"We're all only two or three bad decisions away from becoming what we fear and pity,"-Andrew Jackson Jihad (AJJ), from the song "People II 2: Still Peoplin'"
This week was one of fuckery and bad news. I had to break “no contact” with my ex over a late cable bill in my name. Yes, her cable was still in my name. Also yes, I’m a fucking idiot. I know that seems harsh, but I need to be realistic. This situation was avoidable.
I can commend myself for many accomplishments in the past year. The expectation of burying me would have been realistic. I survived things I shouldn’t have. Old news. On October 2nd, I celebrated a year of recovery from alcohol dependence. Staying sober was not hard for me. I made a lifelong commitment to myself. I won’t break it. As far as burying me goes, no one needs to worry about that bill. The plan is to donate my body to science. I’m still here though…for now.
I knew last October that everything about me needed to change. The definition of “everything” was something I didn’t understand. My patterns in life disgust me. Having axes to grind doesn’t solve anything. Many have treated me poorly, but here’s the truth: I was present and I allowed it. The biggest axe is reserved for me.
My ex couldn’t have used the cable bill as an avenue for access if I had just canceled it in June. I literally handed her the stick to beat me with. I also found out that my denial letter from Social Security Disability came in August, to her address. I now have about a week to scramble an appeal together. I found this information out on Thursday of last week when I finally called to change my address (dumbass).
I went “no contact” with her in August for my own reasons. I’m not dishing dirt, but I stand by my decision. She had plenty of methods by which to get that letter to me. She didn’t mention it in the cable bill correspondence. I can’t expect kindness from her or anyone, really. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. I had every opportunity to avoid all of it.
That is all my fault.
Relationship Patterns:
My relationship history is a total shit show. My second marriage started out rocky. The red flags were obvious. It evolved into cohabitation out of desperation, my desperation. I was basically penniless. I had spent the last year as an unemployed, stay-at-home father. I made a little extra money playing guitar and singing in a classic rock cover band. The custody of my children was about to switch to 50/50. I was in full agreement. It was what our children wanted.
That meant that the child support I was receiving would be discontinued. Living on band money wasn’t an option. I needed a place to stay. I was seeing the woman I would later marry at the time. I moved into her home after we dated for about three months. Ten years later, it ended in disaster. I’m not dishing on that subject either.
I had applied for Social Security Disability back then, too. I was 34. I was first denied and then lost my appeal two years later. I would eventually return to the workforce. That has never been a positive for me. I had to survive somehow. I did so, barely. As disabled as I was then, I’m even more so now. Once again, I’ve been denied by Social Security Disability.
At the end of that marriage, things between us were open. We both were seeing other people. It was a mutual agreement. Making that statement is probably still controversial today, seven years later. I don’t care. It’s the truth. During that time, I started dating my last ex.
Neither of those relationships was healthy from the start. I moved in with her after one of my many vacations to the psych ward. Great stuff. I ignored the red flags both times in the interest of needing to be "saved". I should have saved myself. I don't think most people would have difficulty seeing such a pattern in real time. I was blind to it. I just started putting work into emotional intelligence this year. Better late than...yeah, whatever.
Basically, I spent 16 years in toxic relationships with no breaks in between. My life was a roaring dumpster fire the entire time. I didn’t really even try to make significant improvements. I half-assed it, just like I did piling wood when I was 10. My father knocked the pile down and made me start over. Perhaps there was a lesson in there. I missed it.
Those events were my fault. I walked into both of those relationships needing to be “saved”, or so I believed. I actually had other options.
A Brain Not Fit for Practical Use:
On Tuesday, I’m scheduled for an EEG. I guess that’s to measure brain waves. I hope they actually find some inside my thick, numb skull. Maybe I don’t want that. It would explain a lot. Kidding aside, this is serious. After tapering from psych meds, my executive function is extremely poor.
Olanzapine has been proven to cause cortical shrinkage in the frontal lobes of the brain. Years of emotional and mental abuse can also cause brain damage. I’ve just recently discovered that by reading a lot. Add several concussions (one resulting in a brain bleed) to the mix, too. And, let’s not forget sporadic forays into heavy substance abuse for decades. I’m a mess. It’s a wonder I can form sentences.
I took a smorgasbord of psych meds for 20 years before finally stopping last summer. I was able to list 20+ medications I’ve been prescribed throughout that failed experiment. I won’t endorse a single one. None of them offered any relief. I was deeply harmed by several, Olanzapine being the absolute worst. But, I just kept swallowing them anyway. When that didn’t do the trick, I drank and messed around with street drugs.
I am 14 months free from the prescribed poisons. I haven't had one incident of episodic or pathological mental symptoms. I have been through the wringer during that time, to put it mildly. I do have cPTSD to contend with. Drug therapy is not proven to treat that. I was labeled bipolar in 2006. I continued to identify as such, even though I never met the D$M criteria. I could blame mental health professionals for all of it, but…
I believed the hype. I deteriorated instead of improving, and didn’t question anything until it was way too late. That is also my fault.
I certainly know that I haven’t been right since being diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma at age 17. I’ll turn 51 in a couple of weeks. I could say a whole lot about my childhood before that, too. The truth is though, many people survive early life traumas and go on to live well-adjusted lives. I didn’t. Now, I’m doing my best to salvage what I have left of existence. I’m not sure that’s realistic. What other options do I have? Quitting? I’m neither smart nor brave enough for that.
I may be known for writing out my ass, so I'm sharing a couple of links to verify my brain damage concerns (science and shit):
Olanzapine:
https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jamapsychiatry/fullarticle/2761879
Emotional and mental abuse:
https://www.verywellmind.com/effects-of-narcissistic-abuse-5208164
Pipe Dreams:
“I was stupid enough to throw my life away on music like it was that simple. But if singing changed anything, they’d make it illegal. I hate strangers, loud noises, and crowds. I’ll play a show every night. And would you, and would you believe there are people who come to me for advice?”- Pat the Bunny, from the song, “I’m Going Home”
Somehow, I got it in my head that I’d try to survive by making music. I returned to playing live this year and I worked my ass off at it. I played music on the streets of Watertown and eventually, Lowville, NY. Occasionally, I made some money. Mostly, it was just about committing to the craft and practicing. I’ve self-promoted the shit out of my music. Now, I have an amazing opportunity to record the album I’ve always envisioned making. I will follow it through to completion, but that’s for the sake of the art form, not for monetary gain. Significant monetary gain through making art is pretty rare.
I needed to prove to myself what I already knew: hard work doesn't pay off. That statement ranks up there with: "This is the way things have always been" and "Just get a job". Such words only come out of the mouths of complete dipshits and boomers. Synonymous? Not my call.
I chased my dream at an old age and I failed, as expected. I’m not sorry for trying, but having less than $1,000 to my name with no realistic income source for the future is pretty damned stupid. Stupidity is my fault.
After my new project is completed, I will likely walk away from music for good. There just isn’t a point to it anymore. I’m not a hobbyist. No, I will not come to your bonfire and "jam". Invite me as a person or don’t invite me at all. I probably won’t come anyway, because I hate small talk. However, I may reconsider for the free food. I’m not jamming though...or cooking, bringing a covered dish, or even talking if I don't feel like it. I'm a real bucket of fun.
Moving Forward (whatever that means):
I have broken many cycles this year. I’ve stayed committed to recovery, learned people skills, developed meaningful friendships, reconnected with my children, navigated another cancer diagnosis, and even found love again; the healthy kind of love, with a woman who is way too good for the likes of me. Shit, I even tried out public speaking. I’m proud of it all, but am feeling more than a little bit nihilistic about life in general now.
I’m going for an MRI to examine a suspicious mass on my liver next Friday. On November 7th, I get the results. I will hopefully graduate from Drug Court in early December. A liver cancer diagnosis will be the “get your affairs in order” kind. I let myself start dreaming of a better life. That was probably foolish. If I’m not dying, I have tough decisions to make.
I have never been able to hold a full-time job without it breaking me mentally. I have also never been able to maintain a relationship (of any kind) and work at the same time. With all of the major improvements I have made, I doubt my ability to do those things. With the brain injury, the chronic pain I push through daily, my criminal record, and possibly impending new cancer diagnosis, my career options are extremely limited. None are realistic because of my disabilities. I tried music because it’s the only thing I do well (subjective).
Even if I get my SSDI appeal in on time (unlikely), it could take years to get approved. I could “luck out” with a terminal cancer diagnosis and have it expedited. Awesome. If I’m not terminal, that basically leaves Public Assistance…you know, because I’m fucking lazy and apparently stupid.
I’ve forgotten to mention that working has always led me down the road to relapse as well. Fun fact. I won’t let that happen. I’ll stay sober out of spite, if I must. That’s a promise. I naively wished for better.
I hoped not to wake up from my kidney cancer surgery in February. I even wrote my own obituary, letters to my kids, and after-death instructions. When I awakened from anesthesia, I was a completely different person. It really was a spiritual awakening. Now, other than abject poverty, I have a life I don’t wish to escape from. It isn’t up to me though, is it?
If I’m not dying, I truly wish to spend as much time with my kids as I can. I want to watch my granddaughter grow up, and if it’s in the cards, meet more grandchildren. My deep desire is to continue to build a life with my amazing girlfriend. Want. Want. Want.
It’s not just the cancer or being broke working against me. It’s my entire past. If I fuck it up, it will truly be my fault and mine alone.
Accountability matters. Without it, integrity isn’t possible.
