This is today

I’m done with letting the MEN

crush me with words and fists that are in the shapes of dicks

NO! because I got tits does not mean you grope me

does not mean you have me

does not mean you are me

NO!

I am a human a living, breathing, a skin with a soul

I have a feeling, a thought, I have a conscience a naught, NO!
You cannot make me your game, you cannot make me your tale!

I will not be spoken of in your shaky circle and NO!

I will scream it until your ears bleed until you are crying, NOO!

I will kick the word into your face, until you see it, can you see it, NOO!

I hate your stupid breathe, it makes me sick, hear me say it, NOO!

Yes baby the only yes you will hear is this yes that says NOOOOO!

Slam

Do you really think this is who I want to be?

Do you think I am smiling back at me?

The outbursts and violence I see it all playing out.

The scene is moving and I am smashing everything dear to me.

No, I do not want to be Me.

You think it is pride or ignorance

You think it is careless, you think it is sharp

But let’s remember that you are talking about ME

I never wanted to be a person of impulse, a person that’s loud, or a person that is named “too much”

I see, what you see, and I hate what you see but what can I do

What can I do?!

I sit back and see this figure acting; she is smashing everything.

THEN

Then I realize it’s me and I have no control, and I just want to get out and run.

Every single thing that you hate I hate more so you cannot hurt me that much.

Every word that I say I hate more so you don’t have to remind me of my foul play.

If there were sticks I would burn me, water I’d drown me, a rope I would hang me.

Wait, I do that every day by living this way. My person is sinking down.

Do you see this, I want to show you the person that I have holding in my hand

That is who I want to be and she is not like that so can you give me break?

Tear it and turn it. Burn it and then you will know.

The person you see and you hate, I can do it much better.

My brain is turned in toward oppression. Slam.

Anxiety

I slept three hours. I should be tired. I feel like I am on speed.

My chest is tight. My breath is shallow. My thoughts are pitter-patter and incomplete.

I start something and I cannot finish it. I cannot start the things I want to finish.

I am staring at the words of this book and I cannot comprehend any of it. My mind is racing and hollow. I can hear the world echo loudly and it mocks me.

My hands are shaking. My sweat is cold. I keep going into the bathroom but nothing happens. I realize I was just there. My world is spinning and I am very scared.

What will happen to me tomorrow, and the next day, how will I survive in this constant mania?

Misfit

Why can't I just be NORMAL. 

Why can't I act like these people I see surrounding me and passing me by. 

I feel like I am on the merry-go-round. Faces are blurring into words, into noises, and I cannot catch my breath as it spins faster and faster. I am just trying to hold on long enough to save my life and then the slowest thought enters in and asks why? Why hold on? What are you saving? 

This chaos always returns and it is so unbearable. It reminds me that I am not making it. That I am always dangling by this thin web, thinking I am building something or doing something but one gust of madness and I forget it all. 

Right now, I live because I have to, not because I want to. I can barely hide my tears, my choking on a few words to get my work done. I ask for help and I am shamed. There is no room here to not perform. So I pull up that mask and try to make it one more hour, one more day. 

Meanwhile, wanting to run away, everything in me says run, hide, scream, cry, get away... I fantasize about letting it all go. All of the bills, the things that keep me, I understand why mad people are on the street. It is so hard to function in society. It is so hard to do the simple things and to hold a job. 

When I am high I got this but when I am turning on that merry-go-round and the colors are blurring and I cannot distinguish words... well holy fuck how can I work on high demand. There is no place for someone like me. It certainly is not here. 

Intimidated to Obey

His voice commanded obedience. I would scurry in and find a place near or up front. I had my heavily read holy book, earmarked corners, highlighted, and underlined. 

I was dressed conservatively, very conscience and careful as not to cause any boy or man to sin with their eyes. That would be my fault entirely. 

His voice boomed again, he leaned over the pulpit, his bald head perspiring, the vein in the side of his head pulsing. 

He is "preaching". He is telling me what to do. He is telling me how to please god, by obeying him and his authority.

Afterwards, I run to him and tell him, I will obey, I concur, you are my authority. He hugs me. He tells me that I am a good girl.

Have I made everything alright now? Have I been saved? Is the universe corrected? Is the darkness at bay? Is the leprosy healed? 

I was doing all of these things with great effort to please this invisible and what I now understand to be imaginary force. 

I grew up feeling I could never please my natural father. That translated into this spiritual invisible father. I made every effort and every move toward pleasing. 

I failed both. Both were authoritative. Both were threatening. Both were forceful personalities, intimidating. 

I remember learning that how you see your natural father is how you will see or relate to god, well I guess I am totally fucked.

No, I do not believe in the supernatural. I do not rely on imagination to get me through my troubles or to be an explanation. 

I will not be intimidated into believing and into being controlled. That will not happen spiritually or otherwise. 

Now, that voice, it does not command me. If I heard it again, I would cringe, maybe scream or laugh.

He Rubbed My Back...

He rubbed my back... several times, often, regularly, as a common occurrence. The type of rub that was slow, that pulled you in, that was the full length of your back. It went slowly, up and down and there was some pressure to pull me in closer and talk about important things. 
These things were so important I had no right to pull back, no right to draw out some space. These things were important and intimate, I needed to come close, so close that I could feel and smell his breath. I could hear the licking of his tongue with his words. It flicked out in between sentences. 
Then I tell myself, what if I am making all of this up? What IF it is my imagination? My perception of the relationship; skewed by poor male relationships built from day one with my most primary one, my father. 
Has that and all that had followed up to this point damaged me this severely that I perceived the Pastor as a pervert?
Yet, my husband saw it. I brought it up, he saw it, and he agreed. On more than one occasion I begged for his protection or defense. 
I was left as wounded prey.
It built up and I eventually shut down and refused to attend anymore. 
Yes, I could have acted in a healthier and assertive way. I can "see" what I could have and should have done. I was not emotionally able. 
Now, I am very reactive to men. If I am shown any interest I sort of reply back like an aggressive dog. 
As far as if this contributed to my fall from grace, no. However, it did demonstrate how fake religious belief is for those in higher position. 
It is power and it is a mask. The ones below are more sincere but more likely to be abused in some form. It did not destroy my faith but it did help open my eyes. 

You are Hurt

I am having a hard time with this. I guess if I were honest, I would have to say that I am in denial. 

I get the daily updates and I see the Gofundme. I am sorry, but I read those updates very quickly. I skim them for the most important parts. You are alive. 

Then I think of you throughout the day. I imagine what you look like lying there. I imagine the beeping of the machines, the shuffling of nurses, the cold and uncomfortable hospital chairs. In my mind I am pacing.

I do not know what to say to you. Do I tell you everything will be alright? Will it? What does that mean? What does that look like? What if it will not be alright? I cannot say it. I cannot say it if there are still too many questions and unknowns. Where are you? Are you present in your body? Can you come back? It has been a series of holding my breathe, then crying, then being corrected on information, then holding my breathe again.

Yes, I am angry. Yes, I am sad. Yes, it is hard for me to have hope. No, I am not a neurologist. No, I do not understand what is happening.

I have seen several gofundme fundraisers for very serious causes. This time, it is for my family, for my cousin that was really raised next to me like a sister.

They have described your state as a “vegetative state”. Those words are blaring in my head. They are like a revving motor or a sounding horn that never lets up. Everything I am doing those words are echoing in the background, “Vegetative State”. Honestly, with all the progress in medicine they have not come up with a better fucking phrase!?

Yes, I am in denial and I am angry. I am accepting it from afar. I am over 13 hours apart from you; I have not seen you, how can it possibly sink in? I have my moments of breaking down, of crying, of hurting, however I pull it together real quick. I put it right back together into pieces of anger and tension.

The Story Begins

I wish that I could do THIS. Write and be organized. I wish that I could start from the beginning, tell you what happened, and then finish at the end. I wish that it made sense, that I were chronological, that I were logical. 
Alas, it is I. I jump, weave, tumble, tunnel, and end up having to go back with my tale between my legs. I not only missed it, I forgot the point completely. 
A lot is going on in the present. Yet, I am thinking of the past. 
I am wondering if I will ever "write that book". If it is even humanely possible. 
Would I need an elephant tranquilizer to quiet and slow myself into production? 
Tonight, I am thinking about "the book". 
I am thinking about the process and all of the parts that I cannot leave out. When is the last period dotted? The last thought grappled and freed? Is it for me or is it for an audience? Does anyone want to read a word of it? 
I guess that is not important. It simmers, it boils, and it wants to come out. The stories, the images, and the imprints. I can hear voices, these memories are sharp. They want to come out and breath and be known. I will tell you and I will tell myself that is ok in the process. 

The People in Your Neighborhood

I started my day at CARMAX having my car appraised and bought. The salesman that helped me was a wonderful encounter.

I would say he was in his 20's, this was his second job, and he immigrated from Pakistan at age 12. I ate up every word. I asked about the immigration process, about his IT career, about Pakistan, about the role and expectation of women in the culture. 

He will be getting married in the next year to a Pakistani woman. She will immigrate, she does not know any English, she is studying pre-med now, and it is arranged.

I knew it was likely an arranged marriage, so I asked. He said yes. and then I proceeded with all types of follow up. I am not judging. It is culture.

If you never take the opportunity to travel abroad, then you are more likely to be ethnocentric. You would be thinking your county is King that knows all things perfectly. That doesn't sound like American Mentality at all!!!

He said he prefers the arranged marriage concept. It takes the heartache and trouble out of the dating equation. 

In the time that my car was evaluated I went halfway across the globe in conversation. His name was Ali. 

At the end I asked if he got a cut from CARMAX purchasing my car. He replied that he did not.  I boldly said, "and you still talked to me that entire time!". He could have sat me in the waiting area. He knew I was not buying from them. 

What a great opportunity I had to share that conversation. 

Ask questions, care about people, and learn. 

Inner Musing

What is this body like? It is certainly not “home sweet home”.

Sometimes I move so fast I do not know where I am,

and sometimes it is a foreign land.

I am going through the motions of being an adult;

paying the bills, clocking in, sharing a smile and a laugh.

Ultimately, it is awkward. I am settled to a solitary life. 

Some people just cannot fit.

Some people just survive, and give, and pet their dogs.

It has been over thirty years, I do not see things changing.

They are actually becoming more solid, more routine, if one can get used to alienation.

I come and I go. 

I make the decision, I take the action, but in the end, 

I feel awkward.

Separated from my skin, separated from my being, 

not sure who is talking when I speak.

My peace is the safe moment in my home, my peace is the safe moment I share with those I have known the longest. 

I rest in you. I rest for a moment in my dear friends, in my mother.

A moment, an hour, but hardly a day. 

I become tense. I question my movements. 

It starts all over again. What is progress? What will 60 or 70 feel like? Still like this? I hope not.

The Shadow of Grief

I hear your steps, at first it is normalized. Then, I make a quick hard turn in that direction.

I can hear step, step, step. I can hear your laugh, I can see you tip your head back, I can see the finicky things you would do with your fingers.

I can see your fingers. I can see the shape. The rounded, narrow, almost like a child's fingers. I hear your laugh again. I hear the step, step, step.... It is just my memories.

The sound of my memories.

Fleeing, leaving, coming, and haunting. I shake it off, I shake you off, I do not have time for this. I do not have time to hurt, time to feel, time to remember, time to listen to your laugh, or the step, step, step.

This could have been our time, our time was always going too fast in the wrong direction. I can see your walk, I can see you walking away from me, your unique gait. Your clean shoes, your hats, your scarves, your fierce ideas.

My intense, solitary Jeff, I keep saying your name. As if you will reappear if I say it in a certain sequence, or as if I can make myself disappear. I lost more than a piece of me. Much more.

Untitled

I look at myself, from the outside looking in. Maybe I should try from the INSIDE looking out. I ask myself, can you love in a relationship? It causes stress and conflict. All in the same hour I feel I am falling, I'm relaxed, hopeful, I feel at ease, affectionate, the world stands still, I see him, I want to drink him up. I want to understand and communicate kindly, care for him, make him feel like the king of the fucking world. Suddenly, I have a whiplash reaction. I am scared, I want to be alone, I cringe at touch, I become critical, I refuse to let myself depend on another person. I am terrified of the future, I want to run and stand at a far distance. This all happens so fast and back and forth like the rocking of a boat on a subtle and dangerous sea. I find myself holding onto the side, gripping it for dear life. In actuality there is NO danger, it is just a steady rocking cradle. I am panicking. I throw myself over and into the waves, no life jacket, no bouey, and while all backs are turned. I rather fall beneath this water to my own demise, on my own terms, by my OWN hands. Maybe it would have been something, maybe it would have been stable and loving. But how can ANYTHING be stable with me?! Either I will ruin it or you will add to my ruin. I do not even take a full breathe, I breathe out and sink under.

Exhibitionist/Parafelia

It has not been good this past week. I went to a show in the city. I walked back to my car afterwards about a mile. It was after midnight. I did not feel safe but I told myself to walk with my head high, walk swift, and confident. 

I got about half way when a young man passed me, he turned his head, and we made eye contact. I immediately felt threatened. I continued to walk. I had my hood up. He walked ahead of me and then turned into a stairwell. I assumed he went into a building. 

As I passed, I looked toward the stairs, he stood on the second or third stair with his ear buds in, wet ragged hair, the stairs went nowhere. At the time I wanted to scream, "what the fuck are you looking at". 

However, I know my inclination toward rudeness, I knew I was in the city and you should not confront. I continued to walk quicker. I felt unsafe but I also criticized myself for feeling that way. "Why am I always such a bitch?". 

I came to a bridge that was very well lit beneath. I could hear someone approaching my from behind. I told myself, " you are in the city, do not look, walk." 

Then it was like lightning those steps and almost breathing in my ear. I turned, he was standing less than arms length from me. He had completely exposed his disgusting limp dick and was trying to get an erection. 

Time stood still, it was all slow motion. I stared him in the face. I can describe his hair, the tiny speck of a mole beneath his right eye, his almond like eyes, the dark shoulder length hair, the baggy black clothes, his height, his stale empty look, his hand rubbing him self fiercely, his white ear buds, his flat nose. 

I was stunned. Then I started insulting and cursing at him. He turned and walked away as if he had been satisfied. As if he had just bought food from a street vendor. I started screaming to call the cops, get a picture of his face, something. 

He eventually ran in those brown untied work boots, clopping along, until he turned out of sight. I called 911, I barely knew where I was to give a location. I was angry, I was furious, I wished I had try to hurt him. All I did was curse and confront. That means nothing to someone like him. Why didn't I swing? Why didn't I jab his eyes? 

I watched him stroll away with that black backpack with the Bulls patch placed perfectly. The police came. They took a report. They looked. They said he is unlikely to be caught. An unknown offender report was taken which is basically a waste of their and mine time. 

I stood in the rain waiting while they searched. I hated myself for not attacking. I hated myself for not sneaking my pepper spray into the show, shit people smuggle drugs, why didn't I? I will next time and forever. 

Now, I am terrified. I do not like being in my car alone. I do not want to be in my home alone. I am scared of public bathrooms. I am scared of all of the adventures I love to partake alone. I broke my 16 month sobriety. I am anxious. My heart is racing. I feel unsafe. I feel everyone (male) is out to get me. I do not want a man to hold the door for me. I do not want a man to talk to me. I feel they are all predators. I cannot trust them. 

I am fighting with my best friend that is also in my home. I am shaking. If someone gives me a friendly tap I jump through the ceiling. I literally cannot cope and I feel so alone. I called a crisis line three times today. They kept giving me different numbers. When I finally go through they said everyone is off for the holidays and call back after the first week of January. I did not get an "are you ok", "are you in crisis" or "call here for immediate help". She actually just hung up and did not even say goodbye. 

So, I am doing the only thing I know what to do. When I am in severe crisis and I do not know where to turn. That face, that disgusting dick is burning, screaming in my head. I am not thinking about it, it is being relived over and over like a sick tape. 

No, I was not raped, but I have have dealt with years of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. I think I am over it, but then this, and its like a god damn flood I just beg to be drowned in.

Is This Mania or is This Normal

I have been really struggling the last few months. I have been highly irritable, exhausted, unable to do simple things at home. I have been negative, hopeless, and stressed to the tenth degree. It has been extremely hard to function long enough to make it through the work day. 

Then I would collapse, stare at the tv that was turned off, and I felt like it would never pass. I could not shower, I could not make a meal, and it was extremely difficult to interact. My anxiety was beyond the ceiling. I was disassociating from my body and my words. When I would speak I would hear every word as an outsider. I was not in my body. 

I was given more medication which I did not take. I was sick of the pills. I was sick of being bipolar. I was sick of the weird hollow feeling like I was on some bad psychedelic trip. 

I started to feel a little better last week. After working 6 full days I came home and cleaned my house. I even attacked some piles. This never happens. When something like this happens I unfortunately have to ask myself if I am acting normal or if this is the beginning to a manic episode. 

Then this morning before work I made a meal, walked my dog, did my dishes, and mowed the lawn before work. This is all great and productive. I always have to be on guard when I get these bursts of productivity. I have to ask myself if my sleep is becoming disturbed, am I talking too fast, am I more impulsive, and is my mind going to a bizarre and reckless place. 

I want to be normal. I want to have consistency and feel good about tackling chores and making meals. Instead I have to be concerned. I have to pay careful attention. I have to keep my doctor on speed dial. 

The moment I need none to little sleep is when I know I am going into that hyper crazed place called mania. I sleep more than is recommended. Then suddenly I sleep two hours and am on a dangerous high. So I have learned to watch myself. 

Right now I do not know if I am getting healthier and on the up or if I am on a path towards chaos and hospitalization. I do not know, I just stand guard.

you are making a difference

I spent five weeks in an alcohol treatment facility last summer. To tell you that it was hard is to minimize how painful it was. It was emotional and it was physical. I went through a week of detox and then entered the treatment portion to learn about my addiction and replace it with coping skills. 

At the time I hated it. Drinking was my daily way of managing my out of control life. I was very high functioning, I held a job, paid my bills, and saw my psychiatrist. If I did not tell you how bad it was you would probably never know. That is not what this is about. 

I had counselors there but it was one shining light of a person that has had a lasting impact on me. She was a tech, I guess that was her position. She drove us back and forth to the facility, and she spent time with us at the house. On the van ride she would turn up the music and sing her heart out. 

At the time her optimism was not something I always welcomed. I was in pain. I was recovering from a decade of hard substance abuse. I was away from home, away from my dog, and all I wanted to do was to go home. I butted heads with my main counselor. I wanted to stay in bed. I was not ready, or I did not think I was ready for this life change. I did not want to go back to how I was but I also did. 

She was always there for a hug, always there to listen. If there is a person that has the perfect balance of listening and also knowing how and when to push it was her. I do not know if she realizes the impact she had on the house. I am sure it is draining dealing with a bunch of moody women in early recovery. 

Then she has to hear about those of us that fall back or go home to our addiction and die. I have learned that we are one of the hardest groups of people to deal with. You pour your heart out and may not see the results on the other side when someone continues in recovery. 

Statistically most do not, or they have to keep coming back, but at least they do. Jami, you were the best person for me. I did not realize it at the time and I know I was negative and frustrated. You never gave up. You kept being you. You are changing lives. You are saving lives. I know that even if I fell back you would be the last person to shake your finger at me. When I think back to Arizona, I think of you. I think of your smile and how you truly loved a group of "unlovable" women. You loved us right where we were at, you saw the good in us that we had long lost. Thank you.

Why Number Five

I had gone through the process of de-converting before this last loss. This was not the final straw as they say. But this was the day that I asked for a divorce and told John to get the fuck out. Our marriage was very rocky from the beginning and that is putting it lightly. I was trying to get out for at least a year. 

We were living in Southwestern Illinois. We decided to move back home to see if it would help our marriage. He knew without a doubt that I was hanging from a string with him. 

He asked me, begged me, to get pregnant again. I knew he was doing that to try to keep hold of me. I was angry that he was even suggesting it. He saw everything I went through. Sitting in the shower even while it was cold, bleeding and crying. I was a complete mess. I was so fed up with people telling me that god had a plan, everything happens for a reason, and offering suggestions.

I do not know why I agreed to do it, I knew what the outcome would be. I would lose it again. How could he ask me? How could he??? I think it was selfish and cruel. I told myself if and when I start to bleed then I am done. That is exactly what happened. 

So I began to lose the pregnancy when he was at work. I went to pick him up and I will never forget the look on his face. I did not even have to say it. Is this what you wanted? Is this what you wanted to see again? The hate I had for him in that moment was probably like none I have ever experienced. 

I lost my fifth pregnancy, I lost what I thought my life would be, I lashed out, I made him watch it to the bitter end. Then I made him leave and I filed for divorce. 

The thing is that this entire time I thought something was wrong with my body. I felt like I was poison, my body hated me. I found out a couple of years ago his new wife was having problems. They went for testing and it turned out John had a chromosome abnormality. No one bothered to contact me to inform me. 

I lived all of that time thinking my body is just a fucking graveyard. But No, it was him. I was so angry when I heard that through an old mutual friend years after he knew the truth. It would not have taken much effort for someone in that family to care enough to let me know. Put my mind at ease. Offer me some healing and condolence. I guess that was just too much work. I guess none of them cared even the slightest bit for what I had gone through and how I felt. They say you should forgive. I do not believe in unconditional forgiveness. That bridge is not only burnt, it is like it never existed in the first place.

Number Five

Was it number five? I honestly had so many miscarriages while with my ex that I lost count. The first one was probably the worst. We had not been married more than a few months. We were so excited. Living five hours away from family I mailed tiny babies to my Grandparents to open up on Thanksgiving with the due date. 

I was immediately in Mother mode reading everything I could. I found an obgyn that I loved right away. We were having a baby. But we did not. 

We went home for Christmas, the day before I began to bleed. I laid on the couch not getting up for anything. I was at my Aunt and Uncle's. My Aunt totally took care of me and comforted me. The next day, Christmas, the bleeding continued. By evening I was in crippling pain and went to the ER. 

I was told I was miscarrying. There was nothing that could be done. The shock and devastation was unreal. A few hours later, at the house, I was experiencing contractions and crying. Everything took its course. I expelled into the toilet and I remember taking it out. That changed me for life. 

Then I had four more after that. I read everything I could find on coping with pregnancy loss. After the first one or two I was reading about women who had multiples. So many of them said they got used to it after a certain number. They got jaded. It still hurt but in a different way from the first one or the second one. A few years later I was one of those women. 

When I would hear about someone having just one I would find myself thinking so what, try four, try five. Then come and cry with me. This experience contributed to my divorce. I will come back to that later, and the fifth one, and how it was so significant. 

I was the woman that wanted five kids. I loved kids, I still love them, but I do not want to ever be pregnant again. The thought actually repulses me. There is so much more to say about what happened during those five years, and how the church treated me with my multiple pregnancy losses. 

This also contributed to my deconversion. I will come back to that too. The first one and the fifth one were the most traumatic. Because of how they altered my life. The fifth one completed while I was at work, and it did not phase me. I did not cry, I left the bathroom and got back on task. I filed for divorce. 

Losing Faith

I spent almost ten years in the church. I know that my experience does not speak for everyone, and I try my best to not be hostile. It was not all bad. However, what was bad for me, was very bad. 

This will be the first of many times I sit down to talk to myself about this. When I lost my faith it was not overnight. It was a process but when it finally broke I literally lost my mind. It was the first time I was hospitalized in a mental institution. Everything I had built my life upon, the entire structure of my life and thinking collapsed. 

I tried so hard to hold it together and keep the faith as they say. All you need is the faith of a mustard seed. I could not hold on anymore, I could not believe it anymore. It did not make sense to me, it became foreign, repulsive, and I had a moment where I lost my sanity. 

I was terrified that I ever believed in the first place. I was not in a church that was just on Sunday. It infiltrated my daily life, how I thought, what I listened to, what I watched, who I married, and how I was to deal with my mental illness. The answer was prayer. The answer was it is god's will. The answer was read your bible and give all of your energy to the mission. It was authoritative. It was controlling. 

I guess for a time I was so messed up that I really needed someone on the outside to control me and decide for me. Not anymore. 

Now I am dealing with the trauma ten years later. I am dealing with being cornered into a marriage that was toxic. I am dealing with being discouraged from seeking psychiatric help that I desperately needed. On more than one occasion I pleaded regarding my symptoms. I was told to pray and focus on god. I did everything that they told me to do. 

I never needed a miracle I just needed some relief and comfort. I never got that. god never met me half way like they said. If god were real why could he not pick me up, that poem everyone loves about the footprints, that is not god carrying me. Those are my footprints. Those are mine, pushing on, fighting for my life.

Dear Jeff...

I was told over a year ago to do this. I have thought about it a lot. As I begin I am not even sure that I can finish. I am sure this will not be completed in one sitting. 

You knew how much I loved to write and you saw so much of it. You also saw when I stopped. I could not even count the amount of times you had asked if I had been writing. You even got me a special notebook and pencils. I stared at it for over a year. 

My life will never be the same without you. You were going to be my partner in old age. We were both so strange in many of the same ways. I can hear your laugh, I can hear your excitement and passion when you talked about conspiracies and issues. 

You were my late night texting buddy, the person I could be honest with in all of my ugliness. Jeff, there really will never be another you. I always thought at some place over the rainbow we would find ourselves together. Either one of us or both of us were not adding up at the same time. 

I lost you and you held the deepest place. It is not just a hole, I just know that will never happen again. I will never connect like that again. That was my time and that time is gone. I was a horrible alcoholic mess leading up to your death. I knew you were distancing yourself from me, I was hard to deal with, hard to see like that. 

I got home from rehab and I found out the next day you had died. 

You know I was always telling you that I loved you all of the time. Sometimes you would say it back but usually not. I did not need you to say it. 

The year you died I remember very specifically you said that you know I always said it, you were sorry that you do not reply, but that you wanted me to know how much you loved me and what I meant to you. I remember being in my kitchen when I got that text. 

We were kinda hot and cold there to the end for several reasons. I wish I could tell you just one more time how I felt about you. I wish I was not such a drunk sabotaging my life and taking time away from our friendship. 

I have so many regrets and now the brutal truth is it's all too late. I got sober too late, I did not realize that you were at risk yourself. I knew what you were doing, I just did not see it like it was. I wish I could believe in life after death and that I will see you again. I cannot believe in it just to soothe myself. Dust to dust.

Just One Drink...

Drinking did not take for me until my very late twenties. I grew up using a lot of drugs, but I stayed away from drinking. I was one of those people that once I started I was almost face down into the bottle every night. On the weekends I would start drinking as soon as I got up. I was not waking up in bed with a cup of coffee, I had vodka and whiskey. 

I think from the moment I started it was only casual for a few short months. It became an impulse and obsession very quickly. If I could not be drinking then I did not want to do it. I finally found something that silenced my inner storm. 

Sometimes on my way home from work I could not even wait and had to stop for a strong one. It became the driving force of my life. I went to work on no sleep, I went to work in a fog or still buzzed, and I thought about it all day. It cured my anxiety, it stopped the racing thoughts, it put me at home in my skin for once. 

I always said no, I will not let alcohol be a part of my life. I took one drink and it was literally over from that point. I am stressed so I drink, I am celebrating so I drink, I am bored and I drink, I am spinning out of control so I drink. There was always an excuse. There was always a reason. 

I drank alone, I went out alone, I was in a lot of compromising situations, I said a lot that I have no memory of. I found a way to survive, yet it was chipping more and more away at my being. I began to live in guilt, I began to live in shame. I became increasingly suicidal and attempted a few times under the influence. 

A very large percentage of people with bipolar self medicate with alcohol. Many suicides are completed by people hurting and under the influence. If I were not drunk maybe I would have called the hot lines, drove to a safe place, found a way to cope. The alcohol which I felt was my closest friend had taken absolute control over me. 

It is hard to explain and hard for some to understand. They say just stop, do not do it, do not buy it, do not stop at the bar and the liquor store on the way home. I would tell myself I am going straight home but before I knew it I was making the right hand turn just like I did every single night. 

I probably lived in a nine year binge. There were maybe a day every three or four weeks that I did not drink. I was blacking out every night. I would wake up and think what did I do, what did I say? Did I let my dog out? Did I feed her? 

It has been over a year that I have lived sober. I do not miss the drinking but I do miss the relief. Then I remember the relief toward the end was only for a flash of time. Maybe after the third or fourth glass of wine, maybe after the first pint, but then the switch was flipped. The torment came back just as bad and just as strong. Maybe it was even worst. I do not know. It all seems like a series of nightmares, I wake up, the sun is shining, but then it gets too close and I am burning and trying to escape all over again.