Saturday, September 14, 2013

Don't Let The Bastards Get You Down

It is true...Sometimes in the face of adversity you need to move to that special happy place where you no longer care. Instead of caring, you "nothing." An artist I reviewed and interviewed sent me a link about writers that document their experience while dealing with chronic illness and I have found the idea to be as cathartic and beneficial as any of the 19 pills I am currently taking for advanced liver disease.

"Feel better."

Nice thought, that is what you say when you really don't know what else might apply. Over the past week I have been put through the emotional wringer. I've had a label trash my web site. I've had artists that I thought might actually be "friends" attempt to embarrass me publicly and to be honest maybe that was not their intent but the road to hell as they say. I found myself in the emergency room earlier in the week due to apparent renal shutdown for over 48 hrs, between that an a confirmed cardiac episode due largely in part to the strain my body is under it was not surprising. While I laid there with tubes coming in and out of virtually every orifice one could imagine my father decided that, "by God if they can't move any faster than this I have to get something to eat." It never ceases to amaze me that a man that had flown fighter aircraft for a living thinks he is more qualified than a board certified trauma specialist to handle my medical care. It also amazes me how an 80 yr old man who is essentially no longer relevant can be dating a woman young enough to be on my radar. Luckily I have standards and my libido is no longer set on whore. Oh yeah, did I mention my mom? You figure it out. A few days ago World War III erupted and my wonderful father referred to me as a "shit writer" and that I "ruined his life by being his son." Must have had something to do with the 9 times I busted him out on his affair. Meanwhile he runs to church every Sunday to take a mulligan so he can then trash black people, gay people, and of course women. A vile and disgusting little man.

The only thing missing from his house is cinder blocks and George Jones playing from a pickup to make the environment totally complete. While my fatigue is through the roof and my physical condition has worsened to a degree, I keep on keeping on. I refuse to allow the bastard to get me down, any bastard. I had a pianist confide in me that his father was also not one to be considered father of the year. Much like chronic illness, you don't waste time wondering why. You accept things as they are and embrace the good things and the good people and you take the garbage out and place it in the trash compactor of life.

Shit happens. It would appear Dad's mistress is cyber spying on me, publishing her email address would be too easy. Unlike my father who graduated from the Army War College, I have forgotten more about tactics and strategy then he ever learned. The student has become the teacher. I am remaining positive, I am grateful for the financial aid and prayers and I still have a pulse.

I'm out.