A Story About A Hat

     When I was a kid, one of my favorite people on the planet was my great grandmother. We just called her Ma, and with the Jersey accent, it sounded like Mar to me, so that’s what I called her. She was a tough old broad, born in the late 1800’s, but she was also very caring and loving and nurturing. I have a million stories about her, some funny, some bittersweet, and most of them heartwarming, but I’ll save those for another time. All you need to know is that she helped raise me as well as my brother, and I learned a lot about family, trust, and self respect from her.
     This is a story about a hat.
     My great grandmother Mar bought the hat you see pictured here off a clearance table at a department store before I was even born. She got it for my brother, and he wore it for a few years, but to him it was just another hat. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, that’s the attitude you take with most of the clothes you own throughout your life. They are just shoes or pants or a winter hat.
     Except sometimes when you’re a kid. I think most little kids get attached to certain articles of clothing. It’s probably a security thing, like Linus’ blanket from Peanuts. Most kids can’t get away with dragging a blanket with them everywhere they go, so they instill some hat or shirt or backpack with magic properties to act as their armor to the world. Often, it is something with a picture or logo of whatever is culturally popular at the time. When I was young, it was either some Saturday morning cartoon character, or Evel Kneivel or the Fonz. Whatever it was, most kids had some trademark piece of clothing they wore everywhere.
     When my brother’s white hat got passed down to me, it became my favorite piece of clothing. It was nothing special, just a plain white hat. In fact, I probably started wearing it before I was dressing myself, or even aware that I had a hat on my head at all. As I came into self awareness, the hat just seemed to always be there. The fact that my great grandmother bought it meant a lot to me as well, even as a very young child.
     I was not the most secure kid in the world. I have detailed all the bullying and crap I had to deal with from the age of five, and I was afraid of the world in a lot of ways, especially when it involved other kids. The first day of kindergarten, they had to pry my hands off of the street sign in front of the school, and drag me kicking and screaming into class. I haven’t really gotten any better at going to new places and doing new things. I don’t cry as much, but I still have a lot of apprehension and anxiety.
     So my hat became my security blanket. I wore it every chance I got, and if it was too warm for a hat, I would sometimes just carry it around with me. At school, I would never leave it in the coat closet, I would keep it in my desk just to have it near. I would sometimes sit and compulsively fold it; in half, then in quarters, then smooth it out flat again. I would panic if I thought I had dropped it or left it behind somewhere, but I managed to hang onto it throughout my childhood.
     The weird thing is, the hat didn’t really help my image at all. In fact, it was bright white, and stood out in a gaggle of kids. My parents could always spot me in a crowd, or from a block away. That might have been part of what made me feel more secure as well.
     So what ended up happening was that I wore a little kid sized hat long after I shouldn’t have. You usually wear a winter hat with the edge turned up and doubled back on itself, but as I got older, there wasn’t really as much material to enable me to do that. Winter hats usually had a little extra space, and a little bit of a peak on them, mine was stretched tight as can be, barely covering my ears. I was now entering high school and still wearing a bright white hat that was meant for a pre adolescent.
     I didn’t care, though. It was all I had from my former life in New Jersey. It had gone with me to Texas, and now back to Pennsylvania. It kind of became my trademark, and in that weird way that someone who is acting or dressing strangely and different when you’re a kid, you weren’t sure if you should mock me or think I was cool. For years, I kind of fell in the middle. I was picked on anyway, so the hat didn’t really matter one way or the other, and for other people, it became part of my identity.
     Then one day, some kid came up with the idea that I looked like a sperm in my white hat. Yes, I know that doesn’t really make much sense, but it didn’t have to. The die was cast. From then on, a bunch of people would refer to it as the sperm hat, and there is no way to make that cool at all. I tried to ride it out and hoped it would pass, but it didn’t. So one day in my mid teens, I finally took off the hat that my great grandmother bought all those years ago, the hat that was a part of me before I was even really me, and I put it in my dresser drawer and forgot about it.
     And as far as I knew, the sperm hat was long gone. I had last seen it about 40 years ago, and figured it had been donated or thrown out decades earlier.
     My parents have been preparing for a garage sale the last couple of weeks, so when my mother said “look what I found when I was going through some old boxes” and tossed it in my lap the other day, it took me completely by surprise. I got such a genuine thrill and nostalgic ache the moment I saw my small white hat from all those years ago.
     I’m not a sentimental guy about material things. My grandmother was a hoarder, and my mother tends to get way too attached to a lot of things, which is probably why she still had the hat in the first place. I know this, so about 15 years ago, when I noticed that I was starting to accumulate a lot of things I never used or even looked at, I made it a point to get rid of it all. I am constantly reevaluating things that have little emotional attachment to me or that I get any use out of, and moving it out the door.
     Still, when I saw that hat, so many memories came flooding back that it kind of staggered me. I was so happy to see that old stupid hat again, so much that it shocked the hell out of me just how much I cared. I thought about my family, my great grandmother, how that hat was present during so many of the incidents and daily life that formed who I was. It took me right back to all of it, good and bad, and I realized how much that hat was still a part of me, and always will be.
     So I still am not going to hoard a bunch of old crap, and get sentimental over material things. There was a lot of other stuff from my youth that I came across while going through stuff for the garage sale, and almost none of it meant anything to me. Maybe a fleeting fond memory, then I tossed it in the trash. I don’t get attached to material things, and that isn’t going to change.
     Except my hat. I am never letting it go again. I will always have it tucked away somewhere safe, and hopefully someday when I am very old, I will sit in my rocking chair and hold it, and think back on my family, my friends, and all the things I did in my youth while wearing my small white hat that my great grandmother bought from a clearance table.
     I might cry, I might smile, but I know that I will be content, and probably feel a little safer, with my old friend from the beginning still there close to me at the very end. Who could ask for more than that?

Romolo's

     So this is an old matchbook from a bar called Romolo’s. When I was a kid, my parent’s life didn’t end just because they had children. My mother had a job as a cocktail waitress in a bowling alley, and my father was in a league there. Every Friday night they went there, and then out drinking afterwards. Their main hangout was Romolo’s, and as far back as I can remember, I heard all kinds of stories about that bar and the people who frequented it.
     I grew up with a romanticized ideal of what barhopping and Romolo’s was all about. To me, it seemed like a magical place full of good times, good people, and nonstop fun. I used to bug my parents relentlessly to take me there, to see this Shangri La in person! Now, my parents liked to have a good time, but they weren’t monsters. They certainly weren’t going to take their preadolescent child to a bar at one in the morning.
     Still, one day, I tagged along with my father someplace, and we were in Fort Lee, and we passed Romolo’s! I’m sure he instantly regretted pointing it out, because I made a big stink about going there again, so my father finally relented and turned the car around. So I finally got to see Romolo’s, even if it was only three in the afternoon.
     Well, it was basically a shitty corner dive bar. I got to sit there at the bar and drink a coke with some maraschino cherries in it, and play a song on the jukebox(which meant a lot because my parents sometimes gave me old 45’s that came off that jukebox when they switched out records). It wasn’t magical though. The thrill quickly wore off, and if you’ve ever been in a dive bar in the afternoon and seen the people that were there at that time, you know it’s kind of depressing. None of the crazy people I had heard about all my life were there. No one was doing anything zany or hilarious.
     So I went home somewhat disillusioned, but that didn’t last long. Soon I was listening to my parents tell more stories about the wild goings on at Romolo’s, and I just figured I needed to go there late at night to experience all the fun. It was kind of a goal of mine to grow up and someday get to drink at Romolo’s, which is a weird goal for any 8 year old to have.
     I never did get to do that. We moved to Texas when I was 13, and Romolo’s allure faded. By the time I was old enough to go drink, Romolo’s was long gone. So I found my own hangouts and my own crazy friends, and did my drinking there. Still, most nights I never found it to be as fun and magical as I imagined my parent’s nights at Romolo’s. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why in my 20’s and 30’s I always wanted to keep the party going. I drank way too much back then, and was up for anything, because I kept waiting for that wonderful experience my parents seemed to have had.
     Then one day, about 20 years ago, it dawned on me that maybe my parents had better experiences because of who they were. They love people, I am more leery of them. They find happiness in everyday things, I have very unrealistic expectations. They are open and engaging, I can be kind of scowling and perpetually annoyed. I guess Romolo’s was a great experience and good times for them precisely because they were who they were, not because of where they were.
     So I still have this weird vision of Romolo’s in my head. I still think back fondly on the stories and the people who populated them. I still wish I had a place like Romolo’s to go to sometimes. I guess it turns out that Romolo’s exists inside you, it’s not really a place or a time in history. If you’re that kind of person, Romolo’s is wherever you want it to be. So for the last 20 years, that’s the kind of person I have been trying to be, just some guy trying to enjoy life and tap into his inner Romolo’s.

Love And Other Lies

I wrote this four years ago.

I want to preface this by saying that the issues I bring up here are generalized and put forth as examples, and no particular one describes anything specific that happened to anyone I have dated or known.  I am not trying to expose anything that was ever said to me in confidence, so I use examples made of a conglomeration of experiences I've had with many people. They are very real problems faced by people everyday.  In some cases their own experiences were not nearly as bad as the examples I cite.   In some cases the real stories are much much worse. (If you are a man, you should sit down and have an honest talk with any women in your life and you might be horrified to learn what they have had to deal with in their lives.)
It is a tightrope I sometimes walk with my writing, I feel comfortable telling complete strangers intimate things about myself and that inadvertently involves people in my orbit, and if it upsets them, I apologize. I am trying to concentrate on the effect here, not the specific cause.  This is not a big "Fuck You" to anyone.
Also, to any past girlfriend that might end up reading this, I realize not every relationship I had was like this, but most of them were.  No matter what, I don't regret anything or harbor any ill will towards anyone.  Not ever.  I hope all of you feel the same towards me.

Love And Other Lies

So a month or so ago another relationship came to an end.  I loved her very much.  We almost made it a year, then out of the blue it ended.  By virtue of being 50 I have had plenty of girlfriends in my life. They were all very special to me, but unfortunately fate and poor judgment dictated the outcome in most of them.  I’m not sure why, but I have always picked women that just weren’t ready or weren’t capable of doing what it takes to be in a real relationship.  Real relationships take work and sacrifice sometimes, they demand that you put the other person’s needs before your own at times, and trust that they will do the same for you. 

Trust. That’s a big one. 

Everyone has been hurt at some point or another by someone they loved or thought would protect them.  Some of us have been hurt in imaginable ways though.  Physically beaten by a parent or a partner that is supposed to love you and protect you.  Sexually abused by someone close when you are a child, or raped by a complete stranger when you are older.  I have had people tell me things that I have a hard time even thinking about now, and I wonder how they lived through it. These experiences leave scars and damage that in some cases even the victims can’t see, or in many cases don’t want to.  I have sat while some people told me about their childhood and how good it was as I cringed inside about the dysfunction and abuse they describe.  Sometimes it’s not even abuse that does the damage, but neglect.  I can’t blame them for acting badly in response to something traumatic and unthinkable that happened to them in the past.

Some people will say that they should get over it already, go to therapy and get some help.  Perhaps they should, but it isn’t as easy as all that.  What people don’t take into consideration is the fact that what it would involve is reliving the most horrible thing that happened to you over and over again in the hope that you will make your piece with it someday. 

Forget the fact that mental health services aren't even available to the majority of people in this country, therapy is essentially talking to someone for an hour about the most difficult thing in your life you’ve ever had to deal with, and then going home with an open wound and waiting a week until you can talk about it again.  That is not an easy thing to do, and I don’t know how you could do it without a big support system around you.

The problem is, most damaged people don’t have that.  They don’t trust people enough to let them inside.  In their experience the people that they trusted have hurt them, physically and mentally, blamed them for things that aren’t their fault, punished them for sharing their thoughts and honesty.

Which brings us to me.  I am very easy to talk to, I try not to judge, I make people feel safe.  What happens then is that women who could never trust someone before will trust me.  They fall in love, they are happy for awhile and they think that everything will be okay.  Unfortunately though, they still have all the damage inside, they are just ignoring it.  Still, they blossom, they feel so much better about themselves, and they feel freer than they have in a long time.

But …

Unfortunately no one else can solve your emotional issues for you. The unresolved issues always start creeping back in. They start examining everything you do, testing you constantly, and if their tortured psyches can latch onto any little flaw they perceive in you they will hang on to it like a dog with a bone.  Every time they bring it up it will be embellished, and much worse in their minds, and you can’t tell them anything different.  They expect more out of you than they do of themselves, and they blame you when you can’t live up to their unreal expectations. 

The primal part of their brain knows that you will fail them like everyone else they know has.  The damage is deep set, and it overrides anything logic or reality tells them.  It is like a test with no right answer. They will believe whatever they have to if it means they can justify running away, whether it’s into their delusional world where they feel safe hiding from life or to drugs or alcohol, or even to an abusive relationship where they feel they are being treated they way they deserve to be treated.

I think some of them use the fact that they broke my heart as proof to themselves that they are no good and the cycle of self-inflicted punishment and self-hatred continues. 

I want to be careful here and point out that it’s not just women, and most women are not damaged like this.  Plenty of men are just as messed up.  Ironically, it is usually these men that are the root cause of the damage that women are saddled with. 

Nor do I suffer any delusions that I am perfect in any way.  I have my own set of baggage, and my own damage.  Fortunately I somehow developed the ability to self examine everything in my life and understand that some things weren’t my fault, and the things that were my fault are forgivable. With that comes the awareness to try not to take my issues out on the people I care about.  I am very lucky in this regard. Some people are just not equipped to do this.

When the end comes, I see how much of what I thought was love was predicated on lies. Lies are tricky though.  I was guilty of talking myself into believing them because I wanted to.  The liar depends on this.  They know that people will always hear what they want to hear.  Our own good natures and desire to think that people are good at heart is sometimes our worst enemy, and a liar’s best friend.  Again, you have to remember that when damaged people lie they are not just lying to you.  Were they lying if they didn’t know it?  If they were lying to themselves?

So I can’t really blame them.  I don’t get the luxury of getting mad or hating them.  I love them and I feel sorry for them.  I sincerely hope that they figure it out, and if they can be happy with someone else someday, good for them.  It hurts, but I would rather see them at peace, even if it’s not with me.  Understanding other people and forgiving the things they do to you is painful, and leaves you swimming in the wreckage they leave in their wake, knowing you will never get closure or peace.  It’s something that they just can’t give you, and you have to accept it and try to live with it. 

That’s what I’m doing now. Again.  Past history tells me I’ll live through it this time, just like I did all the others.  I spend some of my time replaying things and wondering if I could have done anything different, but I know I couldn’t have.  Even if I had averted disaster this time, the following days would have brought more drama and turbulence, and ultimately the same result would come to pass.  The only thing wisdom has brought me is to not hang on to something that’s gone and cause myself more grief and pain. 

It’s little solace.

I also spend a lot more time examining myself and wondering why my relationships tend to follow these patterns. Do I just attract broken people?  Am I too gullible and trust too much?  Do I have self esteem issues myself and think a well adjusted girl wouldn’t want me?  I pick at all my faults over and over.  I am not afraid of being alone, although I do get lonely.  I like sharing things with someone, I like being close to someone, I like the contact and intimacy that comes with being exclusive to one person.  Do I see it where it doesn’t really exist? 

I don’t know, relationships are hard.  They are impossible when the other person is working against you. 

I sometimes feel time is running out for me.  As I said, I am 50 and most of my life has been lived at this point, barring some incredible medical breakthroughs.  I know plenty of people find love later in life, but the odds are greatly diminished. 

I will keep at it though, I’m sure.  I have always kept an open mind and I do my best not to project past relationships onto new ones.  I start them all with a clean slate.  I don’t get suspicious, or negative or jealous or possessive. I wouldn’t even start a new relationship if I felt that way.  I would be better off alone then in a situation where I thought the person I loved was lying and scheming from the start.  I know I am capable of giving love.  I am kind, generous to a fault and I feel I always make life better for the people I care about.  I guess I just have to wait until I find someone who can do the same. I know they exist, I’ve seen it.

Perhaps the trick is to get rid of any illusions of what love is.  I see other couples that are in long term, loving relationships and not one of them is exactly the same as the other.  Love is something different to everyone, and it’s never the same as we’ve been shown in movies and on TV shows since we were kids.  I look at some relationships and think I would never want that for myself, but the people involved seem happy and fulfilled.  I see other long term relationships that seem like a disaster, where the people don’t seem happy at all, and yet they still go on. 

I suppose that somewhere out there is someone for me. In the meantime, I just have to keep on working on myself so when she comes along I’ll be ready to give her the best that that I can.  Then maybe in her I’ll find the closure I’ve been denied all these years.

*A little epilogue to this whole thing: I wrote this over four years ago, and I have had it sitting in limbo as a draft on this blog since then.  I wasn't sure if I was getting my points across the way I intended.  I didn't want it to seem like some misogynist, women are psychos kind of thing, because that is not how I feel at all. I think I'm probably damaged as well, and even though I will convince myself that I am in a relationship with a complete and capable person, my subconscious knows I am not.  It seeks them out, and that surely must be some fucked up self esteem thing I have going on.  Or maybe I think it's romantic to try to save people, I don't know.  It's something I am working on, and to be honest, I'm not sure if I'm really that much better.
I also wasn't sure it was fair to post it.  As I said up top, I share a lot about myself online, but I don't feel right sharing things about other people that they might not want out there.  They aren't my secrets to share.  Reading it now, I really don't see anything in here that is a betrayal or too specific.  There are a lot of horrific and specific examples and stories I could tell, and I have pretty much avoided them all.  It was still very raw when I wrote it, so I wanted to wait a bit to see if it was something I really wanted to put out there, and then it kind of faded over time.
In the four years since this breakup, we got back together, but she wasn't even the same person.  She was much worse, and really treated me horribly.  There were a lot of lies and verbal and physical abuse, all kinds of things that mentally unstable people do.  I kept trying to help her, trying to fix everything, hoping the woman I loved would somehow magically return.  She didn't.  It just kept getting worse.  I ended up watching her life completely fall apart, and I got myself into a lot of debt trying to help her out.  I am still paying it off. 
If any of you reading this are in any kind of relationship with someone with the kind of severe mental health issues I've experienced, my heart goes out to you.  It is a brutal and thankless job, and it almost never ends well.  Having lived through it, and tried my best to help, I can honestly say that in my opinion, if the other person isn't trying at all to help themselves, you should walk away if you can.  That's what I ended up doing two years ago.  It still hurts, but I truly believe I would be dead by now if I didn't.  I wasn't helping her, and every other aspect of my life was suffering, severely.
There is nothing you can do for someone who doesn't want to help themselves.  Period.  There are no ifs, ands or buts about it.  You can't fix them if they are fighting you.  If you are in a position to have them committed, then that might help, but usually what ends up happening is that they get out in a few days and resent you for it.  God forbid if they are violent, because they will make you pay. 
My heart breaks for parents of children with severe maladies like schizophrenia and paranoia and other bipolar issues.  So many of them simply get to watch their children live in torment, until one day, they don't.  Then they live the rest of their lives with questions and guilt, and an empty space that can never be filled.
I'm going to stop here, because this is opening up a lot of old wounds for me, and while I might be pretty adept at laying this all out there for everyone, it really takes its toll.  All I can say to anyone reading is to try to be kind.  To everyone.  To the people who love you, to the people who have hurt you, to those closest to you, and to the strangers you meet everyday.  You don't know what they are dealing with, be it their own mind working against them, or having someone in their lives they are trying to help with it.  They might not be dealing with any of that, but they could still be heartbroken, bereaved, scared, lonely, anxious, stressed out from tragedy or simply daily life.  Simple kindness from you might make all  the difference to them.  They might not get it from anyone else in their life.
Would you deny them that as well?