"Oh, so you bought those things? They sure made them look appealing I suppose."
"Yeah, figured I'd try them. I guess if water ever starts tasting boring, these will help. Worth a shot."
"Right, I'm curious whats in them. Is it sugar or what is it exactly?"
" Well lets see... it says use one squirt for every 8 ounces of water. This is 12 ounces. So I'll just use two for safe measure."
" So... is it sugar or is it natural flavors or...?"
" Mmm... yeah thats pretty tasty"- takes another sip- " Yup, works better than I thought. It says right here theres potassium sulfate and propylene... oh wow. Um... it says propylene glycol. I think thats antifreeze. Thats not good..."
I began laughing uncontrollably.
"Nope, thats not good at all."
"Here grab some water and try this. Let me know what you think."
" I'm alright. I think after you told me it was antifreeze, I lost my curiosity."
(Still looking for critiques and/or ideas on my last post. Dont be scurd! Say something, anything; tell me you fucking hate every word or give me a thumbs up or tell me you want to have more images of kittens! I have one criticism so far and an unfinished skeleton of a poem. Lets put some muscle on it and let it breath. )
Monday, May 30, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Beginning to Poem #1
I'm going to try something different. Due to some inspiration and needing to go back to my roots a little, I'm going to start poeming. However, what I want to do with this is post every draft, every note and eventually the polished end. All on my blog so that the writing process isn't behind closed doors. I implore and invite any additions/ critiques/ constructive or destructive criticism. I want this to be an open ended workshop piece. Could be interesting. Or I could get no responses and just have a really shitty first draft like most of my other pieces this year.
No title yet, just words, not even an ending yet:
You were 16
with the confidence of red woods and eyes
that made me wonder if you spent too much time watching the ocean.
You walked like the smell of waves and felt just as gentle
when I held you close to my heart
so you could hear what kept us flowing through my veins.
There were nights we'd stay up like this,
bundled up on couches or floors holding onto each other
like memories and I remember asking you what you believe in.
If there was anything that kept you from jumping out of my life
and falling into another mans arms.
If you had faith that this would last
or if we're simply going to be recycled newspaper.
And you told me you didn't know. That you
don't look that far ahead because there's too many things between us and
there and we should just focus on now.
So we began writing love notes in each others palms from that day on and
I don't think they ever went hand in hand.
You see I
wrote about your skin and the way your shoulder tastes in the morning and how sometimes, I would wake up before you
just to see how angels sleep and
you showed me that they snore and take up most of the bed but
they're still wrapped up in their wings.
I wrote about
our first kiss and how nervous I was to even look at you like
you were magnesium and I'd be blinded by starring directly at you
like sun light you let me know that
I can get sun spots from just being around you.
I wrote about how I would convince you to marry me,
how I would drive all the way to Colorado with a ring in my pocket
looking for the perfect spot to put it on your finger.
But I think your notes just had to do with now,
with this floor and this conversation see
you were 16
and you walked around like red woods but on the inside
you were tearing them down.
Your past was uprooting you from every bit of good that stumbled
into your life, you started forest fires
and you would burn down yourself with them but
keep just enough to be able to walk away.
To rest your chin on another mans chest
to hear the one thing you knew you could ignite inside someone else.
I needed to know you believed in something.
Just give me one reason
for every time you've said I love you.
Every time you've laid down your walls
so that I can see past them and get the real you and
I need to know one reason
why you cut me down from the pipe where I tried to hang myself
because I would have done it.
I would have leapt away from you and disappeared into
recycled newspapers and afterthoughts but you wouldn't let me.
You wouldn't wait behind that door while you heard choking
and bookshelves falling,
you had a reason then and I need to know it now.
If we aren't looking futures and we aren't looking for mountain tops
and rings and anything else but this moment,
I need to know that you
believe in us.
(I dont know where I was going with this. My idea was rooted in wanting to write a piece that amplifies my desire to save the majority of the girls I seek out in my life ((I've attempted numerous times with this topic but I dont think I've effectively done it yet)), but the direction kinda twisted and reversed a little. I'm not married to any of these lines, so telling me to erase a line or a stanza or the hole fucking thing is fine, as long as you give me something to work with. Dont leave me hanging!-bad pun- HELP)
No title yet, just words, not even an ending yet:
You were 16
with the confidence of red woods and eyes
that made me wonder if you spent too much time watching the ocean.
You walked like the smell of waves and felt just as gentle
when I held you close to my heart
so you could hear what kept us flowing through my veins.
There were nights we'd stay up like this,
bundled up on couches or floors holding onto each other
like memories and I remember asking you what you believe in.
If there was anything that kept you from jumping out of my life
and falling into another mans arms.
If you had faith that this would last
or if we're simply going to be recycled newspaper.
And you told me you didn't know. That you
don't look that far ahead because there's too many things between us and
there and we should just focus on now.
So we began writing love notes in each others palms from that day on and
I don't think they ever went hand in hand.
You see I
wrote about your skin and the way your shoulder tastes in the morning and how sometimes, I would wake up before you
just to see how angels sleep and
you showed me that they snore and take up most of the bed but
they're still wrapped up in their wings.
I wrote about
our first kiss and how nervous I was to even look at you like
you were magnesium and I'd be blinded by starring directly at you
like sun light you let me know that
I can get sun spots from just being around you.
I wrote about how I would convince you to marry me,
how I would drive all the way to Colorado with a ring in my pocket
looking for the perfect spot to put it on your finger.
But I think your notes just had to do with now,
with this floor and this conversation see
you were 16
and you walked around like red woods but on the inside
you were tearing them down.
Your past was uprooting you from every bit of good that stumbled
into your life, you started forest fires
and you would burn down yourself with them but
keep just enough to be able to walk away.
To rest your chin on another mans chest
to hear the one thing you knew you could ignite inside someone else.
I needed to know you believed in something.
Just give me one reason
for every time you've said I love you.
Every time you've laid down your walls
so that I can see past them and get the real you and
I need to know one reason
why you cut me down from the pipe where I tried to hang myself
because I would have done it.
I would have leapt away from you and disappeared into
recycled newspapers and afterthoughts but you wouldn't let me.
You wouldn't wait behind that door while you heard choking
and bookshelves falling,
you had a reason then and I need to know it now.
If we aren't looking futures and we aren't looking for mountain tops
and rings and anything else but this moment,
I need to know that you
believe in us.
(I dont know where I was going with this. My idea was rooted in wanting to write a piece that amplifies my desire to save the majority of the girls I seek out in my life ((I've attempted numerous times with this topic but I dont think I've effectively done it yet)), but the direction kinda twisted and reversed a little. I'm not married to any of these lines, so telling me to erase a line or a stanza or the hole fucking thing is fine, as long as you give me something to work with. Dont leave me hanging!-bad pun- HELP)
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Theres always that one thing....
Every once and a while, theres a few heavy topics that arise when I'm just sitting around thinking that tend to completely stump me. Philosophically, I really have no bases to approach most of them. The lack of logic mixed with utter emotional reflux always dilutes my ability to conclude them in any positive way. Total mind fuck.
So I'm stuck on one right now and I'm not sure where to go with it. Its not unique as much as its just a really good way to see if your a pessimist or not. And me being the pessimist, its kinda dragging me down a hole.
I've done a lot of things with complete conviction and devotion. I've performed, dated, interacted, built friendships, fought, wrote- whatever I've done with passion, I've put the closet thing to 100% that I'm able to. That being said, even though I dont see anything I do as 'perfection' or 'the bar set for others', inside I still hope its appreciated and valued at a certain level. Respected a little. You can always tell when someone is doing something, well or not so well, with passion. And its this spark and this fire that shines through the flaws and slips and battle scars. That dynamic leaves a tiny piece of the individual everywhere it lands- on every stage, behind every microphone and buried in between these lines. That in itself is beautiful. It might not be pretty or technically sound and I might stutter over a line or two but its still coming from a place of 'I'M GOING HARD DAMNIT AND I KNOW IT'.
What I'm zeroing in on right now is that I'm not too sure if the objective look at who I really am, and what I'm really about even compares to the way I see myself. At all. I can't tell if my drive comes off as passion or desperation. If my words matter and make sense or if they're annoying and you'd wish they'd stop. If I really was a good friend to that person or could I have done more. If I really tried as hard as I thought I did. If I was a genuinely good boyfriend to be with or if I was one of the guys 'you can understand why they got cheated on'. I could go on but you got the point.
I got nothing to really say about it. Its just a shitty place to be in I guess. I've never really thought much of myself which doesn't help. If I had to list off good qualities over bad qualities, I'd have 10 times more negative things to say about myself than positive. Which makes believing the latter more understandable now.
In the end, I hope some of what I do ultimately matters. Just matters. Not loved. Not always acknowledged. Shit, if you actually dont look past me, I'm satisfied. But maybe I have this low of a standard because thats really all I'm capable of. Mediocre, weird, off beat attempts at nothing more than an 'okay try'.
So I'm stuck on one right now and I'm not sure where to go with it. Its not unique as much as its just a really good way to see if your a pessimist or not. And me being the pessimist, its kinda dragging me down a hole.
I've done a lot of things with complete conviction and devotion. I've performed, dated, interacted, built friendships, fought, wrote- whatever I've done with passion, I've put the closet thing to 100% that I'm able to. That being said, even though I dont see anything I do as 'perfection' or 'the bar set for others', inside I still hope its appreciated and valued at a certain level. Respected a little. You can always tell when someone is doing something, well or not so well, with passion. And its this spark and this fire that shines through the flaws and slips and battle scars. That dynamic leaves a tiny piece of the individual everywhere it lands- on every stage, behind every microphone and buried in between these lines. That in itself is beautiful. It might not be pretty or technically sound and I might stutter over a line or two but its still coming from a place of 'I'M GOING HARD DAMNIT AND I KNOW IT'.
What I'm zeroing in on right now is that I'm not too sure if the objective look at who I really am, and what I'm really about even compares to the way I see myself. At all. I can't tell if my drive comes off as passion or desperation. If my words matter and make sense or if they're annoying and you'd wish they'd stop. If I really was a good friend to that person or could I have done more. If I really tried as hard as I thought I did. If I was a genuinely good boyfriend to be with or if I was one of the guys 'you can understand why they got cheated on'. I could go on but you got the point.
I got nothing to really say about it. Its just a shitty place to be in I guess. I've never really thought much of myself which doesn't help. If I had to list off good qualities over bad qualities, I'd have 10 times more negative things to say about myself than positive. Which makes believing the latter more understandable now.
In the end, I hope some of what I do ultimately matters. Just matters. Not loved. Not always acknowledged. Shit, if you actually dont look past me, I'm satisfied. But maybe I have this low of a standard because thats really all I'm capable of. Mediocre, weird, off beat attempts at nothing more than an 'okay try'.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Hello, my name is Tim and I like cupcakes
The more I read blogs and peoples thoughts, the more I throw up in my mouth. Dont get me wrong, there are PLENTY of brilliant, refreshing, should-be-published little thinkers out here in blog world but there are equally as many regurgitated, bleeding cliches crying for the same attention they receive every time someone graces it with thought. Just stop. Please.
I was going to write about stupid people. And fortunately, this falls right in line with that. I was going to focus on this past weekends events, with the hole 'rapture, worlds coming to an end and 300 million believers will ascend into the heavens while the rest of us sinful bastards deal with earth quakes and famine for years.'... yeah, that... I guess I wasn't in the loop of crazy when this story came out because when I did catch wind of it, it was Saturday and apparently I had less than 3 hours to live. Was I alarmed? Fuck no. But I was worried about the insanity some poor senile old man has to endure to concoct that sort of hysteria and even more worried about the flocks of people who would most certainly kill him after they realize he had actually no clue what the fuck he was talking about. When some people were asked what they thought about the failed prophecy, they said, and I quote, " I just dont understand it..." ... really? You dont understand people didn't start floating to the sky while simultaneously, the entire earth fell apart? You didn't understand that any literal interpretation out of every religious text tends to, if not ALWAYS is completely fucking insane? It didn't cross your mind that entire scenario seemed like a god damn low-production-straight-to-dvd movie?! I mean, come on people. What the FFFUCK... But- because I've found something else to ignite my ranting, I feel that I've said enough on that waste of news. Instead, I want to go back and dissect the abundance of mouth feeding writers out there.
From one writer to another, lets level with each other, okay? You know when you're writing something and all of a sudden you stumble across a thought that you KNOW has been wrote about before right? And usually you sit there, watching the cursor blink, thinking to yourself "hmm. how can I make that sound different", right?... You're with me right? No? You're not? Whats that? Oh, you like to write shit thats been beat to death, thats been raped by every bad attempt at writing? Really? Well let me break this down a little more...
If I were to sit here and dump my heart on this page and say
'She didn't understand me.
And even though I thought I understood her,
she made sure to keep me wondering.
To keep me searching, fumbling through
constant questions on where her heart is and
where her mind is
and if I'm on it.
But at the end of the day,
all I want to say to her is
roses are red
violets are blue
and I dont know colors
but I know I love you....'
... did that make you vomit a little? Just a little? And did the impulse start around the time I wrote something you've seen in EVERY Halmark card, in every boring highschool lit class, in every twisted, juvenile limerick about love??
This was a horrible example but its still valid. Everything I wrote, however fictional it was, became completely bla the second I interjected 'roses are red, violets are blue'. My message disappeared. The meaning vanished. The only thing that remained in the readers mind is that desperate, starving cliche.
Now, most people out there have the common decency to not go that low. Thank god. But I've reached a point in my maturity and/or writing familiarity to catch onto insights that are so obviously hammy down. Some shit you grabbed off of an after school special or Oprah. And we've all heard that shit. And it doesn't help perpetuate... well.. anything... ever?! It just doesn't. Its like when I'm having an issue and someone says to me,
"Well, you know that theres always tomorrow. Tomorrows a new day. And you live and you learn."
And then I slap them in the fucking face for their own good. Really. You could have said " I like hot dogs and I sleep with a fan on" and I would have appreciated that more than telling me something I already know, something thats fucking common sense, and been said to everyone, in that same damn way.
So instead of coming off like I'm extremely pissed when I'm really just aggravated with these mindless, no direction insights, I'm just going to leave this by saying one last thing and thats it:
I've done some stupid shit. Alot of stupid shit. Some stuff that I really dont know why I did it or what I was thinking when I did. So I am not casting stones for stupidity; I am a very dumb individual at times. But what I am saying is- do yourself and all of us a favor and write something thats home grown. Make it organic. I dont want copy and paste. I dont even want derivative. I want you to freeze your hands in place until you're able to forget that hungry cliche you're so tempted to jot down and wait for it to grow into something unique. Something thats going to make others say " Damn, I wish I wrote that".
If your going to write, take responsibility for what your putting out there. If not, then I will continue to throw up when I read you stuff.
I was going to write about stupid people. And fortunately, this falls right in line with that. I was going to focus on this past weekends events, with the hole 'rapture, worlds coming to an end and 300 million believers will ascend into the heavens while the rest of us sinful bastards deal with earth quakes and famine for years.'... yeah, that... I guess I wasn't in the loop of crazy when this story came out because when I did catch wind of it, it was Saturday and apparently I had less than 3 hours to live. Was I alarmed? Fuck no. But I was worried about the insanity some poor senile old man has to endure to concoct that sort of hysteria and even more worried about the flocks of people who would most certainly kill him after they realize he had actually no clue what the fuck he was talking about. When some people were asked what they thought about the failed prophecy, they said, and I quote, " I just dont understand it..." ... really? You dont understand people didn't start floating to the sky while simultaneously, the entire earth fell apart? You didn't understand that any literal interpretation out of every religious text tends to, if not ALWAYS is completely fucking insane? It didn't cross your mind that entire scenario seemed like a god damn low-production-straight-to-dvd movie?! I mean, come on people. What the FFFUCK... But- because I've found something else to ignite my ranting, I feel that I've said enough on that waste of news. Instead, I want to go back and dissect the abundance of mouth feeding writers out there.
From one writer to another, lets level with each other, okay? You know when you're writing something and all of a sudden you stumble across a thought that you KNOW has been wrote about before right? And usually you sit there, watching the cursor blink, thinking to yourself "hmm. how can I make that sound different", right?... You're with me right? No? You're not? Whats that? Oh, you like to write shit thats been beat to death, thats been raped by every bad attempt at writing? Really? Well let me break this down a little more...
If I were to sit here and dump my heart on this page and say
'She didn't understand me.
And even though I thought I understood her,
she made sure to keep me wondering.
To keep me searching, fumbling through
constant questions on where her heart is and
where her mind is
and if I'm on it.
But at the end of the day,
all I want to say to her is
roses are red
violets are blue
and I dont know colors
but I know I love you....'
... did that make you vomit a little? Just a little? And did the impulse start around the time I wrote something you've seen in EVERY Halmark card, in every boring highschool lit class, in every twisted, juvenile limerick about love??
This was a horrible example but its still valid. Everything I wrote, however fictional it was, became completely bla the second I interjected 'roses are red, violets are blue'. My message disappeared. The meaning vanished. The only thing that remained in the readers mind is that desperate, starving cliche.
Now, most people out there have the common decency to not go that low. Thank god. But I've reached a point in my maturity and/or writing familiarity to catch onto insights that are so obviously hammy down. Some shit you grabbed off of an after school special or Oprah. And we've all heard that shit. And it doesn't help perpetuate... well.. anything... ever?! It just doesn't. Its like when I'm having an issue and someone says to me,
"Well, you know that theres always tomorrow. Tomorrows a new day. And you live and you learn."
And then I slap them in the fucking face for their own good. Really. You could have said " I like hot dogs and I sleep with a fan on" and I would have appreciated that more than telling me something I already know, something thats fucking common sense, and been said to everyone, in that same damn way.
So instead of coming off like I'm extremely pissed when I'm really just aggravated with these mindless, no direction insights, I'm just going to leave this by saying one last thing and thats it:
I've done some stupid shit. Alot of stupid shit. Some stuff that I really dont know why I did it or what I was thinking when I did. So I am not casting stones for stupidity; I am a very dumb individual at times. But what I am saying is- do yourself and all of us a favor and write something thats home grown. Make it organic. I dont want copy and paste. I dont even want derivative. I want you to freeze your hands in place until you're able to forget that hungry cliche you're so tempted to jot down and wait for it to grow into something unique. Something thats going to make others say " Damn, I wish I wrote that".
If your going to write, take responsibility for what your putting out there. If not, then I will continue to throw up when I read you stuff.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Flip flops
Over the course of the past month, I've almost completely stunted my writing. Not in development necessarily, but in topics. After blatantly screaming that I have no fucking clue where I am or what I'm doing or what I should be doing, its left me wondering what there is to say about this space. Theres only so much I can say about being confused and derailed. Therss only a handful of creative ways to put that. But ultimately, its just beating a lifeless topic. Its not breathing. Its not moving. Its stagnant and it smells horrible and eventually I need to accept that this is just road kill.
Redefining living is hard. Its a style change that you whine and kick and throw temper tantrums through until you either go back to whats comfortable or find a way to cope. I haven't found that way yet. I haven't seen the positives. I have become reclusive and boring and alien to myself and I dont fucking like it. It constantly feels like I'm just convincing myself that this is right and this is good and 'normal'. But I've done alot of coaxing myself over the years and its never paid off. I convinced myself I was in love. Numerous times. Convinced myself I was doing the right thing when I was so clearly not. Numerous times. I've even tried to convince myself that a mohawk looks sweet on me. And in every situation, I was so far off from being right that it made me look fucking stupid. So why am I trying so hard to convince myself that falling asleep at sunrise is okay- just as long as I'm not doing 'drugs'. That not coming out the house is okay- as long as I'm not high. That not hanging out with people or doing anything or applying myself in any way is acceptable as long as I'm clean because I'm pretty sure I was more alive on drugs then I am now. So fuck ALL of that. Seriously. The term 'quality of life' has everything to do with the definition of living. For me to even think that, just because society and family and my stupid super ego tells me 'drugs are bad', I should be miserable and awkward and not fun and not enjoy myself or be myself... well then what exactly am I doing this for? Is life any more pleasant? Do I feel accomplished or satisfied or anything?
Fuck no. This entire process is complete deprivation of happiness. Falling asleep at sunrise and waking up at 3 is depressing. Not eating isn't fun. Sitting around isn't fun. At least while I was medicated, I would do stuff. I would sleep and eat right. I would go out and be social and not just hide out in my cave hoping that I feel better tomorrow, and if not tomorrow then the next day. And I've put off being happy for so many tomorrows that I'm fucking sick of waiting and not just trying to work with what I have today. This doesn't mean that I'm going to jump back into addictions. But this also doesn't mean that I'm doing this hole straight edge bullshit anymore. There's a happy medium in this spectrum of sobriety. You go too far, you're an unhealthy addict. You turn back and go the other way for too long, you might loose yourself and your hobbies and forget how to laugh. I know what works for me. I know what doesn't. I embrace having will power now but I need to listen to myself more often.
I'm done making rules for myself. At least for now. This is the time in my 20's that I need to just focus on smiling. And enjoying life. And friendships and possibilities and not controlling every fucking thing that happens. I can only control me and that includes my mind space. I need to stop destroying my personality and instead, hone in on what it is I want to do and just do it.
Fuck rules. I got my own commandments.
1. Laugh
2. Be passionate
3. Do it
4. Do it again
5. Do it some more
6. Lollapalooza
Thats fine with me. Hello summer.
Redefining living is hard. Its a style change that you whine and kick and throw temper tantrums through until you either go back to whats comfortable or find a way to cope. I haven't found that way yet. I haven't seen the positives. I have become reclusive and boring and alien to myself and I dont fucking like it. It constantly feels like I'm just convincing myself that this is right and this is good and 'normal'. But I've done alot of coaxing myself over the years and its never paid off. I convinced myself I was in love. Numerous times. Convinced myself I was doing the right thing when I was so clearly not. Numerous times. I've even tried to convince myself that a mohawk looks sweet on me. And in every situation, I was so far off from being right that it made me look fucking stupid. So why am I trying so hard to convince myself that falling asleep at sunrise is okay- just as long as I'm not doing 'drugs'. That not coming out the house is okay- as long as I'm not high. That not hanging out with people or doing anything or applying myself in any way is acceptable as long as I'm clean because I'm pretty sure I was more alive on drugs then I am now. So fuck ALL of that. Seriously. The term 'quality of life' has everything to do with the definition of living. For me to even think that, just because society and family and my stupid super ego tells me 'drugs are bad', I should be miserable and awkward and not fun and not enjoy myself or be myself... well then what exactly am I doing this for? Is life any more pleasant? Do I feel accomplished or satisfied or anything?
Fuck no. This entire process is complete deprivation of happiness. Falling asleep at sunrise and waking up at 3 is depressing. Not eating isn't fun. Sitting around isn't fun. At least while I was medicated, I would do stuff. I would sleep and eat right. I would go out and be social and not just hide out in my cave hoping that I feel better tomorrow, and if not tomorrow then the next day. And I've put off being happy for so many tomorrows that I'm fucking sick of waiting and not just trying to work with what I have today. This doesn't mean that I'm going to jump back into addictions. But this also doesn't mean that I'm doing this hole straight edge bullshit anymore. There's a happy medium in this spectrum of sobriety. You go too far, you're an unhealthy addict. You turn back and go the other way for too long, you might loose yourself and your hobbies and forget how to laugh. I know what works for me. I know what doesn't. I embrace having will power now but I need to listen to myself more often.
I'm done making rules for myself. At least for now. This is the time in my 20's that I need to just focus on smiling. And enjoying life. And friendships and possibilities and not controlling every fucking thing that happens. I can only control me and that includes my mind space. I need to stop destroying my personality and instead, hone in on what it is I want to do and just do it.
Fuck rules. I got my own commandments.
1. Laugh
2. Be passionate
3. Do it
4. Do it again
5. Do it some more
6. Lollapalooza
Thats fine with me. Hello summer.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Whered you get that smile from?
Its that time of year when all the delicious, summery beers and shit get released into our cups and tummys. I'm a little excited. Not really though (it was just a good intro). This year, I'm crossing my fingers for something more awesome to fill up our isles. Going off of my writing, you might be wondering- hmm, is he hoping the old Coca-Cola recipe comes back? And no, as bat shit crazy as that would be, I have accepted that will never happen. I also dont think drinking cocaine would be too enjoyable ( however, I think I know some folks who would make sure to be first in line to buy that junk). Unfortunately, what I'm hoping for is even less likely and probably more addictive.
What I'm talking about is a nice, cold bottle of optimism. Sealed and shipped right to my door step so that I dont even have to really move before I start thinking more positively. This would insure that when I jump out into the world, I would be singing and dancing and laughing and acting like a person who enjoys life. Ugh... That would be my dream product right there.
Since my dog attack, I've spent the majority of my time boarded up and locked away in my bed room. It fucking sucks. Its one thing to do this during the winter, while its cold and nasty and the only comfy, logical decision is to pile on the sweat pants and sweat shirts and snuggle up with my dog all day. But now, its just getting depressing. I'm sure the main question that arises is- why the fuck dont you get out and do something then? And my answer is... I'm just a god damn pessimist. Really. I dont have an ounce of optimism in me. Not a drip. And when things dont go my way, I literally seclude myself and hope that patience will bring me to a better time ( I realize that sounds dumb, but thats just how I'm wired I guess...)
Its not working so swell. Nothing gets better magically. I attempted to live a little about a month ago and that just backfired on me completely. I got dragged back into addictions. Back into my freakin ex girlfriends arms, who completely brutalized my heart years ago. Back into unhealthy bullshit... Its just been a constant washing machine. It seems like the second I start doing right, everything goes wrong. I have embodied the meaning of 1 step forward and 2 steps backward. Every time I begin to make progress, or I begin to put on my happy shoes, life shafts me with a big old dose of shitty. Back and forth. I get off drugs, I forget who I am. I get my skin clear, I get bit in the face by an old deranged beast. I've wedged myself between this shrinking game of pong that I'm doing with my life and now I'm stuck in my room. Nearly giving up on whatever comes next. I'm down to the last of my hope here.
I've even began desperately praying. I'm not sure who to yet, but everyday I catch myself closing my eyes and venting like theres someone on the other side of my eye lids waiting to grant my wishes. If that were true though, that person is a very bad wish granter, let me tell you... I break down at least twice a week. Completely. Usually while I'm showering or during some other reassurance that I'm not taking care of myself like I need to. I wish muscle stayed around longer. And I wish my face shaved itself.
I am continually redefining what rock bottom feels like. Apparently, you never really get there. Trust me, when things are bad, they can always be worse. And sometimes, the universe just likes to laugh and piss on you while you're down and you sit there confused as fuck wondering why everything hates you so much ( this question never gets answered btw. I've just gotten used to feeling like a urinal).
Is there a trampoline that I'm going to land on soon? That would totally make this hole depressing, heart cracking, tear leaking, unshaven free fall somewhat fun at least...
If anyone finds that bottle of hope laying around, pass it my way. Or let me know of a vendor who sells that shit in bulk. I could really use it about now.
What I'm talking about is a nice, cold bottle of optimism. Sealed and shipped right to my door step so that I dont even have to really move before I start thinking more positively. This would insure that when I jump out into the world, I would be singing and dancing and laughing and acting like a person who enjoys life. Ugh... That would be my dream product right there.
Since my dog attack, I've spent the majority of my time boarded up and locked away in my bed room. It fucking sucks. Its one thing to do this during the winter, while its cold and nasty and the only comfy, logical decision is to pile on the sweat pants and sweat shirts and snuggle up with my dog all day. But now, its just getting depressing. I'm sure the main question that arises is- why the fuck dont you get out and do something then? And my answer is... I'm just a god damn pessimist. Really. I dont have an ounce of optimism in me. Not a drip. And when things dont go my way, I literally seclude myself and hope that patience will bring me to a better time ( I realize that sounds dumb, but thats just how I'm wired I guess...)
Its not working so swell. Nothing gets better magically. I attempted to live a little about a month ago and that just backfired on me completely. I got dragged back into addictions. Back into my freakin ex girlfriends arms, who completely brutalized my heart years ago. Back into unhealthy bullshit... Its just been a constant washing machine. It seems like the second I start doing right, everything goes wrong. I have embodied the meaning of 1 step forward and 2 steps backward. Every time I begin to make progress, or I begin to put on my happy shoes, life shafts me with a big old dose of shitty. Back and forth. I get off drugs, I forget who I am. I get my skin clear, I get bit in the face by an old deranged beast. I've wedged myself between this shrinking game of pong that I'm doing with my life and now I'm stuck in my room. Nearly giving up on whatever comes next. I'm down to the last of my hope here.
I've even began desperately praying. I'm not sure who to yet, but everyday I catch myself closing my eyes and venting like theres someone on the other side of my eye lids waiting to grant my wishes. If that were true though, that person is a very bad wish granter, let me tell you... I break down at least twice a week. Completely. Usually while I'm showering or during some other reassurance that I'm not taking care of myself like I need to. I wish muscle stayed around longer. And I wish my face shaved itself.
I am continually redefining what rock bottom feels like. Apparently, you never really get there. Trust me, when things are bad, they can always be worse. And sometimes, the universe just likes to laugh and piss on you while you're down and you sit there confused as fuck wondering why everything hates you so much ( this question never gets answered btw. I've just gotten used to feeling like a urinal).
Is there a trampoline that I'm going to land on soon? That would totally make this hole depressing, heart cracking, tear leaking, unshaven free fall somewhat fun at least...
If anyone finds that bottle of hope laying around, pass it my way. Or let me know of a vendor who sells that shit in bulk. I could really use it about now.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Good old high school story #1
Most of us were good people. We tended to get along with others unless we were in the mood to turn the world upside down and break things. A couple of us lived together. Others just stayed around long enough to make it seem like they did. We were a family of heathens. Woven together by endless parties, chaotic girls and drugs. Some days we'd have disputes. We'd caste certain characters out of the click for weeks because 'they were acting gay' or because we were bored or because we were young and insensitive. Other days, we'd share our inner most secrets with one another and cry or laugh it off. Either way, they taught me a good deal about myself. Or at least who I thought I was. They showed me how to be social. Showed me how to express myself. How to enjoy life. But more importantly, they showed me that you are really only as hard as the punch you throw.
It was my Sophomore year in high school. Everything was below us. Social giants. We were bloated egos walking around halls made of glares and fear. No one fucked with us. And if they did, well, we were real quick to reassure them not to. It was good having a group of people to hide behind. It made me seem that much more powerful, even if I had only been in one fight.
My first fight was extravagantly set up, just like the majority of all fights were. But this one was overwhelmingly crazy. We had brought a few golden glove boxers in their late twenties with us to a party in this big ass field one Friday night. 9 or 10 kegs, a dj, a stolen blow up Godzilla from a local car dealership. Massive amounts of drunk young people. Including a group of folks who apparently came just for me. See, the week beforehand, we had stolen a keg from a party and mercilessly savaged the party goers for going to the wrong school. Every one of us fought someone and no one really fought back. Except for a chick. She decided to throw her bottle at me as I ran to my boys defense. I didn't do anything but yell at her. It was loud anyway and I was caught off guard by a random bottle to the head from a girl. She didn't leave us alone and continued to drag her drunken nonsense into the outbreaks of brawling. Unfortunately for her, one of my boys didn't give a shit that she was a chick. As she chased after us while we were leaving, she stormed up to my face and started swinging and spitting at me. I didn't do much but laugh. Out of no where, my football playing, 6 ft. 2 body guard of a friend came plowing down the drive way behind her. He lowered his shoulder, kept his feet moving and before I knew it, the chick was face first on the ground behind me.
Well, I guess in her sloppy state, all she could remember the next day was me. And the ground. So out through the grape vine went her story and sure enough, her brother and his friends decided to seek revenge the following week in the field.
I was walking amongst my boys, scoping out the scenery and the drinks when I noticed a gargantuan dude shadowing me throughout the crowds. I knew the guy. He played basketball with my biology years ago. I thought he just recognized me. And he did. Just for a different reason.
One of my boys came up to me to say whats up. Behind him, this big mother fucker was charging straight at me. He pushed my boy out of the way, reached over and put his cigarette out on my head. A ruckus broke out between me and the guy. A wall of people separated us and then it split open again.
"Listen, this dude over there thinks you beat up his sister and he wants to fight you. You wanna fight him?"
I looked over and there dancing around was a guy about my size with his shirt off screaming 'I'M 150 POUNDS AND ILL FIGHT ANYONE HERE'. He didn't look too tough. Kinda seemed clownish to me. So I agreed. I knew what it was about. I knew I didn't do it. But my pride was on the line. And even though I hadn't been in a fight, this was not the time to publicly bitch down.
A senior on the hockey team pulled me aside and asked,
"So this is your first fight right?"
"Yeah."
"You know how to fight?"
"I donno. I might."
"Well, what your gonna want to do is get out in the circle and kick him right in the nuts. Dont even give him a chance to hit you."
I laughed.
" Okay, I'm not going to do that but thanks."
I walked out into the circle. We were surrounded by a towering crowd of people who only gave us maybe 10 feet to fight between them and the car boxing us off. The dude was getting rowdy as fuck, holding his arms out, strutting around like he had already won. He had to have been hammered. Or he must of just thought I wasn't going to hit him. But that was his mistake because unfortunately for him, the second he approached me I punched him right in the fucking face. He dropped to the ground and I just stood there, kind of in shock that I just did that. This was an incredibly dumb move on my part. The time I gave him to get up was the time I should have taken to continue to beat his ass. But I didn't. And he got up, through a right hook at me and as I ducked, he hit me enough on the top of the head to get me down on my knee. Then he kicked me in the shoulder, aiming for my face but missed. Somehow, he got me in a head lock. But a lame head lock. One where I was behind him and he only had a grip on the top of my head. He then proceeded to hold me there and rock punch after punch into my temple. I didn't care. He was going to get exhausted and I was just going to get mad. I wasn't going to waste energy and try to pick him up. He had almost 40 pounds on me at the time. So I let him do this for a little until he asked me if I was done... and I tapped on his back. I guess this made him feel like he had won so he let go and the second he did, I swam up his body, threw him up against the car by his shirt, swept him across the side of it breaking the mirror and then punch him the face again. His eyes rolled back and I felt his legs give out. I wasn't going to stop. I kept swinging until his friends came up and grabbed him, put him in their car and drove away.
I threw up after the fight from being dizzy. Those temple shots did a number on my brain. It felt a lot better while I was fighting but afterward, I wasn't doing so good. The comments people gave me after it was done didn't make me feel good either. Apparently, the head lock achieved the crowd vote. I still have people ask me if I was the kid who got 'beat up in during that big field party.' And that was almost a decade ago. However, in my boys eyes, I won. They watched the fight. They saw the other dudes nose bleed. They saw the punches I threw. And they counted. In our books.
It was my Sophomore year in high school. Everything was below us. Social giants. We were bloated egos walking around halls made of glares and fear. No one fucked with us. And if they did, well, we were real quick to reassure them not to. It was good having a group of people to hide behind. It made me seem that much more powerful, even if I had only been in one fight.
My first fight was extravagantly set up, just like the majority of all fights were. But this one was overwhelmingly crazy. We had brought a few golden glove boxers in their late twenties with us to a party in this big ass field one Friday night. 9 or 10 kegs, a dj, a stolen blow up Godzilla from a local car dealership. Massive amounts of drunk young people. Including a group of folks who apparently came just for me. See, the week beforehand, we had stolen a keg from a party and mercilessly savaged the party goers for going to the wrong school. Every one of us fought someone and no one really fought back. Except for a chick. She decided to throw her bottle at me as I ran to my boys defense. I didn't do anything but yell at her. It was loud anyway and I was caught off guard by a random bottle to the head from a girl. She didn't leave us alone and continued to drag her drunken nonsense into the outbreaks of brawling. Unfortunately for her, one of my boys didn't give a shit that she was a chick. As she chased after us while we were leaving, she stormed up to my face and started swinging and spitting at me. I didn't do much but laugh. Out of no where, my football playing, 6 ft. 2 body guard of a friend came plowing down the drive way behind her. He lowered his shoulder, kept his feet moving and before I knew it, the chick was face first on the ground behind me.
Well, I guess in her sloppy state, all she could remember the next day was me. And the ground. So out through the grape vine went her story and sure enough, her brother and his friends decided to seek revenge the following week in the field.
I was walking amongst my boys, scoping out the scenery and the drinks when I noticed a gargantuan dude shadowing me throughout the crowds. I knew the guy. He played basketball with my biology years ago. I thought he just recognized me. And he did. Just for a different reason.
One of my boys came up to me to say whats up. Behind him, this big mother fucker was charging straight at me. He pushed my boy out of the way, reached over and put his cigarette out on my head. A ruckus broke out between me and the guy. A wall of people separated us and then it split open again.
"Listen, this dude over there thinks you beat up his sister and he wants to fight you. You wanna fight him?"
I looked over and there dancing around was a guy about my size with his shirt off screaming 'I'M 150 POUNDS AND ILL FIGHT ANYONE HERE'. He didn't look too tough. Kinda seemed clownish to me. So I agreed. I knew what it was about. I knew I didn't do it. But my pride was on the line. And even though I hadn't been in a fight, this was not the time to publicly bitch down.
A senior on the hockey team pulled me aside and asked,
"So this is your first fight right?"
"Yeah."
"You know how to fight?"
"I donno. I might."
"Well, what your gonna want to do is get out in the circle and kick him right in the nuts. Dont even give him a chance to hit you."
I laughed.
" Okay, I'm not going to do that but thanks."
I walked out into the circle. We were surrounded by a towering crowd of people who only gave us maybe 10 feet to fight between them and the car boxing us off. The dude was getting rowdy as fuck, holding his arms out, strutting around like he had already won. He had to have been hammered. Or he must of just thought I wasn't going to hit him. But that was his mistake because unfortunately for him, the second he approached me I punched him right in the fucking face. He dropped to the ground and I just stood there, kind of in shock that I just did that. This was an incredibly dumb move on my part. The time I gave him to get up was the time I should have taken to continue to beat his ass. But I didn't. And he got up, through a right hook at me and as I ducked, he hit me enough on the top of the head to get me down on my knee. Then he kicked me in the shoulder, aiming for my face but missed. Somehow, he got me in a head lock. But a lame head lock. One where I was behind him and he only had a grip on the top of my head. He then proceeded to hold me there and rock punch after punch into my temple. I didn't care. He was going to get exhausted and I was just going to get mad. I wasn't going to waste energy and try to pick him up. He had almost 40 pounds on me at the time. So I let him do this for a little until he asked me if I was done... and I tapped on his back. I guess this made him feel like he had won so he let go and the second he did, I swam up his body, threw him up against the car by his shirt, swept him across the side of it breaking the mirror and then punch him the face again. His eyes rolled back and I felt his legs give out. I wasn't going to stop. I kept swinging until his friends came up and grabbed him, put him in their car and drove away.
I threw up after the fight from being dizzy. Those temple shots did a number on my brain. It felt a lot better while I was fighting but afterward, I wasn't doing so good. The comments people gave me after it was done didn't make me feel good either. Apparently, the head lock achieved the crowd vote. I still have people ask me if I was the kid who got 'beat up in during that big field party.' And that was almost a decade ago. However, in my boys eyes, I won. They watched the fight. They saw the other dudes nose bleed. They saw the punches I threw. And they counted. In our books.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
So be it
Finally starting to like living again. Starting. God damn, withdrawals are just no fun. Talk about losing yourself...
On Monday, my dad looked at me and asked if there was anything he could do. I said that I'll be fine, I just gotta get through this little dark patch. The past week has been horrendously confusing. You could see it in my eyes and hear it in my voice. I'm still working out the kinks but I'm coming back. Slowly.
I really didn't need that garbage. Even though I conveyed to people that xanax withdrawals made cocaine and heroin look like vacations, I came to understand that I dont need any of that bullshit. At all.
As hypocritical as it seems, I love drugs. Really. I do. I love escaping. I've gone pro at it. However, I'm totally fine with sobriety right now. Complete sobriety. I even threw out smoking cigarettes for now. Its fundamentally come down to this for me:
I have a lot of work to do in here. There are tons of glitches and voids that I've attempted to forget about through inhaling or ingesting or whatever my forte was. And yes, it worked for the time being. But the next morning, when my eyes opened to another day, I just had to do it over. And over. And over. And repeat again and again and again just to feel worthy of taking another breath. It never worked. I never once felt like I deserved another day. I never once felt like I was less then a monster. I was an abomination. I still am... just healing and trying to understand myself instead of running the other way.
Will I do drugs again? Fuck... thats like asking if the sun is going to shine. So yes, eventually I will. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then next week. The difference between my answer now and what it was is that I'm not implying that 'tomorrow' is synonymous with 'getting fucked up' anymore. I'm trying to redefine what living really is. And if it takes being broken down to the fibers of my existence- having to deal with identity crisis', self worth and esteem problems, weight loss, insecurities and whatever else- so be it. I'm sure the outcome will pay for itself.
I'm trying to figure out what I am now. What things = me and what things dont.
I've realized- I'm this. I am wrapped in syllables. I am saved as drafts every minute. I am free and nonprofit.
This isn't a fucking novelty. I will not grow away from this page. I will not replace this with another pass time or hobby. I wont cheat on you, blogspot. I wont. I've been deceived enough to know that having a comfort zone that I can call home is good for me. Sorry tumblr.
Anyway, this isn't for you. This isn't for glory or honor at all. This isn't a popularity contest.
It never has been. This is for me. For myself. This
is
me. Period.
On Monday, my dad looked at me and asked if there was anything he could do. I said that I'll be fine, I just gotta get through this little dark patch. The past week has been horrendously confusing. You could see it in my eyes and hear it in my voice. I'm still working out the kinks but I'm coming back. Slowly.
I really didn't need that garbage. Even though I conveyed to people that xanax withdrawals made cocaine and heroin look like vacations, I came to understand that I dont need any of that bullshit. At all.
As hypocritical as it seems, I love drugs. Really. I do. I love escaping. I've gone pro at it. However, I'm totally fine with sobriety right now. Complete sobriety. I even threw out smoking cigarettes for now. Its fundamentally come down to this for me:
I have a lot of work to do in here. There are tons of glitches and voids that I've attempted to forget about through inhaling or ingesting or whatever my forte was. And yes, it worked for the time being. But the next morning, when my eyes opened to another day, I just had to do it over. And over. And over. And repeat again and again and again just to feel worthy of taking another breath. It never worked. I never once felt like I deserved another day. I never once felt like I was less then a monster. I was an abomination. I still am... just healing and trying to understand myself instead of running the other way.
Will I do drugs again? Fuck... thats like asking if the sun is going to shine. So yes, eventually I will. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then next week. The difference between my answer now and what it was is that I'm not implying that 'tomorrow' is synonymous with 'getting fucked up' anymore. I'm trying to redefine what living really is. And if it takes being broken down to the fibers of my existence- having to deal with identity crisis', self worth and esteem problems, weight loss, insecurities and whatever else- so be it. I'm sure the outcome will pay for itself.
I'm trying to figure out what I am now. What things = me and what things dont.
I've realized- I'm this. I am wrapped in syllables. I am saved as drafts every minute. I am free and nonprofit.
This isn't a fucking novelty. I will not grow away from this page. I will not replace this with another pass time or hobby. I wont cheat on you, blogspot. I wont. I've been deceived enough to know that having a comfort zone that I can call home is good for me. Sorry tumblr.
Anyway, this isn't for you. This isn't for glory or honor at all. This isn't a popularity contest.
It never has been. This is for me. For myself. This
is
me. Period.
Monday, May 9, 2011
I was looking in the mirror
We all are looking for some answers. Something to fill in the blanks, the sleepless nights, the empty feelings and confusion. Its not easy. Really. The one thing I've realized is that
the older I get
the less I know
the more questions I have
and less insights to hand down.
I have come to the conclusion that I dont know who the fuck I am. And I'm pretty sure neither do you. Dont be offended. Maybe I'm generalizing. Maybe I'm not. Maybe the truth is we all are blind as fuck and just steer towards who we think we are until we crash into reality. On some dark summer day, in the middle of thinking you have everything figured out, you hit a wall. And that wall isn't forgiving. It isn't comfortable or reasonable and really... it isn't even an end. Its just the beginning. That wall is where everything starts to make less sense. And you begin to look for more bread crumbs. More of what it was you were searching for before you crashed. More of the answers you thought you had. More hope. More dreams. More escape routes to divert around hitting another wall again.
We are all lost. I see it everywhere. I see it in myself. In the people I keep near me, my family, my dog... In the daily routines that cloak our needs and pain. We are all hiding from ourselves. Really. Take off the mask. Stop trying to convince me or yourself that you have anything figured out. I promise you that you are singing to the choir here. This is a place for honesty and I'm just letting you know that your not fooling anyone. Except yourself. Keep it up and you might just believe it.
Maybe I'm generalizing. Maybe I'm not. I'm sure some folks out there do have answers. Some crazy amount of experience that they've been fortunate enough to learn from. But I advise you to keep those things to yourself. Telling anyone any bit and piece of that will just leave them confused. Why couldn't I figure that out? Why didn't I get gifted with that lesson? Why didn't the clouds part for god to reach down and implant that realization in my mind? Are you fucking special?
As I looked in the mirror this morning, I understood how lost I really am. I have grown out some form of a beard. I seem to be losing weight. I have stitches in my face. I have no life. I have no job. I have no goals right now except to figure out what I'm doing. If you were to tell me 10 years ago that I would be here, I wouldn't have believed you. I would have never thought I'd be this height. This weight. This bearded. This scarred. This dark. This lonely. This shapeless. This... way... at all.
I guess I've hit a lot of walls since then.
And here I am. Facing myself. Looking into the eyes of someone I thought I knew. But I dont know you. At all. Yeah, we were born on the same day. We are associated with the same name. But I have no clue what your purpose is. Or why things have happened to you. Or why you have the problems you do. I dont have any of the answers. Stop looking at me like you know me.
the older I get
the less I know
the more questions I have
and less insights to hand down.
I have come to the conclusion that I dont know who the fuck I am. And I'm pretty sure neither do you. Dont be offended. Maybe I'm generalizing. Maybe I'm not. Maybe the truth is we all are blind as fuck and just steer towards who we think we are until we crash into reality. On some dark summer day, in the middle of thinking you have everything figured out, you hit a wall. And that wall isn't forgiving. It isn't comfortable or reasonable and really... it isn't even an end. Its just the beginning. That wall is where everything starts to make less sense. And you begin to look for more bread crumbs. More of what it was you were searching for before you crashed. More of the answers you thought you had. More hope. More dreams. More escape routes to divert around hitting another wall again.
We are all lost. I see it everywhere. I see it in myself. In the people I keep near me, my family, my dog... In the daily routines that cloak our needs and pain. We are all hiding from ourselves. Really. Take off the mask. Stop trying to convince me or yourself that you have anything figured out. I promise you that you are singing to the choir here. This is a place for honesty and I'm just letting you know that your not fooling anyone. Except yourself. Keep it up and you might just believe it.
Maybe I'm generalizing. Maybe I'm not. I'm sure some folks out there do have answers. Some crazy amount of experience that they've been fortunate enough to learn from. But I advise you to keep those things to yourself. Telling anyone any bit and piece of that will just leave them confused. Why couldn't I figure that out? Why didn't I get gifted with that lesson? Why didn't the clouds part for god to reach down and implant that realization in my mind? Are you fucking special?
As I looked in the mirror this morning, I understood how lost I really am. I have grown out some form of a beard. I seem to be losing weight. I have stitches in my face. I have no life. I have no job. I have no goals right now except to figure out what I'm doing. If you were to tell me 10 years ago that I would be here, I wouldn't have believed you. I would have never thought I'd be this height. This weight. This bearded. This scarred. This dark. This lonely. This shapeless. This... way... at all.
I guess I've hit a lot of walls since then.
And here I am. Facing myself. Looking into the eyes of someone I thought I knew. But I dont know you. At all. Yeah, we were born on the same day. We are associated with the same name. But I have no clue what your purpose is. Or why things have happened to you. Or why you have the problems you do. I dont have any of the answers. Stop looking at me like you know me.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Doctors needed: one who isn't a douchebag
I'd like to think positive things about the medical field. I'd like to believe that they are genuinely looking out for us and keeping our health at priority. That our mental and physical stability are in their minds when they put their signature on the prescription tab and hand it over. However, after this week of dealing with hospitals, psychiatrists and pharmacies, I've understood its a very rare thing to find a caring doctor now a days. One who can remember your name, your ailment and how long you've been seeing them. Its more often than not that I find a doctor who just wants to push you out of their conveyor belt waiting room just so they can put as much disinterest into the next patient. And the next.
I'm starting to heal up from the attack. It doesn't look bad. Thank god. The creams and the antibiotics they gave me worked better than I expected. But today, I had to run to my good old quacks office to get my refill of Xanax. Now, I've been taking Xanax for years now. Not excessive amounts. Not to get high. But mainly because of spurts of social anxiety and lack of sleep. It helps tremendously with both. After attempting suicide in 09' and being stationed in a beautiful, want-to-live facility... they put me on that stuff to keep me calm. Just a mg a day or two. Nothing intoxicating really.
Its been almost 3 years of being on benzos and I can't complain. I've slept well. I've communicated and been productive and been more positive (- positive being I'm no longer trying to hang myself-). I'd say it's 'worked'. So today when I went in for my usual case-study-fill-in-the-blank-to-get-your-medicine sheet, I had to deal with the oh so very pleasant 'nurses' behind the counter. They asked if I had an appointment. I said no, I just needed a refill. Then they asked if I brought my pill bottle. I said no, I just ran out last night though. As usual, they looked at me like I was a drug dealing hippie and told me to go wait in a chair to fill out the sheet. I'm used to it by now. Everyone looks at me like ' Hm, I wonder what he has in his pockets' or 'I wonder what he does when were not around' or 'I wonder if he's going to stab me'... so its nothing I take too much offense to. As long as this judgment doesn't hinder their capability to treat me like someone they dont know at all, then we will be fine.
I sat in the waiting room, put my headphones on and waited for them to 'grade' my sheet. A lady came out afterward and said they were going to need to drug test me to see if what they were giving me was in my system. I was okay with that. I had nothing hiding from them. I told them about my dog bite, and that I'll probably drop dirty for opiates but other than that, everything is as it was before. I took a piss, signed my name on the little cup and went back to the waiting room.
Ten minutes later, the lady walks out and tells me that I tested positive for thc and that the doctor wouldn't prescribe me my Xanax unless I go to drug treatment.
...
...
Really. I looked at the lady for a few seconds and said
"Okay. So I smoke weed sometimes. He knows that. I've told him that since I started coming here. Thats nothing new. Now what?"
"Well, I'm just relaying a message. He said he'll prescribe you Viteral. Heres the prescription for that."
"Yeah, well I dont have a god damn clue what that is and I'm really not trying to detox off benzos right now. Especially with the trauma I've just been through. Can I talk to him when he's done with that patient?"
She said I could. It seemed like she was proud of herself. She's always given me this attitude since she's started working there. This little tone of 'you just want drugs' in between everything she says to me.
I sat back down and took my coat off. I knew something was about to go down. I felt shit in my head about to snap. I waited to hear that nutsacks voice before I got up and once I did, it was on mother fucker.
"Hey, ya lets talk in this room real quick."
I was in no mood to sit around and listen to anybody about anything at this point. I wanted to know how he could ignorantly fill out a prescription for someone who he's seen for the past two years, for something he hasn't ever prescribed him, for something that is going to 'replace' a seizure inducing withdrawal symptom.
"Okay, so whats the issue here?" I said, " I've told you from the get go that I smoke weed. And theres never been a problem. And now you just want to shove something else in my system without knowing what other medication I'm on or knowing I wont have a seizure or anything?"
"Well, you tested positive for thc and thats a schedule 1 drug. Its up there with methamphetimine, cocaine, and all the other intoxicants okay. I legally can't prescribe you a controlled substance if your on a controlled substance. Its like if the schools wanted to..."
He went on with some typical analogy that had little to no relevance. I didn't want to hear that shit so I cut him off.
"Listen, I appreciate all these fluffy similes but I know, as well as you know, that marijuana is a stones throw away from being prescribed right along with all of these harmful chemicals. That's why its medically acknowledged in Michigan already."
"No its not. That was because a few doctors in Lansing decided to let people pay for prescriptions and its not going to be medical because..."
I cut him off again.
"Yeah no, its medically acknowledged. Thats why I have friends who used to have cancer who have medical marijuana cards, with medical marijuana care givers. Thats Michigan state law right there. And this isn't even the point. The point is that you're willing to put me on something else simply because you made me take a piss test, the first and only piss test you've ever made me take, and told me it was for something else, when it was really to see if I was on anything else. I came here to get something to keep me stable. And your fine with sending me out of here without anything close to what I was taking?!"
He began to write on his pad for a second. He asked what my fuckin name was. I couldn't believe him. I have been seeing him for years now, he is dealing with my case right now whether he likes it or not, and he doesn't even remember my god damn name?!
He handed me a script for the same Vitral shit and said,
"You didn't have an appointment. Come see me when you set up an appointment. Can we get someone else who's supposed to be in here in here?"
I didn't know what to do. I was tearing up. I was sweating. I was pissed. I couldn't believe the negligence he was treating me with. I walked out and received obvious stares from the patrons in the office. I couldn't leave though. I had to find out what the hell he was prescribing me. So, I went back to the very kind, thoughtful ladies who put me through this ordeal and explained my situation to them. Asked them if they could tell me what the doctor couldn't because I dont feel safe throwing shit into my system like that.
They both told me I wouldn't go through the withdrawal symptoms from xanax if I took the stuff. They thought that was sufficient for me to leave. It wasn't. I still didn't know what the hell I was being given.
"So, is this an anti anxiety drug or what is this exactly. I've been getting anti anxiety drugs for 3 years now and to just get shifted off them doesn't feel safe or right. You said you were testing me to see if what you were giving me was in me, and it was, but somehow me testing positive for thc completely interfered with the purpose of coming in here."
"Well who's fault is that for smoking weed then?"
I probably could have been a little kinder after that. But I wasn't. Of course, I slipped up and called them receptionists, to which I got a harmonized 'We're not receptionists' response. They pretty much yelled like banshees and crack heads for 10 minutes while I tried to get them to calm the fuck down and talk to me like I'm a human being. Then they began to insinuate that I sell my medicine.
"You didn't bring your bottle with you. How do we know when you leave here you're not just selling them?"
"Well because you just tested me to find them in my system, and they are- I would take the benefit of the doubt and say that maybe, just maybe I'm not a stereotype and that I'm possibly taking them as I'm supposed to?! I can bring in the empty bottle tomorrow."
"Whats that going to prove? That doesn't show me that you're not selling them."
The conversation escalated to the point where the ladies got in my face, dry mouthed, rotting teethe and all, and literally threatened to call the cops if I didn't leave. I asked if I could set up an appointment. They refused.
"Either you leave or were calling the cops. I'll give you one more chance"
" Wow. Well you guys are just so friendly. Thanks for all your help."
She picked up the phone and stared at me like a little child.
I walked out of that place feeling beat up. Like I had just lost a tooth in a fight or been knocked out. I tried making sense out of everything in my head afterward. In between feeling unusually alert and light headed from not taking my meds, I rationalized that these bastards A.) Thought I was a drug dealer for a looooooong time. B.) Thought I was an avid drug user for a loooong time. and C.) Were never going to let me in that office again.
I drove to the pharmacy where I then decided to actually capitalize on the use of the pharmacists and asked them what the hell Vitral is.
Vitral is an antihistamine. Its not an anti anxiety medication.
I'm not too sure how I feel about doctors who can do what these doctors did and still manage to sleep at night. Getting off this Xanax was a long time coming but I never thought I'd be shoved into it at gun point. At a -take this or leave bitch- conclusion. I want to believe there are doctors out there who would read this and say 'damn, thats just wrong' but then again... birds of a feather. They tend to cover each others short comings. They all would justify this somehow. With fancy medical terminology and legalities that dont actually exist. Like how you can't prescribe someone medicine who smokes weed... fuck, if that were true, I would have never got on them in the first place.
Shit, when it rains, its a fuckin monsoon. Nonstop. Everywhere. I guess the universe really doesn't want to align with me this year. Its showing me every sign that this year is going to be an uphill sprint. Jog at best but a constant work horse feeling.
Come on karma, kick in for me.
I'm starting to heal up from the attack. It doesn't look bad. Thank god. The creams and the antibiotics they gave me worked better than I expected. But today, I had to run to my good old quacks office to get my refill of Xanax. Now, I've been taking Xanax for years now. Not excessive amounts. Not to get high. But mainly because of spurts of social anxiety and lack of sleep. It helps tremendously with both. After attempting suicide in 09' and being stationed in a beautiful, want-to-live facility... they put me on that stuff to keep me calm. Just a mg a day or two. Nothing intoxicating really.
Its been almost 3 years of being on benzos and I can't complain. I've slept well. I've communicated and been productive and been more positive (- positive being I'm no longer trying to hang myself-). I'd say it's 'worked'. So today when I went in for my usual case-study-fill-in-the-blank-to-get-your-medicine sheet, I had to deal with the oh so very pleasant 'nurses' behind the counter. They asked if I had an appointment. I said no, I just needed a refill. Then they asked if I brought my pill bottle. I said no, I just ran out last night though. As usual, they looked at me like I was a drug dealing hippie and told me to go wait in a chair to fill out the sheet. I'm used to it by now. Everyone looks at me like ' Hm, I wonder what he has in his pockets' or 'I wonder what he does when were not around' or 'I wonder if he's going to stab me'... so its nothing I take too much offense to. As long as this judgment doesn't hinder their capability to treat me like someone they dont know at all, then we will be fine.
I sat in the waiting room, put my headphones on and waited for them to 'grade' my sheet. A lady came out afterward and said they were going to need to drug test me to see if what they were giving me was in my system. I was okay with that. I had nothing hiding from them. I told them about my dog bite, and that I'll probably drop dirty for opiates but other than that, everything is as it was before. I took a piss, signed my name on the little cup and went back to the waiting room.
Ten minutes later, the lady walks out and tells me that I tested positive for thc and that the doctor wouldn't prescribe me my Xanax unless I go to drug treatment.
...
...
Really. I looked at the lady for a few seconds and said
"Okay. So I smoke weed sometimes. He knows that. I've told him that since I started coming here. Thats nothing new. Now what?"
"Well, I'm just relaying a message. He said he'll prescribe you Viteral. Heres the prescription for that."
"Yeah, well I dont have a god damn clue what that is and I'm really not trying to detox off benzos right now. Especially with the trauma I've just been through. Can I talk to him when he's done with that patient?"
She said I could. It seemed like she was proud of herself. She's always given me this attitude since she's started working there. This little tone of 'you just want drugs' in between everything she says to me.
I sat back down and took my coat off. I knew something was about to go down. I felt shit in my head about to snap. I waited to hear that nutsacks voice before I got up and once I did, it was on mother fucker.
"Hey, ya lets talk in this room real quick."
I was in no mood to sit around and listen to anybody about anything at this point. I wanted to know how he could ignorantly fill out a prescription for someone who he's seen for the past two years, for something he hasn't ever prescribed him, for something that is going to 'replace' a seizure inducing withdrawal symptom.
"Okay, so whats the issue here?" I said, " I've told you from the get go that I smoke weed. And theres never been a problem. And now you just want to shove something else in my system without knowing what other medication I'm on or knowing I wont have a seizure or anything?"
"Well, you tested positive for thc and thats a schedule 1 drug. Its up there with methamphetimine, cocaine, and all the other intoxicants okay. I legally can't prescribe you a controlled substance if your on a controlled substance. Its like if the schools wanted to..."
He went on with some typical analogy that had little to no relevance. I didn't want to hear that shit so I cut him off.
"Listen, I appreciate all these fluffy similes but I know, as well as you know, that marijuana is a stones throw away from being prescribed right along with all of these harmful chemicals. That's why its medically acknowledged in Michigan already."
"No its not. That was because a few doctors in Lansing decided to let people pay for prescriptions and its not going to be medical because..."
I cut him off again.
"Yeah no, its medically acknowledged. Thats why I have friends who used to have cancer who have medical marijuana cards, with medical marijuana care givers. Thats Michigan state law right there. And this isn't even the point. The point is that you're willing to put me on something else simply because you made me take a piss test, the first and only piss test you've ever made me take, and told me it was for something else, when it was really to see if I was on anything else. I came here to get something to keep me stable. And your fine with sending me out of here without anything close to what I was taking?!"
He began to write on his pad for a second. He asked what my fuckin name was. I couldn't believe him. I have been seeing him for years now, he is dealing with my case right now whether he likes it or not, and he doesn't even remember my god damn name?!
He handed me a script for the same Vitral shit and said,
"You didn't have an appointment. Come see me when you set up an appointment. Can we get someone else who's supposed to be in here in here?"
I didn't know what to do. I was tearing up. I was sweating. I was pissed. I couldn't believe the negligence he was treating me with. I walked out and received obvious stares from the patrons in the office. I couldn't leave though. I had to find out what the hell he was prescribing me. So, I went back to the very kind, thoughtful ladies who put me through this ordeal and explained my situation to them. Asked them if they could tell me what the doctor couldn't because I dont feel safe throwing shit into my system like that.
They both told me I wouldn't go through the withdrawal symptoms from xanax if I took the stuff. They thought that was sufficient for me to leave. It wasn't. I still didn't know what the hell I was being given.
"So, is this an anti anxiety drug or what is this exactly. I've been getting anti anxiety drugs for 3 years now and to just get shifted off them doesn't feel safe or right. You said you were testing me to see if what you were giving me was in me, and it was, but somehow me testing positive for thc completely interfered with the purpose of coming in here."
"Well who's fault is that for smoking weed then?"
I probably could have been a little kinder after that. But I wasn't. Of course, I slipped up and called them receptionists, to which I got a harmonized 'We're not receptionists' response. They pretty much yelled like banshees and crack heads for 10 minutes while I tried to get them to calm the fuck down and talk to me like I'm a human being. Then they began to insinuate that I sell my medicine.
"You didn't bring your bottle with you. How do we know when you leave here you're not just selling them?"
"Well because you just tested me to find them in my system, and they are- I would take the benefit of the doubt and say that maybe, just maybe I'm not a stereotype and that I'm possibly taking them as I'm supposed to?! I can bring in the empty bottle tomorrow."
"Whats that going to prove? That doesn't show me that you're not selling them."
The conversation escalated to the point where the ladies got in my face, dry mouthed, rotting teethe and all, and literally threatened to call the cops if I didn't leave. I asked if I could set up an appointment. They refused.
"Either you leave or were calling the cops. I'll give you one more chance"
" Wow. Well you guys are just so friendly. Thanks for all your help."
She picked up the phone and stared at me like a little child.
I walked out of that place feeling beat up. Like I had just lost a tooth in a fight or been knocked out. I tried making sense out of everything in my head afterward. In between feeling unusually alert and light headed from not taking my meds, I rationalized that these bastards A.) Thought I was a drug dealer for a looooooong time. B.) Thought I was an avid drug user for a loooong time. and C.) Were never going to let me in that office again.
I drove to the pharmacy where I then decided to actually capitalize on the use of the pharmacists and asked them what the hell Vitral is.
Vitral is an antihistamine. Its not an anti anxiety medication.
I'm not too sure how I feel about doctors who can do what these doctors did and still manage to sleep at night. Getting off this Xanax was a long time coming but I never thought I'd be shoved into it at gun point. At a -take this or leave bitch- conclusion. I want to believe there are doctors out there who would read this and say 'damn, thats just wrong' but then again... birds of a feather. They tend to cover each others short comings. They all would justify this somehow. With fancy medical terminology and legalities that dont actually exist. Like how you can't prescribe someone medicine who smokes weed... fuck, if that were true, I would have never got on them in the first place.
Shit, when it rains, its a fuckin monsoon. Nonstop. Everywhere. I guess the universe really doesn't want to align with me this year. Its showing me every sign that this year is going to be an uphill sprint. Jog at best but a constant work horse feeling.
Come on karma, kick in for me.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
This was completely pointless
Its unusual for me to go this long without writing anything. Then again, its quite unusual to throw yourself into a dog fight and get your face bitten, have your ex girlfriend tell you that you maybe, possibly got her pregnant that one night and she doesn't know what she's doing about it, and then have a 'medically waivered' relapse (thats what I like to call it so I dont feel utterly stupid... just half stupid). So I might just be acting normal for the circumstances. Who knows. I dont give a shit. I just want my words back without feeling fake. Oh, and to have my wounds stop spilling shit on my pillows. Seriously, stop.
I have nothing to say about any of the above. All of that shit happened and I can't run myself back into a hole again because of any of it. I can hide in this little bottle of pills for the time being, but after tomorrow- after I've ate my prescribed rations of 30 hydrocodone in 6 days, I will have to jump back on the bandwagon and start doing again. Start doing this thing called life that I've been trying really hard this time to do... At least this phase of being was totally justifiable. At least I didn't just step back 4 years in heart development and 5 months of sobriety for no fuckin reason. Loneliness is a bitch. So is getting bit in the god damn face. I think I earned a little hiatus.
I originally wrote 4 more paragraphs to this but I just realized I dont have a direction or a point. Or the motivation to concoct either of those. So I'm gonna go shower and act like this meant something. Fuck, I need to sober up.
I have nothing to say about any of the above. All of that shit happened and I can't run myself back into a hole again because of any of it. I can hide in this little bottle of pills for the time being, but after tomorrow- after I've ate my prescribed rations of 30 hydrocodone in 6 days, I will have to jump back on the bandwagon and start doing again. Start doing this thing called life that I've been trying really hard this time to do... At least this phase of being was totally justifiable. At least I didn't just step back 4 years in heart development and 5 months of sobriety for no fuckin reason. Loneliness is a bitch. So is getting bit in the god damn face. I think I earned a little hiatus.
I originally wrote 4 more paragraphs to this but I just realized I dont have a direction or a point. Or the motivation to concoct either of those. So I'm gonna go shower and act like this meant something. Fuck, I need to sober up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)