Jon Alston's Blog: The Year(s) After

I am a follower of Jesus Christ.




Because of his death





and subsequent resurrection 


we will all--every person who has lived, who is living, and who is yet to be born into this life--be resurrected and have the opportunity to live with God after this mortal life. 
Jesus Christ's life and mortal sacrifice are the center of everything I believe as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and are the reasons for Easter. I celebrate that through Him, we are able to receive new life, removing the sorrow of death and the grave. I celebrate that through His Atonement--His taking upon Himself the sins of the world resulting in bleeding from every pore--we have the opportunity to be made emotionally and spiritually whole.


Easter is the rebirth of Life. Not just human life, but all life. The entire natural world receives the saving power of Christ over the bands of Death. And for that, I am unfathomably grateful. The Death and Resurrection of Jesus Christ are what give meaning to an otherwise finite and seemingly accidental existence. 
*      *      *
But let’s face it: life is hard. I mean, it will kill each of us in turn. At times, it may feel like if there is a God, that He is conspiring against us to cause suffering and disappointment; as if we are being punished for trying to live the best to our conscience and knowledge. It's easy to blame God for our troubles, saying it's 'His fault' that we are not succeeding: if He loves us, truly loves us, He wouldn't let a single person suffer the horrors of this world. But I know that is not the case, and I will be glad to go into greater detail in another post. For now, I will just say: this is the way it is supposed to be. If life were easy, we wouldn't appreciate what we've been given, and we would not learn the lessons necessary to progress mortally and eternally.
I know how unpopular it is in 2018 to believe in God, in an Eternal being who created the universe and stars and planets and everything in-between with all of its physical laws and minutest detail; a God who is our Heavenly Father, creating Spirit children to place on a planet in mortal bodies to just watch like ants in farm (I know it's so much more than that, but for the sake of time, let's be simple). With constant scientific discoveries, advances in medicine, shifting societal morality, political upheaval and despair, Faith is difficult at best. And I get it, it's easy to dismiss a belief--a religion--that is founded upon ancient traditions that have been altered and reinterpreted through generations of human existence. A patriarchal tradition that is often depicted as misogynistic and power hungry, and that often falls into that practice unfortunately. The Bible alone has passed through many hands, with many pieces of truth missing through various translations. And it's hard to believe in something/someone you can't see. Faith, on the surface, can appear illogical: belief in that which you cannot prove, that you cannot experience with your five senses, that your parents 'forced' on you at an age when you didn't have a choice. Why spend so much time on living a life whose foundation is built on a maybe? 'I hope this is all true' is how it can feel sometimes.
But that's not how it is for me.
No, I cannot prove God exists.No, I cannot prove Jesus was resurrected.No, I cannot prove there is a Heaven.No, I cannot prove the truth of the Bible or Book of Mormon.No, I cannot prove miracles are possible.No, I cannot prove God (if he exists) speaks through prophets.
But I have no intention to do so. All I can do is have faith in what I believe, and share that testimony with others. 
This is what I believe:
I believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost--all as three separate entities.
I believe that Jesus Christ is the literally Son of God, the Only Begotten in the flesh, the Savoir of the World.
I believe that Jesus lived, that He suffered the Atonement in Gethsemane, and then died on the cross at Golgotha for the salvation of all humankind.
I believe that He lay in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea for three days, and that on the third day He rose from death to put on a perfect and immortal body.
I believe that it is through Jesus Christ we are able to receive that same gift of immortality, and the opportunity for eternal life through faith in Him, accompanied by action upon his teachings and obedience to the commandments of God.
I celebrate this Easter that He is risen. I express my gratitude for His life and sacrifice and death and love for me as an individual son of God. Life, for me, is meaningless without the Lord Jesus Christ. That is what I believe; that is why I celebrate Easter.


If you want to know more about Jesus Christ, or the LDS Church, check out the following thinks:www.lds.org

www.mormon.org

This was/sometimes-still-is me. Hardened exterior to protect my squishy, amorphous blob of emotions and feelings. But let's face it: men have feelings too. We just do. And yet, for decades like most males, I hid. Because I was supposed to. Because it was easy—you can't get hurt if you keep yourself from being exposed and vulnerable to any possible disappoint or failure. Unfortunately, living as such also keeps you from growing, which in turns ends up hurting in a variety of more complex and detrimental ways.
Which is what brings me to now.
For too long I've avoided accepting myself as a full and complete and complex person. For 30 years I reduced myself to a monodimensional being of sarcasm (and let's face it) negativity that I put out in the world. But alone, in my head with the thoughts that I cannot control (go read Turtles All the Way Down by John Green and you'll understand), a multifaceted array of emotions and suicidal thoughts and frustrations and disappointments and confusion and pain relentlessly bombard me. I didn't want to feel any of it, and even more, I didn't want anyone to see my weaknesses, to see my cry, to see my personally-perceived failures. Hence the sarcasm and negativity (somehow I keep devolving into these mini-confessionals).
Anyway. The point is, I'm changing things up. Again. For, like, the fourth time. Except, this isn't a blog change, it's a me change that happens to affect what happens here. Since 2010, this blog-space has been a release for me in so many different ways, but constantly devolved into me just unloading negativity into the ether-webs because I didn't want to deal with life anymore, secretly hoping people would feel bad for me, validate me, but really just think that my ideas were brilliant, that I saw the truth in a world of confusion, and then everyone would tell me how amazing I am to boost my nonexistent self-esteem because I was incapable of doing so on my own.



I was manipulative in a way I didn't understand or see. Through every iteration that boasted of 'new' and 'better' and 'improved' and 'happier' and 'people will actually like this', in truth, it was all just the same nonsense in different packaging. I am not and will not be that person anymore. I will be, however, who I have always been but avoided: First and foremost, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.HusbandFatherSonSiblingFriendWriter and creatorThese are my new focuses. These are the parts of me that need nurturing and cultivation. These are my horcruxes I guess (forged by denying their existence, by killing the positivity that they bare for my life and for others), the seven parts that are me but for my entire life I've kept disconnected, hoping to balance each separately, thinking it would keep me from imploding. Instead, all of it came crashing down, nearly killing me.
I have a lot of room to grow. An understatement to be sure.
My hope is that I can be honest with myself by being honest with others (that's you). In order to confront my darker aspects—the buried and ignored—I need a place to expose them to the light; what little light I cast is lost since being snuffed decades ago. So while I try to relight my candle and take it out from under the bushel, my hope is being accountable to you for honesty and truth and sober reflection on my past and present and what that means for my future, will encourage me to reconstruct my thinking. Because I know, in the end, it is all a matter of neuropathways that generate the negativity and anxiety and depression. Only through incomprehensible work and retraining my thinking routes can I hope to rewire my brain and its approach to processing external stimuli.
And it all starts here and now. So buckle up, or snuggle in a blanket, drink some hocho, play that smooth New Age jazz, or whatever makes you feel comfortable, because it's about to get awkward up in here.
Plus, there will be pictures. So there's that.

Four months ago a close friend made this simple comment: “I’ve had people tell me that they had to stop reading your blog because it was so negative.”
Wow.
What can I say to that?
I didn’t. I nodded, tears behind my eyes, and our conversation continued, ignoring the comment altogether. Ignored it ever since.
I’ll be honest: I have not considered myself a positive person, at all, in my life. Even now, positivity is something with which I deeply struggle. I have, on a whole, taken a very bleak view of life, the world, and humanity in general. Why I developed that part of my personality over all others, baffles me. See, I didn’t/don't perceive myself as negative; I have been ‘me’ my whole life, my negativity or a meanness unaddressed for my first 20 years. Pessimistic, yes. Dark, definitely. But not negative. Those few attempts to educate me fell on anxious and depressed and sarcastic ears. All I heard when people tried to address my pessimism: “you are a failure, and no one cares about you or who you are.” The truth of those feelings, of course, still cannot be substantiated.
During those years I considered myself a realist. I saw the world as I believed it was. I saw people as they were. I was the person ‘brave’ enough to tell it like it is. My favorite anachronism attacked the dichotomy of optimism and pessimism: do you see the glass as half empty or half full? Me: depends, did you pour water into the glass, or did you dump water out? I thought I was clever, that I knew better, that I knew myself better. I think we all do at that age.
Since hearing I'm “so negative” (accompanied with "it is toxic to be around you and your negativity"), I haven't been able to get it out of thoughts, troubled by the root(s) that feed these decaying branches. I spent time reading, writing, thinking, too much thinking in the middle of the night, praying and praying and praying, talking to friends (without revealing my concerns), and spending time (most importantly) with my wife and children. To learn. To know. To see why, why I nurtured this deplorable aspect of my personality. And when I stumbled upon the answer, the simplicity and source of it all, shocked me far more than it should. How I could miss something so obvious, so basic, so necessary and even instinctual, that it is no wonder I spent the last 30-some-odd-years in fog and shadow and darkness. The answer begins, first, with addressing a topic that has plagued me for nearing on a decade:
Empathy.
The word of mysterious meaning I devoted far too much time trying to deconstruct. I first wrote about Empathy in a less-than-positive attitude towards its meaning. Empathy and Masochism I wrote over two years ago. Littered with negativity and antagonism. The second half of that self-righteous diatribe was to follow shortly thereafter; but it never did. Instead, that same year I wrote Part II, a self-important ‘reflection’ on my writing that inadvertently begged the question: what are you doing? All my previous writings are littered with a litany of pessimism and self-proclaimed prognostications on life, the universe, and everything, with the caveat that I was now a University teacher. I considered it pragmatic, however, simply put: it was negative. All of it. I saw it. I read it. Negative against language, against people, against the past, present, and future of living. Not a shred of it bore any positive notions, outlooks, expectations, or conclusions. Even in an attempt to relate the word Empathy to a Godly attribute, it still manifested self-indignant maleficence. Through it all, I maintained the belief that Empathy is humanly impossible: we can never feel what someone else is feeling, cannot truly relate to another in an attempt to comfort, support, serve, or help; we are lucky if we can sympathize and offer love. But even then, we are mortal and selfish. That was the idea, anyway. It was negative. A bashing of a beautiful concept, an ideal that humanity should strive towards. Because I didn’t understand its meaning, I didn’t understand its purpose or its intentions. Or the need for Empathy's existence in our language.
Then (as cliché as it sounds), it hit me:
I had no Hope.
My understanding of Empathy was through a lens of Hopelessness.
As long as I can remember, I lived without Hope. No Hope in myself, in my talents, in my family, in my friends, in my passions, in other people; no Hope to be loved, to be wanted, to be desired; no Hope that I would, or could, succeed in life or find my place among the world, in the world, and be someone. Even as a young child I remember not believing in my abilities. Whether in sports, music, engineering (Legos of course), or school, I didn't believe in me or of what I was capable. Regardless of any positive results, I hated myself which came out in pessimism, sarcasm, and just the most negative personality. It was easier to dwell in self: pity, doubt, deprecation, loathing, and the list goes on.
This Hopelessness (I think) was generated from fear. Fear of living (which encompasses far too much to explain here). Unfortunately, that fear developed into a deep-rooted social anxiety that coupled with its ugly step-sister: depression. And once caught by those two, what little possibility for Hope that may have lingered, died.
By high school, I was completely devoid of Hope. I got up each morning because I didn’t know what else to do. I went to school because what else is there? I performed well in classes because it seemed miserable to do poorly (plus, academia came naturally). I went to church because I was raised Mormon. Everything I participated in came out of routine, or obligation; that's just what you're supposed to do: you do things over and over, year after year, and eventually you die. I didn't know what else was possible. I didn't think for myself; I didn't make choices. Instead, I thought about death a lot. Thought about suicide a lot. Never planned or strategized. But I thought about it, about how I would do it. I kept quiet, though. Because I ‘knew’ that no one cared. If I disappeared into the black oblivion, no one would notice. That mentality carried me to college, to my mission, to my marriage, to more college, to all my friends, to work, to my children, and to the last few years in Rexburg where all of the Hopeless feelings and stresses of life and work and marriage and family came to a head and something had to give (that story is for another time). I faced a choice: give up on life, or change my thoughts and actions. I’m still here, so you know how the story ends, for now.
To those I have upset, offended, turned away (I hope you might be reading this), frustrated, or brought down under foot: I am sorry. I want(ed) my writing to be a place where people could find reality, a place where the ‘dismal existence of humanity’ was splayed open for all to see, to help others realize that they do not struggle alone, that the fears and sorrows and disappointments often found in this life were not edited out from the ‘minor’ successes. Instead, my words became a pit of self-indulgent and self-important vexations to make myself feel better. Rather than build myself up to meet the height of others, I dragged everyone down to my level.
In the last eight months, after many doctors and counselors and medications (again, story for another time), I no longer allow myself to live Hopelessly. I have a long way to go, and I Hope to share a lot of it here.
There are many changes coming soon. And more true stories.
As it turns out, my blog has been nothing but pessimism that I cloaked with ‘realism’, as if my dreary perspective attempted to see the world for what it is. And perhaps it was, at least in the best way that I understood myself (which was limited). Still is, at times. I was disappointed when I read through my old writing, not at the quality--it sounds boastful, but sometimes I was impressed by what I wrote--no, I was disappointed at how I not only viewed the world, but I how expressed that view to others. Like I said, I hid behind the cloak of ‘realism’, of 'honesty', of not holding back when and where others do, being raw and uncut, laying it all out there in the bright sun for all to see. Instead, I took a magnifying glass and scorched every single person who read through these posts.
For that, I am sorry.
I say goodbye to THE YEARS AFTER, and Hope for something better. I Hope to find out what that is here, with you.

Give or take a day or two (you know, leap years)
It is officially over five years since I graduated with my Master of Art’s degree in 2012. I still find it difficult to comprehend how much time has elapsed since sitting in Douglas Hall around tables with eight to 10 other fledgling writers, all discussing the minutiae of our words and story and writing. All guided by brilliant mentors who gave more to us than we knew. I loved college; learning is one of my strongest talents. I can sit in class, absorb, answer, postulate, pontificate, defecate--all the -ates out there. There is something about being on a college campus, about the people you meet, the conversations and ideas, the smell. I don’t know, maybe I’m idolizing and glamorizing the past, but I loved college. And now, five years later, here is what I am doing:
-I taught a year and half at BYU-Idaho:an amazing experience where I was lucky to have students who are now some of my closest and dearest friends, where I was able to feel like I could make a difference in peoples’ lives, a place where I felt connected to the world;
-I have published over 30 stories and poems:there is something special about having someone else tell you that your work and time has value, that just makes it all worth it. I look forward to submitting and publish more in this coming year;
-I have two, healthy children: I could not imagine being a father would be this amazing. Holy crap is it hard, but it is wonderful and silly, and these two are just beautiful and brilliant and teach me more than I can hope to teach them;
-I have been married for almost 12 years: I met the wife when she was still in high school, I fell in love on our first date (true story, I promise I’ll tell it sometime), and I have loved her ever since. These many years have not been easy. I don’t want to give a false since of reality here. I want to be honest. We have struggled financially, emotionally, physically, and personally. We have had great moments, too, memories that I cherish. Through up and down, and below and above, it has all been worth it. She has taught me, helped me, and pushed me in ways I didn’t know I needed, and I will forever be in her debt for all that she has done for on my behalf. She is my love, and I will always belong to her.
-I am more emotionally stable than I have ever been: In the past, I have devoted space here to talk about my anxiety and depression (and there will be more on that in later posts), but I reached a low I did not know I could get to last year. Thankfully, I have family that was willing to help and get me the medical help I needed. I am grateful for the fields of medicine that we have available to us now on earth;
-We are back in California:among friends and family. Our living situation is not ideal, but we are here, and we are safe, and I am excited about the next six months, and years to come. I currently work at a Title insurance company, not ideal, but the best place I could hope for until I find what it is that I am supposed to do;
-I got accepted in a PhD program: I continue to awe that I got into Lancaster University. I believe in the work I want to do, my theories and research topics, and its importance to the literary community, and the world as a whole. But it is extremely validating to have others tell you that your passions and ideas are not only interesting, but deserve space and time to explore. And even more so, I have been fully funded for my three years of school, a dream I did not know would be possible. A true blessing for our family that I do not fully comprehend.
I could gush and go on, but I will leave it there for now. This last year has been the most difficult year in my life thus far. But I have learned more about myself, my family, my friends, and the world in this last year. More than my 32 years of living.
It is impossible to see the beauty of trials while going through them (believe me, I know this from experience). My trial continues, but each day I see more and more why it is necessary, why I needed this to grow as a person, in all aspects of my personality. I needed it be this hard in order to see where my shortcomings were and how to improve. I am grateful to be strong enough to survive this, to survive this long with the difficulties I have faced.
It’s been five years and I haven’t found my calling yet, or gotten my career job, and that’s okay. My life has so much room to grow and improve, and I could not be more excited about where I see this all going.

At the end of every semester I write a "Last Lecture", which is more or less words of advice that I think the students need to hear, words I wish I had heard when I was in college (or even now). This is the third semester I have done this, and each year is better than the last. I find new truths that I didn't even know I knew until writing them down. Now I realized when I came on here that I never posted the last lecture I gave for the Winter Semester I taught. I'll find it and put it on here in the following week. For now, I'll post the last lecture I wrote for this year; it was the hardest piece to read in class since it was the last lecture I would give at BYUI. But more on that later. Here you go:


We are not perfect. None of us are. We will never be perfect while piloting these meat sacks around this rotating orb of inconspicuous existence, spirit bodies having a mortal experience, waiting until we return home.
Perfection: that word implying flawless exceptionality unreachable by even the saintliest, the richest, the most beautiful, the strongest, the fastest, the smartest; that word, denoting completed wholeness, no need for improvement or growth or continuation. Perfection is the antithesis of being. Mortal perfection is what we should aspire to overcome, to grow beyond, or around, or outside of; because it is by mortal perfection that we lose ourselves, that we become absorbed in the ‘things’ of living: those objects that distract from truth and light and happiness; those ‘things’ that prognosticate hollow realities devoid of sustenance.
Don’t be perfect. Perfect is not for this life.
Be curious.
Be growing.
Be learning.
Be improving.
Be loving. Love with your whole soul, with every molecule bonded throughout your bodies; love until your bones crack and your skin tingles and you can’t breathe. Give that love freely. You cannot force love, nor can you take it. Love is the embodiment of time devoted to another, given without restraint by the giver to the recipient without expectation of reciprocation. It is the purest form of honesty and truth that one mortal can give to another, that one eternal being can give to another. It is the only gift we can give to God that He does not already possess. It is the only gift we can give each other that we cannot attain independently. Give love and accept love, be loving no matter what.
Be passionate. Stop living for the system, for ‘the man’, for the voice in your head that sounds like your mom or dad telling how to feel and what to think and who to be and what to eat; stop living for other people and their manufactured ideals perpetuated simply because that’s what’s been done since the dawning of mankind. Start living for yourself. Start making choices. Any choices. Choose which shoes to wear: not because a commercial or a friend or an ad online or a price tag, but because they are comfortable and help make your posture better. Choose what career you want to have, not because of the money you can make or the possible prestige associated or the people you will impress or the bullies and naysayers you can prove wrong, but choose a career because you are passionate about the work being done; because you love the environment and the people. Because you found a love in doing. Choose to be better than what you think you deserve. Be better than just the you that has been given to you. Choose to be passionate about you and becoming more you than anyone else could possibly hope to understand.
There is no one else in this world who is youer than you. You are the youest there is. Sounds like Dr. Suess, and I’m pretty sure it is, but still, it’s true. The scariest part, is that you can lose you. You can lose every single little detail that makes you you. And often no one takes it, we just give it away because we aren’t using it. We lose sight of who we are and what we want and what makes us happy, and we walk down the street tossing out little pieces of ourselves like confetti. And soon, you, the you that once was you, will no longer be you, but will be some other. And that other won’t recognize you, and it will start to change how you look, what you think, what you eat, what music you like, what words you say. That other will take your collection of obscure Mexican geckos and sell them to an aquarium for creepy men to look at, all the while you won’t even realize that all your favorite clothes are gone and you find yourself eating wedge salads and talking about the price of butternut squash at the farmer’s market. It is so easy to lose you when you aren’t paying attention.
Pay attention.
Hold on to you. Keep you close. Get to know you. Develop you. Be passionate, and you will become more you. Never stop becoming more you.
And share that you with others. Whether in class, at church, at home, with a stranger at the Taco Bell after curfew; share yourself with others, give of yourself. Give of your passion for being. Give of that love.
Really, it all comes down to giving. To love and be loved. To be passionate. To be you. You must give. Give time. Give love. Give of yourself. Give to yourself. Give.
We are not perfect, and I hope we never will be, because I don’t want to stop growing and learning and becoming more me than I am now. It will be hard. I can guarantee it will be impossible. But the thing about impossible, is that nothing is impossible so long as we don’t know it is impossible. Some days you will want to give up. I almost did. But don’t. If you find yourself losing hope, thinking that you is no longer who you want, or that the omnipresent struggles of being weigh too much, never give up. Never surrender. Keep being imperfect. Keep making mistakes. Keep moving until you see yourself moving forward, moving upward, and you will start to become you again. The edge is scary, and easy to find, and there are many willing to lead to the edge and watch you fall into the down. Do not go there. Do not follow them. You are you, and you are more than just a meat sack, whether you know it or not.
You are loved. By many. By God. By your family. By your friends. By your ward family. By that stranger you held the door open for last week who was on crutches, or the person sitting alone who you smiled at in the Crossroads. But if you don’t feel love from any of them, know that I love you. You are part of me. You are part of my family. These last months have given me hope when I saw nothing but the darkness in the down while standing on the edge. I love all of you, not as students, but as friends. Keep being you. Keep giving. Keep loving.

Over four years now since receiving my Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing. Each May, I try to ignore where I currently am in life: ignore the pain of wondering how I got here, why I'm still struggling through the frustrations and stresses and repeated uncertainties of being (or not being) that makes it difficult to even want to get out of bed in the morning, let alone consider the meaning of my life in the last four years or where my life is headed for the next who-knows how long. You can go back and read each year's update and see the negativity that I shroud myself in, the blindness to the beauty of the word in which I reside, the overlooked blessings given me, the multitude of experiences that carry me through each year. It's easy for me, to be negative. It's what comes natural. Most of my writing follows the same logic (lots of people dying, malicious vindictive characters, unhappiness, misery, sorrow; you get the picture).
I come from a long, long line of negativity and pessimism--some would call it genetics. Cursed DNA. It flows through my veins; no blood, just negative Qi that I nurture. Like Ghostbusters II. The point is, I am generally unhappy and pretty honesty about it. The only problem is that each syllable of negativity, each pernicious thought, each sulking request for seemingly ‘unwanted’ pity, another drop of negative Qi gets added to my already overflowing mug.
But the thing is, no matter how much time transpires, how much distance I put between me and formalized education, from that forced productivity, from who I thought I was going to be and who I am, it doesn't matter. None of it matters. That imagined life, the fight to be on top, to be the best, to be someone, to create something that matters, or make millions of dollars and live above the rest of humanity or change the world or save lives or whatever it is that people who matter do.
None of it matters.
I know how cliché this will sound, but I can't change what already has been. Yahoo for time and space and physics. It's just the way it is.
I am 31.I have my Master's degree.I work at a craft store full-time.I adjunct teach part-time.I write in the off chance there is spare time.I go to church and teach the men once a month.I do other church service.I live in a small two bedroom apartment in Rexburg.I left my home state that I love because I couldn't find a job that would support my family.
Even though that summary is brief, none of it really matters. It's just stuff. Or numbers. Or whatever you want to call it. What I'm saying is that it's quantifiable. And to be honest, that's one part of math I do not miss.
This is what matters:-I have been married for over 10 years. My generation often does not reach that milestone. She is the sexiest woman I know (and I'm not one of those guys who just say that because they are deluding themselves; she IS the most beautiful woman I know).

   
She is my best friend. She knows more about me than any other person alive. Our life together has not been easy, and at times it has just been unhappy; disagreeing on the direction our lives should take, how to raise our children, what is and is not appropriate dinner conversation with friends, etcetera. But that's okay, because that's how we learn and grow and become better. I love her, and I hope she loves me, and nothing could be better (except maybe more donuts in bed); 
-I have two kids under four. They are intense. And I cannot imagine my life without them. 
 


For full disclosure: I never wanted kids. Ever. Those who are close to me already know this. My whole life growing up, I didn't like kids. They made me uncomfortable for reasons I still don't understand. And when the wife and I got married, she knew that I didn't want kids; only, she didn't understand what that really meant. A lot of arguments over the years coupled with a lot of tears. Then, six years later we got (planned) baby number one: the Chubbs. Nineteen months after that (planned again, sort of), baby number two: the Little Sir. I love my children (something I never thought I'd say). I still don't like kids. In fact, now that I have children, I dislike other people's children even more than I used to. But my kids are amazing. They are adorable and loving and polite and hilarious, and just way better than I could have imagined. They are also the most difficult experiences I have had and they make me want to run my head into the wall, but I wouldn't change that either;
-I have been lucky enough to publish some of my short fiction. This one is easy to overlook, because none of work has appeared in any 'nationally recognized' journals or anything that the literary world would deem relevant. Just small publications with small presses. Plus the hundreds of rejections in-between. But someone who doesn’t know me liked something I wrote and wanted to share it with other people. That feeling cannot be overstated;
-I (and my family) are all healthy. Because I work at a craft store, I don’t have medical benefits. And because I work at a craft store, I can't afford medical coverage for my family. And because I work at a craft store and adjunct teach, I make too much money for Obamacare. I have put my family in quite the nasty pickle. Thankfully, they are all healthy and well, including myself, and for that I could not be more grateful.
-I am lucky to have people around me who care about my life (aside from my family). If you ask the wife, she will tell you that one of my greatest complaints is “I don’t have any friends,” or “No one likes me”. It’s like I’m still in elementary school or something. But if I am truly honest with myself, I know that I have good people in my life who care about who I am, what I am doing, and where I am going. It’s hard to recognize a majority of the time when those people may not live within a visitable distance (I miss California).

Other than that, nothing else matters. We are well. We are (generally) happy. We struggle, no question. Life is hard. Like, super hard. Adulting is by far the worst. But we get by, and we have each other, and nothing else really matters. I could go on about how I’m depressed a good portion of every day; how I am not living up to my potential as a human, husband, and father; how I am tired of watching people around me ten years younger being more successful than I am with less education and experience; how I can't handle all the rejection all the time; but none of it makes a difference. None of it, in the end, matters. Because we’re all going to die and nothing will go with us, except our memories. Our experiences. And when I die, leaving this crusty old carcass here to (hopefully) decompose, maybe help a tree grow, I hope my spirit will be able to meet those that died before me, and we’ll hug them, and smile, and I’ll be able to say: "Yah, I’d do that again." 

It is uncommon to find job offerings at the collegiate level these days. More uncommon are the once-attainable tenured track positions. And the rarest of the Pokémon is that illusive Creative Writing tenured track position. Since graduating in 2012, such careers in my searching have been non-existent. Then, last year around September, I found one. Well, two to be exact. Wesleyan University in Connecticut had two tenure track Creative Writing positions available. It was an accident I found them on www.pw.org(a great place for jobs, conferences, workshops, residencies, etc.). I didn’t think it could be true, yet there they were.
For years I’ve looked for jobs in teaching, all at the junior or community college level; without a PhD, I’m nearly useless to a University. But these two jobs were searching for MFA candidates, or MA holders with an extensive publishing history and teaching experience. Up to this point in my life, I have felt inadequate to perform the teaching jobs I’ve applied for, expecting rejection solely based on my smaller degree and lack of experience. To no surprise, I’ve never been offered a job. And I’ve been okay with it; disappointed, but okay. But these two Wesleyan positions, I don’t know, something just clicked. They felt right. My credentials were not just satisfactory, they were good.
So I spent the next two months preparing my application. Redoing my CV, writing up a two page Teaching Statement, fixing my cover letter, trying to get to know the University, and, of course, panicking. The day before the application was due, I turned in all my work (it was some time in November).
And then, I waited.
The worst game ever invented.
I tried not to think about. I knew it was a long shot, most likely I wouldn’t get the job, I hadn’t gotten ‘the job’ in the past, why would I get it now? Except nothing and you won’t be disappointed, it’s what I always tell myself. Yet . . . I had hope this time. Somewhere in my body the molecules aligned to have faith that this job was the job. It was in a place The Wife and I have wanted to live for a long time (it has something to do with Gilmore Girls I think). Almost as if the stars aligned, as cliché as I know that is, but they were. After so many years of looking, of working, of school, or writing, of waiting, I finally found the job, the career that would take care of my family. I even made becoming a full time professor at Yale a new goal, something I became very passionate about. I saw myself teaching and Wesleyan for five to years, then moving up in the academic world to Yale, teaching some of the brightest minds in the country, shaping the generations that would be my children, and giving my children the opportunity to attend a University that, during my college years, was far, far out of reach. Our family would be moving up in the world, and hopefully I would be able to take others with me along for the ride.
On January 18th, I received this email (it had a nice little letterhead .jpeg and everything):

Dear Jon,
Thank you very much for applying for the position in creative writing.
We received an extraordinary number of applications (almost 500) for this search, and the committee agreed that it was also an exceptionally strong pool. Unfortunately, we are unable to invite you to an interview.
We wish you the best in your job search and in your writing.
Sincerely,
Lisa CohenSearch Committee ChairWesleyan University

That was it. Before even getting off the launch pad, and the whole prospect was up in flames. I didn’t know what to think. Mentally I invested the next five years of my life into the idea of getting this job, of moving to Connecticut, finally building my mini house, having land, seeing the East Coast, starting a new adventure. All gone. No Yale. No home. No new life. Just me, and the kids, and The Wife, and Idaho.
It’s been two and half months since the rejection. And still, I complain. I know that 400 some-odd people got the same email I did. And I know that they, too, had hopes of changing their lives, becoming contributors to the academic discussion, teaching the younger generations all about the mystical world of words and language and story. Those applicants probably needed this job just as much I as did, maybe more; maybe they have waited decades for something like this to come along, that glimmer of hope, of light, to pull them out of darkness.
But you know what, I don’t care.
Harsh, it’s true. Cold-hearted, you bet. Downright mean, most likely. There’s nothing I can do about that.
At this point, I’ve just given up. At first I was angry. How could they not give me an interview? They had no idea how devoted I would be, how amazing I would be in the classroom, the different perspective on writing and storytelling that I could bring to the table that no other applicant possessed. All they saw was that I had an MA, not an MFA, and that that was that. How could they be so selfish and stupid and blind and . . . and, well, just crappy. That lasted for about a month. Then depression set in. And with it, the realization that Wesleyan was not to blame for me not even getting an interview. I was. I was not good enough. An MA is just not enough to participate at the University level. And really, 28 publications in small, mostly unknown, lit journals don’t really count as publications. I have no books published, nothing in any journal of substance. I’ve never really worked in teaching, just adjuncting for the last year and a half or so. But really, that’s nothing. Nothing compared to MFAs and PhDs and decades of teaching experience. It’s nothing compared to handfuls of published books and articles and short stories and poetry in literary journals of world renowned and hundreds of thousands of readers.
So, I’ve given up. Given up on writing. On teaching. On becoming someone better than I am for my family.
The mini house, forget it.Being a writer, I’m done.Teaching at Yale, never going to happen.Working in publishing, nope.
As far as I see it right now, I am destined to work minimum wage jobs for the rest of this mortal life, my family suffering at the expensive of my failures and weaknesses and lack of courage. My children will never have the beautiful life that I envisioned for them, one better than my own, better than the world around me, better than apartments and used cars and off brand products and hand-me-down clothes and toys and tired and sad parents who don’t know if the next paycheck will be enough to cover rent and all the other bills; whatever they do and become will be because of their hard earned efforts, and nothing that I have done to help set them up for success.
But me, I’ll just work in retail, or fast food, maybe adjunct here and there, and I’ll just slowly dissolve into a gray puddle and slip away into the Necropolis where hopefully my dead self will live a better life than my living one.

The last day of my class was December 15th; already 10 days past.
My days are far emptier now that the semester has ended, emptier than they had been before teaching, which I had not known was a possibility. This is not negative, quite the contrary. I had not known that I could, or would, care about these students so much. I have taught in the past back in California, but did not experience any level of connectivity with my students--most likely due to my lack of personal engagement. However, here, in Idaho, in the course of three months, I made 50 friends, all of whom I devoted space in my brain, and metaphorically my heart. I have come to know about their personal lives: their wants, joys, sorrows, family lives, accomplishments and failures, and the minutia of their daily college living.
I loved every minute of it.
Even when I found myself angry at their disruptions, or disappointed in their lack of engagement, I loved them (such is the life of a teacher).
Now, they are gone. Home for the holidays, off track or just for the weeks until next semester. Planning their lives and being young and still trying to decide who they are going to be, still believing that there is an answer to that question and college can help them find it somehow.
But they are gone, and I am empty. Because I lost 50 friends.
Anyway, that's not the point here. For the last day of class, I wrote a "Last Lecture" kind of piece of advice for them all. Because college ruins truth; it distorts reality of what life outside of college is really like. And more importantly, college neglects the true purposes of life, and why we're really here on this earth.
The following is what I wrote, and then read, to both of my classes the last day of class. I hope it helped them:

We spend so much time learning; education it seems is the only way to success. Without some sort of schooling, without that semi-fancy piece of paper stamped with some signatures that, in the end, have no meaning; without that statement of our reality being ratified by some bureaucratic institution founded for the sole purpose of perpetuating its own existence; without that approval of the social construct intensifying the impossibility to succeed unless adhering to an established hierarchy of insatiable wants leading to enslavement; without all that, we appear as nothing. Or we are told we are nothing. We constantly define who we are by our education, by our knowledge acquisition, by our accomplishments, by how we can better demonstrate our superiority to others. And yet, that education has been reduced to memorizing factoids and scouring the internet for meaning; a place where no meaning can be found. We have been manipulated into carbon jeopardy contestants, filled with useless information that will not improve the people of this world.
But, we do not have to be those people. We can be better. We are better—if we desire to live as such.
That change begins with knowing yourself. That mortal self. The only you that can be known in this sphere of existence. Too often we avoid the introspective topic of “me”; perhaps for fear of what might be seen, or fear of what is lacking, or fear of what cannot be understood. So we fill the void of our unknown with Instragam and Twitter and Reddit and Facebook and Snapchat. Or movies and TV and Netflix and Hulu and Youtube and Spotify. We distract ourselves from ourselves so we don’t have to be uncomfortable with what truly is, and so we become empty. Hollow husks that become the chaff to fuel the raging inferno of our time.
But, we do not have to be those people.
Spend time investigating you. Who are you, truly? Not just one son or daughter of God among the infinite creations, but you as the individual intelligence and body, you the soul. What do you want? Where do you want to be? What kind of person do you want others to see? Why do you like the foods you eat? Or the music you listen to? Or the movies you watch? What about your friends, what attracts you to them? What about your dislikes? Test your beliefs. Question your desires and passions and knowledge and experience. Question you to find where you genuinely stand—do not fear what you might see. Fear the not knowing. Fear that void of noise and flashing lights.
Once you are on the path to knowing yourself, be passionate. In everything you do. No matter what you pursue, do it with all your heart. There is nothing worse in this world than half-assing your life. God has given you talents that make you unique. It is your job to explore those talents, to invest your whole soul in developing and mastering those gifts. We have such a short time here on Earth, which leaves no time for fence-sitting, flip-fopping, second-guessing, idly waiting, and thumb twiddling. Be who you are, and be that person with all your bones and muscles and skin—ever fiber that weaves your soul.
Be curious about the world, in all its aspects. There is more beauty here than we can imagine. Dance around a bon fire in the woods under the full moon, stay up all night until morning to watch the sun rise over the ocean horizon, drive across the country because you can and there is so much to see and learn and do out there in the wide open air, build a house with your own hands to feel the sweat and dirt and struggle of being to know you are alive, make movies and tells stories and enjoy other humans until your stomach hurts from laughing, kiss with more passion than Shakespeare could ever hope to write about, sit in silence on the porch sipping hot chocolate as the sun sets and listen to the wild night-creatures wake from their day rest, get lost in a city just to see what’s there. Whatever you do, do it fully. And if you fail, fantastic. The greatest discoveries and inventions only came after immense failures. The greatest stories capture our ineptitudes, piled high, until finally something clicks. And maybe, just maybe, at some point you’ll succeed, and that will be fantastic. And you can tell the world that you stumbled and bruised your elbows and scrapped your shins and cut your head open and got eight staples to keep your brain from spilling out because it was so excited to feel.
At times no one will care about what you care about, because people will always be people, and for the most part, people suck. But our goal is to suck less, to be awesome. To live and inspire and be and experience. To learn and grow. To know. To be more than flesh and bones, more than computers cataloguing all the physical experiences our bodies are capable.
Sometimes you’ll screw up, and all will seem lost. Fret not thy misconduct. Press forward. Experience more. Grow. Become. Let your passions guide you through the valleys of sorrow, let those who see you in the darkness pull you out.
Be passionate with people. Give your mind, body, and heart to those around you. Hold nothing back. Empty your skeletons from your closets, “Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!” Keep that space open for visitors. Share yourself. Give your passions a family. Give yourself to everyone. Allow yourself to love.
Because nothing else in this life matters if you don’t give love. Love is a gift. You do not love someone, it is not verb. You do not force love upon another. Love is a noun. You can only give Love to others. And just as it is given, you must accept it when it is offered.
But it’s not so easy to give Love. It’s complicated. It’s heavy. It’s delicate. It involves a perfect mastery of an endless subject by imperfect beings. In order to give love, we must first and foremost love ourselves. If you look in the mirror and see a face you don’t love, you will be incapable of loving other faces.
You are not perfect. Not remotely. Neither am I. None of us are, nor can we be until after our death. What we have here and now is all that we’ve got. And we need to make the best of it. So what if your face isn’t symmetrical, or your hair is thin, or you have that weird thing on the side of your neck that no one really knows what it is but your older sibling thinks it’s your vestigial twin; so what if your too short, or too tall, or too thin, or too thick; or maybe you’ve made poor choices in the past, or no choices at all, or you let others choose for you. It doesn’t matter. You must love yourself, because you are deserving of love. Because you exist. Regardless of how little or how much you think you suck, you deserve love.
Give that love as hard has you can. Love harder than how badly you want finals to end, or Star Wars: The Force Wakens to come out, or to get that sweet sweet teaching job in Connecticut, or to eat real food for a change at home with your parents because you’re in college and don’t have your monetary priorities straight, or to find that special someone that you want to love more than anything that has ever been in your life.
Not everyone will accept your love. And it will hurt. And that’s okay. Because people are people, and they will suck from time to time. So will you. But we all deserve to look in the mirror and say: “Hey, you suck sometimes, but damn it if I don’t love you.”
Because we are all mirrors. In John Green’s novel Paper Towns, the narrator tells us: “Humans lack good mirrors. It’s so hard for anyone to show us how we look, and so hard for us to show anyone how we feel.” We are all mirrors. Except we reflect what mirrors cannot. Through us, others can know themselves, and we in turn can know ourselves. That is love. That is the reason for all this. That is the reason we came to this Earth, it’s the reason we struggle through each day, it’s the reason we get educations and jobs and spouses and kids and families. It is to give love. To give meaning. To give.

I have been told that I am a dark person—that my sense of humor is morbid and macabre. I can also be somewhat inappropriate; and, on occasion, just plain rude and mean without realizing. My mouth says what it wants, without considering the repercussions of its actions. My birthright.
Now, me as a writer is not much different, minus the rude. Much of my writing focuses on characters losing touch with reality, murder, death, and just the unhappy aspects of living. One of the first stories I ever wrote involved a husband murdering his wife to create the philosopher’s stone (an alchemy thing). I hadn’t intended on the story progressing that way, it just happened. The majority of my writing turns out in a similar manner, for whatever reason.
Turns out, I’ve been this way since I was a child.
No, I didn’t write when I was younger. I didn’t read, either. All my writing and reading experiences from elementary through high school consisted of the minimal work necessary to pass my classes. That was it. A few months ago I discovered two pieces of writing from seventh grade:
I then learned after reading there that my . . . odd perspective on life is not an adult evolution, but some genetic anomaly ingrained since birth.
For the sake of concision, I’m not putting up every poem from these two collections, there are just too many terrible terrible terrible poems, like my acrostic poem for Matt:
Matt was At
The Olympic
Trials
That’s not even a poem. I don’t know what that is.
Also to note, the only poetry I read as a child was by Shel Silverstein. So there’s that.
if you can’t read the poem in the picture, I’ve typed it out following each picture)

There was a creature named Bobby,
he liked to eat frogys,
he eats them up,
all like a pup,
and that's a creature hobby.
 

Dragons fly through the air,
going place to place.
Spurting out fireballs,
always in your face.
When they're going by like Dragonflies,
they won't hit you in the face.
Shouting out their fireballs,
they'll tare down the whole place.


I was walking through the house,
I heard a mouse, and the came running
after. I grabbed the cat, gave it a wack,
and he ran to the door.

 

There was a little monster
his name was Fred Onster
he scares you away,
in some hay,
and that's [why] he is a monster.



It's creeping up into the day
killing it all the way
and the night comes to stay.



Do you ever think as the day goes by,
that you may be the next to die?
You could [be] hit by a car,
or smashed with a bar.
So could you be the next to die?


You're in the middle of a town,
far into the future. Cars glide on air
like planes in flight. Buildings tower overhead
with big holographic signs on top for all
to see. People don't look the same with different
styles of clothes and shoes. Above, planes
go faster than imaginable, skateboards and rollerblades
are replaced with hoverboards and rocketblades.
Home has finger scan plates on door[s] to prevent
robbery. Behind this wonderful places is a wat.
Lasers, planes, missiles, and explosions light the hill.
Isn't so pleasant, is it? 



Gasp of thankfulness
his father was still unharmed.
Emory sitting in a chair,
facing two strangers
pointing their guns at his chest.
Jeff's mother pleading them not to
shoot.



I saw boredom clearly,
She was slender and unrested.
She turned and slowly walked toward me.
I saw her white skin and bloodshot eyes
And heard her mumble to her self
And I felt sorry.

 
 
There was a guy named Ed.His best friend was Fred.they liked to go sledding oncold winter days,flying [off] jumps in all of the ways.Doing flips, twirls, spins, and otherthings like them,flying high and low.LOOK OUT FRED!LOOK OUT BELOW!Poor little fred,he should have looked,poor little Fred,he got hit and booked.

It’s been over three years now since I graduated with my Master of Arts in Creative Writing. Let’s do a quick rundown of what has happened in those three years (and I’ll try for a semblance of chronology):
1. The Wife gave birth to the first child (the Chubbs)2. Taught (very) part-time at International Academy of Design and Technology, teaching English Composition for almost a year3. Found out the Wife was pregnant with our second child4. The Wife got accepted to BYU Idaho5. Second child born (the Little Sir)6. Moved to Idaho7. Started a new job at a craft store8. In the last three years published  28 different pieces of poetry, flash fiction, prose, and non-fiction9. Designed and hand bound a limited edition book entitled Pieces, a collaboration of five artist published by Copilot Press10.    Started a literary journal for Sacramento writers entitled From Sac
Those are just the major highlights, but there are smaller pieces to the puzzle too: saw Streetlight Manifesto live during their farewell tour, attended friends weddings, read a bunch of books, camped as much as possible, etcetera etcetera.
I should feel good about where I am. I should be happy with my successes and progress. I should feel that I am growing as a person and moving forward and becoming something.
Except.
I don’t.
A lot has happened in the last three years, more than I can remember. Some of it I wish I could forget. Some of it I wish I could relive again and again. And I’m sure there is some I wish I could remember, but will never know. Regardless of what has been, it hasn’t gotten me where I want to be.
I don’t often talk or write about what I want for my life; what my heart wants. I keep it hidden, keep people out of that small space. It’s weak. Very weak. It can’t handle disappointment and pain and sadness and fear and stress and suffering; it can’t handle regular life. So I keep it hidden. Even from myself most of the time. There are few who have seen a piece of it, only just, but never the whole thing. It’s been so long now that I don’t even know what’s down in that miniscule muscle. But this is what I think is secreted there:I want to work hard, I like working hard, but I am unwilling to do work I don’t enjoy, or work for people and businesses that I do not value or find value inI want to take care of my familyI want my kids to be happy and enjoy life and not have to worry about life more than is normal, but I want them to listen to me when I ask them to do thingsI want the Wife to feel safe and secure and to trust me and my work and that I can take care of her and our children and provide a place to live, even though I have shown no evidence of such desiresI want the Wife to be proud of what I do and who I amI want my family to be proud that we are a familyI want to not worry about the world and its troubles and society and just live without the distractions and complications the world createsI want people to care about each other, to care about what happens to other people; I want to be friends with peopleI want to live in a house that I builtI want to be amazingI think that’s it. At least part of it, anyway.
The last three years has been rough. Mostly rough. And between the dark a little light peeked through, but not enough to see the future by, or my own feet in front of me.
What I’m saying is that after three years graduating from college, after almost 10 years of marriage, after having children for almost three year, after living out on our own again for a year, after all that has happened:
Nothing has changed.
I mean, I haven’t changed at all.
I’m still the same. I still expect people to do things for me. I still expect my writing to just get published because I submitted it somewhere. I still expect the world to just give me money and love and life because of who I am and what I do as a person. I still get angry when I don’t get my way. I don’t want to be like this.
I want to be a mature individual. I want to be able to function normally in society, in that I can take care of myself and my family.
The point of all this rambling?
This is where I am now. As a married man with two kids and a Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing, this is who I am. A partially functioning member of society who can’t take care of himself let alone his family and wonders whether or not every choice he has ever made has been wrong and is terrified that he has ruined his wife’s life and is ruining the lives of his children but doesn’t know how to change, how to make that hole in his chest go away and be better and grow and work harder and make life how he wants to live and be the person he knows his wife wants him to be, the person his parents want him to be, except all he sees in the mirror is that same face, never changing, only aging, always again, and wondering what the point of all of everything is.
This is life.