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TheWeeknd - KISS LAND

14 hours ago 

olemasonjar: Details #OLEMASONJAR #menswear #hangtags #vintage

olemasonjar:

Details #OLEMASONJAR #menswear #hangtags #vintage

3 days ago  1 note View high resolution

http://www.olemasonjar.com/blogs/blog OLE MASON JAR One City / One Summer Tour coming soon.

http://www.olemasonjar.com/blogs/blog OLE MASON JAR One City / One Summer Tour coming soon.

1 week ago  View high resolution

a stopping point. first an update on my health: on a scale from poor to great i’m moving from okay to good. but sometimes it slips back to okay for a good while. i’m on a swarm of brain and anxiety medication which i’m not a big fan of but i’m slowly getting used to them.  thanks to some friends of mine that call themselves team taj i’m back to a decent weight. in december i was around 133 lbs and the last time i was weighed i was at 157 lbs. still need to add more, but whoa. okay secondly i want to explain what these “twenty-trauma” stories are for. last year was pretty intense. i may have wrote about a minor emotional breakdown and shared it with you guys. the outreach was great. i was even asked to give a speech about it at first friday. after the speech, i decided to e-mail my breakdown story to twloha (to write love on her arms). when i gave the speech, the audience was mostly high schoolers. and the backbone of the story is from a song so i thought it would be a good fit for twloha. i didn’t hear from them for a long time and kinda just assumed that was that. then i heard from them and was overwhelmed by the huge response they gave me. their e-mail was almost as long as the story i sent them. they really wanted to use it. but some time had passed and some things had changed. the story was written in a very weird way. not only was i tremendously heartbroken and sick and writing out of desperation of hope, i was first telling all this stuff to a few of my friends via text messages. the first thing i wrote was all the failed relationship stuff and what my perspective of that person was in a time of need. i just moved the text messages to the note pad on my phone and wrote off that. even though the relationship parts was focused all on one girl; the words were also an amalgamation of past relationships or moments. i read once, “character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you.” the idea behind the “twenty-trauma” stories is to take these big traumatic moments that happened in my life and how i interacted with someone that was either in my past life or present life. so i decided, why not turn my friends into characters and connect them to the original story. when twloha wanted to use the breakdown story i had mixed feelings about the relationship parts. i knew i couldn’t revise it and take them out because if you ask me what causes me the most anxiety it isn’t any of the brain doctors, surgeons, lab results, etc. it’s mostly re-playing things i’ve could of done differently. that’s a form of self-harm people rarely talk about. and it’s not very good for me right now.  lately i’ve been feeling like shit about it and after a nice little panic attack last weekend (first one in since janurary) i decided i’m going to take a hiatus from it all for a little while. maybe when i feel better about it we’ll revisit this. the writing may get worse, but i’m willing to make that trade. i know it seems like a selfish move because i’ve possibly been put in a position to help others which is the reason why all this was done in the first place, but i think i should find the exits first before i give a guided tour through hell. below are two things from twloha’s e-mails that i thought i’d share in case you needed a little pick me up. Most people will never know or understand what you’ve gone through which can make it even harder to recover because sometimes you might feel alone in your fight. Always keep pushing through whatever may come. Your life matters. You matter. Believe that. Remember it. You deserve to live a life that you love.    Twenty-Trauma: Intro Twenty-Trauma: I Twenty-Trauma: II

a stopping point.

first an update on my health: on a scale from poor to great i’m moving from okay to good. but sometimes it slips back to okay for a good while. i’m on a swarm of brain and anxiety medication which i’m not a big fan of but i’m slowly getting used to them. 

thanks to some friends of mine that call themselves team taj i’m back to a decent weight. in december i was around 133 lbs and the last time i was weighed i was at 157 lbs. still need to add more, but whoa.

okay secondly i want to explain what these “twenty-trauma” stories are for. last year was pretty intense. i may have wrote about a minor emotional breakdown and shared it with you guys. the outreach was great. i was even asked to give a speech about it at first friday. after the speech, i decided to e-mail my breakdown story to twloha (to write love on her arms). when i gave the speech, the audience was mostly high schoolers. and the backbone of the story is from a song so i thought it would be a good fit for twloha.

i didn’t hear from them for a long time and kinda just assumed that was that. then i heard from them and was overwhelmed by the huge response they gave me. their e-mail was almost as long as the story i sent them. they really wanted to use it. but some time had passed and some things had changed.

the story was written in a very weird way. not only was i tremendously heartbroken and sick and writing out of desperation of hope, i was first telling all this stuff to a few of my friends via text messages. the first thing i wrote was all the failed relationship stuff and what my perspective of that person was in a time of need. i just moved the text messages to the note pad on my phone and wrote off that.

even though the relationship parts was focused all on one girl; the words were also an amalgamation of past relationships or moments. i read once, “character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you.”

the idea behind the “twenty-trauma” stories is to take these big traumatic moments that happened in my life and how i interacted with someone that was either in my past life or present life. so i decided, why not turn my friends into characters and connect them to the original story.

when twloha wanted to use the breakdown story i had mixed feelings about the relationship parts. i knew i couldn’t revise it and take them out because if you ask me what causes me the most anxiety it isn’t any of the brain doctors, surgeons, lab results, etc. it’s mostly re-playing things i’ve could of done differently. that’s a form of self-harm people rarely talk about. and it’s not very good for me right now. 

lately i’ve been feeling like shit about it and after a nice little panic attack last weekend (first one in since janurary) i decided i’m going to take a hiatus from it all for a little while. maybe when i feel better about it we’ll revisit this. the writing may get worse, but i’m willing to make that trade.

i know it seems like a selfish move because i’ve possibly been put in a position to help others which is the reason why all this was done in the first place, but i think i should find the exits first before i give a guided tour through hell.

below are two things from twloha’s e-mails that i thought i’d share in case you needed a little pick me up.

Most people will never know or understand what you’ve gone through which can make it even harder to recover because sometimes you might feel alone in your fight.

Always keep pushing through whatever may come. Your life matters. You matter. Believe that. Remember it. You deserve to live a life that you love. 

 

Twenty-Trauma: Intro

Twenty-Trauma: I

Twenty-Trauma: II

3 weeks ago  1 note View high resolution

“Hello? Adam, can you hear me? You’re fading in and out―okay that’s better. I’m going to check your heart rate over the phone―”    “Take your thumb and locate your pulse in your inner wrist. Tell me when find it―”    At this very moment I’m wondering if there’s a such thing as a pillow phone. I need to have both hands free to find my pulse. I shove the phone in my right ear and lift up my right shoulder to secure its position. I close my eyes and imagine that my phone is the world’s most uncomfortable pillow, but it talks to me.    Okay, found it.    “―When I say ‘go,’ start counting each bump―” “―Okay, go.”    My body’s internal alarm clock is constantly hitting snooze.    “You counted 39? That’s way too low. For tonight do not take T!#mL or Tiz!#&%ne. You’ll be okay with everything else. I’ll have them schedule you to see the doctor tomorrow afternoon, okay?”    Cut to a week after my follow-up appointment(s).    “I wanna see you! I just got back to the states and I’m only going to be here for a few days―Let’s meet up later.”    This is a friend of a friend. I would be in no mood to break my evening plans of sleep―but I’m really bad at saying no. I convince myself it’ll be good to see her. It wasn’t hard to do.    She’s been fashion modeling on and off ever since I’ve known her. That’s sort of how I know her. I’m no model. I’m a military brat. We share common ground by walking on foreign ground. We shared stories about that. However, it was different for me. I lived in these foreign places three years at a time instead of just visiting them three days or three weeks at a time.    At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign.    We arrange to meet at a nearby bar. I arrive early. But I didn’t have to wait long. I see dark hair and dark eyeliner ordering two drinks on the other side of the bar.  She’s beautiful. Picture perfect.    We spot an open booth and she wastes no time playing catch up.  Her IQ is abnormally high. Her sentences would go from airhead (to be funny) to Aristotle (to be clever) in the same breath. It was mesmerizing. It was annoying.    “Grrrr―”    I realize I forgot to eat dinner again while she’s feeding me some story about Amsterdam, or Austria, or Australia, or all of the above. It all sounds the same.    “So anyways how have you been?”    Cut to a week ago.    “If we reduce your amt%@ty!n, it doesn’t look like a beta-blocker is going to help. Your body is very sensitive to medication.”    At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign. I always wondered when my body became used to a medication; did I adjust, or did I become addicted?    “Look straight―”    This is the standard neurological test conducted at the end of every appointment. The doctor shines his light directly into my eyes. He examines each eye for about twenty seconds. Looking into my soul.    “Good. Put your hands out straight―”    “Have you noticed this?―”    I have actually. It was a small bump on the back of my neck. Like a pea.    “It’s a lymph node. When did you first notice it? Have you had a cold recently?”    No further questions, your honor.    “We already ordered some blood work for you. But I’m going to refer that you get this lymph node examined by a dermatologist.”     In the meantime, Dr. Google will answer any question or concerns you may have.    “It’s good to hear you’re doing well! You look great.”    I may have disregarded my current health when I told Perfect Picture how I was doing. But it was nice of her to lie a little with the you look great part.    Unlike Dr. Google―who has no bed-side manners―I was pretty much doomed once my blood results came back. I need to live in the now I suppose.   Now was late. I ran out of words an hour ago.    She wants to see my place.    I want to see my pillow.    We’re at my place. We’re at my pillow.   She wrestles me down on the bed. Did I say she was annoying?    She’s anything but that right now.    I’m sure the next time I see her will be three months from now, three years from now, or in some magazine ad while sitting in a waiting room.    I hate good-byes but I was in love with this one.    I know, later on, it will bother me that tonight means nothing. It doesn’t have to mean something with her, just in general.    I always think about perfect eyes, and perfect teeth, and perfect timing after mistakes have been made.    What is perfect timing anyway? One might say perfect timing is luck. One might say fate. One might say the definition of perfect timing is patience―in which everything that happens in between a birth day and a death day is a collage of perfect mistakes.    I’m being over dramatic. I need to be under the influence.    I go to the bathroom and swallow more than enough amt%@ty!n.    I bury my head in the pillow. With my thumb, I locate my pulse in my inner wrist. I try to count the uneven thumps.    I don’t think I make it past twenty.                             •   •   •    “Do you have the time?”    “That’s okay if you don’t.”    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hear that your cousin just died.”    “I guess that last sentence is kind of ironic. Not that your cousin passed―just how we’re talking now.”    “Even though I’m the one doing all the talking. That’s okay though.”    “You know no matter how long you live―whenever you go―believe it or not, you have experienced it all.”    “Yeah, I never quite got it myself. I mean, you’re really going to tell me that an infant who dies at birth has experienced the same amount in life as someone who passes after one hundred years of age?!”    “It’s true, though. I’ve asked around.”    “The infants―of course they’re all grown up here―they seem like they have experienced every joy, pain, smile, tear, peak, valley, curse, and cure one hundred times over.”    “I ask them did they laugh inside the womb? Did they ever cry inside the womb?”    “They said that they certainly felt―that they didn’t know it at the time, but it was their mother’s heartbeat―”    “It was all that they knew. It was life.”    “I’m sorry I’ve gotten off topic. Do you have the time?―”    “Beep!” “Beep!” “Beep!” Beep!”   I wake up groggy―holding onto my wrist. It seems ironic for some reason.    I’ve been waking up like this for years.   Twenty-Trauma: Intro Twenty-Trauma: I

“Hello? Adam, can you hear me? You’re fading in and out―okay that’s better. I’m going to check your heart rate over the phone―”

  

“Take your thumb and locate your pulse in your inner wrist. Tell me when find it―”

  

At this very moment I’m wondering if there’s a such thing as a pillow phone. I need to have both hands free to find my pulse. I shove the phone in my right ear and lift up my right shoulder to secure its position. I close my eyes and imagine that my phone is the world’s most uncomfortable pillow, but it talks to me.

  

Okay, found it.

  

“―When I say ‘go,’ start counting each bump―”

“―Okay, go.”

  

My body’s internal alarm clock is constantly hitting snooze.

  

“You counted 39? That’s way too low. For tonight do not take T!#mL or Tiz!#&%ne. You’ll be okay with everything else. I’ll have them schedule you to see the doctor tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

  

Cut to a week after my follow-up appointment(s).

  

“I wanna see you! I just got back to the states and I’m only going to be here for a few days―Let’s meet up later.”

  

This is a friend of a friend. I would be in no mood to break my evening plans of sleep―but I’m really bad at saying no. I convince myself it’ll be good to see her. It wasn’t hard to do.

  

She’s been fashion modeling on and off ever since I’ve known her. That’s sort of how I know her. I’m no model. I’m a military brat. We share common ground by walking on foreign ground. We shared stories about that. However, it was different for me. I lived in these foreign places three years at a time instead of just visiting them three days or three weeks at a time.

  

At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign.

  

We arrange to meet at a nearby bar. I arrive early. But I didn’t have to wait long. I see dark hair and dark eyeliner ordering two drinks on the other side of the bar.
 
She’s beautiful. Picture perfect.

  

We spot an open booth and she wastes no time playing catch up.

 
Her IQ is abnormally high. Her sentences would go from airhead (to be funny) to Aristotle (to be clever) in the same breath. It was mesmerizing. It was annoying.

  

“Grrrr―”

 
 
I realize I forgot to eat dinner again while she’s feeding me some story about Amsterdam, or Austria, or Australia, or all of the above. It all sounds the same.

  

“So anyways how have you been?”

  

Cut to a week ago.

  

“If we reduce your amt%@ty!n, it doesn’t look like a beta-blocker is going to help. Your body is very sensitive to medication.”

  

At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign. I always wondered when my body became used to a medication; did I adjust, or did I become addicted?

  

“Look straight―”

  

This is the standard neurological test conducted at the end of every appointment. The doctor shines his light directly into my eyes. He examines each eye for about twenty seconds. Looking into my soul.

  

“Good. Put your hands out straight―”

  

“Have you noticed this?―”

  

I have actually. It was a small bump on the back of my neck. Like a pea.

  

“It’s a lymph node. When did you first notice it? Have you had a cold recently?”

  

No further questions, your honor.

  

“We already ordered some blood work for you. But I’m going to refer that you get this lymph node examined by a dermatologist.” 

  

In the meantime, Dr. Google will answer any question or concerns you may have.

  

“It’s good to hear you’re doing well! You look great.”

  

I may have disregarded my current health when I told Perfect Picture how I was doing. But it was nice of her to lie a little with the you look great part.

  

Unlike Dr. Google―who has no bed-side manners―I was pretty much doomed once my blood results came back. I need to live in the now I suppose.

 

Now was late. I ran out of words an hour ago.

  

She wants to see my place.

  

I want to see my pillow.

  

We’re at my place. We’re at my pillow.

 

She wrestles me down on the bed. Did I say she was annoying?

  

She’s anything but that right now.

  

I’m sure the next time I see her will be three months from now, three years from now, or in some magazine ad while sitting in a waiting room.

  

I hate good-byes but I was in love with this one.

  

I know, later on, it will bother me that tonight means nothing. It doesn’t have to mean something with her, just in general.

  

I always think about perfect eyes, and perfect teeth, and perfect timing after mistakes have been made.

  

What is perfect timing anyway? One might say perfect timing is luck. One might say fate. One might say the definition of perfect timing is patience―in which everything that happens in between a birth day and a death day is a collage of perfect mistakes.

  

I’m being over dramatic. I need to be under the influence.

  

I go to the bathroom and swallow more than enough amt%@ty!n.

  

I bury my head in the pillow. With my thumb, I locate my pulse in my inner wrist. I try to count the uneven thumps.

  

I don’t think I make it past twenty.

  

 

                       •   •   •

  

“Do you have the time?”

  

“That’s okay if you don’t.”

  

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hear that your cousin just died.”

  

“I guess that last sentence is kind of ironic. Not that your cousin passed―just how we’re talking now.”

  

“Even though I’m the one doing all the talking. That’s okay though.”

  

“You know no matter how long you live―whenever you go―believe it or not, you have experienced it all.”

  

“Yeah, I never quite got it myself. I mean, you’re really going to tell me that an infant who dies at birth has experienced the same amount in life as someone who passes after one hundred years of age?!”

  

“It’s true, though. I’ve asked around.”

  

“The infants―of course they’re all grown up here―they seem like they have experienced every joy, pain, smile, tear, peak, valley, curse, and cure one hundred times over.”

  

“I ask them did they laugh inside the womb? Did they ever cry inside the womb?”

  

“They said that they certainly felt―that they didn’t know it at the time, but it was their mother’s heartbeat―”

  

“It was all that they knew. It was life.”

  

“I’m sorry I’ve gotten off topic. Do you have the time?―”

  

“Beep!” “Beep!” “Beep!” Beep!”

 

I wake up groggy―holding onto my wrist. It seems ironic for some reason.

  

I’ve been waking up like this for years.

 

Twenty-Trauma: Intro

Twenty-Trauma: I

3 weeks ago  View high resolution

“Attention all passengers for United flight 626 with non-stop service to Los Angeles International Airport. We have been informed that this flight has now been cancelled due to weather. Please see―”  Dammit Chicago O’hare. Just once―Can I not get stuck here?  Well, at least this time I have my whole life with me. Packed inside two duffle bags and an Adidas track bag.  My trip from east to west isn’t going as planned. Act of God vs. Act of Plans. I’ve been told it’s an unfair fight.  That was the last fight flight for the night. I’m currently debating a stop at Cinnabon before all terminal stores close their gates―Nah, stale pastries. I decide to skip dinner and set up camp in an empty Concourse B. I purchase overpriced Wi-Fi with the Cinnabon money I saved. Licking icing from my fingertips or sugarcoating late night IMs to my friends back home―either way, it would have cost the same.    Maybe she’ll be online. She’s always on late. I always worried that late at night―the glow of the screen would damage her perfect eyes.  Instantly after signing on―  IM: “where are you?!”  I haven’t talked to her in a week. I was busy planning my last minute decision to move across the country. I didn’t know I was actually doing this till three days ago. However, I thought I had already told her about this? Maybe I told her in a dream―or maybe when I was drunk.  IM: “no you didn’t tell me. i had no idea.”  She had one more semester of college left. Two semesters ago I had the option to graduate early but I decided to buy eight more hours of courses to stick around a little longer. Not necessarily because of her or to be around my friends longer―I had absolutely zero plans for the future. I haven’t applied to any jobs and graduate school pamphlets were just collecting dust on my bedroom floor.  Wait, it’s coming back to me; I told a different girl and I was most definitely drunk. How could I forget this? When this different girl and I hugged good-byes, our beehive buzzes decided that it was a good idea to kiss for first time’s sake. Instead of a kiss, my teeth crashed with her teeth. She was probably laughing at the idea of this. And I probably had a ridiculous grin of ‘this is happening?’ on my face. She had perfect teeth.  IM: “i’m happy for you. good luck with your trip.”IM: “i’m off to bed.”IM: “and sorry you have to sleep in a airport.”  Those last three IMs read like subtitles. This situation was completely foreign to me. I could only imagine those perfect eyes were giving me a deathly stare on the other side of the screen.  She doesn’t put up an away message. Her screen name finally goes idle after an hour goes by.  For some reason I felt guilty, like I needed to apologize for something. But I just sat half awake in Concourse B thinking about the flight in. How I almost considered telling the pilot to make a u-turn at the next cloud and take me back home―And thinking about how surreal the Sears Tower looked being the only skyscraper poking out of the cloud line.  A building in the sky―the clouds were the ground and the sky was the sky. Made me wonder if heaven is built like a corporation. If entry-level angels just file prayers all day? And if they have to work their way up to be a guardian angel. After I pass, I’d probably start out filing ‘powerball prayers’. It’s what I get for gambling with hearts.    “Grrrr―”  That was my stomach. I should have gone to Cinnabon.    After I was successfully relocated from my camp in Concourse B to my new home―I started getting used to my beehive buzzed evenings in my new city. Rooms packed with people drinking cocktails mixed with real contempt and fake laughs. It was addictive. It was youth.    I wish my friends were around to take it all in with me. Sometimes I wish Perfect Eyes was there too. I would always find a way to subconsciously drunk dial her without the care of a three hour time difference. I would leave her rambled messages about something that reminded me of home―like hotels with Ferrari dealerships in them. Okay, nothing here reminded me of home. I was kind of in love with that.  Around 4:00 AM I thought a drunk dial had landed on my end. I immediately turned the ringtone to vibrate and went back to sleep. I saw the call was coming from an old college roommate of mine―I’d probably wake to a slurred message of how they were seriously planning a trip to visit me.  Instead I woke up to thirty missed calls and a ‘mailbox is full’ message. Something crazy has happened―and I couldn’t make sense of the combination of names that were listed on my call log. Names of people from both college and high school that didn’t have an association with each other. And names of people I just talked to the day prior, and people I talked to six months ago?  My mailbox could only carry six messages. Every message was no longer than, “call me back it’s important.” Except for the last message. The first call.  I had just learned that my old childhood neighbor, my old college roommate―I had just learned that my best friend died of an accidental overdose.  By the next day I didn’t want to talk to anyone else except my mom. I just let it go to voicemail until I could work up the strength to hear sorrow from my friends on the other end. That wouldn’t be for a long time.  I took my roommate’s dog out for a walk. Or to be honest, my roommate’s dog took me out for a walk. My phone still buzzing ever so often.  “Hey! Look where you’re going!”  Remind me to never live on a golf course again.  For some reason after this incident I decided to call Perfect Eyes.  “Hey!”  She knew not to throw on the ‘how are you’ after the hey. The little things you know. I wanted to talk about absolutely nothing.  “Excited about graduation coming up. Some friends are in town―probably going to pre-game, then the usual.”  This would be the one of the last phone conversations I would ever have with Perfect Eyes. I’m not sure why. It was just what I needed.                             •   •   •  Cut to a few years later.   I’m staring at my phone inside the Emergency Room. Hours ago I had just learned that a mass was found inside my brain after I came in for a non-stop headache.  It hurt like hell to move my eyes―God forbid if I had to sneeze. I quickly found that staring at one thing helped with the pain.  Sitting here staring at Perfect Eyes in my contacts list―contemplating. I even consider calling Perfect Teeth―we were pretty good friends now. But my phone is about to die―I’m hoping I have better luck.  I ran into an older lady that wished me luck earlier. I wonder if she has a phone charger with her? I better take the luck instead. I wouldn’t know what to say to the Perfects anyway.  “Our MRI machine is down. We’re going to have to transfer you to a different hospital. Hang on tight. You doing okay?”  My phone just died. And I didn’t call Perfect Eyes nor Perfect Teeth but other than that the m&Ph%!e is doing fantastic work with my bloodstream and reality.  Maybe after my phone dies―it ends up on a special floor within that building in the clouds where everything goes to die. Maybe friendships are in there too. And people’s dreams. And people’s faith. And Lindsay Lohan’s career. A floor where things have the possibility of being restored.  I wonder if my late friend has been promoted yet.  Lately I’ve been dreaming in subtitles. Not reading the words. These foreign dreams are probably side-effects from stories doctors have been writing for me. Tr#@Dol and m&Ph%!e for pain. Or Pro&%tz!ne for nausea. Or Tiz!#&%ne for sleep. Or Le^ti#tam as an anticonvulsant. Ask your doctor if every decision you have ever made is right for you.    Maybe if I read the subtitles to my dreams, I would find my way―my apology.  But in reality, I know my apology is still stuck in Concourse B.  My bags always seemed heavier without it.   Twenty-Trauma: Intro

“Attention all passengers for United flight 626 with non-stop service to Los Angeles International Airport. We have been informed that this flight has now been cancelled due to weather. Please see―”
 
Dammit Chicago O’hare. Just once―Can I not get stuck here?

 
Well, at least this time I have my whole life with me. Packed inside two duffle bags and an Adidas track bag.
 
My trip from east to west isn’t going as planned. Act of God vs. Act of Plans. I’ve been told it’s an unfair fight.
 
That was the last fight flight for the night. I’m currently debating a stop at Cinnabon before all terminal stores close their gates―Nah, stale pastries. I decide to skip dinner and set up camp in an empty Concourse B. I purchase overpriced Wi-Fi with the Cinnabon money I saved. Licking icing from my fingertips or sugarcoating late night IMs to my friends back home―either way, it would have cost the same.

  

Maybe she’ll be online. She’s always on late. I always worried that late at night―the glow of the screen would damage her perfect eyes.
 
Instantly after signing on―
 
IM: “where are you?!”
 
I haven’t talked to her in a week. I was busy planning my last minute decision to move across the country. I didn’t know I was actually doing this till three days ago. However, I thought I had already told her about this? Maybe I told her in a dream―or maybe when I was drunk.
 
IM: “no you didn’t tell me. i had no idea.”
 
She had one more semester of college left. Two semesters ago I had the option to graduate early but I decided to buy eight more hours of courses to stick around a little longer. Not necessarily because of her or to be around my friends longer―I had absolutely zero plans for the future. I haven’t applied to any jobs and graduate school pamphlets were just collecting dust on my bedroom floor.
 
Wait, it’s coming back to me; I told a different girl and I was most definitely drunk. How could I forget this? When this different girl and I hugged good-byes, our beehive buzzes decided that it was a good idea to kiss for first time’s sake. Instead of a kiss, my teeth crashed with her teeth. She was probably laughing at the idea of this. And I probably had a ridiculous grin of ‘this is happening?’ on my face. She had perfect teeth.
 
IM: “i’m happy for you. good luck with your trip.”
IM: “i’m off to bed.”
IM: “and sorry you have to sleep in a airport.”
 
Those last three IMs read like subtitles. This situation was completely foreign to me. I could only imagine those perfect eyes were giving me a deathly stare on the other side of the screen.
 
She doesn’t put up an away message. Her screen name finally goes idle after an hour goes by.
 
For some reason I felt guilty, like I needed to apologize for something. But I just sat half awake in Concourse B thinking about the flight in. How I almost considered telling the pilot to make a u-turn at the next cloud and take me back home―And thinking about how surreal the Sears Tower looked being the only skyscraper poking out of the cloud line.
 
A building in the sky―the clouds were the ground and the sky was the sky. Made me wonder if heaven is built like a corporation. If entry-level angels just file prayers all day? And if they have to work their way up to be a guardian angel. After I pass, I’d probably start out filing ‘powerball prayers’. It’s what I get for gambling with hearts.

  

“Grrrr―”
 
That was my stomach.

I should have gone to Cinnabon.

 
 
After I was successfully relocated from my camp in Concourse B to my new home―I started getting used to my beehive buzzed evenings in my new city. Rooms packed with people drinking cocktails mixed with real contempt and fake laughs. It was addictive. It was youth.

  

I wish my friends were around to take it all in with me. Sometimes I wish Perfect Eyes was there too. I would always find a way to subconsciously drunk dial her without the care of a three hour time difference. I would leave her rambled messages about something that reminded me of home―like hotels with Ferrari dealerships in them. Okay, nothing here reminded me of home. I was kind of in love with that.
 
Around 4:00 AM I thought a drunk dial had landed on my end. I immediately turned the ringtone to vibrate and went back to sleep. I saw the call was coming from an old college roommate of mine―I’d probably wake to a slurred message of how they were seriously planning a trip to visit me.
 
Instead I woke up to thirty missed calls and a ‘mailbox is full’ message. Something crazy has happened―and I couldn’t make sense of the combination of names that were listed on my call log. Names of people from both college and high school that didn’t have an association with each other. And names of people I just talked to the day prior, and people I talked to six months ago?
 
My mailbox could only carry six messages. Every message was no longer than, “call me back it’s important.” Except for the last message. The first call.
 
I had just learned that my old childhood neighbor, my old college roommate―I had just learned that my best friend died of an accidental overdose.
 
By the next day I didn’t want to talk to anyone else except my mom. I just let it go to voicemail until I could work up the strength to hear sorrow from my friends on the other end. That wouldn’t be for a long time.
 
I took my roommate’s dog out for a walk. Or to be honest, my roommate’s dog took me out for a walk. My phone still buzzing ever so often.
 
“Hey! Look where you’re going!”
 
Remind me to never live on a golf course again.
 
For some reason after this incident I decided to call Perfect Eyes.
 
“Hey!”
 
She knew not to throw on the ‘how are you’ after the hey. The little things you know. I wanted to talk about absolutely nothing.
 
“Excited about graduation coming up. Some friends are in town―probably going to pre-game, then the usual.”
 
This would be the one of the last phone conversations I would ever have with Perfect Eyes. I’m not sure why. It was just what I needed.

 

                          •   •   •
  
Cut to a few years later.

 

I’m staring at my phone inside the Emergency Room. Hours ago I had just learned that a mass was found inside my brain after I came in for a non-stop headache.
 
It hurt like hell to move my eyes―God forbid if I had to sneeze. I quickly found that staring at one thing helped with the pain.
 
Sitting here staring at Perfect Eyes in my contacts list―contemplating. I even consider calling Perfect Teeth―we were pretty good friends now. But my phone is about to die―I’m hoping I have better luck.
 
I ran into an older lady that wished me luck earlier. I wonder if she has a phone charger with her? I better take the luck instead. I wouldn’t know what to say to the Perfects anyway.
 
“Our MRI machine is down. We’re going to have to transfer you to a different hospital. Hang on tight. You doing okay?”
 
My phone just died. And I didn’t call Perfect Eyes nor Perfect Teeth but other than that the m&Ph%!e is doing fantastic work with my bloodstream and reality.
 
Maybe after my phone dies―it ends up on a special floor within that building in the clouds where everything goes to die. Maybe friendships are in there too. And people’s dreams. And people’s faith. And Lindsay Lohan’s career. A floor where things have the possibility of being restored.
 
I wonder if my late friend has been promoted yet.
 
Lately I’ve been dreaming in subtitles. Not reading the words. These foreign dreams are probably side-effects from stories doctors have been writing for me. Tr#@Dol and m&Ph%!e for pain. Or Pro&%tz!ne for nausea. Or Tiz!#&%ne for sleep. Or Le^ti#tam as an anticonvulsant. Ask your doctor if every decision you have ever made is right for you.

  

Maybe if I read the subtitles to my dreams, I would find my way―my apology.
 
But in reality, I know my apology is still stuck in Concourse B.  My bags always seemed heavier without it.

 

Twenty-Trauma: Intro

1 month ago  View high resolution

I never sit on the bed―the bed inside the exam rooms at the doctor’s office. Even if they ask me to take a seat on the bed I’ll make up some excuse to decline. A medical-bed with butcher paper as sheets, no blankets, no thanks. The medical student that’s shadowing my doctor is in the room with me. Just her and I. I remember her from my last visit. She’s awfully pretty. The kind of face that could brighten up midnight and make you think it was noon. What time is it anyway? The a!&%ian has worn off.   The morning-after feeling for a night that never ended. Cut to eight hours ago. I’m being discharged from the Emergency Room. I’m not even sure why I was there. A$AP and Drake keep reminding me but I don’t know what my problem is. I watch the medical student study my discharge papers. Silence―It’s a horrific sound. She looks confidently confused. It’s uncanny. It’s gorgeous.   She knows she’s not supposed to say anything to me until the doctor comes in. At least not medically. I read her some more. I start to write up a story about her in my head. Everyone has a story. I’d imagine overtime, I would become more attractive to the things that I didn’t know about her. This type of attraction is beautiful. It’s toxic. The doctor comes in and without opening a folder, without reading a screen, she gives the medical student a complete recap without hesitation. “Adam is in his twenties. He has had quite a few traumatic experiences―” A ‘funny cause it’s true’ laugh comes out of me, but she continues on anyway. “―complex brain trauma, two suicides, robbery, increased anxiety, all happening back to back. Anything else?” People would be surprised if they knew how much in this world was due to prayers. I think I read that in the Bible? Or maybe it was Slaughterhouse-Five? She takes the discharge papers from the medical student and I explain to her why the Emergency Room visit was necessary. “Your blood is a little off but not as bad as the last time I saw you. And according to last night, you’ve been having severe panic attacks. Your heart looks good. Does the a!&%ian help?―”   It was Slaughterhouse-Five. “―I want to take you off v!&$d and put you on p#4x!Q until you’re leveled out. This should help with your blood. Both medications essentially do the same thing but they work in different areas of your brain. I don’t think the v!&$d is very welcomed.” She’s been advantageous with this whole process from the start. Five years ago―in a morphine daze―I stumbled into her office for the first time. She’s a good doctor. I’m a patient, not a bottom line. These types of doctors are a rare breed. But I need to pay attention. Insurance doesn’t cover attention. “It may take about two weeks for the p#4x!Q to start working. Things may seem worse at first, but since we’ll be tapering you off v!&$d, it shouldn’t be as bad.”Hope feels like a four letter word at times. Cut to roughly two weeks from this appointment and as warned, my misery got worse. I wasn’t sleeping, and I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t boycotting two of my favorite pastimes―I just didn’t have the energy for food nor the appetite for sleep. Late at night when heartbeats are slow and the a!&%ian was altering my reality―I found myself writing. Writing vicariously to no one. What was just a few text messages for advice saved away in my history turned into a 3800 word side-effect. Great. I’m about to become one of those people who talks about their allergies all the time. But maybe they’re on to something―God bless you. I just need to sneeze more in life. The doctor exits. It’s just me and the medical student once again. While she’s busy typing up my story with words like p#4x!Q, a!&%ian, and v!&$d into a medical diary―I ask her the one question that I can’t seem to ask myself, or anyone else; Honesty is some of the best medicine ever discovered. But it can cut like a knife.   I should sit on the bed for this.

I never sit on the bed―the bed inside the exam rooms at the doctor’s office. Even if they ask me to take a seat on the bed I’ll make up some excuse to decline. A medical-bed with butcher paper as sheets, no blankets, no thanks.


The medical student that’s shadowing my doctor is in the room with me. Just her and I. I remember her from my last visit. She’s awfully pretty. The kind of face that could brighten up midnight and make you think it was noon. What time is it anyway? The a!&%ian has worn off.

 

The morning-after feeling for a night that never ended.



Cut to eight hours ago. I’m being discharged from the Emergency Room. I’m not even sure why I was there. A$AP and Drake keep reminding me but I don’t know what my problem is.

I watch the medical student study my discharge papers.

Silence―It’s a horrific sound.


She looks confidently confused.

It’s uncanny.

It’s gorgeous.

 

She knows she’s not supposed to say anything to me until the doctor comes in. At least not medically.


I read her some more. I start to write up a story about her in my head. Everyone has a story. I’d imagine overtime, I would become more attractive to the things that I didn’t know about her. This type of attraction is beautiful. It’s toxic.

The doctor comes in and without opening a folder, without reading a screen, she gives the medical student a complete recap without hesitation.

“Adam is in his twenties. He has had quite a few traumatic experiences―”

A ‘funny cause it’s true’ laugh comes out of me, but she continues on anyway.

“―complex brain trauma, two suicides, robbery, increased anxiety, all happening back to back. Anything else?”


People would be surprised if they knew how much in this world was due to prayers. I think I read that in the Bible? Or maybe it was Slaughterhouse-Five?


She takes the discharge papers from the medical student and I explain to her why the Emergency Room visit was necessary.

“Your blood is a little off but not as bad as the last time I saw you. And according to last night, you’ve been having severe panic attacks. Your heart looks good. Does the a!&%ian help?―”

 

It was Slaughterhouse-Five.


“―I want to take you off v!&$d and put you on p#4x!Q until you’re leveled out. This should help with your blood. Both medications essentially do the same thing but they work in different areas of your brain. I don’t think the v!&$d is very welcomed.”

She’s been advantageous with this whole process from the start. Five years ago―in a morphine daze―I stumbled into her office for the first time. She’s a good doctor. I’m a patient, not a bottom line. These types of doctors are a rare breed. But I need to pay attention. Insurance doesn’t cover attention.

“It may take about two weeks for the p#4x!Q to start working. Things may seem worse at first, but since we’ll be tapering you off v!&$d, it shouldn’t be as bad.”

Hope feels like a four letter word at times.

Cut to roughly two weeks from this appointment and as warned, my misery got worse. I wasn’t sleeping, and I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t boycotting two of my favorite pastimes―I just didn’t have the energy for food nor the appetite for sleep.

Late at night when heartbeats are slow and the a!&%ian was altering my reality―I found myself writing. Writing vicariously to no one. What was just a few text messages for advice saved away in my history turned into a 3800 word side-effect.

Great. I’m about to become one of those people who talks about their allergies all the time. But maybe they’re on to something―God bless you. I just need to sneeze more in life.


The doctor exits. It’s just me and the medical student once again. While she’s busy typing up my story with words like p#4x!Q, a!&%ian, and v!&$d into a medical diary―I ask her the one question that I can’t seem to ask myself, or anyone else; Honesty is some of the best medicine ever discovered. But it can cut like a knife.

 

I should sit on the bed for this.

2 months ago  View high resolution

Happiness is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.  ―  F. Scott Fitzgerald   Accidentally got “honey almond” cereal instead of “forest berries”. Now I’m wondering what other delights does life have in store for me? ―  Mark Leggett   A text comes in October 22, 2012 7:00 PM, “Something that took me a long time to realize is that just telling the truth is literally, always the best idea. I never lied but I found myself sugar coating things in a lot of situations. People tend to surprise you. They react better than I typically give them credit for.”   New Year’s Eve 2011, 11:59 PM   It’s about 10 seconds before the New Year. I’m standing alongside the Boulevard Pool of the Cosmopolitan, looking up into a black sky awaiting fireworks, and thinking, ‘this year was maybe my worst.’ Before I could toast the exploding sky with my champagne glass, I’m interrupted by my intoxicated +1 which confirmed that it was indeed a new year in case I was wondering. I was wondering about a lot of things actually, mainly our food situation. But looking back up into the sky, I got some nervous chills and hoped that the new year wouldn’t be a repeat.   March of 2008, Emergency Room, Spring Valley Hospital / Medical Center   After the doctor reviewed my cat-scan results, I had just woken up. Somehow my person was moved from an ER bed to one of these big medical chairs while I was sedated. That was probably the most confusing part of my wake. Also the doctor was a different doctor than before and he was telling me that the scan found a questionable mass inside my brain and an MRI had been ordered. The talk between the doctor and I was very brief before they wheeled me up to a hospital room. After our chat, I would have one of the most surreal conversations I’ve ever had with myself. I thought about my brother and parents, some friends, mostly crushes that did or didn’t work out, thought about a couple different places around the world I had lived, my childhood, and then I wondered about how much time I had left. I was 23 years old. I was fortunate enough to have experienced quite a lot in a short amount of time. I was okay with dying if that’s next on life’s itinerary. ‘This isn’t a dream. I’m okay with this, no need to panic.’ And I didn’t. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the medicine, but I was okay with accepting my death.    I was currently suffering head trauma. A steep increase in intracranial pressure. I was dehydrated, my fluids were low, my pulse was high, and just about everything else that could go wrong did. I was in excruciating pain as my body was fighting to stay afloat. My blood cells were sucking up every inch of water it could find to replace the damaged cells in order to re-establish stability. I imagine them screaming, “this is what we live for, all units go go go!”  They were getting some much needed back-up support. As the fluids were flowing through the I/V in my hand I could feel the tingles of medicine and hydration flowing back into my body all the way into my toes. When I was little, I used to like to imagine those I/V bags were just extra guts. The nurse would have to stop by and help me get up to use the restroom. I was so weak I could feel the needle move in my hand as the nurse pushed my hanger of I/V bags towards the restroom. An older lady had the same idea as we met in front of the restroom at the same time with her hanger of bags. We smiled and I motioned her to go first.   Meanwhile I’m back in my big medical chair periodically getting checked by the nurse. Much time passes while I’m still waiting to be wheeled up to my room. I have to head to the restroom once again. But this time, I’ll take my hanger of guts and go on my own. Slowly but surely getting there it just happens to be my ER buddy, the older lady. She laughed as I let her go first again. We must of had our I/V bags hooked up at the same time. We were on the same pee schedule. We exchanged smiles again on her way out and she said, “good luck in here.” I felt better, not so much alone anymore. Not alone in the sense that I didn’t have anybody with me, but in the sense that I wasn’t the only one battling something that was determined to give life an unfair fight. After being somewhat settled in the hospital, the first neurosurgeon came by to visit me. He explained that the MRI found a mass. An extra-axil septated lobulated mass in the left perimesencephalic cistern which is producing local mass effect on the midbrain, on the left, including the cerebral peduncle and the thalamus, which translated in English means; life as you know it is going to change, completely.  That was 2008.   My life in a weird unexplainable way didn’t change that much except for the idea that my brain could call it a day whenever it felt like it. I could lay down on a Tuesday night and by Wednesday, life could be gone. My medical team has significantly reduced the risk of this complication but I can’t say I don’t think about it every now and then. However nobody could tell. I was still the same me after I was released from my month and a half of medical captivity. Even though the headaches are tough at times I don’t expect the end credits of this confusing life to start rolling anytime soon. If anything my life is just re-creating the same horror film over and over again with slightly different twists. My means of caring and loving anything greater than I already did seemed like a pointless risk. I already have so much to lose, why add to this?   A text comes in October 7, 2011 3:01 AM, “Happy belated birthday.”   My careless way of living started to change for me. I wasn’t looking to change this well-dressed walking-dead version of me. It just happened. A death occurred in October 2011 and another occurred March of 2012. Unfortunately I’ve dealt with death before. A friend that went back into the water to try and save more lives, a family member, a college roommate and long time best friend, and one of his best friends that I happened to run into nearly 24 hours before his passing. However with these most recent deaths, I couldn’t help but think of the last interactions I had with these two individuals; a long conversation with a cousin about life in LA post college, and small talk about girls with a friend during lunch. Those last moments were the perfect good-byes that I didn’t see coming. Not only was I grieving, my headaches were becoming sharper and more frequent. I started silently worrying that there may be a slight chance I may not make it. For the most part I felt fine, but when the pain struck it was taking days to wear off. I already missed many days of work and was put on intermittent disability. I was diligent with my medical team’s treatment plan, but they wanted to take a closer look inside. A MRI, MRA, and MRV was ordered for re-evaluation. After my exams came back with less than perfect results, the uncertainty of having brain surgery was a week of worry that I’ve tried to forget. The odd thing about this worry, and something life will never tell you, was that I wasn’t as worried about myself as much as I was saddened by other people worrying. I didn’t want to give any one a perfect good-bye. Especially in sake of my family, my friends, strangers that crossed my path, a girl I wasn’t looking for but found myself in awe.   A text comes in October 24, 2012 8:30 AM, “Give me a call when you get off work tonight in the hatch.” On October 24th, I spent the entire day thinking it was the 25th. I even got prepared to go into meetings and was confused when nobody else was going. A week earlier I had a multi-day headache that required a lot of ice packs and on-set medication that made the week feel kind of foggy. I ended up leaving work early. I was at home, sitting on my bed, feeling like I should take a nap, and then it goes blurry. I could see my ceiling fan, but barely, like tunnel vision. My body locked, and then I felt nothing. Certainly not the nap I had planned. I couldn’t move my arms. I wanted to yell, and the last thing I remember thinking was, ‘oh God, oh God.’    I thought it was over. Never in my life was the flash of death so vivid. After coming back to reality, gaining my senses and control back, my heart was beating out of my chest. Fear had my undivided attention. This moment seemed to have happened so fast but the little bit of memories still floating in my mind made it seem like forever.   I walked out the door and started walking towards Whole Foods, a place I often finish my runs at. I must of walked around the parking lot for an hour before even realizing why I went there in the first place? And I didn’t have any money on me, just keys and a phone. I checked my phone, and it seemed like time had jumped. Like I had been left behind. I became confused and worried, and I began to experience the worst panic attack I’ve ever had. I called my emergency contact and told them I’m not well and that I’m walking towards Red Rock. During my walk to no where in particular, I was torn with defeat. ‘God, if this is your plan, if this is your path, you need to take me now. Not later.’ I was upset, but most of all I felt let down, like nothing I ever did up to now even mattered. You name it; health uncertainties, family worries, friendship ties, relationship misses. What kind of ‘everything happens for a reason’ set-up is this anyway? It was too much. It being my life and life turning any ray of light into a dark storm of existence. I was confused and empty. I didn’t see a reason why I should be around to see the next day if this is how things were going to be.   However, one thought I was absolutely clear about was that I wasn’t going to harm myself. Since birth, I’ve battled with severe asthma which continues to be treated. It’s a weird feeling to know that nearly every breath I’ve ever taken has been medically assisted. And now I’m fighting a second war literally inside my head. None of this is genetic, I was just chosen. Almost as if a force was out to take me out from the start. If I’m to be taken out, it won’t be a decision that I’ll ever make. Believe it or not, it wasn’t our decision to be placed here on earth in the first place, so it certainly isn’t our decision to decide when it’s time to go. But one thought I wasn’t so clear about was how long this hurt would last. I’m terrified to find out but as hard as it is to walk in this dark, I’m hopeful that I’ll find my way.   You may feel like you’ve been caught in a heartless trap. You may think your personal world is ending. But so many other human-beings in this world have had unfair starts and hiccups that were way worse. If not for the people that care about you, then you have to do it for them. It being life.   Hold on, pain ends.   Earlier that day I was texting back and forth with an old friend saying we would talk in the evening. When he called me, I had made it to a Home Depot parking lot. I can’t remember much of the rambled conversation, but I know he held on until help had arrived. I was completely out of it. The physical and emotional pain was so intense that I just started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t process what was happening. If you put a reasonable person in an unreasonable situation, going crazy is the most reasonable choice they can make.   I realize after the fact that I didn’t let anyone know I had experienced seizure like symptoms earlier and that I needed to get checked out at some sort of urgent care. This was maybe the second questionable seizure that had occurred within two weeks. Subconsciously, I don’t think I wanted to spend another night in the ER.   “In all this you greatly rejoice though now, for a little while, you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.”   Have I deserved the right to question this? Or maybe this hurt is a gift that hasn’t been opened yet. The next day I had an immediate follow up with my neurologist. Blood tests were ordered, not an EEG which still bothers me, but was later ordered. I waited a week to get my blood results. The doctor said, my vitamin D is very low, paused, and then said my white blood cell count is very low. Not to worry, but to follow up with my primary doctor as soon as possible. I looked at the paper with my test results and besides my concern with how I have low vitamin D per my love of cereal, my white blood cells were outlined, in bold, “Out of Range”. My insides had declared war, and this time my outside was more vulnerable than ever.   Honestly I’m afraid of this fight. Not the fight itself, but what this fight would mean to the people in my life. I was resilient for the most part, but I knew what illness and mortality had done to me this year. I didn’t want to put that feeling on anyone else I loved and cared about. I knew that they would go through a process that I’ll never understand as they’ll never understand the process I’m going through. And for the first time in years I didn’t want to lose a person that was my only escape from my anxiety storms, hopeless nights, and long foggy days, yet I couldn’t show it.   When you’re miserable on the inside thinking of all the dark in your life, a ray of light that somehow finds its way into your dark is nearly the same feeling a patient gets when stepping outside the hospital walls into the sunlight for the first time. Or putting on warm socks straight from the dryer on cold days. If that light begins to flicker, it almost feels like a form of self-abuse to try and keep it glowing. But it’s inevitable, like breathing oxygen or knowing one day you’ll die, you’ll fall for someone. Like breathing, this will happen multiple times over the course of life, but like dying, each time you fall it’ll feel like it only needs to happen once. This person became an amalgamation of all the good life had ever brought me and just being around them made all the bad seem like a blurry dream. However I knew I had to pronounce the word ‘casual’ with an emphasis on the ‘complicated.’   Given your circumstances, feelings and emotions will seem intensified in a somewhat peculiar way and they couldn’t feel or be any truer. You’ll fight it, convince yourself that they’ll be happier without your dark, and you’ll be okay with this, but not for very long. You’ll become addicted to these rays of light they give off. They’ll be your crutch, but they’ll also be your deepest wound. Having them worry and go is the absolute last thing that you want. But when I found myself alone, my imagination did most of the talking.   I became emotionally conflicted. ‘Was I in denial? Did I ever think this would work out? Would this emotion ever play out like it does in my head? Why would anyone want to stick around to watch me battle this illness, this life? Why would I let anyone stick around to eventually get hurt even if they did care? When the pin gets taken out of the grenade I embody, are they going to stick the pin back in everytime? Or will they just become a grenade jumper, eventually broken up into tiny pieces.’ “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, it’s not going to get better. It’s not.” Maybe this brutal honesty from Dr. Seuss and the Lorax is what I needed to hear. And maybe this dark wouldn’t be so unbearable if their light wasn’t so blinding.   Am I making the right mistake? I’ve come to terms that I’ll never understand these moments when you need your fix of light. It’s a heartbreaking feeling to know it in your mind to keep looking forward but realizing the reality of never having control. But I like to see it as a beautiful rage that we all share in one way or another. Much like the moon, we borrow our light. It’s never ours permanently. You just hope that this warmth of light keeps coming back around. A text comes in November 14, 2012 11:15 PM, “Let down and given up are two different feelings. Fighting the good fight is waring. And every human spirit is tested. Days like today are your toughest on the spirit. When your hope jar is feeling low, know that mine is full for you to dip into.”   During this time of dark, which in a lot of ways I’m very much still in, I relied heavily on a combination of things; friend’s texts, a group of ladies that heard what was going on and selflessly got together to cook me brain healthy meals to ensure I was eating right, seeing Wreck-It Ralph twice, a sense of faith and hope, frosted mini wheats, Mark Leggett’s tweets, my iPod, writing this, and constantly freaking out my family.   My iPod played a big part in helping me cope with my thoughts. Mainly through the voices of Death Cab for Cutie, Paper Route, and The Weeknd. Much of this piece was influenced not only by the dark and light moments of my life, but also by “Bixby Canyon Bridge” by Death Cab for Cutie. Often I don’t like knowing the true meaning or background to a song. I like to interpret a song’s meaning on my own terms. Ben Gibbard mentioned that when he wrote the album for Narrow Stairs he was at the lowest point in his life. For this song, I believe he was writing about purgatory. Not only is the narrator somebody who has recently died, they are searching for someone that has died before them. The “see you on the other side” or “you are very missed, but we’ll see each other again one day” is the testament of faith that this individual is questioning.    On October 25th, the day after my confused Whole Foods/Home Depot visit, sitting in the doctor’s office feeling completely numb from medicine, getting my vitals read by the neurologist’s clinical nurse, I thought for a split second, ‘the last 12 hours were pretty intense, maybe I had already passed.’ And then a split second after that, I agreed with myself that this isn’t ABC’s long-lived television series “LOST” as the nurse re-assured me that I was alive and somewhat well by saying my pulse was rapid. Often I think about that very first ER visit. How empty I felt. How just after I had accepted my death, I was greeted by this older lady on the same pee schedule as me. Throughout the years she occasionally floats in and out of my thoughts. Her image of what she looks like is slowly fading away in my mind, but that moment is glued to my memory. I often wonder if she’s alive and well, or if her journey on earth ended the day we met or shortly after. I think if we ever do get to meet back up with those that have passed before us, I would want to see family, friends, and I’d want to find her. And maybe just say, thank you, because she gave me the first of many perfect hellos that I didn’t see coming. Over the years, these perfect hellos that I get from friends, family, and even some strangers, continue to breathe life back into me.   A text comes in November 20, 2012 10:46 PM, “Writing definitely does something to the psyche that is inexplicable. My emotional well being is usually steady regardless of the crap as long as I’m feeling somewhat prolific. Safe travels friend.” I sort of envy my friends that can escape from their dark by turning it into music, or training for two marathons, or going back to grad school for yet another master’s, or by baking chocolate chip banana bread. I sat down with three different specialists which all said that I have been suffering from a form of PTSD. Especially after the robbery this year, but that’s a whole other story. They advised that naturally the intensity of my dark will be lightened with time. And what helps with this is by finding an escape.   I’m now 28 and I’m still trying to figure out a level of mentality where both light and dark can exist together. It was a no-brainer, that my escape came from having great moments with the people in my life during this dark time. But often I found myself shying away from them as I didn’t want to always seem like a Debbie Downer and/or Desperate Debbie even though I knew that they would always want to be there for me. Much uncomfortably and worry went into writing this. But writing certainly helped me get past some restless nights with the hope that by sharing these experiences, it may help someone else cope with a dark area in their life. These hard-ships may not make sense to me now, but later, I hope I can turn them into someone else’s life-boat.   This pen has been a perfect escape but I hope the ink runs out soon. My backup escape plan is going back to where it all started. After my white blood cell count returned to steady levels, the hospital has allowed me to help out in a place where extra guts are just a way of life; the Emergency Room.   On January 3, 2013, my first assignment at the hospital was to help discharge a New Year’s Day baby. As the father was running around the hospital room gathering their belongings and the mother sat in a wheelchair with a look of exhaustion and joy on her face, I realized that their newborn was about to take his first real breath of fresh air. In the moment, I couldn’t help but think, ‘this hello was maybe the best.’   As Larry David would say, having said that; please remember, my phone is on, my door is open, sometimes with blunt force, but I am always there for you. If I can help at least one person that’s fighting all alone within a dark storm, I’ll do everything in my willpower to try and help them escape. Because not only have I been in the same storm, I haven’t left.

Happiness is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.

 ―  F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

Accidentally got “honey almond” cereal instead of “forest berries”. Now I’m wondering what other delights does life have in store for me?

―  Mark Leggett

 

A text comes in October 22, 2012 7:00 PM, “Something that took me a long time to realize is that just telling the truth is literally, always the best idea. I never lied but I found myself sugar coating things in a lot of situations. People tend to surprise you. They react better than I typically give them credit for.”

 

New Year’s Eve 2011, 11:59 PM

 

It’s about 10 seconds before the New Year. I’m standing alongside the Boulevard Pool of the Cosmopolitan, looking up into a black sky awaiting fireworks, and thinking, ‘this year was maybe my worst.’ Before I could toast the exploding sky with my champagne glass, I’m interrupted by my intoxicated +1 which confirmed that it was indeed a new year in case I was wondering. I was wondering about a lot of things actually, mainly our food situation. But looking back up into the sky, I got some nervous chills and hoped that the new year wouldn’t be a repeat.

 

March of 2008, Emergency Room, Spring Valley Hospital / Medical Center

 

After the doctor reviewed my cat-scan results, I had just woken up. Somehow my person was moved from an ER bed to one of these big medical chairs while I was sedated. That was probably the most confusing part of my wake. Also the doctor was a different doctor than before and he was telling me that the scan found a questionable mass inside my brain and an MRI had been ordered. The talk between the doctor and I was very brief before they wheeled me up to a hospital room. After our chat, I would have one of the most surreal conversations I’ve ever had with myself. I thought about my brother and parents, some friends, mostly crushes that did or didn’t work out, thought about a couple different places around the world I had lived, my childhood, and then I wondered about how much time I had left. I was 23 years old. I was fortunate enough to have experienced quite a lot in a short amount of time. I was okay with dying if that’s next on life’s itinerary. ‘This isn’t a dream. I’m okay with this, no need to panic.’ And I didn’t. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the medicine, but I was okay with accepting my death. 

 

I was currently suffering head trauma. A steep increase in intracranial pressure. I was dehydrated, my fluids were low, my pulse was high, and just about everything else that could go wrong did. I was in excruciating pain as my body was fighting to stay afloat. My blood cells were sucking up every inch of water it could find to replace the damaged cells in order to re-establish stability. I imagine them screaming, “this is what we live for, all units go go go!” 


They were getting some much needed back-up support. As the fluids were flowing through the I/V in my hand I could feel the tingles of medicine and hydration flowing back into my body all the way into my toes. When I was little, I used to like to imagine those I/V bags were just extra guts. The nurse would have to stop by and help me get up to use the restroom. I was so weak I could feel the needle move in my hand as the nurse pushed my hanger of I/V bags towards the restroom. An older lady had the same idea as we met in front of the restroom at the same time with her hanger of bags. We smiled and I motioned her to go first.

 

Meanwhile I’m back in my big medical chair periodically getting checked by the nurse. Much time passes while I’m still waiting to be wheeled up to my room. I have to head to the restroom once again. But this time, I’ll take my hanger of guts and go on my own. Slowly but surely getting there it just happens to be my ER buddy, the older lady. She laughed as I let her go first again. We must of had our I/V bags hooked up at the same time. We were on the same pee schedule. We exchanged smiles again on her way out and she said, “good luck in here.” I felt better, not so much alone anymore. Not alone in the sense that I didn’t have anybody with me, but in the sense that I wasn’t the only one battling something that was determined to give life an unfair fight.


After being somewhat settled in the hospital, the first neurosurgeon came by to visit me. He explained that the MRI found a mass. An extra-axil septated lobulated mass in the left perimesencephalic cistern which is producing local mass effect on the midbrain, on the left, including the cerebral peduncle and the thalamus, which translated in English means; life as you know it is going to change, completely. 


That was 2008.

 

My life in a weird unexplainable way didn’t change that much except for the idea that my brain could call it a day whenever it felt like it. I could lay down on a Tuesday night and by Wednesday, life could be gone. My medical team has significantly reduced the risk of this complication but I can’t say I don’t think about it every now and then. However nobody could tell. I was still the same me after I was released from my month and a half of medical captivity. Even though the headaches are tough at times I don’t expect the end credits of this confusing life to start rolling anytime soon. If anything my life is just re-creating the same horror film over and over again with slightly different twists. My means of caring and loving anything greater than I already did seemed like a pointless risk. I already have so much to lose, why add to this?

 

A text comes in October 7, 2011 3:01 AM, “Happy belated birthday.”

 

My careless way of living started to change for me. I wasn’t looking to change this well-dressed walking-dead version of me. It just happened. A death occurred in October 2011 and another occurred March of 2012. Unfortunately I’ve dealt with death before. A friend that went back into the water to try and save more lives, a family member, a college roommate and long time best friend, and one of his best friends that I happened to run into nearly 24 hours before his passing. However with these most recent deaths, I couldn’t help but think of the last interactions I had with these two individuals; a long conversation with a cousin about life in LA post college, and small talk about girls with a friend during lunch. Those last moments were the perfect good-byes that I didn’t see coming.


Not only was I grieving, my headaches were becoming sharper and more frequent. I started silently worrying that there may be a slight chance I may not make it. For the most part I felt fine, but when the pain struck it was taking days to wear off. I already missed many days of work and was put on intermittent disability. I was diligent with my medical team’s treatment plan, but they wanted to take a closer look inside. A MRI, MRA, and MRV was ordered for re-evaluation. After my exams came back with less than perfect results, the uncertainty of having brain surgery was a week of worry that I’ve tried to forget. The odd thing about this worry, and something life will never tell you, was that I wasn’t as worried about myself as much as I was saddened by other people worrying. I didn’t want to give any one a perfect good-bye. Especially in sake of my family, my friends, strangers that crossed my path, a girl I wasn’t looking for but found myself in awe.

 

A text comes in October 24, 2012 8:30 AM, “Give me a call when you get off work tonight in the hatch.”


On October 24th, I spent the entire day thinking it was the 25th. I even got prepared to go into meetings and was confused when nobody else was going. A week earlier I had a multi-day headache that required a lot of ice packs and on-set medication that made the week feel kind of foggy. I ended up leaving work early. I was at home, sitting on my bed, feeling like I should take a nap, and then it goes blurry. I could see my ceiling fan, but barely, like tunnel vision. My body locked, and then I felt nothing. Certainly not the nap I had planned. I couldn’t move my arms. I wanted to yell, and the last thing I remember thinking was, ‘oh God, oh God.’ 

 

I thought it was over. Never in my life was the flash of death so vivid. After coming back to reality, gaining my senses and control back, my heart was beating out of my chest. Fear had my undivided attention. This moment seemed to have happened so fast but the little bit of memories still floating in my mind made it seem like forever.

 

I walked out the door and started walking towards Whole Foods, a place I often finish my runs at. I must of walked around the parking lot for an hour before even realizing why I went there in the first place? And I didn’t have any money on me, just keys and a phone. I checked my phone, and it seemed like time had jumped. Like I had been left behind. I became confused and worried, and I began to experience the worst panic attack I’ve ever had. I called my emergency contact and told them I’m not well and that I’m walking towards Red Rock.


During my walk to no where in particular, I was torn with defeat. ‘God, if this is your plan, if this is your path, you need to take me now. Not later.’ I was upset, but most of all I felt let down, like nothing I ever did up to now even mattered. You name it; health uncertainties, family worries, friendship ties, relationship misses. What kind of ‘everything happens for a reason’ set-up is this anyway? It was too much. It being my life and life turning any ray of light into a dark storm of existence. I was confused and empty. I didn’t see a reason why I should be around to see the next day if this is how things were going to be.

 

However, one thought I was absolutely clear about was that I wasn’t going to harm myself. Since birth, I’ve battled with severe asthma which continues to be treated. It’s a weird feeling to know that nearly every breath I’ve ever taken has been medically assisted. And now I’m fighting a second war literally inside my head. None of this is genetic, I was just chosen. Almost as if a force was out to take me out from the start. If I’m to be taken out, it won’t be a decision that I’ll ever make. Believe it or not, it wasn’t our decision to be placed here on earth in the first place, so it certainly isn’t our decision to decide when it’s time to go. But one thought I wasn’t so clear about was how long this hurt would last. I’m terrified to find out but as hard as it is to walk in this dark, I’m hopeful that I’ll find my way.

 

You may feel like you’ve been caught in a heartless trap. You may think your personal world is ending. But so many other human-beings in this world have had unfair starts and hiccups that were way worse. If not for the people that care about you, then you have to do it for them. It being life.

 

Hold on, pain ends.

 

Earlier that day I was texting back and forth with an old friend saying we would talk in the evening. When he called me, I had made it to a Home Depot parking lot. I can’t remember much of the rambled conversation, but I know he held on until help had arrived. I was completely out of it. The physical and emotional pain was so intense that I just started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t process what was happening. If you put a reasonable person in an unreasonable situation, going crazy is the most reasonable choice they can make.

 

I realize after the fact that I didn’t let anyone know I had experienced seizure like symptoms earlier and that I needed to get checked out at some sort of urgent care. This was maybe the second questionable seizure that had occurred within two weeks. Subconsciously, I don’t think I wanted to spend another night in the ER.

 

“In all this you greatly rejoice though now, for a little while, you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.”

 

Have I deserved the right to question this? Or maybe this hurt is a gift that hasn’t been opened yet.


The next day I had an immediate follow up with my neurologist. Blood tests were ordered, not an EEG which still bothers me, but was later ordered. I waited a week to get my blood results. The doctor said, my vitamin D is very low, paused, and then said my white blood cell count is very low. Not to worry, but to follow up with my primary doctor as soon as possible. I looked at the paper with my test results and besides my concern with how I have low vitamin D per my love of cereal, my white blood cells were outlined, in bold, “Out of Range”. My insides had declared war, and this time my outside was more vulnerable than ever.

 

Honestly I’m afraid of this fight. Not the fight itself, but what this fight would mean to the people in my life. I was resilient for the most part, but I knew what illness and mortality had done to me this year. I didn’t want to put that feeling on anyone else I loved and cared about. I knew that they would go through a process that I’ll never understand as they’ll never understand the process I’m going through. And for the first time in years I didn’t want to lose a person that was my only escape from my anxiety storms, hopeless nights, and long foggy days, yet I couldn’t show it.

 

When you’re miserable on the inside thinking of all the dark in your life, a ray of light that somehow finds its way into your dark is nearly the same feeling a patient gets when stepping outside the hospital walls into the sunlight for the first time. Or putting on warm socks straight from the dryer on cold days. If that light begins to flicker, it almost feels like a form of self-abuse to try and keep it glowing. But it’s inevitable, like breathing oxygen or knowing one day you’ll die, you’ll fall for someone. Like breathing, this will happen multiple times over the course of life, but like dying, each time you fall it’ll feel like it only needs to happen once. This person became an amalgamation of all the good life had ever brought me and just being around them made all the bad seem like a blurry dream. However I knew I had to pronounce the word ‘casual’ with an emphasis on the ‘complicated.’

 

Given your circumstances, feelings and emotions will seem intensified in a somewhat peculiar way and they couldn’t feel or be any truer. You’ll fight it, convince yourself that they’ll be happier without your dark, and you’ll be okay with this, but not for very long. You’ll become addicted to these rays of light they give off. They’ll be your crutch, but they’ll also be your deepest wound. Having them worry and go is the absolute last thing that you want. But when I found myself alone, my imagination did most of the talking.

 

I became emotionally conflicted. ‘Was I in denial? Did I ever think this would work out? Would this emotion ever play out like it does in my head? Why would anyone want to stick around to watch me battle this illness, this life? Why would I let anyone stick around to eventually get hurt even if they did care? When the pin gets taken out of the grenade I embody, are they going to stick the pin back in everytime? Or will they just become a grenade jumper, eventually broken up into tiny pieces.’ “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, it’s not going to get better. It’s not.” Maybe this brutal honesty from Dr. Seuss and the Lorax is what I needed to hear. And maybe this dark wouldn’t be so unbearable if their light wasn’t so blinding.

 

Am I making the right mistake?



I’ve come to terms that I’ll never understand these moments when you need your fix of light. It’s a heartbreaking feeling to know it in your mind to keep looking forward but realizing the reality of never having control. But I like to see it as a beautiful rage that we all share in one way or another. Much like the moon, we borrow our light. It’s never ours permanently. You just hope that this warmth of light keeps coming back around.


A text comes in November 14, 2012 11:15 PM, “Let down and given up are two different feelings. Fighting the good fight is waring. And every human spirit is tested. Days like today are your toughest on the spirit. When your hope jar is feeling low, know that mine is full for you to dip into.”

 

During this time of dark, which in a lot of ways I’m very much still in, I relied heavily on a combination of things; friend’s texts, a group of ladies that heard what was going on and selflessly got together to cook me brain healthy meals to ensure I was eating right, seeing Wreck-It Ralph twice, a sense of faith and hope, frosted mini wheats, Mark Leggett’s tweets, my iPod, writing this, and constantly freaking out my family.

 

My iPod played a big part in helping me cope with my thoughts. Mainly through the voices of Death Cab for Cutie, Paper Route, and The Weeknd. Much of this piece was influenced not only by the dark and light moments of my life, but also by “Bixby Canyon Bridge” by Death Cab for Cutie. Often I don’t like knowing the true meaning or background to a song. I like to interpret a song’s meaning on my own terms. Ben Gibbard mentioned that when he wrote the album for Narrow Stairs he was at the lowest point in his life. For this song, I believe he was writing about purgatory. Not only is the narrator somebody who has recently died, they are searching for someone that has died before them. The “see you on the other side” or “you are very missed, but we’ll see each other again one day” is the testament of faith that this individual is questioning. 

 

On October 25th, the day after my confused Whole Foods/Home Depot visit, sitting in the doctor’s office feeling completely numb from medicine, getting my vitals read by the neurologist’s clinical nurse, I thought for a split second, ‘the last 12 hours were pretty intense, maybe I had already passed.’ And then a split second after that, I agreed with myself that this isn’t ABC’s long-lived television series “LOST” as the nurse re-assured me that I was alive and somewhat well by saying my pulse was rapid.

Often I think about that very first ER visit. How empty I felt. How just after I had accepted my death, I was greeted by this older lady on the same pee schedule as me. Throughout the years she occasionally floats in and out of my thoughts. Her image of what she looks like is slowly fading away in my mind, but that moment is glued to my memory. I often wonder if she’s alive and well, or if her journey on earth ended the day we met or shortly after. I think if we ever do get to meet back up with those that have passed before us, I would want to see family, friends, and I’d want to find her. And maybe just say, thank you, because she gave me the first of many perfect hellos that I didn’t see coming. Over the years, these perfect hellos that I get from friends, family, and even some strangers, continue to breathe life back into me.

 

A text comes in November 20, 2012 10:46 PM, “Writing definitely does something to the psyche that is inexplicable. My emotional well being is usually steady regardless of the crap as long as I’m feeling somewhat prolific. Safe travels friend.”



I sort of envy my friends that can escape from their dark by turning it into music, or training for two marathons, or going back to grad school for yet another master’s, or by baking chocolate chip banana bread. I sat down with three different specialists which all said that I have been suffering from a form of PTSD. Especially after the robbery this year, but that’s a whole other story. They advised that naturally the intensity of my dark will be lightened with time. And what helps with this is by finding an escape.

 

I’m now 28 and I’m still trying to figure out a level of mentality where both light and dark can exist together. It was a no-brainer, that my escape came from having great moments with the people in my life during this dark time. But often I found myself shying away from them as I didn’t want to always seem like a Debbie Downer and/or Desperate Debbie even though I knew that they would always want to be there for me. Much uncomfortably and worry went into writing this. But writing certainly helped me get past some restless nights with the hope that by sharing these experiences, it may help someone else cope with a dark area in their life. These hard-ships may not make sense to me now, but later, I hope I can turn them into someone else’s life-boat.

 

This pen has been a perfect escape but I hope the ink runs out soon. My backup escape plan is going back to where it all started. After my white blood cell count returned to steady levels, the hospital has allowed me to help out in a place where extra guts are just a way of life; the Emergency Room.

 

On January 3, 2013, my first assignment at the hospital was to help discharge a New Year’s Day baby. As the father was running around the hospital room gathering their belongings and the mother sat in a wheelchair with a look of exhaustion and joy on her face, I realized that their newborn was about to take his first real breath of fresh air. In the moment, I couldn’t help but think, ‘this hello was maybe the best.’

 

As Larry David would say, having said that; please remember, my phone is on, my door is open, sometimes with blunt force, but I am always there for you. If I can help at least one person that’s fighting all alone within a dark storm, I’ll do everything in my willpower to try and help them escape. Because not only have I been in the same storm, I haven’t left.

5 months ago  1 note View high resolution

SU2C

Sometime this year, donate, volunteer, or send a warm thought to your local hospital, or to the link below… https://secure.standup2cancer.org/custom/?c=donate It’ll be the best birthday gift for someone.

7 months ago 

Second Chances

Within a year I lost two beyond awesome people in my life. I spoke to both mothers last week and heard the most amazing news; one is in the process to help adopt a baby girl with health issues, the other decided to change her career completely and is now in school to become an RN. 

I wrote earlier this year, “when tragedies like these occur, it almost makes you want to discredit the belief that everything happens for a reason. Sure eggs need to be broken to make an omelet, but some of us don’t want an omelet, some of us are just fine with cereal.” 

You know what, I think I’ll take that omelet this time. Strangely beautiful how one’s tragedy can become one’s second chance.

7 months ago  1 note

Soundtrack for BummertownLet’s start with our word of the day, hippocampus. The hippocampus is the part of the brain that is involved in memory forming, organizing, and storing. It is a limbic system structure that is particularly important in forming new memories and connecting emotions and senses, such as smell and sound, to memories.If you’ve been brave/bored enough to follow my activity on the social networks throughout the years, you may notice that I talk about some band from Nashville, TN named Paper Route nearly everytime it rains. Luckily for you, I happen live in a desert and not Seattle. So what’s my deal with Paper Route and rain?On one unseasonably gloomy weekend, I picked up a stack of albums to find some new sounds. Within this stack was Paper Route’s debut album “Absence”. The only reason why this album was included in the stack was because of a song called “Carousel”.“Carousel” sounds like an musical score of some sci-fi thriller that I’d probably end up seeing by myself. But a lot of things stuck out about this song; It’s use of both drum machines and live drums, the depressing hooks, and most of all, the two second use of side-chain compression. For me, pretty much all dubstep sounds like an angry acid-trip lecture from Charlie Brown’s teacher, but this time, for two seconds, it sounded right.I gave the album to my roommate to check out before I listened to any other songs off the album. His review of the album came out something like: “Chuck! Chuck, it’s Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Berry! You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well listen to this!”So let’s go back to the fundamentals. Most people when they hear a song for the first time, they listen to it the same way a hip-hop artist typically approaches a track by zoning in on the beat first, hook second. For “Absence” it took a few spins for me to get past the amazing electro-pop-soundtrackish production to get a grip on what they are actually singing about. I noticed that not only was this band singing about heartache, they were also including abstracts of religious faith throughout the album (further reading: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/culture/music/features/18493-paper-route-delivers).At this point in my Paper Route  obsession career, “Wish” might be the track that means the most to me. In a recent interview, lead singer J.T. Daly explained how upon the follow-up of their debut, “Life got really heavy, really fast.” (further reading: http://relm.ag/Nv87lm)Personally, this year has had some barely above sea-level Ups, and some black-diamond steep Downs. From health, mortality, relationships, robbery, to spending thousands of dollars on said health, it’s been a hell of a year. I’ve heard from so many great human-beings in my life that are all thinking and praying for these days to level out and it’s meant a lot.When you get to a certain depth of darkness, prayers start to come out like wishes, and desperation for those wishes to come to fruition can cause an emotional rage that I wouldn’t wish upon anybody. Paper Route does something in their song “Wish” that practically all artist try to re-create. They pieced together a song that not only tells you how it happened, but tells you how it felt.I’ve been using Paper Route’s music as my escapism medication since 2009. Today they share a release date for their follow-up album “The Peace of Wild Things” with the electro likes of The xx, and the religious folk tales of The Avett Brothers. It was hard to get around to all the amazing albums released today because my hippocampus just happened to notice, it was raining today.Paper Route on Spotify:http://open.spotify.com/user/adamtaj/playlist/4lUk9kab3nrzsolUtfZsB2

Soundtrack for Bummertown

Let’s start with our word of the day, hippocampus. The hippocampus is the part of the brain that is involved in memory forming, organizing, and storing. It is a limbic system structure that is particularly important in forming new memories and connecting emotions and senses, such as smell and sound, to memories.

If you’ve been brave/bored enough to follow my activity on the social networks throughout the years, you may notice that I talk about some band from Nashville, TN named Paper Route nearly everytime it rains. Luckily for you, I happen live in a desert and not Seattle. So what’s my deal with Paper Route and rain?

On one unseasonably gloomy weekend, I picked up a stack of albums to find some new sounds. Within this stack was Paper Route’s debut album “Absence”. The only reason why this album was included in the stack was because of a song called “Carousel”.

“Carousel” sounds like an musical score of some sci-fi thriller that I’d probably end up seeing by myself. But a lot of things stuck out about this song; It’s use of both drum machines and live drums, the depressing hooks, and most of all, the two second use of side-chain compression. For me, pretty much all dubstep sounds like an angry acid-trip lecture from Charlie Brown’s teacher, but this time, for two seconds, it sounded right.

I gave the album to my roommate to check out before I listened to any other songs off the album. His review of the album came out something like: “Chuck! Chuck, it’s Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Berry! You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well listen to this!”

So let’s go back to the fundamentals. Most people when they hear a song for the first time, they listen to it the same way a hip-hop artist typically approaches a track by zoning in on the beat first, hook second. For “Absence” it took a few spins for me to get past the amazing electro-pop-soundtrackish production to get a grip on what they are actually singing about. I noticed that not only was this band singing about heartache, they were also including abstracts of religious faith throughout the album (further reading: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/culture/music/features/18493-paper-route-delivers).

At this point in my Paper Route  obsession career, “Wish” might be the track that means the most to me. In a recent interview, lead singer J.T. Daly explained how upon the follow-up of their debut, “Life got really heavy, really fast.” (further reading: http://relm.ag/Nv87lm)

Personally, this year has had some barely above sea-level Ups, and some black-diamond steep Downs. From health, mortality, relationships, robbery, to spending thousands of dollars on said health, it’s been a hell of a year. I’ve heard from so many great human-beings in my life that are all thinking and praying for these days to level out and it’s meant a lot.

When you get to a certain depth of darkness, prayers start to come out like wishes, and desperation for those wishes to come to fruition can cause an emotional rage that I wouldn’t wish upon anybody. Paper Route does something in their song “Wish” that practically all artist try to re-create. They pieced together a song that not only tells you how it happened, but tells you how it felt.

I’ve been using Paper Route’s music as my escapism medication since 2009. Today they share a release date for their follow-up album “The Peace of Wild Things” with the electro likes of The xx, and the religious folk tales of The Avett Brothers. It was hard to get around to all the amazing albums released today because my hippocampus just happened to notice, it was raining today.

Paper Route on Spotify:
http://open.spotify.com/user/adamtaj/playlist/4lUk9kab3nrzsolUtfZsB2

8 months ago  View high resolution

seahorsesmusic:

Here is the track for all you Tumblers.  It’s called “Like a Glass”.  I wrote this back in 2009 after waking from a nightmare.  The song was completely written and recorded within an hour … all one takes.  Probably the fastest and most careless I’ve ever been regarding the process, but it’s still one of my favorite recordings.  So I dug it out.

Hope you enjoy it.  Share it if you do.  And I’ll keep posting new/old songs that are littering my hard drives.

Justin

8 months ago  28 notes

TheWeeknd - KISS LAND

olemasonjar: Details #OLEMASONJAR #menswear #hangtags #vintage

olemasonjar:

Details #OLEMASONJAR #menswear #hangtags #vintage

http://www.olemasonjar.com/blogs/blog OLE MASON JAR One City / One Summer Tour coming soon.

http://www.olemasonjar.com/blogs/blog OLE MASON JAR One City / One Summer Tour coming soon.

a stopping point. first an update on my health: on a scale from poor to great i’m moving from okay to good. but sometimes it slips back to okay for a good while. i’m on a swarm of brain and anxiety medication which i’m not a big fan of but i’m slowly getting used to them.  thanks to some friends of mine that call themselves team taj i’m back to a decent weight. in december i was around 133 lbs and the last time i was weighed i was at 157 lbs. still need to add more, but whoa. okay secondly i want to explain what these “twenty-trauma” stories are for. last year was pretty intense. i may have wrote about a minor emotional breakdown and shared it with you guys. the outreach was great. i was even asked to give a speech about it at first friday. after the speech, i decided to e-mail my breakdown story to twloha (to write love on her arms). when i gave the speech, the audience was mostly high schoolers. and the backbone of the story is from a song so i thought it would be a good fit for twloha. i didn’t hear from them for a long time and kinda just assumed that was that. then i heard from them and was overwhelmed by the huge response they gave me. their e-mail was almost as long as the story i sent them. they really wanted to use it. but some time had passed and some things had changed. the story was written in a very weird way. not only was i tremendously heartbroken and sick and writing out of desperation of hope, i was first telling all this stuff to a few of my friends via text messages. the first thing i wrote was all the failed relationship stuff and what my perspective of that person was in a time of need. i just moved the text messages to the note pad on my phone and wrote off that. even though the relationship parts was focused all on one girl; the words were also an amalgamation of past relationships or moments. i read once, “character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you.” the idea behind the “twenty-trauma” stories is to take these big traumatic moments that happened in my life and how i interacted with someone that was either in my past life or present life. so i decided, why not turn my friends into characters and connect them to the original story. when twloha wanted to use the breakdown story i had mixed feelings about the relationship parts. i knew i couldn’t revise it and take them out because if you ask me what causes me the most anxiety it isn’t any of the brain doctors, surgeons, lab results, etc. it’s mostly re-playing things i’ve could of done differently. that’s a form of self-harm people rarely talk about. and it’s not very good for me right now.  lately i’ve been feeling like shit about it and after a nice little panic attack last weekend (first one in since janurary) i decided i’m going to take a hiatus from it all for a little while. maybe when i feel better about it we’ll revisit this. the writing may get worse, but i’m willing to make that trade. i know it seems like a selfish move because i’ve possibly been put in a position to help others which is the reason why all this was done in the first place, but i think i should find the exits first before i give a guided tour through hell. below are two things from twloha’s e-mails that i thought i’d share in case you needed a little pick me up. Most people will never know or understand what you’ve gone through which can make it even harder to recover because sometimes you might feel alone in your fight. Always keep pushing through whatever may come. Your life matters. You matter. Believe that. Remember it. You deserve to live a life that you love.    Twenty-Trauma: Intro Twenty-Trauma: I Twenty-Trauma: II

a stopping point.

first an update on my health: on a scale from poor to great i’m moving from okay to good. but sometimes it slips back to okay for a good while. i’m on a swarm of brain and anxiety medication which i’m not a big fan of but i’m slowly getting used to them. 

thanks to some friends of mine that call themselves team taj i’m back to a decent weight. in december i was around 133 lbs and the last time i was weighed i was at 157 lbs. still need to add more, but whoa.

okay secondly i want to explain what these “twenty-trauma” stories are for. last year was pretty intense. i may have wrote about a minor emotional breakdown and shared it with you guys. the outreach was great. i was even asked to give a speech about it at first friday. after the speech, i decided to e-mail my breakdown story to twloha (to write love on her arms). when i gave the speech, the audience was mostly high schoolers. and the backbone of the story is from a song so i thought it would be a good fit for twloha.

i didn’t hear from them for a long time and kinda just assumed that was that. then i heard from them and was overwhelmed by the huge response they gave me. their e-mail was almost as long as the story i sent them. they really wanted to use it. but some time had passed and some things had changed.

the story was written in a very weird way. not only was i tremendously heartbroken and sick and writing out of desperation of hope, i was first telling all this stuff to a few of my friends via text messages. the first thing i wrote was all the failed relationship stuff and what my perspective of that person was in a time of need. i just moved the text messages to the note pad on my phone and wrote off that.

even though the relationship parts was focused all on one girl; the words were also an amalgamation of past relationships or moments. i read once, “character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you.”

the idea behind the “twenty-trauma” stories is to take these big traumatic moments that happened in my life and how i interacted with someone that was either in my past life or present life. so i decided, why not turn my friends into characters and connect them to the original story.

when twloha wanted to use the breakdown story i had mixed feelings about the relationship parts. i knew i couldn’t revise it and take them out because if you ask me what causes me the most anxiety it isn’t any of the brain doctors, surgeons, lab results, etc. it’s mostly re-playing things i’ve could of done differently. that’s a form of self-harm people rarely talk about. and it’s not very good for me right now. 

lately i’ve been feeling like shit about it and after a nice little panic attack last weekend (first one in since janurary) i decided i’m going to take a hiatus from it all for a little while. maybe when i feel better about it we’ll revisit this. the writing may get worse, but i’m willing to make that trade.

i know it seems like a selfish move because i’ve possibly been put in a position to help others which is the reason why all this was done in the first place, but i think i should find the exits first before i give a guided tour through hell.

below are two things from twloha’s e-mails that i thought i’d share in case you needed a little pick me up.

Most people will never know or understand what you’ve gone through which can make it even harder to recover because sometimes you might feel alone in your fight.

Always keep pushing through whatever may come. Your life matters. You matter. Believe that. Remember it. You deserve to live a life that you love. 

 

Twenty-Trauma: Intro

Twenty-Trauma: I

Twenty-Trauma: II

“Hello? Adam, can you hear me? You’re fading in and out―okay that’s better. I’m going to check your heart rate over the phone―”    “Take your thumb and locate your pulse in your inner wrist. Tell me when find it―”    At this very moment I’m wondering if there’s a such thing as a pillow phone. I need to have both hands free to find my pulse. I shove the phone in my right ear and lift up my right shoulder to secure its position. I close my eyes and imagine that my phone is the world’s most uncomfortable pillow, but it talks to me.    Okay, found it.    “―When I say ‘go,’ start counting each bump―” “―Okay, go.”    My body’s internal alarm clock is constantly hitting snooze.    “You counted 39? That’s way too low. For tonight do not take T!#mL or Tiz!#&%ne. You’ll be okay with everything else. I’ll have them schedule you to see the doctor tomorrow afternoon, okay?”    Cut to a week after my follow-up appointment(s).    “I wanna see you! I just got back to the states and I’m only going to be here for a few days―Let’s meet up later.”    This is a friend of a friend. I would be in no mood to break my evening plans of sleep―but I’m really bad at saying no. I convince myself it’ll be good to see her. It wasn’t hard to do.    She’s been fashion modeling on and off ever since I’ve known her. That’s sort of how I know her. I’m no model. I’m a military brat. We share common ground by walking on foreign ground. We shared stories about that. However, it was different for me. I lived in these foreign places three years at a time instead of just visiting them three days or three weeks at a time.    At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign.    We arrange to meet at a nearby bar. I arrive early. But I didn’t have to wait long. I see dark hair and dark eyeliner ordering two drinks on the other side of the bar.  She’s beautiful. Picture perfect.    We spot an open booth and she wastes no time playing catch up.  Her IQ is abnormally high. Her sentences would go from airhead (to be funny) to Aristotle (to be clever) in the same breath. It was mesmerizing. It was annoying.    “Grrrr―”    I realize I forgot to eat dinner again while she’s feeding me some story about Amsterdam, or Austria, or Australia, or all of the above. It all sounds the same.    “So anyways how have you been?”    Cut to a week ago.    “If we reduce your amt%@ty!n, it doesn’t look like a beta-blocker is going to help. Your body is very sensitive to medication.”    At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign. I always wondered when my body became used to a medication; did I adjust, or did I become addicted?    “Look straight―”    This is the standard neurological test conducted at the end of every appointment. The doctor shines his light directly into my eyes. He examines each eye for about twenty seconds. Looking into my soul.    “Good. Put your hands out straight―”    “Have you noticed this?―”    I have actually. It was a small bump on the back of my neck. Like a pea.    “It’s a lymph node. When did you first notice it? Have you had a cold recently?”    No further questions, your honor.    “We already ordered some blood work for you. But I’m going to refer that you get this lymph node examined by a dermatologist.”     In the meantime, Dr. Google will answer any question or concerns you may have.    “It’s good to hear you’re doing well! You look great.”    I may have disregarded my current health when I told Perfect Picture how I was doing. But it was nice of her to lie a little with the you look great part.    Unlike Dr. Google―who has no bed-side manners―I was pretty much doomed once my blood results came back. I need to live in the now I suppose.   Now was late. I ran out of words an hour ago.    She wants to see my place.    I want to see my pillow.    We’re at my place. We’re at my pillow.   She wrestles me down on the bed. Did I say she was annoying?    She’s anything but that right now.    I’m sure the next time I see her will be three months from now, three years from now, or in some magazine ad while sitting in a waiting room.    I hate good-byes but I was in love with this one.    I know, later on, it will bother me that tonight means nothing. It doesn’t have to mean something with her, just in general.    I always think about perfect eyes, and perfect teeth, and perfect timing after mistakes have been made.    What is perfect timing anyway? One might say perfect timing is luck. One might say fate. One might say the definition of perfect timing is patience―in which everything that happens in between a birth day and a death day is a collage of perfect mistakes.    I’m being over dramatic. I need to be under the influence.    I go to the bathroom and swallow more than enough amt%@ty!n.    I bury my head in the pillow. With my thumb, I locate my pulse in my inner wrist. I try to count the uneven thumps.    I don’t think I make it past twenty.                             •   •   •    “Do you have the time?”    “That’s okay if you don’t.”    “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hear that your cousin just died.”    “I guess that last sentence is kind of ironic. Not that your cousin passed―just how we’re talking now.”    “Even though I’m the one doing all the talking. That’s okay though.”    “You know no matter how long you live―whenever you go―believe it or not, you have experienced it all.”    “Yeah, I never quite got it myself. I mean, you’re really going to tell me that an infant who dies at birth has experienced the same amount in life as someone who passes after one hundred years of age?!”    “It’s true, though. I’ve asked around.”    “The infants―of course they’re all grown up here―they seem like they have experienced every joy, pain, smile, tear, peak, valley, curse, and cure one hundred times over.”    “I ask them did they laugh inside the womb? Did they ever cry inside the womb?”    “They said that they certainly felt―that they didn’t know it at the time, but it was their mother’s heartbeat―”    “It was all that they knew. It was life.”    “I’m sorry I’ve gotten off topic. Do you have the time?―”    “Beep!” “Beep!” “Beep!” Beep!”   I wake up groggy―holding onto my wrist. It seems ironic for some reason.    I’ve been waking up like this for years.   Twenty-Trauma: Intro Twenty-Trauma: I

“Hello? Adam, can you hear me? You’re fading in and out―okay that’s better. I’m going to check your heart rate over the phone―”

  

“Take your thumb and locate your pulse in your inner wrist. Tell me when find it―”

  

At this very moment I’m wondering if there’s a such thing as a pillow phone. I need to have both hands free to find my pulse. I shove the phone in my right ear and lift up my right shoulder to secure its position. I close my eyes and imagine that my phone is the world’s most uncomfortable pillow, but it talks to me.

  

Okay, found it.

  

“―When I say ‘go,’ start counting each bump―”

“―Okay, go.”

  

My body’s internal alarm clock is constantly hitting snooze.

  

“You counted 39? That’s way too low. For tonight do not take T!#mL or Tiz!#&%ne. You’ll be okay with everything else. I’ll have them schedule you to see the doctor tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

  

Cut to a week after my follow-up appointment(s).

  

“I wanna see you! I just got back to the states and I’m only going to be here for a few days―Let’s meet up later.”

  

This is a friend of a friend. I would be in no mood to break my evening plans of sleep―but I’m really bad at saying no. I convince myself it’ll be good to see her. It wasn’t hard to do.

  

She’s been fashion modeling on and off ever since I’ve known her. That’s sort of how I know her. I’m no model. I’m a military brat. We share common ground by walking on foreign ground. We shared stories about that. However, it was different for me. I lived in these foreign places three years at a time instead of just visiting them three days or three weeks at a time.

  

At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign.

  

We arrange to meet at a nearby bar. I arrive early. But I didn’t have to wait long. I see dark hair and dark eyeliner ordering two drinks on the other side of the bar.
 
She’s beautiful. Picture perfect.

  

We spot an open booth and she wastes no time playing catch up.

 
Her IQ is abnormally high. Her sentences would go from airhead (to be funny) to Aristotle (to be clever) in the same breath. It was mesmerizing. It was annoying.

  

“Grrrr―”

 
 
I realize I forgot to eat dinner again while she’s feeding me some story about Amsterdam, or Austria, or Australia, or all of the above. It all sounds the same.

  

“So anyways how have you been?”

  

Cut to a week ago.

  

“If we reduce your amt%@ty!n, it doesn’t look like a beta-blocker is going to help. Your body is very sensitive to medication.”

  

At a certain point, foreign always became normal, and normal always became foreign. I always wondered when my body became used to a medication; did I adjust, or did I become addicted?

  

“Look straight―”

  

This is the standard neurological test conducted at the end of every appointment. The doctor shines his light directly into my eyes. He examines each eye for about twenty seconds. Looking into my soul.

  

“Good. Put your hands out straight―”

  

“Have you noticed this?―”

  

I have actually. It was a small bump on the back of my neck. Like a pea.

  

“It’s a lymph node. When did you first notice it? Have you had a cold recently?”

  

No further questions, your honor.

  

“We already ordered some blood work for you. But I’m going to refer that you get this lymph node examined by a dermatologist.” 

  

In the meantime, Dr. Google will answer any question or concerns you may have.

  

“It’s good to hear you’re doing well! You look great.”

  

I may have disregarded my current health when I told Perfect Picture how I was doing. But it was nice of her to lie a little with the you look great part.

  

Unlike Dr. Google―who has no bed-side manners―I was pretty much doomed once my blood results came back. I need to live in the now I suppose.

 

Now was late. I ran out of words an hour ago.

  

She wants to see my place.

  

I want to see my pillow.

  

We’re at my place. We’re at my pillow.

 

She wrestles me down on the bed. Did I say she was annoying?

  

She’s anything but that right now.

  

I’m sure the next time I see her will be three months from now, three years from now, or in some magazine ad while sitting in a waiting room.

  

I hate good-byes but I was in love with this one.

  

I know, later on, it will bother me that tonight means nothing. It doesn’t have to mean something with her, just in general.

  

I always think about perfect eyes, and perfect teeth, and perfect timing after mistakes have been made.

  

What is perfect timing anyway? One might say perfect timing is luck. One might say fate. One might say the definition of perfect timing is patience―in which everything that happens in between a birth day and a death day is a collage of perfect mistakes.

  

I’m being over dramatic. I need to be under the influence.

  

I go to the bathroom and swallow more than enough amt%@ty!n.

  

I bury my head in the pillow. With my thumb, I locate my pulse in my inner wrist. I try to count the uneven thumps.

  

I don’t think I make it past twenty.

  

 

                       •   •   •

  

“Do you have the time?”

  

“That’s okay if you don’t.”

  

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hear that your cousin just died.”

  

“I guess that last sentence is kind of ironic. Not that your cousin passed―just how we’re talking now.”

  

“Even though I’m the one doing all the talking. That’s okay though.”

  

“You know no matter how long you live―whenever you go―believe it or not, you have experienced it all.”

  

“Yeah, I never quite got it myself. I mean, you’re really going to tell me that an infant who dies at birth has experienced the same amount in life as someone who passes after one hundred years of age?!”

  

“It’s true, though. I’ve asked around.”

  

“The infants―of course they’re all grown up here―they seem like they have experienced every joy, pain, smile, tear, peak, valley, curse, and cure one hundred times over.”

  

“I ask them did they laugh inside the womb? Did they ever cry inside the womb?”

  

“They said that they certainly felt―that they didn’t know it at the time, but it was their mother’s heartbeat―”

  

“It was all that they knew. It was life.”

  

“I’m sorry I’ve gotten off topic. Do you have the time?―”

  

“Beep!” “Beep!” “Beep!” Beep!”

 

I wake up groggy―holding onto my wrist. It seems ironic for some reason.

  

I’ve been waking up like this for years.

 

Twenty-Trauma: Intro

Twenty-Trauma: I

“Attention all passengers for United flight 626 with non-stop service to Los Angeles International Airport. We have been informed that this flight has now been cancelled due to weather. Please see―”  Dammit Chicago O’hare. Just once―Can I not get stuck here?  Well, at least this time I have my whole life with me. Packed inside two duffle bags and an Adidas track bag.  My trip from east to west isn’t going as planned. Act of God vs. Act of Plans. I’ve been told it’s an unfair fight.  That was the last fight flight for the night. I’m currently debating a stop at Cinnabon before all terminal stores close their gates―Nah, stale pastries. I decide to skip dinner and set up camp in an empty Concourse B. I purchase overpriced Wi-Fi with the Cinnabon money I saved. Licking icing from my fingertips or sugarcoating late night IMs to my friends back home―either way, it would have cost the same.    Maybe she’ll be online. She’s always on late. I always worried that late at night―the glow of the screen would damage her perfect eyes.  Instantly after signing on―  IM: “where are you?!”  I haven’t talked to her in a week. I was busy planning my last minute decision to move across the country. I didn’t know I was actually doing this till three days ago. However, I thought I had already told her about this? Maybe I told her in a dream―or maybe when I was drunk.  IM: “no you didn’t tell me. i had no idea.”  She had one more semester of college left. Two semesters ago I had the option to graduate early but I decided to buy eight more hours of courses to stick around a little longer. Not necessarily because of her or to be around my friends longer―I had absolutely zero plans for the future. I haven’t applied to any jobs and graduate school pamphlets were just collecting dust on my bedroom floor.  Wait, it’s coming back to me; I told a different girl and I was most definitely drunk. How could I forget this? When this different girl and I hugged good-byes, our beehive buzzes decided that it was a good idea to kiss for first time’s sake. Instead of a kiss, my teeth crashed with her teeth. She was probably laughing at the idea of this. And I probably had a ridiculous grin of ‘this is happening?’ on my face. She had perfect teeth.  IM: “i’m happy for you. good luck with your trip.”IM: “i’m off to bed.”IM: “and sorry you have to sleep in a airport.”  Those last three IMs read like subtitles. This situation was completely foreign to me. I could only imagine those perfect eyes were giving me a deathly stare on the other side of the screen.  She doesn’t put up an away message. Her screen name finally goes idle after an hour goes by.  For some reason I felt guilty, like I needed to apologize for something. But I just sat half awake in Concourse B thinking about the flight in. How I almost considered telling the pilot to make a u-turn at the next cloud and take me back home―And thinking about how surreal the Sears Tower looked being the only skyscraper poking out of the cloud line.  A building in the sky―the clouds were the ground and the sky was the sky. Made me wonder if heaven is built like a corporation. If entry-level angels just file prayers all day? And if they have to work their way up to be a guardian angel. After I pass, I’d probably start out filing ‘powerball prayers’. It’s what I get for gambling with hearts.    “Grrrr―”  That was my stomach. I should have gone to Cinnabon.    After I was successfully relocated from my camp in Concourse B to my new home―I started getting used to my beehive buzzed evenings in my new city. Rooms packed with people drinking cocktails mixed with real contempt and fake laughs. It was addictive. It was youth.    I wish my friends were around to take it all in with me. Sometimes I wish Perfect Eyes was there too. I would always find a way to subconsciously drunk dial her without the care of a three hour time difference. I would leave her rambled messages about something that reminded me of home―like hotels with Ferrari dealerships in them. Okay, nothing here reminded me of home. I was kind of in love with that.  Around 4:00 AM I thought a drunk dial had landed on my end. I immediately turned the ringtone to vibrate and went back to sleep. I saw the call was coming from an old college roommate of mine―I’d probably wake to a slurred message of how they were seriously planning a trip to visit me.  Instead I woke up to thirty missed calls and a ‘mailbox is full’ message. Something crazy has happened―and I couldn’t make sense of the combination of names that were listed on my call log. Names of people from both college and high school that didn’t have an association with each other. And names of people I just talked to the day prior, and people I talked to six months ago?  My mailbox could only carry six messages. Every message was no longer than, “call me back it’s important.” Except for the last message. The first call.  I had just learned that my old childhood neighbor, my old college roommate―I had just learned that my best friend died of an accidental overdose.  By the next day I didn’t want to talk to anyone else except my mom. I just let it go to voicemail until I could work up the strength to hear sorrow from my friends on the other end. That wouldn’t be for a long time.  I took my roommate’s dog out for a walk. Or to be honest, my roommate’s dog took me out for a walk. My phone still buzzing ever so often.  “Hey! Look where you’re going!”  Remind me to never live on a golf course again.  For some reason after this incident I decided to call Perfect Eyes.  “Hey!”  She knew not to throw on the ‘how are you’ after the hey. The little things you know. I wanted to talk about absolutely nothing.  “Excited about graduation coming up. Some friends are in town―probably going to pre-game, then the usual.”  This would be the one of the last phone conversations I would ever have with Perfect Eyes. I’m not sure why. It was just what I needed.                             •   •   •  Cut to a few years later.   I’m staring at my phone inside the Emergency Room. Hours ago I had just learned that a mass was found inside my brain after I came in for a non-stop headache.  It hurt like hell to move my eyes―God forbid if I had to sneeze. I quickly found that staring at one thing helped with the pain.  Sitting here staring at Perfect Eyes in my contacts list―contemplating. I even consider calling Perfect Teeth―we were pretty good friends now. But my phone is about to die―I’m hoping I have better luck.  I ran into an older lady that wished me luck earlier. I wonder if she has a phone charger with her? I better take the luck instead. I wouldn’t know what to say to the Perfects anyway.  “Our MRI machine is down. We’re going to have to transfer you to a different hospital. Hang on tight. You doing okay?”  My phone just died. And I didn’t call Perfect Eyes nor Perfect Teeth but other than that the m&Ph%!e is doing fantastic work with my bloodstream and reality.  Maybe after my phone dies―it ends up on a special floor within that building in the clouds where everything goes to die. Maybe friendships are in there too. And people’s dreams. And people’s faith. And Lindsay Lohan’s career. A floor where things have the possibility of being restored.  I wonder if my late friend has been promoted yet.  Lately I’ve been dreaming in subtitles. Not reading the words. These foreign dreams are probably side-effects from stories doctors have been writing for me. Tr#@Dol and m&Ph%!e for pain. Or Pro&%tz!ne for nausea. Or Tiz!#&%ne for sleep. Or Le^ti#tam as an anticonvulsant. Ask your doctor if every decision you have ever made is right for you.    Maybe if I read the subtitles to my dreams, I would find my way―my apology.  But in reality, I know my apology is still stuck in Concourse B.  My bags always seemed heavier without it.   Twenty-Trauma: Intro

“Attention all passengers for United flight 626 with non-stop service to Los Angeles International Airport. We have been informed that this flight has now been cancelled due to weather. Please see―”
 
Dammit Chicago O’hare. Just once―Can I not get stuck here?

 
Well, at least this time I have my whole life with me. Packed inside two duffle bags and an Adidas track bag.
 
My trip from east to west isn’t going as planned. Act of God vs. Act of Plans. I’ve been told it’s an unfair fight.
 
That was the last fight flight for the night. I’m currently debating a stop at Cinnabon before all terminal stores close their gates―Nah, stale pastries. I decide to skip dinner and set up camp in an empty Concourse B. I purchase overpriced Wi-Fi with the Cinnabon money I saved. Licking icing from my fingertips or sugarcoating late night IMs to my friends back home―either way, it would have cost the same.

  

Maybe she’ll be online. She’s always on late. I always worried that late at night―the glow of the screen would damage her perfect eyes.
 
Instantly after signing on―
 
IM: “where are you?!”
 
I haven’t talked to her in a week. I was busy planning my last minute decision to move across the country. I didn’t know I was actually doing this till three days ago. However, I thought I had already told her about this? Maybe I told her in a dream―or maybe when I was drunk.
 
IM: “no you didn’t tell me. i had no idea.”
 
She had one more semester of college left. Two semesters ago I had the option to graduate early but I decided to buy eight more hours of courses to stick around a little longer. Not necessarily because of her or to be around my friends longer―I had absolutely zero plans for the future. I haven’t applied to any jobs and graduate school pamphlets were just collecting dust on my bedroom floor.
 
Wait, it’s coming back to me; I told a different girl and I was most definitely drunk. How could I forget this? When this different girl and I hugged good-byes, our beehive buzzes decided that it was a good idea to kiss for first time’s sake. Instead of a kiss, my teeth crashed with her teeth. She was probably laughing at the idea of this. And I probably had a ridiculous grin of ‘this is happening?’ on my face. She had perfect teeth.
 
IM: “i’m happy for you. good luck with your trip.”
IM: “i’m off to bed.”
IM: “and sorry you have to sleep in a airport.”
 
Those last three IMs read like subtitles. This situation was completely foreign to me. I could only imagine those perfect eyes were giving me a deathly stare on the other side of the screen.
 
She doesn’t put up an away message. Her screen name finally goes idle after an hour goes by.
 
For some reason I felt guilty, like I needed to apologize for something. But I just sat half awake in Concourse B thinking about the flight in. How I almost considered telling the pilot to make a u-turn at the next cloud and take me back home―And thinking about how surreal the Sears Tower looked being the only skyscraper poking out of the cloud line.
 
A building in the sky―the clouds were the ground and the sky was the sky. Made me wonder if heaven is built like a corporation. If entry-level angels just file prayers all day? And if they have to work their way up to be a guardian angel. After I pass, I’d probably start out filing ‘powerball prayers’. It’s what I get for gambling with hearts.

  

“Grrrr―”
 
That was my stomach.

I should have gone to Cinnabon.

 
 
After I was successfully relocated from my camp in Concourse B to my new home―I started getting used to my beehive buzzed evenings in my new city. Rooms packed with people drinking cocktails mixed with real contempt and fake laughs. It was addictive. It was youth.

  

I wish my friends were around to take it all in with me. Sometimes I wish Perfect Eyes was there too. I would always find a way to subconsciously drunk dial her without the care of a three hour time difference. I would leave her rambled messages about something that reminded me of home―like hotels with Ferrari dealerships in them. Okay, nothing here reminded me of home. I was kind of in love with that.
 
Around 4:00 AM I thought a drunk dial had landed on my end. I immediately turned the ringtone to vibrate and went back to sleep. I saw the call was coming from an old college roommate of mine―I’d probably wake to a slurred message of how they were seriously planning a trip to visit me.
 
Instead I woke up to thirty missed calls and a ‘mailbox is full’ message. Something crazy has happened―and I couldn’t make sense of the combination of names that were listed on my call log. Names of people from both college and high school that didn’t have an association with each other. And names of people I just talked to the day prior, and people I talked to six months ago?
 
My mailbox could only carry six messages. Every message was no longer than, “call me back it’s important.” Except for the last message. The first call.
 
I had just learned that my old childhood neighbor, my old college roommate―I had just learned that my best friend died of an accidental overdose.
 
By the next day I didn’t want to talk to anyone else except my mom. I just let it go to voicemail until I could work up the strength to hear sorrow from my friends on the other end. That wouldn’t be for a long time.
 
I took my roommate’s dog out for a walk. Or to be honest, my roommate’s dog took me out for a walk. My phone still buzzing ever so often.
 
“Hey! Look where you’re going!”
 
Remind me to never live on a golf course again.
 
For some reason after this incident I decided to call Perfect Eyes.
 
“Hey!”
 
She knew not to throw on the ‘how are you’ after the hey. The little things you know. I wanted to talk about absolutely nothing.
 
“Excited about graduation coming up. Some friends are in town―probably going to pre-game, then the usual.”
 
This would be the one of the last phone conversations I would ever have with Perfect Eyes. I’m not sure why. It was just what I needed.

 

                          •   •   •
  
Cut to a few years later.

 

I’m staring at my phone inside the Emergency Room. Hours ago I had just learned that a mass was found inside my brain after I came in for a non-stop headache.
 
It hurt like hell to move my eyes―God forbid if I had to sneeze. I quickly found that staring at one thing helped with the pain.
 
Sitting here staring at Perfect Eyes in my contacts list―contemplating. I even consider calling Perfect Teeth―we were pretty good friends now. But my phone is about to die―I’m hoping I have better luck.
 
I ran into an older lady that wished me luck earlier. I wonder if she has a phone charger with her? I better take the luck instead. I wouldn’t know what to say to the Perfects anyway.
 
“Our MRI machine is down. We’re going to have to transfer you to a different hospital. Hang on tight. You doing okay?”
 
My phone just died. And I didn’t call Perfect Eyes nor Perfect Teeth but other than that the m&Ph%!e is doing fantastic work with my bloodstream and reality.
 
Maybe after my phone dies―it ends up on a special floor within that building in the clouds where everything goes to die. Maybe friendships are in there too. And people’s dreams. And people’s faith. And Lindsay Lohan’s career. A floor where things have the possibility of being restored.
 
I wonder if my late friend has been promoted yet.
 
Lately I’ve been dreaming in subtitles. Not reading the words. These foreign dreams are probably side-effects from stories doctors have been writing for me. Tr#@Dol and m&Ph%!e for pain. Or Pro&%tz!ne for nausea. Or Tiz!#&%ne for sleep. Or Le^ti#tam as an anticonvulsant. Ask your doctor if every decision you have ever made is right for you.

  

Maybe if I read the subtitles to my dreams, I would find my way―my apology.
 
But in reality, I know my apology is still stuck in Concourse B.  My bags always seemed heavier without it.

 

Twenty-Trauma: Intro

I never sit on the bed―the bed inside the exam rooms at the doctor’s office. Even if they ask me to take a seat on the bed I’ll make up some excuse to decline. A medical-bed with butcher paper as sheets, no blankets, no thanks. The medical student that’s shadowing my doctor is in the room with me. Just her and I. I remember her from my last visit. She’s awfully pretty. The kind of face that could brighten up midnight and make you think it was noon. What time is it anyway? The a!&%ian has worn off.   The morning-after feeling for a night that never ended. Cut to eight hours ago. I’m being discharged from the Emergency Room. I’m not even sure why I was there. A$AP and Drake keep reminding me but I don’t know what my problem is. I watch the medical student study my discharge papers. Silence―It’s a horrific sound. She looks confidently confused. It’s uncanny. It’s gorgeous.   She knows she’s not supposed to say anything to me until the doctor comes in. At least not medically. I read her some more. I start to write up a story about her in my head. Everyone has a story. I’d imagine overtime, I would become more attractive to the things that I didn’t know about her. This type of attraction is beautiful. It’s toxic. The doctor comes in and without opening a folder, without reading a screen, she gives the medical student a complete recap without hesitation. “Adam is in his twenties. He has had quite a few traumatic experiences―” A ‘funny cause it’s true’ laugh comes out of me, but she continues on anyway. “―complex brain trauma, two suicides, robbery, increased anxiety, all happening back to back. Anything else?” People would be surprised if they knew how much in this world was due to prayers. I think I read that in the Bible? Or maybe it was Slaughterhouse-Five? She takes the discharge papers from the medical student and I explain to her why the Emergency Room visit was necessary. “Your blood is a little off but not as bad as the last time I saw you. And according to last night, you’ve been having severe panic attacks. Your heart looks good. Does the a!&%ian help?―”   It was Slaughterhouse-Five. “―I want to take you off v!&$d and put you on p#4x!Q until you’re leveled out. This should help with your blood. Both medications essentially do the same thing but they work in different areas of your brain. I don’t think the v!&$d is very welcomed.” She’s been advantageous with this whole process from the start. Five years ago―in a morphine daze―I stumbled into her office for the first time. She’s a good doctor. I’m a patient, not a bottom line. These types of doctors are a rare breed. But I need to pay attention. Insurance doesn’t cover attention. “It may take about two weeks for the p#4x!Q to start working. Things may seem worse at first, but since we’ll be tapering you off v!&$d, it shouldn’t be as bad.”Hope feels like a four letter word at times. Cut to roughly two weeks from this appointment and as warned, my misery got worse. I wasn’t sleeping, and I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t boycotting two of my favorite pastimes―I just didn’t have the energy for food nor the appetite for sleep. Late at night when heartbeats are slow and the a!&%ian was altering my reality―I found myself writing. Writing vicariously to no one. What was just a few text messages for advice saved away in my history turned into a 3800 word side-effect. Great. I’m about to become one of those people who talks about their allergies all the time. But maybe they’re on to something―God bless you. I just need to sneeze more in life. The doctor exits. It’s just me and the medical student once again. While she’s busy typing up my story with words like p#4x!Q, a!&%ian, and v!&$d into a medical diary―I ask her the one question that I can’t seem to ask myself, or anyone else; Honesty is some of the best medicine ever discovered. But it can cut like a knife.   I should sit on the bed for this.

I never sit on the bed―the bed inside the exam rooms at the doctor’s office. Even if they ask me to take a seat on the bed I’ll make up some excuse to decline. A medical-bed with butcher paper as sheets, no blankets, no thanks.


The medical student that’s shadowing my doctor is in the room with me. Just her and I. I remember her from my last visit. She’s awfully pretty. The kind of face that could brighten up midnight and make you think it was noon. What time is it anyway? The a!&%ian has worn off.

 

The morning-after feeling for a night that never ended.



Cut to eight hours ago. I’m being discharged from the Emergency Room. I’m not even sure why I was there. A$AP and Drake keep reminding me but I don’t know what my problem is.

I watch the medical student study my discharge papers.

Silence―It’s a horrific sound.


She looks confidently confused.

It’s uncanny.

It’s gorgeous.

 

She knows she’s not supposed to say anything to me until the doctor comes in. At least not medically.


I read her some more. I start to write up a story about her in my head. Everyone has a story. I’d imagine overtime, I would become more attractive to the things that I didn’t know about her. This type of attraction is beautiful. It’s toxic.

The doctor comes in and without opening a folder, without reading a screen, she gives the medical student a complete recap without hesitation.

“Adam is in his twenties. He has had quite a few traumatic experiences―”

A ‘funny cause it’s true’ laugh comes out of me, but she continues on anyway.

“―complex brain trauma, two suicides, robbery, increased anxiety, all happening back to back. Anything else?”


People would be surprised if they knew how much in this world was due to prayers. I think I read that in the Bible? Or maybe it was Slaughterhouse-Five?


She takes the discharge papers from the medical student and I explain to her why the Emergency Room visit was necessary.

“Your blood is a little off but not as bad as the last time I saw you. And according to last night, you’ve been having severe panic attacks. Your heart looks good. Does the a!&%ian help?―”

 

It was Slaughterhouse-Five.


“―I want to take you off v!&$d and put you on p#4x!Q until you’re leveled out. This should help with your blood. Both medications essentially do the same thing but they work in different areas of your brain. I don’t think the v!&$d is very welcomed.”

She’s been advantageous with this whole process from the start. Five years ago―in a morphine daze―I stumbled into her office for the first time. She’s a good doctor. I’m a patient, not a bottom line. These types of doctors are a rare breed. But I need to pay attention. Insurance doesn’t cover attention.

“It may take about two weeks for the p#4x!Q to start working. Things may seem worse at first, but since we’ll be tapering you off v!&$d, it shouldn’t be as bad.”

Hope feels like a four letter word at times.

Cut to roughly two weeks from this appointment and as warned, my misery got worse. I wasn’t sleeping, and I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t boycotting two of my favorite pastimes―I just didn’t have the energy for food nor the appetite for sleep.

Late at night when heartbeats are slow and the a!&%ian was altering my reality―I found myself writing. Writing vicariously to no one. What was just a few text messages for advice saved away in my history turned into a 3800 word side-effect.

Great. I’m about to become one of those people who talks about their allergies all the time. But maybe they’re on to something―God bless you. I just need to sneeze more in life.


The doctor exits. It’s just me and the medical student once again. While she’s busy typing up my story with words like p#4x!Q, a!&%ian, and v!&$d into a medical diary―I ask her the one question that I can’t seem to ask myself, or anyone else; Honesty is some of the best medicine ever discovered. But it can cut like a knife.

 

I should sit on the bed for this.

Happiness is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.  ―  F. Scott Fitzgerald   Accidentally got “honey almond” cereal instead of “forest berries”. Now I’m wondering what other delights does life have in store for me? ―  Mark Leggett   A text comes in October 22, 2012 7:00 PM, “Something that took me a long time to realize is that just telling the truth is literally, always the best idea. I never lied but I found myself sugar coating things in a lot of situations. People tend to surprise you. They react better than I typically give them credit for.”   New Year’s Eve 2011, 11:59 PM   It’s about 10 seconds before the New Year. I’m standing alongside the Boulevard Pool of the Cosmopolitan, looking up into a black sky awaiting fireworks, and thinking, ‘this year was maybe my worst.’ Before I could toast the exploding sky with my champagne glass, I’m interrupted by my intoxicated +1 which confirmed that it was indeed a new year in case I was wondering. I was wondering about a lot of things actually, mainly our food situation. But looking back up into the sky, I got some nervous chills and hoped that the new year wouldn’t be a repeat.   March of 2008, Emergency Room, Spring Valley Hospital / Medical Center   After the doctor reviewed my cat-scan results, I had just woken up. Somehow my person was moved from an ER bed to one of these big medical chairs while I was sedated. That was probably the most confusing part of my wake. Also the doctor was a different doctor than before and he was telling me that the scan found a questionable mass inside my brain and an MRI had been ordered. The talk between the doctor and I was very brief before they wheeled me up to a hospital room. After our chat, I would have one of the most surreal conversations I’ve ever had with myself. I thought about my brother and parents, some friends, mostly crushes that did or didn’t work out, thought about a couple different places around the world I had lived, my childhood, and then I wondered about how much time I had left. I was 23 years old. I was fortunate enough to have experienced quite a lot in a short amount of time. I was okay with dying if that’s next on life’s itinerary. ‘This isn’t a dream. I’m okay with this, no need to panic.’ And I didn’t. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the medicine, but I was okay with accepting my death.    I was currently suffering head trauma. A steep increase in intracranial pressure. I was dehydrated, my fluids were low, my pulse was high, and just about everything else that could go wrong did. I was in excruciating pain as my body was fighting to stay afloat. My blood cells were sucking up every inch of water it could find to replace the damaged cells in order to re-establish stability. I imagine them screaming, “this is what we live for, all units go go go!”  They were getting some much needed back-up support. As the fluids were flowing through the I/V in my hand I could feel the tingles of medicine and hydration flowing back into my body all the way into my toes. When I was little, I used to like to imagine those I/V bags were just extra guts. The nurse would have to stop by and help me get up to use the restroom. I was so weak I could feel the needle move in my hand as the nurse pushed my hanger of I/V bags towards the restroom. An older lady had the same idea as we met in front of the restroom at the same time with her hanger of bags. We smiled and I motioned her to go first.   Meanwhile I’m back in my big medical chair periodically getting checked by the nurse. Much time passes while I’m still waiting to be wheeled up to my room. I have to head to the restroom once again. But this time, I’ll take my hanger of guts and go on my own. Slowly but surely getting there it just happens to be my ER buddy, the older lady. She laughed as I let her go first again. We must of had our I/V bags hooked up at the same time. We were on the same pee schedule. We exchanged smiles again on her way out and she said, “good luck in here.” I felt better, not so much alone anymore. Not alone in the sense that I didn’t have anybody with me, but in the sense that I wasn’t the only one battling something that was determined to give life an unfair fight. After being somewhat settled in the hospital, the first neurosurgeon came by to visit me. He explained that the MRI found a mass. An extra-axil septated lobulated mass in the left perimesencephalic cistern which is producing local mass effect on the midbrain, on the left, including the cerebral peduncle and the thalamus, which translated in English means; life as you know it is going to change, completely.  That was 2008.   My life in a weird unexplainable way didn’t change that much except for the idea that my brain could call it a day whenever it felt like it. I could lay down on a Tuesday night and by Wednesday, life could be gone. My medical team has significantly reduced the risk of this complication but I can’t say I don’t think about it every now and then. However nobody could tell. I was still the same me after I was released from my month and a half of medical captivity. Even though the headaches are tough at times I don’t expect the end credits of this confusing life to start rolling anytime soon. If anything my life is just re-creating the same horror film over and over again with slightly different twists. My means of caring and loving anything greater than I already did seemed like a pointless risk. I already have so much to lose, why add to this?   A text comes in October 7, 2011 3:01 AM, “Happy belated birthday.”   My careless way of living started to change for me. I wasn’t looking to change this well-dressed walking-dead version of me. It just happened. A death occurred in October 2011 and another occurred March of 2012. Unfortunately I’ve dealt with death before. A friend that went back into the water to try and save more lives, a family member, a college roommate and long time best friend, and one of his best friends that I happened to run into nearly 24 hours before his passing. However with these most recent deaths, I couldn’t help but think of the last interactions I had with these two individuals; a long conversation with a cousin about life in LA post college, and small talk about girls with a friend during lunch. Those last moments were the perfect good-byes that I didn’t see coming. Not only was I grieving, my headaches were becoming sharper and more frequent. I started silently worrying that there may be a slight chance I may not make it. For the most part I felt fine, but when the pain struck it was taking days to wear off. I already missed many days of work and was put on intermittent disability. I was diligent with my medical team’s treatment plan, but they wanted to take a closer look inside. A MRI, MRA, and MRV was ordered for re-evaluation. After my exams came back with less than perfect results, the uncertainty of having brain surgery was a week of worry that I’ve tried to forget. The odd thing about this worry, and something life will never tell you, was that I wasn’t as worried about myself as much as I was saddened by other people worrying. I didn’t want to give any one a perfect good-bye. Especially in sake of my family, my friends, strangers that crossed my path, a girl I wasn’t looking for but found myself in awe.   A text comes in October 24, 2012 8:30 AM, “Give me a call when you get off work tonight in the hatch.” On October 24th, I spent the entire day thinking it was the 25th. I even got prepared to go into meetings and was confused when nobody else was going. A week earlier I had a multi-day headache that required a lot of ice packs and on-set medication that made the week feel kind of foggy. I ended up leaving work early. I was at home, sitting on my bed, feeling like I should take a nap, and then it goes blurry. I could see my ceiling fan, but barely, like tunnel vision. My body locked, and then I felt nothing. Certainly not the nap I had planned. I couldn’t move my arms. I wanted to yell, and the last thing I remember thinking was, ‘oh God, oh God.’    I thought it was over. Never in my life was the flash of death so vivid. After coming back to reality, gaining my senses and control back, my heart was beating out of my chest. Fear had my undivided attention. This moment seemed to have happened so fast but the little bit of memories still floating in my mind made it seem like forever.   I walked out the door and started walking towards Whole Foods, a place I often finish my runs at. I must of walked around the parking lot for an hour before even realizing why I went there in the first place? And I didn’t have any money on me, just keys and a phone. I checked my phone, and it seemed like time had jumped. Like I had been left behind. I became confused and worried, and I began to experience the worst panic attack I’ve ever had. I called my emergency contact and told them I’m not well and that I’m walking towards Red Rock. During my walk to no where in particular, I was torn with defeat. ‘God, if this is your plan, if this is your path, you need to take me now. Not later.’ I was upset, but most of all I felt let down, like nothing I ever did up to now even mattered. You name it; health uncertainties, family worries, friendship ties, relationship misses. What kind of ‘everything happens for a reason’ set-up is this anyway? It was too much. It being my life and life turning any ray of light into a dark storm of existence. I was confused and empty. I didn’t see a reason why I should be around to see the next day if this is how things were going to be.   However, one thought I was absolutely clear about was that I wasn’t going to harm myself. Since birth, I’ve battled with severe asthma which continues to be treated. It’s a weird feeling to know that nearly every breath I’ve ever taken has been medically assisted. And now I’m fighting a second war literally inside my head. None of this is genetic, I was just chosen. Almost as if a force was out to take me out from the start. If I’m to be taken out, it won’t be a decision that I’ll ever make. Believe it or not, it wasn’t our decision to be placed here on earth in the first place, so it certainly isn’t our decision to decide when it’s time to go. But one thought I wasn’t so clear about was how long this hurt would last. I’m terrified to find out but as hard as it is to walk in this dark, I’m hopeful that I’ll find my way.   You may feel like you’ve been caught in a heartless trap. You may think your personal world is ending. But so many other human-beings in this world have had unfair starts and hiccups that were way worse. If not for the people that care about you, then you have to do it for them. It being life.   Hold on, pain ends.   Earlier that day I was texting back and forth with an old friend saying we would talk in the evening. When he called me, I had made it to a Home Depot parking lot. I can’t remember much of the rambled conversation, but I know he held on until help had arrived. I was completely out of it. The physical and emotional pain was so intense that I just started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t process what was happening. If you put a reasonable person in an unreasonable situation, going crazy is the most reasonable choice they can make.   I realize after the fact that I didn’t let anyone know I had experienced seizure like symptoms earlier and that I needed to get checked out at some sort of urgent care. This was maybe the second questionable seizure that had occurred within two weeks. Subconsciously, I don’t think I wanted to spend another night in the ER.   “In all this you greatly rejoice though now, for a little while, you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.”   Have I deserved the right to question this? Or maybe this hurt is a gift that hasn’t been opened yet. The next day I had an immediate follow up with my neurologist. Blood tests were ordered, not an EEG which still bothers me, but was later ordered. I waited a week to get my blood results. The doctor said, my vitamin D is very low, paused, and then said my white blood cell count is very low. Not to worry, but to follow up with my primary doctor as soon as possible. I looked at the paper with my test results and besides my concern with how I have low vitamin D per my love of cereal, my white blood cells were outlined, in bold, “Out of Range”. My insides had declared war, and this time my outside was more vulnerable than ever.   Honestly I’m afraid of this fight. Not the fight itself, but what this fight would mean to the people in my life. I was resilient for the most part, but I knew what illness and mortality had done to me this year. I didn’t want to put that feeling on anyone else I loved and cared about. I knew that they would go through a process that I’ll never understand as they’ll never understand the process I’m going through. And for the first time in years I didn’t want to lose a person that was my only escape from my anxiety storms, hopeless nights, and long foggy days, yet I couldn’t show it.   When you’re miserable on the inside thinking of all the dark in your life, a ray of light that somehow finds its way into your dark is nearly the same feeling a patient gets when stepping outside the hospital walls into the sunlight for the first time. Or putting on warm socks straight from the dryer on cold days. If that light begins to flicker, it almost feels like a form of self-abuse to try and keep it glowing. But it’s inevitable, like breathing oxygen or knowing one day you’ll die, you’ll fall for someone. Like breathing, this will happen multiple times over the course of life, but like dying, each time you fall it’ll feel like it only needs to happen once. This person became an amalgamation of all the good life had ever brought me and just being around them made all the bad seem like a blurry dream. However I knew I had to pronounce the word ‘casual’ with an emphasis on the ‘complicated.’   Given your circumstances, feelings and emotions will seem intensified in a somewhat peculiar way and they couldn’t feel or be any truer. You’ll fight it, convince yourself that they’ll be happier without your dark, and you’ll be okay with this, but not for very long. You’ll become addicted to these rays of light they give off. They’ll be your crutch, but they’ll also be your deepest wound. Having them worry and go is the absolute last thing that you want. But when I found myself alone, my imagination did most of the talking.   I became emotionally conflicted. ‘Was I in denial? Did I ever think this would work out? Would this emotion ever play out like it does in my head? Why would anyone want to stick around to watch me battle this illness, this life? Why would I let anyone stick around to eventually get hurt even if they did care? When the pin gets taken out of the grenade I embody, are they going to stick the pin back in everytime? Or will they just become a grenade jumper, eventually broken up into tiny pieces.’ “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, it’s not going to get better. It’s not.” Maybe this brutal honesty from Dr. Seuss and the Lorax is what I needed to hear. And maybe this dark wouldn’t be so unbearable if their light wasn’t so blinding.   Am I making the right mistake? I’ve come to terms that I’ll never understand these moments when you need your fix of light. It’s a heartbreaking feeling to know it in your mind to keep looking forward but realizing the reality of never having control. But I like to see it as a beautiful rage that we all share in one way or another. Much like the moon, we borrow our light. It’s never ours permanently. You just hope that this warmth of light keeps coming back around. A text comes in November 14, 2012 11:15 PM, “Let down and given up are two different feelings. Fighting the good fight is waring. And every human spirit is tested. Days like today are your toughest on the spirit. When your hope jar is feeling low, know that mine is full for you to dip into.”   During this time of dark, which in a lot of ways I’m very much still in, I relied heavily on a combination of things; friend’s texts, a group of ladies that heard what was going on and selflessly got together to cook me brain healthy meals to ensure I was eating right, seeing Wreck-It Ralph twice, a sense of faith and hope, frosted mini wheats, Mark Leggett’s tweets, my iPod, writing this, and constantly freaking out my family.   My iPod played a big part in helping me cope with my thoughts. Mainly through the voices of Death Cab for Cutie, Paper Route, and The Weeknd. Much of this piece was influenced not only by the dark and light moments of my life, but also by “Bixby Canyon Bridge” by Death Cab for Cutie. Often I don’t like knowing the true meaning or background to a song. I like to interpret a song’s meaning on my own terms. Ben Gibbard mentioned that when he wrote the album for Narrow Stairs he was at the lowest point in his life. For this song, I believe he was writing about purgatory. Not only is the narrator somebody who has recently died, they are searching for someone that has died before them. The “see you on the other side” or “you are very missed, but we’ll see each other again one day” is the testament of faith that this individual is questioning.    On October 25th, the day after my confused Whole Foods/Home Depot visit, sitting in the doctor’s office feeling completely numb from medicine, getting my vitals read by the neurologist’s clinical nurse, I thought for a split second, ‘the last 12 hours were pretty intense, maybe I had already passed.’ And then a split second after that, I agreed with myself that this isn’t ABC’s long-lived television series “LOST” as the nurse re-assured me that I was alive and somewhat well by saying my pulse was rapid. Often I think about that very first ER visit. How empty I felt. How just after I had accepted my death, I was greeted by this older lady on the same pee schedule as me. Throughout the years she occasionally floats in and out of my thoughts. Her image of what she looks like is slowly fading away in my mind, but that moment is glued to my memory. I often wonder if she’s alive and well, or if her journey on earth ended the day we met or shortly after. I think if we ever do get to meet back up with those that have passed before us, I would want to see family, friends, and I’d want to find her. And maybe just say, thank you, because she gave me the first of many perfect hellos that I didn’t see coming. Over the years, these perfect hellos that I get from friends, family, and even some strangers, continue to breathe life back into me.   A text comes in November 20, 2012 10:46 PM, “Writing definitely does something to the psyche that is inexplicable. My emotional well being is usually steady regardless of the crap as long as I’m feeling somewhat prolific. Safe travels friend.” I sort of envy my friends that can escape from their dark by turning it into music, or training for two marathons, or going back to grad school for yet another master’s, or by baking chocolate chip banana bread. I sat down with three different specialists which all said that I have been suffering from a form of PTSD. Especially after the robbery this year, but that’s a whole other story. They advised that naturally the intensity of my dark will be lightened with time. And what helps with this is by finding an escape.   I’m now 28 and I’m still trying to figure out a level of mentality where both light and dark can exist together. It was a no-brainer, that my escape came from having great moments with the people in my life during this dark time. But often I found myself shying away from them as I didn’t want to always seem like a Debbie Downer and/or Desperate Debbie even though I knew that they would always want to be there for me. Much uncomfortably and worry went into writing this. But writing certainly helped me get past some restless nights with the hope that by sharing these experiences, it may help someone else cope with a dark area in their life. These hard-ships may not make sense to me now, but later, I hope I can turn them into someone else’s life-boat.   This pen has been a perfect escape but I hope the ink runs out soon. My backup escape plan is going back to where it all started. After my white blood cell count returned to steady levels, the hospital has allowed me to help out in a place where extra guts are just a way of life; the Emergency Room.   On January 3, 2013, my first assignment at the hospital was to help discharge a New Year’s Day baby. As the father was running around the hospital room gathering their belongings and the mother sat in a wheelchair with a look of exhaustion and joy on her face, I realized that their newborn was about to take his first real breath of fresh air. In the moment, I couldn’t help but think, ‘this hello was maybe the best.’   As Larry David would say, having said that; please remember, my phone is on, my door is open, sometimes with blunt force, but I am always there for you. If I can help at least one person that’s fighting all alone within a dark storm, I’ll do everything in my willpower to try and help them escape. Because not only have I been in the same storm, I haven’t left.

Happiness is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.

 ―  F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

Accidentally got “honey almond” cereal instead of “forest berries”. Now I’m wondering what other delights does life have in store for me?

―  Mark Leggett

 

A text comes in October 22, 2012 7:00 PM, “Something that took me a long time to realize is that just telling the truth is literally, always the best idea. I never lied but I found myself sugar coating things in a lot of situations. People tend to surprise you. They react better than I typically give them credit for.”

 

New Year’s Eve 2011, 11:59 PM

 

It’s about 10 seconds before the New Year. I’m standing alongside the Boulevard Pool of the Cosmopolitan, looking up into a black sky awaiting fireworks, and thinking, ‘this year was maybe my worst.’ Before I could toast the exploding sky with my champagne glass, I’m interrupted by my intoxicated +1 which confirmed that it was indeed a new year in case I was wondering. I was wondering about a lot of things actually, mainly our food situation. But looking back up into the sky, I got some nervous chills and hoped that the new year wouldn’t be a repeat.

 

March of 2008, Emergency Room, Spring Valley Hospital / Medical Center

 

After the doctor reviewed my cat-scan results, I had just woken up. Somehow my person was moved from an ER bed to one of these big medical chairs while I was sedated. That was probably the most confusing part of my wake. Also the doctor was a different doctor than before and he was telling me that the scan found a questionable mass inside my brain and an MRI had been ordered. The talk between the doctor and I was very brief before they wheeled me up to a hospital room. After our chat, I would have one of the most surreal conversations I’ve ever had with myself. I thought about my brother and parents, some friends, mostly crushes that did or didn’t work out, thought about a couple different places around the world I had lived, my childhood, and then I wondered about how much time I had left. I was 23 years old. I was fortunate enough to have experienced quite a lot in a short amount of time. I was okay with dying if that’s next on life’s itinerary. ‘This isn’t a dream. I’m okay with this, no need to panic.’ And I didn’t. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the medicine, but I was okay with accepting my death. 

 

I was currently suffering head trauma. A steep increase in intracranial pressure. I was dehydrated, my fluids were low, my pulse was high, and just about everything else that could go wrong did. I was in excruciating pain as my body was fighting to stay afloat. My blood cells were sucking up every inch of water it could find to replace the damaged cells in order to re-establish stability. I imagine them screaming, “this is what we live for, all units go go go!” 


They were getting some much needed back-up support. As the fluids were flowing through the I/V in my hand I could feel the tingles of medicine and hydration flowing back into my body all the way into my toes. When I was little, I used to like to imagine those I/V bags were just extra guts. The nurse would have to stop by and help me get up to use the restroom. I was so weak I could feel the needle move in my hand as the nurse pushed my hanger of I/V bags towards the restroom. An older lady had the same idea as we met in front of the restroom at the same time with her hanger of bags. We smiled and I motioned her to go first.

 

Meanwhile I’m back in my big medical chair periodically getting checked by the nurse. Much time passes while I’m still waiting to be wheeled up to my room. I have to head to the restroom once again. But this time, I’ll take my hanger of guts and go on my own. Slowly but surely getting there it just happens to be my ER buddy, the older lady. She laughed as I let her go first again. We must of had our I/V bags hooked up at the same time. We were on the same pee schedule. We exchanged smiles again on her way out and she said, “good luck in here.” I felt better, not so much alone anymore. Not alone in the sense that I didn’t have anybody with me, but in the sense that I wasn’t the only one battling something that was determined to give life an unfair fight.


After being somewhat settled in the hospital, the first neurosurgeon came by to visit me. He explained that the MRI found a mass. An extra-axil septated lobulated mass in the left perimesencephalic cistern which is producing local mass effect on the midbrain, on the left, including the cerebral peduncle and the thalamus, which translated in English means; life as you know it is going to change, completely. 


That was 2008.

 

My life in a weird unexplainable way didn’t change that much except for the idea that my brain could call it a day whenever it felt like it. I could lay down on a Tuesday night and by Wednesday, life could be gone. My medical team has significantly reduced the risk of this complication but I can’t say I don’t think about it every now and then. However nobody could tell. I was still the same me after I was released from my month and a half of medical captivity. Even though the headaches are tough at times I don’t expect the end credits of this confusing life to start rolling anytime soon. If anything my life is just re-creating the same horror film over and over again with slightly different twists. My means of caring and loving anything greater than I already did seemed like a pointless risk. I already have so much to lose, why add to this?

 

A text comes in October 7, 2011 3:01 AM, “Happy belated birthday.”

 

My careless way of living started to change for me. I wasn’t looking to change this well-dressed walking-dead version of me. It just happened. A death occurred in October 2011 and another occurred March of 2012. Unfortunately I’ve dealt with death before. A friend that went back into the water to try and save more lives, a family member, a college roommate and long time best friend, and one of his best friends that I happened to run into nearly 24 hours before his passing. However with these most recent deaths, I couldn’t help but think of the last interactions I had with these two individuals; a long conversation with a cousin about life in LA post college, and small talk about girls with a friend during lunch. Those last moments were the perfect good-byes that I didn’t see coming.


Not only was I grieving, my headaches were becoming sharper and more frequent. I started silently worrying that there may be a slight chance I may not make it. For the most part I felt fine, but when the pain struck it was taking days to wear off. I already missed many days of work and was put on intermittent disability. I was diligent with my medical team’s treatment plan, but they wanted to take a closer look inside. A MRI, MRA, and MRV was ordered for re-evaluation. After my exams came back with less than perfect results, the uncertainty of having brain surgery was a week of worry that I’ve tried to forget. The odd thing about this worry, and something life will never tell you, was that I wasn’t as worried about myself as much as I was saddened by other people worrying. I didn’t want to give any one a perfect good-bye. Especially in sake of my family, my friends, strangers that crossed my path, a girl I wasn’t looking for but found myself in awe.

 

A text comes in October 24, 2012 8:30 AM, “Give me a call when you get off work tonight in the hatch.”


On October 24th, I spent the entire day thinking it was the 25th. I even got prepared to go into meetings and was confused when nobody else was going. A week earlier I had a multi-day headache that required a lot of ice packs and on-set medication that made the week feel kind of foggy. I ended up leaving work early. I was at home, sitting on my bed, feeling like I should take a nap, and then it goes blurry. I could see my ceiling fan, but barely, like tunnel vision. My body locked, and then I felt nothing. Certainly not the nap I had planned. I couldn’t move my arms. I wanted to yell, and the last thing I remember thinking was, ‘oh God, oh God.’ 

 

I thought it was over. Never in my life was the flash of death so vivid. After coming back to reality, gaining my senses and control back, my heart was beating out of my chest. Fear had my undivided attention. This moment seemed to have happened so fast but the little bit of memories still floating in my mind made it seem like forever.

 

I walked out the door and started walking towards Whole Foods, a place I often finish my runs at. I must of walked around the parking lot for an hour before even realizing why I went there in the first place? And I didn’t have any money on me, just keys and a phone. I checked my phone, and it seemed like time had jumped. Like I had been left behind. I became confused and worried, and I began to experience the worst panic attack I’ve ever had. I called my emergency contact and told them I’m not well and that I’m walking towards Red Rock.


During my walk to no where in particular, I was torn with defeat. ‘God, if this is your plan, if this is your path, you need to take me now. Not later.’ I was upset, but most of all I felt let down, like nothing I ever did up to now even mattered. You name it; health uncertainties, family worries, friendship ties, relationship misses. What kind of ‘everything happens for a reason’ set-up is this anyway? It was too much. It being my life and life turning any ray of light into a dark storm of existence. I was confused and empty. I didn’t see a reason why I should be around to see the next day if this is how things were going to be.

 

However, one thought I was absolutely clear about was that I wasn’t going to harm myself. Since birth, I’ve battled with severe asthma which continues to be treated. It’s a weird feeling to know that nearly every breath I’ve ever taken has been medically assisted. And now I’m fighting a second war literally inside my head. None of this is genetic, I was just chosen. Almost as if a force was out to take me out from the start. If I’m to be taken out, it won’t be a decision that I’ll ever make. Believe it or not, it wasn’t our decision to be placed here on earth in the first place, so it certainly isn’t our decision to decide when it’s time to go. But one thought I wasn’t so clear about was how long this hurt would last. I’m terrified to find out but as hard as it is to walk in this dark, I’m hopeful that I’ll find my way.

 

You may feel like you’ve been caught in a heartless trap. You may think your personal world is ending. But so many other human-beings in this world have had unfair starts and hiccups that were way worse. If not for the people that care about you, then you have to do it for them. It being life.

 

Hold on, pain ends.

 

Earlier that day I was texting back and forth with an old friend saying we would talk in the evening. When he called me, I had made it to a Home Depot parking lot. I can’t remember much of the rambled conversation, but I know he held on until help had arrived. I was completely out of it. The physical and emotional pain was so intense that I just started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t process what was happening. If you put a reasonable person in an unreasonable situation, going crazy is the most reasonable choice they can make.

 

I realize after the fact that I didn’t let anyone know I had experienced seizure like symptoms earlier and that I needed to get checked out at some sort of urgent care. This was maybe the second questionable seizure that had occurred within two weeks. Subconsciously, I don’t think I wanted to spend another night in the ER.

 

“In all this you greatly rejoice though now, for a little while, you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.”

 

Have I deserved the right to question this? Or maybe this hurt is a gift that hasn’t been opened yet.


The next day I had an immediate follow up with my neurologist. Blood tests were ordered, not an EEG which still bothers me, but was later ordered. I waited a week to get my blood results. The doctor said, my vitamin D is very low, paused, and then said my white blood cell count is very low. Not to worry, but to follow up with my primary doctor as soon as possible. I looked at the paper with my test results and besides my concern with how I have low vitamin D per my love of cereal, my white blood cells were outlined, in bold, “Out of Range”. My insides had declared war, and this time my outside was more vulnerable than ever.

 

Honestly I’m afraid of this fight. Not the fight itself, but what this fight would mean to the people in my life. I was resilient for the most part, but I knew what illness and mortality had done to me this year. I didn’t want to put that feeling on anyone else I loved and cared about. I knew that they would go through a process that I’ll never understand as they’ll never understand the process I’m going through. And for the first time in years I didn’t want to lose a person that was my only escape from my anxiety storms, hopeless nights, and long foggy days, yet I couldn’t show it.

 

When you’re miserable on the inside thinking of all the dark in your life, a ray of light that somehow finds its way into your dark is nearly the same feeling a patient gets when stepping outside the hospital walls into the sunlight for the first time. Or putting on warm socks straight from the dryer on cold days. If that light begins to flicker, it almost feels like a form of self-abuse to try and keep it glowing. But it’s inevitable, like breathing oxygen or knowing one day you’ll die, you’ll fall for someone. Like breathing, this will happen multiple times over the course of life, but like dying, each time you fall it’ll feel like it only needs to happen once. This person became an amalgamation of all the good life had ever brought me and just being around them made all the bad seem like a blurry dream. However I knew I had to pronounce the word ‘casual’ with an emphasis on the ‘complicated.’

 

Given your circumstances, feelings and emotions will seem intensified in a somewhat peculiar way and they couldn’t feel or be any truer. You’ll fight it, convince yourself that they’ll be happier without your dark, and you’ll be okay with this, but not for very long. You’ll become addicted to these rays of light they give off. They’ll be your crutch, but they’ll also be your deepest wound. Having them worry and go is the absolute last thing that you want. But when I found myself alone, my imagination did most of the talking.

 

I became emotionally conflicted. ‘Was I in denial? Did I ever think this would work out? Would this emotion ever play out like it does in my head? Why would anyone want to stick around to watch me battle this illness, this life? Why would I let anyone stick around to eventually get hurt even if they did care? When the pin gets taken out of the grenade I embody, are they going to stick the pin back in everytime? Or will they just become a grenade jumper, eventually broken up into tiny pieces.’ “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, it’s not going to get better. It’s not.” Maybe this brutal honesty from Dr. Seuss and the Lorax is what I needed to hear. And maybe this dark wouldn’t be so unbearable if their light wasn’t so blinding.

 

Am I making the right mistake?



I’ve come to terms that I’ll never understand these moments when you need your fix of light. It’s a heartbreaking feeling to know it in your mind to keep looking forward but realizing the reality of never having control. But I like to see it as a beautiful rage that we all share in one way or another. Much like the moon, we borrow our light. It’s never ours permanently. You just hope that this warmth of light keeps coming back around.


A text comes in November 14, 2012 11:15 PM, “Let down and given up are two different feelings. Fighting the good fight is waring. And every human spirit is tested. Days like today are your toughest on the spirit. When your hope jar is feeling low, know that mine is full for you to dip into.”

 

During this time of dark, which in a lot of ways I’m very much still in, I relied heavily on a combination of things; friend’s texts, a group of ladies that heard what was going on and selflessly got together to cook me brain healthy meals to ensure I was eating right, seeing Wreck-It Ralph twice, a sense of faith and hope, frosted mini wheats, Mark Leggett’s tweets, my iPod, writing this, and constantly freaking out my family.

 

My iPod played a big part in helping me cope with my thoughts. Mainly through the voices of Death Cab for Cutie, Paper Route, and The Weeknd. Much of this piece was influenced not only by the dark and light moments of my life, but also by “Bixby Canyon Bridge” by Death Cab for Cutie. Often I don’t like knowing the true meaning or background to a song. I like to interpret a song’s meaning on my own terms. Ben Gibbard mentioned that when he wrote the album for Narrow Stairs he was at the lowest point in his life. For this song, I believe he was writing about purgatory. Not only is the narrator somebody who has recently died, they are searching for someone that has died before them. The “see you on the other side” or “you are very missed, but we’ll see each other again one day” is the testament of faith that this individual is questioning. 

 

On October 25th, the day after my confused Whole Foods/Home Depot visit, sitting in the doctor’s office feeling completely numb from medicine, getting my vitals read by the neurologist’s clinical nurse, I thought for a split second, ‘the last 12 hours were pretty intense, maybe I had already passed.’ And then a split second after that, I agreed with myself that this isn’t ABC’s long-lived television series “LOST” as the nurse re-assured me that I was alive and somewhat well by saying my pulse was rapid.

Often I think about that very first ER visit. How empty I felt. How just after I had accepted my death, I was greeted by this older lady on the same pee schedule as me. Throughout the years she occasionally floats in and out of my thoughts. Her image of what she looks like is slowly fading away in my mind, but that moment is glued to my memory. I often wonder if she’s alive and well, or if her journey on earth ended the day we met or shortly after. I think if we ever do get to meet back up with those that have passed before us, I would want to see family, friends, and I’d want to find her. And maybe just say, thank you, because she gave me the first of many perfect hellos that I didn’t see coming. Over the years, these perfect hellos that I get from friends, family, and even some strangers, continue to breathe life back into me.

 

A text comes in November 20, 2012 10:46 PM, “Writing definitely does something to the psyche that is inexplicable. My emotional well being is usually steady regardless of the crap as long as I’m feeling somewhat prolific. Safe travels friend.”



I sort of envy my friends that can escape from their dark by turning it into music, or training for two marathons, or going back to grad school for yet another master’s, or by baking chocolate chip banana bread. I sat down with three different specialists which all said that I have been suffering from a form of PTSD. Especially after the robbery this year, but that’s a whole other story. They advised that naturally the intensity of my dark will be lightened with time. And what helps with this is by finding an escape.

 

I’m now 28 and I’m still trying to figure out a level of mentality where both light and dark can exist together. It was a no-brainer, that my escape came from having great moments with the people in my life during this dark time. But often I found myself shying away from them as I didn’t want to always seem like a Debbie Downer and/or Desperate Debbie even though I knew that they would always want to be there for me. Much uncomfortably and worry went into writing this. But writing certainly helped me get past some restless nights with the hope that by sharing these experiences, it may help someone else cope with a dark area in their life. These hard-ships may not make sense to me now, but later, I hope I can turn them into someone else’s life-boat.

 

This pen has been a perfect escape but I hope the ink runs out soon. My backup escape plan is going back to where it all started. After my white blood cell count returned to steady levels, the hospital has allowed me to help out in a place where extra guts are just a way of life; the Emergency Room.

 

On January 3, 2013, my first assignment at the hospital was to help discharge a New Year’s Day baby. As the father was running around the hospital room gathering their belongings and the mother sat in a wheelchair with a look of exhaustion and joy on her face, I realized that their newborn was about to take his first real breath of fresh air. In the moment, I couldn’t help but think, ‘this hello was maybe the best.’

 

As Larry David would say, having said that; please remember, my phone is on, my door is open, sometimes with blunt force, but I am always there for you. If I can help at least one person that’s fighting all alone within a dark storm, I’ll do everything in my willpower to try and help them escape. Because not only have I been in the same storm, I haven’t left.

SU2C

Sometime this year, donate, volunteer, or send a warm thought to your local hospital, or to the link below… https://secure.standup2cancer.org/custom/?c=donate It’ll be the best birthday gift for someone.

Second Chances

Within a year I lost two beyond awesome people in my life. I spoke to both mothers last week and heard the most amazing news; one is in the process to help adopt a baby girl with health issues, the other decided to change her career completely and is now in school to become an RN. 

I wrote earlier this year, “when tragedies like these occur, it almost makes you want to discredit the belief that everything happens for a reason. Sure eggs need to be broken to make an omelet, but some of us don’t want an omelet, some of us are just fine with cereal.” 

You know what, I think I’ll take that omelet this time. Strangely beautiful how one’s tragedy can become one’s second chance.

Soundtrack for BummertownLet’s start with our word of the day, hippocampus. The hippocampus is the part of the brain that is involved in memory forming, organizing, and storing. It is a limbic system structure that is particularly important in forming new memories and connecting emotions and senses, such as smell and sound, to memories.If you’ve been brave/bored enough to follow my activity on the social networks throughout the years, you may notice that I talk about some band from Nashville, TN named Paper Route nearly everytime it rains. Luckily for you, I happen live in a desert and not Seattle. So what’s my deal with Paper Route and rain?On one unseasonably gloomy weekend, I picked up a stack of albums to find some new sounds. Within this stack was Paper Route’s debut album “Absence”. The only reason why this album was included in the stack was because of a song called “Carousel”.“Carousel” sounds like an musical score of some sci-fi thriller that I’d probably end up seeing by myself. But a lot of things stuck out about this song; It’s use of both drum machines and live drums, the depressing hooks, and most of all, the two second use of side-chain compression. For me, pretty much all dubstep sounds like an angry acid-trip lecture from Charlie Brown’s teacher, but this time, for two seconds, it sounded right.I gave the album to my roommate to check out before I listened to any other songs off the album. His review of the album came out something like: “Chuck! Chuck, it’s Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Berry! You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well listen to this!”So let’s go back to the fundamentals. Most people when they hear a song for the first time, they listen to it the same way a hip-hop artist typically approaches a track by zoning in on the beat first, hook second. For “Absence” it took a few spins for me to get past the amazing electro-pop-soundtrackish production to get a grip on what they are actually singing about. I noticed that not only was this band singing about heartache, they were also including abstracts of religious faith throughout the album (further reading: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/culture/music/features/18493-paper-route-delivers).At this point in my Paper Route  obsession career, “Wish” might be the track that means the most to me. In a recent interview, lead singer J.T. Daly explained how upon the follow-up of their debut, “Life got really heavy, really fast.” (further reading: http://relm.ag/Nv87lm)Personally, this year has had some barely above sea-level Ups, and some black-diamond steep Downs. From health, mortality, relationships, robbery, to spending thousands of dollars on said health, it’s been a hell of a year. I’ve heard from so many great human-beings in my life that are all thinking and praying for these days to level out and it’s meant a lot.When you get to a certain depth of darkness, prayers start to come out like wishes, and desperation for those wishes to come to fruition can cause an emotional rage that I wouldn’t wish upon anybody. Paper Route does something in their song “Wish” that practically all artist try to re-create. They pieced together a song that not only tells you how it happened, but tells you how it felt.I’ve been using Paper Route’s music as my escapism medication since 2009. Today they share a release date for their follow-up album “The Peace of Wild Things” with the electro likes of The xx, and the religious folk tales of The Avett Brothers. It was hard to get around to all the amazing albums released today because my hippocampus just happened to notice, it was raining today.Paper Route on Spotify:http://open.spotify.com/user/adamtaj/playlist/4lUk9kab3nrzsolUtfZsB2

Soundtrack for Bummertown

Let’s start with our word of the day, hippocampus. The hippocampus is the part of the brain that is involved in memory forming, organizing, and storing. It is a limbic system structure that is particularly important in forming new memories and connecting emotions and senses, such as smell and sound, to memories.

If you’ve been brave/bored enough to follow my activity on the social networks throughout the years, you may notice that I talk about some band from Nashville, TN named Paper Route nearly everytime it rains. Luckily for you, I happen live in a desert and not Seattle. So what’s my deal with Paper Route and rain?

On one unseasonably gloomy weekend, I picked up a stack of albums to find some new sounds. Within this stack was Paper Route’s debut album “Absence”. The only reason why this album was included in the stack was because of a song called “Carousel”.

“Carousel” sounds like an musical score of some sci-fi thriller that I’d probably end up seeing by myself. But a lot of things stuck out about this song; It’s use of both drum machines and live drums, the depressing hooks, and most of all, the two second use of side-chain compression. For me, pretty much all dubstep sounds like an angry acid-trip lecture from Charlie Brown’s teacher, but this time, for two seconds, it sounded right.

I gave the album to my roommate to check out before I listened to any other songs off the album. His review of the album came out something like: “Chuck! Chuck, it’s Marvin. Your cousin, Marvin Berry! You know that new sound you’re looking for? Well listen to this!”

So let’s go back to the fundamentals. Most people when they hear a song for the first time, they listen to it the same way a hip-hop artist typically approaches a track by zoning in on the beat first, hook second. For “Absence” it took a few spins for me to get past the amazing electro-pop-soundtrackish production to get a grip on what they are actually singing about. I noticed that not only was this band singing about heartache, they were also including abstracts of religious faith throughout the album (further reading: http://www.relevantmagazine.com/culture/music/features/18493-paper-route-delivers).

At this point in my Paper Route  obsession career, “Wish” might be the track that means the most to me. In a recent interview, lead singer J.T. Daly explained how upon the follow-up of their debut, “Life got really heavy, really fast.” (further reading: http://relm.ag/Nv87lm)

Personally, this year has had some barely above sea-level Ups, and some black-diamond steep Downs. From health, mortality, relationships, robbery, to spending thousands of dollars on said health, it’s been a hell of a year. I’ve heard from so many great human-beings in my life that are all thinking and praying for these days to level out and it’s meant a lot.

When you get to a certain depth of darkness, prayers start to come out like wishes, and desperation for those wishes to come to fruition can cause an emotional rage that I wouldn’t wish upon anybody. Paper Route does something in their song “Wish” that practically all artist try to re-create. They pieced together a song that not only tells you how it happened, but tells you how it felt.

I’ve been using Paper Route’s music as my escapism medication since 2009. Today they share a release date for their follow-up album “The Peace of Wild Things” with the electro likes of The xx, and the religious folk tales of The Avett Brothers. It was hard to get around to all the amazing albums released today because my hippocampus just happened to notice, it was raining today.

Paper Route on Spotify:
http://open.spotify.com/user/adamtaj/playlist/4lUk9kab3nrzsolUtfZsB2

seahorsesmusic:

Here is the track for all you Tumblers.  It’s called “Like a Glass”.  I wrote this back in 2009 after waking from a nightmare.  The song was completely written and recorded within an hour … all one takes.  Probably the fastest and most careless I’ve ever been regarding the process, but it’s still one of my favorite recordings.  So I dug it out.

Hope you enjoy it.  Share it if you do.  And I’ll keep posting new/old songs that are littering my hard drives.

Justin

TheWeeknd - KISS LAND
SU2C
Second Chances

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THE VOICE PROJECT
ROSTAM
terrible thrills
I DECLARE COLOR WAR DOT NET
River Whyless
ANDREW DOST.
make a move
KEXP
iamdonald
B e B e
WRIGHTEOUS
Ain't Life Grand
perri pickles + imperfections
Special Problems
Secret Lives of Seahorses!
The Magician's Private Library
Solindsy
i am trying to have fun
Winnie Cooper Music Blog
Books on Mixtape
FOSTER THE PEOPLE
A Time To Shine
Vickyt's blog
shoulder kids unite
Untitled
Do You Hear The Music
West Coast Sound