What's next?

I've been doing a lot of writing. When I'm feeling blocked, I'll "free-write." That is to say I will just start typing. Sometimes, I start with "I don't know what to type, but I'm at my keyboard . . . " and continue from there.

I've had a couple of great free-writing sessions about conflict and behaviors (coping skills) that can both sustain and harm a trauma survivor. But I don't have anything cohesive enough to lay out as a blog post at this time.

Additionally, there seems to be so much violence in the news that I've been reacting to and needed self care about, that my writing has turned very personal in nature.

Please be patient. I will continue to post here.

Until then, read and digest the blog entries posted in whatever way is safest for you personally. And remember that all comments are welcome. The only thing I ask is that folks remember to be kind to one another. I am always available for feedback, but there are strangers I've never met that the subject matter resonates with. Please hold these people with care as you contribute.

Thanks and best regards,

Mike :-) 



Lessons From "The Tank"

Not My Photo

When I was a kid, growing up in Westbrook, Maine, we had an outdoor pool. The official name of the place was the Cornelia Warren Outdoor Pool. But in our neighborhood, it was affectionately referred to as The Tank. 

That's what my Mom called it when she used to drive me to lessons. "C'mon Mike. Time to go to The Tank. You're lesson is at 9:00." 

Some of my earliest and most positive memories from childhood centered around this place. Swimming was a constant in my life during the summers of the late sixties and early seventies. I was at home in the pool, and I always felt safe there. As soon as I was big enough (probably eight or nine years old in what was a much smaller town then), I could walk the mile distance with a group of kids from my neighborhood. 

We would take the railroad tracks (long since gone) where William Clark Drive is now, and stop at a local store on Maine Street to purchase candy and soda. The soda was in a water-cooled cooler and always felt ice cold in those old glass bottles. I can't remember the name of the place, but it was right next to Matty's Taxi.

Just across the street from the store was what we called the rail road yard. On occasion, we would sneak over and try to climb in one of the boxcars. But usually, the workers would scare us away. 

After our penny candy feast, we would head for the pool. The Tank lived up to its name. It was a behemoth rectangle made of asphalt and concrete and painted aqua blue. There was no filtration system back then, and a lone "bubbler" circulated the water from the center of the pool. We used to swim out to the bubbler, because the water was extra cold. There was a shallow/wading end that got progressively deeper until it reached a rope divider. Then the pool got really deep. There were three diving boards at the far end where the water was deepest. Two low boards on either side with one high board in the middle of the deep end. 

One lifeguard would entertain us at the gate while we waited in line. Meanwhile, the other guards would walk around the edge of the pool with flower watering pots. The large containers were filled with chlorine, and the guards would walk and dump the chemical at the pools edge. I think two guards did the duty, walking away from one another at the shallow end, and meeting up at the deep end of the pool. 

Fifteen minutes later, the gates would open, and we would pile in the pool house to drop off our towels, sneakers, socks and shirts. There was a quick walk down a hallway that had a small wading pool to rinse off our feet. Then a guard would make sure we went under the shower. We would run for the pool from there.

I seem to recall that on occasion, the guards would have us all line up around the edge of the pool, then send us in all at once. And sometimes, they would direct us to lay in the water and kick our feet. The adult in me now wonders if we were the agitation/mixing mechanism for the chlorine. I know we didn't do this often, and the memory is kind of fuzzy. I'd love to hear from other Westbrook kids at the time to see if I'm recalling this correctly. 

I can't remember the criteria or test to swim in the deep end. Maybe that's because I used to wear my Red Cross Swim Patches on my bathing suit, along with my season pass. The patches and season pass were made of cloth, and could be easily sewn onto our suits. I loved those badges, and I would move them from suit to suit as I outgrew my clothes; begging my mom to sew them onto my latest bathing suit. 

I remember the deep end test I had to take to pass during lessons though. We had to swim across the pool at the deepest part. The first time I tried, I only made it to the first low board before I got scared. Mr Harriman pulled me out of the pool with one hand. I remember thinking he was the strongest man I knew, and I instantly had a new hero. 

After a few tries, I passed beginners, and advanced beginners too. It must have passed advanced beginners at the end of the summer. The next year, I was at the pool with both patches on my suit. I made sure I was the first in line for opening day. I marched down to the deep end and got up on the low diving board, walked to the end, and jumped in. Only I hadn't swam for about nine months, and I momentarily forgot how. I struggled to the side, and went back to the shallow end to practice for a while. 

First lesson in humility? 

Many times in my life, I have needed to return to the shallow end of the metaphorical pool to gain my bearings, reassess my skills sets, and set off for deeper waters again.  

While elementary school was difficult for a host of reasons, it seemed that I got a break from being bullied during my time at the outdoor pool. I remember a couple of instances of being teased/abused on the way home, but nothing like the daily grind of having to fear walking home from Canal School. 

Trips to and from the pool were spent with friends. First walking, then riding our bikes. And the friendships I made around the water still hold a special place in my heart. There has been a ton of emotional work to do as a result of being bullied daily during 4th, 5th, and 6th grade. But now that the work has been done, I am left with the wonderful memories from neighborhood kids. It's amazing how kindness can resonate in our lives. I sometimes forget that friendship and affection have their legacies too. Yet another lesson from swimming at The Tank.

As I got older, and the new junior high school was built, I had access to an indoor pool and competitive coaching. We would still swim at The Tank for fun, and there were relay races and other activities on the last day of the season. A bunch of us Jr High swimmers got together and laid waste to the entire pool during the first relay. So much so, that the guards separated us, and made us swim with the other kids. But I remember the kudos we got from other kids about how fast we were. It was some of the first acknowledgment that I was actually athletic, and I so desperately needed that at the time. 

Over the years, I learned a lot from swimming. I've learned the obvious. Dedication and hard work can help to achieve goals. I became a school record holder and state champion in the 100 yard backstroke. I taught swimming and life-guarded at the YMCA in Portland during High School. I went on to coach, and aquatics was the ultimate mirror I had to face to recognize that my drug and alcohol abuse was a problem. Who I wanted to be in the field of aquatics and what I had become at the hands of addiction were so far apart that I had to seek help. 

But even now, swimming continues to teach me more than anything I give to the sport. I have been recovering from impingement syndrome in my right shoulder, and had made some great gains. In February of this year, I could barely swim 25 meters without having pain in my shoulder. In fact, my shoulder was beginning to hurt, even at rest. I sought treatment for my shoulder, and have started working out again at the gym, and in the pool. In July, I was averaging a mile swim, twice a week. 

But the pain in my shoulder has returned, so I went back to seek additional treatment. The first thing the physical therapist did was remove any overhead exercises at the gym and reduce my swimming by more than half. 

So here I am, in the shallow end . . . Again. I will follow directions, reassess, and take heed of my the importance of rest. I will head out into deep water eventually. 

Sometimes, I need to emotionally hang out in the shallow end as well. Life can get heavy and cause an overabundance of pain. And there's nothing wrong with a strategic retreat back to the shallow end to reassess, follow directions, and allow for emotional and spiritual rest. 

I can always head back out into deep water eventually. 

M :-) 

Gratitude Tuesday

It's Gratitude Tuesday. What are you grateful for?

Post in the comments section (below)

The Good Doctor

This post has all the good feels:

When I was a boy, our family doctor had an office in his home on Woodford Street in Portland Maine. The house was a robin-egg blue with a white and dark blue trim. His name was Walter E Penta MD

Regardless of the reason, I always loved going to see Dr. Penta. And I'm saying this about a man that directed me to have my tonsils out at six years old. There would be other painful moments where we would connect, and his support was instrumental. More on that as we continue.

During the last few years of my drinking, my mother was worried that I wasn't getting good medical care. She mentioned to me that if I ever needed to see Dr. Penta for any reason, "Just make an appointment, and tell him to put it on my bill Michael." In retrospect, I did not hear the concern in her voice. I've since had numerous conversations with my "Mum" about how my drinking and drug usage effected her well being, and the well being of others in our family.

All I heard was that I had a free ticket to see Dr. Penta whenever I wanted.

This is not to say that I went often, but I do believe that the permission my mother gave me, allowed for consistent care. That consistency, while far from making me get sober, assisted in my overall well-being, in ways that I didn't imagine until well after I entered the helping profession.

I could tell Dr. Penta anything. And I mean an-y-thing. He was kind, gentle, honest and supportive, regardless of my condition or circumstances. He was the first professional that I . . . Came out to, freely admitted my problems with drug addiction and alcoholism, discussed my trauma history with, told of my struggles based in that trauma (promiscuous sex, destructive relationships, etc), the first  person I confided any ache, pain, rash, or symptom I was convinced were HIV related. He sent me to specialists that he trusted when there was a problem, and the free clinic at Portland City Hall for HIV testing when they were the lone organization  that, in his experience, would test without judgment or condemnation.

He met all of this with a gentle assurance and a knowledge base that was grounded in medicine and devoid of homophobia.

After I got sober, he was my confidant in chief about all things recovery. I would discuss many of the above issues through the lens of sobriety with him.

I remember showing up at his door because of an incident with the flu and Pepto Bismal. For those of us who partook in freebasing, this may be a trigger. I had the flu, so I took something to settle my stomach. The next morning, I woke up with the shakes, fevers, and a terrible (but familiar) taste in my mouth. I went to the mirror and stuck out my tongue. Sure enough, I had the infamous brown patch that appeared the day after a freebase binge. My mouth had that sickly-sweet but burnt taste that I had experienced after a cocaine smoking bender.

Terrified, I called Dr. Penta and demanded to see him right away. I showed up to his empty waiting room (he was semi-retired by this point) and waited for him to open the door to his exam room. When he did, smoke would billow out, and he would insist that he'd be right with me. I'm sure he did his best to air out the exam room of cigarette smoke, but I could always tell from the initial offering when he'd first open the door. The accompanying cloud always gave his habit away; not that he tried hard to hide it.

I showed him my tongue, and told him about the flu and Pepto Bismal I took.

"Yes Michael. The bismuth would create a reaction with your stomach contacts, and a slight re-flux stained your tongue . . . " Then he paused, leaned over, and smiled at me.

"This has kicked up all your cravings. Hasn't it Mike." He was still grinning.

I agreed that it had, and he suggested garnering support from my sober friends, using the telephone to stay connected to people, and getting plenty of rest and fluids. He also reminded me that I hadn't relapsed, and that I was safe; as long as I worked a program of recovery.

Dr. Penta also advised me about many of the more intimate emotional and physical aspects of my recovery, including additional supports ("I think Serenity House is a wonderful idea Michael.") and any additional steps to recovery from issues I had poured alcohol and drugs over to deal with. He told me those things would come back now that I was sober, and doing the necessary emotional work was as important as any medicine he could prescribe.

His office visits were only $10. But sometimes, I would still ask him to put the visit on my mother's tab. There were numerous visits over a fifteen-plus year period.

I stopped seeing Dr Penta around 1997. He had stopped accepting patients long before this, and I was advised by another group of professionals to find a primary care physician that could orchestrate my total care . . . If they only knew. Begrudgingly, I listened to these new providers in my life.

It's sad that we sometimes forget (worse yet) neglect to remember the folks who were instrumental in saving our lives. Dr Penta had been the lynch-pin of my medical care from the time I was born, until I turned 35, but I never so much as sent him a thank you card. I was younger than I am now, and busy with my life.

In 2001, my mother called to tell me that Dr. Penta had died. He had been her doctor when she was an adolescent, so we had a long and storied history with him. Our whole family admired the good doctor. And my mother and I reminisced on the phone about some of our favorite stories about him. He even made house calls. Yup! I'm that old! 😁

Then I remembered my mom's direction to seek care from him, and send her the bill. I mentioned this to my mom and suggested I should pay her back.

"Michael." she said. "Dr Penta never sent us a bill for your visits."

All those visits. All those encouraging talks. All those treatments and referrals . . . And he never charged me a dime.

Being a trauma survivor, I can forget that anyone ever looked out for me. Yet sometimes, the sky will part and sprinkle memories from times where people were there for me; expecting nothing in return. This past weekend, I was reminding my family about Dr. Penta's philanthropy with me. Today, I was curious about the specifics of his death, because I wanted to blog about his good deeds.

Here's what I found in the Boston Globe:

WALTER E. PENTA M.D. 

Obituary Condolences

In Portland, ME, Walter E. Penta, M.D., 81, of Windham, ME. Beloved husband of the late Irene Estelle Platt. Father to Donald Platt Penta. Memorial Service 11 AM on Thursday, August 2, 2001 at Hay & Peabody Funeral Home, 749 Congress Street, PORTLAND, Mane 

Dr Penta's memorial service happened on August 2nd, sixteen years ago to the day I decided to look him up.

A dear friend of mine says that "A coincidence is when God chooses to remain anonymous."

I'm pretty sure Dr. Penta knows how I feel about him.

Perhaps I could reach out to his family and reiterate my sentiments to them as well.

M 💓