Tag: Recovery

Soccer Dreams and Birthdays Wishes Too

Patrick Bernard1 Comment

On a cool crisp Sunday I sit next to my sister, niece, and nephew’s gravestone as the leaves paint a backdrop trinity of yellow, orange, and green as my dreams hover like lost leaves clutching to a branch now too cold to let it stay.

It’s my sister’s birthday today, and on her birthday I am trying to figure out a way to merge soccer and music to honor her, and to benefit the refugee and at-risk students I coach and work with. I knew being closer to her and the kids would allow me to figure out the best way to forge ahead.

This year Tricia would have turned 48. In the past birthdays, and anniversary’s were always brutal for me. In those days, when depression clung to my neck like two chains of sorrow and sadness, I always dreaded fall coming. In the past it was just the culmination of all my fears, repressed emotions, and the boiling cauldron of hate I kept bubbling in a dungeon locked in my belly over their murders. I ran from fall for over fifteen years, and then fate intervened this year and I became a soccer coach and everything changed.

Now mind you when I first signed up to coach I had no clue what I was doing, getting into, or that it would spark this idea to help these kids. I became a coach because the middle school I work at was in desperate need for coaches so I jumped in. My experience with soccer ended in 6th grade, and It wasn’t a sport I watched or even was any good at playing. I had no connection to it so going into my first practice of tryouts I figured I’d just get my Ted Lasso on, and let the power of positivity propel me. For the record I have never watched that show- and my coaching style definitely runs the gamut of emotions from Bobby Knight to Nick Sabin to Pete Carroll.

As my loyal readers know I learn best from jumping right in- usually failing at first- and then finally excelling. I mean I failed at making Mac n cheese once when I was babysitting for Tricia and making food for my tattletale niece Gillian. She wanted microwaveable macaroni and cheese- which to most people is very easy to whip-up. Yet I was a jabroni and forget to put water in the bowl for the macaroni. Yes, at nineteen years old I screwed up making microwavable mac and cheese, which I think is nearly impossible, and yet I managed to ace that test. So I ended up burning the noodles and making the house smell awful like cabbage water that has been left on the dashboard of a car in the middle of July for weeks. As soon as my sister came home Gillian sauntered right up to her and sold me out, “Uncle Patrick made the house smell.”

When I was real young I was really close to Tricia, but as I got into my teens we would always fight. I knew how to terrorize and push her buttons. I perfected the annoying little brother role so well that one afternoon while watching MTV’s The Grind she got so enraged at me she broke the TV remote controller by chucking it at my head. Luckily, I ducked. But after she had Gillian all that changed and I become the go to baby-sitter, and was no longer the ten year old terror looking to torment my nineteen year old sister. Yet she did get her revenge because this team to most was a terror- on the field and off.

This is how my season started via posts on Facebook:

9/18: I am not saying I am the greatest soccer coach in the world- but my team is undefeated after our first game. After a dominant 2-0 pre-season- including a thrilling 2-1 win over a very physical and aggressive girls B team- we are now poised for a championship run.

9/25: Still undefeated as a coach after 10-0 and 8-1 victories on the pitch. I am not saying I am John Wooden yet…but there are some people saying loudly on the internet I might be the greatest Middle School B Team 2 coach in recent history. I mean I am humble as they come- but the internet doesn’t lie.

Our first game was on the road versus Wyndham Summit. On the bus the kids were blaring and losing their minds to Cocomelon- a YouTube kid’s show where this cartoon Cailui looking like family just redoes nursery rhymes and popular kids songs. When I was in sixth grade I was getting into trouble because my friends put on a mixtape I made during gym class and the lady gym teacher was not as impressed as I was that the Wu Tang Clan was nothing to fuck with. However the power of cartoon positivity did the trick to fire up the squad and we won 7-5.

Tricia also had horrible taste in music. Like, brutally bad. In her car she would play really cheesy Euro techno. The stuff you hear in 90’s aerobic classes-which was fitting since she was a personal trainer and was always in ridiculously good shape. Things that were not in as good shape though were my ears as this dreck pulsated them- however James and Gillian loved it- vibrating and bouncing up and down in their car seats with huge grins plastered on their faces. My sister also loved Barry Manillowe, and even went to see him in concert. Before she passed she was going back to school to get a nursing degree. She had always wanted to be either a nurse, or a school teacher. She really would been great at either since she was such an amazing mom, and person.

Speaking of amazing my team had the leading goal scorer in the league- a charming sixth grader from the Congo with immense talent that should had been on the A team had he tried out. In our first game he scored five of our 7 goals, whiles assisting on the other two. Luckily I worked with him during camp this summer and found out he was a ringer and snatched him up fast. You will learn in coaching that a talented player can make your life a lot easier by covering up any defects your team or you as a coach may have. And believe me I had and still have plenty of defects when it comes to coaching- but I think my ability to connect with players, and my Bill Belichick like love of history and strategy has me ever improving.

Things we also led the league in was getting yelled at by the referees for swearing, players being sent to PPR(where you get sent when you get kicked out of class),being in ISS( internal suspension), and coaches with red cards. Think a sober middle school version of the 1986 NY Mets meets Bad News Bears. I relate well to the kids that get into trouble a lot, and I made that abundantly clear a couple days after the dreaded anniversary of their deaths when I received a red card versus our top rival Shaker in a showdown for first place.

The first time we played Quaker we lost 7-3- it was our first loss and first time we had trailed in any game. My team fell apart as soon as we went down- arguing with the refs and themselves. We stopped hustling to plays and played abysmal team soccer. We had faced adversity and failed our first test, and I was determined that would be the last time this happened.

The rematch for first place was set for October 4th- but this year my brain was not locked into a cycle of despair over that previous horrible day- but rather in a YouTube k-hole of soccer formations and false 9 videos trying to figure out the best line-up and game plan to defeat Quaker.

The God’s of rain pushed the game back to Wednesday, and the rematch was an epic back and forth match. We scored early in the first half- but immediately gave up a goal right back to them as they tied it up one to one. Quaker was able to sneak another goal in late and we ended up losing 2-1.

Reflection made me realize that I was definitely more emotional and hyped up then usual for this game- first I really wanted my players to realize they were the better team and could beat them if they just played together. Also I think it was definitely a release for me embracing my new normal. One of the strangest feelings I think for those that dealt with anything that took away their spark for life, and had them living by a nightlight is how to live life with out the comforter of depression. For those blessed with never dealing with depression, or any debilitating mental health ailment, tragedy, or setback that destroyed your whole world view- this might seem like a very foreign concept. But when happiness has alluded you, either by circumstance, bad brain chemistry, or a combination of both, living a life without it can be terrifying to embrace. So when your biggest pressing worry is a B league middle school soccer game life is going pretty good.

But if you listened to a supposedly “concerned” Quaker parent my red card exit occurred after I had cursed out my players, then the refs- then like I was cosplaying 2Pac exited the field with both middle fingers in the air. I wish I was making this up- but they sent this to my athletic director and principal. Obviously they knew this Quaker mom was full of malarkey-but my AD, who is a really talented and successful coach, needed to bring it to my attention because of perception. Just getting a red card gives me a target on my back. It doesn’t help I am extremely loud, and animated on the sidelines- I pace a couple miles each game- but I never would yell or curse out a kid. I do loudly praise them for their hard work on the field- but I am also not changing my whole style cause some rich asshole doesn’t like me or my team- but I will definitely keep myself more in check from now on because I understand- regardless of reality- I need to be even more careful about my actions because people like that will prey upon it. Also I need to not be so damn stupid next time a situation like this occurs. I got thrown out arguing subbing rules during throw ins. I finally lost it when the ref let their team sub on our thrown in- and then the next play they had a throw in, and I had a sub waiting and I asked, “So can I illegally sub now,” and he goes no- and my last words were, “So I guess we are the only team that has to play by the rules now.”

But the perception of me, and my team that Quaker parent had on me motivated me to realize how I could honor my loved ones by giving kids a chance to play indoor soccer come November and the winter months. A lot of the kids I work with deal with negative perceptions that are not their fault. Having options like this to learn and grow at a sport- while also bonding with and forming life long friendships with teammates is huge in a child’s development, and the perceptions others may have of them. Indoor soccer costs can be exorbitant- so that’s why I am trying to keep costs low for the families- and free for those that can’t afford it.

And that’s where you my loyal readers come in. Do you want to stick it to a bunch of rich private school snobs? Do you want to help refugee and at risk kids? Do you want to be able to find out if we won the championship in the B league, and have exclusive reports on how we are doing during the indoor season? Well I got a deal for you so you can donate to help the cause, and for every dollar donated I will put up more takes from the soccer pitch, new dj mixes, post some betting tips, offer leaf raking services from the kids, and hell if you need a tutor I can do that for your student in need- any hustle needed will be offered to help these players out. The idea is hopefully we can raise enough money to ensure price is not a barrier for any player, and also help make sure their jerseys and equipment costs are covered. Ideally we are looking to raise $2,000, and to use this soccer adventure as a real life example of what a non profit dedicated to my sister would be able to achieve. You can donate at the link below, and believe me any donation I get I am beyond grateful for.

Link to donate to the cause

Gratitude Coming

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I think one of the biggest torments of severe depression- or any bout with any debilitating mental health issue- is the absolute solitude nature of its torture. The anger, sadness, and frustration intensifies inside you without anywhere to go becoming a venomous arrow paralyzing you to the world outside of your own thoughts. You become a volcano whose eruption only blows up itself- it’s lava pouring back inside the earth leaving the ground trembling with flaming fears. Such intense self-reflection leads to at times periods where our lenses to life are skewed to reality. Self-absorption becomes our sin because connection to others seems so far away- a distant land too many miles to seek out alone. When you are in the midst of a depressive bout the ability to actively connect with others is a foreign language. Spoken words are never understood anyway when you yourself have lost your voice. So you turn even more inwards losing your connection to the outside world.

For me that loss can plummet to even greater depths where death seems like the best option available. When life is strangling you slowly then suicide seems the comforting solution over that ever present drudgery; that is a life that seems to be rather a slow death suffocating all glimpses of hope, love, and life out of it-dooming you to a life lived cursed as a hollow tomb- a Monet to the outside world- but strictly walking dead inside. It’s not that suicide is ever truly appealing- it’s thought of peace it brings that becomes so alluring.

Thinking back to the past seems more like a vivid nightmare than real life-years either seem closer to the past, or, further from the future then they actually are. A kaleidoscope calendar fills out the remnants of my memories of these fractured times.

Back in those dark days gratitude lists got me by. I learned that when your brain is fighting itself you have to become like the dirtiest player in the game, Ric Flair, and use any tactic at hand to win. The brain can’t think of two things at once- so no matter how bad your depression, sadness, anger, fear, or any of the smorgasbord of emotions that are occurring at the time are- you can always mindfully take a moment to barrage it with some goodwill. Because at the times when you are feeling that low it’s those bright moments you can always cling to as you struggle to climb forward. So use gratitude like Omar used his shotgun and leave your brain shook shouting, “Gratitude Coming” across all hemispheres.

Using gratitude is one of the simplest tools you have at your disposal in battling these ailments. Whether it’s starting each day by listing five things on paper, keeping a gratitude journal, or just focusing on a tiny comfort in life like fresh socks and underwear will guarantee your first thoughts each waking morning will be full of positivity, hope, and thankfulness. With practice those peaceful moments can expand to peaceful mornings, afternoons, and beyond. Remember the practice of gratitude is just like lifting weights- the more you work at it the stronger you become. And with that strength comes a better connection to oneself and the world around it. Gratitude started me on my journey to wellness, and you best believe it is indeed part of my “code to living” till this day.

Just A Year

Patrick Bernard1 Comment

It’s just over 365 days since my last sip of the devil’s elixir. That’s one year alcohol free-it’s got me feeling like I am CM Punk. It’s funny it probably took me about eight years just for this one year to happen. The amount of time I spent in the ring boxing with the legends of depression, ptsd, anxiety, and booze earned me a PHD in getting my ass whipped. In those early fights I hadn’t learned yet not to lead with my chin-or leave my body exposed for those breath crunching kidney shots that will have you pissing a red amber color witnessed only by fisherman on nights when the sea turn angry. Over the years those rounds left me bruised, beating, and frozen with scars of failure. I couldn’t properly fight back because I had grown accustomed to the misery- that misery seemed the lesser of the two evils- the latter being honestly and truly exploring my emotions to find the root cause of my pain, and engaging in a plan of action to overcome it. I began to be more comfortable living in the misery of the terror- than in the thought of embracing the horror of what was to come. Some rounds I become so intoxicated with hate and anger I would just take an old school beating like Rocky Balboa-just to feel the pain. Other times I would come out swinging- knocking down some of these foes- but always eventually forgetting my way- and getting knocked out once again. Eventually I learned to slip a punch or two, and jab when needed. I learned I could take a punch, and punch right back- till eventually I learned my own unique fighting style and began knocking out these demons one by one.

My loyal readers will know that this blog started out as an outlet to try to find some clarity- well let’s be fucking honest- it was so I wouldn’t kill myself. I was at a point where my head was slowly convincing me that death was a good idea- and I knew if I wrote about it honestly it would be out there- a reality because it was typed. I couldn’t pretend everything was all right if the internet already knew the truth. So began my long complicated journey for mental health clarity, and I knew the only way to get there was to eliminate alcohol. It was the one x-factor that clouded all judgement- and conveniently also been my most effective and best developed coping mechanism since graduating college. Alcohol by the end only brought out the ugly in me. All my self hatred came out through vicious words and thoughtless actions. I still feel the sting of this in wondering if some friendships just became lost due to time and miles away- or did my years living in between blackouts destroy it. Those things still haunt me. Choosing alcohol over love that still haunts me. But alcohol, itself, that shit doesn’t haunt me anymore.

For I learned it never really held any power over me- rather I allowed it to be all powerful over me because it seemed the most endurable terror at the time. Luckily I found you don’t have to endure terror if you are willing to grind for mental peace instead. So grind I did, and one year later I am booze free. And now mostly demon free. Still a work in progress- but now a much less haunted one.

And thanks for all those that been reading from the start- I promise I will post more from now on.

I Feel Like Rowdy Roddy Nada

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I was lost in thought the other day- half way between meditating and thinking of new ideas- when I had this moment where I realized my life was no longer consumed by my previous PTSD/Depression. No longer did my identity revolve around the murders, or the harmful ways I attempted to address that pain. For the longest time I didn’t even realize I was living this way. PTSD and the depression that sprung forth stripped away so many things I loved. I even stopped enjoying djing for awhile. My heart wasn’t into it, and the fact that not having that love didn’t even feel off to me- looking back at those times I didn’t fathom why I no longer cared that something I loved so much I could brush aside so easily. Or why I would get soul crushing anxiety anytime I would have to play out in public. Thats the real crime of depression is it robs you from experiencing the things you love to the point you can’t even remember why they gave you joy in the first place. It was so bad that I didn’t even make a dj mix for over five years. Music become a chore- something to be endured not enjoyed. So in the past year being able to experience the joy of djing brought me all the way back to my teenage years in my basement mixing records. Having that passion rekindled in me has been beyond a blessing, and a blessing I will soon be able to share with you with a new mix in the coming weeks.

But before that glorious day my hours passed in a fog of frozen hell. I had no idea all those years later that the despair I fled in the wake of the deaths would eventually wreak so much havoc in my subconscious, and subtlety weave it’s way into my whole view of the world. It was as if I was wearing those Roddy Roddy Piper glasses in They Live- but instead of seeing aliens my eyes were clouded lenses of tragedy and fear.

Thinking back the dogma of AA prayed upon and played into those fears for many years. I was indoctrinated that I drank- not because I hadn’t properly dealt with some serious emotional pain I was suppressing- because all my pain was just resentments that the fourth step would cure with the turnarounds. For those not aware there are 12 steps in AA. The first three are basically saying you are powerless to alcohol and only god(higher power- something greater than yourself can save you from your drinking.) Alcohol is this big boogeyman in AA always in the parking lot doing push ups, and other body focused isometric exercises. Alcoholics do some terrible shit while drinking so AA professes that deep down all alcoholics are selfish and resentful at their core, and thus it’s not really your fault since you just never were were not giving a proper design for living(aka Big Book and 12 steps)before to deal with these bedevilments. So the fourth step is where you first write out all your resentments to the world- so anyone, or anything you felt has wronged you during your entire life. This is also the step where you have to to do a turnaround on said resentment- which is where you show the role you played in the resentment. For example the resentment of my brother murdering my sister, niece, and nephew was my fault because my reaction to the trauma was to drink to avoid it. Never mind the batshit logic of having to explain where your at fault for a murder is fucking nuts. Even worst AA loved when I said that. Real taking of accountability the old timers would snarl- but if you look at this beyond the surface why the fuck I am exploring such a deep and nuanced subject based on anecdotal science from a hundred years ago with a sponsor(for god bless their souls and my past ones were the best people!) whose only qualification for exploring this process with you is they themselves completed the steps. These are not licensed counselors you deal with- just normal people. So imagine the type of harm that can happen from these types of exercises even if the outright intention is not malicious. After completing the steps, sponsoring others (three of which who were in their early twenties who passed on), going to multiple meetings daily, and running a sober house I still wanted to drink. No matter how much I prayed I was still miserable. So I would drink again and then have to go back to AA and grab a newcomers white chip and start all over. And have to lie when I shared that I didn’t trust god with all my heart enough as the reason for my drinking again- not the mental anguish and toil going on from unstable brain chemistry mixed with unresolved emotional trauma. Nope just not being 100 with GOD. Or I drank because I didn’t pray hard enough, or I just didn’t want it enough- because AA is not for people who need it, it’s for people who want it. Looking back the whole process makes me want to puke.

In AA everything centers around alcohol- and the program becomes all consuming in your life where meetings serve as your new addiction. I know today I can not drink- I ruined that ability in the midst of trying to avoid my emotions. I abused this liquid escape to a point my body can no longer consume without being a total asshole that you don’t want around, who will sabotage anything good in his life. I am at peace with not drinking- plus drinking makes me fat. At my peak depression about five years ago I weighed 280 pounds-this morning I weighed in at 221(more nutrition posts to come I am into overnight oats now) But just losing the weight didn’t make me happy either. Long story short what made me happy was a long and arduous journey of self-discovery full of too many failures to count. Being able to write while feeling joy is something I feared I would never be able to experience. If I followed AA’s path I would still be stuck in that purgatory pain fog which was a living death. But as a part of my journey I am thankful for the lessons I learned along the way in AA, and the amazing people who came into my life because of it. I am not here to destroy AA- because for those it works for it is a beautiful thing. But for the others struggling today to I want them to realize there are different paths to happiness, and to keep searching to you find the right one.

The Freshly Washed Kale God

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James Harden is hype for a new Broken Resolutions post!

All right readers I been having a bit of the old writer’s block. It’s not that I didn’t have any ideas to write about, but when I started to write the faucet I had hoped would be spewing forth tsunamis of words did not open, rather, like most middle schooler’s cameras during a zoom class, my faucet was definitely turned the fuck off.

So to engage this glacier of the mind I figured I think about what has often been the most popular content on this often malnourished of new content blog. Then it hit me: people love reading about anything promoting a healthy lifestyle, and it’s New Years so soon to be broken resolutions are in full effect. So for the past week I been getting my ITF 16-8 on! Ohh word you ain’t down win with the lingo? Well fear not for that’s why I am here to break it all down to you in it’s glory. ITF is the Poochie way of saying Intermittent Fasting- a hip now eating pattern designed to ideally make you feel better, lose weight, improve brain activity, and all that cross fit Jesus mindful commandments that are promised to you when you start praying to the kale god.

I chose the 16-8 method because I am not a sadist. This method involves eating for 8 hours and fasting for the other 16. There are other versions of fasting such as the eat-stop-eat method- where two times a week you don’t eat after dinner for 24 hours. And the 5-2 week- where two days a week you only eat 500-600 calories. But fuck those versions- we doing the 16-8!

I started this past Monday, and because I am bad at math my first two days was more of 14-10 breakdown. For two days I really thought there was only 8 hours between 11-9. Now this mistake happened because I teach individual math to two students. And these two students always make the same mistake when doing double digit subtraction of not regrouping, and just subtracting 9 from 1 as 8, when 1 is on top of 9 and thus needs help from his left side number friend to be properly subtracted. Anyway that blunder aside those days went by pretty smoothly since my lunch at work is at 11, and all I had to do was not drink my TB protein smoothie till later in the day instead of on my way to work. But alas by Wednesday I had discovered my mistake and ate my first meal at 1. Wednesday went easy- Thursday and Friday a bit of the hangry definitely arouse during the morning- had me feeling a bit on edge like a tween wearing her first pair of Vans to school, and then coming home to listen to Billie Eilish records on a turntable- all the while smugly mocking U2 for losing its edge even though they kept their guitarist. ( washed references are in full effect today.) As you can see by the now onslaught of words I am bombarding you with that by the end of weekend I awoke feeling full, and with the extra energy of the my pillow guy when he used to sleep on a pillow of crack each night. So I am going to keep it up the fasting for the next-week- see how my body reacts as I kneel at the altar of the kale god once more.

Speaking of my body this is where we talk about being washed. For being washed I use the example my man Desus put forth stating, “Being washed is a state of matter much like solid or liquid or plasma. Anything or anyone can be washed. The only known Law of the Washed Universe is that it happens to everyone.”

Embracing my washedness is a key on my journey to enlightenment. But sometimes you got to show yourself you still got it. So I found myself in race against time- aka my sixth grade student. As we turned for the homestretch of that basketball gym floor homeboy was right next to me-cue ‘Chariots of Fire’ music in the background- so I sprinted as hard as I could to barely beat him to the finish line. But washed or not I still had to prove I could still go when needed. Speaking of washed I just spent ten minutes trying to remember that Chariots of Fire was the name of that movie. A reference so old it came out a year before I was born.

So if you are wondering embrace being washed. Enjoy that gray in your beard, warm yourself with a cozy bathrobe and black tea, and come to terms that all your witty references will now go over anyone’s head who is old enough to be on the TikTok. But remember like Gucci Mane preaches continue to embrace your inner greatness and destroy all completion. If you see a sixth grader you race that student. And well- you beat that student. You embrace your inner Cobra Kai- no mercy.

Also shout out to Tom Brady for getting to the NFC finals, and proving he was an ideal choice for guidance to lead to me to a better self. And like that hunk I am drinking a lot of water. At least 16 glasses a day. It’s great. I feel hydrated as polar bear chillin under a waterfall in the Lazy River at Water Country.

Built For This

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My loyal readers I know I been absent. In the past five months you might have feared I ventured back to my demons; but alas worry not- because since August 10 my days have been full of progress, acceptance, a complete overhaul and cut back on meds, some weed smoking, no fucking alcohol, and actual happiness. I was finally able to visit my sister’s grave on the anniversary this past October for the first time since the funeral in 2004.

Fresh fade and yes your boy is ohh so handsome .

And for once my soul feels uncluttered of the albatross of anger and depression that had imprisioned my ability to truly perceive life for what it truly could be. When you are under the intoxication that is depression your world view becomes severely skewed. Now I feel so disconnected from those past years- as if those last 12 years of memories were of some doppelgänger- my own Twin Peaks Bob- as they are only remembered as securely as an etch-a-sketch drawing.

Luckily, like Cormega before me, I was built for this.

Continue reading “Built For This” →

1-800-Suicide

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The last couple posts I been talking about failure a lot, and one thing I am glad I failed at was committing suicide. I am not going to lie, I kinda half assed it. I didn’t follow any of the the Gravediggaz advice from “1-800-Suicide.”

Gravediggaz – 1-800-Suicide

I didn’t run to the zoo and lock myself in a lion’s den, didn’t confront an alligator and let it eat me raw, or even just hang myself with a fucking barbed wire. Nor did I even follow the plan I had thought of before. To be honest it just kinda happened- it was very passive. I just got to the point where I didn’t want to feel, and didn’t care if that meant not waking up the next day. It started with mixing Ativan and a pint of vodka. That combo proved too weak- it just left me feeling sober. My existence was still on fire- my skin a vampire in the sun. So I added a big bottle of wine to the mix. And still nothing. My brain was still firing missiles in all directions; a kamikaze bombing of my consciousness creating a maze out of doubt, fear, and self-hatred. I was blinded, lost, and just wanted out so next I found an almost full bottle of gabapentin and those easily found their way down my neck into my belly. And finally a handful of sleeping pills to blot out the rest of my existence. Then I found the peace of my bed. I laid down and enjoyed the high I was finally feeling. I had no fear left. I was weirdly at peace that maybe the next morning I wouldn’t wake up; a feeling I wish to never have ever again. The morning did come and I was grateful as hell to see that sun. You see I don’t want to die, and I sure as hell don’t want to live in a world of numbness. My brain loves to trick me into that existence, but today I fight it with the guerrilla warfare that is mindfulness. It is with ruthless aggression I fight for my existence. I am dropping nuclear bombs on the tricks my mind uses to play on me, and embracing the love that surrounds me. Today I want to fucking live, and that feels pretty damn good.

SOSs & Heartbreak

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My brain is still a bit foggy like the grave mist of dawn in a land of ghouls. But writing keeps me sober so I type these SOSs to the world. Failure keeps you hungry and hopeful. And I have failed enough to remain hopeful as fuck. I am grateful for failure. It’s how I learn. It’s why I have this chip on my shoulder because I don’t think anybody truly believes I will stay sober- that July 15th will just be another day- just another broken resolution. That my resolve will falter, and my belly will once again surrender to the swill of liquor cascading into its center. But I have a feeling this time you will be wrong. And what’s different is hard to explain- that feeling deep inside your gut can’t always be explained. But when you feel it you know it. And today I feel it. Today I know it. And tomorrow I will keep on showing it. Because these SOSs of heartbreak might not mean that much to many, but at least they get me through the day. And each day that mist will feel further away. And each day my vision will get clearer. And each day that ghoul that clutches on my soul will get easier to push away. For embracing failure gives you a power you never knew existed inside you for it takes away the control that fear has over you. And without fear on your back you can achieve anything you want. And even if you fail at least you learned the next time what not to do. And through that failure you learn most importantly what you need to do. For heartbreak and surrender are the only true path to real love. Be that a love for oneself or another.

Halos turn to Nooses

Patrick Bernard2 Comments

My dear readers you can rejoice for I have returned. I apologize for the delay but my brain’s been a bit foggy these days. The words scattered in my skull; my thoughts a jigsaw puzzle floating through outer space as I desperately fly to each piece to sort them together. The aftermath of my last post led to a stay in the hospital where I came off a cocktail of 8 meds to a new lean new two piece of a mood stabilizer with a shot of antidepressant. So far I feel decent- not too high, not too low. So of course for me that means I feel uncomfortable. It’s funny how we get so comfortable in those undesirable emotions such as turmoil, depression, fear, or pain. Those feelings are like a warm blanket to me compared to contentment, and well just the fucking normalcy of the day. I also hadn’t been able to write so I thought I would cure it with a drink. I figured the drink would spark everything back and break me out of the void I had falling into. In reality it was just my brain tricking me into a return to an old comfortable feeling- the numbness and escape that first sip brings. The fleeting myth you chase every time you succumb to your poison. So I embedded myself into the alcohol, like a journalist in a war town country to a squadron, and gave in and drank. And of course James Baldwin did not enter my soul and come out through words on my paper. In fact the only words that did were lies to myself and others. The lie that alcohol can somehow make me whole- while in reality it’s just making the hole inside me even bigger. The hole of self doubt, hatred, insecurity, and fear. The hole you fall into where lies become the safety net. The hole you know you will eventually be buried in if you keep down the path that the drink wants from you. And a hole dug so deep I didn’t want to tell anyone I had fallen into it again. So I just pretended it didn’t happen, and let the halo on top of my head fashion into a noose. That noose got so tight I needed a drink to loosen it- and since I hadn’t shared my shameful secret from the night before the alcohol slipped right in like a Viking from the shore. His battle-axe a pint of vodka to my heart. I know my defense now is just being honest. Being vulnerable letting everyone know I failed another alcohol test. I gave in like a chump. But through failure comes knowledge. A loss is the best way to learn how to win. So I woke up early determined to write words. To prove to myself I don’t need alcohol to write. To prove to myself I don’t need alcohol to live. And to prove to myself finally I don’t need alcohol to survive. So today, July 15th, I declare my goddamn independence from that demon alcohol. And already I feel that noose loosening from my neck as the sun gently rises on a new day ahead, and I embrace this new journey where getting really fucking uncomfortable is going to be me striving for my new norm.

Pawns and Rubes

Patrick BernardLeave a comment

Saturday my mind played one of the greatest tricks on me yet. It’s terrifying what lengths it will go to give me an excuse to drink. I was doing my morning meditation which was a focused hypnosis on clearing subconscious negativity. However, I allowed it to imprint a false so-called repressed memory to throw off my whole balance and well-being. As soon as I latched onto this awful thought it became for that moment real, and the only way to get rid of it was to drink it away. My brain was a terrorist who hijacked my common sense, and knocked down my defense system as easily as if it was a tall tower in the N.Y. skyline.

What followed was a drunken stupor of a maze of falsehoods that I tangled myself up in as if it was a comforting cloak of barbwire. Fallacy turning into fact. Hope trampled beneath granite boulders busting my spine. Leaving me paralyzed in thought with hopes there was a dagger resting on my heart. Or an ice pick to silence my brain. Luckily neither was close by.

I wonder how long I am going to stay on this path of reacting and writing versus writing then reacting. There is a big difference between knowing and understanding. Knowing means you can decipher the proper course of action for prevention. Understanding means that a course of action is in use prior to stop the maladaptive behavior before it occurs. It’s why some of the smartest people in the world can be so goddamn dumb sometimes.

This distorted logic is like seeing a chess board two steps ahead of your opponent, but moving your pieces one step behind. It’s ludicrous yet I do it; staying a pawn instead of the goddamn queen. It’s not fate because my own actions cause it to occur. My mind might be playing tricks on me, but I am supplying the ammo to make sure the shots stick. A country rube in a world full of carnies. Allowing myself to be conned every step of the way.