Thought Ninety Seven

I awoke today, feeling anxious. A calendar reminder told me what day it was. Independence day. The day that marked my escape from a world of madness and endless mental torture by a despotic, narcissistic monster. But I still didn’t really put it together until I was speaking with my beloved, and she reminded me that “The Body Remembers.” I felt better knowing that, even if I was still feeling triggered by my CPTSD.

My freedom and life began again after the death of my youngest brother. He committed suicide. Another victim of my father’s alcoholic sins. All of us (including my mother) were mistreated, terrorized, and damaged by my father’s behavior. We escaped any way we could. But my sister took her life seventeen years ago, and my brother five years ago — all victims of my father rage and alcoholism

I was fortunate, the US Navy became my family for seven years and I found people around it that loved me and helped me heal a bit. Fast forward through seven years of the Navy and I met my first wife. Six years older than me, attractive and cunning, she was in effect my father (his behavior) in a skirt. She destroyed everyone around her. I became like my mother, just trying to survive. A hellish life that proceeded to get worse every year, each day a slow walk through hell. My brother woke me up. His suicide woke me to the horror that my life was.

I planned to leave, but I was weak. I’d planned it many times before. Fantasized of going many times, but I was nervous. Afraid to go. I had started to believe the lies she had told me for so many years.

I felt weak again, and I told my self that I would leave after Christmas. I began to pull back and protect myself. Hiding often in my study, behind a locked door.

Then the impossible happened. Attempting to manipulate me, she pretended to commit suicide like my brother. Faking an attempt at suicide with a dollar store pair of safety scissors. I reacted by calling the police. Unable to manipulate the police, fire dept. and social services, they committed her involuntarily for five days.

That allowed me to escape from her. I have no doubt she would have tried to either imprison me, kill me or something worse. I survived, rented an apartment, filed for divorce, and started a four-year trek that included eighteen months of getting divorced and then being sued four times by her.

Today marks that anniversary.

To freedom!

Thought Ninety Six

Reading an article on Medium, they spoke about the “HP Lovecraft” or as I think of it, “Lovecraftian” point of view. That being, that the gods are old, ancient beings that care not a wit for if we exist or not. Funny, I remember reading HP Lovecraft when I was in sixth grade. It scared the shit out of 1975 me. But I didn’t really connect this to the view I have developed and held over the last few years. I’m 56 years old, divorced at 51, and remarried last year. If there are gods (and I think there are), they don’t give a shit if we exist or not.

Not really a bad thing considering.

IMG_3217 2Think about ants. I don’t care about ants. Unless they bite me. Then I wanted them to die. I routinely check my yard for ants, put out poison for them, and hope that there might be a special hell for them (although I don’t think there is). A god or gods, if aware of us, might decide to do the same thing. Put out the ant poison for us, or worse. Decide to subsume our souls on a galactic scale. Just so it could be, just a little bit more.

I don’t think they are aware of us.

I’ve had a lot of interesting experiences over my life, some that involve a couple of different gods. Gods that I did not know the name of, or anything about. It was only after some discussion with a close friend that I found out who they were, or really what we call them. We would be crushed out of existence if we could truly approach. Not out of malevolence, but more like the voltage is too high. We’re like the 110-volt circuits in our home, where the gods are like a ten thousand volt high tension power line. Out circuits can’t handle that level of voltage. We just burn up.

I think that our sense of goodness, of being a good person, good karma, or consequence, is a part of who we are. We naturally gravitate towards light, unless our experiences across multiple lifetimes lead us down a dark road. Then it is up to us to change that. Always easier said than done.

IMG_3226 2I was listening to the song “The devil in a wishing well” by Five for Fighting. I realized that we are the devil trapped in the wishing well. Feeling that we are trapped, demanding from others when instead, we must fight the daemons within ourselves that demand our fealty. Fealty to anxiety, to fear, to anger and depression. When we reach out to others with our pain, we open the door to allow a friend to help us fight the darkness, the daemons, and monsters that lurk within us, waiting to rend and tear.

You can suffer in the darkness. Or you can pull your sword from its scabbard. Take a honing stone and polish the edge to razor sharpness.

Then fight.



Thought Ninety Five

We want to be safe, but we never are.

This gun on my hip, the knife on my belt may give me solace, as does the extra mags of ammunition. But there is no place safe. There is no place where you can run. Death walks along with you, no matter the steps you take and the faint echoes of the gods laughter, that doesn’t know you even exist, much less care.

IMG_3255 2So, no. We aren’t safe and never will be.

We are free, though. Well, kind of. Free to explore our minds in the time we have before recycling countless times through the river of sleep. Forgetting all of our past here’s  and lost tomorrows that there are. Free to dream of things beyond our reach. Free to dream of the dreamers, dreaming the dream of us. Yes, we are free in the deep parts of our minds when we choose to be.

Our emotions are what make us slaves. To create (as the FBI would put it) the lack of resiliency within ourselves. To catastrophize the small events in our lives that are really just stepping stones across a shallow creek. Our wants and needs make us into slaves of “things we want.” Cars, phones, trips, furniture, boats and a bunch of other shit that means nothing to the value of our lives.

Emotional slavery?

Is that even a thing?

It could be, I guess.

I have worked for the last four decades plus. Now I just want to be free. To write my books (Mongruxx WolfPac, the second book is coming later this year), write my blog IMG_3241 2about the ridiculous, crazy thoughts that are mine, hang out with my family and friends, and just plain live. That’s what I want. Just to live. Not chasing the dollars that I do full time. I like the money, but am perpetually bored by it all. That happens after a long life of walking through this particular patch of hell. Twenty-seven years of hell. It’s over now, but I’ve been scarred in ways that vex me still.

It’s not safe to do this. It’s not safe to run with scissors or leap before you look. To jump into the pool right after you’ve eaten a slice of pizza or on Taco Tuesday. No, it isn’t safe. It isn’t safe to write words that make you look like you are out of alignment with societal norms.

Nothing is safe. Until you decide it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter if it’s safe, because I’m going to do this anyway. I’m going to pick up my scissors and start running down the street. I’m going to leap and not give a fuck about looking. I’m going to eat at MOD pizza, then jump in a pool and swim. And if I projectile vomit later, that will be an exciting experience as well.

Perhaps as I hear the faint footfalls of the gods echoing across the vast and unknowable universe, this bug, clinging to a rock will look into the sky and be unsafe for a moment or two.



Thought Ninety Four

Us bugs traveling on this rock, hurtling out into nowhere.

IMG_8816I looked into the sky, seeing massive cumulus clouds in exquisite detail. Replanting a mango tree I had grown from a seed into a bigger pot, I felt connected to this plant. Planting it, I became responsible for its life. In this endless life and death cycle. Planets orbit our sun as it circles within the milky way galaxy over a two hundred and twenty five million year period. Again, these galaxies moving outward at unfathomable speeds outward into the ever-expanding black.

We are Don Quixote. Tilting against windmills that we think are dragons. Old yet new, we sit, our armour rusty and dented across time. The dirt gathered under our fingernails, boots worn and damaged with age. IMG_8820We sit on an old stone bench that could have been here when the Romans marched across these lands. Their a leather and armour creaking and clanking, that all lay rusting in death now. As this planet orbits around the sun, within the spinning galaxy that surely heads towards a collision with the andromeda galaxy six to nine billion years from now.

Destruction and reformation.

Something old becomes something new. Yet still, we hurl outward. Life, death, and reformation. Will we remember across these lives that we’ve lived, a thousand million times? Perhaps not, but yes is a possibility. To commemorate the lives well lived and the ones wasted. As this planet spins, staring into a small screen with intensity. The massive cumulus clouds form and dissolve. The sky clear, then not.

Looking into the sky, this bug clinging to a rock looks on and wonders.



Thought Ninety Three

It is interesting listening to the very young, their logic and reasoning. It reminded me of when I was at that age. I remember what I thought and how it felt. It’s kind of strange, but I can remember my thoughts and feelings across many different periods of my life. The storm filled rage of the household that I grew up in. My father, the drunken violent melovolent man that made what should have been a loving home, a pit of despair.

My mother married him at a very young age, because as she said: “He was the first one that asked.” In my opinion, she had a poor self-image because she was a little overweight and wanted to get out into the world. My father was a good looking young man with a daemon inside. He grew up in a home where his mother and father were both alcoholics, the father being a violent one. A match made in hell.

IMG_0088Sitting here in my peaceful home, I think about these things and am grateful. Yesterday was our first anniversary. My beloved is sweet and kind, her children much like her. She makes our life together sweet and beautiful. I feel worthy of this these days. This is kind of a new development. But I do. Just as I realized a couple of days ago, seeing myself in the mirror, that I am a writer novelist. I published my first book a few months ago and am forty thousand words into the next one. Again, I didn’t feel like it before, but I do now.

I hope you get a chance to reach this part of your life.

It was a damn lot of pain and work to get here. And the work never will never end until I do, but that is all part of it. The day to day living is pretty good. At fifty six years old, I am living the life I want to live. There are compromises and corrections, but I am just glad to be here, glad I can write and create as I do.

Us bugs on a rock. Traveling at forty percent of the speed of light as we are hurled out into the ever expanding great unknown. All of this, happening inside of a black hole that contains many other black holes. The small we get, the larger we become.

Alone in the dark, we cling to each other, while the gods walk by us, their echoing laughter heard in the thunder and quaking earth.





Thought Ninety Two

I read an interesting article on Medium. You have to kind of filter through the site as about seventy percent of it, is not worth reading. Perhaps it’s just me seeing such juvenile attitudes.

That could be.

But one of the things that those young writers don’t know (by experience anyway) is that they too will get old. Their attitudes will change; wisdom will perhaps find its way into their minds and hearts.

Maybe anyway.

The article talked about being in survival mode rather than in “made it” mode. That our brain and emotions somewhat trick us, as we have learned always to be in survival mode, rather than only in that mode when we actually need to survive.

That made sense to me.

When I look at myself, I am in an almost constant form of survival mode. Whether it is my work, writing, relationships, or whatever, that is where I find myself. So I decided I would do something different today. Survival mode involves escaping (as in escaping myself). So I am going to engage in nonsurvival behaviors. I realize that I might (might? Most likely!) will find myself uncomfortable doing this.

But all change is uncomfortable.

So, here goes.




Thought Ninety One

IMG_3259 2An older post from a few weeks ago:

Keeping busy keeps you from looking at the miasma that is the emotional content of your mind

Anxiety or fear is a huge driver. No one wants to do this shit alone. Until they realize the crazy compromises that are required of you and that you require of them (your partner). Our eyes fade as our hearing does, so that as we age, we don’t kill each other with each of our madnesses.

Our madness is what largely drives us. Our fuckup crazy emotionally damaged inner lives. Some drink and drug to escape it, but there is no escape. The only way around it, is through it. To wrestle with the maddeningly damaged creatures that we are. Sometime’s a minute at a time, sometimes longer. But time doesn’t really exist, so you get to make up the measurement. So build your own world and how you wish to see it. Make it as beautiful as you wish. Or a war torn dystopia with violence at every edge and place. I am building mine. It’s fucked up, but that’s me, fucked up, broken and just a hair trigger away from pulling on the ejection handles. Not that it would do any good. It just a worthless reset through the river of sleep. Start over for the billionth time.
This must be why the gods are mad. If they experience pain and madness in unimaginable levels, how could we expect sanity? Sanity and quantum physics don’t go together at all. The smaller the particles get, the more we realize how nothing is what it seems at all.

Sentience is overrated.