"I’ve done horrible things to wonderful people. I’ve let terrible people stay living. I looked my family in the eye and told them, ‘Leave me to die, or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t.’" - Pat The Bunny (from the song, “Run from What’s Comfortable”)
I apologize for this blog briefly becoming a place to air personal grievances. Its content became unstable for a reason, but this was never meant to be a public diary. Frenetic publishing/unpublishing makes me look like a nut case. Maybe I am. I don't like labels, but I've softened my stances on many things lately. I have been forced to adjust.
My life has been turned upside down again. I've gone through the normal range of emotions as a result. Normal. I stand firm in my self-reflection. My circumstances are a mess, not me. I am actually doing great in a crisis I did not create. That is how I know I am ready for my next step.
Writing over these last few months has been more than a pastime. It's been a vital part of my healing process. This really has been a journey. One of becoming. One of self-realization. As I type this, my life is in complete disarray, yet I feel a relative calm...a peace I have never known. It's not at all strange to me. This is the life of a stable-minded person dealing with negative events. I wish this hadn't happened. I'm only proud of how I've handled it. Not perfect, not catastrophic. I'll take it.
I'll never be a "normie". That's not even a status I would seek. Normies ruin everything. My current situation is as strange as I am. This is where I was meant to land, I suppose. My story is far from fully written. "The Journey" (the blog) may be. I have bigger goals ahead. With that statement made, I really need to slow down right now. I can take the time to smell the shit roses of another existential crisis. It's acceptable because I say it is.
The dreams I dreamt two weeks ago died a sudden, but predictable death. I'm single now. I'm technically homeless, but I have a place to stay. A wonderful place, surrounded by people I love dearly. A year ago, I was dying. I might still be, but not from death wish drinking. I probably am dying from cancer right now. The thing is though, we are all dying. The pace of the decline is the only aspect that varies when it comes to death.
I am worried about getting my belongings out right now, but I understand that stuff is just stuff. I can live without possessions. I shouldn’t have to. I've earned what I have and a lot more. Fuck it. I'm getting my stuff.
If I died tonight, it would be with the satisfaction that I came back strong and made something of my remaining time after a period when I was written off by everyone I know, but one good person. Upon reflection, that person is very special to me. I've become protective of her.
Anyone reading this, who is unsatisfied with their current self should start changing now, before it’s too late. I'm not being morbid without a reason. I didn't know these would be my circumstances last week. What I do know is that I'm on good terms with myself. I got knocked off my game for a few days, but I stayed solid when it counted. I always bounce back, much to the chagrin of some assholes.
I'm nothing special. I did the hard work and became a different human. That's not self-aggrandizing. The affirmation serves a different, more important purpose. Weak people brag. I'm unbreakable. There’s a difference.
In the past, I would have...(rant incoming)
I feel like trash for posting about my personal life in detail a few days ago. It was a cPTSD response to something quite terrible that was done to me. I unpublished that post because it became vindictive, not just on my end. In my defense, I actually am trash. Call me that if you'd like because I can't defend myself against it. I have some unique qualities, but overall, I'm pretty much an average shitbag. Probably below average, in fact. At least I know what I am.
I’m an accused felon right now. I wouldn't be vulnerable to incarceration based on hearsay if I was not a criminal. I may have been guilty of riding a high horse for a while. A journey of self-awareness eventually calls a spade a spade. I am what the public record says I am. There's no denying it. I’m a shitbag. I was trying so hard to improve my image. That was all wasted time and energy. My newfound peace is internal. Externally, I'd rather go completely unnoticed as a person now. I mean that.
I can't change the past or other people. I can only change myself in the present tense. That is what I continue trying to do. I have been successful navigating in that lane. I'm a total failure in most other respects. But, even as I sit in the deepest despair I have ever felt, I'm dealing with this heartbreak differently. I’m going to be just fine. Shitbag or not.
I don't believe that recovery is at all about the substance. Neither in my opinion, nor experience, has it ever been. For me, the substance is a factor, the use is the symptom, but my way of living was the disease. It always has been before. Not now. Never again.
Should I blame credentialed professionals for not “figuring me out” when I was younger? I'm not sure what good it would do. I really don't blame anyone, not even myself. I don't feel bad throwing shade on some credentialed practices that have failed me miserably throughout my life. I paid money for that experience of complete ineptitude. I can write a review if I please.
The services I received were ineffective, both in addiction and mental health treatment. For-profit bullshit, cookie-cutter, sausage-making treatment is just that. Complete bullshit. It's just trash care to satisfy some government letter agency quota. Recipients always get blamed for piss poor efficacy. That needs to change if society is really serious about wellness. It’s not. That’s why these methods will continue to fail.
I didn’t believe the hype this time. I worked my own program, tailored to me. This was done within the confines of what was mandatory, plus a hundred times more work on my own, which was purely self-directed. I've been playing to win, not to just merely comply.
People get into human service fields because they want to help others. I don't doubt their motivations. The system is fucked, not the practitioners, unless we're referring to psychiatrists. I will never give a pass to those people. They know exactly what they're doing. I've met one halfway decent shrink in 20 years. The others (at least a dozen or more) knowingly poisoned me with no actual benefit to my mental state. Only harm was done to me. I'll die knowing this is an indisputable fact. I'm unmovable on the subject. It would be stupid for me to be moveable.
What has helped me is writing, reconnecting to my music, and some wonderful people who provide peer services for both mental health and addiction/SUD (I prefer the latter term). Peers are the true heroes in these fields. That is an endorsement. I don't give those out lightly. I have been a pain in the ass to some people. I'm sure. I want them to know how big of a difference they have made. One person in particular. This isn't the end of the line for me. My services are ongoing. I hope that continues. These people have truly helped me.
I can't imagine this blog focusing on such subjects in the future. This may be the last post to “The Journey”for that and many other reasons. I'm endorsing peer practices now in case that’s a final decision. Lived experience > book learning. Always.
I’ve been tossed on the street by domestic partners many times. It’s how the majority of my relationships end. My pattern is to be kicked out of wherever I'm living (usually for very minor "offenses"), next I go through horrible hardships (use your imagination), and then I go back by invitation only. I’ll do this over and over with a partner. Eventually, I’ll leave on my own accord, usually shacking up with someone else immediately. Where my fellow shitbags at? Yeah, I'm no prize. I'm being honest.
Psych wards and homelessness are almost always part of the equation in my breakups. Alcohol abuse is all but guaranteed. My last couple incidents have ended in arrest. If there were any justice in this world, I’d be dead. Sometimes, I despise the injustice of living. That’s real too.
I never allow myself to dwell in that headspace. My survival instinct is strong. My desire is to level up from survival mode. I have lowered expectations. I don't really know about that life anymore.
Things are truly different this time though. I’m breaking that cycle once and for all. I’m not going into detail about the circumstances. Same old shit. Specifics are unimportant to my story. My reaction and my plan are much different than past events would suggest. Make no mistake, my heart is broken, but not beyond repair. I’m just not being stupid, for once. Healing is the goal. When I look at myself realistically, I believe I have much to offer the right romantic partner. I don’t know if she exists. This break up is not my fault. I gave the relationship everything I had. Too much.
I am too old for this shit. Judging by the way I’m feeling physically, I need to do things the right way for my own survival, whatever that might entail a week from now and/or beyond. My pattern of self-destruction ends now. I just can’t be a ridiculous person anymore. I don’t even want to. I quit, without notice.
No need to repeat my sobriety story to anyone who reads my blog regularly (both of you). I got clean in early October. I haven’t looked back. No cravings, no romanticism, no positive nostalgia. I have learned to appreciate the sting of clear-minded suffering. I’d rather not suffer at all, but I expect to always. It’s really all I know. You can either hate your life and whine about it, or you can embrace it and deal. I’m dealing.
I’m a sensitive person, but still not completely hardened by life. If anything, I remain idealistic. That’s probably dumb on my part. I choose to stay positive regardless. I’ll run on spite when positivity falters, and it certainly will. Whatever it takes, I’m not breaking.
Since October, I have faced more major hardships than I could ever have imagined living through, especially in a weakened state. I fought for this life of absurdity. My continued sobriety would be considered statistically improbable. So was my living past age 32. I’m 50. Fuck statistics. They don’t apply to me.
I have run the full gauntlet of emotions over these past few days. I wouldn’t change that, even if given a choice. Pain is meant to be felt. It’s something I actually consider a privilege, considering the alternatives. I reject the idea of numbing emotional pain with any substance, prescribed or not. It doesn't work for me. I really don’t see that “working” for many people. It’s never a long term fix.
I found out I had cancer in December. I had major surgery to (hopefully) remove it in February. I discovered that I have brain damage from psych poison. I was finally referred to a neurologist to begin assessing the damage. While recovering from surgery/cancer, I’ve been forced to live a street life during the 9 to 5 work week, for the convenience of a life partner who promised to care about me, but didn’t. Last week we split for good. I’m deeply saddened. That makes one of us. What we had was not what I define loving as. It was toxic.
I was put in a position where separating from the person I believed would be my “happily ever after” was the only option. I will offer up no further details about any of it at this time, or any time. I’m not misusing this blog in that way again. If I continue posting, I'll discover even dumber ways to misuse the platform.
I’ve been on Drug Court since early December. That's the same amount of time I've known I have cancer. If I had relapsed, I wouldn’t be typing. I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to be quiet while my granddaughter sleeps. I wouldn't have my daughter and son-in-law sitting near me on the same sectional couch. I’m staying with them for now. They picked me up last Tuesday in Watertown. My daughter insisted. I was willing to be homeless until I figured things out in my life. It wouldn’t be the first time I've been unhoused, of course. There have been many others, always due to bad breakups.
It would have been the first time while dealing with cancer, or without significant provocation on my end (I'm being incredibly generous in making that statement) to initiate the break up. I don’t ask people for favors. With that stated, I’m incredibly grateful to be in this space. They rescued me. Yeah...rescued. Right words.
Considering the circumstances, the fact that I’ve stayed the course of sobriety and mental stability, when I have failed so miserably to do so in similar situations so many times in the past, says a whole lot about who I’ve become. My actions speak for me. Perhaps I need to stop posting as much as I have been about myself.
I can celebrate my victories in silence, which would defeat the purpose of this blog, wouldn’t it? I'm just sick of sharing right now. I’m more tired of having things to share! Sick and tired.
Everyone in my life thought that me going off psych meds was a bad move. It wasn’t. It was just as important as putting down the booze. Still, having to hit the ground running like this makes me look insane and unstable to others. I know I’m being doubted right now over some bullshit someone else did. I encourage doubt. Tell me what I supposedly can’t do, move your ass out of my way, and watch me achieve what you believe is impossible. I have a history of doing that, too.
People have already pissed me off with their half-cocked assumptions. I’ve ceased caring about opinions, stopped taking bad advice, and I’m definitely done trying to sell myself as a good person in my writing. Think what you want. It's not my problem what you think. It’s not even my business to know about it.
Moving Forward (another rant):
I really wasn’t trying to sell myself as a good person by writing about my accomplishments. I can see how that could be misconstrued though. I was just proud of what I was doing. I still am. No matter what I do, I’m still going to be a shitbag in the minds of most of the people I know. Good. That removes a lot of pressure.
I’m certainly not a good person. I’m just some idiot who hasn’t died from his own foolishness, yet. Nine months is not enough clean time to inspire anyone else in recovery. Every negative event in my life is going to make me look insane when analyzed by small minds. I need to accept this. I’ve been trying too hard to rebrand myself. Would Charles Bukowski do that? No. He never did. I’m a shitbag. So what? My image is unimportant to me. Most people are shitty in their own unique way. You probably are too.
What matters to me is how I’m perceived in this room and in the house right across the street, where my other two children reside with their mom. There are wounds to heal and I have much love to give. That will be what winning looks like to me as a person now. My attempt at image repair feels worthless and empty upon reflection. I don't care about any of it anymore. I don’t need attention, nor do I seek it.
I’m definitely not done writing. This blog has been like a clinic. The subject matter is less important than the quality of the content. I’ve received praise for it from people whose opinions I respect (some are writers). The praise has not just been for this blog, but also for my poetry. I share that elsewhere. Most of what I have written hasn’t been shared with anyone, yet.
Those who follow my music career have told me I'm writing my best stuff now, at age 50. I have (almost) a full album of new music composed right now. I’ll just finish by sharing that I’ve been busy and the feedback has been positive. I receive much more praise from strangers in far off places than I do from people I actually know. Makes sense. They don't carry the bias of knowing the full extent of my shitbaggery. They only know my art.
Me "the person" is a product I couldn’t give away, much less sell. No one wants a roughly used, barely functional, decrepit old shitbag like me around, unless we are close friends, or you get paid to listen to me. I’m over that sales pitch nonsense. Know me through my art or don’t know me at all. You have choices.
My focus is shifting to recording new music and more structured writing. I’ll be trying my hand at writing books. That was the goal all along. We’ll see if I’m ready. Writing books and music production are projects that will allow me to live a more reclusive life. That’s what I want. Solitude.
Drug Court requires me to live a far more public life than I currently desire. Hopefully, there is an end in sight. Other than my children, my granddaughter, and less than a handful of friends and family, I just want to be left the hell alone.
What does this mean for “The Journey”? I can’t say. I don’t want to make any bold declarations at this time. I’ll just thank everyone for reading my posts tonight. Tomorrow is going to be stressful.
I don’t have anything to prove to anyone, other than the loved ones I've mentioned. Don’t be like me. Inspire yourself. Inspiration is not my job. It never was. Take care.
