thanksgiving

Starting this over again, since this is my longest running blog

i am going to write "In-recovery"

the five characters: Derick (narrator, sex addict, drug addict, alocholic, depressed)

Rob (negrophile, alcohlic, passive aggresive)

Michael (pathelogical liar, hustler, over educated, abandoned)

Chase(says he was healed by god)

Eduardo(blackout drunk)

Sha (anorexic)

Saprina (complicated older sister dealing with an eating disorder)

starting over. 8-21-09

I needed to remember. go back. before the clubs. before the insanity. before my first time. before alcohol and the drugs. Who was I? I didn't have my first real drink until i was twenty two years old. I guess i got tired of being the good kid. the sick thing about being the good kid is that your life becomes predictable. it's so narrrow like a razor blade and if you flinch off the course those around you slash deep. So i just needed to bleed, even if that meant death.

So i went back. before the first kiss. I was always gay. I can't remember a day in my life when I wasn't gay. But gay then, just meant being different. It wasn't about sex. I just knew somehow in my subconsious my life wasn't go to be so simple. I could pretend, but a gay has needs. I knew somehow one day i would need to explore those needs even if I didn't know at five years old weren't those needs were going to be. I just knew, I liked the heat from pookie and i didn't get that heat from tameka.

so, a month from my thirty-third birthday and self imposed exile from my so called gay life, I decided to go back. I got lost, i know that. none of it didn't make sense for me anymore. So i shut up complaining. I get so fucking tired of complaing. I didn't want AA meetings. I didn't want more therapy appointments. got tired of talking to my repetetive friends about their insanity. Sometimes its like a magnetism, this so called gay life. If you don't learn to break free, it will keep pulling in a direction you in the directin in which you never made the decision because you were young, new, was only thinking with your dick and ego.

Miguel was my first kiss and it was awesome. One of the best memories in my life. So innocent. So fifteen years old. So stolen, how i snuck out that night with my best friend to go to that old man's house. I'm probably that old man's age now. Funny. anyways, so i kissed miguel. Sade, so fucking cliche was playing the back ground. I just remember feeling free. I never felt so free with anybody. I had kissed my first girl at twelve and really didn't get what all the fuss was a bout. I even had sex with a girl, it was like a chore. I remember thinking it felt like washing dishes. but with miguel, just him holding my hands made my dick so hard i thought it might implode.

So i kissed miguel, for like three hours. that's all we did was kiss from 4 in the morning unitl the sun rose. We didn't have sex. He stuck his hand down my pants and jerked me off, but being gay and young, that was romantic. I remember before we kissed, he told me to never grow and be gay, and then he kissed me. Funny, i thought at the time that was something stupid a boy tells a boy before he kisses him. It turned out miguel was a 17 year old runaway staying with that old man. He robbed him the next day and disappeared for ten years. But i guess that's when the drama began.

It was my secret. i could tell no one. I could tell my best friend and that's it. And i guess that's when the shift began. I became two people. I was straight A student at school, vice-president of student council. and then I was also the so young gay boy sneaking out my house to go to older strangers house to steal kisses a four in the morning. One life started off as the straight and narrow, the other life plunge into insanity without even thinking.

I now know how i got lost. Well, i think i was lost before that considering the many fragments of my family life. Yet, there was something whole about me before that kiss. I was just Michael.

i didn't belive me

I used to say i didn't care, but i did. I just wanted to feel something. But this post is about me still being here. I had something to say. And i'm still saying it.

today, my life seems a little brighter. i have given away to the fact i'm never going to be perfect. I am never going to be like them. I can't wait to come back to this, as soon as i fine tune soem other things. The thing about me, I work a lot. I have so much energy, i am just learning to balance.

One day at a time

I am beginning to understand the meaning. At first, I was such a bastard. I couldn’t see beyond Friday night. At first I felt it was not a sufficient or substantial argument. I had to question the motive. But you can’t change what you do not acknowledge. I cannot correct that will not be corrected.

I wake up everyday and I say to myself can I make it. I wake up everyday and I say to myself will I fuck up again. Some days I can make until a week, but other days it only last for a couple of hours. I’ve gotten to the point where I can’t trust days anymore. I can only take it second by second and the hours and maybe a day hopefully a week.

I do like my sober days. I do like when I wake and everything makes sense. But there is always the pain. There is always what drove me off the cliff. I have to fight it. And some days I’m stronger than other days. Some days I’m so damn weak I don’t want to talk about it. But I always know if I make it though the day, even the ones where I am weak, I can be strong tomorrow.

So it is one day at a time, one second at a time that turn to minutes that can turn to a day that turn to a week, sometimes a month and then years. Getting better is like dealing with cancer. Will it come back? Will it come back? Will this be a good day? Will it be a time when I don’t think about this? As the child said, will I have to deal with this for the rest of my life? As the adult says to the child, will this be the end of my life?

One day at a time, the struggle, the quest, the challenge, the truth.

Uhmm, k, don’t do drugs, uhmm k, drugs are bad, uhmm k

It’s apparent that we live in a hypocritical culture. Parents tell their kids not to do drugs but most have experimented. Are drug people bad people? I remember getting an article from an addict talking about if drug people were bad people. I never read it. I guess I figured I knew the answer.

Lately, the Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps caused controversy when a picture leaked him smoking from a bong. It became all about is he a bad role model. It didn’t matter that he accomplished an extraordinary Olympic career, he must be told to be perfect or lose millions in dollars advertisement banked on his popularity.

I had to ask myself, why don’t these advertisers do background checks. It seems to me, anyone sudden celebrity is elevated to role model status by bored housewives. These lazy parents don’t want to parent their own kids rather hand them a television and video game, but get pissed when the surrogate substitute for guidance disappoint.

I don’t think I would care what any celebrity does with his or her life when it came to my child. Those people aren’t gods and infallible. We are all human. Not even heroes are heroes. I love Oprah but she is still a person who shits and I hope wipe her ass, and not the afterlife.

I don’t believe drugs are bad. I know some people abuse drugs. I know some people medicate their lives with street drugs. Any thing on this planet can be abused. Some people abuse food. Some people abuse sun tanning.

I think it’s greed that’s bad. I think taking something so simple to one person and exploiting for selfish need. I also don’t believe addiction is a disease. I’m not sick. I’m greedy. I’m often irresponsible.

I found with liquor and sex something made me feel good, validated, and special and I got greedy. I was like a fat kid breaking into Willy Wonka.

Did the greed make me a bad person, yes and no? I didn’t kill or rob for my addiction. I lied and sometimes stole from love ones because of my addiction. I destroyed my reputation with the addiction. It wasn’t the liquor, drug, or sex; it’s what I did with the liquor drugs and sex.

I once say a show about obesity. I couldn’t’ imagine how anyone could let their life and body get do out of control. Yet, as an alcoholic, my addiction wasn’t always so visible. It only brought attention to itself when it got out of control: running down the street naked, skipping work for afternoon sex parties, cheating, passing out in front my yard.

I’ve never been a functional addict. I’m an extremist. I was like what Charlie sheen once described, if I had one cocktail I wake up two weeks later passed out on in a pile of cocaine and a dead hooker

When I turned 30, I got to a point where I didn’t like myself anymore. I wasn’t trustworthy, I felt like I was flunking the same grade and had gotten to big for the desk therefore had to sit on the floor. I felt I was being left behind in my age group.

Yet, it took me another three years to take responsibility for whom and why I was. I got greedy. It was that simple. If my addiction was a person, it would weigh a thousand pounds. Yet, I’m six feet and weigh about 165 pounds.

Sometimes I wish I was really fat. I am big as a house and then go in for a surgery or something, and lose dramatic weight and then go on Oprah. I would be one of those people with the before and after shot. Yet, as a drug addict and former alcoholic I have no pics of what I was like before. I only have the memories and a bunch of people no longer speaking to me.

All addictions are the same, its greed and that’s one of the seven deadly sins that lead to a life of hell on earth.

Heroes, Victims, Villains or Survivors

It is said life begins at conception. I believe life begins at consciousness. That first feeling you get when you realize that you are alive and one day will die. I remember the feeling the day my father died when I was five years old. It was the first time I knew death. I remember seeing him in his casket and thinking damn, it’s just a body.

I became keenly aware of myself the day my father died. It was the first time I knew I was breathing and that if I stopped I would die. I felt my skin. I felt the air. Every single object around me became real. We spend most of our lives walking around in a routine ungrateful daze. The genius of the human body is that everything is automatic. Our hearts pump without the Manuel, blood flow through our veins, our lungs take in the oxygen. Everything on this earth or universe has a purpose. Everything on this planet is energy, is alive but humans as we know it have consciousness. If I kill a bug is that the same as having an abortion? To say the bug’s life is less than our own is like saying the tree life is less than a flower. It all has purpose. I don’t mean to get all Buddhist but there is life and then there is conscious life. Just because we are born human doesn’t mean that all of us are truly aware.

I thought I was going to die a victim. The fear created anger and the hurt child decided to grow up and hurt others, so I evolved into a villain.

A lot of victims become villains: Hitler, Hussein, King Kong. Lol. It’s the hurt child who doesn’t want to be hurt anymore that seek the most power. It’s external power. It’s a way to control the pain. It’s irrational power. It’s schizophrenic. We human beings are equipped with remarkable ways of surviving. The body learns to repair itself. If one is in pain, the body would shut down the nerve endings in order to survive the trauma. I sometimes wonder if the body was designed after the soul. The soul is also capable of repairing itself. Children born in abuse, molestation refigure the world and learn to adapt their journey towards god. I truly believe the human experience is the journey towards God. When the soul experience trauma, begins to questions its existence and purpose, feel as if God is against she or he, it also rebels. I think true evil is a hurt soul, rejected soul, broken soul, when one feels the light has abandoned.

I felt for a long time the light abandoned me. I would awake and all I could feel is darkness. The sun could be shining and all I could feel was darkness. I was hurt so I grew up to hurt and I did it brilliantly cruel. I was the best at hurting myself. I became such a victim and soon the villain no one trusted, not even myself.

What changed?

Intially I rejected the idea of being a survivor. I remember watching those kids from Dafur have to cross the brutal African night for safety. I thought to myself after everything they had experienced how would they ever be sane, happy. They were kids who saw their parents murdred, mothers raped, had been raped, brutalized by a war they would never understand. It wasn’t something they created but was born into. Yet, they had decided not to become victims. The only goal, short-term was to survive. I could only think the human soul, short term always want to survive. Every animal just want to survive. But surviving for the short term can’t be enough. To live a good life one would have to want to survive for the long term.

I believe short term survival begets victim mentality. Getting high or drunk is just a short term victim mentality, it’s surviving to the end of the buzz and then back to reality. I remember when my apartment in Chicago was broken into how it changed how I dealt with people. My short term survival was to protect my life and make sure my belongings were safe. I called the landlord, demanded better security. I never spoke to strangers for a long time. I developed an angry persona. For the short term I needed to survive. Yet, I knew long term survival meant I would have to learn to trust again.

As a child, short term survival was just growing up and getting out of the hell in which I was born. When I finally made it to college and graduated and entered the real world I hadn’t graduated my short term survival, therefore, continued my short term survival mentality. I understand it now. Like a wounded animal after an attack I just needed to lick the wound for now. Like a wounded animal I just needed to get high or drunk for now. The problem, now became long term. The math or logic no longer added up. What changed? I realized I kept the wounds opened. The abuser, the war had come and gone but I was still fighting it in my mind.

The problem I have with the Jesus saved me freaks, is that once the drug saved them. Who in their right mind would just someone so manipulative. It’s drugs one day and then religion the next day as long as he or she is getting their fixed. I more concerned with “how.”
When short term becomes long term life is suffering. When those hide in the dark to escape and the sun rises the next day and they don’t seek the warmth of light soon the sun doesn’t exist anymore. The sun purpose is so that life can grow. Not much survives in the darkness. Without light everything withers and die.

Intially, I rejected the idea of surviving long term. I felt the world needed to know what happened to me. I felt if I forgot that meant it didn’t happened. I wanted my past punished. Ironically, I was my past I wanted myself punished for surviving.

When I looked in the mirror all I saw was the past. I saw my molester when I was naked how sex became so distorted. I saw all the childhood abuse would I cut myself early in the morning. I saw abandonment when I refused to let anyone in my life, quit a job, became homeless. I knew I could survive it short term. I could survive the short term lust which would probably leave me with a long term problem. I could survive the short term driving drunk and high which would leave with a long term record. I could survive short term suciuide which would leave me with having to deal with life after completely giving up—if I could trust myself again after what I did to myself. The worse was always did to me.

I knew to survive long term meant believing in a purpose. When a tree loses a branch in a storm it doesn’t bitch about it for the next hundred years. It grows another branch. It never loses its purpose to provide oxygen.

My purpose is to create. To write these words. To share the story. That’s my purpose. It was my purpose before I knew it was my purpose. Every time I write I get stronger. Every time I share the story I feel love. Silence is darkness. Silence is short term survival. Silence begets victim mentality.

The greater good: love yourself like a child of god, love someone like a child of god, and love something to survive to tell your journey back to god.

I say god not like religion. I say god like the universe. I say god like how one interrupts their meaning.

What changed?

Now I know what changed. As a victim it was always the question of “why?” Why me? Why did it happen? As a victim I thought if I forgave would make me forget. I didn’t want to forget. I needed everyone to know what had happened to me. As a victim I thought if I forgave that would make what happened permissiable. I didn’t want anyone to think I was every okay. Or that I could be every okay. I thought forgiving would make me a victim twice over. I thought pretending would make me a victim twiced over.

What changed is that I stopped asking why, and started asking how? How I could learn to forgive and be okay for real. How I could be a better person. “How” I could learn to heal, trust myself again and truly love. And with “how” came “I can.” “I will.” “I am.”

As a victim it was always “I was.” I don’t’ think short term survival anymore. I survived ocean and quick sands, now I must build.

To be continued “Long term Survivor and learning to be a Hero”

The hunger

When I was eleven years old I read Anne Rice book “Lestat.” I remember being so transfixed with the longing of hunger that I wanted to grow up and be a vampire. I remember when I was fifteen years old sitting at the bus stop late at night hoping a vampire would find me, turn me and I would live forever. I guess there was something in me that need to feed on others. I felt for a long time I was starving but didn’t know for what. I never became a vampire. I did become an addict for pure destruction.

I never understood why it was a curse to live forever. I thought it was selfishly romantic. I guess it would be a curse to always be hungry and never full. It would be a curse to feel out of control with emptiness. It looked pretty from the outside, Vampires always were good-looking but they were vicious animals preying on the unsuspecting. It was not only to live forever but to kill forever even that which you think you might love.

I avoided alcohol until I was 22 years old. I was always afraid of it. I saw what it did to my family. I can’t remember a family gathering where somebody didn’t get drunk and act a fool. I avoided drugs. I knew too many drug addicts growing up. My mother is still a crack addict. My aunt was a heroin addict. I’ve seen crack addiction destroy good people. I thought I knew better. I thought if I avoided cheap crack I would be okay. I thought if I avoided paper bag malt liquor I would be okay. I thought if it came in a designer glass I would be okay.

My first cocktail, harmless. It was a whiskey sour. A sweet gay drink that seemed harmless as pink feathers blown by a child whisper. I still remember vividly the first sip, how it laid down so warm on my tongue like a sunset in Jamaica. I remember how it slithered down my throat, tickling and landing with a burn in my stomach. It was so instant, that inebriated orgasm, what I thought was an insignificant small death. Suddenly all the lights in the club got brighter. The more I sipped, the more I needed. It felt like happiness. That which was the wasteland became spring again. That which I felt was my cold heart became the fire of hell.

I remember the first time I did Meth. I met some guy at a hotel. He said it would make me feel free. He wanted to do some freaky things and felt I was too unattractively inhibited. I remember taking the pipe, inhaled the dancing ghost. He was right. I felt brilliant.

I was bitten. A supernatural beast seduced me in the night and took the blood from my veins. I was no longer human. I had become an addict. First sip, first smoke, I was an addict. Yet, I was an addict before I was an addict. I had been looking for that hunger my entire life and I found it in a liquor bottle and a meth pipe. I found it in demonic spirits and seductive poltergeists.
Like a vampire I quickly realized that I could never be full. Enough was never going to be enough. I was cursed with a hunger that was completely consuming like a black hole. Yes, in the beginning it was all laughs and giggles, dancing on table, driving fast in red cars, sleeping with so many men, and then I looked in the mirror and realized I was starving. My body was quickly wasting away. I had lost all my humanity. I was only the addiction. I was that which can not be spoken but only feared, outlawed, jailed. I only lived to feed it. I no longer cared about family, friends or a job. I no longer cared about myself.

I guess it began with the pain. It was the bullets of the past that knocked holes through my window letting in frigid rain and wind. I guess I needed something to repair or take me away from the damage.

Truth, what most addicts don’t want to speak about is that pain so we share our conquests and failures in dark rooms praying for the Jesus we so easily killed in ourselves.
The pain, the beginning, somebody got hurt, somebody refused to heal, or didn’t know how to heal. The pain, it’s the only word I can use or should I call it the haunting. It’s the past that refuse to die, how the soul overcompensates and I just wanted to feel good, maybe be loved.

The demons told me they loved me. They made me feel good. I just wanted the attention of false promises. I knew it was a lie but the truth hurt more, so l laid with my abuser thinking one day a fist would be a soft kiss.

The pain, self medication, it’s like pouring blood on a knife to stab again, thinking maybe if I get the knife bloody it get tired but the knife always want more blood.

The pain, I was an addict before I knew I was an addict, was starving before I knew I was starving, to feed on the misery that beget the misery.

The conundrum are those who get to live forever in their head, get high and forget the mirror, maybe that’s why vampire can’t se their own reflection, or why addict can’t se their own reflections living in a world they now longer reflect.

The great story about being a Vampire, even if you got seduced by the dark side you can still be human. What’s great about God, there is always a choice. I didn’t create it, it created me, but I accepted it, thinking it might love me, now I know it doesn’t love me, so I reject it. God will not save me, because that’s my choice. I turned my back on god so I can do it again.
I believe God doesn’t rescue. Jesus died on the cross. God let him die. God will let you overdose. God will let you kill yourself.

I know it’s a choice. I didn’t create it, but I accepted it. I can’t cure it but I can control it. I take the responsibility. I’m not powerless. Every temptation I know is a chance for me to be a better person.

Dead men Talking

I was up late last night watching MSNB “Dead men Talking.” It’s a show about autopsies when people die under mysterious terms. I guess if you’re found dead somewhere, in the gutter, John Doe, overdoses, or something that looks like foul play, you are automatically given an autopsy. It got me to start thinking about my own death. I guess I was disturbed by the nineteen year old who committed suicide. He hung himself in his father garage. I watched as the Doctor examined his young body. How they looked for scars of past self injuries. How they checked his brain for natural diseases. How they explained that he was a very healthy person and it was such a waste. The kid was attractive. He just felt like a failure. He seemed to never get anything in his life right. He had many run-ins with the law, a strong criminal past, tried to get into the military but they wouldn’t let him join. I guess at nineteen he woke up and thought he had screwed up his life. Yet, he was only nineteen. I mean anything is possible when you are nineteen years old.

I understand suicide in a way. It’s a horrible mental affliction. The need to check out permanently. It’s a truly selfish act. Yet, it’s not rationale.

Sometimes life gets very dark and hard. Suicide is like giving God or the Universe the middle finger. It’s a belief that God or the Universe hates you. That your birth was an abomination. No one who commits suicide think that they are going to Heaven. Yes, in certain situations like what happened on 911 the people jumping out of the window so they could avoid a horrible burning death, maybe God forgives. Yet, I’m sure some religious fanatics would love to disagree.
Who knows what God wants? I mean there is the bible and self-righteous preachers but God really is a private relationship. God is selfish. We are said we are made in God’s image. I always say nobody can teach God, they can yell, they can threatened, they can beat you over the head with a Bible, but when I lay down at night, my relationship with God has nothing to do with what I know but what I feel.

When I was a kid in Church I never felt that God. I went to Sunday school, had so many unanswered questions that refused answers. Also, the God of my childhood seemed like the biggest hypocrite. I guess his followers were a bunch of evil bastards. The most evil I would see in my life. If my example of a God who teachers stole, lied, abused, but on Sunday decided to act holy than thou of course my perception of God would be extremely warped. I was also gay, so that really messed my mind up. I knew what I felt but was told how I should feel. I couldn’t understand why a God would make life so damn complicated for no sane reason. I eventually figured all the people around me were the problem. So I gave up on my childhood god.

I believe giving up on God or an idea of a God sent me into spiritual nightmare. I had suffered so much growing up, so I felt God or the universe hated me. If God hated me, I really hated me. And someone would say to themselves, how can anyone believe God hates them. Well there are many religions that teach God hates certain groups of people. They even stand outside their funerals and claim he or she who didn’t live by their rules is going to hell.

Why would there be a hell? Why would God bring a person into the world for such a short life and then punish them for eternity. That’s just sounds crazy and sardonic.
I believe my journey in this life is my challenge of a God. Sometimes I give up when it’s convenient. Sometimes I hate when I don’t get my way. Sometimes I feel like a spoil child with God. I just know there is a death. I guess God in a way is Death and the need to have some meaning to it.

As I watched “Dean men talking” I thought about each individual journey to it. There was a Muslim guy, a teenage girl murdered back in the 70s and her body found over twenty years later. There was a woman who suffered from mental illness and a young wannabe solider who committed suicide. In the end, how you go there is the same.

I also thought about the ninety something woman who died in her sleep. She had been married to her husband for over sixty years. He seemed floored and confused. They say when old lovers die, the other one is not too far behind. I guess life stop having meaning. God changes.
Funny to think that every single person on this planet has a different relationship with a different god. I mean we go to church for community but when I pray I’m not praying to John McCain’s god. When I pray I’m not even praying to my mother’s God. I pray to what I feel will help me. Sometimes it’s the devil. God can be so manipulative. Yet, I know I can’t hide anything from God. I can hide it from my neighbors and friends and family but not God. God is not a liar. God is the truth no matter how brutal.

My journey in this life is towards my own truth. Yes, sometimes that truth wasn’t so pretty so I considered killing myself. Sometimes the truth can be so difficult to accept that I find myself cutting myself in the bathroom drunk at five in the morning. Sometimes my journey is very angry and resentful. Yet, I always somehow learn to forgive myself.

I had a friend who once told me that I shouldn’t always accept everything about myself. I think not accepting yourself is Hell. I know it’s a struggle to accept my weight, height, eye color, job or stale life or sobriety, but it’s the challenge that makes me accept God. I mean, Death is real. It doesn’t matter if I die five hundred pounds over weight or anorexic, it’s the same outcome.
My God now is recovery. I have to wake everyday and pray to Buddha for piece of mind. I guess I messed up again this week, fell off the wagon, started the cutting again, did hardcore drugs and almost drank myself into a stupor. It’s funny, sometimes when I think I finally recovered I screw up again. The never ending battle. Yet, I understand why. I went out to a place I hadn’t gone in almost two years. Funny how the past seem to remember everything. I had to face me again. I didn’t like it. I was trying to explain to an old drinking buddy how I had changed. He started telling me that I used to be a mess. That I was evil and often hurtful. I started to feel insecure. So I drank. And then drank some more.

God I wish I would’ve never gone through the hell I created. Nobody liked that person, not even me. Yet, I was him. I got to accept him and all his flaws. I guess that’s what I liked about AA. I could go there and talk and not worry about being judged. I listen to everyone else’s story but refuse to listen to my own. My journey to God has become that of recovery. Sometimes I don’t know if I am ever going to make it or truly succeed. I see myself on “Dead me talking” having died of a stupid overdose or drank myself to death like that guy who died at 36 years old of serious liver damage. I know some people who say to themselves, shake their heads, and think the guy was a waste of human existence. I pray that he finally got peace. He had a reason to be here. The fact that I saw his story on TV, someone I don’t know, probably gave me another ten years on my life. Even him, the drunk, had a purpose. Even the kid who committed suicide had a purpose. Even the psychotic woman who overdosed on her mental medication had a purpose. Even the woman who live into her nineties and died in her sleep had a purpose. Even the teenage girl who was murdered and buried for twenty years had a purpose. It’s the story.
I know from what I’ve seen in life that there are four types of deaths. People either day heroes, villains, victims or survivors. I came pretty damn close to dying a victim. I was going to allow childhood abuse, molestation and abandonment lead to me to an early grave. That wasn’t until I decided to fight back. Of course I thought fighting back meant getting angry, cursing, fighting, becoming an asshole or whatever. Yet, the anger made me even more of a victim. The anger told me to close off relationship with anyone I thought I loved, admired or respected; even myself. I know that now. The anger is still there.

I know one thing for sure, I will not a die a victim but that takes recovering.
Even I the gay recovering alcoholic, sex and drug addict have a purpose. My purpose is that I tell the story as honest as I can like a spiritual autopsy. Death is the only truth. How we get there is the only truth. God is the journey. I’m not saying it’s easy. Most days I just want to drink, get high and have a bunch of sex. Yet, I sacrifice the temptation to be a better lover, friend, family member, writer, and human being. Today is a good day. I woke up sober, in my own bed, going to the gym, wrote this blog, will clean the apartment and be happy. It’s the good days that mean the most to me. I want to remember as many good days when I die as possible, that’s all I can ask from God.

Toxic People

It is very important to be aware of what types of people are in your life. It’s you. I mean if I’m surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, queens, thieves and lairs, means I’m guilty by association.

When I started getting my life together, sobering up, asking myself the tough questions, I started to realize the people who once were attracted to me no longer saw me. I remember when I would walk down the street in the middle of the day and attract the strangest people. It was like there was a vacant sign on my forehead for all the drug addicts, liars, hustlers, sex addicts and whatever. I couldn’t understand why they noticed me, but I also noticed them. It was as if we were traveling on the same tragic level of existence.

I changed. They didn’t. We don’t see each other anymore.

I remember when I started AA, it was just a game. I was just trying to hustle it. I figured if I went to a couple of meetings my lover would decide I was trying and get back with me. I figured if I went to a couple of meetings and had proof, I wouldn’t be evicted from my apartment. My boyfriend still broke up with me. I still got evicted from my apartment. When I started AA, it was just another hustle. I lied so damn much. I would show up to the meetings, drunk. It was like I just felt the need to rebel.

What I found interesting were the types of people I started to attract in AA. They were on some bullshit themselves. I mean, they weren’t drinking or anything, but they weren’t good people.

They were toxic. AA was another hustle, game for them, the same way they used to get attention when they were drunks; they were now using AA to fill that void in their empty tragic souls. I met this one guy, and I thought he was really cool in the beginning. I started to share things with him, thought he could be trusted but then he started using against me. He would make cruel jokes about something I said to him, at first I thought that was his sense of humor and then I start to realize that’s how he got his kicks. It turned out; he didn’t have to drink to be a cruel drunk. I quickly ended that relationship.

The thing I disliked most about AA was the concept of Sponsors. I was supposed to befriend some stranger, allow that person in my life, and trust him or her blindly with my deepest and darkest secrets knowing that person has no formal psychological training. As a person with a degree in Psychology, I found the concept to be really dangerous. Trust means there is a give and take. Trust has to be earned. I would need to question everything. I would need to know if that person had sponsored others in the past and how that turned out. Every body gets sober differently. Not all addicts are the same. Not all addicts are created equal, there is a spectrum. At thirty years old and only been drinking for seven years, I had little in common with the drunk he had been doing it for thirty or forty years.

I learned in AA, I couldn’t believe every testimony that came out of some people’s mouth. Some people just liked to be Drama Queens. Some just lied for the hell of it. I was one of them. Some of them just wanted to hear themselves talk.

The stories that changed me the most were the one who were honest. It wasn’t self-serving, let me tell you how I suffered kind of bullshit, but straight to the point like the guy who said, it doesn’t matter what you tell those people or who you tell it to, it’s what you tell yourself when you are alone. If I was going to beat my addictions, it was the battle with me, not how many can I fool. I can’t fool myself. I’m the only one who knows the truth.

The truth hurts. It likes a muscle. No pain, no gain. My goal is to keep eroding my own toxicities therefore I completely disappear to those who are toxic.

Seven pounds

Am I a good person?

I saw the movie “Seven Pounds” this weekend and it was a really good movie. I also saw the “Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and “Slumdog Millionaire.” All three were very profound and got me to think about my own life and position in the universe. Seven pounds demands the question “Am I a good person?” What if you’ve done something really terrible? What if you’ve done something that you feel as if you can never forgive yourself? How do you correct the tragic mistake? I wouldn’t go as far as the character in “Seven Pounds” but I understood his intentions. I’m not going to give the movie away, but he sacrifices parts of himself to give new life to those who he figures are “good people.” It’s kind of like playing god on human terms.

I used to fear that one day I might need a new liver. I did a lot of drinking in my early youth, so I question if I lived to be in my fifties and need a new liver would I deserve it. I guess some people would say it was my own fault. I guess those people would be playing god on human terms. What makes a good person? Good people have really bad shit happen to them every day. When I was a child, I once felt my heart was too pure. It was so fragile. I felt as if some family members took advantage. When I was a child with a pure heart, I felt vulnerable and weak. I had a hard time of saying no, but others didn’t have a hard time of exploiting my kindness. I learned to say no.

I remember when I first moved to the big city from Texas. I moved to Chicago. I would walk down the street and smile and say hello to every stranger. In Texas, that’s normal. One day I said hello to the wrong person. He asked me if he could use my phone. I didn’t think too much about it. It turned out he was a crackhead. I decided to help him. I called shelters for him. I gave him half of my clothes. I fed him. He then just started showing up unexpected with some woman. I would go downstairs and ask him to leave. It started to get weird. A month later, the bastard broke into my apartment while I was at work. He had been using that entire time to figure out my schedule to rob me. If I would’ve just ignored him, I could’ve avoided getting my laptop, camera and other stuff stolen.

I don’t believe in Karma. Yet, I do believe when you harm those who have been nothing but kind, that will come back. You will have to make amends. I guess, that’s Karma.

I used to be a good person, and then things got really muddy. All my hate and rage begin to surface. I hated being so damn angry all the time. I just didn’t want to be around people. There are so many toxic people in this world, if I took everything personally, I might go ballistic.
I don’t’ want to be a good person who starts doing bad things. To remain good in such a cruel world is a burden. I once talked to my grandmother and asked her how one gets through life with their soul intact. She said, one has to learn how to deal with lost. My grandmother was a Buddhist even if she didn’t know it. Buddhism is all about the end of suffering. It’s removing all human attachments to achieve Supreme Being. It’s not easy. Every day I practice the end of suffering not just with my chants and meditation, but also how I touch and am touched by those around me. If the cashier at the grocery store has a bad attitude, I don’t allow her mood to hold me; instead I return it with a gentle smile. I want her to understand; I understand and don’t take it personally. It’s not easy because some people I really want to bitch slap. Yet, I’m learning not to allow those to reel me into their bullshit. Some people really go looking for fights. They will go on and on, try their damnest to get a response and when you don’t give it to them, they get even angrier. I’m learning to back away. (Become actualize, conceptualized, keep my sanity).
I’m learning to pick my fights wisely. I will only fight if its defense of my life or love one, not pride. I don’t need pride. I can always lose pride.

So to answer my question, am I a good person, I would say conservatively yes. I give money to the homeless with no judgment. I’m only good to good people. I guess that’s me practicing God on human terms.

Believe it

I believe.

I do believe true change is possible. Yet, real change is not easy. First, I’m beginning to realize it’s not about me re-wiring my brain. I’m created this way, nature vs. nurture for a reason. I’m going to have to learn to use my soul to create the purpose of my personality.
As the year comes to an end, I’ve been somewhat successful. I’m dramtically different than I was a year ago. I’m healthier. I’m sanier. I’m more sober.

Yet, I still have setbacks. This weekend I can say was a setback. The more I recover, I find it’s so damn easy to take five steps backwards. The more I try to repair old relationships, I find it’s so easy to fuck them up again. I try so damn hard, yet I feel as if one mistake, one resemblance of old Michael Whitley behavior and I’m like, I haven’t changed at all. It kind of feels like I’m fooling myself.

Yet I must believe. I know my intentions are truly genuine. I will win this battle, with my past, my pain, my addictions and mental illiness. I will win, or die trying.

My two cents on Rick Warren

On Jan 20th, 2009 Rick Warren, the author of “The Purpose Driven Life” will give the invocation at Obama’s inaguration, the first black president. A lot of controversy has emerged since Rick Warren is an outspoken bigot towards gays, have once stated (until last Friday on his website*) that gays are not welcome at his church unless they repent, compared homosexuality to criminal sex offenders (pedophilia, incest and polygamy**). It’s not only that he is against gay marriage; he is against the gay gene, thinks it should’ve been eradicated a long time ago. He enthusiastically campaigned for Prop 8***. It’s no surprise a lot of gays are dumbfounded why Obama would pick suck a divisive person to deliver the country’s prayer. Yes, there are those who say Obama said he would reach across the aisle, take hands and force us to hear their voices. I thought we heard their voices at Mathew Sheppard’s funerals, I thought we heard their voices at many AIDS funerals, I thought we heard their voices at the Gay parades across the country, I thought we heard their voices in the church growing up, but I guess we need to hear their voices again on the day we so many gays thought they campaigned, marched, canvass for someone who promised change. Yet, I decided to be open minded. I wanted to understand the meaning of “Invocation.”


An invocation is the act of invoking or calling upon a deity, spirit, etc., for aid, protection, inspiration, and supplication.


As a supplication or prayer it implies to call upon God to ask for protection, spiritual presence like the Lord's Prayer. Taken from bible, Matthew 6:9–13 (King James Version) in which Jesus says, our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.


As a kid growing up in a Baptist church I’ve probably said the Lord’s Prayer a thousand times. We said it before every meal. Sometimes we said it before sleep. I never really understood the meaning, just that it was forced into my memory like the American Anthem and Pledge of Allegiance.


I believe in god. I do. I’m not sure if I believe in my childhood god anymore. As I got older, I started becoming more of a Buddhist. I blame the book “Saddathra.” I’ve always believed in reincarnation even as a child. I know I’ve been here on this earth many times before. I also believe there was once a Jesus. I think Jesus has been here many times before, in many different ways. I don’t believe in Adam and Eve, not just because I’m gay, it just that it doesn’t explain a lot. I mean if man gave woman a rib, why do men and woman have the same amount of ribs. “Here's something else that disproves the story early life was asexual meaning it had both sex organs and reproduced without the need for a mate at all. It was only later when nature needed a way to control overpopulation that the sexes split into two distinct ones. And when all life starts out it starts out female. As far scientists can see it's the male sex that is a mutation of the female. Why? Because the design of the female body would be able to both germinate and carry offspring while the male could not.” I also believe God is a hermaphrodite. If god is everything, then god is one. Which means god is gay and straight, black and white, male and female. Why in life is there always an opposite. So if black is the opposite of white, and male is the opposite of female, then what is the opposite of straight, it’s gay.


The need for prayer on Election Day I feel is necessary. America at the moment is getting hopeless by the day. I wonder what happened to the invocation when President Bush was sworn into office. Interesting enough, the person that did his invocation, also known as the Pastor to the President was Cuban born - Reverend Dr. Luis Leon. (http://geocities.com/reunionfor1969/LLeon.html )


Usually the person who does the invocation is the thought to be the President’s Pastor, reverend or rabbi or spiritual leader. I guess Barack Obama spiritual advisor of twenty years, who married him and baptized his kids could no longer be part of his life. We all are told to forget Rev. Wright. He almost cost Obama his presidency. Yet, the choice of Rick Warren as the nations Pastor, spiritual advisor is so appalling. It’s “Gem” fantastic outrageous.
Yet, picking Rick Warren has forced the issues of gay Americans. Some people still think being gay is a willful choice of deviation. Some people still think all gays are going to hell. Hate crime has increased since the passing of Prop 8 which indirectly gives the entitled permission to their prejudice and hate. Some people still think gays only make up a small percentage of the population therefore not constitutional relevant. Some gays have gone back into the closet even farther. It scares the shit out of us, gay and straight, to have to deal with an issue.
I think it’s beautiful that so many gays (like me) have protested the picking of Rick Warren. I know some people have advised Obama must know what he is doing because he’s so damn pragmatic. Yet, I know different. I’ve said he is either dumb as a doorknob or smart as a fox. Or he is really truly arrogant and only care about his political future. The choice has forced gays, all gays across the spectrum, lesbians and gay men, black , white, Hispanic and transgender to say “hey, what the hell!”


I know many people, like Mellissa Elderidge, didn’t know anything about Rick Warren. I only knew him because I read the “Purpose Driven Life” like three years ago. It truly changed my life. I would still recommend the book.


After reading the book, I decided to see what I thought was a profound preacher was really about. I got online and researched him. I went to his website. I watched videos of him on YouTube****. The more I found out, the sicker in the stomach I got. I found out he hated me. I found out he didn’t think my life was purposeful. I found out he was a fat bastard. I buried his book in the back of the closet and decided to just forget about him. He showed up again. I remember watching CNN and he invited Obama and McCain to his church. I didn’t think much about it. I remember the day of Prop 8, he showed up on YouTube encouraging his followers to pass the bill. He again blasted that homosexuality was incest, pedophilia and criminal. The next day Obama won. It was a great day, being that I am black. It was a year I canvassed for Obama. I donated to his campaign. I felt I was part of the movement. I slightly forgot that not only was I black, I was also gay. I guess I saw myself as Bayard Rustin, the architecture of the March on Washington. I assumed when Obama meant change, he meant everyone. He said he was politically going to reach across the aisle. I thought that meant he was going to fight for better healthcare, school systems, taxes, jobs, things that all Americans needed. I never thought he was going to test a core part of his constituents.


I had decided along with many other gays, to protest inauguration day. I was going to make my signs and show up when Rick Warren gave his speech. I used to ask myself if I was more black than gay. I used to think of myself as a black gay man, not a gay black man. Yet, it’s becoming very clear that I am a gay black man. I still have my issues with being gay. I still have my issues with gay white men. I guess I considered myself black first because in the bigger picture of being gay, I am still black because most gay men are still white. It’s complicated.
I am so happy that America elected a black president. I felt for three weeks the world had changed. And then I realized it hadn’t. Homophobias in the black community roots are deep. The black churches were the first to turn their back on AIDS. The black churches felt AIDS was a gay disease. And when black women started getting AIDS, it was blamed on closeted black men living on the down low. Somehow being gay had leaked over to the black population. I guess Obama is just another religious black man.


I pray that Obama see the error is his ways, not be lead into temptation like he did with Rev Wright, like how he did with Axelrod who built his home, how like he did with William Ayers, like how he return his aunt’s contribution money when he suddenly found out she was in the states illegally, like how he is now distancing himself from the corrupted Illinois Governor. I will pray for Rick Warren and now I will begin to question Obama. The honeymoon is over. And he is not even in office yet.

The truth what Rick Warren has said, can’t be unsaid, but must be formally repented. Here are the notes for this article, since people really don’t have any idea who Rick Warren is. Listen in his own words.


http://www.americablog.com/2008/12/rick-warren-explicitly-bans-unrepentant.html (Since the outrage the page has been taken off, I’m assuming until after the inguration.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvyyEIEDqrQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRVPxK9VPEY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7o4QqGbQmU0&feature=related (Warren endorses Prop 8)

Special Notes: I admit since the outrage, Warren has been desperately trying to do a PR overhaul. I’m just waiting to see what happens, but in the meantime I will begin my letters to Rick Warren, trying to sort out my feelings about the entire ordeal.

Shot term memory lost.

Somebody asked me what I did last Thursday. I went into my head, and suddenly there was just darkness like something had gotten erased. I knew there was a last Thursday, but I couldn’t remember it. But it’s been happening on and on again.

Four years ago, I woke up on the ground. I remember spitting out blood. I remember spitting my teeth in my mouth. I remember the cops shining a light in my eyes, asking me if I was okay. I couldn’t remember where I was. It was like something got erased. I try to remember that night but it’s not there in my head.

I remember the fight. I remember that Halloween night being very angry at my lover. I remember the costume I wore. But after that, it goes blank.
I was told somebody beat the shit out of me. When I woke up that morning, I was in so much pain. I don’t even remember how I got home. I just remember waking up again. I found out that I had three cracked ribs and four teeth kicked out of my mouth. And then I remember spitting blood in my hands and the teeth. I went to the hospital. The doctor asked me what happened. I told him, I didn’t remember. It’s because I didn’t remember.

Did I really hit my head that hard on the sidewalk? Now, four years later it’s scaring me because it’s like blocks of time in my life are gone. I can’t remember what happened last week. There are people who say they know me, but when I go in my head, they are not there. I can remember long term things. I know my social security number. I know my third grade teacher’s name. Yet, I can’t remember if I woke up last Tuesday. I know I did, because I’m still here.

Maybe I wasn’t okay that horrible night when I was kicked and beaten that night. I couldn’t pick any of those guys out in the line-up. Maybe I’m still not okay. This lesbian told me she saw what happened. She said it was the most horrific thing she’s seen in her life. She said they just beat and kicked me like I was some dog. I’ve wondered what I did to piss them off. I don’t remember.

Obcessive Impulsive Personality Disorder

I made the greatest discovery when I introduced myself to happiness.

I finished reading a book by Dr. Gary Zukav (Mind of the Soul). I’ve actually read all of his books. In one chapter, he challenged the reader to see how he or she saw themselves in the universe. I immediately thought I saw the universe against me. I thought god was against me. I’ve always thought God was against me. If I thought God was against me, I’ve always seen myself as a victim. Yes, I had the best excuse like my shitty childhood. Yes, growing I felt I was an easy target not having parents or anyone to protect. It was like I was easy prey as a child. I had teachers abuse me. I come home with bruises on my arms and no one noticed. I was molested for like four years and no one noticed. I move from one foster home to the next foster home, from one family member to the next family member, from one abuse situation to the next abuse situation. I stopped trusting people at eight years old. I fucking hate people. I’m always waiting for someone to disappoint me. I’m always waiting for someone to reveal their true selves. I didn’t believe the good in people. I thought it was a world get or get got.
And then I feel in love. I fell in love first with this girl, Mita. I couldn’t believe she didn’t want anything form me but to love me. To make me better. She became my soul teacher. She became my soul healer. She allowed me to trust. And then I fell in love with this guy. The same guy I’m with now. It was hard loving him. It was hard giving him love. I thought I couldn’t deal with another heart break.

Funny, yesterday I was watching Oprah and the show was about “OCD.” I understood the personality disorder but from a different perspective. OCD people have a need to control the world. I realized I was the opposite. I gave up on the world a long time so I had a need to be out of control in the world. I didn’t feel the need for responsibility because I felt everything about life was meaningless. I figured we all die. That life was just one lost after another. I got tired of abandonment. I couldn’t trust. I didn’t believe in God. So life to me was meaningless for a long.
I would consider myself with Obsessive-impulsive personality disorder. It’s like I had a need to continually to fuck up. It’s the typical rebel without a cause. I just liked to rebel. I just like to fight back. I guess in some weird way in my head that makes me feel control in a universe I always felt was so out of control. I don’t care about much. I can sleep on floors. I can eat out trash cans. I can be irresponsibly sexually, because I don’t care for the rules. I always figured the rules weren’t for me. Yet, like those with OCD, I became a prisoner of my impulsiveness. When I don’t want to go to work, I don’t go. When I don’t want to pay a bill, I don’t pay it. When I don’t’ want to pay rent, I don’t pay it. When I don’t want to have friends, I curse them out. I can never be in a relationship because I need to act on my impulsion. I had a hard time getting sober, because I needed to act on my impulsions. My impulsions became my sex addiction. I think most addicts suffer from obsessive impulsive disorder.

I had to learn that I can’t control, because I don’t want to control. I saw the universe out of control. I saw myself as so insignificant. I figured I would die a John Doe and no one would notice I was even here. Yet, things have changed. That’s what I loved about getting help and education. I knew things needed to change. I constantly challenge my personality and ego. Like an OCD person who needs to trust their ritual behavior is inhibiting, I need to understand my uninhibited behavior can be counter productive.

I’ve became good at sticking to my schedule. Its simple things like brushing my teeth everyday. It’s taking a bath everyday. It’s making up my bed everyday. Some people thing that’s normal, but I’ve gone weeks without brushing my teeth or taking a bath. I would eat off the floor. I would sleep on dirty sheets. I didn’t care. I used to not be able to walk away from confrontation. I needed to destroy people I felt were out to get me. I became somewhat schizophrenic. I figured if I was pushed, I needed to push back. I hated that part of me. I hated that prison.

Freedom is the sacrifice for love. Prison is the acceptance of hate.

I don’t feel so out control anymore. Yet, I still worry. When I go into self-imposed exile is because I felt out of control. I go silent to get my mind together. I stay away from those I feel are toxic. Yet I recognize if they trigger part of my counter productive personalities. I don’t give that power away.

Yet, I’m quickly learning control. I fear when I start working again how long will it be before I start acting up. I’m convincing myself I am not a fuck up. I’m convincing myself I’m a good person. How long will it before I get fired for not showing up on time or not showing up at all. I can’t start friendships because I fear how long it will be before I do something crazy. How long will I be before I fuck up again?

I told my psychologist that my problem wasn’t success; it was getting everything and then burning it to the ground. I’ve done it some many times
.
Now every morning when I awake, I say to myself I need to believe. I believe there is a god. I do believe the universe has purpose. I do believe I have purpose. Yet, it’s a fight. Today is a good day. I’m sober. I’m home, sleeping in my own bed. My clothes are clean. I have food in my refrigerator. Life is good. I plan to keep it that way.

My dear sir, I challenge you to a duel.

I would pick the place. Rent one YMCA boxing ring, $100 dollars. I would pick the time. A month from now. I can even buy the gloves and face mask. $100 dollars. I would set him up with a trainer. I would get him a 30 day membership at the gym. I’d hire a referee. All he has to do is show his punk ass up at the place in thirty days. Total budgeted cost of the duel: $500. The pleasure of kicking his ass in front of his friends and family, priceless.

As practiced from the 11th to 20th centuries in Western societies, a duel is an engagement in combat between two individuals, with matched weapons in accordance with their combat doctrines. The Romanticism depiction of medieval duels was based on either a pretext of defense of honor, usually accompanied by a trusted representative (who might themselves fight), often in contravention of the dueling conventions, or as a matter of challenge of the champion which developed out of the desire of one party (the challenger) to redress a perceived insult to his or her sovereign's honor. The goal of the honorable duel was often not so much to kill the opponent as to gain "satisfaction", that is, to restore one's honor by demonstrating a willingness to risk one's life for it.

I think in this modern age of violence, the act of dueling should be brought back. Nobody fights fair anymore. Kids show up to school with guns and then just start shooting innocents because some girl didn’t go out on a date with him. Terrorism has taken the place of a fight with honor. It’s just murder now. I don’t think there is nothing wrong with two individuals going at it without the cheap deadly tricks. I mean an old-fashion after school beatdown. No gang fights. Let them work it in a boxing ring with witnesses and rules.

Some punk ass bitch been talking smack about me. I hate that high school cheerleader shit that goes on in the gay clubs sometimes. When I moved to DC in the beginning I was just another new face. I didn’t say much to anybody. I didn’t care about belonging to any groups. I had enough of the gay cattiness in New York, Texas and Chicago. I wasn’t about to move again.
When I first got to DC, the so call second city, or second chance city I was out of luck and broke and looking for free drinks. Somehow I got a reputation I didn’t intend. I guess because I was young, flirty, and somewhat suspicious that some people thought I was a drug dealer, prostitute or two bit hustler. They figured me trouble because I looked the part of a young black male with a cocky smile on his face. I got kicked out of a lot of clubs for that smile. A black man with too much confidence too many find a threat. Yet, at first I played the role. I liked being the bad boy. It was sexy.

I’m not a fighter. I fought too much growing up. I have 36 male cousins around my age. Everyday was a fight. I have nothing to prove. Yet, I don’t like others thinking they can just say shit about me and I not have a response.

I saw the asshole in question at the bar last Thursday. I was too drunk. The worse thing in the world is drunk fighting. I can’t win a fight if I am drunk. First, the person is unprepared. Their balance is off and emotions are running high. They can’t even use their adrenaline to steady their swings. The last time I got into a drunken bar fight, it was not good in my favor. I accidently picked a fight with a group of bastards who decided to jump me. I knew immediately there was no way I could win. When I was just kicking the one guy’s ass, I had it down but the other three fuckers decided they needed to jump in. I never believed in jumping in my friends’ fight. I feel as if that takes away their honor. I also feel it’s criminal. If my friend is getting his ass kicked, let him get his ass kicked. I once got in trouble when I was a little kid because one of my cousins decided to jump this guy who they didn’t like. The rule in my family was that if one of us got into a fight, then all of us got into that fight. I guess it worked in our favor considering there were a lot of us. It was like being attacked by a pack of wolves. I didn’t jump in that fight that day. The poor innocent guy was just being beaten to death. I was going to worsen his suffering. I wanted to stop it. I had to stop it. I guess that’s me at my heart. I don’t believe in fighting but I do believe in defending my honor.

I live in the city and people are so damn shady. They fear so damn much they are willing to do about anything to hide the fact they are cowards. They will talk about you behind your back but when confronted--they freeze up. Coward. If I say something about someone, trust me, I can say it to their face. If I stank that day, I would tell the person they need to take a bath and not giggle about it like I’m a high school cheerleader. And if I am confronted, I would probably apologize immediately because I probably been drinking and didn’t really mean it.

This guy has taken it too far. I confronted him and he would even acknowledge my existence, like I was diseased or something worse. Normally, I don’t care what other people think about me. I really don’t. What bothers me is if you said something about me, be a man and admit it. Or I will be a nigga and make a fucking scene. Yet, since turning thirty years old, I’ve consciously decided to curb my nigga moments. I’m intelligent. I am a writer. I have three college degrees. I give to charity. I give to the homeless. I don’t have the time to punch a bitch in a bar, get arrested, get a misdemeanor, have to pay bail money, have to get a lawyer and hope that’s the end of it. It usually cost around $1000-$2000 dollars. I don’t have time to end up in jail and not make it to work the next day. I hate community service. I lose money in so many directions. I think two grown men fighting in a bar is so unlady like.

So that’s why I recommend the duel. It’s more civilized. Nobody is drunk. It’s in a nice ring with proper protection. And we just beat the shit out of each other like real men. A good fight allows a person to forgive, winner or loser. A good fight says it means something. Shit I might just get my ass kicked but at least I get to defend my honor. I take back my name.

Yet, I am reminded when one of my cousins wanted to fight my best friend in high school. I feared for him. The clever best friend turned the script on my thuggish cousin. He challenged his intellect. He demanded he would only fight him if my cousin could write a thousand word paper on why they should fight. I remember the dumbfounded look on my cousin’s face. He realized he wasn't just some primitive animal and had the capability of real thought. I decided to write this blog in the same sense of my need to kick this guy’s ass. My argument is as follow:

I never liked him. I would see him out all the time but we never spoke. I just considered him part of the bar furniture. He’s one of those people you hate immediately. He has a snobbish entitled demeanor like he’s curing cancer. I don’t care. I don’t care if he has the highest IQ; I had reserved myself to no just speaking to him. But it’s hard to just ignore somebody you see every damn week. I have sometimes tried to be the bigger man and speak or smile. He usually just rolls his eyes. I try to think if I had every done anything to him. I used to drink a lot and god knows how many people I have pissed off. I didn’t want him to like me; I just wanted to know why he didn’t like me.

I heard what he said about me accidently. Funny, the irony was that I was talking smack about this other guy. This guy really did smell like pussy on fire. I couldn’t understand the smell. It wasn’t the first time he smelled that way and it was offensive. I thought it was more than him being unclean but something diseased. It’s when my bar friend turned to me and said some people have said the same thing about me. I paused. I wanted to know who would say such a thing. He pointed to the asshole in question. I decided not to care. Yet, I cared.

I was more ashamed to be honest. I immediately thought of my grandmother who would be furious I would go weeks without bathing. And then again, those were the drug years. When you are constantly high on something and drunk, time goes by so fast. I was living in a blur. I would have to be reminded by friends to bath and eat. I would go a week without eating. It was no secret to me that I often reeked of sex, weed, alcohol, and uncleanliness. I remember when I used to get on the train people immediately moved away from me. I didn’t care. I was usually high so I didn’t care about nothing.

And then I thought to myself, why I am so angry at that guy for just telling the truth. I was angrier at myself. I needed to challenge myself to a duel. I needed to kick my own ass. I was such a mess two years ago. I hate being reminded of it. I hate that my neighbors still try to get me evicted even if I haven’t done anything criminal in the last two years.

When someone pisses me off to the point I want to cause them bodily harm, I first have to pause. I have to challenge what emotion or fear in my personality was triggered. I have to deal head on with my ego and masculinity. I could kick his ass. I could really hurt the bastard. But the fight isn’t with him. The funny thing, it doesn’t matter if you get your life right, somebody is always going to remind you when you were a fuck up. It’s like people feel the need to be superior. I’m done with apologizing. I have made no amends. I was who I was because I was, that’s it.

Yet, I’m still angry. All he has to do is show up. I dare the bastard. All he has to do is say one more thing about me I don’t like. My anger may be a little misdirected, but so is he accusations. He is still a punk ass bitch.

That is Mr. Bipolar to you!

Sometimes I wonder if I am truly sick or was it all in my head. I wonder if other people believed me or just thought I was a drama queen at moments. I wonder if I just stopped drinking would my life get better. I mean would the insanity stop. But I wasn’t drinking that Monday when I refused to go to work or call. I wasn’t drinking when I cut my wrists.

It was like this noise in my head, sometimes so silent it made me feel dangerously alone, other times it was like the noise started poking me with a sharp stick for attention. The feeling often was anxious and annoyed. Sometimes the feeling made me feel so good I couldn’t stop touching myself or having sex. It was like I was in hyper drive. I didn’t know how to turn if off. But the feeling would be so crazy that it would climb tall buildings and jump off. I would crash hard, on the floor, irrationally afraid for my life. I would just lay on the floor and I would be there for days. Unable to leave the house. So afraid of something, something I knew was trying to kill me, something outside my door. The feeling, it’s so damn powerful. I’ve had it a long time. I’ve had it since I was a child. I thought learned to ignore it. I thought I learned to act normal. It was like my deep dark secret.

So something was wrong. I knew it. I knew it for a long time. I couldn’t just get control of my head. My behavior was becoming more and more erratic. I just didn’t want to hear the word: Crazy. Some people can be so cruel and ignorant. I was afraid of being labeled. I had this guy trying to be funny, talking about how my mood can change five times in ten minutes. I went quiet. It was a joke to him but it was serious to me. It hurt me to the core. I wanted to put my hands around his neck. I didn’t want to go crazy like my mama did. Like my sister did.

My life, I woke up and I was drowning in the deepest and darkest part of the ocean. I couldn’t understand how I got there. I couldn’t understand what kept pulling me under every time I managed to grab the tips of the insanity and breathe for a second. I kept slipping. And it was thundering rain, lightening striking, the heavens moved quickly, like an angry mother screaming for somebody to save her child. Somebody save me.

It seemed like I had been drowning for years, maybe even decades. I got help. I put my pride aside and checked myself into the hospital.

I was so scared that day. I had done something awful. Something that will hunt me for a long time. I just wanted to escape. I just wanted to run as far as I could. I just wanted to die. Not fake death for attention but real death. I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was too hard. I was drowning!!!!! And nobody could save me.

I went to the hospital, broken, tired, my arms marked, self inflicted, and I just laid there. For almost two weeks I just woke up, took medication, talked to a panel of psychiatrists and slept. It was probably some of the best sleep in my life.

And then one day the sun came out. One day I saw land. I didn’t even know what the sun was. I thought it was something that taunted me. I thought it was warmth I would never know because my world was just full of rainstorms and angry oceans. I felt the sun. I felt such clarity on that day. I never knew my mind could be so damn clear. It was like I could feel god in me, around me, clothing me, kissing me, hugging me, telling me he loved me. And then I looked in the mirror. I was a frightening mess. My hair was all disheveled. My eyes looked wild. I had bandages on my arms. I didn’t recognize that person anymore. I knew I wasn’t that person. I was something better. I was just another soul that had gotten lost somewhere. I needed to find my way back.

I made a promise to myself. I promised myself real change. I mean the change of energy. I spent a lot of energy on the wrong things. I was going to keep a journal documenting my change of energy. I was going to constant push myself to face my worse fears. Writing this blog is part of my worse fears. It’s like screaming to the world, I am not perfect. I remember one day in the crazy house, some woman told me I was too pretty to be crazy. She said I could be a doctor. I laughed. I thought it was the pretty ones that were always crazy.

I made a promise to myself a year ago and I haven’t broken it. Shit, I performed miracles. I had nothing a year ago. I mean nothing. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a place to stay. I didn’t have any money in my accounts. I didn’t even own a credit card because I’d always been afraid of the commitment.

And then one day, maybe by accident, maybe by desperation, I washed up on shore. I had decided to stop fighting the ocean, and just drown, I gnawed at my wrists with my teeth, and just let go. I let my body sink. I swallowed all the emptiness and got so full I sunk to the bottom. I hope to never wake. But I did wake up, choking on the frustration on dry land. The ocean had gotten tired or pitied me and threw me out. Maybe God said I will give this nigga another chance.

So there I was on dry land, the sun smashing down on me like a foot on my neck, the sand sticking in my back like chards of broken glass and I was naked. I had nothing but my soul. Before I was just ocean and the storm, the rain and thunder, but under that sun, I was just bare. That scared the shit out of me. I had too many secrets to be naked. I had too much shame.

So here I am on dry land, confused, traumatized and very pissed off. Why did it take so long for me to arrive? Why did I have to first give in to death before God decided I should live.

I wasn’t promised anything. Nobody said I could be happy because I wasn’t drowning anymore. Nobody said life was going to be perfect. I had a broken child in me to fix. I started to learn only I could fix him. I believe we die heroes, victims, survivors or villains. I was tired of being the victim.



Now the real work begins. All I want from my life now is to be grateful. I am grateful to all my good days. A good day. I wake up and I’m sober. I'm in my own bed. Not at the bathhouse or bookstore or crack house, my own bed. I first pray. I pray for strength. I pray for faith. I pray for gratitude. I always start my morning with being grateful for the day that has passed. I always do something today so that my tomorrow will be grateful. It’s simple really. I brush my teeth, facial, do my nails, make up my bed, clean the dishes, take out the trash, do my thirty minute exercise and fifteen intense minutes of yoga and I am ready.


My five prayers through the day. I first pray for faith. I start with I believe. It’s simple. I believe I woke up. I believe there is a god. I believe I have purpose in my life. I believe my dreams will come true. And I believe like I breathe. I know if I stopped believing for more than two minutes I will suffocate to death. I finally believe I am a good person. That’s most important. It’s because I believe I am enough.

The prayer of gratitude. It seems as if I’ve been in and out of the hospital my entire life. I almost lost my left leg at age 4. I got bitten by a rat that same year and lost the hearing in my right ear. I’ve been shot. I’ve been hit in the head with a brick twice. I once stepped on a rusty nail and it went through my foot. And all that was before ten years old. I grateful that I have the ability to walk. I’m grateful I have one good ear. I was told I would be deaf by that age of twenty five. That didn’t happen. I am grateful to be health. I had pneumonia and I know what it feels like to no be able to breathe. It is true, if you don’t have your health, you have nothing. You can’t play, have sex, watch television, walk around the block, laugh; all you think about is making it to the next second. It amazes me how quick some of us are willing to give up our health. Some of us are willing to do things with strangers who wouldn’t loan you a dollar but fuck you raw behind some tree in the parks.

The prayer of work. I believe in a good work ethic. I believe in the Booker T. Washington work ethic. You get good at what you’re doing now and that will open the door for you tomorrow. I didn’t use to believe in a good work ethic. I used to feel as if I owed something.

The prayer of fear. I liked to face my fears. My worse fear is rejection. I don’t know why I decided to become a writer because that is a life of steady rejections. I fear not being good enough. I fear that people are going to find out about so many lies I’ve told over the years. I try to correct those lies as much as possible.

The prayer of love and trust. I like this prayer the best. It’s the prayer before I go off to sleep. I ask myself did I love myself today. Did I tell myself I loved me? Did I respect myself? I ask myself did I love my friends and family. Did I give love instead of take love? Funny, babies come into this world ready to give love. As we get older and forget, we think we are here to just receive love. I used to cringe at the fact my mother didn’t love me enough. I had to accept that in order for me to be truly happy; I was going to have to give her love anyway.

PTSD

I had that dream again. It's been over sixteen years since I left home and I'm still having that dream. It's like I am constantly running away. I have put over thousands of miles away from San antonio. It's like i moved to the opposite part of the map and I am still having that dream. I wonder why it won't go away.

Change

I woke up this morning thinking about change. I don’t believe it. I feel as if I’ve been the same person since I was born. Yes, my body changed. I got bigger. I learned to talk. I learned to walk. I learned to use the bathroom properly. I didn’t learn to tie my shoes until I was like in the second grade. Yet I could read at five years old. I didn’t learn to tie my shoes until I was in the second grade because I never wore tennis shoes. I usually went barefoot or sandals. I guess during those days, Child Protective Services weren’t that active.

I woke up this morning thinking about change. So much this past year has changed. I moved three different times. At the beginning of the year I moved into this really nice house with some psycho guy. That only lasted for like a month. He taught me some great lessons. Don’t trust crazy people. I used to think I was crazy, but that dude was really crazy. And then I moved into a transitional house. I hated it. I decided to move back in with my ex. I felt like Anne Frank at his house. It was important that none of his neighbors knew I was back. I had actually gotten kicked out of his place in 2007. Lucky for me, all the old residents moved out. Then I moved to my own apartment. I found that living on your own was a little overrated. “I need supervision.’ I don’t trust myself alone. I moved into my own place but never unpacked; instead I paid the rent via mail and stayed with my ex. I liked his place better. After a year of wasting money, I decided to not renew my lease and moved back in with him temporarily. The truth, I never moved out.

Change, I don’t believe in it. I believe we just refocus our energy. The only reason I’m up writing this blog at 6:30 in the morning is because I’m sober. When I started getting blocks of time with sobriety, I found I had a lot of energy I didn’t have before. I don’t drink as nearly as much as I used to. That changed. I didn’t change. I just refocused my energy.

I believe we evolve or die. Its how man went from ape to walking up straight. Its how the brain grew when humans started using tools. Its how the world is getting smaller by the second.
I don’t believe in change. Change can be a lie. If someone changes their clothes and start speaking in a different accent, is that change or something they’ve consciously decided to manifest? I don’t like those make-over shows. Just because for one day a person gets a new pair of teeth or a new dress don’t make them a different person. Usually they go back to being the same person about a month later. On that show the Biggest Loser, yes during the show they lose weight but they end up gaining it back as soon as the camera stops rolling. They changed their physical looks for a brief moment but who they were internally hadn’t evolved.

I knew when I seriously considered getting sober I couldn’t listen to other people tell me how to do it. I knew I didn’t need rehab. I stopped going to AA. Most important I knew I could lie. I’d been a liar my entire life. Yet, I also knew I couldn’t lie to myself. I knew the truth. I knew what I did alone. I knew only I alone could stop me. I also knew I needed to evolve in order to survive. I was going to die. I thought at the beginning that’s what I wanted. I didn’t die. I decided to reexamine the experiment we call life. My life.

I was dying. I had been standing in my life in one spot away from the sun. I was slowly withering. I could see it when I looked in the mirror. I could feel it in my sleep those nights when I wake up gasping for air. I knew all the debauchery was finally catching up to me. I couldn’t outrun it any longer. I finally understood when people would say “I had to quit or die.” Yes, as an addict I could’ve lived a couple of more years. But being an addict it only gets worse. It never gets better. Nobody has figured out a way except “William Burroughs” to control it.

I needed to evolve. Just like I learned how to walk. Just like I learned how to talk. I needed to learn how to live. I had to understand the definition. It’s how the internal and external balances each other. For a long time, externally people used to think I was doing great in my life. I hid my demons well in the beginning. I was the most miserable person I felt. I hated everything about me. The hate used to be so evil sometimes it felt like it was strangling me in my sleep. The depression used to be so deep I felt I had drowned. My soul was just a ghost haunting me.
I believe if addicts really begin to understand why they self medicated true change can happen at the soul level vs. the human level. I’m still working on it.

Today, at this moment, I am sober. I am happy. Internally I feel great about myself. I didn’t die. It’s miracle. I am a miracle. I bask in this sobriety. I wish it for those looking for it.

The worse I did, i did to myself: A year later in recovery

Damn, last year about this time, I was just getting out of the mental hospital, I was homeless, jobless, broke, and it all seemed so damn hopeless. I was also very sick, had walking pneumonia and didn’t even know it because I wouldn’t stop the drinking and meth to get better. They tried to tell me in the hospital but I hadn’t decided if I wanted to live or not. They sedated me and gave me a flu shot. I told them I would sue them.

I thought I wanted to die.

I didn’t die.

I got sober and it wasn’t the end of the world. I started consistently taking my meds, and I didn’t lose myself. I thought being on antipsychotics and antidepressants would make me a zombie. I thought it would take away my creativity and edge. It didn’t.

I didn’t think I could turn it around. I got an apartment. I got a job. I grew up.

Yet, it hasn’t been easy. It was like the second I got some insanity, a lot of shit started happening to me. At first I thought it was karma. The first place I found to live ripped me off. It was such a nightmare I just forfeited deposit and down payment to get out of my lease. I lost like two thousand dollars. I had to move back in with my ex until I got a new place. I also started getting sick. I thought it was withdrawal symptoms. I kept going to hospital but they would just tell me it was the flu or bronchitis. It was pneumonia. I had to stay in the hospital for like a week. I lost my job. I found another apartment but without a job I completely wiped out my savings account. I got a new job and got sick again. Another two weeks in the hospital. It was like god was fuckign with me. I swear everything that could go wrong, went wrong. I fell off the bus and sprang my toe. I got gout in my right big toe. I found out that I was anemic which explained me passing out all the god damn time. My dentist ripped me off, so I can’t forget that.

Anyways, none of that I saw as setbacks but blessings. I didn’t belong in that apartment. I couldn’t afford it anyway. I need that job, I wasn’t happy. I also finally faced my health. Years of drug and alcohol abuse catches up to you. I wasn’t afraid of the failure anymore.

A year later, I knew I had changed when I met up with a friend to go hang at his house. I hadn’t seen him in a year. The last time I saw him, he was sick. He said it was just the flu but I knew it was something more. He didn’t mention it. I didn’t mention it but he was already skinny and had lost more weight. I was supposed to go visit him in the hospital when I realized I didn’t know his real name. I’d know that kid for five years and didn’t know his real name. The problem with my friend, I used to look at his life as romantic. I thought he was just as a lost soul as me. I went to him often not just to score drugs or the latest sex party, but also advice. It seemed that he always had men around him, the latest raw fuck session, getting high. It was my dream of nasty, no consequences. At least thought I pretend like there were no consequences because I figured I‘d be dead before thirty years old. Nothing really matter to me.

But it was all a lie. That’s what I knew for truth staring into that tin mirror at the state mental hospital. It was all a lie.

I went to my friend’s place and I knew I was going to get high with him. That was part of the problem with my past, all my friends did drugs. Anyways, I got to his place; I hadn’t done Miss Tina in like a year. I wanted to see if it had gotten better because the last time was really shitty. I hadn’t had really good Tina in years. I just started doing cocaine at the end of my breakdown. Anyways, I got to my friend’s place and we smoked. It wasn’t good Tina. I couldn’t feel a thing. What I really wanted was a cocktail but I hadn’t drank in like a month. At my friends house we talked about dental. He smoked so much his teeth were rotting really bad. They had been rotting for like a year, but I never said anything. My teeth were rotting from Tina smoking also, so when I got into that fight at the bar and those boys jumped me, kicked me, bruised my ribs and knocked out four of my front teeth. I couldn’t slow down enough to fix the problem. I stayed toothless for a year.

I couldn’t get high at my friend’s house. I also snorted some pain killers at my place and they weren’t giving me that much of a high. It was frustrated me terribly because what I really wanted was a drink. I decided I go buy a bottle but it wasn’t that simple. It was liquor or dinner for two days. A year ago that wouldn’t have been an issue. It would’ve been liquor. Hands down, no fucking thinking about it, it would’ve been liquor.

I was walking home with having decided that I rather eat than get drunk, when I passed a member I used to see in AA all the time. She smiled at me. I smiled back. That was it. I made it home safely.

I don’t know why her smiling at me in that moment, meant so much to me. I was half high but I wasn’t drunk. Drugs never did it for me anyway without the liquor.
I’d just miss it or want it more.

Lastly, when I got home. Tatum O’Neal was on Oprah. It was like god was trying to tell me something. She had gotten busted trying to score cocaine on the streets. That is so risky. She was ten months sober. She just got back her kids. I didn’t feel sorry for her. It’s part of the process of recovery. No one is perfect. If I saw her on the street, I’d just smile at her. “I know”

And what I know for sure after this year, AA is not for me. I go to meetings every once in awhile but I felt it hindered my recovery more than it helped. I would leave AA meetings feeling more alone and misunderstood. But I kept going until I started rebelling. Until I started drinking again and lying about it. I felt like a liar in AA because I would get a good period of time sober, then I would tell the group
And they applaud and give that token. The token would burn in my pocket and I hated counting down days like until I drank again. I felt like a failure most of the time. I felt as if I couldn’t be the perfect recovered addict. I decided to stop trying and that’s when I got free.

What I know for sure. True recovery is about self. It was about “me” I knew what I did alone when I was alone. I knew I could hide it like I did for years. I wanted to become a better alcohol, addict like some criminals do when they go to jail or prison. Not get caught the next time.

I don’t believe in rehabilitation. The system doesn’t care about the individual, just the statistics. I felt in AA I was losing my individuality and my so called “diseased” was being generalized. I knew if I wanted I could hide behind the cloak. It made people smiled when I said I was in AA or in rehab. AA taught me how to get the applause. I didn’t want to lie to myself. I know who I am when I’m alone. When I think nobody is watching.

A year ago, I looked in the mirror and I knew I had nothing. When I sought recovery, I really meant recovery. It wasn’t about drinking. I didn’t drink twenty two years of my life. It wasn’t about the drugs. It wasn’t about all the sex. It was about pain. It was about suffering and thinking that’s all I knew how to do. I grew up being abused so I thought that was life. The pain tricked my brain where I constantly lived in the past instead of reality: Real time.

It had to stop. I had to get angry. I had to get fed up. My genius plan of suffering wasn't working out anymore. I had to give myself freedom to change my mind. Even that came with consequences. Not because I won’t people to think I’m a nice person, normal, because I’m not. I’m just human. I just a human being the best I can given the circumstances.

I also know for sure, nobody gives a damn about the recovered addict. Most just waiting for the relapse like a fat person who has lost a lot of weight. “How long will it last”

When I told my landlord I was in AA and just completed an addict and alcoholic program, he still told me I had to move out of the apartment. I could no longer stay with my boyfriend. I didn’t get my relationship back. I had put him through so much he told me he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. It was weird because it felt like our entire relationship was based on me being a “fuck-up.” And the second I started acting right, he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. Aint that some shit.

Truth, I don’t count days anymore. Who gives a fuck if I’m sober a year or ten years, all they really care about is if I’m displaying erratic behavior. I get so tired of people (celebrities) say I’m going to rehab or AA like Tatum O’Neal when they really don’t believe. When they only fear the consequences of their addict behavior so they fake “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry these days is just good public relations. It’s like a husband buying his wife flowers or expensive jewelry after he cheats to deal with his guilt and delude himself he is still a good person. I say fuck the flowers and jewelry, just stop cheating or end the relationship. I say fuck Rehab and AA, stop drinking and driving. I did. After my DWI back in 1995, I decided to move to a city where I didn’t have to drive. And I say, fuck it. I’m not sorry.


The worse I did, I did to myself. I alienated a lot of people so that’s why I have very few friends. I burned a lot of bridges and opportunities because I refused to control my behavior. I was selfish. I tried to act like I didn’t give a damn, and that made me psychotic.

The worse I did, I did to myself. Fuck everybody else until I’ll have to say “I’m sorry again.”

Insecure Dyslexia

Recentlty i sorta of ended a "internet" friendship. I felt he crossed a very sensitive line with me. I know a lot of people think I don't have feelings or safe because they are miles away from me bitch slapping them. He said something about my grammar. It was as if he was calling me stupid or something. It wasn't put in a nice way.

I know i have grammatical problems. It's been my issue my entire life. It's like my mind could always figure a math problem, anything logical, but when it came to disseting a sentence, my mind went blank. Like there was a wall and I couldn't just understand it. It wasn't logical. Grammar isn't logical, but a descendent of the word glamorous. It was for rich people.

I didn't want to become a writer. I felt my grammar would get in my way. I would always have to have people read over my stuff to find the mistakes. But that's not all that easy. I used to think I would pay someone, but until i get my book deal, that's not all that easy.

I know what my issues are. One is past and present tense. I think in both. Edward Albee told me that all writers think in both tenses, but getting from our mind onto paper sometimes can be the problem. I know another issue of mine is fast typing and fast thinking. I often forget to put in words. It's funny once it's on paper, I can't see it anymore. It's like my mind is playing tricks on me. I know the word should be there and in my mind it's there, but a month later when i go back and re-read, it's not there. I feel so stupid.

Another one of my issues is words that look or sound alike. For a long time i was using the word "bowel" thinking "bile." When i look back at it, it' fucking funny, but at the time, catty queens used to love to point out all my mistakes.

I started my blog to help myself with my writing. I figured if i wrote more, then i could catch the mistakes before I started sending things out professionally. The thing about a blog, is so calvalier, I usually write them in a rush not caring for grammar or anything. But lately, I told myself i could do a lot better.

Writing for me is such an explosive process. It's like an orgasm. I just want to get it out and feel the rush. Afterwards, I don't want any cuddling, just clean up the mess until the next orgasm. But since I've fallen in love with a good man, myself, i think i know love, now writing for me is love. I want to caress it afterwards. I want the world to see it as beautiful as it flows through me.

I will keep looking at my three major insecurites with grammar, try to get better, try not to be so lazy.