Right Now.

I want to write a blog post.

But my mind is too bizarre.

My head feels like an overlarge turnip

Inside a small glass jar.

My Daily Session

Tell me about what you're thinking, Eric.
I've been wondering as of late why I don't have a novel to my name. My good friend Chester has, in the past, urged me to write my story and get it out there in the world.

I've been stymied. I've had a couple ideas, but I'm not happy with them. I'm not exactly sure why.

I think a large part of the reason is that I am still way out of shape and overweight. Yeah, granted, I have knee pain (and it has been hurting more lately) but I really don't have an excuse anymore. I'm mostly healed. My body doesn't remember how to move, but that should not stop me. I weigh about 300 pounds, just a little over. And that's more than I have ever been. I've ate, drank, and been merry like a man who is not injured, and ignored the depths of my psyche. I've pushed it to the back of my subconscious, like a tiny box tucked away in a closet.

They say your body reflects your state of mind. That's kind of how I feel mentally. Bloated, lazy, not quite... ready yet.

Is it an excuse to say that I'm just waiting? Waiting until I get out of the army? Or have I developed a habit of waiting? Have I just used external factors as an excuse?

I'm not entirely sure. It's a hard poker hand to play. But, after I get out, I don't think I can afford to be lazy anymore.

But the weight isn't entirely it. Overweight I may be, but there's more to the story. One does not gain this much weight, exhibit the symptoms I have, and be just fine on the inside.

Funny how one can be so clear and yet so distorted. Like looking in a pool and seeing the bottom clearly but reaching down to grab a penny and it's not where you expected to be. I feel like I've been in a smoky room with a blindfold, and I have been trying to find a switch which I know is there but cannot find my way towards in the dark.

Not fun times, to be honest.

...

Some days, I feel like I am back at the start point. I feel like it is almost four years ago, and I don't know which way is up. I'm going to have to start over again, to keep breathing, keep moving.

But the emotion, that raw, deep seated unease is not there anymore. Somehow, along the road traveled these past years, I have gained... confidence? Self assurance?

Maybe I just got older. Realized I don't know everything there is to know in the universe. A hat tip to you, Captain, for setting me straight back then.

It all comes to bear.

I've come this far, and I am here for a reason. I must be. Life, existence, the very fabric of our universe, it rings with reason. Creator or no creator, angels or demons, simple math or spontaneous miracles, one cannot look at this and see it not having purpose. The decisions made, the situations survived, everything has led me to a point.

I have 6 days left in the army. I weigh 300+lbs. I have a baby on the way, and a wife who needs my support. I have to move cross country to a place I don't know and attempt to build a life at 22 years old.

Tell me, Eric, what are the emotions running through your soul at this moment?
Well, naturally, there is anxiety. Frustration. A certain amount of loss has me trapped; leaving the organization which has been my entire life for four years is no simple task. Hope, mingled with trepidation.

A very large amount of peace.

Maybe deep down somewhere there is some fear. But it's not very apparent to me. After being rocketed and shot at, after living with as much fear as I have the past four years... I have grown tired of fear. It doesn't work well for me anymore. Everyone feels fear, everyone experiences it, but I don't feel I have anything to fear from this situation.

Explain that.
Well... What is there to fear? That I won't be able to pay the bills? That I'll be shot on the street? That I'll spend the rest of my life wondering if I have made the right decisions?

I spend my entire life worrying about those things. They are constantly on my mind. You can't grow up and not worry about them; it's part of losing the innocence of childhood. You come to realize the world isn't made of blown sugar and marshmallows, but of cold mornings in the rain waiting for taxis to places you don't want to be and uncomfortable chairs in foul-smelling lecture halls, listening to briefings about how not to kill yourself. Endless parades of routine and inner demons, all the while just trying to find a bright ray of sunshine.

But it's also filled with the sun. And love. And laughter and wonder and hope. So why, on the eve of the most event-filled and biggest transition of my life, should I be afraid? Why, when I am getting my soul and my own life back, and really owning it for the first time in almost five years, should I be frightened?

Some would say that's one of the biggest reasons to be frightened. This is a very big change for you. Aren't you the least bit concerned that you might not make it?
...

 Aren't you?
Give me a moment, I have to think about that.

...
Well, no. Because I only have two options, don't I?

Which are?
I live and I do what I want to do with my life. I set out to achieve goals; succeed or fail, I live to do it.

Or I die.

And if I die, I don't have too much to be concerned about, do I?

That's a rather fatalist attitude.
Why shouldn't I have that? Haven't I been around enough life and death? Hasn't everyone?

I'm not judging, just stating. But being a fatalist is, forgive me, a cop-out in this situation. You have many more options here than live or die. Using that as your determiner is not exactly stable.
So what's your point?

My point is you have to admit to what you are feeling. There is a reason why you feel stymied, a reason why you feel anxious, a reason why you haven't written your novel. And that reason is...?
Fear.
Of what?
Of failure.
Aha. So I was right.
I guess.
So why couldn't you admit that to yourself a moment ago?
Because that would mean admitting that what I fear most isn't death or dying or my loved ones dying. It's admitting that what I fear the most is not living up to the ideals I want, the things I wish and hope for, and the very nature if what I feel I am inside. It would mean admitting the possibility that this string of failures I have had will continue.

It would mean really admitting I don't like where I am with my life, and admitting the possibility it could continue.

Eric, you've just admitted that to yourself.
I know.
Does that make you feel better?
No.
Why?
Because it's still an unknown. I simply do not have the relevant data. Until the 28th, when I arrive at my destination, I won't know whether I can begin to be a success or a failure. I won't know what to do until I have grasped the situation fully. So, for now, the only thing I can do is wait.
Will you obsess over what is to come?
No. But I won't be at ease with my situation. I won't be able to write or exercise or even really think about it.
Why?
Because if there is one thing the army taught me, it's that no plan survives first contact. Everything up to this point has been preparing for this move, for this shift in my life. Until that actually begins, I'm... stalled.
Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?
Yes. But it's who I am right now. It still feels as though the army is going to keep me, to deny me my freedom. Until I am in Oklahoma, I can't be sure there won't be a catastrophe. I can't know for sure.
Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?
Yes.
...
But it is where I am. It's why I don't have a novel, why I am overweight. It's why I wake up sweating, suffocated some nights. Everything I have is on the line. And until it is a reality, until I am in that other guy, in that car, driving away from the army, and headed to a new life... I'm still just this guy, waiting to be released.
I hope that guy will be more hopeful.
I hope that guy achieves his dreams.
I really hope he doesn't give in to the fears this guy sitting here has and approaches life with a better outlook. I hope he doesn't regret the things this guy has done and moves on with his life.
I hope he finds as much peace as this guy has with everything in his life, and finds even more peace, and embraces life. I hope he wakes up each day wishing for better adventures.
I hope he sleeps soundly at night, knowing that his life is his to risk, that his choices are the ones that will effect the outcomes in his life.
I hope that he always loves his wife and family as much as this guy does.
And I really hope he gets it, and lives life on his terms.
...
I guess we will see, won't we?

Young, Quick, and Full of Promise (Yes, I Stole This Title)

                My least favorite patient sprawled grotesquely on my couch today, on New Year's Eve, talking about his biggest fears for this New Year. 2012, he said, was full of too few ups and too many downs. Do you really think I care you had a mental breakdown on a cold Carmel beach? Is it so important how much weight you gained? Has it ever passed through your little mind that maybe every person out there had a work situation where they want to blow their brains out?

                Listening to you sickens me.

                Alas, it is my job. And while Mr. Dramatic regaled me with his tales of woe, I reflected. Perhaps he whines because he finds his life so important. Maybe it’s because he feels like he is in a crowded room, screaming at the top of his lungs, and no one is there to hear him.

                Maybe he’s just a loser.

                But none of those explanations will do. He pays me too well, and I will have to come up with something good, a creative solution to his problems. Maybe I’ll have him write a letter to himself.

                After a while, I tune him out. As the Good Doctor would say, he’s tedious. I open my eyes to the open fields of wheat, corn, and watermelons, with a storm brewing on the eastern front while the sun sets in the west. I breathe in (overriding the acrid scent of my patron’s body odor), and my brain registers only the dewy smell of the coming rain and the earthly aroma of nature’s bounty. Excited, I turn and begin to walk briskly toward my low sandstone temple. Red and gold speckles wink at me as the setting orb reflects a dazzling beauty of architecture. My bare feet feel the change from hard, packed dirt to soft, smooth stone. White marble circles the building, three rows around the entire structure, each a meter wide (yes, only three, must remember the details). Up the nine steps to the patio, my warm hand bouncing on the cold metal banister.

                “Everything just gets so damn hard, doc. Sometimes I just feel like it’s all not worth it…”

                “Now, let’s not talk that way. You know that isn’t true. Those feelings are just a cover for the problems really bothering you. List them out, tell me in detail. I won’t interrupt, I’ll just quietly listen. I’m here for you.”

                To the right of my rough-hewn oak doors hangs a sky-chair, so comfortable, hanging from the outcropping of the sandstone rotunda. I glance left and right at the wings of my home, marveling at the blending of modern architecture and ancient material. The 24 columns around the rotunda (only 12 of which are visible to me) are smooth and polished. Today, I am not destined to sit here and watch the moon rise, but I grasp the white marble handle and pull open my doors…

                Ah. I step inside, see my personal crest emblazoned on the floor. The room, empty for the moment, will be filled with statues at a later date. Here, I pause. If only my patient had some statues, some inner structures of self-confidence and deliberation.

                I walk to the center and turn right. My welcome room waits. I push open the near-invisible door, made from more white marble. My footsteps stop ringing across cold tile and stone, and I finally rest my sore feet on smooth carpet.

                My guest still talks on my office couch, a hard and cold leather monstrosity. I have a better one here.

                I stop and drink in the deep, rich bouquet of the ocean, baking bread, and my burning fire in the fireplace. On the far wall, the Son of Man stares at me from behind his apple. There used to be more art in this room, but I think my patient today has made it clear to me that focus and concise thinking are a goal here, not necessarily quantity.

                “So what do you think, Doctor? Do you think… do you think things will ever get better for me?”

                I glance over to my sitting area. My beautiful microfiber beige chaise lounge winks at me, begging me to bask in the comfort of its embrace. A tall glass, a blank notebook and a pen sit on a low black end table, different from my usual fiction novel. I chuckle silently; sometimes, I surprise myself. My parched mouth pleads to be satisfied by the cold drink on the coaster. I walk over the Persian rug on the floor, and lay down on my sofa, take a sip of my beverage, and pick up my pen and notebook.

                I close my eyes.

                Ah, Dave, you left us so quickly. Take Five truly is a wonderful piece of jazz.

                I open my eyes and look over at my poor, befuddled customer.

                His eyes glisten, moist but hopeful, looking to me for answers.

                Those blue eyes aren’t devoid of emotion. We aren’t looking at a cow here. Crude and foolish he may be, but I can’t turn my back on this man.

                “Yes, things will get better. I promise. We will just have to work at it. After all, it’s a new year, isn’t it?”

***

Happy New Year, everyone.