#whereishenow

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[[AUTHOR NOTE: I made the executive decision to delete most of the old entries. Preface stays. Honestly, though, it is a fitting end to a portion of my life now forever gone to the ravages of too many benzos be represented by a missing chapted. No longer shackled to the words of a dead man, I hope to pull myself out of despair. Gods know I deserve it.]]

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Two and a half fucking years since I started this. I noticed that I got followed by what looks like two real life people. If you ever read this, hiii! I was just gonna delete this churning trainwreck, but since there is a possibility others might see this someday, I shall trudge ever forward. So lets fill in the gaps, or what I remember.

So where we last left our intrepid adventurer, he was staring into the stygian abyss, and while it stared not back, it it gave threat with it's flying blanket elemental. Eesh. Terrible place to leave on a cliffhanger. So, what did happen?

Benzodiazepines, kiddos. Proof that if there is a God, it is a cruel and capricious one indeed. My ultimate salvation, it whispered in my ears, the siren song of modern medicine. It made me complete. And completely an asshole. So the benzos had to go. I was prescribed 6mg of Xanax and 6mg of Kpin. Daily. As is a supply of 90 each every four weeks. If your not familiar, that is a fuckton. Like, an irresponsible dose. I had been getting small caches of .5 xannies, and those were perfect. Shut out the negative thoughts, let my mind drift in peace for awhile. My new shrink, when he found out I expected him to maybe keep up with said dose, his solution was to give me thirty times the benzos I requested. I was leery, but who had the medical degree, amirite?

Well, as a result of this, I have six months worth of mostly empty memories, and the things I do recall were traumatic, to say the least. Maybe in a future chapter, I will discuss the sort of depravity one gets up to when you feel like a God given flesh, and you feel like it too. But for now, we focus on the future.

I lost many good friends. I was a mess. My stepdad, who grew up doing hardcore drugs from the sixties through the mid eighties, told me that he'd never seen anyone as far gone as I was come back through unscathed. Talk like that scares me a bit, because this man wasn't picky about who knew he did them, or whom he did them with.

So, I let go of benzos, willingly. On my terms. I flushed all the xannies, probably had an easy street value of a thousand, likely. Gone. Flushed all but enough of the kpin to parachute down on. Didn't want to quit all that just to die due to a withdrawl-induced grand mal seizure. Figured as much as I had been taking, it probably would've completely fucked up my shit.

I went back to my partner (who had decided that being ftm wasn't really for her, and that her dysphoria was mostly tied to being shamed all her life about her body). I don't think either of us intended it, but there it is. We went back to being friends during my recovery, and we were just so goddamned good together again. Since then, while we have had a touch of turmoil, it hasn't been nearly like it used to be. We are more patient with each other, more open about what we need and want. Like adults. This whole section might be a half-chapter of its own, and definitely a tale for later.

I didn't see another therapist since I got my last one fired for naked malpractice and HIPPA violations. Just another reason not to trust shrinks. Scum, most of them. I had one or two along the way that were worthwhile, but constantly moving homes assured I could never totally and implicitly trust one shrink. I finally saw one on October this year. Two months ago? Yeah. Proud of me, internet? Yeah, me too. My cardiologist is literally the best, he got me in to see this guy as a favor.

Anyway, I've changed cars twice since then. From that shitty Camry to the significantly less shitty 16 year old Acura. Didn't do any driving while I was "waiting to adjust" to those suicide slammers I was prescribed, and continued drinking on. Oh yeah, quit drinking among all that, too. I'm just fucking killing it over here, rockstar style.

But I will resist braggadocia (okay, maybe a little indulgence). But seriously, I couldn't have done it alone. Special thanks go out to A(rhymes with among kinda), J(sorta rhymes with heft), D(definitely rhymes with barrel), D(rhymes with rave, though he's never been), EJ (he would deffo know who he is, no hints needed 😉), and the best pair of male rats I've ever owned. And especially special thanks of epicness +1 to C(whom also rhymes with barrel). My heart of hearts, soul of soul. My sun and stars. Thanks for "getting" me like nobody ever did before. I <3 you.

So, here I am. How am I now? At moments bad, but getting better all the time, I hope. I've become more reclusive. To keep myself from outright agoraphobia, I set up a Dungeons and Dragons group almost as soon as I committed to recovery. Writing helps, and beyond this blog, my pen has been stilled by hopeless thoughts. Except for roleplaying games.

That group has grown and molded from just me, D, J, and C crawling from one outlandish setting to the next in my slapdash, seat of my pants storytelling into a Sunday night movie night, with almost double the cast. Its an even split almost, girls to guys, and we mostly watch bad exploitation flicks and so bad they're good trainwrecks. Somehow, I find contentment from this social arrangement.

Umm, my anxiety in public is worse now. With no benzos, all I got left out there is music, and if I forget my earbuds I wander into the gtocery store, immediately lose focus on my goals, buy the same thing every time (a hastily grabbed pepsi max and a bag of sour bears, my only weakness!), and leave the store. I emerge from my fog as I jostle my keys from my pocket to get into the car, realizing I forgot the cereal, the milk, and the bread. Oh, was I humming again? How long had I been doing it? The same fucking tune, oh you don't say. You're still a wreck of a man, Rev.

So yeah. I'm getting better, but I feel like there is a transparent wall of force between me and normalcy. The ability to work, to start a family. God, how I want that. We both want just one and done. Hope someday I can break through and realize all of these things as reality. For now, I shall dream.

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And with that, I conclude this entry. With luck, I will be bashing out more screeds in the future, now that I have discovered the tumblr app. Thoughts? Questions? Maybe my next post will be an interlude. I need to figure out what the nomenclature for trigger warnings on here. I am totally new to the platform and am aware that there is some manner of acceptable decorum around these here parts.

Baby steps.

Sometimes it is best to start at the beginning. So I will illustrate my first crush. His name was Jason. He was your typical blond haired, blue eyed 6 year old dreamboat and the star of the 1st grade class at Williams Elementary. I had recently emigrated to the US and with my large dark brown eyes, shortly cropped brunette hair and wide Eastern European face, Jason looked like the essential opposite of me. He looked like the American dream.  At recess we would all rush out and mingle with our respective groups. Jason always played basketball or dodgeball with the boys, while I played foursquare or hopscotch with the girls. The playground was raucous, sweaty, socially confusing and most of all segregated along gender lines. 

I stared to notice Jason and the way he moved. Confidently, easily and with an energy that I had not seen before. His blond hair swayed and moved with him as he dribbled the ball in all his physicality. Yes, this was a 6 year old boy who owned his physicality (or lack there of). This is what made him so special. Additionally, he was also the tallest boy in the class, which in 1st grade really counts for something. In all his glory and by all accounts (because I had to confer with my friends) Jason was the cutest boy in school.  While other girls giggled in his presence and passed him notes, which he promptly threw away, I simply watched and took note of Jason. I kept my budding feelings to myself and swore I would never let another person know that Jason produced boulders in my stomach. I endured my stomach aches for a full year as I sat next to him in class and passed papers to him. I bore my emotional silence right up until the end of the year when on the playground I noticed that Jason had left his red hooded sweatshirt on the blacktop. The bell rang and he ran for the gym door, leaving his sweatshirt by the basketball post. Seeing my opportunity, I picked up the crimson hoodie and began jogging toward the school. I yelled out “Jason!” waving the hoodie, “you forgot this!” Jason turned his beautiful bright face over his shoulder and stopped running. He pivoted and came jogging toward me. I stopped dead in my tracks slightly paralyzed by fear and anticipation. Jason stood flushed right in front of me.