The More Things Change

In a nutshell, the four months since my last post have seen more of the same common denominator that has marred my life since my diagnosis: instability.

In the interest of time and energy, both of which are lacking as of the moment, I'll summarize with bullet points.

- Somehow, amidst the excitement of the birthday (in April), the tax refund from a year of slaving at Whole Foods, and my acceptance into the MSW program at the dear old alma mater, USC, I became manic.

- I then proceeded to lose my apartment and my car along with my sanity and stability that had been built up over the preceding year.

- Found myself broke as a joke, making less than a hundred dollars a week over the summer of 2014, while at the shelter again. I held on for as long as possible, and decided to venture out to LA, to give grad school one last attempt in earnest, knowing the odds were stacked against me.

- The daunting odds of going 0-60, on the proverbial scale of functioning, were indeed insurmountable.

- Withdrew from the MSW program less than two weeks into the program, and used the loan money to sustain and enjoy myself during my stay in Southern California. One month of this time was spent was a lovely and inviting Salvadorean family, and the second month was spent was my homeboy Terrie. Not having a sustainable source of pharmaceuticals, I self medicated with the finest medicinal mary jane, alcohol, nicotine, and the occasional Xanax, to induce some of the best sleep I've had in a while.

- Caught a cross country Greyhound back to Boston, not knowing where I would stay. Ended up crashing for two nights at the legally uninhabitable family property in Cape Cod, then in a motel 6, before finding myself back at the shelter.

- Linked up with my therapist and prescriber (and a new social worker, who thankfully is easy on the eyes), and began work at Target, as my sizable loan refund check had basically been squandered over the course of three months or so.

So here I am, riding the Manic-Depressive rollercoaster (currently working my way from the depths of depressive darkeness), in a situation eerily similar to that which I found myself two years ago at this point.

And Scott Makes, "The List."

It seems Scott and I have hit the proverbial wall, you know the point where the patient-therapist relationship has been maximized in terms of returns. While I am interminably grateful for Scott and all of his atypical intellectual insights into my psychic workings, things came to a head last week when he challenged me by asking, “if you don’t have the wherewithal to endure the EBT (food stamp) paperwork renewal gauntlet, what makes you think you’ll be prepared to endure grad school?” Though these weren’t his words verbatim, it was something to this effect.

His query caught me off guard as he has to date been an ardent supporter of my efforts to return to school, but as is typically the case when nonplussed some time is required for me to gather my thoughts and development an argument that’s to my pleasing.

While I’ll spare the details of the multi-fanged rebuttal, it’s crucial to understand that my energies are indeed limited, and I’m the first to admit that burnout (and it’s oppositional cousin boredom) is a peak of said expenditure that leaves me winded and ready to quit any climb at a moment’s notice. That said, I’m eating. While my diet on a day to day basis may not be a nutritionist’s dream, somehow or another Scott seemed to be under the impression that I woke up and walked around all day with my ribs touching. Not the case.

As this notion of energy conservation goes further, it feels as if I’m gearing up for the title fight, or the gauntlet that is graduate school, part trois. Not only will I have to hit the ground running in mid – August, I’ll have to hit it gunnin’ as well. 

Long ago this notion of kicking my feet up and having some degree to time to just chill regroup and recoup yielded to the reality and gravity of the situation: that it will take work, and a constant and at times strenuous clip to make it through graduate school in particular and adulthood in general. 

Sometimes I countertransfer (I believe that’s what the term is called in clinical settings) and find myself both empathizing with and feeling sorry for my therapist, for at times, I know I can be hard-headed, imprudent, and prideful to many a fault and foible, but trying to change such character traits, or flaws as they may be, in one session, or even one year, is made difficult by the realization that they have been developed over one lifetime of conditioning and compulsion.

On Suffering Fools.

My therapist, Scott, and I were talking about the trail of fissured, fractured, and some altogether broken relationships that have been left in my trail of relational glory. He essentially said that at this particular time, I lack the interpersonal skillset to repair them. While he may very well be right, he continued to point out that the aim of reconciliation is not to annihilate the other party with the cogency of your argument, but instead to express understanding, concern, and curiosity for their position.

After hearing him implore me to be more empathetic, I then countered by saying that the reason their positions are so easily dismantled summarily dismissed, is because I have, in fact, taken the time, to imagine their perspective and made every earnest effort to see things through their lens.

Though all or nothing thinking presents itself as one of my favorite cognitive missteps and rhetorical ferocity a latent passion of mine (given enough time to analyze the situation) assuming the blame, apologizing, and then asking for forgiveness when it can be all but proven that I’m that offended/defensive party, seems to be asking for a lot given this particular juncture in my interpersonal journey. In fact, it seems a bit absurd, so until further notice, I will heed Scott’s conciliatory admonishment, that some people and relationships are simply toxic and warrant distance over the disrespect and disregard that’s been heretofore offered with the utmost consistency.

In essence, arguing with fools, let alone apologizing to them for their intelligence deficit, ignorance surplus, if nothing else, reminds me, not to engage in battles of wit with the unarmed. It’s an exercise in futility and frustration, both of which I am best served without. 

Quotes, the Quaterly, and Things of that Nature.

“When people show you who they are, believe them.” – The incomparable Maya Angelou (Rise in Peace)

“When love is no longer being served, you have to learn how to leave the table.” – Nina Simone

“Sometimes you have to be heartless or simply learn to use your heart less.” – Unknown

“Sometimes you’re circle decreases in size, but increases in value.” – Unknown

When someone gives you the “gift of goodbye (I believe I overheard Oprah coin this phrase, or borrow the currency from someone who did) treasure it.

To paraphrase the counsel of two dear mentors in regards to certain types, “Smarten up (mentor number one) and fuck ‘em (mentor number two).

Unfortunately, love and loyalty, can too often become personal liabilities that said, learn to invest in yourself, and reap the returns.

That’s it for today’s lessons kids. On to the diurnal phase because it’s been a couple months :

I quit my job at Whole Foods amidst a maelstrom of chaos, lost my apartment, found myself sleeping where I so desired at night (read: open air suburban camping) and in doing so positioned myself closer to positivity, progression and peace of mind that once seemed utterly elusive and fantastically illusive.

____

There is a young girl (around 19), whose own introversion and pensive nature reminds me of my own at the old-school, artsy, independent movie theater where I have worked for the past month (and hopefully will for the next five and a half weeks. She also is a middle child and aspiring writer, and is definitely the shy and awkward type. There is something attractive about her, in a non-classical way.  Though she isn’t my type per se, our conversations, which have grown more personal to pass the time, remind me that I am indeed a sapiosexual. Nothing turns me off more quickly than mediocre, mundane, run-of-the-mill, predictable conversation.

Over the past few months, I’ve developed an even greater aversion towards material  gain and general notions of intimacy, be it social, sexual/romantic. Though I’m detaching and disengaging, much of it is from toxicity, something my shrink Scott has said, has me ever so calm and at ease.  The less I have sift through materially and emotionally those more at peace I feel. Sometimes less is indeed more, and my material minimalism has spilled over into interpersonal minimalism.

Despite the above statement, it seems, that despite still being on the celibacy streak to end all streaks, that there’s some sort of attraction between the aforementioned my co-worker and I. There definitely appears to be a mutual admiration of one another’s personal peace; beyond that, it’s been so long that I can’t even call it in fairness.

What I can say for sure, is that I did have a fleeting fantasy of having sex with her in the backroom behind the concession stand. That would have been super hot. Then I thought about how I start my MSW program in less than a couple of months. The last thing the kid needs right now is a kid. The other last thing I need is some broken-hearted, sprung, nineteen year old who can’t handle a fling, calling me out on sexual harassment charges, let alone that weighty word that rhymes with ape. To be fair, I can’t even call how I’d handle any type of sexscapade at this juncture. It could just as easily be me who would catch feelings; that said, with so much up in the air, it seems to me that some things are just better left up to fantasy.

Speaking of which, she is an English major at Boston College, and she taught me much about the genre , something about which, I previously knew next to nothing and for which I cared very litt.e. Now I can proudly boast knowing that Tolkien is the father of modern fantasy, while Rowling has ushered in a new era of epic fantasy. Again, not my cup of tea, but it’s nice to be able to be conversant in the interests of others, especially if they are wildly popular like fantasy.

On that note, after writing the preceding paragraph, I, while at the library, had to make a quick run to the bathroom, and came out feeling, more relieved. For some reason I feel like walking past the cute librarian after draining the main vain autoerotically of course, should be more awkward, but it’s not. I have a feeling she knows and she knows I have a feeling she knows. Kinda turns me on truthfully, while reminding me that my libido, while dormant at times, hasn’t gone anywhere near dead.

My angling towards the hopefully imminent MSW venture ranges from eager, to anxious, to nonchalance, to pressured, depending on the time of day. This attitudinal kinesis is consistent with my thoughts towards most everything else as well.

I spend a good deal of time thinking about to whom I allow/offer access. Getting to know anyone is a privilege that can be extended or rescinded without notice in my book. If you are on thin ice with me, chances are you won’t know it until you’re swimming to warmer shores in freezing water. If you’re good with me,  then everything is kool and the gang, the gang being the ever-dwindling circle of course.

 

 

 

Lei mi dà speranza,

e la speranza è una bella cosa.

La Extrano (I Miss Her)

La Extrano ...

I miss, only but a few things about, “her.”

I miss her brilliance, a light that she brought to my life that has been absent ever since.

I miss her voice, the unmistakably pressured speech that flowed through tightly clenched teeth and pursed lips.

I miss her smile, the shy, uneasy, yet adorable way she would grin as if she didn't know how.

I miss tearing up the mall around Christmas time for her, as she was truly appreciative of the bounty I brought back to the city of angels. Giving was its own gift as I got to see her eyes light up as she opened up her presents.

I miss her body laying on top of and next to mine. Her petite pear-shaped figure had a gelatinous consistency that simply melted into my own weight.

I miss the inside jokes, most of which concerned ghetto-isms that she lived and I admired her for surviving.

I miss the way she would make me proud of her and us. Nobody expected us to last as long we did. Even though it was only two and a half years, people somehow seemingly expected us to fail even sooner. She would run into mutual acquaintances on campus, and tell them we were still alive and kicking, then report the interactions back to me. This would make me indescribably proud and joyful.

I miss her voracious intellectual appetite, and how she would devour books of all genres and report her findings back to me (usually while sitting on my lap, after being asked playfully to, “park it.”)

I miss saying, “park your keister, meester;” a Marge Simpson-inspired request for her to sit on my lap.

I miss saying, “present,” another admittedly less PG request for her to make me smile.

I miss, even more specifically, her intellect and inquisitiveness as she would be my "scout" for information, devouring books by Mexican authors (e.g. the late, great Carlos Fuentes and Octavio Paz), and then reporting her findings back to me.

I miss her being the one-stop shop for all of my social needs.

I miss the magnetic pull she had over me. I remember being out with my friends at a party on campus one night, and all I could do was think about her. I couldn't wait to leave, and ending up doing so early, to come home, lay next to her, and watch a Reese Witherspoon movie, Freeway, that she liked.

I miss her deep, layered, complex spirit, embattled soul, and textured personality.

I miss how she was like ready-made family when I was 3,000 miles away from my own; a yet-to-be wife, who had the familiarity of a cousin, the vulnerability of a daughter, the warmth of a mother, the soul of a sister.

I miss the way she would stare at me for no reason, her longing gaze through strikingly round orbs that protruded ever so slightly and were separated like those of an owlish or “Frawwg” as I jokingly used to say at the time. I often wondered if she could see more than is typical through her seemingly magical, “windows to the soul.”

I miss the way we were in our own world together; in a time when nothing mattered except our shared space.

I miss the way she would teach me Spanish idioms that she would utter when exasperated (hijo de su puta madre maaaan!” was one of the first but certainly not the last), and laugh when I spoke properly due to my textbook training. 

I miss her being my down-ass chick, that went go extreme lengths to prove her love, though she didn't even have to, most of the time I was left nonplussed at her demonstrations of affection and affinity (e.g., the tattoo she got after knowing me less than a year, her wilin’ out on campus security on our behalf, her going to the campus fraternity row after her man had been jumped to find his attackers, etc.)

.
I miss the wildly unpredictable, usually inappropriate, things that would come out of her mouth at any given time.

I miss her, the cheerleader who wasn't afraid to tell me how special she thought I was, at any given time without prompting.

I miss her fearlessness, wrapped up in her five-foot frame.

I miss her fiery temper that would explode on impulse.

I miss her uncommon honesty, a bluntness that rubbed many the wrong way, but one that I adored.

I miss her inexorable dedication to self-improvement.

I miss her introspective queries that began with, "Do you think___??"

I miss our shared love of music, and her ears that would listen to the same rap songs as me, just to hear a clever/favorite line of mine

I miss her diving into my world head-first.

I miss her preoccupation with the number seven (perhaps why I felt compelled to write this on 7/7)

I miss her irreplaceable, run-through-a-wall-for-you love.

I miss her; boy, I tell ya, I miss her.

The R.E.A.L. Burden of the Gifted.

R idicule

E xpectation

A lienation

L amentation

Credit due to Mr. John Austin (better known perhaps by his stage name, Ras Kass) for inspiring this post. Austin wrote/said, "Ridicule is the burden of genius," in a song entitled, "Reelishymn," off of his seminal, West Coast Classic, magnum opus, Soul on Ice, a title borrowed from Black Panther member, Eldridge Cleaver, who wrote a book of the same name, while incarcerated, presumably in federal prison, for his activities were oppositional to the directives of COINTELPRO, a federal program created by former FBI head and alleged (read: all but confirmed) transvestite, Hoover (J. Edgar), who despite his ignominy, ignorance, and obvious prejudice, had a federal building named after him. #NP Nas, "Breathe."

In There Like Swimwear

After speaking at to my therapist, Scott, at length and in depth about family dysfunction, I decided it would be best to impose a unilateral moratorium on all toxic relationships, starting with family. As the middle child and only son, I’ve been between a rock and a hard place trying to balance my sanity with my familial duties in general and my filial duties in particular all while trying to make something of myself. As Kenny Rogers once said, however, you gotta “know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.” As far as that prescient admonition is concerned, I’m folding like laundry on a Sunday afternoon. Trying to impose my will and impart a modicum of orderliness and regularity has literally driven me crazy, more than once. Not even attempting to do so again, as any more such effort would be tantamount to straight masochism. As the Wolf in Pulp Fiction said to Jules and Vincent after cleaning up the unpleasantness at Bonnie’s “Lots of luck to you, gentlemen.”

Less than a week after I completed my USC MSW application, I was officially accepted into the program. I am close to ecstatic about this and learned of it on a Monday following a Friday, during which I bought a Playstation 4 with three games (the obligatory newest edition of Madden, NBA 2K14, and Call of Duty: Ghosts). This serious retail buzz needed to be smoked off with about half of a pack of Newports that same day. Damn near orgasmic, I tell you. That night I was antsy, and didn’t feel like being in the crib by myself, so I headed out to visit the old man. I compounded this mistake by twelve hours later going to visit my mother. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, seeing your parents, who are supposed to be beacons of guidance in a place where they can’t teach you much except about what not to do (e.g., marry the wrong person) unsettles the old psyche a little bit. Perhaps I’ve been desensitized to the chaos I perceive to an extent, but it still bothers me to the point where avoidance absolutely makes the most sense. 

Le Sigh

Familial fragmentation and dysfunction makes me indescribably frustrated to the point where getting away sounds like it may just be the best option. To that end, my applications for both MSW programs, at Boston College and USC (fight on!) have been completed. I should hear back within a couple of months, and while BC struck me as the most logical choice as it obviated the need for a cross country move (insofar as I thought geographic stability would influence overall stability), the tide has swung back to the alma mater. I’m in an even better place than I was when I began the application process months back. Despite the progress I had made, I felt somewhat drained, like “fuck, I gotta move again!?” Now that winter nears the halfway point with, spring around the corner, I’m starting to feel the energies of the seasonal change affecting me in a positive, rejuvenating way.

The first step is to get into either school. While the young woman who graduated a rank below me in undergrad went on to Harvard Law I’m hardly presuming an acceptance after going three for ten during my black studies graduate application gauntlet in 2007. I suppose those admissions committees don’t take too kindly to a bunch of dead, non-enriching space on the resume. In any case, as things stand right now, if I were to get into USC, and the financial aid package was in order, I’d have two words to say to Boston, and the people in it: “I’m gone.” Aside from the torturous winters, there’s just too much static here for me to look past.

Sometimes, I allow other peoples’ nonsense to get to me. For example, the on again off again estrangement from my father is off again. He stopped by on Christmas in what I took to him finally receiving the olive branch I extended over a year ago. I thought that was decent of him, so I stopped by his house (he is living at my deceased grandparents’ home, the same one he grew up in) to drop off a couple of pieces of mail the other week, and stopped by just because two nights ago.

As much as they say opposites attract, it seems as if both of my parents thrive off chaos to a certain extent. My mother self-admittedly hoards and is forever trying feebly to get organized (when she isn’t busy chauffeuring my younger, non-driving sister to and from school, work, the mall, etc., she somehow manages to occupy her time doing everything but de-cluttering).

My father’s”home”, a term I used loosely, is in disrepair. It hurts me heart, to see my grandparents old dwelling in such decrepit condition. The two bum-ass, do-nothing, father-son carpenters he has living with him are leeches of the highest degree, but there’s also a certain symbiosis operating as my father has always seemed to find people in need to lean on him; I can only assume it gives him some sense of power, in what, otherwise is a pretty meaningless existence. In any case, the first thing I said after seeing the house in its entirety to the old man was, “are you living here or squatting?”

Playing middle man between two parents whose relationship is essentially non-existent can be taxing. Aside from that, they both seem down and defeated in their own ways. That shit can be depressing to see your parents, who are supposed to be your guideposts, in such a light.

TBC…

"Gunz and Butter" (in my Ving Rhames from Baby Boy voice)

I have re-re-re-re acquired enough butter to make Land o’ Lakes jealous, and while the material gatherings still pale in comparison to yesterday, the accoutrements of basic adulthood hold little to no meaning to me. I have developed into a man of very simple tastes; I desire very little and require even less to be happy. Some decent gear, edible grub, and a place to call home. As it regards the latter I am still very much concerned with and preoccupied by my primary goal of closing on a one bedroom condo in Atlanta.

Over the course of the past few years especially I have rediscovered that I’m at my happiest, best, and most productive when I can isolate and engage/interact with others at my choosing. Over the course of my twenties, I fell victim to many a housing crises, to the point where cohabitation made me its whipping child. While I have no desire to recount the entirety of the history, most of which has been well documented in and alluded to in previous posts. In 2006 there was ex-girlfriend number two. Of course as most young couples do, we fought more frequently than is healthy. After blowing up at her one day (and I mean really going off in a way in which few have seen), she quickly beat me home and did her best Beyoncé, “to the left, to the left” putting my shit out before I even had a chance to do so myself (which I had fully intended to do and would have, but before heading back to the crib I happened to go for a long drive and an even longer chain smoke before I headed back to our shared spot. Then, in Atlanta, there was the personal misfortune, which befell my best friend, and at the time roommate; eventually his problem became mine, and there was soon an eviction notice posted to the door, and I was left bargaining with the leasing agent more times than I would have liked, which only prolonged my unwelcomed occupancy. And then, of course, perhaps the most outstanding among my expulsions was that from mom’s crib, which literally left me out on the street and between homeless shelters (again, this is well-documented in previous posts, and the point of this one is not to rehash old drama or reopen old wounds- that said, I won’t be regaling you with details any more than I already have.

Which brings me back to this overarching goal of being the proprietor of my own property. Here I am reminded of the cult classic movie Baby Boy, when Ving Rhames (I forgot his character’s name and am too lazy to IMDB it) is speaking to his um, illegitimate, ne’er to do well stepson Jody, played by Tyrese (word around the campfire says the director, John Singleton, had the late Tupac Shakur, pegged for that role, by the way) if you will, and says the following:

“You know the problem with you little niggas, you think you know everything about the damn world, but you don’t know shit. I see you got yourself a little business going well that’s good, that’s good. You make that paper, but when you making paper, you gotta learn some rules to go wit’ it .You gotta learn the difference between guns and butter. There’s two types of niggas in the world the niggas with guns and  niggas with butter.  Now what is the guns; the guns that’s the real estate, that’s stocks and bonds, that’s artwork, you know shit that appreciates with value. What’s the butter? Cars, clothes, jewelry all that other bullshit that don’t mean shit after you buy it.  That’s what it’s all about, guns and butter, baby! Little dumb muthafucka.”

Instead of continuing to recycle and churn butter it’s high time for me to acquire some figurative guns. While I did invest in some artwork years back, I ended up giving it the the homegirl Tiffany, as it’s never really been my thing (and I was disappointed with the amazing artist’s half-assed effort, but that’s neither here nor there).

But back to the butter for a second, which rapper Nas once described with the following line: “Fuck the cash the ice, Ferraris with 220 (MPH) on the dash, when your life ain’t right.” And the choir says Amen!

Cars. Check. On number three. Clothes. Been had the fly suits (which I never wore and no longer have, of course as they were purged during manic instability). Jewelry. I used to keep a nice pair of solitaire studs in each ear, and a very modest gold chain around the neck (I also ended up giving the jewelry away, but again, that’s really neither here nor there.). Bullshit. Had, and have reacquired some of it (e.g., the newly copped Playstation four)

I have zero attachment to any of the butter. It comes with hard work, goes easily, and comes back even more easily granted you are willing and able to put in the necessary grind for it. Back to the “guns” though. In my 31 years, I have never owned property of my own. This bothers me.

Call me an extreme introvert with loner tendencies, but I hit on all cylinders when I am afforded to the opportunity to be hermetic. I enjoy cocooning if you will, being alone, and practicing self-mastery. Prime example. When I did I have 1000 square feet to myself in Atlanta, though it was only for a few months I used that time to quit smoking (something I only dreamed of prior to actually doing it), get in the best shape of my life (173 lbs with 11% body fat—yes I get kinda obsessive with these sorts of endeavors), and go a blogging tear. Though my time was limited since I knew the funds would expire soon, I wondered what would happen had I been afforded to opportunity to be recluse at will and for an extended period of time. Socializing, or at least forced socialization slows me down. One thing I remember my mother telling her frustrated son (that would be me) growing up was "Chris, not everybody is like you," pointing to the fact that sometimes others aren't on the same page or plane. To stop and explain certain thought processes and movements of mine often become a bothersome chore and an exercise in futility and frustration on my end.

It has also become obvious that oustiders looking in own my situation with their obvious concerns and queries, and worse yet, doubt and discouragement frustrate to me to no end. This is precisely why I really don’t choose to involve myself with many people, let alone share my dreams with those who may have nothing to offer towards their achievement.

I know what some may be thinking: “Chris you’re in massive debt, have atrocious spending habits, make a pittance of a salary ($10.50/hr. for those curious), half of which goes to rent, how are you going to ever going to procure the means to become a homeowner?” In short, nigga are you crazy?” Well yes, if you hadn’t pieced it together from the title of the blog, I am, in the clinical and colloquial sense and have the professional and personal references that will corroborate this truth. That is just what it is. Furthermore, please leave the “how’s” up to me, and here I am reminded by great line by one Curtis Jackson (bka 50 cent). “It’s like I told niggas I’m a hustler, they keep on forgettin’/ 36 mil’ in eight months, still think I’m bullshittin (Yes, I will stay quoting rappers when I damn well please J. While I hardly feel the need to stack 36 M’s, the rougly 50K it would take to acquire the aforementioned dwelling is a measureable, attainable, realistic, and time-sensitive goal (this adjectives are derived from the S.M.A.R.T. acronym by the way- I always forget what the “S” stands for, and alas I’m too lazy to google).

The plan is in full effect, and for the doubters, naysayers, inquisitors, and interrogators, I humbly say it’s just a matter of time (40 is the deadline I have set for myself) and execution. Outsiders may think they the hand until the cards are on the table. If there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s work, and work hard. Chill. Then work ever harder. If it’s a slow, incremental grind towards a down payment, then so be it. If it’s accelerated by my working smart, a self-propelled windfall, or a combination of the two, then so be it. It will be. Some have too it to believe it, whereas I have seen it, and know how to be it.

And once I have it, aside from my HOA dues, property tax, and insurance, the rest will be all gravy a they say. A nice, buttery, gravy.