I started taking some new meds to help combat my ADHD. This is a first for me. I have never been medicated for it before, but that is because I refused to believe/accept my diagnosis. (I was diagnosed in my early 20’s.) However, it is has reached a point that it is impossible to deny that it is a problem. Especially these past few weeks.
My doctor prescribed me the anti-depressant Bupropion. Supposedly it is meant to be a mild form of ADHD medication in addition to stop me from the “sads.” What I am bothered by is that these were given in addition to the Lexapro I am currently taking. I feel as though this is overkill, however I am dealing with a lot, so maybe that’s the logic in it’s prescription? Or maybe it’s easier to get than a controlled substance.
My lone complaint thus far is the sense of “apathy” I feel. Which is a familiar sensation with these medications.
I have run through the gamut when it comes to anti-depressants. I have done all of them and the only one that seems to work for me is Lexapro. It stabilizes my moods without sacrificing my personality, or make me feel like I’m not “me.” Others tend to make me “not care.” Specifically when it comes to my writing. I worry that this will be much like the others that have come before it. (With the exception of Prozac which made me crazy-er.)
I love to write. I really do. It’s the one way I can put my thoughts into literal black and white. And while they’re in front of me I can figure them out or form them into a more cohesive message. The problem I face when I start anti-depressants is I stop doing this. It’s almost as if in the lack of these feelings I lose all purpose for doing the thing that I love. This post in particular… This is actually my second attempt. I started to write another blog about “finding the new normal” in my life and I got two paragraphs in before I thought… “Who cares?”
I want to give the Bupropion a chance before I decide to give up all together. My ADHD had gotten so bad I felt like a car stereo trying to play a song from a scratched CD over a bumpy road. (That metaphor only works for gen x and millennials.) I could/can not focus. My work life had gotten so chaotic in this that I found myself doing EVERYTHING ELSE but the task I was given to do. The fact that none of this had an immediate due date also did not help.
I’m worried this will turn out much like it has before. Yet I am trying my hardest to keep an open mind and not fall into old habits. I need to do something because I am suffering… and just trying to make it through isn’t going to cut it this time around. Because as it is, my life is in the aftermath of having been in utter chaos. I’m left to rebuild after a category 6 hurricane. I’m going to need all the help I can get.
I have no content going into this, other than the fact that this morning I woke up missing my husband more than I have yet so far. I had a dream wherein he, tony, josh, and myself all went to see a movie in some “famous” theater. We didn’t even know what we were signing up to see but we went regardless as part of his “seeing it all before he dies” attitude. Josh and Tony sat nearby but not next to us. He and I took a spot kind of off to the side (because of his power chair) and we were at an odd angle from the screen.
Nothing else happened in the dream, regarding him. He could have almost been seen as a prop more than an actual presence. What I think triggered me was the inclusion of one of his friends there to visit him one more time before he passed away. I hugged the friend in the dream and then woke up. Dread cut through my chest like a bolt of fire. I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to move. I just wanted to cry. For the first time I missed my husband more than I have yet. And each day I say, multiple times to myself, that I really, really miss him.
Lately I have been lost, trying to find what my life looks like without him in it. What is the new “normal?”
I’m trying to find it. Truly. I bought Disneyland annual passes to recreate my sense of adventure before he was ever diagnosed, and before the literal world fell apart with covid. That felt hollow and I ended up spending entirely too much money. I ended up feeling more guilty and annoyed than anything.
I’ve thought about going into theatre again, but I don’t have the energy to do it. Plus, they moved the one theatre I could participate in (I kind of ruined my chances with the other ones…) to the other side of town. Any show I could get a part in would require months of rehearsal… I’m not interested.
That’s the problem… I lack interest.
This past weekend I entered into one of my favorite writing competitions, the NY Midnight Flash Fiction. It cost $65 to participate but I like the challenge and the risk of wining the prize. I’ve only once made it to round 3, where I ultimately didn’t place in the top 3 to win a prize. This most recent one… I had to force myself to do it or risk having wasted the entry fee. In the end I pumped out a fun little story that made me laugh… I don’t know how it’ll go over with the judges. It was super “meta” as the kids would say. It was also mildly insulting if viewed through a particular lens, and on top of all that I didn’t do the assignment specifically stated in the assignment instructions. We’ll see how it goes…
All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep. I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything. Yet I can’t. I have to keep going.
This weekend was a busy one. I had event after event to go to and at the end of it I am genuinely exhausted. Mentally, physically, and (most of all) emotionally.
I had two events that were in-law related. One was a birthday and the other a celebration of life. I was happy to go because I do genuinely love my in-laws. I love them more than my own family, to be honest. The other reason I wanted to make sure I was there was to be my husband’s stand-in. I know I will never replace him, not in a million years, but I know it is what he would want from me. Nothing makes me happier than for him to be happy, even if it is totally up to my own interpretation.
The only downside of being at these events was that Charlie wasn’t. His absence was greatly felt. Especially from me. All I wanted to do was turn to him and make small asides about the family. They were all in good fun, but the inability to even that broke my heart and make me miss him even more.
The thing I’ve heard in the ALS LGBTQ group a lot is that this is the year of “firsts.” All of it is going to be something new and sad. I just have to power through with a smile and know that the one thing (I know without a shred of doubt) is that my husband wanted me to keep living.
Yesterday I made it back to Disneyland with the boyfriend. It was something we loved doing and did (monthly) prior to the great disrupt of Covid, and the subsequent diagnosis of Charlie.
My husband hated Disneyland. He hated the crowds, the rides, and the price of everything. So when I found someone to go with it was heaven. The one thing I would look forward to was going home and telling him all the things we did and show him the cool swag I bought that he would have hated or thought was tacky.
On the ride home I just felt sad. The phrase I repeated in my mind was “I miss Charlie.” I do…
When he was alive the moment I left to go do something he’d wait 20 or 30 minutes before he would message “Do you miss me yet?” At the time I found it annoying and only slightly emotionally manipulative because how could I miss you when we haven’t even gone an hour without talking. Even a text keeps someone in my thoughts so I don’t really miss them if they’re still there. (I think that’d an ADHD thing by the way.) Now I’m angry with myself for not knowing what was to come and for getting angry. I wish I could tell him how much I really do miss him. And I am sure on some plane he knows.
Charlie (27) and I (19) in line for the ferry back to San Francisco from Alcatraz.
I was never one for the “free” service OneDrive offers for photos “On This Day.” I couldn’t have cared less. I had other things to think about besides strolling down memory lane with photographs of happier times. Moments when my life wasn’t consumed by chaos. However since my husband’s death I have taken each opportunity with renewed excitement. One, because it’s been nice seeing photos that wax and wane from sentimental to bizarre. (“Why the fuck did I save this?”) And two, because every one of them has included a dick shot from the bf. Which I find hilarious. Today’s photo set did not though. Which is serendipitous because it put the spotlight solely on Charlie, my husband.
In line for the ferry to Alcatraz.
This trip was one of our favorites. We recounted it up until the end because it is what got us hooked on “spur of the moment” and “unplanned” adventures. It’s also where we got some of our best stories.
Charlie had been given his inheritance from his grandmother’s (or grandfather) passing. After purchasing a video camera he had intended to use to film his own adult entertainment (a la Corbin fisher or Sean Cody) for his own website, he decided that we should take a trip up to San Francisco. We needed a vacation. We needed time to reconnect and mend our fence.
Prior to this, in March 2005, was when he had discovered the emails that proved I was cheating. After a very tense fight we broke up for a couple hours before he called me back to his place. It was then that he told me what it would take for him to earn his trust again and I agreed. I would do anything to rectify the hurt I had caused him. And it was serious trauma. For both of us.
This trip brought us out of the funk that had lingered around the brief break up. We reconnected and found what made us work. It was our openness to adventure and the possibility of the unknown.
During it we made a stop at the Winchester mansion, one of my more favorite locales in California. Not because of the spooky nature of the home, but because of the absurdity some people place in their beliefs of death and dying. (Me being one of them by the way.) We didn’t get anything spooky on film however I got some pretty neat photos. I’m surprised they didn’t show up in yesterday’s email…
Later that night we walked from our hotel into China town and down to the wharf. We immediately regretted it on the trek back, which was almost entirely a steep incline.
The following day we took a trip to Alcatraz (as shown in the photos) and after a rest from scouring “the rock!” we went to a male strip club located around the corner from our hotel. It is THE STORY I love to recount because of how bonkers it was. (And just know there are minor details that add to the flavor that unfortunately didn’t make it into the narrative.)
The “strip club” was called Knob Hill Theatre, located next to “Charlies inn” which my mom had said was a funny coincidence. We paid entry and walked in to find a man blowing an entirely naked hunk to our right, in the top row of a set of theatre seats. Caught off guard we hurried down the hallway to where we could see the start of a stage through another doorway. As we got closer we saw no one was there. Stepping into the entryway we looked back and realized that the completely naked man was the dancer. This was before the announcer could let us know that “the bigger the tip, the bigger the thrill.”
We ventured on due to the discomfort of the scene and found a set of showers, equipped with booths to view in, and a room filled with televisions playing various pornographic video clips. In that room was a man with his pants around his ankles jerking off. Startled we hurried out of that room and back into the hallway.
“Do you think he works here too?” I asked my husband.
“Nope. I think he’s just some guy.”
We go back to the theatre and it’s empty. We take a seat along the aisle, midway in the audience. The next dancer comes out, Rico. He has a samba soundtrack with a Latin beat to match his outward exterior. He removes some clothes and ventures out into the audience to ask for a tip. My husband and I shake our heads to politely decline and he goes to the back where the one other gentleman had been blowing the previous dancer. I assume he also declines and “Rico” goes back on stage and removes everything else but his socks. He strolls once again into the audience to us. He leans against the back of the chair in front of me, props up a leg and opens up the top of his tube sock to say “do you want to give me a tip?”
I giggled and said, “I’m good.”
He does the same to the guy in the back who, it appears, to have also said no.
Rico storms to the stage, grabs up his clothes and leaves the stage in a huff. The music playing loudly overhead to no one in particular.
Next comes out a dancer who looked as though they literally took him off the street. He was wearing cargo shorts, vans, a t-shirt underneath an opened, button up shirt, and a cap. His chosen dance tracks Fiona Apple and Madonna songs. Slowly he starts to dance this reserved, insecure collection of body movements, while looking back at the music booth with the most pathetic expression, as if to say “don’t make me do this.”
He continues to dance through each song reluctantly taking off items of clothing. Finally, I lean over to Charlie and ask for a $5 and rush up to the edge of the stage. I hold up the folded bill between two fingers and say, “Please don’t cry.”
He laughs and takes the money. I return to my seat followed closely by (who we would forever refer to as) the crying stripper. He was totally naked at this point and as he’s standing in the aisle, stroking himself, as he has a totally mundane conversation with both my husband and me; asking us where we’re from and what we’re doing in the city. Shit you have with someone in a hotel lobby and not at all while someone is masturbating before you. Finally he ends the conversation and goes back on stage to collect his things and leaves.
“How is it that you can have an easy conversation with him but you’re shy around my family?” Charlie had asked me.
I shrugged.
The next dancer was a no show, so we make one final round through the place before leaving. That’s when we see someone in the “shower.” It was our crying stripper! I rushed into the booth and knocked enthusiastically on the glass. He turns and I excitedly wave at him.
He laughs and I pop in a $20 through the slot in the window. He holds up his index finger.
The crying stripper pumps some soap into his hand and then strolls over to the glass and starts jerking off. After a few moments he cums on the window and I clap while I say “yay!”
He blushes, chuckles and then mouths, “Thank you.”
I am sad to inform you that the theatre is no longer open. It was one of the many casualties of the Covid epidemic. However, I’ve heard rumors of people trying to preserve and reopen it. Fingers crossed. It was a fun place! This story alone got my friends interested in going, which also resulted in another story for the book.
Charlie browsing a menu of a restaurant whose name escapes me.
I’m glad I have these photos. If it wasn’t for my persistence in taking them (at this time) I wouldn’t have them now. He hated having his picture taken. He would ruin any photo with a weird face or by blocking the lens. So I had to get clever of when and where I took his picture. My techniques followed me throughout our relationship. My preferred choice was on the sly, when he was distracted with something else. To me he had a natural handsomeness in his “observations.” If he were to do the same to me I would just look bitchy. I have some intense R.B.F.
I am genuinely sad that we will not have any other misadventures. They were what made our life unpredictable and fun. Not only that, he made them better to experience them. We pushed each other into the most bizarre of scenarios, just because something off-the-wall sounded kind of fun. And those were always the stories we loved to tell.
Side note, he would be mortified that I posted this one in a public forum.
The Journal of a Jaded Josh 