When I listen to arguments over opinions about our country, I wonder if people realize that it is okay to see things differently. I am not sure when opinions became fact. I am not sure how we became the way we are, so divided that we fail to see straight or realize that we are actually on the same team. I don’t know much about politics. I don’t always I agree with what I hear and I don’t always like what I see.
All I know is I am me without apology. I am not the right side or the left. Instead of choosing a side, I consider myself the middle. I consider myself the heart of this country. I am part of the pulse that beats the blood through the system of this land. I am no better or worse. I am me. I am the son of a man who chose to serve our country. In fact, my Old Man served our country proudly in the Army Air Corps in 1946.
I was just about to step outside and break away from my normal routine. I decided to talk a walk. I wanted to take a break from my usual scene. I wanted to get away from the group of my so-called friends.
I wanted to separate me from them and the self-absorbed conversations about this one keeping up with that one. I was young and the city was still new to me.
I sat in a chair,
nervous as ever, because of an old subconscious fear about visits to doctor’s
offices that resulted with needles and date back to my early childhood
memories. The procedure itself is simple. The anticipation, however, was my
biggest hurdle. The rest was nothing more than a few pinches of the skin. And
I think hard and then I laugh when you tell me how you see me. I laugh because of your inaccuracies and I think hard because I wonder about the way I see myself, which is different from the way you or other people see me.
I suppose this is the way life is. (. . . Isn’t it?)
We are three people. We are who we think we are, who say we are, and then we are who people see us as.
It was a year later and The Old Man was gone. Mom decided to take us all on a trip to Beaver Creek, Colorado for ten days. This was before Dave and Lisa were married.
I was only home for a few months. I was back from the farm in late September and still re-acclimating to the regular world. There rules from the farm were a thing of the past. I was free to listen to music or go out or eat whenever I chose. I was free to do several things; however, I was still adjusting to the change in my surrounding.
At the day job, I sometimes get projects that call for a parts list to be sure that I have what I need. And sometimes, I add extra parts, just in case I added short or I come across an unexpected turn.Either way, the idea of a parts list is to be sure that all items are covered.I collect what I need and compare this to my list and one by one, I check them off.
What people don’t seem to understand most is that compulsion defies logic. It defies sanity. Compulsion is what makes an otherwise unthinkable idea become thinkable. But there’s more to it than this.
It’s like this:
There is this little tiny voice, which speaks in the third person. It piques interest, like a diversion, and then exploits the ideas of a ongoing compulsion. Some have called this voice, “The monkey on my back,” and some have call compulsion “Diseased thinking,” and me, I say it’s the beast in me. And the beast in my knows me well. Continue reading