%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  This is my blog & my hope, writing daily will help me see my progress and log supporters. |
| ........ |
| As I rode along my usual route today, the song, 'Us and Them' by Pink Floyd echoed through my brain. The lyrics proposed by PF back in the 70s painted a bleak picture of modern society...a dog-eat-dog morality and a somewhat selfish outlook most of us have been guilty of at some point or another. I thought about why we humans are, at certain times, like this and the question popped into my head, is this me me me attitude hardwired in our DNA? Is it a reaction to stressful events such as pandemics, climate change or those who look and act differently to us moving in next door? Is racism, xenophobia and bigotry a leftover trait from a bygone era when we needed to beware of those who looked different or had different beliefs to us, just in case they were a threat? I did a search and found this interesting article... https://www.independent.co.uk/tech/racism-learned-dna-nature-or-nurture-a9445606... There are several theories about what happened to our cousins the Neanderthals, but I think it is most likely Homo Sapiens took a disliking to them and by hook or by crook, they became extinct. There remain some humans today who carry the signatures of interbreeding between us and them. I have always prided myself on standing up for the weak and supporting the underdog. Members of other cultures cannot help being different to us any more than we can to them and racism is something I could never understand or tolerate. Then one day a family of Aboriginals moved in next door to us and our (my Mom and I) lives became a living nightmare. The nightly drinking, fights and music playing loudly until the early hours of the morning was enough to turn any good-natured and tolerant neighbour into a hater. Then came the day (refer to Blog I) when I declared war on them. This came after a particularly bad night, and as soon as their music went silent at around 6.00 am, I pushed my lawn mower up to the fence on their side and let them have some of that...and when their bleary eyes came out to see who the inconsiderate person was mowing their grass at such an early hour, I asked them how they liked it (only with some added colourful language that helped them understand my feelings at that point in time a little bit better). Things improved for a while and eventually, they moved out, much to Mom and my relief. It wouldn't have mattered if they were black, white or purple...inconsiderate neighbours are just inconsiderate people. But those two years did give me a whole new perspective. I now realise that it's easy not to be a racist when they don't live next door to you...and I am ashamed to admit that. But, I have to blame my ancestor's fear for my intolerance. |
| After taking a couple of days off chores, I feel better. I finally have Mom's room completed, but there's a lot more work to do on the rest of the house. I guess as a homeowner, it never ends, and there will always be something that needs doing. I can deal with that, I just have to learn to pace myself and realise when I need to take a break...and then take one. I need a break now, but it will be a month before I get to lay by a pool in Thailand, sipping pina coladas and trying not to stare at the bottoms of nubile women who are young enough to be my daughters. I haven't touched alcohol since I was last in Phuket in 2018, and in a way, I'm lucky I can have a drink and then leave it. Meth on the other hand is not like that for me. If I were to have even one little line, I know it would be six months before I might stop and regret that one bad decision. Yesterday I did the double...weights followed by bike, and today, forty-five minutes on the bike. I have a pair of pants that I love. I bought them last time I was in Thailand and they are now too small for me. To fit into those pants again is one of my goals, and I hope within six months, I'll be able to wear them comfortably and with pride. Although I don't want to sound like it, I am a bit too big for my britches. |
| By the time we are teens, we are who we will be. Hardwiring comes from genetics passed down through generations, but is also laid down as our young minds develop. Damaged children will, by and large, become damaged adults, and will usually act out accordingly. I don't remember the specific age I was when it all began, but I vividly remember the incidents of abuse and growing up living with fear, which in time, became normal. Studies have shown that around 90% of people with Substance Use Disorder have suffered childhood abuse and/or neglect. Physical and/or emotional abuse and trauma become who we are...hardwired into our psyche. Many people recover from addiction, but in order to do that, they must first go through talk therapy and relive the trauma all over again. And that for some, is a very scary thing to do. I have a memory like an elephant and recall every single thing my abuser did to me from around the age of seven until I became too much of a challenge at around sixteen. These incidents have, so far, defined my life. And although I understand the complexities and have acknowledged that it wasn't my fault...that I didn't deserve for those things to happen to me, doesn't change the hardwiring in my brain like some form of miracle cure. Addiction is a complex and difficult disease to treat. There is so much stigma attached to being an addict that many who suffer won't ever seek treatment. Shame, fear of family and social rejection, along with how society and the law see and treat drug addiction as more a legal, rather than a health issue, turn addiction and Substance Use Disorder into a more deadly killer than if we all faced the truth and changed the way we look at the problem. You just have to look at the numbers of people of all ages who are dying in the US alone, to see it is an epidemic that society must change its attitude towards because if we don't, it could be your son or daughter, or brother or sister who might next be counted among the statistics. And it doesn't have to be this way. Not all addicts have bad upbringings and not all those who grew up having a hard time go on to become addicts. And I acknowledge that there must be at some point, ownership of the choices that addicts make every time they/we, choose to use drugs. Compassion and understanding go a long way, and are far better tools than arrest and prosecution, which only leads to permanent criminal records and for many, pushes them further down the path and away from treatment and a possible cure. At what point do we say, "This war is lost." Once we can acknowledge this is the case, the question remains, where do we go from there? What value do we place on the lives of our children? Over the fear-driven inaccuracies of what is falsely pushed by the government and media as what an addict is. I know what the solution is, but I also know that society is not ready to face the reality of what needs to be done to put the black market out of business and offer hope for change. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results (Albert Einstein). Isn't that what the war on drugs is doing? It is futile trying to arrest our way out of a problem that has more to do with health than it does law and order. When I developed Cellulitis a few years ago, I knew to get myself to the hospital as quickly as possible because it can, if left untreated, be life-threatening. Upon arrival, I explained to the nurse at reception that I was a meth user and immediately, I was treated differently. I was as calm as I could be under the circumstances and explained that I was no threat to the staff or to myself, and yet, the stigma I felt made me feel less than human. Once I was admitted, that stigma disappeared as the perception and the reality of who I was changed the attitude of those who treated my condition. I wanted to show that we are not all the stereotypes seen in the TV ad campaigns. That we are as varied as any other members of society and not much different to someone who appears with any other illness. I can see the path towards my own salvation. I know where it leads, I just have to find a bypass that will skirt around the obstacles that have so far blocked my way. I see things more clearly now than I ever have before...and, I am more hungry now for change than at any other time in the past. I think I can, I know I can...and this time, I will find a way. |
| Isn't denial a funny old thing? Yesterday's little episode was blamed, perhaps unfairly, but certainly squarely, on meth withdrawal. I was quick to jump to the conclusion that my drug of choice, Methamphetamine, was the culprit. I mean, what else could have caused such a reaction? Later that night, I made dinner and got my water bottle out of the refrigerator. It was then I realised I hadn't had a drink of Powerade all day. In fact, I didn't have any the day before either. It's winter here in the southern hemisphere and as we all know, when it's cold (relatively speaking), we are nowhere near as thirsty as in the hot summer months. And I have been consciously trying to drink more plain old water. It was at that moment a thought came...could what happened to me only hours before have been caused by sugar withdrawal? I've seen how the brain reacts to sugar when an EEG is taken. Sugar lights up the frontal lobe in exactly the same way as when cocaine is ingested. I suspect sugar may have been the real culprit, and now I am faced with a new dilemma...how do I quit sugar? Sugar is in almost every processed food, as is salt (which may be far more harmful than simple carbohydrates, and possibly, just as addictive). To prove this for yourself, cook anything from vegetables to meat without adding any salt, and if you are used to salt (addicted may be a more apt choice of word), you will instantly know by the food's blandness and lack of flavour. What am I to do? Unlike meth, sugar, and its co-accused, salt, doesn't have to be sourced from some shady dealer, who charges exorbitant amounts of money for the product/poison they supply. And doesn't the previous statement sound familiar...denial, alongside its best friend, justification. All rolled up in one sweet and salty treat. Even writing those words causes my mouth to begin watering. One of my favourite flavours of ice cream is salted caramel, and I cannot imagine life never eating it again. The mere thought of this abstinence in my future life is sending my head into a spin. Is life worth living without something pleasurable to look forward to? To have to lose every single thing that gives me pleasure...sex, drugs, and now salt and sugar. I mean, what's the point of living in a world where bland, pleasureless monotones of grey are all I have to look forward to? If I did choose all of these poisons, at least my last few years would be spent doing something I enjoy, instead of living life in a continuous act of denial of what I want and desire. Dying from pleasure or living by deprivation. Or is there some middle ground? Some sort of balance. Powerade is my weakness. And a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich without salt and pepper is simply never going to happen. Reducing my consumption of food that comes wrapped in plastic might be a good place to begin. There's no way I am going to start using meth and have to go through all of this again. I don't think I could...and I don't want to. As for my other addictions, I suppose I need to focus on slowly reducing and eventually eradicating them from my day-to-day life...weaning myself, just like I did with meth, might be the answer. For now, removing those two food groups is not beneficial for my ongoing mental health. I'm already fragile and to add more weight to the pack would be reckless, and might I say, detrimental to the cause at hand. |
| I thought I was through the worst of withdrawal, but today, my addiction showed me otherwise. The day started out like any other, but there was this focus I didn't like at all. Everywhere I looked were jobs...tasks that needed doing which became a tidal wave of negativity and ended up coming close to an anxiety attack. After breakfast, came this need to finish all the jobs I am halfway through. To try and complete one room at a time is next to impossible. I don't like loose ends though and today, they were flapping around in a breeze of failure...laughing at my ineptitude and inability to finish a single task. I tried to push through the negativity, thinking it would pass, but after only a few minor jobs were done, panic hit me like a freight train. I didn't understand what was happening. How could this be after not using meth for the best part of two months? I didn't even see what it was at that point and instead of calling it a day, I took a break and made myself some lunch in the hope that would change everything. After I had eaten, it became obvious that nothing had changed. It was then I made the best decision...the only decision I had available to me, and laid down in my bed in the hope of taking a nap. I hadn't slept well the night before and despite advice from my most trusted friend to take a few days off the chores, I thought every day of sloth would be a wasted day...and a day's delay towards my goal of flying out of this place to Thailand. I never was good at taking advice and today, I paid the price. After only a few minutes of laying down, I felt the familiar warning signs of withdrawal, and along with that, came cravings. No two sets of circumstances are ever alike when it comes to quitting this drug, and this time is no different in chemical dependencies' ability to be different. I am thankful my anxiety was mild. I fell asleep for an hour, only to wake up with a new outlook. Not exactly jumping for joy, but certainly better than I felt only an hour before. I grabbed that feeling with both hands and ignored every task on the way out to my gym. I then put on some music and hit the weights hard. A lot of anger was channelled and dispelled in that forty-five-minute session. Then, on my bike, as I pedalled, I considered whilst racking up a few miles. This is where my mind went... Think of an old-school, Walt Disney cartoon, where Goofy has an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Only for me, it isn't an angel/devil scenario, but my past and my potential future. And these two were going at it. The voice of my past was telling me not to take any chances...to stick with what I know, even if that has caused me a lot of negative outcomes. At least, it said, those choices have brought me to this point where I am still alive and relatively happy. The voice on the other shoulder, however, had a very different view of things. It argued that although change is scary, it could bring me a better outcome than the voice on the other shoulder was spruiking. My potential future voice urged me to break free of these past experiences; to take risks and follow a new path for a chance at an even better future. I should point out that these two voices are not real to me and have nothing to do with schizophrenia or psychosis, although they were compelling in their rationales. With three possible perspectives to consider, I will dictate a compromise between the two disputants and hopefully, we can all get along in the small space between my ears. |
| Yo-yoing emotions are to be expected. Up one day and down the next will be my normal for an indefinite period of time. This is everyone's life anyway and taking the good with the bad is, dare I say, normal. Yesterday I was a bit down. I allowed some things to get to me. Dealing with the loss of the most important person in my life and an entire house to sort, clean and potentially have to fight a legal battle over was beginning to overwhelm me. My position on all fronts is strong and I am confident little can be done to reverse my Mother's last Will and Testament. The problem is if there is a contest, the estate must pay the legal fees of whoever decides to go down that path. There are plenty of firms who will take this kind of matter on...no win no fee. Unfortunately, these potential fees will be paid by the estate (me). I'm not stressing about that just yet because first of all, I have to get the Supreme Court to recognise the Will as valid and grant probate. Once this is done, as executor, I can then distribute the estate according to the wishes of my mother. The catch is that anyone wanting to contest the Will has nine months to do so. This means it is inadvisable to liquidate the assets (the house) during this period in case any possible contest is successful. It suits me anyway because as much as I have a plan to move permanently to Thailand, it's a good idea to have a backup plan and therefore, somewhere to return to, just in case things don't go as well as I hope. At this stage, once a grant of probate is issued, and I wind up the estate and pay out the beneficiaries what they have been bequeathed, then I can rent out the house on a short-term lease (there is a severe housing shortage in Queensland at the moment and rents are very high). I can then go on holiday until whenever it suits me, return and finalise my plans depending on any legal proceedings that may come up. It's all very much a silver cloud with a darkish lining, no matter how it goes. Today, I went to the local hardware warehouse and bought replacement locks, some new blinds and curtains. All things I need to do in order to make the house safe for any prospective tenants (because people have previously had access to the keys which is a good enough reason to change the locks). Slowly, day by day I am getting things done. I'm not going at it like a maniac because I don't need to. What I do need to do, however, is focus on my training, my mental health and my goal of staying off meth. All interconnected and all a part of this new life I am planning/living. My best friend in all the world, who convinced me there is such a thing as unconditional love by demonstrating it in real-time, sent me a link to an interview with British comedian Russel Brand. I was moved by his philosophy and brilliance...profoundly so. I've never heard a more sensible argument for where we humans must begin to head. A must watch in my opinion. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=EXUpMMde51E&pp=ygUXcnVzc2VsbCBicmFuZCBpbnRlcnZpZXc... Today I achieved a lot and tomorrow, I plan on doing similar. I feel so normal now, as opposed to the internal chaos that once ruled my life. I'm aware of the pitfalls to come, but I am very confident nothing is going to get in my way. |
| There are days when I have nothing to say, and today is one of those days. I still feel good and nothing will stop me from achieving what I have set out to do...staying off meth for the long term. Anything else I do is a bonus. |
| It started raining here in SE Queensland, at around 10.00 pm last night and it hasn't stopped all day. I have bedsheets and curtains that I need to wash and all this rain isn't helping me at all. In the sub-tropics, we don't usually dry our washing in a dryer, instead hanging it out on a clothesline. The clothesline I have is a locally made invention called a Hill's Hoist. I remember as a kid my friends and I would hang by our arms and get twirled around like we were on a merry-go-round. And when my kids used to come and visit me, sometimes, they would do the same. That very same Hills Hoist remains in my backyard and works just like it did the day it was installed around sixty years ago...a little trivia. At my meeting tonight, I got severely triggered. There was a couple there who spoke a lot about using meth and other drugs and although that is what we are there for, I felt those familiar pangs of want rising in my belly. It didn't last long and once the meeting was over, I forgot (well, I almost forgot) about it. This will be my reality for a long time to come...perhaps forever. Meth isn't physically addictive, but what it lacks in the intense physical withdrawal department, it more than makes up for in its ability to hang onto its victims for the long term...a lot like tentacles. I'm Ok and have no intention of using...not today and I hope, not tomorrow either. One day at a time is how I should take things, but I think tomorrow is beginning to require a little more forethought as well. Today, I managed to get through...albeit, with a slight wobble. It doesn't matter to me how I do, just so long as I do. Yesterday before the rain began, I did weights followed by a forty-five-minute bike ride. Back in the day when I had a fight coming up, there were days during the eight-week build-up that I just didn't feel like training, and the best motivator I used to force myself to turn up and do the work was to tell myself (about my opponent), "He's training today." Having had the previous two days off because I was so sore and fatigued from the previous three weeks in the gym and doing four straight days in the garden, there was no way I was NOT going to get out on that bike today (I do love those double negs) and let a bit of rain stop me. Some ride in the rain...whilst others just get wet...or stay home. Today, I chose to ride that bike, no matter what the weather, and not to use drugs...and that's a win-win in my books. |
| Another busy and successful day. Everything is falling into place. Not taking drugs is what keeps me on track, feeling accomplished and strong. I've had two days off training because the exertion of the previous four days demanded it. But today, I went back and did the double. I love the gains during the first month back after a break. Both my cardio fitness and strength gains are surprising to me. I've got a long way to go in both my health and fitness and in dealing with my addiction when it returns to bite my ass and try to take my life and future happiness. I feel good...so much better than I was just a short time ago. All things I have seen and said before and yet, this time, I am more confident I can and will break this cycle. With more to live for and more to lose, this is what I will rely on when things begin to swing towards the other side. |
| I was clearing out my Mom's room today when I came across several pieces of paper in one of her drawers. They were folded in four, and I almost discarded them in my hurry to get things done. I took a quick look, thinking they were old letters from relatives in England, but what I found were short children's stories she must have written long ago. One was called, 'George, The Happy Giraffe', and as I read her words, my tears began to flow. I looked towards the sky and asked her why she had never told me about them. When we lived together, she was my sounding board and was (almost) always the first person to hear my stories. Of course, Mom was as biased as can be and (almost) always loved whatever it was I had written. And now that I know about these stories of hers, it would be my pleasure to transcribe them as items on my port. It's funny how over time, things become invisible to us. When my parents emigrated from England in 1963, they brought very little with them on the ship 'The Fairsky' in terms of furniture and household items. And now, as I go through almost sixty years of accumulated stuff, I am finding some real gems among the dust-covered clutter. One that I will keep is a small steel table-mounted meat mincer that must be fifty or more years old...still wrapped in plastic and in perfect working order. My Mom was a bit of a TV shopping addict, and I am finding items like a pressure cooker and a brand new dinner set, all unopened and still in their original boxes. But there are a couple of items that have been hiding in plain sight all this time and it took me until today to recognise what they actually are...a vintage late 60s or early 70s dresser with a matching wardrobe. Both are in perfect condition. It appears at some point they have been repainted, but that retro look is very in right now. I'm going to have to do some research to see what these items might sell for. But the find of the day was definitely those stories. In one of them, a dog I had as a teenager and I are in the story. It was like seeing photographs in my mind whilst I read her words...flashbacks of how she saw us back then. I wish she had shared these stories with me while she was alive, but the discovery today was something special, and I do wonder if she knew that was how it would be after she was gone. |
| I'm uninspired. The emotions that have carried me through the last few weeks are levelling out and my brain chemistry is returning to normal (if there is such a thing). Once again, I find myself in the place of...average human being. The honeymoon is over, baby (thanks for the line, Nick Cave), and now, the real work begins. One of the reasons I have in the past gone back to using meth, is boredom. There are many others, but at the moment and at this particular stage in my recovery, boredom is my worst enemy. This last week, I have been far too busy to be bored. In fact, right this very second, a little bit of boredom would be Ok. I'm surrounded by things that are awaiting my attention...and that's just what I can see. Last night I had to take drugs. After beginning my day at around 9.00 am, my washing machine running nonstop for six hours and everything in between, by the time I climbed into my bed (with fresh sheets) at 11.00 pm and I thought my lights would be out as soon as my head hit the pillow...but it wasn't to be. My right knee, or more specifically, my right anterior cruciate ligament was snapped in a training accident a long time ago. I also broke my femur when I was seventeen, all of which has contributed to arthritis in the knee joint...bone on bone...and last night my knee, after four straight days of solid physical work, let me know what it thinks of my new found enthusiasm for physical exertion. I can't remember the last time I felt so beat and typically, on the night I could have really done with some good solid sleep, as soon as I laid down, things began to go awry. The knee wasn't the only part of my body protesting about the treatment, and after an hour of tossing and turning in a fruitless effort to try and find a position that didn't hurt quite so much, I succumbed to my need for rest and swallowed 1000mg of the most benign drug in existence... paracetamol. The good thing about resisting the use of any drug, is the fact that tolerance doesn't play its insidious role at that point in time. It may sound ridiculous (and I know it does to me), but I don't like to take any other drugs other than meth (and now, even meth is off my fav list). I'm a non-cigarette smoking, alcohol-abstaining, pharmaceutical-resisting, pot-avoiding and now meth hating, junkie. Even my junkie friends (like I have any friends left) look down on me. I'm an embarrassment to the cause. The trick I think is to accept that at times, I will need to take something for the pain, but realise that the more often I do this, the less effective that relief will be...balance will be the key. A couple of days ago, I got a call from one of the nurses at my Mom's nursing home, asking me if I wanted her leftover vials of oxymorphone. I had just a moment of pause before I told her that it might be prudent that she have them destroyed. That momentary pause was caused by the remnants of my addiction to meth (which will always remain a part of me), telling me that even though opioids are not my thing, I could always contact someone whose thing it is and sell it to fund my next adventure into the depths of misery and pain. It felt good that the thought passed quickly into the stupid ideas department, pigeonholed in my brain...of which the out tray is already overflowing. But seriously folks...these are tests and they will not end. Each day is a test and I have no one to blame but myself. Do the crime and do the time, only the time in my case is life. I will always be addicted to meth...this is a fact. I can cry about it or I can use it to my advantage. I will never be safe, but I thrive on the challenge this presents. Can I? I'm not sure. But in that moment of temptation, I fought back...and I won. I like winning and when the prize is my future happiness and possibly, my life, I need to win every single time. |
| ...but? You can't make a human happy. Only a human can do this. When I write a blog post, I try to be inclusive of others and generally invite those who may read it to participate in the conversation...and some do (thank you). The trick is to ask the right questions of you, the reader...the human, I know we all are, about YOUR lives. I don't want it to be all about me. How boring; once I've told you everything about my life, what then? Superficial questions simply will not do. Politics is to be avoided unless wanting to start a war. What we ate for lunch? I'm pretty sure that FB takes great care of that super interesting little question that I'm sure EVERYONE wants to know the answer to...and let's face it, lands squarely in the category for nomination for the superficial question of the year award. Bank accounts and personal ID questions should be left for scammers, after all, they need to make a living too. So what questions are left for me to enquire about? One of my favs is, are you happy? Now to me, this is such a simple and good question to ask because, for one, I'm interested, otherwise I wouldn't bother to ask in the first place...and two, I imagine whoever is reading said question would, or at least, should be interested too. Perhaps this is too difficult a question to answer because happiness is fluid and can change from one day to the next. Common sense should tell you that I am not asking (when I do ask) specifically, at that very moment, if you are happy. I'm asking in a general sense. I can see why surveys use a zero to ten rating system. And if I WERE to ask you if you were happy or not, and tell you that zero is clinically depressed and ten is ecstatic to the point of wetting your pants, going by past survey results I have conducted here on WdC, I think the general consensus would be...mind your own business. I can do that. In fact, I can easily ask no questions of others and be as insular, and or as self-absorbed as the next person. But what does that achieve (sorry, too personal?)? I can talk all day about my three absolute favourite people in the world...me, myself and I, but if you want to know ANYTHING about me, it's all in the items on my port and blog posts. I can't see any reason to write it all again. And I already know the answer to THIS question, so please, take it as rhetorical and save us all the effort...is anyone out there interested? I know that a few are, but in general, I also understand the reality is not that many...c'est la vie. Does this mean there are no winners in the equation (me wanting to help guide us all towards a happier and more fulfilling life, myself included)? Is my want/need to help others in vain? Should I stick to FB (sorry, but please...I'd rather be drawn and quartered than become so desperate for something outside my day-to-day boredom than to open an account on social media. A place where all you are guaranteed to find is what everyone is having for lunch these days, along with a dessert of insecurity and self-doubt)? Perhaps I should just focus on my own happiness and fuck the rest. And from what I can tell, most people don't care too much about being happy anyway...at least, not until the very second after they jump. Or worse still, stay until the bitter end. Thank God for the therapists. I couldn't live with myself if I put any of those hard-working book nerds out of a single session. And does it really matter that they have no idea about who we are or even what makes us tick? And we can't blame the professionals because even though we pay for it, we cannot reveal those ugly truths to anyone, especially ourselves. Isn't it ironic that we pay them to help us know ourselves better, and yet, they couldn't care less about us, the people who come to their plush suites, lay down and go on and on about our trivial problems? What a quandary...and what a waste of hard-earned cash when the answers to every question about us can be found in one convenient place...inside our own frightened little minds. In my own frightened little mind, rather than pay a therapist $200 per hour, I would walk into a bar (I don't drink alcohol, but I wouldn't be there to drown my sorrows, only to highlight them), sit down next to some friendly-looking stranger and offer to buy them a drink...but ONLY if they promise to shut the fuck up, don't offer any advice and sit there nice and quiet like until my tears have stopped flowing and everyone within earshot has gotten bored and gone back to their own troubles. I hope this helps, but if not, I certainly had fun writing it. |
| These last two days that I have been working in my garden have taken a physical toll on my body. I'm reasonably fit. I've been riding my bike every day for about a month (except the last two days) and doing weights every second day for around three weeks. I must confess that for the past six months, my garden has taken a back seat because of my Mom's declining health and knowing that her time was coming to an end. I prioritised her above everything else and my garden was looking like it. As a result of this lack of priority towards the garden, I am feeling the result of that decision in my glutes, hamstrings, quads, delts and pretty much every muscle in my body. Most athletes will, in general, struggle with a discipline not their own. A bodybuilder will struggle with swimming, a swimmer with running (which is why I have so much respect for triathletes) and someone like me with anything that involves being on my feet all day and working a moderately physical job (edging, mowing, using a chainsaw to cut overgrown trees and bundling the branches), even at a steady pace. It comes down to if we are willing to push past the boundaries of our physical and mental limitations and take things at a pace we can endure. At one point late this afternoon, I thought I couldn't go on. My legs and arms were burning and so to were my lungs, and I began to think I would have to complete the job in the morning. This didn't work in with tomorrow's plans of doing some much-needed housework, pulling pictures off the walls, washing sheets and all the other things I can't think of now, but I know will require my attention in the morning. Then my sister will arrive on Saturday morning with a trailer to take the rubbish to the tip and collect photos and mementoes of my mother and father. Checking things off my list of things to do has become the priority now...and after a cold drink and a ten-minute break, I got back out there and finished the job. Thoughts of doing exercise disappeared with the daylight and by the time I had a shower, cooked dinner and considered what to write in today's blog post, I'm calling it a day. |
| Since Mom died, I have noticed a change in the level of my anger. After my marriage ended, I thought if I did a domestic violence course, it would improve my chances of reconciling with my then-wife. Unfortunately, my plans for another chance were not to be, but, I did learn a lot from that course. Things such as WHAT domestic violence actually is and how, at times, my actions were so not Ok. However, the biggest lesson I took away from those sixteen weeks was to control my anger. I was classic passive/aggressive. Bottling things up, and then, when I could take no more, exploding into a rage that frightened everyone around me...even myself. This was especially true when I felt like I was being provoked. But in my post-DV enlightened bliss, I learned instead how to negotiate...to be assertive. This had some immediate effects. In the past, I have said there are positives and negatives attached to every situation, and that they tend to follow each other around. There are times when compromise simply does not work and at that point, we need to make a call...fight or flight. Confrontation can be a frightening thing, especially when the other person or persons are in a dominant position. Relationships are often like this (think of the Seinfeld episode about who has the upper hand) and it is very hard to judge a person for not taking the upper hand for reasons such as shielding the children from abuse or just being scared for their life. In my own case, becoming assertive was like wielding a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I gained by not blowing my top and TRYING to compromise in every situation life presented to me. However, this need to bring things to a head, so some kind of resolution could be found, made more and more people pull away from me. I began to notice friends who used to call, disappear into Excuseland. Even my family seemed to want less and less to do with me. This all coincided with me becoming a carer and that is where things become hazy. I had less time for my friends, and my family (who were quite happy for me to take on all of the responsibility of caring for our mother), subsequently appeared less and hardly ever called. And even when they did call in or by phone, it was ALWAYS to check on Mom. I am being totally honest when I say that in the ten years I was caring for Mom, not once did anyone from my family ask ME how I was doing...if I was Ok. This lead us all down a path, and much like a snowball, where as time went by the issue became larger as it rolled along, their reluctance to ask (just in case the answer wasn't to their liking) if there was anything they could do to help, became a very sore point for both Mom and myself. We became pariahs of sorts...to the point where it broke us (our family). When someone becomes assertive and controls their angry outbursts, that doesn't mean they don't get angry. The trouble for me was where does all this anger go when there isn't an outlet? I can attribute some of my best weight sessions to my family and friends leaving me without a word. And my children, who left me when they were twelve and who I haven't seen since, has also caused my frustration and anger to grow. No one knows this (perhaps one friend might have suspected), but at one point about two years after my children decided I was no longer needed in their lives (redundant), together with the loss of most of my friends and zero support from family to help look after Mom, I considered suicide as an option. I wanted to try and hurt them all by making them feel guilty for abandoning me and causing me to take my own life. The fact that I knew how much this would hurt my Mom and what would become of her if I did, took that choice away, and this in itself worsened the issue for me. I couldn't even take my own life because of the responsibilities I had taken on. I knew if I wasn't around, not only would it destroy Mom, but she would end up in care. No one else in my family was going to put their lives on hold to take care of her, and I was her only hope of remaining where she wanted to be...at home. This was when my drug use spiralled out of control. All of the negative emotions I HAD to bottle up for Mom's sake (because I couldn't let her know how much caring for her was affecting me), and the fact that I had only one online friend I could talk to and rely on to not judge me (although I didn't want to cause her concern or worse, make her leave too), meant I kept these dark thoughts to myself. Since Mom is no longer around, I don't have to hide these negative emotions as much. I now feel all that pent-up anger and resentment bubbling up to the surface. I find I am losing my temper more often than before because now that I don't HAVE to bottle it up, I don't care as much about the outcomes. My Mom was my rock. I could talk to her about most things and she always knew what to say...even if that was nothing at all. And now she is gone, I have no one in my real life, other than Katie, my counsellor, to express these feelings too. I was mowing my yard today. This has always been a time when I think about things. Was it my actions of being so confrontational that caused everyone to leave? Or was it their leaving me that caused me to become so confrontational and in time, angry at them all? What came first...the chicken or the egg? |
| Every day I wake up and think how glad I am that I chose not to do drugs the day before. And then, as I sit eating my breakfast and planning my day, I think about how glad I will be to get to bed that night without using drugs. I know what's coming...but I also know what ELSE might come if I don't stick to the program and let my guard down for just a minute...literally one minute that will change my entire future if I choose to do drugs. Today, I didn't exercise for the first time in many weeks. But I did get a lot done in my garden, which has been seriously neglected for reasons I can probably justify, but won't. It's likely I will feel the effect in my muscles of the excursion, but it won't stop me from going back out there and completing the job...or at least, finish what I started today. There was no group meeting tonight. Last week Katie and I shared numbers so that if the meeting is cancelled, it doesn't waste anyone's time. She assured me she would be back next week. The bonus was it gave me the opportunity to do more outside before nightfall. My grocery list has changed. There's more fruit and less chocolate. More FOR me and less for my addiction. It makes such a difference to my spirit when I find I still have money left in my account come payday, instead of having nothing but lost hope and cravings. Life is good...I can't see myself going back to drugs, but then, I never do until I do, and that's what I need to change. |
| The likelihood of success depends on many things. Ability, timing, luck and definitely more factors than I can think of right now. But, there is one thing that makes me work harder than anything else whilst trying to achieve, and that's motivation. Motivation doesn't just happen, it is caused by someone or something of outside influence. A prime example was back when I played rugby league. It's a hard physical sport. Players wear little protection other than a mouth guard, shoulder pads, and for some, who may have previously suffered, or want to try to prevent a concussion, headgear (not a helmet like in American football, but instead made from a firm rubber). We were playing a team who were just as competitive as we were. It was in the lower grades, but the intensity was just the same as those playing in the higher grades. As we were warming up out on the field, the other team had formed a circle around their coach, who I assume was talking tactics and trying to motivate his team. As we filed back into our dressing sheds, we heard their coach yell at us, saying, "Look...there's the wimps!" Not exactly the smartest thing a coach can do before a game. I didn't think much about it as we ourselves began the process of getting into game mode. It was then that our co-captain, Wally, a huge guy who played in the prop position, came over to me and slapped me across the face hard. He then said, "They just called you a wimp...what are you going to do about it?" Well, I imagine my eyes would have changed instantly to black as adrenalin surged through my body and brain. I felt something I had never felt before...fight or flight, or as was illustrated in the movie, Braveheart, I was about to go berserk. After the whistle blew to start the game, I don't really remember a lot. I was an average player at best, but that night, I became something I would never have dreamed possible, a really good and very aggressive rugby league player. They were having to make replacements due to the force of my tackles. I was quite literally trying to kill them within the rules of the sport. At half-time, my coach approached me as we left the field well in the lead. He put his arm around my shoulders and told me I was killing them out there. And in the second half, I continued to devastate anyone foolish enough to carry the ball in my direction. I scored my only try for the season and received the Man of the Match award...something I had never received before and after that night, never did again. For the next few days, I could hardly walk and movement of any kind was seriously painful. Once I had fully recovered, I reverted back to the average player I had always been. We are capable of so much more than we know, all we need is the right motivation. Watch any animal species, ourselves included, when young are threatened, and you will see the most mind mannered become something else altogether. Today I received a call from the cremation company telling me that Mom's doctor was away on holiday and her cremation could not take place until her death certificate was signed when she returned on Wednesday. To him, it was only a two-day delay and when I explained how I felt about this, he (in my mind at least) shrugged his shoulders and said there was nothing anyone could do. I have spent the last six months making sure my Mom was never alone for long and during those last three days she was alive, I hardly left her side. To then be told that, sorry, your Mom will need to remain alone in some freezer somewhere while her doctor was out shopping and relaxing, was unacceptable. But, there was nothing anyone could do...so I told him, "Watch me." I admit, I got lucky and came across someone at the holidaying doctor's practice who had recently lost a loved one. She must have heard in my voice how important it was to me that my mother not remain alone any longer than necessary, and together, we made the impossible, possible. When she called me back later to confirm she had received the email reply from Mom's doctor, and that the documentation had been signed, I burst like anything. She already knows how much that one gesture meant to me...I made sure of that. But tomorrow, when I walk into her work with a bunch of flowers and a very sincere and heartfelt message (not just for her, but for the doctor who took the time away from her break), I think she will understand just how much one stranger's kindness can mean to another, in a world where gestures are becoming less acknowledged and less common. |
| Mom did one last thing for me before she let go. Three days is a long time to watch someone suffer and even though she had a cocktail of drugs to help relieve her suffering, the same cannot be said for me. I have two half-brothers and two half-sisters. They have all been too busy over the last ten years to bother too much about us. And just because two of them live too far away to have offered much assistance in the flesh, a phone call every now and then would have at least been something. I guess they thought I was doing a good job and I didn't need any help...LOL. Not much changed as Mom lay dying, and only I and one of my half-sisters spent time with her towards the end. She and her husband spent a couple of hours with her, so I could go home, shower, eat, brush my teeth and return. At least it was something. But still, on that last night Mom was alive, I began to fall apart. On the evening she died, I turned off the lights to try and get some rest in her recliner chair. Mom was rattling constantly by then and I knew it wouldn't be long...but I was at the end of my tether. Some staff came in, turned on all the lights, changed her sheets and whatever else they did, and left. They didn't, however, turn the lights off. So, I got up, shut down the lights and lay back down. Ten minutes later her night nurse came in, did her thing, and left...without turning the lights off. The nurse did ask me if I wanted a coffee, but all I asked for was a pillow. Half an hour later, three carers came back to check on her but they didn't have a pillow for me. They left, and you guessed it, they left the lights on. It was just me and Mom again, as usual, and I became distraught. I couldn't take anymore and screamed out in frustration. It was then I noticed how quiet it was. I got up and went to check on her and immediately knew she was gone. This was only a minute after the carers had left and they swore she was alive when they left. It bothers me that the last thing my Mom heard was me losing it, but I believe that was the thing that made her let go. She didn't want me to suffer anymore. That's typical of her...selfless and kind. She gave up her fight so that I could go home and get some sleep. I felt awful at the time like I had let her down. But I had spent almost three days holding her hand and talking to her. I know in my heart I did everything I could to make sure she had someone with her throughout it all. Today, I signed off on her cremation, and tomorrow (Monday), I will begin the process of probate and winding up her estate. I have a lot to do before I leave for Thailand to scout out possible places to settle down. I'm thinking up in the foothills of an island off Phuket. Somewhere above the elevation malaria mosquitoes will be a problem. A short bike ride to a secluded beach where hopefully, all I will hear is waves breaking on the sand, bird calls and the wind blowing through the trees. This place I live in now is never quiet. Sirens, planes, trucks and cars...arguing neighbours and their barking dogs is an almost constant noise that is not conducive to a peaceful life. The quiet will take some getting used to, I'm sure, but I'm also sure that I will. And if things go as I hope, that is where I will spend the rest of my life...writing and simply being. Hopefully, I won't have to do it alone, although, I am prepared if that's what is meant to be. |
| As you would expect, today I woke up feeling very different. It's like a literal weight has been lifted off my shoulders. As I walked around MY house, everything that had belonged the previous day to my Mom, now belongs to me. It was surreal looking at all of the things that I have been seeing for the last ten years and the realisation that it was no longer my Mom's stuff, but my own. I didn't quite know how to deal with it...yes, I now have a lot more stuff, but now I have a lot more stuff I am responsible for. Because I knew the end might come sooner than expected, I've been visiting Mom most days since she entered aged care...and for the last few weeks, two or three times a day (in part because of the circumstances that seemed to be never-ending). In Australia, our aged care system is broken. For anyone who has a loved one (no matter where you are in the world) who must go into one of these places, please keep an eye on them. One, because they deserve that much, and two, despite the fact that 99% of aged care workers are caring and devoted people, when you have a system in crisis and there are not enough staff and too many residents for them to manage properly, mistakes can and do happen...on every level. I'm glad that is now over for me and that she is no longer suffering. There's a lot that I could say...stuff that you would think could never happen...that should never happen, but that's behind me now and I just want to remember my mother for all the right reasons and not for things that happened to her during the last six months that she and I had no control over. There was a moment during the three days Mom was hanging on when I experienced something so intense it frightened me. It must have been a build-up of raw emotion from watching her slowly succumbing to her illness and the frustration and anger of seeing the mistakes made by people who could not be singularly blamed for their oversights, but who in the end, have vulnerable people's lives in their hands. I felt it coming...like when a storm is brewing. The atmosphere inside my head changed from light to dark. I walked outside of Mom's room and sat down in a covered area not far away. I was alone when my tears of sorrow turned to rage. Not wanting any staff to see me in such a state, I covered my face with my hands when suddenly a white-hot light, not unlike lightning, flashed behind my eyes. It was like I was having a stroke and in that instant, I knew it was possible I could kill someone. It took a while for my breathing to return to normal and for a while, I sobbed uncontrollably. I think I did a lot of my morning during those three days and nights, which might explain why I am not as affected now as I think I should be...or it might be that it hasn't yet hit me that she is gone forever. |
| At 9.15 pm, Queensland local time, on 06/23/23, my beautiful mother, Barbara, passed away. I was with her until the end. She fought hard to stay alive; three days and nights from when I was told she was going. Having had Scarlet Fever when she was a baby back in 1935, the doctors told her mother her baby had a strong will to survive, and that didn't change. I saw an outpouring of sadness from the staff who knew her for the six months she was in aged care. People couldn't help but love her. She was sweet and kind...cheeky and highly intelligent (she could spell almost any word and one of her favourites was diarrhea) and touched so many people. A devout Christian who never pushed her ideology onto anyone and never judged others for having a different set of values. The kind of Christian I really liked. I thought that in grief I would feel the urge to use drugs, but there is none. In fact, the thought repulses me. I'm not that person anymore and in some ways, two people have died, but one is reborn. |
| A long time ago, my then wife got a tattoo on her foot that said, No Regrets. At the time I was like, whatever...because I had spent the best part of seventeen years with her, and I knew that we both had a lot to be regretful for. Then, a few days ago I was reading an email from someone here on WDC, a person for whom I have the greatest respect and admiration. She told me that exact same thing...that she has no regrets. This puzzled me because everyone has made mistakes, and in my mind, unless you acknowledge those mistakes and regret them, then what have you learned and what will prevent you from repeating those same mistakes over and over again? I did the double today...weights followed by a bike ride and as I came to a familiar section on my circuit called, 'The Dipper'(where the road goes into a short but deep gully), a memory came to me that I haven't thought about in many years. As a teenager, I bought a .22 caliber rifle from a friend. It was nothing special...a semiautomatic that had open sights. On one side of The Dipper were houses and on the other was a sandmining area that had long been abandoned. This area was mostly bushland dotted by waterholes left behind by the sandmining operation. With my new gun loaded and ready to fire, I remember stalking along the tracks kids on minibikes had gouged throughout the area. There wasn't much to aim at but trees and sandhills, until in the distance, I spotted a bird fly from one branch to another. I estimate the distance would have been at least one hundred and fifty meters...way too far for my little 22 that didn't even have a scope. But, it was the only thing I had seen that was worth shooting at, so I took aim about two feet above where it was perched, and pulled the trigger. I remember the sound of the report...so loud on such a quiet afternoon, and as I watched, it seemed to take forever before I saw a small puff of black feathers, followed by the dull thud as the projectile impacted the bird's hollow bones. It tried to fly away, but the damage it had suffered made it fall on a shallow trajectory towards the ground. I couldn't believe how good of a shot it was, but because it was so far away and on the other side of a creek, I didn't try to find it and called it a day. I've never thought about it until today as I flew down one side of The Dipper and up the other...the same route I have taken hundreds of times in the past. And as my bike rounded the left turn at the top on the other side, I was overwhelmed by sorrow that I had callously taken that bird's life....and for no other reason than it was there...in the wrong place at the wrong time. If I were to take that shot a thousand times, I am almost certain I would miss every time. It's hard to believe that forty-five years on, I have so much regret for that one senseless act? Regrets are the acknowledgement of our mistakes and the only way we can learn from them. Or so I thought, until my friend's assertion that she has no regrets. Something that has opened my eyes to another way of seeing it. I thought no regrets meant the inability to admit ever making a mistake. But now I see that those mistakes still taught us...that we still learned from them, and therefore, without them, we wouldn't be who we are today. Life never stops teaching. Not until we can no longer take breath into our lungs. I thought the ten years I spent caring for my mother was my sacrifice for what she has done for me. But now, as I type this and she is taking her last breaths on this earth, I can see that it wasn't a sacrifice at all, but an opportunity to spend time with someone I care deeply about and will miss dearly. As far as that is concerned, I will never have any regrets. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
