Tag: Bi-Polar

1 Percent Better

Patrick BernardLeave a comment

It’s really easy to pretend everything is alright- or to stuff your emotions so deep down you are lower than the graves you wish to avoid and never feel or think about- until that one day it’s not. And that anger- fear- hatred- ball of shame is coming back up in ways that have nothing to do with the trauma itself- and your losing your temper in Verizon store because your ready to snap on Xavier over a sim card that won’t work- or you pouring down wine into your throat ready to feel the pain of drinking on a medicine that literally makes alcohol toxic to your body- so the pain from hatred you feel inside can also match the way you feel all over- knowing that the punishment will be worth it in some sick and twisted way because feeling pain is better than cosmically “feeling it”- then you have the validate the tissue paper and look at what exactly is driving these emotions inside you- and what tiny habits you are going to undertake to combat them.

It’s funny sometimes in therapy I don’t want to validate the tissue paper- in my head I am like “I ain’t no pussy”- which is troubling on its own and holds back ultimate growth- but it is one of those old automatic habits that needs to be first recognized- and then ideally extinguished from my brains automatic response tablet. Reaching for the tissue to dab your eyes when tears are swelling takes guts- trying to pretend your not about to burst into to tears- or just using your grubby fingers instead in my broken brain is a sign of weakness- my old school way of stuffing my feelings inside so I don’t have to deal with them. I been needing to validate that tissue paper a lot these past two months because growth dealing with trauma, and just life itself can be daunting when you are finally willing to deal with that heavy, uncomfortable bile that’s habituating inside you. Being in the middle of a journey can suck- but it’s where the most ultimate growth is found because it’s most daunting and uncomfortable lag of a voyage there is.

Throughout this latest journey I have had a couple highs- but mostly lows- ornery fucking lows. I figure it’s the middle this is where most of the shit hits the fan- which is an awful saying. Like why is shit hitting the fan- I have dealt while working in Residential a room that a resident had covered in his shit- like painted that motherfucker with his hands as the brush. My co-worker first solution was just to cover the room in bleach- unfortunately the shit and the bleach get the transformed and combined to make this room feel like if of Saddam Hussein dirty bomb had gone off. My eyes were bloodshot from the chemicals- and my nose burned- which did mean I couldn’t smell- and after while you just put your head down and cleaned up all the shit around you until it was done. It’s a lesson I wish I took more from at the time- because yesterday my twisted brain decided the proverbial shit needed to hit the fan- and that I needed to punish myself. It decided since the Antabuse is fully in my system now- meaning any alcohol would make me epically sick- that a bottle of wine was a good idea. I ensure you it was not a good idea.

Being vulnerable sucks- even worse not being validated for that vulnerability can even be just as troublesome and dangerous to our long term sustained growth. Sometimes we just want someone close to us to hear how we are instituting small changes in our life to get better and be praised for it- that validation is important because it tells you that person is trying to install life changing habits- and anything to better our mental health and life as a whole should be wholeheartedly applauded. Real change is slow- it takes a lot of time before “overnight” results are witnessed. Validating a close one’s progress-no matter how small or new is huge- and a genuine way to help keep that new change occuring for them over the long haul.

So I created new habits- even the way I phrased this sentence was intentional to create such habit. I didn’t write I am trying out new habits- because that sentence promotes doubt. When you are not all in- you get to live in the comfort of what it I could of been if just this happened- or it’s the beauty of wasted talent- it’s comfort in believing you are talented- but not believing you are talented enough to be vulnerable by trying to utilize that talent by going all in- meaning having your mindset to embrace the reality that failure will hurt- but the hurt of never trying will hurt hell of a lot more long term.

I wrote most of that before I went back inpatient- I was in the Portsmouth BHU for a week or so before Thanksgiving. I felt fine being in there- I seem to strive in such places- the outside world is where I struggle. I am so angry and full of despair and hate it. I responded to these feelings by drinking again and I fucking hate myself for doing it. But I am trying to change my habits- and I really want to so that’s why I am being honest on the only forum I know how to- writing on this blog which my failures at life are well documented. As usual my meds aren’t correct- I am fearful about money- I am about to file bankruptcy and lose my car. It’s hard to be positive but fuck it I am going to try. I have a new job that doesn’t pay well- but I get to work with elementary school kids so that’s a plus- I need to remind myself of the little things that are good in life. I am worried I am always going to be alone- crazy and one breakdown from going back inpatient. I know this doesn’t have to be my current reality and future though- and I am going to really work on altering my mindset- and creating these new tiny habits that will hopefully lead me to success-and maybe money and love- though my past says that won’t come anytime soon. But these small shifts of mindset will eventually pay off if keep at them daily- and one day they will pay off. Because even feeling 1 percent better tomorrow morning will be a huge improvement. Because honestly I don’t think I can feel any worst than I do today- so by that logic tomorrow definitely has to be better. And I can build off that little bit of success- because I have to get better. I love you all my readers- and I will damndest to get better so I can continue to share my journey with you. The last few days have been rough- but tomorrow doesn’t have to be.

Drowning Spiders

Patrick BernardLeave a comment
I think a four year old me with my 13 year old sister

So it would have been my sister Tricia’s 50th birthday the other day and she would have been in better shape than me currently at 41-she always did have a metabolism that let her eat dessert for breakfast, and a willingness to make sure she got a workout in even if it was before she was about to give birth. I remember her on the elliptical working out to some probably terrible gym class techno remix of Barry Manila with the her belly bulging with James inside- while the rest of her looked like still like the aerobics instructor she still was. After time passes it’s the little things you remember after someone has been gone for almost twenty years: it’s those little things you miss most. Memories are an etch a sketch: never permanent and one shake from being lost forever. I still feel lost and I wonder how different everything would be today with her and the kids here. But that kind of thought unfortunately only clouds the present: a soothing thought instead is what can I do daily that will make all three of them proud: and it’s bizarre the desire to make those we lost those most proud- sometimes at the expense of those living closest by- but honoring those we lost seems natural- for our fear drives us to believe we would forget them if we do not. Rational thinking is never found when heartache and love is involved.

I think as I reflect on this latest crash of my life is what led me back to the desire for the ultimate sacrifice was a hitting a tsunami when I was expecting a few big waves. You see my habits had prepared me to fall off a few big waves without drowning.

One was debt- I was broke and getting broker by the moment. I had took out a bunch of loans, and racked up several credit cards to pay for my soccer teams and it’s players believing I would always be able to fundraise my way out of it- but nearly five grand for every fall and spring season- coupled with indoor costs began to pile up- and I as I lost my discipline- these spending habits started to spiral as my credit score started to plunge. We as humans can tolerate any action as long as we believe it is just and right- just look at religion and its death toll on the world for causes deemed holy and righteous. I kept spending because it was for the kids; I kept spending because it was too honor my sister and her kids; and I kept spending because I was too terrified to admit I couldn’t keep spending. Soccer had consumed my life and admitting I was starting to fail at one aspect of it- the one piece I seemed to have so much success at to the outside world- would admit I was failing at all of life- or so my distorted thinking thought. I so desperately wanted to not fail for once; I set up habits that would ultimately doom myself to fail. A catch-22 of refusing to be vulnerable because vulnerability would mean asking for help; or even worst saying no to some players or a team. I justified by saying I didn’t want to let even one player down- not realizing my actions could bring them all down instead.

So i kept pushing ahead- avoiding looking at bills and making promises to pay creditors with money I didn’t have. Then another wave hit- this wave was radiated with beauty- a women I had a crush on for a year- a real life Cleopetra- the dopest Ethiopian you could not just let pass by had stole my heart- calling me out of the blue after paying one of players for my phone number. I forgot all about my money troubles as the spiders in my belly caught all the feelings I had hid from the world for so many years. I had used soccer as an excuse not to be vulnerable to a female- and here I was letting my guard down. She visited me before work and brought me a coffee- the coffee was cold by the time it got to me- for the commute was a bit long- but it warmed my soul because she had thought enough of me to bring it first thing in the AM. Before she left- we kissed and I let my body tingle with excitement. I hadn’t felt so good in years- and just like a dream she was gone in a day. A ghost left to linger in my dreams- a ghost who left all these spiders in my belly catching all emotions I hid from the world with the webs they weaved so deep- a ghost with my heart that I refused to show to the world- now stolen and lost forever. Instead of being vulnerable I numbed out the emotion. But numbing never works- emotions tend to find their way out like shrapnel blown up in pressure cooker home made bomb. Wounded I was- but refusal to admit I was became the plan. Suffer on with a smile- and if you are smiling you surely can’t be suffering right.

Then I switched jobs- leaving the comfort of a job I loved with kids I was happy to see every day for the allure of more money. The idea being I could make up for my money woes-make enough to exterminate those spiders in my belly- and hire an exorcist to chase out the ghosts of love past- and catch up to those creditors whose late payments were passing me by daily like they were singing that Pharcyde song.

https://youtu.be/a-mAK3uB2_0?si=REOWzx4_fvvGBxHA

But money can’t kill spiders in your belly- no matter how many gold coins you swallow. And not dealing with the issues in your head can’t be fixed with dollar bills in your ears- and running never gets you to the destination if you are instead sprinting as far away from the finish line as you can- so another wave hit and I started drowning. This wave was the left hook to the jaw- because what they don’t teach you in life is sometimes all your problems can manifest themselves into Voltron- and become one big ass motherfucker who refuses to be numbed- who refuses to be ignored- and refuses to let you ghost them. And when that last blow hit me that’s when I retreated to the desire to no longer want to live another breath. Petrified-but still unwilling- maybe unable- or maybe just too fucking lost by this point to realize I needed to be honest and vulnerable- I decided to hide from reality by drinking away all the pain that had engulfed me. But the liquor- being that devil itself-was just there to seduce me that those end thoughts were the only good thoughts I had. Liquor- the pure poison it is to my brain- justified all the negativity swirling in my confused vessel. It was the elicitor that made me see a way out of the mess I had made- and made me thinking If I drank enough of it with the right combo of pills I would never wake up. A sleeping beauty to the world-one last sleep and no more problems. I tried it before and failed- but this time the bottle whispered you would get it right. You always fail at first it reminded me- the second time is the charm- and all your anxiety, fears, and beliefs you will never find true love won’t ever haunt you again. And when your that desperate it all sounded to good to be true. And for a moment I truly wanted that fate to be mine. But something inside me pushed myself past it- to ask for help- to be fucking vulnerable to life. To go to the ER and admit to the world I wanted to kill myself- and I am terrified I will. Broken, beat down, and hallow to life – but at least honest- I wept. At that moment I didn’t think happiness would ever be in my radar again- but at least I found a life preserver through the cascading waves taking away the air from my lungs. So I clung to it- hoping to find my way back to shore. Knowing when I got there I would be exposed to the marathon of life I had run away from. A marathon I am gladly back running today. Far away from the finish line for sure- but at least on the path towards the finish line this time.

Don’t Break

Patrick Bernard1 Comment

Living with bi-polar is like being in a car accident in the rain while hydroplaning- the more you fight against and try to brake- or not drive into the terror the worst your outcome. It’s only when you embrace you have to drive into what your instincts are telling you not to do- then do you survive.

My life was hydroplaning and here I was with two of my soccer players in the back about to careen off the road. I had been here before so I knew not to brake-my brain slowed down and could feel the wheels not touching the asphalt. Maybe I was so hyper focused because there was other human beings in the back I cared greatly about- but a calmness took over me in the midst of the storm that was spewing down water like buckets of gatorade being pour over coaches who have just won the championship. I knew not to put my foot on the brake-any sudden breaking could cause us back into oncoming traffic or cause the car to flip over. So I took my foot off the gas and glided into the safety of the grass median between highways. Maneuvering onto the grass the car stopped hydroplaning- and then with some nifty avoidance of guard rails and without flipping over- I was able to stop the car without any great incident other than losing my front bumper. In the back I immediately asked Paul and Dedieu if they were alright- “Coach, I thought we were going to die.”

We made it to practice 20 minutes later. The car- like my life was still drive-able- a bit banged up but still able to get to its next destination.

Both my players soon shook off the near death experience and went to practice without a seeming care in the world other than being the best player on the field. Soccer was something they could control in their life- a life that was always uncertain as refugees from Africa.

The whole time not being able to have control I did not think about death- that idea never popped in my mind- which is bizarre because a desire for death has chased me for the last twenty years. Living with bi-polar is often a nightmare- something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It’s having constant suicidal ideation even on your best day- you start to train your brain that those are just thoughts- and thoughts aren’t real- but it wears you down. You worry if you are actually feeling happy or just manic- meaning this happiness is just a sign that a crushing low is about to hit you like a left hook from an opponent you didn’t even realize you were fighting. You are treated like a guinea pig by doctors who throw medicines at you and hope it works for your chemistry. You learn you have to be on constant guard- I got to put in work like I am Kobe Bryant chasing the greatness of Michael Jordan just to be at most people’s level of stableness. So each morning I do a gratitude list- and currently read from “Daring Greatly” a Brene Brown book on the topic of vulnerability- which is always fun to see in print all the ways you have not coped with your issues. It’s part refreshing and also shitty- so I can’t just numb myself to the world and function- I am going to have to lean into these uncomfortable emotions, and feelings I have. It sucks realizing when you numb one emotion- you numb them all. There is no secret way to numb sadness without numbing joy at the same time. For so many years I thought I could just do that- but unfortunately feelings are a package deal- and no matter how hard you try to just avoid one- you end up avoiding them all. So I am trying to do that- lean into all my feelings and failing miserably sometimes like this past week- but always being able to get back up from that damn left hook by writing about my vulnerability now.

When I went inpatient they changed my meds. They took me off the one med that had me stable for over three years- the med that kept me out of hospitals, kept me working, and a stability led me to create Panther Elite and to win a volunteer award tomorrow night at The NH Spirit Awards- to try a different medicine. The thing with inpatient- they don’t have enough time to work on why I crashed my life- why I couldn’t take my foot off the brake- and why the suicidal desires had become so overwhelmingly strong again. So they throw a pill at it and hope for the best. And for a bit I felt immensely better- I was putting in the work and that overwhelming desire that life was always going to be a living hell- where I wanted to slice my heart my in half was gone. I remember weeping my first night in-patient that happiness was always going to be an illusion to me- a magic trick that seemed real but I knew was false. When you are that low- you will cling to anything that will bring you some brightness. So I clung to the belief Lithuim would set me free because that’s what my doctor said- forgetting my past year’s success to only focus on the past two weeks of torture I endured. So I went to work- I worked on this great book “The Power of Letting Go” by John Perkins- read it and did the activities- writing about my fears past and present-the ideas I was clutching onto that were holding me back- and made sure to go to every group offered. I was the ideal patient and thought I was finally going to be happy. But funny thing happens with these short stays the happiness can be fleeting- especially when the benzo they gave you to help detox from alcohol was making the agitation- and well pure assholeness that lithium was going to unleash on myself at bay. By the second to last day of my stay inpatient- I started feeling super agitated and annoyed. I tried gratitude lists- didn’t work- I tried only thinking positive because you can’t think two thoughts at once- it didn’t work- I justified it was just some fear about leaving. But i didn’t voice these thoughts out loud because I desperately wanted this medicine to fix everything- and the more I learn is no pill will fix my life- at best it will just keep my brain like a relatively calm ocean instead of a tsunami- and allow me to do the work to get and stay better.

So I left inpatient and the anger only increased over the next few days- the anger and the thoughts of suicide and with every moment my desire to want to end it became more strong. So with the desires wanting to become a plan I did what was my oldest coping habit- I numbed it with alcohol. It worked for the first couple hours- then maybe I passed out- then become the plot to drink more but keep it secret so nobody knew-and then what I really don’t know. That’s the problem with alcohol and numbing there is no solution- nothing that actually works when you use it. So I went to check back into the hospital- but they told me another stay inpatient would not be therapeutically beneficial for me-apparently I tried to hard the first time around- and even though I was on this new med they had changed was making me feel like life was not worth living- I should find somewhere else to go. I mean I was bitter- you have people that don’t go to groups there and come and go all the time- I was being shown the door for trying too hard my last time. I was shocked- dumbfounded- and left to wonder what the fuck I did wrong. All I wanted to do was get better and then being told you’ll be fine- you just had your chance inside so live with the outcomes. So I did and I drank again. I was angry that two bottles of wine for at least an hour could put me at so much ease. But I knew that couldn’t last so I stopped- and I started writing this.

I figure writing is better than inpatient anyway- and I get to share it with all you- my loyal readers. I am taking Antabuse again which will luckily not make even the idea of alcohol not an option again- it’s a medicine that makes you ridiculously sick if you try to drink on it- and getting back to basics like practicing gratitude and writing. I know being honest with this universe has helped me in the past- so I figured I try it once again. The things is no matter how much my brain tells me I want to kill my self- I know it’s not true. So everyday that voice gets less loud- the things I am grateful for start clouding out its babble. And I know I am nowhere near a finishing line- because living with Bi-Polar 2 is a journey- where the only way to survive is to lean into every part of it with your whole heart while out working it like an athlete training for an Olympic spot. So that’s what I am going to keep doing- grinding everyday- making my jaw just solid enough for those left hooks that come out of nowhere. Because as powerful as bi-polar seems it’s also heightened its own cryptonite- it’s ability to make me write and see the world different. Without all these hardships I don’t think I would have developed the empathy I have- and without that I don’t think I would be as nearly as effective as a coach and teacher I am. So why I hate bi-polar with a passion- it’s also been an enormous blessing in my life. And I know today to be grateful for any blessing in my life- regardless of what they are or come from.

Gratitude Coming

Patrick BernardLeave a comment

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

Patrick BernardLeave a comment
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.

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.

Slumber

Patrick Bernard3 Comments

For my loyal readers sorry for the lack of writing. I am trying to clear my overloaded platter of prescription drugs and dropping them down until I can be on one or two that truly address my needs. A basic detox or prescription meds and alcohol ain’t ideal. I have felt like a kid on a backyard trampoline without that net fence. Some weeks I am jumping higher than I can imagine kissing the clouds with no worry. Then the next week I jump the clouds are too high, and fall onto the freshly mowed grass with a thud- my body imprinted into the land forever. Last night was the worst I mixed Ativan and a full bottle of wine and two beers. For some reason that was not enough to shutter out the suicidal thoughts I was having. So I decided to drown those feelings with a little less than three fourths of a bottle of gabapentin, and baker’s dozens of trazadone. And I honestly at the time wouldn’t have minded staying in a slumber forever. Luckily I awoke- still messed up a bit- but alive. I am headed to the hospital for an inpatient stay. But I will have a lot more writing coming when I get out. And most importantly if you need help for suicidal or harmful thoughts reach out!!! Reach the fuck out!!! Because I really wished I had.

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.