Dead Men Tell No Tales

I cannot conceive of people committing suicide.

I am completely and utterly unable to understand WHY someone would take their own life.

It does not compute.

I will give you my very unpopular opinion on suicide, then I will explore it with this blog to try & understand….

1) Suicide is the most selfish act a human can commit.

2) There is NO REASON to kill oneself

3) A person is always in control of themselves. They can change things at any time.

OK, that’s pretty much my opinion on suicide.

Do you know why people hang themselves, shoot themselves, cut their wrist, suck car exhaust or other ways?

To be found, discovered that way.

To hurt, shock, punish; to lash out one last time. A final “Look what you made me do” or “Fuck you”

See me…

See me…

I have no concept of suicide.

Admittedly, I do not refrain from killing myself because it is a sin, as much as I was raised to believe, I do not kill myself because I know….have known….all of my life that it is not an option.

I know that it is the cowards way out.

There is no excuse other than painful terminal illness and I’m gray on that.

There is always the next moment. There is always tomorrow. There is always rock bottom.

There is always hope.

Meaning, it can only get so bad. You can sink no lower than rock bottom. If you get any lower, it’s because you dug the hole yourself but, Dammit, there’s still a bottom

You can change things in an instant.

This is a fact.

There are too many avenues these days to get help for suicidal thoughts or intentions.

There is absolutely NO REASON TO KILL ONESELF.

I don’t care how bad your life feels like it’s spiraling out of control and the world would be a better place for it, if you would just hurry up and blow your fucking brains out all over the nice bathroom mirror.

I guarantee the fact that there are millions of other people on this planet that have it much worse; that would kill you to have your life, that would love to have your problems instead of theirs. Would call you blessed…. If even for a moment…they could be you.

There are people that fight for their life every day.

They fight through agonizing pain and the knowledge of unavoidable, inevitable, early death.

They fight until they quit breathing.

And some people kill themselves because life is too hard….?

They can’t see a way out.

There is no hope, they think.

There is no other way, they think.

It’s all about…..Them.

They’re positive.

Oh. My. God.

Fuck your family.

Fuck your friends.

Fuck your co-workers.

Fuck, the world.

My life is too painful.

Everyone will be better off when I’m gone.

I cannot understand this.

It’s stupid.

It’s illogical.

It goes against human nature.

Humans are the only species that commit suicide while every other species on this planet; plant or animal, fight for survival; actual survival, every moment of everyday.

But, your life is too painful to go on living?

Mental illness, you say?

My opinion is that suicide has nothing to do with mental illness.

I’m mentally ill….according to my doctors.

I have been diagnosed with depression, as anti-social and with borderline personality disorder.

Evidently, I am 2 clicks from being a sociopath.

I have the papers to prove it.

I have lived in the gutter.

I was a stereotypical trench coat wearing, brown bag guzzling, sidewalk stumbling drunk.

I was homeless.

I dug thru trash bins behind food joints looking for something to eat.

For a long time, the only money I had was from donating plasma.

I rode city buses for hours; riding for days on end because I felt I had nothing else to do or anywhere to go.

I felt useless. I felt worthless.

I wanted to kill myself.

But, I didn’t.

……I wouldn’t.

It wasn’t an option.

I’m not going to do it.

Anthony Bourdain, did.

I am/was/are a huge fan.

As long as I have his audiobooks, which he narrated himself, his series’ on Netflix, videos on YouTube and many other outlets of which I haven’t discovered yet, I will always be a fan.

He chose to end his life.

From my eyes, A man beloved by millions, a man with a cult following, an excellent TV gig, an employer, a recovered addict, a chef, a father….

Hangs himself in a French hotel room.


I cannot understand this.

“I am alone in a room full of people.”

There is only one way out.

It breaks my heart about Anthony.

Here was a guy I actually looked forward to watching his stuff on TV; reading his books, following him on social media.

I have (had) 2 TV heroes that I wholeheartedly believed in 100%; in their honesty, their quirkiness, their irreverence towards “The Man” and no BS attitude.

One is Mike Rowe, the other is/was Anthony Bourdain.

When I saw anything they were involved with, everything they said or posted, I believed. I knew it would be honest and real.

But, I am also a realist.

I do believe that you can never know what’s in someone else’s mind.

You cannot see the monsters.

You cannot hear the voices.

You cannot feel their pain.

As much as I cannot fathom the prospect of killing myself or why anyone would do that to themselves and put their friends, family and colleagues through so much anguish, I understand that I am not that person.

I know that these individuals leave behind people close to them, that love them asking “Why?”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“Why didn’t he tell me what he was feeling?”

“I would’ve been there in a flash, if I’d ONLY KNOWN

Anthony Bourdain was not alone in France.

His best friend was nearby.

A hotel full of people, were there.

As far as I know, he still has relatives in France.

All he had to do was say “Help me”


It makes me sad for his daughter, whom he claimed to love and cherish.

It makes me sad for his friend Eric; the best friend that found him dead.

It makes me sad for his friends and family that Anthony believed that he had no alternative but to kill himself.

“Why didn’t he just call me?”

It makes me angry that he was so selfish.

He only cared about himself.

No regard or thoughts of what he would leave behind.

No qualms of guilt in how his death would affect others.

No concern on leaving an 11 year old girl to face this cruel world without her dad.

How can I say these mean things about Anthony Bourdain?

I do not, did not, could not know the man or his problems.

What I do know is that he killed himself.

Which means, he did not give a FUCK about anyone else but Anthony Bourdain.

Suicide is real.

Suicide is terrible.

Suicide is selfish.

Suicide is the cowards way out.

There is always hope.

There is always tomorrow.

There is ALWAYS help….

Don’t be an asshole.

Stay alive.

Anthony Bourdain


You cheated us out of you…

Get Help

New Muse: Learning To Starve and Like It

Day 2 of intermittent fasting; con’t:

Not too bad, so far.
Yesterday, I thought I was gonna die before 1pm came around but, it wasn’t so much that I was hungry or that my tummy was growling. 

It was mostly that I just wanted to eat something. 

Anything….Babies… Puppies…wood

See what I’m saying? It was the act of chewing that I craved, I guess.

Well, I ate my 1st initial meal yesterday. 

It was kinda big, but not too.

I was figuring that I only had 7 hrs of eating to prepare for 16 hrs of nothing so, eat until I popped. 


I was wrong.

I tried to eat a couple of Baloney sammitchs’ 2 hrs later, and could only get one down. And it was like rubber. I chewed and chewed until I had to force swallow.

This is a real thing…

Like a cow…with cud. 

I wasn’t hungry, yet. 

I thought “Oh crap, I’m gonna starve before tomorrow’s eat time” 

But, I soldiered on and swigged a fruit cup for desert. No chewing involved.  

And that’s it, until now, 0808 CST and I’m doing OK.

No hunger pangs. 

I’m a terrible terrible fat American. 

I’ve only had my cup of Java so far. Like I said yesterday, I know Mormons aren’t supposed to drink coffee but in my defense, coffee keeps this trucker from going ape s**T and running 4 wheelers off the road. 

It’s a coping tool 😬

I did notice something else yesterday though, just as the last 30 minutes before eat time began.  I started getting that low blood sugar feeling.

 You know, swirly brain, tingly fingers, slight touch of vertigo…overall, just weird.
So, as I learn, I guess I’ll start my eat time an hour earlier, say noon to 7pm to avoid going into an embarrassing coma or shock. 

Here’s a thought…

I wonder if I had beef jerky to chew on, if that’s cheating or would invalidate my efforts. Not swallow the jerky, just the juice? 

What think ye?

Only 4 more hrs to go. 

Just don’t think about it Trey. It’s OK not to eat all of the time. 

It wouldn’t be as tough if I smoked…but,thats one Mormon rule I do adhere to. 

I’m such a munch mouth though! 
I have a feeling this is gonna save me money on groceries…or future gastric surgery.😷✂️💊⚰️

On to day 3! 

New Muse

I have found my new muse! 

My writers block has lifted! 

I have decided to focus my recently dormant creative blogging energy toward my fatness and the prominence of said gut…. 

I have decided that I do not look good as a full figured man. 

If you get my point. 

I will turn 54 this year and my goal is 185 lbs. Not the 261 I currently am. Oh, btw, that’s from a truck stop scale so it could be + or – 20lbs.

I am pursuing Intermittent Fasting. 

No, I’ve only been studying about it for a couple of days and I’m only on day 1.

I will share as I live and learn. 

Hey! It’s our journey together! 

So, here goes on day 1.

Fat Attack, Engage! 

I have way more gray hair
Oooooo No, this is not a New Years resolution.

The toughest part of intermittent fasting (IF), for me, is getting past the mental part. The part that says that I have to eat or munch on something all of the time. 

After I thought about it, I discovered that I really only eat breakfast out of habit. I know its considered the most important meal of the day but, I hardly ever wake up hungry anyways. All I usually want is coffee in the morning, anywho. I know, I know, I’m a terrible Mormon. If that’s my only failing today, I’m good.

So, I’m on my first day of IF and I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and I’m still not hungry. The biggest obstacle is not to munch just to munch. Kinda like, if I smoked, I guess. Smoking a cigarette just to smoke. But, since I don’t smoke, I munch….then get fat.

It’s gonna be kinda tough with me being a truck driver, since my schedules are always jacked up and hard to stay consistent with anything. I figure though that if I keep the general time frame intact, I should be good. Of course the body acts different at night than during the day, blah blah blah.

I know, I know…
Lot’s of interesting, common sense stuff with IF. Y’all read up on it. I’ll keep you up to date on how it’s going with me. Here’s how I’m starting out:

1) No Breakfast (liquids are fine. Water, coffee, tea, etc., easy on the sweeteners; calories bad)

2) Eat normally but wisely between 1-8pm

3) Fast for 16 hrs or until the next day eating period.

Retrain in the membrane!

Thanks to-

Battlefield,  Me.  

The Fourth Mindfulness Training: Awareness of Suffering.

I have started on a new life path.

Let me get going with this before I forget the feelings and emotions that I just went thru about 10 minutes ago.

Kinda scary, really….for me at least; or “my type” of scary.

Close freaking call is what it was.

I just barely walked into my little apartment; put up the groceries with shaking hands, poured a glass of lemonade with spasming shoulder muscles; then sat down, sweating, and turned on this lap top to share something with y’all.

I’m an alcoholic, you see; currently, blessedly, dormant.

I wanted a drink, bad this afternoon; drink aka: beer, whiskey, wine, inebriant….buzz

I don’t know what created the urge, craving, desire, longing or the lust.

It came out of nowhere, like a foul smell on an ill breeze.

I will run thru some sadly familiar things y’all probably already know about alcoholics; or have heard or maybe suffered with yourself.

The newest craving came out of nowhere and I have no idea what set it in motion.


I’ve come to, in too many bars wondering how I got there.

Woke up in too many ditches, vacant cars, dumpsters or a bed in a stranger’s home.

I’m enough of an experienced alcohol rehabber to not be set off by feeble beer signs, beer advertisements, beer trucks, liquor stores, etcetera, etcetra…laudy freaking dah

But, there it was; out of nowhere? Or was it in me, in my soul the whole time, just waiting….?

One second I was driving my big truck to Wal-Mart; as a matter of fact I was listening to an audiobook called “The Heart of The Buddha’s Teachings” by Thich Nhat Hanh, because I am always searching for ways to make myself a better person, or maybe to make me feel better about myself or maybe to fill my head with good things and not bad things.

Right thinking…..

I don’t know why I am always listening and reading these self help books, seminars, different churches and countless other things.

….I don’t know why.

Anyhow, back to the craving.

It came like a hot breath on the back of my neck, it’s broken teeth raking across my skin; shivers and goosebumps up and down my spine.

My mouth started to water as I realized what was happening…

“No” I whispered to myself “No”

And just like that, it was all I could think about.


The battle for my sobriety was joined

Right Trey said “NO, ain’t happening”

Left Trey said “You’re just gonna have a few before bed”

There is no “few” in an alcoholics mind; especially not in this drunks mind.

Right Trey says “I don’t want to feel bad all day tomorrow”

I’m also a newly diagnosed diabetic.

Left Trey says “You’ll get plenty of sleep for it to wear off before you have to get up”

Right Trey says “I don’t want to keep getting up and have to pee a hundred times”

Left Trey says “Oh, it ain’t that bad, you pussy”

Right Trey says “I AM bored, though…..”

First sign of weakness; I have a lot of those.

Left Trey smells blood in the water and continues his attack “Just make sure you make a nice dinner while you can still stand and eat while you drink, that way you won’t get AS drunk or feel AS bad tomorrow”

I can’t believe I still listen to this guy, but….

I am shaking and sweating.

I’m getting so anxious that it’s causing me to get sharp pains in my chest and the inevitable heartburn starts.

Panic attack! Oh, shit! I HATE THOSE!

The beer annex in the Walmart was closed.

Small miracles.

I win!

Look at me! So full of moxy and blazing with self confidence (I know better) I went to a convenience store next door to the Walmart to get me a lemonade or something…

I had triumphed.

My chest hurt. I needed some Zantac

I blinked my eyes and found myself in front of the beer cooler, looking at the beer.

I was trembling….



I felt sick, I felt nervous, I felt scared and weak….I felt mad.

I’m losing….

I know me….

Left Trey said “Ok, don’t get a 12 pack then, just get 2 forties”

Compromise; second line of attack

It was such a terrible craving attack.

Left Trey can be a ruthless bastard! Damn near killed me a few times.

I haven’t had a craving this serious in years.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I have “bad” cravings everyday. Little bitty ones but, not like this one was.

This was the kind of craving that ends up with me locked in a motel room for 4 days in the dark, hating myself, looking for the courage to find a way out of my head….

You see? I know me…

It made me physically ill and scared the shit out of me.

Too damn close, man….

Why now, after so long, I wonder? That’s the really scary part.

I’m gonna have to be on alert.

Always fucking there, dude!

Jeez, I don’t need a relapse, man . Not like THIS

I’m doing soo much better!

I won for the day though.

That’s a good sign, I guess.

I’m still willing to fight for my soul.

I have been for a long time.

“Do not become frustrated or discouraged when starting a new path in your life because eventually you will shake off the dust of the old path” – Me

“The Noble 8 Fold path teaches that through restraining oneself, cultivating discipline, practicing mindfulness and meditation,the enlightened ones can stop their craving, clinging and their karmic accumulations; thus ending their rebirth of suffering.” Wikipedia

I Want My Family Back

You know what’s cool about Facebook?


Other than the Find Jesus, find money meme’s….thats obvious.

Even though you have family members that despise you for things that supposedly happened over 35 years ago in some instances and 25+ years in others, you can still wiggle through the Facebook jungle and see pictures of them and your nieces, nephews, cousins and grandkids.

Makes me not so lonely, sometimes, you know?

Kinda, love’em on the sly….
Keep it on the DL….

The lonely spy, am I.

LB & Baby

It’s amazing; forgiveness, I mean.
I can have it but, no one else can.

Weird how that works in the Bible but, not real life families.

Once a monster, always a monster, I suppose.


The not-so funny part is that I haven’t seen some of these people or tried to bother them in over 15 years!

Ever since I left after my dad’s funeral.

I know what I was all those years ago.

I don’t need constant reminders. I have, me to remind me…

Sometimes, I just wish I’d shut the fuck up.

Trust me on this!

Ha! I even told them that I’d kill myself if they’d just forgive me for ANYTHING!!

I still throw out feelers, you know, just in case there’s a chance I can be part of a family again.

I can dream.


I don’t even get the disappointment of being properly rejected; only silence.

I am not the same person I was in my dark years.

“Pick a flower and forget me not”

(Their response) “Oh, poor, poor Trey, so put upon, so mistreated, so unfairly judged, it’s everybody’s fault but his, he never did anything!)

Never fails….


Really, I don’t.
Probably all the drugs and alcohol….

Now, don’t you think that If I was the insensitive monster they all believe me to be, then why did I stumble thru years, drunk off my ass, sleeping in dumpsters, gutters and homeless shelters!?

If I didn’t care or have remorse for anything then why would I be living like that?

It shouldn’t have bothered the monster, right?

Mom, Dad, Uncles David and Chris

“Oh, you were just feeling sorry for yourself” 

Oh, yeah. I was. You betcha…

That’s the worst possible thing; feeling sorry for yourself and being out of control.

I wouldn’t exactly call it a life between 1993 and 2009….

It was a fucking nightmare, dude. I shit you not.

In hell; on earth. Sux


I’ve done my time in the prisons of your minds.

Your hate and contempt has gotten old.

It’s rotting my soul..

Forgive me, once and for all and let’s have love, instead.

If you wanna get to know your family member again, I’m all heart!

Dying for a chance.

I’m a helluva guy now, you know?

First! Jesus freak disclaimer:

I forgive you if you can’t bring yourself to change your attitude or change your conditioned mindsets.


Y’all have kept taking this poison for a long time.

Second nature, so to say.

I know it’s hard, believe me.

It took me a long time too.

Hopefully, one day, you will be free of your burden, because it is a burden. Justified or not.

I am free of it, myself.

If you forgive fast, make IT the second nature, you’ll be the better for it.

If you forgive anyone, I don’t expect it, in all reality, to be forgotten.

Just knock the stink off of it and carry on….

I guess it doesn’t really matter if you forgive me. It’s been this way a long long time.

It’d be nice and wonderful and all that….but;

My love for y’all is greater than your hate, so if you wanna go on hating, go ahead.

I’ll love you forever just to piss you off.

Oh, and on a personal note; if the world starts coming to an end and you have nowhere else to run…

Come to me.


I will feed you and protect you.

Or, I will die trying.

Do you know why?

Because, I have always loved you even when I couldn’t see or hear you.

We’ve lost enough.


Some Fight, Some Quit

I had a friend that killed himself last week because of his ex-wife and his inability to face life.
He left behind 3 kids…
Ages 5-11
I am pissed at him.
Some people give up and blow their brains out all over the pretty floor….
Others fight.


An Insight: Who’s life is it, anyways?

A 14 year old girl with Cystic Fibrosis wants to die…

I’m tired, Daddy

“I want to die” she said.

The beeping machines beeped.
The breathing tube breathed.
The IV drip, dropped.
The Cystic Fibrosis, ate.

“Don’t say things like that to your mother” said Dad, crossly.

The patient looked at her small hands, laced with pretty tubes that pierced her skin, easing the pain, itching like hell and burning.

She didn’t tell her family that part, she didn’t tell her doctors.

She was tired of complaining all of the time.

It was a waste of breath and breath was precious.
It hurt to breathe, too.
It hurt bad.

The breath left her lungs; clawing, tearing, raking….
It came back in like a lamb.

She couldn’t hide this fact.
The pain was in her face like living stitches.

The tears burned more than anything else;
She was very aware of how much the tears burned; angry that the IV’s and tubes kept pumping replacement tears into her body.

Countless, endless bags of tears….

Enough, already.

She was tired…. So tired of crying.

“That’s no way to be” said Mom, quietly; with tear stitches of her own.

“I want to die” said the patient.

“Stop it!” cried Dad “Stop that pity pot shit, right now!”

“Honey” said mom, turning to look at her husband’s heaving shoulders and gasping back.

“You have to be strong” Mom said, turning back to the child.

“I’ve been strong my whole life, mom” whispered the girl, looking slowly up from her clasped hands.

“I can’t remember not hurting” she added. “That ain’t living, it’s dying.”

Mom looked at her.

“I’m already dead….” the girl, sighed

The patient laid back on her pillow and slowly placed her tube riddled hand on her mother’s.

A feather was heavier.

“This ain’t no life, Mama” she said, distractedly looking out the window as if following her precious words out, into the sunshine.

“Everyday is precious” said Mom.

“To you, maybe” said her daughter looking back at her with a sharp glance; “To me, nothing is worth this” She held up the tubes and shook them.

“You’re being rude to your mother” said Dad gently, but sternly; putting his hand on the patients bed rail. “That’s awful hurtful talk”

He lowered the rail and sat on the edge of the bed, looking back over his shoulder at his little girl. “Your mama don’t deserve that”

The patient looked at her Dad.
The Dad looked at her.
The beeping machines beeped.
The breathing tube breathed.
The IV drip, dropped.

Mama looked between them; silent argument tennis.

“I want to die” she whispered; her screaming eyes fixed on her father’s.

He dropped his gaze under the weight of her pain.
His hands were clinched…
Not letting go of his hope for an instant.

“No” He said.

The patient tried to scream, but couldn’t.
“I hate this! You think I wanna live for this! You think I wanna live with something inside me, eating me up, cutting me down, turning me rotten and crippled from the inside out, knowing I’m gonna die from it! Knowing it’s gonna kill me, knowing there ain’t no way to stop it!?”

The machines beeped louder.
The oxygen tube hissed angrily.
The Cystic Fibrosis, ate.

She gasped, falling back on the pillow.

This had all came out in one priceless, ripping breath.

Dad reached for her; she grabbed his wrist, tugging his big, shaking hands to her dry lips.

Dad could feel the cold oxygen between his fingers.

Mama walked around him and sat on the bed, putting her arm over her daughters head, running her fingers thru her child’s gorgeous hair.

“Shhhh” whispered Mama. “You gotta calm down, baby” She leaned over and kissed her child on top of the head “You gotta….”

“Gotta..?” hissed the patient “What do I gotta do?” “All I gotta do is die slow”

“Stop it” said Dad.

Mama’s lips were still pressed against her child’s head; her eyes squeezed tight as her pain spilled into the patients hair.

“I ain’t letting this kill me” said the girl.”I’m cheatin’ it”

Dad said “Stop this” his fist on his chest.
Mama kissed and bled more eye pain.

New face stitches…for everyone.

“I’m wanna kill it before it kills me”

“There ain’t no cure and there ain’t no chance” she said, looking at her dad; her hands pressing his hands against her chest as if trying to force him to pull her heart out.

She continued “I want them to take my body and study it” “I want them to figure out what in the hell was eating me alive!”

Daddy could barely feel her heartbeat.

She gasped…
The machines beeped angrily
The oxygen tube clouded up and whined.
The dust danced in the sunlight.
No words to be seen, now.

The patient slowly reached up and took her mother by the hands, looking hard at her father,willing him to meet her gaze.

Her father looked up and almost cried out.
There was fight in her eyes.
There was determination
There was hatred
There was vengeance….

……. She was serious. It struck him like a blow.

“No” He said and looked away, watching his will to defy her fly out the very same window her precious breath had flown.
The machine beeped quietly.
The oxygen tube purred.
The IV drip, dropped slowly.

He looked at her when her small hands fell from her mother’s….

She had fallen asleep.

“I don’t want to lose my baby girl” Dad said to the sunshine.

Mom was quiet.

Dad looked over his bowed shoulder again and fixed his wife with his own determined stare.
“I ain’t gonna lose my girl” He told her.
….. Almost a question.

Mama just played with her baby’s hair, pulling it’s long tresses thru her shaking fingers.

When Daddy started to reach for her, Mama jerked her arm away from him, slapping at his face and outstretched hand, hissing like a angry cat
“Don’t touch me!!”

Daddy stood up, almost falling; struggling thru her one swinging hand, grabbing her forcefully; God she was strong!

He jerked his wife against his racking, sobbing chest; holding her tight, pressing her face into his shoulder as he buried his in her hair.

His eyes leaked pain and shimmered thru the breath stealing sunlight, staring into a void, a barren future, nothing; He couldn’t, he wouldn’t let his baby girl go!

They too….. were dying.

Every minute of every hour of everyday they watched their daughter die a little bit.

Some days, she died more.

What kind of life is a life when a good day is one where your child only cries and screams a few times….?

They died as much as her when the agony shrieked from her body…. Well, when she still had energy and breath to shriek.


Seems like a thousand years ago.

Now….there was no shrieking. Now she could only gasp and weep beneath her covers, clawing at her pillows, trying not to drown in the middle of her bed.

They couldn’t hear her cry out, anymore.

She had a bell, beside her bed.

He feared bells, now.

His wife was quietly sobbing, her swinging, scratching hands around his back “What do we do, honey?” “What do we do?” she pled, her eyes shiny with all of the pain in the world of a mother who’s child is dying.

Helpless, hopeless, lost, confused, angry, murderous…hopeless.

The machine beeped louder.
The oxygen tube gasped.
The IV drip, dropped.
The killer kept killing….

“Parents, do no harm” the patient said.

The parents looked at her.

She was awake and looking past them.

“Spare me this” she whispered into the fading sunlight.

There was nothing to hold onto.
No anchor, no port, no battlements…
No hope, no cure, no divine intervention… Only each other.

But…their strength was failing them.

Their daughter was going to die. One way or another.

“I’m tired, you guys” whispered the girl

She put her hands above her head and forced a crying gasp from her lips, her eyes lifted to the ceiling.

The hospital room light shone on her pain stitched face as she weakly cried out;

“Do you hear me… GOD!? I’m tired of hurting, I’m tired of crying, I’m tired of Medicine, I’m tired of doctors, I’m tired of pain, pain, pain……. GOD!”

She spread out her arms toward a last, stubborn, lone ray of sunshine that had dared to approach her anguished appeals.

She fell back onto the pillow, the strand of sunlight slipping from her fingertips like a golden ribbon.

She had surrender in her eyes.

She looked at her parents.

“I’m tired of dying all the time, you guys” she said.

[Authors note: I have to stop now. I’m making myself cry. I have children of my own and know that I would rather die the most horrible death than watch my child die before my eyes. Take me instead,,OH, lord! Take me!
I’ve said those words… In a hospital, in a Chapel… Take me Lord, not him.
I’ll start again tomorrow when I’ve thought on this most terrible of nightmares for a parent to never awaken from. I pray, that none of us have to ever experience this. Because it’s real life and shit happens….. Terrible, terrible shit. I’m sorry… I’m getting emotional again. I’ll see y’all tomorrow. God willing and the creek don’t rise] 

– Your friend,

It Goes, Bump…in The Night

Where does depression come from?

It comes from recent rain and rainbows; music from your past, a babbling brook that loves to gossip; fresh cut grass that makes your tennis shoes green, or it can come from a beautiful woman that takes your breath away.

I’m a dude…

Depression can come from a baby laughing, the weird word on a roadside sign, the way you may see a person treat another, good or bad, or it can come from that sudden flash of understanding “Egads!” or a new, breath-taking perspective about something you weren’t even thinking about in just that moment; as a matter of fact you haven’t thought about it in sometime then…”BOOM” there it is….

“I’m Rich!”

Then, there’s the other place that depression will come from….

It can come from the dark, when your eyes are closed and your mind is supposed to be at rest.

*Mine hardly sleeps anymore*

It can come to you in the night; where things will go “bump” or watch you from your closet.

When the dark inspirations come, it is the type of nightmare that nightmares hope they never have….

It’s really real, man.

I would not categorize what happened to me last Night, whilst in my heavenly repose, as a nightmare exactly…

I did not twitch, jerk, wet my bed; sweat profusely or wake up screaming; tangled in twisted blankets, all of my pillows on the floor….

*There was a struggle*


I woke up, quietly.

My eyes did not jerk open in alarm or horror.

They didn’t open the way our eyes normally do.

They opened the way they do when you’re afraid of what you might see.

*What is that noise? *

“Am I back?”

Not “awake”….”Am I back?”

I remember whispering that to myself, this morning; I laid there for a while, in the dimming light, only a small, gray sliver of sunbeam from the window to stare at.

This is what struck me a little later….

I had gotten up slowly, musing on how real the “episode” in my night terror had seemed and how much of it I seem to have remembered.

It wasn’t like your typical dream, or mine usually; running thru our fingers like water or sand as Dickinson would say.

*You can’t remember *

This time, this one was sticking in my mind….

I dressed slowly, I got up slowly, I moved slowly….

I was exhausted from the dream burden that I now carried in my heart and mind.

*It’s all your fault*

*It’s all in my head*

Later, as I walked up the echoing sidewalk toward the office under a cloudy, morning sky, I stopped.

I thought…

Why did I whisper “Am I back” and not “Am I awake”?

Did I actually go somewhere else?

Did that mysterious part of my brain know something that I didn’t?


How else could I explain the sudden return from the undiscovered country of my mind, unless it has known how to get there and back in the first place; like it’s been there before, as if though it were a real place.

One thing was for sure…

I don’t wanna go back there.

*I do not control my mind*

*Depression is real*

The place…
The depressed place…
The really real, dude….

It is a dark place where you go to scratch at old wounds and make them bleed.

It is a place where you cannot cry;

…only watch and scratch….

It is the place where you talk only to yourself…but you never listen.

*I’m not crazy*

But, in whatever Gods infinite goodness may be, however you look at goodness;

…there was no running or screaming in the “place”, nothing chasing me, nothing breathing in the dark…..

The only monster there, was me.

*I am in the closet, watching*

This is the place we go to, to re-visit mistakes and regrets; as a restrained and gagged bystander we sit and stare; a silent witness to your own stupidity and ignorance; back in the day.

*We scratch and scratch… *

It is the place where you re-live your past and there is NOTHING THAT YOU CAN DO TO CHANGE ANY OF IT!

The only power you have is to toss your head in your sleep and moan “no….” “No….”

Or worse….stay awake.

*This part sucks*

You don’t gasp “wake up” because you don’t know that you’re asleep; you know…I know, that this is as real as it gets…

*Really real, dude*

In the awake place we can force ourselves to quit dwelling on the past, to get on with our lives, to quit “beating ourselves up”; we’re only human after all, we all make mistakes.


Not there; not in the undiscovered, dark continent of our minds.

The monster that is you sits across from you in a small room and begins to tell you a story…..

*Same old song and dance*

It is a long story, it is a true story.

….oh, so true….

*That’s what sucks the most*

“Am I back?”

You cannot protest, you cannot cover your ears, you cannot look away.

I have to look at myself, as I drone on….and on.

The worst part is, is that you are unable to believe the excuses you’ve made anymore…

You are older now, wiser; plus, you know you’re a lying bastard. You know your bullshit…

*Don’t fall for it*

Your monster that is you, knows that you’re a liar….

He knows how I can be….or was.

And he will never….EVER, let me forget.

But, you still try to soften the condemnations….

This isn’t really real, dude….is it?

“Am I back?”

When the monster that is you has finished with his tale, you just sit there, swathed in fresh guilt and regrets, all of the old wounds beginning to fester anew.

The fresh whip marks across your shoulders, face and back burn and gape.

No one can punish you with such ferocity and relentless spite and contempt, as can the very own monster that is you.


“Look what you’ve done” it
keeps saying…..

And I looked…..



I opened my eyes.

My eyes did not jerk open in alarm or horror.

They didn’t open the way eyes normally do.

They opened the way they do when you’re afraid of what you might see.

“Am I back?”


I’m sitting here in our break-room writing this. I am looking around at the vending machines, a gurgling coffee pot and occasionally glancing up at the humming lights. I’ll tap a key or two on my laptop as a new thought or memory about last night comes to me.

“Am I back?”

I can’t tell…..

It feels….

….like that other, place….


Wish I may…but…
It’s dark in here…

It’s always here….

The 3 Nephites

ImageI was homeless for a spell…

It was more like 2 years than a spell really…

The lowest of the many low points in my life

I saw no hope…No way out…

Not without swallowing a lead pill at least.

Yeah, I thought about smoking a gun.

I went so far as to wonder if the recoil would knock my teeth out.

Good thing I believe suicide is a sin, and I’m not even Catholic!

I was alone out here, in this big old, mean world.

I had family that would have probably helped if I’d asked…but I couldn’t ask them.

I wouldn’t ask them…..For fear they would refuse me; or even worse, preach; or even more worser yet, MAKE SENSE AND BE RIGHT!!!

You know, preach, pontificate, expound….tell me things I already knew and had told my own self over and over again, all while looking thru the bottom of a beer mug….or back at me from the bar mirror.

Like I said in one of my other posts: “It’s the ones that mean well you have to watch out for.”

“They’re the most dangerous”images (68)

I still had some pride during all that time, I guess.

Or WAS it pride?

Was it embarrassment?  Was it self-righteousness? Was it Crazyville?

I don’t know what it was; still don’t.

Lets see what I can remember…..

I was working for a temp company, doing menial work. I was also going to college full time.

I was blind drunk every night. I don’t remember each time, regrettably.

I slept in dumpsters, big tool boxes, boats in boat dealerships, under trees…my body wrapped in insulation that I had found in construction site dumpsters.

I slept in jails….when nice policemen would arrest me and put me in a nice room with puke and shit on my fellow pitious inmates and the cinder block walls.

Hmmm….I kept my clothes in a locker at the college gym. I took showers there too.wpid-1422924631320.jpg

I kept clean, I didn’t miss classes, I did my homework, I kept a 3.0 or higher GPA and worked 2 jobs on campus as a biology department lab assistant and a Computer lab tech.

And when it was all done….I would get drunk, incapacitated drunk and pass out anywhere.

I would often wet my pants while I….slept?

Sometimes I rode the buses around the city until they quit for the day.

Then I would stumble around in the alleys until I found a place to hide for the night, or I walked into the street; not caring that when the bus would hopefully run over me, if it would hurt or not.

I can’t explain the workings of an alcoholic mind.

I have no idea why I lived the way I did…if you can call it living…

More like dying in slow motion…a slippery slope covered in broken glass and broken promises….

They both cut deep…and to the bone.

I knew I would die if I kept it up.

A man can’t live like this.

A Man?   Yeah…right.

Anywho…let me think….OH!wpid-the-comedy-and-tragedy-masks-acting-204493_194_178.jpeg

I was sitting in the big city library (I didn’t have anywhere else to go) when I saw some homeless men in a far corner of the library reading the paper and some magazines.

I had noticed them before, silently thinking that I was glad I wasn’t that bad off.

It is the doom of man that we forget….

Then I thought “I am worse”

You see…I pretend that there is nothing wrong.

I think that is the worst part of it all.

Pretending to be…whole?

Maybe I was ignoring myself…..ponder ponder

Back to the library; like I was saying…

There were 3 men.

I can’t remember their names, which does not surprise me because I couldn’t tell you the first thing about what I studied in college during that time.


I sat down with them and began spilling my guts to them. I didn’t stop for 30 minutes. My words tumbling out of my mouth like dice.

They listened, looked at me a couple of times…looked at each other a few times…nodded their heads, shook their heads and just listened.

Then, when I had been reduced to tears at my own TERRIBLE life, my poor poor pitiful life…I stopped and they began to speak.

One homeless man had a degree in Engineering from the University of Georgia and had been a highly paid executive for Chrysler in Detroit. In one year, the company restructured, whereas he lost his job and his wife and 2 children were murdered in a robbery and he had then lost everything to lawyers and bankers.

Now…he says…he is a drunk that sprays Lysol into a zip-lock bag full of crushed ice, mixes it with Kool-Aid and packets of sugar, and then drinks it. You see, they wouldn’t let him donate plasma anymore, so he couldn’t buy the “good” stuff. His kidneys were failing and he had cirrhosis.

download (1)Oh…and he lived in an over-turned peanut trailer beneath an overpass, and half his toes were gone.

The second man was a Viet Nam vet that served 3 tours there as a Ranger.

He said his problem stemmed from the fact that the screaming in his head had never stopped.

The burning smells and running, burning people were always there.

“Everything smells like ‘Nam” he sniffed.

He said the VA gives him dope so he can sleep; when he can get someone to see him, that was; but he trades or sells his pills to other people so he can eat. You see, no one will hire him because he doesn’t have a permanent address….and because he’s a bum, he says.

The third man had been a teacher. His wife had taken his 3 kids and left him over fallout from the accusations of a 12 year old boy that claimed he had touched him on his “potty place”. The boy was angry over getting a love letter taken away that he had been passing to a girl in class, and had gotten embarrassed and teased by his classmates. The truth came out later, but the damage was done and the teacher taught no more.

“Once a baby fucker…Always a baby fucker”…he said.

I felt shame for bringing these men my plight….My sad story of a story.

“Where are your kids?” I asked.

None of them knew.

I knew where my kids were.

I didn’t get to see them as much as I wanted…my fault of course……but I did see them.wpid-img_4485-picsay.jpg

I just had to be sober enough, long enough to do so.

That was MY problem.

We talked a little more; the 3 guys and I.

Welp…..I bought us all a Subway sandwich using my student discount, and we ate outside by the library garden.

The sun was breaking through the clouds now, and the flowers smelled like Viet Nam….

The men finished their sandwiches and began to curse me; in a good way…kinda

They told me to get my head out of my ass. They told me they would do anything to see their kids again. They told me they would do anything to turn back the clock….

I cursed back “Then why in the hell don’t you change things!?”

Kind of ironic…me asking these poor souls the very question I couldn’t answer for myself.


You know what the Georgia grad that lived in a peanut trailer said?

“It’s too late for us” he said.

“It’s too late” the other two men agreed.

This cut into me….”Too late” they had said.   They had given in…and given up.

Had I…given in, and given up too?

They left me there, sitting in the garden….thinking.

They had to be back at the shelter before 6pm to listen to a mandatory church sermon that would allow them to secure a bed for the night and some hot soup. If they were lucky, there might be some fresh bread tonight.

They had told me that there were 150 beds at the shelter, and that sometimes fights broke out in the lines when younger men tried to jump the line.

There were still more people that never got into the shelter…and had to find repose elsewhere.

images (96)

It was chilly in the quiet library garden. How cold would it be after dark? I mean, we were in Utah, after all.

The guys invited me to go with them…to see for myself.

I thanked them…..I didn’t want to see that place…those cold, hungry, sleepy people….

Some of the people in this “shelter” stared at me, talked to themselves, cried for no reason; that I could see.

I wonder if Jesus weeps anymore…?

I was tired of sleeping in the ditch.

I was tired of drinking all the time.

These 3 men had shown me the dark path that I was beginning to tread.

I looked up at the pink sun as it began its descent behind the mountains.

I drew my coat around me tighter as I stood up and began walking toward a church where I would ask for help.

I believe that those men were sent to me….To save my life.

In my faith, I think we call them “The 3 Nephites”

I knew the sun would rise tomorrow, shining down on a peanut trailer…Viet Nam….a small town in Ohio where 12 year olds would go to class and pass love letters.

And I could rise too…

God willing and the creek don’t rise.angel6

Self Effacing

I wish I was a better man. Wish I may….


I wish I was the kind of man that I see in magazines and TV; sporting rock hard abs, great hair, surrounded by happy, sexually satisfied women with wind blown hair; moist, pouty lips, perky breast and signing away their ex-husbands inheritance to me.

Tubby, smiling Pre-diabetic, bilingual children that like to write on walls, the paid off owner of a shiny car that goes 50 mph faster than advertised; 100 mph faster than my neighbors car;

I wish there was a freshly painted house with a medicinal pot farm in the cellar, green lawns that weren’t painted or have briars, snakes or my neighbors dogs crap.


Wish that there was cold, hard green cash in 100 $10,000 bundles that I found on the sidewalk next to a dead pimp.

A $25 a day pain med habit and nice golf slacks; the checkered kind that even looks good in bowling shoes.

I wish I was a make believe man instead of a real man.


I’m the kind of really, real guy that’s chock full of insecurities and vices; brimming over with self contempt and Xmas spirit.

I wish I was the kind of man my son’s are instead of the one they blame for everything.

I wish I was, what I wanted to be instead of what I’ve done.


I wish I was the kind of man that was forgiven as readily as I have forgave.

I wish, I was, I could have been but, settled for…

The realness of it all.

I wish I could fly.

I wish….


I wish I wasn’t so fucking real, all of the time.


They never come true.

Christmas sucks

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