Installment 3 of 100 Things About Moi!

Installment Three

This is the third installment in my quest to complete an article, "100 Things About Moi." For the most part, I have taken a chronological approach in my self-disclosure and, as it turns out, I am taking a tub full of "chronology" to accomplish the task.

In writing this series, I have found myself writing of "deep things" when other examples I have read, for the most part, keep it light. That's par for my course. As Gather member Kathryn Esplin-Oleski noted shortly after I began writing on this site, like her, I write from a gestalt. When I sit to write I may have my subject and very sketchy idea of my path, however, once I immerse myself I type whatever drips from the end of my fingertips, doing my best to "stay out of my own way." This may be why my list contains the types of things others choose to omit.

Yes, it does mean I am baring some of my soul, but I have found that it helps open areas of myself that I would not otherwise see for myself. Someone once speculated that "talk" therapy is valuable for the same reason; We do not know who we are until we tell someone who we are." In other words, (no pun intended) until I state who I am in the form of words, spoken or written, the ideas I set forth exist only in my subconscious. Giving them voice is how I learn about myself. Therefore, I submit this third installment asking for your patience and forbearance of details that often seem to border on the melodramatic.

Forty One

My work schedule while at the fire department was one of the job's greatest perks and I miss it dearly. Yes, the twenty-four hour shifts would drag on at a snails pace if the alarms were not sounding. I combated the boredom with my favorite pastimes; reading, writing, and studying Scripture. We had a day off between each of the twenty-four hour shifts. Once we had worked three shifts we had FOUR days off before the cycle would restart. The schedule was great for those who held a second job, enjoyed traveling, hunting, or fishing. While working that schedule, I wondered how anybody with "bankers hours" ever completed their "honey-do" list. Once I began working those hours I found out they didn't!

Forty Two

I learned long ago, in order to refuel my emotional fuel tank, I need solitary time to think, contemplate, and pray (The major reason #41 was so important.) From my youth and the days spent alone amidst the forest, I learned the value of these pursuits increased exponentially if this solitary time was spent in nature.

While still living in Baton Rouge I had three places I would use as my getaways. The first was on the shoreline of the University Lakes near the campus of LSU. To reach my second getaway, I would drive several miles from my apartment and park along the base of the Mississippi River levee. Retrieving my bike from my truck, I would travel a few more miles along the gravel ruts atop the levee to a point on the river, south of the city, called "Red-Eye Crossing" I would walk down the batture with journal and sketchbook in hand, entering the trees along the water's edge to spend time there

Finally, my favorite getaway was at the end of a dead-end trail within the Port Hudson National Battlefield located approximately 45 minutes north of Baton Rouge. When I made these trips I would pack a day-pack with lunch, water, journal, sketchbook and Holy Bible and make it an all-day excursion. As they say, "those were the days..."

Forty Three

The event referred to in #39 of the second installment, one that occurred while on duty was the impetus for the point "when a major change began to brew beneath the surface of my life." Omitting the details, this event, unknown to me at the time, resulted in the development of the condition known as Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). It did not develop immediately after the event, although I did notice some personal changes at the time. However, as time went on and life stressors increased, more symptoms began to emerge. I began to experience nightmares, constant anxiety, depersonalization, and panic attacks which would occur anywhere and any time, although it happened most as I pulled into the parking lot of the fire station as I reported for work. It eventually gained control over every aspect of my life.

Forty Four

I soon found myself isolating and sinking lower by the minute. My life, as I had fashioned it began to crumble. Not knowing what was happening, I felt as if I were "going crazy." However, I have learned, as well as observed since then, anyone who can make a statement along the lines of "I think I am going crazy," is probably the most sane person in the room. Those who are truly "going crazy" ( losing touch with reality, developing psychosis and/or a system of delusions) rarely make such statements, because they do not recognize what is happening.

When the shaky "house of cards" that I had been building all my life finally crashed, I found myself divorced, living alone, forced to retire from the work I loved, angry at the world, myself, and angry at God. It was also at that point I finally sought professional help. I had hit bottom with only two directions to go: back up or out.

Forty Five

If any are familiar with the old comedy, City Slickers starring Billy Crystal and Jack Palance, there is a scene where one of Chrystal's two buddies has come to the end of his rope and is contemplating suicide. Crystal and his other friend talk their upset comrade into reconsidering his intentions by reminding him of a rule they invoked during their childhood games. They reminded him of the "do-over" rule. In their game-playing as childhood friends, when one made a mistake or took a misstep in a game they simply yelled, "DO-OVER!!!," which meant their first attempt didn't count and they were allowed to try again.

When my house of cards crashed and I was basically stripped of my identity, I felt sorry for myself for a while...well maybe a bit longer than a while. Then I yelled, "Do-Over" and began the first step on the path I still travel today.

Forty Six

The absolute, most important decision made during that dark time involved my son. Fortunately, my divorce was amicable to the point that his mother and I used the same lawyer when we filed for divorce. We simply dictated to him those things on which we had already agreed regarding all the unseemly, yet necessary matters that accompany the dismemberment of a family.

The most important step we took was to agree that in all the decisions each of us would face in the future, we would, to the best of our ability, attempt to consider to choose the path that would have the least negative impact on our son. We agreed that when it was feasible we would discuss the issue together.

This agreement not only made the "best of a difficult situation" for our son, it also served to keep our interactions amicable. Although divorced, we shared a mutual priority. Before either of us re-entered long-term relationships, we had grown comfortable in our new roles. Of course, there have been some rough spots. Once each of remarried and "integrated" the new "family members," our original decisions have had blessed results.

Forty-Seven

As a major part of my "Do-Over," I began journaling on a regular basis. I had previously written some poetry, but this was very different. With journaling, I wrote daily and I wrote about every conceivable subject; my feelings, observations, thoughts. I recorded events that occurred around me and those of import in the rest of the world. I wrote un-read letters to my son. You name it...poems, stories, song lyrics, future plans, dreams, grocery lists....and although this is written in past tense. I continue to haul around a notebook many places I go.

In an upstairs bedroom, there are locked wooden ammo cases full of over a dozen years worth of non-nondescript notebooks full of the "stuff" that flowed out of hundreds of ink-pens. I have never counted them and I do not know if another pair of eyes will see the words within, but I simply enjoy writing.

Forty Eight

Other assignments given me in my rehab were volunteer work and finding an activity or club that would "force" me to interact with others and overcome my tendency to isolate. I volunteered in the fund-raising office of one of the area's largest hospitals. Though I did not receive a "paycheck," the work served as my springboard into the world of "white collars."

The club that I sought out and joined was the local Chapter of the Louisiana State Poetry Society. The club had many members listed on their roles, but I soon learned the core group that were faithful in attending monthly meetings and local readings was small and, for the most part, past retirement age. Again, for the first time in my life, another aspect of "me" was allowed to blossom among this group of people that shared my passion for painting "word pictures." As time passed, they began to encourage me to submit poems into competitions.

My first submission to a competition was in the main category, "Narrative Poetry," undertaken as part of the LSPS' Annual Convention. All category winners and runners-up were to be announced during the conference which was held in New Orleans.

When the day arrived, driving to New Orleans from Baton Rouge and walking into the conference alone was a major triumph in itself. The guest speaker for the event was a gregarious gentleman poet, Brod Baggert. Baggert, a lawyer and former city-council member in New Orleans, had given up the court room to pursue life as a poet. At the time, he had published two books, "A Bull-Frog At Cafe Dumonde," and "Steel Cables." He spent his days traveling the country teaching elementary school children the history and value of poetry. His message for us was the same as the one he had for his younger audiences: "Poetry is created to be both "oral" and "aural"."

My head began to swim as the Professor who had judged the main category of the annual competition announced that my poem "Backwoods People" had won first place. Such an achievement was overwhelming. Then as I realized I was expected to read the poem, standing at the podium, to all those in attendance my anxiety soared off the scale.

I overcame my dilemma by recalling, during the walk from my seat to the podium, Mr Baggert's assertion. He had just encouraged us to write our poetry in the actual voice we would want our readers or listeners to "hear." I realized, without "knowing" I had done so, I had written the narrative piece in just such a way. The poem, which was loosely based on an event in my family's history, had been written in a voice that spoke the words in my mind.

Upon reaching the podium, a "new" Robb emerged. One much different than the one who had left Baton Rouge that morning. I explained to my audience before reading, the voice I heard speaking the words of my poem as I wrote it, was a combination of two voices; one real and one fictional. The 'real' voice was that of Shelby Foote, a Mississippi native and author of several works of fiction based in the Civil War era. I was mesmerized by Foote's drawl as he contributed his story-telling abilities in Ken Burn's famous PBS documentary, "The Civil War."

The second voice was that of the character/narrator, Tom Wingo, played by Nick Nolte in the film adaptation of Pat Conroy's novel, "Prince of Tides." The film is one of my favorites because I relate to the 'sensitive' little southern boy surrounded by those who fit the "rough and tumble" stereotype of his culture. It was in my best imitation of that Foote/Wingo voice that I found the courage to read "Backwoods People" to those in attendance that day.

Forty-Eight

In the course of my "Do-Over," I was given the opportunity to return to school to pursue my master's degree. After being helped by so many over the preceding years, I decided to enroll in the School of Social Work specializing in mental health counseling. Unlike my undergraduate degree in Business, once in the program, I was sure I had made the correct choice. The curriculum, my peers, my internships, my clients...I knew it was a good fit.

Unlike my choice during my undergraduate studies, I consciously decided, after having learned a good bit about myself, that I would actively work on dropping the perfectionist tendencies that hounded me, especially in academics. While they helped me achieve very high marks, the same prevented me from enjoying much of the experience itself.

Entering grad school, I made a goal to back off and not allow a strict focus on academics close off the rest of the experience. My motto, which I shared with a good friend and one of the other five males enrolled in our one hundred-plus member class was, "B = M.S.W." We needed a grade of 3.0 or higher to graduate.

I enjoyed the two-years immensely. It reinforced my observation that I am very fond of academia, sans empirical research and statistics. Finally, I had learned the world would not come to a screeching halt if I did not make the Dean's List every semester. Yes, for me, a "B" did achieve my goal of earning my M.S.W.

Forty-Nine

Prior to the shift in my world and subsequent anger at God, I was truly a good ole Southern Baptist boy. In rebuilding my life, I went up higher and out farther than I ever had before...except in my spirituality which dried and shriveled up like a raisin. In that period, I "backslid" far and fast. I am not boast or proud of my "dark night of the soul," yet it was an educational time in my life just the same.

I discovered I had an affinity for "watering holes" of a certain ambiance created by the blending of unsophisticated decor, eclectic memorabilia, and patrons who appreciated erudite conversation, as well as live entertainment that veered in the direction of folk, jazz, and blues. What is more, the formula was first rate if the same patrons knew when to talk, yet cease and desist when the musicians began their art.

I began to frequent just such a place. Its ambiance was cemented in the aged and unfinished brick walls that once housed the studio of the now famous regional photographer of the 1930' and 40's, the late Fonville Winans. The name of the establishment was "M's Fine and Mellow Cafe." The name fit well.

Fifty

In like manner, I discovered my appreciation for the genre of music called, "Blues." While I hold an affinity for the sound as a whole, some of the plethora of subgenres within have captured me. One of these are the sounds that remained close to their birthplace, deep in the Mississippi Delta; the "Delta Blues." The second is a regional splinter of the first which, being influenced by Cajun and Creole Zydeco music, has created a sound known as "Swamp Blues." My favorite artist in the former vein is Tab Benoit. With many CDs to his credit, Benoit is also a champion of coastal and wetlands restoration. In that capacity, he is the lead in the current IMAX short "Hurricane On The Bayou."

Dear reader, if you have managed to make it this far, I thank you, as well as applaud your persistence.