What the Hell?

Look, just look at where I am.

Why am I here again?!?
Does God have to hit me on the head with a hammer?
Reality without possibility equals static, boring complancity.
Possibility without reality equals insanity.

Gibran loved storms, too. But he never babbled like this.
Of course, he had direction from God.
Lucky bastard.

Are some of us forgotten?
Wait, think carefully before you answer.

Can any of us (all of us) control our direction?
Or do some of us have to be behind to maintain the balance?
If I am not an integral part of exentestence, then am I necessary to it at all?

Can there be such a thing as surpurflous life?
If God knows all, then He can not be suprised.
If that is so, then wasn't the Fall from Grace all part of the plan?

If so, then we had to sin.
We had to become imperfect to become who we were meant to be.
It seems unfair.

Still, if we were meant to sin, then aren't we made perfect by the fullfilling of our imperfection?
If that is so, then there is no imperfections; only short-sighted decisions, leading to hasty conclusions.
(I wonder, again, if writing this shit is worth the time?)

Domino

Why should I worry here? This is a safe place, isn't it? You don't know me, you can't point to me to say, "Hey, isn't that the guy who writes all that shit on that ADD blog?'

You don't know me. Why should I worry? Why do I anyway?

Media's brain-washed me, just like it has all of you. I didn't sleep tonight. I took my Adderall later so I could stay up, so I could be alone. Alone to reflect, to masturbate, to watch all the trash TV I can't watch during the day because I don't want my kids to see it.

My reality doesn't motivate me enough to contemplation, only movies seem to do that. Please tell me that really is as pathetic as it sounds. In order for life to work, it must be simple. There are many questions, that is true. But in order to live your life, in order for things to work, I think you just have to say "fuck it' to most of them, and throw them out. The resulting life may not be as multi-layered, but it will fit, it will be simple, it will work. Richly colored paintings are no good in a gallery nobody visits.

I should be able to work, come home, play with my children, pay my bills, make love to my wife, go to bed, start it again. God, how I long for the sweet boring simplicity of it all. Why isn't it more simple? Why do I always seem to fuck everything up? Why can't I wake up and realize that it's questions like, "Why do I always seem to fuck everything up"; that is at the heart of why I do. There are questions you just shouldn't ask. Not if you want to be simple, not if you want it to fit in, to work.

Why should I worry here? Maybe because I'm afraid that just one person out there will see past all this. Will read without their impersonal filters applied, and see the meta-message: I am afraid, help me. I am afraid that even if somebody did, and were able to find me, and ask me what they could do for me - that I would give the only truthful answer there is; I don't have the slightest idea what I need.

I am afraid of my imagination, of my ambition. I am afraid that some will read this and applauded my desire for simplicity. I fear that some will not. Most of all I fear that nobody could ever understand my hatred for either option. There is no problem with one side of the coin or the other. The problem is that we are regulated to tossing the fucking coin in the first place. Is that senseless? Should I worry here?

No Respect

Thinking a lot about respect lately. Hard to know what that should mean. When I was a child in church, it meant fear. Respect your parents, respect god.

Often it means complience; "if you love me, why don't you respect me?". Translation: You don't do what I want, so you're a shit.

Independence? Hey!

How do you tell your wife something like that?"

Honey, I'm just too scared of something, but I don't know what. I know it seems strange, dear, but I just have to lie to you so I can get away from the beach, you, and our two beautiful children so I can have time to myself (which I don't deserve), to figure out a puzzle, when I don't even know what it's supposed to look like when it's all put together. Okay?"

The truth is, you can't. So, you end up with: "Work needs me for a special conference on the July 4th. I know it's weird, but we don't want me to lose my job, do we?"I learned two very important things this weekend.
1) No more than three hours of TV a week for me
2) I shall never, under NO circumstances, ever yell at the girls again! They are children, damn it! (and I love them)

Even if I do slip and yell, I am going to apologize right away & make SURE they know that it is NOT them, that even if I am upset, that yelling is NOT a good way to handle it. One of the audio books from the car trip had a great line:"....What makes us human is how well we treat the people who are left." I will treat Laura and the girls better.Ah, well. Nobody seems to read this shit anyway. I want to have a reader. I want to dazzle, to engender a cathartic episode, leading to a massive explosion of a revolution of the psyche.

See, phrases like that are lost in the emptiness of cyberspace. Is it some great cosmic joke that having ADD allows me HUGE creative leaps, but doesn't allow me anywhere to land? Best description I've heard for the ADD Adult: Unrealized potential.Wish I didn't know I "could", so that it wouldn't hurt so much that I "don't".

Still, all this is shit! It doesn't matter. Don't even if it's true, but even so, it doesn't matter. I (the ego "I") doesn't matter! I think more people should realize that! "I" only matter in relation to my usefulness in the interactions of those who interact with me. My daughters depend on me. I don't come through, and "I" cease to matter, in relation to them. They MUST be taken care of. Me, or somebody else - Laura would see to that. I would in her place. For them at least, "I" would cease to matter - to exist, really -- because they would cease to interact. No interaction, no validation, no existence.

I am beginning to think that there is NO truth beyond what we agree on. Reality is not a constant we accept, it is creation that must accept our place in it. Maybe that is where our sense of struggle comes from. Create something, and you must get others (sooner or later) to agree on its existence, or else -- POOF!Either, I keep coming back to the this fact:We were not born into a world alone.

There must be some significance in that.

Life's A Gift

A welcome reader comment: "Life is a gift....!" (I hope this reader will realize that I mean no offense, and value their input)

I agree! Let's take this analogy further, shall we? Your best friend has a birthday coming up & you've spent a lot of time looking for the PERFECT gift for them. This will be the gift to end all gifts. You've spent a significant amount of money on this gift, but the money is not important. The important thing is how special your friend will feel when they see it, and know that you cared enough about them to get them a GREAT GIFT.

The day finally arrives, and you give your perfect gift. The gift to end all gifts. Your friend opens the box you see on their face the excited glow you knew would be there. After the gushing of gratitude, your friend takes the gift from the carefully layered tissue paper in the box - and you catch your breath. Your friend starts to strum the gift and it is clearly designed to be banged. You come over to their house & the gift is hung on the wall, and it is clearly supposed to be on the table. Your friend takes the gift down from the wall & asks if you want to play with it. You say sure, but then they start to throw it to you. You make excuses and begin to leave, wondering why your friend can't tell it is a water toy.

Your dear friend is somewhat confused, and sees you to the door, thinking you again for the treasured gift, which they are honestly overjoyed about.

Life is a great gift. Some of us just don't know what to do with it, and our friends are so disgusted by our ignorance that they leave us to it.

Life is a gift! A precious gift and I want somebody to play with it with me! My toy - can't I throw it instead of float it? Strum it instead of bang it? I promise it'll be fun - and I promise I'll let you play anyway you want, as long as you include me.

But no matter how great a gift it is, when its just left on our wall, it becomes a symbol of pain and isolation. Funny - it used to be a gift

Whrilpools

Everything else is lost. I’ve tried to deny it for so long, Reality has found a way to capture me, and hold me, and shake me.

There must be something more – but nothing can be better than what I’ve lost. Maybe there used to be a place and purpose for me, but no more!! What am I? Am I an actor, a writer, philosopher, maybe even a fighter? God, how I long for the simple life of a fighter; to just have one goal – the guy goes down.

Damn it! See, I can’t even keep one thought together. I am none of those things now. I am less than nothing, barely human. I am a formless, misty mass of angry impulse, flickering in shadow.

Don’t even know why I’m writing this anymore. I’m not a writer anymore. This is just a desperate attempt to pull myself free from the black whirlpool sucking me down. I’ve got to face it; I don’t know what I am anymore. I am empty. Nothing to offer Her accept for empty words from empty company, all inside a thin shell of reality I can’t accept because I don’t understand.

I start to think I’m hiding my daemons well, but my family looks at me with eyes that tell me different. They see my emptiness, and they expected so much more. My children deserved more. Their looks sham me. My shame encourages me to retreat into emptiness. I spiral downwards.

I her Her from the next room, “Ah, my one real joy in the world is my shoulder blanket.” Her tolerance of me is loud. Everyone accepts these conditions as a matter of course. It only becomes a problem when I mention it. There is an unspoken agreement:

My wife hates me, my children resent me, and I am allowed to stay, just as long as I don’t make mention of it. I have created an environment that fully supports my empty destruction.

Can I remain truthful about my absence of truth? Hard to say, but I can’t believe there isn’t any who’ve never lied about this absence. It is the world’s unspoken agreement with the world. The minute we all agree that Truth is subjective, we cease to exist. We agree to survive, and to support the agreement of the lie.

No new conclusions, no revelations. Fuck! What a waste of time this was; birth to now!

An Exercise in Shame?

What do we spend our time on? How many of us can lay down our heads each night & say we are proud? That if we died tongiht, we know at least one day was well-spent?

The nightmare of most honest writers came upon me a couple of weeks ago -- my mother stumbled onto this blog. Why, oh why wasn't I more careful? Questions came: "Are you okay? These things you write have me worried about you. Don't focus so much on yourself, but focus on others."

Geeze, mom - like the first 20+ years of my life DIDN'T hammer that lesson home!?!? Of course you are right. Being right doesn't make waking up a failure any eaiser. Spider-Man 2. Anybody see this one? Love it -- Peter Parker asks, "When is it my time? Can't I have what I want too? Can't I be happy?" The answer - No! He couldn't. If he was to be a hero, some not ordinary in this world, then that was the price of admission. Sacrifice. Anybody who says differently is selling something. Check out the link to this post. This is how I mis-spent my morning. Ashamed of me? If you knew what else I SHOULD have been doing, you would be. It's a wav file. Open it, download it. Use it. I don't care. Enjoy it, if you can.

But, shame is part of the ride, isn't it? For me, for all of us. I (we) am not looking for pity. Just for a nod of understanding. "I'm with you, bro." That would mean connection, and connection would mean risk, and there are too many cowards in the world for that. Adults with ADD unite! (if you can!)

What Is This Then?

“We don’t have a relationship?”

Ha! You’re telling me!

Having a problem that affects BOTH of us & telling me to “take care of it, or else” is NOT a relationship. Telling me that if I don’t live up to your expectations you’ll leave me is NOT a relationship. You Never saying a kind word.

Accusing me of being false and then yell at me WHILE we are walking into a room only to stop and smile when somebody walks up. You smile all night, laugh with me, and hold my hand. Then, as soon as we hit the car, I am a jackass again.

I have decided that I will study to become a proctologist and a psychologist so that I can give you what you want and FINALLY get my head out of my own ass.

God…….

Now do you know what I can’t send you these? Words come, heated in the moment. I am angry, but not at you. I don’t like some of the things you do. You are a victim here. You are a victim of my life. If I were standing in the way of a bus, I wouldn’t pull you beside me so we could become a double road-pizza. There is no bus, only my stupidity. The effect is the same; expect that if there were a bus, I’d also be driving.

(Hours later)

Peaceful, upstairs, asleep. I wonder at my life. Kahlil Gibran once said that, “A man may take his own life, in self-defense.” In my case, it would be in defense of my family. I have never laid a hand on any of you, and never would. My abuse is psychological. In your mind I am your enemy. In my mind, I am my own. The relationship is selfish; we are both focusing on me. Where is the room for you? For your dreams? I hurt you if I stay. I hurt myself if I go. I used to think I made pour decisions. Now I know I am incapable of making decisions at all.

My Real Shame?

I think my real shame shouldn’t be in not trying, but in not knowing what to do. The effort is applaudable only when it gets results. Then, by that logic, the real problem isn’t writing the wrong thing, it’s not writing at all. What program do I use? How do I organize it? Where do I put it? Will anybody read it? Should I want anybody to?

Can I write things I wouldn’t want anybody else to read? Even her? The real fear is that should would to read it, I’d let her, and then she wouldn’t accept them. The laundry she just threw down won’t go away. And my feelings don’t mean shit to her when she sees me sitting here, ignoring it, writing about my feelings.

It’s too boring, because it’s too obvious. Stream of conscious isn’t entertaining when it’s forced. Especially when nobody gives a flying-fuck what is in your head. And, I’m not entirely sure that isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Other’s first. If they, in turn, don’t give a rat’s crap about you and your feelings; well, it was never they’re responsibility to. You just get lucky if they do.

It's Hard - Is Anybody Out There?

It's Hard -- Anybody out there?

ADD is out there. It stalks me. I walk into a room. I see the dishes. I see the cookie jar. I know I am supposed to wash. I hear my wife snoring gently in her easy-chair in the next room. The TV is loud. The cookies are delicious.

The dishes are still dirty. My wife stirs. "Honey, could you bring me a couple of cookies and some milk?"

I look down, the jar is empty. I try and recall the last eleven minutes my watch says has passed. I can not. Did I really eat all those cookies? I walk into the next room......
The children hear, "You inconsiderate jack-ass! I just made those cookies, and you ate them all?!? Did you not think I wanted any, or that you're just not fat enough!?! I bet you didn't do the dishes either, did you? DID YOU!!?!!??" (I shake my heard & drop my eyes) "You disgust me. What do you have to say for yourself?"

What do I say? That I think it was right to eat a whole jar of cookies? To ignore doing the dishes & deprive her of something enjoyable after her long, hard day? I KNOW not to eat a whole jar of cookies, and I guess I wouldn't of, if I had been paying attention to what I was doing. But, then that's the whole point, isn't it? It's hard. I have ADD. Is anybody out there?