i dont want tobe anything other than me

Well, I guess that the thing is the way that it is.

I know that a multitude of you have left me to find something else to read. I understand that. I'm sorry but I had a lax several months. I've somehow lost my urge to do anything. I know why. Or I think I do. I STOPPED taking my head meds. That's what probably did it. The blood to chemical balance slowly bled out of my system, and the more it left, the more I lost everything. I really lost everything. I stopped living, stopped leaving my room, stopped writing email, stopped blogging. I settled down, no doubt to die.

Oh yeah, I've been drinking, I' wont lie, but not as much as you think. That shut down too. I've been dealing with a lot of things lately, a lot of worry. Social Services is threatening to cut me off, I missed my court case, and somehow, somewhere, I don't care. I'm battling all of the forces that be, but I don't have the will to continue the fight against their scores of computers, their scores of workers. You are completely outnumbered when you have to deal with this country. Completely. You have very little chance. Trust me on this one. You don't have a chance.

I don't mind the streets, dying in the streets in fact, but I just want to know why. What am I falling into this state of despair? Basically, because I am not coping. I am not dealing well and never did deal well with a trauma that happened to me, and I can't even touch it in my thoughts. A trauma. I think as I get emotionally closer to it, I get more suicidal. I blocked this shit out of my mind for a reason. A good reason. Why fuck with it?

Hmmm, that's pretty cold. I'm leaving you out of the loop. Let me explain. One day I'm a homeless man, living in an SRO, writing, blogging, doing all of the shit that I want to do, and the next day, I'm fraying at the seams. What happened in between. Well, do you remember that Dr. A. walked with me to Central Park some time ago? We sat down, we talked. We talked and talked and I must have gave something away because he told me, clearly and succinctly, that I had to get in touch with the 911 Commission. I was suffering from a thing called PTSD. Hey, that sounds funny, but it's not a dangerous woman on the rag! It's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was suffering from it for some time, and well, now, that I can go no lower in life, it's going to destroy me if I don't get help.

Hmmm, your mind destroy you? I laugh it off, and then, because he is the most straight shooting man that I have ever known, I give it very real thought. I had to realize something that I didn't before. Ever before, because frankly I could not face it. During 911, I was taken to the Great Mound every night by the police, driven past the wreckage of life and limb, to my datacenter, right across the street from the now disappeared World Trade Center, to keep the datacenter working. I spent night after night in that tomb. I blocked out so much, I am completely divorced from the memory, divorced from the feelings. I was lying to myself. But the arc of my life is the clear denominator.

I began to drink, drink heavily. Heavily. I started living in a dark area. My wife at the time pointed this out to me. How I was retreating into the shadows, not talking, not moving from the couch, drinking, drinking, drinking. Little did I know I was on a collision course with fate. I stopped working at night. I would program my cell phone to ring me from the job. When trouble arose in the datacenter, I would head back and take care of it. Why did I have to program the office phone to my cell phone? Because I was hanging out at the titty bar not far off, or the Dakota Roadhouse, shooting pool and drinking up a storm. Or even the titty bar not far off from there, having half naked women sit on my lap while I fondled their breasts.

Hey, you knew it was going to happen....my wife left me one day. Packed up and left. Gone, without a word. Oh well. I still drank heavily, HEAVILY. I found myself at my favorite bar every day, picking up barfly after barfly and fucking them at my home. I remember one from Virginia, who just blew into town for a job, and needed a shower and to change her clothes. I took her home, fucked the shit out of her, she took a bath, got dressed and I took her back into the city, walking off as if I didn't even know her.

I remember a beauty queen, from some weird island. You'd think she would be black, but she looked white with a light tan, or even Latin mixed with white. She was a crack head. I actually helped her buy crack, while I fucked her. That was our relationship, until I could not take it anymore. I just dumped her, and ducked from her every time she entered the bar. I was THAT cognizant of my surroundings.

Hey, how about my trying to take a transvestite to my bed. I kissed him/her, danced with him/her, but a friend of mine, luckily broke that shit up. I tell you, I would have been ass fucking a man. That's what I was, a tramp and drunkard. How about hurricane Katrina? A little blonde haired firecracker who burned a hole in my life, raging just like the storm that took out Louisanna, but she was a car crash in bed. A fucking car crash. It took awhile to let her go, but I did it for my own safety.

Yeah, there were a string of them. I can't tell you how many because you will start to think that I am bragging, but oh, to the contrary, I was mourning. I was mourning the loss of my greatest love...my wife. Hey, this kind of living catches up to you. It does. In time, I was fired from my job, for misrepresentation....It's a long fucking story, so I'll spare you. The long and short of it is that I lost my job. I was picked up by the cops in my small sleepy town in New Milford, New Jersey, for DWI. The second Pop in fact. I lost my home, I was evicted. I lost my driver's license, and I was told to get out of town or face jail time.

I ended up sleeping in the New York Port Authority Bus Station for one year. Hey, if you want more detail just go back to my beginning blog entries and you will see from then on what happened to me. Well, THIS ALL HAPPENED, THIS SILLY SPRIAL ONTO THE STREETS, AFTER THE EVENTS OF 911. Now, hell, I'm on drugs, that I was refusing to take, living in an SRO, drinking, agoraphobic, with social anxiety, a shut in. I think I know where that came from. When you see hundreds of corpses, which I THINK I saw, I must have blocked them out of my mind, but I dream it clearly, you learn that life is fragile. You become afraid of life. You avoid it, because it can end in a spilt second. Suddenly, immediately.

People are important. This is what you say to yourself when you live in the big city, or else you will buy a hand gun and start shooting people in the streets and in cars. You will push people in front of trains, stabbing people in the back. YOU WILL GO CRAZY. But, when you see wholesale death, smell the rotting bodies on the rooftops of buildings, I can't express to you the fear, the horror. What kind of heart can do this to so many innocent people? What pitch black soul thought that he was doing the greater good? It becomes unfathomable. You CAN'T deal with the thought of it. This was me.

I thought for years that I could deal with it, as my life fell apart.

But I'm a fortunate son. I should be dead on the streets of Manhattan, with AIDS, and an empty liquor bottle in my hand. Unfortunately, it didn't turn out that way. I survived, moved forward, got a handhold on something good. Shit gang, I even found love. Something to live for. I am not the man that I was before 911, but somehow I made it here. I am a fortunate son. I'm trying to get into the 911 commission now, but I see the treachery of my employers. Hey, I don't care about them. My supervisors told me to go into that hell hole, but they made sure that there would be no record of my entering and staying night after night in there. Hey, they were covering their asses. I can't sue them for placing me into harms way if there is no record of my going it....right?

I can't prove shit. My supervisor has been fired. No one else wants to talk to me. I'm fucked, and I can't even get the medical attention that I need. Great, right? Corporate America at it's best. They care for you, if you're foolish enough to believe that shit. Hell, there's no use crying over spilt milk. I'm just going to go on, dealing with what I have to deal with. Seriously though, all of you that have been following me through this journey, I say thank you for caring.

At least I think I'm getting my blogging muscles back, or I might fuck a transvestite.

I think I'm happy to be back.

Take care everybody.....
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