’twas the night before thanksgiving and all through the … wait – wrong holiday

i cannot wait until tomorrow.  No work, no phones, no people.  Just me, the dog, and maybe the television, if i turn it on.  But quiet.  Solitude.  Peaceful, restful, horrifying aloneness.

i was alone when my brother and his friends raped me.  i was alone when the principal’s son and his buddy stripped me and left me in the woods outside the school.  i was alone the night i got mugged by a gang of punk kids.  i was alone when the doctor decided to get handsy during my physical exam.

Bad things happen when i’m alone.  But if i can be COMPLETELY alone then i can keep the demons at bay.  Lock the doors and windows.  Isolate, isolate, isolate.  Safety first.  Physical safety, anyhoo.

i am beginning to doubt the reality of “mental safety” as i am beginning to doubt the reality of “mental wellness”.  Not something i’m going to accomplish, or reach, or discover, or whatever the means is that people hit the Nirvana of mental health.

It’s only one day; i’m back at work Friday.  So one day is going to have to be enough.  It won’t be, of course, but it’s still better than nothing.  I suppose.  Besides, if it were longer i don’t know if i could handle the emptiness, and that would prompt me to go out and do something stupid just to not be alone.

Soon though Thanksgiving will be but a memory and i will be able to build up the armaments against Christmas and New Years.

This coming Sunday starts Advent.  Four weeks of me playing piano for twenty minutes before each church service.  Christmas hymns, of course.  And then Christmas Eve.  Played dinner music last Sunday during the Thanksgiving potluck dinner.  That was ok – kept me from having to socialize for the most part.

i need to just get through the next couple of days.  Then i can worry about the next few weeks.

this anti-social time of year

i hate this time of year.  Life plummets on my birthday and continues its rapid downward spiral until the second or third week of January.  It takes practically every fiber of my being to not pull the plug on this blog and just withdraw completely.

Seasonal Affective Disorder.  But not quite.  Holiday Syndrome.  But not really.  Doctors love to give labels – it allows them to shrug it off as “normal” and “not to be worried about, here, take this pill…”

Why is it so hard to understand when i get this way the LAST thing i want to do is take another pill??!?  Unless it’s the “end-it-all” pill.  Then i might actually consider it.  And THAT takes me to a scary place.

No – i’m not suicidal.  Not really.  But if a mad gunman raced into the hospital and started shooting, i might just go out and say ‘hi’…

the mystery of 2:30 am (MST)

what is it about 2:30 am that wakes me?  i can go to bed at 8:00 and wake up at 2:30.  i can go to bed at midnight and still wake up at 2:30.  i don’t wake up to ringing phones or alarm clocks.  it even takes time for me to wake up if the fire alarm goes off in my building.  so why am i waking up at 2:30?

i can’t find anything on Google that happens at that hour of the day/night ANYWHERE.  yet i wake up EVERY night at that time.  it doesn’t matter how tired i am or how long i’ve been asleep.  2:30 am rolls around and BOOM – i’m awake.

going back to sleep is no simple feat, either.  most nights at best i will cat-nap until 4:30 when i get up for work.  and that’s Monday thru Friday.  weekends are even more fun to wake up at that hour when there is NO REASON AT ALL to get up until at least the sun comes up.

i’ve tried melatonin.  i’ve tried milder sleep aids.  even muscle relaxers.  no good.  i will still wake up at 2:30.  [ok, to be honest, it’s not EXACTLY 2:30.  might be 2:28 or 2:37 – but basically we’re talking 2:30 am]

this little mystery is beyond frustrating.  if i was just waking up at some hour during the night for some obnoxious bodily function, i might be able to accept this better.  but to just wake up – fully alert – at the same time night after night after night is AGGRAVATING!  by the time 4:30 comes, i’m frustrated and fatigued.  maybe i should just get up and go to work two hours early.

i am not, repeat NOT happy about this.

stop the ‘all lives matter’ BS

let’s just stop the ‘all lives matter’ BS.  we know it’s not true.  i am so tired of reading that ‘all black lives matter’ and ‘all white lives matter’ and ‘all lives matter’ and yadda yadda yadda.  enough.

if all lives mattered, that baby would not have been aborted 2.5 seconds ago.  obviously his/her life didn’t matter to the woman carrying it (i won’t say ‘mother’ because no ‘mother’ would abort her child).  it must not have mattered to the doctor that assisted.

if all lives matter, that inmate wouldn’t have been executed, whether he had a death penalty over his head or not.  not if ALL lives matter.

so when you try to tell me that my life matters because all lives matter – the whole argument falls in the toilet.  after being abused, used, thrown away, rejected – you can’t tell me my life mattered then.  and if it didn’t then it doesn’t now.  I KNOW ME.  i know i don’t matter.

enough is enough.  all the lies and backtalk in the media.  and not just this election – it’s widespread and nonstop.  tell the people what the people want to hear.  well, THIS person doesn’t want to hear the ‘all lives matter’ lie anymore.  so don’t tell me.

spread it somewhere else.  i have enough garbage in my life to last unlimited lifetimes, i don’t need more.  i refuse to accept any more.  i know the truth and if you can’t see the truth then that’s your problem, not mine.

all lives do NOT matter.

my life does not matter.

so just stop already.

to live vicariously or not live vicariously – that is the question

and I don’t have an answer. At least not for anyone but me…

Ok, I’ll admit it. I live vicariously through the characters in my novels. They have the life I don’t. They have the freedom to live it because nobody is truly “at risk” for trusting or believing or loving. They’re just characters in a story, after all.

And yes, I do get attached to them. I weep when one dies. I hurt when my protag hurts. My stories wouldn’t be worth much if I didn’t. At least not worth much to me. And since they’re not worth **** to anyone else, their worth to me is what matters. So if I live vicariously through them, it’s only because that way I know how to write them – I can see what they see.

I speak figuratively, of course. If I admit to this close of a connection with imaginary people, I’ll end up over medicated in some ward while interns mess with what little sanity I might still possess. I mean that too. Way too many people working in “recovery facilities” who are there to abuse those who can’t defend themselves and who are never believed if they try to report someone.

But that has nothing with my connecting with the characters in my stories. It does have a LOT to do with who I admit that to, and why you’ll never hear me telling my doctor that I am worried about character ‘X’. He’d sign me over in a heartbeat.

I post this because earlier today I wept (privately) when the lead character in my current working novel had a major heart hurt. He wept – I wept. Eh – it makes good reading [that’s my story and I’m sticking to it]

Is this post tongue-in-cheek? Partially, I suppose. It’s mostly serious, but I also am an expert with joking about those things that bother me the most. The only thing I don’t joke about is being raped as a kid. Or any other form of child abuse for that matter … or sexual abuse … but that’s more because the number of people that could be hurt by insensitive joking about something that is so prevalent and causes so much lasting harm.

Of course, that begs the question “what part is serious?” I post because a subject matters to me. I write about “living vicariously” through my fictional characters because to some extent, that connection bothers me. Surely “sane” writers don’t get this involved in their character’s lives. Or maybe “sane” ones do, but “successful” ones don’t. And if THAT is the case, I have no worry cuz I’ll never be a successful novelist. LOL – I’m lucky to get 2 people to actually read [and enjoy] one of my stories.

All this meandering and rambling about just to say that I live vicariously through the lives of my characters. But again, it makes sense when you consider:
1) I really have no life outside my stories
2) My characters get to do and get to be everything I can’t

Eh … maybe it’s not so bad. [maybe it is……]

It’s All So S.A.D.

If this is you, if you find yourself anywhere in this post, take special note of the closing statement. This is not permanent. It just feels that way.

Art by Rob Goldstein

Butterly Memory

I have always felt more anxious during the months of November and December.

As I’ve gotten older the seasonal anxiety and loss of concentration is worse.

This past week, especially after ‘falling back” one hour, is especially bad.

I sit down and look up and hours have slipped away.

I interpret the smallest remark as dismissive, or as evidence of my unworthiness.

It feels as if I have no real future and no real past.

This is different from dissociative episodes.

It feels as if I’m drugged, as if my mind is shutting down.

According to MedlinePlus Seasonal Affective Disorder includes the following symptoms:

  • Sad, anxious or “empty” feelings
  • Feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism
  • Feelings of guilt, worthlessness or helplessness
  • Irritability, restlessness
  • Loss of interest or pleasure in activities you used to enjoy
  • Fatigue and decreased energy
  • Difficulty concentrating, remembering details and making decisions
  • Difficulty sleeping or…

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how much does it matter

Ok, so who cares if i blog or not. i mean, REALLY cares? If i don’t blog for a day or two, who sits back and wonders:

‘Gee, where has ol’ Marcus been? Haven’t seen a post from him in a while now.’

It’s a rhetorical question because i know the answer. i just don’t like knowing the answer. If i should happen to not post (which actually occurs at least one day every weekend), my readership goes down to 1 or 2, and if i don’t post the next day, visits to my blog are zero. Again, not surprising. Just a little disheartening sometimes. But eh – such is blogging. Or life. Or whatever else it is as such.

Tried a few of those ‘Promote your Site.’ ‘Comment here.’ ‘Let us refer to your blog’ places. My readership went down. i joke not. Down.

None of this should bother me, i know. i should be oblivious and just keep posting merrily along. If people find me, great. If they read and comment, even better. And should I reach another survivor – awesome. But if none of that happens, don’t sweat it, just keep blogging.

Not so easily done. At least not with depression pushing all my buttons, which it does. Some days more than others. Today a LOT more than others. But all that is part of the fun little game i like to call ‘life’. [note – just because i like to call it life does not mean i like life …]

i’m having to be real careful at work today. i have a sarcastic old man in me itching to go off on someone who asks a stupid question. And i work in I.T. — stupid questions abound here.


i really wish i could just go home and crawl under the bed. except it’s one of those adjusting beds – there’s no room under it unless you’re a gerbil. So even if i went home, i couldn’t do what i need most to do. [ok, want most to do].

…doesn’t help to have the original “Mission Impossible” theme stuck in my head. — that would be from the TV series, not the first rip-off movie …

day of destruction

i hate
i’ve ever done

every word
blah, blah, blah

i would love it
for once
i could do something
that i actually liked
and wanted
to keep

so today
i struggle
with joking
about nothing

don’t i care

i care
that my heart
is imploding
in grief

find me
a corner
i need
a place
to curl up
and die

or at least
from life
all its

getting it together

I’m here again – and reblogging an older post is SO MUCH EASIER than coming up with a new one…

survivor road

So when does a person finally “get it together’?  When can they look at themselves, either figuratively or literally, and say “this is me and I’m ok” ??  Because I should be there by now.  At least I think I should.  If I can believe movies – I’m wayyyyyy past the point of knowing who I am.  I’m sitting here, stewing over this, and making myself ill.  Actually making myself ill.  This is stupid, crazy, insane, inane, inept, inconceivable …

I know!  I’ll just accept the fact that I can’t accept who I am and then be ok with it.  That way I should, in some round-about way, get it together.  Oh yeah.  That’s a plan.

I can joke about it.  I can laugh and kid around and do everything except be serious because when I’m serious I feel like I do right at this moment and it’s not…

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