*This is the video for a brand-new song I wrote on 5/24/2024, inspired by my granddaughter, Ivy June Hills, born 11/7/2023. It's not a finished song. This video was made minutes after writing. In the video, I'm reading the lyrics from my notepad as I perform.
“I have one of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy…or stay out here and play writer and starve. I have decided to starve.” - Charles Bukowski
As I embarked on this journey of mine, I tended to look for inspiration wherever I could find it. Not every day is filled with confidence and victories. I post inspirational anecdotes about myself on social media. None are disingenuous. My stories and the emotions they evoke are totally real. However, I often choose to keep my feelings of doubt, frustration, and the accompanying setbacks to myself.
I've realized that complaining isn't marketable. As purist as my sensibilities about creativity are, it is not lost on me that this is a business. Whether referring to music or writing, the hard truth is that art is not only a business but a cut-throat one at that. My distaste for this reality does nothing to make it less so.
I've developed a deep affinity for the writings of Charles Bukowski. The quote above is from a letter he wrote to John Martin, a publisher. Martin offered Bukowski $100 a month to quit his job and spend the rest of his life writing. The quote was his response to the offer.
Charles Bukowski did just that, publishing six novels, countless poems, and many essays. I find his writing so relatable that I read his work whenever I'm reminded to, usually by some meme that pops up in my Facebook feed. That's a low-brow admission. Social media is trashy, overstimulating mind-control. I'm on it a lot, too. My feed probably looks quite different from most. Do you get a lot of Bukowski?
Different platforms, different personas. At least that's the case for me. On X (Twitter) the algorithms show me posts from people like me. These people have been deeply damaged by psychiatrists and their toxic medications. My skin in this game does not call for any further explanation. What's interesting is that some of the interactions I've had regarding this subject have been with professional people, not just patients with horrific stories. There are plenty of MDs, psychiatric nurses, and even a few psychiatrists who reject the current status quo in psychiatric "care". While this is all fascinating, I have over 5500 followers, but I’m getting absolutely nowhere by promoting my music online. I'm getting nowhere with that venture in general.
These statements should not be misconstrued as bitching. Like Bukowski, given the choice between wage enslavement or starving as a creator, I too choose to starve.
While I will never compare myself to Bukowski in terms of talent, the life parallels are numerous between us. He was a drunk too. He also suffered major depressions and was completely disgusted by a life of meaningless drudgery, working at a postal job he hated. He was 49 when he received the offer from Martin. I'm 50. Nobody has offered to be my benefactor yet though.
My partner is likely more nervous about my choice of starvation than I am, although she doesn't express it, at least not verbally. If things go well, my Social Security Disability claim will be approved, making the government I despise my benefactor. It's not a done deal, but I would consider it poetic justice if it does get approved. Before anyone jumps to the conclusion that I am pulling a scam by applying for disability benefits, I will offer a caution.
As stated in part one of this series, I never initiate conflict. However, I don't cower in the face of it either. I can hold my own in any situation.
Disability
I am disabled. With that information out in the open, let's clarify something at the beginning: being disabled does not mean being unable. I have abilities and skills. I would like to believe that writing is one of them. That remains to be seen. I will claim making music as a skill I possess, but only because I've made enough money over the years to be comfortable making such an assertion. Has it ever been enough to live on? No. Not even close.
I've done a lot of hard physical labor in my lifetime. I'd rather not go into detail about these professions, because frankly, the duties are boring as hell (I touched on that subject in part one). I'll just state that I did (in the past) have an ability to break my back in order to obtain adequate shelter and food for myself and my family. I no longer have it in me. After being diagnosed with cancer for the second time in my life, I'm quite physically broken. I don't have the endurance to be on my feet for eight hours, much less lift heavy objects, bend and twist repeatedly, or even crouch, reach, climb, push, pull...you get the picture. I'm as active as I can handle being, even more sometimes. My abilities, in their current state, don’t come close to making me employable as a laborer.
I'm sure some, if not all readers may be thinking, "Well, you can write. I'm sure you can find less physically strenuous work in an office or something." That's fair, I guess. The reality is that I have worked in an office setting before and was reasonably proficient at it. I'm not going to claim that I've ever found any type of work enjoyable or even close to being worth the time and life experiences I've exchanged for it, but I've certainly done a lot of shitty tasks for minimal money, in order to enrich and advance the careers of more privileged people than myself.
That brilliant office idea you may have in your mind is no more realistic than doing heavy lifting for me. I'll explain.
I've mentioned my interactions on X (Twitter). When I connect with others in discussions about iatrogenic pharmaceutical harm, it's because I live with tardive dyskinesia and mild akathisia. I also have symptoms of PSSD. Worst of all, I have clearly lost a fair amount of executive function. I will be asking for an evaluation of the damage when I meet with a new doctor on Thursday of this week.
Neuroleptic medications (anti-psychotics) have been shown to cause cortical thickness deterioration in the brain. I have deficits in cognition. My creativity seems to be unaffected, along with my ability to rationalize and think critically. I can read and comprehend written information as well as I've always been able to. That's the good news.
The following are life/occupational skills that have been deeply damaged by the poisons I was prescribed (considering my symptoms, these were acts of gross malpractice):
-The ability to complete multi-step tasks: I do try to be helpful around the house. The upkeep of one's living quarters is not the same as wage slavery. Doing these tasks is beneficial to my own well-being.
Tyrannical employment situations give bosses the power to decide what level of well-being a person is entitled to, after trading the better part of existence for a stipend, which is also determined by the boss. Before I go off on that tangent, I'll stop myself and continue on the topic. My feelings about "the 9 to 5" are in alignment with Bukowski's.
Stand me in one spot and tell me that a basket of laundry needs to be folded, and I'll perform the task in a semi-timely manner, usually with reasonable proficiency.
Conversely, ask me to collect the trash and put the large cans by the street for collection the following morning, and I'm going to struggle. This involves many small steps, such as finding the cans in each room, scooping the litter boxes on two floors, gathering the training pads for puppies on two floors, and replacing the liners in all of the small trash cans. Two years ago, this was a 15-minute job for me. Now, it's about an hour and a half. I'd prefer this not to be a duty I am asked to perform, but I usually wind up doing it anyway. I cannot complete the job without great frustration, and there has been zero improvement with repetition.
-I have no short-term memory: None means none. I am often wandering aimlessly. It's sometimes frightening when I walk the city streets. There is no need for further elaboration.
-My attention span is extremely limited: I can focus on reading, but I have not been able to follow the plot of a movie in its entirety for many months. I usually forget what I'm doing while I'm doing it. I was diagnosed with ADHD before being harmed by the medication. It has gotten far worse.
I used to help people with disabilities complete applications for Social Security Disability, Social Services, and Unemployment Insurance as a profession. My last job title was "Mental Health Peer Advocate". I have needed assistance with all of these applications recently. Luckily, I have a wonderful recovery coach who has patiently worked with me to complete these applications. I could not have done it on my own. I tried and failed.
Could alcohol abuse have contributed to this condition? It's possible, but unlikely. So what if it did? It doesn't change the fact that I have a traumatic brain injury. I've also had several concussions, one resulting in a brain bleed. My brain is complete mush in many respects. I'm just glad I don't piss my pants regularly or need a bib to eat. A helmet is probably not a bad idea.
*Psychotropic medications are not completely safe. I wish the general public would wake up to this reality. In case anyone was thinking I was full of shit about the cortical thickness deterioration, I'll drop a link. Feel free to educate yourself. I spent two years on Olanzapine (the drug used in this study vs placebo).
The Future
I don't wallow in despair. Yes, I'm disabled and in a fight for financial stability, but I love my life. I have 3 beautiful, healthy adult children. My 7-month-old granddaughter has captured my heart. I have a decent relationship with my family, despite being a 50-year-old screw-up. I have a small circle of friends, but they are all high-quality people.
My involvement with the recovery and mental health communities have provided me a platform for activism and opened up new musical venues. To be writing music and performing live after a three-year absence is so amazing that my level of humility and gratitude cannot be overstated. I'm very fortunate to be alive. I'm doing things!
Writing this blog has been therapeutic. Before every post, I tell myself that I'm going to be more disciplined. The plan is always to start with an outline and write with structure. That hasn't happened yet. The posts are all just streams of consciousness. At least the Bukowski quote was planned for this one. Baby steps.
*I didn’t complete this series. Life changed dramatically just a few weeks after publishing this post (updated 1/5/2025)
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