Tripping into the Light - Brossura

Collins, Charlie

Brossura

ISBN 10: 1452591474 ISBN 13: 9781452591476

Casa editrice: Authorhouse, 2014

Riassunto

Diagnosed with a rare eye disorder in the third grade, Charlie’s self-esteem began to unravel by the thread. He wouldn’t have a future as a detective like his hero, Magnum P.I. He would never soar in a jet fighter like he dreamed. He would never drive a race car and see the checkered flag wave. College was out of the question, because he just wasn’t smart enough. At least that’s what the teachers told him.

Only a God who was unusually cruel would shatter the dreams of a little boy by creating him defective. It was the only explanation that made any sense, and it was a crushing blow. If God didn’t care about him, why should he care about himself? And so began Charlie’s freefall into a world of negative self-talk and ultimately addiction. A self-destructive plummet that would see him cheat death twice as he marched to the precipice of suicide.

Raw and brutally honest, Tripping into the Light is a tale of soaring triumphs and heartbreaking defeat. It illustrates the power of true love and the undying spirit of hope. It is about one man’s willingness to try just one more time, when it seemed all was lost. Through Charlie’s eyes, we see that all things are possible if we are willing to roll up our sleeves and do the work.

www.TrippingIntoTheLight.com

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Informazioni sull'autore

Charlie Collins is the Founder and CEO of Vision Dynamics and CCI (Charlie Collins International). He is a well-respected Motivational Speaker, Certified Professional Success Coach, and author who inspires people to live with clear vision. Legally blind since age 13, Charlie struggled with accepting his vision loss and understands the pitfalls of low self-esteem. His Tripping Into The Light Seminars, based upon his real life struggles with addiction, offers participants a sense of hope by teaching them how to create clear, attainable visions of success. Charlie lives in Connecticut with his wife and two daughters. In his spare time he loves to play the guitar, ride his mountain bike, and go on hikes, but most of all he enjoys spending time with his family and friends.

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Tripping into the Light

By Charlie Collins

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2014 Charlie Collins
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-9147-6

CHAPTER 1

I had no idea where I was.

It was like a movie, as I remember it. My eyes slowly opened into celestial, bright-white, and numbing silence. I would later learn morphine had a lot to do with the heavenly glow and thick fog clouding my mind. As I put the situation together one tick at a time from dreamland to the waking world, I realized there was someone standing over me. At this point, my synapses still weren't firing at full speed, and I thought it was a priest. But it couldn't be, so I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking he'd be gone when I looked again. I opened up slowly, peeking, and he was still there.

No way, I thought. Please don't tell me I've died and gone to heaven.

CHAPTER 2

Up until October 10, 1988, even though I'd earned the nickname Padre, I'd been anything but pious. A better description would have been hell-raiser, troublemaker, reckless, or even crazy. My life had been like a snowball of fear careening downhill and steadily picking up speed.

I don't remember exactly when fear attached itself and became my daily companion. What I do know is that as far back as I can remember, I'd always felt like something was wrong with me. I'd lived with a sense of impending doom, a dark cloud over my head. Many times I felt like I was born into a world that I wasn't good enough to live in. As my story moves on, you'll learn it was completely irrational, yet it was how I felt. I once asked my mother to speculate on from where my fear may have come. She shrugged and said, "You were born with it."

She would know. There were six of us kids, and I was nothing like the rest. I was born at St. Mary's Hospital in Waterbury, Connecticut, on February 4, 1967, number five in the lineup. As my mother will jokingly tell you, "That one? Oh, he started giving me problems right from the start!" I was premature, just a little over five pounds, and suffered from pectus excavatum. In simple, everyday terms, I was early and underweight, and my chest was caved in, making breathing a struggle. However, after spending a week in intensive care, I finally made enough progress to go home. I had only been home a couple of days when one night I turned blue after breastfeeding. I was rushed to the hospital and back into intensive care. That night, a priest was called to baptize me because the doctors didn't think I would make it until morning. But I'm a survivor, as you're going to learn. I ended up staying in the hospital a couple of weeks, receiving round-the-clock care. Slowly I got better and stronger, and my breathing improved enough for me to go home. The doctor's parting wisdom to my mom was that my chest would take on a normal shape, but they weren't sure if I would ever breathe normally. As you might imagine, from that day forward my mom lived on pins and needles, watching me breathe. She's never said, but I'll bet those early episodes acted as warning signals of what was to come: I was not going to be an easy child to raise.

When I look back on my life, I often wonder whether those early episodes incubated the fear you're going to hear about in my story. Perhaps the struggle to breathe let loose a hormone that permeated my cells and hard-coded a story: that I really wasn't supposed to be alive.

Early on, however, you'd never suspect there was anything brewing inside of me. In fact, a single glance at photos of my younger years wouldn't suggest anything but pure joy and vibrancy. I was a blond, curly-haired kid who'd have given Shirley Temple a run for her money in the cute department. You'd think my life was one big smile. If you examined my family, you'd get instant thoughts of apple pie, red-checkered tablecloths, flags, and fireworks. We were the all-American, God-fearing, Irish Catholic family. Yours truly was even a smiling altar boy—always smiling, that was me. That was us: one big, happy family.

With all of us kids, each a little over a year apart, one can imagine what life must have been like for my parents. It was before the era of play-dates and minivans, soccer, and video games. It was just my mom and dad, surrounded by the raw energy of Trisha, George, Kathleen, Brenda, me, and Kerry. I'll say this early and often: my parents were amazing, and I don't know how they did it. I have two daughters, and between their talent shows, soccer, modeling classes, and parent-teacher conferences, I get lost. I couldn't imagine adding four more kids to the equation, but my parents pulled it off.

We were a close family, and I can vividly recall the joys of early childhood. The world was a giant playground, it seemed, and we were always on a new adventure. In the winter we took ski trips to Haystack Mountain. I learned to ski when I was five. Even though I loved ripping down the mountain full throttle, I must say my fondest memories are of summer vacation. It was pure excitement, piling in the station wagon and staring out the window as we drove from Cheshire to Hotchkiss Grove in Branford, Connecticut. We'd spend the entire summer there in a cottage, and it was fun, especially for me, because I loved boats. I'd spend hours on the water with my dad, the wind and bright sun washing over my face. It was during that time when I fell in love with the sensation of speed. Even now, as I think of those times, it makes me smile.

At the end of the summer, the Hotchkiss Grove community would have a celebration that was aptly named Hotchkiss Day. The event included a parade with costumes, swimming races, and a gigantic barbecue. I can almost smell the burgers and hot dogs smoking on oak coals. Children's laughter rang out as they played games of tag, beer cans popped, and seventies rock 'n' roll blasted—Bad Company, Eric Clapton, and the Grateful Dead. People from all over the region said farewell to summer and hello to fall, and they braced for those dreaded New England winters.

I imagine if you looked into your childhood, there would be some recollections that are brighter than others. Perhaps some played a part in shaping who you are; some may have given you a glimpse of the personality that would emerge. I have one such memory that I believe watered and fertilized the seeds of fear that were lying dormant. It happened near the end of one of our summer vacations. The remembrance is of me standing alone and staring wide-eyed at a motorcycle, wondering if I should touch it. Then over my shoulder, a deep, gravelly voice asked, "You like my bike?" I turned and looked at a pair of black leather boots, raising my gaze upward into the face of the tallest man I'd ever seen. He looked like he was twenty feet tall. I remember his scruffy beard, and he had ratty blond hair pulled into a ponytail that fell down his back. What struck me right away was how different he was from my dad. He wore Levi's and a T-shirt with a black vest, and he stood with a cool lean. He had swagger. He was bad—the good bad. All I'd ever seen my dad wear was starched shirts with collars and pleated chino shorts or slacks in muted colors.

"It's a hog." His deep voice vibrated my young bones. "A Harley Fatboy."

I think I turned back to the bike without saying anything. I was wondering how fast it would go and how soon I could get one. I calculated how many chores I would have to do to get a hundred dollars; I figured it couldn't cost much more than that.

"My friends and I are heading out on the water for a while," he said. "Would you watch my bike for me?" He patted the saddle and looked at me with a smile.

I lit up with warm feelings all over. The coolest man I'd ever met had just asked me to look after the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He thought I was important and good enough to do the job.

"Sure," I said bashfully.

And man did I watch it. I stood over that bike all day. I was not going to let that motorcycle out of my sight for one second. My mother called me to eat several times, and I wouldn't go; eating would mean I'd have to take my eye off the Harley, and I couldn't do that. What if something bad happened, and I wasn't there? She eventually sent my dad out, and I explained to him that the cool guy asked me to watch his motorcycle, adding that I'd eat later. He pleaded, but I wouldn't go. I stood there driving my mom nuts, and my eyes never left the Harley.

Finally, near sundown, I saw the cool dude swaggering my way. My heart raced, and butterflies buzzed in my tummy. Not only was he going to praise me for doing a good job, but he was going to take me for a ride. It was going to be the coolest thing ever! I figured I'd done exactly what he asked, not letting the Harley out of my sight for one second, that at least I deserved a ride.

He walked up and never even looked at me. If he made a sound, it was a grunt as he climbed on his bike and jumped down twice on the kick-starter. The bike roared like a lion shaking my young bones. He gunned the engine with me standing there waiting for him to say something. I'm sure my eyes were pleading, but he didn't say a word; he rode off leaving dust in my face.

Crestfallen, crushed, destroyed—I was all of that. My eight-year-old heart shattered like glass into a thousand pieces. I didn't do a good enough job, I thought. That must have been it. I was a loser and didn't watch his bike like I was supposed to. Otherwise he would have told me I did a good job and would've taken me for a ride.

If the hospital stay planted seeds that maybe I wasn't meant to be here, the cool dude episode was their germination ... I believe shortly after that, a little green sprout that would grow into an mighty oak poked its head above ground. Soon after my life would start a downward spiral, confirming that God had created me as a loser and that I had no business here on earth.

CHAPTER 3

We moved from Waterbury to Cheshire when I was four years old. If you've ever seen Mayberry R.F.D., you have an idea of what my town was like. It was idyllic and ultra safe, and everybody knew everybody. It was one of those places where one didn't need to lock the doors. Because if someone needed something, all he had to do was ask a neighbor. It was the kind of setting where car keys could be left in the ignition—a way of life that has sadly gone by the wayside. Even still, Cheshire remains a great place to raise a family with just a tad over thirty thousand in population. When I was born, it was a little under twenty thousand.

I had the stereotypical life of a small-town kid, and that meant chores. I had a never-ending list of tasks that I hated. The worst of the bunch were stacking firewood and mowing what seemed like football field upon football field of grass. If it wasn't that, my dad would find something for me to do. To me it appeared as if his only job was to keep yours truly busy. When he ran out of stuff, he'd revert to his default: "Is your room clean?"

This chore business was especially bothersome because my only real interest was playing with my buddies. I was the polar opposite of my brother George. This guy, to my utter amazement, actually kept his side of the room clean and would go looking for my dad for more work. I figured something was seriously wrong with him. Then after a while I realized he was doing it just to show off. I said to him a bunch of times, "You gotta stop, George. You're making me look bad."

He'd do stupid stuff like walk in the door after school and announce himself ready to do chores. Oh my God, I thought, he is out of his mind. He's looking for work while I'm trying to slip in the door unnoticed. My goal was to ask if I could help just as everything was almost done.

Of course, I wasn't nearly as slick as I thought. My dad was wise to my antics and strategically picked his moments to drive home lessons... That's because I wasn't the kind of kid that one talked at—I was as strong willed and stubborn as the day is long—so he'd get me when I least expected it. One time I was charged with stacking the firewood. I don't recall where George was; I only remember being there alone and not being very happy about it. As usual, my mind was on my buddies. I was itching to be set free so that I could play. I slopped the pile together in a hurry and called my dad for inspection. He checked out my work as visions of running wild with my friends raced in my head. I thought he was about to let me out of jail when he pushed on the pile, and it rocked. I froze stiff as my heart suddenly raced. It was clear that if he pushed any harder, the stack was going to buckle. I stood there waiting while he ran his eyes over the stack. Please don't do that again, I thought. Sure enough, he shoved a little harder, and the wood tumbled like the walls of Jericho. I was steaming mad but didn't dare say anything; that would surely lead to him find more stuff for me to do.

He let the moment sink in before he said, "If you'd done it the way I taught you, that never would have happen." Then he turned and strolled away, never looking back. I imagine he was fighting off a laugh. "Call me when you're done," he said before walking in the house and closing the door behind him.

I stomped and mumbled curses under my breath. But guess what? I stacked that wood so tight that a hurricane couldn't blow it over. I still stack wood in the same way to this day. The lesson my dad quietly taught me was doing it right the first time.

When I wasn't working for my dad, the majority of my free time was spent hanging out with my buddy David, whom I am still very close with today. David and Bill, whom I met later in high school, are the true definition of a friend. They're still there after all these years—God bless them for that. There was a long period of time when I wasn't much fun to be around, but they stayed close and never gave up on me.

I met David in kindergarten, and our friendship was instant. The Green Hornet needed Kato, Batman needed Robin, and I needed David much more than he ever knew. We spent our time doing what boys do: having maximum fun. This was before minivans, soccer moms and organized playdates; ours was the era of sticks and rocks and bugs and imagination. We made it up as we went along. Our houses were on a dead-end road, and behind them was all we'd ever need: a thick forest of Douglas fir and blue spruce trees.

I've spent numerous hours looking at my childhood for signals, asking myself if there was something there that might have foretold of the trouble I would face. And believe it or not, those early days climbing trees with David were revealing. I've floated the idea that my early hospital stay might have had a profound effect on me; perhaps it initiated in my being the idea that I shouldn't be alive. None of this is science, of course, but indulge me for a moment. Let's just say the interaction with the biker, and his rejection, really did activate a dormant idea that I wasn't good enough to be alive. My natural inclination would then be to prove that I was good enough. This idea is the only one that I've come up with that explains why I was such a maniac from the get-go. I was on a quest to outdo anybody at everything, because when I did, this amazing thing happened: people would say, "Man, you are cool!" That seemed to soothe the ache already growing inside me.

If David climbed to a branch that was ten feet high, I had to climb not to the branch that was eleven feet high, but one that was twice as high. I was immune to danger. The fear of not being liked was stronger than the fear of being hurt. This would be the theme of my early years, and I'm paying for it today. Although I can't match Evel Knievel's broken-bone count, I'm up to ten, including my back. David was around for the majority of my crashes, like the time I fell out of the tree fort and broke my arm. Or the time I missed the bike ramp and broke my wrist.

David and I were pretty much inseparable. We even shared the same classroom up until the third grade, when my life took an unexpected twist.

CHAPTER 4

My brother George was about ten when he began to have serious problems with his eyes. He'd always worn glasses—the Coke-bottle thick, black-framed goofy ones that got him called "four eyes" or "Magoo." However, it'd gotten to the point where even the glasses weren't helping anymore. My parents took him from doctor to doctor, trying to figure out what the problem could be. They heard myopia, hyperopia, and astigmatism; at some point he ended up in a psychiatrist chair. As crazy as it may seem, the idea was floated that he had some kind of mental block that affected his vision.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Tripping into the Light by Charlie Collins. Copyright © 2014 Charlie Collins. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: Authorhouse
• Data di pubblicazione: 2014
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 1452591474
• ISBN 13: 9781452591476
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 180
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Germania