I haven’t wrote to you my silent audience in seven months. That’s not an apology- just an observation. Not much happened in those months-I felt I was trapped in the Mr. Robot plot line when Leon is watching 90’s sitcoms- so yeah I watched a lot of tv and maybe I can start dissecting down shows for you in the future. You would like that right? But alas me first must go through the drudgery of what got me posting again. First, a month or two before my last post, a brand new med provider, who only knew me from reading a chart from her overloaded casework sat down with me for less than 15 minutes had lowered a dose of meds I was on when I was feeling better than ever because she felt my doses were too high-and well that wasn’t her style. Even though the med combo she changed was giving to me by an award winning psychiatrist when I was in the BCU( inpatient- psyche ward for those that aren’t into the lingo). And before that med drop I had done so much trauma work to find peace with the murders themselves I was feeling better than I had in a decade. The change down in meds led to the depression to return. But it was to me the worst type of depression: the one where you don’t go through a crazy suicidal spiral you can you use to fuse writing, but instead where you just lose interest in all your loves- most crucially my love of writing. Eventually I started living in a purgatory where each day at school working and teaching the kids became a sanctuary where I felt joy- and after the last bell of the day I felt just like Halloween decorations in an attic just existing to be used on a day celebrating terror, masks, and fear. This purgatory led to the anesthetic of vodka to fill the void. Never understanding why I couldn’t figure out my depression, why I was so full of hatred in my gut, and why was I not fighting back anymore. Than around Christmas I had a manic episode where I was living in a delusion where money didn’t matter, and the only solace I found was in cam models online. I wasn’t in it so much for the general idea of their existence- not say that wasn’t an enticement and perk- but it was more to have conversations beyond the character they have to play. At first I mostly talked to a newcomer from Russia who in one of her model pics was reading an Emily Bronte novel. She absolutely hated doing this because she was too sensitive and naively thought she could find human connection with such a job since was young and enjoyed sex. Instead she was mostly treated as someone who literally didn’t exist- just a pornhub video come to life where the person on the end of the other screen becomes the director using her simply as an object for his sexual hang-ups. She soon left- I didn’t blame her. After failing to find a girl that intrigued or interested meet I met a Columbian girl dealing with a dad with cancer, and a schizophrenic brother. She was honest, and soon we became snapchat friends. She was brutally frank with me as she said that I had a very handsome face, but she was worried because I was out of shape and drinking too much, and needed to go to the gym because of my health, and I wasn’t getting any younger. All of this was true- I had gained about 25 pounds since that last post and became the fat John Wick Version of Fat Thor, and I hadn’t hit the gym in months. And just for the record neither model ever hit me up for me to send them money. Anyway after the manic episode ended- or at least when I finally realized it was over- the suicidal thoughts crept back after a year of never having that question flow in my head. I tried to pretend I was fine, and didn’t need help, but the thoughts and impulses became worst so I went to the ER and checked back into inpatient at the BHU(Behavior Health Unit) about a year from my last visit. I was still delusional thinking I just needed a quick detox and med tweak. But for ten of the 15 days I was inpatient my head was pollen flowing through an aimless wind. I heard voices, hallucinations that begged me to believe they were honest, and a mind always on the verge about to collide with a mountain because of the fog. I couldn’t concentrate to read or write, so instead I just spent days walking miles around the unit, doing yoga stretches, and trying not to bang my head on a window to end the pain- or use the pain to stay in the fog long enough to finally succeeding in hitting the mountain to find the peace I was searching for. I only told my work, and my parents I was checking in. I didn’t bring anyone’s phone numbers, nor want anyone to call to talk to me, because I knew in the back of my mind I needed to experience this journey without distraction. Day 11 was the fucking worst. I sat, and walked with my big belly of emotions. I just let them come through me, feeling everyone, not judging, nor interrupting anyone that passed, and just being ohhh so fucking uncomfortable every second of that day. Usually in the past I would try to distract myself from that uncomfortableness; I would talk to a pretty girl, take an anxiety pill, or try to help someone out with their problems. But instead I just walked and let these feelings lash me on my bare back. Tuesday came with comfort and relief. I found a note in a random journal I hadn’t used in a year and that note cut me in half with how they viewed my words with such sincerity, and how I used those words to destroy her delicate and brittle soul in the end out of my fear of losing someone I truly could care about- but that part will be for another day- maybe another story- but it finally made me examine with honest eyes why that hatred was still in me. I had one piece of the puzzle missing left to truly explore. When I no longer could pin-point my hatred, and found healing from my eldest brother murdering my sister Tricia, my four year old niece Gillian, or my two year old nephew James- I raked my brain to find why was I still so full of hate? So I took a sword with a rusted spikes on the end to my belly to see what would spill out on the pages. What I found wasn’t pretty metaphors or gruesome destructions it was more simple. I hated myself and never wanted to feel the loss like I had before so I became a time bomb of self-destruction when anything starting going good. Not wanting truly wanting to get close to anybody, and tricking my brain against all reason that I wasn’t and could not be loved had become ingrained truths in me. I had suppressed so much emotion after the tragedy I had rewired my brain to never want to give anyone the chance to cause me the feelings as losing them had. That simple truth- plus a new med, and med tweak has put me back on track. I know what I have to work on in therapy now- especially in EMDR. I know I have to be more social not isolated, and structured throughout my day. And know I need to return to the gym, and back to my healthy eating style. And I know I have to be faithfully honest to myself, and you my fearless readers. So get ready for some rawness, some beauty touched with some joyous agony, and probably some weird shit too.
Tag: Recovery
I think I’m John Wick
I haven’t wrote here in awhile- at first it was because things were going so well. The chaos was behind me so the words stopped flowing. My brain though- through years of repetition, repeating past cycles, and being able to grasp in its clutches the one thing that still caused me pain- however was sly. It’s like I jumped in the front seat of a Cadillac while never noticing the killer in the back, with a halo in his hands meant to choke out my existence. The thing was unlike before I wasn’t in deep despair- nor any longing for the embrace of a breathless existence. Things just became too normal- everything was going too well. It just made me too uncomfortable to be comfortable and free from calamity’s oasis. So embraced my old mistress and took a sip of the pleasure of my pain. Ruining the friendship of the person whose past pain was similar to mine, and could relate in a level so much deeper than most. Instead I found umbrage in embarrassing fb messages, and the matrix of dating sites. Not wanting a connection till my brain was on autopilot, and my past code took over control. My future was so bright that each night I blacked out the night- inching ever so closer to those future days I was actively trying to destroy. A catch 22 of the madness of despair. I named this blog Broken Resolutions because it was an ode to the past. And while today I start a new journey- I learned a new lesson. You can’t fix anything in the morning if you are actively destroying it each night. Comfort equals despair when your actively trying to change. The only thing I was mindful in those almost two months was my dishonesty to myself, knowing all the right lies to trick myself. So here again I am freeing my secrets- sending them out so they can’t hide in me no more. Feeling the night so I can enjoy the brightness of the day. Still wondering in confusion, but tonite I am sober. And tomorrow will follow. And from there just like doing lunges at the gym I am just going to enjoy the suck- knowing the only way to be freed from past sins is falling into the arms of the the destruction of that oasis of my past love, chaos. And if all else fails l’ll just pretend I am John Wick, and booze was my dog’s killer. Taking revenge on that bastard by never taking that first sip.
Embracing the Dullness
“Maybe dullness is associated with psychic pain because something that’s dull or opaque fails to provide enough stimulation to distract people from some other, deeper pain that is always there, if only in ambient low-level way, and which most of us spend nearly all our time and energy trying to distract ourselves from feeling, or at least from feeling directly or with out full attention.” DFW
Being able to embrace the dullness is a new feeling for me. Almost two months ago I finally recognized the reality of what I had been trying to distract myself from for almost fourteen years- three murders that turned into internal hatred for my own self because of my reaction to the situation, and my flight from feelings and life. That pain was so brutal I felt the only solution was the ultimate distraction from life- that being death. Suicidal plans, thoughts, and ideation are the last resort of a tortured brain that has nothing left to distract itself from, and all other alternatives have faltered.
With things finally going well, and the bizarre feelings of happiness I am experiencing, I realized that my brain was confused. As soon as things started going good my default setting turned back to thoughts of booze. This time, however, I realized these thoughts came because of my normal past actions of self-sabotage.
The ability to recognize this was halo in the abyss of darkness, and proof that purging myself in a geyser of feelings was actually worth it. So today was a dull day. I went to the gym, organized paperwork, put on new sheets and made my bed, read, watched wrestling, and wrote a blog. Not the most exciting Sunday but another day I didn’t need to create chaos to function. I still have fears that I won’t be able to write when happy, but I at least now that’s fear in the comfort of self-sabotage. So I am saying fuck that noise and continuning to write no matter what. And hell I might even start a new blog about wrestling next that will be strictly for my humanoids.
To you it’s just words
The day after Valentine’s Day is always a good day to reflect on love. To think about the wounded roses and thorns lost in the copse of smoldering bonfires where only the lust of smoke lingers. Through the haze thinking about all the corpses of lost loves- most of mine from self-inflicted wounds through the carelessness of my sins. Mundane curiosity makes me reflect for a moment at what could have been- but realizing swiftly that all my actions past faults makes me just grateful for my next chance at someone’s heart. Tenderness abides at the cold oceans wake; for February keeps so many hearts in sleepless hibernation. I am feeling catatonic, and yet so awake. Cuffing season and cuddling I sorely do miss, but springtime is coming across the snows mist. Soon the pollen will fill up the air as the sun beats down on the muddy soils despair, and I will trudge through this journey for three hundred and sixty four more days, knowing my heart is awake even if it’s shadowed with doubt.
Infinite Forms
“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
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
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
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
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.
Fresh out the Ward
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.
Patrick Bernard 