Unfuck Yourself

I went to bed at 10. That didn’t work out. I got up after a two hour nap and started writing. I should do that more often. Sleep is overrated. The feeling I get from writing is unlike the feeling I get from sleep. Writing gives my soul rest. And it’s just now sinking in that my soul is pretty fucked up.

In life, you don’t get that many chances to unfuck things. Once you’ve fucked them up or had your life get fucked up it’s easier to just keep fucked up as the status quo. I used to be married (to a girl). We piled fucked up on top of fucked up, but never figured out how to unfuck the stuff that would lead to our divorce.

I was talking with a friend this week about people who have gone too far…the ones who feel like they’re past the point of hope. Suicide becomes an alternative to them that beats reality. If they choose to live, they pour cocktails or drugs on their issues. They can’t actually face their problems, because they don’t see them as solvable.

If I must live, I’m going to live on some other plane of reality. I can’t possibly face all the shit that is my past which has brought me to my horrific present. All those thoughts were with me as I sat alone in my hotel room after getting kicked out of the house. I couldn’t face the magnitude of how fucked up I was. How did I get there? Why was I so far gone? Why did everyone seem to think I was crazy?

It was all too much. I couldn’t even begin to think about trying to trace back where things went wrong and start the process of getting myself unfucked up. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to feel. I just shut down. I was past the point of rescue.

But, it took getting to that point for me to see how fucked up I was. To see that I was a mess. To see that I could either choose life or not. To choose reality or fake. As I’ve told the story over and over again on the blog, I chose fake. I felt like an outsider at church, so I became an insider at a strip club.

Everything about my experience at Bazooka’s Showgirls was backwards. I got this feeling like I belonged. I was surrounded by people who were outwardly just as fucked up as I felt inwardly. I felt like my religion didn’t allow my inward fucked up-ness to be showcased externally.

So, it was so refreshing and therapeutic for me to bare all (my internal issues) with a stripper who bared all externally. But, it wasn’t just her clothes that she took off. She let me see some of her own wounds. And as a deeply wounded person that appealed to me on a deep level. And come on, how wounded must I have been that I was literally more interested in getting to know her mentally than carnally.

That’s fucked up. But, that’s the point of my story. I went to the strip club looking for fake to pour on my unsolvable problems and ended up getting that thing I’d lost somewhere in the marriage: hope. Hopelessness had been the gateway drug that left me homeless. I could find a place to lay my head, but it was going to be away from my wife and kids. That was a hard thing for me to deal with when I was already so down on myself.

So, when a stripper smiled at me and actually befriended me it made me hope again. She’s why I started going to therapy. My head was fucked up so bad that I knew the stripper was too good for me. So, I set down this path of getting unfucked.

It’s been over four years and I continue to battle. These last few weeks have been up and down and all over the place. But, when I write and talk it out, I have a chance. Without the therapy of writing and talking my shit out, it’s so easy for me to slip back into hopelessness and doubt.

I try to write 3 pages every morning. Whatever is on my mind. It leads to what’s really going on. It’s easy to smile and live on the surface, but I tried to do that and it didn’t really work out. I was in a great rhythm of writing my three pages and then using the overflow of those thoughts to fuel this blog.

But, about a month ago I started writing a book and have left the blog dormant. My goal was to write 60 pages in the book by the end of this month. I’ve been stuck on page 58 for the last two weeks. But, the thing is when my head is in a good frame of mind, I won’t shut the fuck up. I could write the morning pages, the blog and the book, but I’ve settled. I haven’t put in the time. I know that writing makes me a better person, so why wouldn’t I choose to write?

Because I’m fucked up. But, instead of choosing to ignore that, I’m going to talk about it until I unfuck myself. And I guess that’s essentially what the book is going to be about. Just telling my story. Taking my fucked up parts and putting them on display. If I keep quiet I am crazy, because my crazy thoughts get stuck in my fucked up head where they multiply. But, if I let it all out there’s something that happens man. I feel like a real person…a really fucked up, but real person.

It’s good to be back. I don’t know how much I’ll be writing out here while I’m writing the book, but this feeling I have ending this little post is so much better than sleep to me. It’s 2am. The kids will be up in a few hours, but their old man needed some time to get his head and soul right…to keep the process going of unfucking myself so that their futures will require less therapy.

Unfucking. I like that. No better compliment can I give you, reader, than wishing you and yours a very heartfelt “unfuck you!” Write. Paint. Make music. Talk your shit out. Do the things that unfuck you. You’re not as fucked as you think you are (you’re actually more so :) ). But, there’s hope. Even for us less thans. So, go unfuck yourself.