I’m not talking about “the cat shredded the blinds, I feel angry” anger or “I’m so pissed because I spilled coffee on my new jeans” anger, I’m talking about those whose lives seem to revolve around a constant undercurrent of barely contained rage… that often expresses itself as an (or at least that’s how it feels to me) unwarranted explosion when two drops of coffee spill on the floor, or someone within a three mile radius expressed an opinion that was just 0.01% different from the rageful person’s perception of reality.

What sometimes troubles me– and perhaps troubles me more than any other thing– is that these folks seem really adept at “being angry” without ever pausing to examine the roots of that anger, nor dealing with it. It almost feels like their “comfort zone” is a perpetual state of rage. If ever questioned, they’ll typically dismiss the inquiry with a statement like “Too bad. That’s just the way I AM. You have a problem with that?” The statement almost comes out as a challenge.

I’ve been told a million times that when I have a “problem” with something in someone else’s behavior, it’s usually a case of it really being about something in my own behavior; something I don’t like about myself. In other words… projection. There are some areas in which I really struggle with that theory… especially when we are talking about destructive behaviors. You know, like (to take an extreme case) my having an issue with physically violent people and bullies is really “my” problem, not “theirs?” I’m sorry, but that just reeks of “blame the victim,” to me.

My mother is 86. My stepdad just rounded 90. All things considered, they are older, but remain remarkably capable. When I consider them, in the context of how I have always perceived life, I’m prompted to think “90 is the new 70.” Or something like that.

So how was the visit? Pleasant enough– my mother and I have certain areas in which we share common ground. Food, cooking and working in the kitchen would be one of them. She was very determined that she wasn’t going to “raise some helpless man,” and I am very grateful for that. So we spent a lot of time planning meals, shopping for meals, preparing meals and cleaning up after meals– and that part was really good. My stepdad is– and almost always was– mostly a “background figure;” sitting in a chair, reading a book. That’s still what he likes to do.

Naturally, there were the obligatory “social functions.” My mother was always an extremely social person. Fortunately, I learned what “proper behavior” looked like, from a very young age… I “clean up well,” and know how to comport myself in most situations life throws my way.

The visit was noteworthy in the sense that it was the first time in my adult life that I spent time with them without regressing to the range of age 8-12, while I was there. That makes a difference, in how you perceive a situation; your parents… as well as providing insights you perhaps didn’t have before. For me, there was a lot of new understanding of how I became the young adult I was, and why I went about completely “renovating” my paradigm, between ages 20 and… well, the project continues.

Suffice it to say that parents with a strong attachment to raising their children as “mini me’s” (no matter how well-intentioned) can easily cause a huge amount of collateral damage. Maybe it “works,” if the child has the same (general) temperament and personality as the parents… but when the two are radically different, it becomes a whole other kettle of fish.

So now I am back home, and still “digesting” the trip. Maybe I think too much, maybe I assign too much lasting relevance to events and incidents that were no more “formative” than merely “an event.” Analysis and self-understanding is– however– at the core of who I am, so I don’t really fight it, anymore. In fact, there is very little I “fight” anymore. And perhaps there’s something “there, ” both in relation to my parents, and in relation to the world in which I live. Of the two primary life strategies humans employ, I am ultimately a “cooperator,” not a “competitor.” In a greater global context, that means I am part of a minority of about 15-20% of the population… that’s merely a point of understanding, not a lament or complaint.

My family were almost all “competitors,” and I understand my own sense of feeling “shoved aside,” as I grew up. And I understand my own natural inclination to “connect,” rather than push people out of the way. I also understand dynamics from my past relationships– why they often felt more like “territorial battles” than connections. And why– on some very deep visceral level– it felt all “wrong.” And why “mainstream work” has always felt “wrong.” I’m not complaining. It’s each and every one of ours’ responsibility to find what works for us.

As I sit here, I’m highly aware that I am a very different person than I was, four years ago. More than anything, I am pretty much at peace with myself, and the Universe. I have always seemed unnflappable and calm to people around me, but it feels like I finally am unflappable and calm.

I won’t be home for long. On the 18th I’m off to California for a retreat for about a week– one of the “HSP Gatherings” I periodically mention, on these pages. It’s an interesting contrast to my trip to Europe… a sense of “biological family” vs. “chosen family.” Hard to put my finger on, but there it is.

Tomorrow at around 1:45, I get on the airport shuttle to SeaTac and start my journey to the south of Spain to go see The Parental Unit, aka my mother.

It’s a long trip, from my little corner of the world… a 3-hour bus-ferry-bus ride to the airport, then a several hour wait, then an overnight flight from Seattle to London Heathrow where I arrive 2:00pm Monday, followed by a 75-minute bus ride to London Gatwick, an overnight stay at an airport hotel that’s actually connected to the airport terminal, then up at oh-dark-thirty on Tuesday to check in at 5:20am(!) for the flight to Gibraltar where I’ll arrive at about 11:00am. Then I get my bags, walk outside, cross the border into Spain and take a cab the 15-odd miles to my mother’s place.

Gibraltar has a funny little airport. The entire airport terminal is not a lot bigger than your average Greyhound bus terminal… when you walk outside, you can go left to get into the town of Gibraltar, or turn right and walk across the border to Spain, about 100 yards away. It’s the only airport I know of that actually has taxi stands in TWO countries.

I should be packing, but instead I am sitting at the computer, writing assorted email, putting vacation notices on my business web sites and writing blog entries.

I grew up “in a suitcase.” I guess I got so used to the whole routine that I’m far beyond stressing over “getting ready.” I have a mental list of exactly what needs to be packed, and exactly how long it will take to get it done.

When it comes to travel, I almost enjoy the “getting from point A to point B” part more than the actual being at some destination. I actually like airports– well, I like large international airports where the people-watching can be fascinating; listening to all the different languages never ceases to be interesting to me.

I am sure my mother is “aflutter” by now. As I wrote a while back, my coming for a visit is as much about “being presented” at a long string of luncheons, dinners and cocktail parties, as it is about actually visiting. Everyone is coming out to “see the giraffe” (old Danish saying– I would be “the giraffe,” in this context), and I will really get to sharpen my polite conversation skills about… nothing in particular. These are people who really understand how to use a lot of words without saying anything…

Take writers, for example. Actually, take two people who are equally good at writing, but who are not yet “writers,” in the published sense of the world. Both send in their equally good manuscripts, and both get back a rejection slip.

For one, it is the end of their writing “career,” as the rejection slip represents a blatant and obvious public declaration that they are no good, as a writer. For the other, the rejection slip results in a “bummer, dude,” after which the manuscript goes off to another publisher. Or forty-two. Eventually, they become published.

In short, the latter becomes “a writer,” the former does not.

And yet… they are equally talented, and where their paths take them has little to do with writing skills, and everything to do with their approach to life.

When I was in college, taking creative writing classes, one of the professors upset many of the “aspiring Hemingways” in the class by stating that– in most cases– what makes someone a published author is not great ideas or literary prowess, but the sticktoitiveness to churn out 100,000 words of prose and submit it over and over till someone finally publishes it.

Come to think of it, several of the “Young Hemingways” were SO upset by the professor’s words they actually dropped the class.

The question that sometimes comes to my mind is whether people sometimes become so attached to the illusion of reality that is themselves/life that they become incapable of functioning within the piece of three-dimensional space that happens to contain what many think of as “reality?”

I’ve been called a pessimist, and a “glass-half-empty-guy,” because I figure it’s pretty much a given that life is going to kick my arse, pretty much all the time. In between, there will be “sunbreaks.” But… if I work hard, and play my cards well, I might be able to create some pretty decent shyte for myself, in spite of it all. I recognize that life is pretty tough, but I seldom get depressed over it.

Seems a lot of life is more about “expectations,” and how we deal with them being met/not met, than about the actual situations and content we face. And it seems much harder for those who “expect” to succeed at something, and then suffer a setback, than it does for those who think there’s a chance they might succeed. Note that I didn’t include those who “expect to fail,” as I believe you can alsmo create that reality, through your approach. And I recognize that it’s all in “the approach.”

I seems daunting, though… like I am trying to write the Cliff’s Notes version of life, knowing full well that the things I contemplated are rather more like “War & Peace.” And who the frak wants to read War & Peace? Actually, it seems pretty boring, too.

Kinda makes you pause and wonder why it is we so often relate through all the negative crap that comes through our lives, but not nearly as often through the good stuff. Yeah… I know. Misery loves company. Meh…

I have been asked– quite a few times, now– about my tendency to go away and try to figure out things by myself, rather than “reaching out.” This afternoon, I was weeding (a lovely mindless yet fairly cathartic activity, for me) and sat and thought a bit about that. Yesterday, I told a friend it had to do with my upbringing, and the way my family-of-origin held up the trait of “self-reliance” as the single most valuable trait an individual could have. Conversely, that same family utterly ignored problems, treating them like the proverbial pink elephant in the middle of the room everyone carefully avoids.

Just like the “War and Peace” thingy, there’s more to it than just “old training.” It’s just not that simple

Yes, my family highly valued Self-Reliance.
Yes, my family had a HUGE level of denial about problems.

But I am also an introvert, and introverts tend to “go within” under stress, while extraverts “reach out.”

And, I have lived so many years with nobody to catch me when I fall that it’s just natural for me to assume that I need to deal with stuff, on my own.

I do NOT advocate “self-therapy,” by the way. Maybe 1% of the population have the right “tools” in their personal history and training to be able to beneficially help themselves. For the remaining 99%, it’s a recipe for disaster.

It helps to (a) have been in therapy a number of times, so you’re intimately familiar with the therapeutic process, (b) have studied psychology extensively for about 20+ years, (c) be trained in objective self-inquiry from some kind of spiritual practice and (d) have a strong sense of self-identity, even IF you are facing some kind of crisis.

I moved, less than two years ago, and really wasn’t in the mood to “break in” a new therapist.

Anyway, on May 18th, I go off to visit the parental unit until May 29th.

The price of airfare– especially on international routes– is a crapshoot. What’s available, and at what price, varies from day to day, and from company to company. Last week, airfare from Seattle to Gibraltar ranged between $848 and $2425, for the same fare, with the same carriers, on the same days, but booked through different web sites.

It always amuses me how the low priced tickets are always priced and listed in search results, but they aren’t actually available. It’s also interesting (but not amusing) how the “fuel surcharge” added as “other fees and taxes” takes a $933 fare and turns it into a $1400 fare. Ah, let’s hear it for $120 oil.

I was quite impressed with the ticket consolidator shop whose website I booked my fare from. Within a few hours of buying the ticket, there was a voicemail, from a real living human being, making sure I was aware of the airport change in London, and aware that there would be an overnight stay there, as well. I can’t say I have ever noticed one of the “big” travel sites give a rats rear quarters about such things.

The irony of all this is that it was the need to make this trip (rather, the cost associated therewith) that was partly responsible for my recent disappearance. I needed to make the money, which meant blogging/web time needed to be stopped and turned into “income time.” Although I don’t get paid hourly, my income is highly correlated with the number of hours I put in. If I were willing to put in 100 hours a week, I’d actually become quite well off.

Recently, I have been working 100 hours a week– for various reasons– and it is not a life.

I’d be hard pressed to say that I have ever had “money in savings” for occasions like this.

Irony number two is that Mommie Dearest lives in an $800,000 golf course condo in one of the swankest gated communties in southern Europe. Suffice it to say that our perceptions of money, and what it takes to get some, are just “a leetle different.”

I recognize how that has been a pattern in my life, since I was quite small. Maybe that’s natural enough when you’re a kid– your parents and siblings may have a (legitimate) “need to know.” Trickiness starts to set in when you become an adult and never seem to find yourself out of situations where you have to explain-and-justify.

Then again… maybe it is just my life.

My own perceptions (when I trust them) tell me that the truth of what is being “said” most often boils down to (a) “why are YOU not making ME the center of YOUR universe?” and (b) “How dare you have thoughts, wants and desires that are different from mine… and then have the gall to do what YOU want to do, and not what I want you to do?“

I spent some time, looking at that, recently.

Specifically, at how that’s not about them or their behaviors, but about me, and what I choose.

In my adult life (and while I was a kid, as well, I might add), any time I have wanted to fade into the woodwork because the demands of life took too many hours, the next step was always that I’d trade “life, taking to many hours” for “too many hours spent EXPLAINING why life takes too many hours,” thus ultimately accomplishing nothing.

I have been dealing with reality, recently. A lot of reality. A reality that needed to be income producing, not a reality that was fun or entertaining. Writing endless email and blog comments, and posting on message boards is fun and entertaining. But it doesn’t pay any stinking tax bills, and other such nonsense. And my income is directly correlated with the time I spend working. I don’t get to stop at 5:00 and resume “normal” life.

The thing that has always amazed me is the sheer number of people who– when I need to deal with the reality of MY life– start making noises about what my actions is “doing to” them. WTF????

I was raised in a family that was like that, “only different.”

The “different” part was that my family simply chose to “negatively hallucinate” problems. That is, there wasn’t even background whispering about “Things We Do Not Talk About.” Such things were treated as if they simply didn’t exist, in this plane of reality. Bringing up “Uncle Jack’s drinking problem” wouldn’t lead to a back room talk about how we don’t talk about such things… it would simply be met with a blank stare or look of puzzlement.

This policy was applied to anything that “didn’t fit our reality, as we want it to look.“

I was a very perceptive kid, and have always been able to intuit and sense “what’s going on.” It was rather confusing to me that “presented reality” and “perceived reality” so rarely matched. Of course, I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, because any attempt to do so would be met with “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about” or just the broader dismissal “Oh, what ABSOLUTE rubbish!“

A great many years passed before I came to realize that it was a situation that taught me to doubt my own senses as “real,” because I was so repeatedly led to believe that what I saw and felt was little more than a figment of my own imagination. After all, I never had a basis for trusting my own senses.

Is there a point to this?

Over the years, I have used these pages as a venue for self-exploration, and for “pondering out loud.” My recent hiatus involved (among other things) a kind of existential crisis that led me to re-examine the path that led me to This Point In Existence, along with realizing that I had adopted some false assumptions about my life, especially in the realm of people and relationships.

Well thought out assumptions, but false, all the same.

I recognize that one of the reasons I went away was because I was having some problems, that led to something deeper… and I merely acted out the adult manifestation of those childhood lessons: “Problems don’t EXIST.”

Now, I should add here that it wasn’t that my family didn’t talk about “problems.” They bitched and belly-ached as much as any other family. People hated their boss, suffered with asthma and arthritis, had kids who stayed out past curfew and had outdoor BBQs rained out as much as any other family. It was only the problems that would suggest “human weakness and frailty” that had no existence; no place to be seen. In a sense, we were to be “flawless” people, recognizing that we did live in an imperfect world.

And whereas “lesser” problems might be discussed, their coverage was limited… and a “perpetrator” would soon be led to understand that if you had something “going on,” you were expected to make short work of addressing the situation, dealing with it directly on your own time, not “bothering others” with it, and overall be “polite and stay in the background” until you were fresh, bright and shiny again, so you could be part of the “image” that was to be presented to the world… and to resume your place in the great tapestry of wool the entire family so dedicatedly pulled over its own eyes.

The slightly ironic thing of it all is that even though I typically use these pages for self-exploration and catharsis, I also recognize that a large part of the reason I went away for three months is that I was struggling, and thus perceived that I had “no business” imposing that on others… including in a forum such as this. Even though it would probably have HELPED me to write out some of these things out “as they were happening,” and it would have HELPED me to remain more closely connected with the people (one, in particular) who are really important to my life; to me.

But then again, maybe it took this session of “private wrestling” with my demons to recognize my own patterns and places in need of change.

We are, I suppose, all “works in progress.”