My Gramma

Today my gramma turns 100. While that’s amazing and rightful deserves a party, my gramma isn’t the woman that I remember. Ever since my mother died a few years ago, she’s gone downhill, like she lost the will to live. And yet her body refuses to let her. She has been in constant pain for years from diabetic neuropathy. Over the last year, a series of blood infections have done a serious number on her brain. My gramma was also a kind person, very involved in local charities and organizations. Now she does none. And she’s no longer kind. My aunt gives her nurses weekly tips because she is such a handful.

We’re having a party, and I am very worried about this. My gramma lives in a Bronx apartment. Small and awkward. And the entire family is coming in. I expect about 30 people and decades of family feuds.

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Coffee and Hard Truths (In that Order)

Earlier in the month I talked about how my doctor recommended cutting down on my coffee intake and increasing non-caffeinated fluids into order to regain my scattered concentration. I did it. I cut down to 20-30 oz a day, and increased my other fluids to close to a half gallon.

To my surprise, it worked. Of course this could be that I was in a minor manic cycle and I’ve come out of it. Or it could be that my coffee intake increased my anxiety, triggering the manic cycle. I honestly don’t know.

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Man or Turtleman?

If you follow my blog, you already know that I have a deep affection for turtles. My pet turtle, Shelvin, just turned 34 last month, and he’s still going strong. Yes, he has scars from a bad case of shell rot (He stayed at my brother’s place while I was homeless, and he didn’t know that you’re not supposed to keep a turtle in an area without light).

Turtles might not develop as unique and complex a personality as cats or dogs, but they still show individuality. Shelvin is different from other pet turtles. He has charisma. He watches me all the time and gets so excited when I walk by his tank that he pecks the tank to get my attention. She stares at my giant Godzilla toy. He doesn’t like to be touched or picked up by anyone but me. And he’s sneaky, trying to take advantage of my bad memory by begging for food.

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(Shelvin with light from a prism shining on him)

What can I say? I like turtles.

But there’s more to it. I think that I like turtles because I secretly wish that I was one. A turtle can hide in his shell, and no one questions that. A turtle doesn’t need to deal with bullshit. A turtle is protected by armor, and even when vulnerable, he still has that shell to save him. A turtle doesn’t give a damn about your opinion.

I wish that I had that. I wish that I didn’t bounce between depression, anxiety, and mania. I wish I had a shell to hide in. I wish I had a tank to keep my suffering to myself.

All I want is to go through life without hurting anyone. A shell around me would do that.

Now if only it came with a mind eraser to forget all of my regrets. And there are many.

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An Honor to be in Their Heart

What was once yours belongs to everyone. You bled on your canvas, or keyboard, or guitar. You took your guts and spread them for the world to see. You shared your soul.

It doesn’t belong to you anymore.

Yes, you’re still the creator, but the child belongs to the world. It’s yours, but not. Everyone that sees, or reads, or listens, will interpret it through their own eyes and experiences. Your vision is not theirs.

Don’t despair. It’s meant to be that way.

Let go of your creation. Let it thrive or shrivel. Let it be misunderstood, or let people find things within that you never saw. You brought it to life. Let it live.

It’s an honor to be in their heart.

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Is Coffee Killing My Concentration?

I drink a lot of coffee, more than I even realized. I usually have about 40 to 60 oz of coffee a day, and I’ve been know to have far more. I never even realized how much coffee I was drinking until my nutritionist had me counting off.

40 to 60 is a lot. I was drinking more coffee than regular liquids…So here’s where the story begins.

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For the past couple of weeks, maybe even months, I’ve had a glittering fog over my head. I can’t focus, and I’m thinking a hundred and forty-seven thoughts at once. My productivity has dropped down to maybe 500 words and a high five per day. Sometimes I don’t even get the 500 words. Sometimes I get negative words. I always get the high five.

My nutritionist has been on me for a while about replacing some of my coffee with non-caffeinated fluids. She says that caffeine is a diuretic, and without enough fluid to compensate, I will be dehydrated (which leads to a bunch of other problems, including weight gain). I said that I would cut back, but I never did…cause I’m an ass.

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When I went to my psych doc about the lack of focus and a potential medical fix like Stratera, she asked me “what’s your coping mechanism for the lack of focus? (because that’s what they always ask)”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee.”

I explained that it gives me a focus boost for a short amount of time, so I have to keep drinking it to keep the boost up. When I mentioned that my nutritionist thought I drank too much, my doc went with me through the side effects, dehydration and anxiety the most important in this case. They both cause scattered thoughts.

Irony as bitter as…well…you know.

So my coffee, which focuses my thoughts into a blazing laser blazer beam, is also firing that beam into a broken mirror. Fantastic. Super duper.

coffee 25 to life

I’m trying to wean myself down to 4-5 cups a day this month, and I’m upping my water intake to 64 oz. We’ll see if it helps. Because damn it, I miss my mind, and if my mind is crawling through the desert, it’s never gonna come home until it finds a river.

Come back, Brain, come back!

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Happy Anniversary Katie!

Two years ago today, I went for a late evening cup of coffee with a woman that I met on Okcupid. It was spur of the moment, and I am the type that needs planning. There are no spurs in my moments, but for some reason, that night was different.

I’m glad that I wore those spurs…not literal ones, metaphorical.

Two years later, we’re still together. I am forty years old, and this is the longest relationship that I’ve ever had. I’m not an easy person to stay with, but Katie has been by my side though everything, health scares, failed novels, surgeries, and the every day worries that every middle-aged person has. She is there for me, and I am there for her.

I joke that “I’m glad that she settled,” but she didn’t. She just found the person that fit. I’m a lucky man that it’s me.

Katie likes to say that I take care of her, but the opposite is true. She keeps me sane. She lets me be myself. She keeps my mind from kiting me off somewhere, and tolerates my massive geekdom, horrible puns, and bad habits. She’s not put off by my idiosyncrasies (even when I am), like “book brain,” where I get lost in a story idea mid-conversation. She gets me.

I love her madly. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. If I’m lucky, I will.

Happy anniversary, my love.

Craig

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Upsomnia

It’s 4:30 in the morning, the sky is black as a locked closet, and I am awake.

I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not happy about this.

I woke up around 4 and hoped that I could fall back to sleep, but I can’t. I fought with it, wrestled with it, pleaded, negotiated, bribed…nothing could convince my body to go the hell to sleep. I have Upsomnia.

It’s not exactly insomnia. I can fall asleep at first. It’s more that something wakes me up after a few hours and my mind won’t let me get back into that sleep mode. Today it was a bad dream that hit me right in the insecurities. I have a lot on my mind, and I’ve been feeling a bit of the “spring fever,” where my thoughts are everywhere.

I’m not wide awake either. Actually I’m heckin groggy. I’m in that awful land between sharp and smooth. I’m a dull knife, and everyone knows that they hurt the most when you stab with them.

insomnia darkside

Maybe this is good. I write better when I’m angry, and lack of sleep makes me…well…you know. I’ve been having trouble writing anything coherent in my latest novel. Maybe this will focus me. I have to let the hate flow through me like lightning and embalming fluid.

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My Friend the Rapist

Warning: This post deals with some heavy stuff about rape. It might be hard to read for some of you.

A few months ago, I found out that one of my best friends from my teenage years is a serial rapist. He will never be charged with these crimes. He will never go to jail. How many people he violated, I don’t know, but I know at least a few. But it’s not just his crime, it’s mine. It’s ours.

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The Truth About Writing…and Pants

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I think the world should know that the best part about writing is that I can do it while lounging on the couch without pants. Pants are prohibitive to the writing process.

I guarantee that 90% of all writers write without wearing pants. This is a scientific study that needs no peer review because I have already decided that I am right.

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