Archive for July, 2019

July 2019.

July 7, 2019

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Rain was coming down as if the sky had a mission to coat the world with wetness, the droplets smacked into my tee-shirt, splattered on my skin and because of the Ohio summer, caused my glasses to fog over. “Hey, hey man!” the tall neighbor yelled from his back porch, which sits at the end of my apartment building. I was on my way to my car, doing a sort of half-jog/half-I-don’t-give-a fuck and turned towards him apparently giving him the cue to bound off the porch. Suddenly he was standing in front me, trying to blink away the rain making no progress, the rain just rained away. “Hi, you just moved in huh?” His eyes were blue, and I noticed his ruddy teeth which made me think of addicts and alcoholics, the rain continued to ping against us. “Well, kinda…I don’t know if it’s that soon, I moved in sometime in December.” “What do you think of it” looking towards the brick apartment building, is it a townhouse, a row house, a what is it exactly. He was beaming at the old building as if he had just built it.  I saw the busted screen door, with the plastic window that won’t get clean no matter how much Windex its coated with, because well, it’s plastic, the small dented bottom that I “fixed” with sticky silver electrical tape. “Hey dad, you better get some heavy tape, there’s a lot of broken stuff in your apartment” Bruno mentioned while we were at the giant boxed hardware store. The one where every aisle pumps out masculinity and I’m reminded that I fix things with tape, own a single hammer and some left over Ikea silver-y screw things. If it wasn’t for tape nothing would be fixed in my life. Bruno loves the hardware store; I hate the mother fuckers.

“Yeah, I guess I like it enough. It works for me” nodding as the rain continued on its single mindedness of soaking the world over. “Yeah, I love it. Been here eleven years” he leaned back on his heels and rocked forward, I looked down at his shoes which were filled with water. “Wow, that’s a long time, ummm…I haven’t rented a place in over fourteen years, I was a homeowner, so I was used to, well having stuff kinda normal in the house. My floor is slanted, everything is crooked, it’s weird” I try to shut out the thought that one day all my records are going to break through the floor. “Yours too? My kitchen floor just dropped four inches! They had to jack up the floor” he stares at me. I think “we basically have the same floor” but just smile back at him. He stares some more, almost like a puppy, I keep smiling. Seconds tick past. Rain does its rain thing, howling down on us. “Well, I need to get to the gym” I finally say. “O.K., good luck. See you around!” and he runs back to his porch. In the car, I turn on the air conditioner and wipe my glasses clean.

Sometimes I go to the gym at ten or eleven p.m., it just depends on what I’m feeling but with that freedom there is the sigh of loss the permeates everything I do, pulling on something so deep and old within me that it doesn’t have a name. It was birthed before language but it’s there, underneath it all—clutching upwards like roots growing in reverse. It shudders inside me with every errant thought, a growling dragon asleep but so close to awakening. Slumber away cocksucker. The house is tidy, mostly, organization was never something I was blessed with, I must work at it and in the work, I lose focus, half-finished books being put away, boxes in the corner filled with old fanzines, photos and just memories that should have been tossed aside many years ago. They are in stacks, expecting to be put on shelves. Bills in separate drawers, two backpacks filled with gym clothes, and some notebooks that I scribble in. This is what like living with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder looks like as an adult. When I was a kid I was just known as excited, my nickname in 4th grade was Spazz, and for the prickly teachers who had little patience for my twisting in my seat, blurting out wise-cracks and losing track of my homework, I was the pain in the ass who spent a lot of time in the hallway and at the principal’s office.  Kicked out again. But I was funny, clever to a fault and smart enough to get by and be charming for most of my educators. But those other ones, boy did they hate me, but I hated them back just as much. The shitheads. I need reminders for everything, I ask people I work with to send my calendar invites, it’s the only way I will remember to go, I look at it every morning and try to plan my day in my head knowing full well I will have to look at it hourly. Google calendar has been a godsend. Having ADHD isn’t easy although it has its pros, I can compartmentalize very easy, carry on many projects at the same time, and it has spurred my creativity and honed my humor. The choice is either to be charming or be filled with shame, mostly because of school related shortcomings and a current of anxiety that was the norm from when I was in kid. Much of the shame can continue well into adulthood, because simple tasks are not always easy but big ideas flow like a river inside my mind. In the end, I learned to work hard and be focused as much as I could and continue to work until the projects came to fruition. It aslo isn’t easy to love an adult with mental health issues, I can become aloof without knowing, pulling back from hugs in the middle of one, zoning out in conversations suddenly sidetracked by a thought of something I missed or must do. I’m late. Always. Since I could walk, I suppose, most likely I was even late for nursing on my mother’s breasts.  There is a long line of disappointed women in my past whom once I let inside, tried to temper the storm of my brain, my life and be my partner. My mind has broke things in half in its torrent.

Imagine the mind as an escalator instead of a stairwell, always moving, each thought a step moving towards a behavior, the stairwell is concrete-solid, not changing whereas the escalator is moving always moving into action, always in motion and finally it gets swallowed instead of left behind where the stairs do so perfectly on the stairwell. This is what ADHD is like, now imagine if your mind is the stairwell and the way you go about your day is organized, systematic and predictable. And then you fall in love with someone with an escalator mind, who then has escalator behaviors, combined with depression and addiction. Everything gets swallowed. Burp. When I quit drinking many years ago, a cloud lifted and some behaviors stopped while new ones began, I learned how to hone my mind—mostly through practice, 12-Step groups helped me to listen and to be more on time, the 12-Steps helped me to understand much of the motives I had and helped me to take ownership of my actions, and finally meditation helped me to not get swallowed by the escalator mind. Underneath much of it though, was the hard nugget of depression that works like a radioactive element, coloring much of my life but, at times, barely perceptible. After some years of meditation, much of the depression had lifted and the daily thought of suicide and death had subsided for years. Of course, like anything radioactive it never quite goes away and it continues to need gauged. It has glowed more often than in the days of prolonged meditation. Answers are abundant but not always as simple as they appear to be.

Past propels the future and in the end the past can devour you whole, with a million miniature bites from the inside out. The future is always there, down the road never arriving, flickers of thought, bursts of moments, like an escalator itself, never quite arriving and suddenly folding underneath itself and heading to the bottom to climb back again. How does one wrestle with the past? A mind can’t fight itself with arms, legs, or bombs, only by replacing thoughts with other ones or learning to ignore the armies of thoughts that can come in waves, disrupting life as if it were an unpaved road. Bumpity-bump. Somethings don’t live in moderation, the glass full of beer, the pangs of desire, eating one potato chip—and a mind that doesn’t stop engulfs everything in its path.

I see addicts every day of my life, ones who wear the scars of their consumption on arms that are littered with the markings of self-destruction, where needles have sucked the life out of veins, and blistering skin is pleading in its own way for a break. Their eyes are nervous, full of anxiety as the hustle of everyday living chews bits of their soul away, the hope for refuge dwindles with the oncoming dread of sickness and of whatever it is they need to do to stave off the pain of being dope sick. I am the calm one in the room, moving deliberately to help slow their world down, into increments that guides them to some semblance of solace, a lighting, a kernel of hope in an otherwise dust storm of shit. I’m trained to do it and I relish offering this hope or even some sense of order in their lives as they sit in front of me. At some point people offered it to me, at the end of the long road of liquid hopelessness there was no-where else to turn but to peer over the cliff inside my mind into the darkness that lay below.

Cracked glass is always cracked until it finally splinters and breaks apart, which is what life does to us every day, hold onto your life for dear life. Lines edge from the corner of my eyes like a spiderweb made of skin, gravity, frailty and experience pull their invisible ropes across my face and down into my arms, there is nary a thing to do about it. Watch what I eat, go to the gym, take care but in the end the ropes win it’s only a matter of when. When-win.