[ This is part five of an ongoing series I call "Journey of One," which is meant to contain articles about me, my story, my journey, and the lessons learned from the life experiences. Here is the entire series so far: Journey of One. ]
Journey of One: Identity
May 27,2012 marked four years since my brother Steve died from colon cancer. I know I talk about Steve a lot on this blog, but so many moments of my life remind me of him. When Adam "MCA" Yauch of the Beastie Boys passed away recently, I thought about Steve. He and I would listen to the Beastie Boys (and Run DMC, and Public Enemy, and NWA, and so on) over and over again back in the 80s, and even into the 90s and beyond. When we were kids, Steve and I would rap along to the Beastie’s lyrics. Steve always did Ad Rock’s verses, and I always did MCA’s lines. The Beasties carry a lot of nostalgia for me. Steve was the only friend I had whom I could talk to about MCA's death and I know he’d feel just as shocked as I did. When MCA died, a little piece of my past died as well, and I was reminded of just how connected Steve and I were. Funny thing is, this kind of thing happens almost every day. Something will happen that will trigger an old joke Steve and I had, or an old memory that only Steve and I shared, and in those moments I feel absolutely alone in the universe. It feels a little like how I feel when I see all the VHS tapes I still own and remember I don't have a VCR to play them on.
Steve had such a dynamic personality. He was never a middle-of-the-road kinda guy: he was a passionate guy who threw himself wholly into whatever he did. His first love was professional wrestling, with all the hype and drama and over-the-top campy testosterone-laden soap opera plotlines. And he was good at it. He wrestled his last match just one month before he died. The doctors told him he shouldn't lift anything heavier than five pounds, and during the match he threw his opponent out of the ring over the top rope. That was Steve.
He always burned hot, yet never seemed to burn up or burn out. He made some enemies along the way because he wasn't afraid to speak his mind, be himself and be honest. Mostly he wasn't afraid to make mistakes, or to go too far, or to take chances. He wasn't afraid to be himself, and to hell with what anyone thought about it. I always admired that quality about him, mostly because I never believed that I possessed the courage to do that myself. Steve had a way of inspiring and energizing everyone around him, and in the end, even those who didn't like him or disagreed with him walked away respecting him. The name "Diehard" Steve Szoke became elevated to legend status after Steve's death, and rightly so. Any posthumous hyperbole of Steve's herculean feats are well-deserved.
But for me, I just remember my friend. I remember Steve before the muscles, before the tattoos and shaved head, before he became "Diehard." He knew who he was, and he was okay with who he was, imperfections and all. I never had that kind of personal conviction. Hell, I'm in my late thirties and I feel like I have no idea who I am. Most people know me as the funny guy. The sad part is that I used humor as a shield. If I reacted with silliness and humor, I didn't have to worry about how the real me would react. It's like when people laugh because they're nervous and don't know what to say or do. I used humor to disguise my inability (due to my insecurity) to just be myself. Over time, such behavior became habitual and instinctive. Now it's biting me in the ass. If I'm not being "the funny guy" or I'm being quiet, everyone thinks there must be something wrong with me. "What's bothering Bud?" I want to explain that nothing's wrong, I'm just being normal and existing like a regular human being. I'm done being the court jester. "Bud used to be fun." I shouldn't have to be the guy who wears the lampshade on his head while dancing on a table to validate my self worth.
This picture was taken when I was 18 years old. On my right is my former roommate, Eric aka "Spaceman." To my left is "Diehard" Steve Szoke. Standing in the middle, rocking the jean jacket is me, Bud Uzoras, although I went by the nickname "Bud Johnson" back in those days. Here we are, hotshot college freshmen. I was confident, energetic, and, for all my faults, I had a sense of identity back then. I was also very naive. With age comes wisdom, I guess. Wisdom and pain.
I'm not "young" anymore; that is to say, I'm not a high school or college student. I'm a adult (and yes, in my head I said that in Andy Samberg's voice. My dad's not a phone). I turned 37 this past February. I have three children, and I'm in the "Parents of a Teenager" club. That's not exactly what one would consider being "young."
I'm not old, either. I do martial arts training 7-9 times a week. I'm in relatively decent shape, and my fitness level is improving. And like I said, I'm 37. That's not ancient by any means. The point I'm trying to get to is that I'm old enough to have done a lot of things and experienced a lot of things in life. I graduated college. I've been married... twice. I've been a homeowner... and I've been homeless. I've done everything from Christian ministry to unloading trucks to banking to being the assistant manager of a Casey's to teaching martial arts. I once owned my own T-shirt business. I was even a Walmart door greeter for a while.
I've battled depression and once wrestled with thoughts of suicide. I know what a severe financial crisis feels like. I live with chronic physical pain (from a back injury inflicted by none other than "Diehard" Steve Szoke during a wrestling match). My body is usually racked with pain from old injuries that have never healed right. Even now I have persistent abdominal pain - I've been suffering from it for years now - and the doctors can't figure out the cause. Not surprisingly, I know what it's like to become addicted to pain killers. I also know the hell of withdrawal symptoms. I know "in my flesh" so to speak the torment of breaking myself from such an addiction. I thought I'd never marry again after Becka and I separated. Then I met someone I believed was worth trusting, worth risking it all on, only to be painfully proven wrong. I still haven't recovered emotionally from that experience. The events of my adult life leave me with a deep, seemingly unbearable sadness. I've felt what seemed at times unbearable emotional pain over failed marriages, losing loved ones and missing my children who live three states away from me. I bear not only scars, but wounds that haven't yet healed.
(Warning: my geek side is about to show.)
In one scene from J.R.R. Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings," the Ringwraiths, former Kings of Men who had surrendered their souls to the power of the Ring, were determined to kill Frodo on Weathertop and seize the Ring. The Ring, in turn, sought to be revealed and restored to the hand of Sauron. Frodo, in his panic to escape from his assailants and, at that time, understanding neither the extent of his danger nor the unspeakably hideous nature of the Wraiths, succumbed to the will of the Ring, slipped it on his finger and entered the spectral world of the Wraiths. Though invisible to mortal eyes, Frodo was seen clearly by the Nazgul. The Nazgul Lord stabbed him with an enchanted morgul-blade. This terrible experience - his being gravely wounded and very nearly turned into a wraith himself - was an experience from which Frodo could not recover fully. He now possessed existential knowledge of a damnable, evil world which he had never known, along with a wound that would never heal and the deeply ingrained malicious presence of the Ring and Sauron in his soul, his body and his mind.
Perhaps Frodo's wound from the morgul-blade is not so different from the wounds one receives from simply living life. I walk around with my own set of wounds and scars. My life experiences have changed me, and I will never be the same again. I no longer see the world or my life the way I did when I was 18. My experiences have fundamentally altered who I am, and they've also taught me an important lesson: when someone asks, "who am I?" the problem usually isn't a lack of understanding, but a lack of courage. "Who I am" is how I react, think, speak, and behave when I have the courage to not care what anyone else thinks or says, and when I have the courage to live life the way I see fit without fear of failure, pain or struggle. Steve taught me that lesson, not by anything he said, but by simply how he lived his life. Steve never lost that courage, even in the face of increasingly severe pain in his life. I may have experienced a tremendous amount of physical and emotional pain in my life, but Steve was dying, and he knew he was dying. He never lost his courage, and therefore never lost his identity. He stared down his pain and remained true to himself. That's the kind of courage I'm trying to claim for myself.
— Dead-Logic
