Pills & Shots

I take 7 pills, and 4 shots a day, just so I can wake up tomorrow and take 7 pills, and 4 shots a day. I’ve settled into a routine, now, and so every morning, I take my pills, and a shot. Around noon, I take another shot, then again around late afternoon, and one more big shot late at night, so my blood sugar maintains uniformity overnight. It prevents me from dying in my sleep.

What do I get for this regimen? The opportunity to do it over and over again ad nauseam, until there are no more pills, and no more shots. If there was some life in between, at least there would be a point to it, but at this juncture, I’m just doing it as a message to tell death to go fuck itself. I see no real point in living (romantic love, engaging directly with humanity, experiencing the variety of life, these things I am not a part of), but I don’t want death to win, because I despise that bastard with every fiber of my being.

I know there are people out there who get this, who can relate. What gets you through this? What do you do if there’s nothing to hold on to except stubbornness and white hot anger? Is that enough?

Workers of the World

I’m getting ready to read “Capital and other Writings,” by Karl Marx, for the first time. The book was ordered, and I’ll get it in a few days. This is an entirely new direction for me, in terms of literary study. When it comes to politics, the last book I read with a heavy focus on social change was Rush Limbaugh’s “I Told You So,” which was released in 1996, when I was a devout Christian conservative Republican.

This is a swing in a different direction because I’ve never read Marx. I’m a firm believer in the notion that one does not have to agree with the ideas the author lays down, as long as one is also willing to give space for that author’s words to be considered. I am liberal, by U.S. standards, and cannot deny that laborers the world over are often exploited at the hands of those who seek to accrue wealth and power (some believe those two terms to be synonymous), but I’ve never considered myself a communist.

Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to reading this book. That said, I was a little nervous when I actually made the purchase, because the United States is in the midst of a dramatic shift, and I know that people who order Qu’rans, books on anarchy, and even Marxist literature, is probably put on a watch list at some point. I should never have to feel that way about simply reading a book, but the climate in the U.S. is not very friendly towards such things at this point.

Still, the desire to read the book won out, and knowing I will not find it in a bookstore within the 5 miles I can travel, hell we don’t even have a bookstore within the nearest 5 miles, so to the internet I go, my only real key to salvation in this place.

I’ll probably write up a critique of the book after I read it, or maybe not. It depends upon how much energy I have, and whether the content of the book itself, which also includes his other works, such as the Communist Manifesto, is enough to drive me to write. It takes more and more to get that motivation these days, but here’s hoping. It’s been so long since I’ve truly been interested in something to where I had to read it as soon as possible.

I hope this little side journey ends up being a fruitful venture for myself.

Spark

 

I don’t dare get my hopes up. If I do, and it doesn’t work out, I don’t believe I could handle another crash to the earth. Suffice to say, mom can now sit on the side of the bed. She can move her legs. Therapy has made it to the point where she can move about in the bed with greater ease. Her ability to sit up under her own power, and get in a chair, could be possible in as little as 2-3 months, if her therapy continues.

Right now, she is being evaluated by the insurance company. If they are given the green light, she’ll get another 2-3 months of therapy. If not, the therapy ends here. She believes she’ll be able to walk again. I still hold out hope that she will.

Regardless, this has to go somewhere. I’d like those dreams where I die young, alone, unloved, and in poverty to be nothing more than just bad dreams.

Getting To The Point Of It All

I posted this on my Facebook page as well as posting it here. I want a wider audience on this one, because this gets to the heart of exactly how I feel about love, and how people express that love. Enjoy.

Life is short. Don’t be afraid to love somebody. I’m not kidding, and I’m sure many of you know this, but I just want to say it anyway.

We will all die someday. All of us. Every one of us, along with our hopes, dreams, likes, loves, habits, hums, songs, idiosyncrasies, and heartbeats, will one day fall silent. There is no way to stop it.

We get one life here, on this earth, as we are right now. No matter whether you believe in an afterlife or not, this iteration, this one instance of you and I as who we are, will eventually die.

That sounds a bit morbid for some, but it’s better that truth be faced directly. I say this because if you want to love someone, if you want to be a part of their lives, if you want to wrap your heart around theirs, then go for it.

If you love them, they love you, and the relationship is fully informed and consensual, then what other people think can just fuck the fuck right off. Their protestations of too young, too old, too fat, too thin, male, female, agender, transgender, non-binary, asexual, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, heterosexual, Monogamous, Polyamorous, just make it happen.

You’ll have plenty of time to listen to the crowd after you’re dead, but for now, while you’re alive, seize that moment, capitalize on it, and make it a part of you. One of my favorite figures in history once said, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and if you’re worried about “normal,” man, *fuck* normal. Who’s normal? No one’s normal. Not one soul on this planet can lay claim to that most broad, and vague, of terms.

Life’s too short to have regrets.

Nervous Tics

 

I have a number of nervous ticks: I rock back and forth, my eye twitches, I tap my fingers against my leg, I count off on one hand using my fingers, I shake my legs, and so on.

When I get frustrated, annoyed, or stressed (you can guess how often that occurs), I usually find myself engaged in one of those nervous tics. Today a really weird one started happening. My head kind of jerked to the side, and it did it twice. Then, a few minutes later, it did it again, and I panicked. Of course, that set off an anxiety attack, and since I have had only 4 hours of sleep since yesterday morning (it is currently 6:16 AM), the anxiety is being compounded by the exhaustion.

I’m really worried that I’m approaching another nervous breakdown. I’ve had several over the years, and I’ve had to power through them each time. I know they’ve done damage, believe me I know, but regardless, this is something I would like to avoid.

I’m getting ready to go to sleep, and I’m hoping that it will take the edge off the fear.

Everybody Needs A Break!

Said my mother, to my brother, when he was talking about being so busy as the worship leader for his church. I don’t begrudge my brother one bit, he does work hard, but I damn near choked on my own saliva when I heard her say that, as I washed dishes in the background.

I haven’t had a break in 7 years. I mean that quite literally. I haven’t had a day off, I haven’t had a day of rest, I have been switched on, taking care of her 24/7 for 7 straight years.

“But John,” you might ponder, “didn’t you go see a Star Trek movie here and there?” and I reply to you that I sure did, but that’s not a break in the sense of getting time off to regenerate and rejuvenate one’s mind and body. That’s the equivalent of getting 5 minutes to grab a snack or a cup of coffee before getting back to your 24 hour shift. In some technical sense it’s a break, but in reality it doesn’t even scratch the surface, and I deal in reality.

Hell, even when I went to see the Star Trek films, my phone stayed on (vibrate) in case I needed to be called back home for any reason. It’s like being a doctor on call, but perpetually, and without time off over the course of 7 years. My body, nor my mind, gets to rest. The other night, I had to wake up 7 times, during the night, to take care of something she needed.

So to hear her say “everybody needs a break! No one can work like that for weeks without getting burned out” to my brother, as I washed dishes, did the laundry, changed her bandages, ordered new medical supplies, cooked dinner, dusted the furniture, scrubbed the toilet, readjusted her position in her bed, and filled her water glass, made me want to choke.

She interrupted my dinner twice this evening. I haven’t had an uninterrupted meal in many years. I don’t listen to music very often, because I can’t wear headphones in case she needs me. When I try to read, I have to keep a bookmark handy because I *know* I will be called upon before I finish a single chapter. It has been this way for 7 years, and before anyone asks, before then I was doing the same thing, but it didn’t require all of my time.

When mom was first disabled in the mid 1990s, I was still in school. I would come home from school, and take care of what she needed. My time was 40% school, 10% personal time, 50% caregiving. In the early 2000s, she started to get better, and could walk again, to some degree, and so I was working 40% of the time, with 30% devoted to caregiving, and 30% devoted to personal time. That would be the highest it would get.

In the mid-to-late 2000s, she started to decline in health somewhat, and I had started a new job which took a lot of my time, so it became 50% work, 45% caregiving, and 5% personal time. It was after her kidney surgery that things turned as southward as they did, and my caregiving went full time. Currently, it’s 100% caregiving, no job, no personal time.

To give you yet another example, in the time it has taken me to write these 556 words (as of *this* word), I have been called upon 11 times. I don’t write my novels anymore, I don’t write songs anymore, I don’t write poems as much anymore (the brevity of poetry works in my favor at times). Do you know what this does to a person’s brain when they don’t get enough time to eat, sleep, to daydream, to rest their mind? My mind is like a sieve, nothing stays in it, it just leaks out. I’m to the point now where you can tell me your name three or four times, and I’ll still have forgotten it by the end of the introductions.

I don’t know, it’s just the statements she made bother me so much. She is right, in that one must take a break every so often, because otherwise one will get burned out, but she said it with me standing 10 feet away. It’s almost like I wasn’t there, or didn’t matter. Now, I’m not saying my mom doesn’t think I matter, but it does show how much she takes me for granted. She tells me she’s sorry, and she tells me it’s not her fault, and it’s really not her fault, I know that, I mean who blames the person for the disease (if you’re not GOP, anyway)?

The problem is that it doesn’t fix anything. If you shoot someone in the leg, saying sorry doesn’t remove the bullet and heal the physical wound. There is a long path of devastation and destruction behind me, and my future looks like what remains of the Roman coliseum, as it crumbles before me.

I know she has to know this, or maybe she doesn’t. I know the stroke caused some minor affectations, and I think that may have been one of them. Who knows? Regardless, I need more than a break. A break would be inadequate at this point, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve one, too.