Dog Mind Probes...

Maggie and I have been going for our walk pretty early.  My clock has reset while Maggie's has not.  I awoke to a dog licking my hand this morning.  I opened one eye to see Maggie vigorously wagging her tail sitting in the floor by my bed.

"Is it that time already?" I asked sleepily. 

Maggie wagged her tail even harder as if she possessed some alien mind probe dog powers.

The first thing I noticed on our walk this morning was a half moon hanging beautifully to the east.  "See what you would be missing if you slept?" I asked myself. 

Coughing and choking we made our way past the elementary school on Gilmer Avenue.  "Bah, School!" I thought.  School was a torture to me growing up.  A mindless medium of conformity hell that has left me scarred as an adult.  Dad has asked me often over the years what he and mom could have done for me as a child to have made my childhood better and more pleasant.  "Send me to a non orthodox school for special and artsy children," I told him. 

I noticed a chill in the air this morning.  Old Man Winter is hanging on and refusing to give way for Spring.  It must have been forty degrees as I walked. 

Now? I'm home and Maggie is already asleep on the couch.  It is time to go back to bed for a few hours till the sun is up and I start another day.  Oh, I hope it is a glorious warm and sunny day.

Saint Ex-Wife!

What to do?  What do you do with someone who is mentally ill?  We, as humans, live our whole lives -- a complex symphony orchestrated by our brains.  What do you do when the brain malfunctions?  There are no tests, MRIs, or x-rays.  It manifests itself in our behavior which becomes aberrant.  It is easy to lock someone up if they break a law, but what if your trusted friend and neighbor is naked in her home and screaming at the top of her lungs?  Do you rush in?  Call 911? Call family?  I knew from past happenings that the police were the ones to call about Joyce as her family kind of disdains her.  It took a call to my father to get up the courage, but I did and they finally helped.   I now know what my ex-wife put up with me being noncompliant with my medications for all those years.  The craziness.  The thinking God was speaking to me through the Internet and television.  She was a saint.  And I only wish she knew me now.  We would still be married.  She loved me more than anything.  Bless you, Rachel, and God bless Joyce (and give her some meds that work).

Past Remembrances...

This photo of me was taken in the early nineties. I was working for Martex making a hundred dollars a night putting up cases of towels on production while driving a Hyster forklift.  Little did I know that my life would soon change drastically.  My schizophrenia was lurking in the shadows getting ready to pounce.

I showed this photo to my father last night.

"You look just like your uncle Roger," Dad said. "That is a great picture of you."

That picture seems like another lifetime to me.  It was a high water mark for my life.  I had all the money, chicks and booze to possibly last a lifetime.  Reality can be a harsh mistress, though, and it was a rude awakening when I started to have mental problems.  My seemingly perfect life came crashing down around me.  I spent the next decade tying in vain to keep things together in all aspects of my life. 

A German Seductress...

MLK day always holds a certain fond memory of mine.  It was the birthday of a friend, Christina.  Christina was in her sixties when I was in my early twenties.  She lived in the apartment next door to me and was constantly trying to seduce me.  She would knock on my door late at night, wine bottle in hand, and ask me if I was lonely in that heavy German accent.

One night, her gas heater wouldn't light.  She knocked on my door in a negligee.

"Oh Andrew," she said as she would bat her eyelashes.  "Will you light my fire?"

I will never forget walking over to her apartment.  She took off her negligee and stood there in her panties.  A bottle of cheap perfume was in her hand and she sprayed it on her ample breasts.

"Rub me," she said. "Let me feel your warm and strong hands."

I got scared and left.  I have often kicked myself in the proverbial ass for not taking advantage of enjoying the wiles of an older woman.  I never was a very sexual creature -- always too shy about it.  I wonder where Christina is now.  Probably back in her beloved Austria.  She never did like living in the states.   

Oasis of Light...

Last night I fell asleep dreaming of computers -- of RAM and Motherboards. Video cards and processors. It was a pleasant dream of one of my favorite hobbies besides model railroading. I dreamed of building computers and someday making a living putting together machines for clients.

I once got hired by our local Catholic Church to update their computers. I was never a good business man and did it for cost. My then wife was exasperated with me. "We need the money," she would moan. "And you're giving out charity." It was more about my love of the hobby rather than the dollars I could earn. I will never forget the smile on the church's secretary's face when she booted up her now fast computer. She gave me a hug. It was the best payment I could ever get.

While we are on the subject of my ex-wife, I have been doing a lot of thinking about Rachel lately. Rosa's been asking me a lot of questions about my failed marriage. She can't imagine this bachelor tied down. I miss our Boston Terrier -- an affable little fellow of a dog. I miss Rachel's quirks -- her cerebral-ness and voracity for reading. Rachel and I were strange souls and very suited for each other. If only the drinking and the schizophrenia didn't get in the way, we would still be happily married. I miss Rachel's femininity the most. Rosa is not very feminine. I long for makeup and the smell of perfume and bath oils -- the wiles of femininity beknownst only to a woman.

Treating myself to some Colby cheddar this morning. I love it at room temperature and cut a large hunk and wrapped it in paper towel before going to bed. This finds me munching on cheese and crackers, and drinking a big glass of orange juice this morning. Each bite reminds me how blessed I am as far as having plenty to eat and nourishing food at that.

It is another brutally cold morning. I donned my favorite sweatshirt and sweat pants to set out for my morning walk. I made it to the end of my driveway before turning around and running back inside. I just couldn't deal with all that cold this morning. I would make a terrible homeless person these days unlike Ferret. The sky was pitch black like pools of squid's ink in the predawn light. Street lights shone like little oasis in the dark lighting the way and beckoning me onwards. Daybreak will no doubt find me down at the shopping center so I can once again live vicariously through Ferret's experiences in homeless-hood. I hope you all have a great day.

Winter Tap, Tap, Tapping at my Window

I woke up around 5 AM and rubbed my eyes.  Maggie was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at the window intently.  There was a large tapping and rapping noise hitting my storm windows outside.   "Hell Yeah!" I shouted, scaring Maggie, as I pulled on my dilapidated tennis shoes and ran outside in the cold in only my boxer shorts and a t-shirt.  It was sleeting!   Any frozen precipitation was enough to get me excited and it was really coming down.  Alas, it didn't last long, but I can say we sort of had a white Christmas for a moment there.  I walked back inside with the biggest, goofiest grin on my face.  

Last night, my father came to bring my medications.  He was so tired after having worked till two and then preparing the big Christmas meal. He was really distant as if he was mad at me, more content to watch the TV than to speak to me. He had also forgotten my presents and my dinner plate.   I didn't complain.  I was just overjoyed to see him on Christmas starved of attention.  I had grown terribly lonely last night around midnight when he came. 

"Thank you for bringing my medications," I told told him joyfully. "I am really looking forward to taking them tonight."

"What brought this on?" he asked, astonished. 

"Oh nothing," I said not wanting to tell him I haven't been taking them.  I have felt better with them though.  "I just need them tonight.  Holidays are stressful for us mentally interesting folks."

I read on Crazy Meds about the side effects of my medications and they weren't all that bad.  This gave me a renewed urge to take them thinking they are doing more good than harm.

Dad left and a sadness washed over me.  I had high hopes that my brother would come, or at least my mother.  I was mainly left to fend for myself last night.  Dad wouldn't have come if it wasn't for my medications.  Oh well.  It could be worse.  I could have been homeless like the winter of 2003.  Now, that was a bleak Christmas.  I got a lot of gifts from my family for my ex-wife and we were separated.  I never knew what happened to all those many expensive gifts including a nice Kitchen Aid mixer.  I certainly couldn't carry them with me on my motorcycle. It is a Christmas best forgotten for the most part, but remembered enough so as not to repeat it.  Those were trying times.

Merry Christmas everyone.  I am going to have a quiet day of reading and relaxing.  I may even try to watch TV.  Try being the most stressed word.  I wish I could watch the old boob tube, but I just can't concentrate on it.  Thank you for all the wonderful emails I had waiting on me in the morning! 

Sincerely,

Andrew  

Little Joys for Christmas

• Maggie is safe, healthy, and sound.
• I have plenty of cigarillos this Christmas.  Last Christmas, my parents were in San Diego and I ran out of money having to go into my parent's house to scrape up change to buy cigarettes.   My father was livid at me for doing that.
• I have plenty of good, nutritious food.
• I have a warm, comforting home.
• It is raining and thundering softly outside my windows.
• I have enough money left this morning to go buy me a pack of Benadryl which will be a Godsend.      

It Starts with a Cough, and Erupts into Mayhem...

Every Wednesday morning the trash men come. Maggie can hear them for miles away in the predawn dark. Long before I can hear them. It starts with a bark that sounds like a muted cough as she lays on the bed.

"Dammit, Maggie," I muttered this morning as I pulled my spare pillow over my head.

Soon, the coughing bark erupts into full blown mayhem as Maggie runs outside to protect her kingdom from the invading trash men. By this time, all the neighborhood dogs have joined in. Pure canine pandemonium.

When I was a child, we had a dog named Candy. Candy was the same way and would sit outside my brother's window and start this same routine. My brother would run outside in his pajamas and holler at her to shut up. It would make me smile as I would roll over and go back to bed. Now, my past has come back to haunt me. The trash men cometh and the dog barketh. No sleeping in today. I am wide awake now.

It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas!

Today is the big day.  My father is calling me when he gets off of work to meet him to pick out my Christmas tree.  Then we are going to go buy lights and ornaments at Fred's dollar store.  We both agreed to steer clear of Wal-Mart.  One of my father's main competitors. 

The last time I had a Christmas tree was in the early part of this decade.  I was married and Rachel paid an exorbitant amount for a artificial Christmas tree.  I remember it weighing a ton as I unboxed it and put it up.  Each morning, I would sit in our den with our dog, Otis, as I drank my coffee and welcomed in the new day sitting in front of our lit tree.  Those are special times and memories of my failed marriage, and I hope Rachel has a Merry Christmas this year. 

A Teacher Then and Now

Mrs. Hawking was my first grade teacher. I thought she was ancient at the time, but she is still living today. She was a widower and would wear her beautiful white/gray hair pulled up in a bun in the Pentecostal fashion. She would also wear long flowery print dresses that she made herself upon her sewing machine. She was a teacher from a different era - a kinder, more gentler time when everyday life moved at a slower pace. This kinder, more gentler time was reflected in the way she would sit with me after school in the afternoons helping me with my spelling and reading. As with most things in life, I was late to the party for these things as well. I struggled with the simple Sally, Dick, and Jane readers that most kids had long since moved on from. "Try to associate the words with pictures in your mind," Mrs. Hawking would tell me as she patiently guided me through reading these simple little books. Slowly, but surely, I would grow to read with aplomb by the end of the year due much to the diligence and guidance of Mrs. Hawking.

Many years passed and I was a grown man. The scene was my grandmother's visitation for her funeral. It was a sad time and many tears were shed as we said our goodbyes to a great woman. I was standing next to the casket as I reached out to hold my dead grandmother's cold and clammy hand. I felt an arm wrap around me as I turned to look. It was Mrs. Hawking. "I thought I should be here for your father and you," she said with a reserved smile. I was so glad to see her and those long ago days of staying after school with her came flooding back.

"What are you doing with yourself these days?" she asked as we stepped aside, away from the coffin.

"I am a writer," I said, but the main reason I said that was I was out of work and I didn't know what else to say. It felt pretentious. I didn't really think of myself as a writer at the time although I wrote everyday in my paper journal and had been dabbling in short stories for years.

"What kind of writing?"

"Nonfiction," I said, having learned that saying this in response to that question seemed to satisfy most people without further questions.

"You always had it in you," she told me, so proud of how far I had come from those hard after-school sessions of slogging through the English language.

"I couldn't have done it without you," I replied, and she left me to go sign the guest book and leave after a few more moments of reflection and reminiscing.

I watched as she walked out of the funeral home and remarked at how she still had an aura of teacher about her. She had long since retired and was in her eighties now. She was still teaching in these advanced years. Not of simple things like dotting your I's or crossing your T's, but of lessons in life and kindness, and being there for your fellow person in a time of need. Her legacy lives on after all these years in my just being able to write this. I wish she could read my writings today. I think she would be proud.

Relative Comfort

I prefer rain to rays, laughing to crying, and "enjoying the moment" to analyzing. Sunny Sundays fit in there somewhere and so do the once in a decade snowy southern winter days. We are having one of those preferred rains today and I am enjoying the moment. It is a good time to write.

Once upon a Househusband life, I would frequent our local "rails to trails" hiking trail while Rachel was at work at the library. Long walks with a walking stick and my trusty hiking boots would find me upon the banks of the Chattahoochee at the end of the day. Rachel worked all the time and I didn't mind it much. I actually liked it as it gave me coveted alone time and room to breathe. She couldn't stand to be alone and would have to be with me when she wasn't at work. Rachel didn't have any friends and wouldn't let me have any either. Her work was also all about her career as a librarian and not about "our." Still, I didn't care. I would grow excited as the time grew near for her to leave and I would lock up the house as she left and I then went to play. Inviting green riverbanks and lazily grazing ducks would greet me as the treat at the end of my journey. I can vividly remember a small redheaded girl sitting in that deep green winter grass, gathering the fresh grass cuttings into a pile, and trying to put them into a discarded soda can as a game. That was my last memory of being married other than the huge fight me and Rachel would have that night and the drunkenness that would ensue. I would soon find myself sitting in front of a convenience store in a drizzle and homeless, drunk. A pile of my camping gear, by my side, sitting on the sidewalk getting wet.

It is hard for me to believe I ever lived that way now. It has been so long since life was chaotic and crazy, and I was without a home. I have little "episodes" as my father calls them, but for the most part, life is serene. For that, I am very grateful. I saw Rachel again today as we passed in our cars and it reinforced how serene my life is these days. She waved and smiled and I can remember feeling so relieved at the time. Relieved that she and that life were long gone. I waved and smiled back, but it was forced. I wanted to look the other way and act like I never saw her. I still harbor some bitterness and want to blame her for my homelessness even though it was my mental illness and drinking that caused it. It was just a matter of time and was bound to happen. No, needed to happen. It turned my life around. I did cry for weeks, though, in the cold. "For better or for worse," I would sob as tears literally fell into my beer. I felt abused and discarded like some poor animal that chewed the furniture too much and had shit on the floor once too often. My family turned a blind eye to my predicament in the beginning as well. "I was hoping it would wake you up and you would realize you can't go on living that way," my father would later say. My family would eventually step in to give me the basic essentials of modern living and brought me out of homelessness. I would have to do the hard work of turning my own life around though.

Rosa has told me horror stories of her homelessness when she was a prostitute. I asked her once why she did it. "All I had to do was suck some dick, fuck some guys, and I had a cheap motel room and some crack for the night. It was better than sleeping in those crazy religious rescue missions, or sleeping on park benches. You have to do what you have to do to survive on the streets." I can't imagine Rosa living that way now and in many ways our lives mirror each other. I am just glad I didn't have to suck dick to get a beer. Uncle Sam provided that. We both did what we had to do to get the shambles that were our lives together. I do think we came out stronger because of it, and I also think that is why we are such good friends. "You have to do what you have to do to survive," as Rosa says and we are both surviving in relative comfort these days.

The Chase

In college, going out for a drink was like kissing. At first it was exciting, but then you wanted more. For a brief few hours it was exhilarating to go through my usual ritual of buying the beer, running through the drive-thru at Hardee's (the only fast food joint in town) for a bag of 50 cent cheeseburgers, and then driving out to my favorite haunts getting drunk as tunes from Steely Dan and Joni Mitchell blasted on my car's stereo. It was a nightly love affair and like any good mistress or overindulgence there were consequences.

First class of the day was music theory which suffered the most as far as my studies went. Early in my drinking career, I suffered terrible hang-overs and would moan as my alarm clock blared waking me up. "Oh my God, I am never doing this again," I would say every time with a pounding headache as my roommate showered getting ready for class. It seems my memory was terrible in those days as nightfall would find me driving out to those same deserted dirt roads to sit, drink, and listen to talk radio and blaring music yet once again. I know I would stumble to class the next morning reeking of stale cigarettes and sour beer breath. I thought I was having a good time. Doesn't every college guy do this? No, they don't, but my skewed sense of reality couldn't see that.

Failing college, I dropped out and took a job. I was living the life I thought my admired uncle envied. "I wish I could just work eight hours doing a mindless job with little responsibility, come home and get drunk, and go to sleep after screwing my wife only to get up and do it all over again. That's the life," I can remember him vividly telling me and my father many times. Although I was living a similar life, I was miserable with a capital m. Alcohol was making my choices for me and not vice versa. It took another decade of living similar to this before I finally woke up and smelled the proverbial coffee.

Lately, that old nagging urge to get shit-faced is no longer there. There is an empty feeling of not being normal though. Normal for me was being drunk - three sheets to the wind. Not normal was living life without my old crutch, alcohol. I realized I had kissed my last kiss in this relationship and had to say goodbye – like a lover pining over a lost love, I mourned for months. My next kiss might have been the kiss of death and the fear of death is a powerful motivator. There was one bullet in my gun and I was playing a risky game of Russian roulette with a loaded bottle. They often say in Alcoholics Anonymous that the average drunk has to hit rock bottom to begin to climb back up and find a new life. With the help of friends and family, I was able to avoid that for the most part and was given a new opportunity at life. I no longer want to kiss, make out, and dance flirtingly with my old nemesis, beer. It feels good to be sober today.

Memories Past

Dear Mom,

Will you please send me more of the MAD magazines? The last ones you sent were great. All my friends loved them. I am going on a three day hike starting tomorrow. We are hiking to Cold Mountain, North Carolina. The hiking staff says the water is so clear and clean you can drink it out of the streams and pools along the trail. Breakfast was pancakes and sausage. The food is so good here. The cook is this little black man who is shorter than me! He is mute which means he can't speak. Alex (Ed. my brother) is still crying every day. He hates it here. Says the mosquitoes are terrible and he got Ear Dry in his toothpaste and thinks he is going to die. He wrote you a letter about it. Well, I just heard the dinner bell ring and must meet with my cabin to eat. Hope you and dad are fine.

Sincerely,

Andrew

P.S. - Send more magazines!!!!!

-- June 16, 1982 Age 10

I was thumbing through old letters I wrote as a child at summer camp this morning. It brings back so many fond memories. I can remember laughing at my neurotic brother for thinking he was going to die because of the Ear Dry in his toothpaste. He was dead serious. No pun intended. My mother was so good at sending us stuff in the mail like books, newspapers, and magazines. They were a joy for a little camper far removed from the outside world. My mother would later say she almost drove the 300 miles to get my brother and bring him home his letters were so pitiful and pleading. My brother hated summer camp. I loved it.

What brought this on was that I have been toying with the idea of putting together a memoir of sorts as an excercise in creative writing. It's fun combing through old photos, letters, and diary entries, wondering what I will use, what this says about that time in my life. I also have a written diary from when I was homeless that I kept everyday to help me write my old blog. I wrote very matter-of-factly with little expression, emotion, or description in my entries. I guess I was probably just worried about where my next beer was going to come from.

I will be incorporatiing some of these writings for my memoir as little snippets on the blog. I hope some of you enjoy reliving these memories with me, good and bad.

Long Lost Friend

Jay was my best friend when I worked at the pet store during my second try at college. Jay was a transplanted New Englander and I still can't watch This Old House without thinking of him due to the accents on that show. "Bah-ston," I can still hear him say in my mind's eye.

Jay kind of adopted me. He was the type of friend that would come over and drag you out of the house to go do something. This fit my social anxieties well as I needed someone this aggressive to draw me out of my shell. Jay just wouldn't take "no" for an answer and I was known to protest at times and to try and stay at home.

"Where are we going?" I would ask as we would walk out from my apartment to his truck in the parking lot.

"Hockey and Lynn's Den," he would reply in that Boston accent with a devilish grin upon his face.

Lynn's Den was what Jay called a "titty bar" or what you would know as a strip joint. Can you imagine a guy riddled with social anxieties being thrown amidst exotic dancers crawling all in your lap and begging you for tips as they urged you to buy them mixed drinks? I never could get used to slipping those dollar bills down their skimpy thongs as they danced in front of me.

"Lighten up and have fun!" Jay would say, chugging a Miller Lite, as he would pat me upon the back.

Somehow, I would always go and manage to have a decent time as long as I could avoid the lap dances that Jay would occasionally buy for me. My avarice for sexual things was never very pronounced. I especially enjoyed the hockey games beforehand and the numerous beers and hotdogs we would consume. Me and Jay would drive home in his Silverado, late at night, singing, as Angus Young belted out old AC/DC tunes on the stereo. Those were good times and I miss that Yankee.

Severing the Ties to the Divine

I never made it out camping over at our pond yesterday evening. I got to chatting in a chat room and looked up hours later to find it almost dark outside. I did set my tent up in the backyard and slept in my sleeping bag last night, outside. Boy was it hot here until well after midnight. We are supposed to have a record high of 88 degrees today.
I was also pretty crazy during our marriage and wasn’t taking my medications. I was under the pretty extreme delusion that God and Jesus were talking to me and the medications would sever that tie to the divine that my schizophrenic mind so embraced during those years.
When I was married, I would pack up all my camping gear in my backpack and would just disappear on my Suzuki Bandit motorcycle out into the country sometimes. Rachel loved to argue and I didn’t, and I just couldn’t take all that bullshit in my life. Rachel had a way of nagging me about silly stuff until I felt my head was going to explode. Eventually, she would drive out into the country to my favorite haunting grounds, find me, and drag me home after a few days of me camping. I would usually call her from a payphone to let her know I was safe as well.

Those little jaunts into the woods were the only times I ever felt happy during our marriage other than our honeymoon train ride to Washington D.C. I was also pretty crazy during our marriage and wasn’t taking my medications. I was under the pretty extreme delusion that God and Jesus were talking to me and the medications would sever that tie to the divine that my schizophrenic mind so embraced during those years.

I and Rachel had a whirlwind of a relationship. I was working as a research technician in Forestry at the time for a major university. We met at my brother’s wedding. She emailed me that next Monday and we went out. I should have realized things were going too fast when we slept together just a few days later. I was Rachel’s second husband. I had never been married before and didn’t have a lot of experience with relationships. It was a new and novel experience to be so actively pursued by a woman. We were married just a few short months later and it proved to be one of the worst mistakes of my life. I ended up homeless and lost almost everything in the divorce.

Well, let me head out for my daily hike. I and Rosa are also driving down to a nearby town to eat at an all-you-can-eat Sunday buffet for lunch and I look forward to stuffing myself silly with food. I will write of that experience once I get home this afternoon. It will probably be much more interesting than this boring post. Good morning, world!

A Heart to Heart with Rosa

“Where do you see yourself twenty years from now?” Rosa asked me at lunch time today in a rare moment of introspection on our parts.

“That’s a hard question to answer,” I said. “I would like to be mentally well and to have some kids of my own and a wonderful wife. I would like to live your most average middle class existence. Average is the key.”

“Dreams are a powerful thing,” Rosa replied. “I would like to have a normal relationship with my daughter and grandkids. I would love to own a home of my own. You are lucky in that department. It must be nice having a rich father who sees about you. I didn’t even know my father until I was grown and he certainly wouldn’t have bought me a house as an adult let alone a doll as a child.”

“It has it’s ups and downs,” I said as I stared out into the parking lot watching people coming to and from the many stores. “My father can be very overbearing at times and loves to direct and run my life.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but are you having any symptoms of your schizophrenia today?” She then asked inquisitively.

“I keep hearing what sounds like a car door shutting,” I replied. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. I hear it constantly and have grown used to it.”

“That must be weird.”

“It freaked me out when I was in my early twenties and in college,” I said. “I thought I was at the end of my life and grew suicidal. I didn’t want to live crazy. Who would want to live crazy? I was extremely paranoid at the time.”

“What was your ex-wife like?” Rosa then asked me changing the subject to something she thought was less deep.

“She was a bookworm and a librarian. Our house was filled with books and book cases,” I said. “She struggled with her weight like many women. She was a very short woman and had short brown hair and green eyes. I towered over her.”

“Did you love her?”

“I loved her very much and my mental illness put her through hell.”

“You can’t help that though no more that a person with cancer can help it,” Rosa said.

“I know that sounds good, but try getting most people to believe that. It’s not a perfect world we live in,” I replied.

I and Rosa both grew quiet as we sat and enjoyed the pack of Turkish cigarettes I had bought this morning. I had spent my last five dollars after breakfast on a totally frivolous pack of tobacco, but it was so enjoyable. It’s those little pleasures in life that can make living so meaningful and worth the time. I finally pulled on my backpack and walked on home after Rosa gave me a hug goodbye. I was tired of delving into so much introspection for the day. I walked home feeling melancholy as I mulled over Rosa’s questions and my subsequent answers. It’s hard to rehash the past; hard indeed.

Lost Moments of Togetherness…

Tonight found me down at a local Mexican restaurant. I ordered the chilies releno which was two very large pablano chilies filled with a mixture of ground beef, rice, and asiago cheese. I quietly ate as I read the latest Model Railroader. I have great aspirations for the spare bedroom in my new house. I want to emulate the late Chattahoochee Valley Railway in model form.

I then drove home and found that Annabel had called me and I had missed her call. How I hated to miss speaking to her. She has given up the internet for Lent. She sounds just as chipper and vivacious in her voice as she does on her blog. I do so dearly miss her and her frequent blog updates.

Maggie has been a total curmudgeon tonight and will not come inside. It got up into the seventies today and I put Maggie in the back fence along with some food and water. A moment ago, I sat out on the back deck trying to coax Maggie inside. She was thoroughly content in licking my legs, but every time I would go to grab her to bring her inside, she would go tearing across the backyard barking. I fear midnight will roll around before I ever corral her into coming in.

I really missed my ex-wife today. I was just thinking that at this time of the night, she would have taken a long bath and would be lying in bed reading a book. This would usually find me beside her on our laptop browsing the internet. She would close the book and lie down as she watched me before going to sleep. I would reach out to hold her hand.

“I love you,” She would say.

I would reach over and brush her brown hair out of her green eyes.

“I love you too,” I would reply before closing the laptop and turning off our bedside lamp.

I would wrap my arms in the pillows and listen to her breathe as she went to sleep. I still have a hard time believing that I was ever married. I have missed those moments of togetherness today.

Eyes in the Storm…

I awoke and sat on the edge of my bed. Maggie yawned and sighed softly before curling back up to go to sleep once again. I pulled on my shorts, socks, and tennis shoes to get ready for my morning walk. It was still dark as night outside without a hint of dawn on the horizon.

Here’s to hoping it will be another quiet and uneventful day less filled with the turmoil’s of my mental illness. I have to treasure these eyes in the storm of the turbulent hurricane that can be my mind.

The sun was just beginning to rise on this cold morning as I once again completed six miles. The cold and dampness of the air made me shiver after all that rain we got. I walked over to Merl’s Diner to eat breakfast and to drink as much coffee as my bladder could hold.

Merl’s was busy this morning. The smell of frying bacon came wafting out of the kitchen evoking memories of cold winter mornings spent on my grandmother’s farm. Breakfast was the biggest and most important meal of the day for her.

“You’ve got to start your day right,” She would tell me. “A good breakfast gets you on the right footing for the day.”

I could picture her standing in her quaint little country kitchen over a hot stove as she fried bacon and scrambled my favorite, cheese eggs. The creak of the door of her oven would sound as she would pull out a big pan of made-from-scratch biscuits. She would carefully cut in half each biscuit to add a dab of fresh cream butter. We would then eat quietly as she sipped upon her piping hot coffee from her favorite and ancient old coffee mug as shafts of the warm morning sun would splay out upon her kitchen floor from her window.

This morning I ordered two sausage, egg, and cheese biscuits along with a large coffee. I sat quietly eating as I people watched. The owner of the restaurant, Merl, then went around to each table to ask her customers if everything tasted okay and if they needed anything. I thought that was a nice touch. You surely wouldn’t see something like that down at McDonald’s eating their bland breakfast fare.

I finally finished my breakfast and stepped into the bathroom to make room for all the coffee I had drank. I then stepped back out into the cool morning air to make it home in time to watch ER on TNT which has also become a morning ritual. Here’s to hoping it will be another quiet and uneventful day less filled with the turmoil’s of my mental illness. I have to treasure these eyes in the storm of the turbulent hurricane that can be my mind.

Memoirs of a Lonesome Man

What I wrote on this date last year...

She was sound asleep. I had been reading a book and I rolled over in the bed to check on her. She looked so peaceful. I brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her on the cheek. All was well in the world.

Otis, our Boston terrier, jumped up upon the pine trunk at the foot of our bed making a clamorous noise. He had been outside to relieve himself. You could hear the flap of the dog door as he came back in.

“Shhhhh,” I said as I grabbed him with my arms. “Momma is asleep.”

He snuggled up close to me and scurried under the covers. Rachel stirred.

“What are you two up to?” She asked sleepily as she rolled over slightly.

“Hey, doll,” I said as looked down upon her. “Your two men are fixing to head to bed.”

“Good, you know I have to work early tomorrow,” Rachel said as she rolled back over.

I kissed her again on the cheek and said good night. I reached over and turned off our bedside lamp. I pulled Otis close to me and pulled the covers over us. I laid there in the dark as the ceiling fan went round and round. I felt a hand reach across the bed and fumble for mine. I grasped it tightly and squeezed it.

“I love you,” Rachel said as she grasped my hand.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” I replied. “You go to sleep.”

I often wonder if things could have been different. I wonder if our marriage could have worked. That fumbling hand in the darkness still strikes a strong chord within me. I would love nothing more than to wrap a beautiful woman in my arms now and to go to bed. Times past; times lost; such is life.

Goth Reject…

I glimpsed at my ex-wife’s My Space journal tonight. She had uploaded some pictures were she has dyed her hair jet black; dark as night. Egads! It looked terrible and almost horrifying. Bless her little unorthodox soul. She always had the prettiest auburn hair. She looks like something that got thrown out of a goth convention. Good thing I am not still married to her. That would have been a huge source of contention between us. She always walked to the beat of a different drum.

She also told that fuckwad she is dating that she loved him. He didn’t return the sentiment. He is in California somewhere after riding a Greyhound bus for days. He doesn’t have a car or a driver’s license.

I deeply feel sorry for her. Two husbands down and she still can’t get it right. She will fuck the first guy who gives her some attention. I really don’t want to see her in pain, but she brings it upon herself. I know I shouldn’t read, but it is like watching a car wreck. You know someone might get hurt, but you can’t keep from watching anyway.

I just hope our Boston Terrier and Siamese cat are okay. The petty little tempest won’t let me see them going on years now. I will proudly proclaim that I was more of a man than this dipshit she is dating any day despite all my various flaws.

An Unforgettable Evening…

I will never forget that cool fall evening in 1984. I had been to school all day and was at my weekly Boy Scout meeting. We had an interesting bunch of kids that attended my local Boy Scout hut. We were all more interested in smoking white owl cigars and looking at the latest edition of Playboy magazine secluded in the wooded confines behind the hut rather than earning badges and becoming eagle scouts. We had an inept scout leader and could get away with this most Wednesdays.

I remember waiting on mom to pick me up after the hour was over. I was standing on the front of the porch with some other kids as my uncle pulled up into the parking lot. His car at the time was unmistakable.

“Now this is strange,” I thought as my uncle was never much of a family man or very family friendly.

He meekly walked up to the porch to talk to me.

“Andrew, something bad has happened,” He said. “You’re mother can’t come to get you. I am going to take you home.”

My heart leapt up into my throat as various disastrous scenarios played out in my mind. “Was mom dead? Had there been a car accident? Was my grandmother sick?” were some of the scenarios that came forth.

My uncle has always been a very shy and socially awkward man. I don’t think he ever felt comfortable around kids. It was a long drive back home as he tried to explain what had happened.

“Your house almost burned down,” He finally said bluntly after many awkward moments. “It is in pretty bad shape.”

That moment was forever etched into my mind. The words echoed over and over in my head. That day turned our foreseeable lives into chaos and uncertainty for many months ahead. We were, for all intents and purposes, homeless. I thought it was my fault because I had sinned by smoking those cigars and looking at that Playboy magazine. God was punishing me. I felt guilty for years after that incident.

We pulled up to the house to a barrage of fire trucks and scrambling firemen. Smoke was still billowing out the broken windows. A large crowd of neighbors had gathered in the street in front of the house to gawk. I saw my father standing in the front yard with his hand to his head looking dismayed. I timidly walked up to him, afraid of him and his reaction, but managed to meekly ask what had happened.

“Your mother burned up the house,” He tersely said with a fiery mad look in his eyes. “She left French fries frying on the stove and the oil bubbled over and caught fire. She forgot about it to go pick up your brother and you.”

“Oh hell,” I thought. It was my fault after all. God was punishing me. I had sinned and brought down his wrath.

The firemen finally had the fire put out and were putting up their equipment as I and another neighborhood friend walked up to the front door to look inside. I will never forget that acrid smell of smoke. It clung to your clothes. All the walls were blackened and there was considerable heat damage. The kitchen was a complete loss. I remember standing at the front steps as water poured out in little rivulets upon the floor of the front door and down those steps.

“Andrew, get the fuck away from the house!” My father screamed at the top of his lungs as he ran towards me. “You are just getting in the way!”

That incident frightened this child to death. I had never seen my father so virulently angry at me. It took years for me to forgive my father for that embarrassing moment. All the neighbors and neighborhood kids were watching on as my father berated me and cursed at me. I don’t think I had ever been so embarrassed in my life. I still have scars from that moment to this day and remember it so vividly.

We ended up living with my grandmother for a month and what a crowded house it was. Tempers were constantly flared. I lost my beloved cat that month as well as she disappeared to never return confused in the change of addresses. We later on got an apartment and life returned to some normalcy. It took months and months to bring our home back up to livable standards at much expense. My father never again let my mother cook or touch the stove.