Dia-beat-us

When you’re my age, your health isn’t a top concern.

When you’re 27 years old, you’re still young enough to fall into that invincibility mindset. You know, the one where nothing can touch you. The one where you’re going to always be okay.

Ones’ health is often so routinely taken for granted, that you often don’t even reconsider for a moment, that you never know what could happen.

In todays’ world, anything and everything can happen. Swine Flu, E. Coli, crazy mosquitos carrying deadly viruses, car accidents, random falling objects unfortunately landing on your face.

Anything.

Rarely do we take the time to acknowledge health concerns, because we’re so caught up with being caught up with everything else.

I’d much rather make it the next level in my video game. Go out and have a drink (or a dozen), Procrastinate, masterbate, or any sort of fornication for that matter.

It always seems like there’s no time. No time to just stop for a minute, and make sure that you are okay.

In late spring/early summer I went to a routine doctors’ appointment. My doctor gave me some bloodwork things to get taken care of at the lab to make sure everything is going smoothly, and today I realized that I still haven’t done it.

Everyone reading this may not know that I’m diabetic. I have been since the day before my 13th birthday.

I’ve had very important people in my life, that at one time or another I kept it from. For a long time it was something I was ashamed of, or embarrassed by. Until I reached a place when other peoples’ opinions weren’t that important, I never really told anyone.

It’s still not something I broadcast to just anyone.

“Hey my name is nick, and I’m a diabetic.”

“Yep. A shot, everyday.”

“No. Doesn’t hurt”

“Yes. It does suck. I wish I didn’t have it either”

I’m one of those unfortunate people that was damned from all angles. My grandma had it, my mothers’ father had it. Several of my mom and dads’ uncles. My mom. My dad. One of my sisters.

It’s everywhere. My family tree isn’t branches, it’s a fucking pixie stick.

One giant Sugar cube.

Anyway.

For the first time, today my disease really scared me.

I’m used to having minor difficulties, that aren’t really minor, but having dealt with them for so long, they’ve become no big deal.

“Oh, blurred vision, Pssh. That’s nothin!”

“What’s a little shakin, I’ll just drink this Mountain Dew real quick, and I’ll be fiiiiine”.

Today, out of nowhere I found myself disoriented. I got home from work, and suddenly felt really weird. My vision was distorted, as if my point of view was the wallpaper on my desktop, and I’d selected the “stretch” option and everything got stretched entirely too much. Apparently, I started acting like a weirdo, pacing, and rambling incoherently.

I say apparently, because the entire series of events is gone from my memory. It’s like it didn’t happen. Or I wasn’t even there. Yet, I remember a few random momemts from the ordeal, like being unable to open soda box to get a pop out. Or, stumbling all over myself as I tried changing.

I’m pretty sure that my sugar levels dropped dangerously low, because a few sips from some apple juice that my dear friend H brought me, and everything started coming together.

Things were making sense. My vision returned.

This is the first time something like this has happened. And, while I’m sure it scared J and H to death, to have to watch as something they love is going through such a unfortunate occurance, it has me really messed up.

It makes me stop for a second to understand that I’m not invincible. I have a disease that kills people everyday. The complications of it, are rivaled by very little, and on most days I barely take into recognition that this is important.

I trek on, like nothing can happen to me.

I toy with my body, (and i dont mean that in the good way) and I abuse the fact that with my condition I need to be doing more than the average person, to allow myself the chance to grow old.

It’s highly unlikely that I’ll live a long, full life. I’m not saying I’m  knock knock knockin on deaths’ door, but I’ve certainly got un uphill battle to make it to sixty.

I remember when I was little, and I just hoped I got to see 40.

The closer I get to that, the more I realize that forty isn’t anything.

I want to see myself succeed in life. And, I want to see those successions prosper.

I want to grow old and share a life with the person I love, without cutting them short on getting to do the same with me. Hell, maybe even a family.

And, today was one of those things, that smacked me in the face.

It said, “pull your fucking shit together, because you can’t keep taking advantage of the disadvantages life has dealt you and your body”.

It’s really hard to break habits, but perhaps it’s time I started keeping more important things in mind.

Drinking heavily all the time, eating whatever;whenever, and even smoking (yes..lately. ugh) isn’t going to lease me the extra time I want in my later years. And, unfortunately, having this disease for over fifteen years already, now is the only time I can afford to tackle breaking these habits.

I’m okay.

While it was scary, I hope this will help get me to a better place.

While I do have others to lean on, and help me out. Whom love me, and would do anything they can to help me, there’s still something in the adage that says the only person who can take care of you, is yourself.

Thanksgiving.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is one of those days that you not only have to endure, but you have to endure for the next week.

Everyone you talk to, asks  “how was your thanksgiving?”, or “Did ya eat enough turkey?”, or “what’d you do for the holiday, buddy?”.

It is, by far my least favorite day of the year.

I haven’t seen a member of my family on Thanksgiving since the year 2000. My dad ordered some Thanksgiving day box thing from Bob Evans or some shit, and since my boyfriend at the time was going to visit his parents, I ate with my dad.

It was the end to things. The end of my childhood. The end of us sitting down together and eating.

It was the last time I really felt like I had family, and in a sense was the last time I had family.

My dad ended up going to jail, and over the last ten years I’ve spent several Thanksgivings alone. It’s something I’ve grown used to, yet it always finds a way to bring you down a little bit.

Sure, for a few years I ate with my old roomates’ family, but that was something that was bittersweet. I felt thankful to have been welcomed into their home, Lucky to have this group of people inviting me into their family, placing me beside them at the table as if I were one of them. Not an outsider, but an equal. Yet, you can’t help but feel sad or disappointed, that you’re intruding on someone. I often felt, pretty awful about myself.

When I was younger, my aunt and uncles always bickered with another over doing things for each other. whenever they did something kind or helpful to one another, they held over each others’ head. I learned at a young age to not accept help from people. It was made clear, that pity was unacceptable.

And, there’s that part of me that can’t let that go.

I hate feeling pitied, or like I’m an inconvenience.

Also, I hate letting people know that I feel that way.

Tomorrow, I will again spend the day by myself. And, that’s okay. It’s almost therapuetic. It gives me time to slow things down, and actually think about things. It gives me a little time to let out the emotions I bottle in during the rest of the year.

Three hundred and sixty five days in a year, and throughout most of them, I carry my head high. I act like some things aren’t as important as they actually are.

I pretend that it doesn’t bother me that I don’t really have a relationship with my family. I act like it’s just unfortunate that I rarely see my sisters, that I’ve never met my cousins children who are in first and second grade,  that I haven’t talked to or seen my own mother in almost ten years, and I don’t even know the month that her birthday is in.

Three hundred and sixty five days, and it seems like it can only break me down on one of them. And, it just happens to be tomorrow.

I pretend that it doesn’t matter, and I understand when the people I care about and love the most have to go home to visit their family, but that isn’t entirely true. Sure, I know that most people have these obligations, and those of us that don’t just need to understand it. I would never try to take that away from someone…but at the same time, I wonder if maybe someday I’ll have a family of my own who will come home to me.

I guess all the emotions that the day stirs up, clouds a persons’ judgements a little bit, and instead of understanding, you just get depressed. I mean, noone likes to spend the holidays alone, right?

Now, that’s not to say that I wasn’t invited somewhere. A dear friend of mine, asked me if I wanted to come with her with her family. And, I didn’t tell her that I appreciate it, but I did.

It’s not that I don’t want to go, as much as it is that I can’t. In my fucked up head, it’s alot easier to spend the time by myself, wondering what I’m missing, than being with someone else, and knowing exactly.

I’ll spend tomorrow by myself. I’ll sit on the internet. I’ll oversleep, and then I’ll go to work and if anyone asks, I’ll tell them my Thanksgiving Day was good.

It’s the same routine I’ve gone through for the past few years, and it works for me.

If you’re reading this, then I guess you get that extra glimpse.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Forge plus a T.

For a good portion of my life, all I wanted to do was forget.

Forget all the mistakes I’d made.  And  all of the horrible things that have happened to me.

Forget about all the people that have hurt me with their lies and backstabbing.

Forget about all of the people I’ve left behind, tossed aside, or just given up on in general.

It often seemed like the best idea for me. Throw away the memories. Forget about all of the things I choose to run from.

Erase all of the different levels of hurt and disappointment.

While writing about this, I noticed that inside of the word forget, is the word forge.

To truly let go of everything you carry with you, the easiest way isn’t to forget about them. Because you can’t. You aren’t going to. It’s impossible.

But, you can carry them with you, instead of letting them carry you.

For a very long time I wasn’t able to differentiate between those two things. Mostly, because it’s easier to run with things chasing you, rather than walk steadily with those things in your grasp.

We get so wrapped up in our mistakes, our faults and failures that we forget that they are indeed ours. They’re owned by us, individually. And that we possess the ability to stronghold them. We  can limit the amount we allow things to cloud over ourselves. And, for many years I either lost hold of that knowledge, or failed to understand it entirely.

I live each day with mistakes. Misfortunes. Shouldas, wouldas, and couldas. But, its not the same as before. I carry them. They don’t carry me.

I found evidence in this fact last week. An old friend whom I spent many years living with and growing close to, exchanged a few emails.  She moved away, and ran into some difficulties within her personal life. I offered her what little bit I could, a shoulder to lean on, an ear to lend if she needed someone to listen to her.

Because of our circumstances back then, we kinda lost contact for awhile. She’d been very close to my lover at the time, and when our relationship crumbled, instead of placing the blame on him and myself, I blamed her for a conversation I’d overheard.

It wasn’t really anymore her fault than it was anyone who reads this. It was just something that had meant alot to me, and instead of standing up and saying what parts where my fault, and what parts were his, I found it easier to blame her for giving him some advice that hurt my feelings. When, truth be told it was advice she should have been giving.

I was young, naive. And hell bent and determined on proving that love is powerful enough to overcome any obstacle. When in fact love was the obstacle. Neither of us were happy. Neither of us could barely stand to be around the other. We were annoyed constantly, and miserable. But we loved each other. We’d been together for so long, despite the break-ups that came routinely. We were really all we’d known of love. And, we didn’t want to break the other ones’ heart.

Personally, I didn’t think I could make it alone. I didn’t think I was smart enough. Capable enough. Strong enough. I thought my world would crumble. How could I possibly live without this person.

But, eventually I also knew that I’d never be happy. I’d never be my own person. I’d always be living to please someone else. Trying not to make him angry. Trying not to do something wrong. And, in doing so, cutting myself and him way short.

I know that he had alot of trouble with me as well. And, most of the people that knew us, often told both of us that we needed to leave each other alone.

I guess, it just hurt me to learn that someone I was so close with, was telling someone that I loved, to leave me. And, it hurt me. Maybe because I was too stubborn to understand the truth in it. And, maybe because I was too scared to accept the reality of it.

Either way, it happened.

I grew apart from her, and he and I don’t speak to this day. It’s one of those things you cannot help. It’s the way it hasta be, for everyone to live peacefully.

In her emails to me, she mentioned that she’d been living with some guilt. And she needed to get it off of her chest.

Being curious, I obliged, and she told me some things, that…I didn’t know about my relationship so many years ago.

I didn’t understand until that moment, just how different I am.

Before this information would have broken me down. Teared me apart. My confidence shattered. My ego bruised. And, my weaknesses exposed.

I would have cried, and felt angry.

But, instead I laughed.

It’s amazing how things that once were so important, become things that aren’t. The matters that once measure heavily, become trivial, and uninviting.

I don’t mean to lessen the importance of this person, because to say that there isn’t a part of me that will carry some form of memory about him with me forever, would be false. I loved this person with all I had. However, over the years I’ve learned more about love.

I’ve learned that it’s not enough to overcome any obstacle. It’s not enough to sacrifice your happiness for. It’s not enough to fight and fight and fight to obtain.

And, I’m very glad that I’ve learned this. Otherwise there would be a few relationships I might still be holding onto. And, in doing that, would not be able to be a part of the one I have today.

I wish, that the things my friend told me, had not happened. It would be nicer to look back on my past with him and not have it rained upon with this information. But, I’ve lost that part of me that needs that comfort.

I’ve forged forward from the things that once frightened me. The things that once made me weak and feeling worthless.

And, in doing so, it helps me not forget, but remember.

I don’t want to forget the mistakes, and the bad things in my life that have led me to this point. Because without them in my memory, I wouldn’t be able to understand the good things that have come my way.

I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the things that make me a better a person. And, I probably wouldn’t be able to forgive. Both myself, and the other people in my life that have caused me strife.

A friend who has known me for quite a few years said to me yesterday that they couldn’t remember a time when they’ve seen me happy. She said that she’s so happy to see it in my life now.

And, I have to agree. I’ve never been in this place with myself and another person.

I’ve grown. I’ve let go. And, I’ve learned a hell of a lot.

And, you don’t get to this place by forgetting about the things that hurt you.

You get here, by hurting, picking yourself up, and pulling through all the bullshit until you reach a place where you’re able to sit down without looking behind you.

It’s been hard, but I feel like there isn’t a thing I’d change.

Infact, I’m pretty fucking lucky.

Matthew Shepard

In October of 1998, I was working with my father in his construction company. I was sixteen years old.  I was coping and coming to terms with the knowledge that I was gay.

I was struggling with trying to find my place in the world. I tried to find where I fit in. How to be myself. I tried to understand how I could possibly lead a life that was true to myself, yet didn’t alienate me completely from my family. I was afraid. And, I was alone in that fear. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I didn’t have a place to turn.

I remember finding out that a young man had been found beaten, and tied to fence in the outskirts of Wyoming.It was one of those news events that seemed to escalate by the hour.

I remember finding out that it was a hate crime. I remember learning that he was beaten because he was gay.

I remember the fear I instantly felt in the pit of my stomach. Trying to come to terms with my own identity, and learning that the truth spoke to me saying, the world isn’t completely okay with this.

I remember going back and forth with myself. Could I possibly be ready to handle a life of scrutiny?

I remember my dad watching the news. He always watched the news. I hated it. But I remember him watching it, five days later.

I remember the doctors’ press conference. Saying that Matthew Shepard had died.

I watched my Dad, and I realized that two different emotions were inside of him. There was that anti-homosexual, religious upbringing, naive part of him, that thought he deserved it for as he said “putting the moves on guys that weren’t queers”. And, there was that part of him, unknowingly, that somehow knew that a part of this would live with him forever.

Growing up, my father often made it clear to me that he could not, would not accept a queer. I knew that he knew, just couldn’t accept it. And I knew that now he would always secretly be afraid for me.

I remember being devastated by the death of Matthew Shepard. Not because I knew him, or because people could be so cruel, but because that was me. The reason that those things happened to him, were no different than me.

He instantly became the face of my community. He became the model for our direction. I think for a brief moment, every single gay person, man or woman, felt sad. Angry. Afraid.

And, in the eleven years that it has been since his death, some things have changed. Though, some have not.

In 1999, at seventeen years old I made the decision to tell my father I was gay. I broke his heart. I changed his life. I bruised his pride.

For awhile, I felt guilty. My decision to be myself, open and honest, meant that my dad had to face the very people he aligned with.

He learned that he had to love me regardless. And, even though he’s a mess, and a crackhead, and a horrible person. He loves me, no matter what.

I’m not sure if the death of Matthew Shepard affected everyone the same. I’m not sure if everyone was brought to tears as I was.

I can only speak from my personal experience.

Sadly, I think that Matthew Shepards’ death, made my life better.

And for that I hold a place of eternal gratitude towards him.

He didn’t choose his path. His path was chosen for him.

It’s crazy to think where this world would be in hindsight. What kind of life would I have, if Matthew Shepard lived?

Where would the homosexual movement be, if on the night of October 6th 1998, that fence was never adorned with the body of a beaten homosexual man.

I think sometimes people aren’t as grateful for those that have paved the way for them.

So, that’s what this blog is about.

I’m sorry that those things happened. I wish they hadn’t. I can’t imagine being tied to fence, bleeding, dying. Being scared, hurt and alone. I’d erase that from history if I had that ability.

But I can’t.

Today, the House passed  the Matthew Shepard Hate Crime bill,Adding federal protection for violent hate crimes based on a person’s sexual orientation. 281 votes to 146.

Eleven years after this event, and today is the first day that his mother can say that the world has acknowledged his death appropriately.

This is the second time that I am benefiting from his death.

I will forever have some sort of mental attachment to him and his life.

Without his unwilling sacrifice, my life wouldn’t be the same. It just, wouldn’t.

And, I’ll hold a little piece of him on that fence with me, for the rest of my life.

Love and Marriage.

I’m not afraid to say it.

I’m a gay man, in a committed relationship.

And, I’m not pro-gay marriage.

It’s not because I don’t believe that all people are equal and deserve the same liberties. Because, yeah. Sure. Whatever.

It’s more because I don’t really believe in marriage period.

I’m pro-happiness.

I don’t believe in things like “staying together for the children” or “making it work”.

I believe in doing the things that make you want to wake up each morning. I believe in spending time with the people that when they’re not around, they’re who you are thinking about. They’re who you want to be with. They’re who you can’t stop asking yourself , “what is he/she doing right now”.

The person you miss when they’re gone.

I think that everyone in the entire world should spend at least 6 months working in a bar. Not just any bar, but the bar that your closest friends go to most often.

You learn so much watching the habits and drunken debacles of people. And, sometimes theres this amazing glimpse into someone elses’ life that you both love and hate.

Sometimes people with whom you might’ve felt less than, show another side of them. One of imperfection.

Sometimes you feel bad for people you might’ve judged wrongly, or harshly.

It’s really a complete social phenomenon.

People in my community often gawk and marvel at the fact that I’m not standing outside in my rainbow colored t-shirt  carrying some witty homemade sign  displaying my discontentment with the government and the laws defining who can get married and who can’t.

But, really. If you got to see as much as I do, how big of a fan of it would you be?

I’ve been in committed relationships. Or so I thought.

I’ve seen people that I fully believe love their partner with their entire heart do things that I’m sure are not approved of.

I know very few people that have the ability to stay committed to one person. And, hey, maybe you’re okay with not being committed to one person. Maybe it’s how you work. Cool. Sweet. Rock out with your cock in someone elses’ ass for all I care. I’m not judging.

I’m just saying.

I see it all the time. And, its everywhere.

People lie. They cheat. They pretend nothings’ happening when it is.

And, I don’t really care. It’s your life. Your decisions. Your guilt.

But, until people can take a mature, respectable approach towards other people in regards to their relaionships, I don’t think ANYONE should be able to get married.

There are rules and restrictions on almost everything.

What you can do, when you can do it. How old you have to be, or even how much of it you can do.

But anyone can stroll downtown and sign a document sharing a life with another person.

I can walk there, and meet someone on the way.

“Where you headed?

“Oh nowhere”

“Wanna get married?”

“Sure!”

And, yeah. My point is just that so few people can be responsible.

So, to those of you, I say this.

If you don’t want to be with someone, don’t be with them. Don’t stay with them because you’re afraid to hurt them, because..that’s a reason that would hurt me. Unless they’re invincible from emotion, I’m guessing it would hurt them too

Don’t pacify them. Don’t pretend to love them and want to be with them, but allow your actions to display otherwise.

Take into consideration that everything you do affects them.

And, every complex you give them, will last longer than the initial pain of losing something that matters.

So, not only are you destroying the relationship you have with them, but you’re destroying their ability to have a fair chance at a relationship with other people because of all the fucked up things you’re sorry ass did to them.

Love is complex. And complicated. And hard. And amazing.

It’s fulfilling, and crazy. Aggravating and stressful.

Its both the best and worst.

And, if you aren’t giving your entire effort towards it, you at least owe it to the other person to let them know, so they aren’t the only ones trying.

If people as a whole, could stop being selfish and greedy, and hurtful. Unkind and decieptful…then perhaps I could approve of marriage.

But in the circles that I run in, these people shouldn’t be trusted with pet rocks, let alone the emotions of another human being.

September 17th.

It’s well documented in my blogging (both here, and any other site my blog used to be at) that my grandmother and I were very close.

At a young age, my mothers’ irresponsibility allowed my father to gain sole custody of me. In my youngest years that I can remember, we lived in my grandparents’ home. After we finally moved out, my grandmother babysat me. Almost every single day during the school year whether it be after school, or on the weekends.

My grandmother was my closest friend, and my only confidant. My father didn’t allow me to have friends. I couldn’t have anyone over, and I couldn’t go over anyones’ house. And, often times we moved around so much that forming friendships became difficult.

Eventually, in the summer before 4th grade, my dad got arrested, and went to jail. I went to live with my grandparents for that entire school year.

After that, they still remained close to me.

At around 9 am on September 17, 1994, my cousin Brandie and I decided that we couldn’t sleep anymore. We woke her little brother out of bed, and started a game of Monopoly. We played alot of games as kids, but Monopoly was our favorite. I liked bribing them out of all their good properties, and they liked feeling like they were rich, bitch. My dad had already left for work, and after awhile the phone rang. It was a woman from the hospital needing to speak with my dad.

An hour and ahalf later, my dad came home and told me that my grandma had died in the hospital. Her lungs had filled with fluids in her sleep, and she had basically drowned to death in her hospital bed.

I think I cried for an entire month. My grandmother, my babysitter, my best friend, the only mother figure I’d ever really known.

It was a Saturday. We drove my cousins home, and I remember staring out watching the street as we neared their house. I remember realizing that for the first time ever, I was going to have to face something I wasn’t prepared to face.

I went to my first funeral that week. I seen my first dead body. I truly felt pain and grief for the very first time. And it seems like my life began spinning out of control at rates I couldn’t describe from that point on. It wasn’t long afterwards that I was taken out of school, cheated out the rest of my childhood, forced into some adult-style life that I wasn’t mature enough to handle.

Fifteen years later, I stare at a computer screen wondering how much differently things would have gone in my life had this event been postponed. Even if just by five years.

Maybe I would’ve had someone to stand behind me, and show me love when I decided to come out of the closet. Maybe I would’ve had someone to tell me that I wasn’t the monster I was accused of.

I developed a complex involving people leaving me. It seemed like from that point on everyone I cared about left me. Gave up on me. Or turned their backs.

I grapsed onto anyone I could. I reached out for the hands of anyone willing to reach back.

And, I eventually found a way to fall in love with the idea of falling in love. This idea followed me. It became the driving force in my life, and for so long it felt like I’d never find that emotion. And, when I found anything that could be related to it, I attached myself to it in unhealthy ways.

And, this pattern has in some way, followed me for my entire life.

Since my very first boyfriend, I’ve felt the need to compensate for my lack of attention in the rest of my childhood. I wanted to be in love so bad, that it’s all I could aspire to reach.

I used the words “I love you” before I knew what the words meant, or what the emotion entailed.

Many years later, I realized what loving someone means.

It’s not just sunshine and rainbows. It’s not always a warm happy feeling inside of you that makes you burst butterflies and smiley faces.

Sometimes, it causes extreme hurt. It fuels anger, and grief. Fear, and regret. Without I found myself miserable and self loathing. With it, I found myself compromising myself and feelings to keep it.

It wasn’t until after my relationship with Preston deteriorated that I understood that love doesn’t conquer everything.

The Beatles’ were wrong when they said All you need is love.

Love is all you can hope to get. But so much more comes with it, that you never know you’re gonna get.

There have been many painful moments in my time. I’ve been hurt alot, and I’m sure I’ve caused my fair share as well. In my lowest moments, theres never been a time I haven’t wished for just a few moments with my grandmother.

She offered the warmest, most simple advice. She always seemed to know what to do, and for someone that only finished kindergarten because she had to help take care of her over a dozen brothers and sisters, she was the smartest person I’d ever met.

I don’t remember the little things about her that I used to. But I remember the love I had for her. It hasn’t faded at all.

In the last week my will has truly been tested.

I’ve lost a good friend, as well as a huge chunk of my self worth.

Yesterday, it dawned on me how much I could use her wisdom, as I lost it, and ended up curled into a ball in my closet, sobbing uncontrollably.

I wish I could stare at her, and just ask her what she would do in my situation.

Where would she pull her strength from. And how would she apply it to best suit herself and her heart.

I’ve lost my way. And in that, I’ve lost both the ability to find my way, and the desire to search for it.

People might say I have a very good friend, and a boyfriend to help me along the way. But it feels like everything that’s happened this week has not only isolated me from the world, but from my closest friends. And from myself.

I feel the need to run reckless. To give up caution and be careless. I feel a strong desire to act out, to be defiant. And to give up in so many different aspects.

I’m made a collage of hurtful moments in my life that hangs on some darkened wall in the corners of my heart. And this weeks’ mural is surely resting with the rest of them.

I feel like I’ve been ripped in half, and then been placed back together. But, after the other half has been crinkled all up, walked on, trampled over, spat upon, and left out in the cold. Now I have to find a way to make it all work again.

I have to find a way to reconnect myself with the rest of the world. Return to that person I was a week ago. Only, there’s a giant lump residing inside of me that makes me wonder if that’s even possible at this point.

I feel like this week has changed me. It’s made me an angrier version of who I once was. Someone I’ve not been for a long time. Someone I’d hoped I’d never be again.

The further time goes by, the more I wonder if I’ll ever be the same again. The more I hope for it, the less likely it seems. The more I strive to offer hope and forgiveness for myself and those around me, the more it feels like an entire piece of my soul is missing.

I’m not sure I know how to get that back. Or if that piece even fits anymore.

I don’t want to lose the things that I have. But, I’ve lost myself trying to hold onto them.

These are the times my grandmother would’ve held me. And assured me that I’d be okay.

Something I haven’t heard in a very long time.

Something I’m not sure I’ve believed in a longer time than that.

Perhaps my reasons for wanting her back in my life are selfish. But, I so often get to act that way, that I feel okay about that.

I was twelve years old when I lost my grandmother. And, now I’m twenty seven. I can think of very few things I wouldn’t sacrifice for just a few moments with her.

The ability she had to make me feel special was something I could really use right now. Whether it be truth or not, I can’t think of a time I’ve really needed it more.

I miss her very much. My heart years for her unconditional love.

She’s the only person in my life that’s never hurt me. I know she probably gets upset at me and my stupid decisions sometimes. Maybe she frowns on me for taking things so personally, and being so hard and critical on myself. The only thing that makes it a little more comforting is hoping that she always is proud of me, when I say or do the right thing. I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a position where I’ve made someone proud. So, that’s a very important idea for me to hold onto.

It sometimes amazes me, the strength she had to battle all the different things she battled. I wish that more of that was passed onto me. At this moment in my life, I feel so weak and shattered, that a little bit of that would help go a long way with me.

I can’t even begin to express how much.

When the going, Gets Rough

This is a poem a wrote a little over a year ago. I think I posted it back then, but I ran acrss it and felt the need to throw it out there again.

When the Going, Gets Rough

I keep lookin for answers to why I’m the way I am.
Trying to understand myself strand by strand.
I wish I could make sense of shit. Instead I sit.
I get pissed, turn my hand into a fist, aim at my heart and hit hit hit
I look for answers in shit like jesus,
but it seems he’s the one that always leaves us.
I get really emotional. Attack myself like im devotional.
The only thing I stand true to is,Either you’re gonna hurt me or im  gonna hurt you.
I got alot of fuckin issues. Leave me alone for fifteen seconds and I’m crying cuz i miss you.
Always been by myself, having people near me is my one and only wealth.
I tell myself I’m stealth when I act like nothins wrong..
Noone really falls for it..its me I string along.
Sometimes I think of suicide, shootin myself in the head.
But people get upset at that…wanna strap a bitch to a bed.
I’m not really crazy. All hazy in a daze. I’m runnin along like a mouse in a maze.
I’m a fuckin disaster. A catastrophe.
Everythings an analogy.
People never understand my mentality.
I’m scared to death of everything.
Everyone I love turns my happiness into a no longer existing fling
I always tear myself down. One little thing, and im holdin myself under water, but I cant seem to drown.
Not really. Thats a metaphor.
A phrase used to expose my sore.
I want to invite people inside my mind. Give em just a second to relax and unwind.
Then unleash my thoughts and fears, how I break myself apart.
How easily I tear down. The fragile condition of my self hating heart.
Ill charge a cover charge and make em a drink.
Pat their shoulders when they see just how I think.
It’s a scary thing bein me. Always blaming myself secretly.
I come across as selfish, inconsiderate and mean.
The truth is I’m none of that, and nothing in between.
I accuse myself of everything. I insist im always the one that’s wrong.
I’m the composer of the “i hate myself because i never seem to bring anything good to myself or anyone” song.
I need a little confidence. A little dose of common sense.
I can take three hundred and seventy four things and find the one thing that matters least
Turn it into a mental “this is another thing wrong with you. you piece of shit” feast.
This is how I treat myself. Like someone I hold with disgust. Theres not a single person I can trust
I feel like I never bring anything good to the table.
Like me not being a douchebag is an Aesop Fable.
The further I go, The farther I fall.
The people I’ve loved, I’ve ruined them all.
Tears fall uncontrollably. I can’t even take control of me.
I’m out of whack. Self defeat intact.
And all I can find time for is fear.
Sometimes I’m sorry that I’m here.
I get tired of getting hurt, and people getting to see
I just wanna be like, get the fuck away from me
I’m crucified on the highest steeple.
By all sorts of different people.
All I seem to want to do is leave
This is my home, my own little web I weave
I wish everything was easy
Maybe like it wasn’t so hard to please me
I wanna punch people in their faces
Ready Set Go and I’m off to the races
Running from everything I know
Sometimes I’ve got noone to look to and nowhere to go
My confusion reigns supreme
I wake up, like what the fuck is going on in my life. Maybe its all a dream
A nightmare. A double dare.
I just wanna sit by myself and lose the ability to care.
But If I did that I wouldnt really be me.
You’d take a peek, and it’s somebody else you’d see.
I gotta stick to the things I know.
Careful what I hold onto, and what I’m willing to let go
I dont think I know anything
I’ve been pulled apart piece by piece. There’s the rest of me, dangling around on a string
Sometimes I feel I should be motionless
Hide somehwere so you cant see im a big fucking mess
I get tired of trying to sing the blues
But hey motherfucker, im also not playin to lose.
I’m tired of trying to figure out this shit, where im going and where I’ll land
Chalk it up to being someones’ generic while they play the name brand
So ill pretend like nothing matters. I’m alright and alls okay.
But that’s not what im thinkin at the end of the day.
I dont even care anymore.We all have our  roles to play.
I guess im no further now than when I started
Its only a little while til my whole heart is parted
This is what happens when the going gets rough
I guess it’s all because I have a complex. I’ll always think I’m not good enough

What it Be.

Ever had a moment that happened so fast, you almost don’t remember it happening?

Maybe it was a moment you’d like to forget.

One of those experiences that if given the opportunity to go back, you’d gladly return and do things differently.

I’ve never had one of these moments.

That’s not to say that I don’t make mistakes, but yet more so that I don’t take risks. I live for things to stay in a comfort zone to my liking.

I don’t gamble. I’m not spontaneous. Possibly because my dad liked to live that way. Well, maybe not so much spontaneously, but high. So, he gambled plenty.

I had no place to live. No place to sleep, no blankets to cover my cold and insecurity. No food. No hopes.

So, as an adult I’ve found the greatest comforts in keeping what is mine close to me. Treasuring the things I’ve acquired. Sheltering my relationships with different people. Trying to keep everything from the world, so the world can’t take it away from me.

I’ve learned that there are very few people like me. Instead, they’re always trying to score more, have better. See further. Obtain it all.

This has often times left me feeling like an outsider. A bystander.

Often hoping that things could slow down to my pace, never experiencing that except inside of my own little bubble.  Even going as far as pretending that things were more of what they weren’t. Less of what they were. And half as in between.

I’ve experienced so many things. And, it’s uncomfortable, knowing that those experiences never cease. They shape themselves differently, they shift back and forth, but they never stop.

Through everything, I still learn. I learn what not to do, what to do more of, what I can handle and what my breaking points are.

I’ve learned when is too much, too little, and just the right amount.

I’ve long ago, made conclusions as to what sort of expectations I should have.

I learned to aim low, and shoot slightly higher, thus never disappointing myself, and occasionally being able to overachieve in some sort of ridiculous way.

I learned to expect the worst, and deliver the least.

I learned that in order to excel, you must be able to put yourself first.

I guess, that’s why I haven’t gotten very far.

For years, I was a complete pessimist. And, over time I’ve somehow lost a huge portion of that.

I’ve grown to learn that im not a pessimist, nor an optimist. I simply see things the way the are. Typically, for me, it just so happens that things suck ass.

In the past few days, I’ve experienced a wide array of emotions.

And, for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know how I feel.

I don’t know how I want to feel, how I should feel, or more importantly, if I can feel at all.

My life is my own device. I can control a wide majority of it.

I have the ability to guide it in different directions.

However, I seem to have lost my sense of direction. And, I’m not really sure how I’m going to get that back.

I feel like a complete different person. And, it offers me very little comfort to be in this place of personal confusion.

I feel like I’ve been dropped off in the middle of a place and time thats unfamiliar. Surrounded by people I don’t know.

Maybe they just don’t know me.

Maybe it isn’t important.

I’m not really sure anymore.

Life confuses the fuck out of me. Things happen that shouldn’t. People pass that had so much to offer. People mess up when they shouldnt. They float on without making moves because they’re afraid.

It’s all a part of it all.

It just seems like this week, it’s affected me from all angles. My mind goes into overload, my brain goes into seclusion.

And, I sit there wishing I had time to catch up with everything. It all moves so fast, I’m not even sure its occured in the first place.

I guess this is my experience I’d go back and replace. I’d take this entire week away. Maybe I could somehow make it not so fucking painful.

Maybe.

Stacie Miller

I have worked in a bar for over 8 years. In that time I have met hundreds of people. Of those people,  several dozen have become my friends. Of those several dozen, a very select few have become great friends.

In the twenty seven years I have been alive, I have known a small amount of people that have died. Usually, they’ve been random acquaintances, people I’ve heard of but never met, possibly even family members I’ve never known. Of that small number, a very select few have been great friends.

It’s in the moment you learn of someones’ death that their impact on your life really flashes in front of you.

In the eleven years that I’ve been blogging, I’ve written a handful of blogs dedicated to people that the world has lost. Most of them being people that have impacted me in some way, shape, or form. People that have changed me. People that have made me into the person I am. People that I will never forget.

Tonight, for the first time ever, I write  a blog  for someone that was a dear friend. Someone that at one time, I spent alot of time with. Someone that I cared for.

Tonight, I learned that a friend that had moved away, died in an automobile accident.

She was young. She was beautiful. She was kind.

I met her while working at Caesars. She came in regularly, and while I can’t remember how our friendship came about, my memories of her all consist of smiling, and laughing.

She ended up working at the bar, and not working at the bar, and working at the bar again, and then…not working at the bar again. She always came back in. And, while there were times she’d get upset and act out, she was always someone that treated me well. Except for the time she yelled at me for spelling her name with a y, and not an ie.

She was funny. She was inviting. She was amazing.

We grew apart after she moved. We occasionally texted back and forth, but rarely was it the same. Both of us having drifted onwards with our lives and our significant others. (and, other significant others) It was probably over a year ago that I spoke to her. She was drunk dialing, and wanted to tell me she missed me. And, that she loved me.

I remember feeling happy. Not that she missed me, but that she loved me. Because I missed her too.

She was thoughtful. She was fun. She was the coolest lesbian I’d ever met.

I lost her number, and  I changed mine, and we never got back in touch. I heard that she’d found happiness. I heard that things were going well for her.

Tonight, I learned of her death. I also learned that she was planning to visit here in two weeks.

Two more weeks, and I would’ve gotten the opportunity to see my friend one more time. I would’ve gotten to share the things that are going on in my life with her. I could’ve told her that I’m finally happy. Something she spent countless conversations trying to convince me I deserved. Countless times, telling me it would happen for me.

I will never see my friend again. I will never speak to her, never smile or laugh with her. We will never do a shot together again. And we will never sit and talk about each other, (or ourselves…we were vain!… but we embraced it.)

But I will always remember her.

Since I’ve heard, I’ve had to fight with myself all day to not have this burst of  emotions. I’ve cried on and off. I’ve sat and blocked out what was happening around me, trying not to think of memories. Moments. Mental images.

Soon, I suppose that will pass. I will no longer struggle to not think of it, but as time passes and my memory fades, I will struggle to remember. Eventually you lose grip of what a persons eyes looked like. The way they looked when you did something stupid. The way it made you feel when they laughed. The invitation your heart got, every time they smiled.

I suppose, I’ll forget these things. And, I’ll simply remember her.

Her name was Stacie Miller. She was a confidant. A shoulder. A rock.

She was so many more things than I’m capable of listing.

But, most of all she was my friend.

I loved her very much. And, I will miss her with every day I spend in this world.

There are times, like these that I get angry. I challenge my mind to grasp why things like this have to happen. Why people are taken from this world before they need to. Why others must endure what it feels like to lose someone. I ask myself why suffering must take place. Where it fits in to the whole picture.  I rage, because it seems unfair.

But, I take a step back when I think that perhaps it not my place to question it. Just simply do my best to live my life in the best possible way.

I will forever remember some of the things her and I talked about. And, it’s in memory of her that I strive to be the person that she believed me to be.

I wish I could’ve seen her one last time. But, when is one last time, quite enough?

I truly hope my dear friend rests in peace. She will truly be missed.

A Bartenders’ Guide to Bar Etiquette.

While lying in bed thinking of the different events of the evening at work, I was suddenly struck.

Jacobs’ elbow right in the face. This made me huff, and roll over. Then I began thinking about the night again, when he rolled over, and took all of the blankets off of me.

This, made me giggle. Because he does it all of the time.

I returned to my thought process, when I thought about a particular person that was at the bar and their tipping etiquette. Or, the lack thereof.

This sent me down a path of several other annoyances by the bar patrons that I deal with on a regular basis.

So, since I have insomnia, my face hurts, and one half of my body is frozen/numb I might as well use this time well and blog.

I’ll say that critiqueing someone’s tip, is similar to making fun of a womans’ weight, or a mans’ penis size. Noone wants to be the cheap guy. Even if they are the cheap guy, they don’t want everyone to know it.

And, trust me, if you’re the cheap guy, we’re telling everyone.

Here is my list, in no particular order of things that, as a bartender, bothers me.

• As a bartender, if I want a shot, odds are ..I’ll get it. If you decide to buy the bartender a shot, that’s great. That’s wonderful. Thank You. But, that should not be a substitute for a tip. Trust me, it’s cheaper for you to just give me the tip, and..I’d much rather have the dollar.(s)
• If you don’t know what you’d like, don’t ask me to make you something. Especially if I don’t know you. I probably don’t know what you like, and there’s a real strong chance that we aren’t the same exact person with the same  tastebuds. “oh..whats in that….coconut? I don’t like coconut” Hey, maybe you should just fucking order what you do like instead making me surprise you.
• Don’t use the phrase “i cant taste any alcohol”. Trust me, we put it in there.
• Don’t ask us to “hook you up”. That’s like saying one of two things a) I’m real cheap and won’t be tipping you much. or b) I’m almost broke, will be leaving soon, and probably won’t tip you accordingly.
• Don’t order a round of drinks for several people who are tipping, and then leave a crappy tip. It’s not appreciated.
• Don’t bang your bottle or glass on the bar for our attention. Also, don’t whistle, clap, snap or yell out to us. By nature, we’re pretty observant. If we aren’t paying you the proper attention, you aren’t tipping well enough.
• Don’t get in line, or stand at teh bar to order until you know what you want. We don’t wanna hold your hand during the decision making process. And, if you have a tag along and are buying their drink(s) too, make sure they know what they want as well. We are there to make money, not wait on you during your every whim.
• Don’t leave your money on the bar. Ever. Unless it’s for us, put it in your motherfucking pocket, or shut the fuck up when we snatch it and put in ours.
• Stick to small-talk and short stories.  Perhaps a joke or so. If we’re busy, we probably don’t want to hear your adaptation of the war of 1812 one soldiers’ story at a time. A quick funny ha-ha kinda thing is fine. But if your story is lasting so long that it’s obvious that we don’t want to be standing there anymore…Nip it in the butt.  We probably don’t care.
• Give us your entire order at once. If we know what we’re doing, we’ll remember it all, or at least most of it. If we forget, we’ll come back. There’s nothing more annoying than when someone orders a rum and coke. Then you go make it, come back and you need a vodka cran. We come back and you add a Bud Light. Know what the fuck you want and how many of them we want.
• Don’t tell us to smile. We realize we’re in a position where a smile goes along way. We work in a place involving social skills. But, keep in mind, we are also working. I’m guessing you aren’t smiling at your job at the fast food window, or at your cubicle. Or, (for you lesbians) (or Debra) your brick laying site. We have bad days, we get tired, cranky, angry, and sometimes we don’t wanna walk around on display for everyone with a big fucking smile on our face. Sure, noone wants to go to the angry looking guy, but we shouldn’t have to be crucified for being human either.
• Don’t poop in our trash cans. (it’s apparently an issue. lol)
• Dont ask, or expect anything for free. We can’t go see you at  whateverfuckinplaceyouworkat and ask for a free soda, or a free piece of pizza, why would we be able to give it to you?
• Ice water is never. Ever. Ever, To be ordered unless you’ve been drinking. Just because its not booze, doesn’t mean it’s not taking our time. Why would I wanna make an ice water for Snoop Dogg, who isn’t gonna tip me, when Rush Limbaugh drinking Scotch and Soda needs a drink and is givin me a buck seventy five an order.
• Don’t point out how well you’ve tipped. Not in the past. Not earlier that night. Not ever.
• Don’t ever say this  “I’ll get you next time”. No, you won’t. But, I will get you next time, when you’re drink is alot weaker or it takes me an extra while to get it. Maybe someone’s telling their adaptation of the war of 1812 one soldiers’ account at a time, and maybe I’ll choose when you need a drink to listen to that bullshit.
• Don’t be a dick to us. period. I don’t care if you overheard me call you and your mother every name in the book, it’s not going to get you anywhere to start shit with the bartender. And, furthermore…why would you wanna have issues with the person in charge of cutting you off, kicking you out, and pouring the liquor in your drink.
• Don’t think that by folding your money up before you hand it to us, will trick us into not noticing that it’s exact change. I guarantee you, no matter what….no matter who you are. If you don’t tip the bartender, it’s the first thing they notice when they put the money in the register. It’s the main thing they’re thinking about for the next 15 seconds. And, that 15 seconds is 15 seconds that you are being judged. We might not always be amazing at first impressions, but we know whether we are gonna like you, as soon as you pay.
• If you don’t want a straw, or fruit in your drink, tell us. I personally dislike wasting a lime or lemon on someone who just throws it back on the bar. Not only did I use fruit that now hasta be thrown away, but I actually hafta pick it back up. Same with straws. I don’t wanna pick up your straw off the bar any more than you wanted it in your drink. So, just fuckin say something and then we both fucking know.
• Don’t use a glass as an ashtray. It’s disgusting. And, unless you wanna drink out of that glass next, it’s just fucking tasteless and rude. We don’t have automatic dishwashers. Odds are, we got a crappy three-sink area with a three headed scrubby brush that cleans just as well as it hops around to the fucking macarena.
• Peeling your bottle labels off is fun. I do it out of habit myself. But, don’t fucking stick it to the bar. Guess who hasta peel the fucking thing off when you get up??
• Don’t leave your drink unattended without warning us. How do we know you didn’t leave to suck dick in the alley, or go back home to your wife, girlfriend, boyfriend or “roomate”. We’re not gonna babysit if you don’t ask. And, if you do ask,make sure we’re rewarded. If you tipped, okay. If you didn’t, go fuck yourself.
• When a bartender leans in to you when you’re talking, it’s probably because they can’t hear. So, adjust the volume of your fucking voice so that we don’t havta say “WHAT?!” 37 times.
• Just deal with getting ice in your fucking glass. It’s how it works. It’s not gonna get you any more booze. In fact, it’ll probably get you less.
• Don’t ask for a “splash” of anything and then bitch that your glass isn’t full.
• Don’t talk shit about us until you’re out of ears’ range.

• Don’t act like we’re your personal servant. We are not “hired help” to you. We work for the bar, and are there to make the bar money. Go get your own cigarettes.

• Uncrinkle your fucking money and hand it to us like you’d hand money to your grandmother. Politely and delicately. Don’t throw it on the bar either. That’s fucking rude, and trust me when I say, we don’t forget ANY rude thing you do.

I think that’s all. If I think of anymore, I’ll letcha know.

Now, of course these are all under the guidelines that a) the bartender knows what he or she is doing, and b) isn’t a worthless douchebag.

Some of these are subject to debate based on the different levels of friendship.

It’s not ALWAYS only about tips, but you should realize that it doesn’t pay well to bartend. We make our money off of tips. It’s how we live. It’s how we pay our bills.

So, the next time you’re debating what to tip, think about what would be acceptable if it were you, that you’re tipping. Would you be fine with just a quarter?

I tell ya, listen to me, and the world will be a better place.

For me anyway.