I got distracted by many shiny things on my way to enter tonight’s blog. I’m hopped up on 2 caps of new molly, a tiny bit of the THC extract I found in some old dab pens sitting around… and of course, my usual. I’ve wavered in my dedication because it’s getting closer to reality. The closer it gets to a public judgement and actual work, the more I run away.

The analogy I’ve used about being on the roof as the flood waters rise continues to go through my head. In the joke version, the person ignores evacuation requests. They wave on the coast guard boats to leave without her. She denies her final save by helicopter all the while saying that she has faith Jesus will save her. The water rises and she drowns, only to be so confused at the Pearly gates?  Why did you let me die, Jesus?

Jesus says; “I don’t know what your problem is. I sent an evacuation crew. I sent a boat. I sent a helicopter.  

I feel almost guilty mocking Christians with that joke, while simultaneously doing the exact same thing in my “faith” that somehow it’ll all work out. I don’t put a personification to it, and somehow feel superior.

[ponder break. Mental courtroom debate]

No. I still feel superior. The whole concept Christian Faith is still structured in a story so obviously not to be taken as an absolute. If you have faith in a God, why do you need to name him and create a hard copy story that can so easily be disproven? 

In the end, my point is – a miracle on Dixon Ave. In the final moments before critical, money appeared from the sky to cover my debts. I know I had a role to play of course, but the Universe could definitely be seen as showing favourites for me. I did not drown on the roof. My mother provided from beyond the grave, just enough, as she had done on 4 or more occasions during her living existence.

When I write pieces like this, even without really proofreading it tomorrow – or ever again as is the case for most of these blogs, I know that they contain both good and bad. I don’t have to force myself to believe I have a talent for writing if a little rough and untrained.

NAG STAB: Or am I? This could be shit nobody wants to read??! But parts… no. You are wasting time

I keep reverting to- “it doesn’t matter”. 

As I type that, in my head, I hear a sound byte often played on the Howard Stern radio program.

It’s hard not to want to just coast and let the Universe decide which form in my stream to choose, right up until the time I go over the falls and —

The current issue then is, do I accept the lifeboat this time?  Is this spontaneous job opening that coincides so perfectly with my needs the boat the Universe has provided, or do I wave it on by expecting my saviour? 

Of course. I’d be a fool not to. I will drown as the water of debt rises and the angry mob with torches are pissed I didn’t have a backup plan.

To outsiders, they can easily point to my drug use, but it’s less a cause than a reaction in itself. If I wasn’t doing well before, why not at least be high?

One of the problems with self-diagnosing mental illness and creating my own universe in which I am the centre of is that whatever I believe is real. As real as a bridge I could walk across. If I say I can’t… then I can’t.

The power of recovery is in the understanding I don’t have to say I can’t. We write our own story.

I am the curator and librarian of all that is in my universe.

CHANGE has been defined by precedence as something I really hate and fear and if possible, run away from. I hate the idea of a possible future that is even 1% worse than wherever I am now. IN truth, I love change. I thrive on it. Change produces my greatest joys in life apart from smiles. 

Change means I don’t have to make decisions on my own anymore. I just have to live in the moment of now for a while and adapt. 


I adapt and find new ways to be content, and whenever possible happy.

The drugs help.  Paxil was a life changer.

I can see a future in that imagination bubble that would appear over my head if I were a cartoon. It has the potential to be great if I could continue the level of excitement in the dream and continue it through another 20 years.

It’s what I need. What I want. What I’m good at.

and yet – I run away.

The next week will contain a lot of mental battles going on under my skin. It may appear from the outside as; tweaking.

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