Write a paragraph... delete.
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It happens often, mind bouncing off the walls with ideas, having a hard time grabbing something. It kinda builds over time and spills over, once I break the seal I almost can't control where it goes next. I enjoy the whirring of my fan, it calms my mind and slows me down.
Smoke fills my lungs... exhale.
Sometimes I get stuck on an idea and I can't table it until I've rolled it over in my mind a few times. People are people and I mean we all think the same, be it about different things, we all go through a specific process whether we realize it or not. I've gotten good at paying attention to the film real running through my dome constantly. And I love to see others become aware of their ultimate reality.
We're all flawed in some way shape or form and it isn't an easy pill to swallow, but I've found that's it's easier to move on by accepting it. Telling yourself you're hooked on pills and need to get off ain't easy, but once I accepted the reality I moved on. Its been 6 months, and my leg still shakes, and I still dream of vicodin, waking up feeling the withdrawal all over, and it goes to show the control a mind really does have when it can make you feel something that isn't even there. And that being aware of thoughts is key, those dangerous things are sneaky, they creep in back doors when we're sleeping. Subconsciously feeding the wrong needs, but I see.
One thing is certain, my head is full again.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
On my mind...
The nights are getting cooler and lasting longer, the year has grown old. Time is the perfect oxymoron in that it is so absolute and precise yet there is never enough and it seems to constantly run faster. What I'm after is a little satisfaction mixed with some laughter. Sometimes at night I inhabit dreams in waking hours imagining masterpieces amid chaos and disaster. Sinister synapses firing on all levels, I've been told I was cold before, but for some reason those are always the ones who end up trusting my ears. Hard times breed creativity, depending in which way we're looking everything leads to opportunity. There are plenty of things I don't know and am unsure of, but one thing I do know is that the only thing that matters is the now. It sounds fuckin cliche, I know, even saying it's a cliche is a cliche, but unless I'm starving or currently dying a painful death I'm doing good. And somehow knowing all that makes me understand people better, and I'm not sure how that works so I'll spare you that process, it may be rather long and drawn out. My mind is spacing out, the pauses are getting longer, and if you know what I mean it is worth every bit of the hype. Calm during the clatter.
Friday, August 16, 2013
At a fork in the road
I have a knack for dealing with difficult people, or situations, and I'm not sure why or where it comes from, but I have found myself in quite a few situations where I was almost literally " talking someone down from a wall." I rarely talk about any of it because it sounds so freakin narcissistic, and I'm not looking for a pat on the back, I do it because it comes natural and I have a genuine concern for people and their struggles.
When I was 17 my sister's boyfriend, who I am now great friends with calls me when his dad it's drunk and high on everything imaginable and literally had a gun in his mouth. He lived right around the corner so I ran over there. Mind you, at the time this is my sister's high school boyfriend who I didn't really know, much less his father. I walk in his living room and here is a giant of a man wearing his blue work uniform, eyes glass over, with a gun in his limp, right hand. His name is Randy, same as his son, so I talk to him like I know him. " What's going on, Randy?" He mumbles something, and begins telling me he was getting high on huffing glue. He work with industrial tires, patching things with adhesives, and he's been sniffing it for days. I'm thinking to myself " clearly he's absolutely wasted, you can't really reason with that." But I just keep talking to keep his mind off that gun. I ask questions because I want them talking, but you have to be careful of what you ask so as not to piss him off. He kept answering so I kept asking. I asked what he was gonna do with the gun and he told me he was gonna end it cuz he couldn't deal. I told him he didn't have a chance if he used the gun, making him think about the act of using it. Saying "kill yourself" is so easy to say and had no real meaning behind it. He kept saying nobody understands, to which all I could say is I'm trying to understand, explain. He was only giving half answers and mumbling a lot but I sat next to him, this bigaass man I met only minutes ago, taking a gun from him. I told him I understood, I had my head buried in enough toilets at 17 to have a real understanding. I've dealt with alcoholics and drug addicts my whole life, I know how they think. He somehow trusted meenough to give it to me, and he grabbed my hand and just started crying. I got him in touch with someone from AA and he's been sober ever since.... that's all him though. I took the gun away and he did the rest, and I've watched him do it and it's awesome.
I've talked my mom down quite a few times, and believe it or not, a few others. Most recently, my mother. She's out of her near death experience from the alcohol withdrawals and was fighting tooth and nail not to go to a rehab facility which was only physical, though she insisted it was a mental hospital or something. If she didn't go willingly she was going to get strapped down and go anyway. My sister having to go there to court to gain temporary guardianship of her I told her I'd go with, she'll listen to me. My sister it's hard nosed and mean about everything so she definitely doesn't help, though she's great at keeping my mom's shit in order, but it ends there. We met with the social workers and they're like "She is being combative and insisting she wasn't going." She said " we've all talked to her, I don't think it's gonna help." " Yea, ok lady with your psychology degree." iswhat I'm thinking. I tell em give me 5 or 10 minutes, to their condescending smiles. I won't go over the whole conversation, which was difficult due to the damage she's done to herself, but she still trusts me. She knows I know her better than anyone else and that when she's finally incapable of making decisions on her own, she trusts that I know what she wants. I just asked her some questions she couldn't deny the answers to do that she could see it was best for her considering her current state. We emerged from her room, she was smiling and prepared to go on her own. Everybody looked relieved. They said " what did you say to her?" I just told them that sometimes you have to talk to people like they're children without TALKING to them like they're children.
You know, sometimes it's like a curse because I often have to explore the dark side of people in order to help them understand that they're the only ones worn their answers. And if I'm asking other to openly explore that in themselves I often have to openly explore my own. What would make a professional seem unprofessional is exactly what helps me help others help themselves. In the end it's always them, I don't do anything but talk. They do all the work. And I've often seen success stories like Randy and it in itself is payment enough. I don't know if I could ever take money for something like that, but helping people is what I like to do, and I'm still working in a steel mill. What a waste.
When I was 17 my sister's boyfriend, who I am now great friends with calls me when his dad it's drunk and high on everything imaginable and literally had a gun in his mouth. He lived right around the corner so I ran over there. Mind you, at the time this is my sister's high school boyfriend who I didn't really know, much less his father. I walk in his living room and here is a giant of a man wearing his blue work uniform, eyes glass over, with a gun in his limp, right hand. His name is Randy, same as his son, so I talk to him like I know him. " What's going on, Randy?" He mumbles something, and begins telling me he was getting high on huffing glue. He work with industrial tires, patching things with adhesives, and he's been sniffing it for days. I'm thinking to myself " clearly he's absolutely wasted, you can't really reason with that." But I just keep talking to keep his mind off that gun. I ask questions because I want them talking, but you have to be careful of what you ask so as not to piss him off. He kept answering so I kept asking. I asked what he was gonna do with the gun and he told me he was gonna end it cuz he couldn't deal. I told him he didn't have a chance if he used the gun, making him think about the act of using it. Saying "kill yourself" is so easy to say and had no real meaning behind it. He kept saying nobody understands, to which all I could say is I'm trying to understand, explain. He was only giving half answers and mumbling a lot but I sat next to him, this bigaass man I met only minutes ago, taking a gun from him. I told him I understood, I had my head buried in enough toilets at 17 to have a real understanding. I've dealt with alcoholics and drug addicts my whole life, I know how they think. He somehow trusted meenough to give it to me, and he grabbed my hand and just started crying. I got him in touch with someone from AA and he's been sober ever since.... that's all him though. I took the gun away and he did the rest, and I've watched him do it and it's awesome.
I've talked my mom down quite a few times, and believe it or not, a few others. Most recently, my mother. She's out of her near death experience from the alcohol withdrawals and was fighting tooth and nail not to go to a rehab facility which was only physical, though she insisted it was a mental hospital or something. If she didn't go willingly she was going to get strapped down and go anyway. My sister having to go there to court to gain temporary guardianship of her I told her I'd go with, she'll listen to me. My sister it's hard nosed and mean about everything so she definitely doesn't help, though she's great at keeping my mom's shit in order, but it ends there. We met with the social workers and they're like "She is being combative and insisting she wasn't going." She said " we've all talked to her, I don't think it's gonna help." " Yea, ok lady with your psychology degree." iswhat I'm thinking. I tell em give me 5 or 10 minutes, to their condescending smiles. I won't go over the whole conversation, which was difficult due to the damage she's done to herself, but she still trusts me. She knows I know her better than anyone else and that when she's finally incapable of making decisions on her own, she trusts that I know what she wants. I just asked her some questions she couldn't deny the answers to do that she could see it was best for her considering her current state. We emerged from her room, she was smiling and prepared to go on her own. Everybody looked relieved. They said " what did you say to her?" I just told them that sometimes you have to talk to people like they're children without TALKING to them like they're children.
You know, sometimes it's like a curse because I often have to explore the dark side of people in order to help them understand that they're the only ones worn their answers. And if I'm asking other to openly explore that in themselves I often have to openly explore my own. What would make a professional seem unprofessional is exactly what helps me help others help themselves. In the end it's always them, I don't do anything but talk. They do all the work. And I've often seen success stories like Randy and it in itself is payment enough. I don't know if I could ever take money for something like that, but helping people is what I like to do, and I'm still working in a steel mill. What a waste.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
My Spot
There's a little courtyard just outside the building I work in, it's small and surrounded on all four sides by buildings. There are all kinds of trees grown up in here somehow. It's open to the air so I can see the sky. There's an old picnic table, with peeling green paint, that I sit on to think. Nights like tonight are the best, 60° and clear skies. Now what's unique about my little spot here is that with the way it's enclosed there's not a drop of light in here so I'm actually able to see more stars than usual. I rarely see anyone else out here, it's my place of solitude in this place of noise and machines. I often wonder what their intentions were for this space, or how it came to be, but I'll never know. There's nobody left that's been here long enough to know. My back is aching and makes me crabby, especially when nothing I do relieves the pressure. I had a dream about vicodin the other night and I'm positive the two are related, but the dream came due to the pain not the other way around. I'm kind of careless in the things I do even though my back hurts so I suppose it's partially my fault, but at the same time it's work and I have to do what I have to do. I've been here for 12 hours with 4 more to go and it drags on. Now this screen is polluting my night sky and I don't want to taint the atmosphere with my electronic devices.
It's August 4th already, people.
It's August 4th already, people.
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