A Time and Place to Relax

My mother and father regaled me with stories of my youth, as I expect everyone’s parents to have done. One of my favorites involves my first month alive on Earth. I had colic, and as such I cried a lot.

I originally set to tell the story myself, but looking for photos of me camping with them, I came across the story in my mother’s own words in my baby book.

Pop-Up Camper at Scenic View Campground in Bolton Landing July 1983
Pop-Up Camper at Scenic View Campground in Bolton Landing July 1983

June 29, 1983
Daddy and I decided to go camping on July 4th through the 6th. You’re coming too — it’s just too bad you won’t be able to remember it. We’re hoping that the fresh air will help you sleep better. You’re having a terrible time sleeping because of your being so colicy. You keep us up for hours (7-10) because you’re in so much pain.

Pop-Up Camper at Scenic View Campground in Bolton Landing July 1983
Another shot of our Pop-Up Camper at Scenic View in 1983

July 13, 1983
We took you to Bolton Landing July 4th to July 6th. We couldn’t believe it was you who went with us. You didn’t show any signs of colic while we were there. You slept through everything including four long walks through Lake George Village two nights. You’ve been just as good since we’ve been home. At least now you and I can enjoy each other more and it’s less strain on our relationship. Daddy likes the new you too!

The story has always sounded like one of those perfect weekends. The weather was fantastic, the Yankees threw a no-hitter against the Red Sox on Independence Day, and I never cried again. Dad’s not sure if it was the camping, the Yanks, or the pine scent. I think it’s the lake itself.

Lake George from the Southern Tip
Lake George from the Southern Tip – September 4th, 2017; 6:30 PM

I’ve fallen out of my love for camping as I’ve gotten older, but walking through the village and being on the lake still has that same effect on me. The breeze off the water, the sound of the water rippling as the Minne-Ha-Ha’s pipe organ plays in the distance…

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Serenity.

 

I’ve been going through a pretty emotionally draining time over the last few weeks. There’s been a lot of deep contemplation about what I want to do about my marriage. I’ve been trying to come to a decision if I am up to the task of investing more energy and patience into it in order to see if it can metamorphose and satisfy me for the rest of my life.

For a few hours this evening, I got to stop overthinking and just chill out by the lake. I’m no closer to a final decision, but my mind is refreshed!

Back to the perpetual loop of uncertainty in the morning…

Moving, again…

In typical “Keith” fashion, I’m sitting down to write a thousand words instead of packing the night before moving out. To everyone helping me move tomorrow: You’re welcome for all of the shit still left to do! At least you’re getting something fun to read out of it. Oh, and Jimmy’s Pizza! There’s that!


This is the second time I’ve moved on my own accord. The first was eight years ago, when Dorena and I were newlyweds setting out on our own.

Eight years is a long time, but I have friends that have lived three times that long in the same house. When I describe what it was like moving every few years, and how it numbed me to the process, they have a difficult time relating. I got used to the idea of changing locations not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Why bother getting attached to a house when I had no idea how long I’d be there? The idea of consistent household was a concept foreign to our family, as money struggles led to evictions pretty frequently. It’s a shitty thing.

When I think about how I should feel when moving, it’s a lot of sorrow, almost like experiencing a death. I should grieve for losing a close friend; something that was near and dear to my heart; something that literally sheltered me; something that was as much me, as it was its own entity. I don’t feel that way leaving here.

This house has become a physical representation of my failing relationship. The juxtaposition of our spaces is as clear as the difference in our own drive and motivation. The physical isolation from each other is starting to match the emotional distance I’ve felt for the last eight months. I want out of these feelings, and I want out of this fucking space.

I’m compelled to better my own situation, but I feel like a complete shithead doing it. I feel like I’m abandoning Dorena, and I guess in a lot of ways I am. I’m running away from one of the very few people in this world that I should stand by regardless of the circumstances.

‘Til death do we part, right? 

Actually, in my personal vows, I closed with something along the lines of: It’s you and me against the world, kid, and we’re going to fight together ’til the end.

At the time, I presumed the end would be my end. Men usually die younger than women, so I figured I’d bite the dust, and that’s when we’d split. I figured that we’d just adapt and grow together as we had to the point of our marriage, and everything would work itself out.

Unfortunately, I’ve come to realize what work things out means. I have to cave on a position I’ve taken, or I don’t follow through with holding her accountable to my expectations on how to resolve a raised grievance. I stop caring about what I did before, and not because it really wasn’t important, I just accepted that it wasn’t going to change.

I don’t want to go into the big one, but it was a large concession, and it was difficult for me to accept my new stance. What did I get in return? More of the same.

I guess that’s part of the problem too. We both turn 34 in a couple months, and this year will mark half of our lives spent in a committed relationship with each other. We’ve just started to learn how to communicate with each other this fucking week.

A lot of my frustration stems from the fact that, in my view, my final straw was what actually stimulated the attempt to change. I made empty threat after empty threat, but never followed through. I get that me moving out is a deviation from what I’ve done to this point. I also know that there were attempts to improve our relationship before this, but this is a discernible change. There’s a sense of urgency that was unheard of days, or months, or years ago.

Fight or flight is a funny thing. You’re either gonna fold like a cheap suit, or you’re gonna get filled with vim and vigor and demand exactly what it is that you need to survive. Because it took so long to see that fight in her, it’s having the opposite effect on me. Instead of alleviating my doubts about our future, it’s creating more uncertainty.

Her renewed — I don’t know if it’s new or renewed — sense of motivation to heal herself (and us) is pushing me away more than it’s pulling me in. I guess it’s resentment? That’s a harsh word, but I don’t use it lightly. I’ve felt an uneven level of sacrifice for a long time, and I’m fed up with it, and so many other things.

I’m not blind to the amount she gave up to support me through my depression, but that’s another sore subject now. It’s being held over my head like it’s a life-debt. I suppose that when you’re married you’re already life-debted. Instead of doing what the hard thing would have been: pushing me through my depression with exposure to reality, she enabled me by shielding me from what I was forcing her to do to keep things going. It took me so much longer to recover than it should have because of it.

Obviously I don’t hold her accountable for my depression. I don’t even hold her accountable for my recovery. The depression was my own deficiency, and the recovery process was a responsibility of mine alone. But I cannot deny that I am bothered that the lowest point in my life is being used against me as a way to ensure a longer relationship with each other.

I’m bothered that after seventeen years we still bicker and argue like seventeen-year-olds. I’m bothered that this could work, but the onus is again on me to be more patient. I’m bothered that I’ve asked myself how much time is enough so many times that I’ve lost track.

I’m bothered, but I don’t want to be like this.

It’s often held against me that things need to be my way or the highway, but the amount of concessions I’ve made form a pretty solid track record of compromise. I’m done compromising on my own solitude. I want things to be on my terms for real this time. I want the chance to be truly selfish and indulge in only expending emotional energy on myself for a bit.

Through the last month and a half, there have been glimmers of the qualities with which I fell in love so long ago: optimism, cheerfulness, feistiness, compassion, empathy, and unconditional support. Those glimmers have been few and far between, but they remind of what I held onto for this long. It gives me a hint of hope that things might work out eventually.

This internal conflict is tiring. Do I want to get back to a healthy place with Dorena? Frankly, our ideal future isn’t that dissimilar. I still want the house, the white picket fence, and the two and two-thirds children. That statistic is horribly dated, and I wonder if it still lines up, but I’m taking too long on this as it is. I’m not looking that shit up.

To get there with Dorena would be easier. I could suck it up and get past this, as I have so many other times, and we could try having a kid, and we can start looking for houses. I don’t want that right now. Not with her. Is this bitterness? Is this being at the end of my rope of patience and understanding? Is this just the natural dissolution of a relationship that’s unfulfilling? Is it unstimulating because we’ve grown so emotionally distant? Chicken or the egg?

I don’t know.

Well, I have a pretty solid rationalization of which came first in the chick/egg scenario, but that’s for another post. I really don’t know about us, though.

I thought I knew for sure so many times, but I keep waffling. Those glimmers of hope sure are enticing, but so is the idea of new opportunities and challenges. Dorena’s been pushing me to commit to dating her, with frequent conversations and regular nights out together. I’m not ready for that yet. I’m unsure if I will be. For whatever reason — I’m starting to believe that I’m a masochist, of the emotional variety — I’m still receptive to trying.

That’s the hardest part right now. I’m on this ledge between ending it all and starting over slowly. Both have short and long term benefits, but there’s a shit ton of baggage that can be stirred up at moment’s notice when things turn south. That’s been the methodology employed to this point in arguments, and I’ve grown weary of that.

I know that I want more. Where that more comes from right now is sorta up in the air. I suppose it could work with Dorena, but that’s feeling like a Sisyphean task at this point.

I’ve thought about this topic in almost every waking moment since Christmas. I’m closer to a decision now than ever before, but I have so much uncertainty. I’ve moved so much in my life, I guess that’s what I should do again.

Just keep swimming moving. Forward. Upward. Onward. Move or be left behind, but don’t be brash. I need to be careful, precise, and logical about the steps I take. My judgment is sound, and I need to start trusting myself as much as those around me do.

It’s time to figure this shit out.

I’ve pushed enough. Let’s wrap this shit up.

This is (hopefully) the final installment of the Push series. Maybe it’s time for pulling? Pause.

Why at 3am on a Saturday of a week where I’ve been burning at both ends on four to five hours of sleep each day? Because my creativity likes to say “fuck you” to common sense. Let’s write a two-thousand word blog for two and a half hours! Sure thing, brain.


I started an office job with a local company in the summer of 2011. I was scraping by on my own accord for seven years, spending 60-70 hours a week grinding to find and finish work, chasing down payments, and barely making good on my bills. It honestly wasn’t all that bad — I made two of my closest friends during that time period — but I felt vindicated that my hard work paid off when I got that job. I was salaried with excellent benefits, and I was being valued as part of a team, and I did it all without a fucking college degree. Take that society!

For the first year and one week of that job, I felt accomplished. I was solving complicated problems that I probably didn’t have the correct skill set to complete, but I made everything work. I was a legitimate hacker, just researching and iterating code snippets to rush out finished products. It took its toll on me, and I fell into a period of burnout, which coupled with my perfectionist-OCD-side convinced me to run from the job without anything else lined up. Smart.

The ironic thing about leaving a job that way is that you’re confident you’ve made a wise decision, but instead you were irrational and put yourself in a very bad head-space. You became convinced that you weren’t good enough for the job to begin with, and you were quitting before they found out you were a fraud and they fired you. Obviously I was doing quality work because my 30-day, 90-day, six-month, and one-year reviews were stellar (receiving what were described as atypical raises at each meeting). What I learned to be true about depression also applies to burnout: your default mindset changes and you fall into a perpetual cycle of defeating yourself.

I had money saved up for bills for a couple months, so I wasn’t entirely worried about it. I just had a year of experience with a real company, with real results, and I left on good terms. They told me I was eligible for rehire during my exit interview and wished me the best. I was going to be fine. Six weeks later Gram died.

There’s multiple posts in my head about my relationship with Gram, but you just need to know that she was my rock. She was my number one. Her death took a big piece of me, less than two months after quitting a job in an emotionally distressed state. It was the first time dealing with grief in my adult life, and I was woefully ill-equipped. That’s when I switched from burnout to depression.

During my deepest depressive states, I pushed the people closest to me away. This was a point of contention with my mother, and we experienced a long estrangement. I offended her by not meeting an arbitrary level of communication that she considered necessary for a healthy relationship, and she shut me out. Counter-intuitive, right? She thinks you’re not talking to her enough, so she decides not to talk to you at all. Welcome to my complicated maternal consanguinity. Anyhow, around Thanksgiving, I really pissed her off by not being thankful enough for a box of candy or some shit, and she stopped answering the phone and responding to emails. I’d still get notifications from her asking for help on Farmville though! Gotta love that passive-aggressiveness, right Punk?

In January 2014, I called my aunt and talked to her about how annoyed I was with mom. She confessed that Ma was saying much of the same thing, but hers was more dramatic. She kept saying I must hate her, and that she was sending me messages on Skype and I wasn’t responding. To her credit, Skype wasn’t open, and she did send me some emoji once in a while.

I got off the phone and poured my heart and soul into an email, bearing my depression to another human being “out loud”  for the first time. It’s still in my gmail’s sent box, and I have it open in another tab. Reading this is pretty interesting. Here’s an excerpt describing what I was going through, because this is way better than any retelling I could muster now.

I don’t hate you. I’ve had this problem where I fall into myself and I lose track of time since I’ve started working at home again. It happens when I just sit in the same space for hours on end, for days on end, without any change. I get into this rut where I just sort of exist without really doing anything, and then something snaps me out of it, and I’m sad with how much time has passed without me knowing.
I know you’re going through the same feelings, and I’m sorry that I’m not more attentive and on top of reaching out to you so you have an outlet. There’s no conspiracy to leave Skype off so you can’t call me, it either crashes or I forget to open it when my computer restarts when it installs new updates. It’s one of those things that until I realize it’s missing it’s not missing.
There were times in the past where Gram would have to call me a few times a day for a couple days in a row to snap me out of a funk. Now that she’s gone there really isn’t anyone doing that. It just fixes itself organically, and it takes an indeterminate length of time to do so. I’m working really hard to catch it as it happens, but it’s not like there’s a flashing, light-up sign that goes off when it starts to manifest. I know it hurts you when you reach out and I don’t respond immediately, but I need you as much as you need me. So I really want you to pester me to the best of your ability when you feel like it’s gone on too long. I’m not doing it on purpose, it just spirals on me and I don’t realize what’s happening.
I’ve asked Dorena to be harder on me about pushing me to get into a routine to regulate myself, but she has her own problems and she’s totally imperceptive to when I’m having problems. I’m hoping, in some small way, that putting this into writing, and sending it to you, makes me focus on the warning signs more.

She didn’t even respond, and writing that email didn’t do much to help my progress. C’est la vie.

Reading this email again, and knowing what I do presently, I was surely depressed at the time. I didn’t self-diagnose it as such until I spent a lot of time researching the condition and trying to get past it. Trust me when I say these two things:

  1. It is incredibly difficult to self-diagnose your mental-health problems. Your mind biases itself against exposure, often times convincing yourself that you have different problems (or no problems at all) to steer you away from what is really happening. It’s hard to notice the nuances of your condition, where professionals are able to accurately assess your issue through analysis. Ignoring any medical condition is dangerous. You can miss something physically wrong that’s masked as an abstract description of an ailment on WebMD. Always seek professional help. Do not do it alone. No matter how minor you think it might be, do not do it alone.
  2. All of that said, I am not a typical person. I am extremely self-aware, and I’m very logical. I can recognize and ignore my own biases, so I was not flippant with the term “depressed.” It took me over two months to come to the conclusion that I was actually depressed by collecting data on myself and comparing it to various scales. Yeah, I was doing just enough bullshit web work to pay for full-text medical journal articles to research my own condition. I’m that crazy.Fun fact: my therapist was able to determine I suffered from persistent depressive disorder within ten minutes. It took me two fucking months. Stick with the people that do it for a living.

I kept reading papers on depression and treatments, and formulated a plan to get out of it. I first chronicled that I was making improvements in April 2014, speaking about my depression publicly for the first time. Look how confident I was that I had it figured out! I titled the first post about it “The Final Push.” I thought that writing and sharing that would hold myself accountable. The issue with accountability is that it only matters if you’re vested. Putting something out there for more people to see doesn’t do anything more than get you a little attention for it. The only other boon is that your mother will read it, breakdown, and reach out to you for the first time in over six months. Oh wait, no she won’t, she’ll hint to your aunt that she’d like for you to call her, then rip you apart for half an hour about how much you’ve destroyed her heart. Good times.

That conversation was an entrance into reconciliation and we worked hard on our relationship through June. Weekly Skype calls… Nearly daily emails… We were going ham.

Then it fizzled out again in July. My distraction from my depression was spending money on ValleyCats tickets, and I had a few games in a row, so I didn’t have availability for a Skype call on Independence Day. I figured I just pissed her off and said “fuck it” at that point. We put a lot of effort into it, but it was her turn to suck it up and move on. She could reach out to me when she was damned ready on her own.

A week went by, and my rationality restored. I started to reach out again. I started with Skype messages and emails, and she’d respond inconsistently. Sometimes the messages were aloof, but I didn’t make much of it. Then there were two weeks of radio silence. I was defiant and called my aunt. My plan was to get her to sink her teeth in and get Ma moving again. I’d fucking guilt her into talking to me, damn it!

Joette told me that Ma wasn’t doing so well. She fell and hurt her leg going outside for a cigarette, and she was moving sluggishly, sleeping a lot, and avoiding her computer. She said it wasn’t anything serious, but she’d let me know how she was doing if she didn’t reach out to me soon.

A few days later, Joette was outside mowing her lawn. She saw Ma get dropped off from dialysis as she rode the tractor to the backyard. Ma’s routine was to sit in the garage and smoke before going inside to take a nap. Jo’s yard is pretty big, and when she came back around the front of the house an hour or so later, Ma was still sitting in the garage, unresponsive. Joette called the paramedics and sent her to the ER. Ma had a stroke, but the early prognosis was that she’d require therapy but it wasn’t earth-shattering.

I was nervous, but my instincts to help kicked in. I anticipated flying down and staying for an extended period of time to help with recovery and get her settled again. I wasn’t doing anything else, so why not? I’d get to be with her every day, we’d fix our relationship, and maybe it could get me out of my depression once and for all. Six hours later, Joette called and intimated that things were worse than anticipated. She thought that Punk and I should fly down that night to see her, just in case.

We couldn’t get a flight that night, but there was a flight at dawn the next day! Good luck trying to get any sleep after shit like that hits the fan. Our trip was pretty fucking awful, too, even outside of the reason for travel. The plane was delayed by about half an hour in Albany before takeoff, and we only had a 45-minute layover in Charlotte. More stress! When we landed, no one gave a fuck we were on the way to see our dying mother. Passengers on the flight wouldn’t move for us, and there was “nothing they could do” in regards to calling the gate and telling them we were on the way.

Punk and I were so fucking blown out we couldn’t figure out which direction to go. We wound up going down the concourse the wrong direction, and really freaking out. We were noticed by a great guy in a golf cart. He asked if he could help and when we told him what was going on, he waved us aboard warmly, and said, “Come! I will take you!”

There’s no horn on the airport carts. Instead, he made the beeping noise himself. He would start low, holding the long e, “beeeeeEEEEEEEP!” Then, he’d alternate the extended beep with a very rapid staccato version. “BEEEEEEEEEEP! beeeeEEEPPP-beep-beep-beepbeepbepbepbeeeeeeeeEEEEEPP!”

It’s a sound we’ll make to each other three years later and laugh like fools. It was one of few moments of levity that day. We made it to the flight right as they were asking for the last group of passengers, so we got to Jacksonville right on time, shortly after 8am. We went straight to the hospital, and spent the next ten hours there, with only a short break for lunch at McDonald’s.

Ma died that day, and I muddled through life for the next five months, much the same way I had the previous two years. I’d have decent days where I could function, but more than not I’d be a shell of a being browsing Reddit, YouTube, and 4chan for hours of useless distraction. I battled myself again, and thought I had figured it out for the second time at the end of January 2015.

I wrote another post detailing my efforts to get back out of depression. This time around, I knew exactly what I needed to do to get through it, but all of my hard work was shattered by Ma’s death, and I zoned out again.

This time it took me ten months to snap out of it enough to seek professional help. There were two months of soul searching to realize that web design was probably not a viable path for me any longer. He encouraged me to pursue an employment opportunity in the direct-care field, and it changed my life!

On January 25th, I will celebrate my one-year anniversary. When I first started I was faking my confidence. I overcame my squeamishness with bodily fluids, jumped feet first into an entirely new field and built my catalog of positive reinforcements back up, and became an assistant manager. I’m in school like I planned to be, and I’m working on getting my own car. I’m driven (heh, car puns) again, like I haven’t been in nearly six years.

It feels good, and this feeling will not go away again. Moving forward, I will provide the assistance people need to get their lives back on track. I am my own example, and I am proud of myself for coming this far. I know there is still a long road ahead of me, but I embrace the challenge and look forward to the day when I can call myself Keith J. Frank, Psy.D.

I’m Going Back to School

When I was in middle school, age 12 or 13, I took one of those aptitude assessments that’s supposed to tell you what you want to do for the rest of your life. I found the actual sheet a few years back — since my mother was a notorious pack rat, and hell she was right, I did enjoy seeing it — and I listed three occupations that I’d like to pursue:

  1. Baseball Player
  2. Detective
  3. Therapist
Keith in Spring Little League
Super young Keith in a baseball uniform.

Baseball has been a lifelong passion of mine, and at the time I was a pretty decent ballplayer. I could hit the snot out of the ball, and I had an accurate, strong arm in the outfield. I couldn’t run for shit, but my bat was good enough to keep me in starting lineups. It’s every kid’s dream to be a star of some type, right? Music, movies, sports…

It certainly wasn’t meant to be, but it didn’t stop me from fantasizing about it.

Detective might seem weird to you, or it might feel right on with what you know about me. I’m logical, thorough when seeking out facts, and I was even mockingly nicknamed “Mr. Technicality” by my immediate family because I kept pushing them for specifics on questions I asked. Vague answers about birds and bees weren’t enough. I needed the details on erect penises, vaginal penetration, sperms, eggs, fertilization, and gestation. I’m sure it was a nightmare for them.

pembleton
Andre Braugher as Frank Pembleton

My favorite show of all time is Homicide: Life on the Street, and my favorite character on the show was Frank Pembleton. I loved his intensity and attention to detail. I strove to emulate that when I’d play cops and robbers with my friends. I’d carry around a little field notebook and record details about what the bad guys were doing. It would get to the point that they wanted to stop playing because I took it so seriously and they were obviously called out on what they were trying to cover up. I continually piss Dorena off when we argue, because I recall specifics in conversations and environmental changes that aren’t significant to most people. It’s a gift and a curse.

Unfortunately, I turned out to be pretty squeamish, so any job dealing with blood and guts was not for me.

The reason I wanted to be a therapist was because I was so incredibly grateful to one for helping me at that age. I was a problem child, and not in that goofy 4-star movie kind of way. I was a kleptomaniac, pyromaniac, and pathological liar. I won’t go into the specifics of what was behind all of that, because that could be a 2,000-word post on its own. Basically, I was given tools to evaluate my feelings in a way most adults don’t have, and it made me turn my life around in a substantial way. I thought it would be cool to aid others akin to the way I was.

The problem is that I was never a good student. I didn’t apply myself at all, and when the time for college came around I settled for an education in web design. It was the only thing outside of playing music that I had any real talent for, and I went for it tepidly. I dropped out of college after four years of half-assed attempts at classes that didn’t interest me.

animal-houseHere I am at 33, twelve years after my last college course was completed, and I’m going back to school. I’m going to become a psychologist.

I’m going to become a psychologist.

I’m repeating that for emphasis, but not for you. It’s for me. I’ve made up my mind, set up my first semester of classes, and I’m working toward that goal. It’s still not real to me yet. The idea that this fucked up kid could become a doctor, let alone earn any college degree is taking its sweet fucking time to sink in.

While battling through my depression, I was helped immeasurably by another mental health professional. For the second time in my life, someone helped me get back on track through therapy, and I’m intoxicated by that potential again. I’ve also got ten months of direct care experience that’s been insanely fulfilling. It’s a really great high when you see in someone’s eyes that they appreciate your help, and that you’re responsible for facilitating a better life for them. I want to do that with as many people as I can.

It doesn’t matter if it takes six, ten, or fifteen years. I will become a psychologist, and I will impact a lot of lives in a meaningful way.

Learning to Love Some Music Again

It can be years — hell, it can be decades — since last hearing a song, but the music and lyrics come back to me, and it floods my mind with memories of when and where I’ve heard it before.

I accredit this to my mother, who always had music playing while I was growing up. In the house, she had an extensive vinyl collection that extended back to the days of her youth, and in the car, she’d have mixtapes she spent hours compiling. She followed my lead on the portable electronics front, going through multiple generations of Walkmans and Discmans alongside me, and fully embraced the streaming movement right before she died. Spotify was pretty close to replacing me as her favorite child.

The weekend she died, my aunt, sister, and I went to see Guardians of the Galaxy to get our mind off it for a couple hours. What a shitty choice.

Within the first ten minutes, you see the main protagonist’s mother die, and how important their bond over the same music was. Then you get tidbits of music Ma sang together with all of us for two more hours, culminating with Ain’t No Mountain High Enough (a song that, two years later, I still can’t hear without tearing up).

My therapist told me that everything gets easier with exposure so, with increasing frequency, I’m revisiting music that I’ve shied away from the last couple of years. I get choked up — sometimes cry like a baby — but do my best to sing along. It’s an interesting experience to say the least.

It’s not so much overwriting the emotional response to my musical memories, it’s more like refining the visceral reaction. Motown is creeping back in my life, and I love it.

Yeah, I’m crying. But I’m also smiling. This feels pretty damned good.