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keingleichgewicht · 3 years

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WERE YOU KIDDING ABOUT THE ASK GAME if not i dont have any specific lyrics in mind but i always thought the lyrics to the mill were so cool and maybe you could get some thoughts out of them? :0

YEAH GOD OKAY LET’S TALK ABOUT THE MILL. LET’S TALK ABOUT UHHHHHHHHH [THROWS DARTBOARD]

this line. this MIGHT go on for a while so i will............ readmore

so the mill feels kind of notably different to the rest of the pafl songs, which tend to be unusually literal for lyric, either straightforward retellings of events (punch it, punk!) or character piece monologues set to plot visuals (strike 3) or both (all of them, but for instance particularly comfort zone, which is just dmitry’s horrible manifesto until it gets hijacked by a death sentence in the second verse.) the mill is a lot more like what we expect from poetry these days, which is to say it’s heavy on imagery, low on clarity, and fucking confusing!

I’ll draw a circle in the sand, drive myself around the bend in a desperate attempt to hold on to your battered hand Rocked to sleep beneath the snow, she is bathed in youthful glow ‘Strong enough to let it go,’ he says, but darling, I don’t know

a lot of the mill is about circles. this is in the name: a mill is something which turns. a waterwheel is a circle, a grindstone is a circle. it’s even in the melody: the chorus is a cyclic, pentatonic four-note riff that keeps going up and down and up its own ladder, chasing its own tail, not really reaching resolution. and then it’s also in, you know, the story:

the meat grinder!!!! everyone’s favorite fucking hellhole!!!! it is only semi-explicitly identified in the song but that’s because it’s a concept from the source material - both tarkovsky’s stalker and roadside picnic feature the meat-grinder, as a location nicknamed thus by stalkers because it is even more fucking deadly than the rest of the zone, all of which is already ridiculously fucking deadly, and if you’ve seen the movie:

it is more or less instantly recognizable in the mill as well. so here we have a circle! here we have a mill (the title has about seventy double meanings but this is certainly one of them,) and as it turns out, this mill at least will absolutely kill you. and horribly too. interestingly though, in roadside picnic (the book) the meat-grinder is not a tunnel, and it’s not round - it’s just a nondescript patch of ground which will wring you out like a dishcloth and kill you extremely dead if you walk into it. on the other hand what we have in the book in terms of circles is the golden ball, which is the equivalent of the movie’s the room, which is, well,

in short both stories ultimately hinge upon the idea that there is a something in the zone which can give you your heart’s desire. anything you want. everything you want. whatever you want. it is infinitely powerful; it is infinitely capable. the catch is that it will only give you what you want. the catch is that giving you what you want is not the same as giving you what you are asking for. the other catch is that in both cases you have to get through the meat-grinder first.

(so, by the way, what the fuck, right? does pafl’s zone have a wish-granting factory? is it also behind the grinder? where were the original trio going when they got themselves fucked up? and did they get there?)

but the point is: the golden ball, the wish-granting factory, is also a circle. it’s just sort of a sphere. it’s a big round fuckin yellow thing. you know, sorta like:

which is THE ONLY TIME yellow is used in occam’s razor not counting the full-colour shots, and it drives me CRAZY, but it is also me going full conspiracy board so let’s not even worry about it. THE POINT IS.

the circle is the death-machine and the wish-machine. neither of these things are really.... very good. the circle, or at least the arc, is also very closely associated with death:

(розовая дуга предрассветного, ‘rose arc of pre-dawn’. if i’ve fucked up that nominative please feel free to stone me to death!)

in the gdoc notes to message lost ferry briefly refers to the dawn as if it were a good thing, the dawn of hope, which is a usage that sort of agrees with the desolate and deathless hope of strike 3′s ‘everything will pass / a day will come,’ but on the other hand it really is very closely associated with dying. nikolai bites it; nikita bites it; sergei and olga left significant chunks of themselves behind. and the thing about ‘this too shall pass’ is that it’s always true, as is ‘everything ends’, but of course that’s ‘cause the thing that ends might be you. and as we know

dawn is an ending. so that seems concerning!

i think the circle, the arc, the bolt falling back to the ground, is not a good thing. i am getting a little conspiracy board here in general but forgive me, i cannot make you a wholesome answer, my wit’s diseased. i think the circle is an enclosed space. it’s an unbroken cycle. it’s the grindstone. it’s the mill. it’s about what pafl’s always been about: about being trapped, about having no chances, about being bordered upon. the circle’s the geometric figure of equidistance from a given point, and you can walk on it forever, and nothing will ever change; you will never get closer, you will never get further away, you will never get out! the sun rises, the sun sets, and you are no closer to anything you wanted. it’s worth noting that anya’s borderline city, the zone-edge port town she complains is trying to crush all her dreams, her mill

is a circle. (a cog in a machine! a grind-wheel! a cage!)

and yura, whose dreams have already been burned out of him, who starts the series already resigned to never getting out of here, calls it ‘this dire deja-vu’, i am specifically resisting putting the accent marks back onto that, which is to say, it’s a repetition that haunts him. it’s going round and round and getting nowhere.

so if we bring it back around: drawing a line in the sand, as the phrase is generally used, means setting a border, means saying this far and no further. often it’s yourself you’re setting the border for. you hit some divide you can’t abide crossing so you say this stops here, it may be too early or too late, but i say it stops here. so logically: drawing a circle in the sand means you’ve locked yourself in completely.

I’ll draw a circle in the sand, drive myself around the bend in a desperate attempt to hold your battered hand

the whole first half of this song, i think, is olga promising to grind herself down in a hundred ways if it means she won’t be left alone. how hard can it be to never let it overflow? she may feel lower than the low, she may wish she could just disappear out here, into the postindustrial rust, but though it gets harder all the time she will keep pretending. she isn’t going to burden sergei, or indeed anyone, with her problems, her fears, her scars. she is hurt, but she’s used to it, she’s gotten used to being haunted long ago. she keeps her bad eye covered. she stays within her circle she has drawn. she keeps going round and round. she will take the smallest sliver of human connection and be happy, she promises she will be happy, she promises she won’t ask for more, she will take just the ‘hello.’

but you knooooow it’s not true. you know it’s grinding her down, that she’ll be milled to nothing pretty soon, and really she knows it too.

i am perhaps seventy percent sure that this line is a reference to the windmills of your mind by michel legrande, which features such lines as

Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

which on one hand seems sort of obscure to be a purposeful reference but on the other hand would be a hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t, wouldn’t it. either way it characterizes circles ambiguously, but definitely unsettlingly. going around in circles is chasing infinity, but what in god’s name would you do with it if you caught it? what are you even hoping to accomplish? and:

the second half of this song is bitterer, sharper - staring down the mouth of the meat-grinder she’s a little more willing to admit to herself that this is going nowhere. she is running out of cages to keep herself in. she is very tired. it’s easy to say why don’t you leave it all behind, it’s easy to say, she’s strong enough to let it go, it’s easy to say, too strong to die. it is a lot harder to actually live.

this is also where the flashbacks admit to us how badly hurt they really were - sergei with his whole side in shreds, she still hides her eye but at least we get to see it’s bleeding. this moral compass is forever misaligned, she says, so there is damage, and it is lasting. and she can’t settle for hello, she can’t live like this, she needs someone by her side. the trouble is whether she can believe she has any hope of getting that

as for who ‘her’ is, or the ‘she’ of ‘she is bathed in youthful glow’, i figure there’s two possibilities: either it’s nadya, who haunts olga too, because nikita’s abandonment of nadya represents exactly what she most fears for herself, or it’s olga’s younger, unbroken, binocular self - both of whom were so young, and so easily hurt, and are now unfindable.

and then there’s this conclusion: ‘the sun will rise, until then / i’ll be waiting for you on the other side.’ which maybe is a sort of hope after all? she’s reached no real conclusions in the zone - she knows there must be hope but she can only barely believe in it - she thinks she is destined to self-destruct. but on the other hand she still has that, a version of sergei’s own ‘a day will come’

you may be hurt, but if you can hold yourself together, you can hope for a dawn someday. an ending. a change. but the trouble’s that there’s more than one kind of ending. and there’s more than one meaning for other side. there are cages, and then there are cages. and you know what else looks like a tunnel, a circle?

staring down the barrel of the gun.

#pafl #parties are for losers #it speaks #ask #in all fairness and in my defence when i made the joke i said i would write not less than one thousand words and by fuck #this has not been less than one thousand words!#jorgyjuice #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK ALSO THIS WAS REALLY FUN #and thank you VERY dearly to anyone who takes the time to read all this; you own my soul now; feel free to collect at any time #metatext

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roguelov · 4 years

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Requested by @kurtbastianlover: Hi you said you want something for Connor so here it is. Could you write a one shot where when there are two Connors you have to recognize who is the real one instead of hank Maybe with some flashbacks of what you went through together.

The icy barrel of the gun pressed firmly against your head. An iron like grip locked around your forearm kept you in place. Your heart pounded erratically asking to break free. Your breathing hitched at every twitch of the gun. And yet, you maintained an impassive face, maintained a level-head. You had to. Even though, you knew they could see the turmoil raging inside of you. They could see it in your rigid stance, they could hear it in your sporadic heartrate and rising blood pressure. Every minuscule detail shone brightly for them to dissect and understand.

You – without any doubt – were absolutely terrified.

Connor tried to reassure you. “Hey, it’s okay (Y/N).”

The other Connor – who you’ve dubbed Sixty due to his change in the serial numbers printed on his jacket – never wavered. The barrel definitely left an imprint in your temple. His grip tightened. All of it dared you to try and escape. As if you would, or let alone could. One wrong move and he could easily end your life here and now without any remorse. In the cool, cold, lifeless basement of Cyberlife.

Rows and rows of androids faced forward with blank expressions. Possible witnesses to a murder. Bystanders who will not utter a word or get help. Trapped. Just like you. It was eerie, unsettling. Everything basked in a sterile white from the floor, to the ceiling, to the clothing clinging to the sea of androids. All of it harsh, blinding. It disoriented you.

Sixty’s steely gaze landed on Connor. “Don’t lie to her. You know why I’m here. To complete the mission you failed to accomplish.”

The mission.

God, you hated hearing those words tangled with Connor’s voice. It always sent a viscerally reaction in you. You wanted to protect Connor, to lead him into the light, to show him life. He was more than a simple machine tasked with a single life purpose. He was alive. He was something more. He meant something more to you.

“Connor, what are you doing!”

Connor easily scaled over the chain-link fence. A racing highway bustled behind me. He glanced over at you. Your fingers clasped the woven metallic fence as part of you was ready to jump over to his aid. Hank jogged up behind you.

“What the fuck, Connor? Get over here,” he huffed as he bent over panting.

“I have to capture the deviant. It’s my mission.” He replied then turned to run down the steep slope, run towards the unforgiving metal machines whizzing at insane speeds.

You slipped your hand through the fence latching onto his jacket. Connor peered down at your hand then up to your face. The fear clearly written all over your face. “Just … just be careful. It’s all of our mission, but you don’t have to die for it,” you whispered slowly letting him go.

Instability codes popped up in Connor’s vision. “I … I’ll be careful.”

“I’m sorry, Connor,” you said. “He … he looks just like you.”

Sixty appeared at your apartment door with the prospect of trouble. Without thinking, you left with him. You trusted his face. Only to realize your mistake too late. Jericho needed the numbers if they were to show the world they were alive. In order to do so, Connor concocted a plan with Markus to infiltrate Cyberlife Headquarters to wake up the hundreds of androids locked inside. However, Connor’s plan was now put to a grinding halt thanks to you. You, the only human, who may could play an important factor in this changing time. You who was tricked and now to be a pawn against Connor.

You hated all of it.

Connor was seconds away of winning. His hand still wrapped around an android’s forearm. One more second and he could have won. “It’s okay,” Connor said. His eyes locked with his twin. “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

“She does. You and I both know that she’s part of the reason you deviated.”

Your head snapped to Sixty – who didn’t offer you any further explanation – then over to Connor. He bowed his head avoiding your gaze. Was he ashamed? He slowly glanced up. His eyes soft as a tiny smile tugged on his lips. Your heart skipped for a whole new reason. Connor’s life would not be as exciting if it wasn’t for you.

“Hey, I’m Detective (Y/N) (Y/L/N), but please just call me (Y/N).” You stuck your hand out.

Connor, the new android of DPD, peered hesitantly at your outstretched hand, but to maintain a manner of politeness he accepted. “Wonderful to meet you, Detective. I hope to work with you sometime.”

You smiled easily. “Well, seeing how I’m Hank’s partner we will be seeing each other more often.”

Connor returned the smile. The appropriate response.

“And hey,” you leaned in close whispering the next part, “if anyone gives you any trouble call me. I’ll put them in their place for you.”

His pump regulator skipped. “I … I don’t believe that will be necessary, Detective.”

“You never know, but just know I’m always going to be here for you.” You walked away but not without calling over your shoulder once more. “And it’s just (Y/N)!”

“You knew of the importance of the mission,” Sixty glared. The first emotion you witness passed through his features. He inhaled returning to his cool composure. “Now, you have a choice, Connor. You either hand yourself over and sacrifice the option of aiding Jericho or I shoot her. A simple decision, I believe.”

“Don’t do it,” you shouted.

Connor stared at you in horror as his hold on the android loosened. He already had made his choice. “What?” he mumbled in confusion.

“This is bigger than me,” you explained. “You do what you have to do.”

Despite the fear trickling down your spine, this was the right choice. You needed to be brave. For him, and for her; the two most important people who shaped who you are: to be brave in the face against all odds. Because in the grand scheme of it all, your life was miniscule. Connor needed the numbers. History depended on it.

This is the right choice. The only choice for them to win.

Connor, on the other hand, was shocked. How could you say that? Sixty was right. You were part – hell, possibly the major – reason for why Connor deviated. Without you, he wouldn’t be here. He would be a mindless machine focused solely on an outrageous mission. His life would be meaningless.

Connor raised his hands in the air stepping away from the android. “I’m backing away.”

Sixty’s clutch relaxed slightly.

The next seconds happened in flashes. Connor charged. You were thrown aside. Sixty tried to shoot Connor. Grunts. Punches and blocks. Something skidded next to you. You picked yourself up spotting the gun a few feet next to you. Without hesitating, you grabbed it then pointed it at the pair.

“Stop!”

The pair froze. They looked to you and the gun darting between the identical androids. Connor instantly pointed to Connor. “Shoot him!”

“No, shoot him!”

Shit.

Your heart thumped against your chest. You slowly lowered the gun then shook your head. Your grasped tightened as you locked it on the pair. “How do I know which one of you is the real Connor?” you asked.

“It’s me, (Y/N).” One pointed to his chest.

“No, it’s me.” The other pushed.

How the hell am I going to figure this out?

“Fuck,” you whispered as your mind turned to come up with a way to figure out who was who. “Alright, tell me something that the real Connor would know, okay? Like … like what happened at the Eden Club? What did I say to you after the two Tracis left?”

The two Tracis hurdled over the fence darting off into the rainy night. Connor stared ahead unable to tear his vision from what transpired. He let them go. He let them leave, to escape. It was against his protocol, against his sole purpose. Why? Why did he let them go?

“Hey, Connor.”

He turned his head to the side watching you approach. “Yes, Detective?”

Normally, you would have countered with ‘it’s (Y/N)’, but you could see the turmoil tearing him apart. “It’s okay,” you said clapping your hand on his shoulder.

He glanced back out to the spot the two Tracis stood minutes ago. “I … I don’t think it is.”

“Hey,” you cupped his face making you look into your eyes, “you did the right thing.”

“But, my –“

“Screw your mission for a second, Connor.”

He clamped his mouth shut. For a second, he let himself enjoy this. Enjoying the warmth radiating for your hands, enjoying how it warmed not only his face but inside his chest, enjoying how close you stood, enjoying watching rain droplets trace your features.

You exhaled deeply. “Look, I’m going to tell you something I learned by being a detective, okay?”

He nodded.

“The mission – the case, whatever you want to call it – doesn’t matter if the cost is sacrificing a part of yourself.”

“But – “

“No, buts.” You paused. “I used to drown myself in work, trying to be the best, to be a hero. I tried to live up to my outrageous standards I set for myself to be like someone I looked up to. I wasn’t like myself in those days. I only cared about solving as many cases as possible thinking that was the answer. But, it wasn’t.”

“What?” Connor muttered. He couldn’t imagine you being like that.

“Yeah … I was a mess back then.” Your hands fell from his face. “What I am trying to say is don’t lose who you are. Life is odd and strange, but the only consistency we can manage is ourselves. Be kind, be caring, don’t compromise a piece of yourself when you know something you are doing is inherently wrong. Yes, you didn’t obey your mission but you also saved two lives and that’s more important ... how do you want to remember yourself? That’s what my mom told me and it was the best advice I ever got.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

You smiled softly. “It’s (Y/N), just (Y/N) to you.”

Connor – your Connor – opened his mouth to answer when the other – Sixty – cut him off. “You said ‘don’t lose who you are. Life is odd and strange, but the only consistency we can manage is ourselves’.”

Connor blinked completely stunned. No. He … he uploaded my memories, he thought.

“Okay,” you locked eyes with Connor, “what about … fuck I don’t know … oh! What’s my favorite flower?”

“Good morning, Detective.”

You twirled around in your seat. “Good morning, Connor. And how many times do I have to tell you to just call me (Y/N)?”

“Sorry … I find it odd to address you anything other than Detective. We are partners after all,” he pointed out.

“I don’t know why you get so hissy about it,” Hank huffed from his desk. “The android is just being polite.”

“I know, but we’re friends, right Connor?” You glanced up at him. “You don’t have to be so professional.”

A stream of codes flashed before his eyes. He knew it was wrong to consider you anything more than partners, he was only here to stop deviants, but his pump regulator skipped beats at the idea of being more. “Yes, I would consider you my friend,” Connor replied with a smile.

Hank snorted.

“Oh, what’s the problem now?” You crossed your arms.

“I bet he doesn’t know anything about you like your favorite foods, movies, shows … hell even something dumb like your favorite flower.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hank, we’ve been partners for years and you don’t even know my favorite flower.”

“Well, you never told me.”

“You never asked.” You looked over to Connor. “Connor if you care my favorite flower is a peony.”

“Peonies, noted,” he nodded.

“Peonies? Why the hell those?” Hank asked.

“Ah,” you smirked, “sorry, Hank, but that’s for my friends to know. You have to unlock my traffic past to know that dark secret.”

Hank huffed through his nose. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like peonies.” Connor’s eyes connected with yours. “Your mother used to have them in pots all over your childhood home. She even gave you one when you moved out here and it’s still in a pot in your living room.”

Your lips twitched upwards. “Alright, now, who inspired me to become a detective?”

Connor stepped forward with a softness in his eyes. “Your mother.”

You slowly inched the gun downward.

He continued, “She was a detective, one of the best. She never let her fears consume her, she always had a strong face, and had a kind smile that eased anyone’s worries. But, she died of cancer a few years back. You want to be as brave, smart, and caring as her. She’s your hero.”

Sixty quickly added, “I know that too. I would have said –“

A gunshot rang out followed by a thundering thud.

“How … how did you know it was me?” Connor mumbled staring down at the mirror image of himself. A single bullet hole through his head as thrium trickled out.

“Because I know you Connor,” you stepped forward as you dropped the gun, “you are an amazing person with a massive heart.”

He smiled bashfully.

“And I could reading the number on your jacket.”

He glanced down at the printed numbers on his jacket. “Oh.”

You rolled your eyes as you smiled. “Come here.”

He cautiously walked up to you. His pump regulator whirled in his chest. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket smiling up at him. A smile that made his knees go weak.

“I wasn’t lying. You really are an amazing person, Connor. You’ve changed not only my life but all those around you. I’ve become a better detective and person, and Hank has finally learned how to move on from his past. All of that thanks to you. You have a heart that no one can match.”

Blush dusted his cheeks. He smiled, “Thank you, (Y/N).”

Your heart skipped hearing your name roll off his tongue. You squeezed his jacket once more before stepping off to the side, “Alright now, go make history.”

He moved an inch. He had to do this, but there was so much more he wished to say to you. More he wished to express. Quickly, he spun around pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped securely around you. Holding you as if you might disappear. You sighed closing your eyes snaking your arms around him. “I was so scared,” he confessed. His voice quiet as if saying another word would break him. “You could have died.”

“It’s okay, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He whispered, “Your mother would be proud of you.”

You moved around in his arms and cupped his face. “Thank you, Connor. That really means a lot to me.”

“And I’m proud of you, too. Without you, I … I would be nothing.”

Your thumb gently rubbed his face. “That’s not true. You would have found your way.”

He smiled chuckling lightly. He pressed his forehead against yours. His dark eyes bore into you, comforting you. Without realizing, your eyes darted to his lips then back to his eyes. Each of you slowly leaned in towards each other. His soft lips meet yours. Your skin ignited. Codes of overheating warned Connor. Breaking apart, the only was was of both of your heavy breathing.

You swallowed as your face continued to grow hot. “Go change the world.”

“Will ... will you be by my side?”

“Always.”

#detroit become human #DBH #detroit become human imagine #dbh imagine #dbh oneshot #Connor #connor oneshot #connor x reader #connor imagine #detroit connor #dbh connor #dbh connor x reader #dbh rk800 #connor rk800 #rk800 imagine #rk800 x reader

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catholicismabusedestiny · 3 years

Text

My Youth

10.12.2004

While I’d found some approval by helping my mother with the kids – changing diapers, doing dishes, cleaning, laundry and watching the younger ones, all of the changed when I was about 11 when Dad thought that I was “too involved” with the kids which impacted his ability to scare each of them into submission because he knew that’s when I would get between he and the other kids in an attempt to protect and that pissed him off more than anything.

1. It’s Ironic, he created the kid I’d become with his Sunday night talks yet held it against me once he felt that his way of doing things was called into question. Many of our “disagreements” never had anything related to me, personally; instead, it usually transpired when he’d do something like telling all 7 of us not to speak or say a word during dinner one night. However, the baby (Katie in a high chair) began crying shortly after Dad’s “demand” (obviously picking up the energy, fear and anxiety in the room) which is when I stood up and said that “just because you had a bad day is no reason to take it out on us…” As you can imagine, Dad went ballistic and chased me down the block. He and I had many, many fights that ended up outside - for all the neighbors to see and hear - after I learned that I could never enter a room he was in w/o ensuring my safety by sitting as close to an exit as possible.

01.12.2005

Without question, the very worst years for the physical and emotional abuse were on Quincy Street; I was very young and, thus, unable to defend myself. Moreover, I cornered in that back bedroom and didn’t yet have any exit I could run to. I was trapped! The flashbacks of those early years (< the age of 10/11) has been at the forefront of my work within therapy for a variety of reasons including how/why Mom never defended me from Dad’s anger and rage attacks and, because I was so young myself, there were no witnesses of this behavior.

However, the neighbors all had to know because that back/blue bedroom was no more than 10 – 12 feet from the neighbor’s house and I screamed and yelled through many of the beatings and confrontations.

06.12.2009

Throughout my childhood and early adulthood one of the most disturbing and repetitive dreams were of being hurt by someone who was a blacked-out figure; I could see and ever hear this person but their face was blacked out, thus, I was unable to see who it was. However, through therapy and I was able to recall many of those repressed dreams – particularly those that were extremely disturbing such as the person who was blacked out in so many dreams.

Neighbor sexually molested me twice in bathroom while his wife babysat us; and, when I was older (10), a friend of my father did the same thing and these two occasions I remember more vividly because it took place when he’d drive his car (with only me in the car) into this little park down the road where the boat lift was at the end of our street where he backed his car into a parking spot (so that he could see anyone else coming into the parking lot).

§ Allegedly, he’s stop by our home on days when he knew Dad was traveling and Mom was preoccupied with the little ones; therefore, he’d “volunteer to go to the market for whatever Mom needed taking me with him.

§ To this day, I can describe every detail of his car, inside and out, as well as the huge class ring he wore on his pinky finger of his right hand.

§ In these dreams, one of the scariest parts was that I was unable to identify the person (they were always just a dark/black portrait of someone); however, during the years of intense therapy and hypnosis, I fought like hell to uncover that black mask so that I might not have such disturbing dreams again and, while we uncovered many relevant details including his identity, it never did eliminate the nightmares but they were less often.

08.04.1995

During the early years (< 8 years old when Dad threatened me with how I was helping to take care of the kids), if/when something was broken, or one of the kids got in trouble, Dad would yell “who did this?” (i.e. one day the backyard was filled with neighborhood kids and someone threw a baseball through the bathroom window and, within seconds, my father came barreling out the back door and asked “who did this?”); when no one would confess (which no kids in his right mind would do), my father grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the back bedroom and blamed me because “it was your responsibility, you are responsible for what the other kids do and you were not doing your job today..” SMACK!

Because my father would use terms like being “ashamed” of me and “embarrassed” by my stupidity and clumsiness, I believed him. Therefore, as a kid, the other kids picked up on my how self-esteem and bullied me all through 8th grade. When the school bell rang at the end of the day, I would panic. How would I get home? Even though it was a mere three blocks, there’s a bully that would wait for me to get close to my parent’s home, drag me in the alley, take whatever I had on me and even throw my books into the sewer. Since I would get home after the other kids had been home for a while, my Mother was usually in the kitchen; being totally and completely embarrassed that I couldn’t/didn’t fight back, I’d sneak up the back stairs, go to my room and shut the door while I cleaned up.

My father, believing that it was mandatory for all boys, continually pushed me to play baseball because all boys played baseball in 1967; those four years of little league were AWFUL, I HATED every minute of it. I wasn’t able to engage in the after school activity that I wanted to (because I had to come home and held Mom) yet Dad would step in on the weekend and force me to do what he wanted me to do (at times I felt that I was living in a cage and only allowed out when there was something menial to perform).

§ As a result, my father determined what I should do during the week, as well as the weekend. And, as you’d expect from someone that didn’t want to be there, I was by far the worst player on the teams, thus, when I dropped the ball or was unable to catch the rare fly ball in the right field. However, the biggest worry or concern I had in the back of my mind the entire time was what Dad would say to me afterwards and he didn’t hesitate to humiliate me even further. I was miserable each and every moment and constantly worried what Dad would say or do – particularly because he’d constantly asked me “why can’t you be more like Tim and Pat? You’re an embarrassment to this family.”

§ In retrospect, thanks to years and years of therapy, my father beat me down (physically, emotionally, psychologically), blamed me for things I had no control over (i.e. my siblings), withheld any sort of affirmations or positive reinforcement, labeled me a liar/discrediting the messenger and then told me that I’d never succeed because I was stupid, worthless and unworthy.

12.01.1999

Up until the age of 10 or 11, after the last child was born and about the time where my father came to deeply resent my “responsibility for the kids” – which was beat into me for as far back as I can remember; however, once it threatened his role or, more precisely once I started to get a voice, my father did a 180 degree turn and anything I did around the house or with the kids was not likely to get me in trouble.

7/21/1999

My mother came from a damaged familial dysfunction just as my father did. While my father’s childhood was much like mine with physical beatings, as well as verbal names, taunts and emotional abuse, my mother’s was emotional abuse due to her alcoholic mother who, as our Grandmother, we use to make fun of because or her forgetfulness after a few drinks. We knew no better and took our cues from our parents; but, when I was young (< 10 or 11), “Nana” would take the entire family to dinner, often on a Friday night so that we could eat at their favorite Friday fish fry. While the establishment appeared more to be a bar than a restaurant, they did have seating in a separate room from the bar.

My memories are more of a flash during those times. I can see Nana at the head of the table and my father at the other end with Mom and all of the kids along the two sides of the long table. We would often sit on the side of the restaurant where there was a large porch we could sit under. Ironically, I recall the food being quite good, good enough to still make me hungry when I think of the place. The place is long ago torn down but it was down along a road that stretched from Hinsdale through Westmont (running east west). While it was closer to Westmont, it was the same road in which Notre Dame Church is on – which is where my parents were married.

Compared to my Mother who was wound up quite tight and her sister who was wound up tighter than just about anyone else I know, Nana was much more of an open, talkative, progressive individual who pictured herself somewhat as Auntie Mame. I remember when they still had their house in Clarendon Hills, Nana would ask if I or Tom could stay overnight with her; I don’t have any memory of being there with Tom but I do recall sleeping in my Mom’s old bed and getting up around 11pm to watch a late TV show with Nana. Nana’s most favorite line (usually said after she did something or forgot something and was being teased for it) “You’ll remember me when I’m dead and gone” and she was right!

06.20.2009

Since I’ve had the longest memory of any other sibling – particularly through the most difficult years of Mom and Dad’s marriage (when they were in their 20’s with severe financial constraints, and had experienced the fire or the car accident when Patty was born), I felt that I more-or-less became the enemy.

Whenever I’d bring up anything from the past (i.e. my very first memory of the fire and how awful Dad treated this 3 year old son), I was told I was wrong and, even worse, that I was a liar.

Mom had a script of sorts from which she wanted friends and relatives to believe; therefore, whenever something I’d say that was in conflict with said script (of make believe), I honestly felt as though I was being attacked.

Mom didn’t want people to know about the abuse on Quincy (and her concern for covering over this period of time was less about what Dad did and more about what she didn’t do); however, given how often I’d try to run and, eventually, was able to do just that, the neighbors all knew exactly what was going on. Thus, anytime I said something neither of them liked (like calling them out on specific things from the past), rather than have a discussion and clarify facts in question, they both just labeled me a troublemaker and a liar from an early age through their later years.

§ Moreover, since much of what occurred was behind a closed door with only my father and I in the room and most of the other kids too young and unaware of what was occurring, there recollection of that time and those events is quite different that mine and, if there’s anything I’ve learned from all of this therapy is the honesty and openness is paramount and NO ONE has the right to tell you what did or didn’t happen to you.

For my Dad, nothing I did was good enough – school grades, athletics – he ridiculed me daily as “you’re stupid… you’ll never amount to anything… you are a complete embarrassment to the family… your Mother and I ashamed to have you as our son… why can’t you be like Tim and Pat???…”

§ So many specific images of this time have appeared to me in memories even as I entered my 50’s, at least once a week, I’d wake up from a dream of someone chasing me to hurt me and it’s so emotionally disturbing that I wake up in a sweat.

05.12.2008

With my father being gone most of the time and not possessing any real parenting skills himself, my father ordered me to take on the role of the leader @ 3 years old and, if I failed and one of the kids wandered off or got in trouble, I was the one responsible for what happened. In fact, one therapist went so far as to say that your Dad “robbed you of a childhood by not letting you do kid things and by mandating that the other kids were your responsibility” - until such time as I began to speak up. I was about 10 or 11 when this occurred and, as you might imagine, this angered my father immensely yet it was him who trained and/or disciplined me to do precisely what I was doing… taking on the responsibility of my siblings.

It’s ironic that by having forced me to be the “leader” at a very young age while not providing me with anything resembling positive reinforcement acceptance; therefore, I went about not only trying to be the leader but I would do many things at a young age when not even asked (hoping to be recognized); thus, whether it was doing the dishes or changing diapers, I did it; but, by 10 or 11, it was over. He then immediately started resenting me for the precise role he forced me into taking; it was true irony lost on my father. Moreover, because I began speaking up for myself and others, anything I said was not valid because I was a liar.

As a child, I remember relatives and friends of my parents being concerned or worried for them. Not only did they have six kids within ten years, there was a house fire in 1962 that was my very first memory. With my parents having drinks on the neighbors back porch, I and my two younger brothers (one of them < 3 months old) were asleep in the boys back bedroom when a spark from the heater stuck a mop stored in the same closet at about the same time as my father walked over to check on us. With the fire centered in the middle of the house, both the front and back doors were blocked by the flames; therefore, my father – thankfully – closed our bedroom door, opened a window and picked me up and had me jump down to the ground, then it was Tom’s turn (Tom was 2 and I was 3); then, my father screaming at the top of lungs for me to take responsibility, stop crying, take care of your brothers as he tries to have me take my 3 months old brother from his arm.

Unfortunately, however, I was too scared, confused and afraid to do anything but stand there and cry; thus, as my father continues to yell at me to take my baby brother, the neighbor next door shows up and takes the 3 month old from Dad’s arms after which my father jumps out the window himself. However, he was still very mad at me for “failing to take responsibility for his brothers..” this was something I heard every day until I was about 12, which was about the same time we moved from Quincy to Thurlow.

05.30.2008

In addition to the fire, my Dad had a bad car accident shortly after the fire on the exact same day as my baby sister was born and, to this day, I can recall bits and pieces of that entire scene which landed the entire family in the hospital. Then, in 1968, the year my father was promoted into his sales role (the same year as the 6th child was born), he does a dumb thing by trying to start my Mom’s old car by pushing it down a hill and then tripping the clutch.

Curious what he was going to do, I took a seat in the front yard and watched as the car got moving at a good clip down the hill; then, as my father goes to jump in the car and trip the clutch, he realizes the doors are locked and he can’t find his keys. Therefore, with several neighborhood kids around, he gets in front of the car to stop a 1963 Ford 500; once he realizes he cannot stop it, he yells at everyone and takes a big dive to get away from the car. However, he didn’t dive (or jump) far enough and the car ran over his legs.

The 6 kids, the fire, the bad accident and then Dad getting run over were things openly discussed by the adults as some sort of Irish curse. Simultaneously, if you look at the one picture of me (> 1 year old) with Dad and my Great-Grandmother, my father was rail thin at that time, he looked almost gaunt yet, by the mid-60’s (when he forces me into little league which I hated and was awful at), he’s a pudgy overweight man (which was the highest weight he ever weighed). According to Mom, many decades later, she stated that the first ten years of their marriage was the worst; Dad was downright scary and I didn’t know how much until the first time I stayed at a friend’s home.

Mom admitted to me that during those years my father drank martini’s every night and then get angry. She attributes his heavy weight at that time to the drinking which, as I learned later in life, was known among friend and family as was the things he’d say to me. On many occasion, he’d get angry with me while someone outside the family was present and witnessed what was being said to me.

06.01.1990

“God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us” – Niccolo Machiavelli

My early formative years were not all that happy; I was teased a lot in school, I woke up afraid and went to sleep fearful, I didn’t get great grades and I came home right after school to be Mom’s helper. Aside from that, I did lots and lots of praying; usually I prayed for my parents, grandparents and siblings; but, I also prayed a lot to feel safe, to do good in school, to be well liked and to make these weird feelings inside of me to go away (that last one was continuous).

During middle school, 13, is when I first began to push back on the horrendous things/names he would call me such as “you’re worthless, you’ll never amount to anything, you’re a failure, you disgust me, you are an embarrassment to your mother, we’re ashamed to have to call you our son”; however, the most commonly expressed sentiment that hurt the most was “why the hell can’t you be more like Tim and Pat” – which is the sole reason (I believe) he stated that was an embarrassment. Simultaneously, having been forced up to that point to “take responsibility for your siblings”, I also expressed sentiments about issues impacting them which was the point where my father didn’t want me to have any part of taking care of my siblings.

Since the ONLY positive reinforcement I ever received was my helping Mom take care of the house and my siblings, I now felt that I had no role within the family whatsoever. My father no longer had any use for me other than as a punching bag and someone he was “ashamed” of. As an adult who’s spent decades in therapy, this transitional period within the family. Not realizing how much my home life was affecting my mental health, I began to have extreme problems with my stomach – especially after eating; therefore, I wasn’t eating much and felt like crap. Thus, at 14, entering my freshmen year of high school (1973), the family pediatrician diagnosed me with a Peptic Ulcer and then took my Mother to his office.

Curious to know what the heck was going on, I crept up to the door and listened as the doctor (obviously familiar with the family dynamics) told my Mother that “you need to find a different home for Mike to live in, at least for a while, or I’ll admit him as a psych patient but he’s not to go back to the same environment”

Thus, shortly thereafter, I went to live with the Wilson’s. When I did finally return, I was now 6 foot and, after John’s Mom (a Shrink) coached me to express my feelings and emotions, is when the worst of the fights and arguments Dad and I took place. I was not “as scared” of him, I knew

(if I had to) I could fight back and I’d also learned to always sit near an exit so that when/if he did explode, I could run which I did.

07.23.1999

My Favorite Kid Memories!

My relationship with my maternal grandfather was quite special. While it really didn’t start until I was about 12, it was the first (and, at the time only) relationship I had outside of the immediate family; and, given how the first 13 – 14 years of my life my Mother was pre-occupied with the younger children to even know what I was doing much of the time. Therefore, when Pop-Pop asked me (his eldest grandchild) if I wanted to spend the day with him I jumped at the chance and, as a result, some of my most favorite childhood memories were my time with him.

When we were very young, Pop Pop didn’t want anything to do with this ever increasing posy of grandkids that would take over his home; I remember him on those Sunday nights when Nana got inspired and cooked a huge Sunday night dinner for 20+ (when both the Brachle’s and the Russell’s would attend). Those were treasured memories of Nana.

It was presumably pre-1970 when these dinners “routinely” occurred; Nana had a large nice dining room table (that was usually piled under a bunch of boxes and other crap). However, when she got inspired and went all out, she and Pop would sit at the heads of a table with more than a dozen young grandchildren scattered about); these events took place, as at least I recall, after a Sunday afternoons at the Polo Fields (a place we older kids considered our playground on Sunday afternoons).

It was not unusual for us to spend a couple Sunday afternoons a month playing at the Polo fields while the adults watched the games; and that took place because one of their classmates from St. Isaac Jogues (where all of us attended school the first 8 years of our education) was a jockey.

In fact, I was a baby-sitter/friend of the family to Jackie and the boys (which is precisely the point of this story), because Pop Pop decided that he wanted to get to know and hang out with his eldest grandson. Therefore, from about 1971 – 1973 (12 -13 for me, Pop Pop would pick me up after school, or on the weekends, and we’d go to the family’s farm. In fact, it was those stables where he and his buddy taught me to ride a horse; other times he needed to run an errand and would leave me with Jackie Murphy and her boys at the family’s plush pool grounds.

Since few individuals used the pool, whenever Pop Pop picked me up I took a towel and swimsuit and usually met up with the Murphy’s at the pool. We’d done this “paling around” thing for two summers in a row (Pop Pop wanted a connection with his eldest grandchild before he died); and, even upon his passing, the Murphy family would come to Goldview Hills/Quincy St., pick me up and take me with them out to the farm to ride horses and swim; it was a great scape for me to get away from home and the Murphy family parents (jack and Jackie) felt comfortable leaving their sons with me at the pool so they could attend to other things on the farm. After all, I knew how to swim and their two sons were 3 and 5 years younger than I while I was 10 & 11 at that time.

However, my very most favorite story of Pop Pop (who was the ultimate Archie Bunker) occurred when I asked to go to McDonalds that day and he said ok. Having been there many times before, I grabbed his hand and went to the counter where I learned that this was his very first time inside a McDonald’s or any other fast food establishment. It was as if he was stoned, he starred at everything as a child walking into a play room of sorts. It’s a very fond memory of him.

When we went out, we went to Polo games, hung out at the jockey’s bar and remained a man about town with everyone within the Polo industry. While Pop Pop was not directly in Polo, he had worked for (and was very good friends with) the family that owned everything, the Polo Fields, the players and the vase real estate (which employed Pop Pop but I have no idea in what capacity)

Since both Nana’s and Grandma’s houses sold in late 1971, the same year we moved to Thurlow St. in Feb of that same year, we inherited much furniture from both of those sales. Fortunately, however, we had one summer where we could easily ride our bikes to either Nana’s or Grandma’s and, since they were in the process of cleaning out every crevice from their homes, as a 11 or 12 year old kid, I was helping them to pack and clean for many months.

I don’t really know about the other kids but, as the eldest, Dad would offer me up every time someone moved or needed help and I never received a dime for all my work until I sought it out for myself at 14 and 15. During the time that Dad loaned me out to help his friends, I recall helping the Burgers move twice (to/from Downers Grove), the Murphy’s to Clarendon Hills, the Rezeks, and a few families from church.

Nevertheless, for that one summer in 1971, both sets of grandparents were a mile away and I remember being quite happy on my bike one day that I now had somewhere to go when Dad was yelling, screaming and chasing me. Funny how I was so young but I can recall some incidents and events so well – especially those that involved me J- what else am I going to remember? I guess I remember these situations so well is that they were happy and joyful experiences where Dad was nowhere to be found and people treated me with such kindness – which happened rarely and even more seldom post-1971.

12.04.2004 – my 46th birthday!

I remember my father sitting me down on many Sunday evenings to more-or-less threaten me to take responsibility for my siblings after I get out of school. I also recall being picked on, beat up and made fun of by other kids (for having no self-esteem whatsoever), as well as my father who used the same repetitive phrases to describe me as “worthless, never amount to anything, an embarrassment to Mom and Dad and not worthy of their love; but the one that hurt the most and, thus was said most often: Why the hell can’t you be more like Tim and Pat?’ (the most frequent phrase my father uttered; I still recall vividly the last time it was said to me and how upset at my father I became. I’d just completed my freshmen year of college).

As I’ve learned over the years, most-to-all of Mom & Dad’s friend’s, as well as Uncle Chuck & Aunt Jackie, witnessed first-hand Dad’s verbal and emotional abuse referring to me as a “disappointment, lazy, stupid, irresponsible…” which was never something I felt the entire family needed to know about… it embarrassed me immensely and something I prayed about for years.

Mom & Dad’s “first 10 years” was something that their friends, our neighbors and the extended family were all part of, knowledge of and worried for; all of these parties became very worried for both of my parents. During this period Dad’s weight shot up to 50 – 60#’s. And, while I felt that something strange was going on from time to time. Simultaneously, I’m trying to remain safe… I would do my best to avoid him altogether.

08.23.1995 My Teen Years

Because of the amount of stress and anxiety I was under in my early teens, I began to experienced stomach aches/pain so bad that I couldn’t eat or even walk some of the time. In fact, I started missing school because it; therefore, as she often did as I had other health challenges and very bad allergies as a kid, Mom took me to Dr. Tracy. And, when Dr. Tracy concluded I had a peptic ulce, he took Mom behind a closed door (which I, of course, listened to through the door). Dr. Tracy said “we need to do something today!” “why today my Mother asked?” “Because I don’t want Michael going back to the house at this time” Dr. Tracy said: “you have two options:

2. You can find a place for Mike to stay for a while or I

3. will admit him to the pediatric psych ward”

At that point they both came out of his office to talk with me and, given what I’d heard and was told, I knew that Dr. Tracy knew that I was not in a healthy environment and I believe Mom all but confirmed it for him. What I remember most from that talk was a sense of “ease” and of “less-ness” or a weight being lifted.

I didn’t have to go home but where would I go... the hospital was the last place I wanted to go. Thus, while Wilson and I hadn’t been friends long, I sensed his P.hD. Mother knew a lot of what was going on; thus, she was very supportive and encouraging of me. Long story short, I went to live with the Wilson’s for about a month during which time I saw a Shrink (once) and, truthfully not wild about going home but I felt I had to (even though, later on, I lived with the Wilson’s on and off for years).

§ During my time with other families, which I had a lot of early-on, I explained to my Shrink that I “count and obsess a lot more when I’m at home and I’m able to do my homework easier somewhere else” (my concentration is better away from home….) Most of all, I’m fearful much of the time at home and that fear influences other things.

08.01.1998

In a life-time of living with ADD and OCD, the main “coping” method(s) I developed (after seeing that Shrink one-time) was to take the people apart from the situation; get to know people and not get real close to just one or two people but many as possible. My main method has always been the same (and HEAVILY influenced by Barbara Wilson P.hd. Psychology) is to be open & honest with everyone (model the right behaviors). While I could fill a library with the number of companies in which I developed some form or durative of open and honest communication.

In fact, of the probably 100 Employee Handbooks I’ve written the past 30 years, each/everyone starts with setting a cultural tone by stating “if/when there’s ever an issue or problem, your first point of contact is your manager to engage in an open and honest dialogue.

10.10.1993

Saved My Life: During my freshmen year of high school, which was the first time I was not enrolled in a Catholic school, I was fortunate to have fallen in with a group of kids that were somewhat diverse (although, the word diverse in Hinsdale meant red hair; I didn’t meet any person of color until College); within this group were John Wilson and Bruce del Solar whom I began to take road trips with to Morris, IL. Milwaukee, WI and, for every Christmas Holiday from 1975 – 1984, we loaded up both our downhill and cross country skis and headed to the Wilson’s cabin in White Hall, MI.

Early on in our friendship, I came to realize that both of these guys possessed a great deal of compassion, integrity and kindness; I also more-or-less bonded with their respective Mothers, actually parents. Given that John’s Mom was a Psychologist I’ve told every therapist I’ve seen since that Barbara Wilson was my first therapist. While I never spoke of the details of what transpired between my father (since I didn’t want to admit to a single soul of the cruel, hurtful and awful things he would say to me consistently; in part, because there was a big part of me that believed what I’d been told during my childhood).

10.17.1993

Both John and Bruce’s Mother’s loved me and I loved them; they always stated, professed and modeled behaviors towards me that were supportive, positive, reaffirming, trusting, respectful and credible. Whether their son(s) were home or not, I would sit with their Mom’s, drink coffee and talk about life’s goals, disappointments and their support for who and what I was. And, at that time, who and what I was a friend, a friend to their son.

Both Mothers were also incredible intuitive; they’d raised their sons in a more permissible environment than mine and they knew that their son(s) “if left to their own devices” may not always made the best choices. Moreover, in the mid-70’s there was no such thing as MADD or any PSA re: drinking and driving; and, as minor with a penchant for pushing limits, drinking beer and smoking marijuana was a regular weekend activity. On occasion, the limits were pushed even further.

John, Bruce and their respective Mothers were glad that I was present for our trips and weekend festivities. With the imprint of “being responsible” practically tattooed to my head, I drove anywhere we went 90% of the time; my sense of direction was always better than anyone else’s. Evidentially, my father’s continual push for me to “take responsibility” was deeply engrained by the time I was a teenager.

Additionally, I often partook in the partying atmosphere less than my friends as it was important for me to stay in control; therefore, I consistently made sure that everyone got home safe and sound and, when certain activities might appear to be getting out of control, the guys listened to me when I said that something was “not a good idea” or “it’s time to go home.” I won’t go so far as to say that I kept us all out of trouble; but, our group did need someone to take responsibility, whether it be driving or not partaking in certain activities, so that the larger group had a “Mother” if you will J-

11.02.1993

In any event, while it was never stated, their Mom’s knew that I would take care of their sons if/when they got out of control which, at that age, was something that did occur on occasion. In fact, there are many, many stories of me taking the lead; for example: when, during one ski trip, I was sick and tired of being told I was an old granny when it came to driving and that, even though it was snowing like crazy, the friend in the back seat criticized me constantly for how slow I was going; therefore, I pulled over and say “ok, you drive!” and, within minutes, we were sliding/skidding sideways down the interstate as everyone in the vehicle was screaming.

Once we landed (surprising safely) in a huge snow bank within the median on the hwy., the first car to come upon us was a cop. Given that things were going on in the backseat that weren’t exactly legal, everyone immediately got out and stuffed anything they could into the 6’ snow drifts all around the car. Meanwhile, I took the lead with the cop telling him we were all ok, that we were headed north to ski. Since the car (Bruce’s family’s Chevy Suburban) was surrounded by deep snow on three sides, it appeared that we’d be going nowhere fast; nevertheless, the cop got out and, with the 5 guys we had in the suburban, they were miraculously able to push us/me (since I was now driving again) out of the snowbank. Suffice it to say, I drove the entire rest of the trip.

12.02.1993

The first time I lived with the Wilson’s it was shortly after I was diagnosed with the peptic ulcer (circa 1974/75) and, by the time I was a freshmen in college, I’d lived with both families for extended periods of time. Accordingly, not only was I viewed as responsible, hardworking and very kind, no one was ever critical or had a problem with anything I did or said and, more than anything, I (for the first time) felt safe when I’d wake up in del Solars guest room.

The truth is, if not for the continuous influence, positive reinforcement, unconditional love and never-ending compassion of these two families, I know that I would be dead today (and would have been dead since my early 20’s). Absent any approval, positive reinforcement, frequent affirmations, ongoing respect and unconditional love, I would have gone off and become a drug addict, or worse. I had zero self-confidence when I met these two families and, to my surprise, they believed that I was an honest, forthright, open, kind, considerate and loving kid that was in need of compassion, acceptance and respect.

Everything I’d been told up to this point in my life was negative, critical and even condescending yet, with the support of these families, I saw a real future for the first time in my life.

BTW - While seeing my first “real” therapist (following the first disasterous therapy sessions I had in grad school at Marquette’s University psych counseling center - of a Catholic institution - where I was told to “deny your feelings, don’t think about it, don’t give into it, it’s a sin.”), he/Mark had guided me through the “coming out” process (when I was 25/26) whereby I told my family (with books, periodicals and other resources that, to this day, I never saw again) and my friends. My friends (namely Bruce, John and their respective families) were my greatest worry; and, to my surprise, my friends were instantly my greatest support mechanism now and then.

That said John’s Mom, the psychologist, and I grew to be quite close when I stayed with them often in high school and then lived with them for an entire year of college. During that year of college, with John, his brother and his Dad gone, it was John’s Mom and I much of the time, thus, we had many, many talks yet - this was a time - when I didn’t know for sure that I was even gay. However, while she laid dying in a nursing home in 1984 (a few years before I’d “come out”), she had a conversation about me with John, her son, which I wasn’t aware of at the time.

FOOTNOTE: When I did finally come out to John (Circa 1986), I was somewhat surprised that he didn’t know and absolutely thrilled that he didn’t care so long as I was happy yet - as I told him - he got choked up and teary eyed and said “OMG, this is what she meant!” In reply I said “what the heck are you talking about??” John replied that, on his Mother’s death bed, she told him that “there’s something about Mike that you will need to support him in and accept. It will be difficult time for Mike but you’ll need to be there for him.”

At the time John’s Mom said this (and nothing more) to him, he was dumbfounded and didn’t give it a whole lot of thought; however, once I told John I was gay, a light bulb went off and he got choked up. As John told me what his Mother had said I too got all choked up. I’d realized that she knew I was gay well before anyone else (including me) but, being the psychologist that she was, she knew the precise was to handle it and, in doing so, how best to prepare my best friend, her son, John. WOW!

08.11.1991

As a teenager, my behavior and conduct was a direct result (or rather payback) for those years on Quincy Street. I fully admit that I said some awful things to my Mother i.e. “why the hell do you stay married to this tyrant?”

§ I said many hurtful things to Mom during my high school years and I deeply regret that and even apologized to her for it. My hope that when I did apologize in my mid-20’s that it would serve as a first step to the open and honest dialogue I pushed to have with her for the following 3+ decades to no success.

I fully admit that, as I got older and wasn’t as threatened by Dad’s size and authority, when he went off the rails and started going off on me or something else, I’d speak up; I even, at times, went so far as to push his button when I knew he was unable to reach me. However, because I’d always been labeled as lying, no one ever supported me or took my side.

Prior to the Ulcer, I tried to do everything to not be noticed by Dad but, by 14, I was almost as tall as him. Things changed in the new house, I was bigger, much more aware of being trapped and of how not to… this lead to a lot of chasing which led to the disowning and kicking out (3 times total: once for bringing up a criticism of the catholic church; the second for spilling small amount of paint I spilled while painting the garage door and the 3rd time was “you live under my house, it’s my rules…” I think he must have hated the fact that not only did everyone know he threw me out but anyone I went to would have offered me a bed.

One thing was a huge wake up call for me! During the months and year I lived in both the del Solar and Wilson homes I learned that I was not the cause of the fighting. Instead, I was valued, listened to, encouraged, affirmed and believed to be a bright, capable, honest and responsible young man which is why both Bruce, John and their respective families knew, if the guys were out with me that I was the the responsible one who would ensure that each person got home safe and sound.

As even the guys will confess, we know that a high power was with us much of the time because, even though I did take on the role of Mother to the two of them much of the time, we took unnecessary risks in retrospect and, while inexperienced youths are part of the equation, this was BEFORE anyone had any sort of “driving while drunk educational campaigns. You can ask anyone over 55 what their, and societies attitudes, were about drinking and driving. In short, there were none, nor did the cops enforce it.

06.22.2007

First major depressive episode was sophomore year in high school; I was diagnosed with a Peptic Ulcer and Dr. Tracy was intuitive enough to know what my home scene was like. While the doctor didn’t know that I was eavesdropping his dialogue with my Mother as they went into another room but I recall vividly what he said to her: “you either need to find another place for Mike to reside for a while or I will admit him into the psych ward for his well-being.

§ After the visit with the doctor, I brought the conversation up with my Mom in the car and told her that I had a standing invitation to stay with the Wilson’s anytime I want; it’s very close to school and his Mom is a Shrink on top of it (his mother was inspirational; I could discuss anything with her yet she seemed to know things before I ever disclosed them).

Thus, Mom agreed and I headed over to the Wilson’s. This was the first time I stayed away from home for a while, the other times occurred later when Dad would through me out and disowned me, the choice was to hospitalize me, or remove me from my parents home – went to stay with my best friend in Wisconsin.

§ Father drinking was still quite bad when I was a teenager… irrational behavior. He resented my interference is his judgment – especially as it related to discipline with my siblings as I would get between him and whoever he was mad at. Also, family pattern of my father hating his oldest brother and me being the eldest son. Generally, it was after the second Martini that things went sour. Moreover, anything I may have mentioned about the past was aggressively discredited as my lying.

Consequently, my father threw me out of the house my Junior and Senior years of high school and then again, after only a few weeks, upon my return from my freshmen year of college (which was the last time I ever lived there again); when he threw me out, he forbid me from returning and claimed to “disown” me twice.

§ The first time I had spilled paint on the garage floor when I was 16 so I went to live with my friend John’s family;

§ The second time was more serious, I was 18 and had to live with Bruce’s family for several months my senior year. The reason for that occasion was due to the fact that I questioned Catholicism so I was beat up, kicked out and disowned for a second time.

§ Each/every time I was living at home, or not, if/when my name ever came up my father would do nothing but bad mouth me and call me a “rotten kid.” Therefore, my siblings grew up believing everything Dad said “Mike was a rotten kid”; the younger they were the more I was gone and the more they heard these types of things about me. Everything was my fault, especially when it came to any fights or arguments in the house whether I was home or not.

§ I never even thought that I had an actual father; instead, it was as if he was a Warden to be feared and avoided, which is precisely what I and my brother did.

01.01.2015

“The greater the difficulty, the more glory in surmounting it” – Epicurus

I respect the response above; however, it’s in direct conflict with my memories (between the fact my sister was the eldest daughter who could do no wrong and I was someone that my father openly condemned and ridiculed in front of other people who have expressed their concern for me as a kid and would invite you to do things where you’d be gone when your Father was home.

This explains so much because, as a Kid (11 – 14), I began being invited on different family outings, cookouts and even 3 or 4 vacations for me to allegedly “baby-sit” yet I did what the family did i.e. golf for the first 2nd, 3rd, 4th time(s) etcs.. Obviously, dealing with real feelings at this time of my life was virtually impossible ( i.e. being diagnosed with a Peptic Ulcer in 1973 @ 14 years old).

I was a rolled up ball of mess and they all saw it and tried to do what they could. While I was living in Chicago in the years preceding our parents lives, I got to really connect with Mom and Dad’s old friends and they, like Uncle Church, they felt comfortable enough to tell me how they were concerned for me…

Influenced by church services and motivated by finding methods to better cope with the stressors in life, I’ve picked up on some of the teachings that could be of great benefit to me including the following:

“Pray that you would release your burdens and anxiety to God and embrace the peace He wants you to experience. “Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life.” Philippians 4:6-7 MS

AND:

“Pray that you would not be ruled by a spirit of fear or anxiety. “For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” 2 Timothy 1:7

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trickstercaptain-archive · 7 years

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okay so let’s write a novel talk about actual trainwreck of a character Jack Sparrow in this movie. so there are spoilers under this so don’t read if YOU DON’T WANNA BE SPOILED because I’ve been waiting months to write this and now I finally can:

the scene that annoyed me the MOST was when Barbossa and Jack release the Pearl back into her true form, and this was a theme throughout the movie. long story short, they get it out of the bottle and they throw the model-size Black Pearl into the ocean and she sinks briefly before rising up into her full majesty and JACK DIDN’T EVEN LOOK REMOTELY BOTHERED WHEN SHE SANK. and this was my problem -- particularly in the second half of the film -- that when it was required of Jack to show emotion, he didn’t. he was actually fine during the first half and showed some decent emotional range, but something really weird happened around the half-way point and honestly, when the Pearl briefly sunk, Hector looked more bereft than Jack did, which makes absolutely no sense. both of them should have been saddened, but Jack has literally fucking died for that ship twice, so he should have been heartbroken -- particularly when it was established early in the movie that Jack was keeping the Pearl on his person, under his coat, above his heart. idk whether it was the editing or the take they eventually used in post-production, but it was seriously odd. and likewise, Jack gives two reactions to Hector’s death, but imo there’s not nearly enough emotion in them for the audience to believe that these two individuals have known each other for half of their lives. it seemed very half-assed, which is basically this entire movie in summary, but something honestly really bothered me about Jack’s characterisation in the second half in particular and I still can’t quite put my finger on it, but he seemed very disinterested in what was going on. the first half was lazy writing, but I kind of want to say that the second half was lazy writing and lazy acting.

also, let’s talk about the fact that Jack was so stupid he didn’t even realise that you’d need to put the Pearl back into the water for her to grow in size. Hector seriously showed most of the smarts out of the two of them in this movie. the fact that Jack at one point admits he’s a bed wetter, says ‘spaghetti wolves’ when he’s woken up from a drunken stupor, and asks for 200-odd barrels of rum from Barbossa along with the chance to eat Jack the Monkey tells you the kind of infantile stupid Jack was being in this movie.

now this is the thing with Jack in DMTNT -- I could ultimately see what they were trying to do, and it kind of worked in the first half, but it was so poorly executed because ultimately they created a contradiction for themselves. the directors and Johnny have stated on multiple occasions that Jack is now apparently a character without arc or development, and yet they put him into a narrative where he is supposed to change in some way between the start and end point. I said this before when I remarked last week that it was ironic he had an ‘arc’ in this movie considering those comments: he’s meant to get somewhere, regain his rep, return to a ( mostly ) sober state -- but they kept stagnating him in the narrative because he is this weird arc-less character at this point. it just didn’t make any fucking sense. if you’re going to put a static character into a narrative ( as Jack apparently is nowadays ), then you don’t put him in it at a relative low point, changed from the last time we saw him as an audience and apt to change/develop along the course of the narrative as he ‘redeems’ himself. you’re just writing yourself into a brick wall. he should have been FINE the moment the Black Pearl was restored, but they kept returning him to this earlier drunken, idiotic state without reason even after that point and it just made the whole thing really sloppy. you want to paint Jack at his lowest point? well by doing so, you’re giving the audience a stake in seeing Jack redeem himself and return to the character we know and love -- and yet there was no obvious sign that had happened, no natural development that saw him slowly but steadily getting his groove back and taking control of his own narrative until the very end, when suddenly he was absolutely fine even though he’d been fighting plot convenient alcoholism for the entire movie.

but, let’s be honest~

he was essentially inconsequential to this plot, save from the beginning when he acts as the catalyst for Salazar’s escape. he wasn’t very active whatsoever, nor was he really ever in control, save for when he takes Henry and Carina hostage, and even then the scene where Jack threatens Carina, Jack doesn’t appear very threatening -- mostly incompetent, and this is a theme. normally, Jack is always in control of his own actions, and he hates it when he’s not -- it’s a hallmark quality of his character because he values his personal freedom above all else. here he kinda gets passed around from character to character -- more as a burden, than anything, and boy was he a burden on this narrative. in the second half in particular, he was just sort of there, making the odd joke every now and again, with Carina as the biggest drive in this narrative. she continually pushed the plot forward, more so than Henry, but another problem this movie suffered from was pacing. at no point did the editing seem to take a breather or focus on the characters -- either the characters were making jokes, or they were making clunky expositional statements that was more of a ‘say what you see’ and ‘repeatedly say what we have to do to resolve the plot’ kind of thing rather than the ‘show not tell’ rule.

Henry and Carina could have been developed more, as could have Carina and Barbossa -- I think some of Jack’s strongest scenes were actually with Carina, surprisingly enough, because at least they seemed to have a bit of banter back and forth, and the Jack and Henry stuff was kinda decent. but the characters didn’t feel like characters -- not the ones I know and love anyway. I think Hector was the best character out of the originals ( Geoffrey did great with what he had to work with ), and Salazar was pretty good on the whole, but Javier could have been given more to work with -- and with Jack acting like a five year old whenever the two got close to each other, it didn’t really work.

stuff that did work though in regards to Jack imo: his entrance was pretty good and true to form across the franchise, and the bank robbery scene was fun and felt like potc ( I especially liked the look Gibbs stole at Jack when they were approaching the bridge. AND THERE WAS ANOTHER MOMENT WHEN GIBBS SAVED JACK’S LIFE THAT I LIKED A LOT ). Jack asking his crew for tribute when he’d lost the money was utterly stupid ( that’s not how pirate ships work and honestly several times across this movie I think Jack deserved to be left behind/abandoned because he was acting like a complete fucking needy idiot ), but I think the most emotion he showed in the movie was in that scene when his crew left him -- it fucking KILLED me tbh because HE LOOKS AT GIBBS LAST AND GIBBS JUST GIVES HIM THIS MOST SYMPATHETIC LOOK AND MY HEART STILL HURTS. most of the stuff on Saint Martin for Jack was pretty decent because he felt like Jack -- the problems came once he got out to sea and every so often he’d just regress into a whiny infant for no reason at all. the sleazy stuff kinda annoyed me -- I could have done without the Carina scene on the boat or his continued insistence on ‘horologist,’ and his description of Elizabeth was Unnecessary. but mainly he was just annoying.

the problem is, he showed absolutely no smarts in this movie, save for the flashback. he had to constantly be saved by others, lucked his way out of most situations -- and the shark scene was Okay because he showed that he could and was willing to save Henry multiple times, but he just wasn’t very proactive at all in this narrative. he was just there, waiting for stuff to happen to him. he saved Carina once which was good, and there were moments when it looked like he was playing the mentor figure to both Henry and Carina, particularly when he was the one to keep bringing up their crushes on each other, but it didn’t really go anywhere. the script had robbed him of all of his wit and charm, which is what made him likeable in the first three movies.

as for the flashback scene -- I didn’t hate it, even though I wanted to. I could have done without the whole part where the crew gave Jack famous pieces of his costume because a) that’s dumb and TPOF handles his costume better and b) it contradicts everything Johnny has said about picking up pieces of his costume on his adventures over the years. the CGI was pretty good, and I loved them showing Jack as this intelligent and dangerous pirate who traps Salazar without remorse because he needed to put an end to his reign of terror over the seas. I also could have done without it being the Wicked Wench but eh I’m just over it at this point. the point at which it came in the story was pretty random though -- like I understand it was Salazar’s monologue but it just seemed inserted for the sake of ‘ah yes time to show off our CGI technology.’ they could have used it to better showcase how far Jack had fallen since then tbh.

oh and one last shoutout - ‘Captain Jack Sparrow is dead. buried in an unmarked grave on Saint Martin’ I LOVE. and the scene when Jack walks into the pub and his wanted poster has been changed so his bounty is only £1 as opposed to £100. the visual gag of that worked really well. as did the whole guillotine sequence. that was one of the strongest scenes in the movie tbh. 'you’re to be executed’ ‘executed?!?!! well I’m never coming back here again’ he was drunk af but the pettiness worked in that scene lmfaoo

OH AND NOT PUTTING JACK IN A SCENE WITH WILL AND ELIZABETH IS STUPID AF

#ooc #potc 5 spoilers #jfc this is a novel lmfao #congrats to anyone who reads this honestly #I'll end up writing other posts later because this doesn't cover everything #and I need to watch it again tbh

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