This is my new blog. I can't believe I came across a blog and a post from 2007 that received what felt like no support. Somewhere inside my plea is still the same and as always, I never know exactly, or have any clue actually what the hell I'm asking for when I'm communicating.
Home is a disaster. I have parents whose philosophies are united strongly in this one respect: they believe that one should try their best to shape the world around them according to what they believe is best. "Momma always knows best!" my mother used to always say as if a deity. And she would believe it through any consequences I had to deal with or aftermath I was left to sit in. It would always be my failure in executing her perfect vision. Condescending belittling accusations: "Well I wouldn't have done that!" or "I wouldn't be doing that!" or "I wouldn't be feeling that." Every time a non-ideal outcome arose, the first question is "What did you do?" My mother is an idealist of such awesome stupidity that even if you are undergoing something that has 90% chance of failure, she'll ask you why you failed.
My father has the same attitude, but whereas my mother can't help but march into unrelenting offensives with no boundaries considered invasive (I've broken my window trying to get out of the house, been grabbed as I've tried to exit, have been chased to the streets, cornered constantly as a child) Anyway, my father is political, underhanded, manipulative, scheming, back-talking, passive-aggressive, and he doesn't even know it. He believes his own bullshit and creates a pitch for every motivation of his. Of course, every motivation of his becomes a plea for someone else to give or help him with something or a guilt trip, or some logical trap (if you give me free soup, I'll order more) something controlling not only his environment, but most often other people. The worst is the attitude that others need to change.
My parents are dead set on some vision of me. It used to be a fight that I needed a psychologist. I lost that battle and now I have a clinical psychologist. I lose battles every day and nobody cares except to watch me like a spectator and wait for me to win. Meanwhile I lose and lose. I need my psychologist now. And now that they have me undergoing this "treatment" they are not getting their intended results, though my psychologist will tell you I use our time productively and only has positives to say of my progress. Because I haven't turned into magical Brian it's another battle. Recently it's been a war of attrition. They try to negotiate with my provisions for... life. I go hungry, I starve. My car has no spare. The battery can't hold a charge longer than a few minutes. I've probably gotten 20 jumps from strangers this year and have taken about 5 hikes for gas. It's always weighing that out between food water, a place for rest and shade - I pay a lot for peace and there's not many places you can stay a whole afternoon without getting interest - which is enough to drive a person away who can't explain themselves.
So the war continues and I'm losing big time. I look back at a blog I forgot about. I tried to start it back in 2007 for support through my decline and didn't really get it from the two people I thought I could count on the most. My sister didn't mention anything I wrote but just went straight to suggesting I stop using drugs and move home with my parents (great vision there) and my other friend said he didn't like how snotty I sounded.
It was hard to share that pain and now I envy that situation. My life is fucking hell and I'm trapped. I've been reduced to nothing listening to all of you and now that I've finally figured out I should act on my own, I'm too broken and have no resources.
I have to think about where I'm going to stay tonight, what I'm going to eat, and basically... where I'm going to be the whole day. all the time. I'm homeless. A constant guest who must alway be conscious of imposing himself and overusing welcomes. I need to negotiate space all day long. Next I might have lunch. I'm so sick of fast food. Then I'll need a place to walk funny like a pirate and then I'll probably need to lie down or sit for a while - I'm so sick of these parks. It's different wandering alone than going with friends for activities. I could just park and stretch in my car - starbucks, the mall, the mountain, parks. Cops always check me out and people too. There needs to be shade. Today is hot. Parking structures are cool. I'm so damn sick of parking structures. Where next? My allotted 2 hours of internet time here is up in 27 minutes. It's cold in here. Why do I have nowhere to go?
Fuck it. I'm gonna smoke and... fuck it.
I spent the night in my car again last night up in a public parking lot in Sierra Madre because my mother needed to know why I was making sounds in the garage last night from 9:30PM to about 12:30 AM - I had moved their cars out of the garage and I needed a place to lie down flat and spread out - I would say I was doing concrete angels but imagine something more like a frog that had been stepped on doing that motion. I do all kinds of stretches and crunches - my body's in no shape to be using standard form to exercise. Lately, I've had to simply lie down, relax, breathe, stretch, and snap into place. And yes, I moan, groan, even hoot, holler, yelp, woof or bark like a dog sometimes. I don't know what's going to happen. All I know is that as I stretch, circulation gets restored, even nerves get unblocked (pins and needles) and then suddenly I have better body awareness - I feel like I'm in a choke or that I'm stuck or that a joint is frozen or something just doesn't look right, and I sense a move to fix it. Often it's scary - to swing out a limb a different way than you're used to - I wonder sometimes if my head is going to snap off my neck if I really try to pull it this way while reaching my left arm up to unfreeze an oblique off my rib - sometimes if feels obscene or embarrassing even in private.
I've made a lifetime of holding in tensions from my injuries or disabilities. At this point. I have a major demon in me that acts out unimpeded from within with an attitude of "fuck anyone who decides I should hold in my pain in order to save themselves from offense."
So it often goes like this for me:
1) doing something, like typing this blog
2) joint pain, like my right lat is locked up right now and needs a stretch - I can't get my shoulders even and my right one is always hung up too close to my neck. For me, it's all in the jaws - clarinet?
3) at some point the pain becomes too distracting or overwhelming despite whatever adjusting or staying conscious I do
4) time for a big stretch or something, deep breath
5) I find a lock or feel asphyxiated.
6) I sense a move that will free me but pop joints
7) I do it
8) who knows? Getting into better shape means getting into better and better forms, at some point, every change in form is the best form you've ever taken. This is growing too - kids understand. New alignment, new form, new body. Clumsiness, learning. I knock things over with a longer reach, air shoots through my trachea as my sternum cracks or a shoulder blade. I might hoot or at least huff.
Whatever. I played music to cover myself and was exhausted when I felt clear enough to go inside to sleep. I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face and feet - I had gone barefoot in the garage after a while but I was laying on a folded up card table. And I was readying to go straight to bed. When you're the chiropractor and the patient for three hours it's exhausting.
That's when my mother decided to approach me for the umpteenth time as if for the first time, though asking "why do you make such sounds all night long?" and "I cannot tolerate this type of behavior any longer." No matter how much I try to explain that hurt people moan layed out on the floor, she doesn't get it and won't tolerate it. She's even asked before if I was misapplying my creativity, to show you how deeply she cannot understand my behavior.
In truth, her and my father govern their bodies with so little creative freedom or even liberties of time and idleness that there is no way they can recognize the value of what I'm doing. They run on such amazing tension and axieties fire off and a rapid and unrelenting pace, usually expressed, because that's how they like to handle them. Their solution to anxiety is to keep moving. "What of this lying around and stretching?" is what I see in their faces - to the extent that they walk over my body when I'm lying in the way and can't bear to look.
So anyway, she asked me why I did it and wanted me to stop and I had nothing to say. Even screaming at the top of my lungs "I'M QUITTING CIGARETTES NOW! I'M QUITTING MARIJUANA NOW! I'M NEVER GOING TO MAKE A MISTAKE AGAIN! I'M GOING TO BE PERFECT! JESUS CHRIST IS MY LORD AND SAVIOR!... AND I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" I couldn't back her off. There is no acceptable response but she drives the question forward, cornering me with her hideous face. It's like yelling at somebody "WHY DOES THE SUN SET!?!" and refusing to quit until you get the answer you need.
It's fucking psycho. I screamed outside in the neighborhood. What a community. Noone has reached out to me. If anything I'm bacteria to stay away from. So what the fuck. They don't give a fuck about me, why am I supposed to care. I pissed in the street later that night and probably left skids in the road. I've been so nice for so long. Why even bother? A neighbor has yelled out that we're stupid from his back yard before. True. And now we're a stupid family in a stupid neighborhood. It's just amazing when you're on the edge of killing yourself and screaming and seemingly noone hears. nobody saw. You're not even sure if you did it or not. You're invisible. Noone gives a good god damn.
I skated the suicide brige yesterday, hundreds of feet over the arroyo and braked from probably 20 miles per hour before hitting a set of stairs that dropped thirty to forty feet. I also found the gate to the fire escape mysteriously unlocked at my psychologists office and went up to the roof - a humbling climb and descent. It's an old iron set of steps bolted to the side of a brick building in a light well. You could lean against the wall but slipping would send you off the deep end. you could grab the rail tightly but that just brings you closer to the edge. It is actually best to stay over your balance one foot at a time, with a hand sliding over the bar ready to grip. A trust your feet maneuver.
Anyway, I guess I do get suicidal at times but I never get too close. Last night was tough emotionally that way, especially after those events - I had places to go jump that I'd just been to.
I stormed out of the house. I still don't even have my driver's license. I overdrafted my bank account for money (had $3) bought some cigarettes (was out) and parked by the Monrovia Library and tried calling my psychologist. Her line was actually busy for a while, even at 1:11 AM and I thought I was out of luck finding a sympathetic ear to check my sanity against. I was surprised to get through when I tried again a little later.
Talking with her calmed me but I'm upset I have to live this way. I didn't deserve to be ground down like this by my family, though I may deserve it now that I've been in conflict with them for some years and have made their lives hell too.
I don't want to kill myself but I wouldn't mind dying. What the hell is all of this anyway. the computer just interrupted me with a popup. 5 minutes remaining. There are so many people hear and I'm not even allowed to talk to any of them. If I were to approach and whisper they would want to know what I wanted. I want nothing. Great. Go fuck yourself.
Why not end it?
