Status: Suspended

After much deliberation I have decided that I am going to suspend posting in this forum. While reintegration may be a future goal, it's not currently my main concern. In the future you can find me in Disposition.

"30 (thirty) is the natural number following 29 and preceding 31."

It's been 30 days now since I've used any mood altering substance. No slamming or clouds, no boozing and no pot. I took Tylenol once to help with a fever I had two weeks ago. I believe I've now reached the longest period of complete sobriety that I've had in over twenty years.

I'd like to think that it's nice in some ways but it's not. What benefits I gain from my brain starting to clear are completely eclipsed by my brain starting to remember. The worst part is all the things that I don't fully remember. I was walking down a crowded street downtown recently. I don't know if it was the scent of someone's cologne or a certain combination of sounds in just the right pitch, but I was overwhelmed with a flood of flash images. I couldn't even say if any of the were even real or if they were just still shots some from one of my many terrorscapes.

Some nights I'm afraid to go to sleep. I don't think this is something new in my life. I can remember many times in the past when I would make attempts at sobriety only to have it thwarted by an inability to sleep or because I couldn't handle what I'd see when I did sleep.

They didn't all used to be as terrifying as they are now. I actually used to enjoy dreaming to some extent in the past. Desomnia in Drull is full of dream accounts, some beautiful and some not so much. At least then there was a chance for something good when I closed my eyes. It's been a long while since I've had a nice dream.

I've been revisiting the notebooks I took with me to Ollala back in June. They are incredibly difficult to read in parts. However there are two excerpts that I think are worth sharing. The first is journal entry that is a prime example of the kinds of dreams I've come to expect each night, without anything too explicit. The second is a description of my out of body experience while receiving Reiki, the closest thing I've had to a good dream in years.

*****

June 8th, 2018

...One of the dreams from last night I was lost in a town. I believe it to be Longview, but I’d never been there before. I was separated from my group, constantly checking messages on my phone for clues where to find them. 

It was late at night and I wandered the streets, all under heavy construction, til the sun had risen. I remember them telling me to find the clock tower, but it wasn’t on my map, I assume because the construction wasn’t just to upgrade the infrastructure but completely alter the framework. 

I found the tower as the clock struck 6 am. I t was the focal point of a new town square. One of the only buildings already completed was a library. It wasn’t open to the general public but an NA group was gathering in the children’s section. There was as many toddlers as there were addicts. 

They questioned my right to be there. I exposed the insides of my elbows, they were worse than I had seen before. They are how I’d imagine them to be if I left treatment today and slammed dope everyday for the next 26 years. The other addicts gasped and one of them motioned me to the circle. 

Various people talked as the children ran in corrupt figure eights around the chairs. The room began to contract, slowly at first. I looked over my right shoulder towards the clock. 6:48 am. 

As I was rounding my vision back to the group I noticed a young girl, no older than four, walking hypnotically toward the glass entrance., On the other side of the door was a man, I’d guess late 30s. He was coaxing the girl closer, while also trying to pick the door lock. I screamed, “Hey!” And ran to the child. 

The room had shrank considerably at this point and we were stumbling over each other from lack of room. The man had over come the lock, but there wasn’t room to push open the door through all the people. I grabbed the girl and moved into a fetal position with her securely at the center. I told her, “You’re going to be okay. I won’t let him take you.” 

I could hear the man’s voice all around me, “She’s not the one that needs protecting.” 

Two police officers arrived outside of the door., One of them placed a bracelet on the man outside the door. The other slapped a cuff on my wrist through the narrow opening. “I’m not doing anything wrong!” I yelled, “It’s that guy!” 

This was the first time I could clearly make out his face. His cheeks hung from his bones like they were three sizes too big. There was a smile on his face reminiscent of Heath Ledgers death. He was laughing hysterically. 

The cop who cuffed me spoke, “You think it’s funny selling heroin to children?” 

“What are you talking about? I’m clean. I was here at an NA meeting for Christ’s sake!” 

The maniac, now free, came up to restrain my other wrist. “Hahaha! You’ll never be clean!" 

It was then that I realized I’d seen that face before. It was the most horrific face of God.

*****

June 12th, 2018

I was alone on the shore as an orca approached and called me into the water. We glided across the waves, the sky above us. We passed inlets and isles, bays and rivers. My guide moved closer to the shore of a small island. As I reached the densely forested beach my old dog approached me and called me forward. As I entered the foliage a swarm of bees attacked my abdomen. I could see a salmon in the distance just before it was devoured by a bear. The bear then turned to me and bit into my crotch and stomach. The orca, in an apparent state of suspended animation, swirled around me and then disappeared. I followed my dog further into the woods, him happily looking back and panting at regular intervals. We came across a wolf who immediately lunged for my heart. He feasted on my chest but I felt no pain. Completely distracted, I failed to notice a man come forth. He slit open my throat and climbed inside. The orca appeared again. I could see a light through the trees. A large eagle landed upon my head, one foots talons piercing into my skull, the other the right side of my face. It began to eat my eyes from their sockets. The dog barked and I could see the orca in the water in front of me. I’m unsure if I crossed the island or simply walked in a circle. I went into the water again. I could feel all of the animals enter into their respective wounds. The orca was dancing around me. The various creatures became one inside of me and formed into a sort of dragon. It moved in exaggerated s forms back into the forest and my dog followed. Alone with the orca again, I climbed up on its back. We left the water and began to swim through the air. This is the first time I realized with certainty we were in Puget Sound. We soared past every peak of the Cascades from Baker to Hood. We circled back around and Seattle was burning. Not actively aflame but more smoldering an eerie glow of red light. We moved at an incredible speed across the Pacific, but the image of Seattle burning moved along with us. We reached the shores of Kailua beach and I dismounted from my guide. I sat on the sand and watched my family burn as the orca swam away into the darkness. Lava flowed from a nearby island. The noxious vog finally obscuring my view. 

*****

I need to rediscover what I'd found in Drull.

Island Perspectives

It’s now been 13 days since I’ve last used. I’m starting to think that I should wear a name tag that says, “Hello, my name is Desomniac and I’m emotionally dysfunctional.” I’m not sure it would help though.

I’ve been spending a lot of my time over the past two weeks on Vashon Island. I decided to first go out there in the middle of last week, partly to go to a meeting, but mainly to get away from the city. Today will be my 6^th trip in 8 days.

While I’m on the island I don’t have the overwhelming sense of dysfunction that I carry with me throughout Seattle. Instead of a chaotic tempest of emotions, cycling far too quickly to even attempt to identify them, there is a calmness within that I have not felt since leaving Oahu.

I’ve been told before that I’m all fire and air, which is something that I could very much identify in the past. I avoided the grounding effects of earth at all costs and only went in search of water when I could only communicate in waves. I allowed raw emotion and intangible thought to control my life.

I’ve come to find that the moments in which I feel most grounded is when I’m surrounded by water. Looking out across a fluid expanse, incapable of supporting even the softest of steps, instills a greater appreciation for the earth beneath my feet.

It would be no surprise to anyone that I lack balance in my life. Given my obsessive tendencies to hand over my willpower to the phases of the moon, you could easily argue I’m the definition of a lunatic, but I’m trying to be better.

I’m regularly attending meetings at this point. I’ve fought adamantly against them in the past. Every time I would go I’d sit and listen to what everyone had to say and focus only on the differences between us. It became a futile effort and made me hate the idea of them even more. Since the first meeting I attended on the island I found myself seeing only the similarities and it’s kept me coming back.

I’ve never done step work, or at least I never realized that I was doing it. The more that I read about the program and hear other people share I’m starting to think that this blog in many ways has been my fourth, eighth and ninth steps. It lacks one essential element though, social interaction and the experience offered from others who have suffered the same as I have. There is a value in that I didn’t understand in the past.

I’m not okay, but I can honestly say that I am getting better. I just need to remember each time I look up at the moon, as beautiful as it is, to look down and appreciate the ground for giving me the perspective to even consider something else.

Sometimes things just are

It’s been a while since I last posted. This blog was intended to be a place that I could highlight my aspirations to live a healthier life. Unfortunately, over the course of the last year I lost that ambition in many ways.

The last ten months of my life have been repeatedly plagued with relapse, homelessness, and, a word I’ve grown all too familiar with, trauma. I have been diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s both terrifying and comforting.

Methamphetamine is still a huge problem in my life. I last used on July 22^nd. The events of that weekend are still difficult for me to fully process. I have never felt so horribly alone and broken in my life. But through all the pain and kaleidoscopic broken memories there is still something beautiful about falling apart. I hope someday I can show you that.

I never quit writing. I’m not exactly sure what I want to do with most of it, so for now it stays where it is. There is a piece I started about a month ago that I’ll share with you now. It’s the story of when I was eight years old, reconstructed and viewed through thirty-six-year-old eyes.

*             *             *             *

Original Trauma

When I was eight years old I was run over by a Ford Econoline Van. Sometimes things just are.

My siblings and I were cleaning the van in our driveway. I was in the back, with both doors open, while they were in the drivers and passenger seat. They began to fight over something highly trivial. If my memory serves it was over which one of them got to sit behind the wheel as they removed trash from between the seats. During their scuffle they managed to release the emergency brake and then displace the gear shift into neutral. The incline of our driveway was enough to cause the van to start rolling backward. I thought that by bracing myself behind the vehicle I would be able to stop it from rolling further. I was horribly wrong. My eight-year-old body was no match for the weight of the vehicle. I tripped over my own feet while moving backwards. I was then swept underneath the passenger side of the van where both tires rolled directly over my pelvis. I would later be told that two inches lower would have paralyzed me for life, two inches higher and I’d be dead where I laid. By some strange hand of fate, it ran both tires directly over the one part of my body that would be able to withstand the crushing weight. Sometimes things just are.

Much of my memory around the incident has been dissociated. I remember catching a glimpse of the van as it rolled into the neighbor’s yard, veering significantly to the right and narrowly missing their house. I remember screaming, everyone screaming. The neighbors were shouting directions to my location as the ambulance arrived. The paramedics, two men in their early 30s, told me not to move. They cut my pants off me, a new pair of jeans I’d only worn once before. I remember my mother crying and my father trying to maintain control. They were both in shock. It was summer time and we had a garden in our front yard, near the shed. The rhubarb was doing especially well and took over a whole quarter of the plot. My sister was crying, and my brother tried to hide. I imagine he was crying more than everyone else. My mother wanted to punish him, not because he was at fault but because she needed someone to blame. I don’t remember crying. Sometimes things just are.

They carefully moved me to a board, each small motion flooding my brain with so much pain that it was difficult to remain conscious. My mother rode in the ambulance with me. There was a disagreement about where to take me. The paramedics were insistent that we needed to go to Harborview, dispatch was directing them to Highline. I remember one of them yelling, “I’m not taking a child to Highline!” The next thing I remember I was in the emergency room at Highline Hospital. I was surrounded by doctors. There must have been 12 or more people in the room around me. The lights were bright and hot. They had begun to medicate me for pain before rolling me onto my stomach. One of the doctors then explained that he needed to check my internal organs and determine if anything had ruptured. He then inserted most of his hand, or at least what felt like, in my rectum. It would be nearly thirty years before I realized that my brain processed this as a form of rape. Sometimes things just are.

“Miracle” was a word that I heard frequently. The doctors told me that I would have to relearn how to walk. I hated the walker and even more the crutches. I remember moving on all fours out of my parents’ bedroom to the makeshift room they made for me in the living room thinking that I didn’t learn to walk on crutches the first time. So, I started to do it the way I did the first time, I crawled everywhere.  Everyone was surprised at how quickly I was recovering. I never missed a day of school. I don’t think it was a miracle. Sometimes things just are.

*             *             *             *

I spent a lot of time thinking about this event and especially the words I used in describing it during my last relapse. I originally went to Honolulu with the intention of running to my problems, not away from them. I needed the experience I gained there to start the process of realizing I carry my burdens with me everywhere I go.

The last year has been hard on me and equally hard on those that love me. Despite how things may seem I have been getting better. I know it’s not easy to see that. I still want to be healthy again. I want to move beyond a life where every phase starts with re- to a place where wounds heal, and I can look down on my scars as victories, each one screaming out “I don’t think it was a miracle.” I haven’t given up.

Please, don’t give up on me either.

Embrace the Psychosis Part 2

“Visiting or checking in?”

Checking in.

“What’s the problem?”

I’m experiencing a break with reality and I’m a danger to myself.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I didn’t expect to be at Harborview. I thought we were going back to Northwest as it was much closer and we were traveling in rush hour traffic. It didn’t matter. The only reason I’d wanted to go back to Northwest was to show them all exactly what they had caused, but it wasn’t their fault, it was mine.

I sat down in the waiting room with my father and sister. He was on the phone with the psychotherapy clinic across the street. I had already had a phone interview scheduled to get enrolled in their dialectical behavioral therapy program. Unfortunately we kept losing signal throughout the hospital and the call ended without resolution.

My sister sat next to me trying to understand the gibberish I kept spewing between falling asleep.

“So who was harassing you?

Jubel! From the radio. They have an office upstairs.

 “I don’t understand what you’re saying they did.”

They have me under total surveillance. Cameras in the office, listen devices, they followed me everywhere.

“Why you? Did someone call them?”

Yeah! It was the nurses at the hospital. They felt bad for me, so they decided that instead of helping me they’d put me through a traumatic experience to break me of my addiction. Didn’t go quite as they thought since I just kept using.

“When’s the last time that you used?”

What time is it?

“7:30 am.”

Seven and a half hours ago. I made it through the night though.

My name was called by the triage nurse. I explained everything again as she took my vitals. She was kind and efficient, which we all appreciated. I believe that I’d met her before, the last time I came asking for help.

It was two month prior, during my first relapse since returning from Hawaii. I’d recently become homeless and alone. I didn’t stand a chance.

I’d called an old friend who had offered me sanctuary in the past. It had been nearly 24 hours since my last use and all I wanted to do was sleep. I’ve found that when that’s all I want, it’s the last thing that I’ll be doing.

I tossed and turned on his couch for three hours, becoming increasing afraid that there was something seriously wrong with my body. Abscesses have become a signature of relapse and infection a signature of abscesses. I could feel my addiction killing me slowly with every pulse through my arm.

I have to leave.
“I understand. Where are you going?”

To the hospital. I need a medically supervised detox.

“I’ll drive you.”

I’ll walk.

“I have to insist.”

So do I. I have far too much energy I need to burn off. I’ll be okay.

“I trust that you will. You’ll beat this.”

I will.

I slapped the pavement with one foot after another for five miles across the heart of Seattle. I didn’t stop for water. I didn’t stop for rest. But I couldn’t stop myself from using again.

It was 4 o’clock in the morning, when the city runs on methamphetamine. I knew anyone online was down to party, I just had to find someone with a clean point, which only took a moment. From the time I decided to use again and the time I pushed the plunger in only twenty minutes had elapsed.

There were countless excuses for doing it again. I wanted one last time before I quit for good. I wanted to calm down before going into the hospital. In the end I wanted to hurt myself again.

I arrived at the hospital just after 6 am, to find that it was largely abandoned.  

 “Visiting or checking in?”

Checking in.

“What’s the problem?”

I am addicted to methamphetamine and I need help.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I went through the whole process completely disillusioned that they could help me. I wanted to believe it would be like when I first detoxed on Oahu. They would send me to a forgotten place in the hills that I could go for a week away from all the distraction and temptation. What I wanted was thousands of miles away, just where I left it.

“What exactly would you like us to help you with?”

I am looking for a medically supervised detox.

“Where do you think you can get that?”

This is how I got it in Hawaii.

“Well, even if there was a bed available at any of the facilities here, methamphetamine doesn’t require medical detox.”

It doesn’t? Because having experienced it I’m pretty sure that it does.

“Not according to the state of Washington.”

Is there any way that you can help me? All I want is help.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

They didn’t even give me antibiotics for the infection in my arm.

Regardless of any previous encounters we may have had, the triage nurse was friendly enough. I should acknowledge that at this point my interpretations of what transpired is likely far more askew than normal, which is a far cry from fact at best. I remember everyone having a lemon tint to their aura and features that bubbled and popped in the light. It was like living in a candy commercial.

They asked about any changes to my insurance. I started to rant about how any of my expenses should be forwarded to Movin’ 92.5 care of Jubel in the morning. Luckily my sister was able to get them the necessary information.

I can’t thank my family enough for all the help they gave me during this time. 

I was moved to a bed in the ER. They took my vitals and a variety of doctors came to interview me. I was falling in and out of sleep. It reached a point where I was given the impression that they were not going to be able to help me and my disposition changed dramatically.

I could feel my mood shift immediately from cooperative and even jovial to pure rage. My lips pursed without warning and everyone was against me.

See this is what I was telling you about!

“What are you talking about?”

You see how the nurses move to where they think I can’t hear them and then all start laughing. They’re mocking me.

“I don’t think they’re making fun of you.”

Why did they all look over here and then get very quiet after I said that? I can hear you!

“Calm down, these people are here to help you.”
These people have never helped me before. They sit me here only long enough to get a few laughs. ‘Look at the lowly addict, can’t help himself. Hahaha.’ There isn’t help for people like me.

“I hope that you’re wrong.”

Something I said or did was different this time, or maybe it was my sister. I was transferred to Psychiatric Emergency Services (PES) in a surprisingly short amount of time. They moved me into a small room that appeared to made of metal and echoed sounds furiously. At first I was alone so I slept.

When I awoke there was sound all around me.

My back is cold.

“Your back isn’t cold.”

“Twitter twat, dinkle damp.”

“Has he ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

I’m not schizophrenic, wrong personality.

“So you’re saying there is a family history?”

“Not exactly.”

I see you.

“Oh, he’s a smart one. He already found the cameras.”

 “They’ll feed you Crayola and kindness.”

My back is cold.

“Your back isn’t cold.”

You can’t change my reality so easily.

Time moved in a circular pattern, unhinged from the gravitational pull of the sun. I fell in and out of sleep. Or maybe I was awake the whole time. I don’t remember the doctor coming in.

“Good morning.”

Is it still morning?

“Yes it’s 10:30 am. Do you know where you are?”

Psychiatric ward, Harborview hospital.

“Do you remember why you’re here?”

I had a complete psychotic break with reality. Judging by the number of echoes I’m hearing I may still be.

“Yes, it can be a bit chaotic in here. Do you remember how this break occurred?”

They changed my meds, then they wouldn’t call me back. I told them I was uncontrollable. I told them.

“Told who?”

My therapist, they won’t let me talk to the psychiatrist.

“And what exactly are they treating you for?”

They won’t say. Current working theory is Borderline Personality Disorder, I fit all the criteria.

“Do you find comfort in that diagnosis?”

Yeah, I guess I do. At least then I know how to start to solve the problem. Everyone has been saying I’m depressed, but I don’t feel depressed. I cycle between anxiety and anger, but not depression. Good thing too, more motivating this way.

“Anger can be extremely motivating. Where do you want to go from here?”

I want to go to ATS, out on the Pali Highway. They helped me before.

“I’m not familiar with them.”

They’re on Oahu, they can’t help me here. I just need a place to be for a few days. And I want my old  meds back.

I fell asleep again at some point, possibly mid conversation, I didn’t care. When I awoke there were two chairs being brought into my room. I had visitor, my sister and brother in law as I was told. When they walked in the door I realized that was merely a ruse to sneak in an old friend of mine. I was grateful too, I didn’t really feel that I needed to see my brother in law.

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

I’m delusional, in a psych ward, after a week long meth binge. How are you?

“Haha, yeah. You hanging in there though?”

I’m here.

“Well, we wanted to talk to you about what’s going to happen next.”

“We think you should considered going back to inpatient.”

I’m not going to have this conversation here. I’m just going to blindly tell you no.

“Okay, we can talk about it more later. We need to go talk with the doctor for a moment. I’ll check in with you before we leave.”

I was asleep when they left.

Unfortunately, I have to wrap this up quickly. I was discharged from PES after receiving a round of IV antibiotics to Crisis Solution Center. They were then unable to help me with anything more than a bed for three days because I already had a mental health provider. Once out I connect with my medical clinic and they were able to get me back on the medication that worked.

The reason for this hasty synopsis is that I just found out that a bed is available for me. I decided that going back to inpatient is the right choice at this point. Hopefully I have a better experience than last time.

Thank you again to everyone who’s helped me along this journey. It’s far from over but we’re starting to make progress again. I’ve told you all along that I’m going to be okay, I still believe that.