My first and only overdose. [Fingers crossed.]

First of all, stop freaking out. That's my job. It's not even that big of a deal. Except... it almost was. It almost was the be all, end all of my whole life.

Damn. Maybe you should freak out a little. I sure did. Before I make a terrible situation worse, let me explain what happened and why. It started last Wednesday...

I woke up in pain - serious pain. The pain was coming from inside my mouth, just like the moans. After some careful investigation in the bathroom mirror, I identified the problem - part of my molar was missing.

"How the fuck does that happen?"

It doesn't really matter. Who cares? Not me. Not really. I did care about the new world of pain I had awoken in that afternoon. I got online and looked up my benefits package. I used the dental provider's website to locate several dentists in my immediate area. They were all closed that day, but the pain had stopped so... I stopped caring and ended the search. The next day toward the end of my shift, the pain came back. I purchased some orajel and that did a decent enough job of dulling the pain. Unfortunately, it was around the same time I had woken up in pain the day previous so again I couldn't contact a local dentist to do anything about it rather than simply survive each passing moment. On Friday, I woke up early to schedule an appointment with anyone who could see me and as immediately as possible. July is a bad month for dentistry apparently, because of the dentists that actually work a full week (What sort of professional can just work Mon-Thurs? Are you serious?) most of them were on vacation or planning to go on vacation the next week. I was not waiting two weeks to get this sorted. Thankfully, I managed to find someone who could and would see me on Monday.

I won't talk about the visit, although I will say this: My dentist is a condescending, spiteful cunt - which I expected - but I found her bedside manner amusing, refreshing, and slightly appealing - which I had not expected.

Anyway, she set up an appointment for the operation and prescribed some much needed pain medication. Which was very welcome since even the strongest formula of orajel had ceased to numb the throbbing pain in my jaw and my next appointment wasn't for another week.

So, life is not exactly good, but I'm dealing with it and it's better than it could be - all things considered. Which brings us to Friday night and I'm trying to finish my paperwork so I can leave for the night. That's when I started to feel tired, but it was a different kind of exhaustion than I'm used to encountering with my work schedule and ridiculous lifestyle. It felt like the life was draining out of me. I also felt like I might vomit. I tried, actually, several times. When I left work, all I really wanted was to go home and pass out. But, something about the way I felt scared me senseless. I had this feeling that if I did pass out, I might not wake up. But, first things first, I wanted to go home and feel like I was dying rather than keep doing that at work.

Driving while under the influence of prescription drugs is no joke, especially at 2am and on winding, mountainous back roads. For the entire drive, I had no exact idea as to where the road or even my lane actually was. The lines on the road converged and merged and shattered and... I felt like vomiting again. It was like driving into a laser light show. It was terrible, fascinating, and entirely dangerous. I haven't a clue how I managed to find my way and keep my vehicle on the road in front of me. But, I've said it before: I'm a stubborn bastard and there's just no stopping me from doing what I want. All I wanted was to go home and die in peace as far removed from anyone who might know me as possible. I kept wishing I was anonymous and then I thought of AA and giggled until my stomach protested.

There are a series of hills and winding curves leading up the final hill upon which stands a stop sign before the final descent into the parking lot for my apartment building. At that stop sign, I put my jeep into park, unfastened my seat belt, opened my door, and vomited repeatedly. When I was done, I shut the door, refastened my seat belt, put my jeep back in drive, and drove on. My eye sight immediately improved and I was once again capable of logic and reason and thought.

"Holy shit, I almost had myself an overdose. But, damn it, I'm still alive. I am still alive."

Although, I realize that was not much to be proud of considering the ends not fully justifying the means. That whole ordeal was fairly reckless of me. How simply my life could have ended at any of those moments. If not the pills, then the automobile accident... I could have died twenty different ways that night.

But, I didn't. I have, however, made every effort to keep very careful track of just how many of these pills I take and when. The recommended use is 1 pill every 4-6 hours as needed for pain. My actual use has become 1 pill daily regardless of additional need for pain. I can live with some pain considering the alternative.

In closing, there's nothing like almost dying to make you feel completely alive again.

Context Clues and Shotguns.

[This is a repost since I missed the mini reunion my family had this past holiday... and I'm feeling a little nostalgic. Not too nostalgic, though. I have enough stories for the time being.]

I called home today. Very big deal. I was secretly trying to determine who received the letter about the land tax being past due and how pissed everyone was about it. My cousin answered.

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Who is this?"
"Who is THIS?!?!?"

Sometimes I have impulse control problems and I can't help myself. I scared her so she gave the phone to someone else. My aunt. A woman so elusive when it comes to telephone conversations with her family members that she will instead opt to have someone else take the call and relay both parts of the conversation to each side of it. But, not for me. I am the exception. There's a reason why but I don't know it.

Maybe I do. I gave her something once. It wasn't something I wanted to part with but at the time she needed it more than I did. It was the night she decided to divorce Soup and I tipped her scales in the right direction. It cost me a little more than I intended but it was worth it. She was terrified of the family judging her for it. She feared total banishment - which, isn't that unlikely considering my uncle. Anyway, I assured her there were worse things to fear. I didn't want to but there wasn't much else for me to work with. It worked. I knew it would. Now, we have this bond. This unspoken understanding. I didn't expect her to remember any of it the next day but she most certainly did. I will never tell her that I share that same secret bond with select other members of the family. It'll be a secret that our secret isn't really one at all. More of an inside joke, really. I laugh about it all the time. Anyway...

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey. So you are still alive."

I almost hung up the phone. I have two very specific rules regarding telephone conversations.

1. If the first comment upon identifying me as the caller or upon my answering if you happen to be the caller is something to the effect of 'I can't believe you answered.' or 'Oh my god! You're still alive!' or 'Did you answer the phone by accident?' ... my immediate impulse is to remedy the problem promptly and without warning by hanging up and not calling back and not answering when you call back.

2. If at any time I become aware of the fact that you are using the toilet in any capacity, I will end the call and throw my phone at the wall.

But, I was on a mission and could not react in my typical fashion. I let it slide and even produced a semi-realistic chuckle.

"Yeah. It seems that way, doesn't it."
"So... How's it going down there?"
"Great. It's going very well."
"Is your store open yet?"
"Soon. Our grand opening will be the thirtieth."

I chatted with my aunt for a few minutes. It was very informative. I learned things I hadn't expected and those things were actually about my job. My old store, anyway. I later confirmed those things with someone on the inside. The intell was accurate. I was even more amazed. Things do eventually change, apparently. Good for them. Things have been changing for me since last year. I look back and can't believe the progress I've made. Then I look ahead and can't believe how very, very far I have yet to go. It's a little intimidating. My grandmother, who had been at the doctor's for our entire conversation, pulled into the driveway and my aunt went out to meet her. I listened to them talking to each other.

"Perfect timing! Guess who this is!"
(Unfortunately, I couldn't make out my grandmother's responses.)
"Yes."
(No idea.)
"Yes! It is! Really!"
(I can guess, but won't.)
"I know. That's what I said."

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Gut en Haben! You are alive!"

I consider it, but refrain. I am still on a mission. If she were pissed off at me, she wouldn't have said anything at all, walked around my aunt, gone inside, slammed the door, and locked herself in one of the bathrooms for a few hours. That seemed like all the verification I needed, but... I like to be thorough.

"Yes, people keep telling me that."
"You're on my list, you know."

Oh shit. I'm on her list. That's crazy talk for:

I'm very upset with you and I may or may not explain after much prying why although either way it's much too late for you to do anything about it and all attempts to remedy the situation or apologize will be met with bitter, silent resentment and passive-aggressive mind games which will usually involve notes taped to things or myself because I am nothing if not theatrical and completely over the top.

Oh shit. It is possible, with very careful and seemingly random quips, to locate the source of these disturbances but it's very tricky and I'm a little rusty.

"Am I at the top or the bottom of this list?"
"The bottom and I have my cards on the table."

Hmmmmm. That's crazy talk for ..... I'm not even sure. I know that being on the bottom indicates I am her least favorite person at the moment, but as to the why... There isn't alot of context clues to work with but I take an educated guess at it. I know I haven't done anything upsetting involving furniture lately, so the keyword of that statement must be cards.

"Cards? You have your cards on the table."

She takes a deep breathe when I say the word 'cards'. I knew it and yet still... not helpful. I'm pretty sure she's not referring to Solitaire. However, why the pluralization? I'm missing something.

"Wait a minute. Are you talking about your postcard? Is your postcard on the table? Are you showing it to people?"
"I didn't get my postcard."
"You didn't get your postcard? That's impossible. You responded. I sent it out at the same time as Hedda's and the one for the post office and my mother. The last one I sent was Robin's-"
"Yes. You sent Robinsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss."

Holy shit, I just solved the puzzle. Give me an S. Cards are on the table. SSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

"You want another postcard."
"Well. It'd be nice. I got the other one a month ago! Something else must have happened since then."
"Not really. I'm really boring now. Nothing interesting ever happens to me anymore."
"You're lying. It's not nice to lie to your grandmother."
"No, it isn't."
"Oh. I wanted to ask you. How'd quitting smoking go?"
"It went great. I'll never smoke again. I can't believe I did it for all those years."
"Well, that's a relief."
"I know. One less thing for you to worry about."

I know. Horrible, right? I stopped feeling bad about lying to that woman a long, long time ago. I've actually gotten pretty good at it. I can even do it in person while looking right into her eyes. I even impress myself. Sometimes, lying is just easier. It's also quieter. I like that. I try to minimize the drama factor whenever I'm around other members of my family. Lying is useful for that sort of success.

"Well. Have you talked to your mother lately?"
"No. Why? Should I?"
"Well. I haven't heard from her. I drove by the house the other day and the grass is mowed. Is somebody living there now?"
"I have no idea. Maybe. I know they were talking about it but I don't know if they ever found anyone."
"Well, I know that one guy next door wanted his mother to live there."
"Yes, that is true and it's probably what happened. I don't have anything to do with that anymore. Also, I don't really care."
"Oh. You don't care about anything."
"I care about things that concern me directly."
"That house concerns you directly."
"No, it doesn't. Besides, I'm the only one with a key to that house now."

Also, Nurse Egg has a key. But that's not information I'm going to share with crazy people over the telephone. Some people might consider withholding information on par with lying, but I'm not one of those people. But if I were, I already explained my comfortable acceptance of that dull gray zone of moral ambiguity through lying.

"So... they couldn't rent it out unless I sent them the keys or they had the locks changed."

Which also hasn't happened because I know someone still visits the house from time to time and has done so recently to escape her crazy family the same way I escaped mine when I moved in. So, that's not what happened. I'm certain of it but do not feel any need to share the reasons why. I don't, however, know who is mowing the grass or why. I have theories but none of them seem very realistic. Then again, knowing my family, anything is possible.

"Well. You should call your mother and find out something."
"Maybe I will."
"And?"
"And send you another postcard."
"I'm so glad you called."
"Me, too."
"You should check in once in awhile, you know? Let us know you're still alive."
"Yes, I know."
"I don't want to have to hear it on the news when one of those crazies down there takes your head off with a shotgun over some silly misunderstanding."

Whoa. Even I am sometimes completely floored by the psychotic and highly specific shit that comes out of that woman's mouth. That was completely unnecessary and unprovoked.

"Well, if that were to happen... I'm not sure I'm going to be able to make any calls. I won't have a head and you can't get text messages."
"Your aunt can!"
"Right. What was I thinking? I'm gonna go. I got that postcard to write and life insurance to upgrade. I'm a busy guy."

After a conversation like that, I'm not sure I'm ever going home again. I'm safer here with the shotgun wielding crazies.

I don't negotiate with terrorists or dates in coffee shops.

...and it was all going so well.

Not really, though. Awkward is a more accurate description for the way I've been feeling for the last twenty minutes. Awkward and hyper are not a sexy combination. Who the hell goes on a date at a coffee shop, anyway? Oh wait. Nevermind. How very hypocritical of me. We all remember Heather, although accidentally meeting someone at a coffee shop and planning to meet someone at a coffee shop are completely different realms of reality. I like the way that happened. It was all completely unexpected and magical and real and strange and fun. This is not any of those. This feels like a job interview in a public venue. This feels like work and I'm not even getting paid for it - I'm volunteering for this bullshit. Pro bono? Oh, hell no. What the hell am I doing here? Here's the concept I'm working with: you meet someone (context of who/when/why/how unimportant) and you decide to get together to learn more about each other. The setting for that could have easily been anything, but that's not really the point. The point is just spending some time with someone to determine if it's worth investing more in some form of relationship. It's an improvised plan with the following step to be determined in play. Only the results are so uninspiring that I would rather think about something else entirely. It wasn't a complete disaster. In fact, up until about thirty seconds ago, I was rather enjoying myself. I was enjoying the company and enjoying the moment and enjoying life.

Yeah, so what the hell just happened?

I hate awkward silences. This particular awkward silence was immediately proceeded by my companion's laughter and a moment before that an off color remark which I didn't appreciate nearly as much - which I appreciated even less after the laughter. In fact, it is taking all of my not so inconsiderable strength and self-control to not throw the remainder of my latte directly into someone's face right now. So, I'm silently attempting to control the rage roaring through my veins. I inherited this from my Germanic ancestors. This unspeakable and furious blood of mine. It screams through me as it pushes it way repeatedly through my mind and heart. I am seconds from reducing this entire building to smoking rubble. My super power is about to activate and the effects will be catastrophic. I bite my lip and try to imagine being somewhere else entirely. I imagine that instead of this situation, I'm still in that other one. The Mustard Seed Jam House. I remember the painted wood tables that were lopsided and irregular. I remember the bizarre and lousy attempts at art that sparsely decorated the plain brick, windowless walls of the basement coffee shop. I remember the stained, ratty chairs and how absurdly soft and rough the cushions were and how disturbing that juxtaposition of textures felt against my cheek. I don't remember drinking coffee and I don't remember how I got there or why I left. I think I'm reasonably calm enough to break the awkward silence, only I don't want to now. I really don't care. It can last forever if it wants. I don't care. I wish I was sitting in a shitty coffee shop in Pennsylvania drinking day old coffee out of a mug I brought myself.

"What are you thinking about?"
"Someone I used to know."
"A special someone? Like an ex?"
"Sort of. I guess I was just remembering a different time in my life. I just suddenly remembered it. Sorry about that."
"What were you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking... I'm not ready for this."
"Did you just break up?"
"No. That was a long time ago. It's not about that."
"What's wrong then?"
"This just doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like anything."
"Wow."
"Besides, that thing you said... If this had been going well, which it sort of was, that offhand comment would have ruined and killed it anyway."
"I didn't even mean it."
"Yeah, you did. Maybe you didn't mean anything by it, but you thought it and said it. You made a conscious decision to bring it into play - a terrible decision, by the way - and here we are in the aftermath. Also, it should be noted, that sort of comment provokes the very worst of my nature."
"You're acting strangely, but I wouldn't describe it that way."
"I guess we do change, afterall. That's interesting."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I have to go."
"Really? Just like that?"
"Just like this."
"Wait a minute. This is crazy."
"I agree. It's crazy. Me too, probably. Definitely."
"Ok, you're not crazy and I'm really sorry about what I said."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Good."
"Alright, so?"
"So? Too late."

I know. What the hell was said? That's what you're asking, isn't it? What the hell was said? You want that missing piece of the conversation. You need that context to understand what's happening in the story. You want to know my motivations and the cause to all the effect. That's true irony, only in this case the characters know something the audience doesn't. To be perfectly honest, I'd share it with you if it meant giving it completely to you and keeping none of it for myself. If I could do that - if I could give the knowledge of that moment away and forget it - I would. Since I can't, I'll just quarantine the damage and keep it from spreading and infecting anyone else.

I can still taste the poison on my lips. It's my fault, in a way. I wasn't actually looking for this sacred connection or even looking to date anyone, even casually. Fuck, I don't know. I guess it was just this moment of weakness and poor judgment that I suffered and then suffered again in turn. I like being single. It's not so much being single, it's being completely dependent upon only myself. I have been completely dependent on other people for nearly all my life. I am just barely beginning to make my own way and my very own life. I want to learn to know myself. If I can't do that, how is anyone else ever supposed to do any more than fail at it as well? Besides, the more I learn about myself, the more I surprise myself nearly every day. It's more than my sudden ability to tolerate and even enjoy the presence of jalapenos - but that's part of it. It's like discovering this entire world you thought you knew completely and intimately. Well, I don't know shit. I don't know the first thing about what kind of person I really am. I don't know what I want, need, or deserve. I have no idea why I do some of the things that I do. Until only recently, I would never have considered myself either stupid or brave. But life presents you with moments that end up defining you - and it's not a sum of experiences that equal the whole of your character, but those moments do reflect the things you can't see or know without some way of converting them from abstract concepts into concrete proof of life.

I am alive today in the worst possible way, because I have only begun to understand what that even means. Now I just have to remember that moment and build on it. I can't negotiate how I feel. I don't want to and I won't try.

It's just funny how a stupid, careless moment can completely change everything you thought you knew. It's ridiculous how in just a few seconds the reality of a situation can reveal itself in one silly, inappropriate, and terrible remark.

Grandpa's Hands. [for Jake] (Updated with 9 more photos.)

One of my earliest memories was being completely horrified by the ugly, bluntness of the fingers on my grandfather's large, hairy hands. They seemed so horrible, rough, and careless. I compared them to the beautiful, delicate fingers of my own thin, smooth hands. It seemed impossible that genetics could differ so greatly in just two generations. That's when I convinced myself that I was not a member of the family unit presented to me. I thought I had uncovered a terrible secret. But as I watched those hands, I discovered another secret - they weren't as careless and useless as I imagined. Those hands could do things I couldn't imagine. They built strong, towering, powerful structures from nothing but wood, blood, and sweat. Those ugly fingers took quick, swift measurements and then cut through beams of timber and slowly, expertly brought all the tiny pieces together to create something new and useful and brilliant. The first thing I remember those hands building was a deck for my aunt and uncle in California. It took days. I was bored before the end of the first. I spent my time mastering the fine art of nintendo entertainment while just outside in the heat of the desert my grandfather was building a foundation and then covering it with diagonal planks that would provide us all with a platform to stand upon. The finished product was massive. We saved the irregular remainders - strange wooden blocks that formed trapezoids, parallelograms, rhombuses - and I played with them for years trying to re-enact the grand scheme I had seen that day. I had missed the construction of it, but I wasn't completely lost on the magnificence of the transformation from absolute nothing to completion of a new presence in the world. I was in awe of the power and knowledge and ability in those ugly, ridiculous hands.

I was also terrified of them. Whenever I misbehaved at my grandparents' house, my grandmother would threaten that grandpa was going to spank me. The very thought of it scared me senseless. I had seen what those hands could do to trees and stone. What chance could something made of mere flesh and bone stand against the immense power of forces like that? I was a very well behaved little boy - most of the time.

I no longer doubted my heritage, either. I found myself wondering if perhaps one day my own hands would grow and mature into the forms I had admired and feared. While they did come to master many things with grace and precision, they did not ever physically change - except in size and hairiness. I still have the thin, delicate, beautiful fingers of an artist. Still, I can't help but imagine what it would be like to control and shape the elements of the world and to re-shape them as I chose.



My grandfather cleaning what appears to be either a chicken or turkey. I remember this photo a little differently. In my mind, it was fish he was cleaning, as I'm sure he did on several occasions - just not on this one.



My grandfather laying the brickwork border of the rear patio of the yellow house. The brickwork kept the swamp of the yard from overtaking the patio, until later tenants broke it up and let it drain back.



Grandpa and grandma renovating the shed behind the yellow house.



Grandpa sewing up the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.



Grandpa roasting the turkey on the spit, which he also made - of course.



Grandpa helping his neighbour with a massive project.



Happy Birthday, Grandpa.



Grandpa cutting and serving the turkey.



Grandpa and grandma celebrate their wedding anniversary.



Grandpa, younger than I am now.



Grandpa and the boys.