Rob-world

I SHAN'T KILL MYSELF... Jamie needs me.  But, I feel crappy that's become my sole reason for living.  But hey, that's why I adopted her; and,  she does that, in spades.  But, I wish I still wrote.  Yet, even with my c-pap, I still don't sleep well; I'm tired all the fucking time.  And depressed. WOE IS ME. bUT, as Mary said to her son, Jesus, at the end, there:  "Get off the cross, wee need the wood."

then New Years, two events whose primary effect on my life, increasingly, has been to make me. realize how alone I really am. This is nothing new, and to be perfectly honest, part. of me REALLY likes it.  No other people to deal with, to walk on eggshells around.   I think I just gave up this past year.  I don't have dreams or aspirations anymore, really.  And it's not the Trust's fault, or Butch's or anybodys; it's mine.  I can at least accept that.  And I know there are those of you who read these and worry about my  past talk of suicide:  WELL DON'T.  I'm  usually just venting, anyway.     And Jaime is really good suicide-prevention; with her bathroom and stomach issues, it's me or the needle. I choose, me.  I think she does, too.

His music has served like a touchstone all my life.     

I just Couldn’t bring myself to go food shopping today.  Butch finally went, and gave me ‘tude about having to go.  I was hoping to make a point to the trust about how my life needed the flexible use of a credit card; not being able to fully run my life under their fucked up, limited/limiting debit card scenario was kinda my whole point.   But, as usual, Butch cock-blocked my efforts, and yelled at me about having to  do so.  Piss off.  Thanks for continuing to let Gil, Peter , and now Bill get away with arranging my use of the trust so I can’t function independently, failing to let my recovery continue because they’re afraid of me fucking up my finances.  Men, you last tried this independence effort when I was 8 or 12 months out of rehab. It’s been about 17 years since.  To say I haven’t grown or learned since then is offensive, short sighted, and just plain wrong. In the short run, I’m wildly grateful to Butch for not letting me starve.  In the long run, not so much.  

Ostensibly to attend the public interment of Matthew Shepherd’s ashes, but looking back, it was a change to assess my own life, and my recovery so far, as well.  #unimpressed #stalled #failure

I’m so far from functional and happy these days.  I feel like everyone’s dismissed my continuing efforts at recovery,  except me.  It’s like even my Trustees now, have accepted the status quo as good enough.  And I’m continuing to toil away here,  fEEilinG like a MADMAN,  insisting my recovery its still continuing, though now moving at an almost glacial pace.  My iPad died last year, and I’ve been too reticent to ask for it to be replaced, figuring I’ll only need to justify it to Trustees who, frankly and largely, haven’t  been paying enough attention to see how my recovery has been stalled , as my Apple products, the keys to my recovery, fall apart  and become passé.  I want a new iPhone.  I need a new iPad primarily to read and a new Mac; the latter’s on it’s last legs and I haven’t had a working version of the former for at least 8 months, probably more.  I find my Trustees lack of trust in my ability to accurately discern and request my recovery needs without verification from Butc...

I’m not writing, I’m not socializing or even reading much.Why? Oh, I’ve stopped growing as a person.  I’ve gotten used to being a person who is cared for, not caring. I’m less of a person for it.

Will have a built-in fall sensor, which will get me to upgrade.  THAT, I need.

I don’t know WHY I still wait ’til it’s tomorrow to write these entries for what is now, ostensibly yesterday.  OH well.  I’m still angry with myself for screwing things up with the Grindr guy the night before last.  I keep trying to re-evaluate/re-assess the situation, ostensibly so I can/may stop doing this. Matthew Shepard died on this date in 1998.

And I’m kinda dreading it, to be honest.  My Meeting, lately, has become an increasingly Trumpian place, to the point where I ALMOST no longer feel safe.  That’s what I’ll be working, trying, hoping to figure out tomorrow.  But not going, which is another option, kinda feels like giving up.  And I genuinely HATE that.  But going to Central Philadelphia IS a viable option.

I’m’m simply too agitated to sleep properly.   I’M TOO WELL AWARE of the  ways in which my life is deficient.  Despite all the money I KEEP LAYING OUT.   I WENT toMeeting yesterday,   1st time in several weeks, because of weather and what not.   I’M SIMPLY NOT BEING CARED FOR PROPERLY.  I’m paying all these people, and seeing fuck all in terms of results.  My ‘chair driving arm is falling off.   I had a lousy time at Meeting yesterday, feeling for the first time. That I didn’t belong there.  Weather, and I’ll admit it, laziness, had kept me from attending the past few weeks; yesterday, I. Felt like a stranger there.  Like I should’ve gone to 15th & Cherry.   If the Meeting is gone for me, there really is no valid reason for me staying in Philadelphia.

Life is what happens while you’re waiting for tomorrow.   Robert Drake, 8/24/2018     I’m trying to make fuller use of my Apple Music.  I’ve blundered about for months,  buying things by accident, but now, hopefully, it’s all coming together for me and I’m settling into a routine whereby I usually stream my Apple Music, but still buy my beloved PSB & B.M.

The news is leaking out out, as it tends to do, about the new Apple products about to be released.  The iPhone X+, which is a definite get, and a slew of other products which, well, we’ll see.   I have been feeling a better cognitive grasp on things, which I’m happy to see.  This makes Butch’s heavy involvement less so needed.  It’s happening at a good time, I think, as his gay poker portion of his life really is demanding more from him.  But he will not “go quietly into that good night"; I’ve already spoken with him about this, and he’s said as much. Oy vey.

I’m running my utilities on my Mac, listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter  Tomorrow, there’s a $$ meeting, kind of.  IT’S 12:12.  I’ll try and see if I can shift the writing of these entries to earlier.  The quality and content would be so much better if I recored them earlier, when I was fresher.

I mean: look at him: built. like a brick shit-house; clad in a tight black tunic, clinging to his skin by magnets. And then there was Jan Arrah, Element Lad, with his pink, confection-colored candy outfit; to be replaced by a new outfit, featuring a phallic arrow going up from groin to shoulder. Realizing he was gay, when his Irish-themed girlfriend, Shvaughan Erin, revealed she was trans. And that, on some level, he’d known all along. And that was why he fell for her in first place. That was the trouble, and the boon, of Jan Arrah’s mutable sexuality: his consistency in attraction focused on gender identity politics.     LONG LIVE THE LEGION. It was agains this gay backdrop I created THE MAN: A HERO FOR OUR TIME. I created an unapologetically gay superhero. Something people clamored for in those days when queer superheroes culminated in the enlarged nipples of the new BATMAN & ROBIN film,  Crickets. I foolishly hoped all the critics who lambasted pop culture for not doing this, wo...

I’m still basking in the delayed glow of last week’s IDEAL Montreal trip.  It was the BEST trip I’ve EVER taken with Butch, and, as a result, the best vacation I’ve had in over a decade, since I stopped traveling with Ciaran.  I worked hard to give him space, and, in return,  he made sure I got to take in the bits of weirdness that I LOVE.  Like these  old communal baths he found.  I think he was expecting something more salacious than the bastion of economic functionality these baths were, when indoor plumbing was a luxury few could afford.  Ah well; either way we got there, I enjoyed it.

I’’M TRAVELING TO Montreal soon, and there is something epic in the idea of killing yourself in the city where you were allegedly conceived.  I’m so down on myself, these days, that that little bit of synchronicity seems mighty appealing.  They’ll give financial control for the trip to Butch because I’m FUCKING INCAPABLE of handling my own money.  I’m in a constant state of depression because I lost all autonomy in the aftermath of the assault.  I’m only living because Jaime needs me; I’m too depressed to write anymore.  I still think about it of course. But in losing control of my own life:  I lost control of my ability to write.

I’’M TRAVELING TO Montreal soon, and there is something epic in the idea of killing yourself in the city where you were allegedly conceived.  I’m so down on myself, these days, that that little bit of synchronicity seems mighty appealing.  They’ll give financial control for the trip to Butch because I’m FUCKING INCAPABLE of handling my own money.  I’m in a constant state of depression because I lost all autonomy in the aftermath of the assault.  I’m only living because Jaime needs me; I’m too depressed to write anymore.  I still think about it of course. But in losing control of my own life:  I lost control of my ability to write.

I know, we live in different world now,  but 1st of all:  do we?  And second of all, where are the post coming out movies? I mean, give me a break. With all these “EVERONE’S SO HAPPY YOU’RE GAY, BRO."  bUT, what happens the next day?  And the next?

This really kind, smart, handsome, masculine trans guy.  It was really lovely; he was really big on body contact and holding, which I crave.  I THOUGHT HE WAS STAYING OVER, so when he indicated he couldn’t ‘cause he had workshops Sat. I was really good about wrapping it up and sending him on his way.  I thought I had all his contact info, or at least had the chat saved on the website, but I may not have it at all; which is so typical for me, to not be able to keep in touch with someone I really liked.  This recurring inability of mine, to just successfully perform the basics of recurring contact with guys I like, is really getting to me.  On the bright-side, I discovered I may find trans guys really appealing and they may be more tolerant or even accepting of my T.B.I. erectile dysfunction issues than “norms”.  Or, I may feel better about working through them with trans men, because they’re less erection-identified than the afo...

Jamie is the only thing keeping me alive.  I look forward to suicide ALL the fucking time.  Our, more accurately, the peace of death.  No more life half-lived, no more sky-high loneliness,  no more yearning for a literary career that will never, ever happen; it’s a still-birth from ’99.  No love in my life; limited friendships; I’m too depressed to write/or fuck.  Last night, I fooled around with a terribly handsome FTM, who is here attending a seminar/workshop hosted at 4th and Arch.  I was lousy, eschewing earlier requested  intimacy in favor of. a clumsy pursuit of orgasm.  Which, thank to my ineptnesss, neither of us realized.   He was so handsome, a chance for genuine intimacy, that I sent to my ill-mannered Hell.  AS WE’VE LEARNED WELL; I am able to forgive anyone except myself.

I just started iTunes on m my Mac, and the song that came on was Barry Manilow’s ALL THE TIME, his song about feeling alone and different but getting by, a song that saved my life, I’m not exaggerating, thousands of times, as I grew up, feeling alone. And ostracized.  And gay.  All my life, I’ve been dismissed by others, either because of being gay, my penchant for the different:  the theatrical or, later,  the mannered.  I’ve always conceived of myself as being different, slightly off-kilter, a genius waiting to be discovered, and embraced by society; an embrace that only comes, decades after your lonely, unremarkable life and death.

I just started iTunes on m my Mac, and the song that came on was Barry Manilow’s ALL THE TIME, his song about feeling alone and different but getting by, a song that saved my life, I’m not exaggerating, thousands of times, as I grew up, feeling alone. And ostracized.  And gay.  All my life, I’ve been dismissed by others, either because of being gay, my penchant for the different:  the theatrical or, later,  the mannered.  I’ve always conceived of myself as being different, slightly off-kilter, a genius waiting to be discovered, and embraced by society; an embrace that only comes, decades after your lonely, unremarkable life and death.

Between Stephanie leaving, and Angie showing up at 4:30.  A bliissful hour of privacy.  I’m listening to Bob Dylan.  I’m really trying to make better use of my Apple Music subscription.  Like I’m trying to make fuller use of my Apple Watch. 

This was written 5/13, but remained un-published until 6/8:   What’s really behind me, & what’s and what’s really ahead for me? The answer is:  everything, and NOT MUCH.  I see no worthwhile future for me.  Jamie needs me.  That’s why I’m alive. I let the real threat of rain keep me from Meeting today, which further depresses me.  Things are NOT good.  I don’t write anymore, but I think that’s a side effect of my anti-depressants. I’m miserable, and really don’t see things getting better. But, on the bright side, I’m too much of a coward, to ever kill myself. If misery loves company, why am I so alone?

… too depressed.  My life is so empty.  Few friends, NO passion, increasingly, no career.  I always thought the symmetry of checking out on your birthday was appealing; mine is coming up.  My every argument against suicide is based on it’s having a negative/deleterious affect on others’ lives.  Even here, I can’t put myself 1st. As our President would say:  sad.

I haven’t been able to go to Meeting for 2 weeks in a row, it’s too damn hot.  ;-)  I never liked the heat, but 1 of the symptoms of my head  injury is my body has pretty much lost any ability it had to effectively self-regulate  as far as hot and cold go.  All of which makes extreme heat or cold dangerous to me, moreso than the average Joe.

I got Jaime at first because I was her last hope, which gave/gives me a sense of purpose. I FEEL like the Trust looks toward/reserves itself for a life I will never enjoy.  I have few/ no friends locally, and Butch has always been quick to remind me that my friends in Dublin, or my friends win L.A. ARE my friends precisely because I never see them; so when I’m around it’s like a treat.  My self-esteem is so low, that I can’t convincingly argue he’s wrong. I’m a-skeered to make new friends, because, by dint of being in this chair, I’m obviously not a good judge of character.  I wish I’d never gone back to Ireland a 2nd time; or broke up with Scott.  My life has been in the crapper, ever since I made those 2 decisions.  The irony is, when I was doing it, I  ACTUALLY thought I was doing the right/best thing; for Scott, for Ciaran, for me. “Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread.”  I fucked up, and now I’m paying the cost of that.

An Apple film/tv production. There’re so many ways to monetize content the days. Netflix, Hulu, Apple to name a few. I need to make the leap, creatively, to doing so. I keep coming back to THE MAN. I never felt Adam got properly exploited, and that’s all on me. I never wrote a spec script or even series’ outline for him, and that’s a simple, correctable error. Now, with conservative, anti-gay rhetoric back in fashion, he’s so needed, and plausible. Unfortunately.

When I rescued her, Jamie, I did so because we both needed saving.  I was her 3rd strike; after me, came the needle. No one’s gonna save me; my depression does NOTHING but get worse and worse. I’m so tired of being sad ALL THE EFFING TIME. Butch keeps making comments that my mental faculties are slipping.  He’s begun to insist on apologies from me ALL THE EFFING TIME.  Am I really that bad a person? Now, he has matthewwhiteheadpsyd@gmail.com, my psychiatrist, and judysiderer@aol.com, my case manager interface, advocating his point of view for him.  Maybe I really am that obtuse & SELFISH.  Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.

I’m beginning to make some noise about it, and I’ve been making a little noise about it these past few months, but people dismiss my squeaking as just that:  squeaking.  I get the feeling people have grown so used to my complaints now, they automatically tune me out.  Jaime is all that keeps me alive, because she needs me. I’ve been too depressed to go to Meeting these past couple weeks. I feel wildly alone, dejected and purposeless.  It gets worse every year; my life has ceased having any meaning or purpose. I wish the Trust would take it’s head out of it’s ass and realize it needs to quit saving for tomorrow by making me live a life so bare bones now; and let me invest in my self, giving me a life worth living in the present. I have dreams, ambitions.  I want love; I want a family.  I want to write.  But, as I’ve said before,  the Trust seems solely concerned with their future; which includes none oh those:  for me, in the effing present. Getting wealth has led me to a poorer qua...

Worked out HARD today with John.  Got a massage too, afterward.  I think I should buy half a case of Shiraz; and half a case of Grenache, every month.  And a half case of Guinness Draft, monthly too.  I want to travel more.  But, with someone who shares my travel and culture interests.

Bill and Kevin had been threatening to take me for weeks but never followed through.  They’ve done that a lot lately.  Hm.  I need more friends, here.  Since Ciaran’s departure from my life, I have almost none.  Part of it is, I have minimal access to $.  aT LEAST, confidently.  It’s partly my own goddamn fault; I’m still never sure if I can pay my own way or not.   This makes me HUGELY reticent to engage.

It’s 11:48 p.m., and I’m knackered. This thing about Bill Cafeiro wanting Butch’s job has really thrown me for a loop. On the one hand, I think Butch wants to move on, but doesn’t see a clear, responsible exit strategy; this would give him one. On the other hand, Bill, and Kevin, have become 2 of my best friends in Philly; and I’m finding myself reticent, even loathe, to co-opt 1 more friend onto my recovery bandwagon. OY. What to do, what to do? I’ll sleep on it…. Again.

I’m finally able to shave myself.  After a few years of good service, it finally packed it in.  I bought a new self-cleaning one; the results are fantastic.  I LOVE shaving myself.

The anniversary yesterday is still with me; its shadows at least.   I don’t see my life prior through rose-colored glasses  by any means, but I do severely miss my poverty-stricken autonomy.      Yeah, I’m a millionaire,   but that seems to have lessened, not increased my actual freedom, as you/I might envision/hope.

The latest iPhone upgrade made my iPhone unusable; I’ve misplaced my Apple Watch; I have few, really no friends I can just call up to go spend some time with, and if I did, my personal funds are in such disarray, there’s no guarantee I could pay my own way.  I’ve become the "Millionaire Moocher”, the filthy rich guy who NEVER has any cash on him, and, as a result, always has to prevail on friends to pay his way, even though he has oodles in Trust. iHATE MY LIFE.  I have to admit, when I rescued Jaime, she rescued me, giving me  my sole reason for living, these days.  Really, knowing I saved her, and got her through her nervous diahareah, is all that gives my life meaning, these days.

You know what I mean.  I’ve lived my life rudderless for so long; it feels weird to think of defining my life outside or beyond recovery.  But, I need to. Seriously, I’ll pray on it this 1st day.   Somehow, it DOES help. “But, what I really want to do is direct." I keep getting pulled toward film as a story-telling medium to explore.   Although unknown to me, this story-telling gambit is not without its own, distinctive allure. Chief among them, its collaborative nature. I’m still, always, so fucking lonely.