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Empathy

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It felt like a truckload of bricks on my chest. Mother’s Day. While many friends were celebrating, I was grieving. Why was this year any more difficult than others? I was bigger than this, right? I needed to look strong in front of my family and my in-laws. But I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to break down. I didn’t want to look stupid. I didn’t want to feel any more shame. I didn’t want to feel like the odd ball. I didn’t want to get that snarling look from my son. I didn’t want to get hurt. I spent much of the day in our bedroom writing a new song. It will be number seven on my new EP and it is the most candid. It was the missing piece. It was a gift from God. This year, I had decided to do whatever I needed to do for me, regardless of what anyone else might think. Song writing is communion with my Maker. It is me pouring out my soul and God giving me the clarity to communicate what I can’t express in any other way. God made something beautiful from the pain. And yes, I eventual
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Surrender

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It’s been a battle recently. The inner conversations have been fierce. “Send them the memoir. If they only knew what I know. That would change everything.” “No, that’s a bad idea. I’m just going to stir up the hornet’s nest. Making them mad isn’t going to accomplish anything.” “But maybe one of my brother’s kids will believe my son’s testimony. Maybe one of them will even take a DNA test to prove my brother is actually my half-brother.” “Nobody in my biological family is going to believe me. It doesn’t matter what evidence I have. Tarnishing another person’s reputation will only make me look bad, even if I’m right.” “Time is running out. I really should try to reach out to my parents again.” “I reached out several months ago. There’s no relationship there. They’ll just ignore my questions and points and will keep sending me lifeless emails on holidays and birthdays. What’s the point?” I’m not one to give up. I’m persistent. If there’s a solution, I’ll find it. But at tim
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Anxious

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I’ve always been an anxious person. During grade school, I dreaded presentations. I rarely raised my hand in class. I worried what other kids thought of me. I was short, uncoordinated and shy. I remember running to my mom, the elementary art teacher, when a classmate threatened to pull down my sweatpants in fourth grade. Skeletons gave me the creeps (ironically, my dad kept a real skeleton in his art room). I was obsessed with aliens and thought I was going to be abducted from my bedroom. I worried about going through the Great Tribulation. I made my peace with God every time I stepped into an aircraft (in case the plane went down). The anxieties carried into adulthood. Job interviews were the worst. Talking to pretty girls freaked me out. I was one of those people who took excessive precautions for Y2K. To this day, I don’t like large crowds or loud noises (ironic being that I’m the front man for a rock band). I’m a germaphobe and would prefer an elbow bump over a hand shake. I’m a hy
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Grace

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There are days when I feel like such a failure. A failure as a father. A failure as a son. A failure as an employee. A failure as a musician. A failure as a Christian. A failure as a human being. An utter failure. Often, this feeling comes when I am overwhelmed - or tired - or I’ve been attacked in some way. Sometimes, when I feel like a failure, I make bad choices and the self hatred is only further intensified. I say that I believe in God’s grace, but I often find it hard to accept myself as imperfect. There are times when I just break down emotionally and I feel so stupid. The smallest thing can set me off and I have to wonder why I’m so weak. Why can’t I be more even-tempered like most men? Why do I still feel like an insecure child? Why am I so easily hurt? Why do I still desperately long for my parents’ approval? Why do I still crave connection with people who have discarded me like trash? Why do I keep looking for peace in the wrong places?  Triggers come in all shapes and sizes
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48

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Today, I turn 48. Almost half way to 100. Wow. That seems crazy. I’m still waiting for the midlife crisis. I’m not even sure what that might look like for me. I don’t have any desire to buy a shiny new sports car (a new guitar would be nice, but I’ll resist for now). I’m not going to go play the lottery - or start a business - or go into full-time ministry. Some day, I’d like to go back to France, yet at this stage, we’re lucky if we can drive to Michigan for a day. I suppose for now, sporting a soul patch and playing in a rock band is as crazy as it gets (sadly, my daughter desperately wants me to shave off the soul patch, but I’m afraid I might lose my super powers). I’m not quite a senior citizen, but I’m no longer a young man. I can’t stay up until 2:00 am working on music like I did in college. My vision and hearing aren’t what they used to be. The grey hair is taking over. My body is teaching me new things I didn’t want to know. I see my friends on Facebook aging and changing and
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Monday

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My dad always told me I was too sensitive. I hated when he said that because it invalidated my feelings. I couldn’t figure out how to not be sensitive. It was just part of my make up. To this day, I hate that I’m sensitive. I can put a post on social media and if I don’t get enough response within the first couple hours, I’ll delete the post and recoil into self-loathing. I still need validation - and so often, I look for it in the wrong place. Today has been one of those days. One of those weeping-in-the-shower, I hate myself types of mornings. Some might call me bipolar. Nah, I’m just sensitive. I’m still a kid wanting his parents’ approval. I recently emailed my mom and she responded kindly…yet she told me my dad will send another email soon. I’m guessing he’s waiting until next Monday, my birthday (this is how they often do it). He’ll tell me how I ruined everything…how it was my fault that my biological family turned against me…he’ll tell me how evil I am for reading
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Inventory

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Fall is one of my favorite seasons of the year. I love the beauty of the changing leaves, the crispness in the air and the stillness of a world in hibernation. (I might also be partial as my birthday is in October). The shorter days and plummeting temperatures can be depressing, but these are countered with the warmth of family memories and the anticipation of the holidays. (I certainly don’t mind the time off work as well). It’s sad to see the year fading, but I also feel a sense of accomplishment and an excitement for a new year with fresh opportunities. Often, for me, fall is a season of reflection. There’s also something about this sliver of the year which makes me want to write. Things are slowing down for the band which gives me more creative time and more energy to devote to words. For some reason, it feels good to take inventory. It’s hard to believe it’s been three months since I’ve written a post. It’s finally time. It’s difficult to explain, but something has sett
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Puzzles

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My wife loves jigsaw puzzles. In fact, the passion for puzzles goes back generations. Often during family get-togethers, my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and wife will join around the dining room table for hours of puzzle assembly fun. My wife’s grandparents enjoyed puzzles as well. I, on the other hand, can’t stand puzzles. They stress me out. Maybe because I’m not good at them. Maybe because I don’t have the patience or see the point. Why spend hours working on something which will only be torn apart and put back in a box? I just don’t get it. I do however enjoy a good word puzzle. Not necessarily Scrabble or Mad Gab (although those are fun). I love to write. Words can shift a perspective, comfort a broken heart, deepen a conviction or rekindle a dream. Words can transform the mind, start a revolution and reshape society. Words have incredible power. Words give me power when I feel powerless. Writing isn’t easy, and it can be quite time consuming and emotionally draining.
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Survival

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The menacing red eyes of a spider glowed between the trees in the dark pixelated background. “The spiders can’t hurt me in creative mode, but I can kill them if I want to.” “Which mode do you like more?,” I asked her. “Definitely creative,” she replied as she sat long ways across the sofa chair, tapping away on her iPad. It was a gloomy Monday morning and I had the day off since I was working the upcoming Saturday. I had woken up at 4:30 am, but managed to go back to sleep. It was now about 9:30. I methodically sipped my coffee as I sat on a dining room chair and gazed out the window at the downed limbs from the overnight storm. My daughter was happy and my wife was dropping my son off at his first ADHD group session. For a moment, the house was quiet. Survival mode. A game of Minecraft had summed it up in a phrase. This is exactly where I’ve been recently. And like my seven-year-old daughter, I also prefer creative mode over survival mode. Yet unfortunately, unlike a vid
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Peace

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I imagined them in a circle - surrounding me and looking down at me. Each person glared at me with a scowl. Some pointed their fingers. I felt the pain in my side as one of them kicked me. “You are a pathetic son.” “Look at the mess you’ve made.” “You are an incompetent parent.” You are a terrible Christian.” “You are a failure.” The feelings were overwhelming. Then I pictured Jesus in a white robe, taking my hand and helping me up. “I love you, son - no matter what - I’m proud of you.” Maybe the therapy and EMDR was working. At least I could take the thoughts captive. I could counter the negative emotions. I could at least temporarily silence the voices.  My son had just returned from camp. I had just gotten home from work and my son hugged me as he stepped out of the van, a beaming smile across his face. He was happy and he actually missed us. He couldn’t stop talking about the fun he had had. This year, he was surrounded by friends. He liked his counselor. He loved the water slide.
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Closure

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It’s been about one year since I began meeting with a therapist. What a needed journey it’s been. I’m not always sure what we’ll talk about, but we always find something to discuss. Sometimes, we chat about my biological family and how I’m handling things. Sometimes, we talk about my son - is he still having meltdowns, is he getting along with his sister, is he behaving appropriately - and sometimes we touch on other stresses - work, health, the band, etc. I really should have started meeting with a therapist a long time ago. It took me a while to accept that I needed to see a counselor and it took even longer to find the right person. Originally, my wife and I were looking for a new therapist for our son after we moved to Indiana in 2020. Next thing we knew, all four of us were each meeting with the therapist individually (we were new to the whole family counselor idea). So yeah, it’s been helpful. It’s one thing to talk to your spouse or friends about your problems. It’s a
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Holidays

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Holidays are often emotional. I’m proud of myself when I can get through any holiday without a breakdown. I’m sometimes more irritable and less motivated. Often, I experience a low grade anxiety. I usually try to do a lot of mental preparation for the holidays. I try to allocate some time for reflection. It helps to write down my feelings and record my thoughts. It helps to talk to a therapist. Moving to another state has helped as well. Making new friends (and keeping in touch with old friends) has made a huge difference. Yet there are times when I regress - times when I am intentionally or unintentionally drawn back in. A couple weeks ago, I made the mistake of going through old Gegner family photos and videos from the early 2000’s. We used to have what seemed like such a good relationship. The family devotions before Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. My mom’s phenomenal cooking and the piles of food - mashed potatoes, gravy, corn pudding, green bean casserole, an assort
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Safe

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“The trees look like giant people!,” she exclaimed as she squeezed my leg and nestled up to my side. “They’re just trees, sweetheart,” I reassuringly replied as the wind softly whistled across the moonlit field behind our house. “What is that noise!?” “Those are just cicadas, dear.” “What are cicadas!? Will they hurt us!?” “No, they won’t hurt us. They just make lots of noise.” It was a Saturday night in October and my seven year old daughter and I were taking an impromptu walk around the block around 9pm. I’ve always been a protective parent. There is something deep inside me which feels a sense of responsibility and purpose in guarding and comforting my children. I want my kids to feel safe and I want them to know that I will protect them at all cost. In fact, some might say I’m overly protective. Yes, I do keep track of what our kids are doing on the internet. I do care what they’re being taught at school. I make them wear helmets when they ride their bikes. It matt
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Powerless

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“We’re going to try something different today.” In her hands she held two small oval pieces of plastic - one black and one white. I had heard about EMDR, but I had never personally experienced it. “What causes you anxiety?,” my therapist asked. I had to think about it for a moment. My mind started scanning. There were so many things which caused me consternation…the fear of disease…the fear of losing a loved one…the fear of flying. But these weren’t things I necessarily thought about day in and day out. There were the daily stresses….my tinnitus…money…my worries as a parent. The next layer down were the deeper anxieties - things I couldn’t articulate as easily - feelings that came with a vengeance - emotions that I thought I had conquered, yet showed up when I least expected them. “My son and his comments…,” I finally replied, “…and of course, there’s my biological family.” “I can’t stand feeling like they don’t accept me…I don’t like thinking that something is wrong with me…and ultima
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Associations

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It was a Sunday morning. Usually we’d be headed to church, but we decided to take the morning off. Our daughter crawled into our bed and hugged me. “I love you daddy,” she quietly whispered in my ear. Those words were just what I needed to hear. I fumbled out of bed and reached for my glasses. My mother-in-law had breakfast ready. I could smell the eggs and bacon. I sleepily stumbled up the stairs. “Stop looking at me!,” he sharply exclaimed. Yep, our son was in one of his moods. “You’re so weird,” he continued as he nestled up to his Nana. Usually, I could handle it. I had concluded that ignoring the comments was the only reasonable option. Any response was fire on fire. Sometimes the ignoring would go on for hours or days. I had developed an iron gut. Eventually he’d stop - only to find another button to push. It was exhausting and today, I especially didn’t want to deal with it. I love our son dearly, but he can be a handful at times. ADHD has its challenges - but add to that opposi
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