This whole series of essays has explored the nurture and nature of my life.  Some attempt to sort out nature and nurture necessarily meant writing less than favorable events in my family.  All has been true.  Which brings us to a sticking point, a conflict of philosophy – that of individual accountability and responsibility.  There is a line in John Wayne’s Big Jake that I occasionally quote: “Your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault” it is what it is.  Ultimately, and after lengthy examination, I wrote my own story.

It is the phenomenon of the individual.  The reason we deny prejudice based on color or condition or religion or geography.  Individuals throw curve balls.

My story explored from the beginning, even before I was born, my parents establishing their roles as parents.  I was third of seven children.  Some family system therapists can draw conclusions given that small amount of information.  They might say that the third of seven becomes a good politician.  He/she has to learn diplomacy.  The third child must negotiate with older siblings.  The third child must learn defense from the older children.  The third of seven has to negotiate with younger siblings.  Younger children can employ the victim defense – parents will hold the older child more accountable. Thus we say the third of seven becomes the political diplomat.

Much of what we predict based on human experience is accurate.  Statisticians know the larger the population the more accurate the predictions – but there is always a margin of error because individual people can easily and unpredictably become outliers.

I wrote about many of life experiences that predict emotional and psychological outcomes.  All of these experiences are relevant.  All of them point to resulting behaviors.  In every case, as an individual, I interpreted life.  I made choices – most unintentional, but the choices were mine.

My life choices might be forgiven with situational understanding – but the choices were mine.

The pivotal moments of my life cannot be blamed on nature or nurture.  I know what those moments were.  I was there.  Something was wrong.  I look back and profoundly ask, “What was I thinking?”  There is no way to emphasize that point enough — WHAT WAS I THINKING!!!

Let’s take marriage as an example.  Three of my brothers married.  One died at 23 and the youngest never married.  I watched the marriages of my brothers.  I watched and listened to the marriage stories of my colleagues.  I wore a suit and worked in an office environment in a hospital.  The hospital had a coffee shop.  My colleagues and I would wander over for a break.  We sat in that coffee shop and talked about the struggles of life, the blessings and the joys, the whole enchilada.

Something happened to me in that process.  Actually I think a couple of things happened.  By the time I was 27 I had three children, a wife that stayed home with the children, and a demanding job.   By age thirty I was stressed beyond my ability to tolerate.  My wife was a poor housekeeper and a poor budget manager.  I am a poor housekeeper and she was worse so we lived in an unkempt house with financial struggle. I am over simplifying the circumstances of our life together.  My point here is that by age 30 I felt overburdened.  Justified or not, my fault or her fault or nobody’s fault, no matter – I was distressed.

As I reflect back I wonder about nature.  Was the unkempt house a product of un-diagnosed depression?  I remember looking at my brothers and colleagues and their family life and I did not see any model that I envied.  This brings us to important points about individuals. Ironically my cognitive skills are and always have been strong.  I was able to assess the circumstances of marriage as presented by every one I knew and I saw nothing that looked appealing.  As an individual I made my own choices.  What was I thinking?

Let me answer my own question – I was immature.  I gravitated toward the other immature men in my life.  Some of us liked to stop at a tavern for some alcohol before we went on to our separate homes.  Having a regular crowd of married men making similar life choices seemed somehow to validate the choices.  Add to this lessons from my father on the use of anger.  All of the ingredients of disaster were mounting.  Have too many drinks before going to a stressed home.

My role as a husband and father deteriorated.  Disaster loomed.  My eyes well with tears as I write.  I can see today where my choices went awry.  It was not the fault of my wife or children or colleagues – I was unable to manage the stress and I was unable to recognize what was happening as it happened.  It is only in reflection that I can see my failures.  It is too late.

I wrote my own story.

I am quite aware of my failures in life.  As I have written in previous essays I also participated in my community as a volunteer.  I did some good deeds.  These only served to validate me as a good decision maker.  My life went off track several years before I left the mother of my children – the single greatest mistake of my life.

Actually the greatest mistake was in my late twenties when I unconsciously developed a pattern of going to a tavern before gong home.  This is the part when I kick my own ass.  All of the “shoulds” of life swamp my emotional boat and I sit here in tears of sadness.

Psychotropic drugs play a current role.  I have noted in previous essays that I am now on medications.  Those drugs have prompted this whole series of essays.  My recollections have more clarity than before.  I am more able to see my role in life choices.

I wrote this story.  My life circumstances are the cumulative products of my life choices.  I have lost two families.  There is no greater pain.

Moving on.  My story is not over.  I continue to add chapters to this saga of sadness.  I have choices ahead of me.  I can walk around like Marley’s ghost, dragging heavy chains of past bad deeds.  (Believe me, I do that more than enough).  Or I can volunteer in a community of young people who are making bad choices but still have time to salvage their life.

I tell them I am Custer’s Scout.  I have been down in the valley and there are ten thousand Indians down there.  If you continue to go in that direction you will certainly be scalped.  Sometimes they listen.  Sometimes I read about them in the morning paper.  Their names show up under Court proceedings, conviction and sentences, divorces, and sometimes in the obituaries.  Sometimes a headline like “Dead Body Found In Woods”.  I knew that man.  Tears well again.  One young man was killed in an auto accident three blocks from my home – he was drunk and running from the police when his car hit that tree.  More tears.

The only value of my life is in the bad example I set for others.

I met three in the past week.  Jacob is 27 and distraught.  Steve is 54 and stands at the edge of the valley, pondering life.  Dean is 59 and dragging heavy chains.

I continue to write this story.