I Stay Different

Today, I grew.  Not literally, i haven't seen puberty in twenty years.  I mean that I grew emotionally and spiritually.  Today was spent running, reading, and writing.  Improving myself, every single day.  In one way or another, I try to get better.  There's so much i still don't know.  So I have to keep moving forward, never becoming complacent, yet never forgetting to be happy wherever that I am.  Appreciating what I have, but always knowing that I deserve more. 

The hard part of this journey is finding the balance.  Trying to realize when your body needs to stop and rest, and that's hard, because I loathe sleeping.  I hate it, but i love it.  I'll sleep when I die.  Unfortunately, my 36 year old body demands 4-6 hours of sleep.  I'd rather use that time living life, but really, who am I kidding here.  There's nothing like a long, slumber snooze underneath 500-thread count sheets that just came out of the dryer.

It's funny how a completely different outlook on life can change your viewpoints on so many different things.  Sports.  I used to be the biggest sports fan, rooting for every Philly team but now, it's different.  Now, I realize that they're just men playing a game.  They're men on a team that competes for a few hours a week against another team and that is called entertainment.  On previous Sundays, I would awake with pregame football programs on my mind.  Now, on Sundays, football is an afterthought.  I'll make a half-hearted attempt to know when the Eagles are playing and I'll make a conscious effort to watch them play, but Now, it's not the same.  I realized that my Sundays, which equate to 1/7th of my life - were spent watching T.V.  These hours were spent gaining nothing.  No knowledge was gained, no new skills were being learned, these hours were simply spent doing nothing but watching a form of entertainment. 

I do, however, still watch Sportscenter daily.  I accepted those 20-30 minutes as time being spent giving my brain a break.  A small dose of brain 'downtime'. 

So, think to yourself, how many hours of each day do you spend merely entertaining yourself?  How much time do you spend learning nothing?  Oh, you don't like reading?  Listen to a clip of Napoleon Hill from YouTube instead of consuming yourself with your most recent status update on facebook.  You Tube has clips from millions of philosophers and motivational speakers.  Start learning; retaining only that which you feel lead to believe.  If what you learn agrees with you (your spirit), then start learning more about it.  Not everything you hear will agree with you, so if doesn't sound right to YOU, simply forget it.  But you'll never know more than what you know at this moment if you don't search for answers.  You know nothing compared with all that there is to know. 

Stop wasting life.  You get older every single day and life is not that long.  Are you content knowing with everything you've learned and you're going to take that to your grave?  Are you satisfied with your tiny little piece of the pie?  Or do you want to know more?  It's time to challenge what has been taught to you.  Your current beliefs have become your beliefs only because someone before you instilled them in you.  It's time to make YOUR OWN beliefs.  Make your own decisions.  Stop wasting time.  We all deserve more.


****stay tuned for Crumbling Christianity - Part II ********

Crumpling Christianity

***the following story is not real. Just a silly fictional story I wrote when bored***

Philadelphia.  12:13 a.m.  Saturday night.

If he was going to make the train he had to hurry.  The last train left at a few minutes past twelve.  Or maybe it was twelve thirty...but either way, he had to hurry.  He didn't feel like paying for a cab when he had a perfectly valid train pass in his pocket.  Plus, he was in no hurry.  His girlfriend was working a double that night and she wouldn't be home for another hour or so. 

"Don't rush the future," he thought to himself.  "It will get here when it gets here."  He was constantly reminding himself to stop thinking too far ahead.  It was okay to plan to be successful, but don't worry about it.  It will get here when it gets here.  He knew he would never have back today, this very moment, so he might as well enjoy it while he can.  His repetitious inner mantra was usually repeated several times a day:  "Don't regret the past, the future will be here when it gets here.  It'll work out.  It always does."  Creating anxiety about it now, at this moment, would solve nothing.  It would only make him fear the moment more whenever it arose.  Fear was a learned trait taught to him by his parents, but he worked hard at forgetting about it.  He was getting good at it.

He bounded down the steps to the Broad Street Line, skipping two at a time.  He rounded the corner and immediately surveyed the amount of people standing around waiting for the train.  The number of people waiting for the train was always a good indicator of how long ago you have to wait.  If the station was packed, it meant a train would be arriving shortly. Unfortunately, this place was empty.

Fuck.  He knew there was a good chance he missed it, but he decided to hang out for a few more minutes to see if anyone else showed up.  He found a seat on the long, steel bench and listened, hoping to see another patron arrive.

"Positive energy", he thought to himself.  He always thought that to himself.  Victor was constantly reminding himself that if he were put under a microscope, he would be nothing more than millions of atoms, constantly changing and moving.  We are energy.  He knew that his thoughts gave off powerful waves of energy, into the universe.  And it was him, and only him, that could control the outcome of his destiny.  For thirty four years he lived by a different code, always letting his worries and sorrows control his thoughts and life.  Not any more.  Now he knew that if he produced positive thoughts, his universe would have no choice but to give him what he was manifesting.  The Laws of Attraction.  The Universe is Energy TOO. 

Vic heard some faint noises in the distance and he could feel his field of energy grow.  His attitude controlled his thoughts.  His thought controlled his emotion.  The dozens of books he's read on the various topics of the Laws of Attraction were beginning to pay off.  He was truly starting to live it.  Now he was practicing and living those teachings as he was sitting, meditating, enjoying the cool breeze as he ran through the list of things he was grateful for. 

Vic leaned forward as he thought he heard a fant scuffling in the distance.  As he stood to see if he could hear anyone approaching, the noise grew louder.  With the realization that someone else arrived, he felt his shoulders draw back and his chest raise slightly.  His energy grew.  His smile widened further.  He loved life.

The faint murmur turned into a scream and Vic felt his blood rush to his extremities.  This wasn't the sound of the usual scream you hear from school kids playing games and frolicking around.  This was a grown woman scream.  A grown woman that was scared shitless. 

There were two platforms twenty feet apart that were each a hundred yards long, so it was hard to tell where the voice was coming from.  That girl could be anywhere.  He heard it again.  It still sounded serious.

Vic cut through the thin hallway to the 'Express' Track and turned to see a young guy with his right hand wrapped around the throat of a teenage girl.  His other hand was digging into his fly as he was attempting to pull out his dick, all the while trying to keep her panties down around her knees with one of his bent knees.  This multi-tasking mother fucker was trying to rape this girl.  Oh Hell No.  Not Today.

The persistent Perv looked like he might have been eighteen or nineteen, but he couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds.  The young girl was a few years his minor and probably didn't even weigh a buck oh five soaking wet.  He easily overmatched her. 

The little punk didn't hear Vic the first time he yelled but that was because he was still probably seventy yards away, but now he was sprinting fast towards the duo, and gaining ground fast.

"YO!" Vic yelled again, as he immediately got the boys attention.  The startled young man turned towards Vic and as he eased up his grip on the girl, she turned and fled, crying and screaming for help as she ran away. 

"What the fuck you doing?"  said Vic, as he began to slow his sprint to a jog, immediately begininng to size up this little bastard.  Vic grinned slightly because he knew he had him by at least twenty pounds and sixteen years.  If shit escalated, like he knew it was about to, Vegas would have him listed as at least a five 5-to-1 favorite.

"What the fuck you going to do?" yelled the boy as he approached Vic with a menacing growl on his face that was partially caused by his moderate case of Blue Balls.

"You just tried to rape that girl and now you think I'm going to let you walk out of here?"  Vic said as he began to take a fighting stance, while still slowly moving forward.

The boys hands remained at his side as he tried to conceal the small, shiny object he held in his palm.  The rapist brought the blade along just in case he would have to use it on the girl, which it turned out he didn't, but he ended up finding a use for it anyways. 

"I'm about to shank this mother fucker and run", the boy thought to himself.  As Vic swifly closed the gap between the two, the boy immediately lunged forward and took a swipe with his right.

Vic was waiting for the first punch.  The boy's face showed pure fury and Vic knew he was going to take the first jab.  As the blade flashed across the bridge of Vic's nose, he already began the weight transfer to throw his knockout punch.  Vic never even saw the blade until the very the last moment, and it only made him throw the punch harder. 

Vic dropped his shoulder down, transferred all of his weight to his rear leg and exploded with the hardest right hook he'd ever thrown.  The vicious blow landed squarely on the boys chin and he spun around towards the tracks and hit the ground hard, face first.  Vic waited for him to rise and then he began to advance forward.  He approached as the boy was regaining his balance he turned to face Vic and just as the two made eye contact, Vic delievered a right foot square in the chest of the attempted rapist.  He never flinched as the boy flew backwards, falling down onto the tracks.  Vic was immediately pissed that he forgot to yell out "I AM SPARTA" as he landed the fatal blow.  He knew that the next time he stopped a rape in progress and put his foot through the back of someone's rib cage sending them plummeting backwards he was going to say that shit loud.  The fight was over.  Vic - 1.  Attempted rapist - 0.

Vic never heard the train.  His adrenaline was flowing so fast that he never heard it coming.  Only seconds after rejoicing in his victory, the orange train come barreling around the corner at nearly top speed, after just beginning its descent.  Vic knew immediately that the boy was dead.  He was hoping for the boy to have a long, prosperous (quadrupulegic) life but that hope was quickly removed when he looked down and saw the lower half of the boys torso strewn across the track.  The upper half of him nowhere to be found.  Fuck, he thought to himself.  I just killed somebody.

                                      +++++++++++++++++++++

9:23 a.m. Sunday morning.

It was already on CNN.  Vic knew it'd be big, but he didn't think it'd be this big.  CNN Headline news was running the story every thirty minutes, promising to get footage of the subway massacre, BUT using the term 'massacre' in a good, heroic sort-of-way, for the first time ever.  The cops had him down to the station for a few hours after the event, but after he gave his statement a few times, they let him go home.  It was an Open and Shut Self-Defense Death.  The cops gave Vic some praise for thwarting the rape attempt and sent him on his way. 

Vic only got a few hours sleep and after a cup of coffee and the morning paper, his phone started going off.  Everyone knew.  It was all over facebook and now the video footage was being shown on all the major networks. 

Although Vic's name hadn't yet been released, he knew it wouldn't take long.  It just came sooner than he anticipated.  The first member of the media to contact him was a local Fox reporter.  She sent him an email after she got a 'Tip' from a 'friend of a friend'.  Vic acknowledged that was indeed him in the video and less than thirty minutes later, there was a knock at his door.  A quick wardrobe change and a little bit of makeup later, and the camera was in Vic's face.  As he watched the reporter begin his countdown, Vic knew his fifteen minutes had officially begun. 

After a brief rundown by the excited reporter, which included a drawn out introduction, the real questions began.

Reporter:  Tell us what happened last night.

Vic:  Last night when I was waiting on the train, I heard a yell.  I ran to see what was going on and I saw this boy trying to rape this little girl.  I ran up on him, dodged the blade, and gave him the right hook followed by a Sparta foot to the chest.  I didn't yell 'Sparta' though, like on 300.  But I should have.

Reporter (after suppressing a snorted chuckle): What was running through your mind when you heard the scream?

Vic:  You mean, like what was I thinking about?  What state of mind was in?  Oh, I was happy.  I was actually sitting back, just enjoying the great day I had.  To be completely honest with you, I was meditating and just thinking positive thoughts about myself and my life.  But when I heard the scream, I instantly switched into soldier mode.  I just knew somebody was in trouble.  I knew I had to go help.

Reporter:  So you were meditating when you heard the scream?  (In a sarcastic tone) Okayyyyy.....then what? 

Vic:  Why'd you say it like that? 

Reporter:  Say what?

Vic:  Why'd you say it mockingly? 

Reporter (making the 'kill it' motion with the slicing fingers moving back and forth across the throat):  Cut it.  Okay, I wasn't mocking you.  Let's just do that question over.

Cameraman:  Uh, Melanie, we're Live right now. 

Reporter:  Oh, uh, and we had some technical difficulties and my apologies, but we're back.  So tell me Vic (small composure cough), lead us up to the moment when you kicked him in the chest.

Vic:  You know how people say, 'It's hard to tell because it happened so fast'?  Yeah, well it's sorta like that for me, except the exact opposite.  When I realized what was happening i felt everything slow down, so actually, and not trying to sound like I'm arrogant or anything, but knocking him out was pretty easy.  He took a lunging, sorta looping swing  (as he mimcked the actions) with his right hand, that apparently held the blade in his hand, and as I leaned back to avoid the blow, i saw the knife.  That just gave me the extra little Umph I needed to give him the KO blow. 

Reporter:  You seem to have quite an affection for your boxing mannerisms.  Did they teach you how to box in the army?

Vic (leaning back in his chair):  Ohhh.....very good.  I see you've been doing your homework.  Yes, they taught us hand-to-hand combat in the Army, but I have just always sort of been good with fighting.  Some of us are born with the ability to throw hands.  I don't want to brag but.....only one guy spanked my ass and that was the doctor on the day I was born.  And I'm still looking for that sonofabitch.  HaHaaaHa....that was an Old Eddie Murphy joke. 

Reporter (In an exaggerated tone): Oh hahaHAAHA, that was funny.  I remember that.  Eddie Murphy DID use to be funny.  Uh, please remember that we are LIVE so watch the language please.  So what happened after you kicked him?

Vic:  He fell backwards and hit the tracks.  He was out cold when the train hit him, if that's any consolation to his family.  The train then came barrelling around the corner and just cut him in half.  And that was it.

Reporter:  Did you see the corpse?

Vic:  Yeah, I saw it.  I walked up to the tracks as soon as the train stopped.  I sorta wanted to see if his spirit was going to leave his body or if there would be some sort of glimpse of what happens to us when we die....to no avail.

Reporter:  Well, I don't think where he's going comes with any type of angelic escort, if you know what I mean.

Vic:  Oh, so you think he's going to Hell?  That's interesting.  What if that young man had lived his life in accordance with (air quotations) 'your bible's' teachings?  What if that attempted rape was his only sin?  Then what?  Will it be St Peter making the call on this one or does it go to a tribal council?

Reporter:  Oh, my apologies if I offended you.  How did we even get on the topic of Religion?  So tell me how have you been holding up since the incident last night?

Vic:  I'm great, thanks for asking.  But you never answered my questions.

Reporter (shifting uncomfortably in her chair): Well I'm not here to discuss our religious views Victor, I'm here to talk to you about what happened last night.

Vic:  I understand that, but what happened last night was that a man was killed only a few feet before me.  What happens to his spirit is part of that, wouldn't you agree?  Come on, it's only fair.  I've been answering your questions so now it's your turn to answer mine.

Reporter (clearly flustered):  Okay Victor, Yes, I do believe in God and Heaven and Hell.  And based on some of your comments I'm assuming that you don't believe in the afterlife?

Vic:  Believe in God?  Me?  Nahhh.....I don't believe in God.  I believe in Me.  I believe that Life is What We Make It.  I believe that we, and only we, are the creators of our own destiny.  I believe that we become what we think about most of the time.  If we harp on past failures and dread the future than nothing good in our life is going to happen.  If we believe that we will be great and do great things, than THAT is what we do.  This Universe is made up of energy and, we too, Miss, are made up of energy.  If we emit constant positive energy and constant positive emotion, than positive things happen.  Many of the great scientists and philosophers agree with this concept, but it's the masses that are afraid to believe.  If they do, what will ever come of their upbringing?  People don't want to think that what their parents taught to them was wrong.  As a society, we fear change.  So we continue to believe in this fictious man in the sky that was actually created thousands of years ago by an intelligent group of people that wanted to instill some sort of law into a lawless world. 

Can you digest that, Melanie?  Please allow me to continue, that was rhetorical. 

How many of millions of people only do the 'right thing' because they're afraid of sinning and going to hell and perishing for eternity with Lucipher himself?  How many millions of people?  Alot.  So back then, God was created to control the masses.  To stop the lawlessness and disorder.  It started with a story, which led to a book, which spawned a religion.  Now, the government discourages the 'nonsensical' talk about everyone being their own God because they don't want Christianity to go away.  They too, want to believe.  Just like you, they fear change.  Until you learn how to embrace change, you will fear it.  Everyone fears change.

Reporter (sarcastically): Okay, well, I thank you for sharing those thoughts with us Victor, I'm sure everyone's a bit more enlightened now from hearing that.  Now back to last night.

Vic:  You're mocking me.  I'm done talking about last night.  Thanks for coming by.  I'm sure you and your crew can see yourself out.  Thank you for this oportunity.  I appreciate you.

With that, Vic got up and turned and walked away, closing the door behind him. 

He went to his bedroom, smoked a joint, and went back to sleep.

8 Hours Later.

He awoke to a phone screen that read 43 missed calls.  43 missed fucking calls?  Vic wasn't aware that he even knew 43 people.  He went straight to the YouTube video and his mishap last night was up to almost twenty million views.  He found another link that contained the 7 minute interview from this morning.  thirty five million.  Holy Shit.  Vic tried to not think about what had happened last night, but he found it difficult.  He knew that something big was getting ready to happen, he just didn't know what it was.  There was no way he could have known.

Three Days Later.

YouTube contacted him to notify him that his 'Sparta Moment' video (which Vic referred to it as), was the fastest growing video in history.  It had already eclipsed one hundred and ninety eight million views and it was only second to the Interview video, or 'Dropping Knowledge Video', as Vic liked to say.  And after a few drinks, he'd say it just a little bit more ghetto.  'Dropping Knowledge' had two hundred and forty seven million views, and counting.  It was on pace to become the most watched video ever, and that feat was less than a few days away.

Forty eight hours ago, Vic got an agent (a out of work buddy that majored in marketing)  The phone calls and appearance requests were already overwhelming the two of them.  He was scheduled to do the Jimmy Fallon show tomorrow night and a taping for Tosh.O the night after that.  Barbara Walters was rumored to have interest. 

People were beginning to change the way they were thinking, and the world began to believe.  People were tired and they wanted change.  They wanted to know more.


                        *****************

________ to be continued __________________________

Thank You, Universe

It's amazing how quickly you learn in life, when you're open to new ideas.  Rarely saying no, always accepting new challenges.  Daring myself to exceed my own expectations.  Always able to soar, no matter where I go. 

My apologies for the delay in updates, but I been in a bit of a transitional period.  A life-changing event, if you will.  It is an occurrence that only takes place several times in your life, if at all, so when it happens, you want to spend all of your free time enjoying the moment. 

I had a loved one move in with me.  My ex-girlfriend/best friend and I are back together living under the same roof.

Sheena and I have been in each others lives for the past 7 years.  We've had our shares of ups and downs, but every great relationship has and ours was no exception.  We've managed to endure and support each other during two of our toughest times, together.  Most of my life, i've allowed myself to succumb to depression, anxiety, and addiction.  Mentally, I was a mess and I accepted that bad things were destined to happy to me, so I constantly sought escape from reality. 

Sheena's path was similar to mine.  She was the first woman I knew that I could open up to.  She understood what it was like to struggle, emotionally.   With any other girlfriend, I never had the energy to try and explain the pain I had inside.  I knew they wouldn't understand something that I didn't have the words to explain.  Sheena was different.  When I was with her, nothing else mattered.  My life with her was amazing. 

I met Sheena in Atlanta and she and I would first become friends before lovers.  We hung out and partied for five or six months before our first sexual encounter, (a threesome with a girl I was dating).  Sheena was a waitress at my favorite sports bar and she had a smile that lit up the room.  She and I had an instant connection after we met.  Not to mention the fact that I sold Xanax and she loved taking them.  Just like me. 

She became my best friend but our physical attraction to each other was so intense that we couldn't resist taking it to the next level.  We would lay in the bed for hours - days, just staring at one another.  Fucking like animals until we barely had enough energy to move.  The lust and passion we had for each other was indescribable.  The word 'soulmate' was soon being used and it doesn't get much deeper than that. 

We started out in Atlanta, moved to Vegas together, but five years later we would leave - separately.  Sheena and I always remained in contact whenever we weren't together, never letting too much time pass before speaking again.  Usually, no matter how bad the circumstances were that caused the rift we always sought each other out.  I loved her too much to ever walk away.

 She and I would meet back up less than four months after we separated in Vegas because Sheena would join me to complete a six month long behavioral modification/recovery program.  After we got out of the program we attempted to get back together to make our relationship work.  It was too early.  Although the six month program was a good steppping stone for both of our recoveries, we still had issues we needed to work on, separately. 

Sheena moved in with family, in Florida, promising that we would be together again when she returned.  A year and a half later, here we are.  Together again, but in such a different way.  We're now using our energy to become better people.  We know that we're both achieving greatness, so we push each other to get there.  Whether we're urging the other to read a great book or to take a five mile run, we're constantly striving to expand what we're capable of doing.  Life is what you make it - We're making it great.

"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies." - Aristotle

Atlanta and Las Vegas seem as if they were a lifetime ago.  I'll learn from the mistakes i've made in the past, but I'll continue to grow and develop myself here and now, in the present.  If I'm truly enjoying living my life this very moment, than how can I live a life of sadness and pain? 

I continue to read inspirational, motivational, and any other type of self-improvement book that gives me a better perspective on how I can expand my mind so I can achieve greater things.  I don't believe everything I read but I take from them the concepts and ideas I like, and I apply them to my life.  I'm continually trying to expand my knowledge and become a better person.

One of the greatest things about this journey, is that half the books I've read were recommended to me by Sheena.  She understands.  She gets it.  She's right there with me.  Every step of the way.  For the past seven years, if we weren't in a relationship, than we were pretty much best friends.  Right now, we're doing both.  And I couldn't be happier.

Rehab #1: Valium at the White House

I wanted to go to a Celebrity Rehab but I didn't qualify for the financing.  Rehabs suck, however, rehabs accomplish what they were meant to do:  Rehabilitate.  They're facilitators that are helping to find a lost soul.  Some reclaim that soul and others fails.  Nobody's perfect.  The success percentages of these places are staggeringly low, but it's the people they do help that make it all worthwhile.  I learned something each and every time I walked through one of their doors. All four times.  Long story.  So I'll break it down for you, one rehab at a time.

Rehab #1 - I was 18 years old and I had already discovered a taste for Valiums and alcohol.  For a good 6-month stretch, I didn't go a day without one or the other in my system .  I came from a broken home with a long line of alcoholism and drug addiction in my ancestral history, so why stop the streak at me?

I lived in a big house with my cousin and two other guys at the time.  We all had regular jobs but we also sold drugs, (and consumed numerous others) so it always made for a good time at the 'White House', as we used to call it.  I moved into the large, 13-room house the day after I graduated from high school.  I was standing on the ceremony lawn in my cap and gown, having just received my diploma, when my sweet mother approached me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Congratulations Son, I never thought you'd do it.  There's fifty bucks in the card, now please have your things out by tomorrow," she whispered with a curt smile.

"Thanks Mom, I already got Brian coming to help me move."  I quickly responded.

I knew this blow was coming, so I had my counter-punch ready.  Only a week prior, my step-dad found a cigarette pack in my sock drawer that contained about fifty weed roaches, and they weren't too pleased.   They weren't pleased?  How the fuck do they think I felt?  Do they have any idea how many joints I had to smoke to accumulate that many roaches? (If you said 'about fifty' then you're right).  It was a sweet ass collection and, unfortunately, they didn't give it back.

So in all of my mother's awesomeness she then picks up the phone and calls all my friends parents', and a few of my teachers, to tell them that she found marijuana in her sons possession.  In hindsight, probably not the best parenting tactic used by her, but she did the best she could at the time.  Whatever.  I cussed her out and told her I was leaving.  So, she kicked me out.  A mutual agreement, of sorts.

The White House was exactly what I needed.  Rent was only $200 a month and we partied daily.  Girls, Drugs, Gambling, and Partying.  My life consisted of those items with a little bit of work sprinkled in here and there and that was it.  Six Months of Valium, Alcohol, and Weed isn't a good combo.  Eventually, things are going to start going downhill.

The Blackouts were my first concern, but I still didn't want to stop taking the Valiums.  I would wake up every morning and usually had no idea what I had done the night before.  I knew I had a problem, but I ignored it.  My new found infatuation with Valium was more important.  They were the first thing I ever encountered that could alleviate my anxiety.  The anxiety attacks and depression would all go away when I took Valium.  I would not let my feet hit the floor in the morning, without popping two in my mouth.  I had a good contact at work that bought them by the hundreds so I never went without.  Lucky Me.

By the end of the six months, everybody had moved out and I was the only one living in the house.  We got kicked out (by my Uncle) for throwing too many parties.  Everybody had someplace to go but me.  My addiction was overwhelming and I was tired of life.  Dad was an addict so he didn't give a fuck and Mom had already kicked me out twice.  I felt hopeless and alone.

I went into my cousin's room and looked around.  He was still in the process of moving out and he had a few straggling items left behind.  One of those items was a shotgun.  I took the weapon off the gun rack on the wall and carried it back into my room.  I dug through my personal items for several minutes attempting to locate the shotgun shells I had hidden somewhere, for no known purpose.  I finally found the shells and called my best friend, Danny.  If I was going to do this, it sure as fuck was not going to be sober.

I needed Danny to take me to the liquor store because I had no idea where my car was.  I woke up and it wasn't there.  I used to loan and/or rent it out to my friends at night whenever they wanted to go on a booty call and they needed transportation.  I would never remember where it was until they called or returned the car the next day.  I would sometimes write myself notes because I knew I wouldn't remember things the next morning.  I showed up late to work 5 days in a row because the two alarm clocks I had, which stood only inches from my face, were unable to wake me.  Shit was bad.

So Danny picked me up and had me back home within the hour, with three forty ounces of St Ides in tow.  I drank the first one quickly and just sat back and waited for the alcohol to kick in.  Once that cocktail of malt liquor and Valiums was fully flowing in my bloodstream, I felt much better.  Now, it was time to do this thing the right way.  Suicide note time.

You can't have a good suicide without a note.  Everybody knows that.  They're used primarily for dramatic purposes, of course.  Plus, the author always loves to envision his loved ones mulling over it.  Just reading it day after day, pouring over the contents for months.  

The second forty ounce was polished off while writing the note, which I thought was a wonderful collection of verbiage that had the right amount of sarcasm and sorrow.  With that task completed, next came the phone call.  I wasn't going to off myself without at least one person desperately trying to talk me out of it.  My call was to my former drug & alcohol counselor, Mrs B. She was a sweet, attractive lady that was a drug & alcohol counselor in my former high school.  During my mischievous years at the learning institution aka high school, I was 'assigned' to speak to her once every two weeks during my sophomore year.  Apparently, there are rules in place forbidding a fourteen year old from showing up to school drunk.  For the following years leading up to my graduation, Mrs B would become a mentor, a voice of reason, but most importantly, a friend.

Mrs B picked up the phone on the second ring, "Hello."

With a quivering chin and eyes full of tears I was able to utter two words, "I'm Ready".

She immediately knew was on the other line and what those words meant.  Over the years, she had asked me at least a dozen times to go away to a treatment facility, and my response was always the same, "I'm not ready, I'm not ready".  Today, I was ready.

Mrs B made a call to my former guidance counselor, Mr M, and he was at my house thirty minutes later. 

Mr M came to play an even more vital role in my recovery.  He would scour the state for available funds that would pay for my stay at a rehab.  He would be the lead negotiator in involving my father in this process (which turned out to be a terrible decision, but it was one made by me).  Most importantly, Mr M was my only friend at the time.  He was the closest thing I had to a father and I still keep in touch with him to this day.

Sitting on my floor, waiting for Mr M to arrive, was probably one of the longest thirty minutes of my life.  I sobbed like a baby the entire time, clutching the loaded shotgun, just daring myself to do it.  I think I knew I didn't have the balls, but I loved the thought of leaving the world.  One of my favorite sayings was, "I'm just not cut out for this world."  I meant it, and at times, I feel like that today.

However, today I feel like I'm beyond this world, but back then, I felt like I couldn't handle the pain of this world.

I toyed with the gun the entire time.  Loading and reloading.  Cocking it back, pointing it at my skull.  I was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face, unable to find reasons to continue.  Life seemed so bleak.  I didn't want to continue, but somehow I just knew.  I knew I couldn't do it.  There were too many questions in my head that went unanswered.  I would only put the gun away once i heard the knock at the door.  Mr. M had made it.

Even though I had been out of school for over 7 months and was a legal adult at age 18, these two people helped to save my life. If there was a 'Great Humans Award Ceremony', those two would get the biggest trophies.  They're amazing people that I will forever feel indebted to for helping me through the difficult times.

The next several hours were a blur.  I was answering questions, giving my blood pressure, and next thing I know we're driving into Philly for a state-funded rehab and conditions there were, uh, less than favorable.  But it was all they could get on such short notice for a grown man with no insurance. 

It was a huge Victorian-style home right off the Delaware River.  The staff was nice, but they didn't really give a shit.  Most of the patients at this rehab were homeless people looking for 'three hots and a cot' (3 hot meals and a bed to sleep in).  They were sneaking drugs in the place and getting high in the bathrooms at night.  A majority of the patients were forty years and older, so they scowled at my youth.  They would make jokes about how it was good I was getting my 'first' rehab out of the way early.  Most of those older guys had been in a dozen or more rehab facilities.  Ahh, the revolving door of rehab.

The year was 1993 and the Phillies were in the World Series at the time.  The Toronto Blue Jays were up in the series 3-2 versus the Phils and Game 6 was being played that night.  Hopefully, the raucous noise in the T.V. Room would be quiet enough to hear some of the game being played.  Prior to the game coming on, one of my roommates asked me to borrow $2.00.  I told him all I had on me was a ten dollar bill (Mr B, being the saint that he was, gave me plenty of cigarettes and spending money to make sure I didn't go without).  The guy said he would get change from somebody and bring it right back.

When more than five minutes elapsed, I went looking for him.  Nobody else could find him either until someone on the porch shouted, "Hey, there's Willie!" 

Willie was about two blocks away carrying a bag on his back and my ten bucks in his pocket.  A small crowd began to gather on the porch with a few people claiming he had just 'borrowed' money from them too.

"Fuck this, that dudes got my ten bucks", I said as I leaped off the front porch in a full sprint after him.  Willie was watching closely and he slowly began to jog when he saw me coming.  As I began to narrow the gap between the two of us, he picked up his pace, rounded the corner, and he was gone.  By the time I came up to the corner, there were no traces of Willie and he would never be seen again.

I felt like a fool.  I just gave a crackhead ten bucks and I really expected to get my change back?  That was stupid.  I was slipping.  I underestimated them and they made me pay.  Literally.  It wasn't going to happen again.

I was sick and tired of all the attempts at intimidation, the lack of hope, and the inability of anyone to care.  If I was going to get better, it wasn't going to be at this place.  I had to leave.  But not until after the game.  I went inside and watched the Phils lose a heartbreaker to the Jays as Mean Joe Carter smashed the series winning homer off Mitch Williams.  As soon as the game ended, I walked upstairs, packed my things, wrote a short note about how i felt about the place, and then I quietly left.

Big Mistake.  It was ten thirty at night on a Saturday.  How the hell was I going to get home?  Fuck.  Wait a second....I didn't have a home.  Nobody even knew I was here except for Mr B and Mrs R, and what if I couldn't get ahold of them? 

The next few hours would be my first night ever spent on the streets of Philly.  These vicious streets wouldn't waste much time seducing me as they would introduce me to Angel Dust and Crack/Cocaine within the first few hours I spent with them.

I was about to have one of the craziest nights of my life.

I'd learn alot about myself tonight, living on the streets of Philadelphia.  My 'survival skills' were about to get tested and I was about to pass with flying colors.


To be continued..... Rehab #1:  The Sequel:  A Dusted CrackHead is Born.

Is Goddammit even a word?

God I hate talking about Religion.  It's one of my two taboo subjects that I refuse to discuss at work.  Politics being the other blasphemous verbiage that I refuse to enunciate while in the company of anyone at my company.  Those two topics are absolutely pointless to debate because you feel so passionately about them, it is practically insulting to try and sway someone to feel otherwise.  So, I'm apologizing in advance.

I actually have nothing to say about Politics because I hate Politics.  Voting is pointless.  I refuse to pick the lesser of the two evils.  Lobbyists and Money run our government.  Nothing else.

Religion, on the other hand, well, I feel I must explain how I feel about it, in order for you to understand why I continue searching for answers.

I was in the tenth grade when I became Atheist.  My teacher was kind enough to share with me his philosophy about God (thank you mr francis).

One day after class, he pulled me aside and explained to me his theory about religion, the bible, the Ten Commandments, and the Holy Trinity.  His words would change my life.

He said that thousands of years ago there was lawlessness and disorder in the world and there was no reason for anyone to act in any form of civil manner because before God, really, who gives a fuck?  Why be good?  There was no reason to be.


They didn't know of any beautiful heaven where people are given golds, riches, and virgin women.  They had never heard of such wonderful places that have lovely Golden Gates with a register booklet out front that is guarded by a man known as Saint Peter (i actually refer to my Penis as St Peter sometimes after he has entered the holiest of holy's.)  And does St Peter ever get a day off?  Ever?  We all get to have lavish lives while St Peter has to work security at the front gate every single day?  I just never thought that was fair.

So a group of men** came up with the concept of God.  The Bible (with its Ten Commandments) soon followed in order to reiterate the new teachings.  Christianity can be summed up in a few sentences:  A great man in the sky was awaiting you IF and only IF you were good and followed the Ten Commandments (which cover all your basic sins).  Then if you're a good boy or girl, then you get to go to this amazing place in the sky with this really cool, powerful guy with flowing brown hair, (and he always seemed to have great lighting behind him everywhere he went).

BUT, if you were BAD....oh man, forget about it.  You were going to hell, buddy.  And Hell, by the way, is pretty much the exact opposite of heaven.  It was hot and you would burn for eternity while being ass-raped by Hitler.

So being a do-gooder got you happiness, wealth, and riches BUT being bad, or sinning, means you go to the worst possible place you could think of.  These things do appear to be motivation to not cause chaos and mayhem, right?  It made sense to me.  I was a young, impressionable teenager and this educator was making sense.

Thus spawned my disbelief.

There are, however, some down sides to not believing in God.  Example:  Since I don't believe in him, I can't really go around saying his name every time I want to spice up a curse word.  Truthfully, I'm just not that good at cursing anymore.  Calling somebody a 'damn fool' just doesn't have the same effect when they're a 'Goddamn Fool!'  It just lacks the dramatic effect.  Now every time I want to say 'Jeeeesus Christ', I just say 'Jiminy Crickets', like the other Christians do.  At least my mother would be proud, even if we're avoiding the JC word for different reasons.  I just don't think he ever existed.  With that rationale, neither did Jiminy Crickets, so maybe I'll just not say anything and use the silence as a dramatic pause, (stop reading and count to five) Like THAT!

Now I haven't always been this 'anti-religion' because there were different periods of my life where I wanted to believe.....times that I tried to believe.  But I couldn't.  As I knelt at the altar and felt the 'holy water' being placed on my head, I knew it was all a farce.  I knew it wasn't real.  But I wanted for there to be a greater being, a Higher Power.  I wanted that.  I hoped that the big guy in the sky was going to swoop on down and fix the fucked up world I lived in.  I waited, hoped, and prayed that this magical figure would fix all my shit.  But he never did.

I believed in several moments of despair, but I was only trying to fool myself.  My inner self knew the truth.  My inner voice knew better.  And I'm not referring to an 'inner voice' as voices in my head or anything associated with a mental illness.  I'm referring to the Universal Voice that we all have inside of us telling us how to truly feel.  The quiet words that are spoken in your heart when you're able to remove all the fear and emotion out of your mind.  When you are able to form a decision (or thought) with an indescribable clarity because you've removed everything you've been taught or have learned about whatever it is that you're thinking about.  That's 'The Voice'.  When you can step outside of your emotion to stop and ask 'Why are you anxious right now?'  Or 'Why am I angry right now?' Or 'Why am I sad right now?'  If I really stop and think about what it is that is truly bothering me or upsetting me, it's usually something stupid that has no bearing on this moment. 

I use the term 'stupid' because that's usually how I feel after realizing how insignificant it all is, when viewed from a perspective outside yourself.  A point of view that is perceived on a much larger scale.  The little shit just doesn't matter as much, because it was usually an emotion from a learned trait in our past.  My Past is just that: My Past.  I'm not saying we can't all learn from our mistakes, but when you truly delve into whatever emotion it is that you're feeling, and you understand it for what it is, the sooner you'll be able to ignore it.  So much of what I've learned has been from people teaching me what they were taught, or possibly what they felt.  I'm not them.  I don't believe in what they believe in, so why would I accept their teachings.

These are people who think a 'Happy Life' is one that has two vacations a year and a good retirement plan.  They praise God on Sundays in hopes that they are pleasing their future landlord.  These people think that the better they are, the bigger house they get when they die.  Why wouldn't they live their lives in accordance with his teachings, if that's what they believe.  They want that Gold Fucking Mansion in the sky.  I respect everyone's belief as their own, and my intent is not to demean or belittle anyone's religion.  That's their religion, because that's their belief.  But I believe something different.

Those people aren't me.  They don't believe in what I believe in.  They have their little lives all planned out.  They're cool with their little 'pie in the sky', whenever the hell they get there.  I'm not going there.

So if I stop living in the past and I draw on my inner voice, my true self, then I can truly be living in the moment.

Yesterday's gone.  Tomorrow will be here when it gets here.  I'm trying to live for today.  I still plan for my future, but I don't worry about it.  I know it will work out.  I know it'll be great.  Today was.  I can't appreciate the beauty of what's in front of me today, if I'm worried about tomorrow.


I only have another forty to fifty years before my organs begin to disappoint me, so I'm trying to learn now.  What the fuck is going to happen to me when I die?  Reincarnation?  I find it hard to believe I'm coming back as another being.  If that happens, would my memory be erased?  Are certain things in life allowed to be recalled in the next life?  My previous lifes' memory would probably just fuck with me all the time, because it liked hearing me use the word Deja Vu.  

Our species has done wonders in the last two hundred years.  Our technological, scientific, and medical progress is damn near immeasurable.  A hundred years ago if you told a guy riding a horse that his grandaddy would be able to fly with a jet-pack, he'd of scalped you, hung you, and the town folk would have rejoiced at the death of an evil sorcerer.  

So if we can progress that far with something as menial as transportation (i call it menial because I currently am not allowed a license in the state of Pennsylvania), think of how far we can advance in mental awareness, if only more people were researching the cause.

70% of scientists are atheist because they understand logic and rationale.  The Big Bang Theory is real and explainable for those that are open to listening.  But most aren't. 

I just don't know yet what happens to me when I die.  I don't exactly know why I'm here.  And I still don't know why the fuck we're only using ten percent of our brain.  There's still so much more to learn.

I can't even believe that I'm the same person that tried to take his own life on two different occasions.  I must have been in a bad place to want to end my life, especially when I had no idea what would happen to me IF I ended it.  Although it was only three years ago, it seems like another lifetime.

Being able to endure those times of despair allowed me to appreciate life so much more.  I don't want to just exist.  I don't want to be another one of the billions of corpses rotting below my feet, that made no impact on this world.  I was destined for great things, they just haven't happened yet.  But when they get here, I want to be ready.

So I search.  Knowledge is power.  I continue to search.

I live in the moment as I search for answers about my future.  I love life.  I love right now.  As my fingers tap the keys, I am grinning.  I am happy.  I am alive.

                                                  ***************




**I suspect this group of men also came up with the idea of Santa Claus.  Same premise, except to be used on kids.  If you're good, you get a happy Xmas.  If you're bad, you don't get shit.

Scared, Nervous Tough Guy

"World's strangest secret:  We become what we think about most of the time" - Earl Nightingale

The mind is just that powerful.  So I simply decided that I wasn't going to live like that anymore.  If I was going to become consumed by my fear and anxiety, then that is what I would become:  A scared, nervous tough guy.

I spent many years perfecting my craft as the strong, silent type, so i was able to build a shell of mystery with my inability to discuss my emotions or let you into my world.  My past would always remain a mystery because it wouldn't be discussed.  Ladies love the strong, silent tough guys with a mysterious past.  I've gotten laid more 'on accident' than most guys have 'on purpose'.  I lived my life as a Caucasian Antonio Banderas, minus the cool accent and the guitar case full of guns.  I spoke little, but when I did, it was well thought out and smooooooth. 

While I was in my 20's, moving to various cities and states, I was successful at earning a myriad of nicknames while living in some less-than-stellar neighborhoods, such as, 'White Chocolate' (I could play basketball), 'Black' (I was the only white guy that lived in the apartment complex), and 'Loco Gringo' (after I ran into a burning house, owned by latinos).  I've always considered myself sort of like the Cool Hand Luke of my generation, except I don't own a sweet ass bike.

I was raised in a household where you didn't talk about Shit.  Everyone was notorious for sweeping all problems under the proverbial carpet.  Throw in a family with a history of mental illness (grandfather committed suicide), along with a Mother that didn't really speak to you because she's afraid you'd cause a ripple in her pool of love that she shared with her new found, crazy husband, and you can see why life seemed dismal, at times.

Simply put, the cards were stacked against me, or so I thought.  I had PLENTY of excuses to use as to why I was not succeeding in life:  I wasn't loved, I was suffering from depression, I was addicted to pain pills, I was molested as a child.  But they were just that:  Excuses.  They were alleged reasons in my life for me to not get ahead.  Everyone was against me (I had 'Mike Against The World' tattooed across my back).  No one loved me.  So I cried for me.  Poor me.  Whoa is me.  Whaaaa, Whaaa, Whaaa.

I accepted defeat.  I felt that I was destined to follow in the steps of my father and grandfather, and I, too, was to become a failure. But then something crazy happened.  I made a decision to make a change.  I simply made a decision to make a change.  It was just that simple (with some elaborate underlay, of course).

I've always known that the mind was powerful beyond what we know.  At an early age, there were three things I remember hearing/reading that fascinated me:

1.  We use less than 10% of our brains
2.  A person placed under hypnosis was told that a hot iron was being placed on her skin and a blister formed.  In actuality, they placed an ice cube on her arm.  However, the blister formed, because she thought it was a hot iron. (that shit is deep)
3.  masturbation was a real thing

Less than ten percent of our brains?  What the fuck is the other ninety percent doing?  Like what the fuck's going on up there?  What a fucking waste.  If you're going to be up there and you're going to be referred to as 'matter', you might as well make yourself fucking useful.  I mean, really, ten percent?  Really?  I can't think of one example where having that low of a percentage is even remotely close to being a good thing.  Wait.  Nevermind.  I did think of one.  The one in the case where five percent of the country owns ninety five percent of the money - I kinda want to be in that low percentile there.  I want to be so rich, I own a jester.  Yes, that's right.  A jester.  I want a grown man in a silky, purple outfit with expensive buttons on it to tell me great jokes and makes me laugh.  I mean, who doesn't love to laugh?  Duh.

So I became convinced that I would be able to find a way to use more of the ol' noggin.  I just didn't know how at such an early age.  However, I'm now certain that an individual that constantly uses positive, motivational thoughts is tapping into that unused energy.  If you think that your life has just taken a turn for the better, it will.  Every day is an opportunity to expand your knowledge and become a better, greater person.

Ever since hearing, as a child, that the mind could cause the skin to blister simply by believing that it indeed was being burned, I always knew that our potential has not even come close to being reached.  I was constantly reading self-help books ranging in titles from "Fearproof Your Life" to "The Power Within", all in attempts to learn how to use empowering thoughts to help turn my life around and enrich my soul.  An educated mind is better than one filled with unimportant, useless facts.

I try to spend a minimal amount of time doing nothing, such as sleeping and watching TV.  I hate sleeping.  Oh, that's a lie.  I actually love it, but I wish I didn't.  I wish I didn't have to.  I wish my body didn't crave the need for an afternoon nap on a dreary, rainy Sunday, but it does.  I've said for years that I'll sleep when I die.  I try to run on a minimal amount of 'shut eye', but as my body ages, I also understand the importance of having a rested body and mind.  Thoughts are so much clearer and the body is so much more energized after a nice, long slumber.  I just wish it didn't have to be that way.

So after two suicide attempts via overdose, numerous hospitals, rehabs, outpatient clinics, halfway houses, countless misdiagnosing doctors, and more failed relationships than I could count, I was ready to make a change.  I Decided to make a change.  I was tired of living in a complete state of misery and despair.  Fuck the Bullshit, it was time to be happy.  Too many years wasted with my shoulders slumped and my head down.

It was time to do great things.

This epiphany occurred almost two years ago.  I've been on a comeback ever since.  I've made great decisions, created great karma with positive energy, and I've eliminated the word 'failure' from my vocabulary.

I have been promoted four times within the past two years and my income has nearly doubled.  I also just accepted another position, in the same company, that could potentially allow me to increase my income by 300%.  Great things continue to happen to me, so I continue to do great things every single day, even when nobody's looking.  I strongly believe in the 'laws of attraction' so my thoughts continually stay focused on goals that I'm attempting to achieve.

One of Socrates greatest teachings was that we know nothing.  How could we?  We only use ten percent of our brain. 

So the search for knowledge continues....

Worst Pimp Ever

While living in Las Vegas, during my reign as one of Vegas's top paid Male Escorts, I was able to find the time to add another profession to my resume:  Pimp.  I don't think anyone ever truly intends to become a Pimp.  The only young boys that aspire to enter the world of Pimping are the ones whose daddies are already sporting furry Kangols and drinking from a Gold Chalice.  My dad was homeless, so he wasn't teaching me the ways of Pimpdom. 

A few things had to happen in order for my journey to lead me to join the society of Pimps.  I can think of a few things that led me down that path, but mostly, it was just location.  Location, location, location.

I moved into a weekly efficiency after spending a few months on Miss Pat's couch.  To be able to move into my own place was another step along my comeback.  Only a few months prior I had lost everything.  The House.  The Dog.  The Car.  The Girl.  All Gone.  I walked away from everything because I couldn't handle her anymore.  She lost jobs, she stole money, she cheated, she lied, she crashed cars.  It was too much.  Her addiction to pain pills was so far gone, I just gave up hope and left.

Only two weeks after I moved in with Miss Pat, I decided that the best way for me to ease the pain of finding out my girlfriend was a female escort, was by becoming one myself.  I quickly learned the tricks of the trade and was able to save up enough money to get my own place.  It was a weekly efficiency right next to the Stratosphere hotel & casino.  It was the seedy part of Vegas and that meant I felt right at home.

Only days after moving in, I had the fortunate pleasure of meeting my new neighbor, Cat.  Cat was a 6'4", 300 lb black guy that smoked weed like he was in a 'Weed Smoking Contest' and he was trying to get the blue ribbon.  So naturally, I was drawn to him.  Pat and I became good friends immediately.  He was one of Las Vegas's biggest drug dealers and I was getting an education daily on how to really hustle and make money.

Cat would move from 'weekly' (furnished apartments that rented on a weekly basis) to 'weekly', always getting the apartment in someone else's name so the cops could never find him.  He'd stay for a couple of months and when he felt heat, he moved on to the next one.

Since having my heartbroken by my ex, I was still searching for ways to ease the pain.  I think I had just found it.  This guy was like my knight in shining armor, if such a thing exists in a platonic kind of way. 

Cat was not only the biggest Crack Dealer in that part of Vegas, but he also kept a few females on his payroll.  Most of the girls that worked for Cat, lived with him and they would turn tricks just so that they could continue to smoke crack for free.  He would find girls with a small habit, turn it into a big one, and then they'd move in with him.  When he stopped smoking them out for free, they'd have to find a way to pay him.  Cue prostitution.

Cat would run ads in weekly flyers and post the girls on Craigslist.  His phone rang non-stop.  He had a crack hotline, a hooker hotline, and a personal hotline.  Cat was the Donald Trump of Hustling.  One of Cat's ho's, named Chocolate, caught herself taking a liking to me and only a few days after I met her, I couldn't get her out of my apartment (not that I was trying).  She'd hang out at my place all day and we'd fuck (free of charge, of course), drink, and smoke weed.  When it was time for her to go on a job or to smoke crack, she'd go back over to Cat's for a little while.  When she was done doing whatever it was she had to do, she'd come back over to my place.

Chocolate was a dark-skinned black woman in her mid thirties.  She had a kindness in her heart that would surface every now and then, but her addiction didn't like for her to show it.  She had an amazing smile, a beautiful face, and eyes that looked as if they'd seen too much evil.  Her soul was calloused after years of working on the streets, spreading her legs, just to quench her thirst for Crack.  On several different occasions I tried to talk to Chocolate about going to school, getting a job, or actually doing something with herself, but she didn't want to hear it.  She accepted who she was, and she was honest enough to tell me that she would die with a crack pipe in her mouth.  She loved that drug more than anything in this world.  The 'Old' me would have spent countless hours trying to convince this girl that there was more to life than drugs and prostitution, but the 'Old' me was nowhere to be found.  I was in my own self-destruct mode and I didn't feel like helping out another addicted soul.  Big Mike's Help-a-Ho Foundation was temporarily shut down. 

So at first, Chocolate was just one of my neighbor's Ho's that happened to like me so she hung out at my house all the time.  I got unlimited, free sex and she got to be my number one girl.  I was working as an escort myself at the time, so our relationship worked out perfectly.  The sex was great and Chocolate was the perfect rebound girl (i don't think that fucking a crack whore classifies her as a 'rebound girl', but she most certainly served a purpose). 

Cat got a tip that the cops were watching his place so he walked out the door and never looked back.  Less than twenty fours later, he relocated to another 'weekly', located only a few miles away.  Chocolate was upset because it meant she wouldn't be sharing a bed with me every night and she wanted me to do something about it.  She wanted me to talk to Cat.

I had already made arrangements to talk to Cat about taking over his drug business in the neighborhood he just fled.  I wasn't nervous about having my talk with Cat, but I was definitely uneasy.  Although I considered Cat a friend, this was still a business, and Cat was always business.  No matter how many times I replayed the conversation in my head, it never quite sounded right.

Me:  Can I borrow your weed wacker and the dark-skinned good looking crack whore?
Pat:  Can you what?
Me:  Let me hold the Ho, man.
Pat:  Are you fucking with me?
Me:  Man you know I'm good for it.  I gave you back the Monopoly Game I borrowed two weeks ago.

I arrived at Cat's new place, and after he gave me the 12 second grand tour of the place, we sat at the table and I sparked up a blunt.  We spent the first thirty minutes discussing how I would take over the drug business that couldn't follow him.  I purchased 3.5 grams of crack from him and he was excited to see that his new Caucasian friend was now his protege.  Cat the Mentor.

As he began to roll another blunt, I took a long swallow and began the unenviable task of asking a Pimp for his Ho.

"Cat I want to talk to you about something else, man", I said.

"What's Up?" he responded.

"It's Chocolate.  She wants to stay with me." I shyly stated.

Cat looked across the table at me out of the top of his eyes, as he licked the weed-stuffed tobacco paper.  "She wanna do what?"  Cat exclaimed.

"She want's to stay, man.  You know that girl caught herself liking me man.  I'm not trying to steal your girl Cat, I'm just telling you what she want to do.  I'd rather you hear this coming from me so you don't think I'm trying to take your shit.  She can still work for you Cat, because I still work during the day.  So she can come work for you while I'm at work and then she can come stay with me, at night."

"You know that girl going to smoke all your shit, right?"  Cat boldly stated.

"No she's not, Cat.  I'm not going to let her."  I replied.

"So you just going to give her the shit for free?  She ain't got no fucking money."

"I'm sure we can work something out." I actually already had a few ways planned out.

"Oh, you gonna put her to work?" he asked, as he lifted one brow and cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, indicating that he was very interested in hearing my response.

"Cat she's going to be out there helping me to move product.  You know when she's turning tricks, it's with a 'Mark' she found to get high with.  The more business she finds for me, the more i sell.  The more I sell, the more money you make because I'm buying all my shit from you."  I stated in a slightly pitched tone. I continued speaking because I could tell from his body language that he wasn't convinced this was a good idea, "Cat, you know she can help bring me work and you know her feet can't hit the floor in the morning without taking a blow (a hit of crack), so I have to make my money back somehow.  She's yours all day everyday, just let her stay with me at night.  If she makes me a few bucks along the way, then so be it.  But that money's still being put in your pocket, regardless".

A strong closing argument on my behalf and I felt as if I'd won him over.  He let out an exhaustive sigh, crossed his arms, and sat back in his chair.  I mimicked his actions (minus the exhaustive sigh), and gave him a half-hearted shrug which basically said, "Come onnnnnnnn.....", without actually saying it.

"Alright man, she can stay with you", he stated hesitantly.

"Alright cool.  Good lookin out Cat", I said as I tried to suppress a grin.

Cat got up from the table and headed to the back room to put his drugs back in his safe.  I headed for the door and grabbed Chocolate along the way.

"What'd he say, baby?"  she quickly stammered as we exited the door.

"You're with me now baby.  You're with me"

"Oh Daddy, I'm so happy.  We're going to have so much fun" she stated between giggles.  That was her first time calling me 'Daddy'.

I grabbed her by the hand as we crossed the street.  Big Mike was now officially a Pimp.  A Pimp with a conscience.  A Pimp that cared.  I sucked at it already. 

I wish you would

I wish life was easier.
I wish it came with a 3-Ring instructional binder that had color coded sections making it easier to navigate.
I wish my mind would slow down and I could just traipse lazily down the road of life to the end of my days without any worry or fears.
I wish it were that easy. 
I wish I didn't get misty-eyed on Hallmark commercials.
I wish I wasn't like my dad.

I wish I didn't have to sleep.
I wish people weren't so gullible.
i wish scientists weren't so smart, but they are.  And they're all atheists, too.
I wish I were a Christian that believed I was going to this beautiful Cloud in the sky when I die, where i got anything I wanted for eternity.  But, I'm not.

I wish I didn't search for answers.  But I do.  And I always will.  I wish I knew.

I wish I didn't care so much.  Why the fuck do I care so much what other people think? (That's rhetorical because I'm asking me and I know that I already don't know the answer to the question.)  I am constantly working on refocusing my energy to be spent on more worthwhile (internal) causes.

I wish I couldn't see the lies.  But I do.  It's what makes me such a great poker player.  My anxiety has caused me to spend most of my life being acutely aware of everyone around me.  I began picking up on others 'tells' at an early age.  This skill transformed nicely on the poker table.  It's beneficial there.  In life, not so much.  The world is filled with people spewing lies and deceit to each other for their own personal gain.  Because of their own insecurities.  I used to be one of those people.  I loathed the world and my goal in life was to mind-fuck everyone I encountered, with a fairly high success rate.

I wish I could turn back time.  I love saying, 'that I don't live with regrets', and I don't.  My journey has made me the man I am today and I love the path that I took to get here.  I do, however, feel remorse for the pain I caused along my way.  I wish I could unburden their hearts.  I wish I could undo any of the wreckage that is a result of my actions.  My addiction to Xanax allowed me to live life without a conscience.  I ran from the pain.  Like a coward, I ran.

I wish I wasn't lactose intolerant.  I love milk.

I wish the world was more forgiving.  We hate what we don't understand.  But there is no 'unknown', only gaps in knowledge.  People are cruel to those that are not like them, but it is only because they don't know them.  I have absorbed and lived in as many environments, communities, and cultures as possible, and every single time I came away with a new found respect and love for those people.  I wish the world didn't fear change.

I wish that there was a rule that before anyone attempted suicide, they had to spend five hours with me.

I wish all of you the best.  I wish I could personally impact anyone whose eyes fall on these words.  I wish you'd take a moment and keep reading.  If you've come this far, we've connected somehow, someway.  I wish you'd see that I'm trying to give back.  I'm trying to unburden some of your pain. I have traveled down a long, ugly path and I wish you'd never have to travel it.  I wish I could show everyone each bad decision I made, in hopes that they would not repeat it.  I wish no one ever lost hope.  I wish someone would tell me what happens to my soul when i die.  I wish I had this many wishes.  Actually, I wish I had just one, cause then I'd wish for more. 

I just wish I could make you understand.

The Hero Factor

Being diagnosed with depression, anxiety, or bipolar is both a gift and a curse.  The obvious downside to having any one of these 'disorders' is the obvious:  The highs and the lows.  The nerves.  The sensitivity.  The inability to cope.  The inability to breathe.  The inability to function.  I'm not enlightening the medical field with these words because all of these 'symptoms' can be found on WebMd.  The side effects that you cannot find on WebMd are the ones that cause you to be unique from the rest of the world.  Nobody's giving seminars right now on how to embrace your super-sensitive side.  I don't see Tony Robbins catering to manic depressants to show them how their powers can be used for good, and not evil (well, at least not yet).  But there are good things that can come out of these 'stigmatas'.  The universe gives us these uncanny gifts, yet most of us are scared to tap into them.  I've discovered several personality traits and quirks that I have that I know make me exceptionally unique.  My personal favorite:  I call it 'The Hero Factor'.

We've all heard or read accounts where a random person jumps into a river and saves a drowning child, or how someone was pulled from the wreckage of a car, or maybe how they even pulled another individual from a burning building.  In order to complete one of these random acts of kindness, you must have a certain recklessness about you.  You have to be able to abandon care of self, and think of nothing but another individual and their well-being.  Easy, right?  Shiiiiiiit.

Not everybody can do that.  Not everybody knows how they're going to react when put in this situation, because, let's face it, not all of us have been there.  Many people are saying, "OH yeah, I'd definitely try to save this person", or "....i'd do that to be the hero", but I don't think people know exactly what is involved with this process.  I do.  I have 'The Hero Factor'.

I can't determine if we're born with it or not.  My research on that data is still inconclusive.  However, I do know that you must have certain characteristics in order to have 'The Hero Factor'.

For starters, you must have reckless abandon.  You have to be able to stop caring about your own well-being, if only for a few seconds.  I think I got that one covered.  Anybody who has attempted suicide twice clearly has the ability to put aside his own safety concerns.  Reckless abandonment?  Check.

Secondly, you have to 'Care' enough.  If you're self-centered, insensitive, or shallow you probably don't qualify.  Sorry.  We have lovely parting gifts for you once you get to Hell.  I'm kidding.  Seriously....that was a joke.  Nobody's going to hell.  Relax.

But you do have to Care.  You must feel empathy and compassion (and not just at the moment that the heroic act presents itself).  I'll give you an example of my empathy, and how I've tried to change the world (one person at a time).

I was riding Marta (Atlanta's rail system), and I was sitting next to a middle-aged black woman.  She wore a plain outfit with her hair pulled back and she had a bad case of acne.  She wore glasses, she had large ears, and I was almost certain she had not won any beauty contests growing up as a child.  I'm not judging her.  I'm just stating logical facts.

She was turned slightly away from me so that she could pretend that she was actually paying attention to the world just outside of the glass window.  Her face lacked expression and her shoulders sagged, causing her purse strap to fall down by her elbow.  I was unable to completely see her face, but I could make out enough of her expression to know that, emotionally, she was hurting.  She didn't weep, or make any sobbing noises, but I could almost hear a soft whimper in her breath.  Although her gaze remained emotionless, she had a look on her face as if she was getting ready to speak, yet she would never utter a word.

As the train began to slow and my stop quickly approached, I realizing I was getting ready to speak to this woman.  At the ripe age of 27, I had never done anything like this before and my heart rate accelerated as the train began to slow.  I was getting ready to speak to a stranger and I had no idea what words my mouth would form, I just knew I had to say something.  I turned to the woman, put my hand softly on her arm and said, "You have an inner beauty inside of you that not even you are aware of."

I stood up and began to slowly back towards the door when I saw one single tear roll down her cheek.  I turned and quickly stepped out of the closing doors, never again to see her face.

I don't know why I said what I did that day, but I know if I was 'normal', I probably would have never even thought to pay attention to what she was doing.  Because of my anxiety, I am always extra cognizant of my surroundings. The smallest encounter could have triggered an anxiety attack.  If I saw someone get their feelings hurt, or somebody that was sad, or crying, I always longed to reach out and help them.  I wanted to soothe their pain.  I wanted to fix what was wrong with them.  It made me feel better.  Focusing on someone else's pain, allowed me to forget about mine.  Even if only for a moment.  That is why all my girlfriends were fucked up head cases (no offense Sheena), but it's true.  It allowed me to focus on them, instead of me.  I don't know what ever became of that woman on the train, but I'd like to think that I did some good in her life.  Even if only for a moment.

Going through life with a heightened sensitivity level isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world.  As you can see, my powers could be used for good.  Years later, as my anxiety, depression, and addiction to Xanax worsened, so did my level of self-esteem.  Unfortunately, I used my knowledge of others' emotional state to my advantage.  At that point in my life I was numb.  There's no such thing as a con artist with a conscience. 

My greatest act of heroism was performed while I was living in Trenton, New Jersey.  It was about two a.m. and I was sitting on my front stoop, smoking a blunt (cigar filled with marijuana), and talking to a neighborhood girl (that I would later marry).  It was the middle of summer and my front door was slightly ajar and I could hear my roommate and a few friends playing Madden, on PlayStation, in the Living Room.

I heard a scream.  I looked across the street and I saw flames shooting out of the third floor of the rowhouse, that was directly across from us.  I turned and sprinted inside the Living Room and yelled, "Call 9-1-1, the neighbors house is on fire!"  I then turned and immediately sprinted down our front hallway and jumped off our front stoop, skipping all four steps.  I sprinted past my future wife, across the street, and with one last leap, I was inside the front door of the burning home.

Before I go any further, let me give you a little background of where I lived in Trenton, New Jersey.  I was one block off Stuyvesant Avenue.  For any of you that have ever lived in the inner city or ghetto, you know that every 'hood' has a Stuyvesant Avenue.  So if your home residence was only a stones throw away from Stuyvesant avenue, well that pretty much meant you lived in the hood too.  The actual street I lived on was East Hanover.  All of the houses were rowhomes, and if you were lucky, your tiny little backyard didn't have any crackheads living in it.  I wasn't that fortunate (to make matters worse, my backyard crackhead had the same name as me.)  I had only lived there for a few weeks, and I was the only 'white boy' on the street.  The rest of the community was made up of either latino or black people.

As I burst through the front door, I was greeted by 3 spanish women in their pajamas running down the stairs, with children in tow.  I had no idea how many people were living in the house, but just based on my observation the last few weeks, i knew it was alot.  Doors started opening and people were pouring out of every room.  Children were running past me with looks of fear and confusion on their faces.  I ascended the steps to the second floor and I could feel the heat pouring down the flight of steps leading to the third floor.  There were several latino men running frantically from door to door and, although I could barely understand a word that passed their lips, i began to hear a common chant, "Maria."  It began as a faint yelling outside of the house, but now the two spanish men on the 2nd floor began to yell the girls' name, "Maria!  Maria!".  Feeling helpless, I joined in the chant yelling the girls name, as I closed and opened doors, hoping to find the lost tot.

As I stopped and came face to face with the eldest of the two men still performing the room to room search, the only word I could utter was, "Donde?  Donde?"  Where?  Where was Maria?

"No Se.  No Se"  was his only response.  I knew he didn't know where the girl was but my limited spanish vocabulary didn't grant me the luxury of proper questioning.

"Mira, Mira" he yelled as he pointed up the smoky staircase leading to the fiery death trap.  As I ran to his side, I knew what he was about to do.  I looked up at the ceiling and saw a thin film of smoke beginning to form in the second floor hallway.  The staircase was illuminated orange and yellow from the billowing flames that were causing severe structural damage only a few feet above.  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as to say, "Fuck it" and he quickly started up the steps.  I kept my back to wall and my head down as we slowly ascended the steps and crept inside the attic door.

The heat was absolutely blinding.  I kept my hand on the back of the old man in front of me because visibility was next to nothing.  Blankets of smoke poured past me as we crept in the room.  As I peered above, I could only make out orange transluscent waves that were rolling across the ceiling.  As odd as this may sound, the fire was beautiful.  Its heat and ferocity kept me hovering in a low crouch, but I coudln't help but stop to admire the orange and red artwork that flowed across the ceiling.

I kept my shirt over my eyes and mouth and could barely get out the words, "Maria" when I heard a man yelling from the bottom of the steps.  The old spanish man pulled at my shirt and we both quickly made our way back down the flight of steps.  I began coughing incessantly as I heard the word, "Maria" repeated several times except this time the concerned 'pitch' of their tone was gone.  I could only assume Maria had been found as we made our way back to ground level.

I ran out of the front door, jumped the four front steps, and landed safely on the sidewalk.  A crowd had begun to gather outside the house as I made my way back across the street to my humble abode.  I heard a loud crashing noise as I turned around and saw the 3rd floor air conditioner crash a few feet from where I made my safe landing, only a few moments ago.

As I let out a few final coughs, trying to clear my lungs, I walked back to where my roommate and friends had gathered.  My roommate approached me with wide eyes and mouth agape, and blurted out "What the Fuck was that, Son?"

That, my good man, was the Hero Factor.

From that day forward, I was known on my block as 'Loco Gringo'.  Crazy white boy.  The same people that, only days prior, would not even speak, were now waving, saying hello, and asking me how my day was.  I lived on that block for almost a year, and was given nothing but the utmost love and respect from everyone on the street.  I loved Hanover Street.

Please know that my words are not an attempt to coerce anyone to don a cape and mask so they can patrol the streets nightly in an attempt to thwart crime.  If you're old enough to read this and you don't have 'The Hero Factor' yet, then maybe you just don't have it.  It's not something that can be learned or taught, it's instinctual.  But if you don't have it, then what do you have?  If not 'The Hero Factor', then what is your gift(s)?  If you suffer from anxiety, depression, or bipolar, then you have that something extra, somewhere.  It's the balance of nature.  It's the yin and the yang.  You suffer in one aspect of your life, so you'll have the ability to excel in another.  It's why most all extremely beautiful people are dumb as shit.  It's why autistic people can count their asses off.  It's just how nature works.

Stop looking at the depression or anxiety as an illness, and count it as a blessing.  Start embracing it by finding out what it is that you excel at.  Get more in touch with You and find out what gift(s) you have.  I'm still learning mine, and I just added superhuman-writing-ability to my list.  What'd you add to yours?

Shrink Me, Shrink Me

I turned my attention towards the window, letting out an exhaustive sigh.  I was trying my best to ignore the inquisitive stare being placed upon me by the elderly psychologist sitting only a few feet away.  It was my third session with this guy, and I still haven't decided if I'm going to fully open up to him yet.  We didn't hit it off right away, but he did have certain qualities about him that allowed me to give him another shot at this 'therapy' thing.  I'm weird like that.

When you grow up in a household where nobody talks about anything, it's hard to start opening up later in life.  It's hard to tell a grown man, sitting with his legs crossed a little too tightly, only 3 feet away from me, how I really feel.  Hell, sometimes I don't even know how i feel.  At least not in a way that I'm able to put it into words.  So I bottle it up, keep it inside, and hope it goes away.  I'm trying to stop doing that.  Apparently, it's unhealthy and not good for my psyche.  Maybe this is why I smoke weed.  Just kidding.  No I'm not. 

The best analogy ever told to me, in reference to my psyche, was by a young, female shrink about ten years ago.  She wasn't more than thirty years old, fresh out of grad school.  I was living in Columbia, South Carolina at the time.  I was only a few years removed from the military and I was working as a mortgage loan officer getting paid 100% Commission.  If I didn't close loans, I didn't get paid.  That environment is not conducive for a man with my issues.  So I had a breakdown.  I lost it.  Instead of going to work, I went and sat in a park and cried.  I was shaking uncontrollably for hours.

That day in the park is what led me to contact the gorgeous, analogy-laden, shrink.  Only seconds prior to bestowing her numerous analogies upon me, she would always tilt her glasses down ever so slightly, allowing her sexy brown eyes to peer over her designer glasses, cocking her head slightly to one side, arching one eyebrow, with her mouth slightly agape.  This classic pose was the same performed by hundreds of female porn stars only moments before they let they violently let their hair down, snatched the glasses off their face, and ripped their blouses' open.  I loved that pose.

She leaned forward with her 'pose'  that I was certain she rehearsed hundreds of times in a mirror, and said "Michael, you're like a big pot that has been filled to the brim with all of the problems and issues you've ever had in your life.  That pot is now so full that even the smallest of problems or issues can cause it to overflow.  Because you've never discussed any of your issues in life, you're now unable to handle even the smallest occurrence without having an anxiety attack."  I couldn't tell what I liked more, the analogy or the 'pose'.  Several weeks (and sessions) later, she and I would have a disagreement, which led to me telling her how much I wanted to fuck her.  She then responded by politely declining that offer.  Lesbian.


The kind, older gentlemen, with 14 diplomas on his wall, sitting across from me, repeated his question.

"What is it that's really troubling you, Michael?"  He had such a way with words.

"Everything......and nothing."  No other words have ever described more accurately how I feel.  Everything and Nothing. 

In the past, the anxiety attacks and bouts of depression could be caused by a certain event, or occurrence.  Many times, it's unavoidable.  It's just nature running its course.    I can feel it coming days in advance.  The depression is the worst.  Physically, it will weigh on me.  At its onset, it can be a small, constant lump in my throat that can't be cleared.  That is usually followed by a large, gravitational weight being placed on my shoulders, causing them to slump.  The weight continues to increase, as the hours progress.  Unknowingly, my gaze will continue to lower, until eye contact is only made with the ground that lay before me.  My thoughts become dark and oppressed, and my bed is my only place of solace. 


Today, I refuse to go back to that place.  Now I keep my head held high, my shoulders back, and my chest out.  I still have 'bad' days from time to time, but they're manageable.  Now, they're just a part of life and not some crippling force that causes me to use all of my sick days at work by August.  After 20 years of trial and error, I think i'm starting to get this thing right. 


After rambling for several minutes about the universe and star alignment, the kind, gentle shrink gently tapped his watch to let me know my 50 minutes was up and it was time to go.  I gazed down at the street below, watching the cars maneuver and jockey for position.  Everybody just wants to get ahead, and they want to be the first ones there.  They all seem normal and okay, yet i struggle.  It's cool, though.  I'm learning to embrace it.  It defines me.  I haven't had a bad bout of depression in almost a year and a half, when I used to have them once a month.  I've had only a few minor anxiety attacks in the past year, and I plan on never having another.

I'm on the verge of great things, I just have to keep headed in the right direction.  And if talking to this kind, old man twice a month is part of that path, than so be it.  So I pay this guy a couple hundred a month, to assist me with breaking down my walls, and understanding 'Me' just a little bit more.  I figured that if I'm going to do some great things on this journey, I might as well try to understand me the best that I can.

Me:  Good Luck with that, Big Mike.

Big Mike:  Thanks.  I love you.

Me:  Love you too homey.

I Need a Remedy

The hardest part about 'struggling' as a child is trying to explain it to your mother.  Especially a mother that talks to you so little that you've convinced yourself she doesn't love you. 

"Oh Mother, I think i'm more acutely aware of my surroundings than others therefore causing me to have a heightened sensitivity level to my environment and it's making me nervous."  It's not exactly going down like that.  This is coming from the same kid who would only masturbate in the shower because of the fear that someone would see him because he KNEW he was the only 12 year old that touched his penis in that manner.  I was a horny little perv.

So I kept it to myself.  I just grew up different.  I gave the world a representative of me that I thought could best hide the real me.  I just wanted to feel on the 'inside' how everyone else appeared to feel on their 'outside'. 

I would mask my anxiety by portraying the Tough-guy role, or my personal favorite, the He-just-don't-give-a-Fuck persona.  Growing up in a "dysfunctional family", you have enough to worry about in life, let alone have it compounded with anxiety attacks, nervous shakes, and depression.

I wish there was some magic pill to take and you'd be all better, but it just doesn't work that way.  Trust me, I've tried EVERYTHING.  Numerous shrinks, over 1,000 different combinations of meds, exercise, drugs, alcohol, meditation, and even hypnotism. 

So i did what any troubled, handsome young man would do - I always made sure i was dating a girl more fucked up than me - so I could focus on her and her issues instead of worrying about mine.  Now please don't get it twisted folks, I was a pretty fucked-up individual, but with hard work and perseverance I was usually able to find a girl with tons of compounded issues that would somehow exceed my own.

The doctors would tell me that there is no wonder drug or true cure for anxiety and depression, and I would tell them they're liars, because there is.  It's called Xanax (a benzodiazepine). That pill would take the edge off, my shakes would subside, my heart rate would slow, and i felt as if that huge weight had been lifted off my chest.  Basically, it would allow me to breathe.  I immediately fell in love with the pill the moment I felt the first one take effect.  I mean, why wouldn't I?  It cured me.  I loved that pill so much i named my dog after it.  No bullshit.

One small problem with that beautiful oval-shaped, heaven-sent blue tablet:  It's habit forming.  Habit forming?  Habit forming, Schmabit forming.  I was taking it.  That's all there was to it.  I was fucking taking it and nobody could tell me otherwise, (actually nobody would tell me not to take it because I had moved far away from home and had alienated myself from any family or loved ones by that time). 

And so my addiction began.....

It's not that I begged, stole, robbed, and killed to get high.  Not the case at all.  It took me years to build up a tolerance to Xanax before my doctor became alarmed.  And how the hell could you tell me I had a habit?  I had a bottle with my name on it. With pills in it.  Prescribed to me by a doctor.  Yeah, that's right...a doctor.  You know the guy who went to college like four times as long as me in order to make important decisions, such as these?  Yeah, him. 

But eventually a day came that the 3 milligrams a day the doc was prescribing wasn't enough.  So i just went out and got me another doctor while still maintaining my other doctor as my "family doctor". 

This began the downward spiral of different benzodiazepines, mixed with other 'mood-stabilizing' pills, mixed with alcohol, mixed with life.  Bad, bad cocktail.  I stopped caring.  I lost touch with reality.  In all actuality, I just stopped giving a fuck. 

But meds aren't the answer.  Now I'm no Tom Cruise/Scientologist anti-medication preacher.  By no means.  But meds aren't the answer.  At least not meds, and meds alone.  You might need a NON-HABIT FORMING medication because there's plenty of them out there.  But you just can't take a pill and think it will fix what's wrong with you.  It's so much more than that.  I know i'm not you and i haven't walked in your shoes and I don't know your journey but I do know that a simple pill won't fix what's wrong.

You may need to find a good shrink, get daily exercise, eat healthy, take meds, and meditate just to get your shit together.  In a nutshell, that's pretty much what I did.  But it took me years and years of bad choices, major mistakes, and a bunch of trial and errors to even get where I'm at today.  And I'm still fucked up.  But I'm now only slightly fucked up AND happy.  I can honestly say that I'm okay with myself today and I could NEVER say that before.  I loathed me.  I hated who I became because I knew I could be so much more, and today I am.  Today, I'm truly Happy.

So this journey that I'm on has brought me here.  Actually, it's brought US here.  That's what this blog is all about.  My journey. 

So along this journey I'll give you me.  Past, present, and future.  Hopefully these words could help you as much as they're helping me.  As much as I started this blog in order to help someone else, I'm also helping me.  My words are my therapy.

I'll leave you with some helpful tips in case you're having a "bad day" (the term i use to describe my days that are plaqued with depression and anxiety).  I hope these help:

1.  Make up a fictitious disease.  People will not only be confused, but they'll empathize.  My personal favorite:  Vitamin B deficiency (my explanation if someone noticed my shakes).  Someone once told me that the reason people have the shakes when they're hungover is due to a lack of Vitamin B, sooooo......I made it my own.

2.  Play this music everytime you walk into a room.

3.  Head up, shoulders back, chest out.  73% of all depression is caused by poor body language.  Please note:  The percentage given in the previous sentence is fictitious - i usually add percentages in to make the statement seem more factual.  A trick I commonly use when attempting to win an argument and a statistic is one thing needed to sway the opponent.  87% of all statistics ever quoted by me were off-the-cuff.

So what's the next step for you?  It all depends on where you're at in your journey.  I had to lose everything:  the house, the car, the dog, the girl, and the job.  All of this had to be lost in order for me to get headed in the right direction.  But my hope is that you won't have to let it get that bad.  Hopefully, you're stronger than I was.

So if nobody's told you yet today that they love you, then let me be the first.  I love you.