Deathbed Classroom

“What if you die and find out it’s not true?” someone asked our fourth-grade teacher, in the Christian school. “What if God’s not real?”

It was an unspoken question that Christian children whispered to each other when adults weren’t around. And it was always on our minds, at least a lot of the time. But mostly it was forbidden to mention it, bad to ever doubt that God, whom we could not see or hear, existed. Worse still to wonder if another religion was the truth and we were going to hell according to its standards.

We had just finished a very philosophical discussion about heaven, hell, animals, and other related matters. But I was very surprised by the flippant, dismissive remark that followed this inquiry.

“So what? You’ve lived a good life,” the teacher, Mrs. Bitter (not her real name, but close, and descriptive) fired off. And with that, the discussion was over. We were back to being children/cattle again. Our opinions weren’t respected anymore.

There seemed to be some sense of letdown settle over us. I noticed this in myself, and thought I saw it in my classmates too. That was it? That was the best answer she could give us? Somehow that remark, and the fact that she thought she had the answer, rubbed me the wrong way. It rubbed me so hard, in fact, that I’ve remembered that rug-burn ever sense. Maybe we did live good lives, but that wasn’t enough.

We knew even then what we were missing. No one had to tell us that life would be easier if we weren’t believers, if we didn’t have to worry about whether whatever we did or chose was a sin or pleased God. Those were my exact thoughts, actually: “My life would be so much easier if I wasn’t a Christian.”

So now I’m on my deathbed, but somehow I’m still in fourth grade too. All around me, my classmates are old and weak and on their deathbeds too. And Mrs. Bitch is still there! She’s still reminding us that we all lived good lives, making us feel guilty for ever questioning the afterlife.

So I’m two hundred years old (I can dream, right? This is fantasy, remember?) and I’m looking back on a long life spent serving God and trying to please Jesus. Was it happy? All these things I did, all my effort, all my abstinence (not just from sex, from anything that could be an “idol”), was it worth it?

Perhaps I had become a missionary and lived among strange people without any comforts, missing my parents terribly and wondering why I had made this mistake. But I couldn’t go back to the States, because there wasn’t enough money, and the other missionaries would hate me, and God would be so disappointed.

Maybe I had gotten married, tried to be a good submissive wife, wore skirts but no jewelry or makeup, and had five kids because some preacher said that birth control wasn’t letting God give you as many kids as you could handle. I gritted my teeth and obeyed some man against my better judgment, even when the welfare of my children was at stake. I resented all the babies that kept me from writing and pursuing my goals.

Maybe I never published anything, because I was afraid God didn’t want me to. Maybe I decided I would only write “for the glory of God,” and wasted my time with Christian novellas that always ended one way: the character gets saved. Or gets saved and falls in love. Never any sex, never any creativity. I would be miserable with so narrow a margin. It always seemed a little forced anyway.

And then I had given ten percent of my money away in “tithes” that I didn’t want to give up. I had spent my life pleasing and serving others, with no time for myself. I had not enjoyed music, art or reading that wasn’t Christian or bland. I had not bought things for myself, stuff that I enjoyed. I had given away things I loved, thinking that God would approve. I had wrestled even with my own thoughts, had thought of my “flesh” as evil, had not allowed myself to enjoy anything too much.

(There may be some denominations out there that promote a different, less strict brand of Christianity that I’m unaware of, but this was what was taught to me when I was younger.)

I relate my life story, and so do a lot of my peers. We listen in our beds as most tell a version of the same tale. A few are gone, maybe—they left the church and never looked back. We pray for their souls and lament that they are lost. And all the while, at the back of our minds, a small, tiny voice asks the question: “Wouldn’t it have been easier…wouldn’t it have been better…what if…”

But we dismiss it, knowing that that voice is the devil trying to make us walk away from God. We don’t trust that voice, even though it’s a part of ourselves.

“Ahem!” Mrs. Bitter finally clears her throat. “All eyes up here! I have an announcement to make. Class is over; you’re all dismissed.”

“But what about Heaven?” Austin, the kid who lies next to me, pipes up. “Don’t we get to go to heaven?”

“No; heaven’s cancelled. God never existed all along, it turns out. But don’t worry, you’ve all lived good lives.”

The disappointment is palpable. So much waste! I could be in a bar with the lost kids, I think. I could be having a good time until the very end. But now it’s too late. I was tricked. My one life, and I was tricked into giving it away.

“But I didn’t live a full life!” I whine. “I didn’t really live!”

My last thought as the darkness encroaches upon me, as I get sleepier, right before I cease existing forever, is, “I hope I get reincarnated.”

Listen To The Voices

I was “writing,” the other day, and I tried to make a play on the cards but it wasn’t allowed.

“Damn!” I thought. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“It’s not damned,” one of the voices told me cheerfully. “It’s only a game.”

“Why, you’re right!” I exclaimed. “It is only a game—I’m so happy. Thank you!”

I was very welcome. What a gracious voice I had—how wonderful that she was looking out for me. I hope that voice comes by to visit again soon. All my other ones are just so negative. This one makes me happy.

I think we all hear voices, if we listen. Most people pretend to be deaf, and they think you’re demented if you open up your ears and allow yourself to hear them. This one was telling me not to cuss so much. Cussing is negative; I should try to be positive.

The greatest problem I have had in my life is fear. The form has changed as I’ve grown older, but it’s still there, usually when I think I ought to do something but don’t want to. My fear made me fail my driving license test four times, and prevents me from taking a fifth test. But then, I don’t like to drive. Funny, isn’t it?

The other night I was lying in bed, trying to go to sleep in spite of the horrible knot in the pit of my stomach. I would not sleep well, I knew it, and I would likely cry myself to sleep. I tried to think of the feelings techniques I read in self-help books, so I asked my fear how long it planned on staying. I didn’t expect a response, it was more of a joke. But surprisingly it came, right away and instinctual. It was so clear. “Until you’re safe,” it said.

Instantly I was overcome with gratitude. My fear wasn’t the enemy! It was looking out for me! All these years I thought it had hated me, and I blamed it for making me miss out on everything, for making me uncomfortable when I shouldn’t have been.

But what had this voice, this fear, been trying to tell me all along? Perhaps it had saved me from situations I wasn’t equipped to handle yet, or that weren’t in my best interest. For years I had fought it, doing hundreds of things I didn’t want to do, with people that made me uncomfortable, all in the name of family. And I hated myself for being afraid. But I wasn’t crazy, it turns out. Nothing was wrong with me. If anything, here was something right about me.

When my fear talked to me, it also helped take the edge off. It didn’t feel like terror so much anymore. I was grateful to my fear. My fear would guide me tomorrow. It would look out for me and my well-being. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I slept better that night than I had in months.

Now I have different ways of dealing with my new friend. Instead of cursing it, hating it and myself, I ask what message it’s trying to give me. Am I doing something that is not in my best interest, even self-destructive? Do I really want to do that? Does that person make me uncomfortable? If so, then maybe being around them isn’t very good for me, is toxic.

“I love you, fear,” I said to it, hugging my new friend in my mind. “You’re a part of me, and you’re looking out for me. Thank you so much. You’re so good. I love you.”

Humans are often self-destructive, but also self-healing. We have other personalities, other voices, to guide us, but we often hate them. We yell and hit them. We criticize and cuss them. But we don’t realize that they are a part of us, that we are really punishing ourselves. So we become anxious and have low self-esteem, because somebody important to us hates us. No wonder society is so screwed up.

But then, sometimes, we stumble across these hated alter-egos, and we realize that they have feelings too, that their feelings are our feelings. And these feelings are killing us. So we try to make peace with the voices, wondering if it’s too late to change a lifetime of habits.

But, to our surprise, we heal. We have peace now. We’re happy. And it feels damn good.

My Ideal Marriage

My ideal marriage is basically a Booty Call For Life.

After seeing so many couples struggle trying to “make it work” with the Conjoined Twins approach (joined at the pelvis, if they’re lucky!), I've worked out a better system. My approach isn’t very “romantic” (in other words, traditional) and is officially banned by several churches (not really, but I can only hope). But it’s insanely practical, enables you to love someone without getting hurt or caught up in their emotional problems, and does not bother with outdated “traditional values” that are rather cumbersome and impractical nowadays.

However it’s not for the faint of heart, nor for codependents. If you need someone to “complete” you, not a romantic but an unhealthy idea, this is not for you.

Separate houses.

I rather like the idea of the Chinese “walking marriage,” where the husband walks to his wife’s house every night and returns to his own every morning. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s hard to maintain a fairy-tale image of someone when Prince Charming scratches his ass and picks his nose in front of you. Happily Ever After is a huge pressure and burden when you’re always there to bicker about leaving the toilet seat up and shrinking the laundry. Annoying habits that bug you every day can be overlooked if you don’t see him day to day. Thus eliminating the need to be so picky, to look for that perfect someone.

Separate money.

Finances is one of the biggest fight-causing agents in a marriage. I’ve seen some couples almost divorce over it. If we can eliminate this one, we would all be much happier. So no joint savings or checking accounts.

Unless I want to be a stay-at-home mother, which is temporary, there is no need to be supported by a man (or woman). So why have the stress of what happens when two people who have very different upbringings and money management styles clash?

Here’s the deal: I don’t want a man to take my money for himself. Even if I eventually “buckle down” and have a traditional marriage, I will protect myself with a separate checking account. Especially if they do not know the other person’s credit history or sense of responsibility, both women and men need to do this. Forget “love;” entrusting someone like this is just foolish.

Sleepovers.

Is this technically living in sin, I wonder? This kind of sex sounds much more exciting than “The kids are in bed, you want to do it?”

It could be a standing appointment that you look forward to every week. He would be much more likely to bring over wine or flowers, or dinner, or clean up his own place. Then, when the romance is over, you can each go back to your own lives, without trying to prolong the good feelings. Save them for next week.

Separate bedrooms.

For the sleepovers. Can you honestly sleep good with someone else, maybe a snorer, beside you? Throw the honey in the guest room and grab a good night’s rest. You deserve it.

Or at the very least have a big bed and separate blankets. How many men you know are good at sharing the covers? There’s no need for the heartache.

Divorced-style parenting.

If you have enough support from friends and family, you could make this work. Most marriages do not end in death anyway, so if you want to be cynical, why put your kids through the stress in the first place. My young half-brother seems to think it’s normal to visit his mother on weekends; it’s what he knows.

Yes, it might be difficult, but how is parenting ever easy anyway? Slacking parents will be forced to contribute when the kids come over. And think of this: a few nights a week will be all to yourself.

Separate names.

I spent all my life building up this name; why change it now? I deserve my own unbroken identity, not to be symbolically owned. It may not be an issue for some, but it is for me.

Separate legacies.

Girls named after Mommy, boys named after Daddy. Children should be taught that the female line is important too.

These suggestions are rather radical, but why stop there? I may not even have a ceremony; I may not even make it legal (depending on what benefits there are to a marriage license). There is no need for love to go insane and become something like an obsession.

If you do not have a narrow and outmoded view of marital success, I think these methods, as much as you can apply them, will increase your odds. You will be invulnerable or somewhat shielded from the devastating effects of financial recklessness (though not your own), different parenting styles, cheating, and snoring or sleep-farting.

By eliminating the causes of most arguments, you might just make it where other two-headed creatures have failed.

The Drug Addicts of My Childhood

Here's What A Meth Addict’s House Looks Like:

Nauseating chemical-type smells, overwhelming, probably “cooking” it, mixing drugs on the stove.

Soiled diapers on the kitchen counters.

Bits of food encrusted on the inside of the fridge—the fridge has its own putrid smell. Ditto for the microwave, where she simply shoved food in—no napkin, no plate—and threw it out on the floor for her children. “That’s where it will end up anyway.”

A brand-new $800 washing machine, picked apart piece by piece. It’s in about a hundred pieces on the floor. She does not know how to put it back together. (Sometimes meth addicts like to pick things apart when they’re high.)

Spoons in her bedroom, with strange white stuff encrusted on them. (Meth that didn’t get drawn into the needle and dried there. She mixed it up in spoons.)

There was food bits all over the furniture, crumbs in the beds.

This woman’s housekeeping style was much like that of the hoarders on the documentaries on TV. But TV cannot describe the smells and stuffiness, the sickening atmosphere of it. I was too intimately acquainted with the next-door neighbor and her house. It was like my unfortunate second home for many years in my early teens.

Sure, my mother and I shouldn’t have been so involved, we should have simply called Child Services instead of waiting for her to “get it,” but we were just being good Christians, right? We had to help her out, for she was raising two little boys all alone.

Why didn’t we see at the time that she was on drugs? Was it because she was a mother? Had horses and pets? Lived in the country, spoke coherently (most of the time), drank a lot of coffee and got hyper?

For being so discerning and discriminating as to throw out stuff we thought was demonic or an “idol,” (that we loved, usually), how could we have been so blind?

(I use the word “we” a lot when thinking about that time in my life, for it seemed my mother and I were unhealthily joined at the hip. Thus, it’s “our” life and what “we” went through, even in my own mind.)

Here’s what I learned about “bad” parents, incompetent parents: They don’t reform. My mother was very gifted at taking care of children, and tried time and again to show her how to do it. Eventually she accused my mom of calling her a bad mother behind her back, and took the baby away, the baby that we had raised for almost two years. So no matter how subtly the maternal magician tried to “train” her, to show her, she knew exactly what Mom was doing. And she didn’t like it.

She didn’t learn how to clean her house, after we stepped in and did all the hard work for her, maybe four to five times. She never appreciated it, and once we got in big trouble for “throwing things away” when they were in their proper places after all.

She went through the trash every time after we finished cleaning, probably looking for her lost meth. We might have thrown it away, thinking it was a white rock.

So I learned eventually not to bail people out. I became very cynical for a number of years, depressed and unhappy and angry that I did not have a happy childhood. I had excruciating, unexplainable pain in my right shoulder and arm constantly. Still have a little pain, sometimes, and it’s still painful to write by hand.

I had no energy, could not get up in the morning, struggled with severe constipation, and kept an extremely late schedule. I think all of these things were mostly symptoms of my emotional turmoil.

I was watching a documentary on hoarders recently and flashed back to the past. I wonder how many “hoarders” are on drugs.

So what’s the point of all this reminiscence? The moral of this story is, when you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to see you need to make changes, that you can’t go on like this. What would have happened if the neighbor had not taken the baby away from us? Would we still be helping her, hoping she would change, never dreaming that she could have a drug problem?

Ignorance is never bliss. Yet so many people choose deliberately not to see what’s right in front of them. I paid a huge price because of ignorance.

Never again.

Antique Toilets, Paul Bunyon, Michael Jackson, and Elvis: The Perfect Orgy?

I’ve always wondered why there is no market for antique toilets.

I recently met a man who claimed to have Michael Jackson’s toilet, the one he flushed the other glove down. I think he’s full of…glove.

I decided right away that I could easily top that, so I said that was nothing, I had the toilet that Elvis died on. If only the porcelain could speak, it would tell me the King’s last words.

I first became aware of how the legend died from a guy at my Taekwondo class who had a crush on me. He swept me off my feet with the words, “He died taking a dump!” At that moment, I knew he was the one for me. I don’t even remember how that came up.

I wrote a poem about Elvis once (sort of). Apparently Elvis killed Babe the Blue Ox (sort of).

I came across one by Robert Frost, “Paul’s Wife,” about Paul Bunyon carving himself a wife out of a tree (He liked wood, I get it, but doesn’t he realize there are dolls that won’t give him splinters?). It was boring and stupid and way too long, and I decided I could do better. So I did better, in just eight lines.

Paul never was one to follow trends

Until, one day, said one of his friends,

“You’ve worked too hard, it’s taken its toll;

You need something new; try rock and roll.”

So Paul left work, and came back the next day

And Paul was there, but where was Babe?

They never did find her, but have you heard the news?

Paul got himself some blue suede shoes!

Voice Lessons

When I was very small a family friend took me to a speech therapist.  I said “tree” and “seat” instead of “three” and “sheet.” Then in a third-grade play I had one line: “We shop.” The play was stupid anyway, but it was still embarrassing.

Later on I was told that I needed to take voice lessons, that I spoke in a monotone, had impressions of me that were unflattering, etc. I got in trouble at school for humming too loud.

I’ll never sing soprano, and that’s okay. A peacock shouldn’t feel bad for not being a nightingale. Our voice can be used to boost our egos, or to humiliate us. Those who hate their voices hate something about themselves, and probably don’t like their image in the mirror.

You can use your voice for good, or for evil. Heal yourself or hurt yourself. I know what I’ve been guilty of doing, and what I want to do in the future. Here’s how I’m going to try it. People really don’t need to change their voices, they just need to make them work for them.

Invite yourself to speak up. If you could say anything in the world, what would it be? Now you have that freedom. “I just want to say…”

Learn to speak louder and clearer. People should not have to ask “What?” all the time. Yell if you have to, at first. Just be heard the first time.

Read aloud. By yourself, if you’re shy. Comic books and poetry are good. Foreign languages are good too.

Babble like a baby. It’s fun. Stutter on purpose too. Only when you’re by yourself.

Role-play your favorite heroes, just like when you were a kid. I’m a superhero sometimes.

Learn to sing and hum—hum loud. No one will get you in trouble now. Happy people hum. You’ll be happy.

Yell and scream, when no one else is around. If you are frustrated, express it. Throw a tantrum.

Write notes to loved ones and heroes, then imagine saying those things out loud. Everything you’ve ever wanted to say—put it all in there, even if they are dead. Love letters, fan mail, sad or hurt letters, angry letters, all of it. Then send them, if they are loving and honest. Imagine in romantic movies where the heroine is writing a love letter and you hear her voice. Never write a note you wouldn’t say aloud.

Say things aloud as you write them—very slowly.

Record yourself reading something, very slowly. Don’t rush it or you’ll sound nervous.

Imagine yourself as a comedian. Again, don’t rush.

Learn to speak more slowly. It will force you to relax.

Interactive listening. Really listen, and paraphrase in your responses. It will make you feel listened to also.

Don’t interrupt other people.

Speak kindly to yourself. I would say, “Alex, I love you, you’re so good,” etc.

Praise yourself for a good job. “I’m so proud of you. You were so brave today.” Remember to say it out loud.

Hold conversations with yourself. “I want to do this.” “Me too, I agree.”

Look at yourself in the mirror—really gaze lovingly at your reflection. This is not a voice thing, but it will make you more confident.

Have a wide stance. Don’t sit with your legs together. The more room you take up, the more you will relax, the better you will feel. In other words, wear pants.

Hold a note. Tuneless humming or singing. I am reminded of a scene in the Disney movie, “The Little Mermaid,” where the witch steals her voice while she is singing a beautiful, wordless song. “Aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah-aah, aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah.” You could also sing “hmmm-hmmm-hmmm-hmmm, hmmm-hmmm-hmmmm.” It’s mindless and relaxing.

Sing before bed for a good night’s sleep. Try to sing a happy song. You need to be well rested if you want more confidence.

Speak your mind, whenever you can. But don’t be mean. And be prudent too, with timing and venue.

Speak up. Ask for what you want. “I would like…” “I want…” “I don’t want to…” “It bothers me when…”

Karaoke. If you have access to a machine. Don’t try to sound perfect. Do it by yourself, if you’re shy. Put your finger in one ear, to hear yourself better.

Practice different accents. Be silly. My favorite is talking like Dracula.

Don’t be apologetic. Don’t sell yourself short. My family has the bad habit of saying stuff like, “I don’t know how good it’s going to be, because I’ve never tried this before.” I’m trying to break that bad habit. When I email James Altucher with an idea, I say “This will make your blog more popular,” not “I think this will make your blog more popular.” Talk confidently, and you will be more confident.

Talk about yourself in the third person. Not when other people are around. They’ll think you’re crazy. Complement yourself in the third person, and the second, and the first, and the zeroth.

Learn to laugh in a way that you like. A lot of us don’t like our own laughs.

Change your voice, if you want. Make it more attractive to you, not to other people. That’s your goal.

Affirmations. “My voice is unique and beautiful. I am loved because of it and because the message I have.”

Praise your body, out loud. “My legs are so beautiful.” “I love the shape of my hands.” You must find something that you like aesthetically.

Praise your good qualities. “I’m so good at…” “I love to…” “I’m sensitive and caring.”

“Anything else you want to add, Alex?”

“Why, yes I do. Ask yourself your own opinion, once in a while.”

Whisper to yourself in the dark. Before drifting off to sleep, talk about the day, talk about tomorrow, be hopeful and optimistic.

Not all may work for you; just pick out the ones you like. Learn to love your own voice, and use it to speak up and further your own goals. Those are really the only voice lessons you need to take.