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So the big concert on Saturday (OK Go) was a wash, thanks to a dead car battery the day of the concert. Thankfully, it didn’t happen in Orlando. Had I got out of the show at 11′ish Saturday night, and my car wouldn’t start, I would have been fucked royally. Instead, it happened in the short span of time it took me to get cigarettes from the smoke shop Saturday afternoon.

I was counting on the show to break me out of my funk, even if only for a few hours. But no. The universe had other ideas for me, apparently. After not being able to jump-start the car the first time, I left it in the parking lot and came back a few hours later with a friend. It started up fine the next time, with help of Mom’s car battery.

Got the car back to the house and I stayed home Saturday night, feeling especially melancholy when 8 o’clock rolled around (show time). Sunday I went to the auto parts store to get the battery tested. Surprisingly, when you hook up your battery to a charger – and acid starts frothing out of the top of said battery – it’s not a good thing.

Far better that it was the battery than something more expensive, like a starter or alternator. Still, my weekend was fucked, as was my mood.

I totally forgot about Kevin coming to Orlando this week, too, so when he reminded me Monday via Twitter that he’d be at Downtown Disney Tuesday night, I was like, fuck. Suddenly, not only was I miserable for missing OK Go, but I had to message Kevin and let him know I’d have to bow out. A 90-minute drive, mixed with overpriced dinner (no matter how enjoyable the company), was out of the question.

Sorry I couldn’t hang, Kev. Hope you and Katie are having a smashing time in Florida.

Yesterday, I met with the Matrix Therapist. Didn’t feel like going, much like I haven’t felt like doing most anything lately.

As she ushered me toward her office, she uttered the words “Temple of Tryptophan.” (NOTE: the new design has been up for just over a week now.)

Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog.

Matrix Therapist: It’s not the first time.

Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog…again.

(NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ever write any dirty dreams about the Matrix Therapist here.)

I explained to the Matrix Therapist just how bad the anhedonia is.

Me: Every time I use the word “anhedonia,” I inevitably have to explain to people what it means.

MT: So stop explaining. Tell them to look it up.

Me: I linked to the Wikipedia definition the last couple of times. Doesn’t seem all that difficult to figure out. I mean there’s hedonism – people seem to know what THAT means. Put “an” in front of it…hello, prefixes, ever heard of ‘em?

MT: So what’s going on?

Me: I can’t enjoy anything. TV, music, books, computer. I tried making that list of shit to get out of the house.

MT: And how did that go?

Me: Much like throwing bricks in the Grand Canyon. I went to the movies…

MT: What did you see?

Me: Iron Man 2.

MT: You went by yourself?

Me: I have nobody else to go with.

MT: How was it?

Me: It was okay^*. But I found myself wanting it to be over long before it was. Like I’m itchy to move onto something else, though nothing else is satisfying, either. I was just going through the motions.

MT: What else did you try?

Me: Bookstore…more motions. Gym, karaoke…motions, motions. Then, I drove in the pouring rain yesterday to go to the library. Got there and they’re fucking CLOSED Sundays and Mondays.

MT: Were you mad?

Me: Frustrated, but it seems par for the course. In my opinion, the library should be open on all days we have mail delivery, but then, no one ever consults me. So I just said ‘fuck it’ and went home.

It’s this isolation I feel that is part of my paralysis. Once again, I’ve put too many of my eggs into one basket. I lost my best friend recently – one of the only local friends I have. I have other close friends, but they’re all living in my computer, so to speak. And though I do answer my phone most of the time, I rarely reach out by calling them first.

Hate dragging people down into my muck.

In the first of these mugshots above, I was optimistic. Everything was great. I loved 2010, a far better year than 2009 had been. I had a girlfriend, a best friend, the Year of Resolutions, my life was back on track. Or so I thought. Within weeks, no girlfriend, lost my best bud, Mom broke her kneecap, I went manic, fainted twice from low blood sugar, lost my job.

Me: I’ve been ready to write this fucking year off for months. And it’s only getting worse.

MT: Have you thought about going back to school?

Sure, I’ve thought about it. But here’s the problem: go back to school for what, exactly? I’ve often said that the next time I go back to school, it’ll be only classes I WANT to take, as opposed to taking courses toward a degree.

Then there’s all the headache associated with getting a hold of all my previous transcripts. I’ve been to more than a handful of schools (Air Force traveling).

MT: You don’t need that stuff just to take a class.

Me: Oh? Hmm.

But this is how I approach everything, really. I think of something that might be even remotely interesting, then I flashforward and talk myself out of it because whatever it is is insurmountable.

MT: Let me ask you this…what do you feel is lacking from your life?

Me: Local friends, companionship…

MT: OK…

Me: But what do I have to offer a woman? I’m 43, unemployed, living with my mother, and I’m about as much fun lately as The Meat Thawing Network.

And again, we come to this impasse. So the MT starts talking employment, and that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Working. I haven’t worked in a “real” job for 10 years now. That was a 4-month stint as a technical writer in the corporate world, where I started having another breakdown toward the end of that gig. Two years before that, the Great Nervous Meltdown of ‘98. All I imagine when I think about working a “real” job again is freaking the fuck out and having another breakdown. I lack confidence in my ability to work a normal job.

So the MT suggests a few non-traditional things, such as research studies and mock juries. Oddly, she never even brought up gigoloism. She also suggested working in the local bookstore. And while the bookstore might seem a natural fit (I’ve worked in one before, albeit decades ago), the thought of “normal” working hours, having to get dressed and presentable and leave the damn house, gives me the heebie jeebies. Research studies may be the way to go. Put me in a giant maze and make me chase for cheese or some such shit.

I’m simply lost. Overwhelmed and mired in shit. And nothing I do feels right, let alone fun. A total lack of engagement.

Hmm. Perhaps there’s no pressure being a lab rat. After all, I already feel like one.

^* Iron Man 2. SPOILER ALERT. Decent flick, not as good as the first one. Robert Downey, Jr. is great, natch. But I felt it was too slow in many places, lacked a lot of the charm from the original. The action sequences were too few and far between, and the last half hour was just spastic with too MUCH happening. Watching multiple Iron Men duking it out sort of takes the “special” out of Iron Man. And seeing Mickey Rourke – some muscle-bound semi-dreadlocked tattooed gold-toofed Russian – as a nuclear physicist was stretching my disbelief beyond normal limits…even for a comic book movie. Overall grade: B-

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Enjoyed last night’s episode of 2HRadio with Cissa, where we talked about all sorts of things, including last weekend’s SillyBring. She and Shannon both wrote about the weekend on their blogs.

We had six of us for Sillybring: CheekySweetie, Shannon, Cissa, Whostolemyzen, NoelleD, and of course myself. Even though I brought my camera, I didn’t get any shots (aside from when Shannon and I went to Gatorama).

So let’s go with a couple of good photo sets from Cissa and Shannon, because they had the presence of mind to take lots of pics.

Here’s Shannon’s photos on Flickr.

And Cissa’s.

And my photos from Gatorama, which include the grinning Pepe LePew, who is getting laid. Lucky fucking skunk. If I want to get laid, I have to recruit crack whores…and even they are a tad picky.

Because I’m lazy and undergoing a series of anxiety attacks the last couple of days, I’m going to bulletize SillyBring.

• Shannon’s first night in Sebring nearly brought a live possum to her chair on my front porch. It was a big fucker, too. I shooed it away like it was a dog, half chasing it across my yard so that Shannon wouldn’t freak. Fortunately, despite having a run of bad luck lately, this particular possum was not, in fact, rabid, and did not leap for my throat and bite through my jugular. I assured Shannon I’d never seen a possum before, let alone had one walk up my sidewalk straight up to me…I don’t know that she believed me.
• Gatorama once again proved to kick ass. It was the one time I had my camera with me throughout the weekend. I was too busy enjoying everyone else’s company beyond that. We both got to hold a baby gator and croc, see TONS of gators in the lake (all of whom seem to be Jewish, since they swam for bagels like they were heroine), and the fucking skunks (literally). Also hung around long enough to see the gators being fed, which was something else. All in all, a fun afternoon with a VERY Floridian activity. Gator jerky available in the gift shop, please come again.
• CheekySweetie arrived a day before SillyBring to hang with Shannon and I before the other ladies got to town. Love, love, love her and enjoyed having two of my fave women together in one location again. Her laugh always gets me to smiling and laughing myself…much needed.
• Met up with Cissa, WhostolemyZen, and NoelleD at the Blue Lagoon for lunch (corn nuggets!) on Saturday. Fun and hilarity ensued (for pretty much the next 24 hours). WhostolemyZen and NoelleD and the others soon realized that corn nuggets are much like crack. Cissa was not overly impressed. Witches, whaddya gonna do?
• The next few hours were filled with shopping at Ross Dress For Less, Michaels, and some other clothing store. Shannon has been losing quite a bit of weight, and wanted some girl power to help her find clothes. The mumu looked great, but she went with different looks for some reason.
• There was much Foursquaring going on all weekend, of course. Vying for Mayorships in new venues was exhausting, but I wound up Mayor of a couple more places, even if it meant ousting some friends in the process. That’s right, bitches, I’m now a Super Mayor!
• We all spent quite a bit of time in our hotel room…2 bedroom suite, 2 bathrooms. It was perfect for the 6 of us to gather and hang. We also spent some time in the pool and hot tub. Mmm.
• Dinner at Don Jose’s Mexican that night. My Mom joined us all. It was Angel’s first time at a Mexican restaurant!
• The Why Not Lounge was perfection that night. Ladies drink free from 10-midnight (y’know, thinking of my ladies) and the people-watching was out of this world. People straight out of “Deliverance” were at the next table. I was just waiting for the banjo music to start. There were lots of big eyes (as SillyBringers stared openly at family members grinding on each other during songs, incredibly drunk folks who couldn’t talk or sing but tried anyway, and an amorous couple getting it on in the ladies’ bathroom) and laughs. Oh, and branding…can’t forget the branding. Shannon and Cissa and I sang karaoke, while Angel, WhostolemyZen, and NoelleD said “There’s not enough booze on Earth to get us up there.”
• Next morning, the girls came back to Shannon’s, Angel’s, and my hotel room and hung out some more, doing girly things like hairwraps for Shannon and Angel. I figured I’d forego the hairwrap, since my hair is maybe half an inch long.
• We went to Bob Evans for brunch (yay for blueberry crepes), lots more laughter, and ultimately our goodbyes. We took a few more photos outside, hugged and kissed each other farewell, then Cissa and WhostolemyZen and Noelle D took off for home.
• Shannon and Angel and I hung out at my house for a little while before Angel went back home. Then Shannon and I, though sad to see everybody leave, kinda vegged out and napped. I may have uttered the words, “I’m too old for this partying shit” once or twice.

And that was pretty much SillyBring. Shannon stayed another day, we enjoyed some mindless TV after our naps on Sunday. She made a delicious steak dinner for my Mom and I. Think we played some more “Price is Right” on the Wii before hitting the sack, exhausted. Next morning, more mindless TV (including RuPaul’s Drag Show). Enjoyed Shannon’s company immensely.

Then it was time to drive Shannon back to Orlando International to fly home. We listened to the Kick-Ass soundtrack on the way, having both LOVED the movie. Dropped her off at the Southwest check-in, hugs and kisses, and that was that. I drove home, sad to see Shannon go. Sad to see the extended weekend come to a close. Sad to be back in Sebring all by my lonesome.

And not to be a bummer, but my depression has really been taking a nasty turn for the worst, ramping up throughout the week ever since Shannon left. Nothing seems to be clicking for me…no matter what I try, I’m not feeling it. Reading, TV, music, being online, even rubbing one out – fucking anhedonia can suck my left one.

My naps aren’t all that great because (I think) of the Abilify. Which sucks, because naps are one of my escapes from reality. I feel paralyzed and overwhelmed, too. So much to do, some of it complicated, all of which led to anxiety attacks yesterday, where I had to constantly remind myself to breathe.

You’ve got to be a special kind of stupid to forget to breathe, yeah? I thought so, too.

a

Trying this blogging from my iPhone thing. Liking Neil’s little posts.

Took the pill at 9. Didn’t faint. That’s something, I suppose.

Ran some errands. Leaving the house isn’t something that comes easily. Wanted to shoot some assclown in the Walmart parking lot for honking their horn.

The bank teller asked how I was.

“I want to curl up in a fetal ball and sleep for a year. Maybe 2011 will be better. How are you?”

Ok, didn’t say it. But I wanted to. Naturally, I answered what I always answer when people ask that insincere question.

I smiled and said, “I’m fine.”

No one wants a genuine answer when they ask how we are. It’s just this autopilot reflex thing we say when we cross paths with someone. It’s asked with the same intonation as “Hi” or maybe “I had a meatbull sub for lunch.”

Similar when we are passing someone on the sidewalk. We feel compelled to acknowledge the other person with a “What’s up?” We don’t give a fuck about what’s up with this stranger. It’s just this odd need to be polite.

I kept my head down in Walmart. No contrived interactions today, thanks. Just study your shoes, Karl. Man, they need a shine.

I’m ashamed that I do nothing but bitch. Like I have it so rough. I know it’s the Beast talking, doesn’t matter. Knowing it and feeling it are two different things entirely.

I have a ton to do. Yet stripping out of my clothes to take a nap seems too much effort.

Anhedonia sucks ass.

So sick of myself. I feel THIS CLOSE to just dropping off the grid. I’m just a miserable fuck wasting my life away. .

Oops. I mean I’m fine.

a

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

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.

a

Great show last night with Matt. You can listen to it on the 2HRadio page, or click on the iTunes button in the sidebar to subscribe to the podcast.

I’m near a breaking point. Not THE breaking point, mind you… *A* breaking point.

It’s one thing for me to hurt myself. But I’m hurting people I love. And it’s because of my Blinders.

To break it down simply, when I’m this fucking down, if you’re not in my direct field of vision, I don’t see you. It’s nothing personal, it’s the way my head works at times like this.

If you walk right in front of me, then yeah, suddenly I see you. Email me? I see you. Call me? I see you. Text? Yes. If a tweet of yours happens to scroll through Tweetdeck for one of the 4-minute chunks where I’m in front of Twitter, then I see you.

Otherwise, everything NOT in my immediate sight is faded away into the background. And that doesn’t sit well with some of my friends, which is understandable. But I hate the thought of hurting the people I care about.

I’m overwhelmed. It’s an ordeal for me to make the morning coffee, let alone do dishes or laundry or try to earn a living. I feel myself pulled in a multitude of directions. And so my brain puts these Blinders over my eyes, as if to say, “Dude, do what you can do. No more, no less. Only worry about the stuff right in front of you.”

Perhaps that’s pragmatic. But lately it’s also quite inconvenient, and it’s the Blinders that are making people upset.

I am not reading blogs, people. I tell you AGAIN, I’m not reading them. No, not even YOURS. Not even my best friends’ blogs. None of them. So I’m not up on what’s happening in your life unless you seek me out and tell me. Or maybe I see something on Twitter, but again…I’m hardly on Twitter.

Here’s how I approach Twitter. I’m on for 3-5 minutes at a time. I play around, crack some jokes, interact a little…then I’m gone. Distracted by something else for 45 minutes or so. Till I come back to Twitter for another 3-5 minutes, when I respond mostly to @’s. Then gone. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad nauseum.

I don’t spend HOURS on Twitter at a time, even though Tweetdeck is open most of the day. I don’t use Twitter like many of you do. So please don’t assume that just because you’ve tweeted something, I’ve seen it and know what’s going on with you. That would be a really poor assumption.

Hell, most of the time on Twitter lately, I only see people if they’ve @’d me.

What I’m saying here…no, what I’m ASKING of my friends is that you wave bright, shiny objects in my face to make me notice. The brightest of those objects are emails, texts, and phone calls.

Please don’t be upset that I haven’t heard about your baby getting colic, or that you and your spouse are separated now, or that you’re moving into a new house, or that you got into a big spat with a mutual friend.

Or that I haven’t called you or written you. Or if I’m distracted while we’re on chat because I have 15 other tabs open and I’m multitasking while I’m waiting for you to type a response. Or that I answer the phone while we’re on chat. Or that I missed a phone call or forgot to respond to a tweet or an email. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, none of it does.

Right now, I’m myopic. I recognize that. I need everyone in my life to recognize that, too. I’m sure that won’t happen, but I need everyone I care about to know…it’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I’m doing what I can do right now.

Everything for me right now takes a great deal of energy. Especially the things which involve me having to form complete sentences that actually make sense.

I’m tired. All the fucking time. Drained, exhausted. Like I’m on a perpetual marathon run.

And on top of that, life inconveniently refuses to put itself on PAUSE while I try to work my shit out and regain my breath. Loved ones are annoyed, irritated, even angry with me because I’m not paying attention. And that only serves to drain me more, because now I’m putting energy into reparation…energy that might have gone toward getting my ass out of this stupid recliner so I can try to take a shower once in a while.

I want to just say, “That’s it. I’m done. Finished. Yes, I suck as a friend. I give up.” Then spend three weeks unconscious and REALLY forget about the world. Not an option, unless I find a way to harmlessly slip into a coma.

I need a 2-hour massage. Body aches, everywhere. Brain, too.

Like a pressure cooker that hasn’t been vented, I feel like I’m about to blow. Except that pressure cookers aren’t expected to socialize.

So they do have the advantage on me.

a