I’d rather not talk about it.

Insert four letter words here. Actually, go ahead and use whatever colorful language you care to use. I’m not picky, in fact, I’ve found that lately my vocabulary has melted into this jibberish of about four different languages all being used in the same sentence, such as me saying “Only a little bit more” but using german, spanish and a little bit of swedish. Didn’t work out so well.

That’s the problem though, being able to express exactly what’s going on in your mind and having people help you out isn’t as simple as just blurting out the first thing that comes to your mind – especially those of us that suffer from disordered thinking. It used to be easy enough when I was drinking, many things would come blurting out of my mouth and things would happen. Some bad, mostly, but every once in a while a nugget of truth would stream out. That nugget of truth is something that perhaps I’d never come to terms with without having drinks in me. Sometimes I could drink again just to vent.

It’s a claustrophobia living arrangement when you feel like you’re full of stuff you want to talk about but at the same time you don’t want to talk about it. So many things around you will clutter up your thoughts until you realize that your entire life is starting to resemble your brain. Cluttered desk, cluttered mind, cluttered relationships, cluttered life. It seems some find comfort in chaos, but at the same time being able to tackle a problem but having to sort through the shit first is a pain in the ass.

Take for example my awesome blown out tire of yesterday. I knew what happened, although I didn’t know why, and limped myself to the shoulder of the road. Without hesitating my mind was able to take inventory of exactly what was going on. Was I hurt, was the car hurt, did anything else get harmed? No, No, and no, thankfully, but I did have one very dead tire. This was fine, but not fine. The black and white mentality was being played out in the form of a tire and all I could do was go with the organized approach to the situation. Who can help, how can they help, and who do I actually want to help me.

I really wanted a super dreamy tow truck driver to come abduct me…but that’s another story.

I didn’t really want anybody to help me, fact of the matter was that I felt like it was my problem and I should tackle it myself. It was my tire, it was very torn up, and it was my car. It was my problem, but I couldn’t do it on my own – or I should say – it’d be damn hard and expensive to try to do it on my own. I reached out and there wasn’t a single person that didn’t want to help from all the people I contacted, but still, I didn’t want any of them. I wanted to fix it myself, damn it. Let me do it. Reality check time, there are certain things that I cannot do, teleport across town to get a replacement wheel wasn’t one of them. I swallowed my pride and asked for help.

Of course, the tire mentality bleeds into other aspects of life. Think of your mind not like an organ, but of a machine with tires. Every once in a while you might experience a flat in your brain and it’s up to you whether you want to continue to limp along the shoulder and make little to no progress – and in all actuality doing more harm than good. Or call in the help, even if you don’t want to. I’m faced with one of the worst bouts of depression I’ve had since my crash, which I’ve identified and am trying to work through. I’m calling for help, it’s not helping. I’m not going to give up though, I know it’s out there, I just have to turn the right screws and it’ll happen.

I could have had a trunk full of shit which made it difficult for me to get a spare wheel in, i could have left well enough alone and kept the run flat tires on it, I could have had at least a donut  in the trunk in case of emergency, I could have paid the extra couple of bucks and gotten roadside assistance. I did none of those things, and I paid the price in the end, I had to swallow my pride and my independence and ask for help. It was demeaning, I felt low, but I knew it wasn’t going to get better on it’s own. The only thing I can do now is look at what happened and make alterations for the future so that I don’t have to be so needy and helpless. I can spend the extra few dollars for roadside assistance, I can get a donut for the trunk, I’m not getting runflats. Period.

I hate feeling like a helpless female. It makes me depressed.

2013-02-02 13.22.58

Million Mile Truck – Million Mile Mind

Sometimes life seems like it’s moving in slow motion and everything around you is suspended in air. You can see everybody else move at a normal rate of speed, but for some reason your life is moving slow. Minutes go by like days; hours are a life time; and all you can do is count the time until you’re actually somewhere you want to be. Always looking ahead, always pushing, always looking for that precious minute hand to move forward. What’s wrong with now? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with  now, everything. What’s also wrong with now is nothing.

Everything is wrong from the vantage point of the person in a pool of shit up to their chins yelling “don’t make a wave.” There isn’t very many positive outcomes for that person – but at the same time – you have to wonder – how the hell did that person get there in the first place? What decisions were made to make life seem like an endless eddy of shit circles just looking to pull you under? Nasty thought, but that’s sort of what we do with our own minds. We set ourselves into a mind set that will either make shit waves or let us calmly way for this to pass (get it, pass?).

I, on the other hand, never wake up in the morning and think “gee whiz, a dip in the shit pool would be really nice today!” What it really boils down to is that I simply have “episodes” and want to crawl into the shit pool just for the security of it. The familiarity is what keeps me going back, and that’s what it’s like to live your life with an eating disorder. You’re constantly trying to talk yourself out of shit swimming and staying clean and dry. It’s not easy though, I tell you. When your mind starts pumping and that little eating disorder switched gets turned on, it’s almost like you’re magically put into your swim suit and are on a high dive in the deep end of the shit pool. Here comes the swan dive.

The problem primarily with the million mile an hour eating disordered brain is that there isn’t really a speedometer to let you know that you’re approaching the million mile mark. You may wake up and think you’re going the right speed, but before you know it you’re flying along out of control like a car running from the law. You’re on a destructive path of hurt with no sense of self preservation. Let the car explode, let it plow into a tree, let it kill you on impact, a million miles an hour isn’t much fun when you’re the driver. Even the best drivers can’t stand a certain threshold of speed without the proper equipment (like boiling your brake fluid, just because you can get your car going that fast don’t mean that it’s going to consistently stop for you). A million miles an hour, yet everything is moving in slow motion.

That’s where I sit, hiding behind the protective barrier of my computer screen. I can see chaos all around me, papers everywhere, pens everywhere, a piece of half eaten pizza out of the corner of my eye. Million miles a minute – everything flying past you – yet moving in slow motion. Your mind is comprehending every aspect of existence but you body is only focusing on one thing – that pizza. That fucking pizza. There it is, the cure all. Magical piece of pizza, almost like a magic carpet ride. That one piece of pizza can take your million mile an hour mind and bring it to a violent, crashing, halt.

They say it’s not the speed that kills you, it’s the stopping. That’s exactly what it’s like with an eating disorder; you get so used to the feeling of going a million miles a minute and you want to stay that way, the speed soothes, the speed cures, the speed is sexual. It’s interesting how eating disorders can manifest themselves into other forms, and interfere with different aspects of life. When that first eating disordered thought pops up its a sudden jab on the breaks and your speed gets hijacked. Suddenly you’re not in control of the vehicle anymore and you find your mind and body flying into places you don’t want. Violently doing sit up to try to appease the wicked mind, violently throwing up that last box of cookies you ate, violently mentally assaulting yourself because you’ll never be good enough.

Then there is the aspect of going a million miles an hour again, flying in a different direction. Half the time we do this, it’s to get away from our problems. Sometimes it’s all we know. Most of the time it’s just habit, nothing more, nothing less. We’re used to speed, we’re used to violence. We love hate. How do we survive though, how many times has that violent stop threatened to kill us? How many more times are we going to risk it, and more importantly, how many more times can your body actually take it. All things flow on the ebb and flow of some imaginary force. That force is you, you’ve got your foot on the pedal, you’re the one with the steering wheel in your hand. “Where do you want to go today, Mr. Morrison, where do you want to go today?”

This is like a truck with a million miles on it and still running strong. Although it’s got stories that go back decades, the exterior is going to tell stories of a different nature. Bringing the first born child home in the cab during a snowstorm will be trumped by the fact that it’s a little rough around the edges. The little old lady that it pulled out of the ditch story is going to be overtaken by the sagging headliner. It’s what’s on the outside that counts. All things are perspective as to what we see on the outside, not what stories they hold on the inside.

And we think us as a human race is any different? I think not.

This truck has a million miles on it, what do you think of it?

2014-08-20 17.08.47

Out of the vast nothing.

From the vast nothingness of existence springs some sort of fountain of regret and indignation. Why me, what brought this awful deed upon me? The fountain spews forth its foul liquid and persists to submerge your soul with an inundation of fear, hate, and scorn. Why me, indeed? That nothingness is out of your control, or at least that’s what you think, until you realize that that fountain that’s spewing at you can be manipulated and instead of being drowned to death in foul water, you can wade forever in sweet wines of the fruits of a thousand grape vines.

Tripe. That’s what I call that last paragraph, a bunch of words strung together eloquently to try to paint a picture, to make a point, to get an idea across in some sort of imagery that will captivate an audience. In normal people talk – sometimes you’re flush, sometimes you’re bust, only you can stack the cards in your favor. I suppose that’s almost a little too diluted to fully grasp what the topic is trying to get across. Is this really about stinky water that squirts out of some concrete fountain? Are we really playing a game of poker with our lives and making bets on what each day will bring?

In a word, no. And this is simply why:

We chose if the fountain is going to contain foul liquid or sweet wine. Don’t believe me? Here’s a little example of taking yourself down to a more simplistic – card playing level. Below there will be two pictures. One – of course – simple. The second, the same picture, but manipulated with a keen eye to accentuate the positives and capitalize on the beauty that is present, not the filth that surrounds.

A simple red car surrounded by a background of chaos. It's hard to focus in on what sort of car it is, or even pick out what the graffiti is even trying to tell us. It's easy to be so overwhelmed by the cacophony of  loud colors to enjoy the art. The intricate colors bleed into a kaleidoscope of nothing. You accept the fact it's a car surrounded by poorly done graffiti.

A simple red car surrounded by a background of chaos. It’s hard to focus in on what sort of car it is, or even pick out what the graffiti is even trying to tell us. It’s easy to be so overwhelmed by the cacophony of loud colors to enjoy the art. The intricate colors bleed into a kaleidoscope of nothing. You accept the fact it’s a car surrounded by poorly done graffiti.

And that’s what you want to see. A car, a poorly drawn penis, random initials. All very random things.

What if you were to evaluate this situation and start with nothing. Picture nothing there – and see only what you want to see.  What then? Are you able to focus on a single piece of the puzzle?

When you look for what you need, not what you'll be effected (good or bad by) you'll find life a little more simple.

When you look for what you need, not what you’ll be effected (good or bad by) you’ll find life a little more simple.

In a word, “No.” That’s what it comes down to. Being able to say no to those situations that we find ourselves in that aren’t to our benefit. “No.” Whomever took the time to spray that simple word on the side of this wall really had a deep sort of philosophy about them. A nihilistic approach to criminal activity. “No”. It can apply to anything:

No Diving

No Smoking

No Left Turns

No War

You can see the entire world through a black and white set of glasses if you set your mind to it, and you’ll find the same “no” mentality will also allow you to alter the liquid in your fountain. Saying no to simple things, such as that extra piece of pizza, spending the money that you don’t actually have, or an obligation you’re not prepared for will help you alter the liquid that spills from your fountain. “No.” Once you start picking out what you don’t want, like an extra piece of pizza, you’ll be able to focus more of your mental energy on what you actually do want – which may be weight loss, a better complexion, or just a gross display of willpower.

“The poison from which the weaker nature perishes strengthens the strong man – and he does not call it poison.” -Friedrich Nietzsche

“Brace for the G’s, fast heel toe”

I’ve never been a fan of the letter “v”, but when I realized the other day that it’s been malfunctioning on the old writing machine it made me thing of other malfunction junctions in my life. Let’s just agree on the fact that my letter “v” isn’t high up on my list of priorities right now, I just have to remember that if I want it to work I have to push it a little bit harder than I push the rest of the keys on the keyboard.Stupid letter, stupid life, stupid pushing, but I still do it. Sometimes I think I just push buttons to see what happens (which I’m reminded of a Simpsons episode where Homer is holding a garden hose and it gets kinked by a spiky head kid and he says to himself “hmmm, the hose isn’t working, I will inspect the opening with my eye”, and then the hose becomes unkinked and he gets an eyeball full of water.

Or the fact that Led Zepplin has the song “Babe, I’m gonna leave you” and “Babe I can’t quit you”. Well which is it, can it be both, can it be neither. Of course, we all have our up days and bad days, but man it seemed like Jimmy Page had some bad luck with women, or he was just bipolar about leaving and going. Kind of like me, it’s a toxic relationship I have with Wisconsin. I love it, I hate it. It’s just a state, but then again it’s also a state of my mind. It’s almost like in my mind every time I make the trip north I think to myself “Babe, I’m gonna leave you” in regards to the state, wanting to leave before I even get there. Whilst in Wisconsin, however, I have this weird sensation that I’m missing something thus the “Babe, I can’t quit you.”

It’s a broken button though, it’s like the letter “v” for my laptop and Homers hose – it’s just not going to work like I assume it’s going to. My always go with the flow attitude gets damed up somewhere in Indiana and my butt hole puckers almost as if I feel like I’m going into some sort of battlefield. Landmines of my own creation, however, are laying dormant in the fallowed fields of the midwest and I take my adventure at stock value. I set my mind on the fact that in more cases than not I’m making the trip for a purpose – family related 99% of the time) but deep down my gut is telling me that I’m trying to fix a broken button.

This instills some sort of panicked fear in my temporal lobe and I forget to focus. Judgement skills are hazy and the midwest gives me diarrhea of the mouth which always lands me in some sort of pickle, fight, conflict, unhappy situation. I have made it a point, however, to not go away mad anymore, just accept the fact that the more things change, the more things stay the same. I see Wisconsin on a map and I think “I’m proud to be a Wisconsinite”, but at the same time I think “Whew, I dodged a bullet on that one by leaving.” I really thought that all of my problems and grumpiness and addiction manifested themselves in me during my tenure in Wisconsin – and this current trip has confirmed that assumption. I can sit in South Carolina and look at grass grow and not even almost think about wanting to drink. Screw it, I don’t need it, don’t want it, it won’t solve anything. Once I get here, however, it’s almost like a little worm works its way into my judgement skills and before I know it I’m craving brown liquor and fights.

I took my first drink of alcohol in Wisconsin – I remember it well – and I’ve taken my last drink of alcohol in Wisconsin – and I too will remember it well. It didn’t solve anything, but it did provide a nice period at the end of a sentence. More like a book, a fairy tale romance of a girl with a desire for self destruction and attention. I put a period at the end of the last sentence in that book last night. All by my lonesome self, in my car, I toasted all the times I had and all the times I never want again.

It burned, and I was happy it did. It made me realize that those pickles, fights, conflicts, and unhappy situations that I would find myself in were pretty well handcuffed to a bottle of some sort of liquor. Hell, I was threatened not only by a person but an entire Island, I fought will everybody that I’ve loved in my family, I led poor young lads in the wrong direction, and I spent way too much money on bar tabs. Liquor turned me into a monster, and my monster is here. I’m leaving it here.

So, as I pack my bag to get ready for a whirlwind ride back to the sunny (or not) south, I’m going to pack my suitcase with my old books that I used to read when I wasn’t a drinking person, a wad of dirty clothes, and a new outlook on who I am and the buttons that are broke in my life. Wisconsin is a broken button, it’s nobodies fault but mine (ha, another Zep reference) and as a great man once said “Sometimes the walls are too out of whack to fit a new door”. So, see you later, you wacky walls, I’ll see you again. You’ll still be broken, I’ll still be trying to push you, and I’ll still get sprayed in the eye…although the spray in my eye is usually in the form of tears streaming down my cheeks as I take that awesome cambered exit ramp onto 94 South. “Brace for the g’s, fast heel toe.”

2014-12-07 06.59.25

Poor You.

Take a look around you and realize where you are and who’s with you. Make sure you take special inventory of those that you like and dislike; those that have harmed or healed you; and those who care or cut. Then imagine yourself broke, penniless and injured. Who would you be to those people. Who would help you, who would heal you, who would move on? In certain circumstances there is an innate “good” in everybody, but there is also a aspect of “poor” in everybody too.

This country has associated “poor” with a status-related, money making term. If you ain’t got the money, honey, I ain’t got the time. This mentality is sickening and as wide spread as it really is, it’s not really going to change. I woke up this morning and I realized that I am that aspect of “poor”. I don’t have a fancy home, I don’t have a large television or a fancy car. I don’t have the latest Coach bag and I don’t eat fancy food. It’s not to say that I don’t like these things, I just decide to live within my means. I’m poor, I’ll take the consequences. I’ll shop at Goodwill, I’ll get the toilet paper that’s on sale, and I’ll also go without a “salon treatment” and just cut my own damn hair in the mirror.

Things could be different, I could just lay down and be submissive to culture and what I should be, but I would think that would make me even more “poor”.

In the world around me, especially at my job, I’m surrounded with people that are creatures of over abundance. They’re all successful in one way or another such as doctors or lawyers, but they also have lost something about themselves. Just like I’ve lost my riches, they’ve lost touch with the human race. Money can buy lots of things, but you can still me morally and mentally poor inside. The constant numbing of bigger and better things isolates you from your deepest being and who you really are.

Poverty and poor are entirely different things, and I suppose I could qualify for each, but I choose not to conform to any labels. I chose to use my income how I feel, and although right now it’s going to some places that I’d rather not, it’s only due to poor decision making. Aha, there is that word again, “Poor”. In this context poor beens subpar, bad, inferior. Of all those things, as a person, I don’t feel like I am poor. I’m a big hearted person, I care, but also I have to protect myself from other peoples “poor” behavior. In some peoples eyes I might live like a queen, in others I’m a peasant, to me, it doesn’t matter.

Those that label people “poor” are only looking at one side of the rubix cube that is the human being. Think of the complexity of self like a rubix cube. If the white side indicates wealth and the yellow side denotes health, which would you rather have all lined up first? What good is your wealth if you have poor health. Every day your rubix cube life will change, money will go, health will decline and rise, friends will come and go, but if you’re able to realize that it’s all the same no matter what, life will go on.

The more chaotic the rubix cube is, the more beautiful it is. Think of one side of the cube with all the colors in a disorganized patter. To some OCD people they might go insane, but for others they might just see the challenge of a new project. Instead of living life to set up your perfect rubix cube and look at it for the rest of your life, enjoy the changes that occur every day, even if you aren’t anticipating them. The poor people have to do this, and it makes for more interesting conversations. Struggles tell stories that are more vibrant and entertaining than watching anybodies cell phone video of the last time they went to the beach or that new purse they have.

I’m going to continue to be financially poor, and philosophically rich.

2014-11-29 07.05.24

Smack Dab In The Middle

Your chest is tight, your mind is racing, you fingers are flying like frightened ducks from a lake. This is the middle of an attack, folks, and none of us like it here. Some of the worst feelings in the world are self inflicted and being right here right now is just about the most crippling feeling in the world.

I feel like I can relate to quadrapelegics with total sanity but loss of physical capabilities. I’ve got full control over my body, my brain however, is pleading with me “More, it says. Give me more!” I can’t do it though, enough is absolutely enough. I’m at work but I cannot work. I see piles of awesome projects to do but my body stays paralized in a one track mind mentality.

I.

Can’t.

Think.

I’ve got brains, and some would even say I’m somewhat intelligent, but when I feel an “episode” coming on I’m useless. For me, it’s not a comfort thing anymore. I don’t reach for a comfort because I feel uncomfortable.

I.

Feel.

Helpless.

Beyond all that nonsense and worrying about the likelihood of losing all contact with what reality is and what I love about life, I realize this is chemical. I know it’s chemical because for once in my life .

I.

Don’t.

Care.

Those things that really hung me up before, money, relationships, fame, all that jazz means nothing to me now. All of the priorities that I had prior are kaput. Life isn’t about what’s on the next plate of food (unless you’re genuinely starving), or about how exotic your furniture is. Life is about living, and I’m really loving this living business, but every once in a while that monster jumps up and gobbles me up for no good reason.

It.

Just.

Happens.

It wouldn’t be such a big deal had I not pondered on it the entire way home last night. I’ve quit drinking, although everybody was really doubtful and worried that I couldn’t do it, I did. I have no physical desire to drink and I certainly don’t have any mental reason to want to either. The high risk choices that came from that party animal in me were destroying me, and life was a struggle, but self inflicted. I chose to put those drinks in my hand. I chose to put those pills in my mouth and although it doesn’t really seem right, I chose to wreck my car. All of those things are circumstances in which I made a decision, a conscience one at that, and had to deal with the outcome.

This.

Is.

Different.

I can’t help it, and although self help books claim that meditation, therapy, recovery houses and all that jazz are what will keep you clean it’s not true. I’m going to go as far as to say when an episode hits it might as well be a grand mal seizure. The tense muscles, the jerking, the compulsiveness. All of these just erupt from nowhere. Case in point was today, I was happily working on my project (my favorite project around the nursery all year) and all of a sudden it was almost like there was a switch that was flippped and my brain started sending out these ridiculous surges of dopamine. I was all bound up in my entire brain but didn’t want to be. Just as an epileptic has an “aura” before having an episode, I suppose these random disordered outbursts also have “auras”.

I.

Experienced.

One.

It always starts with simply checking to see what time it is. This will become very aggravating because you’ll find yourself checking every thirty seconds to see if something has happened and time has stood still. I always get into almost a panic mode while out and about and feel that I absolutely NEED to have my phone within grasp at all times. I’ll sometimes just keep the screen on so that I can just look at it and see what time it is. This morning I swear it was 10:30 for almost three hours. I had graduated from my ADSAP class and was on top of the world, but was stuck. The clock was stuck, I was stuck. I kept checking and checking, the time slowly advanced and I thought I was going to collapse.

Moving on from there, it always evolves into me going back and forth from one place to another, not quite understanding what I’m supposed to be doing. This is especially tricky when there isn’t anything to do, but it gets downright dangerous when that starts and you actually have things you need to do. Like me today, I know I had so much work to do around here it isn’t even funny, but my brain has gone into lock mode.

It.

Won’t.

Restart.

Then comes the haze that washes over you, the same as a seizure, you’re absent, confused, and unable to control exactly what you’re doing. I kid you not, I feel like there have been strings attached to my limbs at times and my arms are moving just because somebody else is pulling them. I do what I can, but it usually is of poor outcome and quite embarrassing. I push myself a little harder to catch myself from falling but it’s no use. My brain has jumped out of the plane without it’s parachute again and all I can do is wait for the rough impact.

It.

Gets.

Easier.

After accepting the fact that these eating disordered “episodes” aren’t me being a nut case, that they are in fact associated with my brain, I feel better, but also a little saddened. I can’t control my brain, the drugs aren’t working, and I shouldn’t really be stressed about anything. I plead with my brain to “chill the fuck out” but unless it’s good and ready I might as well have a seat and wait this one out. Kind of like a panic attack, or, well, a seizure. Yes. A seizure. I’m still going to be dry, and I’m still going to be iffy in certain circumstances socially. Isn’t everyone?

I give thanks to those that actually read this shit and care. You know who you are, and if you don’t think it’s you – you should believe in yourself more.

We are all loved.

Yes, I have a teddy bear and a backpack sprayer box for a night stand. I used to have it all, now I I have what's important - my sanitiy.

Yes, I have a teddy bear and a backpack sprayer box for a night stand. I used to have it all, now I I have what’s important – my sanitiy.

 

Pole Vaulting Over Mouse Turds

There aren’t any little things in life for me lately. Things are just all dramatic and what seems like life shattering. Although I’m keeping my head above water, it’s really starting to get to me. As I adventure through life as an anonymous alcoholic, I’m learning exactly WHY things seems more severe and I feel more passionate towards things that before didn’t really matter much. It’s because life is  a big deal. Living is a big deal, and dying is no laughing matter.

Let me preface this with my definition of “death” – the ending result of loss of life. It can be death of a relationship, death of a living creature, or death to an idea. I’ve found that I’m experiencing all sorts of those all at once. I’m surrounded by death. It’s everywhere. I can look out at people that usually know me as happy-go-lucky and I have this somber look about me. I’ve even been asked if I’m “all in there”, rest assured I am. Death is just a bitch. I’ve never dealt with it before.

Lets pick this apart using a very excellent analogy I heard locally. A buddy of a buddy told a dude once “You know, normal people they just kind of step over mouse turds and go about their business. I however, over think and prepare and exert all this unnecessary effort in getting over something that most people would find easy, if not invisible. In the relationship aspect there is no “invisible”, you can’t pretend is isn’t/wasn’t/won’t be there. It’s always going to be a hot topic and something certainly worth pole vaulting over any size turd for. I, however, have been soiling on purpose just to see if I can vault over my own turds in addition to the random ones that get dropped into my life.

Instead of dealing with other peoples problems as they relate to my own, I was shitting in other peoples cages. That isn’t right, I feel badly about that. Now I’m on a search seek and clean mission, not just for myself but to try to heal the people that I made deal with my pole vaulting mentality. Something as little and simple as what to eat for dinner became as big an event as the Super Bowl. My ability to make something out of nothing was extreme…and I was extremely pissed when it all came into light for me. All of the energy I spent in my relationships (past and present) I’ve been looking for stuff to jump over instead of just focusing on everything else going on. I was constantly on poo patrol.

It stunk, but nobodies fault but my own.

Death of a creature is something that I guess I know,  but then again I don’t know. There is this hole that gets ripped inside of you, which causes pain and confusion. Instead of focusing on the overall picture of being out of pain, I’ve found that I just focus on the “woe is me” aspect and wallow in my own self pity. I use this as a tool to arrange for a pole vault extravaganza and find sadness wherever I look. Oh, that song was his favorite, oh that cookie was her favorite, oh she was the best cat and loved to play in the leaves, oh that car was so amazing. I jump from turd to turd just anticipating a moment in which I can stew in my sad juices and think about my own death. Piling up my own turds. Sigh.

I didn’t realize how facinated with death I really am until speaking aloud in class the other day about how I would react to a certain situation. This in turn lead to me plainly answering “I wouldn’t deal with it, I’d find the tallest tree and the shortest rope and swing in the breeze.” This of course didn’t amuse anybody in the class, and I’m sure it alerted the instructor,  but that’s exactly what I was feeling. Damn it, if I’m going to fuck up, I’m going to do it with style and punish myself afterwards.

I realized, however, I don’t have to fuck up. I don’t have to use all of that energy In order to properly save myself from this life long pole vault extravaganza, I’d have to commit myself to death of ideas.

The idea that I’m not good enough for anybody.

The idea that I’m not strong enough to become who I want to be.

The idea that I’m not smart enough to make good decisions.

The idea that I’m a troll from under a bridge.

The idea that I’m destined to be a screw up.

Last night I experienced death…death of pride. I really thought it would come in a different way, but it was subtle and really was a sucker punch. As I prepared myself for sleep I put my head against my pillow and listened. What I used to hear was the occasional car and perhaps owl hooting outside. Last night it was surround sound of three old men all sharing the same house snoring to their hearts content. They had their own special lives in their own private rooms and I was just like them. They’re all over 50, I’m thirty. I can’t go another 20 years plus of living this life. I won’t go another 20 plus years of being on an air mattress and listening to the three stooges in concert. In order to make this happen death has to occur.

Death of ideas, death of a few dreams, death of a few relationships. Most important though, with death comes new life. We’ll see what happens.

 

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Donut holes and dreams

“With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go”

The road can teach you valuable lessons, such as learning the interstate system and how to get awesome cb radio handles. The road can also be your best friend or worst enemy. Sometimes our best friends end up being our worst enemies, but more on that another day.

As I found myself in the one series going for a much needed therapeutic sunset cruise, it soon became apparent that with all the miles I had driven I hadn’t gone far enough. The therapeutic nature of my ride transforms into a mind numbing cry fest followed by bouts of singing at the top of your lungs.

The beauty of the therapeutic drive is that you are at the mercies of wherever your mind takes you. It doesn’t always have to be scenic, it doesn’t always have to have an end point, it just happens. Instead of counting the miles until you get to your destination your applauding yourself for the miles you’ve accumulated.

I think I accumulated whatever 3/4 of a tank of gas in the one series. It was peaceful, the open interstate, not even truckers were out. It was a pseudo apocalypse like setting. 85 southbound was vacant. The only soul that I encountered was the sweet lady at the truck stop I bought the donut holes from. For some reason she was laughing at the concept that I was buying donut holes and nothing else. Gee lady, get a life.

Then I realized, all the donut holes in the world could never fill the void that I have in my life at this very moment. I’m Curled up in the front seat watching the sunrise through grey skies and think back to the sunset from the night prior. I can’t remember it, but then again I know it happened. Much like many things in life, you know they happen and eventually you start taking them for granted.

I miss all the things I used to have, but drinking isn’t one of them. I’d rather be a homeless sober bum than living the highlife saturated with cunning, baffling booze. I would give up the sunsets forever to remove the toxic buildup of memories up has caused not only myself but my loved ones. As I work through my twelve steps I realize the massive number of people I hurt, but plead for forgiveness. I’d fall on my knees in a moment to sob at the feet of all those that I’ve hurt.

As I drove the empty interstate last night, looking for my last glimmer of reason, it came upon me. Maybe the roads are empty because everyone else is Curled up in a nice warm bed. Respectfully noted, that’s where I headed. To my dismay there was no room at the Inn. The door was locked and the beds were all full. Tail between my legs and heart in my throat I got back into the one series and Curled up. This is it, this is my bed and I will very happily lay in it and learn from it.

This morning, however, those donut holes don’t look any more appetizing.
All you can do is fall back on what you know, for me is music. James Taylor serenaded me many a times with this tune, and now I finally understand it.

“There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep 
But singing works just fine for me”

I cannot sleep and I’m not planning on visiting the sky, so I reckon I’ll just sing.

Loudly.

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Free-ish Book

Screw it. I figure I wrote a book and anybody should be able to enjoy it.

I’m not going to lie, I thought the book was going to bring me a bunch of pats on the back and the feeling like I’ve really made a change in somebodies life. Yeah, that didn’t happen.

So – I dropped the price of the book on Amazon to $0.99 cents. They wouldn’t allow me to make it 100% free, sorry.

I can, however, upload and you can download it or do whatever magic the internet does.

The Noose, The Noodle And the Nectar

Click those blue letters – see what happens.

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The hydrophobic leaf, the hoop to jump through, and the apple core

It’s lot to comprehend at once, I know. A bunch of stuff that doesn’t seem to mix together in any way shape or form. A bunch of stuff that seems like it shouldn’t belong together and even if they were found in the same place at the same time it’d be awkward. Yes, awkward.

However, I find myself dealing with all three of these things today and I like it. Not only are they all facets of my life that I truly relish, they’re all things that most people wouldn’t understand nor want to. We will start with the apple core. Let’s face it, I’m no longer in denial about what I was and who I want to be – I was obsessed with food for the past twelve years. That’s a long freaking time. I mean think about it, every waking moment worrying about what my last meal was, what my next meal is going to be and how quickly I can get rid of it. It sounds sadistic and truth be told it is, but that was the old me.

The new me, and hopefully the me that will inspire the rest of the world towards great things, could care less. My ex-husband never took the time to really get to know me, his response to my relationship with food was “Why can’t you be like everybody else, chew swallow and shit”. Yeah, that works well for Mr. high metabolism log flume turd machine, but not so much for me. Instead of focusing on how to get rid of things now, I’m looking forward to how I get them and how I actually enjoy them. Take for example my daily apple (they do keep certain doctors away). I decided to take every aspect of that apple and be grateful for it. The freshness, the crispness, the sweetness all of those things that would otherwise be lost on me. I was no longer anticipating the next bite, I was enjoying the moment that I was in.

Some people call this mindful thinking, I just call it paying attention. It’s incredible when your mind opens up what you can take in all at one.

That leads into this “hoop”. Yes, I’m a practicing member of AA – I’m not ashamed, if anything I’m the proudest of that than I am just about any other accomplishment in my entire life. I am able to discharge the shame and hurt that I’ve felt about myself for so long and realize that yes, I was powerless. Not anymore, if anything giving up and admitting that I was powerless wasn’t as difficult as it was for some of the other people I’ve heard speak. I knew it was a problem, I just didn’t know how to come to grasp the situation. As step one speaks:

Step 1 – I admit that I am powerless over my addiction and that my life has become unmanageable.

How embarrassing, right? How meaningless. I mean gee whiz, admitting that I am powerless over my addiction pretty much just wraps me up into a big bundle of loser, right?

wrong.

Throwing up my hands and saying, “Okay, you’ve won, game over. I don’t want to play anymore.” has been the most empowering and awesome thing I’ve ever done. My life is amazing, I have the most amazing guy in the world, I live in the most amazing place in the world, I have some really awesome friends that help me out when the times get rough. Hell, I even have total strangers that compliment me on the way that I can bring light to situations. My life is awesome, but unmanagable. Picture it this way, you have a business and it’s booming. You’ve got profits, you’ve got dedicated customers, you’re looking towards franchising. You start that second store and carefully select the manager to take care of business when you can’t be around. That manager, the one you thought you could trust, lies and steals from you and runs your company into the ground. From a business stand point would you fire him or would you allow him to destroy all you’ve worked so hard for?

fire that bastard. Of course you’d fire him, but in retrospect that’s what alcoholism has done to so many defenseless people. They allow somebody or something to control the well being and happiness in life. It’s awesome, really, I can wake up in the morning and not even have a slight inkling to want something to drink and carry that with me throughout the day. I have mentally fired that bad manager. It’s destroying somebody else now, not my problem any more. After working through step one, step two will find you in a sort of spiritual enlightenment in which the best thing to take from it is to:

“relax, the hoop you have to jump through is much wider than you think it is.” I’ve gotten through that hoop with room to spare.

As for the hydrophobic leaf, in a depressed and antisocial state I find myself in my dark office. Along comes one of my fellow nursery workers with an innocent question on the reason why Indian Hawthorns die. Of course I could have just said “they’re shit plants” but no, I decided to grab that topic by the testicles and get on my high chair of plant knowledge and give a whole speech on the qualities of aging shrubbery and how it becomes conducive to fungal problems due to improper air circulation. I also went into the fact that newer cultivars have a better hydrophobic leaf to them and can repel water better so that the it gets absorbed into the soil instead of staying on the leaf to rot. I also went into proper spacing and before it knew it he was glazed over.

The response “So, it’s just because they’re, like, old?”

Yes, because they’re, like, old. That’s why Indian hawthorns die.

Apple core, worms galore, a can of some corrosive

Apple core, worms galore, a can of some corrosive