Tag: Mental Health

Infinite Forms

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“We fill all pre-existing forms and when we fill them we change them and are changed.” Frank Bidart

I have been reading a lot of David Foster Wallace lately and he is one of the few writers that I am always in awe of. His fiction is always able to depict a certain loneliness and isolation that is perfect in its own subtlety. It’s not in the same sense of the navel gazing of the Beat Generation writers which I devoured in my early twenties, and that as I age become less of an influence because of that precise lack of subtlety and egocentric perception of loneliness itself. And this is not a literary criticism piece either-I tend to leave that to professors and those “sophisticated” folks who use books like ammo to impress impressionable youngsters in a celebration of their own intelligence. Which to me is the equivalent of being a sports talk radio dj, or sports journalist, who falls prey to the hot take syndrome to boost their own importance over the sports and athletes they cover. Nor am I not privy to the inherent egotist value that lies in my own take on such others- but I am able to recognize that and hope I earnestly come through in this- which to be honest I have no idea where is going as I write down these words. I feel that loneliness in itself is a misplaced concept in this day and age. I send out words in hope of a connection, and as a way to protect myself from my own harmful thoughts, or those thoughts that drive me to numbness through alcohol. Yet these words are protected through the veil of this blog, and social media as a whole. The internet allows us a mask to present ourselves as a figment of our true self- it’s the same reason the twitter account of Sunny D can pretend to be suicidal to sell off brand OJ. Everything can me marketed and consumed even the idea of connection- it’s why Tony Robbins exists. He sells hope and success as a model that makes loneliness inherently evil and something holding you back. It’s why life coaches exist and peddle you the same self-help voodoo in slightly different packages. This is not to say these folks don’t help some because they do. But for the truly depressed, the truly disconnected, the ones consumed through suicidal ideation, or the soldiers still haunted by the horrors of a war they never left the ideology of buck up and think positive is no cure. DFW was able through his fiction to paint this picture so well because of his simple understanding of that ultimate desire to connect that our brains put roadblocks up to obscure. The same reasons we put up walls, self-sabotage, abuse substances, or push those closest away when we know a simple cure is front of us. It’s almost an allergy to our own self, because to realize our true self it must be in relationship to others. And for those lost in the lounge of loneliness there is nothing more nightmarish than others- a perfect catch-22. As I write I realize I am not anywhere closer to an answer to this loneliness conundrum other than I am not quiet as lonely as I was 35 days ago. Nor am I close to where I truly desire to be. Sometimes I still feel as lost as the narrative structure of this post, but at least I can be honest with my emotions about it. And send these words out hoping to connect with someone else feeling the same way today.

I’m Swayze

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I haven’t been writing much because I am on day nine of a headache that will not leave. I am also on day 33 being sober and fully moving forward with my life- which is just as terrifying to me as any horror movie can be. My past still exists- lurking in a sunken place that would provide a comfort that is all too welcoming in the days when the loneliness becomes seemingly impossible to endure. 33 days is just a smudge in reality- but it does feel amazing not to be in constant fear of alcohol right now. One thing I don’t fear are ghosts- especially ones that would stick around to haunt the this world, because our brains alone can do more haunting than any ghost is capable of. How many days have I stayed paralyzed in fear brutalized by past actions? How many nights have I put all my focus on the days I failed to meet my dreams rather than the days I achieved them? And how many mornings have I awoke being cuddled by the memory of a lost lover- or a lover who is now out of my reach no matter how much I cling to the illusion she is not. Desperation at trying to change past actions is the greatest horror story I have lived. It destroys today, and muddles out my future with crippling self-doubt. I have been the Freddy Krueger of my dreams, the Jason with the blade at the lake, and, hell, even the leprechaun that terrorized Jennifer Aniston. So today I put a stake through the heart of the past. I took a bubble bath in holy water and awoke reborn in today. So today I change what I can, and pick up the shovel to bury the past.

Headboards and Headaches

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I been sick the last few days- I am on day five of a headache, sinus infection, and overall everything just being sore. The doc ordered fluids and rest. Which has me thinking that I have a bed with a headboard now- yes I am so fancy. I mean I think when you move your mattress off the floor you officially become an adult. Usually the progression goes from mattress on floor, mattress on a frame, and then boom headboard!You have officially won at life so bring on the kids and 401 This headboard keeps me up at night- it squeaks a lot, and I have to put a pillow in between it and the wall to shut it up. I think it even mocks me sometimes- yes, I will say without a doubt the headboard mocks me. It also gives me the illusion I have made it. It makes me let down my guard and be like life I got you- check out this headboard. But sometimes- and especially with my recovery- I feel like I should just have a mattress on the floor. Who am I trying to impress with this fancy headboard? I think sometimes we all get caught up in appearances rather than reality. Sometimes on the outside we present ourselves to the world one way- when in the inside we would rather be snuggling our Linus security blanket on the mattress on the floor. It’s comforting and we know how it feels down there. Having a headboard is scary- it represents change and that I am growing as a person. But I am changing and I do accept my life is now going to be full of headboards- it’s one of the so-called perks of growing up. And if I am lucky one day I might even be able to share this headboard- but I hope the lucky lady knows I am in no rush for her to see this status of adulthood on my bed. That my intentions are pure and I would never do anything to harm her. Because I understand how fragile it is coming back from the mattress on the floor, and I know fellows like me can be her poison. So I am cool with just being the extra blanket hanging out on the end of the bed. And hopefully she knows she can always rely on me to snuggle, and to warm her up when those nights get too cold. But she will also always have her foundation of that beautiful quilted comforter she worked so hard to make, making sure she followed the steps to perfect it so she can always wrap herself up in that warmness when she needs it. As I finish writing this I lay alone, and my head still pounds. The headboard squeaks if I move- and I try to ponder life as this coffee fails to awaken me fast enough. Sometimes I wish I had something beautiful next to me so we could curse that damn headboard together- but I don’t and that’s fine because everything is the way it should be right now- and the headboard squeaks because recovery itself is not perfect. Life is not perfect. Love is not perfect. The only thing that is perfect is a genuine connection between two lost souls- and even in that perfection the headboard would still squeak in the background.

Polar Past

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It’s been about a week since I got out the ward. And as this morning air brings a cold front of frigid crucified breaths vanishing into the sky; seemingly forever lost in the frozen clouds above like the relationships of my past that are too fractured to ever be put back together again. As I recover I have to make time to be grateful for those that stuck by me in life. The one’s who saw me at my worst, and still loved me until I could finally figure out someway to try to love myself. I am still learning to try to always reach out to because isolation is the devil’s entryway into my soul. So today to ensure my soul won’t be frigid like the polar air outside I am going to embrace the fire and warmth found in my belly; and from that keep going forward even with my heart as heavy as an army rucksack, and that march ahead of me still ever so endless.

Stale Milk and Horses

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Lust for death surrounds my heart. An orbit of sorrow, despair, and a heartbroken sun beaming down on my faith. Burning off all the hope, joy, and fight left in my soul; as a melancholy moonlight beams off my wrists. Outside a few stars mourn for the night as a broken streetlight struggles to be bright. A pint of vodka, blood thinning pills, and headphones with a playlist called “Stale Milk and Hearses” adds to the delight, with razor sharp blades waiting for their turn being ever so polite. I delight in the ecstasy of these final minutes of silence, knowing soon sweet emptiness will fill the rest of my life. The bottle is almost empty, and the headphones are reaching out to finally be touched. As soon as they are on I waltz towards the end, and the climax to the finale finally ascends. The razor is picked up and with trembling hands embraces the skin; the pain from the slice my last saving grace. All that is left is the beauty of the symphony of blood flowing below. An end to grief once and for all; as I lose all consciousness and descend to below.

Stale Milk and Hearses Playlist

Fresh out the Ward

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After 15 days in the ward(the behavioral health unit) I am back. I feel I just aged emotionally 14 years in two weeks. The stay was brutal for the first week and a half. Being brutally honest to myself, and then to the docs and the staff was not easy, but what was exactly what was needed. I was still having thoughts of suicide and wanted to put my head through the wall just to not feel anymore. But this past Sunday I wrote what I will make my next post, and oddly it made me realize how much I never wanted to take my own life. It felt like I was writing fiction, and not my inner desires or the plan I had decided would be my way out. With some much needed med changes, a new outlook, and a good old fashioned reboot to my brain that was like a laptop running too many programs at once I feel hope. My journey to peace has only begun, and I know trying times will still be in my future- but I have faith- and not forget this good old fashioned blog to blab it to the world.

Invisible Agony

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“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.

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So You Want to Die

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Gravediggaz- leftovers theme

Them bible folks say god rested on the seventh day- on my seventh day I got drunk. I hoped by putting my drinking out there in this blog world that would keep me sober-so I wouldn’t let down the tens upon tens of people who read this. But what it really boils down to is I still hate myself. This is not looking for self-pity for this is a reality I need to fix. I can use music, girls, the gym, or even writing to mask over this hatred, but deep down inside me there is an evil I can’t get rid of and it wants to destroy me. It’s the evil that stops me from calling someone before I go to the liquor store. It’s the evil that tells me lies about my self-worth. It’s the evil that wants me to self destruct because I feel that’s all I am worth. It’s an evil that makes suicidal ideation a norm of my daily life. It’s an evil that wants to push every and away anyone that cares for me because I don’t deserve love. I am more honest with these words here than I can be to anyone in real life. Who would trust me anyway when I told so many lies about my drinking before. I have became so good at being a chameleon I don’t know even know who I am anymore. I am Don Draper wishing just to be Dick Whitman. I worry I am too fucked up to be helped- the damage to severe. The tortured drunk artist is a myth. Bukowski did his best work sober. And I have no idea what it means to be happy. God I wish I could be sober. God I wish I knew what it meant to be happy. Until then I bitterly trudge on hoping to find something to cure me from this evil that has invoked my brain.

A Heart Breaking Obituary of Extraordinary Genuis

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Last night I did a random Facebook search and fell into that wormhole we all do on the inter-web. During this search I found a woman I started my sobriety journey with in the Phoenix House Dublin almost six years ago. She was one of my favorite people there because she was such an extrovert, funny, kind, and could always get me out of a rut when I was clueless on those first days how to deal with life without with drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately this night I found out she had passed. Facebook is today’s graveyard these days for those that lost their fight with substance abuse. The wonderful thing was she had not been forgotten- her beautifully written obituary had gone viral, and it was an amazing to witness. So much negativity always occurs after such a death and instead there were articles from People, to Boston.com, to the other various major outlets, and the Boston Globe celebrating a life lost too soon https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2018/10/16/heart-wrenching-obituary-young-vermont-mom-struggling-with-addiction-gains-attention/27OvnrDlIxCOE3saACHZKI/amp.html

So everyday you wake up realize that even on your worst day- when you thought life was over and you couldn’t go on that there was always someone glad you woke up. Someone’s life that your smile made better. As you trudge on this sober fight remember every morning you wake up sober you are an inspiration. And that every morning when you rise with the sun there is somebody out there who is grateful that you are in their life. And if nobody has told you they are grateful for you today know I definitely am.

Quarantined

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I quarantined myself to my house like I was in that Alway’s Sunny Episode (shout out to Boyz II Men). This mental obsession seems to grow worse everyday, and if I leave I know alcohol would be the first thing I searched for. I am mindlessly watching old episodes of Hell’s Kitchen in a bit of a librium haze. Loneliness surrounds me, and all I want is the embrace of all those past lovers I left behind for the warm embrace of alcohol instead. Alcohol is the most enticing mistress I know- never has something just touching my lips gave me such comfort before, and with the ability to take away all my negative feelings. But tonight is almost over, and ideally tomorrow will be another day sober. I know my insecurity is the devil’s tool that is consuming my mind in these early days. That fear that wipes over me as I get sober is normal since I am taking away the solution I have used for so long to mask myself. But think about the fact that any perceived insecurities are created from false thoughts created inside me, or from belief in the false negative from outside influences that take myself away from realizing the truth in myself. So today I am looking deep into me heart and realizing this obsession will past. Even though tonight will be brutal- this discomfort will help me grow. Or so I have to believe this to get through the night.