Praxeology

I have been plagued of late with fears over what sort of family I' ll be leaving behind should I eventually succumb to my various conditions. What sort of a collection of humans will I be thrusting upon the world, will they be able to look after themselves or become a burden to society at large? Conditions here at home do not paint an attractive picture.

I have done my best, as did my parents with my sister and me, to provide a good example, hoping, of course, that my family would follow suit and do things as I would have done. That has been far from the case. More often than not, rather than adapting a practice of "do as I do," they have taken a position more akin to "oh--Dad will take care of it for us." It seems that the more example I provide, the less likely they are, in fact, to exhibit similar behavior.

In the past six weeks, I have taken on additional and extended shifts at work, not only to help out my understaffed store, but also to try and dig us out of the tomb of debt in which we seem to be interred from basic life expenses, i.e. rent, utilities, food, etc. I now work on average fifty-three to fifty-five hours per week, anywhere from one to three shifts of which can be eleven-hour shifts or longer. I've given up some so-called luxuries (so called because many others would consider them necessities), made some adaptations to our basic supply purchases to accommodate family wants and needs and my medical conditions, and done without in a great many areas, occasionally in areas wherein I truly cannot do without, yet make due with substandard substitutions. We're surviving rather than thriving.

The level of sacrifice and contribution from the rest of the household has been far from equal, and less than encouraging.

I've lost track of how many times I've walked home following an extremely long shifting, looking forward to getting out of my uniform, only to keep it on so that I don't soil my own clothes doing the three or four days worth pof dishes that were left for me. (Incidentally, for those who may truly be unaware, the need to use vessels and utensils for purposes other than those intended by their design is a certain sign that you need to clean something--like boiling water kn a frying pan or eating cereal out of a wet measuring cup.) I can't relate how many times I've washed the same load of children's clothes because) it was easier for them to dump the basket upon the floor to select their daily attire rather than put everything in their drawers.

The worst culprit is a tie between the morbidly obese family 'friend's that lives with us and my oldest son. She contributes virtually no effort to household upkeep, pays us only $300 each month towards the nearly $1700 in monthly household expenses, puts her own prescription needs above everyone else's, and never hesitates to consume food from her private stash kn front of my children when our communal food stores run out. And, for the sake of clarity, her morbid obesity i wholly the product of lifestyle choice, a choice she clearly imagines I should subsidize. He, meanwhile, has dropped out of school in spite of all my efforts and encouragement, managed to get fired from his part-time job for mouthing off to his supervisor, and complains when any small chore request pulls him from his ten daily hours of Xbox Live, which I'm also funding. He's well on his way to developing a career as a full-time bum, without the upward mobility of a hobo due to the (apparently) overwhelming effort of getting off his ass. These two may well be the death of me, long before my kidneys decide to call it quits. I fear things will degenerate to a point at which either they have to leave the household, or I will.

I once sought advice from various sources, such as counselling circles, chat groups, and parenting messaging boards. There was never any advice to be had. Ample blame to lay at my feet, complete inability to justify or explain that blame, but no advice, no hint of direction towards solution or resolution. I find myself thinking that, in order to render them all self sufficient and prevent another family of societal leeches becoming everyone else's burden, I may have to resort to some form of 'tough love' and leave then to their own devices, lest this be my legacy.

The Trouble With Centrism

I'm point in life when I thought certain things would be solidly decided.

I thought I'd be in the career in which I would remain for the rest of my life; I certainly don't think that any longer. Far from it. I can think of nothing more horrible or frightening than to last out my days in retail or customer service. I thought I'd be settled in the town I'd live in for the rest of my life, even in the neighborhood in that town; if the past several years are any indicator, I've got a few more moves ahead, especially as I change occupations to stay ahead of austerity and poverty. I thought I'd be a homeowner; that's not even a priority any longer. But I think what still surprises me most is that certain key core values, even personality traits are still in flux.

I find myself in the midst of a personal ideological conflict regarding my own political direction. When I was much younger, I most closely aligned with fascism, largely due to a gross misinterpretation of ethnic pride. That position caused me a great deal of trouble when I attended university when I was confronted by a large populace that was both extremely liberal and diametrically opposed to my way of thinking. Opposed, but just as fervent in it's views. While this opposition helped me to see the errors in my way of thinking, it also served to illustrate the errors in their ways. Knowing you're wrong is one thing, but engaging in blind apologetics does NOT correct the situation; it exacerbates it. It is perhaps this crash of extremes that caused me to redefine my views in equally extreme terms and led me to identify with the extreme left-wing of the political spectrum and sympathize with Marxism. I've backed off to pro-socialism, especially since becoming a Buddhist and avoiding violence. Now, however, I'm far less than certain where my loyalties lie.

We are, as I write this, in the middle of a federal government shutdown caused by Tea Party opposition to the Affordable Care Act. I don't pretend to understand the opposition, beyond that opposition being an expression of total bourgeois selfishness. It's not enough that the "haves" have what they have---the "have nots" must remain have nots with no hope of improving their situation, including health. It's not enough that so few have so much more than enough; the remaining few have to have nothing at all or those at the top are incapable of enjoying any intrinsic worth of their benefits. At the same time, I grow increasingly tired of constantly working so hard while others who seem to not work at all benefit from my efforts. My family has tries several times in the past to obtain assistance in the form of both food benefits and utility assistance; we haven't qualified for utility assistance in nearly a decade based on our level of income, and while we could receive some food benefits, the laughably low level of assistance for which we qualify does not justify the routine intrusive certification procedure and questionnaire. Yet we have first- hand knowledge of others who work far less and receive far more, and to an extent such that they profit more from benefits than we do from work, and from the very fruits of our laborious, no less.

The end result is that I'm wholly uncertain "what" that makes me. Depressingly, I find it far easier to define myself in negative terms, i.e. as what I am not rather than as what I am. I know I am not a capitalist; I can't support a system that, more often than not, punishes hard work and rewards conniving and exploitation disguised as hard work. But, I'm no longer certain I'm a socialist, especially if being a socialist implies that I must blindly support the welfare state. I believe the current minimum wage is criminally low, and yet I've experienced workers whose work ethic don't justify remuneration even that high. And I have a real problem supporting minimum wage increase without the guarantee that my own wage would increase by an equal rate, regardless of how selfish that reveals me to be.

I suppose that, for the time being, I'm a centrist, but I truly miss belonging to something rather than opposing everything.

While You Were Out...

So, it's been three years since my last entry. I was never particularly good at journaling, either. Years ago, I received several blank journals as a gift. Just fifty more pages, and I'll be fifty-five pages into the first one. Some changes have taken place that will undoubtedly appear in future posts, provided I remember my account information and that I'm actually blogging again. I've lost about forty-five pounds, which will eventually prompt a new profile picture. I'm rather pleased with my appearance, even if I do say so myself. I've received many compliments, and several friends have asked my secret, but it's not an easy method: chronic illness. About eighteen months ago, I was diagnosed with diabetes. The onset was relatively fast, and I may have caught it sooner myself if not for complete ignorance about the symptoms. After all, I'd been walking back and forth to work for months and thought the weight loss meant that it was all starting to pay off. I also thought all the walking was why I was so thirsty all the time, and that all the drinking was why I had to urinate every fifteen minutes around the clock. Literally. I ended up spending a week in the hospital and began insulting and oral medication. While hospitalized, an MRI and ultrasound revealed some kidney stones. Not too many--only about 150. The real surprise was having stones at all, since I hadn't felt anything for five years. Apparently, I'd been making them all along. Thus began a six month course of lithotripsy, living with long-term stents, frequent recouperations, and missed time at work. Roughly four months into this process, I visited the emergency room after not being able to move my left arm for two days. The doctors shoved a hypodermic into my inflamed elbow and drew out fluid heavily laden with uric acid: gout. The immediate diagnosis was renal insufficiency, which my family doctor upgraded to moderate chronic kidney disease. It's stage three of a five stage illness. I've been seeing a nephrologist ever since, watching my condition progress, and taking more medications than I care to mention or can easily afford. Adjusting to my altered state of health has been challenging. As painful as the first gout flare was, it was nothing compared to future flares which attacked multiple joints simultaneously. There are days when my blood glucose soars and I'm caught in the grips of confusion, disorientation, and rage. There are days when it plummets, and I feel dizzy and weak. All too often I feel nauseous with no direct reason, and these spells can strike with startling speed. My circulation has deteriorated to the point where I need a sweater in 70-degree weather. At the same time, however, I have been able to strengthen my resolve and keep working when so often it would be easier and feel so much better to collapse and vomit. I participated in the local walk for the National Kidney Foundation this past summer to put a foot down and gain a hold. This may be a long fight and a hard one, but at least I can make it a fight and not a surrender. The hardest parts may yet be on their way, and that will be a future topic, but there's work to be done, raves to rant, monologues to expound, and pomp to presume. See you soon. Stick around.

Ghosts of Careers Past

My daughter had her sixth-grade band concert tonight. I always find these a little difficult. My various joint issues make sitting through the thirty minute segments incredibly uncomfortable, and tonight's unadvertised twenty-minute awards presentation during the second half made the evening downright excruciating. Although my daughter's band wins top awards in the competitions in which they participate, I have tremendous difficulty getting my wife to understand that my East Coast high school band was truly world class, far away and above, beyond the talents of the haggard music programs of the Midwest. Add to that my formal education and years of training as a professional musician, and I cannot adapt to finding the sounds of a middle school band 'good,' regardless of their abilities juxtaposed against their collective age.

Every time I attend one of these concerts, the shadows of that career past waft forward and torment me. I wish I could say they were good memories, although they're far from bad. I wish I could look back in nostalgic bliss, but I'm always overwhelmed by guilt and regret. I had a monastic dedication to my music. I began playing when I was eight, making a small degree of yearly earnings by playing in professional orchestras by the time I was twelve. I continued my training, earning a ranking of number one on my instrument in my home state by the time I was a senior in high school. I earned a Bachelor of Music in Theory and Composition with High Honor from Michigan State University, as well as a Master of Music in Applied Music from the same institution. I was invited to partake a Fulbright Scholarship to do primary graduate research in Europe. I had a solid, notable reputation across the state. My skills were formidable and phenomenal, if I do say so myself. And then it all went away.

There was no one simple reason, no grand tragedy, no nefarious conspiracy that led to the end of my career. I performed in C-level orchestras throughout the state, and virtually all of them were financially troubled. One orchestra in particular, by the time I had come to resign, was taking three to five months to pay us for concert cycles (i.e., I was paid for the Christmas concert cycle around Easter). One of my orchestras felt that my fledgling family (back in the day when I had one child) was a hindrance and nuisance to my participation. But, perhaps the biggest cause of the end of my career was sheer boredom, or laziness as the perception may fall. My formal education was superb in that I was exposed to all the major repertoire before I began my graduate studies, and therein lay the poison; I was tired of playing the things I would be playing ad infinitum for the rest of my career. There were some opportunities that sported growth from my orchestras, such as a church choir directorship, and the possibility of entering into the labor relations field through an attempt to unionize one of the more financially beleaguered organizations, but pride and arrogance blinded me to these chances to remain in the field.

I don't miss the rehearsals, the temperamental conductors, the in-fighting and politics. I miss the respect, authority, and power I once held. I miss that, once upon a time, I was a professional with which to be reckoned. Snippets of opportunities creep forward now and then, such as the offer to compose a piece for an East Coast girls' choir to commemorate their anniversary, but it's hard to shift gears so drastically, and there is something tainted about wielding one's art to another's fancy. I've been trying to schedule a discussion with a past composition professor, thus far to no avail. However, with the school year just recently ended, perhaps I can finally ply his ear.

Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

The tide's come in and gone out, the storms rolled, fists thrown and rebounded, and still we remain.

The reinforcing struts my wife and I added to bolster our marriage were recently threatened, much by my own carelessness, much by the escalated behavior of my oldest son.

Just this past weekend, his emotional issues and stubbornness crested, resulting in an altercation with the White Trash Witch's son (much exaggerated by that whining brat), further damage to his siblings' property and our home (a broken screen door added to the recently kicked-out front window), and increased insults thrown at my wife and myself. After he stormed into the house, having re-exited several times on his sister's bike, or in order to kick it from the front porch down to the sidewalk, I asked my wife what she wanted done with him. She unleashed her words and imagination in one torrent, causing him to take flight again. He eventually returned, refusing to go to his room. He grabbed an empty plastic bottle and hurled it at my head; I reflexively kicked the chair in front of my towards his legs, briefly pinning him against the wall. I again ordered him to his room, and he again refused. It should be noted at this point that, in over a year of family therapy caused by and geared towards my oldest son's disciplinary issues and disobedience, no therapist, official, or authority has been able to offer any advice or guidance as to how to handle the recurring situation of his abject refusal to comply with the wishes and directives of his mother and myself. Having witnessed first-hand the fierce non involvement of the police when he shattered the front window, I had no confidence in either their judgement or competence were they to be summoned if I laid a finger on him. Nonetheless, at my wits end and with no other alternatives, I firmly gripped his shoulders to move him upstairs to his room.

He took his first swing and barely glanced my shoulder, the blow intended for my face. I lost my composure, my clarity, my control. I was on autopilot, and fixated on attacking the foe at hand, my oldest son. My swing made its target, landing square on his face just to the left of his nose. He swung again, hitting my left upper arm. I took his head down in a choke hold with my left arm, thrusting uppercuts into the crook of my elbow with my right. As my wife and her friend tried to separate us, my wife taking a few hits to the arm from one or the other of us, he twisted his face around, planting his teeth against the crook of my elbow, preparing to bite. All I felt was the light graze of his teeth against my skin, and reflex took over again; I pummeled the back of his head three times, then smacked him square in the face three times. The fight ended with his bellowed wish for my death, accentuated by his plans as to how to achieve it.

My wife wants me to get anger management therapy, and I've agreed, but things are rarely as simple as that. Therapy for me does not address my son's very real issues. In the past year, any time I've 'let up' on my son, he's leaped forward to cover that gap with aggression. He seems to be convinced of his own superiority despite the complete nonexistence of any shred of fact or fancy to make such superiority even conceivable. He wants to be a robotics engineer, yet refuses to work on his math or science skills in school. He insists on help with every homework assignment without attempting it on his own first. Beyond his issues, are the issues that have cropped up between my wife and I, some being revisited. She promised me equal time with her friends, yet has let our involvement dwindle and her exploits with them maximize. She will go through several consecutive days off from work without washing a single dish, while I can go for three or more days on overnights and have to wash a week's worth of dishes at the end of it. I'm willing to do my part to improve situations, but solving 'me' will not correct 'all.'

My wife and I have new wedding bands on layaway. We had been making progress with our date nights. I still love my son, but I will not let him tear asunder everything that I and we have been working to build and repair. There are new bright suns on the horizon, in the form of a training program and attached job in computer programming with Jackson National Life Insurance that pays in excess of 200% of what I'm making in the retail/convenience store industry. I have been through too much and struggled for too hard and too long to throw that all away. The entire family could benefit so much from this opportunity, but we all benefit only if we all stay together.

I have my own concerns about anger management therapy. I investigated it in the past, when a misunderstanding with an aging customer service representative at a previous job led to an employer mandate to seek therapy. I can't sit for a glorified meditation program; my temple offers that twice a week for free. As well, I will not drug myself to make his misbehavior acceptable. There is much to sort out, and it all must be equitable.

Taking the Bad with the Good

Reconciliation has been achieved; the wife and I are functional again! I don't have any magic formulas or breakthroughs to share, though; our reconciliation is the result of a lot more selflessness, a lot more relaxing of stances, and a lot more of each of us listening to the other. We're working through our mutual difficulties rather than assigning blame, rediscovering what we want out of the relationship, and opening up to the other more so than to friends and confidants.

Just this past Sunday we hosted several of her friends at our place until rather early Monday morning for an impromptu tattoo party, something of an icebreaker for me to be introduced to her Detroit friends and a kickoff to my vacation from work. We're having a few people over again tomorrow for a little more of the same, but beginning a little earlier in the afternoon.

Probably the best indicator of the improved status of our relationship is the fact that we've put new wedding bands on layaway. She agreed a few days ago to our beginning to wear them again, but discovered within minutes of returning hers to her hand that she's developed a gold allergy, causing small sores to break out on her ring finger wherever the gold made contact. Thus, she's placed a clearance silver engagement band and I a titanium band on layaway, mainly only to wait out the resizing of her ring. Despite the differing materials, they make quite a good match.

The vacation was simply to prevent my 'going postal' at work, and it couldn't have come too soon. Just before it began, a shift manager who has some unknown personal beef against me performed a store walk-through that essentially trashed and discredited any work I had done on the overnight shift. I refused to stay longer than ten minutes to help correct what I know damn well did not need correcting, shoving past her at the time clock to end my shift and leave without a word. I know she made a formal complaint of her walk-through, and I made it adequately well-known before my vacation began that I was not backing down from my position; I've left worse shifts for other shift managers, and inherited worse shifts without complaint--my function is not to ensure that the management that follows me does not have anything to do but take numerous smoking breaks and drink coffee. I return to work in three days, though it is with even less commitment than I've had before. During my break, I've applied to several positions in companies outside the retail industry; it's definitely time to make my break and end this extended temporary transition, although I am still going to try to transfer to the main office in an administrative capacity.

The biggest family hurdle at present is my oldest son's behaviour, or rather the lack of such. Two days ago he achieved his fourth suspension of the current school year, this one for ten days for fighting, which will consume the majority of time left for this school year. He celebrating by picking a fighting with his sister and I after he got off the bus, realized he bit off more than he could chew, and kicked out the largest window in our living room. He ran from the house as I called the police, who were extra helpful as they stood there impotent, explaining that, since this is his residence and it's like he's only destroying his own property, they wouldn't even fill out an incident report on this call. My wife and I are discussing sending him to her mother in Kentucky for an extremely extended respite. Thus far he thinks it's for summer vacation; he's in for quite a shock when he realizes that, not only is he there for the better part of a year or more, Kentucky observes year-round school, in which he'll be enrolled rather quickly. It may be the only thing that enables him to pass the seventh grade, given his disregard and sloth.

We are making progress, despite his lack of same. Much as it may be regrettable that we must consider shipping him off, I have not only my own well being, but that of my wife and two other children to consider. If he doesn't wish to be part of this family, so much the better his removal.

Always Look On The Bright Side

The answer was in front of me all along. Or, at least, part of the answer. Less is more. The key was not to pour on the pressure, but to back off, to ease up, and let things happen.

Several days ago, prior to her most recent road trip to Detroit, as well as during, via text message, I told her flat out why it bothered me so much that she frequented the clubs and made these overnight visits, completely barring me from participation.

Several years ago, she made similar visits to various bars and clubs with her cousins. Now, her family never fully approved of me, and in turn, I can't really approve of them. My wife told me how she was the family lackey, how her mother had physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused her, how her older brother bullied her. Her family had some ill-conceived, laughable notion that their history of alcoholism, Neanderthal brutishness, physical competitiveness, and commonplace incest (no, not joking or exaggerating in the least) made them objects of nobility, demanding a 'kiss my ring' sort of admiration and fealty from anyone connected to the family. That was, until I came along. I made it clear to them, through word and deed, that they were not gaining a son, that I was liberating their daughter. I told her mother bluntly that the next time she rose her hand to her child, she'd end up staring at the bloody stump at the end of her arm. I let them know in no uncertain terms that they were living roof of Darwin's theories. Summarily, it became the mission of her cousins to split us up, by any means necessary.

They tried seducing me. The thought still brings on waves of nausea. Call me discriminating, call me aloof, call me an elitist, but I just get motivate myself to get turned on by stretch marks, flesh-pocking cellulite, and chronic STD's virulent enough to render the usual orifice for sexual congress a biohazzard posted by a detour sign to the 'back door.' That failing, miserably, they frequently invited my wife out to clubs, and every time, they had a would-be affair waiting for her, fully intending and even encouraging her to cheat. I'm grateful that she resisted, and thankful that she received no harm greater than a wandering grope, though even that is unforgivable. However, the effect on me, which I have only just begun to realize with her current clubbing, was to grow to distrust anyone with whom she had social interactions outside my view. While I am making efforts to be more trusting, it comes with great difficulty. I trust her; I'm confident enough of where I am now that I can declare that to myself without the air of trying to convince myself. Those with whom she socializes, however, I do not trust. So many so close to her have disrespected and ignored our marriage vow that the probability of anyone else doing so is to prevalent. It doesn't help that she's hanging out with men, albeit gay men. She continually tells me that they're not interested in her, or any woman for that matter. I argue back that, so long as they still have penises, there is that remote chance that they'll want to experience how the other half lives.

And though it was a far more difficult discussion, we did talk about my concern that she might want to see how the other half lives. At first, predictably, she was offended, but I held my ground and explained to her that my suspicions were not the result of anything unrequited or of mere spite, but the result of months of her hiding plans and behaviour from me. She said she couldn't believe I had asked her that, and I told her that I couldn't believe that she had gone to such great efforts to keep everything from me that I was forced to wonder and worry.

These discussions, these confessions were the small incidents that began the turning of the tide.

A few days ago, just as I was ending my shift, I sent her a love-letter I had composed on my cell-phone in a series of saved text messages. When I got home, without provocation or a single word, she sat closely next to me on the loveseat. It may seem so insignificant an act to so many, something trivial and not worth remark, but after months during which she strove to avoid any discernible physical contact with me, that position she took next to me spoke volumes. My pulse quickened, my chest became tight, and for once it wasn't some middle-aged health crisis; it felt good and right. I gently rubbed the curve of her hip, and she didn't flinch away.

Two days later, following an overnight shift and a morning pre-surgical radiological scan, we walked our youngest to school together. Half way back, on a whim, I grazed her fingers with mine; we held hands the remainder of the way back. We then sat on the loveseat again, talking for an hour and a half before I had to turn in and sleep for my next overnight.

Late last night, as we moved during sleep, the covers slipped off both of us. I awoke to find her lying naked next to me, still half-covered by the blankets. I caressed her bare back; she didn't flinch. I kissed her, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back; gentle shifting, but no flinch. We made love, fully, arduously, with passion and avarice. We held each other throughout the rest of the night.

As ecstatic as I am that we have progressed this far, I am no fool. A night of fantastic passion, no matter how wonderful, no matter how mutually approached, does not heal the rifts that have led to the past several months of hurt and accusation. We still plan on scheduling marriage therapy, once schedules and finances can be appropriately coordinated. To assume this was our solution, our fix, would put us back on the same road again, but months and months further back. We're in this for good, forever, not just the satisfaction of the here and now.

I'm unaccustomed to having things to which to look forward, to anticipate. Hope is fleeting, but it's here, available for the taking. I'm going to take my fill, hold it close, and work towards a better and healthier marriage, for both our sakes.