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I’ve been through a metric shitton of therapy, both individual and group, to varying degrees of success. Spent two years in an intensive outpatient program (IOP), in fact. Grief recovery and suicide prevention was the main focus. Most everyone in that group – and I saw people come and go over time as I became the senior member – probably suffered some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (amongst other maladies).

I recall my very first day of IOP. I’d had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t work. Showed up at the encouragement of my individual therapist.

There might have been 6 or 7 others there that first day. I had no idea what to expect. The first (of four) hours of each day was check-in time. Everyone in group spent 5 minutes “checking in,” telling the therapists what was going on. Because it was my first day, I got to check in last. Which seemed to be a mistake.

As each stranger reported in on their life, I heard stories that made me question what the fuck *I* was doing there.

Jesus, I don’t have any fucking problems compared to these people. What’s my deal?

Horror stories, some of them. If I weren’t so polite, I might have just sat there with my jaw hanging open, listening to it all.

Turns out, as I’d learn over time, there were more than a handful of distortions I was clinging to. Everyone’s problems are different, everyone’s life is different. Trying to compare your struggles to mine isn’t a fair comparison most of the time. Apples and oranges, etc. Or, as I tended to say, one person’s savior is another person’s pair of lead boots.

We had these sheets we’d fill out called Trauma Sheets, where we’d discuss traumatic events in our life and “process” these things with the group. The first time I told a story from my past, I was stunned. Mostly because my group members were stunned and more than one of them were left with their jaws hanging open.

“What?” I said. “That’s not normal?”

Come to find out lots of things from my childhood weren’t “normal.”

You can’t spend five days a week, four hours a day, with a small group of people and not make friends. Some of us hung out outside group, spending even more time together. Naturally, there were rules in IOP. We weren’t allowed to engage in any sexual activity with each other. Group members weren’t allowed to loan or borrow money. (The group represented most cross-sections of society…some of us were poor and relying on food banks, others were pretty damn well off.) These rules were meant to keep the group a safe place. There was already enough conflict and stuff to deal with – didn’t need to create more drama between us (though there was some of that, too, because not everyone followed the rules all the time).

Lots of group therapy stories, but I ramble enough already. Oddly, I left group and quickly lost track of most all those folks. Haven’t been in a group therapy situation since.

So when the Matrix Therapist suggested yesterday the notion of group therapy, I said that I didn’t have a problem with it. EXCEPT that the groups she was suggesting were at the main VA facility in Tampa. Being in Sebring, there’s only a small clinic here…most anything specialized requires a visit to the main hospital, about 2 hours away from me.

“Depending on how often these groups meet,” I said, “that could be a lot of traveling.” I mean, two hours there, one or two hours of group (I’m assuming), then two hours back home? That’s a full fucking day. And even once a week, that’d add up pretty fast to lots of gas money.

Which is what led the Matrix Therapist bring up something I’ve never experienced: INpatient treatment. Meaning: you stay in facility instead of staying at home.

Whoa.

But let’s face facts: whatever I’m doing now ain’t working. I’m stuck. Again. Stagnant, even, and I find that to be the equivalent of a 4-letter word. The meds aren’t doing their thing (so far). Being in-house would let them aggressively play with meds while I’m under their watch. Plus, there’d (presumably) be a lot of structure with the group situation.

What terrifies me about this (much as I can see the potential good in it) is that I’d be totally outside my comfort zone. The likelihood of there being unrestricted Internet access is slim to none. And most all of my friends are living inside my computer. Yikes. Sure, they’ll probably let me keep my iPhone, but I’ve been to that hospital and the signal inside (as is true for many hospitals) sucks ass.

I’d be not only hanging with strangers – and sharing lots of stories/events with them – but living with them, as well.

*ring ring*

Hello?

Hi, Karl, it’s me, Social Phobia.

I don’t know how long this inpatient thing typically lasts, but the MT said yesterday it could be as little as 3 or 4 days.

“No way,” I told her. “That’s not enough time to do shit with medication.” Hell, we’ve been playing this round of the Pharmaceutical Game for many months now. I’m no stranger to being a lab rat. Meds that mess with the brain take weeks/months to gain efficacy.

My educated guess for how long I’d stay is something along the lines of at least 2-3 weeks, if not more. Which, in Karl Time, is like 2-3 months of not sleeping in my own bed, not being able to get online any time I want to, not being able to stay up till 1 in the morning, not being able to walk around in my boxers all the time. The list goes on.

That’s a long time to be outside my comfort zone.

Nevertheless, I told the MT that I’m not averse to the options. So this morning I went back in and, after getting blood drawn for my diabetes, met with the Matrix Therapist again to fill out a qualifying questionnaire.

I should hear either today or maybe Monday from the VA about if I qualify and, subsequently, where I fall on the waiting list. Then I can ask questions like:

• How long is the average stay?
• What am I allowed to bring with me from home?
• What is the structure of the program? How many hours of the day are scheduled, and how much free time do we get?
• Is there wifi?
• What’s the bed time?
• Do I have to be roomies with anyone possessing that old-man smell? (What? This is the VA we’re talking about. I’m a young whippersnapper compared to most of these people.)
• How do we deal with things like my insulin and syringes?
• Is there live-tweeting allowed from group?

I don’t have answers to any of these yet, but hope to soon. If anything, as Sybil was keen to point out last night on the phone, I should get some decent blog posts out of it.

So there’s that.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Not. Doing. Well.

It’s all in between my fucking ears, as usual. That’s always the problem area with me.

I had a good day yesterday. A friend visited and made my day. Hell, my month. So why are these awesome moments so short-lived in my head? I’m back to miserable today. Overwhelmed. Feeling on the verge of…shit, I don’t know. Not quite a breakdown, but close.

Every task becomes this monumental thing hanging over my head. Checking my blood sugar. Taking meds. A load of laundry. The dishes. Getting Mom another glass of water. Writing a story for work. Answering the phone, texts. Making an appointment for my head CT (Tuesday). I’m waiting for that Final Straw. Surely it’s coming.

And it’s days like this when I tend to cloak myself in one of my sweetest comforts. No, not Guinness. Not even rubbing one out. I’m talking about suicidal thoughts.

Bear me out here. I’m safe. You need to know that.

One of the hardest questions I get asked by shrinks is whether or not I’m suicidal.

“Are you having suicidal thoughts?” they ask.

The short answer is, “Yes.” But if I just drop a “yes” out there with no qualifiers,  I’m sure to wind up in a rubber room somewhere. No key.

Now, any shrink or therapist worth their fees will follow up such an answer with another question.

“Have you made any plans to harm yourself?”

THAT is the REAL question, the important question. Because while I *think* about suicide every day…every hour, even…I would never ACT on those thoughts.

Now that we have that out of the way…

I’ve spoken a little about my inner voice(s). Some might call it my Inner Critic, but that’s not strong enough a term. It’s like an ARMY of Inner Critics. That’s another iffy question for me…”Do you hear voices?” I’ve said, too, that sometimes these inner voices sound as clear to me as a real-live person.

Let’s say I fuck up, something I do routinely. We all do, we’re human.

My inner dialogue might go a little like this:

Gah! You’re a fucking idiot!

I wish I was dead.

Lightning quick, it’s out there in my head, it’s often the very FIRST thought that pops to mind.

I should die.

Everything would be simpler if I were dead. All the problems, the depression, the anxiety, my fucking up all the time, my loneliness, feeling so overwhelmed, so broken. All. Gone. In an instant.

I could get hit by a Mack truck. I could jump in the tub with a plugged-in toaster. I could jump off the Sebring water tower. Hanging is a popular choice. Pills I’m not thrilled with…tried that. Once. Guns. Trains. So many choices.

I often fall asleep thinking about all the ways I could blink myself out of the universe. It’s comforting. Morbid, sick, yes…but comforting. There’s power in knowing I can snuff it all away.

Now, I’m not saying it’s healthy to think like this. It’s not. At all. It’s part of my makeup, though. It’s hard-wired into my brain, these instant (sometimes gruesome) wishes for death.

I’ve come to grips with the myriad of unhealthy things happening in my brain. I know they’ll likely never, ever go away. I also know I’ll never act on the suicidal shit. Why?

I could never do that to the people in my life. Suicide is wrong, period. It’s an act of anger, and it’s the most selfish, heinous thing a person can possibly do. I don’t want to get into debates about how child molesters are far worse, or that people in chronic pain should have the right to assisted suicide. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if you agree or disagree with me. I know I’m right. I’ve seen suicide, how it affects people.

You want to instantly become the Douchiest Person on Earth? Kill yourself. And if you do, don’t expect me to come to your funeral. I don’t mourn assholes.

What kept me from following through on my one suicide attempt in the mid 90’s was my daughters. Dark living room with a single lit candle, I had the pills all swallowed, my bottle of wine to wash them down with. Only a few minutes passed, and I was in tears. Then my girls popped into my head, and I cried even harder. I realized I was about to become the Douchiest Person on Earth.

Like I hadn’t screwed them up enough already? Now I was going to saddle my girls with a father who committed suicide? Put them through a life of fucked-uppedness? No.

I got up, went to the toilet, shoved fingers into my mouth, and puked all that shit out. No ambulance, no hospital, no further ceremony. I cried myself to sleep, knowing I was so fucked up I couldn’t even take my own life. And that the pain was still very much there.

My girls…that’s a sore subject with me. A topic for another post, maybe. Let’s just say that, in order to protect them from my bottom-of-the-pit depression, I played the neglect card. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping them from me. I was wrong, perhaps the wrongest I’ve ever been. And that haunts me daily. Those relationships are non-existent now, both of them are fed up with my shit.

But I can say I didn’t pull the trigger, and my girls are the reason why I’m still here today. Sometimes they’re the ONLY reason, and that’s enough. We all need a reason to not be dead, preferably multiple reasons.

So…today. Back to the present. Days like today, when I’m down and overwhelmed and anhedonic, make me think of suicide a lot. Because it’s the hopelessness that convinces me this shit will never EVER end. I will NEVER have relief. Precisely why I watch “Highlander” and shudder at the thought of living forever. Fuck, I dread making it another 20 years on days like today. Living for all of eternity? No fucking thanks.

I got my new meds in the mail today. The Abilify, and the one for the nightmares. I have a lot of concerns, I’ve told you why before. But my need for something better – anything better – is so great that I’m gonna try this shit again.

I’ve already agreed to not leave Mom’s sight for 3 hours after taking the Abilify tomorrow morning. I look inside that vial and see those teeny little pills, and I think, “That little thing could make me or break me. THAT.” They terrify me.

I read through the list of potential side effects. Diabetes is mentioned specifically. Could raise my blood sugar, and mine has been not so great already. Could lower my blood pressure – which is always damn good – and make me faint.

But it could…just maybe…work. I’m not holding my breath, though.

And I’m pretty sure I know how I’ll be falling asleep tonight.

Jumping off an overpass. Barrel in my mouth. Too much insulin. It’s the Parade of Morbidity, and I am the mutherfucking Grand Marshall.

a

I’m slacking. I feel it. Losing my momentum is not a feeling I like. The mania has subsided. My brain is much calmer (and dumber), though that’s relative. It’s still busier than most people’s, I get that. But compared to the manic shit? It’s like my brain finally said no to steroids or something.

Tomorrow I have my first real session with the new shrink, via videoconference. Amazing the V.A. even knows such technology exists, but I’m not bitching. If it weren’t for the video thing, I’d have to drive 90 minutes to meet up with her.

I’m not slamming the V.A. in any way. I’ve heard horror stories, but to be fair, I’ve not experienced many problems with the care I’ve received. And I’m very thankful for that. I don’t have regular health care. The jobs I’ve had of late are contracting positions. No bennies provided. Sure, once upon a time, when I got $43/hour for my time, I could afford it. But not now.

I’m already impressed with this new shrink of mine. She called me a few weeks ago, unsolicited, just to check on me and my meds. On a Friday. At 5:15 in the afternoon. That speaks volumes to me.

So we’ll be discussing meds, mostly that the current regime isn’t doing shit. We stepped up the Geodon. I’m now taking twice as much as I was a few weeks ago and…nothing. That’s the bitch with being treatment-resistant. Lots of meds don’t touch me, then there are those that require a much higher dose than what others find effective.

The trial-and-error associated with medication is exhausting and nerve-wracking. I’m far from the most patient man on Earth, and adjusting meds (and trying new ones) pretty much requires patience, and lots of it. That’s how it is, particularly with the meds designed to hit your brain instead of just your body. They take WEEKS to build up efficacy in the body. And if they don’t work, many of them take weeks to get OUT of your body, which is sometimes needed before adding something NEW.

For me, I’ve pretty much always required a Magic Cocktail, a mix of different meds. I wish like hell that there was a pill that did it all, but there’s not. My chemistry is different than yours, which is different than everyone else’s. So, yeah, trial-and-error. With all the technology we have today, that’s still the way it works. I long for the days of Star Trek, when they scan you with a Tricorder and have you fixed up with a simple shot.

I read an interesting article last month about a pretty major discovery regarding Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (and yeah, I’ve got that, too). They’ve found a way to definitively diagnose PTSD using pictures of the brain. Remarkable, since the only way to diagnose before was through a series of questionnaires and a laundry list of symptomology.

Unfortunately, this discovery probably won’t lead to helping ME…not for a long time. Not until they can point to a brain scan and say, “Ah, see that squiggle there in Karl’s hippocampus? We need to give him Miracle Drug Alpha for that.” Until they know how to correspond the brain pics with specific forms of treatment? Not gonna do much for me. But it’s hopeful for future PTSD’ers, and I’ll take that.

I started out talking about me losing momentum, and that’s really what I’m feeling right now. A lot of hopelessness, lack of motivation, simply losing my give-a-shit attitude. Depression. An overwhelming sense of, well, being overwhelmed. Yes, I’m still checking my sugar and taking my meds, but I really don’t care about it.

I knew this was going to come, the return to the old me. Trying to find some shrivel of happiness in this mode is daunting, at the very least. I can’t survive in full-blown mania all the time – I’d die from sheer exhaustion, from insanity. But I wish I had a way to harness the motivation, the good attitude, the Happy.

Think I’m treatment-resistant in the attitude department, too.

For now, I’ll just take what little pieces of enjoyment I can get. I like the winter Olympics (tons more than the summer Olympics), even though I’m not a sports guy. I never watch baseball, or football, or basketball, or hockey. None of it. That shit bores me to tears. But the Olympics has something for everyone. Plus, it’s only two weeks long. I’m in, I’m out, I’m done for another 4 years. My fave events, by the way, are figure skating, snowboarding, and the skiing…none of which I’ve ever tried.

I also found some meditation podcasts, thanks to Angel. A friend has offered to help me with meditation – something I’ve never tried before – and I plan to take her up on that offer. But the podcast I listened to yesterday really helped to calm me down. I like that. I say I’ve never tried meditation, but the truth is I’ve probably achieved that “nothingness” mindset on my own many times. I may be wrong, but all the dissociating I’ve done in my life kind of mirrors that calming void sensation in meditation. I suppose there are positives to being a Survivor, after all.

I’m gearing up for 2HT’s redesign, and I am excited about that. Should be happening within the next month or so. My original launch date was going to be April Fool’s Day (seems appropriate), which also happens to be both my Mom’s AND my twin daughters’ birthdays. But it’s going to be sooner than that. Can’t wait to see it all come together.

I’d really like a dog. I think that’d do wonders for me. Mom hasn’t been so keen on getting a pet, though. Her rationale has always been, “If you can’t keep your room clean, how are you going to take care of a dog or a cat?” My rationale has always been, “Those two things aren’t even closely related.”

And yes, I’m 43 and live with my mother. I’m also depressed, anxious as Monk, and unemployed. Put me on “The Bachelor” now, ladies. I’m available. *cough*

Like my brain, this post is all over the board. I’m tired of that, too.

a

It’s the end of Month One of YOR. On January 1st, I started off the YOR with this Resolution:

January: Medical

I resolve this month to take all of my medications as directed (including insulin). I resolve to check my blood sugar every day.

This month (and the year to date) has been very rough on me. Mom broke her kneecap just 10 days into this Resolution. The same week, I had major turmoil with friends and relationships, plus two life-threatening low-sugar events. And I came to discover (after that week) that I was in the manic portion of my manic depression. Then *another* episode of near-fainting. And that’s not even everything.

Whew!

Because of the low-sugar incidents, I could not follow the above Resolution to the letter. I had to cut meds until I could meet with my doctor and adjust them. All my weight loss from the past year required lesser dosages. I haven’t been perfect, as I’ve admitted here during this month. I haven’t taken my meds every single time, whether it be because I’m swamped or stressed or whatever.

Nevertheless, I am labeling this first Resolution a SUCCESS. I have been a very good boy (in terms of taking care of my diabetes). Proactive, compliant, asking for help…actually taking an interest in my health (even in the days I really didn’t give a fuck about my health). My meds have been adjusted, I’m officially off long-acting insulin and several other pills…this is all GOOD.

My sugar tonight was 176 two hours after dinner. But my sugar BEFORE dinner was 124. So I’m in much better shape now than I was 30 days ago. We are still working on the control, getting my numbers where they need to be. It’s a process and, again, I knew going into January that this wouldn’t all be done by month-end.

I’m going to continue on with this new habit, as I prepare to move on to Month Two tomorrow. Brand new month, brand new Resolution.

I’m also going to continue with my Prick Buddy. That shit works, and Shannon is doing amazing with her diabetes, as well. I like that. It makes me smile.

Even when I’m not feeling very smiley.

See you tomorrow.

a

It’s 4:30am. I was supposed to wake up an hour ago. Instead, I haven’t slept. Just could NOT shut my fucking brain off. I’m not sure if it’s BPD, or my damned insomnia, or the stress, or the depression, or me taking my meds for the first time in a long time and them gaining efficacy…or All of the Above.

No matter. I didn’t sleep.

Gotta have Mom at the hospital at 5:30. Surgery at 7:00. I have my doctor appointment at 10:45, while (I’m guessing here) Mom will probably be in the recovery room. We’ll adjust my medications (thank God).

Then, while friends are waiting with her at the hospital, I’ll go get my glasses adjusted, since smashing spectacles into the floor with your face is apparently not conducive to a good fit. Back to the hospital. Wait.

At some point, Mom will be released and allowed to go home. That’ll either be before my 3:00 appointment with the Matrix Therapist or after…not sure. Then I’ll come home after what is likely going to be an hour full of the first time I’ve ever cried to the MT.

And die.

I’ll post updates on Twitter and Facebook, as possible. Hopefully, the hospital has wifi…because they sure as shit don’t get more than Zero Bars on the AT&T Scale. Don’t expect personal replies. I have a few things going on today, y’know.

Appreciate all of your prayers and good wishes. Keep ‘em coming. And pray there’s no end to the caffeine in my path.

Till I can nap.

a

When I decided to do the Year of Resolutions thing, I had no idea what was coming my way. Clearly. Had I, I never would have ventured forth with the project, no matter how brilliant an idea it was for me.

I just figured that I’m better with bite-sized chunks, rather than full-blown permanent resolutions. One resolution, 30 days, no biggie. And at the end of each month, to quantitatively know if it’s been a success or not – or even a relative success (because I’m far from perfect) – is pretty cool.

But almost three weeks in and I’m going slightly mad. I’m sleep-deprived, stressed to the gills, not to mention stir-crazy. It’s only been a week, folks. Mom broke her kneecap a week ago Monday and I’m already melting down. There’s a long road ahead still.

Yes, to be fair to myself (something I’m not very often), I have other birds and kettles of fish in the bush (or whatever). It’s not just caretaking Mom that’s stressing me out. Nevertheless, if I don’t find a rhythm soon and pace myself, I’m seriously going to be fucked. I mean, more fucked than I was twice the past week with my diabetes episodes.

I have snapped at some of my favorite people on Earth recently. I’ve said things I regret. I’ve made a record number of poor decisions and judgment calls the last week. I’ve even pulled passive-aggressive bullshit that would infuriate me from anyone else. I’m not slamming myself  here (mostly), I’m just stating facts. I’m not happy with myself since Mom’s accident. My emotions seem like exposed nerve endings, raw to the touch. I’ve come perilously close to bawling my eyes out. Sunday night, in fact, I had what can only be described as the “dry heaves” equivalent of crying.

Couldn’t make them come.

Here’s how messed in the head I am of late. Monday, I came *this* close to shutting it all down. Deleting EVERYTHING…Twitter, Facebook, my blog…all of it. So overwhelmed by my own assininity that I just figured it’d be easier to say “Fuck it all!” and never worry about social media again.

Fortunately, a leveler head was in mine *somewhere* and I realized that would be stupid. First off, out of all my years blogging, I’ve only seen one person successfully (meaning, permanently) shut down their blog. Everyone else is pretty much full of shit. They come crawling back, usually within a week. “Oops, my goof. I’m back. Please disregard that whole 2,000-word rant about how I’m disappearing forever and deleting everything FOREVER. I couldn’t stay away.”

And that’s the thing. I KNOW I can’t stay away for long. So I followed the advice I usually reserve for my idiot friends who are overwhelmed and ready to shoot their online identities in the face at point-blank range.

That advice? Don’t post. Don’t tweet. Don’t do any of it. For now. Come back when you’re ready. Anything more drastic than that, and you’re gonna regret it.

I have enough regrets already, I don’t need any free refills, thanks.

On top of that, I’m actually (slowly but Shirley) finding a new blogging rhythm. I’ve blogged more this month than I have in a long time. And I think that’ s a good thing. For me, at least, and isn’t that what matters?

What I have done is create an anonymous blog that only *I* know about for the sorts of things that I can’t (or won’t) say here. Don’t ask me for the URL. I don’t care WHO you are, you’re not getting it. It’s for me, and me only.

Then there’s the YOR. I started it, I need to do my best to see it through. It’s daunting, but it’s far less daunting than telling myself at midnight as the big ball drops down in Times Square that I’ll never smoke a cigarette again. That’s the whole point behind my YOR concept. You can do almost *anything* for 30 days.

In order to really make the YOR effective for me, I need to blog about it. Not only does it help me keep a record of my progress (and setbacks) but it also keeps me accountable. My friends read this fucking thing (for some reason that often escapes me). I have a Prick Buddy, one of my favorite ladies on Earth, who swaps blood sugar readings with me via text and Tweets. That helps a lot. So much so that I’m going to try to find a way to have a Buddy for each of the 11 Resolutions to follow this year.

Here’s where I bring up the fact that I do a great ostrich impersonation. My primary method of coping throughout my life has been avoidance…pretending it’s not happening. That’s not healthy. I’ve dropped off the grid many times and I made a promise a while back to Hilly (one of many victims of my sudden and thorough disappearances) that I would NOT disappear again. And I may make a lot of mistakes, but I do try hard to stick by my promises. Not always possible, but I go by the motto: “Make very few promises, and bust your ass to keep the few you do make.”

So I’ll reiterate, if only for my own clarity and peace of mind (fragile as that may be at the moment). I won’t completely drop off the grid. That’s not to say I may not stop posting for a while, if necessary. Or that I won’t stay off Facebook and Twitter for a while at a time. But I won’t totally ignore all of my email (permanently) or phone calls. And I’ll make an effort to stay in touch with my friends to let them KNOW I’m taking a social media breather. For now, though, you’re stuck with me.

I have spent relatively little time on Twitter of late, less than usual. That’s not likely to change soon. I’m still myopic (perhaps more so than when I wrote that post). Mostly, I send out Tweets and only respond to those who address me first. I don’t ever sit in front of Tweetdeck for 45 minutes and spend time interacting, really…reading other people’s Tweets. Not feeling Twitter that way, and I don’t feel guilty about it, either. Twitter is a tool and I’ll use the tool however I want. Heh, I said “tool.” Twice. Well, three times now, actually.

My friends know how to reach me, anyway. You’ve got my number. I sure as hell hope you’re not waiting for ME to call. I’m a little swamped, in case you  haven’t noticed.

Today is January 20th. I have 11 days to figure out what February’s resolution is going to be. Open to suggestions. I have one in mind that seems very fitting to follow up this month’s, but with 12 resolutions in 12 months, I need all the help I can get.

Last night, I was given the chance to get out of the house for a while, and I took it. My TNT girls came over for Tuesday night dinner and they kept Mom company, while my best bud and I went to go see “Youth in Revolt.” It was truly what I needed, a respite from…well, everything.

Lots of laughs (till we were both crying). And as an aside, how come I can be so fucking funny OFF my blog but can’t ever seem to bring it here any more? Dunno. But we ate in the mall food court so we could mock people watch. Then we saw a really good movie.

“Youth in Revolt” has been one of my all-time favorite novels for over 15 years now. I picked it up at a Barnes & Noble and laughed out loud on page 1. Within 120 seconds, I owned it. And there were a LOT more laughs after that. Funny as shit, and very smart comedy, too. I’ve bought that book at least a dozen times over the years, only to loan it out to friends and never see it again. Usually, because THEY loan it out to THEIR friends…it’s a vicious cycle. And I don’t care because it’s THAT good.

The concessions stand guy was talking about “Revolt” last night, saying that the movie seems to have a “cult following.” I didn’t even snicker at what a cult following in Sebring might look like. I just said, “There *is* a cult following, because it’s one of the funniest books I’ve ever read.”

“Really?”

My bud agreed, because I’m the one responsible for getting HER to read it and subsequently chomping at the bit to see the film.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s like Ferris Bueller on steroids.” I was pretty proud of that summation because it’s apt and rolls off the tongue well. At any rate, I think I have 3 more converts to the books of C.D. Payne. Yes, people, there are SIX books in the Twisp series and they’re all good.

The movie? Fantastic. I’ve waited over a decade for this flick and I’m happy to say they do the first book justice. Sure, there’s a lot missing, but they did a really good job condensing it down into a 90-minute flick (not to mention modernizing a book that is nearly 20 years old). I’m impressed with screenwriter Gustin Nash, who is also responsible for the sublime “Charlie Bartlett” a couple of years ago.

The casting was superb. Michael Cera nails the part. Steve Buscemi? Ray Liotta? Fred Willard on shrooms? Rockin’.

If you haven’t yet met Nick Twisp, the 14-year-old protagonist of “Youth in Revolt,” I highly recommend you get to a bookstore or library and pick up a copy. It used to be an obscure thing to find, but with a movie out, it’s probably a lot easier to get a hold of. I snickered at “Confederacy of Dunces,” but SNORTED with “Revolt.” Many times over.

Laugh out loud expel liquid through your nose funny, people.

On top of the movie and the company, I had a really amazing texting session with a very dear one and that helped to calm me, too. Temporarily. Which I’ll take.

Yes, I know this is a long post, but seriously…can you really be surprised? You’re at MY blog, after all. Maybe it’ll help you to know that this was originally supposed to be two posts. Nah, probably not.

Gonna wrap up with the doctor updates. This morning, I went in for blood (and pee) tests. First step in correcting my medications. It occurred to me, while peeing in a little cup and trying to keep my guggenheimer from actually dipping into my own urine, that I have NO idea how WOMEN do that shit. And I don’t want to know, either. I’m just going to assume it gets done somehow, probably by magic Urine Elves or something.

I go back Friday morning for my follow-up, after my blood test results are in. We’ll make adjustments from there. For now, I’m supposed to test my sugar FOUR times a day. Ugh. Before each of my three meals (oh yeah, I’m suppose to eat three times a day), and then two hours after dinner. And I’m off long-acting insulin and one of my diabetes pills till then, too. Which is good, because I’ve already been doing that. Something about crashing twice in a week has made me pretty skittish about taking insulin before bedtime.

Odd part about that is – much as I fantasize about blinking out of existence with nary a POPping sound – I actually fear NOT waking up. I can’t say I’m happy to be alive, but I CAN say I’d rather not be dead. I suppose that’s something.

I also have the Matrix Therapist Friday afternoon, first time in over a month, I think.

AND Friday morning is Mom’s surgery for her kneecap. Lots of friends to sit with me in the waiting room, even stay while I go to my own doctor appointment. Much as I’d rather be at the hospital the whole time, I’ve got to get MY proverbial house in order so I can take care of Mom. So I’ll keep my appointments.

Yeah, another (of many) lessons I’m learning lately: ask for help and don’t hesitate to use it when offered. That’s a biggie for me. I’m not a guy who easily admits he needs a hug, let alone help.

I’m still hurting. A lot. But it’s not quite as bad today as it was early yesterday morning when I started writing this diatribe.

Thanks to all of you for your texts, Tweets, Facebook love, emails, and phone calls. I may not be the speediest to respond, but I do see it all and appreciate it.

Now I need a nap. Mom is sleeping and I should take advantage of it.

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