I'm bored.
Bored Bored Bored Bored BORED
I don't want to read a book. Books are empty... pointless.
I don't want to watch tv... staged documentaries, acting, media CRAP.
I don't want to listen to music. Music HURTS.
I don't want to go for a walk, there's nowhere to walk to, and the people in the cars don't like walkers.
I don't want to eat anymore. I'm not hungry, I'm bored!
Beer is doing nothing but swelling my gut.
The people who can tolerate me are all busy. No phone for me.
I don't want to work out. I want to work out tomorrow when I need to kill MUCH more time than today.
I don't want to draw. Nothing can capture the intensity.
so I write
and stare
and smoke
and write
and stare some more
and smoke some more
All the writing in the world won't do it though.
All the searching
All the traveling
All the waiting
All the screaming
All the crying
All the cutting
All the
boredom
I'm still here, silently howling.
Monday, May 31, 2004
~I remember 9
Did you know that you can blow bubbles with snot and spit while crying the word "mommy"?
~Magnets and Madmen
...but we've been through it all before, haven't we? Built up, then smashed violently into some reality we were temporarily blinded to. Over and over and over again... following that trail of crystal breadcrumbs... picking them up, then breaking our teeth off attempting to snack while starving.
...you look so intensely into the eyes, searching and searching, and you think you see a glimmer... and you do... but then it's gone. You're left a fool staring into flat eyes of indifference.
...when you cry wolf...
...you look so intensely into the eyes, searching and searching, and you think you see a glimmer... and you do... but then it's gone. You're left a fool staring into flat eyes of indifference.
...when you cry wolf...
~Chains
My head is all over the place this morning. I slept a lot last night. Got into bed early because the worst depression hit me. Sometimes, all you can do is sleep it off. So I did.
I don't feel depressed. I feel charged. I do like the feeling, but I also recognize it. This feeling can turn to homicidal rage or the verge of suicide in seconds. It's just intensity. It's all intensity, no matter what form it takes. It makes me a dangerous Beast... to most.
I used to have that tattooed on my calf, "Beast". I'm pretty sure it was in the late 80s that I put it there. In the early 90s, it was one of the tattoos that got covered when I had my largest piece done, a Durer woodcut Jesus on a cross, inverted, with a snake around it. It covers the inside of my left calf. The outline took 7 or 8 hours. It was the only tattoo, out of 20some, that I actually had to open a beer for. That was about hour 6 though. I got the color done about a year later.
All the tats I had covered up, I planned to move elsewhere, "Beast" being one of them. The 3 sixes that were with the word, I moved to my head, that same day actually, before the calf work was done.
I've yet to figure out where "Beast" goes, or if it's even needed anymore. What's behind it, is only for one person... the one who can hold the end of the chain.
I don't feel depressed. I feel charged. I do like the feeling, but I also recognize it. This feeling can turn to homicidal rage or the verge of suicide in seconds. It's just intensity. It's all intensity, no matter what form it takes. It makes me a dangerous Beast... to most.
I used to have that tattooed on my calf, "Beast". I'm pretty sure it was in the late 80s that I put it there. In the early 90s, it was one of the tattoos that got covered when I had my largest piece done, a Durer woodcut Jesus on a cross, inverted, with a snake around it. It covers the inside of my left calf. The outline took 7 or 8 hours. It was the only tattoo, out of 20some, that I actually had to open a beer for. That was about hour 6 though. I got the color done about a year later.
All the tats I had covered up, I planned to move elsewhere, "Beast" being one of them. The 3 sixes that were with the word, I moved to my head, that same day actually, before the calf work was done.
I've yet to figure out where "Beast" goes, or if it's even needed anymore. What's behind it, is only for one person... the one who can hold the end of the chain.
Sunday, May 30, 2004
~Holidays
They sting. It's really difficult to get past the sitting around feeling sorry for myself point. I envy other people... I know that it's not a Norman Rockwell painting... I know that it can get pretty harrowing....but... it's family. Not the "family" that will be in the surgical waiting area when you're found beat to within an inch of your life family, not wedding and funeral family, but the family who says "You make me nuts, but you're family" family. The people who could go/are welcome elsewhere, but they don't, because you're supposed to be with family.
I don't have that. I want that, but I don't have it. I'm always the stranger at the table. "Poor Jon" who has nowhere else to go.
I feel like a stray dog...
link
I don't have that. I want that, but I don't have it. I'm always the stranger at the table. "Poor Jon" who has nowhere else to go.
I feel like a stray dog...
link
~Invisiballs
I could write a book about sex, gender, and sexuality. In fact, I already have, it just happens to span across 28 years, a few landfills, 40 binders, 10 notebooks, a few megs of hard drive space, and 5 years of the Internet. A little difficult to bind.
No matter how much I've written and talked about it though, it never stops being difficult; difficult to explain it in a way that gets the point across to people, and difficult to trust people enough not to take their own insecurities out on your skull.
Even the basic concept of sex, gender and sexuality being 3 different things is a tough concept for most people to get. I usually start off with the basic sex: biological stereotype, gender: social stereotype, sexuality: who you sleep and/or partner with. From there I attempt to get people to see that what they think makes them a man or a woman really doesn't. That gets tricky. That's when people's dander gets up.
So, why do I bother?
Because I don't want one more human being to have to go through the HELL that I've been through, or the hell that I still go through daily, because of what happens to be in their pants, what they choose to wear, or whom they choose to love.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's tough to talk about, all the sex and gender stuff.
Pictures are rough. Beyond rough, actually. I see pictures of myself when I was younger, with very few exceptions, and I'm a mess. It's seeing pictures of myself being abused.... tortured... and knowing that people find pleasure in those pictures. I can't even really put into words how it makes me feel. Suicidal would be close.
I "stole" a bunch of pictures from my mother. I'm often caught with what to do with them... save them or burn them. Saving them... there's proof... there's proof of what they did. Burning them would feel good though... a symbolic "fuck you".
Many of the pics that exist are from "holidays". "Holidays" were the worst. The fights were beyond bad. It was all about getting me dressed. The last holiday, before I left home, my stepfather pushed me down the stairs and had me backed against the wall. I wouldn't put the clothing on that they wanted me to.
It was always like that. September is "Jewish New Year", then there's Thanksgiving, then Chanukah, and finally New Year's. New Year's was a little less horrible than the rest.
It's funny. They blame everything for my leaving home. I wanted to be rebellious. Drugs. Whatever they can. I think it's really ridiculous that it never occurs to them that underneath it all, aside from a lot of it - the physical abuse, the dysfunction, the traumas and their effect - the reason I left home was because they were trying to turn me into a girl.
I could have dealt with strict. I could have dealt with getting my ass kicked every now and again. I could have dealt with ridiculous rules. I could have dealt with a lot of things. I could not deal with being forced to wear dresses. I could not deal with being punished for who I am.
I was nice. I was respectful. I was well mannered. I was funny, talented, intelligent, and creative. I just wasn't a girl.
To this day, they'll say that I am/was/etc. That abuse continues. They'll want me to see old photo albums... thinking that I'll see them and smile. They'll point out that they changed my diapers.
I hate them. All of them.
I do what I can to control the effects of the rage. It's a full time job.
Maybe all I want is for, one day, for them to apologize... and to treat me with respect... To realize that they were wrong for what they did to me... for what they've done to me for 34 years.
It's not the easiest thing being different. My body is different... but that just makes me a guy who's different, not a girl. It wasn't about wanting to be a guy. I am a guy. I just wanted to be myself. It took me a long time to undo what I could of the damage they did. ...the programming runs so deep... It took me a long time to realize that no matter what I did, I could not become what they wanted me to be. I did try. Through all the fights and the breakdowns and the suffering, I tried. You just can't be someone you're not. It doesn't matter what you wear, you are who you are. In a dress, I was a guy in a dress. Guys can wear dresses, if they want... it's ok. It's just not ok to force someone to wear clothing that they don't want to wear because of the message it sends. It's not ok to put a dog into a cat suit. It's not ok to abuse a dog in every way possible to make it into the cat you so desperately want it to be.
All they had to do was listen. All they had to do was give me the benefit of the doubt.
Looking at those photos hurts. The last pictures taken of me in a dress were from 8th grade graduation. From that point forward, one by one, I took things into my own hands, and as I did, my "parents", of course, responded by "punishing" me. It escalated to physical/violent behavior on their parts by September of '84.
It was my loss. I didn't have the guidance I needed. My brother lost out not having me around. My sister lost out (and still holds a grudge) because of my leaving. Yes, I won in that I circumvented suicide, but 20 years later, I'm still trying to live.
I don't know how to be a "normal" guy, not because I don't have nuts to stuff into my jeans, but because at the age I needed guidance, all I had was Boy George (thank you, George, for giving me the courage to live as myself) and the street. (That made me a very mouthy Punk, but a far cry from "normal".)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I suppose that I'm at an interesting crossroads, of sorts, in therapy.
When I started seeing SH in October of 2002, I decided that I was going to tell her my life story. I'd never done it before, told the whole story, to anyone. I'd tried, on paper at least, to get through it all, even for my self, but never was able to. I usually ended up stopping somewhere about age 7 or 8.
Well, I got past 7 or 8, and have ended up at 14 or 15. This is the critical mass point. It's after my "awakening", and before my leaving home. It's what it all built up to...
SH has cried and gone bug eyed over much of my story. There's no problem "justifying" my "disorder". I have enough within the first couple of years to do that. But now... here's the critical mass point... the point in my life where, depending on how you look at it, I cracked entirely, or I gave up, or I decided to "survive".
I left. My mother, to this day, dumps that on me. I chose to leave. It's about me wanting to be different.
that's what it's all about...
Am I "bad"? Was I... am I "wrong". Am I weak? Am I simply rebellious? Am I selfish? Did I ask for it? (Those are rhetorical questions.)
So... it's critical mass. The point where I sit and I ask my therapist those questions. Where I ask the opinion of an "outsider" who now knows every last bit of what happened, or at least has heard it.
Will she take my side because she's my therapist and it's her job to do so? Can she stop crying long enough to step back and see it as a parent might? Do I really want her to?
There's "part 2" of the story to come. It doesn't get a whole hell of a lot prettier.
In the end... if it's all justified... if it's really not my fault... then what? What happens if at the end of all this storytelling it boils down to that... that it truly is not my fault... that I'm truly and justifiably "disabled"... that's it's not about my not trying or my choosing to be this way? What does that change? Will my knowledge of "the truth" change anything? If I stop doubting myself, will others around me stop doing so? Will I ever stop wanting to kill people, or myself, every time I hear "You look fine!"?
I don't know what I'm getting at. My head is spinning a little.
It's not so much about "blame"... but then sometimes it is. Depends on the day. Do I want others to want to kill my mother as intensely as I do during my matricidal swings? Depends on the day. Do I want people to understand why I want to kill my mother? Yes. It's not about "blame", it's about hurt, anger, ...RAGE. The whole thing is that it will always be my word against theirs... my word against the world's...
I do hope that one day I can grow to the point of it not mattering to me what others think, but I'm certainly not there yet. I'm still at the point where people's opinions matter to me. Still at the point where if someone takes the side of my parents or believes the crap that they or any other family member spews, I can barely control the rage. It's odd though... often, when that rage hits, it's not that I want to kill any of them, it's more myself that I want to do in. The "blame" shifts, and then I become such an awful person that I don't deserve to live... and the pain becomes so intense that I don't want to.
I go day to day. I try not to kill myself (blame myself), and I try not to kill others (blame them).
Just typing about this is giving my head a run for its money. It's trying to shift... trying to switch... visions of razors dance in the back of my mind...
Drink. Drink Drink. Sometimes I forget that my head is actually fucked up. I take their words to heart and blame alcohol... that's what they often blame... drugs and alcohol. It's not that my state of being was legitimate, it was something I did to myself. My fault. The blame is on me.
I never could prove it to them that it wasn't drugs or alcohol. Even when I was tossed into rehab, and the rehab booted me because I wasn't addicted to anything... even when the rehab said that what I really needed was therapy, not AA or NA... that wasn't enough. To this day they still want to blame the symptoms, rather than the cause. They still want to say that it was my fault... that I chose this.
I want so desperately to walk away completely... but I can't. I love my brother. My brother is, and always has been, part of what makes my life worth living. He's linked though... to all of that... to them... and I can't tell him to take sides. ...but there are sides. As much as I want there not to be. Every time I talk with him, I realize that there are. Even if I don't blame his family, they still hold an opinion, and that opinion, based on what they saw... how I had to be around them, backs up "the other side".
"You look fine"
Yes, I'm a master at that. I'll always look fine. I'm well trained.
Links
1 2 3 4
No matter how much I've written and talked about it though, it never stops being difficult; difficult to explain it in a way that gets the point across to people, and difficult to trust people enough not to take their own insecurities out on your skull.
Even the basic concept of sex, gender and sexuality being 3 different things is a tough concept for most people to get. I usually start off with the basic sex: biological stereotype, gender: social stereotype, sexuality: who you sleep and/or partner with. From there I attempt to get people to see that what they think makes them a man or a woman really doesn't. That gets tricky. That's when people's dander gets up.
So, why do I bother?
Because I don't want one more human being to have to go through the HELL that I've been through, or the hell that I still go through daily, because of what happens to be in their pants, what they choose to wear, or whom they choose to love.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's tough to talk about, all the sex and gender stuff.
Pictures are rough. Beyond rough, actually. I see pictures of myself when I was younger, with very few exceptions, and I'm a mess. It's seeing pictures of myself being abused.... tortured... and knowing that people find pleasure in those pictures. I can't even really put into words how it makes me feel. Suicidal would be close.
I "stole" a bunch of pictures from my mother. I'm often caught with what to do with them... save them or burn them. Saving them... there's proof... there's proof of what they did. Burning them would feel good though... a symbolic "fuck you".
Many of the pics that exist are from "holidays". "Holidays" were the worst. The fights were beyond bad. It was all about getting me dressed. The last holiday, before I left home, my stepfather pushed me down the stairs and had me backed against the wall. I wouldn't put the clothing on that they wanted me to.
It was always like that. September is "Jewish New Year", then there's Thanksgiving, then Chanukah, and finally New Year's. New Year's was a little less horrible than the rest.
It's funny. They blame everything for my leaving home. I wanted to be rebellious. Drugs. Whatever they can. I think it's really ridiculous that it never occurs to them that underneath it all, aside from a lot of it - the physical abuse, the dysfunction, the traumas and their effect - the reason I left home was because they were trying to turn me into a girl.
I could have dealt with strict. I could have dealt with getting my ass kicked every now and again. I could have dealt with ridiculous rules. I could have dealt with a lot of things. I could not deal with being forced to wear dresses. I could not deal with being punished for who I am.
I was nice. I was respectful. I was well mannered. I was funny, talented, intelligent, and creative. I just wasn't a girl.
To this day, they'll say that I am/was/etc. That abuse continues. They'll want me to see old photo albums... thinking that I'll see them and smile. They'll point out that they changed my diapers.
I hate them. All of them.
I do what I can to control the effects of the rage. It's a full time job.
Maybe all I want is for, one day, for them to apologize... and to treat me with respect... To realize that they were wrong for what they did to me... for what they've done to me for 34 years.
It's not the easiest thing being different. My body is different... but that just makes me a guy who's different, not a girl. It wasn't about wanting to be a guy. I am a guy. I just wanted to be myself. It took me a long time to undo what I could of the damage they did. ...the programming runs so deep... It took me a long time to realize that no matter what I did, I could not become what they wanted me to be. I did try. Through all the fights and the breakdowns and the suffering, I tried. You just can't be someone you're not. It doesn't matter what you wear, you are who you are. In a dress, I was a guy in a dress. Guys can wear dresses, if they want... it's ok. It's just not ok to force someone to wear clothing that they don't want to wear because of the message it sends. It's not ok to put a dog into a cat suit. It's not ok to abuse a dog in every way possible to make it into the cat you so desperately want it to be.
All they had to do was listen. All they had to do was give me the benefit of the doubt.
Looking at those photos hurts. The last pictures taken of me in a dress were from 8th grade graduation. From that point forward, one by one, I took things into my own hands, and as I did, my "parents", of course, responded by "punishing" me. It escalated to physical/violent behavior on their parts by September of '84.
It was my loss. I didn't have the guidance I needed. My brother lost out not having me around. My sister lost out (and still holds a grudge) because of my leaving. Yes, I won in that I circumvented suicide, but 20 years later, I'm still trying to live.
I don't know how to be a "normal" guy, not because I don't have nuts to stuff into my jeans, but because at the age I needed guidance, all I had was Boy George (thank you, George, for giving me the courage to live as myself) and the street. (That made me a very mouthy Punk, but a far cry from "normal".)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I suppose that I'm at an interesting crossroads, of sorts, in therapy.
When I started seeing SH in October of 2002, I decided that I was going to tell her my life story. I'd never done it before, told the whole story, to anyone. I'd tried, on paper at least, to get through it all, even for my self, but never was able to. I usually ended up stopping somewhere about age 7 or 8.
Well, I got past 7 or 8, and have ended up at 14 or 15. This is the critical mass point. It's after my "awakening", and before my leaving home. It's what it all built up to...
SH has cried and gone bug eyed over much of my story. There's no problem "justifying" my "disorder". I have enough within the first couple of years to do that. But now... here's the critical mass point... the point in my life where, depending on how you look at it, I cracked entirely, or I gave up, or I decided to "survive".
I left. My mother, to this day, dumps that on me. I chose to leave. It's about me wanting to be different.
that's what it's all about...
Am I "bad"? Was I... am I "wrong". Am I weak? Am I simply rebellious? Am I selfish? Did I ask for it? (Those are rhetorical questions.)
So... it's critical mass. The point where I sit and I ask my therapist those questions. Where I ask the opinion of an "outsider" who now knows every last bit of what happened, or at least has heard it.
Will she take my side because she's my therapist and it's her job to do so? Can she stop crying long enough to step back and see it as a parent might? Do I really want her to?
There's "part 2" of the story to come. It doesn't get a whole hell of a lot prettier.
In the end... if it's all justified... if it's really not my fault... then what? What happens if at the end of all this storytelling it boils down to that... that it truly is not my fault... that I'm truly and justifiably "disabled"... that's it's not about my not trying or my choosing to be this way? What does that change? Will my knowledge of "the truth" change anything? If I stop doubting myself, will others around me stop doing so? Will I ever stop wanting to kill people, or myself, every time I hear "You look fine!"?
I don't know what I'm getting at. My head is spinning a little.
It's not so much about "blame"... but then sometimes it is. Depends on the day. Do I want others to want to kill my mother as intensely as I do during my matricidal swings? Depends on the day. Do I want people to understand why I want to kill my mother? Yes. It's not about "blame", it's about hurt, anger, ...RAGE. The whole thing is that it will always be my word against theirs... my word against the world's...
I do hope that one day I can grow to the point of it not mattering to me what others think, but I'm certainly not there yet. I'm still at the point where people's opinions matter to me. Still at the point where if someone takes the side of my parents or believes the crap that they or any other family member spews, I can barely control the rage. It's odd though... often, when that rage hits, it's not that I want to kill any of them, it's more myself that I want to do in. The "blame" shifts, and then I become such an awful person that I don't deserve to live... and the pain becomes so intense that I don't want to.
I go day to day. I try not to kill myself (blame myself), and I try not to kill others (blame them).
Just typing about this is giving my head a run for its money. It's trying to shift... trying to switch... visions of razors dance in the back of my mind...
Drink. Drink Drink. Sometimes I forget that my head is actually fucked up. I take their words to heart and blame alcohol... that's what they often blame... drugs and alcohol. It's not that my state of being was legitimate, it was something I did to myself. My fault. The blame is on me.
I never could prove it to them that it wasn't drugs or alcohol. Even when I was tossed into rehab, and the rehab booted me because I wasn't addicted to anything... even when the rehab said that what I really needed was therapy, not AA or NA... that wasn't enough. To this day they still want to blame the symptoms, rather than the cause. They still want to say that it was my fault... that I chose this.
I want so desperately to walk away completely... but I can't. I love my brother. My brother is, and always has been, part of what makes my life worth living. He's linked though... to all of that... to them... and I can't tell him to take sides. ...but there are sides. As much as I want there not to be. Every time I talk with him, I realize that there are. Even if I don't blame his family, they still hold an opinion, and that opinion, based on what they saw... how I had to be around them, backs up "the other side".
"You look fine"
Yes, I'm a master at that. I'll always look fine. I'm well trained.
Links
1 2 3 4
Saturday, May 29, 2004
~Toddling in terror.
Part of my "early childhood development" occurred in Israel. From late 1974 through early 1976, that's where I lived. Basically, ages 5-6.
That time period, especially '74 (I looked it up), was not a good time to be a child in Israel. Not that it's ever really been a good time to live in the Middle East, no matter how old you are.
I can step back from it and say... "wow, that sort of environment would really mess with a child's head, especially if they go from American society, to Israeli society for a year and a half of crucial development time, and then back to American Society." Then I realize that I'm basically living proof of that statement. True, there are a zillion other factors which contributed to my fucked-upness, but 1974-6 Israel is a big one.
I never felt that I could relate to people I met who were "abuse survivors" in the same way I could relate to Veterans. I guess that it makes sense. I just don't have any stripes for my service. Just the ones I put there with razor blades, I suppose.
link
That time period, especially '74 (I looked it up), was not a good time to be a child in Israel. Not that it's ever really been a good time to live in the Middle East, no matter how old you are.
I can step back from it and say... "wow, that sort of environment would really mess with a child's head, especially if they go from American society, to Israeli society for a year and a half of crucial development time, and then back to American Society." Then I realize that I'm basically living proof of that statement. True, there are a zillion other factors which contributed to my fucked-upness, but 1974-6 Israel is a big one.
I never felt that I could relate to people I met who were "abuse survivors" in the same way I could relate to Veterans. I guess that it makes sense. I just don't have any stripes for my service. Just the ones I put there with razor blades, I suppose.
link
~You snooze, you lose.
I'm getting grumpy. I can feel it.
What I want to do today is manage to work out, shower, vacuum, make salad, talk to a couple of people on the phone, and maybe add to the whopping 4 hours of sleep I got last night / this morning.
What Cracks a Beer will ending up managing? Who knows? Cracking a beer or 6?
I don't sleep like most other people. The reason or reasons why are all theoretical. Early childhood surgery and early childhood abuse are in the lead for most likely reasons.
It's not simple Insomnia. No, I will not subject myself to being experimented on. Don't even think the word Chamomile or I'll stuff you with it and bake at 350 for a few hours. No, meds do not work. My memory isn't great, but sleep problems have been a reality for me since, at least, age 5. So no, it's not the damn caffeine.
The longest I've slept in (at least) the last 20 years, if not since I was 5, is 5 hours. It's tough to remember the time before I really took notice to my "difference", but I do remember that in '97 or '98 I passed out from a mixture of alcohol, pot, cocaine, and Benadryl, and that 5 hours was the longest I'd slept since I could remember. There was also an incident with a half a fifth of Yukon Jack, and then the ODs, but they were about the same length of time.
I used to think that this was normal. I had no reason to ask people about their sleep habits. I had no reason to share mine with anyone. Then I started sleeping with people, and it came to my attention that when people said they slept for 8 hours, they actually meant that they slept for 8 hours. No wonder people were amazed when I told them that I'd slept for 16 hours! They thought that I actually meant straight through!
In truth, the thought of sleeping 8 hours... shoot, the thought of sleeping 5 hours, scares the hell out of me. If that ever happens, I hope that someone is around to check for a pulse.
Basically, I take naps. For example, last night (technically this morning), I had 2 naps that were about an hour, then one nap that was about 2 hours. I do wake up. It's not a shift in position, or a grumble. It's a - smoke a half of a cigarette or so, drink some water, maybe check the tv, if it's on, and then go back to sleep - I'm upness.
I sleep in 45 minute to 3 hour shifts. The 3 hour ones are pretty rare. Going over 3 hours, without a lot of drugs and/or alcohol, just doesn't happen.
So...
another day in the life of Cracks a Beer, the sleep deprived wolf in sheep's clothing.
Whatever will he manage to do today?
rrrrp
What I want to do today is manage to work out, shower, vacuum, make salad, talk to a couple of people on the phone, and maybe add to the whopping 4 hours of sleep I got last night / this morning.
What Cracks a Beer will ending up managing? Who knows? Cracking a beer or 6?
I don't sleep like most other people. The reason or reasons why are all theoretical. Early childhood surgery and early childhood abuse are in the lead for most likely reasons.
It's not simple Insomnia. No, I will not subject myself to being experimented on. Don't even think the word Chamomile or I'll stuff you with it and bake at 350 for a few hours. No, meds do not work. My memory isn't great, but sleep problems have been a reality for me since, at least, age 5. So no, it's not the damn caffeine.
The longest I've slept in (at least) the last 20 years, if not since I was 5, is 5 hours. It's tough to remember the time before I really took notice to my "difference", but I do remember that in '97 or '98 I passed out from a mixture of alcohol, pot, cocaine, and Benadryl, and that 5 hours was the longest I'd slept since I could remember. There was also an incident with a half a fifth of Yukon Jack, and then the ODs, but they were about the same length of time.
I used to think that this was normal. I had no reason to ask people about their sleep habits. I had no reason to share mine with anyone. Then I started sleeping with people, and it came to my attention that when people said they slept for 8 hours, they actually meant that they slept for 8 hours. No wonder people were amazed when I told them that I'd slept for 16 hours! They thought that I actually meant straight through!
In truth, the thought of sleeping 8 hours... shoot, the thought of sleeping 5 hours, scares the hell out of me. If that ever happens, I hope that someone is around to check for a pulse.
Basically, I take naps. For example, last night (technically this morning), I had 2 naps that were about an hour, then one nap that was about 2 hours. I do wake up. It's not a shift in position, or a grumble. It's a - smoke a half of a cigarette or so, drink some water, maybe check the tv, if it's on, and then go back to sleep - I'm upness.
I sleep in 45 minute to 3 hour shifts. The 3 hour ones are pretty rare. Going over 3 hours, without a lot of drugs and/or alcohol, just doesn't happen.
So...
another day in the life of Cracks a Beer, the sleep deprived wolf in sheep's clothing.
Whatever will he manage to do today?
rrrrp
Friday, May 28, 2004
~*cracks a beer*
Sounds like an "Indian" name.
"Be still, cracks a beer, you'll frighten the sheep."
I crack myself up.
Crack kills?
rrrrrrp
I never did get the hang of all that Role Play stuff. I'm a little too realistic, I guess. I was in a chat room about 5 years ago, when I was new to the whole Internet thing, and wasn't familiar with the whole RP style. They didn't take too kindly to it when I pointed out the fact that none of them were old enough to drink "Blood Wine", whether or not it even existed in the first place, and most likely had no clue what blood or wine alone tasted like. It'd be sort of like drinking coppery, runny, bitter grape jello.
Yeah, well... I belched my way into being hacked with that approach.
My "realism" was new to that group of people. They used the net to escape reality. I was trying to use it to expand mine.
Even in the 80s when a few of my friends would do the D&D thing, I just couldn't get there with my brain. I found it to be a bit silly. Even my "fantasies" are based in reality. If they're not, they're no fun. If it can't happen, I sort of deflate. It's gotten more extreme as I've gotten older too. Even the tiniest plot hole will make me grumble while watching a movie. It's not that I can't picture fantasy creatures or worlds, it's just not really fulfilling for me. It's a whole hell of a lot more fulfilling to picture a beautiful reality that could very well exist someday. I don't need Unicorns and Faeries. I need health, wealth, and happiness.
rrrrrrp
I'm honest, that's just who I am, even to the point of seeming a bit brash. I don't like my reality, but with the Internet, I'm not trying to escape it. I'm trying to change it. No, I don't want a sip of your Blood Wine. I want to have a drink with another adult, because we're both stuck in the house staring at our computer screens, and misery loves company, damnit.
Anyone got any Doritos?
"Be still, cracks a beer, you'll frighten the sheep."
I crack myself up.
Crack kills?
rrrrrrp
I never did get the hang of all that Role Play stuff. I'm a little too realistic, I guess. I was in a chat room about 5 years ago, when I was new to the whole Internet thing, and wasn't familiar with the whole RP style. They didn't take too kindly to it when I pointed out the fact that none of them were old enough to drink "Blood Wine", whether or not it even existed in the first place, and most likely had no clue what blood or wine alone tasted like. It'd be sort of like drinking coppery, runny, bitter grape jello.
Yeah, well... I belched my way into being hacked with that approach.
My "realism" was new to that group of people. They used the net to escape reality. I was trying to use it to expand mine.
Even in the 80s when a few of my friends would do the D&D thing, I just couldn't get there with my brain. I found it to be a bit silly. Even my "fantasies" are based in reality. If they're not, they're no fun. If it can't happen, I sort of deflate. It's gotten more extreme as I've gotten older too. Even the tiniest plot hole will make me grumble while watching a movie. It's not that I can't picture fantasy creatures or worlds, it's just not really fulfilling for me. It's a whole hell of a lot more fulfilling to picture a beautiful reality that could very well exist someday. I don't need Unicorns and Faeries. I need health, wealth, and happiness.
rrrrrrp
I'm honest, that's just who I am, even to the point of seeming a bit brash. I don't like my reality, but with the Internet, I'm not trying to escape it. I'm trying to change it. No, I don't want a sip of your Blood Wine. I want to have a drink with another adult, because we're both stuck in the house staring at our computer screens, and misery loves company, damnit.
Anyone got any Doritos?
~That damn glass.
Empty: The laundry is piled up. I need a date with my clippers. The carpet needs a date with the vacuum. My thigh missed its appointment with its every 14 day needle.
Full: I made a really good Poor Man's Seafood Fettucine. I ate some. I didn't kill myself or anyone else.
The reality?
My glass has a fucking hole in the bottom of it, so I always try to make sure I have quick access to the keg.
Full: I made a really good Poor Man's Seafood Fettucine. I ate some. I didn't kill myself or anyone else.
The reality?
My glass has a fucking hole in the bottom of it, so I always try to make sure I have quick access to the keg.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
~Godsmack has no clue.
So, I'm down to 2 friends, and one family member now. One friend lives in another State, and one lives 5 minutes away but who comes across to me as not being able to be bothered with me more than once every few months.
I'm not a very easy person to deal with. It's either that, or I'm a really poor judge of character. Whatever the case, my reasons for hanging out on this shit hole of a planet are dwindling.
Happy day.
I'm not a very easy person to deal with. It's either that, or I'm a really poor judge of character. Whatever the case, my reasons for hanging out on this shit hole of a planet are dwindling.
Happy day.
~and for lunch...
It's often that I sit, or lay on my futon (don't have a sofa) for hours... drinking and smoking... thinking...
Alone with my thoughts...
I call it "staring at the walls", but it's not often that I'm actually staring at my walls. Sometimes it's the floor, sometimes it's the corner of the coffee table, sometimes it's at nothing at all.
Sometimes it feels like I'm waiting for something... someone... other times it feels like I'm counting down the minutes until I can die.
Being alone...
Very few people can do it, so I've heard. They start "going crazy". I guess that I'm lucky I'm already there.
Alone with my thoughts...
I call it "staring at the walls", but it's not often that I'm actually staring at my walls. Sometimes it's the floor, sometimes it's the corner of the coffee table, sometimes it's at nothing at all.
Sometimes it feels like I'm waiting for something... someone... other times it feels like I'm counting down the minutes until I can die.
Being alone...
Very few people can do it, so I've heard. They start "going crazy". I guess that I'm lucky I'm already there.
~Write, Oh Heathcliff
I remember, when I was in the loonytute, how they wanted us (the kids on the unit) to keep a journal. I seem to remember it being one of those black and white composition books. I know that I did it, but I don't remember if I was allowed to keep it, or if they kept it when I was discharged. If they gave it to me, it's gone with the rest of stuff I purged in '88 before moving to KY.
At 17 or 18, you think that you're an adult. You get up one day and decide that you're going to put your past behind you. Don't get me wrong, it does work for a while, but within a few years not only do you smell the coffee but it's usually all over your face causing blisters.
Not a day goes by that I don't beat myself up about that purge... or wonder what would have happened had I not decided to run off to KY. I remember saying to Drue, "You got to go off to college, I want to go grow up too!" Drue, the "love of my life". I don't even know for sure that I'm over her today. 18 years. Talk about having your heart stolen. She didn't want me to go to KY. She wanted me to stay, so that we could continue the completely cruel (to me), closeted relationship we'd been having for 2 years or so. I did break down to the point of telling her that I'd just go for a little while, then come back. That wasn't enough though. When I did come back, she refused to speak to me, and continued refusing for a couple of years.
So, at 18 my whole life changed. From the day I returned from KY and she wouldn't take my call, I began beating myself up about all of it. Gone was my childhood. My diaries, letters, and creative writing were in a trash heap somewhere, rotting, and gone was Drue.
Although my letters were never answered, I did write to her every couple of years or so. '91 was the last time I tried calling her around her birthday. I haven't written her since she moved to Colorado though, maybe a couple of years ago. Millionaire's wife. Now there's an enviable job.
I think it was in '90 that I did see her, but that was a complete disaster. It was dinner and shooting pool with my friend Carlyn and her new girlfriend, my friend, Carol... and, of course, Drue's boyfriend. I think it was "David". I'm pretty sure that the point of the get together was so that Drue could meet - guess what! I'm out of the closet! - Carlyn's new girlfriend. I suppose Carlyn talked her into being ok with my being there.
I was hurting (putting it VERY lightly). Carol, I think, was trying to cheer me up by making fun of Drue at the table. I remember going into the restroom and punching the stall.
With the pool playing? Drue and I played one another last. Everyone else had played one another. It was really as close to her as I got the whole evening.
At 17 or 18, you think that you're an adult. You get up one day and decide that you're going to put your past behind you. Don't get me wrong, it does work for a while, but within a few years not only do you smell the coffee but it's usually all over your face causing blisters.
Not a day goes by that I don't beat myself up about that purge... or wonder what would have happened had I not decided to run off to KY. I remember saying to Drue, "You got to go off to college, I want to go grow up too!" Drue, the "love of my life". I don't even know for sure that I'm over her today. 18 years. Talk about having your heart stolen. She didn't want me to go to KY. She wanted me to stay, so that we could continue the completely cruel (to me), closeted relationship we'd been having for 2 years or so. I did break down to the point of telling her that I'd just go for a little while, then come back. That wasn't enough though. When I did come back, she refused to speak to me, and continued refusing for a couple of years.
So, at 18 my whole life changed. From the day I returned from KY and she wouldn't take my call, I began beating myself up about all of it. Gone was my childhood. My diaries, letters, and creative writing were in a trash heap somewhere, rotting, and gone was Drue.
Although my letters were never answered, I did write to her every couple of years or so. '91 was the last time I tried calling her around her birthday. I haven't written her since she moved to Colorado though, maybe a couple of years ago. Millionaire's wife. Now there's an enviable job.
I think it was in '90 that I did see her, but that was a complete disaster. It was dinner and shooting pool with my friend Carlyn and her new girlfriend, my friend, Carol... and, of course, Drue's boyfriend. I think it was "David". I'm pretty sure that the point of the get together was so that Drue could meet - guess what! I'm out of the closet! - Carlyn's new girlfriend. I suppose Carlyn talked her into being ok with my being there.
I was hurting (putting it VERY lightly). Carol, I think, was trying to cheer me up by making fun of Drue at the table. I remember going into the restroom and punching the stall.
With the pool playing? Drue and I played one another last. Everyone else had played one another. It was really as close to her as I got the whole evening.
I didn't let her win.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
~Yes, people do notice.
...and the anger builds and builds and builds
I don't want to take my fucking meds, but as the minutes go by I'm getting more and more raw.
I have a love/hate relationship with the human race, and right now, I'm leaning heavily towards hate.
STOP BEING SO DAMN SELFISH!!!!!!
sorry.
bad day.
~If I die before the bowl is clean...
Well, I was bending down cleaning the base of my toilet. Then, I went to stand up and, BAM!!!, I cracked the back of my head on the bathroom doorknob.
It freaks me out sometimes... that if I died here, my fly food would be in my apartment for quite a while before anyone (other than the flies) knew.
Ice is good.
It freaks me out sometimes... that if I died here, my fly food would be in my apartment for quite a while before anyone (other than the flies) knew.
Ice is good.
~Not to change the subject...
Last night's session didn't go as it usually does. I was too tired and in the middle of an allergy attack.
It's often my therapist who brings it to my attention that I've come into another "cycle", as we've come to call it. It's difficult for me to tell sometimes. All I know is that I change... or change back, depending on how you look at it. I have little shifts and big ones. I can switch mid-sentence, or be gone for a year. At the same time though, it's all me. I'm always there, I just change form inside, so to speak.
It really is difficult explaining the whole DID thing to people. I barely understand it myself. I can use metaphor after metaphor, but they don't seem to encapsulate what this whole thing is about, really. They just give a hazy picture of it. To others, it seems like I have multiple personalities. No, I didn't say that I seem moody, big difference there. Thing is though, it's always me. I'm just, well... multiple. I'm one and many at the same time.
Sort of like God?
It's often my therapist who brings it to my attention that I've come into another "cycle", as we've come to call it. It's difficult for me to tell sometimes. All I know is that I change... or change back, depending on how you look at it. I have little shifts and big ones. I can switch mid-sentence, or be gone for a year. At the same time though, it's all me. I'm always there, I just change form inside, so to speak.
It really is difficult explaining the whole DID thing to people. I barely understand it myself. I can use metaphor after metaphor, but they don't seem to encapsulate what this whole thing is about, really. They just give a hazy picture of it. To others, it seems like I have multiple personalities. No, I didn't say that I seem moody, big difference there. Thing is though, it's always me. I'm just, well... multiple. I'm one and many at the same time.
Sort of like God?
~Holy Perspectives
The father, son and holy spirit....
ok, what if it's -
"God" is your father. Your actual father. (father/mother - interchangable)
"God" is your son. Your actual son. (son/daughter - interchangable)
"God" is your spirit. YOU.
What if when you thank God, you're thanking your dad? What if when you "blame" God, you're blaming your Dad? What if you're thanking your son? Blaming your son? What if "the holy spirit" knows and sees everything you do... because it is you?
What if "God" is actually just our parents, our children, and ourselves?
Can you forgive yourself?
What if you had to answer to your children? What if to abuse your child is to spit in the face of God?
twist and turn....
now define the "devil"...
It's a whole hell of a lot easier to think that "God" or "Satan" is just another entity, isn't it? ...a whole hell of a lot more difficult when "God" is right there in your face.
I think that when most people "externalize" God, they don't see him as so much of a parent figure... they view God as more like the "perfect" human. If people had to think of their father as "GOD" (which we actually do before we're taught religion), and themselves as "GOD" and their children as "GOD", I think that it'd be a lot less easy to judge others. You couldn't look at someone and tell them they're not following God's law... because everyone's law would be different. Every God's law would be different.
Same can be said for internalizing God. When you do that, you tend to look down on others... detach from them.
If every "family" was a kingdom in and of itself... a "holy trinity"... I think that we'd tend to "mind our own business" more... that we'd judge a lot less and only come to the rescue when called.
I'd think that a lot of things like child abuse, elder abuse, neglect, and insecurity/low self esteem could be tackled a lot easier if people interpretted the trinity like this.
Can you imagine how people would react if all of a sudden it wasn't "my kid is gay" but "God is gay"?
If you were God, do you think you'd have anything akin to Social Anxiety Disorder?
(10/03)
link
link2
ok, what if it's -
"God" is your father. Your actual father. (father/mother - interchangable)
"God" is your son. Your actual son. (son/daughter - interchangable)
"God" is your spirit. YOU.
What if when you thank God, you're thanking your dad? What if when you "blame" God, you're blaming your Dad? What if you're thanking your son? Blaming your son? What if "the holy spirit" knows and sees everything you do... because it is you?
What if "God" is actually just our parents, our children, and ourselves?
Can you forgive yourself?
What if you had to answer to your children? What if to abuse your child is to spit in the face of God?
twist and turn....
now define the "devil"...
It's a whole hell of a lot easier to think that "God" or "Satan" is just another entity, isn't it? ...a whole hell of a lot more difficult when "God" is right there in your face.
I think that when most people "externalize" God, they don't see him as so much of a parent figure... they view God as more like the "perfect" human. If people had to think of their father as "GOD" (which we actually do before we're taught religion), and themselves as "GOD" and their children as "GOD", I think that it'd be a lot less easy to judge others. You couldn't look at someone and tell them they're not following God's law... because everyone's law would be different. Every God's law would be different.
Same can be said for internalizing God. When you do that, you tend to look down on others... detach from them.
If every "family" was a kingdom in and of itself... a "holy trinity"... I think that we'd tend to "mind our own business" more... that we'd judge a lot less and only come to the rescue when called.
I'd think that a lot of things like child abuse, elder abuse, neglect, and insecurity/low self esteem could be tackled a lot easier if people interpretted the trinity like this.
Can you imagine how people would react if all of a sudden it wasn't "my kid is gay" but "God is gay"?
If you were God, do you think you'd have anything akin to Social Anxiety Disorder?
(10/03)
link
link2
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
~Colorforms
At one point in time or another, I've had one or more of the following social/sub-culture type labels stuck on me:
Academically Talented
Administrator
Adult
Alcoholic
Alien
Alternative
American
Anal Retentive
Androgynous
Anorexic
Artist
Baby
Barback
Beerwolf
Bisexual
Bohemian
Borderline
Boy
Boyfriend
Brother
Butch
Caucasian
Chef
Child
Christian
Clerk
Coke (Coc?) head
Construction Worker
Cook
Daughter
Delinquent
Depressed
Disabled
DID
Dominant
Dragon
Drug Addict
Drummer
Dyke
Empathic
Enemy
Fag
Farmer
Fat
Female
Foreigner
Freak
Friend
FtM
Gay
Gender Dysphoric
Genius
German
Girl
Girlfriend
Goth
Granddaughter
Grandson
Guy
Hardcore
Heterosexual
Homeless
Homicidal
Homosexual
Human
Hypersensitive
Inpatient
Insane
Intelligent
Intersexed
Israeli
It
Jewish
Jock
Kid
Latch-key (kid)
Lesbian
Lover
Male
Man
Masochist
Matricidal
Mentally Gifted
Mentally Ill
Meter Reader
MPD
Musician
Neo-Pagan
Nephew
Niece
Obsessive/Compulsive
Office Manager
Otherkin
Outpaient
Overweight
Pagan
Painter
Pansexual
Patient
Patricidal
Poet
Polywere
Poor
Priest
PTSD
Psycho(path)
Punk
Queer
Runaway
Sadist
Satanist
Self Mutilator
Short
Sister
Skin
Smoker
Son
Straight
Student
Submissive
Suicidal
Survivor
Tattooed
Teacher
Teen
Transsexual
Transgender
Underweight
Vampire
Victim
Were
Werewolf
White
Wiccan
Witch
Woman
Writer
Yankee
...and I'm sure I missed a few.
Labels come and go and fall off and reattach.
I'm me. 24/7 No matter what you call me, or what I call myself. I'm me.
Monday, May 24, 2004
~Feelings of inadequacy
I should probably attempt to go for a walk, but it's really hot out. There are only so many games of minesweeper you can play before you feel like putting your computer through a wall... or your head.
The 2 beers I had tasted like shit. I'm thinking that maybe I should move to whiskey for a while. Maybe puking blood really is good for the soul. Actually, at the moment, I feel like breaking a whiskey bottle over my head.
Today, I don't feel like a very good person.
The 2 beers I had tasted like shit. I'm thinking that maybe I should move to whiskey for a while. Maybe puking blood really is good for the soul. Actually, at the moment, I feel like breaking a whiskey bottle over my head.
Today, I don't feel like a very good person.
~Lifetime companions
I told myself that I was going to work out today. At the moment though, I'm somewhere in between feeling good and determined, and like curling up with a good beer and crying.
I remember the first time I got my (romantic) heart broken. I was 14, and a Freshman in High School. Heather was a Senior. She had the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen, or have ever seen since.
I don't think that we ever even hugged. It was just a relationship because we called it one. Heather introduced me to Hardcore and heartbreak, two lifetime companions for me.
Heather would not be the last to break my heart over what was or wasn't in my pants, but she was the first. Crack number one on my coffee mug of a heart.
Not sure what got me thinking about Heather and heartbreak. Perhaps it was that desire to curl up with a good beer, another lifetime companion for me.
I remember the first time I got my (romantic) heart broken. I was 14, and a Freshman in High School. Heather was a Senior. She had the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen, or have ever seen since.
I don't think that we ever even hugged. It was just a relationship because we called it one. Heather introduced me to Hardcore and heartbreak, two lifetime companions for me.
Heather would not be the last to break my heart over what was or wasn't in my pants, but she was the first. Crack number one on my coffee mug of a heart.
Not sure what got me thinking about Heather and heartbreak. Perhaps it was that desire to curl up with a good beer, another lifetime companion for me.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
~Another day, another sneer.
Today is Sunday. That means that the bar next door doesn't open until about 11. That means I get to play pissy alcoholic for another 6 hours or so.
In my infinite wisdom, I fill myself up with caffeine. That really helps relax me, sort of how a salt bath helps a relax a slug.
I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.
In my infinite wisdom, I fill myself up with caffeine. That really helps relax me, sort of how a salt bath helps a relax a slug.
I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.
Saturday, May 22, 2004
~The little things
I think that I ended up at aX's blog because she read my entry this morning. It's a handy dandy "pro feature". You get to see where your hits come from.
It was an odd experience. One of those moments where you're viewing life through a pinhole.
The first thing that went through my head was "Who are you?"
I still don't know.
She has a "Jx". I think that Jx is like my Sara. It's "the one", y'know? That one you know is out there looking for you, and when you finally find each other, the whole world and all your pain will finally make sense.
I gave up on Sara a while ago. Chalked it up to my warped brain. Figured that if there ever was a Sara, she'd not care for me all that much if she met me now anyway.
I suppose seeing that someone else had a Sara, so to speak, made me feel momentarily saner. Too, the speck of romantic in me is always hoping for a happy ending.
I've met Sara over and over again. She travels. She's a ghost. She comes through others... then she goes. She's everyone and no one. I follow the clues... the hints... the breadcrumbs. I'm a ghost to her... as she does the same.
How dreadfully sappy.
but, for a moment... I saw life through a pinhole, and my heart beat faster, and for a moment, life was dreadfully exciting.
It was an odd experience. One of those moments where you're viewing life through a pinhole.
The first thing that went through my head was "Who are you?"
I still don't know.
She has a "Jx". I think that Jx is like my Sara. It's "the one", y'know? That one you know is out there looking for you, and when you finally find each other, the whole world and all your pain will finally make sense.
I gave up on Sara a while ago. Chalked it up to my warped brain. Figured that if there ever was a Sara, she'd not care for me all that much if she met me now anyway.
I suppose seeing that someone else had a Sara, so to speak, made me feel momentarily saner. Too, the speck of romantic in me is always hoping for a happy ending.
I've met Sara over and over again. She travels. She's a ghost. She comes through others... then she goes. She's everyone and no one. I follow the clues... the hints... the breadcrumbs. I'm a ghost to her... as she does the same.
How dreadfully sappy.
but, for a moment... I saw life through a pinhole, and my heart beat faster, and for a moment, life was dreadfully exciting.
~Mr. Magee...
The anxiety level is pretty high.
Right now, I'm doing what I can to put off the "beer for breakfast". Not that I don't like my coffee, but when you start thinking about killing people just to break up the monotony, it's getting close to Miller Time.
The bar next door opens at 7AM. When I go in there to pick up a 12 pack some mornings, there are quite a few people at the bar. The reason I'm not sitting there with them? I don't like answering questions. They see a young, white, healthy, male; not the type who should be sitting at a bar at 8AM during the week.
I could entertain quite a few of you with some of the stories I've come up with in my head to dance around the "What do you do?" and "You look fine to me"s I get. I never use the stories though. I don't like lying. I don't tell the truth either. People get afraid to be around me when I tell the truth.
Just thought of the Hulk (the tv show Hulk with Bill Bixby).
...You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
...but I'd really like a lime with that.
Right now, I'm doing what I can to put off the "beer for breakfast". Not that I don't like my coffee, but when you start thinking about killing people just to break up the monotony, it's getting close to Miller Time.
The bar next door opens at 7AM. When I go in there to pick up a 12 pack some mornings, there are quite a few people at the bar. The reason I'm not sitting there with them? I don't like answering questions. They see a young, white, healthy, male; not the type who should be sitting at a bar at 8AM during the week.
I could entertain quite a few of you with some of the stories I've come up with in my head to dance around the "What do you do?" and "You look fine to me"s I get. I never use the stories though. I don't like lying. I don't tell the truth either. People get afraid to be around me when I tell the truth.
Just thought of the Hulk (the tv show Hulk with Bill Bixby).
...You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
...but I'd really like a lime with that.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
~Brain Dead
I figure, maybe if I stare at the screen long enough, I'll come up with something to say.
Maybe if I drink a beer...
Funny how that works, how beer seems to kill boredom. My theory is that beer makes you stupid. I'm pretty sure that it can knock a good 20 points off of my IQ, if I drink enough. Suddenly, the world seems more entertaining, people more interesting. I become more "normal"... more stupid, just like the people who can smile their way through life. Ignorance is bliss.
I was asked that once, if I drank because I liked the high. It was odd how the woman laughed when I explained that I drank to feel normal. Wonder why she found it so amusing. I, personally, find it a little sad.
My whole life is pretty damn sad.
Guess I'm not having a good night.
Maybe if I drink a beer...
Funny how that works, how beer seems to kill boredom. My theory is that beer makes you stupid. I'm pretty sure that it can knock a good 20 points off of my IQ, if I drink enough. Suddenly, the world seems more entertaining, people more interesting. I become more "normal"... more stupid, just like the people who can smile their way through life. Ignorance is bliss.
I was asked that once, if I drank because I liked the high. It was odd how the woman laughed when I explained that I drank to feel normal. Wonder why she found it so amusing. I, personally, find it a little sad.
My whole life is pretty damn sad.
Guess I'm not having a good night.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
~The view from down here
Rage and depression came like lightning strikes today. I guess that the rain was sleep. I did a lot of that. I do appreciate the sleep. With me it can be feast or famine. The last couple of days I have been feasting.
There's a lot going on in my head. It's all tangled in there though. Wants and needs and abilities... realities...
Sometimes I think that I can survive, other times I don't think so. Sometimes I think that if I have to go through one more day of this hell I'm supposed to call a life, I'm checking out and taking the whole damn peanut gallery with me. Other times I can just romanticize the whole thing and think of myself as a hermit.
I'm not a hermit though. I'm a very social creature. Always have been. I've always had a lot of "friends" and ALWAYS had a girlfriend or was at least sleeping with this that or the other person. Now? It's me and my plant. On a scale of one to ten, one being solitary in a jail, my human contact level is at about 2, maybe 3 tops.
The only way out of here is "the projects". It scares me. I don't know that I have much choice though. I either move to the projects when my name comes up on the list, or I die here. Maybe I should say, continue dying here.
I wish that I could find some strength. Once upon a time I had a disgusting amount of confidence in myself. I suppose that falling flat into a pile of shit will make even the strongest of us a bit wary. Confidence; that's what I lost somewhere.
Freedom's just another word for "nothing left to lose".
I've got too much stuff.
There's a lot going on in my head. It's all tangled in there though. Wants and needs and abilities... realities...
Sometimes I think that I can survive, other times I don't think so. Sometimes I think that if I have to go through one more day of this hell I'm supposed to call a life, I'm checking out and taking the whole damn peanut gallery with me. Other times I can just romanticize the whole thing and think of myself as a hermit.
I'm not a hermit though. I'm a very social creature. Always have been. I've always had a lot of "friends" and ALWAYS had a girlfriend or was at least sleeping with this that or the other person. Now? It's me and my plant. On a scale of one to ten, one being solitary in a jail, my human contact level is at about 2, maybe 3 tops.
The only way out of here is "the projects". It scares me. I don't know that I have much choice though. I either move to the projects when my name comes up on the list, or I die here. Maybe I should say, continue dying here.
I wish that I could find some strength. Once upon a time I had a disgusting amount of confidence in myself. I suppose that falling flat into a pile of shit will make even the strongest of us a bit wary. Confidence; that's what I lost somewhere.
Freedom's just another word for "nothing left to lose".
I've got too much stuff.
Monday, May 17, 2004
~Tats the way it is.
My Classmates.com membership is about to expire. I don't plan on renewing it. I went over there this morning though, just to see if anyone new had shown up. No one I knew had, but I saw that they'd added this company listing thing, so I went a searchin'. The companies I once worked for were listed, but no one had added their names to the list. Count me in with them.
I got to thinking after that, about all the jobs I had before hitting the completely disabled category. I worked from '86 through '99 in one capacity or another, with the exception of '96. (So, for those of you wondering, I did actually "earn" this disability money I'm surviving on.)
I miss working. Maybe that's why I started my board in 2000, I needed something to help me feel like I was doing something for someone.
Maybe, one day, when I get back to Philly or am able to move somewhere where I can get from point A to point B on my own, I can try working again. Maybe I can find some sort of job that is pretty cut and dry... maybe unloading trucks or something. Don't know if something like that would pay the rent though.
All wishing aside, I don't know if I'll ever get to the point where I'll be able to work again. My head keeps going off. I'll think that I'm doing ok, then BAM!, I'm blacking out and speaking in tongues.
I think that I want to get "LITTLE PSYCHO" tattooed across my back... or maybe just "PSYCHO" around my neck. The "little" part really doesn't need pointing out.
Then... back to the reason I started this blog... maybe it should say "HARDCORE".
I got to thinking after that, about all the jobs I had before hitting the completely disabled category. I worked from '86 through '99 in one capacity or another, with the exception of '96. (So, for those of you wondering, I did actually "earn" this disability money I'm surviving on.)
I miss working. Maybe that's why I started my board in 2000, I needed something to help me feel like I was doing something for someone.
Maybe, one day, when I get back to Philly or am able to move somewhere where I can get from point A to point B on my own, I can try working again. Maybe I can find some sort of job that is pretty cut and dry... maybe unloading trucks or something. Don't know if something like that would pay the rent though.
All wishing aside, I don't know if I'll ever get to the point where I'll be able to work again. My head keeps going off. I'll think that I'm doing ok, then BAM!, I'm blacking out and speaking in tongues.
I think that I want to get "LITTLE PSYCHO" tattooed across my back... or maybe just "PSYCHO" around my neck. The "little" part really doesn't need pointing out.
Then... back to the reason I started this blog... maybe it should say "HARDCORE".
~the usual whining
What did I do today..?.. I changed my sheets (mark that on the calendar). I took a shower. A few minutes ago I fixed my leaky faucet. That was rather amusing.
It'll dry.
I keep walking to the fridge and finding nothing I feel like dealing with. I'm not really that hungry, but I know that I need to eat.
I'm tired. I want to go to sleep, but... (there's always a but) I need to eat.
So, what do I do?
Go online and type about it.
Real productive.
It'll dry.
I keep walking to the fridge and finding nothing I feel like dealing with. I'm not really that hungry, but I know that I need to eat.
I'm tired. I want to go to sleep, but... (there's always a but) I need to eat.
So, what do I do?
Go online and type about it.
Real productive.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
~Good to go.
I have no clue what extra features I'll use that come with the "Pro" package, but honestly (maybe this comes from running boards myself) I don't mind paying. It feels better to me to pay for a service than to milk a freebie. I'm sure Rocky has rent to pay too.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
~You get what you pay for.
I guess I'll be keeping this blog up for a year. Just paid the $19.95.
...I sort of like this blog/journal thing. I've been posting on and running message boards for 5 years, and frankly, this is a bit less harsh on the ego. At least here I don't expect replies to what I write. Too, I don't have to bust my ass making everyone else happy while the majority of those people all but spit in my face in return.
It's my blog. I can be as much of an asshole as I want to be... and it won't destroy any so-called "community".
That's got to be the joke of the decade... "Online Communities". What a load of shit. There are very few people online that give a rat's ass about anyone else in these communities but themselves. But then... that's the way of the world. ME ME ME. Makes me ill.
Come to think of it, my parents' "ME ME ME" did, in fact, make me ill. I have the papers to prove it.
So, this is my "ME ME ME" space. I still have my board, and I'll still do my best to show people that I do actually care about them, but now I have an outlet. ...a safe place to bitch, whine, moan, blow up, be selfish, and give the world the finger. I can do that. I don't have kids to fuck up from the practice.
...I sort of like this blog/journal thing. I've been posting on and running message boards for 5 years, and frankly, this is a bit less harsh on the ego. At least here I don't expect replies to what I write. Too, I don't have to bust my ass making everyone else happy while the majority of those people all but spit in my face in return.
It's my blog. I can be as much of an asshole as I want to be... and it won't destroy any so-called "community".
That's got to be the joke of the decade... "Online Communities". What a load of shit. There are very few people online that give a rat's ass about anyone else in these communities but themselves. But then... that's the way of the world. ME ME ME. Makes me ill.
Come to think of it, my parents' "ME ME ME" did, in fact, make me ill. I have the papers to prove it.
So, this is my "ME ME ME" space. I still have my board, and I'll still do my best to show people that I do actually care about them, but now I have an outlet. ...a safe place to bitch, whine, moan, blow up, be selfish, and give the world the finger. I can do that. I don't have kids to fuck up from the practice.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
~Being friends with the Mentally Ill
At this point in my life, I'd have to say it has become clear to me that in order to be friends with someone who is mentally ill, you have to (somewhat) keep your distance while still showing them that you actually do care. That, and you have to have the patience of a saint.
Sometimes I think that the Institutional thing is needed in this country. The problem is that the abuse and degradation that goes along with it is not. It's rough. When your brain is broke, the options are stay in your house and manage the "You look fine" attitudes and "What do you do?" questions of people if you can manage to get out, or go to an asylum where your rights are taken away. Funny, people with broken legs don't have to deal with that. I guess that what it comes down to is that when people say they need help, it should be up to them to say what that help is, and if they don't know, it should (at least) be up to them to say what it isn't. Just because a person is mentally ill doesn't mean that they're an idiot, or an infant. Help should be offered, not inflicted. With the right help, one mentally ill person could be capable of curing Cancer or being your best friend. With "help" that is force fed, mentally ill people often either become statistics or create them.
Sometimes I think that the Institutional thing is needed in this country. The problem is that the abuse and degradation that goes along with it is not. It's rough. When your brain is broke, the options are stay in your house and manage the "You look fine" attitudes and "What do you do?" questions of people if you can manage to get out, or go to an asylum where your rights are taken away. Funny, people with broken legs don't have to deal with that. I guess that what it comes down to is that when people say they need help, it should be up to them to say what that help is, and if they don't know, it should (at least) be up to them to say what it isn't. Just because a person is mentally ill doesn't mean that they're an idiot, or an infant. Help should be offered, not inflicted. With the right help, one mentally ill person could be capable of curing Cancer or being your best friend. With "help" that is force fed, mentally ill people often either become statistics or create them.
Sunday, May 9, 2004
~A wish for apathy
So, you're supposed to thank your mother for giving birth to you today, right?
What do you do when your life consists of battling with the urge to kill yourself (to say nothing of your mother)?
One day...
One day maybe I'll stop caring.
What do you do when your life consists of battling with the urge to kill yourself (to say nothing of your mother)?
One day...
One day maybe I'll stop caring.
Saturday, May 8, 2004
~Drop Dead
I'm in a really bad mood.
I should invest in a punching bag. One of these days...
(censored to protect me from being locked up)
Think I'll take that walk now.
I should invest in a punching bag. One of these days...
(censored to protect me from being locked up)
Think I'll take that walk now.
Friday, May 7, 2004
~Beer for Breakfast
Sounds like a good band name.
I know that it's not really breakfast time (it's about 6 PM), but being that I just got up at 4, it counts as "breaking the fast".
Maybe I'll go for a walk later... alleviate some of the beer gut guilt.
I know that it's not really breakfast time (it's about 6 PM), but being that I just got up at 4, it counts as "breaking the fast".
Maybe I'll go for a walk later... alleviate some of the beer gut guilt.
Wednesday, May 5, 2004
~I could make it your problem.
Can't sleep.
The head is racing.
Interesting session earlier this evening. Sometimes I'm surprised she lets me walk out of there, given what I admit to.
In life, I can't win. Either you act without thinking and get locked up, or think without acting and have everyone point fingers and tell you that you live in the past.
Most guys like me are in jail. I'm not... but I don't get any rewards for that. I just get people either judging me or simply avoiding me because I'm too angry or have too many problems.
My therapist tells me over and over again how it's not my fault and that I have a right to be angry and all sorts of other validating things. Some days she cries while I attempt to get what little out about my life that I can. Makes me feel funny. I never know what to say... never know whether or not to just shut up. I don't deal well with people crying.
My brother loves me unconditionally. I know that. I believe that. My best friend does too. I can't help but think that that's only because they haven't spent enough time with me though. I only get to talk with my best friend on the phone and online. My brother, I've only really started to get to know him recently. I left home when he was 2, so I got to be his idol. Those are the only 2 people who really give a shit though. I pay the shrink, so I don't count that as really caring.
Other people in my life? It feels like they tolerate me because they think that's what they're supposed to do, or I fill some sort of role for them, or they're trying to "save" me.
In the end, when the gun is in my mouth, it's really only 2 people who stop my finger from pulling the trigger... and it's not because I care for them, although I do, deeply. It's because they care for me.
The head is racing.
Interesting session earlier this evening. Sometimes I'm surprised she lets me walk out of there, given what I admit to.
In life, I can't win. Either you act without thinking and get locked up, or think without acting and have everyone point fingers and tell you that you live in the past.
Most guys like me are in jail. I'm not... but I don't get any rewards for that. I just get people either judging me or simply avoiding me because I'm too angry or have too many problems.
My therapist tells me over and over again how it's not my fault and that I have a right to be angry and all sorts of other validating things. Some days she cries while I attempt to get what little out about my life that I can. Makes me feel funny. I never know what to say... never know whether or not to just shut up. I don't deal well with people crying.
My brother loves me unconditionally. I know that. I believe that. My best friend does too. I can't help but think that that's only because they haven't spent enough time with me though. I only get to talk with my best friend on the phone and online. My brother, I've only really started to get to know him recently. I left home when he was 2, so I got to be his idol. Those are the only 2 people who really give a shit though. I pay the shrink, so I don't count that as really caring.
Other people in my life? It feels like they tolerate me because they think that's what they're supposed to do, or I fill some sort of role for them, or they're trying to "save" me.
In the end, when the gun is in my mouth, it's really only 2 people who stop my finger from pulling the trigger... and it's not because I care for them, although I do, deeply. It's because they care for me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2004
~fingertips
Had to trim my beard. Pisses me off. I don't like cutting my beard. I have to though, once it reaches a certain length, I can't stop ripping it out. Gets to the point where my face (under my chin) gets infected and my fingertips hurt. It's pretty painful.
It's not that hair pulling disorder, it has to do with my fingertips. I've had it since I was born. I would rub the edges of my baby blanket between my fingertips until the blanket had holes in it. From there I graduated to other pieces of fabric, and then to the edge of my ear.
It's not all hair, it's just my beard...and it's only certain edges of certain fabrics. Sometimes I use rubber bands, but only certain ones. Not the flat kind, the round ones. I won't even go into what I do to my skin. I'll leave it at that if there's even the slightest bump, I'll pick and pick until it's level.
It's a weird OCD thing. It makes no sense to me, and I don't know why I can't stop. Even now, having trimmed the beard, I'm finding the few hairs which are slightly longer than the rest.
I guess it's better than my ear. The cartilage in my right ear is pretty damaged from a few decades of it. It's also better than my skin. My skin looks like hell.
My monster (pronounced "mother") called it "twiddling".
I call it frustrating.
It's not that hair pulling disorder, it has to do with my fingertips. I've had it since I was born. I would rub the edges of my baby blanket between my fingertips until the blanket had holes in it. From there I graduated to other pieces of fabric, and then to the edge of my ear.
It's not all hair, it's just my beard...and it's only certain edges of certain fabrics. Sometimes I use rubber bands, but only certain ones. Not the flat kind, the round ones. I won't even go into what I do to my skin. I'll leave it at that if there's even the slightest bump, I'll pick and pick until it's level.
It's a weird OCD thing. It makes no sense to me, and I don't know why I can't stop. Even now, having trimmed the beard, I'm finding the few hairs which are slightly longer than the rest.
I guess it's better than my ear. The cartilage in my right ear is pretty damaged from a few decades of it. It's also better than my skin. My skin looks like hell.
My monster (pronounced "mother") called it "twiddling".
I call it frustrating.
Monday, May 3, 2004
~Hair of the dog
Today, the weather is perfect.
Went for a walk to the 7-Eleven. There's only a little bit of the walk where there's no sidewalk, so, provided there's no snow, it's a do-able walk.
I like walking. Walking is healthy for me. I think a lot while I walk... clears my head a bit. When I was working, I used to walk back and forth to work. I got a couple of miles a day that way. (I never had a beer gut then.)
Back in the jail cell now though... sitting in the dark with the fan in the window. Drinking a beer to try to alleviate the residual nausea. Mixing alcohols is never a good idea if you want to avoid a hangover.
The world is very quiet today. I like quiet days. Makes me not mind living so much.
Went for a walk to the 7-Eleven. There's only a little bit of the walk where there's no sidewalk, so, provided there's no snow, it's a do-able walk.
I like walking. Walking is healthy for me. I think a lot while I walk... clears my head a bit. When I was working, I used to walk back and forth to work. I got a couple of miles a day that way. (I never had a beer gut then.)
Back in the jail cell now though... sitting in the dark with the fan in the window. Drinking a beer to try to alleviate the residual nausea. Mixing alcohols is never a good idea if you want to avoid a hangover.
The world is very quiet today. I like quiet days. Makes me not mind living so much.
~Yay! I puked!
It's rare that I drink to the point of actually being drunk, but last night I did succeed. It must've been something in the air. On the way to the bar, while depositing my recyclables into the handy dandy recycle dumpster, I witnessed one of my neighbors falling down a small hill. Didn't spill a drop of the 40 he was walking around with though. GOOD BOY! Gotta have priorities in life!
So, after a 6 pack of Natural Ice, 2 Rolling Rocks, and 2 Vodka & Tomatoes, I (and my trusty spoon) placed ourselves comfortably on a pillowcase, in front of my friend the toilet bowl, and regurgitated salad.
Quite colorful.
Who the fuck had the audacity to cover The Cure?
So, after a 6 pack of Natural Ice, 2 Rolling Rocks, and 2 Vodka & Tomatoes, I (and my trusty spoon) placed ourselves comfortably on a pillowcase, in front of my friend the toilet bowl, and regurgitated salad.
Quite colorful.
Who the fuck had the audacity to cover The Cure?
Sunday, May 2, 2004
~Time passes
I've always been a writer. "Always" meaning, ever since I could hold a pen and form letters on a piece of paper. There haven't been many days in my life when I haven't written at least a sentence. Usually it's more like a page or two though. It may not be the best writing. My grammar isn't perfect, and neither is my spelling, but I like to think that I get my point across well enough.
I do actually miss writing with a pen. There's something that gets lost in typed words. Handwriting shows a lot of emotion... even shows some things you're not aware of while writing, when you look back at it later.
I remember once thinking that there'd be no way I could ever type as fast as I wrote. Now, I'm sure that I can type at least twice as fast as I write.
Writing has been an outlet for me... a pressure release type of thing. It's a drug of sorts. I really don't know what I'd do if I couldn't write. I'd probably talk to myself a lot more than I already do. (Yes, I do talk to myself, and yes, I do also answer back.)
I had to turn on my a/c today. Seasons change... time passes. This is my 35th May.
Did you ever run the concept through your head... the concept of "What if we do reincarnate, but as ourselves.. same date, same place..."? I mean, what if that's what happens when we die? What if we just get reborn and have to live the same exact life over and over and over again? Maybe that's why sometimes, when we meet a "new" person, they seem so familiar. Maybe that's what deja vu is all about. Maybe it's not about changing anything, but about how we handle what it is that we're given. Maybe the ultimate goal is to enjoy life, no matter how torturous the circumstances. Maybe "heaven" really can be being beat or mugged or molested or burned beyond recognition. Maybe it's all about perception... variety of experience.
I'm glad that I was born when I was. I'm glad that I got to do 16 in 1985. I'm glad that I got to be a kid in the 70's. I'm glad that I got to do my 20's in the 90's.
Maybe one day I'll be glad that I spent my 30's on the Internet.
I do actually miss writing with a pen. There's something that gets lost in typed words. Handwriting shows a lot of emotion... even shows some things you're not aware of while writing, when you look back at it later.
I remember once thinking that there'd be no way I could ever type as fast as I wrote. Now, I'm sure that I can type at least twice as fast as I write.
Writing has been an outlet for me... a pressure release type of thing. It's a drug of sorts. I really don't know what I'd do if I couldn't write. I'd probably talk to myself a lot more than I already do. (Yes, I do talk to myself, and yes, I do also answer back.)
I had to turn on my a/c today. Seasons change... time passes. This is my 35th May.
Did you ever run the concept through your head... the concept of "What if we do reincarnate, but as ourselves.. same date, same place..."? I mean, what if that's what happens when we die? What if we just get reborn and have to live the same exact life over and over and over again? Maybe that's why sometimes, when we meet a "new" person, they seem so familiar. Maybe that's what deja vu is all about. Maybe it's not about changing anything, but about how we handle what it is that we're given. Maybe the ultimate goal is to enjoy life, no matter how torturous the circumstances. Maybe "heaven" really can be being beat or mugged or molested or burned beyond recognition. Maybe it's all about perception... variety of experience.
I'm glad that I was born when I was. I'm glad that I got to do 16 in 1985. I'm glad that I got to be a kid in the 70's. I'm glad that I got to do my 20's in the 90's.
Maybe one day I'll be glad that I spent my 30's on the Internet.
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