Hello, I just thought I would drop in and see how things are. I see you're in a good, strong defensive spot here. Good! Good for you. Things here have been going well, I've been getting a lot of good rest, and am in good health.
Anyway, I see you have been making great strides lately, and I am proud of you. You have been praying, reading The Book, and working through those messy parts of your life. I am here to be of any help, assist you in any way possible. We made it through all that together, and, we did a good job I think. You're alive, still healthy, and I want to make sure you don't forget HOW we did it. Remember when you took that first drink? Spinach for Popeye. You were always so scared, always so unsure, and I made it happen. You always wanted to give up, hell, you even tried to end it all. The slow, painful way no less. But alas, you still walk and I had a hand in that too.
Running away works for you. Just turn your back and go. And it started with your dad, oh how beautiful a day that was, the day I got full control. I read in an earlier blog of yours "Did David slay Goliath with merely prayer?" How wonderfully put. You liked that sense of power, didn't you? Let's not forget, the day your sister Connie died. You went to your mom and dad's grave, and asked for them to come and get her, that the whole coma thing had went on long enough. Once again, it worked beautifully. And, it gave you license to do what you want, or better yet, what I told you. I have had my fingers in everything. Then, when Corey was killed, I numbed you. Remember being just like a walking zombie for a month? I put the blinders on, and kept the hurt away. That surely would've done you in I believe. And THEN, you let me take the wheel when Lisa hung herself. We just ran, and ran...but don't forget. I gave you permission to numb everything again, and alcohol and drugs worked perfect. They really kept you alive, you know. You're new view on my tools is cute, but nonsense. And all the other death you've seen just kept you mine.
Nobody understands you. You've been put through hell. You deserve pity, and for what you want to be handed to you. You constantly waiver from side to side, uneasy. A long time ago, you wrote a poem. Remember it's name? I do. "An Uneasy Mind Poised Over A Churning Stomach". That's still you. But there's a way through all of this too. The Other Guy needs to go. I have done all this work for you, even the good, don't you see? I have never left you, and I never will. I help you. David DID Slay Goliath with dreams and hope. But today, you're Goliath. You're stronger than you think, I have built you in MY image. Your will is rock solid, you're just using it all wrong. Let me show you how. Just stay alone for a week or so. Give me some quiet time, without all of your funny books. Your 'friends' will just fade away, and we'll kick this thing off in great fashion. Slow down, sit, forget everything you've learned, and give me some time. Your time is yet to come, together, we'll be unstoppable. You'll see....everything except me is a lie.
Sincerely, your friend,
The Ego
I am Master. You don't even know, that the greatest trick I have ever pulled off is convincing you that I don't exist.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
The Cold Under The Door
In hindsight, it is no wonder I have lived in a constant state of sheer exhaustion. The effort it has taken to even remain upright, to keep going is extraordinary. Wishing that I would just fall asleep and never wake up, doing anything I could to ravage my body in order to speed up that process. And at the same time, maintaining a job, certain friendships, even a relationship or two, and somehow doing it all with a smile on my face. It at times was even a sick game, like "Let's just see how far I can push this, and myself, and see if I can make it." Pure insanity. There were times I was disappointed I woke up, just sick of the cruel game my life had become. My mornings usually went like this. Roll out of bed (or usually get off the floor), and throw up. I had been throwing up blood for years, so that was nothing new. Most days, I'd heave so hard blood would start pouring out of my nose as well. By the end of that process, I was usually in so much pain and so disgusted with myself I would be crying, still dry heaving while trying to stop the nose bleed. As soon as I could stand, straight to the fridge for a drink. And as soon as that hit my stomach, more vomiting. This would go on until I had about three down, then a few more to stop the shakes. Then about ten beers, I could get in the shower, shave, and go to work. By the time I clocked in, I was usually about a twelve pack in. Functionable. A six pack at lunch to keep my hands from shaking too bad to be able to do my work, and always waiting until I was off and at the bar. Then, at least a case, passing out wherever I was. And let's not forget the drugs, any and everything, and as much as you had. Staying awake for three, four days was nothing new. By the time I was admitted to the hospital, this had all went on for about seven years solid, bringing me to four minor heart attacks at age 28. 6'3, 155 pds. Skin stretched over bones. I ate maybe once a week. Blood coming from everywhere, ulcerated from head to toe on the inside. The last heart attack was right in the middle of a company meeting, and my supervisor drove me home right after, I came to about a minute later and refused any medical help. Told I couldn't come back to work until cleared by a doctor, I sat at my apartment for a week. Finally, the thought of eating the fistful of Xanax I had and passing out on the train tracks popped into my head. There was a problem with that though. The one event, the scariest thing I had ever witnessed was a suicide. To this day that image still haunts me. And the thought of the guy driving the train, or the first person on scene was enough of a deterrent for me to go to my cousins house. No way could I do that to someone, scar someone as I had been. And that experience was enough to keep me alive to write this, to see how I wound up that way.
In the dead of winter, you take every necessary measure to seal your home up tight. However, in some houses, the concrete slab, the foundation has shifted. Everything is not as it is intended to be, the walls are not quite square, the doors and windows won't shut properly. You sit in your favorite chair, and a cold breeze sweeps your feet. Blanket or towel will not stop the air coming in. I have been that man, that child, who tried and tried to hide away, safe in my house. Any breeze told me the demons were still there, the wolves at the door still waiting. When trying to stuff the cracks with whatever was laying around wouldn't work, I thought drifting away, ignoring reality might do it. I kept everything outside while building another demon inside. And soon, I found myself in constant terror, running around like a mad man, running from my demon. Gasping for air, and trying to smell...The Cold Under The Door.
In the dead of winter, you take every necessary measure to seal your home up tight. However, in some houses, the concrete slab, the foundation has shifted. Everything is not as it is intended to be, the walls are not quite square, the doors and windows won't shut properly. You sit in your favorite chair, and a cold breeze sweeps your feet. Blanket or towel will not stop the air coming in. I have been that man, that child, who tried and tried to hide away, safe in my house. Any breeze told me the demons were still there, the wolves at the door still waiting. When trying to stuff the cracks with whatever was laying around wouldn't work, I thought drifting away, ignoring reality might do it. I kept everything outside while building another demon inside. And soon, I found myself in constant terror, running around like a mad man, running from my demon. Gasping for air, and trying to smell...The Cold Under The Door.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
A Cedar Chest, .22 Revolver And A Few Old Pictures
What happens when you get the one thing you so desperately want? Then instantly want it back? I remember vividly years and years of crying myself to sleep, curled into the fetal position in bed trying to not be heard. The only thing I wanted was love, unconditional love. More importantly, from the one person I looked up to the most. The day my dad died still scares the hell out of me. He was 3 feet away from me when it happened, and sometimes even now when it is really quiet, I can hear his 'Death Rattle' as it's called. The second most horrific sound I've ever heard. And when it was over, the silence was deafening. I went into the living room, grabbed a cigarette out of his pack, and smoked the entire thing. Then creeping down the hallway to my bedroom, peeking just enough inside the door to see his feet. I went and sat back down, "Holy shit, that happened." I actually said out loud, and I smiled. I picked up the phone, called 911, hung up, then sat there and laughed hysterically. The nightmare was over. I had no clue whatsoever what I was in store for. Had David just slain Goliath with merely prayer? The implications scare me even today.
But the next week or so is what amazes me. Aside from a day or two, I didn't want to leave the house. I wanted to be home when dad got there. I stayed in his bedroom, and my best friend stayed with me for a few days. We'd just sit in there, play guitar, talk on the phone and laugh. Everyone just kind of let me be.
At night however, I hardly slept. Soon before he died, dad made a few remarks about mom being in the house. My sister had a few remarkable experiences with him one night, supernatural, actually. And aside from her not being one to lie about something like that, there's one thing I never told anyone. I knew she was there too. The night before he died, I came riding my bike up into the lawn that evening to find dad sitting on the porch. He told me to sit down next to him. "Guy Edward, I'm probably not going to be around much longer. I need you to be a man when that happens. I need you to tell me you'll look after your sisters, they think the world of you. Promise me you'll do that, OK?" He was choking tears back the entire time, and whenever he cried, I cried. As afraid of him as I was, I could always tell he was a broken man. So we sat for a minute, he got in his car and left, and I walked inside the house. As I walked from the front door to my bedroom, I saw a tiny woman, leaned up against the kitchen counter. It didn't register until much later, and I just looked, smiled, and went about what I was doing. So after he died, I went through all of his things when everyone else was asleep. I smelled his clothes, I even remember laying some out on the bed, waiting for them to just fill up and there would be dad again, I honestly don't know. I put t-shirts of his on under my clothes. And my God did I ever cry. When I was alone, it would be all I could do to pace around the house, bawling and yelling. I always avoided the spot in my room where he died. I pretty much avoided my bedroom altogether. That house scared me to death, but the thought of leaving it even more. I drive by it every time I go to Hilliard, and the NEED to go inside is overpowering. But what's there now? It's just a house, right? No. My mom came to see me in that house. As many times as I got beat in those rooms, that's almost sacred ground. That's where, sitting alone at the kitchen table, head in my hands, I said aloud "What the hell am I going to do now?" and the salt and pepper shaker fell over right in front of my eyes. It's where I would lay in bed with my sisters, and we'd talk and laugh and watch movies until late at night.
For many many years, I judged dad as the big, mean scary drunk. I thought that was who he was. That was totally wrong. He was the brokenhearted man that often sat at the kitchen table, looking at pictures of mom crying. He never was a big scary person. He was a sick, lost man who had no idea what to do, and no way out. Locked in a prison he created for himself, behind the heavy door he pulled shut behind him, knowing he never made a key to get back out. And despite everything he did to me, I can only smile now when I think of him. Because I became him. The only difference, is that when God intervened for me, I listened. I grabbed His hand, and am letting Him pull me out of the muck. Dad had that chance, and bailed. And that's OK. I'll live for him. His undying love for mom has became a great example. His quiet insanity a great lesson.
He died when I was 14, over 21 years ago. To this day I only have very few things of his. I gave most of it away. I didn't need it. In becoming who I am and who I am to be, letting his ghost go physically had to be done. But it took me 21 years, almost to the day, to let his ghost go in my mind and forgive him. To tell him that I am sorry for what happened. I'm sorry he couldn't make it out. But also, that dad, I forgive you. And today, you have to go away and let me be. I'm OK. And, most importantly, that I truly love you.
But the next week or so is what amazes me. Aside from a day or two, I didn't want to leave the house. I wanted to be home when dad got there. I stayed in his bedroom, and my best friend stayed with me for a few days. We'd just sit in there, play guitar, talk on the phone and laugh. Everyone just kind of let me be.
At night however, I hardly slept. Soon before he died, dad made a few remarks about mom being in the house. My sister had a few remarkable experiences with him one night, supernatural, actually. And aside from her not being one to lie about something like that, there's one thing I never told anyone. I knew she was there too. The night before he died, I came riding my bike up into the lawn that evening to find dad sitting on the porch. He told me to sit down next to him. "Guy Edward, I'm probably not going to be around much longer. I need you to be a man when that happens. I need you to tell me you'll look after your sisters, they think the world of you. Promise me you'll do that, OK?" He was choking tears back the entire time, and whenever he cried, I cried. As afraid of him as I was, I could always tell he was a broken man. So we sat for a minute, he got in his car and left, and I walked inside the house. As I walked from the front door to my bedroom, I saw a tiny woman, leaned up against the kitchen counter. It didn't register until much later, and I just looked, smiled, and went about what I was doing. So after he died, I went through all of his things when everyone else was asleep. I smelled his clothes, I even remember laying some out on the bed, waiting for them to just fill up and there would be dad again, I honestly don't know. I put t-shirts of his on under my clothes. And my God did I ever cry. When I was alone, it would be all I could do to pace around the house, bawling and yelling. I always avoided the spot in my room where he died. I pretty much avoided my bedroom altogether. That house scared me to death, but the thought of leaving it even more. I drive by it every time I go to Hilliard, and the NEED to go inside is overpowering. But what's there now? It's just a house, right? No. My mom came to see me in that house. As many times as I got beat in those rooms, that's almost sacred ground. That's where, sitting alone at the kitchen table, head in my hands, I said aloud "What the hell am I going to do now?" and the salt and pepper shaker fell over right in front of my eyes. It's where I would lay in bed with my sisters, and we'd talk and laugh and watch movies until late at night.
For many many years, I judged dad as the big, mean scary drunk. I thought that was who he was. That was totally wrong. He was the brokenhearted man that often sat at the kitchen table, looking at pictures of mom crying. He never was a big scary person. He was a sick, lost man who had no idea what to do, and no way out. Locked in a prison he created for himself, behind the heavy door he pulled shut behind him, knowing he never made a key to get back out. And despite everything he did to me, I can only smile now when I think of him. Because I became him. The only difference, is that when God intervened for me, I listened. I grabbed His hand, and am letting Him pull me out of the muck. Dad had that chance, and bailed. And that's OK. I'll live for him. His undying love for mom has became a great example. His quiet insanity a great lesson.
He died when I was 14, over 21 years ago. To this day I only have very few things of his. I gave most of it away. I didn't need it. In becoming who I am and who I am to be, letting his ghost go physically had to be done. But it took me 21 years, almost to the day, to let his ghost go in my mind and forgive him. To tell him that I am sorry for what happened. I'm sorry he couldn't make it out. But also, that dad, I forgive you. And today, you have to go away and let me be. I'm OK. And, most importantly, that I truly love you.
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Thief
"Guy, c'mon man, lets go!!!"
"Hold on!!! I need to tell them something. Go on, I'll catch up."
And so I would sit in Corey's kitchen, and just talk with his mom while she did dishes, made dinner, whatever it may be. I speak to her to this day, and she reminded me of this. I had completely forgotten about it, but remembered it well when told. And I was able to see it in every relationship I ever had growing up. My home, was either a graveyard with hands constantly trying to poke their hands out and pull me under, or a war-zone. Like walking blindfolded across a firing line. No one, including myself wanted to be there. A few very close friends would brave it to come over and spend the night, whenever I wasn't allowed out. But for everyone who lived there, sleep, shower, eat, and get out.
My friends families intrigued me. I was completely astonished at how things worked. And I always felt like the intruder. Not to the house necessarily, but to the HOME. First off, the idea of two parents astonished me. Having lost my mom at 13 months old, I was already less than. All my friends had more than me, and it happened to be something I so desperately wanted. Going on outings with their families about made me cry every time. So many times I would wish that this was MINE, and I was able to totally ignore my situation, and act as if. Even going to Blockbuster, I instinctually would fall to the back, and watch.Watch them walk side by side, mom and dad helping pick out movies, games, the excitement when a friend found something they really, really wanted and running up to show their parents...And either one of two things would happen. Either I would stay back and watch, and start throwing wood on the fire, my anger, or, I would put myself out of my life, and into theirs and join in. I am forever grateful for these times. Their love and hearts they openly shared, most even introducing me as their other son. Without these people, I really would hate to see what would've became of me, because these were my only examples of love. Family love.Here I was, stealing any attention and love from them, and they always had more for me. I still to this day thank God for the people I had early on that showed me what I couldn't see.
When staying the night at friends' houses, at night when everyone was asleep I'd wander around. I'd lounge around, kick back and put my feet on the sofa's, even just walk from room to room, pretending it was my house. A house where I was safe. Where the heartache was not welcome, and people made a deal about me walking in the door from school. A mom and dad making dinner together, sitting to watch a movie, anything. Anything without FEAR. At my house, when I got home from school, I quickly did any homework (if I even did it) and made sure I was gone before dad got home from work. Normally however, he never came home until 8 - 9:00 from the bar. So, I washed my clothes, made some form of dinner, and was in my room by then usually pretending to be asleep when the front door opened. I rarely fell asleep until around midnight, my thoughts and fear wouldn't allow it. And hearing dad shuffle around, yelling on the phone, or even crying to himself, kept my thoughts on what was going on in my friends' houses, whether or not mom came in to kiss them goodnight. Somedays I was only able to make it through by what 'normalcy' I was able to keep from my friends, but I always felt like an intruder, a thief.....
"Hold on!!! I need to tell them something. Go on, I'll catch up."
And so I would sit in Corey's kitchen, and just talk with his mom while she did dishes, made dinner, whatever it may be. I speak to her to this day, and she reminded me of this. I had completely forgotten about it, but remembered it well when told. And I was able to see it in every relationship I ever had growing up. My home, was either a graveyard with hands constantly trying to poke their hands out and pull me under, or a war-zone. Like walking blindfolded across a firing line. No one, including myself wanted to be there. A few very close friends would brave it to come over and spend the night, whenever I wasn't allowed out. But for everyone who lived there, sleep, shower, eat, and get out.
My friends families intrigued me. I was completely astonished at how things worked. And I always felt like the intruder. Not to the house necessarily, but to the HOME. First off, the idea of two parents astonished me. Having lost my mom at 13 months old, I was already less than. All my friends had more than me, and it happened to be something I so desperately wanted. Going on outings with their families about made me cry every time. So many times I would wish that this was MINE, and I was able to totally ignore my situation, and act as if. Even going to Blockbuster, I instinctually would fall to the back, and watch.Watch them walk side by side, mom and dad helping pick out movies, games, the excitement when a friend found something they really, really wanted and running up to show their parents...And either one of two things would happen. Either I would stay back and watch, and start throwing wood on the fire, my anger, or, I would put myself out of my life, and into theirs and join in. I am forever grateful for these times. Their love and hearts they openly shared, most even introducing me as their other son. Without these people, I really would hate to see what would've became of me, because these were my only examples of love. Family love.Here I was, stealing any attention and love from them, and they always had more for me. I still to this day thank God for the people I had early on that showed me what I couldn't see.
When staying the night at friends' houses, at night when everyone was asleep I'd wander around. I'd lounge around, kick back and put my feet on the sofa's, even just walk from room to room, pretending it was my house. A house where I was safe. Where the heartache was not welcome, and people made a deal about me walking in the door from school. A mom and dad making dinner together, sitting to watch a movie, anything. Anything without FEAR. At my house, when I got home from school, I quickly did any homework (if I even did it) and made sure I was gone before dad got home from work. Normally however, he never came home until 8 - 9:00 from the bar. So, I washed my clothes, made some form of dinner, and was in my room by then usually pretending to be asleep when the front door opened. I rarely fell asleep until around midnight, my thoughts and fear wouldn't allow it. And hearing dad shuffle around, yelling on the phone, or even crying to himself, kept my thoughts on what was going on in my friends' houses, whether or not mom came in to kiss them goodnight. Somedays I was only able to make it through by what 'normalcy' I was able to keep from my friends, but I always felt like an intruder, a thief.....
Friday, March 16, 2012
Mr. Fyffe, your word is Gift. "G-g-g-g....."
Everyone has something they wish they could change about themselves. Their nose, their hair, weight....this list goes on. For as long as I remember, I have stuttered. I don't know if I have since my first words, although I highly doubt it. It used to be a LOT worse than it is now, but there are certain parts of it I cannot seem to conquer. The things that still trip me up are hard consonants, B, D, G, P, T...you get the idea. There are many theories as to why people stutter, but the actual known cause is still unknown. In 3rd, 4th and 5th grade I went through speech classes at school, did the whole talk with a 'mouthful of marbles' thing. Had to read tongue twisters with all the sounds that were hard, etc. Some of it helped, most of it didn't. As I got older, I talked to a lot of people and heard a lot about abuse, and how a vast majority of people who were abused as children developed a stutter. I do not know if that was the cause, but nonetheless. It is still a very big part of my life. Early on, I got incessantly picked on for it, it really was awful.
An employee of mine recently made a remark about how extensive my vocabulary was. I said something about reading a lot of books, actually having read the dictionary, Bible, whatever. Later on, I thought about it, and realized that was only half true. The main reason? My stutter. Having payed attention to what sets it off, I became tired of the constant teasing. I figured out after the speech classes that I may end up stuck with this. So, I read the dictionary. I read absolutely everything I could, and asked questions about words, learning as much as I could. I figured out that by my vocabulary, I could word my way around it. If you pay close attention, you could probably catch me doing it. Sometimes, there's just no way around it, and I have to say the words I try to avoid. That's when I get embarrassed. But, it is funny to watch peoples faces. Some don't change, and that normally makes things easier for me. Others, get a glazed over look, look down at the ground, as if they're the ones who are uncomfortable. And those who try to finish my words or sentences? They get a special look, the "Do NOT ever do that again." look.
One thing is for certain, this has brought me the type of friend I want. Almost all of my true friends to this day have been around since elementary school. This is one of the things that make me, me. An almost 'condition' of friendship. Can you handle this? Will you be the one who gets shifty? Or is Guy the type of person you want in your corner.
Give me a guitar, my hands don't stutter. Give me a pencil, my lines aren't stammered. Give me a paintbrush? As smooth as you've ever seen. Moses stuttered, and went to God about it when he was called to speak before Pharaoh.
God said "And who do you think gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, your Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and what to say." And there my complaints end.
An employee of mine recently made a remark about how extensive my vocabulary was. I said something about reading a lot of books, actually having read the dictionary, Bible, whatever. Later on, I thought about it, and realized that was only half true. The main reason? My stutter. Having payed attention to what sets it off, I became tired of the constant teasing. I figured out after the speech classes that I may end up stuck with this. So, I read the dictionary. I read absolutely everything I could, and asked questions about words, learning as much as I could. I figured out that by my vocabulary, I could word my way around it. If you pay close attention, you could probably catch me doing it. Sometimes, there's just no way around it, and I have to say the words I try to avoid. That's when I get embarrassed. But, it is funny to watch peoples faces. Some don't change, and that normally makes things easier for me. Others, get a glazed over look, look down at the ground, as if they're the ones who are uncomfortable. And those who try to finish my words or sentences? They get a special look, the "Do NOT ever do that again." look.
One thing is for certain, this has brought me the type of friend I want. Almost all of my true friends to this day have been around since elementary school. This is one of the things that make me, me. An almost 'condition' of friendship. Can you handle this? Will you be the one who gets shifty? Or is Guy the type of person you want in your corner.
Give me a guitar, my hands don't stutter. Give me a pencil, my lines aren't stammered. Give me a paintbrush? As smooth as you've ever seen. Moses stuttered, and went to God about it when he was called to speak before Pharaoh.
God said "And who do you think gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind? Is it not I, your Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and what to say." And there my complaints end.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
And Then There Was...
Well, here goes. I have been told for years I needed to write a book, maybe this is my attempt to start it. I honestly have no idea what I will accomplish here, aside from being able to let some things out of my head. I do believe that my purpose has been more defined lately, so maybe I'm deciding to strike while the iron's hot.
I apologize in advance for any rambling, and there may be some subject matter discussed here that a lot do not know about me. But, I cannot hide from who I was, who I am, and who I may become any longer. Hence the title. Being as observant and quiet as I have been my entire life has had its rewards, as well as its drawbacks. I have learned to pay attention to what DOESN'T happen, and act accordingly. To see things unfold, and react or run. Thirty five years in my shoes have created someone too damn smart for their own good.
As a person who already had the deck stacked against him at an early age, this at the least is what things look like when the whole thing comes down finally, when you're forced to dig for air, when at that very last second, death does not seem like the best option anymore. My life has been a sad one, when I tell people they usually cry, men and women alike. And, I have become astonished at how easily it all rolls off my tongue. Then afterwards, the events make me cringe when the lights go out and I'm left with the memories.
This is by no means a victorious proclamation. I still struggle, still wrestle with my demons. They have changed faces over the years, and they learn what does not work and come back again disguised as something or someone else.
So, I am going to write this as if no one is listening, as approval from others is one of my biggest defects of character. If I offend you at any point, stop reading. This is the truth as I know it, life through the eyes of someone who has spent years only trying to Look Alive.....
I apologize in advance for any rambling, and there may be some subject matter discussed here that a lot do not know about me. But, I cannot hide from who I was, who I am, and who I may become any longer. Hence the title. Being as observant and quiet as I have been my entire life has had its rewards, as well as its drawbacks. I have learned to pay attention to what DOESN'T happen, and act accordingly. To see things unfold, and react or run. Thirty five years in my shoes have created someone too damn smart for their own good.
As a person who already had the deck stacked against him at an early age, this at the least is what things look like when the whole thing comes down finally, when you're forced to dig for air, when at that very last second, death does not seem like the best option anymore. My life has been a sad one, when I tell people they usually cry, men and women alike. And, I have become astonished at how easily it all rolls off my tongue. Then afterwards, the events make me cringe when the lights go out and I'm left with the memories.
This is by no means a victorious proclamation. I still struggle, still wrestle with my demons. They have changed faces over the years, and they learn what does not work and come back again disguised as something or someone else.
So, I am going to write this as if no one is listening, as approval from others is one of my biggest defects of character. If I offend you at any point, stop reading. This is the truth as I know it, life through the eyes of someone who has spent years only trying to Look Alive.....
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