LOST

At one time or another, everyone has experienced the torture of losing an object.  Keys, glasses, memory stick or, in my case today, their wallet.  For someone, like myself, who constantly struggles with memory losses and gaps since my TBI, it's especially frustrating.  I approach everything with logic, structuring my life in such a way to always promote success and never misplacing items, so when a wrench is thrown into the mechanisms of my life, it's especially frustrating.  That coupled with a temper that can be challenging to control at times, makes for a volatile situation.

Today is Christmas Day.  A day to spend with family, rejoicing about the past year and celebrating what is to come in the new year.  I did some of that this morning, before I had to go to work.  When I was about to leave my sister's place, destined to go to work, because after all, it's Christmas and the hourly wage I would earn on this holy day would have been incredible and whether I'm joking or not, I'd be paid what I feel I'm worth.  That however, never came to be.  As I was leaving their house, I noticed that my wallet was missing from my pocket.  I keep my wallet in my front pocket as it deters potential pick-pockets and it's much more difficult for it to "accidentally" fall out of the pocket.

I thought I'd left it at home on my dresser.  Sometimes in the morning, the cat distracts me with his charm and sweetness and it's just enough to distract me into forgetting shit.  I thought this morning was like that.  So I quickly sped home to grab my wallet off the dresser then head to work.  It'd be tight, but I believed I could make it in time.  Sadly, the wallet was not where I thought it should be.  I checked the pants that I had been wearing yesterday when I was visiting my friend, but the wallet wasn't there.  I checked the dirty clothes hamper, in case the wallet did, in fact, fall out of my loose denim jeans. It had not.  I ran, desperately, throughout the house, checking every conceivable place where my wallet might turn up.  Nothing.  It wasn't anywhere.

Now I had a difficult decision to make.  I called work and explained that I'd lost my wallet and didn't feel I should drive a bus without having my wallet on-hand.  It was explained to me that IF I were to have a MVC, that I'd have 48 hours to produce my wallet.  Keep in mind, now, that I had no clue where my wallet would have wound up.  At this point, after searching my house high and low, I was convinced that my wallet and ID were nowhere to be found.  I opted to not come into work, which is a hell of a sacrifice, given how much money I would have been earning on this day.

I called up the friend whom I was visiting yesterday.  I recalled pulling my wallet out to pay for pizza, but couldn't remember if I'd returned my wallet to my pocket.  Sometimes, in haste, I place it at my side or between my legs where I'm sitting.  This was not the case.  My friend Dan and his son, both searched their house, even going out to the street, but to no avail.  I even speculated on my arrival there, that maybe the dog picked it up off the floor and could've used it as a chew toy.  I searched the backyard, even taking a close look at her poopies and nothing.

Now I'm truly at a loss.  Every conceivable place I'd been in the last twenty-four hours had been covered.  Nothing.  That motherf*cker was GONE!!!  Now I was a man on a mission.  I vowed that I would be returning home and I was going to turn this household on it's motherf*cking head.  I was prepared to pull the garbage bin to my front door and just start shoveling all the crap that I don't hardly look at, anymore, straight into the bin.  I was SO angry.  SO full of piss and vinegar.  I was going to strip this house naked and leave only the bare minimum, so NOTHING would (or could) ever go missing ever again.

I arrived home, again, for the third time.  I was determined.  I searched the table, cursing out every piece of mail that blocks the wood grain on the top of the table.  Nothing there.  I searched the counter top in the kitchen, tossing out some garbage along the way.  Nothing.

I return to my bedroom.  I start tossing everything off the bed.  T-shirts, my jammy-jams, even the comforter came flying off the bed.  Nothing.  I started tossing pillows off the bed.  Still nothing.  Then I jammed my hand under a few more pillows (I have a LOT of pillows) and noth....  Wait!!  What the f*ck?!

Miraculously, the wallet was there.  Tucked WAAAAAY back under the quilt and pillows.  There's absolutely NO logical reason why it would have been there.  I don't even sit on that side of the bed.  Not even when getting dressed.  There's no conceivable way that the wallet would have wound up there. 🤔  I have issues with a wily spirit in my house that has in the past, hidden items away.  Some have been found, often in obscure locations that scoff at logic and other shit that has just been missing for years and years, including a wrestling plushy for my nephew.  Gone!!  But that is a subject for another time.

As relieved as I was and am, for locating my lost wallet and identification, I feel the level of torment that I experienced racing back and forth across town, for all the anger and strife I experienced over the course of the afternoon.  The levels of hatred I had for myself and the frustration of not remembering where or what I did with my wallet, the outcome was less than dramatic.  The ordeal felt more like a faux pas than the hellacious experience that I was working up in my head.  I felt for sure like I was going to fight the Devil, himself, to get my shit back.  In reality the outcome was... Meh!

All the torture and torment felt like I should have armoured up and went into battle with a dragon or a yeti, at least.  Not simply reach under a few pillows and find the wallet.  "Oh there you are you silly goose."

I was so angry.., but I don't know what I'm more angry about.  Was it losing it in the first place?  Was it wimping out and not going to work, despite the likelihood that I wouldn't have a MVC, even though most of the drivers out there are f*cking idiots? The fact that the wallet was simply misplaced?  Or am I more upset because the outcome wasn't dramatic, enough? 

I don't know, but I should probably just #PraiseThePositive and leave it at that.  Merry Christmas, all!! 🎄

Blind Faith

 

It's no secret that I've been lost as of late.  It's getting the point where I barely know who I am, let alone what my purpose in life is anymore.  These days, I live in perpetual sorrow.  Distressed about where I am, who I am, and what is to become of me. I am, for lack of a better term, lost.

Last Sunday our family gathered at my mom's to have an Easter weekend feast.  My mom made a delicious spread, complete with a roast, mashed potatoes and veggies.  It was an amazing meal.  Afterward, as the grown ups were seated around the table, my sister began reading from an app on her phone, regarding numbers and their numerological meanings.

Overzealous as always, my youngest nephew was spouting off numbers faster than my sister could read out their meanings.  Finally, I had a chance to inquire about the number sequence that I continually see, to this day.

The number I always see, is 1129.  I'll see it in books.  On the digital clock at my bedside.  Out in the world.  Randomly, at different times, I'll glance over at something and I'll see the number 1129.  I was born on November 29th, 11-29, which makes the number stand out even more.

I've always held the day in the highest regard, celebrating it's existence more so than Christmas, even.  It's rarely a celebration of my birth, but to commemorate the day.  I've never worked on the day, not even attending school as a kid.  It's just something I've never done.  Well.., actually.  I did, in fact, work on my birthday once, but it was SO disastrous and unlucky, that I've never done it again, to this day.

So when asked, my sister began to tell me that 1129 is an Angel Number.  That angels work in mysterious ways and while they won't come right out and show themselves to us, they will hide hidden meanings in numbers.  She began telling me that I needed to be more charitable.  That I should be donating time and money to deserving causes.  She also said that I needed to get in touch with my spirituality.  That it was necessary for me to get right with God and that God would show me the path that I was destined to be on and that then I would feel happy and fulfilled.

My sister is not a religious person.  I don't know what, exactly, her position is on God and church and all that stuff.  I know my stance on the whole religious situation and it's not good.  My sister, though, has always had a foot into the, I don't what to call it, the New Age thing.  She's always had an interest in reading Tarot cards and mystical shit like that.  I remember one time, she had divining rods, which she claimed could answer simple yes and no questions.  One time, when I was visiting her at work, she had me try these divining rods. Relaxing the rods in my closed fists, as she'd instructed, I began to ask general questions and to my surprise, the rods would move.  Crossing each other for 'yes' and further apart for 'no'.  The reason this memory sticks out, is I inquired as to whether or not I'd rekindle a friendship with someone who'd had a falling out with me, through a misunderstanding.  The rods crossed, indicating 'yes' and to my surprise, a short while later, that friend did, in fact, reach out to me and our friendship resumed.  Though in recent years, we've drifted apart, somewhat, but still keep in touch.

Another time, my sister was reading her Tarot cards for a friend and learned that her friend's husband was being unfaithful.  I believed this assumption to be dangerous, as I have some doubts in the legitimacy of this practice, but low and behold, the man was stepping out on his wife, and subsequently, the two divorced.  While still a dangerous assumption, it did pan out.  A result that I, undeniably, had to acknowledge.  That is why when my sister begins explaining to me the meaning behind why I keep seeing that sequence of numbers, I have to believe her to some degree.  Especially considering that I have been curious about religion, recently.

I see on TV and in movies and with people all around me, this blind faith in a higher power.  An invisible force that guides people through the labyrinth of their lives.  I see that and admittedly, I want that.  I can't help but think that if I put my trust in a higher power, that maybe my life will have some purpose.  A reason for my existence.  I recall, during a particularly dark moment, thinking to myself, "I wish I could believe."  I envy those who can dedicate their lives to following the gospel.

I can't believe in an invisible man who lives in the clouds.  Especially, one who simply calls himself "God", as it seems egocentric.  I can't put my faith in something I cannot see with my own eyes.  That being said, I do believe in oxygen.  It is what helps us breath and it's something I cannot see.  I believe in gravity.  I can't see it, but I've fallen down enough times to know that it exists.  I can't see the electricity that runs through my house, but I know that when I flip a switch or plug something into the wall, a light will come on or the device will operate.  So using that logic, I can't help but wonder...?  Just because I can't see something, does it mean it doesn't actually exist?

I've put my faith in people before and have been burned.  So perhaps I'm jaded.  Or perhaps, because human beings are fallible and prone to contamination, that I'm putting my trust in the wrong things or people.

Years ago, I attended a Christian Counselling Group, to combat anger issues.  I chose that space, not because of any faith in a higher power, but because I could pay them whatever I could afford, rather than the inflated prices that similar counselling would cost.  Through reading passages from the bible, I was able to come to certain conclusions and manage my anger more proficiently.  I've long since forgotten what those principles are, but my anger issues have not come back to the violent levels they once were.  So remembering that aspect of the experience, I can't help but wonder if I were to return to such counselling, if my issues with depression and anxiety would be remedied..?

I have not seen my 1129 in awhile.  Not since before this funk settled in on my life, which makes me wonder.  Did the angels give up on me?  Very much in the way I feel everything has given up on me?  These thoughts just reminded me of that passage: Footprints.  Where the person accuses God of deserting him at his most troublesome times, and God responds by saying that He had lifted him up and carried him through those troubled times.  It really gives a sceptic, like me, something to think about. 🤔

Hopeless

Truth be told.  I should have written this last night, amidst one of the most intense feelings of dread and hopelessness.  If we're being totally honest, though, I was in no shape to be doing anything last night.

I can't describe it, but I've been feeling overwhelmed as of late with feelings of dire hopelessness.  I'm lost.  I am truly lost.  A castaway in a sea of possibility, yet I feel like I'm a million miles away.  I feel like I'm on an edge, afraid to look down.  Like I'm being needled forward, inch by inch, to ultimately fall into a pit of obscurity.

My mom recently told me that when she dies, she doesn't want a funeral.  Despite having so many friends, she believes no one would show up for her funeral.  This saddened me.  In part, because my mom feels this way and selfishly, perhaps, I think if she feels this way with all the friends she has, then no one's going to attend my funeral.  It's not that I don't have friends, but these days they seem more like acquaintances than definitive friends.  I mean, my phone's not ringing off it's hook.

Last night, I watched a documentary on Robin Williams.  For years, I found myself unable to forgive Williams for ending his own life by suicide.  There was no booze of drugs in his system, other than his prescription drugs, so his decision, by all accounts, was lucid, which makes the act even more sad.

Selfishly, I never truly understood his life.  What was going on in that brain of his.  Outside of all the crazy antics, I could see the shell of the man inside.  That the zaniness he displayed on the stage, never truly reflected the man he was inside.  In the documentary, Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind, the late comedian was often described as quiet whenever he was home, away from the glitz and glamour of show biz.  I think that was when Robin was truly himself, but speaking from my own experience, this isn't always a good thing.  If I'm out and about, I rarely think about myself or what's going on in my own shitty life.  It's when I'm home, alone, with my thoughts, that all hope escapes me and I feel truly lost.  No amount of TV, music or movies, what I used to rely on for escape, now leaves me feeling dejected.

Turns out that in addition to anxiety and depression, the late Oscar winner, was diagnosed with early onset Parkinson's Disease, as well as Lewy Body Dementia, which is believed to be a major contributor to his suicide.  Selfishly, given my thought processes as of late, I understand now, why the man felt suicide was his only choice, despite having such a strong base to lean on.  Last night, reliving some of those happy memories of Robin, I found myself forgiving him for exiting stage left.

I should have written this last night, when my mind was swimming in despondency.  With my cat, nestled up tightly against me, I still felt alone.  Feelings of dread and impending doom.  I can't explain why I'm feeling this way and I think my cat is feeling it too.  He knows something is afoot with his daddy, but doesn't know how to bring me out of this funk.

Depression is nothing new for me.  I've suffered Seasonal Depression for years.  It's only recently that I had discovered that cannabis can combat those dark feelings and the Seasonal Depression that threatened my very livelihood for the better part of my life, had gone by the wayside.  For the first time in literally decades, I was smiling and laughing my way through those darkened months sprawling from late-October to mid-April / early-May.  That is, until this year.  As much as I detested working at that RV company, being fired for absolutely no reason, really shook me.  I didn't mind being off of work for the winter, as I have a real phobia about snow and ice, but to be cast away, like vermin for no justifiable reason, simply blew my mind.  Maybe that's what blew the gasket to my sanity.

I'm in constant pain.  My ankles hurt SO much, that it often brings me to tears.  My hands are the same way.  A handful of times (pardon the pun), I've awoken abruptly as my hands, usually the right hand, my dominant hand, is cramping up into a ball.  The pain in unequal to anything I've ever experienced, and considering I've broken my back and squashed my brain, both immensely painful experiences, the pain I feel in my hands and ankles, rival those pain levels, if not more.  As a result, I've been relying on the cannabis for pain relief, as well.  I've gone to my physician on the matter.  She ran a series of blood tests and has informed me that I do not have arthritis.  When asked why everything hurts, she has no solution.  Only that I should stretch before bed.  Sorry doctor, but what the fuck?!?

These days, my ankles hurt 24/7.  Not a moment goes by where my feet don't hurt.  My hands hurt, but usually only when I grab something.  If I grab a jug of milk from the fridge, my right hand immediately cramps up.  My knees hurt.  My hips both hurt now, although the left is still worse, by far.  My back hurts, as does my neck and my fucking migraines have returned, although still not at the frequency they once did.  The only thing relatively good is my blood sugars.  Small victories?

I am without work.  For the past half decade, I haven't been working throughout the winter months.  At first it was because of my TBI, a traumatic brain injury that I'd gotten when I slipped on a patch of ice at work, knocking myself out for close to a half hour, which was the beginning of a life altered.  I've managed fairly well, I believe, to come out the other side of that accident, with only damage to my short-term and long-term memory.  The long-term comes back in spurts.  I'll see or hear or smell something that triggers a memory and no matter how miniscule it may be, I celebrate it.  My short-term memory is an ongoing problem.  It may have been a contributor to loss of employment from the RV job, as the morning of my dismissal, I found myself wandering around the parking lot, struggling to remember how to do the next task of my job.  I recall almost collapsing in tears.  Everyone is quick to dismiss these struggles as "getting old", but those people fail to see the scenario from my side of the proverbial fence.  I've always prided myself on my memory.  I was always able to remember even the most finite bits of information, but these days I can stop abruptly in the middle of a task being performed and not have a single clue as to what I am doing, nor why I'm doing it.  This is not a factor of getting old.  This is a real fucking problem.

I am without work.  I want to have something to do.  To have a purpose.  I want to have a job with the city.  To work in the park system, ideally, but I have my name in with some other departments, too.  The downside to this is, I know the city will likely demand a drug test prior to any employment, so it will be discovered that I have THC in my bloodstream.  I don't smoke in the morning or during the day, despite how painful my ankles get.  I smoke only in the evenings.  To help with pain management, depression, anxiety and to help me sleep.  However, in my research of the plant, I discovered that daily use, means the THC that is in the cannabis, stays in a person's system for a very long time.  I know not what the city's policy is on cannabis, since it's legalization.  The philosophy of many companies and people, even, casts a dark shadow on the misunderstood substance.  It's absurd.  A person could be a fall down drunk and it's acceptable, but if a person lights up a doobie, suddenly they're a liability and a menace.  Part of me thinks I should speak with my physician about it, but I've attempted to broach the subject with her many years ago.

A friend of mine, years ago, alerted me to acquiring a Medicinal Marijuana prescription.  They were using it to combat anxiety and other ailments.  I knew from my own experimentation, that cannabis helped me with my own battles with anxiety and depression.  It even helped my asthma, remarkably enough.  So I broached the idea with my doctor.  I had always seen my doctor as a forward thinking, try-anything kind of physician.  Hell, she's one of the top doctors in the city.  I'm often commended by other physicians for being so lucky as to have her as my personal physician.  So when I brought up the idea of getting a prescription for cannabis, the idea was shot down immediately and with extreme prejudice.  My doctor was not going to have any of that, citing that marijuana is a "gateway drug".  That is horse shit.  It's my own personal belief that if someone is going to try a hard drug like cocaine or worse, then they were going to do it anyway.  They didn't need an introduction to it by Mary Jane.

I wish I had a rock.  Someone to bounce ideas off of.  Not someone to solve my problems, but who'll be there for me.  To listen to me.  To hear me.  To...  I don't know.

My friend's kid found love on the interwebs.  He is or was a closed off individual.  I worked with him, side-by-side, and it was difficult to bring him out of his shell to even say hi, but somehow he found love on the interwebs. Perhaps I should do this?  Nah.  I'm too broken.  Physically.  Another contributor to my sorrow, me thinks.

I should have written this, last night.  My head racing with thoughts and disparity.  These days.  I am truly lost.  I don't know where to go.  What I should do.  I just want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

My cat, Monkey, is twelve years old.  I pray that he lives to be thirty, because the idea of living in this house without his fuzzy little face staring up at me, is unbearable.  I broke down into full on tears, last week, thinking about him, my cat, being in his twilight years.  My mom, who I've been spending a lot of time with, is seventy-five and talking about when she dies.  When they're both gone, I'm going to be truly alone.  No one to care the least about me.  It was the first time in a very long time where I thought suicide was a legitimate choice.  That without these two pivotal components of my life, I couldn't possibly move on.  This coupled with the fact that I'm susceptible to getting dementia or Alzheimer's Disease because of my multiple concussions.  I've had at least fifteen, to the best of my knowledge, if not more.  Three of which were fatal enough to knock me out and cause permanent damage.  My future looks bleak.  Bleak and alone.

There's no danger of my taking my life.  Not anytime soon, but when these loved ones make their exit...  I'm not a religious person, by any means, but I hope that whatever powers that be, can deliver me through what will likely be the darkest patch of my life.

I was thinking the other day.  Counting how many Christmas' I had left in my life.  How many more birthday's.  I don't have that many.  More than what can be counted on both hands, but less than the amount including my toes.

My feet hurt SO much, right now and I feel fucking helpless.

I should have written this last night.  I may have had a way to end this thought process.  To wrap it up with a neatly tied bow.  Maybe even talk myself into a solution.  A glimmer of hope.  End on a positive note, but I can't.  It's not in me.  It's nowhere to be found.  And will it matter?  Will anyone even read this?  Probably not.  Nobody gives a shit.  People just interject enough on social media to pat themselves on the back with the belief that they contributed.  That they cared, but...  My phone isn't ringing off the hook.

I'm surrounded by so many people, but I've never felt more alone. 😔