Welcome Unfortunates and Fortunates alike…


Shackled Hope

I swallow the small blue pill, innocently enough seeking relief from the screaming shadows. Yes, the medicine does provide me temporary relief from the darkness, but it also shackles me to it. Imagine that- I am shackled, in every way to this pill. This little pill i take 3 times a day. If i wake up one day and these pills are gone, well than i am in a world of shit. Pain, The strongest feeling of dread possible, like some big scary drill sergeant is standing so close to me that his lips almost touch my ear as he screams as loud as humanly possible.. You know that feeling you get in your gut in a very dangerous situation- the “fight or flight” response? I mentally, physchiologically, psychologically, emotionally, and PHYSICALLY feel that way every screeching second of every day, nonstop, full throttle with no respite. Think of the thing that scares you the most. Whatever it may be. Think of confronting that horrifying fear every waking moment. There are no pauses, there is no mute, i am stuck in an endless loop of….hell. Im not sure i believe in this”hell” business being a real place or thing, but when a pastor preaches about hell and the burning , non-stop torment of the soul, of the whole body, mind, and spirit being constantly burned to death over and over again, that is one way i can try to get people to understand my mental illness and just how severe it is. Thats what it feels like. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Death seems a permanent vacation, away from the deafening madness. So i am shackled to this medication. It is the only medication that has ever helped me to the point where i can somewhat function and take care of myself. I am grateful for the medicine, but at the same time the shackles scare the hell out of me. If those shackles were ever to be broken again, even for 5 days of having no medication i honestly and truthfully don’t think i would make it back into reality. Last time i strayed very far from home, didn’t think id ever make it back. Luckily i did the right thing and called my doctor (psychiatrist). HE, along with medication guided me back home, back to reality. But id be lying if i said all of me made it back. It didn’t. I feel the missing piece everyday. During that last episode i really had no hope of ever making it back to reality again. i was so far removed from it that i felt my end was near. But hope prevailed, as i got more hope and continued taking my medication i did get better. But the piece of me missing, i know i shall never get it back. Thats troubling to say the least. What if i have an episode (mental breakdown) like that again and don’t have my medicine, the thing that instills me with atleast enough reasoning power to pick up a phone and call my doctor for help? That is one of my worst fears. I really do not think i even stand a chance at making it back to reality again if i drift as far as i had before. And that piece of me that it took, its a chink in my armor. Scary indeed. I feel i would walk to far to get home, id get lost and not know which way is home (like i had). Only this time weaker, with a piece of me missing. That is so scary to me that deep inside of me, at my core, fear is placed. And we all know what fear does, it spreads. But on the other hand (as i see now) maybe i am better equipped to deal with another breakdown. Maybe the trail home will be slightly marked and act as a guide, much like people camping deep in the woods tie a colored piece of cloth or something to a branch every so often along the trail, thus allowing them to follow the marks until they are safe and back at their cars. Its a love/hate relationship, truly. I absolutely hate that i HAVE TO take this medicine to feel as “normal” as i can be (which is barely functioning in society and not taking great care of myself at all). But I’m alive. Just the fact that i didn’t end my own life during this last episode is a testament to how much i “need” this medication. And for that i am eternally grateful to have it, “I love” the pills and what they do for me. Liquid handcuffs??- YES. Shackles around my ankles and arms that i drag around with me made of pills just like someone in an old “chain-gang” would be dragging around a heavy ball of metal??-YES. I guess thats life though. Any glass, at any time, to any person, could be half full or half empty. And the glass could be filled with calming, soothing tea, or a volatile mix of chemicals that cause death when consumed. I guess we all have a mixture of them both from time to time. Unfortunately many of us suffer because of a mental illness which rips the label off the glass and blurs it so one cannot see if it is full or empty, nourishing or deadly. But here i am today, sitting here writing ( and enjoying it), safe and comfortable knowing that i have my medication(s). Grateful to be able to write. To simply purge, or to write with hope that atleast one person who is struggling can hear my story and know that it is possible to survive a psychological and emotional deathblow. Why is it possible? Because i just survived one and I’m no better than you are. Not only did i survive but i gained insight and motivation from it. If i can do it surely anyone can. I’m just a man. A human being. i breath the same air you do. I have feelings just like you do. Male or female it doesn’t matter. What matters, and what my wish is, is that hope shall spread like fear, but faster and with more voracity and veracity. Leaving no-one behind. Lofty you say? Possibly. But i do believe it is attainable. And with that i leave you today. With Hope, Please spread it!

Soda, Crackers, & Coping Mechanisms

Like thunder roaring i awaken in in instant, dazed and on extremely high alert. My heart is beating out of my chest, I am sweating, My anxiety is so bad i start feeling like I’m physically caught in the endless loop i was in a few weeks ago when i had my episode. My stomach is a rolling knot, my extremities tingle, my mind a Formula 1 Racer mid-race. I sit there, almost indian style and keep repeating to my self (in my head) “its ok, this isn’t happening, this isn’t last month. You are not caught in a loop again, you are just having an extreme anxiety attack and sort of re-living the event”. Its just residual fear from the event, ptsd they call it. After a few minutes of this I’m still so frenzied that i am forced to involve myself in an activity to take my mind of of…itself, the present. I grab some strawberry crackers, my favorite, and start eating them. I even get up and get a small sip of Dr.Pepper ( another Favorite). As i sit on the edge of my bed with my entire world spinning in circles and flipping like an endless rollercoaster loop i stuff the crackers into my mouth and chew. I take some sips of Dr.Pepper. After a few minutes of this I’m not doing the “loop” anymore. Finally, those things are very scary! Gut-wrenching to say the least. Not calm enough to go back to sleep yet but calm enough to stop gorging myself with favorite tastes i sit on the edge of my bed and drift in and out of sleep for about 4 hours. At one point waking up, realizing that i had been asleep, and then climbing back into bed and falling asleep. Again. This has been a nightly dance for me for almost a month, really since i had my little break with reality for awhile. So knowing that i fully expect this dance to go on for some time, i knew i wasn’t walking out of it even close to unscathed, i knew id be lucky if there were no lifelong mortal wounds. Really, thats how full throttle insane and horrifying it felt. But anyways I do see a good pattern emerging, one thats brings more relief each time it happens, thus making the next night’s dance not so extreme. The madness is slowly leaving me, and for that i am eternally grateful. Yes i know there will be a “next time” but hopefully it won’t be as severe and as absolutely horrifying because of what i just went through/what I’m going through now. I believe that. It seems a logical reasoning, even for an illogical brain. So this morning i sit here with the knowledge that things not only WILL get better, but they slowly ARE getting better. Im not off the rollercoaster yet, but soon i will be. Most likely i will forever be caught in the fairgrounds that house this great big rollercoaster of fear, but I’m ok with that, iv come to terms with and accept that. I just gotta get off the rollercoaster. Somewhere, something inside of me must like it because i am still on it. But like i said- When this ride started i knew there was NO chance at all that i was making it through it without some deep wounds and gnarly scars. At a certain point during this “event” i was “sure” that i wouldn’t ever make it off this ride, i felt doomed to live the rest of my life in some cell in a straight-jacket. So the scars that have begun forming i am so very grateful for. If i have scars that means i made it through it. And whatever doesn’t kill you usually does make you stronger.

Love in the Methadone Line

No words will EVER be able to describe or shine light on how much i love and miss my little girl., how much i want for her and how perfect she needs to know she is. Thats one of the reasons i don’t talk about her much. The second reason is, and I’m ashamed to admit it, but just thinking about her wondering where daddy is cause my brain to instantaneously spiral out of control and whip around to stab me right in the heart. I can’t breathe. I cease to function. Im reduced to a creature curled into a ball, constantly sobbing and making sad sounds that could sometimes sound a bit like mutterings. But the most important thing in the world to me is for her to know how loved and how truly special she is. She is beautiful in every way, capable of doing ANYTHING. The sky isn’t the limit for her. I want her to know the real limit doesn’t exist, if you can see it then its not the limit, merely an obstacle to hop over. So anyways, even though she’s too young to read this, even though her mother will not let us even talk (because I’m on methadone, 7 years strong), i must speak this. My beautiful darling, the most wonderful creature that has ever graced life with their presence, you are the most beautiful, most capable, smartest, and toughest soul iv ever encountered. Daddy is looking for you as i know you are looking for Daddy (i solely had her the first five years of her life, sans mom). I will find you. And when i do it will be the start of my life. And you will know truly how special and beautiful you are. Well, now i got that off my chest so i can try to stop hyperventilating and stand a chance at breathing normally (atleast for a few minutes). The tears are flowing steady, I’m surprised the keyboard isn’t more screwed up from tear infusion. Already a number of keys get stuck, all because of the tears i have poured onto the keyboard while thinking of her, my baby girl. Now here i go again- I promised myself i would try my best at writing something that was interesting to read after i wrote a quick love letter to HER, and I’m not getting very far. All because of the legal system’s and the justice system’s ignorance when it comes to MMT (Methadone Maintenance Treatment). I stand in line every morning, hearing heartbreaker after heartbreaker and i realize that i fit right in. I too now have a tear jerker. But i don’t ramble about it. In fact i don’t speak about it. It hurts me too much. Anytime i have tried by the second or third word i erupt into an emotional mess, with tears flowing so steadily off of me its like I’m standing in a puddle of piss and not salty, sad water. Where do i start? I have tried in the past to allow the healthcare system around here the opportunity to learn about Methadone. No takers, not many care. We are just junkie’s getting high legally (this is the line that the mother of my daughter spoke that got her taken from me). The “justice” system thinks no differently. The hour is long overdue for people to actually know just what MMT is. Im not going to explain it all now, that would require months of planning, pamphlets, and an organized “attack” (on ignorance). What i will say is this- Nobody at the methadone clinic is “getting high” from taking their medicine (methadone). If they are inebriated that simply means they are doing something else also. No methadone clinic lets you get away with that for too long before they boot you out the door. They give you chances, but after so many times of you failing your random, up to 5 times a month drug tests do they show you the door. It truly amazes me the level of ignorance when it comes to Methadone Treatment. Not that you are doing anything wrong if you don’t know about it. What IS wrong is that ignorance being used against people. Iv seen it time and time again, and it will continue. But no matter what i will never stop trying to educate and inform anyone who wants to listen about Methadone Maintenance Treatment (MMT). Please tell me your stories of your friends that you know who go to “the clinic”, please ask me questions. If only i was more than i am, and had the might of 10,000 men with one million dollars. Then maybe my fight against the front of ignorance would be more of a battle and less of a slaughter. to any addict out there, using or in Recovery- I love you. WE can do this together. It only takes a spark to start a blazing inferno.

AM Keyboard Regurgitations

The lead pipe of reasoning swings up and smacks me across the head, sending me into spells of some pretty strong dizziness. I feel like a useless worm. hell, not even a worm, they serve a purpose. Trying to get this move done while battling my mental illness, a physical illness, and all the while coming out of one of the worst and sickest places my mental illness has ever dragged me to. this might not make sense to some people, but just the fact that I’m drinking water means I’m trying. Im fighting against this physical ailment, like some sort of cold that sucking the energy and contents of my stomach out (from my mouth) regularly. The excitement of the move has got my anxiety burning a hole through me. Like i can declare myself a “threat level red” today from anxiety and having an episode the same way the government uses the whole “threat level yellow, orange, red” to advise the US public on the “likeliness” of a terrorist attack. All my warning signs are up, everything flashing a dark orange. I won’t say red because that i shall reserve for when i can’t even get out of bed and walk around because of my mental state. The feeling of letting the ones i care about the most in this life down is overwhelming. Just another “energy zapper”. And yes, just like a bug flying into a bug zapper and then being into nothing, or a carcass with no energy in it at all. Iv let my family down so many times that i still have not come up with a word that can describe just how much iv let them down. And as i type that sentence and realize i feel like that more of my energy goes away, albeit from somewhere very deep where i didn’t know any even existed. This move seems to drag on. The worst part of it is not my mental illness for once, i actually think its my physical illness. Thats whats keeping me from having the energy to finish this move. If i can just shake this cold, nasty stomach bug i have than this move will be no problem. I know that. I think my family knows but that really doesn’t matter, to them its just another day I’m sick and stuck in bed. To me its another day i let a loved one down, and thats the worst pain of all. But what i was starting to get to before is that i know as soon as i shake this “bug” ill be able to handle this move fairly easily. Its not a big move. We don’t have a lot of possessions and i don’t even think the new place is 3 miles from here, probably somewhere around 2. So i tell myself- “I know i have let them down but as soon as i stop throwing up and can eat and keep these fevers at bay i will be going full throttle with this move”. I tell myself that they will be surprised at how easily i turn this task of moving into. Im not lying to myself, i know this is true. I just hope my family does. I think they do. Its just that this damn stomach bug iv been wrestling with is taking it’s time leaving me. My body not in a good position to fight anything off, given that i am still climbing out of the hell i was in a few short weeks ago. That was one of the worst and scariest things i have EVER been through. And I’m no nazi death camp survivor but I’ve had my share of very difficult situations. Ones that i thought surely you couldn’t feel worse than. HA thats almost funny to me now, when i think about where i was mentally a few weeks ago. I completely and honestly could not discern reality from fiction. I mean that exactly how it sounds. So anyways, it stands to reason why its taking me so long to get better from this ridiculous physical ailment (stomach bug, cold) when you factor in the entire last month of my life. But just as I’m able to sit here and write, i have gotten better, and i will continue to get better. Very soon I will be able to get this move done without stopping or flinching. A couple hours from now if i lay down??- thats possible. I wanted to say likely but i would be lying. Its likely in a few hours ill be able to take a load over to the house and get something done. I know i can atleast do that today. But will i be well enough to kick it into overdrive and power through this move today? Most likely not but even if i get something done thats better than nothing. So through all of my morning keyboard regurgitations i have resolved that at the very least i will take a load over to the new house. And for anyone reading this I thank you and i assure you i am not only capable of writing interesting pieces, but that i have written many before. SO please know they are coming. I will stop talking about myself so much.

Embers do more than Glow…

Like a wave crashing into a jetty and then being dispersed into smaller particles of water several emotions slam into me. And like the wave they hit so hard they are broken up into smaller fragments, some even carried away with the wind. Thats not usual, but a much appreciated respite. No matter what though, the anxiety steadily rolls in, never ceasing. It leaves voids in my eyes like tide pools left on a beach, clear for anyone to see that its a regular occurrence, a force of nature. I do have to give myself some credit though, i have been fighting back. Trying to fill the voids in my soul with things i know i love to do. I don’t feel great or amazing doing these activities now, but i know thats just a symptom of depression, the lack of interest in even my most heartfelt of things. In times of not so severe depression and anxiety i absolutely LOVE taking photographs, writing. So everyday no matter how I’m feeling i pick up the camera and shoot some photos. I sit at the computer and hammer away at the keys. I can’t trust my feelings right now but i do know that somewhere inside of me i am feeling joy from these creative outlets. And if i really think enough about it i do feel some joy on the outside, or as far from subconscious and as close to conscious as my current mental state allows. I smile. See- it does feel good. So the seed of hope is planted! I may go a step further and suggest that its not only planted, but it is sprouting, this hope. Its true. No matter how useless i feel i know its true. I guess that how it starts. A feeling here, a smile there. Before i know it ill be off and running, fully enveloped in a creative passion of mine. Thats the only way i know how to live. To be %100 completely absorbed in a something I’m passionate about. Most of my thoughts pertain to this passion. For my entire childhood and up until i became an active drug addict it was BMX and Motorcycles. Then i was enslaved by a chemical, or really by a lack of hope. opioids seemed to be my passion but they weren’t. They completely took over my life and thoughts just like BMX and Motorcycles did in the past but there was one key difference- I wasn’t happy. I was completely miserable, taunting death daily and becoming closer with it than id ever think. Thats not a passion, but to all outside appearances it was. Then i got sober, became a Father. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I am the luckiest man alive. I don’t deserve such a wonderful, amazing, beautiful creation such as my little girl. But anyways, that became my passion. Being a loving father became my passion and boy was i sure good at it. It was no surprise to me though, i already knew myself enough to know anything i truly loved i excelled at. I taught my Daughter Love and Respect for all life right up until the day her mother showed back up (5 years later) and took her. She is now captive. I feel her pain, its constantly searing, like being stuck on a hot grill being cooked but never dying. But that was my passion, being a father. She was my passion. Fast forward to now. Her mother chooses to hide her from me. I almost died. I knew if i didn’t dive head-first into a creative outlet that i was passionate about i stood no chance of living, or even surviving for that matter. I am so grateful i made the decision to buy that camera, that computer. It was a very unpopular decision at the time. Unpopular to almost all but me. But thankfully i was able to listen to myself. I did the right thing. Nowadays my passion for photography and writing is a major factor in my ongoing recovery. Without it i would most likely not occupy this body any longer. I am so grateful i have these creative outlets. They are my armor against everything wrong in the world, they are my armor against my own mental illness. As each month goes by my mental health gets worse and worse, scarier and scarier. But my coping mechanisms get stronger so I’m able to (somewhat) deal. Im just coming off of a decline in my mental health that ended in a complete breakdown. Now, after the fact, i can look back and realizing i was going downhill for months and months. The biggest indicator??- I stopped doing what i loved. I didn’t touch my camera or computer for months. I might have briefly but not in the way i needed to. You live and you learn, now i know just how vital it is for me to have these passions, these creative outlets. Without them i fear i would be locked away somewhere or completely bedridden because of anxiety. Im not far from it now, which scares me when i think it on a daily basis. But atleast now i know that no matter what- keep shooting photos and keep writing. Even if its all shit and not a soul besides myself reads it or see’s it, i must continue to keep my passions alive and burning bright.

Wrangling The Beast

Im gonna start this off by saying how very grateful i am to have found this community of like minded individuals and artists, people struggling with the same things that I’m struggling with. It gives me more hope than anything has in some time. But yesterday evening while perusing the blog and reading everyone’s blog who liked or commented on mine i stumbled across a sentence that basically scared me. I don’t even remember now exactly what it said but the gist of it went something like- “Write blog posts, but make sure they are interesting and engaging, don’t write just to write”. Now i realize that what i write on here is posted on the great big digital web for any and all to see. So obviously quality is on my mind when i write. But sometimes as I’m writing i feel like i have so much to say that i can’t get the words out fast enough, and i write solely to purge myself off these emotions and thoughts. When i do this the quality of my writing has to suffer, i mean i know it does. So it makes me think- should i be more concerned with purging, helping myself, and connecting with others? Or should i have stricter “quality control” of the writing i put forth? Yes i know it is “therapeutic” to just go ahead and get those feelings out, to vent some steam that would otherwise wreak havoc in my life if not typed out onto this page. But in doing so I’m probably not going to win any popularity awards. The most i can hope for when doing so is that someone else will feel exactly what i feel and we can give each other hope, or atleast they can draw some kind of hope from my ramblings. And as an added bonus maybe i feel less anxious or depressed because i so called “let it all out”. I started this blog for self- preservation. I love writing, so when i write something i feel good. Thats self- preservation, or atleast a healthy outlet. Call it what you want, simply seeing my thoughts appear as words on a screen that others could possibly read, THAT makes me feel good. Im not sure but I’m assuming (and that could be dangerous) that the longer i have this blog the better i will become at writing and the more i will learn how to engage an audience. Why do i want to “engage an audience”? Because i love helping people. If one person reads something i wrote and it helps them out then i feel amazing, very grateful. I know when i read other’s blogs sometimes ill read something that really hits home, that really helps me. I want to have that effect on people. What more could you ask for then helping another human being in need? Thats one of the greatest feelings of all. Now heres where it gets tricky…At some point i will have to learn to write better and be able to engage my audience, keep them interested for more, and help them. What I’m hoping is that by writing everyday (which i love doing), my writing will gradually get better, reach more people, and help more people. Thats the plan, or atleast what i hope for each day. But where do you draw the line? And do you draw a line at all? Or sure i just keep hammering these keys like i have been doing and see what occurs over time? We all know what they say about hindsight- right after i wrote that i realized that i basically answered my own question. lol, some days even common sense is elusive to me, it going from “common” to a “rare beast i have to find and wrangle”.

2 Doctors & a Garbage Truck

I can feel my energy slowly but steadily drifting off of me, the same way steam drifts up and out of vented manhole covers during the winter in New York City. Im trying. Caffeine and nicotine, no matter the amount just isn’t doing the trick. I physically feel like all I’m capable of at the moment is to drop down on my bed (futon) and curl into the fetal position as i hopefully and likely drift to sleep. Now I’m no Scientist or Doctor(like BOTH of my Sisters!!), but i do have a bit of an inkling as to why I feel this way currently. I woke up last night and had to sprint into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet as i threw up some kind of dark, gooey, liquid. The nausea i had been feeling since before i laid my head down, but not so strong as to where i thought i would puke, just strong enough to be extremely uncomfortable. It must have not been that bad, being that i did drift into a slumber. Now as for nausea, obviously it was a lot worse after i threw up a time. But luckily and to my delight after upheaving the weird contents of my stomach four times the nausea subsided to about where it was at before i went to sleep. That being said, could completely explain the way i feel right now. But who wants to read about some washed up recovering junkie and the contents of their stomach?? Not me and not you i highly suspect. I did manage to muster up the strength to drop a load of boxes off at our new place, which frankly isn’t much being that our car isn’t much bigger than a pinto. I also had the mind to bring my camera along for the short trip which is always a good idea. I don’t like leaving the house without it. Mostly because i don’t want to miss a good photo op while out and about. Its just icing on the cake that if my camera is with me that means it can’t be stolen. But you know most of the time i bring my camera with me i hardly use it. Seems to almost comfort me more than it does anything else. Silly i know but hey, i didn’t write the rule book. I do occasionally catch some decent shots. I have been trying to learn how to use my camera better lately, reading articles about it online and really pushing it to it’s limits. This Beautiful camera is a mirrorless interchangeable lens camera, having converted from a dslr. I came to a point where i was really missing my dslr (Nikon) which is what prompted me to seek advice and facts online. What i didn’t expect to find out are all kinds of really cool and high-tech (to me) features my Olympus has. This little camera is nothing short of amazing. I have had it for many months, it being an amazing gift from an amazing sister. But just the last few days i feel like i have FINALLY started getting used to the camera. I could operate my old Nikon with my eyes closed where as one look at all the FN Buttons on the Olympus made my head spin. I struggled to take decent shots for awhile. Finally comfortably is settling in and I’m managing to atleast almost fire off some good clicks. I feel like a walking garbage truck and I’m sort of clinging to my camera (and computer), being that they both provide something to be excited about and something to look forward to. Hope IS looking forward to something. So its safe to say my camera (and computer) are providing me with very much needed hope in this shit fest time in my life. Sure, the glass is always half full- Im sober, Im writing, Im Photographing, and I’m generally moving forward. Even now compared to a month ago my mental illness is MUCH more under control than it was. So if done then please stop reading. But sometimes no matter what i just have this overwhelming feeling of being completely void of energy, any kind at all. And all i can do is limp to my bedroom with my head down, fall onto my futon, and get some sleep. Sometimes after an hour or so of a nap ill feel a little bit better. I know i would feel better if i ate. Only problem is that i haven’t got an appetite and even if i did i do not possess the energy to make something to eat. Damn I’m tired of feeling like this day in and out and damn it I’m tired of bitching and moaning to this computer. If you did keep reading- Im sorry and Thank You. Ha- just thinking that someone will read this and understand what I’m going through gives me hope. So yea, the fucking glass is half full damnit, just wish it was full of energy so i didn’t feel like a broken down garbage truck. But hey you gotta take em where you can get em so regardless, here i am.

My Hope is (a) Mine

So much to do, so little energy. So much progress yet still so much yelling and confusion. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, it’s like a knot. So many bad habits that have been obliterated, but with them also a part of myself gone. Like a war. I’m completely covered in scars, I’m a minefield of destruction. How many mines are still left, buried under the skin, or dug in behind a feeling? Hopefully not many but i doubt that. Why? Im not %100 sure. A (educated) guess produces an answer that seems to make sense. Iv been through so many minefields, been blown to pieces so many times that i don’t even know what it feels like to walk through a mine-free field. Sure sometimes it seems i am walking through a beautiful field with little hidings underneath of it but theres always that doubt, it swings up like a trebuchet and knocks me in the head. Im ok with the threat of new, unknown mines. I accept it as part of life. But at this point i feel like i shouldn’t be worrying about stepping on old mines, especially because i know exactly where each one lies. When you step on a mine and get blown to bits, left in the dust and haze to try and collect pieces of yourself to the outsider it looks as it sounds. But only i (and loved ones) can tell if i’ve hit that mine 100 times before and keep doing it or if its something completely new. Its horrible to realize what loved ones think of you when you find out, truly. With that knowledge i am pushed deeper underground, less of a person than i was before. If i wrote down on paper all the things iv been through and all the bad habits i have moved away from and changed in the last 2 years it would be a long list. But to the person trying to watch on the sidelines they could easily think i was just pretending to write, just going through the motions as they try their best to peer through the haze and see truth. Can i blame them? No. I deserve the speculation, the emotional beatdown, the unbelievably painful words. Because of my past i accept that i people and loved ones will look at me with disdain, probably for the rest of my life. This isn’t something i just woke up one day and realized, it took me many years of trudging through deep, dark waters to get to my current position. Hope is fleeting, and I’m desperately grasping onto it. But no matter how hard i have a hold of it i still lose some overtime this happens. No matter what i do i will always be doing something wrong, it just depends who is looking at the moment. Waking up overnight hearing voices screaming at me at the top of three lungs, my heart beating out of my chest. To one person it’s because of my shitty diet, to another (like my psychiatrist) its my mental illness. To that one person i just need to try harder, them not knowing I’m at the end of the line facing a great, unscaleable wall. To my Doctor it’s my mental illness and maybe a new medication (usually not), usually just a talk and an assurance that it’s simply my mental illness and it will subside. Thats two people viewing me and drawing different conclusions. Each one wouldn’t believe the other, and would have an absolute reason why. The addict in me tells me to just say fuck it and give up. Luckily iv dealt with that bastard for so long i can pretty easily tell it to fuck off and it actually does disappear. When does the pain stop? I find myself asking that question to myself a lot lately. But I’m not talking strictly about my pain. What I’m truly talking about is the pain I’m causing loved ones. No matter how many times i hurt them each time i do hurts worse than the last time. I want it to end, THEY want it to end. Im not sure it ever will. I can believe that it get’s to a controllable level, one which doesn’t hurt external connections nearly as much as it does now. But no matter what it will always hurt me. Anytime and overtime i see that pain in a loved one’s eye that i know iv cause its like being completely crushed. I am totally leveled to the floor, forced to rebuild up with the fractured feelings and hopeful learnings i had acquired before the great squish. When i think of it in my head i picture a giant, like godzilla sized humanoid barefoot stepping squarely on me. Me being reduced into a disgusting, paper thin mess of blood, tears, and emotional and physchological mush. Paper thin like you see road rash in cartoons, even sometimes in day to day life. I try and i try but I’m not getting better fast enough for loved ones. They think I’m not trying or worse- that i could be using them? To think that a loved one would even pertain the thought that i would “use” them makes me ill in every way possible, even physically. Im holding back the throw-up as we speak. My already depleted energy levels went from a beginning to completely gone in one sentence from a loved one. Even writing this I’m worried, i don’t want a loved one to feel bad, or guilty. I want them to know how grateful I am to have them,. That i can’t begin to explain how much i hate myself for causing them any pain, ever…., especially continued pain. To know that I’m causing more pain from my recent sayings or doings is a stake through the heart. Feels like a death blow. I don’t think it is, and trust me, i wish i could say i “know” it’s not a deathblow. But as reality slaps me my head is turned to see that it actually could be the final blow, the last one, the one that ends it all. I realize that i am never more than one step away from that deathblow, or stepping on the mine that takes my life. But knowing (or mildly hoping to sort of know) the way of the universe- if I’m step way from complete obliteration (death) I’m also one step away from freedom (life). Isn’t that how it works? And if so are the rules the same for a recovering addict struggling with mental illness? Id sure like to think so but i have been wrong before, and more times than i could even write about in 1000 pages, much more. So here is what it comes down to – Hope or No Hope? We all know what i wish for but we also all know that dreams don’t always come true.

The Clouds of a Dull Mind (Today)

l admit, I have been slacking a bit lately. I haven’t posted any good writing (well good for elementary school standards) in a few days. Iv been having trouble coming up with something to write about. I don’t know if it’s because iv been physically ill, very busy, or thats just the way it goes with mental illness. But one thing I’m worried about is my last post. Im worried that it is misleading. I DO NOT believe in Creationism and the King James Bible and Christianity for that matter. Im not bashing people who do, whatever float’s your boat ya know? But i do not want anyone reading any of my writing thinking that i think christianity is a good thing. I think its a horrible thing. Iv always felt this way, all my life. So much bloodshed, prejudice, and just completely corrupt things are a result of christianity. I do believe it is absolutely detrimental to the progress of humanity to practice christianity, but especially fundamental christianity. I can’t think of anything that causes more death, fighting, and general bloodshed than christianity, and most religions. But again please hear me out- If thats what you believe in i am not saying you are a bad person. Im just saying maybe have an open mind, its possible you will reach places you never knew existed. Politics and Religion- the two things i know i should never, ever write about or even mention on this blog because of the potential rift it could cause and because i don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, i want people to read what i write and be uplifted, open their minds a bit more, or atleast have a small laugh. Writing about religion or christianity provokes more negative than positive. So really all I’m trying to say to anyone reading my blog is this- I don’t care what you believe in, as long as you are not hurting anyone then if if makes you feel good then keep on rocking! And not only that, but i respect you, your beliefs, and am grateful to live in a world where it is possible to have your own beliefs (unless your in mississippi). Bad joke i know but sickly close to the truth- Planned parenthood………? Anyways I’m about two seconds away from deleting all of this and completely scrapping this writing. That would mean another day without a post. That doesn’t make me feel good, or anyone else for that matter. And in the end is that not why we do what we do? If my writing can inspire, provoke, give hope or motivation to any single person, than i am so very grateful. I couldn’t ask for or want more for my writing. Just the simple act of my writing about myself and what this mental illness is that I’m struggling (deeply) with makes me feel a tad better each day. I guess it’s my vent, where i blow off steam. There are countless others who struggle just as i do but haven’t found writing as an antidote or escape yet. When i stumbled onto this blog and started reading posts from people struggling with the same things i was struggling with it gave me hope! Especially when i saw that there is an entire community of people who struggle just like i do, Some for the better, some worse. That REALLY got me going. That was the day i signed up to the site and made my first post.


Hey Creatonists; If the Earth is only a few thousand years old and Human Beings lived during the same time as Dinosaurs i have one question- Why is it that we can excavate all these dinosaur bones and never once has anyone found a saddle? Surely we would have used the smaller dinosaurs as vehicles, just like we did and still do with horses.

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