Friday, September 29, 2017

wg1- sleep

I’m not sleeping.

My bed has become a museum piece- yellow sheets bloodstained a bit from mishaps involving my psoriasis.  Dark brown wood bed frame surrounded by bare walls and a pale sisal mat on the floor.  One light, a library lamp with green shade giving the warm colors another warm inviting glow.

And a CPAP.

Put me in it, and I’m staring at the ceiling, staring through the doorway, staring at the walls, sometimes scratching or slapping, furiously hunting for any sign of a bedbug, then lying down again.

The fireworks are in my brain- the old anxiety is back again, now more spry and youthful than ever.  Fears about money, where to live, how to be.  People leaving, betrayals, positives turn to negatives, etc., etc.

But if it were an exhibit, you wouldn’t know it.  Only my bedbug hysteria would show it.  Just another museum piece to look at, murmur about, and walk away.

Friday, September 15, 2017


All right... nowhere near once a week...yet.  Intentions is still there, its just life getting in the way.


To live in or overrun to an unwanted degree or in a troublesome manner, especially as predatory animals or vermin do

to be numerous in, as anything undesirable or troublesome.

I write to you now with my desk empty and its contents spilling out into the shoebox I hope it will fit into.

Im packing up my apartment- to leave?  Not yet.

My apartment has some little visitors, some friends I wished to have never seen in my lifetime, and would not wish it on any other person.

They are bedbugs.

And this is the second time I have to undergo the process of cleansing the infestation.

The first time, not too long after my birthday, I was on the couch, and watch one scuttle across my pillowcase.  And of course the first thought in my head was denial.  Maybe it was something else?

It scurried back, and I pounced on it and killed it, picking it up in a paper towel and hearing a pop as its abdomen burst, releasing the blood- my blood it had taken.

I then spent the next two hours in full anxiety- tearing every damned thing apart, trying to find them.  Then trying to pretend that maybe it was just one, and there weren't any others?

Saw another one the next day, so I went to my landlord- who jumped to activity, and everything was set up with the exterminator, I just had to prep the apartment first.

-empty out anything that wasn't the kitchen,

-take every fabric oriented thing I had and put it in the dryer on high for thirty minutes.

-pack all the stuff I pulled out and put it all in the kitchen

-stay out of the apartment for several hours after the chemical is used.

-go on as if everything is normal, and wait the whole 30 day life cycle to see if it worked.

And it didn't.  I killed one this morning that was crawling on my lower back.

I don't know if I have felt more unclean, more just grubby and dirty and worthless with this invasive infestation going on.  People tell me not to worry too much, that I didn't do it, but god damnit, I'm being infested with way too much right now.

Lets list it, shall we?

-  Psoriasis.  Big blooming red sores all over my legs and elbows.  There is one huge crusty sore on my leg that people mistake for a horrific wound.  They itch and they hurt, and it feels like I have spread paste on my body that has dried too tight.  Im doing what I'm supposed to do with phototherapy and ointment, but it is being damned stubborn.

-  Hypothyroidism.  Ok, stretching the infestation definition a bit here, but I have been hypothyroid enough to be in pain when I walk two blocks.  And I still am trying to get back to a decent energy level--a decent amount of spoons.

-  Warts.  The bad kind.  they arrived after white a long time of inactivity.  And they don't want to go away.

-  Uncertainty.  Not that uncommon for me, but there are big things in that mix.  A job.  A place to live.  Health insurance.

-  People who don't respect me.  This is a hard one, because I do what I can to respect others, and there seemed to be quite some talk around me as to how bad I was.  I am taking steps with this one, but it is still quite painful.

I could put in anxiety and depression, but they are a given.  A lot of infestation going on now.

 So what do I do?

I cook dinner, eat it, do the dishes, start packing things away, and then sit on the couch, not wanting to sit on the couch, so I get up and sit at the computer.

And write this.

There you have it.  I'm looking back at this and not knowing what else to write, so I'll stop here.  Heres to writing to you post bad infestation...

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

New Chapter

It is my birthday.  My fortieth birthday.

I started this blog as a way to get out how I was feeling so I could keep on going, and to help me see where I a and where I've come from.

I've stumbled with it for a few years, because I feel like I should continue it.

Not that I wanted to continue it.  I thought it'd be a good idea.

Its my fortieth birthday.  Ad that still shocks me for several reasons.  The first can be found reading earlier posts.

But now... now... why do I want to write in this blog so much?

Because I'm still making it out of a lot of negatives.  But instead of dumping out the negative like I've done with the past, something that I needed to do... now I need to start acknowledging the positive, let things be positive, let my life starting now be working towards something again.  And that is becoming more and more important to me now.

Because, well, I know you don't know, its my fortieth birthday.  For many its an "I'm getting older" moment.

For me, its a way for me to say, "That chapter has ended.  Let me open another."

Because, I say this to you , to me, to whoever or whatever is out there listening-


I'm done.

And I'm going to be writing in here for at least once a week for the next ten years.  Maybe long, maybe short.  Maybe the definition of a word, or something else that caught my fancy.

Or maybe a long long passage on the past, the present, the future.

For the moment, its freaking hot, happy birthday to me, I have leftover Indian food and pineapple upside-down cake to eat, and a little pile of presents to open.  Lets party.

Stay tuned.

Saturday, January 3, 2015


Three days into the new year, and I am sitting down to write something in this blog... and I have to run off to the restroom...

OK.  Back.

I already tried to start this posting on my smart phone, one that I'm afraid has gone senile, because it just won't let me spell the words I want.

I got fed up, and got up off of the couch that I've been lazing about all day.  Went to my computer, which immediately does its freeze and the-center-cannot-hold sounds, and I get anxious, and get ready.  To quit.  Another posting another time.

I turn on Itunes, play Sara Bareilles.  Brave.  Kind of on the nose.  But OK.  I like other songs on this album.

Three days into the new year, and I'm discouraged.  I want my own place very badly, so that Steve and I can grieve and find out how our lives work on our own.  I also want a job, one that I like and is a good job, and that will take more time than I want to give.  But I am determined not to crash and burn.

So I am waiting for all of the steps Vocational Rehabilitation is putting me through.  Putting my trust there, in a man that surprised me in his earnestness, in the love of his job, and his passion for helping, and the conversation with me that took around four hours.  They won't find the perfect job.  But they'll give me focus and drive, and possibly, a new direction to my life I hadn't yet considered.

Those are big changes, which I wish were just here so I can move out of this transitional phase.  This phase where I've fallen off my exercise and food regimen, something I'm trying to build like a sandcastle at low tide.  Smarter, Jacob.  You can do this.  Just be smart.

I just don't feel smart.  I feel like I'm slipping backwards.  Like I've gotten a vision, or more of a feeling, of who I am, and then its being pulled away from me.  Am I going to let it slip past, drop back into patterns, or push again into good things, into understandable weeks that are strongly planned for health, and for goals to be met...

Or maybe things aren't going to be the same as they were.  What works now?  What is less of a resolution, but more of a little by little, one foot in front of another, strengthening those legs so that they are ready to jump when the time comes?

I had a pizza today.  Two cokes.  Been eating pretty badly for a while now.  And I tell myself "now is the last time.  Now.  Now.  no, Now..."

Now is the time to just stop the cycle.  I'll have another pizza some time.  But not tomorrow, followed by burgers and other crappy food.  I'll clean up my food, starting with breakfast, then lunch, then dinner.

I'll do a lot of things.  Things that I don't need to list.  Things that may or may not be changes.  I mean, I'm sitting here, writing a blog post.  Unexpectedly.  Because my mind is swirling around so many things, starting to show the hard edges of 'should be' cutting into the flesh, and creating big wounds of guilt and shame.  Enough.

I'm changing.  I'm being me.  I'm allowed to do it.  My intention is not to hurt anyone.  My intention is to stop hurting myself.  Something I'm still learning how to do.

Now I'm on Manhattan.  This played on the way back from my mother's house in Waldport.  Just Steve and I, and its like it was like the first time I heard the song.  And it just hit me as what he might be thinking or feeling, and how dare I, how dare i, just like my mother told me, how can I leave him after the cancer, and the suicide attempts?  How could I do that him?

That is the echo that seems to scare away my self confidence.  And hell, I even said it just a few paragraphs ago.  Its about me.  But I know I don't do this in a vacuum.  And I have hurt him.  Real bad.  And I am never going to be able to make up for it.  And we are still living together, so...

Not easy for either of us.

Three days into the New Year, and I wish it had happened the way I saw it before I passed under the gate of 2015.  Something magic, then suddenly, my space, super fit and off my meds, working at something meaningful.  Making enough to stand on my own two feet.

Now I'm on the other side of the gate, and the idealistic me is hugging the metalwork at the side, smiling, waving his hand, blind to the work that is ahead of me.  I turn back, look down at the keyboard, and continue to find a way to wrap this all up...

I think its about as wrapped up as its going to be...


Sunday, December 7, 2014

Take it as it comes.

I have been overwhelming myself trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between now and my last posts, to create some sort of continuity that would , in effect, just make me feel like I'm doing what people want me to do.  And that's the shit that got me in trouble in the first place.

I mean, right now, I am already thinking that this better be a long post, full of readable substance to keep you going and feeling like you should give a damn about me.

Hell, I don't know how long a post it will be.

If I were to be as truthful as I can, I'm writing this because I need to write.  Its back to the title of this damned blog.  I need to speak in whatever way I know how.  And right now, that is in writing.

Which I am going to do whenever I can.  Right now, feeling overwhelmed, so more will come.

Sunday, October 19, 2014


Change fucking sucks. 

Especially when its me who has to bring it about.

You know, that’s not even true.  It sucks when it just occurs without my input, too.

I want to delete all that I wrote, and write something much more pleasant, in the tune of cocoons and transformation, and growing pains and bullshit like that, but no.  Change fucking sucks.

Its like I started feeling better, woke up, looked around, and said “Wait a sec.  Things aren’t done yet.”  And then I see the laundry list of things to be done or to be overcome.

The first is that I’m going to lose my therapist.  Something built on complexity dealing with breaking down barriers and telling things I have never told anyone to him, and getting the weird balancing act of how to love someone within the confines of a therapeutic relationship.  And I don’t want more than that... I just don’t want to say goodbye yet.  I’m not well.  I’m not fucking well, and as much as I know that it is my responsibility to get there, I feel like my map is being taken away.  I mean, how do I even deal with the last sessions?  I already am a clock watcher, wanting to get the most out of fifty minutes, and it drives me nuts that he doesn’t share my paranoid babble that goes nowhere.
I’m going to miss him.  A lot.  And am afraid that its going to be too big of a loss.

So there’s that.

And there are other things… things that I don’t want to think about, so of course, I spend all of my time thinking about.  things that are huge and monstrous, and I have to deal with as they come.  And unlike the letting go of my therapist, I have to start the ball rolling.

And it fucking sucks, just thinking about it.

At this point, I do the check in, the I-am-still-having-a-hard-fucking-time moment, because I look back at what I say, and wonder if it comes off as bellyaching, as some poor lil white boy with his privileged lil depression.

Fuck it.  Maybe I am.  I have always been paranoid that I’m just a selfish little brat, the youngest child, so you know what that means, right?  In all of my relationships, I have this insecurity, and the fucked up thing?  There is an element of truth.  Its not that I haven’t worked hard, but maybe I’ve just been too emotional at jobs- tried too much- became despondent when I thought no one noticed, or felt like they capitalized on my efforts, wanting me to do more. 

So, I quit.  Other than contract jobs, I have quit every job I have had.  And the longest was this last job at New Seasons, about two and a half years.  I look at job stuff now, and know I can’t do much because of the anxiety, and then look at my skill set, which is primarily in customer service.  What can I do to change?

My idea- write more.  Send out stories, get that started.  Nice.  Very sort of privileged outlook- a few stories will pay the bills.  Maybe eventually, but what about now?  What about something more stable, more…

And here’s where I get into trouble.  Here’s where I jump from laissez-faire to everything-right-now.
Doesn’t matter what job, take it.  Self worth is involved- you can’t even hack it in real life- you can’t even pay your own way, you fucking loser!

So, middle ground(DBT would say wise mind) is lost.

Like I said, now is time to change.  time to reach the middle ground and go towards something so terrifying to me, so frustrating, so… just so fucking hard. 

Towards me.

Change is a fucking bitch.

Sunday, October 5, 2014


I haven't posted all week, so I have to post now.  It's important to me.

Its an odd bit of judgement I've got, because I stopped myself from writing "I didn't have time."

I didn't have time?  I'm on disability!  That means I have all the time in the world, right?  From the outside looking it, yes. 

I remember when I was applying for disability, the thing my therapist cautioned me about was that many mentally ill folks actually get more depressed when they are finally on it.  Makes them feel worthless.

I get that sentiment now.  I am so fucking paranoid people are judging me, thinking I'm just gaming the system.  And I do find quite a sad lack of what I am capable of right now.  I mean, hell, a month ago, and I was barely able to pull together something for dinner, much less write on a blog.

But now I am maintaining a restricted diet for some other health conditions, I am exercising twice a day, and I spend every day of the week going to therapy, classes, or other medical appointments.  All of which we all could do, I bet, if we had the time.

Comes back to that judgement.  One of the health folks I met was an osteopath, who pushed me with questions like "so.  What's the plan for getting off disability?"  I was upset with that, and did my usual simpering routine, doing my best to make everything my fault.  Because I should be getting off it, right?  I mean, here I am, putting words together in cogent sentences, which obviously demonstrates that I'm functional enough to go down to the local McDonalds, and flip some hamburgers?


The tendency on disability is to start overacting your sickness, just to prove to everyone that you still have a valid reason for having it.  Think about how that affects mentally ill folks.  Like me.  Depression.  Must show the world that I'm still depressed... maybe look more depressed than I am... and now I'm feeling more depressed than I am, because if I go outside, if I make too many social media comments, if I laugh, if I smile, if I do anything but lie on my bed curled up in a little ball, then I obviously am just a lazy asshole who doesn't want to work.

And there is truth to a bit of it.  I don't want to work right now.  Because any job I get I'm going to either get fired from, or leave in a blaze of a nervous breakdown.  So I compensate, by filling my day with stuff... and I want more supportive stuff, too.  More community based stuff, just people who are like me.  And not necessarily mentally ill.  Just some more places to feel safe, and to connect with people.  In a real setting.  Social Media may happen again, but I want to do it when I want.  I'll just type on this blog until then... squeak through with the folks who read this.

Thank you for reading.