Why is it some of us can’t get out of our own heads? I see people who seem like they’ve got it all together, and I don’t get it, man. How can someone just wake up and BE?
Some days I feel like my head is pure chaos, bro. Freaking chaos.
Interwoven between the love of a good woman, two wonderful children (and their equally wonderful spouses), and my life-giving grandchildren are a torrent of emotions: anger, depression, stress, worry. Like you, many times my emotions and thoughts are my own worst enemies.
While I loathe when people adapt the victim mentality, we have to be honest with ourselves about our past. For example, I was never really taught to protect myself, and was mortally terrified to fight back as a young boy. So, naturally I got picked on a lot. Even though I was a big kid, bullies learned pretty quickly I couldn’t (wouldn’t?) fight back, and they pounced.
Thus, I hid inside my own world much of my childhood. I recall being very little and tying a towel around my neck as a cape, lying on the bed with my upper body hanging off the side, and pretending to fly. Suddenly, I wasn’t that chubby little dude who got picked on; I was SUPERMAN!
Yup, I’d just fly right outta this miserable, seemingly godforsaken world. I pretended to be normal, but always felt different. I always felt like a freak. I always walked alone. I’m slowly coming to terms with “myself,” finally, after all these years, but it’s not been easy. The man people see is NOT the man I see, but I’m gradually learning to make peace with myself.
While I won’t go into detail about the when’s, where’s and who’s, I feel as if the Holy Spirit wants me to mention that the genesis of this self-imposed darkness began when, as a three-year-old, I was molested by an older boy. Different person, different town, but it happened again when I was in kindergarten in 1972, by a neighbor boy who threatened to “beat the sh*t” out of me if I didn’t comply.
Many adults aren’t even ready for something like this, but when it happens to a kid?! That’s like running a freight train through Central Park, man. Talk about mental chaos. That’s lighting a match in a dynamite factory.
Over the years of my childhood I became angry, disillusioned and depressed. In junior high I once confessed to a relative that I was depressed, and she literally laughed.
“Oh honey, you don’t even know what that word means. You have it all, Robert. Your dad is a bank president and your mama’s a legal secretary; you got the silver spoon. You want for nothing. You have the world by the tail.“
I told no one else about my depression for another decade, when I ingested over 60 pills in an attempt to escape the world.
It obviously didn’t work. Long story for another time. But I will say I understand why you’ve not told another soul about your struggles. People can post the meme on Facebook that encourages us to just reach out if we’re struggling, no matter what, but we don’t wanna talk about it. We wanna suffer in silence, thank you very much.
Another life-situation which emotionally crushed me was that I had to quit my high school football team after my sophomore year, as I was already having back issues, and going to a chiropractor once a week as a 15-year-old kid.
I had dreamed of playing football since I was three years old. I loved football—still do, actually—and to make matters worse, I was GOOD at it. The coach once told me I had more potential than anyone else on the team (a statement which, once again, made me a target for bullies), so to walk away from the sport I so dearly loved was devastating. It broke my heart.
Between the bullying, the molestations, the loss of my football career dreams, the fear and all my mental chaos, by the time I was a teenager I was a walking MESS. I was an accident waiting to happen.
I have one eternal Savior: Jesus Christ.
But I’ve had three other saviors (lowercase “s,” lest you think I’m disrespecting God) who played a smaller role in my survival.
The first was my mom. As a teenager, when I wanted nothing more than to die, to just not BE anymore, she’d come into my room and speak hope into my life.
“I know you don’t believe it,” she’d say, “but you are amazing, Rob. You’re so smart and funny and creative and handsome.”
I didn’t believe her, but stuck around because I figured if she believed in me, there must be something in me I wasn’t seeing.
Thanks, Ma, for saving my life.
The second was music. I discovered music in 4th grade when my Uncle Aaron played me his KISS ALIVE II album.
When I discovered music, I was in love, I kid you not. I could feel every note, like blood coursing through my veins. It wasn’t “noise” (as many adults tried to convince me), it was vinyl salvation in a cardboard record sleeve. Every song, every measure, every note was a cool breeze in July.
Elvis, KISS, Pink Floyd, the Bee Gees, Charlie Daniels, The Carpenter’s, Rod Stewart, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Johnny Cash, Little Richard, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Glen Campbell, the Marshall Tucker Band, Dolly Parton, Steely Dan, CCR, Queen, AC/DC, Styx, John Denver, The Doors, Billy Joel, The Dave Clark Five, Jim Croce and on and on. Rock, outlaw country, progressive death metal, 50s rockabilly, disco, folk, “hair” metal, didn’t matter. It was all melodic redemption.
These artists didn’t make the music for me specifically, but they unknowingly helped save my life. So to these miracle-makers, I’d like to also say, “Thank You.”
Other than God Himself, however, the primary reason I’m still here is because of my wife of 36 years, Laura. I had such terribly low self-esteem that when I met her I dismissed any musings of a relationship. I was 18 years old at the time, and a student at Central Bible College. Laura was in her junior year of high school in Mansfield, Missouri, where we met at a church hayride.
“She’s too pretty,” I told myself. “I can’t get chicks like that. I’m not worthy.”
I’d had three crappy and short-lived relationships in less than a year, and was not ready for another. Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off this girl, as she was the loveliest creature I’d ever seen. After taking a month to build up my courage, I followed her out to her mom’s car one rainy night after the Sunday evening church service and asked her out on a date. To my utter amazement, she agreed.
Oh man, if she only knew how effed up I was. If she only knew the freaking chaos in my head, she might’ve ran away screaming.
Then again, I know her better than anyone, and that big heart of hers would’ve stuck with me.
Why she stuck with me, I’ll never know, but thank God (literally) she did. She still smiles with her whole countenance every time she sees me. She’s my heart and soul. She’s the sun at midnight. She’s my lover and my very best friend.
I fully believe God created her to walk beside me. She’s not perfect but she’s perfect for me, and after nearly 40 years I still relish our closeness. When we lie in each other’s arms every night I make it a point to kiss her gently and tell her that’s my favorite part of the day.
“Sometimes I feel like I work all day just for this moment,” I’ll say as I pull her closer. She’ll smile and tell me she feels the same.
And as if on cue, while writing this, when I got to the last paragraph, a Bon Jovi song came up on shuffle that said, “You were born to be my baby, and baby I was made to be your man.”
So why did I write this? To share stories about myself? To vent? No and no. I wrote this article because I’m gradually becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be. My whole life I’ve been overweight and hated it, was in fact being crushed under it, so I started eating healthy. I LOVE music, so Trey and I attend a concert every time we get the chance (normally heavy metal shows, which are so much fun). As a kid, I used to love to dance, with disco being my favorite genre. Thus, to tap back into this happy time, I’ve started playing catchy 70s music for my grandchildren, and urging them to dance with me.
I’m trying to take better care of myself, emotionally, by chasing after that which makes me happy. I’m trying to take better care of myself, physically, by eating healthier and exercising. I’m drawing closer to my family by letting them in, not shutting them out as I did for so many years. Laura and I try to be the grandparents we always wanted. My grandparents were great, but we weren’t friends, and we never really hung out. That’s changed with our grandkids; we do all kinds of stuff together, and are very close with all of them.
For too many years I lived in a self-imposed, emotional prison, and now I’m finally breaking out! And you know what? It feels incredible.
Love and music saved my life. “God,” I pray, “I’ll never understand why You love this rotten ole sinner, but I’ll spend eternity thanking You. Thank You for my mom, for music and for my lovely wife. But mostly…
“Well, just…thank You…”
Broken People 