Lose Yourself

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You can hang on to dreams. You can bring up the past, the future or the what ifs of times gone wrong. You can sign up to an ideology, pray and protest for a better world that your lizard mind knows won’t happen. You can cry and wait and wait and wait for the saving grace of charity or just freeze yourself in place until the world goes dark.

Or you can move and make it happen.

I’m still living with my parents. I used to be on my own. I was on my own for a long time. No government help, no money sent through desperate phone calls to ma and pa. I held my own. Then my world was torn apart. My pride was destroyed. My ego broken. The very deep darkness exploded and coated my every action. I had debt and I added to it constantly with binge drinking, fast food and impulse buying. Layer upon layer of security and self-medication. Still, now and again, I slip into that dark world. Angry, lost and happy to break the bank for a night’s worth of numbness.

But that won’t get me where I want to be.

I use my skills. I can talk and attract women. Does it always go right? No. It never will. Sometimes I forget that. I hate when I miss things I think I deserve. A girl that caught my fancy who’s got a boyfriend. A “good job” when I just get more work piled on. Its what makes people snap.

99% of the time no one gets what they want.

Yet, at the darkest times, the flicker of light is there. The dream you can reach. It won’t be easy, it won’t be pretty, but the struggle will take you there. I recently bought myself a camera that shoots HD video. I haven’t owned camera nor shot my own stuff since 2007. I’ve been floating for years, now landing on solid ground, ready to put myself back out there, be creative and show my work to the world.

There is no happy, magic ending to your desires, whatever they may be. Once you get them, you will have to keep moving, fighting, being. But this is our way of living beyond what we’re told to be. I am still living with my parents, a kind, caring cage of the soul, and it can depress even the best excitement. It is only a step among many, and soon, those steps will take me out the door and back on my own, as I am meant to be.

The Fight Inside My Head

I’ve written before about my anxiety. The nasty monster that creeps into my life more often than I would like, during good or bad times, and ravages the way I think and act. I’m on meds for it. I’ve gone to group therapy for it. Both have helped immensely. What was crippling to the point of missing work is now manageable, though highly uncomfortable.

For those of you that have been around since the beginning, you know what an utter mess I was during the separation from the Ex. In the last 2 years, more so in the last 6 months, I’ve made vast progress in my emotional and mental wellbeing. I’ve rid myself of the parasites I found learning early game and now, totally single, have created standards and codes, aiming for the highest quality of woman. Not exactly an easy find here, but its a work in progress.

The problem with my illness is that its genetic, from what I can gather. Passed down generation to generation. My mother has a version, so does my sister. Both of my grandfathers and great grandfathers had a version. Its something I can’t escape. I felt it coming on a few days ago. Something simple, something normal, set off a trigger inside my head. The switch, fight or flight, was stuck and my brain pumped its energy. Instinctual, primal, the feelings are not part of my consciousness. They run deep. My life is not bad. I’m working. I’m doing kick ass at my job as I learn. I am not what the impulses say, but they scream it out anyway.

Last night, it kicked me in to insomnia. I laid in bed, tired as fuck, but unable to put down the thoughts racing back and forth. I could literally feel a fight inside my head, between reality and the disease, between the now and the what was. Everytime I told myself its not as bad, memories of the Ex would appear. Tainted memories, things I never thought about often. Fights, moments that I should of noticed, moments in bed of pure happiness made fleeting. The things a man needs to forget to move on. I rolled back and forth, frustrated, for hours, until my body overtook my mind and finally put the war to an end through pure exhaustion. A few hours later, I was awake again and had to function. Things to do in the real world that don’t care for what thoughts keep me up at night.

These moments aren’t the oneitis of a lost chance, able to be broken and scattered with the return to the sexual battlefield. Its not something easily changed by going out and being social. Wrapped in the cloth of this modern man lies the beast of my ancestors, every perk and every flaw. There is no heart disease that kills to early. Cancer doesn’t pop up randomly. Choices and old age usually kill in my family. What is left is the bite of the deepest invisible monster, the last medical stigma. You can survive AIDS. You can beat breast cancer. You can get a new heart. You can’t change the very electric sparks that make you, you. You just have to push through and live, despite the storms you see coming fast, and after the debris has settled, get back to rebuilding. One piece at a time.

I Dare You


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No, you can tell ’em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far

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There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.

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On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

The Choice I Left Behind

We were drunk. Very drunk. I had the weekend off. Rare for my job. We usually worked six days. Always on call. Twelve hour shifts,minimum. Overtime. Always overtime. The weekend meant rest and more rest. It meant fun. Trips. Movies. Magic Mountain. Fun.

We laid on the floor, embraced, smiling, laughing. There she was. A woman I fought tooth and nail for in my heart and mind. A woman that made me giddy. Happy. Complete. Sexy, kind, funny, perfect. Freckles on her face, light red hair, soft skin, kisses, love. Her weight wasn’t a problem for me. I loved her. I loved her so much that on the floor, drunk, insane, I asked her to marry me.

In my head it was a joke. My thoughts said, “Wouldn’t it be funny to ask her?” and I answered with a resounding yes. As did she, before breaking out in tears and confessions. I said we didn’t have to say anything. It isn’t official. Its more of a promise. She said it wasn’t that. It was something bad. Something worse. Something very, very wrong.

“What is it?” I asked. The answer I did not expect. If I was the man that I am now, I would of saw it. I wouldn’t have been on that floor with her, singing lovely praises between shots, blind to the words that came next. The words that haunted me for months, years. Something I never got over. Something I kept secret for her and, sadly, for myself.

In April of that year I went down to meet her for the first time. Months of talking over the phone. Years of talking over the internet. It was time. She was overjoyed. The first days were blissful. Then things rolled away. She became distant. She was cold. She said I was different. I couldn’t figure out why. I was nervous, yes, but what I was to learn later was that I was cocky on the phone. I performed a Beta Switch. That, in her mind, led her to sleep with her ex, in the back of his van, while I sat in her bedroom, waiting, freaking out, anxiety bursting through my pores.

The next moment was long. It hit me, but I went cold. Very cold. I held her in my arms and screaming CUNT through my bones. WHORE! SLUT! I had forgiven her for backing out of our plans, forcing me to make a trip 3000 miles in a state of intense depression, only to change her mind again not long after. That was nothing compared to this. This was something that was meant to be unforgivable. Death was passed on crimes such as these for thousand of years. We weren’t even married, but it was the deep, boiling betrayal she knew she committed. She knew what she did. She knew the enormity of the pain. She waited until now to tell me. I thought and thought and thought, yet the answer came as quickly as her confession.

“Its okay,” I said, teeth clenched. Arms around her sobbing, wobbling figure. Her body shaking. My body numb.

What else was there to do? Smack her around? I wished. I wished always. I wished I had sent her packing and returned the fling with my bigger breasted roommate. I wish I had left her at the airport. I wished so many things, but I had it in my head that I put this much effort in, that I still loved her, that I’d get over it.

That was my mistake. Trying to get over it. Trying to rationalize it. Impossible. The best reaction is the natural reaction, otherwise you’re fighting something stronger than civilization. You’re fighting yourself. There’s a reason we feel these things. They help us survive.

I made the wrong choice that night. I made the wrong choice from then until she left. After she left, after months of work, I did something I said I do that night on the floor.

I got over it. By getting over her. By getting over the lies of society. By embracing what is real, my instincts.

Wrapped in Panic/Floating in Peace

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I awoke. Too early. Too fucking early.

Fuck, its cold. I have to shut that window. Too much shit in the way. I’ve got to clean this room.

A lot of stuff I have to do.

9:30.

Shit, I do a shoot tomorrow. North of Toronto.

Toronto from here. An hour and a half at least.

That means I’ve gotta get up at 7 or 6:30.

Fuck. I don’t want to do this…

I should call in and say I can’t do it.

But its 200 bucks for a day’s work.

Fuck fuck fuck

This is how it goes sometimes in my head when something’s off. A chemical missing. Fatigue. I forgot to take my med. My mind latches and runs. I woke up too early, of course, but I stayed in bed for another 45 minutes trying to get back to sleep. My brain wouldn’t let me. I wish it would work that fast when I’m doing other things like organizing for a shoot or math. I finally woke, grabbed a smoke, had some caffeine. Did some of the calming techniques I learned in California and everything settled.

Compare that to the night before. Tired as fuck only slept 4 hours. Forgot to take my meds. Ran around all day getting a new phone. Cleaning the car. Getting the call sheet for Sunday. Mapping out. Planning. Then hung out with the First at a old classmate’s house, taking her to a park later and getting a good half hour of heated make out.

I’m awesome.

There’s nothing better than that.

There is nothing else, but that.

Return of an Old Friend

When I was 13 I nearly killed a guy.

This guy, Brandon, was one of those friends better left to the welfare state than to a group of kids. Trailer park born and raised, quite violent, unpredictable, not much of a real friend, but at that time I trusted anyone who’d give me the time of day. I hung out with major dicks at the time, and not the kind that got chicks. The kind that would rather beat up on the weakest associate than hunt down rival groups.

Our school was grades 6 to 8. The school we were at was K to 5. We all hung at the other school due to younger siblings. A good 45 minute wait between when we got out and they did. We were tossing a football around. Normal shit. For some reason, after tossing it to the two or three guys on the other end, I turned around. I felt a thump hit the back of my head. I blacked out.

I awoke. Hand around the throat of the guy who had the ball in his hands when I turned. He was blueish, but breathing. I immediately got off his chest, let his throat go and walked away. It would have been a pure macho move, minus the fact I went over to my mom and told her what happened. From what I can remember, she had no reaction. Odd for a woman who’s usually up my ass about being in fights.

I had scared myself that day. The years previous to that, I was in fights regularly. Not always fisticuffs, but they were fights. Getting pushed around and pushing around. Hurting people that annoyed me. A bully sometimes, a bullied other times. It was just how I was. But after blacking out, I accepted the anti-fighting views of my parents. The extreme views. My dad once accused me of assaulting my sister when, as always, I was simply picking on her. Nothing bruised. Nothing broken. But, according to them, that was worse than rape. I promptly told my dad to fuck off.

Through the 8th grade and high school, I did my best to avoid fights. That first year wasn’t easy, I got in several fights since I was at a new school and breaking in to the social circles usually involved pissing off all the guys. High school had one or two, but most of the time I timidly walked away, pissed but not in trouble. I repressed a lot.

That old friend of mine, the temper, is returning.

My birthday outing was decent, but hardly fun (story to be posted soon). Friend ditched without a word. Several rejections, including a cold bitch going so far as to mention wanting to get laid and then walking away later to call her boyfriend. I wasn’t exactly Zen that night.

The next day, I talk to the Ex over text. She thanked me for visiting one of her work friends in the hospital and letting her talk to him. We talked more. And, in a moment of weakness, I said I missed her. She said she missed my familiarity. Fuck you, woman. I keep the convo going tho, I dunno why. Staying civil. I guess old feelings die hard. She tells me again “You couldn’t give what I wanted.”

“So you finally figure out what that is?”

“Vagina.”

Fuck me. Go grab Big Bubba from the county jail and tell him I’m fresh meat. Fuck me.

I told her she should go get a girl when we were together. Noooooo. I told her I like the idea of a threesome relationship. Noooooooo, it should be just me and you. The failed threesome? Her idea and her temper sunk it just as much as the lying cunt that was my “bisexual” female roommate.

This wasn’t the trip I was hoping for.

I’ve been trying to let the steam out. A lot of rage and resentment pent up, held in because I trained myself not to get angry or violent. Things from the divorce, the money situation, Maria, etc. I put it into working out before I left. I’ve been doing some exercises here, but this is beyond steam. I’m handling it, since I’m not writing from jail, but its bad.

There are things a human mind can’t stand for long. This shit is one of them.

There is No Spoon

“We’re stuck at the kissing stage.”

“Ever think she could be waiting for you to set the pace?”

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh shit.

Oh wow.

Christ, have I been so deep in my own mess that I didn’t see that?

Yup. Stuck deep like dick in a vacuum.

Recognizing the problem is the first step in curing it.

When I care, I worry; when I worry, I panic; when I panic, I get anxiety; when I get anxiety…

Clearing my head has become both a job in itself and something that comes easier and easier.

I had planned a post, anxiety-filled, short, on the date, but the date went as well as I let it. I deleted the post because it is that kind of thing, focusing on it, that makes me obsess about what I did wrong. I thought writing about it would help. Its has, just not in the way I thought. It has exposed my psyche, my obsessive-compulsive thoughts on my failings, and brought them to light. With the help of friends and my comrades in the sphere, I have realized what my problem has been.

Me.

I am trying to bend the spoon. I am ripping my hair out trying to bend the spoon. I am ruining my life for the spoon.

But there is no spoon. Just me.