Having watched a lot of B- and C-grade schlocky horror movies, there’s one theme that I find myself cringing at time and time again. It’s where someone is administered a dose of curare (or some other paralyzing agent), which renders them unable to move, yet totally aware and conscious of their surroundings. The killer then proceeds to bury the person alive or some other such nightmarish demise, all the while the person can’t do a fucking thing (including scream).
Cut to them, hours later, inside a coffin, punching and scratching away at the lid, screaming with no hope of being heard. I’ve had plenty of nightmares (and night terrors) that mirror this scenario.
Lately, I feel like that paralyzed dude, laying there, watching while someone who has it in for me digs my grave. I’ll be walking from, say, the kitchen to the living room or my bedroom…and I’ll
freeze
in the midst of walking. Suddenly, I don’t remember what I was about to do, why I was walking into Room X.
My breath catches, I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate, but I don’t. I just stand there, trying to remember to breathe like a normal person, on the verge of tears. The other day, I just dropped to the floor and sat there for about 10 minutes.
Paralyzed.
Don’t know what to do – most all of my normal “escape” routines are stripped from me. The things that I’d usually do to relieve anxiety and stress (TV, music, computer, books, magazines, iPhone) sit there in front of me, not appealing in the slightest. I zip through page after page of satellite guide listings, but nothing looks good to me. Page after page of apps/games on the iPhone, but nothing seems fun. Etc. etc. ad nauseum.
It’s officially May now, when I should be announcing my next big Resolution for the Year of Resolutions. Yet I don’t give a flying fuck, especially since the ones I’ve chosen thus far have all gone to shit.
Paralyzed. Must breathe.
I don’t think I have to strength to hit bottom (again). Course, at the moment I don’t feel I have the strength to get a single thing done. Consider it a miracle I went out to Office Depot and got Mom a new wireless mouse for her computer this morning. And I got it installed. It feels ridiculous that this is likely going to be all I accomplish today.
I feel pathetic. Every move seems futile, even if I’m just pointing the remote at the TV to pause it or turn the volume down.
Everything is stifling, oppressive. Every little task is this giant thing…making coffee, putting a sandwich together, making a phone call. I go to text someone, or (God forbid) call them and that’s futile, too. The loneliness weighs upon me, yet I don’t know what to say. I’m a broken record, everything coming out of my mouth is this repulsively sick depressive verbiage. Why impose that on my friends, just to drag them down with me?
I hate it. And the negative shit running through my brain, the suicidal ideation, hits hardest at times like these. (I’m safe, no worries about that shit.) I don’t deserve to be here – on this planet – I add nothing to the universe but misery. Sad, sorry little man.
One of my oldest blogging buds, James, and I have a lot of commonalities, particularly our battle with depression (and bipolar disorder). He wrote a post, listing some of the things he’s grateful for. Think I’ll follow suit because the Depression is rearing its ugly head yet again.
Feel like withdrawing from society, ignoring all social media, etc. etc. You’ve heard it all before. You’ll probably hear it again.
Sometimes you need to take stock of the good shit in your life in order to maintain some semblance of sanity.
Despite the last week-and-a-half, I’m relatively healthy. I’m normally not hocking up half a lung. It’s a good year for me to quit smoking, since I still have my health. (And yes, that will certainly be one of the Resolutions for YOR.)
I have good friends. I may not touch base with them nearly as much as I should, but I know that they’re there for me should I need them.
I have a working computer. It’s ancient, it crawls along, but it works. And that’s saying something for a 4-yr-old laptop. I’m currently in the process of what will likely be a 17-hour defrag. I’m praying this is the year for the replacement to come along. (MacBook Pro, anyone?)
My brain works. Yes, I fight depression, PTSD, bipolar disorder, ADD, social anxiety, and who knows what else. But compared to many who have it far worse? I’m thankful that my mental faculties are pretty much operating at full capacity. Usually.
My car works pretty damn good, considering it’s 10 years old. I’m not a person who gets hung up on vehicles, since they’re a utilitarian kind of thing as far as I’m concerned. Get me where I need to go (and back) and I don’t really give a shit that there’s a swamp in the back seat or that rust is perhaps the only type of molecule holding the roof together. Well, that and the bubble gum.
Rumor has it that Apple is developing an iPhone for Verizon. I hope it’s true. Another rumor holds that the 4th generation iPhone will be announced on June 22nd. My upgrade pricing became available in January, so I *could* get myself a 3GS, but why? When the next iPhone is due to be released in a matter of months, I’m not tying myself to a 2-year deal for LAST year’s model. I’ll be good and patient and wait. I’m praying that Apple announces not just the next AT&T iPhone in June, but the Verizon iPhone, as well. Cuz when they do? Hasta lasagna, AT&T.
I have a place to live. That’s not to be taken for granted. I’m fortunate.
Food. I have that, too, even if lately everything tastes like cardboard to me.
Daughters. Despite the troubles I’ve caused in those relationships, I couldn’t be prouder of my girls. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: they are my crowning achievement.
Family. Like most people, I have my share of dysfunctionality in my family. Hell, sometimes I feel like I’m the sane one. But I love my family, and I know that I’m lucky to have them.
Health care. I’d be screwed if not for the V.A. Thank God I have them for my physical AND mental health. Otherwise I’d be broker than I already am.
There are many other items, I’m sure, but these are the things that spring to mind. I have a lot to be grateful for, even if my miserable curmudgeonly self doesn’t mention them as often as I should. Wish I could throw this one in there, though:
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.
Tuesday night, Mom and I had our first TNT night out since her accident. The TNT’s, for those that don’t know, are otherwise known as the Dynamite Divas. In my head, I call them the Tuesday Night Supper Club, but it’s basically the Meatsuite mentality…just a couple decades down the line.
Every Tuesday, the TNT’s gather round a dinner table at a different restaurant. There’s laughing and crying and everything in between. I happen to be a member, even though I technically lack a vagina. Don’t mock, I paid my dues (which involved a coconut bra and grass skirt).
Mom did great, walking all the way from the car to the table (using a walker). Everyone was happy to see her out and about. Lots of laughter is a good thing.
At some point, the girls were discussing the obituaries. Half the girls read them daily. I suppose when *I* hit the ripe old age of 36 (the age my mother has claimed to be for decades now), I’ll have to read the obituaries every day, too. Isn’t that what old people are supposed to do? That, and eating dinner at 4:30pm, wearing shades that engulf your entire head, and donning black socks with shorts and sandals.
Seems a morbid thing to me, looking to see who died, but whatever. I’m not here to judge (outside my head, anyway).
The stress levels for me of late are through the roof. I maintain some vestiges of my mania, I think, though it’s getting harder and harder to tell. This Natural Calm shit isn’t making me feel very calm, but I’m still taking it…along with the multivitamins, L-Theanine, and melatonin. And my pharmaceuticals.
There’s this thing I do – a lot of survivors do it, actually – called Trauma Breathing. Essentially, it’s very shallow breathing, interspersed with a lot of breath-holding. I rarely breathe deeply. It’s a physiological manifestation of my PTSD. And from what I understand, it’s not good for me.
Somewhere down the road, and sooner rather than later, I plan to undertake meditation. I may find Meditation for Dummies somewhere cheaper than what I saw at Books A Million over the weekend. As an aside, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re expected to become a BAM “member” by paying $20, just so you can get 10% off all your purchases for a year. That means I need to buy at least $200 worth of books in order to make it worthwhile. And that’s a shitty business practice. Why not just GIVE me 10% off? I can already find everything cheaper online. Again, though, nobody ever consults me on these things.
The Resolution, right. Well, it’s not going well, I admit. But I did post my first work story yesterday, so that’s a good thing. (Please Digg and Stumble it, I’d be most appreciative. The more traffic I get, the better it is for me.)
A while back I started my Bucket List, which looked like this:
KARL’S BUCKET LIST
Great Fucking Road Trip
Bungee jump
Meet Flight of the Conchords and get them on my show
Go to Australia
Get my own medical marijuana card
Fix my smile
Write my story in a book. Have at least one book signing.
Do the largest dancing in my boxers video ever with dozens of women at least
Have some random stranger recognize me on the street in any place other than home
I’m already past 40, but I think I’m going to create a second list of things I want to accomplish before I’m 50. Some of them may crossover onto my Bucket List, but that’s OK.
Making goals is not something I’m well-versed at. I’m not a future-thinking kinda guy. I can barely think about what I’m having for dinner tonight, let alone goals for the next 7 years. It’s a Survivor thing, I’ve learned. Just focus on getting through THIS MOMENT. Survival IS the goal. But surviving isn’t enough, people. That’s not LIVING, that’s just existing. Maggots do as much.
But still, this is the Year of Resolutions, a time when I’m working hard to make mental shifts. I want to see the positive instead of constantly focusing on the negative. Fuck, I want to be – dare I say it? – happy.
So here are some of the things I’d like to get done before I’m 50.
Do stand-up comedy.My friend, Mic (who I still call Mike, but whatever), is doing this now in L.A. As a teenager, I’d walk to and from school with Mike and Rob and my brother, Chris. We’d make each other laugh constantly. And play Dungeons & Dragons. Mike’s been telling me I should do stand-up for a while now, and I’ve always pooh-pooh’d the idea because I’m laden with anxieties and neuroses. But lately, I’ve been feeling more and more like I want to try this.
Finish and publish a book. Doesn’t have to be my autobiography, but it probably will be. Haven’t touched that damn manuscript in a decade, but I plan on changing that.
Get back to England. I lived there for three years, and loved it, even if that was also the time that led to the end of my marriage. I have friends there still, and now I have NEW friends there, thanks to the InterWebz.
Drive all of Route 66. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Big road trip.
Become my own boss. I love writing, and I’m happy that I’ve had the opportunities to make a living at it. Ultimately, though, I want to answer to myself. Sure, I don’t know shit about business or even budgeting, but I can get there. And I’m hoping to get a business venture launched in the near future, something I’ve been mulling over for a while now. (That’ll come after I relaunch SecondHand Tryptophan, which is happening in the next month.) Ultimately, this is about not being poor any more.
Move out of Sebring. I never intended to stay here this long. I’ve come to appreciate the town, but it’s not enough for me. I want to be somewhere else. Not sure where, exactly, but it needs to be bigger than Sebring. And it’s probably going to be somewhere relatively warm because I’m so not a snow person.
I think those are enough for now. Again, it’s another list in progress.
I’ll bring these lists with me to my Matrix Therapy session this afternoon. The MT was off last week, and I’m in heavy need of some therapizing. I’m also bringing my old IOP journal, the one that lists my med regimen, including the meds that were WORKING. If I don’t find some fucking relief, and soon, I don’t know that I’ll be in any position to get any of the things on my lists accomplished.
In the meantime, who needs a drink?
Drive all of Route 66. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Big road trip.
Enjoyed last night’s show a lot with Shauna Glenn. And I was glad to see many of you there, listening live.
Over the time I’ve been hosting my show at Talkshoe, more and more of you come to me with technical problems regarding the site. Can’t get into the chatroom, audio isn’t working, FireFox keeps crashing. I’m not sure why - I rarely ever have trouble with the site myself, and I use FireFox, too - but the point is I want everyone to be able to get into the show, not just SOME people.
So this Thursday night, we’re trying something new. My guest is OnlyAman (hubby of ChurchPunkMom). And we’re doing it on Blog Talk Radio, my old stomping grounds. If it goes well, I may move the show there on a regular basis (again).
The show is scheduled for this Thursday night, 10 PM Eastern time. Show link is here. You can set show reminders so that you’ll get emails before showtime, too.
It’s the same kind of deal, really. There’s a call-in number, chatroom during the show, etc. And it’s recorded and turned into a podcast.
If you want to call in, the number is on the page, but it’s
(646) 716-9370
If you’re not already registered at Blog Talk Radio, you should do it before Thursday’s show.
And please pass the word, especially to those that have had Talkshoe troubles in the past. I’m hoping this is the answer.
Now, onto holes.
There’s this Matchbox 20 song called “Bright Lights.” I dig Matchbox 20…and Rob Thomas’ solo stuff, too. Great lyrics.
Anyway, one of my favorite lines from a song is in “Bright Lights.”
I got a hole in me now
Yeah, I got a scar I can talk about
Love it. Because I can relate all too well. Except I don’t feel like I just have one hole in me. I feel like I have a truckload. Scars, too, but most of them aren’t visible. I suspect that’s true for many people. But I’m not here to talk about many people…this is MY blog. And if you haven’t figured it out by now, the universe really DOES revolve around me.
After all, this is my movie, dammit. I’m the fucking star.
It’s oftentimes the scars that are the hardest to talk about. Well, not the scars so much as what caused the scars. For me, that shit isn’t ever fun to talk about. But…it’s necessary to talk about them. That’s the crux of therapy, really. Talking about your scars.
I firmly believe that everyone would benefit from therapy/counseling. Something months ago told me I should start back at therapy, after years of being away from it. I could sense this emotional vortex coming, a tsunami. I still sense it on the horizon. I just don’t know when it’s going to hit. But I’m already feeling the storm winds.
I do know that I’m more emotional now than I was 6 months ago. More mood swings. Mostly downs, but still. I can be on top of the world one moment, and on my knees begging for mercy the next. And so, just a couple of weeks before BlogHer in July, I started seeing a therapist again. The Matrix Therapist.
She’s good. She’s really good. I’ve had quite a few therapists over the years and every time you start with a new one, it’s kind of a pain in the ass. You have to give your backstory again and again and again…every time a new therapist walks into your life. I get sick of talking about myself as it is, to have to rehash shit (even if it’s the first time that particular person has heard my story) is really annoying.
The Matrix Therapist got me almost right away. Sure, I gave 15-20 minutes of backstory. It’s required. I mean, the therapist has to know something about you to start off on the right foot. But this time, we more or less started jumping into my current circumstances.
I’m a mess. I’m 43 years old now. Living with my mother. Haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time. Hell, haven’t had SEX in over 2 years. I don’t even know if I deserve a relationship, really. I mean, what the hell do I have to offer at the moment?
Can’t seem to focus on anything, particularly important shit like WORKING. Can’t seem to find enough hours in the day to get things done because I’m such a fucking procrastinator and can’t manage my time worth shit.
I am one of the best counselors there is. I can dish out great advice to my friends, and I do. When I’m asked. OK, often when I’m NOT asked, whatever. The thing is, though? I can’t advise my own ass to save my fucking life.
And in therapy - just as outside of therapy - I ramble like the ramblingest motherfucker on the planet. Because really? I AM the ramblingest motherfucker on the planet. So I have to learn to be concise in therapy because I want to get my hour’s worth. Cut to the point, Karl, cut to the point. Having to constantly say that shit to myself when I’m behind that therapy door.
Couple of weeks ago, MT caught me rambling (deflecting?) and said, “Karl, do you need for me to push you?”
I stopped and looked at her. Thought for a moment. And said, “Yeah, I think I do. Thanks for asking.”
I’m one of those people that needs to be pushed in therapy. Because otherwise, I’m going to stay as far away from the important shit as I can. It’s in my nature, the Ostrich Game. I’ve spent my whole life avoiding unpleasantness of all sorts, some of it would make your head explode. And I have to fight that tendency a lot, especially in therapy. See, it’s the fucking SCARS I’m avoiding talking about.
And yet, it’s the scars that make me so messed up. I’m sure of it. The only way to deal with them is to talk about them. And the only way to talk about them - whether it’s with friends or family or the Matrix Therapist - is to STOP AVOIDING TALKING ABOUT THEM.
I know. It all sounds logical and makes perfect sense. So why is it so difficult to absorb that lesson, digest it, and put it to good use? It’s a very simple thing. And I’m far from a stupid person. But I FEEL stupid. A lot. Because those common-sense things often elude me.
When I hear about Einstein having difficulty with the most basic of things, I totally get it. It doesn’t matter how high your IQ is…you’re still just as dumb as the rest of us in many ways. You’re still human. If life was merely THINKING? Sure, it’d be a simple proposition. I’ve often wished life WAS about just thinking…’cause then, I’d excel at life.
But it isn’t. Life is about interacting, it’s about relationships, and there’s the rub. I still feel like the 15-year-old nerd in high school, inept in almost every regard. I still feel like I’m relegated to the nerd/outcast table in the lunchroom. Like I’m the one all the popular kids are laughing at (but not in a good way). Like the one people like to trip in the hallway between classes, so that me and my books go tumbling to the floor.
And talking to people? Well, shit. That’s hard as fuck for me. I know. I have a radio show where I talk for HOURS. I make silly videos and do crazy shit with STRANGERS. I go to BlogHer and TequilaCon and Avitaween. And I enjoy it all. But on the inside? I’m shaking like a leaf.
Don’t fuck up, Karl.
Try not to put your foot in your mouth again, Karl.
Don’t just stand against the wall. Go TALK to people.
Don’t be TOO flirty, Karl. There are lines.
Don’t interrupt people when they’re talking. Don’t walk all over them in conversation.
Don’t dissociate. Actually LISTEN to what people are saying.
Christ, how fucking dorky am I?
There are a lot of people I don’t know. It’s OK. Don’t freak out. Too much.
This is why I never leave the damn house.
Those and a million other things zoom around in my head at the speed of sound. All while attempting to smile and carry on conversation. When I’m comfortable with a person, sure, a lot of that melts away temporarily. But it always comes back. Every fucking time.
Cognitively, I know many of the answers to my problems. I know that if I put my best foot forward, and ACT confident, then eventually - through trial and error and time - I will FEEL more confident. I’ll forget I’m the Bully Magnet. The Damaged One.
Well, I won’t forget that…ever. But you know what I mean.
I’m deflecting again. In my own blog, even. Scars. Right.
I have a lot. It’s not a random happenstance that I have PTSD mixed with severe depression mixed with bipolar disorder mixed with ADD (and enough other stuff to make the DSM-IV scream).
So tomorrow, when I go in to see the Matrix Therapist, we’re gonna hit on some scars. I’m decided. The things I’ve been avoiding talking about. To ANYONE. There’s a reason why I sometimes find myself on the verge of tears for “no good reason.” And I really have a feeling that it’s the scars, needing to come to the surface.
I never talk about them with friends, not even my closest friends. Somehow feel like it’s too much to lay at anyone’s feet. Even my therapist’s. But hell, that’s her job. That’s why I’m there, right? To lay my shit out there, open up my insides so she can poke and prod around…try to make me…less…broken.
Yeah, maybe I look normal on the outside. I know you can’t see how fucked up I am by looking at me.
But what I really, really want is to look normal on the inside.
PS: I recently found a couple of old mix CD’s I made during my days in the IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program), aka group therapy. They’re very much soundtracks of my life.
I told Jenny that I’d gather the playlists together and post them. Here they are, complete with photos of the CD’s. I only photographed them because the covers are my original artwork. Some amazing songs on here, some of which still make me cry.
Seriously. Something has to give. I find myself constantly struggling to do a thousand things and accomplishing none of them. Sometimes because I can barely speak, let alone actually start DOING ANYTHING.
I’m in a bad spot at the moment. Really fucking down. When I’m like this, I just want to close down, withdraw from everyone and everything. Hell, withdraw from the PLANET.
No, that’s not a suicidal comment. In case you’re my therapist and shit.
I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to tweet or email or Facebook or text…certainly not a phone call. Nothing. Wouldn’t want to infect anyone else with this shit.
Anhedonia, too. Nothing floats my boat right now. Not fucking around on the laptop, not listening to music, not reading, not TV. Shit, not even rubbing one out. And trust me, for me, that’s really saying something.
I wish I could just sleep all the time. Better to be unconscious. Let the world fade away for, what, a week or four?
My life is a fucking mess - physically, emotionally, spiritually. In every way, really. And here I am, feeling like writing a damn post is this monumentally difficult thing worthy of a freaking golden statuette. Brushing my teeth and bathing? Er, whatever.
Everything is hard. Getting off the bed is sometimes all I can do. Which is ok because at least that shows I’m not so far gone that I’m willing to piss and shit myself, rather than get out of bed.
Eating? Once a day. Did I mention that I’m nearly down to my “ideal” weight? Yep. 163 pounds. One of these days I ought to buy clothes. 38 waist is ridiculous on what is now a 32.
So yeah.
go me
team Karl yadda yadda
Hard to care about anything at the moment, least of which is myself.
I know. You’d really like to party with me, right? I’m a blast. Ask anyone.
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