Lightening Does Strike Twice

Perhaps lightening does strike twice.

If I asked the world to tell the truth about me, I am afraid that what the world
perceives as the negative in me would overpower all the good about me.
Within me there exists a deep love and hopefulness that truly guides me through
each day I live. I know this about me and this is beautiful.

I also know that I have scars and not just on the outside. I have many scars on
the inside that tell horrors that most who know me could not imagine. Most who
know me would have trouble comprehending the level of mental abuse that I have
endured in my 38 years. This doesn’t mean that they don’t care about me; it just
means that we have different lives and come from different places (in this world).
My scars on the outside tell a story that reminds me of who I am and where I come
from. My scars on the inside consistently point me in the direction that I need to be
going in, so that is indeed the direction that I am heading.

These scars exist in my present life and will exist to some degree until the day that
I die. This is how it is. The human brain allows for this to happen. Our brain also
possesses the capacity to grow beyond the damage done that remains fresh in our
scars. This is a beautiful thing. It is truly remarkable the ways in which a person
can be so damaged and broken and yet at the same time be incredibly strong and
capable of moving forward in a positive yet realistic direction.

In my personal experience, I have proven that it is indeed possible to, if you will,
take the lemons that you have been handed and truly make the most delicious
lemonade out of them. This lemonade can be quite refreshing and invigorating.
This I do believe.

Each one of us existing on this planet, at our cores, all have huge potential to
become something great. Some people have got it made and some people struggle
immensely. It is interesting how people who have it made and live what at least
on the outside appears to be an easier life and those who struggle a great deal both
suffer in a similar way when it comes to feeling pain and hurt. This is because pain
and hurt exists regardless of who you are, where you come from or how much
money you have.

We owe it to ourselves and to each other to think about who we want to be in this
world. Are we committed toward overcoming the negatives that plague us in our
daily lives? Do we want to rise above the unfortunate damage and the horrendous
scarring that hold us back from becoming who we need to be in this world and in
each of our personal worlds and inside our heads?

If I asked the world to tell the truth about me, it may come in the form of a warm
sea breeze or as April showers. The truth about me may exist in all the flower
patches of the world and in both the richest and poorest of places. The truth speaks
volumes and the truth can be represented in good and healthy ways. We don’t have
to succumb to our scars and the mental devastation that takes up way too much
space in our brains.

Within me there exists a deep and profound love and sense of hopefulness that I
don’t need to be defined by my scars. My scars on my outside tell unmistakable
tales of trauma. My scars on my inside can cripple me and prevent me from
becoming the person that I so desperately aspire to be. The truth about me is that
my dreams are coming true and that all the scars in my world and all the scars that
people experience every single second of the day on this planet, in no way need to
define the lives we live.

My feeling is that if we can own who we are, then no one can take away the
goodness inside each and every one us. The only person who truly will keep you
down is you. If you know deep inside that you want something more out of life,
then it is your job to seek it out and fight for your better day. This can be done. I
am living proof of this.

Today I learned something of extreme value. I learned that lightening strikes twice.

Sick Joke - 9/04/08

I sit here feeling like my intestines are tied in a knot. Tied in a freakin’ knot.  I sit here truly not knowing what tomorrow morning will bring. Will I be able to stand up? Function? Live and dare I say thrive? Yes this is a sick joke that I have lived over and over again. When you wish me well and say good luck and I hope you feel better. I am of course touched. But it is when you help me achieve simple heights, the simple things that we take for granted, then that is when you have truly helped a man. For helping a man who has been struck down crossing the street is our duty and we wish him the best of luck and we send him flowers. Business owners offer him and his family some discounts to make it easier. Now if a man like the man in the story we are about to relive, received support in the same way that hit and run victim did, then boy would all our lives be enriched.

It is when you look at me and I look at you and we look around and look at everyone else that we see at least two very different things. Through my eyes I see value and possibility even in those who have been called scum by any number of unauthorized figures. It seems that from what I understand you are saying is that one person is worth much more than another. But how can this be? Is it in how I cut my hair?  So you don’t like my haircut? I paid $16 bucks for this! Oh so it’s not my haircut then it’s got to be my eyeglasses? Oh so you paid $260 for your frames? I laugh at that as mine cost $40. Well you’re a cheap bastard. Well that’s all I could afford to spend. Then you need to get a job. I have a job. Then what’s your problem? I don’t enough have skills. Not my problem. But you have lived a life of opportunity. Yeah so I don’t owe you anything. But I am sitting here in pain, suffering. Can’t you help me? Why should I? Because we are both humans and you have the means and access to help me. Sorry I am buying a new stereo today, I can’t help you. I just need $15 so I can eat something good and clean my clothes and this will help me feel better. You just are going to buy drugs. No I don’t drink or use drugs. You’re lying. I am not. Clean and sober 7 years. Great so you think I should take pity on you and just give you money? I am not looking for pity I am looking for help. I want to pull myself out of this. I know I can live a better life. I want to succeed. Yeah and you think I should pay for you to buy things because your life is screwed up. I didn’t ask for this. I always wanted to be happy. I always wanted to have a good life and work and have friends and a family. I have always wanted all this and so much more. So you think me giving you money will help you get that. It would help me right now because I am so hungry and my clothes are dirty. It could be the beginning of the rest of my life. I've been asking people to help me for longer than I can remember. And here we are, simply two people standing on a street.  If you can help me right now it would help me get through the day. I hope tomorrow someone will listen to me when I ask them to help me improve my life. I hope tomorrow someone will help feed me when I am hungry. I hope tomorrow will better. I know tomorrow will be.

A story I wrote: My Name Ain't Lazarus

              I was cold as ice the way Desmond shot her down. She had no chance that Sarah Betty. Twenty years have come and gone since 1981 and then some and our old boy Desmond got no time. It is a new century and look at how things have changed. For our man Desmond he got no time.   

             Desmond was from the old school of thought. For him, a drink with a friend and a smoke and we could say goodbye today forever. But Desmond was not as simple as it’s been implied. He had his dark side and his darker side.

 So what if he preferred to drink alone? It reminded him of his days in the pen. At the core of his being, Desmond was a loner. Even a woman as healthy as Sarah Betty could not steal his heart.

The question I am asking myself is and I mean damn I am looking at myself under a magnifying glass, is who are we to judge Mr. Desmond? What if we are twice as soulless as he? What if we are already dead and we just don’t know it?

Desmond’s mind is grumbling like the roar of an angry engine. His thoughts are sunken deep into his subconscious. His mind is sunken deep into his skull. The suction from his gut is sucking and groping for his soul. His neck aches and has caused him considerable unhappiness for quite some time now.  Desmond is at his breaking point though and I will tell you what I know.

It’s Sarah Betty. There’s never been a girl more welcoming than she. One hour with this magical woman can tame any man, for a year or longer. She is like an inoculation for a deadly disease. She is a prescription drug that has been banned. She is worth getting locked up for, and Desmond knows it. She is in his heart, and he wants her gone.

Once when I was a boy I went fishing. It was not ordinary fishing and ordinarily I would have never done such a thing. I sometimes wonder how I survived that nightmare. Is it one mans nightmare or is it another mans dream, and who are we to take a stab, to make a judgment.

 In Desmond’s mind he was a vicious and gnarly seafarer. He told me they called him Harpoon Johnny and he said something about nailing seventeen whales in one week. Maybe this is true yet even our own Desmond is not sure of much of anything these days and he certainly would never had used the word gnarly.

Desmond will do whatever it is Desmond wants do. This man was stubborn in more ways than one. Thank goodness for that good old, stubborn Mr. Desmond.

Once Mr. Desmond was telling me about his days as a boy. He called me Lazarus. My name is Carson Bukowski Carnegie. He called me Lazarus and he told me I was lucky he would speak to me at all.  Lazarus ain’t even my damn name.  It’s not even close.

Mr. Desmond told me about this one time he learned a lesson about women.  Every story Desmond told me was this one time or that one time. Well this one was about someone he called the dragon lady.  He was getting more and more descriptive about this dragon lady. I think drinking pint after pint will do that to a person.

Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Desmond is ok in the head. Sometimes I wonder if one day on my usual route home that I’ll come to find that my old friend Desmond has breathed his last breath. I wonder if anyone would have cared though I don’t think he would care if they did.

He would say my dear boy Lazarus, let me tell you this story about this one time except it would now be silent.

Now it’s just the sun battling the clouds today my boy Lazarus.

 Damnit, my name ain’t Lazarus.

A story I wrote for Deathpanel Press: No Gracias

             I try to not regret very much in life. I try to allow my experiences to be life lessons that enable me to grow. I try to be non-judgmental because throughout my life I have made many misjudgments. I try to be open to new things as I have closed myself off to so much in the past.

            Several years ago I visited Mexico. I found myself in Oaxaca, a beautiful southern city that claims to have the tallest tree in Mexico. Oaxaca also is a city that has packs of wild dogs roaming the streets. I stayed with the family of a local punk guy named Erick. I wish I remembered all of their names however sadly I do not. At their home I slept on a concrete slab covered by a roof made of sheets of metal that was about 25 feet high. This family I stayed with did not have running water. Therefore, water got delivered weekly and was stored in two storage containers.  One storage container was for drinking and cooking and the other was for washing. The family was very careful to explain to me not to make a mistake with the water. This family with whom I stayed were poor yet they had one of the nicest television sets I have ever seen.

            In the city centre there were armed soldiers everywhere. The soldiers stern glares did not make me feel welcome. I was thirsty so I went to a street vendor and got fresh squeezed orange juice in a tied plastic bag complete with a straw. It is a pretty awesome experience to buy fresh squeezed OJ on the side of the road and have it served to you in a strange and definitely unaccustomed way. For my snack, I went to a different street vendor and got corn on the cob however this is corn on the cob Mexican style and it is called elote. Elote is a cooked corn on the cob, slathered in mayonnaise with crumbled cheese sprinkled on. At first thought you might think that this sounds fairly unappetizing however it is surprisingly tasty and delicious.

            While I was in Oaxaca, some friends and I visited a market place. There was so much to look at and ask questions about and it was all very interesting. We came across a punk and metal record store. Did you know that in Mexico, it appears that “porno core” is quite popular? This at the very least applies to some of the people I was travelling with. While we were in this store, guttural and brutal grind music was playing on the stereo and each of the songs included a sample of what sounded to me to be some pretty unfriendly sex.

            There was a woman travelling with me with a very young daughter and they were both in the store and no one flinched. I found the situation pretty hard to swallow however it didn’t seem to bother anyone I was with. Perhaps it is better to say that it didn’t appear to me that anyone was bothered by the samples and the music. What it really comes down to is that a white man from Boston who doesn’t speak Spanish and doesn’t have the background, understanding and lived experience of the culture and life of a Mexican person, surely is not the right person to make any sort of definitive conclusion about the situation. I can say that at some point while I was in the store, they played Anal Cunt and I suppose it warmed my heart as they a local Boston band and it made feel close to home. Yeah, I am not sure that Anal Cunt has heard that one before but who knows?

            While we were in the marketplace, one woman that I was shopping with had purchased a bag of crickets who had already met their demise. She offered me to try some of these potentially tasty yet definitely crunchy treats. Looking back, I can’t believe I balked at the opportunity, I mean when in Mexico, do as the Mexicans do. To this day this is a choice that I wish one thousand times over I could make again. It is not so much that today I want to snack on some crunchy critters. I don’t necessarily long to chomp on bugs but oh my goodness, I screwed up in that moment. I had an opportunity to be at one with Mexico. In many ways I feel that I am connected at the heart, based on the many beautiful and meaning experiences and memories that I hold dear in my heart when I remember my time in Mexico. However it doesn’t matter which way I analyze the situation, I know that I failed immensely in that moment. The choice was mine and I said “no gracias”. In the future, I will not be making that mistake again.

A story I wrote: The Man with the Twice-Broken Bifocals

                We live in a twisted society and in this society we often find ways to justify both the right and the wrong and often within the same sentence or thought. One might think that this is some political trick, a ruse to befuddle those with nimble bones, wax filled ears and twice broken bifocals. One may wonder if this description paints a picture of me or perhaps you, if you are able to admit it. At the moment and I am stuck wondering if it is me who is wearing those twice broken bifocals unsavory as that thought may be.

I am the scum of society. I am the grime that collects in the groove of your shoes. I am the scum on the street abusing and using the system, myself and the American way of life. I am nothing but a pitiful waste of skin and bones. Society hates the man with the twice broken bifocals for good reason. Society hates this man because society failed in its morbid quest to deny him everything.

                The man with the twice broken bifocals is not an ordinary fellow. This man has volumes of valuable knowledge and wisdom and experience deep within his heart and in his brain. You look at him with contempt for he is what is wrong with America, or so you’ve been taught or believe.

                I find it most shocking when I am on the street or on the subway, and against my better judgment I become an eyewitness to the luxury and the fraud of those before me. Perhaps these mutants from a better upbringing than mine, who look at me with scorn and detestation, will at last discover the hope and beauty within me. But, for now they must quickly scurry along and fly faraway to celebrate their meaningless, empty, luxurious and obnoxious lives. How many people from my neighborhood, where I am from, get to go on trips and fly here and there and everywhere you can imagine? Therefore, I am the man with the twice broken bifocals and I am going nowhere.

                 Perhaps it is all in their heads and perhaps it is all in mine however when will someone think twice about throwing people who have so much to offer into the trash? People of America take a look in the mirror and pay attention. You stare at this man and when he looks you in the eye you become a ghost and look away and you hold your purse and your child closer and tighter and you don’t have a clue that I cannot clearly see you through my twice broken bifocals. I sit here and I cry and I beg; if you won’t help me live then please help me die.

                In death, one does not need to wear twice broken bifocals but I would ask to please have my lucky spectacles, as useless as they may be, buried with me as they are my only reliable friend. I don’t need a fancy box for my flesh and my organs to be devoured by bugs in so please, just dig a hole and throw me in; it is as simple as that. I don’t care about a headstone or a suit jacket, a button down shirt or fancy slacks so please let me die with dignity, my way.

                When all is said and done, please plant a lilac bush on the grass up above my final resting place, as lilacs are my favorite flower.

        

My first MRR column.

            On April 13^th 1988 I was delivered to the now bankrupt and defunct Charles River Hospital, a mental health facility. I was a naïve 14 year old from a shit town 25 minutes outside of Boston. I was sick with mental illness and the painful life I was living was about to quickly and progressively get worse. I hit bottom countless times over the years and with each episode I became sicker and sicker and my quality of life became worse and worse. In 2004 I lost the will to live, to even try to stay alive.  This was when I, as an adult, finally began to address my mental health issues.

            A common sentiment is that the punk scene is a safe haven for the mentally ill, the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the dysfunctional, the freaks and so many others like me; those who are on the fringes of society. In my experience, the punk scene allows someone like me, someone who for many, many years was so incredibly sick; continue to be sick without setting off enough warning signs that I needed serious help. At the same time it is unlikely that during those years, without being committed, that I would go seek out and get the help I needed. My reality is that after years of being institutionalized against my will, I developed an extreme distrust of the system and I rejected it.

            In my experience, the punk scene frowned upon taking medication. Even dear friends in well-known bands spoke out against the taking of psychiatric medication. This anti-medication pressure and non-acceptance was a powerfully negative force in my life. Curiously, most people will take medication for having a cold, the flu, diabetes, high blood pressure, for pain, a headache, cancer, HIV, acid reflux or they will have a broken bone set and put in a cast or take antibiotics for any countless number of conditions. 

            In order for me to cope with my illness and the poor quality of my life I started smoking weed. I got high everyday and I would do anything to make this happen. They say that smoking pot is not addictive however for me it was the only thing that kept me under wraps and I had to do it. I was self-medicating and I did this for 10 years.

            The punk scene allowed me to be sick. No one helped me find my way toward getting well. I had numerous friends who worked in human services yet I don’t recall being steered toward obtaining services. If they did it wasn’t enough because as a child of the system, living in misery would be 100 times better than losing my physical freedom.  Looking back I must ask why weren’t my punk friends helping me get well.

            I was unleashed into the world at age 18 unprepared for society and lacking the knowledge and experience needed to successfully integrate into general society including the microcosmic punk scene. My adolescence was spent living in very unnatural living situations surrounded by other uprooted teenagers and group home “staff”.  These experiences set me up to fail and fail I did and these failures were repeated over and over again for many years. So much of what I needed to know about how to effectively get by in this world was totally lost on me. I never had a chance.

            The punk scene makes excuses for people to do fucked up shit. The punk scene gives a free pass for one to be wild, crazy and destructive. I have to ask myself how many times did I hurt someone else when I was not well? I think the answer to that question is a lot. It is also equally relevant, necessary and important to acknowledge that there are those who took advantage of my being ill. I’ve had lots of “punk” friends over the years, some of whom have done some pretty sketchy stuff. Over the course of the life of a person with a mental illness we come across a lot of people who are very good at sinking their teeth into us without leaving bite marks. One frightening reality is that there are people out there who will do and say anything and hurt anyone to achieve their goals; this has been my experience.

            In the punk scene acting crazy and wild are accepted behaviors.  People freaking out and being wild was and is par for the course punk rocker behavior. In my situation, I had a real serious problem and anyone reading this that knows me, regardless of what you may think of me, legitimate or not, knows that I was not well. The punk scene and my punk friends did nothing (or very little) to help me get better. One crucial point that must be stated is that no one should ever think for even one second that I liked or wanted to be acting the way that I often did. My unfortunate behavior was an expression of my inner pain and suffering and the sickness and chaos that I experienced personally only brought more and more pain and suffering to my life and only made me sicker and sicker.

            I had no way to make things better. Every time I acted poorly I only made things worse. The friends I’ve lost over the years due to my instability are many. Mental illness is a lonely life, and no matter how much I wish it wasn’t, it still is.  All those years I was always sick and I never had a chance to get well. I was forced to live in residential and group home settings as a teenager. I went straight to another group home once I aged out of the adolescent mental healthcare system at age 18.  Within a few days of arriving at this the newest and last group home that I lived in, I was introduced to marijuana. Things then went from bad to worse.

            I have done a lot of damage to myself and to others over the years. I know that if I had been receiving effective treatment all those years that things would not have been as bad for me and for those around me

            The reality is that recovery from mental illness is not only possible, it is probable. Indubitably, my 22 years life experience of being part of the punk scene has informed my thinking about life in general, mental illness and how to live a better life now that I am well. I am experiencing what is called “recovery”. The National Consensus Statement on Mental Health Recovery defines recovery as "a journey of healing and transformation enabling a person with a mental health problem to live a meaningful life in a community of his or her choice while striving to achieve his or her full potential." I am living this reality and I am grateful for my disease, my recovery and for my opportunity to live a more meaningful and purposeful life.

            I have written this column because I want to see my people rise up and live a happier, healthier and better quality life. When I say my people I am talking about those of us who live with the symptoms of mental illness. After a lifetime of sickness, I am well. However this seems to be difficult for a lot of people who know me to believe and accept as truth.  I changed my life for the better and I am as far as I am concerned a beautiful success story. I am going to share with you about my recovery and what I did to get well. There are countless punk rockers, and people in general in our world, who are  unhappy and struggling, who are self-medicating to deal with their pain and hurt, people who are on the fringe of society just like I always have been and likely always will be. That is a reality of life however I bring a message that things can improve for people who struggle with the symptoms of mental illness. Why must we continue to dull our emotions through substance abuse when we might benefit so much more from appropriate psychiatric intervention and/or peer support? Why must our friends and families living with mental illness turn to suicide?  Why does the punk scene, a place of purported acceptance place a person such as me into the slim and restrictive category of being ‘crazy”?  Why do we enforce stigma over offering love and acceptance? I can tell you that there is so more to me than a mental health diagnosis. I suppose it is easier for most people to classify me and put me in a box than to acknowledge that I have changed for the better. I am well, damnit, so please embrace me and let’s move forward.

            In 2004 I hit rock bottom and was seriously in need of major psychiatric intervention.  In the fall of that year I was arrested twice and I was not well either time and the cops were exceptionally cruel to me as would be expected.  This experience was incredibly traumatizing for me. I also lived in a house with some really terrible people which was triggering me and causing me to have symptoms. I then moved to a different part of Boston. I was still in desperate need of psychiatric help as my then current doctor was not meeting my needs. I needed a therapist so I looked in the yellow pages and 3 weeks later I began meeting with a wonderful social worker whom I meet with weekly and have done so for 5 years. I fired my psychiatrist and sought out a more attentive doctor. I then accessed vocational services at the Massachusetts Rehabilitation Commission. I began attending a special and now defunct school that taught individuals with mental illness to work as counselors. I graduated from this school and did a 3 month internship at a local rehabilitation center. I also passed the Certified Peer Specialist Exam and was honored at the State House for it. I worked for one year at a recovery community as a peer counselor. I was laid off so I began attending college. In 33 credits I have a 3.856 GPA, not too shabby I must say. I played in a band and all the songs I sang were about my recovery. I finally got a great apartment that I can afford and I love it.  I go to community acupuncture at least 2 times per month and it helps! I go to the gym which is wonderful for my mind. I watercolor. I spend time with my nieces and nephew. I have a great new job working as a Peer Specialist. I volunteer facilitating a weekly recovery group that is highly successful and I am compiling a book of the curriculum that I have created for this group.  I have put out a fanzine. I have made and nurtured friendships and relationships. I seek out and offer peer support to people in the mental health community and with friends in the punk scene.

            I accept the scorn of others as it is pure gold in my fuel tank and whether anyone loves me or hates me it matters not as my recovery is stronger and more powerful than anyone has any idea including me. I AM in recovery! I love life. I have changed my life and how I manage my symptoms for the better. I am surviving yet I am doing something even better than simply surviving, I am thriving and kicking ass in general. The world is my oyster and whether or not I have a mental illness and whether or not people accept me and treat me with dignity, I am happy and content and my life is beautiful and that’s that.

One of my columns from the Malaysian Fanzine Shock & Awe

I will be turning 38 years old on Tuesday May 24^th 2011.

The past two months have been dreadful; a couple of the worst months of my life yet not even close to being as bad as it could’ve been. I hurt so much emotionally. I have suffered exponentially. I have felt hopeless and worthless and useless. I’ve had a hard time keeping myself together and in one piece yet somehow I have survived and I am pulling through, working to get back to that better life that I so desperately want and need to live.

This has not been an easy journey. No, this has been a battle to the death, or for my life. Sometimes or often, I don’t know what to do to get myself to the next day or the next hour or minute. Sometimes, I operate by the second, if that is what I must do to keep from completely and totally self-destructing. The will to live is so strong within me and I seem to be able to access that hopefulness in my worst moments while that action of accessing my hope as positive action is so far beyond my cognitive awareness.

I love life and I hate wanting to die. I feel that way all the time. I want to live and be happy and succeed and it feels so inaccessible to me. I constantly am trying to make things better. This is a constant battle for me, a battle that is never completely won and is a battle that is just part of a much greater war that I am fighting.  I wage this war in an effort to conquer my pain and the destructive demons that eat away at my soul like acid. This may sound melodramatic however I wholeheartedly assure you the reader, my peers, that it is not.

My reality is that I have a serious mental health condition and that I have experienced trauma and abuse almost my entire life. I am going to be 38 this coming Tuesday and I don’t know how I am still alive. I’ve experienced such personal, inner torment throughout my years that it is overwhelming for most people to hear about or talk about. Yet, I continue to move forward with my life as if I welcome the challenge. With all the compounded hassle that I am forced to face and deal with on a daily basis one could deduce that it would be near impossible for me to effectively function yet somehow and someway I do.

When a person is faced with painful, impossible situations how can they be expected to make rational and reasonable decisions about their life? This is a very good question and something that I face every single day of my life. I often struggle when it comes to making good and healthy decisions when the stakes are so difficult and unreasonable. There is a saying in the mental health recovery movement that says ones reaction to an unreasonable situation may actually be a reasonable response (to an unreasonable situation). Think about it, when really bad things happen, humans react strongly and sometimes in over the top ways. These responses may be unusual for a person to have in general however when under extreme distress a person may respond and react in a very exaggerated manner. This reaction is something that I am quite familiar with. This happens to me and it has happened to me a lot recently as I have previously stated that the past two months have been extremely difficult.

This journey of mine has been treacherous and brutal to put it mildly. To be perfectly blunt, it has been a challenge at times to not harm myself and this catastrophe of mine has even led me to the most dreadful of ways of thinking that could impact my most basic mortality. Clearly, I don’t share this with pride or excitement as this absolutely sucks, feeling so morbid and awful. Having to manage these sorts of intense, dark and overwhelming feelings is not my idea of a good time.

Interestingly, while I have suffered to such an extreme degree I have also experienced a great deal of success, happiness and joy in my life. I know that it may sound very strange and contradictory yet is it one hundred percent true; there is a lot of good in my life. Sure, of course, we must admit and acknowledge that the negative can have and certainly has had an incredibly brutal impact on my quality of life, my level of happiness and contentment and success. This is just the way it is, my life is a complete and total juxtaposition and I am forced to deal with it and live in the best way possible, regardless of my challenges.

I have some good things in my life at the moment. I have a great apartment that I can afford that is nice and big and I feel comfortable living in. I just finished classes and while I did have a very difficult and rough past two months I still earned an A- in Algebra and a B+ in Spanish. I think that is pretty awesome considering the poor mental health and quality of life that I have experienced in recent times. I think it is a huge success and I am proud of myself, I did real well. I have a great job which I will share more about a little later on. My job allows me to do something that I am very good at and talented at which is absolutely a wonderful thing for me. I have a few really good friends which I am extremely lucky to have in my life. I have been working on losing weight for quite some time and achieving a great deal of success which is utterly huge for me. Fascinatingly, in the past two months of living a life in mental health crisis, I have lost over 10 lbs, which is just amazing.  I don’t know exactly how I am doing it however eating better and eating more responsibly and doing aerobic exercise several times per week is certainly paying off. Essentially, going on regular 30+ minute aerobic walks have been benefitting my life and my mental health and stability not only due to my losing of weight yet also because aerobic exercise is so good for a person’s mental health. It is phenomenal how great I feel mentally after going on one of my “walks”. So clearly, there are some very good parts of my life and I feel very good about some parts of my life.

It is important to try and focus on what is good and positive and healthy in my life and also to be cognizant of what is reality in my life.  To be realistic is enormously important in being well and healthy and living a good life. This is because there are some things that you cannot change in your life and in this world and I think my energy is better spent working toward the future. I have many goals that I am working toward and I will have more success in reaching my destination if I acknowledge the role of and by facing reality on my journey toward living a better life.

I want to be a happy person and live a good and happy life and this can be achieved through hard work even while I fully admit that I struggle with a mental health condition and having a history of trauma and abuse in my life. I am a survivor of so much and my battle continues and always continues. It is never ending. Every single day presents new and sometimes difficult challenges for me. Sometimes I succeed in handling and managing these challenges and sometimes I am adversely and terribly impacted by these challenges. That is life so if I want to find better ways to live and better ways to be happy I am forced to and I must also realistically address the issues and challenges that I face one day at a time. This is a truly doable prospect yet extremely difficult at the same time. This is a challenge that I accept and I move forward with, as carefully as possible and with my eyes on the prize of mental wellness, happiness and success.

An interesting thing that I mentioned earlier that I want to share is that not only do I have a mental health condition and I should add, a debilitating mental health condition, I also work as a mental health counselor. Yes, you read that correctly, I work as a mental health counselor. My current title is Peer Specialist and this means I work with individuals who have mental health conditions and also issues with addictions. In my role I use my training and education and also my personal lived experience to help people who are experiencing difficult and hard to manage mental health and addiction issues live better lives. In addition to that I teach these individuals how to better control their symptoms, how to communicate their needs more beneficially and effectively in order to have their needs met and to achieve an improved quality of life. 

This is pretty incredible and I am sure some of you will agree. How can a guy who has these serious problems and who at times struggles with functioning at the same time have the role of mental health counselor? I can tell you that it is not easy however it is the best thing that could have ever happened to a man who only 6 years ago could hardly take care of himself. I am a beautiful success story and I have had a really brutal past two months and I am here to say that while I am still struggling, that I am succeeding at realistically making my life work for me while dealing with a very difficult and hard to manage reality.

I am succeeding and I will continue to fight to live a better life.

I know there are people who you the reader know, who struggle with some of the same sort of things that I struggle with and I am asking you to treat them with compassion and respect and dignity because they are people with feelings, just like you and me. They may deal with some serious issues that society may say makes them unimportant and unworthy however I am telling you here, that these people are just like me and I am a success and they too can be a success. They need and want your love and acceptance. I am turning 38 on Tuesday May 24^th 2011 – I will struggle and I will survive and I will thrive. This is my promise to me and my guarantee to all of you.

Thank you to Shock & Awe for including my writing in their fanzine. I welcome all correspondence and I thank all of you for reading.