A friend of mine passed away last month.

And while there’s plenty of humor about dying and being dead, I thought I’d take a short stab at writing something less sophomoric that my usual nonsense. Not a full seven-inches-in-stab, like the murderer in the song Blood on the Dance Floor. Michael Jackson wrote some dark lyrics. But boy could he move like the wind. Anyway, I’m drifting. Back to the topic at hand – my friend’s death.

The deceased is named Bill Flynn. I met him in an AA meeting seven years ago. After the lead (the main speaker), the meeting opened up to comments from the peanut gallery. Bill said something like, “Once you’re sober the real work begins. Like figuring out why you needed to escape through drugs and alcohol in the first place.” Bill had been sober for 25 years by the time I met him.

A year into knowing Bill he invited me to a group he had just created that met on Wednesdays. It had nothing to do with addiction and anyone was welcome to attend. The idea was that you could bring in your truth – something you were struggling with in life, and there would be processes to help you overcome the obstacle. He didn’t call it a support group because, well support isn’t always necessary. All sorts of people attended. Once a woman came and revealed, “My step-father raped me and now he’s dead and I’m angry about it because he was never punished.” So, Bill would set up a scenario where she could confront the memory of her father and get angry. Another woman  cried because she said she didn’t think she any man could ever find her attractive. Turns out her mother wasn’t complimentary about her robust physique as a child. It takes time to unpack that kind of damage, and she kept showing up and doing the work. Three years later she announced she had met a man and they started dating. A year after that they got married. All of us went to the wedding. That’s the kind of group it was. People worked through stuff.

In 2013 Bill announced he was leaving the group. He had taught us how to do the facilitations and his goal was always to resign as soon as everyone became competent at helping each other. I stepped in and became the defacto leader.

What I’d like to do is share a few of Bill’s most important teachings. They have helped me immensely and I find myself quoting Bill more than any other person in my life. I even referenced him in my sister’s wedding speech last fall where I was the officiant. So in no particular order here’s some of my favorite Bill Flynn wisdom.

The hardest thing in the world to do is tell the truth. – Bill Flynn

No, we’re not talking about lying to the police about how 70 lbs of illegal bath salts found their way into your trunk. If that ever happens, go ahead and lie. You’re kind of screwed regardless. Telling the truth is about telling the whole truth. The ugly truth. The dark truths about yourself that even you don’t want to acknowledge. Because if someone saw ALL the ugliest parts of you, they’d run screaming, right?

Let’s say your best friend suffers a miscarriage and you feel no sadness for her. Maybe you’re even a little happy she’s suffering because she flaked on dinner plans a few weeks before. Try admitting that to yourself. Then, imagine telling someone. That ain’t easy. Or maybe you’re about to get married and you know your future bride is the wrong partner but the wedding is a week away. Bill never suggested you should tell the truth at all times. It’s impractical and, in many cases, downright stupid. His point was that it’s hard to be honest.

We once had a guy named Jason come into the group who had been molested by a relative. He had never told anyone. He couldn’t reveal this to his girlfriend because he was afraid she would see him as broken. He couldn’t be there for her sexually because of the trauma. He couldn’t focus and was in and out of college and jobs. When we heard his story, by the end, everyone was crying. Except Jason. He looked stunned. His biggest fear was that we would see him the way he saw himself. We all have fears about revealing the hard stuff. The irony is, by revealing your truth people fall in love with you. Which leads me to another Bill maxim.

The only way to build intimacy is through sharing vulnerability. – Bill Flynn

When I first started in therapy years ago, my shrink asked if I had any close guy friends and I said I did. She asked if I ever talked with them about my own issues. I laughed and said, “Guys don’t do that.” She laughed back and said, “No, D.J. – guys do that. YOU don’t do that.” I was terrified that I would burden my friends with my problems, or that they’d see me as damaged. And then, they would want to leave and I’d lose the friendship. What Bill taught me was that if you have the courage to tell the truth (see above), your friends will bond tighter to you. And by sharing yourself you’ve created the space to allow them to share their own stuff. As soon as I started talking about my fears, they immediately shared their own struggles. I couldn’t believe my successful and happy friends had troubles just like me. Plus, by knowing someone’s struggles, you can better support them. In short, it’s how you become a better friend. Bill never said this directly, but the bottom line was if you don’t want to be lonely, have the courage to share all of you with people you trust.

All roads lead back to mom and dad. – Bill Flynn

Bill was convinced that most of our problems as adults are because our parents screwed up. Now, this is a difficult concept for some to get on-board with, especially if you like your parents. If your folks were obvious shitheads, this is a no-brainer. But what if they paid for your college, told you they loved you, and tried their very best to make sure you had everything you needed? Can you really say that you have low self-esteem because dad traveled too much for work and missed important events in your youth? Yes. You can say that. Bill taught about the difference between blame and telling the truth. He would say, “Our parents did the best they could. And it wasn’t enough.” Then he would pause and say, “…and it’s okay.” It’s a massive disservice when we make excuses for others’ bad behavior. It’s okay to acknowledge their imperfections and the resulting ripples in your psyche. That’s not blame. That’s just the truth. And speaking of acknowledging the truth…

You cannot forgive someone until you hold them accountable. – Bill Flynn

So, back to our previous example of a jetsetting, absent father. You’re a thirty year old woman and don’t trust men because you never got Dad’s affection or attention. Your relationships are suffering because of the damage your father did to you as a child. Did he mean to screw you up? Probably not. But it happened. Your dad did other wonderful things, so it’s okay to praise him in your mind for the good. It’s also okay to condemn the bad. People are complicated and imperfect. But, how do you hold Dad accountable? Actually, you already did. By telling the truth to yourself. Dad did some things perfect, some things just okay, and some things that crippled your mental health. That’s not blame. That’s honesty and accountability. It happens in the mind. And once you hold that person accountable, it opens up the ability to forgive. In fact, it often happens automatically. It’s a cool trick that I was never taught in school. I was too busy taking stupid classes like civics.

Anger is the best way to protect a boundary. – Bill Flynn

Anger is a healthy emotion. But it scares us. I know I’m not entirely comfortable with my own. Growing up anger is condemned and shamed. In reality, anger is just a feeling that naturally arises from the body and mind. And it’s a damned good tool to have in case anyone tries to violate a boundary. Bill used to say, “If you can’t get angry, you’ll be fucked because some time in life you’ll need it and it might just save your life.” If you’ve ever had to protect someone physically, you know how important anger is to summon. It’s the only thing bullies understand. If you want to defeat a bully, defend your boundary. Anger protects us.

The healthiest relationships are in which two people are free to leave. – Bill Flynn

I just had someone end a relationship with me. It was the most painful experience of my life, moreso than even my divorce. However, the reality is that you cannot control someone’s decisions. You fight like hell for them, and you give them all of your love, but ultimately you honor their choice to leave. And if you “can’t live without them”, well maybe it’s time to pick up a book on co-dependence. Of course you can live without them. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care whether someone stays or goes. You will care. It will level you when someone disappears from your life. It’s loss and it’s supposed to hurt. Or as Bill used to say, “It’s the risk of love. And it’s worth it even if they leave.”

Bill’s Favorite Poem

I could write a dozen more Bill expressions, but the reality is I’m no biographer. And most people don’t have interest in this kind of stuff. But Bill did. I do. And hundreds of other people who were helped by him. the reality is that I’m a healthier person because of some of the stuff Bill taught me. I’m a better person, too.

I’ll wrap up with Bill’s favorite poem. I’ve read maybe seven poems in my life and the only one I remember is “To the Virgins, To Make Use of Time” by Herrick. Probably because I was a virgin when I read it. Anyway, Bill said this sanskrit poem out loud so many times, I damn near have it memorized. It perfectly sums up what he was all about.

Look To This Day

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn.

– Kalidasa

—

Night is not a good time for me. The time when I’ve finished reading all my feeds, and all my online friends in other time zones were in bed hours ago, and finding something to occupy my mind becomes more difficult. Or even worse, when I’m settling down to try and sleep. It’s not always a good idea to leave me alone with my thoughts, with nothing to keep them at bay.

Last night, specifically, was a bad night. As sometimes happens, a song I’d put on gave me the urge to pick up the guitar and start singing. Now, I love to sing. I have my whole life. Alone in my room, there was certainly no reason not to. So I did. Only… it didn’t last long.

Because there is one thing that most assuredly does  not  love me picking up my guitar and singing.

Here, I’m going to tangent for a bit. Recently, in  this  post, the Bloggess linked to  21 Tips to Keep Your Shit Together When You’re Depressed. The post was inspired by  21 Habits of Happy People, which Rosalind essentially called out as unhelpful bullshit. And it is – is it ever! Because much as people tried to backpedal once confronted and claim that the list was not targeted at those who actually have depression, we need to be realistic about this.

People who are down right now, for whatever reason, but do not actually have depression,do not need your lists. Life sucks sometimes, they’ll be down for a while, and then they’ll carry on. They don’t need to be told to “enjoy the little things”, “be optimistic” or “appreciate life”. Even if they’ve lost sight of those things right now, they’ll work them out again eventually and all well and good. Without your help.

Take this quote:

Happiness is one aspiration all people share. No one wants to be sad and depressed. […]  I’m not saying happy people don’t feel grief, sorrow or sadness; they just don’t let it overtake their life.

Quite clearly, this is not aimed at people who can manage happiness by themselves. Therefore, it  is  aimed at those who  can’t. And, what do you know, there’s a reason for that. They’re quite right when they say no-one wants to be sad and depressed, which is why, if the answer is as simple as “buck up and think happy thoughts”, that person does not tend to stay depressed. So automatically, anyone for whom the listed strategies are not horribly unhelpful and insulting, isn’t going to need them.

The bit that gets me most on these lists – which I’m sure Rosalind directly addressed at some point, but I can’t seem to find the relevant bit – is the “do what you love”/”make time for things you enjoy” piece of advice. Especially for those with chronic (as opposed to acute) depression, there’s one big flaw with that particular suggestion.

Depression takes away your ability to enjoy things. How can you do what you love when you can’t love what you love?

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I can remember a time where I could regularly play the guitar for more than two and a half songs (on a good day) without being overcome by an overwhelming wave of apathy. If I’ve got a set performance, with specific songs I need to play and finish to show people, that’s one thing. But just sitting down and enjoying playing guitar? I  can’t  anymore. Sometimes I can make it through two and a half songs… sometimes one and a half… sometimes I’ll start five different songs and sort of trail off halfway through each one because I just can’t bring myself to finish them.

Last night I think I made it halfway through the second song and somehow managed to barely limp through a couple more before I finally gave up. Last night, it got to me.

I’m tired of not being able to enjoy the things I know I love, that I should enjoy. I tried to get medication, once, several years back. Basically walked into the doctor’s office and said “Please put me on antidepressants. Now.” Unfortunately, I was a somewhat suicidally-inclined, autistic teen, which the doctor took one look at and returned with “How about we get your parents in? And take a look at other options? And literally  anything we can manage that does not include putting you on these drugs?”

I can’t say I blame the man – it’s a fairly alarming collection of contraindicators. Due to the changes in brain chemistry that teens undergo, depression is very common and frequently temporary, tapering off along with the end of puberty. They don’t like to risk a life-long addiction medicating something that could very well just correct itself. They also hesitate to medicate anyone with suicidal tendencies because anti-depressants tend to make things worse before they make them better. Lastly, we have autism. Due to the quirks in brain wiring and chemistry, any drug that affects either of these things have been known to go a bit… awry in autists, from time to time. Even worse, frequently not even in the same ways from one autist to the next. Anti-depressants are already a very hit-and-miss, keep trying until you find one that works for you kind of drug. It makes that search all the more difficult and risky when any given one just might act as, say, a psychotic, for no really discernible  reason.

So while I still seriously consider anti-depressants, I’m not sure I much like my chances of getting any now, either.

Frustrations over not being able to enjoy much anymore, though, is not what caused the rest of my night to quickly devolve into clinging to my husband crying for at least a good couple of hours. What did that, was fear.

I am currently well into my second trimester. Sometime around the end of July, all going well, I will be bringing a new baby boy into the world. What had me in tears last night is the fact that I have  no idea  how I’m going to be able to be any good as a mother.

I’m not feeling as bad right now, but I can’t say I really know the answer now either.

See, my dad taught me to play guitar… at first, anyway. Thing is, he has clinical depression too. I have no idea how hard he had to work to manage that… I do know, however, that eventually it just became too hard. Over time, my requests to play together got turned down more and more, until eventually I had to resort entirely to self-teaching. I wasn’t a little kid when this happened; dad didn’t hide the reason for it and I was plenty able to understand by then. But still, it sucked. There wasn’t an awful lot I really got to share in with my dad, and it made me sad to lose something we did together.

I’ve never doubted that my dad loves me, and cares for me. I’ve certainly never felt unloved or neglected by him, or any such thing. But I do feel distant. I don’t remember a time I ever really felt all that close to my father, and a big part of that was depression putting a barrier between us. Not  just  his, either. My own became noticeable to me somewhere around eleven, and I’m sure it didn’t help matters any either.

I don’t want my son to feel distant from me. I don’t know how I’m even going to manage as much as dad did,  though. I can already barely play guitar at all; how am I ever going to hang in long enough to teach my child? Especially if, like me, it’s another decade-plus before he’s ever interested enough to actually learn? In another decade, am I even going to be able to pick up a guitar anymore?

Obviously this isn’t the only thing in the world to share with my son, and it’s full well possible that he’ll never be interested in guitar anyway. This might never become a relevant point… at least, not directly. But the problem isn’t the guitar. It’s what it represents. It’s one of the things I’ve managed to hold on to the best, for the longest, and even that’s slipping away from me now, and has been for some time. It was the one, clear thing that made it really hit me: this is going to affect my child. It’s going to affect my ability to be a good parent.

And god help me,  I don’t have any idea what to do about that.

I remember being drawn to comedy at a young age – sneaking downstairs to watch HBO comedy specials laughing hysterically at well-crafted jokes by Buddy Hackett and Rodney Dangerfield. Bill Cosby’s Himself remains one of my absolute favorite sets. These were heroes of mine.

As I’ve progressed through therapy I’ve learned that most of my life I’ve run from tough feelings. I believe that I developed a comic mind to entertain myself. Comedy was a way for me to avoid the pain that I couldn’t face.  Also, it’s a charming and social way to connect with others. Primarily, though, it was used to escape the darker parts of me that were too scary to engage.

Well, after getting sober, then some therapy, getting laid off, a divorce, some more therapy and whatever other challenges I’ve faced, I’m left with this realization:

My natural state is not that of happiness. I have to work at it. Really work at it.

It now dawns on me why I studied self-improvement strategies from age eighteen on – I wanted to feel better and I just couldn’t do it myself.

So, now, I’m at a place in my life where I want to get back to happy. I’ve been exploring forgotten pain for so long I forget what it’s like to wake up in the morning excited.

Since, for me, it’s conscious effort to find happiness, I know that gratitude helps bring me to that space.

Tonight as seven of us were seated around the kids’ table at Thanksgiving we decided to talk about something we were grateful for. I’d like to add that we were all in our mid  thirties and are table was the formal dining room table. The adults took the table in the second dining room which was also nice, but not as nice. Yes, this friend’s house had two dining rooms. Pretty awesome.

I was immediately grateful that I had somewhere that people wanted me for Thanksgiving. As my own worst critic I forget sometimes that I am loved by people that know me well. I became emotional and wanted to weep for there are many weekends where I don’t see anyone in person. I forget that people want to spend time with me.

I am also thankful that I have readers that encourage me to write about what really goes on in my life. This blog started out as extreme stories from my past and has evolved into a rolling diary of present events, thoughts, feelings, struggle and celebration. Your comments allow to make this blog about you. I have to write about me – you get to reclaim it by leaving your own contribution below.

Lastly I am grateful that my vision for this blog has, thus far, provided me with the discipline to write every night this year. I am a massive quitter and procrastinator. My ex-wife is still amazed I write each night. And like most things that are worthwhile, I am not usually in the mood to write, and I almost never have anything interesting happen to me during the day. But somehow I push through and click “publish” whether it works or not.

I don’t often give advice – but I will say this. By the way, this is what I say to myself, and I assume it’s true for you as well.

The  antidote  to shame is to have deep, personal, and vulnerable relationships with people that love you. This takes courage and discipline. You just can’t tackle shame alone.

I’ve found my tribes through my family, friends and online community. Each plays a role in helping me connect with something other than myself and where I am free to be just D.J. In my head, D.J. is just not quite measuring up. To my supporters, they think I’m doing just fine. That’s why I need them.

Those were some thoughts I had this evening as I wrapped up a second helping of apple-pecan caramel pie. Not exactly Emerson, I know. But something.

photo credit: muffintinmom via photopin cc

I am secretly (although now it’s public) jealous of those dudes that can put their feet up on their thighs in that weirdo pretzel thing. A few weeks ago I was in a group that I attend of the support variety and one of the guys just busts that out while on his chair. It looked so easy and confortable.  Symmetrical.

Reminded me once when I was in fourth grade. I was sleeping over at my friend Chris Shaffer’s house and the next morning while we were watching cartoons he put his legs into that position. Chris was always flexible and athletic. After locking in he then got on his knees and walked around from knee to knee. It was marvelous and disgusting at the same time. I had never seen the leg thing nor the walking on the knee thing.

I asked him to help me get into position. He pushed my feet up but they just wouldn’t budge. Finally, with all his might he got them up and in.

I started screaming.

The pain was sharp and filled nearly every part of my legs from the crotch down. Even though I was screaming I wasn’t a pussy so I attempted to walk on my knees. The must have stretched the muscles even further and I bellowed louder. Chris’ mom came running down the tri-leveled stairs and demanded he return my feet to their proper position. She was a nurse. She knew about stuff.

She explained that some people (me) weren’t flexible enough to do those sort of moves. I was dejected. Clearly my body didn’t have the bendy perfection of his. Mine couldn’t do something cool.

Now, I’m 6’2″ with long legs. I’m slender and relatively fit. Even though I exercise almost every day I have yet to even come close to touching my toes. As stupid as this sounds I know all my problems will melt away the day I marry fingernail to toenail.

I struggle with the idea of goals. Every personal goal I’ve set for myself has resulted in a short high followed by a, “Eh, what’s on after Mama’s Family?” There’s a strange letdown after a major victory that envelops me. It’s just not fulfilling after the event. Example – I’ve written every day this year. On Dec 31st I’ll be able to say I made it without a miss. But, I know it’s not going to be a big deal.

It’s the journey, not the end, right?

I’m really trying to adjust my thinking to being present for all the hard work that results in goal achievement. Realizing that I won’t get a high from flossing, but can I appreciate that I took care of myself instead of giving the finger to the floss from my bed which looks directly into my master bath? I actually did this last night. Gave the finger to the Glide.

Yes, it will be great not to have gum disease as a senior, but I think being present for the flossing now might allow me to realize I’m taking care of myself. And, while not the biggest victory, it should feel at least a little bit good.

Stretching every night may or may not unite hand to foot, but I can at least acknowledge the pride of doing something healthy for my muscles.

Can I actually get present enough to have fun with this post instead of just crossing it off the to-do list? Hmm… no. Not tonight. Pizza is in the oven.

Wow – this didn’t have one funny sentence. Tomorrow I will bring something awesome like the time I was at the grocery and a hot girl started talking to me in the checkout line. I had just placed a jumbo box of Good n’ Plenty on the moving belt and was so ashamed I put my hand in front of the box when talking to her. As the candy moved closer to the cashier I walked backwards to keep it hidden.

An issue of mine.

Now, in a world of real problems like famine, AIDS, sex-trafficking, and Bieber-fever, this does not chart in the top, oh, I’m guessing 100,000 of actual situations that would qualify as an “issue.”

When I was in fifth grade I listened to really awful pop music.   Of course, back then, I didn’t know it was crap.   In fact, I loved it.   I remember owning and being excited about Debbie Gibson’s Out of the Blue.   On cassette.

Note: Even though it was the same era, I really disliked Tiffany.   Not sure why.   Redheads are weird.   I’m clear about that.

There’s a certain fondness to look back at that time and remember that I really enjoyed the music.   Of course, only one year after I realized that there were superior genres of music that spoke to me more effectively.   I put away my Debbie Gibson, Huey Lewis, and Technotronic forever.

In the sixth grade when I would wake up on especially cold mornings, I had a “get warm” routine.   Because my parents would have laughed at the idea that 72 degrees is generally associated as the temperature of comfort, I always woke up cold.   By the way, if you’re one of those people that thinks that 72 degrees is crazy hot or crazy cold, you are wrong.   And crazy.   I understand it might not be comfortable to you, but do your family a favor, and admit your body is screwed up.   We live in a 72 degree society.

Consider Toy Story 2, Rotten Tomatoes’ best reviewed movie of all time.   146 critics submitted reviews, and all 146 gave it a thumbs-up.   But let’s say at I party I tell you that I thought it sucked (I don’t think this).   Sure, I’m entitled to my opinion, but my opinion is wrong.   And you probably shouldn’t listen to anything else I say about movies.   Because, after that statement, I clearly don’t know shit about what makes a good movie.

So, when people say, “It’s way too hot in here!” and the thermostat reads 68 degrees, they are wrong.   Also, probably cheap.   The rest of us think 72 is ideal, so go strip down to your underwear if you’re too hot.   Now that I think about it (and I put a good three minutes of reflection on this one statement), I’m willing to to submit that I would have preferred my parents walk around in their skivvies if that meant the house could have been heated to 72 degrees.   Sure it would have crossed boundaries and screwed me up sexually, but at least I would have been comfortable.

So one particular cold morning, as I huddled over the vent on the floor of my bedroom, trying to warm up, I did something I never had before.   I changed the dial on my radio from KZ93, the pop station, to ROCK106.   I had seen enough bumper stickers to know that ROCK106 was the place to “Get the Led Out” (what that meant, I didn’t know).   And the first song that I heard that morning was Tom Petty’s “Refugee”.

Now, this is one of the more depressing classic rock and roll songs.   You definitely feel worse after hearing it.   But, I was hooked on rock from then on out.

So, even though my taste evolved that day to a higher quality of music (sorry Debbie Deborah Gibson fans), I simultaneously developed a terrible habit that has stuck with me through the years.

My issue : I have needed to place myself in every song I have heard, every time, without exception from the age of twelve.

Let me explain.   (And by the way, up until a few years ago, I thought everybody did this.)   You know how little boys fantasize about becoming pro-baseball players and girls, ballerinas?   And then, as you grow up they realize that isn’t in the cards, or you lose interest, and start to figure out what your personal dreams are based on your talents and interest?

I never did that.

After hearing that song in sixth grade, I knew the pathway to success and happiness was to write, record, and perform a song so amazing that it would rival “Refugee.”   Since 12 year olds don’t   possess the musical talent to do this, I had to find another way to achieve this dream.   And since hard work was out of the question, I took a shortcut.   I simply imagined that I HAD written Tom Petty’s “Refugee”!

I did this with every other song I thought was cool at the time.   Yes, even Was (Not Was) “Walk The Dinosaur”.   By the way, you have to watch the video.   There’s a chick with one arm playing backup drums, and I’m pretty sure Eddie Murphy’s on secondary vocals.

I’ve come to realize that pretending that I had written and performed popular music is a coping strategy to help alleviate anxiety that from the pressure of needing to create something “great”.

After 20+ years of playing music of my own, I am here to announce that I am probably not going to write a song as proficient as “Refugee.”   And when I search my heart, it’s not even something I really want.   I’m not a songwriter.   I’m happy playing rhythm guitar and singing some background vocals in our band.   I’m not giving up on the dream – I’ve come to realize that songwriting is neither in my wheelhouse nor even a passion.

But, I still have this terrible habit.   I’m not exaggerating when I tell you this.   I probably average two hours of music a day.   One hour to work, one hour back home.   Sometimes I change it up with audiobooks, or podcasts, but mostly it’s music.

I have imagined nearly every time, in whatever genre of music I am listening to, that I have performed on that song.   This has been going on from approximately the age of twelve, and still continues today.   We’re talking about thousands of hours here.

How does it work?   Well, in my mind I am usually the lead singer (even though my singing in real life is not even close to what could pass for lead vocals).   In the case of a woman who sings (like Aimee Mann, for example), I put myself as her lead guitarist, but also as the dude who wrote the song.

I know this is incredibly narcissistic and delusional.   I also know I really didn’t write these songs.

But, up until a few weeks ago, I was never able to take myself out of the song.   I couldn’t just “hear” a song and appreciate it.   I needed to be “in” the song.   Sometimes I’m on stage, other times I’m in a studio recording.   It’s really embarrassing to admit.

I’ve imagined that I wrote country songs, rock and roll, classical compositions (yes, even Mozart), 80s hits, and even speed metal.   It all goes into the fantasy machine.   And it turns out my mind even has no problem fantasizing that I wrote ALL of the Beatles’ songs.   Yes, I’m that nuts.

I’m happy to announce that after nearly three years of weekly therapy, this has finally started to unravel.   Obviously, fantasizing performing music is not the biggest deal in the world, but it is indicative of a larger issue.   What I have come to understand is that I am not satisfied with myself just as a normal guy.   I’m not good enough if I don’t write a big hit that people like.   I have to constantly produce “quality output” or I think I’m wasting my life.   That’s why I’ll go six months without writing a blog post, because it’s not funny enough or has the perfect premise.   Everything I produce has to have a certain level of excellence (to my dumb standards).   And the reality is this puts a tremendous amount of pressure to do things really well.

This is the core of what I’ve been working on in therapy, and continue to explore.

Thankfully, a few weeks ago, all of a sudden I lost nearly all interest in listening to music.   It just didn’t appeal to me anymore.   I would try to listen to songs, and just push “stop” halfway through.   I no longer saw myself in the music, and I didn’t even wish to listen.   This did not come lightly, and the change kind of fucked me up for a while.

I plunged into a deep well of sadness, which I believe is connected to “losing” this fantasy mechanism, which now seems to be broken.   I can no longer find immediate happiness in this false fantasy world.   Because even though my rational mind knew it wasn’t real, my emotional mind used it as a refuge, where I could always count on being “excellent.”   All I had to do was pull up a great song, and there I was, doing something of quality again.   Relief!

Here is a list of my most embarrassing songs that I have regularly imagined myself performing, and some of the details of each fantasy.

• The Escape Club – “Wild Wild West”  

I had totally forgotten about this song until a few years ago.   It’s really pretty awesome, and I see myself singing lead.   Also, they talk about “D.J.” which makes it easier to fantasize, since that’s my name.

• Nickelback – “Leader of Men”

Yes, I know Nickelback sucks.   We all know.   This song has a particularly awful lyric that goes:

“One day, up to a cliff
 that overlooks the water
 I jumped in to save a girl
 It was somebody’s daughter”

Of course it was somebody’s daughter.   Every girl is.   He was just stumped on what to rhyme with “water.”   Still, in my mind I wrote this masterpiece, and sing both the lead and harmony vocals.

• Andrew W.K. – “Party Hard”

This is a straight-ahead rocker.   But here’s the thing.   I don’t party.   I don’t even drink.   Doesn’t matter!

• The B-52’s – “Rock Lobster”

Just in case you’re wondering, no I don’t see myself as the lead singer, Fred Schneider.   I play the guitar.

• Kid Rock – “I Am The Bullgod”

Another bad fit based on my policy of not ingesting drugs.   But somehow, I push through and sing/rap the song.

• Michael Jackson – “Blood On The Dance Floor”

Kind of a dark one about a woman who stabs a guy while he’s dancing with another gal.   While I don’t have the balls to see myself singing, I did write this masterpiece.   And was in the studio with MJ while he recorded.   I direct his performance.

• Run DMC – “It’s Tricky”

You might think this would be a hard one to fantasize because I’m not black, from Hollis, and have never owned a pair of unlaced Adidas.   BUT, they do (referring to Daryl) rap the line, “Then D dissed her and dismissed her.”   I’m the D!

• The Bangles – “Walk Like An Egyptian”

I think we can all agree that Susanna Hoffs was beautiful.   So, who better to fantasize about than to be her boyfriend who wrote this great song.   I also taught the lead guitar girl the solo she performs in the middle.

That’s just a snippet of a few of my most shameful songs where I jam out, and not only listen, but also fantasize.   I have like four thousand songs in my library, and I’m being totally honest by saying I have done with this with every single one.

But, for some reason, it doesn’t really work anymore.   I can sort of do it from time to time, but I don’t have to like before.   I guess that’s progress.   But now I’m stuck just listening to the music, and you know what I’m realizing?   When you don’t see yourself performing in a grand fantasy, you’re stuck to just listening.     And a good lot of it sucks!

So, I may just be deleting Modern English’s “I Melt With You” from my playlist.   Ugh.