The Real Married Man Ponders a New Meaning To an Old Tune
Well here I am back again after a couple of weeks and a move. I’m sure all six of my avid readers have had their faces glued to their computers in anticipation. Alas here I am again ready to type this week’s emotional and mental adventure.
On the way to the toilet just a few minutes ago a thought pierced my head like an arrow. How many roads must a man walk down before he becomes an asshole? I realize this is a bit of a bastardization of a perfectly good Bob Dylan tune but life is pretty much a bastardization of a Bob Dylan tune if you really think about it. The funny thing is that I immediately came up with an answer. That answer, in my case anyway, if you take an antihistamine and couple that with and asthma stimulant is pretty fucking quick. I’m talking really quick.
I’m one of those guys who doesn’t do well with caffeine either. I get angry whenever I ingest some. The odd time I’m ok and I can usually handle it if I’m ready and know what I’m doing, but sometimes it gets the better of me. Suddenly I turn into this green eyed monster fatman with a bitch streak a mile wide and hair on its back. That’s how I feel right now. Ad to that the fact that my lungs actually hurt from inflammation; I’m a pretty peachy character. My wife just told me to talk to the hand after one of my bitchy spells. I laughed but she’s right.
This takes me to a realization that I had earlier in the day. Ever since I was eight years old I’ve been on some stimulant or another for asthma. I was only relieved of this in my early twenties when my allergies went largely into remission. It seems they are coming back the last couple of years and I’ve had to take something for them. However, as I child I was always jacked on something. My hands always shook from the medication and I would have huge mood swings but my asthma attacks stopped mostly.
It was a trade off, a catch-22. I lived in a paradox where I had to endure something horrible for something good and the good outweighed the terrible. I grew to resent these feelings that accompanied my drugs. To this day I believe that’s why I get so angry, other than my putting something in my body that doesn’t belong that’s the only thing that makes sense.
The truly sad thing about all this is my role model of a mother smoked like a chimney through all this. She still does. Every Christmas was sitting around the tree in a haze. It was like smoke up Kath while your son slowly dies in the corner. Even now I have a reduced lung capacity. A normal man my size should have a 6 liter capacity, mine’s only 5. Now that really sucks if you ask me. That means that somewhere somehow 1/6 of my lungs and lung tissue has been destroyed. They burned up now just fill the space as scare tissue.
Smoke the fuck up Kath. Why don’t you have another drink while you’re at it? Yes this has degraded into a typical bitch session where I just rag on my mother and her choices and she has no recourse where she can defend herself. In my defense though I told her about what I wrote and she couldn’t handle it and told me that she was tired of hearing about what an awful person she was. I can respect that but it still doesn’t change the situations I was put in without any real control over my environment. I asked her to quit over and over. We got rid of everything else I was allergic to, but not that. And that my friends I think was the real problem all along.
The unfortunate thing is this is true and a lot of parents make decisions at the sacrifice of their children. People just think they will grow up alright, which is mostly true. I think maybe if you give someone the best shot possible maybe they’ll turn out a lot better than alright. They won’t spend their lives dealing; instead they’ll spend their time focusing.
Yes this got preachy, but it’s the truth from my perspective and I can only write what I think.
As always thanks for reading to the end and I’ll talk to you next week. The column will resume its regular course of Tuesday morning publication unless something gets in the way.
On the way to the toilet just a few minutes ago a thought pierced my head like an arrow. How many roads must a man walk down before he becomes an asshole? I realize this is a bit of a bastardization of a perfectly good Bob Dylan tune but life is pretty much a bastardization of a Bob Dylan tune if you really think about it. The funny thing is that I immediately came up with an answer. That answer, in my case anyway, if you take an antihistamine and couple that with and asthma stimulant is pretty fucking quick. I’m talking really quick.
I’m one of those guys who doesn’t do well with caffeine either. I get angry whenever I ingest some. The odd time I’m ok and I can usually handle it if I’m ready and know what I’m doing, but sometimes it gets the better of me. Suddenly I turn into this green eyed monster fatman with a bitch streak a mile wide and hair on its back. That’s how I feel right now. Ad to that the fact that my lungs actually hurt from inflammation; I’m a pretty peachy character. My wife just told me to talk to the hand after one of my bitchy spells. I laughed but she’s right.
This takes me to a realization that I had earlier in the day. Ever since I was eight years old I’ve been on some stimulant or another for asthma. I was only relieved of this in my early twenties when my allergies went largely into remission. It seems they are coming back the last couple of years and I’ve had to take something for them. However, as I child I was always jacked on something. My hands always shook from the medication and I would have huge mood swings but my asthma attacks stopped mostly.
It was a trade off, a catch-22. I lived in a paradox where I had to endure something horrible for something good and the good outweighed the terrible. I grew to resent these feelings that accompanied my drugs. To this day I believe that’s why I get so angry, other than my putting something in my body that doesn’t belong that’s the only thing that makes sense.
The truly sad thing about all this is my role model of a mother smoked like a chimney through all this. She still does. Every Christmas was sitting around the tree in a haze. It was like smoke up Kath while your son slowly dies in the corner. Even now I have a reduced lung capacity. A normal man my size should have a 6 liter capacity, mine’s only 5. Now that really sucks if you ask me. That means that somewhere somehow 1/6 of my lungs and lung tissue has been destroyed. They burned up now just fill the space as scare tissue.
Smoke the fuck up Kath. Why don’t you have another drink while you’re at it? Yes this has degraded into a typical bitch session where I just rag on my mother and her choices and she has no recourse where she can defend herself. In my defense though I told her about what I wrote and she couldn’t handle it and told me that she was tired of hearing about what an awful person she was. I can respect that but it still doesn’t change the situations I was put in without any real control over my environment. I asked her to quit over and over. We got rid of everything else I was allergic to, but not that. And that my friends I think was the real problem all along.
The unfortunate thing is this is true and a lot of parents make decisions at the sacrifice of their children. People just think they will grow up alright, which is mostly true. I think maybe if you give someone the best shot possible maybe they’ll turn out a lot better than alright. They won’t spend their lives dealing; instead they’ll spend their time focusing.
Yes this got preachy, but it’s the truth from my perspective and I can only write what I think.
As always thanks for reading to the end and I’ll talk to you next week. The column will resume its regular course of Tuesday morning publication unless something gets in the way.
posted by morrisson66 at 6:56 PM
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