Well, a new year is upon us and, like previous years, started off with a bang. At least for me, anyway. After getting drunk on New Year’s Eve, busting out two windows at a bank, and getting three days in jail for it, I now vow to turn my life around. (Yeah, I know – famous last words). Seriously, though, drinking has to come to an end. It’s a waste of money and often gets me in trouble, not to mention it’s bad for my health and goes against the teachings of Jainism. That said, I promise to give up booze and eradicate anger, hatred, jealousy and ego from my system. What am I going to do now to stay asleep if I give up the likker? I don’t have a clue since one of my bipolar systems is sleepless nights. I’ve been taking the pill Latuda for bipolar and Gabapentin for sleep but neither seems to work. All they make me do is gnash my teeth continually till the muscles in my jaw hurts. I’m gnashing my teeth right now as we speak and it’s driving me nuts.
Another reason for my drinking is the cold weather. No, that’s not a cop-out perfected my the Kremlin; it’s real. The freezing cold weather, in tandem with the bipolar, forced my sleep to end after just one to two hours. I don’t go all the way and swill vodka like they do in Vladivostok just to keep warm, but the beer is better than nothing. It forces more hours of well-deserved sleep on me, and the way I look these days, I could definitely use some beauty sleep.
For the past week or so, I’ve been focused on two things while abandoning a third. The two disciplines which are currently the mirepoix for my sanity are, one, setting up a recording studio in this computer and, two, marketing my mystery novel “Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven.” Man, if I’d known that the marketing of one title was going to be this expensive and time consuming, I probably wouldn’t have deigned to write anything to begin with. Nevertheless, what’s done is done. Since I can’t afford to pay hundreds for a, hopefully positive, review in some online magazine, or afford a proper book tour, I’ll have to take the snail approach with this one. Annoying, but inevitable.
Living with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder is like having a well-armed bank robber stuck in your body 24 hrs/day. The “money” he steals from you is your freedom, energy, future, pride, time and confidence. Can you imagine? You’d like to get into a relationship with someone, but just the thought that you’ll ruin it somewhere up the road, or it won’t last anyway, is enough for you to turn away any possible suitors. I know better than to write novels as quickly as I do, but the chance that I may not live to see tomorrow means I have to quickly hurry up and write, edit on the fly, and hope what I publish on the internet is as good as books that took years to write.
PTSD doesn’t allow you to get close to anyone. How can you when you’re capable of such little trust? Is that guy trying to hurt me? Maybe. Is that woman trying to hurt me? Could be. Should I trust the smiling man talking to be in the mall? Probably not; he may just be looking to empty my wallet of every penny in it.
Time is one of PTSD’s bigger thefts. It tells you to forget about acquiring long-term housing, like a mortgage or beach-front property. Why should you? Something bad will happen and send you back out on the street anyway. And with me, I’ve spent so much time on the street that the thought of moving into a place is really not first and foremost on my mind. As I’ve said in the past, I’ve been undomiciled more than I’ve been domiciled in my life. Maybe I was a stray cat in one of my past lives, digging through garbage cans for my breakfast, lunch and dinner, constantly being chased up trees by the neighborhood canines.
I’d sure love to know that I have the time to write a novel the best way I can, but good ol’ PTSD would never stand for that bit of courtesy. Why should it? It doesn’t consider my writing as important as, say, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not in somebody’s cross hairs.
And I don’t want to be homeless anymore. I can’t stand it. Last week I smashed two windows of a bank to get myself sent to jail because it was freezing and I had no place to sleep. (I’d accidentally locked my keys in my car – and my car was running all those three days I was incarcerated, too!) The judge said, “Eh, you’re not a criminal. You’re just crazy,” and released me. Maybe he’s right; maybe he’s wrong. I’m no criminal? The PTSD bandit in my head begs to differ, but then he thinks that he is me. My PTSD is me. That can’t be true. I hope not.
You know, I can’t win. It seems like every time a psychiatrist sees me, their definition of what makes me tick differs from the other docs. To wit:
Creedmore Psychiatrist – diagnosed me with Depression and Autism
45th St Clinic – diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder
Clinical Psychologist – diagnosed me with Asperger’s Syndrome
CPC Northgate – diagnosed me with PTSD and depression then later changed to PTSD and Bipolar Disorder
DSHS Psychiatrist – diagnosed me with General Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, Substance Abuse Disorder and Alcohol Use Disorder
I still believe everyone’s missing BPD, but, oh well. You can’t have ’em all.
Robin is happy. Very happy. Up until a few days ago, most of my books were available only in Kindle editions. Amazon now lets writers issue their books as 6×9 paperbacks. So, these past few days, I reformatted my books for paperback. Took a while because I had to create new covers, reset line spacing, reformat indents, etc. I thought the reformatting was going to be a piece of cake. It wasn’t. I’d say it took me 5 days to reformat 5 titles. “Wetland” was already available in paperback. When I get money, if I get good money, I’ll purchase my paperback editions and try to get them sold in stores around here.
In other news, when I went to see my disability lawyer, the rude receptionist told me don’t bother them because they’re swamped with work and they’ll email me if something comes up. I have half a mind to pull my application from them and just deal with SSA myself. I can’t stand rude people. What is it with people that they feel they have the right to condescend to the poor and homeless? The homeless are people, too. I guess when you’re looking down on us, we just seem like the lower caste, the untouchables. Very disappointing.
I must say, this has been a pretty fruitful year for me. I’ve found $30, a pair of Outdoor Research gloves, a Seahawks wool cap, two umbrellas, USB cables, a pair of sneakers, Ray Ban sunglasses, pens, coins, a long sleeve shirt, a pair of black pants, a grey sweater, more sunglasses, a pair of woolly black gloves, three pairs of ear buds, computer speakers, a still-unopened package of Schlage door locks, restaurant food in doggie bags, several car air fresheners, a Skechers backpack, a Seahawks football, several tennis balls, a Batman sun screen for a car’s window and a new spare tire. I’me sure I’m missing a few things, but all in all, I can’t complain.
I tried to get this new book of mine published by Amazon’s press but it didn’t work out. That’s okay, though. You can’t win ’em all. I published it on Kindle myself so at least it’s out there. I’m proud of it. It’s my 6th book on Amazon and I’m busy writing my 7th as we speak. Here’s the synopsis of Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven:
Are you sure you want to go to Heaven? No one ever “re-dies” in Heaven; unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened to singer Amy Winehouse. Her death, an unprecedented event in Heaven’s history, has thrown a once docile world into unfortunate chaos. Because of the new uneasy alliance between angels and citizens, a freshly-arrived detective in the rock & roll town has been tasked with investigating the prime suspects, the members of the 27 Club – Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison. To make matters worse, a powerful angel from one of the upper levels of Heaven will soon arrive to make her ten-year inspection, a task that fills the other angels with dread since she has the power to banish anyone of them to the underworld. So, with time running out, the PI and his newly acquired sidekick, both aided by rock legends such as Eddie Cochran, Mama Cass, Kurt Cobain, Karen Carpenter and others, must quickly uncover the mystery that threatens not only to close Heaven’s doors forever, but promises to send a ripple effect through the entire universe that can rip it apart.
I’d been meaning to write this post for some time but I was busy completing ‘Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven.’ Now that I have a little down time, I figured I’d talk about what I have in common with Brother Tesla. To wit:
1. Same birthday – July 10
2. Same mental health issues – Autism, depression, OCD, sleep-deprived psychosis
3. Same marital status – both single, and same level of sexual activity – asexual
4. Same intense preoccupation with multiple interests. Our difference is I lean towards the arts and he towards electricity although we do cross when it comes to deep interests in inventions (I designed a perpetual machine but haven’t physically realized it. I also designed guitars).
5. Both of us are loners
6. Both of us are highly misunderstood
7. Both of us are visionaries (see my website for a list predictions)
8. Both of us are closer to animals, birds specifically, than other humans
9. Both of us are alcoholics although Tesla stopped as he got older because he wanted to live to see 100.
10. Both of us are immigrants to the US
11. Both interested and practiced in Jain, or Jain-type, philosophy.
12. Both occasionally speak and write in 3rd person.
13. Both have lucid dreams and suffer from bizarre, frightening nightmares
As far as bizarre behaviour is concerned, I really need to keep mine in check. So far, in the past month, I’ve walked naked into a supermarket to shoplift food, break into a church, scaled the ‘no trespassing’ fence at the police station, traipse naked down the street and into public parks, locked my keys in my car, break into a newly-developed apartment complex to try and sleep (I did, for about one hour, couldn’t continue because it was freezing cold outside and their heating system was non-functional), etc. I did spend three days in a crisis center. Of course, that stay was too short to fix me. My therapist now admits that I’m too difficult a client and doesn’t know what to do with me. Both she and my psychiatrist suggest hospitalization. I don’t think that’d do any good because of the constant war raging in my hand – Pre vs Lizard Boy (my logical pre-frontal cortex vs my super emotional, Spider Sense-having, overprotective amygdala).
The week was wrapped up by my one day stay in a local ER where I was given an IV and a bettery of tests, including an abdominal CT scan. I have a small renal cyst. The intense, cramping pain that sent to there in the first place was probably due to eating days-old string cheese I’d forgotten in my trunk.