Most of the guys that are reading Manlihood blog posts and watching our videos are good men. Most of you are not sexually assaulting people, or parading around with your chests puffed out and shoving your masculinity in people’s faces. No – most of you men have already achieved a level of personal development.
Most of you are good men.
There might be a few brigands and rogues who stumble their way on the content we put out. GOOD! Sirs, if you’re a trouble maker – I hope you can learn from us!
If you ARE a good man though – we can always strive to be better. We can grow and learn and become better husbands, fathers, and leaders.
Any one of us, though, can get sucked into the wrong path. We can make one small bad decision that snowballs – and then we’re screwed. Let’s strive for better. Let’s stay on track to be the best we can be.
When a man walks into a room – he can change the atmosphere of that room. His presence carries a certain weight. If that weight is recognized – it impacts the others.
That weight? That’s what GLORY is.
Your reputation, your demeanor, your posture, your story, your character – all factor into how people can see you.
And we can strive to build a presence that is respected and well known.
When I started Manlihood, I started it as much for myself as much as for everyone else. I don’t just want to help create resources for personal development for men, I want to personally develop myself as well.
A while back, my buddy Brian called me out. He told me that I was committing slow suicide.
What?
Yeah. Not quick and traumatic. Not fast and painless.
But by continuing to engage in a destructive lifestyle of eating crap food and not taking care of myself, I was committing slow suicide.
Sweat, blood, seawater, sand. Caked all over my face. I could HEAR smoke. I could SMELL the cries of my wounded brothers. On mission. Storm the beach. Take the high ground. Push them back. Kill the Nazi’s.
D-Day was a battle like no other.
Lou’s grandfather landed on that beach.
“This operation is not being planned with any alternatives. This operation is planned as a victory, and that’s the way it’s going to be. We’re going down there, and we’re throwing everything we have into it, and we’re going to make it a success.”
General Dwight D Eisenhower
I don’t have such a direct connection to the real event, as far as I know, but I do know that this date, which will live in infamy, is also the anniversary of my own internal battle.
Life was a whirlwind of chaos. Missed deadlines, jobs not panning out. Spinning the Roulette Wheel of “What Bill Doesn’t Get Paid This Month.” And the fog and stench of my own personal war was ever present.
I didn’t believe in ADHD.
It was just something the pharmaceutical companies made up. I didn’t dare take any medication. I didn’t want to inhibit my creativity. It wasn’t a chemical imbalance anyway.
And there I say, watching yet another ball get dropped. Yet another of my “soldiers” fall on the shore.
I was buried under responsibilities I couldn’t even wrap my head around.
My friend had similar struggles. He sent me a text. “Dude. You up? Can I call you?” He had lost a lot of weight, I knew this was one of “those calls.” I’d had a thousand of them from well-meaning friends who tried to help.
He told me about his ketogenic diet. (I have literally tried it before)
He told me about the ADHD medication he was taking. (I was skeptical)
He told me, “Man. Do this with me. You can do it. I’ll help you.”
Okay, Dennis. I’m game. I’m tired of this. Where do I start?
He told me to go look at myself in the mirror. Do you see that ugly guy? Tell him you hate him. That you don’t want to see him again. Then make a fist, look at that fist. When you see that ugly guy, you punch him down.
I went to the mirror. Even at 430 pounds, I said, “Dang. I’m sexy!”
Dennis, it’s not working.
His internal fuel is different from mine, for sure.
Self-hatred might motivate some, but I’m too cocky for that.
We will accept nothing less than full victory! Good luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.
Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander, 6 June 1944.
A few days later, June 6, 2018, I sat outside in the warm June air. And started thinking about D-Day.
D-Day wasn’t just about the taking of that beach at Normandy.
V-E Day was the day of victory over Europe. It was 11 months later. V-J Day was the day of victory over Japan. It was 14 months later.
D-Day was called that because it was the DECISION DAY – the day of decisive victory. Because we won that battle, victory for the rest of the war was assured.
There was a lot more war after that. A lot more carnage and cost and casualty.
But at THAT battle at Omaha Beach, our boots on the ground, our transports dumping men off in droves to overwhelm on stronghold, we changed the course of the war.
“God almighty, in a few short hours we will be in battle with the enemy. We do not join battle afraid. We do not ask favors or indulgence but ask that, if You will, use us as Your instrument for the right and an aid in returning peace to the world.”
Lt Col Robert L Wolverton, commanding officer of 3rd battalion, 506th PIR.
As I thought about that battle, and what it meant, I decided, then and there, that it was my D-Day. I was going to make the choice to never go back. I would not be the same.This day would decide the course of the rest of my life.
I talked to my doctor. I decided to give some medication a shot.
I decided to give a ketogenic diet a shot.
I took a new job.I decided that I’ll be a rockstar at it and I WILL excel.
I changed my attitude about everything. I will not say “I can’t” anymore.
I determined to lead my family the way they need to be led. I determined to love my wife the way she needs to be loved. I determined to lead myself the way I need to be led. I determined to stop accepting a poverty mindset. I determined to be who I’m meant to be. It was the day of decisive victory.
And one at a time – my own V-Days keep arriving.
Last D-Day, I set my first goal of losing 100 pounds by June 6. And I’m there. I’ve done it. If that goal has taught me anything – it’s that setting my intention, and saying that I can and will do something is powerful.
I wish I could say that all my problems were fixed, but I can say that they are getting better. Meeting this goal has transformed my way of thinking. It has empowered me. I have no desire to stay the same. I have no desire to remain defeated. I will not.
I want you to make this your D-Day. What changes do you need to make? What do you want to accomplish? What mindsets do you need to change? What goals do you need to set?
Grab a piece of paper and a pen. Write down your goals. Write down this sentence.
Starting today, I will ______________________ and I will celebrate my victory one year from today
Today would have been the day I decided to begin my finality. To just do it. To fade to black. To get it over with, man!
“Today would’ve been the day,” I thought to myself, “If not for the current responsibility I cling to as a relegated part-time father, I WOULD HAVE started the end chapter of my life.”
Still caught in the macabre theatre that insomnia and despondency brutally torture me with daily, the ceaseless anxiety brought on by this affray deploys the extreme urge in me to simply knuck up and do the damned thing.
“I COULD become humane and start the hauntingly peaceful act of killing myself, my way…today.” I ventured upon careful introspection.
… and maybe I should.
After all this wonderfully cursed brain of mine has emphatically decided that I owe ONLY one remaining debt to life after my children grow. To self-terminate. T2 style. For the good of humanity.
The opportunity to become courageous and administer the euthanasia kill shot that I KNOW to be lying in wait, quietly tuggin’ on my thoughts IS wildly exciting and far too vivid to admit.
Whoops. I did just that.
An incessant voice plotting my beautiful demise sings outward to a melody only I hear. An ending proper.
Lucky for you, my suicidal thoughts won’t play out anytime soon, or in some guilt-ridden splay of shot-gunned brains sprayed across porcelain walls. Nor will my bloated corpse EVER be found bound with a thickly knotted rope having choked the life out of myself. Dried, stinking and strangled, vomit-speckled and gagged over my blue face.
NOPE. Not quiet yet.
I simply cannot stomach the image of someone I love finding me all piss-pants and blood-gorged HANGIN’ around stiff as a board. Becoming a deathly-bored rigor-mortis piñata with shit-stained skinny jeans is no way to leave my affairs.
I HAVE at times indulged the euphoric and seedy fantasy of taking the addicts’ way out. Streamlining black tar heroin bought under the bridge, booted from some old spoon and boiled with my favorite Zippo lighter. I imagine the kaleidoscope then fade to black just after directly injecting my withered arms with the hyper-dosed syringe I would steal from my father’s CVS pharmacy. Right. Out. From. Under. His. Nose.
Classic Neurosis.
Alas, hard drugs and vomit-caked blue lips have never appealed to me. PLUS the high success rate of sneaky paramedics now adeptly armed with NARCAN turn the thought from my Opium’s Opus to yet ANOTHER embarrassing scenario that I’d have to apologize for and explain away.
Undignified.
Pondering the possible tolerance I have for self-actuating violence, I ask the question to myself silently after yet ANOTHER mass shooting headline comes ticking across the abject news screen.
Who keeps doing this to these poor people I wonder? Does that sort of brutality live deep within me? When would I choose to do something this dastardly? Where could I lay 60 people down finally?
Why would a self-hating coward go down in a hail of gunfire and mass murder for 15 minutes of fame he never gets to bask in?
Seems wasteful and pointless. Not well thought out. Dumb.
You know I’m just wondering aloud the real who/what/when/where/why of the modern mass graveyard creating phenomena that baffles most sane consciousness. Though It IS plausible WHY you would assume that this could potentially be a murderously comfortable choice of mine, I digress to your point.
I fit the bill. Sure.
Large. White. Accused. Angry. Bald. Billy Joel fanatic.
Warning: Stop making an ASS of U and ME. Please stop DEAD in your tracks right now! (Bad choice of words I know)
Unfortunately there seems to be enough batshit people engaging in their own red dead final fantasies these days to NOT joke about such thoughts.
After all, who am I to judge? Who am I to convolute their maniacal message with my own careless meandering?
Because You may be right, I MAY be crazy. But remember.
I just may be the LOU-natic you’re lookin’ for. Turn out the Light.
Fortunately I’m a lover, not blood-letting killer.
I look to pawn only my own life into the void of eternal purgatory actually arguing that I value your soul far above my own. I’m the devilish fiend advocating that you should concede the same evaluation of your existence as I have mine.
Stop it.
Don’t point your dirty boog finger at me. Discontinue reading this madness right now and get to gettin’ with cuttin’ out of life YOUR way I say.
I’ve drawn a precise blueprint below to do JUST that.
Take a gander and you’ll never look back.
This isn’t just hyperbole of man-child drama here people!
No, my will to meaning and overall peace of Fatherdom to the most beautiful boys a man could ask for has effectively staved off the idea to brutally severe my existence from body for the foreseeable future.
Lou’s launch sequence to deactivate has been aborted in its second trimester. Just short of REAL liberal irresponsibility.
Make no mistake the thought lingers eternally etched into my day.
Embossed on the back of my atavistic brow the mission statement reads: “Don’t forget. You are going to kill yourself one day!!!”
Better get planning to become gone. Forever.
AND
If I have my way, this is the exact course of events on how I will die.
This is how I plan to end my life.
The ending for me starts with a well mapped out plan. Most unemotional things I do are diagrammed out to a dizzying degree. Papered walls full of chicken scratch doctor script tacked neatly awaiting their imperial chancellor’s implementation.
I’ve developed the useful ability to type almost as fast as I can think. The accompanying printed pages of notes and regurgitated garble are usually Sharpie scribed with arrows, and errant circles highlighting the fact that only someone virtually demented could unravel these schematics.
True to form.
I neatly deploy my own enigmatic cryptography decoding the rubix cube that my mind has just shat directly into this world.
I’ve realized that to birth this tactic is effective ONLY about 25% of the time.
Survival of the fittest ideas for certain. Natural selection of the wasteful and dangerous. I like it this way.
So, I’ve narrowed down that exactly 1/4 of my ideas actually make it to an implementation stage with a now estimated 20% of those projects actually meeting some grotesquely marked standard of loosely defined success.
Sadly … studying this empirically corrupt data, anything that I take the time to eject from my imagination has an improbable 5% shot at becoming SOMETHING worthwhile.
Eeks.
What can YOU derive from that thought?
To put in perspective: the chances that I actually kill myself in the manner in which I am going to un-vault for you has a 1 and 20 odds of happening. (or about the chance the Pittsburgh Steelers have of winning the Super Bowl going into week 13 of the 2018 season.)
Come to your own conclusions from there.
Now, I can bump those odds with perseverance to task or attention to death’s details. But where would the adventure to the greatest destination of my life be without the true Hand of God interjecting ultimately where it wants me to go? Those variables, we cannot account for you silly agnostic.
There also exists a REAL problem in commanding the Reapers’ sickle to obey. Trust me, even MY hubris is not self-righteous enough to think divine planning will impede death’s omnipotent thrust. So again, who EXACTLY am I to egotistically announce to the world the exact date of purpose of my passing?
I am no one. We are no one. Remember that.
Assuming I have not made any more children to see off into this amazing and wretched life, my age would be roughly pegged at 55 the day that I cease. Giving me a hellish 20 more years of existence. sigh.
(IF I pull this off correctly, which does happen from time to random time as noted above.)
My eventual urn or plaque or headstone’s epitaph should read: The proudest, most privileged Father, Coach and Burrito Connoisseur that has gotten to experience this world.
Louis James Costa March 2, 1983 – June 15th 2038.
That is haunting to write. Sobering to read. Odd shaking shot down my spine taunting the juxtaposition of the day that I WILL die should fate NOT supersede.
There is power in knowing. Control in the pleasantry of it. See, I’ve toyed with the thought of death many times over.
Loneliness, suicide, overdose, depression, sudden death … They plague us all DAILY and I’ve found that NO ONE talks about them.
Sweep, sweep under the rug AND shhhhh. Suffer on your own young man.
The biggest issues of our lives are molding under the carpet until the day your facebook account quits posting food pictures and a widowed go fund me page pops up to support your children in its place.
A year later your dog is living with another man, your boys cute little butts are being wiped by people outside of your control and life turns to some dark foray into the actual abyss because you are now gone, pal. Figuratively or permanently: chance has already interjected.
Sad but true.
Let’s get on with it before I digress into more violin laden death posts.
We have a job to do here.
My suicide: Warning: Explicit Content ahead.
On June 15th, 2038 I will awake determined. The white sand beaches of Aruba will unfold before me on long, soft runways as the intense sprints bathed in echoes of my favorite music serve as a final training ground before an ACTUAL fight to the death occurs.
I will need (1) A life insurance policy with the most vaguely gapped coverage for suicide AFLAC will allow me to sign by then (2) A letter sent out to each bandito boy + a few thoughtful and emotion pierced notes to the Momma’s I have held and still hold dear. (3) One last big ol full throttle dance party to prop me up headed to a final destination.
The nuclear fission drive that I lock away will be spilled out into some small hidden tourist community the last few months of this life as I work my ass off in hot sun that bakes my skin into a cancerous glowing hew.
Finally, there will be zero need for me to worry about the long term effects from the over exposure of my carefully guarded translucent pate so I may obtain the tan I deserve.
As promised, I’m going to give away everyone of my possessions previous to my passing. I already have given the literal shirts off my back to this point and it has felt amazing. By the time this hell bent prophecy presents itself I will have inevitably accrued more personal garbage to give to those in need.
Bartending at night will have grown monotonous and proven lonely even on my hide, though openly courting every single local feline fills my precious spare time full. I WILL have stashed away a modest fortune of dollar bill tips over polite banter and enough free drink tabs fueling the weddings’ of my grown lads, given to them legally through an iron will.
There is one thing that is for certain. The last night of my life will be hand crafted my way. Vintage. Slowly. Carefully.
Engaging not in the depravity lush experience that defined my college years but in the act of enjoying every evenings taste: I will richly enjoy the beating drums and senses rich dance a few wild last Meringue moments can offer.
Hips touching hips. Gliding my hand up the back of glittering sequin blouses and then after a few stiff shots of Rose Tequila back down sweat stained silk dresses ending in lips touching lips.
Climax Shiver as I feel the warm breeze touch my skin as she whispers what I want to hear.
Laughing, we will part ways with the festively lit local tavern leaving the rest of the cash in our pockets for the jovial ‘tender with these words scribbled on a drink napkin in familiar wild doctors’ esque chicken scratch,
“Live Free. RISE X UP”.
We will walk barefoot arm in arm, hand in hand entwined in the excitement of what our final lude acts of love will feel like repeated until morning.
Over a tented cabana floating above a shallow bright ocean I grow hard thinking of the exotic moonlit curves my hands will be granted access to caress and am driven crazy by the audible fantasy of those midnight moans as they penetrate these final thoughts.
We will be lucky.
Because tonight she will be receiving ALL of my love … And I will be grateful because this fantasy reciprocates an energy so intense that our tiny hut will not be able to contain the pleasure yelps, grabs, smacks, sucks and mutual release that accompany this last carnal session.
This seems too polite to the reality of my intense charms yet still exciting and real enough to pull off.
The day I die, I anticipate the rich tequila head burn from the evening ‘fore.
My morning ritual of preparing strong coffee while we smile devilishly at each other cooking eggs and smelling the lightly toasted bread smattered with seedy jam feels worth the price of death at this point.
My favorite IRONMILL T-shirt drapes barely past her long tan thighs and the sweet sense of passion clings to my skin as we engage in the time tested bonded practices that lovers ought to do.
I’m going to grab her up, hold on for as long as I can stand and finally let go of the THING that has always lived inside of me concerning romance.
I’ve been carrying around this grudgingly dying bushel of rose matter and now seems like a good time to just let it ALL go.
All the failure, joy, shame of love tied with discontentedness and WANT will leave my body to finally rest.
Assuredly, she will let her weight ease into mine and from my capable embrace I will quietly whisper to the soft nape hiding behind her long hair, “Thank You.”
Saying “Goodbye” to the suffering that has haunted my soul. I will then leave as I always do with no return.
Happily un showered and looking to speed directly across the coral reef barrier into the darkest depths of ocean I can find, I slyly chuckle at the front desk clerk as he instructs that it is his company’s policy to hold onto a drivers license during the rental period of this 40$ an hour Jet Ski adventure boat.
I of course, oblige knowing that the Identification Card and missing person’s interview will be the last recorded interaction that I have on earth while he OF COURSE, has no idea that in 1 hour this jet ski will NOT be returned and police report NEEDED to be filed immediately.
Nodding intently, I load my scant belongings onto the high speed sea vessel and ignore ALL the emergency action, sound advice and grave warnings being given at once. POOF. Gone out of my thought forever.
Already thinking about these last moments alive and the block rocking’ beats turned up to a volume that only my half deaf ears can tolerate, I open up the throttle to head straight for the horizon.
Contemplating my funeral arrangements and having made sure to exit stage left long before I let cancer erode my body and the instinctual need to live one more day overtake my quality of existence THIS choice seems pragmatic to me. To shove off before EVERY human stops interacting with each other or man destroys our magnificent oceans fully as we all decide to hastily plug into an AI virtual reality … permanently hiding our true flesh and living out fantasy as a handsome avatars controlled by robots, I will battle my ferocious final fear.
It was imperative that I leave no 10,000 dollar death toll or wonder as to the “where” Lou went. I planned this course meticulously and am proud of my last days here.
“Dad was cursed by the genes that inhabit us” my boys would say. “He loved us. He was the RIGHT man for the job.”
“He did it HIS way” someone would eulogize over my friends and family.
Half of the somber crowd would sigh unapproving. Half would sadly understand.
Over this course to my ending with the salty oceans’ spray kicking across my face and whine of the small engine maxed out with unrelenting demand for more speed on its propellers, I imagine to run the gamut of emotion preparing this unquiet mind for rest and my body for the unmitigated shock it will soon encounter.
“The right man for the job DID die today.” I thought, BUT I politely ask that you feel no sorrow, pity or pain for I have lived my dreams, became the strongest person YOU know, wrote my life the way I wanted to share it and learned from my mistakes. I have studied long into the wonder of this life of ours and came to my own proud conclusions.
Fact.
Being “negative buoyant” I DO have a valid concern with staying alive in any water, bath tub, crick walking, river floating, lake boating, carnival ocean steamer vacationing or at this juncture, Shark infested waters dangling helplessly around on a rented Ski Doo with a wish to test my survival ability.
I fear the water, legitimately.
As a kid I was scared of sharks so badly that I was terrified to even open my eyes in above ground swimming pools.
Keepin’ it 100.
I once held up an entire waterpark for 20 minutes after jamming my outstretched limbs into the molded plastic halfway down the whooshing slide effectively blocking anyone else from enjoying its descent.
Panicking. I realized I could NOT swim and had no understanding the wade pool that caught us was only 18 inches deep making drowning near impossible.
So, I stuck there, like a deer in the spotlight not knowing its fate, screaming bloody screeches like a wounded sacrifice while the crowd rolled their eyes and yelled at me to “JUST LET GO!”
In full disclosure, my pops HAD drowned two boats in his lifetime of captaining on family camping trips so the thought persisted strongly in my lack of trust around water with each other.
The loud speaker called for my father and I watched him forced to politely climb up the long wooden staircase past an angry line of vacationing white people slathered in sweaty sunblock to the main tower. I simply refused to finish the slide until he crashed into me full speed sending us both flailing to the pool waiting for us below.
It is with this same innate terror on my heart that I’m slowing down my ski as the fuel gauge reads at exactly E. NO gas in the tank remaining. No return from this expansive final graveyard.
A quick click of the batteries off button won’t be needed as the juice to power my tunes has to stay flowin’ and only a left turn of the key to shut down my motorized life boat is necessary to effectively strand me I decide.
Reaching down to flip open the chum mess that I’ve prepared in a sealed bucket I pull out THEIR lunch, gagging on the intense waft of decaying fish. I fling about the pail of grotesque sea guts to skim across the water then wash off the blood, reaching my arms frighteningly deep into the sea, then fully unrobe.
I thought, maybe IT would be quicker if I didn’t wipe off the blood?
I will not cling to life any longer while my brain continues to disintegrate as my flesh is now ready to INTEGRATE with this killing machine and my self sacrifice READY for the honor of nature to take its course.
“It won’t be long now”
Fully prepared to be drug under water into the pitch black, I envision the show my brain will light off a few seconds before I perish as a wonderful display of old memories, little mermaid fireworks, and long sharp jagged teeth smeared with chunky flesh covered in my old faded tattoos.
It is so peaceful and calm sitting here.
Exactly the moment I watched the sun reach high noon in the blazing summer sky the first shark surfaces and glides across the water effortless. As quick as I spot him, He disappears under the glass surface of the rolling ocean.
Helplessly bobbing up and down the larger than expected waves brought on horrible sea sickness. I began to get nauseous as my legs shook and confidence broke. Realizing in my instinct THIS was a bad idea the thought sunk in that I just made a massive mistake here. I was out of my depth and this was going to be nothing more than a merciless killing of an old drunk man, not the spiritual release I romanticized it to be.
No sooner than I frantically started grabbing at the ignition key did I see the other 3 fins swimming quickly at the broad side of my un sputtering jet ski.
Panic sets in now. A rare feeling in my world. I pray to god for help but we all know that I put myself here and my pride was going to be the fatal sin that I report to my maker.
Quickly circling, the largest of the sharks bumps the worn Ski-doo testing out the defenses of its’ floating meal. My heart is racing, pounding out of my chest and into my throat.
Flailing at the ignition, the speakers that kept me humming all afternoon had drained enough battery to disallow the starting mechanism in the engine to turn over.
The irony that I have killed myself listening to JAY Z’s 4:44 is not lost on me.
The water breaking right beside me splashes and 2 more hard bumps hit the front of the ski. BAP BAP. I almost fall off straining my shoulder so badly holding on to the seat that pain rips through my body. Grabbing at the ore fastened to the side of the boat stowed in case of emergency I realize it is dishearteningly small and useless for even the task of rowing, let alone the defense of nature’s most efficient predators.
I wanted this fight. I had bragged about it all night over pillow talk and sweet desserts. Now, WAS my moment and it was an aching feeling to know that it entailed 4 Mako sharks darting around the bloody meal I provided for them toying for something more.
The moment the engine came alive and I felt the propeller start to chug, a jarring SMASH launched me into the water.
Frantically I lurched upward with stinging salt choking out my lungs. I refused to open my eyes, for I knew what was waiting.
The first bite felt almost fake and cut through my flesh easily. Like slicing premium steak with a very sharp knife serrated for your pleasure. The wounds opened and my body became warm. Then I felt pressure on my chest so intense for a split second that I almost passed out from pure shock. I lost feeling in my left side and before my eyes could open in a basic fight or flight response my right arm was rammed so forcefully it broke 3 ribs immediately.
My eyes shot open but all I managed to see were oxygenated bubbles escaping to the surface and my own blood diluting the scene unfolding in front of me. I screamed under water as the largest, MOST dead and dark eyes you can imagine attached to an amphitheater of razors’ edged teeth swam directly at me.
These great beasts were GOING to tear me apart and drag me to oblivion. I AM going to die facing this final fear after all.
As the lead shark approached with increasing velocity I became calm and everything slowed down to the cinematic degree in which they tell you the last moments in your life tend to reel off.
This WAS it. My moment. Bleeding out. Suffocating under water. No mercy. No escape. I relinquished life then and there.
“What an odd feeling and strange ending this all is,” was the last thought I had before peace came over me….
Then. I woke.
Not from a dream.
But to a blinding flash of light. I felt my body whisking across water and I could not understand what was going on around me.
I was strapped down. Securely. Unable to move and completely numb.
The last sound I heard was the blaring of sirens and horns. Exhausted. Confused. I relinquished control a final time and faded to black once more.
It took a few weeks for me to wake up from the induced coma and even longer before I was allowed to eat solid food. The bag hanging off my side was now functioning as makeshift lower intestines and the necrotic seep that spilled out of my thoracic cavity made the nurses wince upon its’ cleaning.
The first time I had smiled in nearly two months since that exotic night in Aruba was looking at my Grandson, Lou a 10th generation Costa. He was brought in by his Dad and laid with his Pap snuggled in joy.
I felt his love.
The boys explained to me that when they received my letters they collectively panicked and searched out my location from the scant details I divulged to each of them seperately.
The police report filed by the front desk attendant at the boat rental company triggered an international coast guard alert and the hidden GPS on the Jet Ski stayed alive JUST long enough to alert the authorities to my whereabouts.
Unbeknownst to me, there are strong contingency plans in place for things of this recourse.
The rescue team that saved my life said I had been found floating, helplessly bleeding to death tangled in the safety line that was dragging underneath my vessel.
Apparently I had surfaced after some struggle and clung to life the few precious moments they needed to clear the massive sharks via high sonar pings and caustic ink blotters shocking their senses, a new technique devised by innovative artificial intelligence oceanic research divers.
The authorities could only surmise that the blood concentration of tequila and vinegar from the boozed up 2 bags of binged kettle cooked chips I had eaten the night before dissuaded the sharks interest from actually devouring my body.
I looked at my dominant hand spliced back together and felt the large masses of muscle missing from across my body. Gaping holes of flesh torn from bone GONE and I took a disenchanted look at an organism freshly back from field surgery.
“It’s going to take a while for you to regain the ability to walk. To write again. You will never be able to lift heavy weights due to the extensive wounds you’ve sustained by your … attempt at … whatever you were trying to accomplish.” The stoic doctor carefully spoke.
I sobbed, deeply at the thought of my family losing me and was ashamed at the mess I had caused once more from such a stupid idea.
I sputtered out, “Doc, what am I SUPPOSED to do now?”
The surgeon looked at me. Long. Intensely. Sternly.
She looked at my boys. Each one in a row. Directly staring at them one by one as their tears fell off blushed cheeks. Then, forcefully stared back into my gaze.
“Mr. Costa.”
Pause.
“You have one choice as far as I see it.”
Pause.
“You heal yourself. You heal these wounds. You heal with your children and your family.”
Pause……
“Then you Rise X UP … and you survive stronger than you were yesterday.”
“You keep swimming for your life. And you never give up”
“The soil of a man’s heart is stonier; a man grows what he can and tends it.”
Jud Crandall – Stephen King’s Pet Sematary
Growing up like most kids in the 80s and 90s, I had an obsession with Stephen King. He would write these great stories. A group of average kids, or a family living a normal life in a small town would have an encounter with darkness or have to do battle with evil.
Those ragtag groups of kids, those small New England towns remind me very much of of adolescence in Roulette, PA, and the adventures and stories we saw.
Growing up in a small town like mine you knew about the dark secrets. The guy who murdered his mom and dad with an axe. The guy who hung himself in our barn. The prominent men in town who had been rumored to have gang-raped a teenage girl sixty years ago. (she later killed herself.They are all dead now)
Once, a “snowbird” was at his summer cabin, and a man named “Snake” had killed him with an axe in his garage. Before they had a suspect, just a week after the murder, my buddies and I camped in the woods behind the cabin. You could see it through the trees.
I recently watched the original Pet Sematary movie. (I haven’t seen the new one yet.)
Over your course of #RiseXUp We’ve been encouraging you to RISE UP and COME ALIVE to take back your life, and to start over.
But you know full well that there are some things that should stay dead. Things that men should not do. Things that you should not embrace. Things you should never go back to.
It’s a BAD IDEA to put that cat in the Micmac cemetery because it’s going to come back. And it’s going to be a mess.
Sometimes dead is better.
It’s not a good idea for you to send your ex girlfriend a text message or a snap asking her how she’s doing, while your wife is sleeping in bed next to you.
Sometimes dead is better.
It’s not a good idea to go hang out at the bar when you’re striving for sober. Chances are that alcohol is going to have a siren’s call, and you’re gonna hear it loud and clear.
Sometimes dead is better.
It’s not a good idea to dig up the past and hold it against someone you love – because resentment not only kills a relationship, it eats you from the inside out.
Sometimes dead is better.
If you’ve got trauma that you’ve worked hard to overcome, but you keep reopening the wounds as you turn once again to your old coping mechanisms that you’ve used for years, drugs, food, porn, rage… you’ve got to be vigilant because…
Sometimes dead is better.
If you come from an abusive past where your parents didn’t show you the kind of love a kid should be shown, you’ve got to cut ties with that, so that your kids never know it. You’ve got to make a solemn vow, and break the curses, so that they never have to endure what you did.
Sometimes dead is better.
And even when you make that vow, but you find yourself repeating the mistakes of your fathers and grandfathers, you’ve got to break the chains again, and stop the cycle, because…
In this episode of the Manlihood Mancast, Josh Hatcher talks about what it means to be a gentleman.
What it means to be a gentleman
The word gentleman has more connotations than it does definitions. It is important to clearly define what it means to be a gentleman, and to rid our minds of the mixed up messages we have often attached to the word.
I remember as a boy, well-meaning women teachers would use the word “gentlemen” to try to convince a class full of rowdy boys to sit still and be quiet.
Some boys, enthralled by the compliment of being referred to as “men” compiled. Most boys, offended at being called “gentle” didn’t comply.
I was often in the second category.
The word also conjures a cartoonish picture of a gentlemen of the Victorian era, in suit and bow tie, with a monocle and his hair parted in the middle.
He is not Popeye, Fred Flintstone or Yosemite Sam. He isn’t heroic or strong. He responds to tough circumstances with fear, or at best, really bad boxing form.
To this caricature, being gentle means being week.
To be a gentleman is not about being proper or mannered, or pedigreed or less likely to fight.
To be a gentlemen means to have honor… we give things and people the proper value, and treat them in a way that shows honor to their value.
That means showing courtesy and politeness when it matters.
That means showing respect where it is due.
That means treating people with kindness, and in some cases tenderness.
It also means defending that honor when sometime shows dishonor.
To be a gentleman is a choice to live in a way that shows honor, and return then deserves honor.
Chivalry is not Chauvinism
Maybe it’s because chivalry and chauvinism both involve men and how they view women…. Maybe it’s because they both start with “ch”… But the meaning of chivalry is often mixed with chauvinism.
chiv·al·ry
the medieval knightly system with its religious, moral, and social code.
knights, noblemen, and horsemen collectively.
the combination of qualities expected of an ideal knight, especially courage, honor, courtesy, justice, and a readiness to help the weak.
Chau·vin·ism
exaggerated or aggressive patriotism.
excessive or prejudiced loyalty or support for one’s own cause, group, or gender.
I don’t know if anyone even realizes they have connected the two words. I think it happened unconsciously somewhere around the time of the cultural revolution of the 60s.
I’ll be clear… that revolution for some very good things for women. There were many ridiculous ideas about women and their worth. Truly “male chauvinistic” ideas.
To be a gentleman is to value things rightly. To honor and respect women.
That sounds like chivalry to me.
Offering to hold the door for a woman didn’t mean we think she is weak. It means we want to show her honor.
It is polite to hold the door open for people, right?
Gentlemen show manners not just because of social norms or old fashioned rules… rather, that politeness comes out of a drive to honor people, to value people.
I can’t say that it will be ready to separate the cultural associations between chauvinism and chivalry, but we should strive to model that we are men of honor.
Moderated Ferocity
Gentle should never mean weak.
Erase that image from your head, and make sure to erase it from the minds of those around you.
I’ll never forget wrestling with my father when I was a boy and even a young man. My dad had some military training, some martial arts training, and years of brawling and fighting behind him. He was stronger than any man I knew.
He definitely showed that strength while we rolled around in the living room floor. He could have crushed my head, snapped a bone, or really seriously hurt me. But he didn’t. He was gentle.
Being gentle is not being weak. It is moderating and controlling strength.
The Allegheny River flowed through our backyard. We were twenty miles from the source, so some would have called it a creek. A very deep swimming hole right on our backyard used to draw young people from town who wanted to cool off in the brown water.
Many of those young people were very disrespectful to my dad’s property, and to my dad himself. He would hear kids cussing or fighting, or catch kids littering or even driving or drugging, and would walk down the river and set them straight. I watched boys and girls day things to my dad that should have been greeted with a smack to the face. But he always kept his cool. He would very firmly ask them to leave. If his eyes got fiery, those kids would scatter. Once in awhile, a young man would need to be physically removed. Dad had the strength and knowledge to cause serious harm. He never did.
That’s gentleness. That’s a gentleman. In control of his strength.
Courtesy and Kindness Go a long way
As men, we long to be known for our strength, or ruggedness. If we are not particularly strong, we may have shifted that to a desire to be known for our intellect or creativity. Either way, what each of us want, is supremacy. We want to be the best. We want to be the smartest. In fact, we often lie to ourselves very subtly, to tell ourselves that we are the best and most important person in the room. Even those who may take up the mantle to fight for the downtrodden seem to share this character trait. You see it from the Twitter feed of “social justice warriors” and even the old men swapping fish stories at the corner store over coffee. It’s human nature to put ourselves at the center of our own world.
A gentlemen shows a great that butts against this. Courtesy. Kindness.
To put someone else’s needs ahead of our own clashes with our own inner beast. And it often inspires the same response in others!
Let me challenge you directly, men. There are others who are smarter and stronger. And even those who are weaker and not as smart that need you to defer to them sometimes. They need you to step up and show kindness, politeness.
There are people that just need a smile, a laugh, a friend.
They might need you to offer a helping hand, or even make a sacrifice to help meet a bigger need.
I believe showing kindness goes against human nature, which is about self. Kindness though is built in is too… it’s built in because we are made in the image of God.
Let us never forget the kindness others have shown us, and let us live indebted to pay it forward in acts of love and service
Of Courtship and Flowerpicking
TRIGGER WARNING: I’m about to talk about old-fashioned ideas about relationships and sexuality. Don’t listen if you can’t handle the fact that I might hold ideas that you think are outdated or prudish. Better yet, listen anyway and give it some thought. The worst that can happen is you might be exposed to someone else’s viewpoint. Most likely, you’ll see that I’m a reasonable person.
Somewhere in our 50 Shades of Tinder and snapchat soaked generation of “thirsty” bros, we’ve completely abandoned some old school ideas that I think really matters.
Yes. I’m old fashioned. I’m okay with that. If you think differently than I do – I am not judging you, I’m not offended by you, and I won’t disrespect you.
I think sexuality should be reserved for marriage.
I think sexuality should be gentle, not degrading.
I think that dating shouldn’t be exclusive, and should have strings attached.
I think courtship, or “going steady” should be done carefully, and with the goal of marriage in mind.
I have a lot more old fashioned ideas about this. But I think this is enough to give you my framework.
When it comes to courtship and dating (and yes, there is a distinction between the two) there’s something a man must do. HIs toughness, wildness and strength is not TAMED by her – but rather, he is RESTRAINED for her.
He treats her gently, picks flowers for her, braids her hair, and as such, she sees in him the true beauty of his affection for her – his RESTRAINT.
If a man cares for a woman, treating her gently does not neuter him, does not tame him, does not make him any less tough – no – it’s a chance to prove his love by showing restraint.
I think that if he jumps the gun, and enters into a sexual relationship before the proper time (in my opinion, after marriage) then he demonstrates not restraint, but rather shows her his lack of self-control.
That same restraint is important in the bedroom after marriage as well. He reserves his sexuality only for her. He also continues to treat her gently.
Our porn-saturated culture has normalized the degrading of women during sex. I think that a true gentleman does not descend to calling a woman names, or inflicting pain during sex. That isn’t love, and shouldn’t be portrayed as such.
No matter the stage of your relationship – to be a gentleman, you must exercise self-control!
Remember, men, gentle does not mean weak. To be a gentleman means to be a man in control of himself.
In this episode of the Manlihood Mancast, Josh Hatcher talks about what it means to wake your inner grizzly.
Nature itself is going through a reset – the days are getting longer, the flowers and buds are forming on the trees, and mammalian creatures as awakening from their winter slumber.
As spring nears, you may find yourself still a little groggy from winter, and your inner grizzly may need some awakening.
Men, let’s look at how we can shake off the winter sleep and get ourselves ready to growl, eat fish, and maul hikers… err… something.
Get your head straight
It’s time to realign your mind, and shake yourself awake.
1. Make a reading list.
If you don’t normally read, find a book or audio book and make it a point to read it or listen to it Pick something different than your normal fare… try some poetry, or non-fiction, or sci-fi. Read something you wouldn’t normally have read.
2. Take a video game fast.
Delete Candy Crush from your phone. Turn off the PS4. Put it away for a week or a month to try to get yourself tuned in to your surroundings. If you want to play a game – pick up a deck of cards and learn a new card game – or engage your buddies in a game of chess or Risk.
3. Listen to some new music. Something you’ve never heard before. It stirs up the soul, and gets you thinking.
4. Write some letters.
Not just emails. Drag out the paper and pen, and write someone an old fashioned letter. Maybe an old friend, mentor, or teacher – and let them know how much they meant to you.
5. Learn a new skill.
Is there something you don’t know that you want to know? Can you watch a youtube tutorial? Read a book? Take a class? Do something to expand your mind.
6. Practice some already acquired skills.
Maybe a little target practice with your pistol, or a few hours of banjo playing to hone those skills you already have.
Wake your inner grizzly by stimulating that big ole’ grizzly head.
Get Your Body Straight
People may look at me and say, you’re overweight. Don’t talk to me about getting healthy. I’ll say this – the past year has been amazing for me, as I’ve made some massive changes that have literally changed my mass.
Whether you are a fat old grizzly, or a svelt young grizzly – we can all benefit by taking some time to get our body moving, and to eat better.
But we all know what it takes to get healthy. Eat right. Move more. That’s going to look different from one of us to the next. But the basic mechanics are the same. When you do these things, you feel better. You are stronger. You are slimmer. You are a better version of you.
What ARE you going to do to give your body some attention? Weight training? Cardio? What are you eating that you should stop eating?
Take some time to talk to your doctor, a personal trainer, or someone to help you come up with a plan to improve your physical fitness.
Get your inner grizzly turned into a force to be reckoned with.
Don’t Take No for an answer
Men, don’t be an opossum. When an opossum sees a threat, they hiss, and then they lay down and pretend to be dead. No – if we are going to wake our hibernating grizzlies, we need to shake off that passivity – and make a stand.
Don’t take “No” for an answer. Obviously – there are times that “no” is perfectly appropriate – but in general – don’t let an obstacle or a hardship, turn you back.
1. Be determined.
Once you know what you are supposed to do, you need to go get it. Don’t let car trouble keep you from showing up to work on your first day on the job. Don’t let your fatigue or weariness
or anything try to push you back in the cave.
2. Be consistent.
The biggest obstacle in your life is always going to be you. So when you commit to do something – do it. Don’t waver, don’t quit, don’t stop doing it. So often, we work hard, and we quit just before the payoff.
3. Think differently.
They say, “If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always got.”
If you want to grab ahold of your success in your grubby little grizzly claws, you need to think outside the box, and to do something differently.
Fuel up on Food For the Soul
Your grizzly doesn’t need normal. He doesn’t want to be a “kept bear”… he’s wild, and he’s aggressive, and he’s dangerous. It’s up to you to channel that energy into the right places, if you want to grab a hold of your success.
We know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day… and as you are awakening your inner grizzly from his coma – you’ve got to make sure he’s got the right fuel to start his spring.
We aren’t talking about nuts, berries, or small game here… we’re talking about feeding your soul.
If you want to wake up the grizzly inside, you’ve got to make sure to provide the right kind of fuel.
What are you watching? What are you reading? What are you listening to?
I believe that if you want to wake up and be ready to face the world, your media consumption matters. Are you fueling up on junk food, or are you taking in the right calories?
I’d encourage you to listen to music that uplifts you, or helps charge you up. Read books, magazines, blogs, etc, that help you improve in the areas you need to improve. Fiction? Entertainment? Sure – if it’s something that builds you up, charges you up emotionally, or challenges you to grow. If your media consumption is like a drug to numb you- you might want to reevaluate what you are putting in your soul.
Find Your Roar
Every young grizzly must find his roar…. that guttural howl and growl that shows his ferocity and strength. If he’s been hibernating, he may have to find it again.
Your roar is your confidence. You may have forgotten just what it is you’re capable of… You may have been asleep, and put on a few pounds of winter fat. (or even more than a few)
You may have been pushed around, ignored, or let go.
You might be on the bottom rung. You might be tuned out and turned off.
But the truth is – you are made fiercely. You are made strong, and made brave. You’ve been made with talents, and you’ve developed skills. You are not some dog, civilized and trained. You are a stinking Grizzly. And you are strong, and you are powerful.
Embrace that power. If you have to re-identify it, then do that. But it’s there.
You might need to harness that wildness and power to build yourself up and get yourself in shape, and strengthen your resolve.
A good woman is hard to find. Or is she? In this episode of the Manlihood Mancast, Josh Hatcher talks about ten things you need to know about getting a good woman.
Episode 37: What BOYS Do – Part 1: Whine Remember that 90’s RnB Group Boys II Men? Yeah. They were great. That has nothing to do with what we’re talking about though. What we’re talking about is common behaviors that should have died off when a boy became a man.
The first one of those behaviors? Whining
Obviously – men do this. It is a behavior that didn’t just “die” with the onset of manhood – but it should.
I don’t think that identifying something that is wrong and needs to be repaired is the same thing as whining. It’s okay to identify a need, talk about solutions, and then implement solutions.
Now that we’ve established that- let’s talk about whining.
Boys who don’t get their way complain about it.
Men learn to deal with it, and find solutions to problems.
Life isn’t fair. It’s true, and you still have to deal with it. Whining about it rarely levels the playing field, but learning to rise above it is the ultimate reward.
Harvey Mackay
Firmness in enduring and exertion is a character I always wish to possess. I have always despised the whining yelp of complaint and cowardly resolve.
Robert Burns
The tendency to whining and complaining may be taken as the surest sign symptom of little souls and inferior intellects.
Francis Jeffrey
If you want to behave like a man – you won’t whine. Complaining changes nothing but other’s attitudes about you.
If you want to be a better man – check out our website – Manlihood.com – for blogs, videos, and more from our Manlihood Team. Men, you can also join our private facebook group- Manlihood ManCave -where you can meet up with a band of brothers who will challenge you and help you on your journey of manhood. This episode is produced by Hatcher Media for Manlihood.com Our Manly theme music is from Austin Stirling and also from Mark Kroos. Be sure to subscribe and leave us a review on iTunes, Youtube, or wherever you are listening to the show!
