New York, NY
1 April 2012
Habibi,
I found out today that a friend killed himself a few days ago.
His death makes me sad and makes me think how sad I would be if I lost you and felt I had not done as much as I possibly could to help you.
I love you and I hope you are ok.
Over the years, especially recently, you have spoken to me about your severe anxiety, depression, PTSD and other issues, and about wanting—at times—to kill yourself.
I have tried to be a good friend, to listen and, when you asked for it, give you names of therapists and other resources that could help you address these issues.
We haven’t spoken in a few weeks, so maybe you are feeling great these days and I am worried for nothing. If this is the case, I am very happy for you.
After losing my friend Tony, I can’t be silent. I have to ask: Have you followed up and sought help for the issues bringing you such pain?
If not, I beg you, call one of those therapists whose names I shared with you a few weeks back (after your request to me), or to seek help in other ways.
Even if you are feeling good these days—especially if you are feeling good—now is the time to do something about all this, while it is easier to take steps that connect you to support that will help you survive the times when you are not feeling so happy.
If you are feeling down these days, I still urge you to seek help. I know how hard it can be to seek help when we are down, you know I know this, but I still hope you will try. It could save your life. Just as importantly, it could help turn it around.
I keep learning and still have to keep reminding myself that nothing in life is permanent. Not joy and not pain. LIFE is not permanent! But it does not have to be painful. We may have to do some hard work to make things better, but things can get better.
As you know, I use Surat al-Asr as my mantra in times of loss, pain, confusion, and fear. This Qur’anic prayer tells me: Time itself is a witness, all humanity experiences loss and pain, except for those who have faith, do good works (or are of service), and live as an example of honesty and as an example of patience (and forbearance).
I’ve shared this with you before, and this painful reminder is impetus to share it with you again.
My friend Tony is dead, and I am still here.
I do not know why, but I do know this has been one of the resources that got me through those terrifyingly bleak times when I considered doing what Tony did.
How does this simple yet powerful prayer work for me? As any mantra, repeating it means I change the tape in my head from whatever terrible tape to this pre-recorded, familiar, repetition. In that way it functions like any prayer or ritual in which we can seek refuge.
But this prayer is pragmatic in other ways too.
It comforts me by reminding me that my pain and suffering is not something I alone endure—“The Ages witness: all humanity experiences suffering”—and it gives me practical steps I can take, solutions to my pain, loss, and confusion:
Faith (Imaan)
The prayer directs me to have faith. To me this means making a choice to believe things can get better, even that a specific someone or Something loves us. Sometimes I have had to simply trust that this was true even when I doubted it deeply or didn’t feel it. But then, that is why it is called "faith." :) Sometimes it has been faith in, belief in, someone other than myself, someone who told me things do get better. At those moments, again, I did not believe it was true, but I could believe my friend believed it, and, ”borrow” her faith. At times it has meant a faith in a Divinity, Most Merciful and Most Compassionate, Greater than any trouble I might face, an Everlasting (internal) Resource any one of us can tap into, in times of loss or not.
Service (Saalihaat)
The prayer suggests that I do good works, that I be of service. I take this to mean reach out and help a friend or volunteer in an effort to improve my community. Doing something good for others gets my focus off my problems. When I do this, I shift the focus from the running commentary and obsessive concern with my own problems to the world outside my head. This liberates me from the not-so-merry-go-round of nasty thoughts *in* my head (that nasty committee that never has anything nice to say to me about me). There is always someone can use our help, so why not shift the focus from our complaints to gratitude and to service? Let us improve the world we find ourselves in! It sorely needs it. And we end up feeling better about ourselves because we are doing something positive in the world, rather than feeling stuck in, or focused on, our pain, fear, and confusion.
Honesty (Al-Haq)
The prayer suggests that I live as an example of honesty and truth. What this means to me is that I am supposed to walk through my fears and be rigorously honest with myself and others about my fears and the reality (or falseness) of them. Living as an example of honesty means letting go of my fantasies or the narratives I spin about how things are. When I am truly honest, I can see what I can change and what really needs to change. I also see what is not in my power and how, if I have no power over it, it makes no sense to spend time worrying about it. You know what I mean: If I have a role to play or choices that could be different, I can do that, if I can’t, well, then I can’t. Talk about freedom! Living a life of honesty and truth also means unburdening myself with someone I trust about what I have done or am doing, or what I am feeling, all of which helps me not live in shame, secrecy, or fear. This frees me from carrying the burden of my troubles all by myself. Living honestly and in truth also means removing that awkward, painful, conflict and stress that arises when I say one thing (to be polite or because I am avoiding a confrontation), but I really mean or want to say another. This type of honesty also can be daunting, but it too sets me free.
Patience (Sabr)
Lastly, the prayer says I am to try to live as an example of patience and forbearance (while facing all my troubles). This to me means, “Don't give up.” Ever. It is a reminder that things get better. Things change. The hard work we can do (therapy or whatever path we choose) takes time. We didn't get into our mess and messed up way of thinking overnight. We won't get out of them overnight. We have to give time time. I know the despair can be all-encompassing, I have felt it. But I also have learned—as I am sure you have too—that I am strong in patience. No matter what troubles that befall me, even when despair feels like a reality convincing me to my bones, something that I feel as if I KNOW will always be my reality, I can be patient. I can wait the pain out. It too will pass.
Trust me. Things do get better, if we do our work and we are willing to wait.
Things have gotten better for me, and I promise they can get better for you too.
Love, Light, & Peace,
Kamal
P.S. I would add one more thing to all my fabulous (& unsolicited) advice above (): Music. I know you love music. And that’s great, because music moves us, changes our mood, reminds us things get better (and have been better). Here are some of my favorites that have so far worked to get me through some pretty tough times:
“I Look to You” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYFfmFeFGZg&feature=related as sung by Whitney Houston (RIP) or the GLEE version with Amber Riley, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQgO5TtBF6g
A soft strumming song I just recently discovered, by City and Colour, “O’ Sister” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi-crVagUok&feature=youtu.be
“It’s a Beautiful Day [don’t let it get away]” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=co6WMzDOh1o by U2
“Feeling Good” by Michael Bublé, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Edwsf-8F3sI&ob=av2e, or the Nina Simone version, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHs98TEYecM
“I Am Changing” by Jennifer Hudson, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYuFvu2gdFU
P.P.S. What are your favorite songs to get you through tough times?
Bio: Kamal Fizazi is a writer, activist, lawyer, policy wonk, strategic planning and program consultant, and all-around good guy who spends his time thinking about and working on issues of human rights and equality, diversity and inclusion, democracy and social justice, equity, gender, sexuality, public health, HIV/AIDS, addiction, mental health, recovery, faith-based anti-oppression efforts and interfaith organizing, and Lord only knows what else.
You can follow Kamal on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kamalfizazi or on twitter: @kamalfizazi. You can also read his blogs on http://izazif.wordpress.com and http://wholooksinsideawakens.blogspot.com.
Additional notes and links:
Suicide claims 36,500 lives yearly in the USA; close to one million attempt it each year.
Suicide Prevention & Support:
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/GetHelp/Default.aspx
http://www.thetrevorproject.org/
http://veteranscrisisline.net/
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
http://www.samaritansnyc.org/
http://www.afsp.org/
Solidarity & Fundraising:
http://www.outofthedarkness.org/
Showing posts with label Addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Addiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
An Open Letter to Halim: You Have All the Strength You Need
Dear Halim:
I received your email early this morning when I woke up, here, in Manhattan. I am not sure the time difference between Manhattan and Malaysia though I know that the two places are a Hell of a long way away from each other. In fact, right now, I am sure it is tomorrow in your part of the world, and the sun is just setting here, on the eastern edge of the United States.
First, I want to thank you for reaching out. Testing positive for HIV was the single loneliest and scariest moment of my life. I know what you mean when you say that there is all kinds of support in your area but you still feel alone, lonely, and as if you can't trust the folks providing support. I know that story very well. In fact, when I tested positive, for three years exactly three people in the entire world, besides my doctor and my boyfriend, knew about my HIV status: Jennifer, Russell, and Lonnie. In fact, my inability to deal with my HIV status led me to a dark place inside of myself. I stopped thinking of myself as worthy of being loved. I stopped believing that I deserved to be held and valued and supported. I no longer felt that I had the right to companionship, a relationship, or that I was good. I shut myself off from myself. I closed my spirit down and hid it away. I turned to drugs and sex and sex with drugs in order to feel, even for a moment, that I was indeed worthy, loved, desired. For a while it worked. For a while it kept me from myself and from the feelings that I had towards myself: the shame, the loathing, the disappointment, and the fear. It worked, until it stopped working.
And when it stopped working my life fell apart. The emptiness that I'd been holding inside had slowly and surely been growing, enlarging, and engulfing me quietly. It was hidden behind the drugs and behind the sex. And in one moment, in the Minneapolis Airport, when my guilt around my drug use and sex use had reached a point that it overwhelmed me, I called everyone in my cell phone and told them about my HIV status and the drugs. And then my mind broke just a little bit and I ran away inside of myself.
Despite the manner in which I told the people that love me about what I was going through, the fact that I told them saved my life. My shame and disappointment in myself had kept me away from the medecine that matters as much as any HAART treatment: the love of friends and family.
And they loved me through the times when I couldn't love myself. They held me accountable to the person that I wanted to be, and they stood in front of the mirror to keep the mirror from telling me lies about myself, lies that I had believed for too long. I made agreements with them that let me stay human but accountable. I could make mistakes. I could be less than perfect, but I had to be honest as best I could and when I couldn't be, I had to at least be honest about that. And, it worked. It worked. It hasn't always been easy, and there have been times I haven't been honest. Over a year ago, because of the situation and fear, I wasn't honest with someone when asked about my status, and it was heartbreaking to have to look at myself closely again and it was even harder work not taking on responsibility for his choices around sex while taking responsibility for mine. But, my friends loved me through that as well. And I wrote about it and talked about it openly and frankly in my blog and with the people I care about. And more healing came from that.
I know that I will continue to make mistakes and continue to be afraid from time to time, but the person that I am now is nothing like the person I was in 2005. What I know now is that sex is amazing (and I love having sex) but sex can be dangerous if it is used to try and fill a hole that can only be filled by learning to love yourself the right way. I learned that fear is terrifying but not facing my fears can lead me to places that can and will, eventually, take me out of this world. I learned that there will be times when people will reject me for my HIV status but that people who really love me never will. I learned that I deserve love and affection. I deserve to be desired. I deserve to have mind blowing sex. I derseve to live free from fear.
And guess what? So do you, my far far away brother.
I am not going to pretend that being queer and being positive is the same in New York as it is in Malaysia. I know next to nothing about what it means to be either of those things outside the borders of the United States. But I do know that even if you can start by telling one friend, if you can cry and start to let out the shame and fear, if you can step into one of those support group meetings even once, if you can turn the mirror around and refuse to listen to the lies it is ready to tell you, if you can be just a little bit brave, just for a little while, over time, you will find yourself full of joy. But you have to make that choice. Even if right now you don't believe the day will come when everything will be alright, you have to CHOOSE to fight and walk forward until that day is here. I promise you. I PROMISE YOU that it will come. You have to faith...in yourself...and, if you are a believer, in your God, but mostly you have to faith that you are loved and let those that love you help you through this time. Be smart. Be safe. Be brave. You have all the strength you need.
Love,
Brandon in Manhattan
I received your email early this morning when I woke up, here, in Manhattan. I am not sure the time difference between Manhattan and Malaysia though I know that the two places are a Hell of a long way away from each other. In fact, right now, I am sure it is tomorrow in your part of the world, and the sun is just setting here, on the eastern edge of the United States.
First, I want to thank you for reaching out. Testing positive for HIV was the single loneliest and scariest moment of my life. I know what you mean when you say that there is all kinds of support in your area but you still feel alone, lonely, and as if you can't trust the folks providing support. I know that story very well. In fact, when I tested positive, for three years exactly three people in the entire world, besides my doctor and my boyfriend, knew about my HIV status: Jennifer, Russell, and Lonnie. In fact, my inability to deal with my HIV status led me to a dark place inside of myself. I stopped thinking of myself as worthy of being loved. I stopped believing that I deserved to be held and valued and supported. I no longer felt that I had the right to companionship, a relationship, or that I was good. I shut myself off from myself. I closed my spirit down and hid it away. I turned to drugs and sex and sex with drugs in order to feel, even for a moment, that I was indeed worthy, loved, desired. For a while it worked. For a while it kept me from myself and from the feelings that I had towards myself: the shame, the loathing, the disappointment, and the fear. It worked, until it stopped working.
And when it stopped working my life fell apart. The emptiness that I'd been holding inside had slowly and surely been growing, enlarging, and engulfing me quietly. It was hidden behind the drugs and behind the sex. And in one moment, in the Minneapolis Airport, when my guilt around my drug use and sex use had reached a point that it overwhelmed me, I called everyone in my cell phone and told them about my HIV status and the drugs. And then my mind broke just a little bit and I ran away inside of myself.
Despite the manner in which I told the people that love me about what I was going through, the fact that I told them saved my life. My shame and disappointment in myself had kept me away from the medecine that matters as much as any HAART treatment: the love of friends and family.
And they loved me through the times when I couldn't love myself. They held me accountable to the person that I wanted to be, and they stood in front of the mirror to keep the mirror from telling me lies about myself, lies that I had believed for too long. I made agreements with them that let me stay human but accountable. I could make mistakes. I could be less than perfect, but I had to be honest as best I could and when I couldn't be, I had to at least be honest about that. And, it worked. It worked. It hasn't always been easy, and there have been times I haven't been honest. Over a year ago, because of the situation and fear, I wasn't honest with someone when asked about my status, and it was heartbreaking to have to look at myself closely again and it was even harder work not taking on responsibility for his choices around sex while taking responsibility for mine. But, my friends loved me through that as well. And I wrote about it and talked about it openly and frankly in my blog and with the people I care about. And more healing came from that.
I know that I will continue to make mistakes and continue to be afraid from time to time, but the person that I am now is nothing like the person I was in 2005. What I know now is that sex is amazing (and I love having sex) but sex can be dangerous if it is used to try and fill a hole that can only be filled by learning to love yourself the right way. I learned that fear is terrifying but not facing my fears can lead me to places that can and will, eventually, take me out of this world. I learned that there will be times when people will reject me for my HIV status but that people who really love me never will. I learned that I deserve love and affection. I deserve to be desired. I deserve to have mind blowing sex. I derseve to live free from fear.
And guess what? So do you, my far far away brother.
I am not going to pretend that being queer and being positive is the same in New York as it is in Malaysia. I know next to nothing about what it means to be either of those things outside the borders of the United States. But I do know that even if you can start by telling one friend, if you can cry and start to let out the shame and fear, if you can step into one of those support group meetings even once, if you can turn the mirror around and refuse to listen to the lies it is ready to tell you, if you can be just a little bit brave, just for a little while, over time, you will find yourself full of joy. But you have to make that choice. Even if right now you don't believe the day will come when everything will be alright, you have to CHOOSE to fight and walk forward until that day is here. I promise you. I PROMISE YOU that it will come. You have to faith...in yourself...and, if you are a believer, in your God, but mostly you have to faith that you are loved and let those that love you help you through this time. Be smart. Be safe. Be brave. You have all the strength you need.
Love,
Brandon in Manhattan
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Loving and Letting Go
So, last summer my best friend, who happened to be a former boyfriend that I loved with all my heart, committed suicide. He had been in a sad place for a while, though, like most of us living through our own trials, what he saw as the things standing in his way, those things weighing on his spirit, were not as great as they felt to him. When he failed to achieve a goal he set out to do, the failure tore at him. He became a failure rather than having simply not had the resources, at the time, to do what he had set out to do. In the end, he could no longer see what everyone else could see: he was a beautiful and brilliant man that loved others and lifted others up in a way that I am not sure I am even capable of approximating. When Chris loved you, you knew what it was to have someone believe in you, totally, without compromise. He laughed at the silly and stupid masks we put on and, despite how good we thought we were at applying masks and cover up, he saw right on through it and loved what was underneath selflessly and absolutely. How could you not feel beautiful when someone loved you that way? With Chris loving me, slowly, I began to see past the face in the mirror...that distorted image of childhood trauma and low self-esteem...to that face that Chris saw. I caught glimpses of another Brandon...and when I couldn't see him...or believe in him...Chris believed enough for the both of us.
I know, though, that when I am in a place where it is hard to keep moving forward because everything feels heavy and hard, until I am able to find a vantage point that will truly let me put what I'm going through into perspective, all the love in the world isn't going to do it for me. What love does is give me strength to draw on to maybe take one more step. There were times when Chris was the love that got me through. Chris gave me the gift of allowing me to love him through hard times in the past. But last Summer, one night in July, my love wasn't enough. The last time I talked to him, the night before he died, he called me, and when I answered, he started crying and said, before hanging up the phone, that it was too hard for him to hear my voice. I know now that it wasn't Chris that called me that night. He may have dialed the number, but when I answered the phone, it was his mask that answered. It was the voice of what he perceived as his failures that shut down my beautiful Chris and plugged up his ears.
I didn't know that would be our last conversation. If I'd had even the tiniest moment of precognition, I would have kept him on the phone. I would have called him back, and if he didn't answer, I would have filled up his voicemail box with messages of love. And when the mailbox filled up, I would have texted him. I would have sent him silly pictures and inappropriate comments. I would have reminded him of all the awesome, stupid, happy, sad memories I have of our friendship. I would have filled up his inbox with anything and everything to try and shout down and crowd out those voices whispering ugly and hateful words into his spirit. And, if necessary, I would have called anyone within a 100 mile radius and had them drive to his house and held him until I could get to him myself. I would have rode Mimzy to Virginia if that is the only way that I'd had to get down there.
But, I didn't know that it was our last conversation, and less than twelve hours later, he was gone. When his boyfriend, who was staying with us that weekend, called to tell me, I didn't believe him at first. I actually thought that his boyfriend, also named Chris, must have misunderstood whatever message he'd gotten, but since he was obviously upset, I went into business mode, told him I would be back to the apartment shortly, and then hung up the phone. When I got back to the apartment, I sat, quietly, without saying much. I am not going at crying in front of other people, and Chris was in crisis, and if anything I am fucking amazing in crisis (so much so that I don't understand how to live outside of crisis mode...a fucked up way of being that keeps me in a cycle of self-sabotage...you always run back to what feels comfortable no matter how stupid it may be to do so). Though I may have had a calm face on the outside, in the inside, the whole time that I was trying to be present for Chris the Boyfriend, I was screaming inside. In fact, it got so bad that when tears started to come, I clamped down on them with a tremendous mental force because I knew that if I let the tears start that the screaming wouldn't just be inside, it would have be real. If I'd started screaming out what I was feeling, I am not sure when I would have been able to stop it. I was so sad and so angry. I wanted to go to Virginia and kick Chris' body until I could lift my leg anymore. I wanted to punch him in the face for being so fucking dumb and selfish. I wanted to take off of my belt and beat him until my arm cramped up for thinking that it was easier to pick up a gun than the phone. And once I had exhausted myself and rested, I wanted to find his parents and beat the shit out of them as well for not seeing how badly he was hurting and put his ass in a mental ward if that's what it would have taken. I wanted to find anyone that had ever hurt Chris and made him believe that those voices inside of him were telling the goddamn truth. Then I wanted to find God and kick the shit out of him too.
So, instead of doing all of that drama...I did what I do best. I stuffed all of my emotions deep deep deep down, labeled the box I put them in, and then tucked them into the deep freezer. Nothing like unresolved emotional issues ;-).
Fast forward to recently. Chris and I met in rehab. We both (him past tense struggled, me present tense struggle) with addiction. So, when I started going back to the fellowship of which we were both members, I spent most of my first meeting not thinking about my own shit...but remembering Chris. I remembered all of the love and encouragement he gave me when we were both starting out on this path together. And then came the survivor's guilt....but mostly...I just remembered him and let the memories run one into the other, which, would have been awesome, except one of my visions of Hell is breaking down crying, seemingly spontaneously, in front of 200 some odd folks in one room. I have a hard enough time crying by myself, at home, in the middle of the night, with the shades pulled and the lights off. Though the feelings aren't as overwhelming now, every time I walk into one of those rooms and sit down, Chris is right there and all of the sadness and love for him is right there too.
Today, when I was having coffee with Mark, with whom I usually attend meetings, I told him about Chris and who Chris had been, how he'd died, and what he meant to me. I told him about Honey Bun and how amazing she is and that she is thinking about going to Heaven soon. He listened. He heard me. I kept from completely crying, but a few tears leaked out, but Mark gave me permission to cry, which is a gift that I appreciate though I sure as Hell wasn't about to break down in the middle of Chelsea on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon with half the gays in the city rolling through to get a non-fat skim milk light mocha coconut banana dark roast espresso latte americano frappe-gay-cino.
But it did help me realize that I still had some things I needed to let myself work through where Chris is related. It helped me admit and own that I have grief that I need to let go so that it doesn't continue to be something I use any means necessary to escape from...and I realized that if I told him that Honey Bun maybe leaving soon, if I asked for support now, that maybe when it's her time...I can let myself feel what I need to feel and then let those feelings go so that they do not become another excuse to self-medicate and numb myself. Especially since once that old bird is dead and has the ability to pop in whenever the Hell she feels like it, I am afraid that she would show up, switch in hand, and whoop my ass if I self-medicated to deal with her passing. I can hear her now, "Dumb ass Negro...you know better...and since you want to act simple...I am going to simply whoop your little black butt until the dumb is all beaten off of it."
Aright, I have half a dozen or more friends coming over in three hours for Easter dinner, and I have a mess of greens sitting by the sink that aren't going to cook themselves, so I better have at it. It's Easter, and Easter is about family, so I thought I had to make sure that Chris, my family, was remembered today. Love you.
I know, though, that when I am in a place where it is hard to keep moving forward because everything feels heavy and hard, until I am able to find a vantage point that will truly let me put what I'm going through into perspective, all the love in the world isn't going to do it for me. What love does is give me strength to draw on to maybe take one more step. There were times when Chris was the love that got me through. Chris gave me the gift of allowing me to love him through hard times in the past. But last Summer, one night in July, my love wasn't enough. The last time I talked to him, the night before he died, he called me, and when I answered, he started crying and said, before hanging up the phone, that it was too hard for him to hear my voice. I know now that it wasn't Chris that called me that night. He may have dialed the number, but when I answered the phone, it was his mask that answered. It was the voice of what he perceived as his failures that shut down my beautiful Chris and plugged up his ears.
I didn't know that would be our last conversation. If I'd had even the tiniest moment of precognition, I would have kept him on the phone. I would have called him back, and if he didn't answer, I would have filled up his voicemail box with messages of love. And when the mailbox filled up, I would have texted him. I would have sent him silly pictures and inappropriate comments. I would have reminded him of all the awesome, stupid, happy, sad memories I have of our friendship. I would have filled up his inbox with anything and everything to try and shout down and crowd out those voices whispering ugly and hateful words into his spirit. And, if necessary, I would have called anyone within a 100 mile radius and had them drive to his house and held him until I could get to him myself. I would have rode Mimzy to Virginia if that is the only way that I'd had to get down there.
But, I didn't know that it was our last conversation, and less than twelve hours later, he was gone. When his boyfriend, who was staying with us that weekend, called to tell me, I didn't believe him at first. I actually thought that his boyfriend, also named Chris, must have misunderstood whatever message he'd gotten, but since he was obviously upset, I went into business mode, told him I would be back to the apartment shortly, and then hung up the phone. When I got back to the apartment, I sat, quietly, without saying much. I am not going at crying in front of other people, and Chris was in crisis, and if anything I am fucking amazing in crisis (so much so that I don't understand how to live outside of crisis mode...a fucked up way of being that keeps me in a cycle of self-sabotage...you always run back to what feels comfortable no matter how stupid it may be to do so). Though I may have had a calm face on the outside, in the inside, the whole time that I was trying to be present for Chris the Boyfriend, I was screaming inside. In fact, it got so bad that when tears started to come, I clamped down on them with a tremendous mental force because I knew that if I let the tears start that the screaming wouldn't just be inside, it would have be real. If I'd started screaming out what I was feeling, I am not sure when I would have been able to stop it. I was so sad and so angry. I wanted to go to Virginia and kick Chris' body until I could lift my leg anymore. I wanted to punch him in the face for being so fucking dumb and selfish. I wanted to take off of my belt and beat him until my arm cramped up for thinking that it was easier to pick up a gun than the phone. And once I had exhausted myself and rested, I wanted to find his parents and beat the shit out of them as well for not seeing how badly he was hurting and put his ass in a mental ward if that's what it would have taken. I wanted to find anyone that had ever hurt Chris and made him believe that those voices inside of him were telling the goddamn truth. Then I wanted to find God and kick the shit out of him too.
So, instead of doing all of that drama...I did what I do best. I stuffed all of my emotions deep deep deep down, labeled the box I put them in, and then tucked them into the deep freezer. Nothing like unresolved emotional issues ;-).
Fast forward to recently. Chris and I met in rehab. We both (him past tense struggled, me present tense struggle) with addiction. So, when I started going back to the fellowship of which we were both members, I spent most of my first meeting not thinking about my own shit...but remembering Chris. I remembered all of the love and encouragement he gave me when we were both starting out on this path together. And then came the survivor's guilt....but mostly...I just remembered him and let the memories run one into the other, which, would have been awesome, except one of my visions of Hell is breaking down crying, seemingly spontaneously, in front of 200 some odd folks in one room. I have a hard enough time crying by myself, at home, in the middle of the night, with the shades pulled and the lights off. Though the feelings aren't as overwhelming now, every time I walk into one of those rooms and sit down, Chris is right there and all of the sadness and love for him is right there too.
Today, when I was having coffee with Mark, with whom I usually attend meetings, I told him about Chris and who Chris had been, how he'd died, and what he meant to me. I told him about Honey Bun and how amazing she is and that she is thinking about going to Heaven soon. He listened. He heard me. I kept from completely crying, but a few tears leaked out, but Mark gave me permission to cry, which is a gift that I appreciate though I sure as Hell wasn't about to break down in the middle of Chelsea on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon with half the gays in the city rolling through to get a non-fat skim milk light mocha coconut banana dark roast espresso latte americano frappe-gay-cino.
But it did help me realize that I still had some things I needed to let myself work through where Chris is related. It helped me admit and own that I have grief that I need to let go so that it doesn't continue to be something I use any means necessary to escape from...and I realized that if I told him that Honey Bun maybe leaving soon, if I asked for support now, that maybe when it's her time...I can let myself feel what I need to feel and then let those feelings go so that they do not become another excuse to self-medicate and numb myself. Especially since once that old bird is dead and has the ability to pop in whenever the Hell she feels like it, I am afraid that she would show up, switch in hand, and whoop my ass if I self-medicated to deal with her passing. I can hear her now, "Dumb ass Negro...you know better...and since you want to act simple...I am going to simply whoop your little black butt until the dumb is all beaten off of it."
Aright, I have half a dozen or more friends coming over in three hours for Easter dinner, and I have a mess of greens sitting by the sink that aren't going to cook themselves, so I better have at it. It's Easter, and Easter is about family, so I thought I had to make sure that Chris, my family, was remembered today. Love you.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Make that Change
Today, I changed my phone number.
It may not sound like much but it is a big deal. It's a huge deal, actually.
Minnesotans are the masters of passive aggressive behavior in all of its myriad incarnations. Indeed, we raise passive aggressiveness to a fine art.
I've written before about my struggle to stay the hell away from crystal meth. Addiction is a sneaky son-of-a-bastard, and the mind of one battling addiction is about as simple as chaos theory or finding a Fibonacci sequence in a fractal. My recent battle has not been without its set backs but compared to where I was a few months ago, the momentary setbacks that occur now and again are aberrations instead of impending patterns of doom.
For a queer man dealing with meth addiction, there are two great electronic enemies that can lead one quickly back to using: the computer (specifically online cruising sex sites) and cell phones. Let me be clear that I am not judging cruising sites. In fact, I think sex cruising sites are pretty damn awesome tools for negotiating consensual sex of all types and varieties if the person accessing the sites is able to maintain his boundaries and, in the case of addicts, is secure enough in his recovery to maintain a healthy distance from those that combine recreational sex and drug use. At this particular point in my recovery process, I am a long long way away from being able to safely access cruising sites. And, frankly, that is not really a problem. My cell phone, however, has been.
The cell phone is the other big electronic enemy, and it can be for many reasons. For those that have SmartPhones, the sex cruising sites are readily accessible, in fact, several of them have apps for both Android and the iPhone. For me, that isn't the problem. My problem is and has been the fact that when I am in a good place, I do the sensible thing and go through my phone and erase the phone numbers of folks with whom I have used or that I know use. That's a no brainer.
Here is where the passive aggressive piece comes in.
I learned long ago that I can make myself feel all good and shiny by deleting the numbers in my phone, all the while knowing that deleting the numbers is actually fairly useless, because I know that as long as the phone number itself stays the same, eventually, SOMEONE will text. Dealers are savvy, and if they haven't heard from a former client for a time, they are sure to check in. And folks with whom you may have connected in the past are likely to text or call at the most vulnerable of times. In fact, I have gotten into more trouble with my sobriety from former dealers or tricks texting or emailing at a time when I am emotionally vulnerable or, my other danger time, feeling extremely happy and content (nothing like a little self sabotage!) than from anything else. In fact, I can remember only a couple of times where I actually made a decisions to go out and use, tracked down a dealer, etc. All the other dumb moments came courtesy of a little electronic ditty announcing the arrival of an email, text, or phone call.
I have a kazillion times made the statement to myself or to David that I am going to change my phone number. I even got as far once as calling AT&T, but when they told me that they were out of 646 numbers, but I could keep my 646 if I went into the store, I hung up and never made the trip the six blocks to make the change in person. Besides that one aborted half attempt, I generally have talked myself out of it using every possible excuse from laziness (who wants to go through their contact list and text or call everyone to announce the change) or I decide that I can't possibly change my number because I am waiting for a call back from a job, or it was just posted on a flyer, or it's listed in this or that place and I might miss something important in the lag time between when I get my new number and when I can get it out into the world. Never mind that I almost NEVER get phone calls (texts are my main form of communication), and never mind that almost everyone that has my cell number also has my email address and/or is connected to my Facebook account. So, really, it's not like we are living in 1992 with a landline, no caller ID, using TelNet and the Gopher, and still hearing recordings when calling to order a pizza about rotary dial versus pulse dial phones.
I totally just dated myself. Yes boys and girls...there was a time before the 3G network...called the Pre-iPad Age when typewriters roamed the Earth and men and women wrote letters using paper, pens, and the U.S. Postal Service, the electronic version of Battleship was state of the art gaming, and the only thing an Apple computer was good for was playing Oregon Trail.
Ahhh the good old days. There is a dissertation just waiting to be written about the impact of the Internet age on addiction, sexual negotiation, HIV/AIDS, and the death of the club scene. Ohhhhh Gender and Women's Studies at the U of MN................
Oops...I got distracted...back to the point.
Today, I struck my inner addict a mighty blow. A blessing of having lost/destroyed two iPhones in recent months as well as having my computer hacked and crashed is that I lost my iPhone back ups. Most of the naughty numbers were permanently removed during that process. I triple checked my phone today to make sure that no borderline or possibly icky numbers remained anywhere in it, and then I called Apple and made the number change. The sweet woman on the phone took 15 minutes to FIND me a 646 number (after first telling me that they were all gone, then saying I would have a 347 number, then telling me THOSE were all gone, and I would have a 201 number--who ever heard of a 201 number?---she disappeared and when she returned she had a shiny new 646 number for me. She had to manually look through a spread sheet of phone numbers that (wait for it) are not listed in numerical order. Ummm. Duh. But I was very happy that she took the time to ease my transition a little by keeping me in the same phone number clan.
So, while for most folks, the act of changing a phone number is no big thing...for me...it is letting go of another way that my tricky tricky brain has used to maintain connections to a part of my life that I am trying to let go. They say its progress not perfection, which is basically a sucker punch to the face for this overachieving perfectionist, but learning to forgive myself and give myself the space to make mistakes and then LEARN FROM THEM is all part of this process of leaving behind those things that once served a purpose but now serve only to keep me from being the human being that I was put on this Earth to be.
Thanks to all of those folks that have loved me enough that I had the strength of spirit to pick up the phone and make that change today. I know that I have a stupidly ridiculous long ass way to go...but I am starting to believe that I might actually get there.
It may not sound like much but it is a big deal. It's a huge deal, actually.
Minnesotans are the masters of passive aggressive behavior in all of its myriad incarnations. Indeed, we raise passive aggressiveness to a fine art.
I've written before about my struggle to stay the hell away from crystal meth. Addiction is a sneaky son-of-a-bastard, and the mind of one battling addiction is about as simple as chaos theory or finding a Fibonacci sequence in a fractal. My recent battle has not been without its set backs but compared to where I was a few months ago, the momentary setbacks that occur now and again are aberrations instead of impending patterns of doom.
For a queer man dealing with meth addiction, there are two great electronic enemies that can lead one quickly back to using: the computer (specifically online cruising sex sites) and cell phones. Let me be clear that I am not judging cruising sites. In fact, I think sex cruising sites are pretty damn awesome tools for negotiating consensual sex of all types and varieties if the person accessing the sites is able to maintain his boundaries and, in the case of addicts, is secure enough in his recovery to maintain a healthy distance from those that combine recreational sex and drug use. At this particular point in my recovery process, I am a long long way away from being able to safely access cruising sites. And, frankly, that is not really a problem. My cell phone, however, has been.
The cell phone is the other big electronic enemy, and it can be for many reasons. For those that have SmartPhones, the sex cruising sites are readily accessible, in fact, several of them have apps for both Android and the iPhone. For me, that isn't the problem. My problem is and has been the fact that when I am in a good place, I do the sensible thing and go through my phone and erase the phone numbers of folks with whom I have used or that I know use. That's a no brainer.
Here is where the passive aggressive piece comes in.
I learned long ago that I can make myself feel all good and shiny by deleting the numbers in my phone, all the while knowing that deleting the numbers is actually fairly useless, because I know that as long as the phone number itself stays the same, eventually, SOMEONE will text. Dealers are savvy, and if they haven't heard from a former client for a time, they are sure to check in. And folks with whom you may have connected in the past are likely to text or call at the most vulnerable of times. In fact, I have gotten into more trouble with my sobriety from former dealers or tricks texting or emailing at a time when I am emotionally vulnerable or, my other danger time, feeling extremely happy and content (nothing like a little self sabotage!) than from anything else. In fact, I can remember only a couple of times where I actually made a decisions to go out and use, tracked down a dealer, etc. All the other dumb moments came courtesy of a little electronic ditty announcing the arrival of an email, text, or phone call.
I have a kazillion times made the statement to myself or to David that I am going to change my phone number. I even got as far once as calling AT&T, but when they told me that they were out of 646 numbers, but I could keep my 646 if I went into the store, I hung up and never made the trip the six blocks to make the change in person. Besides that one aborted half attempt, I generally have talked myself out of it using every possible excuse from laziness (who wants to go through their contact list and text or call everyone to announce the change) or I decide that I can't possibly change my number because I am waiting for a call back from a job, or it was just posted on a flyer, or it's listed in this or that place and I might miss something important in the lag time between when I get my new number and when I can get it out into the world. Never mind that I almost NEVER get phone calls (texts are my main form of communication), and never mind that almost everyone that has my cell number also has my email address and/or is connected to my Facebook account. So, really, it's not like we are living in 1992 with a landline, no caller ID, using TelNet and the Gopher, and still hearing recordings when calling to order a pizza about rotary dial versus pulse dial phones.
I totally just dated myself. Yes boys and girls...there was a time before the 3G network...called the Pre-iPad Age when typewriters roamed the Earth and men and women wrote letters using paper, pens, and the U.S. Postal Service, the electronic version of Battleship was state of the art gaming, and the only thing an Apple computer was good for was playing Oregon Trail.
Ahhh the good old days. There is a dissertation just waiting to be written about the impact of the Internet age on addiction, sexual negotiation, HIV/AIDS, and the death of the club scene. Ohhhhh Gender and Women's Studies at the U of MN................
Oops...I got distracted...back to the point.
Today, I struck my inner addict a mighty blow. A blessing of having lost/destroyed two iPhones in recent months as well as having my computer hacked and crashed is that I lost my iPhone back ups. Most of the naughty numbers were permanently removed during that process. I triple checked my phone today to make sure that no borderline or possibly icky numbers remained anywhere in it, and then I called Apple and made the number change. The sweet woman on the phone took 15 minutes to FIND me a 646 number (after first telling me that they were all gone, then saying I would have a 347 number, then telling me THOSE were all gone, and I would have a 201 number--who ever heard of a 201 number?---she disappeared and when she returned she had a shiny new 646 number for me. She had to manually look through a spread sheet of phone numbers that (wait for it) are not listed in numerical order. Ummm. Duh. But I was very happy that she took the time to ease my transition a little by keeping me in the same phone number clan.
So, while for most folks, the act of changing a phone number is no big thing...for me...it is letting go of another way that my tricky tricky brain has used to maintain connections to a part of my life that I am trying to let go. They say its progress not perfection, which is basically a sucker punch to the face for this overachieving perfectionist, but learning to forgive myself and give myself the space to make mistakes and then LEARN FROM THEM is all part of this process of leaving behind those things that once served a purpose but now serve only to keep me from being the human being that I was put on this Earth to be.
Thanks to all of those folks that have loved me enough that I had the strength of spirit to pick up the phone and make that change today. I know that I have a stupidly ridiculous long ass way to go...but I am starting to believe that I might actually get there.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Addiction, HIV, and the Healing that We Need: A Community Call to Action
Let me go on ahead and give a testimonial up in this piece for a minute. I am a recovering meth addict. And while there was an element early on, back in the late 90s, when I was bedazzled by the glam party boys at the club, my meth addiction had nothing to do with that. Meth came later, post HIV, and my meth addiction had everything to do with the mind blowing numbing power of the drug, the power of the drug to let me feel beautiful, wanted, loved, in control, powerful...for as long as the high lasted, I was Superman and all the bull shit of the world just bounced off of my chest.
Let me preach on this for a minute. I know you all are the choir but sometimes the choir needs to hear the sermon too. When you grow up a man of color in a country that is designed to shut you up and, if it can't, lock you away...when you come out in a queer community where, at least where I was from, you are told to your face, “Sorry...you're cute...but I don't do black/brown/not-white,”....when you are targeted and tokenized...when you are outside peeking in....any thing that resembles a key or a pathway to acceptance becomes very attractive and BECAUSE we did not then and still do not love each other deeply, fearlessly, strongly, toughly, wholly enough...we do not give ourselves nor those that are coming after us the spiritual or communal strength to love themselves despite what the world or anyone in it has to say about the matter.
If we want to see an end to the spread of HIV, if we want to see the end of addiction, if we want to see beautiful brown, black, red, and yellow men loving each other wholly, beautifully, powerfully, then we need find a way to build each other up spiritually and communally...all the prevention messages in the world don't mean SHIT without the work to heal the wounds that most of us are born with....I knew all about condoms and how to protect myself from HIV. But when faced with a moment (even illusory) of feeling whole, wanted, loved, and accepted....I was wiling to give up just about anything to have that moment.
This isn't about some "gay party and sex" ethos. That idea is dismissive and simplistic. It is also a shiny, pretty masquerade masking what's really going on beneath the surface. What's really going on underneath is a world, despite the GLAAD Media Awards, despite Ricky Martin coming out, despite Ugly Betty and Will & Grace, despite gay cruises and gay carnivals, despite the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell, despite the right to mimic failed heterosexual relationship structures as evinced through state sponsored marriage, despite a welcoming church here and there, despite “It Gets Better,” and despite all the superficial bullshit where queer people, queer people of color and especially genderqueer and trans people of color are targeted, wounded, hurting, marginalized, isolated and struggling--at least for a good chunk of their first two decades of life. And, my friends, don't get it twisted, each and every one of us knows that what happens to us in the first 20 years of life is most likely what we are going to spend the last 60 years of our lives trying to heal...if we have the privilege to do so and if we live long enough.
So, when I read half-assed assertions about what is REALLY needed to curb meth addiction, when I read folks that have never struggled with addiction coming up with the same old tired solutions to dynamic issues of mental health and spiritual wounding, I really want to start screaming. The fact is that the solution to meth addiction is not MORE FEAR. It is not MORE JUDGMENT. It is not MORE SHAME. It is not simplistic answers to a complicated problem. And there is no single solution for an addiction and a wounding that is absolutely personal. When one goes into the emergency room with chest pains, the doctor doesn't apply the same diagnostic and healing plan that she gave to the patient just before you with chest pain. Your healing path is personal and specific to the nuances that are you. Some of the techniques applied may be universal, but the situations of each surgery are unique and require specialized care. The same is true of addiction, and don't let anyone tell you differently.
With all my heart, I wish that the moment any queer and/or trans person of color turned 18---before we send them out into the adult world--, they were whisked off to a magical queer camp where for a year they are given the tools and the love, and lots and lots and lots of therapy, to start undoing the hurt that they have already, inevitably, received.
So let me ask you to join me in figuring out a real solution. I am going to talk to my friend Maurice Jamal, the folks at the Audre Lorde Project and a couple of other folks and see if we can pull together a series of long term discussions in queer/trans communities of color, with queer/trans people of color, facilitated by queer/trans people of color, to try and find long term solutions not to addiction but to the root causes that lead to addiction. HIV and Addiction are symptoms. The symptoms need to be addressed but until the underlying wound is healed, no matter how much love and support is thrown at the symptoms, they are going to keep returning. I, for one, am tired of the symptoms. I am ready for healing---and I can't do it by myself.
Let me preach on this for a minute. I know you all are the choir but sometimes the choir needs to hear the sermon too. When you grow up a man of color in a country that is designed to shut you up and, if it can't, lock you away...when you come out in a queer community where, at least where I was from, you are told to your face, “Sorry...you're cute...but I don't do black/brown/not-white,”....when you are targeted and tokenized...when you are outside peeking in....any thing that resembles a key or a pathway to acceptance becomes very attractive and BECAUSE we did not then and still do not love each other deeply, fearlessly, strongly, toughly, wholly enough...we do not give ourselves nor those that are coming after us the spiritual or communal strength to love themselves despite what the world or anyone in it has to say about the matter.
If we want to see an end to the spread of HIV, if we want to see the end of addiction, if we want to see beautiful brown, black, red, and yellow men loving each other wholly, beautifully, powerfully, then we need find a way to build each other up spiritually and communally...all the prevention messages in the world don't mean SHIT without the work to heal the wounds that most of us are born with....I knew all about condoms and how to protect myself from HIV. But when faced with a moment (even illusory) of feeling whole, wanted, loved, and accepted....I was wiling to give up just about anything to have that moment.
This isn't about some "gay party and sex" ethos. That idea is dismissive and simplistic. It is also a shiny, pretty masquerade masking what's really going on beneath the surface. What's really going on underneath is a world, despite the GLAAD Media Awards, despite Ricky Martin coming out, despite Ugly Betty and Will & Grace, despite gay cruises and gay carnivals, despite the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell, despite the right to mimic failed heterosexual relationship structures as evinced through state sponsored marriage, despite a welcoming church here and there, despite “It Gets Better,” and despite all the superficial bullshit where queer people, queer people of color and especially genderqueer and trans people of color are targeted, wounded, hurting, marginalized, isolated and struggling--at least for a good chunk of their first two decades of life. And, my friends, don't get it twisted, each and every one of us knows that what happens to us in the first 20 years of life is most likely what we are going to spend the last 60 years of our lives trying to heal...if we have the privilege to do so and if we live long enough.
So, when I read half-assed assertions about what is REALLY needed to curb meth addiction, when I read folks that have never struggled with addiction coming up with the same old tired solutions to dynamic issues of mental health and spiritual wounding, I really want to start screaming. The fact is that the solution to meth addiction is not MORE FEAR. It is not MORE JUDGMENT. It is not MORE SHAME. It is not simplistic answers to a complicated problem. And there is no single solution for an addiction and a wounding that is absolutely personal. When one goes into the emergency room with chest pains, the doctor doesn't apply the same diagnostic and healing plan that she gave to the patient just before you with chest pain. Your healing path is personal and specific to the nuances that are you. Some of the techniques applied may be universal, but the situations of each surgery are unique and require specialized care. The same is true of addiction, and don't let anyone tell you differently.
With all my heart, I wish that the moment any queer and/or trans person of color turned 18---before we send them out into the adult world--, they were whisked off to a magical queer camp where for a year they are given the tools and the love, and lots and lots and lots of therapy, to start undoing the hurt that they have already, inevitably, received.
So let me ask you to join me in figuring out a real solution. I am going to talk to my friend Maurice Jamal, the folks at the Audre Lorde Project and a couple of other folks and see if we can pull together a series of long term discussions in queer/trans communities of color, with queer/trans people of color, facilitated by queer/trans people of color, to try and find long term solutions not to addiction but to the root causes that lead to addiction. HIV and Addiction are symptoms. The symptoms need to be addressed but until the underlying wound is healed, no matter how much love and support is thrown at the symptoms, they are going to keep returning. I, for one, am tired of the symptoms. I am ready for healing---and I can't do it by myself.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
POETRY: H-I-ME
H-I-ME
I live with HIV
I have been a part-time junkie
Trying to find something I missed
In between overachieving and the point of a needle
People generally look at me like I am lying
By trying to tell them I am recovering
And some days much less recovered than others
My Mother couldn’t believe that her Straight-A-Beaver-Cleaver
Would cleave to whatever he could snort or swallow or fit in a needle
Powders and pills devouring the pain of little red ribbons
T-Cell Counts and technical knock outs by Chelsea boy faggots
That see only a status
It might mess with their A List adventure if they fall for a retroviral warrior
Rejecting gentlemanly advances as if being asked to marry a leper
All the while playing jeopardy
Take a hit and then split in half/open wide to let the next big raw cock inside
You see Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is all very well in a fairy tale where in
Your sexual health is someone else’s responsibility
Silly me, I thought when I saw your ass bubble cum like a champagne fountain that you had made a decision
Not a wager
Lord and Savior
I know that there is a responsibility for disclosure
But somewhere it was decided that raw riders got to blame others
For riding without a saddle
I am madder than hell that with all my own shit
I have to deal with bitter bitches that pretend to some moral authority
to do as they say and not as they do and do and do
turning you into a cracked out rehabilitation project
filled with so much vehemence
it’s funny that they can’t see the real disappointment
but it’s boring to look at the weeds in your own back yard
when your neighbor has such a lovely garden
Let me be clear with all ya’ll here
If you are choosing to go on a meth fueled sex affair
My responsibility to the outcomes of your personal decisions stop right there
So happy we got all that out in the air.
I feel much better
HIV and addiction fly formation in a circular pattern
Its tough to unlearn
The poison poured into young ears
By the 1980s and shady queers
Never fear!
I am well aware that I am a tragically flawed human being.
There are choices that I have made that have ripped apart the lives of others.
A lover that came to me in tears when he tested positive
Confirming my own fear about my status
Except I had been too cowardly to take the damn test
At least if I had
it would have been only one life in shambles
In the end, I have more than enough to do
Without having to take care of you
Let this serve as final public notice
I am HIV Positive
There is the disclosure that everyone wanted
From now on, make your own damn decisions
and live with the consequences
because when two adults come to a conclusion
that they want a little skin on skin action
the minute your legs are in the upright and locked position
it’s your job to make sure that you don’t have a bumpy landing
Am I being unclear?
That’s your asshole in there
And while another asshole may have told you what you wanted to hear
You are the one that let him steer his jet into your hanger
Check your anger Boo Boo
In this game of cards
A tie goes to the dealer
I feel much better after having written this poem.
I know that I have a lifetime of work left to do
Hope never to have to write another poem like this
Or slip and let addiction back in
But if or when it happens
Or when the next person looks at me and sees only a status
I got this in my arsenal
Poetry sometimes is the best ammo
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I live with HIV
I have been a part-time junkie
Trying to find something I missed
In between overachieving and the point of a needle
People generally look at me like I am lying
By trying to tell them I am recovering
And some days much less recovered than others
My Mother couldn’t believe that her Straight-A-Beaver-Cleaver
Would cleave to whatever he could snort or swallow or fit in a needle
Powders and pills devouring the pain of little red ribbons
T-Cell Counts and technical knock outs by Chelsea boy faggots
That see only a status
It might mess with their A List adventure if they fall for a retroviral warrior
Rejecting gentlemanly advances as if being asked to marry a leper
All the while playing jeopardy
Take a hit and then split in half/open wide to let the next big raw cock inside
You see Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is all very well in a fairy tale where in
Your sexual health is someone else’s responsibility
Silly me, I thought when I saw your ass bubble cum like a champagne fountain that you had made a decision
Not a wager
Lord and Savior
I know that there is a responsibility for disclosure
But somewhere it was decided that raw riders got to blame others
For riding without a saddle
I am madder than hell that with all my own shit
I have to deal with bitter bitches that pretend to some moral authority
to do as they say and not as they do and do and do
turning you into a cracked out rehabilitation project
filled with so much vehemence
it’s funny that they can’t see the real disappointment
but it’s boring to look at the weeds in your own back yard
when your neighbor has such a lovely garden
Let me be clear with all ya’ll here
If you are choosing to go on a meth fueled sex affair
My responsibility to the outcomes of your personal decisions stop right there
So happy we got all that out in the air.
I feel much better
HIV and addiction fly formation in a circular pattern
Its tough to unlearn
The poison poured into young ears
By the 1980s and shady queers
Never fear!
I am well aware that I am a tragically flawed human being.
There are choices that I have made that have ripped apart the lives of others.
A lover that came to me in tears when he tested positive
Confirming my own fear about my status
Except I had been too cowardly to take the damn test
At least if I had
it would have been only one life in shambles
In the end, I have more than enough to do
Without having to take care of you
Let this serve as final public notice
I am HIV Positive
There is the disclosure that everyone wanted
From now on, make your own damn decisions
and live with the consequences
because when two adults come to a conclusion
that they want a little skin on skin action
the minute your legs are in the upright and locked position
it’s your job to make sure that you don’t have a bumpy landing
Am I being unclear?
That’s your asshole in there
And while another asshole may have told you what you wanted to hear
You are the one that let him steer his jet into your hanger
Check your anger Boo Boo
In this game of cards
A tie goes to the dealer
I feel much better after having written this poem.
I know that I have a lifetime of work left to do
Hope never to have to write another poem like this
Or slip and let addiction back in
But if or when it happens
Or when the next person looks at me and sees only a status
I got this in my arsenal
Poetry sometimes is the best ammo
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A Change is Gonna Come
Living in my house, right now, is like living in a constant state of spiritual warfare. And, today, I almost lost a big battle.
I am a recovering addict. I spent several years using crystal meth fairly heavily, and I hid it quite successfully from the people that love me. I was a binge user, and I used on a clockwork schedule: every two weeks for two to three days at a time, almost always over the weekend.
After having a near complete breakdown and spending a week as a guest of the mental health ward of Fairview Riverside hospital and then spending another almost six months in various structured recovery programs at the Pride Institute in Eden Praire, MN, I was able to get to a place where I had the skills to fight back against my own biology. Addiction is a physical and mental illness and it takes physical and mental therapy to keep it in check.
I have had, what is called in 12-Step lingo, slips. But I haven't slipped for a long time now, and I am aiming to keep it that way. But, to do so, I have constantly to find ways not to internalize difficult emotions and emotional situations, I have to eat well and exercise, and I need to be engaged with a life and a world that is spiritually uplifting.
In general, my life is centered around all of those things. I have a great partner that is extremely supportive, I am a Christian that believes in the universal and healing power of love embodied through Christ (one of many Sons of God and prophets sent to teach us), I have recently begun chanting in the Nichiren Buddhist tradition (nam-myoho-renge-kyo), I use this blog as a vehicle to draw out lessons from my daily experiences that I need to learn or look at more closely, I write and perform poetry as a way to externalize my feelings, and I try to find small ways, each day, to experience God, the Divine, and love.
Unfortunately, with the love of my partner and a desire to build a home with him, has come his ex partner (of whom I have written plenty before) who lives in our living room on our couch. I am not overstating or exaggerating when I say his presence is an actively hostile and malevolent force that is actually palpable. His energy is destructive and hurtful, his words and actions are negative and damaging, and I, as the new boyfriend of his ex, am the direct and active target of his hate. When something goes wrong or amiss in the house, I am to blame. When David and I had our first threesome, which was a beautiful and spiritually uplfiting experience with an amazing human being, he didn't speak to me for almost a week yet did not treat David the same way, he stares at me with such undisguised loathing that it feels like a punch to the stomach. To be the object of revile for anyone, particularly someone with whom you live, is a constant burden and pressure.
I quite literally choose whether going to the bathroom is sometimes worth the walk to the living room, and I tell you that on more than one occassion a bottle has looked more appealing than a porcelain bowl on the other end of the house through the spectral landmine field I have to cross to get there.
The economy sucks, and David, as a freelancer, has had a great reduction in the amount of work he has been able to do. Yesterday, he left for a two day gig in the Hamptons. We can use the money, but, more importantly, David needed to work, for himself, on a fundamental level. For several days leading up to his leaving, I felt the weight of his absence. David is a buffer of sorts between the ex and me. His ex feels required to constrain himself when David is around. When David leaves, he feels no such constraint. I wrote before about the ex and the ex's current boyfriend and their ambush and attack of me. This time, there was no screaming...just a heightening of his already hateful presence. And, frankly, I reached the end of my spiritual reservoir.
Thank God that God had my back.
Quite literally, yesterday, I was on the fast track to relapse. I began looking for a connection. In this interconnected Internet ready world, finding drugs is as easy as logging into Craig's List or any number of cruising sites. I know all the code words and key phrases. Luckily, just as I was on the edge of the relapse cliff, my phone rang. I had just come home from a work event, and my best friend called. We have been trying to see each other, unsuccessfully, for weeks. The one sure way to get me out of and away from myself is for someone else in need to ask for my help. He sent a text saying that he could use some friend time. I packed a bag, jumped in a cab, and I headed to Harlem and spent the night. This morning, we got up and chanted together, which fed my spiritual well just enough to keep sober, though I didn't know I was going to need to use it so soon.
Today, the ex did one of his favorite hate tactics. He played on my fears and vulnerabilities around David. He enjoys telling me stories about the few times, over their ten year relationship, when David did not adhere to their relationship rules. And though I know in the moment that exactly what that hateful man wants is for me to start questioning David and myself, there are times when fears slip through cracks. They did, and I was again speeding down the path to relapse.
Except this time, as I started to leave the house to look for drugs, I stopped myself. I looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. The clouds were rolling in thick and black and ugly from Jersey...and I began to ask myself what the hell I was doing. I had gotten up from the computer where I was doing work for my amazing job. I was walking away from the committments I made to my partner. I was walking towards hurting myself deeply and fundamentally. So I turned around and walked home. I ordered some terrible MSG filled food from the Chinese spot downstairs, and I ate myself into a near catatonic state, all the while composing donor renewal letters for work (I may be crazy, but I am definitely productive).
I am done with letting another human being impact my life and spirit to the point that I am willing to do myself harm and, in doing so, hurt the people that love me. The ex is moving out of our home at the end of July. I am not sure if I can find enough ways to sustain myself until then, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. I may have to spend many more blog entries between now and then speaking to you all about this situation.
Also, my insurance kicks in tomorrow and you best believe that me and therapy are about to get real cozy like again.
The minute that man exits the building for the last time, I am going to have a shaman, a priest, a Vooduin, a medecine man, a rabbi, and any other holy person I can find to come over and deep clean his ugliness and hurt and hate and pain and darkness out of this place. I wonder if they got some sage flavored Febreeze at the Target.
Thanks for reading ya'll.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Cut It Out
For those of you that know me well, you know that 2005 was a hell of a year for me. It was the year that I suffered through a massive paranoid episode brought on by an addiction to crystal methampethamine. Three years before, I had tested positive. For three years, I'd told no one. For three years, I increasingly used crystal meth as a way to avoid the shame, fear, rage, and personal loathing that I felt for myself. For a time, it worked. When it stopped working, my world came crashing down on a plane ride from Albuquerque to Minneapolis. 
That day, my life began changing for the better. I couldn't see it then...especially not when I was sitting in the emergency room and a dear and cherished friend tried to hand me a nutty bar, but the nutty bar was not the only nut in the room...and I refused it as I thought it had a listening device in it. I hit bottom so hard I bounced.
For a time I remained sober...but anyone that has walked the sober road knows that it is one that demands a lot, can be merciless, but has a great payout. I have had "slips." When I have slipped, I have had friends that showed me tough love but deep love and helped me along until I could help myself along again. People like David C., Pookie, Kandace, Coya, Quiana, Susan, Cathy, and others saw me struggle, let me struggle, and loved me as I struggled. Others, for reasons of their own, rendered judgment and made decisions accordingly. It comes with the territory.
I am now happily sober and have been for some time. Lord knows that living with Attila the Ex should have pushed me over the edge and into a drug induced coma...but I can happily say it hasn't. I feel spiritually and physically the healthiest I have ever been, which is a testimony to the love and care I have received, and I hope I have given.
Yet, from time to time, uncomfortable reminders of that past pop up. For a long time I have forced myself to sit with those reminders. To interact with people from that past that now are sober or trying to be. Or with folks that moved away or outright condemned me for my addiction or associated behaviors.
Unlike many recovering addicts, I sit in an interesting place. Some of the same people that wanted nothing to do with my recovery, have come to me with requests and demands for help in political organizing or other social capital needs. Out of guilt, shame, and a host of other negative emotions, I have responded. Other folks, with whom I started a recovery journey, turned to me for emotional support or dumping, and I listened and took it in. From these two groups of individuals, I have responded and given without any return out of a negative self sense.
I am cutting it and them out.
There are people in my life to whom I owe a great debt. People who, knowing the full ugliness of my addiction, still love me. Still actively love and support me. People who have asked nothing from me except that I do what is right and best and healthiest for me. People who turned to me in joy and peace and wanted nothing more from me than a smile and to be what the Creator put me on this earth to be. These are no softies. These are not people who coddled or cuddled me through it. They held up a bright mirror to me and reflected back all the best and beauty in me while allowing me to see the hurt and pain and understand that the pain is only shading to give the light great depth. If these people, who have asked nothing of me but to do my best to live life well and live with strength, to love myself, and to let myself be loved--want nothing more than that...then how should then I burden myself with the expectations and desires of those that are willing to take from me, demand from me, and give nothing in return.
Forgiving oneself for ones mistakes and the hurts one has caused is difficult. I have not yet found the grace with myself to forgive myself for the ways in which I have caused hurt to others. To sit in a circle and see the people you love the most in pain because you are in pain is devastating. To know that you have caused hurt to others that you can not take back or undo is back breaking. I write and talk and speak and share and hurt and love and cry and holler and rage and laugh through my writing, publicly, with great fear, but I do it so that maybe, someone somewhere that is carrying a heavy load can lay some of it down without walking in the places I have walked. My words are my way of airing out my wounds and letting them heal. It is a slow process. It hurts...it aches deeply in a way that transcends physicality. But it is a pain of healing and of growth. I will sit with it, but I no longer will sit with those that have played no part in the healing process.
That day, my life began changing for the better. I couldn't see it then...especially not when I was sitting in the emergency room and a dear and cherished friend tried to hand me a nutty bar, but the nutty bar was not the only nut in the room...and I refused it as I thought it had a listening device in it. I hit bottom so hard I bounced.For a time I remained sober...but anyone that has walked the sober road knows that it is one that demands a lot, can be merciless, but has a great payout. I have had "slips." When I have slipped, I have had friends that showed me tough love but deep love and helped me along until I could help myself along again. People like David C., Pookie, Kandace, Coya, Quiana, Susan, Cathy, and others saw me struggle, let me struggle, and loved me as I struggled. Others, for reasons of their own, rendered judgment and made decisions accordingly. It comes with the territory.
I am now happily sober and have been for some time. Lord knows that living with Attila the Ex should have pushed me over the edge and into a drug induced coma...but I can happily say it hasn't. I feel spiritually and physically the healthiest I have ever been, which is a testimony to the love and care I have received, and I hope I have given.
Yet, from time to time, uncomfortable reminders of that past pop up. For a long time I have forced myself to sit with those reminders. To interact with people from that past that now are sober or trying to be. Or with folks that moved away or outright condemned me for my addiction or associated behaviors. Unlike many recovering addicts, I sit in an interesting place. Some of the same people that wanted nothing to do with my recovery, have come to me with requests and demands for help in political organizing or other social capital needs. Out of guilt, shame, and a host of other negative emotions, I have responded. Other folks, with whom I started a recovery journey, turned to me for emotional support or dumping, and I listened and took it in. From these two groups of individuals, I have responded and given without any return out of a negative self sense.
I am cutting it and them out.
There are people in my life to whom I owe a great debt. People who, knowing the full ugliness of my addiction, still love me. Still actively love and support me. People who have asked nothing from me except that I do what is right and best and healthiest for me. People who turned to me in joy and peace and wanted nothing more from me than a smile and to be what the Creator put me on this earth to be. These are no softies. These are not people who coddled or cuddled me through it. They held up a bright mirror to me and reflected back all the best and beauty in me while allowing me to see the hurt and pain and understand that the pain is only shading to give the light great depth. If these people, who have asked nothing of me but to do my best to live life well and live with strength, to love myself, and to let myself be loved--want nothing more than that...then how should then I burden myself with the expectations and desires of those that are willing to take from me, demand from me, and give nothing in return.
Forgiving oneself for ones mistakes and the hurts one has caused is difficult. I have not yet found the grace with myself to forgive myself for the ways in which I have caused hurt to others. To sit in a circle and see the people you love the most in pain because you are in pain is devastating. To know that you have caused hurt to others that you can not take back or undo is back breaking. I write and talk and speak and share and hurt and love and cry and holler and rage and laugh through my writing, publicly, with great fear, but I do it so that maybe, someone somewhere that is carrying a heavy load can lay some of it down without walking in the places I have walked. My words are my way of airing out my wounds and letting them heal. It is a slow process. It hurts...it aches deeply in a way that transcends physicality. But it is a pain of healing and of growth. I will sit with it, but I no longer will sit with those that have played no part in the healing process.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Poem: Choke
I wrote this poem about three years ago. A friend of mine at the time was going through a period of significant loss. Her brother and cousin were murdered. Her birth mother died, and her niece was raped all within a year time period. I was living across the country from her at the time, and I watched from afar as she struggled. This I wrote for her.
Choke
It takes her again
wraps stiff fingers around her throat
chokes her until the tears run
burning channels into her cheeks
reopening half healed runnels
coffin-nails have left on her face
she calls me gasping
why
too much
too many
why her
why him
why them
bang bang
they found him in a lake
they found her in a ditch
he was murdered
she was murdered
why
why
why
the violence overshadowed by
the mist that leaders her voice
sodden from her throat
she exhales between questions
I don’t have the answers she needs
the ones she deserves
can’t loosen the grip of too much time
cut short
wrapping around her throat
can’t breath enough for her
can feel the damp
as it pours out of my phone
fills my mouth
runs out of my eyes
mother-brother-aunt-cousin
two killed
unsolved crimes
two taken too early
all died
this year and last year
too few years between them
too little time for healing
while prayers and prairie dirt fill the holes
they left behind
we’ve sat up nights talking
trying to make sense
of senselessness
of grief
of acceptance with no understanding
while the reaper keeps on reaping
scything through native lives
her life
cutting
cold voice laughing
hollow
like lines dug in her face
hollow
echoing
empty
open wounds festering
fearing that she might use alcohol to sterilize
knowing its ability to cauterize
too far away
too far away
to fly to her
pry death away
breath for her when she can’t
pray for her when she can’t
promise her what I can’t
that it’s over
when my promises
are drowned out
by the laughing of the reaper
Choke
It takes her again
wraps stiff fingers around her throat
chokes her until the tears run
burning channels into her cheeks
reopening half healed runnels
coffin-nails have left on her face
she calls me gasping
why
too much
too many
why her
why him
why them
bang bang
they found him in a lake
they found her in a ditch
he was murdered
she was murdered
why
why
why
the violence overshadowed by
the mist that leaders her voice
sodden from her throat
she exhales between questions
I don’t have the answers she needs
the ones she deserves
can’t loosen the grip of too much time
cut short
wrapping around her throat
can’t breath enough for her
can feel the damp
as it pours out of my phone
fills my mouth
runs out of my eyes
mother-brother-aunt-cousin
two killed
unsolved crimes
two taken too early
all died
this year and last year
too few years between them
too little time for healing
while prayers and prairie dirt fill the holes
they left behind
we’ve sat up nights talking
trying to make sense
of senselessness
of grief
of acceptance with no understanding
while the reaper keeps on reaping
scything through native lives
her life
cutting
cold voice laughing
hollow
like lines dug in her face
hollow
echoing
empty
open wounds festering
fearing that she might use alcohol to sterilize
knowing its ability to cauterize
too far away
too far away
to fly to her
pry death away
breath for her when she can’t
pray for her when she can’t
promise her what I can’t
that it’s over
when my promises
are drowned out
by the laughing of the reaper
Monday, March 30, 2009
Poem: These Streets
I wote this poem a while back. Sometime early last year.
These Streets
I’ve been down these streets before
walked them so many times
my feet need no directions
know every sidewalk crack
houses
weeping flakes of paint like sunburned skin
vibrancy a long gone memory
these colors are barely surviving
but the patterns left behind tell stories
plainly
there for anyone that can read the street patois
the pig Latin of the ghetto
that gives young eyes the gift of x-ray vision
lets them see the roots beneath the sidewalk
through the sagging sheets hanging in the windows
beyond the rib cages of yard dogs
skin stretched tight
kinship found in hungry canine eyes
I’ve been down these streets before
walked down t hem so m any times
watched dreams cashed for rent money
watched rent money cashed for a dream high
watched the junky prophet proclaim prophecy
whispered in his ears by the monkey on his back
toothy, grinning, picking hopes like lice
lips smacking
the monkey savors each one, whispers and waves
as the street opens up
swallows them whole
I step over the chalk outline
the street grave marker
requiescat en pace
a memorial
until the next rain
or morning piss
I’ve been down these streets before
seen single mothers press bottles of Similac
into mouths screaming umbilical rage
at fathers that found peace in fists pounded into pregnant bellies
into the girl-next-door, high school sweethearts, white picket fences
that never lined these streets
lined fantasies in heads
nobody told us that white picket fences were meant to keep us out
loan denied
bad credit
pickets turned into red lines
by bodies hurled against them
fences made of white steel
reinforced
indivisible
liberally distributed
one nation
divided in two
all for some
and little for us
I’ve been down these streets before
cuz these streets pave my mind
a city built and peopled by our fears
the can’t dos, and the can nots
the not qualified enoughs
the you speak so eloquently
the relapses
the system tracking
the racial profiling
the unemployment
on these streets there ain’t no schools
only prisons
on these streets every home is broken
and no way to fix them
on these streets segregation has been perfected
it is illegal to sit with yourself
high treason
to ask yourself why
premeditated murder
to come up with your own answers
sedition
to better yourself
your only choices
drugs, jail or death
all available without a prescription
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-2008
These Streets
I’ve been down these streets before
walked them so many times
my feet need no directions
know every sidewalk crack
houses
weeping flakes of paint like sunburned skin
vibrancy a long gone memory
these colors are barely surviving
but the patterns left behind tell stories
plainly
there for anyone that can read the street patois
the pig Latin of the ghetto
that gives young eyes the gift of x-ray vision
lets them see the roots beneath the sidewalk
through the sagging sheets hanging in the windows
beyond the rib cages of yard dogs
skin stretched tight
kinship found in hungry canine eyes
I’ve been down these streets before
walked down t hem so m any times
watched dreams cashed for rent money
watched rent money cashed for a dream high
watched the junky prophet proclaim prophecy
whispered in his ears by the monkey on his back
toothy, grinning, picking hopes like lice
lips smacking
the monkey savors each one, whispers and waves
as the street opens up
swallows them whole
I step over the chalk outline
the street grave marker
requiescat en pace
a memorial
until the next rain
or morning piss
I’ve been down these streets before
seen single mothers press bottles of Similac
into mouths screaming umbilical rage
at fathers that found peace in fists pounded into pregnant bellies
into the girl-next-door, high school sweethearts, white picket fences
that never lined these streets
lined fantasies in heads
nobody told us that white picket fences were meant to keep us out
loan denied
bad credit
pickets turned into red lines
by bodies hurled against them
fences made of white steel
reinforced
indivisible
liberally distributed
one nation
divided in two
all for some
and little for us
I’ve been down these streets before
cuz these streets pave my mind
a city built and peopled by our fears
the can’t dos, and the can nots
the not qualified enoughs
the you speak so eloquently
the relapses
the system tracking
the racial profiling
the unemployment
on these streets there ain’t no schools
only prisons
on these streets every home is broken
and no way to fix them
on these streets segregation has been perfected
it is illegal to sit with yourself
high treason
to ask yourself why
premeditated murder
to come up with your own answers
sedition
to better yourself
your only choices
drugs, jail or death
all available without a prescription
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-2008
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