Seeking Help

For 31-years, I've been stubborn.

When I was six, I didn't want my mom to help me tie the laces of my Reebok's because I was determined to find out how to do it myself.

When I was 15-years old and in College Algebra and Trig in high school, I couldn't figure out the differences between a Tangent and Cotangent. Well, I knew there was a difference between the two, but I didn't understand why. My teacher, Mr. Somethingoranother told me that I could come to his classroom anytime that I wanted and he'd help me to understand. I never went because I was determined to figure out the whole scheme of things on my own. And I did.

When I was twenty-two, I was in rehab after my accident and had to move around the room I was in, the floor I was on and the cafeteria I ate in every day via wheelchair. I hated that fucking thing. It made me feel horrible. That I needed something to help me because my pelvis was broken and had two iron rods 14 inches long sticking out of each hip. Each time I was supposed to be someplace to rehab this, that or the other thing, I had to have a therapist walk behind me while I wheeled my happy ass to the next room. Until I refused to use it anymore. They said I had to. I told them to get fucked. They told me I would miss my therapy session if I didn't get in the chair and go to the next room. I told them I liked where I was, that I didn't want to go. They told me fine, that they'd be back after the therapy session I would be missing to see if I had changed my mind about wheeling myself to the next room I had to go to. The therapist left, I pulled myself up out of the chair, leaned against the wall and drug my happy ass down the hallway to the next fucking room. I didn't need a fucking wheelchair.

When I was twenty four, I came back to school. Didn't know shit about shit but was certain that I could do it. In high school, I was a C student, barley. Most grades I "earned" were C's with an occasional D. Hey, D's are still passing in my book. When I enrolled in school, they reviewed my h.s. GPA and my medical records from my accident (I had a traumatic brain injury which qualified me as "special") and told me that I would be given extended time periods for exams and writing assignments, that I would be allowed to go to "quiet" rooms to take my exams and that I would be given a person to take notes for me in all of my classes. Fuck you, said I. If I was going to school, I wanted to go to school. I wanted to take the tests, to take the fucking notes and do them all in the time period given to everybody else in the class with me. When I graduated college, my GPA was 3.65 on a 4.0 scale. I did so well cause I was determined to do it alone.

But this problem I've got now, fuck, I can use some help.

The woman I love, the woman I know that I want to spend the rest of my life loving, both, is and has, removed/removing me from her life.

While she was here with me, she made me a better person. Though it was a slow change that she never did truly see, because of knowing her for the time that I did, I will always be in debt to her. And I know that she will never think that I've changed nor will she ever admit to wanting to change me, I'm a completely different person.

Some might say that I'm a compulsive disorder. Some might say that I'm flat out fucking crazy. Some might even say, which I'm sure that they would if they ever read this, that I need to get over it, move on with my life and forget her.

But that's the problem. I don't want to. And for the first time in my life, I'm asking for help to do just that.

Waterbed, if you read this, know that I still love you to death and hope to God that you're happy where you are now. I miss you kid.

Ranting on a Monday

So simple a task to complete it should be. But if it were truly simple, each and every one of us would have it done.

I'm not talking about placing the hard wood floors in the kitchen. And I'm not talking about re-shingling the roof of the house. But something far more simple, but at the same time, far more too complex to truly understand.

The old saying is "You win some. You lose some." Well, I've grown afully tird of fucking losing.

Maybe she was to be the one that I shared that crazy-I'll-do-anything-for-you-love with. Maybe she still is. But when a certain member of the party refuses to see that, well, there's not much that you can do.

Hundreds of miles between us and all I want is for her to call and tell me she's coming home. I would swim Lake Michigan in the dead of winter to prove my love for her.

Was it her choice to leave me the battered shell fo a man that I've become since her departure? I doubt it. She was too sweet hearted of a person to want to hurt me. She knew that it would hurt, but she did what she did because it was what was best for her. She couldn't keep pretending that it would all be o.k. if she closed her eyes and fell to sleep.

Badly I wish it were the case. Badly I wish to hear her voice in the morning as she readies herself for work, telling me that she loves me and she can't wait to get back home. Badly, I want her back.

But I can't be a guy who only cares about himself. I want her back. She doesn't want to come back. I can't change her mind. She's got to do that herself.

I love you Waterbed.

A message with Boston Girl

I went out Friday night to see a friend play a show in Chicago. As I sat and listened to him strum that guitar, a steady diet of Miller Lite and assorted shot were poured down my throat. Before long, I was smoked. And I feel I should share a conversation with you from Saturday night. Oh yeah, as I was on the El to go home Friday night/Satyrday morning, I text BostonGirl. This is our conversation Saturday about my Tom Foolery Friday night/Saturday morning:

Freddy- Sorry for texting u so late lastnight, I was really intoxicated and trying not to fall asleep on the train by texting people stupid things.

BostonGirl- I didn;t get it but I want it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

F-I think it was, "so th efuck what? Big deal I wanna come to boston to see u" or something along those lines.

B- Come tonight big party

F-U gonna let me stay with ya

B- Haha we have a spare bedroom

F- Not gonna get me there

B- I have a really cute dog

F- He can sleep between us

B- She. And where does my new boyfriend sleep

F- At his house

B- Hahaha

F- Not joking

Real productive, I know.

Almost...but not ready yet

She stood at a table with friends, sipping her drink, listening to the guitarist on stage pour his emotions out to all of with his Fender.

Immediately impressed with the beauty, I was, when noticing her fingers playing atop the table with that of the guitarist and his song.

Emotionally, I knew I wasn't ready to speak with her. Physically, I wanted nothing more. Somehow my state of mind had been sent back to the mid to late 90's, when I'd just sit and hope that whichever girl it was I was hoping to talk to would take it upon herself to venture over my way and speak with me. Cowardly, I know.

Since 2000, I haven't been that way. Before then I didn't say a damn thing to a single one. But since 2000, if I see an attractive female and wish to speak with her, I go and do just that. Until I saw her I was confident in myself, but after seeing her I was scared of the chance of being rejected.

After the first set had been played, I voyaged out to the Chicago street to have a smoke. And wouldn't you know it, she, too, decided to burn one.

I said nothing to her, nor she to me.

Too Many Years in the Same Office Will Drive You C R A Z Y

With 25 people printing to the same machine, it is inevitible that documents are occasionally left on the copier. Most people - normal people - would leave the left behind papers on the tray when they went to pick up their own printouts. However, the fucking idiots I work with feel the need, in this situation, to walk around to everyone in the area and ask, "did you print this?"

No, I didn't fucking print that. If I printed something, I would get up and get it. I am trying to fucking concentrate and I don't need you interrupting me every time you stumble upon a piece of fucking paper.

"Is this yours?"

You know what? Maybe instead of worrying about the piece of paper that was left on the copy machine, you should worry about your fucking job. Maybe if you concentrated on that a little more than the status of the printer, your responsibilities wouldn't keep getting shifted to me since I can do everything better than you in half the time, and then maybe I wouldn't be so fucking swamped and then maybe I wouldn't snap when you ask me if that is my document that was left on the printer.

Mobile Blogging from here.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Goodbye Waterbed

Without warning? I'd be lying if I told you I didn't see it coming. Just wish I would have seen it days, weeks, months before I did. Maybe it could have been prevented. Maybe not. Either way, she's gone.

I wish I could sa she'd be back. But no matter how many wishes or prayers I send, she wont be coming home.

Home? It's not really a home without her. It's just a place where I sleep. A place where I study. Eat meals. Shower. And cry.

She told me she liked to sleep on the couch because it made her back hurt less. (She broke it in an accident a few years back.) I hated when she said this. I believed her, but I still felt she just didn't want to sleep next to me anymore.

My sweetheart, my baby, my love....for the last year, she was all of those. She was my roommate. My lover. My everything.

She doesn't see how much I still love her. I try to show her, but she closes her eyes and ignores it all. Not taking calls and texting instead. A person can't hear the pain over a text message.

And I know if she did hear me, it wouldn't change her mind. She's done what she has for a reason. There's nothing I can do to fix it now. Just wish I would have known I needed to fix it before she left.

That's a problem with me I guess. I'm reluctant to feel, then after I let my guard down, I fall in crazy-head-over-heels love that controls every thought and emotion in me. Scares most. Maybe it scared her, too.

I still think about all the little cute things she did. It's almost haunting.

I wish her nothing but love, and happiness, and joy. Just wish it was me who helping her to feel them all.

The most painful part of the entire thing? Hearing the words, "I don't love you anymore" spill from her mouth. Gut wrenching. Breathe taking. Ball busting.

It scares me to think, someday she might move back and I might run into her. I know the love for her I will try to hide and ignore will come out in an instant. And I'll be back in the position I'm in now; sitting at my computer, writing about how I fucked up the best thing to ever happen to me, wishing she would give me one last chance, praying for her to love me again.

But I have to let it die. I have to let her go.

How painful those things will be is yet to be determined. I'm scared shitless, actually. But it's what she wants, so it's what I'll give her.

It was always about her. No matter what she thinks. And that was the way I liked it.

So, if you ever read this, know that I loved you from day one. And it grew grew each time I was with you. Each time I kissed your eyebrow. Every time I held your hand. Each morning when you would kiss me goodbye.

And that I will remember your everything. Good and bad.