Tree

There's something in trees that are old and that bend in many different ways. I'm talking about the trees without green or flowers on them. Just dark vacant branches. Those trees calm me down when I see them. Makes me take a big slow deep breath. Seeing them makes me want to move to the country and climb branches by the water.

I don't think I've ever read anything that talks specifically about the hustle of the city. The city can grind you down if you leave yourself subject to it. What I mean is that if you don't speak your mind, the days are just like clockwork. Before you have time to think about getting out of the city, you're already wrapped up by it. I've got relatives from the very other side of the country. They think it's a fuckin field trip coming down to the busy suburbs. I don't think any of those relatives write, paint, or anything. Not that I judge a person based on things like that or whatever, I just don't know how to describe them. No matter how those family of mine are described, there sure are a lot of the trees I like from where they're from.

I saw a video the other day of a small tree that was dug up out of the ground and replanted in another place. It was a big process. The tree had a lot of veins that were planted deep in the ground. The video made me want to dig up one of the old trees I like and replant it in my backyard.  

 

Angry Writings

It's called angry writing. You just get started writing. You've got to have good voice though. Without the voice, there is no writing. It sure has been awhile. I sit in my room alone quite a bit. Sometimes I think I'll log on here and write for hours. Other times I can't think of anything I would say. In every case over the last year, I don't end up writing a damn thing.

Today I'm writing a damn thing. A damn, angry thing. A lot has happened in my life since I semi-regularly wrote on this blog. As I look back and reflect on my writing a few years and a few months ago, I see and remember a lot of random moments in my life. Some depicted very honestly, some drastically over-exaggerated.

When you look back on moments of your life and reflect on them, often times you'll wish something happened that didn't. That's just life, isn't it? But, when you write about it, is it more fulfilling to write your moments in the way you wish events occurred, or how they actually did? Probably in the way you wished they occurred. Either way, you can write about your life angrily. Angry at why your life is at such a fictional low point or at a truthful unhappy moment.

That's it for now I think. I don't know how regularly I'm going to start writing on here now. One thing for sure, be it fiction or reality, writing makes me feel better. I try hard to make my writing have some kind of voice. I want the emotion to bleed through. I wouldn't want someone with the type of patience I have to get bored reading what I've got written down. Reality is true to form when I say nobody will ever read these writings. Well maybe not. Maybe I'll share and someone can read my writing and hopefully not be left wishing for something more. That's why sometimes you have to write angry.

I have no legs (4/?)

The last few weeks have been boring. More of the same boring days. The one positive thing I have to say is about a video I found in the hospital reference room. It's entitled "The Young Strays: A Collection of Youth on the Rise".

I'd heard about the Young Strays Organization (YSO) before I found this video, but I didn't know much about it. The organization is not far from my hospital. The building is located just off the coast. It's about a 30 minute drive away.

The video was sort of interesting. It's narrated by this pretty middle aged woman. At the start of the video, she gives the viewers a tour of the building and describes what the organization does. The organization's goal is to "improve the lives of the youths in our program by guiding them into seeking career opportunities while also helping them realize the benefits of being a part of a community."

The video trudged on. The woman did a lot of explaining and I was losing interest, but towards the end I finally got to see the kids and hear a few of them talk. The woman interviewed one 15 year old boy, Andrew, who was so obviously giving scripted answers to the camera. I got the idea that he wanted it to overly appear that way too. His responses were exaggerated in such an obvious way. It was as if he was thinking in his head, "Yeah, here is my scripted response!" The woman interviewing him didn't seem to tell the difference, she was loving his answers. In response to being asked about how the young strays organization had influenced his life, the boy said "The young strays have really helped me see career goals that are going to be a benefit to me in the future. The young strays organization is helping me realize that I can succeed!" 

The fucking smile on this kids face after he finished speaking was so fake! He probably went and laughed it up with his friends after the video. I'd like to hang out with these kids and see what they are actually interested in. 

I asked Barbara the other day to take me to the young strays next week. She said she'd get back to me about it. Barbara always keeps her word, so we'll see what happens. 

I have no legs (3/?)

Today was an interesting day. I get a descent amount of mail I guess, most of which I don't give a shit about. That makes me just like everyone else right? My parents insist on having the youth ministry at the church they belong to send me these 'get well soon' smiley cards, gift boxes, and various other stuff. The people that send me this crap I've never met, or maybe just once or twice at the most, so why am I getting it? They ought to go give their mom or someone that they actually know a gift, not someone they only know of.

I got a package in the mail from my cousin Dana today. She mailed me three seasons of the show Jackass on DVD. She's cool. I enjoy getting to see her although it's not very often. She knows I like Jackass, so it's a good gift and it made me feel good to know she was thinking about me. She definitely likes her style. If you've ever played the computer game Backyard Baseball, Dana looks like Keisha Phillips.

She's fucking good at everything too, just like Keisha. She played volleyball at the University of Hawaii and now she coaches at a high school. She and her friend come visit me when they are in town which isn't very often. When they visit me, they are so up. It's like they're on crack or something. I can't figure out whether she and her friend are just super pepped up or are trying to pretend to be excited to see me. It's weird. Her friend is funny. I can never remember her name, but she always acts out this same routine when she sees me. She'll be abnormally quiet at first and let Dana do all the talking and then she'll randomly start acting just like Dana. It's odd, and seems like they are putting on a show for me. It's entertaining. I swear man, crack or something.

Johnny Knoxville. What a cool dude. His crew is so cool. They all go out in public and fuck around. What makes that show funny to me is not what they do. The makeup, strange outfits, and the crazy stunts they pull aren't the reasons why I like the show. I like the show and watch it just so I can see the reactions of some of the people they perform jokes on. A lot of the time, the jokes don't even get in the way and aren't initially directed at the pedestrians. The pedestrians are the ones who make the show funny.

In this one episode, Johnny acts just like Forest, a patient on my floor with a form of low functioning mental retardation. In this one episode of Jackass, the pedestrian who sees Johnny on the street gets really upset, and all Johnny is doing is dancing like I imagine Forest might in the area close to the guy. So fucking funny. Why did the pedestrian, some 40 year old dude walking by himself, give a fuck? The pedestrian goes up to Johnny and tells him to act right and all this shit. It amazed me to see that guy get all worked up over nothing.

I've known Forest for awhile, well I mean I've seen him for awhile now. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on. He's just there. Get what I'm saying? He doesn't feel emotion like you or me. He has a mental handicap. If the nurses prepared Forest a meal of steamy corn infested shit, and I literally mean shit, I'm positive he would not be able to tell the difference.

I have no legs (2/?)

It's whatever. Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of physical advancements improving everyday life. I like my wheelchair, like the elevation controls on my hospital bed, and my fucking toothbrush. That stuff doesn't bother me.

What bothers me is my longing for a good friend. You would think someone in my situation is given plenty of attention and can participate in plenty of games with a lot of people. You would be right to think that. Most of that stuff is complete shit though. I hate being just given attention, the more I am, the more fake it appears to me and it's depressing. Part of me is angry at the world, not because I have no legs and am physically different than others, but because my disability seems to bring out the bullshit in people. My ability to meet a good friend has got nothing to do with my legs, but to so many people, it seems to have everything to do with it.

You may wonder why it is that a 19 year old lives in a hospital. I am living in a hospital by choice now. After teenage rehabilitation, you can of course go find living for yourself. I don't want to go back to my parents house. I've spent plenty of time there troubling them.

I have more opportunities to meet people inside and outside the hospital by living there. I am active in this hospital program with other physically handicapped people where we all go to rec centers, arcades, and other common places like that.

Here's what I wish wouldn't happen. I wish the hospital staff wouldn't structure the environment so much when we go out. There are a lot of girls and guys that volunteer with my hospital so that they can get the hours they need for whatever organization they are apart of. These people, often about my age, staff the events. I really wish most of them would fuck off. Although they mean well, as I've come to try and convince myself to believe, they are inadvertently preventing me from getting to interact with the public in a normal way, which pisses me off. If you were at the place I was at in public, I'm sure you would realize the handicapped people are in a controlled environment. Fuck that so much. Also, I am certain that these volunteers would act differently in public if they weren't with handicapped people. That thought irritates me. The volunteers are usually different each time though, so I try and have hope that I'll meet one that just talks to me instead of doing pretty much nothing for a whole afternoon.

I would prefer it more if I was just dropped off somewhere in public for a few hours rather than being in a controlled public environment. I swear I would embrace the experience more if something bad happened to me. Like if I was taken advantage of somehow by people or made fun of for having no legs. I'd inwardly smile if I saw a group of young people pointing at me or concealing laughter about my physical handicap. "Look at you hotshot, way to put me down for nothing. Your environment has really fucked you up good hasn't it?". If only those fuckers could know that I wouldn't trade places with them for the world. Despite the bullshit from these people, it'd make for a more enjoyable experience for me than to be met with fake conversation in public. But in the heads of my volunteers and Barbara, the hospital event coordinator, being made fun of would be the absolute worst thing that could happen for a handicapped person.

I need the attention, damnit, but not in the way the staff thinks. That's what pisses me off. Whenever I go around the rec center in my wheel chair, I try and meet people. I'm not the best conversationalist and wish I was more quick with my words, but I know how I am. I'm a real person and present myself as such.

That's what separates me from so many people. I don't want to say I'm above them, but to me, I am. I don't know how I can think otherwise. People are just so full of shit. A big part of maturity is being content with yourself and your abilities, and to me, a friendship starts with possessing the ability to recognize a person's difference, but not changing anything about yourself when you meet them. My lack of legs have pretty much nothing to do with it.

I have no legs (1/?)

It's been that way as long as I can remember. Oh wait, yeah, that's because I was born with this shit. It's a genetic disease, my doctor has always said. The disease is called Phocomelia. I was born without legs. In most cases this disease is hereditary, meaning someone in my family has had it. This was the case with me. My grandmother on my mother's side was born without a left leg. Unfortunately, be it by genetics or by God's decision to physically smite me, I was born without both.

You should see my arms.. I've got the strongest arms ever. Want to arm wrestle me? Forget it. It's over, I'd win. I just turned 19 and I don't have prosthetic limbs and I don't plan on getting any. Depending on what kind of medical coverage you have, you may or may not be covered to get prosthetic limbs. I've seen amputees and have talked to a few of them that talk very highly of their prosthetic limbs. Some of them are very pushy about it. They tell me about how much their worth getting and all that. About how much more normal they feel now. I hate their way of thinking and talking. To me, they now talk to me just like the people who have had legs their whole lives and consider me worthy of their misplaced sympathy.

Fuck that shit. The people that come and greet me that have, and have always had, both arms and legs I have gotten accustomed to giving a pass to. When I say I give them a pass, I mean I pretend to get the same experience out of seeing them  I feel the opposite of what most people would think. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for the fact that they are so low of human being that they look and talk to me as though I have a disease. Not every person is like this, but the vast majority of people are. They want to be good people, in their own weird sense, but to me they are bad company and are fucked up. These people are so quick to offer their condolences and tears. Man! I envy them! I want to feel that way. I can notice within about the first 30 seconds of seeing you if you are going to talk to or look at me as someone that has no legs. I'm 19, but when it comes to people, I swear I've seen it all. 

Anyway, I got off track. "Normal people" or the ones I grant my sympathy to, I can handle. I've seen plenty of them and I know how to act. It's these guys with their new prosthetics man. These guys that come in and talk to me about how great their new prosthetic legs are. About how it has really changed their entire outlook on life. I really get upset at hearing shit like that from these people. One guy who I talked the most with went through rehab with me. I considered him a very good friend. We motivated each other to get stronger.

We did too. We both excelled in rehab and became strong. Both mentally and physically. We built each other up when we were feeling low about our situation. We fed off of each other's energy, I think. Looking back, this is because of the attitude we had towards each other. We both were born with Phocomelia and without both legs, and when younger, neither of us had any tolerance towards someone else feeling bad about themselves. After completing our teenage rehabilitation, I thought he was just like me.

Despite the show that he put on to me about his prosthetics last week, I know what he went through. I know how hard we worked out together. I saw him struggle and he saw me struggle. We stayed at the same hospital for nearly 2 years and saw each other just about every day. 

He walked into my room last week and it was as if he was a completely different person. I swear he wasn't the same guy. To tell you the truth, I'm most scared of getting prosthetic limbs because of him, not the Iraq war vets that I'll sometimes visit with. 

I know this guy and his name is Sam. Everything about him changed when he got his prosthetic limbs. It was as if his life had been reborn. That's how he was seemingly describing it. It was a new life that I wasn't privileged to be a part of, or that I had to change to be. Such a fucking hypocrite. When we were younger we both talked, and eventually joked, about how we hated having people come and talk down to us. He was doing this now and it made me sick to my stomach to see from him.

Sam agreed to some hotshot filmmakers to do a documentary about his life before and after his prosthetic limbs for money. Now he's got some sponsorships and shit like that going for him so he can make money from his situation. Bunch of bullshit if you ask me. He wears clothes other people tell him to wear and shit like that, you know. 

I didn't have the tolerance for Sam when he came into to my room pitching me about how seemingly great it now is to be him. He used to be someone who didn't like the attention, who would embrace and challenge himself just because of how it made him feel. Maybe I'm wrong about Sam though. I mean obviously he didn't feel the same about our rehabilitation as I did. I felt good. Committing to rehabilitation had nothing to do with whatever benefits I received from it. We, or at least I, didn't commit to finishing rehabilitation 3 months before expected because we wanted to impress anyone or to get physically stronger. Sam and I committed and worked hard throughout our rehab because fuck it, that was a challenge we, as humans, decided to embrace together. And we fucking did it. When you turn 15 and have Phocomelia, you're supposed to go through teenage rehabilitation in 16 months. Sam and I did it in 13 months just for the fuck of it.

Do so

"Don't worry about the things you can't control. We can leave tomorrow. You understand don't you?" She told me, full of confidence.

"I don't feel okay about this," I said back. "You know we're leaving here eventually. We both don't like it here, but lets not just get up and go. We need to think this through."

"What if I said I didn't care if you kept drinking? You know I don't care about that. You would drink anyway, wouldn't you? If that makes you love me then that's fine. I've always loved you. Don't you fucking get that? I want you with me. If we leave it's not going to be me, it's going to be us."

"Just listen to yourself. You know I love you. What would you have me do? I'm finally away from my parents and I have my own place. I love that you are staying with me and I wouldn't have it any other way. We can't leave all of the sudden. Where are we gonna go? It would be different if we knew people in Seattle, but we don't. What will your parents and sister think if we just left?"

"Yours wouldn't give a fuck if you left would they!" She enjoyed saying that. "We aren't best here, you and me. There's more to life than the people we see here everyday. You belong with me and we belong somewhere else."

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In the end it didn't matter. She was right. She was right all the fucking time goddamnit. Maybe I let her be right. Fuck it, what's the difference? The real truth is that I would have drank myself to dysfunction had it not been for her, but that isn't what she thought of my drinking. A long story shortened is that she saved me. She didn't realize that my drinking was a supplement to my wellness, not a crutch for me to love her. I loved her and still do.

And you know what happened? We fucking went, that's what fucking happened! No plans, no nothing. Just a little bit of money and a lot of wishful thinking. We had each other and that was enough, right? Wrong. Not enough. Why couldn't it be enough!

She said one thing in our biggest fight that stuck with me more than anything else. "You were always looking for some kind of meaning when there was none. It irritated me. You made me feel like I wasn't enough."

Let me tell you, out of everything I heard from that dirty fucking mouth of hers I hated that bit most of all. I've always felt a little paranoid. She was the answer though. This was the problem though. Just her being there was the answer. She said a lot of this and a lot of that, but in the end that wasn't what separated us.

What separated us were her reactions to my behavior. She believed I wanted to just get fucked up and write all the time and not spend any time with her, which was a bunch of bullshit. Like she said, she didn't care if I drank. She thought I was making up for something by drinking though, which isn't true. Well maybe it is, but my drinking never had anything to do with my love for her. The truth is, I made time to spend away from writing and whatever else to be with her. She knew that too.

I drank and still do drink. I like to drink and write. Fuck me, right? I made sacrifices for her and stuck to them. It was never enough though, and I guess she figured she would justify my behavior with her actions. She said that my desire to be alone made her love Darren. Fucking bullshit. It's always gotta be someone you know too, doesn't it? Your girl never gets with some random guy. Or maybe they do, what the fuck do I know.

I found an apartment near Capitol Hill, Seattle. The place was cheap and there was a bar within walking distance that we started to go to. We met this Darren fucker at the first bar we went to. It was pretty nondescript. He was a local Seattle guy. I liked him at first. What the fuck was I thinking. He had his lip pierced and had his hair pulled back. Fucking whatever. Who knows what that cocksucker told Katy so he could get in her pants. He knew we were together when we first met. He promised to show us around town.

And yeah, you know, he did all that. Some girl all blacked up and dressed in rags was with him. Real fucking trendy. It was a double date according to Darren. We went to this and that coffee shop and various thrift stores. Katy would later say she loved "the atmosphere.. the way things are here.. the beauty is all around us.." Whatever.

When we were in Seattle and went out, I used to wish that some people in public would yell at Katy. I then imagined myself telling her that they were wrong about whatever it was and then she'd be closer to me. Sometimes when I was with her, I used to get the idea that there were two sides. I was always on hers, mind you, but there was always another side trying to bring her down. To this day, I still believe that part of her liked getting yelled at, I swear. She fell in with that fucker Darren's posse of local people and I have no idea what she's doing now. She doesn't talk to me. It was always up to her though, so now maybe she's living for her. But again, what the fuck do I know.

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If you must know, I'm doing alright for myself now. I occasionally struggle with the ending to my writings and I sometimes find myself stylizing things too much, but hey, I'm getting better. Without the style, I'd have nothing.

I live alone, have my own place, and am back where I started. I'm able to sleep with the cute young girl on the occasional lucky night. It works for me and for her. I keep myself with good company and I try not to isolate myself or drink too much, though I firmly believe both are essential to my writing and happiness. I miss Katy. If things were alright with her, it'd be so great for me to hear that from her. That would never happen though. If I heard from her, I have full confidence that it would be negative.

Oh the good times though. As down as you may be, you have to have had some. The good with Katy is what I remember. Her words of encouragement were always something I relished hearing. The good always overshadowed the bad. She was great. The sex was great. She would read something of mine and love it. I loved her so much. I believe that if you love and remember the good from someone, you will always love them.

If you think you have true love and are sharing that with someone, do so. Do so until you can't anymore, then come see me. I'll be around.