Operation Lockdown

It’s been a long time, I shouldn’t have left you without a strong story to step to. My dear readers as typical the writings been far and few between. To make this up I am devoting myself back to you. I have put myself in super lock down. In order to battle the bottle I have gone all out- the Navy Seals have been called into to finally kill that terrorist of my life alcohol. No longer will I rant on Facebook, and wake up to the horror of the modern day drunk call showing up in people’s messages. No longer will I wake up from a blackout and do a scavenger hurt to find the damage my kamikaze landing inflicted on the world. So this is day two of operation lockdown- shout out to Heltah Skeltah.

Heltah skeletah – Operation Lockdown

Operation Lockdown is a 30 day boot camp to get my mind, body, and spirit back in order. It’s also a lockdown on any ability to get alcohol. I have heeded the words of Public Enemy and realized right now I can’t trust myself. So I have decided in next thirty days I will not leave my house unless I am with someone else that will keep me accountable. Yes strange times call for desperate measures and when better to do this than during a quarantine. Each morning from 9-12 I have Intense Outpatient group meetings. Then I set aside time for reading, writing, exercise, mental hygiene, and self-care. As I develop a more coherent daily routine I will post about it.

But for now since I am so benevolent, and don’t want to write anymore about myself anymore here is a story about elves- yes elves. I will be the first to admit I know nothing about elves. The beautiful soul who asked me to write this patiently pointed that out to me after she read it. But she enjoyed the story, and maybe you will too.

The mountains were once my curse. Sent there by a cruel father for my refusal to marry an elder’s daughter. I was disowned for wanting to pursue love. I was banished to the remote area reserved for lost and troubled souls. The elves nobody wanted. Constantly hunted by those who hate us for ducking the norm. The treaty for the elder elve’s is the current way of life- the most beautiful females left in the land are paid off to the highest bidder- whether it’s elf, beast, or giant.

Unfortunately for me I fell for the most intelligent, beautiful, and defiant elf – a girl who escaped from a cowardly father seeking true love. She was betrothed to a brutal slob- a beast with no honor or secrecy. A brute who used violence as currency, and cared nothing for her gentle soul beyond his own filthy lust.

She escaped to this foreign land an innocent lamb in a world of slaughter. At first she paid me no mind. I thought I was just a thief for her beauty, and too ugly for her to care about me. She embraced those that were deceitful for those were the men who roamed these desolate lands. She did not know any better. I was determined to liberate her freedom- her beauty was more than a sunrise- it was the radiance itself melted with the heart of the innocence, and combined with joy of lost fire works in an abundant sky.

She was the ideal elf and I knew I needed to protect her from all. I fought off all the sadistic suitors of any kind- won her over finally from my oath of honesty, faith, and devotion. I knew this beauty would never be safe from those that prayed on her purity so I left with dust tinged with red blood at our feet, and fled through the night.

I took her to the highest mountains with nothing more than a notebook in sight. I knew my words would become her delight. Under the underfed stars our romance delighted- nurtured by those same star’s kamikaze lights. I held on to her as the world collapsed. My passion for her was like the stars battling sunlight each morning-never ending and inevitable to happen each day. The sun their mortal enemy for shooing then away. Yet both entities are beautiful and bright in their own way- yet always fighting a silent cold war for which one will be the beacon in the sky that wayward lovers look for when they are seeking out their path to their lover’s heart. The air turns black, sleeping breaths sync, as the wind plays a lullaby, and the world around us closes for the night.

Raw Camera

I haven’t wrote to you my silent audience in seven months. That’s not an apology- just an observation. Not much happened in those months-I felt I was trapped in the Mr. Robot plot line when Leon is watching 90’s sitcoms- so yeah I watched a lot of tv and maybe I can start dissecting down shows for you in the future. You would like that right? But alas me first must go through the drudgery of what got me posting again. First, a month or two before my last post, a brand new med provider, who only knew me from reading a chart from her overloaded casework sat down with me for less than 15 minutes had lowered a dose of meds I was on when I was feeling better than ever because she felt my doses were too high-and well that wasn’t her style. Even though the med combo she changed was giving to me by an award winning psychiatrist when I was in the BCU( inpatient- psyche ward for those that aren’t into the lingo). And before that med drop I had done so much trauma work to find peace with the murders themselves I was feeling better than I had in a decade. The change down in meds led to the depression to return. But it was to me the worst type of depression: the one where you don’t go through a crazy suicidal spiral you can you use to fuse writing, but instead where you just lose interest in all your loves- most crucially my love of writing. Eventually I started living in a purgatory where each day at school working and teaching the kids became a sanctuary where I felt joy- and after the last bell of the day I felt just like Halloween decorations in an attic just existing to be used on a day celebrating terror, masks, and fear. This purgatory led to the anesthetic of vodka to fill the void. Never understanding why I couldn’t figure out my depression, why I was so full of hatred in my gut, and why was I not fighting back anymore. Than around Christmas I had a manic episode where I was living in a delusion where money didn’t matter, and the only solace I found was in cam models online. I wasn’t in it so much for the general idea of their existence- not say that wasn’t an enticement and perk- but it was more to have conversations beyond the character they have to play. At first I mostly talked to a newcomer from Russia who in one of her model pics was reading an Emily Bronte novel. She absolutely hated doing this because she was too sensitive and naively thought she could find human connection with such a job since was young and enjoyed sex. Instead she was mostly treated as someone who literally didn’t exist- just a pornhub video come to life where the person on the end of the other screen becomes the director using her simply as an object for his sexual hang-ups. She soon left- I didn’t blame her. After failing to find a girl that intrigued or interested meet I met a Columbian girl dealing with a dad with cancer, and a schizophrenic brother. She was honest, and soon we became snapchat friends. She was brutally frank with me as she said that I had a very handsome face, but she was worried because I was out of shape and drinking too much, and needed to go to the gym because of my health, and I wasn’t getting any younger. All of this was true- I had gained about 25 pounds since that last post and became the fat John Wick Version of Fat Thor, and I hadn’t hit the gym in months. And just for the record neither model ever hit me up for me to send them money. Anyway after the manic episode ended- or at least when I finally realized it was over- the suicidal thoughts crept back after a year of never having that question flow in my head. I tried to pretend I was fine, and didn’t need help, but the thoughts and impulses became worst so I went to the ER and checked back into inpatient at the BHU(Behavior Health Unit) about a year from my last visit. I was still delusional thinking I just needed a quick detox and med tweak. But for ten of the 15 days I was inpatient my head was pollen flowing through an aimless wind. I heard voices, hallucinations that begged me to believe they were honest, and a mind always on the verge about to collide with a mountain because of the fog. I couldn’t concentrate to read or write, so instead I just spent days walking miles around the unit, doing yoga stretches, and trying not to bang my head on a window to end the pain- or use the pain to stay in the fog long enough to finally succeeding in hitting the mountain to find the peace I was searching for. I only told my work, and my parents I was checking in. I didn’t bring anyone’s phone numbers, nor want anyone to call to talk to me, because I knew in the back of my mind I needed to experience this journey without distraction. Day 11 was the fucking worst. I sat, and walked with my big belly of emotions. I just let them come through me, feeling everyone, not judging, nor interrupting anyone that passed, and just being ohhh so fucking uncomfortable every second of that day. Usually in the past I would try to distract myself from that uncomfortableness; I would talk to a pretty girl, take an anxiety pill, or try to help someone out with their problems. But instead I just walked and let these feelings lash me on my bare back. Tuesday came with comfort and relief. I found a note in a random journal I hadn’t used in a year and that note cut me in half with how they viewed my words with such sincerity, and how I used those words to destroy her delicate and brittle soul in the end out of my fear of losing someone I truly could care about- but that part will be for another day- maybe another story- but it finally made me examine with honest eyes why that hatred was still in me. I had one piece of the puzzle missing left to truly explore. When I no longer could pin-point my hatred, and found healing from my eldest brother murdering my sister Tricia, my four year old niece Gillian, or my two year old nephew James- I raked my brain to find why was I still so full of hate? So I took a sword with a rusted spikes on the end to my belly to see what would spill out on the pages. What I found wasn’t pretty metaphors or gruesome destructions it was more simple. I hated myself and never wanted to feel the loss like I had before so I became a time bomb of self-destruction when anything starting going good. Not wanting truly wanting to get close to anybody, and tricking my brain against all reason that I wasn’t and could not be loved had become ingrained truths in me. I had suppressed so much emotion after the tragedy I had rewired my brain to never want to give anyone the chance to cause me the feelings as losing them had. That simple truth- plus a new med, and med tweak has put me back on track. I know what I have to work on in therapy now- especially in EMDR. I know I have to be more social not isolated, and structured throughout my day. And know I need to return to the gym, and back to my healthy eating style. And I know I have to be faithfully honest to myself, and you my fearless readers. So get ready for some rawness, some beauty touched with some joyous agony, and probably some weird shit too.

I think I’m John Wick

I haven’t wrote here in awhile- at first it was because things were going so well. The chaos was behind me so the words stopped flowing. My brain though- through years of repetition, repeating past cycles, and being able to grasp in its clutches the one thing that still caused me pain- however was sly. It’s like I jumped in the front seat of a Cadillac while never noticing the killer in the back, with a halo in his hands meant to choke out my existence. The thing was unlike before I wasn’t in deep despair- nor any longing for the embrace of a breathless existence. Things just became too normal- everything was going too well. It just made me too uncomfortable to be comfortable and free from calamity’s oasis. So embraced my old mistress and took a sip of the pleasure of my pain. Ruining the friendship of the person whose past pain was similar to mine, and could relate in a level so much deeper than most. Instead I found umbrage in embarrassing fb messages, and the matrix of dating sites. Not wanting a connection till my brain was on autopilot, and my past code took over control. My future was so bright that each night I blacked out the night- inching ever so closer to those future days I was actively trying to destroy. A catch 22 of the madness of despair. I named this blog Broken Resolutions because it was an ode to the past. And while today I start a new journey- I learned a new lesson. You can’t fix anything in the morning if you are actively destroying it each night. Comfort equals despair when your actively trying to change. The only thing I was mindful in those almost two months was my dishonesty to myself, knowing all the right lies to trick myself. So here again I am freeing my secrets- sending them out so they can’t hide in me no more. Feeling the night so I can enjoy the brightness of the day. Still wondering in confusion, but tonite I am sober. And tomorrow will follow. And from there just like doing lunges at the gym I am just going to enjoy the suck- knowing the only way to be freed from past sins is falling into the arms of the the destruction of that oasis of my past love, chaos. And if all else fails l’ll just pretend I am John Wick, and booze was my dog’s killer. Taking revenge on that bastard by never taking that first sip.

Invisible Agony

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.” David Foster Wallace

This will be the last post for a bit- I am checking into an inpatient facility today. The suicidal thoughts, and the drinking have become too much to handle. I was thinking about jumping out the window of my second floor house last night but wrestling has taught me that won’t work. I would either land on a car, or a wooden fence that would break my fall and just leave me with an insane bump that would break my ribs among other body parts. I also thought about taking all my meds with alcohol but knowing my tolerance I would survive that too and end up full of charcoal. My brain tells me to do this but I can’t. I don’t want to put my family and friends through another loss. So I drink to numb these thoughts with alcohol- a slow suicide in itself. I have so many people that care about me yet I don’t reach out unless I am in a blackout and god knows what I say then. For anyone out there feeling like I do fucking have hope. Do whatever you can to get help. I am not preaching, but I just don’t want anyone to go through every day feeling like I do. I survived one attempt before- I don’t think I can survive another. Honesty will cure you. If you don’t think anyone cares I do. I started this blog to be honest with the world, and the honest truth as much as I want to end my life I really don’t. Hey if this saves just one person and allows them to get help I will have succeed. I showed my dad this blog yesterday- it hurt his heart. He can’t understand my suicide desires and it hurts his stomach to think about. It’s weird how a naked piece of paper can be the canvas to expose are sins, flaws, and fears to the world. How when the ink hits the page, and the innocence of the lines those words fit in are corrupted, that from this exposing to light of the world they lose the power they once held over us. We all can sin, but not all of us can be honest. I am hardheaded and pain is my best motivator, and after hitting so much of it I got to admit this faith thing works a lot better. Better to be free of my sins and suffering than living a lie and flourishing. I hope one day from my trust in god I will be able to find that balance. Until then I drudge onwards to spiritual enlightenment with an honest heart as my compass. With an honest heart as my only beacon of hope to ever arrive there. And With an honest heart as the only way to fight off those demons of self-destruction for another day.