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A new month, a brand new, bright and shiny expanse of days ahead of me.
Days in which I'm to become the person that I really wish to be.
Today was a good start; slow but steady.
My hope - we'll have to see if it unfolds - a great August.
Alternately, I could be a lazy fuck, not accomplish a damn thing.
I mean, look at July. Fuck. I had all these ideas/ideals, things I wanted to do.
I didn't paint.
I didn't create, not much.
I didn't bring order to my home, I didn't bring order to my life.
If it WAS suicide - well, probably he's found the peace on the other side.
That is my hope.
Everyone seems to have ideas as to whether suicide is bad news for the soul - one says "Hey, they were surely suffering horrifically to do this; a loving god will welcome them home"; another says "Bad juju; it's not a good plan to leave the scene early, etc and etc".
Seems we learn by struggle. Maybe subverting that process has penalties.
No one this side of that line knows.
Myself, I'm in no hurry to find out, if you catch my drift.
That's the word I'm looking for.
Sober six months, two or three of those months in detox and treatment. Cocaine, mostly, but never crack, and never a needle in his arm, no heroin. He quit smoking pot two years ago but kept drinking, kept snorting lots of cocaine.
The cocaine like to killed him.
It seems he wants to live. Clearly he wants to stay clean and sober.
He has a sense of what lies ahead of him.
My job: Give him the tools, lay it out clearly, make it look easy, fun even.
Wish us luck.
Imagine living in hell.
I have an AA friend who currently resides there.
He's hurting like a bastard on fathers day.
He wants the pain to stop.
He's scared shitless, with good cause.
He knows I've walked through; I've got the burns, the scars, strong legs.
I'm telling him how to get out. He wants me to come in and carry him out.
He's trying to get from me what I won't give. Can't give, really.
AA101: Carry the message, not the alcoholic.
I'm open to helping him. But he's the one who must walk out, walk through.
The best of the day was when I was in the role of sponsor. Not that I feel I shine - though I sometimes do, maybe oft-times - but I feel as though he is moving in a good direction and I don't think he'd be moving in this direction had we not been working together. He's brave, he's got guts, he's facing down a situation that is damn difficult. It's a pleasure to spend time with people who have his kind of courage, and most of those that I sponsor are willing to face into the fire.
And that's my hundred.
I live in perpetual clutter.
I don't like it, I don't want to live this way, I wish I was able to change it.
Thus far, I have not been able to do so.
It's very frustrating.
I'm like the guy rolling the stone up the hill; always it's rolling right on down.
The only people I know who live in this much chaos are deeply depressed. It's not just their homes that are cluttered.
Regardless I cannot change, I do not accept this, I do not want to be what I am, a person who lives in perpetual clutter.
This morning I was out running with my red doberman Rusty, The Wonder Dog, and having a great time - Rusty, as always, attracting attention and love because of her beauty and happiness and grace, and I was as always enjoying that. But I was also enjoying that in the running I could glide through the air if I chose to, as far as I wished, then easing that lead foot down, launching again.
I got to glide and I got to be with Rusty, who though ten years dead is still by far the best dog ever.
Dreams are great.
An immensely powerful jet, full throttle. Auto-pilot. Takeoff. I'm plastered to the seat, we're hurtling down the runway, balls-out. Full power.
The nose wheels lift now into the fusalage but, amazingly, instead of pulling up, the flaps lift, we're grinding into the runway, and now off the runway, engines still screaming, full throttle, wide open, crashing through trees and buildings and smashing now through a closeby freeway, everything burning, crushed, trashed, smashed, destroyed.
Still the engines scream.
Your flight? Bipolar disorder. Mixed states.
Thoughts - dark. Mood - black. Energy - full power, uncontrollable, completely manic.
Come fly with me.
My brother, 59 years old, caving in. This fuck always has been strong, a rock, a jagoff in years gone by but strong, always. And now he's ambling, shambling, this vital, strong man now fading, stooped, scared, a man who pulled himself into millions with pure balls, a pickup, some tools, some savvy. And now he can't throw some jerkoff subcontractor off the job; time was he'd throw the fuck out the window, sometimes you've got to.
It's unbelievable except that it's not, it's happening right now. We don't know if it's depression or what. I'm scared shitless of alzheimers.
My brothers condition is not good. The prognosis is for shit. We don't yet know. It's for shit.
Seems I'm now knee deep in sponsoring people, and supporting people - I get in trouble and what happens, fortunately, is that I get people placed in my life so I'll keep my head out of my ass, maybe keep from totally looping the motherfucking loop. The time spent with Kyle was a high point in the day - third step overview.
And the bike ride. It feels so good to move my body, get this old crate cranking around those curves, sweat pouring.
So I want to sponsor this guy, he's asked me to sponsor him, I've known him over long years, he's a good man, I want to help.
But I'm not sure that I can.
He's as twisted by resentments as any alcoholic I've known, bad as ever I've been, so goddamn dry he's a fucking fire hazard.
A huge difference between sober and dry.
Dry is a start. It's huge.
But it's only a start.
He's trapped, out of control, crazy, dangerous, he can't stop it. We can't work in this lunacy. But if we don't he'll never get free.
We met at Kerrville, seventeen years ago maybe. She's really attractive, eastern European Jewish stock, she looks slavic, she looks happy, she's got long brown hair, she's got these amazing blue eyes, filled with life, fun.
"Will you marry me?"
She declined, politely, but said hi, she's from Austin, etc and etc.
Met again, two years later. Same thing - won't marry me, still in Austin, blah blah.
She represented Austin to me.
Damned if we didn't meet again after I moved here.
We swam laps tonight, my best friend in Austin, kicking, cutting up, talking, laughing in the sunset.
It's not hokum, not some gym-rats lunacy - once trained, muscles retain that information; go back to training after a layoff, it comes back fast.
I said that to say this: I had a good bike ride, not a monster ride, but good; I took an anti-depressant just beforehand, my gut burned when I tried to amp the cardio.
But. The workout on the sunset bridge was a fucking monster. Three sets, three upper body exercises, each set to complete muscle exhaustion. I'm trembling, sweat pouring, my upper body on fucking fire, the music blasting.
I felt like god.
I can't tell you how angry this makes me.
Actually, that isn't true. I CAN tell you how angry this makes me.
As follows: I am very, very goddamn angry at whatever illness it is that has my brother by the balls.
I'd love to strangle his shrink, burn down his house - the son of a bitch missed the call. Idiot. So many shrinks just throw anti-depressants at people, they can't be bothered to actually diagnose, it isn't their life.
Anger a foolishness, will accomplish not a goddamn thing, it's just the whole inability to do anything about it, helplessness.
Prozac, Paxill, I hate every goddamn SSRI there is, they all made me nuts. Look what they did to me! I was normal before I took that shit.
Okay, so I wasn't normal before I took that shit. But I was more normal than I am now.
Okay, so being more normal than I am now isn't unusual, you say everyone is more normal than I am now. Well, you're wrong. I'm right. Plus, I'm nuts, and you can't argue with me and make me upset or I'll go berserk and stuff, so cut it out, you big meanie you.
We started talking about working out but soon veered about, this guys bright and he's awake, used to be a doc (as was/is his father) but quit seven years ago to be a musician, to be himself somehow, and now he's working on a PhD in musicology, or some such.
We chatted long, veered about as noted above, real fun.
I forget how lucky I am. I have many friends with whom I can careen from one subject to the next, gathering steam, cognitive leaps, etc and etc. But he isn't this lucky - he's no one to talk with.
So we were in bed, holding hands, drifting off.
I remembered - hundred.
So now I'm here.
To say what? No telling, really: I've already taken my 'meds stew', I'm somewhat wacked.
Here's one fun bit of my day - I dropped my mp3 player into the water yesterday, totally submerged, a foot of water, maybe twenty seconds. It's not my iPod, it's my trashy workout player.
I almost just threw it deep into the river.
I'm glad I didn't; today it works fine.
Try that with an iPod. It'd be dead dead dead.
No workout today and not much else.
Here's the news: Your sweethearts cat gets loose, you're going to spend your Saturday night looking for a cat.
We searched for that cat, then we searched some more, and then more still, sweating out the humid Austin night. It's a fine cat, and nuts as any cat has ever been, and flaky - she could be anywhere. Likely she snuck into a neighbors place when they stepped out, into the heart of their Saturday night.
We suspended search operations half hour ago, after posting notices on the neighbors doors.
I'd bet that the cat is within 200 feet of here.
It's my home group, and it's home also - I'm safe there, I can spontaniate there, if there is such a word, and even if there isn't.
I can just be me, and they bear that with grace, and even good humor, laughter. And not laughing at me, with me.
Actually, it is sortof at me but I'm in their heart, so it's ok; that meeting is one of the safest places I go.
I wonder who you are, who is it reading this? I sure hope you have safe places in your life, places where it's okay to be yourself.
I have no idea what happened to the words I'd written for this day. Gone.
Not in my email, not in any document I can find, just not around.
And I know I wrote every day in August; it's religion to me again.
I'm writing this on September sixth, 1:15am, as I'm entering in Augusts hundreds.
Thank god for Writely, the new Google word processor, which will make this so much easier - all the docs will be in one place, HTML formatting done for me, no more of this huge pain in the ass every month entering these hundreds.
As far as I'm concerned, petit mal seizures aren't a big problem.
They are surely interesting, in my case entrances into or toward some sort of portal of experience or existance. It's a lot like deja vu, except moreso, and, very weirdly, they are somehow olefactory - I experience this entrance through the sense of smell.
It scared me. I thought I was drifting into some psychotic realm of bipolar disorder - as if bipolar2 isn't fucked enough - or maybe schizoprenia, or schizo-affective disorder, which is a sortof crossbred bipolar / schizophrenia, wherein you are really, truly fucked.
So. It was a welcome diagnosis.
Lou was cool in fourth grade, he's cool now, he's been cool the whole way through.
I remember sortof marveling at him in grade school; he knew how to deal with teachers, how to deal with everybody.
He still does.
He holds a distance. He'll keep you on your toes. Always. Tremendous emotional intelligence. He's a great businessman, got a solid marriage, raised two boys, flies airplanes, plays golf, lives his life his way.
He's put together a great life.
We spoke today, traded bits of our lives - we're 51, some things changed since grade four.
But, always, he's Lou.
I smacked into the truck in front of mine, maybe five miles per hour, my full-sized F150 smacking into his bitty, pussified Ranger; my bumper is bent, his bumper crushed like a soda can, his quarter panel trashed.
My first accident in eight years. First one that is 'my fault' in maybe 25 years, longer I think.
He was stopped at a red light.
I was looking at my motherfucking cell phone.
I've had too many close calls, looking at cell phones. It's luck of the draw; so many times that I could easily have drifted into oncoming traffic.
I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter; whatever I think, say, or do isn't going to change anything.
Still, it is nice to have clarity.
I don't believe, not for an instant, that the September 11 thing was pulled off without complicity from people highly placed in our government. I believe it's a big scam.
Started because of the fact that 'they' won't give us video of the 'jet' hitting the department of war building. And that the evidence suggests that no huge jet crashed there.
And the matter of WTC building seven falling on it's own, hours later, imploding.
I believe that the crash into the Pentagon was bullshit - no huge jetliner crashed there.
I believe that my govt is willing to murder American citizens to achieve its goals.
I believe that politics is a farce.
I believe that WTC Bldg 7 WAS brought down with a planned demolition.
I believe that my govt has lied through it's teeth about almost everything involved here.
I believe that we will never see the videos confiscated from the pentagon crash scene.
I believe that we will never hear what is on those black boxes, not from any of the four jets.
I took off on a hot stride and didn't stop, a long and determined walk this evening into tonight, and it was fun, Austin unrolling as it sometimes does, like strolling through a fun painting, one that is being painted on the run, in real time. I was pissed at Kelly and think I still am, annoyed that bike rides or long strides aren't to her taste, and she knows it pisses me off thus makes sure to not like it - let someone know you want something and you'll not get it, a hard AlAnon lesson I've clearly not learned.
Sunday once was a more active day than it is now and probably I will build it back to that level - it worked well to meet with those I sponsor and also with my sponsor on Sundays.
Active sponsorship is a blessing. I went without for over a decade and I surely did pay a price; I don't do well without a sponsor. Not many do. It's easy to give lip service but difficult to live the principles embodied in the steps. And it's got to be lived. An alcoholic without the steps is in deep shit.
Talked tonight, first time since his diagnosis, and while the dx is grim it was and is a relief - no longer an unknown quantity in the equation.
There's no cure and nothing to halt or even slow it's progression - it moves at its own pace.
There are medications to deal with the symptoms. Thank god for medical science, thank god for the scientific method; research doctors fucking rock. My hope is that 'they' learn to deal with Parkinsons before the symptoms overtake him.
Let us pray:
Old Timer -
Please help these fucks find some new drugs.
Such great news - Google has finally launched Writely, along with a host of other online tools.
Now, online, using whatever OS I want, I have access to a word processor, a spreadsheet, a browswer, email client, and damn near anything else under the sun I could want to use on my puter, albeit at a very basic level at this time.
Freedom from Micro$oft.
Freedom from the 'M$ Tax' which is on almost every puter shipped - this sort of online software and free software is going to set the current arrangement on its head, and faster than most people think.
I so often forget to eat, and then it's late and I've been on the run and/or sucking down caffiene laden crap (expresso, lattes, coffee, tea, et all) and then I'm settled in. And THEN I notice that I'm hungry.
Couple of reasons this isn't good news. One - it's eleven pm, and eating now just puts goo on my gut. Also - I'm at Kellys place, and she NEVER has easy food around, never anything for sandwiches or easy, foraging, guy-type food; all of her food has to be prepared and/or cooked and whatnot, very annoying.
Update on last nights hundred: Kelly read what I wrote about her not having guy-type foraging food, and then I of course gave her shit about it, because I'm a jagoff, and she got hurt, and she got all mad, and fussy, and she said "Fuck you!" while flipping me off, which I found endearing - how can you not love a gal who tells you to fuck off when you've stepped over some line or other, even if you hadn't known you were stepping over said line or that there even was a line in the area?
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