The Earnest Wife (Puppeteer). Am I Happily Married To A "Doormat"?

During my first Samson Society meeting back in August of 2014, I met a younger man who'd also lost (two, actually) jobs for breaking company policy (IT / personnel).  I wasn't at all sure how to feel about that connection for I was still deeply overwhelmed with shame / grief therein (my similar job loss occurred in September of '13).  

He was very friendly though and did not discount the role his wife played in his recovery.  This piqued my interest.

This younger professional man's initial job loss came during a season where their young family was (as the Turners were) living in small town MS.  They'd been there a good bit longer than our one year, and therefore had made more platonic connections.  As a result of his job loss, his wife promptly "threw him out" (his words) of their house which resulted in him bunking on a friend's couch for +/- one week.  Eventually, he found another job (civil engineering firm), and after that seemingly reciprocal termination, they found themselves looking for work either back home (AL) or somewhere in Jackson (they landed in "The Bold New City").

At some point during all of these fits & starts, my new friend's wife declared that her husband was "someone she didn't recognize".  

I really became dialed in at this revelation for I knew that what she actually meant was:

"This part of you that's so drawn to sexual content / salaciousness / flirtatiousness with the opposite sex, I refuse to acknowledge (though I've been aware of it all along)."

In other words, pretend to be someone else.  Everyone likes you better that way.

I believe it's important to know that his wife was deeply religious, having come from a deeply religious family.

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A much younger, mentally ill Samson brother was quick to call out "doormat" wives within our then troupe.  The year was probably 2018.  In that regard, the husbands married to these ladies were Type A, dominant males.  This younger man obviously felt as if wives shouldn't be submissive?  I have no idea.  

Of course, this raises the question of what actually is / qualifies as submissive.    

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My second architect bossman (1996-2006) divorced his first wife (the mother of his two young sons) due to her being "unreasonable".  This man was / is ten years my senior (he hired me when I was 24).  Now, he'd been intensely hands-on with their second son (birth - preschool), leading me to believe his wife was an educated, working full-time professional (this man, my boss, had since remarried - to one of his employees).  I was never given the opportunity to meet Wife One but oh, how I longed to.  I absolutely wanted to understand more about his terminology.

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Last year, I reached out to a Samson brother who'd posted grim marital news on Slack (on Xmas Eve).  From there, we began to chat weekly.  He'd been separated (but only during the daytime) from his spouse for awhile, living instead at his sister's home (20-minutes drive away).  He been readily dismissing his siblings / parents' criticism of the arrangement (they wanted him back living full-time within his own home).  Instead, choosing to vouch for his wife's demands.

Keep in mind that she was a homeschool mom (to three young children) with bizarre health issues that were / are seemingly undiagnosable.  In fact, one of those bizarre health issues convinced her to demand that they build a new home in lieu of living comfortably (except for her) where they were residing.     

My Samson brother too had lost a job (D-day) via breaking his employer's IT policy.  He'd also executed a full disclosure with his wife under the guidance of a therapist.  I believe it's important to note that his job loss and all the complications therein resulted in suicidal ideation.

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Another Samson (younger) brother whom I've communicated with for a number of years ranks within the top 3 pertaining to intelligence / career success.  He's a brilliant guy who's in turn making money hand over fist.  In spite of his drive / vocational stardom, he's recently endured an "in-home" separation from his spouse.  

Too, she's feeling more agreeable now that his pocket computer is locked down, leaving him unable to go online.

Now, when I say brilliant whilst describing this young man, I'm not referring to just a high ACT / SAT score kind of brilliant.  I'm talking about - change the world sort of brilliant.  

What's interesting about his situation is he's terrified of his wife and her threats (particularly related to divorce).  

Yet, they spend almost all of their free time together.  Whether it's playing sports or vacationing (together with their two small children).  

Another interesting note is his wife is of Mexican descent (he's white).

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And finally, another Samson brother attended last Sunday's "Brain Changers" virtual Samson Society meeting (that I facilitate), having (earlier that Father's Day) been humiliated by his wife (in front of their adult children) via her chiding him pertaining to his "untrustworthiness" with computers (pocket & otherwise).  He was so distraught at her crass disrespect (he was in the middle of doing vacation research for their family) that he was visibly shaken.  I didn't know what to do in response.  

But I can tell you what my kneejerk reaction was.

Hire a divorce attorney yesterday.

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My wife recognized three things back in 2013 (D-day) regarding Rob, her husband:

1.  He'd been honest with her regarding his struggles with sexual sin since their formal engagement in 1995.  

2.  He'd been actively looking for help ever since.  Particularly in line with technological advancements (digital smut's viral availability).  

3.  The emotional fallout tied to his job loss had been devastating to him personally as well as their marriage, considering the risk they'd both taken to execute the new vocational role (with three small children).

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What frustrates me about my friendships with Samson guys, who're either married or seriously involved with the opposite sex, is how disjointed my feelings become regarding WHAT I HEAR of their spouse / spouse's reaction.  And this is due to the overlay of my own spousal support therein.  

I suppose too that I truly believe marriage is a sacred yoking between two very imperfect people.  People who didn't choose marriage to begin with in order to not recognize the desire for integrated, ongoing support.  Especially considering the unpredictability of culture / technology / life and how they intersect personally with each of us as individuals.  

In closing, I often hear Samson guys disclosing how their wives don't feel safe around them anymore.  

As strange as it may sound, I don't know why any woman could find a man attractive who's completely safe to be yoked to.  Men, by definition, are masculine in the sense that they will things into existence that weren't there prior.  They're also disciplined and resilient in line with this pursuit.  Hence, yoking oneself therein will result in risks that far outsize the security baked into a life lived alone.  This is what makes men men, and it's what makes marrying a man so enticing.

Intimacy With Men Lives On Via Memory & Technology

Sledge's birthday is 2024's Memorial Day.  Leading up to his birthday, each year, I re-listen to his audio journals & re-read his personal analytical work that he so fearlessly sent my way back in 2018.  Sledge was 28 at the time, and I was 45.  We'd met due to his willingness to step into the Samson Society meeting I facilitated at Lakeside Pres.  At the time, lust was a sizable part of his life, and he'd found himself convicted therein whilst hearing a mutual friend of ours share his testimony (prior to referring his audience to Samson Society).

Sledge needing psychotherapy and likely meds for clinical depression, but this wasn't apparent to me initially.  Instead, what jarred my attention (whilst parlaying my analytical thinking), to the massive degree that it did, was just how head-over-heels enamored he was of Rob from the moment we met.

Why did this matter?

Sledge loathed MS.  Everyone in MS.  Except for me and a woman at work that he'd grown fiercely attracted to.  This combined with his brilliance made for quite the enigma.  

So, how did he end up here within the Butt Crack of the USA?  Essentially, his relentless efforts to climb the corporate ladder begrudgingly brought him here.

At this time, Sledge was newly married and actively working to reproduce (he & his sweet wife already had one offspring). Regarding his spouse, I'm fairly certain she knew her husband was mentally ill (she was a healthcare worker) yet was too afraid to put it into words.  For Sledge had a razor-sharp tongue and zero tolerance for criticism from anyone sans using it in kind.  Plus, they'd tried couples therapy to no avail.  Nonetheless, she gave him what he seemed to care amount mostly.  Her desire for sex.  And this he obliged from her with absolutely zero resistance.  For Sledge received seemingly otherworldly amounts of affirmation via cunninlingus / vaginal intercourse.

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It was around this time of year (early summer) when I headed to south AL for 5th / 6th grade church camp.  This was a weeklong affair at a humble venue containing absolutely zero out-of-the-ordinary (from what I was used to in MS) natural beauty whatsoever.  It was a flat, forestry landscape with a relatively small lake.  Therein, each humble building was interconnected via gravel path / road.  

It was only our church, First Baptist Church Jackson, that participated, therefore there were no opportunities to intermingle / befriend with fresh faces.  In total, around 30-40 boys & girls were present for this scorchingly hot summer break week.

The year was 1985.  Van Halen's game-changing album had just come out (in fact, they'd even performed in Jackson at the MS Coliseum).  It defined this era pertaining to what it meant to be a young white male.  

During the late evening of the day we arrived at the church camp, I headed to the communal bathroom, there within the boys' bunkhouse, to brush my teeth.  Mid-way through my brushing, I heard the lone shower (that was being used) turn off.  When the curtain was raked violently across the rod, our collegiate chaperone, Dan, put his wet, naked bod nonchalantly on display.

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Sledge's audio journals were meticulously narrated / recorded.  The degree of vulnerability within is unlike any Samson deliverable I've ever received (& I've received A LOT of deliverables over the past decade).  

When I first listened to them back in 2018 (immediately following their gifting), the density of the recordings was too much for me to process with any real foresight / diligence.  That, along with how positively intimate they were, short-circuited my understanding of just how needy this young man truly was at the time.

It was almost like seeing him too (through that 1985 wall mirror) naked and wet, right there behind me, for such a time as that.  As such, I did what I only knew to do.  Smile awkwardly and continue forward with my teeth cleaning routine.

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Dan's collegiate frame was awe inspiring.  Both his impressive height and muscular build classified him as intimidating.  Not to mention the thick sandy brown chest and stomach hair that added years of maturity to his 22-year-old self.

And then there was his junk.  

Let's just say, I didn't even know where to begin to process what rested there moistly between this stranger's legs, though when I now come across Ezekiel 23, it easily harkens back.  

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Sledge's upbringing hadn't been normal, and he was just beginning to truly wrestle with the ramifications of that truth.  I could not relate to his growing up years for it all seemed so pejorative.  Particularly considering how intelligent / grounded his parents seemingly were.  

And then from there, his college girlfriend (who eventually became his wife) allowed him to become her dorm room fuck buddy.  And this went on "out of spite" (according to Sledge) in light of their parents' desire to see them complete their higher ed prior to marriage.  

What served as icing on the cake though was the fact that Sledge's dad was a pastor.  A devout, average-sized congregational pastor who loved both his wife and three children immensely.

At this time, Sledge was wondering out loud about pivoting and becoming a pastor himself.

And here I was just standing there at the sink minding my own business...

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Throughout my life, I've never ceased relishing the memory of seeing our collegiate chaperone's freshly showered physique, there on private display, in all of its glory.  For though I'm certain there've been plenty of greater than or equally beautiful men for me to admire, my unexpected exposure to him, at such an impressionable age, taught me such the important lesson.

Timing is everything.  Therefore, be alert.  Some of the most (eventually) fruitful & memorable experiences of one's life may very well occur when you're least expecting it.    

Lagniappe

Rob's (Adolescent) Self-Pleasure Hidey Hole

You've heard the trope.  "I'm taking / claiming sanctuary / asylum here within the church house".   

During the previous US President's administration, a number of illegal immigrants took this approach (as a last resort to being deported).  

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When I was in high school, my family faithfully attended First Baptist Church Jackson.  At this time (1989-1990), the church had just completed a massive Fellowship Hall / Sunday School classroom addition.  This was a multi-story building (5-6 floors) which served to (architecturally) completely fill the urban city block (immediately to the east of the State Capitol Building) the church resided within in downtown Jackson.

Oftentimes, on a typical Sunday morning, I would drop my parents off at one of the church's many covered drop offs prior to parking their car (in light of us inevitably running late).  We lived in Madison (in the country!) in an average-sized ranch house, therefore the drive to our downtown Jackson church was a very repetitive (boring) +/-25 minutes.  

All of my peers that were also - for the most part - faithful churchgoers (11th / 12th grade Sunday morning) went to other schools than I did.  And these schools weren't just different than my own, they were far better (academically superior) than my own.  

I especially loathed arriving on-time to Sunday School and having to endure the dead space prior to the class starting.  For everyone knew each other from their school(s), therefore in spite of their late-night grogginess, small talk came easily for them.

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At this time, I knew I wanted to pursue architecture as a college degree / career field.  As such, this interest empowered me to explore buildings with an "eye for design" / out of curiosity.  

Not long after the massive Sunday School / Fellowship Hall addition was occupied by the church, I took the time to explore it from stem to stern.

This afforded me the opportunity to find some "off the beaten path" one-hole restrooms that were perfectly suited to steal away to.

And this became my cathartic routine.  Every Sunday morning.  Prior to Sunday School.  

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This was me rebelling against a situation that I felt powerless against.  Having to repetitively face the uncomfortableness of Sunday morning (high school Sunday School) stood in stark contrast to my budding desire (as a new believer) to learn about God's word / be at church.  For I had no doubt that I had been positioned well, particularly at that age, to reap tremendous spiritual growth via First Baptist Church Jackson.  

To expound on that word powerless, let me offer up the following.

My parents were attending this church, at this particular time, due to their fierce loyalty to it.  This loyalty was borne out of the love and care they experienced whilst being ushered / invited into this fold as a (very) young (not at all locally sourced) couple.  From there, just a few years passed before my dad found himself as an (very young) ordained deacon.  This too solidified their place amongst the Protestant throngs within this thriving '80s mega-church.

I wasn't about to complicate the situation / rock the boat by voicing my frustration related to one dumb weekly hour of Sunday School.

Yet...

each rebellious sexual-fantasy-fueled act seeded my Sabbath day conscious with immense guilt.  And even though I would regularly find myself consistently tardy to my assigned high school Sunday School class (way up on the 5th floor), no one seemed to notice.

For I was Rob Turner.  That effeminite-acting (gay?) kid from Madison who went to that outlier private school.  

Who sincerely gave a shit about him anyway?  Especially amongst the dressed-to-the-nines northeast Jackson throngs.

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Fast forward to today.

Angie and I attend Lakeside Pres.  Of note, for almost four years, I facilitated an in-person Samson Society meeting there on Saturday mornings.  It was a wonderful opportunity that's imbued a tremendous amount of loyalty of my own towards that church.  The facilities at Lakeside Pres are lackluster.  Hence, there's simply not enough church building to properly accommodate the church body (I am keenly aware of this due to my background as an architect).  It's the exact opposite of what Angie and I experienced at First Baptist Church Jackson (growing up) where space was plentiful / thoughtfully designed to accommodate / serve that '80s church.

I really enjoy Bible study.  Sunday School is one of my favorite ways to delve in.  The class we've been attending for a few years now found its origin as an offshoot of a much larger class.  Today, this class is bursting at the seams (considering the room we're assigned to).  Plus, it's simply starting to feel stale / repetitive in spite of the quality teaching / friendliness of the group (Rob's blue ocean itch).

Yesterday, Angie and I agreed to take a bit of a sabbatical from Sunday School (only) in order to think through and pray about where God might lead us next relative to Sunday morning Bible study.  

Within this class, we're very well known.  And mostly due to how unabashed I am at providing commentary / asking questions.  Therefore, it's become a very, very comfortable experience amongst very familiar friends.  

But, it's important to remember that God is good and effectively orchestral.  

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I workout at the Y twice weekly.  The facility I frequent typically hosts middle to Medicare-aged folks (relatively speaking).  Over the past few years though, there've been a handful of high school boys who've become faithful gymgoers.  This generational variety has been welcomed wholeheartedly.  

Presently, one young man has been very regular for close to one year.  

I introduced myself to him late last year, and from there, it's been delightful to know him on a first name basis (though we rarely speak if he's there with his posse).

A month or so ago, I overheard that he was slated to move away, and I confirmed this with him last week.  

My heart hurts for him.  I can't imagine having had to start fresh as an 11th grader in an entirely new place / setting.  Particularly where he knows no one.

I had him try on my workout gloves this past Saturday in hopes that my size would fit him too.  It didn't.  

I have two unboxed pairs (my size) at the house, and I'd hoped to gift him one - as a wellwisher gift.  

Unfortunately, this particular glove is no longer made, therefore purchasing a smaller size - for him - is off the table.

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Powerless is a feeling that I keenly sympathize with.  In fact, I'd argue it's a bit of a theme of my life that's rooted squarely in my teenage years.

Nonetheless, God is good and effectively orchestral.  I believe that with all my heart.  

Feeling powerless doesn't mean we necessarily are.  God is good and effectively orchestral.  He is always advocating on our behalf as his adopted sons.

That being said, especially whilst considering our inner child, those negative feelings can effectively disrupt / hijack our intentions if opportunity presents itself.

A Hard Funeral(s) To Sit Through

Out of respect for my father, I attended a funeral (unrelated to family) today.  This wasn't the first time I'd done this.  When I was in high school, I attended a funeral with him.  I remember it clearly, for the deceased had killed himself via suicide, leaving behind a boy who was only one or two years older than I (the boy went to my high school and the divorced dad had attended church with us).  

That was my first hard funeral due to the tragedy tied to the cause of death.

This one today was tough, but mostly it had to do with the tragic, longstanding narrative tied to the deceased's family life.  

The pastor who officiated (who was a family friend of the deceased) beat the drum of his dead mentor "loving Jesus" to the maximum.  We mourners heard this over and over again.  All the while, everyone there knew the dead man, nor his family members had not darkened the door of the church in decades.  And the setting clearly spoke to this dichotomy.  For the wake and funeral was held in a tee-ninny suburban funeral home parlor where the overflow crowd of mourners were all squeezed in like sardines within the repurposed pews.

At the outset of the service, the officiating pastor cited the book of Samuel, quoting scripture which captured David eulogizing Saul (post his suicidal death).  That was fitting, but I don't believe many mourners picked up on the subtleties therein (is there no more anticlimactic Biblical figure than Saul?).    

Not long after that opening salvo, the pastor used the word chaos to describe the deceased man's family, doing so right there in front of his widow, two daughters and all the grandchildren / great-grandchildren (they were all packed in too).  He even went so far as to specifically cite the bastardization of the man's first grandchild (borne from his youngest daughter) as if it was yesterday's news.

Most of those in attendance likely knew the family when that particular shit hit the fan.  The year was 1989.  Understandably, his daughter's future (& their family's trajectory) was forever changed as a result, but what had to have made the greatest specific impact was the unshakable stigma they were now saddled with.  Particularly considering their place as a well-established, upper-class Jacksonian family.

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What I'm going to say next is going to sound like a cop out, but I'm going to say it anyway because I believe it (& lived through it).

The 1980s weren't good to any of us white folks, and this family was (like so many) right within its crosshairs.  I'm not blaming this decade of excess for their specific missteps, but you must realize that families were hit from two (if not more) sides during this decade.

1.  Enormous economic success that was unparalleled.  Especially for those who were put together and Dale Carnegie extroverted (as the deceased had been during that era).  Most professionals were making money hand over fist (both earned & unearned) which precipitated enormous buying power for these.  Constraint / "quiet living" along with temperance were ideas from the past that were outright mocked during this era.  Everything, and I do mean everything was hinged on excess and immediate gratification, no matter the risk.

2.  Massive shift in societal norms as it pertained to the prioritization of class / cliques / relational circles of influence.  Autonomy was so very out.  Country club status quo was everything and everywhere in the '80s.  There was more chrome and hairspray, Porsche and Winnebago than had ever been seen prior here in America.  For all of these veneers / brands screamed, "LOOK AT ME!"  Arguably, all of the upper / middle-class family's identity was classed directly to these pleasurable platitudes, leaving it particularly vulnerable to headship neglect / distraction. 

Considering both of these, time and energy to play within this particular arena massively downplayed what once was the bastion of familial importance:  

The husband / father's role as protector.  And not just via shielding but via exposure / knowledge / insight that's used to educate / shrew the family of cultural / societal deception risk(s).

The familial chaos cited by today's funeral pastor, I'm convinced, found both its origin and virility during this powerfully influential decade.

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Two distinct funerals.  Considering both this one today and the one from my teenage years, both were tremendously hard to sit through but for different versions of tragic.  

My dad thanked me at the conclusion of each for taking the time to attend.  Because I was there to stand with him, I'm glad I did.   

Overwhelming Recognition

Last week, I was approached by someone who's made an indelible, though very indirect, positive mark on my family.  He's retirement age, though still working full-time, and as such, has recently embraced the perspective of preparing for the inevitable.  

Over the past decade, I've only spoken to this family friend a handful of times - in spite of our vocational / professional proximity.  Mostly, these short dialogues were necessitated out of politeness more than anything else.  For he's always been all-business all the time (& I respect that).

When he approached me and shared his thoughts therein, I absolutely couldn't believe it.  For it bolstered my identity tremendously.  In fact, I'm still walking on air as a result.  

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Within the Samson universe, I receive my fair share of recognition.  And this is anchored within my tenure / notoriety within the org.  And all of that recognition, I do not take for granted.  

But having someone of this stature take the time to align himself with Rob, completely devoid of Samson protocols or otherwise (this man isn't even a practicing Protestant Christian), was absolutely shocking.  For he made that choice based on his quiet day-to-day observation alone, over the past decade.   

!?!?!?!?!

I never could have dreamed that this man, who's so well respected by so many, had been observing me so closely.  And as such, had made the decision to align himself with the notion that I'm essentially equal to his younger self. 

I'm actually wondering if this was someone's idea of a joke, but at the same time, I know deep down that's simply self-doubt creeping in.  

If this man sticks to his word (& I have no reason to believe that he won't, for he's already taken pragmatic steps that align with his intentions), his recognition of Rob will alter my reach / influence tremendously - literally overnight, and in turn, the reach of the gospel of Jesus Christ.  

I'm humbled.  Overwhelmed.  Amazed at God's orchestration.  I do not deserve this.   

What Is A Silas?

Here is what our experience tells us: You can get sober from anything going to meetings, but you can’t stay sober just going to meetings. That’s why, in the end, it isn’t even about the meetings. The meetings are a portal into the brotherhood. Samson really lives BETWEEN the meetings in relationships, conversations, friendships. Christianity, properly understood, is a team sport, not an individual event. We’ve been failing because we’ve been playing the wrong game! If we play 1-on-1 against a superior opponent, we will fail.

The lead person on your team we call a Silas. He is the one you are in regular communication with. There is an element of accountability, but it is not focused on sin management. If I just focus on the behavior, I run the risk of mastering that specific behavior and becoming a self-righteous Pharisee. Instead, I give another person (my Silas) real-time access to my whole life. What I’m feeling, thinking, doing, and thinking of doing.

My Silas is not an expert. He is a guy on the same road walking the same direction. But when it comes to my life, he has an advantage over me – he’s not in it! That gives him a perspective on my life that I don’t have. There are whole parts of my life that I can’t see because I’m inside it. Like trying to read the label from inside the bottle.

Here are some of the things my Silas does:

- He gets to know my story.

- He remembers the things I tend to forget.

- He asks the questions I tend to avoid.

- He notices patterns I don’t see.

- He reminds me who I really am.

You are not imposing on him. He gets as much out of the relationship as you do. He needs you to call him. Everyone needs a few moments each day to get out of their own head and focus on another person.

Simply Feeling Circumstantially Unsafe As A Boy Can Have A Long-Term Impact

I run twice weekly.  Once during the workweek and once during the weekend.  Each run is 5K broken in half by a one-mile brisk walk.  I run slowly sans a fitness tracker, and I only glance at my watch once in order to see the time.  I do not keep tabs on pacing, heartrate or any of that other nonsense.  I simply run away from home before coming back, the exact same route twice weekly.

I love to hate to run.

Last week, I ran one weekday evening, and upon my return home, it had become dark out.  As I made my way into our 'hood, I could see a Chevrolet HHR parked just inside the property of one of the three surrounding churches - Episcopal, Assembly of God, Presbyterian (circumnavigating our neighborhood).  

Despite the fact that the intensely smoking (it was on fire) retro-styled automobile had emergency off-ramped at the Episcopal church, it was just as vacantly quiet as their religious competitors' property (at the time).  

If I'm remembering correctly, it was around 8:30-8:45 PM when I first noticed the smoldering vehicle and its distressed occupants (mulling about).

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My parents got pregnant with Rob when they were 17 (mom) and 18 (dad.).  (90) days later, they were married in rural Humphreys County (Gooden Lake Baptist Church), not far from where my grandmother (Darlene's mom) still lives (she's 92) within her 900-sf rancher to this day.  

My parents were children who unintentionally had a child together.  The year was 1972.  Both the era as well as the Mississippi setting presumptuously placed a shotgun wedding within their crosshairs.  

My father had no intentions of leaving Belzoni, MS until a wise, older man convinced him otherwise (my father's father died of lung cancer when he was a 9-year-old boy).  

From there, he. pursued higher education both at MS Delta Community College and Delta State University (the three of us lived in married family housing during his two years as a student at DSU).

Immediately following graduation, my dad got a job in Jackson.  During this time, we lived within an apartment in South Jackson (I was around age 4-5 and my parents were in their early to mid-20s).

We traveled back to Humphreys County regularly to visit my grandparents.  It was no secret that my father longed to return to his small-town roots.  These weekend furloughs served as the antidote.  

I, of course, simply went along for the ride.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  Always riding in the backseat of our army green Volkswagen Beetle.  

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I walked the ROW for about a minute before reaching the young family.  The mom was talking on her pocket computer while her young (preschool age) son stood close by her side (tablet in hand).  The father was hastily emptying out the backseat of the still heavily smoking Chevy.  Clothes and trash were being strewn onto the ground via his reactionary cleaning.  The hood of the defunct car had been raised.  This served to only solidify the despondency of their situation.  I asked the young man, from ten or so feet away, who the woman was talking to.  He smugly replied "911" without stopping to look over at me.  

I then turned and walked back to the entrance to our 'hood, sensing that I wasn't needed (or wanted).  

By the time I reached it, I could hear the screaming of the fire truck approaching fast.  As a result, I paused to watch the vehicle eventually pull into the same church entrance drive, directly behind the now - somewhat less smoky - vehicle.  Law enforcement also came alongside within a matter of only a few additional seconds.

I felt at peace knowing they were being tended to during this tough situation.  For they were so very young and obviously just starting out...

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One evening in the late 1970s, my parents and I left Humphreys County (too) late at night for the 90-minute drive back to our apartment in Jackson.  You should know that it wasn't 'till the mid '80s that Highway 49 N was constructed into a divided highway.  Hence, at this time, it was two-lane, all the way from Yazoo City to Jackson.  Up and over, up and over those massive hills as the opposing traffic whizzed by.  

It was on this highway that my parents' VW Beetle ceased operating (we weren't far outside of Yazoo City) whilst traveling south.  Overall, we'd been on the road around 45 minutes.  I can remember my dad pulling over onto the ROW, and from there, him asking my mom to locate a flashlight within the glovebox.  Once she did, it unfortunately failed to illuminate with anything other than a faint glow.  

I distinctly remember how dark it was sitting quietly there in the cramped backseat as I watched my mom's motionless silhouette seated just a few feet in front of me.  Neither of us spoke.  We could hear my dad outside.  He'd raised the hood (on the rear of the Beetle), though we both knew he'd no way of seeing anything via the faint glow of the almost dead flashlight.  A familiar fear crept up inside of me like some sort of emotional nausea.  Yet, there was no means to escape it.  Our situation (once again) looked and felt bleak.  We were like three sitting ducks.

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As I continued to grow as a boy, my parents grew alongside.  Because of this, their perspective matured in tandem with my own.  Hence, the fears I faced as a young child were mostly faced alone (as they did their own).

Children rearing children is completely distinct from adults rearing children.  I was privy to this, even as a boy.  For I was no dummy.  Every one of my peers had parents who were much older (& therefore behaved far differently) than my own.

But back to that earlier statement.

Children rearing children is completely distinct from adults rearing children.

And it's especially apparent when families like the one I was reared within face crisis.  

Children from those families must find a means to cope with the insecurities that come with being reared by childparents.  

For Rob, that coping came in the form of fantasy.  Elaborate, commiserate fantasy that was customized to my needs (security) as a boy, then teenager, then young man, then man...

Eventually, at the outset of adolescence, those fantasies became sexualized.  And this happened in proportion to hastily accelerating (sizable) insecurities surrounding my sense of adolescent masculinity (or lack thereof).  Aligned with that stopgap solution was me being - by God's design - an extremely visual boy who was easily captivated by beauty - beautiful people (mostly masculine men), automobiles, buildings.  All of these enthralled Rob, but none had the seemingly tangible allure as them Adonises.  For they represented - to me - safety and strength, confidence, gentleness and care.  Sexual fantasies revolving around these men served as the ultimate boyRob pacifier.

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My parents & I have numerous stories we can tell relative to our adventures as a 3-legged stool family unit.  I love my mom and dad.  And frankly, I know that it was only via God's grace that we made it through intact.  

I realize I've posted this prior, but I love this photo of all three of us on my parents' wedding day.  Enjoy.

BREAKTHROUGH!

 I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I DON'T TRUST WHAT YOU'RE SAYING.  I DON'T TRUST YOU.  I'M ONLY HEARING YOU.

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I choose to trust you.  I'm not only hearing you but I'm allowing myself to feel your love for me as well.

What Is The Greatest Gift You've Given Your Wife?

 

A heat sink is a technical term for a portion of a machine that is crucial to managing / regulating the buildup of heat.  This heat is waste energy that's necessitated relative to the machine's creation of movement or light or any number of good things.  Were it not for the existence of the heat sink, this waste energy (in the form of heat) would almost immediately destroy the machine itself by overheating.  Therefore, components would melt down, motors would seize, and everything would go to shit very, very quickly.

Engineered heat sinks are typically bulky and not at all very aesthetically pleasing, therefore they have to be discreetly positioned within the device in order to not draw unnecessary attention away from the whole.  When they're doing their job well, the machine can run at maximum efficiency, performing remarkable work whilst being protected from the inevitable but deadly waste heat.

That being said, Earth's oceans are a God-designed heat sink.  They do their job by absorbing radiant heat from sunlight throughout the day whilst slowly radiating that absorbed heat energy into the atmosphere during the evening.  This oceanic heat absorption / release cycle is paramount to regulating Earth's weather patterns whilst also allowing our planet to benefit so fully from unencumbered sunlight as it spins away on its axis.

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Not long after Angie and I were married (27.5 years ago), we agreed to participate within an evangelism education program at First Baptist Church Jackson (where we were church members).  The 8–12-week program met on a weekday night, and after sharing a meal / listening to the evening's evangelism training lesson, teams of three set out into the city of Jackson to evangelize.  Because our church was as large as it was, there was usually a plethora of recent church visitors who were our first targets.  

I distinctly remember my team visiting a soon to be divorced young wife and her two children.  She was beautiful yet obviously very stressed, sitting there perched on the edge of the stylishly upholstered couch cushion within her family's sizable northeast Jackson home. Everything about her telegraphed the stress of her still new reality.  It was unmistakable and very unsettling to observe.  From the way her eyes darted around her living room to how she nervously reigned in her restless (& soon to be somewhat fatherless) elementary-age children.  It was as if she had been a victim of such the unexpected trauma (which she had), and as a result, everything looking ahead had a deep-seated brokenness framing it. 

I came away horrified at how powerless I was to this woman's woundedness, having never in a million years expecting to be faced with such the despairing situation during a routine church follow-up.  I cannot stress enough the awkwardness between our evangelism team (of three) and this smoldering heap of hopelessness of a human being, during those few minutes.  For it was literally off the charts.  

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I first befriended my wife when we were in high school.  She was an overweight, overly dolled up (cosmetics) porcelain doll of a girl with enough black head hair to easily manufacture three wigs with.  Angie was terribly shy yet so very intelligent / articulate (when she would actually speak).  Whenever I found myself with her (which wasn't very often), I always attempted to make her as comfortable as I possibly could.  And usually, that involved me attempting to inject humor into both the situation we found ourselves within along with the dialogue.  

Angie was naive but only because of her upbringing.  Her parents were much older (20+ years) than most girls her age, and overall, they were prudish to a fault.  

Eventually, she broke free of most everything I've described here (related to her childhood) by attending college far enough from Jackson, Mississippi that she was essentially given the opportunity to reset her entire existence.

Nonetheless, one absolute treasure that came about, in spite of her stifled upbringing, was the emotional counterbalance she naturally developed with her father.  For were it not for that, she and I would not be married today.

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"I can no longer trust him with my feelings."

This mantra is often repeated like a drumbeat within the minds of scorned wives / girlfriends.  For no matter what her man did to warrant this statement, once it's concretized within her mind, it's often a point of no return.

So, what does that statement actually mean?  Never - under any circumstances - would a husband / boyfriend be inclined to say this about his woman.  

"I can no longer trust her with my feelings."      

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Women crave security from their man just as men crave respect from their woman.  And that security extends to providing her with a means to contextualize / organize / engage with the vernacular of her (specific) real-time emotions.  And he doesn't have to be physically present for this to occur.  Not at all.  But he must be emotionally compatible therein and have made (some sort of) a commitment to that compatibility being used to her / their benefit. 

On the flipside of that process, most men (husbands / boyfriends) naturally reciprocate / counterbalance this "heat sink" role via sexual intercourse.  

In essence, the notion is that once he's reached a certain emotional capacity, he uses that reserve to perform sexually.  Therein naturally releasing that excess via coitus before the process starts all over again. 

This is why so many marriages fail as a result of adultery, if you follow this logic.  For it signifies that the husband has found someone else who's just as (if not moreso) compatible as the wife once was.  As a result, the marriage appears to be an outdated one (not unlike a high mileage machine). 

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In closing, this compatibility truly is something special when it's discovered.  And, oh my goodness, does it drive women crazy when it's first set in motion (dating).  Hence, the reason fornication is so prevalent (easy for guys to seduce towards) early into a relationship.  For these ladies are experiencing an incredibly optimized state of being during those initial romantic days.  It truly is being fully alive for them whilst radically buttressing their man's ego throughout.  

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When Angie was in the rehabilitation hospital in Jackson, post stroke (2020), I was so thankful to be allowed to have dinner with her every day in spite of the COVID-19 visitation restrictions.  Whilst looking back, I'm still unsure as to how this accommodation was made for us.  Nevertheless, whenever I'd show up after work, there'd be an extra plate of hospital food waiting for me.  

Oftentimes, I'd wheel her down to floor three, and we'd enjoy our dinner out-of-doors on the covered patio overlooking the adjacent (under construction) children's hospital wing there at University Medical Center.  She'd recount the therapy sessions she'd experienced during her day, and we'd chitchat about the girls / my work.  But I could feel her during those moments, so very efficiently, using me for her own emotional good.  For there was so much emotional energy within her - both positive and negative - during this trying time.  

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In conclusion, if your marriage is healthy, you're very likely married to a woman who had a father who demonstrated a proper compatible male / female emotional relationship.  From there, she grew to become a woman and eventually found a similar compatibility in you.  BE THANKFUL FOR THIS. 

The beauty of all this is in how effortless it operates within the relationship.  For it's God's beautiful, perfect design.

As such, it should be cherished, protected, regaled. 

Lagniappe (Pages 16-22)       

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.

Embrace The Idea Of Pivoting. Don't Limit Your Recovery To Only Samson Society.

 

Many of you have hit a wall within your recovery.  Attending Samson Society meetings and engaging with your Silas simply isn't cutting the recovery mustard (as it once was).

Have you ever attended a family reunion?  A worthwhile and properly administered generational get-together?  One where thoughtfulness has been put into the venue, activities, food, etc.?  

Many of you are (now) of the opinion that you're not necessarily on the same "freak / loser plane" as your localized Samson group attendees (they're from Mars, you're from Venus or vice versa).  Too, your dialogues with your Silas are no longer fresh.  And this is curtailing your willingness to be completely honest with him.  You know that both of these ugly truths are now working against your steadfast recovery, yet you're continuing to go through the Samson Society motions.

Have you ever walked into a CrossFit gym or stepped foot onto a court / playing field, only to feel especially in sync with the guys who were there too?  To the point that the moves you were making equated towards the entirety / synergy of the team?  

Within your recovery journey, many of you have found powerful tools - within Samson Society - relative to tamping down one specific vice, but perhaps some of you have now found that another, less familiar vice, has reared its ugly head (in its place) and is subsequently demanding attention.  And this latter vice, you've no idea what to make of.  All you do know is that it's exciting to participate in yet deeply disturbing simultaneously.  

Have you ever been people-watching, perhaps whilst sitting in your truck outside of a busy grocery store and spotted that guy.  That. Guy.  The one you'd like to sit down and have a cup of Joe with?  There's just something about his stride, what he's wearing, how he navigates the throngs.  All of this adds up to your finding something relatable / attractive about him.  And when he eventually exits the storefront, you (again) can't help but break into a smile as you watch him traverse the asphalt towards his own vehicle, all the while saying a silent prayer for him and his future well-being.

Do you wince at the thought of looking at yourself in the mirror one more time?  Feel way too self-focused.  Self-critical.  Self.  Self.  Self.  Self.  Self.

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It may be time to segue towards some alternative recovery efforts, but I would argue only if you've not lost hope that recovery work comes in many different shapes and sizes.  Samson Society isn't a panacea.  It's essentially one "leading by weakness" man's (Mr. Nate Larkin) authorship of a tome that inspired an extremely horizontal, diversely approachable parachurch ministry that for many men is ONLY THE STARTING POINT.

God bless you, my friend, on your journey.  Sometimes hitting the wall is the very best move you can make.  

Don't forget to write.