I Can't ‎Saturday

I can’t stop this business of making myself cry daily.

I should say, I don’t want to stop it.

I don’t want to be hardened and tough and resilient and bounce back  to what’s next for me.

 

I can’t see what’s next, I can only see backward.

And backward has all the memories and the sweet pain of my  sad, sad story. Sadder today than it was when it happened, because I control the edit, the focus and the resolution.

 

A parent shouldn’t outlive their children, isn’t that what they say? I keep seeing things, all kinds of things, and I think, “I just bought that—for Sharon.” A person shouldn’t be outlived by a frozen pizza or some bag of  crappy burritos or tater tots. A person, for God’s sake, wrapped up and hauled away to be disposed of. 

 

How could I have been so cruel, not to treasure her, whatever her condition, for her essence? I was blinded by my own self-pity and forgot everything that was important in life, if I ever knew it to begin with.

 

I’m crying for her not being here, but is it for me that I do this? Am I trying to convince myself I’m a good person who misses his wife? Am I trying to cement my role as the sufferer in this world, so I can  opt out of everything else?

 

I feel lost and unmotivated, except to cry.

Yesterday's Problems

I can’t trade yesterday’s problems for today’s.

But if I could, and it would bring you back, I would.

If  I could have another chance to talk to you again,

Another chance to be kind instead of impatient,

Then I would go back with my eyes open and not full of tears,

And kiss you and tell you nice things,

And make sure you knew for sure,

How much you meant to me.

I never really knew just how much,

Until the days grew shorter and there was no time left,

For grand gestures, or even small ones.

I treated our lives like a dreary movie that I just wanted to be over,

Never realizing that over is over, and I’d have no one to even talk to

About how much I hated the movie.

But I didn’t have to hate it, I could have seen more clearly,

And I would have seen the beauty and precision of everything.

I still don’t see it, and if I ever do, who will I tell it to?

Since I don’t have you.

What Could Have Been Any Different?

What could have been any different? Or any better? What more could Sharon have done? She hung in there so long. I can’t imagine her gearing up for any more rounds of illness and recovery. She just didn’t have the last fight in her. I wasn’t ready for her to quit, maybe she was.

I could hear her breaths getting shallower and fainter. I just wanted to comfort her, but didn’t feel it was working. I put on the music to soothe her. I lay next to her and held her hand. I said all the words I knew to give her faith in her soul’s existence. I didn’t buy any of what I was saying, so I doubt she did either.

OH GOD. All I have now are memories. And all they do is make me cry. I’m hurting my eye with tears, and my whole body just gets weaker because I can’t find the will to do much of anything. I can’t give up yet, I have to try to keep doing things. Telling myself the things I’m doing are worthwhile, necessary. If I could just sleep. And sleep and sleep and sleep. I wouldn’t mind living, but it involves so much pain.

I’m not in massive physical pain, just the nagging little kind that tells you you’re old and will most likely not get any better. You’ll just learn to live at this level until you drop down to the next one. Somewhere along the way, spiritual understanding is supposed to kick in. The gratitude for all things that are still “OK.” Or a shift in perspective would take place, that all is OK, despite appearances. This hasn’t happened yet.

I’m still the same old entitled, self-centered ego guy that used to be quite a bit better off and didn’t realize it. Now I realize how good I had it. So many things I took for granted, now ripped away from me. My whole center is gone. Though I despised my role and felt that I was forced into it, now all I can do is cry about this little thing or that little thing that she would have said, or did or thought. About this or that or anything and everything. She gave me a focus, and even if it was something I felt I’d be better without, it was my identity.

Now how am I supposed to live? I am freer than I have ever been in my life. To do whatever, whenever. And I just wish I could crawl back to a month and a half ago and have a few more minutes of that, please. OH GOD.

Just get through another evening. Another meal and TV show. Another toothbrushing and tea. Whatever little things I do, filling up the empty slots until I can sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep a few hours, maybe. Maybe tomorrow will be a little better, maybe. Maybe not. I’d have to bet the second, given entropy’s track record.

I planted some stuff in the garden today. I’ve been tilling the soil and making flower beds and some areas for vegetables. Some of the sunflowers I planted last week have sprouted. I am doing this for her. She saw that I was enjoying watering flowers last spring and she bought some seeds. And a couple of urns for planters. And a gazing ball and a Buddha statue. She was always wanting to buy me whatever she thought I’d like. So now I just have more things to remind me of her. I hope the flowers do well. I’ll do my best to take care of them.

I Can't Believe You Are Gone

I just can’t believe you are gone. But you were gone before you finally let go and left me for where I do not know. Outside, the birds are “going to town,” as you once said. Then I had immediately burst into inappropriate tears. You were still here. You asked me what was wrong. I said it just made me so sad that it was such a beautiful day, and you couldn’t go outside and enjoy it. That made you cry, too. I was good at that.

You were content to just hear those birds chirping away. I had to go and make you think about the flowers you couldn’t see, the green grass and trees and horses and barns and cows that were part of a world you were missing out on. Those things were outside, and you were locked in that room, in that body, wasting away. I wish I knew how to carry on, but I was barely living then.

I thought, selfishly, that we’d both be better off if you were dead. Then I could pick up the pieces and finally do what I wanted. But I don’t feel like doing anything.

It’s Saturday, and you would be watching golf on TV. I never could have imagined anything more boring than that. But now, I just want to sit there and watch golf, and I wish you were here to watch it, too. But you’re not.

Maybe you are in a better place. I just still see your cold, empty face as my last memory. You were alive right up until that moment you slipped away forever. I didn’t even know how alive you still were, just watching golf. Struggling to eat, losing your ability to swallow, drink water or even breathe. You were conscious, and you were here. And now you’re not.

I’m left with a giant emptiness that I can’t fill with anything. Nothing is fun. I just want my shitty life back, as much as I hated it, now I would find a way to cherish it.

I know it can’t be that way. You are truly gone. And I’m all alone with the cats and dogs and my wretched heart. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No one telling me what a fool I’m being. I can’t stand it.

I should have been more present for you when you were here. I was here, but I was like a kid who just wants to go out and play, not stay inside with his grandma. I acted up and said mean things. I should have realized that one day I would miss every single thing about you, even the stuff I got mad at. Because now I’ll never have the chance to do it over. To make everything better.

You accepted your fate so graciously. You were unafraid and didn’t ever ask the big questions. Why! Why me?

You told me off numerous times, drove me half crazy, but that was early on. When sickness really took hold of you, it seems, the worse you got physically, the more you were able to let things go that would have bothered you. Should have bothered you. I matured at a snail’s pace compared to you.

I still have a lot left to do, I guess, but I feel like I can’t go forward. Like there’s nowhere I want to go, really.

I feel the pull of responsibility. I should do this or that. So I mow the lawn. And I’m cleaning up the house (at an incredibly slow pace). And I haven’t started drinking or burying myself in drugs. Yet.

I still remember you saying to me, “Let’s smoke a bunch of weed and get really high, listen to music and just laugh.” And I said, “Oh, honey, I miss those days, too.”  And you cried.

Now, I cry every time I think about anything that you liked or wanted to do or thought or said or bought or asked for. I feel sad every time I walk in that room and see the spot where you lay for so long.

I gotta hope you are in a better place. I just honestly don’t know. And if you could only let me know, maybe I would find a way to be at peace. Until then, sadness. Until then, just trying to get through each day. Make small improvements, avoid setbacks.

I just want to watch golf today. And maybe get really high. I want to laugh. I really want to laugh, but for now, crying is all I can seem to do.

Journal entry for March 31, 2018

One of the last things she said to me when she was lying on her side, toward the end was, "I'm really sick, aren't I?"

"Now you tell me?" I feigned incredulity, but I knew it was dawning on her that this was serious.

"What do I do?" she asked.

I told her, "You need to get fluids, antibiotics and nourishment."

"OK."

But it was too little, too late. She'd gone a whole day with no water. Even a tiny syringe full would make her choke. She had two doses of antibiotics in two days, but started way too late.

All I could do was lay there with her, watching her breathing get slower and slower. She never regained her ability to speak. It was like she was asleep, but maybe she could still hear me. I wanted it to be some mystical experience where she would show some indication that her spirit was intact somehow.

But all there was, was breathing. And then a gasp. And then a little more breathing. And then one more gasp. And then no more breathing. No miraculous apparitions or signs from heaven. Just life and then death. Like a switch. On, then off, never to turn back on.

I didn't cry so much then as I do nowadays. I can only think of things that make me sad, such as her asking me, "I'm really sick, aren't I?" Oh, honey....

Journal entry for March 30, 2018

I can make myself cry 20 times a day. I can't make myself laugh even once.

It has been since March 15, 7:44 AM that Boopie, Sharon, my wife, died. I can never forget those horrible last days, hours, minutes. I held her hand and watched her slip away. I watched her struggle to breathe, and I watched her struggle less and less. I can't forget her lifeless face when it was done. Just empty.

Even when she was sick, she was alive. She was a radiant human being with energy and feelings and opinions, hopes, thoughts, likes and dislikes. I can never forget all those things. But the bad parts, and the anger with what was her situation, have passed like a bad dream. Now all that's left is sadness and sentimentality.

Everything is connected to her. Only everything. I felt angry when she was alive. Angry that she stole my identity or freedom. My hopes for a carefree life. Now I don't know who I am anymore, without her to care for, to shop for, to complain to, to bounce my stupid ideas off of.

I can only feel sadness and regret. It only takes a thought of anything that ties itself to her, and the next thought is: "and she is not here, she's really gone and is never coming back."

One of the last things that she said, maybe a couple of weeks before she got really sick was, "Let's smoke a lot of weed and listen to music and just laugh." 

I told her, "Oh, honey, I miss those days, too." It made her cry.

A lot of things I said could have made her cry, but she rarely did. She would cry at the drop of a hat over some animal story on TV or a silly commercial or Disney movie. If it had animals, she'd be bawling. I never understood how she could seem so indifferent to her own situation and then get so emotional over some sappy moment in a movie.

I only get that way now with every single thing that I see, because it all relates, in some way, to her.

The horses are back today, grazing the new grown grass. The horses she could barely ever see, the grass that she had me photograph because she hadn't been outside for years.

It's time to do some planting. Tomato plants, like she had me do last year, which she was so happy to hear about and to get to eat from occasionally.

If I open the freezer there's the food that I made or bought for her. I think, "The food lasted longer than she did." If I clean up a mess or mow the lawn it's like, "This was done last when she was still alive."

I'm going through her old emails, deleting the spam and the old bills, not reading everything, but watching writing abilities go from worse to better as I get to the older emails. I'm seeing birthday wishes from Hannelore go year by year. There was a lot of pain and sadness back then, too. I can't process it all.

I have a lifetime of things accumulated in this house, all of them tied directly or indirectly to her. I can only make it through the day if I don't even think about all of them. Maybe pick one or two things a day, make a small effort and try to pass the time. I'm trying to not be to inactive because I am feeling the effects of not working, and now not having any real thing to focus on.

I thought I would live for this day, this so-called freedom to reclaim "my identity," but my soul has had a hole in it for years. Most of it has leaked out a long time ago. What is left of the person I became, the caregiver, sufferer of woes?

I can't think of anything that even seems the least bit like it's going to make a difference. Why do this vs. that? Anything vs. nothing? I guess I don't want to make myself any worse off than I already am, so I keep up a minimal routine of eating, exercise and chores. But who am I kidding?

If I could lay down and sleep for a month, I would. Or even longer. I have the cats and dogs to think about. And who will inherit this place when I'm gone too? I know it will happen eventually, but now with Sharon gone, it seems so much closer. And I don't mind.

I just don't want to suffer the long process of deterioration. I could never endure what she did. God, how did she stay alive so long in such a condition? And do it with so little complaining?

I complain even when there's nothing wrong. I just find something and make it the focus of my attention until I can't even see the beautiful sunny day, the green grass or the horses, just the "problem." She could barely talk, eat or move, but when she felt a breeze on her skin, she managed to tell me, "That feels nice." If I grow to be half as gracious a human being as that, I will consider it a win.

I think about her every day, but am I being selfish and self-indulgent in crying about every little thing? She'd probably say that I was. That I need to get to doing something productive and stop with all the moping. But you can't clean up from the flood until the rains are over. And it's still pouring.

Journal entry for March 13, 2018

Today might be the day. My heart is breaking again. I am in the room with her and she is breathing rapidly. Shallow breaths. She's been asleep 12 hours. At least she's not groaning. But she is struggling. She's so brave, she declined all morphine. She doesn't want to die, but her body is so weak.

I'm not saying the meaningful things I intended when I picked up this journal. I wanted to say how meaningful it all is. And meaningless. I mean, everything seems so meaningless right now and so meaningful. Everything is meaningless, and everything is so unbearably meaningful.

I don't know how I will face the world alone. I've been alone in my head for years, always. But she's been there in my back pocket, always dependable to keep me from straying too far. She brought a level of beauty to my life that I would never have found in my undisciplined flailing.

She was a gift to me, a sacrifice of a life, to show me how to be a human. I'm not a very good one, a pathetic baby duck.

Oh, honey, you'll be in my heart forever. I'll never get over you, and that's OK. Some scars are beautiful relics to treasure. But I'll miss you. The cats, too. Everything will have a filter of the love and sadness of you over it.

Looking through my photos on the computer, the slideshow is going along with some soothing Enya music. So many memories, some long ago, some recent, that I shared with her. Pictures from my bike rides. I would look for things to photograph for her.

Cows were her favorite. And horses. And green fields. And barns. Or was that me? But she liked it when I would show her pictures of where I'd gone. It took her places. I took her with me in my head. When I decided to photograph this or that, I always thought, "What would Boopie think of this? What would Boopie do here?"

Journal entry for March 8, 2018

I guess I'm indulging, then. I'm taking some time out of my Friday, in between feeding Sharon breakfast while watching "The Price is Right" (not my favorite show, but she really hates to miss it) and then punishing myself afterward for my shitty attitude by working on the tax spread sheet. We account for all of our expenses so we can deduct just about everything (not legally, of course). Now there's a few minutes before Gina gets here to help with Sharon's bathing.

Let's recap the week so far. For Monday I have a win--I went for a bike ride and explored new territory. The top of a hill in the Daughtery Wildlife area. I wore my goggles for a bit but didn't need them, mostly. My eye didn't bother me as much.

I have this theory that I can cure myself of just about anything. If I get enough cardio and activity in, consistently, to distract myself and I circulate my blood enough, I can remove my toxic invaders. I'm convinced that my eye problem stems from exposure to toxic mold or household allergens. Why else would I feel better after extended times away from home? FUCK this whole eye shit.

I finished taking Sharon's amoxicillan, which she declined to take although the nurse really thought she had pneumonia a couple of weeks ago. It has since relented, but maybe it's just under the radar. Now she's just her usual: weak, dehydrated, unable to speak clearly and weeping at everything.

Anyway, let's stay with the timeline. Tuesday Gina was not well, so she didn't make it for the Tuesday shaving. I cooked oil instead and we watched a movie, "Flash Gordon," which put Sharon to sleep. I liked it, but only because it was incredibly corny and easy to watch without paying too much attention.

My eye was worse that day and it felt like a sinus swelling kind of thing. It doesn't look super bad, but I feel it. And then Wednesday was Gina's visit and I picked up Sharon's meds at the Medicine Shoppe. Not a lot of excitement, but trying to stay positive. Eye not better and not worse. Hope for the antibiotics making a difference is kind of fading at this point.

Thursday--Sharon's dad came to visit. We washed her hair and she pooped. And by that I mean that I manually extracted 2 weeks worth of fecal matter from her rectum with a gloved hand. She is used to this and it doesn't make her cry anymore. It seems to be interminable, because there is always more.

That brings us to Friday, today. I finished the ABX and am getting bummed about the lack of results. At least it didn't mess up my gut too bad. I took probiotics and quit eating dairy for the time. Now I'm drinking a Borax and baking soda recipe for fighting fungal infections. I have little faith in this, but am on the ropes, so I guess I'm just flailing.

I think too much about myself and my problems. Even Sharon and all her problems are still viewed through my own self-centered lens.

So this is my indulgence. I get to sit here and bitch about stuff while sitting on the front porch waiting for Gina. And sucking on an orange flavored chewable vitamin C. And listening to the sound of Troy working on my neighbor's fence. He is still not 100% done with our fence. Just another thing to bitch about.

I don't care. I'm losing interest in stuff. I want to feel good but I'm going to have to get used to there being several problems with my human body at any given time.

I think about death constantly. Where does my life fit into the whole cosmic scheme of things? Am I just a little twinkle of light in between the darkness before and the darkness after? Will that be that when I finally fall apart beyond repair?

I do suspect that Sharon will go first, but I don't know what to do or think or feel other than be sad and be an aimless, ambling survivor. Until I become unhinged and also leave. Bill, then Gracie. Grandma, then Grandpa. Then Uncle Steve. Oh, and my high school girlfriend, Ilene. And recently Sharon's mom. I can't hold out forever. And why should I? Things are so much less enjoyable now.

Whatever happened to me? I was fine a few years back. I loved to party and get drunk and high. I kept myself entertained with stuff to look forward to. After work. Weekends. I was never so empty of meaning to my life as I am now. I don't know because I didn't write down my thoughts in a journal back then. I suspect it is because they were just happy visitors that didn't bother me all that much.

I guess I'm done indulging for now.

Journal entry for March 2, 2018

I don't know what the purpose is for writing down my thoughts. Am I just trying to wring out the mop so it can finally dry out? I don't guess these observations are very profound. I am just addicted to words. The constant describing of the state of things. The searching for the definitive description of what it is to be me at the moment. Obsession would describe it.

Right now I'm obsessed with the malady of my left eye. I want to not think about it, give it a chance to get better, but at the same time do something, anything, in the direction of making it better. So far this has involved: 2 trips to the Walmart optometrist, numerous OTC and prescription eye drops, cold compresses, warm compresses, honey eye drops, lid scrubs, facial cleansing with apple cider vinegar (ouch!), tea tree oil, castor oil, clothes and bedding washing (extra, I mean) and vacuuming (extra).

I am just too bothered by it to do anything in the realm of actual, living my life, let's call it. I feel like a ghost because I mostly just hang around the house pondering "what can I do?" And I find it's mostly nothing.

I wake up, take antibiotic (eye obsession again) wash my eyelids and assess what condition of the conjunctive layer is in after a night of dry-eyed sleep(less) sleep. Then I exercise for 15 minutes or so. The cold weather makes walking the dogs undesirable, so I skip it. I take a shower and spend an hour making breakfast.

I eat breakfast and feed Sharon. Oh, I forgot to include the minimum morning cleanup of Sharon in there before the exercise, but that's part of the routine, too. So, breakfast and the TV show of the day (or 2 or 3) while eating. It takes 45 minutes to 1-1/2 hours to feed Sharon a meal so that she won't choke (too much). We're all done by 11:45.

So having woken up at 7 AM, eaten breakfast and showered, the 15 min. exercise is about it for the morning. Now I go downstairs and brush my teeth and Sharon will most likely be asleep when I get back. What's next?

I may do a load of laundry, a part of my new obsession with removing allergens unsuccessfully. Or look on the computer...for what? I dunno, I may google eye disorders or just look Facebook and find satisfaction in neither. Nothing gets accomplished and soon it is 2 o'clock, Sharon's medication time.

I load her up with the meds and TV shows that she will watch/fall asleep to for the next few hours. Now I have another gap of time to find purposeful activity for. In the past it would be my outdoor activity time, but like I said, the weather either too cold, too windy or too many allergens. See?

I stay focused on anything to distract form my current misery. Play the cello for 5 minutes. I suck, so I give up quickly. Play guitar.  A little better, but I'm mostly rusty and uninspired. A big lot of "why bother?"

I feel guilty for the wastefulness of the time. The days and weeks with little or nothing to show. If I clean the sink in the bathroom that's an accomplishment, but I lack the follow through or the "give a shit" to clean the entire bathroom. That can wait, like everything else, until I feel better. Or until the level of filth gets critical and then I will do the least amount possible.

I guess I don't feel like anything is worth the effort right now. I want to get past this, to plant a garden, to mow my lawn, walk the dogs, ride the bike, but everything seems, I dunno, pointless. I won't enjoy it and therefore nothing will be gained by doing it. Sounds like depression, I guess, if we're naming and defining things.

But I'm too much of a philosopher to be so narrowly defined. My non-dual, non-existent world view leaves me with "nothing to do, nowhere to go." So I should "just be." Well, right now, that's about it. I'm just being. And it ain't really all that great.

Journal entry for February 15, 2018 (A mindfulness exercise)

Oh, wow. There have been gaps in my journaling. Whatever shall I do?

Most of the time spent has gone by in the most routine way, with daily/weekly regimens, punctuated by occasional drama and crisis that kind of weave their way through the routine. Suffice it to say that there's a bit of chronicling on Facebook, but it is only a a veneer, the side I want to show. Mostly, for attention.

What can I say? I'm just another narcissistic drama queen. This tone I'm taking right now--who or what am I channeling? And who or what is doing the channeling? I'm still trying to figure that out.

Right now I'm sitting outside because it is too nice of a day to spend indoors. Of course, it is also after 2 pm and, other than the 1/2 hour walk with the dogs and a ten minute exercise routine, this is my only activity.  And it is sitting in a chair on the front porch, writing in a notebook, so who are we kidding with the "active" part of activity.

I am writing to clear my mind. I figure if I can get these thoughts out of the way now, perhaps I will have a successful time meditating, when I commit to the whole 5 minutes. I had a whole series of questions to ask "myself" as I went into the task, so as to clear the way for the blinding moment of insight.

Let's see if I can remember the train of thought--

Something about who am I "really?" There's this finite physical being that I pretty much exclusively identify with. Then there's the whole array of encapsulated memories, thoughts, opinions, judgements--you know, mind stuff. Does that reside entirely in my brain?

It seems like when I am altering my brain with drugs or alcohol that those things change, sometimes permanently. Is there a cloud, or some safe storage device, where everything I've ever done, thought or said continues to exist, uncorrupted by time or perception?

I feel as if I am wasting time. I worry too much about today's problems becoming the bigger problems of tomorrow. My body goes through one perceived illness after another. Sometimes it circles back to the previous one, but normally, one will appear just as another is disappearing from view. Thank God for my limited attention span. Perhaps I can't multi-task any pain processing.

Anyway, it's a beautiful day in February. Grass is growing, birds are flying about. There's a faint, actually, pungent smell of I don't know what decomposing in the pasture. Mold, I'm guessing. Probably the source of my maladies. (see where my thoughts go). This was a good idea, coming out here where it's...well, outside. I brought a cup of tea with me to add to the ambiance.

This chair is a real stinker, though. Hard plastic, an old shower chair, it is not the kind of thing one could really relax in. But I'm not purposeful enough to haul out another chair from the living room. I'd have to clean the cat hair from it and then haul it back in afterward. All of which would take time away from my---hmm.

Time. Weigh the cost/benefit ratios. 5 minutes of work, to enjoy the pleasure of a comfy chair for the afternoon. Nah, not worth it. I would get antsy being all relaxed in that chair. I'm already getting squirrely, like I'm not fulfilling my purpose here.

Back to my line of----....._____

Oh, crap. Another pen dies under my watch. So into the house I go-- and I'm back with a new pen and a compromise: a pillow for this hard-ass chair.

So, part of this meditation "technique" is to let everything be exactly how it is. Technically then, I'm already meditating. I'm letting myself continue yammering on to this notebook, sipping some tea occasionally, and things are just going on without any intervention or objection from me.

I'm noticing, along with the pungent smell, some insect activity, dogs barking and a generator or possibly a lawnmower starting up. Pretty faint, in the distance. It's probably Bob checking the mail or feeding his chickens.

The fence guy showed up a few minutes ago, but I don't see any activity out of him yet. Birds, mostly, a truck motor, another neighbor checking the mail on their electric golf cart. My hotwire fence T-post caps rattling, as the wind gently blows  the tape.

Yellow grass flowers are the flavor of the week, popping out everywhere in little clusters. It's a quiet day. No chainsaws or heavy equipment in my immediate range of perception. But far off I hear a car, obviously a manual transmission, being forcefully driven away. Pretty quiet again. Sip some tea, why dontcha? Relaxing.

Trying to avoid thinking about my eye. My left eye is somewhat injured or irritated, infected or infested--I don't know. Just my latest drama. It's been over a month. I thought it was poison oak, but googling stuff just makes me more paranoid that it's something else.

I am probably conjuring up all kinds of stuff just by thinking about it. Face mites,  blepharitis, conjunctival chalaisis. And my face is peeling from dousing it with apple cider vinegar. But it was starting to peel beforehand, to be fair to the vinegar. More tea. Let's move on.

It's the kind of day I should be out riding my bike. Exploring or a least getting some cardio. Damn shame about my stupid eye and stupid face. It puts me off my game. I feel compelled to just sit around, doing the minimum until things get better. But what if they never do?

That's where I go in my head. I'm not even living in the real world. I'm in some worry world, where all outcomes are negative.

Two kids are riding a quad and being paced by a German shepherd. Now the whole neighborhood's dogs are barking. Not mine, though. They are most likely sleeping on the grass in the back yard, with the sun warming one side and cooling the other. Dreaming about dinner and peeing on stuff. And smelling stuff that other dogs have peed on.

Everything really is just as it is. It's like I'm not even here, although I am. Better than sitting inside in front of a computer. That was good tea, honey pooled up at the bottom for a satisfying finish.

Who will ever read this, I wonder? And why? Actually, my penmanship is so bad it's more like a secret cipher, so no one can interpret it anyway.

Nice, quiet day. Sharon is inside, of course, watching TV shows or sleeping. She would be enjoying this nice day if she could only even get as far as the front door.

The last time she was out this far, besides in an ambulance or fire truck, was back when she was still taking showers in the shower chair. I wheeled her out to the front door to meet the dogs. They barked at her, and she cried. They never bark at people, but apparently the wheelchair frightened them. She still cries when she thinks about that day.

It's one of my triggers, too. But I have so many triggers these days. Like "Party Size" when describing a bag of Doritos. Because I buy the bag while shopping in a robotic, depressed state, and even I know there isn't going to be any party. Who are they to cruelly promise such things? Or "Big Laughs" on an ad for some new sitcom.

This gets tricky because I've actually heard Sharon laughing at such shows. Merciful that she can be entertained by such banality. And shame on me for in any way looking down on such an innocent mind. Me and my jaded perception of things. I hope I can scrub away the layers of negative filters that don't allow me to see the good in anything.

Not exactly true, I do see it, but I immediately discount it and focus on the perceived flaws in anything. I'm letting it all be, even my rambling, my gross exaggerations, my filtered perception. I am just sitting here, occasionally shifting on this semi-comfortable pillow, and just taking notice. Am I done meditating yet, or should I start?

I Wept

I wept when I read to you about your mom

I wept because I want to believe things aren’t so

But I know all too well

I want to curl up and feel the slumber of unconsciousness

Except that it’s killing me, just like working was killing me

Perhaps goals are important, I don’t know

They keep a person focused, distracted from their pain

I cry for you when I think of the things that still mean something to you

In this world, all you have, all you can barely do

And your salty eyes betray that you cry, too

God spare me any more sadness, please

This life I have only just come to love, is slipping away

Like summer’s end

It’s inevitable, and I know I’m not prepared for another winter

Perhaps the longest one ever

As I watch the slowly fading flowers

The slowly dimming light in your eyes still wants to sparkle another day

Though your voice can barely convey to me your thoughts

I know them better than most, because I have known you

And I want you to be ok

Really ok, not that crap we tell ourselves that is just denial

I want you to shine and sparkle like brand new

And I weep because I know that can never happen

At least not in this world and who knows about any other

I will keep on going, I guess

But I feel my own life leaving me as my body seeks revenge

For all the thoughtless years of indifference

Please, I’ve just now come to love this life

Why does it have to crumble?

Who made us this way, not built to last, disposable?

My Argument with Byron Katie (also on Facebook)

Me: Your philosophy of “loving what is” promotes apathy
and acquiescence to evil.

Byron Katie: YOUR philosophy of NOT “loving what is” DOESN’T promote NON-apathy and NON-acquiescence to evil. See what I did there?

Me: You just basically said “I know you are but what am I” in fancy negatives.

Byron Katie: I’m Byron Katie, sweetie. I win.

I'm Not Angry Anymore

I wanted to tell you

That I’m not angry anymore

I wanted it to be true and to let you know

That I won’t be getting angry anymore

But I was too late

I was busy doing other things

Little, unimportant things like washing clothes

Rearranging the cupboard

When I went to check on you

You were gone

Now I’ll never get to tell you

All the things that hurt inside

Or about my day’s accomplishments

Little, unimportant as they are

Or of the funny thing the cats did

Or anything at all

I may as well go, too

I have no one anymore

No one who is even close to knowing me like you

Better than I know myself

**this was written on the date in the title and wasn't the real accounting of how Sharon passed. I actually held her hand and watched her take her last breath. Not that it makes things any easier, harder if anything.

The Little Things (Phantom dog leap explained)

Sometimes it is the little things that sustain us. Keeping up with our chores, watering a plant, feeding the dogs. Caring about something--anything at all, can be the difference between spiraling downward or keeping your head above water for one more day. 

 

One more day could be all it takes to wake up and discover that everything has been re-arranged in the night. Or to find yourself in a dream you thought you were having, that turned out to be your life, with somebody else’s game show prizes. Just keep playing along; it will work out.

Other times, it is a phantom dog leap that is required. This is what occurs when you are at the point of desperation and make a grand, foolish gesture or perform a ridiculous ritual of questionable significance. Except that it isn’t foolish or questionable to you. It is essential. 

 

A phantom dog leap is leaping beyond your expected limitations and predefined roles. It is you, being your most free and most vulnerable self. It is quite possibly dangerous, illegal, immoral or fattening. Don’t do it without consideration. But don’t hesitate when the moment arrives. Timing is everything.

That being said, relax. Either way, just…

Who Cares?

People always say, “I had no idea.”  “He seemed OK yesterday.” “We were talking, he seemed like he was happy, you know, joking around.”

A lot goes unnoticed. The little clues. The cries for help. It’s hard to see when someone is actually putting on their best face but they are hanging by a thread. We want to believe that they will be just fine. Then we can be OK with going about our own day, doing whatever it is that gives us our pleasures.

No one else hears the voices that taunt and torment a soul. The insidious commentary that goes on in someone’s head is only theirs. “It’s pointless.” “Who cares, really?” “You’re worthless.” “Everything is futile.” 

I find I have nothing to say anymore. I’ve raged. I’ve complained. I’ve cried. I’ve affirmed. I’ve deflected and dismissed, distracted and pretended. Acted up and acted out. Behaved like I was told I should and rebelled with all my heart. I’ve gone blind with emotion, and I’ve gone numb past all feeling.

If there was joy or love, I can’t find it now. It is in the past. In pictures. In stories I tell myself. Those stories all have sad, unfulfilling endings. They have dragging, tedious storylines of watching something slowly decay from the inside. Still smiling and fooling the public. Still making chit-chat.

Find little things to stick around for. Little, short-term goals with higher reward to work ratios. I don’t know. Nothing seems to pay off, really. Half-ass this, half-ass that. Projects too daunting or to draining to start. Little chores pile up into mountains. The everyday necessities that one begins to question, “Why bother?” Why bother putting together complete sentences and such? Who will really care?

Who Would I Be? already posted on Facebook

Who would I be without my incessant need for external validation?

Who would I be without my duplicity?

Without my evil temper?

My need to be right?

Who would I be?

If I was just me?

If I cared about something, what would that be?

What would the world around me look like, if I didn’t carry around that inner critic?

How would each little thing appear, if I didn’t judge it, reject it, despise it?

What if I just waited for a moment,

Paused,

Before reacting?

How would the song of my life sound then?

What would it look like if I laid all my feelings out on the table,

Picked them up one by one, polished them like silverware,

And then put them all back,

In their proper places?

What would be left?

Would I?

Still?

Be?

Me

Waiting

Tedium sets in, then frustration leads to anger. Anger gives way to sadness, then a hopeless drudgery of enduring the moment. Thoughts arise but fall away uselessly. The ones that grip are the ones that reinforce the sadness. Sadness empties out into, well, emptiness. There is nothing left. Out of nothing a spark. Maybe, something? Too soon to tell..

Inside my head on this date

2-21-17

I want so much to be able to say to you before you or I go on, finally, to wherever it is that we go that I am not angry anymore. I wanted to say it today, when I was in the kitchen putting dishes away and thinking again how useless it all is. Useless to do the same things, the chores, the routines. I do them thinking, “If I just keep doing the same things, then things will at least stay the same. They won’t get any worse, right?”

No. Not right. I have to lower my expectations.

If I buy everything on the list, or if I get it all done by five, if I manage to get all the cleanup done and pillows arranged and meals cooked and fed and keep on top of all upcoming events…well, then I can rest and feel good about myself at the end of a day. That on just one day, finally, I got everything right. That I have made something better and not worse.

No, it will still get worse.

And worse is that you will hate me. You do hate me. Have hated me for some time. My tea, my talking, my listening to that stupid audio player, my going for bike rides, my always looking at old pictures, the dumb things I think, the salads I eat, the supplements I uselessly take, the garlic I put on everything, the stupid dogs that barked at you and made you cry. My complaining, my anger, my stubbornly not leaving the room or leaving you forever. My inability to change. And everything about me, ever. All of it.

I wanted to say that I’m not mad anymore, that I just feel sad now. But when I walked in the room, you told me that I had forgotten something and how it was so typical of me. Or something to that effect. And I stopped feeling sad and was mad again. But then sad, because I couldn’t even keep from getting mad after a whole afternoon of wearing out my emotions down to the empty after-feeling that sadness leaves. There was still anger waiting under it all. And I failed again.

I'm an Asshole

Light and love whatever

W the actual F

I don't guess I will ever get it. Here is my feeble attempt to calm my despicable spirit.

Love and light, my dear...Love and light.

Toxic Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I truly wish that for you all. I’m not jealous of all the warm happy households, full of people eating and playing games, talking and enjoying their visits. I don’t have room for jealousy in my monochromatic pallet of emotion. I can see that enjoyment of life is happening, and I don’t want to spoil it by injecting my lousy pain into your moment. I am writing this knowing full well that it is too toxic to share. I have experienced joy in my lifetime. I have known the ease of a life with few concerns. Not anymore.

It has been a slow, torturous slide for Sharon into complete, unfixable disease. Being bedridden is one thing. Being bedridden and unable to eat or drink or move or even sleep is another. She currently drinks from a Camelbak water bag suspended from the ceiling. She is now unable to bring the hose to her lips. And should it be provided to her she can barely swallow without aspirating and coughing for five minutes. All the food she eats must be placed into her mouth by me. But I can’t chew it for her or make her swallow without choking.

I was barely keeping up with the daily hygiene and meal cooking. And going to work. Then I got myself ill. This year I’ve been going to doctors to try to fix a gut problem. The doctors couldn’t figure it out, so they called it IBS and told me to live with it. Take an  antacid. I’ve maxed out my sick days, vacation days and even family leave. I’ve even reduced my hours to 32, so I can still qualify for their crappy health care. This last week I had a bout of bronchopneumonia and had to do the caregiving with a 102 fever. I took the week off without pay. I’ll be surprised if I have a job to go back to. It is all going to hell.

She wants to die at home. That’s the damn hardest thing one could ever put on someone else. Make them take care of you while you become completely immobile and your body shuts down. Make them watch your decline and do their best to provide care while it is completely ineffective. And then make sure to tell them when they are less than adequate in the attitude department. My empathy gene got skipped, but even my reptilian, narcissistic brain registers that this is sad. So very sad. I don’t feel a lot anymore, but when I do it comes in the form of anger, then sadness and regret. Her illness is killing the both of us.

And the other day she said, crying, “I just realized that it is taking me too long to die.”

A Dream I Had

This morning I was in a hypnogogic state, exhausted from fitful sleep. I was recovering from broncopnuemonia and my mind kept me awake until the wee hours. When I finally fell into deep slumber, I found myself dreaming.

I dreamed I was in a military school, located somewhere in Durham, a little south of Chico, California. I was in the locker room putting on my uniform and wouldn’t you know it, the damn pants were too small. I looked at the tag: “Houa.” I was always getting his tiny pants. I decided to suit up without them and left the locker room. Roaming the halls, I got smirks as I passed the other cadets.

I thought of trying to blend in and practiced my “hut-huts” while marching down the corridors. I was looking for my class, which seemed to be behind one of many closed doors. The halls emptied and I felt out of place, so I decided to climb up on the roof for a better vantage point.

That’s when I noticed the many plumes of smoke in the distance. The sky was turning gray, and the sun was a deep red color. I lay down on the roof and tried to get comfortable, but my eyes felt like they were being pried open. I had a sense that I should be in class, but in the current state of things maybe being on the roof without pants was just as good an option.

I thought of an idea that I had earlier and wondered if it could have anything to do with all this smoke and apocalyptic gloom.

You see, I had been toying with the idea of constructing a dimensional gateway in my backyard. I got the idea from, I don’t know, too much sci-fi or late night talk radio. It was going to be simple: two painted, yellow concrete pylons, about four feet high and spaced about four feet apart. At certain times, moon phases or equinoxes, the theory went, it would open up, and beings could pass through from one side to the other. What was on the other side was unknown, but I liked to imagine a place called Azure, an endless beach with crystal, turquoise water and shimmering white sand. But really, I didn’t have a clue because all you could see through the pylons was the backyard.

Anyway, it was all in the planning phase and I really needed to research it more.

More later on the nature of the monsters that would come through and that I would have to deal with in the work that I will call the Final Avatar.  Hint: they look ferocious but they like to have their belly rubbed.

sunday funday

all shot to hell.

love and light love and light love and light.

all is well.

UHHHHH, LIGHT AND LOVE.........

AAAAAAAHHHHHHRRRRRRGH! light and love

or I die.

Day 2 downstairs

Light and love,
my dear.

 From your
 man.

from me and eddie

light and love

Light and Love to my darling wife

The cats and I miss you.

u know the drill

light and love, dearie

light and love

light and love to you

Ode to the Black Knight

The skateboard of death is every mother's wish, as she purchases the $20 skateboard from the department store, not knowing, not dreaming of the epic falls onto the black asphalt, scraping limb and leg into tattered sticks, that would ensue as a direct effect of buying said evil wheeled board. No one knew that EVERY single time you ride it you DIE!

Bad Evil Skateboard of Death. They didn't expect you to live long enough for your wood screws to pull out of the board, as was bound to happen over time in the event that you didn't already die from a self-inflicted launch after hitting a small rock or crack in the sidewalk with your inappropriately small, hard clay wheels. Stops on a dime. Liter-a lee.

The ship that launched a thousand faces. They all went down. Down on the pavement, the gutter and ultimately, the trash, where some angry kid threw the miscreant device, until such time it became available on Ebay for more than 20x what it sold for originally.

Another F'd up Thanksgiving

God, if you think this is funny, you are so fucked up.  I don't know or care about the cosmic state of blahh blahh whatever.  I can't pull out of my funk cuzz I have zero positivity. I spent the last day not enjoying fucking anything at all about this holiday.  I remember the time 4 or 5 years ago when my wife came out to the kitchen for the last time under her own power.  She heard me cooking and making turkey.  There was Christian music playing.  She screamed at me because she hates that crap.  Can't blame her, but I was upset by her ranting.  I don't know it may have been a different time, but we argued about giblets and she said she would never get out of bed again because of my making it unpleasant for her.  I still think that is probably true.  I would try my conjuring of light and love, but I have such negative thought processes going on that I am only capable of making negative statements.  See? I could sure use some help.  See, in the last couple of years my wife has come back from some crazy bitch land to being a very calm and understanding person.  Much unlike what could be said for myself. I seem to do the opposite, and I rely on her to calm me down or give me insight into why I am so fucked up.  But, then I always ignore all her advice and say "I can't, I'm too far gone.."  I feel like I am out of options, I can't be around her, I bring her down. I can't not be around her, I need her spark (when I am not completely quenching it).  She is completely bedridden and relies on me for everything.  Almost. She can still put food in her mouth most days.  I make her feel miserable and seeing her miserable makes me more miserable.  I can't relate this to anyone, no one can stomach all my bitter pain.  I am a coward and a rotten person.  I don't think the cats are even very fond of me any more.  They have seen too much of my rage.  My uncle killed himself around this time 2 years ago.  I said I would never do that, because I have people that count on me.  Cats, dog, and my lovely wife.  But they can't really stand me, so I'm not on such sure footing anymore.  NSA are you listening? I guess I'm not important enough to spy on, really. So, another fucked up Thanksgiving, ruined by me.  All my wife does is try to come up with positive things to keep me going.  Like getting the house paid off or buying me little trinkets to put in a collectable case.  I really ought to go thank her for that.  But she wants me to leave her alone for at least an hour.  I will say it one more time for old time's sake.  Light and love, Boopie.

conjuring required

light and love light and love light and love light and love
i love our happy life i love our happy life i love our happy life i love our happy life

Boopie and Eddie enjoying a moment.

Journal entry for February 27, 2014 (broad spectrum hate)

Sometimes
Most of the time
I am just not happy
But sometimes I am, I think,
Capable of hating everything
No boundary
No holding back
Other times I focus my hate on
Just one thing or person
And try to maintain the
Illusion that I'm
Well, not really happy,
But just not hating everything
Right now I'm
Hating most things

RIP my dear friend

Meaty, my cat of 13 years was euthanized on Jan 2, 2014.  I will miss her forever, til we meet again. She was the best cat ever, no one knew me like she did and I cry every time I think about having to say goodbye.  Damn cancer, damn old age. Love and light, Meaty.  And turkey. And cuddling. God bless!

how do i stop the cycle?

i hate the endless cycle of being a jerk or a coward and then feeling regret and sadness.  i live in my miserable head and am in constant fear or agitation. if i am passably un-jerkish for a day or part of a day, give me a few minutes and it will come back around.  i hate my life.  i am such a fuck. i thought it was my wife's fault, or her illness, but it only revealed what is in there by testing my limits. my limits are shit.  i am shit.  i have no heart or soul and am mostly negative.  i don't even try to be positive. i just do what i can to function in life, but not very well.  i have no friends. i alienate my sick wife daily. she tries to make me more positive and i just get mad and then we fight. i feel possessed.  i feel reptilian.  where's my humanity? what the fuck am i and how did i get this fucked up.  i'm asking the universe to give me some answers.  i fear i will go to my death a hollow, empty shell ready  to be taken over by complete evil.  i don't even know what i believe.  it's all one? it's all good? yah, right. fuck that nonsense.  i am hitler, i am antichrist.  how fucked is that to feel?  is that what you want, o, god? a little walk on the dark side? god, i hate this shit.  give me light and love or snuff out my pathetic hateful soul. the void. endless darkness. nothing. come on, universe. respond.

light and love--right now, people 4 ever

light and love.  light and love. light and love. period for ever.

u know who u r

light and love

u know what

light and love, that's what
eat up

barely human

light and love

last hope

light and love light and love light and love light and love light and love light and love light and love light and love

x100000000000000000000

Light and love

please help

light and love light and love light and love light and love

it's only stupid if it doesn't work

light and love. peace. light and love. peace. light and love. peace. light and love. peace.

Is this thing on?

Light and love Light and love Light and love Light and love Light and love

She said I'm evil

But I won't give the archons the last word. Light and love. For Sharon. Light and love. Light and love. Light and love.

Light and Love for Sharon

the new year is off to a great start. i wish my wife, sharon, light and love. nothing but light and love. over and over and over.

Light and Love

LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE
LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE
LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE
LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE
LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE LIGHT AND LOVE

Make it Work

Love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light love and light.     

To Blog or not to Blog

Love and light. Love and light. Love and light.

To My Wife,

Though I hurt you and can be a jerk at times, I wish you nothing but love and light.  I can't respond in my normal way, as that is negative.  I am raising my nature to a higher one, not dominated by fear or selfishness:

I will embrace all good things.

Everything is good, everything is perfect.

I cannot change what I don't first accept and acknowledge.  

I will not tell my story.  It is just drama.  

I will awaken out of this illusion to the reality of love and oneness.  

I will not be cynical or hateful or fearful.  

I embrace all things.  

I am master of my own destiny.  

No fear shall rule me.  

No hatred shall devour my energy.  

I am free.  I am love. I am light.  

I wish my wife nothing but love and light.  Love and light, joy and peace.  

 

Wait a minute.  Didn't I wish her joy the other day?. No, I said I AM peace and joy. And the next day, I said I would repay all acts with kindness.And she told me that in the middle of watching a TV show, for just a minute, she experienced a moment of pure joy.  She told me this on Thursday night.  Wow.  That's great.  I wish her that again times one thousand.

Come on!

Results

Yesterday's positive affirmation seemed to work a little.  I went home and put my intention on being nice and positive.  It was recognized.  Sure she had been having a crappy day, but it didn't linger into the night.  I will say stuff like that every day if I can get those kind of results in my life.  Here goes.

I am light and love.  The light protects me, the light surrounds me.  I fear no evil.  I recognize only good.  I am light and love.  I bring light and love to others.  I am a being of pure, unconditional love.  I will remain positive and repay all acts towards me with kindness. 

My Wife's Blog

All I am going to post in response to my wife's recent blog activity is this.


Nothing but love.  Pure unconditional love.  Nothing but light and love.  Pure light and love.  I am not a puppet or a robot.  I have free will.  I am love and light.  I am peace and joy.  No doubts no negativity.  Just love and light and peace and joy.  Take that Archons!

Man created God right after God created man

Nov. 1, 2025, and I'm hiding out here in the past, so no new timeline posts going forward. The past has already happened, but so has the future that I'm feeding you right now, so lissen up, scrapers! Here's the deal:

God was lonely, so He fractured himself into a million pieces, so He could have a nice tea party with an adoring fan base. He was also a bit shy, and kinda humble, so He didn't outright claim credit. Or maybe He did, but it wasn't well received. His creation got some critical reviews, and so He pouted and hid His face. 

But each of these little self-aware God bits were so burdened with the weight of consciousness, the isolation of their own individuation, and the need to understand what their limited transceiver brains could never fully grasp, the paradox of existence, that they hastened to construct a benevolent father who would have all the answers, make it all better, and upon whom they could rely to make ultimate sense of it all. The nightmare of personal responsibility, the finitude of our limited reality -- the inescapable "now" -- this can't be all there is. God help us! 

The egg-laying chicken was self-existent. Next question. The question, "Which came first?" is presumptive in nature, and the answer is that a non-sequential non-event didn't happen, and the egg-laying chicken always was, always is, in some quantum time extraction loop. This show is always playing somewhere, so check your local listings for times and stations.

The situation with Boopie

 

Don't know where to start. Only to say sorry in advance if this seems unpremeditated, and if I ramble, again, I apologize. So much bad has happened in the time since I last posted. I had many hopes and misconceptions at the time I wrote most of the stuff. Lots of emotions (mostly anger and hate) but also confusion and not a little bit of ego.

The situation with Boopie and her MS has only gotten worse since the last entry, and all the problems have magnified. Her physical disability (completely bedridden) is overshadowed even at times by the emotional instability. Hers and mine. I won't own all of it, but I will admit my own failings as a caregiver and a human being.

She cannot get out of bed even to use the commode by the bed. She is too weak. So she has to use diapers and bedpads, the details of which I won't go into, but it is a horrible situation for anyone to be in. What makes it unbearable, seemingly, for me, is the fact that she loses her temper with me for any imperfection in my behavior. I don't mean just saying mean things, but screaming and throwing things. There is no in between. She will want something done a certain way at a certain time, and it has to be that way, or she will throw (literally) a tantrum. If you've ever had a tantrum thrown at you, you know it isn't pleasant.

Near the end of my rope

Don't think it is going to benefit me to even start to try to explain what has been going on with me.  Nothing good.  Here's a list of things:

Anger management-fail
Caregiving with a good attitude-fail
Anything with a good attitude-fail
Being happy for even five minutes-fail
Work-fail
Spiritual improvement-fail

I have such a piss-poor attitude and am angry all the time.  Except when I am about to go to bed after a drink or two.  I only get along with my wife during the few moments when we are distracted by watching tv.  I have such hostility when doing everything, I have to distract myself by listening to recordings of radio shows.  I sometimes feel almost human when I am engrossed in such. But give me a minute or two with my thoughts and I am either angry or crying..  My mom and wife are now not talking due to arguments over posting personal crap on Facebook.  I don't have much hope for anything anymore except the end of the world.  That will likely disappoint, too.  Ah, fuck it all. Now I see why I never come here....

Journal entry for September 1, 2012 (or thereabouts--My one decent argument)

I have only one thing to say in my defense: "You are always right."

(slam dunk)

Journal entry for August 24, 2012 (the hotwire sensor and the snake)

The other day the hotwire light came on, indicating a problem with the fence grounding out. I headed out to check out the usual places where deer hit it and cause it to wrap around the barbwire at the top of the fence.

After going 3/4 of the way around the property and not finding any problems, I found myself on the west side by Jeff's garage. For an unknown reason, probably avoiding poison oak, I looked down and saw a black and yellow snake (long stripes, not bands).

I stopped and instinctively put my hand out to steady myself. Unfortunately, I put it out and grabbed the barbwire. When I pulled my hand back, I saw the hotwire was wrapped around it. I didn't doubt that I had just caused that to wrap around, since my hand was on both wires.

I continued to look for more problems after unhooking the wire, but found none. I plugged the box back in and the light stayed off. Yeah.

My wife says "there are no coincidences." What she really means is all there is are coincidences. Random, unconnected events occurring simultaneously. There is no divine plan is what she means. There is no conspiracy, no fate.

What really happened was that the sensor had an intermittent fault and the light was flashing/not flashing irrespective of the condition of the fence. When I put my hand down on the fence because of the snake, I caused the wire to be wrapped, creating a problem and fixing it. That the light stayed off was a coincidence.

Journal entry for June 9, 2012 (more Magic 8 Ball questions)

Me:   M8B, will to day be a good day?
M8:   Cannot predict now.

Me:   How about now?
M8:   It is certain.

Me:   That it will be a good day?
M8:   It is certain.

Me:   Will I be happy?
M8:   YES, definitely.

Me:   Will Boopie and I fight?
M8:   YES, definitely.

Me:   Are you fulla shit?
M8:   Signs point to yes.

Journal entry for June 8, 2012 (Magic Ball?)

Me:   Magic 8 Ball, is tomorrow going to be fucked?
M8:   Most likely..

Me:   Are you for real?
M8:   YES.

Me:   I thought about something and asked "is it true?"
M8:   As I see it, YES.

Journal entry for May 27, 2012 (Magic 8 Ball forecast)

Me:   Is today going to be a good day?
8B:   Outlook not so good.

Me:   Magic 8 Ball, was I right and you were wrong? Today was a good day.
8B:   It is decidedly so.

Me:   Magic 8 Ball, am I going to die today?
8B:   It is decidedly so.

Me:   Am I really going to die? Can I trust you at all?
8B:   My answer is NO.

Journal entry for May 26, 2012 (Magic 8 Ball sessions, continued)

Magic 8 Ball continued

Me:   Magic 8 Ball, what's up?
8B:   It is certain.

Me:   Magic 8 Ball, are you for real, man?
8B:   It is decidedly so.

Me:   Magic 8 Ball, are you fulla shit?
8B:   As I see it, yes.

Me:   Is it because you are Maya?
8B:   It is certain.

Me:  Did I get that last one right?
8B:   Outlook good.

Me:   Are you feeding me a line?
8B:   Reply hazy, try again.

Me:   Are you feeding me a line?
8B:   My reply is NO.

Me:   Ok.
8B:   Better not tell you now.

The Joke

Ha Ha Ha

God, you little devil

With all Your (our) Infinite Wisdom

You (we) decided to play

The ultimate trick

You fooled yourself into thinking

You (we) weren't God

Signed,

Andrew

Yeah, that's cool...

Journal entry for October 30, 2011 (or thereabouts--towards a non-dual definition of good)

Is it all good? Really? No. But only because it is all good.

If all of this is an illusion and God is all that is "real" and God is love, then God, or Love, apparently has some pretty fucked up shit in His/Her/It's mind.

All I can say is it better be pretty peachy rainbow ice cream orgasm when we finish with this world and on to the next. Like when God's done playing with His toys, he better not leave them all disheveled and broken or we are going to need a new definition of good. Like "whatever the fuck God wants at any given time" is good.

Hence all this crap, which is obviously what He wants, because it "is."

Yeah.

Journal entry for October 26, 2011 (spiritual teachers and a light bulb)

How many "spiritual teachers" does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Duh, there's only the One.

There is no light bulb--it's just an illusion.

No, really...How many?

NONE

Journal entry for October 25, 2011 (I gave up on enlightenment)

I gave up seeking to go back to sleep, but I'm conscious of my unconsciousness. Since discovering that all is one and all that jazz I've kind of felt like "What's the point?"

Buddha says your already enlightened, you just don't realize it.

The Course in Miracles says it never even happened.

Hinduism says its all "Maya" (illusion) and "Lila," God's divine play.

Since we're all just acting out roles, it's not in the best interest of the play to pull back the curtain and reveal the mystery.

Let it play out.

However it will.

And for God's sake, enjoy yourself if at all possible.

Journal entry for September 4, 2011 (or thereabouts--meditating with a hungry cat)

I like to eat yogurt, peanut butter, almonds and grapes. In a little bowl at about 11:30 or 12 at night. After I go to sleep and then wake up to pee. It is "my quiet time" to meditate. I will finish my snack and then pet the cat if she shows up. I try different chants like "ohm" and such to quiet my mind.

I won't lie. Sometimes I get mad at the cat for fidgeting when I'm eating my yogurt. Sometimes she tries to knock the bowl out of my hand. Only occasionally will I get to eat in peace and then do my meditating. The cat will go from fidgeting to purring, and all is OK. I never get very far into any sort of "state" other than I could fall back asleep.

Tonight, she pissed me off, though, and I couldn't eat without throwing her off. She got pissed, too and wouldn't come back. So even though I have lit candles and supposedly am getting over my anger problem by meditating, guess what? I'm a big spoiled "meditating" angry brat!

I hate this! Is this funny if God cannot meditate on God because he is angry with a little cat for wanting to fidget and steal his yogurt? Yes, actually...

Journal entry for August 15, 2011 (Sharon's birthday, excuses and a late family therapist)

Yesterday was Sharon's birthday. I got her a pizza and a birthday cake with candles, and did the silly singing. While that was nice, she still did not get her birthday wish, which was to get out of her bed and go into the kitchen, even if only for a 10 minutes.

The fact is that we can't get her into her wheelchair without a Hoyer lift or we risk injury and falling. The lift barely fits in the room and is difficult to maneuver on the carpet. We have never tried this procedure and it must be executed perfectly or the pain of having her feet down too long will make it not worthwhile.

"Blah, blah, blah--excuses!" I can hear her thinking. She has not been out of that room (except to go to the ER) since Feb 14. Before that it was Christmas.

So, how do I feel right now, as I sit in front of my family counselor's office, waiting 20 minutes after our appointment time, to see if she will even show up or call? Um, really, not too bad. Other people can screw up too. And other people have waited longer than me for something that didn't happen.

My wife is at home, hopefully sleeping away this afternoon's grumpiness with me. I will now drive to Oroville and pick up the food she wanted, from the restaurant she likes, and this evening will hopefully be less stressful.

Sure, I have my ups and downs. Mostly, the downs are how I perceive it. It could be worse.

Journal entry for August 9, 2011 (repetitive)

I don't know how long I can keep up this journaling. It is monotonous to keep writing "I lost my temper again" and the stupid reason for it.

Sharon has been back from the hospital for a few days but is still feeling bad. She is losing her ability to be positive, and I have already lost mine. Seems like we get mad at each other now over nothing.

Journal entry for August 5, 2011 (Sharon and the ER)

Sharon went to the ER on Tuesday for abdominal pain.

We were there for 13 hours trying to get answers. C-T scan, chest X-ray, blood and urine tests. The only conclusion was that she was dehydrated and had a bladder infection. Duh. Fremont-Rideout sucks. Their computers were down, and the ball was dropped numerous times, so we waited 3 hours between tests while the left hand tried to figure out if it was a left hand or not.

Deep thoughts? I am not mad about the poop anymore. I think that a routine, no matter how monotonous, will be missed when it is gone. I just think about all that Sharon has gone through these last 3 years, and I feel so sad for her.

Now she's in a hospital room, and I'm sure she's missing being at home with her cats, her computer and her TV. It's not much, but it's all she's got. And being in a hospital with incompetent fools looking after you is no fun.

Journal entry for August 2, 2011 (Pissed)

Me and God ain't talkin'. (again)

Journal entry for August 1, 2011 (Having a shitty day? Meditate...yeah, right)

So, today started with trying to collect a urine sample to take to Quest Diagnostics to prove whether or not my wife's stinky pee and incontinence are due to a bladder infection.

During the collecting of it, she didn't have to go, but she did have to poop, which she did. We managed to get a small sample, which I took. Lots of poop cleaning was required because she was sitting on it and it was messy. I took the sample and also went shopping.

When I got back, I found she had pooped more and once again was sitting in it, this time for 4 hours. I didn't pitch a fit, but I was nonetheless not happy either time. She cried the second time around because the poop was everywhere and it hurt when I had to go and  wipe it from every crevice.

Needless, to say I am disillusioned again with God and my reality (and hers) and wish to exchange it for another.

(later)

Afterward, thinking "I have finally gotten through this fucked up day--now I can meditate," it was 1:30 AM. In the middle of my meditation a cat acted startled. I ignored it, or tried to. One half hour later, as I took off the headphones and climbed the stairs, I was hearing the shrieks of my wife. "Andrew! Andrew!"

She had thrown up on her gown and on the sheets, requiring both to be changed.

Apparently, my whole meditation is one big Ego Trip anyway, because I was--guess, what--rattled and upset. It is now 2:30 AM and I am--guess, what--MAD! I can't get a break, but no matter, my wife has me beat. She is the real sufferer. I am just a whiny brat. Great.