My Own Worst Enemy

This one might read more like a journal entry. If you are expecting an article you'll probably read this and assume that I'm a crazy narcissist. I believe one must only talk about ones self (to such an extent) in the context of a biographical journal entry. If this were an article I would have thrown in an extra amount of self deprecation in order to assure you of my humility. (I'm only sort of joking.) I apologize in advance if I ramble as I let my mind wander.

I grew up third of six. Our family adopted my two younger sisters (number seven and eight) when I was about eleven, so for the most part I was smack dab in the middle. Like most middle children I felt somewhat overlooked so I acted out in order to receive the attention I craved (or at least thats what they told me I was doing). If anyone challenged me I would fight them back as if my life depended on it. Often times my weapon of choice was a handful of the smooth rocks from the playground at Quilchena Elementary School in Richmond, BC. Because of this I spent most of my lunch hours across the desk from our lovely principle, Mrs. Thorton. She was terrifying. She must have been well over six feet tall, and her stature and spirit made her the most intimidating creature this second grader had ever laid his eyes on. With her white hair pinned back tight against her scalp and her gigantic, unblinking eyes penetrating deep into my soul, she'd stare for what seemed like hours before articulating a very sinister, "Do you know why you're here, Matthew?" I always knew why, but I could barely speak. I was afraid to. My lips would shake and my tongue would get twisted. A huge lump would well up in my throat and I would feel like crying. I couldn't look at her without wanting to cry, so I would glance away. "Look at me!" She'd scowl. This would go on daily. Some mornings I'd fill up with dread and fake sickness to get out school, because I knew I would end up in that chair, across from 'the witch' as she attempted once again to steal my soul. It was probably all my fault, but I never saw it that way. I was just defending myself. The punishment was never on the kid who threw the first stone, it was always on the kid who threw back. That was me, in my mind anyways.

I remember one of my most recent victims found me at recess and jumped on me, pinning my shoulders with his knees and pummeling my face with his fists. A teacher broke it up and told me to get back to my class. My attacker didn't even have to go to the office. It seemed there was no justice for me. I was almost heartbroken with humiliation. For weeks I tried to get him to fight again. I wanted a rematch. I wanted to win. Instead he befriended me which was even more disheartening. He didn't want to fight, he was sorry. "Let's be friends," he'd say, which was something very hard for a middle child to turn down. It was terrible. He was the hero, and there was nothing I could do to win.

I was looking to be at the top of a hierarchy. To get respect and attention through violence is probably hard-wired into a lot of boys, especially boys who have brothers. I saw myself as 'Defender of the Weak' but I think teachers just saw me as a tyrant. I remember in 5th grade having to see the school counselor on a weekly basis. I think having to be called out of class for counseling is one of the most humiliating things a kid can go through. She (the counselor) would talk about how life is a road and there are speed bumps in it, and I would laugh because I thought she sounded crazy.

As I grew I slowly realized I could get attention by being good at things. My family is naturally competitive, so when it came to life as a contest I just decided that I was going to win. Anything that impressed people I would learn to be good at. As a kid, it was drawing comic books. To this day I have eight notebooks full of characters and stories I created (I do believe this was a sincere passion of mine, but I know it was partly to impress my older brother). I had dreams of becoming like my hero, Jim Lee, a famous comic book artist (not to be confused with Stan Lee, who's art is sub-par in comparison). My friends would be impressed with my work and I would feel gratified. I collected sports cards, coins, pogs and miniatures and would organize them meticulously. I would do anything to obtain a certain sense of worth and wealth.

I remember one summer in 6th grade I decided I was going to be like Michael Jordan. I spent hours in the driveway shooting a basketball. To this day, I'm terrible at basketball. I love to play it, but I'm not so good. I don't know where it came from, this delusional self confidence, but I had it. For awhile, I was king of the nerds collecting and creating comic books, websites and playing online games. When that wasn't enough I became an athlete. I was always pretty limber, I think growing up with a trampoline in the back yard helps, but I remember for a few years in my teens I really focused on sports. I went to State in swimming and Districts in track and field. My delusional self-confidence eventually became haughty arrogance, which you can read about in my blog post titled "One Small Story of Regret." The contest academically became how much work can I NOT do and still maintain a good grade? I had set myself up to be pretty good at everything that seemed to matter to people. However, my motives weren't entirely pure. Until I found music.

I always loved to sing, and when I was twelve my mom decided she was going to get me real voice lessons. The guy who gave them was in a nineties Christian pop band called The Suspenders. I was a huge fan. He taught me how to warm my prepubescent voice up and make weird noises. After about 4 lessons I had tracked vocals and harmonies to a very cheesy rendition of, "I Swear" by John Michael Montgomery (Or All 4 One, which was the version I preferred). I remember free-styling the harmonies, and Ashley (my instructors name) would laugh and say, "Wow! That was jazzy!" I had no idea what he meant, but I took it as a compliment.

I think the first song I wrote was when I was thirteen or so on my moms classical acoustic guitar. It was when I was in my early teens that I discovered rock music. On my 16th birthday my mom bought me my first electric guitar: a blue Fender Squire. I still have it. On it I learned to cover numerous songs, but that bored me quickly so I went back to writing my own. They sounded a lot like Blink 182. Sorry if I'm rambling as I remember, there is a point to this I promise.

What was different about my musical talents was that I didn't know if I was good, and I wasn't about to show off to people just in case I was laughable. For the most part I continued writing songs alone, showing them only to my brother or my close friends when they implored me to entertain. They'd smile and say it was good, but I wasn't sure I believed them. Music was different than anything else I had attempted. It was personal. My motives weren't to impress anyone. I didn't need people to hear it. I didn't need approval. I needed to write because I needed to express myself through this new outlet. I needed it's comfort. I lived for the sound of my voice over the guitar chords and the instruments that swirled around in my head along with the song. I would sometimes spend the hours at school playing songs in my head, and then run home and figure them out with the guitar (I still do this now, except I sing them into my phone so I don't forget). I could hear these songs done, every part working together to create a symphony of wonderful music. In retrospect I was ambitious, uncultured and my songs weren't very unique, but I FELT them. I needed them.

Two things made me cool at parties in my late teens. The first was that I could do a back flip off of a car. The second was that I could play the guitar and freestyle songs about peoples moms. They loved it. You don't even have to be clever. Whenever you sing made up words in a catchy melody to chords, people tend to find it genius. These were essentially the two things that set me apart from my friends who were all athletes, nerds and artists to some extent. I was one in five guys in my class who played guitar, and one in two who wrote songs. I felt unique in that sense. Music started to define me socially as well as something personal that I relied on. So after being a delinquent, a nerd, an athlete and a stoner (I left that part of the story out), I decided I was a going to be musician.

The point of that long recap was to describe a picture of myself that I believe is at war constantly with my other half. My first half is this compulsion to get better, to learn more and be the best at whatever lies before me, something I probably developed out of insecurity but something inherently 'me.' I think everyone has this to some extent, and for the most part it is a productive attribute, although sometimes it can be consuming and destructive. My other half is for the most part self-involved, complacent laziness. "I don't CARE!" Is what this half of me childishly screams. Those are the three words Kristie hates to hear. While we were dating in my teens I said them a lot. They helped me detach, but oh, how they are deadly. Sometimes I am truly surprised as to how she put up with me for so long.

Half of the time, I would much rather watch TV than write songs, record music, or spend quality time with people I love (i.e. do productive things). Even though I understand the latter is an incredible source of joy, it seems I'd much rather fill my time with nothingness. I get easily caught up in pointless, mindless hobbies like playing Mafia on Facebook, games on my iPhone, or marveling at Bob Ross' wizardry on PBS. On one hand I want to be good at everything, and on the other hand I'm much to lazy to do the work. I settle for the cheap thrills that always leave me empty. In this sense I'm my own worst enemy. I've heard it said, however politically incorrect, that there are two types of people: indians and Chiefs. There are those who read the news and those who make the news. Those who are envious and those who people envy. The thing about being a Chief is that it takes hard work, responsibility, dedication, commitment. Even when it sucks and you don't feel like it. It's trying and failing and trying again. Those who lead aren't those who are smarter, it's those who have an abundance of motivation, positive outlook and the compulsion to vacuum the heads of those smarter than them. One half of me wants to be this better person, and the other half isn't concerned in the slightest. If my life was Pinocchio I'd be a half-donkey with one foot in Pleasure Island.

This is part of what they call the 'duality of man.' Good and evil. Ecstasy and enmity. Inspiration and desperation. For every peak there is a valley. The only thing that is going to hold me from my potential is myself. I can stay in the valley for as long as I wish, because its always a forced decision to climb back up the mountain. Man, the valley sucks too. Whenever I spend too much time filling myself with nonsense I self-destruct. Whenever I cut the nonsense out I feel a lot better. Why is it that I cannot make that decision every time? It's such a no brainer. Half of me says, "This will not fill you," and the other half says, "Might was well try anyways."

I love this quote from the Apostle Paul, who struggled openly with the same issue in Romans 7 (The Message):

^4-16I can anticipate the response that is coming: "I know that all God's commands are spiritual, but I'm not. Isn't this also your experience?" Yes. I'm full of myself—after all, I've spent a long time in sin's prison. What I don't understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So if I can't be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it, it becomes obvious that God's command is necessary.

^17-20But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can't keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don't have what it takes. I can will it, but I can't do it. I decide to do good, but I don't really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don't result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time.

Paul is talking about this in reference to the Law, as in the Jewish Law. He's basically saying that humans can't follow the law perfectly, they will always fall short, so we need Jesus to clear our names where we fall short. He's saying its good to know the right thing, but its not enough to know it, because even if you know it it's impossible to do all the time: I decide to do good, but I don't really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway.

I guess the struggle is inspiration and focus. Acting on the inspiration of your conscience saying, "This won't fill you" and then focusing on the things that will.

I have a feeling that I will never master that.

One Small Story of Regret

Sometimes I wake up and wish I'd done better.

I went through a lot of changes in high school. This is the time when most teenagers either come out of their shell or develop a much thicker one. I came out of mine. I knew I wasn't the best looking or best dressed, but some newly found arrogant part of me thought that I was probably the smartest. Not only was I smarter than most of my teachers, nothing could hurt me. As I grew more confident I began to develop what I call now the 'Invincible Syndrome'. 

In my teens, the problems in my parents relationship had begun to surface and spill over into my life, and I think this 'Invincible Syndrome' was a reaction to that (and probably also a result of newly introduced levels of testosterone). In order to not let my parents issues effect my life (my life, of most importance), I became detached from feeling much of anything. The funny thing is, it worked for a bit. I've always enjoyed competition, so when it came to challenges in sports or education, I loved to meet and beat them, and then subsequently brag about it. I was also at a time in my life when I was experimenting with things like weed and alcohol and smoking cigarettes, etc. Due to my parents apparent hypocrisy at the time, I had decided to throw out much of what they taught me and figure things out for myself. Of course they taught me never to do drugs or alcohol, so when my friends became curious, I was at the front of the line. I loved to push the limits in every way. I would take advanced classes at school and show up high. Showing up high to class was a completely different experience for me... it was challenging in a number of different ways, especially in the way of hiding it (which despite our attempts we failed to do most of the time). When grades came, I still  got A's, and I would brag to my friends that I was high the whole time and still got an A. I loved it. I loved to throw stereotypes back in peoples faces. I loved to prove people wrong.

You may read that paragraph and say, "Man, he sounds like he was an ass in high school." But when I think about it I really wasn't. I was a good kid in high school, I just became a little misguided in my last couple years. I wanted to be challenged and loved and respected and understood. Those are good things. I went to Young Life and church and met for coffee with my small group, and I believed I was a christian regardless of how I was acting. I excelled in athletics; swimming, track and sometimes cross-country (which I hated, but did anyways). I was also part of the running start program which sent me to college for much of my junior and senior year. I had friends in every click and I thought I could do it all; I could party, get good grades, sell weed, go to church, go to college, be a state champion swimmer, and beat anyone up who said otherwise. I had yet to learn the true meaning of consequence.

Because I excelled so easily at things, I think I eventually lost my work ethic altogether. There was no reason for me to work, because after all, my half-assed last minute efforts seemed to be working fine. I think some people call this "Senioritis"; when you're a senior in high school and you start slacking off in anticipation of graduating. Maybe that was part of it, but I think my Senioritis stemmed from arrogance, fool-heartedness and inexperience. As a result, I became known for my slacking on the swim team that final year of high school. 

This is just one small story of regret.

Our swim team was a good one considering we were one of the smallest schools in Washington State's 3A division. Swimming is a lot like track where individual events come secondary to the relays. The relays are popular to watch, and are really the only true team aspect of track and swimming. The most important relay is the medley relay, where each swimmer does one of the four strokes. It starts off with backstroke, then breaststroke, then butterfly, then freestyle. Long story short I was the freestyle leg, the last leg. Not because I was better than the other swimmers at freestyle, but because they were the best on our team at the other strokes. I was the next best at the freestyle position, after the three of them. We dominated all year long, sometimes lapping teams and clocking fairly close to the state record, so our coach thought we had a shot at the gold medal when it came time for the state championships.

The whole year my 'Invincible Syndrome' had come to a head, and needless to say my work ethic was lacking in the pool. I spent a lot of time goofing off, sometimes showing up high to practice and skipping parts of the work out. I didn't want to swim in the fast lane, because thats where the hard-working and serious people went, and they mostly got mad when I slacked off. So I scraped by, doing my minimum, expecting maximum returns as usual. I was still competitive, I still wanted to win, but I had lost a lot of my will to compete on a daily basis in practice. I figured I was good enough.

The State Championship came along in February of 2001, and our hopes were high. The first day of the tournament we placed first in the medley relay, giving us the top spot going into the finals. It was extremely exciting because we hadn't been beat all year and it looked like we couldn't be. We shaved our heads, bought tinted goggles, and because it was February our pasty skin led to a very chilling display of what Hitler's 'Arian Nation' might have looked like. Being seeded 1st, we were able to choose the music that the swimmers walked out to, and we would lead the pack to the starting blocks. We chose a Rage Against the Machine song, which for the life of me I can't remember right now. It was exhilarating to say the least. We were a small team from a small school up against schools three to four times our size, and it looked like we were going to win.

Flash forward to me up on the blocks. The gun is a distant memory and the first two legs of the relay are completed. We're ahead, and I'm waiting for Cory to touch the wall. He's got at least a yard on the guy in the lane next to us. I dive in, the water blasting passed my goggles, my ears filled with noise, every muscle working to displace as much water as possible. I glance to my left and I can see the swimmer in the lane next to me, still a yard or so behind. I glance forward to see the wall, I have to be sure its close enough so I can flip my turn in one fluid motion. I flip, and reach my toes out to find that the wall isn't where I expect it to be. I extend my legs and find it with the balls of my feet, and I just as I thrust I see the swimmer next to me launch his turn, plant his feet, and with his legs bent at a 90 degree angle get a full push off the wall. So now we're head to head, and I'm pulling water as fast as I can, but he seems to be gaining on me. I see him next to me, gaining ground, going faster. My confidence falls out of me, and as we hit the wall I know he has beat me to it.

I sat in my lane in disbelief. This was our one shot to have a place in history, our one shot at glory. It would have made an epic sports film, a great underdog story... but I blew it. I punched the wall a few times, but that only made it hurt more. The team next to us was in ecstatic celebration, and my team, still panting, was slowly walking away in shock. I knew they resented me, and that made me resent myself.

It felt like for the first time in my life I was vulnerable. I was humbled and saddened. I cursed myself for my lack of work ethic, when others on my team would have killed for the chance to swim in my spot. There was no way out of this one, there was no excuse... I was met with a challenge; the win was in my hands, and I came up short plain and simple. I failed because I was foolish and selfish and arrogant. I failed myself, my teammates, and my coach, who wouldn't even look at me afterwards. He knew why I had failed, he'd witnessed it on a daily basis in practice. Sure, we got the silver medal, but it felt like a cheap consolation prize... a "Thank You For Participating" award.

Looking back now it seems like a distant memory. It seems silly that we would take something like that so seriously, and in the long run it was just a game. But I can't help but remember the weight that I felt. This was what I had worked years for, what others had worked years for, and I had let everyone down. There was no going back. That was our last chance to make school history, to make state history, and I had blown it for everyone. I felt defeated for a long time because of that. 

This may sound ridiculous, but this event has had a huge effect on the way I do things now. When I find the odds stacked up against me I no longer laugh. In the face of adversity I try not to sneer... I bite my tongue. I know what it takes to achieve greatness, and I know what it takes to fail. Sometimes, like this morning, I am reminded of how hard I must struggle. I am reminded of what it takes to accomplish things of value. Because sometimes I wake up and think of this story.

Sometimes I wake up and wish I'd done better.