Let's get a new tattoo!

It has long been said regarding semantics that “the word is not the thing,” the implication being that all language, both text and speech, can only attempt to represent ideas and feelings but cannot actually be the Real thoughts or sensations it describes.

In December 1996 I sat down to get my first tattoo, three small Hebrew letters (חֶסֶד = lovingkindness) on the ring finger of my left hand. It took the artist about five minutes to install it and cost me a grand total of $45, which I paid in cash.  I used the word, chesed (pronounced KHES-ed), as a framework for a part of my vows a few days later.  

And I meant it.  I know I was an imperfect partner at times.  But I really did try to live every implication of the word, as well as the indelibility of the deed, each day of my 28-year marriage.

Let's pretend that everything is fine.

[audio]

If ever I had an ego, it ceased-to-be in 2025, along with any inherent sense of pride in my accomplishments I might have once possessed.

But maybe what I'm actually talking about is self-esteem. Or could I be talking about my sense of self-worth?  I don't know. Took my last psychology class half-a-lifetime ago, so I'm not really sure. Also, I haven't seen my therapist in a while (It's time; going to see her on Tuesday). Thus, for today, I'm doing my own stunts when it comes to dredging the definitions and depths of these terms.

Holidays and bitter anniversaries have me feeling pretty shitty these days. Devastated. Sad. Unlovable. Humiliated. Lonely. Unwanted. Without value. Aimless. Why?  My wife left me.  A year ago.  Told me she didn't love me any more.  Moved out of our house.  Walked away from me, our home, our entire extended family, all of our pets, and every single one of our family photos, to say nothing of the many happy memories and moments contained therein. 

Ghosted. All of it.

ex evangelical et al: losing my religion

That's me in the corner 

That's me in the spotlight 

Losing my religion 

Trying to keep up with you

And I don't know if I can do it...

Oh no, I've said too much

Michael Stipe, R.E.M. (1991)

I was born early on a Sunday morning in the second week of November 1966. 

Some years later, the presidential election of 1984 was held on Tuesday, November 6, exactly one week before my 18th birthday. At that time I was senior at an exclusive private evangelical Christian high school in Phoenix, Arizona, and I was crushed that I wouldn't be able to cast my first-ever vote to re-elect Ronald Reagan to a second term as president of the United States, even though he didn't need it.