Conditioning

What does a real human being look like? Sometimes it is hard to find one. Sometimes is seems like I find one in a day, which is crazy, although I may be wrong about my judgement of flesh vs. robot. We are a conditioned society. In many ways what atheists say is true, we are very often a product of who raised us. I can tell you that I was raised in church and most atheists would tell me that is why I am a Christian...because my rebellion phase naturally ended and I reverted back to what I had been taught in my childhood. However predictable your life may be, there are always the unexplained events. I may have been conditioned to look to Christ, however, I was not conditioned to reject Him and try to commit suicide. In fact I was conditioned to believe that was a ticket to hell. I was conditioned to believe that bad things come to those that do bad things, well I did bad things and because of God's grace, I got everything I have ever wanted out of life. There literally is nothing I desire that I do not have. What conditioning did that?

I went to church my whole life and if you had asked me the single most hated thing in my life, it would not be my heartbreak from a girl. It would not be my dad that left me. It would not be the people who disappointed me. It would be church/God. It would be the people that looked at me from above their glasses when my girlfriend got pregnant by me. I found my refuge in those that were disenchanted by the actions of "God's people." There is no conditioning for that. My life is a direct reflection of the work of God. I would have rather followed a lemming than to follow Jesus, but the story ends how it does and I am found following my God...who is real...and doesn't care how you were taught to believe.








Sing.
Migrate.





Thanks for reading...Z

Right Now

Maybe soon I will be creative again, but right now I am just tasking. I am doing the things that life right now requires me to do to keep my family from gasping for air. It isn't fun or pretty. It requires mandatory showers when I get home and an 8:30 bedtime. I get home from work and can only think of my pillow. I think to myself, "I want to write!!!!!!" But find myself in bed dreaming before I can realize I am hearing the alarm for tomorrow go off at 4:30. Here is a short list of things I miss.

Working in sweatpants without supervision.
Going to the bathroom when I want to, not when I get a chance to.
Having a lunchtime revolved around hunger, and not afternoon medications.
Speaking to my boss because I desire to, not because he is calling for the 10th time before lunch.
Typing things and being creative...tonight my hands were in both blood and crap at the same time.
I miss my students so much. So much.
Above all, I miss my family. I can see why Laura has always wanted to work from home and been jealous that I did.



That being said....I am dong well. I am working really hard at something I had no experience at, and it's going really well. I am competing...and winning. My manager tells everyone she can that she is proud of me and introduces me to hot shots. The food is terrible, so I bring my lunch. I use the elevator to go up and the stairs to go down. I have a problem with delegation to my aides because I have always had problems with delegation. It isn't pride I don't think, it's guilt, because I always believe I can physically do it myself. I miss my wife and kids and forget to help with the day to day things that my loving wife does without being told too. I'm gonna be working on that. I feel good about myself, like I have accomplished something. It is really nice to punch the clock and not have to take my stress home with me every night. Except sometimes I do. But most times I don't, but Southeast Detroit is a rough place to work without feeling bad.


That's all for now. I have been up for 19 hours.






Sing.
Migrate.







Thanks for reading...Z

Security Blankets

"I have buried you, in every place I've been, you keep ending up, in my shaking hands." Bon Iver

It is still here...buried in my guts...this feeling of being someone different than who I've become.  Sometimes that scared little kid still sits on front of the strange enigmic saxophone player in the park talking about the end of the world. I was five at the time and learning about nuclear war. I bury that kid whenever he reaches from the depths. There was something altogether different about him than I am now. He was scared of everything. He was always unsure of himself and expected everyone to reject him. He was always playing out these scenarios of everything he dreamed was true in his head. This kid was weak, so he gets to die. He gets to taste the bitter pill of being forgotten, until he is remembered.

I am loud.

I am not going to be ignored.

I am not scared of anything.

I never get embarrassed.

I can handle rejection.

I am the burier of weakness.................yet I spill it out here.

Sometimes, I wake up and I am still that kid. I still need a heater to sleep and the window open. I still need to feel safe when I am most vulnerable. I still need to make up scenarios to restore my mind to peace. When I was that little kid, I would feel insecure and just go into the living room where my mom slept and lay on the floor next to the heat register. I would wait for the creaking and dinging that would happen just before the heater would kick on. When I heard that noise, I would feel safe again and fall asleep in it's loving warmth.

I've had the crap kicked out of me many times since I was that little kid. I learned to be strong. I learned to kick back and fight and win. One of the things about me is that I seldom lose. I refuse to lose. But despite my aggression, I still hate confrontation. I still hate to feel insecure. When I do, I find myself under an open window with my heater. Maybe no one fully grows up anymore. Maybe we bury ourselves and weaknesses in everywhere we go and hold them under most days. Maybe sometimes, they emerge and we fall into their arms to find comfort and peace.

Is there something wrong with that? Will slept with his "Woobie," a little satin jacket he had as a kid until the day he died. It had been sown so many times, it looked like a Halloween freak show, but he would not sleep without it. It was his connection to security and comfort. When he felt vulnerable, he grabbed hold of it.


What is your security blanket?


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