I have to have my monsters

The mind abhors a vacuum. I’m starting to realize that now. I wish it was easy to distract with happy thoughts. But no. Only the toxic and negative things creep in. I solved one problem, history…and the “Now serving” number calls up the next thing that pisses me off.

Why? Why does our mind do that?!?! It’s not healthy. When I was a child, I was afraid of the dark, lightning, monsters, anything that crawled….strangers, being alone, abandoned….name it. I was a trainwreck as a child. I almost drowned, got electrocuted….bit by dogs. In a car accident. How in the Hell did I survive childhood? I have a buried memory of my little league coach taking us to the neighboring town for a game in his Ford panel van. No seats, no seatbelts. Just a bunch of sweaty kids rolling around in the back of his van. We were the original Bad News Bears. And somehow didn’t die.

Maybe my brushes with death gave me PTSD. The near drowning incident gave me a horrendous fear of the water. Oh…by the way, it was skating and falling through ice. Yeah. That bad.

As I mentioned earlier in the last post, I had/have adjustment issues post-military. I know part of it is aging, perspective, culture shock, etc. I also know it was probably some medication they gave us for malaria, or other inoculations that are now banned in some form or another. Something took a chunk of my soul and sanity.

I solved some of my issues this year, only to unearth BS I swept under a rug at one point. I seem to want to my torture. I’m tired. I need sleep. I have another birthday pushing me closer to 60. Fucking 60?!?! How in the Hell did that happen? I’m a 20-30 something trapped in this angry banged up old man’s body. That is such bullshit!

I sent my Psychologist a message tonight to vent and report…that I had a slip. I also took my meds early. I think I feel them kicking in. As they mesh in my bloodstream and brain, the whisper “you will be okay.” Shhhhh….relax. Let that shit go. It will be better in the morning. Put that bottle down…

I just want these little monsters to leave me alone for a day. Let me have some peace.

I just want sleep.

I can’t remember the last time I had “X” amount of continuous hours of deep, restful sleep.

My life now seems to be a long endless sleep deprivation study.

The chronic pain in my joints causes me to toss and turn all night. You’d think I’d be in excellent shape from all that physical exercise!

Some of my best rest is on the couch. Maybe that’s where I have no pressure to actually try and fall asleep. It just happens.

I’m sure my diet is a major cause of insomnia. I’m going back to no drinking during the week. I’m not 25 anymore.

I just want to sleep deeply into a dark void and dream beautiful things.

I feel so much older on days like these.

Worn.

Re-Adjustment Issues

Now that I have new “tools” to help me deal with various issues, and to pause before reacting emotionally to something…..I noticed I am looking inwards more.

Part of that self-reflection, self-analysis is identifying what I miss about my time in uniform. But also what I hated.

It seems that I “romanticized” the whole experience as it was ending and I had to move on. I glossed over the bad stuff and the toxic people there. I do miss the mission and my experiences. I was laser focused on my job and ignored the negatives. I ignored those who were anchors to my progress and happiness. I was “happy”. I was…blissfully distracted.

So now I think I’ve spent so many years trying to hold onto those positives, that I lost sight of the “now”. Granted my next few jobs and coworkers did not help me adjust in anyway. The minus column was a thousand times more full than the plus one.

But, I was also my own biggest road block. It was like trying to get someone to love me again. (It doesn’t work that way)

After falling for so long and hitting the ground so hard…I finally quit trying to climb back to that particular hill/ledge/life.

Part of me is horrified how long it took. But at the same time, I can’t change those “adjustment years”.

I guess at the end of the day, I am making small gains. That has to count for something.

Sometimes you need to put that book down and read a new story.

Coffee

Dad’s old coffee percolator chugged away. Sounding like an iron lung or steam-powered oil rig, it somehow managed to pull coffee out of a pulverized coffee bean vein somewhere from under the kitchen floor.

The grounds were always a couple days old. He would throw egg shells and salt in the basket to cut the bitterness. Which in my opinion is what coffee does on it’s own sometimes.

I drank it early after high school graduation. My two custom home builder friends took me under their wing to give me side work as I began my first year of college. Here is where The Ritual started. Pre-coffee was a short hello, some minor social attempts. Once the warmth spread in your chest, the night’s exploits where discussed in amazing and vivid details.

The internal battle of the morning’s caffeine against the nightclub’s high octane infusion began.

Tradition.

I had no less than several cups while on a military exercise or real world deployment in camps or bases where I barely remember their names. The random words tossed together to identify the mission are also faded. I do seem to remember “Bronze” or “Vigilant” being a favorite leading word one year.

Hours and days I would spend at night sitting out under the stars while the diesel generators would drone nearby. Funny how they eventually would fade into the cricket’s serenade during zero hour. Sometimes I would stare into the cup like a fortune teller. Never really finding the answers or vision to show me what was around the corner.

Coffee started becoming a therapist. It was safer grabbing a cup than some bodies throat. Caffeine would drown out the urge to do something rash. It was a reset button.

Ritual.

No matter if I was wearing jungle fatigues or a suit, coffee was my other Muse.
It started my day, gave me that kick in the ass late in the afternoon or gave me that last bit of encouragement early into the night.

My Dad has been gone from this Earth for so many years. But when I smell coffee brewing, I am back in that small kitchen briefly. The percolator still whispering away, mining for more incentive.

You’re Somebody Else

Do you have a memory sparked by a photo, smell, place….or maybe a song?

I’m somebody else in some of those memories.

Younger, naive, afraid, braver…something and somebody else.

When I catch up with someone from that specific version of me, I try figure out what I gained, or lost since then.

Am I better person? Am I more forgiving, jaded, bitter…

…or am I more humble. More patient?

Are some things more important to me,
or less than I use to think they were.

Did I mature, or regress?

When did I travel last just to see something new?
Now it seems to be an obligation, and the clock dictates my location. Freedom constrained by responsibilities totally foreign to my younger self. (Maybe a casualty of maturity)

When was the last time I laid in the grass and not be distracted by its weeds and pests…or the functionality of the sprinklers….

Funny how we filter out the bad stuff and memories.

All those things that challenged us, and made us somebody else.