In a previous entry (and what would i say if i did), I created an action plan of what to say to my father when I grew the testicles required to call. Well, I grew the testicles, I found his number, and the following is the current outcome. Although I was not sure of how this would all go down, I was unprepared for what was to come next.
Driving up 95 to see my brother and sister and friends in the northeast, I realized that an in person conversation with my gnarley alcoholic drug addict father would be an even better way of confronting this skeleton hanging in the crawl space behind my walk-in closet. about 4 hours into the drive I called. I was first greeted by a voice mail in which I left the message that said, "Hi this is Lincoln James, your son. I realize we haven't spoken in quite some time, but am going to be in the area and was wondering if you had time to get together to catch up a bit. I will be at the coffee shop on main street at 6pm, and hope you can make it then."
To hedge the bet, I called the other number that I had gotten for him also. This was to the house that he was staying in somewhere in pa. A woman answered the phone, and was very polite. She said that he was occupied at the moment, but she would make sure that he would be at the coffee shop on main street at 6pm. We made our pleasantries and hung up the phone. As I drove north on 95, I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to vomit. I refrained by chain smoking.
I arrived in town just before 5pm. This left just enough time to have a drink and take off the edge. The edge remained present throughout all four drinks and persisted on afterwards. I walked around the corner to the coffee shop and sat on the steps beside it, and stared at the lights turning green yellow red, repeat.
I was thinking about how I would greet him. A handshake? A hug? A fist bump? A head nod? I was nervous, and he was late. I waited for a while, then went in to grab a cup of coffee. Maybe he snuck in and I didn't see him. Maybe he was watching the same lights from inside at a high cafe table...He didn't sneak by me, and he wasn't at a cafe table.
I sat down inside, and drank my coffee. I read the posts on the bulletin board, and there was little expectation at this point for anyone sharing my name to walk through the door. Regardless, I waited. At 7:45 pm, I picked up my brother, and went to the side door pub. I didn't care to mention what had just happened, I preferred to have a few drinks and enjoy myself.
Enjoy myself, I did. They threw me a little birthday party. Albeit a month late, tears of joy came streaming from my face. It was the best thing that could have happened after a really shitty thing.
The days after were great. A visit with great friends in jersey, then a trip to NYC, and a concert back in Philly the next day. 4 days had passed since I was supposed to meet my father, and I hadn't gotten a phone call. At this point, his desire to see me was non existent, and that point was made clear.
Driving south on 95 on my way back to NC, my sister called me. She asked if she was being selfish by not wanting to transport nor see her gnarley alcoholic drug addict father. I told her no. I probed for more, and she said that he was in the hospital, but didn't have any more information. I called my brother.
On speaker phone in my car, my brother said, "Yeah, I just talked to him. He sounds pretty bad. Apparently something happened on Saturday afternoon that set him off, and he has been on a bender since then. He is in the hospital detoxing, and it sounds like he may have overdosed or something."
I knew what happened...His son that disowned him years ago (me) just gave him a call and asked to grab a cup of coffee. Of course I am flattering myself by assuming this is my doing, but I mean really? Again, I digress.
I pulled over. I was in shock. Tears were welling up. I felt guilty. I felt like this occurrence happened by my hand. (I knew this wasn't true, its just what was running through my head.) I was confused. I was at a rest stop on 95 somewhere in Virginia. I pulled my shit together, and drove home.
It is now 10 pm on Wednesday. I reached out to my gnarley alcoholic drug addict father on Saturday afternoon. As I think back on why I did this in the first place, I wanted to accomplish a few things. Those things were:
1. See who he is.
2. Learn about his life.
3. Say goodbye.
My gnarley alcoholic drug addict father is still alive right now, but will likely not be for a real long time. I will likely never get to know him, and I can learn about his life from others. These things I will accept since his actions will make it extraordinarily difficult to do so. The third item, will be put in print, and mailed, and my first draft will commence now.
Dear Gnarly Alcoholic Drug Addict Father,
I realize that we have never been close, and that all relationships require work from both parties. I admit that part of my self preservation throughout my life was to seek guidance from other male role models, and to shut you out of my life entirely. Although this may have not been the best decision for our relationship, it is the one that I made for myself, and one that you have chosen to continue to embrace. I do realize that this was likely a hurtful experience for you, but the purpose of this letter is not my reasoning nor an apology, but where we go from where we are.
Although I do not know you well, I do know that I am very much like you in many ways. Like you, I hurt the ones that I love. I take for granted those that love me. I am selfish. I am depressed. I share the same love for hootch.
The major difference between us, is that I am aware of these flaws, and try harder than anything to make sure that I do not let them negatively impact my life, nor the lives of those that I love. Unlike you, I work at relationships with the ones that I love. I am grateful and thank the ones that love me. I am giving to all of those that I care for and that care for me, and this makes me happy. I have not perfected any of the aforementioned, but will work tirelessly trying. And alas, I love me some hootch.
There is one thing that I can thank you for a million times over. When I was 14 years old, and finally realized what had been going on around me, I developed a slogan. A mantra if you will.
"I will never be like you."
When I wake up. When I study. When I read. When my relationships fail. When I workout. When there is no visible light at the end of this long tunnel. When times are tough.
"I will never be like you."
Every day, I tell myself that I will never be like you. Every day, I am not.
There will come a day that you will not wake, and your destructive lifestyle will conquer your body. Know that you are in my thoughts until this day, and that if there is a time that you would like to reach out I will likely render a reply in a timely manner. I will not, however, be reaching out to you in the future for closure as I will be using this correspondence as a farewell. If our paths do not cross before this day, I will be at peace knowing that the father that I did not know, was exactly who I thought he was.
Sincerely,
Lincoln James
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
10 days of 28
I turned 28 a week and a half ago and reflecting back, I am growing. I have grown in so many ways, and adopted different ways of thinking. I have accepted the fact that I am, and will continue to be, confused about my sexuality, my appearance, my health, my future, and ultimately the meaning of life and my happiness. And to those who have been following, I failed at one important step of my action plan in my last post...the step about not chickening out, but again, I digress and tomorrow is another day. None of these things that I have opened with will be the topic of this post, however. I have been 28 for 10 days, and I will take this entry to reflect on those 10 days. At no point in time do I ever want sympathy, and this is certainly not an exception, so if you have it, save it. So without further ado, let's dive right in.
I turned 28 on a Sunday. Just back in North Carolina after a 10 month tour of New York, I hadn't yet reconnected with the local hipsters and my network was left wanting. I did however, have my biffle (b.f.f., best friend forever, biff, the endearing list of pet names goes on and on) and my ex-girlfriend (who also has her own list of pet names but will remain "she", "ex girlfriend", "her") with whom I have remained close with through both the break-up and time away.
September 6, 2009 - I was out with a friend of my biffles (b.f.f., best friend forever, I think you get it now) and collected numbers from random strangers, and made friends with people that I will never speak to again. Lesbians, old ladies, brides to be, women posing as men, frat boys posing as frat boys, boys posing as men, and single 30 somethings eager for attention. At midnight I toasted to a new day and a new year with 20 people I will never lay eyes on again. We drank to the occasion, and we drank in celebration. Today was my day. I drank until I kissed two lesbians in a cab, and passed out in a truck lost driving through the streets of Durham, NC. A successful start to 28 years old.
I woke up naked and found myself dreading the pain that would soon commence between my temples. Regardless, I drank some water, and prepared myself for a day with my "ex girlfriend" and close friend. Today we planned to ride our bikes around town, hopping from bar to bar, and laughing all the way. Afterwards we would head to the sushi place, and give that fish hell. We would drink too much, and laugh like kids. My image of what the day would bring was slightly off.
Dressed in my spandex at 10 am pumping tires and turning wrenches, I received a phone call. I would not be riding that afternoon because my birthday date was at the lake. The lake was 4 hours away, and she hadn't left yet. If I am going to be entirely honest here, I wanted so badly to be at the lake with her, but I wasn't invited. I could have gone, and had nothing else to do, but again, I digress. So I waited...I waited until 4 pm when I thought she would be back and ready to start our day. She would be late, but she would be ready for the ride and the other stuff too. 8 pm came around and I made some burgers with my biffles (b.f.f., best friend forev, oh yeah you get it now) friend at around 7 pm and waited for her. She finally showed at close to 9 pm. I spent most of my birthday waiting alone. I waited for phone calls, and high fives. I was looking forward to a bike ride and spending time with her. She left shortly after 10. I begged her to stay longer. She left anyways.
I think of myself as a pretty strong person, but this had me in a rut. I must have looked pathetic begging for my friend to hang out with me on my birthday. How could someone who says that they love me have such a high disregard for someone on a day that is supposed to be special?
Below is a list of my birthday wishes
1. hug.
2. talk.
3. play my songs for my friends.
4. spend time with my friends.
5. bake a cake.
I have yet to receive 4 of these birthday wishes. I will be baking my own cake tonight.
I turned 28 on a Sunday. Just back in North Carolina after a 10 month tour of New York, I hadn't yet reconnected with the local hipsters and my network was left wanting. I did however, have my biffle (b.f.f., best friend forever, biff, the endearing list of pet names goes on and on) and my ex-girlfriend (who also has her own list of pet names but will remain "she", "ex girlfriend", "her") with whom I have remained close with through both the break-up and time away.
September 6, 2009 - I was out with a friend of my biffles (b.f.f., best friend forever, I think you get it now) and collected numbers from random strangers, and made friends with people that I will never speak to again. Lesbians, old ladies, brides to be, women posing as men, frat boys posing as frat boys, boys posing as men, and single 30 somethings eager for attention. At midnight I toasted to a new day and a new year with 20 people I will never lay eyes on again. We drank to the occasion, and we drank in celebration. Today was my day. I drank until I kissed two lesbians in a cab, and passed out in a truck lost driving through the streets of Durham, NC. A successful start to 28 years old.
I woke up naked and found myself dreading the pain that would soon commence between my temples. Regardless, I drank some water, and prepared myself for a day with my "ex girlfriend" and close friend. Today we planned to ride our bikes around town, hopping from bar to bar, and laughing all the way. Afterwards we would head to the sushi place, and give that fish hell. We would drink too much, and laugh like kids. My image of what the day would bring was slightly off.
Dressed in my spandex at 10 am pumping tires and turning wrenches, I received a phone call. I would not be riding that afternoon because my birthday date was at the lake. The lake was 4 hours away, and she hadn't left yet. If I am going to be entirely honest here, I wanted so badly to be at the lake with her, but I wasn't invited. I could have gone, and had nothing else to do, but again, I digress. So I waited...I waited until 4 pm when I thought she would be back and ready to start our day. She would be late, but she would be ready for the ride and the other stuff too. 8 pm came around and I made some burgers with my biffles (b.f.f., best friend forev, oh yeah you get it now) friend at around 7 pm and waited for her. She finally showed at close to 9 pm. I spent most of my birthday waiting alone. I waited for phone calls, and high fives. I was looking forward to a bike ride and spending time with her. She left shortly after 10. I begged her to stay longer. She left anyways.
I think of myself as a pretty strong person, but this had me in a rut. I must have looked pathetic begging for my friend to hang out with me on my birthday. How could someone who says that they love me have such a high disregard for someone on a day that is supposed to be special?
Below is a list of my birthday wishes
1. hug.
2. talk.
3. play my songs for my friends.
4. spend time with my friends.
5. bake a cake.
I have yet to receive 4 of these birthday wishes. I will be baking my own cake tonight.
(the cake i baked)
That night I cried. It was my birthday and I was alone. Laying on the floor of my biffles (b.f.f., okay I think that's enough) green room, I curled up in a ball and cried. For the first time in not such a long time, I thought about dying. I thought about what it would feel like to stop the pain inside of me that I couldn't figure out. Would that stop the people that were supposed to mean so much to me, and me to them, from hurting me? Would that stop me from letting myself be hurt by them? I fell asleep after drinking whiskey until my eyes closed.
- I am skipping a few days because I choose to. I am the writer and I can do that...They were not particularly good days. I actually know that they were pretty bad days. I spent those days alone. I spent those days in bed. I cried like a baby, and drank like a fish.
September 9, 2009 - "She" asked me to go to dinner at a some fancy place. A kind of place that required a jacket and tie, and parents that live on a golf course and vacation in the Hamptons. The kind of place that has waiter with accents and large chairs to soke cigars in. I fit right in(now that was a bit of sarcasm for those who haven't been following along). I started the evening by drinking a few beers before I left my house. Already anxious, I wanted tonight to be easy and painless. Painless, it was not. I drank bourbon on the rocks, and skipped eating all together. My stomach couldn't stomach the thought of sushi, or a lecture from someone that crushed me three nights earlier. She talked, I listened. I should "do what makes me happy", she said. If only it were that simple.
I left "her" angry. It is seldom that I am angry, but when this happens, I seem to combust internally. I left angry. Speeding home, my eyes welled up. I gripped the steering wheel tight, and pushed the throttle hard. Half drunk, and completely enraged, I more than thought about steering my Volkswagen off course. I planned it. I thought of details that are important in the demise of an otherwise healthy 28 year old dude. I though of the most effective means of ensuring death upon collision with a tree. A telephone pole. A large drop. A stone wall. A fence. A bridge. My biggest deterrent was the fact that someone had to come clean my sorry ass off the side of a tree/pole/drop/wall/fence/bridge. The last thing I want is to make someone have to clean up after my mess...and this would be a mess. And again, I failed.
I pulled up to my house, turned off my car, unlocked my door, walked upstairs and brainstormed. I thought about how else I could go about ending this pain that I felt, and putting myself out of my own misery. Completely unfulfilled with anything and everything I have ever done, I couldn't help but imagine that my life would just be a series of disappointing relationships, accomplishments, birthdays, degrees, yada yada. What would change in the years to come? I googled suicide methods, and searched for the cleanest way of doing it. The first item was a suicide hot line. With a shaking hand and crying eyes, I called.
Ed answered the phone with a soft yet masculine voice. He asked a few questions about me, and a few that I feel are probably formality questions that need to be addressed for the suicidal conversationalist. Where was I? Am I in danger right now? Are you standing atop of a large ravine? Is there a weapon pointed at a vital organ? Dude where's my car? What's up? He listened. He didn't judge me. He listened to me cry. He said it would be okay. Although he was a total stranger that I found on a google search looking for methods of suicide...I believed him.
I told him I lost my job. I failed to reach out to my gnarly alcoholic/drug addict father. My birthday was the worst I had ever had. I am not proud of my new degree. I fail at all relationships. I want friends. I am bipolar. I am out of money. I have ADD. I have been depressed for 15 years. I am drowning in student loan debt. I hate myself most days.
He listened. Before we hung up the phone he asked if he could call me the next day and he did. He has called me a few times since our first conversation, and at his request, I have called him too. If it weren't for Ed, the stranger that I found on a google search for suicide methods, I shutter to think what might be right now.
September 16, 2009 - It has been 10 days since my birthday, I still haven't fulfilled my birthday requests, and do not believe that I ever will. I am okay with that and there is always next year. I am still struggling with all of the items listed 2 paragraphs above, but knowing that Ed is out there somewhere just a google search away helps. At least I know now that unlike what I was feeling on the night of my birthday this year, I am not alone. I will struggle through 28, and likely through the rest of my life. I am certain now that there will at some point in life be some sweet vindication that will prevail over all of the times that I feel down. A point that will be high enough to bring all of the lows to an average that is... well, average. I am a doer, and this I will do.
In closing, I urge anyone reading this to reach out for help when you need it. There are people out there like Ed and please feel free to contact me for Ed's number. He said that would be okay.
There you have it, another painfully real entry into my life in random thoughts and run-on sentences, and you have successfully wasted a perfectly good 10 minutes reading this.
lincoln
and what would i say if i did?
As much as this blog is about me telling my story of; where I came from, where I intend to go, babbling on for lack of better thing to do, and airing my dirty laundry, it is also about finding out more about myself and growing. If you have been following thus far, no doubt you already know that I am very much a work in progress. My daily struggle consists of so many things...What are those things? Let's find out.
I am always concerned with my diet.
I have an overbite that makes it hard to enunciate sometimes.
I drink too much, and don't like to stop once I start.
I spent my entire savings on my MBA.
I don't have a job right now.
Sometimes I smoke cigarettes.
I haven't spoken to either of my parents in years.
Although this is the short list of my daily concerns, I will choose to expand upon one that has been speed-walking through my head often lately. Probably because it was my fathers birthday this week (no, I do not know how old he is, and no, I didn't call)...and even if I wanted to call, I wouldn't know the number to dial nor the address to send a singing happy birthday card to. (that sentence was me justifying my action, or lack thereof)
About 5 and a half years ago I received a phone call from one of my father's friends, Petey (guy that bought me my first tattoo) saying that my father needed me, and me only. I was 2.5 hours away at school and hadn't spoken to him in about a year at that point. Feeling compelled to find out what he could possibly want, or if this could be something terribly urgent, I drove down. After driving down 476 and getting to my grandmothers house 3 hours later, I found him crying on the edge of the couch.
"Whats up?" I asked, after an akward wave hello and grabbing a diet coke from the fridge.
What came from his mouth was neither English nor coherent. He was crying so hard that I could not make out his words. He was ashamed of himself and I was ashamed of him too. He pulled himself together and described to me what he had been up to the last year or so. It started with stories of parties, old friends, drinking, flea and tick spray, medications, seperations, cheating, stealing, heroin, crank, cocaine, pills, weed, fish tranquilizers, advil, rehab, car crashes, and eventually a full on mental breakdown. Much to my surprise, this consumed not only the last year, but the last 30 years.
"What brought you to that level?" I questioned.
After the accident he began taking pain medication for his injured back. Not so slowly, addiction set in, and lines blurred between reality and what was happening in his state of submersion under medication. Of course, he had dealt with addiction in my life before, and was a regular at AA, NA, and other meetings that were great for networking to score some dope. He seldom worked, and like I mentioned in an earlier entry, he slept for most of what I remember before I left. The friends he was staying with were nice enough to let him stay for free while he was between rehabs and half-way houses. They were also nice enough to enable him to continue on his destructive path, and when they weren't anymore, he left.
Pain medications of all shapes and sizes. "I ran out of pills and booze, so I took her car and went out to buy some heroin" he said. (In ever questioned who her was but assume it was the woman whom he was staying with between places)
It was at this point that I truly realized the grasp that being away from the world meant to my father. It was everything to him, and his anebriated, high state, was his normal life. My entire life had been spent visiting him in rehab, leaving him with my mother, coming back to the half-way house that he lived in, visiting him in rehab, and watching the cycle repeat. I knew many faces of my father, and each was dependent on which substance he was under the influence of at that moment. I guess I will never really know who my father is, but can remember times that he was sober, and I think I remember liking him, if that was him at all. That night on my grandmothers couch, something inside of me changed. It is as if my father died that night. It is as if I stopped loving him. He didn't die, but I think I did stop loving him.
I was so mad. I was so hurt. I was ashamed of him. And how could I not love my own father?
He lied to me for so long. He wasn't getting better. He wasn't really trying, and he loved the attention he got when he was down. Playing the victim was his best and only role, and I would never again recognize it.
Now comes the struggle part...With the passing of each day, and the likelihood of his further deterioration I question my decision to eliminate him from my life. As a self-preservation strategy, I decided long ago to put him behind me and not look back. The days tick by, and he grows another year older, and I find myself wondering, if I could get to know him now, and if he is different or still the 40 different faces that I never knew. On long bike rides I often wonder if he still loves me. Does he think about me? Should I find him? Should he find me? If I were to find him, what in the hell would I say? If he found me, what would he say? Is he reading my blog? Why is Pluto no longer a planet? (again, I digress) There is so little that I know about him, and his current situation.
What do I know? Well, let's dive right in.
He is living in a group home in a Philadelphia suburb. Not sure which suburb, not sure which group home...and that is about all I know.
So back to the struggle. My father will not likely make it to the Guiness Book for the oldest living man, and likely is not in the healthiest condition of anyone walking this earth. These things all plague my mind and set it wondering if I should go ahead and give this relationship another shot. I hear of people that do not have this opportunity, and since I do have a living father, maybe it is time. Maybe through the course of this blog, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to reach out to my gnarley alcoholic/drug addict father. Maybe the only logical resolution to this stuggle is to create an action plan...
The action plan.
1. Write down a series of questions and topics that I would like to speak about.
2. Grow some balls.
3. Find his number.
4. Call him on a random evening when I will be likely to get an answer.
5. Be inquisitive, not confrontational.
6. Don't chicken out.
7. Write about it afterwards.
8. Learn something
lincoln
I am always concerned with my diet.
I have an overbite that makes it hard to enunciate sometimes.
I drink too much, and don't like to stop once I start.
I spent my entire savings on my MBA.
I don't have a job right now.
Sometimes I smoke cigarettes.
I haven't spoken to either of my parents in years.
Although this is the short list of my daily concerns, I will choose to expand upon one that has been speed-walking through my head often lately. Probably because it was my fathers birthday this week (no, I do not know how old he is, and no, I didn't call)...and even if I wanted to call, I wouldn't know the number to dial nor the address to send a singing happy birthday card to. (that sentence was me justifying my action, or lack thereof)
About 5 and a half years ago I received a phone call from one of my father's friends, Petey (guy that bought me my first tattoo) saying that my father needed me, and me only. I was 2.5 hours away at school and hadn't spoken to him in about a year at that point. Feeling compelled to find out what he could possibly want, or if this could be something terribly urgent, I drove down. After driving down 476 and getting to my grandmothers house 3 hours later, I found him crying on the edge of the couch.
"Whats up?" I asked, after an akward wave hello and grabbing a diet coke from the fridge.
What came from his mouth was neither English nor coherent. He was crying so hard that I could not make out his words. He was ashamed of himself and I was ashamed of him too. He pulled himself together and described to me what he had been up to the last year or so. It started with stories of parties, old friends, drinking, flea and tick spray, medications, seperations, cheating, stealing, heroin, crank, cocaine, pills, weed, fish tranquilizers, advil, rehab, car crashes, and eventually a full on mental breakdown. Much to my surprise, this consumed not only the last year, but the last 30 years.
"What brought you to that level?" I questioned.
After the accident he began taking pain medication for his injured back. Not so slowly, addiction set in, and lines blurred between reality and what was happening in his state of submersion under medication. Of course, he had dealt with addiction in my life before, and was a regular at AA, NA, and other meetings that were great for networking to score some dope. He seldom worked, and like I mentioned in an earlier entry, he slept for most of what I remember before I left. The friends he was staying with were nice enough to let him stay for free while he was between rehabs and half-way houses. They were also nice enough to enable him to continue on his destructive path, and when they weren't anymore, he left.
Pain medications of all shapes and sizes. "I ran out of pills and booze, so I took her car and went out to buy some heroin" he said. (In ever questioned who her was but assume it was the woman whom he was staying with between places)
It was at this point that I truly realized the grasp that being away from the world meant to my father. It was everything to him, and his anebriated, high state, was his normal life. My entire life had been spent visiting him in rehab, leaving him with my mother, coming back to the half-way house that he lived in, visiting him in rehab, and watching the cycle repeat. I knew many faces of my father, and each was dependent on which substance he was under the influence of at that moment. I guess I will never really know who my father is, but can remember times that he was sober, and I think I remember liking him, if that was him at all. That night on my grandmothers couch, something inside of me changed. It is as if my father died that night. It is as if I stopped loving him. He didn't die, but I think I did stop loving him.
I was so mad. I was so hurt. I was ashamed of him. And how could I not love my own father?
He lied to me for so long. He wasn't getting better. He wasn't really trying, and he loved the attention he got when he was down. Playing the victim was his best and only role, and I would never again recognize it.
Now comes the struggle part...With the passing of each day, and the likelihood of his further deterioration I question my decision to eliminate him from my life. As a self-preservation strategy, I decided long ago to put him behind me and not look back. The days tick by, and he grows another year older, and I find myself wondering, if I could get to know him now, and if he is different or still the 40 different faces that I never knew. On long bike rides I often wonder if he still loves me. Does he think about me? Should I find him? Should he find me? If I were to find him, what in the hell would I say? If he found me, what would he say? Is he reading my blog? Why is Pluto no longer a planet? (again, I digress) There is so little that I know about him, and his current situation.
What do I know? Well, let's dive right in.
He is living in a group home in a Philadelphia suburb. Not sure which suburb, not sure which group home...and that is about all I know.
So back to the struggle. My father will not likely make it to the Guiness Book for the oldest living man, and likely is not in the healthiest condition of anyone walking this earth. These things all plague my mind and set it wondering if I should go ahead and give this relationship another shot. I hear of people that do not have this opportunity, and since I do have a living father, maybe it is time. Maybe through the course of this blog, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to reach out to my gnarley alcoholic/drug addict father. Maybe the only logical resolution to this stuggle is to create an action plan...
The action plan.
1. Write down a series of questions and topics that I would like to speak about.
2. Grow some balls.
3. Find his number.
4. Call him on a random evening when I will be likely to get an answer.
5. Be inquisitive, not confrontational.
6. Don't chicken out.
7. Write about it afterwards.
8. Learn something
lincoln
baby boy
In my last semester of my undergrad, I took a required gym class. Aquatics. I was certain that this class would offer stimulation that I craved as a student and young man. Stimulate, it did.
She was tall and thin. Blonde hair that framed her face, and sometimes hid her eyes, giving me the opportunity to sneak a glance at her in her two piece that was utterly...stimulating. She was a model, and was just as tall (ok, she was taller) as me. With some recent bodybuilding accomplishments, and a few workouts behind me, I wasn't looking so bad in a bathing suit at the time either, and if anyone in the class had a shot at the model, it was me. With the ego I carried around, I had no problem asking her out, and she had little hesitation in accepting my invitation.
We went to a bar, then to a scary movie, and then back to the bar. She smelled amazing, and toting her around on my arm was a great thing for a guy with an ego the size of Texas. Talking late into the night, and making out in her Mazda Miata had me skipping to my front door when she dropped me off.
Our first outing turned into afternoon hikes, evening coffee, chicken fight partners in aquatics, and of course many sleep-overs. A few months later, my friends got used to seeing her around, and also got used to seeing less of me.
In one month I would graduate, and leave Bloomsburg University. North Carolina was set in my sights, and there was nothing standing in the way of that. A runway model that made my genitals swell was certainly not enough to put my life off course. That is until she dropped the bomb.
We were at a coffee shop on main street and I was pretending to eat a chocolate lava cake. Still obsessed with my body, I would not go near anything like it. But I was drinking a cappucino from a boot shaped mug. (like most of my stories, I digress)
"I am pregnant," she said.
I don't remember much of the conversation that night. I do however remember my thoughts. Of course I thought about what it would be like to have a child. Is that something I was ready for? How in the hell could I afford that? Would we give him up for adoption? Will I ever see him if we do? Should we have an abortion? The most difficult part was not knowing what her preferred option was. This wasn't like choosing a value meal at McDonalds, although that can be very difficult. Unlike Micky D's, this decision made would certainly change our lives forever.
We decided to have the baby. I started reading books on pregnancy, magazines for mothers, memoirs of pregnant women, and going to doctors appointments and seeing much more than I had bargained for. I picked out names, color schemes, read books to her belly, sang songs to the unborn baby, and rubbed lotion all over her to help prevent stretch marks.
I had to leave for North Carolina. When I did, I had no place to live, and spent 2 months living on a couch in the coaches locker room of Kenan Stadium. Working my ass off daily, I managed to get an apartment, and move my pregnant girlfriend down with me. Upon her arrival, we quickly got a doctor, and picked up our routine of singing, reading, preparing, and celebrating what was to come. By now we knew, it was a boy, and his name would be Cary Jude. The color scheme, still undecided.
The pregnancy went well, and before we knew it, November was here, and she was in labor. I had packed a bag for her the week before, and snuck snacks, treats, and presents for my baby boy. An outfit for the new mother, an outfit for the young dude, and of course made a checklist of important items for this event. They were all accounted for, and we were as ready as we could be.
8 hours later, Cary Jude was born. I cried, she cried, he wailed. When she held him with my arms around the both of them, the world outside of that hospital room no longer existed. He was beautiful. I was instantly in love, and couldn't stop kissing him.
I changed diapers, and fed him when it was time. We took baths together and he peed on me often. Most nights I would wake up and walk over to look at him. I would run out of work on breaks to give him a kiss and his laugh was the most wonderful sound I have ever heard. His toothless smile just kiled me. He started crawling, and terrorizing everything in his wake. A little blonde hair, blue eyed terror with his moms legs. We went to the pool, and on walks at night. He loved my impressions, and thought "Uncle Hulkster", my alter ego, was hillarious.
As the summer came to an end, it was truly the best I had ever had. I was a father, and my whole life had meaning. That is until the other shoe dropped.
"Cary Jude is not your child", she said.
What came next was certainly another life changing event. She explained that she had slept with her ex-boyfriend, and it was probable that Cary Jude was his child, not mine. I demanded testing, and infact it was true. She had kept up this lie since conception. I was sick. The child that I had raised, and nurtured through pregnancy, birth, and the first 9 months of life, was not biologically mine. I was completely devastated, but my first reaction was to work this out for the sake of my child.
I tried to stay with her, but carried more resentment than I could ever express in print. There were days that I could not stand to be in the same room. I hated the sight of her, and as much as it pains me to admit, I often resented Cary Jude too. That doesn't mean that I did not love him just the same, he was still the #1 priority for me, but somehow, the most perfect being in the world was now tainted.
After a month of reflection and thought, therapy and xanax, tears and sleepless nights, I packed thier belongings into a truck and sent it to her fathers house. I bought a one way ticket to Philadelphia with a "child in lap" note and stopped by on a not so extraordinary day. We drove to the airport quiet and I watched them go through security. She cried the whole time, and Cary laughed. He chewed on a yellow dump truck while going through security, and I watched them disappear while riding up the escalator. This would be the last time I would ever see them.
Returning to my car, I lost the strength to stand. Falling into my car seat I wept in the drivers seat of my family SUV for what must have been an hour. When I pulled myself together enough to drive the 20 minutes home, walking into our apartment I would succum to the pain of what had just happened. This went on for months. Daily therapy, many pills, and thoughts of what-if plagued me. During this time in my life, I clung to my therapist, and do not think that I would be writing this if it weren't for him. He was the only friend I had. Even though I paid him, I didn't care. Truly a dark period in my life.
When I left Kim and Cary at the RDU international airport, I did not speak with either of them for over 4 years, but as I recently exited the Bolt bus at Madison Square Garden, I turned and saw Kim, Cary, Kim's husband (ex-boyfriend/Cary's father), and Cary's little brother. I couldn't believe my eyes, and had a short acward conversation with the young family. Cary had no clue who I was, and had his name changed to Jude. I do not know his last name.
When I walked away this time, the feelings were much different. Still to this day, not one goes by that I do not think about Cary Jude, the decision to leave them, and how things might be different had a chosen another way. I am still struggling with decision, much like many others, and will likely struggle with it forever.
I take away lessons in love, and lessons in life. What I did was neither right, nor wrong. It was what I needed to do at that time and I still miss Cary Jude.
lincoln
She was tall and thin. Blonde hair that framed her face, and sometimes hid her eyes, giving me the opportunity to sneak a glance at her in her two piece that was utterly...stimulating. She was a model, and was just as tall (ok, she was taller) as me. With some recent bodybuilding accomplishments, and a few workouts behind me, I wasn't looking so bad in a bathing suit at the time either, and if anyone in the class had a shot at the model, it was me. With the ego I carried around, I had no problem asking her out, and she had little hesitation in accepting my invitation.
We went to a bar, then to a scary movie, and then back to the bar. She smelled amazing, and toting her around on my arm was a great thing for a guy with an ego the size of Texas. Talking late into the night, and making out in her Mazda Miata had me skipping to my front door when she dropped me off.
Our first outing turned into afternoon hikes, evening coffee, chicken fight partners in aquatics, and of course many sleep-overs. A few months later, my friends got used to seeing her around, and also got used to seeing less of me.
In one month I would graduate, and leave Bloomsburg University. North Carolina was set in my sights, and there was nothing standing in the way of that. A runway model that made my genitals swell was certainly not enough to put my life off course. That is until she dropped the bomb.
We were at a coffee shop on main street and I was pretending to eat a chocolate lava cake. Still obsessed with my body, I would not go near anything like it. But I was drinking a cappucino from a boot shaped mug. (like most of my stories, I digress)
"I am pregnant," she said.
I don't remember much of the conversation that night. I do however remember my thoughts. Of course I thought about what it would be like to have a child. Is that something I was ready for? How in the hell could I afford that? Would we give him up for adoption? Will I ever see him if we do? Should we have an abortion? The most difficult part was not knowing what her preferred option was. This wasn't like choosing a value meal at McDonalds, although that can be very difficult. Unlike Micky D's, this decision made would certainly change our lives forever.
We decided to have the baby. I started reading books on pregnancy, magazines for mothers, memoirs of pregnant women, and going to doctors appointments and seeing much more than I had bargained for. I picked out names, color schemes, read books to her belly, sang songs to the unborn baby, and rubbed lotion all over her to help prevent stretch marks.
I had to leave for North Carolina. When I did, I had no place to live, and spent 2 months living on a couch in the coaches locker room of Kenan Stadium. Working my ass off daily, I managed to get an apartment, and move my pregnant girlfriend down with me. Upon her arrival, we quickly got a doctor, and picked up our routine of singing, reading, preparing, and celebrating what was to come. By now we knew, it was a boy, and his name would be Cary Jude. The color scheme, still undecided.
The pregnancy went well, and before we knew it, November was here, and she was in labor. I had packed a bag for her the week before, and snuck snacks, treats, and presents for my baby boy. An outfit for the new mother, an outfit for the young dude, and of course made a checklist of important items for this event. They were all accounted for, and we were as ready as we could be.
8 hours later, Cary Jude was born. I cried, she cried, he wailed. When she held him with my arms around the both of them, the world outside of that hospital room no longer existed. He was beautiful. I was instantly in love, and couldn't stop kissing him.
I changed diapers, and fed him when it was time. We took baths together and he peed on me often. Most nights I would wake up and walk over to look at him. I would run out of work on breaks to give him a kiss and his laugh was the most wonderful sound I have ever heard. His toothless smile just kiled me. He started crawling, and terrorizing everything in his wake. A little blonde hair, blue eyed terror with his moms legs. We went to the pool, and on walks at night. He loved my impressions, and thought "Uncle Hulkster", my alter ego, was hillarious.
As the summer came to an end, it was truly the best I had ever had. I was a father, and my whole life had meaning. That is until the other shoe dropped.
"Cary Jude is not your child", she said.
What came next was certainly another life changing event. She explained that she had slept with her ex-boyfriend, and it was probable that Cary Jude was his child, not mine. I demanded testing, and infact it was true. She had kept up this lie since conception. I was sick. The child that I had raised, and nurtured through pregnancy, birth, and the first 9 months of life, was not biologically mine. I was completely devastated, but my first reaction was to work this out for the sake of my child.
I tried to stay with her, but carried more resentment than I could ever express in print. There were days that I could not stand to be in the same room. I hated the sight of her, and as much as it pains me to admit, I often resented Cary Jude too. That doesn't mean that I did not love him just the same, he was still the #1 priority for me, but somehow, the most perfect being in the world was now tainted.
After a month of reflection and thought, therapy and xanax, tears and sleepless nights, I packed thier belongings into a truck and sent it to her fathers house. I bought a one way ticket to Philadelphia with a "child in lap" note and stopped by on a not so extraordinary day. We drove to the airport quiet and I watched them go through security. She cried the whole time, and Cary laughed. He chewed on a yellow dump truck while going through security, and I watched them disappear while riding up the escalator. This would be the last time I would ever see them.
Returning to my car, I lost the strength to stand. Falling into my car seat I wept in the drivers seat of my family SUV for what must have been an hour. When I pulled myself together enough to drive the 20 minutes home, walking into our apartment I would succum to the pain of what had just happened. This went on for months. Daily therapy, many pills, and thoughts of what-if plagued me. During this time in my life, I clung to my therapist, and do not think that I would be writing this if it weren't for him. He was the only friend I had. Even though I paid him, I didn't care. Truly a dark period in my life.
When I left Kim and Cary at the RDU international airport, I did not speak with either of them for over 4 years, but as I recently exited the Bolt bus at Madison Square Garden, I turned and saw Kim, Cary, Kim's husband (ex-boyfriend/Cary's father), and Cary's little brother. I couldn't believe my eyes, and had a short acward conversation with the young family. Cary had no clue who I was, and had his name changed to Jude. I do not know his last name.
When I walked away this time, the feelings were much different. Still to this day, not one goes by that I do not think about Cary Jude, the decision to leave them, and how things might be different had a chosen another way. I am still struggling with decision, much like many others, and will likely struggle with it forever.
I take away lessons in love, and lessons in life. What I did was neither right, nor wrong. It was what I needed to do at that time and I still miss Cary Jude.
lincoln
i was 12 years old and fat
I was 12 years old and fat. Sitting next to my father, (gnarley alcoholic/drug addict) I vividly remember him saying, "god, you are fat."
He was right.
That would prove to have a bigger impact on my life than I could have ever predicted. It was from that day forward that I decided that I would not be that way any more...I would not be fat ever again. Later that night I went into my room, cleared a space in front of a mirror, put on my Blind Melon "No Rain" tape that I had recorded from the radio, and began doing jumping jacks. (Much like the fat girl in the Blind Melon video, I was a fat kid jumping around...without the bee costume) Jumping jacks then sit-ups, then push-ups, then jumping jacks. This went on for hours that night cycling through the only 3 things I knew from gym class. I woke up the next morning still fat. Maybe it was me being 12 and not fully understanding that this sort of thing doesn't change overnight, but when I woke up that morning and saw myself in the mirror...god I was fat.
I decided to walk the mile to my neighbors bus stop in the mornings instead of taking my own stop. I ran home after school, and my routine of jumping jacks, sit-ups, and push-ups continued night after night. Sometimes I wore my mothers tights. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to...but again, I digress. I bought weights from a garage sale. Now I should clarify when I say weights, I really mean weight. One 25 pound dumbbell is a weight, not weights. Without any idea on what to do with it, I lifted it. Curls, overhead press, rows, weighted sit-ups all on a folding chair in front of my mirror. Hours and hours. Days and weeks.
And it worked. I had a six-pack, and pecks. Through puberty and stubbornness, I had managed to change my entire body. I kept up the workouts and all throughout high school, I would sneak out of class and workout. Into the gym during lunch, and after school, skateboarding, cycling, running, push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks. I couldn't get enough. Highpoint athletic club was where I really started to gain access to knowledge on how exercises were done, and what I needed to do to get better. Better at what? Who knows. Just better.
When I walked into Longs Gym in Philadelphia, the owners said that I could have a free membership if I competed in a contest that they were hosting. As a poor kid, any time I hear free, I perk right up. (To this day, I will take a free anything...just sayin.) A deal was struck, and I was on my way to the Mr. Trenton, NJ bodybuilding championships at the tender age of 17. A healthy diet was important, just not for me and my diet consisted of canned tuna fish, saltine crackers, pineapple and mustard. This was good because these things were affordable, and didn't need my culinary expertise, not that I had any to begin with.
I won that contest after 3 months of weightlifting in a gym, and dieting on tuna and crackers. My muscles were getting large, and my ego growing at twice the rate. I'd be replacing Fabio on the cover of a harlequin romance novels soon...well not really but anyways.
I continued working out, and entered the Mr. PA contest the following year. Taking fourth place was not acceptable to me, and in hindsight, I didn't work nearly as hard I should have. Of course at that time, I was running a valet business, working full time at a junk mail packaging facility, and working part-time in a gym to keep my free membership. In no way were these excuses excusable. I was determined to never lose again, and fourth place was losing at that point in my life.
What happened next took me down a road that I sometimes regret, although that road took me to places I would have never seen otherwise. (France, Spain, New Jersey, etc.) Before leaving for college in the summer of 2000, I bought a handful of d-ball pills and a bottle of Cypionate from some guy at the gym. Not knowing what the hell I was doing, I would go into the gym weekly and have him give me injections of steroids in my ass. 4 pills everyday at breakfast on workout days, and injections on the weekends. 2 pills on days that I didn't workout and alternate buttcheeks week to week so my butt didn't grow funny. 3 months later I was 20 pounds heavier, my butt looked great, and I certainly would not take 4th place ever again.
5 am - 60 minutes on my bicycle
6 am - breakfast - 12 egg whites and 2 cups of oatmeal
8 am - walk to class and eat more during class
12 pm - lunch in the dining hall - eat for 1 hour straight
2 pm - workout
4 pm - post workout meal and class
6 pm - dinner for 2 hours - goal to consume 1800 calories
9 pm - workout
11 pm - 10 egg whites and rice
12pm - a few tbsp of peanut butter before sleep
I was working through college so that I could afford food. I saved every penny I had to buy steroids. At the start of the fall semester, I bought enough to last a few months, and increased my doses. Now that I was comfortable with the needles, I gave myself injections a couple of times a week which of course escaltated, and took pills all day long. My life was eating, cardio, lifting weights, eating, sleeping, working out, and eating some more. It consumed me, and I consumed it.
I chose to not compete that year in order to get bigger. I had started college the year before at 185 pounds and by the end of the spring semester, the scales were now tipping at over 210 pounds. My obsession grew, and so did my steroid use and ego. I looked like a superhero, and was covering up so many insecurities with my body.
My steroid regimen turned into between 2 and 4 shots daily. I was taking over 1200 mg of testosterone weekly, and training for the sake of getting bigger and becoming a human pincushion. 2 years later, I hadn't competed, and I was weighing in at 265 pounds. Jeans and clothes off the rack were now not an option. I wore 3XL t-shirts that clung to my arms as if they were wet and sweat pants that I needed to stretch in order to get my thighs into them. Stretch marks crept across my body from the gruelling workouts, and sleeping became a chore since my shoulders constricted blood flow to my head. My body now required 6000 calories daily.
It was time to set my mind on a series of contests. My goal that year, was to become a professional bodybuilder and to either make my body my career or quit. In November, I began dieting for my first contest of the year, the Mr. Lehigh Valley contest in 2004. My steroid intake during this period was dizzying. 2 shots in the morning, 1 in the evening, 1 before workouts, 1 before dinner, 4 pills at breakfast, 2 pills before workouts, and sleeping pills to help me sleep. I began to carry around a bag with my supply inside, and would graze on food and anabolics all day long.
I was a physical specimen that most people will never see in person. At 240 lbs, I was at a 4% bodyfat, 30 inch waist, 48 inch chest, 20 inch arms, and 28 inch thighs. People would stare, and admitedly, I loved the attention, but between my broken home, crazy lifestyle, drug use, and school work, my mental and emotional health suffered. Depression set in, and there were many days that I did not want to go on anymore. Suicide thoughts were frequent, and the attention that I got was no longer welcome. It could have been the steroids, it could have been just a bad day, but crying and emotional swings were commonplace and very frequent. I clung to the surface friends that hung around and didn't matter. I used my body to get me into the crowd that left me unfulfilled. I was miserable and I pushed on.
In preparation for the contests, I went from 270 pounds to 225 pounds 6 months later. I won my class in the Mr. Lehigh Valley contest and two weeks later won the Mr. Trenton NJ contest. Along with the wins, I now had a contract that paid, and further fueled my steroid and caloric consumption and eventual spiral into a deeper depression. My ugly mug was in 13 different magazines and I was making a name for myself in the bodybuilding scene. I thought I was a big deal.
Developing OCD of sorts, I didn't cheat on my diet for 11 months. Anxiety about eating too much or too little, or training too hard or too light, or doing only one cardio session instead of two plagued my thoughts. My treats consisted of extra oatmeal, and my joy came from my bi-weekly steak. Workouts, food, cardio, injections and sex consumed me. My girlfriends didn't understand, and truthfully, most women were turned off by my size. In preparation for the contests, I would only have sex twice weekly in order to remain strong for my workouts.
Later that summer, I won the Mr. PA contest at a very lean 222 pounds. With that win under my belt, I was invited onto the US bodybuilding team. In November 2004, I would represent the USA in the Mr. Universe contest as the heavyweight under doctor "supervision". You can gather from your own thoughts what this doctor did for me.
As the Mr. Universe contest came closer, I decided that if I took 3rd place or higher, I would continue on bodybuilding. Anything less would mean that I would quit and focus on getting my life back together and coming out of this depression that ailed me. Luckily for me, as an underprivledged youth, I was able to recieve free therapy during these times, and was able to get some very good advice. The suggestion of quitting made me outraged, and elated at the same time. I walked off stage in France with a 6th place medallion, and never looked back. I quit.
Of course, I honored my contract and did an appearance at the Philadelphia's strongest man (I won with a 650lb deadlift, 600lb squat, and 500lb bench press) and collected my residual checks, but the dream of being a bodybuilder was over.
When I returned home from competing, I exchanged my steroids for anti-depressants which I still rely on today, and focused on other things. I still worked out, and I was still depressed, but life had come back to a relative state of normalcy. To this day, I still struggle with depression daily, and don't know if it is a residual side effect of the steroids, or something that I would deal with regardless. Things now are much different, and I am back to a healthy 190 lbs. I still like to workout, but choose to enjoy it instead of obsess over it.
Riding my bike has become an great outlet for me and riding is a great release and challenge. Often times when a ride gets tough, and I need some motivation, I replay over in my head my (gnarley alcoholic/drug addict) father saying, "god you're fat". Or a 12 year old Michael in the mirror before school sayin...god you're fat.
The only difference now is that...it's not true.
lincoln
He was right.
That would prove to have a bigger impact on my life than I could have ever predicted. It was from that day forward that I decided that I would not be that way any more...I would not be fat ever again. Later that night I went into my room, cleared a space in front of a mirror, put on my Blind Melon "No Rain" tape that I had recorded from the radio, and began doing jumping jacks. (Much like the fat girl in the Blind Melon video, I was a fat kid jumping around...without the bee costume) Jumping jacks then sit-ups, then push-ups, then jumping jacks. This went on for hours that night cycling through the only 3 things I knew from gym class. I woke up the next morning still fat. Maybe it was me being 12 and not fully understanding that this sort of thing doesn't change overnight, but when I woke up that morning and saw myself in the mirror...god I was fat.
I decided to walk the mile to my neighbors bus stop in the mornings instead of taking my own stop. I ran home after school, and my routine of jumping jacks, sit-ups, and push-ups continued night after night. Sometimes I wore my mothers tights. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to...but again, I digress. I bought weights from a garage sale. Now I should clarify when I say weights, I really mean weight. One 25 pound dumbbell is a weight, not weights. Without any idea on what to do with it, I lifted it. Curls, overhead press, rows, weighted sit-ups all on a folding chair in front of my mirror. Hours and hours. Days and weeks.
And it worked. I had a six-pack, and pecks. Through puberty and stubbornness, I had managed to change my entire body. I kept up the workouts and all throughout high school, I would sneak out of class and workout. Into the gym during lunch, and after school, skateboarding, cycling, running, push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks. I couldn't get enough. Highpoint athletic club was where I really started to gain access to knowledge on how exercises were done, and what I needed to do to get better. Better at what? Who knows. Just better.
When I walked into Longs Gym in Philadelphia, the owners said that I could have a free membership if I competed in a contest that they were hosting. As a poor kid, any time I hear free, I perk right up. (To this day, I will take a free anything...just sayin.) A deal was struck, and I was on my way to the Mr. Trenton, NJ bodybuilding championships at the tender age of 17. A healthy diet was important, just not for me and my diet consisted of canned tuna fish, saltine crackers, pineapple and mustard. This was good because these things were affordable, and didn't need my culinary expertise, not that I had any to begin with.
I won that contest after 3 months of weightlifting in a gym, and dieting on tuna and crackers. My muscles were getting large, and my ego growing at twice the rate. I'd be replacing Fabio on the cover of a harlequin romance novels soon...well not really but anyways.
I continued working out, and entered the Mr. PA contest the following year. Taking fourth place was not acceptable to me, and in hindsight, I didn't work nearly as hard I should have. Of course at that time, I was running a valet business, working full time at a junk mail packaging facility, and working part-time in a gym to keep my free membership. In no way were these excuses excusable. I was determined to never lose again, and fourth place was losing at that point in my life.
What happened next took me down a road that I sometimes regret, although that road took me to places I would have never seen otherwise. (France, Spain, New Jersey, etc.) Before leaving for college in the summer of 2000, I bought a handful of d-ball pills and a bottle of Cypionate from some guy at the gym. Not knowing what the hell I was doing, I would go into the gym weekly and have him give me injections of steroids in my ass. 4 pills everyday at breakfast on workout days, and injections on the weekends. 2 pills on days that I didn't workout and alternate buttcheeks week to week so my butt didn't grow funny. 3 months later I was 20 pounds heavier, my butt looked great, and I certainly would not take 4th place ever again.
5 am - 60 minutes on my bicycle
6 am - breakfast - 12 egg whites and 2 cups of oatmeal
8 am - walk to class and eat more during class
12 pm - lunch in the dining hall - eat for 1 hour straight
2 pm - workout
4 pm - post workout meal and class
6 pm - dinner for 2 hours - goal to consume 1800 calories
9 pm - workout
11 pm - 10 egg whites and rice
12pm - a few tbsp of peanut butter before sleep
I was working through college so that I could afford food. I saved every penny I had to buy steroids. At the start of the fall semester, I bought enough to last a few months, and increased my doses. Now that I was comfortable with the needles, I gave myself injections a couple of times a week which of course escaltated, and took pills all day long. My life was eating, cardio, lifting weights, eating, sleeping, working out, and eating some more. It consumed me, and I consumed it.
I chose to not compete that year in order to get bigger. I had started college the year before at 185 pounds and by the end of the spring semester, the scales were now tipping at over 210 pounds. My obsession grew, and so did my steroid use and ego. I looked like a superhero, and was covering up so many insecurities with my body.
My steroid regimen turned into between 2 and 4 shots daily. I was taking over 1200 mg of testosterone weekly, and training for the sake of getting bigger and becoming a human pincushion. 2 years later, I hadn't competed, and I was weighing in at 265 pounds. Jeans and clothes off the rack were now not an option. I wore 3XL t-shirts that clung to my arms as if they were wet and sweat pants that I needed to stretch in order to get my thighs into them. Stretch marks crept across my body from the gruelling workouts, and sleeping became a chore since my shoulders constricted blood flow to my head. My body now required 6000 calories daily.
It was time to set my mind on a series of contests. My goal that year, was to become a professional bodybuilder and to either make my body my career or quit. In November, I began dieting for my first contest of the year, the Mr. Lehigh Valley contest in 2004. My steroid intake during this period was dizzying. 2 shots in the morning, 1 in the evening, 1 before workouts, 1 before dinner, 4 pills at breakfast, 2 pills before workouts, and sleeping pills to help me sleep. I began to carry around a bag with my supply inside, and would graze on food and anabolics all day long.
I was a physical specimen that most people will never see in person. At 240 lbs, I was at a 4% bodyfat, 30 inch waist, 48 inch chest, 20 inch arms, and 28 inch thighs. People would stare, and admitedly, I loved the attention, but between my broken home, crazy lifestyle, drug use, and school work, my mental and emotional health suffered. Depression set in, and there were many days that I did not want to go on anymore. Suicide thoughts were frequent, and the attention that I got was no longer welcome. It could have been the steroids, it could have been just a bad day, but crying and emotional swings were commonplace and very frequent. I clung to the surface friends that hung around and didn't matter. I used my body to get me into the crowd that left me unfulfilled. I was miserable and I pushed on.
In preparation for the contests, I went from 270 pounds to 225 pounds 6 months later. I won my class in the Mr. Lehigh Valley contest and two weeks later won the Mr. Trenton NJ contest. Along with the wins, I now had a contract that paid, and further fueled my steroid and caloric consumption and eventual spiral into a deeper depression. My ugly mug was in 13 different magazines and I was making a name for myself in the bodybuilding scene. I thought I was a big deal.
Developing OCD of sorts, I didn't cheat on my diet for 11 months. Anxiety about eating too much or too little, or training too hard or too light, or doing only one cardio session instead of two plagued my thoughts. My treats consisted of extra oatmeal, and my joy came from my bi-weekly steak. Workouts, food, cardio, injections and sex consumed me. My girlfriends didn't understand, and truthfully, most women were turned off by my size. In preparation for the contests, I would only have sex twice weekly in order to remain strong for my workouts.
Later that summer, I won the Mr. PA contest at a very lean 222 pounds. With that win under my belt, I was invited onto the US bodybuilding team. In November 2004, I would represent the USA in the Mr. Universe contest as the heavyweight under doctor "supervision". You can gather from your own thoughts what this doctor did for me.
As the Mr. Universe contest came closer, I decided that if I took 3rd place or higher, I would continue on bodybuilding. Anything less would mean that I would quit and focus on getting my life back together and coming out of this depression that ailed me. Luckily for me, as an underprivledged youth, I was able to recieve free therapy during these times, and was able to get some very good advice. The suggestion of quitting made me outraged, and elated at the same time. I walked off stage in France with a 6th place medallion, and never looked back. I quit.
Of course, I honored my contract and did an appearance at the Philadelphia's strongest man (I won with a 650lb deadlift, 600lb squat, and 500lb bench press) and collected my residual checks, but the dream of being a bodybuilder was over.
When I returned home from competing, I exchanged my steroids for anti-depressants which I still rely on today, and focused on other things. I still worked out, and I was still depressed, but life had come back to a relative state of normalcy. To this day, I still struggle with depression daily, and don't know if it is a residual side effect of the steroids, or something that I would deal with regardless. Things now are much different, and I am back to a healthy 190 lbs. I still like to workout, but choose to enjoy it instead of obsess over it.
Riding my bike has become an great outlet for me and riding is a great release and challenge. Often times when a ride gets tough, and I need some motivation, I replay over in my head my (gnarley alcoholic/drug addict) father saying, "god you're fat". Or a 12 year old Michael in the mirror before school sayin...god you're fat.
The only difference now is that...it's not true.
lincoln
my family and the road to nyc
I thought that I should try and write my blog in some kind of order. Chronological makes the most sense to me. And since I am now in the habit of telling all, my first couple of entries will be some background on me, an outline or shell if you will; where I come from, who I am, and of course, random thoughts and run-on sentences. I will touch on items that I feel are important to know, that I haven't vocalized, until now.
I was born on the Sacramento Air Force Base on September 6, 1981. My father , a gnarley alcoholic/drug addict load master for C-130 cargo planes, and my mother, a housewife from Thailand that was cheating on her current husband (an aviator wearing pilot in the USAF with great hair) with my gnarley load master alcoholic/drug addict father, were both young, in love (i hope), under the influence, and heavily sedated. Life in California was short lived.
When I was 4, my mother decided to leave my father for the 42nd time and flee with my brother and I to the arms of my grandmother in Pennsylvania. Along the road to granny's house on the other coast, we lived in various places like shelters for battered women (where the sheets had skid marks, and the women sat around naked) and homeless shelters (where there is always green been casserole, and the people smell like urine). These were times that I bonded with my brother more than I have ever bonded with anyone. We dealt with our problems and lack of money by laughing. To this day, we cannot speak without excessive laughter, but I digress.
My father found us. Of course by the time he did, we were at his mothers house. (I should also note that my mothers family is in Thailand. All of them.) With his government Air Force training,my father found his was home. We lived on the floor of my grandmothers basement, and my parents were back together. I went to school, my father was still drunk but now kicked out of the Air Force and my mother worked in a factory making computer parts on the third shift. Our clothes came from church donations, and our food from stamps, our shelter from my grandmother, and entertainment from terrorizing the community.
We saved some money and moved to Philly (Apt M24), and shared a 2 bedroom apartment with 1,000,000 cockroaches. My father started working and partying...one more than the other. Again, my mother, brother and I sought the comfort of shelters with skid marks, and homeless homes with green been casserole for now what seemed like the 83rd time.
And again, he found us. It somehow came about that my father found god, and my mother approved. Things got better, and for the majority of grade school life was relatively normal. That is, until my sister was born, and my parents were in a car accident.(insert Debbie Downer sound here)
They were rear ended by a woman who had been drinking, and my father sustained numerous injuries, none more debilitating that the injury to his back. We moved to my grandmothers again. He ran to the comfort of drugs, alcohol, and this escalated more than I ever thought it would. Pain medication; vicodin, narbacet, percocet, Advil, fish tranquilizers, Oxycontin, thin mints...his old friends who now had a reason for hanging around. Years went by went he didn't leave the house. Months went by when I wouldn't see him awake. I was young, and never understood what was happening nor did I ever question it.
Granny had enough and kicked them out. A short stint in an apartment, and my mother left to an undisclosed location. My father to rehab/half-way house, and my sister, back to granny's. My brother left for the air force, and I struck out on my own.
Random jobs, high school, starting a business, being poor, and living with friends sucked. So I left for Bloomsburg, PA. The only college I was accepted to that I could afford to go to with financial aid and loans. This is where I would spend the next 5 years. In 2004, I moved to Chapel Hill, NC where I lived in a locker room. I managed to pick myself up, and get a job working for the state, and eventually bought a house, and got my shit together...kinda.
Four years later, I got an offer in NYC, and took it. I left Chapel Hill for the city, and I now sit in my office on the fourth floor of 560 Broadway in SoHo. NYC and the rest will be covered in good time.
So that is my family and the fly-by on how I got to where I am right now. The details will be filled in, and all of your questions will remain unanswered...That is assuming that you have questions. Congratulations on wasting a perfectly good 10 minutes.
lincoln
I was born on the Sacramento Air Force Base on September 6, 1981. My father , a gnarley alcoholic/drug addict load master for C-130 cargo planes, and my mother, a housewife from Thailand that was cheating on her current husband (an aviator wearing pilot in the USAF with great hair) with my gnarley load master alcoholic/drug addict father, were both young, in love (i hope), under the influence, and heavily sedated. Life in California was short lived.
When I was 4, my mother decided to leave my father for the 42nd time and flee with my brother and I to the arms of my grandmother in Pennsylvania. Along the road to granny's house on the other coast, we lived in various places like shelters for battered women (where the sheets had skid marks, and the women sat around naked) and homeless shelters (where there is always green been casserole, and the people smell like urine). These were times that I bonded with my brother more than I have ever bonded with anyone. We dealt with our problems and lack of money by laughing. To this day, we cannot speak without excessive laughter, but I digress.
My father found us. Of course by the time he did, we were at his mothers house. (I should also note that my mothers family is in Thailand. All of them.) With his government Air Force training,my father found his was home. We lived on the floor of my grandmothers basement, and my parents were back together. I went to school, my father was still drunk but now kicked out of the Air Force and my mother worked in a factory making computer parts on the third shift. Our clothes came from church donations, and our food from stamps, our shelter from my grandmother, and entertainment from terrorizing the community.
We saved some money and moved to Philly (Apt M24), and shared a 2 bedroom apartment with 1,000,000 cockroaches. My father started working and partying...one more than the other. Again, my mother, brother and I sought the comfort of shelters with skid marks, and homeless homes with green been casserole for now what seemed like the 83rd time.
And again, he found us. It somehow came about that my father found god, and my mother approved. Things got better, and for the majority of grade school life was relatively normal. That is, until my sister was born, and my parents were in a car accident.(insert Debbie Downer sound here)
They were rear ended by a woman who had been drinking, and my father sustained numerous injuries, none more debilitating that the injury to his back. We moved to my grandmothers again. He ran to the comfort of drugs, alcohol, and this escalated more than I ever thought it would. Pain medication; vicodin, narbacet, percocet, Advil, fish tranquilizers, Oxycontin, thin mints...his old friends who now had a reason for hanging around. Years went by went he didn't leave the house. Months went by when I wouldn't see him awake. I was young, and never understood what was happening nor did I ever question it.
Granny had enough and kicked them out. A short stint in an apartment, and my mother left to an undisclosed location. My father to rehab/half-way house, and my sister, back to granny's. My brother left for the air force, and I struck out on my own.
Random jobs, high school, starting a business, being poor, and living with friends sucked. So I left for Bloomsburg, PA. The only college I was accepted to that I could afford to go to with financial aid and loans. This is where I would spend the next 5 years. In 2004, I moved to Chapel Hill, NC where I lived in a locker room. I managed to pick myself up, and get a job working for the state, and eventually bought a house, and got my shit together...kinda.
Four years later, I got an offer in NYC, and took it. I left Chapel Hill for the city, and I now sit in my office on the fourth floor of 560 Broadway in SoHo. NYC and the rest will be covered in good time.
So that is my family and the fly-by on how I got to where I am right now. The details will be filled in, and all of your questions will remain unanswered...That is assuming that you have questions. Congratulations on wasting a perfectly good 10 minutes.
lincoln
welcome
Hello and welcome to the first entry of my blog. You will find that reading this will be a complete waste of time, and you will walk away having learned very little from the time invested in translating the words on your screen into thoughts of your own. My thoughts, like the thoughts of most others are completely irrelevant to anything that you may or may not be experiencing in your life, but if you are still reading, you feel compelled to do so, in which case, I sincerely hope that you take something away from what I am signing up to do...
And what might that be?
I intend to tell the stories of my life as I remember them. I am not saying that all of the details from this moment on are entirely accurate, I am just saying that they are and will be depicted as I remember and/or choose to remember.
And thus I conclude my first entry, and hope that you will read my next.
lincoln
And what might that be?
I intend to tell the stories of my life as I remember them. I am not saying that all of the details from this moment on are entirely accurate, I am just saying that they are and will be depicted as I remember and/or choose to remember.
And thus I conclude my first entry, and hope that you will read my next.
lincoln
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