Dr. Addison's Reverse-Engineered (Holy Spirited) Catfishing

My sixth grade Sunday School teacher at First Baptist Church Jackson was an up-and-coming local attorney.  He had a beautiful young family (wife / two elementary-age children), and they lived not too far from where we reside today.  

This man was an only child (if I remember correctly) who was reared exclusively by his mother.  And, oh my goodness, did he ever love his mother relative to the single-parenting duties she'd endured (he reminded us most every week of the arduous task she endured therein).

Up to this point in my childhood, I remember little of my Sunday School teachers / coursework.  And I believe that's because I didn't attend regularly enough for proper memories to crystallize.  

I believe Sunday School attendance became more of a priority for our family - around my sixth-grade year - due to my father being ordained a deacon (at FBCJ) around this same time (1985).  For deacons are expected to fully commit to church attendance for themselves and their families.  

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There were only 5-6 of us boys (no girls allowed in this particular class) who regularly attended this sixth-grade Sunday School class, and it was only because we had no other choice.  Those who did have a choice attended only once before never returning.  

Dr. Addison (as we covertly salutationed him) was incredibly earnest and so very hellbent to make a distinct spiritual impression on each of us boys.  Whilst looking back, I can appreciate that, but his heavy handedness / dourness was always too much for us preadolescent children to endure.  

For example, at the very beginning of the "school year", he announced that we'd each be expected to submit a paper - on a predetermined theological topic - at some fixed point during the spring.  Each of these papers would then be adjudicated, and the winner would receive - wait for it - an NIV Study Bible!  Too, he'd on occasion have us boys pray quietly there at our stackable chair - down on our knees.  Each of us would place our '80s freshly blow-dried hair into our hands (elbows supported via the plastic seat), and with our eyes closed, quietly recite our verbiage to God (until given the go-ahead to get back up).  

In short, every 45-minute Sunday School class was militantly executed by a man who had not one iota of fun / humor within his staunch makeup.  And we, do doubt, were the absolute wrong audience for this.  Yet, we were stuck with this dude at the outset of each and every Lord's Day.

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Around Thanksgiving of that year (1985), on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, Dr. Addison had us meet him at his abode with a grocery bag of predetermined (list) food items in hand.  From there, we prayed together that God would lead us to a needy family to gift these staples to.  

After driving a half hour or so into the city, our teacher's SUV pulled into the driveway of a very small, nondescript house in a part of Jackson that I'd never been to.  From there, Dr. Addison knocked on the door beneath the carport before stepping inside to (seemingly) explain our serendipitous intentions.  Around 5-10 minutes later, he returned to his idling vehicle full of sixth-grade boys to retrieve the collective goods.  I remember sitting quietly there within the back seat with the others who'd come along, all the while feeling excited yet strange as this took place.  

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Eventually, our surprisingly happy teacher returned to the driver's seat, having delivered all of the grocery sacks, before we sped away.  But this was without any of us boys having the opportunity to visit with (or even be introduced to) our now bequeathed, needy Jacksonian family.  

It was during our return trip to the suburbs that our devout leader divulged that God had miraculously led us to his maid's home for these non-perishables to be delivered / gifted to for the holiday season.

Let me repeat that:

It was during our return trip to the suburbs that our devout leader divulged that God had miraculously led us to his maid's home for these non-perishables to be delivered / gifted to for the holiday season.  

I was too young, naive and intimated to question Dr. Addison's sincerity here.  In fact, as a 12-year-old boy, I bought it hook, line & sinker.  And I believe my peers did the same. 

Whilst looking back, I have to wonder what his intentions / motivations truly were.  

Even When The Glass Partition Is Removed, It Can Take A Sizable Amount Of Time To Muster The Emotional Courage To Swim Outside Of Its Familiar Boundary.

Firstly, I want to encourage you, dear reader, to take a few minutes today to memorialize (those which you can recall) the men who've advocated for you in the past.  Perhaps it was a peer or someone older / wiser, but in lieu of dismissing / looking down on you, they did the opposite.  

When I was a junior at Mississippi State ('92-'93), I once again (third year) lived within the dormitory (Evans Hall) with a potluck roommate.  This man was at least ten years my senior, having served in the military - active duty - for a number of years.  Steve was immediately identifiable as cold hearted and jaded.  He seemingly felt slighted by most everyone around him (including God).  And above all else, he loathed Christianity.  Hence, he was friendless and estranged overall from his devout family.  If I could use one modern-day phrase to describe this man, it would be slow burn.

It was via this matchup that I truly learned to lay low around another man (outside of my immediate family) for Steve made me feel anxious whilst in his presence, considering his consistently dark moods.    

Across the suite from our room was another older student, and this man too was honorably discharged active-duty military.  I recall too that throughout the majority of that year, he was without a roommate.  Potluck roommate, Steve, and this about-the-same-age man (we'll call him Frank) were friendly, and I just always assumed it was due to their shared military resumes.  

The remaining two suite dorm rooms were occupied by guys that refused to even be polite.  Inevitably, I'd run into them within the bathroom / shower at the end of the hall, but I'd might as well have been invisible.  Hence, I reflected / projected just as much indifference in response.  

Considering just how diminutive / odd-man-out I found myself feeling, I remember vividly how Frank chose to engage with me during the sporadic times we'd encounter each other there within that soulless, bunker-like building.

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A huge paradigm shift has occurred within my vocational circumstance.  This shift has been anticipated for years, and as such, throughout the majority of 2023, much behind-the-scenes work (thanks be to God for my CPA wife) has been done to see it through.  Now that it's accomplished, and various players (family members) have been "reassigned" accordingly as a result, I'm now finding myself struggling to "swim free".  

And I know that's due to how blithely transactional this shift has been framed as.  To the point that it's beginning to make me question my own emotional vitals.

For this is my now upended reality in contrast to the last ten years.  

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When I was in middle school ('86-'88), I took Shotokan karate classes two days a week at a northeast Jackson aerobics studio (which my mom happened to be employed at).  My Sensei, Mr. Terry Vandeventer, advocated for me like nobody's business, and I loved that (in spite of me feeling undeserving).  Throughout those few years, I tended to be one of the oldest boys in his class, yet I was the least confident in my physical self / ability.  

Mr. Vandeventer's class consisted of an hour on Tuesday afternoons (4 PM - 5 PM) practicing technique / katas, and an hour on Thursday afternoons sparring (against each other).  I privately loathed sparring, though I realized that I was the exception out of the other boys within our class.

What eventually motivated me to quit the class was a neighbor boy (he lived behind us) of mine who also decided to join in the karate fun.  This punk had always been extremely intimidating to young Rob, and he therefore used that intimidation to his advantage.  

One Thursday, I was paired up with this kid, and he wailed on me throughout our 10-minute sparring match.  It was humiliating and profoundly stigmatizing.  As a result, within just a few weeks, I hung up my Gei for good, much to the chagrin of Mr. Vandeventer.  

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I remember discovering that Frank was a runner by listening in on an exchange between he and Steve.  This surprised me for two reasons.  Firstly, we were full-time college students (who makes time to exercise - particularly running - in college?*), and secondly, Frank was far more muscular than what I'd considered at the time to be an ideal "runner's build".  

Now, let me expound on Frank's physicality.  Being around the age of 30, this stallion of a man had the body of an Army Ranger. In fact, though I wasn't privy to what an Army Ranger was at the time, it wasn't hard for me to imagine him being within some sort of elite military unit. I'd never seen a man with so little body fat combined with such muscular bulk.  That combined with his incredibly handsome face (he sported a dapper mustache that fit perfectly therein) made him almost impossible to not envy / admire to some degree.  

Frank wasn't one to see and be seen, but when he was, I couldn't help but take notice.  Especially when he was semi-nude (community bathroom).  Too, he was usually wearing a thin gold necklace.  That too looked great on him, fitting perfectly into his very uniquely masculine physique.  

Lastly, if I remember correctly, Frank had no shortage of body hair, particularly on his chest and stomach.  As such, it's location / thickness only served to amplify his build / enhance his looks.

*The Sanderson Center had yet to be constructed on MSU's campus.

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This past Friday afternoon (yesterday), I yet again head butted against my spontaneously reactionary familial rival (who's 19-years my senior).  As such, I felt deeply maligned to even consider moving out from this "invisibly cage-like" corner.  From there, I cautiously reacted by looping in my closest ally.  And it's important to know that by deeply maligned, I'm referring to behavior / tone / beliefs that were completely off the chart from the customary pettiness.  

I'm still shaken.  All the while attempting to keep myself calm enough to remember that I truly did nothing wrong via acting the part of my new ownership position.  

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The very last day I attended Mr. Terry Vandeventer's Shotokan karate class happened to fall on a Thursday (sparring day).  It was during this class that our respected Sensei shockingly volunteered himself to spar with neighbor punk.  It was then, right before everyone's eyes, that he put a vengeful ass whooping on this kid.  

For every slick move neighbor punk would attempt, Mr. Vandeventer would counter by barreling through.  As such, it was his lightening quick reflexes and almost psychic-like reflexive instinct that were no match for neighbor punk. 

For we all were witnessing a high-level black belt up against a cocky peon.

Unfortunately, although I greatly appreciated this not-so-subtle theatrics, it wasn't enough to convince me to stay.  For neighbor punk's audacity and confidence were far too overwhelming for Rob.  It was as if there literally wasn't enough oxygen in the room for me to breathe with when he was present.

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Frank always spoke to me respectfully when I ran into him there within the dorm suite.  At times even, I vividly remember him seeming genuinely happy to encounter me.  As such, I felt as if he could sense how (yet again) stigmatized I felt there amongst his larger-than-college-life physical self.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that he may very well have taken my homosexual attraction towards him into consideration, yet despite this, worked that much harder to make me as comfortable as he could.  

This was the very first one-on-one private, personal adult male encounter (Rob too as an ALMOST adult) where I felt as if I either wasn't ignored, shunned, or ridiculed outright.  It was indeed significant.   

Hence, this only amplified the beauty - in my eyes - of this glorious man.  This man whose minute gestures made such a lasting impact on me during one of the most trying living situations that I'd encountered up to that point.  

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What's the lesson here?

Terry Vandeventer and Frank continue to support / validate me.  Their memory shines light during the most frustrating of times (now).  

There's no doubt in my mind that I will experience blue ocean eventually.  For I will someday be granted the strength to leave behind this gosh awful present-day corner behind forever.  Until then, I will relish these memorials from my past.

Let's Not Forget To Consider The Unlevel Playing Field

Adam Young was our keynote speaker during the 2023 National Samson Society Retreat.  I did not attend either of his sessions (I continued to man the registration table during Friday evening's session), but I did slip in at the tail end of the second one (Saturday morning).  During those few minutes, a Q & A session was underway within the packed auditorium, and Adam was navigating those queries with answers that landed beautifully each and every time.  Also, he was really humorous with many of his answers as he sveltely circled back to accentuate previous bullet points that were no doubt key to his talk.

During those final minutes, I felt he was summarizing much of what he'd shared earlier on.  For he was emphasizing the importance of approaching loved ones who'd done the traumatizing with the request to bequeath them (opportunistically) with how they'd actually been hurtful.  For example, if a parent had said something traumatizing in the past, Adam urged audience members to timely return to that parent before asking respectfully if they might "revisit" the lingual trauma (what they'd actually said / tone, etc.) in detail (with the ultimate hopeful outcome being to receive healing via enlightening the ignorant traumatizer and thereby granting a sincere, sympathetic acknowledgement / apology).

And then Adam brilliantly stated this (paraphrase):  "You're going to get either one of two reactions (from the traumatizer) when you attempt this.  And via those, you'll know immediately if you're dealing with an outright wicked individual or a garden-variety Christian".

What he was implying there was that wicked people react harshly / survivor's instinctively by deflecting their responsibility whilst garden-variety Christian's react (even to the smallest degree) sympathetically / towards reconciliation once they've clued into what's being asked of them and their supposed part in it.  

And that made a lot of sense except Adam missed an obvious third traumatizer category outright. And this surprised me.  But, Adam probably has never been to Mississippi.

That third category is the low intelligence traumatizer.

Therefore, let's review.

1.  Wicked traumatizer (self-centered / self-absorbed asshole)

2.  Garden-variety Christian traumatizer (genuinely caring, sympathetic / biased towards reconciliation)

3.  Low intelligence traumatizer (emotional / intellectual retard)

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A level playing field between communicators can only exist when intelligence between those involved is closely matched.  Intelligence (more or less than) drives an individual's ability to utilize / interpret all manner of language (& arguably emotion) to express themselves with accuracy (whether they're being truthful or not).  

Arguably, it's not fair to expect a low intelligence traumatizer to be able to either react firstly (to the offer from you to bequeath) nor hear secondly (that which you've said, felt, experienced) with any degree of accuracy.  And that's where the problem lies.  For if you don't take the traumatizer's intelligence into account, you're likely going to unfairly categorize them (wicked?).  When, in actuality, they're simply a dumbass. 

And, oh my goodness, there're so many dumbasses in this world of woe. 

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This unlevel (intelligence) playing field can surely manifest itself as a dumpster fire within familial relationships if individuals aren't careful.  For there's a baked-in expectation / hope that SURELY THIS WOULD NEVER BE amongst kinfolk.  But it does occur at times.  And as such, there's one of two ways to manage it.

1.  Prioritize humility relative to the asymmetry.*

2.  Begrudge your situation in order to consistently maintain / be reminded of your superiority.

*whilst giving yourself full permission to see / acknowledge the humor within the sad situation.

The first option takes an almost superChristian outlook.  An outlook, I would argue, that's only achievable via hard, hard personal work that's centered on the harsh reality of the situation.  And this work likely could take a lifetime to wrestle through, coinciding with various stages of maturation between the two parties involved (parent / child, etc.).

For no one truly wants to face up to the reality that their loved one is an imbecile.  It's just so fatalistic to consider.  It's a tough, tough reality for those who're living it.  For most who've endured close-knit relational trauma would gladly take a wicked perpetrator over a dunce.  For there's simply so little hope for reconciliation / proper acknowledgement via the latter.

Do You Advocate For Your Children / Grandchildren, Or Are You A Militant Asshole / Absentee Father? Or, Is It Somewhere In Between?

Within the city of Jackson, Mississippi (Mississippi's capital), there resides three urban universities and one seminary (I believe I'm correct in my count).  One of these universities is public while the other two are private.  Understandably, the public university is much larger overall (more affordable tuition).  

My two oldest daughters are university students within the largest south Mississippi city, Hattiesburg.  There're two urban collegiate institutions there, one public and one private, the former of which is very close to the same size as the aforementioned public university in Jackson.  Hattiesburg, MS is overall safe and thriving economically.  It has a distinct character and strong sense of place.

This aforementioned public (& again, by far largest) university within the city of Jackson resides within the most unsafe / economically depressed region of the city.  The institution itself is not walled off (security fencing) from the city as one of the two private institutions are, therefore like a traditional urban college, I'm fairly certain that it resides seamlessly within the urban fabric of the capital city of Mississippi.  A city that's overall unsafe and floundering economically (Jackson is losing populace faster than any other city in America).  This, in recent years, has led to an overall depressing character and undeniably hopeless sense of place relative to how the city of Jackson is perceived as a whole (think third world country).

My wife, Angie, graduated from Baylor University back in the early '90s.  Baylor resides in Waco, TX.  It's a city that, per my wife's commentary, combined with my own short stints visiting, is overall safe and thriving economically.  It too had / has a distinct character and strong sense of place.

Taking all of that into consideration, under no circumstances would I allow a child of mine (no matter the gender) to enroll at the public university (the largest of the three institutions) within the city of Jackson.  No.  Matter.  What.

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As a parent, seeing a child off - college bound - takes breathtaking courage.  But it also requires parental guidance.    

I can remember reading years ago of a Baylor University student who was killed via a hit & run there in Waco.  He was riding his bike (alongside another student) after dark when it happened.  The boy was a musician from the Midwest who'd chosen to attend Baylor in spite of no previous familial connection therein.  

As you can imagine, the university was heartbroken, and the parents were devastated.  Eventually, the driver was located and charged.  From what I recall, the manslaughterer was a middle-aged white woman (educator within the local K-12 public school system) who was driving drunk.  

This was tremendously out of character tragedy for the city of Waco, home to Baylor University.

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College students are within that "in-between" stage of life.  No longer children but too, not exactly adults either.  College provides a great petri dish experience for this age group to establish some independent work ethic via a semi-controlled environment.  

This past week, a university student (from out of state) at the aforementioned public university in Jackson was murdered on campus (at a university-owned apartment complex).  The suspects in this murder are also college students, but from other institutions outside of central MS.

What would you do / how would you react if your college student son / daughter was murdered on their college campus?  Especially considering your child's supposed stellar track record as a student / human being.  

Would you question the role that you played relative to agreeing to support your child's enrollment within that institution?   Ultimately, how would you manage the emotional aftermath of seeing your child murdered not only during his most springboard season of life but at the very institution / within the very city where that springboarding was supposed to occur? 

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This hits home with Rob.   

As Dr. Dobson says, parenting isn't for cowards but simultaneously, parenting isn't rocket science.  

God help this family, and God help the city of Jackson and all who reside within it.  

For those of you Samson men who are parents / grandparents, be forewarned.  The effectiveness (performance) of your role as a parent / grandparent is in direct proportion to the seriousness of / commitment to your recovery.  Your dependents' lives may very well depend on it.

Lagniappe

Hot Tub Time Machine / Reckoning With NOLA "Steve"

Our family (Angie & I and our middle schooler) just returned from a long weekend relative to my 8th grade daughter's fall break (coalescing with my beautiful wife's 53rd birthday).  As such, NOLA was our getaway vacation city, and it offered some interesting developments regarding my recovery (whilst also being incredibly refreshing / relaxing as a fall weather getaway).

I have a number of NOLA vacation childhood memories.  Mainly due to how easy it was to reach (3-hours) by car from Jackson.

During my senior year of high school, my parents and I took a trip to "The Big Easy" to see Ole Miss play Tulane in the Superdome.  The year was 1990.  At the time, the New Orleans Centre shopping mall was directly connected to the Superdome indoor arena.  It's important to note that this 3-story, marble-floored, skylight-lit testament to free enterprise failed to survive 2005's Hurricane Katrina due to extensive flooding via the storm surge.

It was during this football game that I slipped away from Bob & Darlene in order to "kill some time" wandering the retail storefronts of New Orleans Centre.  Nonetheless, (as most teenagers do) I had an ulterior motive.  

Having made a beeline to Waldenbooks, I very nervously purchased a clear plastic sealed copy of Playgirl magazine.  Immediately following, I took the escalators to the top floor of the mall, found as quiet of a corner as I could and began coolly perusing this naughty periodical.

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Last weekend, my wife and youngest daughter had the good fortune of staying right on the edge of downtown NOLA (adjacent to the river), and this particular resort hotel also had an integrated health club (members only / available to hotel guest who're within a certain points tier).  It was impressive, and I took full advantage of it during our 3-night stay.  

During the late afternoon of our arrival, Angie encouraged me to go check out the health club (she was familiar with it, having stayed at this hotel / resort a few times prior) for myself.

Whilst wandering around the 100,000! sf facility, I eventually made my way into the locker room.  (Health clubs can only properly be adjudicated via the luxuriousness of their locker rooms.)

This one was impeccably clean, though it was a tad tight.  As I made my way deeper into the space, I turned one final corner, only to land at the massive, elevated jacuzzi tub.  Surrounding it were several individual shower stalls.  

Immediately, I nervously exited the locker room and returned to our room.

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Back during the fall of 1990, the Playgirl pictorial that powerfully captivated me was of a white guy named "Steve".  He was a 5'-8" / 215 lbs, muscular, very hairy, and clean-shaven bloke with an impressive '80s mullet and beautifully tanned skin.  "Steve" was no older than 25-30.  His hair was medium brown and his eyes hazelnut.  

"Steve" had a build that wasn't unnatural (juiced), though it was definitely athletic (he sort of looked like the infomercial SoloFlex guy in that regard).  Considering his genitals, there was nothing about them that was out of the ordinary (scaled).

As such, he never would have excelled today as a gay porn star.  Why?  Most are juiced (anabolic steroids), fully waxed and have grossly overscaled genitalia.  

There were perhaps 5-6 total photos of "Steve", one of which was a full-page spread of him standing - dripping wet - within a jacuzzi tub.  The tub was situated within a ski lodge-like set.  And it was this same set that each of the photos of partially / fully naked "Steve" were taken.  It provided a warm, very cozy atmosphere that effectively enhanced his '80s' seductiveness.

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The following day (post hotel / resort health club reconnaissance), I felt a tremendous amount of shame surrounding the thought of a post workout jacuzzi tub dip (for I had never done this).  That Saturday morning, throughout a shared meal with some family friends at one of NOLA's finest brunch establishments, I felt privately intruded upon ("WHAT DO YOU REALLY WANT ROB?") as we exchanged tales with our old friends.

These feelings of shame were centered around me questioning my true motive.  

Why exactly would Rob want to strip naked, post workout and enjoy the jacuzzi there with strangers?  

I knew it wasn't cruising.  Not at all.  Instead, it had something to do with overcoming and maturing forward.  All this in spite of my negative feelings that kept insinuating otherwise.

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Having now become absolutely smitten with the "Steve" pictorial, I eventually made my way to the closest mall restroom to masturbate.  From there, I took the periodical to my parent's Buick, hiding it (within the Waldenbooks bag) beneath the front seat.  Eventually, I made my way back to my ticketed seat, between Bob & Darlene, within the Superdome.  As you're likely assuming, I had little remaining interest in the game between the Rebels and Green Wave.  All in all, my emotions were powerfully conflicted (with the emphasis on powerfully).  I felt both simultaneously giddy and doomed regarding what I'd just accomplished.

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Eventually, it came time for Rob to make his way towards the hotel / resort health club now that it was mid-afternoon Saturday, (10/7).  I had changed into my athletic shorts / tank top within our hotel room prior.  From there, I slowly warmed up (stretching / light weights) before being strategic about using equipment that isn't readily available at our local Y.  

90-minutes of welcome strength training passed.  Though the ambient lighting within the space was less than stellar, the high quality of the equipment more than made up for it.  Eventually, I marched myself over to the men's locker room.  Doing so forced me to overcome feelings telling me that I didn't belong.  As I did so, I undressed before wrapping the health club-provided white towel around my naked waist.  Bracing myself regarding a potential encounter with other jacuzzing men, I traversed deeper into the somewhat familiar men's only space.  Before de-toweling, I carefully climbed the marble-finished steps and then down into the empty roiling waters of the (4-person max capacity) jacuzzi tub.  

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Within 3-4 days of relishing / marinating in my ownership of that particular Playgirl magazine (this was the first time I'd seen photos of fully naked men), I trashed it.  Before doing so, I ripped page after page of the periodical in protest to my faith and disgust in my personal captivation.  

From there, I didn't see fully naked men (photos) 'till my junior year of college and only due to my roommate's porn magazine stash (that I would covertly flip through on occasion).  

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Before making my naked ascent up the jacuzzi staircase, I had tripled-folded (a second) one of my health club-issued towels.  I did this before situating it like a small rectangular pillow within the corner of the tub that I'd gravitated towards.  Afterwards, I leaned my 51-year-old head back onto the damp cloth and closed my eyes.  I found the noise of the roiling, heated waters to be just as soothing as the water itself.  It was fantastically relaxing.

Having accomplished this feat, I realized I'd only done so by pressing all my emotions down - as far as possible.  As such, here I was.  Swoll and naked, post-workout.  With only my sweaty, silver-haired head sticking up out of the fray.  Yet once again feeling isolated.  And deeply ashamed.  

Eventually, I dozed off.  But when I awoke (I believe I was only asleep for a short while), I knew I was no longer alone.  Though I was still looking up, head reclined on my makeshift pillow, I sensed someone else had joined me.  I blinked repeatedly before sitting up, no longer feeling shame but embarrassment at having fallen asleep.  

The stranger sitting on the opposite side of the diamond-shaped tub grinned confidently as we made eye contact.  Weirdly, the din of the jacuzzi was far less now, though the waters were churning just as rapidly.  Too, I couldn't help but notice that the digital wall clock was displaying --:-- whereas before it displayed 5:05.  This unsettled me, causing me to jump when he spoke in a deep, masculine voice.  For it echoed distinctly off the surface of the waves.

"Hey Rob.  It's me Steve.  Welcome back to New Orleans."  

 To be continued... 

Refrain From Reverse Engineering (Then Overthinking) The "Attachment Theory"

I believe the "Attachment Theory" holds a lot of merit for guys in active recovery, but when parents of small children attempt to reverse engineer it, we've found that they tend to overthink / way overreach it.  From there, they may very well do more harm to their children (& marriage / family) than good.

For example, let's say you didn't / weren't allowed to properly attach (emotionally) to a parent(s) as a small child.  Hence, this, no doubt, will impact your emotional health as an adult / (potential parent).  From there, let's say you marry and choose to have children of your own.  And you're privy to the "attachment theory", having studied it extensively.  Therefore, you choose to overcompensate (hyper-attach?) whilst rearing your own child(ren) as a result.

We've seen parents do this by giving their children free reign.  Very few constraints.  Very few boundaries.  And this can result in children becoming elevated / entitled pretty quickly.  To the point that they're the ones ruling the roost.  

It's a weird scenario, and I'm convinced most children who're within the throes of it do realize that it is back-assward (relative to their peers). 

For as you know, children are brilliant.  Somewhat powerless, for sure, but certainly brilliant.

My advice to you, Samson brother, is to ONLY delve into this theoretical work from the standpoint of understanding your adult self (who's in active recovery).  From there, I would argue that your recovering / recovered self (as a parent) will do a far better job rearing your own children by default (on autopilot).  In essence, trust your recovering self to not make the same mistake(s) as Mom and Dad did.

 Reflections on a "Desiderata" life, pt. 1

The word "Desiderata" can be traced back to the root word "Desidero" in Latin. Loosely translated, it simply means "desires of the heart." 

The Latin Word dēsīdĕro

has several meanings. Of these several meanings, the most fitting one can be seen as:

 To desire or to want, to long, to wish for, to request, to require, to need

For the next eleven weeks, I will be walking verse by verse  through one of my favorite poems, "Desiderata."  
Desiderata ~ by Max Ehrmann ©1927

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Sometimes, life is just noisy. Right now, I am in a season of life where I have very little "alone time."  The moments, the hours, the days and the months...they are quickly fleeting and vanishing. Many times, I have to remind myself to slow down and take it all in. The moments when my soon to be ten year old son says something funny that makes me truly laugh from deep within or the moments when my fifteen year old dog wants to lay next to me in my favorite chair and snuggle as he rests his weary body...moments such as those are quickly fleeting and will soon vanish. 

As someone who struggles with (but is recovering from) anxiety and depression stemming from past abandonment and rejection issues, isolation and alone time can be dangerous for me. As an introvert with a capital "I," isolation comes naturally and quite easy for me. Indeed, I love to isolate and be alone; I find it easy to tell myself that I don't need people...

But the honest truth is, I do need people. I really do.  And people need me (or at least I would like to believe they do.) As crazy and non-stop busy as life is at times, I remind myself that I need to be mentally present, be engaged, and love others while doing life. And so it is, that I choose to go "placidly amid the noise and haste" that is my everyday life. But there are small pockets of precious time, windows of opportunities if you will, that I am afforded times of silence. Sometimes my old dog and I sit together in our favorite chair as I read God's word or a novel. Sometimes I will leave my desk and take a quick stroll around the beautiful campus of the venerable and esteemed institution I work for. It is there that I find peace; I find peace in the silence. 

Nearly five years ago, on a cold January day in 2019, my oldest friend had brain surgery at Vanderbilt University Hospital in Nashville. As a surprise to him, I drove to Nashville the day before his surgery to be with his family and sit with them as he went into surgery the next morning. Because of work and school commitments, this was a solo trip and my family did not accompany me. As soon as he went into recovery the afternoon of his surgery and I knew he would pull through, I left to make the return trip back to Mississippi. On the return trip home, nearly 7 hours in length, I never once turned on the radio or had any distracting noise in the car. My time during that trip was spent in conversation with God as well as ruminating in my own thoughts. To this day, that has been one of the most peaceful trips I've ever been afforded the privilege of having. 7 hours of glorious silence. It did my soul an amazing amount of good.

 "Loving others as God loves me." This has long been my mantra in life. Even as an introvert, I have discovered in my middle-aged adult years that I am incredibly needy when it comes to having others (especially men) in my life. As much as I love to isolate, isolation is dangerous to my soul. Very dangerous. As an adult male, I have been blessed to have found incredible friendships, camaraderie, and support in other men who have risen up and helped to heal the broken young boy who still lived inside of me. They have done this by meeting me where I was, loving me unconditionally, and walking with me down roads that were not always easy to travel on. Loving others does not mean that I must always get along with everyone or even agree with everyone's opinions. Quite the opposite. It means that I am willing to rise up and meet others where they are as I love them for who they are. It means that I hold on to my own convictions and beliefs while simultaneously stating to them "I hear you, I love you, and I am willing to listen to you even as I hold on to my own values." We don't have to agree with everyone about everything in life. That would be a fallacy. It is also impossible to do. True beauty in life can be found in peacefully co-existing with others and valuing them as fellow human beings even in times when you don't always agree. 

My challenge for you this week is to go "placidly" amidst the noise and haste that might perhaps invade your everyday life. Love others whom you encounter during those "noisy" times. And most of all, look for those beautiful moments of silence (though small they may be) and cherish them as you use them wisely; let those moments of silence, those moments where you find your peace in the solitude, be the fuel that gives you strength to go through the noise and haste in life.

 ~S

Should Samson Society Intensive Attendees Remain In Their 3-Day Huddle - Bare Chested (Weather Permitting) - In An Effort To Optimize These Relationally Rich / Affirming Weekends?

I had a feeling that blogpost title would catch your attention!

Firstly, it's important to note that -

Another Samson Society Intensive Weekend is fast approaching!  You can find info regarding it here:  Mens Intensive — Lifeworks Counseling.  It is highly recommended, especially considering the fact that this Samson Society specific weekend has gained as much traction as it has.

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During Labor Day 2023, I found myself swimming in the Ross Barnett Reservoir (a sizable lake close to our home) with a new friend.  His family joined my youngest daughter and me mid-morning there at the manmade "beach", and from there, we very much enjoyed the cool water through mid-afternoon.  Throughout the majority of the day, he and I sat up on our knees beneath the muddy flow and chatted under the blazing sun.  This was the third time we'd had the opportunity to do so since meeting providentially during one of our church's annual daylong mission endeavors.  That early summer event required that we caravan to north Mississippi, and fortuitously, we ended up in the same vehicle for the +/-2-hour trek.  This, I felt, was the perfect opportunity to interrogate.

This new friend & his clan are officially visiting Lakeside Pres, having grown up Presbyterian (mostly) in small town Mississippi.  What I found to be so compelling about him initially was his selflessness.  For he volunteered to join in on the aforementioned daylong mission endeavor sans knowing ANY of us Presbyterians.  That, to me, was remarkably brave of him.

What stood out to me about our Labor Day at / in the Rez was how our bare-chested selves testified to the relaxed nature of our dialogue.  Now, mind you, we didn't delve into heavy topics (taking our surroundings / lack of privacy into account), but we did do our darndest to "fill each other in" as to what exactly we'd been up to prior to our friendship taking root.  Having come from very different backgrounds, this amounted to a sizable debriefing.

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Here in central Mississippi, the temperatures over the summer 2023 have been oppressively hot.  That combined with zero precipitation (particularly the Jackson Metro) has made for an unusual three months of misery.  To summarize, everything here has been thoroughly scorched / charred.  Unirrigated vegetation (turf, shrubs) has long since died from heat exhaustion, and many smaller, understory trees have also succumbed to the relentless, stifling heat.

Now, it's important to note that our climate is not TYPICALLY unlike that of a tropical rain forest.  Considering the amount of heavy precipitation we're accustomed to, combined with the lack of diverse topography / low elevations (we're relatively sea level), our forests are dense with towering / soaring conifers / hardwoods that aren't unlike God's own mid-rise skyline.  

Hence, shade (often deep) is thankfully prolific and therefore not too hard to find.  

As a twice-weekly runner, considering these 2023 brutal summer months, this shade has been my refuge.  

There's a lovely Botanical Garden that's 1.5 miles from our abode, and it's served - for well over a decade - as my halfway "cool down walking spot" relative to my 5K runs.  

This past Sunday (late afternoon), I found myself, once again, at this beautiful spot, having finished my initial 1.5-mile trek.  

It's important to note that throughout this hellaciously hot summer, whilst running, no matter the time of day, I've been going at it bare-chested.  And this is a big change for me.  For I just have never felt comfortable running - in broad daylight - semi-nude.

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If I could properly describe for you how uncomfortable I was as a teenager relative to being bare chested, I'd likely do by sharing the following middle school tale:

An out of the ordinary scoliosis screening happened at my private academy during my 7th grade year.  This consisted of our entire class of +/-45 students marching single file to the gymnasium for publicly executed physical examination of our spines.  

The girls went first (perhaps within a separate room), each having their spines briskly examined (through their shirts / blouses), one after the other, via a small group of "scoliosis pros".  From what I recall, there were no callbacks pertaining to them.  Afterwards, they were sent to reside within the wooden bleachers overlooking the bare-chested 13–14-year-old boys as we took our turn.  

And who might have been chosen for the only humiliating callback out of the 7th grade boys but Rob?

I recall walking past the middle school girls afterwards (I'd put my t-shirt back on at this point) and being asked by the sassiest of the bunch as to why I was called back.  

I quickly lied by saying that "They'd made a mistake".

Immediately, my interrogator snapped back with, "No they didn't.  You have scoliosis!"

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I wasn't an overweight or overly unattractive 7th grader.  No, the issue was I'd become captivated by male bodies that were muscular, tan, hairy, and typically older than mine.  Essentially, bodies of adult men who were professional-grade athletically built.  These bodies became my idols, and I bowed to their whims via my heady (& very private) sexual fantasies with them.  These private fantasies grew more and more ritualistic in light of their purveyance.  As a result, what little bit of healthy outlook your average 7th grade boy might have dramatically diminished within Rob until there was not one iota left.  

I don't recall anyone (peer or otherwise) ever labeling me negatively relative to my body, for we were all in the same awkward, middle school boat.  

In the end, it was me unfairly punishing / labeling myself for something ridiculously unimportant / irrelevant.  It's so unfortunate I had no one to step in and privately advocate on my behalf regarding this confusion.  But, then again, how would anyone have known I was under such emotional duress?

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In closing, I want to bring us back to the present by finishing out my aforementioned tales.

I felt equal to Bryan (my new Lakeside Pres friend) as he and I chatted, waist-deep in the Rez.  Though he's a decade or so younger than me, my 51-year-old athletic build didn't physically reflect that offset.  

Bryan talked a lot of his father-in-law and how he's about to "un-retire" due to boredom.  He described a man who's obsessed with looking / acting youthful (mostly via the younger company he keeps combined with a generous amount of hair dye).  

As I recall this, I have to laugh.

For there I was with my thick head of silvering wet hair amongst a plentiful amount of similarly colored chest hair on full display.  And I wasn't at all unwilling to own those physical attributes via appropriately putting them on display for both Bryan and anyone else within spitting distance to take note of / admire.

In fact, I would argue our bare-chestedness only solidified our friendship that much more effectively as we talked / threw the football, hung out there in redneck Rankin County on Labor Day 2023.

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Fast forward to last Sunday, (9/10) where I found myself, once again, at the Reservoir Botanical Gardens midday through my 5K run.  You'll recall that I was bare-chested and super sweaty on that sweltering afternoon.

And lo & behold, who might I encounter therein but one of Lakeside Pres' elders who was there to walk his pooch around the .6 mile, deeply shaded loop.

Awkward.

This man is close to my age.  He and his clan have paralleled ours through the years within our church.  

We ended up walking together, and by the time we were onto our second loop, he divulged some of the most heart-rending portions of his story to unsuspecting, semi-nude Rob.  It was uncanny.  For never in a million years would I have imagined this man trusting me with said tales.  Much less unannounced / requested.

When our walk concluded, we stood by his vehicle for a few additional minutes small talking.  I could tell that he was having a difficult time there with my hairy pecs on full display.  Hence, we affably parted ways, him driving away and me making a beeline to the adjacent fire station public restroom prior to my run home.  

Bare chested has its benefits, for sure.  Thanks be to God for how markedly different I feel about this as a middle-aged adult.

Lagniappe

Recommended Reading - Let's Discuss Buttplay Sans Shame

Study Claims More American Men Are Being Hospitalized For Having Foreign Objects Stuck Inside Their Rectum • Hollywood Unlocked

The reason men are into buttplay is not necessarily because they're homosexual / have same sex attraction.  That's a stereotypical generalization.  The reason lies in individual guy's relationship to their anus / rectum.

As we all know, this part of their body is only just a hair lower than a guy's scrotum.  Naturally, proximity to genitalia often results in experimentation - especially at adolescence (in tandem with discovering masturbation).  As such, that experimentation can result in discovering this "dirty" part isn't necessarily immune to tactile / erotic stimulation (inserting digits / objects).

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It was during a Samson Society intensive weekend a few years back when I first divulged (publicly) using anal sex toys unashamedly.  I mentioned it within a story (which I'd penned) that I was tasked with reading.  It was one of two tales (story of shame / story of blessing) that each man had been asked to write in advance of the weekend "share time".  I don't recall which of the two stories contained this particular detail (I certainly didn't expound on it).

A fellow Samson attendee and I were chatting later on (the following day), and he began weeping (tears of deep-seated shame) whilst privately acknowledging being able to relate to my buttplay travails.  I came away feeling conflicted as a result.  On the one hand, I was glad to have had the courage to share, but too, that particular detail, to me, wasn't meant as a bombshell confession.  

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I'll never forget Silas 1.0 blessing my admittance to using anal sex toys regularly.  We were en route back to Jackson from Lafayette, LA where I'd accompanied him to his DUI arraignment (June 2016).  I came away feeling seen and heard.  Soon thereafter, I gifted him a stainless steel buttplug with a thankful heart.

We never spoke of my interest in buttplay again, and that was absolutely fine by me.  Simply knowing that I'd had the courage to divulge this to someone I trusted so completely...that, by far was enough.

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Anatomically, the rectum isn't at all like the vagina.  It's not designed to be penetrated.  As such, it's very easy for men to injure themselves.  Sometimes to the degree that surgery is needed relative to correction / healing.

Years ago, I won a local essay contest, and as a result, had the privilege of befriending one of the other writers (at the awards ceremony).  I felt compelled to share my story (over a meal) with this young man, and as a result, he opened up similarly.  As a result, he was the first guy I had the privilege to meet who had the courage to admit to receiving a tear in his anal sphincter (due to being sodomized by a well-endowed man).  He went on to describe the ordeal in enough detail for me to realize just how unique the anus / rectum truly is.  What I mean by that is this:  It's certainly a pleasurable part of the body to stimulate, but again, as stated above, it's not at all like the vagina.

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Sodomy between men is sin (as is fellatio, mutual masturbation between men).  Women who enjoy being sodomized should no doubt reserve this activity for their husband, and hopefully, he's in agreement with her wishes.  I don't believe there're all that many husbands enamored with the notion of penetrating their wives in any other location than their vagina / mouth.  Nonetheless, no doubt, there're couples who make sodomy part of their bedroom routine.

Brokeback Mountain (2005) or "The Gay Cowboy Movie" starring Heath Ledger / Jake Gyllenhaal is a recommended film to screen.  It fully fleshes out the consequences of men crossing flesh lines (becoming sexual).  

There's a scene in that film where Heath Ledger's character, Ennis Del Mar, attempts to forcefully sodomize his wife whilst being intimate, and this is supposedly a consequence of his ongoing backwoods shenanigans with his close friend, Jack Twist (played by Gyllenhaal). 

What's interesting about both that scene as well as the (one) sex scene between the two men is how unnatural / forced it obviously is (pragmatically) for them to participate in.

I truly appreciated the filmmakers for realistically displaying this.

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Yes, there are women who experience pain / discomfort during vaginal intercourse.  Based on my understanding of this, many of these women are having a physiological response to being penetrated that's rooted in underlying emotional issues stemming from any number of culprits (anxiety, body issues, past abuse / assault, etc.)  Too, there're women who have physical issues that also can cause pain / discomfort.  

But the majority of women do not experience this.

The vagina is a self-lubricating, warm pleasure hole for a man's penis to repeatedly penetrate.  And though there're a small percentage of women who can actually be brought to orgasm via this repetitive experience, most need a little help from their clitoris.  Hence, the gentlemanly approach to vaginal intercourse is to allow her to orgasm FIRST.  

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For those of you who've never experienced dialoguing with your Silas / other Samson brothers regarding a personal topic like buttplay, my hope is that you'll someday take that leap.  Especially if you're participating therein, and simply know within your heart that you need to be heard / acknowledged regarding the matter.  Releasing that and not being judged for it is a massive gift.

I've heard so many stories involving everything from nipple play (self-stimulation) to "inflating one's belly" whilst masturbating, and all of these somehow get lumped together into dark, shame-filled corners of men's psyches (which oftentimes provoke ample tears).  Corners that can very well end up serving as jumping off points for risky, dangerous behaviors.  Behaviors that can lead to serious injury, if not death, because they tend to mutate within that darkness.

Be encouraged to bring everything into the light in due time.  Never forget that the men within this community are just as male as you are.

Is There Any More Hellacious Location To Consume Porn / Masturbate Than A Port-O-Potty In The Desert Sands Of The Middle East?

I can't think of any.

Every day at 5 PM CST, like clockwork, I hear from a young Samson guy who's been in deep seated bondage to lust for most of his life.  He and I have been chatting (telephone calls) for +/-1 year now.  And interestingly enough, we've only spent a handful of hours together face-to-face throughout that same period of time.  

We came to know each other via "Make Thursdays Great Again" which is the Price Is Right of virtual Samson Society meetings.  As such, like the TV show, not only is it high energy but it's easy to sit back and simply spectate (with a big grin on your face) amongst the throngs.

I moved away from that virtual group and haven't looked back, but my hope is he'll soon be reengaging therein (schedule permitting).  It's a perfectly comfortable landing spot for him for such a time as this.

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When he and I chat daily, we understandably never talk for too long.  His schedule is tight.  Plus, when you're as faithful as he is relative to communication (and twelve months has passed), an efficient routine / pattern develops.  

In this young man's past is active military duty.  Specifically, years spent deployed to the Middle East where he risked life and limb for not only our country but for those where he was stationed.  Since I've no experience as a soldier, I'm always fascinated to learn of his own (when he's comfortable divulging).  

A question arose yesterday, (7/26) regarding where exactly he chronically consumed porn whilst deployed in the Middle East, and he blithely stated, "in the port-o-potties".  

This admission gripped me as I tried to imagine doing this day after day there within that already bleak environment.

He went on to say that every soldier knew that the port-o-potties existed for such uses.  

!?!?!?

My head spun around five or six times when he divulged this to me, and in many ways, it's still spinning.

I cannot think of a more pathetic, hellacious location to consume porn / masturbate than a port-o-potty located within the god forsaken desert sands of the Middle East.  Yet, this was his everyday routine.  Particularly as it related to managing the emotional stress of being barely an adult combined with all the responsibilities of soldiering there within that complicated conflict.  

My young Samson friend lost his best friend within that environment too.  He rarely speaks of it, yet I know it haunts him and will likely do so throughout the remainder of his life.

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I mentioned in my previous post that bathroom stalls were my go-to in high school / college relative to masturbation.  I cannot over emphasize the amount of shame this routine imbued me with.  For is there anywhere on planet Earth more CLINICAL and more IMPERSONAL than a commercial bathroom stall?

There is.  It's a freestanding port-o-potty.

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As young men, my Samson brother and I chose to strip any semblance of dignity from our souls by taking part in this public restroom routine.  I clearly see / am reminded of that now.

What self-destructive, hyper-pathetic traps we so easily fall into within our youth, particularly as it related to our sexuality / libido / managing emotional pain.  Patterns that laid the groundwork for potentially so much more emotional anguish / regret to come (as we aged forward).

It is no wonder how easily deceived (internally / privately) we young men can become regarding the very expression of our sexual selves as males.  All due to the fact that this hugely important part of our lives - as young men / teenagers - may very well become relegated to settings designed for nothing more than filthiness and refuse.  

Desperation breeds ingenuity, yet ingenuity / creativity can at times be its own long-term undoing (just because you can doesn't mean you should).

Please pray for me as I continue to walk with this dear Samson brother, learning about myself (as much as he himself) along the way.  Eyes peeled.

Profound Sensitivity Whilst At "The Beach". (Childhood Past Overlapping With Present Experience.) Unintentionally Exhuming Teenage Trauma.

I requested of my parents that we take a beach vacation when I was a sophomore in high school.  At the time, I was around the age of 16 (I'm an only child).  My parents, concurrently, were in their mid-30s.  The year would have been 1988.  It's important to know that we'd never "beached trip" prior, though we had visited the Mississippi Gulf Coast (which has a less than picturesque beach).

I believe I made this specific "beach trip" request due to what I'd heard from a close friend relative to her family's beach vacations.  My friend's dad was an attorney, and each summer they integrated their beach trip in with the Mississippi BAR convention in Miramar Beach, FL.  My friend was a drinker and as such, very socially adept.  Too, her stunningly beautiful cousin from CA would fly in to join her relative to this annual summer beach vaca.  

It all sounded so COOL (despite the fact that I was anything but cool).  Why not give it a go with my family?

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My older two daughters and I just returned from Miramar Beach, FL this past weekend.  I was there for work (convention), and my daughters tagged along.  This specific convention, I've attended each summer for close to a decade.  It's an exhausting affair, though overall - typically - very productive / enjoyable.  

Miramar Beach is home to a 2,400-acre resort that was spearheaded in the 1980s.  It's at this resort where this annual convention has been held since 2015.

Too, it was at this same resort, back in 1988, that my parents and I vacationed when I was 16.  As such, it was my first time there.

As you might imagine, what I experienced at 16 at Sandestin was far different OVERALL than what's there today.

Except...

The same hotel building my parents and I stayed in back in 1988 is still there (though it's been rebranded as "condos").  

In fact, surprisingly, my girls and I stayed in that exact building last week while we were there.  As a result, I had no idea how profoundly influential our accommodations would turn out to be.

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Immediately upon inhabiting our assigned condo (hotel room), I felt a profound sense of sadness / insecurity that I couldn't shake for the entire four days we were there.  It was like a dark cloud that hung over me each and every day.  It's important to note that adjacent to this repurposed condo building is the original conference center for the resort.  Because our assigned condo (room) was at the end of the building, my girls and I would typically navigate through said pre-function conference space (entering & exiting the building repeatedly throughout the day).  

As a sixteen-year-old, I was notorious for exploring unfamiliar buildings.  Hence, I'm certain I did a fair share of exploring of this mid-'80s conference center.

To be more specific, because I was sharing a hotel room with my parents, I feel certain I was on the hunt for "off the beaten (sorry) path" public restrooms to masturbate within (sitting on the loo within an enclosed stall).  This pre-function conference space had restrooms that would have fit the bill exactly.  For whatever reason, as a teenage boy, doing this was just rebellious enough to satiate that adolescent season.

In fact, I used these restrooms last week (only for what they were designed for, thank you very much) often while we were there (as we entered / exited the building).

I know all this sounds ridiculously over the top bizarre, but...

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Immediately upon my girls and I returning home on Sunday, (7/23) afternoon, I facilitated the "Brain Changers" virtual Samson Society meeting (I just barely made it), and it was literally during our breakout session that everything began to crystallize within my mind (Summer 1988 past overlapping with Summer 2023 present experience).

I cannot underestimate how much I loathed myself as a sixteen-year-old boy.  Whether it was related to my body image, my sexuality (struggles with unwanted / intrusive homosexual desires), or my penchant for escaping via masturbation (often inside bathroom stalls), all of this compounded my disgust.  It was a private disgust that I wrestled with constantly.  

That sixteen-year-old Rob is alive and well inside my head.  Unbeknownst to me, I essentially re-traumatized him last week relative to our 2023 accommodations (being identical to his in 1988).  

How is this possible?

I have no idea.  I'm no brain expert.  But I can tell you this:  my sixteen-year-old self is in there.  And he remembers / is just as sensitive as ever.  Especially when the experience(s) were tough for him.  Plus, he was a budding architect at the time (I embarked into architecture school at 19).  Hence, buildings, in particular, made distinct impressions on his / my budding psyche.  

Having gone through this, I feel yet again humbled.  It truly is unbelievable how profoundly influential childhood experiences are relative to our present-day adult circumstances.  

Advocating For Your Children (Including The Dunces / Queers)

What does it mean to be an advocate?

This is a complicated ask.

Advocacy isn't merely voting in favor of another person.  It's actually using your intelligence to understand that person firstly (to the best of your ability) prior to supporting them (customized) therein.  This is a time-consuming process that requires your complete focus on someone other than yourself.

To do this (advocacy) well, you cannot establish yourself as more (better) smart, more (better) straight, more (better) anything.  Otherwise, true advocacy cannot occur.  For advocacy is the purest form of sacrificial love between two human beings.  

In summary, advocacy is a bottom-up support.  It's attempting to elevate another person relative to their value TOWARDS THEMSELVES.  From there, others around them (hopefully) buy into this (infectious) self-renew and continue forward with the trend (thereby accelerating the elevation).

Individuals who'd benefit from advocacy - for whatever reason - cannot or will not advocate for themselves.  Regarding the latter, if they've been brainwashed to believe they've no / lesser value, advocating on their behalf will be that much harder to pull off successfully.  This is due to the codependency that tends to result from said brainwashing.

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Parents of multiple children who refuse to advocate for certain offspring befuddle me via their discriminatory behavior.

Here're two thoughts that come to mind:

-  Isn't a parent - by default - qualified to be the ideal advocate for their children?  Particularly if they're a biological parent?

-  What benefit (to the parent, in particular) is it to withhold advocacy from one of multiple children?

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Please consider the following disclaimer:  I'm not referring here to rebellious / disobedient / delinquent children.  

Instead, I'm referring to children who aren't homogeneous amongst the ranks (within the fam).  Perhaps they're NOTICEABLY less intelligent, less masculine / feminine, etc. than the other offspring.  As such, they're in need / owed (I would argue) - to an even greater degree - of parental advocacy.  

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Therefore, what might this advocacy actually look like?

For discussion's sake, let's say you are the parent of four beautiful children, all over the age of eighteen.  Two of these children are up and out of the house, living as productive, responsible adults.  But one of the remaining two is noticeably less intelligent (& always has been), and this dramatically impacts his short-term memory.  Yet, he's far more athletically built (larger skeleton) than his (other male) siblings.  

As such, wouldn't you advocate for this child, specifically as it pertains to his athleticism (noticeable physical strength / prowess)?  And don't assume I'm referring to team sports here.  What about strength training, CrossFit, etc.?  Activities that are biased towards athleticism without the requirement of above average intelligence.  

Wouldn't advocating for your child's customized success therein likely reap substantial benefits within his self-esteem, thereby improving your relationship therein?

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But what if you, as the parent, didn't speak that strength training / CrossFit language due to you yourself not having an athletic bone in your body?  What then?

You reach out to someone who does and entrust them to become your child's advocate (whilst keeping a watchful eye).

This is not rocket science.  Yet, I'm beginning to believe the (parents) embarrassment problem (towards their dunce / queer child) doesn't lie within the brain.  No, I'm now convinced that this is a heart problem. 

These parents simply do not care to either enmesh or burden themselves with the notion of advocacy for this specific offspring.  Hence, these children are left to flounder / rot on the vine.  

But why?  This only hurts them in the end by burdening everyone within the family that much further.  

I'm so confused.  What's the benefit of deeming a child - as I've described here - a lost cause?