this one is embarrassing AS FQ

 

 

This will be something eventually

Something is always something

Very rarely, if ever, is something nothing

Except maybe a black hole

There are always exceptions to the rule

Rules must exist

Rules must be broken

The earth continues to spin

Where Am I?

For 6 months I lived in a residential living facility in Michigan. The facility was

called Dandy Hill. It was an experience drenched in melancholy and the occasional

dash of twisted experience.

There were four programs all intermingled there, each taking place on the

campus: Kelly Center (general mental illness), Baker House (Co-occurring - addiction

and mental illness), and Horton and Malta house (one was for long term residents and

the other was for the older folks, I don't remember which was which). I’m not going to

pretend like I know anything about the programs other than co-occurring so I’ll just leave

them for now; I lived in Baker house.

Dandy Hill is like a college campus for the incapable and court ordered. It was a

minor sprawling campus that included a farm plus the aforementioned houses, as well

as a facility called the Gundle Center. It was all scattered evenly across a moderately

sized piece of Michigan pie. There were about 40+ residents on campus at all times,

and I’d assume there was at least 20 staff on deck at any given time, except at night,

then there were generally less. Staff communicates mostly over walkie talkie, but also

through land lines. They’d have to constantly keep an eye on us. If we wander off

somewhere, they need to walkie in with a sit rep, something along the lines of

“Can I get a visual on so and so?”

Some residents wander off more than others.

This locale was conveniently located next to Great Lakes National Cemetery, and

what a national treasure that was. Did you spend all night fantasizing about hanging

yourself? Trapped with intrusive thoughts in the morning that won’t go away? Can’t

quite shake the idea that someone is against you, and your idea of their plan is fool

proof? Not quite sure how to get your day going quite yet? If you’d listened closely you’ll

hear the solution… “Bang, Bang, Bang”, you could hear a twenty-one gun salute echo

out, just a stone’s throw away. There was a national cemetery right outside of campus.

A nationally backed reminder that death was just right around the corner, down that long

dirt road; the sardonic irony was not lost on me.

    All of the weekly groups took place at the Gundle Center. Each morning we woke up

and floated on over there for our morning classes, eyes still groggy from the modest

7:00 AM wake up call. The far gone residents mimic something out of a George A.

Romero film upon their morning descent. They drone onward towards the Gundle

Center for groups, however brains are usually the last thing on their minds, but that’s

not their fault; Thorazine shuffle. They walked with absence of the mind, never fully

knowing why they’re doing what they’re told, but never failing to do it.

In the groups at the center we did a variety of things. Activities had to be

accessible to a wide assortment of mentally capable people, and as a result, nothing

was as engaging as it should have been. For the more coherent residents, some groups

felt like a kindergarten class, but the chlorpromazine crowd struggled through them.

People drifted mindlessly through the allotted group time session, each group

usually lasting about an hour, sometimes less. The groups had their benefits, but if you

stuff a piñata full of candy, eventually someone is going to break it. Staff would

sometimes hit a raw nerve in a resident that would twitch throughout the rest of their

day. The truth may be best to hear, but sometimes the truth shouldn’t be dished out all

at once or even at all depending on the person; some things people need to find out for

themselves. Some of us are so far from seeing the truth, that even the idea of being

honest is truly devastating, it may even break some. The staff “triggered” residents, and

then would send them on their way; just a jolly aura trailing behind the walking raw

nerve of a resident wrapped in a tomb of self-loathing.

There was no way that staff wasn’t aware when they agitated a resident. I never

understood why they seemed unaffected by the resident’s obvious increased distress. I

imagine they’re just so used to it. We were like animals to them, herded from one thing

to the next. They approached a lot of us with an indifferent air, as if we were less than

the average person. I will admit that at times we were like herding cats, but there is no

meaning to the lives we’d created there in the early months of the program; everything

was in a sort of free-falling state of limbo until you progress to independent living.

Select members of the staff were really nice and down to earth, but I couldn’t

shake the thought that they got paid to act a certain way around us. It didn’t matter what

they said to each other behind our backs, but I’m sure they exchanged an array of

thoughts on us at times; some of the residents were just too ridiculous for you not to talk

shit about them behind their back.

The Girl with the Shaved Head

This schizophrenic girl outside the Gundle groups liked to smoke everyone's

cigarette butts. Her name was Kayla; she was always up to something intrinsically

interesting. She shaved her head sporadically during one evening and liked to stack

blades of grass in horizontal lines on her thigh, she’d catch a vibe and run in the middle

of the road on impulse. There was no sexual attraction to her, but I found her very

unusual and unique, and I become infatuated. I learned that back at home she was

studying engineering in college, at a school I can’t recall, but her focus was an attempt

to harness energy through these mechanisms that translated sound waves into useable

energy. I’m not sure exactly how it worked, but that’s just what I overheard from her

explaining to someone next to me.

Clozapine Clerics

Schizophrenia seemed like the most common illness around town. Lots of

schizophrenic and schizoaffective people there; clozapine and weight gain for days.

One time when I was in the bathroom, I watched a woman use a mirror to explain to a

resident what reality was. She ensured him that everything he could see and physically

touch was reality, that if he saw it in the mirror, and felt it with his hands, then it was

indeed real.

“This is real” she said, and she lifted up his hands and touched his face. She

outlined the features of his face, her hands gliding over his lips, to his nose, and then in

front of his stark blue eyes, all while repeating “This is real.”

I stood at the urinal for a little bit longer than my bladder required me too.

Lamicatal Laurels

Bipolar was the second most popular item on the Dandy Hill ticket, but I don’t

think I ever saw any clear bipolar episodes. People are usually hospitalized when their

mania is on the fritz, and depression is too easily mixed in with other diagnoses. Lots of

people there suffered from extreme depression, but I couldn’t tell which a result of

bipolar was and which wasn’t, not that it was any of my business to begin with.

XOXO

It was always fun to get in on the campus gossip. I remember hearing that some

girl tried to swallow razor blades, while there was another rumor that a girl broke one of

the chicken’s necks on the farm. I also heard that one of the rather mean girls got one of

the addicts from Baker house to relapse on alcohol via his hand sanitizer. I don’t

actually remember too many horror stories involving men… Except for maybe the

backpage girl my ex housemate snuck in over at his independent housing. Anything can

happen when you collect an incredibly eclectic group of mentally capable people

together on one overnight campus.

“Can I get a visual on Kayla?”

Kayla was walking into the swamp

Pet Shop Boys – It’s A Sin

    The dance scene in the film Bronson was a bit livelier than the dances at Dandy Hill.

I'd been to three soirees there, all had some form of music; either a DJ or a really dusty

old band of white guys with instruments. These Dandy Hill dances were held in the

gymnasium at the Gundle Center. The gym was comparable to any elementary school

gym you’d see in an upper-middle class county. Half of the room was covered in chairs

and tables, and the other half was a barren dance floor. Staff stood on the outskirts of

the table’s kind of just watching everything unfold. The lucid residents usually sat

together, while the less lucid folks gravitated towards each other like magnets, each

hanging on every word the other said. The dusty old white men in the band would try to

liven us up, get us pumped, but how pumped can you be during a dance that’s been

pumped full of awkward tension and a sort of loose inhibition? The answer for some

residents is “FUCKING LIFTED”. I remember one woman who looked like she was

pregnant from all the medication on, she would leave possession of her body and let

Irish spirits take a hold of her as she gyrated on the dance floor alone in front of 40 or so

people. Usually two people would get up and dance in front of everyone sitting

awkwardly, but from time to time you had that one superstar. The dancers either aren't

the most present, or they danced just like you'd imagine; flailing wildly and swaying to

the music; clozapine belly’s that shamelessly bounced from side to side; never on

rhythm. Then there was someone like Kayla, lost on her own little plane.  Before the

dance she could be found out-front smoking cigarette butts from the ash trays. But she

always danced; she had her own bob sled team, bouncing along whatever path she

chose, literally humming to her own tune. Kayla glided through the air like she was

hearing an inaudible frequency only she was in harmony with. Her arms slid gently

through the air as she lifted her shaved head with a peaceful look laid gently across her

face. It was a weird feeling seeing someone so serene in this situation. Hours before the

dance she stole soggy cigarettes from our ashtray outback and micro-waved them to

then smoke them later that night.

This one time they did karaoke at one of the mass get-togethers. Between the

microphone and the audience was about a 40ft gap of no man's land where no one

dared go except for Kayla and the wild dancers.

People went up to sing in front of a large crowd, no one in the room took note of

the singers outside of the DJ, and even he seemed to be on barbiturates. A friend of

mine you haven’t been introduced to yet chose to sing some BillyIdol. He nailed the

song, and he was so much better than I expected. He loved karaoke, but he’d never

done it sober. No one else I knew personally went up except for my friend, but that

didn’t stop a handful of people singing their innocent little hearts out to The Eagles and

Green Day. Someone did a Linkin Park song; Chester Bennington had killed himself two

days prior.

One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest

    At one of the Dandy Hill events a few of us were playing corn hole. We were

just having fun, minding our own business, when this kid walks up; he was a big guy, 6'2

with a stocky build. He came up quietly and watched us play. After about 5 minutes he

started questioning us as to why we made him feel stupid, why we were calling him

names, why we were always out to get him,; I got anxious. I huffed up, as I often do

when I feel like someone is becoming unpredictable. I was ready for anything to

happen.

Hunter S. Thompson said to never turn your back on drugs; I say the same

applies to those on a break from reality.

    He started yelling at us, but he didn't move a single muscle with the exception of a

twitch of his mouth. He started talking about how he could destroy the world, how we

wouldn't let him play corn hole because he's stupid, how people hated him because his

dad's rich.

The four of us playing corn hole just acted like we couldn't hear him. You can't

indulge those on an aggressive break from reality, not when you're not trained to do so.

He kept going on and on about shit and we ignored him to a point, but he started

singling us out and saying we were specific aggressors against him. We asked if he was

alright, but he responded with "why, you wouldn't care if I wasn’t"; he wasn't wrong.

I didn't give a fuck if he was or wasn't okay, at this point I just wanted him to piss

off, he was making me uncomfortable. I don’t have a good track record for dealing with

the psychotic, I've been there, and I’ve been there with other people. There's no

salvation in a short period of time, and I prefer to practice avoidance.

When you’re going through psychosis you are experiencing a break from reality

in which you are truly out of touch with the here and now of your present surroundings.

You may experience paranoid delusions, hallucinations, aggressive and irritable

behavior, inability to formulate coherent sentences, and a variety of other pleasant traits

that make the psychotic not comfortable to deal. Needless to say we all ignored the

psychotic corn-hole boy after we asked him if he needed help several times; he walked

away after an extended period of silence.  

A few days following that interaction, he ran away from Dandy Hill. He ran out to

a nearby highway and started flagging down cars. He was yelling about people at

Dandy Hill being against him and trying to kill him. I can see how he imagined that; he

was getting injections for anti-psychotics as treatment instead of taking tablets or

capsules. He got sent to a hospital within the next week; somewhere he should have

been in the first place. You may think you can help a psychotic person, but if they are

truly psychotic, get them to a hospital. I'm lucky I made it to one in time when I was.

When I was psychotic it was like having a very, very bad acid trip. I thought I

understood how to become truly enlightened; self-actualization was very clearly on my

horizon, or it at least felt that way. I thought my being was split into two halves, that the

left half of my body had been dictating my entire life, and the right half was the cowering

mess I’d felt I’d become. I thought I was entirely functioning in with the left hemisphere

of my brain, I felt that the right half of my brain had been left behind and that the right

side of my body was what I needed to pursue all along, a focus for repair that I needed

to work on, a muscle I needed to exercise. I could see a separation down the center of

my body dividing the two halves and there was no longer a whole. I was also under the

impression that the film Primal Fear and an essay on folie à deux held the key to my

mania. At the peak of my psychosis, when I finally decided to try inpatient, I went to the

local hospital and upon arriving there, I grabbed the first chair I saw and sat directly in

from of the receptionist’s desk. I threw my legs onto her desk and glared at her until

security came out to escort me to the back for intake. The intake process can take

hours sometimes; it took a matter of minutes for me, I was minutes away from

screaming at everyone. The only purpose of my voice was to dictate that the movie

Primal Fear and the essay held the key to my insanity. Much like corn hole boy, I was

hospitalized for a few weeks.

        “Can I get a visual on Kayla?”

        Kayla was playing with the flowers outside of the greenhouse   

Baker’s Dozen

Baker house was my home. The house was a melting pot of mentally ill addicts.

For a while it was all boys, they called us the Baker Boys. I spent a lot of time in my

room writing, reading, and gaming. Sometimes I’d walk out of my room with a handful of

love and a boyish fever of you don’t know. Once it happened as staff was walking by; I

gave her a big smile and a nod as I walked to the shower to deposit the load.

On a surface level we lived like normal people there: we cooked, cleaned, and

had a pseudo work schedule, but at the core we had a lot more structure than one

would have in the outside world.

Two times a week pairs in the house would take turns cooking for six. I was

either cooking some vegan shit with the resident red head, or I was cooking my

signature bland blend flying solo; I chose to cook alone as much as possible. I have the

cooking abilities of a white woman who grew up never quite having had the concrete

understanding of seasoning.

I’ve lived with an eclectic group of people over the past few months. It’s been a

total of 9 people overall, each with their own hang-ups and drug of choice; surprisingly a

lot of them have tried heroin at least once. One of the gentlemen I lived with was this 48

year old man named Tony. We all called him Uncle Tony because he just had this air

about him that made you feel like he was your grimy old uncle that was just packed full

of useless but interesting information. He’d been drowning in an ocean of his own doing

for some time, each foot caught in the hardened cement of his past, dragging him to the

oceans bed quicker and quicker as each day passed. By the time I’d left Dandy, Uncle

Tony was trapped at the ocean bedrock with giant cement bricks fastened to his feet.

I liked Uncle Tony. He was my first friend here; the first person I really connected

with. I remember when we hit it off. We had a three hour conversation over Marlboro

reds and watered down coffee. It was my third day there and we got to talking about the

movie Alien and how truly terrifying H.R Giger’s Xenomorph was. I realized I have an

odd memory for specific details with people; Tony graduated high school in 86, liked

Tabasco and pico de gallo with his scrambled eggs, and his favorite game is an old

Real Time Strategy game called Alpha Centarui. He’s also a big fan of stoicism, and in

general enjoys a variety of philosophical topics.

He told me this story once about how he got the name “Catman”. He said that

when he was in high school he had this cat that he was very fond of. The cat would

come around his house; he would take care of it, pet it, and in general just spend time

with it. Somehow kids took his caring for the cat and turned it into “Catman”, starting a

rumor that Tony fucked the cat and that he was a cat fucker. He said that he was

Catman for the entirety of his high school career, tormented by the cruelty of school

children; He had a uniquely rough time at it.

    I’d shown him an array of movies, for a while there, he was the only reason I wanted

to watch movies. We’d sit silently in the living room and go on little adventures together.

We watched a good bit of Korean and Japanese stuff together. The most responsive

movie I’d shown him was Oldboy, and I mean the original Oldboy, not that American

piece of trash Spike Lee made. He was amazed how everything made sense come the

final scene of the film. He couldn’t imagine they could wrap up all those themes and

events into one logical plot, but said “they did it beautifully.” I like to think that our take

on Oldboy would go on to parallel our time there, everything would just make sense in

the end.

    Uncle Tony is intelligent and argumentative to a fault; a debater at his very core.

Never have I met a human with such vast knowledge of history and philosophy. A man

with the ability to formulate arguments that hurt to discuss, but somehow always

managed to draw you in, even if only for a brief period of time. His firm grasps on history

and philosophy had made him quite equipped for formulating arguments of all sorts,

especially the kind that argue in favor of his own personal demise. He almost

compulsively trolls online; a frequenter of the “Chan’s”, his favorites being /pol/, /r9k/,

and /ROBOT9001/. He is quite good at taking painfully honest sides on any argument

he so wishes. Last I checked he was in an argument over the book of Leviticus and

some other religious text about which book is more meaningful, and which isn’t. He

enjoyed taking people’s beliefs and crushing them with sharp ripostes and strong

counter arguments, his ideal job would have been a paralegal. It’s hard to keep up with

all his arguments. None of us want to get into a debate with him, it’s pointless. I

remember him telling me once about how someone called him out during an argument

online for being a “lonely piece of shit that should kill himself” and Tony gave the

internet user his address and said something in the vein of “come over to my house and

watch me kill myself.” He told me he pulled up a chair and sat in front of the door with a

rifle waiting for someone. He fully intended to follow through with this suicide should

anon show up, but he knew no one would come, however the idea that they might was

so enticing. The idea of the end was more romantic to him than the idea of what could

be possible in the present. If he were younger I'd assume he'd be an overweight fedora

wearing neck beard with a sticky body pillow and a collection of Gundam figurines, but

he’s a different beast entirely; he’s a man of the 90’s, I’m not sure which is better. He

actually has a fedora here with him though, but he looks classy in it, at least on the days

he’s happy enough to wear it. I hope he gets better. He's a really nice guy, like a really

nice guy. He always packs his cigarette on his wrist watch before he smokes; if he

doesn't, something usually isn't right. Before I left I hadn’t seen him tap the butt of his

cigarette on his wrist watch in a while.

“Can I get a visual on Kayla?”

Kayla walked off from farm duty and was cleaning windows.

Mr. Abs

Mr. Abs is annoying as fuck, paranoid as hell, and has the maturity of a fifteen-

year-old with developmental issues. He's a few years older than me, and I’ll let you in on

a little secret; his name isn’t really Mr. Abs. For a while though, he wouldn’t shut the

fuck up about his abs. He had no abs, and in fact, he was steadily gaining weight; I

mean upwards of 40lbs in 2 months kind of weight. He would constantly lift his shirt and

ask everyone: “Can you see my abs? How do my abs look?”

It became a running joke of sorts in the house.

        “Let me see your abs”

        “Can you see the outline of my abs?”

        “What can I do to work on my lower abs?”

It didn’t help that he would randomly start doing sit-ups on the spot; whether it be

during groups or in the middle of making dinner, he would just bust on down and knock

out some crunches.

    He used to do this thing where he would confess all his sins to me. He'd come into

my room with this deep sense of urgency in his voice and say,

"Dude, can I tell you something?"

He'd list off all his crimes and events he felt he did wrong, like he was looking for

something like forgiveness, I never fully understood it, but it became a regular thing,

these impromptu confessionals.

    At first he was convinced we were all cops, it freaked him out. Then felt a need to

confess to these “cops”, maybe that's why he'd confess to me, maybe I was a cop to

him; something to note, he's schizophrenic. That all passed though; he’s just annoying

most of the time now; the village idiot. He farts a lot, eats obscene amounts of food, and

smokes lots of cigarettes. He actually smokes so much that the outskirts of his mouth

get stained yellow from the tobacco, it looked like his lips were growing mold.

Sometimes when he farted he would call your name out, make eye contact, and then

waft his fart into his face as he snorted inwardly through his nose, it was truly is

wonderful.

On an almost daily basis he’d do this sucking noise with his mouth that sounds

like a vacuum sucking up liquid. Other times he would just laugh out loud, quite hard for

now visible or audible reason, he was responding to internal stimuli as a result of his

illness. For a while there he would come into my room and just do a pelvic thrust into

the air while laughing like a nut; we all have our problems here.

He walked into town last night, made it to Holly before the cops picked him up.

He’s here for serious pill addiction, he has a long road ahead of him, but that doesn’t

make him any less of an annoyance, but he has his moments. I learned his eating

habits are so that he can curb pill cravings. His daddy owns a furniture store and fully

financed his downward spiral as a result of babying the living shit out of him. He still

functions like he did when he was in jail, how he managed to not get the shit kicked out

of him in jail, I have no idea.

Mr. Abs has no abs, and in fact, has quite the gut.

        “Can I get a visual on Kayla?”

        Kayla was walking behind Baker house after dark

Color Correction

Someone snapped a chicken’s neck on the farm a while back. People think it

was Kayla, but no one knows for sure. The ash tray adventurer has the most stock in

my fascination at this place. I quite like “ashtray adventurer” as a title, she deserves

something more interesting than any normal name. When I sit next to her in art therapy,

she's always doing wonderful things with colors. I can see in her colors that she doesn't

think like me, or anyone else I've met for that matter. She thinks in such a unique and

abstract way that it's foreign even to my aberrance. She presses the pastel chalk down

on the paper and motions it up and down like she’s ironing the page with color. It’s like

each color is a thought, and each thought has to be ironed out until fully processed.

Once that thought is over, another enters in the form of a new color; another piece of

chalk, a new color; rinse and repeat. After some time she has what I imagine are a

jumble of thoughts strewn across the paper in vivid detail. No real pattern in them, just

ironed out colors on top of one another; a vibrant display of mentally unhinged tie-dye.

Her mind is truly an anomaly; schizophrenia can be a very interesting thing sometimes.

Chronic Bitching

    I worked two days a week at nonprofit charity. The place was for impoverished

people and the homeless. They supply food, clothing, and so many other things for

people who can't afford it. From my section they got men’s clothing. They get 3 outfits,

or 3 shirts or sweaters, 1 pair of jeans or khakis, 2 pairs of slacks, or 1 pair of slacks

and a suit. Also a pair of shoes, socks, boxers, and 2 rolled up t-shirts. Best volunteer

site I've been too; it was pretty cool. They let me pick out some clothes; I got a few new

crewnecks and a dope Tommy Hilfiger flannel. I basically folded clothes for five hours

while I listened to music, and occasionally books on tape. The first week I finished 1984,

and the next week I started A Brave New World. Every now and then a client comes in;

they pick out some clothes, and leave. Sometimes they’re difficult, others times they

aren’t. Once I had one guy come in and get naked and start trying clothes on, another

time I had this guy who started putting on multiple shirts and pants very slyly in a

manner that suggested he was trying to steal them… because he was.

    One of the farms I volunteered at was pure horseshit… literally. We picked up

horseshit for three hours and then left, nothing more, nothing less. Another farm I

volunteered at I was on my hands and knees for three hours planting Brussels sprouts; I

planted around 635 seedlings.

    The Dandy Hill farm is a variety of shit. Everything from cleaning up ammonia laced

piss pens, to building a gazebo for the donkeys and goats.

The animal shelter was easy, you just walk dogs. I fucking hate walking dogs. I

walked dogs for a friend's company a few weeks before I tried to kill myself. Walking

dogs literally reminds me of killing myself.

I got a good bit out of volunteering, but I still maintain that free labor is bullshit. I

would rather get paid for my time. I’m sure I’ll volunteer again at some point in my life.

Walmart On A Thursday

On this Thursday I was torn between buying wet wipes for my swamp ass or a

pack of cigarettes. I'd been trying to quit smoking, but I’d been smoking my last cigarette

for going on 6 months now. I’d grown tired of cigarettes then, but they were such a

staple of my time there. I’d started to become aware of the taste of my rotting lungs. I

became more conscious of the fact that I had bad breath, and the source of it is coming

from within me, not a dirty mouth.

Inhale deeply

exhale, inhale

exhale

a very toxic meditation

”Head in the Ceiling Fan” by Title Fight played somberly through my headphones.

You grow accustomed to looking out the van windows longingly here. The power

lines aside the road flow up and down as the car floated onward. Our lives at Dandy Hill

weren't real, they were treatment lives. I couldn’t go where I wanted or do as I pleased. I

had to be driven everywhere, events needed be approved, and my daily life was

structured by another. I was forced to go places I didn’t want to go to, take meds at

certain times, and live with people who annoy me. I missed simple things; I missed

waiting outside of my car while I get gas. Those three minutes of mind-numbing

boredom while I stare at the gas nozzle, willing it to fill up faster, I missed that. I missed

those last three hours at work as the restaurant winded down and I had nothing to do

but listen to the patrons ramble drunkenly about their lives; I missed my life.

“Can I get a visual on Kayla?”

Kayla was in the cafeteria licking the tables

Avoiding DAA

I'm reading a book by Albert Camus; if I were to live my life like the main

character of this book I wouldn’t give a shit about anyone, and I’d live for the absurd. I

think I’ve achieved that to some degree, except I noticeably care now more than ever,

maybe it is time to challenge my nihilistic leanings.

I could see the fountain in the courtyard from my lounge chair. I came to the Kelly

centers lounge every now and then when I don't want to go with to AA or NA meetings. I

usually napped in the chair three seats to the right of the door. The chairs were an off

white leather, they didn’t stick to you when you sweat. I didn’t sleep on this day. I'd had

another hour and thirty one minutes there to read or write. The man to the left of me

won’t stop making noise; he had an off-white colored beard and a walker. I’ve seen him

around before, but he was always silent, right now he won’t shut the hell up. A lot of

people here float through the hallways, we all float down here; Thorazine shuffle.

For 5 months now, this one resident has been constantly introducing himself to

me. He always has a lost look on his face, and always says to me in a slow soft drone

“Hi my name is Steve, what’s your name again?”

“Justin.” I reply,

“Oh.” He says before shuffling off.

His names not really Steve; after 5 months of constantly being introduced to the same

guy, I can’t remember his name, but not the same way that he doesn’t remember mine.

Baker Blues

    I used to call Jordan every night for the first two months or so, maybe three, I don’t

remember. I never said, “Goodnight moon” to her, but in hindsight I wish I did. It was

something I would say to her a lot back when I first started dealing with all this stuff.

That doesn’t mean anything to you, but it would have been a nice touch for her.

    It's been a long hundred some days. At first days were so long. I'd lie in bed after the

first few hours of the day, eyes closed, focusing on every single task done up until that

point throughout the day. I'd recall every detail of the day from what I ate for breakfast to

how many scoops of shit I shoveled at the farm.

    I did that for a few weeks in between programming until I’d fall asleep. I’d dream of a

life left home. I fought time at first, I wanted it to end more than I want to get something

out of it. 5 days passed, 2 weeks passed, a month, 2 months, nothing changed for a

while, but time stacked up. I've enjoyed my time here, but time hasn't been conventional

during my stay. Time stopped moving the way it once did, it flows differently now. It

feels like it was yesterday when I was telling a coworker I wouldn’t be home for good

until September. It's September now and I'm still not home; three more weeks until my

departure. Michigan summers are nice, but Michigan is alright at best. The summer

days here are quite long. The state itself is right before a time zone switch. This means

the days do stretch just a bit further than most of the days do on the east coast. I feel

like The Stranger by Camus says something about time stagnation better than I ever

could:

"I hadn't understood how days could be both long and short at the same time: long to

live through, maybe, but so drawn out that they ended up flowing into one another."

    After the first two months, I began to submit to the program. Time stopped meaning

anything, it just went. The weeks started to speed by. The only reason the days of the

week mattered were because of what programming we had on each day, again a quote

from The Stranger seems relevant

"They lost their names. Only the words" yesterday" and "tomorrow" still had any

meaning for me."

    I gained a good bit of weight the first few months, but I've shed a lot since then. It's

been 5 months now, a week away from 6. I don't find myself lying on the floor thinking

as often as I once did. I used to spend a lot of my life lying on the floors of various

rooms thinking, hoping that somehow lightning would strike and change everything. I've

become the change. Never stop moving. Never stop growing. Don't stagnate, flow

constantly. As Milo would say:

“Flourish in the lag time”

Anonymous Asshole

It's funny how important AA has become. When I first got here, I fucking hated it.

I actually started taking notes during it. I titled the notes "Assholes Anonymous." I’d

write down every little detail that annoyed me in the meetings. From the woman with a

shirt the read “Fuck Heroin” apologizing for saying “shit”, to the guy with a gut wearing a

spandex under armor shirt like it was still 2007. The man named Happy introducing

himself as “Hi I’m Happy I’m an addict” was killer. The comma in his intro was vital, but

he never paused as if it were there. There was a lot to annoy you if you look for it, but

the point is not to. The point is to let go and love, despite flaws big or small. Allow no

half measures. The other week a transgender woman in an AA meeting told the meeting

that "You can't change yourself when you’re born. You're born the way you are, and

that's that". I found that kind of ironic. She meant that we were born alcoholics, and we

were bound to that for life. All I could think was that she was born biologically a man, but

mentally a woman; she changed who she was from birth in a way, so what the fuck was

she talking about. I’m not quite sure if that’s offensive or not, but if I have to wonder that,

maybe it is? I don’t think it matters. She's actually quite entertaining. She has this on

point dead pan humor; she just made me laugh at the hypocrisy of her AA speech, but I

don’t think that matters anymore.

    The Twelve-Step program has been a vital part of recovery here in Hell, Michigan, I

mean Holly.

Holy Holly

I remember being at the bar one night before I got here, we were a few drinks deep and

we joked about me coming back having found God. Well, I've found a higher power, but

it's more like a universal awareness type thing than an almighty God. It’s the belief that

all living things are intertwined with other living things. That there are patterns riddled

throughout the world, and good energies abound, and the key to all of it is just to seek

them and follow their flow; flow was the key. I think I’d combined a handful of Taoist,

Buddhist, and Agnostic ideas and beliefs into one little spiritual gumbo. My "higher

power" is the universe. I didn’t find “God”, but I molded beliefs I felt into something more

tasty and palatable. I later found out that the patterns I was finding in the world around

me were related to Jung’s concept of synchronicity. I started seeing patterns around me

that I began to combine with other patterns both internally and externally, and it felt like

the world was communicating to me through a variety interactions. For example, on a

whim I downloaded a song randomly one day because I really liked the rapper Milo and

he had just released a new track. I didn’t listen to the song before I downloaded it, I just

figured I’ll listen to it someday soon. The next day on an impulse I decided the song

would be my coffee and cigarette song for the morning. The main focus of the song was

the outro which went

“ Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time

Behind stalactites of my mind, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time, I

Flourish in the lag time

While suffering was normalized, I

Flourished in the lag time, I

Flourished in the lag time

Flourished in the lag time

When suffering was normalized, I

Flourished in the lag time

Lag time

And the stalactites in the back of my mind

When suffering was normalized, I

Flourished in the lag time”

I realized that I’ve been flourishing in the lag time all along while living in

treatment. My goal then became to flourish in the lag time; to take advantage of my

privilege of being in the situation I was one. On top of that, the line “While suffering was

normalized, I flourished in the lag time,” had me look inwardly on my situation from an

emotional relativity standpoint. I realized that suffering at Dandy Hill was normalized,

and that all any of us can really do, our only goal there was to flourish in the lag time.

The suffering of everyone around me was, of my belief at the time, all relative. We were

all experiencing some deep form of internal struggle, and we were all normalizing our

situation because it was the only way we could all process it. We had to normalize our

extremes in order to cope and reach a level of emotional balance.

Westworld Season 1

I decided that life is a game of sorts. Art imitates life, and life imitates art. At this

point, video games mirror life, and in turn, to me at least, life mirrors games. Games are

undoubtedly art, and as time goes they continue to mirror life in a more and more

realistic fashion. I just spent three hours fishing and cooking in a video game, bear with

me, which is a pretty life like game, to some extent. If life is a game, if life mirrors art,

why not live life like it is a game? When you get mad or upset with a video game, your

first reaction isn’t to get mad at the developers, and demand to speak with them, to pray

that they change the game, you just play the game; you accept the games world for

what it is. I’m aware that these comparisons aren’t entirely sound and holes can be

easily punched through, but humor me for a bit longer, I like to think this makes sense. If

life is a game, why look for god? To me it doesn’t matter if there is or isn’t a god, it’s a

moot point; A question that can never be answered. The only thing that matters is the

universe of a game, not the creator. This entire thought process is why my “higher

power” is the universe, and the connections, patterns, and flow within it. I’ll play the

game of life according to the rules set within the universe. No longer will I seek out the

game developers and demand that they give me hacks to cheat my way through the

game. When you play a game, nothing matters but the rules within the world of the

game. It just seemed like sound belief to me.

When This Ends, at Least I’ll Have a Reason to Live

I leave Dandy Hill six days from now. I was scared shitless the last few days. I

was sitting on the toilet after a long nap the other day, just ruminating over what could

happen when I get home. What happens if the changes don’t stick, if I fail, if I remain

broken, all the what ifs that could come with my return. I grew angry and scared. I was

pooping when all these emotions boiled up to the surface and overwhelmed me. I

punched the wall in front of me while on the toilet, denting the wall, and subsequently

squeezed out a little nugget of poop. I like to think those releases are somehow

connected. I wasn’t being mindful. I was lost in my mind, and so far from the present.

Since then I have been more mindful than I have ever been. Nothing matters but the

present, unless in crisis, or any other specific circumstance, I have no reason not to be

mindful. I’m bright enough to be able to fully function mindfully. I can regulate every

emotion and motor controls throughout my body without having to think about it

beforehand. I can make decisions and speak to people without having to analyze every

single word and situation surrounding me. Truly being consistently mindful is a lifelong

process, and for someone who has spent a decade lost in his mind, I’ve got a stretch of

road ahead of me. I am ready to go home, and this place has allowed me to do that. A

lot of what I have written has shed a negative light on Dandy Hill, but there has been an

overwhelming amount of good here. What it has done, has given me the tools to use at

my own disposal and the knowhow of handling them. No one here has helped me but

myself. Staff has help guide my thoughts, but ultimately I was the one making all the

changes within myself. They taught me DBT skills to regulate thoughts and emotions,

but I was the one to put them to use. This place does not fix people. It provides you with

a seemingly endless amount of time for you to work on yourself. You can fight it all you

want, but in the end you will be the one to make changes in yourself, only you, no one

else can fix you. Dandy Hill has been annoying as fuck, but it has all been necessary.

Everything that has happened had to happen. It’s time to go home.

“Can I get a visual on Kayla?”

Kayla was seen walking on the dirt road off campus heading towards the highway