Understanding Cowboy....?
Home About Me Archives	October 24, 2008 WHO ARE I?? Gosh why the name Cowboy? Then the name Rusty Dreams? What is my real name? My real name gives credence to something brutal and ugly. It is a name used during a period of my life that I wish to remember little of. In fact the majority my memories are of drunken spit flying in my face as a slobbering wanna be opera singer hovered over me at all hours of the dark morning serenading a very captive audience. The time of my real name was a time of war. A huge giant beat and terrorized me and took away any feeling of safeness and of being wanted and of being loved. It was the scariest rollercoaster that never ended. It is for the most part a name that only family uses. It was the day of my creation until my mother escaped. Thank god she did and she took me. Then came Cowboy. Cowboy was a name I was known by from the early 1960s until the late 1970s. It was the child that swore that not only the monster, but not anyone would ever hit me again and get away with it. No one would ever spit in my face again without a swift violent retaliation. Cowboy reacted like a stepped on rattlesnake should any man slap my face. Those were the reminders of the life of the real name. I did keep those promises. But Cowboy was more than simply a protector. He is in many ways the violent father of the period of my real name. He was the person that never wanted to feel again and pronounced “I will never live past 25”. Cowboy was actually a name given to me at summer camp. I rode the horses at Twin Oaks all that I could. Given the choice of playing with the kids or mucking the horse’s stalls - at seven I chose to muck the horse’s stalls. I knew the horses would never intentionally hurt me. It was a good name. I was pretty much a loner who had the skills to impersonate a normal kid. I kept the insides of me secure by making others laugh, and if they dared come too close to the inside I had the tools to run them off. Then there was the no name period. It was when I was half and half. I was the looked up to corporate figure that solved problems no one else could with a computer. I played the code as Clapton did the guitar and I was so very good at it. I am proud of my achievements during that time, even though I always felt like an imposter. Under the coat and tie were the tattoos and scars earned from my days when Cowboy roamed freely. Then my health and myself destructive addictions again took over and things changed drastically after seventeen years. Finally Rusty Dreams arose from the insides ashes of it all. A person who’s dreams were gone. The dreams of retirement and things I would do I found myself no longer capable of. So I learned to try to be thankful for the dreams and things I did whilst I could. Each name defines a facet of my life. But no facet truly disappears. I recently wrote to a friend in a letter the following lines, they are a good definition of who I am – even as a crippled up old man I still possess the venom --- : If a person is my friend… There is nothing I will not do for them… If they are my enemy there is nothing I will not do to them…. That is the life I live... I have had no enemies for 30 years now… (That is other than myself at times. ) Compartmentalization is different than multiple personalities. I can for the most part control who is where and when. Cowboy sits back like a bodyguard and in attempts to protect me actually causes me more harm than good. For with age his hands have been replaced with words that cut deeply and without much other value than to hurt others. Then when my hurt has subsided and the part of me that lives day to day hears nothing but the echoes of the words that ensure that person is lost from my life forever. I am forever forgiving. So Cowboy runs them off when I have forgiven too much. But can one ever forgive too much? My ex never understood that I cannot undo so much of what has caused me to be what I am. I have spent over half of my 55 years in therapy. I have wanted all of my life to simply be normal, to not feel different from others. I would give anything to not have the thoughts of depth and of anger that I do at times. They are the rewards and the curse of the life of my real name. So much of that time cannot ever change what is, was and will be within me. Therapy can only change so much. Some things that occur or are a result of early interpersonal interaction can never be altered. So some responses are not as much a thought out action but a reaction. The best I can do is try to recognize them, live with them and at best protect others from the interactions. Oddly the one thing that is constant during all the phases and compartments that make me who I am is the fact that I cannot pass up a hurting or troubled person. Whether it be a onetime encounter of a longer termed event, there are people whose lives are better because of me. And I am proud of that. It truly is the gift of the pain of the no name period. I cannot stand to see unhappy or suffering people. There are so many moments with strangers that crossed my path where I left them far better than I found them in my history. I am most proud of those. So I am a conglomerate of violent and giving and thinking and asking and watching.. But I always am on the look out, to be just a bit more than what I am. And that is the true gift and curse of me… For I am never good enough… Are any of us?
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Understanding Cowboy....?

WHO ARE I??

Gosh why the name Cowboy? Then the name Rusty Dreams? What is my real name?

My real name gives credence to something brutal and ugly. It is a name used during a period of my life that I wish to remember little of. In fact the majority my memories are of drunken spit flying in my face as a slobbering wanna be opera singer hovered over me at all hours of the dark morning serenading a very captive audience. The time of my real name was a time of war. A huge giant beat and terrorized me and took away any feeling of safeness and of being wanted and of being loved. It was the scariest rollercoaster that never ended. It is for the most part a name that only family uses. It was the day of my creation until my mother escaped.

Thank god she did and she took me.

Then came Cowboy. Cowboy was a name I was known by from the early 1960s until the late 1970s. It was the child that swore that not only the monster, but not anyone would ever hit me again and get away with it. No one would ever spit in my face again without a swift violent retaliation. Cowboy reacted like a stepped on rattlesnake should any man slap my face. Those were the reminders of the life of the real name. I did keep those promises. But Cowboy was more than simply a protector. He is in many ways the violent father of the period of my real name. He was the person that never wanted to feel again and pronounced “I will never live past 25”.

Cowboy was actually a name given to me at summer camp. I rode the horses at Twin Oaks all that I could. Given the choice of playing with the kids or mucking the horse’s stalls - at seven I chose to muck the horse’s stalls. I knew the horses would never intentionally hurt me. It was a good name. I was pretty much a loner who had the skills to impersonate a normal kid. I kept the insides of me secure by making others laugh, and if they dared come too close to the inside I had the tools to run them off.

Then there was the no name period. It was when I was half and half. I was the looked up to corporate figure that solved problems no one else could with a computer. I played the code as Clapton did the guitar and I was so very good at it. I am proud of my achievements during that time, even though I always felt like an imposter. Under the coat and tie were the tattoos and scars earned from my days when Cowboy roamed freely. Then my health and myself destructive addictions again took over and things changed drastically after seventeen years.

Finally Rusty Dreams arose from the insides ashes of it all. A person who’s dreams were gone. The dreams of retirement and things I would do I found myself no longer capable of. So I learned to try to be thankful for the dreams and things I did whilst I could.

Each name defines a facet of my life. But no facet truly disappears. I recently wrote to a friend in a letter the following lines, they are a good definition of who I am – even as a crippled up old man I still possess the venom --- :

If a person is my friend… There is nothing I will not do for them…

If they are my enemy there is nothing I will not do to them….

That is the life I live... I have had no enemies for 30 years now… (That is other than myself at times. )

Compartmentalization is different than multiple personalities. I can for the most part control who is where and when. Cowboy sits back like a bodyguard and in attempts to protect me actually causes me more harm than good. For with age his hands have been replaced with words that cut deeply and without much other value than to hurt others. Then when my hurt has subsided and the part of me that lives day to day hears nothing but the echoes of the words that ensure that person is lost from my life forever. I am forever forgiving. So Cowboy runs them off when I have forgiven too much.

But can one ever forgive too much?

My ex never understood that I cannot undo so much of what has caused me to be what I am. I have spent over half of my 55 years in therapy. I have wanted all of my life to simply be normal, to not feel different from others. I would give anything to not have the thoughts of depth and of anger that I do at times. They are the rewards and the curse of the life of my real name. So much of that time cannot ever change what is, was and will be within me.

Therapy can only change so much. Some things that occur or are a result of early interpersonal interaction can never be altered. So some responses are not as much a thought out action but a reaction. The best I can do is try to recognize them, live with them and at best protect others from the interactions.

Oddly the one thing that is constant during all the phases and compartments that make me who I am is the fact that I cannot pass up a hurting or troubled person. Whether it be a onetime encounter of a longer termed event, there are people whose lives are better because of me. And I am proud of that.

It truly is the gift of the pain of the no name period. I cannot stand to see unhappy or suffering people.

There are so many moments with strangers that crossed my path where I left them far better than I found them in my history. I am most proud of those.

So I am a conglomerate of violent and giving and thinking and asking and watching..

But I always am on the look out, to be just a bit more than what I am.

And that is the true gift and curse of me…

For I am never good enough…

Are any of us?

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