Burning Me, Man

In a couple of weeks, Burning Man will be here. I’ve never been out to Black Rock and most of the Burners I run across don’t exactly inspire me to go.

It’s like several years ago when a friend went to Summit Series for the first time. I had gone the year before, and I was amazed at both the friends that I made and the things that I learned. Having skipped the event that year, I was excited to hear how it went.

“How was it?”

“Dude, amazing!”

“Right? I learned so much. I spent a lot of time learning and experiencing so many wonderful things.”

“Totally! They ran out of condoms!”

Missing the purpose seems to be a common ailment these days.

I am sure I am missing the point of Burning Man. So I spent some time talking to friends that don’t talk about Burning Man.

And to the one, they all talk about the experience in the context of inwardness. In many ways Burning Man is an introvert’s delight — the ability to be around so many people, but choose to be alone.

After those conversations, I kept thinking about being alone in a sea of people.

Then it dawned on me.

Until about a week ago, I was in a deep depression. Not a story book, movie style depression that involved Kleenex, drugs and ice cream, but a subtle depression where my only choice was to choose to be alone.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love to be alone. I love being home, with my dog Taylor and doing the things I want to do without interruption. And while that was work and email and tv and smoking weed…I mean expanding my horizons…this time it was different. I chose to be alone…and do nothing.

My dad always told me that I was a great actor. That I realized to get ahead I couldn’t be outwardly introverted. And so I learned how to be a windup toy that chatters and laughs and dresses funny and never wears shoes. But this time, even my key was broken. I couldn’t do it. I retreated.

A little over ten years ago, when I decided to get sober, I did it with a choice. Live or die. Stop being a pussy. Live or die. This time, the choice wasn’t quite as dramatic. Be or Don’t Be. Stop being so selfish. Be or Don’t Be.

And like ten years ago, I didn’t make the decisions immediately. I slept on it. I took my time. And, after enough time to be the right time, I chose to Be.

Being isn’t easy. If I was to Be, I had to Be 100. I don’t do 95%. So I defined what Be was to me. It was mine.

I had to figure out how to take all of my negatives, all of the shit nature decided to give me — my bipolar, my OCD — and mix it with all the good — intelligence, humor, compassion — and have the outcome be…well…Be. I took the things that nurture dumped on me, separated them into the same two buckets, good and the bad, and kissed the bad goodbye.

So I burned myself, man. I threw out the way I had lived for so long, the acceptance of Not Being, and rebuilt myself one gooey brick at a time.

I started with health. Diet. As a fat man tipping 367, it was a great place to start. I told no one, because people have an inability to just accept and support without suggestions and directions. I added in some exercise. I went outside several times a day to just stand in the sun and feel what it was like to just Be without expectation.

Over the past few weeks, I have lost 17 lbs. 4.6% of what I was. (Hold the cheers. I’ve already congratulated the beginning, wait until the end.)

I threw out my mind, and started to restart it with 5 minutes of meditation every morning. 0.34% of my day spent thinking no thoughts, breathing no concerns.

I smiled more and meant it.

I laughed more and felt it.

I have learned to embrace my OCD and use my love of patterns to develop habits that provide me comfort.

I even brushed my teeth twice in one day.

And slowly, things have started to change. I am bipolar, the swing back is on the way back. But the choice is real. If I could have chosen to Live ten years ago; I can choose to Be for the next ten.

Life is life, I always say.

And for the first time, in a long time, I’m cool with that.

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