I no longer feel I can write what I want here. I should have kept my mouth shut as to where it is, what it is, why it was. It was fun when I started several of these and I felt I had some things to say. It is not to be here anymore.
I can't leave this place without thanks to those that commented. It would be rude not to and I did enjoy the comebacks, very much. Thanks. More than a couple of you are very special to me. (Just assume it is you and not that other person *grin*)
"no V-chip installed", had one installed and I'm the one to blame. I will not allow it to happen.
I never liked Blogger anyway. I'm thinking less and less of Google in a very big way, too. Getting as bad as Microsoft, if not worse. They give the fucking crap away and we eat it. But man, oh man, we will pay (already are) for the freebie. I feel a post coming on. Naw, that was it. It's way past my nap time anyway.
That's all folks.
postpaleo
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
This video has nothing to do with this post, maybe.
It's another, whoever they paid to do the video, they got paid too much. That seems to be the norm in this kind of thing, I think, but I could have put up far worse. Some notable exceptions, but this really has nothing to do with this post, maybe.
It is interesting as hell to see the changes that have happened since the no Ritalin, which wasn't but a few days ago. I mean who has more fun than I do with brain fucking? Sadistic. I want to turn it around. Any volunteers?
Brain drugs are a funny kind of thing to mess around with. Not funny ha-ha or as we really don't mean on the net, lol. They are normally a very subtle thing, very powerful, but not bang in your face. The hard part is trying to compare what was, with what is. Kind of like trying to remember what an orgasm felt like. You can't do it, but you know it was good or maybe it was bad. It's true, there are some that are just more outstanding then others, well I have them, I don't really know about you. Now, normally you should just take the change at face value. Weigh the pros with the cons and ultimately you do. Sometimes it's an instant OMFG this is serious bad news, not a good place to be at all. But, it doesn't end the same med or combos, not always. You have to "tinker" with the doses. Fuck!!
This last combo, the one I took myself off, with the Doc's permission, was strange, perhaps an understatement. The problem was, other than the blood pressure, I could not tell, due to outside my control influences, what or how it was settling in. What was this new me, what are my capability's now, sort out the old coping skills, or ingrained coping skills that weren't really a need anymore. The possibility of going back to it again are real. This BP thing needs to be weeded through first. But as the old me returns it is comforting, that is the old me on the mood stabilizer and if that's where it has to stay, I'm good with it. I do not like this Valium thing at all and it will be looked at soon. It is not doing what I think it should be doing, but, again, it may be life habits and again, I need to work through what I can take care of and what I can't and hope like hell it is enough to make it bearable.
I think I mentioned, before, here that I never understood why someone on the Bipolar Spectrum would ever want to go off their meds. I do now. I was seriously missing that old me. I won't go off that med, but the ADHD thing I think I may let slide, maybe. The Anxiety Disorder, well that still needs to be dealt with and that part is part work and maybe part med. That, in my theory, the Ritalin should have helped with. My theory is not wrong, it just might not be doable.
So what the hell is this all about, this post. Nothing really, other than it's me writing it out, seeing, or trying to, things more in black and white. I do not think in the black and white generally.
BP tonight was 180/80. It is down, big time by about 20 on both, if the grocery store machine was right, from the Ritalin period.
Ohm time. I think that's how it is spelled or maybe that's the word for resistance. Omega, cool letter. It would work for the task, but I don't do that kind anymore. Everything Is, Zen, Gavin. I'll make your tune do the job. Although I think I'll use "Machinehead" instead. Now that one they paid to do the video? I hope not.
Postage here will get off this track soon. It's already starting to wander. I can't help it, again, and I'm glad.
Friday, June 19, 2009
We have ways of making you talk.
This place should be broadcasting, the feedy thingy. Kind of a test and a bit of news.
I don't feel like saying much, or writing I might better say, but I have a strong feeling that may change very soon. It seems the meds/med combos, Ritalin to be exact or as exact as we can be right now, damn near had me running for the nearest hospital. My blood pressure has been fairly good for a very long time and the exaggerations I saw, we saw, had me scared shit-less. From why aren't you passed out on the floor to, you will stroke out in 5, 4, 3, 2,..... Many other factors must I weed out of the med thing and home situation to cause it. Back to square one, keep it simple, one change at a time or as best at that as one can do, when some things are just not controllable that factor into it. So, I expect to be back on the old merry-go-round again. I kind of missed it anyway.
I don't feel like saying much, or writing I might better say, but I have a strong feeling that may change very soon. It seems the meds/med combos, Ritalin to be exact or as exact as we can be right now, damn near had me running for the nearest hospital. My blood pressure has been fairly good for a very long time and the exaggerations I saw, we saw, had me scared shit-less. From why aren't you passed out on the floor to, you will stroke out in 5, 4, 3, 2,..... Many other factors must I weed out of the med thing and home situation to cause it. Back to square one, keep it simple, one change at a time or as best at that as one can do, when some things are just not controllable that factor into it. So, I expect to be back on the old merry-go-round again. I kind of missed it anyway.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Phase Three
is a term used for as full of an excavation of a site as you will ever get before it is totally destroyed, in the contract world of Archaeology. This is the beginning of an early spring Phase Three near Allenwood, Pennsylvania. It was a Federal project for a pipe out flow to the Susquehanna River for the Federal Prison at said town area.
Oddly I had actually been on the Phase Two as well. It didn't always happen that way, but they did try to get the old crew back on the same site if they weren't elsewhere on the East Coast. If the Company, Louis Berger in this case out of New Jersey, got the contract again and we almost always did on Federal. (Wonderful per diem money on Federal, by the way.)
What you see is a local hired back hoe had stripped the plow zone down to a certain predetermined level. That saved much manual work, time, and then you shovel skim it to the more exact level. This is break time and the area is just beginning to be "cleaned" by trowel to expose and map the "features", which are the real things of interest. There is one non-cleaned up, as in not photo ready, shot of some dark stains. A few I can pick out in other shots as well. Look for the little orange "flags" in the ground, they are marking them, in some cases. And they warned us not to be stepping on them. Those are what we got all excited about. Well, I liked the lithic identification part better. Who am I kidding, I loved it all.
Unfortunately I blew out my other shoulder in the process of shovel skimming and was relegated to off. I was not happy. Phase Three's aren't common and Cortisone shots hurt. I was still on site as much as I could be. Kimber (Grizzled looking, older than me and I was about as old as they came, ex-Green Beret with a degree in Philosophy and a sweet heart of a guy.) told me to fucking slow down. But I had no such mode in me when doing this stuff. Did I listen? Hell no. So these are just the beginning shots and I do wish I had taken more as the project progressed. They would not look as you might think at all. Varying heights of units all over the place. Very untidy looking to the untrained eye.
This was kind of a, I told you idiots so, for me. I didn't stick to my guns enough on the Phase Two on what I thought some things were and they said they weren't. One was the biggest and deepest fucking storage pits I have ever seen and the other was a start of a post mold pattern. Both proved to be true and I couldn't remember all of the details from the Phase Two, but did try and I had kept good notes from it, but not with that in mind. Time, always time, hurry, hurry, never enough. As a matter of fact I was so fucking pissed off at my good friend Henry, who was supervising the Phase Two and this one, when he told me the the post molds were tree root stains, I slammed the flat shovel in the middle of one in a fit of anger and "bisected" it in a hot damn second and said, now look at it and tell me it's a root stain, and he did. Dork! That isn't the way you bisect a post mold, normally. Oh well, I tried.
This particular dig went deep, as in on the Phase Two I needed a step ladder to get out of some of the expanded 1 x 1 meter units, and a very very sweet dig. From Late Woodland (farming) to Middle Archaic (hunter/gatherer) and most all time points in between, with a very heavy Transitional Period, or Terminal Archaic to some, (which is the change from hunter/gatherer to the farming period) section. It had a partial Longhouse pattern, but you can't just keep going after it, if it went off the project area. Made you damn sick when that happened and that semi-sort of a thing did all of the time in contract work. I never did learn if they typed one the lower section projectile points as a Vestal, which would have made it the furthest south of any known. But, I stated my case on how the range was not determined and that I had expanded it many years earlier on my own to another full 100 miles, which got it from it's original nomenclature area to very near the dig. I would still like to know if they wrote it up that way. Not as glamorous as you thought such a thing might be?
Bob Wall was the head Archaeo-whore on this one and as I recall he had finally finished his PHD. He's in the middle of the bigger shots along with Julie Holt. She was my first unit mate with that company and a more strict, better teacher a person could ever ask for and some didn't like to work with her because of her precision. Their problem and their mistake. And Henry's loving wife, my god it was damn near syrupy just watching those two together. Fucking sugar overload I tell you. She was in the middle of getting her PHD as well and now is a Professor. A motley crew we were and as you can see, it was a bit nippy outside. The guy that is all prim and proper in the warm looking black jump suit was the local back hoe operator and a very good one and very taken with the whole operation. In some of the shots you can see someone working through the break, not uncommon at all. My wife is in there someplace, too and actually it does look like her coat, but I think I see her over with the rest of the crew. It would be fun to pick out more and talk in detail about each, but I'll stop with just a few names, for this post anyway.
Ahh yes, those were the days and I still miss it from time to time.
Oddly I had actually been on the Phase Two as well. It didn't always happen that way, but they did try to get the old crew back on the same site if they weren't elsewhere on the East Coast. If the Company, Louis Berger in this case out of New Jersey, got the contract again and we almost always did on Federal. (Wonderful per diem money on Federal, by the way.)
What you see is a local hired back hoe had stripped the plow zone down to a certain predetermined level. That saved much manual work, time, and then you shovel skim it to the more exact level. This is break time and the area is just beginning to be "cleaned" by trowel to expose and map the "features", which are the real things of interest. There is one non-cleaned up, as in not photo ready, shot of some dark stains. A few I can pick out in other shots as well. Look for the little orange "flags" in the ground, they are marking them, in some cases. And they warned us not to be stepping on them. Those are what we got all excited about. Well, I liked the lithic identification part better. Who am I kidding, I loved it all.
Unfortunately I blew out my other shoulder in the process of shovel skimming and was relegated to off. I was not happy. Phase Three's aren't common and Cortisone shots hurt. I was still on site as much as I could be. Kimber (Grizzled looking, older than me and I was about as old as they came, ex-Green Beret with a degree in Philosophy and a sweet heart of a guy.) told me to fucking slow down. But I had no such mode in me when doing this stuff. Did I listen? Hell no. So these are just the beginning shots and I do wish I had taken more as the project progressed. They would not look as you might think at all. Varying heights of units all over the place. Very untidy looking to the untrained eye.
This was kind of a, I told you idiots so, for me. I didn't stick to my guns enough on the Phase Two on what I thought some things were and they said they weren't. One was the biggest and deepest fucking storage pits I have ever seen and the other was a start of a post mold pattern. Both proved to be true and I couldn't remember all of the details from the Phase Two, but did try and I had kept good notes from it, but not with that in mind. Time, always time, hurry, hurry, never enough. As a matter of fact I was so fucking pissed off at my good friend Henry, who was supervising the Phase Two and this one, when he told me the the post molds were tree root stains, I slammed the flat shovel in the middle of one in a fit of anger and "bisected" it in a hot damn second and said, now look at it and tell me it's a root stain, and he did. Dork! That isn't the way you bisect a post mold, normally. Oh well, I tried.
This particular dig went deep, as in on the Phase Two I needed a step ladder to get out of some of the expanded 1 x 1 meter units, and a very very sweet dig. From Late Woodland (farming) to Middle Archaic (hunter/gatherer) and most all time points in between, with a very heavy Transitional Period, or Terminal Archaic to some, (which is the change from hunter/gatherer to the farming period) section. It had a partial Longhouse pattern, but you can't just keep going after it, if it went off the project area. Made you damn sick when that happened and that semi-sort of a thing did all of the time in contract work. I never did learn if they typed one the lower section projectile points as a Vestal, which would have made it the furthest south of any known. But, I stated my case on how the range was not determined and that I had expanded it many years earlier on my own to another full 100 miles, which got it from it's original nomenclature area to very near the dig. I would still like to know if they wrote it up that way. Not as glamorous as you thought such a thing might be?
Bob Wall was the head Archaeo-whore on this one and as I recall he had finally finished his PHD. He's in the middle of the bigger shots along with Julie Holt. She was my first unit mate with that company and a more strict, better teacher a person could ever ask for and some didn't like to work with her because of her precision. Their problem and their mistake. And Henry's loving wife, my god it was damn near syrupy just watching those two together. Fucking sugar overload I tell you. She was in the middle of getting her PHD as well and now is a Professor. A motley crew we were and as you can see, it was a bit nippy outside. The guy that is all prim and proper in the warm looking black jump suit was the local back hoe operator and a very good one and very taken with the whole operation. In some of the shots you can see someone working through the break, not uncommon at all. My wife is in there someplace, too and actually it does look like her coat, but I think I see her over with the rest of the crew. It would be fun to pick out more and talk in detail about each, but I'll stop with just a few names, for this post anyway.
Ahh yes, those were the days and I still miss it from time to time.
Monday, May 18, 2009
It was a cold morning in hell and the
lynch mob opened the door wide and shoved me in. Why thank you very much, you mother fuckers.
Draft Morning was today. Thirty nine years ago and I still don't forget it. I would have been awake to leave in about four more hours or so, if I had slept at all. Although some years this day slides on by for a few days before it dawns on me, these days. Maybe in the recesses of my mind I don't want to forget it. Same shit happens with birthdays anymore, so what the hell. I don't know and why really care?
All of my worldly possessions, that mattered to me, had been given away to people that were special to me. Not many of them, people or possessions. Record collection, favorite hash pipe, special item or this or that, etc. You see I was sure, no I was really really sure, I was never coming back. I was going to die in Vietnam. I never did come back, at least not like I expected it to turn out. There have been times since the body bag might have been preferred by me. But in many ways, it's always like that when you go on a trip or career change or some such fucking thing. This trip was a little different though and I knew it and I had known it.
It is a very strange sort of day to go through. A relief and a god damn it, here it comes, the big one. I mean you had already lived a big number of your young days thinking about this day already. In my case some four, or a bit more, years on the serious level and the last two on a high degree of what the fuck am I going to do about this fucking world personal abortion. Those last two years it felt like your whole life was revolving around some form of this impending day or the outcome from some action for another solution to it. Crazy days and lucky, I see now, to have lived through those. Many didn't.
In some kind of hind sight it's like worrying about hitting 40 years old or some such made up fucking magic point in your life. You put so much of your effort into the before part, this number 39, the actual doing that day is like, what the fuck, it's just another god damned day. I'm just doing something different and you do that everyday. Sometimes you just think it's the same, but they never are. No, they never are. That's one of the outcomes, eventually, from that beginning day. I'm alive and it is, now.
You see there was a strange thing that also happened on this morning, besides the strangeness of the day, and I never knew it till some many many months later. I received a letter post marked May 18th and from this little town from a guy that I had been sharing an apartment with (and Patty) some months back. Greg Smith sent it, Vietnam Vet, Tet of 68, probably Special Forces. I never asked and he never said, it wasn't needed to be. Brilliant mind and one of the fearless 5 on our Woodstock 69 trip. (A someday post or 6.) I didn't see him this morning in the ago, but he was here and watching and mailed the letter. I suspect he was curious if I was going to go at all, he knew my feet were cold and my conscious was in an uproar, and if not, I suspect he would have made himself known. Some things you have to to decide on your own and I had made mine. Get it over, get it done, end it. End it, and I only mean that one way.
The letter itself I still have and I was going to reread it and maybe put it up. As I recall, when I finally did get it via my Mother who held it back to begin with, the bitch, it made me laugh and smile. The letter is now Missing In Action. I know what damn box it's in and where I last put it, but, as always, people move shit on me that they don't know has any real meaning to me. It's just a little cardboard box with some writing stationary label and looks like nothing that should be important. It is. Maybe not, now. Maybe not, anymore.
Somethings are better left dead and this morning is one of them and yet it still haunts me. I said yes, when I should have said no. Shame on me. Perhaps someday I will learn to forgive myself.
But, it is also a day I remember Greg and the gang and that's a good thing. The letter was all about a day on a river bank. He even drew a crude picture of where a mosquito had drawn blood from on his scrotum. You know a dot to mark the spot. Hey!!, none of us were too big on clothing if we didn't need to be in it and that is important information. Hell yes it is. I mean the guy must have suffered for days. What a horrid place to get sucked. Well that sorta depends I suppose, but the mosquito didn't suffer long. As I remember he was kind of digging the fact the little blood sucker had chosen that spot. I don't know what the blood sucker felt other then most likely high from the blood. I can guarantee you on that, the little fucker probably over dosed. Well maybe an opium mellow. But now that I think on it, there was a blood stain he put on the letter with the little buggers blood or his, well ok, both. Opium? Yeah he put a drop or small squirt of that on the letter too. It was a very graphically done letter, I have received few like them and damned impossible to do on the emails with such accuracy.
That picture, letter, has nothing to do with anything but a scratch that needed an itch and a setting. They were the last words I ever got from him alive. A small moment in his picture of that now.
My now. The Tao, he knew what he was writing. He was the first one to paint the picture for me, what it looked like to him. A fine picture of words he drew. They hold up well for me to this day. Life, death, friendships, and partings. The cosmic weave.
Ok, so much for all the wonderment wondrous bull shit. Now we were in an equal opportunity employer. Stay fucking alive, fool, by whatever means. They are mapping your career for you. Setting my life into a amplified acid trip like I never ever seen. Next time around I'd like to skip this part, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather come back as a blood sucker and not their kind.
Well anyway, the bus got to the place of repose for this mornings evening. I think someone had smuggled some beer on the bus and there was more smuggled in at the holding station, at all times. Strange smell in the air too. I mean we were really primed and ready to do well on the battery of tests they gave us over the next few days. Yup, I did well on them too. I don't know how and if they thought that was good, they should have gotten me sober first. Did I mention I was detoxing from a meth habit too? Maybe draft morning saved my life or maybe it set it up to start with, or none of the above. I'll never know. Everybody laughed their asses off when they buzzed of my long hair, I did too. That has grown back. Sparser, but I like it. Fuck fashion, this is freedom.
Fort Dix, New Jersey, boot camp in that summer was a, hot, humid, mind wrecking, hell on fucking earth and it didn't feel too god damned cosmic to me, at all. Clang went the prison door and they made damned sure we heard it loud and clear. I did learn to love some little things. Some of them I had never had. Some I didn't like before and some I had taken for granted. Pie crust, pistachio nuts, green olives and a soda pop when ever I damn well want one. Such little things to most.
Draft Morning was today. Thirty nine years ago and I still don't forget it. I would have been awake to leave in about four more hours or so, if I had slept at all. Although some years this day slides on by for a few days before it dawns on me, these days. Maybe in the recesses of my mind I don't want to forget it. Same shit happens with birthdays anymore, so what the hell. I don't know and why really care?
All of my worldly possessions, that mattered to me, had been given away to people that were special to me. Not many of them, people or possessions. Record collection, favorite hash pipe, special item or this or that, etc. You see I was sure, no I was really really sure, I was never coming back. I was going to die in Vietnam. I never did come back, at least not like I expected it to turn out. There have been times since the body bag might have been preferred by me. But in many ways, it's always like that when you go on a trip or career change or some such fucking thing. This trip was a little different though and I knew it and I had known it.
It is a very strange sort of day to go through. A relief and a god damn it, here it comes, the big one. I mean you had already lived a big number of your young days thinking about this day already. In my case some four, or a bit more, years on the serious level and the last two on a high degree of what the fuck am I going to do about this fucking world personal abortion. Those last two years it felt like your whole life was revolving around some form of this impending day or the outcome from some action for another solution to it. Crazy days and lucky, I see now, to have lived through those. Many didn't.
In some kind of hind sight it's like worrying about hitting 40 years old or some such made up fucking magic point in your life. You put so much of your effort into the before part, this number 39, the actual doing that day is like, what the fuck, it's just another god damned day. I'm just doing something different and you do that everyday. Sometimes you just think it's the same, but they never are. No, they never are. That's one of the outcomes, eventually, from that beginning day. I'm alive and it is, now.
You see there was a strange thing that also happened on this morning, besides the strangeness of the day, and I never knew it till some many many months later. I received a letter post marked May 18th and from this little town from a guy that I had been sharing an apartment with (and Patty) some months back. Greg Smith sent it, Vietnam Vet, Tet of 68, probably Special Forces. I never asked and he never said, it wasn't needed to be. Brilliant mind and one of the fearless 5 on our Woodstock 69 trip. (A someday post or 6.) I didn't see him this morning in the ago, but he was here and watching and mailed the letter. I suspect he was curious if I was going to go at all, he knew my feet were cold and my conscious was in an uproar, and if not, I suspect he would have made himself known. Some things you have to to decide on your own and I had made mine. Get it over, get it done, end it. End it, and I only mean that one way.
The letter itself I still have and I was going to reread it and maybe put it up. As I recall, when I finally did get it via my Mother who held it back to begin with, the bitch, it made me laugh and smile. The letter is now Missing In Action. I know what damn box it's in and where I last put it, but, as always, people move shit on me that they don't know has any real meaning to me. It's just a little cardboard box with some writing stationary label and looks like nothing that should be important. It is. Maybe not, now. Maybe not, anymore.
Somethings are better left dead and this morning is one of them and yet it still haunts me. I said yes, when I should have said no. Shame on me. Perhaps someday I will learn to forgive myself.
But, it is also a day I remember Greg and the gang and that's a good thing. The letter was all about a day on a river bank. He even drew a crude picture of where a mosquito had drawn blood from on his scrotum. You know a dot to mark the spot. Hey!!, none of us were too big on clothing if we didn't need to be in it and that is important information. Hell yes it is. I mean the guy must have suffered for days. What a horrid place to get sucked. Well that sorta depends I suppose, but the mosquito didn't suffer long. As I remember he was kind of digging the fact the little blood sucker had chosen that spot. I don't know what the blood sucker felt other then most likely high from the blood. I can guarantee you on that, the little fucker probably over dosed. Well maybe an opium mellow. But now that I think on it, there was a blood stain he put on the letter with the little buggers blood or his, well ok, both. Opium? Yeah he put a drop or small squirt of that on the letter too. It was a very graphically done letter, I have received few like them and damned impossible to do on the emails with such accuracy.
That picture, letter, has nothing to do with anything but a scratch that needed an itch and a setting. They were the last words I ever got from him alive. A small moment in his picture of that now.
My now. The Tao, he knew what he was writing. He was the first one to paint the picture for me, what it looked like to him. A fine picture of words he drew. They hold up well for me to this day. Life, death, friendships, and partings. The cosmic weave.
Ok, so much for all the wonderment wondrous bull shit. Now we were in an equal opportunity employer. Stay fucking alive, fool, by whatever means. They are mapping your career for you. Setting my life into a amplified acid trip like I never ever seen. Next time around I'd like to skip this part, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather come back as a blood sucker and not their kind.
Well anyway, the bus got to the place of repose for this mornings evening. I think someone had smuggled some beer on the bus and there was more smuggled in at the holding station, at all times. Strange smell in the air too. I mean we were really primed and ready to do well on the battery of tests they gave us over the next few days. Yup, I did well on them too. I don't know how and if they thought that was good, they should have gotten me sober first. Did I mention I was detoxing from a meth habit too? Maybe draft morning saved my life or maybe it set it up to start with, or none of the above. I'll never know. Everybody laughed their asses off when they buzzed of my long hair, I did too. That has grown back. Sparser, but I like it. Fuck fashion, this is freedom.
Fort Dix, New Jersey, boot camp in that summer was a, hot, humid, mind wrecking, hell on fucking earth and it didn't feel too god damned cosmic to me, at all. Clang went the prison door and they made damned sure we heard it loud and clear. I did learn to love some little things. Some of them I had never had. Some I didn't like before and some I had taken for granted. Pie crust, pistachio nuts, green olives and a soda pop when ever I damn well want one. Such little things to most.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
My wife isn't writing this.
So, that means I'm still alive. She has consented to report my demise to, hell I dunno to who or whom's, but nonetheless, she'll put something up someplace.
Lots has been happening in my life. That's sort of a, I have good news and I have bad news, to me. I'm in a place mentally that is just, just, just so unfathomable to me in so many ways. It's like this, god only knows now, how many years search for a proper med combo has reached some kind of, of something.
What is so damn strange is, once you became aware you ain't like all the rest, you think you might have a glimmer of what life is like on that side. What it might be like for your lacking. It isn't, I didn't really have that close of an idea of all of the ramifications. It goes much deeper then I had ever thought it might.
In another sense it's like a death. You knew this person, you, for so long, like all of your life and all of a sudden he no longer is there. You begin to wonder and wonder a lot. My god, what have I lost. Is it still there? Am I really still me? Have I gained something? Maybe it's still business as usual? I don't know. Some things definitely feel missing in action.
The scars from being this person for, all my life, are more apparent and deeper than I had ever thought. I didn't expect that. I had an inkling, well a little more than an inkling, but it's deeper. See, when I suggested this rather radical course to take to the head doctor she was reluctant. Ritalin to a someone on the Bipolar Spectrum is tricky. When I was selling the sell to her, I called it right on the nose. What I said might happen, did. Except, the Valium consumption has not decreased as I had thought it would. Quite the contrary it has picked up, still within the norms we had set earlier, but so far not going without it. As a matter of fact, I find myself shaking like a damn leaf in the wind for not much reason, sometimes. I said to her, that's the god damned Complex PTSD, isn't it? And I got the VA cover-up of, no saying PTSD, we say Anxiety Disorder, and she did. However, radical home life change is not helping me getting my bearings and I DO NOT adapt well to change. Old coping skill and I won't go into detail why. Just believe me it was very needed for me to just appear somewhat normal for as long as I could hold out in that form of "being". I'm still sorting out this "new me".
I also won't go into much detail, at least now, on why the home life change, some good and some needs serious work and if it doesn't get fixed, I see bridges being burned in a roaring inferno of god only knows what. I'm still really good at that one, I have no doubt.
So, I'm alive in some form or fashion, of who I don't really know yet and may never. As proof of my non demise, a recent photo. Although I'm still sure there are a few that will find this a rather disheartening lack of my death, on my part, hard to take, tough shit. They can pretend I'm really dead in the picture, because my eyes are closed. And if I think you are hoping for my death, I am, and I'll be by shortly to give you a long visit. Leave a light on.
Now I have no idea why the hell she (The Wife) enjoys taking pictures of me sleeping, but she does. She says it's the only time I hold still, which is a lie. I don't like my picture taken is all. Actually I couldn't be on the computer as I had a wicked burn of carpal tunnel going on in my right arm. Now, notice where it is. That's the stress. It's how I usually sleep. With a hand firmly planted in the middle of my head.
And yes, there is always an animal sleeping with me, if not more than one, and his name is Henry. If you look closely in the background you'll see Ike hogging the couch. He would too, but he doesn't fit.
Lots has been happening in my life. That's sort of a, I have good news and I have bad news, to me. I'm in a place mentally that is just, just, just so unfathomable to me in so many ways. It's like this, god only knows now, how many years search for a proper med combo has reached some kind of, of something.
What is so damn strange is, once you became aware you ain't like all the rest, you think you might have a glimmer of what life is like on that side. What it might be like for your lacking. It isn't, I didn't really have that close of an idea of all of the ramifications. It goes much deeper then I had ever thought it might.
In another sense it's like a death. You knew this person, you, for so long, like all of your life and all of a sudden he no longer is there. You begin to wonder and wonder a lot. My god, what have I lost. Is it still there? Am I really still me? Have I gained something? Maybe it's still business as usual? I don't know. Some things definitely feel missing in action.
The scars from being this person for, all my life, are more apparent and deeper than I had ever thought. I didn't expect that. I had an inkling, well a little more than an inkling, but it's deeper. See, when I suggested this rather radical course to take to the head doctor she was reluctant. Ritalin to a someone on the Bipolar Spectrum is tricky. When I was selling the sell to her, I called it right on the nose. What I said might happen, did. Except, the Valium consumption has not decreased as I had thought it would. Quite the contrary it has picked up, still within the norms we had set earlier, but so far not going without it. As a matter of fact, I find myself shaking like a damn leaf in the wind for not much reason, sometimes. I said to her, that's the god damned Complex PTSD, isn't it? And I got the VA cover-up of, no saying PTSD, we say Anxiety Disorder, and she did. However, radical home life change is not helping me getting my bearings and I DO NOT adapt well to change. Old coping skill and I won't go into detail why. Just believe me it was very needed for me to just appear somewhat normal for as long as I could hold out in that form of "being". I'm still sorting out this "new me".
I also won't go into much detail, at least now, on why the home life change, some good and some needs serious work and if it doesn't get fixed, I see bridges being burned in a roaring inferno of god only knows what. I'm still really good at that one, I have no doubt.
So, I'm alive in some form or fashion, of who I don't really know yet and may never. As proof of my non demise, a recent photo. Although I'm still sure there are a few that will find this a rather disheartening lack of my death, on my part, hard to take, tough shit. They can pretend I'm really dead in the picture, because my eyes are closed. And if I think you are hoping for my death, I am, and I'll be by shortly to give you a long visit. Leave a light on.
Now I have no idea why the hell she (The Wife) enjoys taking pictures of me sleeping, but she does. She says it's the only time I hold still, which is a lie. I don't like my picture taken is all. Actually I couldn't be on the computer as I had a wicked burn of carpal tunnel going on in my right arm. Now, notice where it is. That's the stress. It's how I usually sleep. With a hand firmly planted in the middle of my head.
And yes, there is always an animal sleeping with me, if not more than one, and his name is Henry. If you look closely in the background you'll see Ike hogging the couch. He would too, but he doesn't fit.
Friday, March 27, 2009
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