Fallacious Expectations

As I awake, I turn to feel your embrace, 

but you are not there. 

Out of the shower, I expect to see you brushing your hair,

but you are not there. 

I pour two cups of coffee for us to share,

but you are not there. 

Speaking of my day, my fears, and all my hopes and dreams,

but you are not there. 

When I come home, I hope to feel your kiss,

but you are not there. 

I sit here on this couch and stare,

hoping you would be there. 

Lying here in this bed, I cry through the night,

because you are not there. 

Finally, I close my eyes and sleep forever.

You were never there. 

Distance

I drift this world. 

Alongside the ghosts who wander the fog. 

The heart beats,

But the body has been long dead. 

My subtle gaze pierces through your soul. 

And I can see, you are as gone as I. 

The light will never reach us here. 

I created this existance, this legacy for the lost. 

Come along with me, and I will show you

Your darkest fears, all that brought you to me. 

That urge to escape what you never were. 

You cannot elude what you will soon become. 

No regrets, No rewards...

It's that season again. And again it cripples my knees and turns my soul into icicles. It's the depression once again. That grabby old fuck who's always on my back. I'll never shake it. It's forever embedded into the psyche of who I am. There's some out there who want me to change and be happier. People don't change (unless they've had a procedure done), people get better and they get worse. Spring and fall are seasons when I'm less depressed, summer (my birthday), winter with Christmas, those are the seasons I'm at my worse. Many people have seasonal depression. Most people would get professional help. I did. It may work for them, but I'm a student of psychology, and that junk don't work on me. It's not worth trying to fix me. I'm aware of my issues and I manage them as well as I can. I'm only one human. Sometimes a whole lot of shit comes between you and your emotions. I'm going to be down, I'm going to be moody. Expect me. 

Suffocating in Reality

I've managed to escape the bonds of family life. I'm 34 now. It's been years since I've been with a woman. That doesn't bother me. What bothers me is the expectations of a single person. I deal with medical shit I would need a lawyer to explain it to me. My whole life is figuring out what the hell I'm supposed to do with my existence. After a bone marrow transplant, a mitral valve replacement, and a heart transplant. What the fuck is there left for me? 

Am I supposed to get the story out?

I've been writing about it in this blog.

You should already know the SHIT that I've been through. So it seems it ends here.  There is nothing left to conquer. 

Life is pain. 

Death is release. 

City of fiends

Awakening in the night to find a breathing torso,

Gnawing on my legs, "That's not where I left you".

Nubs trembling against the floor, eyes pale,

And blinded by a passing nightmare.

Halted thoughts of sleep soon fade.

I must ask, "Why deceive my trust?".

                   "Forgive me,  I mean no inconvenience,

                    Life is ending and I am without so much,

                    Crippled, rotting, to continue, I feel the need
                     
                    To consume you.  I crave your existence."

My friend veiled in disease,

At the cost of all your sickened thoughts,

You are banished from here,

My foot to your cerebellum,

End a lifetime of suffering.

My responsibilities cease for thee,

And leave the carcass to be.

Still birth machine

...And she speaks to me,

Echoes shatter the subconscious.

Through veiled eyes, visions of life giving images,

Fields of the dead, rotting in the presence of the divine.

Mind entwined, suffer to bear scars of the truth.

As I arise, fragments of purpose clarify,

Needs to erase his whores, his lies.

Find my fists wrapped tightly around the neck of endless beauty,

My pride shall survive at the tips of strained fingers,

Stangling the expendable.

Her grasp upon my arm goes limp, life from her iris fades,

She insists to remove them.

From the face, crimson release, exalt the pressures of your worth.

Hail the fall, artificial messiah,

Knives communicate the delicacy of your nerves, the flesh understands.

Through binds of leather and fault of faith, intestinal outpour.

Carved at the waist, draining profusely, on down her thighs,

To merge with the earth of her tomb.

Nurture the cycle, feed on the weak, feeding on life.

Echoes shatter the subconscious,

And again and again...She speaks to me.

Ether binge weekend

My fist aches...From smashing your face,

I can still here you breathing,

Tonight, no one walks out of here alive.

Help me, guide my hand deeper,

The incisions must be correct,

Your blood spills, for the sake of my art.

Stay still, this is important.

Pride in reconstruction of your worthless being,

Understand you are the cause of this foul intent.

Convulsing won't help you,

It's time you learn some fucking manners, and my knife will teach you.

Salvation comes not from books written in lies,

But from the hand that slices your wrists.

Wake the fuck up, Ive been on a rant.

You look disconnected.

The only thing keeping me from snapping your neck,

Is the fact that I can't feel my legs.

Help me up, so I can finish the job, that he so diligently placed upon me.

I'll make these bastards remember your name.

Pride in reconstruction of your worthless being,

I know this is more fun for me, in all honesty,

Why are you still here.

Now it ends,

Forgivness comes not from books written in lies,

But from the hands that remove your heart.

Mutiny on the high seas

Ignorant bitch, you can't stop it from severing the lower half of your body,

If you want to live, you'll have to eat your way through and crawl out

to the woods where misdirection lights your path and no one gives

a shit your dead.

And here in the darkest caverns of your unholy greed,

My hoards and I await your arrival.

For so long we've existed without the nourishment of flesh, a thirst that

can only be quenched by the feeding of your tattered remains,

Bend over, the time is now,  the upper hand is ours, your whole world is fucked.

March forward to the source of all human inspiration, bring the torches,

We'll burn it down, gladly watch the heathens die, then smoke to the final passing of man,

Realize this is right, you failed in your search for completion.

Now I will take the head that is my prize, gather minions and carry on.

For so long we've existed without the comfort of peace, a thirst that refuses to satisfy,

We shall feed on every last one of you, bend over the time is now,

Your whole world is fucked.

In subtle acceptance of a job well done, exit the world with arms raised high,

Blood soaked triumph, tragedy is only in the eyes of the dead, which we hoist upon our

backs for future consumption.

Respect for none of the lost I leave in my wake,

Gather due strength for an others demise,

Blanket the land in a glorious plague,

Taken back what has always been rightfully mine,

Will not be stopped, your whole world is fucked.

My friend Death

I'm going to be honest, I fucking hate my life. I've attempted suicide on a couple of occasions.  I've always had depression in my life. That's just a part of who I am. I can't help it. I've taken just about every anti-depression med out there. Nothing works. And on one occasion I was seconds away from blowing my brains out. I realized the pills were responsible. So now I take klonopin and seroquel for anxiety and sleep. Anti- psychotic meds, anti- rejection pills, beta blockers, and an enormous amount of oxycodone. So mix pills and depression and now that's all I am. There's nothing special about me. I'm an anti- social pill head who still sometimes plays with toys. One of those toys is a Smith and Wesson .9mm. It's for protection (cause I'm a small person), but I know it's a way out. But I can't kill myself. I made a promise, that I plan on keeping, to never commit suicide. I have someone elses heart inside me. So it's my job to continue Chris' existence until I die. And that pains me. I feel so miserable here. I don't work anymore. I feel like I have no purpose here. I am a failure. That's what I say to myself every morning when I look at the mirror. My face disgusts me. I don't really recognize myself, like I'm looking at someone else, a loser. I've been through shit that most people will never experience or understand. My adult life was ruined. Leukemia, bone marrow transplant, mitral valve replacement, major heart failure, and a heart transplant, plus an ACL replacement in my left knee, othorscopic surgery of the right knee, and now I'm waiting to get a bone graft on the right knee soon. I'm full of medical horror stories. But I have no place here. I feel like a freak of nature. Frankenstein. I have nothing of real value. I don't buy into 'love' like every human android in the world. Internet dating is amount to prostitution. Everybody just wants to get laid. I just want to die. I've met with Death several times. We're buddies and we have a standing agreement for now. I've beaten that dick every time. Sometimes I feel invincible, and that makes me cocky. I flip off everyone. I'll throw pennies at asshole bikers that think they own the road. Most of the time I just don't give a fuck. I don't get excited about anything anymore. Everyday I just sit on the couch, watch TV, and eat pills. It makes me docile. I have no reason to get up in the morning, so I wake up at like 2 or 3pm. Just a pile of shit.  No ladies in my life, I'm pretty sure they hate me.  No talents. I live in a shithole apartment.  There's nothing for me.  Does anybody know what its l like to want to die, but can't? Frustrating.  So I sit here with a gun, no clip, barrel in my mouth, and click, nothing. Sad, alone, and bored. I wish for death to come back, so he can try again.  But I know I'll win, thats my curse. I'm not going to apologize for being such a downer. That's who I am, and you can't change that.  I'm not going to kill myself, I'll die when I'm ready.  So until then I'll exist, in the corner, looking down.

Withdrawls

I've  been taking pain medicine for about 7 years. First I started on dilaudid, which is the closest medical substitution for heroin. I took that for a long time. All through my cancer that was the only pain medicine that would work. Dilaudid intravenously is like paradise. Every thing goes away. The pain is gone, until it wares off. After the bone marrow transplant they kept me on the dilaudid regimen. I couldn't fuction without it. Eventually I had to down step to hydocodone. It started at 5mg/325. That worked for a while, but my knees are deteriorating. Doctor put me on the highest dose he could. 10mg/325, at 6 a day. And it still didn't handle the pain. The decision was finally made to switch to oxycodone. 10mg/325. The highest amount he was allowed to give me. Thanks Doc. But there are times when my knees hurt more and I take a couple extra. I feel better for a while, until it's all out. Once the drugs are gone, hell enters your soul. This is pain beyond pain. All of your joints ache like earthquakes. Depression hits hard. 

I do this a lot and I should be used to it. But every time, it's enough to want to end it all. But I'm still here, trapped in my own prison. Invincible.  If this happens to you, please prepare. 

And the story continues...

   In a previous post where I spilled my guts about spilling my guts, I stated that my story will never end.  This is the continuation of my life of hell and recovery.
  I survived, decently, with the mitral valve for a while.  I remember at a time, my stomach began to swell, bad.  I was taking antacids and laxatives trying to figure a remedy for this.  Finally, I had to go to the hospital to figure this whole thing out.  The diagnosis was full and total heart failure.  The doctor calmly reminded me that I was dying...again.
  Dates elude me at this point, as do many memories prior to my Leukemia and my heart surgery.  It must have been early November 2012, when the doctors and medical staff at Kadlec Medical Center, gave up all hope on being able to continue my treatment.  There was nothing more they could do for me.  The hospital was kicking me out on the street.

My family and I were furious. The doctor couldn't even tell me himself that the hospital was refusing my treatment. My only hope was if the Mayo Clinic would help save my life.  That happened to be the case. The Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, Arizona would accept me back to attempt to fix the heart failure that was killing me rather swiftly. This meant another rush to get me from southeast Washington to Phoenix, Arizona as fast as the private Learjet could fly. The second time I got to fly on a super-fast medi-jet, and not really enjoy it.

The trip to Phoenix was quick, as usual.  In theses situations I get my own landing strip with an ambulance awaiting me.  It sort of felt like deja vu.  Straight from the airport, the ambulance ride seemed to take forever.  Keep in mind, I'm suffering like never before.  As soon as we arrive at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, I'm rushed to the Intensive Care Unit.  The time I spent in the ICU was a blur.  My guess is that I was there for about a week.  Soon enough I was given a bed upstairs.   This is when things get tough and complications persist.

I was alone for a while in my room.  Eventually I started having breathing issues.  The doctors provided me with a  "Bane" looking mask to strap on my face to ease my breathing.  Time flies and I don't seem to realize it.  Around Thanksgiving is when my family showed up.  My mother, step-father, dad, step-mother, and my brother (the true international man of mystery).  When I'm sick in Arizona, I seem to always see my whole family.  Having them around really took a lot of pressure off of me. 


At this time, I am in a hospital bed with wires and plugs and needles in me, and all I can do is smile.  I tried to be positive here, not for me but for my family, who I know is worried sick about me.  I am also on a donor list, hoping that something good happens for me, because what I'm going through is extreme pain.  Tests, samples, MRIs, everything that could be done was done.  But all I can do is wait, or die.
Once I got my strength back, I was able to walk around the floor.  Fourth floor is my home, and always will be.  I was on the same floor when I had the Leukemia and mitral valve surgery.  I got to talk to people with similar and worse conditions than my own.  This is why I am humble about my complications. We talk and we become like a community.  Most of the nurses already knew me from my previous adventures here.  The nurses and staff at the Mayo Clinic are as professional as they come.  I talked to one lady who was on the donor list for several years.  She even got married in the lobby, with her heart machine next to her.  It was wonderful and heartbreaking at the same time.  I wished so hard for her to get a matching heart.

Time was running out for me.  I was informed that if they could not find a match, I would have to be put on the heart machine.  That was a devastating news for me.  Every one around me seemed very grim.  It's at that point that I'm thinking about death.  I always wanted to approach my medical conditions with a positive attitude.  I kept my fear and insecurity deep down inside.  Eventually the day comes down to end, and everyone heads back to the hotel.  Sleep was uneasy, and I was trying to mentally prepare for the next day 

I woke up, nobody from my family was there.  The first person who always shows up is the phlebotomist, who takes my blood.  This is difficult task because my veins have been ruined, scarred, and calloused.  The next person who comes in is the food lady to take my breakfast order.  I can't remember what I ordered.  After a little while, another person enters my room.  The nurse said that I couldn't have my breakfast today.  I asked "Why".  She replied with "We got your heart".  Oh my fucking god, I am getting my heart.  No machine for me.  I shared the news with my family members as they staggered in.  The attitude was so positive.  I felt an energy like I've never felt before.  It's like I could feel the positive vibes from all of those rooting for me.

This is going to be a long day.  You go through a lot to prep for this kind of surgery.  I've been through this before.  Remember this my second heart surgery.  There's a whole lot of waiting involved as  well.  They take  me to the prep room.  This is where they shave my junk. They draw on my chest to make sure they know where to cut.   So after I'm all smooth, with a map on  my chest, they send me to the waiting room.  This is the last stop before the surgery room.  Except the surgery team is at work, and I  have to wait for them to finish.  The surgery took a bit longer than they thought it would.

So I'm in the waiting room with my family around me.  There was a very heavy presence in there.  We could all feel it.  We were just sitting around talking and telling stories and remembering good times.  As always, I have full confidence in the people working in that surgery room.  After they finally finished their surgery, they were all a bit tired and needed to rest.  They would all go home and get some sleep.  I don't want tired surgeons fucking with my heart.  It was a long wait, but the positive energy persisted.  We continued to share tales and making fun of each other.  I was so happy that all of them were there.  I don't see my family very often, but we are a clan.  After, I don't know how many hours, the team was finally getting prepped for my transplant.

As soon as I entered the operating room, I could hear Stevie Ray Vaughn blasting.  It was a strange surgical party.  Every one involved in the operation had this confidence and swagger.  These guys are the best of the best.  Dr. Octavio Pajaro would be the man with his hands in my chest.  This guy is a highly credited doctor.  I had no doubts about what was about to happen.  I start to realize that they are going to split my chest open, remove my heart and put a new heart inside me.  As I'm thinking about these things, the anesthesiologist was putting the mask on me.  She says to count down from 20.  So I start counting, and I get to one.  She says we'll need a little more to put me out.  I have a tolerance like no one else, because of how many drugs I've already been taking.  Eventually, after a little bit of feeling good, white light is all I see before nothing.

I'm alive. Like I said, this is my second heart surgery, I know what to expect when I come out of this.  It's a terrible and horrible experience.  There's a breathing tube down my throat.  I can't talk.  My last experience was terrifying.  They strapped me to the bed, and I will never forgive that.  This time I had a great nurse by my side to help me when I need something.  She was my angel.  It almost felt like we had a psychic connection.  I would gesture, and she would know exactly what I needed.  The last time I was here, it took about week to get out this hell hole.  This time I asked for tissue boxes, and used  those to do curls.  I was impressing everyone.  I got out in a fucking day.  It's been said that I was the fastest heart transplant recovery they had ever seen.  Back to my room to sit and recover. 

You know, just after my surgery, the Washington Redskins went on a 7 game winning streak.  They won the division, and RG3 was the man, before he became a target to injure.  Recovering from heart surgery is a very slow process.  During a heart surgery, they have to cut the vagus nerve, which controls all the functions of the body.  I had to learn to walk, again.  I know what I'm doing.  As soon as I could walk, I walk a lot.  I know what it takes to recover from this kind of procedure.   I was out of that hospital faster than anyone else who's had a heart transplant.  I'm a little proud of that.  My dad got me a RG3 jersey, and I vowed to wear that when I left the hospital, and I did.  
         
Christmas in Phoenix is a whole different experience.  Perfect 70 degree temperature. I got a nice fern tree from Jo, my Step-Aunt.  It became our Christmas tree, decorated and all.  I got to get out of the hospital for a while.  I always stay at the nice Marriot hotel that's within walking distance to the Mayo Clinic.  My whole entire family basically in the same room.  I get the big room, and that room is fucking huge.  King size bed, TV, and an awesome view.  This is by far the best hotel I've ever been in, Like Damn.  Christmas was great.  I got a nice care package from my friends. I got so much cool shit, like my Cattle Decapitation shirt,a book of amazing history, and a shit ton of Asian candy.  I love my friends so much.  Without my friends I would be nothing.

So, here I am.  I have a heart that I got from someone else.  It's actually a bigger heart than my previous.  I started thinking about this seriously.  I struggle constantly with it all the time.  His name was Chris.  He was a good person who had aspirations.  He was a loved son, brother, grandson, nephew, and uncle.  He had to die so I could live.  Not only do I have the cells of another person inside me, but know I have the living beating heart from a man named Chis.  I love this man for his gift, but I wish it didn't have to happen.  I didn't want him to die.  So what am I supposed to do?  People have said that I bring them inspiration, fuck, people have called me a hero.  I don't see my self as those things.  I'm just a guy who got real sick and unlucky.  I should be something, somebody.

I have had a lot of problems since I left Arizona.  Of course,  I'm immunosuppresed, I get sick.  I got a bad case of pneumonia, that almost killed me. Again rushed back to Phoenix.  They got everything good, but I had to stay for a long time.  I was there for several months while they kept their eyes on me.  Started to get bored.  But then the day before I was going to go home, I get hit with pneumonia again.  Extended my stay.  Actually couldn't wait to leave.  Homesick.     

Back home, one thing that happened, was a disturbing situation for me.  I've been taking ambien for sleep.But one occasion, I slept walked all the way out to my car to get a case of water out of the trunk, and my gun under the passenger seat.  And I brought all that shit back into my apartment.I also ended up taking the entire bottle of ambien.  That was conscious action.  When I woke up, my apartment was wrecked, and my gun was on my pillow, next to me.  I was pretty freaked out.  This looked like a suicide attempt.  And this not the first time I've destroyed my apartment on ambien.  So I went to the hospital.  They called for rehab centers to find me a bed.  They found one, and it was a shit hole.

They sent me to a detox center for shit's sake.  This place is the dirtiest building I've ever been to.  I have to stay until a rehab center can take me in.  The people here are all obviously meth addicts.  Not the best company, at all.  I slept on a cot in a room full of cots.  There was one other guy in the room.  Men and women are separated.  I lied there and started to cry about what was going on.  I've never been this bad.  I actually feel like I have a separate personality inside me, and he tried to kill me.  I cried myself to sleep.  Suddenly I was awakened by the office lady, and she told me that Sacred Heart in Spokane will accept me.  The next day, I sat and kept looking out the window for my Mom and Step-dad.  It felt like forever, but the finally came to save me.

 Sacred Heart Hospital has a psych ward, where I'll be staying until I get better. I will never forget my experience here.  Most everybody had roommates, but I was lucky enough to have my own room with a great view of division street.  The people here are so very interesting.  Everyone seem to be there for drug related incidents.  I was the only suicide attempt here.  A family of nut cases.  Conversations with these people were insightful.  We did arts and crafts, I got to spill my guts to a Psychiatrist, and I got a stress ball that I decorated and dubbed it Madball.  He became my mascot.  I felt like I was becoming a different person, a better person.  I spent a week in a psych ward, and it was a life altering event for me.

Now I guess I'm talking about the present now.  After 11 and a half years at Wal-Mart, I had to step down because I was unable to continue my work.  My knees just can't handle the stress anymore.  It was an end of an era.  That place is where I went to relax, concentrate on important things.  I was by far the best worker in that department.  Working produce is hard work, but also fulfilling for me.  Now I'm doing nothing.  I'm awaiting another knee surgery. They're going to core out a piece of weak bone and graft a cadaver bone in it.  Another fucking person inside me.  I have the marrow and basically the body of someone else, I have Chris' heart, and another persons ACL in my left leg.

Unemployed.  Sleep too much.  Stay awake too much.  I don't leave my house much.  I'm wrapped in depression, but I'm getting comfortable with it.  I will always be depressed.  I wish I could give Chris his heart back.  Who am I to receive this gift of life?  So many times I've faced death.  I feel like me and death have strange buddy relationship. I don't fear death, hell there's not much of anything I am afraid of.  This makes a cocky individual.  It can get me in trouble  some times, but most of the time I'm right on solid. What do I do?  I express myself through my writing and music.  Music is my passion.  The Festering is my family, Wastelords are my family.

So here I sit trying to figure out how to finish this.  I pretty much typed out my life on this side.  I had a life before I got sick, but after, I am in a new life, facing new challenges.  It's hard to keep your head up while dealing with chronic depression.  You know what helps, the drugs.  Doctors got me hooked, and I can't come down.  When anyone sees me, I'm usually flying on 10mg percocets.  I'm on 6 a day.  Try it once and you wouldn't be able to get off the ground.  I'm on 6 a day and I'm normal.  High all day.  Can you blame me?  I am in so much pain.  My knees feel like they are burning all day long.  Drugs get me up, and get me moving.  Drugs help me accomplish things.  Judge me if you want.  I don't give a shit, I'm ALIVE.  Pills keep me alive.  I am alive for the one who gave me my marrow.  I am alive for Chris and his sacrifice of flesh.  I am alive for the one who provided my ACL.  I will continue to live for my family, my friends, and those who are willing to make the sacrifice when the time comes.  I owe my life to so many people.  I can't thank everyone, so I wrote this.  Now I'm going to go back to my depressing life, in my microscopic apartment, with no job, and no aspirations.  If you just happened upon this, thank you for reading.

-Burn The Messenger.