Paranoia Ain't Paranoia If Its Real

Since realizing that meth and I had a fucked up and abusive relationship almost six years ago, Miss Tina and I have been on again/off again lovers. Like anyone that has ever lived through or seen another go through "battery syndrome," it is always shocking but rarely surprising when an individual returns to a lover that is abusive. The comfort of the familiar and the numbness that comes with it do not require the courage to face the unknown and our own internal tapes that tell us that we deserve no more than the abuse we receive at the hands of those people and things that purport to love us.

A couple of weeks ago, my partner was struggling with some of the areas in his life that are challenging for him. In general, he is an amazing, well adjusted, smooth sailor that has done his share of living and figured out lots of things for himself. He's 13 years older than I am, so he has had plenty more time to figure lots of things out. But, like most folks, he has some work still left to do. In this particular case, he was struggling with some issues that impact both of us. In general, we are both very loving and patient with each other when we come up against those places where we know we each have work to do. In this particular instance, I only had so much emotional fortitude banked up, and it ran out.

Now a well adjusted and right-thinking person would have perhaps gone nuclear on his partner, perhaps thrown some shit around, broke a dish or two, and raised some Hell. Perhaps a rational person would have gotten angry but then sat down to help work out an effective solution that allowed for his partner to have the space to work through his shit while also getting the support he needed so that his shit didn't overly impact my mental health.

Oh no! Not my crazy ass.

Instead, after about a week of being angry and bitter, I decided...you know what...you want to be in YOUR SHIT...WATCH THIS!

You think I am joking? I totally arranged a hook up that was going to include a threesome with Crystal Meth, and as I left the house to get high, I literally thought to myself: I'll show you!

Lord have mercy if that isn't the dumbest line of thinking possible. Let me break down that thinking for you into what it really means: Because YOU pissed ME off...I am going to go out and do some shit that is only REALLY hurtful to ME. So because YOU fucked up, I am going to go out and do something in response for which I am going to pay for the consequences.

Now math has never been my strong suit, and I hate word problems, but even I know that 1+Stupid=Dumb As Hell.

Since then, over the last few weeks, I have been full on struggling against my addiction. It has owned my ass in a really scary way over the last few weeks. Thank God I finally reached out to a good friend of mine, also a recovering addict, who, over the last few days, has been the angel I needed to get me to where I need to be. Thank you KF. I love you for it. For those of you that are concerned, I am fine now, I will be heading back to therapy, and KF and I will hitting up some CMA meeting together. I know this dance. It's old as hell at this point, and I am well aware of the things I need to do in order to keep on top of my mental health. There are also request that I have made of David so that our relationship is strengthened by him doing his work as well. If necessary, I will find a therapist willing to move in with us.

But all of that is really just the backstory to the real drama.

Over the years, I have, when partying met guys that I felt knew more about me than they should have. In fact, I have met "random strangers," via various hook up sites that have been very poor actors and about as see through as a lace thong, and so did a poor job of masking the fact that there were things that someone had told them about me. Queens will gossip, especially Meth Head Queens, and since coming out as HIV positive a number of years ago and making sure to include that emblazoned in my online ads, I really could care less about rumors that persisted from an earlier time in my life when I was basically in denial.

The shitty and scary thing was that this sort of moment kept happening despite where I lived geographically. In this Internet age, it isn't difficult to keep track of and fuck with someone via the web. With the ability to embed secret files and programs into graphics, encrypted communications, and a whole host of other sneaky freaky tools, if a computer savvy individual with a grudge or a crusade decides to e-stalk you...there is very little you can do about it. I thought, though, that living my life as rightly as possible, even when relapsing, by disclosing my status, letting folks know if I am dating someone, etc, I figured that I would be able to short circuit whatever rumors happened to be out there about me. Plus, Hell, I never had any hard proof that my interactions with these various men were anything more than a combination of my personal guilt at using heightened by meth fueled paranoia.

Then came this latest relapse. I was meticulous in my various disclosures. I was honest, up front, and clear about just about every possible aspect of my life. It didn't matter.

After one particular hook up, when I noticed, again, some strange behavior in the other person that was consistent with past behaviors that indicated that this person "knew" or had been "told" information about me. I had also noticed, in the past (and this might get graphic ya'll), some really strange behavior where an individual would, ostensibly, place a finger in my anus, but then would do this weird thumping thing with his other hand just outside of my anus while press, from the inside, against the skin...just as you would if you were breaking open something.

The first time it happened, I thought...stop being paranoid freak. The second and third time it happened with other people, I also let it go. When it happened again and consistantly, and I began noticing very strange purple stains on the insides of my jeans I got very fucking suspicious. When I caught a guy actually placing something in my anus after which I ran to the bathroom and saw that, indeed, the skin inside of my anus had turned purple, I knew that something was motherfucking up.

At that point, you'd think that you'd cut your losses and realize that despite your transparency, someone somewhere had decided that they were "Righteous Tweakers," and you were a "Tweaker of Sin," and they were willing to do whatever to keep you from doing what they do.

Just like my Mama, when you tell me I can't do something, it just makes me want to do it more. So, our dear Tweaker Crusaders upped the ante. They changed strategies. Instead of using a purple stain, they began using a solution that is meant to be used externally but when applied to internal tissue causes enormous swelling, effectively sealing up your anal cavity except for enough space for doing your toilet time business.

How do I know this? This last time I connected with someone the dude had a little bottle of solution that was curiously out of place amongst the lubes, poppers, and other ointments. After being in a compromising position, my stomach and booty started to feel funny, so I ran into the bathroom, sure enough, once again, my anus (and I am talking about the inside now...so basically the colon) was swollen to the point of starting to portrude, and let me be clear that NOTHING had happened at this point to justify any type of swelling. It's one thing if you have gotten your back banged out by a big dicked cholo that treated your ass like a low rider, it is quite another to have a .5% solution injected into your anus as some sort of Tweaker Retribution. As you can imagine, I was understandably pissed and dipped the fuck out.

I had a great conversation with my friend Shelly about all of this, and she agrees...how fucked up must you be to decided that you, as a drug addict, have the power,privilege, and moral righteousness to physically attack another human being. By all means, if I were not disclosing or was in some way acting in a malicious and damaging manner, I would chalk this up to a justifiable community response. But that was not what this was.

Of course, in the end, the real point is that by NOT relapsing, I don't have to worry about any of that shit. Simple solution, right? RIght.

And if that shit wasn't actually enough, these Tweakers have hacked my computer and iPhone. For years, I felt like I was being remotely surveilled, which is how various folks in various cities have reacted the same way when I have relapsed. But, again, I never had solid proof to back up my meth fueled paranoia. Now I do. This last week, I noticed my computer acting strangely. Then I discovered a program called iSteg on my computer along with a PDF explaining how to use it. iSteg is a program used to hide secret texts inside of PDFs and image files. It was from a website called www.hanynet.com, to which I had never directed my browser. When I finally was able to load the website (my webbrowser was being manipulated to keep me from it), I found it to be a small, personal website with several homemade hacking programs and two firewall programs. I downloaded the two firewall programs, which then allowed me to see just what was going on with my computer. And lo and behold my paranoia was absolutely justified. Before my eyes, I watched as a individual that lives within as block of me was attempting, and sometimes succeeding to connect to and manipulate my computer.

Let me tell you, after feeling paranoid as fuck for years and thinking that I was losing it...it is nice to have confirmation. Now I am bitter as Hell and ready to kick ass.

My first priority is to take care of my mental health and smack down Miss Tina. But TRUST that now that I have an address and am fairly certain I know who it is, and should I see him on the street, he better sure as hell make sure that I have taken my meds...because I am ready to fuck him up or get put down trying to do so.

I trust my instincts almost always. And, I will continue to do so from this point forward.

And, just in case my hacker is reading this, that moral high horse you have been riding...must have kicked you in the head. Get sober. Clean up your life, and get the hell out of mine.

Let's Be Real

If you don't believe in God--bless your heart. I respect your belief, I support your right to believe it, and for those of you that need material proof of God's existence (He/She/It/Them/They) and haven't received it, I trust your perception of material proof as it applies to your life.

And for all of that, I am psychically, physically, mentally, and spiritually unable to understand your experience. I have always believed in God. I have never had a crisis of faith based in doubt of the existence of the Divine. Please do not get me wrong, I have spent a good part of my life cussing God out for everything from bad dates to my junior year class pictures (please see exhibit A, the offending picture, posted here for your amusement--no...that is NOT the missing third Indigo Girl). And when it comes to proof, I have enough empirical data to make a Nobel Laureate blush. Dr. Erik Streed, the closest person I know to a Nobel Laureate (his graduate advisor won the Nobel Prize in Physics based on the research they did together when Erik was a lab slave) might poo poo my "loose" definition of "empirical," he would be forced to admit that either there is a greater force at work in the universe or there is a yet undiscovered sub-sub-sub-sub atomic particle that he will discover by putting frozen Kool-AID into the CERN Accelerator and adding a dash of lime just as the collider reaches energy output of 3.5 TeV per beam, which he will then redirect using a kaleidoscope while singing "Grease Lightning," and mimicking the mating ritual of the Pakootiekootie bird, which, incidentally, he, himself, discovered in the fossil record and then, using leftover skin cells from Joan Rivers' last face lift, a section of skin from Carnie Wilson's latest gastric bypass, a dash of leftover love lube from a secret butter bath romp between Oprah and Gayle, and an Eggo Waffle, proceeded to clone the Pakootiekootie.

All of that to say is that I am right. Erik is wrong. God exists. Now let me tell you why.

I tried to relapse today with all of my might. I mean short of selling my ass for drugs or training Mimzy to run a meth lab out of her kennel, I gave it the good old addicts try. And let me tell you it was sneaky. Hold on to this trip into the the Misfiring Synapses of Brandon's Frontal Lobe. David and I are moving our open relationship in to a broader scope. I have actually been really proud of myself for not completing giving in to my abandonment issues or losing my mind over things that a year ago would have had me calling on the name of Jesus and raising the TSA security level to whatever the hell comes after orange. But there have been things that have stuck in my craw (and rightfully so). Last night, I couldn't fall asleep because my brain was desperately trying to figure out what the hell was at the core of my discomfort/annoyance/etc. Around 3am, I figured it out. This morning, I didn't trip. And after a rocky moment or two, David and I had a sleepy, half-finished, but ok conversation.

Still with me? Good.

I actually recently dealt really well with am online situation here at home. And we laughed about it. But today is where the synapses were listening to Katy Perry and took that song Fireworks quite literally. So, I figured...hey... I can look at Craig's List. Well, since i am looking at Craig's List, I might as well look at Manhunt. Oh well since this gay with a delicious booty messaged me on Manhunt, and I am on Manhunt anyway, I might as well read the email. Well since I am READING the email, I might as well respond. Oh. wait. what. You are partying (aka crystal meth), well I can entertain that notion. Well, you know, just because I go meet this guy at his place and there is crystal meth there doesn't mean that I have to do it. It was right about there...just after I got out of the shower and had gotten dressed and was about to head out the door that the Lord took a hand. I decided to call the guy just to firm things up. And he didn't answer. I called again, and again, and about 40 more times, until the guy shut down his phone. I was stomping around my house cussing and kicking and screaming and pissed off. I was acting a fool, but in my head, it was all very justified and logical. It wasn't about the drugs! It was about this person that would have had me standing outside of his front door and not answered. It was about the lack of manners and the general upbringing of this heathen with the great ass.

Here's where God intervened again.

I caught myself in the mirror, and at that moment I realized just how ridiculous I was acting. I had rationalized myself about a minute away from doing something really fucking dumb (in the past, I would have realized it, and I would have kept right on going. Hell, YESTERDAY, I would have realized it and kept right on going). And let me not be the saint here. I did, once I calmed myself down, sit back down at the computer and spend about five minutes checking out Manhunt and seeing if there were any other opportunities that could get me out the door and high. That is when two things happened. I slammed down the cover of my computer, walked towards the bathroom and chanted to myself, "FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT."

Then I prayed.

The Lord didn't answer. He texted.

Rude.

Actually, it was a friend of mine that lives in my hood, and he texted to tell me that he had just gotten laid off. Within one minute another friend texted to ask if I would go with him to Callen Lorde to get an HIV test done. It may not have been Jesus per se on the line, but the Lord works in mysterious ways, and he spent all that time with 12 men in the desert, so it makes sense that he would use the gays as his post-crucifixtion messenger. GayT&T!!

Nothing like a dose of real for real life problems to put your momentary psychosis into check. And all of this ties into another God-moment I had recently.

Last Friday, I got to see a woman that I love deeply and dearly. Her name is Makeeba Browne. Keeba and I lived together for only about four months when I was out in Oakland. We moved into our house a day apart. She was going through some things when she moved in. She had just moved to the Bay. She had lost someone very close to her not more than a year before. She was black woman in a white ass world, and she had carried a lot on her shoulders. Some of that was those things that life puts on us that aren't really ours but we have to carry and learn to set down anyway. Some of it was things that she picked up because, well, too many of us learn that we were meant to suffer. During our time together, I was also a hot mess, do not let me tell all her tea and none of mine. But if you scroll back in this blog, you can read mine, in detail, with footnotes. Anyway, I digress. Over the course of those four months I learned several things about Makeeba: 1) she was absolutely beautiful beyond her own comprehension. Real, true, amazing beauty. 2) Behind her beautifully sharp tongue there was a beautifully vulnerable spirit that, if you made the mistake of confusing vulnerability with weakness, would snap your neck if necessary. 3) She was wise. Like old old old ancestor wise and deeper than I can ever hope to be. I am not being self-deprecating here. This girl is wise like still rivers that run deep, chocolate brown currents and sensual eddies that whisper gettin' over stories to Guinea-children. I have moments of clarity, but Makeeba is one of my teachers. 4) I loved this woman desperately. There is a story I won't share, but she will know that there was one night that we spent together, and she may have thought that I was comforting and taking care of her, but that night, in her rawness, she was holding on to me and lifting me up. For real for real.

So, Keeba and I met for breakfast last Friday. Seeing her walking down that street was like seeing the sunlight finally come to understand its own brightness. Keeba always dazzles me. But this day, I was almost blinded. Keeba ain't no saint. Lord no she aint, and she inherited the same hoochie gene that I got, but even when she is not ready to DO the work she knows she needs to do within herself...she KNOWS it needs to be done. And I could see that this woman had been WORKING. At one point in our conversation, Keebers said something really profound. I can't remember the exact words, but it was something like, "I know that I am supposed to be here. I know that the universe wants me here. Because try as I might to take myself out of Creation and do what I am not supposed to be doing. The Universe takes care of me! The UNIVERSE takes care of me.' And she was right. She and I have found ourselves in situations that, quite frankly, if they had gone the wrong way would have meant that we wouldn't be here right now. That isn't an exaggeration. If the Universe had closed its unsleeping eye for a quick minute, I woulnd't be writing this blog right now. And let me tell you, when it comes to addiction, I have lost people I know to this disease. I can name three people that I went to rehab with that are now dead. And, truthfully, there ain't a lick of difference between what they were doing and what I have done. Situation might be different. Particulars might be different, but in the end, the risks were the same. And anyone that plays Roulette can tell you...when your number hits twice in a row...and then another number hits twice in a row back to back....that right there...is the finger of God spinning that wheel. And we never know when they are going to call a change of dealer.

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.