Balk

  

 

            I’ve been a practicing Bipolar for almost forty years. At one point, I got good at it. I might have looked intact on the outside, and I might have acted like things were just fine, but inside I was either screaming in my head or desperate and wanting nothing more than to lay down and die. It all depended on this disease. Up and down, back and forth, a rollercoaster ride through Hades if you ask me. For years, untreated, I was a creature of impulse. Anything I wanted I took and fuck anyone who got in my way. The essence of who I was got lost under a mound of hypomania and then into total desolation. I suffered by my own hand. I was offered the opportunity to fix things, several times, but I pretty much threw every bottle back in anyone’s face that might have dared suggest medication. Like any good disease, it spread. The way I treated myself, and the scope of my environment, suffered but so did the way I treated other people. “Fuck them”, I often heard myself saying. The chaos was consuming but that was no excuse. I was an awful human being regardless of the reason.

            When I did begin treatment, that too became a long nightmare. For more than a decade, this pill and then that pill was the answer. Some made things worse and some just gave me gas. Most made me need a drink of water. One prescription drove me mad and I had a mental breakdown. Thanks doc, and then some. It was clear I needed a fresh pharmaceutical approach. With my new therapist came just that. Its been 15 years since I last heard those voices. With the right combination, I found myself in near normalcy (whatever the fuck normal means). Things are different now. I more than function, for the most part. I lead a balanced life  and I am happy to have it. I may be jaded from the tracks I’ve made along the way but it does not erase them. The way I treated other people may have suffered out of impulse but that was never an excuse. Just because you have a mental disorder, just because you suffer or even if you want to, that doesn’t give you the right to treat people badly.

            It doesn’t matter whether you are medicated adequately or not, you have a duty to control yourself, if you can. Certainly, you are under a social obligation to, at least,  try. If you cannot control yourself then you should be in hospital or prison, accordingly. To say the least, you should be heavily medicated.  If you understand that you cannot control yourself you are bound by a legal standard. Again, if one does not understand the tenants of social appropriateness and cannot stop themselves from breaching those standards,  they may not be “responsible” for their actions but I believe they should be. There were times in my past where I was so manic I couldn’t see strait. The world around me was a plaything and I was vulnerable to its ploy. I did some pretty nasty things to other people along my journey. I admit, I gave into hedonism like I gave into frivolity. There were many times when in my manic state I was pushed to a point of recklessness. I gave into the urges and the feelings and the impulsion. There was always a voice telling me to stop, to not go there. I may have failed to listen, a time or two, but on the other side was the same chanting that it is not okay to do this or do that to another person. I could not disregard right and wrong. While my disorder may have made it difficult for me, I had the option to stop and thankfully I usually took it. You do not get cart blanche with other people’s lives any more than you should abandon your own.

           

            While I understand compulsion and surrender, I do not understand choosing to be so. I was constantly fighting my disorder. One doctor after another and my Holy Grail became an illusive balance I could not achieve. Some people never escape. Their entire lives they function in misery and all they know is chaos. Most still manage not to murder the lady sitting next to them on the subway. Most people, I assume, know when they are about to cross the line, just like I did. I am fortunate that I am not a violent bipolar. I can be aggressive but my intent remains to do no physical harm. Of course, this is all easier said than done for those severely afflicted. Some people do not have measure and cannot help but fall into complete disarray. Mental illness is like herpes. You can treat it, you can try to conquer it but it always, always comes back. It never went away. I was fortunate to have some sort of meter by which my insanity could be reigned in. I went over the line but  never ever liked it there, not one bit. I did not lie down and die, I pursued a solution. I did not just give into the voices, I did not give into the hopelessness.

            Recently, someone asked me about my intent having just experienced/observed a severe hypomanic fit. It was clear from my demeanor and energy (I was right pissed), that the circumstance greatly promoted this state. I fucking lost it. I was overwhelmed, the anger and rage finally took over after more than 20 years of restraint. I couldn’t stop yelling as I rapid cycled into fury. Afterward, inquiring minds wanted to know, was it “me” or was it the bipolar disorder? Yes. In essence, the message was intact but the method was extreme. My bad, I suppose. You have to remember, when someone suffers during these variables, the mind can only expunge that which it already has identified. While rapid cycling, the psyche draws from one’s truth, it doesn’t have time to create a lie. As impulses surge, veracity flourishes as the option to stop becomes the challenge behind it all.  People say that the truth comes out when you are drunk. Ditto. 

            I am lucky to have found a pharmaceutical solution to my mental illness problem. Although the medications I take effectively manage me, they are not a fix all. I still struggle but to the same degree any other person would. I still have moments which act to  flare the problem, but the same cream always seems to settle any inflammation. It took me a long time to find peace and that peace has lingered well into a second decade. I would not have found my rest, nor maintained it, had I not first recognized I had a problem, a serious problem. Somewhere in all the pain, I kept trying. I never stopped looking until I found it. Here’s the hitch. You have to participate in the solution if it is going to be one. You have to go to therapy. You have to endure. Most of all, you have to take your meds. I know so many individuals who struggle with their lives due to one mental illness or another. It is obvious how they battle. Over and over again, they make it clear they don’t like their predicament but they refuse to medicate, they refuse the help that is offered them. You know a pig in shit when you see one.

 

            Left untreated, ferocity tends to take over. Violence does not always beget mental illness just as mental illness does not always beget violence. While an invader in your home, or a gay bashing, may manifest an irrational response, sometimes a violent one, in these cases the violence was responsive and an obvious coping mechanism. Sometimes people are left little choice in these matters. Sometimes, there is no choice. At some point, it should become clear you need help. Just as medication is not a cure all, neither is doing nothing. Why so many people choose to live under the umbrella of untreated mental illness is beyond me. I understand, in more than a few cases, it is easier said than done. I have been through hell but I have had it easy compared to countless others. I’m sorry, it may seem harsh, but if you are functional enough to flush the toilet you are functional enough to raise hand to mouth and swallow. Just do it. I am sympathetic to the plight of the mentally ill. After all, I speak with authority. I think the main issue is excuses. We want freedom, we want sanity, but many don’t want to have to do any work to get it. In essence, we know our misery then do nothing about it. Yes, an endless stream do not get to have a choice. For some there is little to no solution. Mental illness can consume you and lead you without approval or permission. Some can't handle the voices, for many there is no cure; it's not always as simple as taking medication or years of therapy. Some who suffer have a built in way out but they don’t take it. You can battle mental illness but you can never win. Some are lost. Some feel found. Some don't want to get better.  

 

            It doesn’t seem fair sometimes, the double standard our society perpetuates. Someone like Will Smith can assault someone, for all the world to see, and the consequence is an Academy Award and standing ovation. Regardless of his lasting reputation, he walked away scot-free, at least legally. If I walked up to every person who insulted me or those I care for, and I attacked them, I would have been in jail years ago. I’m Bipolar for God’s sake and I still have to control myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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https://aplmed.com/my-account/qmap-training/qmap-online-course/1-legal-issues/1-5-client-residents-rights-to-refuse-medications/

Here’s the Thing

            I don’t usually blog about current events. I like to have a complete inventory so I don’t have to later change my approach. I don’t create a podcast as I have  never been comfortable in that medium. Although my strength is commentary, I am not a news reporter. I much prefer to dwell in the written word rather than exposing myself through more modern means. I have worked extensively in radio but broadcasting live and in person on film has never been my thing. Back in my college days, television broadcasting taught me little but to smile for the birdie. I do not like to smile. I do not enjoy being video taped even though being photographed has never been an issue for me. I have always had the looks for radio. Although I have been there and done that, I cannot bring myself to a place where I rest easy in the technology. I do not have the need to be watched or paid attention to. How many people read my blog has never really been of interest for me. It’s not that it doesn’t matter, it just isn’t that important in the long run. I have been a writer for more than 40 years and I still sit down and just write. Sometimes I write about good things. Sometimes I write about bad things. Sometimes I write about nothing at all. Most times, non-professionally, I write about my experience as it relates to theology, the supernatural and the existence of God. I would rather be a courier than the package. I don’t mind talking about it but I’d rather not film it.

 

            The Christian God really pisses me off. He is a worse human being than I am. This fact has always found a heavy heart, a disappointment in terms of my salvation. Years of conditioning by the church and condemnation by scripture and I find myself doubting that this example of a divine entity could ever represent the actual Source. I think religion in general is misrepresentational. Every culture, every human revelation made, may have some validity to it but it is covered by interpretation, perspective and expressed like some exegesis. Apparently, you only get what you’ve paid for. The cold hard fact is we don’t have a clue so we get to pick and choose what truth we intend to follow on any given day. Often, we follow nothing at all. There is mercy in not knowing. Regardless of how we believe and what we believe, it’s all just one great big guessing game. If you choose incorrectly, you may end up burning yourself.

 

            You would think, considering it all, that I am spoiled to the more esoteric parts of life. People think because I don’t jump for joy that joy is illusive to me. It can feel like TikTok or Instagram are the only viable methods for expression. Most people don’t value what you think unless you are wiggling your dick at a screen on Zoom or your ass in the air on Messenger. I record my life but only in print. I experience the same delights, the same joys as I ever would and in the same manner that other people do. If  two men each have the same finger cut off they both feel exactly the same pain. They react to degrees. It is the same with joy. I just prefer to keep it to myself just in case someone decides to fuck it up. If you control the medium you control the message. My relationship with the universe is a private matter even though I may put fragments of it down in words. Having almost died back in 1995, I wake up each morning, and without fail, I thank whatever is out there that I am alive. I just haven’t figured out whether anyone is listening. It’s nice to think someone is. To know nothing, however, is to know everything. I am not much for labels but I assume I am both agnostic and a theist. I believe there is something, somewhere but I don’t have any idea what it is . Cut to video.

 

            I have had some experience with the supernatural. Some may claim that religion falls under that heading but I am talking about the real spooky stuff. Throughout my life, ghosts and ghouls and creepy things have always been entertainment rather than fear mongrels. I have had a few run ins with the unknown. There is this petite young ghost-of-a-girl who has followed us from home to home. One night she decided to play with our electrical equipment. It freaked me out. On the way home from choir practice, years ago, I felt something evil behind me and it chased me until I got to the street lights. I was terrified. I have seen dead dogs and had dead cats crawl up beside me in bed. I saw my pet rat on the kitchen counter three months after I buried it. I have talked to dead people but only in my dreams. Lately, items about the house will appear then disappear only to reappear at a later date, in that exact spot. I’m not sure if it’s a parallel dimension trying to communicate, making contact. I had never been curious as to what these happenings might be. I have always believed the supernatural is just a remnant of actual reality. Since energy cannot die it must find another form. Video can be a useful thing, just go to YouTube and search for scary videos. I been watching a few. I’m not sure what I have been looking for but the other day I think I found it.

 

            So there are these YouTube channels that offer hours of supernatural evidence. Vendors like Sir Spooks and Slapped Ham offer glimpses into a world I have rarely known. I’m not sure why I have been led to expose myself to these ideas and questions. I think the searching part of me has stopped to view things close up just in case I find an answer in all the drama. Is there proof of more in these observations?

 

            After all these years, you would have thought I might have had enough. It’s like watching a car accident or Kanye West; its hard to look away from the horror. Most of these supernatural events (for lack of a better term) are much more tactile than when you’re scribbling down your interpretation in hindsight. It’s tough to takes notes as your running from a shadow figure. Sometimes you get a glimpse, usually when you least expect it. The clip had played almost all the way through. It was a countdown, a list of the scariest supernatural encounters that have been caught on film. A few sent shivers through me although those moments usually last as long as a slight chill. When the video started, a dark hallway rested in shadow and the doorway was illuminated and you could see its form. Suddenly but slowly, a ghoulish head peered around the door jam. The face was agony and misery and terror. I screamed like a little girl. At that moment, I remembered why I fucking hate video. Here’s the thing. After I explained to the house  the reason for my outburst, I left the YouTube channel I had been watching and I left it on pause. When I came back the video was missing. I looked for days, searched and searched for even a photograph of the scene but I could not find a single shred of the evidence. For a second, I wasn’t sure if the experience was video or vision. I don’t care. Either way, the experience scared the living shit out of me. I’m not sure I have ever had that reaction to anything let alone a figment of my imagination. I have since gone back to my written words. Its different when you read about something, and write about something, rather than watching it. I have to say, Mr. Ghoul-Head comes across scarier via video.  

 

 

            Writing is much like reading a book. There is a formula to follow and it comes with some truth. I have always prescribed to the old skool idea of the written word as a catalyst for critical thinking and for objective consideration rather than the certainty that comes with other media forms such as video. It doesn’t matter the topic or the focus. Most media allows you to create a story but writing allows you to relate the story. When you put something on paper it stands as a testament rather than just another tale told at 6. I often sit my butt down and I unload for a few minutes. I scribble a few thoughts, then a few more, and eventually I have spilled myself and my fears all over a digital page. I bleed verse. Whether I’m free basing on God, or the unknown, or some supernatural visitation, writing is cathartic and at the same time a creature of structure and form. With video, you’re lucky to capture anything of substance or at least residue that is in focus. I don’t mind commenting on things like the supernatural but I am not comfortable being an actual part of the story. I’d prefer to write about something versus actually experiencing it. It has always been a pleasant thing to be able to sit down and express myself, I’m just not comfortable with anyone watching. I’m a messenger not the message.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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https://halloweenlove.com/i-saw-hands-the-disembodied-hands-phenomenon/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fesshole

 

We all have secrets.

We all have secrets and we all have regrets.

 

Often, they are miles apart.

Often, they are the very same thing.

 

 

            I have always been a shit disturber (no pun intended). As a matter of fact, my humorous debauchery has always come from a more intellectual place versus an intentional slant or behavioral flaw. It comes easy for me, this laughing at pain and taunting defeat and death but I am no clown. It is more a reflex now but in my past I would often play with this sense, just for fun. I constantly tested the waters and pushed the limits. I have always been a smart-ass, a joker, an asshole some may even claim.         

            I knew right away just how pissed off people would be if I did it. Grade 3 had been uneventful from what I can remember. When Mrs. Geizler handed out the assignment, I had no intention to do anything but what she asked. Her mistake was allowing us to pick the historical figure we had to write about. As Captain America battled the Nazis in my comic books, I decided to use Adolf Hitler as the subject of the assigned biography. It wasn’t my written words that acted as a proverbial redline (I did not corrupt history or the facts), but me stomping around the library at school, prancing like a German solider from World War II, did not help my cause. The occasional “Sieg Heil” seems to have been the straw that almost broke my back. From the Principal, to my teachers, to my family, everyone was furious with my lack of censorship and decorum. Of course, I failed the assignment and then some. I even had to apologize to the librarian for offending him so (he was Jewish). I have to fess up. Fuck you. I enjoyed watching you squirm. All the apologizing, all the contrition yet secretly I loved every minute of it. People pay attention to you when you whip it out and pee on the floor. It wasn’t a hard lesson, it was all meant to be a big joke, not the kind you laugh at but the kind you laugh along with. Unfortunately, no one else found me amusing. It was funny because it was awkward. Screw you if you can’t take the joke. 

 

I learnt, early on, when in doubt, don’t.

 

             I have collected comics books for most of my life. In my early teens, I used to spend all my income/allowance on them so securing the yummy treats I loved so much suffered.  Instead of working harder and say cutting more grass, I used to slip into the A&P and steal anything I had a hankering for. For weeks, sometimes every day, I would hide candy in my clothing or delicacies in my underwear. I got good at it and for a those few weeks I lavished myself in the opulence of thievery. Like an idiot, I recklessly enjoyed myself. I do not recall ever considering the fact that I might get caught. With two Jersey milk bars, one each tucked down into my socks, I stood in the packaged meats/fish isle considering what sumptuousness to cram down into my nether region. For some stupid reason, I settled on a can of lobster meat. It was apparent rather quickly that someone saw me slide the goods down into my pants. As I casually attempted to stroll out the entrance, I assume it was the manager who intercepted me and asked for the meat hidden in my crotch. After an interrogation, they called my folks and they called the cops. A police officer took me home. My Mom greeted me at our front door then the cop drove away. “If  you’re going to steal something, why the hell would you steal a can of lobster?” was really all she had to say. The rest was left to my father. I sat contrite and I swore I would never do such a sinful thing again. I have to fess up. After all the chastising and all the consequence, I sat on my bed and I didn’t know what to do. With the door closed and locked and the curtain completely drawn I reached into each sock and pulled out my compensation. I ate both right then and there.

 

You may be sunk, if you can’t be subtle.

 

 

            I started smoking on my birthday May 15th, 1983. I turned 18 years old. I had just seen the film Risky Business (1983) with a few friends and was inspired to follow the leader. I finally quit in the spring of 2015, well sort of. For almost 4 decades,  I puffed away at death regardless of any future cost. It was the angina that forced me to quit. Lying on the living room floor feeling like I was having a heart attack was surreal. Strange, all those years of wishing I could get off this planet and there I was begging that it not be my time. From what I understood, my condition was an “expected” consequence of each cancer stick. It was like I had rammed a whole cigarette in one of my arteries. It was a constant challenge, the trying to stop. I would quit then restart, then I would quit only to start again. Withdrawal was a deadly game, a test of will and the only guarantee was heart disease and yellow fingers. Over the last 40 odd years, I have scrubbed those fingers more than I have scrubbed my own ass (so to speak). It was frustrating to have something control me regardless of what the end result might be. They say its easier to quit a heroine addiction. I wouldn’t know but I understand. I would secretly puff here and puff there as I could not seem to fully kick this habit. It was much more than that. Eventually, all that secret smoking paid off. I went from 2 packs a day to 2 smokes a week in under 5 years. The secret to this grand reduction lies in not quitting. I simply reduced or used another method. I have gone weeks and months without a cigarette. I haven’t consumed a whole fag since. A drag here and a drag there and soon enough there are partially smoked butts sitting in the tray. I know why it lingers. While more an explanation than an excuse, it has been hard to completely quit when I continue to smoke marijuana in the exact same manner. It’s pretty much the same thing. I will fess up. I have never really quit smoking although I haven’t had a cigarette in years.

 

You can never quit something if you don’t want to.

 

 

            I have to confess, over the years there have been certain people that I treated as disposable. It was a common theme although not a regular one. I just decided one day to move on without even consulting them. Occasionally, I become a  ghost. Yes, there were reasons for these dismissals but in hindsight, a few were entirely impulsive rather than planned. Even though I had spent so much time and effort in order to establish them, I then tossed them away like garbage or the last Ed Sheeran CD. Once I have had enough, once the decision has been made, this cold and unfeeling monster infrequently sets in. It’s a difficult thing to get past it. Suddenly and the attachment is gone and complete ambivalence finds its place. I think it’s a natural proclivity, a coping skill although not always a pleasant one. I met her when I first moved to Kitchener, long before Paris became my home. She was mid-60s, very French Canadian and for the most part a lovely person. For years, we were good buddies even best friends. In the end, that friendship offered me little but the obvious. The same can not be said for her part. At that point, the scope of the relationship consisted primarily out of want. She wanted, I complied. One Monday morning and enough was enough. It may have been her claim to have lived a sinless life that provoked me, bur she crossed a line when she blamed me for giving her an illness I did not have. I dismissed her completely, without explanation and never having contact with her again. It was a complete cleansing. She was dead and gone as far as I was concerned. It wasn’t until her actual death, a few years ago now, that I really explored my feelings. I’m sure that her passing was the catalyst but I suddenly felt regret about removing her from my life. I didn’t go to the funeral, I simply went on without her, once again. I have to fess up. If I could go back and change things then I would. I have never told anyone that although that doesn’t modify the ending.

 

Regret usually occurs once we’ve been caught.

 

 

            After my first partner died in 1995, I spent years deep in grief. He jumped from a building and he abandoned me. I have never really gotten over it. Even though I went on, continued with my life, there is constant lingering and questions remain that can never be answered. I have never, not even once, gotten mad or angry at Doug for his decision. I have not cursed nor have I rejected him. What he did never mattered, my loyalty to him  has always remained. It’s been more than 25 years and little has changed in his regard. His stone is still as cold as it ever was and his pictures still bring me sadness every once in a while. Without a choice in the matter, I have carried on and rather successfully I must say. I have to fess up. As the years have gone by, every hour, every minute, the  pain has always lurked about. At times, I am haunted. There is a deeply rooted connection that clearly seems to have no end. I have learned to live without him regardless of whether I wanted to or not. I have to fess up. Sometimes I wish I had never met him and that he had not met me. Not so much for myself, to make it easier, but for him, to have the chance at a full life and, at least, a better chance at happiness. I would sacrifice it all just to know he was somewhere else, breathing, smiling, living a different opportunity (and I do not mean in heaven). It’s not hard to imagine a life without him, I just wish he had experienced a life without me.

 

If I can’t be close to you, I’d settle for a ghost of you.

 

 

            Most people rarely get to experience the true nature of other people. We may get glimpses depending on the closeness of the relationship but we can never really know another person. We can try to walk in their shoes but all we get is athlete’s foot. It is impossible for anyone to know another individual better then they know themselves. Human beings tend to hide their flaws, they have private thoughts and hidden secrets. The only person who ever really knows the truths about you is you, no one else. We all dance alone regardless of what or who our partner might be. It’s the same for everyone. When those intimate parts of another person become visible and tangible, we tend to remain strangers but with a grudge to bear or hurt feelings to heal. Arguably, you never really know someone rather, you know what they want you to see.  

 

“Well we all have a face

That we hide away forever

And we take them out

And show ourselves

When everyone has gone

Some are satin some are steel

Some are silk and some are leather

They're the faces of the stranger

But we love to try them on”

(The Stranger, Billy Joel 1977)

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E5ofVsxTPoc

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo

 

https://whynow.co.uk/read/fesshole-launches-new-live-show