So much to say, so little time...

Wow. 

I was going to blog a couple days ago about something neat I read about ADD and similar psychological-slash-physiological afflictions.  It was about how when something emotionally trying or threatening comes a-calling on the sensory horizon of those with ADD, the reticular formation, a particularly important part of our brainstem, is over-inhibited by the pre-frontal cortex.  This over-inhibition causes one to become tired, drowsy; yawning and needing a good solid nap.  This, it would seem, is a means by which our brain can protect us from those things that threaten; in this case, not a lion or tiger but emotion.

I always wondered why when I sang and played guitar, I would often end up yawning halfway through a song, becoming increasingly drowsy as I continued.  Of course, my playlist consists of the hurtin'est songs you could imagine. Like this, or this, or even this so I guess it's pretty easy to see why my play would trigger uncomfortable emotions.  

So this revelation had me pretty excited to write.  But life drew me into other areas of focus these last couple days.  Which is good, but then it gave me a whole new pile of revelations and discoveries that warranted more writing. 

A new endeavour which promises sweeping life changes - for the good - seems to be taking off.  I embarked on a small spiritual journey to solidify this project in my heart and being and more little epiphanies lay therein which, again, begged for more writing.

But the living of this script doesn't seem to lend itself to writing about it.  

Time has become precious.  

Apropos because I've wasted so much of it in recent years.

So to sit and reflect and wax poetic just hasn't been my focus of late.  I wanted to really set down on this current chapter of my life, and write.  To walk through the phases and changes that I experience as I truly walk closer and closer to a healthy lifestyle.  But as the days progress and time passes without me clouding things up with dope, the writing becomes less important and the living of life becomes more the focus.

I have crossed through several archways lately that I have historically shrunk from, hidden from and left uncrossed in the past.  These successes feel good.  

But life is not about these successes.  Because still I struggle.  It's not as though I have made the spiritual choice, the responsible choice the RIGHT choice and then sunned myself in the glory of the moment.

Instead, life has her own plans, and welcomes me to the other side, across the chasm of uncertainty, self-doubt and fear, and then drapes me in more fear, more uncertainty and doubt.  

But inside this cloud of doubt and fear lives this little glowing kernel of respect - self respect, that grows stronger with each responsible choice.

I kind of like it.

I could get used to this.

More to come.
xox.
S.

My son, my son...

The opening from a poem my mom wrote for me when I was about 10.

"..what have you done," it continues.  "To make me love you so?"

"Is it your eyes or is it your toe?"

And on and on she went, extolling my virtues and poking me in my self conscious ribs at the same time.

I had an incredibly powerful conversation/argument/discussion/reaching of an understanding with my oldest this morning.  He's a helluva guy.

"The prince" my mom called him when he was very small.

I am halfway through being 42 and still working to figure out who the fuck I am.  He is 17 and working hard to establish what that means for himself too.  We are so much the same, and he wants so much to not be me, but yet so much of me does he kinda wish for himself... (sigh)  Crazymaking..

He is all the depth of feeling and consideration and understanding that one could ever want for one's child, and he is the bombast, toughness and righteousness too.  I am as proud of him now as I was the moment I saw him, all chubby and plump and thick shock of straight black indian hair, soon to become ringlet curls...

I saw my wrong today and owned it.  He saw his and owned it too.  It was pretty awesome to be there, in that conversation, with that guy; that young man.  I gained immeasurable respect for him today.

Earlier, between rounds, I phoned his mom in exasperation, frustration, wondering if there was some secret that caused him to leave his home, to come to the city, to try his hand at this reinvention.

"Did he burn any bridges?  Were there any incidents?"...  Said I, all panicky and concerned.

"Not at all," said she.  "He's just a good kid trying to find his way on his own."

"By the way his grad ceremony will be on the 20th and you guys should come.  It'll be nice."

Warmed my heart.

This calm, practical woman who, thank GOD, was the one to raise him.  Who, with the help of her stalwart man, and a nice big NDN family, prepared this boy for the life that was to come.  I was in there somewhere, flitting in and out like a Disneyland Daddy, singing and charming and cooking and camping my way into his heart somehow...

But here we were today.  Man and young man:  One trying to help and shine light on the path and the other fighting like hell to turn out that light and stumble in the dark - On his own.

And he held his own.  And hung up on me when he should have.  And called back, even sooner than I would have done when I was 17.  And we worked through it.  And I love him.  Forever.  I will like him for always.  But, as long as you're living, Daniel.  My baby you'll be!

Round and Round...

The world is round.  So said my Hutterite friend last summer*.  So said I to my Polish friend last week.  Good things happen; bad things happen.  Things happen.  Things happen to us.  We make things happen.  When we struggle, things become difficult.  Generally, when we run with the rhythm of life, in the current of positive thought and deed, good happenings occur easily.

I'm trapped somewhere between the world of sinner and saint, closer to sinner by far, and in this lonesome stretch of highway, there seems to be a lull in the proceedings.  At least in the things that I "want" to fall into my world.  Like about $10 grand to dig my way out of the stressful hole that I slowly but methodically dug these past few months/years...

I'm online today, seeking out career changes, educational opportunities, even work opportunities...  Stressing over fines and bills and "stuff" and bullshit.  Worried about the future, when really..  Really, the only work I have before me today is to not pick up dope.

And to not worry about setting my net for jobs and income when I still have fish to clean from my last catch.
Everything will come when it is supposed to.  Just keep my side of the street clean.

My heart beats harder at this realization.  The tears well up.  They call this "surrender"...A ti me rindo.  "To you I rend."

Letting go of the panicky hustle I have conditioned myself to do and just doing what's in front of me.

(sigh)...

Ok..  For now this will have to do.

Right now I have hungry kids in front of me!
xox.
S.






*Piscescree Blogspot - "It's Always Something," April 2013

First Things First...

I have to write.  I just have to.  At least I think I do.  It's because I think all the fucking time.  Too much.  What was, what could have been, what should have been, what will be...  blah, blah, blah... My brain creates visions, and then it makes connections between them and the next thing.  On and on.  

And in doing all this thinking, I am expending some degree of energy.  Very little energy, but some energy nonetheless.  And my brain, drug addled and self obsessed though it may be, perceives this endless brainbabble  as actually doing the thing I am thinking about.

I sense that this hearkens back to my childhood when a trip to Disneyland was out of the fucking question, or even a video game console or some such thing. My mind would create such strong imagery - experiencing the world through PBS and Encyclopedia Brittanica.  I would build these complex universes - like a post apocalyptic preteen mountain lifestyle where the nukes would fly and I would have time to commit a B & E at the Pioneer sporting goods store next to the Bakery and IGA on the hill (Hintonites know of which I speak) and take to the wilderness with plenty of guns, ammo, snare wire and dehydrated stroganoff.

There was a certain solace in knowing that I could succeed in this world - a world of bears and deer, trout and weather and solitude.  That perhaps one of the sweet girls I admired at Mountainview Elementary or Overlander Junior High would see my survival talents and come live in my cabin and we would procreate and eat wondrous meals and hibernate away from the nuclear winter that was sure to come.  

This was a far better reality than the one I was experiencing.  I did not feel worthy of anything special or nice or wondrous.  Much of this came from me not wanting to impose anything further on my mom, who, bless her heart, did the level best she could with what she had at the time.  So my "not asking for anything" was a little bit that I could do to be small and less of a burden.

I lived instead in my mind.  In the books that I spent hours with.  

This kind of escapist thought became my reprieve. 

It has now become my deepest weakness.

These thoughts continue.  Imagining what I will do, and doing nothing of the sort.  The thoughts include several things that are related to my achieving my own self respect.  Things like working on the relationships with my sons, long absent from my life; strengthening my financial situation, staying sober, etc.  All the wreckage from 30 years of pretty much being high, drunk, self obsessed or draped in lies. 

I picture the time spent on these precious tasks, see the sun and rain and all the details in between, and the rainbow at the end, all in a matter of seconds, and my feelings seem to evolve as though I've actually done it.

This is fucked.

Fucked because I imagine all these character building exercises and imagine that I've become the character that they've built.

Then carry this zhǐlǎohǔ or  紙老虎 or paper tiger of personality shift around like a plastic dollar store police badge of accomplishment.

I can't continue this any longer.  I am 42 not 12.  I can not keep building escapist cabins in the bush and feeling like I'm Grizzly Adams when I am trapped in a suburban crackhead nightmare of bullshittery and strained talents.

I paint pictures that are pretty black and white, but the reality is that there are moments of clarity, moments of truth that I do walk through.  Too few though. 

I need more.  

I have a feeling that these incessant thoughts need to be exposed and shown the light of day lest they continue to commit perjury in the psychic court of my life.

Perhaps they can live here in this little homely blog.  

...

I speak of these things today because I have been spending a lot of time writing the next chapter of my life in my mind.  Imagining my way out of this nonsense and into the next phase of wellness, growth, sobriety, career fulfillment, etc...   It has become a bit of a din, (or is that djinn?)

This transitional thinking hedges on being a "plan for recovery and healing" but mostly it is a creatively visualized reality that resonates like my nuclear hermit plan from my childhood.  Real tween the ears but nowhere else.

As such, I sense myself going through the mock changes, see the physical changes in my appearance from working out every day, sense the integrity and honesty taking root in my consciousness, my sense of self becoming humble, kind, real and firmly ensconced in a sustainable home we've built ourselves, with me in the garden, or polishing solar panels, fit and brown and handsome as all get out. 

So I paint a picture out of the madness into a sane and respectable life, look at it for a few minutes, commit to "do the work."  Maybe even put in a few days towards the goalposts...  Then, quietly, like a thief in the night, my penchant for the silky stroke of the pipe comes stealing into my thoughts.  

Poof.

Gone.

Back to the drawing board, square one, whatever you want to call it.

I have been recently obsessing about my current situation, financial, spiritual, career wise, all of the above.  Trying to duct tape and band aid and shuck and jive my way to the path to enlightenment and truth, sobriety and respect.

Looking at consolidation loans, career changes, geographical changes, whatever. Madly trying to fix what I've broke;  what has been broken for so long.

Fuck it.

I have all the tools right here right now.  Within my arms' reach; within the scope of my imaginings and the frame of my doings.  I just need to get out of my own way.

"I suffer from figureitoutism," says a dear friend of mine.  

Me too Al.

Let the brain exercise here on the keys when it starts to get noisy in there...  When I start conjecturing and posturing and reaping the spoils of my imagined efforts.  

Just do what's in front of you says I to me.  First things first, the rest will come when it's sposed to.

Unless God went and left when I was out chasing my tail.  Though I'm pretty sure the Universal Love that I call God doesn't leave.  Never.  I just turn away every now and again perhaps because I don't feel worth the love that flows so freely.

Anyways, that's a story for another day.

xox
S.

I'm just not sure...

So I am grabbing the keys for the first time in several months.  My heart is jabbering away in my chest - worried, excited, nervous...  Just fibrillating away, making me feel out of breath.  Just because I'm asking it to feel.  I was fine a few minutes ago, until I read some of my writing and saw the beauty and compassion and wit and love.  Then I figured I better write again; loosen up a bit.  Get ready for this next stage.

And now I'm fibrillating.

Could be the Ritalin that I've decided to stop.  Funny, forty-two years of unmedicated lunacy and then the diagnosis and subsequent prescription.  I spose I haven't given it a proper chance though:  I've been using consistently.  I thought that perhaps my frequent disappearances were because my mind needed a break from the constant high level thinking I was doing (insert sardonic grin here).  Saw the parallels in ADD symptom and my behaviour and sought to bridge the gaps, synaptic that is, with legal psychoactive medications.

Bullshit.

I like crack.  I like the way it tastes and I like the first few hits.  Period.  No romantic psychobabble or esoteric interpretations.  If I was a dog, I would probably lick my balls too.  I have, since the earliest memories, overdone those things that bring me pleasure.  (interpret how you see fit)  And the natural progression of this behaviour has led me to the street and to the devil's dick. (a slang for a crack pipe)

15 years.  15 fucking years of using.  All the while, perpetuating some kind of weak illusion of being a smart, sensitive Indian man with traditional values and compassion.

How compassionate is it to pawn my son's spiderman fishing rod?

These behaviours do not define me.  I am more than this deluded thinking and acting would have one believe.  But if I keep doing it, keep perpetuating the lies and self destructive act, I am this in toto.

These words today are scattered, jabbering.... a little disconnected.  So am I.  All over the fucking map.  I have been thinking so much of what I should do, what I should have done, could have done.  Thinking all the while of what I could be doing right now that is conducive to my recovery, to my family's and my health.  Doing it a little bit and then jumping off the fucking deep end again.

This is my start.  Again.  A first stab at self awareness and liberating the convoluted thinking and feelings that cram my heart and mind like so many peanut can snakes.

I don't want to hurt the ones I love anymore.  I can see a way out of the misery, pain, fear and suffering.  It starts with honesty.  I will do my best.
Love to all,
even me.
S.