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 |  This is my blog & my hope, writing daily will help me see my progress and log supporters. |
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| 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. |
| Hormones...who'd have them? Because it's possible that some of the readers of my blog are...shall we say, more curious than interested in my recovery (if that sounds harsh, then please, you are most welcome to engage and retort), then I suppose I had better give those people what they want...although what exactly that is, I am still trying to figure out. So, bear with me and I'll keep on probing until I either hear an "Ahhhhhhhh," (imagine me hitting the right spot), or an "AHHHHHHH!" (if the spot I hope is pleasurable turns out to be a nerve). As I mentioned in the blog post, 'A Worthwhile Plan...Part I (06/15/23...see below if you didn't happen to catch it, or just read on or whatever, because I have no control over you and your decisions and never want to) meth makes me either super horney or not very horney at all, depending on timing, dosage, quality of product and how long it has been since I last had an orgasm. Hello...are you still with me? Anyway... Now that my emotions, mental state and hormones are levelling out, things inevitability change. Some of these changes include the desire for company, companionship, and thoughts of what it would be like to get back into a relationship. Let's call them fanciful or simply fantasies. I could tell you that I have other priorities or other pieces of crap that amount to a denial of the facts, but I won't. What I will tell you is that these thoughts are becoming a nuisance and getting in my way. I have a lot to do and simply don't have the time, or the courage (or what the cynic who lives inside of me would call intelligence) to follow through with the actions that might turn my fantasies into a reality. Now you would be forgiven for thinking that I am a typical male and all I can think about is sex. Which is impossible for me to deny, since it's true. But, in my humble experience and opinion, in general, men like me who may have been through a difficult breakup or a bad divorce (is there such a thing as a good divorce?); men who have served their time by way of sexual abstinence or celibacy...call it what you will, for any and all of the reasons a man might do this, deserve more than misattribution, or worse still, pity. Some of my trepidations are as follows...a fear of contracting an STD. Fear of having the conversation that will be necessary BEFORE I would contemplate most forms of sexual activity (even though I know exactly HOW that conversation should go...but knowing doesn't change the fact that this is seriously scary stuff to discuss with a person it is likely I will not know well). Fear of falling in love again...and of being hurt again. Fear that I may not be the same man I was before any of this took place, physiologically. And all of the fear that will invariably go with that. So much fear that I'm afraid of potentially meeting someone in this regard. All of this, and yet, I cannot deny this hormonal/emotional urge to find a mate. I miss the act of having sex, that is so very true. I have always loved sex and in my almost 59 years, have had very few one-night stands because I want...no, I NEED more than that, especially now. And whoever that lucky gal might be (if there is one lucky gal for me) deserves that just as much as I do. A prude? Not even close. A freak? Quite possibly, depending on who I am with and what she likes to do (I do, however, know when to draw the line...when things are no longer fun. A normal man who just wants someone who wants me in the same way...absolutely. What do I miss the most? Long walks along the beach at sunset? Maybe, but my dodgy knee isn't going to like that at all. Companionship? Certainly, but I have managed to get by for the last eight years on my own, so it isn't the number one point of loss. Kissing...(imagine bells and whistles). Yes, folks, that is what I miss the most...just kissing someone I could fall in love with and care about for the rest of my days. A hopeless romantic trapped in the mind of a scared little boy and the body of a middle-aged man? I don't like the sound of that at all. I almost feel guilty for these feelings that are, by and large, almost impossible to escape. My Mom is close to death and I should not be thinking about anything but her. Damn, these hormones. Damn, this addiction. Damn, my weaknesses. But, damn, I so want to feel love and know the tenderness of a woman again. Damn, I am really going to miss my Mom when she is gone...but, damn, I am so looking forward to the rest of my life...and if it is meant to be, that first kiss. One word describes this track for me...Gorgeous and EXACTLY how I feel. https://youtu.be/H6Sp0u7exPA |
| I visited my Mom tonight. I see her almost every day despite having a phobia of the places we place our old and those nearing death. My Mom fits both of those categories..cardiomyopathy, or a failing heart. She is slowly suffocating and coming to the end of her life. The drugs they administer have a dual effect...like everything in life (and apparently in death). The positive is she won't remember much of her suffering and the negative is she won't remember much of anything as the end draws ever closer. Benzodiazapams, Morphine and antipsychotics will ease the pain, but tonight, because it is so hard for those held responsible for administering the correct dosages, she had a bit too much and was feeling nauseous, so more drugs made her feel a little better. To say this is hard to watch is an understatement. Her words slur and her eyes open and close slowly, as you would expect from someone so heavily under the influence. At least at this stage, she still knows who I am, but I know this won't last as she slips further into the drug-induced haze needed to make her comfortable...as comfortable as one can be whilst trying to take in the air her body needs to survive. If she wasn't a human being, it would already be over and she would now be resting peacefully, instead of the fear she has every night as she goes to sleep. Tonight, we cried silently together. I told her how much I love her and what she means to me. We both wish we didn't have to say goodbye, but I told her that God needs her now more than I do and that she can watch down on me and see me...a happy man as my life continues without her. I don't want to lose her, and knowing that soon she will be gone is something I struggle with every day. Normally when I am struggling emotionally, I turn to meth to help me get through. But not this time. I know that meth would make coping with what is coming so much harder...and things will soon get much worse. I promised her I will hold her hand until I can go no further, and that is what I intend to do. She deserves that and I won't let her down or die alone among strangers. And as hard as that will be, that is my word. |
| My recovery, as usual, is going strong. There will come a time when the honeymoon will be over...when I will just be normal old, Neil, and not the determined person I am today. A month (a little more than a month I think, although the only day I can afford to count at the moment is today) after meth stopped entering my body and mind, is the absolute best time during recovery. I'm back out on the road on my bicycle (a no-expense-spared piece of road bike beauty and engineering) and today, I returned to my home gym to dust off the cobwebs (literally, emotionally, psychologically and physiologically). Enthusiasm sprouting from every atom in my body and exhilaration that sees me smiling at anyone who bothers to look in my direction...I'm smiling at you right now. It's a well-worn path I travel before the inevitable relapse happens...time and time again. That might sound defeatist or even negative in approach, but I have to be real here because if I try to kid you along with promises of success, who am I really kidding but myself. If you have read any of Blog 1.0, you would have read the same words back then, and I would forgive you if you think this is just the same old song I sing. I read a quote today by Steffi Graff (who is married to Andre Agassi, who at one time, was addicted to meth). Her father would tell her that you cannot know the sweetness of success until first tasting the bitterness of failure...or words to that effect. I know that bitterness well, but when I eventually do taste real success, which equates to at least two years of abstinence from using meth (along with the understanding that I can never let my guard down), will be the sweetest moment in my life. I won't be celebrating that day because, to me, this is not something that should be celebrated; only acknowledged and put where it belongs...one more day without drugs in my life. I can't look that far ahead right now for obvious reasons. That's just a dream and I am here giving my dream another crack...that's all I can do. If I could freeze time (on an emotional level to do with my decision to cease using drugs), I would stop everything today. I've said it before...this feeling I have right now is better than any drug I've ever taken. Meth somewhat stifles creativity and once the drug has finally evaporated from my mind, it is quickly replaced by a flood of ideas that is almost overwhelming...especially when I am out there on the road pedalling my bike. For some reason, probably to do with focus and clarity of thoughts, ideas come faster than I can ever hope to absorb, and it's a race to get back home so I can jot down something to remind me...key words, otherwise, they will disappear in the creative tsunami that follows. If I am quick and get lucky, something will come of them, but if not, it isn't that important in the scheme of things. I love to write, but I need to focus on this huge task ahead because once this honeymoon phase ends, it's just me vs the meth...the ultimate battle between good and evil. Will I win? Nobody can answer that question. But what I can tell you is that I will give it my all and hope that win will be mine. I have a lot to live for and a plan that requires me to be sober. And unless I can finally shake this monkey off my back, all the good I am hoping to achieve will fall into the depths of my addiction. That to me would be the hardest thing to face up to. To not save one child from a life of abuse and misery because I was so selfish, stupid and thoughtless, would be the ultimate failure, and in many ways, these children I am hoping to save, will in effect, be my saviours. This is something I will try to keep in mind when addiction next comes knocking on my door. |
| I had a bit of a run-in with a fellow poet here on WdC a while ago. I became upset with him because I reviewed one of his poems...a poem that touched me, and I thought deserved a lot of praise and gift points. The piece popped up in my recommended reading and because the title drew me to it, I clicked without bothering to look at WHO the author was. It was some time ago and I have learned a lot since then about being wary of those superior to myself, along with the expectations I used to have as far as giving reviews is concerned. As I always do, I put a lot of thought into the words I wrote to him. Regardless of this, after four days of waiting for, "Thanks, mate." I began to think perhaps something I had said in the review had upset him. Eventually, I simply couldn't resist sending a slightly indignant email. And the four-word reply read..."Do I know you?" Long story short, he explained to me in a slow voice, so even I could understand, that he receives too many reviews and emails to possibly reply to them all. To which I wondered, if my username was Trixy from Trinidad or Candy from Cali, perhaps a response might have been more forthcoming. But, this is not why I am writing about him today. The reason I am writing this is because once I did do my portfolio research on said author, it became obvious to me that he simply wasn't 'my type' anyway. And this was confirmed by the very bold statement I read declaring himself the third-best poet here on WdC. Now, whilst I can say that he is very good, I do wonder how the hell he came to this conclusion. I'm not sure if there is a competition held annually in the Ultimate Poetry Championships (UPC) and my not-so-gracious fellow author had fought it out among the best to become third runner-up for that year. Or if this is a peer-reviewed title...a title that no one as yet has asked my opinion on. Perhaps I am not yet qualified to gauge such magnificence and must first win some sort of B or C-grade event in order to move up the rankings and have the correct discipline and skills required to know what a good poem is. I mean, who knows? All I do know is that when I read something I enjoy...a piece that speaks to me in ways that I can recognise as being pretty damn special, that to me is good poetry. I think the answer is right under my dimwitted nose...I don't have the necessary clique to even BE noticed, let alone be involved in such high-stakes, artistic endeavours. I've always been quite happy to be invisible, and that's lucky for me because that is exactly what I am to anyone willing to decree themselves as third, second or first (and likely up to and beyond twentieth) best poets on WdC. I wonder how those ratings place in the top one hundred world rankings of best poets on the planet? And over what time frame the judges might look whilst deciding who are the best of these highly skilled and insightfully wordy proponents of free verse (because rhyming poetry is so 1990s...and those who do that are simply imbeciles, without any true artistic merit worth mentioning). Are you hearing the bitterness of a rhymer here? Rhetorically speaking because I know you don't need my answer to know the truth. This 'us and them' mentality is the clique within a group that I very much doubt anyone would want to acknowledge. Particularly those 'in the know'. 'The know' being, those who are in the top one hundred best all-time poets in the multiverse...ever. And of course, those who WISH they could be, but have yet to do enough crawling up the asses of anyone who might help elevate them up the charts to eventual poetic stardom. Ahhhhh...if only I could be THAT good? And hooray that I never ever could because I would kill myself if my self-esteem got so low that this became a goal. But I have to ask...what is the eventual reward for becoming the third-best poet on WdC? Because if that reward is looking down upon the inferior, from the greatest heights, and then harshly critiquing (for their own good, of course) any and all who might dare to present their stupid little poems for review by one so awesome; who probably haven't kissed his, or the even more superior, second and first place getters, asses, with the right degree of worship (or for that matter, anyone who might ACTUALLY be good enough to knock them off their high horses), then the price of fame would be worth every single jealous and envious person who walks away from all the bullshit, thinking...what a bunch of wankers. |
| I like quotes... Judge not, lest ye be judged...Matthew 5-7. Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes...Mary T. Lathrap. The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong...Gandhi. You took too much, man, you took too much, too much...Hunter S. Thompson. And I have a few of my own... The only true love that exists is for the child...whose love for you can never match. And...Change is inevitable...but the direction of those changes starts with us, the individuals in every community, and not with the masses, who we are so eager to blame for it all being so wrong. Enough of the quotes. Nobody likes change unless they are suffering. Human beings are by and large, habitual by nature which is both a good and a bad thing, depending on the habits. My habit of taking drugs is if I am being completely honest (which I am), very selfish and self-indulgent. Me, me, me...without much thought about anything or anyone else. Repentance is not just a word, it's an action and I know I have a lot to repent for. Here in Australia, we think of ourselves as being the lucky country...because we are. When we turn on a faucet and drink, we don't consider that for a second, or what we would do if that wasn't our reality...not like some who live in a place where that would be considered a privilege. We have free hospitals...well, they're not exactly free but paid for through the highest tax rates in the world, but few are complaining enough to want to move elsewhere. I could go on, but I'm sure you have heard about us and why we are so lucky. I am a little uncomfortable with all of this lucky country stuff because there are so many other countries that are not so lucky. Just because we are lucky enough to live in this lucky country, doesn't mean we should gasconade about it...flaunting is unattractive, borders on arrogance and doesn't sit well with me at all. We could do better and that's exactly what I intend to do. I love to learn, especially about people, their cultures and their backgrounds...their stories interest me. When I visit my mother where she now lives, I don't just visit her, but other residents who would otherwise be, to a certain extent, ignored. Older people were once called elders and were respected for their former input and revered for their vast knowledge. Unfortunately, this admiration and respect is declining, at least in my country, and that is a sad thing to say. But, at least they do have care available and this is better than nothing. It's ironic because I would bet a dollar that in general those who live in poorer countries than Australia would be happier and more content with what they do have. We Australians (and probably other Western countries as well) are spoiled and because of that, we tend to look at what we don't have, rather than what we do. The reality is there is poverty everywhere, but the support networks are far from the same when comparing first-world and third-world countries. I would put forward the example of how often a family in Australia MUST sell a child, knowing full well that child will be subjected to sexual exploitation, in order that their community will have a better quality of life, ie; food and shelter. Here, that would almost never happen, but in a third-world country, this happens far too often. It's not that we love our children any more here than they do. It is simply a matter of necessity and those corrupt people, who have no morals or standards, will tempt them. Repentance comes in many forms and mine will be done trying to prevent these families from having to go down this path. When my beautiful mother is gone, she has bequeathed me this house I am now living in. And although I am currently an addict, I haven't spent everything on drugs. I still have a healthy 401 (we call super) and I don't owe one cent to anyone other than those I plan on helping in Thailand. There are already people on the ground doing good work in this regard and after I am settled and have found my place in life, I will begin to distribute this wealth in ways that I hope will change the lives of those less fortunate than I am...who deserve better. You could say that's honourable or even wonderful, but repentance isn't about big noting or braggadocio and the only reason I am telling anyone now is so that you might think along similar lines. When I visited Thailand in 2018, I was changed forever by the people and the culture of giving instead of receiving. That was the first time I realised who I truly am...a Buddhist in my heart and soul. I feel the need to give as much as I can to those who need it the most. When I told my Mom of my plans after she is gone, she thought it was the most wonderful thing and the best way for me to live out the rest of my days...and I couldn't agree more. |
| It's confession time. Forgive me Father for I haven't sinned...well, I have had some thoughts about sins of the flesh, but that is to be expected when you consider the last time I had sex with another person was in December 2016. Since then, I've been occupied to the point where I couldn't begin to consider dating. Some of the things occupying my time have been honourable, whilst others, have not. I would never enter into a potential relationship whilst I am using drugs. That would not be Ok on so many levels. And when a person takes on the responsibility of caring for an older person like a parent, it usually goes from a place where the level of care required is less, and then becomes more demanding over time. So, committing to another is simply not possible or more to the point, feasible. Meth causes extreme everything...when high, extreme sexual desire and when not, very low sexual desire. Happiness follows along the same lines, as does bank account balances except in the opposite. But when I am sober (after enough time has passed to completely clear the system), sexual desire evens out and thoughts of dating inevitably return. Now, I'm no dummy even if I often do dumb things and I realise that there is more to dating than thoughts of a sexual nature. And that's only one component of a very complex series of ritualistic actions and reactions that must be negotiated before having any chance of actually finding someone who might fit my personality, match my chemistry and so many other things that must go as close to perfect as possible to have any chance of discovering 'the one'. And that's assuming there really is that one person out there. Add to all of that the fear things will go awry and I will end up being hurt. Or worse still, I will end up hurting someone else. All things I am very unsure of and that in itself could set me up for failure and assure disappointment. Of course, love is life's gamble and unless you are willing to lose, then you lose anyway. With no drugs in my life now, this becomes a problem for me for many reasons. Add drugs to my life and some of these problems are taken away, but as we all know, many more are then created. Isn't it ironic that no matter what we do in life; no matter our choices, there can never be a perfect solution? If there are gains, there will also be losses. Positives vs negatives and there is never any escaping this fact. Weighing things up and making smart choices does make sense, but you can never know what you've got until it is gone, and you can never know what you will have until you do, linger in my mind long after the courage required to take the leap has dwindled. There are no freebies in life. Every decision gives but also takes away. It's not fair, but there's no point in complaining because we are all in the same boat and dealing with the same things on one level or another. The poor wish they were rich, without knowing how a rich person feels about those around them. Who loves them for who they are and who is there only because of that wealth would be so difficult to deal with. As would being poor. Lucky for me I have an alternate plan, and one that will be more rewarding and worthwhile than any search for love could ever be. |
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