Razor

I'll list my replies in the format of your paragraphs: 1.) Sometimes it hurts and you have to say something. 2.) I get that but, if I really wanted to live in this world, if I really wanted to be anything, I would know this. Public is better, because someone else there, they will know that someone came before. There are wolves, and I love you for having said so, but I don't have anything left to steal. 3.) See the preceding: come at me, bro. 4.) Thank you. Thank you - thank you, and thank you again. 5.) Be kind to yourself as well.

TBH, I feel like every single one of you will come for me right now, and I will be slapped over and over again with things I should not have done, things I should have done, I am terrified. But at this moment, I'm sad and I know that what I have been doing cannot last. Have I drank again? Well, one wonders. Sometimes, life is hard. This is one moment when I need help. I'm not going to say this in any other way than yes, I need your help. I'm supposed to do this, but I can't do it, and I need you. So, just to be honest, can you guys just... maybe be cool instead of hurting me for this moment? Thank you if you can. Thank you if you cannot. It's okay either way.

A surprising thing I've come to realize, which shouldn't be surprising, is that a lot of my anxiety and depression is not actually anxiety and depression. I will not say I am not anxious or depressed. Going outside of my house, talking to people, trying to interact in a normal way is a source of constant anxiety. I've always had an uneasy feeling about other people when dealing with them face to face. I don't like it. It opens me to allowing another person to stare at me, judge me, form an opinion of me, and possibly reject me. With that in mind, I've come to think that a lot of these emotions I feel that sometimes people pressure me to seek professional help for are not actually the emotions that are the real problem. I constantly analyze everything around me as well as within me. Following that train of thought leads me to believe that most of my problems in my emotional regulation of myself are not anxiety and depression. They are anger and frustration. I don't voice these things because it sounds like a pity party. Why did this happen to me? What did I do to hurt someone else so badly that I deserve what has happened to me, as if there is some cosmic being doling out punishment based on my deeds? Why does he or she or they not listen to me, why don't they understand, why do I even have to try to make them understand? Because they SHOULD understand. Why is it that people tend to leave me or I tend to leave them? As any person with half a brain would do, I think about this in terms of well, if you have a problem, learn from it. Figure out the pattern, figure out the mistakes, figure out how to move forward knowing what to do better. I get frustrated and angry a lot. It can be anything, but it's usually related to my interpersonal relationships, and the way other people see me. It shows up in strange ways. The other day at work I was working overtime, which I was already annoyed about, because at the same time I had a million things on my mind. Primarily that my kidneys might be failing because my legs and ankles decided to swell like crazy, and I was already consigning myself to death. Turns out it was the medication I was taking, and it felt like someone dropped a bag of concrete onto my legs, ankles, and feet, and still feels that way (though most of the swelling is gone). But that fear caused me to be frustrated, angry, annoyed. I thought to myself that it is insane that I am sitting at a desk pretending this is a normal moment when I could be going through the last moments of my life due to organ failure and I will never go on dialysis again, ever, so it was the real death moment in my mind. And I got PISSED. I was so angry that my life is held hostage by me working and keeping my insurance and keeping up with things that seem insignificant in comparison to "remember the last time you almost died, remember how that happened, remember how you remembered everything one moment and then the next moment you woke up a month later and they had to give you a new organ? Remember that shit? REMEMBER IT?! Why the fuck are you sitting here apologizing to crazy random stranger for something that was not your fault, when you might be dying?!" Frustration hits. The voices in my head keep telling me "hospital, hospital, hospital, you're dying, right now, if you don't go now they'll tell you it was your own fault you're dying later, but the hospital is a horrible place so only go there if you really are dying. Are you dying? Fuck if I know." Which makes me want to call out of work and just go because while I am so ready to just call it quits I'm not REALLY quite ready. I haven't lost all hope of everything quite yet. It's a strange place to be. It's like a conversation with death saying kill me, but not yet. Kill me now, but not really right now. It hurts, but not enough I want to quit. I want to quit, but I don't. All the while, I have a customer taking me forty-five minutes past my overtime shift. Why? Because of something that was not my fault or the customer's fault. It was an epic fuckup of doom I was dealing with that two managers didn't know how to fix and they brushed aside what was going on because they couldn't fix it, and being me I was like oh hell now, I'm pissed now, let's SOLVE THIS MOTHERFUCKER. Which it did get solved. Btw, for your comparison, usually I can get a customer on and off my phone in two to three minutes total. But I was not about to let that go once I got my teeth in it, I was like NO, this is bullshit, I am dying here and you give me this, you give me THIS?! And I realized, that anger and frustration are bad, bad things that have no place in the world, just like shame and guilt. I was more incensed because of the synergestic effect there. I was pissed, my customer was pissed, and together we turned into one pissed off frustrated freight train that was going to solve this goddamn problem. I started being snappish at no one, because in my line of work you can't snap. You have to be calm, collected, cool, reasonable, reassuring. But he heard the cracks in my facade easy. You ever started working on something for someone and got so pissed off about the roadblocks that they start losing their anger because yours overshadows theirs? That's what happened. I was ready to fight. I was completely prepared to snip someone down to half their height if they dared cut off my path to a fix for this person, because I'll be damned if I stayed 45 minutes after work to lose. Heads up, if your pissed off customer tells you to calm down, that should be an eye opener. So I thought about why I reacted so strongly. What made me get to that point of unyielding rage that I was going to make something happen no matter who stood in my way? And as stupid as it fucking sounds, as inane and simple and absolutely unbelievable it came down to the AA saying HALT. I was hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. All at once. And I didn't tell myself to try to find a way to make the situation more bearable, more tolerable, more normal. I flew straight to crazy town. Now, I have decided I will implement some things, and no matter what anyone else says or does, I will use these. And if work or anyone else has a problem with that, then they can take it up with me by submitting it in writing and giving me about three weeks to respond so I don't say something snappy and mean. Which brings me to the first thing. Wait. Just wait. Don't say or do that. Just wait. And that wait can feel interminable, but it is worth it. Count to ten, recite a poem in your head, take a deep breath, do a mundane task like counting backwards by sevens, and if you can take your focus off for a moment that lash out moment will pass. It also gives you time to think about the second thing. Jokes. Fucking jokes. Just don't look at it like a life or death, don't look at it as a personal attack, don't look at it as THIS NEEDS DOING NOW AND WE HAVE TO BE SERIOUS. No, we fucking don't. Things can wait. And things can definitely wait if there is even a small smile to be coaxed out of a situation. The world needs more people smiling and laughing instead of yelling and screaming. There is no point in going to war over a situation that can be laughed at. Furthermore, humor inspires camaraderie with those you are trying to engage, so why not use it? We can al act pissed off, but it takes effort to turn a situation on its head and laugh at it. Third, abandon your high principles. Nobody fucking cares. Don't move contrary to your values, but don't stand on PRINCIPLE. That is a fool's errand, and a great way to get knocked off your high horse. Speak your truth calmly and quietly, and do not allow yourself to respond to attacks in kind. Don't get mired down into an argument over what is right or wrong, but focus on what is BEST. The path of least resistance is usually a good one, and if modified a tiny bit, can allow you to hold your values while passing through. And by no means am I saying keep your head down and ignore injustice when it rears its head, but I am saying that you can pick your fights while making your opinion known in a productive manner. Fourth, and this is the most difficult for me; be kind to yourself. How can I expect everyone around me to respond to me with anything other than derision when that's all I hold for myself? The same judgment I hold for myself when turned outward suddenly becomes so much more hospitable, caring, genuine, concerned. It makes no sense that I rub my own nose in my mistakes when I'm so willing to forgive them in others. Fifth, quit deleting what you want to say. Quit doing that. JUST STOP. That leads to frustration and anger, Jamie, so say what the fuck you mean to say in a way that isn't totally offensive and gives other people at least a chance to like or dislike you. Quit wanting to say something and stopping. Quit typing a text and erasing it. Quit doing things up until the moment you could be rejected. Believe people are also people just like you, that they feel the way you do, that they want the things you do. Okay that last one is more about the anxiety, but still, as I said, it leads to the frustration and anger. Well, I've had enough of telling myself what to do by typing it out. Things have been grim. Finances are tight, I live alone now, I don't really know what my next move is. Which is a source of frustration because usually in the past I've had a plan. The plan usually involved a boy. Well, at the moment, I don't feel equipped to deal with any relationships. I want one. Not gonna lie, these past months, three relationships totally destroyed (albeit for good reason), so it feels like nothing will ever be worth fighting for again. Lemme clarify. I don't ever fight for myself. I just don't. I have a weird variant of social anxiety disorder that allows me to find a person I like and fight for them. Ask me to go to the doctor by myself and I can find all sorts of reasons why I don't need to do that, why I can't do that, why I won't do that. Give me another person who needs a doctor and I would carry them, despite my crippled ass, and I would make sure they were taken care of. I need the motive, I need the all encompassing flaming passion that this person is important to me and I will do this thing I don't want to do because they need me to do it. I've done it a million times before. In fact, I think I might have an issue because I love doing that, I love seeing other people happy as a result of my actions. It is what makes life worth living to me. And before you get all weird and say "Jamie, that's the wrong reason to live for!" Yeah I know, but, sometimes life makes us the way we are and all we can do is work with what we're given. I like to think of myself as someone who augments. Put me with the right person and I will raise them up into whatever heights they seek, and I will make sure they fly high, straight, and true. Just ask my ex, he's waaaaay better than when I met him, and I still worry about him even though we may not be talking lately and that might be my fault or it might be his fault (it's his fault, just in case you were wondering, and I hope that the bastard he's with dies in a horrible fiery car crash of doom because that fucker was mean to me but hahahahahahaha just joking cause humor is supposed to be an antidote to anger). That's enough purpose for me right now. I don't need to be great. I just need to find people who can benefit from me and I from them. Sometimes I feel as if that means I'm broken. Yes, me feeling like I need other people makes me feel like I am broken. The great secret of my generation is that everyone needs other people, but we just pretend like we don't. I don't have to be at the forefront, I don't like the attention or acclaim of many. I think of all the interactions I've had and I come to this conclusion. I don't need to be great. I just want to be kept.

Sometimes I be sitting here and I just think how surreal and strange life really is. I never imagined I would be sitting in Mobile, AL, with a stranger's liver, trying to find purpose in my life. I suppose it just goes to show that for all your careful planning and preparation, everything could be terribly doomed before you ever even start. Hard pill to swallow. I don't necessarily believe in fate, but I do think that sometimes coincidence is just too coincidental. This may be a psychological phenomenon materializing because I feel guilty for past choices, or useless, or sad, or any number of things. I've been killing off people in my social circles left and right lately. I basically keep to myself, which is probably not healthy at all. I have panic attacks when I'm faced with people (and btw, before anyone says a damn word, just because you don't see it on my face does not mean I am not anxious, I am a pro at remaining calm, I could fool God himself questioning me about my deepest sins). I don't even like going to the gas station or a grocery store, it makes me terribly nervous, like someone is going to hit me or reprimand me or chase me out. What the hell is with that? I know I'm generally speaking a decent person, I'm not physically unattractive, but I feel LESS than others. I could meet a stranger on the street and my natural action is to defer to them, when I know for a fact I'm usually the most capable and competent person in any given situation. I'm not tooting my own horn here, I just know I'm... I can make shit happen. Which brings me to the weirdness. The all enveloping, omnipresent weirdness. I feel like I look at my life and people around me as if through a pane glass window. I can see it, but it isn't there physically, it isn't there viscerally, I can't feel it, I can't touch it, I can't allow myself to be consumed by the moment. As a result, I feel sort of abandoned. I'm just an onlooker. I am a bird watcher of humans. A human watcher. I am emotionally and physically detached. I can't feel it anymore. I would kill for one moment of feeling alive again, I just want to breathe deep and smell something I've never smelled, I want to see things I've never seen, I want to look at a boy and fall in love with his face and see the kindness and hope and possibility in his eyes. I want to see him and see something that I can live for. Does humanity have a safe word? Like if we just get in too deep in this shit, can we just say "GRAPEFRUIT!" and then someone comes and gets us? 'Cause I been screaming grapefruit for the past year and no one has come. Okay, I have ranted enough. I am sorry for my ramblings. I wish you all the best, and I hope that your lives are great. If there has been one thing that I've learned in the last year or two, it has been to allow people their own thoughts and feelings and to never hold it against them. Take care, my lovelies.

Okay, so, I will say this first. Do not be mean to your customer service people. No matter what, never start out a call being mean. You never know who you'll get. Sometimes you'll get me. And bitch I am good at my job, but woe unto the person who angers me. This woman today, last call of my day, continued to berate me and call me names and refuse to be cooperative whilst she was yelling at a police officer as well. Ms. Barbara was a handful, but like the professional I am, I attempted to make nice with her. I told her I understood and I could handle this quickly and we won't have any worries because you know what, you've got me, Ms. Barbara. So I go through looking at her situation, looking at our contractual agreement with this lady, get through all my technical stuff in about a minute, minute and a half? Give or take, but including my greeting and her explanation. I'm fast, so that's fine with me. Ms. Barbara decides she wants to take out all her frustrations on me. Calls me everything but a white little gay boy. Oh, she pushed my buttons. I don't like people messing with my process, I'm all about being efficient and this woman has the audacity, the nerve, to call me slow. Woman, do you realize with anyone else you'd be on the phone for 30 plus minutes? Woman, do you realize how much of a cunt you're being? So, Ms. Barbara and I had a falling out. I have decided in my life that I will not take abuse. Had enough of that from my father and ex boyfriends. Ms. Barbara proceeded to ask me why a tow truck would take more than... I'm really not sure, because you would think a tow truck would be there in an hour or so, and I told her 45 minutes, but basically she was not satisfied. At which point I told Ms. Barbara "Ma'am, I have no control over anyone other than myself. It seems you don't have that much." She may have called me a jackass and then I may have hung up on her. But the point is: Do not be mean. There is no reason to be mean. If you fuck around and you get me in customer service world, you should cherish me. I am basically customer service Jesus. I am your lord and savior. I will go to the ends of the earth for you, and I will move mountains, make the sky cry, I will do anything. So long as you keep a civil tongue in your head and you address me properly. I expect to be treated as a fellow human, not something you can abuse at will. Guess where Ms. Barbara is now? She stranded. 'Cause I ain't gone help that ho. Nuh uh, no sirree, no way, no how, nah, nope, not gonna. I hope she enjoys her vacation on the road shoulder. That whore. FUCK YOU MS BARBARA. The moral of the story is be kind. Just be a good person. Remind yourself in those circumstances when you're angry or hurried that other people are people as well, and treat them accordingly. Otherwise... I swear I will find you and I will ruin your entire life and you will never breathe easy again because each time you take a breath there will be a new fear 'cause I will home invade you, harass you on the phone, come to your work, put drugs in your food or drink, I will find and end you. But not really. But that doesn't mean someone else might not... so maybe be a good person? I'm sorry, I'm just so frustrated with why people are so cruel and mean and horrible. Every interaction I go into I always smile. I want to be liked. An old adage suggests you get more flies with honey than vinegar. So be sweet, don't be Ms. Barbara. That fucking horrible cum guzzling thunder cunt from planet bitch. Gonna go dye my hair pink. Cause I need to scream at the world. Edit: Dying my hair turned out great! Deeper pink than I wanted but I am pleasantly surprised. Jeez, I might rock this for a minute.

I've been saying for years I would get around to learning how to play piano. I kinda started trying to pick it up in college, but there wasn't really anybody to explain to me basics and back in the day we didn't have all the wonders of the internet that we do today (omg I'm so old). Anyway, so I broke down and bought one! It's nothing crazy special, but I did make sure it had the full 88 keys and fully weighted hammer action keys and all that jazz so it's as close to a real piano as I can afford. Today was pretty hectic so I only sorta scratched the surface getting together basics of what NOT to do and then started learning scales and how you're supposed to move your fingers over/under to get the basic idea of how your hand sorta... there must be a word for this but you get a tuck and move sorta action going. And I have to say, there is a night and day difference on this keyboard versus the ones I tried to use more than a decade ago, this feels so much more like a real piano that it's almost annoying, my fingers have unequal strength and responsiveness right now, so that tuck and go motion gets me sometimes, the left to right motion of the right hand catches me if I'm not paying particular attention to my thumb for the tuck maneuver. That should get easier in time. I might be super lame, but after an hour I can finally do that mostly correctly, and I was super proud of myself for learning this. I'd like to spend longer, but I think the most I can really budget and stay faithful to is about 1 or 1 and 1/2 hours a day toward this, but I'm pretty happy with that progress. I also have Mary had a Little Lamb stuck so thoroughly in my brain now that I want to eat a shotgun and my fingers keep trying to twitch toward where the keys should be. Found a lady that gives lessons locally and sent her an email to get that sorted, so I'm quite looking forward to this. I like the idea of having a goal to work toward that I can ever improve upon, especially when I get frustrated/anxious/depressed about actual life. Perhaps that way I could escape into something meaningful and worthwhile instead of moping or feeling bad. On another note, I remembered a thing from a very long time ago, because I was standing outside on my front porch and I still keep my Christmas-style white string lights on my porch because when all of us hang out on the porch it provides nice lighting. Don't even know why I remembered this. So have a random memory. Work starts at one pm. Each day, I stay until at least ten pm, and drive home afterward. It is Christmas, so we have decorated our home with Christmas lights to festively welcome Santa. We can't do much, because we don't have the money, but we can afford a few strings of lights for the front, and a string around the indented, shaded-by-trees carport. One day a lady with a child (perhaps about five?) waves to me as I pull into my carport and I see her kid grinning and pointing, and I wave back. I remember when I was his age, and seeing those lights was a wonder. As an adult, it hardly seems special. I am twenty-one years old, and I can barely imagine anymore what it was like to be his age, but I can vaguely recall that amazement crystalline in his eyes when his mouth tilts open and he points, and his mother smiles and waves at me. Christmas passes, and we take the lights down. Except for the carport lights; we like those, it gives ambient light to a dark carport, and we're fine leaving them there indefinitely. We keep talking about taking them down, but I just don't want to. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm just short and can't reach them and we don't have a ladder and I don't feel like climbing. Who knows, but I'm not taking them down. Weeks pass. It is now mid-February, and we still have Christmas lights on our carport. They're visible from the street and, while shaded through some trees, easily identifiable for what they are. I drive to work. I drive home. I rinse, wash, and repeat, and forget about that mother with her child. One day I'm driving home again and this time I see the kid and his mom again. They're both motioning to me, but my car window won't roll down; it has broken and it is too expensive for me to fix. I stop. After all, we're headed toward each other in a deserted side street, and I might as well say hello. I open my door slightly motioning that my window doesn't roll down. As I do, she lets down her window. At first I think they might be having trouble, I don't recognize them for who they were. "We wanted to tell you that we look at your lights every night, and my son wants to tell you to never take them down. He loves Christmas!" I laugh; a deep, genuine, rolling laugh. "I promise they'll stay up as long as I'm here! You guys be safe and have a great night." She smiles, he smiles, they wave in tandem and drive away as I shut my door and pull into my carport. It is no problem to keep these lights on as long as I live here if it makes them happier to see them each night. It makes my concerns seem silly, even. I can't voice why I feel the way I do, but I feel that if I can keep these lights on, if they smile when they see them even though to most adults they're a bit tacky after the holiday, then who cares? Isn't it hopeful, isn't it incredible that something so simple makes them happy? If they feel joy because of something that I do, something that requires almost zero effort from me and hardly any money, who am I to deprive them of it? This is one of those stories that has no ending, though. I moved on. The house moved on. The other person living in it moved on. I'll never know what happened after that. But for the space of several months, I kept those fucking lights up and on, because who wouldn't?

Want me to show up at his house and hit him with a metal cane? I feel like I could get away with it. I mean who would believe that my tiny crippled self would ever assault someone? I charge a flat fee for this service, btw, so if you have 500 dollars and a vendetta, I will Kill Bill on his ass. All jokes aside, ~sincere internet hugs~.

I have found myself in a strange position. I don't have many friends, and that circle has become even smaller lately. Never being overly social, I value my time alone, so it doesn't bother me too much. On the other hand, I find that when I allow myself too much time to think I get carried off on wild tangential paradoxical loops of thought that leave me wanting to peel my own skin off strip by strip in order to cease analyzing. In my mind, there's a list of people. It's not an ever present list, no, that would be far removed from the point the list serves. This list is my You're Dead to Me list. Basically, if I add a name to the list, I make a conscious decision and effort to not think about that person ever again, and will purposefully do everything in my power to avoid them at all cost up to and including deliberately turning away from them and walking in the other direction and pretending I do not hear them or even outright saying "You are dead to me, now go away". It's easy to see why I don't like to add names to this list. It takes a lot of effort to make a conscious decision to never think about someone again. I can't even say that sometimes I don't think about the names on that list and go back over the situation that caused the addition, fiddling with endless permutations of possibilities in my head. What if I had said this, done this, been this, changed this, etc. Not only that, but I feel like a terrible person when I add to that list. It makes me feel unkind, cruel, selfish, obstinate, and narrow minded. There's always endless internal debate before adding to the list. Did I cause this? Have I communicated effectively? Have I apologized for anything they sincerely feel was my fault, whether or not it was truly my fault? Did I demonstrate a willingness to compromise? Did I make it clear that I do not wish to end a relationship? That I have spoken my problem or position and clarified that enough? Eventually, though, sometimes people get added to the list, reserved for the most heinous of infractions. The latest filled me with a white hot rage that would not subside then burned itself out to ashen depression. That lasted all of a day and then I somehow went into self-preservation mode and tacked one more name onto the list, then slid it to the back of my mind where it has stayed for several days. And I know you think well, Jamie, surely if you're thinking about it now, you've really been thinking about it this whole time. The answer to that is oddly no, no I have not, for once. It's quite strange to me how I was able to take this entire situation and think to myself "Hm. Well, if I had any doubt before, this certainly settles it". I honestly don't think I've ever been this truly angry with anyone in my entire life before. This is a situation that is years in the making, but let's try to boil this down to a brief synopsis without losing too many of the important factors involved. Sounds easy, but when you try to explain years upon years in the space of a few paragraphs, it becomes impossible. You either say too little or too much, and neither is productive. Still, I'll try. Years ago when I was but a tiny fetus child of a mere twenty-one summers, I met a boy. In each other, we found pieces of what was missing from our lives. A great majority of those pieces, even. As with all things, time changed us. He became distant, disinterested, unenthusiastic, complacent. I grew restless, unfulfilled, resentful, frustrated. It culminated in a series of progressively worse fights and breakups and general hatred of each other, especially on my part. I will not lie, I have a long memory for grudges when I wholeheartedly believe I have been wronged. Eventually, I was tired of being left over and over (he always did the dumping... I always did the reconciling). In his defense, I turned into a heavy drinker in that relationship. While I was by no means an "angry drunk", drunk Jamie is even more no-holds-barred than sober Jamie could ever imagine. When I was drinking, every one of my emotions was cranked to maximum wattage. If I was happy, I was ridiculously motherfucking jolly. If I was angry, beware the doom that approaches and avoid it at all cost. I never used to be an angry person, though, so angry drunk Jamie was never a thing. Until him. I began storing up all my feelings and resentments and anger and frustration and lashing out when sufficiently provoked. I will not say that my feelings were not valid feelings, but they were amplified to the point of distortion. In my defense, he was reckless, had different values, and I can say now beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never put me at the same level of prioritization as I did him. My feelings/needs/values/dreams/hopes were simply not as important as his. Never were, never will be, and that's a cold, hard truth with which I will never be comfortable because it flies in my face as a failing on my part to recognize the situation for what it was in the moment. Even worse, it makes me think that I acted like some kicked puppy, beaten housewife, starved street urchin. He showed me the smallest bit of affection and instantly I believed he had my best interest always in mind, and gave my unswerving loyalty based on that assumption. What can I say? I was young. I was convinced, no, I knew that everyone was a good person and given the chance would always do right by me if I only made certain that I tried my best. 150%, eleven days a week, 548 days a year. Suffice to say there was a lot of baggage there and we've piled on much more over the years. I have done my best to rip his still-beating heart from his chest with a fierce glare and scathing words, and he has (whether he admits or not) done the same to me with a different technique - indifference. Veracity is hard to ascertain through the lens of my own bias, so I can't say for certain with whom the fault originally began, or who worsened it, or who has caused the most harm. It was difficult for a long time to try to move past our differences and become something other than the embodiment of pure hatred for one another. We were not underachievers. With everything, we went hard. We loved hard, we fought hard, we hated hard, we were always that way. Eventually, though, the time came when I got sick. And he came to see me in the hospital and decorated my room for Mardis Gras (a tiny faux pas on his part given that the nature of the holiday is copious alcohol consumption and I was, ya know, dying of the whole alcoholism induced liver death thing), and I was amazed that he remembered me and even cared enough to do that for me. I was in a haze still, and I felt terrible because I slept through a lot of his visit and couldn't eat anything he brought me because of the feeding tube stuck down my nose and the nausea, but I was in shock that he even tried. Everything then was still strange. Not normal strange. The I-can-tell-I'm-hallucinating-and-death-is-trying-to-take-me-and-the-drugs-are-doing-bad-things-to-me strange that so few people have ever experienced until it's their time to go. Well, fast forward to last... um, late September? I think? Time runs together so easily as you age. I was freshly home from the hospital and adjusting to things. Still am, frankly, it's a lengthy adjustment. I was adulting as hard as I could, but there was no financial cushion, that had been depleted when I was in the hospital. Things were quite difficult, and I was not exactly happy. Even so, I took it upon myself to have an adventure. Partly because I wanted to prove to myself that I was not an invalid, that I was still capable, that I could do things by myself. Partly because I missed him terribly. So for the first time in a year, I was well and truly alone, because I flew to where he lives and got over to his place from the airport to visit. It was grueling. A month earlier I had still been using a cane to walk, and now here I was walking for miles unaided (on an unrelated note, bless that gentleman employee in the airport who I stopped to ask for directions to the car rentals and he took a look at me and out of nowhere asked if I wanted him to take me over in a wheelchair, that was exceedingly kind of him, even if I didn't take him up on the offer). Of course when I got there I was overjoyed to see him, but exhausted, feverish, unable to eat, and generally miserable. I will never forget sitting alone in his apartment while he was at work and googling physician assisted dying and VSED. All hope in the world drained from me at that point. How could he ever love me? How could anyone ever love me? I'm broken. I don't work right. I felt like an iPhone with a cracked screen in a universe where there are no repair techs, only new iPhones. The overwhelming loneliness set in, and even lying right next to him when I could put my hands on him and watch him as he slept it felt like I was so insubstantial, so unnecessary that I might as well cease to be. Of course I never said this, I'd done enough bringing everyone down for the past year before that. So we spent the time talking, watching tv, ordering out for food that I mostly didn't eat, etc. Then I went home a couple days later. The following November he conspired with my famiy. I'd told him I'd buy his car from him because he was trying to sell it, and I could get the money together within a few months at the most (honestly I was gonna make it happen by any means necessary, be they legal or no), but he had sort of let the conversation drop about that. Come to find out, they brought me the car. I was genuinely touched. I cried. He even drove it to where I live and was here to hand me the keys. At that very moment, I knew something was off. I can't explain how I knew, but I knew something wasn't adding up in my mind. I'd been reserved about everything we talked about, I felt that he had his own life to live and if he wanted me in it more he would say so. That time came and went, and he never said so, and I assumed that he was completely done with me romantically but that we had found a happy coexistence wherein we could value one another and help each other as the needs arise. I was happy with that. I felt proud of it, in fact. Seriously, I was so overjoyed that he would want to help me as much as I always wanted to help him, and that we could coexist without harming one another. Then I made a terrible, terrible mistake. Our anniversary was Valentine's. Way to set the fuckin' bar, right? Can't just have a normal anniversary, we had to be extra as fuck and make that V-day. Anyway, I was texting him throughout the normal course of my days as I usually do. As the date came up, I realized he had done so much for me lately that maybe I should give back somehow. I thought of a few things. The romantic in me loved our anniversary, so I considered everything from sending him a ridiculous flower arrangement at his workplace just to draw the attention of his female coworkers so he could smile about being wanted on that day to flying down again briefly to hug him and spend the night and fly back. After all, airfare is not that expensive between our two locations, for a hundred dollars I can get a round trip ticket. In the course of conversation this came up because I've realized a lot of the time I do not say how I actually feel, so I told him as much and that I miss and love him. BOOM MOTHERFUCKING KAPOW LIGHTENING STRIKE FROM THE GODDAMN HEAVENS OCCURS. Apparently this son of a bitch came to see me in the hospital more than once. I don't remember it. He said he tried to get back together with me multiple times. I don't recall. He said it was over the course of multiple months. I have no recollection. I have interrogated people over this. No one seemed to know. I have gone through texts, there is no evidence. Alarm bells rang in my head. The only reason I know he came to see me more than once in the hospital is because I interrogated people who were at the hospital after the ensuing conversation. He never even told me. No one told me. Everyone thinks I remember these things because I acted lucid, but the truth is there are gaps in my knowledge after the surgery. Reflex-Jamie took over. The basest of Jamies, the very core of my being, the tiny voice inside my head took control and portrayed myself in a production in which I was not cast. As for the ensuing conversation, it amounts to basically this, and you can tell by my use of hysterical all caps improper punctuation screaming text which one is me: "I wanted us to get back together." "WHAT. IN. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK." "You told me it wouldn't happen." "HOLD THE MOTHERFUCKING PHONE." "I'm confused by that response." "BITCH I AM CONFUSED BY YOU." "I said it three times." "EXPLAIN TO ME LIKE I AM A SPECIAL NEEDS CHILD." "I said it three times." "Okay so if you said this then I am not sure how I missed it because if you explicitly said this then I do not recall and I would tell you that honestly I do care about you and I would like to pursue this, because I feel like the fact that we even speak to each other after all these years says something about us both, so..." (And no, you, reader, can't know my personal thoughts about that, I am ashamed to admit them to anyone, even him) "Too late." Yeah that's about when the white hot rage set in, but I just said something to the effect of "I understand and I wish you well." Lemme translate that for you. "I understand and I wish you well." Ahem, that means "I hope you die alone, scared, lonely, in pain, crying out for help, and I hope that it's all an illusion in your mind that you're actually moving. I hope that as you cry out your lips don't actually move and that you are in the bottom of a grave and a shovelful of dirt scatters across your face and into your eyes and I hope you can't move your hands to clear it and I hope it burns. I hope you gasp for air in the last moments and aspirate top soil and clay. I hope you will remember the day you met me as you slip into oblivion because I want you to know what you could have had and I want you to know misery intimately." Wow. That got dark even for me. Still, it's self-preservation. My first thought as soon as he said that was damage mitigation. Disengage. Throw it away. Get as far away as possible. In so many words, I told him that I was dedicated to trying to pursue that if he wanted to, and he shot it down. Just. Like. Always. It makes me recall the days when I tried to voice my opinion and my concerns and got shot down. Just. Like. Always. I realized that while I love him, and I may always love him even in the midst of my hating him, that it's simply not worth it to engage with someone who never sees the pattern of their actions. Never sees the lack of their own empathy. Ya know, I don't like the idea of never speaking to him again. I haven't blocked his number and I won't; there is always some path toward reconciliation so long as communication remains open. Will I ever initiate a conversation again? I doubt it. I've been dumped a few times by him, and we're not playing that game anymore. I had always wondered how he was so unaffected by any problems, how he could maintain his concentration and goals and everything else around him and disregard the time bomb in the middle of the room when we fought. Then I realized, he simply shelves it. He doesn't let it get to him, he lets it go, he simply doesn't. It's the lack of action or forethought or insight or motivation to change which is so appealing to me. Also terrifying. I do not like that course of action. It seems tantamount to sociopathy to me. I care, deeply, about everything, always. And it hit me. The only possible solution is to add him to the You're Dead to Me list. The opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference. He has shown that to me in each and every altercation we have had in conflict and I never understood it until now. I can hope that perhaps the situation may change someday, and I am not ruling out that hope. However, I am a realist. The glass is never half empty nor half full, it is simply equidistant between two states of opposing existence. Realizing that I may never speak to him again, I am sad. But I have to keep going. I cannot be the person who cares for others all the time. I cannot be concerned with things that don't further me. The impetus lies with him if he ever wants to speak to me again. He's dead to me now. I mourn him in my own way. I may never be able to be indifferent. But I have learned to shelve a bitch.

You have no idea. I had a lot of great people. Another nurse talked me down from leaving the hospital because I was in so much pain and so agitated that I seriously considered leaving with my crippled ass (I was in a wheelchair and I really thought I could get out of there if I just hobbled to the curb and called an uber, I even found an ATM and took out cash in case I had to call a cab or bribe someone to give me a ride, I did not make good decisions when I was in horrible pain, and I just wanted to die), she just took me back to my room and sat me down and told me "There is nothing I can do for you right now. This is going to hurt, and it will be painful, and it will be horrible. I want you to hold on, and I can try my best to make it okay, but it is going to hurt. You can do this." So I mean, there's a culmination of great people.

When a major life event occurs you deal with its lasting effects. You're left with the fallout of what transpired and you move on as best you can. Sooner or later, it becomes as if a dream. Even faced with the lasting evidence of this event, your memory colors it in such a manner that it blocks out the most painful moments, the most meaningful moments, just as a coping mechanism to go back to the grind of everyday living. During my hospital stay when I had my liver transplant, I was not the best patient at first. It is incredible what organ failure does to your brain. You become confused, irritable, unmanageable, angry. Once (and this is from multiple third party references because I was not there mentally for the time it happened) a nurse was trying to help me, and she looked at me, and I looked angry. She could tell that I was going to try to swing a punch. From what I am told, she deftly avoided it and just said "Yep, thought he was gonna try that." Anyway, there was one nurse who gave enough of a fuck to write me a letter. Her name is NOTYOGODDAMNBUSINESS, and I'll call her Genericname or GN for short. She wrote this eloquent, two page letter telling me how I'd inspired her to be a nurse (she was a student at the time). There's a lot of detail there, and I'll add that later if you're interested but I just have to translate that into something that does not identify her. It all boils down to when I was in the hospital and swearing constantly because I was in pain and upset and she came in the room and I just told her "DO NOT count to three. Stab me and do it quick." She was amazing. She grabbed my arm and pinched and just stabbed me and was like "DONE!". No cause for anxiety, no way to even retaliate, just she did it so fast I couldn't even come up with a way to complain about it. Skillfully, too, because she got me right in the muscle when I was emaciated, not easy to do. Now we converse on occasion. It's quite nice to see things from her perspective. She's one of the people who told me (and one of the few who knew quite intimately) that I was knocking on heaven's door when I went to the hospital that first time. She was there for good and bad days and kept track of me. I never even realized it, I was too caught up in my own pain to know someone was trying to help me. And because I was all caught up in my pain I never realized what was going through her head. This is her letter, paraphrased, with all identifiable information removed. "We rejoiced when you would ask for chinese food or a subway sandwich. I loved dancing in the halls when I saw you coming walking or in a wheelchair. There was a sign on your door because you were so mean to nurses, which said 'Do NOT enter unless authorized!' which to me said, unless you are *me*, don't come in here because he doesn't like you! Some days I fail a test, or this gets overwhelming and I feel like I can't do it, I just want to throw in the towel. Then I remember you. So far, nobody else has ever told me that I can come hide in their room and nap if I needed a break. You made my experience as amazing as it was. Even if I can't heal you, I hope I made your experience bearable. When I heard you might need a kidney, I wanted to give you mine. You make me want to be a better nurse. I hope you know how incredible you are and how much you impacted my career. You make me want to be better." For the time being, thats the basis of the letter. I just wish it were more appropriate to allow folks to come down to a level where we can understand each other. She did that for me. She could lose her job if I divulge her personal details, because it's not professional. But it's human, it's okay, it's a good thing to voice your feelings and try to help each other. Btw the nurse was a he, so now ya feel dumb, huh? Seriously, the world would be better if we could simply communicate better. It's hard for me to tell someone else I'm suffering and to ask for help. It's hard for other people, too. I just want to help. I don't want to be remembered as a monster who couldn't empathize, I want to be remembered as someone who tried their best to help others. I want my legacy to be there, I want to make sure that someone else has been taught that no matter your personal urges or any mistakes you've made or any other factors, that is okay as long as you keep your fellow man in mind. It is okay to just try your best. I, if no one other, will value you for that. Pain every day does not exclude me from appreciating you.

"Here is Insanity," he said. "Make sure you don't stay long, the flight in is super cheap but the flight out? Good luck if you can even get a flight, not to mention how much you'll pay for it." I looked around and recognized nothing. It was blissful. I couldn't tell what was bad or good, I had no sense of self or purpose, I lost, well, everything. It was so nice just to be. I thought I'd stay forever. "Yeah man, it's kind of like day two-oh-six of a drinking binge, seven days awake on meth, the feeling of getting served divorce papers in a 'happy' relationship, your newborn having cancer, I mean some folks just call it shock, but it's not a good place to stay. Seems comfortable, but don't do that." I disregarded everything he said. Looking far afield I saw what looked like the kind of grass they grow in stadiums, plush. Sunny, too, and with this cool breeze I just wanted to nap there for a few years. Walking over, my leg started twitching. It twitched again, jerked, spasmed, until I had to fall to my knees. I pressed forward thinking it was a cramp; I don't know why I'd have a cramp here, but after all, it's Insanity, isn't it? My hands shook against gravel. Was there gravel here? Where is the grass? The grass is gone. I'm looking at a burnt out hollow of ground, a crater. It's the remains of what I thought I was moving toward. I didn't pay any mind. I shifted my thoughts. I remembered the boy in high school when he wore that hat with his blond hair peeking through the front. I remembered his eyes, his voice, his everything. He appeared. The world shifted again. This time it was a classroom. He was next to me and a professor was droning on, and he tapped me lightly on the foot. I didn't feel confused although I vaguely thought I should be. I blushed, even. Here is this boy playing footsie with me, and I liked it. The class ends finally and we walk outside and he asks me out. I tell him sure, and time flashes again. We're at a restaurant and the waiter has my order wrong. I politely don't mention it, but then I look up and the boy across from me has a face crawling. Not crawling with anything in particular, just crawling. It roils, it moves, it distorts, and I feel wrong. I want to vomit. I run. Time flashes. We are in a room. We? What room? I have no knowledge of who or where I am, or how, or why. When is not important until I see the sleeping face next to me. When. It is years ago and I see the face of someone I loved dearly in bed beside me. I want to hold them, I immediately feel as if I need to protect this person, I want them to be happy. I no sooner finish draping my arm around him than the arm drops right through him. He is not there. I see him, but he is not there. I flail at the covers, I snatch sheets and pillows and gasp because I can't scream. He is right there, and I cannot touch him. He moves, further and further away, but I can still smell him, I can still feel the heat of him. Clambering for him, I fall off the edge of the bed. Time flashes. I'm back home. I'm in my own bed, in the right time, in the right place. Sweating, heaving, I look and see nothing. There's not even a faint hint that anything has happened until he shows up. He tells me "This is Insanity. Make sure you don't stay long."

They gone catch these hands, m'love.

It cries to me as someone who woke up at 5:00 am, and she let that slide to 5:30 am, and she kept trying, just trying to make small concessions for sleep and necessities, and then kept trying by only moving that alarm time by 30 minutes, and she didn't fuss, kept going, and when she moved it to 5:30 am her husband found concern for that, like maybe she was giving up, and he needed to do something. This is the point I don't think people are getting, like maybe she woke up at 5:00 and then woke up at 5:30 to care for herself because that was the ultimate need because if she couldn't care for these people who else would? It speaks of a need not being addressed, it speaks of a need hurting her, and they recognized it and moved to change it.

Even if you think you understand the definition of that word as it is in the context that I use it, you don't. That I refer to her as such puts her in a select group of people for whom I would kill or die. I get that you don't like the word, but don't foist your judgment of the situation based on taking a word out of its natural context off as derogatory, especially when the people to whom I refer as "bitch" in this manner are the people I love the most and they are fully aware of that. Not trying to be confrontational, but I feel like the situation called for clarification. Obviously, because you feel this way, if I ever were extremely close friends with you I'd take this into account and never refer to you as such. Not everyone feels that way, though. If you do feel that way, then I would take steps to make sure I didn't make you uncomfortable. Furthermore, and I apologize for this tiny essay, but here's my train of thought. Love equals affection. (not necessarily ONLY equals affection...) Affection equals good-natured teasing. Expressing affection requires a definition of the degree to which you express that affection. Best friends usually tease each other. If teasing equals affection, and expressing requires defining the degree of the expression, then one can assume that the more extreme the tease (while remaining within the bounds of trying not to hurt the other individual) means the degree of affection is higher, so long as we don't cross into personal cruelty. Therefore, "you silly" means "you made me smile, good job". Following as an example, "you are not even funny right now" means "that was funny enough that I giggled audibly". Following again, "bitch!" could mean "You made me laugh and think and smile and have emotions I didn't even know I could at that moment, great job, I'll keep you forever, or nearly so". Now, circle back to the beginning of this explanation and also point out that context is paramount. I can never assume that a random person on the street would understand what I meant if they saved my life by pulling me back from a busy street while I was falling into traffic. If I say "Biiiitch!" they might not get it, so I wouldn't say that. If I said "Thank you so much, you saved my life, what could I ever do to repay you?" they'll definitely understand, BUT! My friends in the same circumstance would hear "Biiiitch!" and think "He just said he loves me and is flabbergasted by the fact that I saved him, I can probably milk this for at least two free meals and maybe even him taking a bullet for me later." Does that make sense? I don't believe that a word is good or bad in and of itself. I believe it derives power from the context in which it is used. I think maybe you give this word the wrong kind of power based on your own context of understanding, rather than the intended context.

Skip my bullshit minor problems if you want a good story and scroll to the bottom. On 12.11.18 I went to go get my meds from Walgreens, the ones I have to take or I die (anti-rejection meds), and they only had a partial refill. I thought fine, I have plenty of extra for a few days just in case, and you'll obviously reorder, so that's okay, I assume pharmacies overnight their drugs when needed. Last Sunday I called. No answer after fifteen minutes, the phone just disconnected. I gave up because I was about to have to work. Monday I called, no answer. Monday night I went in physically and asked for my drugs. "Don't have them, outta stock, but we'll have them Wednesday." I freaked out 'cause I'd taken the last of my extra the night before, so I was like don't freak out, it's going to be okay, just handle this. My mom got outraged, she called them the next day, Tuesday, and they then magically had exactly enough for one dose. I went in Tuesday night and picked that up and was assured they would have what I needed the next day. Called Wednesday, took a while but I finally got a person, who said no, they're not in. But I can call tomorrow to check. I don't feel up to arguing most times, I'm tired, and in pain, and I don't want to be a mean person or take out my frustrations on someone who can't do anything about it, so I let that go. I have decided, however, to declare a vendetta against Walgreens. I intend to wake up tomorrow (today?) much earlier than I should, and find these drugs elsewhere. They're not commonly carried, so that'll be an issue, but I am sure that some pharmacy in the area must have them, so I shall check. But I will never shop at Walgreens again. They have officially tried to murder me twice, and I do not appreciate that. Fool me once and all that jazz. I hold extremely long grudges, so I'll just make sure to spread the word that they failed to deliver not once, but twice, and maybe some folks will switch to CVS. I'm not going to get anywhere by just yelling about it, but I like to take quiet revenge, like hurting their bottom line in sales. One dose of my medication is $83.69, so I mean... who's really gonna suffer here, me because you didn't do what you were supposed to, or you because I'm gonna fuck your wallet like a meth-head in heat? Before you say anything 1.) I only use Walgreens because they're the only 24-hour pharmacy where I live and I work nights and the stress and depression and anxiety make it such that I need what little sleep I can get when I can get it, so they're convenient and 2.) Yes they are a corporation and they probably don't care that much about my business but it's still nice to take my business elsewhere and make sure others do the same so that they can't milk me for insurance money for an overpriced prescription which literally costs a few cents to manufacture (and the manufacturer gets government money because it's designated an orphan drug, so don't talk to me about how they have R&D overhead or some such nonsense, they have no reason to price this so far out of reach of the common public, and I know I should be mad at the drug manufacturer for that, but Walgreens buys the drug and sells it and PBMs get kickbacks for charging my insurance far more than it really costs, so maybe they should be the ones to take corporate responsibility and pressure the manufacturer to lower their cost so it IS more widely available and not so terribly expensive). On other notes, I have been told I am beautiful twice in the last 48 hours. My roommate's friend was on Facetime with my roommate, and she asked to see me, then declared "WHY ARE YOU SO CUTE, I WOULD BANG YOU IF YOU WEREN'T GAY!" Another person told me that I am "...a beautiful person with a beautiful personality. I hope you realize this. I want you to be happy because you deserve it. All the selfless things you do, it amazes me. Don't ask me why, I'm just in my feelings and speaking from the heart. Your iPhone may not like it when you smile but I sure do." I have a running joke with this person about how my iPhone won't unlock if I'm smiling when I hold it up, the facial recognition doesn't work if I'm grinnin' like a fool. I do take issue with the quote I just put out. I feel selfish. I feel like he overestimates me, like I'm not that great, I just... I do the bare minimum. But then I rethink that and I think the bare minimum for me is more than what others might do, so maybe he's right (he also has shit parents, he seems very sad about himself on the inside but projects an air of certainty and bravado almost, so maybe he's just asking for me to continue treating him nicely, which makes me doubly sad because he should never feel that way, he's beautiful, inside and out, and I love him even when I hate him, but that's a random psychological aside)? I have to come up with more objective, logical criteria to evaluate his assumption, but I appreciate his sentiment, it made me cry for half a second and made me feel like what I do actually matters sometimes. I'm conflicted, because it's nice to hear this from him, because praise from him is rare, but I also feel like I don't really deserve it, I'm not special, I just try as best I can, and a lot of the time I fall short. I guess I need to stop analyzing and just take it for what it truly is, a heartfelt compliment that he didn't have to say to but felt he should, and those are the best compliments, ones that you're not socially pressured to give but give from the bottom of your heart. My gas station lady that I talk to all the time invited me to her wedding, and the reception. I might go. I mean I'm glad for her, she works hard. Long, thankless hours. I might as well show up and clap for her in her happy moment. Maybe buy her a tiny gift, something she and her fiancee might be able to use, practical but inexpensive and thoughtful. Besides, when else can I rent a tux and show the fuck out? I'm an adult, we don't get to do that often. I've been making a point to be grateful for things in my life. Like yeah man, it might suck being half crippled and in pain and depressed and anxious and can't get your drugs and work gives you hassles BUT!: if you make a list of things for which to be grateful, maybe that cancels out the negative. Maybe it makes life better. There's been a lot of studies about gratefulness, and they all show the same thing, which amounts to a cliched phrase: count your blessings. Negative bias doesn't have to be a thing if you recognize it for what it really is, just your brain concentrating on bad things instead of good things. So I just tell myself, do blessing math. And then myself screams because I'm bad at math but I like the idea. But still gonna try it, because it's logical. Also, my mother wrote a short story today and sent it to me. I am so glad she did, I love the idea of her spreading her ideas and thoughts because they're always so helpful and kind and thoughtful. I'm gonna leave this here for you guys, and I promise to tell her what you think of it, because she needs encouragement and positive thoughts because she's fucking amazing. But remember if she ever becomes an author I swear to Christ I'm gonna need each of you to pay three dollars to read it, because she deserves that money, and if you don't I will come for you. This follows: THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT YOU GUYS I AM SO EXCITED THAT SHE IS WRITING AND MAKING SUCH WONDERFUL STORIES. Thursday is wash day. Every Thursday. Up at 5:00 am, no matter what the weather. It can be cold, hot, raining, snowing, but it doesn't matter because it is wash day. It is Thursday. And I hate it. The clock goes off and it is 5:00 am. It is Thursday. I climb out from under my warm covers and I make coffee. I dress myself and check in on four sleeping children before stepping outside. It is forty-eight degrees and a steady wind is coming out of the north as I light the fire under my pot. The whole world is gray, even my hands look gray. There is no sun to chase away the chill. I filled the pot up with water yesterday to get as much of a jump on things as I could. I go back to the porch and drag the first load off to the pot and wait until the water begins to bubble. Before this day is over, I will have washed bed linens, towels, and clothes for six people. It's what I do every week. I start every wash day the same. I tell myself that I will not cry today. But I do. I cry every Thursday. And I hate it. I drop in the sheets first and go back to the house to start breakfast and wake him up. He has to be at work at 6:30. I make a pan of biscuits and a pan of gravy and five sack lunches. I set the table, pour two cups of coffee - one with cream and sugar, one plain - then I go wake him. We sit until he finishes his coffee and then he leans over, kisses me on the cheek, and then goes to wake the kids as I go outside. I don't see him again until 6:30 that evening when he comes home. The sheets are ready. I dip them out of the boiling pot and put them over into the wash tub and run some water over them to cool them down a bit. Then I dump the next load into the pot. I scrub the sheet on the wash board. I try to be careful not to slop it over onto my shoes, but by the end of the day, it will happen. The front of my dress gets all the way through my slip down to my panties and up to my bra. No matter how carefully I start out, it always happens. And by now the sun is peeking out a bit. I run the sheets through the wringer and drop them into my rinse water. I stir them with a heavy stick and feel the muscles in my back and belly start to pull. I run them through the wringer again, rinse them again, wring them twice and then put them on the clothes line. I have six lines that are a foot and a half apart. They run the entire length of the house perpendicularly. They are about six feet tall and I have several poles with which to prop my lines if they become too heavy and try to drag my laundry on the ground. If it rains, then everything goes into the shed. After I get the sheets up, it's time to start my routine all over again. The next load comes out of the boiling pot, goes to the rinse tub, a new load goes into the boiling pot and I scrub, rinse, wring, rinse, wring, wring, and hang. I do this until all six lines are loaded. After the lines are loaded, I dump the pot, dump the tubs, put all of it up. I go inside and by this time my back is screaming and my hands are bleeding. The kids have long since gone to school. I take off my wet shoes, my wet clothes and I sit at my table in a towel. I eat a leftover biscuit smeared with butter. Then I get dressed, wash the dishes in the sink and go start taking clothes off the line. I start with the first ones I put up. The sheets go back on the beds. Three sets of sheets and pilow cases for three beds. One for the girls, one for the boys, and one for me and him. Then I take the next load down and start ironing the shirts. I check each piece as I go along and patch what needs patching and sew what needs sewing as I go. I starch and iron at least seven men's button-up shirts, fourteen little boys' shirts, twenty-one pairs of pants, fourteen dresses, a couple dozen handkerchiefs, table cloths, and napkins. After everything is starched and ironed, folded and hung, I put it all away. All the sheets, the pillow cases, the towels, the wash rags, the table cloths, the napkins, the underwear, the socks, the slips, the shirts, the pants, the dresses, and I do this every Thursday. And I hate it. Every Thursday I wake up with the same resolve. I tell myself that I will not cry this Thursday. But just about the time he walks in the tears always seem to flow. I try hard not to cry, but I hurt and I am exhausted, and there is still so much left to do before I can lay down to start hating the time until next Thursday. So I cry. I cry with great gusto to be so tired. I sob into my dish rag. I wail and hitch and heave. Snot runs down my face, my eyes puff up like I was stung by yellow-jackets, my face turns red and blotchy. I do this in between cooking supper, feeding the kids, and washing the evening dishes. Sometimes I think that if I just put my head in the tub and laid there until I was too tired to get up, then I could drown and it would all be over. This has been going on for so long that no one ever asks why I cry anymore. It's just a part of Thursday. And I hate it. Then another week passes and it is Thursday. The clock goes off and it is 5:30 am. I get up, make the coffee and I go outside to start my pot. I come back in, but this morning he isn't still in bed. He's already dressed and sitting in the kitchen chair. He looks at me and just says, "Sit." So I sit. He has never raised his hand or voice to me in ten years. But today, there is something different about him. He says for ten years he has listened to me cry every Thursday and he is tired of it. He says he doesn't ever want to hear me cry on wash day. He says it's gone on long enough. No sooner has he said this than a tear gets away from me and trickles down my face. He bangs his fist on the table making me jump. "I mean it!" he yells, waking the kids. I stand there, shaking in utter disbelief. The children slink in, peering through the doorway. They've never heard him talk like this to me and they look confused and scared. He bangs the table again making coffee jump up out of the cup and spatter on the table. "Not one more tear on wash day. Do you hear me? NOT ONE!" The last shout makes me jump again like a frightened rabbit. "Wipe your face," he says and I rub the back of my hands across my face. "Now go out front and get me my boots before I'm late for work." I feel like my breath has left my body and won't come back. But, I pull myself out of my scared fog and onto my feet and go to the front door. I open it and I see his boots. They are sitting on top of a brand new washing machine. I turn and see his face. He is crying and smiling. Tears rolling down his face, kids behind him, still confused, and he says "We all hate Thursdays." WHAT THE SHIT WAS THAT?! I mean maybe I'm biased, but the bitch has talent. What do you think?

I went to the gas station and like an idiot left my wallet, I just wanted to buy cigarettes (before you say it, yes, I know I'll get the cancer, I'm fully realizing that, I'm okay with it, I'm just gonna jump off a building when it happens, but for right now it keeps me sane, I like to borrow against my future, probably not healthy but we cope in our own ways). I went to the counter and he said "6.67". I reached for my wallet and SURPRISE, that shit is not there, because I've been so distracted today I forgot my whole life at home. I ran to my car and came up with 6.62. He just said "I have some pennies, it's cool" and reached for his own pocket. So I went to my house and got a five dollar bill and brought it to him because today I had a compliment call from work, which means a $10 gift card or so, and I figured I should pay that forward for him being so nice to me (it was an army vet, he was so kind, so nice... I mean I kinda wanted to put his gun in my mouth, if ya know what i mean, but hey man, he does him and I do me, and I feel like he's not all about teh gey, so I was just like man, you are an awesome person). Just waltzed in and said "Thanks for not being a dick, my man." He said "No problem, thanks!" and we moved on from that moment, both smiling, because at that moment in time, we were both struggling, my limping ass going in there, him standing there probably considering how he's gonna burn that place to the ground, but we got to a point where we could both be happy. Moral of the story: Don't be a cunt. You never know when someone will give you a %5000 return on your investment. I'm bad at percentages, though, so check my math there. It's either 500 or 5000 percent, fuck me, I'm not good with numbers, %500 percent, right? I mean you just move the decimals... goddamnit, math. I'm more a language guy. And I'm literally too lazy to google. POINT IS HE PAID A NICKEL AND NOW HE MIGHT SMILE FOR A FEW MINUTES. Another side note, all of you here have been so... damnably nice. Jesus. Like for real, it makes me wanna cry, because I cannot believe that even a few people have said something kind. Keep on doing you, you guys. I wish you all the best. I've learned lately that: If you never say anything, nobody can help. You might feel like you're causing drama, or anxiety, but unless you yell as loud as you can no one will pay attention.

A lot of the time I don't like to talk about what goes on inside my head very truthfully or directly. I almost feel ashamed or dirty whenever I talk about it. I hate the idea of talking about my thoughts and being rejected, made fun of, laughed off, or the worst possible consequence which would be making another person feel worse by sharing what I'm thinking. The voices in my head shout alarms, and I end up in a strange state of being where I'm at once having a panic attack and also telling myself I don't care and to calm down. I'm sorta beaten down right now. My medical situation is not improving as much as I'd like. My platelets dropped again, nosebleeds are constant, my right knee is screwed up and I've been back to using a cane the past day or so, I have mystery bruises from simply existing, I feel full/sick even when I know I haven't eaten, things like that are adding up. And I'm losing faith in my doctor. I mean he tries, but he's not so useful. I don't trust him, though. His lack of empathy, lack of understanding, lack of direction... they make me nervous. As a for instance, the whole hernia thing. I told him when I saw it that it was getting worse, and he brushed it off. I mean I understand I'm not a doctor at all, but I feel like I'm right in being mildly disconcerted that there is a bulge underneath my skin that is growing each time I look at it, and today for the first time it didn't quite want to easily retreat when I laid down. I also don't think he knows what this really means to me even from a purely narcissistic standpoint. I know I'm fucked up looking in the tummy area. I have a huge scar, things are not cute, it's just a mess. But before, at least I could be happy that I'm thin again. Now there's a weird fucking random ball thing showing up over my navel and I'm just like "PEOPLE CAN SEE THAT, THEY CAN SEE IT UNDER MY SHIRT, THEY THINK I'M GONNA HAVE AN ALIEN HOP OUTTA MY TUMMY AND EAT THEIR FACE, WE GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS, NOW." Because usually speaking, when I'm anxious about something, I can take measures to fix it, but this isn't something I can fix, and I don't know how to proceed. As fucking pathetic as it is to say, sometimes I wish I had someone around me who when I feel ashamed or stupid or incompetent could just tell speak up and say "Hey dude, he told you what he needed to tell you, fucking do something about it." I suppose that's sorta everybody's dream, thought, when life starts wearing on you. It'd be so nice to not have to pick up the burden for a while, just leave it to someone else, but that's just not practical. Guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorta hella sad lately. Not sure how to break out of it. I keep doing small things, trying to talk myself through my random down moments, trying to focus on progression and responsibility, trying to push myself to do or be more, but I feel like such a failure when I can't even do stupid small things like go buy a case of bottled water because I like bottled water because it tastes better than tap water here but I can't pick it up because I'm too much of a fucking crippled piece of shit to accomplish that one, single, solitary thing. Not to mention things like reorganizing my bedroom, 'cause god forbid I try to move furniture by myself. The loss of your independence makes you bitter, agitated, and spiteful. I don't like to be those things. Please send me cat memes, wholesome photos, snippets of inspirational text, or something to distract me from the mounting discomfort of my reality. I can pay with tiny short stories if you'll give me a theme, I like to trade on what I know.

Okay so ever since I got really sick and had to take that huge leave of absence and then I got back to work and I was still sick and have been out like four times in the last four months because of various things, I've been terrified of work. My job gives me panic attacks sometimes, I always feel like I'm going to get into trouble. Why do I feel like that? Honestly, I'm a pretty great employee. I mean everything I do is right in line with what they want for the most part, and where I excel oh boy do I EXCEL. I take a serious sense of pride in measurable effects of my work. I like metrics driven judgment, I like seeing the numbers go to where they need to be, I like feeling like I'm making that happen. So again, why do I feel like that? I have severe social anxiety and I work from home. I hide my anxiety extremely well. That's my coping mechanism (that and horribly inappropriate dark humor). I fake it until I make it, so if I'm nervous around you, then I'm going to pretend I'm not until I don't feel that way anymore. The issue is when you work from home and you have no daily interaction with your boss (or even monthly a lot of the time) or any other co-workers. Don't get me wrong, I love not peopling, but it has downsides, like me always thinking they might secretly hate me because I can't look at them and figure out from their body language and tone how they feel. Now that you have context, lemme explain what had happened today. I logged on, bleary-eyed and sipping a Red Bull and checked my schedule and email. Surprise meetings, multiple. I was like "WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!?! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT YOU WANT ME TO TALK TO IDIOTS ALL DAY? I WILL GO FULL WHITE GIRL RIGHT NOW, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, I CANNOT EVEN." My first thought was they were going to try to write me up for missing a few days because of the whole sick then hernia then doctor visit two states over then possible surgery sometime soon yada yada yada, like maybe they're just tired of dealing with me. Turns out, they just assigned me a new quality person for scoring my contacts who wanted to go over some goals and that meeting was basically "So all your numbers are fine, whatcha wanna talk about? Btw you really don't spend a lot of time on the phone with people, I mean they seem to love you, but feel free not to rush if you don't wanna. OH and did you accept the new... wait, nevermind, forget I said anything." I was like erm... huh? Next meeting was a job offer. Surprise! A mostly lateral move, but with a good bit more opportunity for advancement and incentives. Not to mention far, far less boring. All this just after they decided to start listening to me about quality procedures that were making life hellish. I have to admit, I'm pretty happy with this direction they're going. They're really listening to employees, taking the good ideas, running with them, and getting a lot better. I'm sorta weirdly proud of them. I haven't exactly worked for a company that's made me feel valued to the degree they have. The beaten down corporate slave in me wants to scream "FUCK YOU AND YOUR CORPORATE GREED!" just as a general reaction after years of abuse in the service industry but the person in me is like "...dude, thanks for listening and trying, that's hella nice of you." I'm genuinely surprised, and I have that tiny spark of possibility back. I mean not gonna lie, still crazy depressed and generally filled with ennui, raging against the dying of the light, screaming into the void each day and hoping something dares to answer back, and I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm really not, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Good old Bob Ross always said you have to have opposites in life, good and bad, light and dark, to make you appreciate the good times later. If these times have been that dark, then one can assume that perhaps it's merely preparation to appreciate more fully the nice times ahead. In other news, I am refusing to admit it anywhere other than here, not even to friends or family, but the fact that Ryan/Chad and I no longer talk does make me sad. The tiny psychologist that lives in my mind, however, keeps telling me "Don't be sad, remember what was wrong with him, remember his faults, remember how hard you tried and never forget that you tried even when you doubted it would work from the start. Do not give him the time or the energy it takes to be sad, celebrate the happy memories you made, take what you learned, build from it. And who knows, in days, weeks, months, or years from now, you may be able to forgive him and be friends again, after the hard feelings pass. It would be doubly sad if you hardened your soul against future possibilites because of something that was truly neither of your faults (though it was entirely his fault)." <--- that last bit, my inner psychologist is a bit of a bitch, oh well. In that same vein, I have another ex, the ex that I still talk to and love dearly. His given name is Taylor, which is what he goes by now, but I call him Primus, which is a whole story. It's not like I-wanna-be-with-him-forever sorta love because he is my one and only and we're destined or whatever, but because he's him. Our sexual chemistry was always amazing, he's so intelligent, so thoughtful. Have you ever met someone who just looked at you, took in the state of you, stared into your eyes, grabbed your hand, and said "You need a massage and a blowjob, I can tell you had a rough day"? He literally did that one day while I worked at a horrible job. Even when you thought you were doing okay for that day, and then that all happens and the last thing your conscious mind registers is "I love you, mister" and careful, attentive hands running through your hair and over your back before you fall into sweet oblivion and wake up just to do that all again? We shared a lot, we have a bond, and I have to say I care about him probably more than anyone else I've ever cared about. I feel like he's making a grave mistake, though. Basically he's really worried about his job, because there's a whole thing that happened with his company and they lost about half their revenue because a contract fell through. He's moving out of his apartment because the rent is so high ($1700 for a one bedroom, albeit a very nice apartment). He also decided to move in with an ex of his, from way back before we were ever together, that he's been fraternizing with for the last couple years, and I see this for what it is because I've done it before. That boy likes you, and you're in a situation where your fiscal responsibility must come first. So you trade on your looks and personality to live with another person who finds you attractive, and at least pays half the bills (or far more if you try hard). You may not find them attractive at all, and you may never even touch them, but for them to feel the possiblity of something they yearn for, they will pay for it. It's a dishonest move, and it makes me feel a bit upset, but I don't blame him for it. In the real world, nobody cares about your morality, only your ability to pay or trade your way. I just sincerely hope he doesn't regret it. This particular person Primus moved in with HATES me. We have never met in person, I've spoken to him over the phone maybe twice. Primus and I were just planning a visit again before all this happened, and now what I think is basically I won't see him for another year, minimum. Sad to say, but I don't feel it's helpful for me to be around him in this sorta situation; his housemate might get bitchy if I'm around, and I have a severe allergy to drama. If he'd have waited another month, I'd have just said let's move in together without these additional dramatic factors. I'm not opposed to moving anywhere. I work remotely, and I'm always open to opportunities. And before you say that would be toxic, I'd make sure that moving in together with him would be extremely clear, like we might bang a little, but you have no power over me, and I will always pay my bills, but we're both mature enough to know that we have separate lives and will make our decisions accordingly. I kinda feel really sorry for him. I love him. He's the only person who came to see me in the hospital during tough times, and he made my day, he tried so hard, and I will always cherish him. I hate to see him in this situation. It's difficult to see my friends go through things I went through ten years ago and be powerless to help.

That line, right there. "Be a superhero, and beat the crap out of it!" Thanks, dude. That's what I need to hear. Keep that shit upbeat, we don't lay down and die, we get up, we fight, we keep on keeping on, we (and I mean this in spirited support of everyone reading this) GET THE FUCK UP AND WE KEEP GOING. Sometimes, we need that little push. Thanks, sir.

A funny thing happened to me while I was at work the other day. I will preface this by saying you have to understand the context to get the punchline the universe delivered. I've been dealing with major problems, like life or death problems, and usually if something goes wrong it's a trip to the ER and then admission and then days before they let me go. I felt a small victory in the midst of dealing with this because it was so comedic in comparison to what I normally deal with. So I was at work, been trudging through my days, grim determination fueling me. It's just how I am, I address everything at work with an idea of "How can I accomplish this task with efficiency and grace?" Anyway, I had to sneeze. So I did. And I sneezed so hard. It tore the walls asunder in my office, it moved me backwards twelve feet from my desk, my heart skipped over a double-dutch rope and back into step, I almost died. That's hyperbole, but you get my drift. After that, I just continued working. If you've done the same thing quite literally 100,000 or more times, you just get in a zone when you do it. Later in the day, I took a shower, and realized I had a strange, um, protrusion? From my navel. Where they'd done a lot of surgeries. Turns out, I sneezed myself a hernia. I have to say, I laughed. I called my nurse from my insurance and she asked me the same questions I asked myself, and it's no big deal, might need surgery, but it's nothing pressing (except for my insides pressing towards my outsides, hey-yooo! ~finger guns~). I thought you guys might get a laugh out of that. We all eventually come to the age where we can sneeze and injure ourselves. Thankfully, mine is minor, and doesn't include urinating on myself in public if I sneeze. It could be much worse. On another note, I've been having trouble. I feel empty most times, I feel like I'm spinning out again. I don't like that feeling. I know what I have to do, I just simply have to be better. I've been depressed, and that's a whole other story. I truly don't know if life can ever be what I wanted. I'd explain how I feel, but I also think that if I give those words semblance, that if I say them, I have given them power and they will define my existence. I prefer to face my depression and anxiety in a more warrior style, fighting it at every step, sometimes murdering it ruthlessly for the gain of happiness for an afternoon. I do wonder sometimes if it will ever get better. And the answer, unequivocally, from the universe is that yes, yes it will, if you keep on fighting. Sometimes that fight is degrading and demoralizing. Sometimes I curl into a ball and just hope, unabashedly. But as long as I hope, there can be a beginning tomorrow. Edited because I misspelled "Protrusion". Thanks!

I have a set of values I tend to try to live my life by, nowadays. I've culled these from various sources, trying to be as objective as possible when evaluating how this can impact my life without regard for where I initially picked up the idea. Like for instance, a lot of what I believe and try to live by is blatantly stolen from Christianity, which would have once left a sour taste in my mouth, but now I recognize it for what it is. It's just a good idea with a sordid past because of people who preached a particular tenet and then didn't live by it. Doesn't mean it wasn't a good idea, just it was appropriated by not-so-good people at some point. I say that to lead up to an event that has transpired recently. I have made it a point to never, never lie anymore. No matter how uncomfortable it may be, or how awkward it can make things, I just don't do it. I'd rather be an honest asshole than a fucking liar. And before you say it, I know that yes, there is a point where that could be taken too far, but I still find radical honesty to be a good thing in my everyday life. As with everything in life, that gets broken down further as you begin to add nuances to the value itself. So my core value could be summed up as simply "Never lie, no matter what". Another point I've taken from a different source expounds upon that. "Especially do not feign affection." I feel like that's the worst of all the lies one can tell. It's not only a lie, but a malicious lie at that. It's a lie wherein the very nature of the lie is going to cause more harm than it could ever produce good. Ya feel me? Anyway, suffice to say, I started dating again. I know, I'm supposed to be careful about that sort of thing, given the whole trying to be sober and productive deal. But let's face it, sometimes I get lonely, and it is very nice to know that I still have a modicum of game left. And man, ironically enough, I have much more than a modicum. So here's the skinny, you guys and gals. I was seeing a gentleman named Brian. He's a sweet guy. Moderately attractive, a little younger than I am, fairly good head on his shoulders, not what I'd call perfect by any means but therein is a large part of his charm. He might not be rich, he might not be stunningly handsome, but he's genuine, and witty, and when he senses there's something wrong he's not afraid to back you up however he can just because he is your friend and wants to see you happy and successful. So in my book, great friend, and I'll be keeping him. He's already been notified that he's been collected and he belongs to me now. So we went on a couple dates and generally hung out. I made it extraordinarily clear from the beginning exactly what my situation is, that I have no idea what I want out of a relationship right now, and that the only thing I'm offering is companionship, friendship, and generally wanting to see what happens if we hang around each other. Fast forward a little. Brian and I had been talking and hanging out, having fun, nothing crazy. Out of nowhere, a guy I've had a crush on for more than ten years decided he wanted another chance. I harbored a lot of thoughts like "Well last time it was really my fault, wasn't it? I mean I wasn't the best person, and the circumstances were wrong, and maybe there's something to this..." You know I was going to go for it, probably, regardless of what he really said. Then he started doing things to really make me believe him. He started talking about moving in together, a future together, doing things for me that he didn't have to do... like trying to buy things for me, going apartment hunting and sending me photos and videos like "Wouldn't this make a cute office for you?", that sort of thing. It really got to me, I was like finally, someone who understands what I mean when I say I think about things in longer terms than most people. Btw his name is Ryan. Actually though, that's his middle name, and his first name is Chad. Not to be insensitive to all of you kind souls accidentally named Chad, but Chad is a notoriously douchey name, so we're gonna call him Chad now, okay? So I told Brian immediately and told him I wanted to continue being his friend just as I'd originally said from the outset, that nothing had changed there, and he understood immediately. He was a little bummed but not upset, and we have remained amicable and we still talk every day. But I had to give Ryan, goddamnit I'm sorry I mean CHAD, that cunt, a chance. You know how that is, when you have that drastically idealized image of a person in your head and you're just like I MUST HAVE THEM. Long story short, I knew something was going on with Chad probably a week after we started dating. Things just weren't fully adding up. It was like he was trying to distract me from any real conversations we might have. I knew he had some insecurity issues, and he's also got some lingering crazy (but come on, what gay man raised in South Mississippi got out of that unscathed?). We spent a week together at my place because he drives for a living so he's hardly ever in one spot for long, but he had vacation time to use. At first, everything seemed fine. There was one major thing getting to me, though. All of his affection felt forced, almost. Like he'd hug me, or kiss me, or touch me, but it didn't feel 'right' somehow. I mean I thought perhaps I was just paranoid, at one point I fell asleep on the couch while we were watching some show and he picked me up and carried me to bed (WHO DOES THAT?!). So you can understand how at first I thought perhaps I was carrying on about nothing. He finally leaves, and I texted him like I always do, and the conversation eventually led to this whole feeling I got. He went silent. It was like I got ghosted outta nowhere for two days. And I was upset! I like to think I'm a big boy and other people don't affect me, but damn it, I liked that little fucker and I spent time, effort, and money on him. Back in the day I would've gone completely insane, like to the point of making him HATE ME by the time I was done with him. But no, I've gotten a bit better, so I just let it go, kept my calm. Eventually, I texted him and told him he's been quiet, which is so unlike him that it's obvious something is going on. He tried to deny that, and I told him point blank that I didn't believe him and pointed at my evidence calmly and asked him what was going on. Turns out, it's exactly what my worst fear was. He decided he's not interested in me in that particular way. He still wants us to be friends, and I do believe him on that point. Sorry, though, but I can't be his friend anymore. I understand that may be selfish of me, but I'm definitely not interested in being around someone who would do that to me. He had full context of my position, full understanding of my feelings, and he still chose to not raise this issue but forced me to pry it out of him. Which if I hadn't, I could still be wasting my time for God knows how long until we had time to spend together again in person and the issue cropped up again. I'm not about that fake life, sir. He has all these ideas about how his partner should be, how his life should be, how he wants things to turn out. And he gets frustrated when things fall apart or don't live up to his unrealistic standards. And please don't think I'm faulting him for not being into me. I can completely understand how attraction works in a relationship, and if it isn't there it simply isn't, there's no fixing that or changing it. What I am faulting him for is for feigning affection. That is a lie. It is a malicious, hurtful lie. I'll admit I spent two days lying in bed wondering what was wrong with me, what I could have done better, how I should've handled things to avoid this. What I eventually got out of that two days was just a small life lesson. Never stay alone with dark thoughts. Most of your fears come from things like stress, being tired, being alone, being in pain, etc. You can never make choices for other people or control how they act, but you can control how you respond to your surroundings. I just chose not to be sad about it. It was a quick lesson in the grand scheme of things, it only took a couple of months for me to figure it out. It doesn't give me any reason to believe that I'm destined to be alone forever. It also doesn't mean that everyone in the world is going to be like that. Also, I fully realize I sound like a twelve-year-old girl right now, and this sounds insignificant, even trivial. Here's why it's significant to me. I have spent more than a year in mind numbing physical pain. I have spent most of that year wondering if I'm going to die soon, sooner, or now. Last night, for the first time since August of last year, I slept on my tummy again (dude it still hurt but oh dear sweet Christ there's something about sleeping on your stomach and the pressure it takes off all your other parts that's just so fucking NICE). I convinced myself, with dark imaginings that were spawned from that pain and hopelessness, that I'd be alone forever and that no one really would love me or care about me ever again. I was in a bad, bad place. I trusted this person with a small piece of myself. I said to them "I don't have much of me left, most of it is gone, but there's a piece I mean for you to have. Here, this is for you. Please take care of it." The fact that I could do that makes me deliriously happy regardless of what they did with that part of me. I didn't think there was much left of me to give at all, but after all this has been said and done, I've realized that somehow or other, there's a lot more left of me than I thought. Ever since we started dating, and even now that things have fallen apart, I've noticed kindness in the world much more than I once did. My heart swells up at it sometimes. I know it doesn't mean much to the average person, but sometimes a gentleman will hold a door for me and I thank them as sincerely as I possibly can because you know what? Some days it's hard for me to open heavy doors by myself. They don't know that, they can't know that, but they did it for me out of the simple kindness of their heart. A lady at the gas station I always go to always has something kind to say to me, and she has no reason to. She's an Indian lady, you can tell she knows basic English, she's out of her element down here in Alabama, and she is always the one working there. Always. No matter when I go. Eight in the morning, ten at night. By all rights she should be tired, cynical, and angry. But she's not. She says hello, she calls out to me and asks me how my day has been, she commiserates on small annoyances and shares her small grievances as well, and by the end of it we are both smiling and wishing each other a happy rest of the day. At the company I work for, I was on a leave of absence for just under a year. I missed all the events they had, and a ton of other stuff. Since I've been back they asked my opinion on certain process changes that were made in my absence and to be honest, this stuff was making my life hell. It was redundant, inappropriate, totally wrong in a customer service environment... I mean that's a whole essay I wrote them about it. Had a meeting a few days later and they said "Good news! We hate this, too! Your way seems better! Let's do that for a while." I was like um... seriously? And then they called and told me to come get a new computer because they're upgrading and my old one sucks too much to be upgraded, lol. And while I was in there picking up new equipment the lady that works in HR came up and handed me a gigantic company-branded tote bag filled with random merch from the past year. Shirts, hats, pens, pins, lanyards, journals, stationary, all kinda randomness. "You missed everything, so I saved some stuff for you." That might not seem like a lot to you, but to know that someone went out of their way over the course of a year to make sure I didn't miss out on small things that make you smile as an employee... that's a nice fuckin' lady, yo. Sometimes I have customers that are amazing as well. I'll be going about my business, because I make it a point to treat all of my customers with the same level of respect and genuine looking out for their best interests. I had a man just the other day, we had a complicated situation, I mean a really complicated situation. It gave me about five seconds pause before I started talking, which means if you took one of my new people and asked them this they'd have just frozen and started crying at the complexity. But if I'm anything, I am one capable bastard at work. I threw in all my tricks of the trade, rearranged a lot of things, kept it as simple as I could, tied it all up in a nice bow at the end for him and just asked "I know that was a lot, so do you have any questions about what we've discussed?" His reply? "When will you quit and come work for me instead?" Which is a nice compliment until you google this man and figure out that he's the CEO of a company that deals in grain futures, whatever that really means, and he's worth a hefty penny (his first name is also the name of one of my cats, so the whole time we were talking I was struggling so hard not to meow at him and ask if he needed scritches). "Yes, mister fluffy-pants, I understand you need a very nice car for your clients, but kit-kats cannot drive convertibles, yes? Have you ever driven a meowtervehicle before? I'm not kitten around. Do you even have the required depawsit? We don't take beans, no sir." So I guess, moral of the story? Be brutally honest. Be unfailingly kind. Never feign affection. Don't stay alone with your demons, they will win if you do. Above all else, remember that you don't know everyone's full story, and that small act of kindness of which you barely thought, can make a huge difference to a stranger. I love you all, thanks for listening to my crazed word salad of a blog entry. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, oh whatever the fuck you wanna call it, just have a jolly AF winter happy time, yo.

That made me laugh aloud. My hair is anything but natural. Glad it touches your tralala. 😉

I actually like this thread, it's kinda nice having photos of people. So here ya go. I figure it's been like a decade since I uploaded a photo last. Plus, Halloween is coming up, so I fully expect some costumes up in here shortly, guys and gals.

In September of last year, things in my memory get hazy quickly. Bits and pieces have come back to me over time that I now know to be accurate, but I still have to recreate what happened based on how my memory fits in with explanations from friends and family, text messages and emails, and my hospital records. Since I was nineteen, I’ve been somewhat of a heavy drinker on and off. God knows what all the drugs I did in my younger days did to me. There were multiple times as a teen when I probably overdosed and just by sheer luck and the stamina of youth happened to pull through without any real incident. Repercussions never happened, I never paid for anything in a real way, so I never really worried about it. At some point, though, I thought to myself that I better leave drugs alone. They’re expensive, they lead to other crime and dangerous situations, and I enjoyed my lifestyle too much to jeopardize it by getting in trouble legally. So in the interest of self-medicating, I turned to alcohol thinking that it’s relatively safe, relatively inexpensive, easy to obtain, and most important of all completely legal. The problem with this is that I never do anything in a normal fashion. No, I take it from a nice leisurely stroll to straight running a goddamn marathon overnight. Without putting in too much work on details here, eventually I got myself into a really bad situation. I’d just broken up with my boyfriend of four and a half years, the longest relationship I’ve ever had. This is the same man to whom I considered proposing. After the breakup we attempted multiple times to remain amicable, but subconsciously I blamed him for everything. In my mind, he didn’t work hard enough, he didn’t pay me enough attention, he didn’t keep a steady job, he used up the money I worked hard to earn, he no longer surprised me, and ultimately these seemingly small failings amounted to a mountain I just wasn’t willing to climb anymore. We even lived together after the breakup, until I basically kicked him out of the apartment. At the time I was working for a company which made me feel like I was Satan incarnate. It was finance, loans to be specific. High-risk, high-reward, predatory lending. And I was pretty okay at it, I just didn’t have the bottomless darkness in my chest where my heart should be to continue doing it. Still, we all have to make money one way or another, eh? Here I was, pretending to be a professional adult, pulling down ridiculous sums of money, but I was incredibly unhappy. To make myself forget the stress and the guilt, I started drinking more. And more. And more. A fifth and a half of good whiskey a night will let you sleep, no matter how much your conscience may protest. Time passed slowly, and I drank myself into a state of unconcern. My boss threatens to fire me for things that aren’t my fault? Drink about it. I’m having trouble finding friends in a new city? Drink about it. Feel like I’m wasting my life and potential at a job that makes me feel like a horrible person? Drink about it. Didn’t really matter what it was - drink about it. I eventually quit in the manner I usually do when I’m sick of a job. One day I’d had enough. Sure I’d just bought a new car, signed a new lease, moved to a new town, started a whole new life, but damned if I could take it one more day. My boss asked me specifically to lie about a figure that was owed on a lawsuit we were filing and I believe my words were “I’m not going to jail for you cock waffles, fuck you, I’m out.” Or something to that effect, but it was quite clear I wasn’t stepping out for lunch and I wouldn’t be showing up the next day. That, however, did not make things better in and of itself. Now I was broke. I was living far beyond my means. I had no doubt I could find a job immediately, but at the same income? Doubtful. There’s just not an opportunity like that around where I was living. But hey, a week later I had an interview and had a job back in cushy old customer service land, where they pay you decent money to talk to stupid people. Habits die hard, though, and now the concern was money. And what do you do when you’re worried about money? Drink about it. About a year and a half ago, I noticed I wasn’t always feeling great. I was tired more easily, had more bouts of abdominal pain, and vomited for the first time in many, many years. I thought nothing of it at first, but it became annoying enough to go to a doctor. Thus began a terrifying series of misdiagnoses which I still can’t believe happened and would probably sue over if I still had the energy to pursue such things. I got shaky and weak, the vomiting wouldn’t stop, and nothing helped. I was diagnosed with everything from diverticulitis to a UTI, none of which were accurate. That didn’t stop them throwing drugs at it, though. I went through CT scan after CT scan, with IV Contrast each time, and each time they missed it. I took rounds of antibiotics, downed pain pills and anti-emetics, but nope. I thought to myself that maybe it was just in my head, that stress was causing this. Then I turned yellow. I mean full on hi-liter neon fucking you-could-see-me-glowing-from-space canary. I looked in the mirror one morning and saw it and thought “Well, fuck me, pretty sure my liver is pissed off at me.” I went to the hospital and got the reaction I expected, which was basically “Um, do you know that you’re really yellow?” They’d previously run a liver panel and everything was fine. Only now it wasn’t. Enzymes had skyrocketed, and it wasn’t just my liver. My kidneys freaked out, too. The repeated IV Contrast, rounds of antibiotics, and the liver failure kicked their ass and I was losing kidney function. There was a lot of medical jargon, but it all amounted to this: You’re dying, there’s nothing we can do, you may want to call your family and friends to say goodbye, and we’re here if you want to discuss palliative sedation and hospice care. I made a decision at that point. I wouldn’t call my family or friends. They didn’t need to be involved because of my poor decision making process. I had health and life insurance, and that would be enough to cover my care and cover any final expenses, which I assumed I would be able to get in line before I was no longer able to function. I didn’t realize how quickly I would deteriorate. I went home and by this time it was difficult to walk. I had swelling in my extremities that was quite painful, severe abdominal pain, and I was mildly depressed. I actually wasn’t terribly sad. I mean I’ve lived a pretty full life for my age. I’ve kissed (and done more than that) plenty of pretty boys, made mad money, lived large, had wonderful friends, and I’d long ago gotten over most of the major challenges in my life. I felt sort of ready, like this wasn’t the end really, just another thing that just happens that you roll with and see what happens. Pretty soon the pain got too bad for just Oxycontin to handle. I was back in the hospital on massive amounts of Dilaudid and Ativan. Palliative sedation. It quickly went from relief, to being pretty high, to being mostly unconscious because with consciousness came serious pain. When I say pain, I don’t mean I-stubbed-my-toe-oh-gawd pain. Take the worst pain in your life, the worst thing you’ve ever felt, multiply that by a thousand, and that’s pain. No one tells you that dying hurts. I think they don’t want to scare you, but that’s a truth for which everyone should be prepared. Dying is not comfortable. After a day or two, things went black. I thought I was dead. I don’t know how I thought I was dead, but I did. You’d think the act of thinking proves you to be alive, but things get really weird in your head when there’s that much ammonia in your body, when your brain is swelling that badly. Gradually, this notion faded and I started to dream. I dreamed I was injured and in pain, hardly able to move. I was outside and there was no one around, just empty streets. Somehow I knew I had no home to go to, no one to help me, and I knew I had to either get myself safe and better, or I simply wouldn’t get better. I found a house, and it was so hard to get into the house. It wasn’t locked or anything, but getting up the steps, into the door, and looking around inside was enough to drive the breath from me and leave me crawling. There was a mattress on the floor of one of the rooms and it was all I could do to get onto it before I passed out again. I slipped in and out of consciousness in the dream (likely mirroring what was actually happening to me at the time). Eventually I knew if I didn’t eat or drink I would die, and getting this far would count for nothing. I couldn’t move, though. I was spent. I could no longer lift my arms, my legs didn’t respond, really the only things I could still move were my eyes. A girl eventually showed up. She wasn’t remarkable in any way, really, except the look of concern on her face as she looked at me. I later found it strange that at this point I didn’t think to ask for help, or suspect she would try to help me at all. I assumed that nature would take its course and I’d eventually die, which would stop the pain, so I welcomed that idea. She had other plans, though. It doesn’t really matter, but she explained to me that I was sick and that I was safe there, that no one would hurt me. She brought me food and water when she could get me to eat or drink it. She didn’t exactly stay by my side, but somehow it seemed like she had my best interests in mind. Obviously, this is a fever dream inspired by an actual nurse, most likely, but it was quite a profound realization in my addled state that I wanted to die, that I was tired, that I’d finally realized I’d gone too far and wouldn’t get better and that this was simply the end. The blackness takes over again for a while from there. I’d gone to a hospital locally, expecting to die there. No one other than my roommate even had a clue how bad I was, and she didn’t know how to contact my family or anything like that, so I thought I’d just slip away quietly and everyone would move on with life. I really should’ve known better, or at least planned better. Another thing nobody tells you about dying is that people who love you will not let you die if they have any possible fucking way to keep you from doing it. I woke up in mid-October. I was so sick. As I regained consciousness, I became aware that they were giving me different medicines, medicines I hadn’t heard of and I was too out of it to even ask what it was, what it was for, or even really talk or notice who was there. I noticed that I’d lost a lot of weight. My abdomen was distended but my arms and legs were much thinner, and I felt constantly cold. At first they didn’t ask me questions, they didn’t do anything but administer meds and watch me closely with a sad look to them as if to say what a shame, such a waste. They made me drink lactulose, which is torture in itself. Ammonia builds up during liver failure, and lactulose helps get rid of it. I’m not going to explain how it works, because I don’t even like to think about it. Google it if you want the nightmares. I was too far gone to protest anything they did. At one point they had to set up a line directly into an artery for some reason, which I’m told is usually quite painful. I didn’t move, I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t really feel anything past the general sensation of just PAIN EVERYWHERE. Eventually, I regained some lucidity. They asked me where I was and I replied that I was obviously in a hospital. They asked which one, and I realized I had no idea. Then I realized my mom was there, and it looked like she’d been crying. I remember wondering how she got there, but I didn’t think to ask. Apparently, I was quite close to death while I was at the first hospital. Somehow my roommate got in touch with my mom, and she came to the rescue. After she found out what happened, she had me transferred to Oschner in New Orleans, which is a major transplant facility. When I arrived, doctors made no promises, but encouraged her to call the family together and to say what they needed to say while they still could. When in liver failure, doctors assign a MELD (model for end-stage liver disease) score to their patients. It’s used to come up with your prognosis based on lab values. It ranges six to forty and the higher it is, the higher your chance of dying within three months. My score was thirty-five. Basically already dead. I knew people were sad, but it was still hard to hold on to reality. I could tell I was hallucinating, that I was seeing things that weren’t actually there. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve always been able to tell if something is a hallucination versus reality, so this didn’t scare me much and I was able to make some general sense of the situation. A doctor came in and explained what happened. They’d been working on clearing the toxins out of my body enough to stabilize me and get me well enough for surgery. Surgery? Yeah, major surgery. I asked what they meant, and they said that I needed an immediate liver transplant to live. As best they could, they got consent from me. Consent for the surgery and for substance abuse counseling afterward, as well as assurance that I would remain compliant with medications and follow-up visits and labs and all that other great stuff. I thought okay, well, maybe I get another shot. Maybe it isn’t really time. I’ll spend a couple weeks getting better and go back to normal life. On a side note, no one tells you that if you don’t have money and you need a transplant, you’re simply going to die. I was told very bluntly that if my insurance refused to cover it for any reason, they would not proceed with the transplant. Luckily, I have amazing insurance and I work for an incredible company which paid for my insurance the entire year I was out of work. At one point, the nurses and doctors came in excited. There was a liver, they said. It was for me, they’d found one that matched and it was time. Not long after, they came back, this time not excited. The liver was no good, they said. They’d thought it was, but when the surgeon examined it, the vessels were hardened, they couldn’t be sewn to mine. It was a bust. A few hours later, though, a miracle (at least according to my mom, I think it was just coincidence) happened. They had another liver, another one that matched me, another one without hardened vessels, one that was perfect for transplant. And everything went dark again. The next time I woke up, there were over a hundred staples in my stomach. The scar reaches from just under my rib cage on the left front side to halfway around my abdomen on the right side in a chevron shape. It’s truly massive, I was cut in half. I wasn’t prepared to see that, and I started to immediately regret my decision to go forward with the transplant. Then the pain hit me like a truck. The next few days are a constant cycle of drugs, sleep, pain, drugs, sleep, pain, drugs, sleep, pain. When I cleared up a little after they stopped IV pain meds, they fed me more Oxycontin like it was Skittles. My mind was slowly clearing, and there was talk of how to care for the wound, what recovery would be like, what meds I needed to take, and all kinds of other information. I had the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t be so easy. My legs had atrophied and I couldn’t stand, walk, sit upright, or really get comfortable in any way. To this day I cannot sleep on my side or stomach. It just hurts too much. I received my transplant October 19th, 2017. The recovery was the most grueling, horrible, unimaginable thing to ever happen in my life. At first the pain was overwhelming, but it was brought under control with powerful opiates. I struggled to move. When I stood, the tendons in the back of my knees had tightened and it was impossible to keep my balance at first. I went most places in a wheelchair. I thought this would pass quickly, but it didn’t. I was in that chair for what seems like most of a year. The wound began to heal, but things were messy. Another side effect of liver failure, and of surgery, is the draining. Something to do with albumin and cells not keeping liquid inside them like they should and it needs to find some way out. Everywhere on me leaked. I had places in my skin that spontaneously developed what, for lack of a better explanation, seemed like a sourceless but continuous leak. It was like liquid (not sweat, but steadily dripping) was coming out of my pores. It came out of the wound, it came out of other places where I had stitches for other reasons, it wouldn’t stop. Then the complications began. Most people who have a transplant take Prograf, or tacrolimus, which is an anti-rejection drug. They started me on it a while after the surgery as maintenance for the transplant, as per protocol. Little did they know, it caused severe neurological side effects in me. One day I was sitting with my mom and a nurse, and I was pretty lucid. Still on a lot of drugs, but now I was telling people my correct name at least, and knew how old I was and what year it was again. Somehow, I knew I was going to have a seizure. I could feel it, and if you’ve never had one then I just can’t explain how I knew. I tried to warn them. “I think I’m having a ssss-sss-ss-s-sssssss-ss-s…” and then everything goes black. As soon as the S sound escaped my lips I got stuck, kept stuttering the same consonant over and over, and then seized. What seemed like a brief nap later I came to again and they were staring at me wide-eyed. I asked what happened and they told me I had a seizure. Then I promptly had another one. They put me on Kepra to stop the seizures and switched me to cyclosporine for anti-rejection. This caused me to essentially speak gibberish, nonsensical answers to questions, not knowing where I was or how to act appropriately to the situation. At one point I got so frustrated I started crying. I kept trying to tell them I had to go to the bathroom, all I needed was just some help getting up so I could hobble to the toilet to go pee. I kept trying and trying to tell them, I could hear what I wanted to say in my head, but it kept coming out wrong. I couldn’t make the correct words strung together to express what I needed. I cried until more nurses came and they figured out by process of elimination what I needed, and helped me to the bathroom. I was taken off the cyclosporine. Then it was a lot of steroids to keep me from rejecting the liver. During this time, the wound began to heal wrong. It healed from the outside in, instead of inside out. So they took out all of the staples. All. One. Hundred. Seventeen. Staples. They packed the wound with foam padding, applied a wound vac, and I spent months healing slowly as scar tissue filled in the hole. As if this weren’t bad enough, my kidneys weren’t functioning, I got massive infections, and I vomited constantly every time I ate or drank. This didn’t phase the doctors much, though. Dialysis for the better part of a year, with a perma-cath installed in my chest. Countless rounds of antibiotics to control infections. Anti-emetics didn’t work, tube feeding didn’t work (I still vomited up what they put down the tube). They installed a central line and fed me intravenously for several weeks. There were loads of painful tests, including the time they inserted a needle into my hip to sample bone marrow and the time they thought my knee was septic so they had to ram what looked like a drinking straw sized needle under my kneecap. There was the time they gave me a shot of something to make my blood counts normalize and it caused back spasms so bad that four doses of Fentanyl later I was still crying and they were administering yet another dose and kept Narcan on hand in my room just in case. Gradually, over the course of many months, I started slowly improving. It’s to be expected, they said. You almost died. It was really a miracle that you even lived long enough to get the transplant. You should, by all rights, be dead right now. Time fades the memory, because you don’t want to remember it. Over the course of nine or so months, I was in the hospital more than I was out of it. My longest stretch in the hospital at once was just over three months. When I was finally getting close to getting out, there was a new, unexpected complication. I’d become physically dependent on the opiates they gave me for pain. Don’t get me wrong, the pain was still intense enough to require opiates. But sometimes in life, you just have to get used to your new normal. Pain is part of life, now. Opiate withdrawal, though, is nothing to play with. That’s another thing no one really tells you or understands until they go through it. Withdrawal is itself incredibly painful. It’s like being lit on fire, and nothing you can do will make it stop except more opiates. What’s more, it’s not a quick process. Withdrawal can take weeks, if not months. That entire time you are in pain so bad that you can’t open your eyes, you can’t walk, you can’t eat, you can’t sleep. A Godsend came in the form of a particularly cunty psychiatrist. She’s a real bitch, I don’t care for her, but she knew what she was doing. She immediately prescribed Suboxone, which worked like a charm. After weeks of withdrawal pain, it was gone. Just like that, a few minutes after I dissolved a little strip under my tongue, all the insidious, mind-crushing, all-encompassing pain melted away. I still hurt, but it wasn’t the kind of pain you can’t ignore. This I can deal with. Sure it hurts, but I can function with this pain. Before, I was a mess, I couldn’t even get up to walk. At this point, I was on somewhere around fifteen medications a day. Anti-rejection, anti-emetic, diuretic, anti-depressant, thyroid pills, phosphate binders, pills to make my digestive system work, pills to make my kidneys try to wake back up, pills for everything imaginable. I’d actually feel full, like I’d eaten a meal, after I took my morning pills. And noon pills. And evening pills. I went through rehab as mandated (an agreement is an agreement, and I said I’d do it if they did the transplant). I eventually learned to walk again first with a walker, then a cane, and now I walk unassisted albeit slowly. I’m down to taking one medication a day now. Sirolimus, an anti-rejection med which causes what feels like a cold that never goes away, constant low grade fever, a feeling of always being cold, and impairs your body’s ability to heal normally. I also consistently have extremely low blood counts (stemming from the kidney damage), low platelets, and some other things that are pretty annoying but not (well at least not always) life threatening. I get tired easily, am in some degree of pain at any given time, and I’m not too happy about this giant scar I have now. I have over a year sober now, and I’ve had a lot of time to think deep thoughts and consider the past and future. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel whole again. I don’t know if the pain will ever stop. If I had it to do over again, I’m not sure I’d agree to the transplant in the first place. I’d accepted dying, and that was easy. Accepting living as I have to live now is the hard part. My liver function is great, my kidneys are getting much better and I’m not on dialysis anymore, and sometimes I’m even hungry again. But what about next time? The average life expectancy for a male after liver transplant is eighteen years. That means I’ll likely die by the time I’m forty-six. And I don’t want to linger. I’m more tired than I care to admit, more sad than I’d like to be, more constrained by the nature of my condition than I can consent to. I just went to Orlando by myself to see a friend (that same ex that I was talking about earlier, we have since been able to be friends and enjoy each other’s company again). The flight there made me sleep for a day, and getting back was just as bad. I work from home at a desk job, but I struggle to find the energy to talk on the phone. I miss the feeling that at any moment, something amazing could happen to me. That there could be a new adventure, a new boy, a new job, a new friend, a new hobby, new anything, just around the corner. Now it feels like I’m a slave to insurance and medication (my pills cost $1100 a month without insurance), and I don’t know how to move forward with self-confidence when I imagine taking my shirt off to a muffled gasp and “Oh my God, what happened to you?!” I try to stay positive. I think to myself, as much as I’m an atheist and non-believer, that maybe something good can come out of this. And logically, I know that to be true. If nothing else, I serve as a wonderful cautionary tale at AA meetings. I still look pretty damn young, if I do say so myself. And when you see what looks like a twenty-three-year-old grimace slightly in pain as he lowers himself to a seat after taking the stairs carefully one at a time into an AA meeting, then announce “My name is Jamie, I’m an alcoholic, and I had a liver transplant a year ago”, then you hear his horror story, the details of pain, uncertainty, almost dying multiple times… well, you’d have to be a fucking idiot to keep trying to find happiness at the bottom of a bottle. I guess that’s a good thing, at least. I never listened to the horror stories because they just weren’t scary. Oh, you hit your spouse? That’s not alcohol, you’re an ass, I’d never do that. You drink and drive? I never do that, ever, I call a cab, even blacked out. You lost your job? I never drink on the job. So you see, the stories weren’t quite enough for me. I had to chase the rabbit all the way down before I realized he wasn’t there and I was digging the hole myself. At this point, I’m working to put my mind at ease, to find purpose in living a life with limitations. I’m trying to not be afraid that tomorrow I’ll get sick again, that I’ll be alone because I’m too ashamed of what happened to me. I know I can find an external purpose easily enough. I don’t mind lending support to people trying to better themselves and get away from alcohol or drugs. If anything, my resolve is now quite concrete. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol and I don’t think I will for the foreseeable future. Or, as they say, all I know is today I'm not drinking. But finding something that drives me to want to smile and be awake and adventurous in the world? That’s proving a bit difficult. So far I’m still recovering on several levels. Physically, pain and exhaustion are a daily battle. Financially, I’m fairly well off all things considered. Emotionally I’m pretty drained, but that’s getting better. I’ve started taking pleasure in small things again. I didn’t think I’d ever be sitting stone cold sober in my kitchen carving pumpkins with my roommate and enjoy it. I didn’t think I’d ever enjoy anything stone cold sober again. I wouldn’t say I’m depressed. I’m sad sometimes, but I know that’s normal. I’ve made some unpopular decisions, like making sure medical intervention to keep me alive in a similar situation will never happen again and deciding that I truly don’t want a romantic relationship again any time soon. At the same time, I wonder about a lot of things. Will my life be the same a year from now? Better or worse? Will finally dying hurt as bad as I think it will? What kind of gigantic beast of a tattoo would I have to get to cover up the scar I have? I guess I’ll end by saying this. If you or anyone you know has a problem with drugs or alcohol that is affecting their health, get help. Don't expect someone to step in and help, because no one will. YOU need to get help, regardless of how that makes you feel. Fuck the job, fuck the car, fuck the house, fuck the spouse, fuck appearances, fuck everything except your life and health. You won’t know how much it was really worth to you until you’ve irrevocably lost it.

I have nothing intelligent to add. Zombehs.