How Fucking Dare You

Writing (typing, whatever) has always been a way for me to weed out the demons I can dance with from those that try to devour me. I have not done a great job of exorcising those demons these last two years. I would claim an attempt to do better, but I know I will not. The urge to write is seldom felt these days, mostly due to egregious amounts of frustration and anger. I feed off my anger, generally, using it to provoke me in to bettering myself. That has not been the case these past two years. I’ve done well in reconciling my past with who I want to be, overall, but I have learned there is a “full up” point you can reach where you’ve just been through or seen too much. I seem to have hit that point last year and have seen no cessation in the feelings of melancholic apathy. I am angry over several things that have happened. I have two people in particular I wish to lash out at, to rain down wrath upon them such as they deserve. One is untouchable at the moment due to circumstance, and the other I refuse to contact because he does not deserve my time or effort or emotions. And all anger tends to stem from its equal counterpart at some juncture….that counterpart being love (or deep caring/respect/whatever..they all go hand in hand.) So to the person who ever wants an ex to “keep his [sic] name out of their mouths”, I give you this.

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Self Realization is Self Preservation

I have had a lot of time for introspection lately.  Too much time, really.  Between the wakefulness thanks to nightmares and my own general introspection any way, coupled with this year’s crippling events, I have had more than enough time to delve deeply in to all the things that make me who and what I am.  This is rarely a good thing.  I cannot say, yet, whether this has been a good thing recently, either.  Though I have come to some conclusions.

I recently did something that has, to date, been one of the three hardest things I have ever done.  I sat down and wrote all the things I could, at the time, think that I love about someone.  It is much harder than it sounds.  I have often thought about it before, and when I did, I often found myself snapping back to the present with my mouth agape, eyes unfocused and staring in to memories past, lost in the swirling swarming events I hold close to my heart.  I can no more put in to words the emotions these memories evoke than I can adequately explain the emotions of giving birth, swinging from flesh hooks, adopting a child out, being beat by your spouse, escaping death.  They are all things that have no words, in any language, to really explain.  Though some of those I can explain better than others.  Love, fear, loss..these emotions will never be adequately explained, and they are the three that make us do the most fucked up things.  They make us stand when we should flee, they make us flee when we should stand.  They make us give when we should take, they make us take when we should give.  Or in my case, I don’t really feel fear so much, as I have written before.  I have found my fear response tends to go in to pure on “fuck you, I survive” mode where I go incredibly cold and calculating or I skip right over fear in to straight up terror.  Either way, I don’t run.  Ever, so far.  I face it.  Then I face it again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And I keep facing it.

I am the type of person who, if I don’t want to do something, if I “fear” it, I have to do it.  Period.  Regardless the consequences, I have to do it.  Yes, I know the consequences.  I know the chances of me being hurt in some cases are pretty fucking ridiculously high, but I have to do it.  Sometimes, as I told a friend last night:

I don’t care about much, but I’ve lost nearly all I DO care about this year. Sometimes you gotta throw it all out see what comes back.

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Anxiety Attacks and drowning in the ocean…

It’s funny how, being classified as bipolar, when I get stressed enough, I stim like someone with autism, asbergers, Tourette’s, etc. And yes, I’m spelling shit all sorts of wrong, and, at the moment, I could give two fucks or a shit less about that or grammatical errors. I have been having fairly intense stims somewhere around an hour. For those of you who suffer from any psychological prizes (hey, let’s call it something fun, instead of a disorder!!), you know how utterly motherfucking god damb exhausting they can be. Just…life-draining. And when I stim, I tic like a motherfucker. Scratching, rubbing my fingers, hitting myself, rocking back and forth,openingand closin gmy mouth,s ieltn screams, rapid blinking, rapid eye movement, tapping, sometimes sounds.. I get a nice lovely run of the stim spectrum. LUCKY ME. Thankfully, it’s only when I am incredibly super HOLY FUCKSHIT stressed the motherfuc out. And I have been..

This time of year is always pretty fucking tough on me. Starting at the beginngin of July through about the first week of August. I adopted a son out the day he was born, August 4th, 2004. And starting about a month before, I just………sink. I sink beneathe the waves of.. everything. Sounds, tastes, touches, feels. thoughts, breaths, leaves, colours, life itself. I have to keep busy. God damn, do I have to keep busy. I will cut a fuckin gentire yard with a god damn pair of scissors if that is absolutely all I have I can do to keep busy. Today, I rearranged my entire livibng room. That may not seem like much, but I had to vacuum and spray for spiders, too, because I have apparently gained an infestation of cute cuddly wolf spiders. Absolutely adorable, not lethal to most folks, but their bites suck big bulbous elephant balls. And I don’t like things randomly crawling on my face for me to squash. Yes, this has happened. And these motherfuckers are fast as hell. Look them up. Shoo, spider, you belong outside. Assholes. Anyw ay. This involved moving one 32″? television that is somewhere around 75-100 pounds off a 2′ high stand across the room.. rearranging 2 oversized loveseats and an oversized couch, moving two old-school studio speakers (the 4′ tall heavy as fuck type), the tv stand and putting a 42″? 75″ television back on the fucking stand. Alone. While dodging fucking spiders and keeping the kid busy. Whereupon I also found a tote I forgot about, seeing how it was cleverly disguised as a side table (don’t ask) and I found old birthday cards. And pictures.

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Dear Karma…

Dear Karma – We need to talk.

You know a few years ago, I went through some shit that would be considered pretty damn bad by most Americans’ standards. I say American, because, well, let’s face it: Africa and anywhere oil is located.

Since then, I’ve had bouts of time where things were not going precisely wrong, but they were most definitely not right. I suppose one could say I’ve been on a rocking even keel – overall, of course – for 5.5 years. Which is not to be scoffed at, do not get me wrong. Better to have an even keel than slowly going under. But then again, sometimes keeping that even keel for an extended period of time is a slower sinking process than one could imagine, until one experiences it. Allow me to explain..

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