Custom Tailored: Family Crest

Special K might be a stage name that brings out my musical alter-ego, but Kellogg is the name that started it all – Kellogg is the family name – and it is the platform where my family crest resides. My grandfather, Samuel Kellogg was born in 1913 and died in 1998. Grandpa Sam was a humorous, gentle, anchor in this family (at least that is how I knew him). Grandpa was an artist, an athlete, a storyteller, a joker, and a man with a firm sense of family values and conviction. While heart troubles and an injury, that lost his leg, slowed his life down he always put family first. He was the first of many family members to pass away in my lifetime.

Grandpa Sam married my grandmother, Betty, when they were both young – younger than I am today – and they were married for fifty-six years before Grandpa died. It is safe to say, I get my sense of commitment from the model of my grandparents marriage. Grandma (or Grammie as we call her) is the matriarch of our family; she is the glue that has held us together. Gram is now ninety-one years old, she has seen the world change more times than I can fathom. I love and respect my grandmother and thank her for all that she has ever done to help or support our family.

Over their fifty-six years of marriage, my grandparents had four children: Dick, Jim, Bob, and Nancy. My dad, Bob, was the third of the four Kellogg children. Dick, the oldest, is someone I admire and respect very much. I believe he took after my grandfather’s dedication to family and has a great sense for business. Dick has several children, who have children of their own, and married my aunt Cindy almost twenty years ago. I love Dick and Cindy for a lot of reasons, but what stands out to me most is that they always know how to laugh and relax – something we can never be short on in my family.

Next in line is my uncle Jim; I think it’s fair to say he got a double dose of Grandpa’s humor. Often, I consider Jim to be, like a grown up responsible version of me; someone who has an internal knack for humor, but if you give his humor an inch, he’ll bring out you’re a-game. After years of traveling Northern California with my dad in the late 60’s (among other things after that), Jim eventually married my aunt Susan, shortly after my birth. Jim and Susan have three children, as well as, grandchildren, and they are a delight to be around. I love their wing of the family because it’s real and raw and authentic – something I proudly graft into my own life.

The last of the boys, my dad, has been the most inspirational, most sacrificing, best listening person in my family life – so much so, that Dad will have his own chapter later on in the Custom Tailored story. In spite of the differences that can make us argue with supreme intensity, there is no one – and I mean no one – who I respect more than my father. Twelve years after Dad was born, my aunt Nancy (the only girl and baby of the Kellogg clan) came along. Nancy had those qualities that could really unite our family at any given moment. After years of trying, she and husband Michael (who I still affectionately call may uncle, since he remarried a wonderful woman Carol) tried for years to have children. In 1997, my Cousins, the twins, were born.

I’ll never forget the day the twins were born; yet, these two beautiful, intelligent, girls are now teenagers and that blows my mind. Two years after the twins were born, their little sister was born. I’d do anything for these girls and I am so proud of who they have grown up to be! The girls and I share something in common (aside from being family), their mother, Nancy, died in 2004. I know she would be so proud of her kids today. Nancy’s passing redefined how I deal with death, as death tends to do, and she is a daily reminder that dreams can come true, no matter how short life may be for us.

As a family, we have seen a lot of difficult times. Oddly enough, the family members I spoke of herein, have all possessed a deep sense of family values, in their own right, and I take something special away from each of them. The Kellogg family is pretty large, more than I could contain in this document, and these people are my family. Truly, family is a special thing that not everyone in this world is blessed to have; at the same time, family is a difficult thing for me. We’ve been through so much together and I’ve been through so many changes over the years that the family arena is the one place where my raw authenticity tends to become passive and silent. Part of the reason I appreciate my dad so much is because I can be all the things I am – typically, without criticism – whereas, I feel tension and angst around most of my family. Ironically, my family, a mixed bowl of Special K, has been supportive to me through every major surgery, through every major loss, and through every major accomplishment. Nonetheless, I rarely let them in to see the person most of the world sees – for whatever reason; I keep most of them at arm’s length. In reality, I have grown up to be a man who is, seemingly, very different from my family.

Primarily, my religious views have changed; although most of us are Christians, I left the Evangelical traditions I was raised in and there is a fair amount of bitterness for me as it pertains to the fusion of family and faith. One would think I became an Atheist and stayed that way for me to feel the tension I do, but that is not the case. Secondarily, I have a different moral compass and feel like I cannot be one-hundred-percent open about that without the implication that I need to clean up my act. Thankfully, my dad is my family sanctuary where all my “sins” are safe and received with a listening ear. I hate feeling like I have to lie to the very people I am related to and that is as much, or more, my fault as it is anyone’s. Finally, my family has given me a lot of support over the years, in spite of the tension I feel, and I’ve always wanted to stand out on my own two feet (webbed toes and all) as much as I can, and it’s hard because I haven’t been able to pull it off yet – I’ve come pretty close, many times, and I’m not done trying. All-in-all, I love my family very much, I couldn’t have made it without them, I wouldn’t be the person most people see if it weren’t for them, and they’ll always be my family. Maybe this autobiography will not only show the world a different side of me, but it will show my family, the authentic, Custom Tailored, man I have become today.

Custom Tailored: "I'm not Goin' to Jail for You or Anybody"

Commencing the April Fool’s Day chapter left me with a “how do I follow that” dilemma. Chronologically, the next chapter should be Middle School, but it is clear to me that I will never finish this autobiographical blog if I insist upon completing it in chronological order. Hence, I have decided to skip a few chapters for now and discuss a part of my life that is authentically where I’d rather be in the writing process. The story of my mother is one of the most conflicting tailoring agents of this Custom Tailored tale.

My mother, Barbra, was born October 1, 1951 and died May 14, 2008, the following is our story of a rather tumultuous journey. At the age of three, my parents split and were divorced. While divorce left me looking outside my home for relationship examples, the split of my parents was probably one of the best assets to my personal development. Unlike most divorce situations where children are involved, my father was granted custody over my sister Colleen and I, and my mother had weekend visitation privileges. One might think that I held my mother’s personal indiscretions against her, but I never was upset by the divorce in ways that most kids would be – life for me and my family has been anything but normal for as long as I can recall.

The close knit bond I have with certain portions of my family is lopsided at best. In nearly three years, I have not said a single word to my mother’s surviving family members. I have aunts, uncles, and cousins whom I have no relationship with whatsoever and I do not foresee this element changing in the future. Mom came from a family of alcoholics and was, herself, a recovering alcoholic prior to her passing. For those who wonder why I don’t take well to alcoholic jokes being directed at me, this is why because I’ve seen real alcoholics and it is no laughing matter. It is the alcoholism within my genetics that made me an adamant detractor to the consumption of alcohol for many years – my former stance on alcohol had more to do with family than my Evangelical Christian roots; I never thought drinking was a sin. Yet, when you watch substances destroy people; especially, your own family, it isn’t always easy to be enthusiastic about the subject.

In all sincerity, my mother was an alcoholic and it took the influence of AA to make a positive impact. I remember, in my teen years, sitting at an AA meeting listening to my mother speak, hearing the regret in her voice, and seeing the redemption in her life. Reminiscing this moment in my life is very painful because to tell the story of my mother is to depict a broken bond between a mother and her son – a chasm that only saw healing in light of her death. This is not to say I am glad that she is gone, but that the baggage and the bitterness became rather unimportant once she passed away.

During the early years, my sister and I had to adjust to the, all too common, splitting of holidays after our parent’s divorce. Nevertheless, this trend dissipated by my early teen years as my relationship with my mom began to suffer. I have often said that my mother taught me the best guilt-trip in the business, but I remember that card exploding around the time I was eighteen. At the culmination of one of our many three-hour conversations – because I couldn’t get my mother off the phone – she tried to pull the “mom card” and, in a moment I have never forgotten, I blew up at her. We didn’t speak for several months after that conversation.

As a teen on the verge of adulthood, I felt justified telling my mom off, due to years of substance issues and mental illness problems that persisted for her. I see those moments of frustration and anger a lot differently now that she is gone. Frankly, my mother was an embarrassment to me and I have spent the time since her passing embracing forgiveness for my harsh disdain. In fact, it has made me more forgiving of others who suffer from the things she did because those issues do not negate their humanity. Learning how to love my own family has taught me the true meaning of many of Jesus’ teachings – I’ve also learned to acknowledge that justice doesn’t make one right. How it is that I love and respect my mother now when I never used to is an amazing thing – I cry tears of joy when I remember my mom.

Looking back, it’s not the mental illness, alcoholism, or drug abuse that I focus on when I think about my mom; it’s the fact that she won’t be here or wasn’t here for some of the biggest moments in my life that I dreaded her presence for - I miss her just a little bit every day. The only reason I shed any light on the painful aspects of having my mom for a mother, is to acknowledge that it wasn’t always the way it is today. Anger out shined my love for my mother any day of the week Mind you, it wasn’t anger from the divorce, I was glad about that in most respects; rather, it was anger over the reality that my mother wasn’t mentally “here” most of the time as I grew older. I would spend hours on the phone with her deciphering incoherent, often paranoid, ramblings, and the pain of the fact that this was my mother infuriated me to no end. I never thought losing her would have the effect it did – in death, I forgave my mother and I love and miss her dearly.

It’s been two and a half years since my mother died and I choose to remember her with kindness and love in my heart. Sure, my mother taught me to guilt trip, but that is not all she taught me: my mom enjoyed being ridiculous (hence her favorite quote from “Wayne’s World” that titles this post). My mom taught me that life is short and we never know when it will end. In death she taught me that people are a mess and they may hurt you, but you’ll be surprised how much you love them. In addition to that, my mother is a reminder to be gentle and gracious to others because you never know their burdens. She died on Wednesday, May 14, 2008 – it is a day I will never forget. Her death was an accident that evoked purposeful change in my heart. Thanks to all I’ve learned since my mother’s passing, I strive to be more compassionate to others who are challenged by issues I do not pretend to understand. I love, respect, and miss my mother; if God’s grace isn’t enough for her (no matter how batty her theology may have been) then that is not the God I serve. I say this in response to all who asked me if she followed the Lord because I believe divine grace is what protects us if and when we get it wrong. Thank you mom for being the final nail in the Evangelical coffin that used to be my faith – grace is not cheap and now you know why I believe that God is gracious to all. I’ve never wanted to credit the work I put in to gaining a college education to anyone other than myself, but, in some manner, I dedicate my college degree to my mother because she didn’t live to see me obtain it. Finally, I end with the last words I said to my mom, on Mother’s Day, of all days, “I love you.” Goodbye mom; thank you for making me less of a pillar of strength for the family and more compassionate towards the meek.

Custom Tailored: April Fool's Day

April Fool's Day, 1994, is a day that changed my life forever and left me staring at my own version of Mt. Everest. Although it was April Fool's Day, the story that follows is no laughing matter. One day and one incident, left me in my own personal prison for the next twelve years. Until February 2006, I had never told anyone this story because it haunted me and messed with my relationship development skills in ways that took me years to understand. However, when freedom from this prison came, in '06, it was twelve years of freedom in a split second. The list of people that know this story is very short, most of my family does not know (the one's that did probably forgot and I don't blame them), maybe three or four of my friends have ever heard this story, and the women I have dated. Point of fact, this chapter will be the first, openly, public acknowledgement of the April Fool's Day Everest moment in over fifteen years. Over the last three years, I have dealt with this past both privately and professionally, which has made it possible for me to be so open about the events of April 1, 1994 here in this chapter.

Naturally, I am a little weary about going public with something so personal and private, but I've been looking for the opportunity to tell this story for the past three years. For all I know, my story might be able to help someone else muster the courage to discuss what pains them. I was ten years old and growing into my adolescence; grade-school girlfriends had become a norm (as was mentioned in the previous chapter). At this age, I did not know much about sexuality and how things affect one's development. Granted, I may have known more than the average ten-year-old because I had honest parents. If I had questions about things, my dad would do his best, as a single father, to address them. Truthfully, I do not remember asking too many questions about sex and sexuality. But, I did not have to ask a lot of questions because I did not live an average childhood. For instance, I knew what Heroin and Methadone were by the time I was five. I wasn't sheltered from all topics considered adult subject matters – in most cases, my dad did not have that luxury – there would have been too many questions left unanswered and maybe I would not have had much trust or respect for my father. Unfortunately for Dad, he did not have the chance to prevent me from making a decision with lasting consequences. I'm sure, had I asked my dad questions, prior to that fateful April Fool's Day, he could have spared me the pain of acting on my curiosities. However, that is not the way things went down; I was curious about some matters of sexuality and made the choice to explore my curiosity.

Now, having had the opportunity to take courses on Human Sexuality, in college, I know that this type of exploration among pre-adolescents is, actually, common. Nevertheless, it may be common, but it still leaves scars. Anyway, a childhood friend of mine (who I will not name for the sake of their privacy) and I decided to explore curiosity. I believe some of our curiosities stemmed from the things going on in the media in 1994; several, homosexual celebrities were coming out publicly. It was like, what is this whole “gay thing” about? In light of this, the two of us decided to find out what all the fuss was about. We played some stupid games and mooned traffic. Had things stopped there, this would probably be a forgotten memory. If I recall correctly, we decided to play the game Truth or Dare and that is where things took a turn towards the scaring.

When it got too dark for us to be outside, we moved our Truth or Dare game inside. I guess mooning cars and flashing one another was not enough to satisfy our interests; we dared one another to preform oral copulation on each other (I praise God I was only ten; which, by the sheer nature of human development, limited the horrifying possibilities). Obviously, our friendship was never the same after that night (we have not spoken in several years). Our escapades, from earlier in the night, got the attention of someone in the neighborhood. Whomever this was, called my friend's house and his sister – who was close friends with my sister Colleen – came to get her little brother. Getting caught by our sisters for mooning cars, and what not, brought out the events that took place behind closed doors. Our parents would be the next to hear about what we had been up to that night. For whatever reason, my dad and his dad decided it was best to remain civil about it all and just leave it at that. The matter has never been discussed, to my knowledge, since that night.

However, dealing with what we had done, no matter how willingly, was a much more difficult road. I spent, about, a month by my father's side convalescing. My dad was not quite sure what, if anything, all this meant or was about; so, he decided to keep it between me, my sister, and him (my family and friends were never told...until now – not even my mother knew). For Colleen, it was like a practical joke. She was relentless, at times, with the gay jokes and cracks about me liking same-sex-oral-sex (ironically, she would never tolerate her own jokes today and was, likely, looking for a means to process this information). As time went on, my dad forgot it ever happened and Colleen would only use the information like a, sort of, special occasion insult (I do not hold anything against my family for how they dealt with the situation). For me, dealing with it was a whole different story: I felt guilty, ashamed, and confused. With time, the guilt went away; after all, we all make mistakes. My confusion didn't last because I started chasing girls like they were going out of style. Getting past the shame was, by far, the most difficult part of dealing with this part of my life.

Little did I know, the shame would only encourage me, a few years later, to pursue as may girls as humanly possible (but that story is for chapter five). At its worst, the shame, of having experimented with another male, was held onto due to the secrecy of the whole ordeal. Growing up as an Evangelical Christian didn't exactly help make matters easier (which is one of several reasons I do not like evangelicalism). I know full well, most people in the Evangelical world are not so good at showing grace and forgiveness – when it comes to anything, remotely, resembling homosexuality. Contrastingly, it was my dear friend Dave – who was once a minister to me, prior to becoming my closest friend – that sat with me the night I spoke of my experience for the first time. Dave prayed for my freedom, from that prison of shame, and, in one moment, the shame was gone.

Since that moment, of split-second freedom in 2006, I have been able to be open about what happened and actually deal with it. I am eternally grateful to Dave for showing me grace that night in February 2006, when I confessed my guilt and shame to him. Doing so, has allowed me to heal and leave this Everest-like-mountain behind me. I'm also grateful to the women I have dated (or been very close with) for handling my pain with sensitivity and respect. They knew – better than most – that I was not, nor am I, gay. They recognized that I was a ten-year-old kid, who was curious and made a decision that left me trapped in secrecy for far too many years. Thank you Dave, thank you Sam, thank you Valerie (Dave's wife), thank you Eli, and, yes, thank you Tasha; thank you all, for respecting this long kept secret. I must admit, it was bizarre to relive the events of that April Fool's Day and to write it down. Knowing that I am sharing this with the general public, I am aware that many will not receive this story with grace. Be that as it may, this was one more impossible that I overcame and it is, yet, another reason why I am “Custom Tailored” – a story that is far from over....

Custom Tailored: Taking on Mountains

Now, the Genesis of Impossibility has laid the foreground for the mountain in view; let us take the lift to the top and ride down the mountain slopes. During my grade school years, I was an avid skier. I hit the slopes regularly for five seasons with the Children's Hospital, Handicap Sports Program. During my five years of hitting the mountain at Winter Park, I developed the ability and confidence to ski without falling (a feat I'm sure would not take place today). One of my more memorable moments was skiing down the mountain in jeans and a sweatshirt (a move I do not highly recommend if you are not practicing your skills regularly). Happily, I did not fall, not even once, on this memorable occasion. On that day, I did the, seemingly, impossible. It is moments like this one that serve as a reminder to me; a reminder that the sky is not the limit when one lives without limits. Remember, I have Cerebral Palsy (CP) which, heavily, affects my balance. I fall, somewhat regularly, when walking on dry-flat land. So, skiing down an entire mountain without falling was and is a major statement in my life. Not even mountains are too big to overcome (and I took on the mountain in jeans, leaving my snowsuit behind for the day). Whether physically or spiritually, I fought the system everyday conquering one mountain after another.

Don't get me wrong, I did not tackle every mountain without falling. One of the occasions when I did fall, like I did on a ski day two years prior to the one aforementioned, I would get up and finish the mountain. I'll never forget that wipe-out, I caught a bolder of ice with the tip of my right ski, did a complete front-flip, landing with such impact that my left ski came off, and decided to make its way down the trail own its own. After my instructor retrieved my left ski, I shook off the stars, locked back into my skis, and proceeded to conquer the mountain that almost took me out for the day. Even with “no limits,” there were setbacks, but I never let them stand in my way; I would ride out the mountain, no matter how impossible it should have been to complete. I took on mountains, I fought the system, and this was like breathing for me – a necessity and a reality.

When I wasn't taking on mountains, in the glorious powder, at Winter Park; I was taking on mountains in the classroom. The Elementary school I attended for first and second grade, was paired with another school, not so conveniently, located in the “hood” downtown. Mind you, this was during the early 1990's when gangs were, virtually, everywhere in the inner-city. My new school, Whittier Elementary, was smack in the middle of Crip territory. As a nine-year-old, I did not fully grasp the social, political, and economic implications that accompanied the Board of Education's decision to have mandatory busing programs. Initially, I was to attend Whittier for grades three through five; needless to say, this did not occur. My experience at Whittier was, yet, another mountain that stood in my path. My Third Grade teacher, was unkind and probably had no business teaching if she did not like kids. In the Fourth Grade, I had two teachers. Mid year, the school decided that the Fourth Grade classes were not balanced enough (if memory serves me, that meant ethnically balanced). Unfortunately, I was taken out of Miss. Altman's class, which I loved and moved to another class. Although, I liked my new teacher, Mr. Fresquez, it showed me and my family that the school had little regard for student needs. Toward the end of that year, I was working with an Occupational Specialist (during this period of life, I was always in physical therapy or occupational therapy to aid me through life with CP) and the specialist felt that the school was not providing what the should be providing to a student with special needs. She advocated that I leave Whittier and attend McKinley Thatcher Elementary. Let me tell you, this was a heated debate and took a lot of fighting the system. As a result, I learned what advocacy meant and the value of self-advocacy. The Occupational Specialist and my family won the battle with the school principal and I was transferred to McKinley Thatcher the following school year.

Keep in mind, when I attended Whittier, I was between the ages of nine and ten; so, I did other kid stuff in the midst of the chaos. In the Third Grade, I ran for student Treasury and lost. Man, that was a crushing experience. Truthfully, I may have been a little over sensitive about the defeat, but I hated losing battles because everything was a challenge to accomplish for me. On one hand, I had great people supporting me and showing me the light – allowing me to live the impossible. On the other hand, I had people holding me back, for personal gain or fear that I could not make it. Moments, like losing that election, have, often, made me ponder whether I was handed my accomplishments out of pity or if I, truly, overcame the odds against me. I'm not an athlete, nor do I tend to excel physically at most things. My mind and my voice have always been the ace up my sleeve. In life, we either learn to balance our weaknesses with strengths or we face failure. While I may have pondered the possibility that I was handed my accomplishments, I know better.

Now, back to that kid stuff.... In the Fourth Grade, I had, myself, a cute little girlfriend. Ah, how simple romance was back then. Nicole and I had a great time; I'm sure it was sappy and adorable. This was the first of several Nicole's that would take part in my life over the years. I don't remember much about her except that she was blond and shared the same last name as our former Vice President of the United Sates. I had a girlfriend the next year, at McKinley, her name was Katy. Go figure, I've always been wrapped up in the ladies. However, it was this age in life (age ten) that would dramatically affect my adolescent relational development (but that's an April Fool's story for the next chapter). As for other kid stuff, the gym teacher at Whittier, Mr. Jutrus, taught me how to throw and catch a football (whatever happened to that whole catching thing...) and helped me gain second place in the 440 dash (field sprint). Also, Mr. Fresquez helped me to, gradually, gain the confidence to read aloud (I used to loath reading aloud and was not very good at it). Girls, football, running, and reading were some of the highlights from my two years at Whittier Elementary. After the battle with the school, it was time to embark on a new venture at McKinley Thatcher Elementary.

Fifth Grade year, with Mrs. Bradley would: encapsulate my love for drumming, mark my seventh, and last, surgery, for the next seven years, and establish the beginning of a new friendship. Additionally, I read my first memorable book The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C. S. Lewis (it took me a month to finish it because I read so slow). McKinley Thatcher was a unique school, in that, the classrooms had balconies and the school was powered by solar panels. Other then that, it was a, fairly, ordinary school – but it was one of the best schools in the Denver Public School District. At McKinley, we had a school fair where I displayed my passion and growing talent for drumming. I would make a second venture with my drums at the Continuation ceremony, which marks the passing from Elementary School to Middle School. Late in the school year, I had the last surgery I would have for, nearly, eight years. I had corrective work done on my, ever complicated, vision – I used to have what is commonly referred to as “Lazy Eye,” a slight cross-eye, and, still to this day, have no depth perception. Also, towards the end of the year, I made friends with a kid named Jeff. He and I remained good friends through most of our time at Grant Middle School (we also fought a lot, but we're not quite there in the story). I enjoyed my time at McKinley Thatcher, but getting there was no small mountain.

During the early 90's, I fought the system and I took on mountains (both literally and figuratively). In the summer of 1993, I had surgery number six. I had my hamstrings and heel-chords stretched – so that I could grow with less tension in my muscles. One of the side effects of CP is that the brain is unable to tell the affected muscle regions to loosen up, which complicated growing. Thus, my regular Orthopedic Surgeon, Frank Chang, did some masterful work throughout the years to remove as may of my physical limitations as possible. As a result, I became quite familiar with the Children's Hospital (formerly in downtown Denver). At one point, in 1994 (I believe), I added to my physical therapy (PT) regimen, by taking Karate classes (I did not get too far in the process, due in part to cost and I was also burning out with activities). Weekly, I went to PT and Karate. Biweekly, I was skiing at Winter Park. From 19994-1995, I was, likely, in the best physical shape I've ever been in (at least as far as my legs are concerned). If memory serves, my first five surgeries took place before the end of the 80's and then I had the two mentioned in this chapter.

In retrospect, it is easy to see that everything I have I have had to fight for, but what is a mountain when you can ride it to the top and ski down it? As a, virtually, fearless child, I took on mountains and made them molehills. I went through a lot of physical rigors and took a lot of mistreatment from many peers, who just did not get it. My fight wasn't with them; my fight was with the mountain that stood before me. Their harsh words or bullying were just bumps on the ski slopes of impossibility. However, there is one story from 1994, that was no molehill; this one moment took me twelve years to overcome. It was the April Fool's Day that gave me an Everest to climb and twelve years later I would achieve the impossible conquering one of the greatest mountains that has ever stood in my way...it is a mountain that warrants its own chapter in my story...(to be continued).

Custom Tailored: the Genesis of Impossibility

**I would like to dedicate this chapter of painful truths to my family: my dad, Bob, my mom, Barb (God rest your soul), and my sister Colleen. I love you guys and I'm sorry it took me this long to see room for you in the story of the “Custom Tailored.”


In the beginning, was the insemination of the road through impossibility. Born three pounds, eleven ounces, with a muscle disorder known as Cerebral Palsy, and a rare skull malformation – Craniosynostosis: which means that my skull was imploding on itself – one might have guessed that I was in for quite the ride. To top that off, I came out feet first via cesarean delivery (and you think your mother likes to remind you about the fact she gave birth to you). Thus, I was bound from the very beginning of life to be set apart from the crowd. Little did I know, this would be and continues to be a defining trend in my life – a trend to live out the impossible. Frankly, there is no other way to put it; the fact that I am alive today and telling this story is, by nature, the impossible made possible.

Overcoming a life-long road of impossibility is a double-edged sword: on one hand, I am humbled by the miraculous grace that allows me to be here, on the other, I have moments of brash egotism and cockiness. I'm cocky because I, simply, do not believe most people could have gone the distance and not tapped out (submit, give up, or quit). Both, fortunately and unfortunately, such confidence is a rarity for me. On the flip side, I am humble because I know what I have is a gift – sometimes, it is a gift I have to work my heart and soul out to hold onto – but a gift no less.

As the road from birth continued, I spent a fair amount of time on oxygen – due to my premature birth, my lungs were not as strong as they needed to be – and I would have my first of two corrective surgeries on my dome-piece (cranium). Needless to say, my head was not delivered in the best condition (maybe Mom wasn't so gentle with me prior to birth). In all seriousness, Cerebral Palsy (CP) is, as I said, a muscle disorder believed to be caused by trauma to one's brain. In other words brain damage (a phrase I am not too fond of due to possible implications). Hence, nowadays, I value my mind and delight in being considered an intellectual of sorts. My mind and my heart are, by far, the greatest assets I possess.

Starting out life on an uphill battle, gave way to a “no limits” attitude of determination. I'm convinced that this attitude has had its benefits and detractions through the years. Positively, I would not have accomplished all the things that I have or, as I like to put it, lived the impossible. In contrast, when you've lived the impossible at an early age, it is hard to remain motivated. Regardless of all the individuals that have supported me throughout life (and there are a lot) many individuals and obstacles stood in my way. As Jimi Hendrix, so aptly, sang, in his song, “Voodoo Child (Slight Return):” “I stand up next to a mountain and I chop it down with the edge of my hand.” I've overcome mountains, literally and figuratively. So, yeah, it is difficult to be motivated for things that are not on my terms or that are deemed normal actions of life. Additionally, if many of life's basic activities were or are a mountain I have to climb; is it unreasonable that I get tired of it? Perhaps, that is why I was, admittedly, lazy throughout high school and the hiatus I took between high school and college.

Of course, with age tends to come a little wisdom. So, looking back, there are a few things I wish I had done differently. Mostly, I would have liked to grab hold of all the opportunity that came my way at a school like DSA (Denver School of the Arts). But, my point is, living out the impossible on a daily basis is taxing: to the heart, to the body, to the mind, and to the soul. Although, I am happy to say that determination never really sleeps; when I find something I want, I go for it! Commitment is an ethic that is deeply rooted within my character; so much so that, sometimes, I do not know when to quit. This has always been the case, but, only in recent years has it gotten the better of me. My “no limits” attitude has taken me far, at my young age, but, sometimes, setting limits would save me a lot of heartache. Having a doctrine of “no limits” was a necessity to survive: nine surgeries, physical limitations (not to be confused with limits), the sting of death, the glass ceiling (so often, unjustly, reserved for women in the workforce), mistreatment, and self-doubt.

Today, as I get older, I can see that my “no limits” attitude needs a break; besides, I think it may be out of gas. In truth, I do not know how such a determination-based-ethic managed to last this long. For goodness sakes, seven of my nine surgeries happened by or before age twelve. On average, that is more than one operation every two years. Remarkably, from '96 to '03 I was scalpel-blemish free. It was as if God felt going through early-adolescence, would be enough trouble; if that is the case, God was right on the money. But, I'm getting ahead of the story...which happens every time I attempt to reflect upon my pre-adolescent years. Sometimes, I wonder if that is a reactionary measure that allows me to maintain a “no limits” attitude on life. As if not reminiscing will make all the scars disappear. After all, my external scars are not hidden. In fact, I have one scar that goes from ear to ear (from the skull reconstruction surgeries). This one mark, alone, serves as a daily reminder that I am different from the majority of the pack. Most days, I value that difference because it helps me not to take life for granted. However, I'd be a liar if I said I never felt the desire to be normal (should such a distinction exist). But, that is not why I feel like there needs to be an end to "no limits;" I feel this way because I am exhausted. I've accomplished every impossible task I have ever set my sights on, with one single exception, and that is a matter of the heart that goes so deep I do not know how to approach it. Yet, in my childhood, this one impossible of the impossible was not an issue. Therefore, I am suggesting an end to “no limits.”

Returning to my childhood, I have established that scalpels and scars granted me an unusual beginning. But, what about the scars not visible to the naked eye? One of my earliest recollections, was noting the peculiar nature of my family. At the age of three, my parents divorced and my older sister, Colleen, and I became children of national divorce statistics. However, there was a rare difference, the parent with primary custody was my father. The result of this odd statistic would lead to my father and I having a close and solid relationship. Prior to my mom's passing, when my friends would make, the ever-classic, “your mom” jokes, I would run with them – leaving some friends bewildered for a comeback. The reason being, I was not very close to my mother. I was my father's son. Little do most people know, it would have been far more slamming to make a “your dad” joke. Now, before you consider the option know that some things have changed: I still do not like remarks to be made about my dad and I am very sensitive to “your mom” jokes (my dad and I have been through some wars as allies and opponents and my mom is dead). Personally, I would consider it a sign of respect to direct humorous jabbing away from my family. After all, I am not bulletproof and I am not always passive; making jokes about the dead is no laughing matter for me and talking bad about my father crosses a line most have never made the mistake to test.

Yet again, I am running from stories past (it's no wonder I have been working on spitting out two pages in over a week). Where was I? So, I grew up spending Sundays and splitting holidays with my mom. Once, she remarried and I gained a couple step-relatives. My ex-stepbrother, Sam and I were both huge pro-wrestling fans. We would emulate our squared-circle heroes and even got the chance to see Hulkamania in person. Most people don't know that I, once, had a stepbrother (which is probably fine by my sister Colleen, she and Sam didn't get along well). Eventually, my mom and her new husband split; leaving this era a faded memory. Yet, it was this era that brought about my addiction to video games (don't worry, I'm a recovering addict...I don't play much these days).

Ironically, that last joke about recovering from addiction has it's roots too. Both of my parents fell prey to the enticements of their youth and early-adulthood. Dad was a Hippie and I'll just let you ride out on the white horse with Mr. Brownstone on that one. Mom had an apatite for things of a more “liquid” nature. Hence, addiction and alcoholism are no strangers to my history and vocabulary. Honestly, this is just one of several reasons why I tend to joke around ninety percent of the time...seriousness has played its tune one time too many in my life. How many 26-year-olds: can count the number of people in their life that have died on more than one hand, know how a Methadone clinic operates (let alone understand its purpose), have sat as support at AA meetings, know what chronic liver disease can do to a person, have made Psych Ward visits a, formerly, standard procedure, and have managed to feel love at the center of such a storm? And that is only a brief wrap on three members of my family. If I lived in the seriousness of all that stuff everyday, I may have seen an end to “no limits” ages ago. It is arguable, that I used to be ashamed of where I have come from, but not today. My dad my have, in his past, done every drug known to man, but Dad gave me music, love, Jesus, and authenticity. Mom may have been an alcoholic, not altogether mentally, and met her end accidentally, but she gave me the best gifts: a dose of humble pie (trust me, admitting that she had to die to collide my worlds of family and friends and bring out love I never had for her before is quite the mouth full of humility) and she always knew I could set my sights beyond the sky. My sister may know how to get under my skin in ways that no human being ever has, she may be all sorts of “different,” and she may have the hardest time letting go of things (Sis, I'm sorry I broke your nose, I didn't know the gun was “loaded” – it was a toy gun with a steel shaft inside and I threw it), but she taught me never to hit a woman (it was a painful lesson) and that things are not always as they appear. While, my family may be anything but “normal,” “I'm strangely comfortable with that” (“The Boondock Saints”). As Christopher Titus (another guy whose found the light behind the dysfunction) once said, “If you're normal, the crowd will accept you, but if you're deranged, they'll make you their leader.” Well, if I do say so, living out a Genesis of Impossibility is nothing short of taking the lead! So, I've got a father who has found grace and peace in the arms of the King (even if his battle wounds will, surly, kill him), I had a mother who is resting in the dwelling place of the King (and I don't care about her theology or any theology in this case), I have a sister who searches the stars for answers and sees no need for the King, and then there's me; their former pillar of strength (because I'm the “normal one”), who has been forced to see Jesus through them and in their eyes, and so, I serve the King with great passion and minimal conviction to follow him or his rules. Consider this a confession of grace and love: one has just been let into my world and met my family on paper. This is not something I do with ease but would like to make it emphatically clear that these people are my family and I love them; if one thinks less of them, they think less of me.

If you were thinking I was finished, the hits keep on coming. I met my friend Ray at the age of four, we are still friends today; but for the longest time, we were best friends. We etched the genesis of this life-long bond with two stories. First, I rescued Ray's Ninja Turtle from the Sunday School Warden (or so Ray has told me). For Ray, this was the beginning, but for me, it was the second grade; when Ray punched me in the nose. Other than having a tooth knocked out by a playground-swing-jumper, this is the only time another person has ever hit me in the face (not counting slapping – not that I recall any such incident off the top of my head). Anyway, us boys were in the school yard (or field as we called it) and our play-fighting went from shadow boxing to seeing stars and feeling the warm flow of blood come from my nose. I'm not sure Ray ever forgave himself for that. Perhaps, I think, this may be why he was always around to have my back all the way into high school. Maybe watching your friend fall to the ground bleeding and knowing you were the cause leaves an impression on you. One punch in the face was certainly enough for me that's for sure. While drugs and women may have put some distance between us for the last years of high school, Ray and I have stood the test as friends. For, roughly, 22 years we have been friends. And, who says men fear commitment? Considering all the things we have dealt with side-by-side or in battle with one another, I am sure we'll be friends until we die.

As it happens, Ray is somewhat responsible, in part, for two of the longest commitments in my life. First, there is our 22-year-long friendship. Second, he introduced me to the youth group at the Salvation Army in Centennial, CO. I have been a part of that youth group as both student and Asst. Youth Director for a combined total of 11 years and counting. If I may boast a little, every lasting commitment I have been a part of stood the test of time because I refuse to quit unless it is clear the season has passed and the sun has set. Among the list of long-term commitments: several friendships ranging from 10-22 years in length, 11 years staying linked to on tiny but awesome church, 21 years as a die-hard wrestling fan, 15 years as a gamer, and, essentially, 26 years of finding faith in Jesus – even though I don't, often, find it easy to like Jesus these days. I'd call all of this another sign of why I am Custom Tailored – most guys my age are just coming to the point of thinking about long-term commitments – I am clearly an oddball.

Finally, one has seen the Genesis of Impossibility and the beginning to the end of “no limits.” Writing this conclusion will mark my admittance to a limit and be the written form of impossibility. Shedding light onto my past was both difficult and painful, but it makes the breakdown of “no limits” possible. I said that my endless determination has finally gotten the better of me, but it used to be my survival. One might see, now, some of what I have survived and why I could not subject myself to limits. But, there is a price to pay, if you recall, I said I have accomplished every impossible that has stood before me, with one exception. An exception that goes deep into my heart; love is the exception to the rule of impossibility. It is the impossible of the impossible. It is the one thing that I want that has evaded me and left me broken. I have fallen in love twice: once with a women who found my limits and maybe her own; she was my first love and the heaviest broken-heart (only because I have not been the same since). She found my limit in being able to love like Jesus because I lost the ability to love unconditionally. If that fails, what else is there? Heart and love is what's made the impossible possible. The second love is bittersweet. To steal a bit from “Jerry McGuire” this love surprised me by being everything I could want that is positive, completing, and the best friendship I could have. Nonetheless, it is bitter because, yet again, I have fallen in love with someone who cannot or will not fall in love with me. I assure you, this is the impossible of the impossible for me. My determination does not have enough fuel to continue loving and failing. This is why it's time to set limits. If I do not see an end to “no limits” it may bury me in sorrow forever. I've taken too many bullets to maintain this breakneck pace of going twice the distance to live out the impossible. It's time to ride the train of the typical and get off the roller-coaster of impossibility. Who knows what that will do to my lingering faith in God's Son or my dreams for love?