Hello, friends. Welcome to the rodeo.

Sorry. There is no rodeo. I just felt that my opening paragraph needed a link in it.

I've been living with systemic lupus since 2014. Been officially disabled since 2017. Being severely immunocompromised, this pandemic business has been tricky for me. On the plus side, my apartment is set-up for spending ninety percent of my time in it. I don't drive because of vertigo, which became dangerous as the attacks became more frequent and more mind-bending. So, I already get almost everything delivered. On the minus side is much of what other people went through. I require a certain level of socialization. Kind of like a drug addict, I require people to feed off of. I need to feel their emotional energy. People don't just fascinate me. I soak in them. Pretty rude, really.

Things are tricky because I have multiple forms of insomnia. These days it is usually because of this disease I walk around with. It can be very frustrating because I struggle with non-stop fatigue. I always feel like I need to lie down. And when I do, I can't relax. Fatigue and sleepiness are two different things. I didn't realize how different they really were until I starting spending my life negotiating with this illness.

Sounds terrible, but it isn't that bad. Not since I adjusted. Went through a lot of therapy when I had to stop working. My work was like a calling. I worked with people in crisis, mostly teenage girls, but my last gig was in addiction recovery. Had to take a job where I no longer needed to do physical restraints. At my best, I could take down and lock up just about anyone in three seconds. If I try it now, I'll probably break five or six bones. My own, that is.

My schedule is complicated. Because of the insomnia and the fatigue, along with constant all-over body pain, it is hard to plan anything around a time or date. I usually don't know when I am going to sleep. Trying to keepp to a schedule produces anxiety when I can't fall asleep at the scheduled time. Everything gets thrown off. I have a lot of open time, but I'm never sure what time period I will be fully functional in.

Since 2019, I've transitioned into essentially being a full-time writer. I write to write, because writing is my other drug, and I release them on Amazon. Don't really market or promote. I create them so they exist and tell people about them. At this point, I have five books released. Three are what I call the Dead Guy Trilogy, the story of my life's often quite bizarre journey. The other two are part of a series that I have been writing but not finishing since 1983.

Writing lends itself to working whenever you are awake and functional. I can't handle deadlines or scheduled appointments. My medical appointments are bad enough. One of those throws my sleep completely off for two days, the day before and the day after. I figured out that knowing I have to be somewhere at a certain time screws up my head. I know I need to get enough sleep to do whatever the scheduled thing is, so I can't sleep... because I'm worried that I won't be able to sleep. It is positively demonic.

Writing the Dead Guy Trilogy took a lot out of me. I'm something of a "method writer." I become my characters and tune into sights and sounds that immerse myself in the setting. I get inside the head of my protagonist. To write that trilogy, I had to re-traumatize myself by re-experiencing traumatic moments in my life. Got intense. Messed up my head a few times. Writing the book series I call the Tungsten Tales is a different trip. The protagonist and narrator are different depending on the book, It is, as they say in the movie business, "an enjoyable romp." It is a series that develops over time in what I call "a series with increasing returns."

Most of the time, sequels are pale carbon copies of the original. In the movies, especially. They tend to be a real let down and sometimes just destroy the original in the process because of guilt by association. In this series, each book will move into deeper and more complex themes, all while maintaining its quirky, dark humor. If you've ever read some of my better stories here, it is a lot like that. In fact, a rough draft of what will be the fifth book in the series starts here as Guided at night by factory lights. Rudimentary versions of characters in this series appear in that serial.

It really is critical, especially in these dark times, to work out a routine in life that works for you. One that leaves you feeling positive about yourself. I had to shift from working with people to spending the vast majority of my time at home alone. Still go out with friends. Or just to go out and be around people, but this massive shift in lifestyle threw me. There was this emptiness that produced severe anxiety. The therapist I was seeing did grief counseling with me. I had to mourn the loss of my old life. And then I had to find a way to move forward.

Everyone's struggle is different, even when they are similar. Never quite exactly the same. That's why these one size fits all magic cures for all that ails you don't really work. That is why people fascinate me. All the little differences. Such tender, magical creatures with such a tendency to lash out and lust for power. Weird-ass species. Fascinating to study. They really are. You ought to check out humans some time. You will be fascinated.

After I stopped working, I spent a good deal of time volunteering on websites and crisis chat online. It made sense because I was able to come on when I was up to it rather than on a ser schedule. It was difficult because I read non-verbal communication and people's energy. In a text exchange, I don't have that. Can't tell what they are really thinking because I can't feel how they are feeling. So, I wasn't anywhere near as effective as I used to be in person. Even with the phone, I can read the voice. The big problem with text is that people misread each other constantly. You can't sense intent or emotion. And I get intense with that shit. I'll get all up in your head in five minutes, baby. Don't tempt me. I will easily convince you to sell your goat at a below market price. Wanna try me?

Then again, I go out places on my own and people sit down and confess their sins to me. It is who I am. Who I became. And I keep being reminded.

Writing is what filled the void. When I was five and writing my first book, I dreamed of being a full-time writer. And now I am. Just don't make any money at it. In part because I can't handle the stress of dipping my toe back into the professional game. It is a strange thing, an increase in stress levels causing my pain levels to shoot up. Eliminate stress and the pain becomes manageable. And situations often become stressful because I'm always tired as hell. Writing relaxes me. It is better than movies or reading a book. I love telling a story. And I've got some good ones. Good stories. Not sure how well written. But they exist. They will be what I leave behind.

Thanks for tuning in. Meet you down in the washroom later. We'll get kinky.

I should be working - though with everything sloppy and less than 30 mins left in my day, here I am. Not working. Well - working through some shit though, if that counts for anything.

A lot of stuff is in my head. I keep meaning to sit and write, but it all goes blank. There is simply too much. A lot of change, most of it good, some bittersweet, and some just an inevitable part of getting older and bodies changing.

I’m currently sitting at the back of the property I manage, a small but beautiful piece of land in Western New York. I hear birds, crows, hawks, the constant dripping of melting snow, cars off in the distance, but no wind today. It is very still.

I smell spring. Not just hints of spring, but real smells of spring. Earth waking up, moisture in the air, hints of sweet meadow and woods, mixed with the earthy smell of wet composting leaves. It smells amazing.

I now feel the slight breeze that just started on my cheek, the occasional drop of water from the melt, the soft earth beneath my feet, the rough bark of trees, and gentle fuzz of the newest buds emerging.

I see change coming. Prints of critters waking up, the trees and plants waking up, green and browns emerging from the wet white cover, the destruction of winter storms, and take in the amazing view I have from here.

A lot of today has been wandering, appreciating, and thanking the land for the opportunity and growth I’ve found here. I’m not leaving exactly, but I will soon no longer be manager/caretaker of these woods. It is a good change, but very bittersweet. If you’ve read one of my last day logs, I did get that job. And this is technically the first week of it - even though today is still a property day. This land and the other I work on have played such an important role in my healing and changing, and I am going to miss it. However, stagnation is not something I do well, and so up I go.

So much is in my head, I don’t even know how to articulate or sort it out, or even say WHY it is taking up so much space. So much of it is good, amazing actually, and yet I sit here and just want to cry and be held. Or pulled out of my head and this reality, just for a while, and let my brain melt - without alcohol or cannabis. I need to drum hard, fight hard, or fuck hard.

My brain needs a reset button - not a complete wipe, things really are good, but perhaps it’s because it’s so much at the same time. A bit overwhelming, I’ll manage, but a good defragmenting would not be the worst thing. I need to write more. I need to break it down into the pieces, and start there: work, home, Her, you, my crazy dreams, my past, and my own changes. That’s a start. I guess this one is sort of a work focus. It’s a start.

I just heard an owl, and now it’s time to go.

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