My boundaries only bother those who enjoy crossing them. May the gaslighters burst into flames of justice. Such a glorious bonfire. Hate is a verb. I’m not sorry.
I’m Trying
I’m trying…
to be gracious but firm in purpose.
to be gentle and be a warrior.
to be positive when history favors the contrary.
to accept terrible truths.
to not be defined by the truth.
I’m trying…
because everything depends upon it.
because it is a prerequisite to healing.
because nothing good comes from quitting.
because I know not of an easier way.
because I want to; I do what I want.
I’m trying…
new things and meeting new people.
by visiting old places and feeling them differently.
to face frightening things in order to conquer them (or be conquered by them).
the difficult things because the simple one’s baffle.
out being human for the first time…
We are not things.
I’m trying..,
for myself and for you. For us all.
for the sake of absurdity and ultimate folly.
for those who blazed the trail- in remembrance.
for no particular reason or end.
to seize the opportunity to fail, as always
This moment, because it has value. I value effort, even if it’s wasteful.
The title of this series is an intentional play on words. Why not throw a little revolutionary sentiment in for the fun of it? Our society is in a state of collapse, after all. You knew, right?
I’ve read “A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens several times in my life, the first in high school. It hits a little different each time…
"And since there have been laws, there have been criminals. There have been thieves since there's been property. And, the day will come again when none of those things are around. I just hope it's before people go extinct.", from the song "Of Ballots and Barricades" by Ramshackle Glory
A long awaited fishing excursion with my friend Nutzy is a memory I will always keep close. We started discussing the trip in January. At the time, neither of us really knew if we would be physically able to fish in the spring. Nutzy was facing major back surgery, with a projected 18 month recovery period. I was readying myself for surgery to remove a cancerous mass from my right kidney. When I brought up the fishing trip, it felt like reaching on my part. Reaching is sometimes positive. It provides a goal to aspire to, realistic or not. I needed some hope back then.
Despite a fair amount of physical setbacks, Nutzy and I were both well enough to take that fishing trip on July 27th. What an amazing day; significant as it was fun. I value the opportunity to follow through with far-fetched plans. And yes, we did catch fish. Quite a few, actually. Nutzy is a friend I cherish. The fishing trip is a memory I will hold onto. I’m hoping we get a few more days out on the water before summer comes to its inevitable close.
In previous posts, I have gone into detail about my life circumstances from 2021-2023. Fishing is an activity I've loved since I was old enough to get permission from my mother to go, unaccompanied, down to the creek that ran through my childhood neighborhood. I believe I was 8 years old. I didn't fish during the dark years. There were plenty of other beloved activities discontinued and neglected: playing music, listening to music, intimacy, giving a shit about anything...
I have another wonderful fishing story from this summer to share later on. That's from August though.
Fairs, Food Trucks, and Family
Photos:(from top) 1. My granddaughter, Ivy June at 8 months. 2. Me riding the bus from Lowville to Watertown 3. The obnoxious "pro-birth" booth at the Lewis County Fair (I am 100% pro-choice, in case anyone is questioning my stance on womens' reproductive rights. As a man, that's the only respectable stance one can hold. Her body = Her choice. No exceptions!)
Along my journey, I have become a social person. Don't ask me how. I have always been extremely introverted. Socially anxious is a more accurate description. Sure, I have been playing live music for decades. Performing hasn't bothered me since I was a young man, as I am comfortable in my craft. Ask anyone how much I speak to a crowd between songs and they'll tell you, "Almost never."
I wouldn't refer to myself as a blossoming extrovert, but I do enjoy being around people these days. It isn't forced. I am an admittedly awkward social creature. There are probably some who would appreciate me shutting the fuck up once in a while. There are no plans for that. I have shit to say.
The pic of the "Fetus Booth" has a funny story behind it. My daughter, son-in-law, baby girl, and I went to the Lewis County Fair together. I couldn't resist stopping at the display. I would have acted more ridiculous, but the lady running the booth was a retired secretary from my high school. Sure, her abortion views are trash, but I still see her as a nice person otherwise. Living in a rural area requires strong “live and let live” skills.
I reside in Trump country. Northern New York is as red as Alabama. It is not feasible to hate everyone based on “culture war” sensibilities. Conversing with others without bringing politics or religion into it reveals more commonality than division. It's a skill I have acquired while living here my entire life, all the while, maintaining extremely progressive and militantly secular ideals.
There was a free raffle for a “baby girl” basket at the fetus booth. Guess who won it?
I went to the Fair multiple times, mostly by myself. I also attended the Farmers' Market on Saturdays, and walked down to watch "Music in the Park" as much as I could (once sitting in with my friends' band on guitar). Chances are, if there was a public event taking place in Lowville this summer, I was there. I reconnected with so many people from my past.
It was important for me to reacquaint myself with this town. I left the area for six years, returning once for two months after a split with my ex and staying with my high school sweetheart. I handled that situation poorly, to say the least. She was the only person in the world who cared enough to help me out during that time. I wouldn’t be here if not for her kindness. While in town last year, I made the news by getting arrested for DWI. My BAC was 0.26. It wasn’t easy showing my face around here at first. Part of me wanted to keep to myself. I did the opposite.
I have become a food truck conisseur. My cholesterol is high. Changing my diet is more doable in the fall. This is how I re-acclimated to Lowville, a small town I was once happy to flee. The grass is greener where you water it. I understand now.
Family
I held my granddaughter on the 4th of July while her father lit fireworks. She was fascinated, unafraid, and only flinched a couple of times for the louder bangs. Her curiosity is infectious. Babies warm the soul.
We had a cookout at my oldest daughter and son-in-law’s house that day. All of us attended, including my younger son, youngest daughter, and their mother (my 1st wife) She is a good person and someone I consider a close friend. We met in junior high. She helped me get my belongings after the June breakup and is still storing some of my shit at her place. I can’t thank her enough. Our bond as parents would prove to be important in July.
On July 19th, my son became very ill. He had a seizure and was transported by ambulance to Lewis County General Hospital in Lowville. I was at the Fair, talking to some friends. My oldest daughter called me with the news. I ran all the way back to the street we all live on. I can’t recall the last time I ran. It was definitely before the surgery.
It’s hard to explain how the emergency with my son made me feel. I’ve described myself as “unbreakable” in other posts. That isn’t true. I believed it when I said it, but it’s foolish to think that, even after all I’ve been through. We all have weak spots. My children are mine.
The experience with my son (age 24) was terrifying. He wasn’t himself; delusional. The cause of the seizure is still unknown. Many factors may have contributed. His mother and I sat in the Emergency Room for about 30 hours, only leaving briefly one at a time, for short naps.
Everyone banded together, and my daughters and son-in-law ran supplies to the hospital (snacks, drinks, etc.). We operated like a true family unit. We are a family.
My ex-wife and I worked as a team to care for and advocate for our son. It was a heartwarming experience for me. He’s doing much better now. Thank goodness.
It occurred to me after the crisis was over that she and I have become elders. This is our family.
Flash Flooding
July brought with it extreme weather. There was flash flooding in Lowville on July 10th. The basement and lawn at the house got hit hard. A tornado touched down not far from here. The town experienced massive damage. Having lived here most of my life, I have never seen the likes of it. It was called “The Storm of a Generation”. It happened again a week later. Then again in early August. Too soon to call it climate collapse? Which generation?
Questionable Chronology (my apologies)
It may have made sense for me to start at July 4th and write in order. My neurodivergent mind doesn’t work that way. Anyone who has ever listened to me tell a story is aware of this trait. I jump around. Maybe it’s a style. I do my best to make sense. Maybe I fall short sometimes.
One person has listened to my story telling since early March. She has helped me tremendously with everything, and I mean everything. I consider her one of the closest confidants I have ever had in life. I can’t mention her by name, only by the most befitting title I can use anonymously: a very dear friend. There are reasons for keeping it vague, respectfully. If she is reading this, I hope she knows she has a true friend in me for life. I’m really trying to tone the self-effacing humor down now, even though it gets laughs. That spray bottle might still be necessary though.
I spoke to her about putting up an online dating profile that read:
“I’m not much to look at, but my personality makes it far worse.”
It was met with a laugh, but then an eye roll. Then I said, “If I’m considered desirable in any way, the dating pool must be bone dry.” Similar response.
Without our conversations, I could not have become the person I am today. She’s that important to my story, a main character I didn’t even know before the winter of this year.
I did post a dating profile in early July. It wasn’t quite that bad (I was very honest about myself). Somehow, I ended up matching with someone who has become very special to me the first night I was on the site. We met in person on July 11th. The rest is between us. Even when I write about positive experiences, judgment comes from people who confuse my blog with social media. Stop doing that please. Actually, I'm not asking. Stop.
I’ll only share that I’m very lucky to know her. She is way out of my league and I know it. She probably won’t like that statement (it's true).
If you read my earlier post, “I Shouldn’t Be Here: The Collapsed Lung Incident of July 2023”, it should be easy to understand why I’m writing this series. I spent the summer of 2023 in a drunken death spiral.
“…there were years when I was ready to die, but it’s only been recently that I’ve been willing to live.”, from the song, “Bitter Old Man” by Ramshackle Glory
Part 3 of the series coming soon…Thank you for reading!
"And I welcome writer's block with wide open arms because if I'm not writing, I'm happy. Writing is just an escape from the day-to-day tragedy I find surrounds me.", from the song, "Wholesale Failure" by Days N' Daze
That's a great line. Days N' Daze have become one of my favorite folk-punk acts. I recently edited some of my previous posts that I had unpublished. They are back online. I had my reasons for putting them on the shelf for a while. Looking back at those posts, I realize that I was writing for the cathartic release it offered. I wasn't happy, but my healing process had begun.
As days pass, my understanding of myself and the growth mindset I've adopted become more refined and focused. Even as I wrote about one of the darkest experiences of my life in the last entry, "I Shouldn't Be Here: The Collapsed Lung Incident of 2023", I had different emotional responses to the writing than in previous posts.
Life is never going to be perfect. I accepted that long ago. That doesn't mean that happiness and contentment are unattainable. I found myself constructing the last story as if it were about someone else. More attention was paid to the style and delivery than the content itself. It's still uncomfortable recalling those events, but there is a noticeable separation from them now. It happened to me, but I don't identify with the main character as much as I once did.
I'm a completely different person than the one who blacked out and inexplicably walked into the forest in the middle of a July night in 2023. No, life isn't perfect. It is beautiful though. My shit is far from together (I’ll get back to that), but I have manifested a new state of being. Damn...I'm actually happy and still writing. The song is great. Those lyrics don’t apply to me anymore.
"But there are standards I expect our breaking up to measure up to, when you fall in love as hard and recklessly as you and I do. It seems the final act should have the same intensity as the first scene. If I don’t lose a couple teeth, then it just won't feel real to me." - from the song, "Like a Staring Contest" by The Future Kings of Nowhere
This is how the summer began for me. For better context, I'd suggest reading one of my previous posts, "The Journey's New Destination". I don't want to dwell on this subject. A six-year relationship ended for me in June. Great start to the summer, right? Honestly, it was.
I've learned a lot of new terms since, including: love bombing, reverse discard, smear campaign, and flying monkeys; to name a few. Our relationship dynamic makes better sense because it.
The song I referenced above is quite lyrically impressive, in my opinion. Listening to it would provide all the backstory you might need without me going off on a tangent about a topic I’m sick of writing about. To follow up on “The Journey’s New Destination” post; I did get my belongings out. It was far from drama-free, but it could have been worse.
I am still staying with my daughter, son-in-law, and baby granddaughter. My gratitude for their generosity is tremendous. I’ve gotten to see that beautiful baby girl learn and grow. It has been a privilege to form such a unique and special bond with her. I will cherish the experience forever. There are many people to thank. This change was a group effort. There is beauty in interdependence.
*Here is my latest song release, “Ivy June”. It was written for my granddaughter, born 11/7/2024, and released this summer.
I'll be filling out an application for my own subsidized apartment this week. I have a friend helping me with it. My current life is possible because of the relationships I've cultivated. For most of my adult life, I believed I didn't have any people skills. Perhaps I didn’t, but now I do, and what a difference it has made. These new abilities helped to limit the damage caused by the smear campaign, too.
•There are several poetry blog entries between the two aforementioned essay posts. These tell more of a tale about the breakup than I'm comfortable, or even motivated to share in the form of prose. Does anyone really give a shit about reading poetry anymore? Maybe those of us nerds who still write it, I guess.
A Spiritual Awakening
The breakup occurred in June, but my new life began before that, while my ex and I were still together. That doesn’t mean anything other than that I was improving despite the circumstances. It's probably a big reason why we broke up. The healthier I became, the harder it was for us to coexist as a couple. I am content with my effort to make things work. People break up. It’s mundane life stuff.
I started writing again in January. This blog was created in April, 6 weeks after my cancer surgery. I hadn’t written much since college, other than songs. There were things I needed to say; axes to grind. My earlier posts reflect that. I now write for the love of it. Journaling has become a ritual. Some of that lands here. Most of it doesn’t.
Since surgery, I have developed a keen appreciation for the value of time. Wasting time bothers me, whether it’s me or someone else doing it. In the interest of making each day count, I started busking in Watertown, NY back in April, as soon as I was cleared to resume “regular physical activities” by my surgeon. If the temperature exceeded 50 degrees, I was playing music on the streets. It was practical. I needed to practice and I wasn’t afforded the time to do it any other way. The experience has been valuable. I’m still busking, sometimes in Lowville now. I still go to Watertown often.
My ex wasn't big on transporting me (see previous posts for the reasons I don't drive) around, even as a client of the agency she worked for and while being paid to do so. Her work day was also mine. I made the best of it. My insistence on continuous growth meant creating positive and meaningful experiences out of otherwise shitty circumstances. Perception is powerful.
When I woke from anesthesia on February 15th, the first thought I had was that I would live a life of great purpose from that moment on. I didn’t know what that meant then. My second thought was that I wanted to see my ex. So, my ideas were a mixed bag, at best. Kidding aside, it was a profound moment…a spiritual awakening.
I hope this blog reaches people in many different locations; people who don’t know me personally. Most of my readers are probably friends and family (haters too). I appreciate them all. People who know me will be shocked at my use of the word “spiritual” in reference to my beliefs. My atheism is well-known and has been stated clearly and often.
No, I haven’t become a Christian or a theist of any stripe. I’m not even a deist. I can’t explain my newfound spirituality adequately, because I don’t completely understand it myself. It’s something I feel deep inside that wasn’t there before. Understanding, to me, is less important than acknowledging the existence of spirituality in my life. I don’t subscribe to the efficacy of 12-Step programs either. This is something very different.
Religious people believe they have answers. I have only uncovered more questions along the road of my own self-exploration. If this is an existential crisis, I hope it’s never ending. I’m still an atheist and will never entertain the shortsighted “God in the gaps”, apologist narrative in an effort to explain anything.
My mind has become more open to phenomena that can’t be fully explained by science or logic. I probably alienate myself from other atheists with that statement. Fitting in has stopped mattering to me. If I’m fitting, I’m slipping.
“Science fails to recognize the single most potent element of human existence. Letting the reigns go to the unfolding is faith.”, from the song, “Science” by System of a Down
This is a song I used to skip on the "Toxicity " CD while driving. I'm a big fan of SOAD. They brought a unique style to metal (some would say "Nu Metal". I disagree.). I didn't understand it in the early 2000s. Life would have been different if I had.
Rejecting the idea of spirituality led me down other, more damaging paths. I couldn't handle life without numbing. I don't need to rehash what psych meds and substance use did to me. Unfortunately, my struggles spilled onto those around me, especially my children.
“Science” is a personal favorite song of mine now. I'm still searching, seeking, and sometimes asking for guidance while navigating my spiritual awakening. Enlightenment is not instantaneous. Guidance is good, but my journey has been more internal and personal. There really isn't a manual for this. Becoming one's true self can be lonely at times. Growth has occurred more rapidly in the moments when I don’t feel alone. I'll leave it there for now.
"Just do the dirt and walk away and don't say shit. My momma didn't raise no snitch. If anybody asks, well then I've never heard your name...", from the song "A Glorious Shipwreck" by Pat the Bunny
As always, I keep the names of characters out of my writing. The exception is when I'm praising someone. I mentioned my father and maternal grandfather by name in a previous post. It was about my musical influences.
There are some great people I don't reveal by name out of courtesy (either personal or professional). If my depictions are critical, I won't name names. That could have legal/civil consequences. That's only one reason why I don't do it. "The Journey" is about me. It's not a platform to trash others. If people identify as a character in my stories and are bothered by it, guess what? That's an obvious admission of guilt and/or culpability.
To whom it may concern: feel free to write your own blog in rebuttal. Flame wars are great fun…sometimes. Ask the admins of r/bipolar. They tried to get me banned from Reddit but failed.
“A Tale of Two Summers” will be a series. I couldn't possibly capture the many layers of this story in one post. Thank you for reading! Part 2 coming soon...
I'm sharing this video because it's the last thing I posted to YouTube in early 2021. It's one of my own songs. Shortly after posting, a long descent into the void of lost humanity that was as difficult to understand as it is to remember began. What followed was a total disconnect from music, friendship, love, fatherhood, self-awareness, my internal monologue, and any semblance of hope I had previously possessed. I know what it's like to lose my mind completely. This period of living death lasted 3 years. "Lucky" doesn't cover it. I really shouldn't be here.
In the early morning hours of July 17, 2023, I was thankful for the sunrise. The light carried with it a burst of sudden clarity. It was terrifying. I scanned my surroundings. In all directions, there was only a dense forest. Then I noticed the stabbing pain. I knew instantly that I had broken ribs. I vaguely remember taking a hard fall, landing on my chest across a fallen tree. The visibility of sunlight provided me the opportunity to take inventory of my body. My clothes were caked in mud. My sneakers and socks were saturated by stagnant swamp water. My legs and arms were ripped to shreds by briars.
I reached into my pockets, hoping to find cigarettes. The pockets of my muddied shorts were empty. No cigarettes, no wallet, no phone. Badly injured, exhausted, lost, and confused; I did my best to focus what was left of my mind on survival instead of panic.
My phone would have been of little use anyway. I didn't know my location. Approximate? Sure. I was cognizant of my starting point. Given the thickness of the wooded area I found myself in, screaming for help would have been wasted energy. I wasn't completely sober, but adrenaline counters alcohol quite effectively. Taking the deepest breath I could inhale was a mistake. I screamed loudly at the trees. Again, no one could hear me.
I chose a random direction to walk in, clumsily making my way through a marsh, up hills, over slippery rocks and logs, and through more briar patches. It was necessary to change direction often. At times, the brush was too thick to push through. I stumbled in wide circles, getting nowhere. It occurred to me that I was totally fucked. I know the overwhelming persistence of survival instinct well. It's what life has forced upon me.
As I wandered, I tried to remember if I had driven to wherever it was I now found myself. I couldn't rationalize clearly. The hope was to find my car parked safely at Whitaker Park in Martinsburg, NY, about 2 miles from my childhood home.
I drove there after an argument with my girlfriend. It was a common occurrence. Whether I left on my own accord or was told to became a contentious subject, never to be resolved. We are no longer together. I had been drinking before I left that evening. It was the catalyst of the conflict.
I travelled an estimated forty miles to the park to sleep in my car for the night, stopping at a convenience store to purchase a 30-pack of some panther piss beer and lighter fluid. The cheap beer had a high alcohol content. I preferred that, never much caring about taste. When I drank, it was for the buzz. Once at the park, I started a fire and continued drinking.
My memory goes blank after the fireside drinking. Hours were lost. I blacked out. My problem with alcohol is undeniable. I am still paying for it legally. That's another story. I am in recovery now, and have been for almost 11 months.
This was certainly not my first blackout. I'd been drinking to the point of amnesia since I was around 18 years old, off and on. This one was a different beast entirely. It's one thing to wake up next to a naked stranger with hangover regrets. Experiencing a fugue state is another matter; a far more serious situation than ill-advised, dumb sex.
Negligently prescribed psych meds, the volatility of my relationship, and the drunken, impotent rage induced by the conflict were all significant contributing factors. I'm still grappling with the trauma left behind by perpetually toxic living conditions. Some were self induced. Others weren’t.
I will never know why I walked into the woods that night, or where my intended destination may have been. It doesn't make sense, even now. To an extent, I'm glad it doesn't make sense. Maybe it's better that way.
If I made this a post about my drinking history, it would be too lengthy to hold anyone's interest. The brief synopsis is for context. Every drunk has "war stories". Mine are no more compelling than anyone else's.
Eventually, I spied what appeared to be a clearing in the brush at the top of a steep hill. I summoned what little strength I had left in my battered body to make my way toward it. My eyes and instincts betrayed me several times that morning, believing I noticed several clearings, only to discover more thickets in front of me. I was desperate. This was my oasis.
I scaled the hill and gazed upon a vast cornfield at the summit. I wept. I felt relief, despite the excruciating pain and fatigue that accompanied it. Cornfields lead to roads. Every drunken country bumpkin knows that. Tractors must be able to get in there. It's common knowledge.
My sense of direction improved slightly. I was confident I would soon come out to a road. I didn't know which one though. Studying the direction of the tractor tire treads in the mud, I pressed forward. It was a much easier hike than trudging through the deep woods. For that I was grateful. Still, my breathing was erratic and shallow. I took several necessary breaks along the way.
I wondered how many ribs I had broken. Beads of blood flowed down my lower legs and into the wet dirt. Walking through the field took longer than expected. Eventually, I reached the end of it, only to contend with another stretch of trees and brush. Luckily, it was a short traverse. I slid on my ass down a wet embankment. Civilization stretched out before me.
I knew exactly where I was. It was about 2 miles from the campsite I had strayed from. The road was State Route 12, across from a corporate farm in East Martinsburg. I never expected that the mere sight of asphalt would bring such joy.
My trip back to the campground would be no easy feat in my condition. What if my car wasn't even there? My options were limited. Hitchhiking was out. I looked like a psychotic killer from some low-budget hillybilly horror movie. The psychotic part was accurate.
I turned right onto Whitaker Road. The pitch of the hill I needed to ascend was formidable. Even uninjured, it would have been unpleasant. I struggled to keep moving, often resting with my hands on my knees and gasping for oxygen.
Clinging to consciousness, I continued, averting collapse. I couldn't remember the night before, but the challenge of that incline will be forever etched into my subconscious. The temperature outside rose steadily with the rising of the sun. I pressed on. It was pure fucking hell.
As I crossed the threshold of the campground entrance, (an archway) my anxiety peaked. Would I find my vehicle there? Being badly injured, I understood that more foot travel could be dangerous. My strength reserves were already depleted. Fortitude has its limits.
My mind was suddenly flooded with "what ifs". Had I abandoned my vehicle? What were the chances that the police had intervened? Were they searching for me now? Did my car get towed away? Did my girlfriend give a shit about my wellbeing? Total exhaustion was affecting my thought processes.
The adrenaline dissipated, allowing the extent of my physical pain to be fully appreciated. Never had I coveted sleep with such fervor. I breathed a weakened sigh of relief as I reached my campsite. There was my Honda, waiting where I had left it. The Universe relented.
My campsite was strewn with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The fire I had built the evening before had burned to ashes hours before. I leaned against the car and cried.
Inside, I found my wallet, phone, and most importantly, the pack of cigarettes I had purchased in Lowville on my way to Whitaker Park. I lit up a smoke before checking my phone. Priorities. I quit smoking in the fall of 2019, picking up vaping as a substitute. In times of stress, I would sometimes choose tobacco. Familiarity I guess. It's not uncommon.
I counted the empty cans. With my tolerance for alcohol considered, it wasn't many empties. I picked up after myself. The cans were thrown into the back of my car. The butts went into the fire pit. Even in a crisis, I still felt some guilty responsibility for my carbon footprint. I don't litter. I committed more serious crimes like DWI.
As I lifted the hatch of my CRV to toss the empty cans inside, I quickly noticed there were plenty of unopened beers left. Without thinking, I popped the top of a piss-warm pilsner and sucked it down hastily.
I suppose the logic behind it (or lack thereof) was to dull the sharp, stabbing pain radiating through my ribcage enough for sleeping. I downed a couple more for good measure. In those days, I could polish off a can of beer in about three gulps.
Closet drinkers consume their poison rapidly. Attempting to hide substance abuse of any type requires precision and an opportunistic mindset. My ability to deceive effectively never developed. I don’t expect anyone to understand this behavior. I no longer identify with it either.
I reluctantly unlocked my phone. It was around 9:30 AM (ish). No new messages from my girlfriend. There was a forgotten (by me), extremely heated exchange of texts from the night before waiting for review. She had stopped responding. I continued messaging angrily before giving up. My words were ugly, mean-spirited, and disorganized. Drunk texting will make a fool of anyone.
When I read those messages, my remorse was immediate. I mentally retreated to my usual state of self-loathing. After all, my drinking was the triggering event. I was too tired for meaningful reflection. I gingerly worked my broken body onto the back seat of my CRV and closed my eyes.
The hot Tug Hill air was thick with swarms of mosquitos. Keeping the bloodsuckers outside of the cab of my Honda proved impossible. I was half asleep and swatting blindly, only succeeding at beating the shit out of myself even more.
The temperature had risen to an oppressive level, but I decided that opening windows was a terrible idea. Instead, I exited the vehicle and stripped down to my boxers at a public campground in broad daylight, inviting more mosquito bites, and probably some dirty looks in the process.
The other campers were awakening from their slumbers and starting their day as I struggled to get some rest. I drifted off for about an hour. The inevitable tings of incoming text messages disturbed my catatonic solitude. I silenced my phone and continued trying to sleep.
At age 49, my ability to camp comfortably in the back seat of a car was already compromised. It was rendered impossible by broken ribs and unrelenting flying insects. As much as I needed rest, it became clear that it wasn’t happening.
Rising to a seated position was no small undertaking. I had stiffened up. Wincing and wrestling with my beleaguered husk of an existence vessel without the assistance of core muscles took several pathetic attempts.
After a long period of radio silence, I reached for my phone again. Sure enough, there were multiple new texts, several missed calls, and an angry voicemail threatening to call the cops if I didn't respond immediately. I laughed a little. Where would she send the authorities without a location to work with? I would later learn more about cell phone tower pinging. Upon reflection, I definitely benefited from her lack of genuine concern and empathy. It was a bluff. Police presence would have made an already dismal situation far worse. Cops have a knack for that.
When I called my girlfriend, the conversation went as expected. I answered her questions. She was obviously pissed off. My shame was equally transparent. I told her I couldn't drive until I rested. It was not well-received information. She was at work and sounded very annoyed by it all. Her speech was monotone.
I didn't know if we had broken up or not, which was an established precedent in our relationship for years. Not being told to stay gone was the only indication I had that we continued to be an item. Communication was never a strong skill between us. I apologized for the texts I had sent the night before, sincerely. I regretted the texts.
I was done trying to sleep. I prepared for the trip back to her house by guzzling a couple more beers before embarking on yet another semi-inebriated drive of shame. I bought coffee at the store I stopped at the evening before.
I can't even quantify how many times we did this as a couple over a 6-year span. I spent the majority of our relationship in relative sobriety. Not that it matters. I've spent the majority of my adult life abstaining from booze. Really. The relapses have been catastrophic. My worst moments always negated the good things I had done, not just for her, but for almost everyone I had ever known in my life. My drinking was the bridge-burning kind. The bridges were never structurally sound to begin with. I have a better working understanding of that now.
The roles of pariah, scapegoat, and black sheep became comfortable for me with practice. I used to believe I deserved the loathesome treatment I received. I don't project that anymore. In whatever tense I’m speaking or writing in, I now give myself a realist’s element of grace. I deserved better. Everyone does.
I don’t blame others for my fuck ups, but being fair to me, they were often reactionary. It seems I know a lot of perfect people. They are slowly becoming footnotes in my story. I offer no apologies for establishing new, more stringent boundaries.
When I arrived at my destination (the house I only refer to now as "hers"), I appreciated the serenity of temporary silence. I stood in the driveway, smoking more cigarettes, and drinking beer. My emotions were mixed about entering the dwelling. I knew what was coming. Eventually, I summoned the mental and physical strength to go inside. I left the items I had packed the previous evening in the car: clothing, firewood, some snacks, and the cheap nasty beer.
I fell asleep quickly in our bed. She shook me awake upon arrival. I don't remember the discussion in detail because it wasn't significant. I fucked up again and was scolded for the offense. Typical.
I snuck outside several times that evening to drink what had become hot swill. She was happy to share the cigarettes. My night was spent writhing and moaning in pain beside her in our bed. No compassion. I was ignored as she flipped the pages of her book with indifference. No offer to drive me to the hospital. I did this all to myself, right? I understood. Taking 4 Ibuprophen dulled the pain enough for almost decent sleep.
She left for work before I woke up. The cigarettes were gone, so I resumed vaping. Another dose of Ibuprophen kicked in. It was harsh but manageable pain. I made the decision to drive myself to the Emergency Department in Watertown. My motivations were pretty simple. I needed an x-ray to be taken out of work for medical reasons. I didn’t think a whole lot that could be done for broken ribs. Others have shared with me that broken ribs are extremely painful. I've felt worse, honestly.
Maybe some prescription painkillers would be prescribed (the good stuff). Mainly, I just wanted the work note. I was floundering at my job, missing many days because of migraines, a bout of vertigo, and unexplained vomiting in the morning. This happened often. I had exhausted my reserve of PTO months ago and started taking days off without pay. The criticism was more direct at home than at work. My short paychecks were not appreciated.
My girlfriend would often ask questions like, “Do you think you’re an asset or a liability in this relationship?” I’m sure living with me at that time felt like a burden to her. I refused to answer such questions.
I drove myself to the hospital and parked on the 2nd level of the parking garage. The Ibuprophen was wearing off and my stroll to the emergency room was slow and laborious. I nervously hit my vape on the way in.
Once inside, I checked in at registration, described my affliction, offered my insurance card, then took a seat in the waiting room. I scrolled Facebook on my phone, bored. I notified my girlfriend about being there and received a short reply. Something banal, like “ok".
Waiting is hard for me to endure with ADHD. I was becoming increasingly annoyed as time elapsed. I thought about leaving, but I really wanted that note for work. To be fair, I didn't wait very long. I was just impatient.
A tech ushered me to the Radiology Department. I returned to the waiting room while the films were process and analyzed. The wait was pretty short, about 10 minutes. Another tech summoned me for a CT scan. I found the efficiency and thoroughness odd. A CT for broken ribs? Seemed excessive. No more waiting room. I was taken swiftly to yet another room inside the Emergency Department. As everyone knows, this is usually where the real waiting begins. That didn't happen. I didn't wait at all.
My room became a frenetic beehive of doctors and nurses upon my arrival. I noticed the concerned, somewhat panicked expressions on their faces. There was a a soft spoken elder nurse who offered comfort. She spoke in a motherly tone. Why? My curiousity increased as another nurse fitted an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. In my mind, I was breathing just fine. Shallow, but fine.
A third nurse inserted an IV into a vein on the back of my hand. Morphine was administered. I felt the warm rush of opiate flush through my body. For a moment, it was nice, but I became nauseous from the suddenly injected euphoria. Opiates are not my preferred flavor. Two doctors conferred quietly in the corner of the room. One of them walked to the edge of the bed to speak to me directly.
"We're moving you upstairs. Dr. (I can't recall his name) is going to take care of you. you should start to feel much better after", he exclaimed in a professional, but compassionate voice.
"Upstairs? Where? What's going on? Are my ribs broken", I asked. My mind was now percolating with anxiety.
"You're going to the ICU. The surgeon is going to install a chest tube. Shawn, you have two broken ribs, but that is the least of your concerns. The ribs punctured your lung and caused it to collapse. This is very serious", the doctor explained.
"Wow. I didn't expect that. I waited 2 days to come in. (laughing) Why ICU", I asked, wondering what installing a chest tube would entail. My imagination is vivid. It works against me at times.
"You're in critical condition. I wish you the best of luck, Shawn", he said quietly. He seemed genuine.
I was wheeled to the ICU quickly. When I'm anxious, I tend to crack inappropriate jokes. The guy pushing my gurney didn't seem amused by my quips. Perhaps they weren't clever. He had long hair too.
I took little time in the ICU for another congregation of medical professionals to begin circling. The surgeon explained the procedure he was about to perform. He looked at least 100 years old. His voice was dry and indifferent. I had hoped the chest tube statement was hyperbolic. It all felt surreal. I knew I was injured, but I wasn't prepared for such an invasive medical intervention. A tube in my lung? Holy shit!
I was given two injections of an anesthetic drug called Versed, an apparent high-potency benzodiazepine. I'm well informed about the drug class, having been prescribed clonazapam for 12 years. That acquired tolerance didn't work in my favor. Versed had no effect. None. I was wide awake and fully aware during the procedure. The old, weathered surgeon used a localized numbing agent. He then made an incision to accommodate the tube he was about to insert. I was petrified.
"I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt", said the surgeon. A nurse at my bedside rubbed my hair and tried to reassure me in a low, calming voice. Doctors don't usually speak that way. When they do, they mean it.
Pop!
Puncturing a chest wall makes a noise. The pain was indescribable. I groaned loudly in agony. If you have the stomach for attempting to relate, imagine yourself being stabbed with an icepick. It pops. I guarantee it. This memory has lingered, much in the way that getting a bone marrow biopsy at 17 has.
My memories of later banter with the ancient doctor are fuzzy, at best. I was jacked up on a cocktail of sedative medications that could take down a wildebeest. My recollections are nonsensical. I vaguely recall inquiries about Tuberculosis and such. It is possible that these interactions were imagined. One conversation stands out.
"How much do you drink", he asked.
"Not a lot", I answered. That was a lie. Even in a compromised state, I tried to save face. I had been on a bender for several weeks before the incident (I think). The doctor didn't buy a word of my bullshit.
"Look, I think you're downplaying your drinking. I'm prescribing medication for alcohol detox. I'm not having you go into DTs on my watch and having a seizure. Trust me, what you just went through is nothing compared to having a ventilator installed. Is that what you want", He asked sternly. The man was an old-school fossil from a bygone era. He was blunt. I was obstinate, but capitulated with little protest.
During my stay, many staff members asked to see my legs when they entered my room. This was more curiosity than medical concern. They were a sight, more scab than skin. I was torn up.
"No", I replied. I didn't mind being on more drugs. That was my state of mind back then. I was in psychosis; iatrogenic, neuroleptic-induced psychosis, exacerbated by alcohol. Batshit. How was I holding down a full-time job? How did this go unnoticed by the people closest to me? It didn't. More than a handful of people have come forward to "Monday Morning Quarterback" my life at that time. Their hindsight is even more worthless than my own. I'll never be able to comprehend this. Once I was settled, I called my girlfriend.
I won't quote the conversation verbatim. It isn't fresh in my mind. I was heavily drugged. I can only offer a summary.
She was annoyed. Pissed off. My partner of 5 years made it clear that she did not want to visit me in the hospital. I asked for a book to read and my phone charger. I truly desired her attention. She reluctantly agreed to bring the requested items to me. Being in the ICU in critical condition was my own doing, right? Life isn't that simple. Readers can draw their own conclusions about the propriety of her responses. It isn't my call. I drank. She didn't like it. I'll drop it there.
She came to visit me that evening. She brought a book and my phone charger. In my room, there was a white dry-erase board. It listed information, such as my current nurse's first name, my assigned doctor, and my emergency contact, which was her. She read the board with a scowl.
"You should change your emergency contact to your mother", she stated coldly as she approached my bedside.
"Why", I asked. "Are we done?"
There was no definitive answer offered. She stayed with me for a few minutes. She told me she had things to do. Then she left. She didn't return again. I was in the hospital for 5 days. We had a few short phone conversations while I was admitted, but nothing memorable. She was angry. Maybe, rightfully so. I have my own opinion. I knew I was fucking up when I drank. I wasn't honest about it with her. That's the extent of the conflict. I'm done trying to understand her actions. As previously mentioned, we are no longer together. We didn't split up over this incident though.
After a couple of days in the ICU, my condition improved. The chest tube was removed after my lung was re-inflated to full capacity. I was up, walking, eating, and feeling a lot better (at least physically). The removal of the chest tube was excruciating too, although not as horrific as the insertion.
My parents and my supervisor from work came to visit me a day or two prior. The simultaneous timing of their arrivals was coincidental. My supervisor was empathetic and supportive. My parents looked sad and afraid. I don't blame them. The visitation was appreciated. I still longed for compassion and attention from my partner in vain. Despite that unfortunate reality, I defended her name to my guests when they asked about her. I was embarrassed about both of our actions.
“We can’t help you anymore. The last time was the last time”, was what my father told me as my parents exited the ICU I had stayed with them for a few months in 2017 when my second marriage imploded. I returned to the marriage briefly before finally leaving for good a few months into the reconciliation attempt.
Fair enough, I thought. Also fair: I didn’t ask to stay there, nor would I have considered asking. 49 year old men shouldn’t need parenting. I had lived a maladjusted, train wreck of a life. My parents didn’t need that drama under their roof. I didn’t want to go there either. What I truly wanted was for my relationship with my girlfriend to work. It is strange to deny help that wasn’t asked for preemptively.
The morning of my release from ICU arrived. I was still highly sedated on painkillers and that strong detox benzo. I was in no condition to be driving. With that realization in mind, I called my girlfriend again. I asked if she could come to pick me up from the hospital.
"Isn't your car there", she asked.
"Yes, but I don't think it's a good idea for me to drive. I'm pretty drugged."
"I have a busy day at work today. I don't have time for this", was the reply. Her dedication to her job could never be called into question. If she doesn't win Employee of the Month 12 times a year, it's a rigged award. I decided to drive. Why the doctor allowed me to do so will forever remain a mystery. I was honest about the effects of the drugs.
I sat in a wheelchair while I was delivered to the hospital exit. The staff member (title unknown) and I talked about music along the way. I walked to the parking garage, found my car, and drove to my pharmacy, heavily tranquilized by the drugs. Here’s the truth: I was high as fuck. I picked up my precriptions and headed back to her house.
I returned to work after a week of convalescence. My ribs ached for a month or two after the hospitalization. My job was in an office. I managed to work through it, sort of, I guess. I couldn't continue to miss work without pay. We had bills. The boat of my relationship had been rocked enough and I wasn’t the captain. My efforts focused on damage control, not healing. Perhaps the continued state of psychosis played a part in my life decisions. I know it did. Hindsight is worthless.
I want to be very clear about something. The purpose of sharing this story is not to bash my ex. Let's be honest, it isn't easy being in a relationship with a person who is struggling with addiction. I couldn't understand my own thoughts during that time period, much less read hers. While I needed someone to show up in a bigger way for me, I take responsibility for my own actions and the worry they caused others. I choose humility over judgment, always. Bashing anyone would be unfair. I’m an extremely flawed human being myself. My stories are testimonials.
I will offer this piece of advice (I never do this): If you truly love someone in the throws of active addiction, your distance might serve you well, but it will never help the struggling loved one. Drop your delusions. Tough love isn't love. A drowning person needs a hand up.
I really shouldn't be here, alive, happy, and sharing new creative content. I wish I could claim that I made major life changes after this near-death experience. It didn't happen like that though.
I left the ICU completely detoxed from alcohol. Psychosis persisted. My suffering was just beginning. I relapsed again a month later. Life got far worse for me before it improved. This isn't my happy ending. That came much later.
•The above photo was taken 2/15/24, before heading to the hospital for surgery to remove cancerous masses on my right kidney.
In the interest of loving you correctly:
I will be talked down to. I will capitulate. I will do your bidding. I will not complain. I will keep my distance. I will keep my head down. I will smile through my pain. I will be a robot. I will know my place. I will eat what you tell me. I will sleep with permission. I will say the things you want to hear. I will not contradict you. I will give up my individuality. I will hate myself in silence. I will be a good parasite. I will strive for symbiosis.
I won’t question you. I won’t doubt you. I won’t think for myself. I will take orders. I won’t fight back. I won’t speak unless spoken to. I won’t like things that you don’t. I will keep my suffering hidden. I won’t be a nuisance. I won’t care about my own fate. I won’t look at you sideways. I won’t speak against you. I will defend you to others. I will leave when you discard me.
I guess this is what love means. Your win is my loss. My loss of self completely. I give myself up freely. I surrender. I’m your possession. It’s the least that I can do. I know my worth.
I find myself longing for a place I once was very happy to leave behind. It was never about surroundings.
I packed up shards of my heart, then carefully constructed plans with a mind I couldn’t trust. In my haste, I neglected to drag my soul along.
I ran from sickness. Sickness travels. A fools endeavor. I’m not the first.
I built a sand castle and named it home. When it washed away, I buried my head in its shell. I became a shell in the process.
And now I see the beauty of the forest and hear the music of the creek of my youth in my mind and wonder why I wished it away so frivolously.
This place has it charms, but it diminished me. I’m not as strong as I thought, or even half as smart. I feel my energy leaving…albeit slowly.
I’m not far, but I’m a million miles away from where I desire so much to return and replant these weathered roots, before I’m washed away like my temporary castle.
I am temporary too…we all are. Time is an unforgiving tyrant.
I feel as though I may finally lay my sickness down, but I’ll drown it in the river for the benefit of everyone, just to be safe.
