Every day I wake up a new person.
I think that's what close calls do to you.
You just put your head down and plow forward.
You have no real sense of self, you're just a cut-out pretending to be human.
Occupy space. Draw no suspicion. Collect paycheck.
Keep food water and shelter.
The plan is to one day not need to pretend.
Not even walk among you.
No need to smile, nod, or nudge you in the ribs.
I can be me.
At long last!
Whatever the hell that is.
Come tomorrw, I won't be here.
Someone else will wake up in my skin-suit and stomp along
pantomiming their best guess.
Just a nuanced performance of facsimiles and phantoms.
What they thought was real, what they thought was me.
They'll never know any better.
And why should they?
I can't feel my fingertips. That was a problem a habit ago.
Lighting up and flicking all wrong. Flint and fumbles.
A turn or two, and I stumbled into my 30's.
A shameless timid attempt to outlive my expectations.
What comes next?
Bad callbacks, letters to my ex, and my son never to be?
I've lost my resolve, I've sold all my rage.
Traded for a level grind, and semblances of stability.
I'm sorry I wasn't there for me.
I built a hill of the tiny letters I never sent.
Orphan script on brittle crumpled wads.
Sheets. Reems. Rolls. Scribbles. Doodles.
A sonnet, a couplet, a dirty limerick.
More of what not to say
of who to pretend
of how not to feel
of precious words tumbling down a bin.
At times I was assisted by pharmaceuticals, but I've slept most of the last two days away
lost 4 lbs, had a few cool dreams about playing in the little-league world series.
What started all this?
I snorted to clear my throat at about 8:00 Sunday morning, threw out every ligament and muscle in my neck and upper torso and hovered at about a 7 on the pain scale in about 45% of my body for 36 hours.
I'm not kidding. I snorted and hocked my throat, and felt my muscles snap and spasm in shock, and couldn't move my head in any direction for several hours.
I did not go to work today.
My range of motion is shot. I was barely upright until today.
I've used my exercise ball, my inversion table, and some leftover painkillers and muscle relaxers
now the pain and tension has finally crept up to my head at about a 4, I'm actually thankful for this.
I can move.
I can sit up.
I can eat.
I can get out of bed.
The will to live is slowly creeping back into me.
There were moments it was gone, and I was fairly convinced that this would just be the start of pain management, harsher drugs, and a rapid descent into addiction, overdose, joblessness, and eventually death. It's not going to take a whole lot to push me from pills to needles. Not being in pain gets me high.
I'm scared. I'm hurt. I'm angry.
A weird cocktail of hope and rage keeps me going, but days like this really bring it all back, and pile it on.
They tell me that's what PTSD is.
I guess I just gotta reinforce my coping mechanisms and keep running as fast as I can from the past.
This is the kind of night I'd spend drinking in a friend's back yard.
Painted ladies, passed on hash, artisanal beer, bon fires,
Neckbeards. Meth etchings. Broken glass.
On second thought, this is the kind of night I'd spend drinking with strangers.
Anonymity, wobbly stools, spinning urinals,
Police calls. Bondsmen. Sanitized cement floors.
This is the kind of night I'd spend drinking in my bathtub.
We're beginning phase two of the operation.
Not sure how many phases there actually are, but with everything paid:
Begin phase 2.
Phase 2 will consist of counting my stacks of money, financial planning (with ridiculous contingencies in mind), and real estate hunting/home design.
Yeah... home design.
I'm not finding paradise, so I might have to build it.
I'm getting so damn close to this thing that it's making me crazy(er).
I'd get away from it, take a break, think about something else
But there is nothing else. Especially with the Baseball season ending. Woo. Playoffs.
Romance is slamming into a brick wall. Game of the decade (Phantom Pain) is wrapping up with a few secret endings and some other shit to finish out.
It is fucking
I dunno what to do with myself after that. Keep working and keep living.
I feel on edge all the time, and I'm months from making the first damn move.
I need to call a realtor, ask some feeler-questions, and get some quotes.
I've done harder, crazier things. But this is big.
At the moment, this is everything.
Got my raise. The medical debt check posted.
I informed my boss of an earnest attempt at getting a promotion by next review.
is probably a bust.
I'm still celebrating, win or lose, it's over.
Pain's been pretty high lately. Sleep has been pretty low.
Haven't seen any fantastic houses on the market.
I'm taking a four day weekend and playing the bejesus out of The Phantom Pain. Should be here Wednesday barring any shipping errors.
And yes, I'm not taking vacation for your wedding, anniversary, birth of your child
I'm taking vacation to play video games in pajama pants.
This next check will have my bonus, and my new pay amount.
I'm kinda lonely. I'm sure some of you have picked up on that.
But I don't think I'm remotely capable of a relationship.
Or giving a shit.
That's a problem. It'll get fixed in time.
I'm gonna wear burgandy pants and my heinous houndstooth jacket from the 60's to celebrate.
Then I'm going to crush my enemies, drive them before me and hear the lamentation of their women.
I cut a check for the grossly inflated overchargy medical expenses I couldn't get written off that I'm not legally responsible for.
Meeting with the lawyer Tuesday.
I'ts been a week... month... year. Decade.
I think I -have- to have my yearly review by next week or my boss' ass is on the line.
Not that I'm really chomping at the bit over it, but it'd be nice to know how well I'm doing, and if I'm getting a raise.
So this week promises to be a little purple too.
I thought I'd feel more relief being in this spot, being able to pay these vultures off, and stacking even more of my money each month in more neat little rows.
I mostly feel tired, hurt, and angry.
Like I always do.
I hope you're watching.
I know you're not.
I don't know what I want to say here, about the state of things, what has happened, where I am, how I am.
I'm still standing.
I might be propped up with pain killers and raw, hate-filled determination, but I'm still here.
My year review is any time between now, and next month. I've been a little on edge, but I'm fairly optimistic. I think my overall performance and output have been the same, possibly increased, and I've made a few splashes here and there. I even helped train a couple people, offered some helpful advice. I've even taken on more responsibilities when called upon. Not much more has been asked of me.
I don't think I've synched a promotion, or landed a HUGE payraise or bonus. I'm just doing my job, desperately, to get what I need.
Strangely that's somehow remarkable.
I'm trying to stay strong, but every now and then, when I really take stock of what I've lost, it can be really hard. The goals creep closer, and I bitterly ask "then what?".
I'm spending a lot of time with my brother.
Every day hurts.
My dog still loves me.
No news on the debt. No news on the lawsuits.
I'll survive despite them.
My heart is broken and in teeny tiny pieces in the dirt.
Not to where I yearn, and pine.
I'm not drinking so much.
But I don't even imagine myself feeling any more.
The last wick and pool of passion and warmth is spent.
... course they make -new- candles for when that happens.
I don't know what comes next.
I still want to make a valiant, desperate stab at being free.
My water, My food. My land. My sky.
I don't know if my battered body will permit it.
I still want to try.
I miss the hope. The random of being so entwined in someone else.
Everything else is a red haze of agonizing tension in my back, neck, arms, and head.
It's been a bad pain ... season? A very long summer of injury.
Winter will surely be a bitch.