Ahhh...

I love my daughters. I do. I love it when they use some ancient phrase of mine. On rare occasions, my brilliant grandson will repeat one. On some level, I find it reassuring that easily half of the wry observations I graced them with, I learned at my father's knee. Dad, me, daughter, grandson!!! That's almost a full century of generational wisdom being passed on! In my noble quest for immortality, I get to watch the needle move from impossible to improbable.

I have loved my wives. A great deal early on, less so as those marriages deteriorated. But now time has passed, and the echoes of distress are rarely heard. If I can be mindful, I get to be retired from the weight of my own accusations and the tortured melody of self-recrimination.

During a deep breath, I can recall my dogs: Simba, Issac, Monroe, Georgia, Beau. I lay on my back and their spirits gather about me, supercharged by the chaos of youth. They lick my face with determination and gusto. It's five on one, and I can't defend myself against the onslaught. I'm so at home.

An unbiased observer will see that I'm older now, verging on becoming elderly. Park benches look good to me. Resting feels good. The need for digging into my past in order to heal trauma is a hobby now, no longer a career.

***

A few years ago, I began to refer to myself as the High Court Judge Of Petty Offense.

This morning, I was parked towards the bottom of the hill at the ferry landing. I had an unobstructed view of a great big truck backing into the small holding lot where the medical cases line up for priority loading.

Here's the thing. The driver had to try backing up twice in order to get their truck right where they wanted it.

I think we can all agree that there is absolutely no reason for such shoddy behavior. In my capacity as The High Court Judge, I felt it was my responsibility to walk down the hill and point this out to them.

Because I am still on this side of being committed, I found it within me to restrain myself. As I often do.

I pay a price for behaving this way. I am often uneasy and slightly disturbed. I'm sure that yelling at squirrels is right around the next corner.

Moving back and forth from my loves and my demons results in a fine blend of affection and accusation. Sometimes I have to sit and take a minute to surrender my authority. Because it's exhausting, and all the judgment is made with very little evidence, much of which I create using my own questionable insight into human nature.

***

I remember watching the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The scar on McMurphy's forehead, the consequence of his lobotomy. I remember being horrified that anyone would have to suffer that. Especially McMurphy. The prankster, the instigator, the rebel, the messiah of the main ward.

I experienced poetic resolve when Chief smothered him with a pillow. Nurse Ratchett had succeeded in extinguishing his brilliant torch, and Chief gave McMurphy the dignity of blowing out the remaining candle. There are moments where that seems like it might be a great way to end my day.

***

Due to the continuing advance of medical science, I now have a new set of initials I identify with. CPTSD. Sort of like PTSD, but with added value. It comes in a shampoo bottle that promises twenty percent more angst than the regular size… for FREE!

In January and February of this year, I followed my intuition. I began to eat using a keto-centric menu. I stopped, cold turkey, scrolling on Facebook and the news.

It was such a relief. I wasn't very hungry anymore. Butter became my friend. I could nod affectionately to fresh croissants, but abstain from dating them. Plus, I wasn't jumping ten feet in the air when someone shut a door behind me.

I had both feet in the stirrups, and I was riding high.

On January twentieth, the new leader of the administration that would run our country was sworn in. I began to feel guilty. Here I was, purposely staying uninformed. Bryan Benepe, High Court Judge of Petty Offense and Noble Interpreter of Human Behavior, had abdicated his responsibilities.

By the end of February, I decided it was increasingly important to know what was going on around me. Unwilling to depend on the world (my long-time trusted friend) for telling what was important, I peeked around the corner to see ten minutes of news in the morning.

The thing about addiction is that, regardless of how much of a life it destroys, it remains unabashed in proclaiming responsibility for that destruction. As diligent as one can be in changing all the locks on all the doors, it stops by for a harmless five-minute visit with three suitcases and a moving truck parked at the curb.

In just a very few days, I was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, keeping them digits scrolling. The news and Facebook took a long needle full of dopamine and cortisol and stuck it into a nice, big, fat, juicy vein. Then came the golden moment when it rammed the plunger home.

But, not to worry. Like any good addict, I knew for a fact that, having stopped once, I could stop again. It's October now, and any dream of returning to sanity is far off in the distance. It's a familiar story. The sudden (daily) epiphany, "Good Lord, I'm running full steam ahead on dopamine and cortisol, and my neural synapses look like curly fries!", is cried out by an angry toddler instead of coming with the thunderous voice of God. These epiphanies don't carry the weight they used to. They are more of an epiphinette.

My sister meets with a group of women on Tuesday mornings. They read out of a book, and this gives them a topic to discuss over tea and cookies. Last spring, the text read, "and so we see, our fears are mostly of our own making." With some cognitive effort, the majority of those fears could be confronted, understood, and vanquished. On that particular morning, the question the group asked itself was, "But what if the fears are real?"

I fear the worst. What I've seen so far? I have a bad feeling it’s just a drop in the bucket. While I've been waking up in the same trailer, at the same location, for years, I feel like I'm in a very different place than I was in October of 2024. The plans I used to make with confidence are becoming confused and confounded by current events.

I donate. I protest. I meet with friends. I breathe in and out. When I subdue my thinking, my heart tells me that the very best thing I can do is repeat over and over:

May you be safe and loved

May you be free from suffering

May you be happy and content

May you live at ease

May you have all of this without harming another being.

This, and regardless of my recent track record, pursuing a mind that is free from scrolling.