July 31, 2004

I've been silent lately, haven't I? We haven't had much activity the past week, or we have, but not of the schizophrenic/psychosis variety, and work has been backlogged, and the weather has been hot. Stew does not do well in hot weather, neither do I for that matter, and his health has concerned me. Headaches, stomache aches, sometimes he throws up, and he is so frustrated with feeling bad physically that it is just one more thing to throw into the mix. All in all, however, he's been reasonably well grounded.

Then again, I've become accustomed to the minor things that happen on a regular basis, I take little notice of them, of the times he thinks someone has tapped him from behind when I am right there to see that there was no one there at all, when his perceptions appear to be just a bit off from what I see . . . (I don't like to say my perceptions are entirely accurate either, but mine are less frightening, so I tend to encourage my viewpoint. As a matter of political correctness, I don't want to give more weight to my perception than his, even though he sees demons and I don't. This is a joke of course. Sometimes it is good if I point this out.)

When the small incidents happen we deal with it right then and move on. He's able to deal rather rationally with these things most of the time. When he thought someone had tapped him from behind we were in a restaurant where we'd gone to escape the heat (around here, we don't all have air conditioning because we don't, for the most part, need it, so when we do need it we're spectacularly unprepared). After talking about it, he decided that maybe it was just a stray current of air. Perhaps.

Friday night, last night, I was at home with Andrew. The last time I'd seen Stew he'd brought me some groceries. Earlier in the day he'd had his truck fixed -- the battery needed to be replaced, and it had to be towed. He'd dealt with that very well . . . there is a tendency to panic at these things. Another car problem is another problem that he doesn't need, and the idea that it might be something expensive and utterly ghastly is always there. But it was just the battery, and bad cables, and it had all been fixed successfully. (Which is to say, the truck was running again.)

About 10:00 pm Stew called. He asked if I was in or out, and when I said in he said that was okay, he just thought if I was out that maybe I could stop and get him something. I asked what he wanted. He said a Coke Slurpee.

Coke Slurpees have been high on his list lately.

I told him we were thinking of going out and getting some ice cream, would he like me to get him a Coke Slurpee? I could tell there was something wrong, there's a distinct difference when there's something wrong as opposed to when there's nothing whatsoever wrong, and I do have some experience in these matters.

He didn't want to be any trouble, he said, and he started to cry. I told him to tell me what was going on.

There was a demon with him, at least one, and he hadn't eaten dinner. Stew, not the demon. We don't really care if the demons eat. I asked why he hadn't eaten, and he said he just hadn't known what to do about it. This is the thing, and this is what I tend to berate myself for: he appears rational, logical, and capable much of the time, and so I forget . . . I forget that his mind isn't working quite like someone else's would, or isn't in sync even with itself, and so I end up relying on him to tell me these things because I don't have any way of knowing otherwise. I think I should, that I should be able to tell that his mind is elsewhere, or that there are things going on within him that I can't comprehend, but, like I said, I forget.

I told him not to worry, and asked if he'd like some chicken pasta. We had some left over, still sitting on the stove, an experiment that had seemed to go well. He sounded so happy about that, so grateful that there was a solution to the problem of not having eaten. I told him I'd be over in a minute with dinner, a Coke Slurpee, and I would take care of the demon.

Andrew went with me, I told him we'd get ice cream afterwards, though he didn't need to be bribed. We went to 7-11 for the Slurpee, and he had to dispense it . . . a Slurpee is something I have not had to get, since Stew is capable of getting his own quite well in most cases. I also bought Stew a candy bar . . . I figured it would round out the meal.

Andrew asked if he should just stay in the car . . . "That might be best," I said, "This could get ugly."

Demons are not always cooperative, after all, and it may be too soon in our relationship to expose him to the demon slayer side of me.

Technically, I don't slay demons. I make fun of them, I refuse to buy into their trademark theatrics, I mock them. They hate that.

Stew did not look as bad as he has in the past, did not seem as tormented nor as out of touch with reality. I do believe, despite everything, that he has made quite a bit of progress. He showed me where the demon was. I didn't actually see a demon, but often Stew doesn't see them either, just feels their presence, usually behind him. I told the demon he was in trouble, that we weren't scared of him.

Unfortunately, while I was talking to the demon, he moved back behind Stew, who was standing next to me, so I was talking to nothing but air. I like to think the demon was getting the point anyway though.

I had Stew try the chicken pasta to see if he liked it . . . I didn't tell him there was a small amount of broccoli in it. He liked it, was happy, seemed good. He was doing well. We talked about the demon some more, about how harmless he really was, and I threatened to take the demon with me. For ice cream. Then shove his face into his ice cream.

This is not a proven demon fighting technique but I am, after all, going mostly on instinct here, and my instinct tells me that making fun of demons is more productive than fearing them.

I told Stew I'd take the demon with me, that he'd be safe. He'd already walked Honey, and she was reasonably happy and seemed content to be indoors and safe. Stew walked me outside, and then said the demon was there, behind him again. I told him to go back inside then, to leave the demon outside with me where it could be properly dealt with, and once he was inside and the demon outside the demon wouldn't be able to get back in. So Stew went back inside, and closed the door carefully, and I took the demon with me.

A few minutes later I called Stew from the car, to verify that he was safe and demon free. He sounded good. He thanked me. He had food, reassurance, been comforted, and felt reasonably safe again.

And Andrew and I made it to Baskin Robbins for ice cream five minutes before closing. Andrew told me, later, that the demon had made it out to the car before I did, so he had taken the liberty of slaying it himself and had stuffed it in the trunk, and would dispose of it in the morning. It is good to have assistance with the demon slaying. Last time I wrestled with one of those things I broke a fingernail, and it about ruined my entire day.

July 22, 2004

I want to have a party.

Okay, maybe not even a PARTY. I want to regain my sociability that I used to have. I want to have my place clean and in reasonable shape so people can come in (other than the usual suspects) and we can have a good time and do what I used to be able to do, feed and entertain people . . . back before I lost my life to mental illness. Okay, first step – cuz this is a small apartment – I need to get the place sorted out.

I started with Stew’s apartment today – not that he’s having a party, or anyone in, but it has deteriorated badly, and since his aborted move (when? Last year?) The boxes have not even moved. I started with his bedroom. A box for things to get rid of by selling or donating. A trash bag or several for trash. Dusting the shelves and putting books back on the shelves from the packed boxes. I left him with instructions to take some of the trash out and start eliminating the stuff that he doesn’t want or need. Of course, I’ll need to supervise that closely because he forgets and gets overwhelmed, so I just leave a box or something in an obvious place and tell him to deal with that first. The place is enormously dusty and cluttered, and he’s not liking it. I'm not surprised. I promised him that once we get it back into shape, he’ll love it again. It's a good apartment.

Anyway, so I need to do that with mine, but mine is not nearly as bad as his. I wish I had his kitchen though – it’s bigger than mine, lots of storage space. My kitchen’s too small for Andrew and I to cook in, but we do it anyway. Mainly, my problem is my business. It’s everywhere. Piles of it. Yup, I need to get the piles out of the way. Clean up the dining area. Find a place for everything and everything in its place. It’s a nice apartment – I want it back. Yeah, I think that’s what I’ll do – reclaim my apartment. Then invite some people over. Wanna come?

Listen . . . June 5, 2003 (Stew)

  
I was fascinated with tattoos today. Driving back up from Northgate I saw several tattoo shops, and I wondered how much it would cost to get one on my bicep? I think a ferocious grizzly bear would be kind of cool. But not knowing how much they cost, I had no idea if it was even a remote possibility. So of course I looked it up on the web. About $120 per hour, and small ones usually take about a half hour, so I imagine that the bear image that I’m thinking of would be about $200+ or so. No way I can justify that type of expenditure.

Then, after doing some more searching on the web, I found a list of what I would call post-op instructions relating to the care and management of a tattoo. What the hell is that about? I can’t remember to take my meds three times a day, how in the world would I remember to apply moisturizing ointment on a tattoo SIX times a day for five days?  I’ve seen people with tattoos, it seems that a lot of these people are lucky to remember to breathe, let alone care for a tat.

Ah well, I guess there goes my fantasy of running cross country on a Harley having my bear tat just waving around in the sun and wind. I don’t know why, but I’ve been looking at motorcycles with a more keen interest, too. But I have such a lousy sense of balance that I also see myself splattered all over the ground after just hopping onto a motorcycle… it wouldn’t even have to be running and I’d find away to damage myself. 

I guess, over the past week or so, I’ve felt my drawn to a lot of “macho” things. I went and purchased a new knife over the weekend, and I was just fascinated by all the different blades. I’ve decided I want to start collecting knives as a hobby. I’ve always wanted a sword – I think there’s just something mystical about the Scottish claymore – a sword that was designed to take out the legs of the oncoming horses during a battle. It didn’t have to be very sharp, just basically a big piece of metal with a handle that the typical warrior couldn’t really swing in battle. He would just grab hold of it, kneel down, and place it parallel to the ground, about knee high on a horse. When the oncoming horsemen would gallop, the horses legs would hit the claymore and the steed would go down, tossing its rider. The Scotsman would then pick up his claymore and pummel the rider with it with garish results.

I’ve also been fascinated with guns again. I don’t really want to own one, but I want to feel one in my hands. I want to fire one. I’m just craving the power that a gun gives somebody.

And cars. I’ve been reading Car and Driver recently, and have been interested in keeping up with the new trends in cars. I don’t know why. Just, again, I think I’m craving power.

Listen . . . May 31, 2003 (Stew)

I saw something. Or at least I thought I saw something. Just now, while walking Honey Bear I turned a corner and jumped; because I could have sworn there was somebody walking a dog just off to my left. But when I looked again, there was no one there. That’s the second time today I felt and sensed and could have sworn that I saw a presence that turned out not to really be there. First time was also when I was out walking puppy dog, and I was sure there was somebody behind us. Frustrating feeling. 

I’ve decided I want to become a criminal. After watching Ocean’s 11 and The Italian Job I’ve decided that I’m cut out to be some type of criminal. One thing about watching these shows, there’s always at least one person who has some type of disability, like hearing loss. I’d love to see a movie where one of the members of the team has a mental disability, like bi-polar disorder or schizophrenia. How about the completely dysfunctional “crew”. You’ve got your bomb expert – he’s deaf. A blind wheelman. “Lefty” the large one armed “heavy.” A safecracker with parkinsons disease. And the ring leader is schizophrenic with visual and auditory hallucinations. Yeah, I think that’d work. 

I was exploring the seedier side of the Web today – sites about hacking and cracking and phreaking. I also found sites that sell alternatives to marijuana, speed, and heroin. There was also this other site that had stuff for sale… from the basic lock picks, to password generators to ways of making free cell phone calls.

I’m not sure what kind of crime I’d want to be involved in, though. Nothing where anybody got hurt. I don’t know, a good heist of some type. But not gold. Gold’s too heavy and too hard to deal with. Something like credit card fraud. Something where the only people who get really screwed are credit card companies and their insurance carriers. (Of course, the stockholders also end up getting screwed because it means a lower net income, blah blah blah.) 

If I could figure out a way for 250,000 people to each send me a dollar, I’d do that. But sometimes you have to force them to give up that dollar… thus they get screwed by being investors in credit card and insurance companies. It all equals out in the wash.

Why should they be screwed? Why not? Somewhere along the way they’ve screwed somebody. We’ve all screwed and been screwed. Why not just profit from it once or twice?

And really, is getting caught that detrimental? Assuming I ever saw a prison cell, it would be a nice change I think. Sitting in a 8 x 10 cell staring at the walls. Not much different then my existence now. And there would be more people to talk to. Probably not the most pleasant of people, but it’s not like the people I associate with now are all that great. Hmmm… must ponder this some more.

And if I got away with it…say a score of $250,000, then I wouldn’t have to worry about much for awhile. I wouldn’t have to borrow money from anybody. I could pay off my bills. I could give Monique some money. And then I could just hide away some place where nobody would find me. $250,000…minus $10,000 for bills, minus $40,000 to Monique, leaves me with $200,000. Invest in a fund that pays a 3% return annually = $6,000 a year.
 
(Chart of financial returns goes here)

Hmmm…  looks like I could only survive for 10 years on that. I could live for 16 years if I did $300,000.  32 years at $500,000. That would put me at 64. Let’s try $750,000 – 78 years, I’d be 110. Okay, So, what if I spent $50,000 a year? Okay, it looks like optimally I need to get a million dollar and spend $50,000 a year, and it would last me for about 30 years. If we assume that interest rates will rise during the next 30 years, we can figure that we’d get a consistent income for that 30 years no problem.

But how to find a million dollars to steal? That’s the difficult one that we will have to ponder. 
  

Listen . . . May 28, 2003 (Stew)

6:40pm 
  
For the past several days I’ve felt twitchy. My right hand keeps trembling, and at times I feel the trembling up into my elbow. My breath seems ragged to me, and my heart feels like it’s pounding faster than normal. I’ve been trying to take my anti-anxiety pills when I notice this coming on, but it hasn’t seemed to be helping much.

I just got up from a nap. Before getting up I had visions… though these weren’t of cutting myself. These were of actually cutting something off. I thought and envisioned a number of different ways to cut off my middle finger on my left hand. I thought about using my cigar cutter, though it’s over at Monique’s place right now. And then I thought about the couple of knives I have, and which one would be better for it – the Wilkenson self sharpening carving knife; or the heavier and stronger butchering knife. It’s a good sized hunk of bone that I would have to chop through, and I’d really only get one good chance at it. Just hacking away at it seems like it would just take too much time and effort.

It’s like that guy who was in the paper a few weeks ago… the mountain climber who got stuck underneath a boulder and he used his pocket knife to cut his arm off so that he could free himself. My arms are pretty thick. To use a pocket knife to do something like that just seems very labor intensive. Not something I think I could do. But the finger, I think I could do.

But to what end? What would that accomplish? Would I be satisfied with just one finger, or would I continue to do it over the years and be left with, well, a finger-less hand. That would sure decrease my typing speed a lot. 

But why do I think about it? Why is it now almost a compulsion in me to have to find out what the consequences would be if I chopped off a finger? Why do I feel like it’s the next logical step?

What am I feeling? I’m feeling scared. Of what? Of just stuff. I was lying there in bed, and the thought, “I should read the Bible while I’m here, and awake.” But I didn’t want to. And then I felt guilty. I feel like I’m not being as devout or as “good” as I should be when I don’t cater to those religious whims that come over me. I feel as if I’m denying God. And the last thing I want to have happen is for God to deny me.

I took a look at the Books to Prisoners website. Those people appear to have a completely different philosophy than I do. Sounds like they were amongst the protesters during the WTO riots a few years back. I just want to help get reading material out to who wants it, I don’t want to get involved in some anti-establishment organization that sees big corporations and big money as being evil. I like big corporations. Some of my often used items come from big corporations.

Listen . . . May 23, 2003 (Stew)

 
I’m kind of down right now. It’s 10:30 at night, and the people in the apartment upstairs are having a party it sounds like. It’s times like this, when there’s a muffling of voices and music and stomping that I can’t tell where my thoughts end and the reality of their party begins. I don’t really hear their music as much as I feel it vibrating through my being. I don’t hear their voices as much as I hear mufflings that I confuse with the voices I already hear. It’s times like this when the anxiety reaches a more frenzied state, and that cutting really becomes a viable alternative.

I’m kicking myself for not being strong enough to go up there and ask them to turn it down a hair. I rationalize, “Oh, it’ll probably be only a little while longer.” Or, “it’s so loud, they probably won’t hear me knock.” Or, “I’ll be asleep in a few minutes anyway, so it’s no skin off my nose.” But the thumping of the bass and the laughter is getting louder. And my head is thumping harder and harder. And it’s rattling the fan above the stove.

And I wonder if it’s jealousy. Maybe I’m jealous because I wasn’t invited to a party. And if I was invited, I probably wouldn’t go anyway because the noise and people would make me feel uncomfortable. Such a state of contradiction I live in.

How come people can’t close the doors softly? How come it must always be with a slam? How come it’s always people upstairs who are the noisy ones? Why is it me who is always persecuted like this? Why am I feeling sorry for myself now? It’s so hard to concentrate with all of this noise, both real and imaginary. And to think there are some people who actually think I’ve accomplished a lot in my 32 years. What dunderheads. If only they knew just how little I’ve actually done, they wouldn’t be that amazed.

I didn’t think the music could get any louder but it just has. If I was playing a stereo in my own apartment, I wouldn’t be able to hear it this well. Sounds like there’s about thirty people up there. And I know they have the same floor plan as mine, so I have no idea where they would put thirty people.

Okay the anxiety has just crept past the boiling point. I’m going to go get my knife….Seven new cuts, all on my left arm and hand this time. I took the big knife this time, washed it in hot water and soap, used my lighter to heat the knife up, and then bounced the blade on the arm a couple of times… and then… slice. It’s cool how the blood doesn’t immediately appear. What’s weird is that it hurt more today then it normally does. Usually I feel some type of sensation when I cut, not something I would describe as pain, but some type of sensation. This time it felt more like the skin was being ripped then cut. Probably time to sharpen my blades.

And wouldn’t you know it, I was right. The party ended about five minutes after I cut. Talk about your dunderheads. 
  

Listen . . . May 18, 2003 (Stew)

“Write about what you feel,” people have told me for the past couple of years. Who cares what I feel? I don’t feel anything most days. It’s just sort of this numbness that feels as if it will last forever. Like being awake after being given anesthesia, the body and mind are numbed to any real stimuli, but the body can still move and function. And the mind wants to function…it really does, but it’s like it’s stuck in neutral.

            Can you imagine a worse fate? Having a mind that is completely stuck in neutral for eternity, but having a body that could function if the mind would tell it to? And then knowing that your mind is going to be forever stuck. Sometimes being self-aware is a painful proposition.

            Right now I’m staring at the keyboard, wondering what my next thought should be, and it occurred to me there is no next thought. And that’s the frustrating thing, knowing that there is no next thought. Sometimes I just realize that I’m thinking about nothing, so I ponder that. Is there a bigger waste of time then pondering your own sense of thinking about nothing? Yet, if I didn’t ponder that, then I literally wouldn’t be thinking of anything.

            I thought a lot about cutting today. The only reason why I didn’t do any is because I spent most of the day playing baseball on the computer, or some other distraction. I even looked at the knife briefly, and realized I was going to have to wash it, and burn it first before I did any cutting – it was last used to chop up a frozen pizza – can’t go around getting pepperoni jizz in my wounds.

            Sometimes I think it’s weird that I don’t have any piercings or tattoos. With as much as I like cutting or scratching myself, you’d think that I’d have a number of ‘em. I think branding might be something that would be kind of cool. I’ve been thinking about getting a cigar, enjoying it, and then snuffing it out on my arm…I’m wondering how that would feel.

            But branding seems like it would be an easy type of pain. It’s over quickly. It seems like it would be done before the pain even registered. I wonder what kind of brand I should get? Something classy, not like K-Mart or Target brand. The Pepsi logo would be appropriate. Yeah, the Pepsi logo on my right bicep. That sounds like a good idea.

            Also, is there much risk of infection with branding or burning? It’s hot metal, wouldn’t the heat kill the germs? Rub on a little anti-bacterial ointment afterwards, and then a few days of Noxzema to soothe the burn, and it’d be good as new, wouldn’t it?

            I don’t even feel guilty for thinking about this right now. I’m a little scared that I might actually try it, but really don’t I deserve it? Don’t I deserve the pain I inflict on myself? I mean, I’m quite the sinner, and sins deserve to be punished, so isn’t it better that I punish myself to get it done and over with? What’s the point in waiting for something to come down and strike me? Why don’t I just strike my self? It saves time and energy for everybody else who should be doing it. And since I wronged them in the first place, I might as well save them the time and money, right?

            I just took my nightly pills. One lithium, one geodon, one trazadone – three little pills to make sure I don’t go schizo in the morning.  It’s a bummer when I don’t take those nightly pills. I end up not sleeping very well, and I’ll wake up in a downer mood with a greater likelihood of having some type of psychotic break during the day. Taking all of these medications is kind of like playing craps or roulette at the casino. It’s not that anything I’m taking is going to cure anything, it’s more like having something severe happening less frequently. The Zoloft I take in the morning doesn’t mean that I’m not going to be depressed during the day, it just decreases the likelihood that I’ll slip into a major depressive episode. And for this run of luck, I pay $400 a month. Is that a good gamble? Would I be better off putting $400 on black 13? If it came up I’d be $14,000 richer. That would pay for a couple of years worth of meds AND therapy. 
           

Listen . . . May 15, 2003 (Stew)

Listen. Can’t you hear that? Why is it that I’m the only one who can hear it? It’s as clear as a bell in my head – literally hundreds of voices all talking and clamoring for attention. Sometimes it all just blends together into a mindless “whir” of white noise. When it’s like that, it’s not so troubling; it’s times like right now, when I can hear individual voices that it bothers me. I think that's maybe why I sometimes recite the same song lyric over and over again – to drown out the other noises. Right now I have Toby Keith’s “Angry American” going over and over again.

But, you know, the repetition of songs has always been there. I would always get a tune stuck in my head and it would last in there for weeks on end. I remember having some of the Bible school songs as far back as 3rd or 4th grade going on in my head. I’d have to think about it more to remember if I heard the voices as long ago as that. If I had to guess, I’d say yes. I remember feeling like I had voices and noise and clutter in my head for most of high school, and even junior high.

The voices don’t say much…yet it’s enough to drive me crazy. Mostly it’s highly critical stuff, and it’s different voices. I hear mom, dad, Dr. Hansen, Dr. Geiger, Nick, Jake, Monique. Sometimes I hear voices from past teachers; sometimes I hear society’s collective voice. Even other times I hear what I believe to be God and Satan. Satan’s voice is eerily similar to my own. God’s voice is eerily similar to my own, too.

The voices were talking in the shower just now. They were saying how I should be writing, but there was another voice telling me how crappy of a writer I am, and that I shouldn’t even try. Another voice said I should just sit down and read the Bible. Often times when I feel like I’m supposed to read the Bible, and don’t I feel guilty. I’m reading Numbers right now… pretty interesting stuff…how each of the twelve tribes of Israel were to take a census of themselves.

Anyway, the voice that told me to write, well there were actually a number of them, won out tonight. I’m sitting here writing this…this dreck.

July 20, 2004

Not much to report on, except perhaps yesterday's little meltdown, but that was dealt with in short order and life returned to a semblance of normality. I was in Puyallup at a business meeting that was just ending when he called, and when I answered I could tell this was not a social call.
 
I like social calls the best. They indicate that the world is moving forward as it should. This was not one of those calls. He'd been fine earlier that day, despite being concerned about me losing my keys.
 
I lose everything. Keys included, and especially.
 
But when he called he was not okay, and I didn't know why there would be such a sudden change. It seemed sudden, though of course that's how these things work, suddenly and often without advance notice.
 
Too much stuff going on sometimes everywhere. Too much stimulation, too much noise, too much heat, too much difficulty in getting through what many people consider normal, too many obstacles. And he's so tired of being so tired. He's exhausted. And it's hot lately, and he doesn't do well in heat. (Neither do I.)
 
I hunched over a counter at the office I was at and talked him down. Or up. I ssshhhhhed and murmured and I reassured and I let him know that it's okay to be frustrated and angry and it's even okay to be tired and it's certainly not abnormal, not with what he has going on and the meds he's on, the side effects can be so debilitating, that's why people often go off their meds. To get rid of the side effects. To feel awake again, to feel like they're in touch with the world before the firing of the synapses starts to resemble a war zone.
 
I don't know what any of that means, but I thought it sounded good.
 
I told him I'd be home later that afternoon. He was better after talking to me, or me to him, or someone to anyone, I'm not really sure, but by the afternoon, when I saw him again, he was doing much better.
 
I've assigned him a task for tomorrow. To start cleaning out his truck. But not to look at the accumulation of stuff that's accumulated in there and say, "I need to clean this all out now," then get discouraged and fail to do anything at all. Instead, take care of two items tomorrow. Just two. Three if he's up to it or inspired. Don't push it, don't expect any more than that. Just a small start. It's okay to take incremental steps toward our goals, to take our time, to not expect ourselves to have everything right where we want it when we want it right now.
 
We can take our time and do it right.
 
He still owes me an essay. (Are you listening, Stew? I need an essay!) (Of course he's listening. This is his book -- he has to listen.)
 
Overall, I'm rather happy with things. He's done well. I hate to see the pain, I wish there was something that could be done about that, but in the absence of a solution we'll have to just do the best we can with what we have.
 
And me? I'm in a good relationship with a special person. Life is proceeding as it should. I have too much work to do and not enough time, but that's okay -- it beats the alternative.
 
 

December 2, 2003, from Stew

Self-Harm 
  
What kind of freak am I? What kind of person subjects himself to being cut by his own hands? And not only that, but sometimes enjoys it? I’m not sure what kind of freak that is, but that type of behavior has become commonplace for me.  

I first started cutting about two years ago. Sure, I had held a razor to my wrist once or twice, but never did any tangible damage. But on that morning in October I just couldn’t deal with life anymore, and I took a knife and ran it over my arms a couple of times . . . and it felt good. I felt relief from pains being released. As bizarre as it may sound, it felt wonderful.

And right now, writing about it here, I crave it. I crave seeing the blood slowly drip from the wound. It’s really pretty cool how it doesn’t start to bleed instantly, but how I have to sit and watch it start to form along the slice, and then slowly start to pool, and then follow gravity’s path down the arm, leaving a nice trail of crimson behind it.

Family members, therapists, friends, have all asked me, “Doesn’t it hurt?” Often there’s no feeling with it at all; I somewhat zone out as I’m performing my little “ritual.” Other times it’s an exquisitely delicious pain akin to ripping a band-aid off your skin – you know for a few brief seconds that pull is going to hurt, yet you look forward to it. I guess it’s also similar to the feeling that’s produced when eating hot peppers – yes, there’s a pain to it, but the endorphin rush more than makes up for it.

For me, cutting is often the only way to feel those endorphins. There’s nothing in life that motivates me anymore. I can spend 18 hours of the day sleeping and wish that I could sleep for the other 6 hours. I haven’t experienced what one could call “joy” in years. Cutting is sometimes the only thing I look forward to. And, in my opinion, cutting is very liberating. At one time I looked at myself and thought, “You know, I don’t really have too much to fear. If I ever got into a knife fight, I know I could survive.” Granted, I don’t know how well I’d survive if someone stabbed me, but there’s the bravissimo of knowing that a couple of slashes on the arm won’t stop me.

And that’s the irony of it all, in a sense: I’m willing to hurt myself, I’m willing to deprive myself of pleasure, but I have confidence knowing I can survive. Survive what? There’s nothing to my life but an empty shell. There are a few good people who might be lost without me for a little while, but in reality they’d be better off in the long run. There are a few more people who might be like, “Wow…Stew’s dead? Bummer.” And then the great majority of people would say, “We didn’t know he was still alive anyway.” That’s my life. And yet, I actually go to some lengths to preserve it.       
My cutting ritual is actually pretty comical in a sense. I find my knife – a Wilkinson sword that I use for all types of chopping in the kitchen. I wash it real well with soap and hot water, and then I towel dry it. I then take my lighter (if I happen to have any booze in the house, I’ll first douse the blade in rum or tequila) and I run the blade through the flame a half dozen times – must get it nice and sterilized, don’t want to run the risk of infection now, do we? And then I typically proceed with thirteen cuts, about 8 on the left arm, and 5 on the right. Why 13? I don’t know. It’s mom’s favorite number (she was born on the 13th) and it just seems like an appropriate number. Oddly, if I were going to keep with my favorite number, it would be 11.

Afterwards, I wrap my arms up in towels and wait a few minutes. Then I put some ointment on the cuts (again, no pesky infections for me), and bandage up whatever needs to be bandaged up.

And this is the “joy” in my life. What kind of freak am I?

July 16, 2004 Part Two

 
First of all, I so much appreciate the comments that have been left. You have no idea. Really. Thank you so much.
 
I've been away for a few days, haven't I? Distracted, dejected, or something. Stew's doing pretty well thise week, even dealing with demons on his own. His biggest problem lately is that he's exhausted and doesn't feel well, gets migraines too. I keep telling him, "Well, if I had to go through the things you go through, I'd be exhausted too," and "It's okay, really, if you need to sleep."
 
And I tell him these things because it is okay. Because dealing with what he has to deal with is quite enough to worry about without also stressing about not being as "productive" as society says he should be. What's with that anyway?
 
I may have lost something very important to me this week, may have lost a relationship that felt so right that it concerned me, because I've come to expect that things aren't going to be easy. When they are, it worries me. I'm perverse. And the abandonment issues -- I figure if I can just head them off at the pass, it won't happen. This week I realized how often I was left when I was young. Left here, left there, with people forgetting to pick me up and take me to where I was supposed to be. Left to take the blame, though I wasn't old enough to be responsible, much less get my brother and myself home, especially with my older cousins watching over me.
 
My father and stepmother about killed me because my mother hadn't taken us home. Somehow it was my fault, another instance of me failing them. I was, what? Eleven? Maybe twelve.
 
Luckily I eventually learned to drive so I could transport myself to and fro -- good thing, since I seemed to be quite a nuisance if I had to go anywhere otherwise, unless anyone else had to go there also. But even learning to drive came with problems; my class was at the high school on the other side of town. At night. Every night for two weeks. No way could my parents keep up with a schedule like that. Public transportation wasn't around; if we wanted to be somewhere we had to get there on our own. Several times no one showed up at the preappointed times to take me to class, having forgotten or having had other things going on, and several times I hung around the school after 10 pm, with the place dark and empty and just a bit frightening, no one else around at all, waiting for parents to pick me up who had completely forgotten where I was, or what I was doing, or that I wasn't upstairs.
 
When I'd get up the nerve to call (because calling in itself could be construed as me being a nuisance) I was usually met with surprise: "We thought you were upstairs!" This after one of them, probably my father, maybe a friendly neighbor, (a neighbor helped me once, for which I was thoroughly chastised, there was to be no bothering the neighbors, despite the excessive cheap babysitting I did for them) had driven me to the school and dropped me off -- out of sight, out of mind.
 
This happened to me quite a bit. And I've made much progress. But I still think . . . out of sight, out of mind, and if someone leaves, they may or may not come back, really no way to tell until they do.
 
And I want to change. And this guy, he helped me so much. He has been steady and reliable and patient and so wonderful to me. And I have had the best time with him. And he has done so much for me, and there's still so much I was looking forward to. I hope I haven't lost him altogether, because that would majorly suck. But, me being me, I'd understand. Not like it, not at all, not in the least, but I can't blame him for anything -- he's been great all along. I don't think he knows how much he has done for me, how much I've come to rely on his stability, his patience, his ability to make me laugh no matter what was going on, and the way he makes me feel safe when he's around. And when he's not around, I feel safe knowing he's out there. I was finally getting to realize that he would keep coming back. Like I said, I have issues. I'll always be grateful for having him with me, whatever happens.
 
Back to Stew and the Diaries. He's done good this week. When I was sad and having the most awful day yesterday he made sure I had ice cream and let me wallow in my pain. Yup, things are coming along. After last week, and the week before, not a lot of psychosis to report, but that's NOT a BAD thing. No news, they say, is good news.
 
Okay, there was the demon instance. And he was grumpy the other day. But I'd be grumpy too if I had demons hanging around my apartment to torment me. 

July 16, 2004

Seen on Highway 99 today . . . a billboard . . . with a whale and the words . . . "Keep 100 Yards Away!"

I have yet to run across a whale on Highway 99, or on any street, but if I shall, I'll be certain to stay 100 yards away from it.

Later Stew told me, as we were sitting in his vehicle in the hot sun, that I was supposed to change into an animal when he said two words that now escape me.

I said, "I can't change into an animal now, not in this heat! They have fur! And I can't even be around whales, so I can't turn into a whale."

We shopped at The Paper Zone for paper for brochures and note cards for my sales and marketing thingie. I'm standing in the aisle, looking at the paper, and notice Stew behind me staring up at the ceiling, which had the open look of an unfinished ceiling. Then he said, "I don't have a reflection . . . " and he sounded a bit worried.

I looked up. "There's no glass up there, or anything at all, so I'd hope not. Don't worry, you haven't turned into a vampire in the past ten minutes."

He just laughed. He had demons behind him the other day, at his apartment, but he dealt with them on his own. Turning into a vampire would be something altogether new.

I told a client today, "Well, since you've ignored me for three months, this work is going to take forever if I do it here on your laptop; I can work much faster if I take it and work in my office."

"Oh, okay," he said, "After all, you do have a life too."

"Well, that," I replied, "And I charge by the hour . . . "

"OH!" He said, "I appreciate that! Take whatever you need!"

My clients love me.

Well, okay, maybe love is too strong a word. They tolerate me. They put up with me. Occasionally . . .
Same client today asked me, "By the way, we were expecting a tax refund and we haven't got anything yet, do you know why?"

I said, "Do you remember signing a tax return?"

"Noooo . . ."

"That's because your taxes aren't done yet. You filed an extension, and they'll be done within the week."

We aim to please here at . . . (my company). And (new company I'm affiliated with). And whoever else I'm being this week.
 
**Company names changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, and to keep this from being an apparent advertisement, which it isn't meant to be.
 

July 10, 2004

 
July 9th started out rather well, lack of sleep notwithstanding, but when I was just sitting down to lunch with a friend I hadn't seen in quite a long time I got a phone call. Stew was down, so far into the pit of confusion and being overwhelmed that he didn't know what to do, and he didn't know if he could go on, and he was so upset, and he sounded so bad.

He hadn't had his anti-psychotics the night before, he ran out and had forgotten to get more. It's amazing what a few hours without anti-psychotics can do, how quickly he can become overwhelmed and start feeling psychotic. He knows the feeling now, when he starts to become psychotic.

I told him to do nothing, to forget about all the tasks he had to do, and that when I returned from my afternoon client we'd go to Costco and get his meds. Until then, do nothing, just relax, stay in a safe place and decompress. Or try to.

And I had my lunch, and then I stopped off to see him for a few minutes before going on to my client's. He was a bit better, he'd been somewhat comforted by my reassurances earlier, enough to regain a bit of perspective.

After I finished with the client we went to Costco for his meds. He said he could go, and I do encourage him to do what he can instead of retreating, but of course I wouldn't let him go by himself, not in that condition, no way. He drove, and we made jokes along the way. What else is there to do?

We dropped off the prescription, the crowds being somewhat of an annoyance, but we managed. We were going to wait at a nearby Starbuck's for the half hour it would take to get the scrip filled, Costco having way too many people and too much activity. Starbuck's was no better however. Inside he became quite agitated, had to go to the isolation of the restroom, and I waited, not knowing if he'd be coming back out soon or not. And when he came out he mumbled something about vultures all around trying to grab at him, to eat the dead, and he was dead.

There's not much a latte can do for one in that situation, so I steered him out of Starbuck's and asked him to sit in the truck with me while I called my bank. They had a hold on my debit card until I would call and verify transactions. I don't know why -- the most suspicious activity on my card was a charge for $2.49 at a bakery. I should never escape from a bakery spending that little.

I told him the vultures (other people) weren't really after him at all, they were just being people, milling about and crowding and just being. And we sat in the truck and it took about 20 minutes to deal with the bank anyway, so we didn't have time to be bored.

We waited in line. We got the meds. Drove home. He went home, and I realized the day was gone and I hadn't done some of the things I'd planned on. But that's just how these things happen. Stew's mom IM'd me, I told her he was doing okay, and she said there was something on tv, she'd talk to me later, and I broke down after that.

Just tired. Just wondering when it's my turn, which is really stupid because it's always my turn. I don't feel I can inflict myself on anyone else, so I try to keep self-contained, knowing that if I don't, I'll only drive people away. I'd like to feel I can rely on someone, but I don't feel I should. Knowing that it's true what people have said that no one will be serious about me, about being with me, as long as I take care of him, but knowing that there is nothing else to be done. I have someone, but he can't possibly be serious about me, I don't see how anyone could be, and that's under normal circumstances. With my extenuating circumstances? No way.

So I get over it. I go on. That's all any of us can do. Things just are what they are.
Stew and I talk about me getting remarried. He knows that's what happens. But who'd want me? That's what I don't understand.

A. came home, after I was about done feeling sorry for myself. (So pathetic!) And right away he made me feel better, he always does. I'd almost forgotten how good this feels. And I was afraid this would happen. I get too attached. I'm hopeless.

On another subject entirely (the subject of me is boring even me, so I can imagine what it's doing for you) I've had an idea for a book rolling around in my head. Okay, so this is still about me. I'm incorrigible.

Stew's doing better today. Back on his meds. Two incidents this week. No wonder he's exhausted. I reassured him about that today, that of course he'd be exhausted and needed rest . . . I needed rest, and I'm just a bystander. It must be incredibly draining for him. The repercussions of his "condition" are more than just the immediate problems, each incident leaves a miasma behind, a density that we have to navigate out of carefully and slowly . . . too quickly, and recovery may not happen. Might have to go back through another incident first. It's a balancing act.

But another week has passed anyway. It always does.

July 9, 2004

 
There was a time when I thought that we were perhaps at the end of this particular journey. Not the journey itself, but the telling of it. But writing it down here, I'm not so sure. I could be wrong; it does happen.

I don't know why I can't sleep well -- I wake up often at 4 am or so and can't get back to sleep. So I get up, I come out here to my laptop, and I do some work or I do some writing, and then later I can go back to sleep. And I do sleep well, I think, when I sleep. And Andrew is there, and I sleep very well with him. I think this is serious, but don't tell him that, okay? I don't want to scare him away.

Stew did well yesterday. We went to meet someone who needed some consulting on selling a product on ebay, and since he is working at being an expert, I took him to see her. I know little about ebay myself, but that's because it's not my job, it's his. She was referred to us by Sven, because I'd mentioned to him that selling on ebay was one of Stew's talents.

So we met with her. And though he'd been extremely anxious about it, and wasn't sure if he knew what he was doing or how to do it, it all came together well. He did most of the talking, which, considering I was just along for the ride, is good -- if I'd had to take over I would have sounded like I didn't know anything. He gave her advice, suggestions, and then set her product up on ebay right then and there, posted and up for sale. A trial sale to see how it goes.

I was her first customer. I wanted to be the first. And somehow I got myself retained to do some editing for a project she's working on. My current work load is chaos as it is, a mish-mash of assorted tasks in different fields altogether; bookkeeping, consulting, training, sales and marketing, vocational rehab (I like to add that last one in even though no one is paying me for it -- I feel like I do it anyway) so why not go ahead and so editing and writing again?

Why not? I think I need an assistant though.

Anyway. He did well. Comported himself well, was helpful and knowledgeable, got the job done while we were there, didn't hesitate. I am so proud of him -- he goes and does what he needs to do, and he doesn't let the fear get in the way overly much. It's a continuing process of course -- he'll have bad days and good days. He forgot to get his scrip renewed for his anti-psychotics yesterday so today might be a not-so-good day, but I asked him to go to his weekly support group anyway, not so much even for the therapeutic aspects but just the socializing. The socializing IS, I believe, therapeutic, it's an important part of him getting on with things. It's difficult of course, but I like to think that just makes it more rewarding when it works. It's so hard for him to be around people sometimes. So today he'll get his scrip and go to therapy, and perhaps start cataloguing the laserdiscs I brought home from another client who wants them sold on ebay . . . assuming I remember to get my car over to his place so he can get them out of the truck. And for the weekend I have some data entry work for him to do.

I make the boy work, that's true.

I think I'll go back to bed soon - it's almost 5:30, and I should get some sleep before I get up.

July 7, 2004

 
The med management issue may be solved. Stew went to see a "doctor" yesterday -- to the clinic we used to go to, back when we went to doctors. About time too. His old PA or whatever retired, so he had to see someone new. He was a bit stressed about it -- a new situation, a new person, having to repeat himself all over again . . . and it's hard to tell how anyone will respond.

It went well, though he left rather anxious. Made him sad. Exploration of this feeling led me to believe that it came from the new doc's wanting to try new drugs, change drugs, stir things up . . . of course that's going to cause some anxiety, create some stress, cause some concern. First on the agenda: get the lithium checked. That's been delayed for too long; it's supposed to be done every three months, but it's been much longer. Then a follow-up in a month. So far, the talk of changing meds is just talk, so I told him not to worry about it, there's time to worry about that later, say, for example, once something's actually being done.

She told him he had OCD. Well, that could be a component of the bipolar. I'm afraid to let him go to a doctor because he seems to come away with new diagnoses rather frequently. OCD, bipolar, borderline, schizo-affective, anxiety, depression . . . and migraines. Med changes might help. She doesn't like some of the things he's been on. That's the problem with meds; rather difficult to say what might help or not until it's tried.

Dog stayed with me last night. It's been a long time. I lay in bed last night with A. holding me and Dog curled up next to me, and wondered why I seem to be missing a component. Ah well, that's an entirely different subject altogether, one which I find tedious and am sick of, but can't seem to forget about either.

For the second day in a row I've been awake at 3 am. It used to be 4 am was the magic hour, now it's moved to 3 am. And now that it's 4:30 am, I'm going back to bed. Much work to be done today -- I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed with the things that need to get done. Probably should get some sleep, right?

July 6, 2004

 
I wonder sometimes if anyone is reading. I wonder how I manage to keep sleeping on my ear wrong so that I wake up with it sore. It's 3:18 am and I wonder why I'm awake.

These are questions not easily answered. I'm rather profound this time of day, so watch out.

Stew owes me an essay. I told him that several days ago, that now that he was coming out of another crisis he needed to write it and send it to me. He hasn't done so yet, and when I mentioned it yesterday, that he still owes me an essay, he asked, "About what?"

Sigh.

I told him about what, and he said, "But I don't remember anything." That's one of the problems with documenting, isn't it? How's he supposed to tell about things he can't remember?

But I remember. And once again I want to say to him, in my most patronizing tone of course, "Gee, that must be so hard for you!" He'd look at me like I'm demented, as he should. Sometimes it's hard to know what to say, though I know him well enough to always forge ahead anyway. I know that's rare though -- it's not entirely common for people to be able to relate to what he's going through; it's outside their experience, they don't understand it.

It is a betrayal, and who wants to think of betrayal? His brain has betrayed him, and if we can't count on our own brain to tell us what's what, what can we rely on? It's the closest thing we have to us, and while it doesn't always tell us the truth, that's often to protect us, to hide things we'd be best not seeing. But for it to consistently lie like that?

He did well on the 4th. Called me once and left me a voicemail, where I was in a sea of other people, waiting for the fireworks, to ask me to tell him that people weren't out to get him. I called him back when my cell let me know I'd missed a call . . . my service was jumping in and out. And I reassured him. Told him that no one was after him, that when he and Honey were out walking and there was all that noise and people and fireworks they weren't after HIM, or even her, they were just doing what people do, and that he'd be safe inside, that no one wanted to hurt him, or get to him, and that'd everything would be okay.

After the fireworks show, when we made it back to the car, I called him again, just to follow up.

I like to follow up.

And he was doing okay. Honey had fallen asleep, and he was about to, despite the noise still outside. He was okay. He did good. The following day he seemed to be fine, unaffected by the trauma of the previous night.

Onward and upward.

April 15, 2004

Tax Day 2004

I loathe tax day. Partly because I'm in the wrong line of work, partly because, well, doesn't everyone? I'm not myself anyway, I don't know who I am, but I'm off lately, haven't been well for several days, my spectacular crash of last week, while past and done with, created a lag in the space-time continuum (that describes it as well as anything else I can come up with). I've felt sick, I've had a change of meds, I've been weak and dizzy and exhausted, yet I feel emotionally strong. If befuddled. Definitely befuddled. Overwhelmed at times, definitely overwhelmed.

And it's tax season. Yay. I am, of course, behind on all the tax work, and since I refuse to do taxes myself this comes as no surprise to me. I am at work early, though not necessarily productive. Extensions, last-minute things, payrolls, and I just did not feel well.

He came over about mid-morning, he and the dog. She stayed with him last night because I wanted to try to get some sleep. I haven't been sleeping the best, and I thought it would help if she weren't waking me up at odd hours of the night. Not that it seems to have mattered . . .

I'm scattered today, doing too many things at once, just wanting to get things in the mail so I can move on to the next project. He wants to help, and the help I need is just to be here -- the first three hours of the day I worked in solitude, and sometimes I could do with a bit less of that. I love working for myself, but sometimes there is a lot of solitude. Especially since I've trained the clients not to bother me with phone calls.

And I'm not doing the best, but I'm working on it and holding up.

He does not. What happens has nothing to do with me, it's an external stimulator, but I won't go into that here. And he breaks down. I tell him it'll be okay, and when he goes to leave to go back to his place he gets worse. I tell him to stay, to sit down, that I'll be done soon and we can get out for a bit. I know what's wrong, but there's no fix for it. He thinks it's silly, but I tell him he can tell me anything because nothing is really all that silly. And it isn't. It never is, really. Irrational, maybe, but not silly.

I'm still incredibly stressed.

I finish what I have, I make a couple of calls, I need to get out of the house for a bit. We leave to go to the post office and Kinko's, and to drop off a tax return at a client's, a tax return that did not come to me in the mail from my tax preparer on time so she had to fax it to me this morning.
And I feel like crap, I really do. I wonder if I have the flu. Dengue fever.
Malaria. Entropy. Something.

We go. He drives. I know what's wrong, and I can't fix it, I can only tell him that there is nothing wrong with his feelings because there isn't anything wrong with his feelings. I emphathize, for all the good that does.
We drop off the mail, we make the copies, we head towards the client's. He loses it in traffic, becoming angry and impatient, frustrated. And it concerns me, of course it does, and I begin to feel the familiar note of hopelessness rise within me.

So I tell him we'll drop off the tax return at the client's, then we'll get some clam chowder at the waterfront. When in doubt, call on food.

Lunch does not appear to be going well. He's morose, sad, angry, very angry, though he can't define it or say why. He's ready to explode at any time. And he breaks down at the table. He takes his knife, it's only a butter knife, but he takes his knife and he presses the blade against his arm, and I know he can't hurt himself that way and he won't, but I make him give me the knife anyway, and he does, and then he breaks down. I ask if he's okay, or if he needs to leave, and he says he's okay. He goes to the restroom to beat up on things.

When he comes back he says he's okay. And he takes some of the focaccia from the basket and squeezes it tightly in his hand and then gobbles it down. And he does it again. And I laugh. He puts pepper in his Pepsi. He puts his bread in his Pepsi, then eats it. When he eats his quesadilla (shrimp, we are at a seafood place after all) the cheese falls down the front of his shirt and he cleans it off by putting his jacket into his mouth. I can't help laughing. The jacket is subjected to this abuse several times. I take the ketchup away from him once, unsure what he's going to do with it, but certain it won't be a good thing. Indeed, he had planned on putting it into his Pepsi to see how that would taste.

"You're back, aren't you?" I ask him, unsure if he is or not.

"I'm having a psychotic break," he announces, and his behavior would seem to indicate some sort of psychotic episode. But all in all, it's better than he was, it's life of an eccentric sort but it's life.

"Are you laughing at me?" he asks, and of course I am, but I'm laughing because he's THERE, because the anger has been released and because he is THERE, and I don't care if the other patrons are finding anything about us odd or not, it doesn't matter.

He's there, back from the precipice. We eat dark chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert, so dense I can only eat a few bites. And when we leave the restaurant I yell out "Tax Day 2004!" I don't know why. I'm just wanting it to be over, another tax day survived.

I've felt better. I plan on feeling better again soon. I planned on it today. I'll plan on it for tomorrow. Until then, I'll just continue to do what I've been doing. Keeping my distance from the precipice, and helping him keep his distance as well.

July 1, 2004

The stereo is on. I tell him he can turn it off since he's turned on the tv.
He says, "Didn't I do that?"

"Well," says I, "it's playing, so I think not."

"Oh," he says, "I just thought it was the voices in my head in tune for a change."

And another day has passed successfully.

May 12, 2004

I got Krispy Kremes last night. Delivered straight from the Krispy Kreme store, a gift just for me from Andrew.

It's the little things, isn't it?

And Stew went back on his anti-depressants yesterday, so the two of us celebrated by having dinner out. Much cause for celebration -- after several days of no Effexor, the poor guy was transparently psychotic, even though he still had anti-psychotics. He'd reduced the dosage of those, in an attempt to make them last longer. And the Effexor ran out altogether. And the other pills weren't picking up the slack.

Whew. Interesting few days there. These things always happen before a weekend, when it's even more difficult to get scrips. His psychiatrist did call them in to Costco Friday, but Costco lost them. When he still didn't have any on Monday and couldn't reach anyone he called me, and I called his psychiatrist and had her paged. She had fired him recently, told him he needs ongoing care, so he feels rejected once again. He also tried calling his primary care doctor, NP actually, on Monday -- she's apparently retired, so there's no one there. This did not help the rejection theme. The health care facility his psychiatrist is referring him to for ongoing care is unsure they can help him since he is not yet on Social Security and has only private disability right now -- and no money. That's the problem. No money.

I was working a charity auction Saturday night, something I had not been looking forward to because of organizational conflicts and the board being unprepared for said auction -- any failures would come back to haunt me, as the person in charge of collecting the money. Anyway. So Stew called. He'd been to the store, and was certain people were after him.

Paranoid schizophrenia.

I told him they weren't. I made jokes. I asked him what he had to eat at his place. He looked at his cupboard and started laughing at the mac and cheese boxes because there were, he said, so many . . . . laughing is good, and I'd rather be around a psychotic who laughs than one who's contemplating homicide, but when he's like that the laughing is scary too, it doesn't stop, it has an intensity of hysteria in it that hints at deeper darker motivations. I hung in there and we eventually got it stopped.

And I reassured him he was safe inside his apartment, that no one would get him there, and that I would stop by on my way home with some dessert for him.

Someone usually gives me some dessert to take home. I don't have time, while I'm there with 100 people lined up waiting to see just me and no one else but me, to eat my dessert.

When I stopped by later that night, around 11 pm, he was okay, though visibly shaken and unsteady. Okay is a relative term around here. He had on his hooded robe, the one that makes him look like one of those little hooded guys in Star Wars who run around frantically, except bigger.

It's a good look for him some days. I gave him my half of a chocolate cream pie and quarter of lemon meringue I'd been given -- he doesn't like lemon meringue, but that's okay. I made sure he was settled, and doing okay, and would be fine for the rest of the night. "No one is after you," I told him.
Which then made him feel unwanted.

Sigh.

We do what we can.

And then I returned to my home, tired, late, just wanting to rest, Andrew waiting for me, to hold me and laugh with me.

Stew came over to my place on Sunday. I told him to come over and we'd go to the store. He showed up in his hooded robe, a first. He thought it was a good idea at the time. I told him it was okay to leave the robe, that we could go out with him wearing his shorts and t-shirt.

Anyway. He crashed several times over the weekend. And I shored him up, a temporary retaining wall strong enough to keep him from collapsing altogether. And Tuesday, finally, he got his meds. Now he can get back on track, continue with trying to put together a life centered around him and not his disability, which should be just a glitch and not the sun his life revolves around.

Day by day, that's how it's done, right?

March 23, 2004

He sits in the chair in the corner, and he tells me he wants to take the spray bottle of Febreze that's sitting next to him and spray it in his mouth.

I tell him not to, remove the Febreze from his reach, and ask if he wants a cookie. A health food cookie. I just had one. They're quite good.

He says he's suddenly having suicidal ideations.

I ask if he's depressed. Leave it to me to ask the obvious.

He says he's not any more depressed than usual.

I'm supposed to be going out to dinner in a bit.

He doesn't know what's going on with him, he can't describe it nor define it.

He asks what I'm doing. I tell him I'm writing this as we speak. He says to be sure I tell you about his shoes.

We bought him new shoes the other day, New Balance shoes because no one carries Reeboks anymoe. He loves Reeboks. His old ones were falling apart.
He wore his new ones today, and then, when he came over just a bit ago, he had one old shoe on and one new shoe. When I asked why he said it was because "I don't want the old pair to get lonely." Apparently we're on a rotating schedule to let the old pair out slowly and painlessly.

I'm going out for pasta soon. I ask if he'll be okay while I'm gone.

He nods his head, he affirms that he'll be okay, that nothing drastic will happen while I'm out living my life. I ask if there's anything I can do, and he says, "No, I don't think so."

He just feels, he says, "stuck." Just in general. I wish he could define it a bit better, verbalize what's going on, so I can offer something up, but as it is, I don't know what to say. He has a list of things to do, but says when he looks at it he feels like he's done it all but he hasn't.

I tell him we'll make a new list, in the morning. This should work. We work off a task list I make in Outlook. Tasks for me, tasks for him. I need to add to my list too, and refine and rework his list. He does better with a list, doesn't get lost so much, doesn't founder in the daily details of living.

So tomorrow we'll make a new list. He doesn't think he'll cut tonight because, as he says, "I'm just too lazy tonight." All his knives are dirty and he's too lazy to clean them -- he won't cut with a dirty knife. Lack of hygiene does have its good points.

I'm going out to dinner. He'll go back to his apartment and hang out with the dog. I'm having pasta for dinner. He hasn't decided what to do for dinner yet. I brought him Mexican food for lunch -- I had lunch with a friend but I only eat half my food anymore, and I always bring him the rest.


He asks if we picked up his lithium yesterday. I tell him that was today, we went to Costco this afternoon, and asked if he's had any yet. He thinks that was yesterday, and no, he hasn't had any yet. I suggest he do so.

He brings me what he calls my "atlas" off the printer -- my dining companion wasn't sure of the name of the restaurant, but it's on Roosevelt in North Settle, between 65th and 80th. When I looked for the address on Yahoo, I discovered about a dozen Italian restaurants in that area. I printed out the maps. When I get close I can call my dining companion and find out which one he's at so I know where I'm going. Stew finds this amusing.

He would. Even now, he's amused by my antics. Another successful intervention, we might call it. The Febreze is safe for another day.

March 17, 2004

Just another day around here . . .

Dear Diary,

After I finished my last post, Stew said to me, "Did I tell you about the tiles that were talking to me?"

The tiles in the bathroom at Chevy's, where we stopped off to eat after our handbag shopping expedition.

They were changing color, as if they were in code, and they were trying to talk to him. He wasn't sure what they were saying since he doesn't, as he says, "speak bathroom tile."

When I laugh at this he says, "Well, I don't!"

I would think not.

I gather they were flashing like an SOS, all the tiles in his view.
Different shades of the tile color, a dirtyish pink, but flashing shades.

This may sound odd. But when he came back to the table I was ready to go, with my box of half my dinner (since I only eat half, and take half home). He went to pick up the box, which was gaping open, and as he attempted to close it I said, "I don't understand the box. I can't seem to close it, I don't know what's wrong with it."

It was a different kind of box than I'm used to.

"Just hold the box closed," I whispered, "and head for the doorway as if you have a closed box. I don't want anyone to know that I can't close a box."

We could barely make it out the door before we started laughing.