Don’t Panic

To me…there is the possibility of

fear…

fear of what is known

fear of the unknown.

To me…there is the possibility of…

strange thoughts submerged in routine.

Always an angst devil looking over my shoulder…misinterpreting what I mean.

A heart so full it reaches into the throat.

Tranquility resides nearby…but never takes off her coat.

Panic, panic, say what?

Don’t panic, don’t panic…

the only words that I can breathe.

I look inward to a wild rose bush with thorns…

the beauty does not relieve.

OCD and the Land of Misfit Thoughts

Lying, awake, in bed at four in the morning can be a horrible feeling.  It is the ‘stuff’ that songs are written about.

Dark, dismal, alone, bad thoughts…etc.

For those of us with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?  Awake at ungodly hours?  Can lead to cleaning spells, rearranging the sock drawer, smoking weed, watching the Twilight Zone…etc.

Though, I find no humor in the actual context of my diagnosis!  When awake and alert, I do find many of those early morning hour…thoughts, somewhat comical.

Therefore, I have designed a list of OCD and the Land of Misfit Thoughts…when you find yourself with eye’s wide open during predawn hours.

In otherwords, if there is nothing else for you to do…below are some notions you may want to think about!

 

*warning:  I am older than some readers.  Therefore, my list may not pertain to the…young folk!

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  • How do we know there are no ‘identical’ snowflakes in the world?  Certainly, we cannot ask them.  And, though I am not scientifically savy, has anyone truly witnessed them all?
  • How many licks does it take to get to the end of the Tootsie Pop?  Without sounding like a pompous ass…Wouldn’t this question rely on how big the tongue is?
  • WTF had Elton John and Bernie Taupin been thinking when they wrote:  Rocket Man.  Sure it sounds like an astronaut going off into space.  Trying to better the world.  Being the ‘big’ provider for his family back home.  Yet, I believe there may be some underlying ‘sexual’ context in the lyrics.

‘She packed my bags last night…

Rocket Man burning out his fuse out here all alone…’

Cut it out.  This screams, I am a gay man alone getting an erection…wanting to not be bothered by all those adoring female fans!

  • Is Richard Pryor still alive?  Well, of course not!  But every couple of years I ask my wife this question…Not because he has moved on to greener pastures! But perhaps, my mind has!
  • Are squirrels suicidal?  Or, do some of them just die of old age out in the middle of the road?   Maybe a heart attack or something.
  • My wife and I have one niece.  And, every year she wants a ‘new American Girl Doll.‘  Give me a fuckin’ break!  The average American Girl costs, $100!  I go over the math in my head, late at night.  What else of importance could be purchased for this amount of money?

You could feed two school aged children in developing countries for a year!

‘I did the math!  It is possible!’

  • My family consists of two sets of two legs.  And, many sets of four legs.  These are my children.  Other than my wife, obviously.  My eldest child?  A hound/shepard mix.  She is getting older.  She is getting lazier.  She seems to only want to…eat, shit and sleep.  Yet, still I wonder…Is she depressed?  I ask friends when they come over…’does she look sad to you?’  I ask myself…’am I doing enough for her.  Or, does she just feel like giving up?’
  • Are the Go-Go’s still on tour?  I hope so.
  • Was Nancy Kulp from the Beverly Hillbillies gay?  Personally, I thought, she and Mrs. B from the Andy Griffith show were pretty cute!

With some research, I could not find much info Mrs. B’s sexual exploits!  However, thanks to Buzz Feed, I found some dirt on Nancy!

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What you may not know is that in a 1989 interview she came out to author Boze Hadleigh as a lesbian.

Boze essentially asked Nancy Kulp…Are you a lesbian?  What is your response to fans that have been wondering for years…?

“As long as you reproduce my reply word for word, and the question, you may use it… I’d appreciate it if you’d let me phrase the question.  

There is more than one way. Here’s how I would ask it: ‘Do you think that opposites attract?'”

“My own reply would be that I’m the other sort — I find that birds of a feather flock together.

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How cool is that?

  • Coming to the end of my current list of what keeps me up at night.  There is always a question that preys on my mind…

Is my wife sexually satisfied?  I am a little over fifty years of age.  We have been together almost twenty years…And, a healthy degree of paranoia sets in!  Certainly, ours is an honest relationship…so on occasion I wake her up and ask… the infamous question…

“Are you happy with me in bed?”tom

And, nine times out of ten, she will say…

“Just turn over and take some sinus medication!  Your snoring is killing me!”

Mind Full

I ask, who wants to be…that mindful?

It is akin to stopping at a crosswalk…with no one there.

Caution, amplified by panic.

The same song,

over and over again.

A slight replacement for manic.

Don’t panic.

Then manic…all over…again and again.

Cycle of Abuse: Isn’t It Ironic?

Irony is such a strange word.  I never fully understood it.  Until, I found myself uncovering the trash bin of history that covers my blood.  And, until, I found myself needing to look long and hard at my own ‘hate crimes.’

The irony of my parent’s sharing the same psychiatrist…Dr. Koutras, the hand who filled the bottles.  Until the, irony of shared psychosis…Forty five minutes with my father (the wife killer.)  Forty five minutes with my mother (depressed ex nun looking for abusive father figure.)

Until, until, until…

Dr. Koutras became a stone pillar within a graveyard.  Not until, the doctor’s death, did I  understand how the sharing of time together…can become a pebble that lay the pavement.  The pavement that cover the path…to their children’s own bouts with depression, anger…addiction.

My mother had told me shortly before she passed away.  Informed me that both she, and my father did not reside well.  Did not perform well, as parents should, after Dr. Koutras passed away.

Gee!  Do you think so?

After all, the good Dr Koutras and Mr. John Hawkins, had lay the ground work for my father’s quick dismissal from murder.  After all, both psychiatrist and psychologist, along with many of those with power, knew Janice and Harold had created a child…under the hospital’s not…watchful eye.

The irony that struck me?sps-5

It had not been my mother’s discourse on loosing a psychiatrist of good faith.  The irony struck me that…many abuses of doctor/patient professional relationship…had occurred.

My father, essentially, lived weekends, at John Hawkin’s home.  Lived not as the killer he had been…less than two years before.  My parents shared the same confidant for over twenty years, Dr. Koutras.  He had allowed them to visit, have sex, get married and give birth.  Give birth…to me.  Give birth to an addict with OCD and generalized anxiety disorder.

The humor?  Years later…had been that I became a counselor.  Receiving a degree and psychology and working as, a mental health worker.  Going even further than that…a master’s degree in social work.

Paradoxically, I had worked with adults, dual diagnosed, at a private psych hospital.  Still, I found the bowel’s of addiction held me close at night.  Still, I had bouts of anger that would only be semi controlled by destructive and risky sexual behavior.  Still, with papered degree in hand…I did not know of my history.  A history that possibly could have helped explain my abhorrent…after work…behavior.

Nothing from my childhood to my thirties seemed cohesive!  Would it have helped to know?  Could I have changed?

I took so many friends, lovers hostage…as they say, in AA.  I ran and hid.  Ran and hid.  Ran and hid.

If I took the time, depression would set in.

Being gay appeared to be yet, another personal flaw to be ashamed of.  Growing up catholic, living among adults who did not hold the tools to console and reflect.  Having siblings much older, I found no comfort there.

I lay no blame on my own homophobia.  Lay it nowhere and it no one’s feet.

However, when dressed in my best gray wool skirt, green polyester blazer and pastel button down shirt.  Reading of family values…one man, one woman, two and a half children.  Beholding a ceramic blood infused man hanging from a cross.  And, being scolded for inquiring about a couple, two women (Maryanne and Dawn), that seemed closer to one another than most…

It, the Bible, the Scriptures, distances placed between myself and two, possible role models…  IT all instilled in me feelings of insecurity, remorse, guilt.  And, the unspoken words of

being gay…was not okay!

…fear…resonated.  stand alone 4

When I did eventually come out.  Come out… and running with ‘freak’ flag, flying.  Closet doors not only splintered but knocked off it’s hinges.

My mother spoke few words…

‘I am ashamed of your choice.  But I’ll get over it.’

Criticism began my adolescence.  My mother and father did not want me to have anything to do with Maryanne and Dawn, the not gay, but gay couple.  I had been told to pray for them.  My sister with baggage of her own, slipped birth control pamphlets under my bedroom door.  I had been dressed in gray wool skirts with pastel button down shirts and green blazers.  I had been dressed in the Good News Bible!

Whether any of us knew it or had the ability to understand!?  Slowly, the encouragement to shun gays…rooted and grew in my subconscious.

In school, I used with frequency the words…

fag, dyke, queer…

With friends, I did not confide my inner turmoil.   My wanting to play with GI Joe and not, Barbie.

I hid deep within me, self abusive and risky sexual behavior with men (starting at the age of 14.)   Hurtful scars for my teenage mind to own.  And, own alone.

A sore that was deeper than a chasm of  my leftover souls.  Souls that held no reality.  Or, at least, in my young mind…a life I could live not live with any certainty.

That is…until, irony brought me to a woman with her own demons.  Another graduate of New Hampshire Hospital.  A woman whom… with her innocence and love, rescued me from all the turmoil that stir inside my defunct and dysfunctional persona.

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Biting the Nail

Infinitely, a nervous reaction…

the clearing of a rusty throat,

the way she dragged her bitten nails down a smooth surface.

Sobering gestures that never quite turned off.

Frowning freckles from a belittled cough.

I began to be schooled in this manicured, depressed, mania.

It appears obvious, now.

The teacher gave herself away.

Now the student has become the teacher.

I am the disciple with a double-edged sword.

To cut through what I adore.

And, what I abhor.