Brad said to me a few weeks ago, “When there’s nothing on the blog I just assume things must be going well.” Not true really. I’m writing here when things are going well. If I write about the shitty things it’s because they’re not shitty anymore. I can only write about them then. Post-shitty. So, here I am, post-shitty. Post the shittiest I’ve been in years. Probably 5 five years. It was dark. I was hanging out with the dark friends in that cramped and moldy dark place they like so much. I don’t really like it there but I spent most of my early 20’s there so it’s not entirely uncomfortable. But, thankfully, the more time I spend in the light, the less I like the dark. But, sometimes, you just have to sit in your own shit.

In portuguese the verb, to stay, is ficar. As in, “Eu estou indo ficar no Brasil” (literally i am going to stay in the brazil). But it’s also used as a verb, to hook-up, as in with a tall, gorgeous, fashion designy, Bikini Kill listening broads. Anyway. Eu fiquei (the past tense of ficar) com ela duas vezes. That’s it. Two times. And she blew me off. I went all mopey mcgee about for about a week. It really surprised me but it shouldn’t have. Surprised me. Must crush the oppressive burden of high expectations. Plus this fucking place is littered with girls to ficar with. It was made for it.

It was also slightly more complicated than that. Something about vulnerability and a person’s innate desire to be good at things. Maybe I want to be good at things more than the average person. It’s hard to be the charming and hilarious wordsmith when you don’t speak the language. And with that vulnerability (being blown off, not being able to express my awesomeness) came some old shit. Some old darkness.

Here’s an aside:

Last night, the subject of my mom came up with Marcelo and, god bless his good intentions, he began advise me on how I should not talk about it so casually; how it could/might/will inhibit my ability to ficar with pretty, young girls. He began to share an anecdote about how he told a girl at a party about some trouble he had in high school and how he found out later that she was turned off by his over-share. He, naively and stacked up with good intentions, tried to equate tough high school days with an unspeakable trauma. I like him so I mostly let it go. But I did explain this: I do it, talk about my mom casually, because I have to. Because if I don’t, it just sits there like a puss-filled, festering sore. Besides, I don’t really like secrets. If you’re easy with your secrets, they’re easy on you.

So, the over-share:

I was kicked out of the Navy because I had post-traumatic stress disorder. From the whole dead mom dealio. When I was a little dude and I would have a fever I would have these terrifying waking nightmares that I described to my shrink (Mark) as screaming, screeching, battling clouds. It would only happen when I was sick and, in turn, I fucking hated being sick. I still hate it. I fall apart when I have a fever. Terrified. And it suddenly stopped when I was 10 or 11. Just went away. But, like all awesome things, it came back. When I was 16 or 17 I started having them regularly and not only when I was sick; in class, at the dinner table, with no warning and fucking relentless. They would last for 2 to 10 seconds and the longer they lasted the more debilitating they were. Sometimes, with the longer ones, I would actually drop to my knees and dry heave. The feeling, as I’ve read, is similar to a panic attack.

Well, I got kicked out of the Navy for it. I had no problem with this. I wanted out of the Navy and I even initiated the kick-out (with a shrinks help). A few years later, I wrangled myself a delightful, dirt-worshiping shrink in San Luis Obispo (Nancy) in my early 20’s and through the magical fucking miracle of talk-therapy I pretty much had them under control by the time I was 24. In the last 10 years I typically have 1 or 2 a year and they usually only last 1 to 2 seconds. Not bad. Totally liveable. And not entirely unwelcome. You see, I don’t really want to be “all better”. I crave the memory of what happened and I always want it to hurt. To be terrifying.

Back to vulnerability. Sick as a little kid, adolescence, the navy, my early 20’s. All incredibly vulnerable times for me. Well, it happened four fucking times last week. Four Fucking Times. Twice in one night.

So, that’s why I haven’t been writing.

Everything is fine now. Thanks for asking.