LP Wallpaper

When compact discs became the norm for music media in 1983, I was excited by it, the possibilities of them lasting longer, being easier to store and sounding better....but remember being so disappointed that the days of those large albums were coming to a close...

...once in an apartment in Oklahoma, i attached all my vinyl record collection to the wall with Funtac, corners touching, so there was this kind of checkerboard effect of the album covers...and when i wanted to listen to any music, i'd walk over to the wall and pull the disc out and put it on the turntable. No more hunting through stacks of albums and scattering them on the floor and being fearful of stepping on them. I t was an interesting art piece and functional too. I'm always impressed and pleased by anything that is both utilitarian and artistic. It wouldn't be the same to use the CD's because obviously, they are in a hard plastic box and you'd have to really squint to appreciate the cover art.

Ah...nostalgia.

LP Wallpaper

Mind-Numbing Meaningless Morning

I sense that I am slipping into that space between the wall and the airbed. Instinctually, I shift to the middle of the twin space. I look at the clock, because I have to look at it. I need to know what time it is. I need to get my bearings, do the math, calculate how long I've been asleep.

Let's see... one-thirty seven. . . I went to sleep. . . when? I recall looking at the clock when I went to sleep, trying to memorize the numbers, so that I could do these calculations when I wake up. . . it was almost two? Three? Four? I hate when I go to sleep when it's a time that end in :57 or :59, because I tend to remember that part, and not the primary number--of what hour it is. Then I don't know. It could be anywhere within three hours. I think it was two fifty-something, though. That means I've been asleep-- um. . . longer than normal. I need to get to work on the book.

And my back is killing me. The muscles are taut and sore. From mowing yesterday. I look at the book at my bedside. Wish I could have read more of it before I nodded off. I smell the ashtray and wish I had emptied it the night before. But at least I made myself get up, close the window and brush my teeth. Many times I go to sleep with the window open. I should stop smoking, I think, for the hundredth time.

I feel a snippet of the dream. I assume the one I had just been having-- remnants of an object. They're important in order to bring back the rest of the dream. . . but the harder I try to concentrate, the more they slip away. I hear a dog barking, and the image that was materializing just zips away. Gone forever, I know. I wonder if Justice is awake yet. Whenever i think of her, i think of that word Sneebs. She uses it interchangeable for many things. It can be an endearment: "Hey, Sneebs." It can be a greeting, "Sneebs!" It can even be a commentary on the softness of a blanket..."Oooo, sneeeebs." It can be a temporary replacement word when she can't think of the right one. "I was trying to get the thing out of the..the...sneebs." She has a language all her own. I am endeared by that.

Then I'm aware of my bladder. So I get up and go pee, and look down at the trash can. I need to empty that. And there's a hair on the bathroom floor. I hate that.

I rinse out the uglies that have taken up residence in my mouth with the generic antiseptic mouthwash, and think about how good the coffee will taste. But I'm afraid the mouthwash might spoil it. I'm always afraid the mouthwash might spoil it. But then, that leads to poor dental hygiene--to avoid rinsing.

In my office, I peek in the coffee grinder and know that there's not enough for six cups. I have to grind more. I have to wince, and allow my ears to be accosted by the sound of grinding beans. But it smells good, so maybe that's why I can stand it.

I notice the candle that has burned away and want to light it but my lighter is too big to fit into the glass. I go through the house looking for matches, or something that will light it. I find a taper candle and use that, adding the tall candleholder to my desk--it doesn't have glass around it so I can light it with anything. Maybe it will be tall enough so that the cats won't catch their tails on fire. Justice is always afraid of that. But they could knock this one over. But it'll probably go out. So it's probably okay.

I go fill the carafe, pour it into the coffeemaker, dump the contents of yesterday's filter in the trash over the old cigarette butts (thank god, or the trash would smell. . . so the coffee grounds serve a purpose, even when spent). I put a new filter in the basket and measure out three scoops, counting two, four, six. I'm glad nothing distracted me, because I know if there had been any sound, I would lose count, and I would have to pour the contents of the filter back into the grinder and start again. I switch the coffee maker on, and sit down, leaning to look at the cable modem, see if it's online yet. I recall how it was offline for many hours yesterday, and I didn't get to check the tracking on my package. It's online.

I open the browser and check mail, seeing that Shelia has written me back so I have to open that first. I read her mail and write a response. My hands hurt, so I put topical analgesic on them, and don my fingerless gloves that make me look like a street person.

I check in with Jenfu, read her recent stuff and wish I could write like that. I print out some of her stuff and resolve to study it.

Do I need to pay any bills? Am i forgetting something? Is the mail here? I go check the mail. Nothing, and return to my desk.

The candle has dripped onto the desk. Oh well. It's just wax. But I realize the kitties could have gotten into it while i was gone. Stupid. I should not do that. But I like candles so much and it helps deodorize the room.

Then I see that I need to take some Tylenol and my synthroid and my vitamins. That means I need something on my stomach.

I go to the kitchen, on the way telling myself I should put that ironing board up and take out the trash. I notice that the sink is full of dirty dishes again. How did that happen? The mess disturbs me and I have an overwhelming urge to clean but I just don't feel like it. I stare into the cabinets, the fridge. Nothing simple. I decide on applesauce. I pour it in a coffee mug and grab a spoon, then put the spoon back and get a plastic one, because I can't stand the thought of hearing that metal scraping against the cup. I let the dog out and in, glaring at the dirty dishes again. . . the dirty countertop. . . the floor needs to be swept and mopped, too. . . I give Giz fresh food and water. I return to my office with my applesauce and a beef jerky strip.

At my desk, I take that first sip of coffee. Ahhhh. I have trouble opening the jerky package, mad at the soreness of my fingers, the way they feel swollen and fat. I use scissors to open it instead.

Giz is staring at me hopefully.

I check the tracking on the package, and think about how I need to research this brain thing of mine-- why I don't remember my dreams anymore. I do some searching in google, and peruse a few pages, signing up as a test-subject for some program they'll email me.

My coffee has gotten cold before I had a chance to finish it so I put it on the coffee maker warming plate. Maybe I should move all the coffee stuff to the kitchen again, I think.

My back hurts.

Justice comes to the door, saying "Sneebs."

Mind-Numbing Meaningless Morning

Alien Tummy Tuck

Just checking my hair. No apparent reason, just throwing a passing glance in the mirror on my way to turn on the shower, and saw some little blemish on my face. Closer inspection revealed nothing of consequence. But then i looked closer in the looking glass...(Alice never had a trip like that through the looking glass) closer...until i could see the pores on my skin, touch the bags under my eyes and saw how loose the skin was....my skin had become loose somewhere along the way. Not the skin of my 20's,or even 30's, but the skin of someone growing older... someone who could hear the mortal ticking of the clock...The puffy skin of my eyes was tight enough... if i got rid of the puffiness, it would just be another patch of loose skin.

Then i started wishing i was not 41. that i could invert the age or something But that would make me 14, and i'm not sure i'd want to be 14 again. When i was 14, I lived in a big blue split level house in the country, and the windows in my room were ground level. There, i used to spend hours writing in my journal, and playing with my Johnny West collection, and hiding in a cubbyhole under the stairs, the entrance of which was under the shelf that served as a desk in my room. That was like my little sanctuary.

During that time, i also saw a UFO from the backyard, and managed to get a picture of it, but no one believed me. That photo is in storage somewhere.

I have forgotten most of the details of that time in my childhood. Various therapists over the years have been convinced I'm blocking some trauma; some child abuse. My parents were way too apathetic to be abusive. Theirs was a sin of omission.

Maybe what i was blocking was that i was an abductee. I have that photo to prove there was opportunity...maybe I was TAKEN. Maybe i could get those aliens to abduct me again, and forego the anal probe and just do a tummy tuck to tighten all this loose skin i have.

I watch the skies, ever hopeful.

Alien Tummy Tuck

Cruel and Unusual

Not so long ago, i considered myself a liberal, but i find that my take on things is moving a bit more toward the middle. Take this captured terrorist thing: I could not believe my ears when i heard the ACLU was blathering about how we should not extract information from the terrorists by any effective means. Seems there's concern that we may be stepping on their "rights."

Well, my opinion is that since they are not Americans, they should not be afforded the same rights as Americans. They are treasonous. They are a threat to the safety and well-being of life as we know it. They hate us. While i believe that compassion has its place, i don't feel that this situation is one of them; at least not the kind of compassion that prevents us from protecting ourselves. Yet, at the same time, i don't believe it's right to use torture as a first line of defense in gathering intelligence. But there has to be a hard line drawn somewhere.

Imagine my disgust and dismay when the ACLU further stated that the new idea to use Truth Serum to extract information was considered "Cruel and unusual punishment." Never mind that the American Military and the American government used that very same Truth serum to extract information from our own soldiers and operatives. Never mind that the military and/or government also injected plutonium and uranium into the veins of 12 human Guinea pigs in the 1940's. The same government who infected 400 African-American men with syphilis, under the guise of treating them for "bad blood." These are just some of the incidents we know about, and I'm confident there are others.

I mention this only because there is an inherent hypocrisy in "maintaining" compassion that does not exist in the first place. I'm not sure this is even the point. The point, to me, is that we must be a nation that never throws the first punch, but finishes the fight with a vengeance when the punch is thrown at us. There is no shame in self- defense. I say, try every humane way (including sodium pentathlon) to extract information about terrorism activities, terrorist cells, strike intelligence, etc., and if that doesn't work, get creative. Get mean. Do what it takes. These terrorists are not one of our own. Why should we treat them with more respect than we often treat Americans? In general, when we're talking about the ability to destroy entire cities and cripple everything in our nation, including our freedom, all bets are off, Skippy.

Cruel and Unusual

Terrorist attack

The Terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York on September 11, 2001:

Since the horrible tragedy of that day, i have watched CNN way too much and been interested in all the news much more than usual, but have resisted the urge to research Nostradamus prophecies. It might scare me too much.

I understand that this will not be a simple war. I understand that even if we go to Afghanistan and assassinate Osama bin Laden, the other cells of terrorists throughout the world will still exist. And there are still governments (like the Taliban) who recognize him as some sort of hero. We know this is not the definition of heroism. Heroes don't kill innocent people.

So this endeavor will be one of great detail and calculation and shrewdness. We are a society of Instant Gratification, and this will be our true test of patience. I hope America continues to feel united in the long months--and maybe years-- to come.

Sympathy to all the families and Friends of the victims of the September 11, 2001 Terrorist Attacks on New York Washington and Pennsylvania, and prayers for a Higher Power to touch these terrorists with love and remorse for their actions and wish for an end to terrorism.

Terrorist attack

Cognitive Dysfunction.

(this entry was made before i knew that the problem was i had Grave's Disease, and my thyroid was dying)


A new phrase with echoes of old demons. Almost every difficulty I experience these days is directly related to some sort of cognitive dysfunction. I have multiple physical ailments, but the most overwhelming, the most debilitating, seems to be related to memory, concentration, and all the peripheral sub-routines that stem from it. Frustration is a major example of that. I am so disgusted and stressed by the betrayal of my own brain function. It's as if I have had part of my brain matter removed, or that it is simply atrophied. To wit:

When I am doing something creative, i.e. painting or writing, i move into this "zone" that blocks all the stimuli. I become peaceful, meditative, and pleasant. When I put the creative project away, and have to deal with everyday stressors--bills, busy work, the prospect of moving, the desire to purchase a home, the irritants of other people, noise--I become almost maniacal in my reactions. I have angry outbursts, crying jags, and sometimes, at crescendo, the overwhelming desire to cut myself or mash a lit cigarette into my skin.

When the phone rings, I am flooded with dread. I'll have to talk to someone. I'll have to answer questions. I'll have to deal with problem. I'll have to feign understanding, pleasantries, interest.

I look up a number in the phone book, turn around to dial it, and the number evaporates from my short-term memory.

I forget when I did things, when I said things, what I did, what I said--even if the event only happened the day before.

I've developed aversions and intolerance to certain things. I can no longer stand the sound of silverware scraping a plate or bowl-- I have to use plasticware. I am rendered psychopathic at the sound of incessantly barking dogs; shrieking birds; snoring; someone drumming their fingers; the chatter of a friend; the hum of florescent light bulbs; bright lights or sunshine; alarm clocks; those shouting announcers on car commercials; the decline in quality customer service; eating the same thing more than once; anyone controlling any part of my life; anyone asking anything of me...

I can be driving somewhere, and suddenly forget where I'm going. Many times, I've had to pull over and gather myself, struggle to remember...

I cannot focus on two things at once. If I am doing something on the computer, and someone is talking to me, I lose my train of thought. I can't recall what I was doing.

I no longer remember my dreams.

I hear someone talking about something that they experienced in childhood, and I can't recall very much about my own. When asked what my life was like when I was 10 or 15 or 20--I simply have no idea. Likewise, if asked to remember an event--even, sometimes, memorable ones, I can't draw that information out.

I don't visualize things, so that i can retrieve the visualization later. The memory seems disconnected. There seems to be no trigger. If I don't write down my ideas or thoughts, they vaporize into mist.

I cannot find the right word, although I know it exists in the vocabulary portion of my brain, and so I just stop communicating.

It's very much how I imagine an amnesiac would function (or not function). And I get so angry with myself; So angry with others for their lack of understanding. I often feel I am being singled out for torture by the Universe or the Powers That Be. I feel persecuted, abused, neglected... retarded. I often liken the function of my brain, with the function of my own computer. My brain thrashes, struggling to pull something from the hard drive, it crashes when too many applications are up at once, it's buggy and inefficient. The operating system needs badly to be upgraded.

Cognitive Dysfunction.

Wish in One Hand....

2001/07/21

Wish in One Hand....

...and Spit in the Other, And See Which One Gets Full the Fastest...

In our quest to reach Vermont, we have made Plan A, Plan B, Plan C....let's see...have we run out of alphabet? Perhaps we're back at plan A now, having wound around after reaching the end. At the root of it all, is the lack of money. Story of my life. We were going to rent a U-haul truck and pull my van on an auto transport. But then LS announced that she had this bad feeling about my van--that it was about to fall apart. Some major mechanical issue was about to tax our finances even further. And since i don't have a warranty because i paid cash, as is, 2 years ago, there was little security if that happened. She suggested i try, even with my current credit blemishes, to buy a new car with a warranty. Often, the car dealerships will make special arrangements. I was skeptical, but what the hell.

We tried everything, and went to a plethora of dealerships. All of them turned me down. Even one that promised "Second Chance Finance." All because i got behind on credit cards. That was because i had to stop paying them in order to afford to move us here from Colorado when we became trapped at that apartment with bad phone lines and no employment for her to be had. Long story. I wouldn't even have gotten the damn cards, but a real estate agent there had told me he was about to put me in a house using my VA Certificate of Eligibility, and said i had to get those cards to build "new credit" after my bankruptcy 4 years ago. Well, that all fell through, horribly, along with other things we had planned. Long story, as i said. Regardless, these delinquencies killed my chances.

During this process of driving all over the coast, my A/C began to blow warmer...at first i thought it was just the heat-it was 110 to 115 degrees heat index. But it became apparent that the A/C was about to go, too. And then we heard this odd knocking in the engine, down low. Ominous.

So we spent a week driving around in that heat without air, nearing heat stroke, and to no avail. It made us even more determined to get to Vermont.

So the next plan is for me to simply list my van in the paper and sell it to an individual-perhaps a mechanic who needs something to work on. That money will help out quite a bit with our trip, but i will be without a vehicle again. I was so proud of myself when i bought that van. I paid cash from my settlement, so i wouldn't have a payment. I wanted to keep my overhead low so I'd have more money left over each month. But it was ill-advised. The blind leading the blind. LS is right: better to have that payment and know you have a warranty, because a dependable vehicle is a great part of security. Even moreso than owning a house. Somehow, that reasoning escaped me when my money came through. Probably because i had never owned a new vehicle with a warranty. Again, she was a Light Switcher.

Wish in One Hand....

Something Dead

I tried to go to sleep, but just kept smelling this horrible odor. I sniffed my pillow, I sniffed my pits. I even sniffed her pillow and was convinced it was her pillow case. It smelled like something dead.

SO I removed her pillow case and laid back down. But there was that smell again. Maybe it was coming from outside. So I got up and stepped outside and the wind whipped around my head and I said through the window, "It's out here--something really strong."

So I came in and closed the window. But I still smelled it. I sprayed neutralizer all over the room. No change. I went to the bathroom medicine cabinet for some aspirin, because the smell had given me a headache. I opened the mirrored door and my eyes caught the ear wax removal bottle.

Then it hit me.

I had put some in my clogged ears earlier. I reached up and poked my finger into my ear and sniffed it. Oh my god.

The whole time, I couldn't get away from that smell because I was carrying it around in my ears.

So the next time you smell something dead...

Something Dead

Comfort Food

When i start feeling down, i want comfort food. Sometimes that's mashed potatoes, or chocolate, or pizza...tonight it's a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup...


Why do so many of us eat when we're depressed? According to the National Health and Nutrition Survey, about two thirds of Americans are obese. That's a lot of depressed people.

http://nhlbisupport.com/bmi/

Sometimes I think it would be just as much comfort to get into a giant bowl of mashed potatoes or tomato soup and just move around a little bit in it. Then we wouldn't be obese because we would be swimming--getting our cardiovascular exercise... and we'd still have the comfort of the food itself. But it sure would be a hell of a mess to clean up. OF course, that would be good aerobic exercise, too.

Comfort Food

Strangled by An Angel

When things get this bad I look for the point. There always has to be a point. Otherwise, what's the point? It's an existentialist's nightmare.

I almost expect to see Roma Downey from Touched by an Angel standing outside the van in the Toys R Us parking lot in the middle of the night. Her aura an unearthly glow. She will say, in that endearing accent of hers, "Jae, Got loves yew. . .He only wants the best fer yew . . ."

And suddenly it would all be clear to me, and my heart would fill with love and understanding and I would sleep peacefully through the night finally, waking to find my whole world had changed...the claim had gone through with the VA, the lawyer calls and tells me he has a fat check from Social Security, a publisher is desperately trying to reach me to publish my book. I would gleefully deposit the money in the bank, buy a house and a new van, start a band, and then the real love of my life would enter, stage right.

In my distorted dreams, it's more like an ugly, unshaven angel appears, puffing on a big cigar he got from his deal with Castro, smiles at me with rotten teeth and from within his aura of soot and smoke, he says, "God doesn't love you. He thinks you're a miscreation. He only wants you to suffer." At which point he leans forward and burns me with an ugly finger.

An angel never touches me. God doesn't send any messengers, except of the foul variety, and I wonder why life can't be just a tiny slice of what Hollywood tells us it is.

And then my mind drifts to the only other method I have at my disposal to be touched by an Angel...take that step into the hereafter, hunt one down and say, "Touch me, Dammit!" And when it refused, I would touch it around the neck with both hands--and squeeze.

Strangled by An Angel

Alexander Graham Bell Overture

(from my unpublished memoir, "The Misadventures of No One Famous")

I intended to plug in my laptop through the open side window and into the outlet by the lot light in front of Barnes and Noble. I knew I couldn't take the chance of doing that in the light of day, so I was waiting for the sun to go down like some sort of literary vampire, who can't begin to sully the unsullied page until there's proper concealment.

I spent the usual few minutes staring into space, and was looking at Gizmo's ears. He is supposedly half spaniel, half Chihuahua, so his ears never decided whether to be perky or droopy. They sort of jut from the side of his head like wings that won't retract.

Pulling myself from this insipidness, I begin to read Carrie Fisher's "Surrender the Pink" and someone's car alarm goes off. It's one of those that honks the horn over and over instead of ringing.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

...in a cadence a metronome would envy. After a few minutes of this, I stopped trying to understand that paragraph I'd read four times, and wonder when the owner of the car will take care of the noise.

HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!

That's when a creative soul in another car begins to join in, adding an echoing blast at equally metronomic intervals...

HONK! Honk. HONK! Honk. HONK! Honk.

I start to smile. The Alexander Graham Bell Overture in C Minor.

Then another would-be composer joins in...

HONK! Honk. TOOT! HONK! Honk. TOOT!

And there begins a cacophony of horns about the area. None of them are on their way to Carnegie Hall, but it was good for a laugh.

Alexander Graham Bell Overture

Petting the Hounds of Hell

from my memoir, "The Misadventures of No One Famous"

There was that short period in my life in 1998, when I actually believed all would be well. I had a great job that I loved, it paid well, and it seemed it was only a matter of time before I got back on my financial feet. I began to feel good about myself again. Deeply spiritual. Like I had just returned from a sabbatical in an ashram with the Dalai Lama, and was blessed and sanctified by my victory over previous hardships.

Then my paycheck bounced. Then another, and another, and the NSF charges began to pile up since I wrote checks for bills on that amount I expected to be there. I confronted my boss with the admonition that I would need to be compensated immediately or I could not continue to work. The conversation deteriorated from there, turned into an altercation, and a refusal to pay, and I threatened to leave and take the extra computer with me as collateral until he paid me. That's when he called the police.

The officers arrived, a report was filed, and I was escorted to my car-- without a paycheck, and without the computer. I entertained the idea of sugar in his gas tank, or a well-placed banana peel, but thought myself above that sort of pettiness. I was out of sugar and bananas.

Many weeks later, my ex-boss finally sent a check, painfully short of what was actually owed, and wrote a little legal statement on the back stating that endorsement of that check meant that it was payment in full. By that time, my financial status was so bad, I didn't have a choice. I had to take what he offered, even though he owed me over a thousand dollars. So I signed my name to the back of the check, all the while sending really nasty black energy in his direction.

Jobless and in financial hot-water, I took my disabled self to the first job I could find. Delivering pizza. Problem was, the original job description was that I would deliver only. It developed into being on my feet 8-10 hours, carrying large trays of very heavy dough, enormous cans of sauce, mopping, sweeping... all the sorts of things "normal" people can do.

I told the manager on duty that I couldn't do those things, wasn't supposed to do them, but got no sympathy. That conversation ended in sophomoric chastisement in front of several customers. I knew it was only a matter of time before my back gave out. And when that actually happened, I headed for the door with a slipping disc, bent over like a great-grandmother with osteoporosis.

I was practically bedridden for the next two weeks, as the bills continued to pile up. My water was turned off, my electricity was about to be, and I knew I had to find other work, regardless of how long I could keep it.

I started a job at Blockbuster, but soon discovered that 4 to 8 hours on my feet was just as bad as short hours lifting things. I started missing work, and finally went down with another slipped disc and had to turn in my notice. I also had to turn in my notice to the landlord since I was two months behind and saw no end in sight.

A Chapter 7 Bankruptcy and the guest room of an old friend were all that saved me from living in my van. I moved almost all my things to storage in January, '99, while applying for increases in my VA disability and compensation from Social Security.

I still owed the landlord for that month's rent, and wasn't able to sell that furniture to pay him--which is still in the living room of my ex-house. And Tyler (my ex--the one who ripped my heart to shreds) is moving into that house since they raised the rent where she was...odd...like some sort of personal insult...

So this morning, after a long night of anxiety dreams, I pulled myself out of bed and started a strong pot of coffee... Checked the mail...My thoughts kept wandering back and forth between these things:

• what's the going price for cocaine?
• how many people do I have to kill to join a gang?
• how exactly does one contact the devil in order to sell one's soul?
  
• Does he carry a "sell" phone?
• what should be said in my suicide note?
  

This delightful frame of mind is brought to you by the Sherwood Municipal Court, Hot Check Division: "We're just doing our jobs." These fine people now hold a warrant for my arrest. Talk about adding insult to injury, salt to a wound...

Funny, they managed to put out a warrant for me, but that check from my ex Boss-From-Hell never was covered, even though I filed an affidavit on him. I continue to feel he's responsible for much of this Misfortune Circus that is my life. If he hadn't written me those hot paychecks and thrown me into financial devastation, which meant I had to leave the job-- well, none of this would have happened.

And if I had never joined the Army, none of the past eleven years of crap would have happened, and I would be able to find other work, no matter how physical it was. But my choices are limited.

So there was every possibility I'd end up getting arrested and going to jail--all because I couldn't whip out my checkbook and pay for this fine.

I kept trying to see the point of it-- the larger spiritual picture...I just continued to feel like the Biblical figure, JOB. Funny, that name looks an awful lot like something I wish I had. They should have added an "e" to the end of it. Hey, I even have boils again. Didn't "JOBe" have to deal with that, too? (I would ask the POWERS THAT BE please not to kill my family). That story strikes me as bogus anyway. A Loving God? God kills a man's family in order to test HIS faith....mmm. I must remember to ask Reverend Sid to explain that one.

So what have I learned?

I've learned that it's not a good idea to save the unused canned biscuits for later baking. They come out flat and firm like hardtack. (I only opened them because all I had was a can of 10, and I was hungry. I couldn't very well eat 10 Texas-sized biscuits, even if I am hungry most of the time lately).

So I've learned that now, God. I understand. Now, call off your Hounds.

Petting the Hounds of Hell

It Only Hurts When I Think About it

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

I flipped through the TV channels and found nothing of interest, read some, put the book down and stared at the dust on my alarm clock, and then started thinking about living in my van. How it would be. Would I be able to maintain the fiction that it's a romantic idea once I was actually there, and the temperature drops to freezing? Would my cigarette lighter work so that I could plug the power inverter into it for a space heater? Could I live on ready-to-eat foods? Would I be able to find a place to shower and go to the bathroom when I needed to?

And I won't be able to leave the van for very long because Giz and Bingo would be there and it's cold, and I can't leave them without heat. So I won't be able to sit in warm coffee-shops and bookstores and libraries and movie houses. I will be making my pain, their pain, and I would not let them suffer more than me. It wouldn't be fair.

I hate the fact that I have to depend on anyone else to survive. I want to depend only on me. But I'm undependable. I hate that I can't pick up something heavy and walk across the room without excruciating pain afterward, or during. I hate the way one disability leads to another. . . if my back is out, I have to walk on crutches, then I get a catch in my spine just outside my shoulder blade, and carpal tunnel in my wrists, then I can't write or use my hands without pain, then I can't use the crutches, so then I can't walk. Then I have to lie down a lot, and I smoke and drink to have something to do with my hands, and to numb the pain and to feel like I'm indulging in some guilty pleasure. And when I eat, I know all those calories are just going to turn to fat.

I hate, then, that I'm fat and can't lose weight because I can't exercise. I don't look good in any of my clothes and can't buy new clothes because I can't work and earn the money. I hate that I can't play racquetball or softball or volleyball anymore. I hate that I have to watch other people do that. And I can't dance, so going out becomes a form of self-torture and self-loathing. Then I hate how I feel about myself and I get depressed. And I long to be thin and nice- looking, but I know I never will be.

I hate that I can't have sex when my back is out, even though I might need it-- Need it to feel human, to escape from the confines of my disabilities. And when I can have sex, I can't stop thinking about how I'm fat and ugly, and that no one could possibly be attracted to me. And then I can't enjoy the sex, and I don't get what I need. Then I'm angry and bitter and I push everyone away from me with my rage and caustic words. Then I just hate the Army and the V.A. and that drill sergeant who got me hurt, and I hate that they've taken away my life. Why wouldn't I want to kill myself? It's just finishing a job, isn't it?

Sometimes the subject will come up--the "suicide gesture" as the hospital form said-- When I talk to Terra. about it, she can't hear it. She tells me to stop, it's disturbing. She's more traumatized than I am about it. The only thing I find disturbing is that it doesn't disturb me. Like it was someone else. Or a dream. Or someone else's dream.

I wasn't just depressed when I did it. I was angry. I wanted it all to stop. I didn't have the strength to face another day of starting over. And there was this other part to it. When I got that denial of my claim that day on the 16th of December, 1999, it was like they were saying, "You don't exist. Your pain isn't real. You aren't real." Maybe I thought that if I could bleed, I was real, and that would be proof enough.

Life blood.

The blood of life.

Alive.

If I bled, I was alive.

Isn't it ironic that you have to try to die before you know you're really alive? And then what did that prove?

I was alive, but still pathetic?

It Only Hurts When I Think About it