I Can Relate To Your (Patriarchal) Familial Imbalance. It Sucks For You, But It's Life As You've Always Known It. Endure.

What if your dad isn't at all like the man you've become (as a middle-aged adult)?  Let me be more specific.  What if he isn't (wasn't ever) capable (intelligence, personality, interests, motivation, etc.) of becoming the man you've become (as son, friend, businessman, leader, volunteer, etc.)?  As such, all-in-all, let's assume he's honest and loyal to a fault, trustworthy and generally kindhearted as it relates to how he carries himself / engages with others.

Firstly, if this scenario represents - even in the slightest regard - your reality, there's a chance your father is going to see you - at times and within certain scenarios - in a paradoxically pejorative light.  At least to some degree.  Especially if you're his only son.  And this has everything to do with how you - at times - make him feel. 

Now why is this?  What fuels it?

1.  Competitive outlook that's baked into many men.  Especially Type A men (which your dad likely is).  

2.  Your very existence (especially if you've telegraphed - to any degree - your being cognizant of this imbalance).

3.  Men crave respect moreso than anything else.  It's why the massive Ford F-150 has and continues to be America's #1 in vehicle sales each year.  Can there be no greater disrespect than having a son who existentially contrasts so sharply with his father in light of his own (possible) insecurities surrounding his capabilities, drive, intelligence, creativity?

All in all, if this kind of bizarre hierarchal imbalance exists between you and your father, and you sense at times that he feels (almost or very much) threatened by you, I cannot emphasize enough the following:

Your FEAR of him, specifically his testy, indecisively (discriminately) temperamental persona is a massive waste of your time / energy.  For that testy, indecisively temperamental persona can't truly hurt you (despite its scariness) though your boyhood self would argue otherwise.  

To that end, it might have especially frightened you when you were a boy / young man, and that's understandable.  Perhaps when you absolutely needed stable love and support.  

But you're not a boy anymore.

You're a grown ass man.  Remember that.

Oh, and one last thing.

Unless your father happens to be mentally ill or intrinsically cruel, he's no doubt very proud of you and your accomplishments as his son, a solid friend, successful businessman, natural leader, steadfast volunteer, etc.   

Most Of My Hair Is Silver Now

The house I grew up in in Madison, back in the '80s, was a typical ranch house.  After my parents had a small addition constructed (FL / sunroom), it amounted to +/-1,800 sf.  A quirk of this house was that the garage flooded (even with the garage door closed) during a deluge.  I remember having to "sweep out the garage" immediately following these rainstorms.  There was always either a push or corn broom on hand for this task.  But even then, the concrete garage floor would remain saturated / puddled, thereby making traversing throughout a slippery affair.  And if it was mild weather, this dampness would remain for days. 

When my parents sold this house (1990 - my freshman year at MSU) in order to move into a rental ('till their newly constructed home was finished), I wonder if they disclosed this quirk.  For they never made any effort to remedy it.  It was just one of those nuisances that we lived with throughout our time there.

Today, when you attempt to sell a home, disclosures are expected.  For every house has its quirks.  I remember populating my mother-in-law's disclosure statement for the home she sold a few years back.  It was multiple pages of Q & A with sizable legal warnings throughout threatening legal action if the document wasn't ENTIRELY FORTHCOMING.

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My oldest friend's wife is morbidly obese.  She's always been overweight, but over the past 3-4 years, she's gained more and more pounds.  Now it's to the point (for those of us who've known her for decades) of the inevitable shock (especially considering their Xmas photo card).   

She's also a heavy, heavy social media user (political commentary).

When I last spoke to my friend, his wife was unemployed, having been laid off from her job.  He mentioned a job prospect she was pursuing that would title her "Admin Assistant" for a consulting engineering firm.  This position was in line with much of her resume.

I asked him to let me know if she received an expected offer.

I haven't heard back from him since then.

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I was convicted early on within my life that "letting one's hair down" always came with a cost (physical appearance / words).  And most of the time that cost (for me at least) was risking offense and, in turn, the due penalty (some semblance of rejection).  Therefore, I'm constantly weighing risk versus reward herein.  And, I believe, that's a worthwhile exercise to be tasked with.  It strengthens emotional muscle which promotes / endorses maturity.  

It's one of the main reasons I enjoy writing publicly on this blog as well as my former blog.

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Earlier this week, I had an opportunity to say "hello" to a cousin whilst meeting with a longstanding business owner client (my cousin happens to work there).  He was shocked to see me.  This made the rendezvous all that more special.

My personal blog, "The Architect's Garage", that was deleted in September of '13, was a combination of video / text posts that spanned +/-5 years.  There was a naivety there.  I'd go so far as to say an emotional immaturity.  I posted thoughts and feelings that were deeply revealing within that blog.  Especially as it pertained to my dad / our relationship when I was a child.  As such, it reflected exactly where I was for such a time as that.

This aforementioned cousin was offended enough by those posts to alert his father (my dad's youngest brother, who he loved dearly).  And though the blog had long since been deleted when I came to be made aware of this squeal, I felt something that I'd never felt before as it pertained to my family.

Seen and somewhat known.  It represented an incredible leveling up for me.  For it was the first time someone (within my Turner extended family) actually had the opportunity to pay attention to the Rob that I truly was / had been.

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There are folks who live to be spotlit.  I believe my friend's wife falls into that category.  Her physical self is a mirror to her online one.  

There are others who are required (at times) to be in the spotlight.  For it's the only way they can make sense of the world they're faced with.  Especially regarding those who just might take the time to read the entire disclosure.  

I am so looking forward to seeing my cousin again soon. 

Recommended Reading / Rob's Cycle of Porn

The Cycle of Pornography | Evidence Unseen

My first encounter with porn (late elementary school) occurred at my uncle's apartment.  I was around 4-5th grade, and it was my cousin (my uncle's son - an only child like me) who exposed me to his father's Penthouse magazines. Even then, it was the male models that I was drawn to the most.  Nonetheless, I was so curious as to what sex / sensuality was.  These soft-lensed, exquisitely photographed pictorials fueled my desire to learn more.  I remember masturbating in the hall bathroom after my cousin and I had "had our fill".  I loved the powerful arousal that occurred via these photos (tied to the clandestine investigation) which in turn made the climaxes that much moreso unbelievable.  

Looking back, I had no idea what was truly going on due to being brought up in such a vacuum-of-sexual-information-household.  Nonetheless, what I did know was I too (as a human being) was "wired for sex", therefore it felt imperative that I take these opportunities to learn / feel as much as possible in this regard.

In a nutshell, this was simply prepubescent curiosity mixed with availability of explicit sexual material.  Did it lay groundwork for being captivated (in bondage) outright down the road?  I don't believe so.  That all grew out of the shame / loneliness I was experiencing as a targeted middle school faggot / loner.

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7th and 8th grade were tremendously difficult for Rob.  I was miserable and as a result, had to lay low at school.  I began fantasizing regularly about being pursued by older men (sexual relationships), and the most shame-filled fantasies of them all involved my youth pastor.  There was no precedent for this.  I'd not been molested outright, though in so many ways, the abject void of masculine affirmation qualified in and of itself.  

Young men must have the masculine affirming they deserve to develop into healthy men.

I had no older (or younger) brothers.  There wasn't a dad (Robert, Sr.) that had any semblance as to what healthy, customized masculine affirming looked like (much less a desire to participate therein).  I loathed team sports and scouting.  All of this added up to me literally being on my own.

In light of this, I stuck to comic books and music, eventually joining the poor excuse of a marching band (clarinet & later drum major) that was available to me at Madison-Ridgeland Academy.  Our entourage was a sad joke, but thanks be to God, there was some semblance of a loser community for me to fall back on.  

As my secondary education marched forward, I couldn't help but observe select other young men become hardened, successful athletes.  As such, I took the step of including them within my sexual fantasies.  This made things more personal and far more lowbrow within my mind (considering their relational closeness to me).  

As such, these homosexual fantasies became my go-to daily elixir for how inept I felt as Rob.  Rinse & repeat.  Rinse & repeat.

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During high school, I had no problem making friendgirls, and many, if not most, were interested in pursuing a romantic relationship.  But, at this point, I was now using salacious print material to homofantasize (in the form of wall calendars, greeting cards, men's exercise mags).  All of this material, I consistently looked to catalog privately as I became more and more captivated by masculine beauty.  By far, it was the most compelling visual find of my young existence (exponentially accelerated in potency relative to my ongoing private self-loathing).

Again, there was such the void of knowledge pertaining to what was out there regarding this seemingly intangible subject.  And I craved for more and more of that knowledge.  This too cannot be discounted.

If I've ever been addicted to anything, it was during this stage of my life, and my addiction was to what I perceived as masculine.

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Strength training was key to me putting a toe in the water of masculine self-affirmation.  It was during my last year of college.  I was living with Bob & Darlene as I was completing my 5th year of architecture school (in Jackson) at Mississippi State University.  I'd asked my parents to purchase me a beginner's (youth) strength training set in high school from Service Merchandise.  It consisted of a cushion bench (w/ a bolted on leg lift attachment), one barbell and one dumbbell.  The plastic weights were sand-filled.  A tri-fold instruction booklet, printed in black-&-white accompanied this '80s novice exercise kit-of-parts.  

Four months of using this rudimentary equipment (thrice weekly) along with sit-ups and pushups - down on the cut pile carpeted floor of my bedroom worked wonders.  It truly was miraculous.

Why?  Because it consisted of personal, private affirming at its finest.  All in tandem with me myself gaining muscle mass steadily.  For once in my young man life, I felt some semblance of pride whilst seeing my reflection in the mirror.  

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At this same time, I began dating my future wife.  Not long after our engagement, I confessed to having a serious "interest" in pornography, but the hardest part was divulging my homofantasy life (to both her and my parents) and how it had sprung out of a deep-seated loathing of my masculine self (this had not been difficult to figure out).

What was super convenient for me was how similarly crippled my future father-in-law (girlfriend's dad) was.  Hence, my fiancé had been reared by a father who was not all that much different - intrinsically - than I was.  This served (along with my commitment to therapy), I believe, as a bridge that moved us confidently towards marriage.  

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Not long after our wedding day, the Internet came on the scene.  

Oh.  My.  Gosh.  What a nightmare that was.

It was like moving a drunk (me) into a liquor store.  And not any liquor store but one where any and all forms of liquor could be conjured up on demand.  For free.  And placed in the palm of your / my hand.

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The adult (explicit) - content now available via the Internet should have been sequestered.  Adult (explicit) - content allowed over here / no adult (explicit) - content allowed over here.  But no one asked Rob.  

Instead, it was one big free-for-all.  Everything and anything you could imagine, readily available, so long as you had an Internet capable device / browser.  And this was how the adult content producers wanted it.  For they knew that the more (& younger) eyes they exposed to their explicit smut, the more deeply entrenched their wares would become within the viewers' psyches. This, of course, would then drive demand for more as the captivation concretized. 

Before long, so many (mostly men) were absolutely epidemically infected by this newfound ease-of-access-to digital smut.  Including me.  For it tapped into (& subsequently reanimated) my childhood coping mechanism.  A mechanism that in so many ways was no longer needed or wanted at this stage of my young adult life.

Therefore, this was its true wretchedness:  the monumentally tremendous unneeded / unwanted / unwarranted stress on me / my young marriage for such a time as this.

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Curiosity also played a sizable role in my steady return to gay porn.  The Internet served me well in this capacity.  For there was an endless supply of new photos / videos.  All I had to do was search for "hairy muscle men" & voila!

Who knew there was so much historical smut out there for consumption!  Colt Studio Group was my instant go-to.  Especially in regard to "vintage" Colt.  Seeing gay porn from the '80s was especially profound.  For this was the decade of my youth.  How unusual it was to reckon with the fact that all of this smut was being created on the west coast throughout my adolescence in Mississippi.  Who'd a thunk?

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I sat down with a therapist at First Baptist Church Jackson in the early '00s, spilling my story and asking for help as it pertained to my being captivated by online gay porn.

I'd known this therapist / pastor since I was a boy.  He poured his encouragement into me, and for a while, I felt immensely strengthened.  But his words weren't enough.  

What made the first distinct difference in my battle was connecting intimately with another man who pursued me for who I was outright.  

Let me repeat that.

What made the first distinct difference in my battle was connecting intimately with another man who pursued me for who I was outright.  

Who was I exactly?

1.  Christian

2.  Husband

3.  Father

4.  Same-sex attracted

5.  Intelligent

6.  Athletic

7.  Articulate

8.  Loyal

And so forth.

This man amounted to being my first Silas.  And he was perfectly suited to Rob back in 2009.  

He allowed me to healthily bask in the love of masculine affirmation.  He did so via words and touch and so much steadfastness (listening ear).

During the core 10-months of that friendship, I consumed not one iota of gay porn.  This was a monumental achievement / breakthrough for me.  I had found my antidote.

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Fast forward to my inclusion into Samson Society in 2014.

My first (official) Silas (1.0) had so many similarities to this aforementioned, pre-Samson Society friend.  And though the pursuit was short-lived, it confirmed my suspicions.

If gay porn's grip was to be permanently loosened, I had to find men who'd affirm my individualistic masculinity.  And preferably, I needed it to occur in-person.  For their physical energy / aura was needed for me to receive the healing I so desired.

I became then a vigilante advocate for myself.  Any opportunity to receive, I gravitated towards.  So often men would believe they were simply being pursued (by Rob) in relation to their need(s), when in reality, it had nothing to do therein.  It was all about me and my needs.  For me to be friendly was easy.  But before long, when the stars aligned, intimate connection would occur.  Perhaps via a gesture or touch.  Maybe a short exchange of verbiage - heated or gentle.  But, in the end, I was exposed to that soft underbelly that so few were / are given the opportunity to see.  And it was that emotional energy that I drank down like dilithium crystals powering a warp core. 

This resulted in an instant leveling up for Rob.  For I was keenly aware of how privileged I was to experience those delicious, etched-in-my-long-term memory relational moments.

As such, my mantra eventually became (within Samson Society) to serve oneself wholeheartedly.  

In closing, make this place about you and your needs being met.  All in tandem with your deep desire to tamp down (& ultimately defeat) the morally bankrupt captivation (sexually explicit material, chemical, etc.) that's established / hardened itself within your mind.  

This is my personal rallying cry.  Because it's worked wonders for me.  

In closing, I will forever be on the prowl.  Hunting my next opportunity to be seen by men who are willing to take the time to know me outright.  Warts & all.

Happy Father's Day 2024!

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY 2024!

Lagniappe

More lagniappe

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.   

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.

Healthily Spotlighting The Intense Pleasure Of Youthful Masturbation

Friends of ours have an adolescent (homeschooled) son who's freaking them out via his interest in (compulsiveness regarding?) women's shoes.  

How did this come about?

They've unintentionally barged in on him wearing mom's stylish dress shoes (buck naked) whilst lying down on his bed, and they've taken note of his Internet search history (images of stylish women's shoes).  

This boy is the only biological child of this couple.  He does have an older half-sister, but she's college-age and therefore out of the house throughout most of the day.  

Their son isn't effeminate, but he has had a lot of trouble (sitting still / becoming distracted) excelling within a traditional (school) learning environment.  Hence, he's spent A LOT of his time under his mother's wing, at home, while his peers were being educated within a classroom setting.

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Years ago, a Samson brother described to me how he spent a portion of his adolescence covertly trying on his grandmother's stockings as a sensual ramp up to masturbating therein. 

As an adult, this man eventually ended up a convicted felon due to his penchant for voyeurism (Peeping Tom).  This unsettling behavior (I would argue totally unrelated to his short-lived stocking fetish) unfortunately did grow forward out of adolescence.  Being a schoolteacher at the time of his indictment, this criminal turn-on sent his educational career / family-life into a tailspin.  

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My father spied on his only son (when I was an adolescent) until he was successful in confirming that Rob was indeed masturbating. From there, he immediately confronted me as if he'd never been a horny adolescent boy himself.  As a result of this, I only redoubled my efforts to be covert whilst pleasuring myself.  All the while, I unfortunately lost a tremendous amount of respect for my dad.  For it was one of those critical moments where I was almost more ashamed for him relative to his ridiculously incompetent parenting skill (regarding this specific milestone) than actually how I came to feel relative to being singled out like some teenage pervert.  

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When Bill Clinton was POTUS, he appointed a black woman, Dr. Jocelyn Elders, to be Surgeon General.  She may have been the first black female to do this, but her appointment was short-lived due to her views on educating children regarding all forms of sex education (including masturbation).  

This occurred in 1994.  

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I had a Samson brother dismiss the notion of him being qualified to rear a son due to his fear that the boy's scheduled puberty would inevitably cause the dad to crater relative to becoming sexual with his son.  And this man had no history of either being molested or molestation.  

Nonetheless, he did rear two daughters and is now a grandfather (of an adolescent grandson).  

I'm convinced the gaping holes within this man's own upbringing, as it pertains to being respectfully educated regarding all manner of male sexuality, had left a sizable blind spot.  A blind spot that somehow put him on some sort of private, moral blacklist. Therefore, he'd convinced himself that ignorance via poor nurturing had carried forward into parental disqualification.  

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When a boy moves into puberty, a lot of frighteningly fast physical change is taking place, but the most shocking one is his penchant for experiencing sexual arousal.  And those experiences won't necessarily have a rhyme or reason.  

Let's remember too that adolescent sexual arousal is a whole-body experience.  In turn, traveling down that particular rabbit hole of pleasure (via masturbation) is also going to involve the entire body for the teen.  Hence, it is, by default, a nuclear-scaled experience.  

And this is why it is so important for adolescent boys to have an older, trusted male in their corner to help them put proper words to what they're experiencing and why (especially when unexpected bodily fluids start showing up).

And yes, even if they enjoy masturbating whilst wearing their mother's high heels.  

In closing, what's so very polarizing about Dr. Jocelyn Elders is that as a black female, she actually had the guts to address these topics - for the record - running headlong into political / societal controversy.  

Considering that, I have to wonder.

What if she had been a he (Dr. Jock Elders) and preferably white.  Would some semblance of a productive dialogue been kickstarted back in 1994?  

In closing, shouldn't it be influential men from their positions of power / authority doing this sort of heavy lifting?

For the majority of us had a youthful masturbation experience similar to the one I had with my own dad.  Hence, there're bound to be chronic blind spots throughout the manosphere that most of us can relate to.  

Why isn't this topic being addressed publicly with some needed care / respect?  Particularly considering the ridiculous ease of access to pornographic material that's been part of western culture for decades now. 

Enquiring minds want to know.

(& btw, whilst looking back, I wish I too had been wearing my mother's high heels when Robert, Sr. decided to spy, yet again, on me as the overly horny adolescent.)

Lagniappe

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

Being (Intentionally) Groomed

 

Throughout my boyhood ('till I left for college), I had my haircut at this establishment.  It all started when my dad brought me to his barber when I was very small (in this location), and it was that man whom I only recall cutting my hair throughout the late '70s / '80s (about every 6 weeks).

My dad's barber, Slyvester, was tall and handsome with permed, shoulder-length blonde locks (he resembled a blonde-version of Eddie Rabbitt).  He was always drinking herbal teas whilst popping vitamins (I had no idea what either of these were at the time).  Unfailingly, he had the top three buttons undone of his shirts (putting his thick, sandy blonde chest hair on full display).  He definitely looked like a rockstar (in my eyes) in spite of the fact that he leaned much more '70s than '80s.  (I was too young to know otherwise.)  To me, he was simply Slyvester, our barber, and I felt completely comfortable in his presence since he and this shop were so familiar.

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Like many barbers, Slyvester was chatty, and because there were 5-6 barbers who shared this open-air shop, he always kept his voice low to the point of it being a murmur.  

When Slyvester would bring up inappropriate topics (explicit homosexual sex scenes in studio films, finding & subsequently screening discarded gay porn VHS tapes, etc.), I'd absolutely no sense he was FIGURATIVELY grooming me.  Or, perhaps, in order to simply perpetuate arousal (his own).  He was so smooth and confident in how he relayed these weird tidbits of personal info to me (as if I was his confidante / best friend) that I had no idea there was really anything awry ('till much later).  Plus, it was all so very new and exciting!  I remember always coming away intrigued.

Hence, I can speak from personal experience.  This really happened to Rob.  Looking back, as a boy, I was a perfect target for being exploited in this regard due to my naivety / innocence / sense of security.

What eventually tipped me off (during my late teens) as to his abject creepiness had to do with (of all things) my pervasively thick neck hair.  Slyvester began commenting on it (repeatedly) as he'd use his electric trimmers to skillfully remove the yarny mass.  Taking into account how many necks he'd trimmed as a barber, it began to strike me odd that mine was as uniquely hairy as he implied.  (Spotlighting Slyvester's neck hair fetish?)

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Once I moved to Starkville in 1990 (college), I eventually found a local barber (female hair stylist to be exact) and began getting my hair cut there.  As such, my time with Slyvester diminished until eventually it ceased altogether.  As far as I know, my father continued to patronize Slyvester's barber chair for a few years longer until one day I recall him referring to "his new barber" (at this same shop).

What's really scary to me is how vulnerable (impressionable) I was to Slyvester's somewhat frequent yet inappropriate tales / commentary (most of which were biased towards homsex).  

The fact is children aren't equipped to properly adjudicate - for themselves - perpetrators / abusers.  Especially when their parents entrust them to said perps.  Please know that for me, it makes me angry to ruminate on this.  

As such, it's the primary reason Angie and I took extra precautions whilst leaving our children in church nurseries (while we attended Sunday School / worship), and never, ever allowed them to participate in sleepovers (under any circumstances).  From there, we forbade our children from "owning" smartphones 'till they were sixteen years old, and absolutely drew the line relative to their participation in social media of any ilk.  

In closing, with the ubiquity of sexually explicit material online, I urge parents to be that much more vigilant.  There are so many opportunities for children to be exploited, and it can happen right under parents' noses, at their schools, churches, daycares, barber shop.  

Regarding my situation with this barber, it would have made all the difference if my father had asked me firsthand what Sylvester and I dialogued about regularly, and from there, had the curiosity (& interrogation skills) to drill down further relative to drawing out the harrowing details.  Me being the verbose, curious boy I was, I've no doubt I would have appreciated the opportunity to confidently regurgitate what was being whispered routinely into my lowered ears.

My Sam's Club Lingerie

Throughout my married life (26+ years!), I've shopped at Sam's Club (warehouse club that competes with Costco's) for everything I possibly can, though I've never stooped so far as to actually purchase clothing there ('till recently).  Earlier this year, I actually bought a bag of basic ankle-high (white cotton) socks, and though I purchased a too small "size range", I was surprisingly pleased with not only their price but their wearability.

In the same vein as my socks, I've always been hard on my underwear (skivvies), though it's important to know that I DO change my underwear daily (I've heard of guys who forego this hygienic 24-hour habit).  Please know, dear reader, the thought of repeat-wearing my briefs is not at all appealing to me.

Keeping that in mind, I'd executed an underwear purge a few months back (discarding the too stained / too holey ones) and found myself down to the bare minimum quantity (daily wear!).  As such, I'd sometimes open my undies drawer, post-morning shower, and find the "men's lingerie" section depleted.  Therefore, in order to not have to go through the day covertly posing as a porn model (sans Jockeys), I'd bolt to the laundry room anxiously in an attempt to locate some fresh whitie-tighties.  

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Sam's Club is the bastion of cheap.  If you were looking for the most uncool place within our free enterprise society to admit to being a patron, it would be Sam's Club.  It screams cornpone, folksy to the same degree that Neiman Marcus decrees established ritz.  At Sam's Club, there's definitely no valet parking.  In fact, there aren't even any shopping bags.  It's just sealed concrete floors, asphalt paving (for miles), harsh overhead lighting (suspended by chain link from the exposed bar joists) and supersized signage (glued-on vinyl letters) displaying words like:

FROZEN

REFRIGERATED

RESTROOMS

VISION

PHARMACY

SNACKS

VARIOUS QUOTES FROM SAM WALTON'S WIFE

So, you guessed it.  I decided to purchase some replacement underwear from Sam's Club as a follow-up to my aforementioned sock buying success.  And, I must admit, these briefs are brief.  They're absolutely no frills (there's no tag, only silk-screened text directly on the fabric).  But that's okay.  I'm not shopping at a department store or even an outlet retailer.  No, this is Sam's Club.

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Inevitably, when I was growing up in Bob & Darlene's household, my father would forgo re-dressing himself after exiting the master bedroom after a long day at work (he was a salesman).  To be more specific, he wore a coat and tie to the office most days (even on hot, humid summer days), therefore the very first thing he'd do whilst arriving home was go straight to my parents' bedroom to shed his "uniform".  At the same time, he inevitably had a lot on his mind that he wanted to share with us (mostly my mom), having been away throughout the workday.  Hence, in lieu of re-dressing into his "around the house attire" (depending on the season) prior to exiting the master bedroom (& walking back to the other end of our ranch house), he'd - more often than not - prance back into the kitchen / den in nothing but his skivvies, passionately chatting incessantly about this or that.  

And this was simply due to him not having the wherewithal to take a few additional needed minutes (seconds?) to re-dress himself prior to engaging with my mother and me.

Thankfully, five to ten minutes later, he would return again to the master bedroom and put on some clothes.  In many ways, this bizarre routine was like watching a misplaced stage performer abruptly enter and exit repeatedly - between scenes - sans any actual costume change.  Call it a dress rehearsal sans dress.

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Of course, like father, like son.  

I do the exact same thing many a workday.  Just as I described my father doing when I was a boy.  And what's truly hilarious regarding my situation is our master bedroom is much closer to our home's living space(s) than what my dad dealt with.  

And I have to admit, this pedigreed zaniness has been going on for quite a long while.  Embarrassing my children especially, just as my father did to me.

As such, at some point last week, Angie let me in on an observation that my middle daughter made to her, in private, relative to my perpetual "brief" antics.  Apparently, she divulged to her that "dad's new underwear is practically see-through".  

Practically.  

Practically?

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So, this leads me to believe that Mr. Sam Walton had at least one additional interest besides making boatloads of money selling discounted cereal and toilet bowl cleaner.  

Now, today, I actually see my bi-monthly Sam's Club shopping experience a little differently.  Yes, I'm grateful for the low prices and the myriad of merchandise available to purchase (in bulk), but now too, I'm exceedingly pleased to be in on Sam's little secret.  

Who'd a thunk?  Sexy Sam.  You bad boy you.

Re-Do This For Me, My Brother, & Let Not My (Or Your) Experience Be Anything Other Than My (Your) Very Own

 

Prior to Rob becoming involved in Samson Society, I had a brief stint with another, wholly localized men's ministry.  That ministry was BPO (Business & Professional Outreach) International (Phil Hardin, Director) headquartered (at the time) here in central MS.

Back in February of 2014, I attended a Deer Camp men's retreat (the flagship experience of BPO) in rural Holmes County at the behest of Phil.  I'd attended a couple of therapy sessions with him at his Clinton, MS home (where he also had his office), and he strongly recommended I come to the forthcoming February retreat.

I became familiar with Hardin in early 2012.  At that time, he was leading a very unique Bible-study / encouragement / commentary session(s) at a Fondren coffee shop on Friday mornings.  After being invited to this gathering (and attending on-&-off regularly for a few months), I was impressed by Phil's immense confidence and swagger.  Considering that, what was unusual about this weekly meeting was how out-of-place I sensed I was.  And this was seemingly due to me not having had a "Deer Camp" weekend retreat experience to filter these (what were intended to be follow-up) gatherings through.

As a sidenote, Phil has always reminded me of Deep South version of Howard Stern, and as such, I could immediately understand why so many men flocked to his teaching / encouragement.  The genuine comfort-level he displayed with himself and his own story, combined with his intelligence / presentation skills, was so unusual to come across here in Mississippi.  All in all, there was no denying his counseling skillset combined with a deep-seated passion for reaching / ministering to men in crisis.

It's important to note too that Rob's Deer Camp weekend was pro bono.  Phil gifted this to me out of pity relative to my monetary situation (I had just started working for my 'rents, drawing a minimal salary) at the time.  Hence, I had no billfold skin in the game.

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The Deer Camp facility in rural Holmes County has been upgraded considerably since I was there in 2014.  I'd heard of these upgrades and received confirmation therein via some photos I saw last weekend. 

Those photos were taken by a "Make Thursdays Great Again" Samson guy who posted them via Slack.  He was there, along with +/-10 other Samson guys, for a "Samson Society Men's Intensive" hosted by Mr. Roane Hunter and his son.  

Mr. Roane Hunter is a close friend of Phil Hardin (who lead the Deer Camp retreat I attended in 2014).  In fact, Roane was present at the retreat I attended 8.5 years ago, though more of a therapeutic background figure throughout.  Roane's persona is much more pastoral than Phil's.  He comes across like a big, all-smiles Mississippi teddy bear that's "simply here to help / provide encouragement".  

As a sidenote, I listened to his son on the latest "Pirate Monk Podcast", and immediately could hear the genuinely nice guy similarities between his mid-30s self and his dad.

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It's important to note that my Silas attended last weekend's "Samson Society Men's Intensive" hosted by Roane Hunter and his son there in rural Holmes County (same facility I was at).  As such, his experience I'm anticipating hearing about.  For now, though, I'm going to spend some time relaying my own tale, as best as I can remember it from 2014.  And the reason I'm chronicling this here is to drive home the point that timing is critical whilst involving oneself in endeavors like what I'm about to describe.  Therefore, allow my experience (hinged directly on my then freshly traumatized state of mind) to serve as food for thought for you.    

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Some of the worst experiences of my life have been ones where I was "publicly" humiliated (by people I genuinely admired / looked up to).  As a textbook introvert, I'm especially sensitive to receiving criticism in a group setting (opposed to one-on-one).  As a sidenote, this constitutes the very antithesis of Samson Society.  

Four months prior to the 2014 Deer Camp men's retreat that I gained the privilege to attend, I'd been fired from Delta State University by my boss, the university's CFO.  There with us during that vitriol evisceration was the university's female Human Resources VP (as a party to the termination).  

Had the HR VP not been present, the degree of trauma received likely would have been far less for Rob (particularly considering the termination subject matter - gay porn - indirectly discussed).  Nonetheless, much of what was said, how it was said and the setting upon which it was said left Rob in a crumbling heap of traumatization.     

The best way to describe what I experienced emotionally is as follows:  It was as if my (fairly new) boss (who I highly respected - moreso than any boss I'd worked for prior) removed my heart and submerged it in acid via the accusatory tone / diction he harnessed during that fifteen-minute meeting.  I'd not experienced such direct demonization - to this degree - prior to this.  It was a truly horrifying experience, particularly coming from the hands of a CPA / MBA.

Throughout the course of the following 30 days (post-termination), I lost fourteen pounds due to my loss of appetite.  I also didn't sleep during that time period for more than 3-4 hours a night.  By the time February of 2014 (the month of the aforementioned Deer Camp men's retreat) arrived, I was in the throes of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Overall, my bout with PTSD lasted for (+/-18) months with my final flashback occurring in March of 2015. 

PTSD is something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  It was hell on Earth to walk through.

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ROB WAS IN NO MENTAL / EMOTIONAL SHAPE TO BE BLINDLY ATTENDING A WEEKEND-LONG MEN'S RETREAT (WITH STRANGERS) IN RURAL HOLMES COUNTY, MS IN FEBRUARY OF 2014.  

I cannot emphasize this enough.  

The emotional trauma I was just beginning to nurse / work through made me EXTREMELY EMOTIONALLY VULNERABLE to negative feedback / criticism / feelings of rejection.  Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been the case, but my situation was not at all normal.

At this time, I was desperate to seek out help combined with no real clue as to where or how to find it.  But, as you'll recall me mentioning, I had been privy to Hardin's BPO ministry - on the surface - prior to me taking the Campus Architect position at Delta State University in late 2012 (via the Friday coffee shop Bible Study meetings that I'd been invited to attend).

Nonetheless, the secretive nature of what actually would occur at "Deer Camp" gave me no means to properly adjudicate the relevancy (for such as time as that) of this weekend.

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Here's some commentary on that specific Deer Camp weekend that I experienced:

I vividly remember working hard, throughout the weekend, to listen in earnest.  Starting Friday night, immediately following a screening of '97's Affliction, we listened to men share story after story after story.  This went on well into the evening, only to begin again, in earnest, on Saturday morning (after hearing Hardin's own harrowing story).  By this point, I was completely oversaturated, but we weren't even halfway through with the weekend.  

I think you get the point relative to what was being asked of everyone involved.  This was one of those boots-on-the-ground experiences that demanded full attention of one's synapses throughout.

Exceedingly late into Saturday evening, God called up Rob's number, and I was given the floor.  And man, oh man, did I ever take advantage of my share time.  Once I concluded my 20-minute tale, I sat down and braced myself with what little emotional armor I had left (by this point, it was close to midnight and freezing cold out there in the open air).   

I won't repeat what sort of feedback I received because it doesn't matter.  My point is I wasn't prepared for any of it.  The timing was wrong.  Satan had used my desperate, vulnerable, shamed state of mind to seek out an IMMEDIATE / QUICK-FIX healing / help against me.  As such, once again, I found myself subject to his direct attacks (as I'd been at Delta State University) by individuals I barely knew (yet who spoke with tremendous authority) but had chosen to trust.  This made me feel quite asinine.

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"Help me, Lord Jesus!"  

I was fit to be tied.  And what I mean by that is Satan brought upon me - within just a few additional months (post Deer Camp retreat) of 2014 - a malicious spirit that chided me constantly with the question:

"WHY DON'T YOU KILL YOURSELF?  WHY DON'T YOU KILL YOURSELF?  WHY DON'T YOU..."

Never had I experienced anything like this cruel accuser. 

At first, I chalked it up to how physiologically disrupting the job-loss demonization had been.  But, when the voice continued to taunt me day after day (especially whilst being alone with my thoughts), I knew I needed someone to confide in regarding this curse.     

Thanks be to God for my sweet wife.  At first, I'm not so sure she believed me, but within a few days, after being given the opportunity to size-up my situation more holistically, she urged me to talk to my father about my suicidal thoughts.  Once I had that emotionally harrowing exchange, he reached out to Mr. Don Waller, the facilitator of the First Baptist Church Jackson Samson Society group, on my behalf.  

By this time, it was August of 2014, therefore the misery I'd been experiencing via PTSD had been ongoing now for (+/-6) months.  

Thanks be to God for Don and for Samson Society.  Every week since then, I've attended at least one meeting (either face-to-face or virtual).  Being able to provide commentary therein sans any feedback / crosstalk has made a world of difference within my life.  Not to mention the relationships I've developed with so many Samson guys through the years (Silases and otherwise).

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Be mindful of where you're at emotionally before stepping into circumstances where you'll be challenged to defend (either internally or otherwise) yourself / your own story.  Therapists like Phil Hardin, because they're so immeasurably comfortable within their own skin, rarely pull punches whilst providing feedback.  Recognize that before situating yourself under their guise.

And if you attend an outdoor / semi-outdoor men's retreat in February, pack a pair of jeans.  It can get chilly in Mississippi (especially after dark) in February.

RIDE ON!

Lagniappe  

More lagniappe

Even more lagniappe

Divorce

Samson guys are often either being threatened by the prospect of their wife divorcing them, or they're in the throes of divorce proceedings themselves.  Many of these men are moreso committed to Samson Society because of this, having little to no hope otherwise.  For I've never met a Samson guy who's supportive of divorce. 

Divorce is an exit strategy.  It's also a punishment technique.  

Regardless, women who divorce often become deeply jaded / bitter and rightly so.  Marriages are designed / sought after to bring long-lasting security for women.  When instead there're lies / deceit / cheating / debauchery and so forth, bitterness easily takes root as their bedrock crumbles away.

On the flip side, of course, is the husband's point of view / motivation, many of which profoundly believe their poor choices (leading up to / resulting in the divorce) were fostered by their wife's own personal shortcomings.  And this save face lookback narrative can oftentimes be bolstered by couples' therapists / family / friends.

Ultimately, the breakdown between husband / wife is oftentimes due to the marriage becoming no longer a private two-person relationship but instead, a sort of microcosmic communal experience.  Now, considering drug / alcohol addiction, criminal activity, or sexual / physical abuse, those experiences can - to some degree - remain "in the marriage" exclusively.  Therein warranting divorces that are more private.  Many of these situations are simply about survival.

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I mentioned the word punishment at the top of this post.  

More and more, I'm becoming convinced that this may be the devilish behind-the-scenes motivator for the majority of women who seek (public) divorces.  For divorced men, in western societies, are forever marked as failures, and this label can never be erased.  

Women lose less in (western) divorces.  Much moreso relative to certain demographics.  Emotionally, they're often capable of finding security once again (particularly if they're sexually proficient) as they seek to remarry.  

Men value respect more than anything else.  A divorced man is a marked man is a less qualified man...  You catch my drift.

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My mom cheated on my dad when I was around 10 years old.  The adulterous affair occurred between her and her boss, and it was on and off for quite some time.  Her boss too was married, yet him residing with his family in Nashville (I believe) perhaps made his poor choices more strategically justifiable.  

Her position under this man - sometimes literally - (management role at a weight-loss center in Jackson) compensated her well as a result of her work ethic, poise & striking good looks.  Keep in mind that this all occurred during the early '80s, and women overall weren't typically appointed to ANY administrative positions (especially with only a high school diploma to speak of).    

As my mother's only child, I watched firsthand how her actions emotionally eviscerated my father.  But too, I somewhat pitied her situation (particularly looking back on it as a teen).  She'd married (as an 18-year-old expectant mother) an amoeba, yet she had been wooed (as a 28-year-old) by a stallion.  In fact, her lover was such the stallion that my own father (my mom's husband) was - to a degree - unabashedly a tepid admirer of this older man in his own sick, twisted way. 

I cannot tell you how much money I'd pay to meet this stallion today (assuming he's still alive) in order to know his story firsthand.  Not as an admirer in my own right but in order to better understand the dynamics at play, forty years ago.

Nonetheless, I believe my father chose not to divorce my mother because he knew he'd ultimately receive the short end of the deal.  Too, it might have very well resulted in my mother obtaining what she'd now had a taste of.  That being an immense amount of additional spousal support (women's prized possession).

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Besides experiencing the results (fallout) of adultery on a familial plane, I absolutely became resolved, as a young man, to not grow into an amoeba as my father had.  For I'd no desire to ever give anyone who depended on me pause relative to being spineless.  

And keep in mind that I wasn't at all motivated as a young man to seek out / identify with the whole marriage paradigm.  Yet, even as it related to my friends, this supportive strength became my end goal.

Today, one of the primary attributes I look for in friendship is (reciprocal) strength.  To be more specific, I'm referring to strength that's rooted in supporting Rob.  As such, I simply don't make assumptions.  Instead, I put it to the test.  And this takes time and patience which sometimes results in disappointment.  

Regarding Samson Society, this approach too applies to the men who I choose as my Silas.  

It is weird recognizing the fact that some stallion, who I'll never meet, made such an impact on Rob.  An impact caused by so much pain and heartache as a result of his acting on said sexual attraction towards my mother.    

Lagniappe