Only This, Again.

I will never be what I imagined or dreamed of….

I will never know everything.

I will never touch the moon.

I will not live forever and I still can’t accept this fact or believe it, honestly; even after my body has started to betray me by falling apart.

I have been a hypocrite, an idiot, a thief, a liar, spiteful, condescending, bigoted, biased, cruel, racist, a disappointment AND occasional colossal failure.

I have also been kind, loving, forgiving, patient, courteous, courageous, giving, a joy to be around and an occasionally successful with a task.

I’m just a regular guy, with a regular life, facing normal challenges and inopportune fiascos; doing the best I can, as I can.

I realize that I have unlimited, untapped potential that I know I will NEVER have TIME, in my life, to explore or achieve.

But, I am here, now.

A little sad today, but not too bad…

I’ve learned over the years how to keep those monsters at bay.

Just don’t feed them…

I don’t listen to my mind very much or at least I don’t take its first thoughts seriously…

It’s kinda ignorant…really.

I listen to my heart a little more in my older years but, I know it’s naive to a fault, still….after all it’s put me through.

So, I balance them out, best I can.

I’m just a simple man with regrets and future dreams in the same head & heart I started out with.

A little bruised & dented but, we’re still OK….

It’s not bad to not be perfect.

It’s the effort that counts.

My one saving grace is that I continue to effort the hell out of it.

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

Got Crazy? 


I was kind of surprised there was a gun in my hand….

It’s black and heavy.

It FELT like a gun you know, kinda cold and vibrating….

You know what I mean?

You can feel it too, can’t you?


Maybe that’s just me.

My gun will wield instant death with a ¼ oz trigger pull.

My gun is a dark travel agent with 6 one way tickets….

My ticket is first class express…

No unexpected stops.

My destination is unknown except for a long layover in purgatory, a spirit prison or nirvana…

That’s what the religion people say, at least…. 

I’m at the end of my rope; not the one with 13 knots, although I considered that route also.

I considered a neck tie around the ceiling fan, but I wasn’t doing this for shock value.

I didn’t want to hurt anybody else.imagesroad

I wasn’t angry at anyone, only the guy in the shop window, or the one staring back at me from the bathroom mirror.

I didn’t relish the fact that a child might find me whirling around beneath the fan as if though I were sitting on the edge of an evil merry-go-round….

My eyes wide, my arms outstretched, my legs swinging, a silent scream from my blue lips and swollen tongue.

I don’t want to make nightmares, just quit living in this one.

I’m angry enough at myself to kill me, I guess.

There are pills on the small table beside me, and a bottle of vodka.


They’re pills for what ails me.

To make me feel better.


No pain….at least that’s what I heard.

I had almost decided to take the whole bottle to make SURE I was healed….and feel nothing.

No pain….

I wonder if shooting myself in the mouth will hurt….

I don’t want to be found after 3 days, bloated and not looking quite myself.

I don’t want to puke all over myself trying to fight the body that was trying to save my life against my will.

I don’t want to mess up the motel bed either…. 

I thought about a nice hot bath too, with a razor or a hair-dryer.

But, I didn’t want to start a fire or mess up my the tub.

I decided to quit being considerate since that flies in the face of conventional thinking around suicide victims, so I’m in a nice quiet place now.

I only paid for one night, anyhow. 

“No luggage” the clerk had asked.

“Only a gun, pills and a note” I thought.

“No…” I said. “I won’t be here long”

“Check out time is at 11 am” the clerk continued, still not looking at me. 

At least until he hears the gunshot, more like an hour from now.

I shot him thru the top of his head….

“Thanks” I said.

“You bet” he said back; finally looking and smiling at me. 

You should be thankful they say, in all things.

Thanks for nothing…..

So, here am I, sitting on the edge of a strange bed.

I don’t feel thanks….I don’t feel hope…I don’t feel anything, really.

 I can feel the gun in my hand….

The hardness of the barrel clicks against my teeth.

Practice run. 

My tongue drew back from the bore as if though it were hot.

But it wasn’t…..gun

It’s cold; and it tastes funny. 

Looking down my nose at the gun, both my thumbs over the hammer…..I realize I am practicing perfect trigger discipline. 

I stuck my tongue in the barrel, wondering again, if this is gonna hurt…. 

Ha! If it would hurt…!

I thought you didn’t care anymore, you stupid ass!

I thought you just wanted out!

Blah blah blah Pfffftttt!! 

Pull the damn trigger already! 

I could feel the gun trembling in its excitement.

Guns kill, not people. 

No…it’s just my hand shaking. 

The gun was all business, as usual. 

Pull the trigger, blow yer brains all over the ceiling and bed, twitch a little bit, maid screams…  lawdy freaking dah

The El pistola knew its job….what it was made for. 



Expression of psychosis. 

I could see the hungry brass eyes of the hollow points staring out at me.

“Let’s get on with this” they said to me. 

Just pull the trigger already.

Don’t rush me. 

I heard a commotion outside of the hotel window.


Well, I wasn’t REALLY, in that big of a rush… 

I’ve been waiting 53 years for this moment. Another 5 minutes ain’t gonna kill me…. 

Wait, never mind… Ha ha ha! That was funny!

“…….ain’t gonna kill me…!” 


I laid the gun down on the table, knocking over the pills.

The taste of the gun oil had made my lips dry so I put chap stick on them….

Ha, life is weird. Even at the last moment.

Dry lips… HA! 

See how short my attention span is?

I looked out thru the blinds. 


I knew one thing I wasn’t gonna do; I ain’t blowing my brains out with people right outside my room.

The gunshot would scare them. Might be kids put there. 

Maybe give them nightmares….especially, yep…  there’s a kid.


I know what you’re thinking but, I am very considerate of other peoples feelings, well….at least people I’m not related to or the ones that ignore me.

I couldn’t do that to strangers.

I was raised right. 

I wasn’t being nosey, just looking out the window and watching the man taking luggage from the car.

The woman had the kid in her arms, swinging her around like a little top.


They were laughing. 

They were breathless and shrieking…..but, in the good way.

They were so alive and standing less than 10’ from a man that lived only long enough to die.

Pissing me off… 

They began to do the dumbest, goofiest little dance just outside my window, singing badly “Going to Disney World!”

The man picked up the future Mousketeer and threw her high in the air.

She squealed as she disappeared into the sun.

The mother jumping with fear and delight that her baby could fly so high!

I had to laugh at them, almost. It was more like a “Fuck you” 

They were so silly….

I “laughed” some more….the gun now; by my leg.

I licked my lips; good thing the gun oil was’nt on my lips no more.

There was only the taste of old, dry, salty tears.

It’s not a bad life, just a bad day, I guess…. 


Don’t know why I thought of that…..

I’m getting antsy, thinking too much. 

I flushed the pills.

I thought about hiding the gun in a trash bag; ashamed of myself. 

I changed my mind. 

I opened the door and watched the shiny, new people dance in the sun.

“Hey, did we wake you up?” 

“No, no…y’all are fine” 

They had noticed me…. 

The little girl waved at me “I’m going to see Cindarella!” 

I danced with her, my broken heart bursting. 

“Close the door and dream about hell” I thought. 

Fuck that, life sux.wpid-1422924631320.jpg

That’s when I decided to shoot them instead.

I hate happy people, with a passion.

I went back into the room and sat on the bed, waiting. 

This is a much better idea…. 

Gracious, Me….

I…uh, forgot that my kids might read this one day; or my grandkids; if they ever meet me, that is.

So, I decided I’d better keep this clean, just a tad, I reckon.

Resolution 1: Revelations

Let the battle for my immortal soul begin…451

Let’s say that as far back as you can remember that you have always known, or been told, about God the Father, Jesus the Son and the Holy Ghost as far as a Christian upbringing is concerned.

Let’s say that in your family’s house there were 4 forms of entertainment.

1) A complete set of Encyclopedia Britannica, weighing 50 lbs per book and smelled great!

2) 3 Channels on a black and white console TV whose screen resembled an agitated snowglobe.

3) A huge Holy Bible, full of classic art portrayals of significant Christian history; or so they say.

4) Tormenting your younger siblings

Let’s say that you are an artistic child who is being raped every other day by neighbor boys and your Dad is never home to protect you because work keeps him away for months at a time.

And when he is home, he’s always angry….download (4)

Let’s also say that these neighbor boys also like to “experiment” on you and “do” things to you besides make you suck their [censored].

Now, let’s say that you are extremely immature for your already young age and are way too trusting, terribly naïve to deceit, treacherous thoughts and are starved for attention from anyone that would smile at you….or acknowledge your existence.

So….you do things to make people like you, to notice you….to not hit you all of the time or call you “dummy” or “stupid”

Let’s say that you’d do anything…. The one thing that you do a lot is look at the pictures in the encyclopedias and the big Bible.

The pictures in the encyclopedia have articles explaining them but, remember….You’re too young to understand the big words.

But, the pictures in the Bible….download

Glorious…so beautiful; half naked men and women….Angels fighting….A big finger writing on a wall….a man walking on water in a storm….lots of fish and bread…people with golden rings over their heads making the peace sign……and a guy bleeding on a cross with nails in his hands and blood everywhere!

He even had thorns on his head!


Okay, let’s say that with you being this abnormally sensitive and artistic child, these pictures touch a part of you that nothing else ever has; where creativity and expression live.

Let’s also say that these pictures are explained to you by your bible scholar grandmother that tells you the men who painted the naked pictures of angels are bad, and “what were they thinking?”and that the guy on the cross died because I was a sinner and that if he wasn’t my friend I would burn forever in a place called Hell.

Like I said earlier….I wanted friends in the worst possible way….

I wanted the cross man to be my friend.

I didn’t want to be a sinner and burn in the place called Hell.

Would he make me touch his [censored], too?

Granny told me about the Devil.

My monster is bigger than your monster…

He loved to burn bad little boys and girls in Hell fire and brimstone.

Mom and Dad said I was a bad boy. A stupid boy.

Granny said that all little boys and girls are bad sometimes and if we didn’t know Jesus, the Devil would get us.

I didn’t know Jesus.

I knew I was bad.

I was gonna burn forever.

Granny took me to church where a man with a fat, red face shouted and cried about Jesus. He told us that we were all going to hell in a hay basket.

The other big people yelled “AMEN!” They sang, danced, shouted, cried, fell on the floor and drank beer by the graveyard when church let out.

I looked under my bed for the Devil.

I kept my closet door

I was a stupid, bad boy that was gonna burn forever.

Granny taught me how to pray and how to ask Jesus to forgive me.

I couldn’t remember doing anything wrong but, I prayed anyway; just in case the Devil was watching.

Let’s say that this is about the time you begin to draw pictures.

Lots and lots of pictures…

The main theme of these pictures? The man on the cross…..

Drawn from every possible visual angle that a child’s mind can imagine.

Looking down on the cross, from below, from either side, from an adjacent hill, from the perspective of each similarly crucified criminal….

I mean, pages and pages of this scene!

I was obsessed with the man on the cross.

This is also the time when your family start telling you that you “are such a good drawer” that “you are really talented” (whatever that meant) But they were smiling when they said it so it makes you happy and proud.

So…drawing Jesus made me good, huh?images

I might not burn after all.

But Jesus didn’t keep the neighbor boys from holding me down and “doing things”.

I asked Jesus to stop them but, he never did.

Probably busy….I mean, I wasn’t the only one with troubles, right?

I didn’t tell anyone because they would say I was bad and I knew what would happen then.


Plus, those boys said they’d kill me and my dog.

I was 7 years old when I found out about Jesus, the Devil and rape.

I didn’t actually know it was called rape, then.downloadkid

All I knew is that when I couldn’t run fast enough or hide well enough; those boys would hurt me again.

I never told Granny because she might tell the preacher and he would tell Jesus.

I wasn’t aware yet that Jesus could already see everything.

I learned that at vacation bible school when I was 8.

I hoped he’d see what those boys were doing to me and tell the Devil to get them.

But, he never did.

Because they didn’t stop “experimenting on me” until I got big enough to fight back and didn’t care if they killed me or my dog.

How could Jesus see a bad thing and not stop it?

I mean, he chased those money lenders out of the temple with a whip! I saw it in the picture bible!

Granny had a picture in her house of Jesus painted on a piece of wood.

His heart had a flaming crown on it and it was bleeding.images

His eyes followed you everywhere.

I used to try and sneak up on the picture of staring Jesus but, he always saw me first.

I asked my Granny about this… “Jesus is always watching you” she said. “He loves you”

I didn’t know much about love then but, I knew a mean look when I saw one.

I was a stupid, bad boy, I knew about mean things.

This is about the time I started crucifying little animals; like: frogs, rats, fish, squirrels… .

This is also about the same period that I got baptized; for the first time.

Very conflicted up little boy…

I wanted Jesus to be my friend but, I also wanted to hurt something….anything.

Note: I don’t know exactly why I am revealing this on my blog.

I guess I’m thinking that since crazy meds never worked on me and that telling doctors about it was kinda surreal, you know, like it was someone else that all that had happened to.

Thank God, for gradual memory loss….

You think really deeply and explore parts of your soul when you write, so I write.

Things that can’t be spoken of out loud but, when I write about it; put it on paper….it helps.

The writing of these memories aren’t painful, they’re just memories.cropped-trey-header.jpg

I’m restating that the main objective of my blog, when I started it, was for this very reason.

To find myself.

To save the little boy.

To tell him that it wasn’t his fault.

To tell him that he isn’t stupid or bad.

Also to remind myself that I am a product of other flawed and tortured people that probably didn’t know or realize what damage they were doing to the little person.

download (97)
They can burn just a little longer….

It’s all they knew, too.

Maybe if I forgive them, they won’t burn in hell as long.

I guess we’re all a bit, scarred and fragile; a tad, imbittered.

Who am I to say “poor pitiful me” that I am the only man on this earth with a rough childhood?

Terrible…terrible world.

But, it happened to me and I suffered in myself and spread it to others.

I thought it was pretty bad until I “grew up” and noticed that I’m not the only person on this earth.

Hmmm…. I just realized something….forgiveness removes poison from a soul, not the stains.

Something else….

I love Jesus but, I’m still afraid of the dark.

What does that mean?

I guess I’ll keep writing….hopefully, I will find….something

The Devil may be watching.

It'll get darker before the dawn....
It’ll get darker before the dawn….

Stay close dear friends and readers…..

I can’t believe I’m 51 years old and still dealing with issues from my childhood.

Man, those people screwed me up.

Writer… Heal thyself.


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

Yesterday, When I Was Young

Who am I to judge,  now that I’m a crotchety old bastard with years of experience in treacherous human existence to apply toward the categorization, comparison and evaluation of my fellow man?


Why do I make assumptions, when my opinion doesn’t really mean anything, except to me and the emission of CO2 into the atmosphere, thus further damaging the ozone and the feelings of polite society?

Why am I brainwashed by the brainwashed, why must I reap what others have sown; am I a knowing, paying, thankful consumer of obviously, historical tainted goods?

I am a sheep and I give thanks…

Why am I a flawed man that must reap those poisoned fields of the earlier stewards of land, language and lies?

I don’t understand said the led, restrained horse that wouldn’t, couldn’t drink the water…right up to the point he almost died of thirst….

But, he did drink.

Why couldn’t I just be 8 years old for the rest of my life?

I didn’t know about hate, except in the form of tomatoes and buttermilk.

I didn’t know about fashion, except that I never wore shoes that much anyways.

I didn’t know about politics except that George Washington was first and Lincoln was second.

I didn’t know about mistrust except if it had to do with Yankees and niggers…

I didn’t even know that the sun could give you cancer but, I did know that girls had cooties.

All us boys knew that!

When I was 8, I knew my
Granny loved me and my mom was on dope.


When I was 8, I always wanted someone to play with so bad that I kept playing with the 13 year old boy that kept raping me.

When I was 8, I knew not to make my daddy mad.
He would hit me….a lot.

When I was 8, I believed in Santa Claus and Christmas magic.
I didn’t care about Jesus that much, only a bb gun I wanted.

Besides, I knew Jesus loved me; the Bible told me so, this I know….

When I was 8, I knew the Easter bunny and Tooth fairy weren’t real but, I always kept hoping for Peeps and shiny dollars.

I caught frogs, blew up ant beds, picked plums and blackberries, walked barefoot thru mud and briars…


I read about Uncle Remus and Brer Rabbit, Jack London and Buck. I read and dreamed about “My Side Of The Mountain…”

I dreamed about a home where your parents didn’t count the slices of lunch meat and mark the level in the milk jug….so they’d know if you’re a thief.

I dreamed about being Superman and a Johnny Reb.

I protected my home from  northern aggression for years but, they never came.

I dreamed about no more yelling and slapping.

I hoped Granny still had biscuits left over from breakfast.

I hoped I didn’t have to fill the water for the hogs that much today.

I hoped I could steal some change and ride my bike to the store and get a moon pie and a Coke.

I hoped mama wouldn’t notice the milk was a little weak…

Daddy didn’t worry about counting his Baloney slices. He knew I knew better.

When I was 8, I chased lightning bugs and slaughtered them by the thousands…

When I was 8, I could bait my own hook and lie about how big the fish was that got away.

When I was 8, I could lie about anything.
Telling the truth did not go rewarded.

Lying saved me lots of pain.
If it’s done right and points to other people…

Hey, I was 8.
I didn’t like bleeding.

When I was 8, I thought my name was “Stupid” or “Son of a bitch”

Granny called me “Punkin” or “Sugar”

When I was 8, I believed in Jesus but, I still flinched when someone moved too fast.

When I was 8, I believed in Jesus but, he never really saved me in this really, real world.

I hope his promise comes true when I’m dead because if it ain’t, I just went thru all that shit for nothing.

” But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”

When I was 8 years old, that verse was pretty.


Now that I’m almost 51, I’m freaking counting on it.

Over-all and roundabout I’d say I had a typical childhood.

I guess that’s pretty sad, if you can describe your childhood as typical…

I didn’t know I had it better off than millions of others, I was 8!

I didn’t know what guilt was, except when dad said it was all our fault that he was poor.

One good thing though…
Jesus taught me about forgiveness.

It works….if you believe in that kind of thing.


Where does inspiration come from?

It comes from recent rain and rainbows, music from your past, a babbling brook that loves to download (2)
gossip, fresh cut grass that makes your tennis shoes green, or a beautiful woman that takes your breath away.

It can come from babies laughing, a word on a roadside sign, the way a person treats another or it can come from a sudden flash of understanding and 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….

Then, there’s the other place that inspiration comes from….

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

It can come to you in the night; where things go “bump”

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

It’s real….

I would not categorize what happened to me last night, whilst in my heavenly repose, as a nightmare.

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

I woke up quietly.wpid-wp-1417908021574.jpeg

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?”

Not “awake”….”Am I back?”

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

That’s what struck me a little later.

I had gotten up slowly, musing on how real the “episode” had seemed and how much of it I remembered.

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

This one was sticking….

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

I was exhausted from a burden that I carried in my heart and mind.

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

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?wpid-20150109_062042-picsay.jpg

How else could I 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.

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.

It is a place where you only talk to yourself.

But, in Gods infinite goodness, there was no running or screaming in this “place”, nothing chasing me, nothing breathing in the dark…..

The only monster there, is me.

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

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….”

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

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.wpid-img_20150220_121756-picsay.jpg

Not there, not in the undiscovered country of our minds.

The monster that is you sits across from you in a small room and tells you a story.

It is not a long story but, it is true.

….oh, so true….and dark.

“Am I back?”

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

I have to look at myself.

The worst part is, is that you are unable to make excuses.

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 real….

“Am I back?”

When the monster that is you has finished with your tale, you just sit there, swathed in fresh guilt and regrets, all of the old wounds begin 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...

Wish I may…

Depression @ Midnight

It’s happening again.

I can’t even get a full nights sleep!

Brain always talking shit!

The depressed part of manic depressive, I mean.

I woke up, depressed.





Battling hard to keep myself upbeat.

At least I realize it. After I screw up and piss everyone off, that is.

Here’s how it is in my head: Everything freaking sux and I hate myself! But, I KNOW everything doesn’t freaking suck and that I don’t really hate myself.

I hate being crazy, but I know I can’t be crazy.

It gets tiresome always reminding myself that it’s all in my head and that I’m a lot better off than millions of people but, when I’m in my “mood” I don’t give a crap because my life sux and they can all burn in hell.

I really really hate it when the Funk sets in for a while.

I should have realized from the stupid crap I’ve been doing for the past 3 months that another depression was coming.

Blackout drinking…

Calling EVERYBODY I know and blathering to them incoherently, before I black out….Oh, and saying, drunkenly “No, I’m not drunk” When they ask if I am after knowing for a fact that I am…

But, they always ask….hoping it’s not happening to me, again.

Oh…..and not remember calling them.

“No I didn’t .. ”
“I did?”
“I was?”
“OMG, what did I say?”
“I did…?”

Never freaking fails.

No wonder my kids don’t respect me and hate me….

Hell, I don’t even respect me.

I can find people, when I’m blasted, that I haven’t spoken to for years…decades!

I should work for the FBI. When I’m…that way.

Weird, the way a person can focus on some things when they’re shit faced…

I can realize now, that all of the signs and usual indicators were there.

Like I said, the blackout drinking…
The crazy dreams…
The religious fervor…
Angry all of the time…
All there.

The one, forever problem is that I don’t see it as it’s happening and STILL do the stupid crap!

I’m really sorry for what my family has to deal with when I’m going thru this.

I wish I didn’t have to ride this particular ride.

Like I said, at least I EVENTUALLY realize what’s going on and I can try and use my little tools I’ve learned over the years to get myself back on an even keel.

However, I did fall short and relapse into the old evil.


That’s what kills me.

Over and over and over. Year after years after years….

Just like all the books say: “It’s a never ending cycle of despair dotted with little successes”

As I feel about myself right now I could care less what all the positive people say.

I hate you all and everything freaking sux. It’s all about me and my problems and I’m the only one that matters and wah wah freaking WAH!

Good thing I know different but, it still sux to go thru it.

Over and over and over. Year after years after years….

I just wanted, nay, needed, to sit on my pity potty for a bit, I guess.

Thx for listening and I apologize to all my family and friends.

Especially my wife….

Trust me when I say I don’t like being this way either.

I’ll be glad when it passes….

Up to this point it always has.

I pray it still does.

But what if it doesn’t stop this time?

What if this is the time I finally snap and blow my freaking brains out because my brain tells me that I really, truly do hate myself and everything really, truly does freaking suck and I actually, really, truly believe it!?

This sux….

Just keep on with the whole “It’s just Trey being Trey again” and we’ll eventually beat this dog.

Yes, we all may be 70 and 80 years old when it happens but hey, triumph is triumph and victory still tastes sweet.


It worked.

I wrote about it and I feel a little better.

I knew this blog was a good therapy tool.

Thx again for reading, y’all.

P.S: I don’t want all of y’all to burn in hell….really, truly.

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