My Time at The Music House. 


4.

For most of this past summer I had begun meditating, sometimes just sitting, sometimes while jogging, sometimes in the backyard under the swaying shade of the Three Sisters – my name for the three, venerable forty-two year old trees that have survived rain, wind, lightning, and time, sometimes in the company of the Forest Dragon with his perpetual smoke.

I had been healing.

I had been changing.

I was trying to find peace within myself.

The death of my father left me with an aching gape of a void in the very center of me. So every day – every night and day – I would sit outside, and I let myself heal. So it was in this state of being at peace, at feeling healed that I made my decision about Marce’s offer to go up to Austin. That week was a tough week. A local musician, Bob Batey, passed away unexpectedly, rocking the local art scene to it’s very core.

His death affected me. He was a young man – and talented. And it was the cruel suddenness of it, combined with my trying to heal from my own father’s death, my finding my path, and the serendipitous timing of Marce and his offer that helped sway my choice.

And it was music.

So it stayed with me.

And I thought.

Music to fight the death.

Music to heal.

Music to mend that fence.

To be away from death, from the overwhelming grief that some of my dear friends were going through, death and grief that I was trying so hard to heal from, to be somewhere else, three old friends creating music, creating positive energy to counter the eventual decay of everything.

I decided to go.

Next: On the road, on the kit …

My Time at The Music House. 

​3.

Signs.

It’s always Signs and Providence.

I think I really began to notice their existence when my marriage began to disintegrate.

Chicken or egg. 

Which happened first? Did I always possess this gift? This ability to notice windows of opportunity open up, briefly, to be taken advantage of before they disappeared? Or did the constant pain of the years-long dissolution of our marriage scrub any and all illusions of a perfect life out of my eyes, washed away by years of tears and sobs, leaving me to see only what’s real?

Either way, I was left, somehow, being in tune with my gut. Pretty accurately, too.

I don’t believe in prayer as a form of action. I don’t let go and let God. Unless I’m collapsed in a heap on my bed, going through one of my heavy depressive states, I move. I move forward, and I look, and I know that when I do that, then God presents us opportunities. 

That’s how I ended up in downtown Houston, alone, by myself, for a four day weekend. 

So it was, less than a month after dad passed away, that after scrolling through my emails, I saw that Brett Dennen was going to be  playing at Warehouse Live, in Houston.

He’d be playing Austin on Wednesday, but taking off from work during the middle of the week is kind of tough.

Then I saw that he’d be playing Friday in Houston. Now, taking a Friday off is much more feasible. I did the math. I knew that I could get away with taking two days off — it’s May, we were done teaching everything. It’s just pure enrichment. So I bit the bullet. My dad just passed, my problems with my ex weren’t going away, I needed space, distance, and to have my ragged, worn-down spirit cleansed and rejuvenated. 

And that’s why seeing Brett Dennen’s gig appearing serendipitously that May weekend is another sign of a door opening up by the Divine.

I love Brett Dennen.

He’s the only singer-songwriter whose songs have ever made me feel simultaneously astronomically happy, and tear-stained ashen  heartbroken.

To me, Brett represents  purity of musicality – with his bright melodies and his ability to often juxtapose them against heartbreakingly sad, authentic lyrics, he is a real musician and a singer-songwriter of the highest caliber. 

Now it’s Monday morning, close to check out time.

I feel different refreshed. 

I feel lighter – more so than I’ve felt in a long time. Seeing Brett Dennen, singing along, crying out all the anguish, heartbreak, and joy I’d been going through. Then exploring downtown Houston, finding a great coffee shop to hang out during the day, then haunting the local Flying Saucer across the street. Making friends, chatting with strangers. 

Needless to say, I was happy.

So I truly don’t know why I decided to pick up my cell and text Marce.

I truly can’t remember – Did something come to mind. Did I text him totally out of the blue, after weeks of turning over the problem in the back of my head, what I needed to say finally crystallized and had arranged itself into perfect word order, or was I returning a text of his?

I honestly can’t remember. 

All I remember was just getting out of the shower, getting all my gear packed up and ready to roll, then I got my phone.

I texted Marce. 

Everything that I had been wanting to tell him about things that he had done – from high school to his comments on my work, to my thoughts on his work  that had been gnawing at the edges of my consciousness,  irritating me, burst forth in my machine gun texting style. 

And I didn’t care. I did not give one rat’s ass. My father died, and he made it about him. Or so I thought. It was a minute or two of frenzied texting, then nothing. 

There was silence. 

I stood before my duffle bag on the bed. For a moment, I freaked at what I had just done, then I let it go.

“That’s harsh,” was all I could remember him replying.

“The truth is harsh.” I responded.

And that was it. 

That’s how it was for a very long time. No communication. No social media. I believe I unfriended Time passed, as it tends to do.

I would get an occasional message from him, an infrequent text. Then – and to be honest with you, I cannot remember when it began – the messages and texts came with more frequency, the apologies. At some point, I apologized – not for what I said, but how I said it, and that I should have said it long ago. My tone changed. I changed. The death of my father irreparably changed me into someone much harsher. 

My father died, and a part of me died with me.

I now had no problem telling people what I thought. I wasn’t “sweet,” or “kind” – and I sure as shit wasn’t going to be “diplomatic.”

Maybe not harsher – honest.

Finally knowing myself, knowing my worth, knowing what I will and will not put up with.

Everything was changing.

Everything had changed.

And that was a good thing.

Next: an invitation, a decision, more death, a path to healing. 

My Time at the Music House. Part 2.

UHS CoolGuy BreezewayPic

2.

I got three calls the night after my father passed away:

One from my ex-wife.

One from my ex-girlfriend.

One from Marce.

They weren’t good.

I don’t know, but the day after your father passes away, you do kind of expect a certain type of call. You know, condolences, I’m really sorry and all that. These weren’t like that

My ex-wife called me. Her voice sounded rough. Poor thing, she’d been going through a rough patch. By her breath-catchy heaving tone I knew that she had been crying.  “I know you’re dad just died, but I’m having problems with __________ again, and I was wondering …” Okay, Things happen, I thought. I told her it was kind of a bad time. I tried my best to listen.

About an hour later, my ex-girlfriend called me. She asked me how I was, how I was doing, how she felt bad, but then her tone made an abrupt one-eighty from caring to sharp and accusatory. She brought up a girl who wasn’t even a friend of my mine and said “ … so those are the types of girls you like, right?”

My friend from high school, Marcelino, or Marce, sent me a private message via Facebook Messenger that wasn’t so private.

That was enough.

It was like a perverse inversion of the Ebenezer Scrooge tale.

You see the day my father passed away, the deal I made with myself, my body, my god, the Divine, kicked in. The deal was this: I promised that I would do everything in my power to see my father be as comfortable as possible, that he feel safe and secure, and most importantly, that I was not going to let him die alone.

And I did that.

For the three months that we all knew he was terminal with gall bladder cancer that had spread to his liver and chemo was not an option because his body was too weak from all the damage he suffered from his Chrons Disease, I held him and my mother together as best I could, despite the oncoming inevitibility.

I did that.

For the five years previous, I taught and fell in love with a single mother of two who had severe ADHD, severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD, and I did everything I humanly could to maintain that relationship.

I did that.

But after all that, my cup was overfull. I had no more room.

I was just not having it. I told off each one of them. I used my words. I’m very good at them – just ask my two exes. I cut them, and I cut them deep. And I cut them out of my lives. Eventually, over time, I tried my best at mending fences with the two exes.

Hit my thumb with the hammer most of the time, but I did what I could – especially when it came to my ex-girlfriend, Lindsey. I hated her timing, but I really couldn’t blame her anger. The stress of taking care of her and her family and my parents while my father was sick led my then-undiagnosed Major Depression and ADHD to take me down some very dark and toxic roads to find ways to deal, ways that my girlfriend could not forgive. Thankfully, three years later, all of that was addressed. Lindsey and I are still broken up, but now we’ve achieved understanding and forgiveness, and to be quite honest, it’s more than my old sorry ass deserves.

But Marce – Marce was a different story.

I just couldn’t. I am not going to get into the details of what went wrong. If you see me out somewhere and ask, maybe I’ll tell you, maybe I won’t. I’d venture to guess he’d say the same thing. He would try to reach out, but I never responded.

Marce and I were never close. We had a lot in common – but we were never close.

I first met Marce in freshman basketball. I remember him having some skill, but mostly I remember him being very uptight back then. I would have my little comments that I would say – to no one in particular – but Marce was pretty vocal about my comments.His face would pinch up and he would ask me why the hell I would say that, and then he would tell me to stop, because he found it annoying.

You see, I hate people like that. Uptight people who think they have the right to tell other people anything about the way they would talk. I always thought that was bad manners. I mean, come on – I have a pretty vast store of vocabulary in my head and I know how to speak English, but I also have my little jokes that I tell myself because I think they’re funny, but I would never criticize someone for talking a specific way – especially of they weren’t picking on me. Marce had no such distinction. So as soon as he criticized me for that, naturally, I did it more to annoy the hell out of him.

Unfortunately, that didn’t last long. I was told by one of the coaches that I was really bad at basketball, and they had to let me go – but I could still come to the practices and workout if I wanted. It was like being dumped by a girl, then having her tell me that we could still be friends.

I didn’t stay for practices very long.

The next time I met Marce, a whole year had passed, and we were already juniors. He had mellowed out some by then, enough to notice that we got along decently, and by chance, he started to hang out with some of the people I would hang out with. And we were able to spend enough time with each that we found we both had a lot in common.

We loved acting. We both shared a love of Mel Brooks’ classic comedies. We both really loved Val Kilmer’s Top Secret. We loved the ridiculousness of it, and we loved acting it out. We were both attention whores – each in our own way. We loved an audience and we played up to them – especially girls. We loved music – listening to it and playing it. We both shared a passionate love for U2, first and foremost, and then Sting, and then Grunge exploded, and we found our music.

grad pic

So we shared these commonalities and a creative chemistry, but we were never close. He never confided his fears and worries to me, nor I to him. My best friend was Carlos. We confided in each other. Marce and I, on the other hand, clicked in a different way.

Usually it was fun. We’d go on trips between classes, walking down the hallways or the breezeways, cutting up, acting like we were straight out of Monty Python or Top Secret, copying riffs from HBO’s The Kids in the Hall – “I’m crushing your head!!!”  — stuff like that.

NOTE: if you don’t know who The Kids in the Hall are, shame on you, when you’re done reading this, and you still find yourself on the interwebs, go to the YouTube, search The Kids in the Hall, watch, enjoy, repeat.

We were like Wayne and Garth, Beavis and Butthead, … I can’t think of any current “dude bromances” – #sorrymillenials.

I got him into acting – UIL One Act Play, we started an awesome UIL Improv team – and placed in our first events ever – we jammed, he played rhythm and I played drums. Marce was pure constant energy. He was fun. In retrospect, my Major Depression had a lot to do with how I reacted to him. Back then, I didn’t realize that my ADHD and Major Depression competed with each other, and that my energy levels came in waves – my highs were really high, and matched Marce’s toe-to-toe, but when my lows came and I needed to recharge silently his sometimes manic energy seemed too much and I got annoyed.

Of course, I knew none of this at the time. So the good aspects of me and Marce’s chemistry, would become the negatives at times. Creatively, we were each other’s Jordan and Pippin, switching roles depending on the situation. We sparked creatively and worked each other competitively to pick each other’s game up. But then my energy would give and the lethargy of my Major Depression would kick in, making me feel like he got the better of me creatively. My mood would sour, and I’d just pout out.

Added to that, my Major Depression made my lips heavy, so it kept me silent in high school. Any beefs I had – with Marce, or with others – I never addressed, leading a lot of people – even my friends, Marce, even my own family – to believe that I was a pushover. I never said anything to verbally defend myself. I merely held it all in and earned the reputation as having not even a pebble for a spine. I wouldn’t do what guys did – call him out or take the piss out of him. I just kept quiet, kept it in. That was not good. That became one emotional item in a growing storage box housed in an ever expanding warehouse of unaddressed issues.

But we kept on, inspiring each other creatively.

And then he introduced me to Ryan.

The first day we jammed together as a “band” – like all other significant firsts a person goes through in this life – was burned in my brain. I can recall every detail. This blue sports car pulls up – Camaro? I can’t remember … – and this skinny white kid with long blonde hair steps out, walks to the back of his car and brings his guitar and his amp.  Marce played rhythm. I played drums. And Ryan waited, counted out the measures and got a feel for the tempo, and shredded on lead guitar. It was fantastic.

That was the birth of the Triumvirate. The connection Marce and I had as musicians was near telepathic. We knew when to change. We knew when to crescendo, when to decrescendo, when to slow the tempo, when to speed it up. And on top of that, Ryan wailed, simply wailed.

trio Grad pic

We were connected.

Back then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portrait of a Restless Woman in the Waiting Room of a Psychiatrist’s Office. 

She charges into the waiting room with a pinched face leaned-forward tightness it seems she might tumble from the friction inside of her.

White-skinned wrinkled like an un-ironed dress shirt, hair back that’s still flyaway.
She does this twice.
Chargestumbles in face forward, leading the rest of her body to lean toward the secretary’s office tucked away in a small recess into the left past the old staircase of the two story building.
Just a few steps in.
No more than four – five, max.
It’s like a highly aggressive peer.
I think I hear her say to the secretary that she’s waiting for someone.
It’s a psychiatrist’s office, maybe she has a child in with one of the counselors or therapist’s.

It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to be here, like stepping in too deeply will be some form of forced admittance of an imperfection. 
That’s the usual mentality when you first set foot into a psychiatrist’s office.

I got over that a long time ago.
But you’re still aware that’s what many people must be thinking.
I imagine it must be the way a scientist would feel entering a curandero’s place of healing.
She’s forced to sit so she does and she flips forcefully through the top magazine that lies on the end table.
Each a flip the exclamation of a paper whip. A punishment.
Whip.
Whip.
Whip as she flips through the pages.
It’s literally too fast to glance much less read anything.
In between page whips as she flips, she leans over and looks at the screen of her smartphone.
It’s an impressively aggressive show of passive waiting.
She puts the magazine down, quick turns around to look at the picture on the wall behind her.
Barely registers it.
An impatient sigh the harsh sound of dried leaves being shaken off a dead brittle-husked tree into a pile of chilled fall dirt escapes her.
She cannot sit still.
Now it’s the smartphone she fingers at.
I’m exhausted just sitting beside her. It’s already been a long day.
And now I wonder, is she waiting for someone? Or is she waiting to be seen?
My eyes grow heavy.
I want to fall asleep so badly …
I must remember to bring my headphones next time.

My Time at The Music House.

“What time are you getting here?” the text read. “Ryan’s here and we’re all set up.”

I looked at the time the message was sent. 2:00 pm.

I checked the time on my phone.

It read 3:35 pm.

Crap.

Part 1.

This is a story about a journey, one both literal and figurative – one of enlightenment, of discovering your purpose, of being wronged – and realizing that you were wrong yourself, of communication, of forgiveness, of healing, of honesty, of clarity, of friendship, brotherhood, and rock and roll, of acceptance, and of letting go.

All of this is true.

All of this really happened.

TMH Cover

Thursday, July 14, 2017.

My eyes opened up.

I honestly can’t remember if they opened up on their own, or if it was the frequent chirping of my smart phone notifying me that I had texts roused me. I sat up. I dragged myself up out of bed, staggered over to my phone at its charging station. I had moved that attention-seeking son of a bitch as far away from my bedside as I could since my Major Depression diagnosis nearly three years ago.

It was Marce.

“What time are you getting here?” the text read. “Ryan’s here and we’re all set up.”

I looked at the time the message was sent. 2:00 pm.

I checked the time on my phone.

It read 3:35 pm.

Crap.

Marce was in Austin.

I was in Laredo.

I had told him I’d leave by 8:00 am – 12:00 pm, latest.

That’s a three hour drive, easy – if there were no cops, light traffic, and no construction work. I had a late night the night before. I stood there staring at the phone foggy-headed for a minute feeling like an idiot. I ran the mental checklist of things I still had to do before I left Laredo:

– go to the bank.

– stop by guitar center to see if they more carrying cases for my drums.

– break down my drum set.

– pack them in their cases.

– load them up.

Screw it, I thought. I texted him back, “I just woke up but I’ll get there as soon as I can.” It would be a day wasted. Wasted where I could have been jamming in Austin with my friends who I first started playing with from high school – Marcelino, who we just call Marce, and Ryan.

I had seen Marce recently. We jammed around three years ago. I was able to persuade him to come down once I had convinced the owner of AJs – a friend of mine – to book us a gig. Marce came down twice in one year. We had a blast. We did two impromptu gigs playing his original tunes at my favorite neighborhood bar along with the blues-garage-grunge-rock band I play drums for.

I really wanted to see Ryan. I hadn’t seen him since high school. He was always really chill, with a nice, dry, weird sense of humor. But damn could shred on the axe. I honestly think he was the best of us – and still is. And he’s a technological wizard.

A few weeks before, Marce calls me up. It’s one of those conversations that stretches over a couple of days, switching from text to phone call to Facebook Messenger in some mashup technological blur. For some reason, Marce really wanted to Messenger video chat me or some such techno-babble. That came out terribly, but often I’ve realized modern tech brings out my Cranky Old Man side. Marce tells me he’s going to be in Austin for some time. He’ll be renting a house, Ryan will be coming over, they’ll be taking their instruments over, some basic recording equipment, set up shop, and we’d have three days to simply jam, create, and make music.

I paused, ready to mechanically spout out one of my many excuses as to why I couldn’t go:

– my girlfriend.

– we had to watch her girls.

– I had to watch the house the times my parents would go to visit my sister and her family in Arkansas.

– my father …

But now, for the first time in five years I realized that I had none.

My girlfriend, Lindsey broke up with me due to my behavior a year before, during, and after, the passing of my father ( Major Depression is a bitch), so that freed me up from her and girls. Mom was up in Arkansas with my sister. And my father – well, my father passed away a year ago last April. My brother Tom moved back into the house with his partner. And the day that I could head up was the day after payday. I realized I could. I had nothing holding me back – nothing to lose and everything to gain.

There was only one tiny problem.

The last time I talked to Marce I had told him off.

Really bad.

Twice.

That and I had gotten so pissed, so enraged at him, I had cut off all contact with him since May of last year. But really it began the day after my father passed away from complications due to gall bladder cancer that spread to his liver. My father passed on April 26, 2016.

How did that happen?

Well, that’s a whole other blog in itself.

 

Next week: The Music House Part Two – Three messages, some backstory, and the competitive conflict that breeds genuine artistic creativity.

Repost: My Thoughts on Finishing Another School Year.

That’s it. 
Another school year in the books, another crop of little souls taught, grown, and raised as best I could on their way to young adulthood.

Another crop will be coming, and even though I’m running new plans for the new school year in my head, that’s still two and a half months away.

And no summer school for me.

Time to rest my body and mind and nourish them with other projects and passions.

They were a good group of kids. They always are.

But then again, there are no bad kids.

Let me repeat that.

Let me be clear.

There are no bad kids.

I don’t believe in “bad kids” as a label or a term, same way as I don’t believe in “stupid,” or “dumb,” – just as the ignorant and ill-informed nuns called me at Mary Help.

They didn’t know that perhaps I had mild ADHD, that perhaps I had Major Depressive Disorder – What child had that? Children are simple things. Simple things with simple minds that are meant to be programmed, like robots. If they didn’t comply – they were bad. So, mental illnesses, cognitive impairment? That thought didn’t even cross their mind. The science wasn’t there, the word wasn’t spread. The educators were not educated.

It was basic binary.
Black or white.
Good or bad.

Bad kids – That’s a term coined by dull, lazy adults for children who don’t do as they’re told because what they’re being told to do is either overly-controlling or too simplistic for the child who needs to know the why of a thing, and if explained properly, just might be satisfied with the answers.

That term originates from that same dull dark place in our collective human consciousness where bigotry and racism are birthed. The dark, primitive heart of our minds that recognized only that binary signal that was necessary for our survival as a species when we first set out from Africa those many ages ago – friend or foe, safety or danger, good or bad …

Right and wrong
White and black.
Good and bad.

That is not quantifiable.
That is not measurable.

That was then. We are in the now. There is science. There are studies. The brain is an organ, susceptible to illness just like any other in our bodies.

I believe in mental illnesses that may affect or impair cognitive function.
I believe in minds, spirits, or souls that have been broken, either knowingly or unknowingly, by their toxic parents or guardians who themselves were broken by their parents or guardians, or by traumas far worse and that occur all too frequently.

I believe that every young mind is a puzzle waiting to be solved, in order for that mind to be open to learning. And it takes skill to solve it. It takes patience. It takes cleverness and intelligence and love and care and just a little bit of humor.

But love and caring, compassion and understanding – that is the nourishment that opens up the bloom of the mind for learning.

Trust.

There are no bad kids, there are no dumb or stupid kids, there is only labeling. Labeling by the lazy-minded and the undisciplined, the impatient and the uncreative, trying to box in bland cardboard, the dull slate gray iron bars of a state penitentiary, those things whom are rightly called people. People with minds and souls and hearts and spirits who have their own minds, minds that are deep and complex and that question, minds of people trying to figure out their place in this world, their place in their own skin.

Do you want to know what I did today?

This morning, at around eleven am, forty-five minutes before dismissal,
I rolled out my chair into the hallway, so I could be at eye-level, and I called each of my children – my students – out, by name, one by one.

They stepped outside. I handed them their report card. I shook their hand. I looked each in the eye, and I told them what a pleasure it was to have them in my class, what an honor it was to teach them, to have hopefully showed them something that was actually useful to them, that was worth learning. I told each one of them what I saw in them, their separate eighteen potentials. Seeds that if planted just right – in the right soil, given the right amount of sunshine and water – may just blossom into their best selves, and may in turn, help someone else.

I told them to stick to their strengths, to not give in to their weaknesses, to listen to the goodness I knew that was inside them, and to fight – as we all do – against the darker side of themselves. I told them each that they were special. That they were worth something.

I know some will fail – as I have failed, as we have all failed – but I know many will bounce back. And I know some will not.

I am not a fool. I do not suffer from delusions of grandeur. I know that my influence is limited, that the influence of the Big Bad World is a far greater, far more powerful thing.

I am merely an old fool playing at wizardry, whispering soft spells onto seedlings and casting them into the wind. And hoping …

I have done what I can, and next year I want to do better, to be better – always.

I love my job. I love teaching children. It gives me hope. It gives me purpose. It teaches me humility. And it keeps me young, and connected with the pure, vibrant, simple way that children live, the simple laws of fairness and kindness and equality that they all mostly naturally possess.

It is a fine world to live in. It is a fine thing I feel I do. But I know the truth. It’s not really me. It’s them.

I don’t know what I’d do without my students.

Dispatches from the World of ADHD: Model Building, The Chubby Kid, and the U.S.S. Reliant.

I’ve been in love with her since I first saw her on the big screen as a chubby child, the shape of her, her grace, her build, the elegant curves of her body – a vessel of good, taken over by alien invaders and turned to evil use.

The U.S.S. Reliant.

Her build simultaneously more compact, yet somehow broader, her nacelles an inversion of those possessed by the U.S.S. Enterprise, the imagery foreshadowing the clash of opposites that was to define the film as she went stalking the Enterprise through the murky, psychedelic depths of the Mutara Nebula in what is the best Pre-Kelvin Timeline Trek movie ever.

Her build, like so many other iconic ships, vessels, structures, weapons, aliens, the worlds they come from, their cultures and languages from so many science fiction and fantasy films that spread out in the post-A New Hope Star Wars cinematic world, burned itself into my brain, and stayed there, and for better or worse filled my ADHD head and became my fascination.

I would beg and plead with my mom usually, sometimes my dad, when he was around, to buy me the ships. I would completely lose myself, immersed, as my imagination took over, and I would replicate the soar, the swoop, and the swoosh of those ships that moved so swift and gracefully – a way that I felt I my fat, clumsy-feeling body would never be able to move.

For the past two weeks, I’ve taken advantage of being on my ADHD medication which allows me to begin a task and finish unto completion. I’ve been cleaning out my closet of all the Star Wars and Star Trek toys, memorabilia and paraphernalia in order to make room and deciding which gems I’ll post up on EBAY to auction, and which to keep. As I was doing so I came across two good-sized models: a tie fighter from Star Wars and The U. S. S. Reliant. 

Like many of the toys I’ve kept, I bought this model back in 1999, after the release of The Phantom Menace. As with most things in my life back then, before my medication, the thought of making the model was something I’d Do In The Future, Something I’d Get To Eventually. And with most goals I’d set for myself back then, Eventually never came. But the guilt would come. 

So taking out this model and having it before me with just about a week before I have to go back to work, I figured why the he’ll not.

And I have never built a model in my life. Ever. To me it seemed so difficult, so beyond my skills and abilities as a child, that I would look at other children my age, or their older brothers (usually it was the brothers I saw build models, go figure) in awe like they were Michelangelo or Einstein.

For forty years I always felt like a lazy, incapable, slacker of a loser.

That was before my diagnosis.

That was before being medicated. 

Since then, on my medication for both my depression AND my ADHD, I’ve accomplished so much, and I feel capable and smart now.

And I said I’d build it yesterday – Friday, August 4th. But now I’m researching the best polystyrene cement so I can buy the best one for the job.

So, did I complete today? No.

But I have a plan. And like most things I do these days, having a plan means I’m about 85% done. That makes me feel good.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some more research on model making to do.