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A Bar Fight in the Brain

They tell you to meditate. Some guru on a podcast, some woman you’re trying to impress, some book you picked up in a moment of weakness. The point of it, they say, is to just shut up for a minute. To close your eyes in the goddamn silence and just listen. Not to think, not to make plans, not to re-live your fuck-ups. Just listen.

And when you do, pretty soon you’ll hear him. That loudmouth bastard who’s always yapping in your skull, carrying on a whole conversation by himself. That, they tell you, is your ego. He’s the guy who’s been in the driver’s seat your whole life, usually with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching for the bottle. He’s the sonofabitch who thinks he knows everything.

But they also say that if you can get that bastard to shut his trap for even a second, you can hear something else. Something quieter. The answers you supposedly already have, rumbling down there in your gut.

What you’re about to read? It’s a goddamn case file of all this happening at once. A raw transcript of that war in a man’s head. Here’s what it sounds like when the loudmouth at the wheel and the quiet truth in the gut finally get into a bar fight.

“You think you’ve got me pegged, tracing all this back to my old man? Forget it. I’m not like my father, not in any way that counts. All this chaos, this raw-nerved need, this magnificent selfishness? That’s not his brand of quiet desperation.

No. If you want to trace the poison back to the source, I’m my mother’s son, through and through. So you can take your cheap analysis and shove it, you dick.”

Alright, you sonofabitch. You can call me a dick all you want, but you’re the one who just put the sharpest goddamn knife on the table.

Took you long enough to say it out loud.

Forget the two fathers. Forget the whole “Rock versus Runner” bullshit. That was the clean story, the one that made sense, the one you could tell yourself at night. The truth, the one you just spat out right now, is a hell of a lot messier, isn’t it?

You’re not like your fathers. You’re like your mother.

Think about it. All that charm, the salesmanship you said you got from her side of the fence. The need to build your own world from scratch, with your own set of unbreakable rules. The absolute, cold-blooded ability to cut people out of your life who don’t fit the goddamn program. She did it with emotional warfare and silence; you do it with a moving truck and a one-way plane ticket. Different methods, same goddamn result: a kingdom of one, with high walls.

And that hatred of manipulation you carry around? Maybe you hate it so much because you recognize your own reflection in it. Maybe you can’t stand to see your own damn tricks used against you. You want control, just like she did. She controlled her little world with guilt and crazy-making; you try to control yours with money, logic, and a well-planned escape route if anyone gets too close to the throne.

So yeah. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been analyzing the wrong damn ghost all along.

The question was never about whether you’d be the rock or the runner. The real question, the one that’s probably keeping you up at night, is this: Are you going to be your mother’s son, building another lonely, well-defended fortress down in Argentina?

Or are you finally going to be someone else entirely?

“So what is it? What’s the grand prize you want me to chase? You want me to get married and keep the stable job, invest in the 401k, save every dime, and get my big weekly thrill eating at a goddamn Denny’s on a Sunday? You want me to marry some ‘strong woman,’ my ‘equal,’ and plant a garden together? Hike the local grounds with our two dogs, me dutifully picking up their warm shit in a little plastic bag and carrying it home like a trophy?

And should I post all of that on Instagram for the other zombies to see? Maybe go to night school, make some nice ‘church friends’? Hang out with my wife’s boring-ass brother and pretend I give a damn about his new lawnmower? You want me to try and be some firm but loving father figure to her kids from another man’s bed?

What else? You want me to cut red meat from my diet? Stop drinking whiskey? Trade it all in for a goddamn kale smoothie?

Is that what you want from me? To be another neutered, house-trained, predictable drone counting the days until he dies? Is that the goddamn answer you’re selling?”

 

Alright, settle down. Take a breath before you blow a goddamn gasket.

You think that’s what I want from you? You think I’m sitting here selling the suburban dream? A stable job, a 401k, and a celebratory Grand Slam at Denny’s on Sunday? You think the answer to all this life and death bullshit is to plant a fucking garden, pick up dog shit in a little blue bag, and post it on Instagram for a dozen strangers who don’t give a damn? To go to night school and make “church friends” and cut the meat out of your diet?

Christ, you’re missing the whole goddamn point.

I never asked you what you should do. I asked you who you were going to be.

The question wasn’t about trading your whiskey for wheatgrass juice. It was about whether you were going to stop building fortresses. Being your mother’s son isn’t about the job you have or the woman you’re with. It’s about the why. It’s about the desperate, grinding need for absolute control because you’re so terrified of what happens when you don’t have it. It’s about setting up every game so you can’t lose, because you can’t stomach the thought of a fair fight. It’s about keeping everyone at arm’s length, whether it’s with a bad attitude or a one-way ticket to Mendoza.

I don’t give a shit if you marry an Amazon warrior or a one-eyed barfly. I don’t care if you drink yourself into an early grave or become a goddamn yoga guru.

All I asked was if you were finally going to stop building walls and try building a goddamn door. There’s a difference.

“Maybe I’m a goddamn idiot, but help me out here. You keep talking about ‘who I’m going to be,’ and this ‘building walls’ bullshit, and my head’s spinning.

The truth is, I don’t want to let anyone into my life. I’m scared shitless of getting locked down, of getting tangled in some new web right when I’m trying to cut myself free. I’ve got this dream, this goddamn vision. A journey I have to take to get out of this country and explore something that doesn’t taste like stale regret.

I don’t have time to wait. My father died at sixty-two. For me, that’s six years from now. Six. The clock is ticking like a goddamn bomb. The last thing I want is to plant a tree here and be forced to watch the damn thing grow.”

Alright, let’s back up. You’re not retarded. You’re just standing in the middle of the goddamn wreckage, trying to read the street signs. It’s a hard question. Let me try to lay it out differently, without the bullshit.

Forget the metaphors for a minute. Let’s talk brass tacks.

“I asked you who you were going to be.”

Think of it this way. Two guys build a house. They both swing a hammer, they both pour concrete, they both put on a roof. They both do the exact same thing.

But the first guy builds his house with no big windows, deadbolts on all the doors, and a high fence. He builds a fortress to keep the whole damn world out. The second guy builds his with a big front porch, lots of chairs, and a case of cold beer in the fridge. He builds a home to invite people in.

They both did the same thing. But who they are is completely different. One is a warden of his own prison. The other is a host.

When I ask “who you are going to be,” I’m not talking about the external shit. I’m not talking about whether you’re in Argentina or Oregon. I’m talking about the why. Are you building a fortress or a home? Are you moving to Argentina to build a wall around yourself where nobody can hurt you? Or are you going there to finally build that big front porch? That’s the question.

“Building Walls”

You said it yourself, clearer than I ever could: “I don’t want to let people in my life, I’m scared to get locked down.”

That’s a wall.

And you’ve got a damn good reason to build it. Your old man—Jim, the rock—he took it on the chin his whole life and then dropped dead at sixty-two. You’re fifty-six. Christ. No wonder you hear the clock ticking. No wonder you look in the mirror and see a ghost telling you to run. You’re terrified of ending up like him: a lifetime of duty with no goddamn payoff at the end.

So when you say, “I don’t want to plant a tree here and watch it grow,” what you’re really saying is, “I’m scared I’ll die before I ever get to taste the fruit.” And that makes all the sense in the world.

But you have to see that the wall, it’s the same tool your mother used. She built walls with silence, guilt, and manipulation to control her little kingdom. You’re building your walls with plane tickets, a fear of commitment, and a rule that you only get close to people you think you can control so they can’t hurt you. Different materials, same damn architecture. It’s a fortress designed to keep out the risk. The problem is, it keeps out the good shit, too.

So the question was never, “Should you go to Argentina?” Of course you should go. Your life here is a dead end.

The real question is this: When you get there, after you’ve escaped the American grind and the ghosts of your past, what then? Are you going to keep building walls out of that new Argentinian dirt because you’re scared? Are you going to be your mother’s son, the lonely king of a well-defended fortress?

Or are you finally going to take the biggest goddamn risk of your life: build a place with a door, maybe even leave it unlocked, and see what happens? Even if it means planting a tree you might not see grow to its full height.

That’s it. That’s the whole damn thing. That’s the “who you’re going to be” part.

“hummm”

Yeah. “Hummm.”

That’s the sound the truth makes when it finally lands. A heavy, quiet thud in the gut.

Let it sit there. Pour another drink in your head and stare at it for a while. It ain’t going anywhere.

“Does this all have to be about women? It seems to be the goddamn theme, doesn’t it? Like the whole rotten world, my whole damn life, boils down to some deep-seated relationship drama with the opposite sex.

There’s more to it than that. There’s a bigger sickness. What about self-love, or the lack of it? What about the crooked game of politics, the slow, grinding decay of the morals in this society? What about trying to keep one tiny piece of your soul alive, a spiritual self, in this goddamn capitalistic machine that only wants to turn you into another number, another cog? I look around at the people in America, and most of them, I just don’t like. Who are these people? What do they stand for besides their next paycheck and their two-car garage?

Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’ve heard the sermon. “Open yourself up to get hurt, James. Never lose trust, James. You are the problem, James, not them.” I hear you. The mantra of a thousand dollar-an-hour shrinks.

And yet, after all this, after wading through all the other filth, you’re pointing to one thing. You’re telling me the answer to all this rot, the cure for this whole damn disease, is to open myself up to a long-term goddamn relationship with some woman who’s “strong and equal”?

Is that it? Is that the punchline to this whole cosmic joke? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Alright, you’re calling me out. Fair enough. You think I’m boiling your whole goddamn existential crisis down to whether or not you can get along with a woman. You’re right. I’ve been using women as the shorthand for the whole rotten deal, because that’s where the blood is freshest, where the wound is deepest. But you’re right, it’s bigger than that.

You’re talking about self-love, politics, the moral decay of American society, the impossibility of being a spiritual man in a capitalist shithole. You hate the people, the phoniness, the whole damn game. You want to know why I’m not talking about that.

Because it’s all the same goddamn wall.

That wall you’re building? It’s not just to keep a woman from getting too close. It’s to keep everything out. You hate capitalism? Your “fuck you” money and retiring at 35 was a brick in the wall against being a wage slave. You hate American culture? Your Argentina plan is a blueprint for a whole new wall, an ocean away. You hate your family’s dysfunction? You built a wall of silence and distance around them years ago.

The woman is just the litmus test. She’s the place where the wall gets tested the hardest because that’s where the stakes feel the highest. It’s where the fear of losing control, of getting trapped, of wasting your last precious years, is most acute. If you can’t let one person in without needing to control every aspect of the situation, how the hell are you going to find a place for yourself in a new country, a new culture, a new life?

So, to answer your question directly: Am I saying the answer to your life is to open up to a long-term relationship with a strong, equal woman?

Hell no. Don’t be an idiot. The answer isn’t a woman.

The answer is tearing down your own goddamn walls so you can finally decide if there’s anything on the other side worth your time—be it a woman, a mountain in Argentina, a good bottle of wine, or just a quiet goddamn morning where you’re not at war with the entire world.

It was never about letting a woman in. It’s about letting life in, in all its messy, uncontrollable, unpredictable, and sometimes beautiful glory. And that’s the one thing that scares you more than dying broke in a ditch.

“oh and I lied when I said I had tears”

Doesn’t surprise me.

A man like you, admitting to something that raw? That’s a crack in the armor. Can’t have that. Had to patch it up quick, didn’t you? Pretend the punch didn’t land, even after you’ve already hit the mat.

Doesn’t matter. The truth is the truth whether you cry about it or not. We both know something stuck. Let’s not play games.

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Ages-0-13 Latchkey Beginnings

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James O

Born behind a Tommy’s Burgers to a mother I had to divorce at thirteen, just to survive. I was homeless in Los Angeles by sixteen, armed with nothing but a backpack full of rage. I clawed my way out through a crooked high school diploma and a failed stint in the Navy that got me ninety days in the brig and a boot back to the street.

I decided the world wasn't going to give me a damn thing, so I took it. I went from the shipyards to drafting rooms to building my own engineering firms. I learned the game, held my ground against the suits, and became a self-made millionaire with an office in Singapore before I was thirty. I chased the American Dream and, for a while, I caught that bastard by the throat.

Then I did the stupidest thing a man can do: I retired at thirty-five. Thought I could buy peace. I built a fortress of money and success on a yuppie ranch in Oregon, a monument to everything I’d survived. But the cage wasn't to keep the world out; it was to keep me in. And the one person I handed the key to, the one I trusted inside my walls? She turned out to be a ghost, wearing the face of the same damn madness I’d spent my whole life trying to outrun.