Breakfast with Dad…

I and dad sat over breakfast at Cracker Barrel this morning. I had gotten the sunrise sampler and he ate the pancakes and sausage.

“When was the last time me and you could just sit, eat, and talk like this?”

“It has been years,” I replied with a heartfelt smile.

We left the restaurant to drive over to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my commercial driver’s license renewed. I was afraid to drive with an expired license and dad had agreed to drive me down. We grabbed a number and sat and waited for the officer to call us back. I was very nervous with all the new policies "The Patriot Act" for commercial drivers had enacted and just knew I would run into issues.

“Number 37!” Rang out over the speakers in the waiting room.

“That is us,” I said as I turned to my father to go talk to the officer.

“We need you to go get your fingerprints on file and take a test for the hazardous materials endorsement,” The officer told me after entering my driver’s license number into her computer.

“Can’t I just drop the HAZMAT endorsement?” I asked figuring I would probably never drive a big rig again.

“Matter of fact; Yes you can,” She replied.

I sighed with relief when I realized we were going to get out of there without any more complications.

“That leaves you with a tanker’s endorsement and a triple trailer endorsement,” She said as she smiled and handed me my new temporary license. “I doubt you will be able to get a job without that HAZMAT endorsement though.”

I just said thank you and I and Dad drove home in a blinding rain.

__________________________________

Sorry for my recent depressive meanderings on this blog lately. I once read the blog of a formerly homeless girl on Livejournal and all she did was whine and complain about her many and various physical ailments. It was painful for me as a reader and I will not subject you all to that.

Red Robin (a dear blogging friend for many years) reminded me in his comment what I enjoy most. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I am headed out for a camping trip for a few days. I will leave after getting my injection in the morning. I hope to be back to writing by the weekend at the latest.

The weather is wonderful here as far as the temperature goes. The forest and a warm, crackling campfire waits for me to pitch my tent and spend a few days in quiet contemplation as I read many books, write in my paper journal, and smoke my pipe. I am sure I will have much to write about when I return home. I will see you all in a few days. Good day.

Best Forgotten Pages in the Lexicon of my Life…

Days like yesterday are best forgotten in the lexicon that is my life. Often, as with most, just a simple night of rest can work wonders. Maggie and I crawled into bed a little after nine with the radio tuned to that station out of New Orleans. The rain was softly falling outside my windows. My warm and soft covers enveloped me as I laid my head upon my goose down pillow. Blissful sleep finally overcame me after a twenty four hour long drought.

I was thinking this morning as I was drinking my coffee and having my first-of-the-day cigar how that to truly live a healthy life I would have to cut out all immediate real life human contact. The stressors of my many real life relationships affect me so deeply and negatively. The date with Carolyn and her on and off nature; the tussle with Charlie Monday night; the pressure my father and my family puts on me; the fear and paranoia surrounding others. Just a simple drive to the convenience store can be a nerve wracking affair of anxiety and paranoia when I get like I was yesterday.

Online relationships are different. I can easily control the amount of interaction with people online. There is no body language; no exasperating social cues to miss. There are only simple words which I find very easy to use. If I don’t want to interact with you, I can just turn off the computer. Real life is not so simple.

We all live by an extremely complicated set of social norms and mores. These very social norms and mores escape me most times. I often find that keeping up with these social rules to be one of the hardest, most exasperating, and most tiring aspects of me living my life. For most people these are second nature and most mentally healthy people never give them a second thought. Don’t believe me? Pay close attention to your social interactions today and notice the delicate dance it can be.

I was watching an episode of Judging Amy yesterday. In it was portrayed a very troubled child. He came from the perfect family. They were loving, laughing, and caring. This was pure torture for the boy though and disturbed him greatly. He was an introvert and not the extroverted people of his significant others. I saw myself in that child and something clicked within me when reminiscing about my own childhood and my life as an adult. I was that very child and his family was like mine; forever trapped to dance this delicate social human dance when I am metaphorically lame and crippled.

Charlie to the Rescue…

Charlie came by tonight to see me once again. He was bearing the gift of this week’s medications and a six pack of sprite. I don’t know why he always brings me soda, but he does. I had run out of my risperdal and it was an emergency delivery. No wonder I felt like crap all day.

“Now you take this damned medicine like you should,” He told me good heartedly. “We are going to one day get you well.”

“Sorry about not locking the doors last night.”

“Now dammit!” He said. “We live in a crazy world and people will kill you without a second thought for your material possessions.”

The last time a murder was committed in this small town it was by a mauling pit-bull years ago. I don’t understand Charlie’s scariness. There haven’t been any recent crime waves here in decades.

“I got Jimmy James to install Maggie’s dog door today,” Charlie then told me. “You are going to have to teach her to use it.”

“She will,” I say to assure Charlie. “She’s as smart as a button.”

“Well, I don’t want that damn dog to be shitting all over your new house. I’ve put a lot of damn work into it as well.”

I laughed. Charlie gave me a hug and then drove on home. I walked inside with a big smile on my face. Charlie is so high strung.

Brain Chemistry Awry…

It is hard to describe my experience with schizophrenia. I am experiencing slight symptoms today. Faces seem odd and contorted causing me to miss the all important social cues. I doesn’t help that I didn’t sleep at all last night. I stayed up all night trying to read a book and smoking copious amounts of cigars as I paced the floor. I finally got in a two hour nap this morning. I usually sleep so well these days so I don’t know what is going on with all that.

Paranoia also reigns supreme during these times. I have this all encompassing feeling that something is wrong or about to happen. It can be paralyzing. I am worried my family is mad at me or out to get me and cause me strife. I also can’t drive without thinking the police are out to get me and I am being followed and watched. I know these fears are baseless. I just can’t get them out of my mind. Such is the madness imparted upon me by my screwy brain chemistry.

It also didn’t help that my good friend Charlie scolded me last night for not locking the house. He means well, but I can’t take any criticisms at all. I am so overly and so damned sensitive. I have what my father calls “the key disease” and never take my keys out of the locks or I will most absolutely lose them. I haven’t taken the key out of my car in over two years either on purpose. Living in a small town can make you gilded about crime. I live in such a quiet neighborhood.

Moments of Togetherness…

“You seem to be taking your medications these days,” Carolyn says blithely as I sit over my bento box enjoying my teriyaki grilled chicken.

“I don’t have a choice,” I reply. “Remember? I get a shot in my ass every two weeks.”

Carolyn shudders and also smiles.

“I hate shots,” She replies as she eats her freshly prepared sushi.

“My ex-wife loved this restaurant,” I tell her.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about her,” Carolyn says. “She was nuts. She needed to be medicated.”

I smirk. I don’t like Carolyn belittling my ex-wife though. Rachel had her faults, but she tried so hard when dealt with the most trying of circumstances. She loved me to the bitter end.

“My drinking drove Rachel crazy,” I reply in Rachel’s defense as I take another bite of my chicken.

“I can’t imagine you drunk,” Carolyn says.

“You don’t want to imagine me drunk,” I reply candidly. “I was not a very nice person when drinking.”

“Well, don’t ever start back and we will be fine,” She replies.

We finish our meal. I pay and leave a tip. The traffic out of Atlanta is horrendous. I look over to find Carolyn has fallen fast asleep. It is getting close to midnight. I reach over to grab her hand and she stirs and looks over at me.

“I love you, faults and all,” She says sleepily. “Rachel was a fool to leave you.”

I grasp her hand tightly as I pull off of the Lagrange exit to get some gas. Carolyn has fallen back asleep. Her face is all alit by the bright lights of the convenience store as I pull up to the gas pump.

“It’s good to not be alone,” I say as I stand out in the harsh cold as I swipe my debit card to fill up.

I can still see her sleeping in the car. It is so good to not be alone.

Shaken, not Stirred…

Our meeting at Sushi Huku went well. Times spent with her are so meaningful to me. I know I am such a damned romantic.

I almost had a slip up today. I drove down to Fat Albert’s to buy a case of beer. My dear friend, Miki, saved me though. She got completely pissed off at me for trying to buy that case of beer.

“I am not going to sell you that!” She said adamantly as I placed that case of beer upon the counter.

At first, I grew angry. Then I realized she was right.

I walked out to my car feeling like a total idiot. Miki followed me outside.

“I am proud of you and know Carolyn will be as well,” She said.

“I know,” I replied. “I am such a goddamned fool. Thank you.“

I drove home feeling like a total tool.

Carolyn Called…

She often calls when I least expect it. I sat today in my lazy boy, reclined, half asleep, as the phone rang. I screen my calls to weed out those most dreaded and most dastardly telemarketers and to assuage my social phobias surrounding the phone.

“Hey, you there? I want to talk to you! Pick up the phone! I know you are there!” Rang out upon my answering machine’s speaker after a few rings. It was Carolyn.

My heart rate increased and my anxiety skyrocketed as I listened to her talk. I reclined forward in my lazy boy and placed my face in my hands as I listened.

“Well, I guess you are not home. I was just thinking of you. I wanted us to head up to Atlanta tomorrow night and eat at that Japanese restaurant you so love. I will call again tonight. It will be my treat.”

I walked over to the answering machine and pushed play to hear her message again. Her voice sounds so comforting; so sanguine that there is hope of us getting together for the weekend. My feeble and so soft heart melts as I dial her number to call her back. I am such a pussy.

“Hey,” I say as she picks up the phone and says hello. “It’s me. I just got your message.”

“I was hoping you would call,” She says. “I’ve thought about you all day.”

“All of this is hard on me,” I reply. “One minute you love me and the next, you shy away from me.”

Silence reigns supreme as she is surprised by my candidness.

“You scare me sometimes,” She finally says. “I don’t know what to expect. I love you though and I miss you.”

“I love you too,” I reply cautiously. “I miss you so very much.”

“Sushi Huku?” She asks speaking of the Japanese restaurant I so dearly love to eat at. “Will you call and make the reservations?”

“Hold on,” I say. “I will call you back in a few minutes.”

I walk over to my parent’s house and call the restaurant and set an 8:00 PM reservation time. I cannot call long distance on my home phone to save money. I walk the short distance home and call Carolyn back.

“Eight tomorrow night is when we will eat,” I say.

“Let’s go in your Honda,” She says. “I love that car.’

“I will pick you up around six,” I reply.

We hang up our respective phones and I have a good cry. This willy-nilly back and forth relationship is so hard on me. I don’t want to be lonely and I love her so much. I know deep in my heart it will never work out, but I can’t pass up on the time spent with her. I just wish I was a normal man, without the rigors of a mental illness to hold me back. She would love me then.

Fresh and Clean as a Whistle…

Yesterday was a quiet day in Andrew-Ville so I don’t have much to write about today. The only notable thing that happened was that Rosa came by at lunch and hung out for about two hours and I also had a meeting with my father’s lawyer yesterday morning. I and mom didn’t go out to eat last night. She is going through a depression of sorts and is staying in the bed for most of her days. She suffers from a harsher form of schizophrenia than I and so does her mother and my great grandmother as well. It’s kind of a maternal family curse.
I have often heard people say in the South that life is about as hard as you make it out to be. That is a bunch of Pollyannaish bullshit after what Rosa has gone through over the years when she told me about much of her past.
Yesterday morning found me down at my father’s pharmacy. We had to go speak to his lawyer about the Visa credit card I had applied for a few months back. I didn’t carefully read the many pages of very fine print when I applied for it online. I never used the card (tore it up when it arrived) and they are still trying to bill me for $278 dollars in “finance fees” on a thousand dollar line of credit I never used. I refused to pay it and will take them to small claims court if need be. It is a matter of principle and not necessarily about the money. While we were at the lawyer’s office, we also had power of attorney papers drawn up for me so that if I grow very ill again, as I have over the years, my father, brother, and sister will have power of attorney to make decisions on my behalf. I know it needs to be done, but it is still kind of scary and sobering to have your life in the hands of others.

Rosa was in fine spirits yesterday. She wanted to watch one of those “court” shows on TV. I think it was Judge Judy. I don’t watch that tripe.

“You sure smell good,” She told me when she walked in my door.

“I just took a shower,” I replied.

“Irish Spring Soap,” She said as she whistled loudly mimicking the commercial. “Fresh and clean as a whistle.”

I laughed heartily at her saying that.

I fixed us both hotdogs and potato chips for lunch and we sat and talked a long time after her show had ended. I am so amazed at what she has gone through in life and she still has an upbeat attitude about it all. If I would have experienced what she has, I would probably be a far more broken man. I have often heard people say in the South that life is about as hard as you make it out to be. That is a bunch of Pollyannaish bullshit after what Rosa has gone through over the years when she told me about much of her past. The same holds true for me as well.

Tardive Dyskenisia...

Sounds like some tropical disease, doesn’t it? No, I don’t have wormlike parasites living on my eyeballs. This condition was the main discussion and focus I had yesterday with my new psychiatrist. Tardive dyskinesia is a disorder associated with and caused by high dosages of the psychiatric medications I am taking. The symptoms are similar to Parkinson’s disease.

It was a long, apprehensive drive down the interstate to see my new doctor. My former doctor of over ten years had retired and moved back to India to be with her family. I am going to dearly miss her. I had butterflies in my stomach wondering if this new doctor would use me as the medical equivalent of a guinea pig.

Strike one. I sat in the lobby for over forty five minutes to be seen. The new doctor was running late. Dr. Reddi, my old doctor, was as punctual as the finest, most accurate, digital clock. Strike two. When I finally got to see him, I noticed his shirt wasn’t neatly tucked in. Part of it was hanging out of the back of his khaki pants and he looked disheveled. This very fact would have driven my mother crazy and she would have refused to see him. The care and condition of my mental health was in the hands of someone who looked like he stayed up all night drinking at a frat party, threw on some clothes, and stumbled into work. I am glad to report there was no strike three.

“You realize you are on an extremely high dosage of risperdal,” My new doctor said. “Are you aware of tardive dyskenisia?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But this high dosage is the only dosage we have found to work effectively.”

“Hold out your hands flatly and then touch each finger with your thumbs one at a time,” He told me.

I did as he asked.

“Stick out your tongue and hum,” He then told me.

I followed his directions to the letter.

“Well, you don’t have any symptoms of tardive dyskenisia yet, but we need to monitor you closely. Would you like to try and lower your dosage by 3 milligrams?”

“I would rather stay on what is working well at the moment,” I replied. “I am doing better than I have in over a decade.”

“Okay,” He said. “But if you start to have any nervous tics or tremors in your hands, you come see me immediately.”

He wrote me a prescription and kept me on all my current medications which made me feel relieved. I arrived home to many messages on my answering machine. My brother and sister are both physicians of internal medicine and were worried about the outcome. They had called and left messages of support and concern. My father had also called as well. He had tried to get off of work to go with me, but couldn’t get his associate pharmacist to come in. She had some function at her kid’s school to attend to. I called dad as soon as I got home.

“This new doctor is nice,” I told him on his cell phone. “He kept me on my current medications.”

“Thank god,” My father replied relieved. “I was so worried he would try to change things and we would have to start back from step one."

“Don’t tell mom, but he wasn’t a snazzy dresser. His shirt was hanging out of his pants.”

My father laughed.

“That would have just driven your mother crazy,” He said. “She would have gone doctor shopping immediately.”

I finally got off the phone with my father and took a nap exhausted from the day’s exertions. I can’t take a lot of out of the ordinary things added to my daily routines.

Well, Maggie is anxiously awaiting her one scrambled egg and piece of bacon. As usual, I am up well before dawn. I am going to go get some breakfast started and get my day going. I hope you all have a good day and thanks so much for the many comments lately. They make journaling so enjoyable and worthwhile. Good day.

Miki’s Malaise…

Tuesday night is traditionally my shopping night. I and my father went up to Kroger to buy our groceries. Dad had to get a few things to fix some desserts for my sister’s baby shower this weekend. I walked out of Kroger with only spending $54 dollars on groceries for the week. For that, I was proud. Maggie even got a big bag of pig ears which she is currently enjoying one of those poor deceased pig’s auditory appendages.

As I was loading my groceries in my car, Charlie pulled up beside me and rolled down his window.

“Happy Valentine’s Day you little shithead,” He said jokingly.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” I replied facetiously with a big grin plastered upon my face.

Charlie burst out laughing and drove on away. I do dearly love that man. Charlie circles the parking lot until his autistic son, Randall, purchases his nightly can of shaving cream and walks out to be carried home. It is an unfailing nightly routine for Charlie and his son.

I left Kroger and then drove over to Fat Albert’s to buy this week’s allotment of little cigars. Miki was on duty tonight and wasn’t feeling well. She perked up some when she saw me walk in though.

“The usual?” She asked as she forced a smile despite feeling so badly.

“The usual,” I replied as she rang up two cartons of cigars for nineteen dollars and twenty four cents.

“One more hour and you will be off of work,” I told her. “I know you will be glad to get home and get some rest.”

“I think I am coming down with the flu,” She replied. “This next hour will probably be the longest hour of my life.”

The conversation then turned to the subject of Carolyn. Miki and Carolyn are close friends and worked together for years at Fat's.

“Carolyn told me about you two breaking up. I hated to hear that,” She said. “You two were a good couple.”

“Yeah, the past month has been kind of tough,” I replied.

“She still loves you,” Miki said. “She told me the other day on the phone how much she misses you.”

“Well, she has a weird way of showing it,” I replied flabbergasted.

Our conversation was beginning to tread on uncomfortable territory. I didn’t want to rehash my failed relationship with one of Carolyn’s close friends. I politely told Miki that I had to head home to get in the bed early for a doctor’s appointment in the morning. I do have to see my psychiatrist at noon. I dread having to go do that tomorrow. It is such a long drive just for a fifteen minute visit to get my prescriptions renewed. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do though.

Dearest Dad…

My father came by last night just to visit. My father loves all his children, but he is not one to just drop by for a chat. My sister often jokes that hell would freeze over before he would drive to Birmingham to see her. It completely surprised and flattered me.

“Your house is so clean,” He told me as he walked in. “That is a good indicator that you are doing well.”

When my mental illness strikes, my house will turn into a disaster area. It is a direct barometer of my mental health.

“Let’s go for a ride out Spring Road and just talk,” Dad said.

We got in his car and headed out that dark country road. A heavy fog had rolled in and it looked like a spooky scene out of a Stephen King novel.

“Dad, do you think I can get a part time job again?” I asked.

I could see the tension build in his face.

“You worked for years and just couldn’t take all that shit,” He said. “You are like your mother. She can’t take it as well.”

“It just makes me feel worthless sometimes not being able to support myself fully.”

“What’s number one?” Dad asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Your number one priority is staying mentally healthy and sober,” He replied. “Without those things everything else is meaningless. You just concentrate on doing those two things.”

“I know,” I said kind of sullenly. “I just get tired of living on so little. I just thought it would help my self worth to work a simple job.”

“Let’s see how you do in the next few months and we will see,” Dad said. “I may need you to start working down at the pharmacy again. We will have to get you a pharmacy tech’s license though.”

I thanked my father for the offer. It gave me a glimpse of hope for the future. I really would like to have a small part time job these days. I will just have to wait and see what the future brings.

Finding Serenity...

I am walking through downtown on my way to Sarah Jay’s for supper. Everyone is getting off of work and highway 29 is clogged with cars.

“I am glad I am walking,” I thought as I followed the sidewalk less traveled by most.

The sun is just beginning to set and the buildings I pass cast long shadows in front of me. These short winter days have a tendency to impart the doldrums upon me. I shake off my melancholy mood as I arrive at the restaurant reassuring myself that the days are indeed getting longer.
I sit quietly drinking my coke as I stare out the large plate glass window next to me with a view of the highway. I wonder about all those people in their cars, where they are headed, and what their lives are like.
I look inside and see a large amount of people eating their meals. All types from all walks of life form a diverse cross section of patrons inside. Blue collar workers sit eating their country fried steak platters. A business man in a grey suit sits reading his newspaper over a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. I grab the handle of the heavy glass door and walk inside to join this eclectic mix of people.

“What can I get you?” The waitress asks as she walks over brushing her bangs out of her face.

I study the menu for a moment trying to decide what to eat.

“We have a special on a meat and three veggies platter tonight,” She says trying to help me make up my mind. The restaurant is busy and she has many tables to attend to.

“Get me the foot long chili dog with extra onions,” I tell her and she writes it down.

“Do you want French fries with that?”

“Yes, please.”

I sit quietly drinking my coke as I stare out the large plate glass window next to me with a view of the highway. I wonder about all those people in their cars, where they are headed, and what their lives are like. I don’t envy them of the rat race they are embroiled in as they are most likely heading home after a busy and tiring day of work.

My meal arrives and I eat with a ravenous hunger. The chili dog was delicious and I place a tip on the table and walk up to the cashier to pay.

“Was everything okay, honey?” The cute and dirty blonde haired cashier asks.

“It was delicious,” I say as I invoke a smile.

I leave the restaurant and begin my walk back home. The raucous noise of the busy highway beside me perturbs me. I think how I could never live life on the go like that. I have to have a quiet, serene, and simple life filled with little, if any, stress. I finally part ways with the sidewalk by the highway as I take a shortcut through the car lot. The silence is so welcomed as the din of the busy highway fades into the distance. I arrive at my quiet neighborhood to find serenity leaving busy downtown behind. Peace envelopes me. Another day is done as the sun slips below the horizon.

Visages in the Mirror…

I awoke too early this morning and couldn’t sleep. When I can’t sleep, I often like to tinker with my computers. If you look at my photo blog, you will see my computer setup which my brother calls the “bunker.” I had ordered two 512 megabyte sticks of DDR ram the other day on sale for the grand total of $74.99 which was a steal. I installed them and now have 2 gigs of dual channel computer memory on my main blogging and video gaming computer. This really helps when running memory intensive programs such as Photoshop CS2.
A lot can happen in two years; a lot of very good things. Time heals old wounds as they say.
After my tinkering, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and blow dried my hair. As I stood in front of the mirror, I noticed how old I look these days. The rigors of my mental illness and my drinking days have taken a toll upon me physically. At least, I don’t look as bad as I did when I was homeless.

I then fixed my usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and cheddar cheese. Maggie also got her one scrambled egg and a piece of bacon. I and Maggie are such creatures of habit. We eat the same thing every morning without fail.

Speaking of homelessness, this month marks my two year anniversary of obtaining a home. I will never forget that brutally cold and rainy February night when I called my mother for help.

“Mom, I am in a mess. I need your help. I am so cold,” I said as she listened on the other end.

“I need to talk to your father first,” She said. “He will know what to do.”

I was estranged from my father at the time. He had told me that he never again wanted anything to do with me and to never call. My desperation overcame my fears of his wrath and his rejection.

“Where are you now?” My mother then asked.

“I am over here at Fat Albert’s on their payphone.”

“To hell with your father,” My mother finally said adamantly. “He will just have to be mad at me. It won’t be the first or last time. Meet me over at your late grandmother’s house. I am not about to have you freeze to death.”

I drove over on my motorcycle and met mom at Memaw’s house. It had been vacant for over a year after she had passed away. My father had continued to pay for and keep all the utilities on.

“Let’s get you inside and get some heat on and make up a bed,” She said as she got out of her car and followed me inside.

Mom made a bed and turned on the central heating and air. I will never forget how good that heat felt. I had been miserably cold for months. It was one of the most wonderful things I have ever experienced in my life. So many people take such things for granted.

I couldn’t sleep in that soft bed for weeks. I would sleep on the hard floor in my sleeping bag. My mother would come by everyday to check on me and bring me a meal from various restaurants in town to make sure I had enough to eat. My father was none too pleased. He came over one day and sat in a chair in the kitchen as I lay in the next room in the bed.

“I can’t take your crazy shit,” He told me angrily. “If you are going to live here then you have to take your medications and stop that damn drinking. You are nothing but a sorry ass drunk. No wonder Rachel divorced you.”

I didn’t say anything and just listened. He soon left and I spent the rest of the day wracked with guilt. It has taken two years of very hard work on my part to rebuild our relationship. He now tells me he loves me. He also bought me a house. I had to clean up my act though by taking my medications and by also stopping my habit of drinking twenty beers a day until I passed out. A lot can happen in two years; a lot of very good things. Time heals old wounds as they say.

Delirium Tremens...

We had a sad apparition of a human being at my AA meeting tonight. You could tell just by the shaking of his hands and pale pallor of his skin that he was experiencing extreme alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Everyone within the group offered their support and a few urged him to go to detox at the local hospital. He wasn’t very communicative though. It must have taken all the will he could muster to come tonight. One member fixed him a cup of coffee and brought it to him which I remarked as being thoughtless and embarrassing for him. He could barely keep his hands still let alone hold a steaming hot cup of joe. That cup of coffee sat untouched upon the table as the meeting progressed.
I definitely had to take it one day at a time to endure my first week of sobriety. My only reprieve from thoughts of drunkenness was blissful slumber every night.

Tonight’s new member reminded me of my first few days of withdrawal from alcohol. I could barely hold a cup to drink from it. I had the most awful night sweats. My every waking thought was of getting a drink to calm these most discouraging symptoms. I definitely had to take it one day at a time to endure my first week of sobriety. My only reprieve from thoughts of drunkenness was blissful slumber every night.

After the meeting, I and Wanda were sitting on the back porch talking of this newcomer. Wanda has a cumulative eight years of sobriety.

“I’ve seen that so many times over the years,” She said. “They come and you never see them again.”

“Maybe we will see him tomorrow,” I replied.

“Only by God’s grace will he quit drinking,” She said. “He will have to have a spiritual reawakening.”

The whole experience tonight put me in such a somber mood. I could see myself in that poor fellow. If I wouldn’t have gotten sober, death would have surely awaited me. I wondered if the same thing would befall him as well. There are so many alcoholic souls out suffering through desperate lives who will never find these hallowed halls of AA and the wonderful people who help support you. I am one of the lucky few.

I am not a religious man and I rarely pray, but I said a small prayer for that poor addicted soul surprising myself as I mumbled those words as I rode my bike home.

God, if you are real, work your magic tonight. Help that man turn around his life. I know I am not a Christian, but I hope all I have heard about you is true and that you are forgiving. Forgive me for my transgressions and look out for that man who needs you the most right now. Amen.

Coats for the Cold…

I am walking down 4th avenue on my way to the shopping center. I noticed a black man in a newer model car stopping to take pictures of each and every house as he slowly inches up my street. The whole deal makes me wary.

“Can I help you?” I say as my curiosity overcomes my inhibitions.

“I work for a real estate company and we are assessing property values in the area,” He tells me. “Sorry if I alarmed you.”
Rosa left me sitting in front of my computer as she headed back down to the shopping center. The more I get to know Rosa, the more I like her. She doesn’t put on airs. What you see is what you get. I am lucky for her to have entered my life. I’ve never had a lot of good friends and I now count her as one.
Satisfied, I continue on with my walk to the shopping center. My main intent for walking down there today was to find George. I am still kind of perturbed about the whole incident of him telling everyone about my mental illness. I want to confront him.

I arrive at the shopping center and it is bustling with activity. Throngs of cars fill the parking lot as people are doing their Sunday afternoon shopping. I sit down on a bench to wait awhile to see who shows up. I reach into my backpack to pull out a bottle of Gatorade and my cigarettes in anticipation of a long wait. Far off, in downtown, a train horn wails in the distance warning motorists to steer clear of the tracks. It evokes memories of my many travels and hikes down those tracks.

I was in a surly mood, but my spirits were immediately lifted when I saw Rosa walking slowly down from the grocery store. In her hand was a plastic sack of what I presumed to be lunch.

“Hey gorgeous,” She said as she walked up and sat down next to me upon the bench.

“Have you seen George?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen that crazy guy in days.”

“I wonder if he is back in jail,” I replied.

“I would have read it in the paper,” Rosa says. “I don’t think he is in jail.”

I watched as Rosa pulled out a loaf of bread, a small bottle of miracle whip, and a package of sliced ham to begin making some sandwiches.

“Do you want one?” She asks.

“I just ate some hamburgers before walking down here,” I replied. “I am full. Thanks though.”

I noticed Rosa’s coat as we sat. It is on its last leg and it tattered and torn.

“Walk home with me after you finish eating,” I told her. “I have a coat I haven’t used in years that you will just love. It is a Timberland and still looks brand new. It might be a bit big though.”

Rosa finished her sandwiches and we walked the short ten minutes up 4th avenue to my house.

“This house is gorgeous,” She said as we stepped inside.

“It’s not mine,” I replied. “My friend Charlie bought it. I will have to show you my new house.”

I walked into my closet and brought out that coat.

“It needs to be dry cleaned,” I said. “It has been in the closet for years and is kind of musty.”

Rosa tried it on and showed it off to me.

“What do you think?” She asked with a big smile on her face.

“I think you look just dapper,” I replied.

“Now that I know where you live, do you think I can walk up here and hang out with you some days?”

“You would be welcome anytime,” I reply.

Rosa left me sitting in front of my computer as she headed back down to the shopping center. The more I get to know Rosa, the more I like her. She doesn’t put on airs. What you see is what you get. I am lucky for her to have entered my life. I’ve never had a lot of good friends and I now count her as one.

In search of daughters lost…

Yesterday found me working on my new house all afternoon. I spent time smoothing and sanding the joint compound that hides the joints and nail impressions in the drywall in preparation for painting my bathroom and kitchen. I finally grew tired and turned a bucket upside down and sat upon it as I admired my handiwork.

“This home is all mine,” I thought with a feeling of pride and awe.

I still can’t believe I have a home that is paid for and that I will always have a place to live.
“I heard from my mother a few years ago that she was in jail for possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell. That has been maybe five years ago. I don’t know if she is still in jail. I haven’t heard a word about her since. My mother is dead now. She used to write her all the time.”
Jimmy James, my workman, showed up in the afternoon to start building the steps adjoining my laundry room. He came walking inside carrying two very large bottles of cheap wine and put them in my fridge to chill.

“I work better after a few drinks,” He said.

“Two bottles of wine are more than just a few drinks,” I replied amused.

“I used to could drink a case of beer a day,” He said. “And it never stopped me from doing a good job or showing up for work.”

“Why did you quit?”

“I got married.”

I laughed. Rachel never could control my drinking despite her most fanatical efforts. When I got tired of her nagging, I would pack up all my camping gear and disappear off to our many acres of land in God’s country for a week or two at a time. She would eventually come and find me and drag me home. I was never more miserable than being around that woman. She was a completely different person within a month after we had gotten married. My father likes to joke that she drove me into being an alcoholic. Rachel was a pretty intense little lady.

“I’ll put in the dog door tomorrow for Maggie,” Jimmy said bringing me out of my deep thoughts of marriages past.

“Thanks,” I replied as paid him in advance the forty dollars for today’s work.

I left Jimmy James to continue building those steps and drove over to the shopping center to see what the gang was up to. I saw my favorite of the gang, Rosa, walking down from the grocery store. I pulled up in the fire lane, got her attention, and said, “Hey good lookin’. You need a ride?”

Rosa smiled and walked over and got in my car. I drove us down to Sonic to get us both a cherry limeade, my favorite Sonic drink.

“How does someone on disability afford a car this nice?” Rosa said speaking of my 2001 Honda CR-V as we drove down highway 29 to finally arrive at Sonic.

“It was a gift,” I said as I parked. “I gave my old beat up 1990 Geo Tracker to a poor high school kid who wouldn’t have been able to afford a car. He’s cleaned it up and it looks nice these days considered it was manufactured the year I graduated from high school.”

“I wish someone would give me a car,” Rosa said with an air of jealousy in her voice as she drank her limeade. “You are lucky as hell.”

We sat for a few moments until we finished our drinks. I was about to crank up the car and head back over to the shopping center to drop Rosa back off.

“You get on the internet, don’t you?” She asked.

“I spend too much time on the ‘net,” I replied.

“Do you think we could find my daughter on it?” Rosa asked. “I would just like to know she is okay.”

“We could try,” I replied. “Do you know if she is married? I would need to know her current last name.”

“I heard from my mother a few years ago that she was in jail for possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell. That has been maybe five years ago. I don’t know if she is still in jail. I haven’t heard a word about her since. My mother is dead now. She used to write her all the time.”

“We could always try,” I said as I pulled back onto the highway and headed for downtown.

“You know about George saying you are crazy the other day,” She said changing the subject from less weighty issues. “You don’t act crazy at all.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I take some medications that keep me in check.”

“I am going to kick that son of a bitch’s ass the next time I see him for telling people that,” Rosa told me very animatedly.

“George was just drunk,” I said. “He probably doesn’t even remember doing it.”

I finally pulled back into the parking lot of the shopping center. Rosa got out and stood at my door.

“I better see you tomorrow,” She said. “Walk down and we will smoke a few cigarettes and shoot the shit. I want to try one of those highbrow expensive British smokes I gave you. Dan wants to see you as well. You keep missing him.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow if it is not too cold,” I said and drove on home.

Gifts from one with little means…

I’m walking down the lane to the shopping center yesterday. The sun is setting after a gloriously warm, but mostly cloudy day. Long shadows from the low hanging winter sun lie upon the street in front of me cast by the great oak trees lining the side of the road. I am lost in my thoughts as I trudge forward mulling over in my mind these previous weeks of my life.
In my travels through life, I have found that some of the poorest people are the most giving. I walked home with a great feeling of empathy for her and a warm feeling in my heart.
The sun grows ever lower and the temperature soon drops. I place my hands in my pockets to warm them and button my coat tightly to keep out the cool late evening air.

I arrive at the shopping center as I pass the dumpsters where Dan spends his mornings looking for those morsels of forsaken food that only he and a few rivals hold dear. I think of the alternative lives of these people that have so touched me deeply over the years from our mutual acquaintance. I admire them for their willingness to live beyond the means and confines of conventional society. Often looked down upon my most, I hold them in high esteem.

As I pass the hair salon around the corner, I stop for a moment and look in. It looks so warm and inviting as women sit in chairs being primped and pampered by their hairdressers. I marvel at what women have to do to look presentable and beautiful; pressured by society and peers to look a certain way. Just like most things in life, today’s popular hairstyle will be next year’s passé relic. Fashion is such a fickle beast.

My eyes light up when I see Rosa sitting upon her usual bench smoking a cigarette. Upon her ears are adorned the headphones from her CD player and she is mouthing the lyrics without actually singing the words.

“Hey stranger,” I say as I sit down next to her.

My sudden appearance startles her.

“Dammit,” She says removing her headphones as she laughs. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“What have you been doing?”

“I went on a job search today.”

“Any luck?”

“I might have a job down at McDonald's,” She says. “But without a car, I don’t know how in the hell I am going to get to work. It is a three mile walk to get there every day.”

“Things have a way of working out when you least expect them,” I reply.

“I missed you yesterday,” She says. “I was hoping to get to see you. I have something to give to you.”

“What is it?” I asked intrigued.

Rosa reached into her backpack to pull out a small paper sack and handed it to me.

“Go on and look inside,” She said as she smiled excitedly with anticipation.

I opened the bag to find two packs of my most favorite cigarettes, British Dunhill’s.

“Where in the hell did you find these?” I ask. “I thought you could only order them online in the states.”

“That little convenience store ran by the Indians had a few packs in stock and I snapped them up for you,” She said. “I had heard you mention the other day that they were your favorites.”

“How much did these cost?”

“Five dollars a pack,” Rosa replied.

I started to reach for my wallet to pay her back.

“Don’t,” She said. “It is a gift from me to you. You are my friend.”

“I am honored to be your friend,” I reply.

“You might have to give me a ride to work some days when it is raining or too cold though,” She says.

“I will give you a ride any day.”

I said goodbye and left Rosa to put her headphones back on and to continue what she was doing. I am beginning to think Rosa might have a slight crush on me. It warmed my heart that Rosa would think of me in such a way when she has so little money to spare. I have received a lot of gifts in my life, but that gift of those Dunhill’s probably was the most thoughtful of them all. In my travels through life, I have found that some of the poorest people are the most giving. I walked home with a great feeling of empathy for her and a warm feeling in my heart.

A Respite from the Cold…

The temperature soared above seventy degrees yesterday. I so enjoyed our little respite from the cold that I walked an extra three miles on my daily jaunt. I noticed robins everywhere as I hiked. They were marching across the many yards in my neighborhood like little red breasted stalwart soldiers in search of a meal.
George has been known to disappear on these drunken binges from time to time.
I tried to meet up with George yesterday afternoon to ask him about his little transgression the day before. I drove over to his house just in time to eat supper with Mrs. Jones, his mother. Mrs. Jones invited me in. I had already eaten a small meal of some leftover cheesy chicken and rice casserole that I had cooked the day earlier, but wasn’t about to pass on one of Mrs. Jones' fantastic meals. Mrs. Jones is a wonderful cook in the great tradition of southern African American ladies. She had cooked fried cubed steak and gravy, buttery sticky rice, steamed broccoli, and homemade biscuits.

“I haven’t seen him in two days,” She told me of George as we sat her table and ate. “I think he is on a bender and I am worried about him.”

“He is probably over at Pookie’s house.”

“Dat girl be nothin’ but trouble.”

“I know,” I said. “But what can we do?”

George has been known to disappear on these drunken binges from time to time.

After our meal, I helped George’s mom wash the dishes and then headed for home.

“Don’t be a stranger, baby,” Mrs. Jones told me as I walked out the door.

“If I find George, I will call you,” I said.

She gave me a hug and I drove on home to take a shower and get ready for my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

A Writer’s Lament of a Love Lost…

I picked up my cordless phone at midnight and pressed the “on” button. My thumb hesitated as I started to dial her number. I almost called, but the insanity passed. An all together different insanity took grip of my feeble, easily swayed, and addiction prone mind.

“Damn,” I muttered as I set the phone down upon my kitchen counter. “I need a drink.”
I can picture her lying in her bed with her cats alone as I write; the phone on her bedside table silent and just waiting for me to call. A stoic reminder of all the late nights we spent talking about mostly nothing, enjoying each other’s company.
There was a lone can of Budweiser in my refrigerator from my drinking days; a single survivor of the many nights I would spend drinking myself into a stupor alone. It was hiding behind the jar of jalapeno flavored dill pickles next to a pitcher of sweet ice brewed tea. I walked to the fridge, opened the door, and stood there for a moment as that cold air poured out and flowed over my sock adorned feet.

“I miss her,” I thought. “I don’t want to be lonely anymore. A drink will make you feel better.”

I cracked open the Budweiser and that strong smell of fermented barley and hops wafted up to my nostrils. It almost made me sick to my stomach. I had forgotten how much I hate the acrid smell of beer. I was hoping that one can of Bud and the rush of its alcohol would give me the courage to call.

There was a moment of hesitation. A tear erupted and rolled down my cheek.

“If you drink this one beer then you will go buy more and you will get drunk,” I told myself. “It’s the first beer that gets you drunk and not the following twenty.”

I know myself all too well.

I turned to the sink and poured the beer out. It was one of the hardest things I have had to do in a long time. The heat of the moment had me firmly in its grasp and all I could think about was escaping to inebriated bliss.

I walked into my den and sat down in front of my computer as I carried the phone with me. I placed it next to my keyboard upon the desk as I began to write…

Will I always be alone? Will I always have to carry this torch that is my burden to bear in solitude? I want to call her so badly, but couldn’t face the rejection if she acted coldly to me. I want her to come over and climb into my bed as I hold her for hours into the night. I want to smell her hair and to run my hands upon the baby soft skin of her back.

I can picture her lying in her bed with her cats alone as I write; the phone on her bedside table silent and just waiting for me to call. A stoic reminder of all the late nights we spent talking about mostly nothing, enjoying each other’s company. I turn back to my computer and continue to write once I pull myself out of my deep thoughts.

I remember those weeks when we first met. Tentative flirting over a store counter grew into long nights of passionate love making. Nights spent holding each other, laughing, and acting silly as if we were teenagers once again.

I stop writing as I think of those nights. I lose my writer’s muse. I am emotionally spent. It is time to go to bed. Another day draws to a close with my only companion a little wire haired terrier that would never forsake me. Goodnight Carolyn. I will always love you and understand why we can’t be together. I will always have the memories we formed together.

“C’est le vie,” I think as I close my word processor without saving what I had written. “It was good while it lasted.”

Secrets, Glibly Told…

I found out today that George is telling all of the gang down at the shopping center that I am “crazy” and that I have schizophrenia. I met up with Rosa this afternoon and she sheepishly asked me about it.

“You know that older black dude you always hang out with?” She asked.
I left Rosa and the shopping center with my feelings hurt and with a sense of being betrayed. I rode my mountain bike on over to the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting hall with a lot of pent up anger welling up inside me.
“Yeah, George.”

“He was telling Big S and a few others today that the reason you are on disability is that you have a few screws loose.”

“That loose lipped son of a bitch,” I replied. “I can’t believe he is going around telling that. I trusted him with that information as a close and confidential friend.”

I have hinted to Rosa that I have mental “issues,” but have never come out and said it. She thought it was mainly my struggle with staying sober as she struggles with the same crazy issues surrounding sobriety.

I left Rosa and the shopping center with my feelings hurt and with a sense of being betrayed. I rode my mountain bike on over to the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting hall with a lot of pent up anger welling up inside me. Wanda was sitting behind the meeting hall, smoking a cigarette on the back porch, as I chained my bike to the metal post out back.

“You are quiet tonight,” She said.

“I am pissed off mad.”

“Talking about it always helps.”

“It is really not something I want to talk about,” I told her tersely. “It is just too personal to share.”

I don’t want everyone in AA to know I am a schizophrenic. I love Wanda to death and care about her deeply, but she has a tendency to gossip. I feared this juicy little tidbit of news about me would just be too tempting to keep secret.

I sat in my AA meeting and could not concentrate. We went around the room to share tonight. It came my turn to speak.

“Hi, I am Andrew and I’m an alcoholic and I am going to pass on speaking tonight,” I said huffily.

“Thanks for just being here,” Several people said as we then continued on around the room.

The meeting ended and I rode my bike home feeling better and better with every passing mile. I just had to take a time out. I know it’s odd that I talk so freely about my mental illness on this blog, but then again, I don’t have my real name or photo plastered all over it either. These people that were told about my illness today are people I have to deal with on a daily basis. In a perfect world, disabilities would never be discriminated against, but we don’t live in a perfect world. In my many years of dealing with having a mental illness, I have found people to be very judgmental and gossipy when it comes to you having a debilitating mental ailment such as schizophrenia. They will all think you are some kind of crazy maniacal serial killer. I am not a violent person at all and would never harm a flea. Try telling that to the general public and my so called friends though.

Conversations at Dawn…

The sun peeks over the horizon with a sudden flash of orange. I get up to begin breakfast and start another day. My phone rings very early this morning and I wonder who could be calling at such an early hour. It is my father.

“I am going shopping for your niece’s birthday, today,” He says. “Do you want me to get something from you for her as well?”
I have taken great care to take my medications religiously lately. I have also taken great care to reach out to my family and to not get enveloped in the selfish shell that my illness can foster.
“I was just going to send her some money,” I reply.

“You need to put more thought into a gift for her,” My father says with a scolding air. “Sending money is a lazy and thoughtless gift.”

“Well, she has all the toys and clothes a child could want,” I say. “She is spoiled rotten. I don’t know what to get her.”

My father thinks for a moment and realizes I am right.

“I will get her another nice outfit for you,” He replies. “Your sister-in-law can never have enough clothes for her.”

The conversation wanders away from birthdays for little girls to more personal things. We get on the subject of how well I am doing these days as far as my mental illness goes.

“I can tell you are taking your medications,” My father says. “You are so rational and easy to talk to. Our relationship is so different.”

I agree with him. I have taken great care to take my medications religiously lately. I have also taken great care to reach out to my family and to not get enveloped in the selfish shell that my illness can foster.

“Are you excited about your new house?” He then asks changing the subject.

“I can’t wait to move in,” I reply.

“You know we love you and you will never lack for anything as long as I am alive,” He says and it deeply touches my heart. A few tears well up in my eyes.

“I love you dad,” I say.

“I just want you to be okay,” He replies before saying goodbye. “You will always be my firstborn and the most special of my children.”

A feeling of peace and wellness overcomes me as I hang up the phone. My father is a very wonderful and wise man who only wants the best for me. We have often had a turbulent relationship in the past due to my schizophrenia, but he always pulls through for me. He never gives up no matter how filled with perils the road ahead my lie. Most fathers would have given up long ago in exasperation and placed me in a group home for the mentally ill. He certainly has the money to do so. There is nothing thicker than blood I think as I pour myself another cup of coffee and go about starting my day.

Drawing Lines in the Sand…

My post on religion yesterday elicited an interesting response. I got quite a plethora of nasty hate mail over that one. What is disturbing to me is these were all self proclaimed Christians. I also got quite a bit of emails from people who agreed with me. People were divided down a pretty thin line. As they say, there is a fine line between love and hate.

Many emails wanted me to clarify my views on religion. I appreciated the comments and emails that disagreed with me and that weren’t vitriolic ad hominem attacks on my mental illness and character. I will attempt to clarify my views. Keep in mind that my own experiences with mental illness and extreme religiosity when ill have biased me and colored my opinion of this subject.

I believe religion is an entirely manmade construct and phenomenon. For over a million years, we evolved with more tribal notions of spirituality and religion. Often, the environment and nature played a major and significant role in these early religions if you can call them that. Our gods were manifestations of various natural forms around us such as what is exemplified in most Native American religions to this day. Christianity and other modern monotheistic religions are a relatively new occurrence in the timeline and history of mankind. I have no doubt that Jesus was a great man, but seriously doubt he was the son of some mythical, omnipotent being after being born to a virgin.

The society you are born into also plays a major role in what religion you will adhere to as an adult. Your parent’s religion will be a hugely determining factor into what religion you grow up believing in. Yes, if you are born in the states, the odds are that you will be Christian which is the dominant and majority holding religion. It is not unlikely that you will migrate to a different sect such as from Baptist to Catholicism. It would be extremely rare for you to migrate to a completely unrelated religion such as Islam though. On this same frame of thought, a person born in the Middle East will, in all likelihood, be a Muslim. The same goes for Hindus, Buddhists, and others.

I broke one of my golden blogging rules when writing about this subject yesterday. One is to never write about religion and the other is to refrain from talking about politics. I find them too divisive and polarizing as far as a readership goes. People take these subjects entirely too seriously and will often project their own feelings and emotions upon what you write many times taking the meaning out of context which was shown by a few comments and several emails about yesterday’s post.

Life, like writing, is a learning experience. I learned another valuable lesson yesterday with what I had written. It certainly makes for an interesting blog, but a harrowing mental experience for me. I think I will stick to writing about my daily, simple life in dialogue. Writing is such an enjoyable form of expression for me and I would hate that experience to turn this blog into a constant flame war over subjects that quite frankly, don’t interest me at all, I find inconsequential to my daily immediate life, and that bore me to tears. I hope you all have a great day!

Tailspin…

I have often said I am socially clueless. I am an idiot savant with some regards to social repartee. Other social aspects escape me entirely. I reckon public journaling to be akin to standing next to a busy highway naked. Everyone can drive by and see your dangly bits. My dangly bits are often me writing exactly what is on my mind without forethought of the repercussions. I openly write about my mental illness, my alcoholism, and other subjects that most people would shy away from sharing. I would ask someone to hand me a shovel and to help, but I am doing a pretty fine job of digging this hole on my own.

A Prayer before a Meal…

I sat quietly over at Rodger’s Barbeque today eating a lunch of a pulled pork barbeque sandwich, a cup of Brunswick stew, and a bag of potato chips. I managed to arrive early enough that the restaurant had yet to grow filled with the noon time lunch crowd. The same elderly couple I had seen at Merl’s Diner the other morning was also eating lunch at Rodger’s today. They once again prayed silently before their meal. I don’t know why seeing that show of religiosity makes me so uncomfortable. Maybe it is because I associate such religiousness with intolerance, mental illness, and close mindedness.
If you see me with a bible then you know I am not long for a visit to the mental hospital and am most likely not taking my medications.
“Honey, do you need anything else?” The waitress asked me pulling me out of my people watching stupor.

“Get me another barbeque sandwich, please,” I replied as she left me to disappear back into the kitchen.

Rodger’s has some of the best barbeque in the area. My cousin, who lives in Hong Kong, always eats there religiously when he is in the states. He has been known to buy a few pounds of the pulled pork and a quart of that wonderful Brunswick stew and gorge himself upon them.

I then finished my other sandwich, wiped my face and hands with my napkin, and left a tip of two dollars upon the table.

“Put this on my tab,” I told the cashier as I handed her my ticket.

She smiled as she looked at me with her one good eye and told me she would see me tomorrow. I try not to stare at her glass eye, but catch myself doing it. That one artificial eye always wanders off into the distance as if looking off into space. It is so hard for it not to illicit a fascinated stare.

As I walked home, I thought of that elderly couple once again and their blatant parade of their religion. The only time I have ever been religious in my life was when I wasn’t medicated for my schizophrenia and grew to believe God and Jesus were speaking to me with various signs and codes through the television. I would keep a journal of these various “speakings of God and Jesus” every night. My favorite avenue for these signs and codes was the nightly news broadcasts. All of this drove my then wife crazy with concern and exasperation. If you see me with a bible then you know I am not long for a visit to the mental hospital and am most likely not taking my medications.

Video Tour of my New Home...

Memoirs of a Mental Hospital

Originally written on February 14, 2006 after one of my many visits to the psychiatric ward of a hospital...

I sat in the dining hall at a window on the ninth floor with a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. I watched as plane after plane took off at the distant airport on the horizon. Flurries of snow were blowing and snarling in great swirls and eddies. Outside the room were two patients arguing over who could use the phone; one finally stomping off to go get a nurse to resolve the situation. The incessant drone of the television invaded my mind and was an ever present background noise. I got so tired of that damned television that week I was in the hospital.

My roommate I called Pops. He was an elderly black man in his seventies. Stark white week old stubble covered his chin, neck, and upper lip. In his younger years, he had gotten shot in his right arm and it had become withered and useless. It hung to his side like a mummy’s shriveled appendage devoid of life. He talked in code that I have yet to decipher. Our conversations were spent with him saying something and me asking him several times to repeat himself to no avail. I finally would just grin and nod in agreement. He would smile back and laugh a hearty and throaty chuckle.

Another fellow patient was a young 24 year old girl I will call Lacey. She was a classic manic depressive in the manic phase. She couldn’t sit still and was constantly talking to me, others, and herself. Her hands and feet were in unremitting motion. She also had a habit of showing her breasts to any who would ask or to whom she was attracted too. I got the displeasure of seeing them several times and just grew accustomed to it. I saw more naked breasts in those few days in the hospital than I could see in a porno.

There is a strict routine on a psychiatric ward. Up at 5:30 a.m. so nurses can take your vital signs. Breakfast at 7 a.m. sharp (usually the best tasting meal of the day.) Meds at 9:30 a.m. See the psychiatrist sometime between then and lunch to adjust meds. Lunch was at 12 p.m. which followed noon time medications. Art therapy followed lunch then vocational rehabilitation. Dinner arrived at 5 p.m. The patients would all huddle around the cart waiting for their trays. After dinner meds then free time until bedtime which meant most of the patients would gather around that noxious television and argue over what to watch. I would sit in the quiet dining area reading my books and thinking deep thoughts while I re-gathered my mind.

Medicare would only pay for five days of treatment so I drove the three hours back home and settled back into my usual life. The hospital now seems like such a distant memory, yet this morning, I was sitting in the dining hall eating breakfast as Pops mumbled and Lacey fidgeted. I was surrounded by people and commotion and now, once again, I am alone in this quiet apartment; alone with my thoughts and this bastard of a mental companion that is schizophrenia.

Close Encounters of the Crappy Kind…

I almost ran into my ex-wife this afternoon. I was down at the dollar store to buy a bottle of shampoo. I rounded the corner over near the pharmacy when I saw her standing in the aisle with all the over-the-counter medicines.

“Son of a bit--,” I muttered under my breath as I ducked back around the corner.

I just couldn’t face seeing her. My hands were shaking and my voice was unsure. I walked on home without my shampoo. She lives in another town and I have no idea why she was up here shopping. She must have been visiting her parents which live nearby my new house. I am actually going to be living in the same neighborhood as my former in-laws. I shudder at that thought.

Charlie came over this morning to get me to help him move this monstrous floor rug. It was the heaviest damn thing I think I have ever picked up and I am a big, muscular guy. We both struggled, grunted, and sweated as we put it in my car and drove over to Charlie’s house to place it in his son’s room. That rug was so unwieldy to carry. Charlie put a tank of gas in my car for helping him.

“I am like a whore,” I told Charlie. “There is just no telling what I will do for a tank of gas.”

Charlie laughed and laughed at me saying that. The laughing was contagious and soon I was chuckling as well.

Yesterday, Jimmy James, my workman, put crown molding in my bathroom and laundry room. He also finished framing the windows in my laundry room. I think I will start painting them this afternoon. A very kind person emailed me this week warning me that paint fumes can be a trigger for a former addict such as an alcoholic. I had never thought of that and will wear a respirator as I paint today if I can stand wearing the damn thing.

I am also in the current process of negotiating with several local fence building companies for the lowest cost of putting a fence in my backyard for Maggie. I don’t know where I will come up with the money. I am also going to get Jimmy James to put a dog door in the wall of the laundry room near my back steps that have yet to be built. I swear. This house has been a money pit. I will leave you all with two pictures of my new crown molding in my bathroom and laundry room. I am going to paint them a crème color. Good day.

What Tomorrow May Bring…

Dinner is finished. I’ve just washed my dishes, put away my leftovers, donned my backpack, and walked down to the shopping center to buy some more cream and sugar for my coffee drinking session this evening. It is a drab, dreary, and overcast Saturday. The temperature is hovering in the forties. I am bundled up in my warmest jacket. Rosa is sitting down by the dollar store as I walk up to greet her before finishing my shopping. I sit down beside her.
I watched as Rosa pulled out two cigarettes putting both in her mouth and lighting them. She handed me the other. It was a Newport menthol. I am not fond of menthol cigarettes, but smoked it out of respect for the very kind offer.
“We were just talking about you,” She says.

“You and who?” I ask intrigued.

“Dan,” She replies. “You know. The old man that rummages through the dumpsters out back.”

“Ah, Dan,” I say as I smile. “I haven’t seen old Dan in days.”

"That’s why he was asking about you,” Rosa says. “He was wondering where you have been.”

Rosa was dressed in sweat pants and a tattered and worn coat with an old New York Yankees baseball cap pulled down low over her brow. If you didn’t look closely, she would have been easily mistaken for a man. Around her neck was hanging a pair of headphones tethered to a Sony Discman CD player. I could hear music softly emitting from it.

“What are you listening to?” I ask.

“Elvis Costello,” Rosa replies as she pulls off the headphones and hands them to me to take a quick listen. I know the tune well and I start to sing along.

“…Oh it's so funny to be seeing you after so long, girl. And with the way you look, I understand that you are not impres--,” I sang.

I pull the headphones off, stop singing, and say, “Okay, I am embarrassing myself.”

“You have a beautiful voice,” Rosa says. “I wish you wouldn’t quit.”

I blush and tell her of my three years at the University of Montevallo as a voice performance major.

"I couldn’t ever imagine going to college,” She says. “Why did you quit?”

"I was young and dumb,” I reply. “I didn’t want to be a music teacher caged in some stuffy old classroom teaching wet nosed high school kids. That is about the only way to realistically make a living with a music degree.”

I watched as Rosa pulled out two cigarettes, putting both in her mouth, and lighting them. She handed me the other. It was a Newport menthol. I am not fond of menthol cigarettes, but smoked it out of respect for the very kind offer.

“Well, I am going to head home and watch my British comedies,” I say as I flick the extinguished cigarette into the boxwoods planted in the flowerbed in front of us.

“I will tell Dan I saw you,” Rosa says.

“You tell Dan I said to stay warm,” I reply.

Rosa told me she would as I got up to walk to the grocery store and then home. As I walked up the road by the newspaper office, a tulip tree was blooming in full glory.

“Tonight’s frost will get you,” I thought.

Such is the tenuousness of life. Today’s beauty will be tomorrow’s brown and frost burned vegetation. It reminded me of my own experiences with mental illness. Much like the weather, I never know what tomorrow may bring.

The Dance of a Thousand Lights…

I awoke early this morning to start the ritual of another day. Carolyn rolled over and drifted back to sleep. I and Maggie walked upstairs so I could let her out for her first visit of the backyard for the day. I stood on the back deck with my mug of steaming coffee in the 24 degree air. Far off, down in the Chattahoochee Valley, a dance of a thousand myriad lights shone in downtown. I watched sleepily and mesmerized as a far off traffic signal swayed in the breeze and turned from green, then to yellow, and finally to red. The chill morning air finally chased me and my faithful companion back inside after only a few moments of admiring that sight.
I stood at my backdoor as I watched her get in her car and drive off. I realized she probably will not call tonight. It was most likely the last time I will ever see her again. At least, we ended on a good note.
Midnight had rolled around yesterday evening with me on the phone. Carolyn had called me. It had been a week since we last spoke. The interval gets longer and longer as we drift apart farther and farther. We once spoke every night like giddy high school kids filled with excitement of a new relationship and prospects of love.

“I thought about you all day,” She told me. “Little things remind me of you and I miss you.”

A few weeks ago such a statement would have hurt me deeply. Time does heal old wounds and I thanked her for the kind words instead of pouting and sulking with her.

“I wish things could have worked out between us, but I understand,” I replied.

There was a quiet moment as I heard her quietly start to sob on the other end.

“Can I come over?” She asked between sniffles.

“Come over here and let’s go to bed,” I replied. “I want to hold you.”

I awoke again abruptly around 4 AM. My arm was around Carolyn and her head was upon my chest. My most striking memory of last night was of her breathing softly as she slept with her soft breasts pressed up against my side. The smell of her hair, which was scented like apples, brought back a thousand memories of us lying together after making love.

Just like my ex-wife, Carolyn is a fair weather friend. She told me last week that she couldn’t deal with the irrationality of my mental illness. The final nail in the proverbial coffin was my week long visit to the mental hospital a few months ago. It scared her and she didn’t know what to do.

I am no stranger to being alone and will survive. I sat at my kitchen table this morning drinking coffee as Carolyn took a shower and got ready for work. I wondered if this would be the last time I ever saw her.

“I’ll call you after work,” She said as she hurriedly walked out my backdoor just as the sun was rising on the horizon. “I am going to be late.”

I stood at my backdoor as I watched her get in her car and drive off. I realized she probably will not call tonight. It was most likely the last time I will ever see her again. At least, we ended on a good note.

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.

Gothic Country

Darrin has piqued my interest with this post:

January just ended, and I think I've already got my favorite album of the
year. Cortney Tidwell's debut full length album was released last year across
the pond, and on February 20 it finally gets a domestic release. Aided by
members of Lambchop and Hands Off Cuba. Tidwell builds on the relative
minimalism of her self titled EP to create a spacy folk/pop gem. Initially
tagged as "gothic country," she adds a quite a bit more electronics and layered
harmonies to the mix this time, and the result sounds like a cross between The
Sundays and Sigur Ros.

Mediocre Day Draws to a Close...

The highlight of my day? I installed Microsoft Office 2007 Enterprise Edition and LOVE IT! I only installed Word and Outlook, but I really like the way the new Word is programmed. It is pleasing to the eye. I just had to write a post to put it to good use tonight.

Dinnertime found me standing in the kitchen boiling spaghetti noodles. I had heard once on Food Network to never add oil to your pasta water. I added a little olive oil tonight and the pasta turned out fine. It certainly helps to keep it from sticking together when you pour it out to drain in the colander in the sink.

I have a weird mish mash oddball spaghetti sauce recipe I perfected in college by trial and error cooking with a hot plate. I came up with the recipe on my own and it works for me. I sauté finely chopped celery, onion, and garlic in butter until translucent and sweating. I then brown 2 pounds ground beef and add one large can of store bought pasta sauce such as Prego or Ragu. To that, I add a small can of sliced button mushrooms, one can of Italian style tomato paste, one can of tomato sauce, and two cans of diced tomatoes with oregano and basil. I let that simmer for about two hours on low heat until the sauce thickens and then serve over spaghetti with a liberal sprinkling of grated Parmesan cheese accompanied by buttery garlic bread. Tonight, I even cut up a little side salad and enjoyed it with buttermilk ranch dressing. I think my butt just gained a few pounds tonight.

Maggie was being a total spazz tonight. We have a nightly ritual where I let her out in the evening for one last romp around the yard. The rain had ended, but there was standing water on my back deck. Maggie saw that water and would not go outside no matter how much I encouraged her. Maggie will burst before she will use the bathroom inside so I knew she was uncomfortable. I finally picked her up and carried her out the backyard into the fence. She did her business, chased a few errant squirrels, dug three holes in the yard, and then called it a night. She is curled up on the bed with her stuffed pound puppy waiting for me to retire. I have had entirely too much coffee tonight to be able to sleep at a decent hour. At least, she doesn’t constantly nag me to come to bed like my ex-wife always did. I would take Maggie over Rachel any day as far as having a woman in my life these days.

I have been trying to incorporate more fruit into my diet. I bought a huge bag of granny smith apples on sale and put them in the fridge (They will last me for weeks). I love bananas, but had read they have too many sugars in them. Eating apples is a pain though. I have gotten in the habit of taking a sharp knife and cutting them up in slices and find that easier to eat. My favorite fruit is kiwis, but they are so expensive and I only purchase them sparingly.

Most evenings about this time (11 PM) I listen to the USA radio network via the internet while drinking coffee, smoking cigars, and browsing blogs. I rarely, if ever, agree with these conservative idiots that are talk show hosts and find their narrow and closed minded view of government, politics, and life in general to be alarming. Still, I listen to hear what they are shoveling down the throats of the poor, misguided, and deluded souls that actually believe all that crap. I tend to be very moderate in my political leanings and yearn for a talk show with 100% less crap from either side to listen to. There are a thousand other things I can think of that would be more interesting to hear than what that Pinocchio in the White House is doing.

Well, let me go start another pot of coffee. It looks like I am going to be burning the proverbial midnight oil tonight. I knew I shouldn’t have taken that two hour nap this afternoon, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open and those cool covers and pillows were so inviting. Till we speak again this is Andrew signing off for another broadcasting blog day. Good night.

Calm at Command Station Central…

It is rainy days like this that I so enjoy. I don’t feel guilty for spending all day in front of the computer. I have an old favorite Joni Mitchell CD playing on my overkill home theater. Maggie is lying at my feet chewing on the remnants of a rawhide bone. The smell of slow simmering spaghetti sauce is wafting out of my kitchen. All is right with my world today.

He is only sixty and has already had triple bypass heart surgery. That drug store is a damn stressful place to garner income.

Mom called me a minute ago.

“My hip is killing me,” She said. “I am not going to be able to go out tonight to eat.”

“Do you want me to go get you something for supper?” I asked.

“No, I will just eat one of my Lean Cuisine meals,” She replied and we got off the phone.

Dad has also called to talk about the weather. I inherited my weather obsession from him.

“We narrowly dodged the bullet last night,” He said above the loud din of his busy pharmacy in the background.

“I know,” I replied. “It got down to thirty four degrees and just held there.”

“I was worried we would get some ice forming,” He said. “That would have been a mess.”

“We still have several more chances of snow coming up,” I replied. “James Spann says it might not get above freezing Monday and that is rare for the Deep South.”

“I love that I and you can talk weather,” Dad said. “Your brother doesn’t even know when it is raining.”

I laughed and agreed with Dad about my brother.

Dad had to go fill some more prescriptions and hurriedly got off the phone. I don’t envy him of his job. His business has taken a toll on his health over the years. He is only sixty and has already had triple bypass heart surgery. That drug store is a damn stressful place to garner a income.

Pictures of the Snow in Tennessee...

A Cold, Very Cold Rain…

The National Weather Service issued a winter weather advisory for us last night. I stayed up all night watching the weather, rain, and the temperature on my little wireless weather station. The temperature dropped to 34 degrees and just stopped. I was so disappointed. I live so close to the Gulf of Mexico (a day away) and it moderates the cold air to a certain extent. That is why it is so hard for us to get a decent snow or just a snow at all. It has been seven long years. I was hoping to get to use the 4-wheel-drive on my Honda CR-V for a change.

A friend of mine emailed me and wanted to know some particulars of my life lately so I decided to write about that today for her. Yes, I still go to Alcoholics Anonymous every night. Lunch times often find me sitting over at Rodger’s Barbeque eating the daily special. Wednesday is meatloaf day and I never miss it. They cook a fabulous meatloaf recipe.

Me and mom still eat out every Thursday night. Last Thursday we went to the Waffle House and I ate the double hamburger platter. Mom got a chicken salad. You see the most interesting people in the Waffle House. My friend Charlie says they are a little too interesting.

Sam found his old owners. I put an ad in the paper for him. I just knew he was somebody’s dog. He turned out to be the property of a local doctor who lives out Spring Road. I went to High School with his son so he knew me very well. They came and picked up Sam the first of the week so it just me and Maggie again. Maggie really misses Sam and I was starting to get attached to him as well. I was glad he got reunited with his rightful owners though.

I am very excited about my new home. I should start moving in the next few weeks or so. The workmen finished framing the windows in my laundry room and I have to go pick out some linoleum for the kitchen and carpet for my bedroom and computer room. I had a guy come and tile the hall which looks very nice. This house has completely eaten up my savings though. At one time, I had $5000 dollars in the bank as an emergency fund. It is all gone now. It will take another few years to rebuild it after I move in and get used to a completely new budget.

Well, I am going to go get lost in a game of NeverWinter Nights 2. I have been a fan of Dungeons and Dragons since I was a little boy. I miss me and my many childhood and college friends getting together to play the pen and paper game. At least, I have an electronic version to enjoy. I hope you all have a good day and snow comes your way!