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yeswritingsandwritings · 4 years

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COVID Diaries; Pennies

It is March 2020 and I’ve channeled the spirit of Paul Revere. As Los Angeles erupts into rioting and mass fentanyl suicide, I dive headfirst into the cabin of the Mazda, and gun the packed ship upwards along the vacant I5 corridor. Every smouldering city under Gavin Newsom looks further gone than the last. The navigation takes me on some perverse fantasy detour thru post-apocalyptic San Francisco. It’s been a long time coming but now it’s solidified. The mayor and her delegates have chomped their cyanide pills and now the streets and bridges offer rotting cars beside silent, beautiful Victorian manors. Still in full color, the sky is blue and the sun is yellow, gleaming indifferently. I am nervous about San Franscisco County. The shelter in place order says no one shall be out on the street without proper reason. And, proper reason or not, I have a pharmacy of drugs in the trunk of my car. Will it be enough to wait out the pandemic in my mother’s house? Enough to keep me sane tucked in the basement of the compound on Cougar Mountain, Issaquah, Washington, for GodKnowsHowLong? My very own Bavarian Alps.

For years in LA I have lived for high speed and hard sex in a blackout frenzy which no young American could denigrate without looking like a nerd. In our culture of excess I sought the most insane, unexplored corridors. Chavionistic romps through the bitter forests of lust, contamination, too-young suicide, too-good blowjobs that leave explosions on this cast of characters flown from every corner of the globe, all with the same indelible fever. I come to now, in this chaotic month handed down by God, March 2020, and I’m withdrawing from all of it in the penthouse on the side of the mountain.

In this moment the fantasy is fading fast, like being jolted from a wet dream by a home invasion. For a lot of people the American dream was already a flickering ember in the distance, a relic of some stupid pilgrimgrage for egoic glory, a blind propaganda puzzle piece with no jigsaw to belong to. But I had formed my own relationship with the concept, and, until now, had believed wholeheartedly in the myth in America; or at least that myth’s capacity to spur significant action, which could abolish hunger and pain, mistreatment and misunderstanding, which could deliver us from evil and unto the kingdom of heaven.

I am not, to many of her 300 million pairs of eyes, a portrait of traditional American success. I am the starving artist archetype. I’ve lived in abandoned buildings and shot cocaine into my veins in the speeding bathroom of many an Amtrak carriage. These may be my most definitive traits, save for the music I somehow manage to draw out of all of this. Albums worth of potential answers to the impossible questions. Sometimes I think I’ve reached the peak, with the LSD and the naked festival girls. I am 26 years old and feel incompetent. I go to pay a traffic ticket or am electric bill and find myself paralyzed at the entrance to the website. In a moment of otherworldly strength I call the bank and my debit card has been cancelled. I stare at the parking ticket in my pod, which has been rented from a company called Up(Start), and is arranged in a row with twenty others. At least I’ve made it to Los Angeles.

Up(Start) is a strange place. I find most people don’t last very long in this community. They leave back to their hometowns or find apartments. The ones who stay haunt this place like ghosts, with no discernible goals and mysterious incomes. I’ve learned not to ask how these life-longers pay the rent. The answer is not translatable.

Willow is one of these life-longers. She always talks about moving out; sometimes to an apartment in LA, most recently about some nebulous palace in France. She says her grandmother died and left her everything. She shows me a suitcase full of watches and rings that still can’t fully convince me of her story. She drinks vodka when she wakes up and convinces me to fuck her when Jesse leaves us in his room alone.

Jesse found his way out to a beautiful house in Silver Lake. He had been at Up(Start) for a year before that. He is the nicest guy I know, offering the coat off his back for nothing but a swig of your vodka in return.

I left these characters behind, keeping a steady 65 on the interstate and stopping only to black out in a hotel room in Redding, CA. Summer, inspirational barista and blowjob queen, dared me to stop and see her in Portland, but my body was crawling from scabies from Lucy, (who was also in Portland and, I would later learn, infected with the virus) and I sped right through.

My younger brother Jon was at the house and had been awaiting my arrival. I instantly understood why. My mother had become a figurehead for the national panic, and shoulder-hugged me with her mask on. She is, as we speak, sterilizing the place.

I’ve gotten to spend a good amount of time with Jon, and am somewhat surprised to find that he faces the same existential torment as I do. This is not something we talk about, but I can feel it on him. He is super into Xanax, and orders pressed bars off the darknet. I share the drugs I’ve brought with him. Kratom, weed, and, —most enticing— Flubromazolam. I learn that he has been kicked out of UW on academic probation. I ask him about it in front of my mother and stepdad. With a casualness that shocks me he says he just didn’t care about any of his classes. But he’s got reaccepted to the school and he says he’s going to make it this time.

I show him how I order my drugs online. I show him the designer benzodiazepines on the clearnet, pennies per dose. We place an order for O-DSMT. It’s an insane solution to our problems, but I guarantee you it works.

I tell Jon about my life in LA with the stuff. Taking it and driving weed deliveries all day. I don’t tell him about the long nights with Lucy, telling her the love I feel from the opiate is sourced from her, then failing to get hard.

Jon, for his part, tells me about the peak of his Oxycontin habit, poppin 7 OC30’s a day with his buddies at Rolling Loud. I was just a few blocks away. I didn’t know he was in town.

We order the O-DSMT to his apartment in the U District, stopping to and snag it on our sole vacation to Dad’s for dinner. Two packages have been delivered. We have the save pavlov response. We carry the packages to his apartment on the top floor and split the bubble wrap with a butterfly knife. Out of a manilla envelope comes 100 green Xanax bars. From a bent UPS envelope comes a gram of O-DSMT and 250mg of 4-ACO-DMT, a bonus for me (Jon says he hates psychedelics).

We set to the scale and split the gram, dosing 50mg then and there to get through dinner. The next day he visits me in the basement, saying “Yo, this O-DSMT shit… it’s dope.”

I say “I’m with you.”

My days are spent deep in the dream flow, recording songs for a hopeful fourth album. The third one is still far from complete, but I can’t go back and meddle with those songs now. Wouldn’t dare touch their Los Angeles essence with the hand of the evergreen state. They will go to Rob and Twon and Andy as they are.

I’m back to guitars for the new album. Cardinal sin AC/DC type songs. I think it may be a double album, quarantine permitting. I want an exploratory, unstructured, throw paint at the wall and see what sticks, White album/Life of Pablo situation. I want solo piano pieces and Aphex Twin-esque 808 excursions. I want the label to release it on white vinyl with extensive liner notes. Indulgence. I want this album to be the one where I say “indulge me.”

If Rob is vehimently opposed to the idea I had the fantasy of making an easy album. Taking songs like Parade Owl, See You Tomorrow, Miss Can’t Sleep and putting out a whole album of them. Good rock music. Take a step back from the frontlines; the cutting edge. We’ll see what sticks to the wall after this quarantine is over.

Weeks drift by. There’s a trade route for all the beer that gets brought into the house. It goes from the garage fridge to the basement fridge to my eager hand, to my mouth, to my blood. Night by night the ritual recurs, til my mom takes out the downstairs trash and finds all the empties. She makes some subtle comment. I tell her to buy more White Claw.

Despite the drug flow my inspiration seems to be drying up. Rob took a listen to the twenty five songs I’d completed since arriving in Issaquah and said they sounded like Dogs. The old band. The old rock and roll band we’ve been trying to move away from. I was disappointed to hear him say it. I was disappointed he wasn’t excited about the songs. “Fuck it, should I scrap them all?” I asked myself. Then I started to look around the house and understand that if nothing came of these songs… I must be insane. I must be losing it. The stupid research chemical stimulants don’t help. I thought they would. Productivity and all… but I’m just jittery, texting strangers on Instagram for hours, all the while feeling like I should be doing something else. And the television is on in the background, and I told myself I was going to do so much to day. And I did it. And people on Instagram say “you seem busy.” They’ve always said I seem this and I seem that. I never agreed with any of it, but they probably know me better than I do. How could I see myself? I look for myself through a fog and it’s only a ripple of a shadow. A microcosm a million miles away through a hellscape with no up or down, no east or west. They say I’m social. They say I’m a socialite. Really I just get drunk and unleash all my nervous energy on the party or, nowadays, the Zoom meeting.

Today I drink Modello. Ma and Chuck went to the Seattle waterfront for a picnic or something. I didn’t get the details. But the sun should be going down now, and she’s texting me asking if I want to play a board game when they get back. I say yeah sure I do. My temper when I’m off these amphetamines analogues, though… I worry I’ll flip the Pictionary board. Slam dunk the wine glass onto the wood floor. Now the cliffhanger; will this Modello calm my nerves?

This morning I went with mom to buy plants for the garden. I thought we were going to get seeds but she wanted the already grown ones. She was ready to be angry. Nothing made her happy. We went to three different garden store. I think she got some tomatos. How the hell am I going to get out of this one? Feels like the walls are closing in. I feel like I’m in the freezer in the back of McDonalds. I feel so sad for her, but I also feel so sad for myself. I feel cut off. I feel short of breath. I feel terror. It is Friday, April 17, 2020. Dread, terror, paranoia… I’m sure it’s been felt a million times by a million people, but here’s my version of it. In this McMansion on the side of the mountain, feeling less like I have a mission than ever. Calling nobody. Freezing. Yeah I’m freezing.

My brother and I both have drugs to get through this crisis but I’m planning to get off them. I sold him half of my etizolam and half of another shipment of O-DSMT the other day. He wasn’t at all interested in the 2-FDCK, an analogue of the dissociative Ketamine. I am still not really sure what dissociatives do to consciousness. They can move you into states profound darkness. You feel like your life is a black and white film and it is raining outside. And it drips off the palm trees and you sit in traffic on the way back from the Boy’s and Girl’s Club, where the boys and girls wouldn’t listen, they’d just go off into their own worlds. I wonder how they’re all doing now, tucked into their parents houses in Calabasas.

Anyway, I said to Jon “I’m getting off the stuff.” And I intended to. This journal finds me at a crossroads between fantasy and reality. What is my life going to be for? Where do I cast this fishing pole? Well the pole’s been cast. It’s out there in the middle of the ocean. But at the same time it’s in my hand, in this very moment, and I can chose where to dip it. I’m not trying to catch a fish in this scenario, I just like the serenity of the bay.

The question on everyone’s mind is: “If not drugs, then what!?” That’s a great question and I’d be bullshitting if I said I could answer it. I don’t know what lies on the other side of this life. I want to find out. Do I truly? I have to truly. Love, sex, work, victory… I’ve seen all these things before. And I keep turning to these substances. They fill up my days and my hours and all the music is informed by them. They move my hands to play the guitar and my voice is scratchy when it comes out. I’ve formed an identity around these drugs to a certain extent. That idea of me has to die. It does. I’ll have to mourn it. I’ll have to mourn a lot. I guess I don’t know what to be afraid of. I know a lot of stuff is going to come up through this process. The drugs numb it all out. People say that but it’s really really true. Bad news doesn’t don’t hit you as hard. Most things don’t hit you at all. You’re in your world. You’re off in a cloud. You’re unaware of the world around you. You’re afraid to engage. Why?

It’s easier not to ask why. It’s easier to get the immediate relief of a squirt of etizolam tincture. Or a gross tossing of O-DSMT powder into your mouth and a quick washdown with water. In this way you don’t have to answer any questions. In this way nothing hits you. And guess what else? All your heroes did the same thing.

But a lot of them died doing it. And you don’t want to die. You really really don’t want to die. You want to live a long life, with kids and grandkids, and see what happens to America and what music turns into. You don’t want to die, but what do you have to live for? You know you can make things up. Everyone’s always making shit up. All of this is made up. The culture, the value of a dollar, the value of a Benz. We just decide on it. And that takes a lot. But you know what takes a lot less? Deciding how you want to react to each moment. This one and this one and this one. Do you know what I mean? They say a lot of stuff about the world. The world’s fucked. They say the world’s burning to the ground. They say we can’t leave our houses. They say America won’t be a super power by the end of all of this. But they’re making shit up. And I’m making shit up too. I’m whipping up like a chef. Throwing dishes out from the kitchen, but the dishes are words and actions and the kitchen is my mind. What kind of food am I throwing out? What kind of food am I serving the world? Let me serve love and hope. But for that to happen, let me cultivate it in myself first. Let me nurture it like a child. Let me see it sober. Let me take the steps in the right direction. It’s simple. It’s simpler than you think it is. What are you going to do right now, after reading this? Or while reading this? How are you going to face the world?

Jon told me he got into Xanax from the Famous Dex song “Japan.”

“Baby girl, what you doing, where your man? I just popped a xan, fifty thousand in Japan”

He told me his friends heard the song and picked up some Xanax because of it. They liked it and reached out to him “You’ve got to try this,” they said. My little brother, in the throes of this batshit demon force that will bury him. It might bury me too. The jury’s still out. Mom, just let me withdraw in peace. She brings down a space heater. I grow to love it. I lay down on the wood floor that the spiders sometimes dash across. The space heater comes close to burning me, but I’m ok. I stand up, dizzy from all I’ve done to try to combat the withdrawls. Way too much etizolam, way to much kratom, getting to the point of way too much weed and alcohol. But hopefully it’ll all be over soon, and I can call my friends in peace and not want to slam down the phone whenever there is the tiny threat of silence, or whenever I speak, or whenever they speak. I can’t any of it sober, that’s what I think. Life is hard sober; it’s a breeze when you’re floating thru it. A good dream. So why get sober? They say it’ll kill me. Well, I said that. In this very same paragraph. And maybe it will. But when you’re withdrawing like this… all you want is a moment of peace.

Oh God, at dinner tonight I started to go off about my own mental state to the family. I should have known it was a big mistaken, but on my way home from Doordashing a rainy Issaquah I stopped at QFC and got a bottle of True Eagle American Spirits, Kentucky manufactured vodka. And, helping myself to serving of kimchi, I said to them “I think I’m losing it.” And the conversation spiraled until my mother asked me “Are you suicidal?” And “Are you struggling with drugs?” Jon, between us, must have felt betrayed, but I just wanted to feel understood. I feel Chuck does not want to understand. I understand what he’s sacrificed for the life he has, but what value does that life has to him? He has a tumor in his jawbone, and it’s eating away at him, and no one can do anything. And they can’t get out to the specialists on the East Coast, and they won’t do the invasive surgery. He’s too busy. I know, in some capacity, he understands. Because he blows these things off like they don’t matter at all, when anyday he could have a stroke like Grandma had, fall to the floor of the kitchen while dishing up his kimchi, or pulling a slice of pizza out of the carton. I feel the same way. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I know that I am mentally unwell. And I avoid the questions about my drug use and about my suicidality. I miss girls, ma. I miss pussy and parties and not giving a fuck. The way I don’t give a fuck now is in these terrifying sound collages drafted on the latest of nights, in the deep dark depths of quaratine. What was I saying in the last one? Something about how I didn’t wanna kill the crabs on the beach on Whidbey Island as a kid. Holy shit I’m losing my mind. But it’s all fine, isn’t it? As long as the music comes out fine.

What could I possibly do to get healthy? I feel so far off the deep end. You have no idea; I feel like crying. My best friend, living with the girl I thought I could always go back to. We don’t talk. I mix these ketamine analogues in with that cheap cheap vodka (plus etizolam) and cry tears onto this plastic table. It’s pointless to keep up the tinder courtships. I feel like this will never end. And it started with such a bang. I was such a part of history. Now I’m a nobody; I’m a junkie, holding on by the thinnest thread. No energy to pray. I feel like Cobain, and I know so many people do… but I really do. I can only imagine. But I’m only listening to Mingus, Lana Del Rey and Radiohead (Kid A thru Hail to The Thief).

Should I throw weed in the mix? Lord knows I have enough of it. It’s my number one priority. I’ve made enough songs now that we could workshop what I’ve come up with years. What else is there to do? Mingus ripped the piano strings out of some pianist’s instrument in front of a live audience, then stormed off the stage. Where the fuck is that in my life? I’m in front of the computer, weeping because America has come to a close. You know they sent jazz to the Soviet Union as a WEAPON? A weapon of freedom and democracy and individualism. What the fuck happened? It all makes me want to cry. It’s all too much; this world. These people I’ve known and loved and lost. This music I’ve made that they promise me will be something, but I don’t know if I believe them. I don’t know if I want anything to do with this life. I can’t engage with my culture anymore… my history. I feel like I’m not a part of it. I feel so disconnected. Who’s rippin the strings out of MY piano? Or who’s piano am I ripping the strings out of? We’ve lost so much… I mean… I’ll do my best to work with what we still have, but we’ve been so fractured. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was the end. Of America. Of our culture. Of our music and our hustle and bustle and industry and lover’s lanes and rites of passage. I feel like I’m mourning it now. Mourning my culture. Maybe mourning the illusion that was sold to us. Believe me, I was first in line to buy. That’s why it destroys me so deeply to see it collapse.

I guess we’re all one people. I’m crying writing this. Weeping, weeping, weeping. Grieving. You know what grieving is. I remember what’s-her-name in the pool. We went to every hot tub, each a different temperature, in the Desert Hot Springs Resort. Then Lucy’s friend’s new boyfriend told us Bernie Sanders had stayed there when he had visited DHS. I laughed so hard. Lucy ordered me another drink. She didn’t mind the cost. She liked me to be on her level. And I didn’t mind. I was proud to sip. We went back to the hotel and did god knows what. Feels a million lifetimes away.

This was back when anything could happen. When America was a blank slate and no one could predict anything. When you could go outside and say “What the fuck is up?” and get in adventures. I mourn the loss of that. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe that’s still there. But I’ve emotionally severed my ties to it. And I wish I didn’t. Because I love it. I love it so much. It’s not a myth. I swear to god it’s not a myrh. It was a reality… until all this happened. You have no idea. I mean, if you’re reading this and weren’t around before. You have no idea. I mean… I don’t know what things are going to be like after this. But not the same. There’s no way they could be the same.

You know I hope I get this shit. I hope I contract COVID-19. Lay in this guest bedroom bed with the scabies I may or may not have gotten from Upstart Creative Living… and which wouldn’t die off. I hope I can’t breathe. I hope I’m immune. I want to walk the world. Maybe I should go out, get it, isolate, heal, be immune… if that’s even possible. At this point we don’t even know if immunity is a thing that happens with COVID. But even if I could walk the earth without fear of it… everyone else is cowering, and they pull away from, seeing I’m not wearing a mask or gloves, or even if I am… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would all end this way. I would have done so much more. Focused so much more on each kiss. Even every note. I did my best, I guess. It feels like it’s all coming to an end. It’s Thursday, April 23, but that doesn’t mean anything. You have to understand how little dates mean in this time. It’s like we’re living in one of those time capsules buried beneath the walkway at WWU. Stagnant… yeah we write songs and poems and do our work and keep the economy from faltering completely… but there’s a different angle to look at it all now. The world is over. I mean, aha, to use the words of Rem… “It’s the End of the World As We Know It.” Key words: “As we know it.” I had no idea this would happen in my lifetime… I couldn’t even conceive it. If you would have told me this would have happened six months ago I wouldn’t have believed it. America seemed so stable. And now it feels like it’s in shambles. It really did feel stable. You may think I’m insane for saying America in September, 2019 seemed stable… but shit, we were free. And we were headed where we were headed. This throws a wrench in all of this. And it could be the end. And I thought this was the greatest country on earth. Happiness is a buttery, try to catch it like every night.

I’ve been fascinated in American history since I could understand it. Most specifically, I’ve been fascinated about how history is still happening. The closer you get you the current day, the harder it is to get a straight story. FDR did what he did and we won. That’s fact. That’s cement. Nixon? Everyone agrees he was a crook. But what about Reagan? What about Bush Sr? What about Clinton? The closer you get to the modern day, the more difficult it becomes to discern what is real and what is fake.

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angelicdemonx13-blog · 3 years

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My n Nana’s story long version

Most of the things in my life I only explain ever once in a while, when i’m ready because in transitioning from young adult to adult we sometimes feel like we need to prove things or defend our choices or actions. When we don’t. There are very few ppl that are entitled to information or have your best interest at heart. The fact that they are trying t force information out of u, manipulating, n making u feel bad for nothing u did wrong, for information that is none of their business, shows that.

I’ve even had some doctors be insensitive, u know ppl u think know better, or would have more tact or care. ““I have a fur baby” “ehhh that’s not the same really”

I came home from deployment n got a truck, my first rented home, n I went to get my dog oreo who had been boarded all deployment. I had paid throughout deployment, but even returning it’s a costly thing. I still owed 2,000$ I paid 1,000$ til I could pay the rest.

Soon after that I was invited to a family mountain trip camping, and I took oreo, n she did great n had a good time, I left early for a relatives wedding and to visit a bf/ old friend of mine n brought oreo home.

Soon after that, my rented home, was not fenced n sat on a 5 lane highway. It was middle of the night early morning, 12am -5am n she was out pottying, n got a wild hair up her butt n ran across the street, no traffic. I called her, n she was on her way back across, when a black truck hit her, I don’t know what happened after that. She didn’t come t my side. N I looked fir her for days, n talked to neighbors. I didn’t find her.

I was distraught, I had recently lost my biological mother, n it hit me hard, I barely had her back.

A military friend had a puppy that they couldn’t keep, asking 400$ for her, I gave them 300$ intending t pay the rest, but that friend has never faulted me for that 100$.

A pure bred shepherd months old puppy, whose mom was a prize winning show dog n dad was a police dog.

Nana came into my life when I needed her most. N that started our journey together taking her on walks at the park. We hadn’t gotten her vaccinated yet cuz we just hadn’t gotten to it yet. She got parvo.

Again I just lost my biological mom, that I don’t feel like I got enough time t get my shit together so I could spend more time with her, oreo was gone,n now my saving grace was about t b taken too. Dogs surviving parvo is slim.

But I cleaned n sanitized, figured out what it was, n one evening decided to take her to the emergency animal hospital, bleeding all over the back seat of my truck, sat for hours for them t tell me they were keeping her over night, n sending meds home, for maybe...n it would cost 600$.

I didn’t have pet insurance, I paid the 600$, n went home n waited. I came t get her the next day. Brought her home with meds. N continued to clean n sanitize, n crush up her pills in water t get them down her throat with a syringe, n keep water in her with the syringe.

n she lived. She is such a fighter.

Potty n poop accidents, trying t train her t potty, her eating everything because she thinks she’s a goat, the fire mantel bottom bricking, the side of doors like cribbing, she ate my chair, like ppl had reapolstered it, n she ripped the back out n chewed on the old wood, the metal brackets, n there was even a sowing needle that fell out, thank goodness I got it before she tried t eat that, her being afraid of a feather, because she’s not ok with anything, until she can put it in her mouth. She has ruined, eaten, or broken cuz of her energy tons of special things t me, but that’s just stuff n she’s a living breathing, once ever thing that I only got a number of days with.

Soon after that, I lost my home. N that started me n her bouncing around from relatives n friends, areas I could keep her, trying t get on my feet. A pampered expensive dog went from nice surroundings to areas where it’s outside encloses that I come every couple of days to feed her n exercise her. N I know she thought she did something wrong, but I kept coming back. Long nights n hours in her crate bouncing around.

Her taring up other ppls stuff, that were helping us out. During my stay in transitional housing, in advocating for emotional support animals and educating, it’s a fight. My first peer support counselor, which is the person who is supposed to help u find housing prospects, n drive u there n help you navigate the rental interview process, did not want to back me up on my pet needs. He told me a story about his son having a shepherd n loving the dog n training it n they moved n had to shelter the dog, n tore his son up n decided they could keep it, but by the time they did, the dog had been homed.....so his story was that, it’s a nice breed it will go fast....sure she looks like a nice dog, but with her behavioral issues early, I knew ppl would not anticipate how much care she needs and she would bounce around n b in danger. With that in mind, here specific needs, the fact that I’ve invest money, time, n care into this animal, makes me the right care taker.

At a relatives house, I was trained her and taking long walks into downtown, taking her into post offices to teach her to sit quietly. N we had just come from a walk down town in my truck, I thought I had tired out n she usually did good with staying in a home yard but once in a while she’d get a wild hair up her butt, n run off, n she did that this night. She bolted off n I went after her calling her, n the same thing only in reverse. I heard her. I heard her get hit, I didn’t see it, and I found her. I picked her up a good size shepherd at 3-4 yrs. old. N carried her across a field as far as I could. N almost out of the field I put her down n told her ur gonna have t walk n she walked the rest of the way to the shed I was keeping her in. My cousin, a nurse, helped me get the bleeding t stop, n bandage her n give her meds. She does not like t stay down, it wasn’t long before she was back up n seemingly walking like normal, n I didn’t think anything was wrong.

We wouldn’t take quit as long walks and at her pace.

After this, when Nana n I were living in the trailer, before transitional housing, I noticed after our long walks, that here leg would be tender n ginger. She started getting red hairless areas that she chewed that no matter what I did,changing her food, put on it, I didn’t know what it was or what t do. But we were getting whatever food we could at that time too. It was during this time, a really low point, that anything I did was for her. I got up n dud stuff for her, I stayed positive fir her, I went t work no matter what was going on to provide for her, I stayed healthy n fit with n for her. I was in this position b/c any affordable housing option in this area either didn’t allow dogs, or didn’t allow her breed. N I, have no children, I’m a adult can fend fir myself. She’s a responsibility that I said yes to. I would rather live in a tent with my dog than not with her. Whatever food I had, she’s getting some. If we had McDonald’s, she’s either getting half of burger or she’s getting nuggets n water. No electricity, some running water but no hot water, we had heat, n food. N I could go t a near friends house to shower, wash clothes n bring back water n food for her. I worked a lot n she would b coupled up in the trailer fir 8 hrs at a time not using bathroom n no safe large area fir her t play n run. I would come let her out fir a bit n put right back, or I worked 7pm -closing shift n I’d bring her in my truck, windows down, dark evening, with water in a bowl n her food or treats for the evening. So after work, I could take her t a near by park which was still across town, to let her run n exercise, b/c no safe area at our trailer park. Before going home, eating something, washing up, n bed. N us sleeping, letting her out real quick, n after work was all the time we got together.

Soon after this, I decided to do something to get in a better position to care for both me n her. I put her in Guardian Angels for soldiers pets, so I could come to Charlotte n get on my feet. Everything that I did staying focused, completing it as quickly as I did, was motivated by wanting to get situated to get her back. It was in this n her intake vet exam that I found out the red spots were her being allergic t gluten, I also found out that her leg had grown it was a bit dislocated, n some muscle had grown between to pinch, but there wasn’t much to do about it at this point. She runs n does like normal but it needs t b rested some, n t watch her.

All these factors, along with I don’t like to be away from her for extended amounts of time, anything is better if she can be there. I do pay attention to her, I take information about her seriously. She is a investment, she is a support system that is always here. She isn’t 9-5. She makes me smile even recently when I’m crying, she laid in the cold with me at my lowest point heating me. She is not optional. This is why I fight for animals, for animal support. I get it if your not as committed as I am, it takes a certain type of person to advocate constantly. But my dog is worth it.

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eternallybroken7604-blog · 5 years

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We have been up for 2 days. I accepted years ago that this has to be part of my life. He's a package deal. But I am so tired. I do it with him. Idk y. I don't enjoy it most times. But I'm also afraid and to sleep while he's up. I learned not to the hard way.... A part of me wants my life back. My before life. But I know it will be the fight of my life. And I'm not ready. I sometimes tell myself that this was God's plan. I believe that each of us have at least one person that they are mentally to impact in some way and set in motion a positive path. Or bring a lost soul to God. God made me strong and brought me this man. He had to put me thru it to equip me to be wha this man needs. Maybe I'm the only one capable of sticking this journey out with him and bringing him out other side with me. That's why my addiction is so odd. My husband gets locked up from time to time, and when he's gone, I don't do any dope, I smoke my weed. But with the dope, he does my shots, from start to finish. He twirls the bowl. I don't want to know how. I tried once, he got arrested at the end of an 8 month horrendous, traumatizing bender. Suddenly my person is gone and I've been up for weeks. I tried to do it myself. I had the audacity to tell him about it at visitation, because he has always hated doing my shots. He feels enough guilt over where my life is and where it was. He's scared that bnb if I die, he will go to prison. So I always take sure my prints are on it too. He's not ready to even see that he needs to change. I can see that it weighs on him sometimes. And he will want to do better. But then he has no way to stop the guilt, the pain, self hatred. The high and associated relief are his constant and a very erratic life. I'm aware of all this and more. I'm aware I could be completely wrong and he really is just a piece of shit junkiethat destroy a family by joining it. I can't even fault him for that. My kids adored him. And he them. He had a family finally. He was know where near ready to be a step dad. But he gave it an honest try. Then again maybe I just rrwa lly ne ed there to be a greater purpose beh9nd all this, losing my babies, my self respect, my family. Everything.

I can't hate him for being selfish and out for number one, it's all his life has really ever been. I can see what drives everything about h, I study him cause I have never met someone that level of addicted. I cant explain why his thought processes fascinate me, I have to study them til I understand them. Which is hard to do because it's so complex and I'm juggling moneyissues, homelessness, the hustle, him in general, and the dope. The more I learn him, the more pity I feel and I cant leave. I love him to a fault, but I am not ready to abandon him to his demons. He won't survive it with any sort of sanity. He would argue with me on that but it's the one thing I believe with no doubt, he does need me. I think he knows it deep down. He knows I'm 100% on his side. Even if he dont like how at times. He knows I'm real. Even if he tells u I'm not. It's like his pride and years of telling me in so inferior refuse to allow him to recognize anyachievements, no matter the size. I know this but I forget every time we fight, cause it's his defense mechanism with me, it's about the only thing that works. He will reach I to the depths of cruelty and verbally destroy me. He knows what hurts me too. He has left scars that will never go away. I will never forget his eyes and voices and the feeling of my own pain at things he has said. My first husband beat me, that's not how u hurt me. The act of being able to hurt me, that really hurts. My now husband has gotten physical a few times. I cant hate him for it long because I see how much he hates himself for it. But that pride tho, he wont apologize verbally, but he will show me best he can that he's sorry. He knows I deserve better. He went thru a phase where all the blame was put on me for not leaving when it first started, woth the dope and us losing the kids. I tell myself I pushed him too far. It's no excuse I know. But I know how much weighs on him daily, and when substances are u introduced, well I am the embodiment of a large portion of his pain and stress and guilt. I forgive him because I know he's not mentally able to deal with all that and day to day life without help. To stubborn to ever agree with me but I just k ow I'm right. Cant explain that but it's never led me wrong. I shoulder as much as he will let me. And getting high and drunk and my mouth can sometimes push him too far, exacerbates things.

I knew he was a 'recovering' addict when we met. But he only smoked weed when I met him. I thought all that was his past. I didn't mind weed. I didn't personally smoke when we met. I was a divorced mom to 3. We were all finally happy and stable after my horror of an ex-husband. Idk y I fell in love with this man. But I did. He was my first serious relationship in the 2 years since. I never even missed sex, I wasn't lonely. I didn't miss that kind of love until...I was reminded.

8 mos later, we have a place together with my kids. Then a neighbor moved and offered my husband dope. He hid it for a little bit. But I picked up on his different behaviors and made him tell me. Then I wanted to smoke some too. I'd heard of Meth. But I grew up very sheltered by a pill head. I didnt know that when this gorgeous man told me he used to be an addict that he meant thousands of dollars and many hears of hardcore IV drug use. Herion, bar salts. His drug of choice was simply, more. He named his addiction Maria. He needed that relief so badly that once he discovered its power to 'fix' things, he personified his addiction. Maria has been his stability. Shes lways there when everyone else let's him dow. I can understand the desire not to feel. So badly u wanna die. But I was raised different. U can be weak, but dont stay weak. .

But by the time I realized that he didn't recover from his addictions, he fled his former home state and had no access to those things here. He was big on the run big ti.e qhen we met. Hes a hardened city boy. I'm a small town countrygirl. He let me smoke with him. A week later, hes got a needle. I have never seen a pill snorted. I wanted him to let watch him and he did. Seeing the man I love so in thrall to drugs, it broke my heart for him. Women pray to God to see a man look at them with that look. His addiction borders worship. As I write this we are also high with a few friends, he just finished fixing his shot and has decided to ask them to film him. I cant keep going. Thats bothers.me and ill to tore up now to try to figure out my feelings. So I'll wrap this up. My emotions are going every where and I really hate him like this. I hope he watches his video and hates himself. I love him and wint leave him to feel all that guiltalone, that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to feel most of it. God knows I feel my fair share. I promise myself one thing, I will not live like this forever. I'll keep looking for my way out. I'll keep praying for strength to leave. Or for God to open his eyes. I know better than to preach too much at him. He usually shuts down as soon. as he realizes what I'm saying. But I still try. He doesn't know it yet, cause he has never felt it before, but I love him enough for this. I will win this fight. Even if he hates.me in the end. (Forgove any typos, I'm intoxicated and when I get adamant about a topic, I type too fast)

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pog-with-a-blog · 7 years

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I wrote this at 1 am after taking sleeping pills it’s great I’ma queue it for tomorrow idk if it’s worth reading but I, in my current mental state, consider it my magnum opus

I like honestl was led to believe that edgar allen poe was a good author but like. Damn.

So I really like reading murder cases, like complicated ones, idk why. But I decided to see if I could do something slightly less creepy and I ended up on “the murders in the rue morgue” and like not to spoil a shitty disappointing mystery or anything but

Ok first off before the murder even happens he trys to pull a BBC sherlock. Like he met the fuckin guy at a book store and they were both trying to find a book that very few people had ever heard of. And then he saw him 2 more times and he was like “o shit damn I MUST get to know this guy”

and like honestly just take a quote that will explain everything else

“the force of his busy mind was like a bright light in my soul. I felt that the friendship of such a man would be for me riches without price. I therefore told him of my feelings toward him, and he agreed to come and live with me.”

no homo and then the guy watches him for 15 minutes while they walk in silence and then proceeds to tell him his entire thought sequence all because he knows him so well he says shit like “you looked at the stars so I looked at the stars and noticed orion was super bright so you must be thinking of orion and we read an article in the newspaper about an actor that quoted a book we both read about orion and I knew you would think of that actor and then you stood up straighter so I knew you were thinking of how short he was and he would do better in less serious plays”

“so then I was like ‘I agree, he is p short’ not to like impress you or anything just, like u know”

no homo tho. totally no homo. just 2 really good buddy pals

Ok done with that now the fuckin mystery. Two women sitting in a bedroom with only one bed, but multiple tables and chairs, reading some old papers and letters of no interest door locked from the inside but window wide open, fake locks on the windows but real hidden locks also

The mob heard an orangutan and not one person recognized it as an animal, they all thought it was a person speaking a language they didn’t know.

Multiple people hear this orangutan in this room they were not in, but *noone* saw it running through the streets of paris or into the house

Not only that but there just happened to be someone who was a native speaker of french, english, spanish, and italian, all of whom heard the orangutan, just by chance. Also one of them, in france, did not even know enough french to tell the difference between an orangutan and a person speaking french, or recognize the phrase “mon dieu”

and also *neither* of the women hear the fuckin thing come in and stand there watching them (o btw it carried a knife all through paris and also while it climbed up a pole it still didn’t drop the knife)

so then it, no motive, pure fear, cuts the woman’s head *almost* off, but not all the way off, and throws her out the window and she falls 4 stories, which still did not result in the full detachment of her head. Yet it fell off on it’s own when her body was picked up minutes later.

then, again, pure fear, strangles a girl, like immediately upon seeing her goes straight to the “hands around neck til she dies which probably is not instantaneous idk??” but like. no motive just a scared stupid monkey. We know he’s stupid and acting with no intention because at one point he runs around the room aimlessly in fear, breaking all the furniture. But also he is patient enough to keep his hands around her neck til she dies

Now a note: If I were to find a bed ripped to pieces and covered in blood, I would probably not describe it as “there was one bed. everything has been taken from it and thrown into the middle of the floor”, I doubt I would refer to it as a bed honestly considering it sounds like it was quite deconstructed???

Back to monkey. Not smart enough to kill with intention, but smart enough to attempt to know he did wrong and shove a body up a chimney and throw the other one out the window before fleeing

or maybe that’s just what monkeys do when they get scared. Shove dead bodies up chimneys and throw them out windows.

oh and he closed the window behind him when he left how sweet

and then continued to roam the streets of paris without being found or committing more murders

and then mr. Gunna Fuck a Book is totally getting off to Mr. Book telling him that he posted an add in the paper saying they found an orangutan and the person who lost it should come get it and they know he’s a sailor btw

and he’s like “yeah I know it was an orangutan bc noone could tell what it was saying and I honestly don’t know he’s a sailor but sailors are strong enough to climb poles into the house like that and also they go to faraway places where orangutans can be acquired so like yeah it probably is might as well say that in the ad” and then he’s like “shh I hear footsteps and right on cue mr. ex-orangutan-owner walks in in his sailor suit asking if they got his orangutan like im sorry do you see a giant ass monkey here bc i don’t

and then he tells them all abt how he and his male friend went into the forest, like no, i gotta quote this shit again

“But we went — a friend and I — we went into that forest — for pleasure.”

no homo anyway we cought the monkey and brought it back and it caused ALOt of problems being all big and strong and stuff so I was like “why not bring it to paris haha what a great idea :)”

and he keeps it in his apartment and I guess either it didn’t make noise or it did and all the neighbors just though he has like a new friend who didn’t speak a language they knew and yelled alot idk?

#mp #oh poe you gay sapiosexual weirdo

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