Not Worth the Trouble

I realize I cant do this anymore.

Its close to two thirty in the morning now as I give up on going back to sleep. I was fine until I had to wake up to relieve my heavy bladder. Usually, then the rush of thoughts flood my mind more focused on aiming and no tripping. Its been like this for a while now, more lately as I try to block all of the flooding ideas trying to pull me out of a deep need to slumber to what I am doing now.

It's not until now that I realize that the thoughts in my head are the thoughts I avoid until my stomach or some other physical manifestation comes in and forces me to stop. Being two years in therapy has helped me realize some things that I constantly do. One of them is to bury my emotions to the point I can not register how I should feel until I usually run it by someone. This is a lot more frequent occurrence now that working with the Crazy Doc has taught me to open up and actually communicate, a miraculous act that somehow causes others who have known me for decades to become slack jaw in awe.

Either way, through some consistent patience not my own, I have developed the ability to actually open up and be forward with my thoughts. A feat that has reduced my reluctance on alcohol as a coping mechanism. Yet with all progress, there are some setbacks. One being that even though I am once again open to pour out what I once repressed to those I feel close to once again, I still have no means of gauge emotion. In that, Crazy Doc has been both patient and nurturing in this, allowing me to read her emotions only after telling her what I am thinking. A few times I have caused her to shed tears only to look at her shocked and wonder why she showing sadness. It's a regular thing to stop midway and exclaim that she's feeling this or that emotion and therefore I should be feeling this or that even if I feel.....nothing.

Like now. Something is bothering me and I cant go back to sleep. I have work in the morning and I can not go back to sleep. My mind flooded with thoughts that I put on the back burner for a moment of time that I can deal with them only to not be able to and only realized this when the fire starts on the stove. A stupid analogy, but even now I realize I can not tell someone that I feel this or that. I have to find an example to cause emotion in them, only now realizing that I don't have to as I realize that Crazy Doc gets it without me trying to explain something so complex in my mind.

I don't feel emotion as most and Im not as expressive. A safety mechanism that once made the timid child I once was into someone who has to hide almost everything from those who usually negate me feeling anything of the such as some sort of betrayal and not as a natural reaction to being mistreated. How I feel runs so deep that I can not understand when I am under too much stress unless my stomach churns acid or I am not able to return to sleep. If this was a decade ago, I would have taken enough hooch to numb my physical self and return to sleep. I cant do that now. I cant and I won't. Not out of some well-earned sense of worth, but because I have lost my defenses and walls and Im pretty much out in the open to be hit with its full force. Nothing pleasant in any way.

Ok, so why am I feeling this way. I finally get to the point of this as much as I hate going around, in some attempt to give you some insight and plead my case because I never think my thoughts or feelings for that matter are legitimate or worth the trouble. I don't think Im worth the trouble. I've been shown that I am not worth the trouble. I have had many an interaction to prove to me that I am not in any way worth any trouble. Im not only not worth the trouble, but Im not worth the effort, the attempt, the intention, and the bother. If there is anything my experience on this planet has taught me is that I am not worth anything. In some twisted sense, I almost can place that measure in with an inch being 2.5 cm. It's a mathematical given and an assumption that has more proof than most scientific theories. I many times believe gravity will work, but I know I am worthless.

When I say worthless, Im not being emotional or even hurt. I've already proven to you that I already have difficulties gauge what I should think I feel much less feeling it. And when I go get hit by an emotion it's usually hard and fast as in knock me to my knees and cause a flood of pain that makes me yearn to not feel. No, when I say I am worthless I am saying that in a measurement of time by the extent of action, I am not a priority nor do I have any monetary value. If I had any ego I would use the word is priceless, but Im as valuable as a happy meal toy at a garage sale.

Yet that is not to state that I am not able to produce value. I have always considered myself a verb instead of a noun because of this. My importance is tenfold when I do, but not at a state of rest. I am amazing when funny and social. I am sweet when I care and support others. I am thoughtful and extensive in my methods and actions. I can awe, woo, inspire and cause happiness when I am doing what I do best. I get that. But I have no value.

I say this because there is some sort of function at work, a graph much like the Uncanny Valley where I am worth something to people when they meet me and I increase in value when they get to know me closely and even worth some great value, much like forgotten and safe blue chips that will always earn you some return if you only let it and ignore it to do so, sight unseen. And yet, there is a plummet. There is a sheer drop where people find me the most important person in their life, usually after they have been into their cups, and they are to the point where they have to in some way or another express that only to allow sobriety to detoxify that sentiment with their induced alcohol poisoning.

It would be hilarious if it wasn't so tragic. Or predictable. I am usually one to laugh at a clown falling down the stairs and even roll on the ground holding my sides as said clown has broken their neck and lost all means of life. There is something almost satisfying about watching a train wreck happen as you laugh at it. It's a morbid pleasure. It's that cosmic joke that seems to pile on and keep hitting you in the same place causing a bruise and pain after so many times. Its that choice you make either break down into madness and woe or to laugh at the audacity of the moment that somehow makes it all too vulgar that the same wound, the same nerve, the same whipping boy, the same punchline to the tired joke just goes with almost a distinctive yet faint sound of sad trombones going wah waah.

So yea. I'd rather laugh.

And yet, this happening has caused me to feel something after so many years.....emptiness.  It is a wretched sensation. Something I never felt even when contemplating my own death. Its a horrid drop of gravity that makes you feel hollow in a T.S. Eliot sort of way. A plastic and fake discernment that you are not real and that you never were. That between tangible human and legend you have become flimsy and fragile, almost porcelain cracked from so much mistreatment, wondering if a strong enough breeze can cause you to crumble. That feeling is prevalent now. Its something I can not ignore and something that highlights how broken I am.

I can not explain it to you. If the action you take in giving a gift or flowers or any token of sentiment to another human being that causes a bond, an attachment towards them all I can say that this moment and the cause of it has made me feel hollow, distant and reclusive. It has made me want to pull away more than I already have. It causes me to make opposite effort to wall myself off of the world and to shut myself to others. Not having worth would be freeing if I had my protections and walls, but I don't. I only have an ill sense of not being able to find enough peace to close my eyes and let sleep take me.

I cant gauge how you are reacting. I cant really feel this moment either. Yet I can contemplate that I am worthless again. And yet, it doesn't feel right. It causes me to question why for once. I never declared myself anything important or even special. Odd maybe, but never special, not even in a Raph Wiggum sort of way. Just worthless. But I can not comprehend the actions beforehand. Am I elusively important.....do I shine enough for someone to stumble and make themselves known in grand gestures only to be examined closely and tossed aside. I don't know. I honestly don't.

Yet, I can say my curiosity is tickled. And come Tuesday I won't hold a front against trying to find those answers anymore. I won't tell Crazy Doc that I don't care if I don't find out why others find me repulsive or worth to be placed forgotten on a shelf next to dead plants. I think I want to know now. If only to make it stop. To be truly worthless. It doesn't hurt that someone has once again tossed me aside once more. It hurts that they once thought I was worth picking up.

That's what kills me.

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part Twenty Three: Don't You Want Somebody to Love

This year marks a decade since I've been celibate.

HA.....I wonder if my High School English teacher would be proud knowing I can finally figure out a topic sentence. Sorry, I'm not in my cups and I have to find the ways to cut to the bone and get to what I want to say. Therapy works and I am a lot more open, but I still find it difficult to talk about heavy topics in our small little gathering. Ok, more like I need to sort out some thoughts to function tomorrow and I haven't been stretching my literary mind as much as I would have liked.

So I'm doing this. Or at least trying. Please have mercy and patience with me, I don't have my old defenses and its hard talking about this. So back to this.

It's now a decade. To say that I don't miss sex would be a lie since this is the most popular question on I get when people outside of WHY. As much as I hate to admit it I am not made of steel and I have the same biological urges that most humans have. And yet as loaded as the question is, I never had an issue with sex. Fucking is not that complicated and its almost easy by the numbers if you can find the willingness to take part in whatever engagement you want. I mean, it's almost as simple as filling out a form and stating what you want, how you want it and how you want it to end.

Sex was never an issue, but contrary to popular belief, I don't like feeling empty. And in my time I come to learn that empty sex is kind of like a protein shake satisfying and has a purpose, but it doesn't fill you up as having something that makes you happy. In truth its never been the function that got me, but how I usually felt afterward. I am a softy. Or old-fashioned. Or to be blunt not lust driven. I learned that when in my young days I've come up with a composite of who I am attracted to and I can state that I have never met her. Everyone who I have had any relations with does not fit the bill enough to say without outliers that I am someone who is more attracted to who you are than what you look like.

I like people. No, I will be honest, I love people. I honestly do, but much like soy, grapes, and milk no matter how much I would adore them, they have a way of making me feel miserable even to the point of death. I tried. Some would say that I was really an optimist who has been torn asunder into a pessimist. An overt attention seeker who has become introverted due to a woman ripping me apart.

Partly true.

I'm kind of tired so I'll just cut to the fucking bone and get on with it.

I don't have the best track record with women. Whoever's theory it is there is much substance there, although the stories are never straight. I'm not gay, bi or poly. If truth be told, I'm rather old-fashioned and like to be committed. I never cheated or played with the hearts of others and I was never down with opp. *Ha....I am old!*

And yet, if I told people what my main issue is, its trust. I don't trust anyone and with my time on with Crazy Doc, I have to say that I am open to being defenseless if I finally know that people can not hurt me. I can be open if I know I won't be torn apart and used. In my time I can say that I have gotten my life out of the jaws of depression and actually discover my life IS livable. A huge change from survival and fighting the Big Black Dog. Crazy Doc even thinks I can deal with being intimate with others and right there and then, I hit the brakes and say no.

But why......why no to that idea...why not be open to being loved and loving back without fear of being .....I don't know....hurt....miserably hurt. Well, I'm kind of there at the crossroads and I wonder why I would or would not. Why I would try and why I would cringe once more and make it a solid twenty years. I mean why would I have an issue with being touched. Why would I have to pull back and not flirt with others or simply take the offers of sex from the happy willing?

.....

If I have to say, I have been the fucking block. I am the block and you all go around me. I may not be as sexually adventurous as most would think, but I don't have much reason anymore. If I can state what my life was all those years ago, it would have to be chaotic. Ever meet those people that are just pure train wreck. I mean, I'm not going to say I traveled the easy path of life, but I will say that I have never been scared of a challenge. It's just now that I am learning that life shouldn't be so hard. That it's not always filled with pain, drive, and adrenaline. I once told a friend that I would never have the white picket fence in my life and its not because I never wanted it. I like the idea of monogamy with joy and happiness and no hint of wretched agony. I would love the idea of sharing the bed with someone who I don't have to worry about hurting me while I sleep. I think that would be nifty.

Just not real. Or at least for me.

Mind you I have done a lot of cleaning house with my mind and I am healthier than before, but some survival actions cannot be undone no matter how I would want them to. To survive as a single father struggling along with so much opposition and miserably few sanctuaries to rest my head I had to give up alot. I am not allowed chaos in my life in the form of a relationship when I have volatile people who need me most. I am not that selfish. That and I learned that just to prevent my children to go without I had to make choices to ensure their happiness and not mine. Is it right? No. But no matter how I want something, they always came first and dad had to be on it even if it means not touching another human being outside of aid and kindness.

Few people have comforted me and usually against why wishes when I was too numb to feel. Nothing more than a tight hug and a whisper that I matter. Never believed it then, but I am trying to believe it now. Either way, it still chokes me up knowing that someone saw how hard it was and understood. Yet, anything more is just.....phantom. I say phantom because it hints that its there, but I know it isn't. There are moments where biology betrays me. I will even say its kind of a welcomed sigh of relief knowing that I am not dead down there and few individuals have aroused me in ways that remind me of my early twenties. I mean that's nice, but a fast heartbeat, flustered speech and a hard-on of steel are not enough.

I met amazing people, but I know that whatever I locked away is still there and even if I feel attracted to someone it doesn't mean anything. I never had an issue getting aroused. I have issues with trust. Much like a tourniquet wound, it doesn't mean that everything is going to be alright. Most of you have tried. You either reached out, set me up *as if I am too stupid to notice*, and even cut to the fucking bone. Yet I can say out of the train wrecks of relationships I have been in, only a miserable few on a hand with spare fingers can count the functional relationships I have had. I'm going on a limb here and say that's not enough.

If anything I have made women despise me in one way or another. Maybe it was them. I'm going to say a lot of it was me, now knowing what I just created boundaries. And yet, can old dogs learn new things and make things better or perhaps my issues are not enough. I am not a believer in the Disney happy ending. That shit is not real and I will go to my grave telling people no one is that loving to work with another persons crazy. Fucking period.

And yet, I have sad haunting moments that happen and all I can do is know they happened and move on. Can Crazy Doc help me here......who knows....can I get things fixed to be functional enough to be happy....*shrugs*.....will I be ok.....I don't know. I honestly don't know. I just know I'm having a hard enough time not dying and trying to rebuild what most of you take for granted.

I'm trying, but even I don't believe I can be happy. Sorry, my track record is just that crappy. My outliers are the best moments of my life and they are hard and bitter still. Hope is too expensive for me and being told people love me is like telling slugs there was life on Mars. Its lost on me and all I will do is not believe and recoil away. I don't even have an idea what I look like or how I am worth attention.
I'm wrestling with the concept of not being in pain and living rather than existing. If anything my curse is living past the age where my legend would be sung and my memory not disparaged by reality.

I would love to be loved, but I don't know what that is without pain. It's nice, but I can not afford fairy tales. Life has taken too much. My body is intuned to numbness or quick reaction to when shit hits fans.

....

I don't have any way ending this to make you feel good.

Sorry.

When leashes pull you Back

It's been more than a month since I've last written. Not writing is like walking the yard with a leash, no matter how far you get you're going to get pulled in back into the direction of where the leash is pulling you. So much like this leash, I can not stray too long without getting tugged backed to what you need to do.

For me, dreams, nightmares and night terrors take on a surreal approach as they get interrupted at some point becoming so blatantly odd that I know I'm dreaming and I need to wake up instead of enduring the campiness. To give some idea in how odd it has gotten for me the last four dreams, all in the same night was me being covered in hatching scorpion eggs and they all popped out singing, "Hello, my baby", one of my best friends being impaled by a large shard of glass at the throat while refusing the assistance of homophobes because "reasons", contemplating exploding the earth with a button as a small group of people argue the reasons to not do it (spoilers: Tacos save the day), and one dream that had me question everything as someone explained that I could not be part of her personal harem of nerd boys because she has no domain on me considering that I was poly at heart.

Yea....see......all that shit. Same response waking up...." I need to write fucking soon".

So once more, I am here dipping my toe into the pool of thought only to splash shallowly much like children do in puddles instead of plunging in and arching my head out of the water in a Fibonacci swirl of sexiness. I am a child of chaos and doing so would mostly satisfy my urge for extremes, but I must take heart and slowly acclimate to the waters instead of plopping in and shrieking from the surprising chill.

There is much to share and much to say and yet I know I will do no such thing. I want to confess much and yet I should know better to keep quiet on certain things. The reason for my pull from writing is because I was dealing with some heavy issues and it was the only thing I could write about and knowing that is the death of creativity I gave myself the time off to clear my mind and to cleanse my mental palette. And as much as I'd like to share, I can not without unearthing the things I've passed on and kept silent about. I know, very cowardly in some respects, but I have to remind you that I could only write about one thing and that almost made me give up completely. So, what is past is and I try to step forward with what I know now. What I can share.

I'm still struggling with things

I'm working through a lot of things on a weekly basis. Crazy Doc has me working through things that I've never contemplated. There is an emotional void that I had never noticed that in some ways explain why I can not understand certain nuances between people. I understand being told things and explained things, but I am not very deductive when it comes to hints and Reese's pieces trails. I'm too much inside my head and I already have some stated answers where I "know" or "know enough to negate" anything outside of blunt communication. So trying to understand how far this void comes in and how to find a reason to why it's there is something that I can not do on my own and I need the assistance of someone who can pull me out of things if I fall in. So far all I can do is acknowledge it and that is more than enough at the moment.

I don't know what I look like, bit I know how others see me.

I have some issues with mirrors and what I think I look like. There are times where I feel humongous and bulky, almost too large to hide and too obvious to blend in. I don't like this and it makes me feel threatened. It's the equivalent of having a spotlight on me. It makes me crave isolation and dark spots to brood until the feeling either goes by or someone drags me out of my self-imposed exile. Other moments, I feel small. Tiny, dainty, and delicate. Almost glasslike. I feel as if the harshness of a breeze will shatter me into pieces. As if just the right amount of attention will cause me to resonate and crack into dust. So between the two extremes, I try to see what I am and go from there. Not difficult when you don't have an honest idea of what you are and associate yourself with verbs rather than nouns. I'm trying.

I'm trying to do things I would not because there is nothing left in doing what I always do.

I'm trying to reach out. I'm trying to trust people. I'm trying to have patience with people instead of cutting them off early to protect myself. I'm trying to lower what defenses I have left even though they have been down for the past few months and I have been cowering emotionally for the hell storm to come. I'm pulling myself out of the edge of your sight to center while bracing myself for the worse. It seems that I can not endure ghosting any longer or at least until the next person rips me open and reminds me why I crawled myself into the edge of sight in the first place.

I'm trying to see myself as person rather than thing

This is the hardest of all considering that I am not people and have some great difficulty in believing myself to be people.

......

So yea, I guess you're caught up.

So yea.....that. Maybe I can get some decent sleep now.

I doubt it though.

1000 words, 40 minutes.

Keeping away from the Places in One's mind that Scare us all

Writing has always been an organic process for me, meaning that it has more of a flow of movement that I often times can't control even if I want to. For the past week, I've been staring at a blank screen wondering how I would begin to write with others attempts has been made well into a couple of paragraphs when I erase it all realizing that it's not something I want said. Not for the sake of censoring myself, if you know me well, I never censor myself even when people believe I should not say something. These are the moments when I usually cut to the fucking bone and get it out, but it's hard to cut through something when there is nothing to cut through.

The sentences that I know as much as I would know the faces of my children that are perfect sentences that would allow me to pour out everything that needs to be said happen in moments that I am not able to take advantage. The last time was between mile 3 and 4 into my run on Tuesday Morning. It was perfect and inviting and knowing that I was nowhere near any form of writing materials, much less capable of resembling human from a 5-month lapse in my running regiment. I would have placed it up there with the point where you know you are going to win and win big with any offense made mute by months of preparations and the awaiting arms of a lover with only a draped sheet separating us. Not joking. Those magnificent sentences are worth more than my weight in gold or what you'd find valuable. And to see those moments of great brilliance slip between my fingers are the equivalent of hold one's arms wide in giving some idea how large the fish was that got away.

Writing is difficult for me, something I have to be in the right mind or mood to flow without mental opposition. To connect the thoughts that I have been mulling over for longer times than most decide to choose a life-altering path in their future. If there is a more personal thing to me I would not know it. I have changed clothes in the open in front of many who either turned away or simply stared on and sharing my thoughts have always been more intimate than I could imagine. I've befuddled people who'd I shared a bed with only to have them declare me distant and cold when they could not pull the thoughts that I would sometimes chew on for some amount of time. Part of it is that I do not know I'm doing it and others have been simply too lost in the process that would have most consider my existence on the level of some cats who stare off to distances unknown only to lick themselves in a second with no continued exertion of mind.

I've before shared my thought process only to horrify and confuse many who do not realize that when I do have enough nerve to share my thoughts that it's usually to gain some insight to their reaction with a partial or even an impromptu thought experiment. A miserable few have ever been willing to give into the processes I endure daily. Most have to have that mental foot being slammed down, not even willing to entertain things that are disturbing and horrid, never knowing that they are proving my point and would have never considered anything outside of orthodoxy, almost as if they want to hide something bigger than they are willing to admit when I'm more than willing to expose my shame for some reflective insight that can assist in my train of thought. Never things that just get yucks from people like, "wanna fuck a dead body?" or stupid waste of effort in thought, but usually, attempts in placing myself in shoes of individuals that would have made other to cross themselves against figments of imagination when their own dogma does not require it.

I enjoy studying the edge. The place where most have crossed with enough pariah shame placed upon them while others would never go near for fear of it pulling them in and never allowing them to escape. I entertain the thoughts that people believe I have and the moments when words become useless and barbaric acts usually get justified in the end to redeem blood on hands. I subscribe to the Stephen King academy of villains being broken people who are pushed too far and usually are conditioned to being under the heels of monsters. I've met my fair share of family loving individuals who do share some tidbit of their process only to have it chill me to the bone. I've seen grandmothers justify rape as an act of beneficial gain for society. I've seen women condemn their own gender to toil when they have never had a callus. I've seen people who growl and foam at the mouth like rabid animals and wonder if they hold small children and tell them they are loved and protected. I've seen people laugh at some of the most horrifying things that can happen and thank their personal deity for it.

And I'm more than one willing to admit I have been among them and in some cases taken part. It's why I can not help to rethink and rethink the moments that I have been placed in those horrid moments without some inner conscious of telling me to leave as I do now. Most of my actions are often fueled by a guilt had in times of such ignorance that if I spend too long pondering I often times snap out of my thoughts with shock at tears shed. There is few moment of raw evil. The kind that children's tv always tell you exist. For the most, they are people who'd are more than human as must of us are, but somehow will debate you against another individuals or groups conceived humanity and how "they are not like us". Those words always chill. That strong assumption mistaken for law, revelation, or epiphany. Those thoughts that you'd shake your head and tell yourself that it could never be you. You are a good and kind person.

I question, what it would take. What would have to happen to cause you to be the nightmare you'd never want to have. Do you have to lose more or gain some? Would you need to be pushed or coerced even tempted? Would you have to have a way out or know that the one thing that keeps you a good person OR ELSE does not exist and that would naturally become your default setting? If the worst has happened to you would that be the justification? Is breathing justification? Is it by default justification? Would you feel this way 10 years ago? 10 later? Could there never be a moment where you'd simply snap or are simple people who do not share the seal of OKness that you project only susceptible? Are only the weak able to become such or do you have to reduce "good people" to such an inhuman state to be capable of said actions? Are some people simply made of shit or are they conditioned to be shit? These are only a few thoughts I ponder, especially when large groups act out in a way most are taken aback by and mockery is the only thing acceptable by small minds.

Perhaps I'm distant for a reason. Perhaps I'm just an ass. Maybe I have no idea what intimacy is or that my definition of it is something that would never be taken to the definition. I ask these questions now. Therapy is said to work, in which I can not believe, but most have said that there are most definable changes in my persona. I can't tell. I'm deep in and only attempting to find the hard questions I shy away from in hopes of not being trampled on by life once more. I know they exist if only because I am this way and I can not "openly be".

Sometimes I wish I had those perfect sentences like now. They would prevent me from digging up more things that pull me in ways that I'm told are harmful. I never noticed. Then again, I am in therapy and I am learning.

1409 words in 50 minutes.

Aversion to Adjectives and Acceptance in Amending them to Adverbs

I always have some difficulty when starting these out. Not for the fact that I do not have much to say, but I always fight a constant and nagging feeling that no one really cares what I'm writing about. I guess this is why I usually wait for the most interesting of moments to share, the kind of moments where I'm given advice from sex workers, climbing through windows, and having to hold someone's hair while they expel all that demon hooch that they have ingested in a guise of being absolutely fine. Oddly enough, with this writing exercise of getting to a minimum of 1000 words and learning to write frequently I"ve come to the point of not spinning a story that pulls people to attention, but more of the random thoughts that I usually share in small confidences only to hear them declare I should share things such as this.

This week is only halfway there has been odd in some way. Once more I'm going to spout a given that should be known that I am odd when it comes to social interactions and cues. I don't understand anyone hitting one me, complimenting me, or even going out of their way to speak to me. Not only do I carry this belief that I'm not worth the trouble, but I honestly believe that it's better that I am left alone. Considering all the work with Crazy Doc I've learned that I have in some way walled myself off from such interactions that do not place me in a position where I offer a service. I'm all too familiar that I see people who I do not know as someone who wants something from me and I want to keep that as blunt as possible. Ha.....if you're thinking that this was the advice from the sex worker, no it isn't. I wish it was, but no.

Yet every now and then new people do squeeze their way into my life even if I do my best to keep them at bay. As antisocial as I can be I can not hide that I have a good cluster of people after more than 10 years had held on and made sure that I could not shake them off, much like a dog with fleas. These people are valuable to me, more than others and oddly enough some friends made their worth more in pulling in people of greater value than themselves, not lying, who I trust more than anyone else. I've always worked with an almost militaristic, mafioso form of loyalty with those who were closest to me, a loyalty that I had in the past had to end if only to survive. I'm not one to shy away from a me standoff for a greater principle of friendship, but I have a strong sense of dying stupidly that keeps me from making my last stand over things that I find so frivolous.

Yea, that's over.

And yet, I am amazed at people and the confidences they have with me. In this week, people close to me have puzzled me with things that I have difficulty in seeing myself. I don't have an image of what I am that I've been told is healthy. It's a mixture of a huge monster with a loud roar and bravado to make most cower, even when I'm simply trying to lay low. The other extreme I'm small and unseen. I'm hidden and I slip through crowds of people, even when surrounded by my companions. A survival reflex where large crowds are simply a dangerous thing if only an ingrained instinct gained from the One Time and people who see me as a threat in their mind built up by people who'd would shoot me on sight. Not healthy. It's why I"m always on the defense and move. I don't enjoy parties or festivities and if I do, someone has to make me comfortable enough that only alcohol has gotten me in the past.

I guess it's why I enjoy house sitting. I get to uproot what weak roots I have and pretend to be someone else. It can also be why I always give another name when asked for one that does not demand personal information, think coffee, although I'd sooner connect that I have issues with remembering names, numbers, and small important information that is not drilled into my head in practice. Yes, I have forgotten my own phone number and name. It's awkward, but then again I live in awkward, hence why I enjoy uprooting.

Being someone else, sitting in a cafe with the laptop out and simply trying to blending in, if not hide. I simply want to see if people will rally the townsfolk and light the torches to chase me out of town. Somehow I build up a persona with known places that may be attached to any legend and only with decades amount of time do people forget me. A small corner, warm coffee, and time alone to people watch helps me build up enough of an immunity to being outside and is needed, yet without it, I at times forget how to go outside and would rather remain in one place and stagnant.

And yet people close to me shock me at times. They want my time. With them. Sharing time and a moment, usually with food without asking me for some great task that I'm always used to. Sometimes they just want me near and I am almost bothered with this. I don't understand people not wanting me in a role, or in a position, or even doing something. To have people accept you as you is a hard idea for me. People who can put me at ease is already hard enough, but then asking for nothing in return can seriously fuck my head. It confuses me. I'm used to being used, but used for me where is not being used? Why? Because of me? Then who am I?

Why me and who am I to you? That's the question that hurts me.

I don't know what people see in me and it's confusing as hell. Every now and then I get snippets from people who think I'm this or that and the adjectives puzzle me because they are usually connected with people with enough confidence to take advantage of those adjectives. I've been called the following, "buff", "sexy", "engaging", "entertaining", "life of the party", and even "amazing", not for the actions that I do, but in reference to the noun and I am that noun.

"That's sexy."

Um.....it's a push-up.....I can see that, but it really focuses on your core.

"That's Amazing"

Oh....this.....took a long time to work on and I had to work at it, but you can do this too.

"Lifting that makes you look buff."

Oh......huh, really? I just lift to lift the things to lift.....you know....like your couch.

"You're so funny. I love hearing your stories."

Yea.....they're hilarious now, but hey if you can learn something from them.

I can deal with that. But I as the noun? "You are _______."? That one is as confusing to me as string theory.

In truth, my work has been trying to build up some sort of persona that isn't ENFORCER or MUSCLE. Even REPLACEMENT. I don't really know what I bring to the table in truth and usually know that if you give me enough time I will master something, but before then I look as if I spout chaos. So.....yea.....just something that I'm trying to understand. That concept of accepting the adjective as a noun instead of making it an adverb. I can be THIS if you give me some time, but I don't think I AM THIS.

.......does any of this make any sense......because it doesn't to me....*Sigh*

1,309 words in 45 minutes.

Looping Elton as one would poke Lions with sticks

I'm not one to wrap myself in nostalgia. It doesn't affect me the way it does others considering mine is usually spiked with some PTSD. It probably why I don't dwell on it for too long. I'm not going to compare it to heroin, but it's that one thing that you wonder how someone can do something to themselves and taking any walk into the past, even happier moments usually calls to some deep need to medicate and numb myself to at least sleep long enough. It's why I never was afraid of sleeping pills and hard liquor to get the job right when my own mind can do so much worse.

At the moment, I think I want the strongest amount of alcohol possible. If I had my pain killer bottle I would swallow at least 5 of various colors and sizes to kill that feeling I now associate with having my heart being ripped apart from the inside. Elton has that hold on me, specifically, Someone save my Life with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road at a close second. Something about Elton that just stabs so deeply inside me that reduces me into a wreck. I'm not showing any outside emotion. My survival instinct will never do that, but I am so close to simply sleeping with the bottle.  I want to medicate badly, but I know better now. I have that secure knowledge where if I ever give into it again I will not come out. It's a death sentence that I happened to dance around, but now being somewhat functional without my ultimate armor, I can not help feel that something like this can put me down for good.

Elton.......Elton is that one seal.....of the worse hells that I have ever faced. That release where I can feel myself fall apart inside as an empty echo of terror radiate inside me. It's what remains of sadness, having it implode to a level that I walk with something that feels like a black hole. Elton gives me that strength to embrace suicidal tendencies and simply break down and then apart until I pull myself together to face another day of being made of stone. Elton says it all. What I can never say nor even reduce myself to; asking for help.

I would never die before I ask for help, but I would kill myself willingly with a smile on face then ask for it and Elton will serenade me gently. It's as if I ripped my own heart out than to have it rip itself and every now and then I have to hold it....to remember why I pulled it out.....why without it I can function. I have to hold it to remember why I got rid of it......and then crumble apart....like now.....

It was not a bad day. It was actually a good one, but.......a phantom ache echoes ever so gently that Elton soothes as any handful of opiates would....that peace of not opening one's eyes....and not caring you're gently crying yourself to sleep. I want that now and I know it. I want it now and knowing how much of a bastard I am I will only play Elton for the 8th time and ache.....instead of swallowing what will soothe me. I can't do that, my painful sobriety placed upon myself. This is my last challenge really. To feel pain.......and, not numb....wait.....

"...and there's one more beer and I don't hear you.......any .....more...."

That's the sound of giving up......that will be my last words.....it had been my last words only to wake up screaming on how I am cursed with my grandfather's fortune to evade death and almost shame it. It's my swan song....it's my easy exit.....sneaking out before I allow the shame to fall upon me....fall of the world finally crushing me and not having the strength to flip it off one more fucking time.....I am stubborn, you just never realized that it was what kept me alive all those years.

No memory is without pain....not for me. It spurned me to blaze ahead with nostalgia burning behind me as one would burn ships set for home to resolve to push forward with no reprieve. I hurt.....I'll admit that now. I have to with all the therapy I've had, I have to say I hurt.....I still do not know how it never killed me or how I never realized I die so long ago. Either way, I punish myself in a way and feel all of it......staying away from what numbs me.....no booze....no pills.....no physical pain to boost my endorphins.

Just feel fucking pain. I'm told it's the first step to healing and a grand certificate to prove life.....pain......ha ha.....I'll be ok....no......I don't know if I will be ok....I'll be alive tomorrow as I am now.....just reconnecting......what......repressed shit.....all the slings and arrows I've absorbed....I don't know....just.....ouch......I'd rather be physically hurt....I know how to heal that, much like the first bruises from a loved one in order to hide what they have done.

They're just scars...and I carry them all.....So....just feel it.......*sigh*

Yea......everything has that tinge of pain....never a happy moment.....never......

I'll be ok.....just wanted to document this.....share with you in my small pocket of time and space that I am not made of stone. I am not strong as steel. That I bleed......a lot and frequently......just where you can see it....It's why Elton say the things I can't say. Ever.......

..........going to sleep now....I will be fine, don't worry....when have I been not functional? I'll be there for you....promise....I will....just not now....not here.....

Now, I am broken and you can not reach me.....I lay broken, pained, and will let sleep take me......and you can't touch me.......ever.......as I want it.....ha ha....ha....ha....ha....as I want it....it's the only thing keeping me....*shrugs* I don't know any ....more.....getting better is either going to kill me or heal me, but it's going to do something.
Good night. Hold those you can and love. Remember those we lost and those you can not reach. ha ha.....listen to me good....I'm sleeping with myself tonight.....I think that's why I love to write....you can't stop me....you can't......reach me....you can't touch me....it's all too late....all of it....it happened and when you get to me....it's gone.....

".......safe in time"

I'll be ok tomorrow.....just wanted to show....I don't know....I'm not made of stone....I may not be human, but I am not stone.....

.....why couldn't I just drink again....oh yea.....ha ha.....healing....fun....

Surround yourself among those who inspire Fear and Awe

I'm in that limbo space where you're waiting for a friend to do an event and where you are simply keeping time until it happens. It's that point where you are watching all these different people warm up, talk and work out personal jitters before they go through routines that would amaze people who are not familiar with what's going on and others who are in the know would consider failures.

My friend loves freerunning and parkour. Something I wish I was able to get into 15 years ago despite my aversion to anything challenging gravity. It's quite amazing, but the muscles and reflexes I've built up scream contrary to everything being taught. A personal shame really, but I'm good with it to a certain degree. I'm with her significant other as we with sit in the stands waiting for her moment to test into another rank that still confuses me. It's awesome to watch her do all the things that seem to mock the concept of gravity, although her significant other does have issues with keeping her whole and safe.

I feel the same way, although I more than understand the need to defy things all too well.

It amazes me how people drive themselves to work at something. It's beautiful in open spaces as each person go through routines, movements, and actions demanding balance and a strong stomach. All of us have at least something that causes others to cringe or make uncalled declarations of "I could never do that" to somehow soothe our own damage sense of value and to slightly diminish anyone with a weaker resolve than most. None of this is my thing, but the drive and the focus are more than admirable.

Watching her prep and watch coaches ask her to "do the thing" is cryptic as we watch her make moves and motions not quite understood. How the mind is able to store explosive movements in an almost mundane list format in order to process the sequence is almost blasphemous. Everything people are doing is more than enough to pull away one's attention. Even "failed" flips are amazing as landing are made with a bit of corrective stumble rather than knife like swiftness. All of it is amazing in the classical sense rather than in the post-hipster movement of "meh-ing" words into bleak guttural snarkiness with limp impact. "Don't think", "just drive" and become the flow" is chanted among others and to personal spaces as each of them, my friend especially, silently, yet sternly correct themselves to against "stupid things". Once more, all of this to the layman is spectacular, but these people who drive for a perfection unknown are not pleased.

Human anatomy is really a delicate design as intricate and delicate processes finely tuned yet still efficiently inferior to a mechanical process always striving to perfect the form. All of it driven by thousand of years worth of striving and reaching towards something better and reinforced by random chance and beneficial mutations. All life push and drive towards an unseen goal that is rather felt, yet mostly driven by a reptilian mind that simply wants to eat and not be eaten. Given enough time and we have Jordan slamming baskets, Serena slamming rackets and everyone else in between looking over to personal challenges with a drive rather than a "hold ma beer".

Her movements are now inspected and analyzed with a precise eye and calculative thatI do not possess. As long as she doesn't fall and land "wrong" I'm more than content. Judges keep poker faces in place and perform her rituals as we look on with subconscious held breath. I steer my gaze towards louder movements as people fling themselves towards objects that have my instincts screaming while others peacefully observe and nod with smiles. This is heavy. I never had these moments of impotent observations outside of my tourney days where I would simply scream out key phrases that demand harder strikes and cunning tactics ingrained with hard pressured sparring matches. A child off to the side drops from a failed attempt at the bars and lands correctly enough to be safe, but loud enough to raise concern among parents. A tiny voice stating "I'm ok" is raised as other cheer.

My friend cuts the silence with an odd giggle, not attached to the moment I focus on. I turn back and watch her once more.

She launches herself toward obstacles, tucks under while flinging herself towards a wall that limits her progressions with only fingertips pressed against the lip of the top. Only soft "fucks" are emitted until one was enough to break the judges stone facade and emit a nod. Her significant other and I exchange looks and nervous laughs. We make promises to exorcise our anxiety on her afterward over treats. Once again, we have no idea what's going on, but hand slaps are shared and we wonder, "was that a good?"

I'd like to apologize to everyone I place in this position over the years. Sorry.

She climbs up high once more much further than before and tosses herself off stoops to lower stoops while still considerable high up and far off. I can not be more descriptive at the moment simply because it rubs on my crazy towards heights and probability or happenings due to heights. Once more giggles, nods, and hand slaps. Cheers erupt as a child attempts to flip over a bar as all of his companions and those near him offer encouragement. He drops successful and we all share a moment of human struggle that even I comprehend.

She returns to us for a sip of water as we relieve ourselves of all the moments and meanings and sounds that can not find the proper vocabulary. We all nod and we wait once more in limbo wondering when and how it will end. In a blink, another test taker blitzes through a barrage of obstacles and in 17 seconds, almost expelling the residue of movement with an impact to his face. Significant Other and I both agree that mouth guard if not bubbles must be given to prevent faces from being smooshed.

My friend finishes doing some flippy thing as we both gaze back and realize with disappointment and relief that we missed something exciting and nervewracking. I'd like to apologize once more to the people....sorry. Once more she flings herself towards another obstacle on the bars as she slips through a smaller space made by an upright mat and the bar she holds. Nods and giggles are shared. We are still holding our breaths.

Sorry.......

I know she'll do well. She's made of amazing and this is the process in which she tries herself. Always surround yourself with people made of awesome, once again original term used. The kind of awe that causes your breath to stop and hold in your throat. That kind of awe where you shake in wonderment that you witnessed something too huge to break down at the moment. People who inspire stories that make those not there spur themselves in envy and lost opportunity. Never be the most interesting person in the room, unless your ego is fragile and delicate. Do place yourself among the giants of your thoughts who dare confess challenges that would cause lesser individuals to be driven away by their own awkward self-imposed limitations to dwell in safe spaces of their constructions where mundane moments thrive as weeds. I will never do most of these things without the inspiration of chase from things more driven to bit than mine, but it does push me towards the remaining windmills I would never dare to forgo for excuse of age or injury.

Dare to be magnificent. Your failures only disturb cowards.

.......sorry once more.

Hour and 9 minutes, 1,301 words.

Dismantling the Machine: Living with a Dying Battery

I had a very busy and social day yesterday.

I write this from a silent house where the other people are upstairs and silent or at least silent as far as my youtube music for concentration and big ass headphones will let me hear. I can sense more the heavy tapping of my finger to keys instead of the tippy taps. I took the liberty to make a french press of coffee using the mystery grind to avoid more noise and find a place to keep myself busy. I brought along my Xbox to keep my occupied, but previously planned plans have a tendency to go meh when things are going well at the expense on how much social tolerance I have. Yet a great many things were accomplished as well as the fears and worries of people close to my heart have dissolved to hope and determination, so the price is well paid. And for more bang for the buck, the right people came out of the woodwork to meet my close heart people to so that potential ring flashers can meet and exchange secret signs, knowing nods and mention the right names to know that they are not alone and greater good can be accomplished. So everything has been done to make things happy and yay. My heart close people even have the option to return from far away exiles to areas close to palate and joy of civilization instead of being the people on the edge of civilization.

And yet, if I may complain for the moment, am exhausted. It was never this bad before, but then again I ended up usually sick and forced to take the time alone where emotional batteries can recharge and my tolerance for the world can be refilled. Everyone to see came about and it was great and all, but social interaction drains me. I can not explain this, especially when most people consider me social and an odd extrovert when in honesty I'd rather see individuals for limited time, small cozy places and with an option of walking out. I was reminded yesterday that I am odd. I always have been odd and chances are even with all the work I am putting in will remain odd. I have issues with control and not having it, social interactions that have to be formal and not on my will, and how people assume that I am normal when I need to leave time to time to take a breath in and to calm myself in order to move on. I use the oddity of my motives to sway minds to my side and to introduce what I call reality.

Most people if given the opportunity will go along and let me if only to discover something new and brilliant they have never seen considering they never had to make due socially or in any other way. I feel the anxiety build and my breathing shortens only to barrel through with adrenaline and that's when my oddity kicks in. Much like Howie and Robin, I have to change the dialogue so that I least can perceive that I can and I realize my minor freaking out is either seen as comedy or just being weird. Fuck it, I simply roll with it. It's a magnificent filter for many things as well as people who are unimaginative. It's as if you told someone they could not use their legs to travel and you start seeing them be all weird and kookie and laughs are had ha ha ha ha.....and then you realize people do this in crutches, wheelchairs and sometimes in ways that you tend to forget because you're busy being fucking normal to understand. What you often times consider odd is someone's everyday challenge and simply have to get over if they plan to do what is needed.

I don't do well in large groups of people. I don't do well with groups of people I do not know or even trust all that well. I do well with people who know me for at least a decade and realize that I can be odd, but if everyone becomes still and my fucking mind stops screaming, I can interact calmly and make sense instead of focusing on who is around me or what can happen if I am not vigilant. Alcohol helps immensely, but I can not be drunk all the time anymore and I would rather have a drink to myself to nurse and perhaps pour down the drain when I realize I don't want it or need it. I have a tendency to medicate with either caffeine or alcohol and I now look at what I enjoy with moderation with apprehension and worry that I don't want it or need it or even want it near me.  I'd like the idea of having A BEER or A DRINK, but I also love the fact that I don't have to drink it or even have one. That I can resolve my anxiety or simply sit with it as the jittery ADD-ish child that it is.



I drank to die. Not to kill myself, but to accept the fate I felt in my very being that will come about once I stopped being vigilant.

Therapy hasn't cured me. it only allowed me to sit still and see if the Jackels exist. It has given me agency to get up and state that I had enough socialization and I'm leaving, so that I may now be typecast as rude rather than odd and hyper. So "Auggie is SO crazy and bounces off the walls" becomes "Auggie is really withdrawn, sensitive, and carrying some heavy shit that prevents him from being among us, his closest companions, because he might go silent, relive a moment that nightmarishly brings up a moment of time that he can never escape and feel guilt and horror over it because he had no ability to prevent it, solve it, or even make the occurrences stop. Auggie has PTSD and he has it fucking bad. If it was milder he would burst into uncontrollable tears and weep until be lost all breath, as he did back then. Now he's simply emotionally distant that he resembles sociopaths, if not for his sense of being overly vigilant and protective of others. He is so far gone that he even wishes to become a sociopath and drop the tattered and ragged remains so that he can least be free of the PTSD moments. So that he can stop caring and he can perhaps exist as the machine he almost resembles. Instead, he's a machine that can not drink anymore. He sits in a room and the peppy Crazy Doc that he just wants to pat on her sweet head and kiss it endearingly while explaining it is a lost cause and she should help better people who have the chance of being flesh and blood. Go along now, sweetie. Heal those who can still feel.

Instead, the machine sits in his pocket of space and time and confesses all in hopes that it at least explains so much or help someone else. I promised myself after Russel passed that I would not let it take me without explanation. I will not let it take me without people knowing what I am going though so at least those around me know I fight daily and struggle with simply breaking even or minimizing my losses. I recharge a dying battery and moments when I am drained I look at the exchange ratio and if lucky, I realize that I got something for it. I made the lives of someone else better for something that is dying.

Friends are up. I have to pretend to be human.

1,497 words at 47 minutes.

Dismantling the Machine, Part 2: The Horrors of just being Social

I'm at work on a Monday. I'm doing this because a friend of mine is popping in from Northern Cali and when she does show up it normally is a whirlwind of activity that honestly taxes my introverted nature. She's a good friend and a pleasure to be around, yet when she comes in she's on the move on a campaign of doing all the things that usually results with some things being cut out at the last minute. This Friday her and a few friends have run about planned with a cherry of a topper of hitting the classy bar. An even that for certain reasons or another I have always missed out, usually due to illness. Well, this Friday I'm game. I'm moving Friday to Monday at work which sandwiches my Crazy Doc day and gives me Thursday to Friday with her and a total of four more days to have to myself.

Awesome, no?

Why am I dreading it then?

There is a slow dread of a social activity that looms ahead with some time, usually, a wedding or party that somehow I was privy to know at least months in advance to prepare. Some days I can just let it sneak up on me and just head up. Others I almost welcome sickness in giving my the excuse to bow out. Other times, I force myself and carry certain things to occupy myself past those odd moments where I wish I was invisible with an adequate amount of time to walk off and have a breather. This event is different. I can usually stomach the running about, having lunch or consuming alcohol. Yet I have to dress up for the night out. In people clothes. To be fancy and simply hang about and just be. I have to be social, not just people social, but fancy time out social. Wear a tie social. Be charming social. Be witty and charming social.

So, yea a bit of dread.

It's not that I can't do it, it's.......I don't know. It's not that I don't know these people or care for them, it's just ......I don't know. It's not that I can't have a good time, it's just.....I don't know. I'm on edge. Like October on edge. I'm looking at this moment, not like a fun time out, but as a challenge. That I can handle this. That I'm not really dysfunctional. Just.....I don't know.

I have dread and I don't know why. I can not explain to you how alien this all is. This should be fun. I used to have fun and declare my time a good day to die and let all the chips fall as they may, but here I'm cautious. I'm nervous and awkward, I can't fucking believe I feel awkward, out of all the people on the planet, I feel awkward. Why is this a thing?

And of course, I don't know. I wish that I can simply wave my hand off with this as if it's just a gnat that gotten too close and has no place with me and my time, and yet.....I don't know. Is it that I have no control over the situation? That it's "different" or simply me being a bit more......undefensive. Do I associate suit time with my inner Man of Stone persona or personal security days? Or am I concerned with being.....off......odd......weird?

But these people know that. I'm always off, odd and weird. Hell, I was formed in the rivers of Off, Odd, and Weird. What am I dealing with? I'm not sure and I'm kind of happy that tomorrow is Crazy Doc day. I'll just walk in, dump it on the floor and say, "This.....make this better!"

Ha ha.....I doubt it. It has something to do with being any degree of intimate or closeness with anyone because I'd rather not. I have my reasons and I have my Crazy reasons, but they're stupid. I know they're stupid. Yet, I can almost feel the crowds. I can almost feel the people and the factors of WTF that can happen. The chances of anything can happen. I'm not in charge there, but I'd be comfortable knowing if I was. But I need to calm the fuck down and just have a good time as if saying that will make it so.

I'm over thinking! That's the problem! I need to mellow out! But how? I'm not going to booze it and I still am too exposed to deal with people. Hell, I've been in some respect avoiding people because of feeling exposed and open. I know you need this, but I have no good connotation with these things and being open and exposed usually get me in trouble.....or hurt. I just need to ignore it.

As if I can.

So, I have until Friday to just, mellow out......find some sort of mental peace of mind and just let them the chips fall as they will....and be ok with that. Simply be fine with any of that. I've done it before and alone which granted my attempts against something I know is difficult to me great rewards. And yet, I don't want to treat this moment as a challenge. I just want to go out, with friends, and be ok and maybe fucking enjoy myself. I know it's too much to ask, but doesn't my history of accomplishments and beating down past challenges give me any form of emotional stay or protection for this? It's so fucking surreal being awkward and emotionally weak when I've pushed beyond the hells that others have chosen as impossible.

Why is trying to be people so difficult for me? Why is this the thing I have the worst fears towards? I can sacrifice, but yield no rewards to it. I can bleed but never heal. I can put work in, but not bask in the glory of the moment won. It's not fair in any way or reason.

*sigh*

I have until Friday. I can do this.

I just wish I didn't have to, because......I don't know or even deal with something as stupid as this.

30 minutes, 1,028 words.

When Even Your Cold Calculative Analytical Mind Says You Can or Praise in the oddest and coldest form

These writing exercises are interesting, if only to me. Some time ago, my daughter gifted me for Xmas a Master Class in writing with James Patterson. It's an odd gift considering the timing. In the middle of house sitting, I scoured Youtube for vids to keep my free time busy and I hit a happy pocket of Stephen King lectures, some with R.R. Martin who asked how the hell was he able to put out so much writing. Watching this vid, I noticed that the room became silent at the question in which he told people that he simply writes for four hours a day, every day. He has more than enough spare time to do what he wishes, including research. And yet he knew this was an altogether easy response that would normally be brushed off as almost uninteresting instead of some mystical and deep secret that needs to be sealed with arcane ritual and blood sacrifice.

He also explained that while he put out Carrie, he has this immense desire to just write. His mind was filled with ideas and stories and he knew that he could write more if only he had the time and to have the time he knew he needed money. He needed the money to allow him to focus on writing instead of stealing away time from work, family and other obligations. So sitting there he sat down and wanted to know how much money he needed to write. How much he needed for at least one year worth of time out of the workforce where his family will not be without financial means, including emergencies and vacation time. Sitting there in the late 70's he calculated how much his contribution was to the household and he came up with a rough number that I somehow remember as something around $64, 000.

He needed an amount near $64, 000, if my memory is on it (still feel free to check my math, the idea is still there, though). If he was able to sell Carrie for that close to the amount he could have enough money for the year to continue writing full time. His wife would continue to work, but that was the minimum amount he would need to be able to write without any doubt or worry. That would be the amount that he would need to follow his dream and use that money to see if he was able to continue writing or if Carrie would be his only book, a fate of most writers sadly who do break through into the industry. When his publisher called back, he was almost ready to negotiate a sum close to what he needed when they notified his that they would like to buy his book for a sum closer to $100,000. And so, you can guess everything else was history.

The reason why it hit me so was that it was his test to see if he had the potential to continue writing as a living. During many of the lectures, sadly, he informed everyone that it seems as if writing was a dying medium that needed immense attention and understanding to keep changing with a society that at worse disregard the value of books until the film or tv show came out and at best changed the medium of how his work would be read itself. Although books will never be a forgotten medium it's certain that tablets, phones, and other contraptions have cause enough of a stir with publishers who often time ignored any innovation as they threat they are or the opportunity they should be seen as. Yet with all that he continue to declare that if you have that need and desire to write you have to do whatever it takes to satisfy the need.

And so starting my Master Class with a green notebook, pens, and enough chance to see if there is any potential in me I began the lessons. One of the lessons I've taken to heart is that you must begin a schedule, if only an hour a day, to write and to see how much you can write. In this, a goal of 500 words was made a goal in an hour. And practice should be built up until 1000 words are met. In 28 minutes I have already passed 725 words written. I know I'll hit 1000 before the hour is over. In this moment, I have some issues here. When James Patterson said that I should aim for that amount of words in the allotted time I sit here and wonder what potential I honestly have. Was this goal a low minimum or a "baby step"? Is there a higher goal that I should be aiming for? What is the golden ratio of words to time that he and other writers average? Is this because I'm not writing fiction and I simply have a natural ability to ramble on? Should I be ecstatic that I have blown away such a goal already or should I be focusing on a higher goal?

All throughout my lessons, the advice I'm getting from an author who has published the most books in his lifetime puzzles me. He says have a journal. I do! In that journal have ideas and plots and other snips of writings that you can store for any future attempts at a story. I have a worn-out notebook with first draft stories and outlines on how they should connect and other snippets of possible stories. Choose at least three to have a plot. I have at least 6. Attempt to write those three. I have six first drafts, as mentioned before. And here I have to question not his advice, but myself. Why is this simple to me? Why is this not difficult? Mind you, I can say that I haven't really written fiction in these activities, but have focused my writings on the two work mornings that (1001 words in 38 minutes) I get here early enough and have nothing but dronish work ahead of me to look forwards to. I haven't written on the other days. In fact, I'm writing a whole lot less in these activities considering that more of my pieces are at least......*leaves to see* 2,000 to 2,750 words.

.....wow......

Am I a writer? I mean, I write. A lot. I write when I have a need and there are moments where I have to take off time and simply be, but if I'm just shooting the breeze at least 1,000 words in less than an hour, does that mean I have potential I'm not paying attention to? Should I push myself? I mean, should I even believe? It's more an exercise in overcoming my low self-esteem. I was going to write a "but" after that statement, yet I have none to add. I have low self-esteem and I think it's limiting me. I'm not saying this as in to praise myself, but more in a cold calculative manner where I can see a given action is not taken advantage. If I look at myself coldly, I can see that I have potential to do so, yet do I have the tenacity to make it work? Is this worth reading? Then again, King said to not worry about that and just put it out there. People will find it who will like it, but if you have the need and desire to write you have to do it. I think I'm there. I have to write. I don't know if this will ever produce a dollar for me, but I have to write to simply be normal. I need to unleash whatever thoughts I have trapped in my head that my mouth is not able to unleash. I need to do so as much as some people find a desire to copulate. I need to simply free my mind in order to be able to sit in a room and veg out as much as I have been doing. It's been at least four months since I've honestly worked out to the point I can call it a decent piece of work, but I have to write constantly, even if it's the stupidest thing my mind can come up with!

And yet, is this enough? Is this what I need to just run with it? At this point, some motivation in the form of a mentor, even or plot device tells me to blah blah blah. Life is not that. Yet I, in my most stubborn and foolish of minds as well as over thinking and immensely calculative seems to state that I should, if only because I can. Not flourish or spice or even petals falling from heaven. I can because I must and I must because it flows. I don't know if this is what people would want to if people would desire to have it. Perhaps given an example or a direction to fulfill my way or something, but I have to state as coldly and calculative as my stupidly automatic and over-analytical as my thought process can be, I can write.

I can write.

I CAN write.

I can WRITE.

I CAN WRITE.

.......1,549 words in 58 minutes.

I think......I KNOW I can write. This may be my talent. This is MY TALENT.

I think I just broke through myself.

........huh, I think this is a breakthrough.

.......now what?

1,582 words in one hour.

Rummaging out the Confides of a Motionless Tank

*takes a sip of strong Chai tea, swallows the hot liquid in more of a need rather than in relish and begins to write*

I'm not going to say that I'm a quick person, but if you give me enough time to reflect I can map out almost anything with probable solutions, errors, and points of reflection where I can usually sit in a sunny room and ponder my options. Then again, I'm at work writing this outside of the Coffee shop with free wifi with enough time to put in about an hour's worth of work before I have to go up and simply do. It also helps that I'm going to therapy considering that I finally have someone who checks my mental math and see if I'm stuck on something, obsessing, or simply making much about nothing. Having the trust to have in them in immense, but I'd have to be blind to negate the benefit of it all, even if it spirals me into places I'd rather not go and ponder things I'd rather ignore.

Above all, I learned that my past week isolation and angst, for lack of a more dignified word, has been caused by the lack of mental defenses. I didn't notice it at the moment. Usually, I'm either leaving with a mind filled with heavy thought or with an esteem strong enough to push me past my usual low point and into charging into a new day. Last week, I was wounded. There's no real explanation for it. I was mentally wounded and it didn't register. Usually, in these moments I have to work against a certain amount of time where I'm in touch with emotions that I usually can not register or have abandoned for a concept of "it's just how it is" and moved on with the struggle I called life. It's the reason why I'm able to endure immense difficulty and move with a speed needed in these dire moments where the majority of people are still attempting to register what has happened and why it changed. This has its benefits with a hefty price of blood, as I spoke with Crazy Doc. I'm not going to lie about my self-medication with alcohol. It's magnificent in blacking me out when needed and silencing the analytical chorus that inhabits my mind in order to get in touch with my own thoughts or simply to silence them for a moment and put aside the anxiety that I now recently realize have been terrorizing me for some time.

In order to uphold the immense stress and pressure of my place in life, I understood not knowing or acting on an conceived whim would cost me more than any chance take. When you carry such mental weight you learn to adapt and speed up everything. You calculate your situation faster than needed and understand the meanings behind meanings and the chances of a misplaced word. I can usually figure out motive, action, counteraction and even possibilities of the moment. It forces me to move in automation and many have considered inhuman and almost legendary.

Yet it's not life. It's not living. It's not experiencing the moment for what it is. It's being the best machine for the job. And lest week, instead of having my defenses slowly rise to the point of feeling once more my confinement of my sense of self in a protective and imprisoning protection where I can relate to the situation at an emotional distance, they simply did not rise.

They didn't take hold or take over or numb me.

There I remained anxious, irritable, annoyed, and sensitive. And it was hell. I was insufferable to my own senses and I knew something was wrong and yet did not notice that I was vulnerable in the real sense. I simply knew I didn't want to be near people or outside. So despite leaving for work, I remained and dealt with it, even though I tried to take my mind off of it with whatever task that would take my mind off of it. And yet, not one drink was had. Not a painkiller was taken. No coping mechanism was implemented, almost as if my defenses cost me more than my perceived weaknesses. I see that now. I understand how being made of stone cost me more than simply being vulnerable and open to anything to rush in and tear me apart.

The Jackels never came.

So if they never came, shouldn't I remove the tank worth of armor I continually don in hopes of never being exposed to an attack? Will the bad people leave me be or have they left me be? Am I more than capable of protecting my emotional self from any situation without always being on?

Wait.....I was off? I mean, I have lived my entire existence now as "ON". How was there an "OFF"? Was this me at my "OFF"? Was it really bad? With everything I've faced in life, is this "OFF" a bad place to be? Can I live here with some anxiety and perhaps a bit of uncertainty instead of constantly calculating my every thought and action before I begin to contemplate to take them?

I honestly don't know. I'm a bit confused. This IS new for me. This is something I never faced or felt and I can't bring myself to understand it because I have no reference. How you explain RED? I mean, how do you explain something so elementary to someone who doesn't have the concept of RED. Am I making sense? I mean, I just learned 5 months ago how to implement boundaries, so this is fucking new.  I mean how do I interact like this. Can I even interact like this? How in the world can I? I mean, yea......how? How do I do? How do you RED?

It all feels so stupid and yet, it's so simply to be overlooked. I might be overthinking this. Then again, how would I know?

Much to Grok.

1,014 words in 42 minutes. 509 words in 22 minutes.

That and I'm realizing that 1000 words is nothing to me and I need more in order to express what I honestly think.

Much to Grok.

The Struggle for Trust: Taking Control for your Moral High Ground

I'm going to state the given now so that you can keep in mind that I am not an instinctually intelligent person. I do not understand how many people I come across who for some reason believe me to be some sort of intellectual phenom. That somehow some sort of internal spark of brilliance resides within me that somehow separates me from the rest of the people I meet. Somehow I have an inside track in math. An analytical mind to understand politics, history and social issues that are often masked and even criminal.

What bothers me the most is that the majority of the time I have a certain feeling that I can simply state whatever comes to mind without so much as a fact check, much less a challenge. I've done it before and even watched people sometimes swallow statements I've uttered with tiny errors just to see fi I can be corrected. Often times nothing gets mentioned. So I ramp up the bullshit. Never close to "Avacado" level if only for my own sense of humanity causing me to vomit blood and blie, but close enough for a certain few to actually mention, "wait.....I thought......" and receive a rewarded laugh seeing that someone does see an issue.

I'm going to remind you once more that I am not brilliant. I am not some sort of X-man level brainiac that somehow KNOWS. To be perfectly blunt, I was always considered stupid. Mind you, there was always a consensus among my family that I was some sort of brilliant considering how much stupid crap I've done under the guise of "puckish intelligence". I find this filled with bullshit considering that I'm now considered brilliant and all that stupid shit I've committed was just out of that. No, in truth I may be curious and even inquisitive, but I've always been considered stupid.

S-T-U-P-I-D.

If I have ever redeemed myself it has been because I was placed in a position where I was the only one there, no safety net or backup. Placed in a position where people are not only blatantly called me stupid, but were banking on my stupidity to remain so that I could be the whipping boy for whatever excuse. If I didn't do anything people whose daily life include train wrecks, stupidly criminal actions under the guise of "no choice" and the need to blame someone on Trotsky levels to unite people under their banner to mask their actions.

I fuck with you not!

What are you willing to do when you have no choice or exit. Can you allow people to continue to take from you until the last thing you have, your name, is taken also? Can you allow yourself to be the family joke? The "at least I'm not.." example? Can you allow people closest to you to lose any trust in your ability? Can you take that amount of ridicule that in truth fit the scenario? Would you allow people to write you out and to conclude that all of the ills of life originate from you? Can you live with that?

There is a part of me that will allow you to malign me and treat me as bad as you wish to. There is a part of me that exists that will endure it and allow it. That will let you abuse me in as many ways as one can conceive. Yet, when there are the lives of at stake, I launch myself as a rabid dog. I've always defended my children, friends, family, and others even if I took the worse of it all. I learned to endure and what I could not I medicated as best as I could. I can account decades of allowing this, all with a Zen resolve that the truth will be told one day and I will be vindicated.

Yea......problem is that once it is out often times it's simply ignored. I can state with strong comprehension that my greatest error of my existence was that I remained silent, allowed myself to be used as a shield, all with hopes that somehow someone/thing will come and justify my actions, intents, and defend who I was. Sadly, there was no such savior. One of the reasons why I abandoned religion and actually entered a period of time where I contemplated taking my life, was that the turn the other cheek doctrine that so many people of faith subscribe to cost me so much and solved nothing. Why does God allow horrible things to happen to good people? Because good people for the majority allow it, to themselves and to others all under the faith of something intangible. The belief hinders the actions of good people to defend others and themselves in order to allow others who know a good deal about gaslighting and other manipulative methods to take control of the fate of others all while good people hold true to a standard that the "good guy" does not do this or that. A standard that harms you and shows your ignorance in never being in a fight.

I use the example of a fight because of it, in all honesty, cuts through many assumptions and is actually experimental. My experience in combatives has taught me a lesson that is applicable in many ways. The only reason someone does not fight dirty is because they believe they have that advantage, not the moral high ground. People will only follow rules if and only if they assume the rules are to be accepted. I've have dealt with many opponents and I learned that in order to ensure my safety and theirs to an extent I must place my influence upon them immediately and must take full advantage of the situation. If not the x factor that results in the worse situation for myself and others is increased phenomenally. You must take full advantage of the situation and use every means to take full control and dominate the situation so that you CAN implement your ideals of a moral high ground. It will not be assumed. I know this from hard questions asked, training, and knowing if I am in a nightmare situation where I have a gun pointed at me, I know that I can not shoot that individual for MY moral high ground.  And yet, I am resolved in being as "dirty" as possible in order to remove that weapon and to cause as much damage to the individual where they can not use that weapon and my choice of abstinence will not cost me. Everything is an assumption and knowing that I must take full resolve to take control of the situation.

If you do not take control of the situation you can not dictate the moral high ground and you can be certain that those who do control the situation will not agree to your definition of it. If anything I've learned this past October that I must struggle with the choice of taking control of my situation after decades of allowing others to dictate how things are. I was a victim for the majority of my life and have sacrificed much in hopes to protect others. A lesson I've learned through hard effort and sitting in a small room with on of the two people I struggle to trust. In this action, I learned that my concept of trust is skewed and dangerous. It's something that I need to redefine under new terms that are beyond difficult for me. I must struggle now with learning to live in a normal world with a definition of normality that is not my own. I must open up when my experiences dictate that that is how the wrong people take hold of you. I have to face the idea that "the Jackels" do not exist anymore, or perhaps they never had. Hard to when you're this scarred, but something that is needed to move on into living rather than existing.

I have to learn to take control of the situation, exert my dominance and state my moral high ground all while dropping defenses, allowing myself to relax and to know that the seven times I think and analyze every statement and thought shared may just be a bit overkill in a word with #TheMostGloriousofDumpsterFires.

This is difficult for me. It's something I've never done and it limits everything that associate as being human. I have no other choices in the matter outside of taking my life or continue to endure the same way before I take my life. I can not live in such a manner anymore simply because my act of resistance is poisonous to me now. This is what I'm working on. This is why I am alone and secluded. This is why I sit in that small room and expose my fears and dreads to someone who I honestly hope will not tear me apart as "the Jackels" would and have.

I don't have anything else to say outside that I'm trying. I don't even know if I can get out of this. I just know I have to try since I have no other viable solutions at the moment. I've lived and endured to the point when I was past due on principle alone.

I'm trying. I honestly am.

1,562 words, one hour.

The Hell of Trusting

The beginning is always difficult, especially when you know that every mental faculty you have has been conditioned to question, revise, analyze and usually toss out numerous attempts at communication. Perhaps it's because I always lived under the umbrella of stupid, but not just stupid, but a special category of stupid where your brilliance that has never been questioned when you are not present puts you in positions where the birds of your feather usually enter the same situation with a declaration of "hold mah beer...". Maybe it's because I was in a cult where critical thinking was frowned upon for belief, faith, and unquestionable acceptance. It's easy to look back and analyze where I have gone wrong and what situations have caused me to become this amalgamation of mental checks and balances with the possibility of reviewing what was, what could have been and what I could have done if.......

And this is where I am, IF. I'm going to say that the scientific method is one of the most amazing processes of investigation that can foster critical thinking, skepticism, and a healthy appreciation of fact over feelings. Yet it can not help me where I am at the moment. It can not offer any way to out of where I am. It's why I now can say with much difficulty and hard earned work that I trust two individuals and they both are or were my therapist. In a small room that brought me much joy outside of the need to stare out a window and know that I am not trapped in any enclosed place, I do what I have taught myself out of necessity and survival to never do. Here I allow the person who is sitting opposite of me to engage me in difficult conversation as I handicap myself in every way possible to not challenge, question, or analyze their words, choice of vocabulary, body language, eye movement, tone, and overall meaning including between the lines. I hinder myself, as many of you know having dealt with me since my very nature I have to have the answer. You find it annoying. I find it a life-threatening need. I have to have the answers or at least search for them since it's only me between the worst that can, have, and will happen. I have no safety net, backup, nor do I have anyone to bail me out if the world shatters as it has many times. Your annoyance on how relentless I must be to know everything possible is probably one of the deepest scars I have and in essence, it's what holds me together.

Here with this individual far away from the world that I relentlessly save, the same world that crushes me with an indifference that I to this day will always find personal I attempt to do what I can not: trust. Every second phrase I speak is one that betrays me and offers the woman with notepad in hand scratching away insight that I never share with others. I share intent, need, and reasoning.I expose more than I would expose with others, and considering that I have blatantly shared nightmares in many of your times of devastation and woe, if only to show you what many can survive if only you have the will to endure and strive, and shared moments of my life some would only hold dear and share with those of trust, none of this shames me in the least. I am in control. I have even disrobed in front of you and find my body of no importance or intimacy. I've shared sexual escapades and moments that would cause medical doctors to pause.

Yet never out of trust. Only from an abandonment of what most would consider personal. I do this much like one would take their hand and stab a knife between the fingers, in a show of disregard of one's being and no concern for one's safety, as long as I am the one harming myself. It scares many away, as intended and it offers me an open existence, but nothing more.

I exist. Nothing more.

I never trust, so in this room, I expose myself to this other person with more shame and fear than one would reserve for an intimate meeting of a sexual nature. Here I leave myself vulnerable as every instinct, natural and hard earned scream at me to stop. Here I offer another person the opportunity to not only help me but the chance to strike me down in the worst of ways. I do not trust because those who I have ripped apart the part of me that would allow any means of intimacy, bond, or .....I actually don't know what else. So help me, I'm so hindered here I don't know what I lack and it scares me.

I was happy not being human. It makes life easy, but hollow in the way of having something torn from you and only realizing once you discover you don't have the means of being. It's a hell that many of you do not understand and I would never wish upon. If I had ever met someone who suffered my fate I would have offered them a mercy that I always sought. And yet, death never came and I'm living past a point where I should have left you all. Instead, I'm crippled in the worst way and trying to learn how to be at an age where I've gained master above many things. Legends are meant to pass on, not exist past their point where the sacrifices are so blatant that they become a monument of sorrow.

So I expose and remain open until the point that my very nature takes hold of me and raises up defenses to allow me to move on. And yet, I do not medicate. I do not hide away outside of my reluctance to be among you. I sit and I suffer growing pains never felt and fears that haunt me once more. This is the price of trusting someone not among you and have no connection to you.

This is the work I do. This is the hell I face. This is me fighting for a chance to live rather a means of existence.

And now you know.

1057 words. 50 minutes

Shortest Post

*takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and plunges in*

Trust.

I have my first session with the new Crazy Doc tomorrow and I've been trying to figure out where I should go or what my goal is to focus on and after some thought, it came to me yesterday that the elephant in the room for me is trust.

*looks over what have been written and decides that it's going to keep this one. He continues*

I don't feel well. Not right now, so I know that I'm exactly where I need to be. I don't usually get hit with anxiety, but when it does it hits harder than a truck. I'm having trouble writing this so I'm going to leave this alone for the moment.

I know. I'm shocked also.

I'll come back here when I'm able. Just not now.

Saying the hardest things that I have no words to say

There is so much to share and yet I'm not ready to share it, but I will say this. The only redemption to this crummy year has been October. I can already sense that I'm touching the tip of the iceberg here and that this paragraph will become the first step in a long journey, something in which I know I'm ready to share, but the moment has not approached as of yet. It almost reminds me of announcing an engagement after a tragedy. It taints the moment and yet it must be shared sooner or later, yet we always choose a later point to share hoping that the long tentacles of misery would not reach far enough to snatch us once more.

And then George Micheal passes. Hell, we just lost Joey Boots a day ago.......fuck you, 2016.

I mean, fuck you 2016. I'm so done with you. And yet I am in no need to share anything and I'm quite a happy place introverting in a warm room far from any stress and people. I love you all, more at this moment than before, but I need space to recharge, de-stress and carry the heavy mantel that is my persona.

See.....already ungreased gears turn and high pitched squeals sound. I can feel this becoming longer than I am willing to invest or am emotionally able to give. So stating that I will leave you with some short thought that hit me just now and maybe something profound out of the random mind crap that is my head.

I'm house sitting a few places hence running around between dwellings ensuring that pets get walks and feedings while making certain people know that the place is safe, happy and lived in. As of today, I haven't spoken to another human being and I'm happy. I need these moments. I need them because I I realize that my mind needs rest when it comes to thought and I honestly realize that my mouth is not the best medium for communication, which means out of all my physical abilities I'd have to say that I'd willingly give up my voice than any other faculties that are well used and enjoyed. My mouth is not the best way to communicate with you all. the fact that I fight my mind from the onslaught of thoughts and sorting to which ones should be verbalized with the painful stress of knowing if I do not choose my words carefully my puckish nature would be considered horrible and cruel rather than introspective and humorous.  So, writing is what I work with best.

That and I have difficulties saying things. So I usually blurt them and polish them on the fly. I will never utter a beautiful word, but given time, silence, and a bit of inspiration I know I can move you as I am moved. There is so much to say and I can spend a life time with the thoughts I hold at this time, but most are not mature or ripened to share. So I'll try to say this.

I was just moved in my time of isolation on how much my life had changed. The beginning of this year I had a resolve that I would either get healthy or finally decide to take that walk down the street. The contrasts from January, coughing up blood and malaise-filled, now filled with hope, confidence, and even affection for most of you. And yet, I know I closed a chapter of my life some time ago, I know I am far from perfect.  Today is Xmas day. I'm an atheist so I'm not one to celebrate, yet when I was in the cult I didn't celebrate is either. In fact, I've spent this day usually walking the empty streets and agreeing to a friend or another to go eat Chinese or visit so that I can receive a gift. The day has no meaning to me. Tuesdays usually have more meaning to me than this day, not as in a manner of protest, but because I am used to this leave of isolation I am used to. I am comfortable alone and even distant with people. I'm one who walks from the crowd when I tired from hiding in it and I go do my thing.

And I realize that I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't know how to show affection other than my children and I know that's an issue to be tackled in a wee bit. Yet, as I listen to Stephen King address an audience while traversing the Commonwealth, I realize I feel something odd. I feel something that I don't understand. I feel something that I can put into words yet, but I'll try:

I miss alot of you.

.....yea, I think that's it. I feel not loneliness, but longing. I miss some of you and I want to hear your voice, even a few words. I don't know how to express myself in this way, because I've always been the "hardass", but I've also been meek and crushed. So I don't know how to express myself to you. I need a bit of distance to function and this is the first time I realize I don't want that distance. I want to cut that. I want to hug some of you. I want to tell you how much you mean to me. I want to share something positive that's trapped in my mind and I can not find the words to put it into meaning as of yet. Some of you I want to swing in my arms and laugh. Others I want to hold a warm drink and listen to you speak if only to remember what your voice sounds like again.

I'm still sorting out. I'm better. I have discovered the tracks of the train wreck, but I know from the wreckage that I have alot of work to do. I have alot of intimacy issues to work out and even understanding myself as a human being. I don't know what I am to you all. I don't know what I look like. I don't know what I am half the time and I do not understand how I can be a bit more. Being people like you is hard. It's where I am flawed and lacking. Being a "hard ass" or a "Legend" is easy since I just push through, but being human is almost unimaginable.

A woman jogged past me while I was walking a dog and she looked towards me and gave me a passing look that confused me. I didn't know what it means, but old tendencies told me to "avoid". I don't know who to people. I don't know how to say words that I need to say. This is my challenge for 2017. To be people.

.....and for some of you, this is why I'm still not "sleeping around" or even "dating".

....so, yea......broken......but I want to say things because I have new emotions at the moment.

.....I love you all. I realize my life is better among you all. I'm sorry I was going to end my life this year. I don't know how to explain it, but I felt I had no direction or choice. Now I realize I have full control of my life. I had the strongest feeling of.....sorrow, regret.....um....loss.....shame......abandonment.....beterayal.....because I realized that I was going to take my life. That if I was not able to recover I would have died and I would have done it now. I would have taken my life at this point and just understanding how I took another path and one that has made my life not only different, but enjoyable and safe.....I am terrified by my own resolution of what I could have done....and I'm so sorry.....I guess I want your forgiveness and I don't know why. I realized that I would have been gone and pain-free and yet I would have never felt this amount of happy. It's almost Dickens how I want to run into the streets and cheer at the moment.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I almost gave up on me and would have left. 

.....this upcoming year I'm making amends. I'm coming to see you all. I will make my life better than it is now and I will do what I can to have you all together in one place and I will try to say what I can not. I"m sorry I can't say it now. I'm in therapy and I'm honestly trying.

......well, I said that stupidly and clumsily and yet, it had to be said......stupidly since I can't find the way to say things.

I'll end it here.

Peace and Love.