No Money, Mo' Problems

As mentioned in my last post, those greenbacks and I have a tough time staying together. Looking back on it, however, this was not always the case. Throughout high school, my friend Ryan and I, while working random jobs, always vowed to keep a C-note in our pockets at all times. Let's just say that when Ryan, who is now making a six-figure killing at Apple, reminded me of this recently, fifteen years later, it seemed only one of us had remembered our pact.

Though I worked off an on throughout high school, I remember having enough to trick out the room with video games, music, posters, and other such accoutrements of adolescence. In college, where the traditional diet is Ramen noodles, surprisingly, my money was always right. The full ride, I somehow earned, left pops with enough money to knock out my boarding expenses, and another private scholarship via the Jackie Robinson Foundation left my with three grand per semester with which to play, and looking back on it, much of it must have been put away.

Upon graduation, Uncle Jackie was kind enough to bless me with a five figure check for my academic diligence, and a couple of years later the inheritance from my grandfather's untimely passing (which I would have happily gave back for another hour with him) matured. So there I was in my early twenties more than halfway to six figures, sitting pretty.

It wasn't until until the grave depression hit that the retail free-for all got underway. In 2005 I, not so prudently decided to part twenty five grand in straight cash on a drop top Porsche, that I remember thinking, would be my reason to, get it together, since, the money for $1500 tune-ups had to come from somewhere.

Not that I'm one to be grinnin' for no reason,
but I was about as happy as I looked with the Porsche I was sitting on.
...so much for the retail therapy/motivation it was intended to provide.

Wrong. Luckily the car was issue-free for the duration of our time together, but let's just say, having it didn't motivate me to go out and get my own in the least. In 2007, when the second manic wave hit, whatever was left over in the then dwindling account went out the window, as I maxed out credit card after credit card resulting in mountain of bills that have yet to be paid.

Not having to work straight out of college put me in a different space than my peers, to the extent that it seemed it was a early preview of retirement. Without a passion to pursue and with plenty of money in the bank, occupational pursuits seemed like a foolish undertaking. Instead, I simply tended to my own needs and self-medicated with spending. After leaving the country for about a month for a brief Eurotrip, Terrie dubbed me the man, "with never-ending funds." For a time it seemed that was the case, and in retrospect, I'm surprised it didn't go a lot sooner than it did.

One of my last hurrah's was the Jackie Robinson Gala to which I flew out Terrie and one of my dear fellow alumna, Brittney. While waiting in the lobby of the Waldorf=Astoria, I distinctly remember telling Terrie, I want to be broke. Careful what you wish for as they say, as those such as mine are easily granted. Well the plan worked, and though the last windfall came when I sold the Porsche in early 2007 (apparently buying things and selling/returning them later is my idea of saving), that money was blown on rent and the aforementioned manic spending spree that following summer.

Since I've been strapped for cash for so long, when I get it, I damn near don't know how to act. The only time I don't spend is when I can't spend. Compose yourself for heaven's sake, Chris, is what I tell myself, but I've likened it to a starving child being put in front of a buffet. Unless he has quite the preternatural discipline and foresight, he's eating like there's no tomorrow, without a concern for if it ever comes. Just as I wrote this, the ridiculousness of it all hit me (woohoo for free self-referential therapy!) It's time to act like I've been there before, well, because I have. Preternatural discipline and foresight, you say? Guess what I'm cultivating for the new year.

Pretty Fly for a Homeless Guy

If there were ever a contest for the best-dressed shelter-dweller, I may just be in the running. When Dean Martin penned his classic, "Money Burns a Hole in my Pocket," it must have been a prescient opus to the kid. Three paychecks have seen me reunited with the mall, in a way that would make your favorite fashionista jealous. Not that I have anywhere to arrange, sort, (and forget about iron), but the winter wardrobe was capped off yesterday, by a classic pair of timberlands.

In anticipation of the coming half of foot of snow we were blessed with last night, my mother asked me if I wanted some boots. Being the responsible adult that I am, I paid for half of them, and stuck my all-white Nike Cortez's in the backpack for safekeeping. Well actually, there wasn't much room in the backpack, due to a budget laptop that had been purchased earlier that day.

I justified that purchase by saying it would help increase productivity, and well it has (as I'm writing in Starbucks right now), however, the point is let's just say I've left some room for improvement as it concerns my financial discipline. This was not lost on my mother, who after seeing the laptop, and certain sartorial choices I had been making, said, "Now that you have your computer and boots, have you thought about saving?" Yes, yes, and yes.

In one of Mike Tyson's many interviews that I have committed to memory, the famed pugilist, who has also been suspected as having bipolar disorder said, "I either have to have a lot or nothing." Amen, says the choir. Financially speaking, and in some other instances as well, I have been at the mountain top relative to my peer group, or the in valley. While there are beams of light coming into the financial valley now, controlling my spending, and cultivating discipline in other aspects of my life, hoping that it will help improve my finances, is atop my resolutions for the coming year.

As it concerns my other goals for the upcoming year, chief amongst them is transitioning from the shelter to my own living space, no matter how modest so long as it is mine. My payscale helps me, "save" money seeing as how I am paid bi-weekly. Heavens know, if I was paid weekly, if I were paid Friday, I would be broke by Monday with a few hundred bucks a week. However, the decent chunk of change that comes my way every other week should hopefully suffice for a move-in on something halfway decent.

Attempting to Articulate Mania (part three of three)

In retrospect, while riding the three major manic waves, I must have been passively (and sometimes actively) suicidal, and can remember telling one of my old shrinks that if I were to somehow, someway get hit by a bus while crossing the street or at the train tracks while scouring the ground for half smoked cigarettes, I wouldn’t have minded in the least.  I once confessed to my prescriber in Berkeley, having just watched the Godfather for the first time, that mob affiliate, Frank Patangeli’s death seemed a decent way to go out (SPOILER ALERT for those who somehow may have this Coppola’s magnum opus) Though his suicide was not pictured, it can be inferred that he slit his wrists in a cold bath, presumably with some alcohol in the bloodstream to ease the pain and accelerate the exsanguination).

Again, flashback to the summer of 2007. Something told me doing a barrel roll over the bushes that crept up against the guard rail of the 405 was a good idea. I walked in the breakdown lane of the freeway for a few miles (with traffic of course, so I wouldn’t have seen it coming), took an exit, and somehow ended up in the back of a police cruiser again for eh "acting strangely." One of many 5150's (the CA code for a three day involuntary psychiatric hold) that would turn into 5250's (the CA code for a three day involuntary hold that is extended to two weeks) during that magical summer. 

Attempting to Articulate Mania (part two of three)

The mind is a very powerful tool, however, if these episodes have taught me anything, and even that may be an understatement. That is to say, what you think upon grows, to borrow from a classic Buddhist mantra. If you think people are following you or out to get you, soon enough, they just may be. That said, These delusions had me in the hospital next to a cast of characters that would have made Francis Ford Coppola proud.

During one of my admissions in Southern Califorina, still disoriented from the hyper-manic night that landed me in there the night prior, I remember having a cigarette (yes, they let you smoke in Southern California hospitals, a privilege very much missed by my inmates other sanitaria) with a gentleman aptly nicknamed, “Trig,”,( and let’s just say it wasn’t for his aptitude in trigonometry). During that same manic wave, in a different hospital in Anaheim, there was another elder gentleman who looked to have had non-elective tongue surgery presumably for talking a bit much, who was kind enough to hand me a tattered Bible (which I still have to this day). In either case, both Trig, and the elderly statesman gave me cold-blooded looks, and spoke in suggestive tones, telling essentially telling me to, “Slow down, or be slowed down.”

Despite their initial auras, I’d like to think that after spending enough time with them, winding down from episodic insanity, I earned their respect, if not friendship. In any case, not to digress too much, I would be remiss were I to omit the gentleman at Alta Bates, a hospital in Northern California, whom I had the pleasure of meeting while running Amok in Berkeley in the fall of 2009/spring 2010. He was a dead ringer for a young Charles Manson, with the forehead tattoo, scraggly, long hair, and vacant gaze to match his disheveled visage. However, after dealing with those characters described prior, after a certain point unabashed fear yields to curiosity, and after a few days together, he was teaching me elegant Middle Age calligraphy, an art that his appearance belied, and a gentleness that was not suggested by his hulking frame.

One thing you learn not to do in certain spaces, mental institutions, being one of them is ask questions, especially the, “What are you in for?” classic line that’s been overly popularized in film and television. In some cases, you’d rather not know where they may be coming from in a literal sense, as is true with the figurative. Ask the question and get the answer you did not want to know. My intuition has yet to steer me wrong thus far, and having consorted with a cross section of the most dysfunctional amongst us, you learn to gauge people very quickly. Eye contact is a key cue and the clues from our most trusted senses teach you the roads a man have traveled without confirmation or corroborating evidence. Have I lived amongst killers? “I don’t know, officer, neither here nor there, and certainly not my place to go probing.”

That said, my defenses were up 24/7 for many of my visits to the inside while manic, because at the end of the day, anybody from burnt out Ivy leaguers to penal veterans to anyone in between can voluntarily admit themselves or be committed. Without knowing their diagnoses, tendencies, or intentions I turned into my own secret service, with my head constantly on a swivel, making sure everything was on the up and up. 

Attempting to Articulate Mania (part one of three)

In the next couple of posts I will attempt, and perhaps futilely so, to describe crazy to someone who has not experienced the gratifying, but more often than not, dizzying highs that mania can induce. When reality, as it is commonly understood was too much to bear, my brain has proven to have uncanny ability to create its own, one which is typically more comfortable that the one from which I have been scarred. To be honest, many of my memories have been lost, though not irrecovably, due to that same brain’s tendency to repress to these recollections to the nether regions of its gray, three pound universe. It is my hope, however, that the more I write, the more will be unearthed. For now, though, many are lodged in the memory bank, hopelessly stuck somewhere between horror, embarrassment, dismay, and disbelief. Through analogy and commonality, it is my also my hope to make clear, or at the very least more clear, the way my mind (dys)functioned while having a manic episode.

Let’s begin with Bipolar 101. For those that require background bipolar disorder was formally known as manic-depression.  Depression, from a clinical perspective, is the more familiar of this dyad and is typically characterized by persistent and unshakable feelings of sorrow, guilt, helplessness, grief, and just about any other negative emotion you could fathom. Mania, on the other hand itself, is depression’s diametric opposite, and is typified by feelings of excitability, elevation, euphoria and specifically in my cased exponentially self-aggrandizing thoughts, a spike in sociability, and an extremely pressured, nearly glossolalic (i.e., like speaking in tongues) speech.

As far as the last of these is surefire symptoms goes, imagine if information was evacuating your brain and every thought on your information superhighway had to find its way out to alleviate the internal pressure. For someone who has been known to speak softly, the seeming non-sequiturs as heard, understood, and determined by many a listener have a certain tendency to throw the audience into rapt captivity if not sheer fright at the unexpected elocutions. Many a pair of unexpecting ears ranging from those strangers, to remote acquaintances, to friends and family, have received phone calls, instant messages, and IM’s while I have been episodic and their reactions have ranged from tear-inducing laughter to exclamations indicating their concern.

Yet another one of the classic symptoms of mania is the aforementioned grandiosity. These delusions can run the gamut from unwarranted overly confident ideations (i.e., thinking you just are the straight up man to any and everybody you come across) to those with hyper-religious overtones. The first episode had me thinking I was the second coming of Christ. (It made perfect sense in my warped mind at the time - the operative phrase being at the time as all of my episodes, and the reflections contained herein are temporally contingent, meaning just because I have been crazy and have the capability of going the deep end, does not mean I am there now. I remember thinking my name is Christ(opher), which translates to, “bearer of Christ” and due to my father’s naming, I am, Christopher II [the second as opposed to a junior], so I took it, and ran with it until I couldn’t run anymore)

Oh and I should mention that at my manic worst/best, I have been diagnosed as having manic with psychotic features. In lay terms pyschosis translates into a clean break from reality, and while this may be overly general, allow me to frame it within an analogy that may be familiar.

In the arcade classic Pac-Man in one of the earlier levels there is a line that runs across the center of the screen. If Pac Man, goes too far to the left or right in flight of his eager enemies in hot pursuit, he will immediately end up on the opposite side of the screen, but for a split second he will disappear, and is off the screen entirely. Imagine Depression on the left and Mania on the Right (or vice versa for you Southpaws). When life has pushed me too far in either direction, typically when manic, there have been times that have created a temporary suspension of reality in which I am, for all intents and purposes, off this analogic screen. Psychotic, like gone, as in G-O-N-E.

This off the grid gone-ness as it concerns my own relationship to it, I must mention, a curious phenomenon known as synchronicity. This is the strange belief that every last thing happening around you is happening to, for, and because of you. This contemporaneous oneness extends to the past as well, as events from the past (ranging from historic to the personally banal) leads you to believe that everything that has happened to this point has been for you as some sort of cosmic orientation that is working to your benefit.

For instance, everything from a song playing on the radio, to a TV show, to the conversations of passersby are meant for your eyes and your ears, as if the universe is trying to tell you something. With this hyper-reactivity to stimuli, in play, there exists a trippy feeling whereby you think everyone that crosses your path has a pre-existing knowledge of your self-created personhood. In other words, you think people know you and your story and your self-assured celebrity, when they actually don’t know you from the proverbial hole in the wall. Though under such grand delusions introductions aren’t necessary and you operate under the assumption that they even though they may not know you that they 1) either playing it cool and not blowing your cover or 2) are soon to find out as soon as your delusions of grandeur are fulfilled. This would be the euphoric side of pyschosis.

Famed guitarist Hendrix once described craziness as heavenly (and even has an illustrative song called, “Manic-Depression). However, no matter how euphoric, this troubled line of thinking can put you in some pretty precarious situations, especially when combined with heightened sensitivities and irritability that can also accompany mental instability. Once, for instance, while in handcuffs in an Orange County holding cell, I graced an officer with an introduction, since he apparently didn’t know who I was. While he was sandwiched between a fellow officer on both sides, I screamed and swore at him belligerently, while repeating particularly explicit rap lyrics, by poet Laureate, Cam’ron:. I yelled, over and over, “Your wife, I call her old girl, her head makes me toes curl.” Obviously taken aback by this outburst, their reaction, was priceless and will be forever etched in my memory. While manic and infused with a certain intoxicated confidence and conviction I had them all but certain that this poor man’s wife was indeed having extramarital romps with this crazy Negro in handcuffs.

One of the few benefits, of insanity as determined by mania and psychosis that comes with it, is the space you carve out for yourself. While people hardly come to respect you as the “man” as self-identify, they do come to know you as that strange fellow who deserves a whole lot o’ leave alone, which, in the end, works well for me. Many a manic romp have put a distance between others and myself that one 1) lends itself to my own introversion and 2) puts them on their heels to the point where if I ever do choose to engage them, they become like silly putty. One you introduce yourself, even unknowingly, as that more than-a-just-a-little bit-off, black man people become off-put at least, terrified at worst, and definitely malleable, or bendable to your will and volition. Reality becomes your stage, people your puppets, and your hands grasp the strings the bend them to your wanting. Oh the privileges, of insanity!

As for the elements of grandiosity and psychosis that accompanies this manic feeling, in many cases, it works both ways. For all of your thoughts of celebrity acclaim and desires of universal regard, they are also accompanied by thoughts that are equally paranoid and grossly delusional (e.g., thinking people are out to kill you). For quite some time when manic, I thought I was the target of international crime syndicates hitmen who to make matters worse were working in collusion with FBI, CIA, ATF etc.,  and any other acronymic governmental organization to ensure my premature demise.

Perhaps this analogy may help this batshit crazy line of thinking. If you’ve never experienced mania with psychotic features, perhaps more you are familiar with recreational drug (ab)use.  I once attempted to describe it as feeling similar to having had smoked, snorted, and injected every possible illicit drug in the book. Alcoholically diminished inhibitions? Forget about those pesky behavioral constrictors because mania is like taking a fifth of moonshine to the head. Though pulling on a nicely rolled blunt every blue moon, is as far as my indulgence into recreational drug use goes and ever will go, Mary Jane is known for the euphoria it induces.  I hear coke can give you a (hypo)manic edge of sorts while such hallucinogens as PCP (Angel Dust) can leave you feeling paranoid and/or invincible. The classic psychedelics like acid and shrooms, alter your perception of visual and auditory stimuli. Well put them together and you have a trip that can be as equally exhilarating as it is terrifying. Though I was spared the material cost of having to acquire these drugs seeing as how it was my own neurotransmitters gone haywire, the jarring and nearly scarring aftereffects were are price I would pay long after the high/bad trips had come down 

Back on the Good Foot.

The holidays have been going really well so far. My older sister, Jessica, is in town, and despite her playing the scarcity card via her reunions with her high-school and college friends, my fun-sized sisters (Nicole being the other) and I were able to spend quality time at Christmas with my mother.

Looking back on it, throwing mom under the bus for the fractures in our mutual dissatisfaction as it concerned the living arrangement was harsh, but with the privilege of hindsight the friction was only natural. While the dog incident proved to be the tipping point, there were other goings on, which in retrospect, made my mother’s growing discomfort understandable. Generally speaking, being 30 with no kids, no warrants (that I know of, ha), of able body, and sound mind made the house in which I was raised far from optimal for either one of us.

And about that sound mind thing. My last trip to the hospital was far more of a tune-up of sorts as opposed to a critical/crisis intervention, but as is typically the case, in retrospect, I can admit that I wasn't quite on point when released. After ten plus admissions you learn, what to say, how to say it, and when to say it, and to whom to expedite your exit and have your walked papers granted. While psych wards had become something of a home away from home during my twenties, they are still no place I’d want to be, unless there was no other suitable option, hence me talking that talk while committed.

That said with my newfound optimism and experience, good times were had this last go round nonetheless. The staff knows me well (cue the “Cheers” theme song) at Newton-Wellesley Hospital (NWH), so it’s almost like seeing old friends. This last time, I damn near played the role of host being wholly familiar with the routine, hospital personnel, and typical clientele. Sure, the circumstances surrounding these types of  reunion are less than ideal, but familiar faces in what could otherwise be seen as hellish places go a long way themselves in allaying certain symptoms.

When I came home, there was many a hypo-manic hiccup, not to mention side-effects from the newest medication, Seroquel, which simply did not agree with me with its nauseating side effects. Throw in a little post traumatic stress (though I may or may not meet the criteria for the disorder itself, please believe it’s not simply reserved for those who have served), and I was waking up extremely irritably, lashing out for any number of reasons, poor sleep (thanks to the Seroquel), and no consistent place find it, and having flashbacks when I did, were amongst the top ones.

Despite not being wanted at home as my mother made clear to the hospital clinicians, there was nowhere else to go, as the shelters I had looked into at that point were booked. That said, I came to my old bedroom, to find my little sister in the midst of taking over my room and her trove of stuff, half way moved in and mine strewn about as she prepped the room for a fresh layer of paint. “Welcome home, thanks for helping me towards a speedy recovery, guys” I thought.

In any case home used to be a good place to recoup, regroup, rest, and recover. The rehabbed me (again thanks to the tour Atlanta), left me well against any number of measures, and there was simply no reason to be there. My mother and I were both more than frustrated with my presence. She, as a freshly minted divorceé finally free of any maternal obligations, looked to indulge in her long suppressed wanderlust between her side of the family in Pittsburgh and a lovely renaissance of sorts with her new beau in South Carolina. Before I even left Atlanta, I looked to take writing more seriously than ever before, but coming home threw a wrench into those plans, which only now are being re-adjusted accordingly and most thankfully.

A holiday update.

Excuse the hiatus, y'all, but getting in family time during the holidays while working full-time and respecting the 7pm curfew at the lodge has made writing a little tough. On the other hand, however, with some Christmas cash, and this week's paycheck, a budget laptop looks to be in the works.

I hope to taking writing more seriously over the next year. The recent flurry of posts have been time-constricted by the library limits, not to mention the time it takes to get there before or after work. I'm looking to freelance wherever and whenever possible over the next year, as well as reach out to different folks and resources to hopefully get the name out there. It's time to get it crackin' y'all.

And one more for ya before I sign off. I recently topped the four digit hit mark, with readership from places as far as Russia. Though my postings were only in intermittent flurries over the past year, my resolve to write as therapy is emboldened knowing that others seem to have found value in it as well.  A good feeling indeed, which is much appreciated, so a whole-hearted thank you is in order.

From Laments to Lessons

As someone who used to carry around a cumbersome load of them, regrets seem to be typically reserved for those who have not reconciled with their past and thus may have an awareness of, let alone peace with their present. After suffering from what my shrink then called, self-attacking thoughts and even more brutal self talk for years that thankfully have been reframed casually using many cognitive behavioral techniques learned along the way, this virulent vortex of self-pity (and when it wasn’t self-pity it was straight up self-hate) has provided background for a portrait that’s still in the works.

After spending nearly a decade trying to make sense of love and loss (aside from the romantic loves lost, other equally chilling losses included the child that never was, my grandfather, my grandmother, my mind, and last and least importantly of all my money/material possessions), it recently came to me to frame it from a more detached, objective perspective. That’s to say nothing that happened was anyone else’s fault, and it certainly was not my own to be personalized. The perceived failures were once a bastard whose paternity I claimed fully and whose rearing fell squarely and upon my shoulders. Not to say that blame should be ducked and dodged, but if we are to share the credit for our successes, an equal distribution of its opposite seems appropriate. In either case, I’ve moved away from value ascription across any number of domains and learned to view my definition of success as just that, mine.

Fault is a weighty burden to bear, and certainly not one conducive to maintaining any semblance of mental hygiene when embraced and accepted solely. Now instead of attaching blame or even searching for reasons why, my attitude, as it concerns anything, ranging, from the minor to the major, “this, that, or the third may have happened, now what am I going to do about it.” This solution oriented, value-neutral approach has been good for me as it centers around my ability (or agency, if you prefer the academic term) to be the architect of my own destiny, in the immediate, eventual, and ultimate time frames. 

on Cultivating an Attitude of Gratitude.

One thing I’ve trained myself to do, is to cultivate an attitude of gratitude as my positive psychology professor at Berkeley used to say. He taught a class called, “Human Happiness,” and its dividends are still being paid, especially as it regards being mindful of thankfulness.

Two songs I listen to first before I get into my zone are 1) William DeVaugn’s “Be Thankful for What you Got and 2) Nas and Damian Marley’s, “Count Your Blessings”)

After those two are played, it’s anybody’s call as to what comes next, but it’s as important to realize what you’ve come through and where you’ve come to, as it is to know where you’re going (should planning be your thing, if not it’s cool, too, for as they say, “Not all who wander are lost.”

I was just saying to my shrink, Francis, yesterday, how I’ve come to respect and appreciate the process that is progress, and though change by incremental extension took some getting used to, little by little, it’s important to know that as long I’m moving in the right direction, then it’s all good. Life will be there tomorrow, so what’s the rush?

I ended the session by saying, “I’m only concerned with pleasing myself these days,” which for someone who in the past has tried to be a lot of things to a lot of people was not a self-congratulatory nod to the guy in the mirror nor a hedonistic green light, but a shirking of baggage that used to weigh me down something serious.

Dispensing advice or dropping jewels on those who don’t want to or simply aren’t able to receive them can itself be an exercise in frustration. All of the tools, information, and know how, to do whatever you may be able to conceive are at your immediate disposal via the wonders of the internet. Though if you prefer the old school, personal connection, as I do, mine your network to increase your net worth, in whichever terms you see worth as having value (i.e., not necessarily financial).

After a good talk with the homie Sean yesterday, he reinforced this notion of mindful and what is to be gained simply by reaching out. This situation in the shelter (which in and of itself is a stigmatized term with some resounding connotations to the negative – besides technically it’s a lodge, and feels more like a halfway house) is a speed bump through which I’m staying focused and positive. In a few months, I will have saved up enough money for a room or even more preferably an efficiency studio. For the time being, I’m loving the camaraderie, company, and conversation of the fellas there. Though some could be doing better, just to give you an idea of the clientele, I’ve seen a laptop, an iphone, and people getting suited and booted to start there day like anyone else.

As I was telling my homegirl, Nicole, this place is a five star resort compared to the shelter shelter where I stayed for a couple of nights in the hood. It was just row after row of cots occupied by gentlemen who had been shot (in fact one guy was sharing war stories in the waiting room [read:outside on the bench], down, and super out (of it). It was actually inside of a barren, church with pews cleared out. It was bare bones and required a 20 minute walk through the hood just to arrive, (Not to mention the four dollars each way + hour commute on the bus and train just to get there – and all this is not to say that I ain’t appreciate the hell of out it, the two nights I crashed there, but to say that the place I’m at now is a palace by comparison.

We’re talking, washing machine, Coke machine, showers, cable, food from local restaurants brought in the semi-regular, as was as spacious cubbies, that for someone was a a few back packs worth of stuff (that can all go tomorrow for all I care), has proven to be more than sufficient.

Needless to say, I’m thankful and count my blessings daily.

Thoughts on the Newtown, CT shooting.

In a articularly crude use of a facebook back in 2009 while still a grad student at Berkeley, I posted a status update that read something to the effect of, “Campus Police respond as gunshots rang out on the Northwest side of campus. Officers arrived to find, the suspect, Chris Ferguson, to only have murdered his psychology final exam.”

The reactions to this post taught me a few things. One, not everyone uses the term murder in a benign light, but amongst many of my boys, Terrie especially, that word is thrown around casually to connote an especially dramatic endeavor towards consummation or completion.

Example: With my voracious appetite and gastroinstestinal satiety that knows no bounds, On Mexican night, I might be overheard saying to he or someone else: “Yo, I was hungry as a muthafucka last night. Those tacos got murdered.”

In other words, if you’re kinda slow, and still don’t get it, half the time, especially as it regards modern black (s)language, ebonics, if you will, pretend it’s opposite day, where bad, quite literally can and does mean good, in any number of contexts. 

Final example for the extra lay: “Yo that chick bad, can often be translated as, “Salutations, good sir, that lady is particularly beautiful.”

Secondly, those that got my humor, laughed, but did so in a way that was illustrative to me as it regards my particularly likelihood, to go on a shooting spree. My sister’s old schoolyard boyfriend, Ricardo, was one of many who said, “Haha, good one, Chris, you almost got me with that one,” or something to that effect. This got me to thinking, well damn, guess they thought I was capable going Columbine, but after reading the recent headlines and lead-ins to the Newtown incident, that oh so familiar psychological profile for what have become routine goings on, can essentially be drawn from recall:

“The suspect had a history of mental illness. He was described as quiet by those that knew him and kept to himself much of the time.”

Well, damn, if the shoe fits, allow me to find some matching socks. That is to say, that could be me on any given day (though the paternally inherited extrovert has been out and active moreso than in the past)

Though this situation in particular and the headlines that accompanied it can and will be problematized in any number of ways, firsts things first. This history of mental illness bullshit. Instead of passing the buck and shirking the blame to have it fall squarely on the shoulders of those of have experienced the terrors and trauma so often are suffered mental illness, would it be too much to say exactly what that history is. If we are to err, why not do so on the side of specificity. As it regards onus bearing, could we not, just as easily say, “The suspect had a history of being mistreated in general and mistreated for mental illness in particular.”

Since, however, excuse-making is not the goal at this critical juncture and because the privilege to represent struck during this unfortunate time, allow me to do just that, and revisit the depths of the mind a solitary mad man from someone’s who has “been there, and thought that” so to speak. Though due to obvious sensitivities regarding gun violence in light of the recent shooting in Newton, CT, such morose humor is best unrepeated in public spaces, allow me to explicate, and perhaps even allow you to delve into a mind, who more recently than I would care to admit (well actually I did recently admit to it, please see one of my recent posts where ending up on the losing side of a love triangle, had me whistling Hendrix’s classic ballad, “Hey Joe,” like Dixie).

While this much be able to be intuited, it really can be an, “if I’m feelin’ it, someone else gon’ feel it,” type of situation. And by, “it” of course, I’m talking about abscessed, festering agony of unrecognized and unaddressed pain. While restraint has always been a source of pride for me in my sexual and violent, less-capades, (so called for their relative infrequency as measured against those of my peers and the frequency with which they can manifest in the old thoughtbox respectively), there have been times when the Bishop (see the movie Juice for the reference and the masterful acting of one Tupac Shakur) has surfaced, and I simply do not give a fuck. While the menefreghista in me comes, it typically goes just as soon, and my negative energies are typically internalized. On the two occasions where they were externalized, in an aggressive, malicious fashion my old knucklehead pops took a couple for the team as it were, having earned them for a lifetime of half-assed parenting and even more half-assed husbandry.

Thoughts ranging from mass murder to directed assault and battery can be commonly overheard in everyday idiomatic expression (that is to say, the phrases so casually thrown around like, “I’ll kill so and so,” during moments of rage or even in jest, the familiar, “I’d like to beat the shit out of such and such) there is a grand distinction between having an impulse and acting on it.

However, during that fuzzy space between thought and action, (and if close enough attention is paid, word is almost always put out in some form or fashion), let’s ask ourselves if we are at all complicit in the actions of another by our regard, or lack thereof, via indifference whether callous, or unconscious, to the burdens borne by our brother. And if you are not seeing your brother in the other then perhaps you may recalibrate your moral compass accordingly.

Listening is free, therapy is not. Caring is a 24/7 operation, therapy is not. Getting meds requires appointments, time, and money. Getting a smile should not. Giving a fuck is not just for the sexually liberated. If you see someone in passing who looks like their day, year, or life, could be going better, did you ask them, how they were doing? If you answered no to the previous question, then why it is a shock, when just about one in two people in our country, have been prescribed psychotropic meds in our country (guess can agree, that damn near the majority could be described, as having had a mental health history), when one of those (mis)treated souls loses it and consequently makes others lose their lives as a result?

Abstinence is Birth Control are taught in schools as early as elementary school. Drug Control is advocated in schools. In the wake of the Newtown Massacre, with echoes of atrociously similar shootings still being heard, the everpresent call for gun control is now deafening. If there is time to teach everything in school, and push for controls of all measures, let’s start with self-control, intrapersonal mastery, and interpersonal empathy insofar as it is possible.

Rolling stone part 2 /2 (aka movin' on and on)

01/07, Terrie and I move to Santa Ana

07/07 Amidst the growing bullshit manic wave number two starts to hit

08/07 After a number of hospitalizations, in July, I fly home to Boston

08/07 Having had plans to attend graduate school in Berkeley in the fall, I insist to my doubting parents that it is the place for me to be, so they fly me out there and I last no more than a week before jumping my manic self back on a plane (with an assist from my closest friend from high school, Ryan).

09/07-08/08. It was an especially dark year at home. Routinely slept 12-14 hours a day, only barely functioning enough to bum cigarettes off my mother.

08/08. Somewhere I muster up the gumption to pretend like a give a fuck about the cult of productivity enough to attempt to return to Berkeley. I fly back out to Berkeley to give it the old grad school try.

09/08. Still depressed, lost, and confused I go to the well with Maria one last time, this time with talks of playing for keeps. In fact, I kinda proposed to her via myspace (so fucking lame I know, but desperate times…). She’s back on board.

08/08. Stressed out over the way things are going at Berkeley, a fight over FB IM would be the last I ever heard from Maria. Much love to her for the effort, a rider if there ever was one.

09/09. Grad school has been difficult, a journey wrought with being overly medicated to the point that damn near cripples me physically, but we were scarred up and still flowing to that point. Feel lighter without having to worry about living up to Maria’s expectations of courtship (btw, Maria was in So Cal, while I was in Berkeley for this last go round, so the distance was a stressor as well), and eventual husbandry. With a case manager and doctor’s recommendations in hand, I ask my advisor to postpone my MA exam for the coming spring. Request is denied. Instead of hopping over his desk, and showing him a thing or two, the anger is internalized, and I go manic for wave # 3.

02/10. After a manic wave that saw me hospitalized in the Spring as well, I exit the hospital and come home to an eviction notice on my door. Fuck it, I thought, and flew back home, yet again.

03/10-08/11. Boston bound. Thanks to many a game of Madden online via Terrie this stay at home wasn’t nearly as bad as the ones three years prior.

09/11. Decide to move to Atlanta

08/12. back to Boston, folks.

Papa was a rolling stone (it's in my ancestry as Jay-Z notes) / timeilne part one.

On the move,

Instead of a typical post, I figured I’d try something different, since last night’s sleep wasn’t the best, the desire to put together a regular post would feel forced.

Perhaps reflective of my own instability and/or lack of direction, even prior to my diagnosis I’ve decided to make timeline with brief annotation, noting the physical moves I’ve made since graduating from the old alma mater (University of So. Cal, if you were unaware. Fight On!)

05/04 graduate, move out of senior year dorm to summer apt in the same building

06/04 begin work at the Black Sports Agents Association

08/04 moved off campus and rented a room

02/05 too drained by office politics and depressed by the Brenda situation to say in LA, packs up the Corolla and makes it home to Bostonin just under two and half days

03/05 Eurotrip. Pope JPII dies on my 23^rd birthday, while I happened to be in Rome. It should be noted that on that day, Maria was literally the only person in the world, to acknowledge my bday without prompting. Sidenote, the prince or Monaco, died the following day, as we approached. Weird.

06/05 like a loyal hounddog flies out to see what was up with Brenda to make sure the door was shut around the time of her graduation. It was. Surprises Maria in OC with visit while out there to see if that door was still open. It was. Goes back to LA and escorts Brenda back to Yakima, by Greyhound. Files back to OC to kick it with Maria for a couple of weeks or so. Good, carefree times were had, so many so that seeing what was there (while intuiting it was nothing) seemed like a good idea

08/05 Flies out to OC to make it work with Maria. Made the crucial mistake of half-stepping, however, or not keeping my thought, word, and deed in alignment. You know, saying one thing and doing another. I guess she was tired of the BS, and started seeing someone else… while I lived 2 complexes down. Mania and homicidal/suicidal fantasies ensue.

11/05 Despite a trip to the firing range, to ease some tension, it’s thought best not to make headlines. Fly back to Boston, take rage out on father with a right hook the eye as manic firestorm ensues.

11/05-01/06 on probation and hospitalized for the assault and manic wave respectively

04/06 PO grants permission to go out of state to pickup and transport home the Porsche I had bought during the Maria unpleasantness. Of course while out there, we rekindle things.

05/06 Around memorial day, drive from boston to DC to visit older sister, Jessica. Kick it there for the weekend the drive down to ATL to visit the homie Terrie. Oh and yes, I left Boston with the original intent of going straight to OC to live with Maria, again…

06/06 Terrie and I open up our sportscars on the open road and drive from ATL to LA/OC respectively.

12/06, Maria and I finally have enough of each. Move out of her apartment after blowing up at her, and I move up the freeway with Terrie at his sister’s crib. 

Escalator to Nowhere, No thank you.

To further touch on what was written last time, being diagnosed as having bipolar disorder was not my choice, however passing on many a socioeconomic “privilege” has been.

Again as is often the case we have to take it back in order to go forward. I was fortunate enough to receive some of the finest education the New England Prep School circuit has to offer. Beginning in kindergarten at the Meadowbrook School, I was found myself at the crossroads of privilege and opportunity. Though I always appreciated the friends made (with whom many I have reconnected via facebook- including my first girlfriend, and yes, she was the prettiest girl in the class :) and later came to cherish the intellectual/academic bootcamp that Meadowbrook provided, the track upon which it set me led to a veritable vortex of khakis and cardigans. Despite being young I sensed that this track would take me on a special ride, one that would separate me from my neighborhood friends, who didn't have to go to school in fifth and sixth grade, with the option of a turtleneck or tie under their blazer (note: to this day, I have an especial aversion towards neckties, and only wear them when I must (read: never). Despite their seemingly innocuous origins from many centuries ago (the particulars of which I'm too lazy to google and relay) as yet another accessory that has form, but no function, having something akin to a dangling phallus hanging around my neck that can be turned easily into a noose-like hanging mechanism never sat well with me, as a young black male. 

After graduating Meadowbrook, I went to an all-boys school for seventh grade, in retrospect only because my best friend was going. Yet in the limited foresight of my twelve years, I failed to see the foolishness and foulness that comprise the daily goings on of hormone fueled, pubescent boys with no natural outlet for their nonsense.

Aside from seeing everything from feces being transported from the john to a literal hole in the homeroom wall for an especially foul-smelling start to many  morning, farting contests in class,  games of soggy cookie (google it, if you must) to hearing about cocaine and champagne fueled parties of the upper class boiys  while parents were out of town, I was out of place from jumpstreet. The misery that gripped me during that year was reflected in an uncharacteristic underachievement in the classroom, save for Latin, the only class I enjoyed.

As it relates to “privilege” however, I quickly realized these were not my type of people. While generalizations can be risky business, on the whole, in relation to the people I’ve met since, at Belmont Hill I had the misfortune of meeting some of most overprivileged and underexposed dirt bags this side of the Mississippi. I didn’t care then what office their daddy held, what which sports team he owned, what fortune 500 company he founded, whose Ivy league admissions board he oversaw and still don’t today. At that age, with no young girls to occupy a young boys mind, about the only thing I cared about was whether their daddy taught them how to throw a decent spiral.

Enough with the nonsense, I said, I quickly opted for a degree of normalcy, and left the prep school bullshit behind and went to public school, where I had the privilege of having my social skills nurtured by a cross-section of the population that was far more reflective than those I had or would meet along the escalator to nowhere.

On blaming the victim (for lack of a better term).

My little sister, Nicole, in the sage wisdom of her 23 years (note the sarcasm, should it not be directly inferable), suggested that my circumstance was of my choosing, that somehow or another my diagnosis, the chaos that followed it, and the assortment of seemingly ill-advised decisions was a conscious series of events, the outcome of which were voluntary.

Oh young sister, learn a thing or two, inform yourself about mental illness in general and bipolar disorder in particular before you further expose and embarrass yourself, I implored. This rejection of her sentiment was expressed directly and somewhat indirectly, but it reeked of blaming the victim, for lack of a better term.

First and foremost, I am not my diagnosis. Transitively said, a person with cancer is not cancer nor are they hardly “cancerous” nor carcinogenic, nor anything of the sort. My diagnosis is an incidental, genotypic marker of sorts, one which hardly defines me in sum. Secondly, the diagnosis, and any of the decisions made under the influence of mania and or depression, should be taken for what they were. This is not to run and hide behind the, “it wasn’t me, it was my illness” excuse, but if temporary insanity holds up in the court of law, why not that of familial opinion? Furthermore, aside from semantic distinction and connotative understanding, if someone can succinctly explain the difference between an excuse and an explanation, this armchair psycholinguistic fanatic is all ears. But I digress.

For a corollary that reeks of victim-pointing let us take a look at the hot girl (my ex-girlfriend, Maria, for example) who despite her best efforts is continually hit upon by any number of thirsty guys in a given day. Not once while being regaled with her stories of potential suitors harassing her did I suggest to my former flame, even for a moment, that there was anything she should have been doing to thwart their suggestive approaches. She dressed modestly, yet because of her dollface and enticing assets, regardless of her sartorial choices, she, as a waitress, often found herself on the receiving end of many a cat call.

Let’s take this scenario a step further if you will allow. Let’s talk rape. There are any number of reported cases when a female will be raped more than once. How would it sound if that victim’s family members were to say, “Becky, you slut, you could have avoided this from happened multiple times… You should have taken even more precaution, etc, etc.” It sounds horrible plain and simple.

So when the bipolar guy goes off the deep end more than once, yet he is on his medication and going to therapy per doctor’s orders, somehow it’s his fault that these episodes keep on occurring as if there was something more he could or should have been doing. (Ok, I lied, one final corollary. If my diagnosis was cancer, as suggested above, or any physical illness for that matter, and the tumor kept coming back and resurfacing after extended periods of remission, how fair would it be to say, “Chris, you’ve been in chemo, you’re taking your pills,” that cancer you chose to have really is your fault. Yes, folks, it would sound as ridiculous as it does sadistic.)

For everyone’s information, now that I am out of the house, I am on my meds (20 mg of abilify daily) In fact, just to quiet any future or further complaints from the peanut gallery and further ensure my sustained wellness, I may up this dose or add a mood stabilizer to the mix, since abilify is typically classified as an antipsychotic, which can complemented by stabilizers).

Teaser for you folks at home: In my next post, tentatively titled, “Finally Homeless” I hope to further discuss privilege, and what may seem like a masochistic rejection of it, as it regards my current(ly changing) circumstance.

It will further get you up to speed, but the narrative posts, and my non-creative, story-telling self, had to take a break from the narrative updates, to give you a piece of my mind, as I prefer to do. Gah, attempting to improve on the biographical sketching though, for your entertainment and my own, my look into creative writing techniques, so as to avoid the linearity and dryness that may have affected the readability of my last few posts (apologies, folks.) 

It's all in me and it's all on me... "Finally," (in the rock voice).

To so unceremoniously infer that my mental welfare was a distant second to the whereabouts of the dog let me know where I stand. Combine that with more than a couple of elevated cleaning/purging sprees to counter the hoarding that surrounded me like a virus, and it was obvious to see where I stood in my mothers’ eyes: as a problem.

Her material stuff mattered more than my mental sanity. Her Canine meant more to her than her Chris.

This is not to knock my mother in the least. I’m obviously biased, but in less than hyperbolic terms I have long referred to her as the world’s best mother, having been there every step of the way for me for a solid 30 and one half years. She had been my rock, a beacon in the darkness, and a hero, yet the toll of my cumulative toll of my diagnosis on the family and apparently her peace of mind had become too much to bear.

Because many of her possessions had been moved, rearranged, and some of the junk simply tossed to preserve my sanity, her peace of mind was impacted. From the Beta, incident forward I was on thin ice, knowing my days at the house were numbered.

Fast forward a couple of months, and with the pressure to leave mounting, I finally said fuck it. The under the breath, indirect comments pointing the door, left me with no other reasonable, sanity-maintaining alternative than to hit the homeless shelter.

During that time, I began working at Whole Foods. It is a wonderful company and everything is run like a well-oiled machine from top to bottom. In terms of my desire for cleanliness, order, and efficiency, it has met and exceeded my expectations. The customers are happy to shop there, and my co-workers may as well compose a model UN. The produce apartment alone, for example,  is comprised of Latinos hailing from any number of companies. Mad cool, and it gives me the always appreciated opportunity to bring out the Spanish, having ‘em think I’m from the Dominican or something is always fun to me.

With cash in my pocket, and EBT that hits on the seventh of every month, despite the what could be seen as bleak circumstance, the depression which gripped me mercilessly throughout my 20’s has yielded to an ever-present optimism, and as corny as it may sound a gratefulness to be alive having endured it all and come out stronger and richer (eh, well in spirit, at least through it all).

Atlanta was a truly transformative time, and though it was fraught with curveball after change-up, after beanball, it brought me back to life. It was an assist from a friend who saw his comrade hurting, and though things didn’t work out as originally planned, they worked out all for the good, as they always do, even when it may not seem so.

Now I find myself four months shy of 31, and feel incredibly blessed at this particular juncture to have everything falling on me, without the necessity to deal with anyone else’s non-sense. Though I wouldn’t go so far to call myself a loner, when left alone to isolate then integrate when it makes sense to do is when I’m at my best.

Due to an exceptional flood of scholarship monies saved up throughout college (roughly 20K) and an additional 50K via an inheritance, I was essentially retired from 2004 to the summer of 2007. Money was not an issue, and not having yet found a place or reason to work with that much dough in the bank, I was living life somewhat recklessly from a financial standpoint, but it was part of a long healing process, rebounding from the heartbreak of losing my college sweetheart, Brenda.

Though my sancha (Mexican slang for sidechick/mistress) was also my heart, looking to her to heal the pain of a love lost, was an idea whose foolishness was reflective of the desperate circumstance in which I perceived myself to be floundering in.

Next up on the save-a-drowning-Negro list was graduate school. That was a no go, and to be honest, college was just something I did because it was always expected of me. Though I achieved, there was never any conception, let alone desire to continue my studies along any set career path.

The cult of productivity, which demands that we do something, more than anything pressured me to go back to school, but given everything I was dealing with outside of the classroom, a year’s worth of credit and a lifetime worth of lessons were earned.

As it regards both my love life and school life, it is best as the Notorious BIG cautioned, to “only make moves when your heart’s in it.”

When you half-step, pump-fake, or bullshit, you end up playing yourself in the end. And forget about taking short cuts as they undoubtedly end up cutting you short. Life is a continual process of paying dues and sacrificing to reach your next goal be it immediate, eventual, or ultimate.

For the sake of reflection and projection of the instability that gripped me since my post collegiate life until very recently, where insanity has given way to a long ago lost focus, I composed a timeline for myself, which I will share here for posterity’s sake if nothing else in my next post.  

up to speed, part two.

So in my best efforts to fulfill my filial duties as a good son, hearing the words, “mother”, and “surgery” in the same sentence not only expedited my plans but changed them.

Having just quit my job and having planned to live life in the A to the fullest simply by doing me, my mood was as consistently good as it had been since my diagnosis. I had wanted to come home ever so briefly and show my mother and little sister Nicole, the made-over me, but that phone call from Nina changed things, and quickly.

There was a hiccup of course with my last paycheck due to overdraft fees, so I couldn’t even afford to fly back home without my cousin’s help. She booked my ticket and I flew back the next day when I realistically could have stayed in my apartment for another two weeks handlin’ bidness and having fun.

Because narrative isn’t my strong suit, nor is it my preferred manner of writing, allow me to share on story that was indicative of the dynamic that prevailed during my time at home.

Of course after getting more news, it turned out that my mother was having something very minor done. My thinking was, if it was so minor, why say anything at all. I would have appreciated if she had kept it to herself or given details so as to not throw people into crisis mode.

Nonetheless I was back at home feeling swell, doing my best to function amidst the chaos. Psychological disorders seem to run matrilineally in my family. My Uncle is bipolar, my mother’s mother’s was suicidal (and successful I would later learn), and my mother, bless her heart, is a hoarder. As someone whose proclivity towards cleanliness, orderliness, and efficiency was probably developed to counter her own foul living habits, let’s just say there is bound to be some friction.

Hoarders, as I’m sure you know, regardless of there reasoning for their compulsion like to collect. And collect. And collect. Furthermore in my mother’s case her stuff is strewn about the house with no seeming method behind the madness. And though she swears up and down, she knows where all of her stuff is, this is the same woman, who, if asked for a cigarette, has to pat down ten different pockets in order to find one (and of course it’s rarely without a sigh or a teeth-sucking seeing as how she is with her nicotine).

In any case, rather than psychoanalyze any further, let’s just say my little sister is essentially a clone of my mother, and as such she adopted her habits to acquire material junk and then spread it around like a virus. And don’t ask either one of them to clean up after themselves as they had both implored my little cousins to do when they stayed with us at the house, because apparently that’s just too much to ask. Ever wanted to make yourself breakfast in a clean kitchen? Me, too. Only thing is at my mother’s house cleaning the kitchen will take a solid hour out of your day to the point where you say fuck it because nine times out of ten it’ll look like nothing was cleaned at all by the end of the day. Attempting to function in that house was like running on a treadmill at world class speed 24 hours a day. If you wanted to get anything done, (e.g., personal goals – I came back from the A with a  8 page typed lists of goals, categorized by type – yes folks, it was that type of party), that required focus, good luck finding a clean and orderly space to do it.

Perhaps my frustration is shining through, and if so good. If not let’s just say cleaning up after two women with these habits, a shedding and unspayed dog (canine blood on your sock is a good way to fuck up anyone’s morning), and attempting to function, simply didn’t work out too well.

Rather than regale you with details of each and every incident that let to my premature departure, I’ll highlight the one that was the proverbial straw that broke mama’s humpback.

On a night like any other my mother and sister were in straight veg mode, watching some vomit in your mouth inducing trash TV. Rather than pace and surf the web in the other room, I decided to take the dog for a walk. Truth be told, maybe it was the boredom or frustration, or them both in concert, but for a good time over my four month stay at home, I was somewhere between elevated and hypomanic. For me this means a relatively low degree of synchronicity (finding meaning in certain stimuli, that to others may be disregarded as insignificant). Combine this was some delusions of grandeur, and you’ve got a recipe for adventure. Back to the chase. I was at the part and it was probably around midnight when I passed the pool, which had recently closed for the winter. Closed for most people that is. I tied the dog up, climbed the 15 foot high chain link fence, and went for a dip.

Of course, it was trespassing, but I’m rather conscious of the decisions I make the consequences that any of them may carry. To borrow from Jules in Pulp Fiction, the what if’s are always contemplated. Worst case scenario, a cop could have seen me, which could have earned me a stern warning or a trespassing charge. The former would have been shrugged off, and the latter would more than likely have been dismissed as the good courts in Newton typically don’t waste their time trying nonsense cases. The risk was taken and nobody was the wiser.

Unfortunately, however, it was colder than had been expected, and I found myself walking around dripping wet when I passed by the middle school and noticed one of those obstacle course that they used for team building activities like trust falls and such. I untied Beta, (that’s the name of my mother’s German Shepherd, by the way) and walked over to the obstacle course.

After messing around on the equipment for about 15 minutes, it seemed like Beta must have been PMS’s in a major way or something. Either that or she wanted to let me know she would be deducted style points from the way I mounted the obstacles, but this bitch ( and yes, I can her that without reproach or hesitation, as she is a female dog), started attacking me.

A german shepherd in the middle of the night decided to use your extremities for chew toys can be a little more than off-putting especially when the motivations and intentions and possible outcomes of her chomping are all unknown. Rather than wait for her to lock down on my jugular and bring the night to a terrifying close, she was ditched.

To this day, I’m still not sure what cause her to turn on me. Maybe her microchip went haywire. Shit who knows, maybe she didn’t take her bipolar meds that morning.

I decided to walk of the pain and confusion, since by that time it was the middle of the night. Knowing my mother had already, locked up for the night, I did my best Forrest Gump, and kept walking. And walking. And walking, somewhat aimless until the sun started to rise.

Of course by the time I got back the door was still locked. Time to get creative. I decided to get in by removing the AC from the side window, because my teeth were chattering by that point. Having ditched some of my clothes at the park, to the best of my recollection, I had on a hoody, soaking wet basketball shorts, and a mean mug, the result of the spots of blood that had collected by the bite marks on my hands and arms.

I’m shimmying through the window, when my mother sees me from the inside. She meets me at the window as I’m climbing in from the outside, and the first thing she says to me, looking disheveled and out of sorts is, “Chris, where’s Beta?”

It's all good, baby, baby (In Biggie Voice). An up-to-speed, biographical sketch.

It’s all good either way is the motto that has been adopted these days. Much has changed since my last autobiographical entries, and this quick sketch of the last year will hopefully get you up to speed..

Despite my apologies for my absence, efforts will be made to check in more regularly for those of you who have composed my loyal readership. (On that note, I’m happy to report that each entry has been getting about 30 hits on average with readers as far away as Germany and Russia. (It may not sound like much, but for word of mouth’s sake, it is to me. Furthermore, as my friend Chris says, "A lil' something, is better than a whole lot o' nothin'.).  That’s a good sign that the work here is positively impacting someone out there, so consider me happy on that end.) Anyhow, please allow me to continue with the narrative.

So much has changed over the past year in general, and the past four months, have been especially instructive .In the following paragraphs, I’ll do my best to give you the highly abridged version of the goings on.

After hearing that my mother was having an unexpected surgery (unbeknownst to me at the time it was very minor and routine), the heaven carved out for myself in the A, was left at the drop of a hat to fulfill my filial duties as they were perceived. 

When I left to Atlanta in late 2011, I was 225 lbs, slept 14-16 hours a day, wasn’t working, (unless of course you call bumming cigarettes compulsively from my mother a job), and instead of continuing upon this dead end trajectory, I moved in with one my closest friends to attempt rectify both of our situations.

It was a reintroduction to adulthood and the responsibilities it entails, a veritable crash course if you will, seeing as how he was in jeopardy of losing “it” in the proverbial mental way that was all too familiar to me and losing his apartment in a very real, “get yo’ black ass on the streets, way”. My little sister, Nicole, in her sage wisdom, advised that me going down there was like jumping on the titanic. At the time I remember thinking doing so was better than doing the dead man’s float in the middle of the ocean.

Thankfully, within a matter of months in Atlanta many a stride were made to end the catatonia that had seized me in Boston. I started working at a grocery store as well as writing papers as a side hustle. On the weight front, I got back in the gym to regain my once, svelte figure. Somewhere the inspiration struck, to give grad school the old college try, as I soon got the ball rolling on a January 2012 entrance (more on this coming up in the post).

Back against the wall pressure to create that diamond had been applied. But wait, there’s more…

Despite our best efforts to keep the titanic (i.e. our living situation afloat) my friend had to return to LA to tend to his own family obligations. That left the kid with a once friendly leasing agent threatening eviction on a basis that was more regularly and routine that was pleasant.

I was solo in the A, making moves to salvage a situation that I knew was leaps and bounds ahead of what I left in Boston. Finally, the leasing agent had had enough, and once legal action was pursued, I moved what was left of my friends belongings as well as my stuff across the hall to a friend’s apartment across the way.

Around the same time, in addition to working and dealing with stressors of piss-poor management, I attempted to try grad school for the final time after already having left my MA in African Diaspora Studies on the back burner at Cal. This time around I chose to look into social services, specifically, mental health counseling at Mercer University, a small school in Atlanta. 

Due to everything that was going on at the time, and the repressed trauma that the program invoked, I was forced to bail, but not before I collected an 11K student loan that gave me the means to secure a two bedroom apartment as I awaited my roommates return from Cali. Long story short, it bought us time, but despite our best efforts to come up with what should have been, under less trying circumstance, wholly doable rent, we were unceremoniously given the boot from that apartment, too.

It sounds worse than it is folks, and if you’ll kindly refer back to the aforementioned introductory quote, it led me to many a lesson and to my current station, for which I couldn’t be more grateful. (Sidenote, understandably this is, as stated, the glossed over, extremely abridged version. Apologies again, if it comes off with a who dunnit and what for vibe, but read along, and we’ll get there.)

After losing the second apartment, and being exhausted by what would by my final move in the A, I found myself sharing a two-bedroom apartment with the big homie Donald at the grocery store. The rent was agreeable to my budget, and due to my diligence at the grocery store, I was promoted from greeter (I was the, “Ask Me” guy/director during an intensive and massive remodel who directed bewildered customers to their desired product during the nearly year long overhaul) to natural foods specialist for those few shoppers in the A, who were on the healthy eating bandwagon.

In less than a year, I had lost 40lbs, put on a good deal of muscle mass (set a new personal record and finally broke the 225ish one rep max on the bench), put the cigarettes down (perhaps the most wondrous of all of my accomplishments in my book, seeing as how smoking had become damn near a job of mine on its own), and gotten my focus back. It was the best of times.

During my time in the A in general and the grocery store in particular, much was learned. The benefits of going hard at a fixed income, menial, salaried position became clear. You can actually move up and be compensated accordingly for your efforts, even if you don't think they are noticed. Aside from meeting dear friends who are on speed dial to this day in the mental rolodex it was a transformative period. It was a rehab of sorts, and despite it costing me nearly 20K in student loans to be repaid, it was worth every penny.

To bring the story full circle back to the my current station, despite having a foothold on the fast(er) track at the grocery store, I decided to throw caution to the wind (as had been my MO to that point) and gave my notice at the job. The free spirit in me, wanted with two weeks left on month to month rent, wanted to get on his Thoreau-Emerson, transcendental tip, go live and Stone Mountain while focusing on writing full-time. The transient, nomad, vagabond, wanderer (Metallic Fans, note the reference to these seeming pejoratives) in me has become quite accustomed to moving, and being where I want to be at any given time. Though several options were considered, I decided to use my last paycheck from the grocery to store to make one last move, before I got down to writing passionately and purposefully.

Again, as is typical with much that I have done, it sounds more rash than it is. One of the phone calls I had made in the A, was to a former friend and business mentor who does brand management for celebrities, and has quite the resume to back up his exploits. I figured that with my mojo back, and him behind me, this was the time to seize the day, go for the gusto and all of that good stuff. I was amped as they say.

In my excitement, before delving into my dream, I decided I wanted to come home, visit the fam, and show them the new me while leaving me just enough money to get back to the A and continue upon the aforementioned plan.  

As I was the library during my morning visit there, my cousin, Nina called me and in atypical and very troubled tone told me, “Chris, your mother is going in for surgery, what’s going on?!”

. . .