Dealing With Riff Raff…

I locked my front door and was about to start my walk for the day. Down my front steps I went. This black fellow was walking by my house just at that moment.

“Hey, Man!” he said brashly. “Give me a ride over to the housing projects.”

“Can’t,” I replied. “I am going for my daily walk and don’t have my car keys on me.”

He was giving me bad vibes anyway and I wouldn’t have given him a ride even if I was fixing to drive somewhere.

“It is cause I be black!” he callously retorted reeking of racism. “I see how you is going to be.”

“I wouldn’t give you a ride if you were a pretty Caucasian woman!” I replied with a harrumph.

I zipped up my jacket this chilly evening, tucked my hands in my pockets, and headed out for my walk. I hope he freezes his ass off on that long walk from my neighborhood. He was rude and uncouth.

On Loneliness…

I read the “The Homeless Guy” blog for a good many years. I don’t think I’ve read about a more lonely man than he and he was surrounded by people being homeless. He was always at odds with himself and the people around him. Millions read his blog and I don’t think he garnered not one lasting friendship out of the endeavor. People would try to befriend him, but he would eventually push them away. He was always so paranoid and suspicious of others.

When I was drinking, I never got lonely. John Barleycorn was my best friend and he kept me company. John Barleycorn was also the jealous type and I ended up not having one soul in my life who cared about me there at the end of my homeless career. I could understand what loneliness Kevin Barbieux felt. I later found George and the gang and they embraced me drunkenness and all. I had finally found some friends who were like me.

When I sobered up, I could no longer hang out with my drinking friends. We all went our separate ways. That’s when loneliness really hit me. When I sobered up.

I called my father tonight and asked him when we were taking his car to the shop to get a headlight fixed. I easily get lonely these days now that I do not drink. I was trying to get up something constructive to do this afternoon that would involve fellowship and comradery.

“I got it fixed earlier in the week,” he told me. “You must be lonely.”

“Yeah, a little bit,” I replied. “Tracy has class tonight after work.”

“I’ve got to go out to eat with a friend, Dave, and I will call you when we get back,” dad told me. “You can come and hang out with me and Samantha and drink you a Coke.”

I told him that sounded like a great deal! That sounded wonderful!

Inner Peace…

I feel at peace tonight – not the always inward conflict I feel on a normal basis. I am very thankful for all the many good things in my life right now. I’ve come a very long way from that drunkard homeless man back in 2003. I will never forget the night my mother turned on the heat in my deceased grandmother’s house – wonderful, glorious heat. I had called her and told her I was homeless. I had a warm bed to sleep in that night and was so very, very thankful. I had been sleeping in a tent by a pond on some land we owned. The month was December as it is now.

“I don’t care what your daddy says you’re not sleeping in a tent tonight,” my mother told me over the phone. “It is freezing cold outside!”

That was the spark that lit the fire that got me moving towards recovery, stability, and sobriety. I finally had stable housing living in an apartment under my grandmother’s house. It took a few years, but I finally got sobered up as well and started to take my medications. The medications were useless while I was drinking. The medications are the key to my recovery. My father always likes to say that I am a different person on my medications than I was before. He said the same of my mother as well. My mother was a mean, stern, chaotic, and obstinate woman growing up and she turned into this gentle and kind creature when she started to take Zyprexa for her schizophrenia.  I actually got to be friends with my mother in the last few years before her death. We were no longer at odds with each other. 

Sleep On Sleeping Man!

The Awakening of Yawny...

I didn't mean to sleep past noon. I feel as half my day is gone and wasted. Maggie? She loved the arrangement. I woke up to her asleep down at my feet. It is incredibly amazing the phone didn't ring in all that time.

I fixed me a large piece of cheese danish and ate it in the den with a large glass of milk for breakfast. I am just like my father who loves sweets for breakfast lately. I did really well with my groceries this week and they lasted until grocery day.

Kinda Greasy...

The Nashville Hot chicken last night was certainly very interesting. I was expecting my chicken to be more tangy like Southern BBQ. I was surprised about how greasy it was and the sauce was too sweet to boot for these tastes. Not at all what I was expecting. Like a hungry beggar, I ate all of it, though. I got the three chicken strips meal.

Gone for the Good...

I was thinking today about all the good blogs I used to read which are now defunct. One of the most controversial of these being The Homeless Guy which I read over 16 years.  I had been reading him since 2001. I rarely agreed with him, but it was always interesting to read his blog. He just stopped writing one day and that was the end --  the end of his blog. No goodbyes. No nothings.

Maybe We Will Watch Trains Some Other Day...

The bank in downtown West Point has a high brick fence around its perimeter. There is also a bench behind that fence opposite the bank. I like to park at the railway museum and sit there and read while waiting for trains. Well, today I got downright cold and didn't stay long. I couldn't find a piece of cardboard to sit on. That bench is cement and cold on the ole derrière. I drove home relishing the warmth of my car.





image credit: http://www.railpictures.net/viewphoto.php?id=504532&nseq=1

Sign of the Times?

I don't ever remember seeing homeless people here in West Point as I was growing up.  Well, I saw what looked like an elderly bag lady over by the carwash today as I was driving home. I have a lot of empathy for people facing this plight. I kept thinking to myself, "where does she sleep?" and "where does she eat?" We don't have shelters or soup kitchens in this little town. Some churches must be filling that role that I don't know of.

image credit: http://homelessinamerica.blogspot.com/2012/02/bag-lady.html



Show Some Mercy For This Poor Dog...

Maggie hadn't seen my father in three days. Each night she would sit on the back of the couch and wait on him undaunted. I called dad last night and told him to stop by and see this poor pining dog before he went to the grocery store. As soon as my father pulled up in front of the house, dearest Maggie went bonkers. "He's here! He's here!" she seemed to be barking as she squealed with joy. I profusely thanked my father for doing that for my little furry companion.

Thank Ye! Thank Ye!

I pulled into the old Valley National Bank parking lot (a shortcut to my parent's house) and there was this elderly man who was obviously homeless walking across it. He was chomping on a big cigar and it made me smile.

"Do you need a ride somewhere close?" I asked.

"No," he surprisingly told me. "I be going up to the Piggly Wiggly and gettin' some lunch."

I told him good luck and he told me thanks. I handed him five dollars and told him to get a six-pack of Vienna sausages. I had a rendezvous with my father to take my medications and grab my sodas this early afternoon.

I thanked my parents under my breath for saving me from going through such a similar situation.

Dad was sitting out on the back deck this dreary day doing crossword puzzles. His new infatuation and pastime.

image credit: https://www.pinterest.com/jasherel/people-captivating-countenances/

Like Some El Greco Painting -- So Full of Pain...

I am sitting here waiting on my illustrious father to arrive with medications and something to eat. He said he would be here around 4:00 pm. Maggie is already in the window on lookout whining occasionally and impatiently.

My father and I have such a very contentious relationship that I don't write about often. I quickly learned about blogging that if you write about negativity then you will get negativity back in the comments. It will also attract negative people to your blog. Our main contention is the cleanliness of myself and my house.

He was asking me over the phone when was the last time I did laundry or took a shower. He says I also dress like a homeless man. I had laundry going when he called. I just dress frumpily. Right now, I have on grey sweatpants, a white cotton t-shirt, and an Auburn jacket. Just comfortable attire for hanging around the house on a Saturday or for a trip to the dollar store.

"You're going to be my project after this dinner party is over," he told me. "We are going to get you cleaned up."

What joy!!!!

I guess old habits die hard. Have you seen my parent's house, though? It is spotless. You can eat off the floors. I would never be able to maintain that level of cleanliness without help. I also told my father he is going to have to break down and spend the money on getting me a nice vacuum. That's the only way I can keep ahead of Maggie's shedding.

Oh well, it could be much, much worse. He could nag me constantly, but he is afraid of pushing me too far and what I will do if he does. He cares. He just goes about it the wrong way. The pragmatist in me says he is just worried in case I have to have company over. He's been known to put on airs like that.

Here's to Incentives...

Dad just arrived with Captain D's for the family at 4:30 pm. We performed my medication ritual and Maggie's food and water ritual.

"I am going to do something for you," my father said. "You get yourself cleaned up and the house cleaned up and I will give you $250 in computer part spending money."

Well, I think that is a fair compromise. I already have in mind what I want to order. It is going to be a midrange Radeon graphics card for my emulation computer.

Heal These Broken Wings. I Need to Fly Far, Far Away...

After my devastating divorce, I needed a place to go. I had spent the winter living out in God's Country on some timber land we owned. It was just me and my tent, a backpack full of camping gear, and copious amounts of beer. I got to where I would ride into town on my motorcycle to my late grandmother's house and sleep in a closet with a candle burning. You would be surprised at how much welcoming heat a candle can put off. It would get that small closet quite relatively warm.

One night, I bravely and desperately called my mother and told her I needed a place to stay and that I had been homeless for months. She came right over to my late grandmother's house and turned on the heat and helped me fix a bed in the apartment in the bottom of her house. It was one of the few times I've seen my mother stand up to my father in recent memory. This usurped my plans to ride to Nashville and sleep in the men's rescue mission and live off the streets. "The Homeless Guy" would spend all day browsing the internet with a donated laptop in McDonald's and sleep in the Rescue Mission at night. How hard could homeless there be compared to what I was experiencing here?

Early to Bed and Relatively Early to Rise...

I was in the bed at a very early 9:00 pm last night. It had been a rough and tumble day and I was tired. I had taken my medications around 6:00 pm at my parent's house.

"Who was Neville Chamberlain?" my father asked me as we all sat in their den yesterday afternoon.

"He was Britain's pacifist Prime Minister before Churchhill came to power," I replied. "Peace in our time."

"See Martha?" dad cackled laughing. "You're the school teacher. You should know this stuff."

Dad and I went on to discuss the Treaty of Versailles that was signed at the end of World War I and about how it brought Germany to its knees and instigated World War II.

A New Day. A Hopefully Better Tomorrow...

I woke up at 2:00 pm today feeling much better. I woke up to thunder and rain, though. A very comforting sound to me. Not so much for others. I just saw a frightening flash of a cloud to ground lightning strike on the horizon -- vivid and dangerous.

Mom is bringing Mexican food tonight along with my sodas around 7:00 pm. We're having chicken fajitas tonight with a glass of coy tasting and bubbly diet Coke. I fear the weather may cancel her and Mrs. Sandra's rendezvous, though.

I had some frozen biscuits left from last week's grocery visit and a little block of cheddar left. Maggie and I had cheese biscuits cooked in my little toaster oven for lunch. 

The Hard Sell...

About an hour ago, I was putting gas in my car when this rangy and soaking wet black fellow walked up to me and asked if I could get him a hamburger. One of his most notable characteristics was that he had an extremely lazy eye. He was also completely invading my personal boundaries.

"My mother died last week and I am completely homeless," the guy said loudly. "I need your help!"

"Walk inside and I will buy you a couple of hot dogs and a Coke," I replied as I finished pumping fuel into my car.

"Can I have the cash?  Come on man. I am homeless, I need the money," he exclaimed.

He was extremely agitated and pushy with a wild look in his eyes.  He had to be one of the most diligent, desperate, and driven panhandlers I have ever come across.  I was beginning to feel threatened by him.

"I am not giving you any cash," I said growing irritated wondering what his next move was going to be.

A car pulled up to a pump nearby and they were the "homeless" guy's new victims. I guess he wasn't that hungry after all.  He was jonesing for his next fix.

Don't get me wrong.  I have a lot of sympathy and empathy for the homeless and the poor.  It's these kinds of guys that make it hard on the rest of the homeless community. They give the homeless a bad reputation.

image credit:  http://reesenews.org/2011/01/12/panhandler-for-a-day/7982/
image credit:  http://komonews.com/news/local/city-tries-to-curb-aggressive-panhandlers-with-sign-campaign

Regarding the Sunset Brews and my Aggressive Unusual Behavior…

This seems to be this biggest source of contention with my readers on the blog these days – my drinking of my nightly sunset brews.  I have received more well intentioned advice and concern on this subject than more than anything in years.  I am trying to emulate the homeless Albert Vanderburg's nightly routine on Waikiki beach of this same ritual.  If you’ve known me for long, then you know I love rituals and routines. I also tend to romanticize the homeless lifestyle, and this routine seems so masculine, worldly, and helplessly homelessly romantic to me.  George will love reading about it in the blog posts I am mailing him each day.  He will live vicariously through my words and I have him in mind many nights when I drink them.  We both lived a pseudo homeless existence for the time we hung out down at the shopping center years ago every day. 

I try to tell myself that at the height of my drinking career, I was drinking 24 beers a day and that my drinking now is entirely mild compared to then.  I am not concerned at all.  I would basically crack open a beer back then when I awoke and would go to bed with an open beer on my night stand.  Maybe I am in denial, but two beers a night is a far cry from my olden days.  I was a miserable human being then.  Terribly disturbed mentally and emotionally.  The only time I have been happy and a heavier drinker was when I was hanging out with George and the gang down at the Piggly Wiggly everyday.  George could be a bad influence on me in those regards and most mornings would find us drinking ice beer as we talked, smoked cigars, and would shoot the shit as George like to say for hours.  I was a happy social drinker then.  Not the solitary “alcoholic” who sat at home drinking 24 beers a day in pain.  Or that sad individual who was grasping in pain at absolution by drinking mouthwash when my father cut the money off and gained power of attorney over me. I realize now most of my drinking resulted from a experience of a  supreme feeling of hurt, guilt, and despair.  Now? I like to have a drink to feel good and enjoy myself.  Not subdue all that distress I was experiencing.

Where will this lead me?  Only time will tell.  Some could say I am playing with fire.  I feel I am just being a pretty average Joe drinking a few beers after a hard day’s work.

One thing I am learning lately, though, is to take chances and be aggressive with my life and behavior. This also means living with gusto and doing things that make me feel good. For years, I have sat quietly at home, cocooned in safety, bored to tears, and acquiescing to my parent’s biddings of how I should live my life.   Now?  I am taking risks by returning to work.  By flirting with women at work when my social anxieties scream in retaliation.  By starting my own business when the odds of success are stacked against me due to my disability and my anxiety issues.  I feel as if I have awoken from some deep strange nightmare like some modern day Rip Van Winkle.  Like I wrote the other day, I better get busy living instead of dying.  And I was slowly dying emotionally and mentally in my previous life just a short few weeks ago and I was sober as a judge.

My thoughts often turn back to Kevin “The Homeless Guy” Barbieux and his life’s experiences he wrote about on his blog for years.  He’s brilliantly smart, but he doesn’t take chances or risks.  He won’t work a regular job saying it depresses him.  I am finding work the exact opposite.  It is invigorating.  This “depression” has kept him homeless for most of his adult life – safely sleeping in rescue missions and using the Internet all day.  He will claim it is a hard life being homeless always playing the victim, but it’s not that bad I learned from my own experiences.  It was cold, but you have zero responsibility and your pretty much get to do what you want when you want to.   How bad can spending all day on the Internet be and not having to work?

We were a lot alike until I decided I no longer wanted be that sick dependent victim.  I had to assert myself and take chances.  I had to think out of the box and it has been extremely uncomfortable for me to do in a way.  I am pushing boundaries and testing limits.  I was miserable, but I had everything to make life existential as far as the basics were concerned.  A home.  A car.  Nutritious food. Dubious if adequate mental healthcare.  All my financial affairs were handled by my father.  My bills were paid for me.  What was lacking is that I wasn’t living.  I was just existing.  I think Mr. Barbieux has fallen into this trap for most of his life.  He’s just existing like he has done for most of his adult existence.  I don’t want to seem overly harsh in my criticism of him, but I’ve often used him as my Atlas Marker for how not to live life.  I’ve learned a lot from following him on the Internet over the years. You can play the sick victim and be the valiant sociopolitical and religious Internet critic, but it isn’t going to pay the bills and it certainly isn’t going to do much for your self esteem or emotional wellbeing when all is said and done.  You just end up some lonely guy sitting in a McDonald’s with a laptop railing against society, government, and Christianity.

Well, it is 2am and I am writing yet another long blog post having driven over to get my six diet Cokes and they invigorated me.  I often like to write the most early in the morning as I smoke and drink my nightly Cokes mom puts out for me.  I better get on the couch, get some sleep, and get ready for work in the morning.  I am excited about starting a new week.  I keep telling myself that if I can make it through working for 30 days then I will  have made a healthy habit out of it.  Please wish me luck!  I need your help and encouragement.  I know I’ve written a positive blog this past week, but it’s been a hard row to hoe for me.  I am really pushing the envelope as far as my abilities are concerned.  My life has taken on a complete upheaval in just two weeks time.  And it feels good despite all the discomfort and pain caused by changing my life so drastically so suddenly. Good night.     

The Trials of Life, Alcoholism, and Mental Illness…

I can remember back in the early nineties when I was first diagnosed as schizophrenic.  I was strangely elated.  Most people would cry in horror at being diagnosed with such a devastating disease of the brain.   We now knew what was wrong with me – the strangeness with what I had struggled with since I was a child.  The paranoia.  The delusions.  There was the hope for help with a solid diagnosis.  I had answers and not some nebulous accusation of lack of character or laziness for the cause of my problems.  Medication after medication was tried with little absolution to my problems, though.  It was a time before the atypical antipsychotics were discovered or were still in clinical trials.  I grew depressed and drank heavier and heavier – my hopes dashed.  Beer my soothing mistress for my mental illness addled brain.  My father says it wasn’t until we tried Zyprexa years later that I had a breakthrough – the drug that had so helped my mother’s schizophrenia.  I was able to work a stressful prestigious job and I got married.  There were terrible side effects though.  I couldn’t wait to get home from work to get in the bed and sleep until the next day.  Bed was bliss.  Bed was an escape.  I was constantly sleepy and morose.  I didn’t realize it then, but I was terribly, terribly depressed.  Next, we tried Risperdal.  The side effects went away.  The depression lifted, but I began to drink heavier.  The Risperdal was more conducive to this and didn’t interfere with my drinking like the Zyprexa did.  I wasn’t sleeping all the time.  My marriage then fell apart.  I lost my job.  My then wife just couldn’t take the chaos that was my alcoholism.  I ended up homeless losing everything in the divorce – signing everything over to Rachel in a fit of drunkenness in a lawyer’s office.  Homelessness was a disastrous time of constant drinking and severe cold.  I lived in a tent in the woods like some modern day alcoholic Thoreau.  I drank so much I couldn’t afford an apartment.  Drinking was paramount then. I would go days without eating because it would interfere with the amount of beer I could drink.

I tried everything to quit drinking once my mother convinced my father to let me live in my late grandmother’s house next to theirs. There were conditions to me gaining a home and that was to straighten up and get sober.   I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.   I went through detox countless times often driving hundreds of miles to hospitals for which Medicare would pay.   I tried AA and would go a few times, but would end up drunk a few days later.  I looked terrible.  I weighed almost 300 pounds from drinking thousands of calories of beer per day.  My eyes looked yellowish and dim and often red shot.  There were black circles under my eyes.  I will never forget pacing the floor of my den as I drank my seventeenth beer of the night realizing I was going to die soon if I didn’t do something drastic to quit.  I had to get serious.

It was about this time that dad decided he had to do something drastic or his oldest son was going to die from alcoholism.  He got power of attorney over me and took over my Social Security disability account.  The money was cut off and we went through a tumultuous time of severe withdrawal.  Dad and I fought like cats and dogs.  Nights would be spent screaming accusations at each other as I would plead with him for a drink.   I would do anything to get drunk.  I was inescapably addicted.  It was then that I discovered mouthwash.   I read an online article about a man named Listerine Gene who would get drunk drinking his namesake.  Mouthwash was only a $1.09 a bottle at Fred’s dollar store and it would get you just as drunk as whiskey or beer.  It was terrible to drink, but the urge to get drunk overrode any inhibitions about the nasty taste.  I would somehow manage to scrounge up a dollar a day to get drunk. Dad was at his wit’s end with me. 

The chemical harshness of the mouthwash was what saved me.  I could no longer drink it.  I would take a drink and throw up violently – my stomach protesting. My sister warned me that I would soon develop pancreatitis.  I went into an ever deeper depression when I realized I could no longer drink.  I had exhausted all options.  I had no money.  I couldn’t work with my mental illness.  I finally got sobered up, but it was a shaky stasis.  My father had finally won the battle with which he had fought with a bulldog like tenacity.  He never gave up on me despite all I put him through.  I was going to live and possibly sober for a change.    

Mental Health Woes and Homeless Ideation…

“You can’t drive when you are like this,” dad told me the other day as he yanked my car keys from my hand.  “You are outta your gourd as far as your mental illness is concerned.  You don’t even know what day of the week it is.”

I was busily packing up my car with all the things I needed to live successfully on the few thousand acres of land my family owns.   I had put so much in the car that you couldn’t see out the rear view mirror and back window.   I was going live homeless in the woods where no one could find me or bother me – my social anxieties had been screaming for a break from life for days.   I was also extremely delusional my father told me.  “You were making up some wild and convoluted stories that just did not make sense.” 

Wednesday rolled around and dad and I sat in my psychiatrists office.  Dad went on and on about how I always want to be a homeless man when I get very mentally ill. 

“He says he is going to live off the land!” dad told the doctor excitedly. “He says he is tired of people and just wants to escape.”

“I suggest we hospitalize him to get him stable,” Dr. K told my father.

“No! No! No!” I exclaimed as I interjected and started to get up and leave.  “You’re not putting me in the psych ward for a few weeks where I can’t smoke.”

A compromise was reached where dad would come by every morning and give me an extra 3mg Risperdal on top of the six milligrams I was already taking at night.  That did the trick.  I felt better and better yesterday and am now back to normal now.  Now comes the arduous task of unpacking my car.  I literally got so much junk in my car that you wouldn't believe it.  I was going to be one of the most best equipped homeless men in the state.  

My Thoughts for the Blogging Day…

Move Along…

One of my favorite blogs for years was The Homeless Guy.  Being formerly homeless, I was all too keenly and acutely interested in all things homeless.   Kevin Barbieux, The Homeless Guy, gave up writing his blog for the most part and took up a home on Facebook.  Well, you are not missing anything if you fear you can’t read him on Facebook as he rabidly controls who can be his “friends”.  He exemplifies what I so dislike about Facebook – that the medium is full of mindless blurbs with no substance.  Long gone are the interesting essays Kevin used to write for his blog – essays that would make you think even though you might disagree.  I have later learned as I have grown as a person that the guy is a complete idiot, but I still find him fascinating to a degree.  I gave up on Facebook altogether though and haven’t missed it.  I gave up on Twitter as well finding it all ME, ME, ME!  People were falling all over their selves to be interesting on Twitter.  Do I do this on my blog to a degree?  I don’t know, but it just made me think. 

Blogging Habits…

My life has centered around my home theater lately.  It is my new obsession and so has my internet usage changed.  I am usually browsing and reading blogs with my Wii these days and not the computer.  I just find it much more convenient.  I really need more good blogs to read though.  I read about a dozen and it can be excruciating waiting for my friends to update.  I realize many of these people have more lives than me and can’t just update all day.   I love blogs that update frequently and these are becoming incredibly increasingly rare.  If you have any good blogs you would like to recommend just drop them in the comments and I will check them out.  Give me blogs you just can’t live without.  I also want Joy Heather’s blog address.  I haven’t heard from her much lately and it is worrying me.  I am worried she is feeling under the weather.  Do any of you know about her?

Giving Thanks…

I sat down this morning at the desk in my computer room to write today’s gratitude list.  I had so many thoughts on my mind and so many things to be thankful for. Number one was yesterday.  I had a mental illness free day and they are rare.  For that, I was so thankful.  No racing of the mind.  No endless pacing of the floor to chase away my mental illness blues.  No feelings of overwhelming despair. 

This morning I am thankful for my central heating and air.  I woke up very cold and heat was just pushing a button up a few degrees much to Maggie’s chagrin.  I basked in the warmth shedding clothes.  I have to remind myself of my homeless days and those times I would be so cold I would cry.  My only recourse was to crawl into my sleeping bag with layers upon layers of clothes on to get warm. 

Another thing to be thankful for was the hot turkey and Swiss sandwich I had for breakfast.  I toasted the bread, slathered on some mayonnaise, and warmed the turkey and Swiss in my toaster oven.  It was heavenly.  A far cry from all those cans of fish steaks I ate cold when I was homeless and all the countless bowls of tepid oatmeal.

Yes, I have much to be thankful for today with my homelessness forefront on my mind this morning.  Thankful indeed!  

My Thoughts for the End of the Blogging Day…

The Changing of the Guard…

Mom has this completely obsessive compulsive need to see about her children’s needs.  Dad doesn’t share this to her extent.  Dad made me promise not to tell mom I was out of food or it would have been a major family crisis. lol  Well, I have been worried about mom and all she does for me lately.  I want to lessen my burden on her.

“She’s getting old,” dad said of mom last night.  “She can’t even hardly take care of herself, let alone you as well.”

I took this as a signal I need to stop some of the things mom is doing for me on a weekly basis.  How these various tasks for me get started, I don’t know, but mom can always seem to make life more complicated than it needs be. 

Mom came by at five this evening with my Monday fast food supper and my two treat Cokes.  She didn’t get out of her car and just blew the horn for me to walk out and get the treats.  That’s when I started what would be a convoluted conversation.

“This is the last week we do this,” I told her. “I don’t want you to do Mexican Tuesdays as well tomorrow night.  I will go get my groceries on Wednesday night and have dad come and write a check for my purchase when he leaves the pharmacy.”

“Why are you mad at me?” my mother asked, looking so confused. “I love you. I just want to help you.”

This took me completely off guard.  I thought she would be relieved she didn’t have do all that anymore.  She has been really struggling mentally for months now. 

“Have I said something to hurt your feelings?” she asked.  “Was it about me not answering the phone this morning?  I just didn’t want to get out of bed.  I called you back.”

“MOM!” I exclaimed.  “I am just trying to help you!  I feel you do too much.  Dad said you and him are getting old and unable to do all this for me anymore.”

“Well, he may be old, but I’m not that old,” mom stammered with a look of defiance on her face.

I smiled.  “It will be okay if you stop,” I told her. “I just worry about you.  I am not mad at all.”

“I am bringing you Nachos Supreme tomorrow night and I don’t want to hear another word about it,” mom told me sternly. “You father can kiss my ass about being old.”

I burst out laughing at the second statement.  Mom got to laughing as well.  I guess I am going to get Mexican Tuesdays tomorrow night after all.  

An Odd Couple’s Truce…

Lucky, Joyce’s cat, was sleeping on the carport today as she does every day.  Maggie was just mere feet away on my back steps sunning herself – enjoying the early Spring day.  Maggie has gotten where she completely ignores Lucky.   I am relieved at their odd truce.

Mom has a soft spot for homeless animals and cats in general and brought me this huge bag of canned cat food.  Dad would die if he knew mom and I were doing this.  I told mom the other day, “us formerly homeless and homeless folks stick together”, speaking of the cat.  I walked over today opening a can of cat food and placed it a few feet from Lucky.  She is getting less wary of me with every day and will meow when she sees me.  This is a promising sign.   Five feet is about as close as I can get at this point.  I am determined to make this cat my own.  Joyce will be smiling down upon me.   

The Magical Hour Begins…

The Magical Hour

Choices and Ramifications…

I had been homeless for about six months when I called my mother from my deceased grandmother’s house.  I had a key from when I lived with her.  Mom, her usually fretting self, immediately went into action.  She turned on the heat and made me a bed. “You’re not going to be homeless,” she told me. My father wasn’t too pleased, but what could he do?  Cast his son aside despite all his faults and drunkenness?

I had planned on going to Nashville to live.  From reading “The Homeless Guy” I knew I could get a place to sleep, three meals a day, and social worker help.  I would also have my full disability allotment to drink with.  I wouldn’t have any expenses other than cigarettes and beer.   It was sad, though, that my life had come to this.  To spend the rest of my days sleeping and eating in homeless shelters while getting drunk during the day.  I had two choices; to be put under my father’s harsh regime and live a semi normal life, or move to Nashville and probably die of cirrhosis in a few years.

I chose the former.  I realize dad can be harsh.  It is only because he cares.  I was unable to care for myself and he took over.  Many fathers would say to hell with that; he’s a grown man.  Let him fend for himself.   I was like a small child who needed care and guidance.  I always was and still am to a certain point.

When I write about dad and our interactions, you are only seeing my point of view.  You are not reading his.  I realize I can put him in a not so flattering light and I apologize for this.  He’s a good man; a responsible man. He has had to deal with two very mentally ill family members and do what he sees is best.  Despite our semi-frequent squabbles with dad, mom and I have good lives.  I have Maggie which brings me no end of joy.  I have an EXTREMELY nice computer setup and the Internet is my life. I lack for nothing except money.  I have some of the first friends in years in George and Mrs. Florene. 

I do believe trust will come with time.  It might take years, but those are years I would never have if I had chosen life in Nashville and drank myself to death.  Here, I have a fighting chance with sobriety.  I have a good life here.  Yes, it is easy to lament what you don’t have, but that is human nature.  With dad’s help maybe one day I can be independent.      

Keeping Up Appearances...

It's a novel thing me keeping myself up.  For a year, I would go without shaving for a week.  Sometimes it would be days before I showered.  I wouldn't buy deodorant for sometimes months.  I would wear the same clothes for days.  Soap was like kryptonite. It exasperated my father.

"Take some pride in yourself, goddamnit!" he would say to me. "Shave and get yourself cleaned up!  We didn't raise you to live like this!"

It was my mental illness.  I felt too terrible to do anything of the sort.  It was the most maligning form of apathy - an apathy that put a big wedge in between my father and our relationship.  He's keen on keeping up appearances.  You never see him without crisp, clean dress shirts.  He always has a dash of cologne on.  I have never, ever seen him with facial hair.

Now?  I got some new soap today and couldn't wait to try it.  I spent $6 dollars of scarce money on something I used to would never use.  It was so nice to get in the shower with a bar of Irish Spring (with a moisture beads gimmick) and wash myself clean.  I take a shower everyday now religiously.  Sometimes two.  I am taking pride again now that I am feeling better.  

The hardest part about mental illness is it so effects our behavior as it relates to conventional society.  The norms and rules of society can escape us or we no longer care.  That's why you see so many homeless mentally ill people.  You can see cancer on an MRI or X-ray.  You can't take a test that shows you have schizophrenia.  There is no certain course of recovery except to trust in a doctor to carefully try different medications till you find something that works. 

Gratitude...

Gratitude... I've got it.  I worry about being all pollyannaish on this blog.  I have so much gratitude lately, though.  Just a moment ago, I was laying in bed resting with Maggie and I felt giddy.  I keep saying, "If you were homeless then you couldn't have this."  Maggie.  My warm bed. My TV.  Internet on demand.  Warm and dry clothes.  Central heating and air.  I really owe my father so much.

Earlier in the day, I went over for my two Cokes.  Dad surprised me by being there and not at work.

"Help me with some lights outside," he told me.

We got out and finished stringing the rest of his Christmas lights on his front hedge.  I love these times with my father.  He sure had a dry humor about him today. I laughed and laughed and we had a good time. 

Blog Beginnings and Looking Ahead...

One bitterly cold December night years ago I got on the web at my deceased grandmother's house and searched for information about homelessness.  I had been homeless for about 2 months, recently divorced.  I found The Homeless Guy blog.  Wow! Homeless people have websites and people are helping them too!  I quickly realized, though, that this "homeless guy" was a con.  There was nothing to help the homeless on his site.  Only him.  His gift bags for the homeless idea was something for Christian "do gooders" to do when a lot of the homeless wanted burgers, cigarettes, and beer. 

I did start my own blog.  It was called "Homeless and Disabled in Alabama."  Wasn't that just pretentious?  The Homeless Guy listed me on his blog as "The Grumpy Old Man" because I criticized his criticism of getting chicken everyday at the Rescue Mission.  At the time, I would have been so appreciative of any meal not cooked lukewarmly over a fire.  The Grumpy Old Man moniker stuck and I named my next blog after that just to spite the old curmudgeon and he was over a decade older than me. 

Years later, we are both still blogging.  He is about to be homeless again, failing to pay his $150 dollar a month rent.  I think I have grown immensely these past few years and haven't had to belabor my readership with needs and requests for money.  I am still overly dependant upon my parents, but not in a burdensome way.   I am happy most days, content to go about my simple life. I also realized with kindness that the least of "The Homeless Guy's" problems was not having a home.  He has some deep seated emotional problems that no drug or possibly only therapy can fix.  I had to become the better man and be less critical of him.   It was hard, and probably one of the hardest things I have done since writing this blog.  He invites criticism by the way he writes on his blog and interacts with others. 

I thought tonight what I want to be doing next year this time.   Another Christmas will be approaching and I will be going on 38 years old.   My main goal is to be independent and working for someone other than my father.   I realize social security disability can be willy nilly and I can't always rely on that being there.  I also want my schizophrenia to be in complete remission along with these anxiety attacks I am struggling with.  That might mean a second opinion from another doctor.  I will cross that bridge when I get there. 

Ferret's Follies...

Did some scouting down at Ferret's old homeless campsite this morning with the intent on going camping.  It is by the grand Chattahoochee River within a stones throw of the municipal water treatment plant.  The Homeless Guy's recent article on Nashville's tent city got my interest in camping piqued.  The place is still heavily littered with beer cans, though.  And I would also be trespassing if I camped there. 

After leaving the campsite, I rode my mountain bike across the highway to the shopping center.  None of the gang regulars were out today. I would have liked to have talked to Big S for a bit. 

There was a call from Rosa when I arrived home.  We haven't talked in weeks and now she is wanting to borrow my car for a day.  No thanks!  I still miss her very much, but what is said and done is said and done.  There is no turning back to those blissful days when we were in love.