had never been taught to prepare such a refined drink. With a
little patience on one end and an openness to education on the other, martinis
will have a proper twist in them when ordered and everyone is just a little
better off.
It's a nice idea. It's the idea we try to tell our children
is important. It's the idea we tell our teens when they are being bullied. It's
the idea behind every union negotiated contract in the last 100 years. It's the
idea that our politicians should be striving to achieve. In each of these
situations the price of the alternatives is just too high.
Teaching our children to talk through their problems
prevents them from using violence as they mature as and complex problems arise.
Teaching this to our teens prepares them for their upcoming lives in the
business world, where conflict resolution has become a more important job skill
with every passing day.
Frustration. Fear. Anger. Hopelessness. Despair.
I don't write about these things because I know how to solve
them. I write about them because I wish I did, especially within myself.
I've spent my life trying to figure these emotions out and
why they seem to affect me more than others around me. I've needed this not
only for my own sanity (yes, I see the irony of using that word today) but also
in hopes that someone, anyone will understand a fraction of the way my mind
works. This feeling, whether it turns out to be true or false, has been the
driving influence of my need to build the facade of lies. The wall that both protected
me and provided me with the attention and approval I have craved but seldom
found in my life.
I once had a friend tell me that everyone around me both
liked and didn't like me: that the two people I existed as was far more known
than I had ever realized. I thought I had done a good job of hiding it, but
they knew. He said that the person I presented myself to be was the person
everyone liked; the nice, giving funny person I always wished I could be. He
also told me that the person beneath was detested by people. This was the
terrified, emotional aggressive person I was trying to hide. He didn't know
what was going on with me and how my internal conflict was tearing me apart but
what he had done was confirmed what I had always feared.
People didn't like who I was. People liked who I pretended
to be.
This was the person that knew me best in the world, even
better than my mother knew me in most ways, telling me I wasn't worth knowing
because he told me these things the last time we ever communicated. I had tried
to be honest with him, to tell him of the turmoil in my mind. It was me begging
for help, and he turned his back on me, never speaking to me again. In three
and a half years, the pain he caused me has never subsided.
Now I have to go to my psychiatrist appointment and try to
explain all of this. How am I going to do that when I can't even explain it to
myself?
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