Missing America

1924 was a good year, just look at how the roaring ’20 saved fabric…Susan B. Anthony legacy would be cemented on August 24th, 1920 with the ratification of the 19th Amendment. Why ’24 over the other years though?

• Lenin died.
• The first gas chamber execution. Skip O’Hare. went ahead in Las Vegas which coincided with Bob’s all you can eat chili smothered burrito night and the Edison funnel, deemed a failure after Mr. O’Hare merely vomited everywhere. Instead he electrocuted an elephant again, to fall on Mr. O’Hare. Due to a bum leg ligament, Franz, the elephant fell into the crowd, killing 7 onlookers. The sick Skip O’Hare demanded a new trial on the 7 latest victims and would live another 14.8 years.
• Hitler is sentenced to 5 years fir his role in Beer Hall Putsch, serving only 5 months.
• J.Edgar Hoover becomes head of FBI.
• George Mallory slowly became a human Popsicle, sadly before Sal. the shaved ice guy from Philly could douse him in cherry syrup.
• Native Americans are granted US citizenship if born within the USA….not a joke.
• My favorite: Toastmasters is founded.
• First Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade is held.
• Dec 30th, Canada craps out a hockey team, and calls it the Boston Bruins.

What does any of this have to do with Miss America 1924? Ruth Malcomson  was from Philadelphia…and she WON! Modern miracles do happen.

Miracles happen. I need one but fact of the matter is God went above and beyond in my case of them.

Between miracles though we have these bookends, the above: Those bare knees. Hearts race, the quicken pulses producing a faint dew of perspiration of men everywhere within eye contact of this vixen from 1921 and below:

Sacajawea’s cousin Sits on Hay (©1931) finishes a disappointing 43rd. One judge commented her outfits were nothing but “harlot” quality all night long.

She faded off into obscurity, and that was alright for her.

A friend told me something the other day that made it easier- “you hsve a legacy, on these blogs, and the memoirs. Michael, they are incredible, their word, your experiences, those things have helped people get through things. That God saved your junkie ass alive along enough to finish is many things, a miracle for you, a blessing for us.”

People tell you something like that and it’s impossible to not be amazed, to be humbled and honored. I did it right this time around, and while the cancer thing certainly qualifies as in need of a miracle for healing, my heart has rejuvenated, and my soul fully mended. For those gifts, what can I even say? The goodness inside of me, that chunk o’ God inside us all- grace allowed me to sweep the wreckage away from it, while I mended a lot of it, I needed a friend here to rehabilitate my ego, another to resuscitate my connection with Him, while others alleviated the pain I created.

The miracle has so many facets, so many players involved, and seemingly from all of the randomness comes an order. How else do you explain any of my beautiful life, a life I endeavor to keep being thankful with each new day. One more chance to give back. For all of you who took the time to read this, thank you- there’s one miracle in itself, you made it through the whole thing.

PEACE and Love,
-MFJ

A Beautifully Chaotic Life

I’ve lived a beautiful life, and even though I know my countdown has begun earlier than most people, I am ok with it- the majority of the time. Fact is the kid who had a blasé outlook for so long is absolutely loving life. However, on the way home from the Tool concert, I lost it talking to my buddy.

He saw a side of me few do-the raw, unpolished, unprepared guy whose truest emotions rest at the bottom of God’s murky filled cauldron of mystery stew. My batch is good on salt big guy. Every once in a while though the angel stirring the pot is out smoking or on a more important call-lord knows there is enough tragedy and pain on this planet, it’s a wonder dinner is ever served. Point is, that calm, collected demeanor sticks to the bottom sometimes and I scream out unrehearsed material -which goes like this – “I don’t want to fucking die yet. It’s too early!”

Obviously I am still here, but I felt human the other night at Tool. Maybe diseased  or a cancer-ridden  human is more accurate. The metastasized bone cancer areas made their presence known on a couple hour drive. My last vertebrae is affected, as well as areas in my pelvis, meaning sitting hurt. Talk about something we take for granted. “I don’t want to fucking die, and I don’t want to feel so much pain just fucking sitting.” I don’t get both right now, so the living part will be the better play. Tomorrow when I meet with my hospice nurse, my pain meds may go up again. 300mg of extended-release morphine twice a day and 20mg of immediate release hourly if needed put most of my body at peace, but now there’s this, so 400mg, here we come probably.

I had someone tell me how lucky I am to be getting so many opiates. I won’t be speaking to that cretin anymore. “Yeah, I’m blessed- Look at that, I have some leftover chondrosarcoma, lung and bone cancer there’s plenty to spare. Lucky for you my mom raised me to share.” Speaking of lung cancer, 4 flights of stairs at the parking garage and I could barely breathe to curse the cheap bastards for saving  a dime on no elevators. I needed oxygen, desperately. I’ve never felt that before unless someone knocks the wind out of me. It’s a race of ironies, because  needed it as fast as possible, yet had to pace myself between a narcoleptic snail and a Xanax addicted 3-toed sloth.

By far the worst thing though was the other 5 people I was with-they wanted to do something. As I sat breathing in my oxygen, I began to sob. I just can’t keep up with regular people-I’m sick. I’m slowly dying.

I told one of them about it, and through his Russian accent, I remember him telling me that it was cool, not to worry about it. I was there wasn’t I? Isn’t that the important thing? I was fucking there, and that is a beautiful thing. I turn 43 Wednesday. Pearl Jam plays here on April 8th. It would be the 25th show I’ve seen them, and plan on seeing them.

My life has been a wonderful experience. I’ve truly lived it, through all the pain and bs, nothing has stopped me. I saw Game 1 of the 1992 Stanley Cup Finals. I’ve been halfway around the world, countless countries and historical monuments, like Ankgor Wat in Cambodia, Mayan ruins in Tulum, Stanley Cup and a Steeler  victory parades. On and on with the sights, but then there’s the people through all of it. From Mario Lemieux Christmas shopping at Kaufman’s. As a boy, Jimmy “Superfly” (sadly a Murderer) Snuka, to my guys on the railroad tracks, having their deep philosophical conversations on everything from politics to what dog looks strong in the 8th race at the kennel club. The amount of awesome in my life is just humbling.

I got this text last night and cried like a baby who had his Twinkies stolen. Do babies eat Twinkies? Not important.

You’re the man. I appreciate your strength more than you know. It was a good time. I’ll be back sometime this week.

Funny thing, he taught me how to be that man.

Peace & Love-
MFJ

Cancer Diaries: What is That Creeping Behind Me?

Angels represent refined earthly wants and desires, and that allows writers to slap “pure” in front of just about any word to heighten its sense of value and universality.

Truths…those absolutes that play out the same way, over and over in life.  Not everyone is going to pay taxes, so that cuts the cliche down to 50%, and really, Michael Jackson is still alive in so many of our hearts, music turned into data or perilously preserved in vinyl grooves, so is even death a certainty?

Legacies…memories with the brain’s Play button pressed in someone’s head, somewhere, right this minute. Since I just wrote it, I’m thinking about seeing him a few nights ago, on a Motown tribute concert, singing Billie Jean, all those sequins refracting light, the one glove, and of course, those dance moves. Because you just wrote it, you’re thinking about him right now too, but maybe you don’t like his music, maybe you think him having Mr. Bubbles the chimp for a pet was inhumane, but MJ left many marks.

MJ…I hear it, I think Michael Jordan. Just my most popular internal search result. The man was the flat out the best to ever play the game. His competitive spirit the thing that should be envied, from playing baseball and gambling, to out-dunking Dominique back when the NBA mattered.

Add up those first 4 paragraphs, you obviously reach the sum of MFJ, the author of this blog, me, physically being consumed by cancer, an unknown quantity of numbered days remaining, who values the one sole truth of love being the answer, and wanting to leave that mark on someone in this world.

I mean clearly, that’s the inside picture from my exact thought process- as one word suggests the next in sequence, albeit my order. A progression where I am denying a very important certainty, we all die. The difference is- I know my time is just about up. Doctors tell me this and the searing pain in my chest remind me there just might be some veracity in their claims, proving they are indeed fortune tellers. Tomorrow there might be a radical discovery curing all malignancies, because a team of doctors have been in the Amazon (which, in this rare case, is NOT a vast place of consumerism, where you can buy Shoestring Theories), find that the feces from a rare moth larvae pulls the plug on this unchecked cellular aggression. That or God is sick of my fucking ‘Cancer Diaries’ blogs.

Bingo Michael.  Enough is enough. I mean, I have given you the PERFECT opening to reignite the halcyon days of Tinderfish, OurTinderTime.com, – that collection comedic genius- that was pure (<- see what I did there?) sophomoric humor at its most sublime. So, you’re going to wrap this blog up, and go edit your Tinder profile:

Ladies, I respect your honesty: that you are not on an app that brings people together based on solely on attraction to fuck and have one-night stands. That somewhere in those right swipes, love blooms. I really want that too, but I have terminal cancer. Do you think we might be able to wave that rule you have  though, because I’m dying – and I know Vanessa Williams is on the money, because I want to Save the Best for Last too.

Enough God, I will not stoop to that level or shut up about my illness. I mean, you’re the one who writes this story line, so at least let me fill in the some of the blanks. That people in similar situations can share exactly how some of this feels, that type of sharing is vital.

I’ve become obsessed with my phlegm. Is that a fleck of red in there? Is that some of my once healthy lung? What exactly is happening on my insides and more importantly, this- you gave me so many shots at dying before- is a shitty way to take me out. I mean it-why did you waste all the time from even my last overdose in 2014 to now. It could have just ended then. My guardian angels would have gotten some extra time off, or re-assigned to someone who had enough to offer he wasn’t just killed off 2 years later.

I am angry. I am sad. Both because I am scared.

I shouldn’t be mad, I should be celebrating life. But I’m in my own panic.

I’m sick of this.

I can’t fall asleep because I might not wake up.

And well, I have more shit to accomplish.

I’m invested in Star Wars– I have to make it to 8 & 9. Give me that. A legacy. That humor deflects, it never changes the truth. The greatest truth in life- love, for my fellow human being- that is pure. That is joy, to help another human being, to unknowingly pull someone back from the edge so that one day, their faith outweighs their fears, and something beautiful is created.

Never stop living Michael. It’s okay to be afraid, just don’t become paralyzed. Be grateful. Be kind. There’s work to be done.

Peace & Love,
-MFJ

The Cancer Diaries

Death may be the greatest of all human blessings. ~Socrates

Not feeling you right now Socrates. By no means am I arrogant enough to say, I’ve got this, it’s not my time. Maybe it is. It’s a weird position to be in, knowing you have to both be prepared that death is a possibility, and at the same time have to fight my ass off to survive. I hesitate to start a blog series based on this subject, I am not out to depress friends and family, but this is a recovery blog at its core, that every once and a while drifts from that center.

My diagnosis is that I have a chondrosarcoma that has metastasized to my bones and lungs. I spent 10 days in the hospital to find this out, and have spent the past few days being referred by my referrals. I’ve finally landed at the doorstep of a University of Miami orthopedic oncologist. UM is the best around, so I am excited and trust this is whose hands I am supposed to end up. What’s hard for me to get out of my head is the doctor who told me “It’s bad.”

Do it big or go home. My medical background is a curse right now. There’s a line in my first memoir, Long Sleeved Summers, that says something like, I wish I had bone cancer so that I could be an acceptable junkie. Come on God? Really? Was there a genie present when I wrote those words? What about my other two wishes? For those who don’t know bone cancer pain sucks. It’s a slow, progressively shitty ride to the end.

So the great debate, some people will not welcome me when I pick up 18 months, because a medical professional has me on narcotics. The doctor is well aware I am an addict. I am not a martyr. I am not just going to writhe in pain. I can barely sit up or lie down without them. I take them as prescribed and I am not looking for needles or crushing them up. Don’t get me wrong, it awakens those thoughts, because what’s the point right?

Wrong. Any fight is winnable, unless you throw in the towel, give up by giving in in this case. Heroin has always wanted to kill me, and circumstances went that it took the rather slow approach. 17 years is a long relationship, to spend with someone who seemingly does so much for you, some of you get that. When you get it though, that she sucks all your innate goodness, that she disconnects you from God, it’s not worth throwing that away.

There’s so much running through my head, quiet moments when I cry, let my guard down and understand life’s countdown just got a little nearer than is comfortable. There’s moments of resolve, that I’m too young for this shit, that if anything, I am a survivor. Then there’s the peaceful balance, what will be will be. That if I stay in that fit spiritual condition that book talks about, I won’t wast my time, whatever it is, that I will continue doing what I can to help the next human being. It’s not about me and my problems, it’s about altruism. I sat in my own shit for too many years, and I’m not about to do it now over something that is ultimately in God’s hands.

He has my back. No matter the outcome, he’s got me. That’s my comfort. I don’t think there is anything even close to that level of solace available, everything in its right place. Oh, and in case he forgets me, which he never has, I’ve got hundreds of people reminding him, and for all of that, I am thankful.

Peace & Love,
-MFJ

I Got Clean For This?

Active addiction sucks. Take my last ‘run.’ I came to Florida with nothing and in about a year and a half, I had a wife, house, car and most importantly to me, normalcy. When I started using, the highs were not like I remembered, because there was this huge cloud of guilt hanging over me. I had clawed through the sludge and gotten what I always dreamed of, a Norman Rockwell painting of what defined happiness, everyday life, enjoying the simple things.

For a while my use was justified, back pain from auto accidents. A doctor prescribing mass quantities of oxycodone, and I was just snorting it. Then buying more from acquaintances because 210 were not lasting. Then realizing I was doing too many per day, decided the smart thing to do would be to boot (inject) them. I would use less. The pressure of keeping my secret was slowly crushing me. My wife’s suspicions were growing like weeds in a forgotten garden. Everything precious, everything beautiful in my life was getting choked out, so bad wild flowers couldn’t even bloom.

When pill prices went out of control thanks to the pill mill crackdown, that logical voice spoke up one more time, heroin is way better and way cheaper. I had painted myself into a disastrous corner, and the lies were so plentiful there was no way to keep track of them. The inevitable happened, I was divorced and mad at her. That’s how addicts think, and I knew how to play the victim so well. It was her fault I was going to sink deeper into the quicksand.

I most certainly did, because we got divorced around August or September of 2011. My clean date is June 18th, 2014. If there was a single day clean between the days, it was because I had to gut it through for a day until whatever plan for money I had launched would deliver. By the end I was homeless, and had given up on life. If I had bothered to look over my shoulder, I would have seen the smoldering ashes of all the bridges I set ablaze, faces in the smoke of the people I fucked over. And I would fuck you over and over until finally those people had to throw in the towel.

“That can’t be Mike, he’s not that kid of guy.” Yeah, I was, way worse in fact. People existed to help me spiral down. By the time I added cocaine to the spoon, all I wanted was to just die. And when luck didn’t intervene, I grew some balls and did enough to kill myself.

One more failure. I ended up in rehab beaten up physically, completely destroyed mentally, and completely empty spiritually. Slowly but surely I began looking human again. I remember a guy asking a question of why there needs to be a CA. There’s AA for alcoholics, and NA for drug addicts. The difference was the Big Book. A few days later I read Bill’s Story. It rocked me. A few weeks later a guy asked about working the steps, and time.

I don’t remember what the speaker said, but if the promises of the Big Book came true, I wasn’t waiting around to get them. I was masterful when it come to creating and enduring tragedies. A few weeks later I was getting out, I met my sponsor the very last night of inpatient, and 2 months later I had done the steps, I was recovered.

One of those torched bridges cried when he heard my voice for the first time, the first time not all scratchy and deeper thanks to opiates. The words that came out were different too. There was a sincerity when I spoke. I held my head high without even thinking about it.

There was a peace about me, that people that really knew me sensed just over the phone. I wasn’t miserable anymore. I wasn’t manipulating a system or person to get something from him or her. A stranger collecting signatures for something gave me $10 to go get him cigarettes. Not even 5 months before that, I couldn’t get a fucking quarter.

Two major things happened to me- gratitude and a shift in perspective. I’m thankful for waking up, food, a bank account, a cell phone, friends and family, of which there are so many. I’m blessed. Truly blessed. And a new perspective, life isn’t a series of positive and negative experiences, they are all opportunities for me to grow as a man. In short, I found my conscious contact with God.

I didn’t get clean to be miserable. I got clean to finally live life. That’s a beautiful  thing, a peaceful, joyous thing I’m not giving back because I try to give a piece of it away every day.

Peace & Love,
-MFJ

Fake It Til You Make It or Die Without Even Trying?!

Who coined this “saying?” It’s actually spoken out loud at meetings. Stop and think about that for a minute or longer if you need to, instead of  mindlessly regurgitating really stupid shit. Or you can read this blog.

Fake is defined as:
1. to conceal the defects of or make appear more attractive, interesting,valuable,                     etc., usually in order to deceive

2.  prepare or make something specious, deceptive, or fraudulent.

Yeah, let’s tell addicts, who specialize in dishonesty to “deceive until they succeed.” I seriously would love to meet whoever coined that phrase, and certainly the people that spread this around 12 step meetings. It sure as hell isn’t in the Big Book. Step one’s spiritual principle, i.e. action, is honesty. So the newcomer is just supposed to say, “Yeah, I’m powerless,” fraudulently so that they can fit in a group. Meanwhile, back at the sponsorship ranch, I take someone through step one and ask them after everything we’ve gone over, the physical and mental effects of alcohol and drugs,the spiritual void created, to answer a simple question, not to me, but to themselves. The concession (admission of truth, i.e., I am not a normal person who has an off switch, once I start there is no stopping and I crave more, more and then some more until an only an act of God stops me, and even then I’m fighting Him too) to myself in step one that I am the true, real deal addict.

How am I going to fake that one and possibly get well? Keep coming back? Avoid people, places and things? Fuck. FUCK! They like architecture in that large book, so essentially, ‘faking’ the cornerstone of recovery is tantamount to supergluing dust together and then laying concrete block on it. On the beach. During a hurricane. You are not making it…I need another smoking nun to calm my nerves. Hold please…

My buddy Pat said something at work a few hours ago that cracked me up- “I stopped doing drugs to be miserable.” I know he was joking, but fact of the matter is, there’s a lot of people that are miserable, so many of them wear the fake smiles. Fake it til you make it? This sounds exactly like me during active addiction. The jester dying on the inside. One more shot of dope is going to fix everything, until it doesn’t. Then the fear and anxiety kicks in, I’m going to be dopesick. I need to get money, so I have a morning shot that I am going to do as soon as I get it.

Deception, lies, all told to myself. And here I am, in early recovery being told to just show up and let the magic happen even if I’m still sick and don’t really see how meetings are going to save my ass.

At the end of the meetings I go to, we say, “Stay.” I love that. If I never forsake my recovery, i.e. God, I don’t have to bother coming back, and the cold, oft avoided fact is I may never make it back. The meetings focus on the solution, not a string of stories about how terrible life is: My roommate ate my Lucky Charms. My boyfriend cheated on me. There’s too many rules at my halfway. Every morning I start my dialog with God the same way- Thank you for another chance to see morning light, for food and shelter, for my friends and family in my life,.. 

What else do I really need? Not only that, I have the faith that right now as I sit in front of the computer typing this while listening to Courtney Barnett, I’m exactly where I need to be. I got a phone call last night, an aspiring author with a powerful story to tell, and I’m totally her editor because she gave me the golden answer- “I feel like I have to do this, even if it reaches one person, and helps them, it will be worth it.”  Amen sister. A-fuckin-men.

Same with this blog, maybe someone is struggling, trying to put on a happy face and going through the motions until something hits them hard enough to not just know they are an addict, but finally UNDERSTAND. With that admission of defeat comes something else, or at least for me it did: I don’t have a fucking clue how to get well, but I am ready to let someone who has done the deal show me the way. The rest is gravy. Actually, the rest is GOD. Gravy Over Duck. Gravy, full of pan drippings and butter, flour and secrets (roux for the chefs,) so good. I digress.

Back to that God guy, thing, whatever you want to call him/it. I’ve told God to fuck off so many times in active addiction I can’t believe he bothered keeping me around. God pulled me through the quicksand Bill W. describes surrounding him, except I mine was more sewage sludge.God and my angels saved my ass when I was such a selfish asshole, when I lived so grimy, so dangerous and care free, why would I ever question the reason for it all. My days have played out and I understand I am most definitely am on the right path. Life and all that happens in it are lessons, lessons that improve me as a human being. I tried so many times to pull away from life, God gave me a long leash, a treasure trove of pain to let go, to mold my perspective into not even an optimist…I don’t know what I call it, but I am so peaceful knowing  my life is perfect right now. I’m where I need to be.

That girl again, another thing she said- “it’s wrong to not use my gift.” Yeah. Another a-fuckin-men. God gives us all something, so often for the junkies, it’s the ability to express in a way that has primal force, be it writing, painting, drawing, music, whatever. I love writing. Keeping that gift in the dark is a slap in the face of God. When He would save me and I’d run right back to the spot, I threw his Grace back with a fuck you attached. You should hear our conversations. Writing is my passion, because the feeling of reaching just one person faking it right now, and praying they get it, and truly make it to become recovered, well, that’s a feeling more rewarding than any material bullshit society’s lies convince us are happiness. Joy is internalized happiness, it warms your soul.

I think I’ve rambled on long enough. Give up. Drugs are undefeated when facing off with an addict. Drugs are that opponent that let’s you punch yourself out, then knocks you the fuck out. Chris Tucker, you’re cue:

“You got knocked the fuck out man.”

But if you’re reading this, you got back up. that’s not you being tough, that’s God throwing the towel in and saving your ass.If you go back in the ring for a rematch, that’s you being stupid. God had you in the most desperate of times, he’s not leaving now if you get some faith and willingness to follow our path.

Peace and Love,
-MFJ

Good and Evil Vs. Right and Wrong – Cage Match – Free PPV

Love is a crazy thing, it’s a word I reserve for myself, for God, for family and dear friends. Only lately, after 15+ months clean and 99% serene, have I been thinking about that relationship  type love. It’s not tied to any one person. (Lie) Maybe it’s chained to two. One I know as well as myself. The other was a beautiful stranger a month or so ago, who I’ve gotten to know because of a little randomness in time led to an exchange in numbers. Since then she has been living a situation I went through years ago, where my world caved in around me, where I felt so alone.

When I got clean, and learned to strive to be selfless, that that was the key to a peaceful life, that helping others provides pure happiness, I began to pay a lot of attention to those who were living situations that tore my sanity into pieces, that pushed me into such a dark place, I couldn’t even see a glimmer of light in my imagination. I’m not letting that happen to a friend, he or she will know I’ve got their back in whatever way possible.

Naturally I do my best to help addicts, to get them through the steps, which for me birthed this change in me, that full-scale shift in perspective that altruism produces. The wholly selfish asshole was murdered when I tried to kill myself, and begged God to not intervene. Shift in perspective- God always listens, he’s always there. He answers with Mick Jagger wisdom- I got what I needed. I was lucky enough to be given incredible amounts of hurt, so that I can appreciate and feel joy to the extent of my pain.

There’s a lot of times things just don’t work out, regardless of mutual feelings. I get that, I am sadly beginning to understand this lesson. When I started this blog, there was no homework assignment, now it’s setting in, the years are not always kind, the roads we are on intersect at finite times, and who we walk along that path with isn’t always the one you dream about. Now I’m feeling a certain kind of sadness.

I am realizing this has little to do with the title, and maybe that’s more than alright. Good people can appear evil when assumptions are made, good people can make a ton of wrong decisions. More than anything, I can see myself in people, the miserable empty shells, that are so fun to be around, laughing and joking while everything inside is so wrong. Funny thing is this one isn’t an addict, but she’s mirroring my past so much it’s kind of scary. I know she feels nothing will go right, that the sky is falling around her and no one cares. Someone most certainly does.

I have no idea where this is going, and maybe that is the point- Spotify just played a Bustelo commercial- and if you follow this, you know Bustelo and I have this tangled affair going on, but that’s another clue where irony is the mystery that won’t be solved. I used to pack a ziploc of Bustelo in my bag, and add it to my Dunkin coffee. I stopped doing that, in fact, I’m out of Bustelo currently, but there are certain things I always have with me, I carry a Big Book, a composition book, and a journal. I carry the journal because it has a variety of words in its pages. Among them are words written in blood, a terrible habit when I was using.

Then there is that paragraph, that ideal girl description. I haven’t read that in a while, life has been so hectic, and well, that journal and I have this connection, Hear me out, I open it and there’s notes from a Buddhist monk, forgotten moments from Thailand that I read at the perfect time. It got me to make a leap of faith, and find something I lost many lives ago, my old soul wasn’t whole, and the lesson- a soulmate isn’t necessarily a forever thing, in the physical sense, it gives you back what was thrown away. I have that, and when my room is quiet, I find my mind thinking about her. Tangent drift…sorry, that ideal girl thing-

“Battle-tested, treasuring the losses for the wisdom gained rather than the spoils of war.”

I’ve met people who like that line, know that line but don’t live it. She understands. The best thing about life is I’m not afraid to see where this road takes me.

Peace and Love,
-MFJ

PS- This poem, I just found, in that journal – 4/25/15

Shell Game

I’m pretty sure I knew what I was asking for
Fairly certain we were a shared exit
Now journeying to different destinations
Not even heading the same direction
Makes the separation inevitable
Adjust the rearview
I glance, she stares
Cosmic collision and I know my role
Overnight distraction when more was imagined
Hold my hand, maybe no envelopes should be pushed
No matter the stationary inside
Is it the words written, the phrases spoken
Or the flipped coin actions that caused the disconnect?
Who let go first?
Doesn’t matter, I wasn’t holding on either
Think what you must to sleep uneasy
My peace was the attraction
Especially in the context of my wreckage
Of self
Of soul
Wounds scar
Forever remember that moment
Where undesired freedom
Gifted a stranger on the same road as me
Where I grabbed an outstretched hand
And felt her grip tight
Maybe I’m not letting this one go…

Faith

It’s like a bolt of lightning, that moment when that shot of Narcan hits your opiate receptors. The last thing I remembered differs from death to death. One time it was a tearful push of the plunger listening to a Moby song, which if I hear it, I get chills. Another time it was just to relax, part of mymorning ritual to get ready to deal with another day. Back then 24 hours felt like 124, I craved my  days would end peacefully, quickly, and ironically, with ultimate finality. I had no idea what those words even meant in retrospect.

The element of chance when I died, that too, is something else…unexplainable, bizarre, I’m not going to thesauruas.com. this time. And man I can’t spell that, looks like a lost species of dinosaur not a cornucopia of synonyms. Yes, I spell checked the horn shaped basket filled with various shaped and sized gourds.

I deflect with humor. Every single time, because what I was about to write, type, whatever, is hard to digest, like 3-day old Wendy’s chili. Stop it Mike, fuck! See, I just got off the phone with a stranger who was told about my book. Somewhere in the 40-minute conversation, she mentioned Psalm 91, the psalm of protection. Read it here. It made me cry. For a minute I didn’t even hear her speaking. What I remembered is that feeling of dying. I saw no white light. I was completely in a void, blackness everywhere until that blast of naltrexone. It’s almost like- death was put on hold.

For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

That’s my namesake above, a statue of the Archangel Michael in Kiev, Ukraine. I just wrote something about being indestructable a few blogs ago, or maybe in a poem, so those types of things are not coincidence. I told her I pray for one thing daily, awareness, to not get wrapped up in my world but see the sights around me. Take in sunbeams splitting clouds, smell the ocean, and give a cigarette,buy him or her some food and give some encouragement to a homeless human being. Sometimes all I give is opening a door and a smile. Back to Michael, who crosses the boundaries of dogma, judaism, christianity and believe it or not, Islam, where he “provides nourishments for bodies and souls. Mikail is often depicted as the archangel of mercy who is responsible for the rewards doled out to good persons in this life.”

I get death isn’t a popular topic, but I had this incredible experience today, where knowledge became understanding- I am alive. Of course I am unless this is just the Matrix, and everyone reading this swallowed the red pill. I should be dead, 4 times over, clinically, and so many more times on bathroom floors and in toilet stalls all over western Pennsylvania, Maryland and Florida. I was hit with an understanding , just like the jolt from those life saving shots, and I get it, the depth of my gratitude for being here filled up the abyss I stared into for so long.

It’s all in Shoestring Theories (ORDER HERE) but as an example. I spent the night at my parents house because I had to go to a job site closer to their house than my apartment. An apartment I shared with nobody. I remember the spoon, close to my TV, emptying the bag, standing up and falling backwards onto my bead. I barely pulled the needle out. That’s how fast it happens.

In the years I lived at my parents’ house, my father never opened my bedroom door. Ever. He did that morning. To see his son, lips already blue, fading away. He watched me die. He held me.What must that have felt like?

We hurt others in addiction. Far more than ourselves. The state of constant fear, when is the time going to come when Michael is alone, in his apartment, and there’s no one to save him? When’s the phone call coming that says he is gone for good?

While I am thrilled I have alleviated a major source of pain and fear from their lives, I know none of this is by my hand. I think we all have a journey to make, on the way to our final destination. We’re all headed to the grave, so yes, enjoy the trip, but there is order in the chaos, and sometimes we get help from something up there. Someone up there.  Thank you all.

The detours in life are now cherished. Sometimes they are bright flashing signs, sometimes just part of what we consider everyday life. I chose to switch jobs a while back, and I’ve made some great friends there. We are social creatures, our words and especially our actions affect others. One of the greatest compliments I got was  a girl telling me:”There is no way you were that guy in the book.”

I most certainly was. And can be again if I don’t continue to chill with God, as I understand him, a needle will be back in my arm. God’s got my back, unless I turn mine on him. As grimy as I was, I am gunning for the same degree of altruism in my life. The degrees of hate and pain directed at myself and the world, I balance with love today, or at least I try.

I am grateful for one more day. One more chance to make a small difference in someone’s life. So thanks again Big Guy.

Deep-seeded Peace
-MFJ

God Gets It Done Whether We Understand It or Not

Old time scoliosis treatment in case you’re wondering. What does this have to do with the title, I’m not sure. I’m thinking the guy is like Dr. Nick from the Simpsons. Or a pervert. So I pray in a weird way, no Hail Mary’s that’s for sure. There’s a book my sponsor wants me to read, called Conversations With God by Neale Donald Walsch which I have not, but you can order by clicking on the title. Yes. Amazon affiliate shamelessness.

Anyway, I talk to God, and today I just didn’t even want to move, I actually hit my snooze button rather than wake up 7 minutes before like normal. I merely said, “God, get it done for me today.” Which was immediately followed by, that’s a good blog title, get that in the memos on your phone Mike before you forget it. I am convinced I have lost a million ideas by not doing that, so, mid-prayer, I grab my phone, politely I may add, as I asked God to excuse me for a second.

So I get up, it’s now 8:30, I’m late. That phrase though, now that it was entered into my phone, trailed my thoughts all day long. The ‘whether we understand it or not’ was an addendum, one I did not write down, or put in my phone.

Why do bad things happen to good people? I have never asked that question, I always got it. My name means God-like, the archangel Michael, the one that fucked up Satan. When I was using, I took those things to heart, Flatlining one hour, shooting dope within the next four. and always the bags that killed me because I was indestructible. I was far from that though. I was falling apart, a bag at a time.By the time speedballs entered the picture, I was clinging to the last bit of my soul. It no doubt wanted out of my body, but thank God, it never left me. Bad things happened to me, because I earned them, free will is a terrible thing once addiction takes over.

Still, the indestructible one had been taken apart piece by piece, like a boxer who pounds the body, he chops a man down over the rounds. Yes, I watched a Rocky marathon this weekend. The complete series is available by clicking on the Rocky.

Welcome to my brain, this is how prayers go for me today too, but I always come back to one simple line, I say it every day – “God, keep me aware so I don’t miss the opportunity to help another human being.” No matter whatever other bullshit I talk about, I never forget that. I never forget to thank God for another day. It’s all borrowed time, and I took HUGE withdrawals from that bank. Someone asked me about the pocket watch and skull and crossbones on my book cover (YES, one last shameless promotion, Buy Shoestring Theories HERE). That’s what it means, borrowed time.

I did my steps. For me, they saved my life. I did them the way the founders did them, quick. After all, I love vintage things. I work 10, 11, and 12 daily, and 9 wherever possible of course. Something beautiful happened along the way- the ability to see past “good” and “bad.” Now I see things for what they are, events that produce an emotion that I get to feel. I am out of the mountain building business. I know God gets it done for me, because our wills are aligned. God, don’t let me miss that moment to help. 

If you know me you know I am at peace. I have been through so many tough situations, and people want to actually see me stressed. They tell me it’s good to see I’m human. Sometimes things unfold in such a way I get it right away, but most of the times, the things that happen make sense in hindsight. I just KNOW things are exactly the way they need to be, right here, right now. Again for me, a little chunk of God is inside us all, we’re connected, and the ones we are supposed to meet, we will collide at some point. What you do with it from there is again, your decision.

Trust your gut. Always. That’s our piece. That’s my peace.

Peace and love,
-MFJ

Who Am I?

I read the acknowledgement section in my book a little while ago. That shit is humbling. A year ago, I was in a spartan treatment center, jealous of people who had friends, girlfriends and family members sending them cards and letters with money in them. I remember getting cards from a few people, and being pissed off that there was no money in them. True story. Left that out of the book because it didn’t dawn on me until I was cleaning out a drawer in preparation of changing addresses. I got a card from my Uncle Duane, who I hadn’t heard from in years, or at least it was that long according to my ever accurate, in need of constant correction by those conscious at the time, timeline.

It’s kind of apropos, no, it is totally fitting that was the first card I got in there besides from my mom and dad. He is a Franciscan monk, truthfully I have little idea what that entails, but in hindsight I look at the obvious ironies…one I reacted like an ungrateful dick, and two, it hit me that I was acting like an ungrateful asshole within 5 minutes. Something inside me had changed. When I got a card from my friend Andy, it meant everything to me that he had even bothered to write me, given the fact I used his reputation to get “help” i.e. have people send him money so I could shoot more dope in my arm.

When  I found out he told my father that he wished he had 1/10th my imagination and writing skills, I was humbled. That the funny glitter unicorn card would make someone laugh months later, and who is a dear friend of mine now, well, that’s just it…she is one of so many friends I have in my life. It was impossible to think of all the people in my life today, so many friends from the past that said some prayers that someone must have listened to up there, people I had no idea cared about me. People I haven’t talked to in forever.

Ex-girlfriends blindsided me with well wishes and how happy they were to actually read something on this blog that wasn’t me being a straight clown, or just outright lying. Then there are all the new friends I have met that only know the guy I have worked my ass off to become. That anyone can look up to my character and ask me to help them work steps, that’s an incredible feeling. That others ask me for advice, and I answer spiritually, a wholesale change has taken place in my heart and mind. Peace is beautiful.

So I am the sum of my actions. I am in this place, doing this, on a big day for me. I wronged so many people, and I continue to endeavor to live life the way I am and fix things wherever possible. I am blessed.

Then I remember to look back at the dedication in the book, to my friend Adam, who passed 4 days after I was laid off and told I wouldn’t be getting a $2000 commission check. We talked the night I was let go, about a lot of stuff, the job, a fantasy football league, girls, and where I was internally, how the steps had brought me closure, given me neutrality and so many other things, priceless things. I can’t believe he died. I can’t believe that was the last conversation we would have.

So I am signing books today. How many times have I used the word humbling? Terrible writing, but I am too tired, too stressed, and too lazy to go to thesaurus.com and type in humble. Actually, as I typed that I thought to myself, why not go there secretly and show people how smart I am, even though my brain is struggling to put together long run-on sentences tonight, but the synonyms suck. Except one, or two, simple, polite and respectful. That would be three. I can count, even when brain dead.

A business is supporting me and my book, as well as the effort to get some proceeds to a charity, when before they wouldn’t have let me in the door, certainly would have banned me from the bathroom, and at best, given me a glass of water. I get to go home and do the same thing. I have come a long way, and while I put in the work on the book, God wrote the script. Or at least named the book. I am or will be reaching out to friends in Atlanta, NYC and LA,  to do the same type of things. I am so grateful for these chances.

Being an addict sucks. Loving an active addict is even worse. That I understand today. Maybe the book can help someone when it comes to that, that who I was, was a hopeless, broken junkie that was going to die. Very soon.  God’s grace intervened.  I get to tell my story, to reach out and tell people addicts are human beings, but change is most definitely a realistic goal. Don’t ever give up on him or her.

Click this if you can’t make it to the signing to get your copy of Shoestring Theories 

Peaceful, and grateful,
MFJ