Coffee, tumors, and brown chicks. Yup.

Here’s a tiny little update.

So this tumor thing, right. Let’s get that out of the way. 99% positive on all fronts from doctors it is benign. It’s still not a GOOD thing to have in your head, and if it’s what they think it is, it’ll come back. But my brain isn’t cancer’d. We don’t know if the problems I’ve already had will get fixed by the removal. I’m still not terribly good at hearing things, but hey. Could be worse. Problematically, some jackoff of a neurological radiologist decided to make my life hell and proclaim I shouldn’t get surgery, thus setting me back a lot in this attempt to get myself fixed, despite every other doctor and test speaking to the contrary. He had them cancel other tests, just as I was a month away from going to UW for some skull splittin’. I’ll be grabbing up a second, third, tenth opinion just to prove him wrong and get my shit handled. I do not like that man, he is not fun and I will not invite him over for tea.

My doctor put me on some form of beta blocker for these crazy heartbeats I’ve had for years. They came with a warning: Don’t miss your doses, and don’t take any stimulants. Coffee included.

Oh. Coffee. No… coffee.

This won’t do. At all. I. Can’t. Help. Myself.

Now, I know, I know. I should listen to the doctor. But it’s coffee. Coffee has been my perfect friend for most of my life, spawning many nights wide awake and tap-tap-taping away at a computer, doing just this. I would marry, make love to, bear the children of coffee, and always swallow.  Okay, maybe not. But you get the idea.

Hell, I’m in a coffee shop right now (I’m in Washington, for fuck’s sake, what else am I going to do with myself?) and it seems to be the only way I can keep myself sitting still for more than five minutes at a time. I’m a jumpy bastard, but somehow the coffee stops me in my tracks. It calms me, forces focus, gives me an excuse to do what I love.

I am trying the half-caf route. It’s going okay. I am not happy about this, of course. I want to buzz around all day wide-eyed and cracked out. It’s what I do! Instead, I have to stick with my run of the mill insomnia, with a dash of caffeine to keep it in check.

When they asked me how much coffee I drink in a day, I was given a look of “really?” Yes, really. I assured them I’ve even quit before to make sure it wasn’t the cause of the palpitations, under cardiologists orders. I just have a fucky heart. It does what it wants and doesn’t like to be told what to do, so sue me.

So for now I’ll have to take my brown death water at half mast. But I’ll shake a fist at the sky every damn time I order it like that, dammit. This is injustice.

And with that bitter little rant out of the way (not a pun, go away,) here’s the least fun thing I’ve noticed this week: Apparently when you’re surrounded by very, very pale people, you become an alien. I’ve been treated like some exotic creature from another world, and it’s very confusing. In Florida, there are brown chicks everywhere. Thanks to this, I am now some sort of token. Whatever works, I guess. I’m going to start using “is this because I’m black” for anything and everything due to these people.

I have some very neat people sitting down with me for stories soon. Until then, have this lovely song I’ve been obsessed with.

A million strange strangers

Salt Lake was a weird fucking town. I’ve seen stranger, but this had a certain flavor of off. Everyone seemed more or less aimless, glassy eyed, and utterly bored. Granted, this was only within one square mile of the bus station, but it was an interesting thing to view either way. Apparently it is quite the hub of rail hopping and transient kids, crashing in run down apartments or warehouses til some other seasonal job calls to them from far away.

It all started with one little group of self-professed punks…

Pretty sure they "borrowed" over a pack of smokes from me.

Pretty sure they “borrowed” over a pack of smokes from me.

… and ended with the strangest walk to a gas station I’d ever taken (and I’ve taken many.)

The boys above painted rocks with anarchy symbols, cats and a few random squiggles. They bummed smokes, kicked each other in the balls and sold what appeared to be stolen cell phones to a kid we’ll call James.

James was the quieter one of the group, and apparently newer to them all. He was no stranger to life on the rails. I had been speaking with them for a while when James came back from a short walk, coffee and snacks in tow. Having been stuck in this god awful station for 7 hours now without food or the sight of my best friend caffeine, I flat out begged him to show me the gas station.

Note: When you’re doing shit like this, you put far more trust into strangers than you normally would. Asking a nice homeless man to take you through back alleys for a donut shouldn’t be a daily occurrence.

Regardless, I asked, because fuck it. Social conventions suck. Off we go, wandering along — me and my new buddy James.

Except James is a full blown paranoid schizophrenic. I learned this the moment he opened his mouth.

James: “What do you think of Israel?”

Me: “In what c–”


And this continued. For the entire walk. I tried to keep pace with him as he threw his arms up and yelled to the sky along the way to the gas station. Everything was punctuated with  “y’knowhamean?” Too concerned to ever say SWEET JESUS FUCK NO WHAT DO YOU EVEN MEAN? I made do with constant nods of approval and “Yep!” Luckily not everything he spoke of was conspiracy– he was fond of flowers, weed, and the stars as well.

We finally manage to get to this station. I rush in and grab as much crap as I possibly can, swearing silently to myself that I needed enough to ration off as to avoid doing this again. I noted the security guard there was now trapped by his very confusing words, and he gave me a wide-eyed stare as James rambled off at him. I just shrugged and shook my head, offering my best I’m so sorry look. I just wanted to get out of there and back to the mass of people that could be witnesses in case he figured me an Israeli spy and shanked me.

This kid needs help, I thought, as we made our way back through the run down streets and abandoned buildings. I felt bad for him, his family, for his life.

“You know? Isn’t it nice out? Isn’t this great! Most people just like… don’t listen to me, yaknowhamean? They think I’m stupid and I know I say a lot of shit bu I ain’t stupid, yaknowwhamean? Right?”

Right there. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The sun was shining, and the wind blew dust around us. It was cold and alive, and so was he, eager and hoping for someone to validate him. I realized how often this man must be dismissed, passed over, forgotten and written off. He had nobody in the world to just say “you’re okay, man,” and so many must view him as subhuman. He even said so himself: “it’s like I people don’t want me to exist.” I felt like the biggest piece of shit for considering, even for a moment, that I needed to get far away from him. He hadn’t shown any sort of malice, no violence, and even spoke of his deep fear of confrontation.

“You’re not stupid, man. I know what you mean. You’re a good guy.”

I couldn’t think of some great, inspiring speech to give him. I had nothing to offer, standing in the middle of nowhere in my unwashed clothes and dire need of sleep. I was lost too, far from anything I knew, and I felt like that’s all that was needed. It was just us, two strangers with nothing to give. He smiled at me. I smiled at him. We walked back in silence, his gaze on the asphalt and hands in pockets. But he was smiling. We were friends now.

I lost track of him soon enough. It’s a busy station. Eventually, the bus arrived for us all. I rushed into the rear to take the tiny seat nobody wanted in an attempt to be alone with it, maybe sleep some. James was the last one to get on the bus, and not much was left for him. He made his way to the very last seat and quietly, expecting to be turned down, asked if he could sit next to me.

James, despite, or because of, his delusions then became a sort of bodyguard. He saved the seats, kept watch over the bags, and left me to my attempts at sleep.

Then I fucked up.

We made a few stops, and slowly people trickled off. Finally, more seats opened, and there was enough space for us to spread out. James had come back on the bus as we were getting ready to pull away again, and without thinking he would take it the wrong way, I asked if he’d want one of the open seats so he can sleep more comfortably.

To him, right then, I rejected his company. I watched his face go from neutral to utterly dejected in a matter of seconds. Before I could clarify that I was only asking for his benefit, not to get rid of him, he grabbed his stuff and moved to the front of the bus. Every other stop we made, he kept a distance. I didn’t push the issue, and at first I was a little angry. I didn’t do anything wrong, I told myself. He took it the wrong way. You don’t even know this guy, why are you so worried about him?

But I was worried. I felt bad because by then, he was just glad to be able to talk to someone. The other guys he was travelling with poked fun at him and used his kindness, and while it visibly upset him he didn’t know how to stop it. He seemed resigned to it. I couldn’t help but end up protective.

After another night it was time for me to part ways with the group of rail chasers. They were headed off to California to pick berries of some sort, and keep moving along. With them slipped my momentary friend, a crazy fucker with wild delusions. A few people told me was crazy for talking to the dude, but they didn’t even try. I didn’t do anything special or unique, I just talked to a lonely stranger. Maybe it bothered me because I’ve been in his position before, alone and unsure how to communicate that (minus the crippling delusions.)

I hope someone befriended him. I know I don’t owe the guy anything, and he’s “just another stranger”, but it meant something to him to have someone to talk to. It meant something to me to gain his trust when he trusted nothing. So I’m sorry, James. You’re gonna be alright, dude, somehow.

I’m lost, and that’s okay.

This is the kind of chill I only experienced a few times in my life, travelling in winter. Stepping into the snow for the first time sent my skin into a frenzy– I had never known such a feeling.

Now the mornings are just as absent of the warmth I am used to. Walking down the street earlier, every shadowed area was covered in a thick frost. My breath came out of me in a fog. I’m not used to any of it, but it’s perfect. While everyone else curses and bundles up, I rush outside every morning to catch the freeze before the sun comes. I watch the rise over the mountains, see the reflection off the ocean.

“You must hate this, Florida is so beautiful!”

No. No, this is perfect. This is good.

I tell myself this every morning I wake up, or every night I can’t sleep. This is good. You need this. I pass out in a flurry of nightmares and tell myself, no, this is good. I watch people go about their days and lives, and constantly I tell myself. Every day.

It’s a funny thing that happens to you, when your brain has been so improperly wired for so long. You start to believe you are not just depressed, or anxious. You’re just like this, and that’s all there is to it. You’re not broken– you’re fine. It’s what you’re made for. It helps you create art, or words, or keep a distance from others… which keeps you safe. You’re impenetrable except from yourself.

I tried medication, years ago. Multiple kinds, various strengths. It all ended in public breakdowns, mental breakdowns, and a complete loss of identity. I tried to write and came up blank. I stared at nothing and debated the best way to throw myself from my bedroom window. My more recent attempt (many years ago, still) ended with me running from my home and job to live in the woods. I only came to my senses after nearly dying from the withdrawals after realizing I had to quit. (Never take Effexor, kids.)

Now, where am I? Across a country, exploring a world I’ve never known, trying not to let my one asset and curse get taken from me. Fucking brain has yet again turned on me, hasn’t it? Much more sinister fashion this time.

But I’m lost. And I’ve always been lost. All those days spent among friends, be it at my lover Undergrounds, or in Miami, or the streets of Fort Lauderdale… I was never there. You saw me, you spoke to me, you engaged me in various ways. But I wasn’t fucking there. Back, far away where you can’t reach, is that damn voice.

This is wrong. Why are you out here? What did she just say? I don’t feel well. Why am I angry? What the fuck am I doing here?

I’ve let people down by simply not showing up. I’ve stopped responding to calls or messages at various times in my life, only to pop back up out of nowhere. There’s no excuse for that, really — I’m a bad friend. I am, really. I don’t mean to be, and I’ve tried very hard not to. But in the end, I’m gone. I’ve up and left the state, the city, and my usual haunts without a moment’s notice. Turned down friends, missed birthdays.

I am a bad friend, and an even worse person when it comes to self-preservation. I am fully aware of this. But somehow, there are a few people that stick by my side no matter what I do. I never set out to hurt anyone, and I’d never purposefully upset anyone without cause. Maybe they see that. I will never know, because frankly, I’m afraid to even ask why the fuck anyone puts up with it.

Lately, I’ve seen some people I know admit to their problems and take control. I’m so proud of them, I really am.

I can’t do it. 

I’ve seen what happens to me when I try to “fix” things. Therapy. Medication. Special schools. My last meeting with a psychiatrist included these words from her mouth: “Why are you still alive?”

why are you still alive. 


I went to med school to say retarded shit.

God, those words hung in the air over my head and crashed through me. Why? A therapist asking me why? I thought about all the things I had told her– I let it all out that day– and fuck, that’s what she gathered? Not long after came the press devouring the whole “depression is bad, mkay” debate that followed the death of Robin Williams, as if people didn’t notice it was bad before, and I got bitter. Really bitter. Suddenly everyone was an expert on how it felt to be that low, and “why don’t people just get over it?” flew out of the mouths of the masses.

I don’t know where I’m headed. All I can do is move around, have momentary encounters with people, and poof away into some weird little world where I only process music and words on a screen that come out of me in no real order.

I’d like to say I will make an attempt to fix myself. That nobody ever needs to worry about me, and I’ll take some pills and end up just fine.

I won’t. I won’t do it again, because this is what I do. It’s not some sad thing, it’s not defeatist. If I can’t make things, I’m unhappy. Not everyone loses that on medication. I hope everyone that tries to get help finds solace, and can end up better. For some people it’s amazingly helpful, but it isn’t for me. I’d rather be an asshole that forgets to hang out, an asshole that skips town, an asshole with a rotting brain and an uncertain future than what all those pills did to me. But it’s okay.

You can take this as some self-defeating, anti-whatever rant. Maybe it is, maybe it’s just me realizing my only hope is to exist as I see fit. I’m not a great writer, I’m not the best artist, but dammit it gives me purpose. I refuse to lose that.

In the meantime, I’m going to keep riding buses, going nowhere, and writing about it. ‘Cause that’s who I am, and what I do.  I’m sorry.

Living the American dream, one arrest at a time.

Just another day. I was headed in to work, and due to my impeccable timing, missed the bus. No problem– cabs exist for a reason.

Shortly after calling a driver pulls up to me, smiling.

“Oh, I am very sorry, do you want me to open the trunk for your bag?”

“No, no! I’ve got it, I’m ok.”

He was so cheerful. He had a great big smile on his face, and asked where I was headed. I told him my theater, and he became excited and animated. “Are you a musician!?” No, no. I am not. I told him about my job, and Kamran whipped out his phone.

“I was in a band! Would you like to see?”

The rest that followed simply blew me away.

Kamran came to the United States permanently in 1996, he said. Most of his musical success came in the early to mid 80s.

“It doesn’t look or sound as good as I’d like. It is fifth generation video you’re watching. There! That’s me, on the keyboards!”

We talked shop for a while. He told me of the songs they would play, and how he set up a camera system to show video and the crowd at their shows, “which in Pakistan, nobody really had done that before. We played a kind of music and put on shows that were special. We were number one in my country, can you believe that?”

It’s when I dug a bit deeper that the conversation steered to a darker tone.

“So what made you stop playing?”

“Ah. Well, I was kidnapped…”

He didn’t say anything else about that for a while. We continued along the road, exchanging videos of music and discussing his adoration for playing. Kamran explained how after a while, his band broke up, so he started a solo career.

“I couldn’t sing! I didn’t care. They loved me, on TV. So I wrote a song, made this music, shot a video… all in one day. They put it on the TV. They did love me very much, there.” He dug around in his center console and pulled out a tape.

“This was us! I like to show this to people and play it for them. The memories make me so happy. It’s sad but happy.”

The Arid Zone tape

After a while we came up on my work, but I couldn’t leave it at that. He seemed to dance around the subject of why he came to the US, but I could tell he wanted to approach it. “So… what’s your story then? Why are you here?”

“I came here at first to learn English in 1991. That’s why I come, I wanted to know! I liked it here, too.”

I started unloading my bag, but I had to hear more. I told him I was planning on writing this out, telling his story, even if I only had minimal details. “I’d really love to hear more about what happened to you, if that’s ok.”

“Sure! But it will make you cry.”

“I was so big in Pakistan. I was a model, too! Here!” He shows me TV ads with him selling products, posing for the camera, taking a well timed sip of coffee for the advertisement. It is all very 80s kitsch, and it is awesome for that.

“I had money. So, of course, I was kidnapped. They only wanted money from us. The bad thing, I was dating a woman who had a father involved in the US military or… I think security company from US? And her father sent men to intimidate and hurt the ones that captured me. My father, he told them what a horrible idea. Now I could be killed. He sent me away to the states, afraid for my life. That was in 1996. I lived here, I got my degree, everything was fine. I have degree in business and management, I knew what I was doing. But then…”

He got a bit quieter. My time was running short to make it into work on time. We had long since turned off the meter in the cab, and I hadn’t even paid yet… but I couldn’t leave.

“Then 9/11 happened. I was married by then, but my wife, she didn’t want me anymore. So she reported me as a terrorist. I was taken away by the FBI. She took it all… my house, my money, my life. She left our son in foster care, she never wanted him. After a while they realized I wasn’t a bad man and they let me go, but it was too late. She got everything and now I had a record as being arrested for terrorism. I was never convicted, but it didn’t matter. I can’t get a job except this. I even asked the FBI, please… this is my life, just remove this from my record, it’s ruining everything. But no. even though I am innocent it is still there, and always will be.”

He pulled out his phone and showed me the background image of a smiling, handsome young man.

“My son! This is my baby. It took me two years to find him again in the foster system. Two years to get him back. I told them, this is my son, get your own. This is my baby. They fought me so hard, but he is my boy. I couldn’t lose my baby.”

“I lost everything, but it is good. God does this… how is it? He gives you the world, but then he tests you. He takes it all away from you as a test. And it was good… before I was just too greedy. So much money, money money money. Now, after I had nothing, I can smile. Little things, you know? I am happy, God has been so good to me. I am alive! You just… just stay happy, and realize what you do have.”

I couldn’t stay any longer and I told him as much. I hated to leave, but I had work to do. He gave me his card with his number, and I asked him to turn and smile for the camera for me so that I wouldn’t forget his face or his story.

“Oh, don’t worry. You will never forget.”

I won't forget Kamran.

I won’t forget, Kamran.

For the curious, and my hatred for “sorry.”

A lot of people, on a daily basis, ask me how I’m feeling. Some even treat me like I’m on my deathbed, which makes me feel all kinds of special. It gets a bit daunting reciting the same thing every day, especially since a good portion of people know I have multiple systems working against me at once, and they want details. I’m writing this up as a small guide to How I Feel™, and a bit of the why. I skipped the smaller stuff, because these are the main concerns out to suck my life force.

Let’s start with the big dog everyone is worried about: The thing in my head.

The first culprit:

First, some perspective. Here’s the area the thing is, called the petrous apex:


And this is what it looks like when there’s a thingy in there (this is not my head): Image

Not pretty, eh? Doesn’t feel pretty either. It doesn’t have very far to go when it grows, so it pushes on the facial nerves. Or the carotid artery, your inner ear canal and various innards. Eventually it will wreck all your shit in there and start eroding the bone keeping it out of your brain. That’s not good either, I think you can guess why… we like having brains They’re good for us! Best left uneroded.

So due to this happy little bastard in the right side of my skull (bonus: while looking for this, they found my sinus cavity has cysts. Explains the sinus infections!)  I am usually trying my best not to fall to the right (balance and all that, dizziness) I always have a headache, I can’t hear terribly well, sometimes my ear bleeds. My face will go numb and become difficult to speak with, or just tingle til I want to remove the skin. The pain will go down the back of my neck into my shoulder, and radiate as far down as it likes. Couple this with my previous issues from too many concussions and I’m a speechless, slurring, hard of hearing, forgetful idiot sometimes. I’ve become a professional at hiding it, however, so most people just think I’m drunk. It’s fun to play with.

What we have learned:

I still am not sure what it is. They just keep referring to it as a granuloma, which is slang for we don’t fucking know. It isn’t fun, and makes my head all stupid. I cannot afford treatment so I just deal with it.

The second culprit:

Next up, most of you are aware I have Crohn’s. I will not provide any pictures with this one because asses and poop. So this one is actually a bastard, since it’s been with me for the last twenty-five years. It never gets better, and I certainly cannot afford the medications for it, so I just go about my day til I end up in the hospital for it eventually.

What this one does is simple in some respects. It is an autoimmune disease, and it attacks (mainly) part of your digestive tract. Any part it pleases really, so it could be a surprise! Mine has no specific place, so it’s always a gamble when I go in and wave my hand absently around my stomach at the doctor when he asks where it hurts.

“It hurts about from the everything here to all my everything. Please fix k.”

But! It doesn’t just hurt your tummy and make eating a chore. It can wreck your eyesight from inflammation, cause nasty arthritis, skin problems, various body pains and all around ick. Everywhere. Kinda like the idea of lupus but with more crapping. That’s only in the more hardcore cases on the moderate to severe scale, though, and most people get remissions.

I have it moderate to severe and I’ve not had a remission for more than a a couple months in ten years. So you can guess how I feel, usually.

What we have learned:

Shit sucks, yo. Nah seriously, those times I rapidly lose weight, saying “you should eat more” is a fine way to get a big fat shut the fuck up your ass. I have no qualms about putting things in your ass, either– I’ve had it done to me often enough, and the bastard made me pay him.

The third culprit:

And last but not least, the kidneys! How could we forget the kidneys? Most of you probably don’t know that in my family, we have a nifty guy hitching about in our DNA called PKD, or polycystic-kidney disease. It looks like (fair warning, ick) this:


Also not pretty stuff. This one tends to shut down the kidneys and put you on the everlasting list of doom awaiting another from a donor, while little machines pump fluids in and out of you so you don’t die. Mine haven’t failed as of yet, but this still comes with bonuses.

I found out very much by accident after having some scans taken when I injured myself a few times in one year (I got hit by a moving van, later fell and wrecked my knee, etc. Good year!) the doctor pulled me aside and asked me very calmly, yet distressed, “did you know about this before, or am I the unlucky one to tell you?” I sort of looked at it a while. I was sinking inside. I knew it ran in the family, but I had no idea it was in me already. The scan said, too many cysts to count. I lied to that doctor, sort of. I said I knew. Didn’t want to bring him down a bit too, y’know.

So with this one you get lots of goodies. Cysts can show up where they damn well please. I have them all over my ovaries, one or two on the liver, and who knows where else by now. The kidneys just keep getting larger and larger, so the other organs get squished about. It does a bunch of other awful things but we’ll skip those for now. This compliments Crohn’s nicely, since things get inflamed and also grow about. If I look a bit chubby for a week, it’s because my organs are fighting for space, now go away and let me eat cookies while I cry.

What have we learned:

Coupled with my spinal injuries from the van incident, along with scoliosis, I’m a back pain masterpiece. Kidney disease hurts. And if there’s a new way for me to sit uncomfortably, I’ll find it. I’m that good. 

So the main thing to take from this is: I’m always in a wide variety of pain, all of the time. It doesn’t stop, no matter what. It changes in ferocity but never goes away. It has been this way for a long time, and it won’t stop, either. So when you ask me how I feel, if I say I’m fine, I’m fine. My fine may be a bit different from your definition of fine (my ear only bled ONCE today and I ate a whole sandwich! I AM GOD) but seriously, it’s cool.

Don’t tell me “I’m so sorry.” I don’t like sorry. You didn’t make me sick, why the hell are you saying sorry?! There’s nothing to be sorry for, I’m fine. Do I have bad days and want to shoot the offending areas? Of course. Add to it having no insurance to get help with any of this, and I’m just a pleasant fucker all the time.

But, I don’t care. I still make sure I do what the hell I want to, when I want to. Go out and climb a tree? Damn right. See my friends until 6 am for the fuck of it? Yes please. My body may fight it, but there’s no joy in hiding from life. There are times I don’t want to run about, so I play video games and eat pizza. Nothing wrong with that! Why? I’m not dead. I’m not dead, I should have been a number of times, but I’m not. So I’d say that’s doing pretty damn ok. I’m not sorry for that.

“Oh how awful for you, gosh you’re so brave.” Greatest line of crap slung about. I won’t get better. It’s just how shit is. I’m not “so brave” as people love to throw around at sick people, or people who deal with shit that lots of people deal with. I’m not special, bravery and heroics are for people who do something extraordinary in the face of danger or self destruction. Example: nobody decides to get ill and beat it, they just either do or don’t, depending on how awful it is. I have friends that survived cancer and scoff every time someone calls them brave. It’s not easy, it’s impressive, and it’s a fine show of their strength. But calling me brave because I put up with something I don’t have a choice in is silly. When you’re sick you just do what you have to in order to survive. It’s not brave, it’s normal survival instinct. 

There is nothing to feel bad about in being strong. There is also nothing to feel bad about for not being “brave.” I never ran into a burning building to save orphans, I haven’t stood in the face of my mortal enemy and taken a bullet for my comrades. That’s bravery. Survival instinct is a nice primal attribute to have. If you don’t blow your brains out when shit gets bad, good for you! You’re like most people.

We’re all just living, and trying to keep from dying. It’s natural.

You either keep moving with what bullshit you’ve been handed, or you lay down and rot while people pet you with meaningless words. It’s strength of your own will, the strength of your body, the people and doctors around you pushing for more. You’re just surviving. Other people help, as well as their love and affection, but in the end there’s still just you when it’s time for bed and the anxious thoughts creep in as the light goes out. When the fear slips in, how it gets handled is up to you.

Am I happy? Not really. Pain is, well, a pain, and it drags you down. Sometimes I get extremely mad, but that’s just me being a pussy. Everybody gets to be a pussy sometimes! However, I am not UNhappy. I’m alright, nice and middle of the road.

Alright is good enough for me.

So next time you ask, no, I am not feeling well. Just don’t feed me lines about how bad you feel for me. I don’t feel bad for me. I feel bad for those that let these things hold them down, or define themselves by it. So what if I’m sick? Everyone gets sick, feels bad, has a hard life. People die, people get injured. It may not make it seem fair or good, but it happens to us all.

I prefer to empathize with others instead of feel awful for them. A simple, “hey, I understand life sucks, I too am a living creature. Need a hand?” Words of care are more effective if they go beyond “sorry.” Tell someone who is sick you’re there if they need you, and mean it if you do. Bring them a damn cookie or something if you feel bad! Saying sorry is an easy way to think “my job here is done, I felt bad for the unfortunate today!” Give ’em a hug or some shit. Sickness can be isolating, and knowing everyone just pities you for somehow being unhealthy can make it worse.

Treating people like they’re nothing but an illness and deserve to be coddled helps no one. If they literally need to be taken care of because their body gave out, by all means. Don’t abandon someone because they have become infirm! But otherwise, encourage them to do the things they love if they are capable, help keep them from sinking into the easy out: the little depressive hole. If they do fall into it, just talk to them. Reinforcing to someone who feels terrible that everyone else just pities them is helping it continue. Give a depressed person reason to think everything really is that awful solidifies their reasoning. You may not be able to fix anyone, but you can at least not contribute to the problem. Remember that they are still people, and deserve to be treated as such.  I get tired of being seen as some sick person, and not me. 

I don’t feel sorry for myself. Why should anyone else? I reserve my feelings of pity for hurt animals, small children, and men with small penises. As far as I know my penis is huge.

However, I do like cookies, so that’s pretty ok.

Look how dusty this poor thing is.

It’s amazing the things you tend to set aside when all else starts falling on your head.

This year– oh, 2013. What a monster you turned out to be. It seemed like every single week was rife with some new ailment, a new problem that seemed impossible to fix, or a person standing in my way.

I travelled across the country and back, flew up the country and invaded the nation’s capitol for a moment, gained and lost friends, started losing my hearing, discovered invading brain balls in me, became a recluse and back again. It’s been very strange. As I sit here easing myself back out of hiding (slowly now, I don’t want to get provoked and pee out of fear) I noticed I’ve missed quite a bit. Not intentional– I didn’t have a lot of say in the matter. But here I am, and the first thing I want to do is write. And write. I haven’t stopped since I started.

Tomorrow is Christmas eve, and I plan on using that to my full advantage. I’ve got nothing else to do but write my ass off, and I fully intend to, including finally ripping the photos from my trip off my camera and detailing it all here.

Damn it’s nice to be back here.

The best mistake I’ve made in years.

I suppose it was inevitable that I’d eventually come right out and pull a dick move on myself. I’m really good at them, and I know so many ways to piss myself off.

A few nights ago I made what seemed to be a very wise decision.

I was to quit writing and focus on what seemed far more important at the time– everything else. I am not even entirely sure what that meant, and how I could refocus creative energy outside of what I am doing now. I was getting to the point where I wanted to free my mind of the constant need to commit things to paper or text.

At least the fire was pretty.

This was the result:  My firepit filled with every notebook I could find, every scribble of a story, and all the writing from probably the last three years. A mistake? I thought so, at first. Now, I think it was probably the best thing I could have done for myself.

In those books sat a lot of awful things I thought about far too often. I filled them with great ideas, yes, but sometimes it was just a venting spot for all the stuff I could never find myself getting over.

Now, they’re gone. I intended to stop writing, ended up feeling more of a desire to do so, and removed unneeded stress from myself all at once. When I realized that I had done something I needed to do unintentionally, I was relieved. I spent perhaps only an hour upset with the loss. I don’t regret anything.

So, like most people, I found something different to do with myself this year. Instead of the usual ideas of quitting smoking or eating less, I’ll write more. I will stop keeping myself away from the situations I should be in in order to get it done properly. Needing to go out and find inspiration isn’t as dangerous to my lifestyle as I originally thought. There is so much I feel a need to say and do that denying it would be very cruel to myself. I have no right to do that to myself.

Just as much as I would hate it if someone held me back, why should I do it? I thought I was acting out of self-preservation in the burning of what seemed like an unhealthy desire. Losing something is a great way to learn the difference between a need and a want. I don’t want to write like I need to write. Not for anyone else, not for some weird desire to be seen around the world for some book I’ll never write.

Nah. It’s just there, sitting in my mind, ruling over me. I can’t quiet it, and I shouldn’t have a desire to.

All of those little overlooked details belong to me for tomorrow’s writing. Every conversation I hear becomes part of me. I watch people interact and find a source for something new in it. Everyone is my muse, and I refuse to let that die off.

It would be too much to try and silence my own mind. I’d probably go mad (more than I already am?)

I’ve run out of excuses.

I even broke my own supposed end of writing mere hours after the fact, and this was the result of it.


It’s 5am. The 30th. Very close to New Year’s Eve. I’ve just come out of a cluster headache haze, making it the perfect time to sit and think.

I burned the notebooks yesterday. I had a plan, then.

I was told by someone once that you may have to pretend you never wrote before to learn how to do it all over again. I had no intention of writing again, though– which lasted less than 24 hours– since I was hit with a barrage of “WHAT THE FUCK MORON NO” messages from all sides.

Alright, I get it. I was an idiot.

It occurred to me that, despite my best interests, I can’t stop. My mind was writing for me the moment I decided I had to quit. I realized why a bit after: I am useless otherwise. Extremely.

Not in that I can’t work or breathe or walk or shit.

I can certainly keep those things going.

Especially shitting.


I’m not myself without it. I don’t care if it doesn’t always make sense, or if my sentence structure doesn’t fit perfectly, or even if the subject matter is nothing anyone cares to read. I do, and that’s why I started in the first place. It is as much a part of me as thinking. I felt liberated at the idea of stopping, but I quickly realized that liberation fed straight to a void.

My ultimate partner in all things writing is gone. His creator is, too. Yet still he pesters me relentlessly, just as he used to between 2 and 5 am when neither of us could sleep. We passed the time playing Wordscraper and bullshitting, often just needing to vent. It would turn to writing on a regular basis, as that was his sort of thing.

All the little trivial things I tried to ignore– nope, parts of a story. He’d insist.

It’s his fault I can’t stop. I can truly blame him for getting me out of a rut where I refused to believe my writing was going to do anything for me. He is at fault for being the ultimate mentor and even the occasional muse. He is the reason I am a ruined person– in the best possible ways. It took having it utterly beaten into me for the truth of it to sink in.

I blame him, and it’s wonderful.

He’s gone, but not really. It’s like a replaying audio file stuck in my head.

“You’re a writer, so act like it.”

“I bet I have more empty notebooks than you.”

The list goes on, because he could talk. A lot, and then some.

I spent nights proofreading. Debating. Cursing. Not my own things, but his. I helped to go over student papers when he felt like his mind had exploded. Thinking on all of this made me go over other memories, mostly recent ones.

I realized something.

This year brought forth so many odd turns and alterations, things falling apart and perfectly falling into place.

I aided some in betterment, probably led a few to damnation.

I managed to marry someone terribly beautiful and intelligent.

I traveled up the country to see the most amazing people in the world.

I stuck by my morals and self-preservation abilities to a fault.

I watched as people suffered, wishing I could do more.

I lost and won and failed and got my ass back up again.

All of this caused by pointless decisions of mine or others that didn’t matter at the time.

Every. Single. Little. Damn. Thing.

All of the life events you wish didn’t happen, wish could happen again, wish for them to disappear– they happened. If not to me, to someone close enough that I could feel it. Experience it by proxy.

Oddly enough, I can trace so much of it back to a few (seemingly) small decisions I made along the way.

Seeing how those events intertwine and undulate along through time to create where we are now astounds me.

I am not the kind to pray, but I pray to never lose my memory, so that I can always recall how I shape my own world through every single step. I watch people enough to see how they got there, too.

In the last few years, a five minute decision to take a weekend trip gave me a husband.

One poor choice of food landed me in the hospital in time to walk out hours before my friend never did.

One conversation cost me a friendship, and they still don’t know it.

One thought caused me to question everything I know, but especially what I don’t know, reshaping my mind.

One person moving across the country gave me peace.

One person moving across the country destroyed my peace.

One idea became a life goal.

Deciding to talk to someone I always intended to but never had the chance to led me into cultivating a relationship for them.

One person I’ve met but once changed how I view myself completely.

All the small, supposedly benign things that people overlook are more important than we give them credit for.

That stupid thing I said could come back in five years. Ten.

One false move, or one wise move, can make or break everything.

2012 is rapidly approaching me. Us. Everyone.

I decided I can:

Consider those steps. Rationalize them. Forget rationality, throw it away. Do what feels good. Rationalize them again.

Agonize over it, every single thing. Every detail. Feel miserable. Get emotional. Never do anything.


Know that each and every minute detail makes a difference at some point. From the food you eat now to where you go to buy that shirt, it can do something to you. For you… or maybe even against you. Think, but don’t stop.

Never stop. When life becomes to terrifying to try something new, it’s lost the magic. Bad things happen, and always will. You can’t know what they’ll be until you get there.

Don’t let the horrible things fool you. There’s a fine chance that the risk you’re afraid to take might be the best thing you’ve ever done. Maybe it’s the worst for a while. It doesn’t matter. It all leads somewhere, and that place is filled with options. Even the threat of death.

It’s cold out here, so early. Quiet. In my head I am holding court with a dead man, and still his advice stands strong.  I think of what I never would have had if I never took those carefully executed, or hastily thrown together, risks.

If not for myself, but for those that rely on me in some way, I’ll keep listening to those mental recordings.

There’s no longer room for the what if or fear of getting in too deep.

I accept my little details, from their inception to the moment they change my life.

am a writer, good or bad.

am myself, good or bad.

This last year tried to take that from me.

This new year I’ll take for myself, for those I love, and for what I believe in.

All because I listened to one man living only among memories.


I’m glad I only lost myself for a short time.