2015 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 760 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 13 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Drop that bitch!

So, in a recovery program, steps 5, 6, & 7 teach you how to own up.  Steps 6 & 7 are the ones where you look at your character defects- your seven deadlies and how you act out upon them- show them to the world, you little pot-stirrer, you!-and ask your HP to remove them- Humbly ask.  So, there’s a book designed for steps 6 & 7- Drop The Rock.  I highly suggest to ANYONE who wishes to improve his/her life.  It’s just damned good.

Everyday, I have an app I subscribe to: The Leo King.  It describes the astrology for the day, planet energy and a tarot card for the day et al.  Today was the 7 of Pentacles reversed.  Why are you raking up dead leaves?  Why are you tending are garden that needs to be left fallow- there’s a word for you!  Let that shit go- DROP THAT BITCH!!!!!

So, last night in therapy, I come up with the term, Drop that Bitch!  Drop it!  No longer serves you?  Let it go to the wayside.  “Leave it”, as you would tell your dogs.  “Wrecking Ball”…intersante.  So, show of hands- how many people had a shitshow for Christmas?  That’s what I thought.  I had three people come out of the woodwork.  One is irrelevant.  Two was an ex-friend.  And three was the kinky Scotsman.  WTF, over?  So far, I’ve blown off two of the three.  The one I’m obsessing over is the irrelevant one.  Drop that Bitch! Let it go.  Just not that into you…Remember that one?  If they want to spend time with you, they will move mountains.  And not hesitate to do so.  Here’s another secret- you are/I am worth a mountain, or 12.

So, I talked to my tattoo artist yesterday.  Yes.  It’s time.  I’ve turned another corner.  My knees ain’t getting any better neither.  As a matter of fact, they are getting worse.  I have a four hour window where I am good, then I am useless and pained for the rest of my waking hours.  Oh, if only I had known.  But hindsight is 20/20.  So don’t put glasses on your ass and look back!  Drop That Bitch!!!

So, I’m down to, like 4-ish parts.  From 84.  to 4.  Since 2008.  7 years.  I’ve worked my ASS off.  Dropped that bitch/bitches.  I was cleaning out my desk and found the piece of paper that had my hep C cysts imaging on it, before I began Interferon in 2012.  During Dave’s trial.  Stone cold sober.  Bitches.

Oh yeah, my house has a ghost that likes mischief/gremlins.  My bipap machine stopped two times last night.  MM hmm.  My teacher is coming over to smudge next Tuesday.  All over that shit.

So, 2015 was an interesting year.  Dave’s gone.  Drop That, Bitch!!!!!  WOOO HOOOOO!!!!!  Not my fucking problem, anymore.  Went back to whence he came.  My neighbors all think I’m crazy.  Sweet.  Stay away.  And maybe I am nuts, I’m also an artist.  Fine line.  Friends with the monster…Drop them bitches!

So, today the advice is- if it’s making you crazy, restless and discontent- Drop it.  Just let it go.  You can only control you and your reactions.  Today has the potential for emotional volatility, so think before you speak.  Yes.  I just said that.  And for God’s sake:  DROP THAT BITCH!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Real Deal

Fuckin’ Hell.  I’m over it.  My new issue of Real Simple came and it said something like:  “The year devoted to you”.  Yeah.  It’s high time I made amends to myself, quit apologizing for my journey and existence, stop making an ass of myself, and groveling for affection.  Or, trying to get affection from people who see me as an option instead of a muthafunkin priority.  Which, this year?  Starting today?  I am.

Was at my therapists last night.  We’re exploring negative self esteem and the negative core beliefs that I operate from…Holy Fuck!  No wonder!  Jesus.  A little time out for Zuzu, goes a long fucking way.  I mean, I’m sneaking out tomorrow about three to go see Spectre and then Star Wars.  Yes, I pre-ordered my ticket.  But, I’m going to be in fantasy land, phone turned off for, like 8 hours.  Crazy!  When I was a kid, I used to escape my reality by reading.  I told my therapist:  I am super uncomfortable reading.  I feel as if I should be doing something.  Fuck!  I’ve turned into a human doing instead of a human being.  Suck ass.  For realz, yo.  I mean, I have books coming out my ears- like the Roman Empire’s library.  I’ve read 10% of them because I feel so guilty taking time out for me.  I mean, wow.  Super unhealthy.  I don’t even have kids.  I do, down to 10 parts, a lot of them littles, and I’m just like, totally overwhelmed.

December 1, 2015 was (and is, every year) World AIDS Day.  I asked my mom if she would like to go to a celebration/remembrance for WAD.  No.  Okay, why?  I had just, finally, viewed Dallas Buyers Club, and I was all jazzed, and she says, “No.  I will never support you in anything HIV/AIDS related.”  Okay, so when I die from shit from my HIV, like, I don’t know, Cancer, you wouldn’t take me to chemo?  She’s all I would’ve made a different choice, and it wasn’t my choice to make and I’m just not there yet.  All like five hours before the WAD ceremony.  Okay.  If I had known he was a lying fucking sociopath, dontcha think I would’ve pulled an Iron Maiden and Run to the Hills?  Woulda, coulda, shoulda, doesn’t really do me a whole lot of good right now.  One thing about my mom- I know where I fucking stand.  So, whatever…

January 4th, I start my Improv class and the 6th is volunteer orientation for HIV/AIDS organization here in town.  I’ll perform, make people laugh, hone a craft I adore, and then reach out and impact others.  Yes, Dave passing helped tremendously.  I feel a helluva lot more free.  Will there be romance in 2016?  I think so.  It’s way over due.  And it’s romance, not bullshit.

Speaking of bullshit, I found out that my first love, that I made amends to a million years ago, is married, was married, has someone.  Awesome.  The piece of shit has NEVER acknowledged he received the amends letter.  No, I’m married.  No, lose my everything.  Nothing.  Just, typical, you ripped my heart out, abandoned me, I’m going to humiliate you.  Kissed his friend in high school- way after we had broken up for the second time?  Walks behind me and says just loud enough for me to hear, “Whore”.  What about your fucking soul brother?  He’s just as fucking guilty.  But, no, fuck you too, ass wipe.

This is why I’m being 100% totally selfish and spoiling the fuck out of myself in 2016.  It starts now.  Went to my HIV case manager.  Made arrangements.  Bought myself some healing crystals and a Star Wars ticket;  Going to see my shrink.  Fuck all y’all.  I’ve been killing myself trying to be all things to all people and make everyone else happy before me.  Well, that fucking never works.  I understand, eat, pray, love now.  Walked into the crystal shop, sign in the breezeway- “eat, pray, love”.  Got it.  Done fucking deal.  I’ve never really acted like the only child I am, but fuck you, now?  Game on.  It’s all about me.

I saw someone speak about their experience, strength and hope a couple of weeks ago.  She remarked when she first sobered up, she didn’t even know what her favourite colour was.  Well, I don’t know what I like to do and how I like to treat and be treated.  I know, for a motherfucking fact, not being my authentic self, and putting everyone and everything and all their shit before my own?  I’m a fucking angry, bitter mess.  But I’m HALTing it.  Before I go off or some shit.  You know what?  I don’t exist to you?  Sweet, now I know where I stand and I don’t have to try to prove myself and sell you on the idea of me because my self esteem is so fucking low.  I think of myself as an ends to a means.  Not a means to an end.  I’m the problem, but I’m also the solution.  So, watch out bitches.

I lost Don, Dave and a few other people.  Some through my HP’s will, some through my own will.  Some just cause.  Maybe, I actually outgrew them, or saw their fucking horseshit games, and said, “enough”.  No wonder I relapsed.  I was living on empty, shallow, surviving instead of thriving.  I bought myself a necklace.  An old therapist said I needed a Badge of Honor.  The necklace is a semi colon necklace.  “All warr;ors have scars”.  Fucking a we do.  And you know what?  If you tip toed through my mental tulips, you’d freak the fuck out.  I’m fucked up.  If you had been and seen and lived through what I have- it’s a fucking MIRACLE I’m not nonverbal.  So stop pushing for more than I can give.  When I set my boundary and say, “enough”?  I mean that shit.  And fuck boy first love assholemonger?  As Don would’ve said, “Put that sonofabitch on extinction.”  And you know what?  My degree is in Sociology, not Anthropology.  Extinction, not excavation.

The only fucking thing I will be excavating in 2016, is my soul, heart, and mind.  My spirit was shmushed.  Just extinguished due to too many high winds and not enough fuel.

So, put your own fucking O2 mask on first- no fucking bullshit analogy there.  Cuz if you can’t breathe, you’re fucking dying, little by little.  Last time I checked, dead people couldn’t help nobody.  Even, obviously, their damn selves.  So breathe, mother fuckers, breathe. I know I am.

 

 

 

 

 

The Trifecta of Therapy

It is done.  The Trifecta in the big therapists office in the sky is complete.  Donald Eric Arvidson passed away on Sunday, December 6, 2015.

I got my period at age 12.  In the spring.  That summer, something changed.  I morphed into a depressed, sullen kid who had trouble with the simplest things.  I told my mom, “Something’s wrong with me.  I think I need help.”  She never looked up from her computer work, “You’re fine.  There’s nothing wrong with you.”  That fall, I tried a feeble suicide attempt because, oh I don’t know- I was stealing my parents wine, drinking it on the bus to school, and taking very long hall passes while sneaking pulls of wine that I had stashed in my leather jacket sleeve in my locker during class.  The police came, the ambulance came, they heard it on the very small town police scanner.  So, the next day at school, thank God, more people were concerned with treating me with kindness and compassion more than scorn.

So, I, naturally, started to see Mrs. Chrichton, the school’s best counselor.  I’d get a hall pass to go see her and I would go down and try to talk to her.  Hmm, no wonder I can’t sleep.  High winds and today was Don’s memorial.  I digress.  Mrs. Chricton could relate to me.  She was a wonderful, tough, and loving woman, who, ultimately, recommended me to Don.

I was terrified.  I’m going to see a shrink?  I’m 14! I must really be screwed up!  So, I go to Rochester.  And I met, ugh, a man of smallish stature, blonde hair, blue eyes and a great smile.  But I loved his smile, his openness, and his matter of fact, nonchalance.  He also dismissed my parental unit.  It was love at first session.

I came to know Don through his office changes, his relationship changes and my life teenage changes.  I told him about the drinking.  He introduced me to Nathaniel Branden- Romantic Love- and that not only did my secret, greasy heart desire it, it required and deserved some romantic love.  He thought I might be Bipolar, but was hesitant to label me at such a tender age, so he sent me to Bette.

Enter Bette.  I met her at her office in Birmingham.  She laid out the MMPI for me.  A week later, in her electric blue suit with leopard print go go boots, she gave me the results of my test.  And I quote: “You see this peak right here?  The one that goes off the page?  That’s PTSD.”  What’s that, I asked, horrified.  “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  You have the stress of a Vietnam Vet in a POW camp.  It was something that happened to you at a young age.  Figure it out.  This second peak?  The one that almost goes off the page, but not as bad as the PTSD?  That’s addictive personality.  If it’s addictable, you’ll become addicted to it, so stay away from it.  Oh yeah, and you’re bipolar.”  She then turned on her heeled leopard print ankle booties, blonde, coiffed mane held high, and probably went to catch a nooner with Albert Ellis.  No shit.  She fucked REBT man.  That’s what a bad ass Bette was.  Don knew how much I idolized her, and on one of my visits to him, he gave me some of her books, mixed in with some of his.  As soon as I returned home, the books went on the shelf, and have not left.

Mrs. Chricton passed from Breast cancer in the early double odds.  Bette passed somewhere in between, and now Don.

I’d known Don for 20+ years.  He was my father, friend, confidante, mentor and teacher.  He taught me the value of loving kindness for not only yourself, but your fellow man, compassion, boundaries, that it was okay to be where you were at- as long as you were authentic about it, and that it was okay to be awkward.  As long as you were authentic about it.  No walls, open heart, big Leo.  Big Grin.  Big hugs.

No one will call me kiddo again.  No one will give me heart to heart, soul to soul hugs.  No more Don.   But he went peacefully, quietly and with dignity and grace.  Tough till the end.  That was our don.  We are going to, and do, miss him very much.

We last spoke in March.  It was the last time we spoke.  I knew it would be the last time I spoke with him ever.  I found a picture of him Saturday.  He was in his usual state- high on Valium.  I tore up the picture.  The one and only photo of Don I had, I didn’t want to remember him high.  I wanted to remember the impish grin, the slitty eyes, the guffaw, the quiet soothing tone of his voice.

The trifecta of therapy is now complete.  Heaven, or the cosmos has gained some great clinicians.  Lucky bastards.  I’d like to end with a Don-ism, or something clever.  But it is what it is.  Don was Buddhist.  Light a stick of incense, not just for ones you have lost, but for life and yours as well.  Nam ay oh ho ring gay quo…