War on Drugs

Narcissist (noun) = a person who has an excessive interest or thinks the world revolves around them.  So, if you think this is for you, please go listen to a song about James Taylor written by Carly Simon, then you can read on.

It has been seven months. Do Not Sensationalize, this is reality, and NOT a call for help:

It has been seven months since drugs. I have been fighting with my eyes closed, not hitting much, and not feeling the pain of the hits. I have tried all the moves, all the strategies, my dad trained me well. I know, I know, I know. The trouble is, my real father knows better. Trouble is, I cannot beat him in the ring, or anywhere. I am weaker, slower, dumber, and encumbered beyond repair.

There is an illustration that goes like this: I man writes his autobiography from birth all the way up to present day. He stops when he has concluded with the present morning, sets down the pen, and begins to read. He is horrified by what he reads, dumbfounded. All of that, me. Did all I do was hurt? This cannot be. He puts the paper down, and rests from the torment. An hour later, he picks the story up again, and reads it again from the beginning. This time there is some joy in it that he must have missed before. There is still a lot of hurt though. He continues to read until the end. He is sad having finished, but decides to put the paper down, and will give it one last try after some time has passed. This third time, he reads with an open mind. Surely he is a good man, that has done well. This time, he is horrified to find that the good was not. He had been mistaken. It was not merely the present that hurt, but all throughout the past, pain was mixed in with even the littlest bit of joy. Even the finest moments, that seemed only elation, there was a seed of pain. Others did not share the experience.  What’s worse, others even hurt by it.  He put the paper down, and thought… He believed a higher power, but could not rid himself of his pain, his fear, his longing, his hurt. He refused to give it up, it was his identity. It was his clothes. So, he did not rest. He did not sleep. Years passed. Finally, empty, he picked up the paper of his autobiography, now years old, and fading, and gave it away. The man did not rest, at least, not yet.

It : no. War On Drugs 0.5+ BnL approximately two years before the arrest:

On behalf of humanity
I will fight for your sanity
How profound such profanity can be
Won’t it be dull
When we rid ourselves of all demons haunting us
To keep us company
Won’t it be odd
To be happy like we always thought we’re supposed to feel
But never seem to be
Near where I live there’s a viaduct
Where people jump when they’re out of luck
Raining down on the cars and trucks below
They put a net there to catch their fall
Like that’ll stop anyone at all
What they don’t know is when nature calls, you go
They say that Jesus and mental health
Are just for those who can help themselves
What good is that when you’re living hell on Earth
From the very fear that makes you want to die
Is just the same as what keeps you alive
It’s way more trouble than some suicide is worth

About teacherinabox

Personally??? Husband and Father. Professionally??? Not good at separating, but I like: Writing, Inventing, and Collaborating ( Another use for the acronym WIC. I like this one better... )
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