My hands were folded, my eyes locked on my rapidly tapping toes. I exhaled.

"This is where we’re at now,” my doctor said. “We’ll do the best that we can.”

Though I had no new fatal diagnosis, my existing condition suddenly felt terminal. I lifted my head and took a sip of my water. For the first time in years, I wanted something stronger. It didn’t matter that it was morning or that I had to go to work. I just needed something to distract me. I couldn’t think about this, but there it was in front of my face, likely to follow me along until the end.

I’ve known for a long time that the life expectancy of someone with my condition (Peutz-Jeghers Syndrome) is 57, but doctors and therapists spent years convincing me that modern medicine changed the game. They told me I had nothing to worry about and that I had no need to think of this as a cancerous death sentence. As it turns out, they were wrong or simply placating me.

“What does that mean?” I asked my doctor.

She told me that my options become more limited with time. The treatments become less effective with each procedure or surgery. Some options have already been ruled out and the existing ones may be of little benefit. In what is barely a metaphor, they can still offer me bandages but not stitches.

“Bummer.”

She continued on, but I do not remember what else she said. I imagine that was due to both an inability to focus and an effort to block it out. White noise turned on in my head and one word pulsated in my brain: cancer.

My mom had the same hereditary condition as I do. She battled cancer for the better part of a decade before succumbing to the disease at 57. That’s how the condition finally does you in.

Given that I’m now in the race towards 57, it feels like the C word is in my near future. PJS offers a wonderful buffet of elevated cancer risks: stomach, small bowel, pancreatic, and lung are just some of the options. I’d tell cancer to eat me, but that may already be its plan.

In the past, I focused on the pain and suffering associated with cancer. I worried I would not be strong enough to fight it. Today, I have a different perspective. I think of my kids.

I have a hard time remembering what my mom was like before cancer turned her into a walking ghost with little more than some skin and bones. My dad, however, passed suddenly. Though he was in poor health, I can think of him as he was when he died and when I was young.

So, what is better for my kids? Would wasting away weigh heavily on them? Would I be a financially and psychologically expensive burden to them? (For the record, I’m not saying that’s how I viewed my mom.) What if I get to a point where I’m completely dependent on their help, along with the help of hospice care? What if all they remember me by is how I will be at the very end?

Conversely, what if I just go as is? Will it take less of a toll on them? The associated expenses of prolonged cancer care wouldn’t be there. They won’t have to think of important moments in their life in which I need to be wheeled out, my head bobbing and eyes vacant. I just wouldn’t be there.

Which is the lesser of two evils?

I never planned on making it to adulthood. When I did, I never planned on going through cancer treatments. In both instances, a bullet through the head seemed like a better option. Now, I have reasons to live that I never thought I would be lucky enough to have.

If the day comes when I am diagnosed with cancer — and that feels inevitable at the moment — what do I do? How do I know what’s best? Could my family move on more quickly if it all ended quickly? Or, would they prefer if I was an empty vessel trotted out for special occasions?

If you plan to stick around as long as you can, there’s still no telling when it will all end. Although my mom suffered for a long time, she was still gone way too soon. She missed all the big events in her children’s lives like marriage and grandchildren. That was the one of the worst scenarios: long-term suffering without the payoff of being there for the special moments. I really don’t want that scenario for anyone.

I’m tired. My brain hurts, my eyes feel glazed over. Nothing is wrong, nor is anything bad. I’m good at work. I’m good at home. Things are okay, which I haven’t always been able to say. I could use a nap and a quiet day to myself.

I’m an introvert who isn’t much for talking or socializing. School, training, and meetings have drained my social battery. Moreover, I’ve gained some weight back since my dad passed. I’m probably not getting quality sleep. I don’t think I’m back at a point where I’m snoring, but maybe my airway is a little bit restricted.

Wah, wah, wah.

So much whining with so few real problems. I think these are more statements of fact and a way to begin processing this information. This is about taking proactive measures. Trends are forming and, if they are not addressed, things will head in the wrong direction. Writing this out is the first step in the journey towards resolution.

Depression and anxiety are hard to predict or control. They can take hold without warning — but not always. In time, you can learn some early warning signs. Taking action can help reduce the impact of depression, or you can take steps to change what is within your control.

It’s important to remember you cannot control others. You cannot always even change your environment. There are some things you can control, though, and those must be your focus.

Your mental state weighs heavily on your friends, family, and coworkers. A dour mood at work, a snippy comment to your spouse, or a curt reaction to your neighbor can impact their moods. In turn, those actions can have a ripple effect. Maybe those people end up reacting poorly to others, or turn inwards and fester. They might come to resent you for it.

You owe it to others to proactively take care of yourself when you can. This way, when you really need someone to be there for you, or to be understanding and give you space, they are more likely to do so.

My dad didn’t call me on New Year’s Eve. Whether it was your birthday or a holiday, he always celebrated you with a song. He had a beautiful voice and loved to sing.

When he was young, he sang on the streets of South Philly with his doo-wop group. I wish he had access to recording equipment, because I’d love to hear the sound of his voice right now.

As a kid, some of my favorite memories were from car rides. He’d sing along to his Hall and Oates and Chicago tapes. I’d sit in the back seat behind him and try to add in harmonies.

I was a terrible singer, but that didn’t stop me in these instances. I felt like I bonded with him during these moments. Although I was off key, we were on the same wavelength. I think he could hear me. I think he enjoyed it too.

I wish I had told him how much I loved this. There’s a lot I wish I told him before he passed away. I’m sure anyone who lost a loved one understands this feeling and knows the hollowness of the hole it left inside you. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that.

I’m also sorry I wasn’t there for your last big birthday. My family through a party for him. I was pretty sick, but also a little mad at him. I do not remember why I was mad, but maybe I would have made more of an effort if I wasn’t. So selfish, so dumb.

I also missed my last opportunity to see you. You came to drop something off but weren’t feeling well enough to make it into our house. I was in the garage and said I’d be out in a minute. By the time I made it out, you had left. I should not have hesitated. I never really did before. Not sure why I let something get in the way this last time.

This week, the opportunities did not exist. You were gone before New Year’s and gone before the fifth, for what should have been your 77th birthday. No calls could be made; no songs could be sung.

It’s times like this that I really hope there is an afterlife. I hope you and mom are together again in the good place and are looking down on us. I hope you are there with your parents and all those who have passed.

I plead there is a multiverse where another version of me took advantage of the opportunities I missed. At a minimum, I plead there is an eternal return, so we can do it all again. I’d love nothing more than the chance to sing “Sara Smile” alongside you once again.

The holiday season is as beautiful as it is treacherous. We surprise one another with thoughtful gifts. We also fight over politics and vow never to speak to the other again. Then, there are the outcasts and the black sheep, the people who never quite fit in and probably wouldn’t be missed or noticed. I’m pretty sure that’s where I fall.

Every family has one and, if you're depressed, you’re all too self-aware that it’s you. Isn’t that just wonderful? If you’re neurotypical, you may not know. There are signs, but you may not recognize them. So, how about a field guide to proverbially smashing your face in eggnog’s dregs?

People don’t seek you out for conversation. Outside of general politeness, nobody comes up to you to see how you’re doing. Nobody attempts to spark meaningful dialogue. Nobody says they were thinking of you. There are no special, shared memories with anyone. Not recently, anyway.

People don’t invite you to do anything with them. As a fly on the wall, you learn that other people hang out and have good times. They go to special places and do special things. Maybe they’ve all been to a party at a relative’s house, and you weren’t invited.

People have escape plans. You’ve engaged someone in conversation and that person is looking around the room. They’re looking for the nearest conversational exit. Then, when another person is nearby, they abruptly end your chat to strike up a conversation with someone else.

People sit you at the kids’ table. You’re the oldest in your generation of relatives but that hasn’t earned you the right to sit with the adults. Instead, you’re sitting at a folding card table with kids using sippy cups and are in their onesies.

People don’t notice that you’ve disappeared. Everything adds up and overwhelms you. You feel worthless, impotent. You go to a different room because you can’t hide your emotions and crying in front of your family won’t exactly improve your standing.

For all intents and purposes, I hope this doesn’t ring true for you. But if it does, I’ve got bad news: you’re the black sheep. We should form a support group.

How do you define yourself? By your job? Your money? Social status?

What if you’ve never actually defined yourself before?

I’ve always felt as if I was an outcast, someone on the fringes who couldn’t — or shouldn’t — make it into the inner circle. I’m sure my awkwardness, anxiety, and self-confidence always played factors. In some cases, it was off-putting and, in others, it put me off.

I’m not good enough, I’m not smart enough and, doggone it, people don’t like me.

Even if they do, I find ways to make them not like me. Usually it’s some sort of mental collapse. Or I keep pulling at threads.

I’m sorry I did that thing. I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you?

Asking once might be understandable, but I keep asking, pulling until everything has unraveled. Now I did a thing and broke a thing. The person may not have been mad at me before, but at this point likely wants nothing to do with me.

It’s a compulsion, as if I’m looking for the person to move past it by constantly shoving it in their face. I guess it’s a compulsion and an obsession. I can’t stop myself.

Is that what defines me though: my neurodivergence? Possibly, but I hope not.

There are no instruction manuals or predefined processes on how to define yourself. Self-help books and shifty YouTube tutorials don’t seem to be good resources. There simply can’t be a universal playbook to follow, as no two people are alike.

I guess that means I need to figure this shit out on my own because I have no idea who the hell I am right now. Maybe I can’t. Maybe I won’t. I wonder if it’s too late in the game.

Sometimes it feels like I just have to drift through time and space until the clock runs out. Tick tock, buddy.

Here lies Marcello,
The foolish fellow.
Ne’er made a day of his time,
Lost in and out of his mind.

Robert Louis Stevenson would surely roll over in his grave if he read that.

It’s only over the course of the last few months, after deciding I need to redefine myself, that I realized I never had any definition at all. Just an amorphous existential blob. Oh, dumb irony. And a lazy metaphor.

This all stems from a career change. I’ve dreamt about being a private chef, food blogger, and a carpenter. I’ve started novels, collected recipes, and begun woodworking projects. Maybe sales would be a good fit. I think I’d be a good realtor or even a car salesman.

It’s all left me quite overwhelmed with more questions than answers. Both my identity and my abilities have come into question. What if I commit to the wrong thing? What if I fail?

I don’t care if I wait tables or paint houses to pay the bills. It’s not about a job, per se. It’s about who I am and how I can leave an indelible mark on the world. It’s so cliché, but I want to leave the world a better place than I found it and I don’t know how to do that.

I’m afraid. Of failing. Of adding undue burden to my family. Of being wrong.

Until I figure out who I am, I’m not sure I can ever be right.

My wife always worked crazy schedules. For the majority of our relationship, she worked overnights. She’s incredibly dedicated, hard working, and amazing at what she does. I’ve always admired that about her.

All of that took a toll on her, though. She was always tired and had low energy. Honestly, it probably took years off her life. It wasn’t natural. Or human.

Then, a new professional opportunity came her way a few years ago. She switched to a day shift, and I felt like I met a new person. She was vibrant, lighthearted, and had an unbelievable joie de vie. Making a career change gave her back her life.

It’s even better now that she no longer works in the city. She now has a 10-minute commute, more reasonable hours, and is in a much lower-pressure environment. Her quality of life has skyrocketed, and so has ours.

Now, something has changed in me too.

I am my own worst critic, but the criticism has lessened recently. The food I make tastes wonderful. I enjoy listening to the recording from my last band practice. I’m consciously moving at a slower, steadier pace and now I’m in sync with the good in the world around me. No manic highs, no crushing lows. Everything is okay.

What’s happening? Am I happy? Comfortable? Complacent? I’m not sure yet. I haven’t been able to wrap my mind around it.

It’s worth noting that not everything has been great in my life. The wound left by the loss of my father is still fresh and tender. I am without work and, consequently, a paycheck. I wrenched my back and have been in a good deal of pain. For financial reasons, I quickly had to abandon the MS in Nutrition program I just started.

Shouldn’t I feel like shit? Possibly, but I don’t. What’s going on?

Maybe it’s because I left behind a profession that made me miserable. It’s given me the opportunity to slow down. Could this be a new phase of life? There may have been some sort of long-term chemical or biological change that took hold. What if I’m in the eye of the storm and am on the verge of getting hit hard? It’s a new situation for me, and I can’t help but be skeptical.

Maybe I am just being paranoid. Four-plus decades in, it would be pretty nice to be on the right track.

Nota bene: I am switching from weekly posts to biweekly. I don’t want to crowd your inbox. Additionally, the pressure I’ve put on myself to write something fairly deep on a weekly basis has caused my writing to suffer a bit.

When I was in high school, my parents told me that I could do anything I put my mind to, except sing. They were right, but that didn’t stop me from singing and recording music.

I joined bands and eventually started one a few years after college. We called ourselves Parkour, an ill-timed choice as the sport was on the verge of entering the mainstream. Its enthusiasts complained on Reddit that our name was misleading and our lo-fi 90s indie rock sound didn’t embody the spirit of their discipline.

They didn’t exactly have positive things to say about my voice either. Unlike my family’s jab, which I took as a challenge, the words of strangers stung. I still think about them.

Parkour was a short-lived venture. We released one EP, played a couple shows, and broke up. One person bought the album, and it was someone who was always there to support a friend. Thank you, Amy.

I didn’t do us any favors either, as I shirked all leadership responsibilities. When the band looked to me for direction, I awkwardly smiled and shrugged my shoulders. I was all too ready to defer to someone else’s opinion, as I believed mine would always be the worst. I assumed I was a disappointment to my bandmates who were merely humoring me until they found the right time to quit.

So, I turned to my de facto defense mechanism of self-deprecation. I downplayed the quality of the music and my abilities. During a show, I pointed out that you only needed two fingers to play the next song. It’s the only thing that elicited a reaction from the crowd which, of course, was laughter.

Anything shy of perfection meant I was an incompetent fool. So, I started forming the weirdest chords, contorting my fingers into uncomfortable positions so that, should anyone look at my hands, they would recognize the complexity. I also began writing convoluted lyrics with obscure references. The hope was that it would override the actual sound of the song and my own negative sentiments.

The problem was my inability to accept both my skills and my limitations. All I saw was negatives and I fed into it, only making it worse. Reddit’s keyboard warriors reinforced those feelings. So, I packed up my guitar and didn’t touch it again for years.

Embracing your imperfections is no easy task, but accepting who you are is a critical step for personal growth. Over four decades of life, I am finally learning — and doing — that. It’s yielding positive results, even if it leaves me bumped and bruised along the way.

A big step was understanding my skillset and learning to work within it. In the past, I would have worked tirelessly to gain the skills needed for any task. It was unreasonable and almost never ended the way I hoped. It left me burnt out, angry, and unfulfilled. Worst of all, it caused more regression than progression.

I never really asked the important question: Who am I?

Someone else; that’s who I was trying to be, anyway. Then, when I’d inadvertently fail, I’d apologize profusely and leave the people around me frustrated and picking up the slack. My bad. I suck. I’m the worst.

Now I’m exhausted, empty, and burdened by my choices. It impacts me, my family, friends, and coworkers too. It’s not all bad, though. I’ve learned to say I can’t, won’t, or don’t want to do this. This breakthrough has taken a lot of weight off my shoulders.

I don’t feel as overwhelmed, angry, or sad. I don’t end each day wanting to cry or hide in my room. My work-life balance is better. Well, it’s all just life now, as I find myself sine opere. That comes with its own set of challenges — like how I will pay bills — but that’s beyond the purview of this piece.

With an utter lack of self-confidence, you feel like you’re the only flawed individual on earth. Everyone else is better than you and they know how worthless you are. As part of the self-revelation of limits, you learn everyone has their imperfections. Nobody’s perfect. Or, as the malapropism goes, pobody’s nerfect.

Maybe I am not Jimi Hendrix, but I can play guitar much better than a lot of people. I don’t have the range of Jeff Buckley, but I’m not tone deaf either. I’m also a competent coder, albeit magnitudes worse than Linus Torvalds.

So, I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. I guess. Really, I just look for any excuse to reference Caddy Shack.

It’s okay to have limitations. Everyone does. Work within your own parameters. Embrace your skills, accept your flaws. I swear it’s okay. It really is. I’m telling that to myself as much as I am to you — especially since I am now unemployed. I’ll make it through. We’ll make it through, as long as we focus on the positives and strive to grow after our setbacks.

Now, if I could just calm down, get out of this funk, and start growing, I’ll be all set.

The first face I saw when waking up from post-surgery anesthesia was always my dad’s face. If I needed a ride, a shoulder to cry on, or even some money, he was there for me. He even took me on secret runs to McDonald’s to sneak in French fries, sponsored all of my sports teams, and had me help him with his business.

Wh…

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If we’re being honest, my sense of self-worth comes from the reactions of others. The way people respond to a joke I make, something I write, or a dish I make can determine my mental and emotional states for an indeterminate amount of time. It’s the worst kind of codependent relationship, one that pits me vs. me.

I hav…

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Traversing the digital landscape is treacherous. Nobody is safe. Right?

I guess it depends on your definition of safety. Or, where you fall within varying spectra.

• You’re safe in your right to own guns, but not from them.

• You’re safe to speak your mind, until you’re targeted by bullies’ words.

• You’re safe to hide discrimination…

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I hate my birthday. Womp, womp.

My parents always tried to give me a nice little gathering when I was young, but it was tough. When your birthday coincides with the beginning of the school year, nobody is really around. Plus, I didn’t have friends. So, my parties were mostly with my dad’s aunts and uncles.

The only party I re…

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They say it’s rude not to make eye contact. So, you try. You were raised to be polite, but know that this action has consequences. If the eyes truly are the gateway to the soul, then they reveal that which we hope to keep hidden. Like being a fraud.

Even after the slightest glance, some people can see deep into your so…

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Though I’m not handy, I have a reason to be.
Though I’m not handy, someone may need me.
Though I’m not handy, I want no dependence.
Though I’m not handy, I built a workbench.

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A quarter century ago, I met a girl.

She spoke her mind with great conviction and intensity. It was captivating, my eyes narrowing to a shallow depth of field with her as the sole focus. It grabbed my attention in a way that immediately led me to believe there was something truly remarkable about her. Sh…

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I’m a pretty good cook. It’s true. It didn’t feel like that at my restaurant, though.

To be honest, it might have been a mistake to open a business. One could question if I was ready. I knew how to cook and how to lead. Understanding the nuances of business is an entirely different animal.

How do you price an item? Where do you find sources? Are they rep…

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My first real cook title was Garde Manger, or Pantry Chef.

I handled all cold items, from salads to desserts at a small Italian restaurant. It was the ‘90s, so garnishing mostly meant a useless kale leaf on the plate and a sprig of mint on whipped cream.

Strawberries were sliced down to the stem and splayed like a deck…

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There I am, hand on head. I’m angry. Or sad. I’m focusing my energy in the empty space between my sister and whoever belongs to that right hand.

Let’s look at my hand, clenched into a fist. There are creases in the skin, nails at the ends of my fingers, knuckles in the middle. It’s attached to my arm, which connects to my body.

Classical physics explains…

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Experience can be transformative, whether it’s born out of ignorance or naiveté. It’s how you respond that matters. As a teenager, I often responded poorly. It’s time I addressed that.

In a previous piece, I discussed a manipulative friend from my youth (Ronnie). He provoked others to fight me. He engineered the constant ridicule of someone in my first f…

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I’ve always worn my emotions on my sleeve, but never as a cry for attention or a plea for help. In the throes of depression, everything is heightened. Swallowing your feelings to hide them from the world is too cumbersome and I have a very low tolerance for masquerades.

Some people are really good at this. They compartmentalize their inner and outer selv…

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My professional career has been an example of the Peter Principle.

For two decades, I failed upwards beyond my means and skills until I finally hit a wall and found myself falling back down. Quite frankly, I am surprised this didn’t happen sooner. Twenty years is a long time to hide in plain sight before someone notices.

W…

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