Free Will

God gives man free will. Free will to decapitate babies. It's man's free will. But, wait, thy will be done. it's man's free will, but thy will be done. All right, now I understand. 

Did You Poop Today?

That wasn't completely it, but kinda. Colleen was the quite hot, quite tatted, quite pregnant nurse during one of my stays. People go to places. I do. And other people. When society doesn't know what else to do. Generally it's jail, I think. But I hadn't risen to the criminality level of extended incarceration in a traditional facility. And I never intended to harm anyone else. That's one of the standards, more or less.

But it is good for hospitalization. So Colleen, who surely wanted to be there all pregnant dealing with psych-ward patients, asked each morning: "Did you poop today?" 

I was like, "Did you?" She rolled her eyes back a few seconds and said, "Yup."

"Well, then, yes." If Colleen, baby-swollen and tatted like all unreal and hot, then so could I acknowledge.

My mother used to say, "Go shit in your hat." I don't know if it was a Depression-era thing or what. That was Level 1.

Level 2: "Go shit in your hat, Harry." Again, Depression-era references aren't my specialty, but she raised the bar. She called me Harry. Not my name, but "Harry" takes it up a notch. I wouldn't choose to shit in my hat. I have a bunch of hats. Not for shitting. And why did "Harry" get a bad rap? Harry Houdini was popular then, I think. I'm not looking anything up on the Interwebs because I prefer to challenge my recollection. I think Harry Hamlin was unborn. Harry Connick Sr. must have been alive. Harry the Royal, I don't know. His wife was on that show. I watched. It sucked. I don't know nothin' about no Harry Styles.

Level 3: "You go shit in your hat, Harry, and put it on your head." The put-it-on-your-head, Harry, aspect sets it apart. Even if she wanted me to shit in all my hats and put them on my head, I wouldn't have. I didn't. "Ma, are you gonna wash those hats after I shit in them?"

So I was standing there as Nurse Colleen entered my info for that day. I theretofore had operated under the delusion that my life had a greater meaning. I had embarked on a quest for greater meaning. I landed myself on the psych ward. And she was like, "You poop?" The distillation had come full circle.

Jingle Bells

 A horse clopped along the street recently. He exhibited workmanlike qualities. He pulled people in a sleigh. A true one-horse open sleigh. Staggering. 

But horses changed the complexion of the American West. Apparently. Conventional wisdom suggests horses came, via the Spanish, to the West in the 14-1500s. Then the Comanches adopted the horse and became the baddest of the bad-ass Indians.

ECT Redux

Most of January 2019 I spent in the hospital. While I was there, the doctors persuaded me to have electroconvulsive therapy. As a friend said, I was off in R.P. McMurphy land. Not for the first time.
An ad for an antidepressant just came on the TV. Trintellix, I think. At any rate, ECT again. Unilateral, as opposed to bilateral. The first time, 1994, surely was bilateral, according to the doctor. Bilateral means they fry both sides of your brain. Unilateral, the most recent treatment, was bilateral. For anyone interested. It didn't work. But, pause, imagine the extent of the desperation to which one consults to an electrical connection to the brain. I guess the brain involves electrical connections with which to begin (don't end  sentence with a preposition). It's telling, in and of itself, that I could be concerned with grammatical issues while dealing with the ECT tailwater. Tailwaters--those below a dam. The preoccupation with apparently insignificant issues plays a big part. The most recent stint involved the psych ward. I rather fancy having you on the ward. I love being in group with you. You're awesome. My fellow inpatients. That's the environment in which I am comfortable.
Fuck, I just want once in my life to be as happy as a "Price Is Right" contestant called to come on down. A new recliner. High 5, high 5.














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i

On the Borderline

So here's how I grew up: I'd get home from middle school, and my brothers would be getting home from work. They would immediately start smoking weed. And drinking and watching "The Rockford Files." That is how I grew up. That is my normal. Normal to me is coming home from school and  a group of guys hitting the bong and drinking. At night, while I lay in bed, my brother sold drugs in the next room and blasted Led Zeppelin. But I still like Led Zep. My Therapist would say that's a dialectic. I don't really understand. And one of those guys recently died, hit by a car while driving a motorcycle.
But that takes us to the next phase: borderline personality disorder. I'm delving into DBT--dialectical behavior therapy. DBT apparently arose specifically to treat BPD. So there you go. But back to BPD. So, more to come as I try to figure out BPD and DBT.

Smoke and Mirrors

But, I should say, windows and doors. As a homeowner, windows and doors have been the bane of my existence. But, from a metaphorical (and literal) perspective, they retain their place.
One door closes, another opens. This is my window to the world. The eyes are the window to the soul. Don't let the door hit you in the ass. Doors and windows. Openings. Gotta level them.
"Storm Windows" by John Prine is a cagey little song. In my interpretation, the storm windows are his (my) eyes. My eyes as storm windows. Perfect. A storm brews underneath and externally. When I look through my eyes (how else?), I see the storm on the outside, yet I'm communicating from the storm within.
If you own a home or ever have, you might have outsourced work. I tend not to. And doors and windows constitute, in my opinion, some of the biggest pains in the fucking ass for a homeowner. Do they also constitute challenges otherwise?
Shim that door, shim that window. I walk through the door. We all need a little shoring up.
So I look out the window before I walk out the door.

We Shared a Rage

My brother died. Chronologically, age separated us by 12 years; spiritually, the distinctions faded. The most insightful words his now-widow ever spoke made reference to us being the same person.
I discovered that he had died because I thought, one day, out of the blue, that I would look him up. Google. Dead.
His wife/widow didn't tell us. An estrangement existed, but....
So he, being 12 years older than I, fulfilled some of the paternal functions, in the absence of a father. Took me to ballgames, took me fishing, took me to the movies. Then distanced himself, once a disciplinary component emerged from latency.
I understand more than anyone his interest in separation. Issues arose when Mom had a stroke. Issues simmered and then came to the fore during the intervening three years before stroke #1 and death.
He once told me he always had a desire to hurt himself or someone else. He risked my life at times. Perhaps no greater connection exists than the one in which another life feels like an extension of your own, equally worthy of putting at risk.
When my friend Dave died, I likened the trauma to losing a grizzly bear: I don't see them every day, but I like to know they're there. I liked knowing the person with whom I most closely shared experiences, my big brother, was still there, and I never thought we wouldn't reconcile. Our other brother pointed out to me that both of us, I and brother the eldest, lost our best friends.
And we shared a certain rage, just pure anger. Now I cope with it on my own.
How did you die, brother? Did you OD, as other brother suspects? Were you in a car accident?
So, my brother died...and i cry a lot.

Detox Redux (It's Not Easy Being Green, From Where I'm Calling)

With apologies to Kermit the Frog and Raymond Carver.
Those of us there for detox sported green wristbands. Others, such as the dual-diagnosis crew, wore a different color. Yellow, I think. Dual diagnosis represents people undergoing treatment not just for substance abuse, but also an underlying condition, like depression or some other category of what's deemed mental illness. The majority of the detox cases involved heroin users, most of whom were younger. They used the needle. Some people depended upon opioids in pill form, Some, like me, on alcohol. Opiods and alcohol allegedly represent two of the most dangerous substances from which to withdraw, hence the roughly seven-day inpatient stay for me, my second go-round. Medically supervised withdrawal recommended. Which means they pump you with drugs to counteract the potentially lethal effects of withdrawal. I liked it so much I went back.
Two roommates again this time, but not the same ones for the duration. I spent my last night sharing a room with two guys in the early stages of heroin withdrawal. Not the most peaceful night.
One of these guys, el Lobo, equaled a predator, in that he preyed upon vulnerable girls. Take Darla, for instance (her real name...no it isn't). Smiling Darla, she of no confidence in her ability to stop using heroin, or drugging, in the vernacular. Heroin equals dope, by the way. I recall a time when "dope" seemed to represent a broader array of drugs, including marijuana. But now, according to my once-drug-addled younger brethren, heroin is dope (dope, bro).
So one day, el Lobo, Darla, another girl and I shot pool in the basement as, somehow, part of the therapeutic process. Beats shooting heroin or throwing back shots of alcohol, I suppose, at least in that environment. In between shots (billiard), el Lobo stroked Darla's hair, on, like, his second day. Not a time-waster. After which, I pulled her aside and inquired as to whether allowing that type of behavior was in her best interests. Darla, speaking to me: "Please don't say anything. Please. Pleeeeeeease." So I didn't say anything to him. Lo and behold, the next night he had moved on to a newly admitted woman.
Darla had a friend inside whom she called her wife, and vice versa. Chastity. Cute, young Chastity, who allegedly copped as soon as she left the building. Apparently she called in and told someone still on the inside that her dealer picked her up and she used right away. She showed me her arms one day and the damage the needle had done. Customarily, we had the opportunity to address people at our community meeting the night before their scheduled departures. I told Chastity, and included Darla, even though she wasn't leaving, that I didn't want them to become statistics. News reports contain statistics. And generally they don't mean anything to a lot of people. They mean something to me. These are people. Nice kids who perhaps have done not-so-nice things. I place myself in that category, though not a kid, exactly, and alcohol, not heroin. What's the difference? Because we can legally obtain alcohol? I check on Chastity occasionally via a Google search. Still alive, last I looked. Not sure what has become of Darla, but I wonder. She and I left on the same day, and I had offered her a ride home (against the rules). But some people looking out for my best interests advised against it because, well, addicts are capable of anything, meaning she could have asked me to stop at a convenience store and met someone to get drugs and got back in my vehicle with them. Or she could have said I did something inappropriate. To what end, I don't know, but I left without her and still feel bad. I lived with these people and didn't/don't want to believe she possessed the capability to do something along those lines. But, of the addicts I've encountered in treatment, many acknowledge how they were capable of anything while using.
And the activities these girls acknowledged. They more or less woke up and considered how to obtain money to procure dope. Before detox, not during. So they traded sex. Darla preferred older guys because they climaxed more quickly. Seems counterintuitive. Chastity didn't express a preference but indicated that the men's ages covered a broad swath. They divulged this information matter of factly, which is to some extent the beauty of detox. People in that environment tend not to judge one another because of a predilection to overindulge in wayward activity, because, hey, we were all there. That's not to say that the place lacked judgmental people, just not with respect to the drug of choice and associated behavior. People did judge based on sexual proclivities or otherwise aberrant behavior, like that of el Lobo, for instance. Guilty.
Jerry and Robert, for example, engaged in prohibited activity and got caught. I believe they had their mouths around each other's cocks at the time, to which Jack, the former Marine, took exception. The next morning's community meeting nearly devolved into a brawl, with Rick, the martial-arts instructor, taking Jack's side against Jerry and Robert. Jack had already revealed his hand when it came to homosexuals--not in favor.
Jerry had been married, to a woman, but took a shine to Robert. Jerry also heard voices in his head. I'm unsure if a link existed between the voices and having been married. One night he took to pounding his head on the table. Before that, he had discovered that I like the musician John Prine. So Mary looked out for Joe. Mary actually had kicked alcohol but resided on our wing because they didn't have room in the area she normally would have ended up in for her depression. Mary also told the nurses about Jerry's travails. So I got a towel and placed it on the table where Jerry kept banging his head. But back to John Prine. Jerry inquired about a song, he couldn't remember all the details, but I divined that the tune in question was "In Spite of Ourselves." So I started singing to Crazy Jerry, and he joined in, though mangling the words a bit. But at least we interrupted the head-banging.
In the evenings, after we had fulfilled all our obligations, usually following an AA or NA meeting, we'd pass the time in various ways (until they shooed us off to bed at 11). Movies on DVD. Cards. Or, memorably, a home (or institutional) version of Family Feud. I had the good fortune to be the moderator. At one point after I had read a question, one of our female housemates, dealing with an opiate addiction, struggled to come up with a response. She almost had it; to wit, she said: "It's on the tip of my cunt."
Some of the people with whom I spent my stint had double-digit rehab stays under their belts. Like 15 or 16. Considering how much time it takes up, that represents a not-insignificant amount of time. I, between electroconvulsive therapy and two detox residencies, consider myself to have spent a fair amount of time in that environment (same place each time), but I kind of pale in comparison. Nevertheless, I derive a certain degree of comfort from being there, among my peeps. The aforementioned lack of judgment, which differs from the lack of judgment we all display while under the influence of our preferred substances. I suppose not everyone would feel comfortable essentially in a dorm full of heroin addicts, pill poppers and alcohol abusers, but to each his own. One virtue is that there's almost nothing to steal, because my heroin-addicted friends, in particular, acknowledge that they would steal from anyone. Granted, that involved drug use, but some habits die hard. The place permits no cellphones, iPods, tablets, etc. Limited-use pay phones provide the link to the outside world. Visitors could only come on Saturday.
I got the sense that I had become well-respected on the inside. Perhaps because I provided some of the kids with guidance they were unaccustomed to receiving, like take your feet off the dinner table. Seriously. The line between the gratification that accompanied people leaning on me and having to look out for my own well-being could be precarious. In AA, the people want you to call them. They acknowledge that your reliance upon them helps them, as well. In that respect, I consider the program to have a selfish component. On the other hand, not providing support for fellow travelers also can reflect a sort of selfishness.
So, how did I end up there for the third, maybe a charm, time? The easy route to take would have been to keep drinking. Well, I have kept drinking. Percentage-wise, though, with a back-of-the-envelope calculation, instead of 100% of the time since I left detox, I have drunk about 5% of the time. The liver numbers went right back to normal. Less than perfect, but a significant improvement. Anyway, back to how I got there. To satisfy the state of North Carolina, and a judge therein, I got a substance-abuse assessment (moderate) before appearing in court. I wound up in court because North Carolina law-enforcement officials saw fit to arrest me. Twice. On consecutive days. I've seen more of the inside of correctional institutions there than I have cared to, including an overnight stay, also to satisfy the court. The food didn't quite meet my normal standards, but sustenance nonetheless. I can't say much for the decor, either. Bland, decrepit. Uncomfortable bed. And the bars, of the iron variety, as opposed to the booze-serving variety. The entire alcohol-fueled circumstances leading to my arrest cost me a fair amount of money and inconvenience. Especially since they seized my vehicle (eventually returned). On the other hand, having drunk about 95% less since December, I've accrued some money that I otherwise wouldn't have. With respect to the legal aspects of my situation, I did everything right after the initial colossal fuck-ups. I gave the police no shit. Got a respectable lawyer. Had my substance-abuse assessment. Showed up for court dressed relatively nicely, as opposed to my co-miscreants in the judicial complex. They committed drug crimes, theft, blah, blah. Fortunately, a number of people failed to show up for their court dates, the same day as mine, which enabled the proceedings to move along somewhat more quickly. Nevertheless, my case was but one of about 60 that day, if I recall correctly. In one little North Carolina courthouse. So what does that say? That I'm not unique in my fucked-upness. Far from it. To wit, gaining admittance to my friendly neighborhood detox center poses somewhat of a challenge. Some of that stems from most being Medicaid patients. They more happily accept people with private insurance, which I have. So I didn't encounter the same degree of difficulty, or, rather, the same wait, as did others. A bit of a tiered system exists, as in anything, I guess, which brings me back to North Carolina. My lawyer met privately with the judge before he heard my case. Upon briefing me of the situation, my attorney said, "He doesn't give a rat's ass about the details of your case, he just cares about who you are. He wants to know who's going to win the election." That would be the presidential election. I hedged my bets, figuring Clinton likely had the edge while also allowing for the groundswell of support that eventually favored Trump. Why would he care about who I am and not the details of my case? Because I have a job that provides access beyond the reach of most people. People with whom I've attended subsequent group sessions for substance abusers of various stripes took exception to that kind of treatment, which I understand. But I didn't consider turning it down. Justice ain't completely blind. But I've put a lot of time in getting where I am, fucked-upness aside, so it worked in my favor in this case. They even dropped the marijuana charge. Rationalization works wonders, but when confronted with such a situation, I took the advice of my lawyer and utilized my assets. I couldn't control the judge's reaction, but a bad situation resulted in the best possible outcome, even with incarceration.       
On the inside. Maw Maw sort of fulfilled the role of elder stateswoman, though I think I might be older. Maw Maw is an African-American woman with an infectious laugh. I think she preferred crack and alcohol. She had a seizure on my first night, and in came the emergency responders to cart her off to the hospital. Maw Maw bore little resemblance, at least physically, to Maw Maw from "Raising Hope." Our Maw Maw stood about five feet nothing. She provided some good moments of levity. For example, when a young girl recounted a story, deemed credible by few, about having been beaten by her grandmother, I think, Maw Maw opined: "That's sooome kinda ass whoopin'." Despite being in group and, on the surface, the ostensible inexcusability of such behavior (the beating), had it occurred, I cracked up. I suppose that speaks to the credibility, or lack thereof, of the story. That girl had an overbearing way about her, so I think we all had tired of hearing it. Maw Maw, in her way, crystallized it. She also reacted to one of my observations with such hysteria that I thought she might be having another seizure. I came across Mark, a young Asian guy undergoing heroin withdrawal and one of my final-night roommates, on his bed in our room with his torso more or less flat on the mattress and his ass stuck high in the air, At first I didn't know what to make of it. I thought perhaps he was praying, but upon closer observation, he was comatose--in deep sleep, that is. So I later observed to him, in Maw Maw's presence, that I thought he might be praying like a Muslim. That observation apparently struck Maw Maw as the funniest she had ever heard. Hence my confusion as to whether another seizure had visited her, bent over in hysterics as she was.
So there it is, a partial account of my most recent holiday at the institution of my choice. I don't care to return, though part of me feels at home there. I haven't been perfect since I left, but I've been more perfect than before I went in. My after-care program, well, I'll get into that at some other time. But I haven't completely divorced myself from the fucked-up people. My kind.

My Ride's Here

Kind of like "Desperados Waiting for a Train." I would have spelled Desperados with an "e", but why quibble? Guy Clark used a lot of "ain'ts, too. So he died recently, and the unfortunate aspect is we'll get nothing new from him. "My Ride's Here" is a Warren Zevon song.  Bruce Springsteen. performed "My Ride's  Here"  after his death. Well, one of Bob Dylan's favorite songwriters was Guy Clark. 

I Killed a Dog

I killed a dog. You can sing it to the tune of "I kissed a Girl."
The dog in question was mine. I didn't actually kill her. The vet did. But I authorized it. I carried her to my truck and stood there teary-eyed in the driveway as the kids said goodbye and tossed a ball in with her. And I held her as the last bit of life spasmed out of her. Tonight I will retrieve her ashes. The reason I decided to pony up the extra money for an individual cremation concerns the kids. We encouraged the 13-year-old to go to soccer practice the night of the euthanasia, but his mother had to bring him home because he couldn't stop crying. On the other hand, the 9-year-old said he wanted a new dog that very weekend. I've put down dogs before, two of which were old and one that had bloated. But this dog has hit me particularly hard, probably because of the kids. And maybe the fact that I spent years intensely training with her.
Not to say that this dog didn't possess negative qualities. She was a high-drive German shepherd and liked to bark at anything--anything--that came by the house, like infants, other dogs, old ladies, birds.... The FedEx guy once refused to leave the bottom of the driveway to approach the house. One day son the younger approached me with a pair of scissors, pointing straight at me. She jumped off the couch barking, but did no harm. Likely because she knew the consequences of approaching one of our children with teeth bared. At the gas station, I had to close the back window and get out of the truck, for when anyone came near her vehicle, she went ballistic. The vehicle rocked, so adamant was she that nobody came near it.  She could be really sweet, however, unless you were within 15 feet of her food bowl. Then the growling and hair standing up and territoriality grew to frightening proportions for other members of the household. The poster child for bitches be crazy. Her breeder had said anyone else would have given her back. I wasn't scared of her, though. I put my hand right down in her food bowl. I could touch her while she growled. Near the end, though, she may have become more belligerent, and I took to fending her off with a chair while taking her food away if she hadn't eaten it within a reasonable amount of time. It was like lion feeding time at the zoo, and I acted like a circus lion tamer. I think she may have grown frustrated with her condition, since she lacked the mobility she had once possessed. Degenerative myelopathy, the canine equivalent of ALS, ultimately prompted us to let her go.
Before DM, she had enormous stamina and impressive agility. She would run 11 miles with me. She would scale the rock wall to the kids' clubhouse. She would jump four-foot fences easily. That all makes the debilitating disease even more disconcerting. Because her mental faculties, such as they were, hadn't declined. So at the end, she was just a happy dog at the vet's office, wondering what the hell was going on on the other side of that door as we waited in the room. What, there's another dog out there? Unacceptable.
Dogs are dogs, I know. But my kids hurt, and I hurt for them. Dogs become quickly woven into the fabric of lives. Still I think I need to take her outside. Still I look for here where she's not. Still I expect the barking at the garbage truck or the mailman.
We'll let the kids decide what they'd like to do with her. Perhaps we'll bury her under that front window from which she lashed out at all comers. She kissed me aggressively before she went to sleep, and after, I straightened her head and askew tongue. It's not fun seeing your dog like that, but neither was it fun seeing her struggle to stand up and falling and banging into walls and furniture. Bye, Kelsey.