After the daughter designed & sketched it, we carved this one tonight, then roasted the seeds. We spent the rest of the evening eating home-made burgers, fries, popcorn and a bit of candy before watching The Great Pumpkin and a couple of old Disney Halloween videos.

We're dropping the Biscuit off at her Mom's early tomorrow afternoon so she can go trick-or-treating with them this year, so we'll be here to decorate the house and hand out candy. Hopefully, there won't be a lot of kids so we can eat it ourselves. On a scale of 1-10, the house will be at a meager 2 or 3, as opposed to the hard 8 I generally attempt. I gave away 90% of my decorations when I moved. We'll see how much I can do with little time and virtually no materials tomorrow when I get off at 5:30.

My mom seems to think I have a melancholy disposition at times, and I think she's probably right, especially around holidays and my birthday. I've had some rough Christmases, and birthdays, and a bad Halloween or two. I guess tonight I'm trying not to focus on the past and let myself enjoy the present, which isn't as easy it it ought to be sometimes, even (especially) when everything looking up. I suppose it's the devil trying to ruin a time of happiness, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction, even it does match nicely with the periodic sadness that seems to dwell within my Irish blood. Maybe that's why I like to fight so much, huh?

I wonder if the music I listen to when I'm writing has en effect on it as well; I tend to listen to more somber or thoughtful music when I write - perhaps that has an effect on me as well. I suppose it makes the words flow out a lot more easily; it keeps the part of my brain that tries to censor what I;m saying quiet and occupied, like playing solitaire when you're really thinking. I don't know if the music re-hashes what was being imprinted on my brain when I was listening to it last, or if it simply brings forth thought that I already have. Revealing or remembering - there's a question, huh? I think I once heard it said that the closest thing we have to a time machine is music, and I agree with that wholeheartedly. So is it the music that brings it back, or is it the music that brings it out? I don't have the answer to that one.

One thing here - it's a feeling I'm talking about; s mental state, generally of thoughtfulness, and I think I can more accurately write what I'm feeling, and be more introspective and honest with myself; I'm not thinking of anybody in particular - just wanted to be clear on that one.

For what it's worth - and my mom pointed this out - it can't be easy for my wife to have to read a lot of what I write here, though it's by no means a secret or any kind of a surprise to her. I know it has to erode her confidence in my love for her, and it has to cause her to question (or even doubt) elements of our relationship. I know it has to have the same effect on you guys as well, but it's my wife that suffers the most when I have days like the ones I've been having; days when she has to be the one to watch me clean out my old wounds again; wounds that, by all measures, should have healed a long time ago. Holes from bullets that have passed through and moved on still ache, wounds from blades that have since been cleaned, re-sheathed and used again still bleed.

I don't know how to handle that, guys. I don't know whether to write about it and not publish it, or stop trying to write about it, or what, if anything, to do differently. See, if I don't hit "publish", then it feels like a secret; something I have to hide, and I have enough of that already; those tendencies to conceal my thoughts, instincts and feelings, or do my best to kill them outright before they can mature enough to hurt. I don't a solution; journaling just seems like a way to keep a secret written down; this (blogging) seems more like a way to prevent a secret from having any kind of a hold on you at all; it keeps me from hiding my feelings; from being fake, from being a liar, from lying to myself or anybody else.

But at what cost?

Is this a detriment to my marriage? Is the cost of keeping myself honest, clean and healthy too great? Is there a better way? Or is it necessary for me to write what I write and say what I say, because it keeps me open, honest and real, especially to my wife? I have to count the cost, and hope for her grace and understanding, both of which she seems to have in boundless supply. She's loyal and strong as all hell.

Don't make the foolish mistake that for weakness or passivity or her being a doormat or some overly submissive wife; extending grace and mercy to one who seemingly needs it in spades is more of a sign of strength than cutting them off out of pride or drawing a line in the dirt and saying it's me or this for the sake of proving that you're tough enough to stand up for yourself. Unfortunately, it seems like "this" is a large part of when keeps me healthy, sane, sober and real, and keeps my communication open with her, and I think she understands that, moreso than most. At least, she's given me more grace, unconditional love and forgiveness than any other person I've ever met, and that means more to me that I can ever put words to. So don't think she's just some hopelessly whipped, beaten-down woman desperate and stupid for staying with a guy that treats her like crap - she's not. In that regard, she's stronger that anybody else I've met, as her grace abounds mightily, and though she struggles with what I say here -and she does- don't think for a minute that she's not strong enough to handle it, and don't think for an instant that it doesn't mean the world to me when she still loves, accepts and shows kindness to me after I say the difficult things that most folks are afraid to say to themselves, much less others.

I guess that's an abrupt stopping point, but it where I am; my heart still experiences emotions I can't understand, or explain, but it still (and always will) know where it's home it, and will always be. No matter how many times it may ache with wonder about what's on the other side of the fence, it knows beyond the shadow of a doubt which side of the fence it belongs on, on which side home it, family is, love is, and life is.

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Dates

When I was n the police academy they taught us that dates are very important. For example, if somebody is murdered, the killer may be driven to visit the grave of their victim or the scene of the crime on the anniversary of the deed. Dates are powerful things, and some of 'em stick with us.

Birthdays - November 28. July 12. July 29. August 24. April 11. October 27.

Anniversaries - May 29. July 13. October 18.

Losses - December 26.

Memorable Occasions - July 5. September 26 (the day I was first worn in as a cop)

I've been having a rough few days. October 30th is such a date for me; this year I'm having kind of a problem adjusting or coping or whatever with it. I won't elaborate, but that's a date that sticks with me.

I've been trying to deny it and not let it get to me. I've tried to avoid it. I've tried not to let it drag me down, but it has been, and there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it. I'm been carrying a lot of guilt and shame about it, too. It hurts me to talk to my wife about it, too, because I feel it a betrayal to her in a very real way, even though it's just thoughts and emotions now, with bits and pieces of memories mixed in, memories of how I felt at different times, feelings that I can still feel, feelings that cause my heart to clench and pound. Is it stress, inner conflict, or something else?

I've heard it said that the emotional part of your mind can't tell the difference between the past and the present, or what's real and what's not. That's why we cry at sad movies, even though a detached part of out brain knows that when the scene was over the Old Yeller sat back up and got a Milk Bone, or that Charlotte (the spider) was never real, or that ET was just a latex puppet. But we still cry anyway, because our heart thinks it's real, whether we want it to or not.

See, I think that our heart holds on to stuff a lot longer than our brains do. Hearts are harder to fool. Hearts are more powerful, too - perhaps that's why the Bible cautions us to beware the the heart is deceitful above all things. But when then heart has memories it likes, when it holds memories and emotions it longs to feel again, the brain can't always override it, even when all logic screams how much it needs to.

I don't know a way around that, a way to just shut off a part of your heart, regardless of whether it's right or not, even if you want to. It'll probably never cease to amaze me at how much your emotions can absolutely run counter to logic, ethics, your own moral code, your conscience, your sense of justice, truth, or religious beliefs. I don't know why God doesn't just take away some of the things we hold in our hearts; stuff that the logical parts of our minds tell us that we need to get rid of, and stuff that we try to unload as hard as we can, spending thousands of dollars on therapists to help us untangle and extract it from our minds, like weeds intertwining with the roots of our minds beneath the surfaces of our lives; to free us from those snarls of emotion that have fused so utterly and so completely into the very fabric of who we are - so much so that to remove them completely would destroy who we are, for you cannot remove apiece without affecting the whole. Things that lay dormant for weeks, months - and yet strike out of the cold gray sky without warning or regard for you at all. Why does God allow our minds and hearts to harbor secretly these things in places from which they cannot seem to be extracted?

And yet, on some level I don't always understand, there's a part of something, somewhere that can't or won't just let go.

That something doesn't want to forget, that something doesn't want to leave, that something doesn't want to be separated from the rest of our lives and forgotten; extracted through time and therapy and 12-step programs to let it finally die on its own - a cold, slow and isolated death. It somehow retains just enough of it to keep a presence so deep and yet delicate and fragile that we can't remove them without risking the demise of ourselves in a way. They distort the reality of what was, they prey on fantasies and longings we've tried to bury, ignore, forget, give away or let go of, and yet somehow, they keep coming back, year after year, and I wonder - how many years will it be?

And that's where I am tonight.

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