With everything going on over in the States (check out the previous post if you don't know what I'm talking about), I'm sort of drawn to contemplate my parents, and their roles in my life. Nono, come back, this isn't going to degenerate into Freudian slush, I promise...
I think it'd be fair to say, given everything, that I have what might be called an addictive personality (ie one that is easily addicted to things, rather than one to which people are easily addicted). I think it's also fairly accurate to attribute most of this trait, in my genetic makeup, to my father. He was either an alcoholic or a terminal escapee-from-stuff for most of his life, mellowing out only in his later years, when, to the surprise of everyone and consternation of only a few, he became something of a teddy bear, and a great step-dad and step-grandad to a brood that got a lot of love and enjoyment out of him. My main, most vivid memories of him, it has to be said, don't focus on him as a sensible teddy bear, but as the wild-eyed, wild-souled nutcase of my youth. I think, to be fair, it would be difficult, on meeting Brian, not to be a little bit in love with him - he had that sort of orbit. And the tales that continue to be told of my father to this day show him as something of a legendary madman - the kind of man who, when drunk, would jump off cliffs...and survive. The kind of man who, when drunk, would climb flagpoles, for reasons known only to himself...and survive. The kind of man who, when drunk, would win bets by doing headstands on pint glasses...and shot glasses...and, somehow, survive. Unfortunately, he was also the kind of man who, when drunk, would smash every piece of glass in his house. The kind of man who, when drunk, would grab an air rifle and set off to go and shoot his own mother. The kind of man who, when he was about to have a son, quit his job, went on a two-day bender, and arrive at the hospital swinging a carrier bag full of loose sherry trifle. The kind of man who, when drunk, would still drive all around the district,leaving the mangled bodies of most of his cars behind.
That's the trouble with legends - they have great stories, but you can't live with them.
Now you'd think, given that he stopped being part of my daily life when I was 8, and I'm now screaming towards 40, that I'd have left his influence far behind by now, but it occurs to me that I really haven't, and indeed, really can't. It just so happens that his addiction led to a tendency not to be able to get up in the morning, hold down a job, or maintain a relationship with anyone who didn't want to go stark raving bonkers right alongside him. My addiction (if we're calling it that, which I'm still hesitant to do because of all the self-pitying bullshit that tends to go along with it) has typically - though I daresay not entirely - harmed only me, so I've been able to plough along with it quite happily, indeed joyfully, for this many years without necessarily batting an eye. Yes, it had a tendency to exclude me from the potential for relationships for much of my life, but for much of my life, I was basically an Emo anyway, just without their particular brand of stupid haircut. I pretty much expected either to be a roaring success, or a cataclysmic failure, and I almost always relished the idea of going screaming off the cliff-face of ill health at some point - without taking anyone with me when I went. And this was all while I was holding down jobs and doing them, and carrying on as normal, I should remind you. I'm not sure if that makes it less pathetic, or, as I rather suspect, more - I wanted to be a legend, like Brian, but I was never wild enough to let it completely consume me.
That, I should say, is probably my mother's genetic influence. It occurs to me that whenever I've written anything about my mother in the past, I've tended to stereotype her, though it's somewhat irresistible when you remember that her first words to my then-girlfriend (who came from a first-generation Italian American family), were "Oh don't worry about us, love...we're just like the Mafia."
I've often tended to think of my mother, whose name is Angela, as this 4 foot-some-odd steel rod, holding things together with an icy determination and a primal need for order, discipline and Everything Right. The older I get though, the more I realise this is nonsense - it's an idea that comes from my snapshot image of her being taken at the same time as the snapshot image of Brian as the roaring drunk. At the time, certainly, she was determined that order should prevail, but it was pretty much the sort of determination with which sailors cling to their boats in a roiling ocean. Back then it was all she had. It's taken me a while to realise, it's not who she is. My mother, I think, is interested in fun, and progress. Progress, I'm fairly sure, in whatever direction makes people happy, and so progress by their own definition, rather than hers - which in itself is a positive, enlightened trait. Progress by her measure though is a fairly structured thing, a ladder that one sets entirely within the bounds of 'decent society'. I think this idea, instilled in me for years more by example than indoctrination, is probably what saved me years ago from going right over the top in terms of being self-destructively addicted to things, and is just one of many debts I'll probably never be able to repay. One thing about her introductory words to d that rings true though is her fierce commitment to her Family. The capitalisation's important here, because it doesn't necessarily mean family - family is a network maintained by biology and connection (often culminating in marriages and births). Family (Big F) is that middle bit of the Venn diagram between friends and family - it's the subset of people in whom she chooses to invest her time, her trust, her honest appreciation and enjoyment. I'm fairly sure we all do the same thing to some extent, we have our inner circle for whom we'll go further than we will for outer members of either group. If you're 'In' with my mother, truly in I mean, you can have the world. Honestly, she'd give you the world, and then slip Mercury into your bag as you leave as a 'surprise for later.' If you're 'Out' with her, you'll still get efficiency, professionalism, and a smile. If you think you're In, but really you're Out, you're actually Absolutely Nowhere.
You can imagine that putting these two together was always gonna be dodgy. Putting them together in one human being has been interesting over the years – like everybody, it’s been a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde mixture, but in terms of my weight, there’s no doubt that Brian has largely been victorious until recently.
Thing is, there’s a third element to take into account, and it’s a really important one. Richard has been my step-dad for about 25 years. He’s given me so much it’s a serious argument for nurture over nature. Because after the rollercoaster that was Brian, Rich has always been a rock of stability and certainty and, though he might not think so, of calm. Above all, he’s always seen my mother’s Family concept, and raised it. He’s never been afraid to sacrifice himself so the family can have what it wants, and to a real degree, he lives to enjoy his Family. He made so many things that wouldn’t have been possible not only possible for me, but almost a certainty, like a university education that continued even when, after he’d supported me all the way through it, I gave him nothing for his trouble but a failing grade. His faith helped me push through and beyond that grade to success, to a career, and to a way of being a grown-up man. If people in this life respect me as a man, it’s as much down to Rich’s influence as it is to either of the others.
And really, I think, it’s his influence that’s come to the fore in this experiment. Because I’ve known him for 25 years, and I’ve never seen him unprepared to do what needs to be done for his wife. And quite apart from the health benefits, and the clothing benefits, and the yadda yadda yadda, I’m doing this for d. My beautiful, incredibly strong wife is one of the...fundamentally best human beings I’ve ever known – and hey, that’s not to diss my friends, I know some seriously kick-ass human beings. She’s better. And now we’re going to the States, and her mom’s looking critically ill. My girl has dealt with the mortality of people she loves time and time and time again – in the last few years, she’s lost two of her greatest friends, and her dad. I want to minimise the hurt in her life any way I can, and losing this weight, and getting healthier, and hopefully not dying just yet, is one of the best ways I can think of to en-Rich her life for as long as I can.
Alright, I lied. That dissolved into a ridiculously long couch-session. Still, I guess knowing why you’re doing something like this is actually very important – they’d certainly ask this sort of question if I was going down the surgical route. So that’s it.
Blood this morning was 5.1 – though I finally got back to some proper walking this morning before bleeding. Again, probably a good idea.
I think it'd be fair to say, given everything, that I have what might be called an addictive personality (ie one that is easily addicted to things, rather than one to which people are easily addicted). I think it's also fairly accurate to attribute most of this trait, in my genetic makeup, to my father. He was either an alcoholic or a terminal escapee-from-stuff for most of his life, mellowing out only in his later years, when, to the surprise of everyone and consternation of only a few, he became something of a teddy bear, and a great step-dad and step-grandad to a brood that got a lot of love and enjoyment out of him. My main, most vivid memories of him, it has to be said, don't focus on him as a sensible teddy bear, but as the wild-eyed, wild-souled nutcase of my youth. I think, to be fair, it would be difficult, on meeting Brian, not to be a little bit in love with him - he had that sort of orbit. And the tales that continue to be told of my father to this day show him as something of a legendary madman - the kind of man who, when drunk, would jump off cliffs...and survive. The kind of man who, when drunk, would climb flagpoles, for reasons known only to himself...and survive. The kind of man who, when drunk, would win bets by doing headstands on pint glasses...and shot glasses...and, somehow, survive. Unfortunately, he was also the kind of man who, when drunk, would smash every piece of glass in his house. The kind of man who, when drunk, would grab an air rifle and set off to go and shoot his own mother. The kind of man who, when he was about to have a son, quit his job, went on a two-day bender, and arrive at the hospital swinging a carrier bag full of loose sherry trifle. The kind of man who, when drunk, would still drive all around the district,leaving the mangled bodies of most of his cars behind.
That's the trouble with legends - they have great stories, but you can't live with them.
Now you'd think, given that he stopped being part of my daily life when I was 8, and I'm now screaming towards 40, that I'd have left his influence far behind by now, but it occurs to me that I really haven't, and indeed, really can't. It just so happens that his addiction led to a tendency not to be able to get up in the morning, hold down a job, or maintain a relationship with anyone who didn't want to go stark raving bonkers right alongside him. My addiction (if we're calling it that, which I'm still hesitant to do because of all the self-pitying bullshit that tends to go along with it) has typically - though I daresay not entirely - harmed only me, so I've been able to plough along with it quite happily, indeed joyfully, for this many years without necessarily batting an eye. Yes, it had a tendency to exclude me from the potential for relationships for much of my life, but for much of my life, I was basically an Emo anyway, just without their particular brand of stupid haircut. I pretty much expected either to be a roaring success, or a cataclysmic failure, and I almost always relished the idea of going screaming off the cliff-face of ill health at some point - without taking anyone with me when I went. And this was all while I was holding down jobs and doing them, and carrying on as normal, I should remind you. I'm not sure if that makes it less pathetic, or, as I rather suspect, more - I wanted to be a legend, like Brian, but I was never wild enough to let it completely consume me.
That, I should say, is probably my mother's genetic influence. It occurs to me that whenever I've written anything about my mother in the past, I've tended to stereotype her, though it's somewhat irresistible when you remember that her first words to my then-girlfriend (who came from a first-generation Italian American family), were "Oh don't worry about us, love...we're just like the Mafia."
I've often tended to think of my mother, whose name is Angela, as this 4 foot-some-odd steel rod, holding things together with an icy determination and a primal need for order, discipline and Everything Right. The older I get though, the more I realise this is nonsense - it's an idea that comes from my snapshot image of her being taken at the same time as the snapshot image of Brian as the roaring drunk. At the time, certainly, she was determined that order should prevail, but it was pretty much the sort of determination with which sailors cling to their boats in a roiling ocean. Back then it was all she had. It's taken me a while to realise, it's not who she is. My mother, I think, is interested in fun, and progress. Progress, I'm fairly sure, in whatever direction makes people happy, and so progress by their own definition, rather than hers - which in itself is a positive, enlightened trait. Progress by her measure though is a fairly structured thing, a ladder that one sets entirely within the bounds of 'decent society'. I think this idea, instilled in me for years more by example than indoctrination, is probably what saved me years ago from going right over the top in terms of being self-destructively addicted to things, and is just one of many debts I'll probably never be able to repay. One thing about her introductory words to d that rings true though is her fierce commitment to her Family. The capitalisation's important here, because it doesn't necessarily mean family - family is a network maintained by biology and connection (often culminating in marriages and births). Family (Big F) is that middle bit of the Venn diagram between friends and family - it's the subset of people in whom she chooses to invest her time, her trust, her honest appreciation and enjoyment. I'm fairly sure we all do the same thing to some extent, we have our inner circle for whom we'll go further than we will for outer members of either group. If you're 'In' with my mother, truly in I mean, you can have the world. Honestly, she'd give you the world, and then slip Mercury into your bag as you leave as a 'surprise for later.' If you're 'Out' with her, you'll still get efficiency, professionalism, and a smile. If you think you're In, but really you're Out, you're actually Absolutely Nowhere.
You can imagine that putting these two together was always gonna be dodgy. Putting them together in one human being has been interesting over the years – like everybody, it’s been a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde mixture, but in terms of my weight, there’s no doubt that Brian has largely been victorious until recently.
Thing is, there’s a third element to take into account, and it’s a really important one. Richard has been my step-dad for about 25 years. He’s given me so much it’s a serious argument for nurture over nature. Because after the rollercoaster that was Brian, Rich has always been a rock of stability and certainty and, though he might not think so, of calm. Above all, he’s always seen my mother’s Family concept, and raised it. He’s never been afraid to sacrifice himself so the family can have what it wants, and to a real degree, he lives to enjoy his Family. He made so many things that wouldn’t have been possible not only possible for me, but almost a certainty, like a university education that continued even when, after he’d supported me all the way through it, I gave him nothing for his trouble but a failing grade. His faith helped me push through and beyond that grade to success, to a career, and to a way of being a grown-up man. If people in this life respect me as a man, it’s as much down to Rich’s influence as it is to either of the others.
And really, I think, it’s his influence that’s come to the fore in this experiment. Because I’ve known him for 25 years, and I’ve never seen him unprepared to do what needs to be done for his wife. And quite apart from the health benefits, and the clothing benefits, and the yadda yadda yadda, I’m doing this for d. My beautiful, incredibly strong wife is one of the...fundamentally best human beings I’ve ever known – and hey, that’s not to diss my friends, I know some seriously kick-ass human beings. She’s better. And now we’re going to the States, and her mom’s looking critically ill. My girl has dealt with the mortality of people she loves time and time and time again – in the last few years, she’s lost two of her greatest friends, and her dad. I want to minimise the hurt in her life any way I can, and losing this weight, and getting healthier, and hopefully not dying just yet, is one of the best ways I can think of to en-Rich her life for as long as I can.
Alright, I lied. That dissolved into a ridiculously long couch-session. Still, I guess knowing why you’re doing something like this is actually very important – they’d certainly ask this sort of question if I was going down the surgical route. So that’s it.
Blood this morning was 5.1 – though I finally got back to some proper walking this morning before bleeding. Again, probably a good idea.
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